Sweet Violet and a Time for Love (6 page)

The reality that he'd missed such a key, pivotal lesson I'd taught him from the time he was born had been a swift kick to my gut. I was still emotionally bowed over, holding my stomach trying to recover.

And his foot had stayed in kick mode. He hadn't called. He wouldn't answer my calls. We'd never been this separated this long.

But he was standing in the doorway, waiting to be let in. Or waiting for me to come join him in the hallway.

A ding sounded in the hallway and I heard an elevator door open and the sharp commands of Alisa Billy spilled out.

“Sienna, we need to go now. This judge does not like any delays.”

Roman stepped aside, letting me exit the room and close the door behind me. “I'm only here until six this evening,” he said. “I have to be at the airport by eight.”

I heard his whisper, but saw the stubbornness in his stance. Why had he even shown up if he knew that we wouldn't get a chance to talk? His actions, his decisions were deliberate. He hadn't come to talk, I realized, just, perhaps, to say good-bye.

For good.

He sat in the back of the courtroom, squeezed in tightly with the audience, just outside the reach of the television camera's constant focus.

My son.

The fact that he didn't want to talk to me, yet insisted on watching me in this arena, bothered me.

“Ms. Sienna St. James Sanderson, are you ready, or do you need another moment to daydream?” the defense attorney snapped.

I looked back at her and smiled. “I'm ready, Ms. Deen.”

The defense attorney had on a black suit similar to the one I wore, except she didn't have the round belly I had. Her waistline looked like it could fit in my pants pocket.
Once I have this baby, I'm going to get my waistline back, no matter how long it takes.

Yeah, I was clearly distracted and not focused on my task at hand. I knew why, too. My son was watching me make a spectacle of myself and refusing to talk to me about the matter that had us currently separated.

And I didn't want to accidentally bring up my concerns about Sweet Violet. Leon's insistence for me not to made sense to me at the moment. The court, the lawyers, the police, and investigators know nothing about that woman, or my dealings with her. No need to bring more confusion to an already head-spinning case.

I looked over at the defendant, a young man the same age as my son. He glared back. They had him dressed in a black suit too.

We were all in black. I guessed to mourn the victims.

Ms. Marta had been the first one.

“Now, Ms. Sanderson St. James Sienna, you stated yesterday that you had no relation to any of the victims. Are you continuing with that assertion today?”

“Of course. I'm under oath and I have no reason to fabricate a story.”

“A simple yes or no would suffice,” the attorney snapped again. Alisa even looked at me annoyed. “Just stick to the script we practiced,” the prosecutor spoke to me with her eyes. I looked back at the defense attorney, Shanay Deen.

“I am sorry. Yes, I am still stating that I have no relationship with any of the unfortunate victims.”

Shanay nodded. “None of the victims were clients, friends, relatives, or coworkers of yours, correct?”

“I did not know any of the victims in any capacity.” I moved my mouth closer to the microphone. Did the woman not hear okay?

“Thank you. I have no further questions at this time.” The defense attorney nodded again, smiled as she turned back to her seat. I looked over at Alisa Billy who sat with the prosecuting team, raised an eyebrow, wondering why after such an intense first day of questioning, I was only asked one question on day two.

“The witness may—” the judge began. He was an older man with a heavily cratered and bumpy face. Reminded me of a bulldog for some reason. I guess that's why I was surprised the defense attorney cut him off midsentence.

“I'm sorry, actually, I do have one more question for you, Ms. St. James Sienna Sanderson.” The young lawyer looked excited, was almost breathless as she turned around and walked back toward me. “You stated that you did not know any of the victims, yet we have evidence that you had a phone conversation with the first victim, Ms. Marta Jefferson, just hours before she was found dead at an entrance of the women's shelter where she worked.” The attorney blinked at me, her face unreadable as the entire courtroom seemed to suck in a deep breath and lean closer in toward me.

Suffocating.

That's how I felt at the moment, and that was also the final autopsy report for Marta Jefferson. Before the single bullet pierced her head, she had been suffocated by an unknown object, from behind.

