The Craigslist Killer Part Three
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The Craigslist Killer Part Six free porn video
The Craigslist Killer Part 6
© 2014 by Nom de Plume
That night was like something out of a horror movie - the most
horrendous experience of my life, and that includes Gregg's attempt to
murder me.
It began with the cops whisking me out of Morton's through the kitchen
door, so I didn't even have a chance to tell Ron what was happening. I
was worried sick about what he must be thinking when he entered the
restaurant to find me gone, but that was swiftly replaced by genuine
fear for myself when my hands were cuffed behind me. I was frog-marched
into the back seat of a police car, and the cop who arrested me started
to drone my rights: "You have the right to remain silent," I remember
him saying, and I did.
Once he was finished, he started grilling me about the night of Gregg's
murder. "You told us you spent the night in your room," he told me,
"but that wasn't exactly true, was it? How long have you known Mr.
Alford?" That totally threw me - how much did the police know? What
did they suspect? "Leaving your lipstick on that wine glass wasn't very
smart," he went on, trying to make me talk. I just sat there beside him
in the back seat, staring straight ahead at the metal grate on the
seatback.
"First degree murder," a cop in the front seat observed, "that's gonna
get you life in prison if you don't cooperate. If you play ball with
us, we'll do everything we can to help you."
"You shouldn't have lied to us that night," the cop beside me jumped in.
"That makes you look guilty as hell." The classic good cop, bad cop
routine, playing out in a real-life, terrible nightmare. I kept my
mouth shut all the way to the police station, where I was escorted
roughly out of the car, through the door and down a long, dark hall.
I honestly don't remember everything that happened to me that night, but
some of it is seared in my memory. After I was lined up for my booking
photo, one of the cops tore off my wig, and the pictures of me in tears
with a man's made-up face were on the front page of every newspaper in
Chicago the next morning. The worst was yet to come: after I was
booked, I was taken down another long, dark hall to a holding cell,
which was occupied by half a dozen enormous men who greeted me with evil
eyes. I cowered in a corner, shaking in my little black dress and
heels, as they sized me up.
"You hot, baby," one of them said as he approached me. "What you got
under that dress?" He lifted the hem and smiled. "Whoo-ee, looka that,
you got panties on too." I tugged down my dress and backed away from
him. "Man, that's some high class hooker," he said to the group. "Me
first."
He tried to reach under my dress again, and without thinking I kicked
him as hard as I could in the testicles with the pointy toe of a
stiletto. He roared in agony and fell to the floor as the other
prisoners gathered around. "Fuck you, fairy," one of them screamed. He
grabbed me by the shoulders and forced me back against the wall. I
punched him as hard as I could in the nose, breaking it, and a torrent
of blood ran down his face as he cursed at me.
I was squaring off against the next hoodlum when a guard came to the
door and shouted at the men to back off. Evidently the powers-that-be
decided that I was valuable property, because I was taken to a smaller
cell, where I spent the rest of that night alone, in abject fear and
misery.
* * *
Early the next morning, I was rousted out of my cell, and after a
horrible breakfast which I couldn't touch, I was mercifully given an
orange jumpsuit to put on. I scrubbed off as much of my makeup as
possible, and waited for what seemed an eternity until a guard told me
it was time for my arraignment and bail hearing. I assumed that some
public defender would be representing me, and I looked sullenly around
the crowded courtroom - the media had obviously been tipped off - until
I saw Ron, sitting in the back row, giving me a quick thumbs up. A
surge of hope rushed through me, although I was humiliated for him to
see me that way.
A bored-looking judge eventually took the bench, and my case was the
first one on the calendar. A very young woman stood up and identified
herself as my attorney. She was with a law firm in Chicago, which
puzzled me, until I got a wink from Ron. She stood beside me as I pled
not guilty. Then a deputy district attorney gravely pronounced that I
was charged with a capital offense, and added that I was a high flight
risk since I'd fled to Los Angeles after the murder. He demanded that
bail be set at a ridiculous ten million dollars.
My attorney said nothing. "So ordered," the judge said, and he set a
date in February for motions to be filed. With that, I was taken back
to my cell, in a complete state of shock. Ten million dollars! There
was no way I was getting out of jail until my trial, which would be
months away. Why didn't my attorney put up a fight? I assumed that Ron
had retained her. Couldn't he have found someone who knew what she was
doing?
Suddenly my cell door opened and a guard handed me a bag filled with my
dress, heels and undies. "Get dressed," he sneered. "You made bail."
Under his baleful eye, I took off my jumpsuit and tugged on my panties,
dress and shoes, leaving my slip and stockings behind. My wig was
nowhere to be found. Not quite believing what was happening, I was
taken before some munchkin who "out-processed" me and handed me back my
purse. My child lawyer was waiting for me, and she led me down yet
another long, dark hall and out into an alley, where a limousine was
idling.
Ron was sitting in the back seat next to an impeccably dressed black
man. After I got in, my child attorney closed the door and we sped off.
I was still in a state of shock, and the black man studied me with an
appraising eye for some time before he spoke. "You probably have some
questions about what just happened," he said at length.
