CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Behind the Scenes
The first early morning demonstration outside of Passaic County Jail was so effective that the team set it up for a second go at it. The dancers all agreed, even if just for kicks. Naturally, when they became aware of all the publicity and television news coverage, the outfits were embellished just a tad bit. Sequined bras. Glittering, shimmering, bright, skin-tight skirts and plenty of fishnet stockings. Not to mention all of those fabulous hairstyles. Sum it up to the girls all going beyond the call of duty to look their best, as if they were looking for that golden Hollywood opportunity. They certainly fulfilled the objective, attracting a small legion of followers. Even men that worked at the jail and in the vicinity became addicts and voyeurs of the voluptuous demonstrators; establishing conversations, some even taking the 40-minute trip down I-95 to see more of their flesh after work. You had to love it when a plan came together.
Fred Gordon left an indelible impression on his viewers, detailing the issues relating to Douglass’s arrest and the case in general, while blasting the FBI and the U.S. Attorney’s office for mishandling many of the various elements. The young man was in jail for over 7 months without the setting of a trial date, or without the benefit of knowing what evidence he was facing. Hell, those weren’t benefits, but his legal rights as a citizen protected under the U.S. law. Fred also focused on the horrid conditions at the county jail and the stream of incidents that endlessly branded the facility as the worst of the worst. Moreover, Fred kept the intensity with a follow-up story after the dancers demonstrated the second time.
The Fabulous Five filled in the various pockets of regional and national press outfits with stories and subjects that ranged from “THE TRAGIC LIFE OF A DANCER,” to “MURDER WITHOUT A SUSPECT.” Their editorials and columns were strategically placed in all major publications, newspapers and just about every well known black magazine. But not only was the country familiar with the Gilmore case and the FREE GILMORE! campaign, Douglass was suddenly becoming a household name along with his various accomplishments, contributions to the community, and the unusual circumstances that put him in the cleft of purgatory. If there were any negative marks on his life’s blueprint, they were far outweighed by the good he’d spread. Funny how the press can turn anything they wanted into a newsworthy feature.
Brenda Feather quickly defeated her thoughts of feeling used, because now it was all about her J—O—B. After she caught Ken red-handed . . . after she went out of her way to creep up into his loft, lifting the big elevator doors and all . . . trespassing nonetheless . . . just so that she could surprise him with her naked body! She went through all of that only to find him fucking one of the Yankee batboys in the ass!! It was enough to make her scream! She still couldn’t believe it! The motherfucker had her thinking that he was the biggest gigolo, laying that big dick on her like he did . . . and come to find out that he was really nothing more than a downlow brotha! JESUS!
Brenda was both enraged and worried; enraged for all of the obvious reasons; unable to reach him . . . him not returning her calls . . . the whole Mission: Impossible move she pulled to get up into his home unnoticed. Bigger than all of that, all the shit they did together! She surrendered herself to him! She TRUSTED HIM! And now? All she could say was Fuck! FUCK! FUCK FUCK FUCK! She spent almost 24 hours claiming and exclaiming that men were all fucking assholes. But not Ken! No, Ken was a fuckin’ asshole and a flaming, freakin’ faggot! Brenda laughed like a hyena as she stood by her answering machine listening to message after unanswered message. Ken had transformed into a mass of fright. Not only had Ken envoked Brenda’s most vindictive conclusions, but she also possessed a critical key to his closest of secrets. New York’s star pitcher has a gay lover?
“Huh! The relationship with a stripper. All this slave-hour shit. Wow.” Brenda was talking to her inanimate, unthinking, unfeeling answering machine. “It was all a front! But, Jesus, Joseph and Mary, am I ever the last woman that you wanted to piss off! Ohhhh, you were brilliant at first. Had me twisted with guilt and shame. Had me caught up in your utterly large, flamboyant lifestyle. But who’s the man now? Things change!” And now Brenda was determined to break the complete story without aaay-nother waiting moment. She felt that the “license to ill” was now hers to exercise. So what if Ken was with a stripper, a batboy or two hundred other women around the country. And?
