Dark Star: Confessions of a Rock Idol (21 page)

“She sounds dangerous.”

“That seems to be the consensus,” I said, a little ticked. “What would you know about it?”

“Isn’t she behind a lot of the things you claim to believe—about no God, no judgment, no heaven or hell?”

“Look…”

“Just live for the moment. Live free. Do whatever you want. We’re all going to have an afterlife. Isn’t that what you preach to your fans?”

“To me, that’s all there is. Okay?”

“I know you don’t believe that,” she shot. “And I know it’s not up to me to force Jesus Christ down your throat. God’s calling you, Mr. Lester—in His way, in His time.”

“Call me Everett. How old are you, anyway?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“So, you started writing me when you were, what? Seventeen?”

“Around there. How old are
you?”

I laughed. “You’re not shy, are you?”

“Not usually.”

“I’m thirty-four, as far as I can remember. Do you know what people would think if they knew I was having this kind of discussion? About religion?”

“What people think has never seemed to stop you before.”

“Ha.” I laughed aloud again, noticing how good it felt.

“I really should get going,” she said. “But listen, something happened I wanted to let you know about.”

“What’s that?”

“I got a call a couple days ago. I said hello several times, but all I heard was breathing…and some sort of evil laugh.”

“It wasn’t me.”

“I know it wasn’t you,” she insisted, laughing. “Let me finish. This guy told me to stop meddling in your life.”

“What?” I froze. “What did he say, exactly?”

“It was kind of creepy. Something like, ‘Karen Bayliss,
you will
leave Everett Lester alone. No more letters. No more contact.’”

A chill went through me, and suddenly I longed to hold and protect this young lady I’d never seen.

“What else?” I asked anxiously.

“He said if I disobeyed, I would suffer. I think those were his words. But listen, don’t worry about it. This is just—”

“See what happens when you get near me?”

“Everett, don’t worry,” she said, almost jokingly. “This guy sounded harmless. You know who he reminded me of? Do you ever watch the reruns of
Green Acres?
This guy was Mr. Haney, the traveling salesman! High, squeaky voice…”

“I can’t believe you.”

“Why?”

“That call was supposed to scare you. It’s a threat! Maybe you didn’t get that.”

“Mr. Lester,” she said in a most charming voice. “Greater is He who is in me than he who is in this world.”

“What’s that?” I said, really trying to understand her words.

“Greater is He who is in me than he who is in the world,” she said slowly, with what sounded like a substantial grin on her face.

“You’re one very different young lady.”

“I’ve got to go,” she said.

“You better stop writing, for now.”

“We’ll see about that,” she said casually. “You better get going, too.”

“No, seriously. Don’t contact me anymore until I find out who was behind that call. I think I know.”

“There’s one more reason I called.”

“What’s that?”

“This morning, I felt God asking me to share a Scripture with you. May I read it to you?” she asked, a bit nervously.

“If it will make you feel better,” I teased.

“It’s from the book of Romans.” She paused a moment. “It says, ‘If you confess with your mouth Jesus as Lord, and believe in your heart that God raised Him from the dead, you will be saved.’”

I rubbed my forehead. “Saved, huh?”

“Yes, saved…forever. And protected, and loved, and forgiven.”

“I would like that,” I said, more seriously.

“Then, believe in Him!”

“That sounds like the easy part.”

“That’s the
only
part.”

“You’re crazy! Look at my life. It’s chaos. You know that. You’ve seen the stuff I’ve been through.”

“So, what do you want to do, try and become perfect in your own strength and then go to God and say, ‘I’m ready to become a Christian now’? It doesn’t work that way! You’re not strong enough, and God won’t accept that anyway.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’re not saved by our own works or cleanness. We’re saved only by believing in Him. That’s it. End of story.”

I stared out into nowhere. “That’s too easy.”

“That’s what’s so amazing about God! He gave up His only child,
His boy,
to die on a cross. That was done to forgive our sinfulness. Your sins. My sins. All sins. But listen…it was a
gift.
And God’s terms are that we simply accept the gift. Just believe. That’s what makes us right with God. If we try to earn His favor any other way, it’s no good in His eyes.”

I had never heard anything like this before and began to wonder if Karen knew her religion as well as I had perceived.

“In the Old Testament,” she said, “the Jewish people tried to get right with God by doing things—following rules—instead of depending on faith. They didn’t understand God’s way of making people right with Him.”

“Hmm,” I managed, half bored and half trying to process it all.

“When someone offers you a gift, what do you do? Do you tell them to hold on to it until you’ve had a chance to earn it? No! You just say, ‘Wow! What an awesome gift. Thank you!’”

“You don’t know me, Karen,” I said, succumbing to the heaviness of my heart. “My life is trash. To the core. Do you understand? You think you know me, but you don’t.”

“The Bible says
all
who believe in Him are made right with God. That includes you!”

“You don’t understand.
I’m
the exception. Okay?
I’m
the black sheep. God will not accept me. I prayed that prayer, the one in your letter—and nothing changed. In fact, I got so high that very night that I don’t even know where I was or who I was with.”

“What do you think, that God’s looking at you going, ‘Oh my! This Lester is a bad one… I better stay away from him, or he’ll rub off on Me’? You think you scare Him? You think He doesn’t know your problems or can’t overcome your sin? He’s God, for heaven’s sake.”

I dropped onto the couch and said nothing.

“Everett, you can’t worry about all the details of getting off drugs and cleaning up your act, or whatever you’re worried about,” she pleaded. “Christ stands at the door and knocks. Just let Him in! You probably already have, by praying that prayer. He’ll do the rest. The Bible says, ‘To the one who does not work, but
believes
in Him who justifies the ungodly, his faith is credited as righteousness.’”

