A Man Inspired

by Derek Jackson

  As Xavier continued praying, Myra’s mind frantically fast-forwarded into damage-control mode. How could she salvage this story? She was already 25 percent over the budget on preproduction, and her sole rationale had been the edition’s selling hot off the press, as the old saying went. But now, if the media began saying that this story was biased or tainted in any way, not only would such rumors affect sales, but they also would do great damage to the moral image and standard she sought to uphold with Song of Solomon.

  “So Lord, we know that Your plans will be established throughout these upcoming days, and we place our complete and unwavering faith in You to see us through . . .”

  Perhaps Xavier’s faith was complete and unwavering at the moment, but Myra’s was far from it. Her faith was currently rockier than an off-the-Richter scale southern California earthquake.

  Chapter twenty

  THE STORY FIRST BROKE on StarWatch’s Sunday morning cable television show with a two-minute lead-in featuring Chantal Dixon openly reveling in the Woodward and Bernstein-like fervor of scooping such a national-interest story. The pictures of Jermaine and Candace’s romantic romp along Venice Beach were soon copied and forwarded to the other morning news shows and pretty soon a definite media slant began to emerge. The inference was that Candace Clark had been singled out for the interview because she and Jermaine had been secret lovers for years. Further, the media suggested that not only had Mario Jordan known about this clandestine relationship, but so had Song of Solomon magazine—which could explain how a small and relatively obscure magazine had landed the biggest feature of the year. The media pundits that flooded the morning talk show circuits debated: if the media’s slants were true, then both the magazine and Candace could ensure that the story cast only a positive and glowing light on Jermaine.

  KKTL Radio opted to have no comments about the whole affair except to state that they would grant their star host the courtesy and freedom to issue his own statement.

  Mario Jordan could not be reached at either his home or office, but sent word to the television networks that his client was nothing more than a libel victim of a publicity-crazed reporter. When all the facts had been gathered and disseminated, he argued, they would show that his client’s involvement with Candace Clark was purely a business relationship, and that Jermaine had conducted his affairs with the utmost integrity.

  The statement issued by Song of Solomon magazine was written along the same lines as Mario Jordan’s, but whether the country believed these various spin-control efforts remained to be seen.

  Perhaps the one person entirely oblivious to the swirling media controversy was the man directly in the center of it. He had not seen the morning shows or read any of the Sunday newspapers. After traveling up to the Canyon, Jermaine had then somehow found his way back to I-10 and taken it due west. Six hours later, just before ten o’clock, he found himself in the familiar outskirts of Los Angeles. All along the early-morning drive, he had been mulling over a crude plan that had grown like an oversize weed in his mind for the past year. And though he had wondered before if he had the guts to carry out such a fanatical scheme, the previous night’s rejection from Candace proved to be the last bit of ammunition he needed to put it in place.

  It was a crazy and daring idea. He would jump off a point on Mount Lee, the highest peak in L.A., famous for the Hollywood sign perched on its hills, and mercifully plummet to his passageway out of his godforsaken fishbowl. He would have liked to jump off one of the fifty-foot letters themselves, but sophisticated security had been added to arguably the most famous sign in the world after a disappointed young star-in-waiting named Peg Entwhistle had jumped to her death in 1932 from the letter “H.” Though that tragedy had taken place many years before, Hollywood was determined never to have a repeat occurrence. Hiking to the sign now was strictly prohibited and motion detectors had been placed all over the usual pathways; any alarms were now sure to bring quick responses from LAPD helicopters. But Jermaine chose not to make a huge deal out of a small issue. There were a number of points on Mount Lee high enough, and most important, symbolic enough, to convey the message he wished to send. Which was—that for all the glitz and glamour the Hollywood lifestyle offered, in the end the whole thing only proved to be a bittersweet façade. It was like an entertaining movie perhaps that, despite all its thrills and wonders, inevitably ended in sobering tragedy. It was exactly as Marilyn Monroe had said: “Hollywood is a place where they’ll pay you $50,000 for a kiss and 50 cents for your soul.”

