Dutch

by Teri Woods

  “Don’t lie to me, muhfucka! I got ears everywhere, nigga!”

  While Craze continued stomping Roll, World and his team had been carrying all the candy and soda to the door, throwing it in the street for the little kids. They came from everywhere, laughing and grabbing up the candy, then running off, knowing they were wrong. Craze flipped open the cash register and counted.

  “Nigga, this all you got? Fuckin’ chump-change-ass nigga, gonna kill me!”

  Craze laughed as he dragged the badly beaten Roll out the door.

  “Yo, give me the keys to that nigga shit,” said World with a devilish grin on his face, ready to see if he could still 360.

  Craze dug the keys out of Roll’s pocket and threw them to World. He then pushed Roll onto the hood of the car and started stripping him of his jewelry.

  “Fuckin’ clown-ass nigga! Fuck is you stupid? You better stick to that rap shit, muhfucker!”

  “Craze, man, it ain’t like that,” Roll slurred through swollen lips.

  “You stupid, nigga, why you lyin’? Your own man, Rock, told me what was up,” Craze lied.

  Roll looked at him silently.

  “Oh, you think I’m lyin’? The nigga sold you out. He came and told me it was all your idea, tryin’ to get down with us.”

  “I—I don’t know what you talkin’ ’bout,” Roll said innocently, but Craze knew he was lying.

  “That’s on you, dog. I’m just pullin’ your coat to your man, ’cause yous’a clown-ass nigga and so is your man. But, yo, if I’m lyin’ then who else knew?”

  Roll looked up at Craze and he could tell that his last statement had struck a nerve. Craze looked at Young World’s crazy ass speeding up and down the block on Roll’s Ninja bike. World was doughnuting and leaving tire tracks in the middle of the street and Craze smiled to himself. Dutch taught that nigga well.

  “The weakest part of a motherfucker is his mind. Control that and ain’t no gun more powerful than that,” he remembered Dutch once saying. As he looked in Roll’s face, he could tell Dutch had been right. A few weeks later, Rock and Roll had so much beef the duo split and lost their recording contract.

  Divide and conquer.

  But the streets weren’t the only ones making plans in Dutch’s absence. Frank Sorbonno and the Nigerians had a few tricks left up their sleeves.

  Mr. Odouwo had contacted Frank and asked him to meet him at his hotel suite at the W in Times Square. Frank arrived accompanied by one of his bodyguards. Mr. Odouwo appeared to be alone, but Frank knew he wasn’t. Nigerians had a peculiar way of dealing that Frank had never quite gotten used to.

  He walked over to the table laid out with fruit and Danish, shook Mr. Odouwo’s hand, and sat down. Mr. Odouwo finished pouring them each a glass of wine, then he sat as well.

  “I thank you, Mr. Sorbonno, for meeting with me, despite our past differences. I hope the fruits of this council will assuage any ill feelings between us,” he said, raising his glass for a toast before sipping.

  “For years, we have had Mr. James’s name written on our hearts… the part reserved for vengeance. Ojiugo Kazami was one of our dearest countrymen. He served us well and to know he died in such a way to a man such as Mr. James, well… is a blow to our pride, to say the very least. And we would have implemented swift justice had it not been for your people’s protection. Yet we knew it would only be a matter of time before someone more sympathetic to our concerns would take over, for a house divided cannot stand,” said Mr. Odouwo, knowing the hand Frank played in Tony’s death, but not yet revealing it.

  “But it seems God has smiled on us, as I understand Mr. Cerone is no longer with us.”

  “Yeah, the bastard finally caught it.”

  “So, what do you intend to do?” Mr. Odouwo asked.

  “I wanna kill the little black son of a bitch!” Frank blurted out before realizing who he was talking to. “No offense.”

