CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Reality
“In everyone’s life comes a time when some ultimate challenge arrives. It comes fast and furious and without warning. It comes at a time when all of our resources are tested. A time when life seems unfair. A time when our faith, our values, our patience, our compassion, and our ability to persist are all pushed to the limit and beyond. Some have used such tests as opportunities for growth; others have turned away and allowed these experiences to destroy their hopes.”
—Dr. Dennis Kimbro
In Jail Without the Bail
The hours progressed, slipping away like globs of hot, thick molten gold, until Douglass became more and more a part of that so-called “ultimate challenge.” The storm had already swept him up and out of his own world. Unfair though it may have been, he was now in jail, far away from home, with nothing to lean on but his own purely fabricated faith. In the course of events, if there was such a thing as a great challenge, then Passaic County Jail was it. Douglass was originally in that holding cell alone. But the morning moved into afternoon, and with it came more and more prisoners, until the room filled to capacity. Beyond capacity. At most, the room was comfortable for 20 or 25 people. Thirty-five, if they were standing shoulder to shoulder. However, buses continued to drop off men, as if there was free fried chicken being given away. Eventually, more than 70 prisoners were sandwiched in the cell. No cigarettes were permitted in the holding cell, and someone even had the nerve to put a non smoking sign on the wall above the door. But there was smoking anyway. With one vent high above the door, the ventilation was the equivalent of all seventy-five men breathing through a straw at one time. Meanwhile, the various body odors from the day’s local arrests created a stew of sordid, wretched vapors. Everyone, whether nefarious and boastful or quiet and considerate, contributed to the busy atmosphere. Five hours passed while the heat and the hunger in the cell continued cooking. Tempers began to surface, as food became more and more of a priority. Men began banging on one door or the other, wanting to irritate the overseer. The banging, the angry, conflicting conversations and the yelps for a staff member represented the worst conditions imaginable. Even a kennel of animals would be considered calm as compared to this mess. The fights over the phone; the want for elbow room; all of it creating that deafening noise.
After one man fainted, and after two fistfights (one that left an older man unconscious), prisoners were released from the room five by five. They were paraded to another small room and strip-searched. That is, every piece of clothing or thread was to be removed as the corrections officer conducted with routine directives.
“Raise your arms above your head. Open your mouth wide. Lift your tongue. Back of your hands. Lift your nuts. Turn around. Lift your foot. Now the other foot. Bend over and spread ’em.” Douglass silently wondered how a man could deal with looking at so many hairy, crusty assholes, and still manage a peaceful sleep with so many of those images in their mental registers.
During and following the strip search, officers prodded and probed prisoners, then escorted them to the next room where interviews were held for each. Questions. Good health? Ever have diseases? Contemplating suicide? Tattoo? Psychological problems? Next, on to the fingerprint room. Forms were filled out. Next of kin in case of death. Home address and phone number. After fingerprints, Douglass dipped his inked-up fingers into a vat of grease—it looked and felt like lard, except it wasn’t. It was the type that auto mechanics used. He rinsed off in a nearby sink and grabbed a few paper towels before being directed, still naked, into another large room. This time, there were only three walls. A wall of iron bars confined the men until everybody was completed with their processing. At least the room allowed for free-flowing air, thought Douglass. And once the cage filled to capacity, there was even another, and then another to offer relief as men continued waiting for food. At least the men weren’t squeezed together like they were earlier; not a pretty thought with no clothes on.
By 10pm, there was still no food. The cages were emptied one at a time as three men at a time were led to a cove with three showers. The water was continuous, running on cold only. A corrections officer stood by to assure that each person got under the water. Once assured, a towel was handed over along with an unreasonable amount of clothing. Then a nurse reviewed each prisoner, taking blood and administering tuberculosis tests. On to another cage. More barking dogs in the distance. The food finally came. A Styrofoam tray of two fish patties, a hamburger roll, a bag of potato chips and two cups of Kool Aid for each man. Restless and anticipating a next move, the group now listened to a roll call and shot out into the hallway when called. Once you were called, you were to grab a mattress from a big pile, a blanket, and a sheet—no pillows. A single line filed through the hallway, making their pilgrimage into a day room. Douglass was reminded of scenes from The Planet of the Apes, where humans were held in massive cages, left to scramble and cope amongst themselves. In a similar fashion, the caged gates at Passaic ran almost 20 feet to the ceiling and they were wide like a zoo exhibit of a lion’s den. A section of the cage was unlocked and slid aside, while the newest additions instinctively straggled through the opening to claim one of the available bed spaces. There were already close to 50 men in the room, having staked out the best bunks. About 30 tri-level bunk beds were situated through the room. Bolted to the floor. The top bunks were only feet from the ceiling. Meanwhile, air and noise flowed freely from the hallway and through the bars.
A row of toilets, sinks and showers remained a busy part of the room; a corner that was visible to everyone, regardless of whether a man was taking a shit or shamelessly jerking off—no privacy.
With no other choice, Douglass quickly adjusted, maneuvering his mattress to an available top bunk. He climbed halfway up and dressed his bed with the sheet and blanket. Then he climbed up some more to rest himself. Finally with a soft surface to sit, Douglass crossed his legs and observed the large room. The different values of men were evident. Some were loud and unruly. Others were quiet and calculating. Most were black. A handful of whites. Prison workers (also known as orderlies) walked through the hallway outside the cage at various times, while individuals who recognized them ran up to the bars to beg and plead for cigarettes. When C.O.’s, nurses or counselors came through the hallway and stopped by the cage, prisoners ran up still with other requests. Forced to survive with bare essentials, inconvenience and desperation encouraged many to crave any resource they could get their hands on; it was a pattern of behavior that seemed like a frequent practice, and Douglass was quick to stay out of the rat race. An institution nurse announced her presence and a line of men quickly grouped to receive medication of this kind or that. Skinny, fat, tall, short, young, and old. Men were detained for almost any infraction; jumping bail, spousal abuse, traffic violations, probation issues or even failure to pay child support. There was no shortage of drug possession cases; more or less the majority of the population.
“What, you think you special, nigga?”
The braided fool, Douglass told himself. And, pleeease: I know he’s not talkin to—
“Yo, lil’ nigga. I’m talkin’ to you.”
Douglass had been reading a used Newark Star Ledger when the braided dude approached the bunk. He tried to ignore him, but the guy shook the bunk.
I thought these were bolted to the floor?
Not to cause any conflict in the room, and considering he was a stranger to the region, Douglass ignored the nigga part of the inquiry.
“You want somethin’?” asked Douglass. He said it in a way to show he was being irritated.
