Murder By The Collar

CHAPTER 1

THE SUICIDE

I

....Little Rock Arkansas

Two men tied up in an abandoned trap house, near Martin Luther King Jr. Drive, and 15th avenue, not too far from the Church’s Fried Chicken, in Little Rock Arkansas, are about to experience a very violent act that will be life changing, in fact it will be life ending. How ironic that a man like Dr. MLK, who was known for nonviolence, has his name associated with some of the most violent streets in America. A trap house is another name for a crack house, where crack dealers deal, and drug addicts buy. One of the men begins to beg,

man you ain’t got to do this. The other is yet defiant,

"Shut up you lame, hell, he gon do what he gon d....POW POW, POW POW! Four shots, for two men. One shot, squarely in each head, and another for good measure in the chest of both, at point blank range. Their assailant never says a word. He pulls from his pocket, a plastic piggly wiggly bag with a severed hand in it. He places the fingers of the detached hand on the trigger of a black-handled snub-nosed .38 revolver. His hands, gloved. But the fingerprints are of another gunned down trap-star. Another black on black ghetto drug killing, or so the local police will call it. He discards the gun in the corner. Their crime, stealing from their supplier. But this was the world they lived in. They were Raymond Big Head Johnson, known for the size of his head, and Demonte Spootchie Oliver. He has no idea where the nickname came from, my cousin started calling me that and it just stuck, he would always say. They were both thieves and bootleggers in Little Rock.

The game was simple. Trucks were stolen at the docks in New Orleans or Memphis, driven up to Little Rock, given to these guys, they emptied it, sold everything they got, sent their royalty money back and kept the rest. Problem was, the royalties kept getting smaller and smaller.

Man he ain’t gon miss this, he ain’t even countin’ this money, he got mo money than God, is what Spootchie told Big Head. He was wrong. Dead wrong. Eric LaPareauxlery, pronounced Lah-Pa-Ro-la-ree, counted everything. And when he missed his money, he sent his truck driver to handle it. Now Big Head and Spootchie were on the back of a truck headed back to Monroe Louisiana to be disposed of.

II

....Sam Arnell Crystal.

On a side street off of Douglas Ave, near Dickerson Pike, in the part of Nashville that most people tell you to stay away from,is an old brown frame house trimmed in white. Weeds and brown grass that has grown the size of a small boy surround it. Inside is a dark, dank, cramped musty attic, that doubles as a room and a recording studio, with equipment that hardly works. There, Sam Crystal has made the ultimate decision.

He’s flopped his 6’2" tall, 280-pound frame down on his tiny, filthy room floor making a video selfie on his phone. Sam is considered a light-skinned brotha, with short hair that is usually cut into a fade style with waves on the top. However, it, like his facial hair, is a holy mess. No shave or haircut for close to a month. It’s tremendously grown-out.

All Sam is wearing is two mix-matched socks, and his underwear. He’s sweating profusely, drooling on himself, minimally breathing, dry heaving and speaking just a little louder than a whisper. In his mind his life flashes before him, along with a little red light on his iphone that indicates that he is recording.

Ugnhhh, is this thing on, he thinks. my name is...uhh, Sam Arnell Crystal, I’m...uhh.., killing myself today... and, uhhh..., well, this is why.... Suddenly the cell phone that he is recording on starts to ring.

Dang, who the hell is this? I need to finish this before I die. Oh, it’s CJ, what he want? Sounding sick, weak and crying, Sam barely answers, yeah.

CJ, on the other hand is excited. Excited like a pregnant woman having her baby after nine months of waiting. Two very distinctive emotions are crashing into each other, not knowing how to understand the other. CJ is screaming,

Sam, hey Sam...I got good news. But Sam cannot hear him over his own emotions and tears of pain. CJ tells him,

you sound like crap man. I got good news... But all Sam can tell him is that he is about to kill himself, how he’s tired of suffering, tired of not making it, not winning and being destitute.

CJ talks to him trying to bring him around, but it’s of no use. All he can tell CJ is that he’s taken Oxycodone, and chased it with a fifth of Jack Daniels. As far as Sam is concerned, a point of no return. In this drunken sick state, Sam starts to drift off to sleep while talking to CJ. CJ screams,

Sam, Sam! You still with us?? SAM, SAM!! Hey man you still with us?? CJ’s voice goes from sympathetic to anger to rage, Man don’t mess this up for me doing nothing stupid! You hear me!? Sam! SAM!!

"It’s true CJ, your life flashes in front of you before you die, and all I see is hate! The hate that all y’all had for me. My Mama, Daddy, my Cousin, Portia…. You too!!

"ME...?!" CJ lets loose with, now his anger has risen to a fever pitch.

III

....Don’t go to Sleep.

