within a year of King’s death we settled our divorce. Sharin Lamond and I saw a lot of each other afterward. You remember Sharin?”
“Well, of course. How could I forget Sharin? Black, beautiful and sexy. But let’s not go into that now.” Ozay recalled a one-night stand he and Sharin had.
“OK, but I remember her friendship kept me afloat at that time. You probably recall how I can get a little crazy under stress.”
“I know. But what’s the ‘shady people’ bit about?”
“I talked to Sharin’s old man, Jarvis Lamond.”
“Jarvis!” Ozay exclaimed. “He could have been the first black mayor of Los Angeles, but he blew it.”
“Yeah, they say that as city attorney, he crossed the line when he sidestepped some procedures, misused funds. Even if it was benign, in politics, just the perception of wrongdoing can ruin you. Sorry. Back to Lenny. Jarvis had tried to act as mediator during our difficulties, with little success, and had gotten close enough to Lenny to retrieve a bit of info that might help.
“At some point he and Lenny started talked about the state of the black struggle and about some east coast groups: the Black Liberation Army and the Weather Underground. According to Jarvis, Lenny felt a new level of struggle was necessary. Lenny wasn’t a warrior type, but he had money. Not that he was asking Jarvis to do anything illegal. On the contrary, he just let Jarvis know, specifically, that he was contributing to the Black Panthers’ educational programs for children in black communities.”
“So, he wanted Jarvis to write a check?”
“Jarvis felt he was being asked, indirectly, for his financial help. He refused and felt uneasy when Lenny talked about groups engaged in urban guerilla warfare. Jarvis still had political aspirations, so some things he was very careful about, like getting involved with Panther Party community programs. Jarvis didn’t want to be in any way connected with a radical group.”
“Are you saying that Lenny may have confessed more to Jarvis than he planned?” Ozay asked.
“I don’t know,” Marina said. “It looks like he may have left his place in a big hurry. For one thing, Lenny was a very careful and meticulous person, so he wouldn’t have forgotten to lock the door. So, that takes us back to either the kidnapping or the flight theory.”
“Flight? Leaving in a big hurry you mean?”
“Correct.”
“OK, now I understand why it would be too complicated to bring in the police. If Lenny is thought to be involved with criminals or criminal activity, he could go to jail.”
“And giving money to violent groups…well, my god! What am I to do, Ozay? The last thing I would want to happen is that some harm would come to Lenny. And to see him go to jail would be just too awful.”
“Marina… listen. I’ll do whatever I can to help. I have friends who might be of some help in tracking Lenny down. I’ll get on it right away.”
“Ozay, potentially, this may take time and could be dangerous.”
“Whatever it takes,” Ozay said, acquiescing, still feeling some guilt for their previous affair. “I think I should get down to L. so we can get started.”
“Wonderful. I really think I need your help. Thank you so much. There’s a lot more to tell you, once you get here. And don’t worry about money. You’ll be generously compensated.”
“I didn’t know you still cared.”
“Ozay. I meant, financially.”
The conversation ended and Ozay couldn’t believe what had transpired—not the disappearance of Lenny as much as he, Ozay, jumping headlong into a potentially dangerous, if not life-threatening, situation. Ozay called an old black lawyer friend, Mat Haley. Aside from being a wellspring of information, Mat worked in an Oakland office, and had been a former Panther Party lawyer. The operative word here was ‘former.’ Recovering from Chapter Seven bankruptcy—brought on by defending both Panther Party members and the destitute—Mat still did pro bono work. Ozay and Mat agreed to meet at Emily’s Louisiana Creole restaurant in Oakland.
“Matthew!” Ozay shouted across the potholed parking lot when he saw Mat walkingthrough a long line of monthly check recipients—welfare and payroll checks—waiting to cash that precious sheet of tender at a check cashing enterprise on the corner of the parking lot. Mat flashed a gold-toothed smile, and still had a left leg ghetto bounce as he walked. “Ozay Broussard, my brother man. Good to see you.” They gave each other the customary thumb wrap shake, turning into a regular handshake, the four fingers catching and pulling away, and a hug.
“Say, Homes,” Ozay said, looking Mat up and down. Since they were both from Houston, Ozay called him Homes. “It’s been a long time.” They went inside the small restaurant with its wonderful smell of red beans, BBQ’d pork ribs, and a panoply of seafood dishes: gumbo, étouffée, fried oysters, and shrimp. Samples of sweet potato pie, peach cobbler and lemon meringue pie were on the counter. It was like dying and going to culinary heaven. In typical southern hospitality style, Gracie, the large, busty autumn-tan woman behind the counter, gave them a hearty salutation.
“How y’all doing today?”
“I’m doing fine, Gracie,” Mat answered. “Where’s yer sister Emily?”
“That woman go’n work herself ta death, fa real. I told her ta take the day off and get some rest. She’s gotta learn how ta delegate, chil’. Tell other people what to do and if dey mess up, fire dey sorry you-know-what and get someone else. Excuse me, I know y’all don need ta hear all my gabbing. Ya’ll look hungry. The lunch special today is $3.99. Your choice of shrimp étouffée, jambalaya, or sea food gumbo with two veggies,” she said with a wide smile.
“Yes Ma’am,” was Mat’s reply. “Ozay, what say we get the special?”
“Sounds good to me,” Ozay said, drooling at the sweet potato pie. “Sure, I’ll take the shrimp étouffée with yams and greens, Gracie.”
Mat said, “I’ll have the jambalaya with okra and black-eyed peas.”
Gracie motioned for Mat to come to the end of the counter.
“Lord! Matthew, you just the person I need to talk to.” She leaned over the counter. “My boy’s in the tank again. Don’t know what to do ‘bout that chil’.”
“What the charge, auto theft again?”
“Yeah. Same thing.”
“It’ll be tougher this time.”
“I know.
“I’ll do what I can, Gracie.”
“Thanks, God bless you.”
The meal came and they ate and talked. Mat agreed to keep everything that was said completely confidential, but made sure Ozay understood that once he started making inquiries, it would be tough to keep a lid on it. “I’ll contact some of my old Panther comrades who were my clients. Some of them owe me.”
“The man put a strangle hold on the Party, didn’t they?”
“The FBI fucked us up, Ozay. Their agents infiltrated our leadership—brothers working for the man got inside close and spread rumors, told outright lies to split the leadership. Divide and conquer. The Huey-Cleaver split shit was part of it, the rejection of Elaine Brown’s leadership, the pitting of other black groups against the Party, were all, I think, fostered by the man. A hocus-pocus-trick-bag is what the man put us in.
“The Party grew so fast, got so much funding, and did so much drugs, things got out of hand. I never did like Eldridge. I don’t know how, but I think they got to him, maybe when he was doing time. Too many criminal minds making decisions.” Mat looked down and shook his head. “Hey, that’s not why we’re here. You need a source that knows the score on the BLA. I think I can