Blood Is Thicker Than Water (A New Adult Dark Thriller Series of Mystery and Suspense) ( free series of thriller, mystery, suspense and horror) (Next Of Kin Book 1) (9 page)

A figure shrouded in black clothing strode toward her, the wicked laughter enclosing her. 

“Medina.  Don’t be scared.  I’ve been watching, waiting.  You and your sister belong to me now.” The shrouded figure said in a deep and raspy voice, taking a step further. 

“Let me go!  Let me go!” Medina bellowed.

“You belong to me now!” His tone was powerful and earth-shattering. 

“I belong to no one!” She fought him off, and then ran further away. 

“You can’t escape me.  You’re mine.” He said in a breathy murmur.

Medina wanted to get out of this ill-gotten place and never return.  She had a strange feeling that the voice was none other than her biological father. 
What does this mean?
  A small opening became visible.  She made tracks toward it as it started to close.  Then…..she let out a squeal that made everyone in the courthouse skin crawl.  Another shriek followed.  The judge and jurors took pity on her. 

“Medina.  Medina it’s alright.  You’re safe now.  You’re safe.” Spoonie soothed her

The lawyers were baffled.  They wouldn’t forget it as long as they lived.

“We’ll reconvene tomorrow at 0900 hours.  Court is adjourned.” The judge concluded.

Medina fingered the seating in the back row.  It was empty.  The squirrely man had gone....and took her security along with him. 

Was it a dream?  Was it a hallucination?  And if it was...no it had to be real.  She thought.

It had depicted parts of what she knew deep down to be true.  It was bound to resurface.  The man that did the evil deed was still unclear, at least for now.  Until the twins get their memory back.  The squirrely man had a hand in it, that they were certain of, and one more.  They were coerced to stand up against Maize. 

They cleared the courtroom, one by one.  Medina and Isabel ran to their prospective parents, who put on a show for everyone involved.  Arms outstretched, they acted like the complete opposite of who they were. 

Maize smiled and introduced himself, extracting his hand. 

“I know who you are.  Stay away from us.” The mysterious woman said, scrunching her nose as she made a grand exit.

“That goes both ways.  Isabel belongs to me.  She’s not daddy’s little girl anymore.  She’s Donovan’s little girl.” The stocky man said, showing off his sardonic smile.

Maize took a step forward.  His lawyer pushed him back, had an inkling what was going through his mind.

“You really want another assault charge?  You’re playing right into his hands.” Spoonie whispered.

“Get out of here.” Spoonie demanded, giving the stocky man an icy glare.

“I got something to do anyway, c’mon sweetheart.” Donovan said.

He approached Maize and whispered in his ear.

“She’s going to be my private dancer.”

Donovan straightened his collar “And don’t worry, this will be the best money she’s ever made.”

Fueled by rage, Maize walked out of the courthouse, determined not to give the sleazy businessman the satisfaction of getting under his skin.

“Was it something I said?” Donovan asked, slyly.

“Do you know that perjury is punishable by the state of Illinois?  It’s a very serious offense.” Spoonie said, hoping to squeeze the truth out of her.

“Yes.  I’m not lying.” Medina said.

“Is it true that Alex Price killed your mother and told you to pin it on my client?  You always went out of your way to please him, like a good little girl.” Spoonie pressed.

“It’s not true!  He did it!  He killed her! He did it! He killed her!” Medina said, repeatedly as if she was stark raving mad, motioned to the defendant.   

“That’s all your honor.” He said, returning to his post.

“You may step down.” Reassuringly, the judge said, swayed his head from side to side.  He had seen it all. 

Medina staggered out of the room and went back to that small crawl space that added a level of comfort.

The trial had attracted the media’s attention.  Everything she tried to keep hidden would be on WICS ABC20, where it would reach who knows how many people.  She wanted to be invisible.  To be left alone. 

The reporters berated them with questions they weren’t prepared to answer.  The stocky man threatened the cameraman, and then shamelessly flirted with the female reporter. 

                “The defense calls Maize Blevins to the stand.” He announced, pressed his hands firmly on the table. 

16.

            “Mr. Blevins, did you murder your fiancé’?” The prosecutor asked as she put her hands behind his back.

“No.  I loved her and claimed those kids as my own.  I was prepared to spend the rest of my life with her.  I would never hurt her.”Maize said.

“What kind of woman was she?” She asked.

“Amazing.” Maize uttered.

“She was so amazing that she committed adultery right under your nose.” She said.

“First love is hard to get over.” Maize said.

“Is that all you have to say Mr. Blevins? What kind of a man are you? Weren’t you angry?”

“I didn’t know what was going on. It’s like you said, it was right under my nose.”

“So you claim.”

“I know she put a stop to it.”

“How do you know?”

“I know her. I’m not a violent man Ms Mills.” Maize said with authority.

“But someone turned you into a violent man, didn’t they? I think you’re lying.  I think you knew about the affair.  You hated Alex Price and that he had a hold on her.  You wanted to kill him. Zoe stopped you. You were so blinded by hurt and anger that you made believe she was Alex Price, and you did to her what you wanted to do with him.” She replied.

“No, I’m innocent.” Maize pleaded.

“Tell that to the blood on your hands.  The prosecution rests.”

“I remember when I fell in love with this country, and every single thing it stands for.  I was proud to recite the pledge of allegiance. I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands, one Nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.  The operative words.  Justice for all.  If we let Mr. Blevins get by with just a slap on the wrist.  The system fails.  We fail. “She said, faced the jurors.

Spoonie smoothed out the suit and faced the people who held his friend’s life in their hands.  He had the kind of confidence that some people mistake as being cocky and was calm, cool and collected for the most part, tried to force himself to think of this as just another case.

