His Last Wife Read online

  “You gonna have to let that shit go—all that shit from outside—who you were, who you thought you were—if you gonna make it in here,” Garcia-Bell cautioned. “Ain’t no tea and crumpets behind these here bars. In order to survive, you gonna have to knuckle up.”

  “Knuckle up?”

  “Fight, Kerry. You gonna have to fight. Ain’t nobody ever taught you how to fight?”

  “You mean, like actual fisticuffs?” Kerry said, watching a group of prisoners who always stuck together walk by her cell.

  “Don’t ever say that word again, but, yes, that’s what I mean,” Garcia-Bell confirmed, laughing.

  “No—no one taught me how to fight. Who would? Who taught you?”

  “Mi madre,” Garcia-Bell said, as if it should’ve been obvious.

  “Your mother? Please. The closest Thirjane Jackson came to teaching me to fight was how to keep the mean girls in Jack and Jill from talking about me behind my back,” Kerry said.

  “Jack and Jill? Like that nursery rhyme?”

  “Yes. It was a social club my mother made me join when I was young,” Kerry explained. “Had to be her perfect little girl in Jack and Jill.”

  “Well, you far from that now. And thinking about that out there ain’t gonna do nothing but get you caught up in here.”

  “That’s the thing: I don’t plan on getting caught up in here. I’m not staying here.” Kerry had convinced herself of this. After days and weeks and months of not seeing the sun rise and set, and missing the joy of witnessing the summer season shift to a muggy Georgia fall while enjoying a walk through Piedmont Park, she promised herself she’d be home by the holiday season. She’d be with her family. Dress Tyrian as a pirate for Halloween. Help make Thanksgiving dinner. Trim the tree for Christmas without complaining. Dreams of those simple things kept her hopeful.

  “Hmm. You keep saying you’re getting out by this and that time, but then I keep seeing you here in the morning.”

  Kerry had already told Garcia-Bell all about her case—about how when she ran up to the rooftop of the Westin to find her ex-husband that gray morning, she knew something was wrong, knew something was going to happen. There was a woman up there. The woman was the one who threw Jamison over the edge to his death. Not Kerry. Kerry still loved Jamison. In the hotel room where they’d been cuddling just hours before, they’d talked about getting remarried. Kerry would be his third wife—after he divorced his second wife, Val.

  Garcia-Bell already knew the whole story. Like everyone else in Atlanta, rich and poor, young and old, black and white, criminals and noncriminals, she wanted to know how in the world the city’s fourth black mayor—who’d come from nothing and promised the people everything—ended up split wide open with his heart and everything hanging out and his face crushed beyond recognition in the middle of Peachtree Street during morning rush-hour traffic. She’d even heard this very version of events from Kerry’s mother when Thirjane Jackson had been interviewed by a reporter with Fox Five News. But she let Kerry retell it all a few times anyway. She felt Kerry needed to.

  “Well, one day you’re going to come looking for me and I’m not going to be here. I’ve got people in my corner rooting for me. It’s going to work out. I believe that,” Kerry said.

  “People?” Garcia-Bell struggled not to sound cynical, but it was too hard. “By that you mean your ex-husband’s widow? The one who’s supposedly going to bust you out of here and help you find the killer?”

  “Yes. I do,” Kerry replied resolutely. “I told you, she knows I didn’t do this and she has proof. It’s taking her a little time, but she’s helping my lawyer build my case and soon, everyone will know the truth. I’m innocent.”

  “Sure’s taking her a long time.”

  “These things take time. You know that yourself.”

  Garcia-Bell had shared the particulars of her case with Kerry too.

  “Well, there’s long and then there’s loooonnnng,” Garcia-Bell pointed out.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Nothing.” Garcia-Bell stood up, ready to leave. She didn’t want to hurt her friend’s feelings. Since she was a teenager, she’d been locked up for some reason or another and she knew the worst thing in the world was knowing the one person on the outside who could do anything about her case was doing absolutely nothing. She didn’t want to put that on Kerry.

