Sins of a Siren (38 page)

“Yeah. I heard they are gonna be shipping me back to Baltimore in a few days.”

“Ahh, shit…okay. Sit tight and keep quiet. I'll be in touch with you soon.”

Friday, four days later, Trenda found herself sitting between two Baltimore detectives on a flight to BWI Airport.

The last voicemail she heard from Darius still disturbed her.
I can't believe that muthafucka had the nerve to threaten my family!
Some unexpected turbulence jolted the plane as they made their approach.
I don't give a fuck what it takes, I'm gonna find a way to kill his ass.

The scowl she wore ever since being arrested gave her a serious “don't fuck with me” look. After realizing she was looking at a
minimum
of five years in prison, a boiling vat of hate-flavored venom brewed inside her. After the plane landed, the white detective stood in front of her as the black one re-handcuffed her. “All right, Ms. Fuqua, let's go. And do not stop moving until we tell you to.”

“What in the fuck?” Trenda said as a mass of camera flashes exploded inside the terminal. A flock of news reporters screamed and jockeyed for position, trying to get a statement from or picture of Trenda. “What is this all about?”

The black detective gripped her arm harder and hurried her along. “You will find out once we get to Baltimore City Jail. Right now,
move!”

Outside, an equally large wall of reporters surrounded the black van she was being ushered to. Once inside, the tinted windows allowed her to witness the circus up close.
This is bananas! Did I just hear one of them ask me how long I have been having an affair with Darius?

“W
hat a cluster-fuck this is,” Attorney Dennis Wilcox, “the Fox,” said as he stood behind the layers of reporters in the airport. The slickness of how he got more than ninety percent of his clients off led to him being called “Wilcox the Fox.” It wasn't always meant in a complimentary fashion.

Being the product of a German father and West Indian mother, it was sometimes hard for one to tell if the fair-skinned, wavyhaired, irritable man was black or white.
Once Piper's parents got wind that Trenda had been captured, they ran their asses to the media, just like I knew they would, and started this circus. And once those media vultures learned Officer Kain and his partner were being investigated by Baltimore P.D.'s Internal Affairs—for a case possibly involving their daughter—the sharks came to feast!
A devious grin filled his face. “I do good work!”

Trenda paced the floor of the solitary cell she had just been stuffed into.
This is crazy! I can't believe that detective told me they had to lock me up by myself because of all the threats they received on my life.
She sat down on the hard mattress of her bed and held her head in her hands.
It's bad enough Piper's family wants me; but now with all this publicity, the Island Boys know where to find me. I'm sure all these gangsta-bitches in here are gonna be lookin' to take me out for the contract they have on my head.

Minutes later, the sound of footsteps and jingling keys echoed in her ears. The sound stopped in front of her cell. She looked up into the brown eyes of a mean-looking female correctional officer. “All right, Ms. Fuqua, you have a visitor.”

“A visitor? Who?” Trenda asked as she sat up on the stiff bed.

The thick Latina woman signaled for the officer controlling the cell doors to open Trenda's. “Your lawyer.”

Minutes later, Trenda was escorted into a small, concrete room containing a rectangular wooden table with four chairs around it. The fluorescent lighting did a poor job of brightening up the rain cloud-colored room. The Latina guard addressed the light-skinned man sitting across the table from them. “She's all yours. I'll be back in about thirty minutes. If you need me before then, ring the buzzer by the door.”

“Thank you, Officer Cortez.” He opened the alligator-skinned briefcase that sat in front of him on the table. “You have been very helpful as usual.”

She gave him a smirk and looked into gold, wire-rimmed glasses. “Anytime, Fox.”

Trenda took the seat across from him and waited for the officer to close the metal door. She slumped down in her chair, exhaled loudly. “You know I'm broke and can't afford to pay you, right?”

His too-white smile almost blinded her. “Well, my friend, we'll deal with that later. First, how are you doing? Are you feeling okay?”

She rolled the cuff of her too-big jumpsuit up a few inches. “I'm cool…just tired of this cat-shit they call food in here.”

Adjusting his blue-and-yellow power tie, Dennis shook his head and rustled papers in his briefcase. “Sorry to hear that, my friend.” His smile faded as he picked up a small stack of paper-clipped sheets of paper. “I'm going to do all I can to change that.”

Trenda didn't like the lack of confidence in his voice. “How bad is my case lookin'?”

Taking off his glasses, he tucked them into the inside pocket of his expensive navy-blue suit coat and looked her in the eyes. “Here is what you are looking at; your parole officer is working hard to get you the maximum penalty for breaking your parole. The parents of your late-roommate Piper are pressuring the mayor to have you charged with the murder of their daughter—or at least as an accomplice.”

Trenda jumped up. “That's bullshit! That broad tried to kill
me!

