Heartbreak of a Hustler's Wife: A Novel (7 page)

Prosecutor Lawrence Little III stood to his full height of 5′7″, straightened his yellow tie, then cleared his throat before speaking. “The state recommends that the defendant be remanded into the state’s custody without bond, Your Honor.”

Underneath her breath, Yarni quipped, “I bet the state does.”

Yarni and this particular prosecuting attorney had never gotten along and had been through more than their share of heated litigation battles. Yarni was well aware that Little hated her guts. Aside from him being a male chauvinist, he felt like she wasn’t worthy of having a law degree. Let Little tell it—and he did every chance he got—he was sure that Des was still involved in some type of criminal activity. How else could a black man that wasn’t an entertainer or professional athlete afford to buy a Bentley? Where would he get money to start up an exotic car dealership the moment he was released from prison? And birds of a feather flocked together, as far as Little was concerned. Which made Mrs. Yarnise Taylor guilty by association. He lived for the day when he could prove his theories and convict Des. That would truly make his dick hard. But he wouldn’t climax until he found a way to have Yarni disbarred.

Yarni welcomed the opportunity to once again defeat Little but she was starting to have second thoughts about the case. If the guy she knew as Bug was her client’s boyfriend, and he remembered that she had shot him, things could get complicated. Surely it was a conflict of interest that could come back to bite her later, she thought. She decided she’d shoot for the bond, spanking the prosecutor, then dismiss herself from the case.

“Your Honor, my client has lived in the Richmond area her entire life. She is the sole support for her four-year-old daughter and has no reason, nor any desire, to skip her obligation of attending trial. In fact,” Yarni added, “she relishes the opportunity to clear her name of these undeserving charges.” Then she turned to and peered over at her courtroom nemesis with professional courtesy. To no one’s surprise, Prosecutor Little wasn’t done yet.

“Ms. Londers,” Little started again, “is a career criminal who was once connected to the infamous Waltz-Londers Gang that terrorized the south side of Richmond just a few years back. These people were known for using violence and intimidation, as casually as you and I put our shoes and socks on in the morning.”

“This is ridiculous, Judge.” Yarni folded her arms as she stood, when Little had finished. “The trial of the Waltz-Londers Gang, as they were labeled by the media, took place nearly twenty years ago. That would have made my client about five or six years old. Clearly Prosecutor Little is exaggerating, or delusional, or both. Her connection, as Mr. Little put it, is nonexistent. Because of my client’s last name, Mr. Little has essentially handcuffed her to the ghost of Richmond’s past in an attempt to paint a picture that just doesn’t exist.” Yarni had everyone’s attention. “Moreover—”

The judge interrupted. “I’ve heard enough, Counselors.” She looked over Tangaleena’s rap sheet. “Ms. Londers, I see you’ve got some anger issues—however, I think we may be able to agree on an equitable outcome based on what I’ve heard. How about I set a bond at fifty thousand dollars, and—”

“With all due respect, Judge Fairchild,” Yarni voiced her opinion, “fifty thousand may be a bit excessive given the circumstances.”

“Your client is a,” Little interrupted, speaking over Yarni, “your client is no lady. She’s a menace to society,” Little blurted out.

“The only menace here is you,” Yarni shot back.

Judge Fairchild gave a piercing stare to Little, and Yarni felt the pendulum sway her way. “Don’t press your luck, Counselor Pitman-Taylor—or you, Counselor Little. This isn’t a suggestion, it is my ruling.” She removed her glasses as if to finalize her point. “Bail is set at thirty thousand, and Ms. Londers, you must stay out of trouble. One hit, one punch, one uppercut, one jay-walking, and your bond will be revoked. Do you understand?”

Tangaleena nodded.

Yarni smiled. “Thank you very much, Your Honor.” The interruption was well worth getting the judge to drop 20k off her own original decision.

As the bailiff was placing the handcuffs back on Tangaleena’s wrists, Yarni leaned in and softly asked her client if she thought she would be able to raise the money for the bond.

“Yes, I think so. Thank you so much,” Tangaleena responded with a sigh of relief, visibly proud that this woman was her attorney.

“No problem, but I’m going to need you to come by my office when you get out of here.” The deputy was in a hurry to haul Tangaleena back to the holding cell, so Yarni quickly let the words roll off her tongue as she put a business card in the shirt pocket of her client’s jail uniform.

Tangaleena nodded. “I’ll be there as soon as I break outta here.” The bailiff took her to the back. Her family would only have to come up with three thousand dollars, ten percent of the thirty thousand to get her out. Tangaleena looked at her mother, who was now standing at the first pew. “Baby, Dougie got a bondman on standby, so you should be out in a little while. Okay?” Mrs. Londers spoke to her daughter.

Tangaleena nodded as the deputy led her off.

Yarni looked toward the rear of the courtroom for the man whose ass she had busted a cap in back in the day. He was nowhere to be found, though. It was as if he’d disappeared into thin air.

Dragon Balls

The brownstone that housed the law firm of Pitman-Taylor had been restored beyond its original brilliance and sat regally in the heart of the historic and legendary Jackson Ward. It was in this same neighborhood where the first black female banker, Maggie Walker, lived, and the famous tap dancer Bill “Bojangles” Robinson and his friends once partied. Ironically, at one time it was also the home of Richmond’s most infamous housing projects.

