CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Southern Discomfort

Daylight savings time. Fall back. Wade made the best of the extra hour. Lying in bed with eyes open, recounting the events of the short trip. The front door of his apartment was unlocked, and he could feel the slight change in the climate as the door swung open. The echo from the hallway told him that his sister was bringing back his mutts. How inconvenient could she be, just when he was beginning to wiggle his toes against the soft white sheets. The first conscious moments of his deep sleep. Wade could hear his mutts racing through the apartment to greet their master. Bones was no doubt straggling behind, sluggish and lazy. Bells and Whistle pushed through the bedroom door and buried Wade with their slick, slimy homecoming. Nancy peeked in the bedroom after them, satisfied that things were back to normal. She didn’t mind dog-sitting, but not longer than absolutely necessary. And a week and a half was too fucking long. She felt like she deserved a vacation, offering her big brother a shameless smile and then escaping back out of the front door, back across the hall to her own apartment.

After a brief hello, Wade brushed them off of his bed and headed to the bathroom for the usual hygiene. While he attended to other odds and ends, he reached for the cordless phone to affirm his return to duty with Chief Washington. Chief informed Wade that the FBI had returned to the precinct looking for additional details. Washington admitted that he assumed them to be pulling at straws. And then Wade commenced to share a few new revelations with his boss. Nothing like teamwork.

“I don’t know what you mean. You’d better check your directory for the right extension, Mrs. Cantalk.” Wade’s receiver went dead midway into his discussion. The Chief heard as much as he could, until the two agents coincidentally stepped into his office. Whew. Quick thinking.

“Chief, how are you today? Listen, we’re awfully sorry to bother you again. But we really would like to see Detective Wade.”

“Well . . . uh . . . last I knew he was away in Chicago. On leave. I don’t have any contact numbers.”

“Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“Should be soon . . . I’ll make sure to let you know.” There was a pause. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

The chief was a little more condescending, looking out for his detective and also protecting the new information. Agents Walsh and Hammer left the office in quite a huff. Disgrunted by the little they had to work with and perhaps a lack of all the facts. They resorted to making their rounds. A couple hours at Fool’s Paradise. Some hangouts of Tony the Crow. A spin through the FBI’s New Rochelle branch, and then lunch at Subway for a couple of meatball subs.

“Alright, Hammer . . . let’s go over our stuff.”

“We’ve got a message on the answering machine. That’s motive. We’ve got Junior at the scene of the crime. He was inside the club that evening. I know nobody has placed him next to the victim, but many have seen him nonetheless . . .”

“Why the lack of confidence on your face?” Walsh asked.

“What if the defense brings in support to say he never left the club?” Hammer played devil’s advocate.

“They won’t hold up in court. If they do, we’ll drag their wives in . . . subpoena them as character witnesses.” Hammer seemed to accept Walsh’s plan. “Besides that, we can get some dancers into court . . . a few with past criminal records. Then we’ll have them confirm Douglass Gilmore’s dislike for Moet. At least one has seen them argue. Then of course, we have his own criminal history.”

“You mean the copyright infringement?”

“Yeah. He got a year probation for that. But it still shows past criminal history. Now . . . what about fingerprints?”

“Yes! Of course. I forgot about that. Fingerprints at the Butler home. There were a lot of different fingerprints picked up there, but who’s counting?” Hammer smiled again before he buried his teeth into the wedge. “And we can tie in Tony the Crow and the Bianco family—”

Hammer tried to swallow and speak too.

“—by his various visits to the club. We’ve got photos . . . there’s organized crime here for sure.”

“As soon as we get to the courtroom, Junior will flip his plea. I’m sure of it. See . . . if all of the defendants that we’ve arrested throughout the years only knew what little evidence we had on them, the prisons would be almost empty today. Throw words around like ‘life in prison’ and they’re scared shitless. We’ve got ’em by the balls. Remember Johnson, Brown and Robinson, uh . . . and Billings? All those guys copped out. Even Gilmore copped out on the copyright misdemeanor when he was younger. I hear he could have walked away from that scott-free. This is a fearsome machine we’re a part of, partner. One that makes these heartless fools croak time after time.” The two finished their meals and headed out of the entrance. North Avenue was busy with traffic in both directions. Hammer’s head jerked right.

“Hey, Walsh . . . look there.” Hammer pointed to an unmarked squad car, just passing them, and headed east on North Avenue. There were three people in the vehicle, and Hammer was sure that Detective Wade was driving. The vehicle was moving too fast to recognize the others, but still, the agents moved on the hunch, bolting to their Caprice across the street. With the siren and emergency light on, they backed out a few feet and recklessly swung into a wide U-turn. Walsh had no regard for oncoming traffic that was instantly thrown into a jam. Weaving through other cars, at an above-the-law speed, they charged down the median and eastbound on North until they could keep Wade within a 100-foot distance. They trailed by three car lengths and continued on for about four miles.

