Chapter One

My mom, Marilyn Adams, was a tall thin, beautiful woman with a silky-smooth coffee hue that turned the heads of most men and women. She was educated, sophisticated, and filled with a sweet southern charm.

Her parents, Wilbert and Lillian Halston, my grandparents, were very active in the Civil Rights Movement. Living in the midst of the movement in Selma, Alabama in the mid 1960’s, danger faced them on a daily basis but they never backed down. My grandparents weren’t sharecroppers they owned their land and had their own grocery store. During the early to mid sixties white store owners denied credit to the blacks if they suspected or knew they had been involved with the Civil Rights Movement. My mom watched her parents open their hearts to many by providing them with food and supplies they needed to make it through the difficult times. They taught their children to never be afraid to fight for what they believed in or for what they wanted in life and to always dream big. God made us all equal regardless of what the white man said.

My father Richard Adams was a very handsome man. Dark hair, deep dark eyes, thick long lashes with chiseled broad bone structures. Built like a young Charlton Heston. His parents, I can’t call them my grandparents because I always felt tolerated by them not loved, they taught my father and his siblings that they, whites, were better than blacks, superior. Grandpa Adams believed that whites and blacks should stay separate in all aspects of life. The two races should never mix. If he had his way he would never interact with blacks not even do business with niggers. As he routinely referred to us.

     My grandpa Adams didn’t hide the fact that he hated my mother. Not even when I was around, which was very seldom. My dad always stood up for my mom; would defend her against anyone. He fought with grandpa Adams all the time. Dad was different from his siblings. He loved us. He was my hero - when I was young.

     Something happened over the years. Something happened to that undying love he had for her, at least in my eyes it did. Dad began degrading her, treating her as if she were a second class citizen. Or worst, as if she were his personal property. I can’t pinpoint exactly when this behavior started or when I noticed it. But as I got older I came to despise my father. I no longer viewed him as a hero but as the same white racist monster his father was. I wanted my mom to leave him so that she could be happy again.

Now I’m standing here over his dead body and I don’t know if I want to cry or go out and celebrate.

“Ms. Adams, I’m so sorry we have to do this but I need you to tell me if this is your father?” The detective asked me while holding back the bloody canvas revealing only his face.

It was my father. “Yes. It’s my father.” I finally managed to force out. I felt numb, like someone had ripped my insides out, then relieved that my mother was not the one lying beneath the blanket.

     The detective escorted me out of the room but stopped in the middle of the long narrow hallway. “I need to get some information from you. The neighbor called the police after hearing a gunshot. Your neighbors thought the sound came from this house. When I knocked on the door to investigate and question your mother, she let me in, then sat on the sofa, and has been there since but has not spoken to anyone.” The overstuffed detective paused as he awaited for me to fill in the missing pieces that I obviously did not have. “I hope you understand the seriousness of this?”

I nodded yes but was totally confused by his tone. I provided him with the information he requested: my phone number and address. Then I asked, “Can I take my mother home with me now?”

“Sorry, but we are going to have to take your mother to the police station. There’s no evidence of a burglary or forced entry. We believe your mother knows what happened to your father. It appears that a domestic situation occurred and your mother may have shot your father.”

My legs turned into spaghetti noodles. Could my mother have done such a thing? Why was she so quiet? My thoughts were to protect her at all costs. Deep in my heart, I knew she could not and would not kill anyone, especially my father. For some reason she loved him unconditionally. If she was guilty of this, it was an accident. I didn’t want to hear the gory details that night; I just wanted to get my mother out of that house, something I had wanted to do for years.

“Look, as you already know my father is ...was the Lieutenant at the Compton station. If you talk to them, you will know my mother could not have done this. They all know us. They’ve known us for over thirty years.”

“Ma’am, I’m sorry but I cannot let your mother go without some cooperation.”

Detective Henson was a tall round pudgy middle-aged man. He fit the stereotype of the typical donut-eating policemen. I would not want him to be on duty if I were in trouble. “Detective, if my mother can tell you what happened, can she come home with me then?” I pleaded. “I know my mother did not kill my father, she

is not capable of such a violent act. Besides she loved him. But she is definitely in shock. As a matter of fact, she should be taken to the hospital to be checked out herself.” Detective Henson scratched his thinning receding hairline. Then turned to a clean sheet on his notepad.

“That will depend on her statement. We need to know what happened,” he said adamantly. He looked like he was already convinced that she had committed this heinous crime.

I walked back into the living room, joined my mother on the flower-printed hunter green sofa to question her; the detective followed closely hoping to witness a confession. She was only fifty-seven years old but she looked to be every bit of seventy tonight. She had lost a lot of weight in the past several months, more than likely from the stress I had caused her. Just as I was about to ask my mother the question, chills swept through my body, heat rushed to my face, the hairs stood up on the back of my neck. I knew with all of my being she was hiding something. Her eyes were filled with fear but not regret. I decided at that moment not to question her in front of the detective.

“Mom, you have to go down to the police station. They need to question you about what happened, but I am going to call a lawyer so I want you to wait and talk to him first, OK? Do you understand Mom?” She nodded yes and stood up and held her hands towards the detective for handcuffs. Tears stained her sunken

cheeks. I had just recently glimpsed a ray of hope and happiness in my mother the day before. I began to cry as I wrapped my arms around her.

“Marilyn Adams, did you kill your husband?” My mom continued to cry and never answered. He turned to me, “If you know anything about this you need to tell us. If your mom has nothing to hide she can just come down to the station for questioning. But if she doesn’t deny killing your father I have to assume she did.” The detective read my mother her Miranda Rights, handcuffed her and took her to the police car. I followed them out to the car sobbing while watching them place my mother in the back of a police car like a common criminal and wondering, how did we get here?