“Yeah, nigga. I’m talkin’ to you. How come you ain’t get up from your bunk for the issue?”
Douglass twisted his face, not even interested in making sense of this guy’s question. He at least knew what issue the fool meant.
“I ain’t interested, man.”
“Naw, fuck that, yo! If you ain’t gonna get yo shit, then get up and get mine.” Braids crunched his body in such a way that showed he was ready to fight. His jumpsuit sleeves were already rolled back, and the leg cuff on the right was rolled up LL Cool J-style. “Exactly! Nigga, next time they come to the gate for whatever, you betta get mine. Word!”
Douglass realized that he was quite out of place. He noticed that while most were locals with state and municipal cases, he was from New York; a federal prisoner. He was out of his jurisdiction, mismatched amongst a crew of riff-raffs, with no ties to any “buddies” or “homies.” So, this was his defining moment; the instant that everyone who was watching would judge him by. He was being “tested.”
Thinking quickly, Douglass remembered his days in the Marine Corps, how in boot camp he was forced to battle guys twice his size with a pugle-stick. When it was his turn to step up, he was already preceded by “Tiny,” one of the biggest in the platoon. Tiny was seething and full of electricity from the past five fights he’d won—all of his contenders knocked down and dismissed from the pit.
That’s how Douglass was looking at this guy in Passaic, as if he was Tiny. Sure, Douglass was a foot and a half shorter than Tiny, but he also saw the guys that Tiny knocked down. Douglass decided rather contemptuously that he was NOT gonna end up like them. And just the same, he was also NOT gonna be dragged out of Passaic jail like they did another guy.
First, to disarm Tiny—and this braided one—Douglass fixed his face. He put on a face of defeat; as though there were no way out of this.
“You’re right. I’m bein’ selfish,” said Douglass as he climbed down from the bunk. He didn’t want to seem like any threat, and that’s just what his expression showed: submission. “Anything you need, just let me know. In fact, I got some commissary money comin’, if you want some of that.”
The guy turned around and looked at the certain audience that he attracted. He couldn’t believe how easy this was!
“Yeah-yeah-yeah, that’s right, lil’ nigga. Mark ass, nigga. Matter fact, I want all your commissary.”
“Aw, damn, man. Could ya leave me a little money? I mean, I do wanna get some real toothpaste, instead of the crap they give us.”
Boldly, the guy turned to his homies and said, “You hear this mark-ass nigga? I should make him my fuckin’ girl.”
He had to go and say that? Douglass couldn’t wait another second. The fool didn’t notice that Douglass had no socks on—he had slipped them off before he got down from the bunk so that his traction on the cement floor would be better; better than the socks he wore; socks that he might slip in once he—
That was it. Braided fool folded his arms. And Douglass couldn’t think of a weaker position. In the meantime, Douglass had already measured his distance from his victim. He wanted just enough room so that when he swung his left arm, the tip of his fingers would barely touch his opponent’s nose. And the left swing was only a diversion so that—
Douglass spun around; his left hand clipped the tip of the dude’s nose, and his entire body wound up, spinning still, with momentum enough for that rock-hard backside of his right hand to connect with the side of his victim’s face. Douglass was hyped now, with the adrenaline of a lion. He didn’t let up either. His backhand sent the dude crashing onto the metal picnic tables—the ones that were too few to seat the amount of prisoners in the room—but his right roundhouse kick was the blow that had to really hurt since that went right to the guy’s groin. Another kick was delivered to the waist, and before that foot touched the floor again, the other foot was already attacking, catching the opposite side of the waist. Both kicks leveled the guy out so that he slithered to the cement floor, defeated. Douglass was in a semi-horse stance now, waiting for another challenger to step up and substitute for the braided one.
“I don’t want no trouble, but I swear to God, you’ll be right on the floor with ’im!” Douglass didn’t believe his own hype and how it was taking over his lips, making him challenge the whole room? Nobody budged, but Douglass could see one or two smiles in the room. Perhaps he did the right thing? There was no time to assess things. It was midnight now, and the barking neared. Within minutes, two German shepherds were accompanied by a band of uniformed correctional officers. The gate was unlocked and slid aside.
“COUNT TIME!” shouted the head officer. He was labeled and tagged with various emblems and stripes, decorating his black baseball jacket. Maybe he was a confused war veteran. Douglass couldn’t tell how the head officer had accumulated such merits and awards. He wondered what the test was in the prison environment that might substantiate such honors; and hadn’t he just earned them?
Meanwhile, as the head man stood to the side and parked his foot up on a stainless steel bench, the other officers posted themselves at various areas of the room. Like clockwork, prisoners were busy climbing down from bunk beds and moving towards an F-Troop formation in the center of the room. Just then, the head man noticed Douglass’s victim aching on the floor. The dogs were still barking and breathing through open muzzles, with tongues wagging and salivating, and their eyes zeroed in on all sudden movements by prisoners and guards alike. Leashes were tugged to quiet the barking, but it seemed as if it was all staged to support the illusion of immense danger.
“What the fuck are you doin’? Git your ass in the lineup!” ordered the head slavemaster. “Are you bums ever gonna learn?” A few seconds passed as braids cringed in pain, lifting himself up to his feet to stand in line. “Well, then . . . when I call your name you are to answer ‘HERE!’ You are to show your wristband to the officer, and move between the racks!” The names were rattled off and prisoners followed the instructions, squeezing between the bunk beds in lines of ten. The racks were already close to one another, leaving a space about a foot and a half wide. Nonetheless, prisoners followed orders and stood still and quiet until every name was called. Afterwards, the group of drill instructor initiators swaggered out of the room, closed the gate behind them and moved out of sight. That’s when prisoners scrambled back to their bunks. Douglass included. He wouldn’t be anybody’s girl tonight, or any other night for that matter.
That first night at Passaic County Jail was hard for Douglass to sleep through, since he had to watch his back. He wasn’t sure if any of the guy’s friends would try and stab him in his sleep. Before he knew it morning broke. His head was dizzied by the morning hustle at 5am.
“CHOW!”
The signal for food quickly triggered a habitual response. Each groping prisoner who chose to eat struggled to join the line, wiping sleep from their eyes, showing their wristbands to authenticate the transaction. Once the name was checked on the officer’s printout, that prisoner was issued a tray. Douglass’s first breakfast was filling. A bowl of Froot Loops, an apple, a slice of chocolate cake and coffee. Then back to a sleep that wouldn’t last long.
“COUNT!” In came the dogs and the whole F-Troop routine. Same as the night before. Back to sleep.
“CHOW!”
“DOCTOR!”
