Ten Years Later
Moving just as fast as she could, Valerie Flynn raced into the walk-in closet and pulled the suitcase off the top shelf. Opening it right there on the floor, she grabbed clothes and tossed them into it without bothering to fold a single thing. A few skirts, some blouses, a couple pair of pants. Check. Now, shoes.
She wore a navy skirt with matching heels and a white silk blouse. Her outfit would go with most of what she’d thrown into the suitcase and make a few more outfits.
She looked at her shoe rack, at the dozens of pairs there. The idea of leaving them hurt some feminine part of her. No choice, though. If she wanted to get out, she had mere minutes left to do it. Grabbing a pair of black flats and a pair of tan heels, she tossed them on top of the clothes. She’d already gotten cash out of the bank. She could buy a toothbrush and new underwear when she got to Atlanta. As she snapped the suitcase shut, she heard the front door slam.
Feeling her stomach turn to water, she quietly turned off the closet light and pulled the door closed. Maybe he’d leave. She fisted her hand and held it to her mouth, realizing how cold her fingers felt. Eyes closed, holding her breath, wishing the floor would dissolve under her feet and envelope her, she waited, listening to him tear through the apartment looking for her. She tried very hard not to make a single sound.
“I know you’re here!” he bellowed, storming into the bedroom.
She gave a startled cry when he kicked the closet door open. Holding her hands up in front of her face, she tried to evade his grasp, but he managed to grab hold of her hair and pull her out of the closet. She moved her feet as fast as she could to keep up with him, trying to alleviate the pull on her scalp. Reflexive tears streamed down her face and she started talking.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she said over and over again.
He stopped in front of the full-length mirror next to the closet. “Look!” he screamed in her ear.
She hated it when he did this. But, years of conditioning had her opening her eyes. She saw her lip curl up in disgust as she stared at herself. Mascara had mixed with tears and ran in black streaks down her brown face. Her shirt had shifted and she could see bruising on her shoulder from two nights ago, the dark purpling barely showing against her chocolate skin.
Tyrone’s eyes had a frenzied look to them, and she could smell cheap blended whiskey on his breath. Her stomach turned at the smell. He was well beyond reasoning right now. If she just endured it, it would eventually end. He would eventually sleep it off. Then she’d leave, for good, with or without the suitcase.
“You see this?” he said, no longer screaming. He grabbed her chin from behind and squeezed hard enough to make her whimper. “This is mine. You think I’ll let you just leave?”
Without warning, he let go of her chin and smashed her forehead against the mirror. She felt the glass cut into her skin and screamed more in fear than pain.
“The only way you’ll leave me is in a coffin,” he declared, spinning her around to face him. As soon as he let go, she stepped backward, holding her hands up in front of her. She could feel the blood dripping down her face. “Do you understand me?” he screamed, spittle flying from his mouth, emphasizing each word.
“Yes, yes, yes,” she whispered over and over again. “I’m sorry. Yes. Please, just don’t hurt me.”
“Hurt you?” Hurling an obscenity at her, he reached back and punched her with his closed fist. She felt her knees buckle at the pain that exploded in her cheek. Stunned, she fell, clutching out to try to stop her fall. She couldn’t end up on the floor. He’d start kicking her if she fell. She had to stay on her feet.
Somehow, she managed to grab the edge of the dresser and pull herself up. Before she could step away, he had her by the neck. “I don’t think you’re really sorry,” he said.
As soon as she realized he had started to drag her to the glass doors, she started fighting him, screaming, clawing, scratching, kicking. But he was bigger, stronger, angry, and drunk. He threw the door open so hard she heard the glass shatter. With a roar, he pushed her up against the balcony and screamed at her. “You want it over? Then I’ll end it!”
Crying, clawing at the hands around her neck, she kicked out and managed to jam the heel of her shoe into the flesh of his thigh. He roared in pain and grabbed her shin.
She could feel the metal railing of the balcony digging into her shoulder blades seconds before he flipped her over it. Suddenly, Valerie felt nothing, nothing at all. She didn’t even feel the air rushing past her the entire way to the ground.
Then she felt everything for exactly as long as it took for her vision to flash red like lightning at sunset. She felt glass shattering all around her, and saw it fly up into her flesh like a thousand razor blades and all around her like a million glittering diamonds the instant before she felt unforgiving cement welcome her back to earth. She felt more pain than she had ever felt before in her life for less than one heartbeat before the world completely vanished in that bright red flash.
