A Question of Intent

A Question

of Intent

by

Dion Gooden - EL

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

© 2005 Dion Gooden - EL. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 09/02/05

ISBN: 1-4208-6664-8 (sc)

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Dedicated to the following beautiful ladies:

Aunt Sheila (For the suggestion…several years ago.)

Kita (Because you’ll always be my ‘Miss Pretty’.)

Brenda (You wouldn’t sell me out, and I’m grateful. Whether you’re in P-Town or down in the A-T-L, you support that which is right and proper and in the best interests of your clients.)

Great Aunt Ruth (Thanx for the support all the way from Boogie-Down-Bronx!)

Victoria D. (The movie role is yours, if ya want it. But ya better hurry ‘cause Nicole and Vanessa are on yo’ heels, gal!).

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I am deeply indebted to seven individuals—an aunt, a friend and five associates---and would like to take this opportunity to acknowledge and thank each of them:

• Sheila W. Greene, my Personal Affairs Manager and favorite aunt, who pushed and pushed until I got off my hindquarters to transform my creative imagination and talent into published form. (Your shining star is handlin’ his bizness!)

• Glenn Alexander Thorpe, my friend and personal critic, who was forever standing over my shoulder, with a wide grin, asking for the next chapter. (Leave Frye be.)

• Gregory Bacon, a personal associate, whose unselfish heart and genuine patience during the first 9 chapters could never be forgotten. (16-5-1-3-5 7-15-4).

• Leif Eric Moats, a personal associate, whose assistance with Chapters 13 and 14 came at a truly interesting point in time. (Good lookin’ out, E!).

• Ernest Jordan, James Betts, and Wayne Scott, all personal associates, who were my roommates during those extremely crucial 205 days. (Thanx, my Brothers.)

With respect to these individuals, mere words could never fully describe how grateful I am. I can only hope that by acknowledging them in this book, they all understand their importance.

PROLOGUE

Spring 1998

Atlanta’s top non-elected law enforcement officer, Miss LaPrecious Rhodes, has the best criminal conviction record in the history of the Fulton County District Attorney’s Office. Although not yet 30 years old, Rhodes is, hands down, crème de la crème—the best of the best. She is feisty, highly competitive, strong-willed and a stellar investigator; she’s convicted nearly 290 defendants in under six years as evidence of her superb skills.

The voluptuous African-American bombshell is also the best-looking prosecutor the city of Atlanta has ever seen. The single mother’s awesome and immaculate beauty includes an unblemished light complexion, sensual and dreamy hazel eyes, sexy full lips, silky black hair and a perfectly shaped 5-foot-2 inch, 110-pound figure.

Rhodes’ flawless professional traits and physical attributes aside, an ugly, untamed lioness lurks within, embracing unspeakable feelings of rage and vengeance whenever unreported, or unsuccessfully prosecuted, criminal offenses occur. What or who motivates the lioness? And will the ruthless lioness ultimately destroy LaPrecious Rhodes, an obviously brilliant attorney?

Meanwhile, Atlanta police detectives struggle to battle the work of a serial killer dubbed Serena, the sultry, seductive woman with bedroom eyes and long, platinum blond hair—not to mention a very sick mind—is committing atrocious and utterly vicious acts of murder, leaving behind menacing little Death Cards. Who is this Serena? From where did she emerge? Most importantly, can she be brought to justice? One local attorney and a determined detective may—or may not—hold the shocking answers.

CHAPTER ONE

Tuesday, 26 May 1998

Sit down, Miss Rhodes, barked the judge, his dark brown eyes glaring at the Chief Deputy District Attorney over the top of his round, sterling silver framed spectacles.

But Judge Edwards, you can’t possibly---.

I said, sit down, the judge’s voice rising to a crescendo, or your next objection will be delivered from the holding cell in the back, effectively extending your three-day Memorial Day weekend to four days.

Defeated and flustered, LaPrecious Mercedes Rhodes slowly sank to the armless, mahogany-colored wooden chair, casting a sour glare at the defense attorney standing to her far right, then returning her look straight ahead, silently agonizing over the impending ruling from Fulton County’s chief superior court judge.