Tears in his eyes, still holding the phone with CJ, Sam cries out,

"GOD, do you hear me God? I HATE YOU!! You didn’t put nobody here for me, to love me, mentor me, show me how to do nothing-NOTHING! How was I ‘spose to learn? I looked for You, and You wasn’t there, you was never there. Why you let them do that to me?" Sam goes on with his tirade to, and against God, while CJ listens, getting madder and unsympathetic to Sam’s plight. He tells CJ how his father, a small thin ex-Vietnam vet and groundskeeper at Tyson Chicken, killed his mother. She was the pastor of a very small church with only thirty-two members in their hometown of Shelbyville Tennessee. He shot her point blank in the head with a double-aught six shotgun that left pieces of her brain all over the ceiling. All his parents did was fight, and Sam’s father never liked him, so he never talked to him. An occasional grunt, but never spoke to him, no birthday gifts, Christmas gifts, nothing. He told his wife he never wanted children and when they finally had one, he was in his fifties, his wife in her forties and he said, you tricked me into this baby, so you can have him. Plus he thought, something wrong with that boy. He went on to tell CJ that after the murder, he moved in with his Aunt Murtis, who was his Mother’s sister and played piano at her church. She put him in a singing group that became popular around Shelbyville Tennessee where he was from. But it wasn’t long before his aunt’s son, his own cousin, began molesting him and would keep doing it for more than five years.

CJ is getting more annoyed and impatient with Sam the more he talks.

"SAM!! SAM!! Shut up man. Stop it!"

But then another voice of reason steps in, snatches the phone from CJ, and yells at him,

No, let him talk.

Who is that? Is that you Portia?

Yes Sam, help is on the way baby, keep talking, we coming too. Keep talking, don’t stop...

"I saw it all Portia, I was there, I was there. Ohhh I’m getting sooo sleepy.

Don’t go to sleep Sam, hey we got some good news... But Sam is getting sleepy, and his speech more slurred through all his immoderate weeping and reminiscing.

I’m sorry Portia, I’m so sorry, but I wanna close my eyes, but when I do, all I see is death and misery.

It’s ok Sam, I’m here baby, keep talking, what do you want to talk about?

Sam is delirious now, and it’s showing. He’s babbling, spitting, and his heart is beating harder than the drum section of the Grambling State marching band. It’s about to come through his chest. As he begins to pass out he says,

I thought you liked me Portia?

Portia and CJ have made the mad dash to his car while continuing to talk to Sam. As soon as CJ told her what was happening, she called 911. Now they are in CJ’s car, running red lights and moving way too fast down I65 to get to Sam. Portia does her best to keep him talking as the 911 operator instructed her to do.

I love you Sam, why don’t you think I do?

You turned down my CD Portia, Willie told me, said you didn’t like it…. But it don’t matter now, I’m bout to be with my Mama..... Crying and even more somber,

Portia...?

I’m right here Sam. As much as she wants to respond to Sam’s CD statement, she feels it more important that he keeps talking instead of listening, so she lets him go.

My Jack Daniels is empty. I ought’ta break the bottle and slash my wrist too. Don’t nobody care.

I care Sam. Keep talking baby, we almost there.

"Nobody’s going to care that Sam Crystal is dead! My Mama dead, my Daddy dead, somebody killed him while he was in prison.

I’m so sorry Sam...

"And now I’m in Nashville. I was homeless, couldn’t get in at the Church Shelter, so CJ found this. This ain’t no way to live, and I try to sing for the Lord, but he ain’t checkin for me. Can’t find no job, no money, no opportunity, nothing! No, after no, after no, nothing but rejection. I can’t get a record deal, can’t get a show, nothing! How you bless somebody with talent and don’t let ‘em use it? That ain’t no blessing, that’s a curse! Agghhh, I just want to lay down here and die. Good bye Portia, bye CJ....it’s getting dark in here, I can’t breathe, can’t think... any...more."

Sam NOOOO!!

Sam lays the phone down, hits the floor with a thud, closes his eyes and sees death walk across the room. He whispers, why didn’t you help me Lord?

In a quiet warm whisper, deep in the abyss of Sam’s mind, he hears

I did.

BAM BAM BAM!! EMT’s and Nashville Fire Department cave in the downstairs door.

PARAMEDICS, PARAMEDICS! ANYONE IN HERE? HELLO WHERE ARE YOU?? They burst in to find nothing. They call the dispatcher who tells them that their victim is upstairs in the attic. They rush up. They see him, and hear Portia screaming on the phone; Sam is out, not moving, unresponsive, but not dead - yet.

IV

....Beat up by a girl.

Steven Anquinell was on the run. My partner, Ray Reynolds and I are in hot pursuit. I’ve got this black on black crown vic, that I hate, floored, doing about 95 miles per hour. I radio in,

"This is Detective Bridget Love, repeat this is Bridget Love. We have the suspect in clear view going northbound on I65."

