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A
Benin
Babe, a Nigerian Governor, and Me
By WayoGuy
It was sunny in
Washington
, the day she came to my office, carrying a large brown envelope. This girl was hot. Let me repeat this: this girl was hot.
My stupid eyes immediately began to embarrass me with their solicitous wandering: red-hot lipstick, red-hot finger nail polish, red-hot short skirt as tight as a second skin, red-hot blouse hugging her bosom so stringently that the twins on her chest were virtually suffocating. Poor me.
I had difficulty concentrating on what she was saying. What was it? Oh yes, she was saying that she needed a lawyer and that she was in some type of serious trouble. In my mind I was thinking that, with her looks and dressing, I was the one in trouble now as I managed to blurt out, rather unprofessionally, “Are you really in trouble…?” my voice shaking.
“Yes, I need a lawyer, and I need it quickly”, Then she leaned forward and asked in a whisper “Can I trust you?” As she leaned closer, a whiff of her perfume sent my stupid nostrils sniffing shamelessly. “Can I trust you?” she repeated.
“Eemm, sorry, eemm don’t you think you should first introduce yourself?” I forced the words out of my mouth, with my mind and eyes still wandering.
“Yes, of course, my name is Red Rum, but they call me the Benin Babe” she said, looking into my eyes and blinking rapidly. Before I could ask any further question, she looked at her watch, jumped up and told me that she was late for a meeting with the Governor. She said she would return the next day at 12:00 noon.
I recall listening to the rhythm of the footsteps as she walked away in hills at least five inches high. They were music to my ears. I further recall wishing she would come back as she promised. I recall sitting down for thirty minutes afterwards wondering why, unlike previous vixens who had breezed into my office on the pretense of seeking legal representation, this one caught me off guard.
That same afternoon, she called me, from a public phone. She was agitated. She told me she had forgotten the large brown envelope at my office. The envelope was addressed to a Nigerian Governor at his
New York
vacation home address. She pleaded with me to help her mail that envelope. It was urgent, she said, that the envelope be posted that same afternoon via Federal Express because the Governor was expecting it the next day. She reminded me that the Federal Express Office was across the street from my office. She would certainly reimburse me for the mailing expenses, she said, when she saw me the next day. Before I could say a word, she hung up. I took the envelope across the street and mailed it.
At exactly 12:00 noon the next day, Red Rum was at my office as she had promised. She was carrying a small cardboard box, some gift-wrapping papers, and a pair of scissors.
This time, she was wearing a very tight red dress that highlighted her derriere and her full chest in ways that I am ashamed to report considering my Catholic education. Besides, my stupid eyes were professionally mandated to see only the client’s case and not her dress. But, in spite of the dictates of professional ethics, my eyes had never been more wayward. Poor me.
“Can you keep a secret?” she asked me again, as she threw $10,000.00 in One Hundred Dollar bills on my desk, startling me.
“You’ve asked me this question before”, I said. “Can you please tell me what you want?” Even as I asked her the question, my mind was not on what she had to say. I could not concentrate.
Instead of answering my question, she placed the cardboard box on my desk, bent forward, revealing the twins on her chest in all of their glory, and started wrapping the gift box. As she wrapped, and as I sat there mesmerized, she handed me the scissors and held the wrapping papers tightly round the box several times, asking me to cut each time, before holding down the wrapping papers with pieces of scotch tape. I held the scissors like a dutiful apprentice, instead of a lawyer, while I waited for each opportunity to cut, my stupid eyes wandering in the wrong directions.
“Please put the scissors in my handbag”, she casually directed in a soft voice. I obeyed and she closed the bag.
Done with the wrapping, she hung her handbag on her shoulder, lifted the gift-wrapped box and asked if I would walk her to the elevator.
“No Miss”, I said with a note of finality. “What is this all about? What is the legal problem that brought you to my office? And what is the purpose of the money you dropped on my desk?”
Like the proverbial temptress, Red Rum quickly adorned a helpless look, an injured look, the unspoken I-am-sorry look, that forgive-me type of look that, if you are a man, affects you more than words. I melted. She sat down and whispered that she was the Governor’s agent. She explained that the Governor wanted to ensure that I was trustworthy before hiring me to represent him in a multimillion-dollar venture in
New York
. She was just being careful, she said. That was a fair explanation, I thought, as I walked her to the elevator.