Team Gilmore

Debbie and Danni were with Wade, in his unmarked squad car, headed straight for the Gilmore home. A meeting had been arranged between various Gilmore supporters, friends, girlfriends and his television production crew. The car moved easily onto the oval driveway and found a place to park amongst 5 other cars already situated. The three stepped into the entrance, through the foyer, and were greeted by all in attendance. Demetrius was the closest, with his pectorals slightly bulging, pressing though a black, silk kimono and its oriental embroidery that marked the breast pocket in red and white. He shook hands with Wade, returned Danni’s shotokan greeting, and then welcomed Debbie back to New York with a quaint peck on the cheek.

The SuperStar home office was busy with familiarity and purpose. Valerie was there, elegant as could be in a mudcloth V-neck sweater and a headwrap of olive, black and orange tribal colors. Mechelle had returned from Georgia after the cremation of her husband. Her multi-colored pullover was oversized, lying gently against her growing belly. Her hair was twisted into large cornrows, pulling back into a wild bush of curls. Everyone could sense that she’d been through a lot. Valerie knew about Mechelle, the baby, and the problems she had with Douglass. But despite the issues, she remained cordial, sincere and loving. With not a care in the world, Valerie played co-host as well, mingling in the semi-circle with Demetrius and Dino. Dino was a good friend of Douglass’s. He was originally a customer, but eventually, he became an employee and a trustworthy bouncer who didn’t feed into antisocial behavior amongst some of the staff. Douglass recognized his genuine efforts and the two soon became best of friends. Dino would escort Douglass to various celebrity functions with that just-in-case attitude.

Naturally, Dino and Demetrius also became close friends. They also knew and associated with just about everyone else at the gathering. There was SuperStar staff, like Darryl, who handled much of the camera-work for the TV show. And Greg, who was that college-educated publicist and writer for the SuperStar magazine. He also served as a commentator for the TV show. And Lou was also present with his stellar personality and shining attitude. He generally hosted celebrity events and he also emceed many of the live events which the Super-Star firm sponsored. Beyond those tasks, Lou also contributed columns, and performed public relations for the magazine.

All 8 supporters (including Detective Wade) occupied themselves in various discussions about Moet’s murder. They paired off in conversations about Douglass’s jail-house situation and the slow court proceedings. Nobody spoke about the bail, as it was beyond the imaginations of all in attendance.

Eavesdropping

“Can I have your attention, everyone?” Demetrius was casual and sincere. Some took seats on the couch. Dino sat in an executive chair behind the only desk in the room, while others stood or perched themselves against a bookcase or the door jam. Everyone was attentive and concerned.

“First I’d like to thank you all for taking time out from your schedules to come here today. You should all know one another by now and why we’re here today . . . our friend, my friend and colleague, Douglass, has been in jail for the past seven months for something he didn’t do. There are a few people here that know more about the case than I do, and they’ll be speaking out momentarily. But, before Detective Wade speaks to you, I wanna say this. Douglass is not only my friend and yours, but he’s also given himself . . . more than what ten people might give. I’ll put myself out there right now by saying that everyone, except for our two guests, has been at the receiving end of Douglass’s generous actions. He’s the most productive person I’ve ever met. In the past ten years he’s been the promoter, the TV producer, night club developer, and an all-around entrepreneur that each of us has looked up to. Let us all reciprocate that love and consideration which he’s shown us selflessly . . . Detective Wade? You’d like to say something?”

“Well, I’ve met most of you already, during my investigation of this case. And I have to admit that as of recently, I was misled. However, you should know that it wasn’t ever my intention to arrest Douglass. I didn’t have all the facts; and more than that, the case was taken out of my hands. The FBI’s organized crime task force—from Jersey, mind you—is behind the steering wheel, and they’re driving backwards. I don’t have any say-so in the matter, but I would like to solve this case myself and bring Moet’s killer to justice . . .” Wade grinded his teeth and with sleeves folded up, went on to describe his plan on how the group could compel the New Jersey authorities and certain political powers to release Douglass from jail. They would use the press, television and even picketing to spread the word: “FREE GILMORE!” The theme was a bold and worthy plea. And once the story leaked, the interest and concern from the general public would surely generate a positive reaction.

A parabolic mic is a device that law enforcement agents use to listen in on conversations which occur inside dwellings of up to 100 feet or more away. Walsh and Hammer kept one in the trunk of their vehicle for a rainy day. It even collected a little dust.

Today, after following Wade’s vehicle down North Avenue, Hammer pulled the black metal case from the trunk and carried it into the woods, behind an embankment that was directly across from the Gilmore home. He began to erect it as quickly as possible while Walsh stood over him with a pair of binoculars. The two looked like a pair of toy soldiers. One spread-eagled on the grass; the other looking over him like a scout. Hammer was fumbling with the mini satellite dish, trying to adjust it to a precise degree of focus on the big house. He plugged in two sets of earphones and began to listen attentively while adjusting the volume and frequency of the device. The battery pack was low, but at the moment, the agents could hear a guy named Greg speaking to the group. He was both angry and passionate about the events, voicing his aggressions to all. Hammer began to hear parts of the transmission as it popped in and out.

