PART 1:
Chapter
One
RICK
Hot showers are damned hypnotic. On full blast, it doesn't take me too long to lose myself under the steaming spray of water.
Standing here, with my eyes closed, feeling the hot liquid hit the top of my head, before running down my face, my neck and my back, loosens my muscles just enough for the blood to flow. The pounding in my temples cut down to a more or less tolerable level, and my skull no longer feels like it's about to explode.
Thank God.
Wish I could stay in this bath for a full hour. This is almost as good as a palm full of Vicodin.
Almost.
But after fifteen minutes, I step out of my therapeutic shower, grab my towel and wrap it around my waist. If I'm going to make it through the entire day, I'm gonna need a dosage of something. Maybe two, or three, fifty mgs of Demerol, and a double shot of espresso flowing through my veins.
"Hey, Dad."
My hand pauses as I reach out for the medicine cabinet. "I'll be out in a minute Carl."
"Yeah, okay… Should I wear my blue or black tie with the new shirt Mom sent me?"
Which part of a minute does the boy not understand? "Neither. Just grab your jacket. Still chilly out there." The sound of my own voice above a whisper sends a blinding spike through my brain and I have to squeeze my eyes shut to bear it.
'Dammit.'
Serves me right for all those Margaritas I guzzled like a knucklehead frat boy last night.
However, Abraham, my partner…no scratch that...my boss, at Ford and Sons Law group, had the tab running and he needed a friend. I couldn't say no. The man helped me start over by, not only giving me a chance in his law firm, but also by opening himself up, showing me love, embracing me like a brother. He's good people. So when he called and asked if I could meet him at Sorrento's, I said yes.
It took twice the amount of alcohol I'd consumed for him to get a decent buzz, and frankly, he deserved to. Third kid's on the way, and well the man, he's in a tizzy. Thinks he's got enough on his plate. While his wife, Sasha, is downright ecstatic because she hopes it's Abe junior, finally, and not another girl for both of their sakes.
Personally, I don't think Abe has any rights to complain. His home is intact, the love he shares with his wife is going strong, his babies adore him. Not everybody, (very few people actually), could attest to that. I sure as hell can't.
'Oh Jesus…and here we go again.'
My headache is making a hell of a come back.
I yank open the medicine cabinet. Where is that bloody aspirin?
"But the blue, Dad, " Carl, who also makes a come back, shouts unforgivingly through the door, "you know is my favorite."
One hand grips the edge of the sink and the other pinches my nose bridge. "Well alright, why ask me then?"
"Because," he says, as though that's an actual answer.
Hmph. Teenagers. I swear that's his response for every question since he turned thirteen.
'Carl, why didn't you do the dishes?'
'Because.'
'Carl, look at this phone bill. Why is it so high?'
'Because.'
God damn kid gets away with it too. I always let him, don't I?
"Anyways," he says, "you better hurry up. It's nine-thirty and Grandma is dressed and waiting in the kitchen already. You know she hates being late for Pastor Stokes."
"Yeah, I know. Five minutes is all I need." Or maybe more. Might run into her at the service today. Maybe she'll say hi. That'll be nice.
On the second shelf inside of the metal cabinet, my fingers inspect the little white and orange plastic containers, my eyes skim the labels as to their contents, searching out my source of relief. Tucked in the corner, a green capped bottle catches my attention. The black letters, bold yet small, read 'Active Health Teen.' Supplements? I forgot about these.
Carl came home with those tablets after his stay with his mother during the Christmas break. Lori sent an email insisting that as a growing teen he needed additional vitamins, as though that boy is suffering from some sort of deficiency. Sprouting like a damned beanstalk, he eats any and everything, fresh or stale, dead or alive, it don't matter to him. He hardly gets sick, his grades are all aces. In other words, I'm doing a hell-of-a job at raising my son, if I do say so myself. He doesn't need this. The sealed bottle gets tossed in the garbage.
A second later, I find what I had been looking for.
Or have I?
After scrutinizing the familiar receptacle, I discover that I am wrong.
Exelon. I shake my head and sigh. These should not be up here, but downstairs inside the kitchen's center cupboard where they belong.
'Oh, Mom.'
This is the third time, in what? One week? Less than?
Doctor Carson, seems he was right. He did try to warn me. Said that despite her taking this medication my mother's condition would definitely worsen, and possibly at a more rapid speed. I've found her things in the oddest of places. Just last night, inside the fridge I came across both her house keys and her glasses.
