What the—?
Bending down, I ripped the bag open a foot wide and stared at the small brown Bible Karen Bayliss had sent.
For the life of me, I couldn’t remember packing it. I just wouldn’t do it, wouldn’t want to be seen with it.
Picking up the black bag, I walked to the bar, set the Valium down amid some booze bottles, and crossed to the large metal dressing room door. After bolt-locking it, I walked over to an empty corner of the small room and eased myself down to the cold floor, with my back against the wall.
From a distance, all around me, I could hear and feel the sounds of the music I had created, the music that had made me filthy rich.
Opening the bag again, I reached in and grabbed the little book. A letter was sticking out. I opened it. The last one from Karen.
Friendship…
His blood…red like the rose…
It’s up to His Spirit to draw you…
I opened the Bible somewhere near the middle and began reading.
Oh, what joy for those whose rebellion is forgiven, whose sin is put out of sight!
Yes, what joy for those whose record the Lord has cleared of sin, whose lives are lived in complete honesty!
When I refused to confess my sin, I was weak and miserable, and I groaned all day long.
Day and night your hand of discipline was heavy on me. My strength evaporated like water in the summer heat.
Finally, I confessed all my sins to you and stopped trying to hide them. I said to myself, “I will confess my rebellion to the Lord.” And you forgave me! All my guilt is gone.
Therefore, let all the godly confess their rebellion to you while there is time, that they may not drown in the floodwaters of judgment.
For you are my hiding place; you protect me from trouble. You surround me with songs of victory.
I read the words again.
My head dropped to my chest, and I began to sob.
The Bible and letter dropped as my arms went limp at my sides.
Sinner.
I felt the weight.
My life was draining away. I could feel it.
Look at me.
These tattoos.
Filthy.
I could never be good enough.
Wiping my tears and runny nose on the shoulder of my black Knicks T-shirt, I opened the bag again and searched for my phone and a pen. Flipping the phone open, I dialed 411.
“411 nationwide,” came the recorded female voice. “If you need a telephone number, press or say one.”
“One,” I said, clearing my throat.
“What city?”
“Topeka, Kansas.”
“What number?”
“Bayliss. B-A-Y-L-I-S-S. Karen Bayliss.”
Waiting.
“The number is 785-433-8179.”
After scribbling the number down on the letter from Karen, I flipped the phone shut and sat there.
My heart was drumming.
The crooked wall clock showed 5:45. It would be two or three hours earlier in Kansas. She probably wouldn’t be home anyway.
I opened the phone, punched in the numbers, and hit send.
One ring, two rings, three rings.
“Hello,” came the lively voice.
My eyes darted about the dressing room.
“Hellooooo.”
I clapped the phone shut and threw it in the bag.
Like most days of this trial, when today’s session adjourned I was escorted by two sheriff’s deputies through double wood doors out of the courtroom and into a stark white holding area. Members of the press strained their rubber necks to find out what goes on back here. But it was plain and simple.
There’s a cramped locker room that smells like bleach, where I change from the street clothes I wear at trial into a bright orange prison jumpsuit, which has my prisoner number stenciled in black on the left breast and on the back. It’s up to my attorney or family to bring a change of clothes for the next day’s trial. One officer is with me at all times when I change.
Once back into the holding area, the deputies, wearing ugly orange-and-brown uniforms, locked leg irons to my ankles. They wrapped a heavy belly chain around my waist and attached its handcuffs to my wrists. Once I was locked down, the two deputies, assigned solely to me, walked me down one flight of stairs in a dark, hollow stairwell lit only by red EXIT signs. Once through a large metal door and down a dingy basement hallway, we entered the eye-watering Miami sun, still burning bright toward evening.
The humidity hit me like a microwave, but I relished it. Who once said that we need at least twenty minutes of fresh air and sunshine every day to keep our spirits up? Liza Moon? I’ve come to think she was right.
