CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Jayson waited to board an elevator with six others on the eleventh floor of the McCormack Courthouse. He and seven strangers had spread themselves a respectable distance from each other in front of three closed elevator doors. Jayson stretched out his left arm and gently shook it, uncovering his watch. He reasoned by the time he walked to the parking garage it would be about an hour before his appointment with Leslie. The stressful rush hour drive to his destination would take that long, if not longer.
Jayson tilted his head slightly to observe the bright, numbered circles flashing from right to left above the elevator doors. He eased over to the middle of the three choices, expecting its double doors to open first. His preoccupation with Leslie slightly dampened the satisfaction he felt about a recent victory. He had just argued successfully for reduction of bail on behalf of a client charged with obstruction of justice: shredding documents indicating his employer had hired illegal Chinese immigrants to assemble computers.
Jayson couldn’t help feeling a bit smug as he remembered how the fifty-year-old human resource director had drilled him about his background and credentials when they had first conferred. This wasn’t uncommon when Jayson met his white clients for the first time. Often, employers hired Jayson with the tacit expectation of buying an employee’s silence. The employers who retained Jayson also chose him because his fees, considered high by lower middle class individual standards, were still at the lower half of the price scale according to corporate norms.
Jayson had surmised that his client, who held a bachelor’s degree in psychology and was guilty as sin, considered himself better than his attorney. The man couldn’t afford to raise ten percent of the $100,000 bail originally imposed; neither could he afford to hire a lawyer on his own. He had spent himself near bankruptcy with multiple mortgages, excessive credit card charges, a fancy wedding for his eldest daughter and private college tuition for her and his son.
Yet, Jayson recognized, the defendant saw his white skin as still bestowing him rank above any African American. Of course, the man and his wife had hugged their black lawyer like a member of the family after the judge had agreed to knock a zero off his required bail. Jayson didn’t anticipate he would be questioned any further about his qualifications by his grateful client.
The opening doors of the anticipated middle elevator brought him back to the present and revealed an unpleasant surprise: the Reverend Isaiah F. Bradley. Judging from how the minister directed his voice, Jayson assumed the five other African American riders inside were acquainted with the minister. Jayson considered waiting for the next elevator but recognized such a move would be conspicuous for its cowardice. “Oh, hello, Reverend,” Jayson said, trying to sound cheerful. He and another man and woman, both black, boarded the elevator. “It’s good to see you again,” he added, then turned around and watched the doors close, trapping him like Daniel in the lion’s den.
Reverend Bradley nodded. “Good afternoon, counselor,” he replied, and backed further into his corner, allowing additional space for the added passengers. “Brothers and sisters,” he said, apparently addressing the entire elevator congregation. “Do you know who this is?”
Jayson felt his heartbeat begin to race as all riders focused on him. He tightened his grip on the handle of his briefcase. It was going to be a long ride to the lobby.
“This brother is the lawyer who’s defending the white man who killed my little girl.”
Everyone but Jayson gasped as if he had just spat in the middle of the floor.
Jayson said nothing. Fortunately, the elevator stopped at the seventh floor and two white males squeezed inside. By their attire and briefcases, Jayson assumed they were fellow attorneys.
A rotund middle-aged woman standing to Jayson’s right wearing shiny dark brown hair that hung just below her ears, obviously a wig, gave him the once-over. “He seems like a nice enough young man,” she said.
Jayson made brief eye contact with the woman and smiled but said nothing. Instead he stared at the indicator lights on the wall, partially hidden by one of the lawyers who had just entered. Jayson assumed the reverend’s entourage and the other black passengers wouldn’t comment on the minister’s revelation with two white men present; many blacks felt it inappropriate to air their internal disagreements in the presence of white people.
Unfortunately for Jayson, the elevator stopped at the fourth floor and the two men exited. Three white men and one white woman who stood in front of the elevator didn’t move, apparently waiting for a ride up, not down. Jayson shook his head almost imperceptibly at his bad luck and watched with dread as his potential rescuers shuffled left to board another elevator while the doors to the one he occupied slid shut.
The advantage clearly his, Reverend Bradley resumed his introductions. “These people are members of my congregation, Mr. Cook,” he announced. “They’re here to monitor the trial of a young black man falsely accused of raping a white girl.” The reverend paused to allow a few passengers to “um-hmm” his remarks, then continued. “He can’t afford fancy representation from someone like you, so he’s got a public defender.” He shifted his upper body. “That’s his poor grandmother right there.”