“COUNT!”
“NURSE!”
One announcement after the next, barked loud enough so that everyone could wake up and step to the gate. At midnight, the last count was conducted, marking another day of the madness past and another one forthcoming. The experience took a little adjusting to, but the fight (or, at least, the altercation) made things so much easier for Douglass.
“Yo, that cat was a fool, anyway. I’m glad you put ’em down,” said one prisoner. Douglass pretended to care about the whole situation, but for real, all he wanted to do was deal with this shit and stay alive. He tried to treat the situation as one big test in his mind—just like in boot camp—assuming how every situation, process and emotion was fabricated in an effort to “break” him. Every breathing being at Passaic was an extra in the experiment, paid to play a roll. Douglass imagined that if he could just exist, breathe and dream harmlessly, he would pass the test. At certain instances he was so anticipating the outcome of the challenge and how he’d end up the victor, that he found himself elated and overjoyed by the experience. Day by day, meal by meal and count by count, the regimen became redundant. To break the monotony, Douglass wrote songs, poems and did his best to dream. He dreamed of the future, and of better circumstances and improvements in his life. He thought about past relationships. He even thought about Moet.
“I realize that, Hammer, there’s not much evidence. Tell me something I don’t know. You’ve been with the Bureau long enough to know that we’ve squeezed convictions out of people with less evidence than this.” Walsh and Hammer were slouching a bit in their vehicle, parked across the street from Fool’s Paradise. It was mid-evening. Just about the time their man Tony showed up.
“We’ve got this Gilmore guy on tape, angry as hell at the murder victim. We’ve got a known mob figure walking into the family establishment numerous times. We can push some of these dancers to turn against Gilmore . . .”
—Walsh was flipping through black and white photos of various women, fully dressed, walking into the club entrance—
“You’re not new to this. Keep the guy stressed up in Passaic, away from family, friends and his power base, and I say we get a confession. Maybe even before we can convene a grand jury or get an indictment. I see a plea bargain happening before Christmas. This guy’s gonna bring in the New Year with a rack of time on his hands. My kid may have grandchildren when he gets out of the pen!” Hammer was floored by his partner’s determination to pin Gilmore. He wanted to get his teeth in on the case, to really secure a conviction; but there was nothing to go on.
“Well, Walsh . . . you just tell me what’s next on the agenda. I’m with you.”
“We keep tailing the Biancos, Tony, the capos and the other wise guys. We get the links together and form the chain, capisci?” Walsh was being facetious with the pseudo-Italian accent, but dead serious at the same time.
“Hey, there’s Tony now.” Hammer took the cue and began snapping away with his camera. Moments later Hammer straightened his blazer and baseball cap, to take his turn patronizing Fool’s Paradise.
Debbie’s Trail
Wade turned down the car radio and dialed Ken on one of the Motorola cell phones he borrowed from the precinct.
“Ken.” Ken Stevens picked up on the third ring, answering in his usual arrogant way.
“It’s Wade . . . I’m near the airport on Ninty-fourth Street.”
“Near the Enterprise car rental?”
“Not yet . . . but I can get there fast enough.” Wade swung a U-turn, ran a traffic light, and was soon approaching the block where the rental franchise was located. Still juggling the cell phone between his shoulder and ear.
“Okay, Wade. Let’s do this fast. There’s one out, man on first with two strikes on the batter.”
“Yep.”
“Go straight, as if you were headed for the Marriot Hotel. There’s a long strip. It should be dark with no street lights, right?”
“Right. What, do you have a photographic memory? Wait . . . don’t answer that. You’re doing good . . . okay. I’m near a circle near the . . . I can see the Marriot.” Wade was excited.
“Okay. Make a quick right turn.”
“Halfway into the circle?”
“Yeah. Before the hotel. There’s only one turn to make.”
“A short hill?”
“Yep . . . go up about three blocks.” Wade could hear a crack sound behind Ken’s voice. “Yeah!” Ken yelled away from the phone’s mouthpiece.
“What happened?”
“A double. Man on first and third. Still one out.”
“Alright. Go one block . . .” Behind Ken’s voice, Wade could hear Ken being summoned. Ken was soon to be on deck to bat. “And make another left. Hey—I gotta hurry”
“Okay . . .” Wade pushed the accelerator, speeding down the residential street to challenge a stop sign. After the brief pause, he hooked a quick left turn at the intersection. “I made the left. How far down?”
“Not far. There are a few houses, maybe three of ’em on your right. It’s the brick house. One level, in the center of the block. There’s a beat-up van in the driveway.”
“I see it. A gate out front? Black?” Wade’s heart was beating . . . thumping inside his chest as though he was the one to step up to bat.
“Yeah. And the grass—”
CRACK! (The crowd put up a load roar.)
“—is unkempt. Hey, I gotta go. Good luck.” The line went dead. Wade pulled the car to the right and then hooked a U-turn so that he was across from 99-01 95th Street. He rolled up further and parked. The street was infrequent with passing cars going in either direction every few minutes. A pedestrian was just passing the house, nobody else in sight.
It was 7pm when Wade popped out of his sedan, an unmarked car he grabbed from the station. He approached the gate, a waist-high division between the sidewalk and the property line. No lock or bolt. He pushed it open and made his way up the path, to the stoop and up to the front door of the house. There was a large bay window to the right of the front door. Some distinguished, African sculptures could be seen set on the window sill inside. Wade pressed the buzzer. The light inside of its small, plastic housing blinked off and then back on when it was released. He could hear a chime inside the door, and he leaned over to look over towards the window, expecting to see a head emerge. When there was no sign of life, he looked over to the van in the driveway. It had flat tires at the front and rear. There was visible rust about the edges, and dirt had accumulated next to the wheels. Wade guessed that it hadn’t been driven in 18 months. Again he pressed the buzzer. And again the chimes sounded. Another moment passed. No answer. He looked up to the dark blue sky for some answer, and when it didn’t respond, the detective followed Mr. and Mrs. Two Feet around towards the van and the rear of the house. He felt for his nickel-plated .45, pulling it out under the darkening sky. He checked the chamber and the magazine, then he replaced it carefully in its nylon holster. Further into the rear of the residence, Wade could see beyond the property line. Just over the fence there was a schoolyard. To his left, a screen door was propped open by a chair on the back porch. Surprisingly, the back door was also open, leaving a clear view of the kitchen. Wade announced himself.
