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by Tiffany Nixon
So Detective Marcus Gilchrist has a videotape of someone with a grudge against poor Annabelle Welburn Murray running away from the scene of her murder. The district attorney knows where the woman lives and works and yet neither man is making any moves toward an arrest in this month-old case. Why not? Because the woman on the tape is wrapped in a cloak called Political Correctness.
The press also seems willing to let the videotape slide under the rug, accepting a celebrity attorney’s word that the woman’s sprint was toward a business appointment rather than away from a body with its throat twisted and mangled like an obscene, oversized doll. Why? Because the woman on the tape is Black from a humble background and the victim is white and rich.
Fear of political incorrectness has turned the media away from the obvious and paralyzed the New York City Police Department.
The ridiculous PC awareness which runs rampant through our society has long been the bread and butter of standup comics, but it isn’t funny. In this case it is downright appalling.
I was perched on the edge of my sofa in a semitrance, struggling to determine which was more horrific: the fact that the writer of such racist trash was a Black woman, or her thinly veiled allegation that I was a cold-blooded killer who was being spared the electric chair simply because of my ethnicity.
The telephone chimed. It was Paul again.
“Jackie, did you read it?” he asked.
“I’m stunned.”
“Honey, what grudge did you have against her?”
“I guess it means I was mad about the promotion.” My heart was thumping against the wall of my chest with such force that I thought it was going to pop right out and fall to the floor at my feet. “I’ve got to get off the phone and try to reach Keith Williams.”
“Call me back and let me know what he says. I won’t leave for work until I hear back from you, okay?”
My heart thumped with anger and terror. “No. I’ll get back to you when I can.”
The only people I trusted at that moment were Mama and Keith. I wasn’t worried that Mama would see the column because she only bought the New York Daily News. I concentrated on finding Keith. His secretary said he wasn’t expected in until ten A.M. I couldn’t bear to just sit in the apartment, and my instincts told me I needed legal advice before going anywhere near the offices of Welburn Books. So I decided to cool my heels in the waiting room at Keith’s law firm.
Finding a yellow cab on my street was nearly impossible, even though plenty of whites had moved into Harlem. So, I took a Gypsy cab down to Trump Tower and the driver charged me twenty dollars, which pissed me off even more. A young man was sitting at the reception desk.
“Hi, my name is Jacqueline Blue. I know Keith isn’t in yet but I’d like to just sit here and wait for him if you don’t mind.”
“Is he expecting you?” The young man had close-cropped brown hair and the beginnings of a moustache.
I was in no mood for protocol. “If he has read the New York Comet this morning, he is certainly expecting at least a phone call from me. Now please, may I just sit down?”
“Mr. Williams is in his office,” the young man said smoothly. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”
The pint-sized secretary was wearing another expensive suit and I wondered how much Keith paid his staff. She beckoned me to follow her and I did.
There was no music coming out of the sound system and Keith was on the phone.
I sat down in the same guest chair facing Keith that I had used on my first visit.
Keith ended his call and came all the way around the desk to shake my hand before sitting down again.
“Did you see that column in the paper this morning?” I cried out anxiously.
“I did.”
“Well, what should I do?”
Keith was noticeably uneasy. “You have got big problems, Jackie.” He sighed and repeated himself, “Big problems.”
He said “you,” not “we”! My God, he was pulling out!
I was desperate. “Listen, Keith, I know I can’t afford you but if you’ll just help me out a little longer, I promise I’ll pay your bill even if I have to work two jobs when all this is over.” My voice was rising to a shriek. “Please, you can’t desert . . .”
He put a stop to my lament with the raise of his hand. “Calm down, Jackie. It’s been almost three years since I took on a pro bono case. I’m not going anywhere because that would make you look guilty as hell and I don’t believe you killed Annabelle Murray.”