“We’re gonna make this happen. Before this is over everything is gonna flip our way. The only captives will be the judge, the D.A. and the FBI. They will be forced to play our game. We’re gonna squeeze and squeeze until we get blood from them . . .” Greg was convincing. He was passionate. And the words brought a fresh sweat to Hammer’s brow. Again, the reception fizzled out, provoking a sizzling noise in the agent’s ears. Detective Wade readdressed the group effort, confirming assignments and the overall plan of action.

“We’re back up!” Hammer was loud and excited about getting the mic working again. Relieved, Walsh was glad he didn’t have to try and read lips through the windows of the house anymore.

“. . . Ladies, you know what you have to do. Dino, Demetrius and Danni, you will be the eyes at the back of my head. I’ll have to be ready to take him out. We’ve already got two down. If there has to be a third, so be it. But nobody else has to die here. Do we have an understanding?”

“Wade is the shooter?” Hammer’s eyes grew by 10 percent. Walsh was jolted by his partner’s high pitch and heavy volume. “Wade’s the shooter! No wonder we can’t get anywhere with this case. He’s probably been holding out because he’s involved!” Hammer was so excited by his revelation, he almost bit his tongue.

“Calm down, Hammer, I’m trying to hear what they’re saying. Shhh!” Walsh emphasized with the sound effect.

Greg was speaking again. But the device also popped out again.

“Let’s reach out to our friends in the press and television. I know . . . over at . . . and I could . . .” Wade was shook by Brenda’s name coming from another man’s lips. Walsh couldn’t explain the expression on Wade’s face and he didn’t hear much of Greg’s statement.

“Let me handle Brenda. Please,” Wade interrupted. The device popped back on, following a sizzle and a fuzzy sound. Greg nodded. Walsh was becoming restless, not clear about all of the dialogue. He wasn’t that good at reading lips.

“Keep the dish focused on the window. The windows! That’s why we’re not hearing everything. You keep moving that thing . . . keep it still.” Walsh blew his commands like he fired a gun.

“When all of our people are in place we’ll drop the bomb on these fools! They won’t know who hit ’em.” Greg was strong and vocal with his convictions. Walsh swallowed real hard. Hammer shifted his head and eyes into Walsh’s direction and they both exchanged expressions of concern. The two agents knew for certain that they’d walked into a room full of dynamite. When it would explode, they didn’t know. But they were confident that they’d be there to witness it. Hammer, ready with his long-lensed camera, snapped photos of those leaving the meeting. License plates of the various vehicles were recorded. The entire investigation seemed to take a leap to another level.

On the way back to the New Rochelle branch the two discussed their request for a bigger bud get for the case, how they would substantiate the funding, and the new information to be figured into the equation. More agents, better equipment, wiretaps, transmitters, and especially (the one thing they needed most) more time was all a part of the request which they contemplated.

It’s On!

Wade and Danni agreed that they would stick to Debbie like a respirator. If one had to leave her then the other would pick up the slack. On the day of the strategy meeting, both men escorted Debbie to the 45^th precinct. Sean was waiting in the detectives’ division for the trio.

“Hey, Walter,” he said, raising up from where he sat on the edge of Wade’s desk.

“Hi, Sean. This is Danni. Debbie, meet Sean.” Debbie was humble, while Danni was a little edgy about being behind the closed doors at a police station.

“Sean, we’re gonna chat with Debbie for a few moments. If you’ll excuse us, we’ll come down to your studio as soon as we’re done.” Sean made his way through the door. Both men seemed to clear their throats in preparation for the inevitable.

“Debbie, do you remember David? A customer at Fool’s Paradise?”

“Sure. He helped me get a job at the club when I just came to New York. We met on the Internet.”

“Debbie, David is dead. Shot once in the face . . .” Wade paused for a reaction. Debbie exhaled what little air she had in her lungs. Not as disturbed as Wade anticipated. “. . . but there’s more that you should know. We think it might be more than a coincidence that Moet and David are dead. Did you know a guy named Bobby?”

“I can’t remember,” Debbie answered after a few seconds of thought. “That might be someone Moet was dealing with.”

“That’s right, Debbie . . . and he’s dead, too. Someone rigged his vehicle and he crashed. It seems that these bodies are turning up as people that either you or Moet knew. There could be some psycho-secret admirer out there who’s been killing people associated with the club in some way.”

“But I don’t know this guy Bobby, and I never . . . I mean David and I never . . . well, you know, fucked. We spent some time together, but never in bed.”

