Mama's Boy Read online

  “Sorry about that,” said Ming Vu, the reporter who was positioned right in front of Kay, ready to conduct her Dateline-style interview. “But you’d better get used to being in the spotlight.”

  Kay smiled. One of the first things her publicist, Loni, told her was not to appear too smug or cocky. As a strong black woman, she had to be careful of the dreaded “angry black woman” stereotype.

  “Well, we’ll just see how everything turns out,” Kay said, flashing the “gentle look” Loni had spent two hours working with her to perfect.

  “Thank you for staying late for the interview. I like to do these in-depth interviews when we don’t have the hustle and daily activity of an office.”

  Ming Vu was known for her hard-hitting interviews. Loni had grilled Kay for hours, getting her prepared for anything Ming might throw her way. That’s why it surprised her when Ming leaned in and whispered, “Between you and me, your win will do wonders for the minority and female agenda, so we’re all rooting for you.”

  “I appreciate that. And while I will focus on those issues, I want to make sure that Houstonians know I represent all constituents, no matter what their race, religion, or creed,” Kay said, fully aware that the mics could always be open.

  Ming leaned back and winked. “Good answer.” She looked over her shoulder. “So, Todd, are we ready?”

  “Ready to roll,” the cameraman replied. “I got the mic check while you ladies were talking, so I’m rolling.”

  “Awesome.” Ming sat up straight and dove into the interview. “Kay, we’re going to skip all the basics, as people already know you’re a Stanford graduate, MBA and law degree from Rice, so your pedigree speaks for itself, but people want to know the real you.”

  Kay released a comfortable laugh. “What you see is what you get. I’m just an ordinary girl doing extraordinary things.”

  “An extraordinary prosecutor,” Ming said. “That’s right on the money.” She crossed her long legs in her seat and Kay could tell the tone of the interview was about to shift. “So tell me, what drives you? Some would argue that you’re incredibly hard on minorities.”

  “I treat all of my cases the same,” Kay coolly countered. “Unfortunately, I do have a lot of cases from people of color that come through my office. I’m in the business of righting wrongs and there is no color driving that.”

  “Civil rights activist Reuben Muhammad said in a recent interview that you are worse than some of the”—she looked down at her notes—“and I’m quoting here, ‘redneck prosecutors who revel in putting young black boys behind bars.’ How do you feel about that?”

  Kay inhaled, then let out a slow breath. She’d seen that interview, and while she had never addressed it, those words had sliced her heart. She took pride in her work and tried to be fair, but it seemed she could never make some people happy.

  “Honestly, those words hurt,” Kay admitted. “I have a son.”

  “Your stepson, Ryan?”

  She paused. “Yes. And so it gives me no pleasure in throwing people, especially young minority males, in jail. But I also don’t think the color of your skin should give you a pass because a system is flawed.”

  “So you admit that the system is flawed?”

  Kay had to take a moment. Ming had almost tripped her up. “Of course, any system can stand some improvement, but right now it’s the only system we have.”

  That answer seemed to satisfy Ming because she nodded, then tossed a few more questions at Kay—on topics ranging from the budget to employee discontent to crime. But Kay could tell by the look on both her publicist’s and campaign manager’s faces that she was handling the interview like a pro.

  “So are you worried about Marty Simon?” Ming asked after wrapping up the city-related questions.

  “I don’t think about Marty,” Kay replied. “I could spend my time telling you all the bad things I know about him, but I’d much rather spend my time telling you all the good things about me. I know Marty has engaged in some mud-slinging, but I have taken and always will take the high road.”

  “Very admirable,” Ming said. During her entire interview, Ming had never looked at her notes, other than getting the direct quote from Reuben Muhammad. Kay made a mental note to see if she was tired of TV and wanted to become her press secretary. If she won. No, when she won, Kay mentally corrected herself.

  “Tell us about your home life,” Ming continued. “You know you and your husband are the talk of the town. Not many people can battle it out in the courtroom, then maintain a happy home afterward. But you’ve successfully done it for ten years.”

