Vulnerable (36 page)

“Your friend. Rawn?”

“Oh, Rawn!” Khalil leaned forward. “As good as he could be under the circumstance. He's magnificent in the way he's stepped bravely into new territory. I know I'd handle it differently for sure.”

Henderson extended a polite nod.

Khalil wanted to ask him why he inquired about Rawn, but then Henderson knew that Rawn was his friend, and anyone who was not in a coma knew about the case and D'Becca's murder. Henderson's wife, Daphne, knew D'Becca. They worked together in Europe, although it was some years ago—early on in their respective careers. Khalil still could not wrap his head around this thing being classified as a murder and Rawn's alleged involvement.

Henderson broke his agent's roving mind. “I remember that commercial she did. Remember, for the Super Bowl? Half the time I never even pay attention to all those ads, man. But I stopped for that one. She was advertising beer?” Henderson chuckled. “Reminds me of music videos. Babes are practically naked, grinding the floor, the walls, each other…And what exactly does that have to do with the lyrics, know what I'm saying?”

“But you don't mind?…”

“Oh, no! No, I don't mind.” Henderson's famous grin rearranged the contour of his face. He reached out and he and Khalil fist-bumped. “Yeah, that was a few years ago. But I remember that commercial like it was this morning.”

“It was memorable. You won't believe it, man. But Rawn didn't even remember that commercial. She's a—was a beautiful woman; it's tragic.” Khalil found himself repeating what Moon said a few days prior.

“He must've missed it.”

“No, we went skiing in Tahoe the weekend of that Super Bowl. We saw the commercial. Rawn didn't make the connection.”

“Well…how's it looking for him?”

“There's no direct evidence. Their so-called eyewitness is D'Becca's next-door neighbor. But Hirsch, you know him. He'll poke holes in her questionable timeline. Other than her saying she saw him leaving
after
Sebastian Michaels, that's all they have; and that's not accurate. What's the motive? There's no weapon. As I understand it, they aren't even able to determine whether she was killed as a result of her head hitting the bathtub or some blunt object she was hit with. Man, it's so circumstantial, if that. Wrong place at the wrong time. A brother on Crescent Island.” Khalil shook his head.

Is this why I'm here?

“Man, that's a beautiful place. I thought about buying property there. Daphne loves it.”

“Why don't you have a place in Washington? It's home.”

“When I went over to Italy, I let my sister take over my place in Madrona. Anyway, I like staying downtown whenever I go home. The place has changed so much. Starbucks on every corner, parking's tight…It's so different…”

The dogs started barking and Henderson looked over his shoulder anticipating them to run into the room. Khalil could hear Lucinda, the woman that managed the Paynes' home, telling the dogs to calm down. Each man sat quietly in the room for several minutes until Henderson said, “I want to ask you something.”

Khalil made note of the seriousness in his tone. Henderson was not an easy man to interpret. “What's that?”

“When I was on trial—and this was before we met—did you think I was guilty?”

Khalil met Henderson's earnest gaze. He understood it fully: he needed to be forthright. The question was not random or casual. Henderson asked because he wanted to
know
.

He did not hesitate when he replied. “I never once thought you were guilty.”

Before he said anything, Henderson looked Khalil straight in the eyes. “Man to man…”

“Man to man—no. When I heard that you were arrested for drug possession…four
kilos
of cocaine and weapons possession, naw.” Khalil grimaced. “Uh-huh, man. Listen, anybody who followed sports during that time knew you had a habit, okay? It was no secret. Come on, man. You can't have a damn near four-hundred-dollar-a-day coke habit and not expect that to be leaked. You can't go hanging out in the hood doing crack with homeboys and not expect
that
to be leaked by somebody,” Khalil said, shrugging sarcastically.

“Okay.” Henderson nodded. “You're right. And I appreciate your honesty.”

“But you do recognize that when your agent suggested you go to Italy, it was the smoothest transition for you? God rest his soul, but Saul had your back, Henderson. And I don't say that because he was my mentor. I know how much you resented having to play in another country.”