At 29, Rhodes found herself at the top of her game. In 1987, she was valedictorian at Clifton Greene High School in Clinton, Maryland. She weathered the death of her step-father that summer and quickly bounced back, doubling her academic curriculum at Morgan State University, completing four years worth of studies in just two. All went by relatively smoothly and –aside from The Incident following the May 1989 graduation ceremonies—she had left an impression upon Morgan State faculty members that would not soon be forgotten. Moreover, the law school at Johns Hopkins University was considered a breeze for the long time Maryland native and her summa cum laude honors at the 1992 graduation tended to buttress her level of comfort.

Migrating to Atlanta, she passed the Georgia bar exam and was hired as an assistant district attorney. Her near flawless conviction rate rose her through the ranks with an awesome state of rapidity: her first promotion came after a little more than a year on the job—to a senior assistant D. A.—and in 1995, she became one of two Deputy D. A’s in the office’s pool of sixteen prosecutors. Now, as Chief Deputy District Attorney, she is but one step away from becoming the District Attorney in this city of 400,000. Indeed, with 285 men, women, and children convicted—and only one loss—over six years, the extremely attractive, single mother was surely at the top of her game.

For barely an instant, the agony which consumed Rhodes at the thought of an adverse ruling from the bench was supplanted by self-satisfaction for a life thus far well lived. Breaking her train of thought, however, was Judge Edwards as he cleared his throat.

I am prepared to make my ruling, he began. "The defendant, Michael Christopher Johnson, also known as Mike Johnson, an unemployed high school drop-out and twice-convicted felon, stands before the Court on the charge of felonious car-jacking. He is represented by Shirley Frye, a Senior Assistant Public Defender who urges the Court to dismiss the indictment because the district attorney’s office has failed to establish the element of intent, a necessary element before a trial can be had. The Court concurs that such an element is lacking.

Oddly, the prosecution has not sought multiple indictments with lesser-included offenses. The Court thus has no choice but to agree that since the prosecution has not met its burden, the only recourse is to dismiss the indictment with prejudice. The defendant is therefore free to go. Court’s adjourned."

All rise! cried the Bailiff.

As the handful of patrons strolled from the courtroom, Rhodes walked to the defense table, cutting off Mike Johnson’s exit path. At five-feet-seven-inches, the 20 year old African-American had to look slightly downward into the gorgeous face of Rhodes who stood only five-feet-two and almost never wore heels over an inch high, at least not publicly.

Smirking, he casually stated, You’re blocking my way, lady.

Nobody gets away, she whispered.

What? he asked, a puzzled look about his acne-covered face.

Nobody gets away, she repeated. Nobody.

* * *

Back in her posh new office in the Zell Miller City Government Building, Rhodes found it difficult to withhold her rage. She grabbed a thick glass paperweight from atop her cluttered desk and crashed it against a nearby wall, striking a gold-plated framed photograph of U. S. Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas and his wife, Virginia, causing the autographed picture to fall to the office’s rust-colored carpeted floor.

The door to her office flew open and Dara Darnell, Rhodes petite new secretary, rushed in.

Is everything OK, ma’am? asked Dara.

Hell no! Rhodes snapped. Get me two Advil—they’re fast-acting—and call Jeanne’ Childs at Channel 4. Tell her I want to make a press statement.

Actually, ma’am, Cecelia Wilson from Channel 12 just walked in, countered Dara. Then, motioning towards the outer-office with one of two ring-filled small hands, Dara added, She’s asking for you.

An odd, seemingly sinister look appeared in LaPrecious Rhodes’ dreamy, hazel, bedroom eyes. She licked her sexy full lips with one quick swipe, then broke into a grin, her rage all but disappearing.

Well, Dara, send her in.

* * *

Jimmy Carter Drive, the long, winding road leading to Rhodes’ sprawling new West Point Lake home seemed almost endless as she maintained the 25-mile-per-hour speed limit. Following her promotion in February to her current post, she decided to dump her luxury apartment downtown and invest in a big house. Indeed, she had saved up sixty thousand dollars over five years, figuring that saving $1,000 a month would make a sufficient down payment. As Chief Deputy D. A., her annual salary of $79,900 was more than enough to care for herself and her daughter, Almetia, who was by then turning eight years old. Rhodes smiled at the thought of her daughter, whose name she picked from the ancestral lineage of Ruth, the Moabitess. Rhodes never knew, however, that she’d have to constantly tell people how to pronounce the name. It’s ‘Al-Mee-Sha’, she would iterate.

