CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Southern Discomfort

Mechelle was desperate for associations when she returned to Atlanta. It had been easy to come back to Denworth since, after all, he was so head over heels for her. So, nothing really changed when Mechelle went down to see Denworth just a month after Douglass was carted off to jail—

They didn’t lie when they said “the flesh is weak.

—And naturally, Denworth served her as if she’d never left. The day she arrived, he tore that pussy up as if it were his last. No condom; no apprehension.

“I miss you . . . so . . . much,” Denworth tried to say while he was thrusting himself inside of her. “And I want . . . you to . . . have . . . ooh, God! I want you to . . . have my . . . baby!”

But, even though Denworth sprayed every drop of himself on the downstroke, Mechelle wasn’t concerned about getting pregnant; that already happened. If anything, she wondered if her college love would realize that she was starting to show. There’d sure be a lot to explain then. However, to have him there, virtually waiting for her while he still pursued his degree, was extremely convenient for this fix she was in.

And two weeks after they rock and rolled, Mechelle dropped the bomb.

“Den, I don’t know how to tell you this . . . but, I’m pregnant.” And now that she told him that it was his baby, there was no end to his kindness and testaments of love. He was ecstatic about the news, and he showed it with plenty of tears and promises.

To throw a wet rag on her flames of guilt, Mechelle found refuge in a local church, only two blocks from Denworth’s place. Church provided her with more to do than sit around a kiss-ass all day and night in a two-family house. Volunteering with the locals made her feel legitimate and worthwhile, because there were so many things about her that weren’t.

And now that Mechelle was in the thick of things, there was no stopping her. Two days after she told Denworth the news, they found the nearest Justice of the Peace and tied the knot. Just like that; as if Douglass Gilmore and her new beginnings up in New York never mattered. Denworth had no way of knowing Mechelle’s reasons for the hasty elopement, and she didn’t reveal how desperate a move this was for her to have a man in her life—a father for her child, with all of the resources that came with it. Here she was, entering her second trimester, with no promise for the future. She had to leave New York if she was gonna keep this baby. And damned if she was gonna give up this one.

It was her pleasure to see Denworth suddenly so proud to be an expecting dad, regardless of the lies she harbored. He got more and more into Mechelle as her physical changes became more obvious. Her cheeks were glowing. Her color was a rich brown, and her breasts were growing into grapefruits, one step up from the healthy Sunkist orange shapes that she was used to. Denworth was so head over heels that he became the infant, sucking (and even drinking!) from her nipples. He was naïve to the ways of a woman; gullible even. These thoughts were dangerous thoughts for Mechelle, unhealthy for the most part. She began to feel stress and anxiety about not being truthful, as if her lying might reflect on the newborn. She had nightmares of the infant being retarded, with one arm. All of it was too much for her, and soon she felt compelled to tell Den-worth the truth. This was particularly heavy on her mind during one stroll back home from her volunteer schedule. Her soul was having a discussion with her conscience, wondering if she’d be kicked out the house, or worse, forced to move back to New York. Now, there was a throbbing headache, and she changed her mind again.

“Tomorrow’s another day,” she said aloud. And it was practical to think this way since today, at least, she knew what she’d be coming home to. First Denworth would have her sit back on the sofa with an herbal tea to soothe her. Meanwhile, he’d have her shoes and socks stripped and her feet soaking in some lukewarm water with menthol crystals giving off penetrating, soothing vapors. As her feet soaked, Den always melted her heavy thoughts with soft kisses about her calves and thighs, always paying special attention to her lower body. One or two times he got zealous, but only after she approved. Of course dinner was already warming, and by the time Mechelle was totally relaxed, Den would play waiter, bringing the food by the tray, so that she didn’t have to budge. After dinner, there was a stress-busting bath and a follow-up massage. Naturally the sequence relaxed Mechelle into a deep sleep. When she woke in the morning, there he was, with breakfast and fruit juice. Serving her hand and foot, hour in, hour out. He didn’t even ask for sex, probably not wanting to interfere with or induce labor. Labor? She was in her second trimester! Mechelle thought Den was so dense sometimes, but he was grounded with that good city job; good benefits and insurance. Insurance! That was a big word for Mechelle. It rang bells of security. And what black man from the hood had those kinds of benefits? She was tired and exhausted of dead ends. Den was her only ray of light in a tunnel of uncertainty. So much was going through Mechelle’s mind as she stepped along the sidewalk and up the walkway to see her Denny-pooh after a long day.

