“You don’t understand how I feel!” Belynda shrieked. “Your mother didn’t die because some scum gave her AIDS. Don’t tell me you know how I feel. You couldn’t possibly know how I feel.”
“Killing more people isn’t going to change anything. It’s time for us to think about the goodness of God.”
J.C.’s words seemed to reduce some of Belynda’s rage, but only for a few seconds. “It’s not right for these sick men to do this to us,” she sobbed.
“You can’t take the law into your own hands, Belynda. Let the police handle this.”
Belynda wiped the sweat from her forehead with her free hand. “I was willing to give Eugene a second chance to turn his life around. But he spit in God’s face and went right back to that perversion. He deserved to die.”
“And you deserve to die, too!” She lunged toward the reverend.
“Belynda!” J.C. shouted. “Noooooo!”
Vernetta and Nichelle shrieked in unison as two ear-shattering gunshots rocked the building. They remained crouched together on the floor, bonded by fear.
Everything was completely still.
After seconds that seemed like minutes, Vernetta untangled herself from Nichelle, who was whimpering like a petrified puppy. “J.C., are you okay?”
J.C. stood staring down at Belynda, who lay on the floor in a pool of blood.
Vernetta walked over and put a hand on J.C.’s shoulder. “Are you okay?” she asked again.
“I’ve never shot anybody before,” J.C. said in a whimper.
“How’d you get the gun away from her?”
“I wasn’t able to. I had another gun in my ankle holster.”
Vernetta turned and spotted Reverend Sims slouched in a corner of his office, blood splattered on the floor and walls. “Oh, Jesus!”
Vernetta’s scream seemed to bring J.C. out of her trance. She knelt down and took Belynda’s pulse. “She’s dead.”
J.C. then dashed into the office and examined Reverend Sims’ limp body. “He’s still alive!” she shouted, as she tried to stop the bleeding. “Call 9-1-1!”
EPILOGUE
When J.C. escorted Special out of the county jail, Vernetta and Nichelle ran to embrace her, almost knocking her down. They were locked in a big emotional huddle for a good five minutes.
“Can we please just get out of here?” Special pleaded, as she tearfully reached out to hug her mother, then her father.
“We’ve planned a special celebration for you,” Vernetta announced. She turned to Special’s parents. “I hope that’s okay.”
“Sure it is,” her father grinned. He was a tower of a man, while her stylishly dressed mother was barely five feet. “We’re going to let you girls go out and have a good time. We owe our daughter’s freedom to all of you. I can’t thank you enough.”
The four women made their way to J.C.’s Range Rover.
“I still can’t believe Church Girl killed all those men,” Special said. She sat in the backseat, sandwiched between Vernetta and Nichelle. “I told y’all that heffa was missing some screws. She had some nerve calling me the killer. She deserved a friggin’ Academy Award for that performance she did for those TV cameras outside Eugene’s house. She was setting me up big time.”
They quickly filled Special in on everything that had happened at Ever Faithful.
“I can’t believe she’s dead.” Special shook her head. “Thank God J.C. killed her before she killed y’all.”
No one said anything. It still unnerved Vernetta to recall the image of Belynda aiming her gun at them. Nichelle had called her twice in the middle of the night after having nightmares about the shootings. J.C. had yet to talk about it, but Vernetta knew she was having a difficult time with her first shooting in the line of duty.
“So is Reverend Sims going to make it?” Special asked.
“Looks like it,” Vernetta said. “He was really lucky. Belynda’s bullet landed an inch from his heart.”
“Not lucky,” Nichelle corrected. “Blessed. Just like we were.”
Special shook her head again. “There’s still one thing I don’t understand. If Church Girl was so in love with Eugene, why did she kill him?”
“I’m not sure she really was in love with him,” J.C. said from the front seat. “From what she wrote in her journal, they never had an intimate relationship. She truly believed that gay men could be converted and that was her mission with Eugene. According to her journal, if a man refused to change, he deserved to die. When she saw Lamont half-dressed at Eugene’s place, she felt Eugene had betrayed both her and God.”
