Dark Star: Confessions of a Rock Idol

by Creston Mapes

  When I pulled the door open for him, shutters raced and strobes flashed. Some photographers even stuck their arms into the house, holding down their motor drive buttons as they did.

  Eddie and I managed to get the front door shut, took a few deep breaths, and laughed. Then we hugged, clutching each other for some time and exchanging Christmas greetings.

  “I can’t believe you.” He pulled back to examine me. “You always find a way to keep the heat turned up, don’t you?”

  I smiled and shook my head.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I just needed to see you, man.” Eddie turned away, taking his jacket off.

  We made our way into the living room and sat on a couch by the empty fireplace.

  “Well…how are you?” I asked, sensing a fragileness about him.

  “Hey, this isn’t about me.” He feigned a smile. “You’re the one in the spotlight. How are you holding up?”

  “I’m good, man.” I nodded, assuring him. “I’m hanging in there. But I can tell you’re not. What’s up?”

  He fumbled for words, not making eye contact. “I guess you’d say I’m in kind of in a tailspin,” he mumbled, his handsome exterior still intact. “Ever since David died…a light’s just gone out.”

  “I can’t imagine, bro.”

  “I mean, even before that, things were bad. But now. This. It’s… Life is just…it’s just rotten.”

  “Are you still gambling?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How much, Eddie?”

  “’Bout the same.” He searched my eyes. “Wesley’s gone off the deep end. Running with a wild crowd. We have no control over him anymore. He’s an adult, of course…”

  “He’s mad at me, isn’t he?”

  “He thinks you let David down. But I don’t put any blame on you…”

  “I let them both down,” I said, shifting uncomfortably. “That’s something I’ve got to try and make right.”

  “Good luck.” Eddie shrugged. “He actually wants you to be convicted.”

  I felt myself go flush.

  “He’s a very dark young man.” Eddie dropped his head. “There’s no getting through to him.”

  We sat without words for a moment.

  “What about Sheila and Madison?”

  That made him turn and look out the window. “Healthwise, they’re fine, but we’re still not doing good. Sheila’s depressed, wants out of the marriage. Madison’s bitter and just stays completely to herself. We’re totally dysfunctional. Remind you of anything?”

  “Yeah, it does.” I nodded, as several snapshots of our childhood appeared and vanished in my mind. “You need to give it time, Eddie.”

  “It’s not getting better with time, though,” he snapped, laughing sarcastically. “It’s getting worse.”

  “Is there other stuff you’re not telling me?”

  He brushed the dust off the top of his shoe, and twisted the lace.

  “I’m just feeling the pressure from all sides, man. That’s all. I’ve just made a mess of things.”

  “As much of a mess as I’ve made?” I asked, slowly breaking into a smile.

  He looked at me. “I told you I saw something different about you…at the hospital.”

  I smiled. “You were lookin’ at a new man.”

  “I know. Then when I saw your statement outside the police station, everything clicked. I knew what had happened to you.”

  “It’s real Eddie. He’s real.”

  He closed his eyes, frowned, and let his head drop back on the couch.

  I remembered that same frown, that same defeated spirit from the face of my father.

  Putting his palms to his temples, Eddie opened his eyes slowly. “I’m just tired, Ev. Just plain tired. I know you’ve been there.”

  “Don’t feel like goin’ on, do you?”

  “No. I don’t.”

  I patted his knee. “It’s good you came. Let’s just hang out. You can rest here.”

  With the help of the Yellow Pages, we found a Chinese restaurant that was open and placed an order that would be delivered within the hour. When Eddie called Mom at my brother Howard’s house in northeast Ohio, we were surprised to hear that Mary and Jerry had joined them by making the short trek from Dayton.

  They were all elated to hear that Eddie had made the flight to Miami, and that the two youngest Lester boys would be together on Christmas.

  When we were all on the line and the conversation wound down, I figured there would be no better time to tell the family my news.

  “Hey…you probably haven’t heard this yet, guys, but my trial is set to start January fifth.”

