Burning Desire

by Relentless Aaron

  “Mom? I heard your voice.” I heard the younger female voice before I got a look at the face. And then I eventually did see the person behind the voice. Whoa. It immediately hit me that this was a younger version of Ophelia. The facial features. The body. The energy.

  All that seemed to double up on me once these two hugged.

  “How was your trip back, Ma?”

  “Good, baby. Did you meet our guest? Preston, this is my daughter, Dancer. And Dance— I call her Dance — just happens to be one of Atlanta’s hottest female singers!” Ophelia’s face lit up when she announced this. I could see the pride in her expression. I could also see the humble demeanor of Dancer. Wow, what a name.

  Dancer seemed to have a lot to talk about with her mom, including some type of recording collaboration with a local rap artist, and some other business about being a featured act at Atlanta’s Bronner Bros. Hair Show. I excused myself and began to back out of the office, but Ophelia help up her hand. Wait.

  Don’t hafta tell me twice.

  “Dancer, why don’t you show Preston the studio I built for you.”

  And so it was. Just a little farther down the hallway was a combination studio and living quarters that Dancer seemed to fit comfortably in. It felt as though the two women had shown this jewel to many a visitor. I hardly blinked before Dancer flipped a few switches and lit up the sound board, computer screens, the sound booth, and seconds later music began to play.

  Ophelia immediately rocked her head to the tempo of the music. It was clear to see that she couldn’t have heard this less than a thousand times. I didn’t see STAGE MOM on Ophelia’s forehead. But PROUD MOM was definitely broadcast from there.

  “Nice,” I said. And I wanted to hear more.

  [NINE]

  OPHELIA

  TAKING CHARGE OF situations like these comes natural to me. I do it for so many others when they’re caught out there on the short end of the stick, whether they’re in accidents, disputes, or any of life’s other challenges. I take care of the young and old, rich or poor. And they pay me handsomely. So, I’m thinking, I’m blessed, so why don’t I give back, help this guy, and ask for nothing in return? How could it hurt? He’s harmless. He’s injured. And he’s clearly lost his way home. And besides, he’s been very helpful around the house since his legs healed up and during his recuperation. And besides that, Dancer seems to like him. And if Dancer likes him, I guess I like him.

  I got Bo Humphrey on the case; he’s my lead private investigator. I’ve sent him out to search and score for me on divorce cases, insurance claims, and especially when there’s someone vital to a case who I can’t find— he’s the best at that. So, naturally I called him about Preston and gave him the limited information that I had regarding his dad, his business, and that he somehow migrated from up north. When he returned, Bo had come up with zero, and that was unlike him. I wondered if he wasn’t losing his touch, or if something else was off track.

  “There’s fourteen hundred businesses with ‘Mister Fix-It’ in their name,” Bo told me. “And that doesn’t count all the books, videos on YouTube, and other associated Web presences that use the Mister Fix-It phrase. So, before I put my assistant on an all-day, all-night, year-long campaign to find what might be a lead, I have a suggestion.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Percival Culberson owes a favor for getting him out of that tax mess last year.”

  “Okay?”

  “And he just got promoted.”

  “Really? At WAGA?”

  “That’s right. He’s now the executive producer for the six-o’clock news.”

  “Hmmm. Now that is an interesting piece of news,” I said to Bo. But in the back of my mind, I could already feel the gears in motion. I could already see the thing I imagined becoming reality.

  Ray Ray, the cousin who grew up like a brother to me, also doubles as my driver— that is, when he can keep his driver’s license straight. He’s the last of the ghetto issues in my house hold; still with some of the baby-momma drama, the in-again, out-again jail record, and a few weed charges here and there. It’s a burden sometimes to have to come in and clean up after Ray Ray all the time, but then I recall the good old days and all the fun times we had as children. I remember him being at so many family functions, triumphs, and ceremonies, and it sort of erases any of his current miseries; that is, what ever miseries he happens to be going through at the time.