Close. Personal. The prosecution had used those words to describe the circumstances surrounding her death. I swallowed hard, the question that had been floating in my head for months back again at the forefront of my consciousness.

But Leon didn't think I should bring her up. Sweet Violet had nothing to do with any of it. She was harmless. Senile. A lost old woman who loved to dance to the music only she heard in her head.

“Well?” The attorney tapped a foot. She wore black heels that soared for days. Didn't her feet hurt in those things?

My mind seemed determined to stay on anything but the moment.

“I'm not sure what you're asking me.” It was an honest statement. What was the evidence that I had talked to Marta? Phone records? A recording? My documented notes in Sweet Violet aka Frankie Jean's hospital chart? They'd kept her name “Jane Doe” in the hospital records, I knew from KeeKee.
Does the hospital staff know about her?
The questions fired off in my head. Leon said not to bring her up. It would only complicate matters for an already complex case where all the evidence pointed to the man at the defendant's table.

Delmon Frank. Twenty-one years old. The same age as my son.

Our eyes met.

During my first conversation with him, he'd been smoking a cigarette.

Had asked if I was a cop.

“Ms. St. James, can you please explain why you stated that you did not know any of the victims, yet there is evidence that you spoke to at least one of them mere hours before her untimely demise?”

“I do not know what evidence you have, Ms. Deen, but I am being one hundred percent honest in saying that I did not know any of the victims. I spoke to Ms. Marta during a routine call related to a hospital matter. I called the women's shelter in an effort to assist a patient I was charged with that night.”

Even from several benches away, I could see Leon's eyes flutter in agitation. He didn't want me to say anything further. No purpose would be served other than to stir up confusion. The killer, who had piles of evidence against him, was already on trial. No need to throw in a monkey wrench on a case the prosecution fully expected to win.

Last year my gut feelings had helped me uncover a terrorist who wasn't even on the government's radar. I swallowed over the large, heavy lump in my throat.

That was a different situation. My gut was pretty certain. What I felt now was more of a question, and not firm enough of a question to bring up that dancing old woman and my unfounded suspicions about her.

Leon and I had an anniversary trip to take before our baby was born. Today needed to be my last day of testimony so that the case could move forward and I could board our plane to Florida.

“Can you share more about the conversation you had with Ms. Marta? What exactly was said?”

“Objection.” Those words sounded sweet coming from Alisa Billy. She was already on her feet at the prosecution desk. “This line of questioning has nothing to do with anything. Our witness, Ms. St. James, is not the one on trial. Delmon Frank is. Whether or not Ms. St. James had any interactions with the victims is irrelevant.”

The judge and the jury and the cameras turned back to the defense team.

“Your Honor,” Shanay Deen spoke slowly, and with a smile, “if I can establish that Ms. St. James is not fully and/or accurately disclosing her relationship to any of the victims, then all of her testimony, whether as an expert witness or an eyewitness, will need to be questioned. And if questioned, then, I would argue, her testimony would need to be thrown out.”

“Your Honor,” Alisa was not done, “Ms. St. James is a social worker. Within the normal realm of her tasks and duties, it is very possible that she could have interacted with the victims in the past. All of them have connections to the issues and matters Ms. St. James addresses within her profession.”

I felt like I was watching a Ping-Pong match, and was happy to see the lively back and forth between attorneys, until I realized that the ball was now back in my corner.

Seemed like the whole world was looking at me again. Had I missed something?

“Ms. St. James Sienna,” Shanay Deen was asking me, “to be clear for the record, is it your testimony that you do not want to disclose whether you may have had any interaction with any of the victims, in or outside of your professional tasks and role?”

“I did not personally know any of the victims.” It wasn't a lie. I hadn't known any of them personally, though I had some form of interaction with two of them just before their deaths.

The second victim's face flashed in my memory and I winced. The pain, the desperation, the wild look in her eyes; I owed it to all three murder victims to share whatever information I had to the court, but to offer any testimony about Sweet Violet, a woman whose identity I wasn't fully sure of and whose whereabouts remained continually unknown, would only add confusion. She really may have had nothing to do with the three deaths. To bring her up would be disastrous.

