Murder on the Down Low Read online

  Special huffed and was about to say something when Vernetta kneed her underneath the table.

  Mavis ambled past them and opened the back door of the kitchen. “Pearl, that boy could walk around here for another fifty years infecting I don’t know how many women with that stuff.” She stepped out onto the porch and lit up a cigarette.

  “If the lawsuit these girls are talking about stops one man from doing this to another woman,” Mavis said from the open doorway, “or if it encourages one woman to look more closely at the man she’s about to lay down with, then it’ll be worth it. That’s how you should look at this, Pearl.”

  Mrs. Washington sat back down. “I can’t hang around here sitting in a courtroom all day. I’ve been here almost three months taking care of Maya. My leave of absence ends next week.”

  “It’ll be close to a year before the case gets to trial,” Vernetta said. “You’ll have to come back for your deposition, but even that won’t happen for a few months.”

  “The three of us are going to split the court costs,” Special volunteered. Both Vernetta and Nichelle gazed at her with something less than affection, knowing she didn’t have a dime to contribute.

  “What court costs? How much is this going to cost?”

  “Not that much,” Nichelle said. “It only costs a couple hundred dollars to file the complaint. We’ll need to take Eugene’s deposition and hire an expert witness. That’ll be a few thousand dollars, but we’ll get that money back after we win.”

  “A few thousand dollars?” Mrs. Washington said, alarmed. “And what if you don’t win?”

  Each of the women waited for the other two to field that question. When no one did, Vernetta spoke up. “The way I see it, even if we lose, we still win. This case is going to attract loads of publicity. If we save even one woman from getting involved with a man like Eugene, then it’ll be well worth whatever we have to spend.”

  Mrs. Washington nodded for the first time. “Well, what would the lawsuit say and what—”

  “I have a draft of the complaint right here.” Nichelle pulled a folder from her purse, took out a thick document, and handed it to her. “Most of this stuff is legal jargon. Basically, you’d be suing for wrongful death and intentional infliction of emotional distress.”

  Mrs. Washington scanned the first few pages, then got up from the table. She moved the frying pan from the stove to the sink and began scrubbing it with a brush.

  After several nerve-racking minutes, Mrs. Washington set the frying pan down on the counter and turned around to face them.

  “You’re right,” she said, the doubt gone from her face. “Go ahead. Sue that boy.”

  Chapter 9

  The Monday after Maya’s funeral, Special watched raindrops pelt the window outside her office. She raised her mug to her lips, then pulled it away, surprised that her coffee was now cold. She had just refilled the cup in the breakroom a second ago. Hadn’t she?

  The clock on the corner of Special’s desk told her it was almost eleven o’clock. She’d been spacing for nearly an hour. Special knew that the rage she felt was not healthy, but she couldn’t restrain it. An only child like Special, Maya had been more like a sister than a cousin. They spent every summer together as kids, celebrated birthdays that were only days apart and shared a special closeness their mothers noticed before they could talk.

  Everyone thought that her volatile mental state was caused solely by Maya’s death. In reality, she’d been wrestling with more than that. Special had become obsessed with the possibility that Clayton, her new man, might not be all that he appeared.

  She turned away from the window and picked up a framed photograph of the two of them at Venice Beach. Clayton was an engineer for a defense contractor in D.C. They’d met several months ago at a National Urban League convention. Despite the difficulties of a long distance relationship, they’d become pretty serious. But if a brother like Eugene was gay, how could she know for sure that Clayton wasn’t? He didn’t look or act suspect, but that didn’t mean a thing.

  After all, she had been fooled before. Not long after finding out about Maya’s illness, she had experienced her own HIV scare. It started when a coworker sent her a link to a website for men on the down low. When she browsed through the pictures of the handsome, masculine-looking brothers, she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. None of them looked effeminate in any way. Hell, she would’ve been open to hooking up with half of them based on their looks alone.

  She was just about to close the disgusting site when the photograph of a sexy, shirtless man practically jumped off the screen. The name underneath his picture identified him as Charles, but Special knew him as Ronald. Not Charles. They’d met at the Black Ski Summit in Vail and after returning to L.A., they’d had a short, but intense relationship.

  She could still recall the one night they’d carelessly neglected to use a condom. At the time, her only fear had been pregnancy, not HIV. Later, after seeing Ronald’s face on that website, she became paralyzed by the possibility that she might be infected. She had confided in Vernetta, who insisted that she get tested right away. It took ten days for her to gather the courage, and to her relief, she was HIV negative.

  There was a knock on her office door, but Special didn’t hear it.

  Her coworker, Araceli Gonzales, stuck her head inside. “Didn’t you hear me knocking?”

  Special jumped, spilling coffee onto her leather desk blotter. “I guess I was daydreaming.” She reached for a wad of napkins from a drawer and started wiping up the mess.

  “Are you ready?” Araceli asked. “We have to do the dry run in fifteen minutes.”

  Special squinted. “Dry run? What dry run?” Special worked as a manager for Telecredit, having recently been promoted to the Credit Services Department.

  “Wednesday’s meeting with Citibank. Remember?”

  Special flipped the pages of her desk calendar. “I completely forgot.”

