Because of You (19 page)

“Everything looks so good.”

Raymond smiled. “It is. There's a little eating place that's not much more than a hole in the wall that serves some of the best food Harlem has to offer. Are you from Harlem, Miss Fleming? It is miss, isn't it?”

She stared across the table at the man who owned so many parcels in Harlem that people had stopped counting at one hundred. He was short and slight, but there was something about him that made him appear a much larger man. His thinning hair was salt-and-pepper, and he'd been blessed with wonderful skin. It was so smooth it appeared poreless. The information she'd gleaned on him indicated he'd recently celebrated fifty years of marriage to the same woman—not an easy feat nowadays. He was the father of one and grandfather of two. A recent update said his son-in-law had decided on a political career, challenging a long-time incumbent for his state assembly seat.

“Yes. It is Miss Fleming. Answer one question for me, Mr. Humphries.”

“What is it?”

“Why me and not some other lawyer? Why not one based here in Harlem?”

“That's two questions, Miss Fleming.” Raymond chuckled as if it was a private joke. “I'll answer the second one first. I have a team of lawyers working for me, and none of them have offices or live in Harlem. Therefore, they have no vested interest in the community. They do what I tell them to do and for that I pay them very well. And, to answer your first question. Why you? Why not you, Miss Fleming? As I told you on the phone, you come highly recommended, and it's about time I come into the twenty-first century and hire a female attorney. And one that is African-American.”

A shiver of remembrance raced up Aziza's spine. It was something similar to what Kenneth Moore had told her during her interview. She'd wanted to tell him he didn't have to concern himself with affirmative action because her law school transcript validated that she was more than qualified for the position.

“So, I'll be your token female?”

Raymond clasped his hands in a prayerful gesture. “No. I've lived long enough to come to hate that word—token black, token female, token whatever. You are a person, not some symbol for what someone wants to flaunt. I've made it a practice over the years not to put all my eggs in one basket, and this applies to my properties. I divide them up between the legal and accounting staff. This year you may handle the properties in the grid from 125th and Fifth to 125th and Frederick Douglass Boulevard. Then the following year it will be the parcels in Morningside Heights.

“People tend to think of Harlem as one homogenous community the same way they think of black folks. We
may look similar, but there are very distinct differences among us. Hamilton Heights is different from the St. Nicholas and Mount Morris Historic Districts. Not only does the architecture differ but the people who reside in these areas differ. I'm currently looking to pick up several parcels off 118th and St. Nicholas. The owner of the properties died eight years ago and his children, who are handling his estate, have been dragging their feet about selling it.”

“It is occupied?” Aziza asked Raymond.

“No. That's what makes it so bizarre. They're paying taxes on unoccupied units. Initially, it was taken over by squatters and crackheads, but they did manage to pay someone to get them out and brick up the buildings.”

“How many units are you talking about?”

“Forty.”

“Are you looking to turn them into condos or rentals?”

“Condos. I think of renters as transients. Folks who own property tend to take care of it.”

“What exactly do you want me to do, Mr. Humphries?”

“I want you to convince the current owners to sell the buildings to RLH Realty, and I'm willing to pay them fair market value.”

“Do you have a time frame?”

“Say what?”

Aziza knew she'd shocked him with her query. “I'm asking because I'm going to send you a statement each month for billable hours. I can either work to tie it up quickly, or I can drag it out for a couple of years and make a small fortune.”

A muscle twitched in Raymond's jaw when he clenched his teeth. Now he knew why Wainwright was attracted to the lady lawyer. They were two of a kind: brash and
arrogant. “Let's start with sixty days with an option for another sixty days.”

“That's doable.” Aziza didn't want to neglect her other clients if Raymond Humphries decided to monopolize her services. “Where do they live?”

“Tampa.”

“Tampa, as in Florida?”

Raymond nodded. “Just let Ms. Jackson know when you're available to travel to meet with them, and she will make all the arrangements. You'll fly first-class, be provided with ground transportation and will stay in the best hotels. All of your meals and incidentals will be billed directly to RLH Realty.” Reaching for a pad stamped with the company's logo, he wrote down a figure and pushed the pad across the table. “I'm willing to pay this for your billable hours. Does it meet with your approval?”

The expression on Aziza's face did not change when she stared at what Raymond had scrawled on the pad. He was offering her a fee comparable to what Wall Street and Park Avenue law firms charged their clients. She blinked.