As she ascended to the second floor of the house, she could hear the phone ringing continuously. She thought that to be strange, because it was after 6pm. Denworth should have been home waiting to pamper her, dinner cooked, soothing waters and herbal tea ready to absorb her. So far, Denworth’s pampering hadn’t faded or slacked in the weeks after the vows were exchanged. This was strange.

Mechelle hurried with the keys and then to the wall phone in the kitchen. She caught her breath, observing the surroundings at the same time. She tried to be patient with the cordial greetings to and from Den’s parents; her in-laws. Man! She hated adopting that title; in-laws. Denworth’s luggage and family fixtures. Like she didn’t have enough problems of her own. His mom was obsessive, as if Den was born yesterday; and his father acted as though he had a speech problem and couldn’t say hi to her. Mechelle couldn’t ever recall if his father had said more than two words to her in the three years she’d known Denworth. Maybe he was an in-the-closet homo like his son was. That is, before Mechelle turned him out.

Scratching her head and wondering why there was no food waiting on the stove or kitchen table, Mechelle continued to make small talk and assurances with Denworth’s mother as she stretched the coiled phone cord to the limits in either direction, looking for her husband. Who’d have guessed. Was this what the “having your cake” part of the saying was like? She could have yawned, finally disconnecting with her mother-in-law, Mechelle searched the house for Denworth, suddenly feeling alone and unusually deprived. Seconds later, Mechelle’s scream could be heard well into the next residential block as she found Denworth, keeled over on the bed. He was 8 minutes into a severe asthma attack, his frozen blue image clutching an empty inhalor pressed between his lips.

Mechelle raced to various cabinets, the extra weight in her tummy bouncing like a Nerf football. She went through draws and the medicine cabinet, but that was useless. Denworth’s lungs had already contracted for the last time. His last breath had already come and gone, however short.

The police and ambulance arrived to find Mechelle in a state of shock, sitting for a series of officials with their dutiful inquiries.

Jailhouse Romance

Valerie suddenly regretted the circumstances to which she’d committed herself, standing in line amongst a crowd of other women. There were mostly mothers, girlfriends and a few wives with their noisy children. She waited apprehensively for her turn to be permitted through the metal detectors, but some women were holding up all the processing, insisting that they be able to visit with their children.

“No children permitted.” The guards kept affirming the rules on the wall of Passaic County Jail.

“Damn you, Demetrius,” was all Valerie could say to herself while she stood amidst the noxious perfumes and body odors in the air. After all, she’d only met Gil’s son once at the club. And frankly she didn’t get that much of a vibe from him—arrogant and cold as he was. But if it weren’t for Demetrius, with his kind request and rewarding looks, along with the fact that she did work for the Gilmore family, Valerie wouldn’t have hired a town car to take her all the way to New Jersey. Nor would she have gotten up so early—6 AM!—to beat the rush of locals who converged at the jail every day. The deep breaths and long, relenting sighs helped her through it. Might as well follow through with it since, after all, it did take her nearly an hour to do her make-up.

