Sinful (17 page)

M
arvin zoomed down the avenue until the morning traffic slowed his progress to a crawl near the highway on ramp. While speeding south toward the criminal justice district, he remembered how playful roughhousing with Chandelle had spun out of control in the blink of an eye. He recalled how worthless he felt when the cops dragged him from his home, berated him, and threw him into a cell. Then he kept in mind that truth was on his side, the fact that he didn't mean to harm his wife, and that she didn't intend to get him arrested afterward. His biggest concern was the court's plans for his future. That had him shaking down to his shoes.

He carried the overbearing anxiety into the Dallas County Courthouse. His palms sweated profusely as he emptied his pockets, then passed through the metal detectors. He asked the registration desk attendant where to find Judge Spicer's office. While hustling up to the third floor, Marvin felt like a man on the run against time. “Excuse me, I need to speak with the judge about my trial,” Marvin said hurriedly to a middle-aged Latino woman dressed in tight gray slacks and a white button-down blouse with a tin badge attached on the left side.

“Slow down, sir,” she replied, without looking up from a log book. “What's your name, and when is your case slated to begin?”

“I'm Marvin Hutchins, and it's supposed to start this morning. I just need to ask Judge Spicer if I can request a continuance.”

“A continuance before the trial begins?” she asked, peering up at him like he was eye candy. “I'm sorry, sir, but a continuance is usually requested by the attorney. Why don't you tell me what it is you're trying to do?”

Marvin's chest tightened with exasperation. He blew out a dense huff of apprehension and tried to put his words together. “Okay, I am not ready today. I haven't hired a lawyer to defend me because I'm flat broke.”

The woman's countenance had changed since he showed up babbling about his trial. She ran her thin finger down the first page and stopped at the bottom. “You said Hutchins, right? No, sir, your trial can't be today. I've checked and your name isn't on the court docket. An attorney from the public defender's office could file a pretrial motion to postpone the proceedings.”

“But I know it's today,” he contradicted her. “Maybe I'm in the wrong place. If you just let me talk to the judge, I'll work this out myself.”

“That won't be necessary,” Wallace interjected, as he approached the woman's desk. “I'm Mr. Hutchins's attorney of record as of yesterday. Marvin, it's good to see you. Sorry it has to be under these circumstances.”

The county clerk was staring Grace's husband down like she was happy to see him and her day had gotten off to a roaring start. Wallace, the shade of maple syrup and just as sweet, had more going for him than charisma and male-model features. He was a hotshot litigator before taking a break from the grind to teach high school. Now his clients counted on his savvy to defend their wealth. He'd traded in his battles with the DA's office to fight with major entertainment corporations when crawfishing on movie and music contracts with those he represented. Chandelle worried Grace until she convinced her husband to reschedule his meetings in south Florida to aid a Christian brother in dire straits. After she'd leaned on the cross to bring about a successful outcome, Wallace caught the next flight home. He reviewed the arrest reports, then made substantial inquiries regarding the arresting officers' records to see if his hunch was correct. His investigation uncovered several disturbing coincidences, none of them good.

Since Wallace appeared out of nowhere, Marvin had been staring at him, too, but for another reason. He couldn't shake the surprise from his face when shaking the attorney's hand vigorously. “Wallace? What's a big-timer like you doing down here?” he asked.

“I'm here to get you out of something you shouldn't have been in from the start.”

“I'm innocent,” Marvin said solemnly.

Wallace patted him on the shoulder and grinned. “I know. That's what makes my job so easy. You didn't need to be here for this, but it is good you came. Judge Spicer moved your trial from his docket per my request. The DA's office didn't like it, but we won't concern ourselves with them.”

No, let's not be the least bit concerned about the people who could send me up the river on the next boat
, Marvin thought, wishing he had the nerve to be as smug about the state of affairs. Because he wasn't sure what Wallace was up to, he found a seat in the judge's chambers, wisely kept his mouth shut, and waited for the show to begin.

Soon enough the same two crooked cops who arrested him trailed in behind a thin, clean-shaven white man wearing a knockoff of a Brooks Brothers suit. His dark brown hair was cut in a neat ultraconservative style. Everything about him screamed Young Republican Association, Marvin thought. Then he noticed something he hadn't seen before, both of the police officers seemed uneasy. A closer look confirmed it; they were scared. Marvin sat up a bit straighter in the chair, staring them down like they had done to him. Although he had one foot in the justice system, their worried expressions gave him the confidence to face the moment with a stiff upper lip.