Jayson made eye contact again with the woman who had professed his niceness. She appeared far too young to have a grown grandson. He nodded. “Ma’am,” he said.
The woman offered a sad smile.
Jayson sighed with relief when the elevator finally stopped at the lobby. The doors opened and he gestured to the grandmother with his left hand. “After you,” he said. She thanked him and waddled out of the crowded space. The other passengers exited also, leaving Jayson and Reverend Bradley to disembark together.
About three dozen people meandered about in the lobby. A few wore suits and clutched briefcases. Most wore very casual clothing. Jayson strolled slowly down the corridor, heading toward a flight of stairs leading downward to the front door. He would feel more comfortable once he had reached the stairs, past a half-dozen federal security marshals checking the belongings of people entering the building.
A young man with a scraggly beard and hair braided into tight cornrows stepped into Jayson’s path and backpedaled, attempting to keep pace with him. “What kind of black man are you, defending that racist pig? Huh?”
“He ain’t no black man,” a young woman chewing a huge wad of gum declared from a few feet behind Jayson.
“I could tell he was an Uncle Tom the minute I saw him,” exclaimed another young man with a clean-shaven head who walked alongside the gum-chewing woman.
Jayson could feel himself becoming incensed. As a man who had grown up in Boston’s inner city and been taught by his father never to take mess from anyone, he didn’t appreciate someone with the backing of a small mob getting in his face. Nevertheless, his experience as an attorney had taught him to avoid such confrontations. He had been through similar situations many times and recognized nothing positive would result from responding to anyone’s taunting.
He stepped around the bearded man and maintained a leisurely pace, not wanting to convey to Reverend Bradley or his crew that their presence had affected him in any way. He finally turned the corner and breathed a sigh of relief as he approached the marshals, who sported sidearms, performing their duties, oblivious to his situation. As he descended the stairs he heard parting shots from Reverend Bradley’s followers.
“Sellout!”
“Traitor!”
“You better run, punk.”
Jayson stepped into the muggy, warm outdoors and joined hundreds of people squinting to avoid the harshness of the sun, which wouldn’t set for another two hours. Out of his nemeses’ field of vision, he quickened his pace to a near trot for several seconds, then slowed down just in case the reverend and his flock had reached the front door. He didn’t want to be perceived as running from them. However, he felt confident by the time any of them reached the door he would have lost himself in the crowd. He resisted the urge to steal a glance ov
er his shoulder at the courthouse, now at least twenty yards away. He had a more pressing matter that demanded his attention.
•
The curvaceous, late twentyish waitress approached Jayson for the second time. She had tied her long, jet black hair behind her head. It matched her all-black attire—a bow tie, a low-cut vest and hip-hugging slacks, but no blouse, a stark contrast to her white arms. “How ‘bout a real drink this time, handsome?” she asked, raising her voice above the dance music. The flashing lights bounced off her soft, lovely face.
Jayson examined his near-empty glass of diet soda, for which he had paid three times what he would have shelled out at his regular watering hole. He glanced at the front door. “Not yet, hon. I’m waiting for someone. When she shows up, then I’ll partake.”
“Partake?” the woman asked.
“Order a real drink.”
The woman smiled. “Okay, be back in a few.” She pirouetted and strutted to a table several feet away where three college-aged men fought over a near-empty pitcher of beer.
Jayson checked his watch and the door again. He didn’t want his meeting with Leslie to turn ugly, so he told himself when she finally arrived he must resist the strong desire to scold her for keeping him waiting. He had arrived on time, paid a fifteen-dollar cover charge, chosen the table farthest away from the door, and ordered a drink.
For the past fifteen minutes he had kept his head down like a priest at a whorehouse, focusing on his soda. He had already declined separate offers from two heavily made-up, surgically top-heavy dancers for a lap dance. In an attempt to take his mind off his surroundings and fury at Leslie, Jayson recalled the information he had garnered from its Internet web site about Vivid Dreams, the club he had been forced to visit.
