Murder on the Down Low

by Pamela Samuels Young

  Vernetta reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “It’s going to be okay. Just give Clayton a few days.”

  Special had called Vernetta the second Clayton left. She had cried for a full five minutes before finally explaining what happened.

  “I’m sure Clayton will call when he cools off,” she said, though she wasn’t really sure he would. Jefferson’s reaction would have been much the same.

  “I know it’s over,” Special said wearily. “He’s not going to give me a second chance.” Her voice cracked. “He won’t even answer my calls.”

  When the waitress approached the table, Special didn’t bother to wipe away the tears trailing down her cheeks.

  “Give us a minute,” Vernetta said. She was determined to boost her friend’s spirits. “Just give him some time. He’ll cool off.”

  Special’s cell phone rang and she rushed to dig it out of her purse. She checked the caller ID display, frowned, then set it on the table without answering it. “I left Clayton four messages this morning. I thought that might be him.”

  Okay, so maybe cheering Special up wasn’t going to be all that easy, Vernetta thought. She decided to change the subject and share her news about O’Reilly and Haley. “Want to hear some major law firm gossip?”

  She took a sip of water. “Yeah, sure.”

  “Guess what little backstabbing blond at O’Reilly & Finney is screwing the managing partner?”

  Special’s face brightened slightly. “O’Reilly is messing around with that little witch, Haley?”

  “You got it.”

  “Girl, you’re lyin’!” The old Special was temporarily resuscitated. “How’d you find out?”

  Vernetta told her about the two of them working late, then seeing Haley coming out of O’Reilly’s office with her hair and lipstick a mess. She gave a blow-by-blow account of their chance meeting at Chaya Venice and how Haley would be arguing her motion next week.

  “Girl, I bet she’s giving that man blow jobs in the office,” Special said.

  “What I don’t understand is why they didn’t go to a hotel.”

  “Taking the risk of getting caught makes it more exciting,” Special explained, smiling for the first time. “I dated this guy who got off on messing around in his office. Haley’s about half O’Reilly’s age, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “I bet she’s whipping some stuff on him the chick he’s living with hasn’t even read about.” Special took a sip from her water glass and crunched on the ice. “Anyway, the big question is, what are you going to do about it?”

  “And exactly what would you suggest?”

  “No telling what she’s whispering into his ear while they’re snuggled up together doing the do. Start faking her out. She needs to become your new best friend.”

  “Like I already told Jefferson, I’m not doing that.”

  “You don’t have a choice,” Special said. “When something goes down between the two of you, who do you think O’Reilly’s going to side with? You or the cute little blond who’s making him come?”

  “This is nuts. My job is to practice law, not to kiss up to that little wench.”

  “Until you make partner, you gotta do what you gotta do.” Special aimed a finger at Vernetta from across the table. “If not, you can either pack your bags now or wait for Haley to do it for you.”

  Chapter 36

  James and Marcia Hill enjoyed entertaining friends at their spacious two-story home on Shenandoah Street in the Ladera Heights section of Los Angeles.

  Their neighbors, Wallace and Juanita Sims, had moved across the street six months earlier and the two couples quickly established an easy friendship. The foursome sat around the dining room table feeling stuffed and relaxed.

  “That was the best grilled salmon I’ve ever tasted,” Wallace said to his hostess. He was an assistant pastor at one of the city’s largest churches.

  “Excuse me?” his wife gave him a sideways glance. “I cooked salmon two weeks ago. What about mine?”

  Wallace leaned over and kissed his wife on the cheek. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Yours was the best baked salmon I’ve ever had.”

  Easy laughter filled the room.

  “My husband should’ve been a politician instead of a preacher,” said Juanita. “He’s faster on his feet with the bull than anybody I know.”

  The two couples made their way into the living room, where James put on a CD of Motown hits. “You know, you’re alright for a man of the cloth.” James took a seat next to his wife. “I always thought ministers were uptight.”

  “James, I can’t believe you said that!” Marcia said, embarrassed.

  Wallace laughed. “Everybody thinks that. But I wasn’t always a minister.”

  “I’ve been holding off on approaching you about this,” James said, “but I’d like to talk to you about some investments your church might find lucrative.” James had been running his own investment banking firm for two decades.

  “Anytime. The church could definitely use some help in that area.”

  James reached for the bottle of wine on the coffee table. “Anybody want a refill?”

  Wallace and Juanita shook their heads. Marcia covered her glass with her hand. “I’m already a little tipsy.”

  Juanita looked at her watch, then at Wallace. “I told the sitter we’d be home by ten. We better get going.”

  “Hold up, man,” James said to his neighbor. “You’re not trying to run out on me, are you? You promised me a rematch.”

  Juanita picked up her purse from an end table. “I’m not hanging around for another one of your marathon chess matches. You can stay if you want, but I’m heading home.”

  Wallace escorted his wife safely across the street, then returned.

  Marcia showed Wallace back into the living room. “You guys want me to make some coffee?”

  Both men shook their heads.

  “Then I’m off to bed. Don’t stay up too late.” She leaned down and kissed her husband.

