Page 15 of Hart of Vengeance
Girl, you better talk with more vigor. Make your boss believe you.
He sat down and picked up his pen. “Good. You’ll be attending my meeting with Denim at the prison tomorrow. I’ll be prepping him for his parole hearing. Your role is to take notes, listen, and learn. Understood?”
I hoped my features weren’t displaying anything but confidence because my insides churned like a washing machine on the spin cycle. “Yes, sir.” The words came out strong and firm. I gave myself a mental high five, despite the red flags waving around in my skull. Every fiber in me was screaming not to go. But if I wanted to keep my job, I had to dig deep to shield myself from whatever Denim would throw my way. I had to put on my big-girl panties.
Suddenly, a ton of questions flickered like neon signs in my head.
How would I react when I saw him? Would I slap him? Would I scream at him? Would I even be able to speak? Does he still have his heart-stopping smile?
I repeated the word “professionalism” several times and made a mental note to use that as my safe word when I saw Denim.
“Good,” Kelton said. “If you’ll be working for me, I want you to be top notch in your role as you work into the paralegal position. I want you to know the law backwards and forwards as much as I do. And what better way than to see how things are done in the field. We’ll leave from here at nine a.m. sharp.”
I rose on weak legs and smoothed a hand down my gray pants. “Sir, why is Denim up for parole? I didn’t think he would be eligible for another year.”
One side of Kelton’s mouth curled. “You’ve been following his case.”
Busted.I lifted a shoulder but didn’t say a word.
“Massachusetts has an early release program, and Denim’s been the model inmate. He shaved off a year of his sentence.”
Another round of shock and awe plagued me. The Denim I knew had always been reckless, rebellious, and carefree. Maybe prison had been good for him.
I rolled back my shoulders. “I’ll be ready for tomorrow.”
When I reached the door, Kelton’s next question stopped me. “Jade, do you think Denim is a murderer?”
I often thought about that very question. Part of me thought justice had been served. The other part of me who knew the real Denim Hart didn’t agree. Denim had several faults, but murder wasn’t one of them. Sure, he was in a gang, he sold drugs, and if push came to shove, he would do what he had to do to defend himself and those he loved.
The only evidence brought up at trial had been the gun used to kill the victim. The facts had shown the gun was found in Denim’s backpack, but no prints were on it. Still, the prosecution had done a great job of convincing the jury that in Denim’s haste to flee the scene, he’d forgotten his backpack. That could have been true, but Denim knew how to cover his tracks like a corrupt cop.
I pivoted on my heel. “The Denim I knew in high school, no. After high school, I couldn’t say. I didn’t see him after that.” I’d heard through my sister that Denim had done well for himself as a drug dealer for the Southside Creepers.
All Kelton said was, “Mmm.”
I’d often come close to hunting Denim down and giving him a piece of my mind. But my heart was always one beat away from shattering into pieces when I thought of him, so I couldn’t risk it. Besides, Savannah was a great example of how dating a criminal could mess up a person. I would like to consider myself a strong person, but I wasn’t, not when it came to Denim Hart.
“It’s not that I don’t love you,” he’d said as we stood on the steps of our high school. “My life is not the place for a beautiful, smart, and caring girl. And my enemies would use you to get to me.”
At the impressionable age of eighteen, I’d felt I couldn’t live without the blond-haired, blue-eyed boy who always made me melt into a puddle of water. Hell, I would’ve followed him to the ends of the earth if he’d asked me.
Kelton tapped the pen against his lips. “He swears he’s innocent, and he wants help in finding the real murderer.”
“During his trial, I read that one witness or the neighbor in the building disappeared.”
Kelton appeared pensive. “Dillon hired a PI to find the neighbor. But no such luck.”
“Doyouthink he’s guilty?” I asked.
Kelton lowered his pen. “My gut tells me he’s not, and my gut is usually right. Well, tomorrow is nothing more than preparing him for his hearing.”
In my mind, tomorrow was everything—nerves, nerves, and more nerves. I probably wouldn’t eat that night, and I definitely wouldn’t sleep.
6
Denim
Aguard escorted me to my meeting with Kelton Maxwell. It had been two weeks since Costa had done a number on me, and my cuts and bruises were healing. The good news was the warden hadn’t thrown me into the hole because Stew had gone to bat for me. I’d thanked him profusely.