“And life goes—the—fuck—on, you BASTARD!” Brenda was verbally hot. And there was no stopping her flames. He’s not gonna lose a penny of that sixty-four mil. A tarnished image? If the public really knew better, they’d find them a new hero.
That very next day, Brenda re-ignited the Ken Stevens engine, with all previous reports blending into part one of her own exclusive 4-part story. Her delivery was greatly anticipated, having been promoted heavily on the network itself, on its affiliate radio stations and in the metro section of the newspaper. After hearing the full story straight from the horse’s mouth, Brenda’s production supervisors gave her the go-ahead on the exclusive, fully supporting her no-limits approach. They knew what to expect from their top anchorwoman—nothing but high-powered resources. Still, most everyone was led to wonder about what it was that Brenda knew different from all else that had been reported. What was her hook?
Ken was rarely pinned to the television like he was that evening of Brenda’s first report. He obviously had a stake in the broadcast . . . a concern for his future. Already nervous from having surrendered all secrets to Brenda, Ken sat at the edge of his bed with the giant screen in vertical position, awaiting her wrath. Ken was already waving his head at instant replay-speed, stuck on the revelation that Brenda’s exclusive was announced as the top story.
Ernie Anastos segued with the introduction and Brenda began to spew her story head-first. Ken could see it in her eyes. He was about to be buried. The question was, how thick was she about to make the mortar?
“. . . During my 8-week investigation of this story, I have come to one dramatic conclusion: this case is being mishandled in all of its extreme elements . . . from the U.S. Attorney’s office in New Jersey, the strategies behind this pursuit, to the FBI, the pawns and minutemen who have not only botched and bungled the investigation, but who have redesigned this murder case to suit their own fictional beliefs . . .” Brenda served her information, established her seniority in the players’ circle, and she delivered chasing blows all within one sweeping, 5-minute outline. She lengthened the anticipation by leaving the viewers in suspense. Brenda didn’t reveal names yet, but she promised to name names in the later segments of her series. She titled her series “The Botched Bronx Murder Case,” and all the television graphics supported her bold position.
At Passaic County Jail, inmates were pumped up, buzzing and electrified about the visual impact of the news broadcast and how it brought the world (so to speak) to their doorstep. Because there was no exposure to the outside, through windows or otherwise, prisoners didn’t experience the instant impact of the voluptuous, picketing dancers. They had no way of knowing what was going on outdoors. Visits were denied for the time being, and correctional officers were ordered to maintain a code of silence for security purposes. But when UPN9 happened to catch tits and ass images on the TV, the evening news suddenly became the most important show on the tube. Men quickly congregated near the monitors, gesturing to one another to “shhhh” as they listened and watched attentively. The name Gilmore was mentioned numerous times, along with the words murder, topless and FBI-organized crime task force. All the buzzwords and images solidified Douglass as (once again) the big fish in a small pond. Instant celebrity overcame the 4B dorm. Douglass had already won over the most whimsical of the motley crew. But now, the universal language of tits and ass capsized the inmates with emotion and restlessness. Douglass was almost immediately inundated with questions and small talk. If ever there was a kingpin, Douglass sure earned that status now. All sizes and makes of men, regardless of the inhibitions or falsities which had previously prevented communication with Douglass (regardless of Spanish, Haitian, Caribbean and other nationalities) dropped their protective walls if only to say hi. It was instantly a cinch to create subjects and reasons to approach Douglass. And justly, he felt the popularity and the adrenaline pumping through his body. However, with no other means of release; with no way to personally celebrate the excitement, Douglass simply drowned in it all, soaking up the euphoria around him, answering questions about dancers, the topless business and about the bullshit charges that put him in jail in the first place. Despite his incarceration and related hardships, Douglass was now able to experience that whirlpool of inner joy and appreciation, despite the challenges he faced.