Murder on the Down Low

by Pamela Samuels Young

  Vernetta could almost see the light bulb flash in Special’s head.

  “On second thought,” she said, cozying up to Vernetta, “I think Nichelle’s firm would be the perfect place for you. How soon can you start?”

  Chapter 72

  Ray Martinez walked into the conference room where his trial team sat waiting and slapped a thick manila folder on the battered, rectangular table.

  “Okay, everybody, let’s get started. What do you have for me, Denny?”

  Denny Marconi was an investigator with the D.A.’s Felony Unit. Ray had never worked with him before, but he was considered one of the unit’s shining stars. The rest of the prosecution team assigned to the Eugene Nelson murder case included Deputy D.A. Colleen Carraway Higgs, who was serving as second chair, and their long-time paralegal, Carolyn Gildersleeve Jones.

  “Unfortunately, we don’t have much,” Denny said. He was a bearded, pear-shaped man in his fifties who enjoyed getting paid to dig up dirt on people. In his younger days, he had longed to be a cop, but couldn’t meet the physical requirements, even after they lowered the height requirement.

  “The law firm where Nelson worked still hasn’t been able to link Special Moore to that email,” Denny said, “and we don’t have anything that conclusively proves she threw those nails in his driveway or vandalized his house and car.”

  “As far as I’m concerned that video of her attacking Nelson with pepper spray is some pretty good evidence as far as motive is concerned,” said Carolyn, the paralegal. “We also have three witnesses who can attest to the comments she made at her cousin’s funeral. She told the whole church she wanted revenge.”

  Carolyn had found six witnesses and obtained written statements from each of them. She was a quiet introvert who blushed at off-color jokes. But when it came time to dig into a case, she transformed into super sleuth.

  “Motive alone isn’t going to get us a conviction,” Colleen said. She was as cautious as they came. A tall, cream-colored black woman with sexy hips, her no-nonsense personality suited Ray. Colleen’s assignment to the case was no huge surprise. Hathaway was playing to the public. The Latino/African-American duo would be pitched to the press as a model of diversity, which would in turn translate into a few extra votes for the man who teamed them up. The D.A. was destined to go far.

  “We need something solid to link her to his death, and so far, we have nothing,” Colleen said.

  “It’s still early,” Ray reminded them. “But I agree. We have a strong motive, but without some solid evidence to support it, we can’t move forward with an indictment. Unfortunately, the D.A. is on my butt for a quick conviction.”

  “Did we get confirmation of the time of death yet?”

  Denny opened a folder and pulled out a page. “The coroner puts it sometime between midnight Saturday and six Sunday morning. I read your notes from Moore’s interrogation. The fact that her attorneys refused to let her answer any questions tells me she has something to hide.”

  “I agree,” Ray said. “We just need to find out what it is.”

  “Finding the murder weapon sure would be nice,” Colleen said wistfully.

  “If she’s smart,” Denny said, “she’s already dumped it.”

  “Do we know what we’re looking for?” Martinez asked.

  “Yeah.” Denny riffled through more pages in his folder. “Definitely a small-caliber gun. I’d bank on a twenty-two. The perfect weapon for close-range shooting. Also the weapon of choice for female killers. Fits nicely in a small purse.”

  “Belynda Davis, a close friend of Nelson, claimed Moore approached her the day before and tried to show her a picture of him kissing some man,” Colleen said. “Moore supposedly took the picture on her digital camera the night before. We need to get a search warrant ASAP.”

  “That’s in the works,” Denny said.

  “Won’t do us much good now,” Carolyn, the paralegal added. “She probably erased that picture a long time ago.”

  “Yeah,” Denny said, “but there’s a good chance we can restore it. So the sooner we get our hands on that camera, the better.”

  Ray got up and took a seat on the edge of the table. “What I’m about to say can’t leave this room.” He waited until he was certain that he had everyone’s full attention. “I received a heads up this morning about a news story that’s going to break tomorrow. And it’s going to make this case much bigger than it already is.”