“Hello . . . hello?” He stepped into the doorway, half curious and half expecting trouble. Door opened and nobody home? That would spell trouble in most areas of New York’s innercity. Wade gave the situation the benefit of the doubt and let his sixth sense guide him. He patted his weapon for security and stepped partway into the kitchen, blending into the eerie silence. A few more steps brought him into a hallway. And at the end of the hallway, Wade could see the front door. The home was a small one. A door was left open, partially blocking Wade’s view of the rest of the hallway. His next step caught a cat’s tail.
Screech! The cat clung to Wade’s ankle until its claws dug into the nylon holster that secured a 9-millimeter under his trousers, just below his calf. Wade instantly lifted his foot to shake the cat off. The cat pulled away, running down the hallway like a doped-up rabbit. Just as Wade placed his foot back to the carpet, happy just to have escaped imminent pain, two arms reached from around the door; one of them reached behind Wade’s neck, the other extended like a steel barricade across his waist. Before Wade could see the body that mastered the movements, he was tumbling through the air, flipping headfirst, until he completed a 270-degree turn, landing flat on his back. A man was suddenly standing over him with a firm grip on his Adam’s apple and his foot on his right arm. Another arm was cocked, ready to deliver a lullaby blow.
“P-police.” Wade managed to breathe the word with the little air left in his system and a dizzied state of mind.
“Lemme see a badge. And you’d better not make any sudden moves, either!” The man in control was grinding the words through tightened lips and chin, drenched in a sweaty tank top and shorts. Ready for action. Wade cautiously . . . slowly . . . pulled his wallet out with his free hand. The man was satisfied to see a badge and gave Wade a hand to help him up.
“Is this Giuliani’s new program for quality of life or something? You guys just come in without being invited?” The homeowner asked this while wiping away beads of perspiration.
“Well . . . ungh . . .” Wade was still trying to catch his composure, stretching the knots out of his neck and back. “Actually, not too far from it,” he said with his humor still very much intact. “I’m Detective Wade from the four-five—a little out of my jurisdiction, but NYPD, nonetheless . . . and you? I already know your last name is Lee!”
“Name’s Danni. And I . . . ah, live here? Own the house. Pay the taxes. Head of security . . . you see?” Danni escorted Wade as if the detective was a nursing home out-patient. They entered the living room, where the bay window was built in. A bevy of African artifacts and furniture also set a strong theme in the room. Wade could see the cat he recently assaulted hiding under the couch. Her eyes were cutting through Wade like he was soft lunch meat.
“Can I get you a drink, Detective?”
“Sure. Do you have, uh . . . rubbing alcohol?” Both men laughed while Danni went to the kitchen for some orange juice. Danni accommodated Wade while acknowledging that yes, Debbie had lived there at one time. He talked about the relationship between Debbie and Jackie, Jackie’s mom and himself. But the relations between Jackie and Debbie somehow hit a dead end when Debbie disappeared with her belongings one day. No note. No calls. No nothing. Danni explained that Jackie and her mom were off on a mother-daughter retreat in the Poconos. Danni became as helpful as possible, feeling that there was some serious business at hand. He eventually went into Jackie’s room to fetch a personal address book.
“Jackie didn’t appreciate Debbie’s desertion at all,” Danni explained. “So she’s been on a silent trip for the past eight months or so. She hasn’t tried to contact her—in a hussy about her just up and leaving after Jackie extended every hospitality to her. Oh . . . here’s the number, and even the address in Chicago.” Danni was somewhat apprehensive about just handing the book over.
“May I ask you what Debbie’s into?”
“Can’t really say yet. But she’s wrapped tight into the center of a murder investigation. My murder investigation. I just want to ask her some questions.”
“Is there something I can do to help?” Danni was pulling his tank top up to wipe his face dry from hours of training in his basement.
“Well, for one thing, you can teach me that move you did on me a moment ago. But as for the case, I sure would appreciate you calling Debbie for me. You know, to break the ice a bit. Warm her up so I can talk to her.”
“Sure. Now?” Danni looked over at the phone on the couch.
The cat braced herself and kept an eye on the detective.
“That’d be nice. There’s no time like the present.” Danni went to sit beside the phone, picked up the receiver and poked at the black buttons on the inner panel while Wade sipped at the juice, still standing and stretching. He listened intently while Danni was diplomatic on the phone.
“Her mother.” Danni whispered with his palm over the mouthpiece. A moment later, Danni was re-acquainting with Debbie, getting deeper into a conversation.
“. . . I just had to go, Danni. There were some problems that I didn’t want to bring back to your home . . .”
“Nonsense, Debbie. You could have talked to us about anything. You’re one of the family—you know that.” Danni gave a thumbs-up sign to Wade; even if he could hear most of the conversation. Wade returned the gesture. That motion alone pushed a button for Kissy the cat, and she raced away from the couch and frantically around the corner onto the linoleum tile in the kitchen. Wade could see how the cat almost slid into a wall on the way.
“Listen, Debbie, can we—can I come out to see you? Talk to you?” Wade with another thumbs-up signal.
“I don’t know, Danni. Everything is so complicated. I really don’t want you to get caught up in this stuff.”
“I don’t have a choice in the matter, Deb. You’re caught up in it, so I’m caught up in it, too. Remember . . . family. Okay? Family?”
“Family.” Debbie conceded and the two made plans to meet. Wade looked on, realizing that he’d just deputized Danni, now part of his one-man crew. Danni set down the cordless and relayed the details of the call to Wade. They spoke about schedules, flights and the sudden, sensitive need to travel to Chicago.
David
As far as David was concerned, the night was a success. He didn’t need to stretch his chances with Valerie any more than necessary. In the sequence of the boy-gets-girl-back phase of their relationship, Valerie was taking more time (this time) to find out more about David before she committed her body to him. She’d already been there once, and because of her whims, she got tied up with Richard, the obsessed Canadian. This time, she needed to know where David was coming from. Where was he going with this. And did he plan on taking her, or dropping her off along the way.
The two had three other dates after his jeep was vandalized outside of her crib. There was the Denzel Washington movie which got them talking about future and family over dinner at Dallas BBQ. Then there was the 4th of July rendezvous at Playland Amusement Park in upstate New York. That was when the boy-loses-girl phase set in—some silly argument over how many unused ride tickets Valerie wasted. On one other occasion, David took Valerie out to Manhattan Proper Café in Cambria Heights, Queens. The comedy show was hosted by comedian and radio personality, Talent, who smacked his tongue and gums to make his trademark CLUCK! sound.
“Ohhh, he gets me all hot when he does that!” said Valerie. And now (weeks later) after an intimate jazz experience at Londell’s Restaurant in Harlem, along with their filling southern fried chicken dinner, the two were satisfied and sleepy.
