A Meeting In The Ladies' Room (12 page)

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Authors: Anita Doreen Diggs

BOOK: A Meeting In The Ladies' Room
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The limousine sped through the dark, wet streets, and with each roll of the tires, I felt another crumbling of who I was and what I used to be.
The car finally stopped in front of a fortress-like building. As Keith helped me out, I noticed that a lot of police cars were parked on the street. Detective Marcus Gilchrist stepped from the shadows. Keith pushed me in back of him and had a whispered discussion which I could not hear.
I just stood in the rain. Part of me felt removed from the whole scene. Surely this was some other woman's life I was watching on a movie screen—in some surrealistic plot created by Hollywood writers. It just didn't make sense that a person could really get entangled in the criminal justice system on the most serious of all charges just by misplacing an appointment book and running across a lobby! Why, the whole thing was insane and getting crazier by the moment. It was time for me to leave this mess—yeah, that was it. All I had to do was hail a cab and go to Mama's house. I must have turned to leave because there was a sudden pain in my arm.
“Stop it,” Keith whispered in my ear through gritted teeth. “If you run, it's all over. You'll never get bail if you're pegged as a flight risk.”
“Ow,” was my reply. His hands had clamped down on me like a vise. “Let go of my arm.”
“Shut up and don't move.”
He turned back around and continued his conversation with Gilchrist.
At that moment I realized that I was a prisoner. This was no movie and no one in the stone building in front of me cared about the famous restaurants I was in the habit of going to, the fancy names and addresses on my Rolodex, how Mama was home crying her eyes out, the fact that my career was going up in smoke, or that I really didn't commit the crime.
Suddenly Detective Gilchrist pulled me away from Keith and the two of us were walking toward the entrance. I twisted my neck around to look for Keith. He was just standing there, making no attempt to shield himself from the rain that was pouring down on him.
“Keep your head up, Jackie,” he shouted.
I could tell by the tone of his voice that the expression on my face must have been suicidal. Gilchrist didn't say a word as he held the door open and led me into his world.
It was a great, big room with no windows, lots of cops, a few desks scattered about, several partitions, and a counter with a bored-looking officer behind it. As we approached the counter, I realized that there was one gigantic cell built into the left side of the room which held women and another on the right which held men.
The law of Karma had to be working here, but what on earth had I ever done to deserve this? Was this payback for the $25 I'd lifted from Mama's purse when I was in high school and then swore I knew nothing about the missing money? The abortion I'd had in freshman year? The married man I'd had an affair with ten years ago?
An old Black man was holding on to the bars and screaming over and over again “I'm Smokey Robinson, goddammit. Get me Berry Gordy!”
I felt Gilchrist nudging me forward, and then we were at the counter. Gilchrist handed some papers to the cop with one hand and held my arm with the other.
The cop looked at me. “What is your name?”
“Jacqueline Blue.”
“Address?”
“125 West 111
th
Street. Harlem.”
“Age?”
“Thirty-two.”
“Any previous arrests?”
“No.”
“Okay. Place your personal belongings on the counter.”
I put my Kate Spade tote bag on the space in front of him.
He unzipped it and named each item out loud as he pulled it from the case and wrote it down on a form. “Keys . . . wallet . . . book . . . lipstick . . . pen . . . pink case.”
He shook the “pink case” in my face. “What is in this case?”
My voice was trembling. “It's Fashion Fair Perfect Finish Foundation.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Ma . . . Makeup,” I stuttered.
Gilchrist released my arm. “Ted, let me see the book.”
So, the cop's name was Ted.
The “book” was my Filofax.
Ted handed it over—Gilchrist leafed through its pages, grunting in satisfaction. “This is evidence. I'm gonna hang on to it.”
Ted frowned and snatched it back. “You know better than that. Go through channels.”
Gilchrist cursed under his breath and marched me across the room to one of the partitions. There was a white woman inside wearing navy pants and a white shirt with some kind of shiny silver badge on it. She was seated high on a stool with her arm resting on a camera which stood on a tripod.
She smiled at the detective. “Hey, Marc. What's new?”
He gave her a friendly slap on the back. “Lena, I'm so tired, I could curl up and fall asleep right here on this floor.”
“I know the feelin'.”
