Vulnerable (37 page)

“Good morning!” Khalil said with enthusiasm, entering the conference room.

Mrs. Poussaint turned to her son and said, “Why is Khalil here?”

Rawn was clueless.

Ezra was on his feet. “Khalil, please join us. Grab a seat.”

When Khalil sat in the chair, he glanced over to his best friend. And because he knew him so well, he recognized the indignation that outlined his wearisome face. To settle any anxiety he might have been having, Khalil whispered, “David Copperfield.”

“What does David Copperfield mean?” Tera asked her brother.

Rawn recoiled when he caught sight of Henderson Payne standing
in the doorway very well dressed and looking cooler than a cucumber.

“Henderson Payne?” Tera said beneath her breath.

•  •  •

It had been a while since she felt sanguine and greeted the first breath of morning without a stone resting against her already weakened heart. Once again, she saw life—her life—with a mélange of possibilities. For weeks Sicily felt like she had been pushed to the edge of life. Spring break saved her. She went home for a week and rested. Her parents sensed that she needed enough space to breathe and thus allowed her to spend hours in her old room in the attic hibernating, even when they had not seen her in a year. Since she relocated to Seattle, their face-to-face talks were infrequent. Sicily came home to mourn; to let go and to not look back. Her last day in Philadelphia, she took the train to Manhattan and went shopping with an old friend. The traces of a new spring brought color to the otherwise prosaic steel-colored landscape during the early months in New York City. The air was breezy, but the spring wind was calm. It not once crossed her mind how much she missed Manhattan until she began to walk along a crowded sidewalk. The aggressive cabbies blowing their horns, and she blending effortlessly within the frenetic energy of the city, was a reminder that her soul would forever be linked to the Big Apple.

While they waited for their lunch, she shocked herself when she revealed to her longtime friend, “I'm going to have a baby.” Sicily made the decision to tell no one until she was ready. Rawn would have been the first person she shared this type of information with.

Her friend was about to take a drink of her Pellegrino. With curious eyes, she asked, “Are you pregnant?”

“No! No, not yet. But I'm going to…”

“A sperm bank? Dear, God! Sicily, are you sure?”

Their lunch arrived and once the waitress left, Sicily concluded, “I've thought it through. I spent days up in my old room, and the weeks leading up to this moment, all I could do is see through a glass darkly. I was so ashamed.”

“Ashamed of what?”

“Rushing blindly into something out of desperation. The need for a physical connection.”

“Have we all not done that at least once? Come on, Sicily, emotions have no conscience.”

“Well, in answer to your original question. Yes, I'm sure. This is the right time for me to do this. I'm ready.”

By the time she had to head back to Seattle, Sicily was cleansed. There were moments still when she would stare out into the open air. Painstakingly, she tried to assess every moment she spent with Tamara to determine what part of this woman was so captivating, so alluring; and Sicily wondered what part of her was so weak or needy?

The day she had what she later described to her mother as a mini-breakdown, that same evening Sicily called a hotline. Years before, she had volunteered there the first months of her new beginning in the Pacific Northwest. She witnessed how having someone to talk to that did not know your personal story made the
listener
more attentive. Housed in a small office on Capitol Hill, the hotline was set up for the gay community; particularly for the clinically depressed with suicidal thoughts. Without holding back, Sicily described herself as untrustworthy to the counselor who answered her call.

“Why do you say this about yourself?” the counselor had asked.

“I don't know what to expect from myself.”

They had talked for twenty minutes before Sicily, in an abridged monologue, described her mini-breakdown and why she had concluded it happened on that day. Once she finished, the counselor had asked, “Why are you placing all the blame on yourself?”

“Because between the two of us, I was the strongest, at least emotionally. I know the warning signs of a manic.”

“Has this friend been diagnosed as bipolar?”