David kissed Valerie proper against the lips; he walked her to her door and cruised off into the midnight hour towards his loft in Brooklyn. Along the Grand Central Parkway and onto the Interborough, David picked up speed, wanting desperately to beat his sleepy eyes in a race to his soft bed. The exits passed by him in blurs. Cypress Hills; the cemetery alerted him that he was close and also reminded him to keep his eyes open for the last stretch home, or else. Then Bushwick; he had reached the end of the highway. Bright lights from another vehicle stayed in his rearview mirror for the entire trip. But David never noticed. At best, he overlooked it, not in the mood for road rage. Down Atlantic Avenue, over to Eastern Parkway, David finally pulled up to his building. David parked with the lip of his jeep reaching partially into the driveway and the rear of his vehicle still on the sidewalk.
Speaking out loud about his landlady, David said, “She could’ve parked her damned Fiat in the street. She had to know I wasn’t home yet. Bitch.” David was too bushed to do what he wanted to—to wake her black ass up so he could get in the driveway. But he was too frustrated and drowsy to do that, much less find a space on the street. Too damned tired to even move his body, to hear him tell it. So he killed the motor and let his seat recline a little. Smooth jazz from 101.9 serenaded David into a much-deserved nap. The last thing David heard was George Duke’s “No Rhyme, No Reason.” The last thing he felt was his own limbs growing cold and hard. But somewhere, between the music and the cold limbs, a bullet entered the center of his face at point-blank range.
“There’s a delay. See if you can get a change on the tickets. I’m gonna need another day. If you have problems, call me on my cell and I can try and use my clout with the airline.”
“Ten-four, good buddy. Hope all is well.” Danni heard the line go dead and wondered if Wade heard him.
Wade grabbed his windbreaker and fought the drizzle on his way to Brooklyn. Meanwhile, he and Chief Washington shared information about Wade’s progress on the case. The first issue was Chicago, which he was on the way to addressing himself. The other was the death of Bobby the fisherman. It seemed probable that some sabotage was done to provoke an accident that sent him slamming into a wall before he and his vehicle took the dive into the East River. Wade was not so surprised to find that Bobby had an apartment on the side, up on 96th and York. Certain things he was already aware of—part of the ole wheels of classic detective thinking. Still, Wade fixed his focus on other elements of the puzzle.
When he arrived at the 136th Street murder scene, there was the typical yellow police line to welcome him along with a crowd of bystanders; all of them lobbying for a view, irrespective of the officers on post. Naturally, Wade trooped around the crowd and under the yellow line. The officer nearest Wade stepped aside when he noticed the badge appearing from under his shirt. Wade let it hang so that it could be respected by these Brooklyn officers, none of which he knew. Wade approached the platinum jeep with white-walled tires. A photographer was slowly circling the truck, snapping and flashing at different intervals. Chief Washington was at the front of the jeep, speaking with another detective.
Finally, someone Wade knew. He could see the detectives were having a deep-rooted discussion about the scene. Wade made his introduction, and the chief introduced Brooklyn’s Detective Minor. Most other officers were scattered along the driveway, at the front and back of the residential complex. Wade diverted his interest from the victim, not wanting to seem ghoulish, but eventually navigating his eyes towards the windshield. There was a hole in the windshield at eye level, a web of shattered glass, and a sheet draped over the body of the victim. A spot of dark red made it obvious that the victim had a devastating head wound. Wade got the idea.
“Let me show you something.” Detective Minor led the way as Washington and Wade followed. The three climbed a short stairway at the rear of the building and then traveled a series of hallways. The ceilings in the hall were towering with skylights situated here and there. The floor was all polished wood with a finish so brilliant it reflected the daylight that blasted from above. There was a series of doors to other lofts leading the way to studio 4. With ceilings as high as those in the hallway and a captivating scent of flowers, walking into the room felt like walking into a vacuum of freshness. On the walls were dozens of photos. All women; many nude, sensual poses and girl-on-girl scenes. Lots of outdoor takes. Many studio shots. A corner of the studio was sectioned off, designated for photo shoots. A lawn of red fabric was draped from high on the wall and sloping down in soft folds, wrinkles and heaps to the wood floor. There were pillows of gold, silver and black piled on the floor around a stool. A camera was positioned just right, with umbrella lights to the sides and rear of the central area.
More accommodations in the loft included a two-door refrigerator, a couple of 19” televisions, a sofa bed, roundtable with chairs and an executive desk. A giant picture window offered an abundant view, but only of the sky and driveway.
“Everything’s so modern. The guy must have some dough,” assumed Detective Minor as he led the men to a table where a photo album was displayed. Page by page, photo by photo was filled with candid photos of women. They weren’t women who were expecting to pose for photos, but pictures that were obviously taken from inside a car, close to a tree and from inconspicuous positions. The targets were unsuspecting. For the three public servants, David Turner quickly earned the title of Peeping Tom.
“This is why I called Chief Washington. I know about the FBI and how they took your case . . . it was the talk of the seventy-first precinct for weeks. We all felt for you. Hopefully, this will help you. We’re on your side. You’re one of us.”
“Does the FBI know about this yet?” Wade wondered.
“The book? No. The homicide? Some rookie-tryin’-to-play detective called. He totally jumped protocol. They’re on their way here.”
“Can I take this?” Wade asked respectfully.
“Take what? Did you see anything, Chief?” Minor’s eyebrows shifted conspiratorially.
“Actually . . .” Washington addressed the officer at the doorway.
“. . . Can you tell me where the bathroom is, Officer?” And Washington escorted the officer from the area.
“Let me know about the bullet.” Wade made some notes to conclude his visit. Then he surveyed their surroundings before stashing the photo album in his jacket. Back in his sedan, he pulled the book from his windbreaker, he drove for a few blocks and then pulled over onto the service road of Eastern Parkway. Content that the cavalry of suits would not stumble upon him, identifying him in the neighborhood of the homicide, Wade reviewed the photos. Part curiosity, part duty, Wade looked for faces that he might recognize.
Specifically, Wade was looking for dancers or anything relative to Fool’s Paradise. His suspicions were further substantiated as he flipped through the album. There was Moet getting out of her car and going through the front yard of her house. There were close ups, full body shots and zooms. All of it was without her knowing, or so it seemed. By the looks of the album, David was an all-around-the-town type of Peeping Tom. More page flipping. There was Valerie. Wade remembered her face in Moet’s videos. Different snapshots showed her going into the club and leaving her house. When Wade saw a Camaytoned woman, he knew it was Debbie. He pulled it out of the book. A closer look brought him back to his days on the beat. He knew where that picture had been taken. He knew . . . he recognized the red exhibit with the balls racing throughout the giant contraption.
