Authors: Haywood Smith

Tags: #Fiction, #Contemporary Women

Wife-In-Law (7 page)

BOOK: Wife-In-Law

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“Bitch, you cut my beard!” he hollered.

Cheers erupted from my guests, inside and out.

“Nobody gets away with that,” he bellowed, drawing back a fist.

The onlookers gasped, but before he could hit me, Kat leaped up and hung on his cocked arm to stop him. “No, Moose! Don’t. This is a nonviolent protest. Peace, man. Peace!”

Meanwhile, the braver of my guests came out onto the porch to back me up.

Furious, Moose stroked the scraggly remaining tress of his beard. “I’ll sue you for doing this to me!” he shouted, towering over me.

“But we’re not finished,” I said cheerfully. “I’m sure you’ll love it when we’re all done.” I looked to the stylist. “I’m thinking crew cut. What do you say?”

Stephen blanched, eyes wide.

Then a skinny male protester with a ponytail jumped up and pointed at me. “That’s assault and battery,” he accused. “I was a law student. That’s assault and battery.”

I knew all about assault and battery from growing up in my old neighborhood. “Actually,” I said sweetly, “assault is a threat of harm or violence.” I scanned my watching guests. “We have plenty of witnesses, here. Were any threats of harm or violence made?”

“No!” they responded as one.

Defensive, the ex-law student stuck out his chin. “Well, you can’t cut somebody’s hair without their permission!” He waggled his finger. “That’s battery, and battery is a felony.”

He didn’t scare me. “But I had tacit permission, which
is
permission, by default,” I responded, undaunted.

“That’s garbage,” another of the prone protesters said from behind the hand shielding his long moustache from potential attack.

“No, it’s a tacit agreement,” I said, eliciting more applause from the onlookers. I stepped over to stand behind the head of another longhair. “Once again, anybody who doesn’t want a makeover
must
go to the sidewalk. Failure to do so will constitute your permission for a makeover, complete with shave and haircut.”

“This is pure crap!” Moose thundered. “I’m gittin’ outta here and callin’ the cops.”

“Feel free to use my phone,” I told him sweetly as he stomped toward Kat’s house, “but be sure to mention that you and your friends are criminally trespassing and assaulted my guests.”

“You’re not getting rid of us this easily,” the ex-law student said, flopping back down beside the others, who stayed put.

I turned to ask them, “Anyone else like to leave? ’Cause if you don’t, you’re all going to get a shave and a haircut.”

“Betsy, stop it,” Kat said from her spot on the ground, “before things get out of hand.”

“You stop it,” I told her, the first hint of anger creeping into my voice. “You’re supposed to be my best friend. No best friend would embarrass me like this. Why would you do such a thing?”

“You know I’m an activist. It’s a matter of principle,” she shot back, “not personal.”

“Well, it feels pretty personal to me,” I retorted. “I’m against smoking pot on principle, but you don’t see me calling the cops, do you, when these bozos start toking at your house, in plain sight?”

A shocked murmur went up from the onlookers.

Kat turned beet red. “I cain’t believe you’d bring that up in front of all these people.”

At least I hadn’t included her in my accusation. I motioned to the twenty women on the other side of the human blockade. “And I can’t believe you would keep all these people from coming to my party. It’s typical of you liberals. You want your freedom, but don’t want anybody else to have theirs.”

Applause and approval from my guests.

Suddenly I became aware that Kat and I had become the main attraction, so I forced myself to calm down and get back on plan.

I smiled and turned the clippers back on. “Okay. Since our first makeover winner decided to leave, I’ll choose somebody else.” I did a quickstep to the next protester and, catching him by surprise, grabbed a hank of his greasy bangs, then managed to buzz a strip from forehead to crown before his shock wore off and he escaped.

Cussing a blue streak, he told his cronies I was crazy, and he was leaving, and they should leave too, before I struck again. Apparently, the rest of the men decided the game wasn’t fun anymore. I mean, principles were one thing, but hair was another, and anybody who tells you men aren’t vain doesn’t know what they’re talking about.

“I didn’t sign on for this,” one of them complained as he got up and collected his placard.

“Me neither,” said the one with the moustache. The rest of the men got up and headed for Kat’s too, leaving her with only a handful of women.

Immediately, my waiting guests shot the gaps and headed inside, congratulating me on their way.

“All right,” Kat said to me as she got up. “You win this one, but I’m not through.”

“Bring those people back onto my property,” I said firmly, “and I will have you all arrested.”

“Why didn’t you do it in the first place?” she challenged.

“Because I thought you were my friend.” Turning my back, I shepherded the last of my guests inside, then closed the door behind me.

