by Beanie Sigel
The elegant Rolls Royce Phantom slowed to a stop in front of the building. Briefcase in hand, Marty got out and hustled inside. He boarded an elevator that took him to his desired floor, greeted his secretary, and then entered his office. In less than five minutes of his arrival, his phone was ringing.
“Goldman’s Sachs, Commodities. This is Marty Frankel. How can I help you?”
“Good morning, Mr. Frankel.” It was Jack’s secretary. “Mr. Goldberg would like to speak with you concerning an urgent matter.”
Marty used is index finger and thumb to massage the bridge of his nose. “Thank you, Maggie. I’ll be there in a second.”
Once again, he boarded the elevator, getting off at the top floor. After releasing a deep breath, he knocked on the thick mahogany wood door.
“Come in,” Jack yelled. Marty opened the door to see his supervisor pacing back and forth in the thick carpeted, massive office. “Have a seat.”
Marty sat down in a maroon leather chair opposite Jack’s desk. Although Jack was a slender, active man, his sixty-four years of living was evident by the gray hairs that wrapped around the sides of his head, and the slight sagging of skin under his eyes and chin. However, his piercing steel gray eyes were as alert as a twenty-five year old soldier’s.
“I received a call from my attorneys this morning,” Jack said as he stepped closer to the bay windows, offering a magnificent view of Manhattan. “There has been a new proposed settlement.”
“Does this one still involve me?” Marty questioned.
“I’m going to be honest. Yes, it does.”
“Jack, you know I only want the best for you, but I can’t destroy my life, my marriage...my future for you.”
“This is much bigger than you and I. You work for one of the largest trading firms in the United States. You’ve witnessed first-hand the amount of press coverage this mess has received. If you were to get fired, there’s no other firm in this country that would risk hiring you.”
“Fire me for what? I’ve done nothing wrong!” Marty shouted defensively.
Jack turned around staring intently at Marty. “Goldman’s a very big ship. If it goes down, many people will drown.” His words hit like stiff punches, causing Marty to slouch in the chair at the thought of him losing his job. “But there is a way out of this. It’s possible that you can come out of this with an even more powerful position at Goldman’s.” Marty sat up, correcting his posture, giving Jack his complete attention. Jack continued, “My attorneys informed me that the new proposed settlement contains a ‘neither admit, nor deny’ provision. The only way that the prosecutor will approve of this is if there’s an acceptance of responsibility by someone actively involved in trading. A minimum of thirty-two million dollars in disgorgement, penalties and interest. Arguably, as much as the SEC might be able to recover if they were to prevail at trial against us. In essence, we need you to be the face of this settlement, and, in doing so, you can decline to admit to the allegations against you by the SEC. There will be no criminal conviction.”
“What about the forfeiture money? How will we pay them?”
“We can’t just write you a check for thirty-two million dollars. That would make everything obvious to the point of really pissing the SEC off. It will certainly remove the deal and they will force us to criminal trial.”
“There’s no way I can come up with that type of money on my own.”
“Your net worth, including your assets, is thirty-one point six million dollars, Marty.”
“No...no fucking way!” Marty stood in anger. “You’re asking me to give up everything I’ve worked my ass off for. I can’t do it...I won’t do this!”
“It’s everything to you, but it’s fucking peanuts to us, and you know it!” Jack screamed, standing face to face with Marty. “Look, kid. This is how it’s going to work. Once you forfeit your money, the SEC will get off our backs and find someone else to screw. You will get back every dollar that you gave up. And for your loyalty, you will also receive this office and the position that comes with it, including a seven-figure signing bonus.”
Marty was aghast by the promise that was made. When...I mean, how can you be sure that everything will go as you’re saying?”
Jack reached into his desk drawer, removed a gold business card, and handed it to Marty. “Here. These are our attorneys. They are the best and they will represent you in this matter. When you go to your office, I want you to call our boss and confirm all that I’ve said regarding the promotion and compensation that you will receive, contingent on your assistance.”