Well, this just confirms it. Moving back home to be her support had been the right call.
My whole life she's been my rock. On her own, Deanna Grimes took care of me and protected me, made sure I would grow up to become the type of man who fights against the injustices of this world. And now it's my turn, my duty, my honor to return the favor.
At nine-fifty the wooden flooring creaks under my two-toned, dark brown dress shoes as I trot into the kitchen for my caffeine fix before we hit the road.
"Oh Rick, look," My mother sees me, scoots around the center island and shoves a note pad into my hands. "I just got a call." Her forehead crinkles in confusion.
Is everything alright? Why does she seem panicked? "Mom, what's the matter?"
"It's Michonne. Something has happened."
Michonne? My Michonne?
'Wait, no, she's not yours Rick. Never been.'
I glance down at my mother's scribbled handwriting. "Detective Hawker? A home invasion?" On Easter Monday? Lord, what is this city coming to?
"Yes, poor girl." My mother grips my hand. "She's been through so much, you have to help her. She says something is not right."
"Is she okay?" Was she robbed? Did she get hurt?
"I don't know Rick, but they've been questioning her again about that woman who died last week, and they won't tell her why. I know you two aren't close, like you used to be, but…"
But nothing. "Where is she?"
"Already down at the station."
"I'll swing by. See what I can I do." Grabbing up my keys, the irony isn't lost on me. This woman who had just sauntered through my mind, is waiting for my help.
My Mom and I hug, and after apologizing to my son for the interruption of our day's plans, I haul myself over to Trinity Hills Police Department.
Just ten miles away from my home in Burkeside, with little to no traffic, it takes me fifteen minutes to get there.
The scent of burnt coffee and the dull buzz of slow activity, greet me as I waltz through the metal double doors. The low-slung brick building that houses Trinity Hills' only precinct since 1952, is located in the city's central district. Also known as, the "law and order" district. The police station, along with City hall, are situated on Queen's Falls circular. A block away there's the Municipal court, and the connecting streets are littered with attorneys offices, private investigators, bail bonds agencies, and one or two pawn shops.
My own office is over on Lincoln road, a mere three blocks away. We're a good firm with an impeccable reputation, known for being the best damned criminal defense lawyers because we won't think twice about exploiting every single avenue no matter what, as long as it means serving the best interests of our clients. That's the job of any lawyer. But me and my associates – Counsellors Maggie Rhee, Abraham Ford, our investigator Daryl Dixon, and our administrative assistant Tara Chambler Aka 'Boss Lady'– we go hard for the win. It's the only way we know how to practice law out here in Trinity Hills Georgia no matter what the case is.
From misdemeanors, and personal injury, and student defenses, to DUIs, felonies, and drug cases. Domestic violence? You can call us for that. Your good ole assault and battery? We cover those too. And that's just a handful of the services we provide, but I won't go into all of that. You need a reference, feel free to contact the hundreds of satisfied clients we've assisted clear across Cobb County.
The desk Sergeant, a tiny Asian woman with a mean mug and a sharp voice, is not too happy by my sudden appearance. Being forced to work on a holiday is never any fun. So, on goes the charm.
"Hey." I dip my gaze, lick my lips, and flash a killer grin and…nothing.
"What the hell do you want?" Her tiny arms lock across her chest.
I lean in. "Heard you had a Michonne Moretti brought in this morning. Care to share why exactly she's still here?" I bite my lower lip, give her a wink and…
"Don't be an ass," she spits out. "State your name and purpose."
Nothing? Really?
No blush, no giggle, no nothing. I try again to expertly inquire of the details surrounding Michonne's situation, but still I don't get a slip, or a nugget of useful information. Damn. I must be losing my touch. Huh. I mean I got my best blue suit on and everything. Crisp white shirt, silk black tie. I'm dressed for the Lord so I know I look good.
After rolling her eyes at me a few times, I quit. 'BAILEY,' as her name tag reads, finally summons Detective Simon Hawker, who comes trotting down the stairwell a minute later.
The department is staffed by 137 officers. Most of whom I've already gotten familiar with. But this one…this one right here, is an idiot and an A-class jerk. Often times Abe likes to call him 'Simple Simon.'
Still, I extend my hand to him. "Detective."
