Slick (42 page)

So many men have fallen into that trap. So many crises have come out of it. I was smart enough to stop where I was. I’d only tempt fate so much.

“I will, “ Harmony repeated. “I’m gonna enjoy it from now on.”

“Good,” I said, back to my old cautious self. “As long as you don’t
look
like you’re enjoying it.”

 

 

In his opening monologue, Jay Leno joked that investing in stocks now was about as smart as leaving your daughter alone with Hunta. When guest Cameron Diaz referred to her boyfriend as frisky, David Letterman quickly followed up with “You mean like cat frisky, or Hunta frisky?” On
Politically Incorrect
, Bill Maher and his guest panel spent eight minutes discussing the new allegations. The most generous sentiment came from veteran rapper LL Cool J, who claimed it was ridiculous that the deplorable actions of one man were being held up against the entire music industry.

I guess it wasn’t right to celebrate when the man I was hired to save was still drowning in the river. From his point of view, all I did was heat up the water. Despite my assurances to Harmony, I had no idea how he was doing. I never once tried to call him. What could I say that I hadn’t said a thousand times before? I was all out of words. I felt the urgent need to do something, anything, if only to remind myself that I was still on his side.

At half past midnight I opened up the laptop, created a new account through Yahoo! Mail, then composed a quick note. The message was, like the recipient, short and explosive.

 

From the very beginning, I knew I’d be portioning out Harmony to three different journalists. Andy Cronin got her past. Gail Steiner got her present. And now, with a click of the button, Miranda Cameron-Donnell just got her future. Well, a hint of it. This was a gift that came in installments. The final piece would be the big prize: the confession. There was no real strategy in saving the best for Miranda. Truth be told, I simply owed her a climax.

The moment I sent the e-mail, my guilt spun like a compass needle from Hunta to Harmony. That was exactly how the media’s rage would flip. God, let them forgive her. Let her forgive me. Let the story end right. And since I’m here on my knees, Lord, let the writer get away, alive and uncredited.

The Bitch was always talking, but she only spoke in numbers. As the nation went to bed, the data from five thousand Nielsen boxes were parsed and tabulated, translated from raw digits to industry language. On Friday morning the trades spelled it out in common tongue: Harmony Prince was a hit. The people—at least those with Nielsen boxes—had taken her into their homes and kept her there.

That was all the affirmation the networks needed to pick her up for a full order. The morning telecasts changed their over-the-shoulder box graphics to incorporate Harmony’s image, usually the one from the Polaroid. Her written statement to the press was chopped up and spit out so often, you’d think “I never asked to be abused” was her personal catchphrase. And in the headlines and readers, the teasers and bumpers, she was no longer introduced as the “Hunta accuser” or the “alleged Hunta victim.” She was simply Harmony Prince. Her tale was eponymous now. Her name was laser-burned onto the cultural landscape.

And the story grew. It seemed that everyone wanted to add to the script, just to score some quick prominence. Witnesses at the Christmas party (“I saw them dancing up close. He was all over her. She didn’t seem to like it”). Her former co-hostesses (“She told me what happened the next day. She was a mess. I said, ‘Girl, get a lawyer’”). Even her roommates supported the story. The most genuine and compelling statement came from Tracy Wood. She was a squat and unattractive woman, but her tears fell like bombs.

“She never told me,” she cried to the camera. “She never said a word. But she wouldn’t lie about something like that. Even for money. She’s the best person I know.”

Hunta, by contrast, was an enemy of the people. The unattributed details that had sprung up overnight were pointed and cruel. He threatened to kill Harmony. He
tried
to kill her. He sodomized her with a beer bottle. He tied her up. He smacked her down. And, of course, he videotaped the whole thing. That was the rumor that just wouldn’t die. It was UPI that reported, through anonymous sources, that Hunta liked to plant a Panasonic digital minicam at the scene of his sexual encounters. At the end of the article, a Los Angeles police detective claimed that if Miss Prince had only come to them, they could have seized the damning footage, which by now had surely been erased or destroyed.

