Life was good to them, and if they were not such perfect brothers, they would have made perfect lovers.
“Remember when we were young?” Brando asked Omar, finding sparkles in his eyes.
“I remember.” Omar smiled. “Going to the clubs, dancing our asses off while over in the corner holdin’ up the wall was the grandfathas, leering and sipping their Hennessy. And I remember saying, ‘When I get that age, don’t let me end up like that. Just put a damn bullet in my head.’ ”
“There’s a lot to be said for getting older,” Brando said softly, “and besides, there are a lot of kids who like the maturity of older guys.”
“Geezer chasers,” Omar snapped heartily.
“I don’t know about all that, but there are some young guys that simply like the maturity.”
“And experience. It takes experience to really know how to fuck.”
“Why does everything have to be about sex with you, Omar? That’s all you talk about.”
“Hell, Bran, if more people in the black community talked about sex more we wouldn’t have all these damn problems. Denial’s gonna be the death of us.”
“Yeah, but you seem to be obsessed with sex.”
“I’m obsessed with life, baby. Life!”
“All I know is it takes experience to know how to love,” Brando said out of nowhere.
“Oh Miss Oprah, please. What the fuck would you know about love?”
Brando knew that what Omar said was not meant to hurt. It was merely a truth rarely spoken out loud.
“You are such a queen,” Brando retorted.
“Everybody’s a queen, Miss Brando. Queening is a natural thing. Will Smith queens. Wesley Snipes queens. Bill Clinton queens. To queen is just to address a bad situation with a little style, wit, and grace.”
Chapter Thirty-six
Peter Caise had not been back to Los Angeles in years. His Southern California screwups were compounded by his escape to Detroit on a piece of good ass disguised as true love. His relationship with Eddie Jessup in Detroit turned out to be a total lose-lose situation. He figured it was bad karma well deserved. His own trifling ways over the years could not have produced anything more than the bullshit his life had been filled with since leaving Los Angeles.
He actually believed that Eddie loved him, or tried to believe it, but deep down inside Peter knew that Eddie didn’t love anybody but himself. Eddie didn’t love his wife, and Eddie didn’t love his children. How could he and still have a man fucking him on the side?
Peter Caise first met Eddie Jessup at a downtown gym in L.A., a block and a half from the Staples Center, when the Detroit Pistons were playing the Lakers in the finals. Eddie was an off-the-radar Piston second stringer on the serious DL who had convinced Peter to follow him to Detroit, where Eddie set him up in a swank Jefferson Boulevard apartment overlooking the Detroit River.
Peter knew allowing himself to be a kept man was his first mistake. The second was to confuse great fucking with great lovemaking. Eddie was truly a great fuck who was equipped with a tight, lean, probasketball build that boasted rock-hard pecs, a thick dick, and a hungry, high-hoisted ass Peter had to climb to get to. Like a lot of these beautiful but macho, semi-celebrity, body-by-Fisher-
brains-by-Mattel undercover brothers, Eddie Jessup wanted that occasional reprieve from marital and image duty that called for him to do all the fucking, be the pollinator, never the flower. On occasion, Eddie Jessup wanted to sit on something big, stiff, warm, and ass-filling. His sugar walls had needs, too.
He had heard stories of white boys who got their wives to strap on dildos and lay the pipe fantastic, but ask that of a black woman? Eddie knew better than to even go there. Besides, toys weren’t his thing. He needed the natural feel of a man’s true nature up inside him.
Peter knew Eddie was lying when Eddie told him he was the first man he ever let fuck him. A loose ass speaks volumes. Peter wondered often why so many women never thought to examine more closely those grand husbandly canyons.
