Even the Devil Should be Afraid of Karma

There is a beautiful poison inside of Gregory Coleman. It is a toxic blend of charm, charisma and confidence. Although he comes equipped with sharp fangs, he very rarely needs them. People are naturally drawn to his venom and are willing to suck it from him like desperate leaches hungry for his approval. Throw in green eyes and a radioactive smile that arches ever upward over a cleft chin and you have yourself a genuine, gorgeous predator. It is the rare man who can have ninety-nine out of the hundred ladies in the room and be unsatisfied. This was Gregory Coleman, and he was not just unsatisfied, it enraged him. The one he could not have always became the one he would have. This woman could be in a relationship or gay or just immune to his magnetic toxins. The reasons did not matter, only the audacity to refuse him.

His three Cs were almost always enough to lure his unsuspecting prey into his web, but it was the chemicals that were the cocoon that incapacitated them. Rohypnol and GHB were his two favorite drugs of choice. Total blackout, no fight, no memory and the drugs were out of a girl’s system before she even knew what happened. Ethnicity, tall, short, blond, brunette did not matter. The only thing that mattered was the word no. The no turned Greg on because most women wanted to sleep with him. Those conquests were boring. When a girl says no and you fuck her anyway, that’s power. That’s ownership. Their most private of privates no longer belonged to them, it belonged to him.

Five women had said no to him in college. Only one had drawn the attention of university officials and campus police, but the complaint never went anywhere. There had been four more since he graduated. Women brazen enough to blow him off. Three had gone as expected. Condoms and waxing your body hair, pubes most of all, was essential. A little soreness the next day in the baby dispenser was the only proof of anything. That was as good as if he wrote on her lower stomach with an arrow pointed down, “Greg was here.”

His latest “No” was turning into a problem, and for the first time in his life he felt the swag slipping away from his swagger.

James Smith knew there were more years behind him then ahead, but for only the second time in his life he felt scared. This time was different, however, because he was not afraid for himself, he was afraid for the person he loved most in this world. That’s a different kind of fear. Parents know the real golden rule. Do anything you want to me, but don’t fuck with my children. That goes for God as well. He had watched his daughter go off to college as a bright, vivacious girl full of wonder and curiosity. She was the captain of her high school soccer team and head of the yearbook committee. She had more friends than he could keep track of, but she came back from college for winter break a different person.

She was twenty pounds lighter. Her usually clear complexion was ridden with acne. Her hair was oily and her bouncing blue eyes looked deflated and bloodshot. She had been at home for a week and only left her room to peck at food and use the bathroom. His attempts at conversation were met with one-word answers. When she refused to see her best friend from high school, he knew it was time to force a conversation with his daughter.

After several unanswered knocks he peaked his head into her room with his eyes closed and shouted, “Honey, I have my eyes closed. I tried knocking. If you are indisposed, please put some clothes on.”

“No, Dad, I just had my headphones on and could not hear you.”

James opened his eyes and saw his daughter on her bed with her knees tucked up by her chest and her headphones around her neck. He sat on the edge of her bed and looked at a young woman he did not recognize. “Is everything okay? You’ve been home a week and I can’t help but notice you seem different. I know college can be a big adjustment. Is there anything you want to talk about?”

“Like what?”

“Like anything.”

“No.”

“You sure? Christmas used to be your favorite time of year, and it just seems like you are depressed. I figured you’d be excited to be home, hanging around with friends and making sure I was on top of your Christmas list. You haven’t seen any of the old crowd from high school, and you’ve been holed up in your room like a hermit. You may think I’m a dad who is out of touch, but I’m not that out of touch. You know you can tell me anything, right?”

She made eye contact with him, and he thought for an instant that she was going to confide in him. Then she looked down and said, “I’m really okay, Daddy. Just girl stuff.”

He thought this might be a ruse to make him uncomfortable so he would drop the subject, but his worry overrode his fatherly circuits. His immediate thought was that she was pregnant. “What about Kayla’s mom? She was always there for you when you needed female advice. You want me to call her and ask her to come over?”

“I’m good, Dad. Really.”

“Okay, I’m not going to pester you. You know you can come to me with anything.”

