Two Authors

One Mystery Series

DALLAS, TX – May 2011 – National Best Selling Authors Shelia Goss and John A Wooden have written a fast paced suspense thriller. UnAuthorized will keep readers on the edge of their seats.  UnAuthorized is currently available as an e-book (JBOW Productions; May 2010; ISBN: 0-9767404-2-7; $2.99 U.S.) from all the online retailers and will later be available in paperback.  

About UnAuthorized:

What happens when a know it all reporter meets an overworked detective – you get UnAuthorized.

Rachel Murphy is used to getting threats. It came with the job of being one of the top investigative reporters in the Dallas/Ft. Worth area. Michael Henderson has received many accolades as a detective with the Dallas Police Department. He is known for investigating a case with the tenacity of a hungry lion in search of his prey.

Detective Henderson’s investigation into a brutal murder leads him to Rachel Murphy’s doorstep. Their personalities immediately clash. Rachel sees Michael as an obnoxious and overbearing cop. Michael sees Rachel as a meddlesome overeager reporter. In order to solve the case, they must push their personal feelings to the side and work together.

Danger and suspense draws these two unlikely people together in more ways than one.

About the Authors:

Shelia M. Goss is the Essence Magazine & Black Expressions Book Club Best-Selling author of My Invisible Husband, Roses are Thorns, Paige’s Web, Double Platinum, His Invisible Wife, Hollywood Deception, Delilah, Savannah’s Curse, Ruthless (Jan 2012), and the teen series The Lip Gloss Chronicles: The Ultimate Test, Splitsville, Paper Thin & Secrets Untold. Besides writing fiction, Shelia is a freelance writer. She’s also the recipient of three Shades of Romance Magazine Readers Choice Multi-Cultural Awards and honored as a Literary Diva: The Top 100 Most Admired African American Women in Literature. To learn more, visit her website: www.sheliagoss.com  or follow her on Facebook www.facebook.com/sheliagoss.

John A. Wooden is a retired Major from the U.S. Air Force, a feature writer/columnist for The Perspective magazine in Albuquerque, New Mexico, and a freelance editor and ghostwriter who clients have appeared on several bestsellers’ lists. His first novel, A Collection of Thoughts, was an expression of his thoughts on life and love. His second and third novels, A Moment of Justice, and An Eye for a Deadly Eye, were murder/suspense thrillers that introduced the world to Special Agent Kenny “KC” Carson, and brought his unique writing style to the forefront of the literary industry. John is the proud father of a son and daughter. To learn more, visit his website: www.jwooden.com.

To schedule Ms. Goss or Mr. Wooden for an interview, contact:
email: sheliagoss@aol.com or jwooden61@yahoo.com

“Our top story tonight is the death of eighty-six year old, Civil Rights activist and leader, Margaret “Maggie” Wayburne. Mrs. Wayburne was found this afternoon dead in her home, possibly from a mild heart attack. The police are not ruling out foul play. Apparently, Mrs. Wayburne’s home was broken into and police officials think she walked in on her burglars and that possibly led to her attack.”

When I heard the report, I cried like I was five-years-old again and my father had just told me about my mother’s death. I loved my Moms but the only thing I can remember about her were her always yelling and screaming at me. Somehow, I thought I was the reason she died. I carried that thought with me for sixteen years. Though my father and sister persistently tried to convince me otherwise, it was no use. In my mind, I was the reason my mother was dead. It was my albatross, the proverbial monkey on my back I could not get off. Until that night; the night I truly became a man.

Eventually, they would have found me. I left my gun. Actually, she took my gun and made me promise things I had never promised before. I walked in the Thirty-third Precinct and stated, “I am the one who broke into Mrs. Wayburne’s house.” Immediately, three Black officers manhandled me. They didn’t book me; instead, they handcuffed and dragged me into a room for questioning. All I could think about was the eighty-six year old, caramel crème complexioned woman named Maggie Wayburne. Though she was dead, I knew she was with me and she would forever be with me from this day forward.