A couple of years after Peter walked out of Eddie’s life, he read that Eddie’s wife, Aisha, had contracted HIV. Once it was discovered that Eddie was also infected, accusations flew back and forth. But deep down inside Eddie knew. Aisha Jessup had not been with another man in the seven years she had been married to Eddie. Eddie, however, had been with dozens, though he finally fessed up to her and the press that he obviously contracted the virus from any of the numerous female groupies he indulged on the road—lie that it was—women he swore on his mother’s grave he would never go near again. This, ironically, was one of his few spoken truths.
Right from the start, when Peter and Eddie first got together in Los Angeles, Peter put his foot down and his glove on.
Peter Caise certainly had his ways, but he never considered himself stupid. Eddie was into barebacking, skin-to-skin, as if the AIDS epidemic never happened. But Peter wasn’t about to put his life at risk over a piece of ass, no matter how much he thought he might love the man wearing it. And he thought he loved the man a lot.
While being kept, he did not simply sit in that riverfront apartment wringing his hands and watching soaps like some dick-dangling hausfrau at the beck and call of an NBA second stringer. He allowed his art to flourish.
And when he finally left Eddie, he utilized his arts degree and talent and found work as a graphic artist and website designer.
He also found himself. He had hated himself for so long, hated himself for not having a conscience. But in those final months as a disingenuous concubine to a ballplayer who sweated, grunted, and whimpered beneath his disinterested pumping, he would think about Aisha Jessup and wonder what lie had been told to get at this tryst. That’s when he realized he had been doing this kind of shit since screwing Earl-Anthony Fant’s mother.
So during the day, back in Detroit, when he did not want to think about Aisha Jessup, did not want to think about Earl-Anthony Fant and Earl-Anthony’s mother, did not want to think about what he had become, he would draw, sketch, and write. The small graphic novel he produced from these escapes was as dark and as poignant as a tale out of Grimm.
And now he was back in L.A., where everything seemed to move in slow motion, which was just fine with him. He needed to slow down, assess his situation, figure it all out, figure himself out. He had been told that he didn’t like himself very much, years ago, by Earl-Anthony. And he knew that the words did not come out of pain that he inflicted, but they were words of sad assessment…and truth.
He welcomed a confrontation with that truth and himself. He soon learned to stop loathing himself for loving men. He had fully come to realize that heterosexuality was just not in his nature, no matter how fiercely he fought for it, no matter how strongly fundamentalists preached fire and brimstone against what every feeling of love and desire cried out from his heart, his soul, his body.
Being back in Los Angeles was a good and necessary thing. It was an obligatory return to the scene of the crime, a step closer toward purging. It was a step closer toward seeing Earl-Anthony again, to seek forgiveness. And it was a chance to meet Miss Zara for the very first time.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Because of the upcoming trial, Brando was not able to spend as much time as he would have liked with Omar, and he missed his friend, more than he realized. They missed each other. Even their Sunday brunches at Lucy Florence had to be put on hold. But both understood, or at least tried to.
Dee checked in often with Brando and kept Selma Fant posted on the proceedings, although the papers and local news kept tabs on what was poised to be another Hollywood courtroom drama. Even the NAACP got into the picture. Cosigned by the ACLU, it made careful comments about the media digging up graves to find black men to demonize, without ever once mentioning the Bell case specifically.
Judge Canton W. Stork presided over the trial that convened less than six months after Jeanette Bell’s indictment on second degree murder charges.
In her opening statement,
prosecuting attorney Marion Madrano quickly established the given rapport between her and the six men and six women who were as black, white, brown, and yellow as the city itself. She spoke warmly to them like sisters and brothers, like family members that she would lay down her life for.
“You are the people of the County of Los Angeles,” she reminded them gently, “and I represent you, I am one of you. I want you all to understand that a great crime committed against one of us is a great crime committed against all of us. Ramon Jesse Alexander was a decorated war hero who risked his life not only for his brothers and sisters on the battlefield but for the freedom of all of us, his brothers and sisters here at home. I will prove to you that a great crime was committed against Lieutenant Alexander. I will prove that a woman, carrying a concealed weapon, killed this unarmed war hero. Now the defendent will no doubt claim self-defense. Who knows? We’ll see. One thing we do know is that it’s her word against his. Oh, that’s right. She killed him. He’s not here to speak for himself. And because of that, you and I—we must speak for him.”
