Married to the Shooter

It was nearing a little past nine when the inmate entrance door cracked. My heart raced with anticipation. It felt as if it were going to jump out of my blouse. I kept my eyes focused on the door. One armed Wayne County Sheriff appeared, followed by two more, all looking stern-faced. This entire trial, they were obviously in cahoots with the prosecutors trying to portray to the jury Nolan was out of control even in their guarded custody. Watching them put on a show for the twelve didn’t shake my faith. God had the last say-so—period.

In a matter of seconds, I soon saw the absolute love of my life once again led out in shackles. Even though he was badly in need of a haircut and a shave, he was still as handsome as hell. Those green eyes . . . that body. My bae, the Shooter, was allowed to wear the black dress pants and cream-colored button-up I’d left for him. Yet, despite an objection from our lawyer, the judge shot us down. The metal restraints stayed as if he were Public Enemy Number One. Nolan was far from the ruthless wild animal the media outlets were portraying him to be, but at this point, it was what it was. We had to roll with the punches.

In the midst of some of the people making snide remarks loud enough for the judge and jury to hear, I tuned them out. They weren’t my main focus. My husband was. It didn’t take long before our eyes locked. I had the same lump in my throat that I did the day we first met. My love and loyalty ran deep. I mouthed the words, “I got you,” which was the same thing I said to him when he’d gotten arrested months ago. My king never cracked a smile but nodded, letting me know that he appreciated me sticking by him. The few times he was able to call from the county jail, it was made perfectly clear to me that as a team, we would not allow others to see us bend, buckle, or break. The lawyer had also reinforced my husband’s wishes, where emotions were concerned. We were all three a united front. I loved my man more than life itself and had his back in good times and the bad ones as well. I continued to hold it together when several more of the victims’ family members had to be restrained and were forcefully removed from the courtroom.

“You sorry-ass motherfucker. You think you a tough guy? Bitch, do me like you did my peoples. I’ll kill your ass for real. I ain’t like all them other lames you done put in the ground.”

“Get your hands off me so I can show pussy what’s really good. That was my fucking cousin he did like that. He put a bullet in the back of his head and left him to die—bleed out like he was a dog in the streets. That shit was uncalled for—burning a nigga up.” One man tried his best to break free from the sheriff’s strong-arm grip.

“Let me get that uppity bitch of his sitting over there like her shit don’t stank! Ole tramp ass sucking a murderer’s dick.” That sleazeball Fiona was back at it. She tried her luck at climbing over the small wooden wall but was stopped dead in her tracks as well—which was good for her because I would have head-mopped the floor with her just as I always dreamed about.

Collectively, they all lunged at both Nolan and me, but like the Gs that we are, neither of us flinched. I merely crossed my ankles and stared straight-ahead. And as for Nolan, he had on his “I wish a fucker would” face. I guess that was that Black Bottom gangster in him and that calm NFL (Niggas From Linwood) in me . . . definitely a powerful combination. He had no family members of his own showing support or loyalty, and neither did I. We were all each other had in the world, which was more than all right with me.

The team of prosecutors, headed by Ms. Sylvia Campbell, the youngest on their team, found utter satisfaction that the victims’ family had clowned in front of the jury. Their outburst gave them a chance for things to be heard that were previously ruled out by the judge. But our lawyer was far from shaken. Like Nolan and me, he was unbothered. Finally, things calmed down in the courtroom, and the judge restored order. The trial then proceeded. Like the previous days, more testimony and more finger-pointing of guilt came from the other side. The prosecutors’ team was having their final stab at swaying the jury.

At one point, it took everything in my power not to leap from my seat and slap the fire out of the only black woman on their team. She, ironically, had the worst mouth. Ms. Campbell seemed especially motivated to get a conviction. Maybe it was because she was so young and wanted to prove herself. I didn’t know what it was, but I shook my head every time she spoke, thinking she was probably no more than a bitter soon-to-be spinster mad at the world for not blessing her with children, let alone a husband of her own. So here she was, trying to take mine away from me the only way she knew how.

