Murder on the Down Low

by Pamela Samuels Young

  The bedroom was a bigger mess than the rest of the apartment. Dresser drawers hung open, its contents strewn about the room. The mattress was askew on the box spring and the comforter was on the other side of the room. Papers littered the floor. Vernetta found Special’s Bible and the list of verses on the floor near the nightstand, buried underneath a pile of shoes. She went to the closet in search of a conservative outfit for Special to wear for her next court appearance and found a black skirt and white blouse with tiny ruffles along the neck.

  Vernetta picked up the Bible and the list of verses and was about to leave, but instead sat down and opened the Bible in hopes of lifting her own spirits.

  When she plopped down on the bed, she felt something hard underneath her. She stood up and looked down at the bed. There was no visible lump to indicate that she had sat on anything, so she figured it must have been a loose spring. She sat down again and felt the same hard lump.

  Vernetta eased off the bed and ran her hand across the bare mattress. It felt smooth. But when she pressed down, she felt the hard lump again. She bent down to get a closer look at the mattress and her eyes zeroed in on an almost invisible line where the mattress had apparently been carefully sewn together with thread.

  Vernetta looked around and spotted a pair of manicure scissors on the floor near the foot of the bed. Ripping open the seam, she shoved her hand inside the mattress and hit something hard and cold.

  She gingerly retrieved a small silver handgun. It couldn’t have weighed more than a couple of pounds, but it felt as heavy as a brick. Vernetta finally had to set it down on the mattress because her hand was too unsteady.

  According to the Times, each of the murder victims had been killed with a small caliber handgun, probably a twenty-two. Vernetta knew nothing about guns, but it was hard to imagine one much smaller than this.

  Trembling, she pulled her cell phone from her purse and hit the speed dial button for Nichelle. After the phone rang just once, she changed her mind, hung up, and pushed a different button.

  “I need you to meet me at Special’s place,” Vernetta whimpered when Jefferson picked up. “Right away.”

  Chapter 94

  Belynda left Reverend Sims’ office, hopped in her car and drove downtown to the jail. She prayed over and over and over again that Reverend Sims was not the man Special claimed she saw kissing Eugene. That would be a disgrace to God.

  A short time later, she was sitting in the jail’s reception area. A deputy had told her it would be at least forty minutes before Special would be brought down. Belynda had no problem waiting.

  She knew that Special was not likely to greet her with open arms. But she desperately needed to talk to the woman about what she claimed to have seen at Eugene’s house that night. If the man with Eugene was Reverend Sims, Belynda needed to know that. The entire congregation of Ever Faithful Missionary Baptist Church needed to know.

  When a deputy finally brought Special down, Belynda was already seated on a stool in front of one of the scarred Plexiglas windows that separated the inmates from their visitors.

  “Booth number three,” the guard said, pointing Special toward Belynda.

  Special’s eyes squinted in disbelief. She sat down and snatched the two-way phone. Belynda was already holding the telephone on her side of the window.

  “What are you doing here?” Special asked, seething.

  “I’d like to speak with you.”

  “About what?”

  “About that morning when you tried to show me that camera with Eugene’s picture. Do you still have it? If you do, I’d like to see it.”

  “Do I look that stupid to you? You think I’m going to sit here and let you set me up. I never came to your house, and I have no idea what camera or picture you’re talking about.”

  “I’m sorry about everything that’s happened to you.” Belynda was hoping she could calm down the obviously psychotic woman. “This is extremely important. I think it’s possible that I might know the man in that picture.”

  “What picture? Anyway, I thought you told me Eugene had gone straight. What would he be doing in some picture with a man?”

  “Perhaps I was mistaken about that.” She had to play along with the woman. “Eugene had his problems. Many people have sexual identity issues. But with God’s help, he was trying to work through them.”

  “Sexual identity issues? Are you really that naïve or are you just stuck on stupid? Eugene was gay, and he lied about it. How could you even want to be with a man who’d done what he did to my cousin?” Special choked back a sob.

