by Rick Bennet
She records the New Africa show. Stays on the channel as a rap video program comes on. Notes the portrayal, in one video, of Jesus as a black man, Satan as a white. Notes, in another video, critics of rap portrayed as incredibly ugly, obese whites. In several others, white cops as oppressors, black suspects as innocent.
She reads Emerge, Ebony, Jet magazines and clips examples of what she sees as their black-is-better egotism.
Reads the black local columnists in the Washington Post with what she sees as their white-hating diatribes.
Reads black-authored novels in which whites are evil cartoon-like characters, hatred of whom is justified.
Watches movies made by black directors, which she sees as excusing of anti-white violence, supportive of white-blaming conspiracy theories, contemptuous of white culture, mocking of white fears.
Joan Price pulls it all together into an incredibly effective presentation, which she can give without referring to notes, she has it down so pat. A presentation effective in “proving” that blacks hate whites. That the war is on. That “we” have to fight back. That “they” hate “us.”
9
KEYIN KELLOGG IS SPLAYED BACK on the tattered green couch in his office, settled into the cushions crushed under his huge butt. He’s watching the Chief’s news conference, held at the BTN studio, at which the Mayor has also showed, happy to get the spotlight of what he expects to be a positive moment.
The Chief states the case, which is that the tape Ells made of the murders proves he acted alone, at least for the actual killing. Whether he had conspiratorial aid has not been convincingly determined, but as yet no evidence has turned up. The FBI will be handling the continuing investigation into Ells’s possible white supremacist connections. As to the boy, all efforts have been made to find him, but as yet nothing has turned up. The tape Ells made—which will not be released for public viewing, out of consideration for the victim’s family—does show the boy at the crime scene, just after Ells stepped out of the picture. But then the tape ends. Our best supposition, the Chief says, is that Ells grabbed the boy, and (his voice changes, from distantly professional to personal) because we have not been able to locate the child and have searched everywhere, with the community’s help, for which we are grateful, we have to assume that Ells killed the boy. Ells killed the Jameses before midnight and was himself killed the next morning. That would leave plenty of time for him to take the boy away, dispose of the body somewhere, and come back. Our prayers are with this missing child, and we will maintain due vigilance in our continued search for him. But we have no leads.
Reporter: What about the LTC connection? Any more word on that?
Chief: As I stated, the FBI is handling that investigation. They have looked into the possibility of a kidnapping, and their treating the case as a possible kidnapping will give them specific jurisdiction. But again, I don’t want to give false hope.
The Mayor steps up, puts his hand on the Chief. Both are upper-middle-aged black men, gray-haired, pudgy. They have little else in common.
The Mayor: My brothers and sisters, let us begin the healing process with a minute of silence.
His all-black, mostly female staff bend their heads on cue. About thirty seconds pass.
The Mayor: This has been a great tragedy for our city, and yet it is not a surprising tragedy. Words have meaning, and the vile hate talk of Republican politicians and white male radio hosts is ultimately responsible for this murder. Henry James was not a perfect man, but he was a black man, and even though he was seduced away from us, he was still one of us, as is the boy, his child, lost to us but found in God’s great hands. The blame here is not with Henry James but with the hatemongers, the bigots, who want to go back to a time of hate, who want to take back our affirmative action, who impose upon our city the overseer council of Uncle Toms who, as we suffer here today, can only think about how to fire more of us from our jobs. These are terrible, frightening times for African America, but Henry James and his child are not to blame. Maybe we won’t ever be able to prove that LTC is behind the killings. They are a slick outfit and surely thought this assassination out in advance. But we know in our hearts how evil they are, and even if the proof is not found, or is found but not made public, we know words have meaning, and those who push for hate are to blame.
Reporter: Mr. Mayor, are you saying the Republicans are to blame for this?
The Mayor: Black people didn’t kill Henry James.
Reporter Two: Mr. Mayor, are you taking questions about the New Africa Security Contract?