“Wait a minute,” Special said. “So the man I saw in Eugene’s kitchen was Lamont, not Reverend Sims?”
“No,” Vernetta interrupted. “It was the reverend, but he swears nothing happened between them. He claims Eugene tried to kiss him, but he stopped him.”
“It’s possible,” Special said. “As soon as I saw Eugene lean in to kiss the man, I snapped the picture and got the hell out of there. So Reverend Sims isn’t gay?”
“Apparently not,” J.C. clarified. “He swears he left Eugene’s place not long after you took that picture. That squares with Lamont’s story. He came over later that same night.”
Special was still having trouble piecing the story together. “So why didn’t Belynda kill Lamont, too?”
“Belynda went to Eugene’s place twice on Saturday. The first time was right after you tried to show her that picture Saturday morning. That’s when she saw Lamont. She ran back home and started praying. She wrote it all down in her journal.”
“This is hella confusing,” Special said. “So where does Lamont’s boyfriend Ken fit in?”
J.C. chuckled. “Now this is where it gets even more confusing. Lamont and Eugene spent Friday night and most of Saturday together. They went to a movie at the Howard Hughes Promenade Saturday night. Someone saw them together and called Ken. He drove over there and followed them back to Eugene’s place. He climbed in through the kitchen window, and made such a scene that Lamont ended up leaving with him. Belynda came over about an hour later, after they had gone. We think it was sometime after midnight. We’re not quite sure whether she broke in or Eugene let her in.”
“Lamont was lucky his boy Ken came over there and acted a fool,” Special said. “If he’d still been there, Belynda would’ve killed his ass, too.”
“You’re probably right,” J.C. said.
“Girl, nobody coulda written this script. How did Belynda know all those other men she killed were on the down low?”
“You wouldn’t believe what we found at her house.” J.C. glanced back over the seat. “She had pictures, driver’s licenses and credit card numbers on all of her victims. She’d been following them for months. A lot of her information came from SADDDL, that fanatical group Nichelle spoke to. She was working as one of their investigators.”
“I actually saw her at that luncheon,” Nichelle said, “but I figured it was just somebody who looked like her.”
“Once SADDDL gave her information about a man they suspected of being on the down low,” J.C. continued, “Belynda began following them. For instance, a SADDDL member who worked at the post office noticed that James Hill, that investment banker from Ladera, received regular deliveries from gay porn sites at his post office box. We think Belynda killed him based on that information alone. She had no idea he was a friend of Reverend Sims. She had a list of eleven other men she was tracking. Including the guy she killed in the park across from your apartment.”
“Her ass was stone crazy.”
“The Times story said she was mentally ill,” Nichelle said sympathetically. “Schizophrenic. She was extremely close to her mother, who was infected with HIV by a man she’d been dating. We lost Maya, but can you imagine losing your mother to AIDS?”
“Like I said,” Special repeated, “the heffa was crazy.”
“Enough of this depressing talk.” Vernetta clasped her hands. “We have some good news. Not only did the pro
secutor drop the murder and assault charges, Eugene’s law firm isn’t going to pursue criminal charges against you for hacking into their computer system.”
“Nobody can prove I had anything to do with sending that email,” Special said, as self-righteous as ever.
“Actually, I think they can prove it,” Vernetta corrected her. “But the firm isn’t interested in having the media jump back on this story and drag its name through the mud again. Frankly, they’re embarrassed that their computer system was so susceptible to attack.”
“So count your blessings,” Nichelle said.
Vernetta squeezed Special’s hand. “And there’s more. Eugene’s estate is settling the wrongful death case. Maya’s mother is going to get a very nice settlement.”
Special looked more than pleased. “This is the best day of my life.”
When J.C. made a left turn off Crenshaw onto Martin Luther King Boulevard, Special’s face clouded. “Where are we going?”
Vernetta smiled. “To your place.”
“I know I’ve been on lock down for a while, but I do remember where I live, and I don’t live over here. I wish I did, though.”
“Then your wish has been granted.”
“I finally got Maya’s estate settled,” Nichelle explained. “She left her house to you. And the mortgage is way less than you’re currently paying in rent.”
