by Teri Woods
Don Diva: What up, bruh?
Rahman: I’m chillin’… Under the circumstances.
DD: Underdug and overstood. How did you lose your eye?
R: It happened when I was about eight, me and my cousin were playing with firecrackers on the roof of my building. It happened then.
DD: Oh, i’ight. Yo, bruh, I’ve been trying to get wit’ cha for a minute—why now?
R: Because… I got somethin’ to say. I feel like I owe it to a lot of people, who knew who I was—to know who I am now, ’cause, you know, my parents, they tried to raise me in Islam. My wife always tried to get me on my deen, but them streets had me, now the beast got me. My kids [Rahman has three] don’t have a father and my wife has no husband and I think the world should know why. Maybe they won’t make the same mistakes.
DD: Tell me how you met Dutch.
R: I met Dutch maybe fifteen years ago, when we were both stealin’ cars. I was probably no more than fourteen at the time. See, we were stealin’ cars for fun, you know, doin’ tricks and outrunnin’ 5-0, but Dutch, he had a connect. Now back then, it was damn near impossible for little cats like us to have a chop-shop connect. So Dutch went around the whole city, collecting the best little tackhead car thieves he knew about, and my name rang bells back then for being one of the nicest.
DD: Didn’t Dutch go to jail for stealing cars?
R: Yeah, but for the city, it was the worst mistake they could’ve made. See, Dutch was always smart. I don’t know if he ever took an IQ test, but there’s no doubt in my mind he was a genius. He knew cats’ hearts, [he] knew how to manipulate and strategize. He was a cold-blooded individual, but he was no fool. There was definitely a method to his madness.
DD: Madness like the “Month of Murder”?
R: The Month of Murder was like… like a military coup. Kazami [a murdered Newark drug lord] was king, and when he fell, all the king’s horses and all his men had to go with him. Anybody loyal to that regime was erased and replaced. See, ’cause you had a lot of cats who wanted the crown, too. Kids was plottin’ left and right. Like Money-Murph, in Jersey City. Dutch knew Jersey City was gonna be hardheaded ’cause the beef between J.C. and Newark is legendary. Wasn’t no Newark nigga gonna run J.C. But Dutch came and got me on a Ninja and we rode to Jersey City, right into Kurrywoods, one of the roughest projects there. He rode right up on Murph and his people. Now keep in mind, we ain’t got no gun, no nothin’, just heart. Yo, guns was clickin’ everywhere ’cause these cats was ready to dead us, but Dutch took off his shirt, walked right up to Murph, and told him to shoot him a fair one. Dutch had on Kazami’s dragon chain and everybody knew it. Murph just looked at the chain, so Dutch took it off. He threw it at Murph’s feet and told him, “If you a ‘live’ nigga, lock ass and take what’s yours.” Yo… Murph shoulda just shot him then, ’cause Dutch beat son ass in front of all his people—clowned him. Just like that, Murph wasn’t the man he was before, and Dutch moved into J.C. wit’ ease. Real respect real.
DD: Now that’s gangster.
R: Naw… That’s Dutch. Like I said, cats respected Dutch, and in the game, that’s bottom line. Machiavelli once said, “A ruler should be feared instead of loved.” But in the game, a scared nigga’ll kill you quick. Either wit’ another team or wit’ the police. So even though everybody didn’t love Dutch, neither did everybody fear him… but everybody did respect him. I think that’s the balance—between love and fear.
DD: Speaking of “everybody,” rumor has it that more than a few record labels owe Dutch more than a thank-you card. Care to elaborate?
R: Naaw… But let’s just say, if it wasn’t for Dutch, a lot of cats, not only in entertainment, but clothing and sports, wouldn’t be where they are today. Not only because of the paper Dutch put out, but [because of] the protection. Everybody thinks the Jews run the industry. They don’t. They own it, but the mob controls it. But being under Dutch’s wing, they avoided a lot of the bull crap.
DD: You mentioned the mob. I’ve heard it said that Dutch was the first black cat in the Mafia.
