Brooklyn Bombshells--Part 2

by Erica Hilton

  Landy’s own attorney didn’t believe in her. He wanted her to take a plea deal. He didn’t want to spend too much time on her case, which he felt was open-and-shut for the prosecutor. In fact, he was appalled by the young white girl who came into his office with her urban gear and slang talk. Right away, he figured her to be a “wigga,” a slave to the black culture and black men. Such a damn waste, he had said to himself.

  “Can you get me off? Cuz I didn’t do it. I don’t sell or do drugs,” she had said to him.

  “The prosecutor has a strong case against you,” Bernstein had told her.

  “And I’m telling you, somebody is setting me up. I’m a college student! I’ve never hugged a block in my life.”

  “Hugged a block? What’s that? I’m confused.”

  Landy exhaled her frustration. He wasn’t getting the full picture here. She felt he was stuck in a time warp. Landy needed someone who understood the culture; someone more liberal. She needed CNN, and his vibe was Fox News.

  “It means that I’ve never sold drugs and you need to believe that, cuz it’s true. I need a miracle, Mr. Bernstein. You have to get me off so I can go back to my life.”

  “I can’t make you any promises.”

  “What can you make then? I can’t go to jail. This isn’t me!”

  His reaction to her outburst was expressionless. Landy had her hair in cornrows and a scowl on her face, looking the part of a thug. He thought of her as one of his own who had been brainwashed by the niggers with their street swag and ghetto troubles. She wanted to be with them and look like them, and it bothered Bernstein.

  “It’s not what you’re telling me; it’s what it looks like to the judge and the prosecutor and a jury if you decide to take this case to trial. Which I wouldn’t advise.”

  “But I don’t have a criminal record.”

  “This is an election year, and politicians up for reelection don’t hold any sympathy for criminals, especially drug dealers,” he had warned her.

  Landy had frowned. Her lawyer’s words already had her defeated.

  Bernstein had continued with, “Sentencing for drug distribution and trafficking can generally range from three to five years to life in prison.”

  The little color in Landy’s face drained, and she had appeared paler than she already was. Her earlier scowl transitioned into a worried pout.

  Michael Bernstein continued to advise her about the harsh New York City drug laws—the Rockefeller Laws. Drug trafficking and distribution was a felony and a more serious crime than drug possession, and they wanted to hit Landy with intent to sell charge.

  “It’s not fair,” Landy had cried out.

  Bernstein continued to express apathy to her plight. He felt, if you lie around in the mud with pigs then eventually, you’re gonna get dirty and be slaughtered. And now she had nigger charges.

  “Take a plea deal. I can arrange something with the ADA, and you might do a year in jail.”

  “A year!” she hollered. She didn’t want to do a day in jail.

  “Right now, it’s the best deal you’re gonna get from the ADA.”

  Landy felt like this was all a nightmare. This wasn’t happening to her. She was a good girl. She was in school trying to get a degree and next thing she knew, all hell broke loose when plainclothes narcotics officers suddenly sprung on her with their guns drawn. They spewed out threats and demands, subsequently searching her and finding the unexpected in her book bag. Now her life was ruined.

  Landy stood inside the courtroom flanked by her inept attorney and gazed at the gray-haired and stern-faced judge who looked to be in his early fifties. Her cornrows were replaced with long, spiral curls, and her urban attire became a loose-fitting dress and ballerina flats. Landy looked like a young lady from the Long Island suburbs who didn’t know a thing about staying in the ghetto.

  The judge asked her how she pleaded to the charges against her, and she reluctantly replied, “Guilty, Your Honor.”

  Charlie was truly enjoying the show. When Landy turned around and glanced at Charlie sitting in the courtroom observing her sentencing, it didn’t register. She knew that she had been set up, but she didn’t know the who or the why.

  The judge continued with his courtroom jargon, but now Landy wasn’t paying too much attention to what he was saying. She once again glanced back at Charlie seated two rows behind her, and it dawned on her.

  Landy glared at the bitch. This had to be Charlie’s doing. She didn’t know anyone else grimy enough to plant drugs on her and have her set up—and Charlie was fucking that cop.

  To add insult to injury, Charlie pointed to herself and then to Landy and mouthed to her, “I did this to you. I put you in here.”

  The hard, stoic look on Landy’s face suddenly cracked. How could I have been so stupid and naïve? she thought. Charlie had singlehandedly destroyed her life. She started to weep openly, which turned into heavy sobs with her shoulders heaving up and down. No one cared for her tears. She did the crime and now she was about to do the time, they all believed.

  The judge sentenced Landy to a year in jail. With good behavior, she would most likely do a little more than half that. It was a slap on the wrist to Charlie, but the punishment would do.

  Michael Bernstein felt that he had done a remarkable job with Landy’s case. A year in jail and eligible for release within six months, she should be kissing his ass.

  Landy continued to sob. It looked like the judge had sentenced her to life in prison instead of a year.

  Before the bailiffs could escort Landy into the bullpens below, Charlie stood up to leave, but before doing so, she yelled a threat to Landy. “I’m not done wit’ you!”

  The judge demanded order in his courtroom and shouted a harsh warning to Charlie. If she continued with her outburst, then she would be held in contempt of court. But she was done. She had gotten her point across. She wanted to teach Landy a lesson, and she had. Anyone who came against her would be dealt with accordingly.

