Exit Strategy (26 page)

I should’ve known Mr. He-who-thinks-of-everything had dotted all his I’s and crossed all his T’s. Here he was, spending several thousand more dollars on security for my mother and her husband-to-be.

“Tristan, you’re already spending a fortune on security for your immediate family and me.”

“Which I consider money well-spent,” he says, and positions himself over me.

“You can’t do this indefinitely.”

“Well, there might not need to be quite as big a fleet of security if the result of McCaskill’s trial next month is as we hope. He’ll be one suspect out of the picture. If he’s the culprit, the threat should go away, and if he’s not, we’ll find out who is. So, the wedding’s been postponed?”

“Yeah. I hate that. I thought they’d be married and on their honeymoon during the trial. I really don’t want anybody to take any time off to come to go to that sideshow.”

I had other reasons I didn’t want Tristan, Jada, or Mama around. Prosecutor Lance Todd met with me and Karen Southerland, the criminal attorney Tristan hired to coach us through some scenarios that would allow us to tell the truth while on the stand without giving away anything about our kinky lifestyle, to discuss strategy.

In discovery, the defense was planning to use some pictures Byron took of me while we were a couple and pretty much paint me as some woman of ill repute who could’ve been drugged by anyone in the club that night. Then there was the matter of my true history with Byron. It wasn’t as drama free as I’ve led my friends and family to believe.

“I have to testify, so I’ll have to be there at least one day,” Tristan says, his nose nudging my neck, breathing deeply of my skin.

“But only for your testimony, okay?. I don’t want you to have to be around when Byron and his lawyer dredge up all the skeletons they can find in my closet.”

Tristan kisses a trail down my neck. “That part might be interesting.”

“Not in the least,” I say with a moan.

“I can take it off your mind, if you like.”

“I like,” I say in a sexy drawl, as his mouth descends on mine.

~*~

When I enter the studio on what is to be my last day at work for a week due to the upcoming trial, Carmelo is in the booth playing. I join him, and his guitar seduces my ears with the mellowest tune, I’ve heard in a while. He stops playing when he comes out of his zone and notices me.

“What is that?” I ask.

“Just a little something I’ve been playing around with a couple of weeks.”

“Interested in doing something with it for KSR? Full royalty share?”

“Not for KSR, but I’d consider doing something with it for you. It’s a duet.”

“I’m trying to promote clients, not me.”

“And that’s a damn shame, because you have the whole package, but you’re pushing lesser talent than your own.”

“I don’t particularly want to be in the spotlight, Carmelo.”

“Why?”

“Because I saw what the business did to my parents. Besides, I like participating from behind the scenes way better.”

“It doesn’t mean you can’t put out a single every now and again. Your success will only serve to show your clients that you’ve got what it takes to promote them.”

“Okay, come on over here. I’ll pick it out on the piano, see if I can’t soften some of these crazy riffs you got going on in this piece.”

Carmelo laughs. “You don’t wanna mess with the riffs, babygirl.”

“Yeah, I do if you ever want me to tackle singing it.”

“You’ve got a point.” Carmelo follows me to the baby grand.

I slide onto the piano bench and grab a blank sheet of staff paper so I can write out Carmelo’s music. In about an hour, I have the guitar and piano down and I’m working on music for the other instruments.

The rest of the orchestra trickles in as we finish up the percussions, and Carmelo rushes to make copies while I finish the lyrics. I’m not going to lie—Tristan was first and foremost on my mind as I drafted the lines.

“Okay, listen up everybody,” I say to our musicians. “We’ve got a new song to learn today, and with any luck, you’ll get Carmelo’s and my vision on this and we’ll be laying a track before we go home tonight.”

The duet Carmelo and I sing together is nothing short of perfection. We are singing our hearts out, really blowing out the ending of the song, when I see Tristan’s face in the window of the recording booth. Once we wrap, Carmelo and I exit the booth. I walk into Tristan’s waiting arms while Carmelo kicks his head up in a “what’s up?” gesture and keeps walking.

“Hey, baby,” I say to Tristan, mostly for Carmelo’s benefit, but secretly glad to be able to use these little endearments out in public.

“Hey yourself,” Tristan says and executes a perfect peck on my lips, then calls out to Carmelo. “Mr. Rojas, hold up a minute.”

“Tristan,” I say in warning, but my brow is crinkled by so much
what the fuck
?”

I look from him to Carmelo, whose confusion mirrors mine, but Tristan is as cool as you please.

“I just want to talk to him a minute. That’s all.” Tristan’s face is a mask of earnestness, and I hope it mirrors his intentions.

“Okay, I’ll just go back into the booth and do some editing.” I pull away from him, and back toward the soundproof room. “Be nice.”

Tristan grins. “Aren’t I always?”

When I’m back inside the booth, I can’t hear anything, but I can see Tristan and Carmelo as they take a seat in a couple of the folding chairs the orchestra uses when they’re in the studio. They launch into a serious conversation judging by their body language and the sincerity they each project.

They talk far longer than I expect, and I know a couple of times they mention my name, because I’m passable at reading lips from years behind the glass of a sound booth, but I’m trying not to be blatantly nosy and stare at their mouths. I should be able to finish editing the song while they’re talking, it’s taking so long, but I am too preoccupied by the fact that they are interacting cordially to get any serious work done.

Only when Jada pops in do they stop long enough just to speak to her then launch back into their conversation. She makes a beeline to the booth when she spots me, then slips in the door, and takes a seat next to me at the sound board.

“Since when did those two become BFFs?”

“Um, just now, I guess.”

“Any idea what they’re talking about?”

