No More Mr. Nice Guy (7 page)

“Darius Thompson, Rodney Moss, and Shakim Paul. Those names mean anything to you?” Detective Fuller, the cop who had arrested me, pelted me with the names. He was sitting in a chair across from me, waiting for an answer.

I'd been in the interrogation room for the better part of an hour when he finally walked in carrying a manila envelope.

“Nope. Can't say that they do.” I stared straight at the wall above his head.

“Why don't you make it easy on yourself by telling me the truth? We know you did it.” He leaned across the metal table to look me in the eye, as if that would convince me to change my story.

“I told you, I'm innocent. How many times I gotta tell you that?”

“You do understand that you're in a whole lot of trouble.”

I was starting to feel like I was banging my head against a wall. “Look, this is just a big misunderstanding. I didn't kill anyone.”

“Oh, yeah. Were you at Sugar's Bar and Grill last night?” he asked.

“Yes, I was, but—” I was prepared to explain myself, but he cut me off.

“So you're trying to tell me that you didn't have an altercation with any guys last night?” Fuller cracked open the manila envelope in front of him, took out three photos, and laid them down on the table so that they were facing me. “Recognize these guys?”

I looked down at the pictures of Rodney and his two friends. Or rather, their corpses.

“I asked you a question. Do you know these men?” He pierced me with a stare that felt like he fully expected me to lie to him.

“Yeah,” I admitted. “That's Rodney and his friends.”

“And how exactly do you know Rodney and his friends?” he asked.

“They were being disrespectful to a lady friend of mine at the bar last night. I took them outside and taught them some respe—” I stopped myself before I said anything incriminating, but, of course, he'd noticed.

“But you showed them.” He smiled, nodding his head up and down like we were sharing some kind of secret.

I looked down at the pictures again. “No. Yes. I mean, it wasn't like that.”

“So, Niles, why don't you tell me what it's like? 'Cause I have three dead bodies and you were the last person to see any of them alive.”

“Obviously I wasn't the last person to see them alive, 'cause I didn't kill them,” I countered, my head starting to spin.

Someone tapped at the door before opening it. A young officer approached Fuller and set a Ziploc bag down on the table between us.

“You wanted this after it was logged into evidence.”

“Thanks, Officer.” Fuller acknowledged the cop before he turned and left. He picked up the package in his hand, gripping it so that I could see the outline of a gun.

“Any idea where this came from?”

“It's Rodney's.” I couldn't believe I'd been stupid enough to leave the gun behind after our fight.

“What if I told you that it was the murder weapon?” I could feel the detective watching me, weighing my reaction, but I wasn't about to give him what he wanted. I showed no response. “Are we going to find your prints on this gun, Niles? 'Cause once CSI wipes it for prints, I won't be able to help you.”

“I swear I didn't do this. Yeah, I took the gun from Rodney, but I threw it in the Dumpster. I didn't use it.” Deep inside of me, I was shaking, but my military training had taught me how to remain calm if captured by the enemy, and from where I was sitting, this was the enemy.

“So you didn't do anything to them?”

“Sure, I roughed them up a little, but they were alive the last time I saw them. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“They look a little more than roughed up to me,” he said, reaching down and picking up the photos to study them. “Look, I know these guys. Especially this piece of shit Rodney. There could be real repercussions to you killing him. He has more connects inside the prison system than he does outside.”

He spoke like he actually gave a shit, but I knew that it was all just an act to lower my defenses. I sat there, staring at the detective, seeing my life spiraling down right in front of me.

“I didn't kill nobody!” I shouted, tired of being blamed for something this heinous. I'd only been back a day and half, and the threat that I was experiencing was as real as anything I had dealt with in a war zone.

“The evidence says otherwise,” Fuller shot back.

I dropped my head into my hands, exhausted, with my defense falling onto deaf ears.

When I opened the door I saw him, half asleep, exhausted but still defiant, sitting at that interrogation table. It almost made me chuckle the way these bare rooms were made to insure the highest amount of intimidation and the least amount of comfort. They were so archaic and barbaric that it was impossible to get comfortable; but, of course, that would defeat the purpose. I knew that he had been there for the better part of six hours as they grilled him mercilessly about the murders.

