Dark Star: Confessions of a Rock Idol (12 page)

“How are you?” I asked.

“Okay. A little lonely, but surviving.”

“The divorce behind you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“How ’bout the boys?” I asked.

“They’re fine. Doing well in school. Jessie’s playing football, and Andy is an absolute soccer fiend.”

“Ah, I would love to see them play.” I looked down, realizing she probably wouldn’t want me within a country mile of her boys. “I’ve neglected your guys, and Eddie’s…”

“Oh, they would be thrilled to show off for their uncle Everett. It’s been too long. They often ask why we never see each other anymore. Just the other day Jessie said he wished we could have a great big family reunion.”

I reached for the pack of Salems on the coffee table, tapped one on the back of my wrist three or four times, lit it, and took a long-overdue drag.

“Would you really want me to come see them play?” I blew the bluish smoke into the room. “I’m not exactly the kind of influence you want for them.”

“Of course I would. Everett, I’ve grown a lot in the past few years.”

“How so?” I said, dropping back into the couch.

“I think when I first got saved it was such a black-and-white conversion; I just assumed everyone should choose Christ. Whoever didn’t wasn’t worth the time of day. That sounds awful, but it’s the way I was. Judgmental and legalistic. I judged you.”

She was on the verge of tears.

“I’m sorry, Ev. That’s what I came to tell you. Will you forgive me?”

I set the cigarette in an ashtray, moved over, and put my arm around her shoulders.

“I forgive you, Mary. It’s okay. Don’t cry. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she squealed. “The boys and I pray for you every night.”

“Well, I guess I’ve changed, too.” I wiped the tears from beneath her eyes with my fingers. “A few years ago I would have said I didn’t want your prayers.”

I felt a kick of emotion. “But now…I know I need them,” I managed, a tear slipping out my right eye. “I know I need something.”

“Evie.” She sat up, sniffing. “Accept Christ now, here, with me today!
He’s what you need.
I know, Evie. He’s changed my life. Can you see it in me?”

Chills ran up my wrists and the backs of my arms. “I see it.”

“You’re looking at Jesus, not me!”

I stood, put my hands on my waist, and let out a big sigh. “There are too many obstacles, Mary. Too much to overcome.”

“Jesus can wash you clean, Everett. He can forgive every sin, just like He did me, and you can start over!”

“Look at me, Mary!” I faced her, holding my palms out, turning them over. “I’m dirty. Okay? Inside and out. Look at the hole I’ve dug. All my life, I’ve dug deeper and deeper. There’s no getting out. The mold has been cast! I’m my father’s son.”

“No, Everett. You’re the Father’s son. Your life doesn’t have to be this way.” She stood, holding my hands. “That’s why He died. To forgive you. Accept the gift! It’s free. Just say yes here with me today.”

“You don’t know me.” I held her tender hands for a moment, then dropped them and turned to the clock. “I’m gonna have to shove off soon.”

Mary stood, wiping her nose with a Kleenex. She walked to the windows and pulled the curtains open about three feet
.
“Ev,” she said soberly, turning toward me. “What happened last night?”

“What do you mean?” I started to throw some stuff into my black shoulder bag.

“At the concert.” She walked back toward the couch where her purse and newspaper lay.

“We did the gig. Why? You didn’t go, did you?”

“No.” She picked up the
Dayton Herald.
“No one’s told you about this?”

She unfolded the newspaper to reveal the front page and main headline.

DEATHSTROKE SHOW TRIGGERS RIOT

16 Hurt, 1 Critical

Beneath the headline, there was a color photograph of me rocking my whole body forward at the edge of the stage, hair flying, sending a spray of sweat into the crowd.

I took the paper from Mary, dropped down on the edge of the bed, and began to read.

DAYTON—
The antics of DeathStroke’s lead singer Everett Lester took their toll last night at the Dayton Arena, where 16 of the 17,682 in attendance were hospitalized after a riot broke out when Lester passed out onstage and management stopped the concert.