“She never told me, but her pathology…I know the signs—euphoric one minute, down the next. Erratic behavior despite whether the patient is up or down. Perhaps she's not manic in the clinical sense, I don't know, but…”

“Friend,” the counselor interjected. “Let me say this: you need to assess the situation rationally. And furthermore, you cannot allow yourself to be hoodwinked by society's pressure to be all things. It's a sham. It's impossible. That standard is simply too high and costs so much. You fell in love and it felt wonderful. The last thing the heart knows how to do is to turn itself off because someone bamboozled you with their looks, personality, human and social capital. On the surface she had it all. The heart doesn't recognize those qualities belonging to someone out of balance. My friend, you are
human
.”

I'm human.
Those were some of the last words Sicily ever heard Rawn speak.

“Unfortunately, even with your upper middle-class upbringing and degrees, you will always be vulnerable. Even the most unlikely person who cannot be swayed by very much is vulnerable to something. I know that if you were on my end of the line, you'd ask the person at the other end to start slowly by finding each day a way to forgive—you, her, and your male friend whom you believe betrayed you.”

Within a week of returning from the East Coast, Sicily was feeling stronger. She was starting to like herself again.

“Good morning!” Sicily was in a benevolent mood.

“Oh, good morning! You take it to-go, right?”

With her head tilted to one side, Sicily said, “You have a good memory.”

“Double shot latte?”

She laughed. “Am I that predictable?”

Cordially, she laughed, too. “It'll be right up.”

Within minutes, Imani placed the to-go cup on the counter.

“You know, I thought you quit or something. It's been a minute.”

“Yes, and it's good to be back. I was on the East Coast.”

Sicily placed a five-dollar bill on the counter. “Welcome back. Oh…although we've seen each other a dozen of times, we've never actually met. I'm Sicily.”

“Imani.”

“Pleasure.” She took a small sip of her espresso and turned on her heels. “See you soon! I mean,
bientôt!”

Imani called out, “Hey, don't forget your umbrella!”

“I take it,” Jean-Pierre said, reaching for the black classic umbrella on the counter.

Sicily and Jean-Pierre met halfway.
“Merci!”

“Bonjour, ça va!”

When Sicily left the café, she walked calmly toward the Academy, and quite pleased with the double shot latte Jean-Pierre prepared. After a block, she paused. She turned around and it looked like she forgot something, but then resumed her walk to the Academy. Slowly, her mouth raised into a crafty smile.
French sperm?

T
era stopped reading the magazine that lay in her lap. She whispered, “You haven't said a word since we took off. You okay?”

With his head resting against the airplane seat, Rawn turned away from the window that offered a breathtaking view of the burnt-orange-colored sun that tainted the bank of clouds stretching for miles like an endless quilt above the earth.

“Yeah, I'm good.”

“You sure? I mean, I'm not Mama. Or Daddy. You can be real with me.”

Good-naturedly, he elbowed his sister's forearm off the armrest and said, “I wouldn't lie to you. But I do appreciate you coming with me. I didn't feel comfortable facing D'Becca's mother alone.”

“And that's why I volunteered. You could have asked. Why do you feel you have to go this alone is a mystery to me. Anyway, I was coming with or without your invite.” Only vaguely interested in advertisements that graced the pages of
Talk
magazine, Tera continued to flip through the publication. “We'll check into the hotel and have dinner. We can meet with Mrs. Ross first thing tomorrow. Does that work?”

He nodded, thoughtful. Rawn turned back to gaze out the window. He stared at the evaporating daylight. He tried to remember his life a year ago: how he felt, what he thought; the things that mattered then in comparison to what he felt and thought, and what mattered now. By the time he trusted that he had a handle
on who he was, Rawn was no longer the self that he knew. He kept changing and noticed the nuances of those vivid alterations; not his physicality, but his psyche. It was a strange thing.

He was not sure when, but at some point he looked forward to his trial. Perhaps it was because he wanted the truth to be out there, especially since there was so much about him available to read about on the Web, like the
Starr Report,
which comprised of critical, painstaking details on President Clinton. In the end he hoped the trial would clear his name. The morning Khalil and Henderson arrived at Ezra Hirsch's office, everything changed and yet everything felt like it stayed precisely the same.