He gives me a quick shake while his jaw churns a gum in his mouth. "Counsellor. You here for Moretti?"
"I am. Got a call. Care to tell me what's this all about?"
His shoulders lifted in a nonchalant shrug. "Can't. Sorry."
"Come on now Simon. Victim of a home invasion, witness to a murder…she's not a suspect is she?" If he doesn't let me in on why they're holding her, then they're building a case against her. "As a measure of good faith show me something, and I'll convince Miss Moretti to work with you. Be more cooperative." Which is a bold faced lie. The less the cops know the less they have to incriminate my client. But I'm in his house so for now I play the game. "If not, well my client and I are walking right out of here without saying another word. And come tomorrow, who knows? I'll probably be compelled to go right ahead and file a harassment suit."
"Bullshit. She came in on her own volition."
I shrug. "I don't know… Interrogation without counsel? Sounds like harassment to me."
He spreads his lips into a wide malicious grin. "Why you gotta be so aggressive, Rick? Can't we all just, get along?" Leading me to his desk, he grabs up a brown envelope, opens it, and empties it's contents out. It's a stack of professional photos of the crime scene.
"The place was tossed alright, but nothing was taken. Not even a stick of gum."
Tossed is an understatement. Michonne's home had been properly violated. "Where's this?" I hold up a picture with graffiti on the wall.
"That's in your client's boudoir."
What in the world is a gang sign doing on Michonne's wall? If my memory serves me right, the U19 is an extremely dangerous street gang based out of the inner city of Atlanta.
"Oh, and then there's a little video of the crime last week."
Video? That's right Simple Simon, keep on talking.
It turned out that the cops had gotten their hands on some footage from the back entrance of Dee's pharmacy, which shows Michonne conversing with the murder victim. He says Michonne never mentioned talking to Miss Espinosa before she succumbed to her injuries.
"So, leaves me wondering why and what else is she not telling us." He rests against the edge of his desk, crosses his ankles, and sickening lines of smugness curve his face.
"That's it?" I ask, incredulous that this 'detective' actually thinks he's got something to work with.
"Oh no sir, Mr. Lawyer sir," he laughs. "But that's all you're getting. Let's just say obstruction of justice is looking pretty good for your girl if she doesn't start coughing it up. The whole story, that is."
I have a pretty cordial relationship with these detectives, but it don't mean I trust their judgement… not by a long shot. Commissioned to protect and serve 80,000 residents, these officers are overworked, underpaid, some downright hate the job so they've become both belligerent and lazy, looking for a quick win.
"She's a school librarian for Pete's sakes!" I argue.
"That don't mean squat."
I step back, away from him, tamping down my ire. "Just take me in to my client. I want to see her now."
A few minutes later, I got them to bring Michonne to a private room. Wasn't going to take any chances on some wise guy pressing a button in that interrogation hole, violating my client's sixth amendment.
As soon as she steps through the door, it hits me…Hard. I haven't sat and had a real conversation, of any kind with this woman in fifteen years.
Not even since I'd moved back home after my divorce well over eighteen months ago.
From time to time sure, we'd bump into each other. After all, we do live in the same neighborhood with her new house over on Joyeau street being eight blocks away. Not to mention, both she and my mother belong to First Ministry Baptist Church where they regularly congregate. Michonne and I would exchange a polite nod of acknowledgement whenever I decide to make the effort to show up for a service. But other than that...
Our interactions have been brief and cordial at best.
At worst? Well, she won't ever come on out and admit this, and I won't ever put her on the spot about it, but I have seen this woman literally duck behind a fruit display at the Eastern Value food market when she glimpsed me strolling her way.
It was kind of funny, but mostly not. How things were before, compared to how things are now, it honestly puts a crack in my heart.
Seated now across from me, Michonne does not slouch down into her chair. Rather, her posture is confident, her head held high, her stare so intense, she practically looks regal. I swallow hard. Michonne has matured into a stunning woman, and I am reminded of that fact every time I lay my eyes on her.
Dressed in a simple, fitted gold sweater top and slim dark jeans, her hair swooped back in an intricate chignon, she gives no sign of being anxious. Anyone held in a dinky interrogation chamber for unwarranted questioning is bound to be a nervous wreck.
But not her.
She hides her stress well.
I marvel at how she's changed so much, and yet, so little. Unlike me, not a speck of grey could be found in her long locs, despite the hardships I know she's endured throughout her thirty-eight years of life.
