by Ni-Ni Simone
I laughed. Smirked. Slyly bit the inside of my jaw and prayed the cops didn’t hear my heart drop. “Is that the best you got? You been watching too much TV. What is this? A 21 Jump Street routine? Psst, please. Ain’t nobody told you that ’cause I don’t even have a boyfriend.”
“I believe Rahjohn Bowman is his name, but the streets call him Fresh.” They slapped a few surveillance pictures on the table. One of Fresh getting out of his car, with some chick looking over at him. One of him talking to his connect. And another one of him talking to one of his runners. “Look familiar?”
I cross my legs. “Never seen him in my life.”
The cop pounded the edge of the table and thrust his face into mine. “I have enough on you to send you away until you’re twenty-one. Is that what you want? ’Cause I can make it happen! Now I suggest you get your act together, stop screwing with me, and answer my questions!”
“I don’t have to answer nothing. Not a thing. ’Cause I’m only sixteen and y’all know y’all are dead wrong for questioning me without parental consent or my attorney present.”
Both of their faces turned beet red.
“Yeah. Exactly. Now I need to make a phone call.”
Officer Nice grimaced at me. “I don’t care what you need. You could need air and I wouldn’t even blow on you.”
I sat handcuffed for three hours before Officer Nice stopped violatin’ my rights and reluctantly let me make a phone call. “You got two minutes.” He handed me the phone and stared in my face.
I sucked my teeth. “God-lee! Can I breathe?!”
He didn’t move.
I nixed him and beeped Fresh, five-oh. nine-one-one.
Then took a chance and called the brick phone he used for emergencies only.
No answer.
I stared off into space. I didn’t know what to do.
“Hang up.” Officer Nice frowned. “Time for court.”
“All rise.”
Instead of Fresh, Nana’s pissed-off face was the first one I saw when the COs escorted me into the courtroom, handcuffed and shackled.
Where is he?
I sucked in my stomach and prayed the nervous tremors in my belly would fade away.
“Raise your right hand,” the bailiff barked.
My hand barely inched into the air.
“Do you swear or affirm to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help you God?”
“I swear.”
“State your name for the record.”
“Isis Carter.”
“Do you have counsel?”
“Right here, Your Honor.” A disheveled and bald white man in a brown polyester suit stepped forward, slamming his briefcase on the table. “My apologies to the court for being late.” I breathed a sigh of relief. I knew Fresh wouldn’t play me. Thank you, Jesus. I tried my best not to let the smile I felt inching across my lips make an appearance. I needed to stay stone faced until they released me.
The judge said, “Counsel, state your appearance.”
“Lawrence Cooper. Public defender.”
I sucked in a breath. A what? Public defender? Where was my private attorney? Er’body knew that a public defender, better known as a public pretender, meant you would definitely be doing a stint. I swallowed. Held back tears. And did my best to hold it together.
“Counsel.” The judge peered over the rim of his glasses. “Your client is charged with resisting arrest and possession with intent to distribute. What does she wish to plead?”
The public pretender leaned over and whispered to me, “Plead guilty. The prosecutor just told me that he’s willing to offer a light sentencing. Little jail time and probation, as long as you give up your boyfriend.”
If I wasn’t handcuffed I’d take it straight to his pale face. “I didn’t do anything!” I said, loud enough for the judge to hear.
The public pretender shook his head, looked toward the judge, and sighed in disgust. “Not guilty.”
“Okay. The plea has been noted. Another court date will be set. But for now, counsel, whose custody will your client be turned over to?”
Esquire Triflin’ looked back at Nana, who was dressed in her short and curly Evangelist wig, with the lace Holy Ghost doily pinned at the scalp. She also had a white ruffled blouse, a blue pleated skirt, white nursing shoes, and a Bible.
I held my head down. Judging by the way she cleared her throat, wasn’t no tellin’ what was gon’ come out of her mouth.
