A Man Inspired

by Derek Jackson

  “Naturally, it would have been in your best interests to have procured written documentation from these companies beforehand,” remarked the elder of the two attorneys. Jermaine vaguely remembered his name as Stapleton or Singleton or something like that. He didn’t care, of course. To him, both were just two more money-sucking leeches clinging to his money train.

  “Tell me something I don’t know, Randall,” Mario retorted, openly irritated. “The money dries up in December because KKTL is stalling on a new contract, we’ve got no public relations spin to our latest problems, and now we’ve got the D.A. breathing down our necks, talking about dual weapons and solicitation charges.” He dropped his head into his hands. “For chrissake, please tell me when this nightmare ends.”

  “That’s all this is to you, isn’t it?” Jermaine spoke up, his nonchalance now giving way to anger. “A stupid public relations fiasco. Your little hot commodity ain’t as hot as you thought so now you’re looking for the quickest, easiest out.”

  “Jermaine . . .” Mario began slowly, his head still in his hands, “I warned you about this, didn’t I? About the women every night, about disregard for accountability—”

  “Fine, fine—you warned me about this. Stick out your little chest about that if it makes you feel any better. But you were only telling me that to protect your bottom line. It was still all about maintaining a cash flow that kept you and your fat little friends over there satisfied.”

  Stapleton-Singleton-whoever opened his mouth in shock.

  “Don’t try and strictly make this a financial issue,” Mario shot back, now looking up with an incensed expression on his face. “But since you’re so eager to talk about money, before you hired me you were barely pushing thirty grand a year. Our last fiscal quarter, I netted you over eight hundred thousand big ones. In the quarter alone! I’ve been the best thing that’s ever happened to you. And this is the thanks I get in return?”

  “If that’s what you want to call it, then yeah. I’m not saying I don’t appreciate what you did, but my talent alone would have eventually gotten me the money. So maybe instead of investing in agents and lawyers, I should have been looking for some friends who would’ve had my back.”

  “There are no friends in this business, J. If you had wanted friends, you should have volunteered for the freakin’ Peace Corps.”

  “Can we just relax and focus on the big picture?” asked Randall Stapleton. “There is much at stake here for all of us, and we’re going to need clear minds to figure out how best to proceed.”

  Mario threw up his hands in disgust. “How best to proceed? And go where? There’s nothing we can do to save face right now.”

  The other attorney spoke up. “I agree with you, Mario, but only to a point. There’s too much controversy in the press to attempt any sort of campaign, sure. But if we lay low for a while, maybe have Jermaine undergo professional treatment, we could launch a comeback campaign in a few months. The public is more forgiving than you think. Look at all the chances they gave Mike Tyson and Robert Downey Jr.”

  “Yeah, and it’s exactly those kinds of people that have gotten the public tired of being sympathetic.”

  Alex Winston shrugged. “Perhaps. Still, I vote that we place him under treatment for a while and have him come back better than ever.”

  “Do I get a say in this?” Jermaine cut in. “After all, it’s my life you all are so casually talking about.”

  “A life that you tried to end a few weeks ago,” Mario was quick to remind him. “So yeah, you can have some input but it goes without saying that you’re going to need psychiatric treatment. Placing you somewhere like Atascadero might be the only thing that keeps the D.A. off our backs.”

  “Psychiatric treatment? What is this, One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest? You guys think I’m crazy or something?”

  A lengthy pause ensued. Jermaine could read between the lines.

  “Jermaine, you attempted suicide. Apparently, there are some irregularities in your mental capacities that should be professionally dealt with,” offered Randall, with a little more condescension than Jermaine could presently stomach.

  “My mental capacities are just fine, for your information. If anything, I’m tired of always having my decisions made by people who know absolutely nothing about me.”

  Mario sighed. “Oh, give it a rest, J. This is about the only positive thing we can do here. Honesty is the best policy, right? You go public admitting you have a problem and are currently seeking help, and I guarantee you the people will eat that stuff up. I can picture you on Oprah, The View, hitting all the tear-jerker shows like that.”

  Jermaine rolled his eyes. Forever spinning, aren’t you Mario?

  THE LIGHTS IN THE sunroom were off and the shades on all the windows were tightly drawn. Candace didn’t even have any music playing at the moment—she simply lay curled up on her sofa, staring at nothing in particular. She didn’t know how long she had been lying here, just that she savored the present solitary quietness. Craved it, in fact. Because after StarWatch News had broken their story about an alleged romantic relationship between her and Jermaine, Candace had suddenly and unexpectedly been thrust into the probing glare of a national spotlight. Her face had been splashed on the front pages of newspapers and tabloids countrywide. And her now-infamous kiss with Jermaine on Venice Beach was getting more exposure than a top music video in heavy MTV rotation. Reporters had camped out on her street for days seeking to catch a glimpse of her through a window, rendering her a virtual prisoner in her own home.

