Whitfield-Mother – Sista’

Mother – Sista'

Issue 12

“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.
“Yes…why yes, your honor. We have ‘strippers’ who will testify.” Using that word, Sanders seemed purposed in describing the women that way.
“As for my earlier line of questioning, I was seeking to show opportunity. Leonard J. Smallwood presented himself as a school bus driver. A little league coach and volunteer at the Boy’s Club.” Sanders paused, appearing to calculate what next to say.
A quiet courtroom waited, with Sanders on stage, the center of attention. “All the while…Mister Smallwood never accounted for his, uh, ‘activities’ after four p.m. with Miss Thorpe. Isn’t that the truth Miss Thorpe?”
“I…I…I….” Mother-Sista’ stammered. Skillful by Sanders. He’d stripped her of any credibility as the chief defense witness, manipulating the minds of jurors, preceding his penultimate point.
“And there are other women…murdered in similar fashion. Recent, and not nearly as long, as twenty years ago!”
This time, more than one gasp! Sanders continued, “Leonard J. Smallwood had opportunity….” before bang! Bang! Bang!
“One more word!” Bang! “Another word, Mr. Sanders, and you’re in contempt of court!” Judge O’Toole warned, “if you so much as breath before that jury, I’ll declare a mistrial! In my chambers, now! Both of you!” meaning Jaime Snodgrass, too.
“We’re in recess for the afternoon. Court is adjourned!” Bang!
The bailiff assisted Mother-Sista’ from the stand, extending his hand for her to step down and into a throng of church members. Surrounding her, offering encouragement -- the pack of hypocrites!
She thought of Jesus, with them as swine. Those filled with demons, the legion fleeing that poor possessed man, requesting of Jesus to let them run off a cliff, crashing down onto the rocks below. Mother-Sista’ was ready to lead this pack, drown them all, without guilt.
“Rosetta, don’t worry none.” It was Reverend Arthur. “We gonna’ pray.” He’d grabbed her hand, his feeling clammy, and cold. Her pastor’s actions perfunctory, what was expected of him.
Truth was that the reverend never wanted Leonard to be a deacon. The facts were he’d spoken his objection to Deacon Dodie Edwards, citing as a reason there were already five deacons. A sixth would be too many for a small church. Honestly, Reverend Arthur saw Leonard a time or two in line at the convenient mart buying lottery tickets. Convincing him, Leonard might be saved, but he wasn’t sanctified.
“We gonna’ pray Mother-Sista.’ Don’t you worry none. We gonna’ pray.”
She was starting to see they’d accepted Leonard because they felt sorry for her. “Lenny,” with his good looks and sporty dress, a tamed thoroughbred keepin’ company with an old mare. The two of them livin’ up in her father and mother’s house long after they’d gone on to heaven.
Her face deep black, kids in Rosetta’s Sunday School class joked she looked like a ‘California raisin.” Didn’t help none, goin’ through life a woman with a girl’s body. Tall and thin, no bumps, front or back. “Gaunt,” some folks say. Classmates in school dubbed her the Black “Olive Oyl” from that “Popeye” cartoon. Destined to be single…until Lenny come along.
“It’s a mistake, Rosetta.” His mouth to her ear, the day after his arrest. “I ain’t never been with them women, honest. Ain’t murdered nobody, and that’s a fact!”
Of course, she believed him. She had known Leonard to be truthful about things. He was reliable to an honest job, one she’d encouraged him to apply for, a school bus driver. Dependable, he appeared to do everything he’d commit to.
Leonard’s past included sons and daughters; their existence shared with her. He’d been with plenty of women but had not proved much of a father. Rosetta felt his volunteer work at the Boy’s Club was penance for lack of time with his own children.
Following his indictment and over the six months in jail leading to trial, she remained faithful. Visiting when she was able, praying without ceasing, and requesting more prayer from her church. His own pettily prayers – Leonard refused to pray for himself – were directed toward “those poor women and they families.” Not very good at prayer, he would have struggled as a deacon.
“Well…I did ‘know’ them women,” implying sexual intercourse. Eventually, more honesty from Leonard. “But I ain’t responsible for they deaths.”
