Topless

by Relentless Aaron

  The Caprice rolled down a driveway at the side of the building. Agent 99 lowered her window and slipped a plastic ID card into a machine. There was a beep before a garage door lifted electronically. The vehicle eased down and into the basement of the courthouse, into an underground passage, and it stopped just short of another steel door. Douglass realized that he was entering a fortress, with all of the procedures and sequences of doors and gates and such. The garage door lowered behind the car. Seconds later the steel door rolled up in front of the car. The vehicle moved again, now settling in what felt like a small cave. As the door lowered, sealing the vehicle inside, Douglass could feel the presence and power of that blue and yellow insignia on the wall. It was the size and shape of an oversized basketball. It read “U.S. MARSHALS SERVICE.”

  Once inside, Douglass could have been entering a control center for a NASA rocket launch for all he knew. Just ahead was a glass enclosed command booth, containing 10-foot panels full of video monitors, recorders and electronic buttons, lights and switches. Surveillance, squared. There were some telephones and a uniformed attendant overseeing it all. On the monitors, Douglass could surmise briefly that cameras were everywhere inside and outside of the building, capturing miles of activities in one room. The whole facility seemed equipped enough to offset any possible terrorist activity. Cameras were focused on the perimeter of the building, jail cells, driveways, corridors and doorways.

  Immediately breaking Douglass’s fixation with the electronics in his midst, a burly, bearded, Big Foot–like type, with unshaven, prickled skin, stepped forward, ready to process Douglass. Fingerprints. Photos. Property forms. A prisoner number. He had 3 or 4 sets of handcuffs and a big ring of keys hanging off of his waist—had to be 30 keys on that ring. The cuffs and keys were attached to the dark leather belt that disappeared under Big Foot’s gas-tank belly. Douglass was told to sit in a chair next to a desk. Reception. The marshal poked at some keys on his computer and pulled a series of forms from trays on his desk. Among the questions Douglass was asked included vitals like date of birth, home address and phone number, parents, children and occupation. Douglass wanted to ask if this was for the U.S. Marshal’s special mailing list and if he should expect 4-color brochures. But the enormity of the surroundings, all served to prevent his freedom and liberty, was intimidating, daunting, and a step beyond any “smoke and mirror” campaign that he’d ever seen.

  Once the processing was done, the FBI agents left Douglass alone with the marshal, who escorted him down an elbow of hallways to where a row of closed-door holding cells were located. The handcuffs were removed and Douglass was made to wait until he was called to court for an arraignment before a U.S. Magistrate. During an hour long wait, alone in the cell, he couldn’t explain to himself how his life had so suddenly been whisked up into such a twister of adversity. He did his best to rationalize. What would Les Brown tell him now, in this predicament? Certainly not LIVE YOUR DREAMS! Douglass couldn’t see it, but he could feel that he was caught in a chain of events that had nothing to do with him.

  “Gilmore.” A marshal twirled a set of handcuffs as he entered the cell. “Court.” he concluded. He was casual about it, an everyday occurrence for him. This time, handcuffs and shackles were used. A chain was wrapped around Douglass’s waist to keep the cuffs restricted to his waist. A second marshal joined the escort, and the trio went into an elevator, down a few halls, and through a rear entrance into a courtroom with polished wood, carpet and bright lights. Douglass was directed to a long table where he was seated adjacent to an identical setup a few feet away. The three familiar FBI agents were seated at the adjacent table in a strategic huddle along with another man in a black suit and tie. Meanwhile, Douglass sat wondering, counting the faces. The stenographer. The court clerk. Two court officers at the rear of the room. The marshals.

  Why are these people involved with my life? Douglass took a well needed deep breath, waiting for someone of authority to dismantle this whole mess. Someone would inevitably put all of this into proper perspective, and for sure, Douglass would be sent back to his busy life in New York.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Gilmore. I’m Mr. Locca, here to represent you. Are you familiar with the charges that are pending in this case?” Out of the clear blue, another white man in a suit approached Douglass from behind.

  “Pending?” As Douglass asked this, the two wooden doors, demarcations between freedom and imprisonment, were still swinging.

