Dying Declaration (15 page)

Before Nikki could respond, Stinky’s motherly instincts kicked in. “I miss him too, Tiger. But he’s in heaven now, and we’ll see him again someday,” she said reassuringly. “Right, Miss Nikki?”

“Um, sure,” Nikki said.

“Did the police take Daddy away?” asked the little boy in the backseat with a million questions.

“Yes, they did.”

“Are the police good guys or bad guys?”

“They’re good guys,” Nikki said.
At least some are,
she thought.

“Then why did they take him away?”

To a woman with more scruples this would have been a tough question. But Nikki answered it without hesitation.

“They were just following orders, Tiger. Doing what they were told.”

“Who gave the orders?” he asked, just like Nikki knew he would.

“That mean lawyer lady you met in court the other day,” Nikki responded, glancing at Tiger in the rearview mirror.

He stuck out his lips, lowered his eyebrows, and wrinkled his forehead.

“I
knew
it,” he said. “I just knew it.”

Even the stubbornness of Thomas Hammond had its limits. Those limits were reached as he loaded up his tray for Thursday night dinner and looked around the crowded mess hall. There were a few extra seats at Buster’s table, generated by the absence of A-town and his boys from the general inmate population. But tonight Thomas would steer clear of that trouble. He had seen enough of Buster for one day. It was time to start taking Nikki’s advice.
“Every man for himself.”

Thomas headed to his left and took an empty chair at a table of white boys, on the opposite side of the dining hall from Buster. As usual, Thomas found a seat where nobody occupied the chairs next to him or across from him. Amid the din of the mess hall,
he was looking forward to eating alone.

He bowed his head and whispered a prayer.

“Thank You, Lord, for this food and for protecting me during rec time today. Thank You that Buster was not kilt. And I just wanna pray for the young man with the knife, that You will heal him and not allow him to suffer long from the blow I gave him to the back of the head. Forgive me for my sins. Keep Theresa and the kids safe and give them Your strength. And if it’s Your will, please get me outta here as soon as possible. Amen.”

When he looked up, the seat across from him was no longer empty.

“This seat taken?” Buster asked. He had already placed his tray down.

And he was not scowling.

“It is now,” Thomas said.

Buster pulled out the chair and took a seat. “Thanks,” he said.

Thomas nodded, then attacked his food. For the rest of dinner, the two huge men ate in silence.

24

CHARLES COULDN’T BELIEVE
how nervous he felt. He hadn’t seen Denita in what, six months, maybe more? They hadn’t been alone together in nearly two years. But still, he had lived with her for three years, fought with her for four. Why should meeting with her now make him so ill at ease?

He glanced at his watch for the third time in the last five minutes, knowing how conspicuous he looked in the Grate Steak restaurant sitting alone at a table for two on a Friday night. She had insisted on driving from Richmond to Norfolk for the meeting.
Probably so she wouldn’t be seen by anybody she knew,
Charles thought.

Thirty-five minutes late. She had called ten minutes ago. “I’ll be there in a few minutes,” she said. “Sorry. Some things came up.”

“No problem.”

So here he sat. Ten minutes later and still no Denita. He would punish her with silence when she finally came.

“Sorry I’m late,” a sweet voice behind him said. He recognized the potent mixture of White Diamonds perfume and Vidal Sassoon shampoo immediately, the smell alone bringing a rush of emotions. Before he could respond, she kissed him lightly on the cheek.
“Thanks for meeting with me.”

How’d she do that?
he wondered. He had been keeping one eye on the entrance the whole time and still she had managed to get behind him. Vintage Denita. One step ahead.

“Thanks for driving all this way,” Charles said as he half stood and watched her slide gracefully into her seat. “You look great.”

“You look good yourself.”

Though she had put on a few pounds since the last time they met, Charles was immediately reminded of why he had fallen for her in the first place. She had a handsome face: a strong jawline, long forehead, smoldering brown eyes, and long ebony hair. She had braided her hair tonight and pulled it away from her face, the way Charles used to tell her he liked it. A simple but stylish black skirt and white blouse gave her a dignified, professional look.

She had an athletic build and stood five-ten without heels. “You would make a great basketball player,” Charles used to say,
though she would just scoff at the notion. “I’m tall and I’m black, so I must like basketball and chicken,” she’d reply. And after watching her shoot around once, resembling something like Bambi on roller skates, Charles learned to drop the subject of Denita and basketball. Still, for the three years of their marriage, he harbored secret thoughts of making great little basketball babies—a whole team of future LeBron James superstars.

