C.C. LaVOIX'S TRUTH BASED on FICTION

By B G Evans

When Detroit native Carmen Caruthers stumbles upon a 2011 best-selling novel, she finds herself submerged in a torrent of research and memories. Trudging through nearly three decades of her own writings to reveal the new authors’ infringement upon her work, Caruthers is reminded of her first love–the inspiration of her initial writings, and a missing hard drive...both of which she had long forgotten.

Tormented by the violation of her work, excavated emotions, and the unwillingness of any lawyer to take on a cyber crime of this stature, penniless Caruthers sets out to write the wrong and ultimately find her voice. Penned in the name of her alter ego, the final draft of her tell-all story and its publication followed by growing interest is enough for one attorney to eventually take her case. Set in present day time, C.C. LaVoix’s TRUTH Based on Fiction is the first in a trilogy of sorts that exposes the ill-doings of Christian Martins and Sarah Anastasia Charles, the husband and wife authors, and the real Detroit Connection within their fiction. The story largely evolves around the courtroom proceedings of the writer’s claim, while underlining the lawsuit are the real events which spawned it: Emotional conflicts of love and life for the African-American writer and the copious yet dubious cyber affiliated means and ways by which two of her most championed stories were stolen and sold as mainstream erotica.

A mysterious and thrilling account of a writer’s revenge, C.C. LaVoix’s TBOF is a novel that speaks to the heart of all serious writers and the growing epidemic of infringement and plagiarism allowed through cyber crimes and the various intrusive applications which support them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: B G Evans
• Release date: Jul 9, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311594129

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C.C. LaVoix's TRUTH BASED on FICTION

A Novel by B.G. Evans

Some names in this book have been changed to protect the privacy of the individuals involved.

Published by B.G. Evans, The Lion's Voice at Smashwords

Copyright 2014 B.G. Evans

All Smashwords books are sold DRM-free, without copy protection or encryption.

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For my parents who showed me just how savage the jungle is.

For my children who gave me reason to be tame and survive.

And for my grandfather, Samuel Evans, who foresaw my redemption.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me…and with that let me first give honor and praise to the Almighty. This journey has been nothing less than difficult; however, it is by the grace of God and those who have stood and continue to stand in my support that I have been able to endure. I’d like to thank first my children who have lost me for the last two years in whatever this all is to be. I thank you for your patience, your encouragement and your undying faith in me. Without you, not only would this might not have been possible but it surely might not have been necessary. To my parents, thank you for the paradigms of your design –even when I could make neither head nor tails of them, I find myself delivered to a stage of acceptance even if not understanding. Without you’re your being you, I surely would not have been able to be me. Thank you and know that I do love you.

To friends and family who believed, I thank you for your love and support. To those who weren’t so sure, I thank you for just letting me exist in my moment.

To those of you who doubted–oh, ye of little faith, I implore that you wait and watch; you are liable to learn a thing…or two. And, of course, a great big Detroit gutter end shout-out to my assailants. You have catapulted my endeavors into what I have always hoped for…something big. For that, I truly thank you. To my mother’s eldest sisters’ youngest son, in all of this you have been my biggest disappointment; but on the contrary, no surprise.

Finally…to my dark and beautiful knight: Thank you for being the constant in my life and in my love…no matter when, what, where or how!

CONTENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

RELATED READINGS—A TRILOGY of SORTS

PROLOGUE

EPILOGUE

THE SCORE

PROLOGUE

That unforgettable day; it’s been with her all these years, he thought.

He recalls his having sat on her sofa with mixed emotions swiftly beginning to overtake him: Lust, anxiety, selfishness; he couldn’t be sure. Why can’t she just be still and let me say what I have to say? How is it that she still affects me? Gut-twisting sensation causes him to clench his teeth tightly as he wants to give nothing away. She’s making small talk; but nothing registers. Her scent is strong and intoxicating. There is an unwelcomed recollection of its coveted appeal to so many; and, his desire to preserve it for himself, alone.