I had trusted her, let her into my heart, told her my secrets—well, some of them—and she’d betrayed me … for
political principles
. My stomach roiled.

Sissy Adams, sitting in one of the wingback chairs, looked out the front window. “The last of the protesters are going across the street,” she announced. “Thank goodness.” She turned back to tell me, beaming, “This was the most exciting thing that’s happened to me since high school. Where can I sign up to join?”

Sarah waved the membership forms. “I have the sign-ups right here. Everyone who joins is eligible for the makeover drawing. Who’d like one?”

Hands went up everywhere as conversation swelled.

Sarah started distributing the forms. “When everyone’s finished filling them out, we’ll draw three for the makeovers.”

“Just as long as Betsy doesn’t do them,” a girl on my ALTA team (Atlanta Lawn Tennis Association) called out.

Laughter evaporated the lingering tension, and the party went on as planned. Forty of the fifty-three guests present signed up as Republican Women, making the event a smashing success.

All was well until thirty minutes later, when we were all sipping tea and watching Stephen give the first makeover winner, drab Helen Foster, a cute shag haircut.

At the sound of cars and voices from the street, Sissy looked out and said, “Uh-oh,” immediately diverting everyone’s attention.

I went to the window and saw that a Fulton County sheriff’s car had pulled up in front of Kat’s, and two deputies were standing on her front walk surrounded by gesturing protesters, all talking at once and pointing to my house, while Kat looked on from her front porch, doing nothing to stop it.

My stomach ricocheted off my diaphragm.
They
had called the cops on
me
!

That tore it. I’d been Kat’s friend, and this was how she repaid me.

A subdued buzz swelled behind me as my guests started getting up to see what was going on. “Hold that thought,” Helen told Stephen as she joined them, still in her plastic cover.

While the policemen were taking notes and trying to maintain order, the WSB-TV van pulled up behind the squad car, and a reporter and a cameraman started setting up on the sidewalk.

A low moan escaped me. “Looks like I didn’t dodge that bullet, after all.”

Cindy Ashe came up and put her arm around my shoulder. “Don’t you worry, sweetie. If they try to make trouble, my husband”—an up-and-coming trial lawyer downtown—“will take care of this for you. Don’t you worry one little bit.” She looked to the others. “We’ll tell them what really happened, won’t we?”

Affirmation surrounded me.

Across the street, the camera cranked up as the reporter started interviewing the guy I’d skunk-striped.

Sarah wrung her hands. “Everyone, why don’t we go back to the makeover?” She did her best to shepherd the girls back to their rented chairs, but the real show was outside.

We all watched as the reporter tried to interview the deputies, then followed them up to my driveway, where the policemen motioned them back onto public property.

Poised, the cameraman kept shooting while the deputies came up and rang the bell.

Just damn.
Kat had set me up, and now the law was at
my
doorstep!

Nine

T
he deputies looked truly apologetic. “I’m sorry to disturb you ladies,” the shorter one said, “but we’d like to speak to”—he glanced at his notepad—“Miz Betsy Callison, please.”

This could
not
be happening. I’d never even gotten a traffic ticket, and here was the law on my doorstep.

Act as if, act as if, act as if.
My heart beating so hard I could hear my pulse, I answered with a composure I did not feel. “I am she.”

“Miz Callison,” the deputy said, “two men across the street claim you cut their hair without their permission.” His partner grinned with approval. “Is this true?”

“No,” I told them. “They, and all the others over there, were trespassing on my property and preventing my guests from entering.”

“In a very threatening way,” Cindy piped up from beside me.

One of her friends said, “I want to press charges! They blocked my way in a very menacing fashion.”

The policemen looked to the others, who had gathered behind me. “Is this true?”

They all started talking at once in affirmation.

The policeman raised his hands. “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” He looked to me. “Is it all right if we come inside and take statements?”

I stepped back. “Please do.” I turned around. “Could everybody please just sit down? The deputies want to take your statements.”

Immediately, they obeyed, the gleam of righteous anger in their eyes as they sat, straight-backed, waiting for a chance to weigh in.

Alicia appeared with two plates piled high. She batted her eyelashes at the taller deputy, who was practically salivating. “Would you two gentlemen like a little something to eat while you’re working?”

The younger deputy reached out, but his partner smacked his arm with the notebook, saying, “Thank you so much, ma’am, but we’re on duty, here.”

“Maybe later,” his disappointed partner whispered behind the older man’s back. “After we’re done.”

“Absolutely,” Alicia murmured with a seductive look.

“Jack,” the older deputy ordered him, “you interview Miz Callison. When you’re done, you can help me with the others.”

