His First Wife

“Hum,” she said and looked over at Coreen. “He’s here with her?”

“Yes,” I said again.

“Should’ve told us that first,” the tall cop said. “We would’ve given you more time on him.” They both exchanged glances and a short, nervous laugh.

“I know what you’re feeling. We see this all the time,” Officer Cox said, writing again. “But you have to control yourself.”

“And not let the cops see you hit your husband,” the tall cop said.

“Cox,” the officer in charge called, coming toward us as he adjusted his holster.

Jamison turned toward the house when the officer walked away, but I could tell he was crying. He punched the door so hard it sounded as if a gun had gone off.

“Ma’am, I need you to go on in the house,” the white officer said to Coreen. “We’ll come in and speak with you after we’re done out here.”

Coreen turned and looked at me quickly, her eyes still wet with confession. She went to walk into the house, reaching first for Jamison, who stepped away from her immediately.

The older officer signaled again for Cox to walk toward him.

“You just stand here, calm, and I’ll be right back,” she said, stepping away.

“What’s going on?” I asked. I could see some trace of dread in her eyes.

“She’s just talking to our captain is all,” the other officer said. “Standard procedure.”

“Am I in any trouble?” I watched as Officer Cox talked to the captain. Her eyes dropped and she placed her hand over her mouth just like Coreen had.

“Probably not,” the officer said. “They’ll probably let you go.”

“Let me go?”

I looked back at Jamison.

“Baby,” he tried, his voice filled with desperation.

“Sir, I’m going to need you to stay where you are,” the fat officer said, putting his hand over his gun.

“Jamison?” I called. “Jamison.”

“She’s my wife. You can’t take her.” He kept coming toward us. Two other cops ran to him and held him back from either side. Suddenly, there were at least ten cops between us.

“Take me? What’s going on?” I asked. I looked back to Officer Cox. She was obviously pleading now with the captain, but he kept shaking his head, and then finally she looked me right in the eye and mouthed the word “sorry.”

“Just be patient, ma’am,” the officer beside me said timidly. “They’ll be back over in a minute.”

“Can’t I just speak to her before she goes?” Jamison yelled. “She’s pregnant. She can’t go to jail.”

“Jail?” I said. The word slapped me so hard my bladder dropped and urine came flowing from between my legs, wetting the front of my nightgown. “Jamison!” I cried. “Stop them!”

The female officer came toward me, pulling handcuffs from her hip.

“Mrs. Taylor,” she said, her voice deep and throaty, as if she was forcing it to be stern. “I’m going to have to place you under arrest—”

“No,” I hollered. “No! I didn’t do anything. I was just here to get my husband. He’s my husband.” I began crying again. My adrenaline was wearing thin and the thought of being arrested for the first time in my life suddenly made me feel desperate and ugly. Not who I was. Not Kerry Taylor who’d grown up privileged, on the right street, in the right part of Atlanta. Not me. Jail? I looked at Jamison, for him to do something. To stop them from taking me away. This thing wasn’t for me.

“Baby,” he said, still being held by the officers, “just go with them and I’ll come get you. I promise.”

“But I didn’t do anything.”