  James rubbed his hands together. “I hope you’re ready, man. I got something special for you tonight.”

  Wallace followed James through the kitchen door and out to a back house that James had converted into a study. The comfy room was the size of a posh hotel suite. It was equipped with a separate bathroom, a small refrigerator and a microwave oven. A sleek, glass-top desk was framed by tall shelves stacked with books. A chess set—an expensive, hand-carved ivory model that cost over a grand—was already set up in the north corner of the room next to a six-foot couch.

  James tuned in a jazz station, filling the room with a soft saxophone solo. After dimming the lights just a tad, the men stood over the chess set, facing each other.

  James smiled. “Okay, preacher man, I’m about to make you beg for mercy.”

  When Marcia awoke the next morning and discovered that her husband’s side of the bed had not been slept in, it did not concern her. James often fell asleep in the den while watching late night TV. He was probably already up, getting in an early workout.

  Marcia swung her legs over the side of the bed and stepped into her house shoes. When she didn’t find James in the den, she put on a pot of coffee, then peeked into the garage, expecting to find him on the treadmill. They had turned one section of their three-car garage into a workout area, equipping it with a high-tech treadmill and thousands of dollars worth of Nautilus equipment.

  But he wasn’t there either. The Lexus and the Escalade were parked side by side. Marcia searched the notepad near the refrigerator. James rarely left without leaving her a note. But the pad was blank. A slight panic began to set in. Maybe he had taken a walk. She went to the living room window and peered up the street.

  She started for the back door, but decided to check the rest of the house before going outside to James’ study. This house is too big, Marcia thought, as she made her way down the hallway. She checked the three guest bedrooms, looked in on her two daughters, then headed out back.


  When she opened the study door, a scream loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood pierced the air. It took a second for Marcia to realize that the sound was coming from her mouth.

  The study was a bloody, revolting mess and right in the middle of it, her beloved husband sat slumped on the couch, half his head blown away.

  Chapter 37

  Nichelle left the office at four after calling in for a short interview on KABC radio. Interview requests were coming in nearly every day. To her surprise, she actually was becoming an authority on the subject of down low men. Maybe she would end up with her own TV show like Star Jones.

  Instead of heading home, she decided to pay her parents a visit in Baldwin Vista. She found her father and brother in the driveway, tinkering under the hood of her father’s newest toy, a 1965 Mustang.

  “You still working on that old thing?” She gave her father a kiss on the cheek. He was a retired high school principal who now devoted most of his time to a long list of never-to-be finished household projects. Her mother still worked part-time as a nurse.

  “You just wait,” he said. “When I get it running, I’ma catch all the young women.”

  Nichelle laughed, then playfully punched her brother Marlon in the arm. At thirty-five, he was a big bear of a man with a baby face.

  “Heard you on the radio, sis. Sounds like you’re a celebrity.”

  She smiled. “I’m working on it. Where’s Mama?”

  Her father pulled out the car’s oil stick and examined it. “The kitchen. Where else?”

  Nichelle made her way inside and stepped into the kitchen just as her mother pulled a casserole dish from the oven.

  “Your favorite,” she said smiling. “Sausage Lasagna.” The dish was sizzling with melted cheese.

  Nichelle grunted. She was trying her hardest to stick to her third attempt at dieting this year. “Mama, you know I’m on a diet.” Nichelle gave her a hug and marveled at how much of herself she saw in her mother’s face.

  “You don’t need to be on a diet. A man wants a woman with some meat on her bones.”

  Nichelle glanced back over her shoulder and lowered her voice. “I’m surprised the warden let Marlon out of the house without her.”

  Shantel, her brother’s long-time, live-in girlfriend was not a family favorite. Her most annoying quality was the way she boldly professed to know everything about everything. For Marlon’s sake, Nichelle and her mother kept their opinions to themselves. Her brother had always been attracted to bossy women, even back in junior high school.

  Her mother tossed her head in the direction of the den. “She’s in there,” her mother whispered. “You know she’s not letting that boy out of her sight.”

  Shantel floated into the kitchen amid a cloud of patuli oil. She was a wafer thin, Bohemian type, with short twists. She wore leather sandals and a thin, flowery cape over a pair of jeans. “Hey, sister-in-law.”

  Not if I have anything to say about it.

  Shantel gave Nichelle a fake air kiss. “I’m glad you’re here. We need to talk.”

  Nichelle cast a glance in her mother’s direction. “About what?”

  “I heard your interview this afternoon.” Shantel was a social worker and also conducted sex education classes at a local youth facility.

  Nichelle figured she was about to offer up a critique and really didn’t want to hear it. She leaned back against the kitchen counter. “And?”

  “I think you’re doing black women a disservice.”

  Nichelle could feel the be nice look her mother was hurling her way. “And exactly how am I doing that?”

  Shantel daintily held up two fingers. “Two things. First, you have a great platform to educate women about HIV, but you’re blowing it. I’ve never once heard you mention in your interviews that HIV isn’t a gay disease.”

  “Excuse me? It’s a fact that African-American women are being infected primarily through heterosexual sex. No one disputes that. That tells me they’re getting it from men on the down low.”