Bradford “Brad” Dixon closed his eyes and took a deep breath as the commercial jet completed its descent. It bumped up, then settled back down on the runway, the wheels chirping loudly as the rubber met the asphalt. Realizing that he gripped the arms of the seat so tightly in his hands that his fingertips had turned bone white, he intentionally relaxed his hands and let out the breath he had held, slowly trying to force his body to relax again. After hours and hours of flight, they had survived and landed back home in Atlanta. As much as he enjoyed the work on the mission field where he spent the last ten days building a medical clinic in rural Alaska, the flight home always made him think he’d never go again. Maybe next time, he would donate his vacation for a mission in Georgia. Surely, Atlanta could use a new medical clinic, or perhaps housing for the homeless.
He glanced over at the next row of seats. Ken and Jon sat side-by-side. Ken looked a little pale. Brad knew he feared flying on a level that even he couldn’t fully appreciate. The fact that he still got on a plane once a year to serve on the mission field impressed Brad. Especially when he was involved in a local charity that built houses in Atlanta. He could easily consider his job done from that alone.
Jon flipped the page in the book he read, as if completely unaware of the fact that the steel tube they found themselves in just plummeted thousands of feet to the ground. Jon’s steadfast faith and level business head had always impressed Brad. He strove to be like his older by seven minutes brother. It appeared that everything came easily to him and nothing ever seemed to bother him. Brad felt like he personally worried about everything to the Nth degree. He would love to have some of Jon’s confidence and assurance in God’s plans and his part in them.
The obnoxious loudspeaker welcoming him to Atlanta interrupted his thoughts, and he shut his eyes and grit his teeth. Even his headphones couldn’t cancel out the noise as superfluous offers for airline credit cards and memberships to exclusive clubs assaulted him.
Finally, the plane came to a complete stop. He unbuckled his seatbelt and pushed himself carefully to his feet. At six-five, he had to duck beneath the overhead bins. His brothers stood with him, and he watched the two of them also stand in slightly bent-down positions.
“It would be nice to occasionally go someplace that didn’t require any flights on airplanes,” his brother Ken mused.
Jon laughed as he slipped his backpack strap over his shoulder. “I thought the exact same thing. And, judging by the way Brad almost ripped the arms off his seat when we landed, I think he was, too.”
“You know what I really think would be nice? I think it would be nice to occasionally have my own thoughts,” Brad remarked to his identical brothers.
They all had close-cropped brown hair, strong features, and gray eyes. All of them worked with their hands and regularly played sports, giving them long and lean muscle tone and well-developed chests. They had gone on this trip for their annual birthday celebration mission trip, this year celebrating twenty-five years. “Though I confess it’s a little nice that at least someone understands me.” He said that in a mocking tone, putting his hand to his heart.
“No one understands you, Brad.” Ken laughed.
“I don’t think we share thoughts, bro,” Jon offered doubtfully. “I don’t even want to know what kind of sick things go on in that noggin of yours.”
They moved forward when the first-class cabin door opened. Brad scowled at his brothers as they made their way out of the gate. “You know, dad is doing the thing with the straws tonight.”
Jon’s lips thinned. “I wish he wouldn’t do that.”
Ken shrugged. “Has to do something. Only one can be in charge, right?”
“I just hope it’s one of you. Maybe I can just abstain.” Brad rolled his head on his neck, thinking of his father’s idea to have the brothers draw straws to see who would become the next president of Dixon Contracting, one of the largest contractors in the southeast. “I cannot imagine sitting in the office all day, wearing a suit.”
“I can see it,” Jon said with a grin. “You’d clean up real good. You’re nearly as good lookin’ as me.”
“Dad feels like it’s up to God this way.” Ken gestured at the sign that pointed toward the train that would take them to baggage claim. “I told him we should cast lots. You know, keep it Biblical.” He laughed in his dry humor way. “But he thought drawing straws would be easier.”
“You did not.” Brad narrowed his eyes. “Seriously? Why would you encourage this?”
Ken shrugged. “Someone has to take over.”
“He should just divide it up.” Jon nodded at his own idea as if his brothers automatically understood his logic. “Then we’d each have an even share.”
Brad narrowed his eyes at Jon. “Then we’d all be stuck in an office wearing suits.”
Jon mocked a shudder. “I’d change the rules for my company. No ties.”
After a few stops, they got off the train and worked their way to baggage claim. “Don’t know about you two,” Ken said, “But I could use a steak.”
Immediately, Brad’s mouth started to water. “You know mom’s going to have some big birthday feast waiting on us. You trying to get us killed?”
“Oh, yeah. She’ll have cake,” Jon said, always the sweetest tooth. “Steak and cake. Perfect welcome home meal.”
