Dark Star: Confessions of a Rock Idol (9 page)

This was not the “Other Side” Endora was selling. I knew it in my bones.

This eternal life was something different. It was forever, with God. And it was for sheep, for those who would quietly follow Him. It was for people like Karen, the polar opposite of the Endoras and Everetts of the world. For Karen, who seemed bright and pure and innocent; who seemed to live so boldly, so cleanly, and with so much refreshing wind in her sails.

Although I wished it could be, this paradise was not for me. No, I would have to put my money on the Other Side. It was for
all
people, including reprobates like me.

The ice in the Scotch had melted. The tall glass was wet. And I sat in my chair until every last drop was gone.

6

GRAY HARRIS FUMED.
So did the band. Dozens of business partners and thousands of DeathStroke fans were aggravated as well. My drug binge after Liza’s death had set us way behind on the recording of our latest album in California. And Endora’s unexpected collapse had forced me to cancel two shows on the Rowdy tour.

By the time I caught up with the band in Detroit, I was getting the cold shoulder from everyone. And no wonder. Gray had announced that on almost every one of the two- and three-day breaks that had originally been scheduled during the forty-eight-city Rowdy tour, the band would now be required to fly to the West Coast to wrap up the recording of our ninth album instead of jetting to our respective homes for much-needed rest—and time away from each other.

When our normally quiet bassist, Ricky Crazee, approached me as we convened for a sound check on the black and silver stage at The Palace in Auburn Hills, Michigan, I knew something was up. He zeroed in on me like a heat-seeking missile.

“You know what your problem is, Lester?” Ricky jabbed a finger into my chest, his redheaded temper flashing. “The only person you care about is you. It’s always been like that. What are you thinkin’ of, leavin’ us high and dry?”

The sudden loud rip of David Dibbs’s drums suggested he concurred with Ricky. And John Scoogs chimed in with an evil guitar riff that spoke louder than words.

Still buzzed from the gin I had consumed on the flight to Detroit and the upper I popped in the limo, I decided not to respond. I had heard it all before and was too high to care. Besides, Ricky could be one crazy cowboy. So, I spun away from him.

“Helloooooooooo Deeeetrooooit!” I yelled into the mike, nearly causing one of our roadies to fall from a catwalk above.

“You’re an idiot, Lester,” said Ricky, the strings on his bass reverberating as he stepped toward me again in his pointy gray boots and faded Levi’s. “We’ve all had it. You don’t care jack about us or our families, about Gray or Tina.”

“I DON’T CARE too much for money,”
I sang into the mike,
“cause money can’t buy me love. Can’t buy me lo–ove—”

“You don’t get it, do you, dude?” Scoogs said, cutting me off. “Everything you do dominoes. You mess up, you don’t show up. It affects every one of us, plus staff, crew, fans… We’re sick of it!”

“Well, what are ya gonna do, John? Fire me? Huh?” I yelled into the mike. “I
made
you, man. All of you.” My words echoed throughout The Palace, as the smattering of vendors and preshow guests froze, their eyes searching each other.

“How would you just like to do it without me, huh, Scoogs? What about you guys? You ready to break this party up once and for all? End the ride?”

“Man, that is
not
what we want.” Dibbs stood up from behind his huge drum kit, the large DeathStroke logo blazing bright behind him, generating heat from above.

“I don’t know, David.” Ricky pushed his suede cowboy hat up high on his red forehead. “Maybe it is time. This thing is wearin’ thin.”

Tina Drew scrambled off, probably to find Gray.

“You talk about not caring.” I slammed the mike stand onto the stage. “How much have you cared? Liza’s
gone.
Do any of you care? Have you said a word?” I was yelling.

“Dude, you weren’t even at her funeral!” Ricky shot, his small blue eyes locking in on me. “Me and Dibbs were
there.
Gray phoned her parents.”

“And I tried to make it, but I couldn’t get a flight out on time,” Scoogs added.

“Yeah, you know why you went to the funeral?” I laughed. “Publicity. PR. Lights, camera, action!”

“You are so messed up, Lester.” Ricky shoved me. “What are you on right now?” Shove. “Heroin?” Shove. “Do you even know what you’re saying?” Shove, shove.

Gray practically came flying around the wall of amplifiers with Tina and a small entourage of staff members trailing six feet behind.

“Okay, okay,” he huffed, stepping between Ricky and me. “What is going on? Ricky?”

“What’s goin’ on,” I blurted, “is these losers are about to kiss their careers good-bye. They’re forgettin’ who brought ’em to this dance.”

“You are so full of it, Lester,” Scoogs yelled. “You’re blind. Look at what you’re doing to everybody around you. You’re
cancer!
”

“Ha. If I’m cancer, then everybody wishes they had it. You guys would be nothin’ without me.
Nothin’!
”

“Gray, we’ve had it.” Ricky turned away from me. “This is the crossroad, man.”

Gray looked at each band member, getting no argument from the others.

“Okay, look. You guys get the sound check started. Everett, let’s take ten.” He led the way offstage.

After Gray gave me his father-son speech behind several tall stacks of metal trunks backstage, I grabbed a beer from a barrel of iced beverages in the makeshift café and kicked and scuffed my way to the dressing room. I told him I was skipping the sound check. He said he would try to iron things out, as always, with the other band members.

Throwing myself down onto the reddish-brown couch, my head was floating. I was definitely not sober. But I wasn’t blitzed enough to pass out, either. I just felt kind of…there. If you’ve ever drank alcohol or taken drugs, you know what I’m talking about. It was that in-between stage. I either needed to sober up or get some more drugs or alcohol into my system. I chose the latter.