Finally, it hits him. That which he had come to do: To tell her the truth about what’s going on in his life. Still, a torrent of memories rushes to remind him of his casual attempts to make it happen with her—the hope that she would allow him, before his making the slightest commitment; his insatiable wanting to wade discreetly in her good feeling. He couldn’t now; there were other plans. She wasn’t a part of those plans.

The vibrancy that shone in her eyes at his arrival is replaced with a lethargic gaze. He wants to speak but her mother is calling again and it’s clearly agitating her. She knows that something is wrong. But her mom is being overbearing; every five minutes she needs something. He wishes they could be in a more private place; it’s hard enough to have to say what he needs to say. Now, her mom is rattling off to-dos; her lethargy turns to spite. Before he knows it, he is forewarning her about ever exhibiting that kind of behavior with him. Just do it. Don’t speak. All he could think about was her insolence.

When she returns her attention to him, he stands somewhat instinctively synchronized with the lifting of her head and eyes. As he walks toward the door, she asks what he had come to tell her. Nonchalantly, he says it was nothing that can’t wait and encourages her that they’ll talk soon. To think I underestimated her.

An eerie look covers him. Whoa! He flips quickly through the pages of The Reader’s Rowe magazine; his heart is pounding. He sits and begins reading avidly, glancing ever so often at her picture in the inset of the article. She’s just as beautiful as he last remembers. No way, he mutters aloud. This all sounds like us. Could it be that I was her inspiration? He inhales deeply and slowly, remembering and savoring her familiar scent.

CHAPTER ONE

Flashes pop wildly as I twist and turn in an attempt to shy away from the cameras. With no sun in sight on this gloomy gray Wednesday, I still hold one hand up to shield myself—and in protest, since my other hand is tightly being squeezed. I look at my son and he gives me a reassuring smile. He has kept his promise. He said that he’d be there with me every step of the way; and, he is. Surely, the playing of Robin Thicke’s latest released CD along the way was a big plus for making him comfortable, but when I assigned No Compass or Map to repeat, I could tell he was goaded a little at hearing it so many times. But just as if we were cheering on the Michigan Wolverines, when the song began we were in unison; and by the time we heard the repetitive line of You can’t keep what you steal, we were fired up. However, now that the ride and the music had subsided, the steps we were taking amounted to nothing more than mere shuffles as we move through the herd of reporters and gawkers—body to body and toe to heel, toward the courthouse façade. I am just thankful that my daughters are not here. Lord knows they do not possess the even-keeled resonance of their brother. To have fired them up and then brought them to this would have had no chance of ending well. I could clearly envision either of them becoming combative with such an ordeal.

We move hastily as pole extended microphones hover above in hopes of catching mutters of what should be unspoken. There are many supporters evidenced by screams and poster board messages. But there are cynics, as well. Regardless of how few, they yell, and similarly display, expletives which aim to demean my ability to write, to create, and ultimately challenge my audacity to accuse a couple who had at least worked in the business—scripts, production, but above all a couple with connections. Who was I to accuse seemingly accredited people? Who am I? Why me? If they only knew how many times I had asked myself those questions. A former housewife and a mother who had done nothing more than to transfer her fantasies of love, suffering, and wanting to ink; who’d be interested in what I have to say?

Inked words that poured from me for over thirty years, telling stories of what I wished to be, of what I longed to know, and how I wished to feel. Descriptions of environments and details of those realities I wished to change. Some serving as manuscripts, poems and even journal entries, but writings all the same which served the main purposes of sustaining and fortifying my mental equilibrium, and providing an escape from what, outside of maturing and raising my children, was pretty much humdrum. A culmination of direct and indirect experiences which had or had not played a part in shaping my life. Writing was my therapy. My way of self-medicating without the excessive binging on drugs and alcohol which often occurred at those times when I took a hiatus from my pen or computer for whatever reasons. Back then, the need to write far outweighed the need to be published.