"I'm just so glad to be out of there! Ron, I hope you didn't just put
up ten million to spring me?"
"Missy, it's time you knew a few things about me. I told you I sold my
business last month. What I didn't tell you was that it sold for over a
billion dollars. Even after Uncle Sam gets through with me, there will
be plenty enough left. So your bail today was nothing, really."
"But the D.A. didn't know that," the black man said. "If they'd known
you had a friend like Ron, they'd have pressed the judge to hold you for
no bail, and you'd have been in jail until your trial, which given the
current backlog in Chicago, might have been over a year. And they
didn't know that I was involved, because if they had, they would have
smelled a rat. Which is why I sent our greenest associate to represent
you."
"Who the hell are you?" I asked him.
"My name is Dexter Boyd," he chuckled.
"Only the most brilliant criminal defense attorney in Chicago," Ron
broke in. "I called him last night once I discovered what happened to
you."
"What happens now?" I asked.
"We're taking you back to Ron's home. Take a good shower and get some
sleep. This afternoon, I want to meet with you in my office. As a
woman."
* * *
Once we were back at the townhouse, and Dexter Boyd's limousine drove
off, I collapsed into Ron's arms, sobbing uncontrollably. Ron gently
guided me upstairs to the master bedroom and closed the door. I
collapsed onto the king sized bed and immediately fell asleep.
Later, I took off my dress and indulged in a long, hot bath before I
dressed for my appointment with Dexter Boyd. For some reason, he wanted
to see me as Missy, and I went through the makeup routine by rote before
I tried to figure out what to wear. Certainly not one of my prissy
Christmissy outfits! I finally decided on the blue sweater and skirt
I'd worn to fix Christmas dinner, with nude nylons and blue kitten heels
I'd packed to wear with them.
My faithful wig was somewhere at the Cook County Jail, but Ron's blonde
wig was available, and I was beginning to feel like myself again after I
put it on. Ron smiled approvingly when I came downstairs, and he
started to fix lunch in the kitchen while I took him through my
experiences the night before, leaving nothing out. "My God," he said
when I was through, "you're lucky you didn't get yourself killed in that
cell."
"It was a horror, Ron. I'm sure they thought I was some kind of high-
priced tranny hooker. And the booking! I was so ashamed to have to
stand there, without my wig, in a dress, getting my picture taken by
those goons." The Chicago Tribune lay open on the kitchen table.
"Shit, what happens when that picture makes it to LA? I'm gonna get
canned for sure."
"The law in California is good, Missy. They can't discriminate against
you for crossdressing."
"Give me a break, Ron. I'm up for murder one! And you don't know my
company - the Chairman is a right-wing nut. They'll figure out some way
to cut me loose."
"So what?"
"What do you mean, so what?"
"Missy, in case you've forgotten, I've fallen head over heels in love
with you. You don't have to worry about working, ever again."
"Ron, you don't have to say that. I'm not exactly a prize catch. Will
you wait for me while I spend a lifetime behind bars?"
He embraced me, and I hugged him back, tears running down my cheeks.
"What a pair we make! An H.I.V. case and a jailbird," I sniffled.
"Missy, Missy. You're not going to spend any more time in jail, not if
Dexter Boyd has anything to say about it. He's the best, and you've
never been in trouble before, have you?"
"No! That's what makes this all so bizarre. One minute you're a law-
abiding citizen, and the next...." I started to cry again.
"I totally blame myself for what happened last night."
"What do you mean?"
"Dexter thinks the cops were hoping you'd return to Chicago so they
could question you, and they must have been tipped off by the airline
when you came back. Then they saw us yesterday at the mall, and got a
warrant by the time we went out to dinner. When they saw you again in
the same dress you wore that night, they moved in."
"I guess it was going to happen sooner or later, Ron. I'm so sorry I
got you caught up in all this!"
"Don't worry about me, sweetheart. The cops never saw you with me, only
Caroline."
"Poor Caroline!"
He laughed. "That shopping trip was a real eye-opener for me. I felt
like a total fraud, and you were so natural, so confident out
there...dressing up filled some need for me, at a very difficult time,
until I met you. I'm much more turned on when I see you as a beautiful
woman, knowing that you made yourself into her, just for me."
Ron never dressed up as Caroline again.
* * *
A cold front came through after the storm, and the weather had turned
bitterly cold. Ron insisted that I wear my sable fur to Dexter Boyd's
office, and I was hardly going to argue with him. I might never get to
wear it again! I also snatched one of Caroline's Gucci purses, and I
must say I made quite a sight as I emerged from Ron's BMW and entered
the lobby of a skyscraper on LaSalle Street. Ron drove off - he told me
to call him when I was finished - and I ignored the stares of some
envious women as I rode up in a crowded elevator. The doors opened into
the smartly furnished lobby of an exclusive law firm, and after
presenting myself to the receptionist, I spotted a copy of the Tribune
and sat down in a cushy chair to read it. There I was, on page one,
above the fold:
SUSPECT IN HOTEL KILLING ARRESTED
Chicago - Police arrested a Los Angeles man last night in
connection with the November slaying of Greggory Alford at the
Intercontinental Hotel. Xxxxx Xxxxxxxx, 32, had just entered an uptown
restaurant, dressed as a woman, when he was taken into custody.