“We’ve heard numerous testimonies.  But the one that should stick out the most is my client’s. He’s no cold-blooded criminal. He’s a victim. He’s hurting the same way those children are hurting. Yes, his fingerprints were found on the murder weapons, I’m not denying that. But all the evidence that’s presented before us has not been conclusive. He loved her. She loved him. He loved her kids. What was his motive? He knew nothing about the affair nor the baby. He was working late.  Got a threatening phone call and rushed home to save his wife. But he was too late.  His wife lay before him, an empty shell.  If Mr. Blevins would have gotten there five minutes earlier, there would be two bodies instead of one.  If you convict an innocent man, how will you sleep at night?”

Retracing steps, Spoonie wondered if the job was done to the best of his ability.

If the jurors were in favor of the prosecutor, he’d be held responsible.  A great deal of weight was on his shoulders. This was his friend’s life he was talking about and the fact that he was a perfectionist didn’t help. Maize’s fate was unclear.

The bailiff hauled Maize back to the holding cell.  Spoonie went back to the think tank, presumably known as his corner office at Hamilton & Dunn.

Spoonie traipsed past a bunch of colleagues and interns, the troubled demeanor fitting him like a glove, then making brief eye contact with the receptionist.

“I don’t want to be disturbed.” Spoonie said, roughly.  She nodded her head in agreement.  Twisting the knob, Spoonie gained entry to his lavish office, and then shut the door.

He treaded aimlessly to the desk, swiveled back in the lounger, propped his feet up, hands behind his head as he recalled the trial… until the intercom banged in his head like a drum.

“I thought I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed.” He answered, annoyed.

“I figured this would be an exception sir.” She replied, sweetly.

“What is it?” He asked, harshly.

* * * * * *

“Have you reached a verdict?” The judge asked.

“Yes your honor.” The foreman replied.

“Will the defendants please rise?” The judge announced.

“What say you?”

“In murder in the first degree we the jury, find the defendant guilty.”

A hush fell over the crowd.  Maize hung his head.  The prosecutor beamed. 

“Maize Blevins, I sentence you to twenty-five years in a maximum security prison.  This court is now adjourned.” The judge thumped the gavel.

The prosecutor frowned.  Spoonie smiled.  It wasn’t the verdict he was hoping for, however it was a lesser sentence than planned.  He directed his attention to the woman, acknowledged her, then Maize.  He would be a free man at the age of sixty-five.

“Thanks man.” They shook hands.

“Wish I could’ve done more for you.” Spoonie said, sincerely.

They indulged in one final bro hug before the bailiff put him in cuffs and carried him off to the holding cell.

Spoonie packed up the legal briefs and strolled to the door.  As soon as he entered the lobby, reporters swarmed toward him, blocking his passage way and bombarding with questions.

“What’s your opinion on the case?”

“Are you pleased with the decision?”

“Do you think you’ve done all you could for your friend?”

“Who killed Zoe Blevins?”

“What about the child?  Do you think you’re responsible for putting her in therapy?”

“No comment.  Excuse me.” He rarely cooperated with the press.  This case had him disheveled.  Maybe she can get the help she needs.  He thought. 

17.

March, 2010

It had been ten years since Medina laid eyes on her sister.  She took up residence with a widow named Annalise, a barren woman who dreamt of having a child of her own someday.  She was wise enough to know someday wouldn’t come.  She tried but couldn’t carry them to term.  Not really having a mother herself, she didn’t know how to be one.  She had no family, except for an old decrepit granny.  The woman was highly qualified, for a reason Medina could not understand.

The so-called social worker wanted to get rid of them.  He pawned them off on anyone he could.  He didn’t care for the kids he handled.  He turned crooked, burnt out from the job, trading kids in for that almighty dollar.  He got some kind of perverse pleasure from it.

She was forced to go to a new school, make friends and tolerate her existence.

They pulled up to a red brick building and sat in silence, the rambling engine overpowering their assessments. 

Medina grabbed the backpack from the back seat, let out a quick “bye” and slammed the door inadvertently.  She looked around, viewed the kids in their uniforms, the ones that didn’t have a care in the world and who never knew heartache or tragedy.  She took a deep breath and walked towards Dagwood High, the 3
rd
most prestigious in Chicago.  Medina felt out of place.  So much so, that she placed the hood over her head to shut out the rest of the world.

She heard the bell and trampled down the hall to her first class.  Her feet felt like bricks, movement becoming slower and slower. 

Medina opened the door to her first class.  It slammed shut at an abnormal pace, triggering her to recall moments from her dark past—the gunman shooting Zoe twice in the head at close range—execution style.

“Can I help you?” The teacher asked.

Medina didn’t say anything.  She couldn’t even move, just stood there paralyzed for a split second. 

She shyly passed him the note.

“What a nut job.” A classmate blurted out.

“Ah yes Medina.  Take a seat in the back.” The teacher said.

Medina treaded to the back row, enveloping in the metaphorical dark clou
d
─
─
losing herself in the downpour.  She slunk down and stared at the clock.

“This ain’t much of a school if they let a freak show like you in here.” Another kid uttered.

The peers followed suit, sneered whilst making knife stabbing and obscene gestures.  The man who redefined the word teacher, turned away from the blackboard, leering at her tormentors “That is enough!” the words oozed out of his lips like a drill sergeant.  They gasped.  He returned to the board and began the lesson.  They opened their books and quietly chanted.  It was deemed unstoppable as the chorus swelled in numbers.  The word “psycho” was carelessly thrown about like it had no meaning.