And now there were other women staring at her. It was really nothing new for Valerie, always the pretty one in any group, attracting widened eyes and hungry expressions. The stares also came from corrections officers at the jail. They looked like (or at least dressed like) policemen, with navy blue uniforms and bright yellow, embroidered patches. But how could she tell these were law enforcement officers with their nostrils flaring like the customers who salivated before her at the club? She may as well have come naked. But then, that’s really how she learned to look at men and women, as if she could see right through them. It was the only way to look at a person honestly; the only way to get past people’s smoke and mirror campaigns. And besides, Valerie was forever comfortable when she looked at people in this way. It was a disarming skill, and at the same time it enabled her to recognize a certain control over men and women who were so predictable; so transparent.

As she followed procedures to enter the jail, men bent over backwards with all that extra nicey-nicey stuff to accommodate her, which told Valerie what she already knew: that the jailers were no different than regular civilians. They’re hungry, nasty and horny like the rest of us, she told herself, getting rid of the uneasiness that occupied her belly. After an identification check, and the completion of a series of forms required of all first-time non-family members, Valerie was allowed to pass through where she joined a group of others and an escort, to file into an elevator. On the fourth floor, she was directed to a room with 10 diner-style counter stools. A long Formica counter ran the length of the room, and a Plexiglas window separated each prisoner and their visitor on the other side. Thinner and more humbled than she remembered him to be, Douglass emerged from a door and assumed his seat in the closed room. Both Douglass and Valerie picked up a telephone that enabled direct communication. They greeted one another, and made cautious conversation until they established a rapport. It eventually became more than rapport, as Valerie found herself visiting again and again. The same formalities, executions and precautions. The dialogue usually started out as small talk.

“. . . to tell you the truth, I couldn’t fully remember what you looked like when we spoke on the phone.” Valerie’s brute honesty came out that first day.

“Well, you’ll have to excuse my presence. This is not exactly your ideal blind date,” Douglass said, and they both smiled. “I’m not exactly in the best body I could be in, either. There’s little room for opportunity to exercise. The food is so-so, and the company is yuck.” Douglass attempted to appeal to Valerie’s sympathy with his sense of humor. She shot back a compassionate response before he said, “But I’m doing my best to get by.”

As weeks went past, they became closer. Valerie became an advocate, not just a dancer pretending to be good company. There was more concern now. She cared.

“When will they let you out of here?” Valerie eventually asked that most obvious question.

“You’ve got to look me straight in the eyes when I say this to you, Valerie . . .” Douglass could simultaneously picture himself in the reflection as he looked through the Plexiglas, focusing sincerely on Valerie’s eyes. “. . . I am not a murderer. I have never killed anybody. The worst thing I’ve done is close the lid on the garbage can at home; I trapped a couple of raccoons in there, because they were a nuisance. They would scatter garbage all over the driveway. In the morning they were picked up by the garbage truck; and that still bothers me to this day. They are entitled to live, to make mistakes and to create noise while they’re here on earth . . . just like you and me. I had no right to kill them, but honestly, I’ve never done anything worse than that. I don’t belong here with real murderers, bank robbers and rapists . . .”

“I’m sad for you, Douglass. I feel so helpless with you caught up here. This place . . . these guards, the dogs and the guns . . . it’s all like one big monster. Like I’m in this giant cage, coming in to visit you. But I’ve got to leave you here.” Douglass put his palm to the window. Valerie matched the gesture. They were connected, but not connected.

“I know, I know. Valerie, you’ve gotta know something. You’re the first person to come and see me here. My girlfriend . . . my ex-girlfriend, Mechelle, didn’t even budge. You’ve been the first to show me compassion. To show me that I’m cared for . . .”

“Please, Douglass. People do care about you. It’s just that they have their own priorities . . .”