  To visit the news-anchor-turned-producer, I asked Ray Ray to play driver so that I’d be able to catch up on the motion I needed to submit at my next court appearance. We eventually found ourselves out in the parking lot, where I knew I’d catch him heading through the employee entrance at Atlanta’s WAGA-T V. To be honest, I thought things might’ve changed in the months since we’d seen each other last; but my office was already in the area, and a busy rush hour was in sight, so I figured, even if we didn’t get lucky, the worst-case scenario was that we’d miss some of that mess that always clutters up I-20.

  “Ray Ray, would you mind keeping an eye out for this guy so I can focus on the work I’m doing?”

  “No question, ’Felia.”

  “You still remember what he looks like?”

  “I gotcha, cuz. Much as Toni be keepin’ that dang news on e’ry night? That man’s face is tattooed on my brains.”

  “That, and them dang Black & Mild cigarettes.”

  Ray Ray laughed, ‘cuz he knew how I felt about his smoking and how that odor followed him everywhere he went— like in the kitchen and on the sofas in the living room. I gotta love my cousin, but I gotta give him the tough love, too. If I don’t, who will?

  PLAINTIFF’S MOTION FOR BAIL

  WHEREAS, the Defendant, Theodore Jefferson Barnes, requests that this Court establish bail…

  AS I was putting together my motion, I couldn’t help knowing that this was a clear case of wicked Atlanta politics. There was no doubt that Theodore Jefferson Barnes hangs among the wrong people. But the sweep these feds executed was a blind attempt to bust any-and everybody who might have some insight on The Bullet, and everybody who’s anybody knows that The Bullet is untouchable. Everyone I know in law enforcement or in the court system is straight-up scared of that man. And all these people they picked up ain’t gonna turn on him, either. They just shoo-tin’ in the dark, hopin’ to hit somethin’. I’ve seen it all before, how law enforcement can’t get hold of the big boy, so they try to squeeze and threaten and intimidate the low-level runners, their families, and basically anyone who is guilty by association. Thing is, that’s none of my business. My client was at the nightclub when the bust went down. Period. End of story. The ounce of weed he had on him is coincidental to the bust. If the government wants to threaten probation or a suspended sentence, I’ll talk it over with my client and urge him to entertain it. But for the prosecutor to play these games and threaten five years and a thousand-dollar fine is silliness at best. If the government thought he would become an in for mant on a known killer and reputed lord of the Atlanta underworld in return for a lenient judicial procedure, then they’re sadly mistaken. I’d tell my client to do the time — all day long. And see, that’s what’s wrong with the system now: people always trying to take advantage of others. That’s why it’s so hard to trust Lady Justice. That’s why I left that side of justice years ago, because of how unbalanced things were. If my client— or any client, for that matter— is not properly represented by someone who gives a damn then everyone might as well give up their rights and check in at their local lockup.

  Ray Ray pulled the driver’s door open. “Ain’t that him, cuz?”

  I shuffled my papers to the side and made my way out of my Benz. That was one thing I never got use to: the comfort of the backseat. I was always the aggressive one at the steering wheel. Hard to surrender that position. And although I appreciate luxury, I don’t think I’d ever get comfortable like some pampered prima donna.

  It didn’t take much to catch up to my old college chum.

>   “Congratulations, Percival!” I was maybe ten feet from the newscaster when I announced myself. He seemed startled. Percival Culberson was a go-getter in college. I knew of him only from a distance, when he would moderate the college debates we had between schools. Even then, he always seemed to have that TV-host personality goin’ on. Not the cutest cookie in the jar, but sharp, with that whole perfect English-speaking way he had about him. And how could he miss the whippersnapper that I was? Any debate team I was on never lost a competition. And my name was always announced in the school papers as the future legal ea gle that also played soccer, chess, and held down the cheerleading squad. And furthermore, I was claiming the valedictorian crown in my entire last year of school, as if it were already mine. Sure, that was a bit cocky of me to think that way, and I honestly really am a humble person. But whenever it came to any challenge, best believe that my family, my friends, and anyone at school knew Ophelia King would be giving it 1000 percent in that quest to become the winner who took all.