  “None taken.” The Nigerian smiled, then continued. “But, let me be honest, heroin is our biggest export—that is, after oil. We use the proceeds to fund our freedom fighters back in my country. So, the trade here in New Jersey is important to us. Therefore, I ask that you leave the streets and Mr. James to us. While your vendetta is personal, ours is, shall I say, spiritual. In return, I invite you to Nigeria. It is a beautiful country, the most beautiful in the world. I invite you to partake of its splendor. There are many opportunities for a man such as yourself in my country.” Mr. Odouwo smiled, knowing Frank had no options.

  Mr. Odouwo had Frank’s deck of cards in his hands, and if Frank didn’t agree, he would find out just how dangerous the Odouwo crime family was. Besides, Mr. Odouwo was well aware that it was Frankie Bonno who had the two hits put out on his friend and business partner, Ojiugo. Frank was lucky he was still breathing.

  Frank just looked at him, and his thoughts went to Dutch. To him, an unlikely alliance was about to be struck based on the hatred of one man. It was then Frank realized that both hemispheres of the globe had been affected by the cancer called Dutch.

  Frank stuck out his hand and the bargain was sealed. Frank would send Dutch to prison, while the Nigerians would send him to his grave.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CLOSING STATEMENTS

  The community and media were staked outside the courtroom in anticipation of the verdict.

  Guilty.

  The police controlled the streets with barriers as a mob formed outside the courthouse. Inside the courthouse, Frank Sorbonno sat in the courtroom waiting patiently. His mind told him not to come, but his pride chided him to attend. He had to be there, to see firsthand when the jurors took away Dutch’s life and his freedom. He wanted to see the look in Dutch’s eyes. He had to; there was no way in the world he was going to miss it.

  Jacobs entered the courtroom like the king of France. He knew he had the case sewn up; he could smell the aroma of victory. He had promised several reporters one-on-one interviews after the trial, and later, he had already arranged for a professional call girl to call on him at a suite he’d rented under an assumed name in the Trump Plaza overlooking Central Park.

  He thought of Old Man Ligotta. I know you’re smilin’, old man. He then began walking up the aisle, viewing all those present, and caught the eye of Frank Sorbonno and smirked. Frank returned the gesture with a wink of his eye. Lot of elderly here today, thought Jacobs. They all seemed so motionless.

  Then it hit him, as he looked one in the face he saw her hair was gray and her figure matronly, but she had none of the telltale signs of aging. He shrugged her off, figuring she was the mother or grandmother of one of Dutch’s many victims.

  Jacobs made his way over to the prosecutor’s table and looked over at Dutch and his law team. As Glass whispered to Dutch, Jacobs and Dutch made eye contact for the first and last time that day.

  I got you, you black bastard, Jacobs’s sneer seemed to say.

  Dutch responded silently with his eyes. Oh, really.

  Glass turned around to see Dutch was smiling at Jacobs. Glass nodded to Jacobs, who nodded back at him, then he turned to Dutch.

  In his heart of hearts, Glass knew they had lost the trial. They lost the trial with Reverend Taylor. Perhaps if Dutch had let him cross-examine the reverend the outcome would have been different. But it started there and went quickly downhill for Glass, who had planned on this moment being a joyous occasion and major career boost.

  But he knew it wasn’t going to happen.

  The judge walked in.

  “All rise,” said the bailiff as the judge made his way to his bench.

  “You may be seated,” said the judge after he sat. “Bring in the jury,” he commanded.

  Within moments, the jury was reseated. The judge turned to Glass.

  “Are you prepared to proceed with your closing statements, Counselor?”

  “Yes, Your Honor, I am,” Glass replied with confidence.

  He stood up and looked at the jury. No one could blame him for the outcome of
the trial. His performance had been impeccable. So he decided to remove himself from Dutch’s destiny and went on to deliver the most eloquent closing statement of his career.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. You have just sat through three weeks of the biggest and baddest gangster movie ever performed. It was better than The Godfather and better than Casino. It reminded me of Scarface… and just as fictitious. It was written, directed, and produced by your own district attorney, Anthony Jacobs. He deserves an Oscar,” said Glass as he watched the jury and detected several amused expressions.

  Jacobs knew he had overdone it just a little with his theatrics from time to time, but the end would justify the means. He believed in killing a mosquito with an axe.

