In My Sister's House

Dear Readers,

Boy, how time flies. Seems like it was just yesterday that I sat down and began writing my first novel,
The Bachelorette Party
. I was excited, nervous, scared, and happy all at once. But I got through it with the support and love of so many of you, and God’s ever-present grace. As a write this, I am listening to the great Aretha soar through the gospel hymn “God Will Take Care of You,” from her landmark
Amazing Grace
album, reminding me that Aretha possesses possibly one of the greatest voices ever given to a woman, and that God truly does take care of all of us.

A lot has happened since
The Bachelorette Party
was published. Not only has my faith been strengthened immensely, but America elected its first African American president. As pleased as I am personally that this has come to pass, I could not be more elated that it happened in my mother’s lifetime. She migrated to Philadelphia from the South many years ago, and lived through Jim Crow. On the night of the presidential election she called me as they announced that Obama was the winner. My mother said she had gotten out of bed and was running around in circles in her bedroom, wildly clapping and flapping her arms in joyous glee that “the Lord had moved.” (Christians will know what I mean by that [smile].) There was nothing better than sharing that precious moment in American history with my mom.

And that sense of family and love brings me to
In My Sister’s House
. In this novel, I wanted to show the importance of family, friends, and lovers and their impact on our lives. Even though life has many trials, tribulations, and ups and downs, at the end of the day, what really matters is love and support. Isn’t that what we all want? I am ecstatic with how this story turned out. The characters are as real as the day is long. Some are outlandish and unforgettable, others, colorful and unpredictable. But I hope you find them all familiar nonetheless.

I also have great news to share. I am still in love! Yes, I wake up each day in love with my life, my career, the people close to me, and God. Now if I could only find someone to share it all with (smile). But the future remains bright: I have a slew of new projects on the table—stage plays, TV and film projects—and I know there are more novels in me. So you’ll soon hear more great news and receive blessings from Don B. Welch.

To the countless fans—old and new—book clubs, friends, and family around the country, thank you so much for traveling on this journey with me. I don’t take any of you for granted.

Now sit back and relax with your favorite snack while you laugh, cry, and hopefully are entertained by
In My Sister’s House
.

With all that life brings us, “be not dismayed, God will take care of you.”

Donald

A
n agitated Storm paced the floor of the visiting area at the Philadelphia County Jail for Women. Her red eyes were puffy and swollen from crying and lack of sleep, and her one-piece orange uniform hung loosely on her small frame. Her unflattering white slip-on sneakers were too big for her, and she had to make a conscious effort to keep them on because the powers that be didn’t allow shoestrings in case an inmate tried to hang herself or strangle someone else. Her attorney was late and Storm was pissed! Her hair was pulled back into one single braid held together by a dirty rubber band. She undid it and smoothed her hair back neatly. Her long hair was her pride and joy. And it was all hers.

Wasn’t nothing fake about Storm Morrison. She never understood how women could get cheap weaves. She believed you should either wear your own hair, no matter how short it was, or get a good weave. And if you can go to the corner store and buy a Pepsi and a bag of hair, then you aren’t getting a good weave. That shit was crazy to her: A headful of hair from some bitch in Indonesia on a bitch’s head from the hood.

She looked down at her hands. The clear pink shade of polish she had favored since her college days had either faded or been eaten away by her nervous energy. A manicure was definitely in order.

Catching her reflection in the Plexiglas window that separated inmates from freedom, Storm knew her appearance was not on point. She was a far cry from the chick once heralded as Philly’s “baddest-dressing bitch in stilettos.”

Although too short to runway model, print work was readily available to her. Talent scouts from
KING
magazine and
SMOOTH
begged her for photo spreads. Her knockout body boasted two perfectly shaped breasts, a set of legs to die for, and an ass known to make a man’s eyes water when she passed him on the street. She turned all the magazines down, saying, “When you niggas pay what the white people pay for
Playboy
and
Hustler
, maybe. Until then, fuck no!”

But not today. Today she wouldn’t even be considered for a
JET
centerfold. But all that would change.
As soon as I get the fuck out of here
.

Once her attorney, Clara Bow, was seated and picked up the phone receiver, Storm lashed into her. “My preliminary hearing was supposed to be weeks ago. What the hell is going on?”