It took Detective Albert Hilliard, a tall slender Black man, probably thirty minutes to get to the interrogation room to interview me. When he walked in, he was appalled. I could barely see him. What little I did see of him spoke of shock and awe. I’m sure it was at the trauma on his face. My left eye was almost closed from the blows I received from the three officers. My knees hurt from being dragged on the floor and I also had a splitting headache. I could not blame the officers. A legend was dead and though I turned myself in, I was the one who in many ways, killed her.

Detective Hilliard surprised me. He ordered another officer to take the names, badge numbers and statements of the three officers. His first order of business was not to question me about Mrs. Wayburne, which I found peculiar. Instead, he questioned me about the three Black officers attacking me, police brutality and me pressing charges.

I dismissed the issue, I just wanted to turn myself in and get this over with. He reached in his coat pocket and placed a mini-recorder on the table, read me my rights and proceeded to interrogate me.

“Mr. Stone, did you break into Mrs. Wayburne’s home last night?”

“Yes, I did,” I answered. I could see Detective Hilliard was expecting more but he asked a question and I gave him a straight forward, simple answer.

“Why did you break into her home?”

“To steal what valuables she may have had.” Once again, Detective Hilliard had an antsy expression on his face, expecting something more.

“Did you know Mrs. Wayburne lived there?”

“No, I didn’t.” I think the detective finally got what he wanted. This was his breakthrough.  He leaned forward in his seat and looked me in my one eye. My right eye was sore but opened. My left eye was still closed and aching. But I was oblivious to pain. Even with the knowledge of me going to jail, I still had Mrs. Wayburne on my mind.

“You go by Mac, right?” I nodded my head “yes.” It was an unexpected question. Everyone called me Mac, short for Mackenzie. Mackenzie Nathaniel Stone, the name given to me by my mother, the first woman I killed.

“Tell me, Mac. What happened? I mean . . . what time did you break in, did you think anyone was home or what?”

I didn’t hesitate to answer. “I broke in about two in the morning and no, I didn’t think anyone was home. If I thought someone was there, I wouldn’t have broken in. As far as what happened, Mrs. Wayburne is what happened.”

A puzzling look came over Detective Hilliard’s face. It was a smile . . . and I was dumbfounded. I had already gotten my butt kicked from three cops, who were pissed I was responsible for killing one of the greatest Black civil rights leaders of our time. I knew it was too good to be true. I thought Detective Hilliard was about to kick my butt again.

“Well, Mac, let’s try this another way. Tell me what transpired from the time you broke in, until the time you left.”

This time I hesitated before I answered. I know what happened but I didn’t know if he would believe me. I looked at the tape recorder and realized I was in a good position. Then the same thought that had never left my mind made me smile. The thought of a sweet woman named Maggie Wayburne.

“Detective, I broke in through the backdoor, breaking the pane of the kitchen door. I unlocked the door, had two black duffel bags and a flashlight with me, and inside my coat, a Smith and Wesson .38 pistol, in a shoulder holster.”

I stopped to catch my breath and Detective Hilliard poured me a glass of water from the pitcher in the room. I appreciated his gratitude and patience with me. I knew deep within he probably wanted to kill me himself.

“What did you do next?” he asked.

“Believe me or not, when I walked in I noticed someone had left all the eyes on the stove on, but no flames, so the house smelled of gas. The first thing I did was cut off the eyes.” I thought Detective Hilliard would interrupt me then but he didn’t, so I continued.

“Next, I walked around the first floor of the house just looking before I started to put stuff in my bags. Then a light came on and I reached for my gun and turned around. Standing at the bottom of the staircase was Mrs. Wayburne. She startled me and as soon as I saw her, I immediately knew who she was.”

“Did she say anything?”

“Yeah, she said, ‘how are you doing young man, may I help you?’ I was so lost and confused I didn’t know what to say. So I apologized to her and told her I didn’t know it was her who lived here.” I stopped again and took another swallow of water. I smiled inside at what Mrs. Wayburne said next. “She told me, ‘does it make a difference whether I live here or someone else. You know another Black person, someone who looks like you live here and what you are doing is wrong.’ She was right and believe it or not, Detective, I felt so damn small and the only thing I could do was apologize again and ask her for her forgiveness. And then the darnedest thing happened.”

