by Camryn King
“The Worst That Could Happen If I Reveal Identity.” On the other page, she wrote “The Worst That Could Happen If I Remain Silent.”
The next morning, she called Dodie.
After sharing the position her list building had produced, Dodie said one word. “Why?”
“Did you not hear what I just shared with you? Because I have a chance to make a difference. Because my work has been disregarded, even discarded. America, even the world, believes the truth is a lie. That’s what this is about. Not about whether or not Van Dijk is gay. Not even about the length and depth of his and Becker’s relationship. This is about telling the truth, the whole truth, my truth. The desire to do what’s right is now bigger than my fears of what all could go wrong. Do you think you’re the person to help me? Or would you prefer to recommend someone else?”
“I admire you,” Dodie said. “I understand how you came to the decision you made. But I need you to understand something. As my client, it is my responsibility to make this very clear. Once you go public, we hold a press conference, your picture gets snapped, the Associated Press picks it up and it enters the world, your life will change in ways—good and bad—that you cannot imagine. Scrutiny will be intense. Your life, past and present, will become an open book. You will be ripped apart by the loyal viewers of TBC. Those connected to you will not be immune. There will be supporters but the pushback from his camp will be relentless and ruthless. What you’re proposing to do is not for the faint of heart.”
Kennedy was silent for a long moment, digesting what Dodie said. “I appreciate your honesty, Dodie. When it comes to Van Dijk and his minions, the threat is real. Were I acting from my head, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation. I’m responding from my gut, trying to do the right thing. I love this country and am saddened by its decline. I’m nobody’s soldier but this feels like a war. The picture is my only weapon. And the only way that the nation will believe it, is if they see who’s pulling the trigger. I may regret some of the fallout from this decision. But I’ll never regret the decision.”
“Do me a favor?”
“What?”
“Consider getting protection, and I’m not talking about a gun. I’m talking about a guard. A person trained in protecting a life.”
A face, clear and strong, came to Kennedy’s mind. The thought was crazy enough to make her smile. Impossible. She’d made it her mission to be hard to find and had no idea how he could be located.
“I actually think that’s a good idea, but don’t know where to start.”
“I can help you. So, you’ll do it?”
“Sure. It will help my courage to have protection around.”
“Alright, I’m all in. When do you want this to happen?”
“As soon as possible, Dodie. Before I lose my nerve.”
Kennedy spent the next week in New York, prepping for battle. After meeting with several attorneys, she hired a legal team to help navigate the new minefield of being a public figure and to create the preventative language that would minimize the possibility for a legitimate lawsuit. They knew Van Dijk’s camp would be recording and dissecting every word of the press release. The team was led by Dante Ross, a thirty-three-year-old wunderkind who had Johnny Cochran’s confidence, Obama’s education and intelligence, Kofie Siriboe’s good looks and the Black Panther’s swagger. He was also single, which was slightly problematic. Of course, she was attracted to him. In order to not be she’d have to be dead. But the task before them was enormous. A lot was at stake. “Catching feelings” during the process was simply not wise. These attorneys, led by Dante, along with Dodie, the speech writer and herself, spent the better part of three days on a five-minute release. A makeup artist, hair stylist, fashion stylist, and personal assistant rounded out the group who prepared Kennedy for her entrance.
The night before the scheduled press conference, Kennedy made three calls. Tamara told her that she’d be praying, that she loved her, and was so very proud. Ryan’s message through Tamara was to “kick major ass” and that when she returned to Grand Cayman, he had good investment news to share. Gwen’s response was more measured, clearly concerned for her friend.
“I probably would have sailed my rich behind happily in the sunset,” she admitted. “But you know, I grew up on the South Side. If you need me for a beatdown, I’ve got your back.”
The third call was to her mom. It didn’t go quite as planned. When she told Karolyn she had news regarding Van Dijk and the picture, her mother had cut her off cold.