“But if you know what I know, then you’d see that the majority of people’s priorities are out of whack in the first place. See—Valerie, let me tell you what being here did for me. I didn’t need any reforming. What I did need was to weed out all of the bullshit in my life. Like the tag-a-longs that were unproductive to my agenda. The toxic people . . . the energy drainers who were around me as quote-unquote friends, and the weak hearted who couldn’t stand by me when times got tough. Now, all of those clouds are gone and I can focus on me . . . that means finding my purpose in life, setting short term and long term goals, keeping an agenda and lastly, maintaining discipline so that I can continuously follow through with my plans. That is priority for me. If you ask most people on the street today, they couldn’t tell you what their purpose in life is. I guarantee you their face will twist up in a knot like, ‘whaddaya mean?’ ” Valerie leaned into the receiver and moved her palm from the window to support her chin. Douglass was emphasizing with convincing pokes at the glass, pounding on the counter to drive certain points home.

On another visit, Douglass threw his heart out to Valerie with a sudden, passionate statement.

“Val, I don’t mean to say that I might’ve shriveled up and died if you hadn’t come along, but you have made me feel whole again. If there is such a thing. Knowing that someone cares has made me feel more comfortable in a place where I’m not even supposed to be alive. I have to constantly fill my mind with reasons why I must go on, reasons why I must survive, and reasons why I must reach my goals, fulfill my dreams and accomplish my purpose in life. Not only to get by on a day to day basis, but to maintain a perspective; how this time here is only a minute in my century here on earth. The time I’m spending here—learning about me, learning how to love—is the challenge to achieve my own greatness in life. This is it. Here and now. Time to plan, to organize and to aspire. Fuck that judge and the FBI and all their claims! The circumstances that put me here are the same that will set me free. And the ultimate judge runs all that shit! Are you with me? This puny man, with his puny laws, and his puny ways, have nothing on the methods of the universe.” Valerie’s eyes received some of the passion and energy in Douglass’s words. Her eyes were watering and her body trembling. She felt electricity passing through the phone and down into her spine.

“By the way . . .” Douglass added after a pause, “. . . how’s the weather outside? I haven’t seen daylight for a while now.” Valerie was aghast, but amused by Douglass’s sudden change in direction. As if she had to shake sleep from her eyes, she shook the riveting sensation with a self-imposed jitter and recalled his question. Shortly after Douglass’s heartfelt testimony, Valerie walked away from her 20-minute visit floating on clouds of inspiration. She was looking forward to reclining in the back of the waiting Lincoln town car, a reminder of the drastic difference between freedom and captivity. She wondered if even she was taking freedom for granted. She also thought about Douglass and how worthy he was to have her; as she was to have him.

When he gets home, she declared.

Manifesto

Douglass was invigorated by Val’s visit. He began to see her more frequently; even as much as every other week. He didn’t want to overkill the novelty of it all, but he knew he had to compete with the hordes of men who already had two advantages over him. They were free and they got to see Valerie half naked; maybe even touching her on a lap dance. Douglass’s battle wasn’t as much with the customers as it was with temptation itself. Temptation and loneliness, just the same, were the forces he was fighting.

To make up for where he was lacking, Douglass purchased some writing materials from the jail’s commissary and began to write to Valerie. That’s how he made the most of his time, writing songs and poems (regardless of being forced into becoming a second-hand smoker).

So focused and filled with emotion was Douglass, that he completed four letters a day. He also began putting together his business plan and drawing up diagrams of a new, bigger Gilmore’s. A new empire. Douglass often dreamed of his future and recollected his past, a big picture of where he’d been, where he was now, and where he was going. He thought about his contributions to the world and how, because of his existence and input, many had benefitted. He was certain that many had forgotten. But in his heart, and the war chest that was his memory, he felt blessed and accomplished. By age 30 Douglass had a heavy hand in most every element of black entertainment. Now in jail, recollections and visions poured through his brain as he slept and dreamed by night, contemplating the future. By day he continued with songs and poems, based on his own experiences of love and life.

