by Vera Roberts
I shake my head at the footage. I rewind it again. Then again. Then again. Each time I see it, I become more exhausted than the last. There was no one else in the hotel bathroom. This is all McKenzie and the Montezes. I feel for Soul.
Most importantly, I feel for the real victims of rape and sexual assault. The ones that have the courage to go public and withstand a trial, where they’ll be treated as criminals while the accused gets the choir boy treatment.
As angry as I am, I need to focus on the real important issue and that’s clearing Soul’s name. I feel sick to my stomach. I started to question my boyfriend’s innocence when I should’ve believed in him.
“Well, this explains why I couldn’t get a hold of her.” I quietly say to no one in particular. “I was trying for the past few days and she’s unreachable. I think she even blocked me on social media.”
“She knows she’s lying and doesn’t want to answer any more questions,” Desiree looks over my shoulder. “She would have to explain the video.”
“And there’s no evidence Soul or anyone else was in the bathroom prior to she was.” Alex is still swaying to the music.
I close the computer and rest my head on my hand. I need to play my cards just right. I can’t go to the Metropolitan about this news so I need to go the heavy hitters with this. “I know what to do.” I take out my phone and dial Scott Reed’s phone number. “Hi Scott, it’s Ariana. I have the hotel footage and I’m going to send it to you. As I’m doing this, I wanted to ask...do you have any friends in media?”
AFTER I GOT OFF THE phone with Scott, I spent the rest of my day putting together the documentary. I replay the interview I did with Soul and try to read his body language. He’s dressed head to toe in Fresh Nectar gear, and he left the grills out for this interview.
An expensive watch covers his left wrist and his sneakers are his trademark FuckBoi Logic shoes. He’s worth a billion dollars yet he dresses like he’s just a normal, round the way dude from Harlem.
Despite how calm Soul is in the interview, he’s anything but inside. He’s angry. He’s calm. He’s hurt. He’s worried about the future.
“If anyone is going to claim they were sexually assaulted, harassed, or molested by a public figure, that person’s entire history needs to be laid out.” Soul’s low baritone booms. “If anyone going to ruin someone’s livelihood and reputation with their claims, I need to see every single receipt pulled up on them.”
I cringe at Soul’s words. I know he’s indirectly referring to me and our history, though his voice has no anger in it. “You sound like you’re victim-blaming.” I reply to him.
“No, I’m not. But I’m also not on that ‘Believe All Victims’ bullshit that social justice warriors love to be on. If someone said a person committed a sexual crime against them, and there’s no evidence of a criminal investigation, I’m going to need to know every single detail about that accuser down to their blood type.” He leans down and sighs as he rubs his goatee. “A man is tried and convicted by the public, before he steps one foot inside a courtroom. I had people leading boycotts of my clothing line, before I made a statement. I had people assume because a few of my friends were accused – and not convicted, mind you – I must be the same.
“Yet, if I say I need to have the accuser to be questioned, I’m the bad guy?” Soul shakes his head.
A part of me doesn’t want to air that part of the interview because of more potential backlash Soul will get. A part of me hates the fact I agree with him. If the accused’s past is laid out in court, why shouldn’t the accuser’s?
The thought process makes me wonder what my new stance is. I still heavily support the #metoo movement but now, I feel there has to be some asterisks involved. When a victim comes forward, does an automatic investigation have to be called for them? How many allegations does a man need to have before people to believe he might have done it? Are all the allegations looped in to one big group or is it a case-by-case basis?
And if he’s proven innocent, why do people still bring up his allegations? What purpose does that serve other than #neverforget?
And how much power does the media have in all of this? Why does the media get to decide how we should feel? Why does the media lowkey encourage the #cancelculture without actually presenting the other side with the same fervor?
Everything I thought I knew about the world, about the media, and about old money and politics has been effectively thrown out the window.
IT WAS TWO A.M. WHEN I finished the documentary and sent it off to Scott. He got back to me immediately (he was up tending to his daughter) and said he would look over it before he sent it to his contacts. If everything went fine, the story was going to run within 24 hours.
I walked up to the rooftop of our townhome and just sat down. With a bottle and glass of the cheapest wine, the only thoughts that come to mind are my parents. I wonder if I’m making them proud. I wonder if they’re disappointed. I wonder if I would’ve met Soul if they were still alive.
I wonder what’s going to happen with my career once the story hits. Will I go back into hiding? Will it be the end of me and Soul? How am I supposed to act now? It’s pretty certain I won’t be at the Metropolitan anymore and there’s a good chance I’ll be blacklisted.
But then what? What happens after the charges will be dropped and everyone goes onto the next trending topic? How would Soul and I pick up the pieces?
“Shorty...”
I turn around and I see Soul walk over and sits next to me. He’s wearing a black tank top and lounge pants. He’s wide awake and I know the stress has gotten to him. It wasn’t that Soul was a heavy sleeper before, but the charges definitely messed up his sleep schedule.
