Dark Star: Confessions of a Rock Idol

by Creston Mapes

  I caught Karen’s glance from two seats over. She looked right into me. The grin on her face was warm and loving, a forever smile. I knew what she was thinking—about us and when our day would come, if ever.

  As I left the Justice and Administration Center under heavy guard after speaking with Boone, the press coverage was insane. Miami-Dade deputies began escorting me to their car, but as they did, we were overcome by reporters to the extent that my feet actually left the ground in the crowd’s sway. Panic sparked in the eyes of one of the deputies in front of me, who pushed with all his might to forge a path to the waiting car.

  On the ride back to the prison, I relished the sight and smell of temporary freedom. I made a point of remembering the passing palm trees, bright sidewalks, and polished buildings. I thought of Karen and Olivia, Mary and Jerry. I wanted to do so much for them. How I longed to be free. How different things would be if I could live on the outside again, but now as a Christian.

  Dinner in the big house was pink-looking meatloaf, mashed potatoes the consistency of applesauce, wet spinach, cheap white bread, and good old H20—all served on the finest of the detention center’s army-green meal trays. I ate with Donald Chambers, Rockwell, Scotty, and a couple of other friends.

  Once back in my cell, I began having a difficult time taking a deep breath. I plopped down on my bunk, concentrating hard just to breathe and swallow normally. I couldn’t fathom life in this concrete confine. I began rocking, rubbing the top of my thighs. My face felt flushed. I was weak and sweating, a cold sweat.

  Forcing myself up, I paced the perimeter of my cell, fighting to wake up from the nightmare of having my freedom stripped away. My knees were about to give out. I fell back on the bunk, pummeled by thoughts of lethal injection and the smell of my burning flesh in an electric chair.

  What is happening to me?

  It used to be that I didn’t care if I lived or died. But now I knew about hell—and heaven. And even though I had the promise of eternal life because of Christ, I did not want to die. I wanted Karen…a full life with her.

  I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the blanket on my bunk.

  Breathe deep.

  “The Lord is my Shepherd… I shall not want.”

  “Hey, man,” said Donald from outside my cell. “What goes on?”

  “Nothing.” I avoided eye contact.

  “Are you okay?”

  I finally turned to face him and watched his eyes grow bigger. “You don’t look good. Want to go to the infirmary?”

  “No,” I blurted, turning to face the concrete block wall. “I’m just dwelling too much about how this trial is going to play out.”

  Donald moved as close as he could outside my cell. “I understand. If I were you, I wouldn’t torture myself thinking about worst-case scenarios.”

  “It’s hard not to. This is one of the first times I’ve really started worrying about what might be, what really could happen.”

  Chambers held the cord to his billy club and twirled it as he spoke. “King David said, ‘I would have despaired unless I had believed I would see the goodness of the Lord.’ He was under a lot of pressure, too. So much that he was about to faint from despair, maybe like you feel. But one way or another, you are going to see the goodness of the Lord, Everett. Take rest in that.”

  I faced him once more. “Hmm…” I nodded, clinging to the words, wanting the peace I drew from them to last.

  “You dudes think you spend enough time together?” Rockwell sauntered down the large hallway outside my cell.

  “We brothers gotta stick together,” Chambers jested.

  Rockwell and I laughed.

  “Lester, man, your attorney’s here again,” said Rockwell. “Dude has got ants in his pants tonight.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I sat up on the edge of my bunk. The fear had fled. I was myself again.

  Rockwell clacked the crossbars of my cell three times. The locks inside the steel door clanged, the door bumped and slid open to the sound of clinking chains.

  “Maybe Boone got lucky,” Rockwell joked. “I’ll tell you, he needs to make somethin’ happen. Odds in here are running against you, big-time. There’s a lot of guys bettin’ a lot of dough on Frank Dooley and the state of Florida.”

  I peered through the small, square window in the blue metal door.

  Boone was standing. He smiled and waved me in.