Sitting on the edge of the couch, I examined the room for my black leather shoulder bag, which I carried on trips. It contained my MP3 player, headphones, cigarettes, hairbrush, phone, and an assortment of prescription drugs, which were authorized by my physician and close friend, Dr. Jack Shea.

Finding the plastic orange bottle of Valium, I undid the lid, tapped two into my hand, and threw the bottle back into the black satchel. Then I stopped cold.

What the—?

Bending down, I ripped the bag open a foot wide and stared at the small brown Bible Karen Bayliss had sent.

For the life of me, I couldn’t remember packing it. I just wouldn’t do it, wouldn’t want to be seen with it.

Picking up the black bag, I walked to the bar, set the Valium down amid some booze bottles, and crossed to the large metal dressing room door. After bolt-locking it, I walked over to an empty corner of the small room and eased myself down to the cold floor, with my back against the wall.

From a distance, all around me, I could hear and feel the sounds of the music I had created, the music that had made me filthy rich.

Opening the bag again, I reached in and grabbed the little book. A letter was sticking out. I opened it. The last one from Karen.

Friendship…

His blood…red like the rose…

It’s up to His Spirit to draw you…

I opened the Bible somewhere near the middle and began reading.

Oh, what joy for those whose rebellion is forgiven, whose sin is put out of sight!

Yes, what joy for those whose record the Lord has cleared of sin, whose lives are lived in complete honesty!

When I refused to confess my sin, I was weak and miserable, and I groaned all day long.

Day and night your hand of discipline was heavy on me. My strength evaporated like water in the summer heat.

Finally, I confessed all my sins to you and stopped trying to hide them. I said to myself, “I will confess my rebellion to the Lord.” And you forgave me! All my guilt is gone.

Therefore, let all the godly confess their rebellion to you while there is time, that they may not drown in the floodwaters of judgment.

For you are my hiding place; you protect me from trouble. You surround me with songs of victory.

I read the words again.

My head dropped to my chest, and I began to sob.

The Bible and letter dropped as my arms went limp at my sides.

Sinner.

I felt the weight.

My life was draining away. I could feel it.

Look at me.

These tattoos.

Filthy.

I could never be good enough.

Wiping my tears and runny nose on the shoulder of my black Knicks T-shirt, I opened the bag again and searched for my phone and a pen. Flipping the phone open, I dialed 411.

“411 nationwide,”
came the recorded female voice.
“If you need a telephone number, press or say one.”

“One,” I said, clearing my throat.

“What city?”

“Topeka, Kansas.”

“What number?”

“Bayliss. B-A-Y-L-I-S-S. Karen Bayliss.”

Waiting.

“The number is 785-433-8179.”

After scribbling the number down on the letter from Karen, I flipped the phone shut and sat there.

My heart was drumming.

The crooked wall clock showed 5:45. It would be two or three hours earlier in Kansas. She probably wouldn’t be home anyway.

I opened the phone, punched in the numbers, and hit send.

One ring, two rings, three rings.

“Hello,” came the lively voice.

My eyes darted about the dressing room.

“Hellooooo.”

I clapped the phone shut and threw it in the bag.

Like most days of this trial, when today’s session adjourned I was escorted by two sheriff’s deputies through double wood doors out of the courtroom and into a stark white holding area. Members of the press strained their rubber necks to find out what goes on back here. But it was plain and simple.

There’s a cramped locker room that smells like bleach, where I change from the street clothes I wear at trial into a bright orange prison jumpsuit, which has my prisoner number stenciled in black on the left breast and on the back. It’s up to my attorney or family to bring a change of clothes for the next day’s trial. One officer is with me at all times when I change.

Once back into the holding area, the deputies, wearing ugly orange-and-brown uniforms, locked leg irons to my ankles. They wrapped a heavy belly chain around my waist and attached its handcuffs to my wrists. Once I was locked down, the two deputies, assigned solely to me, walked me down one flight of stairs in a dark, hollow stairwell lit only by red EXIT signs. Once through a large metal door and down a dingy basement hallway, we entered the eye-watering Miami sun, still burning bright toward evening.

The humidity hit me like a microwave, but I relished it. Who once said that we need at least twenty minutes of fresh air and sunshine every day to keep our spirits up? Liza Moon? I’ve come to think she was right.

In an effort to cut down on media attention, the Miami-Dade County police department usually set up at least two or three decoy cars around the Justice & Administration Center. However, a number of TV trucks with antennas fifty feet high and good-looking reporters were usually camped all over the cobblestone plaza that we drove past to make our exit for the local detention center.

Some people followed our squad car in their vehicles, just to get a glimpse of the rock star on trial for murder. After we made the five-mile trek to the Miami-Dade detention center, numerous reporters, photographers, and onlookers gathered there as well. They jockeyed for position and yelled for comments, but I only smiled as I was escorted into the building.

The detention center was a sprawling gray concrete structure surrounded by a large parking lot, lawns, and a fifteen-foot-high chain-link fence, which encircled the entire perimeter of the maximum security prison and was topped by rolls of razor sharp concertina wire. The only windows in the complex were narrow, one-yard-wide slits that ran horizontally too few and far between.

After being unlocked and directed through two different metal detectors, I was frisked and taken by a large, heavy-breathing guard to my cell, which is located on the ground floor of the four-story prison.

The cell was designed for one man. It was ten feet wide by ten feet deep with a sink, toilet, and a bed attached to the wall. Nothing else.

I felt lucky I didn’t have a cell mate, considering that most of the cells were only slightly bigger than mine, yet housed two bunk beds and two men. Later I was told that the reason they put me alone was because I was such a “high profile” prisoner. Some were even surprised that I hadn’t been housed in solitary.