Silent Crimes: The Dark Reality Behind the Façade of Project 2025
July 5, 2024
Word on the Street [2012 original with AI background]
Twenty-plus years ago, a woman walked into a nightclub wearing only a trench coat and high heels. She was well-known in the club. Several people knew what she did for a living. Those who knew her as a person knew her to be kind and engaging. I knew her to be shrewd, cautious, and calculating. She did nothing “on a whim” or by accident.
A man who I knew to be a close friend of my editor walked over and said, “I’ll give you an extra $100 if you can get a shot of her with that coat open.”
My stomach turned. “What makes you think I don’t already have it?” I asked.
He laughed and walked away. I went outside and sat on a bench on the front patio. It was late, well after 1:00 in the morning. I was tired. My feet hurt. I could leave and catch a quick nap, but I’d have to be back up by 6:00 to get the boys off to school. I was being paid to stay until at least 2:00, though. The club had a reputation for being the place for the after party after the after party and it was well known that a couple of hip-hop names were in town recording at Usher’s studio. Heaven forbid I miss that if it happened.
The club was all but empty, maybe 20 people scattered, milling around. I had just closed my eyes when I felt a kiss on the top of my head. She sat on the opposite end of the bench, crossed her legs, and lit a cigarette. “You can go on home,” she said. “I won’t tell.”
“I don’t want to miss that late-night action,” I said as I stifled a yawn.
She shook her head. “They’re not coming. Not tonight. I drove by and there were way too many cars at that studio. They’re not going to record a damn thing tonight with that crowd. You’re safe. They’re more likely to hit a Waffle House around 5:00.”
I watched as she took a long drag from her cigarette. “Then, what has you out on a Monday night?”
Another hit on the cigarette before she put it out on the cobblestone floor and lit another. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re being a tease,” I said. “You’ll hand out a few cards, sit here and make the drunks think they have a shot, and then leave just as alone as when you arrived.”
“You’ve been watching,” she said with a grin.
“You’re kind of hard to miss,” I replied, “especially when the club is this empty.”
Her cell phone rang. She pulled the brick from her coat pocket, looked at the number, then rolled her eyes and sent the call to voice mail. “You know, you may be the only one here who knows what’s under this coat.”
“A heart?” I asked.
She looked at her cigarette and flicked the ash off the end. “A human. Honest. Feminine. Probably too damn nurturing for my own good. People see the coat and they think they know what’s there: a high-priced hooker. A drug habit. A homewrecker. A menace to society. Even my clients think that. If they didn’t they wouldn’t be clients. They want a lie, they want something dirty because that’s who they are. They don’t give a shit who I am as long as I spread my legs, take their cash, and don’t tell their wives, board members, or constituents.”
She put out the second cigarette and lit a third. “By the way, that new guy running for mayor that the papers are buzzing about? Don’t bother. He’s dirty money. Feel free to pass that word along. He thinks he’s being shrewd but he’s got way too much laundry and sooner or later someone’s going to recognize his shit-stained tidy whities and his campaign will be over. Month tops, I promise.”
I pulled out some paper from my camera bag and made a note. “Wasn’t he standing next to a preacher just yesterday morning?”
She laughed. “You know as well as I do that every church with more than 300 members is on the take. Hell, you want to know where the bodies are buried? Most of them are in the foundations of those megachurches they keep building. But they want to tell folks that I’m the problem.”
The club’s owner walked by and tapped my shoulder. “Vice is about to hit that new club on the strip. You probably want to get out of the neighborhood before they have all the roads blocked.”
“Do I want to know how you know that?” I asked.
“Just word on the street,” he chuckled. “You know how Republicans are. They want to make sure you see them ‘cleaning things up,’ but not the bribe they took to take down an honest business. Third one this month. He’ll lose his liquor license. The club will close for a week and then come back with ‘new owners.’ It’s all a game.”
“I should probably become invisible, too,” she said as she put out the cigarette.
She walked away as I gathered my gear. “Boss isn’t going to be thrilled. Not a damn thing tonight we can use,” I said as the owner watched her leave.
“Someone told me her daddy was a preacher,” he said as the front door shut behind her.
“Yep, his deacons were her first customers,” I said, “when she was 14. They had to leave town when one of their wives found out. Same thing in the new town, though, and the one after that. She even went to a Bible college on a ‘special’ scholarship. Her dad committed suicide a couple of years ago after a whole human trafficking ring was uncovered. They were using the church to get women into the country illegally.”
“That’s sick,” he said. “What about her mom? Was she in on it?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. She doesn’t talk about her.”
He turned and looked at me. “So, how do you know her so well?”
“We used to go to the same church,” I said.
Why am I sharing this story? Because I was reading over Project 2025 and the same people who are behind that were the people in her Dad’s church, and the college, and the police department. They’re still there, in the churches, city halls, state legislatures, and all the little places where they can wield big power and hide their crimes.