All this and a hundred more thoughts and memories—some good, others dark—flashed through Charles’s mind during the first few seconds of small talk and nervous gazing at the woman he had once loved more than anything in the world. After a few minutes of catching up, a waiter arrived and took their orders. Denita, always counting calories, went for the fresh salmon—at a steak place!—and Charles ordered a twelve-ounce T-bone. After the waiter disappeared, Denita mustered the courage to talk about the one thing they had both been working so hard not to mention.

“Thanks for calling me after Catherine Godfrey’s visit.”

“It’s the least I could do.” Charles paused and tried to inject some enthusiasm into his voice. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” Denita took a sip of iced tea that Charles had ordered for her even before she arrived. She set the glass down carefully and fixed her gaze on the table, avoiding eye contact. Charles couldn’t remember when he had seen her this nervous. “And thanks again for meeting with me,” she added. “I didn’t want to talk about this over the phone.”

He nodded, though she still wasn’t looking at him.

“Charles, I don’t know how to start . . . how to say this. So I’ve got to ask you to just hear me out. Let me stumble around a little. Okay?”

She looked up at him with sad eyes. He had braced himself for a lot of emotions tonight—anger, frustration, even a rekindled emotional attraction. But he had not expected the sympathy he now felt. Denita had never been one to cast herself in the role of a victim.

“Sure.”

She leaned forward, reached her hand out, and laid it partway across the table. Was it an invitation? a natural gesture? manipulation? Charles’s instincts told him to reach out, hold her hand, lean forward, and smell the White Diamonds while the last four years melted away—but he willed himself to sit back. What he had to say would not be easy under the best of circumstances. No sense making it tougher.

“Maybe I didn’t try hard enough, Charles. I don’t know.” A pause. A sigh. “But you changed so much . . . so fast. All that God talk and pressure about coming to Christ and everything. I guess I just freaked.” Denita scratched lightly at the tablecloth with her long fingernails, then withdrew the hand. Another sip of tea. “I mean, it was like, ‘Who’s this religious freak and what did he do with my Charles?’”

Charles stared without emotion. He kept his voice low and even. “We’ve been through this, Denita. I can’t change who I am.”

“I know, and I’m not asking you to.” She looked into the distance for a moment, collecting her thoughts. “Charles, it just seemed like all of a sudden you didn’t care about anything but the church and . . . well, getting me saved.”

“You’re the one who filed, Denita.” For divorce, he meant. The words came out colder than he intended.

“I know,” she admitted quickly. Too quickly, in Charles’s opinion. He knew she wanted something and would say whatever was necessary tonight, even if it meant eating a little crow. “I didn’t come here to fight, Charles. And I know I can’t undo what’s happened.”

“Then what do you want, Denita? Why
did
you come here?”

She sucked in a breath. “I want this appointment to the bench, Charles. More than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. It’s what we dreamed about in law school—making a difference, standing up for those who can’t stand up for themselves. I’ve put in my time defending corporate America. It’s time to get back to my roots, give back to my people.”

As she talked, Charles swallowed his rising frustration. He wanted to laugh at the idealism flashing in her eyes, shake her by the shoulders.
Can’t you see what you’re saying? “I sold out, Charles. But when I get the power I lusted for, I’ll use it to defend those less fortunate. Forget the fact that I had to trample the less fortunate to get here.”

Denita had always been the master at insinuation. She could make her point without ever really saying it and then deny that’s what she meant. But there could be no mistaking the point she was making now. She wanted to be a judge. And Charles was the one person who knew the one secret that could keep her from that dream.

Somehow, Denita had overlooked an obvious flaw in her theory.

“Catherine Godfrey knows, Denita. And I didn’t tell her.”

Charles expected to see Denita’s face register shock, just as he had done when Godfrey had dropped the bomb on him. Instead, Denita just gave him that smug little smile that he had learned to detest years ago.

“All she knows, Charles, is what I told her. And all I told her is that there might be one skeleton in my closet . . . but it’s a skeleton that only my ex-husband knows about. I didn’t tell her what that secret was, and she didn’t ask.”