Detective Hilliard was once again smiling and I felt even more awkward and afraid. But I continued on with my story. “She told me to come and have tea with her. So we went into the kitchen, sat at the table and had cold ice tea. She wanted hot tea, but I told her I didn’t think it was a good idea with the smell of gas still in the house. I asked her why did she have all of the eyes on and she told me the house was very drafty and blows them out sometimes. I actually volunteered to come over and take a look at it.” We both smiled at the comment. Then it dawned on me. Detective Hilliard probably knew Mrs. Wayburne. The thought stayed with me, so I asked the question.

“Before I go on, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure” he replied.

“Do you know Mrs. Wayburne personally?”

“Yes, I do,” he began. “I have known her all my life. We used to live directly across the street from her when I was young and she was also my sixth and ninth grade teacher. Additionally, she taught me how to play the piano.”

We looked at each other. I knew the man was hurting inside but for some reason I knew he believed my story. I don’t know how I knew; I just knew he believed me.

“We sat and drank tea and she chastised me in a way I have never been chastised before. It was subtle, but very effective. She told me about our history, her history and in a lot of ways about my history. I told her how I felt when my mother died and why I do what I do. She didn’t know me, but she explained me to me. Detective Hilliard, I went there to rob her of her valuables, but instead, she robbed me. She took away the guilt I had been feeling ever since my mother died. And she did it by teaching me about the history of black folks. She did it by thoroughly explaining to me what it meant to be a Freedom Rider, to march on the Nation’s Capital, to be sprayed by high power water hoses, to be attacked by dogs, to be beaten for sitting at a lunch counter, to be denied the right to drink at a public fountain or ride in the front of the bus. She taught me, Detective. For three hours, we talked and talked and talked.”

I didn’t know if anything I said made sense. Detective Hilliard seemed content with what came out of my mouth. He asked me to continue and I did. I told him everything we talked about . . . from Maggie Wayburne telling me how she met her beloved husband, also a civil rights activist, Joe Wayburne, to them fighting the injustices of racism and discrimination to her not being able to have children. Prior to me leaving, we prayed and Mrs. Wayburne asked me to leave my gun and turn my life around. She told me I no longer needed it. She stated she had faith in me and she knew I would make a difference in the lives of others.

When I finished making my statement, Detective Hilliard gave me a letter from Mrs. Maggie Wayburne. He told me to read it. He turned off the tape and stood to leave.

Before he departed the room, he stated to me, “Mac, you didn’t kill Mrs. Wayburne. She died in her sleep. Knowing Maggie Wayburne like I do, I think she was lonely and tired of living. I think she wanted to be with her loved ones. You probably saved her from committing suicide, but you gave her something before she died.” He paused and I noticed Detective Hilliard’s eyes were watery. I couldn’t help thinking that was the way of Mrs. Wayburne—always touching the hearts of those who graced her presence.

We looked each other squarely—eye to eye, man to man. And I, for the first time in my life, truly felt like a man. Detective Hilliard concluded his statement. “You made her remember her purpose in life. She died knowing she had saved another life. She died making a difference. She died with a quiet heart, the same way she lived.”

When he left the room, I was there by myself, with a letter in my hand. A letter I was afraid to open, but I did.

Dear Albert Hilliard,

A young man will come in soon and claim he is responsible for my death. But don’t believe him, Albert. He is a nice young man, who was lost, but I know that he is now found. He made my last night on Earth a memorable one. We talked about things I haven’t talked about in a long time—too long to be truthful. Time has finally caught up with me and my Joe and the Almighty want me to come home. So Albert, you have always been good to me and have always put up with me. Even as a young whippersnapper, you always made time for me. I want you to know that recently life has not been that grand, but all of that changed in one night. My last night. Young Mackenzie Stone saved my life, Albert. Many will not understand that, but I know you do. For me, please return the favor and save his life. Give him one more chance and I know he will be the better for it. Sometimes we lose our way in life and we need someone to remind us how good God is and how great He can be. Thank you, Albert, for granting an old lady, one last wish. And when you do my eulogy, let everyone know, I died “Happy!”

