Free A Meeting In The Ladies' Room by Anita Doreen Diggs

titled 1995 autobiography, Winner, which Paul Dodson edited, I decided during my first year out of law school that “not guilty” was the only verdict I would ever accept.
    Paul listened to my story. “I’m calling Keith Williams,” he said grimly.
    The two men had become good friends during the two years it took for them to pull Keith’s book together.
    â€œIsn’t that rather like using a machine gun to kill a cockroach?”
    â€œI’m not going to ask him to go to the precinct with you personally, but there are a lot of hungry young lawyers in his office. Maybe he’ll send one of them as a favor to me.”
    â€œIt can’t hurt to ask,” I agreed.
    â€œI’ll call you right back.”
    It took half an hour and seemed like six months. I tried to read but couldn’t concentrate. My hand reached for the receiver to call Mama but she was already upset enough about how close I had come to meeting a homicidal maniac. So I surfed the net—reading celebrity news, my horoscope, which said that I should watch my spending, and online reviews of several books I had worked on. By the time Paul called back, I had bitten the inside of my cheek until it hurt.
    â€œKeith wants you to get in a cab and come over to his office right now.”
    â€œWhat? How much will he charge me for this?”
    â€œJackie, listen to me. There is a rich, powerful white woman lying under six feet of dirt, victim of a homicide, and nobody is in jail for it. The police have everyone from the mayor to the president screaming for justice. Quick justice. That videotape of you running across the lobby is no joke, and Keith says someone will leak it to the media before the weekend. I didn’t ask Keith how much money he wants because right now I just don’t care.”
    This was crazy talk as far as I was concerned. “Paul, that detective did scare me. But now that I think about it, maybe his job is to scare everyone who Annabelle ever met until he finds the criminal.”
    â€œWhat about the videotape?” Paul asked quietly.
    â€œHe isn’t stupid enough to arrest me just for running across a lobby.”
    â€œBy the way, Jackie, did Annabelle ever get back to you about the position you wanted?”
    My throat closed.
    â€œJackie, are you still there?”
    â€œShe turned me down, Paul. She decided to promote Astrid Norstromm. It was to be announced on the day she was murdered.”
    Paul didn’t say anything else. There was no need to.

12
    TRUMP
    H is office was located in Trump Tower on Fifth Avenue. The reception area was decorated in muted beige and burgundy and a classy-looking Black woman with a plastic smile sat at the front desk. She used a pencil to push numbers on the telephone console and spoke to someone after I gave her my name. “His secretary will be with you in a moment,” she told me.
    I took a seat in a burgundy chair and started leafing impatiently through an Upscale magazine that lay on a circular chrome table.
    A few minutes later, a door opened behind me and I turned to face a petite little thing, about my age, who could probably fit into a size two dress. Her skin was the color of a hazelnut. She had delicate cheekbones, short dreadlocks which she wore tied up in a rubber band, and deep-set brown eyes. Her black knit pantsuit was cut smartly and matched her swank surroundings.
    â€œHello, I’m Debbie,” she said. Please follow me.”
    We went down a long hallway that had offices on both sides and lots of earnest-looking men and women doing business in them. Finally, she led me into an enormous room that had white walls and carpet with silver standing lamps and glass furniture. Awards and diplomas hung on one wall and framed press clippings took up most of another. B.B. King’s “Paying the Cost to Be the Boss,” one of my favorite tunes, was playing softly on an unseen music system.
    I stood in the doorway