Delmon Frank stared at me from the defense's table.

Past life lessons had taught me not to bring up a matter unless and until I had enough details to keep a story standing.

And I had no details except the broken recollections of a woman who roamed the streets. Oh, and that pocket watch I would later discover.

“I did not know any of the victims,” I repeated, deciding, knowing that I would have to leave it at that. To give more information would open a door I wasn't sure how to close. I shut my eyes, wanting to block out the questions I had, the answers I didn't know how to get. I wanted the trial to be over; to hear Delmon pronounced guilty; to go on my trip with Leon; to finish getting ready for the baby.

To talk to my son Roman about the announcement he'd made that had torn my heart apart, ruined our relationship.

Too much happening in my head to be on the stand.

“Ms. St. James, are you still with us?”

I searched my brain, tried to figure out what words to say. The morning of Ms. Marta's death came back into my head.

I remembered coming back home following the first victim's death.

“Oh, you're home.” I almost jumped when I saw Leon. I'd just left the crime scene at A New Beginning House. I still had on my church clothes from the service I'd never made it to, the one Leon thought I was leaving to go home and rest because of illness.

“And you weren't home,” was Leon's reply.

I shut the door behind me as I entered our condo, trying to figure out how to respond to the sight of my husband stretched out across the sofa.

“Thought you were sick, babe, coming home to rest.” He said it lovingly, not accusingly as his large legs swung together and he got up from the sofa. “I was too worried about you to sit through service, so I had one of the church van fleet drivers drop me off. Thought you would be here.”

“I did too.” I dropped the clear plastic bag of Frankie Jean's things next to a large potted plant we kept in the foyer and joined him on the sofa. “I don't even know where to begin to explain.” It was the truth. Did I tell him about the crime scene I'd just encountered? Another wave of nausea rolled through my stomach.

I was going to have to tell him about the positive pregnancy tests soon. No way around it.

“I see you still have that patient's bag.” He nodded at the bag that had landed on the floor with a loud plop. I'd put the black handbag that the young girl Amber had given me inside the bag with the housecoat and worn slippers. The fact that the bag was sitting next to our potted plant and not in the garbage somewhere told Leon everything he needed to know about my intentions.

“One thing I love about you is your heart, your passion.” He stroked his goatee slowly as he spoke. Back in his green pajama bottoms and a sleeveless white tee, it was obvious that he had planned to come home and rest alongside me. “I admire your desire to help and not to rest on a matter until you see it all the way through. At some point, though, you're going to have to put that same determination into taking care of yourself.”

“I am taking care of myself.”

“No, you are trying to save the world. Admirable, but impossible.”

“Well, I did stop a terrorist.” I reminded him of the events of last year. “My determination then saved lives.”

“You have a point, but right now, I'm not talking about terrorists attacks. I'm talking about that bag you just dropped on the floor. I know you well enough to know you are about to get involved in a way that is unnecessary, and, for once, I'm asking you not to.”

“Why would you not want me to return someone's property? Being homeless doesn't make anyone less worthy of dignity.”

“Sienna, it's not going to stop at returning the bag. This is only the beginning, and we both know it. You have a knack for getting too involved and then finding yourself in danger.”

“Leon, I think you are overreacting. It's a bag with a housecoat and slippers.”
And a purse.
I left that part out. “I'm just going to make sure it gets back to its owner and that is all. No terrorist attacks, danger, threats, or other catastrophes. Just a bag filled with what appears to be all the earthly belongings of an older homeless woman.”

Leon jumped to his feet, marched to the foyer, and picked it up.

“What are you doing?” I followed him.

“I got this.” He shook his head. “I get that you are not going to stop until you've returned it to her, so I will help. I'll do anything to put an end to your distractions.”

“My distractions? What does that exactly mean?”

“It means that for the five months that we've been married, you've been putting more time and energy into complete strangers who you think need help instead of spending time with your husband who needs you.”

“Complete strangers? What are you talking about? I've just been working at my practice and have volunteered a few weekends to help at that hospital. These things aren't really any different from what I was doing before we married, so, I'm not understanding what the problem is here.”

