Murder on the Down Low (32 page)

A
fter a few days of pampering her husband, Vernetta moved into her new office at Barnes, Ayers, and Howard.

“So what did Jefferson say when you told him?” Nichelle was helping her unpack. She couldn’t stop gushing about how much fun they were going to have practicing law together.

“He wasn’t happy that I reneged on my promise to spend a few months as a stay-at-home wife,” Vernetta said. “But let’s just say I’ve been using my womanly ways to make him forget.”

Nichelle laughed. “No wonder you’ve been looking so tired lately.”

“You’ve got that right. Being a top-notch wife is hard work.”

Nichelle hung Vernetta’s UC Berkeley law degree on the wall behind her desk, then stood back to take a look. “Does this look straight to you?”

“Perfect.”

Russell stuck his head in the door. “Welcome, counselor.”

Vernetta gave him a hug. “I was just telling Nichelle that if I’d known how great having my own practice would feel, I would’ve left O’Reilly & Finney months ago.”

“Yeah, it is pretty nice. Except for all the administrative hassles and never actually knowing when the next case is going to come through the door. But don’t knock the big firm experience. I picked up some excellent skills there. O’Reilly & Finney will always look great on your resume.”

“True.”

Sam stomped past the open doorway and into his office across the hall.

Vernetta raised an eyebrow. “I thought you two said Sam was okay with my being here.”

“He is,” Russell assured her. “Don’t mind him. He’s a big, harmless grouch. We just give him his space. Do the same and everything’ll be fine.”

As they left, Vernetta decided to make the first overture toward her new colleague. She knocked on Sam’s closed door.

“Come in,” he barked.

Sam’s office was a sight. There were papers, folders, clothes and gadgets everywhere. Vernetta counted six empty paper cups on his desk and two mugs that were growing mold. The blinds were drawn, which gave the room a cave-like feel, and the smell of something foul irritated her nostrils. Vernetta hoped he never brought any clients in here.

“I just wanted to say hello. I’m looking forward to working with you.”

He tried to smile, but she could tell his lips weren’t used to moving in that direction. “So did you bring any O’Reilly & Finney clients with you?”

“That remains to be seen. I just mailed letters letting my clients know that I’ve left the firm. I know there are a few who’ll probably throw me some work. The lower rates will be a real incentive.”

Vernetta was still standing, and since it didn’t look like Sam was going to offer her a seat, she took one on her own. The expression on Sam’s face told her that was a bad move.

“Uh . . . it looks like you’re pretty busy.” Vernetta slowly stood up. “So I guess I’ll let you get back to work.”

She had almost made it to the doorway before Sam spoke again. “I still have a lot of friends at the D.A.’s office. It doesn’t look too good for Special.”

Vernetta shot back to his desk. “What do you mean?”

“They’re hell bent on proving that Special killed Eugene. They’re digging deep and they’re not going to stop until they pin it on her.”

“They can dig as much as they want. She didn’t kill him.”

“You better hope not.”

They would need Sam’s expertise, not to mention his connections in the D.A.’s office, if charges were filed against Special. As much as the man got on her nerves, she needed to start buttering him up.

“If Special is charged,” Vernetta said, “we’d really like your help at trial.”

“You’ve tried your share of cases.”

“Yeah, but only one murder case. You’ve tried dozens. And on top of that, you’re a former prosecutor. You know how prosecutors think. Having you on the defense team would be an incredible advantage. So if this nightmare comes true, I hope you’ll help us.”

“I’m not used to playing second chair. Or third for that matter.”

Asshole
. He knew the amount of media attention this case was going to attract, and he wanted it all for himself. But if his help meant getting Special out of this mess, Vernetta would just have to deal with the jerk.

“That’s fine with me.” She decided to massage his ego even more. “I’m sure there’s a lot I could learn from you.”

I
really must applaud you,” said Professor Curtis Michaels as he led Nichelle down a narrow hallway at Haines Hall on the UCLA campus. “Few women have much of a desire to understand any of this.”