“So, yes, jury, the man you see sitting over there was seen leaving the scene where the victim’s body was discovered set ablaze. There were at least two eyewitnesses. Also, a green light camera at a nearby business caught images of what appears to be Mr. White fleeing in a dark-colored Range Rover. That is the type of vehicle that is registered to the suspect’s ‘play’ aunt. It is the same truck Mr. White has been often seen in driving around the city. To reinforce the facts, even more, Mr. White was pulled over by a traffic cop in the Tenth Precinct and issued several tickets.”

“Okay, Your Honor, first, I’d like to state again for the record these entire proceedings have been nothing more than some far-fetched fabricated hoax, evidence-wise. It’s circumstantial, at best. And even then, it’s questionable. I’m shocked this has gone this far based on street gossip and innuendos. The Prosecution preying on the fears of a crime-ridden city doesn’t equate guilt. Like now, Ms. Campbell is suggesting that there is only one dark-colored Range Rover in all of Metro Detroit. And besides, as the jury and this court already know, the truck that the Prosecution is speaking about Mr. White driving was in the service shop during that time. That proof has been verified from countless sources, including the dealership owner himself. So, why is she insisting on making that a part of this loosely strung together case?”

“Yes, go ahead.” The judge nodded to the prosecution team’s annoyance.

“Yes, Your Honor, and as far as those eyewitnesses are concerned, the court decided before we went to trial neither of those witnesses were credible,” our lawyer firmly interjected. “They are drug addicts that admitted they were coaxed into pointing out my client’s picture in exchange for cash—which is against the law in the first place and definitely cause for a mistrial. So, why is she constantly bringing up misinformation and distorting the truth? It’s like she’s beating a dead horse.”

“But, no, wait,” Ms. Campbell tried to interject but was swiftly shut down by the judge’s stern glare.

Attorney Mims took a moment to observe some of the jurors’ reactions to what he’d just stated and went back in on the facts despite his opponents’ sneers. “And as we all know, I already introduced the video showing that at least seven trucks were fitting that description during that twelve-hour time. And countless more if we extend that net by two hours before what the prosecutors claim to be their frame of guilt. But as I just stated, his truck was in the shop. Soooo, I mean, I’m confused about what’s going on here.” He made sure to walk over in front of the prosecutors’ table and make eye contact with each of the team.

“I mean, it’s like they have built a case on falsehoods because, apparently, the deceased was a paid police informant that they lost track of. It’s not my client’s fault that his death occurred. Unless the government, whether it be local, state, or federal, is willing to disclose the entire true scope of any and all investigations or cases the deceased was involved in, how did they come to point the finger at Mr. White with blatant manufactured evidence? It’s a modern-day witch hunt.”

“If you please, Your Honor, I was only trying to link the suspect by way of vehicle association. But I will move on to more solid facts.” Ms. Campbell childishly rolled her eyes at our lawyer as if she were some schoolgirl with a major attitude. She knew she was out of line but didn’t care.

“I think that would be the best form of action, Ms. Campbell,” the judge wisely advised knowing she was on the verge of being in contempt of his courtroom orders previously explained and agreed upon by both parties.

“Well, we all know Nolan White is infamous. Not only with our department, which is quite aware of his activities, but also with the entire Detroit Police Department as a whole. You, the jury, have heard various officers testify that Mr. White has not only been part of several ongoing investigations involving drugs, one that the deceased was assisting us with, but also a special appointed task force specifically formed to apprehend Mr. White put in overtime for weeks tracking his whereabouts. He was, and is, labeled as extremely dangerous. Nolan White is rumored to be a sharpshooter and not afraid or hesitant to pull the trigger. That much can be easily seen from the crime scene photos presented in earlier evidence that can only be described as overkill.” She was right back on a roll and feeling herself.

“Ms. Campbell, I’m growing weary. You are walking a fine line with me. Consider this your last warning. Any further statements that are against guidelines will put you in hot water with me and this court as a whole.”

