Antebellum (10 page)

“Once again, we have breaking news that tonight, here at the Phil Winters' studio in Chicago, Illinois, a lone gunman attempted to shoot rap superstar Da Nigga, aka Moses Jenkins, while he was being interviewed live. Initial reports said that the rap star had been shot and was in critical condition at the University of Chicago Hospital. However, we now have it confirmed that the patient admitted to the hospital was Henry Baldwin, aka Hard-Knock, a member of Da Nigga's entourage. Reports say he was shot while trying to subdue the gunman and lost massive amounts of blood on his way to the hospital. In addition, fifteen studio audience members were rushed to the hospital with injuries
sustained during the pandemonium. Three of them were trampled by the mob of people trying to escape, and are also in critical condition. Witnesses had this to say...”

The screen cut to two disheveled women, visibly traumatized by what they had experienced. Both women were in tears and one was close to hysteria. The more sane of the two women hugged her friend closely as she talked.

“...it was horrible, oh my God, it was horrible! We thought we were going to die! People were punching and kicking and screaming at each other, and when you looked down all you saw were people...you couldn't get out without stepping on the...oh my God, forgive me...”

A paramedic broke into the interview and ushered the two women away from the camera and toward an ambulance. The woman reporter's face appeared back on the screen.

“The whereabouts of Moses Jenkins, aka Da Nigga, are unknown at this time. Witnesses say they saw a luxury Maybach automobile speed away from the scene, however no one can confirm where the automobile went. Authorities say it's too early to call the situation a kidnapping, but many have already speculated that this attack was the work of the P. Silenzas, a rap group with whom Jenkins was feuding before their record deal was cancelled. We caught up with Reginald Bankhead, aka Trigga, one of the members of P. Silenzas, who had this to say...”

The scene cut to Trigga sitting in an old lawn chair outside of a dilapidated public housing project. He had put on every piece of jewelry he could find. The light from a leaning lamppost reflected off of his platinum chain and grill as he spoke. He looked like an oxymoron. A hesitant white reporter stood beside him and spoke into a microphone.

“Mr. Bankhead, do you have any idea who attacked Moses Jenkins tonight in Chicago?”

Trigga turned to the reporter and took his sunglasses off. “No, but I hope dey blew his f***in' head off.”

For ten seconds after he said that, Trigga just stared into the camera. He didn't move, he didn't talk, and he didn't blink. His dark, cloudy eyes jumped right through the television screen at me. I felt like I was in a horror movie.

Finally, the reporter cut back in.

“Okay...thank you, Mr. Bankhead.”

The lead reporter, now standing in front of the hospital, came back on the screen.

“This story keeps developing by the second. We've now received word that Moses Jenkins, aka Da Nigga, is no longer missing, but he's actually en route here, to the University of Chicago Hospital, to see his friend, Henry Baldwin, who sources now tell me has fallen into a coma as a result of his blood loss.”

“Aww, what the hell!” I threw up my hands, wondering if things could get any worse.

“Rose called in to the hospital security to let them know we were coming.” SaTia talked as she picked up her cell phone. “The idea was to sneak us through the cargo entrance to avoid contact with the public. Someone from security must have leaked that we were coming...hello, hospital security?”

Someone on the other end of the phone gave her a positive answer.

“I need to speak with the head of security now, please. This is an emergency.”

She waited about five seconds before another voice came through the phone.

“Hello, this is SaTia Rosewood. I am Moses Jenkins' manager. He and I, as well as two colleagues, are five minutes away from the hospital, and we've just heard a news report announcing our arrival to the public.”

She waited another two seconds while the head of security fired off curse words.

“Unfortunately, one of your security personnel must have leaked our arrival to the media. Mr. Jenkins is still very concerned about his friend; however, and so we need to know if there is any way possible we can still enter the hospital without causing a disturbance?”

This time, my manager listened and nodded her head. When the voice on the other end of the phone was done, she thought for a moment before responding. “Can you do it in five minutes?”

