Marriage Mayhem (8 page)

“Is Karen in there?” Jermaine asked again.

“Huh?” replied Karen in a low whisper.

“All I want is a kiss and a dance, baby, that's all.” Jermaine said sincerely, dumbfounded to what was really going on.

Karen's mind suddenly began playing tricks on her.
He's going to kill me,
she thought.
He knows I'm getting high. He's going to kick down the door and shoot me. Maybe these bitches set me up. I think I hear my probation officer talking. Aw goddamn, he's called my probation officer, the police, and he probably even got in touch with Tyrone. Aw shit, I'm about to die.

Seeing that Karen was paranoid, incoherent, and stuck on stupid, one of her friends spoke up.

“We're just talking girl talk and about the good ol' days, Jermaine,” said Valerie, who was the type of person that could smoke hundreds of dollars of crack and still appear to be normal.

“Okay, I'll leave you girls alone for now, but don't leave me waiting too long, baby. I need a kiss, a dance, and a few quality moments with you.”

“Okay, baby,” said another friend, trying to imitate Karen's voice. Karen was so paranoid that she just stood there wide-eyed and still.

Jermaine then made his way back downstairs and continued mingling with the others.

After Karen and her friends had smoked the contents of a thirty-dollar bag of crack, even though Karen was already high as a kite, she wanted more. Neither of her friends had money enough to buy more crack, but Karen had full access to Jermaine's money.

She left her friends inside the restroom and then rushed to her bedroom. Then she hurriedly opened Jermaine's safe and pulled out six crisp one-hundred-dollar bills, along with his ATM card. Shortly after, she and her friends went on the patio to mingle for a few moments and minutes later, without being seen by Jermaine, they nonchalantly eased outside and then quickly climbed into Jermaine's Mustang and peeled out. Lewis witnessed the scenario and smiled. Instinct told him that they were on a get-high mission and would probably end up in Pasadena. His instincts were right.

Meanwhile, Detective Cross and Detective Baker were questioning Maurice. The detectives were glad that his wife was not present. One thing that pissed them both off was a big-mouth, sarcastic, woman who wore the drawers in a house where a man resided.

Momentarily, they were playing the good-cop bad-cop role on Maurice.

“You mean to tell me that you don't have any idea who shot you or why?” asked Detective Cross, who was playing the bad-cop role. He was standing face-to-face with Maurice.

“I told you, man, I don't know who the fuck shot me, okay, so why don't y'all do what y'all do best and go back to a doughnut stand and drink coffee?” replied Maurice in his Jamaican accent.

Detective Cross grabbed Maurice by his shirt collar and then slung him against a wall.

“Okay, asshole, I've had just about enough of your refugee bullshit! I know why the fuck you got shot! You're no different than any of those other illegal aliens that smuggle drugs to the U.S. from your fucked-up country! You guys bring your stinking asses over here thinking that you're gonna come over here and be the man! But let me tell you something, you lowlife piece of shit; I'll have your ass back on that fucking banana boat quicker than you can wink your fucking eye, so don't fuck with me!” yelled Detective Cross furiously.

Then the good cop spoke.

“Think hard, Mr. Banner. Have you been in an argument with anyone lately, or involved in a road rage incident, or banging someone else's woman?”

“Fuck you, man!” replied Maurice. Then he shouted a series of words in Jamaican patois. Even though the detectives did not understand him, they could tell by the tone of his voice and his facial expressions that he was talking shit.

“Come on, Baker, we've got bigger fish to fry. The next time we see this asshole he'll probably be in the fucking morgue. Let's get the hell out of here,” instructed Detective Cross.

As the detectives walked away Maurice began yelling at them.

“Fuck you, man! Suck these refugee nuts, muthafucka! I can handle my own shit! You ain't nuthin' but a bitch with a badge, punk! We kill muthafucka's like you in my country!”

Luckily, again the detectives did not understand what Maurice was saying, but Detective Cross made sure that Maurice heard what he had to say.

