His Last Wife

“This system,” Kerry said, setting her eyes to the back of the crowd where the man with the toddler on his shoulders was still standing. “The system that originally had him under investigation by the FBI and the same system that had me in jail for his murder.”

“No, stop!” Lebowski urged Kerry through his teeth as he smiled for the cameras and tried to force her into the SUV. “Okay, that’s all,” he said, trying to speak over Kerry, but she only got louder.

“I didn’t believe that for a long time; I didn’t want to listen to people who were saying it,” Kerry shouted. “Like everyone else, I called their thoughts ‘conspiracy theories,’ but now that I am listening and I have my ears wide open, I think it’s no coincidence that the DA chose to release me from jail. I don’t know what happened to him, but I think he knew exactly what’s going on here and soon, soon, we’ll all know.”

“Okay!” Lebowski snipped, nearly tossing Kerry into the back of the SUV at that point.

But it was too late again. Amid cheers and fists in the air from the people in the back of the crowd with the banners and a few supporters up front, Kerry had stepped onto the floorboard of the SUV and was hollering along, “Revolution! Revolution! Revolution!”

“That’ll be all.” He waved at the crowd.

Once Lebowski had finally gotten Kerry into the SUV and they were about to drive off, her little scene brought out the Brooklyn Jewish boy in the now-distinguished attorney.

“What the fuck was that? Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Lebowski cursed at the end of a series of worse expletives that had his assistant very nervous in the front seat with the driver, but the black women seated beside him in the back hardly moved and were more focused on how red his face was getting as anger consumed his body. “I told you to follow my lead—let me talk. The fuck was that, Kerry?”

The driver tried to pull away from the curb, but he couldn’t move too quickly or he’d hit some of the bystanders who’d encircled the automobile.

“I wanted to answer the question,” Kerry said, still high off of the electric response the crowd had given her. She’d felt like a superstar: Betty. Coretta. Winnie. Kathleen. That night, lying in bed, she’d imagine that Auset was in the jail watching her from a window with a fist in the air.

“Why would you want to answer that question? It was a dumb-ass question. A crazy question! What were you thinking? Were you even thinking?” Lebowski fired.

“I was thinking about the truth,” Kerry said boldy.

Val and Lebowski and the assistant and even the driver looked at Kerry like she’d pulled out a crack pipe.

“What?” Val asked, with her tone matching the concern on her face.

“Okay, listen,” Kerry said, noting the stares. “I’ve been reading about Jamison’s death online and, I know it sounds like a stretch, but there is proof out there that he’s alive.”

“Oh shit,” Lebowski said, tapping his assistant on the shoulder. “Contact our guy at the Atlanta Journal-Constitution and tell him we are retracting all of the statements Kerry just made outside the jail. Tell him . . . she’s obviously mentally drained and possibly suffering from depression.” He looked at Kerry and added, “and likely delusions.”

“I am not delusional. I am not depressed. I’m smart and I know what I’m saying,” Kerry countered.

Lebowski ignored her and tapped his assistant on the shoulder again. “And get in contact with that trial psychologist—the one from Emory—and get an appointment for Kerry. First thing tomorrow morning.” He turned to the driver. “And why are we still sitting here?” he asked. They’d moved only a yard or so from the curb.

“I’m sorry, sir. There’s nothing I can do right now. We have to wait a second until the crowd gets out of the way.” He pointed to the many militant bystanders who’d started chanting, “Torkwase! Torkwase!”

“What is that? What are they saying?” Kerry asked.

“Don’t know. Don’t care!” Lebowski answered. “My only focus right now is getting you out of here and getting you some help.”

“Help? For what? I’m not crazy.” Kerry looked at Val, whose expression had changed. “Why is it so hard to believe that he’s alive? And that there might be more to what happened at the hotel than we know?”

Val asked sharply, “Why is it hard to accept that he’s dead. Is dead and been dead?”

Sensing that Val’s abrasive words and tone might lead to further conflict, Lebowski jumped between the brides with, “Kerry, you’ve been through a lot, more than any of us. You haven’t had time to mourn the loss of someone you loved. Someone who loved you. And if you need more time, we understand. But let us help you.”

The driver was about to pull off from the curb but there was a solid fist banging on the window.

“Just one more question for Kerry Jackson,” the group in the SUV heard a woman’s voice say.

“It’s a reporter,” the assistant said, before signaling “no” to the final visitor.

As if she hadn’t heard any of Lebowski and Val’s pleas for silence, Kerry pressed her finger on the button to lower the back window beside her.

In what seemed like slow motion, poor Lebowski went to stop the tinted glass from disappearing into the door frame, but his effort was in vain.

“Driver, put your foot on the gas and get us out of here,” he ordered, seeing these indiscretions adding more distance between him and his imagined victory. “If we move, they’ll move!” he added, pointing to people in front of the car.