They must be stopped. I have too many stories like hers.
Twenty-plus years ago, a woman walked into a nightclub wearing only a trench coat and high heels. She was well-known in the club. Several people knew what she did for a living. Those who knew her as a person knew her to be kind and engaging. I knew her to be shrewd, cautious, and calculating. She did nothing “on a whim” or by accident.
A man who I knew to be a close friend of my editor walked over and said, “I’ll give you an extra $100 if you can get a shot of her with that coat open.”
My stomach turned. “What makes you think I don’t already have it?” I asked.
He laughed and walked away. I went outside and sat on a bench on the front patio. It was late, well after 1:00 in the morning. I was tired. My feet hurt. I could leave and catch a quick nap, but I’d have to be back up by 6:00 to get the boys off to school. I was being paid to stay until at least 2:00, though. The club had a reputation for being the place for the after party after the after party and it was well known that a couple of hip-hop names were in town recording at Usher’s studio. Heaven forbid I miss that if it happened.
The club was all but empty, maybe 20 people scattered, milling around. I had just closed my eyes when I felt a kiss on the top of my head. She sat on the opposite end of the bench, crossed her legs, and lit a cigarette. “You can go on home,” she said. “I won’t tell.”
“I don’t want to miss that late-night action,” I said as I stifled a yawn.
She shook her head. “They’re not coming. Not tonight. I drove by and there were way too many cars at that studio. They’re not going to record a damn thing tonight with that crowd. You’re safe. They’re more likely to hit a Waffle House around 5:00.”
I watched as she took a long drag from her cigarette. “Then, what has you out on a Monday night?”
Another hit on the cigarette before she put it out on the cobblestone floor and lit another. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re being a tease,” I said. “You’ll hand out a few cards, sit here and make the drunks think they have a shot, and then leave just as alone as when you arrived.”
“You’ve been watching,” she said with a grin.
“You’re kind of hard to miss,” I replied, “especially when the club is this empty.”
Her cell phone rang. She pulled the brick from her coat pocket, looked at the number, then rolled her eyes and sent the call to voice mail. “You know, you may be the only one here who knows what’s under this coat.”
“A heart?” I asked.
She looked at her cigarette and flicked the ash off the end. “A human. Honest. Feminine. Probably too damn nurturing for my own good. People see the coat and they think they know what’s there: a high-priced hooker. A drug habit. A homewrecker. A menace to society. Even my clients think that. If they didn’t they wouldn’t be clients. They want a lie, they want something dirty because that’s who they are. They don’t give a shit who I am as long as I spread my legs, take their cash, and don’t tell their wives, board members, or constituents.”
She put out the second cigarette and lit a third. “By the way, that new guy running for mayor that the papers are buzzing about? Don’t bother. He’s dirty money. Feel free to pass that word along. He thinks he’s being shrewd but he’s got way too much laundry and sooner or later someone’s going to recognize his shit-stained tidy whities and his campaign will be over. Month tops, I promise.”
I pulled out some paper from my camera bag and made a note. “Wasn’t he standing next to a preacher just yesterday morning?”
She laughed. “You know as well as I do that every church with more than 300 members is on the take. Hell, you want to know where the bodies are buried? Most of them are in the foundations of those megachurches they keep building. But they want to tell folks that I’m the problem.”
The club’s owner walked by and tapped my shoulder. “Vice is about to hit that new club on the strip. You probably want to get out of the neighborhood before they have all the roads blocked.”
“Do I want to know how you know that?” I asked.
“Just word on the street,” he chuckled. “You know how Republicans are. They want to make sure you see them ‘cleaning things up,’ but not the bribe they took to take down an honest business. Third one this month. He’ll lose his liquor license. The club will close for a week and then come back with ‘new owners.’ It’s all a game.”
“I should probably become invisible, too,” she said as she put out the cigarette.
She walked away as I gathered my gear. “Boss isn’t going to be thrilled. Not a damn thing tonight we can use,” I said as the owner watched her leave.
“Someone told me her daddy was a preacher,” he said as the front door shut behind her.
“Yep, his deacons were her first customers,” I said, “when she was 14. They had to leave town when one of their wives found out. Same thing in the new town, though, and the one after that. She even went to a Bible college on a ‘special’ scholarship. Her dad committed suicide a couple of years ago after a whole human trafficking ring was uncovered. They were using the church to get women into the country illegally.”
“That’s sick,” he said. “What about her mom? Was she in on it?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. She doesn’t talk about her.”
He turned and looked at me. “So, how do you know her so well?”
“We used to go to the same church,” I said.
Why am I sharing this story? Because I was reading over Project 2025 and the same people who are behind that were the people in her Dad’s church, and the college, and the police department. They’re still there, in the churches, city halls, state legislatures, and all the little places where they can wield big power and hide their crimes.
They must be stopped. I have too many stories like hers.
Share this:
Like this:
You might also like