Mother – Sista'
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Issue 12
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“State your name, please. Loud enough, for the jurors to hear.”
“Rosetta. Rosetta Thorpe. Folks call me, ‘Mother-Sista.’” “Mother-Sista?’” “Yes’sr…church folk. Been in church all my life, long enough to be called, ‘Sista’ Thorpe.’ Now, ‘Mother Thorpe.’ Y’all understand?” “Your honor, please instruct Miss Thorpe to provide answers, never questions.” “You are to direct answers only, in responding to Assistant District Attorney Sanders.” Young by standards of Mother-Sista,’ the judge seemed overly strong in her rebuke. “Is that clear, Miss Thorpe?” Mother-Sista’ did not speak, having been told to only answer the man she’d grown to dislike. Sanders, when she kept thinking, ‘Saunders.’ Confusion over that dead Kentucky colonel whose chicken she favored. She was glad when they shortened to KFC. The two names sounded the same. “Do you understand, Miss Thorpe?” Mother-Sista’ nodded. She understood the whole damn thing! He’d gone and got himself arrested. Them girls, charged with they’ murders. His sins havin’ crept up, threatening to condemn him to hell, placing her under heavy questioning in the judgment seat. “Do you know that man, Miss Thorpe?” Sanders, not Saunders, was pointing at the defendant no more than thirty feet from her. A public defender seated next to him, both with knees tucked under a light maple table. “I do.” “Yes or no, please.” This was ridiculous! Mother-Sista’ was known to correct children askin’ questions they already ‘know’d’ the answers to. That judge and Mista’ D.A., they was waitin,’ lookin’ hard. “Yes, I know’d him.” She rolled her eyes. Followed by that thing she’d done all her life with her tongue. A ‘sic,’ a ‘hem’ or a hard ‘uh huh,’ disapproving beneath her breath. “Please, then. Identify the man.” “Y’all know who he is!” She snapped. “He be Leonard Smallwood, dammit!” Bang! The judge, appearing in her forties, leveled a wood mallet to its base. An audible gasp! followed in the gallery. The twelve jurors managed to hold stoic faces, except for a deep exhale from one who’d momentarily lost grip. “Order! Order I say in this courtroom!” Judge Margaret O’Toole was sensitive to the slightest contempt from a witness. “You will cease and desist, Miss Thorpe! From profanity…and attitude! Otherwise, I’ll have no choice but to find you….” Mother-Sista’ stopped listening. Secretly, she was reciting a series of Hail Marys’ for her cussin,’ borrowing from the Catholics. She had been provoked, was bein’ provoked by somethin’ Leonard may have done. What would Reverend Arthur say? Leonard was charged with the murders of Shelia Faye-Henderson and Jessica Miles. Cold case investigations re-opened, police detectives in the tri-state now also working to tie him to the rapes and strangulation deaths of other young women. Mother-Sista’ sat, avoiding the eyes of “Lenny,” what she called him. She’d promised the Lord not to hate him for this ugly, had been recitin’ the words of Christ, “forgive us our trespasses and forgive those who trespass against us….” “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?” What she’d been asked by that Black bailiff, lookin’ like Jerry, Nancy Sherill’s boy. Her hand on a King James Bible, Mother-Sista’ confessed quietly to herself, not knowing what the truth was. The facts were these. Leonard’s D.N.A. was found on both victims. Twenty-five years after Shelia Raye-Henderson’s naked body had been dumped in the wooded area of a Black neighborhood. Five years later, Jessica Miles’ body, also without a stitch of clothing, was tossed onto the front yard of a home owned by a frantic White woman. Just outside the city, Black bodies were not the norm in that locality, dead or alive. Leonard had been honest. He had a past, mostly unspoken between them. They’d lived peaceably, all these years. “I asked…how long have you known Leonard J. Smallwood?” The ‘smarty’ D.A. pulled Mother-Sista’ from the fog she’d been in debating truth, facts, and honesty. “Nearly twenty years.” She’d keep it short, modeling Mabel Robinson, her movie heroine from the Tyler Perry films. She would answer only the questions put to her, nothing more. A ‘W-W-M-D’ moment, ‘what would Madea do?’ “How did the two of you meet?” The son of a bitch! He knew that, already. She’d been interviewed by Jaime Snodgrass, Leonard’s public defender, and told about “discovery.” Jaime -- Leonard’s best they could afford defense counsel -- sharing evidence with the prosecutor, Sanders. “We met at the Faith Mission Homeless Shelter.” “You’re employed as a cook there, am I right?” Damn! This man was playin’ at bein’ genius, seeming ‘cock sure.’ No condemnation in that phrase. “Yes. I work nights, last meal at six p.m., before breakfast preparations.” She’d meant to say only, yes. “You took Mr. Smallwood home with you. Is that correct?” “Objection!” Jaime Snodgrass rose, his ill-fitting suit adding to stature seen as ‘cute’ when competence was needed. His soft face fronted eyeglasses; black frames, and thick lenses high on the bridge of his nose. Like a sophomore on the debate team, his first time up, although a recent law school graduate. “I’ll hear it,” Judge O’Toole replied. “Your honor, where’s the relevance here? Mr. Smallwood is not a homeless derelict and should not be portrayed as one. He’s been gainfully employed since….” Bang! “Enough counsel, I get your point. Mr. Sanders, just where are you leading? “I meant nothing…your honor,” the sly Sanders postured regret. His savvy intention had been achieved, and the damage delivered. Smiling now, positioning himself along the rail before the seated jury, “allow me to re-direct.” “Do you consider yourself, married to Leonard J. Smallwood,” Miss Thorpe?” “Objection!” Again, from Snodgrass. “Over-ruled! I’ll hear this.” Bang! The judge’s gavel followed. “Please answer, Miss Thorpe.” Mother-Sista’ hesitated, weighing again, truth, facts, and honesty. Truth was, she and Leonard never said they were legally married, letting folks presume. He’d been like a husband, complimenting on her beans, had liked her grits, and she’d let him move in from the shelter. Facts were, they slept in separate bedrooms, exceptin’ his birthday. And again, the Fourth of July. Somethin’ about those fireworks got his rocket hot, and her to sparkin’ a little bit. Honestly, when they met, she was more than fifty years old, and had gone through menopause. She’d never had much desire for men. Had lost her virginity to a drunken deacon at a church picnic. He’d forced himself on her, and it had hurt. So, twice a year was enough with Leonard. “Yes…yes. We was…common law,” she’d be honest. “Like married.” “So, you’d consummated your union?” Unsure of ‘consummate,’ avoiding ‘fornicate,’ Mother-Sista’ decided on a biblical term. “We ‘knew’ one another, yes.” “Frequently, occasionally?” Sanders disregarded the biblical euphemism. “Rarely? Which is it Miss Thorpe?” He was acting on her deposition, from Snodgrass, and she was feeling embarrassed before an audience of her church friends. “Objection! Objection!” Mother-Sista’ was glad for Jaime’s interdiction. Aware, church folk keep loose tongues. “Your honor, Miss Thorpe is seventy-two years old. Mister Smallwood is sixty-eight, both are ‘experienced.’ What’s the relevance here?” “Mr. Sanders, before I rule. Explain yourself.” “Your honor, Leonard J. Smallwood is charged with the murders of two women, both fifteen to twenty years younger at the time. In a deposition submitted from Miss Thorpe…and I quote: ‘we rarely have sex, sleep apart, and are ‘man and wife’ only in that we share living quarters.’” Murmuring was let loose in the courtroom. Mother-Sista’ would not look around, knowing gossipers were already at work. “And your point, Mr. Sanders?” It was Judge O’Toole. “Leonard J. Smallwood has a record of sexual indulgence that includes investigation by police of frequenting strip clubs and cavorting with escorts. All while Miss Thorpe was working into the wee hours of the morning, having admitted they have no sex life.” “Objection, objection!” Jaime Snodgrass was bouncing on thick-soled shoes, standing behind the defense table. Leonard had reclined in his spindle-backed chair, exhaling, a secret revealed. “Over-ruled,” Judge O’Toole declared. “You may continue Mr. Sanders. I expect to see and hear from these ‘escorts.’ The women you’ve mentioned, taking the witness stand.” She meant where Mother-Sista’ sat frozen, having learned at the same time as her church friends. A handful had nominated Leonard to be a church deacon. He’d done well handling maintenance issues, acting as a custodian at her small church. The Disciples of Destiny Church of God in Christ (COGIC), its founder and pastor, the Reverend Edgar Arthur sitting in the front row. |
Michael G. Whitfield contributes to “Reynoldsburg Magazine.” He has published “Finder’s Fee in “House of Secrets” (2023) a short story anthology from the Ohio Writer’s Association, and “Morning Star” in “Untold Stories” (2024), a fiction anthology from the Dublin Writer’s Group.
He works in the public schools, having written several unpublished children’s books and stories. Whitfield submits work to writing contests and magazines while seeking a literary agent to promote publication of his work. |