  “Come on, spit it out,” Kerry pushed.

  “It’s nothing. It’s like I said—it’s taking a long fucking time.”

  “But you know the situation. You know Val can’t just bust me out of here,” Kerry pleaded in a way that sounded like she was actually coaching herself.

  Garcia-Bell pointed to the top bunk. “White girl stabbed her old man in the fucking head five times and she bonded out. Ain’t got no kids. Ain’t have no job. They got a fucking confession out of her. She home.” She pointed to Kerry. “Ain’t nobody see you throw your husband from the roof. You got a child. A career and you say you innocent. And you rich. You mean to tell me that woman and that lawyer she hired to get you out of jail can’t even get you out on bond? Come on, girl. You ain’t stupid. I know that.”

  “It’s not that simple,” Kerry tried.

  “To me it is. You said it yourself: Y’all hated each other. Then your ex-husband threw her ass out on the street after she had a miscarriage and you and the broad got all chummy just because you gave her a couple of dollars so she could get a hotel room. Then your ex-husband ends up dead while she’s still married to him and she’s got all his money and is living up in his house and running the business you partially own. But you think she rushing to get you out of jail? You believe that?” Garcia-Bell paused and looked at Kerry with a friend’s concern in her eyes. “Please say you don’t. I mean, maybe you want to believe it because she the only card you got to play, but wanting to believe it and actually believing it—that’s got to be different things.”

  Tears returned to Kerry’s eyes. A lump in her throat obstructed any response to Garcia-Bell’s damning assessment.

  Garcia-Bell sighed and cursed herself inside for opening her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said, bending down to look at Kerry. “Look, don’t stay in this cell. Get out until lights-out and if you need anything, you holler for me.” She looked into Kerry’s eyes and kissed her on the lips quickly before walking out.

  Save the guards and guns and jumpsuits and poorly selected paint, visiting day at the women’s jail in Fulton County might look like it was a family reunion or big birthday party. Children and grandparents were everywhere. Babies being burped over the shoulders of mothers who were strangers, husbands sneaking in kisses. Aging parents begging their daughters to do it right the next time she got out. Sons and daughters, silent but hopeful, some still young enough to think Mommy was away studying at college and led to believe this place with cinder-block walls and bars was a dormitory and not a jail. And it could look like that. It was a women’s jail, so the guards kind of pushed back when the families came to visit. With too many limitations the women could become bothered and act up later unnecessarily, so the warden—whose mother had been locked up for writing bad checks when she was just seven years old—told the guards to keep a close eye, but not pry. The women were prisoners. Not their families.

  The day after the incident in the cafeteria, Kerry was actually surprised when one of the guards showed up at her cell to announce that she had visitors waiting. She hadn’t seen anyone in three weeks. She kept calling Val, but there was no answer. Even her lawyer seemed extra busy whenever Kerry got through. After her divorce, her best friend Marcy had been in Haiti working with Nurses Without Borders for months. While she promised to be at her Spelman sister’s side as soon as her contract was up and she was stateside, the village where Marcy was assigned had few working phones and the mail system was spotty at best. And Kerry’s mother? Well, Thirjane was no jailhouse regular—even with her daughter there. That’s why Kerry was surprised a second time when she got to the visitation
room and found Thirjane sitting in there on a bench. Tyrian was beside her, looking down at his feet. Thirjane placed her hand on his knee when she saw Kerry walking toward them with her hand over her mouth, like she was already holding back a cry.

  Tyrian looked up and bolted for his mother like she was running in the other direction and he needed to catch up.

  While this wasn’t an uncommon scene in the visitation room, where over fifty inmates were sitting with their families, most everyone paused to get a look at the reunion. This wasn’t just any seven-year-old son greeting his mother. It was the dead mayor’s fatherless child wrapping his arms around the murderous ex-wife, who half of them believed was a woman scorned—and . . . well . . . hell hath no fury . . .