She stood in front of the jury box and looked into the eyes of each and every one of them. She smiled a small smile of sad sympathy and reverential remembrance. She made them remember their lost brother, the pact that they must make, the duty that was theirs from this moment on until final deliberation.
Quietly, she walked back to the prosecution table.
Brando, holding Jeanette’s hand, was slow to rise from his chair. He approached the twelve solemnly.
“When soldiers go to war,” he began, “we understand they might kill. They might kill to save others, they might kill to save themselves. They certainly might kill to preserve our freedoms. Killing is a defense of last resort. I think we all understand that. I think that is the reason the founding fathers gave us the right to bear arms, so that, if it comes to that, we will have the right to protect ourselves from harm, even if it means killing. Many women in this country are kidnapped, raped, brutalized, and murdered. Perhaps that is why so many states in our United States allow certain people under certain circumstances to carry concealed weapons. Miss Bell is one of those legally granted that allowance. And thank God for it. It just may have saved her life. Killing is not pretty, but sometimes it becomes a necessary resort. When a man, even a soldier, becomes a monster, each and every one of us has a right to protect ourselves from his monstrosity. We have the right, if necessary, to protect ourselves to the very death.”
The prosecution’s first witness, Detective Edetta Franklin, answered all of Madrano’s questions with total professionalism. The detective understood that Jeanette Bell put a face on a rape too many victims were too afraid or ashamed to.
But she could not think about the regret that threatened to boil up inside her. She was a professional, a law enforcement officer, an instrument of the law. She had to think of duty, although she herself was a woman who had been wronged enough to regret by the grace and vengeance of God that she did not do to her attacker what Jeanette Bell had done to hers.
“Is it true, Detective, that the defendant waited a week before confessing the killing to the police department?” Madrano questioned.
“Yes.”
“And is it also true that the defendant showed little remorse in recounting what happened?”
“Objection!” Brando protested. “That calls for an expert medical opinion.”
“Detective Franklin is a well-trained officer of the Culver City Police Department,” the prosecutor countered, “well trained to psychologically profile the accused.”
“The detective has a badge, Your Honor,” Brando countered, “not a medical degree.”
Judge Stork sustained the objection and the prosecutor ended her questioning. Brando felt no need to cross-examine the detective. Her neutral testimony gave neither side points.
The coroner was called next. His testimony corroborated many of the D.A.’s contentions, particularly that the deceased was shot twice in the back, which suggested a possible retreat, not an attack.
“How many times was the deceased shot totally?” Brando asked on cross-examination.
“Six times,” the coroner answered.
“And where was he shot?” Brando then asked, retrieving a copy of the autopsy report from the defense table.
“Twice in the buttocks, once in the head, once in the shoulder, and twice in the groin area.”
“And where was he shot first?”
“Trauma would suggest in the buttocks.”
“Would suggest?”
“Yes.”
“Meaning the deceased being shot in the buttocks first is not an absolute certainty.”
“That is correct.”
“So is it possible that he could have been shot first in the shoulder, spun around by the impact, then shot in the buttocks, continuing in a spin, then shot in the head and groin area?”
“Possible but highly unlikely.”
“Is it possible, Doctor, yes or no?” Brando insisted.
“Yes,” the coroner surrendered.
The next day, Marian Madrano called Tyler Martin to the stand, and he testified for the prosecution just as he had been coached to. His life had been saved on the front lines of Kuwait during Desert Storm. He was living proof of Ramon Jesse Alexander’s heroism.
Brando knew he had a tough road ahead of him and did not take for granted the great confidence Jeanette and Clymenthia had in him.
He saw many faces in the courtroom. Clymenthia Teager was, of course, there every day; sometimes Dee; but once he even thought he saw Collier, and it gave him an unexpected heaving.
