Stand Your Ground: A Novel (17 page)

“Two-bit hotels don’t have suites,” Newt said. “And you’re not on vacation. But like I said, you might not have to be hiding out much longer.”

“Well, either we go home in a day or two or you need to upgrade us to the type of place my wife has become accustomed to.”

The two of them glanced at me, then laughed as if I was the butt of their joke. Again I smiled, said nothing.

The banging on the door took all smiles away, and we were silent as Newt placed his hand on his waist. Even though his jacket covered him, I knew he’d reached for his gun, holstered to his waist. Without even thinking about it, I stood and moved to the door that led to the bedroom where my son slept.

Newt glanced through the peephole, then he inched the door open. But his hand was still on his gun until Wally walked in alone.

We released a collective breath, and just like he’d done to Wyatt minutes before, Newt grabbed Wyatt’s brother into a hug. “You did it, dude.”

“Yeah?” Wally asked.

“Yeah.” Wyatt responded this time. “Thanks for handling that.”

“It was fun,” Wally said with a whole-face grin. “All those people waiting to hear what I had to say.”

“How do you think they received it?” Newt asked. “You think they believed you?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t they? I was telling the truth.”

“Well, except for the busted-nose part,” Wyatt said as he touched his nose.

They all laughed as if the lie was funny.

Newt ran his hands through his white hair that was as much a function of his DNA as his age. I’d only met Newt eight years ago, right before Wyatt and I were married. But even in their high school pictures, Newt’s hair was already turning some shade of silver.

“One thing everyone in this room needs to know is that the truth has little to do with anything. It’s all about strategy if we want to keep you”—Newt pointed to Wyatt—“from having a mug shot on record.”

Wyatt and Wally nodded as they sat on the sofa and I returned to the chair.

“So, what now?” Wyatt asked. “Maybe I should make a statement.”

“No!” Newt exclaimed, practically cutting him off. “I already told you, not only will you remain silent, but you’re going to pretend you’re Casper the Friendly Ghost.”

“But I was just thinking, maybe if the world saw me and my beautiful wife”—they all turned to look at me once again—“maybe that would help. That would show everyone that I’m not a killer.”

But you are! I said inside. And my stomach rumbled.

“What happened,” my husband continued, “was that thug’s fault.”

“You’re
not going to make a statement. There’s—” Newt’s words were interrupted when Wally picked up the remote and turned the television’s volume back on.

“All I can tell you is that Marquis did nothing wrong,” a black man was saying. “The police know this, so now it’s time to do what’s right. Wyatt Spencer must be arrested and brought to trial just like any American who takes the life of another for no reason.”

“I had a reason,” my husband shouted, though none of us gave our attention to him.

Cheers erupted from the crowd, and I moved to the edge of my seat.

To this point, all I’d seen on television were pictures of the Brown Guardians, a herd of angry black men who took away my breath even though we were dozens of miles away from our home.

Over the years, I’d heard little things about that group. They always talked about justice, but many in our circle called them homegrown terrorists who kidnapped and murdered, and who terrified me.

But this man who spoke, he couldn’t have been part of them . . . I could hear his heart in his tone.

“Marquis Johnson was our son.”

I pressed my hand across my chest. Marquis’s father! Then my eyes moved to the woman standing beside him. Was that Marquis’s mother?

“Marquis was on his way to college . . .”

“Turn that off!” Wyatt shouted at Wally, although he didn’t give his brother a chance to make a move. He grabbed the remote, turned the screen black, then threw the remote, which crashed into the wall. “That man is lying!”

Newt’s eyes followed the now cracked remote, then he turned
back to his friend. “Well,” he began, his voice was just as calm as it was before, “we don’t know that any of that is a lie. All that man said was that his son was on his way to college.”

“I’m telling you,” Wyatt said, pointing his finger at Newt, “the boy who came at me Monday night was not a college kid. He was a thug, I’m telling you.”

“Okay. All right. Calm down. I agree with you,” Newt said as if he were a therapist reeling in an off-balance patient. “I know why you shot that boy. All I’m saying is that he
might
have been on his way to college. Some technical school that his father is calling a college or maybe some barber college. You know they’ll make up anything to make their son look good.