Special started to cry. “You serious?” She reached out and hugged them simultaneously.
By the time they pulled into the driveway of her new home, Special’s cries had turned into dry-eyed excitement. “I can’t believe this is my house.” She bolted from the car.
A bright yellow banner that read Welcome Home, Special! hung across the front door.
Special stepped into the living room and looked around as if it were her first time seeing the place. “You guys even brought my furniture over here! Everything looks so nice. And I can’t wait to taste whatever I’m smelling from the kitchen,” she said. “I’m not sure my taste buds will recognize edible food. So what’s cooking?”
Jefferson walked out of the kitchen, followed by Clayton draped in an apron.
Special stared at him as if he were a mirage.
“I’m what’s cooking,” Clayton said grinning. “I figured you’d enjoy some of my jambalaya on your first day as a homeowner.”
Vernetta had expected Special to run straight into Clayton’s arms, but she just stood there in shock. Clayton finally walked over and gave her a hug.
Special buried her face in his chest and wept. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
Clayton still wasn’t quite ready to forgive or forget what Special had taken him through. Vernetta was just glad she’d been able to convince him to fly out for Special’s homecoming. She prayed time would mend their relationship.
Special finally pulled away from him, then turned around to face her friends. “Thanks, everybody,” she said, overcome with emotion. “I wouldn’t be standing here if it weren’t for all of you. This has been such an unbelievable ordeal. I felt like I was in the middle of a nightmare, but now I’m living a dream.”
“We’re just glad you’re back home.” Vernetta threw an arm across her friend’s shoulders. “Now let’s eat.”
Everybody headed into the dining room where the table had been set with Maya’s colorful African-print dishes.
“Clayton, the table looks wonderful,” Vernetta said.
Jefferson embraced his wife. “Excuse me, but this is my handiwork. I do have a few domestic skills.”
“Looks like he’s been holding out on you,” J.C. said.
They all sat down at the table and for the next two hours, ate and drank and laughed and cried.
Just as Nichelle placed a banana crème pie in the middle of the table, Special abruptly stood up.
“I have a speech I’d like to make,” she began. “I’ve been through a lot these last few weeks and I want to thank all of you again for standing by me. Jail is not a fun place to be and I never wanna be on lock down again. Ever. So I’m promising all of you, right here and now, that I’m not going to do anything that might cause a cop to even look sideways at me.” She made eye contact with J.C. “Including running a red light or driving faster than sixty-five or letting a parking meter expire.”
Vernetta and Nichelle traded cynical looks, then spoke in unison. “Can we get that in writing?”
Author’s Note
I often have a hard time recalling exactly when or how the idea for a particular novel originated. For the most part, the concept simply pops into my head from some unknown place. That’s not the case with this book.
I have a crystal clear recollection of watching an Oprah show featuring J.L. King, author of On the Down Low. As I listened to his insider’s account of the mindset of men on the down low, I was completely stunned. My emotions during that sixty-minute program, went from shock to anger to fear.
As a writer of fiction, my goal is to entertain. Writing this book, however, has given me an opportunity to both entertain and raise awareness about this important topic. The statistics mentioned in Murder on the Down Low are fact, not fiction. WhileAfrican-American and Latina women make up only 24% of the female population in the U.S., we account for more than 80% of the total AIDS diagnoses for women, according to the latest statistics published by the U.S. Centers for Disease Control.
Unfortunately, these shocking numbers are not likely to decline until we—the victims—decide to do something about them. HIV may not be curable, but it is completely preventable. We can’t continue to sit back and wait for someone else to tackle this crisis. This is our fight.
We must begin this battle by pulling our heads out of the sand. While there are indeed men whose conduct puts our lives at risk, we also do our own share of harm to ourselves. We place our own lives at risk by not getting tested. We place our own lives at risk when we fail to use protection. We place our own lives at risk when we behave in ways which dishonor our bodies. These are areas we can fix. Today.
While African-Americans are among the most religious people on the planet, we tend not to extend our spiritual teachings of love and compassion toward our gay brothers and sisters. That, too, must change.
