Vulnerable

by Bonita Thompson

  “Hi, Rawn. Baby, I’m sorry.”

  The electronic voice on the machine said, “No more messages.”

  “Tamara?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  “The trial of Washington State v. Rawn Poussaint gets underway one week from today. We will bring you live updates on the hour. Ezra Hirsch, the high-profile attorney who defended Lou Baker Washington one year ago, and Henderson Payne in 1993, has managed to not only get the trial moved to Seattle where the jury pool is more diverse, he has also managed to…”

  Khalil clicked the remote control to silence the audio. “Blah, blah, blah. I never did like her. How’d she get that job?”

  “Bad mood?” Moon said, flipping through a day-old International Herald Tribune in bed. Clad in a silk spaghetti-strapped nightie, she picked up her black tea and reminded Khalil, “My flight leaves at six.”

  He slipped his slacks on and turned to admire her waist-long jet-black hair spread out over the pillow. She looked like she was posing for a shampoo advertisement. “You’ll be back during the trial?”

  She looked up to him, skeptical. “Would this be the best time to meet Rawn for the first time?”

  “It’s support, Moon. Black folks have a different way of doing things…you being at the trial won’t in any way offend his sensibilities.”

  “Yes, then of course I’ll come back to be a support for him. I heard the trial was going to be at least a month long. This whole thing is so…Even in London, it’s popular conversation. D’Becca Ross was a beautiful woman. It’s tragic.”

  “Why does it take a beautiful woman…No, a beautiful white woman to be murdered or abducted or whatever to make the media notice and for it to be tragic.”

  Moon was fully aware that it was a statement, not an inquiry.

  Slipping on his shirt, Khalil studied Moon closely. While she read the paper, she occasionally sipped her tea. Moon was very feminine, and graceful. “That’s the right black tea, right?”

  When their eyes met, she winked flirtatiously. “It’s perfect, baby.”

  Khalil said to himself, “I know that’s right.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  With a grin he said, “Nothing.”

  His cellular rang, and Moon retrieved it from the nightstand. She handed it out to him, saying, “Here’s your accomplice.”

  Reaching for it, he laughed. “Khalil Underwood!”

  “Hey!”

  “Henderson, my man. You in Boston?”

  “Yeah, man. And it’s cold as hell.”

  “Wait! Anything wrong?”

  “Why something got to be wrong, dude?”

  “I’m checking. You don’t usually call me on the road unless it’s important.”

  “Can we hook up?”

  “When do you guys get back to L.A.?”

  “Tomorrow. But let’s make it day after.”

  “I can come to you or we can hook up in the Marina.”

  “Come by the crib. Say four o’clock.”

  “See you then.”

  Khalil tossed the cellular onto the bed and sat at the edge of it. When he bent over to slip on his shoes, he felt a weird, unconscious panic.

  The following morning, he cancelled two appointments in order to meet with his most high-profile client. Henderson Payne lived in the Hancock Park section of Los Angeles; a ride that was approximately fifteen minutes from Khalil’s cottage above Sunset Plaza. His office, not far from the cottage, was ten minutes from Henderson’s. At that hour, and with traffic, it took fifteen minutes, give or take. The street Henderson lived in was enchanting with Old World charm; it was wide and antediluvian tree-lined. Each time Khalil pulled into the long drive, he saw something new about Henderson’s home. Set away from the street, the Italianate had a washed sienna façade with extra-tall palm trees amid beautifully cared-for foliage with meticulously manicured lawns. Henderson purchased it when he signed his new deal, and it was grand, opulent. Following his acquittal in 1993, Henderson spent a year in Italy playing ball, and was seduced by the culture’s charm and immortality. While residing there, he bought a villa. When he returned to Los Angeles, whenever he passed a beautiful woman, he would say ciao bella, the way the Italians did it, and his wardrobe was strictly Italian, right down to his shoes. While in Italy, he managed to sign several lucrative endorsements. The Italianate was on the market for a week, and Henderson bought it sight unseen. The purchase made the front page of The Wall Street Journal.

