Darius Jones (18 page)

S
he wasn't a Siamese cat descended from the sacred temple of Siam. She didn't have nine lives. The bitch was lucky. Landed on her feet, back to back. The good thing about luck was, at some point it had to end.

Security tried outsmarting me. Blocked the stairway exit on the first floor. Out of shape amateurs. I'd gone to the opposite end of the hall, darted into a vacant room, crawled out the window onto the fire escape, and trotted to the second floor. I jumped from the second floor onto the top of a SUV, slid down the windshield onto the hood, then to the ground. I hurried to my car, then cruised past the Beverly Center. I'd have to find another way to terminate Fancy.

Hated my parents' house but I was happy to get to the place I legally called home. I opened the door. Every light in the kitchen, living room, and family room was on. Rita was in the family room watching a movie. The boys were in their playpen beside the love seat.

She sat up. “You a nurse too, Bambi?” Rita asked. “Your clothes, they all dirty. Oh, you must've had one of them fantasy jobs. You into mud wrestling? Anyways, I'm sho glad to see you. What we gon' do with my grandbabies? Where's my money?”

Not answering any of her questions, I went to my parents' old bedroom, opened the dresser drawer, counted twenty grand, went back to the living room. “Here's your money. You can leave in the morning.” Rita opened the envelope. Counted every C-note.

One more night and I was done with Rita. If she left tonight, the twins might not make it through the night, especially if that crying one aggravated the hell out of me.

“You overpaid me,” Rita said, handing me a stack of hundreds.

“No, I didn't. This is your last assignment. Plus, you can't talk to Honey about anything that you've done or you're going to jail. Not one word.” That was true. Her daughter could press charges for the kidnapping and Fancy could press charges for the hit and run.

“Jail? I thought you said we were babysitting. That's not a crime.”

“But what you did to Fancy and Darius is. Pack your things and everything for the twins and set it by the garage door. Good night.”

I walked down the long hallway to my room, opened the door, then locked it from the inside. I turned off all the lights, sat in my old wooden rocking chair. The same purple cushion from when I was a child was tied to the back posts. I stared out the window. The ocean view was beautiful during the day. The waves I heard weren't visible in the dark.

The memories weren't pleasant. My childhood scars were permanent lacerations. I wasn't molested. Molestation would've been a welcomed tragedy. My parents had me when they were in their midforties. My mom was a successful lawyer but after she had me she became a stay-at-home wife. My father wasn't as successful as my mom but he refused to be a househusband.

“Bambi, I wish you were never born,” my mother would say. “You've ruined my figure, my career, my life. Look at me. I'm fat because of you.” I heard that almost every day as a child. It wasn't my fault she got toxemia when she was pregnant with me. She went from a size two to a size twenty-two in nine months.

My father would say to me, “You're fat just like your mother. No man wants either of you. Your mother is right. We shouldn't have had you. You ruined our lives.”

As a kid, my mom fed me all day. The more my parents told me, “I hate you,” the more I hated them. I didn't like but understood the kids at school calling me fat and not playing with me. But my parents were supposed to love me no matter what. Darius was the only one who never teased me. Since I was six years old, I'd given all the love I had to him. Darius was the only reason I didn't want to die.

One day I'd seen an episode on television where this male nurse was killing elderly patients with an overdose of potassium chloride. I'd heard about how mixing finely crushed glass in a person's food daily could cause unstoppable internal bleeding. I'd researched assisted suicide, death with dignity, and aid with dying. In the United States it was legal in Oregon, Washington, and Montana but not in California. Suicide in California was illegal but whom would the law hold accountable?

Potassium chloride was perfect. It was odorless and colorless. My parents were aging but growing old didn't make them compassionate. I'd become their caretaker. At sixty-two years of age they still degraded me daily. Over the years I'd become immune to their decades of emotional abuse.

One day I snapped. I'd decided it was time for them to go. That night I added a lethal dose of liquid potassium to their nighttime beverage. I watched them drink their last drink, packed up all the evidence, and left this house. That was the last time I saw my parents alive.

I couldn't sleep. I rocked in the chair until sunrise came at 5:20
A.M
. I showered, glued on my long chestnut lace wig. Thanks to Fancy, for the first time, it hurt me to put on my wig. I attached my brown lashes and put on a black sweat suit. Rita had fallen asleep on the love seat. The boys were asleep in the playpen.

“Rita, wake up. It's time to go.”

“Bambi, what time is it?” she asked, pulling the comforter over her shoulders.

I snatched the cover. “Let's go, now!”