“I will call them both immediately.” Marty accepted the card.
“If you receive this confirmation, do we have a deal?” Jack asked.
“Yes, but I need you to understand that I’m placing my entire life in your hands, Jack.”
“Trust me, I understand. And I promise you that even though this is difficult for you, it will be the best decision of your career.” They shook hands and Marty left.
With a huge sigh of relief, Jack dropped down into his chair, picked up his phone, and punched in a few numbers. “How are you doing, boss?...I sealed the deal. He’s going to do it...they don’t call me Jack the Ripper for nothing...I’ll see you for lunch.” Jack hung up the phone, interlocked his fingers with his hands behind his head, and smiled proudly...
CHAPTER 13
Julio sat at the small, cluttered desk of his vehicle repair shop on Hunting Park Avenue in North Philadelphia smoking a Marlboro. At 10:09 in the morning his office phone rang. He quickly raised the receiver to his ear in anticipation of the call. Just as expected, it was Norfolk Sutherland train station. A Kia Sorento that was purchased from an online auction had arrived and was expected to be picked up by his company.
After informing the caller that he was on his way, he logged onto Norfolk Southerland’s website and re-checked the estimated delivery time for the Kia. He had been on the site numerous times over the past few days, however, a great sense of relief set in knowing that the vehicle was ready to be picked up at approximately
the same time that was posted on the site. If Julio would have received the phone call over an hour later, he would have followed the orders given to him and denied the SUV.
He snubbed the cigarette into an ashtray brimming with ashes and butts like tombstones in a cemetery. He yelled out for his cousin, Miguel, to accompany him on the drive to pick up the Kia.
At the train station’s service desk, Julio filled out and signed the paper work, placed his dealer’s tags onto the vehicle and then headed back to his shop. Once there, he called Mack and Terry. Within fifteen minutes they pulled into Julio’s large, warehouse-styled garage.
Miguel locked and secured the building behind them. He and Julio went to work using an assortment of electrical tools to remove body panels and engine components from the vehicle with the skill of seasoned surgeons. An hour later, forty individually wrapped kilos of cocaine lay on the concrete floor, and the Kia was little more than a frame with an array of parts strewn around the garage.
Mack removed ten large Zip Lock bags containing compact stacks of U.S. currency from the trunk of his Dodge Charger. He handed them to Julio with instructions to conceal them in the panels of the truck before reassembling it.
Terry opened the glove box of his car and pulled out a small pouch that contained ten thousand dollars, placed it into Julio’s hands and thanked him for his services.
With the drugs safely tucked into the Charger’s hidden compartment, Mack and Terry carefully drove out of the garage and merged in with the traffic. Muddled feelings of uneasiness and excitement always occurred during their drive, despite having done this numerous times.
“We should drop ten jawns off to Twan right now, so he can break them all down,” Mack said, putting an end to the silence. He kept his eyes on the road.
“Aaight. Then after that all we have to do is take the rest to the stash house and the risky work will be done.”
&nbs
p; Terry gave Twan a call, letting him know they were on their way. It didn’t take long before Mack pulled inside Twan’s two-car garage.
A white, late model Dodge Caravan with tinted windows sat five houses down from Twan’s home. Two men sat inside chain smoking Newport cigarettes for the past two hours. They were contemplating on grabbing a quick bite to eat when a black Charger cruised past them.
“Oh, shit. That’s that nigga, Mack, right there!” the man on the passenger side exclaimed.
“Damn, he was right. He’s about to drop off some work to the bawh, Twan,” the driver said.
“Aaight. Let’s stay and wait until he leave. We don’t need him now. We’ll get his fat ass later.”
The familiar rumble of the Hemi engine penetrated the walls. Twan walked into the garage as Mack turned the engine off.
“Pizza delivery!” Terry joked, easing out of the passenger side.