Yarni loved the area with all its rich African American history. There was never a dull moment in Jackson Ward, with its diverse culture comprised of people from all walks of life and social settings. There were the old and new residents, the black and the white, the rich and the poor. The neighborhood was a character in itself and seemed to keep Yarni grounded somehow. Her office
was meticulously furnished, although on some days, like today, the aesthetics would be disturbed by the stacks of folders thrown haphazardly across her French-style desk. Let her tell it, some of her best strategies came from the energy of the clutter that surrounded her.

Since returning from court, she had closed herself off in her office, fully focused on work, not wanting to deal with any of the madness that was going on in her personal life. She had been going over the same case for more than two hours when Layla, her assistant and office paralegal, buzzed.

“There’s a Ms. Tangaleena Londers here to see you, but she doesn’t have an appointment. She said you told her to come by once she got out of the slammer.”

Layla always delivered messages exactly the way she received them.

“They sure didn’t waste any time bailing her out,” Yarni said. “Ask her how about we schedule her for tomorrow. This appeal I’m working on is kicking my butt.”

“That’s why I’m sending her in—you need to break up some of the monotony.” And the phone went dead.

Layla was good at her job but she could be a bit pushy sometimes.

Moments later there was a slight tap on the door and Yarni said, “Come in.” When it opened, she was impressed by how well Tangaleena looked out of the jail uniform.

A young lady with a bronze complexion, long auburn hair extensions that had been straightened out and a thin build, with some Marc Jacobs frames covering her eyes, walked into the office.

Yarni stood to shake her hand. “How are you, Ms. Londers?” Yarni smiled, then pointed to a chair. “Have a seat.” She then looked to her assistant. “Thank you, Layla,” signaling that it was okay for her to get back to work.

Tangaleena sat in the yellow leather chair. She removed her sunglasses and placed them in her Marc Jacobs bag. “First, let me say that I was very pleased with you today in court.”

“I’m glad it was to your satisfaction. Thank you very much.” But Yarni didn’t hesitate to get down to business. “So what exactly happened?” The fact that she’d planned to remove herself from the case was the last thing on Yarni’s mind. Tangaleena was shifting in the chair, which showed that she was a little uncomfortable. Yarni looked into her client’s eyes. “And I’d like to remind you that whatever you say here can’t and
won’t
be held against you, because of attorney/client privilege.”

“Well, since you put it like that.” Tangaleena looked down and was playing with her hands, but becoming a little more comfortable. “It’s sort of a long story.” She sighed. “I hope you have a minute.”

“I do,” Yarni told her, at this point glad that she had taken the break from the appeal she was working on. There was something about Tangaleena that she liked.

Leaning forward in the leather chair on the opposite side of the desk, the young woman still appeared nervous. Maybe it was more fear than nerves; the two emotions shared the same DNA. Tangaleena took a deep breath. “If I don’t beat this case, my life might as well be over,” she surmised.

“Why do you say that? The charges you have against you are serious but it’s not that bad.”

“Yeah, but things are really complicated. There’s more here than what’s seen on the surface.”

“Then help me see what you see.” Yarni gave Tangaleena her undivided attention.

“Well, I adopted a beautiful little girl three years ago. At the time she was one year old. Her mother was a straight crackhead.” She shook her head. “Just a no-good junkie.”

A slight smile spread across Yarni’s lips. Ignoring the last comment, she said, “Oh, how sweet. My sister did the same thing, she adopted a child too.” She let the girl continue telling her story.

“Well, maybe you can understand my plight, then.” She made eye contact with Yarni. “The baby’s father is my first cousin, we call ’im Shortee. He was sentenced to thirty years in prison for robbery the day Spumante was born. Spumante is the little girl.”

Yarni wanted to shake her head at the poor child’s name, but stayed focused on the topic at hand instead.

But Tangaleena must have read Yarni’s mind. “Yeah, I know,” she said. “The name, right? Her momma thought she was giving her a French name.”

Yarni remained silent. She’d learned over the years of being an attorney that the less she intervened, the more people tended to talk.

“Make no mistake about it; both of the parents are a hot ass mess. Matter of fact, the best thing that Shortee could have ever done in his miserable life was to give his sperm to create that child. But this ain’t about him; this here is about her crackhead carrier, Chiquita. Three days after delivering Monte, that’s what I call her, she figured out that she had no intention of raising a
baby. So she brought Monte to my eighty-five-year-old grandmother’s house, supposedly went to the bathroom, and slipped out through the back door. The next time any of us heard from her, she showed up trying to sell us some baby clothes that she had boosted from a discount store. Am I moving too fast?” she stopped to ask Yarni, who was taking notes.

“You are not moving fast enough” is what Yarni wanted to say, but she simply responded, “Not at all.”

“You know I’m about to tell you the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God. You gotta believe this is what happened.”

“I’m all ears.”

“I’m going to give it to you, exactly the way it went down.”

Yarni turned to a clean page on her legal pad, kicked back, turned her listening ear on high, and took a ride down memory lane with her client.

“After not hearing from Chiquita for nearly four years, I got a call from Shortee,” Tangaleena started, relaying the conversation and that day’s events verbatim.

“Whadit do, cuzo?”

“Nothing much. Spumante watching TV and I’m trying to straighten up around here.”

“How baby girl doing?”

“She’s doing good, just growing big.”

“Yo, let me make this shit real quick, ’cause they be tripping ’bout the phone ’round here.”

“A’ight then, don’t worry about the small talk. What’s good? What you need?” Tangaleena figured that Shortee either needed something or had some kind of prison gossip to pass on.