“I’m just ready for a shower,” Brad said, thinking about the amenities, or lack thereof, of their trip. He and his brothers had gone on their first mission trip on their fifteenth birthday, and every single year, he came home humbled and broken by the wealth and luxuries he enjoyed.
He’d spent the last two nights writing plans in his journal—plans to make changes in his life so he could help benefit his community. He wanted to sit down with his mother and see what she thought about his ideas. He wished he had someone like his dad had in his mom—someone to encourage and support him as he maneuvered through life. How long had he prayed for God to reveal his wife to him? Since he had turned thirteen? He thought God had once, yet here he stood, a quarter of a century old, still single, still waiting.
Without encouraging it, Valerie Flynn’s face floated through his mind, but he shoved it aside. Valerie had made her own decisions regarding any future they might enjoy.
“I may skip the shower and settle straight for the hot tub,” Jon said. “Every muscle in my body hurts. Obviously, I’ve not spent enough time this year with a hammer in my hand.”
“If you’re looking for opportunity, I always have an in on charitable building work,” Ken said. “Just ask and I’ll send you out, hammer in hand.”
Brad closed his eyes in exhaustion, leaning his shoulder against the wall of the train, and listened to Ken and Jon talk about the details of Ken’s upcoming projects. His phone vibrated with a text message.
Brad looked up and saw Jon and Ken looking at their phones, too. Ken met his eyes, his own worry reflecting back at him just as the train came to a stop.
Valerie Flynn sat in the witness stand. She wore a forest green skirt and an ivory silk blouse. She’d pulled her hair up and twisted it into a simple bun on the back of her head. On the outside, she looked calm, collected, and professional. However, her mouth felt like someone had stuffed it with cotton balls seconds before blow drying it. Sweat trickled down her back, making her want to fidget and tug at her blouse.
When she had arrived this morning, Valerie had distracted herself from her crippling anxiety by analyzing the architecture and mentally comparing and contrasting the new Chatham County Courts campus against the old courthouse.
The old courthouse, also called the old pink house, now served the city of Savannah as a tavern. Architecturally, it exemplified mid-eighteenth-century styles inside and out. The giant stone cube she had limped into this morning reminded her more of the soviet micro-districts of the late twentieth century where function always took priority over form. Set aside the transplanted palms out front and the fact that the building had a parking deck and central air, and it looked more like a minimalist concession to budget than a statement of strength for future generations.
Regardless, she felt most grateful for the central air when the time finally came for her to give her testimony. The comfortable chair didn’t hurt either.
The prosecuting attorney stood in front of her, half facing her, half facing the jury on her left. She glanced at the water sitting on the table near her. Her stomach started rolling and she swallowed. That just made it worse. If her hands would stop shaking, she’d risk pouring a glass. She cleared her throat.
“Miss Flynn, can you please tell me about your relationship with Tyrone Baker?”
She couldn’t look at Tyrone or else she would lose her nerve. Instead of making eye contact with him, she stared directly at the prosecutor. “He was an architect in the firm I work for. I’m an architect, too. We were working together on the design of a new hotel here in Savannah down on River Street. It was my first big project out of college. During the months we worked together on the project, our relationship formed and grew.”
She thought back to those days and the attraction she’d felt for him. She wondered when the manipulation began. In the beginning? Or later? How could she have been so naive and gullible?
“Mr. Baker was married at that time, wasn’t he?”
Shame heated her cheeks. Nervous, guilty, she licked her lips. “Yes,” she whispered, then sat forward, closer to the mic, and said it again. “Yes. At the beginning of the project, he was married. By the end, his divorce had started, but I’m ashamed to say we did not wait for it to be final before our romance began.” She shot a look at the judge, who stared stoically at her from his bench. “I can look back and see where I went wrong at every turn.”
Wanting to believe she saw some semblance of understanding and possibly even sympathy in his eyes, she sat back in her chair and answered the questions as they came. So far, the defense attorney sitting next to Tyrone hadn’t said a word. Sooner than she hoped, the questioning turned to that horrible night in September.
“You’ve said that Tyrone had assaulted you before that night.”
The defense attorney didn’t even look up from his legal pad and in a bored voice, he interrupted, “Objection. Facts not in evidence.”
The prosecuting attorney raised his eyebrows, then addressed the judge. “Your honor, I’m not sure it would help the defense one iota to open that can of worms, but if he insists, we can enter all kinds of those facts into evidence.”
The judge smirked and gestured toward the defense attorney with his gavel. “What say you, Esquire?”
“Withdrawn, your honor.”
The prosecuting attorney gave a significant look to each of the members of the jury. He then turned back to Valerie and asked, “What was different about what happened that afternoon of September eighteenth?”
