the evidence indicates that Sahel Kazemi shot a sleeping Steve McNair in the right temple, then shot him three more times, then shot herself.
Evidently it didn’t occur to the easy-going, two-timing (and now it seems three-timing and who knows how-many-more-timing) McNair that there are certain women whose affections you don’t mess around with.
The man is a respected athlete, a donor to many charities and an esteemed philanthropist in Nashville. She is a 20 year-old waitress from a broken home.
He is rich and married with a wife plus three kids and one illegitimate son.
He also has a love nest he shares with a fellow football player where they can bring their whores and concubines for an occasional f_.
After meeting the waitress when out on the town with his “posse,” he chats her up and she becomes his next conquest.
The waitress, who left her Florida step-home at 17 and moved to Nashville, falls for the “my wife and I are getting a divorce” rap and sees herself as the next Mrs. McNair. Likely he leads her to believe she will be just that, but without exactly saying so. Not having hung out with whores regularly, nor having been a whore herself, she cannot see the classic married-man hustle. She has been dating the same boy friend since she left Florida four years before at 17.
More than a little gullible, she cultivates the fantasy, and tells her friends and family (!) about him, explaining that she isn’t just a whore, she is the future Mrs. McNair, that he loves her, and that he is getting a divorce from his wife.
Of course he has no intention of marrying her and needs to wind the relationship back a notch, since she isn’t willing to settle for “whore of the month” and is getting a bit messy about things. Perhaps her conservative religious upbringing? In any case, discussions turn to tears and fights as reported by the neighbors. “Why is it,” he asks himself, “that white girls get so messy and won’t come to some reasonable accomodation? Maybe a big new car?”
Eventually, she realizes just what she is (having taken the car) and what he is, and decides to try to persuade him one more time to do the right thing. If he is unpersuaded, she will kill herself, but not before killing him. She does exactly that.
When his fellow love-nester shows up with HIS Whore of the Month and sees the blood, he gets the hell out of the apartment, knowing full well what happened and why. He calls a mutual friend who is not a co-philanderer and love nester who calls the police immediately.
Let’s be honest here. McNair has been chasing girls for years. He had a system and a coterie of enablers, including his wife. At 36, with four kids, he is still hitting the bars on weekday nights, leaving his whores in the wee hours and arriving home around dawn.
His wife put up with it in exchange for the money and status, as long as he kept his whoring out of the newspapers. Unfortunately, he screwed with the wrong girl this time and got his sorry philandering a__ blown away.
And now his four boys are going to spend the rest of their lives wondering about their lying cheating whoremaster father, what other lies he told them, and what other bruthas and sistahs they have by other women who are going to surface now that the gravy train has pulled out of the station and the payoff checks are no longer coming in the mail. It is really going to be a problem when they realize their mother had to have known for years that this was going on.
Really, this situation is quite common in the black community, the only difference being that most black women know that they are concubines from the very beginning (70 percent black bastardy rate) and get pregnant for the status and prestige of having a McNair (or a Jesse Jackson) baby.
I expect it is the white girls who really (and foolishly) expect marriage, think of themselves as non-racist, and take it badly when they find out they were only sexual convenience for the Great and Esteemed Black Community Leader and Philanthopist whom Everbody Knows and Loves..
I wish I could see what “immigrant” has to do with a crime of passion, but I just don’t.