“It's doable,” she repeated, “but I'm unable to confirm whether I'll be able to accept your offer until next week. I'm involved with another case where I might be called as a witness.”

Aziza didn't want to say that she was suing another attorney, and she didn't know whether Kenneth would cop a plea or hold out and go to trial. He had deep pockets and an entire law firm behind him. But she had Jordan Wainwright, and judging from what she'd witnessed earlier that morning, he could hold his own in any courtroom. He was so skillful that the D.A. had never been given the opportunity to cross the defendant.

Her man was definitely no joke!

Raymond successfully concealed his disappointment
behind a too-bright smile. He'd expected Aziza Fleming to jump at his offer. But she hadn't said no, and to him, that was a yes. He always saw the glass as half full rather than half empty. He knew that Wyatt Wainwright had his sights on the two buildings, and he'd be damned if the Wainwright Developers Group would gobble another address in his backyard.

Aziza Fleming would become his secret weapon when he used her to take down her boyfriend's grandfather. “Please serve yourself, Miss Fleming. It's sinful to let all this food go to waste. Remember there are a lot of hungry people in this city.”

Reaching for a plate, Aziza spooned a portion of greens, sweet potatoes and meat loaf onto the china plate. She speared a piece of meat loaf, chewing slowly. “You're right. This is delicious.”

“I told you,” Raymond said smugly. He fixed a plate for himself, and over the next forty minutes, he and the lady lawyer talked about national politics and the Super Bowl game. None of their New York teams had made it to the finals, but that didn't diminish the hype or the excitement of a day that sports fans considered an unofficial holiday.

T
he telephone rang Sunday morning, and when Aziza glanced at the display she was surprised to see Wildflowers and Other Treasures on the caller ID. She picked up the receiver. “Hello.”

“Hi, Zee, this is Simone Madison. I'm sorry about calling so early.”

“That's all right, Simone. I've been up for hours. What's up?”

She'd gotten up early to make salads and marinate meats that would go in the oven before her guests arrived. Her schoolteacher girlfriends had sent her a text informing her they were spending the weekend in Atlantic City. They would've invited her to come with them, but she'd turned off her cell.

“Do you mind if I hang out with you guys?”

“Of course I don't mind. I thought you were going to watch the game with your husband.”

“Please don't get me started. I dropped his behind off at the airport early this morning. He's flying out to L.A. for the game.”

“But I thought he didn't have a ticket.”

“He didn't until a former baseball teammate called and told him to be at the airport at six because they were taking a private jet to the west coast. Rafe thought I was driving too slowly, so he made me pull over and he got behind the wheel. A cop stopped him for doing ninety in a fifty-five zone, but when he showed his U.S. Marshal badge he let him go. When I called my sister she told me to hang out with her and Micah, but I'm not driving to Brooklyn. I'm certain Micah would've jetted off with the other guys if Tessa wasn't pregnant.”

“Come on over, Simone. The more the merrier.”

“What do you need?”

“Nothing really.”

“I can't come empty-handed.”

“Yes, you can. The others are expected to arrive around four, but if you want to come earlier you can.”

“Maybe I will. I can always help you set up.”

 

Aziza straightened a row of forks, knives and spoons on the embroidered tablecloth draped over a long folding table she'd set up on the back porch. Rather than serve her guests in the kitchen or formal dining room, she'd decided the enclosed area would provide a much more relaxing atmosphere.

Simone Whitfield-Madison, as promised, had come at two with a large wicker basket filled with freshly cut flowers. She'd watched transfixed as the floral designer put together a bouquet that would double as a centerpiece.

“The flowers really dress up the table, Simone.” An
all-white bouquet of tulips, gardenia, sweet pea, roses and calla lilies added a touch of elegance.

Folding her arms under her breasts, Simone angled her head. “They do look nice.” A mop of reddish curls framing her bare face made her appear younger than thirty-four.

Aziza stepped back, surveying her handiwork. A buffet would replace her usual sit-down dinner. “I need to light some votives, start a fire in the fireplace and mix a pitcher of margaritas.”

“I don't mind lighting the candles and building the fire.”

“I didn't invite you here to work, so relax.”

Simone blew out a breath. “I'm going to admit something you may find a little strange. Compared to my sister and cousin Faith, I'm inept when it comes to working in the kitchen. Give me some soil and I'll build a monument.”

“Who does the cooking in your house?”

“Rafe.”

Aziza smiled. “Your husband is gorgeous.”

“And your boyfriend is delicious,” Simone countered. “How long have the two of you been together?”