“That’s all! No more for now.”

“I’m sorry,” she shot back. “I’m sorry. Darn it! I promised myself I wouldn’t do that. My fault. Please…will you forgive me?”

“You’re okay. It’s me. It’s not you. I enjoy listening to you.”

“Let’s say good-bye, for now,” she said.

“Yes, good-bye…for now.”

With each day, the hype surrounding my murder trial grew to epic proportions, and county prosecutor Frank Dooley relished every moment. TV coverage for the case had grown from a few minutes per day to full-time, blow-by-blow coverage. I was sure Dooley must be thinking this was his “breakout” case—the one that would launch him to worldwide stardom; it probably already had.

Apparently enjoying the balmy south Florida evening, the mob scene of camera crews, and the scores of microphones jammed in his face outside the Miami-Dade Justice and Administration Center, Dooley closed the day by virtually assuring victory for the district attorney’s office as the prosecution rested its first-degree murder case against me. I watched it all on TV from the detention center rec area.

Dooley’s confidence was not unfounded. For the past three days, he had questioned the lead investigator in the case, Harry Coogle, the forensic technician, and other Miami-Dade crime scene investigators, all of whom had been at the crime scene in my North Miami high-rise that fateful day last November.

During that three-day marathon, the testimonies of these experts had proven extremely incriminating, especially when the forensic technician testified that slight traces of gunpowder residue had been found on my right hand and sleeve after swipes were taken several hours after Endora’s death.

However, I had seen nothing yet. A mild-mannered medical examiner by the name of Leonard Morris took the stand—and proceeded to tear me to shreds.

Wearing a light brown suit that matched the color of his skin, Morris appeared a bit antsy on the witness stand, always perched right out on the edge of his chair. He had a light smattering of freckles beneath his round, smudged, gold-rimmed glasses, and one of those sparse mustaches that sat right along the top of his thin upper lip.

Although Morris appeared anxious, constantly shifting and leaning awkwardly over the edge of the rail in front of him, his testimony was quiet, concise, and damaging.

“We’ve heard already today that the murder weapon used to gun down Endora Crystal was a .45 caliber semiautomatic,” Dooley said, standing, hands on his lean hips. “A gun owned and registered to the defendant, Everett Timothy Lester. A gun with only his fingerprints on it, and fresh ones at that.

“Now we’re going to hear more vital details from Dr. Morris, who is a…” Dooley swiveled on a dime to face the attentive witness. “How long have you been medical examiner in Miami-Dade county, sir?”

“Twenty-two years.”

“That’s a long time and a lot of experience. Dr. Morris, please begin by explaining where the bullet from Everett Lester’s gun entered Endora’s body and the distance of the murder weapon from the victim’s body at the time of the shooting.”

“The, ah, single .45 caliber bullet that killed Ms. Crystal entered through her abdomen, ah, just to the left of her naval,” he said. “By the looks of all of our reports, photographs, and research, I estimate that at the time the gun was fired it was approximately, ah, three to five feet away from the victim.”

“In your estimation, what does this confirm to us about Madam Endora’s death? Was this a suicide?”

The doctor smirked and wiggled on the edge of his seat.

“Most definitely not. In most suicides committed with handguns, the weapon is fired well within twelve inches of the body, which was clearly not the case here. In addition, in most suicide attempts committed with handguns, the bullet is fired into the mouth or into one side of the head.”

“Interesting. And tell the court if you will, Dr. Morris, if the bullet that entered Endora Crystal tore through her clothes or not—and what that means in your assessment of the case.”

The doctor pushed his glasses up onto his nose with the pads of his fingers, directly on the lenses, smudging them even more. “The bullet that killed Ms. Crystal, ah, did indeed travel through her clothing before it entered her abdomen. Rarely ever do we see a suicide bullet that enters through clothing. In the rare instance that a suicide shot does enter into the lower body, the shooter virtually always, ah, unbuttons his clothing first.”

“And Endora’s clothes were not unbuttoned.”

“Correct.”

“And in most suicides by gunshot, Dr. Morris, where is the gun almost always found?”

“The gun is found in hand, ah, or very close to the body.”

“And Mr. Lester’s .45 caliber Glock—the one used to kill Endora Crystal—was found where?” Dooley turned to peer into the sole TV camera that fed all the major networks.

“In a chest of drawers in Mr. Lester’s bedroom, ah, apparently where he always stored it.”

17

ENDORA WAS ODDLY MISSING
from the remainder of the recording sessions at The Groove. I repeatedly attempted to reach her by phone to confront her about the telephone threat to Karen Bayliss, but to no avail. Instead, I was forced to leave messages on her voice mail, and she didn’t return my calls. I even had a limo take me down to her place in Malibu where I sat for several hours, but no sign of her.

Well, at least the
Freedom
sound track was finally finished.

I flew back to New York where my friend and physician, Dr. Jack Shea, gave me a full checkup and rebandaged my nose, but with no splint this time. The bruises were healing nicely, and the blood that had settled beneath my eyes was clearing.

Although we were due back on the Rowdy tour in Indianapolis the following night, Dr. Shea recommended that my nose needed at least two more weeks to heal properly, possibly more. He didn’t believe my head was ready for the noise or acrobatics of a night onstage with DeathStroke.

When Gray and Tina received the report from Dr. Shea, the remaining twelve shows of the Rowdy tour were cancelled. Our management, promoters, and fans were furious, and the boys in the band went ballistic, accusing me of jeopardizing their future success. Although I was sorry about the strain between us, I was not disappointed that the tour was cancelled.