“Hey...” I quietly reply and pass my wine glass over to him. He takes a sip and gives it back to me. “...I thought you were still working on your designs. I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“I finished awhile ago but you didn’t come to bed. I had a feeling you were up here.” He turns to me. “How are you doing?”
“Confused.” It’s an honest answer. “I thought I knew everything. Turns out, I don’t know a damn thing.”
“Welcome to the real world,” he nods, “it’s not as clean-cut as the social justice warriors and conservatives like you to believe. A lot of grey. A lot of confusion.”
“And when you add in the misogyny, racism, bigotry, and xenophobia...” My head begins to spin. “...I’m starting to question everything.”
“As you should but we also live in a society where you’re not supposed to. If someone claims they were wronged, you need to believe them no matter what.” He replies. “When people were saying Black Lives Matter a few years ago, you know what the main response was? All Lives Matter. Or my personal favorite, ‘I need to know more details about the shooting before I make a judgment.’ I have friends who deal with racism every single day. But if they complain about it, it’s ‘Well, maybe you were the aggressor. Well, maybe you did something that made the other person uncomfortable.’” He chuckles. “But now, if anyone says Me Too, you’re not allowed to question.”
“It’s not just that,” I shake my head, “I don’t understand the point of saying me too when the end result won’t be charges. Some of these women just only want a guy to get fired. He’ll just get another job. There are numerous actors right now who have sexually assaulted or harassed women and they’ll just get picked up by another studio. How is that justice for the victim?”
“It isn’t.” Soul replies. “Some women just don’t want to pursue charges because they don’t want to relive it. They would rather leave the industry completely. The movement has helped legitimate victims find their voice and support. It’s also given a platform for liars and snakes to capitalize on it. Every movement has the ones that care, and the ones who are trying to get rich. This is nothing new.”
“I just...” My lungs push out air. “...how do I go from knowing everything and being so assured about what I knew to knowing nothi
ng in just a matter of months?”
“Here’s a small tip: life will always be like that. It’s one continuous marathon. You think you know something and really, you don’t. Some people are content stopping at the fifth mile, some stop at the tenth, and many want to keep going until they’re finished.”
“They’re dead,” I understand the point of reference.
Soul wraps his arms around me and pulls me close to him. “Nothing is ever as it seems. Nothing. There’s always three sides to every story – one side, the other, and then the truth. And believe it or not, some people would rather not want to hear the truth. Not because it’s ugly or nasty but rather, it’ll make them realize they’re not as smart as they thought they were.”
“Ignorance is bliss.” I nod.
“And for a lot of people, they’re very happy being ignorant, even if they think they’re not.”
Chapter Twelve
The article and complementary documentary was released on YouTube and other streaming platforms. Major newspapers reported it. As predicted, the media frenzy was insane. I’m a trending topic and so are the Ellisons and Montezes.
The #metoo supporters immediately decried the documentary. The conspiracy theorists concluded The Ellisons had something to do with the worldwide attention and promotion the documentary had received.
Everyone, however, is commenting on the hotel footage.
It was a devastating blow to the movement and I’m still not quite sure how I feel about it. I proved Soul’s innocence but at what cost? The movement had grown powerful legs and I just effectively kicked them.
The D.A. immediately dropped charges against Soul and were going to charge McKenzie for making a false police report. Thomas and Starr effectively said they were pursuing litigation against McKenzie to recoup legal fees.
My boyfriend’s reputation is saved but the cost was higher than I thought it would be. Conservatives have jumped on how the #metoo movement is now a joke, while the liberals firmly state this was one false case out of many that are true.
There’s a clear division between on how allegations of violence against women should be treated. Is the accuser automatically right? Does the accused deserve to be heard? Can money and the right connections guarantee a win? What about those who can’t afford that?
As I head into the offices of the Metropolitan Times, I feel eyes on me. People are cordial but there’s an air of ‘Ooh, you in troublllllllllllllle!’No one wants to talk to me directly and I get it. I’m a pariah now.
I went behind my editor’s back and did something for a competing network. That’s guarantee dismissal no matter what I plead my case. I know today is my final day and honestly I can say for the first time in my life, I truly don’t give a damn what anyone thinks about me.
My shoulders are straighter. I have more air in my lungs. My head is high and I have the biggest smile on my face. Now I feel like I conquer anything and anyone. I can honestly understand how Laura acts on a daily basis. Conquering one person at a time.
As soon as I enter the third floor, I see people stopping their conversations as they look at me. They’re giving me friendly smiles and waves before they return, sneaking glances at my way.
I arrive at my desk and I see Julie’s door is wide open. It’s normally closed but I think she wants to see if I was going to show my face today. Before I could even sit down, she appears at her doorjamb and beckons me inside.
This is it.
I grab my Sweet Nectar purse and stroll into her office, closing the door behind me. I remain standing because I know our conversation won’t be long and it’ll be the last one.
Julie is pissed. The lines on her forehead give her a Shar Pei look. She studies a paper in front of her like she’s trying to figure out the nicest way to say fuck you but is trying to figure out the way that has the most emotion.