Yet he still did not ever lose sight of the gravity of the case and his need to focus solely on securing the exoneration of a woman and a friend who faced fifteen years to life if found guilty, a human being treated inhumanly and who responded emotionally, passionately, without a moment of premeditation; feelings he once experienced and had somehow lost touch with. Why had he allowed Earl-Anthony’s rebuff to armor him against love so deeply? Why had he spent ten years with Collier and not one day matching the love he received? Why had he forgotten the sorrow he felt when Omar cried in his arms? Why had he not remembered the beauty of that one night that they made love? Why had he treated himself so inhumanely?
Suddenly realizing the deep pain of inhumane treatment, he knew. He knew what he had to do for Jeanette. It was all coming back to him. Yes. The jury was just a dozen ordinary people looking to do the right thing by listening, and attempting to be fair in the face of human imperfection, his imperfection, Jeanette’s, theirs, even the seemingly perfect witness for the prosecution sitting on the stand giving glowing testimony about Jeanette’s attacker. The jury was looking to be fired toward the truth—that no one deserves to be treated as if they’re less than human. No one should ever do that to another person. No one should ever do it to oneself.
But the embers had to more than smolder. They had to flame into a light that would make the jurors see.
Brando Heywood understood more fully at this very moment, as Tyler Martin spoke so well of Ramon Jesse Alexander, that there were darker forces to be unveiled, and new light waiting to shine through.
“Was Ramon Alexander a good soldier?” was Brando Heywood’s first question to Tyler Martin.
“Yes he was,” Tyler answered.
“How many men did he kill when he saved your life?”
“Three.”
“How many men would you say he killed altogether?”
Tyler hesitated, then answered, “Twenty-seven.”
“How would you know that?”
“He told me.”
“So he kept track of his kills.”
“A lot of soldiers did.”
“So he did keep track of his kills.”
“Yes.”
“Did he seem proud of his kills?”
“He was proud of doing his job.”
“Did he seem proud of his kills, yes or no?”
“Yes.”
“How many women did he kill?”
“Sometimes civilians got caught in the crossfire.”
“How many women did Ramon Alexander kill?”
“I don’t know.”
“None? Some?”
“Some.”
“Do you know a Captain Michael Simmons?”
“Yes, he was our platoon leader.”
“Do you recall Captain Simmons saying to Ramon, ‘Watch your mouth, Alexander’?”
“Yes.”
“Was this right after Ramon killed a woman?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember what Ramon said to prompt Captain Simmon’s verbal reprimand?”
“Yes.”
“What did Ramon say?”
Tyler looked around the room, then lowered his head. “He said…‘Got me another one of them fuckin’ Arab bitches.’ ”
Chapter Thirty-eight
Omar sat alone at his and Brando’s table at Lucy Florence and sipped absently at his mimosa. One of the twins brought him a slice of sweet potato pie.
“You look like you could use this,” the twin said.
“Thanks,” Omar responded, looking up with a small smile.
As the twin walked away, Omar saw the woman. Vanessa. Vanessa Ellerbee. That’s her name. And she was alone as well.
She noticed him staring at her and became perplexed by the empty chair next to him.
They nodded at each other cordially. Vanessa then stood and walked toward Omar’s table. Church curls bounced in slow motion. Omar stood.
“Vanessa.”
“Omar.”
“Solo this week?”
“Seems we both are.”
“Sit. Join me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course. Please.”
He guided her into the chair usually reserved for Brando and Brando alone, gently tucking her under the linen ledge of the table. He then sat and scooted in closer.
Yes, she thought, getting another good close-up look at Brando’s second. He is much too self-centered, too sinfully gorgeous, too much of a cad for fucking my man and giving him hack; too unpredictable, too wild for the job. Oh no. Uh-uh-uh. If all else fails with Brando, this one could not even be a consideration.
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