A wealth of information about HIV/AIDS is available via the Internet. For more information, please visit The National Black Leadership Commission on AIDS, Inc. (www.nblca.org), The Black AIDS Institute (www.BlackAIDS.org) and the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (www.cdc.org).
In the meantime, stay safe.
Acknowledgements
Writing and publishing my third novel was very much like giving birth. Some pain here and there, but by delivery time, all I could remember was the joy. As always, I was blessed to have a ton of people helping me though this process in one way or another.
First, to my many friends and colleagues who served as my focus group for this book. Your feedback was invaluable. A big thanks to my big brother, Jerry Samuels, Sr., my cousins, Donny Wilson and James White, my newest homie, Robert Flowers, Jerome Norris (the deepest, most committed brother I know), Rafael Medina, Rev. J.L. Armstrong, Karey Keenan, Molly Byock, Ann Adame, Nellie Burhanan, Kathy Fairbrother, Marsha Silady, Ellen Farrell, Diane Mackin, Sophy Woodhouse, Debbie Diffendal, Netra Brown, Charles Zacharie, James Barlow, Patricia Lasarte, Dorothy Baynes, Jewelle Johnson, Cynthia Hebron, Russana Rowles, Olivia Smith, Terrie Robinson, Tonya Jenerette, Nancy Larson, Cythina Betz, Pat Penny, Karen Williams, Ginger Heyman, Star Atchison, Dawn Sutherland, Daisy Bates, Kenn Stokes, Faye Gipson, Antoinette Tutt, Waverly Crenshaw, Jonathan (aka “Big Baller”) Deveaux of the Savoy in Inglewood and Kelly-Ann Henry (also known personally to me as JustAskKelly-Ann.com). I must extend an extra-special thank you to Erica Zacharie, who forced me to face my own biases and ignorance about HIV/AIDS. Thanks for the education.
To my parents and those friends, old and new, who constantly encourage me and demonstrate their support in immeasurable ways, Laurie Robinson, Stephanie Winlock, Roos
evelt Womble, Sara Finney-Johnson, Colleen Higgs, Monique Brandon, Syna Dennis, Renee Cunningham, Cheryl Mason, Doris Shelby, Felicia Henderson, Alisa Covington, Ana Segobia Masters, Karen Copeland, Bobbie Copeland, Greg Sawyer, Eric Sawyer, Tommy Tolbert, Merverllyn Vaughn, Clarise Wilkins, Jackie Hilson, Alva Mason, Lynda Martin, Robin Smith, Robyn Brown, Gail Herring, and Fesia Davenport, your enthusiastic support keeps me going.
Thank you all my writer-friends who shared both their time, resources and encouragement, Linda Beed, Tina Brooks McKinney, Cheryl Questell, Barbara Wright Sykes, Linda Coleman-Willis, Angela Henry, Gene Cartwright, Staci Robinson, Fon James, Patryce Banks, Renee Morgan Hampton, Marti Tucker, Charles Chatmon, and especially Victoria Christopher Murray, a highly successful author who always finds time to help and encourage those who seek to follow in her footsteps. And to my writing group members, Adrienne Byers, Jane Howard-Martin, and Nefertiti Austin, thanks for your expert guidance in helping me shape this novel.
To Maleta Wilson of Book Sellin’ Sistahs, thanks for your encouragement and advice, and for literally taking me under your wing and teaching me the ins and outs of the book business. To Mother Rose of Underground Books in Sacramento, California, thanks for your passionate support. Writers like me need bookstores like yours.
Thank you to the LosAngeles Chapter of Sisters in Crime, especially fellow writers, Ashley Baker and Gayle Bartos-Pool, whose tireless work on behalf of the Speakers Bureau turned out to be a true blessing for me.
To the girls at two of my favorite salons, Doña Grant, Brooke Bass and TammyGriffin (the baddest hairstylist I know!) at Kristen Laurenz in Altadena, California; and Veronica Myers, Darlene Williams and Shawnta Ellis (the baddest braider I know!) at The Emerald Chateau in Inglewood, California, thanks for pumping my books to your clients.
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