Dying Declaration (12 page)

But her patience was wearing thin.

“What is it
this
time?” she asked as she knelt down next to Tiger’s sleeping bag on the floor.

“My back and arms hurt,” Tiger whined. “Like somebody’s pricking me with a bazillion needles.”

Nikki put some more lotion on his sunburned little body and got him yet another drink of water. Before she left, Tiger had her check behind all the boxes stored in the room, just to make sure the bogeyman was not hiding out and biding his time. She surveyed every nook and cranny for the third time that night. There was no sign of him.

Just as she left the room, she heard it again.

“Miss Nikki,” came the squeaky little voice.

“Give me a break,” she whispered to nobody in particular.
“What?!”

“Can I lay down in your room?”

It was not her idea of a restful night, but it had been a traumatic day for Tiger. And he would only be there a week.

“Oh, all right,” Nikki said.

“Yippee,” Tiger shrieked, bouncing up and shaking Hannah. “We’re gonna get to sleep with Miss Nikki!”

The three decided that it would work best for Hannah to sleep in bed with Nikki and for Tiger to sleep on the floor in his sleeping bag. They also decided, by a vote of two-to-one, with Nikki dissenting, that they should leave the hallway light on and leave the bedroom door cracked open. Nikki felt like she was sleeping in a spotlight.

She did insist, however, that Tiger would have to save a few of his 553 questions until the morning. And so, at nearly twelve thirty, the kids stopped squirming around and settled in for the night.

Hannah cuddled closer every time she moved, and Nikki gave her a little more room each time, until Nikki was nearly falling out of her side of the bed. It was going to be a long night.

Silence, blessed silence, filled the room for all of about two minutes.

“Miss Nikki, what’s that picture on your shoulder?” she heard from the squeaky little voice on the floor.

She sighed. “If I answer this last question, will you go to sleep?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay. It’s called a tattoo. And it’s a picture of a little girl.”

“Is it your picture?”

“No, Tiger. Now go to sleep.”

Two minutes later: “Miss Nikki, have you ever been married?”

“Tiger!”

“Night, Miss Nikki,” he said quickly.

“Good night, Tiger,” Nikki said, a little more calmly. “And good night, Hannah.”

Hannah cracked open an eye, closed it, and snuggled closer to Nikki.

“You can call me Stinky if you want to,” she said.

20

THERESA HAMMOND ROSE EARLY
and wandered around her trailer, feeling very much alone. She had not really slept the prior night. In fact, she could not remember the last time she had achieved deep sleep. She would doze off briefly and then jerk awake, hoping for a split second that it was all a bad dream. Then reality would rush in and more sleep would be impossible. She was on the verge of going to the pharmacy to get some sleeping pills, but she figured God was already mad enough at her as it was. Another sin would only make things worse.

She had cried herself out. She felt depleted and exhausted, a helpless spectator to the cruel events swirling around her. She wanted to take some action, do
something
. But there was nothing she could do. Just survive. One day at a time.

She wandered into the boys’ room, and the memories came flooding back. She had left Joshie’s stuff just like it was the day he died. The crib that had been used by all three kids when they were babies still made up in the corner of the room. Joshie’s stuffed Pooh bear that was a present on his first birthday, rubbed down to a nub from loving, lay lifeless in the crib. LEGOs scattered on the floor. Joshie’s favorite book of Bible stories, opened on the dresser. The dresser itself, badly in need of paint, still bulged with Joshie’s hand-me-down clothes.

She reached in and grabbed the Pooh bear, hugged it close, and breathed deeply of Joshie. Without thinking, she sat down on Tiger’s bed. Her heart ached as she missed her little guys. She closed her eyes, and for a moment, it seemed that she was hugging Joshie again, rocking gently back and forth on the bed, gently humming, “Jesus loves me, this I know . . .”

But then reality hit, and her body began to shake. There were no tears this time, just convulsions of grief and unavoidable questions.
Why are You punishing me, God? Why take Joshie? What did I do to deserve Your wrath?

She mustered the strength to rise from the bed, preparing to leave the room. She had to get dressed and find work. With Thomas behind bars, the money from his lawn care business would stop. They had a little money in the bank, a few thousand dollars in a house fund. She could make that last a month, no more. She was determined to hire a good lawyer, a real lawyer, not the sorry court-appointed lawyer they had been assigned at the arraignment. She would work two jobs if that’s what it took.