  A low blow had also been struck when a handful of literary colleagues began appearing on the prime-time interview shows, capitalizing on the scandal to try to damage her character even more. They knew Candace Clark couldn’t be the perfect success story, they had all gloated. Little Miss Perfect writer who seemingly had everything handed to her on a polished silver platter.

  Though she had refused to dwell on it much before all this happened, Candace was well aware that her quick rise to success had created quite a few personal enemies—haters who couldn’t bear to see a younger, less seasoned writer reap awards that they felt should have gone to someone with more experience. But because her writing was always top-notch, people were usually limited in the amount of negative things they could say. When you’re really good at something, people don’t have to like you but they’ve certainly got to respect you. That’s what she had always thought, anyway.

  But rumors of a steamy relationship between her and Jermaine Hill had provided more than enough darts for this jealous peanut gallery to throw, a gallery that had come to include Tasha, of all people. That had hurt Candace the most—that her best friend would think so little of her as to agree with her accusers.

  “Well, you never told me you were even doing the interview,” Tasha had argued. “So how am I supposed to believe anything else you say about him?” Tasha had then proceeded to give Candace a fit of Motown divalike proportions.

  “Did you sleep with him?” she had asked.

  Candace’s slight hesitation upon hearing that question had prompted a burst of hysterical tears to erupt from Tasha like a black Niagara Falls. The tears were followed up by a classic, weave-whipping, finger-snapping, neck-twisting exit from her house after Candace remained silent and unable to answer the question. For what was she supposed to say? Technically, she and Jermaine hadn’t gone that far, but she still had admittedly crossed the line in her journalistic ethics.

  If she were honest with herself, deep down she would have to admit harboring some feelings for the man. Feelings for a man the media had been labeling as crazy—why else would he have written hundreds of suicide plots in his personal diary?

  But in all the time she had spent with him, she had not observed such tendencies in this man. Sure, it had only been for one week, since Jermaine’s departure had cut her interview short, but she had always thought herself an excellent judge of character. So in spite of the overwhelming evidence claiming otherwise, she s
till chose to see him as a perceptive, intelligent black man with a sensitive side that came out when gently motivated. How rare a find was that? Outrageously, though, her choice to view him as such was the singular reason her good name was being wrongly tarnished and looked down upon like a modern-day Hester Prynne.

  “But I haven’t done anything wrong!” Her mind screamed. She certainly didn’t think she deserved this scarlet letter. But the media, naturally, would be relentless in promoting this story because it had wonderful shock value. This scandal would continue to dominate the headlines until another titillating and jaw-dropping event happened to push it to the “yesterday’s news” pile. That was the way the media worked—she knew that all too well.

  You’re just going to have to deal with this, girl . . .

  It would have been nice to have a strong support group to help her cope with everything, but a major sacrifice Candace had made along her career’s fast track to success had been the heavy cost of maintaining relationships. She had been forced to determine what she valued the most—her writing, social life, family and friends—and in the end, she had decided to follow her heart. So though she had more acquaintances than she could possibly keep track of, she had no real friends besides Tasha and her mother, Analee. Analee, of course, was gone. And Tasha was currently trippin’. So in her darkest hour, at a time when there should have been a shoulder for her to cry on, she was all alone.

  “God, help me . . .” she softly whispered to the dark, empty room. Though she believed in God, it had been a long time since she had last talked to Him. Perhaps now was a good time to firm up that fading line of communication.

  Chapter twenty-two

  MYRA HAD LIVED long enough to learn how to count her blessings, no matter how small they sometimes seemed. But when the doubly shocking scandal stories were released (Jermaine and Candace’s secret relationship and then Jermaine’s suicide attempt), Myra had suffered an epic faith-crisis, not only in God, but in herself to navigate wisely through this predicament. She was clueless as to how Song of Solomon could recover, financially and in moral standing, from a too-close-to-home scandal that had rocked them at the worst possible time. But, as Xavier continually reminded her, sometimes God allows trying situations to beset His children only so their faith might be strengthened and established.

  Though the magazine suffered some initial attacks to reputation and credibility, the majority of the media analysts chose not to implicate the publication in the larger scandal as a whole. This was undoubtedly due to the magazine’s publicized mission statement, which firmly adhered to a standard of Christian principles in entertaining and providing a social forum for the nation. Besides, Candace really had no binding ties to the magazine except for the lone contract to write the one story. A story that still turned out to be quite good, considering the interview was cut short by a week. Fortunately for Song of Solomon, the public demand still remained high due to the sudden spike of interest in Jermaine’s private life. Now, the nation was clamoring to know if Candace was really as close to Jermaine as rumor would suggest. Or if Jermaine was really as deranged as everyone thought. And they were counting on Candace’s exclusive story to give them added details and first-person insight. Day by day and week by passing week, the media feeding frenzy made this story top priority.