“Do it look like I need some damn pizza?” Twan asked, rubbing his rotund belly.
Mack got out and pushed the button on the wall causing the garage door to close. “Hell no, you don’t need no pizza. You need some Hydroxycut!”
“I know your super-sized ass ain’t talkin’. Your body’s shaped like a conversion van!” Twan shot back.
Mack looked down at his frame for a quick second.
“Nigga, I’m the slimmest fat boy you ever met.” They all laughed. Mack went back to the Charger, activated a series of switches revealing the secret compartment, and opened the trunk. He and Terry removed ten kilos, closed the compartment, and went inside.
Terry placed the drugs on the living room table and took a seat. Twan grabbed a vanilla Blunt Wrap, a bag of high quality indica and rolled it. The potent strain of weed delivered immediate results as it was smoked and passed around by the trio.
“Damn, that weed got me high as a muthafucka.” Terry slouched back in his chair with his eyelids nearly touching.
“Me, too, but we can’t stay too long,” Mack said, refocusing. “We need you to cook up two birds. Give one to Reek and one to Boogs. Re-rock the other eight jawns and stretch them to ten. Give Jihad five bricks and give the other five to Shawn.”
“Aaight, I’ma get right on it. As a matter of fact...” Twan pulled out his cell phone and sent a text. “I just told Reek to come over. He’s been hitting me non-stop since yesterday. That li’l nigga is a hustle-holic. Don’t trip. I’ll make sure everybody gets their package by this afternoon.”
“Good lookin’, Big Boy.” Terry stood up to leave. “Call me after you’ve seen everybody.” They gave each other dap, then Mack and Terry left.
Twan wasted no time pulling out all of the needed material to cook up and re-rock the cocaine. He took a seat at the table, used a box cutter to slice through multiple layers of plastic, revealing the pearl white cocaine. Just as he removed the packaging, his narcolepsy set in. Twan’s body went limp in the chair. He abruptly began to snore, falling into a deep sleep.
The Charger exited the garage, backing out of the driveway, then, drove down the street, fading out of view.
“It’s show time, cannon,” the man in the passenger seat said. After double checking their guns to make sure bullets were chambered, they tucked them into the waist line on their pants, placed the stocking caps on top of their heads, and then jumped out of the van.
They trotted to Twan’s house, rolling the stocking caps down over their faces. The bigger man used all of his strength to deliver a strapping forward kick to the door. It loosened but was still secured to its posts. The second kick caused the wood to splinter. He then used his shoulder to ram the door, busting it open.
The skin splitting impact jarred Twan out of his sleep as blood trickled from the fresh wound across his forehead. He looked up in shock staring at two massive barrels of semi-automatic handguns being held by masked men.
“Yo, what the...”
One of the men pressed the cold steel against Twan’s cheek, silencing him.
“You’re too big to be playing with, Scrap. Put your hands behind your back.”
As bad as Twan wanted to take a chance and rush one of the men, he knew that it would only end in his death. He released a sigh of defeat and did as he was told.
The second robber pulled his large hands behind the back of the chair and cuffed him. He, then, gathered the drugs that lay on the table and dumped them into a black garbage bag.
The first robber kept his gun trained on Twan. “You can make this a lot easier on yourself and tell us where ya boys keep their work stashed at.”
Twan smiled. “Suck my dick, nigga!”
“Oh, you think this shit is a game, huh?” He tucked the gun into his waist, then, threw a powerful right hand punch, smashing his fist into Twan’s face. He absorbed the blow, but swelling quickly began above his left eye. “I’ma ask you again...where the bawh, Mack, keep his fuckin’ work stashed at?”
“And I’ma tell you again, suck my fuckin’ dick!”
He threw another punch, hitting Twan square in the mouth.
Twan smiled, showing blood stained teeth. “You better kill me, muthafucka!”
“Go and search the house,” the robber ordered his partner, before turning his attention back to Twan. “Don’t worry, as soon as I get everything I want out of you, I’ma blow ya fuckin’ head off!”