  Araceli sighed. She had been covering up a lot of Special’s screw-ups lately. “You know the proposal better than I do. You can just wing it.”

  “No, I can’t. I’m here, but I’m not here, if you know what I mean.”

  Araceli’s expression softened. She closed the door and took a seat in front of Special’s desk. “I know your cousin’s death was really hard on you, but everybody’s starting to talk. You’re either mad all the time or in tears. And this isn’t the only meeting you’ve forgotten. Maybe you should take some more time off.”

  Special sighed. “I don’t have any more vacation time. I used it all up helping my aunt take care of Maya.”

  “I’m sure you can get an unpaid leave.”

  “Unpaid? I’m already behind on my rent as it is. And don’t even mention my credit card bills.”

  “I’ll handle it this time,” Araceli said, standing. “But this is the last time.”

  When she left, Special went back to gazing out of the window. Both Ronald and Eugene needed to pay for their deceit. She’d had no success tracking down Ronald’s ass after seeing him on that website, but she had Eugene squarely in sight. Suing him was just the warm-up act.

  She turned away from the window and dialed a five-digit extension. “Are we still on for tonight?” she said, when her coworker, Eddie Chin, picked up. A senior at University of Southern California, Eddie worked part-time in the Information Technology Department and was the troubleshooter for Special’s group.

  “Yeah, but like I told you, I’m only going to walk you through it. You’ve gotta actually do it yourself.”

  “You’ve told me that a million times,” Special replied. “I’ll see you at eight at your place.”

  Special hung up and smiled. Eddie was helping her plan a nice big surprise for Eugene. It was just too bad she couldn’t be there tomorrow morning to see the look on his face when it arrived.

  Chapter 10

  Nichelle collected three folders from her desk, then headed for her law firm’s main conference room, just eas
t of her office.

  She was a total ball of nerves, realizing that she had done things in precisely the wrong order. Instead of approaching Maya’s mother about suing Eugene, she should have first sought the approval of her law partners. She’d put off talking to them because she wasn’t sure how they would feel about filing the wrongful death lawsuit. But she couldn’t delay this discussion any longer.

  Russell Barnes was already seated when Nichelle walked in and plopped a thin folder on the conference table. Her other law partner, Sam Howard, who would be the tougher sell, was late as usual. The three partners met every two weeks to discuss firm expenses, new cases, anticipated billable hours, and any other issues related to the administration of their six-person law practice.

  “I have something I want to discuss before we go through our regular agenda.” Nichelle opened one of the folders, then inhaled and hoped her good luck, hot pink pants suit didn’t fail her.

  Russell nodded but didn’t look up from the brief in front of him. He was a solid family man who abandoned a lucrative partnership at one of L.A.’s mega firms to spend more time with his family. He arrived at the office at the crack of dawn, but rarely worked past six.

  Nichelle heard Sam approaching and her stomach fluttered. You could hear him a mile away. He was the size of a linebacker and walked like he had tree stumps for feet. A well-regarded litigator, he spent several years at the District Attorney’s office prosecuting everything from white collar crime to capital murder cases. He was smart, persuasive, and fast on his feet. When it came to women, though, he was a complete imbecile. He couldn’t spell romance, and cheap should have been his middle name.

  Unfortunately, Nichelle had made the mistake of sleeping with him, and their relationship had never been the same. Her mother’s words still reverberated in her head every time she remembered their disastrous three months together. Never sleep where you eat.

  Sam sloshed into the room carrying a folder sloppily stuffed with papers.

  “Hey, everybody.” He squeezed into a chair that was not intended to accommodate a man his size.

  Before their little tryst, Sam had always greeted her by name, stretching out both syllables like it was poetry. Now, he only spoke to her when necessary and never by name. Nichelle doubted he would be treating her this way if he had dumped her. So far, Russell didn’t know about their little fling and she was thankful for that.

  “Okay, let’s get started,” Sam said.

  “As I was about to tell Russell,” Nichelle began, “I have a wrongful death case that I want to take on contingency.”

  Sam glowered at her. “You don’t even litigate anymore. And you barely billed thirty hours a week over the past couple of months.”

  Nichelle reminded herself to stay calm. “Sam, you know my friend, Maya, was ill and I—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know all that. And I don’t mean to be unsympathetic, but you need to find some paying clients. This is a business.”

  “C’mon, Sam,” Russell prodded. “Let’s hear about the case first.”

  Nichelle focused her attention on Russell. “I want to file a lawsuit against Eugene Nelson.”

  Sam scowled at her. “Who’s Eugene Nelson? And you better be getting a retainer large enough to cover all the court costs.”

  “I’ll be paying the court costs from my personal funds.” Nichelle paused, knowing her next words would be met with staunch resistance. “Eugene Nelson was the fiancé of my friend, Maya. He’s the one who infected her.”

  “You have to be kidding!” Sam pushed his chair back from the table with a loud screech. “You’re not using this firm to play a game of female revenge against this guy. That case’ll be kicked in a week.”

  Russell remained quiet, which usually meant he agreed with Sam.

