by Ice-T
“Not a problem, Case. I assume you’re cool if I have Champa buy more drives?”
“Hell yeah, let’s expand this shit and see what we catch. I also want you to generate two daily reports: one that you’ll send to me at ten A.M. and the other at ten P.M. Each one should only be two pages max, something I can scan that’s organized real good so as I know what these cops’re up to. If I want more details, I’ll have you send it to me. Now, what you got on Petrosian?”
Casey saw Jacob quickly taking notes. He liked that. He could tell the man was gonna be an incredibly valuable asset for future operations. He could only imagine the loot they could make by tappin’ in to the big players in the stock market.
“I hacked into the DMV and got his current address. It’s in the Bronx—Fieldston, specifically.”
Fieldston was about ten to fifteen minutes north of the center of the Bronx, with homes there ranging anywhere from $1.5 million to $6 million. Casey wasn’t surprised that the guy had some cake. He listened as Jacob continued.
“He has a son, but no wife. My search of marriage, death, and birth certificates came up empty, don’t know if he was married in the old country or what. I noticed on his driver’s license that his full name is Alek Vyacheslav Petrosian II, so I did a Google search and found an article on his father. It might be wrong, but based on the dates and other information I cross-referenced, I’m pretty sure it’s a match. Here it is.”
He sent the link to it. Casey clicked on it and scanned through the foreign text until he came to a picture of a boy about fourteen years old, standing next to his mother and father. Petrosian’s likeness to his father was spot on.
“Do you know what the article says?” Casey asked.
“Roughly. I ran it through a translation program, and I’m sending you that version right now. Basically, it’s from an Eastern European business magazine and was written in July 1985. It was an obituary on Petrosian’s father. The piece says he was a prominent oil man who was married to a Russian woman. It talked about his dominance in the region and how he frequently traveled throughout Russia, primarily the Ukraine and Armenia, brokering oil deals with the West. It said that he and his wife were killed in an auto accident while traveling in the Ukraine. They were survived by their son, who would be moving to London to live with a relative.”
“Is that it?” Casey said.
“That’s it because that’s all that exists. I did a very extensive search. The only other thing that popped up is more recent. On a bunch of Armenian blogs, he’s mentioned as the most likely suspect in murdering Luca Bagramian in a drive-by shooting. There’s one post here that says, ‘Luca was a true player and he’ll be missed. Almost immediately after he got dusted I hear this new cat popped up and is running things, a guy named Petrosian. Anyone hip to this guy? Did he whack Luca?’ Luca’s name pops up on a lot of other message boards as a big-time dealer.”
Champa jumped in: “Luca’s the guy I knew. Stone-cold playa, lemme tell ya.”
“Anything else, Jacob?” Casey asked.
“Nope, that’s it. I’ll start monitoring that one cop’s cell for calls and let Champa and Al know, right?”
“Yeah, you do that, I’m out.” Casey signed off and closed his computer. Turning to Champa, he asked, “What’s up with these message boards and people snitchin’?”
“Welcome to the Information Age, son.”
“That’s some bullshit right there. Shit, I mean, who needs the cops when people on the street are anonymously putting you on blast!”
“Anyway, check it, let’s talk about this car heist and how—,” Champa began.
Casey’s phone buzzed with a message from Joe: It was time to go to PS 127. He looked up at Champa. “We gonna have to handle this later, brotha. I gotta bounce.”
14
The two men both took the elevator down to the garage, where Joe and two of his early intervention “experts” were waiting. Joe told the other two guys to go on ahead and that Casey and he would be there momentarily. Casey told Champa to make sure Al P. was on point and didn’t drop the ball; then Joe and he got into the Escalade and headed down to PS 127.
On the drive there, Joe said that he would introduce Crush halfway through the presentation. He told him he should feel free to talk as long as he wanted to about how crime is not the way to go. As Casey listened, he thought about how he was gonna be a total hypocrite talking that shit to those kids. These kids would be about the same age as Antonio was when he’d gone into prison. Casey had given him the “don’t do crime” speech, and look what good that had done.
He started to feel uneasy about the whole situation as they pulled into the school parking lot. But then Casey remembered one of Mack D’s favorite quotes from Tolstoy: “I know which is the road that leads home and if I weave like a drunken man as I go down it that does not mean the road is the wrong one.” Mack always liked to talk about everyone’s unique path, and Casey guessed that this was his, even though he sometimes veered off it.
They went into the school’s main entrance; it had been at least thirty years since Casey set foot inside one. Along with Joe and the other two cats, he walked down the halls wallpapered with the kids’ artwork. Casey remembered his own son had brought art home at that age almost every day.
When they got to the principal’s office, Joe went in and Casey and the guys waited outside the door for him to return. Casey kept looking around, thinking that it was ludicrous that this school had actually invited a bunch of criminals to speak to children.
Joe emerged with an older black woman who looked to be in her early sixties. She wore glasses and had a gold cross around her neck. Joe introduced everyone as she led them to the auditorium. Her name was Principal Parker. Casey could tell she was from the South by the slight twang in her speech.