  “I’m a Christian,” Belynda said. “There’s no sin God won’t forgive. I also forgave Eugene for his sins.”

  “But he was still out there sinning! And if he hadn’t been killed, he was going to end up doing the same thing to you that he did to Maya.”

  “I came here to ask you about that photograph. Not to discuss Eugene. God will handle him.” Belynda opened her purse and pulled out a piece of paper. “This is one of the church bulletins from Ever Faithful.” She held it up to the window. “Is this the man you saw him with?”

  Special refused to even look at the paper. “Maybe you didn’t hear me. I just told you I was never at Eugene’s place, I never took a picture, and I never saw him with anybody.” Special stood up, but the short phone cord forced her into a slight stoop. “I only have one more thing to say to you. I don’t know how far you went with that man, but if I were you, I’d go get tested.”

  She slammed down the phone and signaled for the deputy to take her back to lockup.

  Chapter 95

  It took Jefferson about thirty minutes to make the drive from Torrance over to Special’s apartment. Vernetta had refused to explain the reason for her urgent request over the telephone. She knew he must have been worried to death.

  When Vernetta opened the door, he looked at her swollen red eyes and could obviously tell that she had been crying.

  “What happened?” Jefferson asked, embracing her. “Is Special okay?”

  “She’s fine.” Vernetta handed him a piece of paper that she had written before he arrived.

  Jefferson gave her a puzzled look, then unfolded the note and read it to himself.

  I know I’m being paranoid, but I don’t feel comfortable talking in here. I’m going to show you something I just found in Special’s bedroom and then let’s go outside to talk.

  He followed her into the bedroom without comment. Vernetta walked over to the bed, pulled back a blanket and pointed to the gun resting in the center of the mattress.

  “Whoaaa! Where’d you find this? I didn’t know Special even owned a—”

  Vernetta put her index finger to her mouth. “Shsssssh!”

  Jefferson pulled a pen from his shirt, stuck it through the trigger guard and raised it in the air. He brought it close to his face and examined it.

  After he set it back down, Vernetta took his hand and led him outside. Neither of them said a word until they were seated inside his truck.

  Jefferson waited for her to speak, but she didn’t. “Okay?” he said.

  “Okay what?” Vernetta replied.

  “Did you know Special owned a gun?”

  “Nope.”

  “Where’d you find it?”

  When she told him, Jefferson rubbed his chin. “That says she was definitely trying to hide it. I’m surprised the cops didn’t find it when they tore up her place. But they miss stuff all the time. She’s damn lucky. So tell me what you’re thinking.”

  Vernetta didn’t want to share what she was thinking. “I still don’t think she killed anybody, Jefferson. I swear I don’t.”

  “The newspapers said all of those guys, including Eugene, were killed with a small caliber gun, probably a twenty-two. That gun is a twenty-two.”

  Vernetta started to cry and Jefferson squeezed her hand. “Nobody has to know about that gun except you, me and Special.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “
Let me get rid of it.”

  Vernetta eased her hand from his. “Jefferson, we can’t do that. We’d be destroying evidence. That’s not why I asked you to come over.”

  “Do I think Special killed all those dudes? Hell, nah. Do I think she killed Eugene?” Jefferson rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. I do.”

  “Jefferson!”

  “Just hear me out. You’re a lawyer, Vernetta. Put your emotions aside for a second and look at the facts. If Special wasn’t your best friend, you’d be thinking the same thing everybody else in this city is thinking. That she shot Eugene because of what he did to Maya.”

  Vernetta turned away and stared down the street.

  “Special is like a sister to you. To me, too. And if one of my sisters were in her shoes, I would do everything I could to prevent her from spending the rest of her life in prison. Sometimes taking care of family means doing what you have to do.”

  “But what you’re proposing is illegal.”

