As Jeffries reached the podium, a loud noise rang out and the crowd acted as if they were under siege. In his typical way, Jeffries grabbed the microphone and told the audience everything was under control. Once the group was calm, he proceeded to share with everyone his carefully thought-out take on the murders.
Jeffries was a seasoned politician, but he had been trumped by Guy Yeager on several occasions. He had ambitions, but he felt they were constantly being undermined. In his eyes, the District of Columbia belonged to him. Now, with the mayor’s untimely death, the window of opportunity was open. Powerful and manipulative, Jeffries was one of those southern gadflies who used his bow tie–wearing charm to camouflage his bigotry. It was either his way or no way, and if he thought you were in his way, he would use his most powerful weapon: he would claim you were a homophobe. With the District’s changing demographics, being a racist was more tolerable than being tagged a homophobe, something Jeffries used to his advantage.
Jeffries was no pushover. He was methodical and not only could he seize an opportunity better than most, he could also create them. His constituents loved him because he was able to bring businesses to many depressed areas within and around his ward. However, to do so, Jeffries flexed his muscle.
He was notorious for having developed a loitering ordinance that prevented families in high crime areas from hanging out on their front porches. The ordinance fell under the District’s Gang Control Act. If three or more youths were caught hanging out in front or on the porch of a building, they would be issued a ticket and the owner would be cited. If the owner was cited three or more times, the District could seize the property under the Crime Stoppers Eminent Domain Ordinance. Once the property had been seized, Jeffries controlled what happened to it, and often the property was sold and later developed.
Jeffries knew that by feeding into the fear that young Black and Hispanic men hanging out on front porches was a sign of urban decay and gang affiliation, the new young, gay urbanites moving in and around his ward would create the public concern and outcry necessary for him to seize the property. He didn’t care what it looked like. With the right spin and his contacts at the Washington Daily News, District Times, Washington Herald, and The Cutting Edge, a syndicated gay rag, he could argue his point and push back any detractors. Seizing poor people’s property was a game to Jeffries, a game he played relentlessly.
With the death of Mayor Whitherspoon, several potential names for a successor were being tossed around. Many were the usual suspects, but for the first time in the District’s history, it was assumed that an openly gay council member would wage a bid for the mayoral seat.
Publicly, Councilman Guy Yeager and Grey Jeffries were allies, but privately, they could not stand each other. Straight-up bitches. Two sissies who just couldn’t get along no matter what. And when they had issues, it was a scene straight out of a B-rated reality show. Both Yeager and Jeffries knew that being the first openly gay mayor of the nation’s capital would be equivalent to being the first female or Jewish president. And if either one of them seized the mayoral nomination, “Chocolate City” (as DC was fondly referred to) would never be the same.
At 5:00 am the day of the next council meeting, Jeffries’s phone rang.
“Good morning, Councilman Jeffries,” said the caller. “This is Bart Connelly from the Washington Daily News.”
“Yes, Bart, how are you? What can I do for you so early in the morning?”
Feeling as if he had arrived, Jeffries knew this would be the first phone call of many from the press interested in his political ambitions.
“Sir, I was calling because I wanted to get your response to the early morning arrest of your chief of staff. He was arrested this morning for allegedly taking bribes from the United Cabdrivers Union and since you chair the Taxicab Commission, I was just wondering if there are any comments you would like to offer?”
Rattled by the question, the arrest, and the allegations, it took Jeffries some time to gain his composure.
“I was unaware that Hilario had been arrested, and I certainly don’t know anything about any bribes,” he said. “Thank you for calling Bart, but I must go.”
“But Councilman —”
Jeffries was furious. How could this have happened, and why now? Like every politician, Jeffries loved the media’s attention, but unwanted interest created bad press and consequences, and in DC, all it took for the press to strike would be an accusation and a public figure in the same sentence. No quantifiable evidence was ever needed in Washington. Public official bashing was the local pastime. If you were accused of doing something wrong, it was your politics that determined what breed of journalistic dog would be let loose to head the attack.
