Still Guilty, page 6
Before the week was over, Parke’s attorney was able to get a family court judge to at least hear his petition for the following Monday. That was more than the other attorneys had achieved. Twinkie gave him hope that Judge Davis in the family court division would understand his plight. It seemed as if nothing could damper Parke’s good mood. Once the paternity had been verified, the judge should begin the legal process to return his son, and everything would be fine.
One Sunday, Parke and his family had returned home after church. The message had been stirring about people praying on one accord, then God making things happen, taken from Acts 2. Still, it seemed as if Cheney and Parke struggled with the message to penetrate their spirits. The trio prepared dinner together, allowing Kami to create her banana pudding masterpiece that had more wafers than pudding. They performed the task as if everything were okay between them. Later, they painstakingly helped Kami complete a three hundred piece puzzle.
Later that night, behind closed, locked doors of their bedroom, they allowed their disagreements to fade as their love resurfaced. “Baby, I don’t want this to separate us,” Parke said, brushing a kiss against Cheney’s ear as she snuggled close to him.
Cheney sighed and looked up. She massaged his clean-shaved jaw, thinking before she responded. “It won’t. God has already spoken to us, remember?”
Parke relaxed, relieved. There was nothing more to say. Hopefully, they were finally on the same page, unified and on one accord. He reached to turn off the lamp on their nightstand, mumbling, “Thank you, Lord Jesus,” before he drifted to sleep.
Monday morning, they woke almost simultaneously; they kissed and slid to the floor to say their morning prayers. Afterward, he showered while Cheney woke Kami. When she showered, he dressed and started a breakfast of frozen waffles, turkey sausage, and instant oatmeal for Kami.
Cheney came down the back stairs, smelling good, looking pretty, and dressed in red again. He made note of her new color scheme. Kami appeared minutes later, also dressed in a red outfit. Parke praised the Lord he and Cheney had come to an understanding. Once seated around the table, they chuckled as their daughter entertained them.
“Can I have a puppy? God said it was okay,” Kami asked Cheney, but she looked at Parke with an expectant smile.
Parke and Cheney attempted to restrain their amusement, but Parke failed. “Yeah, Mommy, didn’t you get the memo?” he baited her.
Cheney’s look issued a silent threat for payback for setting her up. “No, it was in shorthand.”
Kami shook her head, perplexed. “I don’t know how to read shorthand.”
“Me either, baby.” Cheney scrunched her nose at her husband.
When they were finished, Parke offered to load the dishwasher as Kami raced upstairs to get her backpack. Cheney grabbed her keys and strained her voice not to yell for Kami to hurry. It was ineffective. Cheney talked in a loud pitch.
Parke frowned. “Babe, we don’t have to drive two cars. I can drop you back at work. I don’t think the hearing will last long.”
“I’m going to court first; then I’ll head to work.”
“Didn’t we resolve this last night in bed?” His nostrils flared with irritation. Were they back to square one on opposing sides? He slapped his palm against the counter. “Cheney, I thought we were united on this. Look, woman, don’t let me have to pull rank on this. I need you with me!” Parke gritted his teeth then bit his lip to keep him from saying more.
Glancing at her watch, Cheney slowly sat on a barstool and leaned forward. “Dear,” she whispered sweetly, “you never have to threaten me. All you have to do is ask.” She smiled and wrinkled her nose.
Relieved, Parke snickered. He loved that woman. “Okay, sweetheart. I’m sorry. Will you accompany me to court?”
She stood when Kami ran into the room, screaming, “C’mon, Mommy. My teacher plays games before the bell rings.”
“All right, young lady.” Cheney turned back to Parke. “I’ll try to get there, but remember, if I’m not there in body, I’m present in love and spirit.”
That wasn’t the response he was expecting. Before Parke’s temper flared, Kami and Cheney barreled into him with kisses and hugs then left. Don’t play with me, woman, he wanted to scold. Instead, he rinsed out his mug, swiped his keys off the wall hook, and left.
An hour later, Parke was downtown in the St. Louis Municipal Court building. Apparently, his case was not the only one to be heard. There were pockets of people with their attorneys.
