His Last Wife Read online

“Well, if you really feel bad about it, you can always help with my case. It’s not like I have a whole lot of people in my corner right now. I just know Val has my back and she was the only one who stood up when I needed her” Kerry said, looking into her mother’s eyes.

  “What am I supposed to do? Put my house up to bust you out of here?” Thirjane whispered angrily.

  “You know I have money. It’s not about that.”

  “I’m an old woman. I’m not cut out for this. I have Tyrian and he’s already a handful. Between his grades and acting up in school, I’m just holding on here.” Thirjane’s voice weakened like she was about to cry.

  “Right. Sure.” Kerry was getting tired and she refused to placate her mother.

  The buzzer sounded over the loudspeaker in the room, letting the inmates and visitors know visiting time was over.

  As the guards started walking through the room to facilitate the proper good-bye procedures, Thirjane reached out and held Kerry’s hand.

  “I’m really sorry about this,” she said with her wrinkled, diamond ring–clad fingers shaking a little under early symptoms of palsy. “More sorry than you’ll ever know.”

  Tyrian appeared and hugged his mother with his arms around her neck. He was already crying. He knew what the buzzer meant.

  “I want to stay here with you,” Tyrian mumbled in his mother’s ear. “I promise I won’t pee in the bed.”

  Kerry kissed him on the cheek. “It’s not about that, baby. You just can’t stay here. That’s not how it works.”

  “But you didn’t kill my daddy. You shouldn’t have to stay here,” Tyrian said a little louder.

  “What?” Kerry backed up and looked at him hard. “Where did you hear that?” She looked at her mother, who shrugged.

  “In school. Matthew Warrenstein said you did it—said you killed my father, but I know it’s not true, Mama. I know you didn’t do that.”

  “No. I didn’t.” Kerry’s hand was wet from wiping away both her and Tyrian’s tears. “And you don’t believe that. You don’t listen to those boys at that school. You understand?”

  “Yes.”

  The room was clearing out and a guard walked past to give Kerry a sharp stare before she came back to inform her that it was absolutely time for her guests to depart.

  “I’ll see you next time.” Kerry tried to loosen Tyrian’s arms from around her neck, but he wouldn’t let go.

  “No! Mama! No!”

  “Don’t do this,” she said, feeling his heartbeat quickening against hers. “Please.”

  “No!”

  Thirjane stood and put her purse over her shoulder before reaching for Tyrian. Once she touched him, the boy started hollering and tightening his hold around his mother’s neck.

  “No, Mama! No! Don’t make me go! I can stay. I’ll be good. I won’t pee in the bed!”

  His tears were coming too quickly for Kerry to wipe them, so she started the heartbreaking task of peeling her son’s powerless, pencil-thin arms from around her neck.

  “No, Mama! Don’t!”

  She closed her eyes to escape the scene.

  The boy’s hollering turned to something like funeral wailing. It went deep down to his gut and sprang out with so much register the guards knew there was no way his grandmother would be able to get him out of that room by herself.

  “No! No! No!” Kerry cried when two guards stepped in to pull Tyrian away. “Please don’t. Please!”

  “Mama! No!” Tyrian hollered furiously with the guards, who were nice enough, calling him “son” and such, physically lifting him off of the ground and carrying him away from his mother, kicking and screaming.

  Kerry left the catastrophic farewell a wreck. She was crying so hard, the other inmates just moved out of her way as she headed back to her cell. They’d heard Tyrian’s screams. It was a mother’s pain too many of them knew. They made a little pathway for Kerry to walk along, undisturbed. Some showed support by patting her shoulder knowingly as she passed. Others called out, “It’ll be okay” and “Be strong.” It was one of those moments when being a woman or being a mother superseded all other circumstances and surroundings for these inmates in a jailhouse.

  But Kerry couldn’t really see or hear or feel any of this. Though she was moving along, every part of her being was with her child, hurting and aching, mourning the reality of separation. The only thing that kept her putting one foot in front of the other to get to her cell was knowing his little face was waiting there in the picture above her bed. She could lie down there. Let her pain fall back into the mattress. Close her eyes and be with him again that morning in his bedroom before they took the picture. She would tell him everything was going to be okay. It would be perfect. He would say, “It could be perfect. You’re right, Mama.” She’d wink at him and kiss his cheek.

  But all of that would have to wait. Because only a few steps from the cell, someone blocked Kerry’s pathway.

  “What? You thought I forgot about your ass-whipping?”

  Thompson was standing there, cracking the knuckles on her fat fingers.