The Mayor, scowling: That is not the issue here. Why do you bring that up? That is a perfectly legal contract to a righteous organization.
Reporter Three: Mr. Mayor, what about the Chinatown land-deal kickback? New allegations—
The Mayor, interrupting, indignant: That land deal was perfectly legal, and the people of this city know it.
Reporter Four: Any comment about the work done on your house—
The Mayor, interrupting again, angry: Why is it that anytime a black man tries to get ahead in this country you whites have to drag him down? Why are you so afraid of a black man’s success? I will not be a party to the further persecution of African America by the racist media.
He storms off the stage, followed by his staff.
Michael Ottaway comes on. Announces that the press conference is over, thank you all for coming. The station cuts to a commercial.
Kellogg, seeing Ottaway, thinks about that. He was told that Ottaway would be promptly dismissed, yet here the man is, still working. It might not mean anything more than that BTN just hasn’t found the right moment to fire him, or maybe Ottaway is involved in a project that they need to have him finish, or maybe he just talked himself out of trouble. But Kellogg thinks about it anyway. About being paid cash. Hasn’t stopped thinking about that. Kellogg, jaded, cynical, from all the ugliness he’s witnessed as a cop and as a private investigator, sees life in terms of schemes, manipulations, lies, and cover-ups. Prides himself on seeing those things. On seeing the truth behind the requests the world makes of him. He doesn’t mind being a party to other people’s schemes. He just minds not knowing what the real scheme is. And by instinct, he’s never been satisfied with what BTN was up to when they hired him to document Ottaway’s sexual harassment and then paid him cash. He isn’t even sure it’s fair to say that BTN hired him at all, because he dealt with only one person there, a woman in the Human Resources office. He checked that she did indeed work there. But he was always surprised that the owner was not involved in this himself. The woman said that the owner wasn’t comfortable investigating Ottaway because they were old friends.
Kellogg drinks from his coffeepot. Rubs out one cigarette, lights another. Thinks. Calls Ottaway, who isn’t back to his office. Leaves a message on his voice mail.
Kellogg, with Sue Cline, goes downstairs to the coffee shop, bringing his cellular phone. But except for Passer calling to say she’s up (it’s noon) and ask if she’s working today (she is), there are no calls.
Back in his office, Kellogg again calls Ottaway. This time he leaves a message that he’s calling about “Sheila,” which was Passer’s undercover name in the case.
The phone rings a minute later. Kellogg answers. “Kellogg Investigations.”
Silence.
“Mr. Michael Ottaway, how are you? This is Kevin Kellogg. Recognize my name?”
“You’re the motherfucker who framed me with that bitch Sheila.”
“Her name’s not Sheila.”
“I know that now.”
“And she’s not a bitch.”
“Who gives a shit?”
“Fine. Mr. Ottaway, we need to talk.”
“Why?”
Kellogg laughs. “Because I’m the motherfucker who framed you.”
“So what do you want?”
“What do you care? Just come over. And on the way, think about what you want.”
“Tell me what you want.”
“No, Mr. Ottaway. Your phone’s tapped.” Kellogg doesn’t actually know that, but it might be true. Ottaway goes quiet.
Kellogg gives him his address. Says to be there in one hour. Hangs up. Calls Passer, who’s still home, waking up. Tells her to come in now, because he needs her to do something before Ottaway arrives. She’s there twenty minutes later, in sweat clothes and sneakers.
Kellogg gives her one of the glossies of her with Ottaway. Tells her to write a note on it and sign it. Tells her what to write. Tells her he’ll explain later, wait downstairs.
Ottaway enters the front room. Doesn’t speak.
Sue Cline says, “Hello, Mr. Ottaway, you can just go on in. Mr. Kellogg is waiting for you.” She points to the door.
Ottaway enters Kellogg’s office. Looks around the room as if it’s diseased. He’s dressed in a very expensively tailored suit. He’s tall, handsome, affectedly austere.
“Shut the door,” Kellogg says.
Ottaway, after an arrogant hesitation, shuts it. Looks at Kellogg, who can’t help smiling.