“Niles,” I spoke, gently waking him.

His eyes were cast downward toward the floor, and I could feel them on me as he worked his way from my high black Louboutins, up my leg to the skintight pencil skirt and tight blouse I wore, until he arrived at my face.

“So we meet again,” I said.

“You!” he spat out the words, leaving no doubt how he felt about my presence in that room. His dislike for me almost rose up in waves, as his nostrils flared open.

“Yes, Mr. Monroe. It's me.”

“What are you doing here?” He seethed, watching me now, fully awake and fully alert. He glanced around the stark room, no doubt wondering how I had gotten into the room, especially without the detective being present. I knew exactly what he was thinking. He tensed up, studying me silently as he tried to put the pieces of the puzzle together in his mind.

“You did this, didn't you? You set me up.” His rage was palpable, and if I were anywhere else, I would have actually worried about being alone with him at this moment; but I knew that he was smart. Too smart to take any chances. The fact that he was handcuffed to the table didn't hurt either.

“I can see why you would think that, because I am a woman accustomed to getting what I want, but let's just assume that I didn't have anything to do with your being here.”

“So you're saying you want me to work for you bad enough to murder three men? How sick is that?” he asked, ignoring my comment.

“I'm not admitting to anything. Truth is, like the police, I believe you did it; but unlike them, I think you've done the world a huge favor. I read their police jackets, and they were trash.” I moved to the chair across from him and sat down.

“I'm not talking to you anymore, so please leave.” He glared at me.

“Niles, I'm not so sure that you understand. I'm the only friend you have at this moment.”

“You are no friend of mine, so leave!” he fumed, gritting his teeth.

I turned to look at the door and then back at his angry face. “If I do what you want and get up and walk out that door, what do you think would happen to you? Who is going to believe that you are innocent? A discharged special forces soldier just back from the war, angry at the world, and pissed off about a girl?” I waited as the truth of my words sank in. The defeat was immediate. His shoulders deflated and he stared down at the floor. “If I walk out of this building, they're going to lock you up for a very long time.”

“So I'm fucked!” he spat out.

“Not necessarily. I can get you out of here. I know a lot of people in very important places, and lucky for you that could work to your benefit. I mean, if you are willing to strike up a friendship with me, I can make this entire nightmare disappear.”

I waited and watched as the Niles Monroe I had met in the hallway a day earlier returned. His chest puffed out. He was in control, and he was mad.

“Oh, now I get it.”

“And what exactly do you get?” I pushed, wanting him to spell it out.

“That you want me to be your bitch. That me turning down your offer and walking away pulled your lace panties into a bunch and made you even more ruthless than I imagined you were yesterday. That you, Ms. Saint John, are the definition of a first class
bitch
.” He sat back, watching to see how his words had affected me.

I smiled. “I've been called worse. In fact, I've been called a lot worse just today. But you still have not given me your answer,” I reminded him, ignoring all the emotional gymnastics. People hated to be cornered, and he was no different. It was a shame that he was so furious, but I intended to use that same aggression and anger that he was directing at me, and make it work for me.

“I'm not doing it! If I have to spend the rest of my life in jail then so be it. I'm not letting you bully me into something I don't want to do.” He fumed in his anger, but I was past the point of worrying about that. For Niles Monroe, I had become the lesser of two evils. I knew it, and so did he. It was only a matter of time before he accepted his fate.

I decided to try a different approach. “And what about your mother? She's bipolar, isn't she? In need of constant care,” I reminded him in my matter-of-fact way.

At first he seemed surprised, but that disappeared quickly.

“She's in a state-run hospital right now, right?”

“Of course you know about my mother. You and your organization have done your homework. Find the vulnerabilities first. Got it. Bravo!” he announced without the slightest hint of celebration. Yeah, this guy was saying and doing everything that I would have had I been in his position.

“This job will provide you with the ability to make sure that your mother is in a first-class facility, with doctors who know her and state-of-the-art treatments and comfort, not this state-run, low-rent situation she's in now.”

