“Daphne sent Randolph's business to me. I did his data entry for about six months. You see, I ran my own legal data-entry service. Later, I moved into doing a few referrals for the firm.
“I received my paralegal certificate eighteen months after high school. The program I completed directed its students toward entrepreneurship. At no time did I think of working for a firm. I went after contracts from law firms, not employment.”
Daphne said Eleanor was one of Peal's best bird-dogs before they were married. Why would Eleanor say “a few” referrals?
“You said you did referrals as well?”
“Yes, that turned out to be the largest percentage of my billing. I didn't expect it. It started out as a sideline. Randolph asked me to keep an eye out for people injured or sick or involved in any type of accident.”
“And your company did the data entry on your referrals?”
“Yes, we did most of them, why?”
“I was curious as to how much you knew about the auto accident cases.”
“I was well-informed, David.”
“Oh.” I give her my serious, narrow-eyed, no-smile, firm look.
She smiles, not intimidated in the slightest, “If you are asking if I knew about Randolph's involvement prior to the courtroom, my answer to you in this garden is yes, outside of this garden my answer is no.” The smile changes to the confident, assured look of a polished professional.
It's apparent to me that it is time to play hardball. As she says, Peal was never idle and I need to make things happen fast. I don't have time for niceties.
“And you lost your mother in an auto accident didn't you?”
“Yes, I did.” Curiosity as to where the question is going fills her eyes. I don't want to hurt her, but she has to have this information.
“A car rear-ended by a truck struck her church bus. All the bus and car passengers were killed instantly. Randolph Peal and Associates represented the church and the family in the car. The suit put the trucking company out of business. It was one of the largest settlements of an auto accident in this city. It pretty much put Randolph and his firm on the map.”
“Yes, they broke through with that case.” She is beginning to fidget with the wicker of the gazebo bench and her eyes are watering. I have to push because Peal has to go down.
“And you and Randolph were married soon after.”
“Yes, he became very important to me after my mother's death. My mother motivated me. Are your parents still alive, David?”
I note her attempt to change the subject and smile. Truly gardening is not this 'round-the-way girl's only talent. “Yes, both my parents are still alive.”
“Consider yourself blessed. I miss my mother every day. My going into the paralegal program was all her idea. She secured the loans that bought the computers and data-entry software I needed to start the business. She was an office clerk most of her life. She would tell me âit was honest work,' but work for someone else is just that; for someone else.”
“Her goal for me was to get my own. She pushed me to succeed. When she died, I lost interest in my business and life in general.
“But Randolph kept sending me work, so I kept doing it. Eventually we started dating and one thing led to another. It wasn't a hot love affair. I don't know if I ever loved him. There was a void in my life and he filled it. Eventually his firm bought my business and we married. I was his wife until one day I realized that was all I'd become: his wife. My mother raised me to be more.
“He didn't want me to return to work, but saw nothing wrong with me taking classes. I guess he thought I was taking all gardening classes or something. He was shocked into a stupor when I told him I was a year away from sitting for my law exams. I didn't hide my coursework from him. He never asked what I was studying. And as long as I went to the community affairs on his arm he was fine.”
“African American community affairs,” I say.
She's looking at me as if she is trying to find something in my face. She sighs. “Mr. Price, do you know who Randolph's father is?”
“No.”
“Well, you should find out before you pass judgment on me or him. It's a little more complicated than you think.” I think that if she were five years younger, she would have rolled her eyes at me, but maturity caused her to only pause.
“After my mother's death, nothing much mattered: who I married, if I worked, nothing. However, once I got back to myself, back to wanting life, Randolph and I began having problems.
“He didn't want me to get a law degree. He went as far as removing his law books from the library. Can you believe that? I got the degree though, and Randolph is out of my life. I open my own law office in six more days. My time with Randolph wasn't wasted. I learned and earned from that time.”
“So you knew he built up his firm on staged auto accidents?”
“Yes.” I hear the annoyance in her tone. “I referred people to him. People who wanted to earn fast money and were not afraid to take a chance. They all knew what they were doing.”
“Did you know that . . . your mother . . . your mother's death was the result of one of his accidents going bad?”
