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DeathStroke got us out of every jam.
    You’ve got to understand, the band members in DeathStroke were so drugged up and busy rushing from city to city, we didn’t have the time or memory to care. We were separated—purposefully isolated—from the results of things like fires, destroyed hotel rooms, skirmishes with the law, and relationships with fans that turned into lawsuits.
    An aging Gray Harris served as our gauntlet, handling all the bad press, defusing the accusations, and settling the lawsuits out of court, behind the scenes so we didn’t have to get involved. That’s why he was paid seven figures.

    When former lead guitarist John Scoogs was called to the witness stand, Miami-Dade prosecutor Frank Dooley tugged at his cuffs and licked his chops.
    Scoogs looked good. His black hair was still long and in a ponytail, and he was clean-shaven. He had put on a much-needed few pounds since I last saw him and wore black jeans, a white mock turtleneck, a khaki sport jacket, and dark sunglasses. Hmm. Someone else must be dressing him these days.
    Dooley’s questions covered much of the same ground he’d already been over with other key witnesses. Scoogs confirmed that, yes, I had my own “personal psychic.” Yes, I did a lot of drugs. Yes, I was known to become violent at times, both onstage and off.
    But the next series of questions Dooley pursued began to hit a nerve with me, Scoogs, and, I was sure, the jury.
    “Mr. Scoogs,” Dooley said, taking his time, scanning his notes. “How well did you know Edith Rosenbaum, also known as Madam Endora Crystal—Everett Lester’s personal psychic?”
    “Fairly well,” Scoogs said quietly. “She often traveled with the band, so she became a friend.”
    “And where exactly would Madam Endora stay when she accompanied DeathStroke on the road?”
    “She had her own hotel room, just like each of us did. Our traveling show got so big, we eventually needed thirty or forty rooms at each stop to accommodate band members, tour managers, publicists, staff, and people like Endora.”
    “I see.” Dooley approached the witness stand. “Specifically, Mr. Scoogs, do you recall a stay at the Four Seasons Hotel in Charleston, West Virginia, in 1995 when a discussion ensued between Madam Endora and Everett Lester that centered around the topic of Mr. Lester’s father, Vince?”
    Closing his eyes as if searching the past, Scoogs said, “I remember several conversations like that.”
    “Yes, but do you recall specifically the time I’m referring to in Charleston when Endora attempted to convince Mr. Lester that she was hearing from his dead father?”
    “I…may recall something like that.”
    “Well, Mr. Scoogs, why don’t you stretch your mind a bit and tell the court what you can recall, precisely, about that conversation.” Dooley tugged at his sleeves.
    After staring down at his hands for what seemed like minutes, Scoogs cleared his throat and looked squarely at the prosecutor. “When Endora caught up with us at our hotel in Charleston, I remember her saying to Everett something like, ‘I’ve been walking around all week long with this energy.’ After jockeying around for a long time, she finally got around to telling Everett that the spirit of his dead father had been trying to communicate with her.”
    Instead of a loud uproar, I heard a great deal of movement all at once in courtroom B-3. People shifting positions in their seats. Papers ruffling. Equipment moving.
    “Was this good news or bad news, in Mr. Lester’s opinion?” questioned Dooley.
    “Bad,” Scoogs answered almost before the question was finished. “Everett’s old man was taboo. Too many scars from the past. Vince didn’t want much to do with Everett when he was alive, and Everett definitely didn’t want to communicate with Vince from the dead.”
    “So, what happened?” Dooley strolled toward the jury.
    “Endora was very serious about this whole topic, very emotional. She told Everett, ‘I