  Turning off Beachwood Drive, he parked the limousine as inconspicuously as possible and headed on foot to the path that would take him around the south bend of the rugged mountain. His mind was numb as he plodded along the trail, refusing to let any second guesses pollute his stubborn and dead-set will. He was going to do this because he was tired of living life in a fishbowl. Tired of the constant demands to his time, the invasion of privacy whenever he was out among the public, of giving daily encouragement and motivation to the whole nation but receiving absolutely nothing in return. Tired of having no one to reveal his heart to, nobody to whom he could sincerely confide his doubts and fears. Tired of having no one to love . . . and no one to love him. So what if jumping to his death would be perceived as cowardly to most people? They weren’t in his shoes and they certainly did not have his problems. Not that Jermaine particularly cared about the opinions of others, anyway. All he knew was that he was boarding a one-way train out of this miserable little life.

  IF EVER THERE WERE medals given out acknowledging dedication and persistence in the world of private investigating, then in Spike’s mind, he would be a prime candidate for top honors. From his vantage point in the adjacent suite to Jermaine and Candace’s room at the Phoenician, he had observed Jermaine’s surprising departure a little after midnight. Stranger still was the fact that the man had taken the keys to the limo and driven himself over three hundred miles to Los Angeles, leaving Candace and his own chauffeur both behind. In Spike’s line of work he had come across many puzzling people and actions, but this act made absolutely no sense at all.

  At any rate, proving to be quite the persisent little sleuth, Spike had followed Jermaine along the bizarre drive on I-10, managing to stay far enough behind to avoid detection. Behind Jermaine, he arrived in L.A. and headed toward Hollywood Hills. Spike put a call through to Chantal once he saw the star speaker park the limo and proceed traveling on foot.

  “Chantal. Baby, you ain’t gonna believe this. Our lover boy left Candace behind in Phoenix, drove to L.A., and is now walking north on Beachwood. Looks like he’s headed toward the hills. This boy is definitely a class-A weirdo.”

  “What?” Chantal gulped down the last of her coffee—only her second cup for that morning—and turned away from her computer monitor. Still riding the euphoric wave of being the one to break the scandalous story currently dominating the AP wire, she was not sure she had heard her source correctly. “Run that by me again, Spike?”

  “Jermaine Hill is, as I speak, making his way up Mount Lee on foot. He rolled out of Phoenix just after midnight last night and drove himself here for some reason. Now, why he’s doing this—I ain’t got a clue at all.”

  “Hmm. This could be good . . . this could be good,” Chantal purred as her ever-publicity-seeking mind once again kicked in and shifted into overdrive. “Maybe we can work his odd behavior to our advantage, because the press has been calling every half hour, asking us if we know anything about Jermaine’s whereabouts.” She punched the air with her fist. “Yes, yes . . . yes! We can get the scoop again! We can take those paparazzi fools right to the source himself! You say he’s walking on Mount Lee right now, Spike?”

  “Yeah. I’m right behind him.”

  “Good, good . . .” She turned back to her computer and began accessing her files for contacts of the people in the press corps most likely to follow up on this tip. “Keep tailing him, Spike, and I’ll let you know what will be going down. This is gonna be big!”


  A huge grin appeared on her face as she began making the necessary calls. Taking both Mario Jordan and Jermaine Hill down was proving far, far easier than she had ever imagined.

  BELL DAVIS sat straight up in her bed, almost simultaneously clutching her chest as a flaring pain seared through her heart. At first she thought she might be having another heart attack, but she wasn’t experiencing shortness of breath, the telltale symptom.

  And then, like an epiphany of the greatest possible magnitude, she knew what was wrong. What was terribly, frighteningly wrong.

  Oh, Lord, no! My baby, Lord! Save him . . .

