“He gave me a job when no one else would. I had been in and out of trouble most of my life, but your dad took a chance on me and gave me a job. I was so thankful, so when he told me about his goal of wanting to open a second store, I thought I owed it to him to help.”
“The police records said it was a burglary. This whole best friend picture you’re painting doesn’t make much sense,” I say, my irritation in the direction of his story evident in my tone.
“The road to hell is paved with good intentions, little lady.” His crystal blue glare pins me through the corner of his eye.
I nod and wave him on to continue.
“So like a said, I wanted to help. I knew some people from my younger days, suppliers that were making big money in the dope rings, and were venturing out into other arenas–guns, prostitution–the regular scores. I knew that by getting back into dealing I could make a huge chunk of change that could go to the new store. The way we worked it out, it was very palatable to your old man.”
“How was everything supposed to operate?” I ask, shocked that my dad, the guy that promised cartoon Saturdays and fort-building sleepovers, would have anything to do with illegal drug and gun dealings.
“Your dad’s store profit would be the bank roll. I would use the funds to buy from the suppliers and then hike up prices, deal it out to old contacts, pay off the suppliers, and then your dad would get his money back and then some. The plan was pretty perfect, and worked like a charm; your dad had his new store in half the time we thought it would take.”
“Hold on,” I say, scooting to the edge of my seat, facing him. “You want me to believe that you went back to the underbelly of society out of the goodness of your heart, just to help out my dad for giving you a job. That is the biggest joke I’ve ever heard. No one does crap like that.”
“Believe whatever you want; I’m telling you how it was. Take it or leave it. Now, was I helping just out of the goodness of my heart? No. I was a different person back then. I saw an opportunity to help us both, and I took it. With the dough rolling in, I took a cut of the profit, and it was supporting some of my side businesses.”
“So what went wrong?”
“I started using again. I was snorting and smoking more than I was selling, and I started getting behind paying back the suppliers. I always made sure that your dad had his money; he was my money source after all. But then when he was about to open the new store, he wanted out. The suppliers had given me a deadline and if I didn’t have the money that I owed them, they were coming after me. These weren’t the type of guys that would have stopped there, either; they would have gone after my family. They would have found out about you guys, and hurt you all to get their money back. Whatever it took; they didn’t care.”
“Come after us?”
“That’s how it works, baby girl. Whatever it takes to get the message across.”
“So what was the plan, get the last payment from my dad, pay off the people you owed, and just disappear?”
“Pretty much. I thought it would be better than people ending up hurt or dead.”
“Except someone did die,” I whisper, causing him to lower his head in shame. Silence ensues as he rubs his hand across his face, hiding his eyes from me.
“I never meant to hurt Greg; he was my friend,” his voice cracks and stutters over my father’s name. I try to keep my emotions in check, but the old wound is slowly ripping apart. “Vivian, you have to understand; I just got so scared, and I was high out of my mind. When he refused to give me any more money, I panicked.”
“So what happened next?” I ask, already knowing the answer. I lived the answer. I know what the end result would be. I know that the final conclusion was that my father would not return home that night, but I needed to hear the words from him.
He sighs, stalling with the last piece of the story. The lump in my throat has become unbearable. My salty tears sting my cheeks, but I quickly wipe them away, refusing to let him see my hurt. He notices and reaches for my hands once again, but I pull away. “Finish the story, Raymond. I’m not here for your comfort; I’m here for the truth.”
He hastily retreats and nods in understanding. When he begins his story once again, we both are looking forward, unable to look at each other. “We began to argue, and then it got physical. It escalated so fast; I couldn’t control it. I just snapped. One minute we were wrestling on the ground, and then next I was squeezing his neck. When he stopped fighting, stopped moving, I knew I killed him.”
“So you just left him there?” I ask as a sob breaks free.
My loss of control garners the attention of the passenger in front of us. The older gentleman, at least in his seventies, turns around, analyzing the situation. He glares at Raymond before turning compassionate eyes toward me. “Ma’am, is everything all right here? Is this man bothering you?”
I attempt a half-hearted smile and wave him off. “No sir,” I say, slightly tilting my head in appreciation for his concern. “Thank you for asking, but we are fine.” He looks back and forth between Raymond and me for a few more seconds before turning around and returning his attention to the newspaper that he had been reading. When I see that it’s safe to continue, I nod to Raymond to go on.
He shifts in his seat, wiping his palms on his pant legs, and then begins the rest of his story. “I grabbed the money to pay the suppliers and left. As soon as the debt was paid, I skipped town. I knew all roads would lead to me, and it was only a matter of time before they figured out it was me so I ran. I didn’t get far. With the drug habit I had, and the lack of connections, it was only three days before I got picked up, and well, you know the rest.”
I take a few cleansing breaths to pull myself together. “So tell me about Brooks; where does he fit into all of this?” I ask when I can finally speak clearly, without the high-pitch squeal that usually takes over my voice when crying is involved.
“I wasn’t a father, never wanted to be a father. The life I led wasn’t cut out for a family. His mother and I had a brief fling, and when I found out she was pregnant, I took off, plain and simple. I heard through some people I knew that she met someone and got married and that he adopted Brooks and had more kids. So I left it alone.”
“What, so he just never knew about you, or that you were in jail?”
“He eventually learned that his stepfather wasn’t his real dad. When he was in middle school, I tried to contact him, you know, to get to know him. His mother, though, didn’t want me anywhere near him, so she wrote to me and told me to stay away. Since I never heard from him, I assumed that she never gave him any of my letters.”
“But he went to see you in prison? How did that come about?”
“Don’t you think this is something that he should be telling you?” he asks his disapproving tone obvious. I’m stabbed with guilt, because I absolutely realize that this is something that I should have been brave enough to ask Brooks myself. I should have given him the opportunity to explain the situation the first time he pleaded with me, but instead, I turned my back and walked away.
I narrow my gaze at him, deflecting from the guilt that was seeping from my pores. “This from the man that kept his identity from his own son, I think I’ll stay away from the dear-old-dad pep talk, but thanks, Ray.”
“Touché,” he chuckles, shooting me a slimy grin. “All right, fine. After he turned eighteen, I found out where he was going to college and was able to get an address for him in the dorms. I started to write to him, knowing that his mother couldn’t keep me away anymore. I was shocked as shit when he wrote back, and we continued corresponding for a few months. I never told him why I was in jail; he asked but I avoided the question. Eventually, I asked if he would visit. He avoided that question as well. Until…”
“…until he went with me to research the case,” I say, finishing his sentence.