  I pulled the heavy door open, and Rockwell left me. “Thirty minutes, rock star.”

  “We may have something!” Boone held up a small piece of yellow paper between his index and middle finger.

  “What?” I didn’t bother to sit.

  “This showed up addressed to me in an unmarked envelope a couple of hours ago.”

  He carefully unfolded the paper and pressed it against the glass for me to read. It was small, about five by seven inches. And the writing looked like a female’s, in blue ink.

  Dear Mr. Boone,

  I saw something several months ago…and may be able to help Everett’s case. Contact me.

  Sincerely,

  Pamela McCracken

  Former publicist, DeathStroke

  31

  THE DAYS AND WEEKS ahead at the house in Bal Harbour were bittersweet, indeed.

  Karen, her folks, Mary, Jerry, and I prepared meals together (including a huge Thanksgiving feast), sat around and read, sneaked away for day trips (including the dog races and an airboat ride through the Everglades), and talked extensively, sometimes well into the night. We also prayed together as I had never prayed before—for Mary and Jerry’s future, Olivia Gilbert’s healing, recovery and restoration for my brother Eddie and his family, and for success in the upcoming trial.

  After about ten days, Jerry and Mary flew back to Ohio so they could return to work and get back to her boys, who were staying with close friends. They promised to hand deliver a unique seashell mobile to Olivia Gilbert, which I had found at a sidewalk shop at Hallandale Beach.

  Within a day or two of their departure, the hammer dropped. The grand jury announced that it had compiled sufficient evidence for the state of Florida to prosecute me, and I was formally indicted on charges of first-degree murder in the death of Madam Endora Crystal.

  Accompanied by Jacob, Sarah, and Karen at the arraignment, I pleaded innocent before presiding Judge Henry Sprockett.

  Miami-Dade Prosecutor Frank Dooley made it clear that day that his intent was to remove me from society for life, whether it be via the death penalty or life in prison without parole.

  “We will prove without a doubt that the defendant, Everett Timothy Lester, had every intention of killing Madam Endora Crystal,” Dooley told the judge in his syrupy Southern twang. “This was cold-blooded, premeditated murder if ever there was such a thing. Celebrity or no celebrity, Everett Lester deserves to be punished severely for his crime.”

  In private, my attorney voiced his shock at the murder one charges. “I’m surprised Dooley didn’t go for second-degree murder or even manslaughter,” Boone explained to Gray Harris, the Baylisses, and me, shortly after the arraignment. “He must have some rock solid evidence. And he must have witnesses lined up who he believes are going to show that Everett had requisite intent to kill Endora.”

  “What’s requisite intent?” I asked.

  “Indispensable intent. In other words, Dooley thinks he can prove without a doubt that you had the reason, the motive, and the necessary intent to kill Endora.”

  “But I didn’t.”

  “Tell Frank Dooley that. He’s out to hang you. And he wants to do it fast. He’s gonna ramrod this thing to trial.”

  Not long after my arraignment, the Baylisses packed their bags and headed back to Topeka on the Gulfstream. Karen and I had talked about the possibility of getting her a condo near my house in Bal Harbour, but she needed to get back to work for as long as possible if she hoped to return for the trial—and the media circus of the century.

  ***

  All I can tell you about what
happened next is that I became silent.

  The press coverage was so smothering, I didn’t feel like leaving the house. For days I stayed alone, quiet, thinking. Brewing a fresh pot of coffee every now and then, I read the Bible. When a verse stood out to me, I read it again, sometimes praying. I read night and day, sleeping whenever sleep came.

  I found great hope in those days of solitude.

  One day, a box was delivered to the front door. It was from Jeff Hall, president of the DeathStroke fan club. “Everett,” his note read. “Among the tons of stuff pouring in, this came for you today. Thought you would want me to forward it along—just like the old days. Best regards, Jeff Hall.”