“That’s not so much the issue, Debbie. The killer could think you’ve been with David. He could even want you for himself. We don’t really know what makes these fools tick. We just know that they do exist. They’re excessive and extreme. There’s no tellin’ how or who they’ll strike next.” Wade made enough of an impact on Debbie to keep her undivided attention.

“Sean is downstairs with an artist’s rendition of the suspect. We need you to come down and add your opinion. We’ll also need you to look through some books . . . mug shots, we call them . . . to try and identify the man who kidnapped you and Moet. This could be a long day.” Wade was direct. No nonsense.

“That’s . . . that’s okay. I wanna help catch this guy. Moet wouldn’t hurt anybody. And I’m sick and tired of seeing people die, only so that killers can get away with murder.”

Debbie followed Wade and Danni shadowed her. They stepped intentionally through the squad room, down a wing of the building. In the rear, Sean’s office was filled with technology. Computers. Monitors. Scanners and an overhead projector. There was a large drafting board with lamps stretched up and across the work area. Sean was seated at his desk where a 21-inch flatscreen was anchored and supported by an iron swivel arm. Wade and Danni stood behind him and Debbie took a seat next to Sean. On one half of the screen was the virtual image changing with different hairstyles, eyeglasses, mustaches, and hats. The artist’s rendition on the left had all the features of the suspect, except she remembered lighter hair. She remembered shades . . . the Terminator look, she told them. Sean took Debbie’s directives and made the adjustments. Debbie described the man’s eyes as squinted, with a lot of white in them, and a grey spiral around the pupils. And thinner lips, she said. Sean maneuvered his mouse while a tiny pointer skated across the monitor, back and forth, to and from various electronic tools as the virtual image on the right went through an instant metamorphosis.

“That’s him!” Debbie blurted abruptly. Then a chill slipped through her when she thought of her friend Moet. Sean pressed his thumb into the ALT button on his keyboard and simultaneously, he smacked the “p” key with the pinky of the same hand. He pushed himself backwards obediently, and he immediately swiveled around in the same motion until he was precisely in front of his HP color laser printer. It was already producing and spitting out the suspect’s likeness. Sean waited a few seconds for the copy, snatched it up and swiveled back around to hand it to Wade.

“Make three more of these, Sean. Give one to the chief, too.”

“You got it.”

“Debbie . . . Danni, join me in the next room.”

The three stepped through a doorway. Wade flicked a light switch, and the place lit up like an operating room. There was a conference table in the center of the floor with a series of chairs positioned at its perimeter. Danni was gentlemanly, pulling a seat for Debbie, while the detective went to a cabinet with mugshot books stacked throughout. For the next 2 hours, Debbie, Wade and Danni reviewed photos of known offenders. They canvassed the books for every white face they could find.

“Fred Gordon here.”

“Fred! Hi, this is Lou, from SuperStar TV . . .” After a brief conversation with the renowned magnate of Black News and Affairs, Lou arranged to meet for lunch in Manhattan. They discussed the case against Douglass and the facts relating to Moet’s murder. Fred was inspired by the opportunity to break the story first. He enjoyed controversy and took such dives at every possible turn. Admired by millions for his tact and aggressive, investigative approach with the president, with ambassadors from around the world, and even during his exclusive with O.J., Fred’s talent upstaged the heaviest of the heavyweights. Nowadays, his face was syndicated nightly in every state throughout the nation, known for the integrity that he brought to every story. Lou and Fred hardly touched their food through the first hour of their meeting. The waiter had to re-heat what they ordered, and they didn’t mind; it gave them more time to discuss old times and their school days at the Center for Media Arts. In total agreement, Lou and Fred shook hands as though they’d completed a world-renowned Peace Accord. They parted company; Fred strutting towards his newfound mission at National Broadcast News, while Lou was only beginning to address his long list of friends. Next person to see was Oscar Sutton, president of the Black Syndicated Radio Networks on Park Avenue. It sure paid to know friends in high places.

While Lou continued to work magic with his old friends, Greg contacted his fraternity brothers and informed them of the dilemma in New York. Georgetown University may have been a distance from the big city, but the school produced an ocean of accomplished black journalists who were scattered all over the nation. Greg made it a practice to maintain contact with his 4 closest classmates. The Fabulous Five was their acclaimed title. They were campus celebrities, known for their witty investigative techniques, exposing facts and injustices on campus and off, forcing the most important issues to the forefront of administrative and political agendas. Aside from their tight skills, they were committed to one another. When a distress call went out, no questions were asked. Roll call. A week after Greg contacted his frat brothers, The Fabulous Five were together again, huddled in a suite at the Grand Hyatt Hotel on 42^nd Street in Gotham.

The journalist superstars had a surefire formula to follow, one that Professor Hopkins taught them well. “Treat every story as if it were your first and your last,” he would say. “Someone’s life depends upon the impact of your words . . .” He also warned them to “use every means necessary, the news services, colleagues and foes, publishers and editors . . . mailroom clerks. Make yourself the longest list possible of avenues to expose your story and then double that effort. Leave no stone unturned.”