  “Well, my husband and I have only gone up against each other in the courtroom four times. And while we give our careers our all, when we cross that doorstep into our home, we hang our legal hats at the door. We don’t let our work, especially when we’re on opposite sides of the bench, come home with us, and that makes for a happy home.”

  “Amazing.”

  “I guess when you spend all day arguing, the last thing you want to do is come home and do it some more,” Kay added with a laugh.

  “Do your children know what you do?” Ming asked.

  “Our youngest, Leslie, couldn’t care less. She’s four. So her biggest issue is which tutu to wear today. But the oldest, Ryan, he knows. And since he’s such a scholar, he does try to weigh in, but again, we don’t bring our work home and we don’t discuss our cases.”

  “At all?” Ming asked.

  “At all,” Kay replied.

  “Well, this picture-perfect life is just going to have us all a tad jealous.”

  “I do have a great life,” Kay said. “But I work hard for the life I have.”

  “And I bet the only thing that would make it better is becoming the next mayor of Houston.”

  “You said it, I didn’t.”

  Kay was glad to wrap up the interview. Per Kay’s insistence, Loni had made sure that the reporters knew to stay away from the subject of her childhood. Loni let the media know how difficult it was for Kay to discuss her parents’ deaths, twelve years ago, at the hands of a drunk driver. As an only child, there wasn’t much else to investigate in her past. And that’s just the way Kay wanted to keep it. When she had left for college at Stanford, which was as far away as she could get from her strict parents, Kay hadn’t kept in touch with family much. Then, when her parents had died her senior year, Kay had completely cut everyone off. As far as Kay was concerned, she had reinvented herself. Her father and mother had died. So there really was no reason to connect with anyone else. Her life began the day she enrolled in Stanford University. And that’s as far back as she ever wanted to go.

  “Great interview,” her campaign manager, Jeff, said. He’d sat quietly in the corner the whole time.

  “Of course it was great,” Loni said, handing Kay a piece of paper. “I taught her very well. Here’s your media itinerary for the rest of the week. I’ve given a copy to Valerie so she can make sure it’s all on your calendar.”

  Kay nodded her appreciation. Between her fantastic assistant, Valerie, and Loni and Jeff, Kay had the perfect team by her side. Perfect life. Perfect team. Perfect family. What more could a woman want?

  7

  * * *

  * * *

  Even the Word wasn’t bringing her peace. That alone told Gloria just how hard this hit. Ever since she was a little girl, church had been her place of refuge. It had been where she sought—and received—comfort. But today, God’s Word did little to heal her hurt. And for the first time in her life, she felt her faith wavering.

  It had been eight days and God had not seen fit to bring her son home. Eight days and she had no idea where her only child was.

  Images of her son’s body beaten and buried in a shallow grave filled her mind. Just last year, another black Jasper resident, Alfred Wright, had come up missing. He was gone for eightee
n days before they found his body, stripped down to his shorts and one sock, with his throat cleanly slit and one ear gone. His front teeth were broken and missing. The police had ruled it an “accidental drug overdose.” Everyone in Jasper knew better, but police had still closed the case. Nothing inside her would let Gloria believe that things would be any different with Jamal.

  Elton had told her to stop thinking the worst, but at eight days, what else was she supposed to think?

  The cops had been following them all week. There was even a marked unit outside the church today (she knew she’d hear about that later). Elton couldn’t stand to be embarrassed in his church, so this was going to add a whole other layer of stress to their already stressful marriage.

  Gloria had come to church today in search of solace, for comfort that her son was all right. But so far, her nerves had only gotten worse. Sitting in that sanctuary allowed her mind to wander into the worst places. She should’ve been paying attention, but she couldn’t keep the horrible thoughts from coming. She couldn’t stop thinking about Jamal and what would happen if the police found him first.