Love! My partner Ray yells out, he’s getting off going east on Chestnut, don’t lose him, get this buggy going.

I got him Ray, I got him. Anquinell veers left, staying on Chestnut going northeast. There are two helicopters above, one of ours, a ghetto bird, and WRCB TV. That tells me we are on TV, so I can’t shoot, first. In pursuit with us are nine patrol cars, three unmarked and the ghetto bird up above. I’m the lead, and my partner is just crazy. Anquinell takes a left turn directly on to the railroad tracks.

Love, he’s on the tracks. We got him, he can’t go far. Turn, let’s go, we gotta go now Love!

He is on the tracks, this is nuts. I’m not driving on the tracks Ray.

Love, don’t be a wuss, let’s go, we can’t lose him. FBI is on this one too. We lose him, we lose the case to them.

I’m nuts for doing this but I take off down the train tracks. As soon as I do, first thing I hear is gunfire. Get down Ray, shots fired. Before I can get it out, Ray has his head out of the window returning fire. Then, I hear the loud screech of a train whistle. There’s a train on the tracks. Damn, I knew this was stupid. I get off, when I do; I hear the loud crash of a car being hit by a train, then an explosion. Fire. Steven Anquinell had slammed head first into the train. Or at least his car did.

My partner is screaming his head off, and going wild in the car. He’s unbuckling his seat belt, and opens the door.

"Ray you fool, I haven’t stopped the car yet, this isn’t TV, you jump at this speed, you die.

Do what you gon do Love.

I slowed down, a lot, good thing, I hear Ray yell out,

I’m going after him. He jumps, rolls on the ground like an old school Shaft movie, gets up limping, but never misses a beat. Gun drawn, screaming for the suspect to stop. Glad he saw him, I didn’t.

I stop, hop out of the car, get on my walkie, and start running hard.

This is Love, suspect is on foot going south behind a white wood frame building, going toward a three story red brick building. All units react now! My heart is beating fast. Still shook up from the car/train wreck, which has a wicked fire going up now, has me hyperventilating. I was on that track, what the hell was I thinking. Things moving too fast to think. I decide to go around the west flank of the building, and before I have time to decide what to do, Steven Anquinell runs right into me, toppling us to the ground. He swings, landing a hard punch to my right jaw. Agh, I scream in pain, I think he broke it. I wiggle it, I’m ok. He’s straddled on top of me, trying to slam my head on the concrete. Where is Ray? I knee him in the groin, and give him a forearm shiver to the chin. I draw first blood, it gushes everywhere. He bit his tongue, and gives me enough wiggle room to grab my brass knuckles. I punch him in the ribs, repeatedly, and I hear him wince, sounds like I cracked at least one. I get him off me, turn him, twist his arm behind him and put my knee his back and I think I hear the arm crack. I look up, and the chopper above is the TV, and not ours. Maybe I should smile for the camera. All of Nashville, just saw the bad guy get beat up by a girl. Ray and the rest of NPD show up to see I have everything under control, but jump in for good measure and do what cops do. Steven Anquinell, the murderer, who was masquerading as the governor of Kentucky, and other high officials was caught.

V

....Mo money mo problems.

That was some stupid crap and you know it! But what was I supposed to do, I was hurt. People get hurt all the time; they don’t try to kill themselves. People don’t see their mama’s head blown off either, or get molested everyday. It’s called life, get over it. What the hell kind of life was that?? SHUT UP, that was two years ago!

Oh God, what’s wrong with me? Ughh. These people in here would trip out if they knew I was talking to myself in my head like a stark raving lunatic. Look at all these folks. They look like they moving in slow motion with their mouths on mute. I don’t even know what they saying. All these folks in here, ‘bout 40 of ‘em, having a meeting about me and my viewing party tomorrow night, and I’m not even listening. God says I’m forgiven. But I didn’t, I say that was stupid! Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!

I sound like two radical politicians in a heated debate in my mind, and can’t nobody in here, hear a thing. What was that The Bishop said Sunday, Jesus was meandering effusively through the corridors of his mind? That’s what I’m doing I guess, painstakingly stuck on the day I almost died. Two years and I still can’t shake it. All I saw was problems and no promise, now it’s still all I think about. I’m crazy! My anniversary is a suicide attempt. Most people have weddings and other positive milestones; I got death. Yep, crazy. I said shut up! God’s grace is what saved me and that’s enough.

Two weeks in the hospital, stomach pump, and psychiatric analysis. God, on the same day I decided to quit life, CJ and Portia called to tell me I was signed to a recording contract. How lame would it have been if I died the day I got my deal.