Four years after their graduation, Jamal, Andrew, Reginald and Rick created a bi-coastal network of media saturation. Along with Greg, the group had columns, cover stories, editorials, content and consulting positions at major regional magazines, newspapers and websites in most major cities. When there was an issue that affected or infected the black community, these brothers joined forces to cause a unified consciousness throughout the country. The NAACP, CENTER FOR HUMAN RIGHTS, AMNESTY INTERNATIONAL, ACLU, and at least a handful of other organizations all kept a focus on the themes and issues that The Fabulous Five brought to the plate. If they were talking about it, it had to be important. And as they masterminded their latest strategy in the generous hotel room, dressed in sharp post-collegiate and corporate wear, the issues related to the “FREE GILMORE!” campaign were printed on yellow legal tablets and spread out on top of the queensized bed. The room was a bolt of lightning energy; a blur of suspenders, bowties and spectacles, and an extemporaneous collaboration of ideas, suggestions and opinions. It was almost time for action.

It was Brenda who suggested Manhattan Proper as the location where Wade, Debbie and Danni would join her. Some Tuesday night comedy to loosen things up; perhaps the raw, black humor would settle the sensitive nature of their planned discussion. Maybe the climate would even alleviate some stress from a long day’s work.

After the show, close to midnight, Brenda guided the quartet for a 5-minute drive to the USA Diner on Merrick Boulevard. They warmed themselves with coffee and cocoa, and Debbie and Wade shared a chunky slice of strawberry shortcake.

This was all Brenda’s idea: the meeting, the comedy and the dinner. Sure, Wade made the phone call . . . he needed her anyhow. But it was all on Brenda’s terms. She was in a position to state demands, especially now that she knew what she knew. The justice, the rush to judgment, the misconceptions . . . and now the FREE GILMORE! campaign. Ohhh, shit! She almost blew her top. This was her story first. Her angle and her leads. How could this leak out without her involvement?

And all after she did her goddamned slave hours!

When Wade agreed to the meeting, Brenda felt better, but still unsatisfied. She needed to push herself back up front on this one. That might help to relieve her of some of that used feeling she was carrying around.

At the diner, far and away from Manhattan Proper’s hysterical entertainment, Wade reintroduced Danni and Debbie, explaining how they came to meet. The information shared at the diner was actually confidential police business, but Brenda pressed Wade so well—as if she was his wife or something—that he was feeling behooved and beside himself with obedience. Besides, his intentions now (even if he was still an officer of the law) were somewhat personal. He had to admit to himself that he was sinking his teeth deep into this case. It had become an investment of time and energy that he intended to see through to completion. And he had close to 10 deputies at last count!

Wade knew that Brenda had some close interest in this investigation. He also recognized her position, talent, and resources to be limitless in value. So a 6-pack of apologies and a half dozen new responsibilities lured Brenda in. Now there were 11 deputies. But, by the time the 3 finished shooting off various elements of the story to Brenda, her body was whizzing with adrenaline. She was feeling like her favorite childhood characters: a sort of Nancy Drew concealed inside of Foxy Brown’s body. Brenda added what she heard to what she learned from Ken Stevens and, BOOM. She indeed had just as much, if not more of the story than the FBI. After all, the FBI . . . or even Wade hadn’t read into Ken’s journal as she had. The slave hours were starting to pay off.

Dancers Unite!

Fool’s Paradise could always boast about “100 Dancers!” The club could brag about being “The Leader in Adult Entertainment!” And tell your friends all about “The biggest celebrities from sports, music and film!” But the arrest and confinement of Douglass posed the most significant challenge to the industry leader. It was proof that all the money and success in the world could not buy a person’s immunity. The reality is, if some local, state or federal authority wants to, they can swoop into an empire, take what they please, and make up their reasons later, after the damage has been done.

The injustice and charges with which brought all of these problems called for a response. It all called for a pool of political strength and the outcry of the people. The team behind FREE GILMORE! hatched the plan; and sure, they knew that there might be an uphill battle because of the stigma of topless dancers and adult entertainment as the backdrop to their dilemma. But, this was the world of the patriarch, in an age where sex and pornography ruled; shock-jock Howard Stern on the radio and television, coercing women (only) to strip and show their entire bodies; the biggest A-List actors, Tom Cruise and his wife (at the time), Nicole Kidman, starred in their own virtual butt-naked sex film, while A-List actress Halle Berry won her Oscar by also giving a good on-camera fuck; and then those mostly naked billboards standing 100 feet high on Times Square—how could anyone miss being brainwashed by it all? Anything but would be a state of denial!

