PROLOGUE
Newark Trauma Center—Newark, New Jersey—
August 8, 1989
Kenneth Russell knew he was in a hospital because of the distinctive sounds of machines monitoring his vitals. He couldn’t talk, was unable to open his eyes, but he could hear and recognize voices. Someone was crying, and he knew it was MacKayla Harrison.
They had been dating for more than a year, when she’d subtly hinted that she often dreamed of becoming a June bride. And Kenneth was ready to make her dream come true. He’d taken the subway downtown to Manhattan’s Diamond District to purchase a ring, hoping she would be pleased with his selection.
Kenneth had surprised MacKayla early Saturday morning when he’d called to tell her he was coming to Fort Lee, New Jersey to pick her up before driving down to Atlantic City, where they would spend the weekend taking in a few shows. She had no idea he’d planned to propose marriage.
Everything was falling into place beautifully. He had the ring, traffic on the George Washington Bridge was light, and he felt happier than he’d been in years. Kenneth was ready to begin another phase in his life—that was, until he glanced over at the headline on a stack of newspapers on the passenger seat of his car:
GRACIE MANSION HOPEFUL CAUGHT CROSSING STATE LINE WITH UNDERAGE GIRL …
“I Didn’t Know She Was Sixteen!”
The headlines from theNew York Times, theDaily News, and theNew York Postprinted variations of New York City’s latest political scandal.
Every local television station had covered the story of Michael Boone, a candidate who was campaigning in a primary election against David Dinkins to become his party’s candidate for mayor. Michael had been pulled over by Connecticut State Police for a traffic infraction only for the officer to discover an underage girl in the car with him. When questioned about his passenger, Boone denied knowing she was sixteen, because she’d told him she was twenty-two. The girl had been forthcoming when she explained to the officer that they were planning to spend the weekend at a hotel to celebrate her birthday.
There were photos of a handcuffed Boone with his head lowered in shame, and several others with him and his socialite mother during happier times before he’d announced his intention to enter the race for mayor of the City of New York.
A brittle smile touched Kenneth’s mouth, and before he could refocus his attention on the road, he veered into another lane and was hit head-on by an oncoming vehicle. He felt the impact of the collision, which flipped his car upside down. He could smell fire, hear screams, and then felt a comforting blackness when he lapsed into unconsciousness.
Kenneth recognized another voice. It was that of his boyhood friend, Frankie D’Allesandro, asking MacKayla how long had he been in a coma. Kenneth wanted to tell Frankie that he couldn’t be in a coma, because he was aware of everything going on around him.
“It’s been almost a month,” MacKayla said. “Ray was here yesterday, and we prayed together that he will recover.”
“I would’ve come sooner,” Frankie told her. “But my lawyers asked for a change in venue because several of the jurors perjured themselves. They knew exactly who I was when they were selected to serve.”
Kenneth didn’t want to believe Frankie had been arrested and indicted under the RICO Act. Three years ago, all the Five Families were on trial and charged with racketeer influence and corrupt organizations. Not only was Frankie not a made man, he also didn’t belong to any organized crime family. He could no longer hear Frankie and MacKayla’s voices and assumed they stepped out of the room. However, he did hear a voice in his head that he would never forget. And that depended on how long he would live.
I want you to pay the bitches back for ruining my life. I don’t care how you do it. Just do it!
Kenneth Russell never forgot his mother’s deathbed confession or his vow that he would make those responsible for his existence when they used a young, innocent girl to fulfill their dreams for social and political success. It had taken careful planning and great patience for Kenneth to exact revenge on Precious Boone. Not only had she become a casualty, but unfortunately her son, Michael Boone had ended up as collateral damage.
Once the news got out that Michael Boone was going to be charged with the Mann Act, Kenneth’s joy had been limitless. However, after a restless night’s sleep, he experienced a modicum of remorse and shame for his involvement in using an innocent man to exact revenge on Michael’s mother. He knew his conscience would continue to haunt him and thathe’d have to spend the rest of his life atoning for his many sins.
Kenneth didn’t want to think about his sins; he just wanted to wake up, marry MacKayla, father children, and live to be an old man. Then he did what he’d never done in his life.
He prayed for forgiveness.
PART ONE
1950s
WEB OF LIES
CHAPTER1
Mount Vernon, New York—Labor Day Weekend—1951
Precious Crawford Boone examined her face and hair before leaving the bedroom to join her husband on the lawn of their home to greet the guests who had come to celebrate the holiday weekend. She smiled when the reflection of her mother appeared in the mirror.
Lillian Crawford, or Lili to her closest friends, closed the bedroom door. “You look lovely, dear.”
Precious turned and stared at the woman who’d spent more than half her life grooming her daughter to marry well. And “marrying well” meant attending a prestigious Negro women’s college. Precious had followed in Lillian’s footsteps when she was introduced to Negro society at a cotillion ball, graduated Spelman College, and pledged Alpha Kappa Alpha sorority. While Lillian had married the son of a dentist, Precious had trumped her mother when she attracted the attention of a man who’d become a very successful businessman. He didn’t have the pedigree Lillian had wanted for her daughter, yet he’d succeeded where the other young men she’d chosenfor Precious hadn’t. As a Harlem real estate financier, Dennis Boone had become quite a wealthy man. And for a Negro, it definitely was a coup, given the racial prejudice steeped in the fabric of the United States.