The Goodman-Segar-Hogan real estate agent was able to sell Rhodes on the house on the very first visit. At $239,700, it was a house to die for—and in. And although having lived there only five weeks now, Rhodes had already decorated the Brookshire with such swiftness and enthusiasm one would think she’d been there for years.

Slowly pulling into the U-shaped driveway, Rhodes brought her black-on-black 1997 Mercedes-Benz S320 to a halt, killing the purring engine and retrieving her leather briefcase and purse—both solid black—from the front passenger seat. But before she could emerge from the stylish luxury import, the French doors to her home opened and out came Almetia, sporting a jubilant smile accompanied by out-stretched arms.

Mommy, Mommy! The youngster exclaimed.

Hello, sweetheart, answered Rhodes, scooping the lovely girl close to her bosom, and how was your day?

Fine.

Everything O.K. at school?

Yes, Mommy.

Good, sweetheart; that’s nice to know.

Mommy?

Yes?

Why are you biting your bottom lip?

Not realizing she was doing so, Rhodes immediately stopped, managed a fresh smile and replied, Just a bad habit, sweetheart.

The two met Ashley Indelicato—their baby-sitter for more than five years—just inside the main corridor.

Hello, LaPrecious, greeted the 24-year-old Italian, a lesbian.

Hi, Ashley. Any messages?

No, but there was a news brief that reported you’d be on the six o’clock news.

Well, Rhodes replied, looking at her ladies’ Timex watch, that leaves us only eleven minutes to wait.

Almetia retreated to the study to complete her homework while Rhodes and Ashley headed to the family room. They both took comfort on the L-shaped black leather Ethan Allen sofa.

You look tired, stated Ashley.

I am, Rhodes confessed.

I’ll fix you a drink.

O. K.

When Rhodes hired Ashley in November of 1992, she had no indication the Colorado Springs native was a lesbian. Ashley seemed like a tom-boy, Rhodes would think, but nothing more. When the truth came out a year ago, Rhodes was a bit taken aback; however, since her daughter Almetia was so fond of Ashley, the subject was swept away as water under the bridge.

Here you go, LaPrecious, said Ashley, handing Rhodes a glass of brandy, their eyes meeting briefly.

Thanks, Ash, she replied. I don’t know what I’d do without you.

Again, their eyes met—this time a few seconds longer than before—and Rhodes began to feel slightly uneasy. Shifting her eyes to the all-glass cocktail table, she reached for the remote control and—aiming it towards the 52-inch big-screen Pioneer—increased the volume of the television, filling the room with surround-sound.

Any messages? Rhodes inquired.

Smiling, Ashley answered, No. You asked me that already. She could tell Rhodes was on edge.

LaPrecious?

Yeah, Ash.

Do you want me to stay here tonight? You seem preoccupied. I can ease the stress by getting Almetia fed, bathed and on to bed.

Oh no, Rhodes responded. No, you don’t need to do that. I’ll be O.K.

Ashley, who had been standing since returning with the glass of brandy, again sat down next to Rhodes, slid within six inches of her, then leaned forward as she brought her voice to a whisper.

"LaPrecious, I know you’re not gay. I’m not trying to make you gay, if indeed that’s even possible. If I offer to spend the night, it’s authentic and not intended to convey any sexual undertones. I’m your babysitter; nothing more.

Besides, Miss Chief Deputy District Attorney, Ashley continued, her voice returning to its normal pitch, I couldn’t bear being prosecuted for being caught at three-thirty in the morning in your bedroom, greedily licking you between your legs when you didn’t ask me to.

The sexually explicit comment caused them both to burst into laughter, easing the tension in the room.

The news was about to come on; Ashley headed out to get Almetia, but Rhodes stopped her.

No, let her be, she said. The content is not something she needs to be exposed to.