When Henderson had arrived in the large conference room, his presence stunned everyone except Khalil, Hirsch and Janelle. His swagger suggested he was not just used to, but likewise welcomed, the attention his presence stirred. He was a man of style, and he stood in the room in an expertly tailored black suit and pale-taupe shirt. Rawn, open-mouthed, was plain mystified. A man that came to Henderson's upper chest entered the conference room and stood directly beside him. Hirsch rushed to his feet and greeted both men with businesslike handshakes and formal but friendly welcomes.

Henderson had walked casually, confidently to a chair when his eyes met Rawn's. His nod had been subtle and courteous. Henderson's attorney sat next to him. Khalil wanted a neutral spot, and the best view was at the head of the table opposite Hirsch at the other end.

The district attorney, Abrams, had sat erect, deeply curious. “What exactly is going on here, Ezra?”

Hirsch had made introductions. When he had sensed that everyone was at ease, he turned to a stenographer and nodded.

“We all know why we're here. Rawn Poussaint is going on trial
first thing Monday morning here in Seattle. He's been accused of manslaughter for the death of D'Becca Ross. Should the district attorney prevail in this case, he could spend up to twenty-five behind bars.”

The prosecutor had projected a level of confidence, swinging side-to-side in the chair, his left elbow against the edge of the severely polished maple wood table.

“Several days ago, Khalil Underwood met with Henderson Payne at his home in Los Angeles. At that time, he revealed information that is pertinent to this case.”

The younger prosecutor for the state had sat upright in the chair and interrupted his adversary. “Should we be before Judge Whitehouse?”

Abrams had replied in a stern voice, “No, I want to hear this. We're covered; it's on the record.”

Hirsch had been taken aback by his being remarkably reasonable. He began to consider whether Abrams was not particularly sure he could win the case. He resumed. “The reason for not bringing this information to the attention of the district attorney, and to my client, sooner is because Henderson Payne needed to consult with his attorneys. A lot's at stake. But after a host of conference calls, he was counseled to come forward with the information that he has. There's a provision, however. He will not be charged under any circumstances. That is the deal.”

With a dark brow, Abrams had asked, “Mr. Payne, what exactly can you add to this case? We've been preparing for trial for months. With all due respect, this case is more high-profile than…your case a few years back. I respect that you have a demanding schedule…Where the hell have you
been?”

Before Henderson had been able to open his mouth, his attorney had said, “I prefer that you direct any questions to me, Counselor.
Mr. Payne is not here to be interrogated, but to offer some important facts about the case. Ezra, perhaps there needs to be some parameters before we proceed.”

Hirsch had said, “I don't think that's necessary. All we need from Henderson is what he
knows
, if anything, about this case. And that he will not be charged on any counts.”

Abrams had required time to think it over. His assistant had whispered something in his ear. Abrams looked over to Henderson, nodding. With a pointed finger, he had said, “There's a condition.”

“What's that?” Hirsch asked.

“If Mr. Payne is directly involved in Ms. Ross's death in any way—and let me make myself clear…”

“My client was in Miami the night of Ms. Ross's death. The game was broadcast live. He scored thirty-three points, with five assists and five rebounds.”

“Are you suggesting these facts, as you refer to them, can exculpate Rawn Poussaint?”

“You need to hear what Mr. Payne knows.”

Abrams's tone had suggested he did not care what Henderson knew or where he was the night of D'Becca's death. “Again, and I caution you, Counselor; if Mr. Payne is directly involved—legally speaking, and you know what that means—we can bring charges. Including hindering prosecution.”

“In order for my client to tell you what he knows, he will not be charged on anything related to this case. That's the deal. And I'll make myself clear: my client was not in any way involved with Ms. Ross's death. Before we proceed, I need assurances that he will not be charged on any counts, including hindering prosecution.”