  “I’m not in the mood for this,” Kerry said, sounding more tired than fearful. “I just saw my little boy and—”

  Thompson cut her off. “I don’t give a fuck about that.”

  “Thompson, I just said I’m not in the mood for this,” Kerry said solemnly. “I can’t deal with you and whatever pathology you’re demonstrating right now. I just want to—”

  “Path—what? What you call me?” Thompson poked Kerry’s shoulder enough to push her back a few steps.

  Some of the women gathering in a tight fight circle started telling Thompson to back off and leave Kerry alone, but all still stayed to see what would happen.

  “I didn’t call you anything,” Kerry said. “I’m just letting you know I’m not trying to fight you. I’m upset about my son—”

  “Fuck your son!” Thompson spat, stepping in so closely to Kerry’s face a spray of saliva dotted the bridge of Kerry’s nose.

  “What did you say?” Kerry asked, feeling some switch of anger flicked on within the mix of sadness, loneliness, and now humiliation. “What did you say about my son?” Kerry didn’t know it, but she was stepping up higher, up on her toes a little bit, so she could be eye to eye with Thompson. She was also balling up her fists and tightening her jaw.

  “I said: fuck your—”

  This time Kerry cut Thompson off—but not with words, with a tight fist to the mouth. Kerry flung her closed hand up high and came down on Thompson’s mouth so hard it sounded like a bag of sand hitting the earth.

  Every mouth in the spectators’ circle was hanging wide open with surprise. Even Thompson seemed unprepared for the blow to her face.

  “What the fuck?” she shouted loud enough to get some of the guards’ attention. “You hit me!”

  Before Thompson could cock her fist back to get a lick in, some rush of blood to Kerry’s already heavy heart pushed her into a hysterical rage.

  She just attacked.

  Started clawing at Thompson’s face with her arms flying in an uncontrollable pinwheel that made everyone around her back up and left Thompson taking hits and trying to figure out where and when she could get some in.

  Kerry pounded and pounded as tears shook loose from her eyes. She was crying like she was the one being beat on.

  With all of the fists landing on her, Thompson found herself backing up to a wall. And Kerry followed. Swinging and kicking. Cursing, even. “Fuck my son? Fuck my son? No! Fuck you! Fuck you!”

  Thompson cowered into something that looked like a ball or a porcupine trying to hide herself away. But Kerry kept coming for her.

  By the time security pushed through the circle (and it was only just minutes into the battle), they had to pull Kerry off Thompson the same way they’d peeled Tyrian from Kerry less than an hour ago.

  Even when they got her loose and Thompson jumped up from her cocoon like she was ready to do something, Kerry looked like she�
��d been possessed, with her extremities flailing and obscenities of every language she could remember coming from her mouth—Latin in junior high, Spanish in high school, French in college—she cursed Thompson out in every language. As guards dragged her away, the other inmates looked at Thompson with serious scrutiny.

  “Guess you showed her,” someone shouted from the back of the crowd and they all laughed.

  “Bougie bitch beat your ass!” someone else added, giggling.

  “She snuck me!” Thompson defended herself. “Y’all saw that! The fight wasn’t fair!”

  As the other guards started yelling for the inmates to clear the floor, some replied, “Bet you won’t be looking for a rematch!”

  She wouldn’t.

  Chapter 2

  Widow.

  Val was sitting on the edge of her brand-new queen-sized bed, naked. Fresh out of the shower, her skin was still supple from the steam of the hot water she’d stood under just long enough to get the smell of some sweet French cologne she’d encountered on her companion the night before off her neck and nipples. She dabbed a bit of lemongrass-scented shea butter out of the glass tub resting beside her on the tousled silk bedsheets beneath her and rubbed the golden moisturizer into her knees.

  The shower water was still running. Along with clouds of steam, the sounds of joyous, comfortable singing slipped underneath the closed bathroom door and into the bedroom with her.

  Val slid her left foot onto the bed and massaged the shea butter into her ankle. Between eye rolls at the steam and caroling coming from the lingering visitor in the bathroom, she caught glimpses of herself on the behemoth of a flat screen mounted before the bed.

  It wasn’t her reflection cast on the high-definition television. It was actually a recording of an interview she’d done with CNN two weeks prior. On the screen, she was sitting on a couch in a respectable black-and-white tweed Carolina Herrera sheath dress, smiling at the reporter and answering questions her publicist had received and reviewed with her a week before the interview. Beneath her name was a word that kept catching her eye: widow.