“Why do you insist on staying involved in that mess? Look, anything having to do with the TBC, the government, or anything that might send folk to my house, I don’t want to know about it.”
“But, Mom, wait. You need to—”
“I don’t need to do anything but pay taxes and die. I mean it Kennedy Lynn. I don’t want any part of you messing with that man. You know he’s crazy, and it’s rumored that his father had folk killed. God has blessed you, girl, given you the chance to have a good life, an amazing life. Mind your business. Live your life. And leave that man alone.”
Her mom’s words were sobering. They gave Kennedy pause. The next morning, she met Dodie at her stunning Manhattan office on the eighty-fifth floor of One World Trade Center. A sophisticated blend of stainless steel, leather, hardwood and glass, the rooms screamed success. Just entering the office increased Kennedy’s confidence.
Dodie approached her with a steaming cup.
“Oh, no thank you,” Kennedy said. “My stomach is roiling. I don’t think I can get anything down.”
“Even more reason for you to drink this.” Dodie held out the porcelain cup. Kennedy took it. “It’s a special blend I get from my OMD.”
“That’s a doctor?”
Dodie nodded. “Oriental medicine. It’s got ginger and some types of roots. It’s sweetened with a fruit that I can’t pronounce. It soothes like a drug, but it’s all natural.”
“Thank you.”
Kennedy took the cup and walked over to the windows that let in downtown Manhattan, New Jersey and the Atlantic Ocean.
“Here’s the press release,” Dodie said, walking over with a single sheet of paper.
Kennedy shook her head. “Is it the same one you sent over yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“Then why do I need to read it again?”
“To let the reality of the moment wash over your soul. This release will be faxed to over one-hundred news outlets. Once I press send, there is no going back.”
Kennedy took the picture. She sipped and scanned the words that were almost memorized, her mother’s words running beneath them like the bass line to a song.
For immediate release.
Why do you insist on staying involved in this mess?
For months, there has been speculation as to the authenticity of a photograph. Understandably, a tsunami of speculation and accusations ensued. At the crux of the debate was the photographer’s identity or the question of whether there had been a photographer at all. This because the photographer who released the pictures to the National Query chose to remain anonymous both for her privacy and for her safety.
You know he’s crazy, and it’s rumored that his father had folk killed.
Because of that decision, it is believed by a majority of the media and much of the nation that the photograph presented in the magazine was indeed fake, that the picture was created on the computer and there was no photographer. The photograph is real and untouched and the photographer has decided to come forth to defend the images shot some months ago.
Mind your business . . . leave that man alone.
Kennedy finished reading the release and handed it to Dodie. “You’ve done an excellent job on this, Dodie,” she calmly said. “Press send.”
37
For the press conference, Dodie had reserved a portion of an event space on the thirty-ninth floor of One World Trade. Attention had been given to every detail: the room’s size, lighting,
configuration. Furnishings were purposely minimal. The media would stand. A riser where Kennedy would read the meticulously-crafted statement had been erected at the front of the room. It was covered with a deep blue fabric and bare except for a podium fitted with a microphone. Behind the rafter was the room’s only decoration—three photographs measuring six by four feet hanging from wires connected to the ceiling. The middle photograph was the one featured in the Chicago Star, a beautiful rainbow with an island below. On either side of that picture were ones of Van Dijk and Becker that changed Kennedy’s life, each man clearly visible, clearly naked and clearly engaged in a sexual act.
The press conference was scheduled for nine in the morning. The team waited in Dodie’s office. At 8:35, word was sent up that the room was completely packed. At 8:58, a focus group of twelve men and women went from Dodie’s office to the rented space in another part of the building and more than forty floors down. Dodie, Kennedy, and a media consultant made up the female contingent. Dante and his team of attorneys, a press recorder and four men on security detail, rounded out the group. Anyone watching them cross the plaza could have mistaken Kennedy for a celebrity heading to a business meeting or high-level corporate executive surrounded by an entourage. She wore a tailored navy suit with a wine-colored shell and simple gold jewelry. Her makeup was natural, the short pixie cut, flawless. There was peace in her heart and strength in her stride. Until a figure walking in her direction caused her to falter. Even from a distance, his walk suggested authority and confidence and though partly covered by dark glasses, his was a face she recognized.