Atlanta’s top-ranked news channel’s theme music filled the family room at six o’clock sharp:

Hi, I’m LaQuetta Scorpio. Thanks for joining KATL-12 News At Six. Among our top stories this evening, a city prosecutor speaks out against the freeing of an alleged car-jacker; and the state Supreme Court has announced that a local judge is among the choices to fill the seat left vacant by last month’s apparent suicide of Associate Justice Angel Whitney Fields. First, we go to Cecelia Wilson in our newsroom.

"Thank you, LaQuetta.

"Michael Christopher Johnson, accused of violently car-jacking an 80-year-old woman on Roswell Drive last month, was freed today when Superior Court Judge Ernesto Edwards ruled the prosecution had failed to meet its burden of producing sufficient legal grounds to warrant a full trial. This severe blow to the prosecution was not well-taken.

"I spoke with Chief Deputy District Attorney LaPrecious Rhodes on camera following the surprising ruling and she had this to say:

‘It is unfortunate that in our system of justice, violent criminals are allowed to go free without just cause. It is even more unfortunate that many of us who claim to be keepers and maintainers of the peace justify these types of releases with less-than-credible legal rulings. However, I will not rest until we all but eradicate violent crime in this city. And I’m willing to die trying.

"The stern words of LaPrecious Rhodes were directed toward Senior Assistant Public Defender Shirley Frye, who filed the motion to dismiss the indictment, and Judge Edwards, who set Johnson free. Frye was promoted less than an hour after the court victory. She is now one of two Deputy Public Defenders. As for Judge Edwards, he and Miss Rhodes had a heated exchange during the hour-long hearing. He even threatened to jail her for contempt.

"It is also worthy to note that Miss Rhodes has lost only one other case in recent history. Last June, accused rapist Alex Dixon was freed after the judge, ironically the same judge who presided over today’s hearing, ruled that it was a question of intent as to whether Dixon, then 22, actually had non-consensual sex with a physically-challenged, sixteen-year-old girl. Dixon was found dead two days after his release. He had been tortured and sexually mutilated; the case remains unsolved.

In the KATL-12 newsroom, I’m Cecelia Wilson. Back to you, LaQuetta.

Rhodes cut short the rest of the news by muting the sound with the remote control. She stood—brandy still in hand—and strode casually towards a window, her left hand lightly stroking the gold velvet draperies. Meanwhile, Ashley held her silence. Finally, after several seconds of quiet, Rhodes spoke.

I can’t believe I didn’t win, she confessed.

Ashley pondered a response, finding a simple one, "Don’t take the loss so hard, LaPrec----

Cutting Ashley off, Rhodes spun around to face her, snapping, Who said anything about losing?! Then, swallowing down in one gulp the remaining portion of her brandy, Rhodes’ voice again mellowed.

I said, ‘I can’t believe I didn’t win.’ I never said I lost. I never lose. Never.

But, Ashley began, a look of utter confusion about her face, isn’t that the same thing?

No, Rhodes replied. Not to me.

CHAPTER TWO

Wednesday, 27 May 1998

The tiny three-bedroom, one bathroom housing project apartment was sparsely furnished. It smelled of baby urine and cigarette smoke, was home to a plethora of roaches and a few mice, and had too many residents—seven to be exact. Nevertheless, Shyvita Jackson, a 23-year-old welfare mother of three, called the apartment—situated in Atlanta’s notorious West End—her home. She, her boyfriend of five years—Mike Johnson—and their children, as well as her 17-year-old nubile cousin, Wendy, all lived there together. Wendy’s one child, an eleven-month-old girl fathered by Mike in what he called an accidental slip one night after too many shots of rum, rounded the household to seven.

The apartment’s phone service from the regional Bell company servicing the area had long since been disconnected; however, with the assistance of another company, Teleconnect, Shyvita’s service resumed. That is, of course, as long as she goes to the local 7-11 store or nearby Korean grocer each month to surrender thirty bucks from her welfare check to keep it in service.

The blaring sound from the telephone’s ringer spread throughout the first floor. Shyvita, who was lounging on the cheap, corporate gray sofa in the living room while puffing on a