Chapter Seven

Kapri

It damn straight ain’t easy being me, but I’ma make that shit look that way fo’sho, fo’sho. I ain’t never gonna let ’em see me sweat. They can all move around! Me and my husband been way past motherfuckers judging us and how we do what we do when we do it. We been showing out since day one and ain’t shit gonna change that, not even the penitentiary. If my man rocking, I’m rolling. I’m built for this life.

I exhaled, glancing up in the rearview mirror. Cautiously, I checked my surroundings. My eyes slowly darted from side to side of the packed parking lot. Reaching over on the passenger seat, I smirked, then grabbed for my best friend. Tucking the pretty pearl-plated gun underneath the seat, I then opened the glove compartment. There was a single shot warm bottle of Moscato. Yeah, it was before nine in the morning, but a girl needed something to steady her nerves.

Twisting off the cap, I leaned my head back and took it straight to the head. I closed my eyes and prayed to God to give me patience and extreme tolerance. I prayed that I didn’t have to chin check a nigga or ho this morning. For the past few days, I’d been put to the test. I was exhausted but still representing strong for my husband.

After placing my sunglasses just so, I removed the keys from the ignition. I checked the mirror once more, this time to make sure my hair was on point. As always, my hairdresser had my ’do laid. With confidence, I stepped one Red Bottom stiletto out of the truck. The other followed, touching the pavement, and in a few brief seconds, the drama jumped off. The numerous attention-seeking vultures were once again ready to attack. I was prepared for whatever, so I was beyond good.

As if I had not one care in the world, I tossed my hair over my shoulder and held my hand upward toward my face, shielding direct facial contact. If that was not enough to bring the hate temperature up a few degrees, my oversized 4-caret flawless diamond wedding ring was a showstopper. So yeah, I flossed on they ass. Of course, that in itself brought swift attitude from the female gawkers as my huge center stone glistened in the morning sunlight.

Eye level, I slowly took notice of each and every perfectly manicured design waiting for traffic to clear so I could cross the street. I’d paid my nail tech more than usual for the full VIP treatment. The black-and-white tips matched my suit and were worth every single penny. This week was a special occasion. This week and probably a few more days to follow would have me on full blast display. Every hater, naysayer, and even the parking lot attendant would look for signs of weakness from me. But I continuously shined. There would be none. Despite my current situation, I was still living my best life. Well, at least, outwardly.

“How can you deal with a twisted-mind monster like that?”

I rolled my eyes as I slow strolled past, face flawlessly beat. I was glad I chose the Viva Glam color lipstick shade. I was camera-ready knowing my courtroom entrances always made the evening news.

“Bitch, he killed my only son!”

I remained unbothered, nose in the air as if she were not speaking to me. And on any other regular day, a thang dressed as she was could never—the nerve.

“Look at her stank ass, acting like she better than everybody!”

I swung my authentic Gucci purse on my arm with my head held high, presidential style. I was the shit and knew it. And the best part was, the haters knew it as well.

“Let’s see how you feel when his punk ass gets triple life.”

I never eased my arrogant stride. I was poised with each step seeing the long line entrance was near. Damn, is that even a sentence? That man was definitely doing too much trying to make his point.

“I hope he rot in double-hot hellfire.”

Damn, that was harsh. Not double-hot hellfire, I amusingly thought when an elderly lady yelled it out. I made a mental note that I’d have to use that saying one day when I was talking shit. It sounded over the top.

“One day, you gonna be behind bars with your man. You need to be right alongside him. You ain’t shit either. Joe’s blood is on your hands too!”

And there we have it. At least that unpolished tramp Fiona was finally showing her true feelings. I’d get with that whore later. But that part right there she blurted out about me being in jail made me slightly pause and break character. Knowing all eyes were on me, especially hers, I then gave the judgmental crowd the biggest smug, “Hey, Kool-Aid smile” I could. Imagine me, Kapri James White, locked up. Never that! I was married to the Shooter, and that was as close as a jail cell I was going to see. Nolan always made sure of that, and this time was no different. Entertained at the sheer notion, I winked at the many news reporters assigned to the high-profile case hubby was fighting.