She gestured to me. “Stand over there, right on the X.”
There was a huge, black “X” painted on the floor about three feet away from her.
She gave me a piece of black plastic with numbers on it. “Hold that in front of your chest.” She aimed the camera at me.
Snap.
“Turn right.”
Snap.
“Now left.”
Snap.
By the time my mug shot was done and I had been searched, tears were sliding down my face again and Gilchrist seemed uncomfortable. “You got a good lawyer, Miss Blue. This coulda been a lot worse. Let's just get the fingerprinting over with and then you can sit down. Follow me.”
He didn't grab my arm this time, trusting me not to make a break for the door. I trudged behind him, wishing that a stray bullet would hit me and end my life. Anything would be better than this scorching, searing shame.
A weary cop who looked way past retirement age pressed each one of my fingers onto a black, inky pad and then onto different, previously marked squares of a white, cardboard sheet. Afterward, Gilchrist gave me some tissue to wipe off my black fingertips.
That was it.
For as long as the criminal justice system existed, there would be a record of the fact that on April 12, 1997, Jacqueline Blue was arrested and booked on a charge of second-degree murder.
When we reached the immense holding cell for females which was stuffed with women of all sizes, shapes, and colors, I balked like a stubborn mule. The commotion in there was deafening and the bench that ringed the wall was occupied, leaving the majority of the prisoners standing in the middle of the floor or leaning against the bars. The cop who was standing in front of it pulled out a ring of keys.
“You can't put me in there.” I clung to Gilchrist desperately.
He sighed. “I don't have a choice, Miss Blue.”
A key went in the door.
I racked my brain frantically and then took my best shot. “My face has been all over the papers. Don't you have protective custody? Keith Williams will raise hell from here to the Supreme Court if I get one scratch on me!”
At the sound of his name, all of the women got real quiet. Both Gilchrist and the cop with the keys stopped moving. Each one looked at the other. Both wanted to throw me in the cell; neither wanted the responsibility if something went wrong and everyone in earshot knew I spoke the truth.
“Does she fit the definition of celebrity?” asked the cop.
Gilchrist scratched his head. “I don't know, but I'm getting off in an hour so put her in the back. If Hap doesn't like it when he comes on duty, let him throw her in here with the population.”
I didn't know who “Hap” was, but I doubted he wanted the responsibility of my demise, either.
Gilchrist walked away. “See you in court,” he flung at me over his shoulder.
The cop yanked me by the arm down the hallway and away from the mass of women who had resumed their noisy, incomprehensible babble.
24
A PRIVATE SPACE
S
ince night court is for those accused of petty crimes and there is no court on Sundays, I spent two nights in solitary confinement at Central Booking. My cell was small but at least I didn't have to share it. There was a bench to sleep on and a toilet. I lost all sense of night and day because the only light came from a small bulb suspended from the ceiling.
That first night, I simply sat on the hard bench, trying to watch every corner of the cell. Suppose there was a hole with rats in it, waiting for me to close my eyes so they could come out and start gnawing at my face, hands, arms? I screamed aloud in fright at the thought of it. Then I started thinking about what happened to Abner Louima. Suppose a sadistic cop came in and raped me with a broomstick. Sweat poured down my face as I imagined that scene. “Oh, Mama, Mama, Mama,” I moaned. I had no way to defend myself and even Keith wouldn't be able to help me as I was assaulted. A female officer came to the cell as the scene with the broomstick played itself out in my head. She was holding a small paper plate and a cup. “You hungry?” she asked with a smile.
“No!” I shrieked. “Stay out!”
The smile disappeared and she shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
The noise from the general holding pens continued. There were no distinct words or sentences. Just a constant, earsplitting rumble followed by intermittent sounds of weeping and other signs of misery. I sat on that bench for hours with my back against the wall, my knees drawn up to my chin and my arms wrapped around them, too scared to move. The pressure on my bladder was intense but I didn't want to pull down my panties and sweatpants to use the toilet. I didn't want to give someone with a broomstick any ideas. Finally, the dam burst and I peed right where I sat.
The next night was a tiny bit better. I still wouldn't pull down my clothes or accept any food because I didn't want the door to open but I had begun to hate everyone who had a hand in sending me to jail. I alternated between pacing my cell and dozing fitfully on the urine-damp bench—planning, plotting, and hating.
