Speaker 1: Top clue, how it's top gear fortune Yo to the
Great for Jordan album. I wrote this with the hook
and my enemies of course from st Okay. I get
my Martians like astramar inside, jump on the beat that's
not ride like porsches, hold on like horses for rob
beats like engines, up robe that ship up fending. I
get to spend the spind like a spinder.
Speaker 2: Make that bitch.
Speaker 1: This seas just two and the one and been the
sad bitches like my name was Tracy, No, I do
not save her her loves no album Oh my birth
be hat your thoughts down jumps like y M c
MB top for the food chain, see e your fortunes
in t that's my name.
Speaker 3: There'd been whispers all morning. Someone knew was being called
to testify. Not an accuser, not a whistleblower, a father,
a partner, A voice long silenced. When alb Sure walked
into the courtroom, it wasn't with swagger.
Speaker 2: It was with weight. He wore a black.
Speaker 3: Suit, no jewelry, no smile. His eyes were low, his
steps were careful, and in his hand was a letter
folded twice edges, worn like it had been carried for
years did. He didn't flinch when he saw him, but
everyone else did because everyone knew who Kim Porter was.
And now her ex was about to speak. Albe showedn't
ask for water, didn't shift in his seat. He adjusted
the mic and said quietly. I've waited a long time
for this. The courtroom was still. I'm not here to
throw dirt. I'm here to speak on behalf of someone
who can't. He reached into his jacket, pulled out the
letter and placed it on the table. This is from Kim,
written in two thousand and six. The judge glanced toward
the bailiff. Al didn't move. She gave this to me
before she moved back in with Sean, told me to
hold it in case anything ever happened, And now he
was ready to read it. At first it was just business,
Then it was charmed. Then coun Kim's words read by
Al filled the room. She talked about being isolated, about
friends who stopped calling, about trips that turned into strategic appearances.
Speaker 2: One line stood out.
Speaker 3: He says, I'm nothing without him, that I owe him everything,
But what about my name, my voice, my soul. Al's
voice cracked when he got to that part, and for
the first time, Diddy's lead council raised an objection irrelevant
and speculative, but the judge allowed it. The letter wasn't hearsay,
it was testament, and Al was delivering it like a eulogy.
She tried to leave three times the prosecution leaned in.
In two thousand and four, she packed bags, called her mother,
but he sent people, said it was just a disagreement.
In two thousand and six, she booked a hotel under
another name. He showed up there within hours. The gallery shifted.
You could feel people calculating connecting dots.
Speaker 2: Al paused.
Speaker 3: The last time was in twenty eighteen. Silence, and she
told me she didn't feel safe. That line changed everything.
The judge asked for clarification, Al gave it. Did she
say she was being physically harmed? Al besure paused, but
she said she felt watched, controlled, that things were happening
to people around her, people she trusted. He leaned closer
to the mic. She said, if anything ever happened to her,
people should start asking questions. That's when the courtroom truly shifted.
Because kim Porter didn't die from a car accident. She
died suddenly, unexpectedly in her own home, and until now
nobody had ever spoken under oath about what she feared most.
The courtroom lights flickered slightly as the technician adjusted the mic.
I'll be sure had already been sworn in, but the
real weight didn't come until he leaned into that mic
and said, without hesitation, Kim Porter should still be alive.
So and then came the pivot. And if you're asking
me why she's not, I can only tell you what
I saw, what I was told, and what I feared
for years. He wasn't just a witness. He was a
grieving man, a man who once loved Kim, shared a
child with her, and, according to his testimony, spent the
last two years of her life, trying to figure out
why she seemed afraid. There were calls at night, he said, panicked,
untraceable numbers, her voice trembling, and when I asked if
it was about Puff, she'd always say the same thing.
Don't make me answer that. Al didn't speak in riddles.
He painted the timeline clearly. He described the shift in
Kim's energy after a trip to Ditty's home in twenty sixteen,
right around the time he was dealing with internal revolt
drama and suppressing rumors about a lifestyle blog that almost
outed him. She came back from that weekend quiet withdrawn,
like someone who saw something she couldn't unsee. He tried
to follow up, but Kim, always protective, kept him out
of it. I think she knew I'd act reckless if
I ever found out the truth.
Speaker 2: What truth?
Speaker 3: The prosecution pressed gently. That's when Al dropped it. She
told me there was a storage unit in La a
place where things were kept, photos, contracts, recordings. She said,
if anything ever happened to her, I should find it.
He paused. It was cleared out three days after she died.
The room stopped breathing. Even the judge blinked in surprise.
Al said he tried to access the unit using a
contact Kim had named in a notarized document, but when
I got there, it was already stripped clean, surveillance footage gone,
key card access wiped. He mentioned a phone call from
a mutual friend, someone still unnamed, who warned him not
to pursue it further. He told me I was already
being watched, that I should let sleeping dogs lie.
Speaker 2: Al looked around the courtroom. But I didn't.
Speaker 3: I couldn't, not with Quincy asking questions, not with Kim gone.