But now, and for some time, much of what has been therapeutic for me has been exposed. That which I had been reluctant to submit relentlessly has been revealed to myriad seekers—seeders and leeches. Many of whom have fed, and feed, on my outpour; my talent, the talent I was never really sure I had. Deep in my heart I know that there is no need to be angry at all of them. True craftsmen are easily motivated. However, true artists sustain an ethical integrity that will not allow them to directly pilfer another’s work. Even I read very few novels for fear of having what I read recur at some later date and my claiming it as my own–my mind is photographic in that way. I deeply feared any publisher ever telling me that I was unoriginal. Still, I can easily realize how very challenging it must be having entry to such a catacomb of tales and words—forbidden though it might be to take from it, and not be inspired.

Rather than in another’s written words, I find my inspiration to write from words spoken or sang, in addition to experiences of my own or others. A particular situation shared by a friend, or simply one line in a song can reel me into creating or recreating a fantastic moment in my life—within any of its stories. Much of any inspiration I’ve had is invested in two champion manuscripts. Two somewhat dissimilar love stories polarized in assimilating the one story of my love for one man. Two stories fictional in their being anything close to what really happened, but true in their characterization of personalities, alter egos, and the emotions portrayed; my babies. Interactions with them are never anything less than a family get-together with characters that are just as old as—and older than, my real children with whom, they have grown and evolved just the same but remain somewhat ageless.

Now, those stories have been stolen from me. Stolen by a couple—not willing to settle for mere inspiration as other who have been inadvertently privy to my work, but obsessed with a need to move from the dim background of being mere laypersons within their field into the limelight which shines on its iconic forerunners and who up until recently have never shown any ability to do so. A couple who, like the proud parents of a child sprung from years of infertility, is unbelievably cradling and exhibiting this new miracle—bred from my creation, as if it were their very own. Imagine someone kidnapping–stealing, or even taking the life of, any of your children. It is an unbearable thought regardless if one takes that child from the hospital nursery before your having a real chance to know it, or takes it after years of your nurturing it only for it to become an unsuccessful product of you—it’s still your child. Even if that child had run away or fallen victim to being detached from where it truly belonged, the desperate wanting of a child of your own is no excuse for discovering one displaced from another and deciding to take it as your own.

This is it, a reporter shouts. Ms. Caruthers, how do you feel?

How much do you think they’re going to award you? another asks.

I am feeling nauseous as the voices invade my head. The piece of bacon and half a slice of toast I put down only a couple of hours ago are failing to support the nearly two pots of coffee I’ve drank. Just as those questions try to digest in my turning stomach, I hear another reporter ask: Are you able to substantiate access, Ms. Caruthers? The question staggers me until I feel the digging pressure of my ring as my hand is squeezed even tighter. At last, we are ascending the steps of the courthouse and a swarm of officers rush to hold reporters and paparazzi at bay. Behind the blackened tint of the oversized shades donning my face, I briefly close my eyes and pray that I am surefooted in my ascent.

Access is the key element in proving most cases of plagiarism and copyright infringement. Regardless if one can prove ownership and authenticity, similarities, and assimilation, it is too often one’s inability to substantiate access which prevents one from recouping any damages or self-respect. I had been able to prove those first elements irrefutably—long before any lawyer would even believe me; but I have been informed that today will be the first day in determining whether I will prevail with the last two. We are sticking to the assumption of access and my lawyers are very confident that damages will ensue.

In what has seemed like longer than necessary of trying to ascend the courthouse steps, we are finally inside. However, I am in no way feeling at ease as that last question replays itself in my mind like an old and favorite song on a mixed CD. I stop in my tracks, placing my free hand on my chest. Give me a second, I say to those surrounding me.

It’s only downhill from here, one of several attorneys, whose name I can’t recall, assures me and pats me on my shoulder. I am reminded that I now have a seemingly ever growing team of representation.

Noticing the slight movement of my hand as I begin to massage my chest, my son asks: You’re sure you’re okay? When another lawyer attempts to reach for me and pull me on, he shoots her a cold look which makes her reconsider.