  The past few days, Myra had tried calling Candace, but the young writer had apparently taken her phone off the hook. Not that Myra could blame her for doing that—she felt so sorry for what that girl was now being forced to go through. It seemed such a shame to Myra that the media would be falling over themselves trying to expose any speck of dirt they could on these two promising, young black role models. So what if Jermaine and Candace were not as perfect and pristine as everyone thought? Nowadays, who was? Myra sincerely believed this was more reason to encourage people to look to her Savior for a true example to pattern life after. Because people were imperfect and would always let you down, no matter how gifted, talented, or wonderful they appeared. It had taken years of disappointing relationships for Myra to understand that in the search for human role models, she’d never find any if her measuring stick was perfection. For the best that people can be is not perfect, merely forgiven. True human role models are the ones who ultimately choose God’s grace to work in their sinful lives. And then, like a butterfly bursting forth from its cocoon, they become transformed into new creations reflecting His image and divine character.

  It was her heartfelt prayer that both Jermaine and Candace would come to understand this as well, she hoped before it was too late—before the media thoroughly and completely robbed them of their future hopes and dreams, of their God-given gifts and abilities to inspire others.

  IT HAD BECOME official, much to Mario Jordan’s great relief. Jermaine was ordered to undergo three months of thoroughly rigorous treatment at Atascadero, and the D.A.’s office agreed not to press charges against him. The renowned facility for mental health problems located roughly halfway between Los Angeles and San Francisco was a perfect refuge for Jermaine to heal, rest, and most important remain sheltered from the media. Mario had been forced to immediately cancel the remaining events on Jermaine’s itinerary and attempt an assortment of damage-control maneuvers that might swing some public sympathy toward his client. He envisioned Jermaine emerging from this setback with an even larger following—showing America and the world that you could be great and still have flaws. You could be talented but still struggle with troubling inner issues. Such a personal, human touch would work in their favor, Mario thought. And with a little time and patience, he could see the endorsements and money flowing freely once again in their direction.

  Everything would be alright, he reassured himself as he sat at his desk, poring over a new stack of audition announcements he was currently funneling to some of his other clients. Forever on the move, he was constantly lining up his diverse client list with the most promising movies and commercials that show business had to offer. He was a master at what he did, negotiating deal after lucrative deal and landing more contracts than should be legally permissible. But as good as he was in this aspect of the business, Mario’s personal pride shone the brightest when he was able to spin a news story any which way he desired. Subtly persuading public opinion to see things as you wanted it to—well, that took a level of skill that only a select few possessed. And fewer still had the unmitigated audacity to even attempt. But the “Super” in his nickname was neither an exaggeration nor a crude reference to some once-popular video game. No, he truly believed he could accomplish super feats in his lifetime—that he would go down as a legend in the art of negotiating and spin control.

  So what if his number one client presently had more image problems than an Elizabeth Taylor weekend forum on how to make loving marriages last. Mario was by no means new to this game. The spotlight was on him and he relished every moment of it. And when this little crisis subsided, Mario was betting that his client would still be the most famous, most listened to motivational speaker in the country.

  Chapter twenty-three

  FROM THE MOMENT Jermaine was placed inside the all-male mental health facility, he felt he had personally sunk to one of the lowest levels in his life. It was like Aunt Bell’s taking him out of that drug-infested apartment in Brooklyn when he was three—crying and screaming and wondering why Pops and Mom couldn’t come along as well. It was like his receiving the message that Ronny and Eric had been tragically killed when a drunk driver had veered into their lane, forever erasing for Jermaine the last vestiges of friendship and brotherhood he had ever known. So now, here he was—stripped of his acclaim and wealth—merely another patient inside the walls of Atascadero State Hospital.

  Should’ve killed myself . . . what kind of fool can’t even kill himself right?

  His legs remained indefinitely unusable, and the harsh reality that he needed someone to help him get out of bed, clothe him, and otherwise take care of him was utterly humiliating. A small comfort had been the assura
nce that his stay here would not be for long if he was cooperative and agreed to participate in all therapy sessions. But in Jermaine’s pitiful mind-set, that was the equivalent of petting a small puppy on the head and promising it some doggie biscuits if it behaved while left home alone for the weekend.

  “And it shall come to pass, that the Lord God Almighty shall rain down fire and brimstone upon the nations who do not . . .”

  The old, crazy man in the room next to Jermaine’s had been ranting for over an hour with his religious nonsense, and Jermaine was now thoroughly sickened. Wearily, he rolled his wheelchair into the narrow hallway and stopped at the old man’s door.

  “The Lord shall—”

  “Hey! Hey, old man,” Jermaine cut in as he entered the man’s room. “How ’bout some peace and quiet, huh? Why don’t you give everybody around here a little rest?”

  Ambrose stopped his pacing and, with a curious expression on his face, looked at the visitor who had dared to interrupt him. “A little rest, you say? My son, the Word of God declares there is no rest for the wicked. For the unrighteous—”

  “Yeah, yeah. And Jesus is coming back tomorrow. I’ve heard all that before, so don’t waste any more breath on account of me.”