The drama was getting bigger, stronger, and meaner by the minute. By next week it would be absolutely feral. I didn’t expect the attacks to get so vicious, so soon. I had assumed that in the spirit of political correctness, the media would keep themselves to body blows. Apparently, I miscalculated. Apparently, there were psychological forces at work here beyond the drive for profit.

If there’s one thing I learned in my many years in the field
, Maxina had told me,
it’s that the press always finds a way to make the black man the bad guy.

No. Sorry. I worked in the same field and I still couldn’t subscribe to that, not when the airwaves were seeping with hypertolerance to the point of condescension. I wagered this had more to do with our sexual neuroses. We could handle a man who looked like a young god, but not a man who looked like he fucked like a young god. That pushed some serious buttons with us, both men and women. It made us uncomfortably jealous, aroused, insecure, or just plain wanting. Watching Hunta squirm, especially at the hands of such a sweet and virginal young beauty, was like aloe for the mind. I was providing cheap relief to millions of people. That didn’t make me feel good, considering how easily I could relate.

Whatever it was, it was moving too far, too fast. From now on I’d be putting all my strength into the handbrake. I’d be working against my very own momentum. Already I could feel the resistance.

 

 

 “What in God’s name are you talking about?” Alonso yelled from his speeding Audi. He had just graced CNN’s
Burden of Proof
with his appearance (via satellite) and was feeling mighty smug after getting the last word on Greta Van Susteren.

I cradled the phone as I worked on my laptop. “I just need one of your staff members to talk to Miranda Cameron-Donnell. On the record, but anonymously.”

“Why?”

“So they can voice their suspicions that Harmony isn’t on the level.”

“Meaning
I’m
not on the level.”

“No. Their story is that they initially shared their concerns with you, but you dismissed them.”

“Why?!”

“Because you believe in her.”

“No, I mean why do this at all?”

I gathered all my personal electronic files into one folder, then set an encryption lock. Madison was a great kid, but a kid nonetheless. I didn’t want her snooping in my absence. On a whim, I also deleted the many e-mail messages between me and her mother. God knows why. It was all nerd talk and word games.

“We need to start planting a few seeds of doubt,” I told him. “We have to set the stage for Harmony’s confession.”

“That’s your reason for risking my credibility? You want to
foreshadow
?”

“I just don’t want her confession to come completely out of the blue.”

“It could come out of the blue, red, or pink!” he snapped. “The media won’t care because it’ll make good copy, and the viewers won’t care because they’re idiots. What you’re proposing is great risk for no gain. And considering that it’s my risk, I won’t do it.”

I got up from the couch. “You’re not seeing the big picture.”

“Actually, I am. You’re the one who’s dabbling at the canvas like you’re Renoir. This is not a work of art, Scott. It’s a media campaign. Get a grip.”

Damn. Alonso sure had his Wheaties this morning. Was I being an artistic perfectionist? Or was I merely being thorough? I let the issue drop, but when I asked him to publicly dispel the rumor about Hunta filming the incident in Room 1215, he refused, on the grounds that it would be out of character.

And still the story grew.

 

 

At noon, the Hunta contingent released their first official response to Harmony. Doug avoided the traditional press conference in the way that most of us would avoid a traditional caning. His faxed missive, though blandly worded, was clear in tone:

 

The press delivered the message verbatim, but with a cynical sneer. The headlines on the news sites varied from the insidious (
hunta denies sex crimes
) to the insane (
bitch fiend rapper swears vindication
). I made a mental note to buy a new orange highlighter.

At one o’clock, another woman came forward to claim abuse. Fox News broke the story of Mary Austen, a twenty-five-year-old dancer cum-flight-attendant who’d dated Hunta back in 1998. In a four minute segment, she confirmed the public’s worst suspicions. He was into the rough stuff. He told her he liked his women to scream. He left her with numerous bruises and contusions. Eventually, it got to be too much for her, so she left. He harassed her so many times following the breakup that she considered getting a restraining order.