It was the first time Quincy Brown's name was mentioned,
and it hit hard. The gallery murmured again. Al was
calm but cutting. He walked the jury through the days
leading up to Kim's death, texts that suddenly stopped, voicemails
she never returned, and a final call two days before
she died. She sounded like she was saying goodbye. Then
came the detail that shook the room. She mentioned signing something,
said she had to go meet Puff's team at the
studio finalize some old stuff for the estate. The prosecution
raised an eyebrow. Did she say what a state? Al nodded.
She said it was about who owned what rights property legacys,
and then that meeting never happened, at least not officially.
But she was dead forty eight hours later. There was
no accusation of murder. Al made that clear. But what
he did say was this, people all are too scared
to call things by their name. I'm not I think
Kim was silenced, maybe not by a hand, but by
a system that didn't want her speaking. He cited instances
when she tried to start her own production label, tried
to write a book, Puff discouraged it, told her the
timing wasn't right, told her it would dredge up things
that didn't need revisiting. He looked the prosecution dead in
the eye. But those things were real, and she lived them,
and she was ready to tell her story, and now
she never would. The courtroom stayed frozen as a'l be
sure took a breath after Kim died. I wasn't the
only one asking questions. He said, her friends were scared,
her family quiet, and every time someone spoke up, they
got shut down fast. He turned slightly toward the gallery,
addressing nobody and everybody. You know how this industry works.
You don't have to be told to stay silent.
Speaker 2: You just feel it.
Speaker 3: Then he looked back at the jury, but Quincy he
never stopped asking. That's when Al revealed something most people
didn't know. He tried to get her autopsy reopened quietly.
He filed it under a different name when through a
back channel, but the paperwork stalled.
Speaker 2: Someone kept blocking it.
Speaker 3: The prosecution asked for clarification, are you alleging interference in
a legal inquiry? Al didn't flinch. I'm saying puff had
reached and he used it. He described how the initial
toxicology report came back clean nods, no alcohol, nothing strange,
just pneumonia, but the timeline didn't add up. Kim was healthy, fit,
she had a check up ten days before and got
a clean bill of health. He then added something chilling.
There was a second draft of that report, one with anomalies.
It never made it to the press. The courtroom leaned in.
I only saw it once. A friend in the coroner's
office said it listed trace amounts of a sedative, something
not usually screened unless you're looking for it. At this point,
Diddy's team was shifting in their seats. One of them
whispered something to his lead counsel. The judge banged once
for silence, but let al continue. That same friend told
me the lab that handled Kim's sample lost the blood work,
claimed it was contaminated, gone, just like that. He shook
his head. This ain't conspiracy. This is pattern, he pointed
to the jury again. And I've seen that pattern before,
for when people get close to speaking out, something always happens,
and I think Kim got close. The prosecution asked one
more question, mister Brown, why come forward now? He looked
at the judge, the jury, and finally at the empty
seat where Kim would have been. Because silence didn't protect her,
and it won't protect the rest of us either. The
prosecution circled back to a recurring name, Quincy, Kim Porter's son.
The boy did he adopted the boy, alb sure had fathered,
and it was Al's relationship with Quincy that cracked open
the next layer. He told the court they kept Quincy
out of the loop when Kim died. That boy had questions.
He still does. He spoke about private messages, Quincy reaching out,
saying things didn't add up, that the timelines weren't lining up,
that the grief felt manufactured because it had nowhere to land.
And then Al handed the judge a print out of
an Instagram draft one Quincy had written but never posted.
Dear Mom, It began, I don't believe you just died.
The post described a phone call one Quincy allegedly received
at two am from a number he didn't recognize. A
cold voice on the other end said simply, she's gone.
No emotion, no explanation, no family present, Al said Quincy
showed it to him, asking do you think they were
trying to scare me?
Speaker 2: The gallery stirred. It wasn't just grief anymore. It was fear.
Speaker 3: The prosecutor asked if Quincy ever suspected foul play. Al
didn't flinch. Yes he did, and I do too. That's
when Al paused. He asked the judge for a moment,
his hands were shaking, and then he said what the
gallery wasn't ready for? There was a letter, Kim wrote
the courtroom froze. All explained it wasn't found in her
purse or her bedroom. It was emailed to her attorney,
dated just ten days before her death. I didn't see
it until months later, Al said, But once I did,
I couldn't sleep. He looked at the prosecutor and nodded,
it's time. The judge allowed a short recess to authenticate
the document. When court resumed, the letter was ruled admissible
in redacted form. It began, if anything happens to me,
make sure Quincy knows I loved him and that I
was trying to leave. She wrote about wanting out, about
being followed, about a shadow presence in her home. She
didn't name Diddy, directly, but she said I know who
I'm dealing with, and they don't let go easy. The
gallery went silent again, as if someone had sucked all
the air out of the room. Alb Sure sat back down,
his eyes rimmed.
Speaker 2: Red.
Speaker 3: I failed her, he whispered, I should have done more.
