Stand Your Ground: A Novel (25 page)

“Well, you know the drill.” She handed me a small plastic cup. “Leave your urine sample in the bin in the bathroom. Then come back, strip down, put that on,” she said, pointing to the paper robe on the examination table. “I’ll do a pelvic examination, too.”

I nodded.

“Don’t look so solemn,” she said. “This just might be the news that you and your husband need.”

Not even ten minutes later, I was on my back, legs up and open, eyes focused on the ceiling. It didn’t take too many minutes before she rolled the stool away, snapped off her plastic gloves, and told me to give her a few minutes. I dressed, then sat and waited. And when Dr. Leach returned, it was her smile that told the story before she said a word.

“We’re about to have another little Spencer in the world.”

My lips smiled because I was happy. My heart pounded because I was scared. Both of those feelings were equally real to me.

“So, are you glad about this?”

“I am . . . it’s just that . . .” I stopped as if I’d given her a complete thought.

“I know.” She nodded. “But I really think everything is going to be okay. Now, I’m going to have the nurse come in and get some blood work on you.”

I slid off the examination table. “Can I come back?” I had what I needed to know. Everything else could wait.

“Okay, but I don’t want to put this off. I want to get that work in, determine how far along you are, and get you on prenatal vitamins and a nutrition plan. Remember, you didn’t gain enough weight with Billy.”

I promised her that I would return next week, smiled as she once again offered me congratulations, and then stepped out of the room. But not a second passed before I turned back around.

“Dr. Leach, I need a couple of days . . . I’m not going to say anything to my husband yet.”

She nodded. “You forgot about doctor/patient privilege. I won’t say a word.”

I didn’t allow myself to think until I was settled in the SUV. Then I thought about my son and the child I now carried.

And then I thought about Janice Johnson. Right away, tears came to my eyes. I had wanted to do right, but now, there was no way that I could.

I
came to the conclusion that there was a way for me to lay my head down at night in peace. My hope centered on the police.

If the police couldn’t charge Wyatt with a crime, then why should I say anything? If the case was never going to court, why should I feel guilty about keeping my secret? If the police determined that my husband had just cause, who was I to accuse Wyatt?

Without a case, I would be set free.

This was my final hope.

But my hope didn’t take away my anxiety. My stress was off the Richter scale now, especially since I’d taken to watching the news as much as Wyatt.

For the last five days, I’d watched everything about Marquis Johnson. And in five days, I’d seen his image a thousand times.

The news stations all used the same picture. Marquis was posing in what looked like a boxing stance, like he was ready to fight. His hands, large hands, were balled into fists that half hid his face. But his fists weren’t large enough to hide his dark eyes, or his flaring nostrils or his lips, big lips that were twisted, almost contorted, and that highlighted his anger.

And then there was the hoodie that he wore, a black one where the hood covered his whole head and part of his forehead.

Every time I saw that photo, I trembled. In the daytime, it scared me; I couldn’t imagine what it would be like if I’d seen Marquis at night.

But on the other side, there was his mother. Janice. They never showed a photo of her; I only saw her image as she stood by her husband’s side. Every time. He never spoke alone.

She was so regal, not in terms of the clothes that she wore. In my years of marriage to Wyatt, I’d learned the difference between discount and designer. She was definitely a Target or maybe a Marshalls shopper. The kind of shopper that I’d once considered upscale.

Her elegance was beyond her clothes. It was in the way she stood, head high, chin forward, eyes wide and clear, even as people around her spoke of her dead son.

And it was in the way she carried herself, she moved with grace, looking as if her feet barely touched the ground. She held her husband’s hand. Every time. He never walked alone.

She was the kind of woman that I wished I knew, the kind of woman I wished I could help.

“Sweetheart!”

I blinked my thoughts away and focused on my husband standing right beside me. I hadn’t even heard him come into the kitchen.

He frowned before he planted a kiss on my cheek, then gently patted my head. “Are you all right?”

I nodded.

“That’s all you’re having for lunch?”

I looked down at the chicken broth and crackers. “It’s all I want. I’m not very hungry.”