Shelia Raye-Henderson was a well-known prostitute. Jessica Miles had a wicked drug habit. Her family admitted it would not have been unlike her to exchange sex for money.
D.N.A. The state’s case hinged on ‘deoxyribonucleic acid,’ the distinctive almost imperceptible --- but for today’s science --- double helix building block of human cells. It was the only eyewitness against Leonard. At a molecular level no human is identically the same, just as microscopically, neither is any snowflake.
“Coincidence.” Assistant District Attorney Sanders was not merely conceited, he was confident in his closing argument. Attacking defense counsel Jaime Snodgrass’ assertion that Leonard J. Smallwood’s contact with the women was merely coincidental, and the D.N.A. evidence circumstantial.
“What are the chances?” Sanders was back at the rail, scanning to look each juror in the eyes. “I ask you, what are the chances?”
As if to imply fate, Sanders repeated testimony from a lead investigator. City detectives surveyed a database for similar murders of women and had come across the cold case of Jessica Miles. They convinced colleagues in a neighboring jurisdiction to provide D.N.A. from sperm found on the victim. Leonard’s matching D.N.A. had been lifted from a discarded tissue and beer cans taken from trash following surveillance at Rosetta Thorpe’s home.
“A cold-blooded killer,” Sanders stopped. “Hiding in plain sight.”
The slick assistant district attorney appeared to have the jury eating from his hands. His words as good as providing each a bucket of chicken drumsticks, with mashed potatoes, and Cole slaw. Mother-Sista’ sat watching, her church members dwindled, one excuse after another. Even Reverend Arthur.
“No coincidence. Just factual evidence.” Sanders pointed to Leonard J. Smallwood, living within blocks of where Shelia Raye-Henderson’s body was found. And five years later, residing in an area on the outskirts of the city near where Jessica Miles’ body had been dumped.
“There will be others….” Sanders was skirting here. Closing arguments allow for some liberality of what can be said from the body of evidence. “I fear…Leonard J. Smallwood was not through. My concern…there are other cold case victims…women murdered in similar fashion, the subject of active investigations.”
“So, you must convict! Remove this man, this wolf hiding in sheep’s clothing. Justice for Shelia Raye-Henderson and Jessica Miles, long overdue. And to protect other women from Leonard J. Smallwood!”
Jaime Snodgrass’ closing followed, with Mother-Sista’ thinking he appeared a lost little lamb before lions. “Behind coincidence,” Snodgrass began, studiously looking across the jury panel, “is often science, if one considers further.”
An older woman juror, prim with her hair tied back into a bun, stopped fidgeting with her hands, possibly the pantomime of holding crochet needles. Looking up to listen, she closely examined the boyish public defender.
“At the time of the murders, albeit years apart, the defendant and the victims were neighbors living within blocks of each other.”
Snodgrass noted Leonard was unattached, single, and interested in partying at nightclubs and bars, soliciting women for sex. “There was and is now no crime in that. It’s natural for a man,” turning to face Mother-Sista,’ “an unchurched man, to follow those pursuits.”
It would have been likely based on their lifestyles, Snodgrass surmised, for the paths of Raye-Henderson and Miles to have crossed with Leonard’s. “Probability, not coincidence.”
“However, Mister Smallwood is not on trial here for having sex with one woman, a known prostitute, and with another supporting a drug habit. He’s on trial for their murders.” The gray-haired maven was not alone now in giving Snodgrass rapt attention. The jury appeared entranced over what he’d say next.
“There are a few hundred people working in this courthouse. Some several years together.” They waited for him to make his point. “Think of your high school or the quad on campus where your college dorm was situated. What are the chances as in this courthouse” -- Snodgrass cast a cautious glance at Judge O’Toole -- “that of the hundred or so people here, some would share in sex, a few having multiple partners.”
The older woman juror shifted uncomfortably, Mother-Sista’ reading it as guilt. Behind her, others in the courtroom were re-positioning in their bench seats.
“The central problem here,” Jaime Snodgrass, appeared to inhale a gust of confidence, “is the assumption that the D.N.A. found is the answer to who killed these women, when there may be no connection.”
