His Third Wife

“Thanks fo

r having me.”

“Now, I understand you have some big news you’d like to share,” Alina said, already sure she wasn’t going to ask about the baby. She’d been through that same tough night with her husband.

“Yes, I do,” Jamison said. “I want to take a moment to address my people, those who’ve supported me over the years, those who no longer support me, those who never supported me, all of them.” The cameraman went in close on Jamison’s face then. “I want to let everyone know about a violation of the law that’s happening right here in this city where one man sits in a jail cell for weeks without having a bail amount posted and for charges that are without exigency and based upon an arrest that remains in question by his attorney.”

“Excuse me, Mayor Taylor,” Alina cut in. “Are you talking about the case concerning Glenn ‘Ras’ Roberson?”

“Exactly.”

“Why are you interested in his case? Why should the people listen to you when there are actual reports out there noting your connections to him and inferring that perhaps you are connected to the crimes he’s been charged with? Are you connected to him?” The camera caught Alina sitting at attention and poised with query in the way a mature anchorwoman might when set to interview a high-profile dignitary. And her tone was right on time. Throughout the state, viewers were switching over to see what everyone on social media was talking about.

“I am connected to him. He is my friend. My former college roommate. And that’s why I can say beyond any doubt that this man is innocent. And the charges he faces are without merit, and the police and the district attorney, everyone knows that. But no one makes a move.”

“Do you have proof of this?” Alina asked.

“I’m glad you asked,” Jamison said. “In fact, I do. See, Glenn Roberson, a respected community man who has no record of criminal activity including selling drugs and is a known Rastafarian who smokes marijuana as a part of his religious rite, he says there were four men on the scene that night when he was pulled over. Now, the station report on that squad car notes that two officers were in the car when it left the station.”

“Okay.”

“But my friend says there were actually four men at the scene when he was arrested. Two men in uniform in the squad car and two men in suits in a car that was following behind the car, who identified themselves as detectives.”

“Well, nothing there sounds out of order. Isn’t it plausible to consider that maybe since law enforcement was already building a case against Mr. Roberson, they were simply following a tip and the detectives were on a lead?”

“But the detectives aren’t in the police report.” Jamison slid a copy of the police report from his folder and handed it to Alina. “And neither is the second cop.”

“So . . .” Alina stalled a little as she read.

“A squad car left the precinct with two officers in it, but only one officer was noted in the police report that evening when it returned.”

After eyeing the report for a minute, Alina looked back at Jamison. “Mayor Taylor, I see the discrepancy here, but this could amount to a simple clerical error. I’m sure if Roberson’s attorney requested the information about the officer in question, it would be made readily available.” She smiled gingerly.

“Well, it hasn’t been.” Jamison handed over a stack of papers. “Phone logs, copies of letters. More than fifty calls and certified letters. All requesting that information. All unanswered.”

Alina thumbed through the logs and letters. With each turned page, it was evident she was becoming a believer, unknowingly nodding her head.

“Now, that makes you have some questions—questions any citizen of this fine state, even one who’s behind bars, ought to have answered. Doesn’t it?” Jamison pressed.

“Well . . . yes.”

“And what are you wondering?”

“I’m wondering—”

“You’re wondering,” Jamison interrupted, “how in the hell we can keep a man in jail for this long with such an obvious error in a file related to his very arrest. Since when is it a secret who arrested someone?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“Neither do I!” Jamison said. “And you know what else you might be wondering, if you’re smart—and I can tell you’re smart,” he added, noticing a little bulldog hanging from the necklace around Alina’s neck. “What, you went to UGA?”

“Yes.” Alina’s neck blushed red.

“Then, you’re a smart woman—go dawgs!” On pure adrenaline that lightens the pressure on the brain of someone on a winning team, Jamison pumped his fist in the air.

The anchorwoman met the enthusiasm for her alma matter with a matching fist.

“Now a smart person would wonder not only how this man could remain in jail, but also why someone might want him in jail,” Jamison charged. “Those men whose names aren’t listed, my friend claims they planted most of these drugs in his car.”