Nichelle’s former sociology professor had recently gained a national reputation as a commentator on gay issues. Since she was continuing to receive interview requests to discuss men on the down low, Nichelle felt the professor’s insight would be beneficial.

“So where should we begin?” Professor Michaels took a seat behind his desk. He was a broad-shouldered man with an equally broad smile. He wore a gold hoop in his left ear and was most comfortable in khakis and golf shirts.

Nichelle pulled a legal pad from her bag. “I guess my first question is why this down low phenomenon seems to only be associated with African-American men?”

“White men are engaging in this activity, too,” the professor clarified. “In fact, you might remember a string of white politicians who made headlines a while back. There was McGreevey, the former New Jersey Governor who resigned after confessing to an affair with a gay staffer. There was that Idaho Senator arrested in that foot-tapping bathroom sting, a Florida state representative picked up for soliciting sex at a park, and a Washington state legislator who allegedly had sex with a guy who ran off with his wallet.” He chuckled. “All of these men were married and white.”

Nichelle stole a glimpse of a picture on his credenza. The professor was on the slopes, standing next to another African-American man, both of them decked out in ski garb. Nichelle assumed the man was his partner.

“Then how come I’ve never heard anybody refer to white men being on the down low?” she asked.

“I think that label’s been exclusively associated with African-American men primarily because of J.L. King’s book,
On the Down Low,
and his appearance on
Oprah
. But this definitely isn’t unique to the black community.”

Nichelle folded her arms. “What concerns me is how these guys admit to having sex with other men, but claim that they’re not gay.”

The professor arched a brow and spread his hands. “In their minds, all they’re doing is engaging in a sex act. African-American men—gay or straight—take pride in their masculinity. Since many people consider homosexuality the antithesis of manliness, they aren’t willing to label themselves as gay. The Center for Disease Control uses the term MSM—Men Who Sleep with Men—in their surveys for this very reason. For these guys, the questions
Are you homosexual?
and
Do you engage in sex with men?
don’t result in the same answer.”

Nichelle scribbled a note on her legal pad.

“Before we continue,” the professor said, “I’d like to clarify something.” He planted his forearms on the desk. “When I refer to men on the down low, I’m not talking about the gay guy who might be in the closet. It’s easy to understand why many gay men, black, white or otherwise, don’t come out. Just so we’re on the same page, I’m talking about the guy who’s having sex on a regular basis with another man, but doesn’t think of himself as gay or even bisexual.”

“Got it,” Nichelle said. “So is he the reason HIV is impacting African-American women at such a high rate?”

“He’s part of it, but I don’t think the down low problem is nearly as widespread as black women fear. We know there’s a high incarceration rate among African-American men, and that they’re contracting HIV through homosexual sex in prison, then spreading it to women upon their release. Intravenous drug use is another factor. And straight men are also spreading it to straight women and vice versa.”

Nichelle crossed, then uncrossed her legs. “I suspect most women believe they can only contract HIV from a gay man.”

“That’s unfortunate. Many women also believe that all gay men are effeminate. That’s why they never suspect that their strong, virile boyfriends and husbands are on the down low. The so-called homo thug certainly contradicts that stereotype.”

Nichelle’s face contorted. “Excuse me, but what’s a homo thug?”

He pulled a thick book from the shelf to his left. “This is an urban dictionary,” he said, as he flipped the pages. “I’ll read the definition.”

“
Homo thug
is actually in the dictionary?”

“Right here in black and white.” The professor tapped his finger on the page. “
A black or Latino homosexual who dresses hip-hop and does not act ‘gay’
.
Sometimes a homo thug has relationships with women and keeps his gay sex on the D-L.
”

“You’re kidding me.” Nichelle rose from her seat to take a look for herself. She read the definition, then slumped back into her chair.