In an effort to cut down on media attention, the Miami-Dade County police department usually set up at least two or three decoy cars around the Justice & Administration Center. However, a number of TV trucks with antennas fifty feet high and good-looking reporters were usually camped all over the cobblestone plaza that we drove past to make our exit for the local detention center.
Some people followed our squad car in their vehicles, just to get a glimpse of the rock star on trial for murder. After we made the five-mile trek to the Miami-Dade detention center, numerous reporters, photographers, and onlookers gathered there as well. They jockeyed for position and yelled for comments, but I only smiled as I was escorted into the building.
The detention center was a sprawling gray concrete structure surrounded by a large parking lot, lawns, and a fifteen-foot-high chain-link fence, which encircled the entire perimeter of the maximum security prison and was topped by rolls of razor sharp concertina wire. The only windows in the complex were narrow, one-yard-wide slits that ran horizontally too few and far between.
After being unlocked and directed through two different metal detectors, I was frisked and taken by a large, heavy-breathing guard to my cell, which is located on the ground floor of the four-story prison.
The cell was designed for one man. It was ten feet wide by ten feet deep with a sink, toilet, and a bed attached to the wall. Nothing else.
I felt lucky I didn’t have a cell mate, considering that most of the cells were only slightly bigger than mine, yet housed two bunk beds and two men. Later I was told that the reason they put me alone was because I was such a “high profile” prisoner. Some were even surprised that I hadn’t been housed in solitary.
By the time I got back from court, dinner had already been served. Now it’s leisure time, which means one hour of gathering around TVs, reading magazines, playing cards, talking on pay phones, and shooting the breeze in each other’s cells. All cell doors were open during leisure time.
Donald Chambers, one of the few guards who’d taken a liking to me, brought me dinner on one of the prison’s decorative army green cafeteria trays. The meal consisted of one dry hamburger, a handful of soggy salad, mystery bean casserole, and water.
Chambers set a chair outside my cell, turned it backwards, and sat talking to me, his arms resting on the back as I picked at my dinner.
After discussing some of the difficulties from the day’s trial, including the false accusations of Twila Yonder, I listened in disbelief as Chambers surprised me with more good news.
“There is a guy in here by the name of Zane Bender.” Chambers looked around cautiously. “Nickname is Zaney. You know him?”
“No.”
“You need to watch your back. Word is, he thinks this is gonna be another OJ trial—guilty guy walks. Word is, he won’t let it come to that.”
My stomach was getting used to trouble. I inhaled deeply, blew out long and steady, and reminded myself there was a reason for this.
“Why?” I pushed the tray of food away, feeling flushed. “What’s he got against me?”
“Look, Everett, this dude’s in for armed robbery and attempted murder. He’s doin’ a minimum of seventeen years. You think he has to have a reason? It makes him popular, okay? You’re a star. He hurts you, it
puts the spotlight on him. Guys like this, all they got to live for is having a name in here. Me and the other guards are under special order to watch your back.”
“Great…”
“I hear he’s into the occult.” Donald pushed the green guard hat high on his forehead. “Probably favors people like Endora Crystal. He even does some kind of psychic mumbo jumbo in here—guys pay him for it! Can you believe that? I’ve heard some pretty weird stuff has gone down.”
“Like what?”
“One night during leisure he and about twelve guys met.” Chambers inched his chair closer. “He predicted one of the guys in the meeting would be dead within three days. Dude was found hangin’ by a bedsheet in his cell.”
“Suicide?”
“They’re still investigating.”
“What kind of guy is this?” I said. “I mean, how big is he?”
“Let’s take a walk.”
7
A SEDUCTIVE LIGHT SPARKLED from Endora’s eyes as she stood behind the glass partition and watched us lay down a radical new rock number called “Freedom.”
She wasn’t going to miss this.