Who knew firing someone was so long and drawn out?
“You went behind my back, Ariana.” Julie’s voice isn’t quite yelling at me, but she’s far from quiet.
“I had a story I wanted to tell that wasn’t the one you wanted to print,” I softly reply. “The truth needed to be told.”
“You had a story you were assigned to do. The interview, the article...?” Julie shakes her head. “That is...that’s ridiculous. That completely goes against everything I stand for, what we all stand for here at the Metropolitan.”
“Okay,” I keep my answers concise.
“Okay?” Julie narrows her eyes into slants. “That’s all you have to say for yourself?”
“You’re going to fire me so I’m not sure what else you want me to say about any of this?” I respond. “My desk is already cleaned out because I was never here long enough to put anything on it. You wanted me to do an investigation into the family so I could play up the media’s fascination and obsession with them, while taking them down at the same time.
“When I told you the accuser might have been lying, you told me not to run the story. I decided to go with my conscience and if that is a problem for you, then maybe this wasn’t the job for me. But it doesn’t matter because I don’t like having anyone tell me what I should write because of whatever agenda they have.
“If you want to tell the truth and be fair, you need to present all sides of the story, not just the one that will give you readership and make you go viral.” I state.
“You’re a disgrace to the #metoo movement,” Julie blinks, “an absolute disgrace.”
“I’m sorry your Hellman’s headass feels that way,” the Soul in me has come all the way out, “I still support the #metoo movement and feel victims should have their public say. However, if the accusers are going public with their claims, the accused have the same right to deny them. If I’m a disgrace to the movement because I want both sides of the story to play out, then you’re the one holding the key to hell for every lying-ass victim to come forward because everyone will believe puppy dog eyes, long emotional swallows, and hesitating sentences.”
“Get out.” She orders.
“With pleasure, bitch!” I walk out of Julie’s office and don’t bother to close it behind me.
I take off my lanyard and security pass, tossing them on the floor. I head straight to the elevator and out the doors of the famed building. I probably won’t ever be back there and I’m not sure if I’ll miss it. If I’m going to be a journalist, I have to be an honest one. I’m not going to sacrifice my integrity and credibility because I need to go viral.
I rather be unknown and honest, then famous and a joke.
As I start to walk down the New York sidewalk, I feel free. I feel happy, despite not having a job and possibly being blacklisted. I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I made my mark on the world and I saved Soul’s life.
Now onto a new journey.
As I turned the corner, I see the all-too familiar Mercedes with Mario standing beside it. He opens the backseat door. “He’s waiting for you inside,” he smiles.
My body perks up at the thought of Soul being inside waiting for me. I wonder what he wants to talk about. Actually, I know what he wants to talk about. I wonder how it’s going to go.
I slide into the leather backseat and I see Soul looking so Harlem. He has a tank top on with his baggy jeans and Timbs. An expensive watch hugs his left wrist and he’s wearing dark aviator shades.
He smells heavenly like musk. It’s warm and sexy and completely fits his vibe and aura. My body becomes so attune, so aware of his presence next to me. My nipples harden and a small throb in my panties wants Soul to explore them.
Before any of that could happen, we need to have a conversation. “So...” I begin.
“So...” Soul finishes.
We drive for a short while as we people watch. Kids are on a play date while the mothers dish on the latest gossip. A swiping couple is meeting up for coffee and is pleased with each other’s appearance. A powerbroker is quietly talking into the phone about how a deal is stupid.
A
nd there’s me and Soul.
I haven’t spoken to him since the documentary, despite staying in his home. Soul has been away on business. I don’t even know if he’d even seen the documentary.
I cleared Soul’s name and the article was imperative in getting the charges dropped completely against him. The same woman who almost destroyed Soul’s reputation is the same one who ultimately saved it. Life is so funny sometimes.
Now isn’t the time for the ‘Remember the time I saved your life?’ moments with a violin and soft music in the background. We need closure between us before we go forward in our lives.
My thoughts are suffocated with the idea Soul wouldn’t want to be a part of my life any more but it’s a consequence I’m prepared for. I can only wish him well and move on as I try to pick up the pieces.
“Did you see it?” I begin and he nods. “Okay. What did you think?”
“It’s brilliant work,” he stares straight ahead, “I hope you get some awards from it.” He is silent for a long time and I wonder if it was a mistake to meet him here. His hands are sitting on his lap and he’s looking out the window. He’s not humming any song and I don’t have to guess what that means. “You didn’t have to,” Soul replies. “You could’ve sold me out to the highest bidder.”
“I did that once before and it’s a regret I still live with.” I push out a hard breath. “But the girl was determined on ruining your life and it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair to you, your family, or anyone else.”
“I was tried and convicted before I even said a word. Some people are refusing to apologize because they think there’s something icky about me now that I’ve caught two allegations. Proven innocent both times but it doesn’t matter.”
I’m reading between Soul’s lines and he’s clearly saying something without actually saying it. “How long did you know about the hotel footage?”