Repeating “No comment,” while still flashing my ring, I pulled open one of the double doors. Short-staffed, the Wayne County Sheriffs had their hands full trying to keep order as well as me out of harm’s way. It was a crazed madhouse to gain entry into the building, seeing as my husband’s murder trial wasn’t the only one taking place that week. Yet, make no mistake . . . It was definitely the most popular. I had been there every day, beginning to end. So my face had become familiar to the male sheriffs who often flirted, knowing my husband would probably be locked up for years to come. I was always fake cordial and smiled. I was an opportunist and got in where I fitted in. They rushed me through the courthouse metal detectors and barely watched the scan monitor when my purse went by. I could tell they were over the circus I brought with me every time I came in or left. And truthfully, so the hell was I.

I exhaled deeply before heading toward the elevators. It was easy to see that all eyes were still on me. Day after day, it was the same thing. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and now, here it was, Thursday. The insults, accusations, and threats of retaliation violence never let up. They never changed. It was as if these people had nothing else better to do but to try to make my life a living hell.

Although I didn’t give a fuck about their particular plight, yeah, I get it. I truly do. Their son, brother, daddy, cousin, and uncle was dead by way of a hollow point nine slug lodged in the left rear portion of his skull and then set on fire. The near mob mentality family reunion being held in the courtroom was livid. They feel my better half is at fault for their grief.

So, okay, yeah, they bitter. However, calling me all the rotten bitches and whores in the book ain’t gonna bring they ole, good-snitching-ass-family-member Joe Brezzy-Bey back from the grave. He gone and good the fuck riddance, I say. You would think the extra money they raised from the Go Fund Me and the chicken dinners they sold to bury that burnt rat would be enough to keep them on the hush. But just like the deceased, trying to bald-faced lie his way out of being killed, they wanted to be heard. They lived to be seen, hence, all the extra.

Dressed in a modest-looking, but extremely expensive skirt suit and blouse, I played my role perfectly. My paternal DNA-inherited bloodline dictated that I did. As much as I wanted to break down in tears, I wouldn’t. Matter of fact, I couldn’t. I could not give them the satisfaction. And more than that, I could not let my husband see me in that state. I was his backbone, his ride or die as the young kids say, and his soldier. In reality, I was his only soldier and link to the outside world. His so-called family had long since abandoned their post as far as he was concerned with his first bid. So when they came around with their hands stuck out or wanting to be a part of our shine, rightfully so, we ignored their existence. They weren’t there for him as a kid, so we would not be there for them now that he was grown. My baby was straight renegade where his bloodline was concerned, which was all right by me. I had no problem embracing the black sheep.

Besides the high-priced lawyer with all the connections we kept on retainer, I was the only one that knew the truth about my husband and how he moved. With that knowledge, naturally, the Prosecutor’s Office tried every trick in the book to get me to turn on my better half, even threatening to bring separate charges against me for petty bullshit like “Accessory to Murder” and whatnot. This was crazy, because I was way down in Atlanta during their supposed time frame of the murder, just as we planned. So my alibi was airtight.

Thankfully, our lawyer shut those allegations down every time they surfaced. But like I said earlier, my paternal DNA foundation was solid. My birth father had done a twenty-piece straight with no interruptions, never once considering snitching, dry or otherwise. And I was built the same way as my sperm donor, Ram Tough. I wasn’t scared of sitting down if I had to. Fuck any penalty before I’d be disloyal.

Over the years, Nolan and I had stashed money for a rainy day, and now, we had severe heavy storms to weather. What was the sense of playing the game if you didn’t have an exit plan when the time came? Cash was always king.

Planted in the front row behind the defense table, I leaned upward. With certainty, I assured Attorney Mims he’d indeed be paid another huge chunk of his promised bonus before we parted ways. Suited and booted, he was always casket clean. And most importantly, the man was well known around town as a miracle worker for beating hard-to-beat cases. Our lawyer made the impossible… possible. Thus far, our paid mouthpiece had definitely earned every bit of his extravagant fee, beginning with those confidential documents.

With various motions filed and getting supposed witnesses dismissed citing creditability issues, things were going better than expected on our behalf. We were fighting the uphill battle difference between numbers and letters, but so was the prosecution. Sure, my husband had no bond, but even God couldn’t convince the judge to offer that luxury considering the extremely violent nature of what crime Nolan had “allegedly” committed and his record. And as for the other multiple murders they tried to tie him to unsuccessfully, Trenton Franks and Roberta Tanner, they were a no-go. My husband was clear where those two untimely killings were concerned. Thank God. Yet, the name Nolan White was still burning on the lips of the judicial system.