Port Authority.
Many more ideas tossed in his mind. Although David was moving even closer to becoming a prime suspect, Wade still needed to speak to Debbie. He had to hurry and reach Danni for the trip to Chicago. There was no way of knowing for certain, but David may have had a partner who had a dispute with him. Killed him off, and was now in the progress of completing the job. Far-fetched maybe, but there was indeed something brewing. Something beyond just brewing. There were three people dead; Moet, Bobby and now David. And Fool’s Paradise was the epicenter of it all.
How did Douglass play a roll? Wade wondered if a big mistake had been made on behalf of the FBI. He thought out the possible ingredients of tragedy. Sex, murder, money. Where was the money element? The motive? What the hell was going on? It was time to talk to Debbie. He pulled some additional photos of David, Moet, Valerie and another of Debbie. Then he stashed them in his shirt pocket and accelerated into traffic.
Chi-Town
Detective Wade and his new deputy, Danni, touched down in Chicago’s O’Hare Airport at 6pm. Just a couple of days after David Turner’s body was discovered. Wade brought along nothing but his pen, his previously-retired writing pad, and a pack of Doublemint gum. He wasn’t expecting to be in the Windy City for long, 12 hours at best. Danni, on the other hand, brought his usual traveling bag. Anytime he left New York, in the states, or out, his leather shoulder bag followed. Felix-The-Cat had his bag of tricks. Danni-The-Ninja had his bag of certain death.
For instance, there was a chess set that he rarely used. But inside the thin, compact box there was an arsenal. A nickle-plated set of nunchucks, a self extending steel rod, and a variety of blades; 14 blades in all, including daggers, knives and stars. All sharp enough to cut through skin and bone on contact. The exterior of the class set was plated with a special grade of uranium, an alloy from the mines of South Africa. The metal was immune to x-rays or laser scans, so the various compartments and sliding panels on the chess set could not be detected. The invention easily passed through airport security many times. If a jealous attendant wanted to see more, Danni would simply open the casing for them, revealing the many scrambled pieces of the game. Meanwhile, the next dangerous piece of artillery had already passed the checkpoint. Danni’s beeper also had blades concealed within its casing. No matter the weather, he was ready for prime time.
Through the corridors, an eatery, and hundreds of rush hour passengers mulling about, Wade and Danni moved at a steady, brisk pace towards the Hertz counter to obtain their pre-arranged rental car. Before long they were headed down Michigan Avenue, along the perimeter of monstrous Lake Michigan, towards the southside of Chicago. Conversation kept them occupied as Danni drove down streets he remembered from his youth.
“So what’s up with all of the artifacts and what-not?”
“Just collecting. Here and there. Nothing too serious.”
“Are you kidding? I know some people that haven’t traveled outside of their backyards. It looks like you’ve been everywhere. I’m not trying to play investigator or anything, but your home is one big-ole museum of precious artifacts,” Wade added curiously.
“. . . Well, you’d probably find out sooner or later. I used to . . . I used to be a pilot. Worked for a big outfit. I was all over the world.”
“Really. What did you fly?”
“Private planes and jets mostly.”
“Oh. Executives?” Wade easily slipped into the investigative habit.
“Not exactly. I moved drugs,” Danni answered, proud of his experiences, but ashamed still. Wade dropped his head an inch into his shoulders.
“You mean, prescription drugs, right?”
“No. Far from it. I was a trafficker in another life.”
“Another life?” Wade was hoping for better news. Like, the guy worked with the CIA in a government arms deal or something.
“Yeah. I crashed. Bad weather. When I woke up I was in a hospital bed with those special bracelets you’re so familiar with.”
“Whoa . . . hurt bad?”
“Hospitalized for a year. In a prison for nine more.” Danni held a slight grimace. Nothing shady or pretty about the truth.
Wade responded with another drawl. Still, the weight seemed to lift from the shoulders of both men. Wade realized that Danni had paid his debt to society. As far as he was concerned, Danni was still of value on this mission. Danni, on the other hand, was glad to be open and truthful.
“Well, obviously you’re a hundred percent better. All that kung-fu stuff you did on me back in Queens.”
“My body’s a hundred percent. My pockets aren’t quiet there yet.”
“Join the crowd. I try to stay patient. Many temptations, you know? But the discipline is key. If you’re standing on a cliff and down in the canyon there’s a bed of diamonds, you can’t jump. That’s the quick way to nowhere. But you can take the time to climb and navigate towards the goal. And learn some things about yourself along the way.”
“Well . . . thanks for the motivational speech, counselor.”
“Don’t mention it. I have to stay on point. My community depends on me. You’ve heard the song ‘Better Days’ by Diane Reeves?
“I might have.” Danni was now at the edge of South Chicago, working his way into the hood.
“There’s a line in the song that says ‘you can’t get through those better days until you make it through the night . . . you’ve got to be patient.’”
“Uh-huh. That sounds familiar.”
“To complete my point, you’ve got to focus on your objective in life. If everything you think about and act upon throughout your every living day is based in your objective, you can adapt to hard times. Accepting them as a kind of ‘Right of Passage’ if you will. Or, par for the course. I just know that in the balance of life there’s got to be night to have a day. A time when things rest and when they come to life. A time to live—a time to die. That’s the mastery of the universe.” Wade didn’t mind sharing wisdom. Besides, he found a bit of affirming energy in sharing.
The men were silent for a few moments until Danni pulled out a note from his pocket. It was an address that Debbie had confirmed with him. He made a left and a right, accordingly. When they arrived at Willowbrook Avenue there was a police road block erected and a traffic cop at the middle of the intersection who directed and re-routed vehicles to proceed in opposite directions or straight through the light. Crowds had formed at different areas along the sidewalks, observing the police activity. In passing the cop, Wade could see down Willowbrook, straight to the other end. A road block and more police capped that end as well. There were no visible indications of what exactly was happening on Willowbrook, but trouble was evident. A stone’s throw from the road block, Danni pulled into an available parking space.
“See down the alley?”
“Yeah.” Wade nodded, wondering what Danni was up to. If it was crazy, Wade wasn’t down. Not long till retirement.
“Well, that’s the backside of all the homes on Debbie’s side of Willowbrook.”
“Yeah, and?”
“Her house is only a few houses in. I say we execute business as usual. Make sure she’s okay. Protect our interests.”
“I don’t know. Police usually means serious business.”
“It could be a gas leak or something. Maybe they’re waiting for the gas company to show up. Besides, the alley isn’t blocked off. Nobody said we couldn’t take a little walk. You’re not chicken, are you? Feeling out of pocket? Playing it cool until ‘Better Days’ come along?” Danni threw Wade a curious glance.