But even if the circumstances surrounding Gilmore’s tragedy called for a movement of conscious brothers and sisters, of political and community leaders to speak out against the agents and agencies behind it all; even if those who might otherwise come out in support were kept in the shadow due to the moral dilemma of issues in the so-called socially unpopular, politically-perilous world of sex, obscenity and adult entertainment ordinances, there were still others to turn to for help. It became evident that “Team Gilmore” had to recruit their own vigilantes and advocates, no matter who.

“That motherfucker ain’t never done nothin’ for me. Let ’em rot, for all I care!” Claudine, the forerunner of belligerence and deceit, was a cancerous element amongst a number of dancers who were no-shows. Some others had excuses like school and not having a babysitter. But Dino and Demetrius kept on pushing. They were able to convince more than 50 dancers to go along with their plan. Valerie rounded up 17 more herself. Most of all the top-shelf dancers were up for the challenge, as though they were intelligent enough to understand the depth of the dilemma and that Douglass was partially responsible for their bread and butter. Not that some of the girls weren’t brilliant. Just that a few of them were naïve and only went along because of a friend.

Dino rented a schoolbus, and on a chilly Monday morning, everyone loaded up in front of the club. There were close to 70 dancers in all, including Valerie, Debbie and Mechelle. Mechellee was 7 months pregnant now, and more than ashamed of having left—either that, or it was just damned convenient to be amongst friends.

There were also 5 staff members who boarded the bus. Demetrius acted as chief of security and Dino drove. A boom box kept things lively with a DJ Envy mix tape, and Greg addressed the group with instructions and predictions for the occasion. Meanwhile, the bus was a blur of fur coats, leather outfits, calf-high boots and perfume. Valerie acted as resident waitress, passing out cups of hot coffee and crumpets from Dunkin’ Donuts. Dino and Demetrius chatted about the best directions to Passaic County Jail, as the bus continued on its pilgrimage to FREE GILMORE!

In New Jersey, a block away from the jail, Dino paid a gas station attendant twenty bucks to create a parking space on his property as the dancers engaged in their last-minute preparations; pushing up their vinyl halter tops or adjusting their skin-tight pants. One girl might be pulling her hair back into a purposeful ponytail, while another was adjusting a wig. Someone else was retouching her makeup. Finally, one by one, dark and light shades of brown-skinned women descended the steps of the big yellow school bus. The women were voluptuous, colorful and wide awake. They carried big signs and banners that proclaimed “FREE GILMORE!” “JERSEY INJUSTICE LIVES!” “LONG LIVE SLAVERY!” “PASSAIC’S TOBACCO GAS CHAMBER!” “MANDATORY SMOKING-OPTIONAL JUSTICE!” “FALSE IMPRISONMENT + FALSE ARREST = TRUE CRIME!” The banners and signs said it all, while being held and waved by a casting call for the world’s biggest outdoor strip show.

An audience was inevitable. But instead of the area being bombarded by a stream of exotic entertainment, onlookers were surprised by revolt and protest towards law enforcement, the judicial system and the torture inside the jail. Never was a picket line so attractive! So alluring! Such a contradiction! Darryl had his video camera rolling, as he maneuvered to obtain exclusive footage for the special broadcast he was arranging with some local news stations back in New York. He was plotting to reach 8 million homes with the story.

All the while, the dancers kept with the plan and followed instructions, walking in line formation, stepping to the leadership of Cinnamon. She initiated the vocal rap.

“Let Douglass Gilmore Go—
He Didn’t Murder, No!
You Had No Right To Take Our Man
You’d Better Let ’Em Go!”

Even the gas station attendant was unfocused, following the dancers with his eyes, and already pumping $18.00 worth of unleaded fuel for a $5 purchase.

By the time the curvaceous cavalry of calves assembled in front of the Passaic County Jail, the area was raining with bystanders. It was still a bit chilly, but the dancers kept warm with loud chants and a determined march in an endless, elongated oval. Darryl weaved through the onlookers to catch their expressions on camera, and also captured the excitement of uniformed corrections officers who stood outside of the jail’s entrance. Within an hour, the bright light of the sun created brilliant setting for the live UPN9 news broadcast that reached an estimated 12 million homes. Reporters appeared one after another, from talk radio and newspapers—all part of Greg’s plan. His four Georgetown buddies were also present with pads in hand, following the marchers and recording statements. They helped to turn up the volume on the event, pulling cellphones out at various opportunities, pretending as if they were doing some instant reporting to a higher authority. During the next hour, vans showed up from 2 New York networks (another 15 million homes that would be exposed to the conflict). Eventually, the street was closed off and Danni couldn’t help but to enjoy the chemistry of it all. And now, one idea was not only affecting the hundreds of people who congregated in the streets, but also tens of millions of viewers, readers and listeners who might be at work or home.

One of the dancers pumped the volume on the boom box, and Jay-Z’s “Hard Knock Life” banged through the speakers, boosting the energy of the march. Dozens of voices were now screeching with the hook in the jam, lil-orphan-Annie-style, bopping along with signs floating up and down in the air. They all shouted in chorus:

“. . . I flow for chicks wishin’
they din’ have to strip to pay tuition,
I see yo’ vision, Mama!”

