Wifey: Part 1

“Yeah, her name is Jasmine. Can we help you?” Nico stood up. “We tryin’ to enjoy a night out.”

The two men flashed their badges. One spoke, “NYPD homicide unit. We’re placing Ms. Sinclair under arrest for the murder of Samuel “Shabazz” Barton.”

“What?” I asked in disbelief.

“Turn around and place your hands behind your back.”

“Nico, help me, please . . . ”

Nico looked helpless.

“Baby, I’ll be on the phone with my lawyer in five minutes. Don’t worry about nothing, and don’t say nothing to these niggas until the lawyer gets there.”

The detectives placed handcuffs on me and prepared to cart me outside as everybody inside the restaurant looked on.

“Oh my God!” I screamed in anguish. I couldn’t believe this was happening. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“It’s our job,” one detective replied, sarcastically. “We lock up murderers.”

“I didn’t kill anybody!” I pleaded.

“Jasmine be quiet!” Nico warned. “Don’t say anything else until your lawyer gets there.”

Tears were on the verge of streaming down my face, but I wanted to be as strong as I could in front of Nico. I didn’t want him to see me crying and think that I would fold under questioning. As the detectives led me out of the restaurant the only thing I could think of was Mia’s last text message to me. I did go from mistress to wifey.

But at what cost?

Keep reading for an excerpt of

Wifey:

I Am Wifey

Prologue

Jasmine

I was hauled off to Midtown South’s police precinct and all the way there my heart palpitated from fear. What have I gotten myself into? I wasn’t brought up this way. Not to be charged with murder at twenty years old. As we passed by yellow cabs, bright city lights, and numerous pedestrians, I realized I wasn’t going down without a fight. No one saw me do shit, and I wasn’t going to admit shit. I’m going to sit with a poker face, and if that didn’t work, I’d resort to tears.

The marked police car pulled around to a side entrance and I was led out the cramped back seat by the taller detective. No one said a word to me as I stoically held my head up high. The police precinct was a stark contrast from the eerie silence I’d just experienced. The noise and chaos jolted my senses, and instantly I became jittery. I began to fidget, turning my wrists uncomfortably in the handcuffs until they became irritated.

“Could someone loosen these cuffs?”

Instead of accommodating my request, I was shoved, slightly, from behind. My pressure instantly rose, but I didn’t dare lash out. I was on their territory and realized, quickly, that I was way out of my league.

Eventually I was escorted to a back room that looked cold and sterile. It had the quintessential desk and two chairs that you see on every cop television show. As the two detectives began to have small talk amongst themselves, I was handcuffed to a chair and then left alone.

At first, I was relieved that they didn’t come back into the room to question me. I figured that Nico had hired me an attorney and the detectives were given strict orders to back off. But as the minutes turned into an hour, which turned into hours, I got restless.

“Hello?” I called. I waited a few seconds and elevated my voice. “Hel-lo!”

Where was everyone? Why had no one come back into the room to check on me? I continued to call out, angrily, until I got tired. Eventually, I put my head on the desk and fell into an uncomfortable sleep.

Hours had passed when I was awoken by a female officer who took me to the ladies’ room and offered me something to eat or drink.

“When am I being processed?” I asked. I just wanted to see a judge who would hopefully set a bail and I could go home to my warm bed. “I’ve been here for almost ten hours. And where’s my attorney?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know anything about your case. Are you sure you don’t want anything from the vending machine? Soda? Chips? Nothing?”