Chapter 6
Conspiracy to embezzle money from the Lennox Casino.
That’s what she was being charged with. The words, followed by her Miranda rights—which, after hearing them so many times on TV and in movies, were more like a litany than a warning—now replayed in her mind.
She sat in a room that wasn’t as dark as she’d imagined an interrogation room at a police department would look. The walls were painted that government-beige color and had scuff marks in various areas around the room. The floor was a basic tile—again, very government issued. As was the dark, brown-topped table and the three chairs around it. Well, two chairs were on one side, and the chair she sat in was on the other side by itself. That’s how she felt, like she was by herself—which she literally was.
On the ride from the cemetery to here, she’d sat in the back seat, alone. Her purse was still in Ronni’s car, which meant her phone was too. Which was probably for the best. She didn’t want anyone in here in possession of her personal items. The detectives hadn’t cuffed her; instead, because she hadn’t yelled and screamed her innocence or tried to run through the cemetery in an effort to get away from them, they had simply walked her to their twenty-something-year-old town car and opened the back door for her. She slid onto the seat, willing herself not to cry. Her hands had immediately fallen into her lap, and she clasped her fingers to still them. Her stomach had twisted as she crossed her legs and looked out the window, trying to find the calm that refused to come.
Now, with her hands flat on this table, she could only stare down at them. They’d put her in this room and left her here for who knew how long. It seemed like an eternity, but she figured it may be going on an hour. She hadn’t requested an attorney yet, hadn’t spoken a word to them since asking, “Are you serious?” at the cemetery. Their stoic faces had been the answer to that question, while Jamaica and Ronni held Granny back after she’d tried to charge the detectives the moment she saw what was happening.
Vanna knew Jamaica and Ronni would take care of her grandmother. They would see that she got home safely, and then they would get on the phone and find her an attorney, find out how they could get her out of there, and all that. They were her best friends—no way they were going to let her rot in jail.
Oh, gracious, was she going to rot in jail?
And for a crime she was absolutely oblivious to?
She’d been to the Lennox Casino, which was located in the National Harbor area, maybe twice in the three years since it had been open. It was the smallest and newest of the casinos over there, so when she did desire to visit a casino, she normally chose the bigger, more well-known ones in the area. Overall, though, Vanna wasn’t a gambling person. She would much rather spend her hard-earned money on home improvements, helping Granny, and her hair. Clothes, shoes, nails, et cetera—those were at the bottom of her top-five money-priority list, right after saving for her dream trip to Ireland—which nobody understood why she had in the first place.
So, just how she would’ve managed to conspire to embezzle anything from a place she barely frequented was beyond her. That had her thinking of HC Sr. and Jr. She prayed Jamaica and Ronni knew not to call either of those jokers to help her. Since she’d worked for them, she’d learned all that was behind the reputation of so-called ambulance chasers. Their priority was always their bottom line and the quickest way to it, which was why their percentage of settlements was twice as high as their litigation stats. Still, she would definitely need a lawyer to reiterate what she planned to say the moment those detectives came back into this room: that she was innocent.
She was drumming her nails on the table, her knee shaking violently beneath it, when the door opened and, as if she’d summoned them, the two detectives stepped in. Detective Stuart Beaumont—he’d introduced himself in the car—pushed his glasses up on his nose and was the first one of them to take a seat. Detective Andy Parish closed the door and, with a folder in one hand, took the second chair across from her.
“Mrs. Carlson,” Detective Beaumont said, “we have some questions to ask you, and if you answer them all correctly, this interaction will go a lot easier.”
So, he was going to be the bad cop. Okay, she could roll with that. Actually, she couldn’t, because she was scared out of her mind, but she wasn’t about to show them that.
“How about I answer truthfully?” she asked, then told herself to remain silent.
She could sit there and just let them talk. Then sit even longer while she waited for her attorney—whoever her friends found for her—to appear. Or she could at the very least try to find out what the hell was going on.
“That’s a good idea,” Detective Parish said.