  The thoughts clouding her mind were exactly why Gloria had been doing anything she could to keep moving all week long. She’d washed every dish in the house, rearranged the pots in the cabinet, scrubbed the baseboards . . . she just had to keep moving. Because if she didn’t, she would die. If she didn’t keep moving, she’d be reminded that her son was out there somewhere, scared to death. At least, she hoped that he was still out there. She hoped that some robocop or vigilante hadn’t gotten to him first. They’d dragged James Byrd Jr. for no reason. Shot Trayvon Martin for looking suspicious. Gunned down Michael Brown, even though people said he had his hands up. Jamal Jones had given them reason to kill. There was no way he’d be safe.

  Gloria tried to refocus and stop her mind from traveling down that “what if” road. She watched her husband from the pulpit as he spouted off something about the faith of a mustard seed. Once again, he hadn’t even addressed the Jamal situation. He just pretended that the two strange white men in the back of the sanctuary were visitors, not reporters. She knew who they were because they’d been nosing around before service and the gossip train had met her at the door this morning. Gloria had told Elton about them, but he’d just grumbled and walked off. Now he was in the pulpit doing what he did best—pretending all was well in the Jones household. It was a character flaw that Gloria had long ago given up trying to change.

  Elton had just wrapped up his sermon and summoned the organist to begin playing for the altar call when Gloria felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned to see one of the ushers hovering over her.

  “Sister Gloria?”

  “Yes, Lena,” Gloria replied, wondering why this woman would disturb her in the middle of service.

  “Can you step out in the vestibule?” Lena whispered.

  Really? Everyone at Mount Sinai Missionary Baptist Church knew Elton didn’t like people moving around during his altar call, which was evident by the irritated look he was giving her right now.

  “Please, it’s Sister Naomi. She’s sick,” Lena said.

  Naomi Tucker was one of the church members who often babysat Jamal when he was young. Gloria flashed an apologetic look at Elton, then stood and followed Lena out.

  Naomi was sitting on the bench in the vestibule, laid back, her plump legs spread eagle, one usher fanning her, another holding her hand.

  “Naomi! Are you okay?” Gloria asked, sliding on the bench next to her.

  Naomi groaned.

  “She peeked in the sanctuary, then she just collapsed,” one of the ushers said. “She said she’s feeling dizzy.”

  Gloria put her hand on Naomi’s forehead. “You don’t have a fever. What’s hurting you?”

  Naomi’s voice was weak as she said, “I just feel faint. Can you take me home?”

  Gloria was about to reply when she noticed the two nosy reporters stepping out of the sanctuary.

  “Is everything okay?” one of them asked.

  She tried her best not to be rude, but their intrusion was definitely unwelcome and they hadn’t come out here for any other reason than to see what was going on. “One of our members is sick,” Gloria snapped. “Is that newsworthy enough for you?”

  As if on cue, Naomi moaned again. “I think . . . I’m going to throw up.”

  “Get her to the restroom,” Lena said, grabbing her arm. Gloria took Naomi’s other arm and helped her up.

  The usher who had been fanning Naomi spoke up. “Service is about to let out. Can you take her to the restroom in the back?”

  Gloria nodded as she and Lena began walking away

  The reporters watched for a moment, then made their way out the front door.

  As soon as Gloria and Lena got Naomi around the corner, Naomi turned to Lena. “Sister Lena,” she said, her voice weak and raspy. “Thank you, but I think I just need to go home.” She clutched Gloria a little tighter. “First Lady, do you think you can take me?”

  Gloria raised an eyebrow. “Really?” All that she was going through and this woman wanted her to play taxicab?

  “I can do it. It’s no problem,” Lena said. “The First Lady is dealing with a lot right now, I can take you.”

  Naomi seemed like she was about to topple over and she grabbed Gloria’s arms. Her fingernails dug into Gloria’s arm to the point that it made Gloria wince. And then, it hit Gloria. Naomi knew something. This whole passing-out, moaning act was so out of character for her. So it could only mean one thing.