  Val hated everything that word meant to the world: Someone who’d lost something. Someone broken. Helpless. Hopeless. Cut in half. She was none of those things—felt none of those things. Yes, her husband was dead and in the ground, but any loss she could’ve known—any brokenness, helplessness, hopelessness, dissection—occurred before she’d gotten the call that Mayor Jamison Taylor had been tossed from the top of the downtown Westin. In fact, in life, he’d been the one who’d made her feel those ways. So much so that she was actually surprised when she’d gotten the call to come to the morgue. They needed her to claim the body. To make arrangements. To make decisions. She was his wife. Wasn’t she? Was she?

  Val rolled her eyes at the steam and singing coming from the bathroom and again looked back up at the screen.

  “So, you were estranged from your husband when his first wife murdered him?” the reporter asked.

  As instructed in numerous media trainings, Val nodded as the reporter posed his question, she smiled, sat up straight, kept her freshly manicured hands clasped over her right knee. She paused for a second before answering the question. Her response should appear new, natural, honest, direct.

  “Actually, AJ, I wouldn’t use those words,” she said to the reporter. “Yes, Jamison and I had problems. The miscarriage, which was very public—it was hard on both of us, but I believe that if Jamison was alive, we would’ve been together again. We would’ve found our way back to one another,” Val lied softly. “And let me also make it clear to your viewers”—she turned from the reporter and looked directly into the camera “—there is no evidence that Kerry Jackson murdered Jamison Taylor.”

  “Actually, there’s lots of evidence.” The reporter looked down at his notes and counted off on his hand: “The couple who heard Jamison and Kerry arguing in the hotel room downstairs. The worker at the Sundial Restaurant on top of the Westin, who said he saw Kerry Jackson on the roof just before the mayor was tossed over. And then there’s Ms. Jackson herself. She was actually there—standing on the roof when police got there. I believe they call that ‘caught red-handed.’ ” He chuckled inappropriately.

  “None of that’s conclusive evidence,” Val replied with a clause from her note cards.

  “Well, then there’s motive,” the reporter added. “Jackson had motive to kill Taylor.”

  “What motive?”

  “You.” He looked at Val like a mouse caught in the corner of a snake’s cage. None of this banter had been included on her prep sheet before the interview. They were off the script. This was where things should get interesting. He looked down at his notes again. “Isn’t it true that Kerry Ann Jackson went into a jealous rage after she found out that he’d married you?”

  Val took the words hard, like a fist to the face, but it was nothing she hadn’t suffered through before. She used another line from one of those note cards to avoid encouraging the reporter with his interrogation: “I am not here to discuss my dead husband’s private life.” Still, her voice was nervous. Shaken.

  “But it is that private life that led to Jackson hating Taylor. Wouldn’t you say? He cheated when they were married. Slept around after the divorce—and we have proof of his attendance at numerous swingers’ parties and fraternity clubhouse romps. And then he moved on to his secretary, a former stripper, whom he impregnated and married. That’s you—isn’t it?”

  The camera zoomed in on Val’s fake smile. Not one muscle in her face moved under the condemnation of the reporter’s words and tone.

  “I have a quote here,” he went on, reading from his own note card. “When a reporter asked Jackson how she felt about her ex-husband marrying you, she said, and I quote, ‘I’ve moved on. I had to. If I hadn’t, I’d be insulted right now.’ ” He looked at Val again. “What do you have to say about that?”

  “About what?”

  “She called you an ‘insult.’ Surely you have thoughts on that.”

  “No. I don’t. No comment.” Val grinned and looked down at fingernails, clearly done with the conversation.

  “Okay. Well, I’ll conclude with what everyone wants to know. What all of America wants to know: Why do you care? Why are you involved in this case at all? Trying to get Kerry Jackson out of jail for murdering a man in cold blood—a man you were married to. A man you loved. After everything she said about you. After what she did to your husband. Why are you in this fight?”

  “Because she’s innocent,” Val said. “She didn’t do this.”

  “Well, all right. I guess that’s all we’ll get right now. Thank you for stopping by.”

  The reporter sat and stared at Val as the cameras stopped rolling.

  Looking at the television from her bed, Val could see herself looking like a mouse in the reporter’s eyes and hated herself for it.

  The bathroom door flung open and a masculine brown body came dancing out behind a dramatic dissipating cloud of steam.

  “Girl you know it’s true-ue-ue-ue, I love you!” he sang into an invisible microphone in his hand. “Girl you know it’s true-ue-ue-ue, I love you-u-u-u.”

  Val watched, rolling her eyes as he pretended to throw the microphone to the floor and broke into a high impact running-man dance routine that sent the only bit of fabric covering his manhood—a cream towel—to the floor. This man was big and brown and had muscles everywhere. He either was an athlete at the moment or had been in the past. He had a name. Val didn’t know it.

