Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
The next morning, I woke before my alarm went off, buzzing with nervous energy.
Sliq Bishopp’s cover shoot was that day, and I was going to stop by the studio.
I’d asked Freddy to sneak in some solemn shots with subdued dark suits with the imbecilic shots of Bishopp in full gangsta gear, and to double his normal thick stack of jewelry.
I didn’t yet know how I wanted Bishopp to look on the cover: like he was going to his own funeral or like a preposterous clown.
Either way, this cover story was about to be the topic of conversation around the industry.
It would be explosive and divisive and important—and I only had three more days to finish it.
Wanting to catch Derek before he got into his workday, I walked to the office instead of taking the subway so I could call him.
I swung northeast toward NoHo and my favorite coffee shop, where I bought a cappuccino and a chocolate croissant.
Then, juggling the cup, my stuffed tote bag, and my phone, I dialed Derek’s number.
“This is Derek Mills.”
I hadn’t expected him to answer in such a professional tone; when I heard his deep voice utter those crisp words, the phone call suddenly felt intimate. I froze halfway across Lafayette Street, my prepared opening gambit leaving my brain.
“This is Derek. Who is this, please?” he tried again.
“Derek, hey. It’s Nikki, Teresa’s friend.” The blaring car horns jolted me back to reality and I hustled over the crosswalk.
There was a moment of silence so fraught with energy it was almost audible. In a much warmer, slightly surprised voice, Derek said, “I know who you are, rock star. This is a very pleasant surprise.” He paused, waiting for a reply that didn’t come fast enough. “Did I lose you? You still there?”
“Hi, yes, no—I’m here,” I stammered. “I’m calling because I could use your help.
I’m writing a tough piece and I need to get the legal points right.
” Without adding any detail about my experience interviewing Bishopp, I told Derek about the cover profile, the rape accusation, and the underage accuser.
When I finished explaining the context, Derek responded with a bitter laugh. “Well, Sliq Bishopp seems like an upstanding citizen. And you are putting him on your cover because … why?”
I bristled at his implicit judgment. “As you can imagine, Bishopp wasn’t my first choice.
But my profile of him will be more of a takedown, and we’re including the interview with his accuser.
That’s why I’m calling you, to make sure I’m getting any legal stuff right, but if you don’t want to help, I understand. ”
“No, no, I didn’t mean that. My bad.” Derek sighed. “I recently came off a rape case and I guess I’m still mad.”
“Teresa told me. You won, right?”
“Actually, I lost. But let’s just say that it was the right outcome.
” There was pain in Derek’s voice. “Rape 1 is a class B felony and dude had no priors, so the asshole judge who hates me gave him the minimum of five to spite me. He’ll likely be on parole after four years and then he’ll have to register as a sex offender. ”
“Doesn’t seem like much time,” I said. “Maybe that’s why Bishopp was so cavalier about the case. Isn’t it super hard to get a rape conviction in the first place?”
“No, Bishopp is probably looking at doing real time if he’s convicted.
I’m betting he has a prior violent felony conviction or two, so he could get up to twenty-five years.
Then there’s statutory rape; even though it’s a lower-level felony, it still carries mandatory prison time.
So even if he beats the top charge, as long as they can prove they had sex and that he’s older than twenty-one and she’s under seventeen, he’ll get a statutory charge.
” I heard something muffled in his background.
“It’s not like the seventies, when rape charges couldn’t be brought at all unless the complainant could prove they resisted.
” He trailed off and I heard more muted noises.
“You good over there?” I asked.
“Yeah, hang on,” Derek replied. Over the now more distinct background clatter, I heard him say, “Chocolate frosted doughnut and a hazelnut latte with three sugars.”
“For real? A chocolate frosted doughnut and three sugars in your hazelnut coffee?”
“What? I’ve got a sweet tooth,” he exclaimed. “Listen, I love what I do for a living, but being a public defender is not for the faint of heart. These can be some very long, very tough days. My coping mechanism is to start my mornings with a little treat.”
I had detoured to a park bench in Union Square to continue the conversation.
I was making my way through my coffee and chocolate croissant, feeling too silly to tell Derek that I was eating almost the same breakfast. “Well, you obviously stay in the gym because I don’t see those doughnuts anywhere. ”
I clapped my hand over my mouth, but Derek quickly replied, “I’m glad you noticed.” I couldn’t come up with a reply, so I was grateful when Derek continued, “So, what are you listening to on your walk?”