He had a smirk on his face that told her he wasn’t exactly going to be the good cop in this scenario. Whatever. She already knew to trust them only as far as the next question or bogus charge they could toss her way. While she generally trusted most cops to do their job and protect and serve, all that went out the window when she was falsely accused.
“You were married to Caleb Carlson,” Beaumont said. “Correct?”
“Yes.” Because whether or not she answered, they already knew that to be true.
“When was the last time you saw your husband? Before his unfortunate demise?” Beaumont continued.
She didn’t want to answer that, didn’t want to risk incriminating herself in a way she was absolutely clueless about, so she folded her hands together and asked, “Can you explain these charges to me?” She had a right to know what she was being accused of; whether she decided to answer any of their questions, she knew she had that right.
“Like I stated at the cemetery,” Detective Parish began, “you are charged with conspiracy to embezzle money from the Lennox Casino.”
“What evidence do you have?” she asked.
Parish tilted his head, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Oh, that’s right, you work at a law firm. So I’m guessing you figure you know how to handle this.”
She raised a brow at his comment.
“I know how to handle myself, period,” she replied. “That has nothing to do with where I work.” One thing she couldn’t stand was someone underestimating her, whether it be because she was a woman or because she was a Black woman. She was mature, educated, and unintimidated by a title or a badge.
Beaumont nodded and rubbed a finger over his chin. “I see why he married you.”
“What?” Vanna asked, her ire rising.
Parish chuckled. “You’re here because we found the bank account you and your husband shared. The account that currently has a balance of approximately $173,000 in it. But I guess you already know the balance.”
She was two seconds away from screaming What. The. Hell? But she sat there blinking at the detective instead.
One hundred and seventy-three thousand dollars. In a bank account with her and Caleb’s name on it. A joint account.
Her temples throbbed, and her breathing came just a little quicker, anxiety slamming into her with an iron fist.
“Cat got your tongue?” Beaumont asked with a wide grin.
“Why don’t you go ahead and tell us what the plan was, Mrs. Carlson. We can make this process short and sweet.” He pulled a pen out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket, then opened the folder in front of him. “Or we can make it long and painful. Emotionally, I mean, because we certainly wouldn’t do anything to harm someone as ... ah, I mean, someone like you.”
This bastard. She’d thought his gaze was lingering just a little longer than necessary on the cleavage displayed by the low cut of her jumpsuit. Which actually would’ve been a lot lower if she hadn’t pinned it this morning because showing up at her estranged husband’s funeral with miles of boob on display hadn’t seemed like a good idea. Still, with the little bit that was showing, it didn’t mean the detective’s lecherous gaze was welcome.
“Or ...,” she said, and took a deep breath. While her knee still shook beneath the table, not enough to have her heels clicking on the floor but still enough to remind herself she wasn’t as calm as she would like to portray, she released that breath as slowly as she could manage. “You can get me a phone so I can call my lawyer.”
August 9
Thirteen hours and a trip to see the commissioner later, Vanna was released on citation. As she didn’t have any belongings to retrieve from the evidence room, she clenched the paperwork she’d been given in one hand and walked with her head held high through the double doors at the back of the facility.
It was almost 2:00 a.m. now, but when she’d called Jamaica—three hours after she’d told the detectives she wanted to make the call—to see if they’d found her an attorney, she was told that they were already on their way and would be waiting for her when she was released.
The temperature had dropped a bit so that the balmy atmosphere that had hung over them during the burial service was now a damp, chilly air. The puddle she splashed with her first step outside told her it had rained. With a murmured curse, she continued across the dark parking lot, where she saw Granny’s black car and Jamaica’s white Lexus NX right beside it.
They looked like a trio hanging out in a high school parking lot, with Granny sitting on the trunk of her car, large-framed prescription glasses she needed for night driving on her nose, cigarette between her lips, and Frito in her lap. Ronni leaned her backside against Granny’s car, while Jamaica was across from her, relaxing against her truck.
“You cannot be serious,” Ronni said to Jamaica as Vanna grew closer. “You’re really going to start making wedding plans with him?”