That was ten years ago. Today, I am Mackenzie N. Stone, Youth Counselor and Community Activist. As much as I can, I tell the story of Mrs. Margaret “Maggie” Wayburne’s last day on Earth and how she died “Happy.”

Chicago, Illinois 

His routine had been the same Monday through Friday for the past five years. He took two final drags from his cigarette, stomped it into the ground before entering the pool hall and traveled down the six stairs to the main entrance. He had become a creature of habit, and that made him laugh inside. As a special agent for the FBI, he had no routine. Never take the same route to work or home, never shop at the same supermarket, never hang out at the same pub. Unlike local police, who adopted a neighborhood pub as their official hangout . . . always a no-no for federal agents.

During his first two years of retirement, he kept telling himself he needed to make time to find two or three other pool halls to frequent. Though he had plenty of time, he never made time for that. He didn’t know if it was good or bad on his part.

He placed his case on his favorite pool table, the third table in a row of five, and flipped the first latch of the two-latch case before looking up. He was surprised to see a new bartender. In his five years frequenting Harry’s Billiards and Grill, Harry had always informed him when another employee would open the hall. Harry hadn’t called. He had checked his voicemail prior to leaving home; Harry also had his cell phone number. He definitely hadn’t called.

He reached inside his jacket for his Beretta, but before he could pull it out, he felt the first shot enter the left side of his lower back. Before he could swing around, another bullet pierced the back of his right shoulder. He stood as tall as he possibly could to face his assailants. He smiled at the leader of the band of killers.

“We n-n-n-never th-th-th-thought . . . e-ven imagined,” Scott Rooker stuttered, with blood flowing from his mouth. A tear formed in his left eye and he hoped it did not roll down his face. In many ways, however, it was a fitting end to a case that was never solved.

“How could you imagine? Remember, I was an invisible person. Always have been, always will be.” These were the last words former FBI special agent Scott Rooker ever heard. The shot rung loud and he fell back onto his favorite table, the third table in the pool hall, with a hole in the middle of his forehead. 

Houston, Texas 

Special Agents Bonner McGill, Harold Corners and Lawrence Kirkman had been on their stakeout for the past seventy-two hours — around-the-clock surveillance of a Cuban drug ring. They had leased a room in a seedy hotel across the street from the Cubans’ main hangout, another equally seedy hotel.

The agents had alternated eight-hour shifts for the past three days, ensuring at least two agents were awake and on-duty at all times. Special Agent-in-Charge McGill, the senior of the three, lay on the only bed in the small hotel room. Though he had been on his share of stakeouts in his twenty-five years as an agent, he still had trouble sleeping.

His mind could not find a relaxing comfort zone to call home. A place to rest. A place of peace. Peace that could be so hard to find for some and indeed, was hard for SAC McGill.

It had been twelve years and he still hoped he would find that place. He closed his eyes and his mind traveled to a place he called sleep: a turbulent and troubled unconsciousness.

Before his mind could venture to dreamland, a loud bang echoed through the small room. The lead agent’s eyes popped open immediately and within a split second, he had surveyed the room like an experienced agent.

He looked at his fellow agent, Corners, and immediately saw the bullet that rang loudly through the door had found a home in Agent Corners’ back. McGill swung his head around to the door and reached for his FBI-issued nine-millimeter automatic handgun. But before he reached it, he saw a barrage of bullets rip through the torso of his other partner, Agent Kirkman.

Before he could get off his first shot, a bullet penetrated his right bicep. He instinctively dropped his weapon and grabbed his arm with his left hand. He looked again at the door and saw his four aggressors.

“How do, Bonner?” the friendly voice asked as he bent down and picked up McGill’s gun.

“You! How could you? Why?” the bewildered agent asked his aggressor.