“How did you know I’m walking?”
“My brilliant power of deduction and low-key psychic abilities.” He laughed. “It’s New York and the streets are cacophonous.”
Just hearing the word cacophonous used in an actual sentence made my geeky heart swell. I hadn’t yet slipped my headphones over my ears, but Derek had guessed correctly that I had some music cued up. “I’ve got some Black on Both Sides in the Discman. You?”
“Mos Def. Nice,” Derek acknowledged. “I was going to play some Massive Attack before someone called me.”
“I just bought Mezzanine the other day.”
“And I was about to play Protection,” Derek replied.
“No way,” I blurted. “That album is definitely on my desert island top ten.”
“Your what?”
“The ten albums you would choose to have if you were stuck on a desert island. Duh!”
“Okay, so, what else would be on your personal TRL? Now I have to know.”
“MTV does songs, not albums,” I stalled.
“Out with it!”
“You have me on the spot here, but … for sure The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill; Nevermind because Nirvana; Tupac’s Greatest Hits, if that’s not cheating; and Ready to Die because I stay lying when I say I love Pac more than Biggie.
” I chewed my croissant contemplatively.
“Can I choose the Waiting to Exhale soundtrack? I mean, it has TLC, Whitney, Aretha, Mary J.…” I trailed off.
“I’ll let these greatest hits and soundtracks go, but you already know you’re cheating!” Derek replied through his own mouthful of doughnut. “Keep going, because this is fascinating.”
I couldn’t read his tone and hoped he wasn’t ragging on my picks.
“Um, four more, right? Let me see … Well, I’d need some Jimi Hendrix with me and I’m thinking Band of Gypsys over Electric Ladyland, but that’s a tough choice.
I’d want Stevie too and would probably go for Hotter Than July over Songs in the Key of Life, which is another impossible choice.
Whew, just two more? Definitely Led Zep; I guess I’ll say IV so I don’t catch heat for another greatest hits album; um, Sade’s Love Deluxe, and I’ll stand by my Massive Attack choice. ”
“You weren’t lying! You do have some diverse musical taste,” he acknowledged. “But where’s Bob Marley or Miles Davis? And no Arrested Development or De La Soul? How about Fiona or Sinéad? No house music or anything international…”
“Okay, okay,” I groaned. “I only had ten choices and they were off the top of my head!”
“This was your game, so no excuses!” Derek retorted warmly. “All bullshit aside, your list is dope. You’re still ‘rock star’ to me.”
Chatting with someone who didn’t ridicule music that wasn’t on Hot 97 or WBLS was rare.
And hearing Derek talk about how he loved being a public defender was irrationally magnetic.
It reminded me that I had originally wanted to become a journalist to tell positive, impactful stories.
Teresa and I basically grew up together, so I took our shared values for granted.
With Derek, the parallel between our professions and passions felt fresh.
As I balanced the rest of the pastry on my knee and sipped my cappuccino, I felt jealous of the passersby in their commuter sneakers and casual Friday slacks, blithely strolling to their places of work.
They were probably not contemplating the nuances of rape charges or the stress of dealing with our flawed justice system.
They could probably flirt with a cute boy in peace.
Derek broke into my thoughts. “Hey, off the subject of music: I forgot to ask you whether the Bishopp assault happened recently.”
“Under a year ago.”
“Okay, good. Because the statute of limitations for rape is five years.”
Five years. How long ago had Alonzo cornered me in his Range Rover?
Had it been four years or were we coming up on five?
I found myself doing the mental math. My silent calculations must have gone on longer than I realized because the next thing I heard was Derek asking me “Hey, Nikki, now I need to know if you’re good over there. ”
I was grateful he couldn’t see me. “Yep, all good. I’m …
um … It’s just that this story is important to me” was all I trusted myself to say.
I could hear Derek calmly munching his doughnut, waiting for me to continue.
“There are all these rules and relationships and politics in this new world that I’m barely managing.
And everything is more complicated as a woman.
That RedHot party disaster was a small taste. ”
“Well, that small taste was hard to watch. It seemed like a no-win situation for you.”
“That’s exactly it! It was no-win. But I chose the path of least resistance, so that’s on me,” I murmured, flushing as it dawned on me how little responsibility I’d taken for the RedHot party when I was at Sofie’s Café.
“So now you want to resist?”
“Now I want to resist. I am resisting.”