Quick answer from the other end of phone, and SaTia exhaled deeply.

“Okay, let's stick with that as the tentative plan. We're pulling up in a black Cadillac Escalade. If things look like they're going bad, I'm taking my client and leaving.”

One more quick answer, and SaTia hung up.

“He says there are cameras and reporters everywhere—even at the cargo entrance. Our best bet is to just come through the front door. The local police department keeps units on standby for the hospital, so he's calling them now. The local PD plus the hospital security should be enough to keep things under control. If it's not, we're leaving.”

I shook my head. “No, we not.”

Everyone in the car looked at me. Even the driver fixed the rearview mirror so he could see what I was about to say.

I looked at SaTia. “No matter what, we not leavin' til I see Henry. I gotta make sure he's okay.”

“Moe, you saw the news reports. You saw how crazy it got at the
Phil Winters Show
. Now, you have to trust me, okay?” She spoke softly, like a doctor does with a child before giving them a needle. “There are people out here trying to kill you. If I say it's
bad, then we have to leave. It's not worth it.”

I never took my eyes off of her as she spoke. She was trying to protect me, to do for me what I had done for her back at the office, but it didn't matter.

“No,” I said. “We leave after I see Henry. Period.”

She wanted to argue about it some more, but also realized that would be pointless. It was rare that I trusted my own judgment over hers, but the few times I had I was stubborn in my convictions. She turned her gaze to the front windshield.

“We're coming up on the hospital now,” the driver said as he stopped at a red light. “I can see the television vans and lights from here. Looks like it's going to be crazy.”

SaTia looked over at me again, pleading for me to change my mind with her eyes.

I looked at her and then back at the driver. “It's all good. Ain't nuthin' we ain't used to. They said they was gonna have the cops here anyways. Jus' pull up to the front.”

The driver nodded his head and waited for the light to turn green.

“Even if da cops ain't here, Moe, you know we got yo' back,” Brian said from the backseat. “Like you say, it ain't nuthin' we ain't used to.”

As we pulled into the hospital entrance, I saw vehicles from television channels that I didn't know existed. A mob of men and women, armed with oversized television cameras and high-quality microphones adorned with media insignias, stormed the luxury SUV like a swarm of angry bees. Fortunately, the police cars had arrived before we got here, and they jumped into action. Putting their sirens on, they broke through the mob until they reached our vehicle, and then led us to the front door. As soon as they had stopped, both the police officers and the hospital security
rushed out to the truck. The head of security opened the rear door and poked his head in. He looked directly at me.

“It's a madhouse out here, but we're all set up to get you in to your friend's room and back safely. It's up to you if you still want to go in.”

I nodded my head. “Let's do it.”

“Great. Give us thirty seconds and then come on out.”

When I opened the door, the officers and security had formed a perimeter around the Escalade. None of the reporters or fans were close enough to touch me, but the onslaught of flashing lights and screaming voices took me back to the
Phil Winters Show
. I couldn't shake the idea that one of the couple hundred people standing around me could easily take out a gun, aim it at me, and pull the trigger.

The terror was crippling. It blurred my vision and muddled my hearing. My eyes darted from side to side again. Questions from the different reporters came so quickly I had trouble distinguishing one from another.

How did you get away from Phil Winters' studio?

Were you injured in any way during the incident?

How did you find out that Mr. Baldwin was injured?

Do you take responsibility for the incident?

Do you believe this was the work of the P. Silenzas?

How big of a role do you think your battle record played in the events of tonight?

Was tonight worth all the fame and fortune that you've gained over the past months?

I found myself sprinting to get inside the building.

Luckily, the cops and security had been well-trained. Without a word, they sprinted right along with me.

