“Being hooked up with a man by his wife is a little too deep for me. You know that’s not me.”
“Do I?”
“Besides, I’m looking for love, not just sex.”
“God, you’re so pure I can’t stand it.”
“Well, one thing I know for sure, you sure as hell wouldn’t get with him.”
“Not that you’re wrong, but why would you think that?”
“Because he’s too old for your chicken-hawk ass.”
“Man, I told you I’m leaving the kids alone.”
“Yeah, until the next little twentysomething cutie pie crosses your path.”
“I don’t think so. Not anymore.”
“You’re serious?”
“You’re not the only one looking for love, Bran.”
“I guess,” Brando mused kindly, amazed but understanding.
And this was the moment. Omar knew it. He could feel it in his bones, in his heart. It was now or never. There was nothing to prevent him. He had to tell him. He opened his mouth to speak, but Brando spoke first.
“You know, it’s kind of crazy, but lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about Collier.”
There was a silence only Omar noticed, wide enough for him to look about it and realize he was caught completely off guard, plucked. “Really?” he finally managed to say.
“Yeah,” Brando answered with a perkiness previously unknown, while something sank inside of Omar. His chances.
Chapter Forty-three
It was the night before Jeanette Bell was set to testify. Brando gave Jeanette last-minute instructions and warned her that the prosecuting attorney would most likely linger heavily on the lesbian issue, baiting whatever homophobia the jury harbored. He then sent her off to bed early, so that she would be well rested and alert.
But she could not sleep. It was past midnight and she was still sitting up in the bed, in Clymenthia’s comforting arms, still wide awake.
“You have to get some sleep, baby,” Clymenthia admonished gently.
“I killed a man, Clymenthia.” Her words were filled with resignation, her stare at the nothingness across the room regretful.
“You defended yourself.”
“But I never thought…I never thought that I was capable of ending another human being’s life.”
“Jen, don’t do this to yourself. You have to understand, sweetie, that people die under many, many circumstances—childbirth, old age, accidents, war, natural disasters, being in the wrong place at the wrong time, sickness, broken hearts, criminal activity. We all will die. And very few of us will have a say in how. That man took a chance with his life when he attacked you, and his crimes against you caused his death. He deserved to die, and you were the reluctant instrument used by the universe to make that happen.”
“But he was flesh and blood, Clymenthia, a living, breathing being, with a heart and mind, and a wife, a family. Baby, he was somebody’s son.”
“So was Hitler.”
When Jeanette Bell took the stand at 9:38 AM, she seemed rested, alert, and resolved. She found Clymenthia in her regular seat in the courtroom, and returned her partner’s nod of confidence with a slight heave that seemed to say, “I’m ready.”
Brando’s questions were straightforward and uncluttered by emotion. That was deliberate. He was convinced that he would have to sway the jury with truth, not sympathy.
“Did you in any way consent to have sex with Ramon Alexander?” he asked Jeanette while facing the jury.
“No.”
“Have you ever had consensual sex with any member of the opposite sex?” he asked, still facing the jury.
“No.”
He then approached his client and asked, “In your own words, Jeanette, describe what happened the night Ramon Alexander raped you.”
She took a deep breath and prepared herself for the nightmare she would have to relive once again.
In halting but brave words, she recalled waking up from a dizziness on the hood of a car, her hands bound by the strap of her purse, and someone on top of her, and the pain, the excruciating, stinging pain. She told of being thrown to the ground after he raped her, then his retreat toward his car, and then his stopping. He reached for his mouth, discovered the blood, discovered his missing front tooth. Then he turned back to her. She was still on the ground. His eyes were filled with anger as he advanced toward her, cursing and screaming. She tried to scoot away, but he drew closer and closer, angrier and angrier. And then suddenly she remembered the gun in her purse. With all she had left, she struggled to open the purse, fumbled to find the revolver. Her heart beat so hard it felt like tiny rapid explosions. And he still kept on coming. Before she knew it, she had fired the gun. Then again, and again, and again, and again.
At the end of her testimony, she cried. Brando asked for a short recess so his client might recover.
“The court will recess for a half an hour,” Judge Stork said. The strike of his gavel broke the silence in the room that shortly thereafter filled with low murmurs.
“Do you like men?” was Marion Madrano’s first question when court reconvened.
“What do you mean?” Jeanette asked.
“Like them,” the prosecutor continued. “Friendships, cordial acquaintances.”
“I have several male friends.”
“Several?”
“Some.”
“Some. Not several.”
“Yes.”
“So do you like men?”
“As friends and acquaintances. Yes.”
“Have you ever used the term ‘breeder’?”
“Yes.”
“Specifically, who are you referring to when you use the term ‘breeder’?”
“Men.”
“What kind of men? Homosexual, heterosexual, bisexual?”
“Heterosexual men.”
“If you had to define the term ‘breeder’ either as a term of endearment or a term of derision, how would you define it?”
“I wouldn’t define it as either.”
“But if you had to.”
“I couldn’t say.”
“Okay. When, in the past, you’ve referred to a heterosexual man as a breeder, were you being complimentary?”