He shook his head. “I know what this is about.”

My heartbeat galloped. Had Dr. Leach broken her promise?

He said, “You’re tired of being cooped up in this house. Because,” he continued, “I know I’m going crazy and so is our poor boy. This is just plain ridiculous.” He opened the refrigerator and grabbed a beer. “Ten days. We’ve been home for ten days and we can’t do a thing.” After a long swig from his beer bottle, he said, “I hope Newt brings some good news soon.”

I nodded; I agreed.

“They’re not protesting as much anymore, just like Newt predicted,” Wyatt kept on. “So I don’t think it will be too much longer.”

The sound of chimes filled our home and I rolled my eyes.

Even though I hadn’t said a word, Wyatt laughed. “You think that’s Gloria?”

I nodded. “I don’t know why she feels like she has to come here every day.” That’s what I said, though I suspected that my mother came by so often to check on me. She was making sure that I kept my promise never to say a word.

Wyatt grinned. “Gloria is our only entertainment, since I sent Wally to visit my mother.”

As he went to answer the door, I tried to come up with some excuse that would send my mother home. But my thoughts turned from my mother when I heard the heavy footsteps.

“Hey, Meredith.” Newt came over to the island where I sat and kissed my cheek.

And my stomach did a triple backflip.

It was the sternness of his expression, the stiffness of his shoulders, and the fact that he was here on Sunday that kept me silent. But whatever I saw in Newt’s countenance, my husband didn’t see the same.

Wyatt gave Newt one of those buddy slaps on the back. “So, you’ve got good news for me?”

“I have news.” A long pause. “And it’s not good.” Another pause. “There may be charges.”

“What?” Both Newt and I jumped a bit when Wyatt pounded his fist on the counter. “What kind of charges? How could there be charges? You told me there wouldn’t be.”

“Well,” Newt began, his tone sounding so calm alongside my husband’s rage. “There are a couple of challenges. I spoke with the district attorney. They’ve interviewed the young girl who was in the car and she’s telling them that Marquis had no weapon.”

“He had a baseball bat!” Wyatt screamed.

I stuffed two crackers into my mouth.

“Well, that’s another thing. There were no fingerprints on the bat.”

“What?”

“No fingerprints. Marquis’s fingerprints were not found on the bat.”

“Well, whose fingerprints were on there?” Wyatt asked.

Newt shook his head. “They said they found no prints.”

“That’s impossible,” my husband shouted.

“I know. Look, I’m just telling you what I know so far.”

My glance went back and forth, from Wyatt to Newt. And I kept eating crackers.

“So based on this girl, they’re going to charge me?”

“Based on her and the bat, it looks that way. But”—Newt held up his hand—“there are things that we can do before they make a final decision.”

Wyatt’s lips hardly moved when he said, “Whatever we have to do, we need to do it.”

Newt nodded as if he was steps ahead of Wyatt. “We’re going to begin putting on our defense. I’ve hired a firm to start spinning our story, doing a publicity campaign.”

“Is that legal?” I croaked.

Newt nodded. “Everybody does it, especially with these kinds of cases.” Turning back to Wyatt, he said, “We’re going to dig into Marquis’s background and his father’s and mother’s.”

“Oh, God!” I pressed my fingers against my mouth.

Only Newt looked my way; my husband didn’t even hear my cry.

Newt kept his eyes on me for a couple of seconds before he continued. “We’re digging into everything about the Johnsons: their lifestyles, their social media accounts, we’re going to find their police records—the son or the father probably has something. We’re checking out if Tyrone Johnson has ever had an affair, anything we can use to show that they’re not the victims, you are.”

Wyatt nodded as if all of this sounded like a grand idea to him.

I ate the last cracker.

“And then the second thing is going to be this girlfriend.”

“Okay. What? What do I have to do? How much money do we have to offer her?”

Newt held up his finger. “Don’t ever say anything like that again. Do you know the penalty for witness tampering? You’ll go to jail for sure.”

“Witness tampering? That’s not what I was talking about.”

