His Third Wife

Ras’s eyes were big on Jamison when he turned back around. “Wow, Mr. Mayor has it like that? Got the guards moving out the way?” He laughed a little.

“No, those Benjamin Franklins have it like that,” Jamison explained.

“Money, power—” Ras started.

“And respect,” Jamison finished. After a short pause, he added, “So, what’s really going on?”

Ras sat back in his seat. “I don’t know, J. One moment I’m out there. Next moment I’m in here.”

“But how’d all that happen?” Jamison pushed. He noticed how vague and detached Ras was being. Almost avoiding his eyes. Any notions he’d had of Ras’s guilt or innocence were being weighed through this unclear communication. He needed more.

“How? Man, I don’t know.” Ras seemed to slip even farther down in his seat. The distance between the former roommates was growing.

“Come on, Ras. You know something. What’s up?”

Ras looked around the room, from corner to corner, ceiling to floor.

“What? You think the room is bugged?” Jamison asked. “You think I’m here to record you? Me?”

“Again, I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. Know anybody.”

“You know me, man,” Jamison. “We go way back. Way back.”

Ras just looked at Jamison.

“I helped you install those hardwood floors at your grandmother’s house that summer,” Jamison said.

Ras gave a weak grin.

“It was hot as hell in that house. No air-conditioning. In the middle of the A,” Jamison recollected for Ras. “And she wouldn’t pay us.”

“Wouldn’t even give us any sweet tea,” Ras added.

“Just water,” Jamison continued. “But I showed up to help you. Three hot summer days in a row.”

Jamison fought with Ras’s eyes to get his attention.

“What’s up, Glenn?” Jamison said, calling Ras by his birth name. “Talk to me. No one else in this room but me and you.”

“I didn’t do this shit, J. They’re setting me up,” Ras spat.

Jamison let the words settle in the room before he decided what to say next.

“Weed?” Jamison laughed in a tone appropriate to mentioning marijuana in front of his friend who’d once attempted to cure himself of the flu by smoking pot for two hours straight. When the experiment was done, neither had been sure if it had worked. But they had been sure they were high.

Ras laughed before explaining, “I had a few ounces. Nothing big.” Ras leaned into Jamison. “Nothing unlike what I normally roll with. You know.”

“So, it was your weed?”

“I had nine bricks. Maybe. I ain’t fucking with no cops. I got kids. You know the black man knows the law.”

“So, the cops planted extra weed on you?” Jamison concluded.

“More weed, more charges. Less weed, I go home.”

“Why wouldn’t they want you to go home?”

Ras sat back again and looked into Jamison’s eyes. “What are you here for?”