Chapter 2
AS THE WEEKS passed, Lance’s personal life was beginning to affect his work at the Washington Herald. Still the lead investigative reporter overseeing the mayor’s assassination story, he was trapped by what he really knew and how integrally involved he had become.
It had been three weeks since Kennedy’s kidnapping and Lance’s last encounter with Teddy. With the threat still lingering that Kennedy would be killed if he called the police, Lance was forced to create an elaborate lie as to why Kennedy was no longer at work. To everyone that knew her, she had relapsed and she would be on extensive leave of absence. Lance couldn’t catch a break. If it wasn’t Kennedy’s friends and colleagues inquiring, it was Teddy’s persistent calls. But Lance wanted none of it. Now she was resorting to leaving text messages regarding her plans and what she wanted him to do. For the last couple of weeks, Teddy had been back in Chicago — her home base for the last several years — looking into the deaths of some of the nation’s most prominent scientists. She believed that if she could tie together all they had in common, she would be that much closer to finding out why Isabella had been killed — and to saving Kennedy from a sure death. The Velvet Mafia was looking for something and it was her task to find it first.
Being in Chicago always grounded Teddy. When she was a teen, her parents agreed she would spend summers in Chicago with her mother in the family home. While her mother, Jacqueline, taught classes at the University of Chicago, Teddy attended the University Lab School. Chicago was where Teddy had discovered her true self, and she had savored the notion of being free and able to explore what seemed to be endless possibilities.
Teddy and her mother always began their summer journeys by piling all their things in the car and driving the twelve hours from DC. Half the trip they spoke English and half the trip they spoke Japanese.
Teddy spoke Japanese because her mother loved the language; she’d learned to speak it fluently while living in Japan. Jacqueline also loved Chicago’s Black history, and she was determined to make sure Teddy knew where she came from and how rich and full her ancestry was. Trips to Chicago always included a lesson on Chicago’s first settler, Jean Baptiste Point du Sable, a Black of Haitian and French ancestry. And Teddy’s mother was particularly proud of the city’s two most prominent sons, Harold Washington and Rev. Hershel Wiley Sr.
Everybody had loved Harold, and her mother was no different. And it wasn’t because he was Chicago’s first Black mayor, or because he was considered one of the greatest oratorical geniuses since Paul Robeson, or that he was a voracious reader — all the things she admired and loved in civic leaders. No, she loved Harold for what he had done for Chicago’s parks. Before he died, he single-handedly began to transform the parks into places of beauty and no matter who you were or what side of town you were from, the parks welcomed you instead of reminding you of your childhood fears. To Teddy’s mother, Harold Washington’s biggest legacy was his release of parakeets throughout the park district.
She also loved the savvy Rev. Hershel Wiley Sr., president and CEO of People’s United. Hershel Wiley was a man not to be played with, and Teddy’s mother loved the fact that he backed down to no one. He was a man revered worldwide.
He was also the type of man who knew from his t
raining that political and economic freedom meant you stayed away from what he called “poverty pimps” — individuals and institutions that wanted to have controlling interest over your product simply because they were providing you with funding. He was convinced that if he took money from the government to run his organization, he would not be able to express freely his First Amendment rights. To Wiley, to speak freely and unencumbered meant that he could use the greatest weapon God had given him, and he did. Often.
He also knew that if you wanted to make real change, you had to be a shareholder. So, if he found himself up against a corporation that knowingly engaged in discrimination or other predatory practices, he bought shares in the company. Then, once in, his mere presence changed the game. Some thought he was a selfish man who only looked out for his own best interests, but to Teddy’s mother, he was the only man she knew who had consistently stepped out to take a bullet for the poor, the marginalized, and the dispossessed.
Like her mom, Teddy had found herself influenced by these men. But most importantly, she was influenced by her mother. Thus, Teddy’s coming-of-age in Chicago was a memory she often recalled fondly.