“Say again.”
“The car that crashed into your mother's church bus was driven by one of his drivers.”
“You are mistaken. It may have been a staged accident, but Randolph's people didn't stage it. I would have known about it.”
“Not if he chose to keep it from you; which was what he did.”
“No. If what you are saying is true . . . then, I too . . . was involved in my mother's death.”
“No, not you, him. He was and is guilty. He kept his dirty deed from you.”
“David, you have been misguided.”
“No. I am not the misguided one here. Daphne Nelson swore to it, and I believe she went to her death because of it. She said you would recognize the driver's name. Inside this folder is information that supports what I have told you.” I'm passing the folder to her. She's looking at the folder as if it is papers from Satan. It's a hard statement, but I have to say it. “Randolph Peal killed your mother.”
“No! No! You are mistaken, that was an accident! My mother's death was an accident! A real accident! Mr. Price, you have to leave. Right now! Get out! Get off of my land!”
She stands abruptly and is running from me and the folder; trampling through the beautiful garden. I leave the folder on the bench. That was the most distasteful thing I've done in recent memory.
Chapter Thirteen
I don't like feeling regretful about my actions; second-guessing myself after the fact is useless. What was done is done. I'll call Eleanor back this evening. Perhaps she'll listen.
Part of the original plan Ricky, Regina and I came up with was to meet over Regina's after giving Eleanor the information. But since I aborted the plan by going to Peal's office first, I doubt they would be over Regina's. Why I'm driving up her block now is uncertain, but I must not be too far off base because Ricky's truck is parked in front of Regina's house.
The “House Sold” sign stands in the front yard. At first I wasn't agitated by her selling the house; however, actually seeing the sign pisses me off and I don't know why. I purposely kick it over walking through her lawn to the front porch.
“Sold my damn house, selfish heifer,” I mumble under my breath as I knock on her door. The door opens with my first rap. Walking in, I yell, “Hey, who's here?”
“Back here, D.” Ricky is whispering.
In the kitchen, Ricky and Gina's backs are to me. They're looking at Attorney Peal, who is wearing my sunglasses. His face appears stuck to the window of the back door. He's outside looking in. He's not moving at all. Looking closer, I see blood around his mouth, and through the blue lenses of my sunglasses I notice his eyes are popped open, but motionless. He looks dead.
Dead in my damn Gucci sunglasses!
“Oh, shit. Did you call the police?” Neither Gina nor Ricky answers me. Gina has the cordless in her hand, trembling. Ricky's arm is wrapped around her shoulder.
“Give me the phone, Gina. You called, that's all you can do, darlin'. Now let the phone go.”
She releases the phone to Ricky and turns to me and asks, “Why did you do it here, David? I told you I was going to stop the adoption! Do you hate me that much? Why did you do it, David? And why did you do it here?”
She draws back and slaps me hard, real damn hard.
“You murdering bastard!”
“What the . . .” is my response.
Pushing between us, Ricky says, “D, you better get out of here, partner. Man she called da police and was screaming you did it in da phone. She was panickin', man. We saw the back of ya car burnin' rubber out of da alley when we pulled up.”
“What?”
“You can explain later, but now, bro, you gots to go! Hit me on the cell in 'bout an hour. Get on now!”
Running from the house, I have no idea where I'm going. Driving down the block, I decide running is not such a good idea. I pull into the alley behind Gina's house, open her garage and park inside. I pull down her overhead door and stand in the shadows of the garage.
“Damn, she's tripping! Why the fuck she tell the police I killed him? How could she believe that?”
I leave the garage in stealth mode. From the foot of the back stairs I see that a push broom has fallen behind the shyster's back and is keeping him propped against the window. His death doesn't stop the anger I feel toward him. I still hate his ass. I sneak down to the basement door and hope Regina hasn't changed the locks. She hasn't.
Creeping up the stairs to the kitchen door, I stop and listen. She and Ricky are talking.
“You know he didn't do this, Gina.”
“We saw his car, Ricky.”
“He ain't the only man that drives a black Caddy, Gina.”
“His is the only black Caddy that has reason to be speeding out of this alley.”