  “Well, there’s actually a complaint at this point . . .”

  Locca was a short Italian man with dark hair and a round nose. He handed Douglass a yellow copy of the complaint.

  “Next will be the indictment. I’ve read the charges and I’ve spoken to the government about your case. Their case is kinda shaky, but . . .”

  “Wait a minute. Who called you to represent me? That’s first of all, and second of all, slow down. Things are going pretty fast for me right now.”

  “Mr. Gilmore, the court has appointed me to represent you in this matter. I was once a district attorney in this court, so if you just work with me we’ll do the best we can for you.” Locca was leaning into the conversation as if he didn’t care for the marshals or the opposition to overhear. But the court room was quiet enough to hear a mouse squeak. Douglass was reviewing the complaint as he listened to the lawyer.

  “RECO? Organized crime?!” Douglass was loud. The clerk of the court and the others all gazed in his direction. A marshal in the back of the courtroom seemed to ready himself for expected trouble.

  “Mr. Gilmore, these are just allegations. In a court of law these things must be proven beyond reasonable doubt. Relax.” Locca leaned in once again, placing a concerned hand on Douglass’s shoulder. They discussed the circumstances and procedures a bit more before a voice spoke out loud.

  “All rise. The Honorable Magistrate Bernice Keefe presiding in the matter of the United States of America versus Douglass Gilmore.” A frail woman in her 50’s, with silver hair and horn rimmed, wire frame glasses posted on the bridge of her nose, stepped affirmatively towards the platform as called upon by the clerk of the court. At the forefront of the courtroom, she sat behind a large, enclosed, redwood bench. Douglass could only see her from the shoulders and up, even when he stood. The handcuffs were removed, but the U.S. marshals stood even closer now, as if Douglass (who, despite all, was calm and humbled) would escape in shackles. Observing everyone’s actions and words during the proceedings., Douglass smirked when he finally focused on the bronzed, raised letters on the wall behind the magistrate. The words in GOD WE TRUST forced Douglass to wonder: You’re all trusting in God, but you’re all acting corrupt, like kidnappers right now.

  After the introduction, a blizzard of legal mumbo jumbo was exchanged back and forth between the judge, the lawyer and the assistant U.S. attorney. And eventually, without a word from Douglass, a decision was reached relating to bail.

  “Bail will be set at five million dollars, cash.” The magistrate uttered the words in a single, insensitive breath before she slammed her gavel down, putting an end to the session. Just like that, the court appearance was over. Decisions and discussions about Douglass Gilmore and his freedom had simply brushed by him, a snowstorm that he was neither prepared or dressed for. And now, he was left to suffer the consequences, naked and alone.

  “FIVE MILLION DOLLARS CASH?!” Douglass attracted everyone’s attention within the space of seconds. He was so loud that he made the court stenographer cover her ears. He wanted to bust out of the chains on his ankles. He wanted to bust out in laughter and in tears. He wanted to destroy every breathing person in sight. And that’s when the marshals closed in with their hands gripping his forearms and shoulders.

  “Relax, Mr. Gilmore. Don’t make a scene here in the courtroom. Be respectful of the court and they will be respectful towards you. Remember that. This isn’t as bad as it sounds—” The marshals had already jumped at Douglass, replacing the handcuffs and proceeding as though the conv
ersation with the attorney was the least important issue in existence. “—listen, I’ll talk to you downstairs in the holding cell.” Douglass quickly realized that he was being rushed and that the forces were too mighty for him to compete with, all of it moving, manipulating and shifting him the way they pleased. To him, this was all wrong; kidnapping disguised as justice. From Douglass’s view-point, it seemed as though the FBI had fabricated a suitcase of possibilities to impress anyone that was listening, and therefore Douglass was pigeonholed as just another flagrant, belligerent ne’er-do-well of society.

  The lawyer and client went their separate ways. One in the direction of liberty, the other, into a virtual straightjacket. Lifting her robe from her feet like it was a wedding gown, the magistrate quickly made her exit, as if she was fleeing, disappearing through a door to her chambers. The courtroom soon turned lifeless again—the scene of a hit-and-run.