Dennis didn't miss a beat. “The Baltimore P.D. is looking to charge you with evading justice and aggravated assault against Ms. Langford—at a minimum.” He placed the stack of papers back in his briefcase and looked at the angry woman in silence for a moment. “All totaled, they intend to put you away for a minimum of fifteen to twenty years—that is if you don't get found guilty of Piper's murder. In that case it's a wrap; life without the possibility of parole.”

Trenda seemed to shrink further into her over-sized clothing. She was too stunned to be angry. Her mouth moved; only one word escaped. “What?”

“Yes, my friend, they want you
under
the jail.”

Something about his nonchalant attitude didn't make sense to her. “How in the hell can they pin all that shit on me? I can see the parole violation, but I ain't had nothin' to do with that girl gettin' killed. And aggravated assault? It was self defense!” She pointed to the scratch under her eye. “See this?” She then pulled her sleeve up and ripped off the bandage covering her stitches. “And this? This is where that crazy bitch cut me when I was tryin' to get away!”

“Wow!” He put his glasses back on, got up, walked over and
examined her wounds. “Did you tell any of the cops or your P.O. about this?”

She reapplied the bandage. “No…I ain't told them shit.” Panic covered her as she began pacing the floor. “I can't go back to jail for this, Denny, I can't…” His well-known “Fox smirk” greeted her as she turned to him. “Why you ain't sayin' nothin'?”

Waving to her chair, he said, “Please, have a seat, my friend. I just wanted you to know what
we
are up against.”

Trenda could smell the makings of a caper wafting off him. Since he never did
anything
for free—luckily, her fierce fellatio game was all she had to pay him in the past—it had to be something big. “What are you not tellin' me?”

“T
hat tramp is a
liar
!” Darius screamed as he and his weeping wife watched the female reporter talking about his investigation on the six o'clock news. “I am gonna sue those fuckers for slander!”

Tears of anger and heartbreak rolled down her cheeks. “Please tell me this is not true, Darius…please…,” she whispered through her soft sobs.

Before he could answer, their phone rang—for the hundredth time. He checked the caller ID. “It's your mother, again. You wanna talk to her?”

Beverly got up, wiping her eyes, and took the phone from him. “Hi, Mother…yes, I know…”

Her voice trailed off as she walked away from Darius, on her way upstairs. He kicked over their teakwood coffee table, littered with newspaper stories of his possible criminal and infidelity issues, in front of the TV.
How could that bitch be so stupid as to get caught in a fuckin' stolen car while she is on the run?
The loss of control over the situation stressed him to the point of panic.
And now I have to deal with this cryin' bitch here. If she wouldn't spend so much time reading those goddamn tabloid magazines, she wouldn't be so quick to believe every fucking thing she reads.

It seemed that everyone on the planet had called him about the breaking news including his partner, Tyrone.
I had better return his call before he freaks the hell out.

He glanced at his liquor cabinet.
Fuck that; that's the last thing
I need.
After canceling his “vacation” stay at the beach house a week early because of the news drama, peace of mind eluded him. His killing of Piper was far less troubling than the aspect of exposing the public to the not-so-perfect life his gigantic ego required. The prospect of doing time wasn't very attractive to him either.

After grabbing his cell phone, he walked outside into the cool night air, the realization that he failed to tie up a loose string for the first time—Trenda Fuqua—cut a groove of fear in his icy heart.
Let me call Tyrone back before he has a goddamned heart attack.

Ten days after her arraignment hearing, Trenda was still as hot as a .45 pistol that had been shot all night.
This is some bullshit!
she thought as she was escorted down the jail corridor to the same room where she spoke to Dennis when she was first locked up. A stone-like shell of bitterness, pain, hatred and desperation shrouded her. Her normal sexy walk had been replaced with a hardcore stride as she adjusted to her bleak surroundings.
These muthafuckas are straight tryin' to do me, but fuck ‘em. I'm not about to let these fools break me.
She allowed one of her father's frequent sayings to stick in her brain:

So that we may boldly say, The Lord is my helper, and I will not fear what man shall do unto me.

—H
EBREWS
13:6

“You know the routine, Fox; I'll be back in thirty minutes,” Officer Cortez said after watching Trenda take a seat.

“Very good, Officer.” Dennis smiled. “That will be plenty of time.”

Trenda scratched her rapidly growing afro and watched Dennis set his briefcase on the table. “What's crackin'?”

He straightened the gold and diamond tie clip on his silk burgundy tie. “Well, my friend, we made significant progress yesterday.”

Placing both hands flat on the table, she leaned forward with interest. “What you mean? Are you close to gettin' me outta here?”

“I can't promise you
no
jail time, but if we play our cards right, things could turn out quite favorably for you.”