“You don't know that.”
“Tell it to the police Ricky. His heart is full of hate for Randolph.”
“You know what D is and is not capable of, Gina.”
“No I don't! Him being involved with Daphne proves that. I have no idea what that man is capable of. Did you see the rage he was in this morning, merely because I called Randolph? He smashed my phone into the ground. I have never seen him in that state. He is not the man I married. He did it, Ricky, as sure as you and I are standing here. He shot Randolph.”
The Harvey police are coming in the front and back doors. Heavy steps above me have dust falling from the rafters of the basement. They order Ricky to the floor. Regina starts screaming. A female voice tells her to calm down. I hear a slap.
“Bitch! I'll have your job if you put your hands on me again.” That's Regina.
Walking to the rear basement window, I hear shuffling on the back porch. Peeping out, I see the paramedics laying the shyster on a stretcher. This is the first time I can remember smiling at a corpse. I feel light in the shoulders and loose at the knees. If I weren't hiding I'd sing out loud in joy.
Awgh man, cops are coming out of the garage! More cops are bringing Regina down the back stairs. She's denying knowing anything about the car being in the garage. I turn around because I hear cops coming down the basement steps. Regina's at the outside door with more cops. There is no place to hide. Cops are in front of and behind me. I put my hands up. I'm being pushed to the floor anyway. Cuffed and disarmed, they are taking me up to the kitchen.
They seat me in a kitchen chair next to a handcuffed Ricky. We see each other and start laughing. This has happened with us since childhood; when one sees the other in a tight position we laugh. It works as stress relief for whoever is in the tight spot. Laughing now does make me feel a little better.
Laughing, however, causes me to catch a cop's elbow in the back of my head. He's apologizing through a grin. Regina's not laughing; matter of fact, she's not even smiling. She's looking at me as if I nailed Jesus to the cross. She turns away, crying. The passage “Oh ye of little faith” enters my mind.
Ricky, who is dressed in his walking suit, says in a real low tone, “Don't sweat it, D. She'll be a'ight. A lot of stuff in her head right now that's all.”
“Shut up!” bellows the elbowing cop to Ricky. I hope he doesn't elbow Ricky in the head, because that would escalate the whole situation. Ricky hits back, he always has.
A lady officer escorts Regina out of the kitchen to the front room. There are eight cops in the kitchen with Ricky and me. I can hear Regina telling someone about seeing my car speeding out of the alley.
“She's trying her best to cook you, boss. She must be really upset 'bout that white boy dyin', huh? And you being with Daphne ain't help a bit. Think about it, bro. You now killed her rich white man and screwed her younger friend. Yeah, she wants ya ass under da jailhouse.”
Ricky thinks what he just said is real funny. He wants to burst out in laughter. I can tell because his eyes are starting to water and his whole face is straining from muffling the laugh.
This situation ain't funny, but if I don't turn away from him I will laugh; turning in my chair I say, “I didn't kill anyone, Ricky.”
He bites down on his lip and takes a deep breath, regaining some composure, and says, “You know what I'm sayin', bro. She think ya killed him. I know you wouldn't kill nobody.” He tries to scoot his big self closer to me unnoticed. How he thinks these police ain't going to notice almost 400-pounds of yellow mass inching over in a chair, I don't know. The chair sounds off with a loud scrape moving across the floor.
He ignores the obvious noise and whispers, “Where was you at, anyway?”
“I went out to Eleanor's.”
“Good, 'cause you gonna need an alibi with Gina helpin' ya like she is.” This time he doesn't even try to hold his laughter. I would laugh with him if not for the fact that Detectives Dixon and Lee from the Chicago Police Department walk into the kitchen.
“Look, Lee, it's the security guard and his fat boy. They stay around murder scenes, don't they?”
Dixon's breath is always foul. His skin is bad and his clothes are cheap. He is standing behind me talking to his red, reggae-singer-looking partner Lee. I don't trust neither one of them. I have never heard about them doing a person wrong. My distrust comes from me being a black man and them being cops.
“Uncuff the fat one and get him out of here. It looks like the security guard is the winner today.”
