007 – Confession

Yvonne tells me the following story.  It is the story she told the police.  Perhaps she didn’t remember my telling her not to talk to anyone.

The police found her at her girlfriend’s apartment.  They took her downtown to the lockup on “suspicion of murder.”  They read her the Miranda warnings.  They offered her a lawyer.  They told her things would go better for her if she told them the truth.  They told her they knew she didn’t shoot Vernald.  Then they turned on the tape recorder.  They read her the Miranda warnings again.  They told her she could have a lawyer, that they would stop asking her questions any time she wished to.  They asked if she knew she was being recorded and if she was giving her permission for them to record her testimony voluntarily, and freely, and without threat or coercion or promise.  And she nodded her head yes.  And they said, “You have to answer audibly, Yvonne, because the tape recorder does not pick up your nods.  Is you answer to my last question ‘yes’?” And she answered, “Yes.”  The trap doors closed.

The police asked her to tell them if she knew what had happened to Vernald.  And she told them.  Gave them what they wanted, her tape recorded statement.  Sealed her fate.

She had been at the apartment with Vernald and he was beating her.  Not viciously enough to draw blood, or to send her to the hospital as he had in the past, just smacking her around, slapping her in the face, punching her in the arms, squeezing her breasts painfully.  He kicked her in the ass.  He hit her across the mouth with his backhand.

She had been up all night taking tricks downtown.  Gave a guy a blowjob in his car.  Went down for a guy in another car.  Let some funny looking dude from the suburbs unbutton her blouse, unhook her brassiere, rub her breasts, lay his head on her breasts.  She jerked him off.  He was afraid of disease he said.  She had a beer or two.  A snort of cocaine.  Nothing much.  Just trying to pass the time.  She worked alone.  Came home at about five.  Caught a little sleep until Vernald woke up and wanted company and just started messing with her.  Was in one of his unfathomable rages.  Told her “get outta bed, bitch,” and when she didn’t pulled her out naked.  She wrapped the sheet around her.  Held it to her with her arms tucked inside.  Vernald hit her.  Hit her again.  Stormed around the apartment.  Threw an empty beer can at her.  Called her “cunt.”  Called her, “whore.”  Said she was a no good black bitch.  Said she was holding money back on him.  Opened the window and took all her clothing that had been laying on the side of the bed and threw it into the street.

She was pissed.  Angry.  Pulled on a pair of Vernald’s jeans, his floppy old gray sweatshirt and her high heels and was out the door.  “Fuck you, Vernald, you bastard,” she said.

When she’d gotten out onto the to street she’d run into her brother, Oren.

“What the fuck happened to you, Yvonne,” he’d asked her.  She told him.

“I’m gonna get my piece and scare the shit out of that motherfucker,” Oren said.

Yvonne and Oren go down the street to where Oren’s gun is hidden under a dumpster. They walk quickly back to Vernald’s apartment. Yvonne tells the cops, she knocked and said, “It’s Yvonne, you bastard.” The door is opened. “What the fuck,” swears Vernald when he sees Oren. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he says when he sees the handgun. He and Oren speak fast. They yell. Their words are filled with anger and self righteous rage. Three tiny spent brass bullet casings are later recovered. The rest is history.