The questions came right after another—like a continuous fastball in a major league game. Brandy was up to bat and she couldn’t afford to strike out.
It was imperative to the feds that they found out who this mystery man was. They continued to pressure her. They wanted a name, but Brandy didn’t give it to them. There was, of course, a name she did know—Maserati Meek—but she refused to tell it to the feds.
The FBI was relentless. Brandy was their first solid lead, and they were willing to drain her dry for anything leading to the whereabouts of Jessica and others that were involved with terrorists.
“When was the last time you spoke to or had contact with Jessica?” another agent asked her.
She sighed. “Honestly, it was at club Sane.”
“So you were there the night of the bombing?”
She nodded.
Officer Spielberg felt this was it. She was about to come forward with some relevant information. She had to know something critical. She was there. She had been in contact with the suspect.
“Jessica picked the club and set up everything.”
“The bombing?”
“No, we didn’t know anything about the bombing. I swear. She set up a party for us. Actually it was supposed to be a memorial for a friend that was recently killed. And it was like a peace treaty between us because we were beefin’ for a moment, so I guess she wanted to make things right wit’ us, y’all feel me?”
They were listening.
Brandy continued with, “The party was expensive, so I knew her new man helped pay for it. We all were supposed to wear red and white, you know, to honor my nigga that died. The whole thing was strange to us.”
“What time did you and your friends leave the party?” Officer Spielberg finally threw in a question.
“We left at different times. Eshon and I left first. We didn’t see anything strange that night. We all were having fun.”
“And this mystery man dating Jessica—he never showed up that night?”
“Nah, he didn’t. He always kept himself away from us for some reason.”
Brandy felt the urge to get high again. Her earlier high was wearing off because of the intense interrogation. Some potent Kush was needed right now. Dealing with the FBI was nerve-wracking. She felt at any moment, they were going to arrest her and drag her out the apartment and have her detained. She couldn’t stop them. She was just some young ghetto bitch trying to survive in the world she was born into. She’d made some dangerous and poor choices in her life. Now it felt like those choices were finally catching up to her.
There were more questions. The agents observed her body language. They locked eyes with her several times and looked for any clues that she was lying to them. But so far they felt she had been truthful.
“When was the last time you spoke or were in contact with Eshon?” they asked.
“That night. We were all in shock about what had happened. I mean, we were just fuckin’ there. It could have been us in that bombing too. We went to her cousin’s crib in Brooklyn.”
“Where in Brooklyn?”
“Bed-Stuy.”
Everything she said was jotted down. Brandy was ready for them to disappear so she could smoke again and then breathe. Her body felt stifled by their presence alone.
Officer Spielberg had some questions for her. “Do you have any pictures of Eshon?”
“I don’t.”
Spielberg prodded more. “Really? No selfies on your phone? Nothing on social media?”
Brandy thought quick. “Naw, I don’t really fuck with Facebook. Too much drama, ya feel me?”
“Well, can you describe her to us?”
“She’s about five-three, short dark hair with black eyes, petite, and pretty. She’s in her mid-twenties.” It was an inaccurate description of her friend.