R: [Laughs] Naw, naw, Dutch wasn’t in no Mafia.
DD: Was he connected?
R: [Rahman pauses before he answers.] Dutch was connected to a lot of people.
DD: Are you still in contact with Angel? [Angel Alvirez is the only other surviving member of the family, besides Roc. Craze hasn’t been seen since the shootout at the trial.]
R: Me and Angel is always gonna be fam, but we both dealin’ wit’ our own issues. But I keep her in my prayers. I sent her a Quran, too.
DD: Now that you’re Muslim, how do you see your former life? Is there any good that came from it?
R: In Islam, this world is called “dunya,” meaning “low place.” I was totally dunya, we were totally dunya… I can’t say that any good came out of that life except I learned about the mercy of Allah. When I was arrested, I had been shot by the feds. But they waited over an hour to call an ambulance, hoping I’d die. But I didn’t, I’m here. Allah gave me another chance.
DD: What’s the status of your appeal?
R: To be honest, I’m really not concerned with that. I’m not gonna lie and say I don’t want to go home, but I really don’t feel I’m ready. It’s easy to be on your deen in prison, but out in that world, in the dunya… it’s a whole ’nother story, especially for me. You gotta realize, since I was real young I’ve been spoiled by the life I led. I did what I wanted, when I wanted, and how I wanted. During the Month of Murder, me and Zoom walked up in Livingston Mall, rang they fire alarm, and in the confusion ran up in the arcade and murdered two cats from Edison, loyal to Kazami. I’m not proud of what I’ve done. I was sick, and I know I’m not completely cured. I need to fight my own jihad and let the Quran be my medicine.
DD: What do you want people out there to know, before we end this interview?
R: I want them to realize that, no matter how many times you get away wit’ what you’re doin’, it will catch up with you. Because when it’s all said and done, it’s not about man’s law, it’s about God’s law, the law of retribution. Just look at everybody who lived this life. Where they at now? Why do you think you can be any different, be the one who gets away? It’s like the lottery—one out of a million hit, and that keeps the other 999,999 going broke. But you ain’t playin’ wit’ a dollar and a dream in the game, you playin’ wit’ your life.
DD: One more question. It has been said by many people that Dutch isn’t dead. Many believe that the police decided to cover his escape by saying he’s dead because they couldn’t allow people to think someone could have the kind of audacity to try something like that and get away with it. What do you think?
R: [Rahman laughs again.] People think Tupac and Elvis alive, too. People don’t like to let go.
DD: But what do you think? Do you believe Dutch is dead?
R: [Rahman took another long pause before he answered me.] I believe many things, but to say “belief” in relation to Dutch implies hope, and as much as I loved Dutch… and in some ways still do, I no longer wish him on this world… But for their sake, they better hope he is.
CONCLUSION: FRANCE
Craze held the issue of the Don Diva magazine in his hands. He scanned Roc’s article once more, closed the magazine, and looked at Roc on the cover. It was a special edition dedicated to Dutch. The whole issue was based on Dutch. The cover read:
IS DUTCH REALLY DEAD?
Craze smiled, then closed the magazine. He was standing on the balcony of his hotel suite, looking down over the Paris night.
The balcony on which he stood had once been occupied by kings and queens, who once reigned from it. It made him think back to how it all started. They had dared to do the impossible and made it look easy. Had taken on any and all, meeting every challenge and winning them all. Now he was dining with international players and romancing women who only knew one word in English.
His name.
But he knew it wasn’t over. He knew there were those who
wouldn’t rest until they knew the answer to the question on the Don Diva cover, and knew for sure. But whatever the future held, he felt confident. Confident that no one could stop them now. They had come too far. He remembered Dutch’s words from years before… Ain’t no turning back now.
He heard the door of the suite open and close. He walked back into the room to greet the three surviving Charlies, accompanied by the man he had walked through hell with and emerged on the other side with, unscathed.
Dutch.