“Why not?” was the answer to his question, as a single shot from his own weapon entered his head, right between his eyes.

Columbia, South Carolina 

For the past two years, Doris Northwood had maintained the same routine as president of the First Bank of South Carolina. Everyday, she came out of her second floor office at one-thirty and looked down at the bank operation. She liked doing it after the lunch rush, when the turmoil of serving the bank’s mass of patrons had died down. To her, it was the best benefit of being president of the oldest bank in South Carolina, located in the downtown area of the state’s capital.

Her focus was on the head teller, a position she once held. As an employee with the bank for over fifteen years, she always considered the head teller’s position as her most rewarding. She looked forward to the employee from the Treasury Department arriving exactly five minutes before the bank’s vault automatically opened.

The vault took precisely five minutes to completely open. When the system completed its opening cycle, one of the bank’s security guards would post outside the door. By the time it was opened, the Treasury Department’s courier would have delivered an unspecified amount of treasury bonds and cash, and departed the bank like any other customer conducting banking business. The bonds and cash would then be stored in a safe inside of the vault by the head teller. Only two people had the combination to the safe: the bank president and the head teller. Two hours later, an armored truck from the Federal Reserve Bank would pick up the bonds and cash.

As bank president, now Doris just oversaw the monthly operation from the second floor. She would ensure her head teller put the packages in the vault before the ten-minute time limit expired. At the end of the ten-minute limit, the vault door would automatically close. The door only took two minutes to completely close.

Prior to her head teller storing the packages, she did her usual ritual. She closed her eyes and sucked in her breath, appreciating her good fortune as the first female and African-American president of the downtown branch. Unfortunately, this time she didn’t fully exhale and she never would.

The bullet hit her in the middle of her chest. It was the only shot fired and it got the attention of everyone in the bank. The five bank robbers were dressed in suits and were methodical in their movements, approaching and disarming the security guards first. One of the robbers jumped on top of the bank tellers’ counter, primarily for effect, and wielded his two Glock 30 semi-automatic pistols and told everyone to calm down and be cooperative.

The authoritative voice told everyone if all went well, Miss Northwood would be the only one dying that day. He continued to bark out orders, and the tellers and bank patrons cooperated. One robber went directly to the head teller, gave her a large duffel bag and demanded she put the money from her cash drawer in the bag. She complied. When the robber saw the six thick packages, wrapped in regular brown nondescript paper, he demanded the teller to also put the packages in the duffel bag. She complied.

Another bank robber entered the bank’s vault with another large duffel bag, and returned within a minute.

The whole operation lasted less than three minutes. When the Columbia Police Department arrived on scene and questioned the employees and customers who witnessed the robbery of the First Bank of South Carolina, the only description they received was the robbers wore masks resembling Abraham Lincoln, Frederick Douglass, Poncho Villa, Susan B. Anthony and Robert E. Lee.

Chapter 3 

It was the history that got me sometimes — the various historical events that told a story about life, people, places, organizations and much more. All academy students at Quantico were given a case, a cold case, to investigate as part of their curriculum. These cases ranged from the minor to the major. Every student wanted something simple. During my time as a student, I wanted only one case — the case that included my brother’s murder.

Yep, it was the history that got me sometimes. It was the history Elliot was disseminating to us. It was a history that included my brother, Steve, and his team of fellow agents; a team that reminded me so much of my last band of merry men and one woman. My team included Quentin, Beth, Patrick Conroy and Clayton. Yep, my band of merry men, comrades or renegades; whatever name we were called, we responded.

I listened attentively as Elliot broke down the history of FBI folklore that never made national or local news. This folklore pre-dated CNN, MSNBC and Fox News, and included the murders of agents trying to do their jobs. This history also included the story of Steve Carson and his team’s last case.

“For years, since the creation of the Bureau, agents have sometimes been victims themselves of random crimes or murder sprees. Every so often, we at the Bureau have come to expect that we will be the victims of someone’s random acts of hatred and discord. And even though we may expect it, reality always hits us by surprise. But we deal with it.”