Kennedy didn’t realize she’d stopped until Dodie addressed her.
“Kennedy, are you okay?”
A security guard moved next to her, while another blocked the path. “Do you know that man?”
“Yes.”
“Friend or foe?” the head guy questioned.
Yes. Kennedy watched Zeke remove his shades and hold up his hands in a gesture of surrender. He spoke to the guard on the sidewalk, whose gestures suggested Zeke was getting nowhere fast.
“It’s okay,” Kennedy called out.
“Who is that?” Dodie demanded. “We can’t do this now, Kennedy. We’ve got a whole room waiting.”
“This will only take a second.” Kennedy walked to where Zeke stood. The guard gave them a modicum of privacy by taking two steps back.
“What are you doing here?” Kennedy whispered.
“I heard about your press conference and thought I’d come and offer my services.” He looked beyond her at the four men staring him down. “Looks as though you could use me.”
“I think we’ve got that covered.”
“Oh, yeah? Good thing I wasn’t still on a mission. From the time you went to her office,” he gestured toward Dodie, “until I met you here, there were half a dozen times you were exposed.”
“What? How . . .”
“We’ll talk about it later.”
“Kennedy, we really need to go.” Kennedy heard Dodie and knew she was right. She turned to rejoin her.
“Ken.” Zeke reached for her arm and drew stern looks from her guards. He held out a business card. “I’m serious about looking for work.”
She took the card, trying to read the message in his eyes.
“Okay. I’ll call you.”
“One more thing.”
“Kennedy!”
She was drawn to the eyes and the smile of the guy she’d met on the island, the guy named Jack. “What?”
“I’m proud of you.”
The security team surrounded her, blocked out Zeke, and led her through a side door. They entered the room from the back of the riser, mounted the three short steps and walked to the front. The buzz in the room quieted. Flashes went off from every angle in the room. Kennedy stood at the podium, her speech on a tablet. Dodie flanked her on the right side, Dante was to her left. Both Dodie and Dante had offered to introduce her, but she had declined it. This moment had been a long time coming. She’d introduce herself. With hands steadied on each side of the podium, she looked out at the crowd, took a deep breath and addressed the room.
“Good morning. My name is Kennedy Wade. I am a professional photographer with an undergraduate degree in photography and a minor in copy writing, and an MFA in Visual Arts from the University of Chicago. My areas of emphasis were photography and new media. I have worked as a photographer in a professional capacity since graduating eight years ago. In those eight years, I’ve had full-time employment and I’ve also worked as a freelance photographer, writing articles, and taking photographs for websites, newspapers and magazines. This year, during the third week of May, I was on assignment in the Bahamas for a major Illinois newspaper, the Chicago Star. For two days, I shot in and around the city of Nassau, and several other nearby islands. That Friday, on what was supposed to be my last day in the Bahamas, I wanted to be on the water, and hired a private tour boat for a casual sail. The captain, a native Bahamian, was very knowledgeable about his country and kept up a running dialogue as I snapped pictures for fun. Shortly before going out on the boat, there’d been a spring shower and as we rounded what the captain described as a private island, a beautiful rainbow appeared.”
Kennedy motioned to the picture behind her. “It was stunning, even to the natural eye. I easily took thirty or forty shots of that scene alone—varying angles, focus, and using different lenses. I finished the boat ride, went back to my hotel and prepared to go home. Before doing so, I took the concierge’s suggestion to eat at a restaurant not far away. While I was there, a stranger approached. He was alone, too, and introduced himself as Jack.”
At that moment, something made her look up. There was Jack, real name Zeke, standing at the back of the room, offering a subtle nod of encouragement.