  The horrible vision came to her mind as graphically and clearly as if she had been physically walking right next to Jermaine at that moment. She had discerned the suicidal spirits that had been attacking Jermaine ever since his two best friends had been killed almost a decade earlier. And she had prayed every single day, warding off their effects through the power of intercession. But now, after all this time, were her prayers going to fail her? Had her prayers possessed any real power?

  Oh, Jesus . . . She began to weep bitterly, not even having the mind to know what else to say. She felt completely and utterly hopeless, and she wished with all her soul that she could somehow block out this image, as her deteriorating mind had done with so many others. That would have eased some of the pain, at least.

  JERMAINE WAS AT A central point now atop the mountain, having navigated a narrow and difficult path unknown to many people. If one traveled it just so, one could circumvent all of the motion detectors. A city guide had told him about this secret path a few years ago, and he had just filed that little bit of information away in his mind, not knowing that it would ever prove so handy.

  He had a brief thought to call Mario, but he resisted doing so. Talking with anyone right now would not be a good idea because questions might be brought up that he was neither ready nor willing to answer.

  But what about Candace? I just left her there . . .

  Obviously, he hadn’t given much thought to the repercussions of the impulse decision to drive back here, but what did it really matter at this point? Mario would make the necessary travel arrangements to see that Candace was taken care of. And anyway, by that time Jermaine would be long gone from this world.

  Yes, his feelings for Candace had surprisingly grown stronger during the course of the week, and he’d desperately wanted to demonstrate his passions to her the only way he knew how. He’d been so sure she wanted him just as much as he did her, but he’d guessed . . . wrong.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have pushed her . . .

  But it was too late now. She was yet another closed opportunity in a life filled with so many personal disappointments.

  And what about Aunt Bell? Oh, forget that crazy old woman. She’s certainly forgotten about me . . .

  He would make absolutely sure that nobody else had a chance to hurt or leave him. For the last time, he gazed out over the Los Angeles skyline and horizon, blanketed with the typical thin veneer of smog and haze, and then slowly closed his eyes. He visualized an endless ocean of rich, dazzling cobalt-blue color. It would be his refuge and oasis that would finally provide him the escape he so desperately sought. At last . . . he would be free! He steadied all his thoughts and energies and concentrated on taking that one, final lunge. He was leaving this hellhole, so help him—

  “Mr. Jermaine Hill! Mr. Jermaine Hill! Mr. Hill!”

  The loud cries came from somewhere behind him, knocking him out of his calm state of mind and causing him to turn in surprise. The whirr and clicks of a horde of cameras instantly bombarded him, as reporters and cameramen scrambled to get closer to the star speaker.

  “Mr. Hill! Is it true that you and Candace Clark are secret lovers?”

  “Had you purposely planned to deceive the American public by using her as the one to interview you?”

  “What is your response to allegations made by a number of women who claimed you had one-night stands with them?”

  “Are you worried about how these allegations might tarnish your image?”

  The questions assaulted his ears like a barrage of machine gunfire, as over fifteen or so members of the press corps rushed to thrust microphones and tape recorders in his face.

  What in the . . .

  “Mr. Hill, is it true that you are an alcoholic?”

  “Mr. Hill . . .”

  “Jermaine! Jermaine Hill . . .”

  The voices soon became nothing more than raucous babble to him. He didn’t know how these people had managed to find him here, but if it was a show they were looking for, then he might as well give them one. For his last performance as the pawn of the ever-revolving media circus act, he’d give them something they would never forget.

  He held up his hands to silence the swarming corps that were now huddled around him like teammates in a football game. Except these people were not on his team. They weren’t even playing the same game.

  “I just have one thing to say,” he began slowly. The camera’s red lights were on—they were rolling and recording Jermaine’s every word and action. But he wasn’t about to say anything. If actions spoke louder than words, then he was about to create a reverberation the whole wide world would soon hear. Without a word he broke to his right in a dead sprint and where the end of the cliff embraced nothing but air, he took a giant leap . . .