A 14-year-old Xenia girl is in critical condition at Good Samaritan Hospital. She was struck in the head by a microphone stand, allegedly tossed from the stage by Lester, who witnesses say openly guzzled whiskey from a bottle during the six songs the band performed before the show ended abruptly.

Lester passed out onstage immediately after whirling the heavy black mike stand. The girl, whose name is being withheld, was carried by friends to an outlying concession area where employees phoned 911. Lester was carried from the stage by security personnel, and his whereabouts was unknown at press time.

DeathStroke manager Gray Harris announced that management teams from the band and from Dayton Arena had agreed to cancel the show. Although Harris told patrons they would receive a full refund, fans began yelling obscenities, fighting, and throwing everything they could get their hands on. A race to the exits ensued, trampling dozens of DeathStroke fans in the fray. Of the 16 people taken to the hospital, only the Xenia girl sustained serious injury.

Witnesses say things started getting out of hand when Lester encouraged the frenzied crowd to repeat the lyrics from a new DeathStroke song entitled “Freedom.” “Judgment Day is a lie, you know,” he reportedly yelled to the audience. “All of us are going to survive. There
is
no hell…only Freedom.” Then the band launched into the new song by that name, the last one DeathStroke played before Lester passed out.

Mary was sitting next to me when I dropped the paper and fell back onto the bed, pulling my hair and screaming, “Nooooo!”

9

“I JUST SAW CNN!”
Endora panicked. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“I’m
not
okay,” I said into my phone, sitting slumped in the passenger seat of Mary’s Subaru.

“What’s the matter? Where
are
you?”

“On the way to the hospital.”

“Hospital?” she gasped. “What’s wrong? Are you sick from last night?”

“It’s not me. Did you hear about the girl?”

“Yes, I told you, I heard about it just now. Are you in Cincinnati?”

“No! I’m still in Dayton.”

“Everett, you’ve got a show in Cincinnati in…four hours.”

“Didn’t you hear about the girl at the concert last night? That it was
my
fault.”

“I’m sure it’s just all the pressure you’re under. Gray’s taking care of this other thing, I’m sure.”

“What the heck do you mean . . . that Gray is gonna
pay
this girl’s parents so I don’t go to jail?! Is he gonna
pay
to make her better? To make her live?”

“Look, Everett, this isn’t the first time something like this has happened.”

“No, but it’s going to be the last!”

“So it is...very good. Good! Calm down. I agree. There’s no reason for you to lose control like that. No excuse. But listen, darlin’, you’ve got over twenty-five thousand people counting on you in Cincinnati tonight. Those people love you just the way you are. You don’t want to let them down, do you?”

I didn’t say a word but instead helped Mary look for a parking place in the visitor’s lot.

“Everett, are you going to visit that girl?”

“Yes, we are.”

“Who’s we?”

“Mary and me.” I unfolded myself out of the Subaru. “My sister, Mary. She came to see me today at the hotel.”

“Did you tell Gray what you’re doing? Because, from a legal standpoint, you need to be very careful about what you do as it relates to that girl.”

“Endora, I’m so sick of doing what Gray says, what you say, what the record label says, what the fans say…”

“Listen, honey. I know you’re stressed out—”

“Did it ever occur to you that some people don’t live with this kind of stress?”

“Everett, your sister’s not brainwashing you, is she?”

“Maybe that’s what I need, Endora. A good brainwashing.”

“Well, she’ll be just the one to do it, I’m sure.”

“I gotta go. We’re walkin’ in.”

“Everett, you need to make that show tonight. Thousands of people have been waiting for this night for months. They need you. They need the freedom you have to offer.”

“I’m not free, Endora.” I tried to keep my voice down. “I’m a prisoner!”