“Three weeks.”

“You're kidding me.”

Aziza's smile faded, and she stared at the petite floral designer with a dusky-gold complexion and hazel eyes that reminded her of Jordan's. “No, I'm not kidding. Why do you seem so surprised?”

“I… It's just that I thought the two of you were together a lot longer. I don't think you're aware of how you look at each other.”

“How do we look at each other?”

“With adoration. The man is in love with you.”

“I doubt that.” What Aziza wouldn't admit to Simone was that she was falling in love with Jordan.

“Why, Aziza. I don't know you and you don't know me, but after two marriages, I think I've learned a little something about men. I married my high school sweetheart, believing I knew all there was to know about him. I stayed with him because I wanted it to work, but when it didn't, I divorced him. I even tried giving him a second chance when I agreed to a temporary reconciliation. In the end, I knew I couldn't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear.

“Then along came Raphael Madison. I witnessed an attempted murder and Rafe was assigned to witness protection. He moved into my house, shadowing me 24/7. It took about two weeks until I realized I couldn't imagine my life without him. He'd become everything my ex-husband wasn't or couldn't be. And what made it so pitiful was that it'd taken sixteen years for me to come to that conclusion.”

Aziza affected a sad smile. “That sounds like a rerun of my life.” She told Simone about her relationship and eventual marriage to a man who didn't have her back. “Once you give an undeserving cretin so many years of your life it's a little hard to trust the next one to come along.”

“Do you have to deal with a woman from Jordan's past?”

“No.”

“Then, it's not fair to Jordan that he has to pay for the sins of your ex.”

Simone's words played over and over in Aziza's head when she walked into the kitchen to check the dishes in the oven and prepare a margarita punch. The doorbell rang, and Aziza opened the door to see Tamara, Nayo and Ava on the porch laden with shopping bags. She shook her head, stepped back and welcomed them in.

“I told y'all not to bring anything.”

Nayo looked at her cohorts. “Did you hear her say that?”

“Nah!” Tamara and Ava said in unison.

Tamara kicked off her running shoes. “Something smells good.”

Ava walked in, slipping out of a pair of leather clogs, leaving them on a thick straw mat near the door. “Nice house.”

Nayo handed Aziza a shopping bag with several bottles of wine. “I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm starved.”

Tamara gave her a quizzical look. “Didn't you eat before we left the city?”

“Maybe she's pregnant,” Ava drawled.

Three pairs of eyes were fixed on the petite photographer. “If you are, then you can't have anything alcoholic,” Aziza said firmly.

Nayo's eyelids fluttered. “I think I am.”

Tamara folded her hands at the waist. “Either you are or you aren't.”

“I took a pregnancy test this morning and it came out positive.”

“Mrs. Campbell,” Tamara said softly, “if the test came out positive, then you
are
pregnant.”

Ava hugged Nayo. “Congratulations! Does Ivan know?”

“No. I'll tell him when he comes back.”

Nayo's possible pregnancy became the topic of conversation as Aziza and the four women gathered on the back porch to eat and drink until the coin toss that signaled the game had begun. Instead of the requisite chips, dips, Buffalo wings and guacamole, she'd served roast turkey, honey ham, potato salad, smothered cabbage and a tossed salad with vinaigrette. Simone received her
share of teasing after she was forced to tell them about her husband's impromptu escape.

Ava gestured to Simone. “The only thing I'm going to say about Rafe is still water runs deep. He pretends all is right in River City, and when you're not looking, the brother bolts like a bat out of hell.”

Everyone laughed, Simone included. After several glasses of chilled margaritas, the laughter increased and they ignored the flickering images on the screen to enjoy the camaraderie that was natural and easygoing.

The game ended with a winner, the commercials had become a part of history and the five women worked quickly and efficiently to put away food and load the dishwasher. Ava, who had appointed herself the designated driver, was sprawled over the love seat on the porch, declaring she was much too full to drive back to Manhattan.

Removing the fireplace screen, Aziza placed a piece of wood on the dying embers. “All of you are welcome to stay over.”

Ava sat up and ran a hand over her short coiffed hair. “I was just joking.”

“Well, I'm not,” Aziza countered. “I have four bedrooms, so that eliminates doubling up. I'll give you each something to wear and grooming supplies. Just let me know what time you want to wake up in the morning and I'll get you up.”

Simone stretched like a lithe cat. “I don't have to stay over. I don't live that far from here.”