I was breathing heavily once we finally got inside the hospital
doors. SaTia was standing alongside me while Brian and Ray were pulling up the rear. None of the camera crews had been allowed inside the actual hospital. I glanced back and saw them smashed against the sliding doors, one on top of another, flashing pictures and screaming into their microphones. I felt like I had gone through a gauntlet.

“Mr. Jenkins?”

A middle-aged doctor with olive skin and a turban stood in front of me. His white coat and stethoscope announced his professional standing, but I couldn't help thinking of the two men who ran the 7-Eleven back home. His accent enveloped his words. Trying to understand him was like trying to hold a conversation underwater.

“My name is Dr. Ahmed. I am told you have come to see Mr. Baldwin?”

I couldn't understand him. “Umm...did you ask...”

“Yes,” SaTia thankfully cut in. “We are here to see Henry Baldwin.”

“Very good,” Dr. Ahmed responded. “Follow me.”

My mother always hated going to hospitals. She would send the sick people from her church get-well cards and flowers, and call and pray with them every night, but she would never actually set foot in the hospital. Walking through the intensive care unit of the University of Chicago Hospital allowed me to understand her reservations. The whole ward smelled like sickness and death. It filled up your nostrils and lungs but wouldn't let you cough or sneeze it out. It just enveloped you, reminding you that somewhere in your immediate vicinity was a person who was more than likely going to die soon.

As we approached Henry's room, I bowed my head and prayed silently that he wouldn't be among that number....

The lines and tubes that ran from his body and back to the machines made him look like an urban cyborg. He lay motionless in the hospital bed, his mouth partially open because of the tube that was running down his throat. A little box beside his bed beeped every time his heart pumped, and the sheets were pulled down just enough for me to see the huge bandages and gauze on his upper left arm.

SaTia couldn't contain her shock. She placed her hand over her mouth and tightly grasped my hand, cutting off the circulation.

“Oh God...oh my God...”

The hospital room took all of our energy and sent it out through the vents in the ceiling. We had to grab onto something to make our way to one of the seats. Ray's breathing became audible as he fumbled around in dismay. Brian walked over to him and put a hand on his shoulder. He spoke with glassy eyes. “You gotta stay calm, my nigga. You gotta be strong.”

I realized as I sat in that room that the power I thought I had was really no power at all. Chart-topping songs and sold-out performances don't bring people out of comas. It took for me to finally be as rich as I'd always wanted to realize that there are things money simply couldn't buy. My helplessness tugged on my tears, and I wept silently.

Dr. Ahmed addressed us from the foot of the bed.

“When Mr. Baldwin was brought in, he had lost approximately 35% of his blood, and had gone into hypovolemic shock. We gave him multiple blood transfusions and other fluids to get him stable, but since that time he has not regained consciousness or been able to respond to pain, light, or sound.”

Ray still seemed shaky, but he spoke up. “So what all dat mean?”

“It means that he is in a coma. Right now we do not know how long it will last. It could be a few hours, or a few days.”

“But...” Brian's voice rocked back and forth as he spoke. “But... some people don't never wake up from dey comas, right? Some people stay like dis till dey die, right?”

Dr. Ahmed looked like he was having as hard of a time understanding Brian as I was having understanding him.

“I am sorry, I don't...”

SaTia took an exasperated breath. “Isn't it true, Doctor, that in some cases, people never wake up from their comas?”

“Oh, oh yes, that is true, but this condition is very unpredictable. Many coma patients awake within a few weeks. You have to take it one day at a time.”

Dr. Ahmed waited a few minutes. When none of us presented any more questions, he walked over and picked up his clipboard.

“Either myself or one of the other nurses will be coming in regularly to check on Mr. Baldwin. If there is anything you need, please let us know.”

None of us spoke as Dr. Ahmed left the room. We all stared at our friend, watching his chest rise and fall as if he were taking a nap. I kept thinking about the times growing up when all of us would daydream about becoming big rap stars. Now that day was here and one of us could die because of it.

It was then that I knew, sometime before I left the hospital, that I had to talk to Henry alone.