At this, Charles experienced a sense of momentary relief—
our dark secret is safe
—followed by the increased weight of a new burden. It was like he had traded in a small backpack for a boulder that someone had now strapped to his back. “And as long as I keep my mouth shut, you’ll get your chance . . . is that it?”

She narrowed her eyes and studied him. “I’m asking you to honor the confidentiality that is part of being husband and wife. If the tables were turned, I’d do the same for you.”

“You can’t ask me to lie, Denita.”

“You won’t have to. There are some things that will never be asked.”

She had this all figured out, he realized. An answer for almost everything. But not quite
everything
. She still needed her ex-husband to be an accomplice. She still needed him to promise his silence.

“Denita, you may find this hard to believe—” he lowered his voice until it was almost a whisper—“but I still care about you.” Her eyes showed her skepticism, though he meant every word. “But there are principles at stake here. Important principles. Biblical principles. How can I stay silent and just deny everything I believe?”

Denita did not hesitate, did not even blink. She had probably rehearsed this answer the entire two-hour drive, Charles thought. She even managed a weak little smile. “That’s my Charles,” she said. “Never wrong. Never in doubt.” Then she leaned forward,
and her eyes drilled into him. Now she was all business. “People change, Charles. Even without getting all religious like you, people still change. What I did was wrong, but I’ve changed. You’ve got to trust me on this. Let me prove it to you.”

For this moment he had steeled himself. In truth, he could have scripted this whole evening—the braids, the perfume, the soft apologies, the subtle attempts at flirtation followed by an appeal to sympathy and his duty as a husband—it was all part of a careful plan to persuade him. Denita Masterson—always the temptress, always the lawyer, always the potter who could mold Charles like wet clay.

But not tonight.

“I’ve got to think about it,” he said.

Denita pulled back and shook her head. “You think I’m just trying to play you, don’t you?”

He shrugged.
Why deny it?
She could see right through him.

She stood. “You don’t understand me at all. Never did.” Charles saw the anger rising in her face, the tight lines that had become so familiar a few years ago. “I’ve got nothing to bargain with. No weapons, Charles. . . . This is your dream come true.”

“Denita . . .” He stood and reached out to gently touch her arm, trying to calm her down.

She pulled the arm away, not roughly, but decisively. She kept her voice low. “I mean it, Charles. My whole future’s in your hands. You can crush me if you want. It’s totally up to you.” She paused long enough to throw fire with her eyes. “Just make sure you can live with yourself afterward.”

Then she turned and left the restaurant, even before the waiter returned with her salmon. He would now have two meals to deal with, and he was no longer hungry.

“You can crush me if you want. . . . Just make sure you can live with yourself afterward.”

25

BY 10:00 A.M. ON SATURDAY
Rebecca Crawford had already been at the office for two hours. Before coming in, she had worked out, rushed through some relaxation techniques a counselor once showed her, squeezed into a black pantsuit—the blasted pants kept getting smaller—then grabbed a granola bar and a cup of coffee at a convenience store.

She made two calls from her cell phone on the way. One went to a junior prosecutor and another to an investigator. Both could have waited, but she wanted to make a point. Her Saturday morning calls were legendary among those who wandered the halls of justice. The workaholic never rested, they said. She didn’t want to let them down.

She had downed most of her third cup of coffee before the child psychiatrist joined her in the cramped conference room.

Dr. Isabell Byrd was a kind and spirited woman who had gone to bat for Crawford before. Juries liked Byrd. She was small and thin, spunky, and quirky enough to keep things interesting. She had married into the Byrd name, but it seemed to fit her perfectly—a little busybody hummingbird. Isabell had short gray hair and sharp little features with a pointy birdlike nose, half-moon glasses, and inquisitive eyes that darted everywhere. She had seen more than her share of abuse cases during her twenty-eight years of practice, and she was willing to say whatever needed to be said to put the bad guys away.

“Good morning, Isabell. Want some coffee?”

“No thanks. Already had my one cup. What have we got this morning?”

For the next half hour the Barracuda explained her case, her suspicions, and her strategies. They would be interviewing the Hammond children today. Based on the interviews, Judge Silverman would soon decide whether to allow these kids to stay with their mother pending trial. It would, of course, be disastrous if that happened. The mom would undoubtedly try to sway their trial testimony, and the kids would be in danger of further abuse. It would be Byrd’s job, Crawford explained, to write an independent report after she watched the interviews to explain why the kids should not be allowed to live with their mom pending trial.

