A Man Inspired

by Derek Jackson

  That’s me, also . . .

  And probably most importantly, someone who believed in God and could grow spiritually with her.

  That is definitely, definitely . . . me . . .

  But could he in fact be Candi’s Mr. Right? After all the unfortunate things that had happened and the horrible mistakes he had made since they had last talked? He still certainly wanted to be. Moreover, the question of whether or not he could be such a man did not pain him nearly as much as the thought that he might never get a chance to find out.

  Chapter thirty-one

  THE INTRODUCTORY THEME music to the prime-time show concluded with a resounding flourish. The ominous, solemn bass tones, blended with the short, repetitive trumpet notes, heralded yet another night for this highly rated news program to present the nation with the top insight and analysis of all the current leading stories.

  And of course, the network was well aware that there was no story anywhere near as sizzling hot as the Chantal Dixon-Jermaine Hill interview. The live interview tonight was expected to draw more than one hundred million viewers, no less, and why should the demand be anything but extraordinary? In defining duels of epic proportions, most media pundits had raved that it didn’t get any better than this. Forget the Thrilla in Manila, between Joe Frazier and Muhammad Ali. This was Chantal Dixon grilling Jermaine against the backdrop of the entire nation’s watchful eyes. In one corner there was the merciless investigative reporter who had not only scooped the secret relationship with Candace Clark but who had also provided the exclusive and incriminating report of Jermaine’s suicidal tendencies. And in the other corner sat the country’s foremost motivational speaker who had just undergone two months of treatment in a state hospital, now publicly declaring he was fully recovered, healed, and ready to resume his speaking career.

  In the master control room, veteran news director Tim Kasdan watched the two rows of five television monitors like a famished hawk studying a tasty mouse scurrying about in an open field. His right-hand man, the technical director, listened attentively for the instructions on which camera shot to take.

  “Stand by camera two,” Tim said.

  On the set, Chantal Dixon flashed her now instantly recognizable smile to the national audience that awaited her. She sat tall and confident in the oversize armchair, which not by accident but by choosing was the same chair used by Barbara Walters when she had conducted the famous interview of Monica Lewinsky years ago. And because appearance spoke volumes in these types of settings, Chantal had chosen to dress in a conservative navy business suit, lightly accented with subdued makeup and accessories to convey the no-nonsense image that worked so well for her.

  Directly across from her, and opposite in appearance, sat a seemingly relaxed Jermaine Hill clad in a casual beige- and cream-colored suit. His long legs were leisurely crossed at the knees and the smile he wore matched Chantal’s. Like her, he was the picture of confidence and readiness.

  “Roll tape!” Tim commanded, a throwback term from the days when television studios had, in fact, used tape. Of course, the technology was all digital now but Tim still loved to employ those old Cronkite-era terms. At any rate, his crew knew what he meant, and that was all that mattered.

  “Tape rolling!”

  “Take camera two!”

  As the theme music faded, the microphones were cued up and on the set, the floor director gave the hand signal for Chantal to begin.

  “Good evening. Today is Friday, November tenth, and we welcome you to this edition of Eye on America. My name is Chantal Dixon and tonight I am joined in the studio by a man who has been no stranger recently to controversy and scandal.” She paused a bit, her facial expression a cross between a smile and a smirk. Then she shifted slightly in her seat to face another camera.

  “Take camera three,” Tim voiced back in the master control room.

  Chantal continued reading from the teleprompter script inside the face of camera three. “Jermaine Hill is widely considered to be the foremost motivational speaker in the country, with revenues from the sales of his tapes and attendance at his popular seminars reaching numbers of unprecedented proportions. However, in early July of this year, a story was released alleging that the public image and persona of this charismatic inspirational speaker might in fact be radically at odds with a private life dominated by severe depression and secretive playboy trysts that would cause even Hugh Hefner to raise his eyebrows.

  “And then came the spectacular suicide attempt captured by television cameras all over the nation. Jermaine Hill leaped off Hollywood’s Mount Lee, seeking to take his own life in dramatic fashion. The unsuccessful attempt landed him first in the hospital for serious injuries and then under the probe of an investigation into the life and affairs of this seemingly perfect inspirational speaker. Now, after spending ten weeks undergoing psychiatric treatment in California’s Atascadero State Hospital, Mr. Hill is back yet again in the public eye, touring across the country and giving inspirational seminars. But has he truly recovered from his clinical depression? And is he now fit to once again be regarded as the premier expert on inspiration and motivation? These questions and others will be addressed in a live interview with Jermaine Hill and yours truly right after these words from our sponsors. Stay tuned, America.”

  RESTING IN HER living room, Candace set the remote control down on the coffee table and proceeded to comfortably stretch out on her sofa. Like most everyone else in the country, she was attentively watching the interview, and doing so with a multitude of mixed feelings.

  She had not seen or spoken to Jermaine since that night in Scottsdale, and so much had passed through her mind about him—what had really caused him to feel so depressed as to attempt suicide, how his treatments had gone at the mental hospital, how he was doing now, and so on—questions that probably would never be answered for her. Such a possibility saddened her; because despite all the negative and damaging publicity she had received as a result of his actions, she still treasured her brief time with him and held a soft spot in her heart for him.