  Ripping the brown paper from the long box, I flipped off the lid and stared at a large, pink rose, the stem of which was carefully attached to a miniature water bottle. It was wrapped in green tissue and surrounded by baby’s breath. A loose note on a small white card was lying in the tissue.

  Dear Mr. Lester,

  Do you know what the pink rose means?

  Sweetheart. It means sweetheart!

  Missing you, sweetheart. Looking forward to a bright future.

  Love from Topeka,

  Karen

  The newspapers those days told me that thousands upon thousands of people within Christian circles had embraced the discovery about my new identity in Christ. According to an in-depth report on 20/20, however, many in the church still condemned me for the man I used to be. That was between them and God, I decided.

  As for the secular world, those who had not yet believed in Christ, there was a diverse and widespread response. Some found joy and curiosity in my newfound faith, while others expressed utter animosity and resentment. Hate mail and love mail came in by what seemed like the truckload, according to Gray. Even a few death threats trickled in via snail mail.

  It was then that Gray told me about a prominent New York publishing house that had expressed an interest in publishing my memoirs. Years ago I wouldn’t have been interested in such a project. But now that I had something—Someone—important to share with the world, I agreed to speak with the vice president of the company by phone. In doing so, we came to terms on the new book, which would tentatively be entitled Dark Star: Confessions of a Rock Idol.

  During those very quiet days in Bal Harbour, I began compiling the memories of my life that you read here. It was also then that I began jotting down the new lyrics and melodies that overflowed from my soul.

  Pamela McCracken wore dark green slacks and matching jacket over a white blouse. Her long, sandy blond hair was soft and full. Her thin, tan face looked calm. When she crossed her legs, revealing ankle-high zippered boots, she exuded confidence as she awaited her call to the stand.

  When the call came, Brian began by questioning her about her job as the former publicist for DeathStroke. She shared openly about her eight years with the band: the friendships, joy, hard work, and sometimes displeasure.

  “There were a lot of drugs,” she told Boone. “That made it difficult, at times, to get information from the band, to provide on-time interviews to the press, et cetera. But overall, it was a great experience for me and I hope for them.”

  “Miss McCracken, how familiar were you with Endora Crystal?”

  “I knew Endora quite well, simply because she was around so much.”

  “Would you say she was a friend of yours?”

  “Sure, I would call her a friend.”

  “And what would you call the relationship between Madam Endora and Everett Lester?”

  “They were friends,” she said flatly. “Everett was not romantically involved with Endora.”

  “Did you ever do a ‘reading’ with Endora? Ever have any involvement with her from a…shall we say, psychic perspective?”

  “No, never.” She shook her thick hair.

  “Were you ever present when Endora performed readings for other people?” Boone still stood beside our table.

  “I was always kind of floating in and out. I would see things, perhaps what you described, but was never really invited to participate, nor had any desire to do so. My role with DeathStroke was always kept at quite a professional level.”

  At that point—I remembered it as if it were yesterday—I noticed one member of the jury, a black man with extremely dark, shiny skin, looking at me very intently. I had noticed him before, but not like I did that day. He was tight-lipped, had a very erect posture, and wore a simple dark blue work jacket zipped up halfway. All of the other jurors seemed to be watching Boone or Miss McCracken, but this juror, in the first row to the far right, zeroed in on me.

  “Tell the court, if you will, Miss McCracken, about the encounter you witnessed several months ago between my client and Madam Endora Crystal at The Groove recording studio in Santa Clarita, California.”

  With that, Boone swung around and walked directly toward Frank Dooley, who was seated with a sick smirk on his face, flicking the dust off the shoulders of his gray jacket.

  “I ducked my head into the lounge portion of the studio and saw Endora and Everett. It appeared as though they were arguing.”

  “What were they arguing about, could you hear?”

  “Endora was saying how Everett needed to keep emphasizing to his fans that there was life for all people…after death. She called it life on the Other Side. It was weird, but you know, that’s what she was all about. That’s what she spent her time talking about, arguing about, living for.”