“You might think that, Dad, but sometimes a girl wants to keep things to herself. She needs her dad to keep looking at her the way he did when she was born. You know, pure.”

“I would never look at you any other way. Did something happen to you?”

Her cell phone rang, and she picked it up off the bed. She looked at the caller and managed to smile at her father. He did not know it took every ounce of her strength to part her lips in an upward motion and flash her teeth. “It’s Kayla, I’m making plans to see her tonight. I should take this.”

He felt relief in his gut and let out an audible breath. He patted her on her knee and said, “Take the call. Tell Kayla not to be a stranger. Remember you can come to me with anything.”

He left her room hoping this was just a phase that she was going through. It would be good for her to see her best friend from high school, and maybe she would confide in her.  

              James Smith heard knocking from the bathroom while he was brushing his teeth. It seemed too early for a delivery. He made his way downstairs and opened the door. He unconsciously took a step back when he saw it was a police officer. “Can I help you, Officer?”

              “Are you James Smith?”

              “I am.”

              “May I come in?”

              A knot formed in his throat threatening to cut off his airway. “Through a cracked voice he said, “Sure, come in.”

              The officer entered and waited for James to close the door before he spoke. “Is Rebecca Smith your daughter?”

              That’s when James felt the universe start to tilt and he wanted to grab the stair banister so he would not fall off into oblivion. Cops don’t show up early in the morning asking if you are someone’s father for something good. “Becca – Rebecca is my daughter.”

              “I’m sorry to inform you that we found her body earlier this morning in a 2019 Jeep Cherokee registered to you. All preliminary signs look like a suicide. I’m very sorry, and if there is anything I or my department can do for you please let me know.”

              James pinched the side of his leg and did his best to open his already open eyes. This was no nightmare. “What do you mean suicide? How can you be sure it was a suicide?”

              “We are never sure this early in an investigation, but we start with what the preliminary evidence tells us. She was found with a hose running from the tailpipe to the back window. There was also a bottle of prescription pills found in the car. The bottle was empty, and the label scratched off, but the lab techs are going to examine it. There was also a vodka bottle that was half empty.” The officer handed James a business card. “That’s the lead detective on the case. Name is Gladstone. He is the one you want to contact for any further information. He is still at the scene where the vehicle was found finishing up.”

              James felt like his head was pumped full of helium, and only wished he could float away. “Where was the car found?”

              “A patrol car came upon it over at the town park earlier this morning. It was parked in the middle of one of the soccer fields.”

              “That’s where she played soccer as a kid. Are you sure it was Becca Smith?”

              “Sorry, but yes. We found her driver’s license and other than being a little thinner than in her picture, we’re sure it is her. You will need to make an official identification, but we never want to mislead a loved one. The detective in charge is going to want to speak with you. He can come here, or you can speak to him at the station. Whatever is most convenient for you. In the meantime, is there anything I can do for you. Give you a ride, notify neighbors or a relative to come over and be with you. Make phone calls, anything at all.”

              James’ whole life was his daughter. His wife hated him and left him when Becca was two, but that was warranted. He waved to neighbors but never took the time to get to know them. That was advice from three decades ago that he lived by to this day. Out of necessity he cut ties with his parents. His world as he knew it was over. Nothing had ever mattered to him except his daughter. Her birth changed him. He had only ever been in love with himself until she came along.

              “Sir, are you going to be okay?”

              James snapped out of his malaise. “To be honest with you I don’t know. I don’t think there is much you can do for me. I’m going to get myself together the best I can and make my way down to the police station and speak with Detective Gladstone.”

              “Are you sure? You look a little unsteady on your feet.”

              “I’m fine. You just told me my daughter took her own life. I don’t know how else I’m supposed to be. I don’t mean to be rude, but I need to be alone right now. I’ll be in touch with the detective.”

              The officer nodded his head and left James standing in his living room. When the door closed, he put the palm of his hand in his mouth to muffle the scream that had been building since the officer asked if Becca was his daughter. His legs gave out and he fell to his knees with a thud. He splayed out belly down and continued to scream into the carpet. He did not move, could not move for the next fifteen minutes. When he finally stood, he could see the carpet had gone dark from his tears and phlegm.