  Everyone was piqued with interest. “Nelson was the fifth African-American man—professional African-American man—to be murdered in a three-week period. The L.A. Times thinks the cases are linked. That one killer is responsible for all of the murders.”

  “You’re pulling my leg,” Denny said.

  “No, I’m serious. The Times story isn’t going to say this, but Special Moore is considered a person of interest in each of those murders.”

  Colleen blinked. “The police think this woman is a serial killer?”

  Ray nodded.

  “If this story is breaking in the Times tomorrow,” Carolyn said, “then it can’t be much of a secret.”

  “I haven’t told you the confidential part yet,” Ray said. “And I want to make it clear, one more time, this information can’t leave this room.”

  They all nodded.

  “It appears that each of the victims led heterosexual lives, but were involved in covert gay relationships,” Ray continued.

  Denny slammed his folder on the table. “So these guys were a bunch of fruitcakes?”

  Ray flinched, but didn’t otherwise react. “It appears that they were gay or perhaps bisexual.”

  “What’s this either or stuff?” Denny said. “If a guy’s banging another guy, he’s a fruitcake.”

  Ray knew he was going to hear a lot worse during the course of this case, so he needed to get used to letting comments like that roll off his back. Both Colleen and Carolyn knew he was gay, though they had never discussed it. Carolyn looked away when Ray glanced in her direction.

  “These guys claim they’re not gay, just adventurous,” Colleen explained. “They call it being on the down low. Oprah did a whole show on it.”

  Denny snorted. “What in the hell is the world coming to?”

  Ray quietly sighed. He knew that as soon as the meeting ended, Colleen would pull Denny aside to tell him Ray was gay and warn him to watch his mouth. Ray just hoped Denny would still want to remain on the team. He needed his expertise.

  “Anyway,” Ray said, “the police believe Special Moore murdered the other men for the same reason she targeted Nelson. Because of their double lives.”

  Chapter 73

  The hostile look on Lieutenant Wilson’s face made J.C. want to run for cover. She had just pulled out of a McDonald’s drive-up when she received an urgent call from dispatch summoning her to his office.

  “You wanted to see me?” She stepped inside.

  “Have a seat.” Instead of asking her to close the door, he got up and did it himself, then perched on the corner of his desk, inches away from her.

  J.C. braced herself.

  “Is there anything you want to tell me?” The lieutenant was extremely ticked off about something.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said, is there anything you want to tell me?”

  “No, not that I can think of.” J.C. wondered what was going on.

  The lieutenant snatched a copy of the Times from his desk and tossed it into her lap. “What’s this crap?”

  J.C. picked up the newspaper and read the bold headline splattered across page one. Serial Killer Targets African-American Men.

  Scanning the story, J.C. quickly ascertained that thereporter’s account was fairly accurate. It reported that the police believed each of the victims were killed by a single gunman. The story, however, made no mention of the Department’s theory about the men’s sex lives.

  “This story quotes sources close to the investigation,” the lieutenant said with more than mild sarcasm.
“Is that you?”

  J.C. placed the newspaper on the corner of the lieutenant’s desk. “No,” she said, “I had nothing to do with that story. But what’s the big deal? It doesn’t mention anything about the victims being gay.”

  “As I understand it, the Times reporter is well aware of your theory. His editors were just too afraid of being sued, so they left that angle out of the story. For now.”

  The lieutenant narrowed his eyes and scowled as if he were trying to scare her into confessing.

  She defiantly scowled back. “I’m not stupid, Lieutenant. There’s no way I’d run to the media with that information. I had nothing to do with that story.”

  “So where’s the leak coming from?”

  “I don’t know. You said you discussed my theory with the captain. It’s possible he mentioned it to others. There’s no telling who leaked that information.”