One day he was deeply involved in pencil sketches for an all-new 10,000-square foot adult entertainment complex. Just over his shoulder, a prisoner named Fumi inquired about Douglass’s project. Thin in mass and thick in culture, the Nigerian was quite interested in the imaginative perspectives, insightful knowledge of the business, and Douglass’s strong desire to see it though to completion. Even if only in jail, Douglass created and devised a full-scale, step by step plan for his new club. With a manifesto, drawings of various angles, costs and financial forecasts, it was clear that Douglass fully intended to see his dream through to reality. Fumi was even more inspired that Douglass’s dream had the foundation of experience. As the two came to know each other better, Douglass learned of Fumi’s homeland and practices. The African maintained certain traditions. He had been jailed for an alleged financial fraud and was awaiting trial. The judge denied him bail on the basis of him being a flight risk. In the meantime, the two shared each other’s knowledge on a daily basis. Douglass talked adult entertainment, black entertainment and the Internet, while Fumi spoke of polygamy, double standards in America, and the spiritual wisdom of Afrocentricity. He felt strongly that the United States and the rest of humanity owed a huge debt to Africa, or else they just had no idea and didn’t recognize those debts and obligations to Africa.

“There’s a myth and misconception of Africa as a dark and barbaric continent; less civilized and profiled as separate from the rest of humanity,” said Fumi with his rich African dialect. But as amazed as Douglass was about Fumi’s knowledge of history and the state of humanity, so too was Fumi flattered by Douglass’s recollections of his Grammy award interviews, celebrity functions and his family’s near-domination of the adult entertainment industry. Fumi was spirited in sharing his rights of passage, the teachings of his elders African mentors and how the African—the black man—was actually the ultimate man. The first man, Fumi explained. Every man’s origin is African. And although Douglass’s experience paled when compared to the African’s, in the end, the two learned much from one another. There was a promise of friendship that went without saying.

New Jersey, U.S. Attorney’s Office

“Mr. Cipriani speaking.”

“Yessir. This is Mr. Locca, returning your call.”

“Oh yes. The Gilmore case. Has your client decided to cooperate? I won’t hold this deal open too much longer.”

“My client is not budging, Mr. Cipriani. He maintains his innocence and says there’s nothing to cooperate about. I’m ready to take this to trial if you are.”

“I’ll let the judge know so that he can set a date.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cipriani. Have a nice day.” As soon as Cipriani hung up, he picked up and poked at four buttons on the phone—lightning fast.

“Hammer, I need to see you and Walsh in my office, ASAP.” Mr. Cipriani, the assistant U.S. attorney handling the case involving Gilmore, was sitting adjacent to his boss, looking desperately for answers. In need of a scapegoat. He had just hung up the phone at the conference table.

“I sure hope your boys have something. If they don’t, they’d better find something. I’ve got pressure coming from the public and I’ve got political pressure from the higher-ups. These Biancos have been raping our communities for years and all we have is a New York arrest for a New York murder, with no trial date. You do realize that if I call the judge on this case he’s gonna set the date for tomorrow, don’t you?” Cipriani sat stiff in his seat, suddenly more agitated by their boss-slash-employee relationship.

“Sir, I understand. I trust my guys on this case. I’m riding with them all the way, until there’s a conviction.”

“Tell me something, Mr. Cipriani . . . if you will . . .” The U.S. attorney leaned over with a lower volume of concern in his voice. “If this is gonna be the big RICO-slash-organized crime bust that you’ve promised me . . . one that the governor can even be proud of, then where is the union involvement? Where are the wire tapes, the highjackings and the political payoffs? Where are the snitches, the territorial battles and the savage killings?” The U.S. attorney leaned in even more, and now he was down to a whisper. “If I wasn’t in the business of law enforcement, I’d swear that the mob . . .” He raised his volume. “The mafia . . .” Now he shouted. “. . . the fuckin’ La Cosa Nostra was INVISIBLE!”

Cipriani took the verbal stabbing personally and speechlessly strutted to his own office down the hallway to await the agents.

Celebrate Life

“Hee-Hee-Hee-Hee-Haw, Hee-Hee-Hee-Hee-Haw! That was some old school for ya, with Miss Supa-dupa Fly, Missy Elliot, rapping over Gina Thompson’s slammin’ joint, ‘The Things You Do’.”