  “Ophelia! What a surprise!”

  We shared a gentle, unimposing hug and some small talk before I got down to the nitty-gritty.

  “I need a favor, Percival.” He looked at his watch, but I couldn’t help thinking that what ever priority he had in mind would have to wait.

  “Something relating to a case? You know legal gives us hell when—”

  “No, Percival. This has nothing to do with any case, court proceedings, or any of that.” I put a grip on his arm to try to get him to listen instead of prejudge. “I’m trying to help a friend. He’s been in an accident, fell into a subsequent coma, and there’s the amnesia now. Just crazy. Anyway, I need you to do a little feature or a brief story about his situation so that somebody out there will recognize his face and come forth. I’m hoping to get family, friends, co-workers to claim this man because right now he has no idea who he is, except for the father and grandfather he keeps mentioning.”

  Percival appeared to be thinking about my proposition. No doubt, so many others have come his way with the want for some news feature or TV exposure, to say nothing of the ideas and themes he and his co-w orkers come up with. But I was banking on my direct approach, as well as my track record and that he and I went to school together. The cards were definitely stacked in my favor here. It was something I learned soon after law school: get as many points, resources, and as much agreement as you can to back your claim or position. Get as close to a sure thing as you can. Even with, there’s no guarantee that you’ll win. But it’s better to have than to have not.

  “The thing here was time, Ophelia. I already like your story, and I know how far you and I go back. But I need to see what’s on the table upstairs. Politics. Special interests. Tragedies. Economics. And now there’s Obama mania. There are so many stories, concerns, and motives behind them all; and all of that changes from day to day.”

  “Sounds like you need my negotiation skills up there.”

  Percival chuckled and nodded at once. Agreement. “A l -ready, before I walk in that door, there will be a stack of initiatives, a schedule to keep to, and so many hidden agendas underneath it all. I swear it’s hard to know what’s going on in people’s minds and what their motives are. It’s bizarre. But I will promise to get this onto my agenda.”

  I shot him my cute smile. “Double promise?” I pretended to hold him accountable for the commitment he’d given me, as if there’d be some critical, liberty-threatening legal repercussions weighing in.

  “I gotcha, Ophelia. You’ve been a major impact in my life, and any way I can, I’d like to return the favor tenfold.” With that, I handed him a folder with a photo of my house guest, a description, and some other intelligent details I thought might be helpful.

  ——

  AND THAT’S all it took. A little resourcing. A little encouraging. But I had no idea that my helping this perfect stranger would turn out to be the latest drama to reach my doorstep.

  I RECEIVED an e-mail from Percival informing me of the forthcoming broadcast. Unfortunately, I only got to check e-mails into the early evening. I had been in court most of the morning and in the late afternoon I felt the need for a nap. And that’s just what the doctors ordered, a nap when I felt overworked, no matter what. Well, a long drawn-out morning in the courtroom certainly qualifies as a no-matter-what occasion. And if I could get that to be my ritual, to get some rest after sitting through a morning of mostly other people’s court appearances, then that’s what it was gonna have to be.

  By the time I got to read the e-mails, to learn about the broadcast I missed on WAGA, there were already voice-mail messages responding to the story. Ten of them. Wo w, that was fast.

  “Hey there. I’m Chantelle. That man up on the TV is Carter. We been married for two years now, and he just up and disappeared a month ago. Could you tell him I’m waitin’ for him to come home? I got some chores left undone.”

  I was about to call the 404 phone number that Chan-telle had left. I was already excited when the message started playing back. Except, there was this faint giggle at the end of the message. I had to rewind the message and listen to it again. Only on the second listen did I actually hear the “month ago” and the bit about “chores left undone.” The notion of a husband missing for over a month, and for a wife to only be interested in chores left undone was amusing. And while I laughed at the idea, the next message was already playing.