We were back at The Groove recording studio in Santa Clarita between stops on the Rowdy tour. Although our frazzled nerves and strained friendships had been pushed to the edge, things seemed to be stabilizing, in great part thanks to the potential we felt in the new Freedom album. Although it was by far our most drawn-out recording to date, we also felt it may be our best seller.
Endora made the drive over from her place in Malibu. She was with Gray and three producers in the control room of The Groove, where cigarette smoke swirled beneath track lighting, and dozens of red, green, and yellow lights glowed from a long, sleek soundboard.
The Groove was a great place to record because the equipment and acoustics were top-notch, and it was a comfortable getaway. Interruptions were kept to a minimum. The facility was small, dark, and well-appointed, with comfortable furniture and a contemporary kitchen that was manned by a full-time chef.
The members of DeathStroke were on the other side of the glass rocking out to “Freedom,” a song I had written after spending several days with Endora. It was basically a tune about her spiritual beliefs. I wrote it in fun as kind of a rally-type anthem and really hadn’t taken it very seriously—until we started sampling it out on the Rowdy tour. We were taken aback by the response from our fans, who fell into an absolute trance over it, lighting matches and chanting the words in unison.
The song, which I dedicated to Endora, features riveting guitar work by John Scoogs, overpowering bass from Ricky Crazee, slashing drums by David Dibbs, and yours truly screaming louder and meaner than any AC/DC song you ever heard. Here’s a taste:
Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey!!! (screaming)
Weary traveler
Come into my domaaaaaaaaaain
Hey, weary traveler
I got somethin’ to saaaaaaaaaay
FREEDOM, FREEDOM
FREEDOM, FREEDOM
FREEDOM, FREEDOM
Whooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!! (screaming)
Weary traveler
It doesn’t matter where ya beeeeeeeeeen
Hey, weary traveler
You are going to live agaaaaaaaain!
FREEDOM, FREEDOM
FREEDOM, FREEDOM
FREEDOM, FREEDOM
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!! (screaming)
Weary traveler
The Judgment Day’s a liiiiiiiiiiiiiie
Hey, weary traveler
Every soul will surviiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive!
FREEDOM, FREEDOM
FREEDOM, FREEDOM
FREEDOM, FREEDOM
“I’ve got to talk to you.” Endora dragged me by the hand out to her white Cadillac during an afternoon break.
“What’s up? I didn’t expect to see you here. I thought you had the wedding…”
“It’s in two days. We’re all set,” she said, hitting the unlock button. “You know I wanted to see you record this.”
“I know. What else is on your mind? Where’re we headed?”
“Late lunch, drinks.” She buckled up.
I loved Santa Clarita, based on the five or six times I had been there. It was clean, with a small-town feel, a fair amount to do, and close to LA. And it offered a panoramic view of the stark, rocky Placerita Canyon and some of the most breathtaking skies I had ever seen.
“Where’s the button to move this seat back?” I asked, as Endora eased the Caddy out of the parking lot. “You see my knees? They’re in your glove compartment.”
“It’s on the right.” She puffed on a long menthol as I searched for the lever that moved the seat back.
“Everett,” she touched my knee, “I’ve been getting a woman’s initial.”
“What?”
“A woman’s initial. The spirits are giving me a woman’s initial.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Remember when I was in the hospital, I told you…”
“Ohhhhhh,” I moaned, sarcastically. “This is about the eerie mystery lady. The one who’s gonna show up and ruin my already perfect life. Right?”
“It’s not funny,” she stormed. “I’ve never been so sure about anything in my life.”
“Okay, okay…I’m sorry. Tell me.”
“The woman will try to destroy you. Her name starts with K. Are there any Ks in your life right now?”
Most of the women I spent any time with probably didn’t give me their real names half the time. I had no one serious—not even close.
“No, doesn’t mean a thing,” I said, enjoying the view.
“She’s already in your life, Everett. I know it. You need to concentrate on this and figure out who it is. I’m telling you, she’s destructive.”
“I’m drawing a blank right now.”