The first thing I had to do was wipe any feelings of self-pity from my mind until the real murderer was exposed. Next, I had to take charge of my own case. No matter what Keith Williams said about letting him handle everything, there was no way I was going to do that. His job was to find a case for reasonable doubt and keep me out of Bedford Hills. I wanted more. I wanted my name cleared and if the police weren't going to look for the murderer, I would do it myself.
And then there was Miss Nixon.
I hated Tiffany Nixon.
If it were not for her horrible columns, the district attorney would not have been under so much pressure from politicians and the public to lock me up.
I knew her type.
What she had done to me was not personal. It was to curry favor with the dominant culture and win her a prize for outstanding crime reporting if I was indicted and brought to trial. Whether I was convicted or not, she would forever be known as the Black reporter who didn't let any sense of racial solidarity get in the way of her duties to the entity which paid her. Such a label for a Black professional in any industry was as good as gold when it was time for prizes and promotions.
But she wasn't going to get away with it unless I was held without bail and sent away to prison without ever walking the streets of New York again.
That meant I had to get out and Paul was just one egg in a real shaky basket. The police owed me a phone call and I decided to use it to call Elaine Garner.
If Paul didn't come through and she could find away to get me out, I would start feeding her the inside story on my relationship with the dead heiress, Keith Williams, the murder investigation, and my unauthorized search for a killer. It was a guaranteed best-seller that she might be able to use to leverage herself into a publisher's chair. The tiny number of people who held those seats wielded a tremendous amount of power. It was they who ultimately decided which manuscripts the editors were allowed to buy and turn into books.
No African-American had ever held one of those seats at a major publishing house. Maybe Elaine would be the first.
What could be more Harvard than that?
25
PAUL
I
finally reached the courtroom for arraignment on Monday morning. I was conscious of being led out of the darkness of my cell into a brightly lit courtroom where men and women in conservative business suits were running to and fro waving sheaves of paper at the judge.
There were rows of people seated, anxiety on their faces, watching the door I'd just emerged from. There was a wooden bar separating the prisoners from their audience. Mama, Keith, and Paul were sitting in the front row, and I waved to show my awareness of their presence.
A clerk called my name and Keith's, plus a string of sentences that were legalese for second-degree murder. Keith stepped up to the plate. He was wearing a different Armani suit than the sodden one I had last seen him in. He looked smooth and dapper.
The judge asked me, “How do you plead, Ms. Blue?”
“Not guilty,” I replied.
Keith gave my hand a reassuring squeeze.
A very tall, painfully thin woman who looked like Olive Oyl gave me a look of disgust and a flash of the Thin Pink Line as she joined us in front of the judge. As she presented her case against bail, I realized that her name was Ruth Champ and she was from the district attorney's office.
Champ said, “Your Honor, this was a vicious, unprovoked crime. The defendant has wealthy associates and that makes her a significant flight risk. I hereby request a denial of bail in this case.”
Keith responded in a voice laced with sarcasm. “Your Honor, this is absolutely ridiculous. My client was born and raised in this city. She has an elderly mother here who is her only family. What is more, the case against my client is entirely circumstantial and without any merit. My client does not have a secret trunk of gold hidden somewhere that can yield enough money to set up some luxurious lifestyle in another country at the drop of a hat. I hereby request that my client be released on her own recognizance.”
Champ hissed. “No bail? That would be outrageous.”
The judge held up a hand to silence them both and set bail at $250,000.
I looked around for Elaine Garner, but she was nowhere in the room.
Keith pulled me aside. “This is wonderful.”
“Wonderful? I don't have $250,000!”
“You only need ten percent of that amount to walk out of this courtroom, and Paul Dodson has agreed to put up his home as collateral.”
I glanced over my shoulder and saw that Mama was sitting alone. “Where is he?”
“Paul had to go downstairs and sign some paperwork. As soon as that is done, you'll be free to go.”
“Can I go sit with Mama? She looks terrible.”
Keith patted my shoulder. “It'll just be a few more minutes, Jackie. You can't leave this area of the courtroom until Paul's work is done.”
In other words, I was still a prisoner.