The judge waddled in underneath a black robe. Wallace got to his feet so Marvin did likewise until his attorney gestured for him to return to his seat. The cops glanced at one another like two naughty little boys dreading the school principal's corporal punishment. That brief Kodak moment was worth a million words, all of them satisfying. Marvin almost laughed out loud, but he wasn't out of hot water yet.

“Wallace, it's been a long time,” the judge said, while unzipping his black robe.

“I can't complain, judge,” Wallace answered casually, as if speaking to an old friend.

The pudgy arbitrator hadn't addressed the other men in the room or paid them any mind. “I don't have to ask you how the private practice is faring. Yes, sir, I've heard that you're wasting away while making a name for yourself in contract law. We miss your talent around here, but who's going to say no to bundles of money? Not everyone is lucky enough to marry into a fortune, I guess.” After sharing niceties with Wallace, Judge Spicer finally perused the papers on his desk to refamiliarize himself with the finer points. “Oh boy, this is going to be good,” he said to no one in particular. “It might even leave a mark.” Suddenly, he raised his fat head, then looked over the uniformed officers with sympathy-stained eyes. “If you fellows haven't figured it out by now, somebody's in for it,” he informed them. “After reading your brief, Wallace, I don't need to hear your arguments, but some things need to be said. Plus, I like a good story.”

Assistant DA Tad Fogerty cleared his throat before speaking. “Judge Spicer, I've read Attorney Peters's motion for dismissal as well, and may I say I was not as impressed as your honor, with all due respect.”

“Save your all due respect and sit down, Mr. Fogerty,” the judge barked. “Wallace, make it good. I'm missing a
Judge Judy
marathon.”

All eyes were trained on Grace's husband as he straightened his silk necktie and flipped pages in a document he'd been holding. “Judge, as you've read in the motion before you, my client Mr. Marvin Hutchins is a victim of at least one overzealous police officer. In addition to a poorly written arrest report, my client's accuser continually claims that she was coerced into making a false allegation due to the egregious acts of two men who went out of their way to make a collar. I have also included an affidavit signed by the accuser stating that one of the arresting officers openly flirted with her.”

“Your honor, this is merely a tactic to avoid having a jury hear the case against the accused,” belted Assistant DA Fogerty.

“Some people just don't learn,” Judge Spicer chuckled. “Obviously, you didn't read all of your mail this morning, Tad. Wallace, tell him what a scraggly pair of malcontents he's fighting to put on the stand.”

Marvin was interested in hearing all about the scraggly pair as well.

“Yes, sir,” Wallace replied, with a twinkle in his eye. “Mr. Fogerty, the first three pages you probably should have read before taking this meeting include a litany of complaints regarding arrests involving your witnesses for the prosecution. Did you know that one third of their arrests for domestic violence, where attractive women are concerned, is currently under police Internal Affairs investigation? I could have a private detective interview all twelve of them at length, but we know what they'll say. Officers Pitts and Dumas here have a long outstanding well to dig themselves out of, notwithstanding the countercharges my client is contemplating against the city of Dallas.”

Marvin hadn't discussed suing the city, but it sounded great when Wallace presented it as an option.

The black officer was squirming in his seat. His partner remained motionless during Wallace's browbeating. Neither of them had any of the crass comments they leveled Marvin with on the day in question. They were both quiet as church mice now.

“What have you to say, Mr. Fogerty?” asked the judge, when the time it took for the Assistant DA to sort through Wallace's paperwork outlasted his patience.

“Uh, your honor, I wasn't aware of these outstanding allegations against my witnesses,” he said, uncomfortably upstaged. “I'll need to speak with these officers in private and—”

“No, sir, Mr. Fogerty,” objected Judge Spicer. “All you need to do is read the last paragraph on the bottom of page five. As you can see, I did read my mail.”

“Page five, your honor?” he uttered, flipping as fast as his fingers could manage. His eyes closed briefly at the end of the last paragraph. “I have no other choice but to dismiss the charges against Mr. Hutchins at this time,” he said reluctantly.