  All the voices on the various phones in Ohio and Miami fell silent.

  “They’re keeping me in custody for the duration of the trial. I check into the jail January second or third,” I said, trying to keep it light. “So get your TVs warmed up for the news event of the year.”

  Quiet cloaked the phone lines, until Mary broke the silence.

  “Everett, Jerry and I will try to make it down, at least for some of it. Can we stay at the house?”

  “I have your rooms reserved,” I said. “Karen and her folks will be here, too, for as much of it as possible.”

  When Mom got off the phone, Howard explained that her health was deteriorating steadily. They wouldn’t be able to make the trial, and I didn’t expect them to.

  “Mary, did you tell Everett about the mobile…and his letter?” Jerry asked on one of the many phones they had going at Howard’s house.

  “No, you tell him.”

  “Claudia was so grateful to get your letter and the mobile for Olivia. When she gave Olivia the mobile, she actually smiled; she stares at it all the time. It’s hanging from the ceiling, right by her bed. Claudia also said she read your letter to Olivia, and that when she did, Olivia began to moan. Claudia thinks she was actually crying, which is the first time that’s happened since the accident.”

  I fought off the vision of that scene. “What about Raymond?”

  Jerry paused a moment. “He doesn’t like the contact from you. But Claudia insisted on reading the letter to Olivia and keeping the mobile. So you’ve won a fan in my sister, anyway. And that’s the first avenue to Raymond’s heart.”

  32

  I USHERED IN THE new year alone, eating microwave popcorn, sipping Diet Coke, and watching New Year’s Rockin’ Eve with Dick Clark and special guest, my old pals, the Rolling Stones—live from frigid Times Square in New York City.

  When New Year’s Day came, I spoke with my whole family again and, of course, with Karen and her folks. Things had completely cooled down since the scare the night we were all together at Lake Shawnee. In fact, Karen had moved back into her house, with no further disturbances. We were beginning to rest a little easier, but none of us had our guard down.

  As the plans stood that day, Karen and her parents, and Mary and Jerry, would all fly into Miami the night before my trial began. Gray and Brian were taking care of their transportation and security needs, as well as special credentials for the trial.

  “I’m actually excited to finally get this show on the road,” I told Karen on New Year’s Day. “I can’t take it cooped up in this house much longer.”

  “Yeah, well, that house is probably going to look pretty good after about five hours in the Miami-Dade detention center,” Karen snickered.

  “I can’t wait to see you.”

  “Me too,” she said. “Hopefully, this will be the beginning of the end of the Madam Endora saga.”

  “Hey listen, I’ll need a change of clothes each day for the trial. I had all my stuff moved over here to the house from the high-rise. Do you think you and Mary could pick something out each day and bring it to the courthouse?”

  “You mean I’m going to have something to say about what the world-famous Everett Lester wears to his world-famous trial?”

  “Just make sure it matches, okay? Brian wants me looking like a gentlema
n, if that’s possible.”

  The next afternoon, more reporters and news crews had converged on the house at Bal Harbour than I had ever seen in one place before. They canvassed the sandy ground beneath the palm trees in back of the house, trampled every inch of the centipede front lawn, spilled over into the neighbors’ yards, and rolled right up to the front door.

  This was the big day.

  Brian and Gray arrived together in another chauffeured black Lincoln similar to the one that had transported me to and from the Miami-Dade police precinct weeks ago. With the help of police, they prodded their way through the grid of bodies to the front door.

  Harry Coogle ran the show, explaining that I would be handcuffed and transported in his car to the detention center.

  I was anxious to go.

  As we headed south on A1A then crossed over the JFK Causeway, a sick feeling gnawed at my stomach as I mindfully absorbed every detail about the beautiful Intracoastal Waterway—not wanting to forget its blue water and sea-washed docks, the fishermen, the pelicans and seagulls, and the picturesque homes tucked among the mangroves.