“Will you go and sit with her, then? She looks so lost and scared.”
“Sure.”
And then I was alone, watching the next defendants as they were brought in to stand quaking before the judge, but my thoughts were on Paul. He had schemed, saved, begged, and borrowed to purchase that house. It was his pride and joy, but he had put it up on the block for me. No one except Mama had ever trusted or loved me that much, and I couldn't stop the tears from streaming from my eyes.
It took close to an hour for the paperwork to go through and my personal belongings found and returned to me, but finally, I was free.
As I hugged Mama, who clutched me like she would never let go, I was extremely sensitive to the fact that I smelled like jail. Paul and Keith stood off to the side, smiling at us, until I was able to pry Mama's arms away.
Paul gave me a hug and whispered, “It's really good to see you, Jackie,” into my ear.
“I don't know how to thank you, Paul,” I whispered back.
“We'll talk later,” he murmured.
The four of us locked arms and walked out onto Centre Street, where reporters converged on us like a pack of wild dogs.
“Did you kill your boss, Jackie?”
“Hey Jackie, look this way!”
“Who is paying for Keith Williams?”
“Is that your boyfriend, Jackie? Is he standing by you?”
“Why'd you do it, Jackie? What was the motive?”
“Are you in love with Craig Murray?”
“Who is the old lady? Is that your mother?”
“Who killed Annabelle Murray?”
Keith had been prepared for this scene. Two rows of police officers held the journalists and their flashbulb-popping news crews away from us as Keith, his mouth tight, pushed us toward his waiting limousine.
Jamal Hunt was standing next to the car. He pushed past Keith and hugged me. The cameras flashed away. “Jackie, I know you're not guilty and I'm praying for you!” he yelled.
I whispered my thanks and climbed into the limo. As the car pulled away from the curb, I saw the reporters rush toward Jamal, who promptly held a hardcover book above his head so the cover would appear in all the papers. Using my predicament to promote his current novel was a tasteless, selfish, and totally unforgivable act and, for just a second, I was glad that I'd lost my job so I wouldn't have to deal with him.
Mama leaned back against the plush upholstery. Her face looked ashen.
It would have been stupid to ask if she were all right, so I just held her hand and said nothing. The air suddenly filled up with the briny scent of stale piss, but no one mentioned it.
“Let's get out of here. I need to go home and change clothes.”
“You can't go home,” Keith told me. “The police tore the place up, looking for evidence. Besides, the media knows where you live now and they'll be camped outside until the trial is over.”
I couldn't take any more. “Where am I supposed to live, for God's sake?” It was a scream.
Mama patted my hand. “Shush, baby. Put your stuff in storage and come stay with me.”
“I want to go home!” I was yelling and pounding my fists on the seat like a two-year-old.
Paul pulled my head onto his chest. “You're always welcome at my place.”
“No. I need to know that Jackie is safe,” Keith said firmly. “I have a place down in Greenwich Village. There isn't much furniture, but she needs to stay there until this is all over.”
There is something about being arrested, fingerprinted, and photographed and then wearing the same panties for forty-eight hours that can put a woman in a really foul mood. “I'm going home as soon as I can, but take me to Mama's for right now.”
“Fine,” he replied. He slid back the partition and gave new instructions to the driver and then picked up a newspaper that was lying on the seat. The headline blared,
HARLEM WOMAN CHARGED IN EXECUTIVE'S DEATH.
It was the
Comet.
I snatched it from his hand, causing Mama to give me a look that said
you were raised better.
I didn't care. I had just emerged from the bowels of hell and my manners would not return until there was a decent plate of food in front of me and some clean clothes on my body.
HARLEM WOMAN CHARGED IN EXECUTIVE'S
DEATH
by Roy Breyer
 
A Welburn Books editor was arrested on Saturday after police said she strangled her employer, Annabelle Welburn, to death three months ago.
Jacqueline Blue, 32, of Harlem was charged with second-degree murder.
“It was just senseless. Senseless and needless,” Manhattan District Attorney Darryl Givan said at a press conference.
According to Givan, Ms. Blue cornered Welburn in the vestibule of her eighth-floor penthouse and the two argued over a job promotion that had been denied Miss Blue. Enraged, Miss Blue forced the beautiful, blond publisher into a bathroom, where the vicious attack took place. If convicted, Blue could be sentenced to life in prison without possibility of parole.