“All rise,” the young bailiff ordered as a petite woman entered the courtroom and took her place.
Judge Davis’s glossy silver hair was a contrast to her youthful face and the beginning of a warm smile that never quite made it.
Two cases were called before his. Parke was encouraged by the swiftness of the judge’s decisions in them. She didn’t appear to be swayed by the frills, but concerned with the facts. It boosted his confidence.
Finally, after scanning another file in front of her, the judge looked up and called his name. “Counselor are you presenting Mr. Jamieson?”
Twinkie nodded. Physically, she stood five feet, maybe, in her stilettos; Twinkie’s mircobraids were long, but trimmed. Dressed in a black pantsuit, she looked more like Parke’s adolescent daughter than a magna cum laude graduate from St. Louis University School of Law. “I am, Your Honor, and I’m petitioning the court for custody of a child who was erroneously adopted. We would like to request a paternity test to prove my client is the biological father.”
“The fifteen-day limitation has expired,” the judge stated as if she had memorized a handout. “Surely, you are aware of that.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Twinkie responded, clicking her heels as if she were Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz, or answering to a drill sergeant.
“Are you aware that the adoption was finalized last month? Six months after he was placed in foster care with that family? Your parental rights were terminated.” She turned to Parke and squinted. “Mr. Jamieson, is there a reason why, after five years, you want to be a father? Why should I order a paternity test? If you’re not the biological father, then what? Will you demand paternity tests until you find the right child? That’s ridiculous. What’s this all about?” Leaning back in a leather chair designed for comfort, she folded her arms.
“Rachel Lopez and I had a short fling . . .” Parke summarized their relationship in less than five hundred words, finishing with the shock of her death and the possibility of his son, Park Jamie. “So,” he said, clutching his fist in his other hand as if he had caught a foul ball, “Your Honor, I’m standing before you as a possible wronged party and a deprived father. I’m sure you know that about one out of every three children live in a home without his or her natural father. I don’t want that statistic to fall on my son.”
Twinkie cleared her throat and shoved him. “Parke, stay focused,” she hushed.
“Mr. Jamieson, your rights have already been terminated,” Judge Davis reminded him.
Parke would never accept that. “Your Honor, I believe I can prove Park Jamie is my son through a paternity test. His rightful name should be Parke Kokumuo Jamieson the Seventh or the Eighth, depending on—anyway, the namesake spans ten generations.”
Judge Davis unfolded her arms, counted a few times on her fingers then leaned forward. “Math wasn’t my strong subject, so explain.”
Parke’s lips stretched into a lazy grin, ready to defend his heritage. “My tenth great-grandfather, Paki Kokumuo Jaja, was born in December 1770 in Côte d’Ivoire, on the Gold Coast of Africa. His name means ‘a witness that this one will not die.’ Paki was part of the Diomande Tribe.
“In the fall of 1790, he and his warriors were attacked by slave traders. They were severely beaten, kidnapped, and chained. He was among hundreds of thousands who were hauled to the Gate of No Return castle. As they waited, many captives prayed they would die, including my tenth great-grandfather, but thank God, he survived. They were unmercifully stacked together in the bowels of a ship. It wasn’t the ironic Good Ship Jesus under the command of Sir John Hawkins, but the mighty Snow Elijah ship. The biblical reference is uncanny, isn’t it?” He paused. “The Black World History Wax Museum in North St. Louis city has an unbelievable replica.
“Anyway, Paki’s slave ship landed in Maryland, a state known for harsh slave laws. Because of his statute and strength, he was sold at the highest price of two hundred and seventy-five dollars to wealthy slave owner Jethro Turner. That purchase gave Turner exactly one hundred and thirteen slaves.
“My great-great-great—you know what I mean—was isolated from the other slaves because he refused to submit to orders. After all, he was a prince, and others did his bidding. The consequences for his disobedience were lashings, his clothes were taken away, or he was tied up for days without food.
“As time passed, the slave owner’s seventeen-year-old daughter, Elaine, noted Paki’s dignity was never compromised, and eventually she became his self-appointed protector. He was the best looking of all the slaves.” Parke grinned. “I added that last part, but seriously, one afternoon, she witnessed him being tied to a tree and beat with cowhide. She ordered him down. After dark, she applied salve to his wounds. Later, Elaine snuck Paki clothes and food.”