“I'll tell you what, Mr. Asshole; if I hear anything about an individual or a group of Jamaicans kicking up some dust here in Lancaster, I'm gonna make it my business to come straight for you first since you didn't want to cooperate. And not only will I arrest you, but I will personally make sure that you instantly get shipped back to where you came from! That's not a threat, that's a fucking promise,” clarified Detective Cross. The detectives then pulled off.

Maurice was infuriated by their remarks, attitudes, and accusations. He wished that he could have just had thirty seconds with that asshole detective simply to show him how a native Jamaican can get down on the battlefield.

 

 

An entire week had passed and Jermaine still had not heard from Karen. Realizing how embarrassing this was, he was not going to tell his daughter or any of his family under any circumstances. He would keep this silent for as long as he possibly could.

Jermaine had taken Stevie and Alexus to Jewell's house and had then called his job to request a leave of absence. His aim was to find his wife by all means necessary. He was not concerned or angry about the money and ATM card she had stolen, nor was he irritated by her sneaking away from the party without letting him know. All he wanted was to have his wife back.

Jermaine received his first tip one day as he was about to leave his home. Then the telephone rang; he had practically broken his leg running to answer it.

“Is this Karen's husband?” asked the female caller.

“Yes it is,” Jermaine replied. “Who is this?”

“This is Mary, Jermaine. I know where your wife is, do you? I was inside the bathroom with her at the party that day. If you didn't know, we were getting high smoking crack. I kind of blame myself because I should have never brought the shit out there knowing how weak Karen is, but I didn't hold a gun to her head and make her take a hit,” explained Mary.

After a lengthy conversation with Mary, Jermaine climbed in his car and headed to Pasadena. He considered what he'd just heard from Mary, and then thought back to what his daughter had heard about Karen. He planned to immediately admit his wife into a rehabilitation program and stick by her side until she completed it.

Mary had assured Jermaine that she would lead him to Karen, but there was a catch to it: her price was five hundred dollars up-front. Karen had boasted to her friends and family just about each time she talked with them about how much money Jermaine made, about his expensive cars and home, about his success, and about how good of a man he was. With that in mind Mary knew that five hundred dollars was like five cents to a man like him. Besides, Karen had cut her in the face with a box cutter a few years earlier over a hit of crack and this was her chance to get somewhat even. Each time Mary looked in the mirror at that ugly scar across her used-to-be-pretty face, she secretly hated Karen and wanted to kill her. A year after the incident they reunited as friends over a bottle of wine, a bag of crack, and sex. Ever since then they been cool with one another and had pretended to put the incident behind them.

Jermaine met Mary at a park in Pasadena. Mary then climbed into the car and began telling all that she knew, trying to secure the pay. She told him that after they had spent and smoked up the six hundred dollars Karen stole out of the safe, and all she could get from the ATM machine, Karen then pawned the Mustang to a crack dealer. Mary then pointed to her scar, then she went on to tell Jermaine that Karen had been exchanging sex for crack with dealers or whoever offered her a hit. Hearing this negativity about his wife stunned Jermaine, but the bottom line was that he still loved her and wanted her back in his life regardless of what she had done.

After turning a few corners, Mary spotted Karen in an alley, sitting among several drug users smoking crack.

“There she is right there!” Mary said. “Pay me, and I'm gonna hop out.”

As Jermaine peeled Mary off five one-hundred-dollar-bills, he never took his eyes off Karen. Momentarily, she was sitting on a grocery cart, looking around paranoid with a box-cutter in her hand. As soon as Mary got out of the car, Jermaine sped toward his wife. Noticing the Beamer and the face of her husband, Karen stood and began running down the alley. Jermaine parked and then jumped out and began running after her, but being the native Pasadena woman that Karen was, she knew what fences to jump, what backyards to hide in, and basically how to ditch him. The addicts that Karen was sitting with did not want to get involved so they continued smoking their crack. As far as they were concerned, Jermaine could have been a parole officer, an undercover police officer, a trick she had beat out of some money, or someone she owed money to.

