When you watched that FBI film, he always said, you could see it was a set-up. Everything was grey and shadowy. That woman Rasheeda, the dynamite dresser with the gift of the gab, the one he had given city funds to for a children's fashion programme, sat on the bed, egging him on. And there he stood, Marion Barry, by the window of Room 727 in the Vista Hotel, where the light fell on his tall commanding frame and the smoke coming up in fine wreaths from the crack-pipe in his hand. Then came a crash and a clatter and the agents rushing in in their helmets. They offered to read him his rights, but almost all he could growl was "Bitch set me up."
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