“Bitch ass nigga, you ain’t getting’ nothing out of me!” Twan’s anger was boiling over as he began to struggle to break free. His massive frame shook the chair violently. The strength that Twan displayed caused the robber to draw his gun and aim it at Twan’s head.
The deafening shot echoed off the walls. To Twan’s surprise, it wasn’t the robber’s gun that was discharged. Twan opened his eyes and saw the contents of the robber’s head splattered over him. The dead body hit the floor with a thud. Reek stood there with a black .44 Bulldog in his hand.
“What the fuck is going on?” Reek slid behind Twan and wrestled with the handcuffs in an effort to free him.
“Two dudes just tried to rob me...hold up. The other one is still somewhere around!”
Reek looked up just in time to see the bright flash escape from the barrel of a 9 mm. Three bullets struck Twan in his upper chest, stopping his heart instantly. Reek raised his revolver and squeezed the trigger two times. At the same instant, three bullets tore into his stomach, ripping through his small intestines. One bullet lodged into his spinal cord. Shock abruptly set in, but there was little pain. Paralysis removed all of the feelings from the lower half of his body.
The robber grabbed the garbage bag containing the drugs using his good arm. The other was of no use because of the extensive damage that was done by the large slug embedded in it. He escaped out of the house leaving a trail of blood.
Reek managed to pull his cell phone out of his blood soaked jeans. He dialed Terry’s number. His heart rate increased as the blaring sirens of the police cruisers grew louder.
“Hello?” Terry answered.
“H-h-help...” Reek’s words trialed off into silence. He lost blood rapidly. The phone slipped from his grasp as his muscles relaxed and consciousness escaped him.
Three squad cars with bright flashing lights came to a screeching halt in front of Twan’s house. The front door was slightly ajar.
“Police! We received a report of gunshots inside this house. Is anyone there?” the chief officer yelled, standing to the side of the door for protection. There was no answer. “Police! We’re coming in!”
The first officer entered with his gun firmly in position and ready to fire. The other officer flanked in behind him. Reaching the dining room, their eyes were pulled toward the three bullet-riddled bodies.
“Cover and secure the rest of the house,” the chief officer commanded, reaching down to check the vitals of the victims. The heavy-set man who was slumped over and handcuffed to the chair had no pulse. The young man who lay on the floor had a pulse, however it was extremely weak. There was no need to check the third victim. Over one
third of his masked face had been blown off. Using his two-way radio, he called for paramedics and homicide unit.
The ambulance was the first to arrive. Paramedics were forced to cut the clothes from Reek’s body in order to locate the bullet’s entry points. Recognizing the extent of his injuries, they did their best to reduce the bleeding, wasting no time strapping the young man to a gurney. They rushed him to Albert Einstein Medical Center.
Moments later a tan Chevrolet Impala pulled up behind the Crime Scene Unit’s van. Todd and Latrice Reed, a brother and sister, homicide detective team, got out of their car. They approached the crime site, ducking under the yellow tape used to cordon off the scene.
“Good afternoon, Detectives,” the chief officer said as he shook their hands.
“Good afternoon, Thomas. Can you brief us on what happened?” Latrice asked, getting directly to the point.
“Yes. Follow me.”
The trio walked into the house. Photographers were busy placing numbered cards next to every item of evidence as they recorded and snapped pictures. The chief officer explained in detail all that he and his men had observed upon entering the home.
Once in the living room where the two corpses were, along with the remnants of clothes left behind by the lone survivor, Todd shook his head in disdain. “More lives lost prematurely.” He spoke more to himself than to the others. He kneeled over one of the bodies. There was no way the body could be identified by his facial features. Blood began to congeal on what was left of his stocking cap, hardening it, and a small puddle of blood formed under what was left of his grotesquely disfigured head. Everyone seemed impervious to the copper smelling stench of spilled blood that accompanied death.