“Oh, well, I'm over that. Going to Italy, it changed my life. But you have to know what it's like to be accused of something you didn't do and then go through the so-called justice system. Man, that…” Henderson looked to be in thought, his head bowed. His eyes pressed shut, he lifted his head. When he looked straight at Khalil, it was something Khalil understood for the first time: how much the trial—and the criminal accusation—affected his client. “Your friend Rawn. Is he standup? Brother-to-brother, I mean
standup?”

“Hell, yeah. I trust Rawn with my
life!
They don't come standup better than Rawn.”

“Yeah, right. See, it's wrong that a man who's innocent should go through what he's going through. I was lucky. Twelve Angelenos were not exactly confident that I—me, Henderson Payne, a celebrated ballplayer, would leave the scene of…a drive-by? Why would I even be involved in a
drive-by?
I don't carry my gun
on
me. And leave kilos of cocaine in the backseat of
my
ride and several Uzis in the trunk? Seriously. To this
day
I feel what that trial did to my reputation. And that's why when Saul advised me to do it, I went to Italy. But man, I still think about it. Not every day, but I've gone to parties where a bowl—and I mean a
bowl
—of cocaine is sitting there…and I remember”—he tapped his temple three times—“that night, and I get up and leave the room. So it won't even be linked to me, I leave the house!”

Khalil nodded with understanding. But there was simply no way for him to comprehend the scope and magnitude of Henderson's experience.

“So if you tell me your friend would never be involved with something like what he's being accused of, he shouldn't have to go through this, man. It's—it's not right.”

“They never did catch the dude that stole your ride, did they?”

“No,” Henderson said, shaking his head. “Man, I was high that night. I'd done some serious blow; I'd hit the pipe a few times, too, and I could have given the devil the keys to my ride. All I remember is getting a phone call real early the next morning. It was all over the news that there was this drive-by and some cat was shot three times, and my ride was involved. Two hours later, I get a knock-knock at my hotel door. That brother who took my ride? He was a thug, but he wasn't stupid. He had the good sense to wipe my ride clean of his fingerprints. DNA wasn't reliable
back then. All the fingerprints on the weapons and kilos of cocaine belonged to some Latino dude who probably sold him the stuff. Hell, he was in the wind; probably crossed the border before the news even broke in the media.

“You tell me. How—why…” Henderson spread his hands. “Would
I
have that kind of paraphernalia in my Benz? See, the drive-by was two blocks from where I scored my cocaine. So-called eyewitnesses claimed they saw me get in my car, leaving. I was with my ‘entourage.' Because I couldn't find my ride, I assumed it was stolen. One of my homies took me back to the hotel, man. Despite what the prosecution claimed: that my so-called entourage was living off my celebrity and they'd say whatever I tell them to say; so even their testimony didn't help me. But as I sit here, it's God's blessing”—Henderson kissed his fingertips and looked up like he was sending God a private message—“the jury took something I said on the witness stand to heart.
They
trusted me.”

Khalil let Henderson work through the memories. He knew, if he was being tested, he passed. But he was unable to ascertain through their conversation why he was there. While every past had its mystery, that time in his life was over; besides, Khalil was not his agent back then. He could not make the connection. And what he feared was that something happened and Henderson was afraid his past was going to come back and haunt him. He was not
involved
necessarily; like he had no involvement in the drive-by or in possession of kilos of cocaine and illegal weapons. Khalil rested his back against the love seat and mused on his own past. Was there something back there that might come back and revisit him? He was halted from getting too caught up in his history when he heard Henderson say something.

“What did you say, Henderson?”

“I have a story I want to share with you…”

•  •  •

“It's me,” Khalil said, making a sharp turn off Rimpau onto Third Street. “I need you to book me a flight.”

“What about the Antoine deal?” his assistant said on the other end of the line.

“Fax it to my e-mail. I'll print it out at the airport. And I need you to book me a room.”