“Sounds to me like you’re saying black women are in this situation, at least in part, because we’re being fooled by macho-looking men on the down low?”

The professor fervently shook his head. “That’s certainly not the entire message I meant to convey.” He picked up the remote from his desk and pointed it at the small TV in the corner of his office. He flipped past three channels, then stopped at a burger commercial which showed enough cleavage to garner an
R
rating. Then he switched to a music video. Three bone thin, semi-nude girls were grinding and humping the air.

“What’s happening to black women with regard to HIV is a by-product of what you see on that screen. Our kids grow up with these images. Yet, we’re surprised that they’re having sex at the age of twelve and thirteen.”

“So you’re blaming television for the HIV epidemic?” Nichelle asked.

“In part, yes. I also blame the lack of sex education in schools, poor parenting, an absence of proper moral teachings, and of course, the Internet.” He turned away and began punching keys on his computer. “Come take a look at this.”

Nichelle stood over the professor’s shoulder as he pulled up the
Casual Encounters
listings on the Craig’s List website.

“These days a man or woman looking for sex can find a willing partner without ever leaving the comforts of home. You can search by city, state and even country. Let’s try L.A. He slowly scrolled down the screen. Nichelle stared at the listings, dumfounded.

Athletic white male looking for a threesome.

In town for a few days and need some company.

Nice girl needs a bad guy to blow.

When a photo of a penis popped up, Nichelle yelped and covered her mouth with both hands. “Oh, my God.”

“Sorry about that. It can get pretty graphic. And this isn’t just happening in the major metropolitan areas.” He switched over to Indiana and clicked on Muncie. The listings were much the same. “And you can find any kind of sex you want.”

He moved over to
Men Seeking Men
and scrolled down the Atlanta listings.

DL guy looking for sex with other buddies.

Married man needs a quick release.

Any DL guys need head tonight?

He clicked open a listing entitled
Married, but wanna play while the wife’s away
.

I’m a good-looking, muscular, successful, 42-year-old black male from Buckhead. Looking for a married guy like myself who wants M2M sex when the mood hits. Weekend afternoons are the best time for a hookup. Must be in good shape, masculine and very discreet.

Nichelle frowned. “What’s
M2M sex
?”

“Man to man,” the professor explained.

“This is frightening.”

“Hold on, I’m not done yet.” He switched over to
Women Seeking Men.
Nichelle was relieved to find that the listings weren’t nearly as sexually explicit. The professor opened a New York listing with the title
Single white female looking for a sugar daddy.

Attractive, 30-ish, single woman looking for some discreet sex on the side. You must be married, well-endowed and able to help me out financially. Race not important. I won’t respond without a picture.

Nichelle shuddered. “What in the hell is going on with our society?”

The professor smiled up at her. “Great. That’s exactly the point I was trying to make. The guy on the down low is just one small part of a much bigger problem. We live in a culture of sexual promiscuity and HIV is happily thriving in it. The biggest problem for the black community is that we’re the perfect hiding place for the disease.”

Nichelle returned to her seat. “What do you mean?”

“We’re less likely to get tested so we unknowingly spread the disease to others. We have less access to medical care, so we don’t get the early treatment that could save our lives. Many of our young black men view themselves as invincible, so they don’t feel the need to use protection.  And our women don’t feel empowered enough to demand that they do. And just like everybody else, we’re out there engaging in casual sex simply because it feels good.” 

Professor Michaels paused and when he spoke again, Nichelle saw a spark of anger in her eyes. “And the most influential body in our community, the black church, has its head buried in the sand while the disease ravages our community.” 

Nichelle inhaled. The professor was causing her to see a much bigger and much scarier picture.

“If you really want to make a difference when you speak about this subject,” the professor said, “help women understand that HIV doesn’t pick you because you’re gay or because you’re a bad person. It picks you because you’re available.”

T
he news conference in the City Hall Press Room was about to start and J.C. was nervous enough to barf. Thank God she had skipped breakfast.