She had to get her kids back. The child protective services caseworker would be interviewing her today. She had to get her act together.
Think clearly,
she told herself,
and get this trailer cleaned.
But it was hard to do all that—it was hard to even move—when you missed the kids so much.

She missed cuddling with Joshie, and she missed the cheery disposition of Stinky. She even missed the orneriness of Tiger. She glanced at the clock on the wall of the boys’ room, a baseball face with hour and minute hands. Right now Tiger was probably concocting a scheme to avoid going to school. At least she had prepared Nikki for that. Their small church school met every weekday until the second week of June. It was important that Tiger and Stinky not miss a day, even in the midst of this turmoil.

She hugged the bear tighter, and this time the tears began to flow.

“It dus’ hurts really bad,” Tiger claimed, clutching his stomach. He had learned through the years that tummyaches were the hardest to disprove. He was not real good at fake coughing yet, and if he claimed a fever, they would always drag out the thermometer and poke it under his tongue. Although he was not sure if the Pretty Lady even had a thermometer, he was taking no chances. There was no way to measure a tummyache; it was his word against hers.

“Where does it hurt?” Miss Nikki asked, as if she were a doctor.

“Right in my tummy, and I think I might frow up.” Tiger knew that the prissy Pretty Lady would want no part of any throw-up action. She didn’t even like sand in her stuff at the beach. He could run into the bathroom and fake it if he had to. She would never follow.

“Tiger has a lot of tummyaches on school days,” Stinky announced, bouncing around and getting ready for school. “They usually get better by recess.”

It was not exactly being a tattletale, but it was close enough to make Tiger mad.

“Ooh,” he groaned. “It’s a really bad one.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what,” Miss Nikki said, returning to the room with a big cooking basin. “Why don’t you get up and get dressed and then see how you feel? If you have an urge to throw up in the meantime, use this basin.”

Tiger glanced up at her. He had heard that line before. She was so much like his mom, it was scary. The cooking basins even looked the same. It made him wonder if maybe his mom and Miss Nikki were sisters.

He thought he noticed the Pretty Lady wink at Stinky, and the two girls headed out of the bedroom and into the kitchen.

“I guess if you’ve got a bad tummyache, you won’t be wanting any breakfast,” the Pretty Lady said over her shoulder.

“No, ma’am,” Tiger said gloomily.

He was hungry, but skipping breakfast was a small price to pay for missing school.

For the next few minutes, Tiger moaned around the bedroom, barely able to put on his clothes. He stopped a few times for effect,
doubling over the basin, and faking the dry heaves. The plan seemed to be working.

But he was a little worried that the girls were ignoring him, clanging around in the kitchen and chatting up a storm.

And then it hit him. He caught his first whiff. It was almost too good to be true. Chocolate-chip pancakes! He couldn’t believe his nose. He never got chocolate-chip pancakes on school mornings.

Darn the luck. Miss Nikki
would
have to pick the one morning that he had a pretty good tummyache routine going to cook chocolate-chip pancakes! He wondered if it was too late to fake a headache. Sometimes these pesky diseases would mysteriously float from one part of the body to another, without any warning.

Chocolate-chip pancakes. Missing school.
He weighed his options. But even as he thought about it, the smell of the pancakes drifted from the kitchen and seemed to draw him down the hallway. He could always skip school tomorrow. But his tummy, in serious bad shape just a few seconds ago,
was demanding that he eat breakfast—
now!

Another miracle cure.

Just before he emerged from the hallway to announce the cure and feast on a whole pile of pancakes, he overheard Stinky reassuring Miss Nikki in a low voice. “He’ll be out in a minute. He’s just a little stubborn. My mom says that he got it from my dad.”

Thomas Hammond carried his tray across the dining room and headed for the same table that had proven so inhospitable the day before. Buster was there, along with about ten other gang members from the Ebony Sopranos. Like yesterday, there were no whites.

This
did not stop Thomas.

Thomas sat down across the table and two seats away from Buster. Thomas sat next to a thin young African American who was talking up a storm. Across from him was an older and serious-looking man who did not join in the conversation. The banter stopped momentarily as Thomas took a seat. He bowed his head and prayed.

When Thomas looked up, Buster stared in his direction, narrowed his eyes, sent his signal of disdain, then turned back to his food. The talk around Thomas resumed with a vengeance, and most of it focused on him.

“That fool is
psycho
,” one of the brothers said. “He’ll get hisself whacked.”

