Chapter One

Jacky Jayson

       I needed a cigarette. Scratch that. A glass of wine could've done the trick. But I knew that neither could've brought me the kind of satisfaction I was in search of. I craved this thing like a baby needing his milk from his nursing mother or how a born-again Christian chased after the face of God.

         I had always been the free-spirit kind of chick, but I was starting to get desperate. Ever wanted something so bad and got frustrated, because your desires weren't within arms reach?

        What I was in search of was a break into a new career. It's always hard work having to maintain a job and look for another at the same. What started out as a benign tumor of job dissatisfaction had grown to a rapid spread of an aggressive-attacking, job-disgust of a cancer in punching the clock.

       I was in my office building, away from the newsroom. I was standing at the fax machine for more than five minutes, pretending to be smoking a Virginia Slim and sending my resume' to a company that had an opening for a features writer for their monthly magazine. It was a different and smaller publication from the one I presently worked at, so it would've been a welcomed slower work pace and some much-needed peace of mind and freedom to explore the kind of stories that were of interest to me.

       While waiting on the fax confirmation, I felt the light buzz on my hip. I looked at the number and broke out a deep sigh. I quicky rubbed my temples; I felt a headache coming on.

      "Yes, Margie," I said, trying to disguise my annoyance, rolling my eyes to the ceiling and with one hand still pretending I was puffing on a cig to calm my nerves. I might've needed that real cigarette after talking to Margie, Luficer's sister and my hellish editor.

       "Jacky, we need you to high tail it over to Sheriff Trevor Baskin's office for an eleven a.m. news conference. Where you at?"

       In the fiery pits of hell is what I wanted to tell her. But rather, "I'm in the building, on the first floor and waiting on a fax from a source." I lied and started feeling nervous about someone walking in on me sending my resume'.

       "Can you cover the news conference?" I heard her clacking away on the computer keyboard, probably sending an annoying email to another staff writer. Margie had a gift to aggravate the most coolest and collected person.

       "Do I have a choice?" I rolled my eyes and rubbed my hands over my short, reddish-brown natural hair. I didn't want to ask her the details of the new conference, because it would've only prolonged our conversation. I knew I would find out everything I needed to know for my story once I got the sheriff's office.

"Not really. See you in a bit, and get quotes from more than the sheriff. Get some people's reactions." And Margie hung up.

       That left me with forty minutes to make it to the county sheriff's office. Our newspaper office was located on Peachtree Street in the heart of Atlanta Midtown. Our paper, The Peachtree Circle was a small weekly newspaper that managed to cover hard news and some features and entertainment pieces. Of course, we weren't the famous Atlanta Journal-Constitution or the large weekly alternative paper, Creative Loafing, but there was a demand for our paper. For the past fifteen months, I thought I established myself as a credible reporter, and my byline carried a solid amount of recognition.

       I knew I did good work. My confidence in my wordsmith skills wasn't arrogance; I just had a natural born gift to be a writer. To some, my only down fall was that I was not one to follow a strict set of rules. I could admit that I've had a history of bouncing from one job to the other. What's good was that I was a Jane of all Trades and could always find work and a way to pay the bills. So what if my credit wasn't the best; I figured past due just meant another extension. Sure, I had my lights and gas turned off in my apartment, but I had no one to look after but me in Atlanta.

      I figure with just being a young twenty-nine year old who was still discovering self, I had license to pull a switcheroo on careers, men and just life in general. While probably most women my age picked out their wedding dresses before cornering their men, I was still enjoying my single life and not being tied down to any one person.

       I didn't get my communications degree at Jackson State University until I was twenty-four years old, because I wanted to tap into my creative spirit and let God direct me. Moma said it was me just be plain old lazy. There may have been some truth to that. I have never denied that I wasn't a fan of labor.

        So what if I spent six years in and out of college. The important thing is that I finished. Right? Writing had always been my first love with singing trailing close by. So, I tried to do both. I did school by day and did singing at some local entertainment spots by night in Jackson. Ohhhhhhhh, Hamps on Northside Drive in Jackson held a special place in my heart. I could still hear the live band singing Frankie Beverly and Maze's "Before I Let Go" in my head whenever I thought about my nights at Hamps.

       Anyhoo, when I finally finished school, I blew into Atlanta since I kept hearing that Atlanta was the Black Mecca and a jewel of prosperity for upwardly mobile people of color.

      So five years ago, I came without a job and a couple of thousand dollars from my college graduation gifts. It didn't take long for me to fall in love with Atlanta. The city gave me a dual taste of the urban and small-town comfort life. For me, the city could be characterized as a blended cross of sweet iced tea and Georgia peaches with a touch of urban with its defined city skyline that you could see clear as day from outside of city limits on Interstate 20 when approaching Six Flags over Georgia.

       I was able to find a small apartment in the historic West End and a job waiting tables in downtown Atlanta. It paid the bills while I searched for some writing gigs at the smaller newspapers in the metro area. I was able to secure a little free-lance work with the smaller newspapers in Cobb and DeKalb Counties, which eventually landed me my gig at the Peachtree Circle.