Not surprisingly, the Barracuda had some ideas that might be helpful. She had dealt with a few of these religious fundamentalists in the past. She had been studying up on her Bible stories and had an idea that might at least get the little boy talking. Dr. Byrd would have to watch closely during this process for the telltale, sometimes hidden psychological signs of abuse. Dr. Byrd nodded grimly in agreement.

The Barracuda couldn’t disguise the fact that she was brimming with anticipation and intensity. This was no ordinary case. She was counting on Dr. Byrd. “You’re the best in the business at detecting abuse, Isabell. Even if kids can hide it from the other docs, they can’t hide it from you.”

Dr. Byrd assured Crawford she was up to the task.

And then she decided she might have another cup of coffee after all.

Round two of Tiger versus the Mean Lady got off to a rough start. It commenced with a shouting match between Miss Nikki and the Mean Lady about whether Miss Nikki should be allowed to sit through the interview. Tiger was traumatized by all the yelling and more determined than ever to defend his mommy and daddy.

“I’m the special advocate for these kids, and I’m entitled to be part of these interviews!” Miss Nikki insisted. She was about two inches away from the Mean Lady’s face and yelling at nearly full volume.

“This interview will form part of the report from the Department of Child Protective Services,” the Mean Lady responded. She was not hollering quite as loud, but she was definitely holding her ground. “The department mandated that Dr. Byrd and I do the interview. Not you. We’ve got our procedures—”

“Let me tell you what you can do with your procedures,” Miss Nikki huffed.

“Look here, lady.” Now the Mean Lady was poking a finger at Miss Nikki. Muscles were tensed, jaws jutting straight out. “If you don’t want me to call the sheriff and have you thrown out, I suggest you take a seat . . . outside the conference room.”

The women stood there, toe-to-toe, neither backing down. Tiger looked up at them, wide-eyed, his mouth gaping open.

There could be a fight,
he thought,
and I bet Miss Nikki can take her.

But much to Tiger’s great disappointment, there would be no fight.

“You disgust me,” Miss Nikki said. “You and your power trips.” Then she snorted at the Mean Lady and knelt down next to Tiger and Stinky.

“You guys go on in there and answer any questions this lady might ask,” Miss Nikki told them. “She won’t hurt you. She’s just got a few questions about your mom and dad.”

“I’d like to talk to the little boy first,” the Mean Lady said.

Figures,
Tiger thought.

“Okay, Tiger,” Miss Nikki said, still kneeling so she could look him in the eye. “You go ahead and take your turn first. Tell the truth. And don’t worry, she’s not that bad.”

Yeah, right.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

After proper introductions, Tiger climbed into a big cushy seat at a long table with a glass top. There were three other people in the room, all adults. There was the Mean Lady, a smaller lady who looked like somebody’s grandma—she said her name was Dr. Byrd—and then some strange man operating a video camera.

Tiger decided to show right off the bat that he wasn’t scared. So he propped both elbows on the table, then plopped his chin in both hands.
I’m bored,
he was telling the adults. But if the truth were known, he
was
a little excited about being on camera.

The Mean Lady spoke first.

“We’re just going to ask you a few questions about your mom and dad and Joshua,” she said softly. “You just answer them the best you can. Okay?”

Tiger nodded his head, keeping it in his hands. Joe Cool.

“Before we start,” the Mean Lady continued, “do you have any questions for me?”

Tiger always had a few questions.

“Is that thing on?” he asked, pointing to the camera.

“Not yet,” the Mean Lady said. “After we get done practicing a few questions, then we’ll turn it on so the camera can record everything you say. Because what you say is very important.”

“Why is your hair two different colors?” Tiger asked. He assumed it was still open season for questions.

“We’ll talk about that later,” the Mean Lady said, her face darkening. “But first, let me ask
you
a few questions.”

“Okay,” Tiger said, shrugging.

“Your mommy and daddy, they’re very religious. Aren’t they, Tiger?”

Tiger scrunched up his face, thinking hard.

“I mean they’re very strong Christians. Aren’t they, Tiger? They have a lot of faith in God?”

“Oh yes, ma’am.”

“Have you ever heard the story about Abraham and Isaac, Tiger?”