“We chatted, and it turned out that we were staying at the same hotel, or so he told me. After dinner, we returned there, and at his suggestion had an after-dinner drink. Mine was nonalcoholic, a decaf latte, one cup. I had an early flight the following morning so as soon as I was finished, I got up to retire for the night. He got up also and we both got on the elevator to go to our rooms. I began to feel funny, woozy. The next thing I knew, I was waking up, the sun was bright in the sky. I was completely naked, and all of my electronic equipment was gone.
“I filed a report with the hotel and the police. They checked their records. No one matched who this man said he was. I chalked it up to meeting a jerk who robbed unsuspecting travelers. And that would have been the end of it had I not been burglarized again, two weeks later, after the photos appeared in the Chicago Star. But I had still not connected the burglaries to the pictures I’d taken. It wasn’t until I received a suspicious-sounding call from someone representing themselves as part of the Bahamas Tourism Department. This person was very interested in the pictures I’d taken during that visit, specifically those of the private island and the rainbow behind it. I was offered an unusually high amount of money to sell all the pictures that I’d taken, with the understanding that I would also sign a release giving this company exclusive rights to what had been shot. It was only then that I became truly curious as to why those photos were so important and began examining them closely to see if there was something in them that I had missed.”
She paused, looked behind her, and said, “There was.”
The room came alive with titters and murmurs. Flashes went off everywhere.
“It became my opinion that whoever had me drugged and burglarized not once but twice, and subsequently followed, harassed, threatened, and basically upended my life, knew these pictures existed.” Kennedy pointed to the picture. “That appears to be, it is, allegedly, Braum Van Dijk. The other man appears to be, allegedly, Edward Becker, heir to the Becker pharmaceutical fortune and alleged member of the secret society, MAK. One can make their own decision about what is transpiring in the shot. I concluded that whatever it was, it seemed to be something the American public should know about.
“I consider myself an artist, one who doesn’t get into the conservative/liberal fight. I rarely watch news, but will admit when I do, it’s not TBC.”
That admission drew laughs and comments. Their reaction helped to relax her.
“But the viewpoints promoted on Braum Van Dijk’s network are not why I released the pictures and it is not why I stand before you today. I released the pictures because of the pain and suffering that was caused by my simply having them in my possession. I believed that releasing them was a safeguard to my very life. That with their release, all of the ways that my life was being invaded, and the lives of those around me, would stop. It hasn’t. I am still being followed. My homes have been bugged with video and possibly audio equipment. Friends have had their homes burglarized. A GPS was put on my car. Most of this happened before I even knew what I had accidentally captured on camera. So, I had to ask myself a question. Who is behind all of this, and what are they working so hard to hide? Is it that this network owner with a large conservative, evangelical viewership was allegedly engaging in homosexual sex, and since he’s married, adultery? Is it the fact that he was meeting a man married just hours before on the private island set for their honeymoon? Who has the power and the resources to do all that was done to me? A man as rich and powerful as Braum Van Dijk, with influential connections and a network encompassing government, law enforcement, and corporate America, has almost unlimited power. He has access to almost every industry in the world. I’m not saying Mr. Van Dijk was behind what I endured. I am saying that someone who seems to have a great stake in preventing these pictures from being released, is behind it.
“These pictures were not doctored. They were not photoshopped. They were enlarged and the blurriness was corrected. I took those pictures. They are not fake. I am not fake. I am a photographer who captured a set of pictures that someone needs to explain.”
Kennedy stepped back. The room erupted. Dante limited the questions. Dodie wrapped up the interview. From the time the press conference ended, Kennedy entered a whirlwind. Requests for interviews came from news outlets and talk shows, national and international, radio, podcasts, internet TV. News magazines called with offers to pay for her story. For someone who spent many hours alone taking pictures, the constant barrage of attention was almost too much. More than once, she second-guessed her actions, whether she had done the right thing. Then she’d see Van Dijk on television and know the answer.