“Nobody axed him to sit here,” another mumbled.

“What’s your problem, man?” a third asked. “Your momma never tell you you’re a white boy?”

“The boy be
lookin’
to get jacked up again,” said the man sitting next to him, “and I don’t want no part a that action.” He picked up his tray,
shook his head, and headed for the other end of the table.

One by one the section around Thomas cleared out until he was left utterly alone with his biscuits and gravy. He stared down at his food, picked up his fork, and began shoveling it in. His jaw ached from the fight, and a cracked tooth forced him to chew on one side. Buster had inflicted some damage—seven stitches just over Thomas’s left eye among other things—but Thomas had not backed down. And he was not about to start backing down now. He ate his breakfast slowly and deliberately at a table reserved for African Americans, in a jail reserved for men he would never understand. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Buster and wondered what today’s rec time would bring.

21

THE BARRACUDA KEPT HIM WAITING
for fifteen minutes. He was a scumbag. A repeat off ender who had phoned from the jail this morning, anxious to snitch on his roommate. He said he wanted to meet the deputy commonwealth’s attorney without his lawyer present; he didn’t trust public defenders.

She wouldn’t have wasted her time, but he promised to deliver some critical evidence in a murder case against Antoine Everson,
a man known on the street as A-town. It was a case where the Barracuda had some strong circumstantial evidence. She also had motive and opportunity. She knew in her gut A-town was guilty. But she still lacked two critical ingredients, and without at least one of them, she would never win this case. She needed a confession or she needed the body of the victim. This inmate promised both.

The sheriff ’s deputies made him cool his jets in the conference room, wearing handcuffs and leg irons. They said the dude was strong as an ox.

She entered with a mini digital recorder, a legal pad, and a cup of coffee. She sat down across from the big man in the orange jumpsuit scowling at her. Neither spoke. She took a sip of coffee without ever taking her eyes off him. She didn’t offer him any.

She slapped the recorder in the middle of the table and turned it on.

“State your name,” she demanded.

“Buster Jackson,” he replied, contempt filling his deep voice. “What’s that for? I didn’t agree to no tape recorder.”

Still eying Buster, the Barracuda took another sip of her coffee.

“All right,” she said. “The interview between Deputy Commonwealth’s Attorney Rebecca Crawford and inmate Buster Jackson terminated at 10:16.” Then she reached to the middle of the table, turned off the recorder, and stood to leave.

“Wait,” Buster said. “You can turn it on.”

“I thought so.” Crawford sat back down and pressed Record. “This is a meeting requested by inmate Buster Jackson,” the Barracuda said while looking at the recorder. “He has requested that I meet him without his lawyer present. Is that right, Mr. Jackson?”

“Absolutely.”

“And you waive your right to counsel at this meeting?”

“Absolutely.”

“All right then, what can I do for you?”

“I want a deal,” Buster said, looking over his shoulder at the guards and then lowering his voice. “I can give up Antoine Everson for waxin’ that dude. I know where the body is buried. I tell you that, den you let me cop on a possession charge for time served. ’At’s my deal. Take it or leave it.” Buster looked proud of himself and leaned back in his chair. After a few beats he leaned forward again, remembering something. He lowered his deep voice even more to share an especially sensitive secret with the prosecutor. “I even got the lowdown on the dude’s dental records.” He smiled, his eyes beaming with pride. The gold tooth glittered.

“You’ve got to speak up for the recorder,” the Barracuda insisted. “What do you mean when you say that you’ve got the lowdown on the dental records?”

“A-town stashed the body,” Buster said, “then stole the dude’s dental records and stashed them as well. Guess he figured that even if you found the body, you couldn’t ID the man without no dental records.”

“How clever,” the Barracuda sneered. “And you want to just walk out of jail a free man so long as you tell me where the body and dental records are so I can convict Mr. Everson?”

“Yep,” Buster said. “’At’s my deal. Like I said, take it or leave it.”

“Just like that?”

“Jus’ like ’at.” Buster sounded tough, sure of himself, a man holding all the cards.

What a moron,
Crawford thought.
This will be too easy.

“How do I know you’d be telling the truth about the body?” the Barracuda asked, looking serious.

“He’s my cellmate,” Buster replied. “My homey. He trusts me.”

“How sweet,” the queen of sarcasm said. “Look, you’ve got a pair of priors, and you’re looking at a pretty serious drug charge. I can’t just overlook that.” She had to at least look like she was trying to cut a tough deal. Otherwise, he might get suspicious.