Teddy had spent those summers living in the family home within the corridors of the University of Chicago and the encompassing Hyde Park community. A few blocks south of the campus was Woodlawn, a once robust and thriving Black community. At one point, 63rd Street had been a Black mecca. Anything and everything one wanted was available. There were haberdashers, beauty parlors, grocery stores, bordellos, little kids shining shoes, music playing on every corner, folks running in and out of the Grand Ballroom, and the scent of Daley’s soul food permeating the air. Whatever you wanted, you could find. Teddy loved to hear the stories the neighborhood folks loved to tell. Teddy always felt that DC was pretentious and that everything she did there was always done under watchful eyes. But, when she was in Chicago, she felt free.
As a kid, Teddy had made friends easily and one friend in particular had changed her life. It was the summer of 1982 when Teddy met Lauren. Lauren lived on 61st and Greenwood, just blocks from the University of Chicago campus, and within the parameters set by her mother. In other words, as long as she did not venture as far as 63rd Street or go west of Cottage Grove, she could play and hang out.
Lauren was different from most of the girls in the neighborhood. She was tall, athletic, funny, confident and charming. She was a tomboy and she loved to do whatever the boys were doing and often time, no matter what it was, she did it better. She was a pretty girl, but you had to move the dirt off her face to really see her beauty.
It was the Fourth of July weekend when Teddy met Lauren. Kids were out shooting firecrackers in the alleys, music was playing and at every other home, somebody was barbequing. Teddy and her cousin Claire had slipped away unnoticed while their parents were entertaining friends. Teddy loved exposing her cousin to the many different splendors of Chicago, and she especially loved exploring beyond the boundaries imposed by her mother.
“Hey, you two,” Lauren said. “Where you from?” Teddy and Claire were walking on the opposite side of the street, directly across from Lauren’s family’s three-story Greystone.
“Who? Us?” said Teddy “You talking to us?”
“Yeah! Who else would I be talking to?”
“My name is Winifred, but my friends call me Teddy, and this is my cousin Claire.”
“Hi, Claire,” said Lauren.
Uninterested, Claire simply waved and kept walking.
“So, why they call you Teddy?” said Lauren. “That’s a boy’s name.”
“No, it isn’t. Teddy is short for The-o-dor-a. It’s my middle name.”
“Okay, The-o-dor-a-it’s-my-middle-name,” she said sarcastically. “You don’t have to get all smart about it. It’s just a name.”
Teddy had been taught early on that her differences were real. She looked like a Black china doll; the only problem was that most people had never seen a Black china doll. China doll, yes; Black china doll, no. And on top of that, her name was unusual for a girl, so she found having the discussion about her name with a stranger a nuisance and her attitude showed it.
“Like I said, my name is Teddy.”
“Well, Teddy, my name is Lauren.”
Lauren could tell she had ruffled Teddy’s feathers and although she did not mean to, she was laughing inside. She found Teddy to be funny looking but in a beautiful way. She had never seen a Black girl with almond eyes before and as much as she wanted to tease her for being so sensitive about her name, she didn’t want to alienate her.
“You don’t live around here, do you?” Lauren said, knowing very well she didn’t. After all, this was her neighborhood and she knew everybody from the pimps to the pushers.
“No,” Teddy said. “I’m from DC, but I live in Chicago during the summer. My mom teaches at the University every summer. Then, when the summer is over, we go back to DC.”
“Summer just started,” Lauren said, “so it looks like I’ll be seeing you around.”
“We’ll see,” Teddy said.
“Okay, well, I have to go practice, so I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Practice! What are you practicing for?” Teddy asked.
“I’m a musician and me and my band will be famous one day.”
“A musician!” Teddy said with excitement. “Can Claire and I come and watch you practice?”
“We’ll see,” Lauren mocked, as she stood up and started to walk away.
Even at the tender age of sixteen, Lauren could easily manipulate a situation to get what she wanted and as it turned out, Teddy was right. It was a summer she would never forget because it was the summer she and Lauren fell in love.