“I asked for more time to build your case. It didn’t happen overnight, Storm.”

“I don’t give a fuck, MISS CLARA BOW! I’ve called your office time after time and you have not returned my calls. And who names their kid a stupid-ass name like Clara Bow anyway?” Storm’s eyes bulged larger, and her nostrils flared to resemble the tip of a loaded .45 ready to go off any second.

“I was named after my mother’s favorite actress.” Attempting to calm Storm down, Bow explained, “I have not ignored your calls. If I remember correctly, you told me not to bother you with particulars, that you would rather know for sure what our plan of defense would be. I had to wait for the formal charges from the DA.” She gave Storm a moment and then continued. “But I do have some good news. After weighing all the evidence, or lack thereof, the DA was sympathetic to your case and has agreed to reduce the charge to involuntary manslaughter. I think—”

“What does that mean?” Storm cut in.

“If you plead ‘No Contest,’ he’ll ask the judge to reduce the charge to involuntary manslaughter. There isn’t sufficient evidence to support intent on either one of the charges. With an involuntary charge, you’ll get no more than three years, which you will start serving immediately. Stay out of trouble, you’ll do half. Hell, Storm, you already have sixty days served. You’ll be out in less than eighteen months.”

“Bitch, are you crazy?! I couldn’t do that! Do you have any idea what kind of hell I’ve been through in this pig hole? Huh?” Storm shouted loudly enough to prompt the female guard on watch to step forward and tell her to lower her voice or her visit would be cut short, attorney privilege or no attorney privilege.

Looking over her shoulder Storm rolled her eyes and continued talking to Clara. But before she got a word out, Clara reprimanded her. “We’re going to stop the name-calling. I have never allowed a client to call me out of my name in the seventeen years I have been practicing law and I refuse to start today. Now I know you’re upset, but I am doing the best that I can, as quickly and as effectively as I can. If the day arises that you feel that I’m not, then perhaps we need to have a discussion on my resigning as your attorney. Am I clear?” Clara glared.

Storm paused. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’m just frustrated at this whole thing. What other options do I have?”

“We go to a jury trial, which could take up to a year. And they could try you for second-degree murder, which carries a mandatory fifteen to life. As I told you before, Pennsylvania is a no-bail state for murder charges. Look, take the deal, Storm. We won’t do any better.”

As tears welled up in her eyes, Storm pleaded, “But I’m innocent and you know it!”

“Yes, I do. But my job was to have everyone else believe it, too, and I couldn’t do that with the material I have.”

Two days later, Storm found herself dressed in a two-piece burgundy suit, a lilac blouse, and conservative pumps, with just a hint of makeup, looking older than her twenty-six years. It was not her choice of suit, not at all her style, but when her attorney suggested that Storm needed to come to her arraignment with a subdued appearance, she knew that there was nothing in her closet at home quite appropriate for the occasion. Storm caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror as she was being led into court by two burly female guards, and was reminded of the scene from the movie
Monster
in which Aileen Wournos, a prostitute–serial killer, is led into court for her sentencing.
Difference is I’m no prostitute, and I damn sure ain’t nobody’s killer
, Storm thought to herself.

As she approached the table where her lawyer stood, Storm noticed that her family was there. Her father, Dutch, looked at her with weary, sleepless eyes, seeming as if he had aged overnight. Feeling responsible, Storm glanced at him and gave him a slight smile before dropping her eyes in shame. Nettie, a family friend who worked at the restaurant, waved at her. Standing at the very end of the row with a solemn expression on her face was Skylar, Storm’s twin sister.

“Your Honor, the defendant is willing to plead guilty to an amended count of involuntary manslaughter,” Clara Bow said. “We’ve agreed to a three-year sentence in state prison. The sixty days she has served in county would be credited to the overall sentence.” After the lawyer spoke, Dutch’s shoulders slumped and his legs looked like they’d give out on him any second.

Looking through a pair of half-rim glasses barely clinging to the bridge of his nose, Judge Randell Reinhart shuffled through the paperwork at his bench. “Miss Morrison, do you understand that this conviction could be used against you in any future violation or convictions, resulting in additional time attached to your sentence?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Upon completion of your sentence, you will be on a five-year probation, and during that time, you will not be able to vote in any election or leave the country without authorization. Do you understand these terms?”