Murder on the Down Low

by Pamela Samuels Young

  Vernetta waited a beat. “He’s dead.”

  “What? You’re lying! When? How?”

  “Turn on Channel 11.”

  Vernetta waited as she did. They both listened as the news anchor went live to a reporter camped in front of Eugene’s house. The camera panned to Eugene’s distraught housekeeper, a thin Hispanic woman, who was being comforted by two police officers. Yellow crime scene tape roped off Eugene’s front yard. There were a handful of people from the neighborhood gathered across the street.

  “I guess what they say is really true,” Special said when the report ended.

  “And what’s that?”

  “The Lord really does work in mysterious ways. That dog got what he deserved!”

  “Special!”

  “I know you can’t possibly expect me to feel an ounce of sympathy for his ass, ’cause I don’t.”

  Vernetta closed her eyes. “Special, I’m only asking you this because I’m a lawyer, okay?”

  “Asking me what?”

  “Please tell me you didn’t have anything to do with Eugene’s murder.”

  Special laughed easily. “I wish I had. But, girl, you know I’m too afraid to shoot somebody.”

  “Yeah, but you weren’t too afraid to hack into his law firm’s computer system, throw nails in his driveway, bash in his car, and assault him with pepper spray.”

  “I’ll admit to the pepper spray since they got that on tape,” she said, “but as for everything else, I’m taking the Fifth. And anyway, I should be offended that you think I could’ve done something like that. You know I didn’t kill that man.”

  “Jefferson thinks you were angry enough to have done it.”

  “Jefferson ain’t my best friend. You are.”

  There was hurt in Special’s voice and Vernetta felt guilty for her uncertainty. She just prayed Special was telling the truth.

  “Because of your tirade outside the courthouse, you’re going to be the first person the police look at. Do you have an alibi?”

  “An alibi?”

  “Yes, an alibi. According to that news report, Eugene died either late Saturday night or early Sunday morning. Can you account for your whereabouts during that time?”

  It took Special several seconds to respond. “I was at home by myself Saturday evening and all day on Sunday.”

  “Well, that may not be good enough.”

  “It has to be. I didn’t kill that man,” she said, alarmed.

  “Babe,” Jefferson tapped Vernetta on the shoulder and pointed to the television screen. “Take a look at this.”

  The screen flashed footage of Special attacking Eugene outside the courthouse.

  Vernetta dropped the telephone receiver on the bed. “Oh, no.”

  Just a week ago, Nelson was attacked with pepper spray by Special Moore, the cousin of Maya Washington. Sources tell us that Moore was extremely distraught over her cousin’s death. One source even claims that she took to the pulpit at Ms. Washington’s funeral and vowed revenge against Nelson.

  Vernetta picked the receiver back up. “Did you see that?”

  “I’m suing them for defamation!” Special shouted. “They can’t be using my name like that!”

  “You can’t sue them,” Vernetta said sadly. “What they just reported was the truth.”

  Chapter 64

  J.C.’s Range Rover rolled to a stop in front of Eugene’s house within minutes of receiving the call from dispatch. The front lawn was already crawling with cops. An antsy group of looky-loos and reporters were herded into a tight circle directly across the street.

  She hopped out, flashed her badge, and slid underneath the yellow crime scene tape. Her eyes scanned the area. To her surprise, Lieutenant Wilson was standing near Eugene’s front door, no coffee or Snickers in hand. That was a first. He met her halfway up the driveway.

  “Well,” J.C. said, “now are you finally willing to accept my theory? There’s no disputing that this victim was on the down low.” There was too much I told you so in her voice, but she didn’t care.

  Lieutenant Wilson gave her a harsh look, but said nothing.

  “Exactly how many men have to die before we warn the public that somebody is out here gunning for these guys?”

  “We don’t know for sure that this murder is connected to the others,” the Lieutenant said stubbornly. “The M.O. here is different. This guy wasn’t capped in a public place. Looks like someone entered through an unlocked window in his kitchen.”

  “That investment banker was killed in his home, too, Lieutenant.”