Judge Spicer smiled at Marvin. “
Now
you're innocent,” he ruled, beyond a shadow of a doubt. He shook hands with Wallace, who seemed a whole foot taller. “It was great seeing you again, counselor. Next time let him up off the mat once or twice before burying your knee in his chest.” The judge's smile faded when he pointed his stubby finger in the DA's direction. “You should be hung by your feet for putting up such a weak fight. And as for you two,” he added, casting a disapproving scowl at the policemen, “I have a very distinct feeling that you're going to get everything that's coming to you. Case dismissed. Good day, gentlemen.”

Marvin pounced to his feet in jubilation. The officers bolted from the room in fast order. It would have been wrong to heckle them despite how badly Marvin wanted to. “Thank you, Wallace. Brother, that was beautiful,” he asserted with an exuberant embrace. “I could never repay you, but I'll try. I'm free. I can't believe it. I'm free.”

“Grace and Chandelle are to thank for it,” Wallace informed him. “They leaned on me pretty hard after singing your praises. “I understand that all of it was a mistake until the police got involved. Then it became a miscarriage of justice.”

“I'll let you ride with that one since I don't know what all of the legal-speak means,” Marvin chuckled.

Wallace closed his leather briefcase and laughed. “Well, a little snooping paid off big. I learned that both partners have some serious problems and pending paternity suits in the works. It appears that some of the women whose men they carted away on flaky spousal abuse allegations are now pregnant.”

“So they tricked women into giving false statements, and then doubled back after getting their men locked up?”

“Unfortunately, that does appear to be the case,” said Wallace.

“And that was what the DA neglected to read on page five, the last paragraph?”

“Yeah, that and the fact that Chandelle saved a message from Officer Dumas, who'd been asking her out to dinner repeatedly.
Conduct Unbecoming
can unravel any criminal case.”

“Conduct Unbecoming an Officer?” Marvin guessed.

“No,” Wallace corrected him, “conduct unbecoming a decent man.”

C
handelle watched the telephone as if it were about to hatch. She'd been on pins and needles all morning awaiting a call from Marvin thanking her for undoing a grievous mistake that sent their relationship spiraling downward. At ten of twelve, it finally came. “Pinnacle-Marketing-this-is-Chandelle,” she said all in one fast breath.

“Hey, you,” a familiar voice replied. “I owe you for putting Wallace on those cops. I had no idea what you'd been going through, I mean with that snake calling and trying to get with you.”

Chandelle's smile lit up the room as she worked diligently to conceal her excitement from her coworkers. “I've been hoping and praying that it would go well for you, Marvin. You deserve to get your life back to the way it was.”

“Yeah, I've been meaning to talk to you about that,” he said, his voice filled with trepidation. “I'm busting my behind with this new business, but give me a minute and if you want, then we'll sit down and try to get our minds wrapped around where we are now.”

“Okay,” Chandelle replied. There were so many things she wanted to say, but his tone pushed those desires into a corner. “Are we going to make it?” she asked, with a folder in front of her face to muffle her words.

“We'll talk about that soon,” Marvin answered. “I have a meeting to attend to, but thank you for today.”

“You're welcome,” she said, her voice trembling. “Have a good afternoon.”

“You, too, I'll call you later.”

“Honey, I love you,” Chandelle whispered to a cold dial tone. Marvin had hung up before she managed to force those words from her lips. The phone conversation left her with more questions burning a hole in her chest. It wasn't so much what he said or even how Marvin said it. Chandelle placed the phone receiver in its cradle and stared at it. Hearing what hadn't been said, she pondered if he still loved her. That question had been tearing her apart for weeks. He wouldn't readily return the calls she'd left him concerning insurance and maintenance issues with the house, things he'd set up and those she'd expected him to handle once they took possession of it. Marvin had not once picked up the phone to ask how her day was going or if she needed something from the store, like he'd done from the very beginning. For the first time that Chandelle could remember, she felt empty and alone.

Blaming herself was the easy part, living with it was extremely challenging. She'd laughed at herself the night before as Marvin's favorite movie ran on the cable channel. So many times she lay on the sofa propped up against his chest while they recited the dialogue to
Love Jones
in unison with the actors on the screen. Ten minutes into the movie she had to turn it off. Something was missing so bad it hurt. It reminded her of the days her husband worked his fingers to the bone, then came home dog tired and happy to see her. Marvin always made a concerted effort to stay awake as Chandelle recapped her day, what great deals she'd found while shopping and other trivial ramblings she wanted to talk about. What she had on her heart to share wasn't that important, it was him thinking enough of her to listen that touched her in places words could never penetrate. She didn't have to ask if he loved her then, his actions exhibited it 100-fold. Chandelle talked herself into getting back to work with two continual thoughts zigzagging through her head:
Can I love my man if he doesn't love me back? Can I love him if he doesn't love me enough?
Chandelle's mother told her as soon as she came of age, “Don't cry over nothing that don't cry over you.” Obviously, that was never suggested by anyone who was deeply afraid of losing the best thing they ever had at the time. Chandelle would have bet her life on that.