“I was making an identification using an acceptable term.”
“If I called you a dyke, would that be an acceptable term?”
“An acceptable term for whom?”
“For lesbians.”
“Some lesbians have no problem with the term, just like some gay people have no problem with the term ‘queer,’ and some black people have no problem with the term ‘nigger.’ Some heterosexual men have no problem with the term ‘breeder.’ ”
“Did you ever refer to Ramon Alexander as a breeder?”
“Yes.”
When was the last time you referred to Ramon Alexander as a breeder?”
“Sunday, November twelfth. At Eso Won Books.”
“To whom did you refer to him as a breeder?”
“Clymenthia Teager.”
“Were you upset at the time you referred to Lieutenant Alexander as a breeder?”
“No, not really.”
“When you came back into the storeroom where your lover, Clymenthia Teager, was, did she or did she not ask you what’s wrong?”
“She did.”
“Would you say that she knows you very well?”
“Yes.”
“When she asked you, ‘What’s wrong?’ what did you say?”
Jeanette took a moment, which was a moment too long for Madrano.
“Should I ask the question again, Miss Bell?”
“I said…‘Just a little harassment from a damn breeder.’ ”
Chapter Forty-four
With Brando busy with the trial and new thoughts of Collier, with Shane out of his life, and loveless sex losing its luster, Omar began spending time alone with his memories. Today of all days—June 23—brought the unholy trinity of a saddened heart, an empty soul, and
a hating mind back much too vividly. It was the twenty-third anniversary of Grammy’s death.
He had lived all his life a motherless child, a fatherless son. That it had not taken an even greater toll on his life was indeed a miracle. And now he was growing weary of the sorrow and the hate, the missing his grandmother, hating his mother, hating himself for missing and hating.
He had all of the trappings but none of the flesh and blood of life well lived. He could write everyone else’s story but could not truly face the facts of his own. He did not know the facts; did not want to know them, even though they had glared back at him for a lifetime, pulling his coattail, whispering his name, calling him over, punking him with his own insignificance.
You’re nothing to no one. The last person you truly mattered to died twenty-three years ago. No one wants to know your story. No one wants to know your life. No one wants to know your grief. It’s not even worth killing yourself over. Who would care if you died? The magazine editors with writers to spare? The Hollywood publicists who wine and dine yo’ invisible ass to get a few inches of ink for some high-paying celebrity client? The God that you’re not even sure you believe in? The boys that you bedded and baited with trinkets and cash and trips and good dick they could get anywhere? The track runner? The Silver Lake thug prince? Shane? Who would care? The friends that you never made, the people you were too afraid to get too close to? The resentful women who found you a wanton waste? The fire-and-brimstoners? Who would care?
Brando, maybe.
He bought the flowers at Mrs. Olivera’s shop on Centinela and La Brea, just as he always did.
“You go see your Grammy?” the beautiful silver-haired Mexican immigrant asked knowingly, herself a grandmother.
“Yes, ma’am,” Omar answered respectfully. He always marveled at those ancient but delicate hands of hers that carefully created and wrapped the mixed bouquet, an order she knew as well as her art.
“She knows how fortunate she is to have you, Omarito,” she said softly. “That is why she smiles down on you. That is why you must always smile back.”
Omar kept that in mind as he drove down Florence Avenue toward the Inglewood Cemetery. As he passed through the gates, he did manage a smile as he recalled those few years of youthful happiness living with Grammy, believing life with her would last forever. He could see her lovely face smiling back at him as he parked his car at the curb, next to the rolling green.
He got out of his car and stood next to it. Slowly he twirled the bouquet in his hand, then slowly he lowered his nose to it and took in the gardenia and lilac fragrance. Grammy’s fragrance.
He looked over the beautiful grounds. Headstones and markings were scattered gently as far as the eye could see, like still-life picnickers basking away under the warm summer sun.
He walked slowly through the well-manicured grass and read the names on the graves that he passed; familiar names, names he had gotten to know over the years. Edwin Scarborough, 1921–2000, Beloved Husband, Father, and Grandfather. Cecelia Preston, 1898–1979, Rest in Peace. Aaron and Angela Winslow, August 4, 1963-August 5, 1963, Heaven’s Children from Now till Eternity.
Grammy’s grave was just over the hill, shaded under a ficus tree a hundred yards in the distance. A warmth filled him as he thought about what they would talk about on this fine day.
As he drew closer, he could make out the headstone, and only that. He did not really notice the figure kneeling down at the grave next to Grammy’s. He did, however, notice the fresh flowers on Grammy’s grave.
Curiously, he continued his leisurely stroll, then slowly, very slowly, he realized that the figure was not kneeling down at the grave next to Grammy’s. The figure, the woman, was kneeling down at Grammy’s grave, had placed the fresh flowers there. His curiosity began to get the best of him.
And then it hit him, slowing down his pace, stopping him finally. It had been so long that he hardly recognized her. It was his mother.
He stood there and stared; anger tried to surface, but it was sadness that ultimately lowered his head.
Off to his left was a small cluster of trees. That’s where he retreated. He sat on the grass in back of them.