“I will let you know the Governor’s decision in two weeks. Keep the money as a good faith deposit; they are Ten Thousand Dollars,” she said.
“That’s fine”, I said. “That’s fine.”
As she got into the elevator, she looked at my shoes, commented on how stylish and shiny they were and casually asked me my shoe size. Size Twelve, I told her, and I volunteered that it was a Kenneth Cole brand as the elevator closed and she waived.
To say that I was anxious to see Red Rum and possibly the Governor in two weeks or at least talk to them is to put it mildly. The seed was sown and it germinated in my head and soul. I waited for the phone call. To compound my yearning, I had, out of respect for her privacy, not even bothered to ask Red Rum for her telephone number. One week. Two weeks.
On the third week, I received a call from Red Rum. She was calling from
New York
. It was
New York
area code and telephone number that displayed on my telephone Caller Identification. She said she was calling from the Governor’s house. Would I please catch the next plane leaving
Washington
at 3:15 p.m. to
New York
for a meeting so that we would discuss the very private business? The Governor was waiting for me. I wanted at least a hint of the type of business but she would not tell me. Money for my expenses, she said, was not a problem. She insisted that the Governor was leaving for
Nigeria
that evening from
New York
and therefore could not wait.
This was the strangest business proposition I had ever encountered. Suddenly, this whole business seemed too crazy for a professional like me. Finally, out of the blue, I screwed up enough nerve for a short display of bravado and told her that before I would agree to leave
Washington
(a) I had to speak with the Governor, and (b) he had to tell me the nature of the business. And I hung up.
She called back almost instantly and whispered, conspiratorially, that she had One Million Dollars in cash waiting for me as my legal fee and, forgive me Reverend Fathers, that she would be alone at the house all evening after the Governor had left for
Nigeria
. My heart pounding, I quickly took down the address of the house, told my secretary that I was gone for the day, and took a taxi to
Washington
National
Airport
for the 3:15 p.m. flight to
New York
.
In
New York
, I caught a taxi to the address … I walked confidently and happily to the front door and pressed the door bell several times. Thinking that I was at the wrong address, when no one came to the door, I took out the piece of paper on which I had written it back in
Washington
. It was the correct address alright. I gave the door a gentle push. It gave way. The door was slightly open. With the door slightly ajar, I put my head through and called out the name of Red Rum. No answer.
Afraid to go in, I sat on the steps of the door, not sure what to do. One hour later, still sitting there, nobody made an exit or entrance. I summed up some courage to get up, push open the door again, and I walked in. My heart stopped: right there on the floor of the living room was the dead body of a man with a pair of scissors stuck in the left side of his chest. I ran out of the door, panting. I caught a taxi from the street back to the airport and flew back to
Washington
.
I was picked up by the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) one week later. And the newspaper article, the next day, read:
An arrest has been made in the homicide of the Nigerian Governor who was murdered a week ago at his
New York
residence. A
Washington
lawyer, also from
Nigeria
, Mr.
Nam
Noc was picked up yesterday by the FBI from his
Washington
home. According to the arrest documents, the suspect’s fingerprints were found on the scissors used to fatally stab the Governor. The FBI forensic experts also report that the suspect was in New York on the day of the murder, as shown on the flight manifest of a local airline and his fingerprints were on the front door of the victim’s house; that a telephone call had been placed from the dead man’s residence to the suspect’s law firm the same day he was murdered; that shoe prints at the scene of the murder matched the suspect’s shoe size and a pair of shoes was found at his home matching the brand that left the prints; and finally, the experts confirmed, through a surveillance video obtained from a Washington office of the Federal Express, that the suspect mailed an envelope, containing a threatening letter, to the Governor about three weeks before the murder, the envelope having been discovered in the hand of the dead body. The murder is made even more sensational by the fact that the murdered man was wanted in his home country for embezzlement of One Hundred Million Dollars ($100,000,000) of public funds.
As the international media frenzy swirled over my head, all I could think of was how stupid I was. How stupid I was. How stupid I was. Now I need a lawyer. How would you advise me to begin my defense/ How? Poor me.
(Stay tuned for the next installment, part two, next week).
WayoGuy@aol.com
(
Washington
,
DC
lawyer)
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Posted by Robot| 21.03.2007 08:26