  “This is Maxine. I don’t know what made me call, ‘cuz the truth is, I don’t know this man from Adam. But you know they’s a shortage a good men here, and that’s one fine brother on that T V. Puleeeze call a sistah if he can’t find his home, ‘cuz I surely got a place for him!”

  I didn’t need to hear any more of these messages to know what I was dealing with. The thirteen-to-one theory was playing itself out before my very eyes. That is, the ratio between men and women in Atlanta. For reasons that are many, good, single men are hard to come by here. And maybe this isn’t merely an Atlanta thing and I just have tunnel vision. But I do know that whether it’s men falling in and out of prison, in and out of marriage, drugs, or the gay lifestyle, a good man is hard to find in Atlanta. If not in those ways, black men are falling, period. AIDS. The murder rate. Partnering with white women. Black-on-black violence. Even induction into the military. For all those reasons, our black men are disappearing. They’re either taken, they’re fakin’, or they’re mistaken, as the saying goes. And black women, from the bottom up, are fed up with the statistics.

  So, that’s what I had to deal with— the thirteen-to-one ratio. Thirteen women to every man. And many of those men have even taken advantage of the situation so they can enjoy having their cake and eating it, too. In the end, it would make my job of screening inquiries that much more difficult. By midnight, there were over two hundred calls, and by the next morning over five hundred voice mails were backed up, with just as many messages in my office e-mail. I found myself saying, Lawd have MERCY! Thank God I didn’t use my personal e-mail.

  As if my life w asn’t already a trip!

  The next morning brought along with it a brand-new stack of revelations. I had planned on playing catch-up in my home office because Angela, my para legal, has only been with me a few months. I trust her more now than I did when she started with me, but that’s always a pro cess. You never want to give the new people in your life access to everything, especially if you’re not sure, or if the relationship is seasonal or for a lifetime. So, she doesn’t yet do the personal stuff, the bills for the house and all my other commitments. Toni is supposed to be taking care of that stuff; that’s the reason why I had her move in with me right after she finished college. However, even that has taken some time. Toni hasn’t become all that efficient and responsible as I hope she’ll become. So, in the meantime, I do my own personal bill-keeping, and as much as I try to stay on top of it all, I can digress at times. All-night cramming on a case, traveling to different districts in Georgia, and somehow making time to go and see Dancer a
t one performance or another can wear on a woman’s ability to keep her game tight. Mail will start out on the kitchen counter, then it will shift to the dining-room table, and sometimes to my bedroom. At other times, it does follow some unspoken protocol and finds its way down to my office. But what we haven’t yet established is that Angela should be taking care of it from start to finish.

  “Hey, cuzin. You made the papers again.” Ray Ray came through my doors while I was multitasking— writing checks and watching CNN. Usually, I would get on him for not knocking and I’d encourage him to use discretion—never know when I have a client, Ray Ray. But, did he not say I had made the papers?

  AMNESIA VICTIM LOST FOR 12 WEEKS

  by Terrell Weeks, Associated Press

  ATLANTA (AP)—A man known only as “Preston” survived a terrible attack, or accident (authorities aren’t sure which), in downtown Atlanta just 12 weeks ago and apparently had all data wiped from his brain’s hard drive, including his very identity, and his home address.

  For the first 11 weeks, Preston had been in a coma at Atlanta Medical Center, but he woke up with his new “blank” hard drive. He now calls Fulton County his home, where he is under the care of famed attorney Ophelia King, who rescued Preston from his circumstances once he woke from the coma a few weeks ago. Other than that he was a “handyman who worked alongside his father and grandfather,” Preston is unable to remember his name, where he worked and what he did for a living, or where he’s from. His new “friends” are hoping that Preston’s real family will see the news and come forth to identify and welcome him back home.