“I thought…”

“I need you to book me a room! Hire me a car.” Khalil dismissed whatever it was his assistant was saying; he disconnected the call, turning right onto Hauser with the hopes of avoiding the height of late-afternoon traffic that congested the city streets at commute time—between four and seven. He speed-dialed a name and a woman answered in a very professional manner. At the red light at Beverly and Martel, he said, “Hello, this is Khalil Underwood…”

“
W
hat's this meeting about, Ezra? Why did we all need to be here?”

“There's a break in the case.”

“What?” Rawn said.

“Did the neighbor admit she was lying about…?”

Mrs. Poussaint interrupted her husband and said, “Let him speak.”

“When Janelle gets in from the airport…”

“Janelle? I spoke to her last night.” Crossing her arms, Tera continued: “She told me she would arrive on Sunday afternoon.”

“We confirmed these details late into the evening. Janelle got on the first available flight out of Denver. Her plane landed an hour ago; she should be here momentarily.”

“We're all in suspense, but we've put our faith in Ezra up to this point. Let's wait until Janelle gets here,” Rawn's mother suggested.

“We're waiting for Janelle?” Rawn asked.

Mrs. Poussaint, with a gentle touch of her son's forearm, said, “Rawn.”

The conference room faced Puget Sound from one angle and Smith Tower from another. The sun was sharp against the sky; it was an unusually warm late morning. Everyone sat upright in armchairs while their faces revealed curiosity about the hush-hush turn of events. They all made an effort to remain unmoved by suppressing any inquisition that rested at the tips of their tongue. Tera reached for a bottle of Talking Rain spring water. A woman
entered the conference room in a sharp pinstripe suit and said, “Ezra, you're needed. I'm brewing up Tully's. Anyone care for a coffee?”

Dr. Poussaint looked up from his BlackBerry and said, “I'd like a cup. Black, please.”

Everyone else declined.

“Where did Ezra go?” Mrs. Poussaint asked anyone who cared to answer.

Rawn shrugged while Tera looked over her shoulder and watched people through the spotless glass, walking around while taking care of their individual tasks. “I don't see him.” She moved into her brother. “Have you talked to Janelle?”

“Not since she was last here.”

“What does she know that you don't know?”

“Hell if I know,” said Rawn.

Shortly after the assistant returned with Dr. Poussaint's coffee, Ezra and Janelle arrived holding Tully's coffee cups. Janelle, speaking familiarly to the Poussaint family, was in a nicely fitted pantsuit and a soft leather briefcase hung from her shoulder. With a cellular in one hand, Ezra pulled out a chair for Janelle with the other. Rawn was suspicious because it was unmistakable that Janelle avoided eye contact with him. He sat upright in the chair and looked from Ezra to Janelle, trying to get a read on what they were up to—what they knew that he did not know. This was his
life
.

“What's going on?” Dr. Poussaint asked.

“We're waiting.”

“For?”

Janelle looked over to Ezra and finally her eyes met Rawn's. She winked, and the corners of her full mouth lifted ever so subtly.

“We…I got a call two days ago. I was told in this private conversation that…”

“Sorry we're late,” Peter Abrams butted in, entering the conference room balancing his briefcase, coffee tumbler, a stack of paperwork and cellular. Another man, younger, followed behind him. “This had better be good, Ezra.” He looked over his eyeglasses resting at the edge of his nose. “Opening arguments are in two days.”

Ezra stood and said, “Gentlemen, thank you for coming to the city on such short notice. Take a seat.”

The Poussaints were visibly confused. Why was the District Attorney's Office involved in this meeting? Surely Hirsch would not have arranged a plea without consulting Rawn. Before Dr. Poussaint could open his mouth, his wife touched his hand. He reached for his coffee and took several sips, but it was a challenge to hold back what was on his mind.

“As I was about to tell my client, I received a call several days ago with some new information.”

“And you chose to share this with us
now?”
said the boyish-looking assistant D.A.

“I agree I should have come to the D.A. with this information the moment it was brought to my attention, but there were some legal issues that needed to be considered.”