I’m fine, I say and it almost seems odd to hear my voice so clearly. I touch his face and reassure him again, I’m okay. Another squeeze of my other hand gives me strength and the several faces huddled around me disperse. The floor opens up and I am magnetically pulled to resume my stride as we head for the elevators. I guess I thought our arriving an hour early would have avoided all that, but…

…Impossible, offers Gerry, my lead attorney. "We got top exposure last night—transcontinental, the evening news, the late news, and we know we’ve got it this morning. Like Todd says: It is downhill, but only in terms of the case. It’s close to being over much sooner than ever expected. Everything else is uphill. That crowd outside is only the beginning. What comes next are the talk show appearances, newspaper and magazine articles, he says, stopping to depress the elevator button and witness my smirk. Not to mention that seemingly never-ending ride to the top of the New York Times Bestseller list and, who knows, maybe you’ll get your own movie deal—the talk is that you’re headed that way." He gave me a very confident smile.

The elevator opens and we file inside. When the doors close, I remove my shades and allow myself to adjust to the darker view. Inwardly, I am still smirking at Gerry’s last gesture—his confident smile. I recall that time when he had been no different than those cynics we had just passed. Like the other lawyers I had consulted, he looked at me oddly and questioned: What would make them want to steal from you? Having already fulfilled the initial required elements of pursuing a copyright case, I had been certain that any lawyer would jump at the opportunity to represent me. Gerry’s was the final legally knowledgeable face that convinced me I was wrong. Who are you? What have you ever published? Why would they steal from you? Those were the questions he asked and asked again, knowing that they would be crucial for the defense, and before dropping that dreaded inevitable one on me: How did they get access?

Subsequently, I could only answer that I am nobody special, from nowhere in particular. I’m not famous. While I’ve written much, I’ve published nothing; and lastly, I really have no clue as to why they stole what was mine. But as for how they got access, I had to laugh. It still remains excruciatingly unbelievable to me that so many lawyers—especially those who are active on the east and west of ocean coastlines and in melting pot cities, are oblivious to twenty-first century crimes–cyber crimes. Surely, it is time for some new precedents. Technology soars at a pace up to which most cannot keep. Billions of people have the ability to access billions of things, if they want them; one just needs to be technologically savvy. Identities, bank accounts, email—nothing is safe anymore; every lawyer knows at least that much. But, a few of the lawyers whom I had contacted before Gerry laughed at me, vowing not to play any part in a conspiracy theory. The key is and will always be access.

Without exactly refusing to believe that my writings had somehow ended up in the bowels of cyber space—from where we all know everything is ripped off, there remained those lawyers who were still unwilling to challenge a publishing house of such magnitude as Off the Cuff Publishing. Even Gerry was reluctant in tackling it, but he was the one who had at least been willing to get me started. Having given me several case reviews on plaintiffs who successfully and unsuccessfully pointed and shook an accusatory finger, Gerry told me what I needed to do to get a judge to issue a cease-and-desist order. The task literally consumed me; it was overwhelming. Beyond his initial encouragement there was very little communication with him. I totally understood. There I was without a dime to my name to spare; surely I couldn’t expect him to hold my hand at some astronomical cost per hour to be paid with dollars I may never see. So, I trudged along, alone. First through the authors’ book of stories, and then through nearly thirty years of my own writings and all of the detailed similarities which told me that their stories were mine. It was a taxing process but nonetheless one which proved that I wasn’t merely speculating—my work had been compromised.

A decade into the millennium and a time when more than twenty years of writings can be stored on a gadget no bigger than a cigarette lighter, I found myself shuffling through dozens of 3.5 floppy disks, random printouts, and manuscripts—some coffee-stained and others held together by the holed and trailing perforated edges of continuous paper. In many ways it was beautiful. The nostalgia that overtook me as I came across things which I’d written so long ago was overwhelming; the little things—poems, reflective pieces, and a few one-page beginnings of what I hoped would be new manuscripts. Even more beautiful was seeing and realizing that, had I been more committed, I really could’ve turned any of them into something good enough for publishing, today. Back then in the late eighties and the early nineties—when I first chartered those storylines, I would have surely been in sync with a very popular Parliament tune: The roof and everything else would have been torn off its foundations.