“Okay. Alright already. Let’s go.” Wade grabbed Danni’s arm before he could exit the car. “Just be careful.”
Danni nodded and stretched over to the back seat for his shoulder bag. The two marched down the alleyway as the descent of the sun left an auburn sky. To the left was a block-long row of one-car garages. To the right were the fenced-in backyards to the homes on Willowbrook. There were telephone poles lining the alley and garbage cans at the base of each pole. The atmosphere was dim and gloomy. Lights were struggling to flicker on, as their time controls commanded. While approaching the back gate of 422 Willowbrook a sound of cracking and popping ripped through the sky. It was distant, but Wade knew the sound well enough. Heard them at the firing range all the time.
“Those are gunshots, Danni,” Wade issued matter-of-factly.
“If they are, they’re pretty far away.” Danni put his hand on Wade’s shoulder for support. “We’re here. That’s her back door. Four twenty-two Willowbrook. Let’s do this and get out.” Even Danni was concerned.
“How can you tell? There’s no number on the door.”
“The cans, Detective. The garbage cans.” Wade looked down to see 422 on the heavy-duty plastic container. “Lemme find out you bought your badge at an auction and didn’t earn it at the Police Academy,” said Danni.
Wade lifted his eyelids at the joke, but remained alert. Inside the gate and up the short path, Danni and his shadow stepped up to knock at the pane glass in the door. Less than 10 seconds passed before a flowered curtain shifted to the side in the kitchen window. The two men could barely see the woman’s face.
“Who?” She was abrupt and ginger.
“It’s Danni. Here to see Debbie . . .”
‘She’s not in. I’ll tell her you came by.” The woman abruptly shot out an answer before Danni finished his introduction. The two men swallowed as though they’d just been sent on their way. Suddenly, from a window on the second floor, Debbie waved to Danni. She lifted the window.
“Hey! What’s up, Danni?”
“What’s up with you? Are you on punishment or something?”
“No. Why?”
“Aaah . . .” Danni held a question mark on his face. Tossed between Debbie upstairs approving, and her mother downstairs, disapproving. “Your mother says you’re not home. So maybe we’ll come back later.” Danni pivoted as if to leave. Wade played along. They knew that eyes were watching.
“Mom!” Debbie yowled through the house so that her mother and everyone else could hear her. Danni and Wade waited anxiously for the back door to be opened. Some loud, aggressive words were thrown between the younger and older Roses. Wade felt awkward as he listened to the series of locks and latches flip, click and unfasten. The back door sucked in the outside air and Debbie pushed the screen door outward to invite the two inside. “Sorry. Mom even tells the mailman I’m not home.”
“Well, you can never be too safe,” Wade added as he followed Danni into the kitchen where Mrs. Rose could overhear.
“Good evening, ma’am . . .”
“Hello, ma’am.”
“Yes. Hi, gentlemen. I’m Mrs. Rose. Debbie’s mother.” Mrs. Rose spoke authoritatively, as if to put the two men on notice that security was in place for her daughter, in her house.
“Mom.” Debbie appealed with her tone. “Mom, this is Danni. He’s Jackie’s mother’s boyfriend, from Queens. Remember I told you how nice and hospitable he was to me?” Debbie was trying to indicate that some reciprocity was in order. But Mrs. Rose was holding back a growl, not knowing whether to bite or kiss Danni. Was he the reason her Debbie . . . her only remaining child, left the house in the first place? Was he doin’ the nasty with her daughter? Or was he genuinely kind? Not too many men were, according to Mrs. Rose. She’d been through too much to jump to conclusions.
“Yes. Yes. I remember. Hello, Danni. I’m sorry to be so rude. You never can be too safe ya know . . .” She was growing more comfortable now. “. . . and besides, that troubled family is at it again across the street. I swear I’m gonna leave this blessed neighborhood if it’s the last thing I do.”
“This is a friend of mine. Wade.” Everyone completed their greetings and took seats at the dining table cramped in a corner of the kitchen. Mrs. Rose went into the refrigerator and grabbed a pitcher. Then she went into a cabinet for some glasses. Wade looked over to Danni with uneasiness, knowing that what they had to discuss probably shouldn’t include the mother. Danni winked at Wade in understanding.
“So what brings you gentlemen out our way?” Mrs. Rose wasn’t letting down with her investigation. Danni looked at Wade without turning his way. But Wade slammed the serve back into Danni’s side of the net.
“A photographer in New York had taken some photos of Debbie and . . .” Wade jumped in.
“. . . and there seems to be some interest in Debbie doing some paid work, like runway shows of some sort . . .” Danni cut Wade off now, thinking that they shouldn’t imply Debbie leaving Chicago again.
“. . . and we wanted to . . . interview Debbie for possible opportunities . . . uhh . . . the guy would come out here and . . .” Danni was at a loss for words. Debbie read through the code and jumped in before they dug a hole any deeper.
“Mom . . . do you mind if I speak with them alone?”
“Honey, I’d like to know what’s happening . . . is this some modeling thing? I know how this industry abuses—”
“Mom! Please give me some time alone. I’ll fill you in. I’m a big girl.”
“Alright. Alright. I’m going to do some tidying.” Mrs. Rose was apprehensive, but got up from the table and headed for the living room. More shots could be heard in the distance.
“What’s this block caught up in, some kind of stand-off or something?” Wade put the question to Debbie and Danni, as if he was still a resident of the area.
“I guess the dealers are at it again. It’s like every other day we hear gunshots around here. You know that’s how my brother Ray Ray died. A bullet came right through the front window.”
“Wow. Chicago sure hasn’t changed a bit.”
“It’s worse than when you were young, Danni. Sometimes I can’t go outside.”
“Road blocks are set up outside, for God sakes.”
“That’s small time, Mr. Wade. You should be here when the helicopters are buzzin’ over the house. I need to get my mom the hell outta here.”
“Listen, Debbie. Not to cut you off, but Wade is a detective with . . .”
“Let me, Danni. Debbie, please tell us what you know about Moet. We’re not suspecting you of anything. We’re actually here to protect you. We think you could be a target.” Debbie suddenly realized the purpose of this meeting and all of its intensity. She was feeling all bottled up with information anyhow and needed to tell someone.
“You know, I’ve been wanting so much to tell someone about what happened that night. But I didn’t know where to go or who to tell.”
“Slow down, Debbie. What night are you talking about? Tell us what happened.” Wade attempted to comfort her. Debbie seemed to recapture the grief or horror from the experience. It showed in her eyes and on her face. With her elbows on the table and her face in her palms, she continued.