According to sources within the Chicago Police Department, Xxxxxx was
confronted by detectives after Alford was found dead in a hallway near
Xxxxxxx's hotel room, but he was dressed as a male and denied any
involvement. Subsequent evidence linked Xxxxxx to the killing of
Alford, who is believed to have been involved in a number of assaults
and burglaries involving transgendered women at Chicago hotels.
A woman approached me, and asked me to follow her. She led me to a
small conference room, and offered to take my fur. I was a bit
uncomfortable, watching her take it away, until Dexter Boyd greeted me
and asked me to sit down. He studied me carefully, then went to work.
"Sorry to keep you waiting. I was on the phone with the District
Attorney. He's not very happy with me."
"Were you talking about my case?"
"Of course. By the way, how shall I address you?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"According to the police, your name is Xxxxx Xxxxxxx. The reason I
asked you to dress as a woman today is that Mr. Xxxxxx is somewhat
notorious in Chicago at the moment. But you make an uncommonly
attractive woman, and as a blonde, you look nothing like your booking
photos. It's obvious to me now that if you stay as you are, you'll have
no trouble living a normal life until this matter has been resolved."
"I guess that depends on what you describe as a normal life."
"Point taken. I've represented two transgendered clients over the
years. One is a professional athlete from California, who is married to
a famous actress. The other was a troubled young man who just graduated
from Northwestern as a beautiful young woman. It seems to me that
society is redefining normal, every day. So let me ask it another way:
who do you want to be?"
"This is the me I want to be," I told him firmly. "Please call me
Missy."
"Excellent. Now that the world knows your secret, you don't have to try
to hide it anymore. My guess is that's why you lied to the police in
the first place?" he asked. I nodded yes. "Now, tell me everything
that went down between you and the police. Please leave nothing out."
I closed my eyes and played back my nightmare to him. He raised an
eyebrow when I told him about the altercations in the holding cell.
"Now I know what the D.A. was talking about," he said.
"What do you mean?"
"First, he chewed me out for tricking them into setting a bail that you
could easily pay. He still has no idea who was behind it - I had Ron
get a cashiers check through my law firm - and he never will. Then he
launched into me about the beat down you gave some punks at the jail.
He wondered how in the name of God you put two of them in the hospital?
It proves how dangerous you are, he told me. To which I replied that he
just made my case for the defense: any man, even one wearing a dress
and high heels, will defend himself if he's attacked."
"When do I have to go back to jail?" I asked him.
"Never. The DA knows that the cops made a mistake by arresting you the
way they did, and throwing you into that cell. He says they were really
pissed off that you lied to them, and they want to know what happened
that night. But they're prepared to reduce the charge against you to
involuntary manslaughter, and recommend no jail time, if you give them a
complete statement."
"Involuntary manslaughter?"
"That's a felony, and I told the DA that was unacceptable. After some
hemming and hawing, he agreed to take it down to a misdemeanor,
obstruction of justice. I told him I'd have to talk to my client."
"So you got me off?"
"If you take it. We could go to trial if you want - imagine what a
spectacle that would be - and I'm sure I could beat the murder charge,
but you never know."
"I'll take it."
EPILOGUE
Ron and I spent five glorious years together. Although we never
married, for all intents and purposes we were man and wife, and we did
everything together: season tickets to the opera, Cubs games every
summer, all of the wonderful festivals that Chicago is famous for, and
of course dinner at Morton's every Saturday night when we were in town.
We traveled around the world together, several times (I managed to get a
photo ID as Mrs. Right) and I even met Ron's son, which was awkward at
first, but became very precious near the end. When the disease finally
caught up with him, Ron was very brave, and incredibly considerate
towards everyone who cared for him. It took a terrible toll in its
final stages, and I don't know how I managed, but I insisted on setting
up hospice care for him at the townhouse, and I was with him, holding
his hand, when he died.
Ron was a very generous person. Dozens of charities were the recipients
of large bequests, and of course his son was extremely well taken care
of. Although he had settled with his ex-wife years ago, she was also a
substantial beneficiary in his will. Ron left the rest - half a billion
dollars - to me. I'm still living in the townhouse - the memories are
good here, and I've come to love Chicago. I haven't worn a stitch of
male clothing since the day I got out of jail, a lifetime ago. Whether
I'll actually transition, or simply stay the way I am, I'll always be a
woman, and thanks to Ron, I'll never have to worry about the
discrimination and hardships that plague so many of my sisters. Dexter
Boyd was right: once my secret life was out to the world, I had no
alternative but to own it, and over time I've become a minor celebrity
in Chicago society. I go to work every day, immaculately dressed, at a
foundation I've set up in Ron's name to provide financial assistance to
transgendered women in crisis. It will be his lasting legacy.
Rowan
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