For Teddy, being back in Chicago now had three purposes. First, she would get a chance to evaluate and study the mountain of information and evidence she had been collecting since Isabella’s murder. Second, she was scheduled to meet Dr. Basil Rhodes. Teddy believed if there was one person who would at least entertain her theory, it was him. And third, she could let her shiner heal privately, without constantly being asked what happened to her face.
Teddy had met Dr. Rhodes eight years earlier in Spain while attending an AIDS symposium. As a distinguished faculty member of a major pharmaceutical company, Isabella attended many conferences and occasionally Teddy tagged along. Most trips were generally uneventful; however, the Spain trip turned out to be different.
At about 10:00 am, Teddy awoke to noise outside her hotel balcony. Her late wake-up was because of her early morning sexual pleasures with Isabella. They had no inhibitions with each other and more importantly, no bedroom roles. That particular day was unusual because though their lovemaking had worked up Teddy’s healthy appetite, Isabella couldn’t stick around for seconds. She had to leave to hear the keynote speaker at the symposium’s opening session. It was important she be present because her name was on the short list for a key position at the National Institutes of Health.
As Teddy lay in bed reminiscing about their morning tryst and contemplating whether she wanted to explore further her own sexual prose, the noise outside her balcony became deafening. Eager to see what was going on, Teddy wrapped the bedsheet around her naked body and headed to her balcony. As she opened the door, the morning sun greeted her with its full intensity as protestors below shouted, “El VIH no causa el SIDA! El VIH no causa el SIDA! El VIH no causa el SIDA!”
Determined to find out more, Teddy got dressed and decided to join the protestors. As she walked through the lobby toward the door, she could see hotel security trying to prevent the protestors from en-tering the building. At the same time, she could hear distant police sirens heading in the crowd’s direction. By the time she exited the building, she could feel the gathering’s determination. Every person who passed by was chanting the same thing: “El VIH no causa el SIDA.”
HIV does not cause AIDS.
As the crowd moved past the hotel, you could see glimpses of the beautiful and ornate
cobblestone road now littered with what looked like stained glass being greeted by the morning sun. Then, without hesitation, a young boy with olive skin and brown eyes placed in her hand a yellow flyer, written in both Spanish and English, about an American professor who could prove that HIV was not the cause of AIDS. He would be giving a lecture on the topic that evening.
That night, since Isabella had a dinner to attend, Teddy found herself alone. With nothing better to do, she decided to attend the meeting at the La Negro Hotel. Dr. Basil Rhodes, an American professor of molecular and cellular biology from the University of Chicago, was speaking. Rhodes argued that HIV, like virtually all retroviruses, was harmless and that HIV did not meet the criteria established for a microbe causing a disease. After his presentation, Dr. Rhodes opened up the floor for questions.
“Dr. Rhodes, can you explain why the scientific community refuses to engage in a debate with members of the dissident community? And secondly, why do government scientists maintain that the AIDS epidemic is caused by HIV?”
“Those are very good questions. What’s your name, young man?”
“Emilio Sanchez.”
“And where are you from?” Rhodes asked.
“I am from South America, but I live in the states,” Sanchez replied.
“And what brought you here tonight?”
“I am attending the symposium on the neurological impact of HIV on the brain, and I heard the dissidents protesting this morning. I wanted to hear the argument firsthand so I decided to attend. Plus, your work precedes you. If it was anybody else, I probably wouldn’t be that interested.”
“Well, thank you for the compliment, young man,” Rhodes said. “Too bad my old friends and colleagues don’t share your sentiment.” He laughed, allowing the others in the room to do the same.
“You raised two good questions,” Rhodes said, now pulling his hair back away from his face as long strands of white hair fell gently. “Mr. Sanchez, and my position is simple,” he said as he casually stroked his tapered beard. “Without an open dialogue, we must conclude that the perpetual propaganda that HIV is the cause of AIDS is based solely on greed and the need for power. For example, prior to the advent of AIDS, the federal Centers for Disease Control and Prevention was an impoverished government agency that needed a serious epidemic to justify its continued existence. So, by naming AIDS a single contagious disease, it created an atmosphere of public fear that brought it increased funding and power.”
Velvet Mafia Page 3