  “So are a lot of things.” Jefferson pressed his head back against the headrest. “Let me tell you a story. When I was sixteen, I worked for this electrical subcontractor who had an office over on Western. He was the one who got me interested in being an electrician. I remember him coming in one day mad as hell after this general contractor refused to pay him. With me sitting right there, he picked up the phone, explained what had gone down, and asked somebody to handle things for him. By the end of the day, that contractor walked into my boss’ office looking like somebody had beat him with a crowbar. He threw an envelope full of cash on the desk and left.”

  Jefferson paused, then continued. “I’ll never forget what my boss said to me after the guy walked out. He said, Jefferson, I want you to remember something. There’s right and there’s wrong and there’s business. This was business. I view this situation exactly the same way. Getting rid of that gun would just be taking care of business.”

  Vernetta closed her eyes. She had seen people do the wrong thing too many times and end up in even more trouble. That wasn’t the way she liked to operate. She was used to playing everything by the book.

  “If I let you dispose of that gun, it would be just our luck that you’d get caught with it or the police would find it or who knows what.”

  Jefferson chuckled. “Babe, I know you’ve spent a lot of time trying to smooth out my rough edges, but have you forgotten who you’re married to? I got cousins, lots of ’em, who grew up in the Rolling Sixties off Sixty-first and Crenshaw. They taught me a few things. So, I know how to take care of business.”

  Vernetta wiped her eyes. She was a lawyer. She understood right and wrong, guilt and innocence better than anybody. But she had also watched innocent people go to jail.

  “This ain’t the movies,” Jefferson said. “This is the real deal. You just give me the word and I’ll make sure that gun disappears. Permanently.”

  Chapter 96

  An air of apprehension swept over Nichelle as she stared out into a sea of African-American faces in the largest ballroom at the Proud Bird Banquet Center near LAX.

  If the measuring tool were sheer numbers, the first luncheon hosted by Sisters Against Dirty Dogs on the Down Low was an overwhelming success. Nichelle listened as Rhonda solicited entries for “Dirty Dogs of the Week,” the newest feature on the SADDDL website.

  “So if you know any men on the D-L,” Rhonda said, “let us know so we can pass on their information to our investigator. We’re going to out these brothers on our website so they can’t prey on us anymore.”

  Nichelle pressed her hand to her cheek and felt her stomach flutter. Rhonda was playing with fire.

  “And don’t send me photographs of men you think might be on the D-L, you have to know for sure ’cause this investigator is costing us a bundle.”

  “I have three names for you right now,” shouted a fair-skinned woman with a short blond Afro. Other women in the audience waved their hands and shouted me too.

  Nichelle didn’t like what she was hearing. This type of hate would send these guys even deeper into the closet. Her conversation with Professor Michaels had opened her eyes. She hoped to have the same effect on the SADDDL members.

  “Now, ladies,” Rhonda said, looking across the dais at Nichelle, “we are honored to have with us a woman who is on the forefront of the battle against these trifling men. Ms. Nichelle Ayers is a partner with the law firm of Barnes, Ayers and Howard, but most important, she filed that lawsuit against Eugene Nelson. He’s the man who gave HIV to Nichelle’s dear friend, Maya Washington. But the dirty dog got what he deserved because he’s no longer with us.”

  Rhonda’s last statement set off a chorus of hand clapping.

  “But hold on,” Rhonda said, trying to curb the applause. “Ms. Ayers is also defending Special Moore, our fellow sister accused of murdering that dirty dog. I just pray she’s able to get her off. Please welcome our special guest.”

  Nichelle made her way to the podium dressed in a burnt orange pants suit with a cream blouse. By the time she had taken her place, the cheering had increased. One woman stood, then another, and another, until they were all giving her a standing ovation. Nichelle hoped she didn’t look as jittery as she felt. She wondered if there would be any applause after she finished her speech.

  “Good afternoon.” Nichelle’s voice trembled with anxiety. “Please forgive me if I’m a little nervous. I’ve never had a standing ovation before, and I haven’t even said a word.”