“Yes, ma’am. My daddy tells it to me.”

“Did you know that Abraham had so much faith in God that Abraham was willing to sacrifice, or kill, his own son, Isaac, if that was what God wanted?”

“Yes, ma’am. But he didn’t have to. God sent a goat instead.”

“That’s right.” The Mean Lady smiled. “But Abraham was willing to do what God told him, even if it meant that his son might die. And it took several days of walking up the mountain, thinking that Isaac was going to die, before God sent the goat. Does that make sense?”

Tiger nodded.

“Just like for your mom and dad, they knew that according to what the church said, they were not supposed to take Joshie to a doctor. Is that right?”

“I guess so,” Tiger said.

“And it would take a lot of faith if Joshie was really sick for your parents to stick by what they believe, just like Abraham did, and not take Joshie to the hospital for three or four days, even if it meant that Joshie might die. In fact, I’ll bet your parents waited three or four days, just like Abraham waited three or four days. Didn’t they, buddy?”

Tiger squirmed. He really couldn’t remember. But he knew his daddy loved Abraham. And he was sure his own daddy wouldn’t be outdone by a Bible character, even if it was a Bible hero like Abraham.

“I think it was five,” Tiger said.

“Wow, your parents really are strong Christians,” the Mean Lady said, looking pleased. “I think we’re ready to start the camera now. John Paul, you’re really doing good.”

The red light on the camera came on. Tiger sat up straight in his seat, put on his best serious face, and started answering every one of the Mean Lady’s serious questions.

In the first ten minutes, Tiger painted a heroic picture of his parents and their unshakable faith, describing how they refused to take little Joshie to the “hopsicle” for five days, even though everyone knew he was dying. After racking his little brain, Tiger was quite sure that he could even remember his dad once saying that if Abraham could do it, he could do it too. With each answer, Tiger would talk a little faster and longer, making sure he occasionally smiled at the camera for all those folks out there in television land.

Eventually the Mean Lady moved off the issue of Joshie’s death and started asking some other strange questions.

“Do you ever have any nightmares?” she asked.

“Sometimes,” Tiger admitted. “But when I do, my daddy comes in and lays down wif me.”

For the first time in the interview, the gray-haired lady sat up, eyeballed the Mean Lady, and started asking questions herself.

“Did you say your daddy would lie down in bed with you?” the gray-haired lady asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” Tiger said proudly, happy to brag on his daddy. “All the time.”

“What would he be wearing, and what would you be wearing?”

That
seemed like a really strange question to Tiger. And it also seemed like none of her business. But he decided to play along—after he gave her a dirty look.

“I was wearing my jammies; he was wearing his underwear.”

This appeared to make the gray-haired lady even more concerned. She wrinkled her brow and shook her head slowly.

“I know this may be hard to talk about,” she said very softly, like she was telling a big secret, “but did he ever take his underwear off?”

“Not in my bed,” Tiger said, insulted.

The concern did not disappear from the troubled face of the gray-haired lady. One question led to another, and before long Tiger was hopelessly confused.

Then, to Tiger’s way of thinking, an incredibly strange thing happened. The gray-haired lady wanted to play dolls! She pulled five dolls out of her little bag—funny-looking dolls with no clothes on, with their private parts showing. The lady suggested that each doll could represent a family member, one for Daddy, one for Mommy, one for Tiger, one for Stinky, and one for Joshie. Then she said that Tiger could show her what happened in their family by playing with the dolls.

Not in a gazillion years,
Tiger thought. He folded his arms across his chest. He was done smiling for the camera.
This is stupid!

“I don’t play with dolls,” he said firmly.

But the ladies insisted over and over, and it didn’t look like he would ever get out of that room if he didn’t humor them.

Finally, he picked up one of the dolls.

“That’s it, honey,” the gray-haired lady crooned. “You just picked up Tiger. What is Tiger thinking?”

“That he would like to put his clothes back on,” Tiger said, without smiling.

“I see,” the lady said.

Then it occurred to Tiger—a way out. He could pretend they were not dolls but Power Rangers. He could show these women a thing or two about playing. He would ignore the fact that the dolls didn’t have any clothes on and pretend they were fully clothed Power Rangers, armed to the teeth and ready for combat.

It was time to cut loose. It was time for war.

“Bam,” Tiger said. “This guy smashes this one.”