The judge didn’t interrupt. She seemed genuinely engaged. Even the court clerk listened intently, but her fingers never stopped transcribing.
“Escaping and taking Elaine with him, he became a fugitive of the state and a dead man if he was caught.” Parke pulled out a business-size laminated card from his wallet. I actually have a copy of the ad from the Baltimore Star. The caption read: FOUR HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLAR REWARD. ‘Ran away from subscriber. Negro man kidnapped only daughter, Elaine Turner. The said Negro is nearly black, between twenty and twenty-five years old, very good-looking, and tall, over six feet, and muscular. I hereby forewarn all persons not to harbor or employ the said man or woman at the peril of the law. Reward is for his capture, in the state or out, dead or alive. I want my daughter alive.’ ”
The clerk’s eyes watered, but she didn’t stop typing.
“Thank God they were never captured, especially since the journey was extremely hard on women. I guess you can call their relationship an uncommon-law marriage.
“Later, in a journal, Elaine wrote that Paki sobbed uncontrollably as he looked down at his firstborn son’s bright yellow face. He lifted the child to his god, mumbling a native blessing: Dankie, kind aansoek doen—thank you, the child I had hoped.” He paused and stood taller.
“They named him Parker Kokumuo Jamieson and every firstborn male each generation thereafter. Elaine and Paki had four more sons. Then, in 1867, a few years after slavery was abolished, the third generation Parker altered the name. He removed the last R to symbolize the first son who was removed from slavery.” Parke would have continued if Twinkie hadn’t kicked him.
Folding her hands, Judge Davis digested Parke’s monologue. “I’m impressed, Mr. Jamieson, and I commend you on your family history. Are you married?”
“Happily,” he answered swiftly, grinning. Cheney, where are you?
“Where is she?” Judge Davis glanced around the courtroom.
“Ah . . .” He took a deep breath, choking on air. He squinted as if he didn’t understand. “Pardon me?”
“Your wife—you know, the love of your life, the little lady of the house, the—”
He grunted. “Cheney’s not little. She’s six feet and beautiful.”
Growing impatient, the judge cleared her throat, tapping her pen on the folder. Twinkie nudged him.
“She’s in court.”
Judge Davis jotted some notes. “Don’t tell me she’s trying to adopt a daughter.”
Parke shook his head. “Oh, no, we’ve already adopted a daughter two years ago.”
“Why is she in court then, Mr. Jamieson?” When he stalled, the judge’s impatience was visible in the scowl on her face. “Mr. Jamieson, you are under oath.”
Nodding, Parke swallowed and said a quick prayer. “Well, Your Honor, her surrogate grandmother is on trial for shooting Cheney’s father, who killed her surrogate grandmother’s husband.”
“Does insanity run in your genes?” The judge’s expression indicated she was serious. “Your name wasn’t listed on the child’s birth certificate. It doesn’t appear you signed a putative registry. There’s no reason to believe you’re the biological father.”
CHAPTER 8
“What do you mean you have to register to have sex?” Ellington asked, hyperventilating at the thought. “Parke, please tell me you made that up,” he stuttered. Laying his beer can on the floor, Ellington sat forward in his recliner.
The notion did seem ridiculous. If Parke didn’t know Rachel was pregnant, then there wasn’t a reason to register as the biological father of a mythical child. Parke couldn’t believe there was a law on the state’s books that encouraged men to sign up for the Putative Father Registry.
Parke laughed at the fear etched on his friend’s face as he and Malcolm lounged in Ellington’s game room, which was a combined living and dining room in his three-bedroom house. Ellington had purchased the property listed on Clemens Avenue when the block was undergoing a city neighborhood transition.
The two-story house was sparsely furnished except for the game room, which was stocked with every electronic gadget ever advertised on TV. The trio established the routine on biweekly Thursday nights when Cheney, Kami, and Hallison scheduled their hair appointments.