“Mr. Ottaway. Sir. How are you?”
Ottaway glares. Kellogg laughs. Says, “Man, don’t try that powerful-executive shit with me. I don’t care how much money you make. I know who you really are.”
Ottaway looks sheepish.
“Let’s cut to the chase, Ottaway. What do you want?”
“What do I want? You’re the one who called this meeting.”
Kellogg can’t help laughing again. He’s too amused. “What do you want?” he asks again.
“You called the meeting!” Ottaway repeats. “What do you want?”
“I know what I want. And in fact, I know what you want. But, Mr. Ottaway, I’d like you to tell me what you want.” Ottaway shakes his head. “You can sit if you want,” Kellogg says.
“Fuck you.”
Kellogg laughs again. Says, “You the one who produces that Saturday-night comedy hour?” Ottaway nods reluctantly.
“Man, that’s a funny show,” Kellogg says. “I never knew black people could be so funny. Man, I just laugh and laugh and laugh at them. There was that one guy, all he did was come out onstage, look around, and say, ‘Kill Whitey,’ and everybody laughed so loud. Me, too.”
A moment passes.
With a bit of a pout, Ottaway says, “You can’t give me what I want.”
“Yes I can,” Kellogg says. He now looks, speaks, steadily, confidently, right at Ottaway.
“You can undo this shit?” Ottaway asks.
“Sure.”
“How?”
“You haven’t told me …”
“I want out of trouble on the sexual harassment thing!”
“Who set you up on that?”
“You. And that bitch who works for you.”
“That’s right.”
Another moment passes. When Kellogg sees a look of conciliation come to Ottaway’s face, he says, “Sit down.” Ottaway does.
“Here’s your story. You were working with us, Mr. Ottaway. We were doing an instructional video about sexual harassment and went to you for your professional assistance. You agreed to help us because it’s such an important issue to you. You used to be the kind of man who took advantage of women who worked under him, and as an act of contrition, and as a sign of your own raised consciousness, you volunteered your time. The photos I took of you and my operative at the bar that one night, that was just role playing.”
Ottaway is thinking. He nods very slightly.
Kellogg pushes a piece of paper across the desk. “This is a letter from Kellogg Investigations thanking you for working with us on this very important issue.”
Ottaway picks it up. Reads it.
Kellogg next pushes an eight-by-ten photograph over.
Ottaway picks it up. It’s a picture of him and Passer having dinner. On the photo Passer has written, “Michael, thank you so much for your help. You know, you talked so much about your wife and daughters that I feel like I know them! They are certainly lucky to have such an enlightened man in their lives!”
She’d signed it, “Gratefully, Catherine ‘Sheila’Jones.”
Kellogg lets it sink in.
Ottaway says, resigned, voice low, “So what do you want?”
“I want to know why.”
“Why they wanted the shit on me?”
“Yeah.”
Ottaway looks down. Says, to the floor, “No you don’t.”
“Try me. Starting with who ‘they’ are.” Looking back up, Ottaway smiles and says, “Why?”
“I don’t like being used. And I get the feeling I was. I get the feeling this isn’t about sexual harassment.”
“No.”
“Which means the woman over there just wanted something on you. Wanted a thumb on you. Used me to get it.”
“Yes.”
“A thumb not just on your job but on your life. On your marriage, which is pretty good in spite of you. On your career, which would be over if there was undeniable proof that you’re a sexist asshole.”
“I’m not an asshole. I don’t treat women that way. It was just Sheila. Or whatever her name is. I never met anyone so … you know.”
“She’s a pretty woman.”
“No, I deal with pretty women all the time. She’s more than that.”
“And all you could think to do was use your power to fuck her?”
“It’s all she responded to!”
Kellogg waves his hands. “Back to the thumb on you. Who wants it?”
Ottaway takes a deep breath. The look of a man with a bursting secret comes over his face. Kellogg knows the look well. He saw it a lot as a cop. The look of a confessor.