Her eyes widened. She hurried to the bathroom, returned to the family room, changed the boys' diapers, wiped them clean all over, then changed their clothes. “Let's go,” she said.

“Help me put the boys in my car and you can go home or wherever you'd like but don't tell anyone you've been here and don't ever come back here.”

I drove off with the twins in their car seats. They were in the back. Fortunately neither of them were crying. In transit, I retrieved my iPhone from my purse, called Jada.

“Hey, Bambi. You okay? It's seven in the morning.”

Like I didn't know what time it was. “I'm good. Calling to see if you can meet me for breakfast. I need a favor.”

“Of course. I owe you. I cannot thank you enough for bailing me out. I'll have a reimbursement check for you for the full amount. Where would you like me to meet you?”

“Roscoe's Chicken 'n Waffles on Manchester at eight-thirty. Is that good?”

“I'll be there. Bye.”

I made my way through the LA traffic. Where were all these people going this early? I arrived at Jada's house at eight-fifteen. Unlocking the car doors, I left the twins in their car seats. The playpen and all the boys' food and clothes I'd bought were in the trunk. I'd dump that stuff later.

I prayed Jada didn't end up back behind bars but that wasn't my concern. Just in case one of my good deeds backfired, I'd done two. Now I was on my way to Roscoe's to have breakfast with my new mother-in-law.

H
adn't been to D.C. since our last game. I sat in the corner at Wilson's, a hole-in-the-wall spot on V Street Northwest, famous for its country-style breakfast. My court appearance was in an hour. I was less than ten minutes from Moultrie Courthouse at 500 Indiana Avenue Northwest. Didn't want to arrive one minute early. Didn't want to go anywhere upscale to eat. Wasn't hungry. Stomach was in knots. Head throbbing. Had to keep things in motion, which was why I'd left my hotel. I wanted to walk into court, give my spill, let the judge do his or her thing, and keep it moving.

Hopefully Ashlee would bring DJ to court. That way if she was awarded custody, I could hug and kiss my lil' man good-bye. I had two one-way tickets to Los Angeles. Someone had to keep DJ. Didn't trust Mom to do the right thing with my son. I had to see my wife, ask her to keep DJ, then get back on a plane to catch up with my team in Miami.

“I'd like to have a large orange juice,” I told the waitress.

“The restaurant is starting to fill up. Don't know how long I can avoid seating folks over here.”

I handed her a fifty. “I'll be outta here in fifteen minutes.”

“You got it,” she said, stuffing the money in her front pocket.

Quarter to nine. Time to face the music. A patron mumbled as I exited the restaurant. “Is that Darius Jones? What's he doing here?”

“About to lose the shirt off his back,” were the last words I heard as the door closed.

Never that,
I thought, getting in the back of the Town Car. With five minutes to spare, I entered the courtroom. Ashlee was seated alone up front. “Fuck you, Darius,” resounded in my ears as the judge called my name. All eyes were on me.

“Here,” I said. I hadn't bothered hiring a D.C. attorney who knew nothing about me except what he may have heard in the media. I could handle this.

Ashlee looked fucking fantastic and quite fuckable. Her hair was slicked back into a neat ponytail that highlighted her facial features. Makeup neutral with cotton candy lips. Her blue and black dress was tailored to her breasts, flat stomach, and bangin' booty. The dark stockings worked the outfit.

After roll call, the judge announced the court protocol, then said, “Case of Anderson versus Jones.”

I was relieved we were first. I stood on the left side of the courtroom. Ashlee and her attorney were to the right.

“Mr. Baldwin, I'll hear from you first,” the judge said to Ashlee's attorney.

He squared his shoulders. “Your Honor, my client is petitioning for full legal and physical custody on the basis of Mr. Jones's inability to provide a safe and stable environment for Darius Henry Jones Junior.”

Adamantly, I said, “I object.”

“You'll have your chance to speak, Mr. Jones. Mr. Baldwin, please explain.”

“I'm sure you've seen the paper. I have a copy here in case you haven't. Mr. Jones was caught on Hollywood Boulevard soliciting sex. He's a big—”

The judge interrupted. “I know who he is. Are there any pending charges?”

Mr. Baldwin cleared his throat. “No, but.”

I was glad she'd asked that question before I'd have to sue him for defamation of character. No one had proof of my having been with a prostitute yet they all wanted to label me.

“Any other reasons why Mr. Jones shouldn't have shared custody?”

“Yes, your honor. His wife was in an automobile accident. She was in a coma.”

The judge interrupted. “Was or is?”

“I'm not sure,” the attorney answered.

“Mr. Jones?”