Glendale, a small town about an hour’s drive south of Boston, hosted the club, which had changed management two years before. All the action at Vivid Dreams took place on one floor, which could seat two hundred patrons comfortably. Nude women danced on four stages—a large platform four feet off the ground at the center of the club, and three smaller, slightly higher ones, spread throughout the room. In addition to the four stage performers, several bikini-clad dancers paraded around attempting to entice men to buy them drinks, pay for an individual lap dance, order a table dance for everyone seated at the table, or consent to a private dance in one of three “champagne rooms.”
Bored with sitting and doing nothing, Jayson sighed and scanned the area. He had found a seat near the kitchen as far away from the main show as possible, but the circular floor plan ensured one could view the entertainment from anywhere. The club was only half full at the moment and populated by men of various ages; some, like Jayson, wearing suits while others were dressed casually. Several brawny men in black, obviously security employees, canvassed the area watching for patrons who violated the “look but don’t touch” rule too brashly.
The brunette moving on the small stage in Jayson’s vicinity surrendered her spot to another, taller dancer. Both were Caucasian, as were all the dancers on stage and almost all the waitresses. At first Jayson found the new dancer’s movements to be unpleasantly vulgar, but after observing for a few minutes he grew to appreciate her position—in a manner of speaking. With increasing curiosity, he watched the young blonde ten feet away as she caressed, writhed and swung on a steel pole.
In honor of the impending Fourth of July holiday, she had begun her act sporting a red, white and blue bikini; an obviously patriotic woman, Jayson mused. Having quickly discarded her outfit, she wore nothing but a pair of red shoes with five-inch heels. Jayson watched and felt guilty that he had begun to enjoy her performance. His wife was far prettier than the woman on stage, but just look at those bouncing big-ass jugs! Perhaps, he thought, his frustration about his less-than-satisfying sex life had affected him more than he had realized.
“Enjoying the show?”
Jayson turned to see Leslie standing almost behind him, smirking as if he were a child caught stealing a cookie. “Well, it’s about time you got here,” he hissed.
Leslie made no apologies. She just pulled up a chair and watched the blonde for a few seconds. She made a face, then offered her opinion. “She ain’t shit.”
Jayson’s waitress scooted over to their table and cackled. “Leslie, is that you? Where the hell you been, girl?” she howled.
Leslie flashed a broad smile and hugged the woman. “Damn Jamie, you still here?”
“Yeah,” she answered. “Had to get my old job back to help pay some bills.”
Leslie pointed. “Almost all new faces.”
“Yeah,” Jamie said. “Well, the place hasn’t been the same since you left.” She inspected Jayson. “You’re just in time to keep from losing your man. The girls here can’t leave him alone. He sure is a cutie.” She grabbed her order pad. “Now what can I get you?”
Jayson opened his hands. “Just bring—”
“Two Long Island ice teas,” Leslie said. “He ain’t my man. We’ve got some business to discuss.” She turned her head from side to side, searching. “Didn’t I see Jerry?”
“Um-hmm.” Jamie nodded. “He had to come back too, after that other place he ran in Boston closed up. He’s one of the assistant managers.”
Leslie thumbed toward her right as if hitchhiking. “Well, tell Jerry we need a few minutes in the little champagne room before someone else takes it.”
“Okay,” Jamie replied and scampered off.
Jayson stared at Leslie. She wore a pair of jeans and a red, almost backless halter top showcasing considerable cleavage with thin strands crisscrossing the front. He imagined her on stage, then erased the thought from his mind. “You used to work here?”
Leslie nodded. “Yeah. I was a waitress first, then a dancer. Money was good. I could’ve been a big star but I met one of your brothers and got pregnant.”
“Oh,” Jayson said. He didn’t know what else to say.
Leslie rolled her eyes. “Sorry we can’t all go to med school and live in a fancy house in Belmont. Some of us have to let perverted married men get a hard-on dancing for them.”
Jayson decided to get right down to business. “Leslie, about, um, your gift…”
Leslie put her fingers on her lips. “Not here.” She waved to a young, broad-shouldered man wearing a black shirt and pants who approached them. “Hurry up, Jerry, shit. We ain’t got all day.”
The man reached the table, smiled and whinnied. “Well, well, well,” he declared. “Look what the cat dragged in!” He and Leslie exchanged a few playful barbs, then he unhooked a set of keys from his belt and approached a set of double doors a few feet away, built into a black wall. He unlocked one door and opened it.