  Val sighed, but neither her clear displeasure nor his exposed, flopping genitals stopped her male companion’s entertainment. He kept jerking about all around the bedroom with his flaccid penis slapping against his legs and then hitting his stomach as he went along singing and dancing.

  Just when Val was about to tell him to stop, he sang the chorus again: “Girl you know it’s true-ue-ue-ue, I love you!” then raised his hands over his head and took a bow.

  “Thank you, ladies and g
entleman! I’m Ernest Hinds. I’m here every weekend! Come back and see me!” he said to his audience of one, who was not clapping or smiling.

  “It’s time for you to leave,” Val snapped, standing and snatching the towel from the floor. “I put your clothes and shit beside the door.” She nodded toward the pile of wrinkled male clothing beside the bedroom door, before trying to head to the bathroom to put the towel into the dirty-clothes bin, but her guest interrupted her path.

  “Leave? Why do you want me to leave?” He tried to reach for Val, but she pushed him away and went into the bathroom. “I thought we’d go get some breakfast. You know? Maybe talk.”

  There was wicked laughter coming from the bathroom.

  When Val returned in her robe, she looked at the naked dancer. Those athletic muscles really were everywhere, but Val wasn’t fazed. “Talk about what? Are you kidding?” She giggled.

  “No. Why would I be kidding?”

  “Because there’s nothing for us to talk about—not unless you’re referring to directions to the interstate.” Val headed to the pile of clothes.

  “Damn, you’re cold. Ice cold.”

  “You have no idea,” she said, tossing pieces of the clothing at her visitor one at a time.

  The man caught his jeans and tossed them over his shoulder before sitting on the bed to put on his socks.

  “I thought I did have an idea, but I guess I had the wrong idea,” he said dejectedly.

  “Look . . . um . . . Ernest,” Val said vaguely. “I think we both had the same idea last night. And you were good—great—but now the sun is up and it’s time to go home. Right?” She smiled pleasantly but with an air of annoyance.

  “Right.” He shook his head, bewildered, and continued to put on his clothing as Val watched and waited. “Guess you’re not a huge Milli Vanilli fan,” he joked to cut the ice from Val’s stare. “Most chicks really dig that dance routine too—especially when the towel falls off.” He stood to button his pants and looked into Val’s eyes. This was actually his second time sleeping with her. When he’d approached her at the bar last night, he hadn’t brought up the first time. He knew she’d hardly remember. Really, it was odd that he did. It had been more than ten years ago, when a summer night out in Atlanta meant flashing lights, white lines, stripper poles, and random sex. Back then, Val was just a club girl. A pretty face with a tight body in a crowd of so many others. He was still playing for the Falcons football team. Nothing big—just a benchwarmer. But he had a penthouse and a little red sports car. His cousin was in town visiting from North Carolina and Ernest figured he’d show him around. They went to Club Vision, a mega–hot spot on Peachtree, and met two girls in short spandex dresses and tall neon heels at the chic white bar in VIP. Between drinks, his cousin purposely let it slip that Ernest played for the NFL and the girls responded accordingly. With no prodding, they followed Ernest’s little red sports car back to the penthouse, jumped out of their clothes and into the rooftop hot tub, where Ernest had sex with one of the girls as his cousin kissed and fondled the other. Still, Ernest could feel the other girl’s eyes on him the entire time. Feeling weak and dizzy from the mixture of alcohol, cocaine, hot water, and sex, Ernest got out of the tub and went inside to cool off in the shower. While he’d left the hot tub party alone, after being in the shower for a few minutes, Ernest felt slender arms around his waist and soft lips kissing his spine. He assumed it was the girl he’d had sex with in the hot tub. “I’m good right now. I’ll catch you for round two in a minute,” he’d said flatly. He wasn’t really into the girl. She was cute but Ernest had always been pretty introspective, even about sleeping with groupies, and had decided that he’d only had sex with the girl in the hot tub to impress his cousin. “Round two?” he heard. He turned around and there was the other girl, the one who’d been watching him. “I’m waiting for round one.” Ernest laughed and looked out of the shower for his girl. “Are you crazy?” he asked. “What’s your friend going to say?” The girl rolled her eyes. “I ain’t worried about her. She knows how I roll—whatever Val wants, Val gets.” Then Ernest asked, “And who’s Val?” She responded in a way he’d never forget. She dropped to her knees and looked up at him ambitiously and sort of emptily. “I’m Val,” she said. “You’ll remember me.”