I noticed the deliberation in Elliot’s voice. His even tone was never emotional. I realized with every spoken word that this was personal; personal for a man who didn’t believe in making cases personal. For the second time within a year, the Bureau was working a case that was personal to its deputy director.

My last case with the Bureau involved the murder of potential presidential candidate, Senator Bobby Cowens of Alabama. The senator’s throat was slit from ear to ear in a hotel in Crystal City, right outside the nation’s capital. Attached to his right ear was a photograph of fifteen white teenagers and a lynched black man. My team was tasked to find the murderer of the senator as well as prevent the murders of the remaining members of the lynching party. Ironically, the lynched black man was Elliot’s best friend, Marcus Murray. He was a former FBI operative who was with the Bureau before blacks were called agents.

“Yeah, we deal with it.” Elliot stopped and looked around the room. His eyes stopped at me.

“Deep in the piles of unsolved FBI crimes is a case that many of us wish we could be the ones to solve it. In a case that began in 1982, a total of twenty-one agents were murdered. Agents were killed on stakeouts, in their cars, at stores, jogging and yes, at home. Though we committed unlimited resources to the case, we never found out who was responsible. No person or group took credit for the crimes. As fast as it began, the murder spree stopped. It lasted three months.”

Elliot had our undivided attention, especially mine. Every class of new potential agents was briefed on the infamous 1982 murder spree. But I had actually studied the case a hundred times over. It used to be an obsession of mine. At every opportunity, I visited and re-visited the Bureau’s case library to study the case. Elliot knew that. He had piqued my interest and my anticipation level was higher than it had ever been. Elliot was still looking at me as he began part two of his history lesson, a lesson some of us were already intimately familiar with. It was part two of the case file from hell.

“In 1993, similar crimes against former and present agents began. The first murder was a former Chief of the Criminal Investigation Division. That murder was followed three days later by two teams on stakeouts in Berkeley, California and Richmond, Virginia, being gunned down like members of the mob. After that, we started receiving letters and messages from different groups and individuals, taking credit for the crimes, unlike the 1982 crime spree. Another interesting thing was several of the letters were on point with a lot of the details of the murders.

“And no, we didn’t play the media game. This was our case — personal, family business. This didn’t concern the public. Additionally, this was right after Desert Storm, our first war with Iraq. And that was another thought. Was this payback or Iraqi sympathizers getting revenge? We considered everything.

“We studied every piece of correspondence that came in. If it was a phone call, we checked the voice properties a thousand and one times. We tracked e-mails which was a fairly new entity back then, had handwriting experts check out all hand-written correspondence and broke down every inch of typed communiqué. We could tell you if it came from a typewriter or computer, as well as what kind of typewriter, computer and printer.”

I must have been losing my sense of observation. Elliot took a drink of water and I hadn’t noticed the water pitcher on the desk. He took more than a swallow. He almost completely finished his glass before continuing with his history lesson. His eyes bored into me as he began.

“Over two months had passed since the killings in Richmond and Berkeley. By this time, we had infiltrators in many of the hate and militant groups. Then one day, we got our lucky break. While one of the forensics technicians was checking out one of the letters with infrared light, he noticed a very small skull in the bottom right corner. Above the head of the skull was the word “just.” On the bottom of the skull was the word “cause.” Just Cause. None of us had ever heard of a hate or militant group called Just Cause.

“We put together a dedicated team of forensics technicians to go back and check out all of the correspondence we had received. The more we checked, the more letters we found.”

Elliot finally took his eyes off of me. He surveyed the room, where every eye was glued to him. Several of his attentive audience’s eyes were glassy with anticipation. Elliot had what all of us wanted at one point or another: a captive audience.“

As soon as we thought we had something, the murders started again. Two former agents who were now politicians were killed two days apart from each other. Within a week, four of our agents investigating the case were murdered outside a restaurant after having a late dinner. We couldn’t catch a break. Then the same technician who initially found the skull letter informed us of more bad news. The letters his technicians had found were from different groups. Not only that, but the letters were very detailed about the murders and murder scenes. And the final nail in the coffin for us; the letters were not just detailing the 1993 murder spree, but the 1982 spree as well. The same group or groups were making a statement.