“Moet and I went out with this guy. He booked us for a private party. Said his name was Rick. He was nice at first. Never took off his glasses. Clean-shaven. Black hair and real-real white skin.”
Wade was scribbling furiously into his pad. “He picked us up from Fool’s Paradise—we worked there and . . .”
—Wade interrupted, explaining that she could move beyond the job; he already knew where she worked, etc.—
“Okay, well, we went downtown to the Marriot, in Times Square.” Debbie recounted the event in her mind. Nervously combing ten fingers through her soft, bronze hair. “When we got to the hotel room Moe and I went into the bathroom to get ready. We had these leather outfits, whips. You know . . . fantasy stuff.” Danni tried to act surprised, even though Wade had schooled him about Debbie, her dancing and the erotic escapades with Moet.
“When we came out to start our routine, he like—had a whole ’nother plan. He wanted to play games with handcuffs and stuff. Moet was like, alright. But I was like, naw. So I did the first half of the gig. He still put the cuffs on himself, and we’re like—whatever. We teased him. Danced around a bit. Moet and I started a lil’ girl-on-girl thing. Then he insisted on the handcuffs. I said no again. Moet and I agreed to meet up downstairs in the lobby after the gig. So I left and she stayed with him. Before I went out the door, he grabbed me, askin’ if I was sure I didn’t want to play. His grip was so hard I tried to wiggle away, told him to let me go. Then I slammed the door. I waited and waited in the lobby. Nobody showed up. After an hour I went back up. They were gone. The place was a mess. Not like when I left, but like—wrecked.” Debbie put her face back in her palms. Ashamed and embarrassed, Danni put a comforting arm around Debbie’s shoulder. Brotherly love. But Wade didn’t want her to stop.
“What happened next, Debbie?” Swirling his ballpoint across a notepad.
“I took a cab home. I waited for Moet to call. The whole situation confused me, so I just packed my things and took a flight back home . . . here in Chicago, I mean. I think I called Moet a couple a times before I left.” Debbie’s sigh turned to tears that left moist impressions along her cheeks. Danni pulled Debbie into his collarbone and signaled for Wade to ease up. More popping sounds cracked outside. Then an answer-back crackle. Closer still. At that moment, glass shattered in the front of the house.
“Mom!” Debbie shook her remorse and sorrow instantly. She jumped up, darting to the front of the house. “Mom!!” Mrs. Rose was spread out on the floor of the living room. The giant picture window was broken at the lower left corner, a hole in it the size and shape of a foot-long asterisk. Debbie looked down to see her mom coughing up blood, holding her hand to her bosom where a splatter of dark red resulted from the bullet wound. Danni and Wade were just behind Debbie. Debbie was already on the floor, cuddling her mother’s head and torso in her lap. She wiped her mother’s brow, smoothing a strand of hair aside to her temple. Helplessly and hopelessly, Debbie rained tears over her mother’s trauma-stricken expression, how she stared up to the ceiling for some divine guidance.
The men in the house had already sprung into action. Wade was guarding the extremes with a revolver in one hand; his cell phone in the other as he barked information to a 911 emergency operator. Danni seemed to have gone through a total makeover, putting the final touches in place. Armbands, ankle straps and a Velcro vest were already tight on his limbs and torso. The next five seconds were dramatic, where Danni kneeled to the floor, placing his chess set in front of him. He popped the latches and flipped up the lid as if it was a laptop computer. On the side of the case an additional latch was actually a switch that when twisted and pulled, released the interior locks that held the panels in place. Suddenly the hidden arsenal was exposed. Danni picked up just about every blade on display and slipped them in their proper pockets around his body. Even Wade’s attention was lured by a reflection from a piece of steel. He turned his head towards Danni and jolted, thinking that he’d seen a ghost.
“Now just what are you gonna do with all that?” Wade asked. “You don’t even know where the bullet came from . . . take a look out there . . .” Wade neared the broken window, cautiously standing to the side. “Police are shooting at dealers. Dealers are shooting at the police. It’s like New Jack City meets the Hatfields and the McCoys out there!” Wade was bold and erratic, though logical. Danni was left no choice but to think about his intentions.
“If you wanna do something, you’ll help me get Mrs. Rose out of the back door to the car. She needs a doctor, quick.” Danni deflated some, although still not 100% convinced.
“Come on—use your head, deputy! That’s the cliff and the canyon out there! You go out the door, you might as well be jumping over the edge. I don’t care if you know Billy Jack, Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan! Unless you’re Superman and bullet-proof, you can not go out there! What are you gonna do, collect all the guns, tell everyone to pipe down and ask them all ‘Who shot Mrs. Rose?’ It’s not logical. Use your head, buddy.”
While the New Yorkers bickered, Debbie was moaning and sniffing. Rocking back and forth with her mother in her arms, soaking in a growing puddle of blood. Mrs. Rose was motionless, with eyes open in shock and tears. Danni and Wade finally reached to help move Debbie’s mom. Not a minute had passed since they raced into the living room.
“Don’t! Don’t you touch her!!” Debbie held her mother tighter, demanding that they stay away. They tried to persuade her. Wade called 911 again, wondering how far away they were. Debbie brought her attention back to her mother—dying in her arms. “Mama? Can you hear me?” Debbie held her mother’s hand, ignoring the bullethole and blood. Tears pouring still. Mrs. Rose lay still, more or less lifeless. But Debbie could feel some pressure on her palm. Moms was holding on with whatever strength she had left. Debbie anticipated her own words. “Mom. I don’t . . . I don’t want you to try to speak or answer my words. Just please listen. I know you can hear me. Mom, you’ve had a wonderful life. You’ve given us the best you could . . . your service was to anyone in need and you’ve successfully raised two loving children. Ray Ray has gone. But he lived while he was here. Life has been good to us.” Debbie continuously choked on her words.
“Mom . . . if . . . if it hurts too much . . . if you can’t take it, please . . . let go. Ray Ray needs you, Mom. I’ll be fine. Let go, Mom . . .”
Wade and Danni looked at one another with disbelief. What was she saying???
“Don’t hurt anymore, Momma.” Debbie sobbed audibly, hurt by her own words. It seemed like hours had passed, but they were just minutes. Precious minutes. Debbie continued rocking with her mom, her lips pressed against her mom’s temple in a long goodbye kiss. Eventually an hour had passed. Danni and Wade sat helpless on the floor for support. The ambulance didn’t matter anymore. Maybe Debbie was onto something, since Mrs. Rose had long passed away.