  After a long stretch of silence, the lieutenant’s anger seemed to thaw. He took a seat behind his desk. “Since the cat’s about to be out of the bag, what’s the latest on your investigation?”

  “There were wineglasses on a coffee table in Eugene’s living room. One glass had prints belonging to Eugene. The other one didn’t. The prints definitely belong to a man. He could be our killer.”

  “Any idea who he might be?”

  “Not yet. The prints on the wineglass don’t match the ones found on the window, which is how we think the killer entered Eugene’s house.”

  “Just remember,” he said, “if your friend is charged, you’re off the case. I’m already cutting it close.”

  “I understand.”

  “The mayor’s ready to proceed with that press conference I mentioned a while back. This story has put even more fire under his ass. It’s tomorrow morning at ten in the City Hall Press Room. Media Affairs has some talking points for you just in case some jackass reporter shoves a mike in your face.”

  J.C. nodded.

  “I have no idea how extensive this leak is,” the lieutenant continued. “So, if someone happens to ask you about this down low crap tomorrow, fudge your answer.”

  “Fudge? What exactly does that mean?”

  “It means lie, Detective. Nobody can find out that you suspected weeks ago that all the vics were—” he caught himself, “homosexuals.”

  Chapter 74

  After a few days of pampering her husband, Vernetta moved into her new office at Barnes, Ayers, and Howard.

  “So what did Jefferson say when you told him?” Nichelle was helping her unpack. She couldn’t stop gushing about how much fun they were going to have practicing law together.

  “He wasn’t happy that I reneged on my promise to spend a few months as a stay-at-home wife,” Vernetta said. “But let’s just say I’ve been using my womanly ways to make him forget.”

  Nichelle laughed. “No wonder you’ve been looking so tired lately.”

  “You’ve got that right. Being a top-notch wife is hard work.”

  Nichelle hung Vernetta’s UC Berkeley law degree on the wall behind her desk, then stood back to take a look. “Does this look straight to you?”

  “Perfect.”

  Russell stuck his head in the door. “Welcome, counselor.”

  Vernetta gave him a hug. “I was just telling Nichelle that if I’d known how great having my own practice would feel, I would’ve left O’Reilly & Finney months ago.”

  “Yeah, it is pretty nice. Except for all the administrative hassles and never actually knowing when the next case is going to come through the door. But don’t knock the big firm experience. I picked up some excellent skills there. O’Reilly & Finney will always look great on your resume.”

  “True.”

  Sam stomped past the open doorway and into his office across the hall.

  Vernetta raised an eyebrow. “I thought you two said Sam was okay with my being here.”

  “He is,” Russell assured her. “Don’t mind him. He’s a big, harmless grouch. We just give him his space. Do the same and everything’ll be fine.”

  As they left, Vernetta decided to make the first overture toward her new colleague. She knocked on Sam’s closed door.

  “Come in,” he barked.

  Sam’s office was a sight. There were papers, folders, clothes and gadgets everywhere. Vernetta counted six empty paper cups on his desk and two mugs that were growing mold. The blinds were drawn, which gave the room a cave-like feel, and the smell of something foul irritated her nostrils. Vernetta hoped he never brought any clients in here.

  “I just wanted to say hello. I’m looking forward to working with you.”

  He tried to smile, but she could tell his lips weren’t used to moving in that direction. “So did you bring any O’Reilly & Finney clients with you?”

  “That remains to be seen. I just mailed letters letting my clients know that I’ve left the firm. I know there are a few who’ll probably throw me some work. The lower rates will be a real incentive.”

  Vernetta was still standing, and since it didn’t look like Sam was going to offer her a seat, she took one on her own. The expression on Sam’s face told her that was a bad move.

  “Uh . . . it looks like you’re pretty busy.” Vernetta slowly stood up. “So I guess I’ll let you get back to work.”

  She had almost made it to the doorway before Sam spoke again. “I still have a lot of friends at the D.A.’s office. It doesn’t look too good for Special.”