  . . . right off the edge of the mountain.

  PART II

  For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the world, and lose his own soul?

  —MARK 8:36

  Chapter twenty-one

  Four weeks later

  IT CAN BE amazing and altogether humbling how mankind’s plans, hurriedly pieced together, do not always produce the desired effects. Perhaps the Scottish poet Robert Burns was on to something when he wrote that “the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.” It may well have been, if Jermaine had mapped out his course of actions a bit more thoroughly—perhaps if he had gone ahead and used the .22 handgun or driven himself off a cliff somewhere—then he might have discovered whether his endless, eternal ocean was real or imagined.

  But hurling himself off a point on Mount Lee had not proven to be the wisest choice for ending his life.

  The attempt proved unsuccessful.

  In his surprise at seeing the gathering paparazzi converge upon him like sewer rats to rotting cheese, he had misjudged the spot on the ledge where he should have jumped. He had rushed and leaped from a position a few meters to the right, landing twelve feet down in an overgrown thicket of trees and shrubbery. Had he taken off ten meters to the left, he would have plunged down a fifty-foot abyss and ended up like Peg Entwhistle in 1932. But fate can be cruel and unforgiving sometimes.

  His fall into the forest thicket had shattered twenty-six bones in both legs and feet, broken four ribs, and left him with a massive concussion that would undoubtedly cause recurring headaches. All things considered in this failed suicide attempt, it could be said that he was quite fortunate to be alive. As it turned out, though, his injuries were far from his most pressing concern. As damaging as his medical diagnosis was, he would gladly have accepted that as the sole consequence for his actions. He would soon realize that fate was not alone in its ability to seem cruel and unforgiving. The media, too, were unforgiving, passing scathing judgment on him.

  A subsequent investigation from the LAPD produced an unregistered .22 handgun at his Beverly Hills condominium, along with four spiral notebooks—his diary of sorts—filled with severely damaging evidence of his suicidal thought patterns. Signed statements from over a dozen Hollywood playgirls bedded by Jermaine had effectively silenced Mario Jordan’s repeated arguments that his client was of “strong, moral integrity and character.” For all the things Super Mario could spin, it was darn near impossible to put a positive media spin on that kind of behavior.

  The public backlash was immediate and intense, and most of all, Jermaine’s fans were irate. How dare this
man, purporting to be America’s voice of inspiration, have any sort of claim to be a leader, role model, or national icon. He was a joke, for crying out loud! A twisted, perverted joke. That was the general sentiment of a people who had grown weary of their entertainers and celebrated public figures having continual brushes with the wrong side of the law. As if having a rap sheet gave some twisted sort of “street credibility” to one’s reputation. Both the media and the general public needed a scapegoat, a permanent example of these hypocritical celebrities. Especially celebrities whose opinions and ideas helped form the basis of pop culture and thinking.

  JERMAINE NOW SAT STOICALLY in a wheelchair in the executive conference room, absently listening to Mario and two highly compensated lawyers map out their strategy.

  “We’ve already lost forty-five percent of expected endorsement offers from major sponsors,” Mario spoke gravely, “and we’re not hearing anything more from the Fortune 100 list.” He didn’t have to add that these losses were indicative of a major crisis. It had been a foregone conclusion that Jermaine would royally collect from top American companies who were enlisting energetic, dynamic faces to parade before their employees. Mario, naturally, had already begun touting Jermaine as the “new voice of inspired motivationalism” to these companies, lining up unspoken agreements as quickly and quietly as he could. The dozen or so contracts were set to be signed at the start of the new year, as soon as Jermaine fulfilled his contractual obligations with KKTL. But the current, shocking turn of events had rendered Jermaine about as marketable as an audiocassette manufacturer pushing his product to the music industry. Nobody wanted anything to do with a washed-up, sex-crazed motivational speaker with suicidal tendencies.