He reminded the jury, that the D.N.A. of several men still unidentified was found on Shelia Raye-Henderson’s body. The result of her night’s work, and possibly from the previous evening. The D.N.A. of at least one other man was found on the body of Jessica Miles, unidentified, and also likely resulting from sexual contact.
“It’s probable,” Snodgrass posited, “Mister Smallwood had sex with Raye-Henderson, and yes, five years later with Miss Miles, and murdered neither woman. Leaving his D.N.A. for anxious investigators properly conscientious about solving a couple of cold case homicides.”
“We agree, there should be justice for Shelia Raye-Henderson and Jessica Miles. But please, do not agree at the expense of an innocent man’s life!”
Mother-Sista’ noticed one male juror give a nod to a woman seated next to him. Another man removed a handkerchief dabbing his forehead with it. Snodgrass had succeeded in communicating something to the jury.
That’s how it was left, the jury sequestered for deliberations. Mother-Sista’ was told by Jaime it could be hours to days before a decision. He assured, “don’t wait. I’ll get word to you.”
In chains, his wrists and ankles, Leonard prepared to be shuffled off by a quartet of deputies. The orange inmate’s jumpsuit did not suit him. Appearing a Halloween candy confection, his brown face showed fear under hair kept dyed jet black, fooling no one about his age.
Mother-Sista’ was close enough to read his frightened eyes, and see him mouth, “did ya’…did ya’?”
Oh yes, their last visit, Leonard had been downcast, doubting his freedom. She’d tried to encourage him, but truth was, the facts she’d learned added to things she knew, and with him being honest, well….
“It’s sumpin’ mine, Rosetta. I ain’t willing to share with nobody.” He’d requested an envelope kept not in his bedroom; police had searched the whole house, but in a secret place. A gap where the lower kitchen cabinets did not quite meet the wall.
“There’s also cash. The pawn shop, Stevie Ray keeps it for me. Ain’t much, maybe two-thousand dollars. I’d pawn things from time to time, stuff I’d come across, to keep the house up.” Leonard had been handy that way, and prideful about her parent’s house, what had become his home.
Asked to say nothing about the cash, she was to find and destroy the envelope in the kitchen space. With the stress of the trial, worrying over whether he’d be coming home, Rosetta had forgotten. Also heavy on her mind, what she knew but had not spoken.
Leonard’s occasional bouts of deep despair. He’d mill around, depressed. Eventually, asking her to pray over him. She’d break out the holy water, anointing his forehead. The bead of water centered above his eyes would roll down the bridge of his nose and launch to his upper lip. He’d bring up his lower lip, taste the tickle, and tear up. Sobs turning into convulsions, deep moaning. Rosetta would catch him, the two holding tight, another night, him in her bed.
“You gonna’ be alright, Mother-Sista’?” McCoy Priestly’s grandson, Ronnie, had driven home. Rosetta looked bewildered, sitting in her driveway, him holding the car door open. Home for the summer from college, the young man had been taught well by his grandfather and Roland, his daddy.
“I’ll be fine, baby. Don’t you worry none,” before stepping out onto the concrete walkway poured by her father leading to the house.
“That public defender, he gonna’ call you, soon as the jury’s back in,” Ronnie shouted to her backside.
Rosetta had no cell phone, something she and Leonard disagreed over. He’d argued there was much to Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter. “Friends, out there in the wide world.” Leonard kept a tablet computer and frequently was on it. For wicked amusement, she suspected.
Rosetta had not so much as an email address and continued to purchase postage stamps to pay her bills. She waited with light anticipation each day for the mailman. An upstairs phone, considered by her an extravagance, was paired with one on her kitchen wall.
Inside, she removed her black flats and lifted her long skirt to roll down knee high stockings. Ebony, a shade lighter than her dark skin, she’d given up trying to match nylons. A noticeable contrast because she wore skirts daily along with an occasional dress, the way of the Church of God in Christ (COGIC).
She couldn’t recall a time she’d worn pants. Unlike some of the younger women, overlooked now by the Reverend Edgar Arthur. “What’s happenin’ in the world today,” she thought coming out of her black skirt and white blouse. Slipping into a housecoat, warm and familiar, it was a brilliant pink color, something she’d permitted herself.