I’m glad the Lord sent somebody my way; I just wish it hadn’t been CJ, with his shady self. They kept everything quiet to protect their investment, even though they said it was to protect me. Doesn’t really matter though, I’m still here, and lived to sing another day. I thought when the lack left, I’d be happy. But like they say, mo money mo problems. Nobody believes that when you broke. Humph, I got mo money now than I’ve ever seen. Got a record deal, and all the fame, fortune and fans I can stand. I just sang with Mary Mary, Yolanda Adams, Anthony Hamilton and Jill Scott. And to top it all of, I’m nominated for four Gospel Music Stellar awards tomorrow. But how do I move on? The Doctor said if I didn’t I was doomed to try it again, and next time I might not be so lucky. It’s hot in here; I’m sweating like a pig. I can see the thermostat from here and it’s on a cool 68 degrees. Somebody gon see me, I’m shaking like a leaf. I can still hear CJ calling me, Sam, Sam! You still with us?? SAM, SAM!! Hey man you still with us??

VI

....Deer in headlights.

In a blue-coated room, large enough to seat seventy, decorated with lavish plants, beautiful artwork, fancy swivel back chairs, a huge conference table, and a glass podium, Sam sits in the midst of a meeting at Malachi. This meeting is about the viewing party that will be held at the church during the Gospel Music Stellar awards tomorrow night. They will be there to watch Sam from a big screen TV, perform and hopefully win four awards. But, Sam checked out in his mind a long time ago.

Reverend Collin Jermaine Babineaux, better known as Rev. CJ, the cool, hip, hot minister at Malachi Baptist who works as the Singles Ministry Director, is conducting this meeting. He’s in his late twenties, tall, light skin, wavy hair, with green eyes. He moved to Nashville from New Orleans, after hurricane Katrina and has made the most of it. His Cajun accent is so thick at times; the local Tennesseans find it hard to understand him. But the girls love it! Sam on the other hand, is extremely contentious about his manager.

Sam’s inclination is to think how Rev. CJ, along with Portia, brought him out of that dark place, while all the while thinking, he ain’t all that. But maybe he is. Along with managing Sam’s career, he works at Malachi, is an attendant at the local bowling alley and chicken wing spot, has a resale business with his brothers, and dates the prettiest girl at the church, Althea Al Warren. Yeah maybe he is all that, he likes saying, I’m the hardest workingman in ministry, and always got something Unda The Hat.

Sam on the other hand still hears voices. Still stuck on his anniversary, Rev. CJ’s voice rings loud in his head. Sam, Sam! You still with us?? SAM, SAM!! Hey man you still with us?? HELLO!!

Problem is, it’s not in Sam’s head. It’s real, right now, in front of a room full of meeting folks. Rev. CJ and the rest of the room sit fixated on Sam, as Rev. CJ says loudly,

Say bruh, you looking like a deer in headlights right now, you alright?

Sam was not all right. He was a long way from, all right.

VII

....Brought you a mighty long way.

Great! I did it again. Drifted off in the middle of this meeting, a meeting all about me. How could I, ughh, now what am I going to say…

Uhhh... well, I was uhhh, just thinking about how far God brought me. Yeah, that’s it, and when I think about it, I just can’t help but get all caught up.

He brought you from a mighty long way lil bruh, that’s fa sho. Rev. CJ responds. All the way to the Stellar Awards and 4 nominations!

The room claps, cheers and the sound is almost deafening. YEAAHH SAM!!

Thank y’all so much. Now you know I couldn’t do any of this without my team. My manager Rev. CJ Babineaux, and my label Vice President Portia Reynolds. Without these two, and of course Malachi, none of this is possible.

Ok, I think I got out of that without looking like an idiot. CJ is grinning all hard while the room is still cheering, but really Portia did all the work.

Portia Reynolds is a strong beautiful chocolate colored sister with great business savvy, and works as hard at Malachi teaching the new members class, as she does at her record label, His Glory Records. She’s in her early thirties, about 5’5" or so, fine, cool short dreadlocks, and an I don’t play attitude. She has to, she hustles harder than anybody I’ve ever seen, and has to find off all the wolves trying to hit on her here at the church.

Thank you Portia, I love you.

I love you too Sam. And on that note, excuse me everyone; I’ve got to run. I’ve got two artist to prepare for tomorrow. Sam and Tam-Tam.

Tam-Tam is my label mate, who truth be told acts a little jealous. I don’t know why. Her mother is one of the biggest gospel artist of all time, and she has had hit after hit. She’s been nominated for at least five Stellars and Grammys. She’s never won, but what does that matter. She’s been taken care of all her life.

Rev. CJ, Sam, I’ll touch base with you later tonight. Bye-bye everyone. God bless. You good Sam? Sam? Uhhh, Sam??

Huh, oh yeah, I’m good Portia. I almost did it again. Told you you were crazy. Shut up! I got to get out of my head though. I’m going to Detroit to sing with the Bishop in a few hours, and I still got to go to Standefers for a haircut. Got to look right, I’ve never ridden in The Bishop’s private jet before. Can’t front,