I hoped learning that he would now be able to provide for his mother would lessen the defeat. Obviously, she'd come off her meds, had a psychotic break, and had been hospitalized again. From the police reports, she'd been hallucinating and pulled a knife on two law enforcement officers.

“So this is about my mother? Wow. That is low, but not any lower than you setting me up in order to get me to come work for you.”

“Niles, I am a businesswoman, and I only want what is best for my business. From where I'm sitting, this arrangement will be a win-win for both of us,” I informed him. Hell, I knew he was pissed, but emotions were just a waste of time in the work that we performed, and I only hoped he'd be able to set his feelings aside and do the job. “So, do I make the call and have this all go away, or would you like to stick to your self-righteous anger?” I asked.

He glanced from me to the door, then back at me. While I waited for his answer, I only hoped he was as smart as everyone had led me to believe.

After two days of being forced to wear that scratchy-ass prison-issued orange jumpsuit, it felt damn good to be on fleek again in my dark blue Hugo Boss suit, starched white Armani shirt, and sterling silver Gucci loafers as I headed to my bail hearing. They'd let my man Bruce out yesterday on an R.O.R—release on your own recognizance—trying to give me the impression that he had snitched on me, but Bruce was smart enough to get the word to Andrew Goldman, my pit-bull attorney, so I wouldn't accuse him of any bullshit.

Once inside the courtroom, I turned toward the back of the room, but all I saw were a whole lot of strangers. Not one familiar face separated itself from the throng of onlookers crowded into those four rows of hard wooden benches. They were all waiting for other cases. No one was here for mine. Where the fuck was Bruce, my mother, and my baby mama?

“What the fuck! Where is everybody?” I griped under my breath at Goldman, who was about to either earn his extravagant hourly fee or my wrath. It felt good to be out from behind bars, but I needed to know that freedom wasn't some pipe dream.

“I don't know. I called Bruce last night to tell him about the hearing, but he seemed a little preoccupied. I'm sure he'll be here,” Goldman replied.

Hell, it was his job to make sure that shit ran smoothly. He should have made sure my people had their asses in that front row, no questions asked. In his defense, though, I hadn't even expected to be standing in this courtroom before my trial got underway. Originally I thought I would be released within twelve hours, like Bruce had, but then twelve hours stretched into two days. That was when I found out I was going to have to attend a bail hearing. They had sprung that little gem on me late last night.

“He better be here,” I muttered.

“Majestic, keep it down.” Goldman motioned to the black female judge named Ellen McDougall seated on the bench, reading through the paperwork he'd given her. I was familiar with her, and I knew she didn't play. His warning reminded me that this wasn't the world I controlled, but one in which I needed to appear redeemable.

“You think this is really going to work?” I whispered to Goldman, who smiled and nodded his head.

I glanced over at John Hightower, the prosecuting attorney. The frown on Hightower's face suddenly had me feeling a little cocky. The guy looked like his shirt had been buttoned up a little too tightly, which told me he wasn't feeling all too confident about his case against me.

When he noticed me looking at him, he glared openly, but I couldn't be mad because we would always be on opposite sides, like cops and robbers or cowboys and Indians, and as long as I was on the winning team, life was good. If that cheap-ass Men's Wearhouse discount suit was all he could afford for his hard work, then I had definitely chosen the right career.

“Gentlemen.” Judge McDougall finally put down the paperwork and addressed the lawyers. “After reading Mr. Goldman's motion, I'm going to need the prosecutor's office to provide a witness to corroborate this evidence,” she advised.

Hightower's face turned crimson. He looked ready to blow. “Our witness has disappeared, Your Honor, and the other witnesses we have refuse to come forward in fear for their lives and the lives of their family members. You see, Mr. Moss is not only a murderer, but—”

“Your Honor, I object! My client has not been convicted,” Goldman interjected.

Hightower looked satisfied that he'd landed a blow to my character in front of the judge, and he looked over at me like he was trying to send me a message with his smirk. Man, this dude was lucky we were meeting in a courtroom and under these conditions, 'cause anywhere else and his ass would be dead. I did not allow anyone anywhere to disrespect me.