“That cliché — being up shit’s creek without a paddle — that was us. And let me tell you all now, you don’t know how it feels to truly be up the creek until you face a case like this. We didn’t have any information on Just Cause. Additionally, we had agents who had infiltrated the groups that we had received letters from. And yes, we told our agents to try and find out about Just Cause and what it took to become a member. Within days, several of the agents who asked questions came up dead.

“Now for the good stuff. The letters were from the Pure Angels, a Neo-Nazi group; the Black Mavericks; the Deadly Skinheads; and the Red Death of Mercy, an Asian group. We had hate groups working together to kill agents of the FBI.”

Mystery one:

             A man was found murdered Sunday morning.  His wife
immediately called the police

The police questioned the wife and staff and got these answers:

             The wife said she was sleeping.

             The cook was preparing breakfast.

             The gardener was gathering vegetables.

             The maid was getting the mail.

             The butler was polishing shoes in the pantry.

             The police instantly arrest ed the murderer.  Who did it
and how did they know?

Mystery two:

             A man walks into his bathroom and shoots himself right
between the eyes using a real gun with real bullets.

He walks out alive, with no blood anywhere and no, he didn’t miss and he
wasn’t Superman or any other crusader wearing a cape.

             How did he do this?

Mystery three:

Old Mr. Teddy was found dead in his study by Mr. Fiend.  Mr.

Fiend recounted his dismal discovery to the police:

“I was walking by Mr. Teddy’s house when I thought I would just

pop in for a visit. I noticed his study light was on and I decided to
peek in from the outside to see if he was in there. There was frost on
the window, so I had to wipe it away to see inside.

That is when I saw his body.  So I kicked in the front door to

confirm my suspicions of foul play.  I called the police immediately
afterward.”

The officer immediately arrested Mr. Fiend for the murder of Mr.

Teddy.

How did he know Mr. Fiend was lying?

Essence.com interviews Genarlow Wilson.  

In his first print interview since his release, Genarlow Wilson speaks to Essence.com exclusively about the teen-sex scandal that started it all, his time in prison and what’s next.  To read the interview, CLICK HERE.

Since the mid-80s, thousands of black men have been convicted and locked up (many times on first offenses) because they possessed large an amounts of crack under these strict statutes.

It was quickly observed in the drug culture and through prison statistics that whites and Hispanics get busted for powder cocaine three-to-one compared to blacks, but face less jail time under sentencing guidelines for basically the same controlled substance.Currently, there is a 5-year minimum prison penalty for possessing 5 grams of crack (that’s more than an eight ball in the street). While for that same 5-year sentence a defendant would need to possess 500 grams of powder cocaine. That’s a big, drug dealing, bag of cocaine we’re talking about.

Over 5,300 people were sent to jail last year for crack cocaine violations, double the numbers from the early 1990s. But the disparity comes in when you realize that more than 80% of crack offenders are black.

Click here: Supreme Court Looks at Crack Jail Time Discrepancy – Black Voices Blogs

ANCHORAGE, Alaska (Oct. 10) — In the 1994 movie “The Last Seduction,” a femme fatale coaxes her lover into killing her husband for money. Prosecutors say a beautiful stripper obsessed with the film followed the script to its murderous end.

Mechele Linehan, 34, is on trial on charges she masterminded the decade-old slaying of her fiance in hopes of collecting $1 million in insurance. To read more…

CLEVELAND (Oct. 10) – A 14-year-old suspended student, dressed in black, opened fire in his downtown high school Wednesday, wounding four people as terrified schoolmates hid in closets and bathrooms and huddled under laboratory desks. He then killed himself. To read more…

Judge Declares Mistrial in Phil Spector Murder Trial

By Ray McDonald A mistrial was declared September 26 in the murder trial of Phil Spector, after the jury reported a 10-2 deadlock in favor of convicting the … read more