“This is the supernatural realm we’re dealing with. This is about the spirit world. It’s real. I can feel it. Someone is encroaching…”
“You give me the creeps when you talk like that,” I said.
“The last initial is D or B.” She whirled the Caddy into a parking lot at a restaurant called Diamond Jim’s. “I’m not positive about that one. But the K is set in stone. You’ve gotta be watching for this lady.”
Endora was out of the Caddy and five steps ahead of me. She threw her cigarette on the ground. “C’mon.”
As we walked up the front steps, two attractive women in their thirties recognized me as we passed. I heard the usual giggles and squeals, and then…
“Excuse me.” The blonde came up behind me as we entered the vestibule. “You’re Everett Lester, aren’t you?” She was slightly nervous, yet had one of those playful, “forward” looks about her, which I had come to know well over the years. Her brunette friend was blushing just a few steps below her.
“Yes, I am.” I turned and reached to take her outstretched hand. “At your service.”
“He’s already taken.” Endora stepped between us and pushed me inside the door. “Pleasure to meet you ladies. Better luck next time.”
She entered the vestibule, pulling the heavy door shut behind us.
Too embarrassed to pursue the lunchtime duet, I turned to Endora. “What do you think you’re doing?” I blasted, seeing only darkness as my eyes adjusted to the cavelike vestibule. “That was cold. Don’t do that again!”
“Table for two, smoking,” Endora barked to the hostess.
“I said, that was cold.”
“They’ll get over it.”
As I left my cell and walked out into the commons area of the detention center with Donald Chambers, I saw dozens of white guys, black guys, Hispanics, and others.
“Yo, Lester!” yelled a stocky white dude, his muscular body stained by more tattoos than mine. “What’s up?”
I acknowledged him by raising my chin slightly and then followed Chambers up two flights of stairs. He stopped at the second landing and leaned over th
e railing. I leaned over, too.
Below, the inmates looked like fire ants, swarming after their hill had been stepped on. Everybody perked up during leisure time.
“I don’t see him,” Chambers said, both hands on the metal railing, his eyes scanning the busy crowd. “He usually plays poker with that group.” He nodded down toward a five-man game.
“Stay here a minute,” Chambers said. “I’m gonna walk up to four and go past his cell. Sometimes guys pay him to interpret dreams, read palms, whatever. Hang loose. I’ll be right back.”
As I perused the orange jumpsuits below, I noticed a few guys pointing up at me. Not sure yet what their consensus was—and I didn’t want to know. I just wanted to mind my own business, get the trial behind me, and…
SLAP!
Two hands. Hard. On my shoulders. From behind.
My head turned. My body couldn’t.
The viselike fingers tightened into my shoulders.
Then, something drilled into my lower back.
A knee.
My stomach arched forward.
“Ahhhhhh,” I yelled awkwardly.
“Are ya singin’, Lester?”
The knee ground deeper.
“Stop!”
“I never heard that one,” came the raspy voice. “Was that a Billboard hit?”
Suddenly, the hands jerked me around quick and hard.
My eyes were shoulder high on this monster, so I only looked down slightly to see the black numbers stenciled on his jumpsuit, 488792.
“What are you lookin’ for, rock star?”
My eyes made their way up his sweaty, fat neck and stopped at his blubbery jowls and enormous shaved head.
“You lookin’ for me?” He breathed down on me, just four inches from my face.
“Who are you?” I asked, scared, taking in every inch of his red baby face.
“Zaney.” His high, cracking voice didn’t sync up with the sheer girth of his mammoth physique. “You don’t know it yet, Lester, but you and me got a history.”
“Hey!” I heard Donald’s voice echo from above as he hurried down the hall, pulling out his billy club on his way to the steps.
Zaney stepped back. “I got people inside,” he whispered quickly, drilling his thick finger into the middle of my chest. “I got people outside. I will finish the job.”
Dark Star: Confessions of a Rock Idol Page 7