  He guffawed. “Anyway, somebody had a definite motive for wanting this guy dead. And I think you know exactly who I’m talking about.”

  “What are you talking—” When J.C. realized the lieutenant was referring to Special, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck jumped to attention.

  “I know that woman’s a friend of yours. I just hope she has a solid alibi for her whereabouts when this guy was knocked off.”

  “I know my friend. She was devastated about her cousin’s death and still is. But I don’t think she’s capable of murder.”

  The lieutenant made a face. “You don’t sound much like a cop right now. You’ve been in this game long enough to know that anybody’s capable of murder. And if she does become a suspect, you’re off the case.”

  J.C. was well aware of Department policy. She wanted to get back to the real issue. The one the lieutenant was trying to avoid. “Lieutenant, we can’t dismiss the possibility that the same person who killed those other men committed this murder as well.”

  The lieutenant ran a hand across his bald head. “So far, only three of the four murders have a link to this homosexual thing, so—”

  “No, Lieutenant,” J.C. said, correcting him, “counting Eugene, it’s now five of five. I’ve been reluctant to tell you what we discovered yesterday about your friend, James Hill.”

  “Aw crap! Please don’t tell me some guy’s come forward claiming he was Hill’s friggin’ gay lover.”

  “No, not that, but we did find some information that raises some questions about his sexual orientation.”

  He scratched the stubble on his chin and looked down at the ground. “Go ahead. Let’s hear it.”

  “Hill’s computer showed that he was a frequent visitor to several gay websites. And he had a pretty extensive collection of gay porn hidden in a safe beneath a floorboard in his home office.”

  “Son of a bitch!”

  “Sorry, Lieutenant.” J.C. remained silent as Lieutenant Wilson paced about in a small circle on the grass, cursing. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” he said, but didn’t look it. “You’ll be happy to know that I’ve discussed your theory with the captain. He agrees with me. The repercussions of going public about these men being homos isn’t a risk the Department is willing to take right now.”

  J.C. was ready to explode. “Isn’t a risk the Department is willing to take? Somebody’s out there targeting these guys. They need to know so they can take precautions to protect themselves.”

  “Lower your voice,” he ordered, even though his own decibel level had increased.

  “Lieutenant, we cannot ignore the fact that—”

  A Honda Civic plowed past the police barricade and screeched to a stop near Eugene’s driveway. Belynda threw open the door and tried to get past an officer who stood in her path.

  “Ma’am, I can’t let you go in there.” The officer was struggling to be gentle with Belynda, knowing his actions might be broadcast on the evening news.

  “I   know   who   did   this,”   Belynda   cried.   “I   know   who   killed Eugene!”

  A reporter from KABC, in the midst of interviewing a neighbor, dashed across the street and ran up to Belynda. “Are you getting this?” the reporter excitedly called over her shoulder to her cameraman.

  Belynda crumpled into a heap of tears on the grass near the curb. “I’m tellin
g you I know who did this!”

  The officer helped her to her feet and gently tried to stuff her into the car, but Belynda kept resisting. The cop finally pushed her into the backseat and tried to close the car door, but Belynda reared back and pressed both feet against the door, preventing him from closing it.

  “You’re standing here wasting time while Eugene’s murderer is walking around free!”

  The KABC reporter bent down and peered into the car. She extended her microphone toward Belynda. The cop, still struggling with Belynda, almost knocked it out of her hand.

  “So who do you think killed Mr. Nelson?” the reporter asked.

  “Special Moore killed Eugene!”

  J.C. wanted to run over and clamp a muzzle on the woman. Her hysterical allegation was nothing short of slander. There was no way any responsible news station would risk a defamation lawsuit by airing her accusation.

  A couple of officers were about to assist their comrade, but the lieutenant waved them off. “That woman can’t weigh more than a buck twenty-five. He ought to be able to handle her.” The lieutenant apparently didn’t want any news footage of a gang of LAPD officers taking down a lone, wisp of a woman.