Aziza replaced the screen and hung the poker on a stand. “Ladies, I'm not chasing anyone out of my house. If you've had more than a couple of drinks, then you're not leaving. I'm not going to be responsible for supplying
the alcohol in case you get into an accident. You will not sue me.”

“Hear, hear,” Tamara intoned. “Spoken like a lawyer.”

She laughed along with the others. “I need a show of hands as to who is staying over.” Four hands went up. “It's unanimous.” Reaching for a glass of water she'd left on a side table, she held it aloft. “Here's to our first post–Super Bowl sleepover.”

The others hoisted imaginary glasses. “Hear! Hear!”

 

Aziza sat in the car parked in the driveway to her home, staring out the window. It was January 31, a day she would always remember, a day in which her life would change—and she prayed for the better. Jordan and the other men had flown back to New York the day after the Super Bowl, and instead of flying into JFK or LaGuardia, he'd flown into the smaller Westchester Regional airport.

He'd shocked her when she'd opened the door to find him standing on her porch. She'd welcomed him home, into her bed and into her body. Aziza had realized how much she'd missed Jordan, how much he'd become an integral part of her life.

Jordan accompanied her when she went to the bank and retrieved the envelope from the safe deposit box that could change the course of hers and Kenneth Moore's life—forever. She'd spoken to a female police officer who handled rape cases, who'd asked if she could tape her statement. Jordan had given his approval and everything had poured out as she'd recounted the harassment she'd encountered as an employee of Moore, Bloch and Taylor.

Jordan had handed over the envelope containing the evidence needed to indict and hopefully convict Aziza's former boss. Aziza confirmed her fingerprints would
not appear on the condom, because she'd looked in the envelope but never touched its contents. Kenneth's DNA and fingerprints were certain to literally and figuratively hang the man.

“Are you all right?”

Jordan's query pulled Aziza from her reverie. “I'm okay.”

“If you're okay, then why won't you look at me?”

She turned her head as if she were a robot. “I'm looking at you, Jordan.”

He ran the back of his right hand over her cheek. “Don't second-guess yourself, baby. You did what you had to do to stop a predator. The first time you tried to get Kenny, you went it alone. This time you're not alone. You have me, and together we're going to stop him from doing what he did to you to another woman or women.”

Her eyelids fluttered wildly as twin emotions of relief and apprehension raced through her chest. She was relieved because she'd followed through and followed the law to beat Kenny at his own game. The apprehension came from knowing he would come back at her with everything in his legal arsenal to escape the humiliation that was certain to come once the story broke about his workplace behavior. There was no doubt his firm's reputation would also take a hit. Clients—female ones in particular—would seek out other firms for representation.

Aziza unbuckled her seat belt after they returned to her home and leaned into Jordan. “I know you're right, but a nagging voice in the back of my head keeps telling me that he's going to come after me like a wounded animal, that he's going to go for the kill before he dies.”

“Kenny Moore is a rattlesnake who will bite himself before he bites anyone.”

Breathing a kiss on Jordan's warm throat, she closed
her eyes and prayed he was right. “How long do you think it's going to take from arrest to indictment?”

“I don't know, baby. They're going to arrest Kenny and charge him with multiple counts of sexual harassment. He'll be asked to give a DNA sample, and if he's smart, he will. There's no doubt he'll be granted bail. If there is a DNA match, then the real waiting begins. It could be six months, maybe even a year before we go to trial—that is, if he doesn't decide to accept a plea.”

“I can't wait another year in limbo, Jordan.”

“Don't say what you can't do, Zee. Remember, before you handed over that envelope you had no case because your taped conversations with your boss were inadmissible. Now, if you don't feel safe staying here alone, you can always move in with me.”

She shook her head. “No. I can't do that.”

“Why not?”

Aziza stared into the eyes that bored into her like sharp daggers. “I'm surprised you have to ask why not.”

“Well, I am. Why not, Aziza?”

“I have a practice to run.”

“A practice you can run out of my place.”

She ignored him as if he hadn't spoken. “And I wasn't raised to shack up with men.”

“I'm not men, but a man,” he countered. “Would it make it more palatable to you if we got married? And instead of running your practice out of
our
home, we get you an office in a midtown building.”

Aziza's eyes narrowed. “I'm not marrying you, Jordan.”

Jordan felt as if she'd plunged a dagger into his heart. If she would've said she couldn't marry him it would've lessened the blow. But the declaration that she wasn't marrying him spoke volumes.