“Okay, Judge, I just wanted them to remember, even though we can’t prove it, in a horrendous act of brutality, he murdered that young girl in that house, leaving her innocent infant there playing in her deceased mother’s blood,” Ms. Campbell blurted out so the jury could see her visibly shaken over her last statement.

“What in the entire hell does she think she’s doing?” Attorney Mims leaped from his seat, not caring if he was in contempt. “Has she lost her mind? What she said is not only unfounded speculation, but it’s also totally out of line and uncalled for. Is Ms. Campbell this desperate to get a conviction that she makes wild remarks and accusations as if there were no laws in place? She is beyond out of order. These tactics are despicable!”

The judge sided with the defense and was livid. He’d been on the bench for years, probably before the young woman had finished grade school. From time to time, he’d seen lawyers pull stunt after stunt trying to sway the jury to their side. But Ms. Campbell had gone too far. In fact, what she had done was set the defense up to file a motion for a mistrial. The judge could not put the genie back in the bottle but warned Ms. Campbell to wrap up her closing statement swiftly, and then he’d like to meet with her in chambers after his other morning sessions. He strongly suggested she may want to place a call to her family and let them know she may not be returning home tonight.

Ms. Campbell knew she’d crossed the line, but she felt she had the jury on the edge of their seats. As much as she wanted to throw caution to the wind and keep going hard, even if it meant being held in contempt, the young woman took heed. She took a brief pause and a small sip of water before continuing to try to win the case, hands down. It was apparent she solely wanted to be the one on her team accredited to putting the final nail in my husband’s coffin.

“Some people are born to help and aid society, and we have others, like Mr. White, who seem to be born to run wild and destroy the very fiber that holds us together as a decent community. The defendant needs to be off of the streets for good, ending his reign of terror against the residents of Metro Detroit. He needs to pay not only for the gruesome crime of the bullet he put in the rear of his victim’s skull, shattering it and ending his life, but also to shield us all from his future actions.”

The judge seemed to be just as annoyed with the woman’s long-winded statements and continuous stretches of the truth as everyone else, including a few of the jurors. She was going over and over what appeared to be the same loose end facts trying to secure a conviction. With some of the worst acting I’d seen in years, she pointed at Nolan, raising her voice when she said certain words. And then that woman had the nerve to look in my general direction like she wanted to call me a few choice names for having the nerve to be married to my husband. I promise you on a stack of three church-blessed Bibles, homegirl was doing way too much for my liking. However, I had to sit there and let her do her thing. I had to tolerate it. I had to endure. I had to push through, hearing Nolan was a monster. Nolan shot him. Nolan burned him up. Nolan left him for dead. Nolan made him beg. Nolan needs to be removed from society. Nolan is a menace and a nuisance. Nolan has a history of mental illness and needs to be on some sort of medication to control his documented fits. Blah blah blah.

I swear this poor-taste-in-clothes prosecutor bitch was testing me, especially the part about my love being crazy. I mean, damn, you break one teacher’s nose back in the day and spit on another, and the masses label you nuts. I took a few deep breaths praying for God to keep me seated and not jump up and do the same to her. I was off my meds too, so anything was possible.

It’d been days that seemed like months. Even though I was dreading hearing the words, “We rest our case,” I finally did. That ugly skank finally took her foot off my husband’s neck. The judge, like us all, appeared to be elated. We would not have to hear that annoying lady’s voice any longer. The judge wasted no time in giving strict deliberation instructions to the multicultural jury comprised of eight men and four women. When it was crystal clear what he demanded of them as far as when they went home for the evening, he dismissed the jury. Then he allowed everyone left who was seemingly the victim’s family who had controlled themselves to vacate the courtroom next.

The bailiffs surrounding Nolan, legal counsel for both sides, and I remained. Apparently impressed with how we both remained calm and respectful of his courtroom during the outbursts, the judge allowed me a few minutes to speak with my better half while his clerk was preparing paperwork that required his signature.