  She knew it didn’t make any sense at all. Her own reputation had in all likelihood been forever scarred because of this man, yet why did she often find herself still fondly thinking about him? She even found herself taking the time to pray about him—asking her heavenly Father to watch over and protect him. And that’s what she began doing at that moment, uttering a short prayer that Jermaine would fare alright during this interview. For she thought it more than a little strange that he had even agreed to go on live with somebody like Chantal Dixon. It was no secret that the woman harbored a personal grudge against the man with the golden voice.

  “WELCOME BACK, everyone, to Eye on America. I am now joined live here in the studio with Jermaine Hill.”

  “Take camera one,” Tim said in the control room, giving the viewers at home the chance to see both Chantal and Jermaine in the same wide-angle shot.

  “Jermaine, it’s good to have you with us here tonight,” Chantal began.

  “Thank you.”

  “I have to begin with the question I’m sure is on everyone’s mind. Just what were you thinking when you decided to do a televised jump off of Mount Lee?”

  Jermaine shrugged ever so slightly. “First of all, I hadn’t planned for it to be televised, Chantal. Interesting how that came about, isn’t it? Anyway, I suppose it was a culmination of things, really. There was a lot in my life that I wasn’t happy with and wasn’t dealing properly with. I had been thinking about committing suicide for a good while, and that night I . . . I guess I thought I was finally ready to go through with it.”

  “You said there were many things in your life that you weren’t happy with. Yet while all this had been going on, you were still continually before the public, exciting and inspiring them about life. Do you not feel that you were being a bit hypocritical?”

  “When I was out there speaking, in many ways it was just a performance. I could consciously detach the person I was from the j
ob I was doing.”

  “So you do, then, agree that you were leading a hypocritical lifestyle?” Chantal was going in for the kill.

  “Yes.”

  “And how has anything changed? Are you saying that merely ten weeks of psychiatric treatment were sufficient to completely heal you of depression and your suicidal tendencies? Do you expect the American public to believe that you are no longer giving motivational speeches as simply performances?”

  “Yes, Chantal, in fact there has been quite a big change. However, I also know that hospitalization for ten weeks is not enough to effectively cure me of the issues I was suffering with, and I am not crediting doctors and psychiatrists alone with the success of my recovery.”

  “Wait a minute, I’m not quite understanding you. You have been quoted as saying that you are fully recovered and healed from clinical depression. Yet you just stated that the doctors at the state hospital were not fully responsible for such a recovery. To whom, then, are you crediting your healing?”

  Perhaps if Chantal had not been so bent on prosecuting Jermaine as though the two of them were in a court of law and she was judge, jury, and executioner, then she might have realized that she was being masterfully set up.

  “I fully credit my healing and renewed gift to inspire people about life to none other than . . . Jesus Christ.”

  Five to ten seconds passed before Chantal realized her jaw had unprofessionally dropped open. In her earpiece, the show’s producer was screaming at her to come back to reality. They were on live television, after all.

  “I-I’m sorry,” she stammered. “D-did I hear you right? You are crediting your recovery to . . . to . . .”

  Jermaine smiled. “Yes, that is right. To none other than Jesus Christ. I’m fully aware that speaking His name on live network television is not the politically correct thing to do, but frankly I don’t care.”

  For the first time ever while in front of a camera, Chantal Dixon was completely and utterly . . . speechless.

  Jermaine took the liberty to continue. “You see, I’ve had to learn the hard way that fame and riches certainly don’t guarantee you a happy life, I don’t care who you are. Because though I was motivating millions of people, I honestly didn’t have a clue about what it truly meant to be excited and inspired about life. It took an encounter with Almighty God to reveal unto me what inspiration truly meant.”

  The producer was now in the throes of a hysterical fit, pleading with Chantal through her earpiece to interrupt Jermaine’s whole religious spiel by announcing that they would be going to a commercial break. But Chantal could only sit there, dumbfounded. It seemed almost as if some unseen force was preventing her from interrupting Jermaine as he spoke.

  So he was free and uninhibited for the next few minutes to give his testimony of salvation, redemption, and true inspiration to a record-setting television audience, a miracle of unparalleled proportions that only God Himself could receive glory out of.

  Chapter thirty-two

  THE REACTION AND fallout from Jermaine’s stirring testimony on Eye on America was swift and immediate, dominating radio talk shows and newspaper headlines in the following days from the Big Apple to Hollywood and everywhere in between. Church leaders from various Christian denominations praised the boldness of their newest “soldier in the Lord’s army.” Fellow speakers along the motivational circuit cautioned that Jermaine’s newfound religious fervor might affect his agenda when speaking. Even the president of the United States issued a brief statement, declaring that Americans everywhere should be proud of their constitutional right to freedom of religion, and the free exercise thereof. It seemed that everyone had an opinion to share concerning this American idol’s radical conversion to Christianity—everyone including an irate and agitated Mario Jordan, who was forced to immediately attempt to put a liberal spin on his client’s words.