Public Pretender continued, “This is my client’s grandmother, Darleen Carter. And she would like to address the court.”
Nana was sworn in and then given permission to speak. She popped her lips and proceeded with her madness. “First of all, she ain’t comin’ to my house! I’m only fifty-three. I need to live my life, not take care of some ungrateful skank who ain’t gon’ never be nothin’. She don’t listen. She fight er’ day. And not too long ago, she beat my daughter, her aunt, in the face with a beer bottle. Blood was er’where. Isis does what she wants. When she wants. And how she wants. Hell, I ain’t seen her in six months. So, I wouldn’t be surprised if she was selling drugs and usin’ ’em. I can’t deal with that. I got other grandkids and a great-grandbaby to see about, and I can’t be bothered with her anymore. She just a bad seed and all I can do is pray that God is kind enough to have mercy on her devilish soul.”
“Where are her parents?” the judge asked.
“Her father’s in Baltimore. He don’t have nothin’ to do with her and her mother’s a whore, livin’ in the streets somewhere. If she ain’t dead yet.”
“That’s enough, ma’am. Take your seat.” The judge banged his gavel. He shot me a dirty look. “Remanded until the next court hearing.”
39
Keep it underground
“Shoes. Sneakers. Laces. Shirts. Pants. Belts. Bras. Panties. Off. Front and center!”
I couldn’t believe this was happenin’ to me. I was locked up and standin’ in an assembly line of five naked girls: one girl who laughed. One who was dope sick and couldn’t stop snot from running over her lips or her teeth from chatterin’. Cali, who was just as pissed off as me, and Munch, who wouldn’t stop crying.
There was five COs, all gawkin’ and shootin’ twisted and sly grins at us.
“Open up!” The correction officers practically shoved a flashlight down our throats as they checked the roofs of our mouths, inner cheeks, and underneath our tongues. Afterwards, they each put on latex gloves and slid their hands down our arms, underneath to our armpits, and under our breasts.
“Now squat. Spread ’em and cough! Now cough again. And again.” They walked behind us to see if we farted out any contraband. The girl who was laughing did. Now she wasn’t laughing anymore. Immediately they swarmed down on her and then snatched her outta the room, leaving the echo of her screams behind.
“Stand up,” the lead CO barked. “Backs straight. Hands to the side. And heads up.” He paused. Rushed over to Dope Sick, who was droolin’ and shiverin’. “I said stand up!”
Instead, she threw up and fell down in it. He stepped over her and continued, “Hear me and hear me well, I’m not yo’ worthless daddies or yo’ no-good mamas. I don’t care nothin’ about you. This is my house. And you will do what I tell you to do. And if you don’t, there will be hell to pay.
“Now here are the rules: no cussin’. No contraband. No stealing. Respect the guards. Stay on your pod. No fighting. And mind your business. You got a problem with your cellmates, deal with it. ’Cause I don’t wanna hear it.” He tossed us each new underwear, orange jumpsuits, socks, and brown rubber slides. “Now go shower and get dressed. You’ll be shown your bunks and then you need to report to mess hall.”
“Fresh meat! Ohhhh, I like that one right there! Hey yo, ain’t that Whatshaname?” serenaded us as we walked single file through the crowded pod, to our dorm of three bunk beds and a steel toilet attached to a sink. We each claimed our bunks in peace, and a few minutes later we w
ere escorted to mess hall.
I felt like I was in the school cafeteria, except there were guards at every corner of the room and everyone had on the same jumpsuit.
Munch was so upset that she stood behind us in the food line, with her arms folded, not saying a word, while Cali brushed up against my shoulder and I whispered next to her ear, “Word is bond, Yvette dropped dime on us.”
“Yvette? What? That’s what you think?”
“Yo, that’s what I know. Mighty funny how the day I cuss her out is the day we get locked up. She did it.”