Leonard’s “did ya’?” Oh yeah. She’d come close to forgetting again. Grabbing the small flashlight kept in her purse she headed for the kitchen.
She’d lived in this house longer than he had, a whole lifetime. Her daddy built those cabinets with his hands, leaving a nook she could see now. How had she missed it? Bending low, wainscoting was missing between the cabinet and the adjoining wall.
Lowering to the bare floor, on her knees, body aching and using the flashlight, she saw the tip of an envelope. When she poked with her finger, it retreated. She thought of undoing a clothes hanger to fish it out. Maybe a screwdriver would work. Leonard kept tools in a junk drawer.
When she rose, Rosetta required time to catch her breath. Slightly dizzy, she stood a moment thinking of the foolishness of hiding something, Leonard keeping a secret. She reached for the junk drawer there in the kitchen. When she opened, there were needle nose pliers. Hallelujah!
She moved down onto on her knees again, scrambling closer, pinching for the envelope. She remembered Leonard saying, “it’d be best to destroy it.” Whatever was there, “get rid of it, don’t look, cause it don’t mean nothin’ to nobody. Promise me, Rosetta.”
The needle nose pliers worked to perfection. Grabbing the envelope by its tip, she ‘goosed’ it out from the narrow opening. A brown shipping envelope, it was folded three times, enough to sneak it in and out. In her hands, Rosetta was unimpressed. It appeared to be “nothin’” like Leonard said.
The telephone began ringing on the wall. “Damn!” She was back to cursin,’ a habit from the trial. Rising quickly to answer, out of breath again, the floor was spinning. Rosetta felt she’d earned the three breaths she took. After that, six or seven rings, she’d have to dash. Somebody had something to tell.
When she reached the phone, Rosetta guessed correctly, it was Jaime Snodgrass. “Miss Rosetta!…Miss Rosetta! Uh…Miss Thorpe.”
“Yes?”
“He’s acquitted! They’ve acquitted him, do you believe it!”
Boy Jaime burst with other details. The jury had come in early, acquittal on all charges, two counts each of aggravated murder, and rape. Sounding like he’d just gotten a new bicycle, his first big victory in court, Jaime would arrange Leonard’s release as soon as possible.
Rosetta’s reaction was slow. Old as she was, nothin’ was wrong with her hearing. “Praise thee Lord! Praise thee Lord! Praise thee Lord!” shouted loudly into the phone. A slight fist formed in her free hand, she’d crinkled the envelope, reminding her of it.
Their conversation ended, Rosetta thought to go to her ‘prayer closet’ to give thanks. Actually, her upstairs bedroom closet, the place she met with God. Suddenly ashamed, she’d doubted Leonard’s innocence, a lapse of faith.
Having experienced a miracle, Mother-Sista’ considered the unopened envelope. Honestly. it was Leonard’s property. That was a fact. Truthfully, she’d been bothered to learn he’d kept so many secrets.
Trouble with the truth, we lose sight of it sometimes, even when as close as our noses. Truth can be diffused, overrun with facts. Sometimes, because somebody wants it that way. Facts can be convoluted too, diluted by other details. Being honest. Well, just how honest we are is guided by our feelings, and what we perceive as honesty in others.
“I am the way, the truth and the light,” Rosetta recalled the words of Christ. As pure as any, she’d impress them on Leonard, and insist he acknowledge the Savior’s hand in his deliverance.
Undoing the metal clasp of the envelope, she opened and tilted, pouring its contents out onto the kitchen counter. From it fell jewelry, a couple of gold rings, a slim silver necklace, and also a few bracelets with charms. Women’s jewelry, modest in appearance, and likely moderate in value.
Not everything spilled out. Newspaper clippings, some yellowed and tattered remained at the edge of the opening. When Rosetta removed them, a few printed documents were included. Someone had made use of a computer and printer.
There were headlines, topping articles from around the tri-state, presenting the details of the rapes and murders of a dozen young women. The most recent slaying last year. When she sifted with her finger, Rosetta was familiar with two.
The facts were these: if ever captured, someone would earn distinction as a serial killer.

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.