  Somehow Belynda managed to push her way past the much larger cop and propel herself out of the car. More reporters swooped out of nowhere, forming a tight circle around her, anxious to hear what she had to say.

  “You saw her attack Eugene outside the courthouse,” Belynda declared. Now that a herd of cameras were focused on her, she magically composed herself. She tugged at the hem of her sweater. “And I have proof that she killed Eugene.”

  “What kind of proof?” asked a reporter whose microphone bore a KNBC emblem.

  Belynda ran her fingers through her tussled hair. “Special Moore confronted me outside my house early Saturday morning. I was scared to death because I knew she was mentally unstable. She tried to get me to look at a picture on her digital camera, but I refused. She claimed it showed Eugene and another man . . . kissing. But it was all part of her delusional psychosis. She even admitted trespassing on his property and peeping into his kitchen window Friday night to take the picture.”

  The lieutenant gave J.C. a somber look. J.C. prayed the woman was making this all up. But what Belynda had just described didn’t sound too farfetched for Special.

  “She was stalking him and she wasn’t going to stop until he was dead.” Belynda turned away from the reporter who had asked the last question and stared directly into the lens of a camera to her right.

  “If the police want Eugene’s killer,” she said with the confidence of an attorney delivering a closing argument, “all they need to do is go arrest Special Moore.”

  Chapter 65

  Deputy D.A. Ray Martinez sat across the desk from Melvin Hathaway and tried to hide his discomfort. Being summoned by the District Attorney himself could mean only one of two things. Good news or really, really bad news. Ray just wished Hathaway would cut the chit chat and get to the point.

  “You’ve had an incredible career here,” Hathaway said. “Your win-loss record is one of the best. A lot of prosecutors have high success rates because they’re afraid to try difficult cases. You’ve tried some real dogs and won.”

  Ray started to respond with a thank you, but decided to let it pass. Hathaway had been blowing smoke up his ass for the past ten minutes. Why in the hell am I here?

  “I guess you’re wondering why I wanted to see you,” Hathaway said.

  “Yes,” Ray admitted, “I am a little curious.”

  Martinez had been a Deputy D.A. for more than seven years and had never even been in the office of his boss’ boss. A product of East Oakland, Ray attended NYU Law School and spent three years in the Alameda County D.A.’s office before making the move to L.A. He had wavy, dark hair and a thick mustache that gave him the distinguished air of a much older man, though he had just hit thirty-five. Copper-colored skin advertised his Mexican heritage.

  “Well, today’s your lucky day, Martinez.” Hathaway smiled and leaned back in his leather chair. His teeth glistened from repeated laser treatments. “I’m about to drop one of those career-making cases into your lap.”

  Some of the anxiety left and Ray finally smiled. “Tell me more.”

  “You’re the lucky D.A. who’s going to prosecute the Eugene Nelson murder case,” Hathaway said. “I’m sure you’ve been reading about it.”

  This time, Ray sat up.

  It was rare to get an assignment directly from the District Attorney himself and now he knew why. Hathaway was a politician, a very savvy politician. He’d been campaigning hard for the mayor’s job, and the election was right around the corner. Hathaway had much to gain by getting a quick conviction in the Nelson murder case.

  In the days following the attack outside the courthouse, Eugene Nelson had become a cause célèbre in the gay community. The media coverage after his murder intensified and gay activists were now demanding that someone pay for what they viewed as a vicious hate crime.

  Putting Nelson’s killer behind bars would brand Hathaway a true friend of the gay community, a nice constituency to have on your side. Having a Latino D.A. deliver the conviction would also help when it came to the Hispanic vote. Ray would probably be asked to accompany Hathaway on his campaign appearances in East L.A. Ray was being used. Still, he liked being the chosen one.

  He played it cool, even though he knew Hathaway would have preferred to see him jumping for joy over this opportunity to prosecute a murder case that had already garnered national attention. But Ray wasn’t one of those Sí, Señor, media-chasing kind of prosecutors. He was good at what he did because he focused all of his attention on proving guilt. Not on trying to become a celebrity lawyer.