“But when I see her, I’ma drag her. I promise you that. And I don’t care where she’s at. On the corner with a pipe in her hand or behind the Dumpster with a trick in her mouth. Wherever I see her, I’m draggin’ her out and I’ma stomp her until her rib cage gives way.”
The girl in front of me turned around and smiled. “Wassup, Isis?” she asked.
“Wassup?” I said, recognizing her as a chick who lived in Da Bricks.
“What you in here for? Heard you had the whole school slangin’.”
My eyes inched over her from head to toe. Her skin was ashy and dry flakes lined her mouth. She was fifty pounds skinnier than the last time I saw her. Her hair was patchy and matted. Her neck had old and new burn marks, like she’d dropped the pipe and the butane lighter one too many times.
A chickenhead.
And I didn’t do chicken.
I sold weed. And I sold it in school. Clearly this heifer didn’t go to school.
I thought about laying a bolo right in her face. Up here kickin’ it to me like we was everyday homegirls when obviously, she was settin’ me up. Pressin’ me for info today, so the DA could use her to testify against me tomorrow.
I shrugged and said, “I don’t sling . . .” My voice drifted as I spotted Aiesha, the girl whose face I’d sliced, coming toward me.
My heart raced and heated blood rushed to my face. “Cali,” I mumbled. “See the girl coming over here toward us?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, when I was ten, I sliced her face for trying to rob me.” We each eyed Aiesha as she picked up a metal tray. “I think I might have to kill her today.”
“Well, I guess we both goin’ down together then.”
“Isis.” Aiesha stepped up to me. “What, you thought I wasn’t gon’ ever see you again?”
“I wasn’t in hiding so I never thought about whether you was gon’ ever see me again or not. But now that I’ve seen you, you can go sit down.”
“You don’t tell me what to do! I don’t have to sit down ’cause you said so!”
“You better back up,” Cali said sternly. “I know that much.”
I could tell Aiesha didn’t know exactly what to say or do. She looked around and made eye contact with a few girls she obviously knew. Their eyes grew wide and they snickered. Obviously, they’d been talking about me.
Cali picked up her carton of milk, shook it, opened it, and, after she took her first sip, twisted her lips. “Girl, this trick ain’t stupid. Let’s go sit down.”
Whap!
My head jerked back, causing me to stumble as Aiesha smacked me across my face. Angry tears beat against the backs of my eyes. I felt like I was back on the playground.
You let some hos disrespect you!
I snatched my steel lunch tray and busted her in the face with it. Blood squirted from her nose and flew everywhere. She fell to the floor and me and Cali started stomping her. Then I yanked her by the hair and sailed a round of punches into her face. Just as I was about to send her through the floor, the guards pepper-sprayed the three of us and snatched us apart. My entire face felt like it was on fire.
The guards handcuffed and shackled us and dragged us down the hall in different directions. And a few seconds later, they tossed me in a small and dark room . . . where all I could do was cry and pray that Nana’s God had enough mercy to kill me by morning.
40
Changes
Nine days.
No TV.
No pen.
No paper.
No yard time.
Nobody to talk to.
Showers er’ other day.
And the only way I could tell time was by what was on the food trays they pushed through the door slot.
I just wanted out.
And I put that on everything. I couldn’t take it in here no more.
I lay back on the thin blue striped mattress, the hard concrete pushing into my back from beneath.
All I could do in here was think.
Wonder.
What if... I was rich?
Born in the suburbs?
What if my daddy pimped trucks instead of tricks?
What if he was like Cliff Huxtable?
I smiled.
Mike Brady?
My smile grew even wider.
What if Face had never gone to jail?
Schooly never died?
Queenie never left?
Yvette never snitched?
Tears filled my eyes.
Screw what-ifs . . . what if ain’t never did nothing for me but piss me off.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” I thought about bangin’ my head on the wall. Then I remembered they was padded, which pissed me off even more.
The door rattled.
I sat up.