  Henderson’s black convertible Porsche was halfway between the front of the home and the four-car garage in the rear. Daphne generally kept her Range Rover parked in the rear by the garages until she was in for the remainder of the evening. Khalil did not see her SUV, and this made him superficially edgy. When he turned off his engine, two stunning Dalmatians rushed up barking. Henderson stood inside the frame of his black double doors in faded Levi’s with a slit in the left knee, a white designer T-shirt and flip-flops.

  “It’s love, man. Don’t freak—they know you,” Henderson called out, laughing. “Pepper! Seville! Come back here!” Henderson commanded the Dalmatians. “Come on, girls! Come back in the house.”

  When he stepped out of his car, Khalil received a call. He elected to disregard it in case it required time or privacy. When he reached the door, he and Henderson shook hands and shoulder-bumped.

  The house loomed quiet. Henderson walked Khalil through the entrance gallery that led to an airy living room highlighted in soft watermelon-hued walls. The artwork that hung in the room was purchased while he lived in Italy: vivid and exceptional pieces that made no sense to Khalil. A fire was burning which added a serene ambiance to the ornate room. Several plush sofas and chairs sprawled the wide, rectangular area. The living room’s arched French doors enhanced the indoor-outdoor spaces, as each led to a different angle of the west loggia outlined in aged brick that spilled out onto the limestone-paved courtyard and pool.

  They left the rambling living room and entered a sitting room richly decorated in chocolate and amber, with suede sofas and velvet overstuffed chairs. A striking photograph of Daphne on the cover of Vogue Paris hung in an oversized frame on one wall, and the opposite wall was adorned with black-and-white and copper-colored photographs of Henderson’s children—in the park, at his games, one of the children’s sleepover, having a bubble bath, at a birthday party, asleep in their father’s arms while he read a newspaper. Those photographs—unbelievably breathtaking—relayed an ambiguous tale.

  “I thought we could have beers…or naught. It’s a nice day. One of the reasons I worked my ass off to get here. Or would you rather stay inside?”

  “Either way. I’ve always been pulled to this room.”

  “Cool.” Henderson sat in one of the exquisite ivory-black chairs.

  Khalil took a seat at the edge of the suede loveseat.

  “Should I have Lucinda bring us something?”

  Khalil crossed his legs. This was, to all intents and purposes, his employer. Since taking him on as a client, they went to a few Dodger games together, and last year Henderson took him to see Kathleen Battle for his birthday. He spent one weekend with his family on Catalina Island during the off-season; and they drove to Palm Springs for a golfing tournament and to Vegas for a boxing match. They were not friends per se; Khalil made every effort to draw the line between business and personal matters because it had the potential to cloud his judgment if he became too close to a client. Yet when Henderson called and invited him to do this or go there, he was often irresolute. He was among several of his most visible clients, and getting personal came with the job; thus, one showed up! Generally, he knew why he was meeting with Henderson. All day the day before he could not imagine why he summoned him to his home.

  “I’m cool. But Lucinda does make one good margarita.”

  “Should I?…”

  He threw his hand out. “No, really.” Khalil uncrossed his leg.

  While the room did not feel stuffy in the least, Khalil was not exa
ctly relaxed and at ease with his client’s intrigue. He crossed his leg again while Henderson, casual, rested comfortably in the seat. His long legs stretched out, he placed his finger to his temple while his thumb rested under his chin. “You know I have two, possibly three good years left, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Jabbar is my hero, but I don’t want to be forty-two when I retire my number.”

  “Sure; fine.”

  “How’s your friend?” Henderson asked.

  Khalil realized he was inside his head and was not exactly sure what Henderson said to him, although he knew it was a question. “Excuse me?”

  “Your friend. Rawn?”

  “Oh, Rawn!” Khalil leaned forward. “As good as he could be under the circumstance. He’s magnificent in the way he’s stepped bravely into new territory. I know I’d handle it differently for sure.”

  Henderson extended a polite nod.