As the remainder of the workday crept by, Chandelle glanced at the phone often. She began kicking herself for what she called “a momentary lapse of fortitude,” but it nagged at her like a bad habit begging for a fix. She'd stopped in Grace's office to discuss Marvin's call and what he didn't say, how glad she was to have that dreadful arrest and subsequent harassment over and done with, and to show off the spectacular flower arrangement that was hand-delivered to her desk. The card read,
Love is. Marvin.

“It's not exactly
I love you with eternal and unrivaled devotion
,” Chandelle commented, “but it'll do.”

Grace smelled the flowers and sneezed violently. “Whew, I hope so because my pregnancy and my allergies are acting up. If Marvin sends any more, just call and tell me about it.”

Chandelle chuckled, reading the card again. “Yes, ma'am, I will.”

“Good, now get back to your desk and take that vase with you. I think I just busted something.” Chandelle studied Grace to see if she was joking. Fluids streaming down Grace's legs confirmed that she wasn't. Right in the middle of her plush office, Grace's water broke. “Call the ambulance,” she instructed calmly, “and then call Wallace and tell him that he's having a baby today.”

“Ooh, okay, okay,” Chandelle muttered frantically. “Sit down and breathe. I'll handle it.” Grace, the mother of a 14-year-old son, had undergone the mysteries and miracles of childbirth before. She watched as Chandelle darted from place to place, trying to make her more comfortable until the paramedics came. “Hello, Wallace? Grace is going to have the baby. She said today. Uh-huh, uh-huh, uhhh-uh. She's still sitting at her desk waiting on the ambulance. Okay, I'll see if she wants to talk.”

“Chandelle, give me that phone,” Grace howled as a contraction coursed through her body. “Wallace, you're going to have to excuse Chandelle. She's not right in the head this afternoon. Yes, dear, it's going to be today, maybe in the next five minutes. I have to go. The baby can't wait to meet you. Ask for me at Presbyterian Hospital; they'll know where to find us.” Grace didn't hang up the phone: instead, she tossed it on her desk and let it slide onto the floor on the other side. “Somebody had better get here fast, or I'm going to turn this place into a maternity ward. Chandelle, you and the ladies might have to help deliver my child—ohhhh!” Grace yelped hysterically. “Umm, that was a big one. Help me get cleaned up. It's coming quicker than I thought.” Chandelle grabbed a roll of paper towels from her boss's credenza and swabbed Grace's legs. “Thank you. On second thought, I'm not in the mood to have everybody looking up my tail. Now, get my purse, you're driving me to the hospital. Come on. Let's go.”

Chandelle began to hyperventilate. There was no possible way she'd remain calm under the pressure of motoring her good friend and employer to a hospital several blocks away. “Grace, Grace, Grace,” she gasped. “I can't…can't drive you.” The loud noises coming from outside of Grace's office sounded as if they were slow-pitched into Chandelle's ears. She was halfway to the floor when a stocky paramedic caught her.

“Bring her with us,” Grace barked assertively when the other emergency medic struggled to bring Chandelle back around. “What's this world coming to, grown folks acting like they've never seen a baby trying to push its way into the world? This baby doesn't have the patience to stick around here fooling with her. Go ahead on and snatch her up.”

The men followed Grace's instructions to the letter. Chandelle sat in the back of the ambulance with a capsule of smelling salts in her face, while Grace complained about waiting fourteen years to do what she said she'd never do again in a million. Grace was acting a fool when they reached the hospital ambulance dock. “I'm not letting that man talk me into anything else, Chandelle. Tell Wallace this is all his fault!” she screamed, as they wheeled her inside the emergency department doors for admittance.

Chandelle followed in close step, grinning like a schoolgirl with a brand-new secret.
I'll bet you were not complaining when your fine husband was doing more than talking,
she wanted to say.
And I'll also bet this isn't all his fault.
She waved good-bye holding Grace's purse and wishing her a safe delivery.