“It's not just your job, Sienna. I have a business too that requires me to work late and long hours, but you could never question that I strive to keep you first. Time is a precious thing, and I make spending time with you a priority.”

“Wait a minute. Are you accusing me of not making you a priority? I get that time is precious, but are you getting how crazy my schedule is? Besides work and volunteering, I still have the occasional interview or appearance, and now I'm supposed to be working on this book. Wait, is that what it is? You don't like the attention I'm getting while you are struggling to keep your bakery open?” Even I felt the sting—no, the hard, echoing slap—that were my words. “I'm sorry, Leon. I didn't mean that. You know I didn't mean that. I'm not feeling like myself these days. My moods . . .”
Oh, Jesus.
I was really pregnant. I could feel the stew of rolling hormones and emotions boiling all through me.

“Sienna, I'm not going to fight with you.” Leon sounded defeated. “I'm just letting you know that I need more of your time. We are newlyweds and the days and weeks and minutes we have right now are setting the stage for the rest of our marriage production. I want the happily ever after with you.”

“And we are having our happily ever after right now.” I reached up to embrace him, praying he wouldn't smell my vomit-tinged breath.

“I know. I just don't want anything to come between us.” We both looked down at the plastic bag still in his hand. The bag swung off his wrist and bounced between us, preventing me from fully embracing him.

“Give the bag to me. I'll check to make sure there is nothing that might give a clue to her whereabouts. I promise you, once this is off my hands, I will make a point not to get involved in anything extra again. I'll just stick to the children I'm working with at my practice, finish my memoir for the publisher, and spend the next fifty years loving on you.”
And our child.
I pushed down a dry swallow.
Can Leon even handle that news right now?

“Whatever you say, Sienna.” Leon gave me the bag and turned toward our bedroom. “I'm going to change back into my suit and head back to church. I'll catch the next service. Clearly you don't need me here right now.”

“Leon, don't talk like that.” I started to follow him into the room, but I had the sudden urge to pee. Pregnancy could bring a lot of annoying symptoms, I was remembering. The mood swings, the throwing up, the constant need to stay in the bathroom. And that was just the first trimester.

What am I saying to myself?
I shook my head as I entered the bathroom and closed the door shut behind me. I pulled open the vanity drawer, lifted up the towels that were covering the positive tests. “I'll call Dr. Baronsen in the morning.” I slid the drawer shut and then reached for my household cleaning supplies under the sink. Snapping a pair of yellow gloves on, I opened the plastic bag and dumped its contents into the bowl of the vanity. After making sure no bugs or other horrors were evident on the purse that had been hidden inside, I studied the outside of it.

It was an old-fashioned handbag, a worn patent leather clutch bag with a broad shoulder strap and tarnished silver clasps. A long shot, I knew, but maybe a wallet, an ID, something would be inside that would let me know where to take it, where to leave it. As crazy as it felt and sounded, I couldn't just throw this stuff away. I needed to get it to where it belonged so I could move on with my life.

Move on with my marriage.

Does pregnancy make you a little crazy?

I looked in the mirror, tried to picture me with a baby bump, and then I looked back at the bag.

I held my breath as the clasp gave way, realizing that I was afraid of what odor could roll out of its hidden bowels, considering how bad her breath had been. But there was no odor. In fact there was nothing at all. I sighed, wondering what to do next? Just throw it away? Keep the bag in my car in case I saw her while driving around Baltimore? Keep it at Leon's bakery to see if she'd come rapping on the glass again? His shop was near the Harbor, as was the shelter where she last reportedly was. She had to be in the area somewhere, though Sister Agnes, the woman who ran the shelter, seemed to have no knowledge of who Frankie Jean or Sweet Violet was.

That fact bothered me.

Maybe that's why I could not let the bag go. Knowing that a vulnerable old woman was walking the streets of Baltimore unknown and unnoticed made the social worker in me want to do something about it, even something as small as ensuring that she got back her belongings. A housecoat, purse, and slippers. She had to have other clothes somewhere. Where could she be? What was her story? What is her right or real name?
Stop it, Sienna! Don't get involved. You can't save everybody.
I wasn't just a social worker anymore. I was a wife who had her own family and needs to attend to.