  “But this isn’t Hollywood, ladies and gentlemen. There is a man’s life at stake. These past few weeks, not a single fact has been presented by Attorney Jacobs, not one. He has merely presented circumstantial evidence held together by the weak glue of assumptions. Assumptions of crooked cops, gangsters turned ministers, five-and-dime hustlers… not one law-abiding citizen in the bunch. He brings waywardness in the guise of truth and twists every word that comes out of his mouth to lure you away from what’s real, what’s true. The witnesses he’s produced certainly aren’t credible enough to hang a man’s life on.”

  He walked over to his table, looked at Dutch, sipped from a glass of water, then turned back to the jurors.

  “The district attorney has not proven Mr. James committed any crimes. What crimes did he commit? I still don’t know. And it is supposed to be your job to find out based on the evidence supplied by the state. I don’t think so. I don’t think this jury should confuse the manuscript Attorney Jacobs has presented with the real facts of this case.” Glass paused, then walked back over to the jurors’ box.

  “If you do that, then you can only see my client’s innocent of these charges!” he said sternly, staring down the throats of each and every one of the jurors as if they had better not find his client guilty.

  “Thank you,” he added, readjusting his tie as he slowly walked back to the defense table. He knew it wasn’t looking good for the home team, but for himself, it was of the utmost importance. Maybe Dutch’s career was about to be over, but his was not; it was just beginning.

  The blare of the car horn brought Nina out of her reverie. She glanced into her rearview mirror as she pulled off. She hadn’t seen Dutch since the day she showed him her brother’s mural some time ago. She tried calling him, but the number she had for him was disconnected.

  She wanted to see him, in spite of everything that had been written in the paper every day since Dutch’s case went to trial. None of it mattered. She missed Dutch, and more important, she wanted to be with him. She tried not to think of him, but the media attention and press coverage were everywhere and everyone gossiped daily about the police precinct bombing and the trial.

  On the news at six and eleven, Dutch was constantly referred to as a gangster or as a “notorious drug lord,” or as the “chief orchestrator” of the Month of Murder. He was everywhere, and she knew he needed her. He had sent letters to her by courier at her job asking her to meet him in certain places for lunch, but she never went. She never met him, and after a while, his letters stopped. That’s when she tried to call him.

  If only I had met him at Chin Chin. I should have met him. What was I thinking? Questions like that repeated in Nina’s mind. She thought about all the opportunities she had had to be with him. How he had sweated her to death when they first met, and how sincere and honest he had always been with her about his feelings.

  As she made her way to the courthouse, she pleaded with God for the chance to tell Dutch how she really felt about him.

  Jacobs was thoroughly impressed with Glass’s closing statement. Won’t change nothing though. Jacobs couldn’t help thinking that to himself. He would have been worried had the situation been different. But there was nothing Glass could have said to change the course of the trial or of his career. Jacobs was going places, and he knew it. He stood up slowly, cleared his throat, and began his closing statement.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. I thank you for your time and patience throughout these past few weeks. As I said in the beginning, there are a lot of other things we could have been doing, but we had our duty to one another and ourselves,” he said, quickly scanning the two rows of jurors.

  “Yes, the last few weeks have been submerged in the murky waters of Bernard James’s life, his disregard for life, law and order, and the property of others. From his youth and stealing cars to the present, his existence has been filled with bloodshed, murder, innocent victims, and shattered lives.” He stopped for a moment to catch his breath as he looked at the twelve faces that would make him famous.

  “You must do for Simone Smith, her mother, and her father, what they are not here to do today. Remember Detective O’Neal from the Twenty-ninth Precinct, the survivors, and their family members,” Jacobs said, glancing at Frankie Bonno, who smiled inwardly.

  “Your duty is to them now. Your duty is to honor the memory of each and every life Bernard James has taken,” Jacobs said, leaning on the rail of the jury box.