Police presence increased, but the demonstration continued for an hour or so until 1PM. The movement was noisy enough to affect the morning rush hour and the afternoon lunch hour. Mission accomplished.

When the bus returned to New York, Greg had a buffet waiting at Fool’s Paradise for the troops. In addition to the food, there were pads of differing stationary and pens ready for a post-picket letter writing campaign. In the rear of the club, while the enterprise continued to bustle with music and exposed tah-tahs, Greg addressed the ladies once again.

“Thank you once again for your time and energy today. There’s one more quick task I need to ask of you. In your own words, write a Dear Judge letter. Let the judge know your association to Douglass Gilmore, what you know about him and even Moet. If you know more, then write more. If not, speak with my colleagues standing here in blazers and ties—the reporters who approached you in New Jersey . . .”

A few chuckles erupted.

“If you’re angry about what’s going on, then spill your guts. The only way this issue will become really big is if we make it so.” After a few questions and answers, and a full plate of food, the dancers got kicking. They jotted down their feelings, concerns about Douglass, the conditions at the jail, and they questioned why the case was dragging on for so long. The efforts in the rear of the club drew more and more attraction from the crowd of regular customers. Many of them even totally ignored the action on stage until there was no more stage show. Soon, everyone in the club, including customers and staff, became engrossed in the letter writing. For some dancers, it was back to English 101, as in some cases customers leaned over and assisted them with spelling and syntax. For others, it was a frenzy, having not written a letter in months or years.

Gil was busy himself, in the office with the door locked and Claudine‘s head bobbing up and down between his legs.

A Firm Go

Brenda was quite bold, inspired by desperation. It was more than a month since her last episode with Ken; or for that matter, with anyone. She felt that she had put a “down payment” on a relationship and that she “invested” quality time. She expected something more out of it, if even an explanation as to why Ken hadn’t returned her calls. There were 2 returned phone calls from Ken to Brenda’s 10 messages. Both of his calls (and she was certain that he calculated the timing) came when she was on the air.

To keep her mind off of Ken (if that was possible), Brenda practically found things to do at her place; and if not that, she watched news footage of the various baseball games that Ken pitched in—videos that she got from the sports desk at work. Nonetheless, she still anticipated their next tryst. And one more thing on her mind:

I still owe him one more slave hour.

Inevitably, the distance encouraged the naughtiness in her; a good enough excuse for her to act on her instincts. She grew balls since being with Ken Stevens—enough to find herself across the street from his building in the Village. It was just another night for her. The broadcast was the usual scatter of grief and theory for awestruck viewers to absorb appreciatively or apprehensively. Either way, Brenda knew, they had to eat it up regardless.

Brenda sat quietly in her platinum Lex, munching on golden honey apple chips, watching vehicles cruise into and up out of the garage in Ken’s building. It was nearing midnight. She subconsciously timed the raising and lowering of the garage door, suddenly wondering if her idea would work.

Brenda poked at her cell phone, expecting again to hear Ken’s answering machine. When his voice sounded in that same ole digital tone she hung up and waited for the right time to strike. When the opportunity afforded itself, Brenda followed another car down into the garage—using that access as her own. It was something Brenda recalled Ken doing when he had first brought her home. And now, those minor details were making things so much easier. Those little tidbits of information were turning this into somewhat of an adventure, and so far her plan was working smoothly. She peeled off from behind the leading vehicle into the direction of Ken’s parking space. The idea was to be impulsive; to surprise him as he had her the morning she read his journal. And the further she moved along, the more confident she grew about her plan.

Okay, so maybe she did see something like this before, an idea she ripped off from the movie Boomerang (with Eddie Murphy and Robin Givens), when she surprised him with that sexy teddy under her overcoat. Brenda smiled, knowing that Robin’s character had nothing on the baseball outfit that Brenda had in store; how she aimed to shed every thread of clothing she had on, and to surprise Ken when he came home. She hoped he would be returning soon, but as she made the bend and looked for his parking space, his black Navigator was already parked. The engine was cold.

Funny, she thought. I just called him less than a half an hour ago. Brenda pouted, and in her own deep thought, she contemplated some alternatives.

Again with the impulsive behavior, and remembering the dynamics that were required to operate the elevator, Brenda waited a few more moments for the resident to lift up and away before she stepped up to press the button herself. The car eventually returned to the basement and Brenda executed the actions of her “master,” Ken. Up she went, deeper than ever into her surprise attack, expecting to blow Ken’s mind. Even before the elevator reached the second and third levels, Brenda took the leap of faith and began to shed her clothes. She began with her top, then she stepped out of her slacks. By the fourth and fifth floors she deliberated about her bra and panties, asking herself if Ken was worthy. Thoughts of his celebrity, fame and fortune encouraged her further and before the elevator finally stopped she squinted, concentrating on how far she and Ken had gone and the taboos that she’d turned in his bed. Brenda paused for a few beats, the elevator moving upward with every passing second.