  “I’m fine,” Gloria said to Lena. “I can use the air and I know my way around Naomi’s place. I’ll take her home, get her settled, and come back. Can you just let Elton know?”

  Lena hesitated, then nodded. “If you’re sure.”

  “I am.”

  “Ohhhhh, I feel so dizzy,” Naomi moaned.

  “Do you need me to help you to get her to your car?” Lena asked.

  “No. I’m okay,” Naomi quickly said. “Thank you, Sister Lena.”

  Lena patted her hand. “You just go get some rest and let us know if we can do anything for you. I make a mean chicken noodle soup.”

  Naomi nodded her appreciation, then turned and draped her arm further in Gloria’s as they walked toward the back.

  “Let me get my keys,” Gloria said, trying her best to stay calm.

  Naomi glanced back over her shoulder, making sure Lena was gone. “Let’s take my car.”

  The sudden urgency, and miraculous healing, shut down all of Gloria’s questions and she followed Naomi out through the kitchen, into the side alley, and to her car.

  “Get in,” Naomi said, suddenly moving fast as she motioned for Gloria to get in on the passenger side. Her eyes darted around the alley, then she climbed in the driver’s seat.

  A thousand questions ran through Gloria’s mind.

  “Do me a favor and lean down,” Naomi whispered as she started her 1990 Lincoln.

  Gloria’s heart began to race, but she did as she was told as Naomi’s eyes darted around to make sure no one was following her, then she turned down the gravel street on the side of the church, instead of through the normal exit.

  “Sorry for the performance, but I didn’t know how else to get you out of church,” Naomi said, her lips barely moving as she stared straight ahead.

  “You know where Jamal is, don’t you?” Gloria whispered as she crouched down in the seat.

  Naomi didn’t say a word as she turned the corner.

  They rode in silence for the five minutes that it took to get to Naomi’s house and as soon as Naomi pulled into her garage, then closed the door, Gloria was ready to bolt out of the car.

  “Wait,” Naomi said, putting her hand on Gloria’s forearm. “He’s okay. And you know I love Jamal like he’s my own. I’ll do anything for him.” She paused. “Except go to
jail. He showed up here on my way to church. Apparently he’s been hiding out in my storage shed.”

  Gloria’s heart plummeted into the pit of her stomach. Her son had been in a storage shed for a week?

  “He begged me to get you,” Naomi continued. “I don’t know what to tell you to do. But he can’t stay here. These police ain’t playing and I just can’t—”

  Gloria stopped her. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna get him to come home. I have to get him to come home.” Gloria didn’t know how she would make that happen. All she knew was that she had to. She raced from the car to see her son, tears of relief flooding her face. Her son was safe. At that very moment, nothing else mattered.

  8

  * * *

  * * *

  Gloria couldn’t stop shaking. Naomi had directed her to a back room that was full of sewing supplies. The room smelled of mothballs and dust and looked like it wasn’t used for anything other than storage.

  “Sorry he had to stay in here. He wanted to stay in the attic but I told him with all that asbestos, he didn’t need to be up there,” Naomi said as she eased a dresser away from in front of what looked like a closet.

  “No, I understand.” Gloria knew she should help Naomi move the dresser, but she was too stunned to act.

  Her heart raced as Naomi grunted with her last push. When the dresser was far enough out of the way, she moved to open the closed door.

  Gloria stood, holding her breath, and her stomach muscles tightened when she saw Jamal cowering inside the closet in fear. His face was dirty with caked-on mud. His clothes were filthy and torn.

  “Oh, my God, Jamal!” Gloria fell to her knees in front of her son. She looked him over, then pulled him into a tight embrace.

  “Mama, I’m sorry,” he cried. Hugging her brought an onset of tears and Jamal sobbed. His grip told her just how scared he’d been.

  Gloria’s tears mixed with his as she rocked back and forth, holding him like she never wanted to let him go. She could only imagine what he’d mentally endured for these past eight days.