 

Later that evening, Chandelle scrubbed a perfectly clean shower and recapped the afternoon's activities as Dior painted her toenails nearby on the floor. “Yeah, it was something to see. Grace, as tough as nails, clutching the gurney rails with her uterus about to pop,” Chandelle chuckled. “She had the cutest little girl on the maternity wing, you hear me, the cutest. Nicole Andrea Peters is off to a good start. It's like the song says, ‘Her daddy's rich and her ma is good looking.'”

“Whuut, I'm on time for that,” Dior agreed. “Nowadays I'd settle for the rich daddy and make out the rest on my own.”

“Huh, money ain't never hurt nobody,” said Chandelle, snapping off an oversized pair of yellow rubber gloves. “At least not this body,” she added, with stiff slap on her faded jeans.

“Hey, uh…You heard from Marvin?” Dior asked, changing the subject to suit her itching ears. “I've been here 'bout an hour and you haven't brought him up once.” Dior was bursting at the seams. She could barely contain the dirt she thought might be a nail in Chandelle's matrimonial coffin. Besides, it would be only a matter of seconds before she broke out her book, chapter and verse, after taking copious notes about what went on in Marvin's day.

“I talked to him briefly,” Chandelle replied while blushing. “We're not back together, together, but he's coming around.”

“You think so?” Dior said, baiting her cousin to bite the hook.

“Well, I did get a sweet phone call and that flower arrangement,” she answered, pointing at the extravagant assortment of daisies, daffodils, and peonies in the tall indigo vase on the bathroom counter.

“Yes, they're very pretty, Chandelle.”
Good for you,
she thought. “Once again, there's this thing I been fighting with. See, it would be easier if you knew where you stood with Marvin. If you thought y'all were on the mend, well…” she said, letting the end of her sentence trail off like she wouldn't dream of getting any deeper involved in married folks' business.

“I've got no other reason to think any different. Why? And don't tell me you've lucked up on another bit of information you think I should know?”

Dior blew on her nails before answering, knowing how that would infuriate Chandelle's well-documented shortage of patience. “Whew, I like this color. Mango, it's tight.”

“Dior, don't play with me. Unless you want me to shove that bottle of polish…”

“Okay, shoot. I was just admiring the color,” Dior stalled. “Look, just like the last time. I'm not telling you if Marvin is going to be mad at me.”

“I didn't tell him then, and I won't this time either,” Chandelle proclaimed.

“I saw them together again today,” Dior answered finally. “Marvin and that dark sistah.” When Chandelle's eyes drifted toward the floor, Dior predicted that her story filled with half truths and outright lies would sink in like a rattlesnake's fangs. All she had to do then was supply the venom. “Marvin rode with her to this post office place, the kind you rent by the month. Chandelle, look, it's not easy for me to be telling you this, but I don't feel good letting it ride. I probably would have left it alone, but when I saw them leaving the movies,” she lied, “and then tiptoe into Boscoe's after that for some dinner, I had to come here and blab it all.”

Chandelle bit on the inside of her bottom lip. The report she'd received from Dior was incriminating and hard to argue with, so Chandelle did the only thing she could, she turned her anger on the messenger. “What did you do, follow them?” she asked boldly.

“Well, yeah. I had to give you a full report. Somebody has to look out for their favorite cousin. You know I love you fam', too much to let Marvin make a fool of you all out in the open.” Dior studied Chandelle's face, searching for signs of acceptance. A long sigh confirmed her calculations in a well-formulated scheme to defraud a woman she cared about of the husband she wanted for herself.

With nothing else to clean, Chandelle lifted the bucket from the floor. “Thanks, girl. What would I do without you?”

“We need each other,” Dior asserted quickly. “You've always looked out for me. Now it's my turn to put time in for you. I'll always be around to lift you up.” Dior's sentiment flowed so smoothly she partially believed it herself. “I'll say this and then mind my own business. The little girl they had with them looked to be mighty attached to Marvin. I'd hate to think she might even be his daughter seeing as how we can't tell how long they've been close.”

Chandelle pushed the shower door closed and scanned the spotless bathroom. There were numerous thoughts multiplying in her head, all of them too hurtful to voice. Instead, she stared at her down-trodden reflection in the mirror and frowned sorrowfully. “Nothing would surprise me anymore, nothing.”