Hell, you’ve already seen everything, she determined. And that’s when she told herself, fuck it. Brenda anticipated Ken’s wide eyes and hungry manhood as she dropped her head, looking down at her naked, proud nipples. Her nostrils flared with heavy anticipation, and she deviled her eyebrows in that fiendish, satisfied expression. Her mind was eventually consumed with a playful mischief, as the car came to a halt at the penthouse. Brenda rolled the tip of her tongue along the surface of her teeth, as though she had her own slam dunk to execute. She carefully pulled the strap, separating the horizontal doors of the elevator. The atmosphere was as dark and cavernous as when she first visited.

He’s sleeping; no need for him to activate the alarm, she reckoned. Then, with the doors still fully opened, and the elevator’s light lending subtle visibility, Brenda gathered her clothes, tossed them to the floor inside the loft, and she gently closed the doors behind her. With the room pitch black again, Brenda sidestepped the welcome mat and used the moon’s glow to guide her to the hallway. There were pin lights along the edges of the carpet, leading towards the back, right side of the loft. There were also pin lights leading up the stairway in the dining room. She climbed cautiously, wanting to take Ken by complete surprise. She wanted to amaze Ken with her own creative spontaneity. But as Brenda rounded the corner to Ken’s fairytale bedroom, she was consumed by the scent of sex, flickering candlelight and a mellow volume of Roy Ayers’ Everybody Loves The Sunshine.

Brenda took a deep breath as she tiptoed closer, with her eyelids fluttering, enough to get caught up in her own amazement. She couldn’t believe her eyes. Ken was voraciously billowing on top of a young, submissive, hairless Latin boy. He couldn’t have been more than 17 or 18 years old at most. And there was Ken, piling into the boy’s asshole as if he was a human jackhammer. The youth was arched over with his face buried into a few pillows, his ass elevated and his reaction muffled.

Umphs and arghs.

Brenda’s reaction on the other hand wasn’t muffled, just stiffed. Her presence was unfelt. The bedroom activity was so intense, so aggressive, that Brenda almost wanted to applaud. For a few seconds of measuring Ken’s audacity, listening to the profanities and watching his smelly, raunchy pummelling, Brenda stood in awkward amusement. She folded her arms. Then she shifted her position, her stance, and switched her hands to rest on her naked hips. She almost became jealous! When Brenda saw how much Ken was perspiring, that took the cake. She busted out laughing, sincerely tickled that Ken was putting in so much effort. Her explosive scorn was, of course, loud enough for Ken to hear. And the action stopped completely. Brenda threw her open fist to her lips too late. Dizzy with the shock of it all, and realizing that she’d been discovered, she went on giggling at the absurdity, then she pivoted and went quickly to retrieve her clothes at the entrance to the loft. Still a little delirious, Brenda wondered aloud, “How did I ever miss this in his journal.”

She descended the stairs and headed for her clothes in a determined stride. She could hear Ken calling out to her, hurrying to catch up to her. Real quickly, she turned to see his bathrobe flying open in the rush. And just as Brenda was crouching down to pick up her clothes, Ken grasped her elbow and spun her around.

“What are you doing here?” Ken was irate. But Brenda was questioning his nerve. The whole revelation was a gas. Ken Stevens the jock. The 64-million dollar man. The slave master. The fucking homo! Brenda was shouting with her mind, and all the while still caught up in sheer disbelief. She observed his slightly glistening limp dick between the folds of the robe that he had hastily tied.

“Ahem!” Brenda drew her head back an inch and looked down, challenging Ken’s hand on her elbow. Ken immediately released her. She went back to collect her clothes, stepping and reaching into them.

“Mr. Stevens. We can talk about this another time. I wouldn’t want to disturb your moment with the batboy. By the way, is that boy of age?” Brenda paused for a moment, then she went back to finish fastening and buttoning. “As a matter of fact, you know what? Never mind. I don’t wanna know . . .”

Now a tear in her eye. Ken just stood there speechless.

“. . . just tell me something . . .” Brenda was now finished with her clothes, just enough time to finally inhale. She gathered her thoughts. “Was our thing . . . was that serious, or were you just using me?” she hissed. Ken began to speak through trembling lips. But again, Brenda cut him off. “And don’t you fuckin’ lie to me!” She had her forefinger in his face.

“I . . . I do . . . care about you.” Ken’s hesitation made her furious. All she needed was a 2-foot reach, and she used that reach to smack him hard across his face. Then, Brenda turned to open the elevator doors. But they didn’t give in her haste. She spun to address Ken with that raised brow.

All she had to say was, “Now!” Brenda contracted the muscles in her face, more frightening than a cobra, willing him to act. Defeated, Ken moved to help her and she left.