The prosecutor asked, what do you believe happened to Kim?
Porter al looked up, his voice didn't shake. I believe
she was silenced. I believe it was strategic, and I
believe the people behind it are in this room watching.
Diddy didn't look at him. He stared straight ahead, stone,
still waiting for it all to pass. But this time
it wasn't going.
Speaker 2: To I'll be sure.
Speaker 3: Took a sip of water, eyes never leaving the floor.
For a second, it looked like he might stop there,
that maybe this was the limit. But then he looked up, calm, steady,
and said, there was another time, a few years before
Kim passed, she called me from a block number.
Speaker 2: The room sat stilled.
Speaker 3: She was whispering, said she couldn't talk long, but she
told me she was scared, said she was thinking of leaving,
and that she didn't know who to trust anymore. I
asked if it was about puff. She didn't answer, but
she didn't have to. The prosecution asked him to clarify
what she meant by leaving. He didn't say the word escape,
but it lingered in the air, and they asked if
he had any proof of the call, any reporting messages,
even timestamps. Number. She didn't want it trace. But then
he added something else. She mailed me a letter once.
It was about custody, but it also hinted at fear.
She said, if anything ever happens to me, don't let
Quincy think it was his fault. He paused, let that land.
It didn't make sense at the time. Now I read
it different. A murmur stirred through the courtroom. That kind
of low, uncomfortable realization that you're hearing something that changes
the shape of everything else. The defense objected to the
letter being mentioned without presenting it. The judge agreed, asked
a'l be sure to confirm if he still had it.
I gave it to Quincy when he turned eighteen. I
didn't think I'd ever have to explain it like this.
They asked if Quincy had read it. He never wanted
to talk about it. He folded it up and tucked
it away. The prosecution asked if he believed Kim Porter
had been preparing for something, trying to leave something behind.
Al didn't answer with words, He just quiet but sure.
Then came the mention of the hospital. I'll be sure
leaned forward. Kim had this thing where she hated hospitals,
would only go if it was serious. That's why I
was shocked when she went in for those flu symptoms,
and even more shocked when she was gone two days later.
The prosecution brought up the coroner's report, low bar pneumonia.
But I'll be sure, pushed back, gently but firmly. She
told me she was getting better. She said, it felt
like the worst had passed. She was planning a trip,
then suddenly she was gone. I've never stopped thinking about that.
He didn't accuse anyone outright, He didn't have to. The
prosecution asked if he was suggesting foul play. He answered,
like someone who had sat with this too long. I'm
saying she was trying to build a way out, and
every time she tried, something pulled her back in. That's
not pneumonia, that's pressure. The judge reminded the court. These
were personal recollections, not confirmed evidence, but the room had
already shifted. The facts might be soft, but the weight
of his testimony was undeniable, and the questions were only
getting louder. The prosecution circled back to the timeline, mister Brown,
when did you last speak to Kim directly? Al didn't
hesitate a week before she passed. She told me she
was tired, not sick, tired. She said she'd been waking
up feeling watched, like something wasn't right in the house.
Did she mention anyone specifically? Al hesitated. She didn't name him,
but she said she felt like she was being punished
for something, like she'd made the wrong call and now
had to live with it. The courtroom felt colder after that,
and then the prosecution asked about Quincy. What was his
reaction when she passed? Al swallowed hard, he shut down.
Quincy always kept things close, but this this broke something
in him. He told me it wasn't supposed to happen
like this. I asked him what he meant, but he
wouldn't say. Did you get the sense he knew something?
Al blinked. I think he felt something kids always know,
even when they don't understand it. And the way things
moved after she died, how fast they wrapped everything up.
It didn't sit right with him. The prosecution shifted. Let's
talk about the funeral. You've spoken publicly about how you
weren't invited, Is that correct?
Speaker 2: Al nodded.
Speaker 3: That was my son's mother, and I had to find
out about the funeral through a third party. I wasn't
even allowed near the front. Do you believe that was intentional?
I know it was. People wanted me quiet, wanted the
cameras focused on one version of her story, and what
version was that?
Speaker 2: That?
Speaker 3: She was happy, that it was peaceful, that there was
nothing more to see.
Speaker 2: He looked away, but I knew better.
Speaker 3: They moved to motives, mister Brown, in your opinion, why
would anyone want to silence Kim? Alex hailed steady but
worn because she knew too much, because she had receipts,
and because she wasn't afraid to start talking. When it
finally got too heavy, he looked toward the gallery, not
at anyone in particular. She once told me, it's not
about what they did to me, it's what they think
they can keep doing. That quote hit like a quiet bomb,
no objections this time. Then came the final question, if
kim Porter were alive today, what do you think she
would say to this court?
Speaker 2: Al's voice softened.
Speaker 3: She'd tell you she tried, that she gave the best
years of her life to people who thought they owned her,
and when she finally tried to walk away, they made
sure the door shut behind her.
Speaker 2: The courtroom didn't breathe for a moment.