  Shantel haughtily blew out a breath and puckered her gloss-slathered lips. “No it doesn’t. Your problem is you, like most people, think HIV is a gay disease. Well, it’s not.”

  Nichelle opened her mouth to say something, but Shantel ignored her and kept talking.

  “There’s also a high rate of HIV infection among I-V drug users, heterosexual I-V drug users. And you’re completely ignoring the fact that women are out there spreading the disease just like men. If a straight guy gets HIV from a woman and spreads it to five other women, being on the down low has nothing to do with it. And these days, a lot of women are just as promiscuous as men. During your interview today, you gave the impression that all women have to do to avoid being infected is not sleep with men on the down low. That’s just not the case. You’re giving women a false sense of security.”

  Nichelle started to argue the point, but then realized that Shantel was echoing exactly what Wanda had said during the support group meeting. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to tell Shantel she was right.

  The smell of the lasagna was getting to her. She needed to leave before her mother forced her to eat. “You mentioned that you had two points,” Nichelle said, surprised at herself for encouraging the woman. “So what is your second point?”

  “You also never once mentioned anything about black women’s culpability in all of this.”

  Nichelle dropped her arms. “I know you’re not trying to blame these women for getting infected?”

  “Women need to start taking responsibility for their own bodies. Everybody knows HIV is out there running rampant. So why are women still sleeping with men they barely know and having unprotected sex? And why aren’t they getting tested and demanding that their men get tested before spreading their legs. That’s the first thing I made Marlon do.”

  The pan Nichelle’s mother was washing slipped from her hands and rattled loudly in the stainless steel sink.

  Nichelle knew this conversation made her mother uncomfortable. “Thanks for sharing, Shantel. I’ll give what you said some thought.”

  “You really should. With all your education, I’m really surprised at your lack of insight on this.”

  Nichelle straightened up. “You know what, Shantel? Maybe you should—”

  “Baby, help me set the table.” Nichelle’s mother shoved a plate into her hand. “Shantel, go get the guys and tell them it’s time to eat.”

  Chapter 38

  Haley tried valiantly to play it off, but Vernetta could tell she was trembling like a leaf inside.

  They were standing outside Department 5, waiting for the bailiff to open the courtroom. According to the docket posted on the door, their discovery motion would be the first matter heard by the judge.

  “Everything okay?” Vernetta asked. “You’re not nervous are you?”

  “Of course not,” Haley said with a huff. “This is only a simple discovery motion.” She peered over her shoulder, as if she were searching for someone, then tucked a loose curl behind her ear.

  “Looking for somebody?”

  “O’Reilly said he would try to get by to watch my argument.”

  And when did he make that promise? When you two were curled up in bed together last night?

  The bailiff unlocked the double doors leading into the courtroom and Vernetta and Haley, along with about a dozen other attorneys, filed inside. They handed business cards to the court clerk, who checked off their names. As Vernetta could have predicted, their opposing counsel had yet to show up. He was never on time.

  Vernetta took a seat in the front row and Haley sat next to her. About ten minutes later, Vernetta heard a quiet murmur go through the rows of lawyers behind her. She turned around and spotted an attorney she recognized.

  “What’s all the commotion about?”

  “Judge Miller won’t be here today,” the woman complained. “Judge Abernathy’s taking his place.”

  Judge Alvinia Abernathy had the reputation of being
one of the meanest judges in L.A. She got a kick out of embarrassing attorneys, and she seemed to have a particular dislike for female lawyers. The rumor was, the more attractive you were, the harder she grilled you.

  Vernetta turned to Haley. “I think you better let me argue the motion. Judge Abernathy’s not an easy judge to deal with. She’s—”

  “No way,” Haley said defensively. “You’re just mad that O’Reilly let me do the argument and not you.”

  “No, Haley, right now, all I’m thinking about is the client and how it’s going to look if we lose this motion. This judge is—”

  “We’re not going to lose and you’re not arguing the motion. I am.”

  Before Vernetta could convince her otherwise, she heard the bailiff’s voice. “All rise, please come to order. The Honorable Alvinia Abernathy presiding.”

  Judge Abernathy entered the courtroom from a side door. She was in her late forties with dishwater blond hair which she wore in a short pageboy. She wasn’t a bad looking woman, but could’ve used some help with her makeup. The dusty rose on her lips and the too-dark eye shadow on her lids looked atrocious.

  She sat down and began shuffling papers.

  Vernetta glanced over her shoulder.  Joe Ross, their opposing counsel, still hadn’t arrived and she was thankful for that. Due to his absence, their case would be moved to the end of the docket. By that time, Haley would have a chance to watch other oral arguments and see how vicious Abernathy could be. Then she would gladly hand over the reigns.

  “Jackson versus Spectrum Services,” the judge called out. Just then, Ross bolted into the courtroom. He followed Haley and Vernetta as they took their places before the judge. Haley looked at Vernetta as if she had expected her to remain seated in the gallery.

  “Mr. Ross,” the judge said, “do you own a watch?”

  Ross shuffled his weight from one foot to the other. He knew what was coming. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Does it work?”

  “Uh . . . yes it does.”