“None.”

“Oh well, you’ll find out soon enough if Tristan brings Carmelo into the Grotto to make a Keisha sandwich.”

“Oh, hell no!”

Jada laughs. “I’m just kidding. If he were going to do that, he’d for sure talk to you first.”

“Tristan knows I don’t do ménages, and neither does he. Why do I even let you bait me like that?”

“You’re just too easy to fuck with.”

“So, what’s up?”

“I just wanted you to know, Jorge is prepared to manage both locations while we’re at the trial next week or so.”

“Seriously Jada, this shouldn’t be that big of a deal. The criminal lawyer Tristan hired to get us ready for our testimony thinks it’ll probably be three days. A week tops. So, you really don’t have to come.”

“What do you mean, I don’t have to come? You wouldn’t let me go off to something that’s going to play out almost like a rape trial to be slut-shamed alone.”

“You’re right, I wouldn’t let you go off to be slut-shamed without my support, but this is—thank goodness—not a rape trial. We have the toxicology report and the video in our favor.”

“Yeah, but Byron has Juanita ‘Snake Eyes’ Wise, as his lawyer. That sister doesn’t play. They don’t call her that because
she
loses. She generally has the other guy rolling snake eyes.”

“Be that as it may, I don’t want to pull everyone I love into a courtroom for what will likely be an open and shut case. Karen will be with me and Tristan when he has to testify. So, I’m good.”

Jada squints at me with disbelief. “You sure?”

“Yes.” I smile to punctuate just how sure I am, but I’m not quite sure it translates well enough to make Jada believe my bullshit.

~*~

The Cook County Criminal Courts at twenty-sixth and California is a place I never expected to see up close and personal. Yet, here I sit in a courtroom that resembles an episode of
Law and Order
. The only thing missing is the weird, percussive “chung-chung” sound that heralds each scene during an episode. I read somewhere once that it was supposed to be reminiscent of a jurist’s gavel and a jail-cell door slamming mixed together.

My Triple-G manifests perfectly what I feel; she’s sitting in a corner shaking like a proverbial leaf, biting her already short fairy fingernails to the quick. Fairy Hoochie Mama is dressed in a blue lawyerly suit, pacing a little parquet floor yelling lawyerly terms like “objection!” “you’re out of order!” and “you’re all out of order!” I know she’s just carrying on to keep me from losing it, but I find no mirth in her antics today.

I’m pissed that my foolish pride made me decline offers from Mama and Pastor Johnson, Tristan, and Jada to come to court with me. However, Tristan did insist that I needed representation, which he eagerly provided, despite the fact I am not the one on trial.

What the fuck was I thinking?

I should’ve at least gotten my BFF to come with. Courtrooms didn’t give one on either side the warm fuzzies. I’m sure Byron is sweating bullets as the defendant, but here I am—the victim—sweating my own cache of ammunition.

Karen Southerland, the lawyer Tristan says he would hire were he ever up for criminal prosecution, sits next to me. Her nose is in her laptop, while I’m reading through the possible questions we went over together last night. I am hopeful that I present a calm outward demeanor to her at least, but the rattling of the paper gives me away. Without looking up from her laptop where she’s going over some finer points of case law, she gently pushes my hands down to my lap.

“Don’t let the defense see that you’re nervous. They
will
go for the jugular.”

“Why is it again they treat the victim like they’re a criminal in these types of cases?”

“They have the burden of persuasion, or the quantum of proof by which they must refute a disputed factual issue. The prosecution must prove the defendant’s guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. The defense will do everything they can to create reasonable doubt. This includes discrediting you.”

Damn! How naïve was I to go through with this trial? I know I’m doing the right thing, but I thought it would be different given the video evidence against Byron. I am ready to bolt from the courtroom, but Karen seems to guess my intent and takes my hand.

“I won’t let them badger you, Keisha. The prosecution will work with me to protect you. I need to earn the astronomical retainer your
boyfriend
is paying me.” She says the word boyfriend as if tastes bad.

There’s something about Karen Southerland I can’t put my finger on at the moment. The tiny brunette is quite capable, even though I dwarf her in stature. From the utilitarian haircut that is decidedly feminine, to the unapologetic curves on her small frame, the whole package screams female, but there’s an edge that bubbles to the surface in the way she interacts with people. She’s sort of like Jada when she’s rocking her Domme nature. That’s it! I’d bet my left breast and a month in Tristan’s Grotto, Karen is in the lifestyle.

Before I can respond, the doors open to the right of the bench and Byron is escorted in by a couple of sheriff’s deputies, followed by his lawyer and her entourage. I remember her from the arraignment. She’s a sister with a serious head of natural hair shaved close on the sides and texturized up top. Today she is rocking a houndstooth print suit and classic comfortable pumps that look like she could run a sprint in them. Prescription eyewear with black hipster frames complete her ensemble. Everything about her says, “You are not sending my client to jail today.”

I hold my head up and look at them as impassively as I can, remembering both the prosecutor’s and Karen’s instructions to me. As Byron and his defense team are taking their seats, a commotion from the back of the courtroom draws our attention away. Clara Lee Beale and a small cadre of folks from our church, with Reverend Johnson and Jada bringing up the rear, enter the courtroom—and not very quietly I might add.

The deputy at the door quickly shows them to available seats on the prosecution side behind us. Before my mother takes her seat, she beams at me, and I feel like I’m experiencing my first day in elementary school again and she’s come to cheer me on. However, I could not be more proud of Mama, nor happier to see her and everybody, than in that moment. I swallow the tears of joy I’m very close to shedding and beam a smile at all of them.