  As we merged onto Highway 1 heading south, I watched the people—all kinds of people, all colors—walking freely about the city sidewalks. Will I ever do that again? It was an unfathomable question, a question I couldn’t believe I was faced with asking myself.

  Soon, it was back to reality as we came to a halt at the curb outside the Miami-Dade detention center, which was blanketed with cameras, reporters, TV trucks, and onlookers. Three helicopters hovered low overhead. A cameraman from one of the choppers actually stood on the landing skid of his helicopter, as colleagues held him aboard.

  Once we entered the detention center, the fanfare ceased. In fact, the second I passed through the vestibule doors, it was as if I was suddenly transformed from heroic superstar to Joe Criminal.

  I was told to turn over my wallet and personal items, which consisted of some change, a tube of ChapStick, and what remained of a roll of peppermint Lifesavers. I was then guided through a metal detector and led to a locker room, where I was instructed to undress, submit to a full-body search, and put on the bright orange jumpsuit and tennis shoes provided by the county.

  Next, I was escorted along a dark hallway of offices, down some steps, and through two more metal detectors before coming into the large, open atrium of the detention center.

  “Ground level for you, rock star,” said a black guard with the name Rockwell embroidered on his uniform shirt. Rockwell guided me to my cell with one strong hand on my shoulder.

  The loud cracks of his billy club striking the bars startled me. Then the door to my cell clanked, jerked, and lurched forward, clinking its way to a close. As the bars locked shut, I came to the full realization that the first degree murder case of The State of Florida v. Everett Timothy Lester was about to begin.

  Karen stood in the third row of courtroom B-3, wearing a light brown business suit, white blouse, and black square-toed boots. She looked stunning. Her hands were pressed against her mouth and nose in the prayer position as Judge Sprockett fought to quiet the uproar caused by the testimony of former DeathStroke publicist Pamela McCracken.

  Karen was flanked by her mom and dad on one side and Mary and Jerry on the other. Donald and Della were seated nearby. We were all overwhelmed by the new revelations that have caused an adrenaline rush to pulsate through the courtroom.

  There was hope.

  Judge Sprockett successfully convinced everyone to take their seats as Pamela explained that once Endora seemingly hypnotized me in the lounge at The Groove recording studio, she began to leave the room through the doorway where Pamela stood. She was forced to flee and returned to her makeshift publicity office.

  Ten minutes later there was a ruckus in the lounge. Pamela ran to see what had happened along with other DeathStroke staffers. That was when they discovered the demolished rock water sculpture, the smashed Les Paul guitar, and me in a rage—getting pinned to the ground by Gray and Ricky.

  My head dropped to my chest, and I breathed a sigh of thankfulness for Pamela and her testimony, probably the most helpful in my defense thus far.

  But there was little time to relish the victory; Frank Dooley wasted no time getting on his feet to cross-examine.

  “Good day, Miss McCracken.” He hustled around his table—all business—and approached the witness. “I’m certain Mr. Boone and Mr. Lester are grateful you’ve come forward to help in their defense.”

  Dooley moved with a smoothness and confidence that made me uncomfortable.

  “Tell the court if you will, Miss McCracken, which illegal drugs you have used in the past?”

  I could practically see the air leave Pamela’s chest as the shock set in on her face.

  She stammered but couldn’t speak.

  The audience was breathless.

  Dooley left her to sink or swim.

  “I…” She faced Judge Sprockett. All I could see were his frozen eyes, staring at her from above his thin, clasped hands, which covered most of his solemn face. She turned to Brian, who closed his eyes slowly and nodded as if to say, Take it easy; take is easy.

  “I do not take drugs on a…a regular basis,” Pamela managed.

  “But when you do imbibe, what do you use?”

  The expressions on people’s faces agreed: Dooley was cold-blooded.

  This was not good.

  “I’ve used marijuana before. And I have tried cocaine…”

  “Okay, let’s not list them all, instead let me—”

  “Sir! If I may,” Pamela interrupted, “there is no list!”

  “Okay, Miss McCracken. We’ve established the fact that you use drugs. Let’s just move forward.”