“Wait a minute, now,” Jamaica said with a shake of her head. “I know you’re not about to tell me I shouldn’t get married. You’ve been married since I met you, and about five years before that.”
Ronni, who was five feet three inches tall and never wore heels because then she would be taller than her five-foot-five-inch husband, Croy, propped both hands on her hips. “I’ve been married for seventeen years.”
“And considering you’re only forty years old, you’ve been married the majority of your adult life. So, tell me again why me deciding to marry the guy I’ve been dating and living with for the past three years is a problem?” Jamaica was the same height as Vanna, with a mahogany complexion and a penchant for fake eyelashes that were way too long and often left her looking cartoonish.
“I didn’t say getting married was a problem,” Ronni argued. “I said marrying him was a problem. He doesn’t love anyone more than he loves himself, J.”
“Well, I love myself too, and so do you—or at least you should,” was Jamaica’s retort.
“Both of y’all hush, ’cause neither of your men is worth a damn,” Granny said, and blew out the smoke from the puff she’d taken. “Well, I’ll give Croy points for taking care of his house and kids. But he still works you like an employee, Ronni. And you, Jamaica—that man doesn’t do a damn thing but beg, cry, and play the victim with you. But look, if y’all like it, I love it, and my grandbaby’s coming, so hush it up.”
She tucked Frito under an arm and hopped down off that car with way more speed and ease than Vanna would’ve imagined a seventy-eight-year-old woman could. Granny had changed from the long, dark-gray linen dress she’d worn to the funeral into a pink-and-black tie-dyed caftan. Rows of chunky bracelets—Granny’s favorite jewelry—jingled at her wrist as she plucked the cigarette away and extended an arm toward her.
Vanna walked into her grandmother’s embrace. Granny always gave the best hugs, and tonight, when she needed it most, wasn’t any different.
“You’re not supposed to be smoking,” Vanna said, and inhaled the scent of Granny’s signature White Diamonds perfume.
“You had my nerves bad, babygirl. Are you all right?” Granny asked as she continued to rock Vanna in her tight one-armed hold.
“Yeah. I guess,” Vanna said. “I just want to go home, burn these clothes, and then sear my skin with the hottest water I can survive.”
Frito gave a grumbly rumble in what Vanna considered his approval as she eased away from Granny. With upturned lips, she glanced down at the dog she swore was the funniest-looking pooch she’d ever seen up close and scrubbed behind one of his tall ears.
Jamaica was the next one to pull Vanna into a hug. “Girl, I know that’s right. It’s dirty as hell in there, and you know I know.”
Vanna was nodding when Ronni came in to make their hug a threesome. “I was praying so hard for you, V. So hard.”
“Thank you,” Vanna said, and took a step back away from them. “Thank y’all for coming down here. I hope you weren’t standing out here too long. But I didn’t have any idea how long this process would take, and they wouldn’t let me make another call.”
“Oh, no, we had somebody on the inside giving us the scoop,” Ronni said.
Vanna gave herself a gentle smack on the forehead and said, “Duh. That’s right, J, I’m sure you’ve got COs that are down here tonight. Thank whoever kept me alive in there for me.”
“No, ma’am,” Jamaica said, and grabbed Vanna’s shoulders to turn her around. “You can thank him yourself.”
“Hey, Savannah,” Aden said as he stepped out from around a sleek silver Audi.
“Aden? What are you doing here?”
He came closer, in that walk that seemed more like a saunter. He’d changed out of his suit as well and now wore dark jeans and a black T-shirt that fit his muscular torso way too well. “I’ve got a buddy who’s a defense attorney. I called when those detectives drove off with you. One of his associates was already down here seeing to another client, so he got the scoop, relayed it to my friend, and he got here just before you were scheduled to see the commissioner.”
“I didn’t see anyone in the courtroom when I was there,” she said. “I mean, there were lots of people in there, but nobody came over to me to say they were my attorney. I just figured they let me go because I had no prior record.”