Chasing after her unsuccessfully, Jermaine abruptly thought of another plan. He turned around and headed back toward the addicts that Karen had been sitting with. Then he approached them and identified himself, and then offered a one-hundred-dollar reward to whoever brought his wife to him. Hearing this, four of the crackheads sprung up from their seats and accepted the mission. Jermaine had parked around the corner.

Knowing that Karen had a box cutter and would not hesitate using it, the crackheads thought it would be best to stay as a group and try overpowering her when they saw her. Unfortunately, an hour and a half later when they found her in a vacant house taking a hit, they attempted to grab her, but two of them got sliced with the box cutter. The other two ran away and headed to where Jermaine was parked to tell him what had happened, and where she was. Even though they were unsuccessful in bringing his wife to him, they still had the nerve to ask him for money. Jermaine reached into his pocket and gave them ten dollars each for their effort.

After two days of driving up and down the streets of Pasadena searching for his wife and asking questions to drug addicts, Jermaine had finally decided to go home. His plan was to rest for a few hours, take a hot long bath, eat, and then return to Pasadena to continue his search.
Damn, I hope she calls me,
he thought.

Once home, he went to his mailbox and took out the mail. Looking over the mail, Jermaine stared at a letter that was addressed to Karen from the probation department. Curiously, he opened it and began reading it. To his surprise, Karen was currently on probation for child endangerment and facing a possible violation if she did not call or report to her probation officer within the next twenty-four hours. He then called the probation officer and made arrangements to meet with her later that day.

Mrs. Carter, Karen's probation officer, was a very attractive, classy, light-complexioned African American woman who appeared to be in her mid-forties. She invited Jermaine into her office and then openly began discussing Karen's probation conditions and current case with him.

“This is how she looked when she was arrested,” said Mrs. Carter, showing the picture to Jermaine.

Jermaine could not believe what he was looking at.

Karen resembled the living, walking dead and represented exactly how a person looks who cares more about a hit of crack then they do about their appearance. Her teeth were yellow, her face was totally pale and lifeless, and her hair was uncombed and matched perfectly with the raggedy attire she was wearing. She was tore up from the floor up.

“Karen was in very bad shape before she was arrested,” said P.O. Carter. Mrs. Carter then added, “I told her that she could have starred in any horror movie the way she looked. The streets and crack had taken its toll on her, but thank God she was saved by being arrested.”

Jermaine sat speechless, staring at the picture.

Out of curiosity, Mrs. Carter asked a question.

“Has she been taking her medication?”

“Medication?”

“She didn't tell you that she was on medication prescribed by her psychiatrists? Karen has been an outpatient mental health case for the past eleven years. Her medication somewhat keeps her mentally balanced. Without it, she's crazy as hell, but if she takes it the way she is supposed to, her demeanor is calm and collected. Taking her medication is the only way that Karen is able to function in the real world,” explained P.O. Carter.

“Is that right?” Jermaine asked, shaking his head, stunned by the news he was hearing. Then suddenly he began thinking back to days that Karen acted like a true bitch one minute and the next minute she was sweet as sugar and had no recollection of what she had previously said or done.

“For Karen to be on the streets, on crack, and not taking her medication, that means double trouble, sir. She was diagnosed by three doctors as being a bi-polar schizophrenic, meaning that she has a double personality like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. In addition to that, Karen has a history of violence and assaults. I hate to be the deliverer of bad news, but I feel obligated to tell you these things because you're married to her and she's my client. If I were you, I would find her before she ends up dead, or before she does something that will get her life in prison,” advised the probation officer.

During his ride back to Pasadena, Jermaine began praying out loud:
Please bring my wife back to me, Dear Heavenly Father. Forgive her as you have forgiven others for their sins. Set her back on the right track, Dear Father. Watch over her and protect her. Take control of her mind, body, and spirit, in the name of Jesus, Dear Heavenly Father. Please Father, I beg you to lead me to my wife and see to it that she comes home with me. In the name of Jesus, Father, let your will be done, and lead my wife back to me today.