  The room vibrated with laughter. “Go on sistah-girl, you’re among friends,” a woman sitting a few feet from the dais said encouragingly.

  Nichelle glanced down at her notes. “As you all know, the AIDS epidemic remains at a crisis level, particularly for African-American women. But what no one’s discussing is how to stop the tide.”

  “I know how to stop it,” yelled a petite woman in a pink hat. “Round up all the men on the down low and shoot ’em!”

  More laughter rocked the room.

  Nichelle patiently waited for the laughing to cease. “I think the answer lies more with understanding these men and examining our own culpability.”

  An uneasy hush washed over the room like a tidal wave. Nichelle reached for the glass of water near the edge of the podium and took a sip.

  “We should start by examining why these men feel the need to be on the down low in the first place. I believe one of the reasons they do is because they’re subjected to such scorn from the black community.”

  This time an angry buzz seemed to spring up from the floor. At nearly every table women were muttering to their neighbors and eyeing Nichelle with disapproval.

  “In the black community, gays are despised as—”

  “They should be despised,” someone interrupted.

  Nichelle paused momentarily, then scanned the audience. With such hostility in the room, there was no way she was going to get through her prepared speech. Nichelle pushed her notes to the side. She would just have to wing it.

  “Should they be despised?” she challenged, looking past a woman who was the spitting image of Church Girl.

  “I’m sure there are women in this room who have friends, brothers, sons, and maybe even fathers, who are in the closet. They wouldn’t need to lie to us if we accepted them for who they are.”

  Rhonda leapt to her feet, Bible in hand. “Sister Ayers, homosexuality is a sin. We didn’t invite you here to encourage us to accept this perversion.” She flipped open her Bible. “Leviticus 20:13 says, and I quote: If a man lies with a man as one lies with a woman, both of them have done what is detestable. They must be put to death; their blood will be on their own heads.” She dramatically slammed the Bible shut.

  The entire room cheered. Nichelle took another sip of water. She had anticipated this response.

  “You know,” Nichelle said, turning briefly to face Rhonda who was still standing, hand on hip, “I’m a Christian just like you. I also remember the Bible saying something about love and forgiveness and not jud
ging others. And with regard to the verse you just read, what about the other admonitions in Leviticus?” Nichelle reached for her notes. “Leviticus 20:10 says, and this, too, is a quote: If a man commits adultery with another man’s wife—with the wife of his neighbor—both the adulterer and the adulteress must be put to death.” She faced the audience again. “But, of course, I’m sure nobody in this room has ever committed adultery.”

  This time there was a loud rustling of bodies in chairs, but no outward sentiments of support.

  “I think it’s important that we start taking responsibility for our own lives. I suspect that there are women in this room who don’t even want to ask their man to wear a condom, much less get tested. But it’s your body, therefore, it’s your job to protect it.” Nichelle gripped both sides of the podium. “And you’re mistaken if you believe you’re going to protect yourself from HIV simply by outing gay men. You’re completely ignoring the fact that women who’ve been infected are also spreading the disease to men . . . straight men.”

  The warm eyes that had welcomed her were now full of contempt.

  “I think this group’s efforts would be better spent teaching women to protect themselves. We should all get tested and demand that anybody we sleep with be tested, as well.

  “More than anything else,” Nichelle continued, her confidence level suddenly heightened, “I fear for our daughters, our granddaughters and our nieces. They’re growing up in a climate of sexual promiscuity. Many of them don’t even view oral sex as sex. We need to talk openly to them about the danger of HIV and teach them to honor their bodies. And if they’re not going to abstain from sex, at least encourage them to use a condom.”

  One woman frowned as if she had just uttered a dirty word.

  “There’s a lot of pain in this room. I’m in pain.” Nichelle felt her eyes get misty. “I lost one of my best friends. Maya Washington was an incredible woman who had a lot to give this world and I miss her like I’ve never missed anybody in my life.” She could almost feel Maya place an encouraging hand on her shoulder.