“The kids will be coming in any moment. I—I just wanted to thank you all for coming here today. My brother is serving time in Georgia, and it was about these kids’ ages that he started to go astray.”
The men stayed silent, just nodding as she spoke.
Casey noticed the kids walking in; some were quiet, but most were clowning around and being loud and unruly. Teachers snapped at the troublemakers, and girls giggled at the boys getting into trouble. Some things never change. Eventually they all sat down, with the six teachers and the principal all leaning against the back wall, making sure none of the youngsters got out of line.
Joe gave a brief introduction and talked about his past; Casey could tell he had a well-rehearsed speech. The other two guys went and said their bit, both making good points about not getting into a life of crime. Unfortunately, the kids had probably heard this shit a thousand times, and seemed on the verge of passing out from boredom.
Last up was Casey, and for the first time in many years, he found he was actually a bit nervous. He inhaled, stepped forward, and looked at the faces of more than two hundred kids, all either black or Hispanic. Clearing his throat, Casey addressed the children, his deep voice making them all naturally sit at attention.
“Raise your hands if any of you have tried drugs or been tempted by a life of crime.”
Not one hand went up. Quiet voices mumbled as the kids looked around to see if anyone had dared admit such a thing.
“That’s interesting.… Now, I think some of you aren’t being truthful with me.…” Casey walked down the front row, picked one kid and told him to stand up and move to the center of the room. He then walked down the left side aisle and asked two more kids to go to the front and stand next to the first kid.
His selection may have appeared very random, but it wasn’t. He told the kids to turn and face the audience. The three were nervous, as were the teachers when he did this. Two of the kids were black and the other was Hispanic; they were all about nine or ten years old.
Casey stared at the boys for a few moments to increase the tension before speaking. “Have any of you ever seen me before?”
All the kids shook their heads and
mumbled, “No.”
Casey looked out at the audience. “One of these kids is just like the rest of you.” He turned back to the first kid. “You rep the One Five Three Players, right?”
The boy was shocked and didn’t say anything, but the answer was written all over his face. Casey looked at the rest of the audience. “If it wasn’t true, he woulda denied it, right?”
The kids all chorused yes while the teachers in the back row fidgeted and exchanged worried looks.
Casey went to the next kid. “You like to get high, dontcha?” The boy was about to protest, but Casey held up his hand. “Ah-ah-ah … only answer if you’re cool with me checkin’ to see what’s in your pockets right now.” The kid closed his mouth and looked down at his sneakers.
By the time Casey got to the third kid, the whole audience of children and teachers was transfixed. For them, it was like Casey was a mind reader. The third boy refused to look at Casey and shifted his weight from one leg to another. Casey felt real bad for the kid; he could tell by the way he was acting that he had a pretty serious habit and was ashamed of himself. The boy’s nose was red and runny, his face was pale, and the exposed skin on his arms was a pasty white. Shit, this kid’s on a tightrope already.
Rather than expose the boy, Casey had the three of them go sit down as he turned to his audience again. “Now, unless I get some honesty, I can do this all day with every single one of you, so lemme ask again.… Raise your hands if you have tried drugs or been tempted by a life of crime.”
More than three quarters of the auditorium raised their hands. The teachers and the principal in the back were visibly upset, but they stayed put.
“Okay, put your hands down. You see, wantin’ to try drugs or do crime … that comes from ignorance, curiosity, and fear. Some of you have tried drugs ’cause someone close to you does drugs and you were curious and also didn’t wanna be made fun of.… That’s the ‘curiosity and fear’ part. And some of you think you wanna do crime because you want the money and think it’s cool and you may think that doin’ drugs won’t hurt you.… Well, that’s ignorance. I totally get that because that’s why I did it—” Casey paused as he paced the room. He could feel the eyes of every person there on him. “—it’s also why I went to jail for twenty years, and why my son was murdered.”
The room was still and silent as Casey looked at the different children one by one. It was a heavy moment that he let play out for what seemed an eternity.
“You’re looking at a man who lost twenty years of his life and a father who lost his son because of drugs and crime. Nobody wins in crime; everyone loses. And as far as drugs, they’ll make you stupid and will make sure that you will never be happy or successful. Now, not doing drugs and crime is not enough to make you a success. If you want to be successful and happy, that will depend on your strength to be able to say no to drugs and crime and say yes to always educating your mind.”
The teachers and principal started to relax; this was more familiar territory for them, as it was for the kids. Casey knew that, and knew he’d have to take it to another level if they were to get it.
“Now, I want all you kids to close your eyes and imagine this picture in your mind. Imagine that you do drugs or are involved in crime, and picture the look on your mother, father, and grandparents’ faces when they find out. They’re all shocked and angry at first, but they’re also devastated and scared, and feel like they’re bad parents, which makes them hate themselves and feel sad. Some of them are crying because they’re so hurt and ashamed.
“Now imagine it’s been a few years, and you’ve been doing those same things, and imagine the unhappiness it’s caused your family and how it’s hurt you. Because you do drugs, you do bad in school and don’t graduate and can’t get a decent job, or maybe because you do crime or drugs, you get thrown into juvenile hall. That’s a prison for kids, and trust me … you don’t want to go there. It’s a real live nightmare.”