  Khalil wanted to ask him why he inquired about Rawn, but then Henderson knew that Rawn was his friend, and anyone who was not in a coma knew about the case and D’Becca’s murder. Henderson’s wife, Daphne, knew D’Becca. They worked together in Europe, although it was some years ago—early on in their respective careers. Khalil still could not wrap his head around this thing being classified as a murder and Rawn’s alleged involvement.

  Henderson broke his agent’s roving mind. “I remember that commercial she did. Remember, for the Super Bowl? Half the time I never even pay attention to all those ads, man. But I stopped for that one. She was advertising beer?” Henderson chuckled. “Reminds me of music videos. Babes are practically naked, grinding the floor, the walls, each other…And what exactly does that have to do with the lyrics, know what I’m saying?”

  “But you don’t mind?…”

  “Oh, no! No, I don’t mind.” Henderson’s famous grin rearranged the contour of his face. He reached out and he and Khalil fist-bumped. “Yeah, that was a few years ago. But I remember that commercial like it was this morning.”

  “It was memorable. You won’t believe it, man. But Rawn didn’t even remember that commercial. She’s a—was a beautiful woman; it’s tragic.” Khalil found himself repeating what Moon said a few days prior.

  “He must’ve missed it.”

  “No, we went skiing in Tahoe the weekend of that Super Bowl. We saw the commercial. Rawn didn’t make the connection.”

  “Well…how’s it looking for him?”

  “There’s no direct evidence. Their so-called eyewitness is D’Becca’s next-door neighbor. But Hirsch, you know him. He’ll poke holes in her questionable timeline. Other than her saying she saw him leaving after Sebastian Michaels, that’s all they have; and that’s not accurate. What’s the motive? There’s no weapon. As I understand it, they aren’t even able to determine whether she was killed as a result of her head hitting the bathtub or some blunt object she was hit with. Man, it’s so circumstantial, if that. Wrong place at the wrong time. A brother on Crescent Island.” Khalil shook his head.

  Is this why I’m here?

  “Man, that’s a beautiful place. I thought about buying property there. Daphne loves it.”

  “Why don’t you have a place in Washington? It’s home.”

  “When I went over to Italy, I let my sister take over my place in Madrona. Anyway, I like staying downtown whenever I go home. The place has changed so much. Starbucks on every corner, parking’s tight…It’s so different…”

  The dogs started barking and Henderson looked over his shoulder anticipating them to run into the room. Khalil could hear Lucinda, the woman that managed the Paynes’ home, telling the dogs to calm down. Each man sat quietly in the room for several minutes until Henderson said, “I want to ask you something.”

  Khalil made note of the seriousness in his tone. Henderson was not an easy man to interpret. “What’s that?”

  “When I was on trial—and this was before we met—did you think I was guilty?”

  Khalil met Henderson’s earnest gaze. He understood it fully: he needed to be forthright. The question was not random or casual. Henderson asked because he wanted to know.

  He did not hesitate when he replied. “I never once thought you were guilty.”

  Before he said anything, Henderson looked Khalil straight in the eyes. “Man to man…”

  “Man to man—no. When I heard that you were arrested for drug possession…four kilos of cocaine and weapons possession, naw.” Khalil grimaced. “Uh-huh, man. Listen, anybody who followed sports during that time knew you had a habit, okay? It was no secret. Come on, man. You can’t have a damn near four-hundred-dollar-a-day coke habit and not expect that to be leaked. You can’t go hanging out in the hood doing crack with homeboys and not expect that to be leaked by somebody,” Khalil said, shrugging sarcastically.

  “Okay.” Henderson nodded. “You’re right. And I appreciate your honesty.”

  “But you do recognize that when your agent suggested you go to Italy, it was the smoothest transition for you? God rest his soul, but Saul had your back, Henderson. And I don’t say that because he was my mentor. I know how much you resented having to play in another country.”

  “Oh, well, I’m over that. Going to Italy, it changed my life. But you have to know what it’s like to be accused of something you didn’t do and then go through the so-called justice system. Man, that…” Henderson looked to be in thought, his head bowed. His eyes pressed shut, he lifted his head. When he looked straight at Khalil, it was something Khalil understood for the first time: how much the trial—and the criminal accusation—affected his client. “Your friend Rawn. Is he standup? Brother-to-brother, I mean standup?”