Somebody shoved a letter addressed from Ke’Ron Green and a food tray through the slot: watery eggs, buttered toast, applesauce, and milk.
It was morning.
41
Wild Wild West
Three months later
The CO escorted me out of the bullpen and into the courtroom, handcuffed and shackled. Ready to deal with whatever this public pretender tossed my way. I’d already made up my mind that, lawyer or no lawyer, he had one time to say somethin’ slick and he was gon’ get cussed out today. I’d had enough of this and all I really wanted to do was get outta here.
I could barely walk, and with all these metal chains and steel garbage on me like I was some kind of criminal, I was forced to take short steps and sway.
The public pretender sat at the defense table, frowning like he clearly couldn’t be bothered. I sat down beside him, hands behind my back. He leaned over and said, “Here’s the deal. The prosecutor has offered you a plea. Three years’ probation. You need to take it. It’s only on your juvenile record so when you turn eighteen, it’s wiped clean. And another thing, your mother is here to take custody of you—”
My heart dropped. “What?”
He continued on like he hadn’t heard me stop breathing or my heart hitting the floor. “Yes. She’s outside the courtroom. The sheriff’s deputy will bring her in at any moment. The plan is for her to take you home.”
“What?”
“You are to be quiet until I tell you to address the court. Don’t grunt. Don’t groan. Say, ‘yes, Your Honor,’ and if the judge asks you about some animalistic fight you apparently got into, you are to apologize. As a matter of fact, even if the judge doesn’t mention it, you apologize anyway. You say you are committed to being a better person. And that you will never find yourself in another situation like this again. Now you either say that or you find yourself sent back to jail until your trial is over. Understand?”
“All rise,” the bailiff said before I could respond.
The judge took the bench. “Good morning. Counsel, please state your appearance for the record.”
“Claire Wallace. State’s prosecutor.”
“Lawrence Cooper. Representing the defendant.”
I heard the courtroom double doors squeak open. And I could hear people walking in, but there was no way I could turn around to see who they were. Then I felt a hand lay on my shoulder and squeeze.
I wanted to scream, “Get offa me!” But I didn’t. I sat there. Like stone. Hearing the judge and the lawyers speak but not really knowin’ what they was sayin’.
All I knew is that it had been three years, five months, two weeks, and an afternoo
n that Queenie had been gone. And then just like that she wanted to show up like it was all good in the hood.
I don’t think so.
I knew I needed to be quiet long enough to get outta here, then I could cuss Queenie out.
I tried to swallow the iron fist I felt balling up in my throat. I failed.
“My client would like to address the court,” the public pretender said, giving me a loaded glare like he dared me to flip the script.
I struggled to stand up. “Your Honor.” I paused. Pushed the cusses and the “forget all of y’alls” that I really wanted to say back down into my throat and said, “I would like to apologize to the court for my behavior. And I will not place myself in a situation like this again.”
The judge looked over his glasses. “I certainly hope not, young lady. Because the next time I will make you a ward of the court.”
“Your Honor,” my attorney said. “My client is willing to accept the plea. Also, her mother is here and she would like Isis to be released to her custody.”
“I thought the mother was missing, as the grandmother stated at the last hearing.”
“Your Honor, there appeared to be some kind of mistake.”
Mistake? Yeah, right.
“The mother lives in Atlanta now, and she’s promised to make sure my client is brought back and forth to court.”
Atlanta!
I did everything I could to keep myself together.
Just chill.
You almost outta here.
The same hand that squeezed my shoulder before, squeezed it again. I knew for a fact that it had to be Queenie. I didn’t turn around, though, because I knew if I did, it was no tellin’ what I would say or what I would do. So I looked straight ahead at the judge, whose eyes combed my file. “The court will release Miss Carter into her mother’s custody.” He looked up. “Court in a month.” He banged his gavel. “Dismissed.”
The processing officer handed Queenie my paperwork and then looked at me and wished me luck. I felt like I was about to burst into scorchin’ flames.