Exit Strategy (27 page)

I am so busy taking all my supporters in I don’t see the supporter who enters a few seconds later until he is sliding into the chair next to me.

“Tristan!” I squeal and launch myself into his arms. He’s likely uncomfortable at my uncharacteristic public display of affection, but I can’t help myself. Then again, Tristan is squeezing me so tight I can barely breathe, so I suppose the PDA is welcome. The tears I controlled when Mama and her entourage came in do not obey this time. They scald my face as the formerly sedate photographers who took a few snapshots of Byron and his legal team begin to snap pictures like they’re trying to fill up the digital storage cards on their expensive DSLR cameras.

Tristan releases me with one arm to fish a handkerchief out of his pocket which he uses to dab tenderly at my wet face. I love him so much, it hurts. He can be so gentle when he wants to be, and right now he’s demonstrating that in spades.

“Who knew you’d be so overcome with joy to see me before testifying at your first trial,” he whispers.

I sob a laugh into his beautiful face. “You’re so vain,” I whisper back.

“One of the many reasons you love me,” he says. I frown at his use of terms, and he gets flustered for a half second, then gets busy dabbing my face again.

“The jury is coming in,” Karen leans over and whispers to us. “They needed to see how overcome the victim is by these proceedings. Good job, Keisha.”

I want to roll my eyes at her thinking my tears were manufactured, but I remember this is all about appearances, so I don’t let anyone see how perturbed I am with this Domme lawyer Tristan has secured for me.

“All better now?” Tristan searches my face.

“Yes.” He looks like a man in love, the fierce protector of the woman he adores above all others, and I bask in it for now. When we sit back into our chairs, Tristan keeps an arm around my shoulders protectively, and I feel so safe with him there. It’s stupid, I know, but I feel like I can face Byron now and not be afraid.

The bailiff does his spiel announcing the judge’s arrival, and the large portly man who is to preside over the trial comes breezing into the courtroom with a confidence that can only be worn in this manner by one who knows he has complete authority. He reminds me of how Tristan enters his Grotto.

His Honor, Judge William Summers, takes his seat, pounds his gavel, and looks over his glasses out at us as though we are plebeians, and makes quick work of a bit of housekeeping.

“Let me remind the press corps that it’s a privilege for you to be here, and if you continue to abuse that privilege in the same manner that I witnessed as I entered my courtroom, I’ll have the whole lot of you thrown out. That goes double for those of you who call yourselves fans of Byron McCaskill, aka the rapper known as Blake. While Mr. White is the brother of a popular sports figure and a celebrity in his own right in financial circles, he’s here in my court as a material witness in the matter to be adjudicated here today. If you want pictures of him canoodling with his girlfriend, who happens to be a witness for the prosecution in this case, you’ll do so on your own time. Do I make myself clear?”

There are murmurs and nods of ascent before he proceeds with the matter at hand. I’m not sure whether this man is on our side or not given the derisive sneer on his face as he addressed the court, but he’s made it very clear he’s not one to be trifled with, and the process moves swiftly as the prosecution present its case.

Surprisingly, the trial in real life isn’t slated to take weeks as they are often portrayed on television and with high profile cases of national interest. Opposing counsel agrees that it should probably take three days, tops, and Judge Summers seems okay with that. I just hate that I have to sit through three days of testimony, the majority of which will be skewed to make me look like a skank ho and Byron smell like a rose. Where the hell is the justice in that?

First up are the security team from Wicked, the club’s owner, and the cops who responded to the call from security and were first to view the video evidence. Dr. Angel Sandoval testifies to my condition when he examined me and the results of the toxicology report he ordered when Tristan had him treat me at his condo. The prosecution presents its case forthright and calls witnesses to corroborate the authenticity of the evidence while opposing counsel objects in places where it is most damaging. Particularly, when it’s presented that Byron may have purchased his stash of GHB from a dealer that many of the local celebrities frequent known by the name The Coyote, aka Samuel Slayton.

Byron’s attorney, Juanita Wise, shoots that notion down with one question.

“Mr. Slayton, were you or were you not offered immunity from prosecution in exchange for your testimony against my client?”

Mr. Slayton begins to answer, “Well, you know, my business ain’t exactly—-”

The prosecutor shoots up before Karen can signal by touching him that she’d like to see him object. “Objection, Your Honor. The defense knows these types of deals are made with regularity when one whose line of work isn’t particularly legal is called to testify. This does not negate his testimony. Move to strike.”

“Overruled,” Judge Summers says as if it pains him to do so. “You’ve got to give me something better than that, Mr. Todd. How long have you been a prosecutor?”

Mr. Todd sits back down as if he’s been reprimanded by an elder.

Ms. Wise smirks and adds this notch of victory to her growing belt. “Nothing  further, Your Honor.” She struts back to her seat next to Byron who wears a matching smirk. A lesser woman would admit wanting to slap that smirk off his face, but I won’t lower myself to such violence.

Even if Byron gets off, he knows what he tried to do to me. I try to console myself that it won’t hurt if he does. Tristan reads me too well, because his arm tightens around me infinitesimally.

“Redirect, Mr. Todd?” Judge Summers has barely gotten his name out when the wiry prosecutor jumps up, like a malfunctioning jack-in-the-box once again.

Tristan shares a look with me that clearly says, “Imbecile.” Then he leans over to Karen. “Please, give Mr. Todd some pointers during the next recess, or McCaskill’s going to walk on all the glaring technicalities he’s allowing to whizz by.”

I’ve seen the handwriting on the wall all morning, but didn’t want to put my thought into words, but as per usual, Tristan White has no qualms doing so.