“But whatever it is, and whatever he says, we have to ride it out until the police confirm your story, and then you’ll be able to get back to your life. And the way everything looks, that’s going to be soon.”

Wyatt sat back and took a deep breath. “I want all of this to be over.”

“Well, it’s only been a week, and frankly, it’s been a good week for you. Like I said, you may be able to go home in a couple of days. We just want to make sure it’s safe for you, Meredith, and Billy.”

He nodded just as Newt’s cell barked again and I rose, taking the moment to escape into the bedroom. Neither Wyatt nor his brother noticed that I had moved, and just as I put my hand on the doorknob, Newt clicked off his phone and let out a long whistle.

I paused as my husband said, “What?”

“That was Detective Ferguson.”

Wyatt lifted his eyes to the ceiling. “What does that nigger cop want?”

I wanted to throw up.

Newt jabbed a finger at Wyatt. “Dude, that is one thing you’re not gonna do. You’re not gonna use that word.”

“What?” Wyatt looked around as if he were innocent. “There’s no one here but us.”

“I don’t care,” Newt snapped. “You never know who’s listening or where a tape recorder is hidden and I don’t want you to get so used to saying that word that it slips out at an inopportune time.” He paused. “Do you hear me?” When my husband didn’t budge, Newt said, “Do you hear what I’m saying, Wyatt!” It wasn’t a question; it was a demand.

Even though my husband looked like he wanted to punch Newt in his eye, he said, “I hear you!”

“Good. Make sure you really hear me.” Newt straightened his jacket. “Now, what
Detective Ferguson
wants is to speak with you one last time.”

“How many times are they going to question me?”

“This is standard operating procedure. They take several statements just to see if you’re consistent. There’s nothing to worry about; in fact, from his tone, I’d say that this is Ferguson’s final act.”

“The last time?” Wyatt asked.

“I think so, but it doesn’t matter. As long as your story stays straight, it won’t matter how many times he talks to you.”

“My story is straight,” Wyatt said. “Because it’s the truth.”

Then my husband glanced at me. A long look, a knowing look. And I broke away, almost running through the bedroom door. If I could have locked it, I would have. Not that a lock could bolt the thoughts out of my mind.

Closing my eyes, I leaned against the door for a moment just to steady myself.

But then, that image once again flashed through my mind. Of Monday, May 12.

And an intestinal volcano rumbled inside of me. By the time I felt the gurgles in my throat, I was in the bathroom, seat up, head down.

I wanted to throw up. I needed to throw up. And that’s just what I did.

I
felt the leg on my shoulder and then the giggle in my ear. Still, when I opened my eyes, it took a few moments for my mind to remember: this was not my bed, not my bedroom. We weren’t in Haverford. We were in Springfield at a three-star hotel, hiding out because of what my husband had done.

I rolled over and looked into the green eyes of the only one who could still make me smile.

“Morning, Mommy.”

“Good morning, sweetheart.” I pulled my son into my arms. “How’s Mommy’s baby?”

Billy giggled. “I’m not a baby.”

“Yes, you are,” I said, and tickled him, sending him into a frenzy of giggles.

He rolled around the bed, laughing loudly, and that was when I had my first real thought of my husband: Where was Wyatt? I could count the number of times in our seven years of marriage when Wyatt had opened his eyes before me.

Swinging my legs over the side, I grabbed my bathrobe and asked, “Are you hungry?”

“Uh-huh.” Billy nodded. “I want cereal. Cap’n Crunch.”

I cringed, but nodded at the same time. I was not a fan of all the sugary cereals that had been staples of my childhood diet, but over the last three days, I’d given Billy whatever he’d wanted—my attempt to assuage the guilt I felt from uprooting my son so suddenly and completely from his life.

I hoisted Billy onto my hip, swung the bedroom’s double door open, but I didn’t take another step.

All three men looked up—Wyatt and his brother from the sofa, and Newt from the chair.

“Oh!” I clutched the collar of my bathrobe, covering up what little of my chest showed. “I didn’t know . . . I thought we were alone.” My glance moved between my brother-in-law and our attorney.

Wyatt wore a frown as he looked me up and down. Still, his tone was candy-coated when he said, “Sweetheart, you’re not dressed.”

Didn’t he hear what I’d just said?