America wasn’t ready. The world wasn’t ready; but why not? It was just my uncomplicated words serving as opening acts for numerous headlining underlying messages. Messages which heal, comfort, rationalize, and encourage; those that speak to the enigmas of life and love in a black and white photograph—words which always take you from the bottom to the top. I could actually see how I had written myself out of a chaotic existence—spurred by a troubled childhood and adolescence, into becoming someone more than that.

This way, David, my other frontline attorney, motions his hand northwardly as we exit the elevator. We proceed along a hall of vaulted ceilings and high arching windows, reaching to rise to the building’s command. The windows are seemingly footed by mahogany benches opposite paneled walls of equal grain which bear portraits of distinguished persons of law. We’re in there, today, he continues as we pass an inset of double doors. Another fifteen or so yards and he stops in front of a single door. Before touching its handle, he looks to Gerry.

Dave and I would like a moment alone with Carmen, Gerry says to the others. After you, Carmen, he tells me and then extends his hand as David opens the door. The four others aptly fall back.

For the first time since getting out of the car this morning, both my hands are freed. Inside the room, I wring them anxiously—or perhaps achingly, with the unbidden fear of being alone. Of course, Gerry and David are here, but they are here because of the case. They are not with me in the sense of knowing what I truly suffer, or even being prepared to see me through if suffering prevails. They are only with me inasmuch as any attorney can represent its client; in hoping and trusting that a client’s alleged claims prove truthful and profitable. For them, this is a very big risk. If my claims prevail, it will be the prosperous beginning of a beautiful and rich friendship to be endured for years to come. However should those claims fall short, the particulars of my case will be written up much like the ones that Gerry afforded me for guidance, his unsuccessful involvement will be a measly memory of having once been part of something big and having made a mere acquaintance.

How are you? Gerry asks me with quizzical eyes that focus on my fretful hands.

I’m good, I assure him. Why are the others the left out?

We thought…we should take a few minutes to…go over what’s going to happen today, David responds. It’s going to get rough, especially since we’re…

…We’re putting you on the stand, Carmen, Gerry blurts out, saving his partner from himself.

But, I thought that would happen later—much later, I say. You don’t think it’s too soon?

No, not at all, offers Gerry. Like I said, this case is much closer to being over than any of us ever thought it would be. Carmen, what you did has catapulted this thing over the majority of obstacles we were certain that we’d have to face. With that done, the judge and the jury are looking somewhat fed up with the ineffective arguments from the defense. You’ve left little doubt about the capability of this crime. The research you did before contacting any lawyer, it alone, has raised eyebrows and is making them squirm.

What about the things those people were shouting and asking outside? Questioning those in authority or in the know was something the old folks didn’t think you should do: You were supposed to listen to the things told to you by your doctors, lawyers, clergymen and the police. Although I’ve been known to act much older than my years, I wasn’t that old—I had a right to ask about anything which related to me, especially if I were paying for it. I look at both of them, one and then the other. There’s still a lot of damn skepticism out there.

Gerry waves his hand toward the window and holds it there. All those people outside, wanting to know the how and the why, mean nothing—they’re mere puppets, strung along by the masters of controversy and conspiracy who really can’t afford to let something like this come to light, he says and then retracts his arm to count on his fingers: Booksellers, TV moguls, record labels and movie makers who know that, once this case is won, a shitload of scrutiny is going to befall them. They are the ones behind the rise in skepticism.

We’ve had the authors by the balls since the cease-and-desist order, David contributes.

And since then, they haven’t been able, or willing, to refute a thing. They’ve taken the fifth and barely show up in court. Just like in those interviews they were giving in their glory, they’ve had very little to nothing to say, continues Gerry.

David moves to the conference table and pulls out a chair for me to sit. The gesture leads me to assume that I am looking flushed. When I tuck my hair behind my ear and oblige him, he places his hands firmly on my shoulders. It’s time for you to say something, plain and simple.

"Enough with this BS of their examining and cross-examining the facts we’ve presented and the experts we’ve put on the stand. They are trying to play that game just long enough to luck up and cause a mistrial, or get a dismissal.