       I struggled with keeping my finances in order, and Moma kept wanting me to just move back home and seek employment at the Clarion-Ledger newspaper in Jackson, Mississippi or at the Greenwood Commonwealth in my hometown of Greenwood, Mississippi. But I wasn't trying to hear that at the time. I was in my I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar stage. Grrrrrrrrrrrrr.

       After just nine months of punching the clock at the Peachtree Circle, I realized that my heart just wasn't into it anymore. And it didn't help that I had an annoying, micro-managing editor that rode me harder than Seabiscuit the horse. What I wanted was to write softer news and maybe have my own monthly column.

Lately, I had been feeling trapped, because I hadn't been able to secure another writing gig and the employment bug just hadn't been biting. I was pretty determined to change that even if it meant having to move back home to Greenwood.

       After I grabbed my fax confirmation paper, I headed back upstairs to get my reporter's note pad, an extra pen and my car keys. As I was about to walk out, the computer alerted me of an email. What was an extra three minutes to read this email, I thought. The subject headline read: Got a Tip for You, and the sender was from someone named ATLRunner.

       Don't let work consume you. Work smart, play hard and go back to the foundation that has made you who you are. Don't let past hurts, destroy your potential.

      As my five-foot-eleven, size-eight frame stood at the computer reading the email, I replied to the email by saying, "Do I know you???"

       Within two minutes, I didn't give the strange email a second thought and dashed out of the unusually quiet newsroom. Then I remembered, that the hustle and bustling sounds of a busy newsroom sometimes didn't jump off until the afternoon. News people sometimes stayed late and crawled into newsroom in the late mornings the next day.

      On a unusually warm October morning in Atlanta, I took in the sun rays that beamed down on my light brown, freckled skin. I only needed my red cardigan for the light breezes that caused the trees to reach for the heavens and my dark sunglasses to protect my sensitive eyes, as I walked from the downtown parking lot that was three massive blocks away from the news conference location.

       When I arrived at the sheriff's office, all of the Atlanta media outlets, both print and broadcast, were present with their cameras and reporters. Sheriff Baskins and his deputy team all carried serious looks in their beige, crisp uniforms and black boots. Whatever Sheriff Baskins was about to release had to be something heavy, because the news conference was being held in the atrium of the five-story building.

       When Sheriff Baskins had lighter news to share, such as having an adequate and effective staff to manage their operations, he would hold those news conferences in his office suite and would speak with a booming voice from behind his massive, cherry wood desk.

        I scanned the room and noticed familiar, media professional faces. I smile and nodded as I spotted Chase Vandercamp, a local reporter for the NBC news affiliate. Cute. Tall. Perfectly manicured hands and nice, white teeth. He looked a little too good to be true. Since I had such a short drive, I had an extra ten minutes to mingle. I made my way over to Chase, as he was consulting with his videographer.

      "Hi Chase! Never missing a beat I see on getting the scoop, huh?" I said as I flashed my own pearly whites. A $3,500 orthodontic bill will have anybody showcasing the teeth at every possible opportunity- especially for a handsome man with striking features and was impeccably dressed.

       "Jacky Jayson! Never a step behind, I see," Chase said as he turned to face me and extended his caramel hands. I caught a whiff of his Issy Miyake cologne, and it was hypnotizing as he looked. No man should be allowed to hold that much fineness.

      "Of course not! A sista has to pay the bills, you know?"

     "So a sista who gets a check can afford to take a brother to lunch at the Atlanta Grill, right?" 
 

      "Not this one, but nice try," I said and flashed my flirtatious grin, like I was in a toothpast commercial.

       Just as I was about to reach into my wallet for a business card, Sheriff Baskin's voice came over the microphone. It was then that he announced that his right-hand Deputy Marcus Dennis had been put on administrative leave with pay, pending an investigation into the allegations of sexual harassment of the same sex from two sheriff deputies.

       "We will be conducting an internal investigation, as well as complying with other law enforcement agencies. Are there any questions from the media?"

        Being a hard-nosed journalist, I snatched up the chance get the first questions out and have all eyes on me. I wanted to know how did this information surface. Sheriff Baskins only briefly mentioned that formal complaints were filed. I could tell he was going to be tight lipped about case.

       After five minutes from me and other reporters trying to probe more information out of Sheriff Baskin, I needed to make a quick exit and return phone calls. I missed two calls during the news conferences and didn't look at my phone for fear of missing valid information for my article.

       Just as I was walking out the government building, I forgot to give Chase my business card. I wasn't up for the walk back inside, so I reached for my blackberry and saw that Neicy called and left a message.

       "Ay Jay, get at me! I'm at the slave quarters and need some advice. You know the number," I heard Neicy say over my voice mail. I glanced at my watch, had a few hours to meet deadline, grab a quick lunch and continue to my quest for another job.