  Kerry got down on her knees and let her only baby smash right into her with his arms open. He nearly knocked her over and certainly knocked the wind out of her, but she was grateful for the intensity of the greeting. She’d need to hold on to that feeling for as long as she could.

  “I love you,” she whispered into Tyrian’s ear once she wrapped her arms around him. “I love you so much.” Saying she missed him always sounded like a given when she was coming up with something to say to Tyrian, during the few times her mother had brought the boy to the jail. She decided she’d go with the one thing she wanted him to think of when he was away from her: that she loved him.

  She backed up and looked him over. Saw how much he’d grown. Those front teeth were almost back in place now and he was so much taller, had long arms and legs. Kerry touched them like maybe they were fake. She thought of Jamison. How he’d feel seeing Tyrian looking like this, becoming a little man-child. The tears she’d promised she wouldn’t let loose were rolling down her cheeks.

  “What’s wrong, Mama?” Tyrian asked like he’d done something wrong.

  “Nothing, baby. You’re just all grown up. Getting so big and tall,” Kerry said as they walked to the bench and table where Thirjane was waiting.

  “You always say that, Mama. But I ain’t taller. I’m the same,” Tyrian said.

  “No, you’re growing. You just can’t tell because you see yourself all the time. It’s perspective,” Kerry said.

  “Perspective?” he asked.

  “It means point of view—like how you see something or someone is based on your point of view,” Kerry replied, stopping in front of her mother.

  Thirjane stayed seated in her red St. John’s suit. Her quilted Chanel purse was on her lap, her hands clasped over the top. She snapped, “It’s not ain’t, Tyrian. That’s not proper English. I told you to stop using that slang.”

  “Sorry, Nana,” Tyrian mumbled, sitting down beside her.

  “Hello to you too, Mama,” Kerry said, bending down to kiss her mother. Through thirty-five years of trial and error, she knew better than to be upset that Thirjane didn’t run toward her with open arms, saying how much she’d missed her daughter in the month since she’d been to see her. This was Thirjane Jackson. All old black money, blue-vein Atlanta. She was the kind of Southern belle who likely had a silk handkerchief with her initials stitched into it in her purse. She was the kind of Southern belle who took pride in openly revealing that she had no idea on God’s green Earth where a motel, crackhouse, or jailhouse might be located. Now, here she was, visiting her only child in a jailhouse, and everybody knew it.

  Kerry kissed her on the cheek and she pretended to do the same, but really only kissed the air. She’d begged her daughter not to marry that Jamison Taylor boy. He wasn’t even a real Morehouse man like Kerry’s father had been—not with having only gone to the school because he lucked up on a full scholarship. That wasn’t good breeding. That was a handout—a hand down. Who were his people? She never forgave Kerry for marrying him and the current situation seemed like punishment for both of them for that one betrayal.

  Kerry sat down and went through all of her motherly questions with Tyrian. She asked about his schoolwork and his golf game. Listened to more stories about his new teeth and new friends. The girl in his class who was so pretty none of the other boys would speak to her. But he always did. He always sat right next to her and said something nice.

  Nana Thirjane was on hand to correct each of his poorly selected words—both those with bad grammar and weak diction. Kerry smiled and listened intently, but as the judging went on, she couldn’t help but to remember when her mother would carry on like that whenever she tried to get a sentence out.

  “Sounds like you have a crush,” Kerry joked with Tyrian.

  “I like her,” Tyrian admitted, poking out his chest a little, “but I’m keeping my options open.”

  “Options?” Kerry repeated, looking over at her mother and laughing at how adult he sounded. “Boy, what do you know about options?”

  “My daddy told me it’s not enough for a woman to be beautiful. She has to be smarter than she is beautiful. And nice. Be really nice to me, always. Nice to everyone.” Tyrian looked proud to remember his father’s advice, but also sad. As could be expected, he’d taken the sudden death very hard.

  Kerry reached over the table to touch Tyrian’s hand. “Your daddy gave you some good advice,” she said softly. “Very good.”