Casey walked the roomful of kids through what their lives would be, painting a bleak and horrible picture that he knew all too well, having seen it happen to endless people he’d known growing up. He ended it by having them visualize a life where they steered clear of crime and drugs and stayed in school and worked hard. The picture he painted was realistic and very upbeat, and the kids reacted to it positively. When he was done, he told them to open their eyes.
“Now, if you take one thing away from this afternoon, it’s this: What you just imagined about saying no to drugs and working hard and becoming productive members of society—” Casey made sure he caught the gaze of the three boys he’d singled out earlier. “—every one of you can achieve that. It’s not too late.”
The kids were relieved, and Casey knew his little exercise had had the desired effect. He turned and walked back to stand next to Joe and the other guys. Joe took over and led the kids in an uplifting chant, and then they all filed out of the room, much more subdued than when they’d entered.
As Casey watched them leave, he wondered what had just happened. It was weird—he hadn’t planned for things to go that way—they just had. Originally he was just gonna say a few words and that was that, but then he’d remembered the therapist using visualization in the joint, and had decided to wing it and see what would happen.
With a shrug, he watched Joe speaking to the principal; then he turned and walked to Casey and said, “Jesus, Casey, that was really powerful. I’ve never seen anything like that. Usually when we do these things, we speak, then there’s some rah-rah, and we leave and hope we made a difference.”
“Is that right?” Casey asked.
“Except I know you made a difference today, man. You put a lot of those kids on the right path. That shit was amazing. How’d you know that kid was in a gang and the other one did drugs? And that whole visualization thing was, like—man, it was incredible.”
“Cool, I’m glad it came off.”
“Seriously, though, how did you know those kids were involved in that stuff?”
“The first kid had ‘one five three players 4life’ written in black ink on the side of his sneaker. Those guys like to use young kids as mules to transport their shit. Taggin’ their shoe is the way they’re identified. The other kid’s front jeans pocket was well worn from the pipe he carried. As far as the last one, I know what someone who’s strung out looks like. I didn’t put him on blast, because I didn’t think he’d handle it well. That boy’s in pretty serious trouble—he’s got a bad habit, his parents probably do as well.”
“That’s true, the principal told me they’ve called Children’s Services in the past, but nuthin’s been done about it.”
Casey, Joe, and the other two guys walked out of the auditorium and into the principal’s office. She was effusive with her praise, commending all of them on what they were doing. They all thanked her and were leaving the office when Principal Parker asked if she could have a word with Casey.
“I’ll catch a ride back with my guys, Case,” Joe said.
The principal offered him a seat as she sat down behind her desk. “Mr. Casey, what I saw today was nothing short of extraordinary. All of these kids are deemed ‘at risk,’ and as a result, for myself and my teachers to make an impression on them—well, it’s challenging at best. We feel fortunate if we can connect with at least one or two kids per class and make a difference in their lives. Today, I watched you connect with all of them at once.… You have a powerful gift to inspire, Mr. Casey.”
Her words rang true. He knew that when he spoke, people listened. He also knew that his life’s path left a trail of death and destruction in its wake. Casey gave her a faint smile. “I appreciate your words, Principal Parker, and I’m glad your students have someone like you to watch over and guide them.”
“Thank you. I do hope you continue doing this type of work. It’s desperately needed, and you’re great at it.”
“I appreciate that, ma’am, and anywhere that Urban Victory asks me to speak, I will be there.”
He also wondered if it was Petrosian’s dope that had fucked up that one kid, or maybe it was Mick’s.
* * *
Casey turned over the Escalade and headed across town. He checked his phone; it was just before one. Back to reality. He had enough time to eat and then go meet Petrosian.
He hustled toward St. James Park and stopped to grab a quick bite at a taco spot where Knightsbridge Road and Briggs Avenue intersected. While polishing off three tacos and some chips and salsa, Casey texted back and forth with everyone, getting updates on how things were goin’. With the help of Jacob, Al P. was taggin’ cops left and right. Shin was meeting with the Garcia boys, making sure everything was good, and Champa was working on his heist plan.
Casey wiped his mouth, balled up his napkin, and was about to get up to leave the table when a fine, light-skinned sista in her late thirties approached and said, “I know this ain’t Crush Casey.”
He looked up and squinted at the woman, trying to remember her while the other brothers in the restaurant checked out her frame. She was a real dime piece, but Casey couldn’t place her. Did I nail this broad back in the day?
“Oh no, you don’t remember me? It’s Charlene. I used to roll with that loser Rono.” She rolled her eyes and put her hands on her hips when she said “loser.” That was enough to kick his memory into gear: She was one of the many girls Rono used to fuck around with.
“Yeah—yeah, I remember you. You got an older sister named Tina. You were a nurse or something.”
“That’s right. I’m working at United Trucking now, tryin’ to pay the bills to support me and my baby girl. Anyway, look at you lookin’ fine out here on these streets. Whatcha been doin’, hon?”