  “What was Mr. Lester’s response?”

  “He told her those were her beliefs, not his,” Pamela said. “He insisted she stop pushing her agenda on him.”

  “And what happened next?” Boone crossed his arms.

  “I left the room at that time. I had just ducked in for a second and saw that they were arguing.”

  “And?”

  “Well, after I left the room, I walked down the hall, but…” She looked down. “My curiosity got the best of me. I walked back to the door to listen.”

  Dooley squirmed noticeably, practically standing up as he shifted uncomfortably. The juror I mentioned earlier continued to pierce me with his brown eyes.

  Pamela put her head up and forged ahead. “Endora was trying to convince Everett to take part in a séance in order to communicate with his old girlfriend, Liza Moon.”

  “What was Everett’s response?”

  “He said no, he wasn’t interested,” Pamela testified. “And when he did, Endora became very angry. She warned him not to turn against her.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, I believe she said, ‘You do not want me against you.’ I keep playing those words over in my head.”

  Chills ran up my spine with her words, which ignited the crowd in courtroom B-3.

  “Keep it down!” Judge Sprockett ordered.

  “What then, Miss McCracken?” Boone prompted, with a distinct tone of drama.

  “Endora began to warn Everett about a lady who she predicted would come into his life and destroy it. I think she used the words that this lady would ‘bring death’ to ‘his house.’ I did not hear Endora mention a specific woman’s name, but I assume it was—”

  “Objection!” Dooley ripped to his feet. “Conjecture, Your Honor!”

  “Sustained,” said Sprockett.

  Pamela looked at Boone.

  “It’s okay, Miss McCracken, you’re doing fine. Tell us, what did Everett and Endora talk about next?”

  “Endora was trying to convince Everett that he had all he needed, you know—in money and popularity. But he told her he needed help, that he had hit rock bottom. I remember feeling good that he was admitting to someone that he needed help.”

  Pamela’s testimony sparked my memory. Suddenly, that day came back to me as I returned the glance of the dark juror on the far right. I remembered confiding in Endora. In my own way, I had been crying out for help.

  “And what was Endora’s response to Mr. Lester saying he needed help, telling her he had hit rock bottom?”<
br />
  Pamela took a deep breath and faced me. “She began to…to tell him he was getting tired.”

  It was church quiet, so Boone just let her roll.

  “She kept repeating that he needed rest and that he was getting drowsy…”

  Her words just hung out there, dangling above the silence. Then somehow, I sensed what was coming and so did the crowd.

  “I remember, she said something like, ‘Sleep little child…and let me impose my will over you.’”

  Roar!

  On their feet, every person in the courtroom.

  Pamela sat frozen on the witness stand, perhaps suddenly realizing the crucial part she had stepped forward to play in my future.

  Amid the bedlam, the black juror was still staring at me when my head dropped, my shoulders sagged, and a backlog of emotions rushed to my eyes.

  The noise around me had become so loud that the sound of Judge Sprockett’s banging gavel sounded like he was only clicking his fingers.

  “We will have silence in this courtroom, or I will close this case to the press and public!” stormed Judge Sprockett, now standing and leaning forward over the courtroom like a hood ornament, with both hands clutching the desk in front of him.

  Boone paced the main floor. “Miss McCracken,” he yelled in an attempt to silence the storm. “Miss McCracken!”

  The place was a nuthouse.

  I had just finished wishing Jacob and Sarah a Merry Christmas and hanging up the phone with Karen when the doorbell rang. From the cherry-colored wood floors in the living room of my house in Bal Harbour, I heard a commotion outside the front door.

  The doorbell rang again twice, then loud pounding.

  I hurried to the foyer and peered through the shutter slats.

  It was my brother Eddie, with his face practically pressed against the front door. Reporters and camera people were packed around him. This was the first time they had ventured down the front sidewalk or anywhere near the front porch. Didn’t these people have anything better to do on Christmas?