That familiar rock-the-bells ring, along with the bass-beat and groove of music moved the party crowd of 50-something into a somewhat delirious joy and dance celebration of the life and times of Ms. Brandi Rose. Debbie was even showing signs of a sweet and sour delight. A good thing, and a relief to everyone who gathered today at the Rose home. Only hours earlier, even before the final trumpets of traditional black spirits ended the funeral, Debbie was uncontrollably shaken. All of her mom’s best friends, her co-workers and colleagues gathered in her honor, in their Sunday best, smelling good, looking good, with hair in place and shoes sparkling; the send-off was the ultimate killjoy. Everyone was there at the end, but in the end, that wouldn’t bring Mama back!

“Ms. Rose, the homemaker . . . Ms. Rose, the mother . . . Ms. Rose, the model of progress for a community of single black women and children . . .” Her boss, Mr. Felton, showed gratitude through his words and appreciation from his pockets. Ms. Rose was his ace employee, and accordingly, he footed the bill to the end and beyond, paying for all expenses, as well as the celebration after the funeral and more.

Mr. Felton went on to say, “Ms. Rose was an example that a single mother can achieve greatness . . . she can accomplish . . . she can make great contributions in life!” The scatter of compassionate eyes were glued on the gentleman’s every word. Everyone was attentive and still. Danni embraced Debbie with a warm, huddled closeness. “. . . I could stand here all day and blurt out overwhelming objectives and descriptions . . . but, in all of my years of living, I’ve learned that life is one big book. The big book is filled with many other books and stories. There are those that are written, others documented by accomplishments, and some are never revealed, but every book or story, whether it was complete or not, is however founded on love. Love is always at the root of the plot, so too is the story of Brandi Rose. In her existence, in her freedoms and in her captivities, each moment was a reality because of, or for the purpose of love.

“. . . When we seem to lose love, or if a loved one leaves us, we will indeed miss the moments, experiences and human interaction. But for sure, we have not lost the intangible, everlasting, ever-growing love that we have felt, are feeling, or will feel in the future. We are filled with love from head to toe, whether we admit it or not. Whether we like it or not! This is the mighty force that motivates our movements and our existence . . .

“. . . Give and receive love in its fullest, most imaginable form and you will never be at a loss for love, no matter what. Life’s book is called love . . . and every story in that book . . . just like the Brandi Rose story, is complete to whatever degree, because her story too was LOVE!”

The eulogy served its purpose, evoking a flutter of glory and praise for the deceased. The heaps of flowers, green ribbons, and the blue sky created a calmness about the ceremony. Most in attendance held a dazed expression, neither sad nor happy, just there, experiencing. A musical interlude, with three violins and an organist, caressed the audience as a young male vocalist emerged in an all-black tuxedo. He was hairless, except for sharp eyebrows and a slick, entertaining mustache. There was sincerity in his brown eyes and a brief glimmer of sun reflecting off of his coffee-brown scalp as he stepped up to a platform at the center of the floral arrangement. The music swelled to a familiar melody and carried the singer into a tailor-made version of the Ojay’s song: Brandy. “Tony G” was introduced, and accordingly, above the open grave, the singer delivered his riveting tenor, and heart-wrenching soprano vocals. He pierced all senses with the tasteful vicissitudes of his range, eventually reaching a crescendo that caused Debbie to scream.

“Our best friend’s gone,
and we’re so all alone!
Oh, how could it be,
they took you away from me,
We real-ly miss you,
Brandi,

We’re so all alone . . .
when are you comin’ back home?”

Tony ripped and rolled his emphasis into the air, blending in with the birds that fluttered nearby. It was all poetic. Eventually, Danni could no longer suppress Debbie’s erratic wails and outbursts. He tried to pull her even closer, but she just continued to let herself feed into hellified moments.