Craze handed Dutch the magazine. He looked at the picture of Roc on the cover.
“Even Roc think you dead,” Craze said, as he pulled out a cigarette and checked his pockets for a light. Dutch pulled out the lighter he had taken from Mrs. Piazza. It was the same lighter he used to signal the Charlies, at the trial.
He held it up while Craze lit his cigarette from it. Craze blew out a smoke ring as Dutch replied, “They can’t stop what they can’t see.”
Then… he smiled.
READING GROUP GUIDE
Do you think Dutch was a true thug in his heart, or just a regular guy from the hood who could have gone either way?
Could Dutch have established himself without brutally killing Kazami?
Do you think Delores could have done more to keep Dutch from the life he grew to lead?
Was Angel’s loyalty based on true friendship or her feelings for Dutch?
Would you have gone to jail for life to protect someone else? If so, for who and why?
What do you think made Nina different from the other women Dutch dated? Why do you think she gained his heart, when even Angel could not?
Do you think Nina genuinely loved Dutch or loved his money and power?
Do you think Roberto knew who Dutch would become? That said, do you think people realize how much they influence the youth around them?
Why do you think the people of New Jersey went crazy when Dutch was arrested? Shouldn’t the neighborhood want someone like Dutch off the streets?
Do you agree with Roc’s decision to leave the game? Why or why not?
Did you find yourself rooting for Dutch in the end? If so, why?
Were you happy with the ending? Why or why not?
Don’t miss the second book
in Teri Woods’s critically acclaimed
Dutch series!
Please turn this page
for a preview of
Dutch II: Angel’s Revenge
Available March 2010
PROLOGUE
Get these people out of here!” Detective Smalls bellowed.
The Essex County Courthouse had become a madhouse. Screams of confusion and cries of pain filled the air and seared the ears of the seasoned detective. In all of his thirteen years on the force, he had never seen anything like this. It was like a terrorist had dropped a bomb on the courthouse and transformed it into a war zone. Paramedics, uniformed police officers, and Newark’s Special Unit, along with the Newark Fire Department, all struggled to maintain order in the aftermath of the massacre.
“Move aside, please. Move aside!” Smalls commanded as he directed the curious who had filed into the bullet-riddled courtroom door.
“Officer! Officer! My son was in there, please…”
“Please don’t let my wife be dead! Someone help me!”
The faces and voices reminded Smalls of a recurring nightmare, one he could not wake up from. He had been one of the first on the scene and had seen the human remains strewn like discarded waste. As he entered the smoke-filled courtroom, the smell of death hit him in the face. It now lingered in his nostrils as he looked around in disbelief. The tragedy was an unbelievable sight.
Frank Sorbonno’s body lay grotesquely twisted against the rear wall. District Attorney Anthony Jacobs’s body had been blown to pieces, his headless remains sprawled on the prosecution’s table. The judge was slumped over his gavel, and nine of the twelve jury members leaned every which way on top of one another.
Innocent bystanders and the disguised Charlies lay strewn on the floor. Their blood was splattered all over the courtroom and even on the American flag that hung limp in the corner. That sight in particular caught Smalls’s eye and etched itself in his memory.
Smalls sat down in the back row of the courtroom and ran his hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. How could this have happened? he asked himself as he continued to inspect the room. Dutch had single-handedly taken the American justice system and slapped it with his bloody hand. If gunshots had been applause, the courtroom would have received a deadly standing ovation with Dutch as orchestrator.
Smalls silently watched as ambulance workers rolled corpse after corpse onto soiled gurneys and out the courtroom doors. All he could think of was Dutch. He prayed he would be found among the dead. He’d give his right arm to have Dutch in front of him, bleeding, dying, and begging to atone for the atrocity he had inflicted on the flesh of the American justice system. But Dutch was nowhere to be found. The police had sealed off the building and a ten-block radius around it. The feds had stopped airline flights and bus and train departures. But all to no avail. Dutch had managed to slip through the tight noose they had meticulously prepared for him and escaped unscathed. He mocked them all.