Mary was so full of shit, you could see the stink lines. She had the veracity of an infomercial, with her glossy lips, her neon fingernails, and her dark, desperate eyes that begged for acceptance. She was an empty plastic shell. I found her tragic, all right, but not in any interesting or admirable way. Most of the press agreed. Ultimately, she, like the rest of the knockoffs, would orbit Planet Harmony a couple of times before being cast back into the void.

At two o’clock the National Academy of Recording Arts and Sciences officially canceled Hunta’s performance at the upcoming Grammy Awards. “We’re not making any moral judgments,” said NARAS president Michael Greene. “We’re not saying he’s guilty. We just don’t want the Grammys to be overshadowed by this kind of controversy.”

Words to live by. What really happened was that a vocal family council pushed the Grammy advertisers to push CBS to push Greene to dump Hunta like a bad enchilada. The process began on Monday, right after the world learned of the “Bitch Fiend” sex tape. To his credit, Greene initially told CBS to tell the advertisers to tell the family council to go fuck themselves, but that was back in the beginning of the week, when Hunta was only the center of a First Amendment debate. That was the good kind of controversy, the kind that brought in young viewers. Once Harmony exploded on the scene, however, toodle-oo. Last night, Greene had warned the Judge of his new resolve in the hope that he could persuade him into persuading Hunta into canceling his own performance. But Hunta, on a strict diet of pot and righteous indignation, told the Judge to tell Greene to go blow a schnauzer.

And still the story grew. At three o’clock the Los Angeles Police Department officially began an investigation into the sexual assault of Harmony Prince. That was when Madison arrived at my home with a smile usually reserved for game-show winners. Her excitement was justified. At that moment she was the only person on Earth who had good news for Hunta.

“So Slick finally hollas,” said the rapper. “Thought maybe you forgot about me.”

I paced my bedroom floor. “That would be difficult.”

“Really? All my friends did it. All my brothers in the hip-hop community. They all acting like I don’t exist now. My agent ain’t even calling me.”

“I’m calling you.”

“Aw. That’s very sweet of you. Taking time away from Harmony to talk to me and shit.”

Sigh. “I’m not spending any time with Harmony.”

“Well then I guess it’s that deaf woman of yours who’s been keeping you busy.”

Christ. Lies traveled fast. “I see you talked to the Judge.”

“I heard it from Doug.” He laughed. “When he first told me, I thought he meant ‘def,’ as in ‘D-E-F’. I was like ‘Shit, man, only Russell Simmons still uses that word. Just say she’s fine.’”

I smiled uncomfortably. “She is pretty fine.’”

“What the fuck you doing to me, man?”

“I’m saving your ass. You just don’t know it yet.”

“The cops want to talk to me now.”

“It’s just for show. They know they can’t nail you without Harmony’s cooperation, and they know they’ll never get it.”

“Yeah? What about Mary Austen?”

“She’s nothing, “ I assured him. “She’s filler.”

“She’s lying! I didn’t do none of that shit to her! All I did was dump her ass for Simba. Then the bitch got all psycho on me. I’m the one who almost got the court order. I ain’t lying! Ask Doug!”

“Look, I believe you. And so do—”

“And what’s this shit about the Panasonic? I don’t even own a camera!”

“It’s crap. I know.”

“Yeah, but who’s planting that, man? How does that shit get started?”

“I’m sorry. What kind of camera was it?”

“Pana—” He caught my drift. “Oh, get the fuck out of here.”

“I don’t know for sure. But it wouldn’t surprise me if one of their marketing people saw the opportunity and took it.”

“No fucking way!”

“It’s just the business.”

“Yeah, well the business is fucked up! I mean I thought the music industry was bad, but your business is straight from hell, man. Fucking flacks.”