Time had not been good to the woman who gave him birth. Seated uneasily on the ground before Grammy’s grave, she was defeated by her slightness, her weariness, her impishness. Omar felt sorry for her.
And she was crying, as much as her frailty would allow. Omar had no idea his mother knew how to cry. Seeing this, he suddenly had an urge to run to her and take her in his arms and maybe even say to her what Mrs. Olivera said to him. She smiles down on you, Momma, that is why you must always smile hack. But he couldn’t…he just couldn’t.
He waited until she was done, had cried herself out, had struggled to lift herself up off the ground, steadying her ancient body on a cane of no distinction, had managed herself beyond Grammy’s grave, had gotten to the distant road and beyond.
He watched her disappear in the distance, even as he slowly made his way to Grammy’s grave, where he stood looking off after her for a very long time. Then finally he kneeled down to his grandmother. The flowers his mother had left were beautiful. He placed his mixed bouquet next to them.
That night, he did something he did not think he was capable of doing. He got down on his knees, next to his bed, and prayed to the God he wasn’t sure he believed him, and asked him to please remove the hate. Please, God, please…
Chapter Forty-five
We all sympathize with what Miss Bell has gone through,” Marion Madrano began in her closing statement. “I cannot think of a greater crime against a woman. But we have courts, a judicial system to determine what is to be done with those who commit crimes, after thoroughly establishing that a crime has been committed. Miss Bell set herself up as judge, jury, and executioner. She and she alone determined that Lieutenant Alexander committed a crime, and she and she alone determined that his sentence would be death. And so she killed him, an illegal killing, which makes it murder. She murdered him in cold blood out of revenge for what he had already done to her, not to protect herself against what he might do to her. Many of us, when we think we’ve been wronged, may feel like killing the person that wronged us. But the law says we cannot. Jeanette Bell ignored the law, and killed him anyway. Jeanette Bell is guilty of murdering Ramon Alexander.”
There was a hush in the courtroom when Marion Madrano completed her closing remarks. The sound of her heels clicking on the slat-wood floor echoed against the hallowed walls as she walked back to the prosecution table.
Brando sat at the defense table next to Jeanette and pondered for a moment. He looked into his client’s eyes. The silence that they shared spoke volumes. They were in this thing together.
Jeanette’s hands were folded on the table, delicate hands. Brando put his hand on hers and squeezed them ever so gently, but confidently. He smiled at her reassuringly. She smiled back, and nodded the go-ahead.
He stood under the expectant eyes of the courtroom—the citizens behind him, the judge, bailiff, and court reporter in front of him, the six men and six women in the jury box to his left. He turned to the jury and slowly approached them. He stood before them, took a deep breath, then exhaled evenly.
“Each one of you has to be Jeanette Bell on that terrible night, for that horror-filled hour,” he began. “Each and every one of you has to know the feeling of fighting for your life.
“Jeanette Bell is on trial for defending herself against a violent criminal. If she is guilty, then all of us are guilty each time we defend our wives, our children, our loved ones, God help us, ourselves from a violent criminal attack. Jeanette Bell was being raped by a man who enjoyed hurting women, and when he turned to come back after her, she defended herself. She stopped him the only way she knew how. The rapist was not about to stop himself. How much longer would Jeanette Bell have to suffer if she had not stopped this from happening to her? Would she even be alive today if she had not acted defensively? She not only def
ended herself, she defended us all, and the constitutional right that we all inalienably possess. For what she has done, we should not convict this courageous woman. We should give her a medal.”
After closing arguments, Judge Stork read a half hour of instructions to the jury, informing them that they had only three verdict choices—guilty of second degree murder, guilty of voluntary manslaughter, or not guilty—and what each verdict would mean.
At 6 PM the jury retired to consider its verdict. Three days later they were still deliberating. But Detective Edetta Franklin did not need to hear a verdict to determine what she had to do. He was still walking around living and breathing as if he had done nothing, as if he had not destroyed another human being, a walking stalking cadaver. He had to know and suffer, so that whatever afterlife he was consigned to would remind him of the sins of his former life revisited at great and painful consequence.
The right or wrong of it did not matter anymore. All that mattered was closure. And now, finally, the motherfucker was dead. She washed the blood off, went home to her husband, and made love to him as she’d never made love to him before.
Finally.
Edetta Franklin was a happy woman. Sometimes you have to just kill something to even the score.
One the fourth day of jury deliberation, the jury informed Judge Stork that they had reached a verdict. Brando received the call with a foreboding that had been building. An overnight verdict in a case like this most likely would have meant that the jury accepted the self-defense argument and that Jeanette killed her attacker justifiably.
Deliberation longer than that was not good news for the defense. There were no rebuttal witnesses to Jeanette’s story, yet there were jurors who did not believe she was innocent. The system, ruled by the laws of men, could still lay blame on female rape victims for the defensive death of a male attacker. Statistics had shown this to be the case disproportionately. It was a crapshoot, and Brando knew it.
But still he believed. The defense had spoken nothing but the truth, and he had to depend on that to save Jeanette from going to prison.
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