“We’re gonna talk, so no music,” Leslie said. She slid off her chair and pointed at Jamie, who arrived with their drinks. “Don’t be cheap and make me look bad,” she warned Jayson. She said goodbye to Jamie, grabbed the drinks and sauntered into the room.
Jayson paid for the drinks, giving the waitress a five-dollar tip and headed for the champagne room. He stopped at the door. “How much?” he asked Jerry.
The man waved. “Hell, seeing you’re a friend of a friend, I’ll let you have fifteen minutes for just twenty-five bucks.”
Jayson thanked the man and handed him thirty-five dollars. Jerry stuffed the money into his front pants pocket and swaggered off.
Jamie raced over to Jayson and grabbed his arm. “You two got something going?”
Jayson shook his head. “Nope. Just business.”
The woman rubbed Jayson’s arm and winked. “I get off at midnight.”
Jayson held up his left hand. “I got a wife.”
“I won’t tell her if you won’t, tiger.”
Jayson backed away. “Um, thanks, but I just came here to conduct business and go. I won’t be back.” For some reason her resulting frown bothered him. “But I think you’re very pretty,” he added. He felt surprisingly flattered by her attention.
Ja
mie’s frown turned into a smile. She backed up as well. “If you change your mind, you come see me first, hear?”
Jayson assured her he would and joined Leslie. Their champagne room was the smallest of the three and about half the size of his conference room. It had a pole, mirrored walls, a large easy chair, a small table, and windows on the doors so the security detail could peek in. He could see a camera hanging on one wall.
“We’ve only got a few minutes,” Leslie announced and sashayed closer. “I wanna make sure you ain’t wired or nothing.”
Jayson decided not to argue. Attempted extortion carried a maximum penalty of fifteen years in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. Leslie might not have attended college, but she was obviously intelligent and resourceful. Jayson recognized he would have to keep that in mind. He extended his arms. “Hurry up.”
Leslie smiled as though they were lovers and took her time running her fingers under his suit jacket, caressing his chest and back. “Oooh, you work out, don’t you?” she asked.
Jayson suspected she had been taught that line during Strippers Training 101, but still felt pride at the remark. He also felt an involuntary sexual stirring when the beautiful young woman touched his legs and groin.
Finished with her frisking, Leslie took a step back. “You bring my gift?”
Jayson shook his head. “No.”
Leslie bared her teeth like a panther. “You son of a bitch!” she snarled, and stomped toward the door. “You think I’m fucking around with you. Don’t you?”
Jayson’s heartbeat pounded in his chest so loudly he could feel his body shaking. “Listen, Leslie—”
She spun around and pointed at him. “No, you listen. Don’t think I’m one of your illiterate clients.”
Jayson opened his arms. “Do you think I can just yank twenty-five Gs out of my joint savings account?” His question obviously got Leslie’s attention. She calmed down and stood silently with her hands on her hips. Jayson recited the script he had rehearsed. “I need some time to do this so it won’t be noticed.”
“How much time?”
“Two weeks.”
Leslie shook her head. “Fuck that.” She paused to think. “You got one week.” She pointed again. “One week or you can kiss your comfortable life goodbye.”
Jayson nodded slowly. “Deal.”
Leslie changed her demeanor and stepped closer to him, becoming coy and seductive once more. She grabbed Jayson’s tie and gently tugged, pulling his face close to hers. “Don’t disappoint me again, baby,” she cooed, and kissed him briefly on the lips before releasing him and strutting out of the room.
Jayson closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. He reached into his pocket, produced a handkerchief and wiped the lipstick from his mouth. After waiting for a minute, he stepped out of the room. He searched for Leslie, but couldn’t locate her among the scores of employees and patrons in the area. Grateful not to have found her, he eased out the front door and walked to his car.
As he trudged across the half-empty parking lot he noticed the sun, partially hidden by a cloud, and anticipated at least another hour of daylight. The air felt humid and uncomfortable, adding to his irritable mood.
After three minutes of cruising in his vehicle enjoying the air conditioner Jayson punched in a number on his mobile phone and waited. “It’s me,” he said. “I’ve got a week. That’s all. If you can’t do it by then, I’m screwed.”
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Guilt by Association Page 17