              He was able to pull himself together to drive to the police station. When he walked through the front doors, he could not remember how he got there. Were gaps in his memory going to be a permanent thing? The officer at the front desk must have been expecting him because they immediately ushered him into the bowels of the police station to a vacant room. Within seconds a round man with a receding hairline and bad mustache greeted him with an awkward handshake and hushed tone. “I’m terribly sorry to be meeting you under these circumstances. I know Officer Simmons spoke to you, but if you have any questions, please feel free to ask.”

              James went through the motions of answering questions. Was your daughter depressed? Did she have a history of depression? Was she on medication? Was she seeing a mental health professional? Was there a change in her behavior as of late. When James had about as much as he could take, he said, “My daughter went to college and came home a different person. That’s all I fucking know.”

              The detective waited a few seconds after that remark before he said, “That pretty much explains the theory we have come up with.”

              “Theory?”

              “In cases like these we need information in a hurry. Even though the scene may look like a clearcut suicide, we always treat it as a possible homicide. One of our computer techs went through your daughter’s phone and found a link to a disturbing video that was posted on the internet. Your daughter tried to delete it, but our techs are pretty good at finding things people think they have gotten rid of on their digital devices. I know this will be hard for you to hear, but your daughter was gangraped. The footage was of her passed out on a bed. Nine men with brown paper bags over their heads took turns assaulting your daughter. We have already contacted your daughter’s college and the local and campus police. The assholes that did this thought they would not get caught by covering their heads. That’s why they posted the video. Two of the creeps had the same fraternity tattoos on their shoulders. Only a matter of time before we get one to roll over on the rest. College students are not your typical hardened criminals. You only have to lean on them a little and they would give up their own mother.”

              James Smith threw up all over Detective Gladstone’s shoes.

                Gregory’s parents tried to throw money at the “No” that was becoming an increasingly large thorn in their son’s side. She would not rest until she stood across from Gregory Coleman in a courtroom and saw him taken away in handcuffs. The Coleman family were sitting in a defense attorney’s office. A 25,000-dollar retainer was required for the “No” that would not go away. She was 600 dollars an hour and double that for time in court. Stella Grangnoqi was Ivy League educated and she had cut her teeth as a prosecutor in Detroit. There was not much she had not seen. She suspected the well-to-do family had a spoiled, narcissist of a son who was used to getting what he wanted, never expecting consequences for a hand caught in the cookie jar.

              “Listen to me very carefully, this victim is not just some anybody from anywhere. Her mother is a head honcho for The National Organization for Women. That organization has a lot of clout nationally. She sat at the president’s table at one of his fundraisers last month. I know because I was there. The alleged victim is being groomed to take over the Michigan chapter. Her pointing a finger at your son in a courtroom is going to carry a lot of weight. An arrest is imminent. There is no good news here. In most cases I could sell Greg’s face to any jury in the world, but I don’t know if I would take that chance here.”

              Gregory Coleman Sr. spoke. “What are you suggesting? That we take a plea? My son is innocent. I don’t care what this woman says.”

              “It doesn’t matter what you think. It matters what 12 strangers think. The evidence is circumstantial, but compelling.”

              “You said there was not a shred of physical evidence.”

              “There was no physical evidence of rape, but there was plenty of physical evidence that he was in her apartment.” She put her hand up before they could protest. “I know you said he was invited there, but he-said-she-said comes down to believability. Mom has the means to scour through Greg’s past. If there are any skeletons, she will find them and will dance them in front of the jury like a Halloween parade. It’s not a matter of if, but when Greg is arrested. You might want to think about a plea. He is going to have to do time, but I can get that down to a minimum with hopefully no sexual offender status. The alternative is a double-digit sentence with Greg going to prison as a sex offender. They don’t do well in prison.”

After two days of serious conversation, Greg’s family decided on the best course of action. They took the money they were going to spend on their son’s defense at trial and bought him a new identity. He was given a new driver’s license, social security card, and passport. With the notoriety the case was starting to generate thanks to mom and daughter, the police had issued a warrant for Gregory’s arrest. Gregory left Michigan and headed for Canada, cutting all ties with his family in fear of any communication being traced back to his new digs. He was given the most common name in the United States to further aide his disappearance. With a name like James Smith, he could dissolve into the world and start over. He could make a life he deserved.