When we first met, she was an awkward fourteen year old. Skinny, sure, but then again so was I despite being two years her senior. She was cute, a bit nerdy, but also very grown up for her age. Being the eldest of four in a single parent home would do that to you. Her eyes though, were always her best asset: Keen and accepting, with the extraordinary ability to penetrate and infiltrate my soul.
Those brown eyes darken now as she shoots me a look that says, 'There you are, you jackass. What took you so long?'
Wow. It has been years since I'd last seen that look. The old memory sure as hell elicits a wide smile I can't hold back. "Good morning to you too, Michonne. Surprised you even called."
"Why?" she shrugs, "You're a lawyer. I need a lawyer. Makes perfect sense. Besides, Viola Davis wasn't picking up."
"Of course," I laugh. She's so direct. But knowing her since high school we have a good amount of baggage.
"How much?" she asks.
I blink at her. She's a mind reader now? "How much what?"
"Your retainer fee."
Oh! "We don't have to talk about that this instant—"
She cuts me off with a loaded sigh. "You're not doing me any favors, Rick."
"The detectives," I say, as I shrug off my jacket (and her), "are suspicious of you for obstruction of justice. Let's start there. You have any idea why?"
Her eyes widened. "My place was trashed!"
And then some. "Well according to the photos taken, looks like your place was searched, but nothing is missing..." I pause. She doesn't confirm or deny that statement. Why? I shake my head and continue. "There's also some video."
"A video?"
"Streetcam footage that day of the murder."
"There is? That's great," she says. "I had nothing to do with that girl getting killed. I just happened to be there. You know that."
Other than being all over the local news, my mother relayed the details of Michonne's tragic experience multiple times. "Yes well, the video doesn't show the actual stabbing, that happened out of shot. What they do have is afterwards, with the victim bleeding out and you conversing with her." I would have to pull some strings, maybe get Daryl to convince the pharmacy's manager to give us a copy for my own analysis.
"Really? That's it?" Skeptical, she rolls her eyes, "So, that invalidates the fact that my home was invaded and ransacked? I was trying for her to hold on. So, I kept talking. I told the detectives everything that they needed to know. Right now, I have to leave."
'Everything that they needed to know.' What does that mean? Her words give me a pause for concern.
My eyes peruse her demeanor for a hint of deceit. Her arms fold and she looks away. "They can hold you here, Michonne, for further questioning if they want to. Up to 24 hours without you being charged. But I'm here, so don't worry I won't allow that. They have no probable cause to suspect you of anything." I then recite the mandatory attorney-client speech as l retrieve my pen and legal pad, (yes, still old school, thank you very much), from my satchel.
"First off, tell me precisely what the police have in their report about the murder last week that might lead them to think you're not giving the whole story." I click my pen and start to write. "Don't leave anything out. Even if you think it's insignificant, it might not be."
Something Michonne had said to the detectives during her interviews had raised their suspicions. Most times witnesses are unaware of the little details that could make or break an investigation. Would I be able to figure it out? Determine what's colored the cops' perception of the case, other than the aesthetics? Also, my carefully worded statement gave me leeway. The cops might think one thing, whereas I could, without violating any ethical rules, guide Michonne to say another, whilst on the stand.
"Yeah, okay. During my lunch break," she says, staring at my notepad, "I—I was hustling back to work after finishing an errand at FTB bank. The one on 1st avenue and Edward street."
"Just on the outskirts of Burkeside?"
"Yes. Had an appointment with my loans officer. But I was running late in getting back to school. I thought I may not make it in time to catch the D13 bus heading downtown unless I take a short cut. So, instead of making a left, I turned right, and as soon as I turned right again, onto Riley street, I saw her coming towards me from the opposite direction."
"You mean Annabella Espinosa?"
"Who else?" she snaps.
My hand stilled and I don't look up from my notes. She's been through a lot, I tell myself. She's frustrated and on edge. I give her a second.
"I'm sorry," she sighs, and continues, "Yes, Annabella Espinosa. Actually, she distracted me from my focus of racing back to St. Monica's. I noticed that she was beautiful. Young. Blessed with thick, luxurious dark hair cascading around her heart shaped face and full cheeks, long enviable lashes, and flawless cappuccino skin. Her expression, however…that's what really grabbed my attention."
"Why was that?"