  After a while, Thirjane sent Tyrian off to play with some other children who were putting a massive puzzle together on the floor in the center of the room as the adults took time to chat.

  “So how are you doing?” Thirjane asked.

  “How do I look like I’m doing?”

  “Well, your hair is growing out. Maybe you could perm it again. It’s so nappy.” Thirjane reached over the table to finger Kerry’s gray roots. “Could definitely use some hair dye.”

  “I’m in jail and you’re worried about my naps and grays?” Kerry snapped. “There’s no one in here to impress, Mama. Not your sorors or their stuffy sons.” She flicked her mother’s hand away like she was thirteen again and being forced to wear her hair up in a bun to attend one of those Jack and Jill balls she so hated.

  “That has nothing to do with anything. What did you go bringing that up for?”

  “Why haven’t you been here to visit me in a month?”

  “I was just here three weeks ago.”

  “You promised you’d bring Tyrian every week. You said you’d do it.”

  “So you want me to bring my grandson to a jailhouse every week to see his mother?” Thirjane leaned toward Kerry and whispered through her coffee-stained dentures, “You know that boy is urinating in the bed almost every night? And that’s on the nights when I can actually get him to sleep without crying his eyes out about missing you and his father. How’s seeing you in jail going to help him?”

  “His therapist said—” Kerry tried, but Thirjane cut her off.

  “That therapist doesn’t know a thing about raising a black boy!” Thirjane said so directly Kerry knew to leave the matter alone. “Got me bringing my grandbaby to a jail to see his mama. Then when he’s sixteen and ends up here on his own, everybody’s going to wonder why. The less he’s here, the better.”

  “Fine. Just once a month then, Mama. Please.” Kerry sounded like a teenager negotiating curfew.

  Thirjane cut her eyes hard on Kerry. “I know. It’s only been three weeks. And have you thought about me? About me coming here? What people are saying?”

  “Yes. I have. Because this is all about you. Right?” Kerry pointed out sarcastically. Every time her mother visited, it went this way—it would somehow go from being all about Tyrian to all about Thirjane; Kerry was always last. And it was interesting too, because as ashamed as Thirjane claimed she was, aside from her onetime interview on the news, she was hardly involved in Kerry’s case. She cried and promised to avenge her child when Kerry had gotten arrested, but as soon as the cameras turned on her and one detective suggested that maybe she’d had something to do with the murder too, Thirjane quickly disappeared. She wouldn’t even talk to Kerry’s lawyer. She’d hired her own and said she needed to protect herself and her “interests.”<
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  “Don’t be flip with me, Kerry Ann. You’re not the only one suffering here. That’s all I was saying,” Thirjane said. “And what’s going on with your case, anyway? I thought that Memphis girl and that Jewish lawyer you two hired were getting you out on bail, at least until the trial starts, anyway.”

  “Under the direction of District Attorney Brown, the judge agreed that due to the nature of the crime, I’m a threat to society.” Kerry waved at Tyrian, who’d held up two pieces of the puzzle he’d fit together.

  “A threat? That imposter of a DA, Chuck Brown, is the real threat to this city—sleeping with any woman who’ll open her legs. And to think, he’s a Morehouse man.” Thirjane put her nose in the air after that comment.

  “Well, Chuck Brown also cited your connections and my money and Jamison’s money—adding that I’m a flight risk.”

  “That’s a sack of manure—pardon my choice of words. But I don’t believe that for one minute. Seems that lawyer and Val could do something about it. Listen to me, girl: that whore means to keep you in here. Meanwhile, she’s out in the world living it up like her kind never knew how. You know she moved her mama into Jamison’s house? In Cascade? Driving his cars. Using his club memberships.” Thirjane clutched her purse and whispered, “I saw her at the country club.”

  Kerry looked down.

  “Hmm . . . She’s living high on the hog and you’re living here.” Thirjane looked around at the prisoners and guards, the walls and discreetly placed bars.