His Last Wife
Part 2
Chapter 10
“While recent rumors tell a tale that Jamison Taylor is alive and working with underground militant groups in Harlem, New York—some even claiming to have spotted the Atlanta mayor who faked his death to escape a CIA plot to have him murdered—reliable sources who preferred not to have their identities revealed, due to government agents working undercover in the publishing industry, say Taylor has actually been connected with the growing African Liberation Army camp in Cuba, where he now resides.”
Kerry read this passage from a blog aloud. She was sitting at one of the computer terminals in the library at the jail. Garcia-Bell was seated beside her, hunched over and listening.
Kerry scrolled down the screen and read some more, before turning to Garcia-Bell for a response.
Kerry’s eyes were so big and excited. This was a different Kerry than the one Garcia-Bell had met when she shuffled into the jail looking like she’d just landed in hell.
“So, what do you think?” Kerry asked, pushing for some confirmation from Garcia-Bell.
“I don’t know. It sounds like all the other ones. Same thing. I don’t know,” Garcia-Bell said, trying to sound even and not dedicated to believing or disbelieving what Kerry had read.
Kerry had been reading those blogs for days since she talked to Auset on the jail yard. While she’d started a skeptic and claimed she was just looking into it to see what Auset was talking about, after a while it seemed like Kerry believed some of the stuff—and Garcia-Bell . . . well, she didn’t.
“I found this site this morning. Some guy who lives in Atlanta publishes it. He says he has contacts with ALA,” Kerry said, clicking to the about the author tab on the blog. She’d started using the lingo and jargon writers used on all of the sites and her eyes popped with enthusiasm that also registered in her voice.
She’d been clicking from site to site for almost two hours, dragging Garcia-Bell through a story that began with the CIA plotting to kill Jamison because he was the next perceived leader of young black males seeking success in the South, him connecting with whatever militant group could free him from the ill-fated plot, faking his death, and fleeing to wherever any blog would claim.
“What’s the ALA?” Garcia-Bell asked.
“The African Liberation Army. It’s in Cuba—well, that’s where it’s based, but there are camps everywhere,” Kerry explained and then she read lines from the author’s biography. “Baba Seti. Founder of the Fihankra Center in the West End.” She looked at Garcia-Bell. “Well?”
“Well? What?”
“What do you think? I mean, he sounds very confident.”
“Think about what, Kerry?”
“Do you think he knows—like, about Jamison?”
“What about him?” Garcia-Bell was trying to push Kerry, so she could hear how crazy she sounded even considering what she’d read on some blog. Kerry frowned at Garcia-Bell like she’d missed something and lowered her head down to Garcia-Bell’s level to whisper as if anyone was listening: “If he’s alive?”
Garcia-Bell looked away.
“What?” Kerry asked. “What?”
“I don’t know. I think—” Garcia-Bell paused and looked down to avoid the hope in Kerry’s eyes. “I think it’s just like all the others. The other conspiracy theory—”
“Conspiracy theory?” Kerry stopped her with an accusatory tone.
“Yes.” Garcia-Bell looked up and into Kerry’s eyes. “I do. All of it is and I don’t know why you’re reading this stuff,” she said. “No, I guess I do. I guess I do know why, but you can’t believe it. You said it yourself. You saw it happen. You were th
ere. Right?”
“I was, but what if I didn’t see what I think I saw?” Kerry asked. “What if what I saw was what Jamison wanted me to see and—I don’t—he’s . . .” Kerry looked off to consider the seduction of her frazzled ideas. “He’s alive.”
Kerry released the computer mouse and kind of sulked at her words.
“He’s alive and you’re in jail? You said he loved you. And you think he’s in Cuba. So, he’s over there and he knows the woman he loves is in jail for killing him? That doesn’t even sound right. None of it does. It sounds crazy. Too far out there, you know?”
“Maybe he had to do it. And he knows I’m in jail, but he’s preparing to come and get me. To get me out,” Kerry said.
Garcia-Bell wanted to shake Kerry and ask her if she heard herself. But she didn’t and she couldn’t. She’d actually seen this inside before. Women who’d gone delusional or half-crazy about everything going on outside once they were locked up. And it was usually about men, all to explain why this or that had happened or wasn’t happening. Prostitutes who believed their pimps loved them and hadn’t come to bail them out because they were “teaching” her a lesson. Girlfriends locked up for crimes committed by their drug-dealing boyfriends, all taking the rap for their lovers, claiming they’d get the easier sentence and do the time in the name of love. But Kerry, how was she falling for this? What was with this sudden change?
She thought to tell Kerry all about the other women and what the bars could do to the desperate mind, but she didn’t think it would do Kerry any good. Maybe these theories could actually help Kerry with her time. Put some bandages over her broken heart.