“My wife is no longer in a coma. We're scheduled for release from the hospital any day now. Our doctor is keeping her for observation.” Selectively I chose words like “my wife,” “we,” and “our,” hoping the judge would be lenient.

“Anything else, Mr. Baldwin?”

“That's all for now.”

“Mr. Jones, you don't have representation?”

“No, Your Honor, I don't.” This case should be decided in my favor once I explained my position.

“I can order a continuance to allow you to secure representation.”

“Your Honor. There's a custody order in Dallas giving me and my wife full legal and physical custody because”—I hated saying this but had to—“my son's mother is mentally unstable. She left our son in her car alone to stalk me at my house in LA. And after we broke up, she entered my house with the extra set of keys she had made and replaced my wife's aspirin with abortion pills. Then she harassed my wife to the point where my wife ended up taking what she thought was aspirin.”

“Where do you live, Mr. Jones?”

What the hell? All the testimony I'd given her and she wants to know where I live? “I moved to Atlanta.”

“Where did you live when the custody order was issued?” the judge asked.

Was that a trick question? Best to answer truthfully. Didn't want to get locked up for perjury. “I was in Los Angeles at the time, Your Honor, but then I was drafted.”

She interrupted. “Based on your residence, jurisdiction must be reestablished. Based on Ms. Anderson's filing, this court will make the final ruling. Would you like a continuance? I can grant temporary shared custody. I'll order legal custody remains with you until I make a final decision.”

That seemed reasonable. By the time I'd have to return, Fancy would be with me. I opened my mouth to agree to come back when Ashlee cut me off.

“Your Honor, I don't want my son around him, his wife, or his mother. The press is following him everywhere. The majority of the people in here are media.”

The judge said, “Everyone with the press stand up.”

I glanced over my shoulder. Three fourths of the room stood.

“Get out of my courtroom now,” the judge ordered.

Ashlee continued. “This is what my son will be subjected to when he's with his father. Plus, yesterday someone attempted to kill his wife while she was at the hospital.”

The judge looked at me. “Is this true, Mr. Jones?”

I nodded.

Ashlee was on a roll. “And to top it off, his mother has trespassing and kidnapping charges against her right now. I don't want any of them near my son.”

“Mr. Jones?” the judge said.

I nodded again.

“The court will make its final ruling today. Full physical and legal custody is granted to the mother with supervised visitation to the father every other weekend and alternating holidays. The court will take a fifteen-minute recess.”

I
needed a break from all the madness. For the first time in months, I was anxious to get back to Flagstaff. First, I had to find out where Bambi was taking my grandbabies.

Trailing her to a big ole house, I kept driving when she pulled in the driveway. I wondered why Bambi went there. I parked three cars back on the side street. Being I'd just turned off a one-way street, eventually Bambi would have to come this way.

Before my engine was cool, there she was driving by. I took my chances driving a half block in the wrong direction back to the house. I started to leave my car at the gate and walk but my old legs wouldn't carry me fast enough if a loose dog got behind me.

I drove close as I could. Couldn't believe my eyes. No way in heaven. I got out my car, tiptoed to the front door. Sho nuff she'd left my grandbabies. I started to call the police but remembered what Bambi had told me. I couldn't leave them there. They so tiny and all, a raccoon might eat 'em alive. I had no clue who lived in this fancy house. My daughter lived in Atlanta.

Maybe there was a reward for the person who'd give information leading to finding the babies. “Nah, I couldn't do that. That wouldn't be right, Rita. I know. That's why I'm not going to call no police.”

I picked up one car seat. Put it in my car. Went back for the other one.

“Stop, put your hands up! Don't move!”

Suddenly, I had to pee again. My hearing must be failing me 'cause I didn't hear none of them police cars drive up. One, two, three, four, I lost count. “I'm innocent,” I said, straightening my wig.

The officer said, “You're under arrest for kidnapping. Put your hands behind your back. You have the right to remain silent…”

I folded my arms underneath my breasts. I wasn't letting him put them things on my wrists. “Do I have the right to pee?” I asked him. Before he answered, we were standing in a puddle of my urine.

Two other officers picked up the babies in their car seats. Then they put the car seats in the back of one of them police cars.

“Lord, they can't even crawl and already going to jail.” Bambi would kill me when she found out I sang like a canary. Oh, yeah. Rita St. Thomas could blow louder than one of them train whistles. My daughter would chew me up, spit me out, then shoot me. I had to do something 'cause I wasn't going with them policemen.

When the officer touched my arm, I fell in my puddle of pee and lay there like a possum.