Ellington’s bare essentials throughout the other rooms didn’t equate tidiness. Unless friends requested a visit at least a week in advance, Ellington’s house resembled the remnants of a frat party. Incredulously, his home office was immaculate. He could retrieve a file in five minutes or less, compared to forty-five minutes to locate the match to a sock.
Malcolm clicked off the TV in the middle of an argument between the commentators of ESPN’s Pardon the Interruption. “What?” He frowned as if he hadn’t heard right.
“Twinkie never mentioned it, or if she did, I didn’t pay attention,” Parke said, reclining in one of four black suede theater chairs and fingering his mustache. “I think it was created to protect the father and the child in case of an adoption. Can you imagine after every sexual tryst with a woman who we aren’t married to, we run down to the county’s vital record department and fill out a form in case a child is produced? That’s too much like signing up for a lottery you don’t want to win, but in my case, it might have helped.”
Deep in thought, the three engaged in a moment of silence. The only sound was a soft snore from Penelope, Ellington’s German shepherd mixed with mutt. Ellington stroked the sleeping dog’s head absentmindedly. Finally, Ellington sighed and reached for his can of Budweiser. “That’s messed up,” he said before downing his beer.
Although Parke and Malcolm’s visits were under the guise of get-togethers, when the Holy Spirit moved, Parke witnessed to Ellington about a lifestyle change. Ellington was a good man on the inside, but who can know the heart of men? So, God told Parke to be a light among men, which was more than a notion during Parke’s present situation that was testing his own faith.
At thirty-five, Ellington’s trademark dress code was a sleeveless T-shirt, slacks, and no socks. The T-shirt was purely for vanity purposes: to showcase his solid biceps and red-and-black racing car tattoo. Six-two and two hundred pounds, his self-professed stumbling blocks were women and drinking.
“That characterizes us as male prostitutes. The woman might as well have a clipboard to sign in before climbing into her bed.” Ellington suddenly whipped out a BlackBerry from the back pocket of his jeans, which appeared to have more holes than material.
“What are you doing?” Parke lifted his bowed head and squinted.
“Good thing I’ve kept track of my women. Maybe I’ll make some follow-up calls to see how my former ladies are doing and to make sure there are no little EJs crawling around.”
“Eliminate the worry and fill out the form. You do need to have the woman or the potential mother’s social security number. Good luck with that,” Parke advised.
Malcolm flexed his muscles then folded them behind his head while rocking in his seat. “Whew! I guess it’s a good thing I believed in monogamous relationships instead of one-nighters; although I had some close calls. After Hali and I broke up, I went on a mission to conquer. As the saying goes, I praise God for saving me before I could do any damage.”
“Well, it’s that B.C. slip-up that could turn out to be my blessing. The next generation of Parke Jamieson is within my reach.”
“B.C.?” Ellington asked.
“Yeah, stuff I did before Christ.” Parke shook his head.
Ellington grunted. “Whatever.” With his beer can in his hand, he pointed. “See, that’s where I have a problem with your religion. This whole wipe-the-slate-clean stuff after you commit to Christ is too simplistic. C’mon. Salvation isn’t that easy.”
“Actually, it is,” Malcolm jumped in. “We’re the ones who make it difficult.” He thumped his chest. “And I know what I’m talking about. Ask Hali. The more I fought against Jesus, the more battle scars I reluctantly earned. You might as well say, ‘Yes, Lord’ right now. Save yourself some drama.”
Ellington placed his beer on the floor next to Penelope. Lifting her head, the dog sniffed the top before she went back to sleep. Ellington sliced his hand through the air as he shook his head. “Hold up. I’m not in the mood for any prayer or preaching. Not tonight, my brothas.”
Parke and Malcolm exchanged looks. They nodded their understanding. Parke never pushed Ellington.
“Okay, Parke, back to your sex registry thing. I know Twinkie’s going to challenge that, isn’t she?”
“Rachel didn’t make it easy. She didn’t put my name on the boy’s birth certificate. Plus, if I had known—key words had known—I would’ve had fifteen days after my son—because I believe he is mine—was born to claim parental rights. If I had only . . . If I’d only known about the possibility.” He paused to reflect on the different scenarios. “God told me He’s got my back, but I keep glancing over my shoulder for confirmation.”