“I was going to get Billy some breakfast first, and then—”

He jumped from the couch. “I’ll take Billy.” Our son crawled from me into his father’s arms. Wyatt leaned over and kissed my cheek. “You get dressed. That cop will be here soon and we decided that you should be there this time.”

“Me?”

Wyatt raised an eyebrow. “You.” Then he turned to our attorney. “Newt thinks Ferguson needs to see me with you, see me as a family man so all of this nonsense can stop.” He paused. This time it felt as if Wyatt was looking through me. “So you need to get ready.” He spoke slowly as if he wanted to make sure I understood his words. “Ferguson will be here at nine thirty, so get ready.” He stopped. “And get dressed.”

I nodded and turned back to the bedroom, closing the door behind me. It was 7:48, according to the digital clock on the
nightstand; I had more than an hour to get dressed, but I’d need a lifetime of hours to get ready. Was the policeman going to ask me questions? What was I supposed to say if he asked me what I knew.

I squeezed my eyes shut and remembered what I wished I could forget.

Just as I adjusted the blanket over Billy, a sudden pop cracked through the silence of the late night and made me pause. I listened to see if I’d hear it again.

Nothing.

So I let the sound slip from my mind, kissed my son’s cheek, and tiptoed out of his room . . .

That night, I had no idea that the sound I heard was a gunshot. That night, I had no idea that the sound I heard would change my life.

And now, I had to talk to this detective. Of course, I didn’t want to, but what excuse could I give to explain why I didn’t want to stand by my husband’s side?

There was nothing I could say, so I rushed to the closet, where my clothes were crushed in a space smaller than one corner of my closet at home.

I knew I needed to be understated, not only because this was serious, but because I didn’t want the policeman to see me at all. Because maybe if he didn’t notice me, maybe he wouldn’t ask questions that I didn’t want to answer.

I grabbed my navy sheath just as the bedroom door opened. Glancing over my dress, I said, “I’m just picking out what I’m going to wear.”

Wyatt walked toward me and planted another kiss on my cheek. “Good morning again, sweetheart.” Then, stepping back, he said, “Did you pack your green dress?”

I frowned. I had a closet the size of this suite filled with a wardrobe that had come from seven years of having an unlimited budget.

Wyatt answered my unasked question. “The emerald-green V-neck I bought for your birthday.”

Now my frown was so deep I felt my eyebrows touching. “No. Why? Are we going out somewhere?”

“That’s what I want you to wear this morning.”

“Wyatt, that dress is evening wear.”

“We’re having that meeting with Ferguson,” he said, as if stating a fact that I already knew was a good enough explanation.

“Well, I don’t have it here.” And I was so glad that I didn’t.

“No problem. I’ll have Newt send someone to pick it up for you.”

“Wyatt!” I hoped that the way I said his name would remind him of what I looked like in that dress, which he’d bought more for his delight than mine. It really wasn’t something that I needed to wear outside of our bedroom.

Like he said, he’d given it to me for my birthday, but then he asked me to wear it two nights later when we went to a neighbor’s New Year’s Eve party. I’d felt so uncomfortable in the neckline that almost cut to my waist and the hemline that left no room for error.

“So, it’s in your closet, right?”

I shook my head. Maybe I needed to say this another way. “That’s not business attire.”

“And who said this was business? This is all about having the upper hand. And you, my dear, are the weapon that gives me a million upper hands.” He kissed me before he moved toward the door. “You can take your time bathing. By the time you get out, your dress will be here.”

I was still holding on to the navy sheath as Wyatt walked out of the room.

There were so many ways to say no, but Wyatt never heard me. He never listened to any of my protests about anything, including when it came to what he wanted me to wear.

Sometimes it was hard for me to believe that this was the man that I’d met eleven years ago.
That
man hated the exploitation of women; at least, that’s what he led me to believe.

I tugged at the pink shorts the way I’d done every day for the past week. But the fabric didn’t come down. The barely-there shorts were still barely there, but at least they covered up more than the cropped top. The top was already a size too small, leaving no need for imagination. My 36DDs were on display. And that was before I put on the two bras that management insisted we wear to hike up the cleavage. My cleavage didn’t need a bit of hiking, but I needed this job.