  “Just hear me out,” Nichelle said. “I think this case will lead to future work and perhaps a whole new practice area for me. Take a look at this.” She slid two sheets of paper across the table.

  Russell started reading his copy. Sam ignored his.

  “According to the Centers for Disease Control, HIV infection is the leading cause of death for African-American women between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-four,” she said. “And believe it or not, the rate of AIDS diagnosis for African-American women is twenty-three times the rate for white women.”

  She handed them a copy of a Newsweek article with more disturbing stats. Sam ignored this one, too. “The majority of these women are contracting HIV from heterosexual sex.”

  “Are these numbers actually true?” Russell asked, as he picked up the Newsweek article.

  “Yep. It’s scary, isn’t it?”

  “You’re darn straight. I have three daughters.”

  “More than a million people are living with HIV in the U.S. and nearly half of them are African-Americans. And it’s estimated that a quarter of a million people are infected but don’t even know it.”

  “Just tell me one thing,” Sam snarled. “How is this going to bring in some billable work?”

  “Just hear me out, Sam. This next document,” she slid another page toward them, “is an article from the New York Post about a woman who won a two-million-dollar verdict against the man who infected her.”

  “And how much of that award did she actually collect?” Sam scoffed. “I don’t even have to read the story to tell you. Zero. She got squat, because the guy probably didn’t have a dime to begin with and if he did, he more than likely hid it long before the verdict came in. The Goldmans got a thirty-three-million-dollar verdict against O.J. Last I heard, they’re still trying to collect.”

  Nichelle had anticipated this argument. “Well, Eugene does have money and I’ll be filing the necessary documents to freeze his assets as soon as the lawsuit is filed. And you’re forgetting that this case is going to garner a lot of publicity for the firm, and ultimately some paying clients.”

  Russell nodded, which gave her encouragement. “The media’s going to eat this case up and I intend to milk it.”

  “You don’t even like trying cases,” Sam pointed out.

  “I’ll like trying this one. I’m doing it in Maya’s memory.”

  “I told you!” Sam fired back. “It is all about revenge.”

  “Yes,” Nichelle admitted, growing frustrated. “There is a revenge factor here. I don’t like the fact that Maya is dead solely because she was sleeping with a guy who never told her he was running around screwing men.” Both men flinched. That was the closest thing to a curse word they’d ever heard Nichelle utter.

  “This is a legitimate practice area worth exploring. Look at these numbers.” She pointed to the Newsweek article. “There’s no one locally or even nationally who’s recognized as an expert in handling these types of cases. I, or we, could become the experts.”

  Finally, she detected a glint of interest in Sam’s eyes. “But you don’t know anything about wrongful death law.”

  “It’s not rocket science. Anyway, my friend Jamal is going to help me on a pro bono basis. You’ve met him. He works upstairs at Russana & Rowles. He went to law school with me and Maya.”

  Sam frowned. “Isn’t that guy gay?”

  “Yeah, and what about it?”

  “Isn’t he going to take some flack for handling a case like this?”

  “Frankly, I think it might add a little credibility to the case to have a sharp gay black man like Jamal on the defense team. He wants to do this for Maya, too.”

  Sam finally examined the papers Nichelle had given him. “When are you going to find the time to do the legal research, draft the complaint, and—”

  “The complaint’s already written.” She pulled two copies from her folder and handed them to her law partners. “And here’s the press release I’m planning to send to the media.”

  Russell quickly perused both documents. “I like it. It’ll get the firm’s name out there.”

  Sam took his time reading the materials, then looked up at her. “Fine, but you just bett
er make sure you know what you’re doing. I don’t want this firm getting hit with a malpractice lawsuit.”

  “That won’t happen.” Nichelle was smiling inside and out.

  She had just swayed the toughest jury of her career. Who said she wasn’t a litigator?

  Chapter 11

  Vernetta checked the fuel gauge of her Land Cruiser and cringed at the orange light signaling that she was about to run out of gas.

  She zoomed down the 405 Freeway, trying to make it to Irvine in time for an important meeting. She’d overslept, a rare occurrence since Jefferson was usually around to wake her up. But he had an early appointment and left the house before five.

  If she stopped to fill up, she would definitely be late. With less than five miles to go, she prayed that she would make it.

  The dog and pony show Vernetta was rushing off to was something clients were making law firms do more and more of these days. Even law firms with a reputation like O’Reilly & Finney’s. Instead of handing over a new case based on an existing relationship, companies were requiring firms to compete for the work. Whoever made the best pitch won the case.

  She pulled into the parking lot of Vista Electronics at a much faster rate of speed than the posted five-mile-an-hour limit and swerved into the only open stall, which was marked “car pool.” Grabbing her briefcase and purse from the passenger seat, she ran all the way to the lobby entrance, then slowed to a forced stroll the minute she stepped inside.

  Haley and O’Reilly were sitting in the north corner of the lobby. Thank God. The meeting hadn’t started yet.

  “Good morning.” Vernetta concentrated on replenishing her air supply.

  Haley checked her watch, then smiled up at her. “You certainly cut it close.” Haley had striking looks—high cheekbones and those pouty, model lips that a lot of women paid for. Men routinely salivated when Haley entered a room.