Newt shook his head as if he thought my husband didn’t have a clue. Still, he went on: “There may be something that we can do to stop her from testifying. Her name is Heather Nelson. She’s the daughter of Richard Nelson.”

“Richard Nelson? Who’s on the board of my Raising Up Boys foundation?”

Newt nodded and that made Wyatt grin.

Wyatt said, “I’ll just talk to Richard, tell him what his daughter needs to say.”

This time, all Newt did was shake his head. “Listen,” Newt began, “just let me handle this case. You don’t talk to anyone unless I tell you to.”

“Okay, okay.”

“So . . .” Newt went back to explaining his plan. “We’re going to figure it out with Heather, either get her not to testify, or get her to admit that Marquis was angry when he got out of that car and went after you.”

“Good! ’Cause that’s what happened.”

“And,” Newt said, “we are gonna play up your foundation. When everyone hears how you work with inner-city kids, they’ll get a better understanding that you’re not this white man hunting black boys that the media is making you out to be.”

“Good. Good. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of my foundation,” Wyatt said.

I had to admit that Newt had a good strategy there—at least with the foundation. The foundation that Wyatt and I started together did do good work, training teenagers so they could find jobs in the fast-food industry, teaching them how to be good employees, and after they held a job for two years, they could enter a special program that prepared them to own a franchise, if they could ever raise the money.

“And what about the fact that most of my jobs go to those kids?”

Newt chuckled. “You give most of your jobs to those kids ’cause nobody else will take them.”

“Look, a job is a job. And ninety percent of my workforce is black kids.”

“Someone is going to point out that all of those jobs are minimum-wage positions.”

“So?” Wyatt shrugged. “They’re still working, right?”

“We’ll figure out how to spin it. But the key to all of this is making sure the Johnsons don’t look like angels and making sure that Heather Nelson doesn’t take the stand, or if she does, that she’ll say what we want her to say.”

“Okay, okay!”

My husband was cheering up with excitement as tears came to my eyes. They were going after the Johnsons, people who had already suffered.

“Just know, Wyatt, that we’re going to take care of this,” Newt said. “And so many people are on your side because this could be a precedent-setting case. Our office is being inundated with calls from television stations, radio shows, corporate executives—all asking how they can support you. Everyone knows what’s at stake.”

I wondered if that would be the case if everyone knew the truth.

Wyatt nodded. “Just do what you have to do, buddy. Money isn’t an issue; whatever, however much it takes.” He held up his hand. “And I’m not talking about tampering with any witnesses. I’m talking about paying for whatever services we need.”

“Okay.” Newt was a little more relaxed than when he first walked in. But his tone was still stern when he said, “I want you to understand, though, that this could happen. I want you to be prepared.” He turned this glance from Wyatt to me. “Both of you. This could go to court.”

Now my stomach swirled and twirled. And that must have shown on my face because Newt added, “But, if that happens, I will get you off.”

“How . . . can you guarantee that?”
I said, sounding as if I were speaking through stones in my throat.

“I have my ways. But with what they have now, this isn’t going anywhere. There wouldn’t even be any charges if there wasn’t all of this social pressure. This is all about satisfying the black community. So I’m not worried. Let them do what they think they have to do. And unless some witness comes forward, you have nothing to worry about.”

I was barely able to jump up and charge out of the kitchen to the downstairs bathroom in time to assume the position—seat up, head down.

I heaved and heaved until I was empty and spent.

There was a quick knock on the door. “Sweetheart, are you all right?”

“Yes,” I squeaked, hoping that Wyatt didn’t open the door and find me sprawled out on the tile. “I just . . . had to go to the bathroom.”

A pause and then, “Okay. Newt wants to talk to us some more; we’ll be in my office.”

“Okay,” I said. But I didn’t want to hear anything else Newt had to say. He’d already said enough for me.

Unless some witness comes forward.

You have nothing to worry about.

That was so not true. My husband and Newt had so much to worry about. And they didn’t even know it.

I
t felt like a whirlwind of hate to me. But that’s not what Newt called it.

“We’re just exposing people to all of the facts,” he said.