Under The Bali Moon. Grace Octavia
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black suit jacket that was gathered in pleats in the small of her back showed off her tiny waist and flat stomach. Her long black hair was pressed and hanging down her back with a subtle curl at the bottom. When Zena moved, her hair floated as if an invisible fan was blowing in her direction for dramatic allure.
In the courtroom in downtown Atlanta, Zena knew she looked good while delivering her closing argument.
“In closing, dear jury, what I want to ask all of you, each of you, is, what would you want if the one you love, the person who stood before man, his family and friends and your family and friends, the church and God in heaven and swore to always love you back, dishonored the innocence of your vows with the unspeakable behaviors Mr. Rayland has imposed upon my client’s ever-delicate heart?” Zena posed, releasing the stare that had been locked upon the jury and turning to face Tanisha Rayland, her thirty-seven-year-old client who was at the center of a very ugly and controversial divorce from her bed-hopping R & B husband of twelve years.
Zena stood with her profile parallel to the jury as she gazed at Tanisha. She wanted them to see the connection she had with this woman. Wanted them to see what sympathy for this woman could look like. She folded her arms and exhaled long and deep and dramatically.
“As you all learned throughout these proceedings, and as this woman had to relive, Mrs. Rayland’s college sweetheart slept with and impregnated the eighteen-year-old they hired to enter their home to care for their children. And that’s only the worst part. Maybe. Because in twelve years of marriage, Mrs. Rayland can’t recall one year when she wasn’t sharing her husband’s affections with another woman. Especially not after the fame came to him. Not after the singing career she helped him build took off. After the money started rolling in. Well, then she had to share him with three and four young women at a time.”
A tear fell from Tanisha’s left eye. She was a woman of striking beauty. Light skin with a red undertone that made her ethnicity unclear until she opened her mouth and the South Side of Chicago came out. Full, pouty lips. Long eyelashes. If it wasn’t for the weight she’d put on after having five children—she’d confessed to Zena that she had the last three with hopes of keeping her husband at home and other women away from him—she might look like one of the video vixens with whom Mr. Rayland enjoyed his many indiscretions. And even with the weight, Zena thought Tanisha could easily find work as a full-figured model.
Zena exhaled again, adding hyperbole to Tanisha’s tears. She turned back to the jury. As she rolled her eyes along her path, she got a glimpse of Mr. Rayland sitting beside his attorney on the other side of the courtroom. His head was hung low and twisting back and forth in embarrassment or disagreement, as if Zena had shone a light on his deepest, darkest secret. When the divorce proceedings had started, days ago, he’d arrived with huge diamonds in his ears, a pernicious smile and a Rolex on his wrist that seemed to connote this would be a breeze; his wealth would prevail. He was confident. He stated he would beat the entitlement case. But after days in the courtroom, he didn’t look so sure of this articulation. That wicked smile was so yesterday. Also gone were the diamond earrings. That Rolex was a ghost. He was in his simplest form now. A man without airs. Humbled.
Eyes on the jury, Zena added, “And the torment didn’t stop with the many affairs. Add in the drugs, the weeks away from home, the year Mr. Rayland was in jail and my client had to care for their five children alone, and the lies.” She pursed her lips. Gave the jury time to recall these infractions she’d been feeding them over the past few days. Time to be disgusted with the images of Mr. Rayland she’d so carefully painted. “The lies. Lie after lie.” She glanced back at Tanisha and her tears. “So, I ask again, what would you want in return? What should she want? Can we really place limitations on what this woman deserves when all she wants is enough support to care for her children in the manner to which they’ve become accustomed, a return on her investment in her husband and to stay in the home where she’s been living for the last six years? Respectfully, in contrast with how Mr. Rayland’s attorneys have painted this woman’s request, this isn’t about anger or being vindictive or asking for someone to support her. This is about justice. It’s about making things right.”
Amid grumbles from her opposition, Zena paused and straightened her suit jacket. She leaned against the jury box to appear more vulnerable, as if she was one of them sharing some secret. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I implore you to return to this room with a righteous verdict. To do what’s fair. What’s just. Award Mrs. Tanisha Rayland twenty-five million dollars in entitlements as she dissolves ties from Mr. Rayland and her sad past with him. Release her, so she can move on. Do what you would want done. What she deserves.”
Zena bowed deeply toward the jury, and she actually saw some heads nod back to her. One older woman who’d always smiled at her looked as if she was about to clap. Zena turned back to her seat and winked at her client as she walked toward her. When she sat and grabbed Tanisha’s hand beneath the table to reassure her of their success, Zena’s assistant and best friend, Malak, who was sitting in the front row, leaned forward smiling.
“This one is in the bag, Z!” Malak cheered in a low voice.
“I hope you’re right,” Zena whispered, eyeing Mr. Rayland’s attorney, who was standing before the jury, ready to present his closing arguments before the jury would return to their room to vote. Zena really did need to have this one in the bag. When Tanisha left her husband, he froze all of her accounts and she had little money to cover Zena’s high hourly fee. Since news of the Raylands’ pending divorce broke, the hungry media made a gossip sensation of Tanisha’s life and split from the R & B crooner many saw as a stable and loving husband—at least that’s how his team had been portraying him in all the gossip rags. Zena had to play offense and defense, creating a team for her client, which now included her firm’s personal publicist, security staff member and photographer. This robbed her other cases of valuable time—and her bank account of precious dollars. Zena told herself this was the cost of maintaining her firm’s reputation. All of this while praying a big payday would come when, as Malak predicted, “this one is in the bag.”
“Don’t worry,” Zena said to Tanisha, but it was clear she was also trying to encourage herself. “Everything will be fine.”
* * *
Luckily, Malak’s psychic sensibilities were better than her jet-black-and-blond ombré weave.
After just twenty minutes of deliberating, the jury returned with a verdict that made a rich woman of Zena’s client. She’d be able to pay Zena’s fees and those of her associates and, more importantly, move on with her life.
Moving on for Zena, though, meant her usual posttrial trip to Margarita Town with Malak in tow. After debriefing Tanisha on their next steps and assuring her this was “really it—she’d won,” Zena hopped into a Town Car waiting outside the courthouse and quietly thanked God for the magical mix of tequila and strawberry flavoring awaiting her arrival at Margarita Town. It would wash away all of her thoughts of Mr. Priest Rayland and his deplorable behavior.
“You shut that fool all the way down,” Malak said later, sitting across from Zena at Margarita Town. Before her was a behemoth of a margarita glass, the size of a baby’s head, filled to the rim with frothy blue ice chips and liquid. “I thought he was going to hop out of his chair and run across the room to start choking you at any moment.” Malak laughed and held her hands up as if she had them wrapped around Zena’s neck.
Behind her was the normal fare of a margarita bar. Nothing fancy. Nothing too nice. Soft red lights set aglow garage-sale rainbow ponchos, sombreros and dusty, half-clothed Lupita dolls tacked to the walls. No one was there for the decor, though. It was just a theme for the real prize that attracted professionals to Margarita Town’s lopsided high-top tables and sticky bar each night after work. The clientele included burned-out teachers, lawyers, doctors, publicists, business owners, even yoga teachers.
The red ice in Zena’s significantly smaller margarita glass was nearly gone, and Zena was already feeling the soothing affects of the concoction, so she laughed more deeply than Malak had expected.
“Slow down, cowgirl,” Malak teased. “You know you’re a lightweight.