  Vernetta shot back to his desk. “What do you mean?”

  “They’re hell bent on proving that Special killed Eugene. They’re digging deep and they’re not going to stop until they pin it on her.”

  “They can dig as much as they want. She didn’t kill him.”

  “You better hope not.”

  They would need Sam’s expertise, not to mention his connections in the D.A.’s office, if charges were filed against Special. As much as the man got on her nerves, she needed to start buttering him up.

  “If Special is charged,” Vernetta said, “we’d really like your help at trial.”

  “You’ve tried your share of cases.”

  “Yeah, but only one murder case. You’ve tried dozens. And on top of that, you’re a former prosecutor. You know how prosecutors think. Having you on the defense team would be an incredible advantage. So if this nightmare comes true, I hope you’ll help us.”

  “I’m not used to playing second chair. Or third for that matter.”

  Asshole. He knew the amount of media attention this case was going to attract, and he wanted it all for himself. But if his help meant getting Special out of this mess, Vernetta would just have to deal with the jerk.

  “That’s fine with me.” She decided to massage his ego even more. “I’m sure there’s a lot I could learn from you.”

  Chapter 75

  I really must applaud you,” said Professor Curtis Michaels as he led Nichelle down a narrow hallway at Haines Hall on the UCLA campus. “Few women have much of a desire to understand any of this.”

  Nichelle’s former sociology professor had recently gained a national reputation as a commentator on gay issues. Since she was continuing to receive interview requests to discuss men on the down low, Nichelle felt the professor’s insight would be beneficial.

  “So where should we begin?” Professor Michaels took a seat behind his desk. He was a broad-shouldered man with an equally broad smile. He wore a gold hoop in his left ear and was most comfortable in khakis and golf shirts.

  Nichelle pulled a legal pad from her bag. “I guess my first question is why this down low phenomenon seems to only be associated with African-American men?”

  “White men are engaging in this activity, too,” the professor clarified. “In fact, you might remember a string of white politicians who made headlines a while back. There was McGreevey, the former New Jersey Governor who resigned after confessing to an affair with a gay staffer. There was that Idaho Senator arrested in that foot-tapping bathroom sting, a Florida state represe
ntative picked up for soliciting sex at a park, and a Washington state legislator who allegedly had sex with a guy who ran off with his wallet.” He chuckled. “All of these men were married and white.”

  Nichelle stole a glimpse of a picture on his credenza. The professor was on the slopes, standing next to another African-American man, both of them decked out in ski garb. Nichelle assumed the man was his partner.

  “Then how come I’ve never heard anybody refer to white men being on the down low?” she asked.

  “I think that label’s been exclusively associated with African-American men primarily because of J.L. King’s book, On the Down Low, and his appearance on Oprah. But this definitely isn’t unique to the black community.”

  Nichelle folded her arms. “What concerns me is how these guys admit to having sex with other men, but claim that they’re not gay.”

  The professor arched a brow and spread his hands. “In their minds, all they’re doing is engaging in a sex act. African-American men—gay or straight—take pride in their masculinity. Since many people consider homosexuality the antithesis of manliness, they aren’t willing to label themselves as gay. The Center for Disease Control uses the term MSM—Men Who Sleep with Men—in their surveys for this very reason. For these guys, the questions Are you homosexual? and Do you engage in sex with men? don’t result in the same answer.”

  Nichelle scribbled a note on her legal pad.

  “Before we continue,” the professor said, “I’d like to clarify something.” He planted his forearms on the desk. “When I refer to men on the down low, I’m not talking about the gay guy who might be in the closet. It’s easy to understand why many gay men, black, white or otherwise, don’t come out. Just so we’re on the same page, I’m talking about the guy who’s having sex on a regular basis with another man, but doesn’t think of himself as gay or even bisexual.”

  “Got it,” Nichelle said. “So is he the reason HIV is impacting African-American women at such a high rate?”