  Pamela was left speechless.

  “Let’s focus in on that day at The Groove, shall we?” Dooley turned to approach the jury. Pamela shifted in her seat, and a tinge of pink seeped into her face.

  “The day you say Endora Crystal supposedly hypnotized Everett Lester.” Dooley smiled at the jury. “Let’s talk about the drugs you used on that day. What were you using, Miss McCracken?”

  “That was a totally unusual day for me!”

  “Answer the question, Miss McCracken.”

  Again, she looked to the judge then Boone for an escape, but found zero.

  “Let me finish,” she insisted. “We were slow that day. I had just wrapped up a whole week of writing press releases and contacting record labels. I was relaxed and didn’t have any big responsibilities. I walked into a conference room where people were smoking a…marijuana cigarette. They asked me to join them.”

  Dooley smiled coldly, turned his back on Pamela, and strolled away from her. “Funny isn’t it, how in a court of law it becomes a ‘marijuana cigarette’ instead of a joint?” Some in the audience laughed. Several jurors even snickered.

  “You had no big responsibilities that day. So you got high, figuring you didn’t need to be at your best or in top form.”

  There was a brief silence, as Dooley examined the eyes of each juror down the line. “But in the end, it turns out you did need to be in top form after all, didn’t you, Miss McCracken? Because here you are, months later, a key witness in the murder case of the decade, possibly of the century.”

  Pamela opened her mouth but said nothing. Her eyes darted around the room for guidance, but again, she came up empty.

  “Can you tell this court today—before the nation and the world—that you were totally straight and sober when you saw and heard this supposed altercation between Endora Crystal and Everett Lester?”

  “I told you,” she said, trembling, “I had used a little marijuana that day. It was unusual for me to do that during work hours, but I was by no means unstable or incoherent.”

  “Didn’t inhale, is that it?” Dooley smirked.

  “Objection,” Boone yelled from his seat. “Harassing!”

  “Sustained,” shot Sprockett.

  “All right, Miss McCracken, I wasn’t goi
ng to get into this, but you force my hand. You won’t come out and admit that you were stoned that day—”

  Boone stood but couldn’t get a word in edgewise.

  “You keep saying marijuana use was unusual for you. Would it behoove us to call Mr. Charlie LaRoche back to the witness stand to tell this court just how often you were involved in drug usage and drug transactions during the DeathStroke heyday?”

  Pamela closed her eyes, raised her chin, and took in a deep breath. She then looked at Dooley and blinked repeatedly, holding back tears.

  “You know what I think, Miss McCracken? I think you got very high that day at The Groove. And since then, I think you have gotten so caught up in the hype of this trial that you created this hypnotism story!”

  “Your Honor, you can’t allow this!” Boone was finally heard. “Mr. Dooley is badgering the witness with his own cockeyed theories. He’s filling the jurors’ minds with his own words, not Miss McCracken’s.”

  “Sustained!” Sprockett boomed. “Mr. Dooley, you will refrain from presenting your own hypothetical ideas.”

  Dooley coughed into a fist to cover what may have been a smirk and tweaked each gold cuff link. “Miss McCracken, is it possible that the argument you saw and heard between Endora and Everett was a lover’s quarrel?” Dooley glared at Pamela.

  Hushed verbal feedback rolled through the audience. “I don’t think it was. No. I never envisioned Everett and Endora…like that.”

  “Never mind what you envisioned, we’ve heard enough about people’s visions at this trial. What I asked is, is it possible this was a lover’s quarrel you saw?”

  Pamela pursed her lips, shook her head, and threw her hands up. “I guess there’s a very slight chance that’s what it was, but I truly doubt it.”

  The black juror who stared at me earlier now focused on Dooley. I hoped and prayed to God we hadn’t lost him.

  Today had been a roller coaster.

  I was wiped out.

  It was 7:44 p.m. I jotted down my memoirs while watching TV during leisure time. There were ten or twelve other inmates surrounding me, munching snacks, reading magazines, and watching the tube.