The judge raised her hand. “Save it, Mr. Goldman. Mr. Hightower, due to the lack of evidence, we can no longer hold Mr. Moss on these charges without a corroborating witness,” she announced without the slightest hint of relief in her voice. “So I'm dismissing the murder charges.”

I reached out ready to slap palms with Goldman and let him know that a huge bonus would be included in his check.

“However, Mr. Moss!” Judge McDougall's harsh tone interrupted me. “While you may look at this as a reason to celebrate, I would not order the welcome home balloons just yet, if I were you. I am going to continue to hold you on the felony marijuana charge for which you failed to appear in 2012.”

“But, Your Honor, you just said that the charges my client is being held for are dismissed,” Goldman reminded her.

She ignored him and spoke sternly to me. This broad definitely didn't like me. “Mr. Moss, you've been in and out of my courtroom a dozen times, and yet again, you're skating on a technicality. While there is nothing I can do about that heavier sentence, you will be held on the felony marijuana charge.”

“Your Honor, I object,” Goldman said again. “My client has already been behind bars for the past two days, kept away from his son on trumped up charges. I'd like to make a motion for an R.O.R, or at least bail until trial.”

“Motion denied. Due to his lack of appearance on these charges, I consider Mr. Moss a flight risk.” The judge smiled, and I knew something was wrong. “I can offer Mr. Moss six months or a speedy trial, but we both know how backed up the courts are, don't we, councilor? Six months might just end up being a year, or perhaps eighteen months.”

“Your Honor, this is very unorthodox,” my lawyer shouted, throwing his hands up in exasperation. No doubt he was thinking about the bonus he would no longer be getting.

The look the judge served Goldman would have destroyed a lesser attorney, but he was used to being threatened, so it didn't faze him in the least.

“If I were your client, I would take that deal and not push it. There are a few other charges that can be associated with this case, such as intent to sell and distribution. Do you understand?” Judge McDougall challenged Goldman.

“Yes, Your Honor. Can I have a moment?” Goldman requested. The judge nodded, and my lawyer turned to me, speaking quietly. “Take the deal. I might be able to win eventually, but she'll have you waiting on trial for a good fifteen months, and she's not going to relent on bail.”

“Well, gentlemen?” the judge interrupted.

“I could do six months standing on my head,” I bragged before Goldman could say a word. I was feeling real pleased with myself.

“Well, thankfully for the people of the State of New York, you're going to do that six months as a ward of the state,” Judge McDougall snapped before banging down the gavel and putting an end to my case.

“I'm sorry. She seems to have something out for you,” Goldman said as he started gathering up his papers from the table.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone approaching the table, and I turned to see Bruce standing there. I wanted to say “Better late than never, motherfucker,” but he looked so stressed I held my tongue.

Goldman turned to the bailiff, who was prepared to escort me out of the courtroom and back to the jail in Riverhead.. “Can you give them a moment?”

The bailiff nodded and took a step back.

“Where you been, man?” I asked Bruce.

“I have some bad news,” he said with his eyes cast down toward the floor.

My stomach dropped. “Nothing happened to my son, did it?”

“No, no, he's all right. It's your brother Rodney.”

“What about him?”

“He was shot the other night behind Sugar's bar.”

I felt myself getting lightheaded, as if all the oxygen had left the room. “Shot by who? Who killed my brother, Bruce?” My little brother was a fuck-up, but he was my family.

“I don't know yet. I was in here with you until last night. I got ten grand on the streets. I'm working on it.”

“Well, work fucking harder!” I snapped then quickly backed up, remembering who I was talking to. If anyone was on my side, it was Bruce. “Hey, bro, sorry. I'm just pissed.” I lifted my shackled hands.

“No problem, man,” Bruce replied. “Don't worry, though. Rodney was like my little brother too. I got this.” I could tell by the look in his eyes that he meant every word.

“Bailiff, please remove Mr. Moss from the courtroom.” Judge McDougall pointed at me. Next thing I knew, two COs were on either side of me, leading me out of the room. I was overwhelmed with emotion and seriously felt the need to hurt somebody, but I knew that I couldn't risk getting any more time, so I played it cool.

“Bruce, I wanna know who killed my brother!” I shouted as the officers pulled me from the room. “Find that motherfucker!”