“He was already taking care of the paperwork for you. His wife is in the last month of what has been a difficult pregnancy, and he barely likes leaving her to go to work during the day, let alone in the middle of the night. So he wanted to get back home. But while you were being processed out, he told me to tell you to call him first thing tomorrow morning.” He handed her a card.
She took it and, thanks to the floodlights on the building behind them, could read the name Jovani Kincaid on the front.
“He was fine too, V,” Jamaica said from behind her. “Even in that slim-fit suit he was wearing. I think I’ve seen him down at the jail too, probably visiting with his clients or whatever.”
Aden, who was still staring at Vanna, nodded. “He’s had his own practice for ten years and is one of the most reputable defense attorneys in the District.”
“And you called him for me?” she asked. “Why?”
“Because it looked like you were in trouble,” he replied.
She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “And? Who are you, my knight in shining armor?”
“You’re rude,” Granny said, and came up to loop an arm through Vanna’s. “Thank the man, and let’s get you home.”
Vanna resisted the urge to stare quizzically at her grandmother, because if she wasn’t the pot calling the kettle. She sighed. “Right. Sorry. It’s been a rough day,” she said, then tucked the card into the side pocket of her jumpsuit and extended her hand to Aden. “Thanks for all your help. I’ll give him a call in the morning.”
Aden accepted her hand in a stern but gentle grasp. He held on to it as he continued to watch her. “No problem. I’ll check on you tomorrow.”
She was just about to say he didn’t need to do that when Granny yanked on her arm. “That sounds good. Let’s go. I don’t want none of these fools coming back out here and tryin’ to take you away again.”
“I know that’s right,” Ronni said. “Let’s go home.”
Vanna eased her hand out of Aden’s grasp and gave him a small smile. “Thanks again, and good night.”
His response was a nod before he turned his attention to Granny. “Good night, Granny. Ronni, Jamaica. You ladies drive safely.”
After the rest of the good nights and once Vanna was belted into the back seat of Granny’s car—because her grandmother insisted she was going to drive her home—Vanna said, “You just met him today ... or rather, yesterday, at the cemetery. Why’s he calling you Granny ?”
Mabeline was insistent about respect and people addressing her properly. Vanna had witnessed her correct a young nurse at the vein clinic who came into the room one morning and referred to her as Mabeline. “That’s Ms. Jackson to you, little girl.”
Vanna hadn’t bothered to tell Granny that referring to the nurse as little girl was disrespectful too, because she knew her grandmother was aware of exactly what she’d done.
Granny started the car. “He got my grandbaby a lawyer and brought his fine self down here to sit and wait for you with us. He can call me Granny all he wants to.”
Well, all righty then, she guessed that was a good enough point. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder on the ride back to her house why Aden Granger, whom she hadn’t seen in fifteen years, would turn up at Caleb’s funeral and help get her out of jail all in the span of twenty-four hours.
At nine fifteen, with her venti caramel macchiato—extra caramel and extra steam—on a napkin beside her desk blotter, Vanna stared down at the business card and punched the numbers on the keypad of her phone.
“Good morning. May I speak with Jovani Kincaid, please?” she said in her professional voice.
Then she sat up straighter in her chair and smoothed down the floppy bow on the purple blouse she was wearing.
“May I ask who’s calling?” asked the perky receptionist who answered.
“Savannah Carlson, and it’s in reference to my ... ah, my upcoming court appearance.” The last thing she wanted to say was my incarceration last night , because she was still trying to digest that whole interlude.
“Please hold,” came the receptionist’s next response.
Vanna closed her eyes to the thoughts that had kept her awake long after she returned home from the police station. She’d insisted that Granny and Frito stay at her house since it was so late, and despite Granny’s obstinance, Vanna didn’t want her driving at night, glasses or not. And after they were settled into the guest room down the hall, Vanna had gone into her bedroom and closed the door. She’d hurried to get that shower, tossing that jumpsuit in the trash can, because she never wanted to see it again.