But more than how he did it, everyone wanted to know where he had gone.
The question was very simple.
Where was Dutch?
CHAPTER ONE
Fuck all y’all!” was Dutch’s emphatic verdict on the entire courtroom, and the Charlies stood ready to impose his sentence. Bullets filled the unsuspecting courtroom. Dutch pulled out the twin forty-calibers strapped under the defense table and fired into the face of the bailiff to his right as he reached for his service revolver. The second bailiff was spun off his feet by a Charlie in the front row. People leaped and ducked but to no avail because there was nowhere to hide.
Gripping both pistols like death’s sickles, ready to claim his next victim, Dutch cut the judge down with a shot to the chest. “Guilty, muthafucka! Guilty!” Dutch laughed, firing a second shot that exploded the judge’s head like a melon. “Gavel that, pussy!”
Anthony Jacobs felt the muzzle at the back of his head, and before he could even pray, lead filled his thoughts.
The jury was mercilessly sprayed with a barrage of gunfire by four Charlies. All the while, Dutch searched the frenzied rows looking for Frank Sorbonno. He found him crouched under a row at the rear of the courtroom. Dutch smiled down on him.
“Frankie Bonno! It’s the black Al Capone, muhfucka!” Dutch quipped as he aimed the muzzle at his bald dome. “Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetheart!”
“Dutch please! I—”
Bonno’s cowardly plea was silenced by six hollow-point messengers of death.
Meanwhile, courthouse officers had begun to converge on the room. Shots flew through the door, killing two Charlies, while Dutch and six other Charlies made their way to the exit and out the door.
Three more Charlies, positioned in the rear of the building, were exchanging fire with several officers, clearing the way for Dutch and his team.
“Dutch, this way, baby,” one of the Charlies beckoned before her lungs filled with blood from a gunshot in the back. She fell, silenced forever, as Dutch and the others made it to the stairs.
Outside, police and ambulances had arrived.
One of the ambulances, however, arrived with two Charlies dressed as EMT workers and was conveniently parked adjacent to the rear of the courthouse.
With eyes alert to the police and all their activity, Craze cautiously emerged from behind a Dumpster and opened the back door.
To the average eye, the ambulance didn’t appear out of place. The melee had panicked everyone, and no one knew what to expect next . . . Certainly not an ambulance escape.
“The basement!” Dutch ordered the remaining three Charlies with him. “Make sure my man is compensated for his assistance.” He smirked, then shot out the rear door and hopped into the ambulance.
“Where is Dutch?” Smalls demanded, but he became distracted when Detective Meritti entered the courthouse behind him. Smalls could tell by the look on his partner’s face that he was the bearer of bad news. Smalls had been dealing with the press throughout the ordeal, keeping them informed of what was going on. But he had postponed leaking any information concerning Dutch until the chief of police got back to him. And today Meritti was the chief’s messenger.
“What’s the world coming to, eh?” Meritti asked in his Brooklyn Italian accent. “First 9/11, now this?” He scanned the crime scene in disbelief. “This is the beginning of anarchism.”
Smalls agreed. “So?” he inquired, studying Meritti’s blue eyes.
Meritti sat down and lit a Winston. “I can see the headlines now. ‘Gangster Kills Judge and Jury and Escapes,’ ” he bitterly remarked with a flourish, tapping the ashes from his cigarette. “Do you know what kind of message that would send?” Meritti continued his rant. “Every fuckin’ nut with a gun and half a heart will think he can do the same thing!”
Smalls nodded. “No courtroom in America will be safe. The next thing you know, people will be shooting DAs and judges in the street!”
“And rioting in county jails to bust out the kingpins,” Meritti added in a tone of disgust.
Smalls knew where Meritti was going with the conversation. “I take it the chief feels the same way?” Smalls asked, already knowing he did.
Meritti nodded, watching his partner of six years, knowing what the chief was asking of him. He knew Smalls didn’t like to lie. To Meritti, Smalls had always been an annoyingly honest detective.