Like a slide show on super speed, images flew through her mind; snapshots of that horrible afternoon. “I’d decided that I didn’t want to be involved with Tyrone anymore. The abuse had long since gone beyond verbal, and he’d started hitting me. Especially when he drank.”
She licked impossibly dry lips and cleared her throat. “I had enough of myself left to see what was happening to me, and I decided to get out. I applied for a transfer inside my company and accepted a job, a promotion actually, that would move me to Atlanta. I thought I’d leave without Tyrone ever knowing my plans. But an interoffice memo email went out congratulating me on my transfer. As soon as I saw it, I rushed home to pack and leave, but he’d already read it. He’d been waiting for me in the parking lot of our apartment building and followed me inside. He was very drunk.”
She paused, her voice shaking. Oh, what she wouldn’t give for a sip of water! The prosecuting attorney put his hand on the divider in front of her and leaned in. “What happened?”
“He told me that the only way I could leave him was in a coffin. He slammed my head into a mirror and broke it, then punched me. I tried not to fall down because then I knew he would start kicking me. So, I stayed up. I think if I’d just fallen, he wouldn’t have—” She barely realized the tears that streaked down her face.
“Your honor,” Tyrone’s attorney interjected. “She ‘knew’ he would start kicking her? Did Miss Flynn have a crystal ball?”
“No!” Valerie nearly shouted. She cleared her throat and took a deep breath. “No. I didn’t need a crystal ball. I had past experience.”
The judge didn’t even look up. “I’ll allow it.”
The prosecuting attorney asked, “Why didn’t you just leave or resist when he started hitting you?”
Valerie looked back at the prosecuting attorney. “I’d learned not to fight back. To just take it. But when he started dragging me through the apartment, somehow, I knew what would happen, and I started fighting him.”
“Objection. ‘Somehow’ she knew? I didn’t realize we were in the presence of Madam Zohrah the tea-leaf reader, Your Honor. Would the witness like to offer any stock tips or perhaps some lottery number picks under oath?”
The judge sighed. “Redirect, counsel.”
The prosecuting attorney nodded and asked, “Miss Flynn, you said somehow you knew what would happen. Are you saying that because of the violence Tyrone had committed to that point and his verbal threat to put you in a coffin, you had an instinct that he intended to attempt to take your life?”
The defense attorney was on his feet. “Your Honor. Leading the witness.”
“You opened this can of worms, and you’ll have your opportunity to cross. I’ll allow it. Take a seat.”
The prosecuting attorney made eye contact with the jury members again before resuming his questioning. “So, you knew he was going to try to take your life—to kill you. You tried to fight back. What happened next?”
Valerie looked at her hands. “I wasn’t strong enough. He had me on the balcony, pushed against the railing. For a minute, my legs held me. I could barely breathe because he had both of his hands around my neck. He screamed in my face about how he would be the one to end our relationship, then he grabbed my legs and flipped me off the balcony.”
A woman in the jury box gasped. Valerie’s heart pounded until she could barely breathe. Finally, unable to avoid it any longer, she looked at Tyrone. He glared at her with such hatred in his eyes that she wanted to hold her hands up in front of her for protection and slink away. “How far did you fall, Miss Flynn?”
“Seventeen feet. I landed on a table on the porch below ours. I think it broke my fall enough that I survived.”
She could still hear the breaking glass from the tabletop. “Go on, Miss Flynn,” the attorney prompted.
“I don’t remember a lot after that. My neighbors were outside. They heard the fight and saw me fall. I woke up once in the ambulance, and once in the hospital. Then I was out for a couple of days.”
“Can you tell us what was medically wrong with you?”
“Tyrone had broken my nose on the mirror and my left cheekbone when he punched me. I had hundreds of stitches from the glass table. My left elbow was broken. My left hip was broken. My lung had collapsed.”
The prosecuting attorney pulled out a file. “Your Honor, at this time I would like to show the jury the medical forms, photographs, and X-rays from people’s exhibit sixteen.”
More murmurs ran through the jury box. She wished her testimony would end here; however, she knew that she had to face Tyrone’s attorney now. She hoped she had the wherewithal to maintain her courage.
As the judge looked over his notes, Valerie sat perfectly still in the hard chair. The trial had taken a long and exhausting two days. The jury returned with a guilty verdict for the violence but did not find him guilty of attempted murder. Now the judge would render the sentence, and she would find out how long she could breathe without fear.