There was nothing else I could do, I decided, other than keep it in the trunk of my car in case I ran into her in the street. In the trunk, it would be safe, accessible, and out of the sight of Leon. The bag was an eyesore to my marriage, representing my unwillingness to let things go; things that ate away my time with Leon.

What was the Christian thing to do in all of this?

I'd gotten back into the Word lately. Prayed more. Went to church every Sunday, Bible Study when I wasn't busy.

What would Jesus do? I chuckled to myself thinking of the bracelets and bumper stickers with the WWJD acronym that was popular back in the 1990s. I chuckled, but the question felt real to me.

I had a husband who was, despite Leon's perception, my priority. I also felt a pull of compassion for the vulnerable that insisted that I act, a pull that had led me to my career, that had pushed me to my present roles.

Where was the balance?

And what about my time?

Leon had practically accused me of mismanaging my time—no, my priorities—but didn't he realize and respect the demands on my schedule and my attempt to balance it all? He was my husband, not a baby. Was that what he needed? A caretaker?

I could feel the heat rising from the top of my head. I imagined wisps of steam rising from off of me like a cartoon character, asterisks, exclamation marks, symbols and all.

I felt like cussing.

My moods.

This was going to be a long nine months.

I had a husband and I was about to have a baby. How could anyone think I would ever have “time” again?” All I had at the moment was the pressing need to pee again and to throw up. And I also had an empty black handbag from a homeless woman whose name and whereabouts I didn't know.

Empty. I threw the bag down into the bowl of the sink with the other useless items. No, wait, what was that sound? I picked up the bag again and shook it. Something was inside. A distinct rustling noise sounded when I shook the bag with the tips of my gloved fingers.

I opened the clasped bag and stared down into the darkness. Didn't see anything.
Unless
. . . There was a small zippered compartment on one side. I opened it. Nothing. I shook the bag and heard the rustling noise again.

There was definitely something in this bag, but where?

I kept a flashlight in my vanity drawer, in case there was ever a power outage while I was in the bathroom. It was a secret fear of mine, being stuck in the dark in an enclosed space with no way to see, the aftereffect of a traumatic experience I'd had a couple of years ago when I was kidnapped and bound and nearly killed, all because I'd tried to help a secret-filled couple who sought me for premarital counseling.

That's another story.

I grabbed the flashlight, flicked it on, and shone it inside the purse's dark cavity to make sure I had not missed any other compartments.

“That's odd.”

A row of bright red thread zigzagged just underneath the zippered pocket, as if there had been a tear in the lining that had been crudely repaired.

A slight lump bulged from the lining. I would have missed it, thought it insignificant if I hadn't seen the thread.

Using a fingernail clipper to cut through one of the threads, I pulled the string out in one single movement. The lining gave way to a hole. I sighed in disappointment as I realized the only thing behind the lining was old, yellowed newspaper. Filler, I figured. I stuffed the paper back into the lining. Took off the gloves.

What had I been expecting to find? Cleary the purse had been torn and someone had taken steps to repair it, though a third grader probably could have done a better job. I was about to toss the purse pack into the plastic bag when I realized I'd missed stuffing some of the newspaper back into the lining. A scrap lay on the floor, balled up, the size of a sausage patty.

It was too early to have cravings, right? Why did I have the sudden urge for a breakfast sandwich? I realized then that I had not yet eaten anything that day.

I'd already taken off the gloves so I picked up a corner of the small balled-up scrap with my fingertips, ready to just toss it into a nearby wastebasket. As the paper went airborne, something gold and shiny slid out and landed with a soft thud inside the wicker trashcan. I grabbed the can and dumped all the contents on the floor, trying to determine what that object that had been tucked inside the newspaper was.

Found it.

A pocket watch.

Looking like it was made from real gold, a man's pocket watch hung from my fingers from a long chain. A faded inscription was on its rear, too faded and worn to make out.

I opened the watch, and, as I expected, it was dead, stopped at the time 5:11. Those numbers meant nothing to me.