  Douglass did his best to harbor his tensions along the walk back to the holding cell. But when the chains and cuffs were removed and the door slammed, he found a corner of the room and sat on the stainless steel bench. Feeling helpless and abused, he lifted his knees and assumed a fetal position. He squeezed until his arms felt lifeless; until teardrops of loss and confusion rolled down his cheeks.

  The boom-bap and grungy bass of D’Angelo’s “Brown Sugar” was entertaining the customers inside of Fool’s Paradise as they watched the dancers swing and swerve along with the music. But for Gil, things were miserable right now. He’d just received word about his son, and it was having an impact on him.

  “What murder? My son wouldn’t commit any murder. He don’t have no enemies like that.” A dancer was standing just next to Gil, rubbing his back, while at the same time a customer was trying to get Gil’s attention, waving a ten-dollar bill at him for singles. His thoughts hardly interrupted, Gil went ahead and gave the customer change, except he carried on with his conversation, his train of thought never slowing. He was still playing Mechelle’s phone call in his mind.

  He said to tell you he’ll be alright and not to worry about him. He would handle things.

  Then, Gil had responded, saying, how the hell does he expect to handle things? This is the federal government, not some fluzzie, local sheriff. He’s gonna need a good lawyer to get him out of—murder? Mechelle, do you know anything about what’s going on? Mechelle said she didn’t know a thing, but suspected that this might have something to do with Moet’s murder since that was the only murder to speak of in the past month.

  Gil thought of calling one or two patrons who also happened to work at the 45th Precinct. But by Mechelle’s call he realized something; Douglass was a grown man who, apparently, could take care of himself. After all these years of ups and downs; all the business ventures they had together, inevitably building Gilmore’s to become a staple brand in the adult entertainment industry—after the family break-up and the two eventually re-uniting—Gil saw that his son was independent.

  For the days to follow, Mechelle did her best to maintain Douglass’s priorities; the bills, the phone calls and the brief errands. Demetrius was helpful as well, maintaining security at the house and keeping a watchful eye (more than ever before) on Fool’s Paradise. One thing Demetrius did not realize was that Mechelle was becoming sick. She was growing hungrier, eating snacks all the time. But she was also throwing up on occasion. Mechelle was almost sure that she was pregnant. But that wasn’t her problem. Her problem was that she wasn’t sure if the baby belonged to Douglass, or if it belonged to one of the men who raped her down in North Carolina. Not to mention how she was afraid to find out the truth.

  Detective Wade reclined in his swivel chair, feet up on the desk. He gazed at his strategy board, and the calendar beside it. Zeroing in today’s date reminded him that he had less than 18 months before he was to retire. That calendar also reminded him that he had to make use of his vacations and sick days that he never took advantage of.

  Damn, he thought. I could take a whole year off if I want to. There was one more thing about the calendar; something he’d forgotten. The World Series! Jesus!

  Wade jumped up to make a few calls, before it was too late.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Go Yankees!

  A Sunny October afternoon served up brilliant daylight over Yankee Stadium and its flurry of activity. Earlier than usual, ticket holders swarmed from the subways, buses and parking lots, converging on the first game of the World Series. Police presence was extra thick with trucks, cycles, squad cars and horses. Usually, their first priority might be the teams of ticket scalpers who preyed on unknowing visitors. Counterfeit tickets were always circulating, and every officer was supplied with over a hundred plastic tie-cuffs to apprehend suspects. However, the higher priority these days was terrorists. Anytime a large crowd convened in New York, there had to be that additional police presence; some extra cops in paramilitary gear; all of them strapped up with the M-16 rifle, the helmet and the added armor. Things were off the hook these days.

  Wade was off duty for the game opener. But he used his police clout, regardless, enabling him to stand nearby, to listen in on the briefing held out on the sidewalk, directly across from the stadium. Sixty officers and 150 auxiliary officers were either on post or on line at the roll call. This was the event that called all of New York to its knees.

  Generally, baseball fans would leave the game with memorabilia such as programs, flags, souvenir balls, bats and caps. But today, just about everyone that headed into the stadium was dressed from head to toe in their finest Yankees attire, carrying their trusty baseball gloves just in case.