She’d been to jail in that outfit, and the memory would forever be emblazoned on her mind. She’d been to jail. Had literally sat in a cell. With bars around her. Bars with a lock to keep her in. Now, she hadn’t been in there alone, but that was beside the point. She didn’t know those other women in there with her, even though, by the time she’d left, Kita was reminding her that she thought her weave was gorgeous.
The one place Vanna had never imagined seeing herself was in jail. Sure, she, Jamaica, Caleb, and some of their friends had been in possession of and smoked their fair share of marijuana during their college years and for a good few years after that, until Jamaica started working at the jail and Vanna feared what was once their recreational use was turning into something a little more frequent for Caleb. And while back then, before District voters had approved the legalization of possession of minimal amounts of marijuana for personal use, they’d definitely had a supplier from the old neighborhood hooking them up, she’d still never considered that those puffs of entertainment would land her behind bars.
“Good morning, Mrs. Carlson,” a man’s voice said on the phone.
“Good morning,” she replied. “You can call me Vanna. And thank you for your help last night.”
“You can call me Jovani, and there’s no need for thank-you’s.”
“Okay. Well, if you’ll send me your invoice, I’ll take care of it right away.” She’d thought about that too, last night. How she was going to pay for a lawyer.
Vanna wasn’t destitute by any means. She made a decent high five-figure salary at the firm; she had some small investments that Croy, Ronni’s husband, who worked some entry-level position at an investment firm, had coached her on; and her credit was good. She would also get a check from the life insurance company, even though that funeral bill had been a lot more expensive than she’d imagined. But she didn’t have extra thousands just lying around, waiting to be tossed toward legal fees.
“No need to worry about that; it’s been taken care of,” Jovani said. “But I’d like to set up a time for us to meet. I have to be in court within the hour, and I have another appointment this afternoon before I need to head home, but how does Monday morning look for you? Can you be in my office by seven thirty? I know that’s early, but I have to be in court at nine. Providing my wife doesn’t go into labor this weekend.”
That last part was said with a hint of excitement, and Vanna couldn’t help but smile. “Right. Aden told me you were expecting. Congratulations,” she said.
“Thanks. While I’ve mastered being a defense attorney, the reality that I’ll be a father very soon is scaring the hell out of me.” He chuckled.
“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” she replied. “It’s a blessing.”
“You’re right about that,” he told her. “Definitely a blessing, and my wife and I are so grateful.”
Vanna continued to smile. That had been her fifteen years ago, happily married and excited about the future. That parade had been quickly rained on. “Seven thirty on Monday is fine for me. I usually try to get into my office by that time even though I’m not due here until nine.”
“Okay. Cool. I’ll put that on my schedule, and I’ll have more information by then so we’ll have a better picture of what’s going on.”
“I was just about to ask if you knew what this was all about. Because I don’t have a clue. I’ve been thinking about it and trying to figure out where this money they’re talking about could’ve come from and why they think I have access to it,” she said, a rush of anxiety creeping back into the place it had resided all night.
“Don’t worry about all that right now. I’ve already got my assistants looking into this, so we’ll talk about it on Monday. In the meantime, don’t discuss this with anyone else, Vanna. Not the police, not your friends. Put it out of your mind for the next few days, and we’ll map out our next steps when we meet.” He sounded so confident, so relaxed. Like he helped middle-aged women out of weird-ass conspiracy charges every day.
She frowned when it dawned on her that he actually did get people out of legal dilemmas for a living. “Okay,” she said, and sighed deeply. “I’ll try.”
“You’re going to be fine,” he told her. “We’ll take care of this, and you’ll move on with your life—I promise.”
And, damn, she wanted to believe him. Wanted to trust that this was all going to go away and she could get on with her birthday-month celebration, her plans for the future—all of it. But hadn’t she just thought this same thing a few days ago when she’d been preparing for Caleb’s funeral? Life seemed intent on tossing everything but the kitchen sink her way, and she was getting weary of fighting the battle.
“Thank you, again. And wait, did you say your bill was taken care of? How? By who?” she asked, but her heart skipped a beat as the answer echoed in her mind before Jovani even said the name.
“Aden took care of it.”