Turning around to glance into the audience in Miami-Dade County courtroom B-3, I noticed Donald Chambers, my guard friend from the detention center, seated toward the back of the court in his street clothes. I guessed Donald to be close to fifty years old, about two hundred pounds, with curly grayish black hair and sideburns. He appeared to be alone.

After starting out wearing suits the first few days of the trial, I gradually dressed a bit more casually, today wearing khakis and a navy dress shirt.

Before emerging into the public eye this morning, I checked myself in a mirror in the holding area. My hair was combed neatly. It was cut slightly above my shoulders and was still dark brown, except for a few white hairs at my temples and sideburns, which I usually trimmed when I wasn’t in jail.

Brian Boone, wearing navy slacks and a camel-hair blazer, paced in front of the witness stand where Twila underwent her second day of questioning.

“I’m sorry, Miss Yonder.” Boone walked away from the witness. “How many years did you say you’ve known Everett Lester?”

She smirked. “I told you I’ve never met Mr. Lester.”

“Oh, wait a minute. I’m sorry. Forgive me. I just assumed that, since yesterday you said that Mr. Lester was, and I quote, ‘unstable, insecure, a loser, and a drug addict,’ I assumed that you knew my client.”

That made me smile.

“Your Honor.” Frank Dooley stood up. “My client told the court yesterday that she never met Mr. Lester. Now…Mr. Boone is harassing the witness and attempting to discredit her. Let’s get on with the cross-examination, shall we?”

“Good idea, Counselor,” Judge Sprockett said, looking bored with it all.

“Miss Yonder,” said Boone, not fazed by the chastening. “Do you know how much money Endora Crystal was paid by Mr. Lester?”

“I know she was on a monthly retainer. The last time we talked about it, I think she made close to fifty thousand dollars.”

“Fifty thousand a year?”

“No, fifty thousand dollars a month,” she conceded.

“That would mean that Endora made about six hundred thousand dollars a year from Mr. Lester. Does that sound about right?”

“Your Honor.” Dooley stood slowly, calmly. “We object based on a complete lack of relevance. What does Miss Crystal’s salary have to do with anything?”

“Where are you going, Mr. Boone?”

“Your Honor, for background and context, I felt it important that the jury realize how much money Endora Crystal was making from my client, not to mention her other clients. It was an exorbitant amount. And I believe it may have played a part in her continued, excessive interest in my client.”

“What do you mean, excessive?” Dooley fired at Boone, then swung to Judge Sprockett. “Your Honor, come on.”

“All right. Enough already. Endora Crystal’s salary from Mr. Lester has been duly noted.” Judge Sprockett turned to Brian. “Now, Mr. Boone, let’s turn this questioning in a more meaningful direction, shall we?”

Boone wandered back to our table and sat down. Calmly placing his brown reading glasses on his face with one hand, he reviewed his notes, as if he were alone in the courtroom.
This guy is cool, cool, cool.

“Miss Yonder,” he finally said. “You said yesterday you knew Endora Crystal some fifteen years.”

“Your memory’s improving,” she said, blinking, smiling, and searching the room for a reaction, which she got in the form of a smattering of laughter.

“Ah.” Boone smiled in response. “Glad to see you are so attentive today, Miss Yonder. You said Endora was so close to you, like a mother, correct?”

“Yes.”

“You said you spoke to her several times a week, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, my question is—if you knew this woman, this friend, so long and so well, why did you have no clue that she was having this alleged relationship with this world-famous rock star for the past however many years?”

“She obviously wanted to keep it a secret…until the end.”

“Ah. Ah. Ah.” Boone got the court’s attention by spinning around. “‘Until the end.’ Were those the words you used, ‘Until the end’?”

“I guess so.”

“Interesting choice of words, ‘Until the end.’ It makes it sound as if Madam Endora may have known
when her end was coming. Did it ever occur to anyone, I wonder, if perhaps she did know? What do you think, Miss Yonder? Is it possible Endora may have committed suicide...?” Boone’s words trailed off, as if he knew he was about to be the target of return fire.