Jack cast a long look at the retreating food, then turned to me and opened his notepad, pen poised. “All right, Miz Callison. Could you please explain to the best of your ability what happened here?”

I did. When I got to the part about cutting the beard and hair, he laughed out loud, earning a scowl from his partner, then apologized and finished taking my statement. When we were done, he shook his head and murmured, “Boy, are the guys back down at the station gonna love this.”

Once everyone was finished, the older partner came to me with, “This is pretty complicated, ma’am. I’m gonna have to call in and get some clarification about the legalities. Could you please wait here? I’ll be right back.” He pointed to Jack. “Stay.”

We watched him exit. “He doesn’t like you much,” I asked Jack, “does he?”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Jack confided.

“Maybe this will help,” Alicia said, handing him the plate of food and a tall iced tea.

Jack beamed. “I do believe it will.” One eye on the door, the deputy started gobbling it down like a famine victim.

“Show’s over,” Alicia announced, leading Helen Foster back to the makeover chair. “Stephen, could you please finish Helen’s haircut?”

“Absolutely,” he said with relief, but nobody paid attention when he resumed. We were all waiting for the deputy to come back.

Cindy gave me a sidelong hug. “Don’t you worry, honey. I already called Forrest, and my daddy.” A lawyer too, I assumed. “If they try anything, we’re ready for them.”

“Thanks. That makes me feel much better,” I lied.

An approaching siren broke the silence as Stephen finished Helen’s hair, almost drowning out his “And voilà,” as he fluffed the flattering shag.

The doorbell rang, and Jack jumped up and stashed the remaining crumbs of his food as Alicia opened the door and let the older deputy in.

Hands gripped in my lap, I said a fervent prayer that this would all go away.

The older deputy walked over to Jack and whispered something, then Jack left.

He then approached me with a sheepish, “Miz Callison, much as it pains me to have to do this, I’m gonna have to ask you to come downtown with me. Since charges have been filed on both sides, we’re gonna have to take everybody in and let a judge sort this out.”

My guests erupted in protest.

Arrested? I was being
arrested
?

“Normally,” the deputy said, “we’d take everybody down and book them, then wait for the judge to set bail. But because of the …”—I swear, he almost smiled—“unusual circumstances here, one of our Superior Court judges has agreed to hear the charges immediately.”

A smug look on her face, Cindy clutched my shoulders. “Do not say a word till Forrest gets there. No small talk, no nothing. Not one word, except, ‘I want to see my lawyer.’ I’ll call him, then be right behind you in my car.” She gave me a peck on the cheek. “See you in court, sweetie.” She smiled in reassurance. “Trust me, this is going to go away.”

Alicia spoke for the rest of my supporters. “We’re coming too. We’re witnesses.”

I motioned to her as I rose. “Please call Greg and tell him what’s happened, first,” I asked. Not that he could do anything from Chicago. “His number is beside my bed.”

Alicia nodded. “Don’t worry, honey. I’ll get him.”

He was going to kill me for this. Especially if the firm’s name got dragged into it.

Fighting back tears, I faced the deputy. “Are you going to handcuff me?”

Sympathy softened his features. “No, ma’am. As long as you cooperate, that won’t be necessary.”

Thank God. “I’ll cooperate.”

“I really am sorry about this.” He took my arm. “If you’ll just come with me …”

Feeling like I was living a Fellini movie, I went outside to find cameras from not only WSB, but WAGA and WXIA aimed my way.

Across the street on her porch, Kat jumped up in dismay as the protesters cheered my arrest. But their cheers stopped abruptly when three more patrol cars and a paddy wagon, sirens fading, ran the stop sign at the corner and headed their way. The cameras did a one-eighty to record their arrival.

Jack hollered for everyone to remain where they were, but one of the protesters booked it for the hills. The cameras captured Jack’s pursuit and apprehension of the runner. Meanwhile, six patrolmen corralled the rest of the demonstrators, then herded them into the paddy wagon amid protests of “pig” and “fascist.”

Halfway down the driveway by then, I halted abruptly in fear. “Are you going to put me in there with
them
?” Heaven only knew what would happen, if he did.

“No, ma’am,” the deputy assured me. “You’ll be with Jack and me.”

Another small blessing in the midst of chaos. “Thank you so much.”

Meanwhile, a significant number of my guests made for their cars to follow. “Remember,” Cindy called as I was escorted into the backseat of the squad car, “don’t say anything till Forrest gets there!”

I turned my head to escape the blinding glare of the cameras as the patrol car inched through the confusion for what seemed like ten minutes. Then, at last, we left them behind.