Two of the uniformed officers take Ricky to the front. Lee sits across from me, and Dixon remains standing behind me. I have been in this position before.
“The lady up front is convinced you capped ole' boy on the back porch.” Lee picked up the gun the officers disarmed me of in the basement and sniffs it. “Well, you didn't shoot him with this one did you?”
“I didn't shoot him at all. But tell me, detective, why are two Chicago Police detectives in my face? This is Harvey, Illinois, isn't this out of your jurisdiction?”
“Don't worry about it, boy. We can arrest your black ass in Denver if we want to.”
The officers snicker. This isn't right and I know it. “I want to call a lawyer.”
“You can call your mama for all I care. You see, I got a restraining order filed by the corpse against you. I got the same man dead on your ex-wife's back porch. I got your ex-wife swearing she saw you burning rubber out of the alley not twenty minutes ago. I got an office filled with lawyers who say you put a pistol to his head this morning, and threatened his life. All that got me a warrant for your arrest, which means your ass is mine in Harvey, Kentucky or New York. Buddy, unless you got a damn good alibi for your time since you left the victim's office this morning, you better get used to county wear.”
He stands and Dixon pulls me up from the back. “Let's go, Mr. Personal Security Guard. I got some persons that need securing down in lockup.”
It is the cops' turn to laugh, and they laugh it up good.
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Cuffed in the back of an unmarked police car is not a place I like to be seen. The neighbors who don't work nine to five on Regina's block are out in full force. Four black detectives are arguing outside the unmarked car I'm in. It appears Dixon and Lee can't take me. I'm being held as a murder suspect for a crime that occurred in Harvey. The Harvey cops want to lock me up in Markham.
Looking around at all the police cars, it occurs to me that I don't see the shyster Peal's car. His BMW SUV wasn't anywhere on the street and I didn't see it parked in the back. How the hell had he gotten to Regina's?
The two Harvey detectives quickly jump into the front seat of the unmarked car I'm in and pull off, leaving Dixon and Lee smelling their exhaust.
“Who the hell do they think they are? They think they can roll up on our collar and ride with it? Not today. We got an unsolved-murder rate too. This sucker is getting locked down and tried in our court. We're getting credit for this slam dunk.”
They are talking about me as if I'm not even here. And a brother like me remains silent. They radio in my arrival. Dispatch tells them not to bring me to Markham lockup. I am to be transported to the Morgan Park police station in Chicago.
The officer driving brakes the car hard, slamming me into the bulletproof divider. They think that's funny. Laughing, the driver U-turns and we're heading to the city. They're laughing, but I can tell the both of them are as mad as a poor fat man with no food stamps. And a pissed off cop ain't nobody's friend.
At least with Dixon and Lee I kind of know what to expect. These two suckers got a brother nervous, sitting up there cursing, slamming their fists on the dashboard and elbowing windows. The driver pulls off the avenue into an alley and parks behind a grocery/liquor store. The alley is open at both ends, and people are walking by.
It's not the perfect place to beat a cuffed man, but it will do. The two detectives get out. The cop on the passenger side opens my door. It's left open as they walk around to the front of the store. Cuffed, I remain in the seat. Leaving is not an option for an intelligent man.
On their return to the alley, one of them says, “Stupid is still in the car. I guess he wants to go to prison.” My door is slammed hard. “Coward-ass motherfucker,” one of them says.
He's right. I am a coward, coward enough not to run down an alley in handcuffs. The ride to the station remains rough as they continue to make sharp turns and hit every pothole and rise in the road. Sweet Jesus, I never thought seeing a jailhouse would cause me to feel relieved, but seeing the Morgan Park station takes the tightness out of my chest.
This is not my first time at this lockup. When Ricky and I were teenagers, we took my brother Charlie's '65 Chevy Impala and went racing down 111th street. We were racing against a yellow Ford Maverick. It must have been a V8 because it was giving us a hell of a run.
Ricky had the Impala floored, and all four barrels of the carburetor were wide open. My brother's glass-packed pipes were roaring. We were pulling away from the Maverick when the cops appeared out of nowhere, gaining with lights flashing. We couldn't go any faster if we wanted to. The Impala was giving us all she had.