“Mr. Baker,” the judge said, looking at him over the rims of his glasses. “You have been tried and found guilty of aggravated battery. That can come with a twenty-year sentence in prison. However, because you have no other charges on your record, I’m going to sentence you to ten years, mandate anger management classes, and place a protective order on Miss Flynn effective on your release date. If, after you are released from prison, you in any way, shape, or form break that protective order, then I will personally see to it that you get the maximum sentence.” He sat back and slipped his glasses off his face with his left hand while picking up the gavel with his right. “You are hereby remanded into the custody of the state of Georgia to begin your sentence of incarceration at an appropriate penal institution. Court dismissed.” After he pounded the gavel, he stood and left the room through the door behind him.
Valerie’s breath escaped her lungs in a rush. Ten years? Anger rushed through her heart; bitterness filled her mouth. So much for justice.
She stood. Using her cane, she slowly and carefully hobbled out of the courtroom. In the hall, she leaned against the wall and took long slow breaths. She couldn’t stay in Savannah. Where could she go? Where could she run?
“Valerie.”
Startled, she turned to see Philip and Rosaline Dixon. The sight of Auntie Rose, in her smart plum-colored suit, her frosted hair swept up in a simple twist, brought back a flood of memories of playing in her backyard with the Dixon boys. Nostalgia for home poured into her heart. Rosaline had stayed by her bedside in the hospital and took care of her at home. She and Uncle Phil had sat in the courtroom every day.
With a sob, she fell into Rosaline’s arms. “This seems remarkably unfair,” she cried.
“I’m so furious right now,” Rosaline said, running her hand down Valerie’s back. “I think I’m even angrier than when the jury’s verdict came back.”
Phillip patted her back. “What can I do?”
She had worked for him since graduating from college. Through all her hospital stays, surgeries, and rehabilitation, he’d kept her on the payroll.
“You’ve done so much,” she sniffled, straightening. Rosaline handed her a tissue and she used it to wipe her eyes and nose.
Rosaline stepped forward and took Valerie’s hand. “You’re our family. What do you need?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered, “but I can’t stay here.”
“That job in Atlanta at the main office is waiting for you,” Philip said, slipping his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “We would love to have you there. One word is all I need.”
Rosaline studied her face then reached out and took her hand. “You take your time deciding. Talk it over with Buddy. Let him help you make the decision.”
As if on cue, Buddy walked through the courtroom doors. He had barely aged over the years. His brown skin stayed smooth, not marred by wrinkles or lines. White hairs scattered among his black curls gave the only indication that he very quickly approached his sixtieth birthday. He looked around, saw them, and approached. “Got caught by that prosecutor. He’s concerned for you. Wanted me to assure him that you’d be okay.” He held his hand out to Philip. “My brother.”
“Buddy. Whatever you two need,” Philip said. “Day or night.” He looked at his wife. “Ready, love?”
Valerie watched them walk away, feeling less scared, less trapped. “He still has a job for me in Atlanta.”
“He’d probably give you a job anywhere in the country,” Buddy said. “You do what you have to do. You were ready to move there in September.”
“Lots happened since September.” She straightened from the wall and they started walking down the wide hallway. She braced herself with the cane more than she wanted to and hated every step she took. “I can take my time moving there, right? No rash decisions. I have five years, if I understand the parole process.”
“I’m praying for you, girl,” he said in an untypical moment of softness.
“I know you are,” she said. “I just wish I had the faith you have that someone is listening. Would be nice to think of some loving deity up there helping us make decisions.”
Buddy’s lips thinned but he simply said, “There was a time you knew it to be true.”
“There was a time I believed in woodland fairies, too. I grew up. My worldview changed.” She looked at her watch. “Do you want to get lunch?”
“Nah. You go on, girl. I have to get back to Atlanta.” He put a hand on her shoulder and looked at her, his brown eyes kind. “I’m sorry for not stopping what happened to you. I ignored the signs until it was too late. Please forgive me.”
Overwhelmed, she put her arms around him. “Uncle Buddy! You have nothing to be sorry for. I never said a word to you.”
“Nevertheless.” He cleared his throat and stepped away. “This chapter in your life is over. Don’t let it define you. Garner strength from it, take the lessons God would have you learn, and move forward. Not backward.” He put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “Whatever that means for you, you have my support and blessing.”
He turned and walked away from her. She mulled over his words, dissected them, and believed him. She knew he encouraged her to come back to Atlanta so she’d live closer to him.
That aside, did she want to go back to Atlanta? Or maybe farther away? The idea of leaving Georgia, the only home she’d ever known, overwhelmed her. Maybe Atlanta would offer a good fresh start. If she felt the need to go further after she settled there, she certainly had the freedom to do so. Her stomach rumbled as she looked at her watch. She’d give it until Monday to decide. She had a window of five years to make a good decision.