  “Jermaine, there goes the ninety-eight percent of the public’s approval rating,” he dourly relayed over the phone to his client, who was at the moment en route from Chicago to Los Angeles. “And with that in mind, some sponsors are no doubt going to be pulling their endorsements of you. I hope you realize how massive and far-reaching a mistake you may have made.”

  Presently flying somewhere over the Great Plains, Jermaine rolled his eyes in the first-class seat of his chartered plane. “Mario, for the last time, everything is not always about money and sponsorships.”

  “He-lllloooo! Earth to Jermaine! What, am I next going to hear on the news that you’re giving to the poor and needy? This is a money-making business, J. And as your agent, I—”

  “As my agent, your first priority is to respect the wishes of your client,” Jermaine cut in. “And as far as what I said last week on TV, it doesn’t matter one way or the other what happens. I can handle the consequences.”

  Mario sighed loudly, with exasperation. “J, tell me this. How does this change us? I mean, we’ve built an entire empire on the whole golden-voice shtick. What we have going for us works, man. Are you telling me that you’re now turning into some kind of Billy Graham / T. D. Jakes wannabe?”

  Jermaine let out a short laugh. “No, Mario. I’m still all about getting people excited and inspired about life. Even more so, I’d say now. Sure, my relationship with God is going to change my life in some ways—but only for the better. My faith is going to make me a more effective speaker, because now this won’t be just a performance. I’m truly going to want to see people’s lives changed. Look, I’ll talk to you in a couple of days when I get back to L.A.”

  “A couple of days? What are you talking about? I scheduled some last-minute appearances for you tonight and tomorrow at the Convention Center.”

  “No-can-do, Mario. Besides, haven’t I told you not to do that last-minute scheduling without checking with me first?”

  “Yeah, I know, but J, the money was too good to pass up.”

  “Sorry, Mario, but I’ve got plans elsewhere.”

  “J! Okay, wait, wait. Where are you going, though? I should know of any changes to your itinerary, you know.”

  “There’s something I need to take care of in Houston, my man. Talk to you later.” With a huge smile on his face, he hung up the phone before his agent could say more.

  FOR SOME REASON, Candace was having the hardest time concentrating as she stared at the blank sheet of paper in front of her. A week earlier, she had gladly accepted an offer to write a feature for the M. D. Anderson hospital system highlighting the latest breakthroughs in cancer research. Though she had been given more than enough information, she thus far had been unable to organize the thick, three-inch binder of medical research into anything remotely resembling a readable feature article. She knew why, of course. Her mind was still crazily turning cartwheels over Jermaine’s testimony on Eye on America last week. How awesome had that been—to see a man of such stature and standing in the public eye share his newfound faith in the Lord Jesus Christ!

  Almost like an answer to my prayers . . .

  And that poor little Chantal Dixon—Candace knew that such a catastrophic blunder committed while conducting an interview of that importance would probably demote that girl to doing weekend fashion reports or something. The networks didn’t play when it came to unforgivable mistakes like that.

  The ringing chime of the doorbell interrupted her unproductivity and, glad for an excuse to break away for a moment, she got up and padded in her stockinged feet to the front door. Not even thinking to look through the peephole because she had already figured that it was probably her always-vacationing neighbor asking yet again for Candace to collect her mail, she opened the door . . .

  . . . and in the same second that her mouth fell open, her heart started beating faster and the heat she felt had absolutely nothing to do with the warm, muggy temperature of the Bayou City.

  Chapter thirty-three

  SHE WAS . . . BEAUTIFUL . . . so, so beautiful in Jermaine’s eyes. And not the kind of unrealistic, supermodel, magazine cover-girl
beauty that once exclusively served to stir his attractions. No, the beauty that Candi Clark possessed radiated from the inside out, permeating every aspect of her being so that he was sure if he gazed long enough he would behold an angelic glow framing her body.

  For a good while, neither spoke. Their eyes were locked into each other with a long-lost sense of reunion and of knowing: theirs were two lives linked together beyond the controversy and scandal that had gone before.

  “Candi, I’m sorry,” he finally whispered, his voice barely audible.

  She nodded.

  He cleared his throat and continued. “I mean, I know those two words aren’t enough to atone for all the hurt and pain I must have caused you, but—”

  “Shh . . .” she gently interrupted. “I accept your apology, Jermaine. But I do have to say, it is long past due.”

  He sheepishly grinned. “Well, I’ve been unavoidably preoccupied, I guess you could say. I didn’t have an opportunity to contact you.”

  She gave him a doubting look. “Jermaine, please. You’ve been out of the crazy house for almost a full month now.”

  “Hey! It wasn’t a crazy—”

  “Just kidding,” she said smoothly. “Now come on in, before somebody sees you out here and calls the National Enquirer.”

  “THE PRESS WAS that bad, huh?” Jermaine asked as he took a seat on the sofa in Candace’s sunroom.

  “Worse than bad. Capital A aa-awful! No disrespect to her memory, but I felt like Princess Diana with all the paparazzi keeping me locked in here like a prisoner. They couldn’t set foot on my lawn, but they could legally camp out all along the street. And for about a week, that’s what they did. And after everything sort of died down, I would still notice a couple of reporters following me around the city.”

  “They’re still doing that?”