Some time later, the worst had passed for Debbie, who was now teaching Detective Wade the Electric Slide to the old school mix of Rock, Skate, Roll Bounce, Must Be The Music and I Want To Thank You. When everyone seemed exhausted, the deejay caused the record to lose speed until it stopped. Then she changed the mood with the mellow rhythm of Luther’s Don’t You Know That? By any means possible, Mrs. Rose’s passing was accepted as a celebration.

By the end of the occasion, Debbie huddled with Wade and Danni to prepare and psych herself for the forthcoming announcement. When the music was cued to stop, Debbie took a deep breath to announce that she’d be leaving Chicago. Probably for good.

“There’s an opportunity for me in New York, and my two friends here will be helping me to get along and build my new life.” Wade snuck a conspirator’s glance at Danni. Debbie was simultaneously sharing the attention with the two. At the same time, Wade was feeling a little guilty, knowing that there was little that he’d do for her new life. He also needed her assistance for some unfinished business, so it was more than convenient to have her back in New York.

Debbie went on to say, “I’ll be donating this house and the equity that my mom had built here to the new Block Watch Organization that Mr. Felton has started in my mother’s name. He’s gonna convert the house into their headquarters. They plan to name the house the Rose Center after they reclaim the community . . . There will be a day-care center for children and resources for the elderly . . .” A tremendous applause erupted after Debbie’s announcement. It fulfilled her beyond words. Her mom’s boss, Mr. Felton, and the block watch director shook hands. Danni and Wade gave each other a buddy hug.

Halfway back to New York, Wade recalled the week and a half of events. It wasn’t difficult for him to focus on his objectives since, for one reason or another, he’d been to many funerals in New York. He realized that everyone would eventually experience that one particular funeral which would tip the boat. For Debbie . . . for sure, this was that funeral. For Wade, that one particular funeral had been many years ago with Renee. He didn’t even get to see the body because it was a closed casket ceremony. Renee was too damaged by the car accident. Sometimes Wade felt a little guilty that his emotions were absent from events like funerals and death. He was callous. The Rose funeral also reminded him of his friend, Detective Baxtor. A casualty of New York violence. And there were so many more.

That thought sent a quick surge through Wade, telling him that there was business at hand. And while the three waited at O’Hare for their midnight flight to New York, Debbie shared the rest of her experiences at the time of Moet’s murder. As it turned out, the assailant that hired the girls to dance privately was the same burly man who attacked Moet when Ken dropped her home; and that was even the same man whom Ken Stevens described to Wade and Sean the police artist. Moet apparently didn’t realize who he was. When she did, it was too late. She was handcuffed to the bedposts, practically naked and definitely helpless. In police terms, Wade could see past the dramatics. The two had been kidnapped. Wade had learned to weave through Debbie’s emotional tangents, just as he had for Ken’s talkative tangents, redirecting him from wavering. According to Debbie, she tried to contact Moet after the engagement. No answer. She eventually felt like she was abandoned, so she returned to Chicago.

If Wade could verify all of Debbie’s story (and he expected to), then the FBI would need to be contacted. They most likely arrested the wrong person, because as Wade had come to find out, there was too much evidence popping up, indicating this white man as the culprit. A culprit that Wade wanted to find bad. Bad enough to solve this case.

As the airplane from Chicago descended into the New York City skyline, Wade looked across the aisle at Debbie. She was sleeping, purring against Danni’s shoulder. Danni caught Wade’s concern and returned an expression which shrugged back about the circumstances. Wade knew that he should inform Debbie about the dangers of returning to New York. Danni also knew that same naked truth. But both agreed that the time and place would have to be right. She’d already been through so much. After a few days of relaxation, Debbie would have to begin work. She’d be looking through mug shots, working with the police sketch artist, and perhaps she’d have to dance again at her former hot spot. In order to fish out the suspect, Debbie was the most appropriate candidate as a decoy at Fool’s Paradise.