  “As I understand it, no one’s been arrested yet,” Ray said.

  “An arrest is imminent.”

  “The woman who attacked him outside the courthouse?”

  Hathaway nodded.

  “We got any hard evidence linking her to his murder?”

  “Not yet. But I personally made a call to the chief. So trust me, if there’s some evidence to be found, they’ll find it. That’s why I wanted you involved early on.”

  Ray knew the D.A. had one final issue he needed to raise before dismissing him. But Ray wasn’t going to cut Hathaway any slack. He would have to broach the subject on his own.

  Ray made a show of glancing at his watch. He was anxious for Hathaway to get to the point. “Thanks for this opportunity. Is there anything else we need to discuss?”

  Hathaway steepled his fingers and rested his hands on his desk. “As a matter of fact, there is.”

  Ray waited, leaving no readable expression on his face.

  “The media can be barracudas,”  Hathaway   said.   “And nowadays, nothing is off limits. When I was in your shoes, all the attention was focused on the victim and the defendant. Rarely on the attorneys. Now, it’s a different ball game. The media is likely to dig around in your personal life, if you know what I mean.”

  Ray chuckled inside. What Hathaway wanted to know was whether Ray could handle the pressure when the media put his personal life on front street. Ray had never hidden who he was. He wasn’t in the closet, but he wasn’t exactly out either. If the subject came up, he didn’t run from it. If no one raised it, he saw no reason to. Heterosexuals didn’t walk around professing their sexual orientation, and Ray didn’t feel the need to do so either. He was what he was.

  Luckily, he’d been raised by a loving mother who would have accepted him no matter what. His relationship with his father remained strained and always would be. Ray had been living with his partner Antonio since moving to L.A. He wondered, though, if Antonio could stand the public scrutiny.

  Ray could only imagine the headlines: D.A. Selects Fag Prosecutor to Try Down Low Murder Case. He’d have no trouble handling the media or dealing with criticism from the generally homophobic public. He’d been called a fag before and he’d no doubt be c
alled one again. He decided to let Hathaway off the hook.

  “I understand what you’re getting at,” Ray said. “The media’s going to make a big deal of the fact that I’m gay. I can handle it.”

  “Great.” The tension eased from Hathaway’s face. “Now get outta here and get me a conviction.”

  Chapter 66

  Two days after Belynda’s emotional television debut, Special sat between Vernetta and Nichelle in a dingy, windowless interrogation room at Parker Center. The police had asked Special to voluntarily come in for questioning on less than an hour’s notice.

  “So how long we gotta sit here?” Special nervously rocked back and forth.

  Vernetta was glad to see fear on her friend’s face. Special was finally beginning to comprehend that her antics toward Eugene had landed her in very big trouble.

  “As long as it takes,” Vernetta said snidely. “We wouldn’t even be here if you hadn’t attacked Eugene with that pepper spray. You just better be glad none of those TV stations ran all of that interview with Belynda. J.C. said she fingered you as Eugene’s killer.”

  Special twisted her lips. “And if they had aired it, I would’ve sued her and every single one of ’em for defamation. Church Girl has some nerve calling me mentally ill. She’s the one who knowingly dated a man who was on the down low.”

  Nichelle chided Special with her eyes. “And after assaulting the man, I can’t believe you had the nerve to trespass on Eugene’s property and take a picture through his kitchen window.”

  “And to make matters worse,” Vernetta added, “you actually admitted what you did to Belynda. She’s not the sick one. You are.”

  “I was just trying to help her ass. Anyway, that picture is long gone. I erased the entire disk the minute J.C. told me what Belynda said to those reporters. So it’s my word against hers.”

  Vernetta checked the clock on the wall. She had to get back to the office for an afternoon meeting and prayed that she would be able to make it on time. Appearing at this interrogation on behalf of Special without the firm’s permission was, once again, crossing the line. But she had to be here. Vernetta realized now that if Special did end up being charged with Eugene’s murder, she very much wanted to be part of the defense team. She refused to even think about what that would mean for her partnership chances.