  Vans, buses and taxis that arrived (each vehicle loaded with fans) were also dressed and printed with team logos, and other game-related convictions. Many devoted ticket holders spent the morning at the local team diner, trading stories about each player and each home run they’d witnessed throughout the year. And once the gates opened, fans had no choice but to stand in endless lines which wrapped around the stadium in two directions on the Bronx streets. Many were waiting in separate lines to buy programs, commemoratives, or anything else tangible to remember the event by.

  New York vs. Texas

  The series began with explosive tempers and activity from the first inning. Mike Lewis, manager of the New York team, was ejected by the home plate umpire, just three pitches into the game against Texas. Lewis was too vulgar in response to the ball and strike calls. Five minutes later, his starting pitcher, Shane Hargrove, joined him for shouting at the same ump after a suspect home plate call. From Wade’s seat, 10 rows behind the dugout, he heard “You stupid motherfucker! Are you blind?” And then the general manager for New York stalked down onto the field to vent his frustrations. It was an early mess of poor sportsmanship, which reminded Wade why he didn’t follow sports in the first place. All of this early activity made him feel like he got more than he’d bargained for—even though he didn’t pay squat for the tickets. He was supposed to be there on business. (His business, since he’d been officially removed from the case.) And at the last minute, he was able to get a ticket before anybody (anybody, like Ken Stevens) knew that this was not an FBI case. And he was so sure coming here would give him a head start on the feebies—no way they were onto Ken this early. Such thoughts helped Wade to relax. A good seat for the game; no pressure against time; and now, all he had to wait for was the right time.

  New York was behind, 2–0. They were now counting on their star pitcher to salvage the game. Ken Stevens replaced Hargrove earlier than expected. It was originally planned that he would come in after the fifth inning to bring the fireworks, whether they were necessary or not. But, now that he thought about the article he read earlier, Wade agreed that Ken’s placement in this game was just right.

  Critics had suggested that some injury may have been the reason that Stevens wasn’t starting in the series opener. Others claimed that he wasn’t worth the millions that his contract promised. Talk was his only challenge, however. Because whe
n it came to action, Ken Stevens was the prophet. And now that the game was moving along nicely, Ken was stomping the critics, holding Texas to five hits while striking out six without a walk in 7½ innings. His only blemish was a homer in the eighth, cracked by Rico Diaz. But that was after NY flexed their muscle to take a 7–3 lead. Steven’s grand slam off Texas pitcher David Kranker in the third inning, and José Clark’s two-run homer off a Texas relief pitcher in the fifth, keyed the New York comeback. New York added a run in the sixth inning with Baker’s sacrifice fly, with one out, driving in Bobbie Blue who had singled, stolen second base and advanced on a Griffey single.

  New York broke the game in the eighth inning. A relief pitcher came in for Texas. Their second. He walked three batters in a row. The crowds were ecstatic with energy on the fourth batter. The stadium seemed to levitate with applause as Stevens came up to the plate. Everyone knew that he was facing a lot. Even though the team was up by 4. Point was, this game was his second time facing a grand slam. It was still crunch time, regardless of the score. This was their million-dollar man. The highest-paid player on the team. So, they expected him to deliver; to make it all official.

  Crack! The bat connected dead center, driving the ball directly over the pitcher’s head. He tried to jump for it, but the ball was on an incline and still climbing, climbing, climbing some more. Now, it was in the air over center field and beginning to descend on the glide. Diaz, the centerfielder, jetted towards the wall, sure that the ball would either bounce off the wall; or maybe just barely clip the top. Still running, Diaz had to make a decision to jump or stand. He eyed the ball. It seemed to fade in and out of the sky. With cautious measure, he decided to hit the wall. He paced himself, picked up speed, and catapulted with the left foot while raising the right to climb the wall. His right cleat dug into the sponge wall and the speed, motion and drive took his body into flight. With his arm extended a few inches over the top of the wall and still airborne, Diaz timed the ball. It was falling fast and close to the glove. Feet away. Then inches.