“Can if you wanna bust A-town for murder one,” Buster said smugly.

Crawford thought for a very long time. She wrinkled her brow and contorted her face. She eyed Buster as he watched every nuance of her facial expressions. Then she tilted the legal pad toward her so that Buster could not see it and scribbled a note.

“When did he tell you?” a skeptical Barracuda asked at last.

“Last night.”

“And he admitted to killing Reginald James and told you where the body was buried?”

“True.”

“Told you point-blank that he wasted James over a drug deal and then just up and decided to tell you something he’s kept secret for months—where he dumped the body?”

Buster nodded his head.

“Is that a yes?”

Buster sat up straight in his chair, indignant. “Yeah, it’s a
yes
!” he insisted loudly. “Now, we got a deal or not?” He leaned forward, fire in his eyes. “I’m tired of being treated like a fool. Let’s do this deal and get outta here.”

The Barracuda stood, dropping the legal pad. She leaned forward, palms on the table, and looked down at Buster. Buster tried to stand, but the deputies stepped forward, hands on his massive shoulders, forcing him back down.

“No deal.” The Barracuda grinned. “You’ve already given me everything I need. A confession is as good as a body. Everson confessed to you, and I intend to call you as a material witness at his trial. If you refuse to testify, or if you back off on what you just told me, I’ll add a perjury charge and an accomplice charge on top of your drug charge. You got that?”

She reached down and turned off the recorder. Buster’s contemptuous smile disappeared.

“And we will stop treating you like a fool,” she snarled, “when you stop acting like one.”

Buster bolted up from his chair, his eyes blazing. The deputies grabbed him, one on each side, while the Barracuda returned his acid gaze. Then she reached down, picked up her mini recorder, and headed for the door. She stopped, remembering something,
and turned to the deputies.

“Keep this man and Everson apart until I get a chance to talk to Everson and his lawyer,” she instructed. “And find Mr. Jackson here a new cellmate.”

She turned and walked through the door, leaving Buster staring at her back.

She left behind her yellow legal pad sitting on the table in plain view. On it she had scribbled:
Public defenders: Never leave home without one.

The Barracuda and the deputies took their same places in the same conference room an hour later’a few minutes before noon. But this time Buster had been replaced by A-town, and a public defender came along to level the playing field.

A-town tried to play the tough guy—slouching in his chair, chin in his hand, copping an attitude. He was a slender young black man, midtwenties, with a sinewy build and tightly coiled muscles that came from years on the street. He distinguished himself with tight cornrows in his hair, a thin wisp of a mustache over an enormous upper lip, a jutting jaw, and dark brooding eyes. He tried to intimidate the Barracuda—after all, he had some strong gang connections—but he had no success. She had seen more than her share of losers like this.

“You plead him guilty to murder one,” Crawford offered, “and I’ll agree to life with no possibility of parole. I’ll drop the request for the chair.”

“What kinda deal is that?” A-town scoffed. His eyes became narrow slits, and his lip curled into a snarl of indignation. “I
didn’t kill nobody.”

His public defender didn’t say a word.

“No?” the Barracuda taunted. “Then you shouldn’t be mouthing off to your cellmate about where the body is buried.” She watched A-town closely, saw him flinch; then his jaw tightened. “Big Buster Jackson says you gave him a full confession last night,
including the clever little way you stole the dental records.”

The Barracuda paused, waiting for an answer that did not come. She decided to fill the silence herself.

“We’ve got a confession, and by tomorrow we’ll have a body and matching dental records. The trifecta.” She leaned forward on her elbows. “So you see, my offer’s not such a bad deal, after all.”

A-town cursed at her, and one of the deputies removed a stun gun from his holster. Just in case.

A smirk crossed the Barracuda’s lips. “Does that mean we have a deal?” she asked the public defender. “Or do you want to try your luck on the chair?”

“I need a minute to talk with my client,” he replied.

“No you don’t,” A-town said. Then he turned to Crawford. He tilted his head back so that he looked down at her, over his nose,
his upper lip still curled—condescending to the end. “I’ll see you in court.”

“And I’ll bring Buster Jackson,” the Barracuda promised, “to tell the jury all about your little confession last night.”

“Don’t count on it,” A-town snarled, his voice a hoarse whisper. “My man Buster will never rat out a brother.”