  “Hell, yeah. I trust Rawn with my life! They don’t come standup better than Rawn.”

  “Yeah, right. See, it’s wrong that a man who’s innocent should go through what he’s going through. I was lucky. Twelve Angelenos were not exactly confident that I—me, Henderson Payne, a celebrated ballplayer, would leave the scene of…a drive-by? Why would I even be involved in a drive-by? I don’t carry my gun on me. And leave kilos of cocaine in the backseat of my ride and several Uzis in the trunk? Seriously. To this day I feel what that trial did to my reputation. And that’s why when Saul advised me to do it, I went to Italy. But man, I still think about it. Not every day, but I’ve gone to parties where a bowl—and I mean a bowl—of cocaine is sitting there…and I remember”—he tapped his temple three times—“that night, and I get up and leave the room. So it won’t even be linked to me, I leave the house!”

  Khalil nodded with understanding. But there was simply no way for him to comprehend the scope and magnitude of Henderson’s experience.

  “So if you tell me your friend would never be involved with something like what he’s being accused of, he shouldn’t have to go through this, man. It’s—it’s not right.”

  “They never did catch the dude that stole your ride, did they?”

  “No,” Henderson said, shaking his head. “Man, I was high that night. I’d done some serious blow; I’d hit the pipe a few times, too, and I could have given the devil the keys to my ride. All I remember is getting a phone call real early the next morning. It was all over the news that there was this drive-by and some cat was shot three times, and my ride was involved. Two hours later, I get a knock-knock at my hotel door. That brother who took my ride? He was a thug, but he wasn’t stupid. He had the good sense to wipe my ride clean of his fingerprints. DNA wasn’t reliable back then. All the fingerprints on the weapons and kilos of cocaine belonged to some Latino dude who probably sold him the stuff. Hell, he was in the wind; probably crossed the border before the news even broke in the media.

  “You tell me. How—why…” Henderson spread his hands. “Would I have that kind of paraphernalia in my Benz? See, the drive-by was two blocks from where I scored my cocaine. So-called eyewitnesses claimed they saw me get in my car, leaving. I was with my ‘entourage.’ Because I couldn’t find my ride, I assumed it was stolen. One of my ho
mies took me back to the hotel, man. Despite what the prosecution claimed: that my so-called entourage was living off my celebrity and they’d say whatever I tell them to say; so even their testimony didn’t help me. But as I sit here, it’s God’s blessing”—Henderson kissed his fingertips and looked up like he was sending God a private message—“the jury took something I said on the witness stand to heart. They trusted me.”

  Khalil let Henderson work through the memories. He knew, if he was being tested, he passed. But he was unable to ascertain through their conversation why he was there. While every past had its mystery, that time in his life was over; besides, Khalil was not his agent back then. He could not make the connection. And what he feared was that something happened and Henderson was afraid his past was going to come back and haunt him. He was not involved necessarily; like he had no involvement in the drive-by or in possession of kilos of cocaine and illegal weapons. Khalil rested his back against the love seat and mused on his own past. Was there something back there that might come back and revisit him? He was halted from getting too caught up in his history when he heard Henderson say something.

  “What did you say, Henderson?”

  “I have a story I want to share with you…”

  • • •

  “It’s me,” Khalil said, making a sharp turn off Rimpau onto Third Street. “I need you to book me a flight.”

  “What about the Antoine deal?” his assistant said on the other end of the line.

  “Fax it to my e-mail. I’ll print it out at the airport. And I need you to book me a room.”

  “I thought…”

  “I need you to book me a room! Hire me a car.” Khalil dismissed whatever it was his assistant was saying; he disconnected the call, turning right onto Hauser with the hopes of avoiding the height of late-afternoon traffic that congested the city streets at commute time—between four and seven. He speed-dialed a name and a woman answered in a very professional manner. At the red light at Beverly and Martel, he said, “Hello, this is Khalil Underwood…”