“Hey, Nolan,” I spoke his name almost in a whisper as my heart started to shatter even more. My legs felt weak. This was the longest we’d been apart from each other since getting married.

“I see you looking good, killing these bitches as always. And them heels you got on is making daddy’s shit jump.” Nolan tried to keep his manhood in check. No matter the circumstances, he always made sure to let Kapri know she was looking hot. That was his mission in life . . . to make his queen happy, even from behind bars.

I blushed just at the thought of what he’d said. “You bugging, bae. I love you. You know that, right?”

“I love you too. Bigger than the world is round. So, how you holding it down, baby girl? You good out in them streets or what? What’s the deal? Do I need to make some calls?”

I wanted to wrap my arms around him and beg him to come home. I wanted like hell to tell him the truth. I wanted to let him know that I was lonely and missing him like crazy. I wanted to tell him that I was on the verge of having a nervous breakdown behind all this bullshit. But I didn’t. I was the soldier he’d come to depend on.

I bit the corner of my lip while fighting back the tears. I knew my outside misery was the last thing he needed or wanted to hear on the inside. I couldn’t be so damn selfish. Time and time again, he’d put his life and freedom on the line so we could eat good, drive right, and live like hood royalty. So, without question, I owed it to my man to stand tall. So stand tall, I did.

“Naw, I’m good. You know me, bae. I’m gonna adapt and make do when need be. The bills paid up and them crazy dogs of yours still acting a fool on the mailman. All is well.” I tried to muster a smile and bring one to his face.

“Okay, dig that.” Nolan tried to reposition the upper shackles constraining his wrist but couldn’t. “Good. I hope they both out there holding you down. And, yeah, fuck that mailman. I ain’t like how he be looking nohow.”

“Boy, you crazy.”

Nolan gazed into his wife’s eyes. “You and me, we done came a long way from that day in the office.”

“Yeah, bae, we have. And we gonna make plenty more memories when you come home.”

“For real, though, ’cause ole boy is killing that big-mouthed lying bitch with them facts. We might just come up out of this better than we think. Just keep the faith, brown eyes.”

Seeing the bailiff take one step closer to us, we both knew our special big-mouthed moment was drawing to a close. “You know I got you, baby, no matter what, now and forever. What was still is and always will be. Just know I’m out here doing what needs to be done. I know our time to shine again is right around the corner.”

“Yeah, I know you got my back. A guy ain’t never worried where your heart is where I’m concerned. Repeatedly, you done proved that shit, no matter what. And this time ain’t no different than the rest.” Nolan slightly sneered as we were now surrounded, and time was up. “Be good, baby girl, and I’ll hit you up as soon as a nigga can. But until then, go home and live life for both of us. Go shine bright on they ass!”

Watching my husband being led out of the courtroom yet again hurt my inner soul. It never got easier and never would. I knew the next time I would come face-to-face with him, we would know his fate as far as the verdict phase goes. And no matter what punishment they came up with, my life would never be the same.

Redirecting my attention to the lawyer, I motioned for him to slide over to the far side of the table he was sitting at. I hoped he was working on the appeal papers in anticipation of the verdict. Like I said, we were prepared for a guilty verdict. That part was nearly inevitable unless a miracle occurred. But we wanted the numbers, not letters. If Nolan got numbers, then my king was coming home sooner or later. Numbers meant hope. Numbers, if low enough, meant he would one day be free, back in my arms. But letters, they signified death behind bars. There was no coming home from that—no successful appeals, and zero hope. Straight over-the-bridge-shipped-up-north-Level-5.

Not saying a word, I placed a sealed envelope into the lawyer’s open briefcase. Without much fanfare, Attorney Mims casually tossed a few papers over it in hopes of concealing our personal business from prying eyes. I, in turn, made my way to the exit, but not before making sure the mouthy, unsophisticated prosecution team hater, Ms. Campbell, had a chance to marvel at my wedding ring.