"She seemed troubled. Sad. Lonely. I could relate. Remembered what that was like."
How could she forget? After attending St. John's University in New York, Michonne moved to Brooklyn, met someone and got married. Like me, after a few years she also started a family. Seven years ago, however, tragedy struck and she lost it all. To help her cope, she'd moved back to Georgia.
"Seconds after she rushed past me, I heard a voice yell, "Hey!" I spun around just in time to catch sight of someone else bolting around the corner. A man. Tall, intimidating, and with an inhuman look in his eyes. The girl, she yelled back at him. Told him to get away from her...sounded like she knew him. Then something glinted in my eye. I swear, everything stood still in that moment and it took me a good 10 seconds to register what was happening."
Michonne pressed her eyes closed, allowing her façade to break for a moment. "She was on the ground screaming in pain, and I screamed out in horror as this man right before my eyes attacked her with a knife. Over and over again. It was insane. I watched him stab her in her chest, her arm…Her neck was gutted wide open…God, Rick! It was a nightmare."
Damn. Nightmare is putting it lightly. "What happened after that?"
"I don't know," she shook her head, "I—I'm not sure. I kept thinking, "This isn't real. This can't be real." But somehow my legs took me closer and I pushed him off of her, yelling that I had already called the police. Which I hadn't. He said "Bitch!" spat at my shoes, then took off running."
I want to press her for more details, but as she swipes away the tears that had begun to fall, I decided against it. I rest my pen down. "Have they given you the contact information for counselling?"
"No I...I don't need that. I'm fine."
Yet, her struggle to stop trembling is perceptible.
The move of my hand to cover hers, to steady the shaking, is instinctive. Minutes ago, Michonne strutted in here with her confident, badass, don't try to shit me game face on. Now, with her tortured expression all I see is my sixteen-year-old best friend. And just like that, I'm eighteen again.
When we were teenagers, Michonne and I would often meet up in the afternoons after school. Sometimes with a group of other kids, but most times it was just us two. Preferring to walk home, we'd ditch the bus, indulge in a detour and end up hanging out at one of our favorite spots: Wendy's on Preston Boulevard, that skate park over on Daytona road, or our ultimate secret place, my mother's cabin out on Lake Woodson. The lake took us the furthest away from our neighborhood, but after enduring a horrible, terrible day, the extra miles to enjoy the paradisiac setting were worth it.
I remember those hours we'd lie side by side in the grass, or on the dock, having hardcore debates on everything from movies and music to worldviews and politics. Even poetry. I was strictly a Wordsworth man, but she favored variety. Had a book filled with personal favorites from Claude Mckay and e.e. cummings and Maya Angelou. And even a few from the suicidal woman Anne Sexton.
At other times, when life felt like a bucket of shit, we'd hardly talk at all. Just kept each other company, quietly exchanging our personal secrets whilst enjoying Trinity hills' breathtaking sunsets.
That…that was a lifetime ago.
Now, drawing in a deep breath, my ex-best friend closes her eyes and pulls her hand away.
"Can we leave?" she asks, her voice barely a whisper.
I collect my belongings and rise to my feet. "Sure, let me just uh…let me get Detective Hawker. Then I'll take you wherever you want to go, if you'll let me. You have some place to crash tonight?"
She slides off her seat. "Take me to Shane's house. I could stay with him."
Well goddamn. A big ole boulder plunges to the pit of my stomach. I try like hell to keep my face neutral, but she reads me in a heartbeat.
"Is that going to be a problem?"
My eyes squint at her. 'Yes.'
"No. Like I said, wherever you wanna go." Even if that means delivering her into the arms of the man who strung her along on a three-year engagement only to dump her like garbage a month before the wedding.
In her state of vulnerability, would that be the wisest choice? I shake my head, grab my bag. Who was I kidding? Michonne's personal life was none of my goddamned business. Not anymore. She made sure of that.
At this point, she's just my client. We are no longer friends and we hadn't been anything close to acquaintances in over ten years. I need to remember that. Me, helping her out now, isn't going to change that fact. And honestly, I prefer it this way. I do.
Despite all of my fond memories of Michonne Moretti, there is a reason we don't talk anymore. She's rigid, judgmental, unforgiving and damned complicated.
So…
Why on earth, am I pulling her right into my arms?
'Because she's letting you. And because she's been through a lot.
And because...
Because you still love her, you idiot.'