Todd paces in front of the Coyote as if he’s in deep thought, then finally addresses him.

“Mr. Slayton, do you keep records of your business transactions?”

“I’d like to confer with my attorney before I answer that question, Mr. Prosecutor.”

Judge Summers pipes up. “This might be an opportune time for a short recess. Everyone who intends to continue observing this trial should be back in their seats when I re-enter the courtroom in fifteen minutes. If not, the sheriff’s deputy at the door will not allow you back in.”

Mama and Jada rush to my side as soon as the judge is out of the room, while Tristan and Karen corner Mr. Todd, ostensibly to give him pointers or a good talking to. Knowing Tristan, it’s more likely the latter.

Jada and Mama both hug me, and Mama caresses my face. “How you holding up, baby?”

“I’m okay,” I say. “I know it doesn’t look good for a conviction right now, so I’m trying to prepare myself for after the prosecution rests.”

“We know you can handle it.”

“Mama, the defense is going to have people say things about me, and have pictures of me that you probably don’t know about. When I went to New Orleans with Byron and his friends when we were back at DePaul, they took pictures. I made him burn the pictures and delete them off his video card, but he must’ve had copies on his laptop.”

“That rat bastard,” Jada says, then grins ruefully when Mama’s eyes widen. “Sorry, Mama Beale, but he is.”

“I don’t disagree,” Mama says. “Just don’t let him make you both into somebody you know you’re not. Don’t give him that power. When I gave that power to your daddy, we all know what happened. You’re stronger than that. Hold your head up, because you didn’t do anything wrong, and if the justice system can’t see that, then... well, God damn them.”

It was Jada’s and my turn to look wide-eyed at my Mama then. “I didn’t cuss,” Mama said, “I separated the words, appropriately.”

Tristan and Karen rejoin our little
tête-à-tête,
and Jada and Mama go in search of the ladies’ room.

Karen explains what’s going on. “I don’t know if this tactic Todd is trying will work, but he’s hoping to introduce the records The Coyote has of Byron’s drug purchases, which will show that he purchased enough GHB over the past year to drug all the women in a third-world village. What I’m thinking is he’s likely done this to someone else, and we would’ve loved for them to have come forward. It would’ve added much more credence to our case. The Coyote’s lawyer will allow the questioning now that he’s had a chance to confer with his client. We just have to wait and see if the judge will find it admissible. However, even if he doesn’t, the jury will see that Byron has a history of buying the shit.”

“Then they’ll be more likely to believe that he used it on you,” Tristan says.

“And, you have the video from the club showing him dropping something into my drink.”

Karen nods. “Yes, but Tristan got that evidence and turned it in to the police. Both the video and the toxicology were ordered by Tristan. We hope the defense doesn’t make a big deal of it, but knowing Juanita the way I do, she’s going to go there. Hell, I would.”

I figure it’s time I tell Tristan about the pictures, so he won’t be blindsided. Karen seems to read my intentions and gets busy with her laptop again.

“Tristan,” I say.

“Yes.” He gives me his undivided attention—a look so tender, I don’t want to tell him what I know I have to.

“The defense has some pictures of me when I was in college.”

“What kind of pictures?”

“Unflattering ones as it relates to the case.” I lower my voice and my head, but Tristan nudges my chin.

“Keisha, you have nothing to be ashamed of. All of us have done things, foolhardy things, we wish we’d been mature enough to avoid when we were younger.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about them before.”

“If I didn’t know for a fact that Judge Summers would smack my ass with evidence tampering, I would’ve made sure every goddamned one of those pictures were destroyed,” Tristan says with more than a little malevolence in his tone.

“Down boy,” Karen says. “We know you’re not into seeing your girl placed on display like that.”

“You’re in the lifestyle, aren’t you?” I say to Karen.

She smiles. “What gave me away?”

“You remind me of someone I know. Well, two someones,” I say with a smile.

The bailiff notifies the courtroom that the judge is on his way back in, and there’s a mad dash for everyone to get back to their seats. His Honor’s instructions are taken seriously.

Prosecutor Todd takes his place back in front of the witness stand, eyeing The Coyote, who for all intents and purposes looks like a human version of a coyote. His narrow body and face, particularly reminds one of the animal. And his dirty blond hair frames his face like a couple of floppy ears.

“Before we went to recess, Mr. Slayton, I asked if you have records of your business transactions. I’d like to make that more specific by asking if you have a separate record of transactions you’ve made with the defendant within the last year?”

“Yes. I keep separate records of my dealings with all my clients of means. The small potatoes folks, not so much.”

It’s Juanita Wise’s turn to jump out of her box. “Objection! This evidence was not part of discovery, and the witness is a known felon. Are we really going to treat any records he has as evidence, Your Honor?”

Mr. Todd smells the possibility of another small victory. “Your Honor, there is precedent to support the admissibility of evidence from the records of known felons. The State of Illinois vs. Remy. The State of New York vs. Grierson.”

“While his business may be felonious, Ms. Wise, Mr. Slayton has been promised immunity from prosecution regarding said felonious activities. I have read the case law the prosecution is referring to and I am going to rule that it does not apply in this case, particularly because said evidence was not presented in discovery.” The Judge waves his hand like a potentate or a bored royal.

“Your Honor, may I continue to examine the witness regarding his memory of the sales?”

“Tread carefully, though, Mr. Todd. This move could open a door you might just as soon like to keep closed.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Mr. Todd says, and watches as Juanita Wise slumps into her chair, before he continues his questioning of Slayton.

I would not goad Juanita Wise just yet if I were Prosecutor Todd, but he continues, oblivious. “Please describe for the court what the Defendant purchased from you in the last year, Mr. Slayton.”