  “Because if you don’t… then the lives he’ll take in the future will be blood on your hands. Let’s hope and pray his next victim isn’t one of you, one of your children, your mother, your father, your sister, your brother, or your wife or husband,” Jacobs said, pointing at the jurors.

  “If we do not have justice and find the defendant, Bernard James, guilty today, then each and every one of you will leave this courtroom as guilty as that man right there!” he ended, pointing at Dutch, his closing statement just as theatrical as his entire trial.

  Jacobs went back to the prosecutor’s table and sat down. He could have continued, but why? He had the case in the bag. Hands down, he knew he had won.

  The jurors sat still, waiting and wondering if he was finished.

  “Thank you, Attorney Jacobs,” the judge concluded, making sure it was clear he was finished with his closing statement.

  “Your Honor.” Jacobs stood, nodded at the judge, then sat back down.

  “Ah, Your Honor, my client would like to… ahhh, address the court,” Glass requested as he glanced down at Dutch.

  The judge looked down at Dutch in curiosity, inwardly smiling. He, too, had grown to despise Dutch after listening to the past few weeks of testimony. He knew that Dutch would now beg for mercy, which he would, of course, deny. He wanted the press and everyone in the courtroom to witness it.

  “Is this true, Mr. James?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  The judge glanced at Glass, who didn’t have a clue. Then he looked at Jacobs, who subtly nodded, with an amused expression on his face.

  “This is a highly unusual request at this stage in the trial, but I will allow it. You may proceed, Mr. James.”

  Dutch swiveled in the wooden chair before slowly standing up and facing the jury.

  “I’m not gonna take up much of your time. Especially since I know what you’re thinking. I can see it in your eyes. You’re dyin’ to say it, too. Guilty,” Dutch said, looking at each and every last one of the jurors prepared to send him to prison for the rest of his life or worse, sentence him to the death penalty.

  “See? It ain’t hard to tell. So, since we both know how you feel, I guess I’m suppose to throw myself on your mercy, have remorse and sorrow, and say I’m sorry and beg you not to find me guilty?”

  Dutch chuckled lightly and shook his head slowly, answering his own question.

  “Naw… naw, I’ll let God judge me. But to you, I only got one thing to say: Fuck all y’all.”

  The courtroom was buzzing in astonishment. The judge looked at Dutch with contempt, but Dutch just laughed. He laughed louder and harder at the judge. The courtroom became silent at his maddening laughter, and the judge continued to bang his gavel, requesting that Glass silence his client or he would be held in contempt of co
urt.

  “Dutch, please, the judge,” Glass said as Dutch stopped laughing. Glass was thankful. But just as he became silent, Dutch reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigar and a lighter. He lit the tip of the cigar…

  CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! The sounds of automatic weapons were ominous. No one moved. Even the judge stopped banging his gavel as he heard the sounds.

  Frankie Bonno’s gut told him he should have stayed home, but his pride, his pride, had him right where Dutch wanted him.

  Anthony Jacobs, who felt like a man on the verge of success and status… only ran out of time.

  Everyone in the courtroom lived different lives. Those last few moments, those last few thoughts, sealed time forever as the sound of gunfire shattered the silence like glass.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE REACTION

  Yes, Bob, I’m standing outside the Essex County Courthouse in Newark, New Jersey, and as you can see from the number of police cars and ambulances, there has been an unbelievable tragedy here today.

  “The trial of Bernard James ended in gunfire only moments ago; details are sketchy. But this is what we do know. The gunfire started from somewhere inside the courtroom among the spectators. We are not sure how many, but we do know several spectators opened fire inside the courtroom.

  “Among those confirmed dead are Frank Sorbonno, alleged crime boss of the Cerone crime family. Also, confirmed dead: Judge Whitaker, the judge who presided over the case. Eight members of the jury—I’m sorry, Bob, make that nine out of the twelve jurors are dead. Their names, however, are being withheld until contact has been made with family members. The other three members of the jury have been rushed to St. Agnes Hospital with gunshot wounds, and we are waiting for an update on their conditions. As soon as we have more details, we will report them to you.”

  • • •