“I don’t know if you can handle it,” Ottaway says snidely. “You probably won’t believe it.”
Kellogg is silent. Ottaway goes on.
“You know what New Africa is?”
Kellogg nods.
“They’re in the other half of the building with us. BTN’s owner doesn’t have anything personally to do with them, doesn’t even like them. But some of the staff members do. The woman who hired you is a New African. Anyway, she’d approached me about helping New Africa because I’d said before that I liked Khalid’s message. She said they wanted to do a video surveillance, for security, but they didn’t know anything about the equipment. She asked me to help. I said get me when you need me. And then one day these three New Africans tell me they’ll need my help with this thing. I went along. Like all my talk about doing my part for the cause, like that talk had a momentum of its own. Okay, so they pull up their car and we load it with the video equipment and go to this motel out on New York Avenue. We set up a hidden camera in one room and monitor it from the next room. I’m nervous with these three guys, because, I don’t know, they were scary. One of them asked me if I’d ever been in prison, and when I said no, they all laughed. I wasn’t liking any of it, but I had to see it through, you know?
“So maybe two hours later, we’re in action on the next room. A white man comes in with a hooker, a black hooker, only she’s a he, you know. I’m calling her a her, but it’s a him. Okay, they enter the room, and me and the New Africa guys, we’re watching the monitor, and the white man, he looks familiar to me, but I can’t place him at first, and then they tell me it’s the director of the FBI. That freaks me, because I’ve been smelling some deep shit, and now I know what it is. These motherfuckers are getting shit on the man. I want out, but what can I do? Right? Okay, so this sick shit goes down. I mean, this hooker, she’s tying this man up, and whipping him, and fucking his ass. Man, I didn’t watch, really. But I heard the New Africans giggling and one of them talking about how he knew the bitch from prison. Okay, so it ends in the next room. And the hooker, she tells the Director she wants more money. He tells her to fuck herself. A couple of minutes ago he was her bitch, but now he’s a man again, right? And he throws a twenty on the floor and tells her not to forget that one word from him and she’s right back in prison. He leaves. The
New Africans, they take the tape we made, turn off the monitor, and tell me to wait there a minute. They go out, and a second later I hear talk in the next room. I can’t help it, I turn the monitor back on.”
He lets out a deep sigh. Scrunches his eyes tightly closed. His hands go to his face, rub his temples. He says softly, hurt, “They killed her. The hooker. Him. They beat him to death with their fists. Took a table lamp and crushed his skull.”
Ottaway looks up at Kellogg. “You understand?” Kellogg nods.
Ottaway says, “They got the Director on tape, in that room with that whore, the same day her body will be found by the police. Who’s not going to know he’s the one who killed her? They even had her mention that she was going to the Bullets-Lakers game that night. You know how often the Lakers come to town?”
“Once a year.”
“So it dates the videotape. They even had her mention some new player the Lakers had, so not even the year would be in question.”
“Then what?”
“Then the New Africans came back. I’d turned the monitor off, because I sure didn’t want them to know I’d seen what they’d done. They’d washed up in the bathroom, but there was still blood on their clothes. They asked me if I’d heard anything. I said no. Some yelling, maybe. They said they’d had to hit the hooker a few times to keep her in line. They said I could wait in the car while they got the equipment together. Thanks for showing them how to set it all up. I went out to the car. They drove me back to BTN.
“That night, the New African woman at BTN calls me. Asks me how it went that day. I said fine. She asked me what happened. I told her we got the director of the FBI on a blackmail tape. She said cool. Asked me what about the hooker. I said I didn’t know anything about her. She asked me if I wanted to do more work with New Africa. I said not really, no. She asked why. I said I just didn’t feel comfortable with them. Then she was quiet. I started talking, like an idiot, saying I liked them all right and believed in what they were about; I just didn’t feel comfortable doing things like that. She didn’t say anything. Just let a minute pass and then hung up. I never heard anything more about it. Never saw anything in the paper about any hooker’s body being found, either.”