His story was only one of many on the subject, but I didn't read the rest. Even though the charges were false, I took some comfort in the fact that Mr. Breyer had simply reported the events as they were told to him—unlike the vicious attacks that were Ms. Nixon's specialty.
I gave the paper back to Keith and didn't say another word all the way to Hell's Kitchen.
There was a knot of journalists and photographers waiting in front of Mama's building when Keith's limousine pulled up. Worse, her neighbors were talking to them. What stories were they telling about me? That I once fell off the monkey bars and skinned my knee on the ground? That I had cheated my classmate, a tiny Chinese boy named Weng Loo, out of fifteen cents when we were in the third grade? That Mama wouldn't make friends with any of the women on the block because she distrusted all females? That I almost got hit by a car while dashing across the street to buy a popsicle when I was ten? What were they saying that caused the journalists to nod up and down as seriously as though they were listening to a scientist explain the cure for cancer?
“How did they know I would come here?” I whispered.
Keith sighed. “They didn't. But your mother had to come home sooner or later. I'll bet they're willing to pay her a lot of money just for a few photos and stories of your childhood.”
“I ain't got nuthin' to say to those people,” Mama declared.
Keith rubbed his chin. “Actually, I think you should talk to them—we need public sympathy for Jackie. So far, the only photo they have seen is the video of her running across the lobby. Tomorrow morning her mug shot will be on the cover of every major newspaper in the country. Jackie desperately needs someone to balance that image.”
Mama looked bewildered. “What do you want me to tell 'em?”
“Just the truth, Mrs. Blue.”
The pack turned away from the common people and surrounded the limousine. Since the windows were tinted, they couldn't see inside.
“This is absolutely incredible,” Paul said.
Keith grimaced. “There is probably three times this number outside Jackie's place, and they'll be there every day until the juice has been totally sucked from this story. Even worse, someone looking to get famous might take a shot at her. She can't go home or stay here.”
The lump in my throat wouldn't allow me to respond.
He slid the partition back and gave orders to the driver. “Mrs. Blue and I are getting out here. Take Jackie and her friend downtown to the apartment and then come back for me later.” He carefully removed three keys from a ring and gave them to me.
Mama folded her arms across her chest. “Nobody is gonna run me outta my own house.”
“I can't leave her here alone,” I said.
Keith shook his head. “The situation will just be a daily nuisance for your mother but you are in real danger. I won't allow you to stay here.” He paused with his hand on the door handle. “Are you ready, Mrs. Blue?”
“Yes.”
Mama and I hugged each other and then Keith opened the door. I clutched the keys to my hiding place in my palm.
Paul looked dazed, and although he held my hand tightly, neither of us was in the mood for conversation.
The only thought which swirled through my mind on the way downtown was that I'd buy a gun and kill myself before allowing anyone to lock me in a jail cell again.
My hideout was a three-story brownstone near Houston Street. When the driver parked in front of it, I asked, “Which floor am I going to?”
He laughed. “This whole building is Mr. Williams's place. You can live in any room you want.”
I dragged my tired body up the steps. My life in Harlem was on hold. This new home in Greenwich Village was only temporary. What was going to become of me?
It was an elegant, twelve-room residence with high ceilings, decorative molding, hardwood floors, huge French windows, and a back garden. There was a grand piano in the first-floor living room with a four-foot stack of Keith's autobiography,
Winner,
standing next to it, a round wooden table with four chairs in the huge, eat-in kitchen, and a fully furnished bedroom on the second floor. Otherwise, the place was bare.
Was this where Keith brought his one-night stands? It certainly seemed that way. I couldn't help laughing at Keith's setup, and the sound echoed off the bare walls.
Paul had been following me around the place without saying a word. Now he asked, “What is so funny?”
“Look around,” I replied. “I think this is Keith's booty barn. There is a plush bed for the dirty deed, a table to allow her a cup of coffee in the morning, and she can tinkle the piano keys while Keith gets her coat out of the closet. He probably tucks a copy of
Winner
into her hopeful hands before hustling her out to the limousine. Then he goes to see his real girlfriend.”

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