Dear heaven. My arrest was going to be on the nightly news.

I prayed that UFOs would buzz the White House, or anything of similar newsworthiness that would bump my story to oblivion, where it belonged.

Obeying Cindy’s instructions, I didn’t say a word all the way downtown. Sirens blaring, the paddy wagon caught up with us and followed the rest of the way to the Georgia Superior Court building, where a crowd of reporters waited.

“Maybe we ought to take her to a secure entrance,” Jack suggested.

His partner nodded. “For once, a good idea.”

So while the media cannibalized the protesters, we went around back where I was able to get out, unobserved, at a secure parking area, then make it to the courtroom unmolested by the media.

The bench was empty when we entered from a back hallway. “Ma’am, if you’ll please just sit right here,” Jack told me, indicating a chair beside the far table facing the bench.

“Thank you.” I sat, my legs still trembling.

One of the two bailiffs, a heavyset black man, came up and offered a gentle, “May I get you some water, ma’am?”

I realized my mouth was dry as dust. “Thank you. Please.”

Everyone was being so nice.

I wondered if they’d be that nice if I were black, or looked like Kat and her friends.

Speak of the devil, the doors to the courtroom burst open as the deputies led in the protesters, followed by a huge crowd of reporters and spectators.

I’d expected the reporters, but the others … Where had
they
come from? I watched the seats fill to capacity with a smattering of hippies and a jillion executive types clad in expensive professional attire. More than a few in suits waved to me or gave me the thumbs-up.

What was going on? All I’d done was use a blunt object to cut part of a beard and one swipe of hair from the trespassers on my property, after I’d given them plenty of time to leave.

Embarrassment sent heat surging up from my chest, setting my ears aflame.
Please, Lord, let something earthshaking happen somewhere else, right this minute—with no loss of life or property, of course. Anything, to take the attention off me. All I did was cut some trespassers’ hair and beard!

Cindy’s husband, an impeccably dressed, good-looking guy with a thick mane of dark hair, strode into the courtroom and made a beeline for me. When he extended his hand to shake mine, I noted his starched French cuffs and real gold cuff links. “Hi, Betsy. You probably don’t remember me, but I’m Cindy’s husband, Forrest. We met at the last fund-raiser.”

I didn’t know how cold my hands were till I shook his warm one. “Of course I remember you. Thank you so much for coming. This whole thing is so crazy.”

He nodded, grasping my upper arm with his free hand in reassurance. “Don’t worry. Cindy filled me in. This shouldn’t take long.” He gave me a conspiratorial wink. “Remember, at times like this, it’s not what you know, but who you know.”

Whatever that meant.

“Thank you so much for coming,” I told him, my voice shaky. “I’ll be happy to pay you—”

He raised a staying hand. “Don’t even think of it. What are friends for?”

Another blessing, and not a small one. “I
really
appreciate that.” The knot in my chest eased a smidgen. Greg wouldn’t be quite so mad if this didn’t cost us anything.

A tingle in my back prompted me to turn around and look at the protesters sitting in the first four rows across the aisle. My focus settled immediately on Kat, who gazed at me, her face distraught. “I’m sorry,” she mouthed. “So sorry.”

Tears welled in my eyes. Part of me wanted to forgive her on the spot, but the rest of me, wounded and angry, shouted silently,
Why didn’t you think about the consequences before you did this to me?

Then my inner guilt accused,
You chose to cut their hair. Why didn’t
you
think about the consequences before you did
that
?

I should have. This was just as much my fault as it was hers. I should have just called the cops.

Closing my eyes, I turned away from Kat. She’d already been arrested a dozen times for protesting. I didn’t even know where the jail
was
.

The kind bailiff joined his counterpart at the front of the courtroom. “All rise for the Honorable Tiberius Blount, judge of the Superior Court of Georgia.”

As we all stood, a wave of dismay went through the opposition.

“Judge Blount,” I whispered softly. “Where have I heard of him before?”

“Probably in the paper,” my lawyer whispered back, out of the corner of his mouth. He leaned close to my ear. “Crazy as a bedbug, but a rabid right-winger. He’s Cindy’s second cousin, once removed. Thinks she hung the moon.”

Relief flooded through me. At long last, the good ol’ boy network was working in my favor.

Happily, the judge didn’t
look
crazy. A medium-sized, balding man with reading glasses, he sat down and scowled at something on his desk.

“You may be seated,” the bailiff announced.

We sat. After a long pause, during which I deduced that the judge was reading something, he looked up. “Are all the parties involved present?”

Jack and his partner stood. “They are, Your Honor.”

BOOK: Wife-In-Law

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