  Charlie marched out of the courtroom with a self-righteous attitude. Landy was going to jail and she was going to continue to enjoy her freedom. Ahbou had proven worthy to her. She almost wished he wasn’t dead. Having a cop at her beck and call was useful.

  Outside the courthouse, Charlie smiled and took in a whiff of fresh air—a whiff of her continued freedom. She was satisfied with how her plan had come together so perfectly. But her satisfaction felt short-lived because Chanel came into her mind. Landy was lightweight compared to whose life she truly wanted to ruin. She had heard that Mateo had fully recovered and now he was home. Chanel was back with her true love and it sickened Charlie to think that bitch was happy again. Charlie had a deep-seated hatred for her little sister. Why did she hate the bitch so much? Jealousy? Resentment? Whatever the reason, there was no way Charlie was going to allow her younger sister to live her best life.

  She got into her convertible Benz and put the top down. She lit a cigarette and connected her phone to the car, loading up a Spotify playlist that kicked off with Nipsey Hussle’s “Victory Lap.” It was back to the block—back to business and making money. But it was also time to plot Chanel’s demise, along with Mateo’s.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chanel couldn’t reconcile the irritation that shot through her body when she heard the news. A few hours ago, Mecca had called her screaming into the phone excitedly.

  “Ohmygod! Ohmygod, Chanel! He did it! He did it!” Mecca had exclaimed. “He finally proposed to me. We’re getting married, Chanel! Ohmygod, I’m getting married!”

  Chanel tried to feign excitement when she congratulated her. “I’m so happy for you, Mecca. You deserve it. Y’all are gonna make a wonderful married couple.”

  “I can’t believe this is finally happening. I’m getting married. And of course, I want you to be my maid of honor, Chanel.”

  “Of course,�
�� she answered, swallowing the lump that had formed in her throat.

  “I want a huge wedding if he can afford one. And I’m going to need my best friend’s help. You were right, Chanel. I just needed to be patient with him. And you should see the ring he gave me. It’s so beautiful and expensive,” Mecca had boasted. “I love him so much.”

  Chanel had already seen the ring—helped picked the bitch out. But it was a secret she would keep to herself.

  “I told you,” Chanel had said. And then she sighed.

  The story that Mecca gave her was that Pyro came down to her university, somehow found her classroom, and got down on one knee and proposed in front of all her classmates.

  It was the perfect story—the picture-perfect marriage proposal.

  “I love him, Chanel. Ohmygod, I’m getting married!” Mecca squealed.

  Chanel wanted to shout to her, I heard you the first time. Now it felt like Mecca was parading her proposal in her face. She couldn’t believe that Pyro had done it—that he asked Mecca to marry him after all this time.

  “So, where do y’all plan on having the wedding and the honeymoon?” she asked Mecca.

  “We haven’t talked about that yet. But I want to have my wedding in a massive cathedral church and I want to go to Hawaii for our honeymoon.”

  “Hawaii?”

  “Yes. I always wanted to go there, and once Pyro and I get married, it will give us the opportunity.”

  This bitch! Chanel thought. Hawaii was where she and Mateo had planned on getting married and honeymooning. Now she felt that Mecca was trying to emulate her dreams.

  “How you gonna even consider going to Hawaii and that’s where Mateo and I had planned to go?”

  “But y’all didn’t though.”

  “What?” Chanel shrieked. She was pissed off. “You know why we didn’t, Mecca. That was very hurtful to say.”

  “I’m sorry. All I meant was that you and Mateo don’t have exclusive rights to Hawaii. It’s basically every woman’s dream, and I shouldn’t have to stop my fairytale wedding because your family fucked yours up.”

  Mecca was really feeling herself. The engagement had emboldened her to say things Chanel didn’t know were in her. She briefly wondered if Mecca knew about the affair.

  Chanel ended the conversation with, “You’re absolutely right. Whatever you decide, I have your back. And again, congrats.”

  That night, Chanel and Mateo were snuggled in their bed together, talking. Moments like this were what Chanel yearned and dreamed for. There were no more hospitals, facilities, physical therapy, or staff. It was an intimate setting inside their home. Chanel was all smiles, laughing and joking with him. And although he wasn’t a 100% himself yet, it still felt great.

  “Let’s get married,” she blurted out.

  “We are getting married,” he replied.

  “No. I mean right now.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes.”

  “But I assumed that you wanted to keep our original plans to get married in Hawaii with Pyro and Mecca by our sides, but this time on your nineteenth birthday.”

  “I don’t want to wait, Mateo. I love you and I want to marry you now. We’ve waited long enough. I don’t need to get married in Hawaii. I almost lost you and I don’t want to lose you again. So, let’s just go down to the Justice of the Peace and do it—get married.”

  He chuckled. “Damn.” He was flattered.

  She stared at him, waiting for his reply. She genuinely wanted to become his wife, and he couldn’t tell her “no” again. She had already been through so much.

  “Fuck it! Let’s do it. Let’s get married right now,” he said with certainty.

  She smiled and hugged him. “I love you.”

  “I love you too. And how about this . . . let’s have our honeymoon in Hawaii then,” he suggested.

  She sweetly replied, “I want to keep everything between us, Mateo.”

  Mateo lifted his eyebrow. “What you mean?”

  “I mean no Pyro or Mecca; just us.”

  Mateo could understand her wanting to keep things simple, but he was adamant that they would both regret it later if they didn’t have their best friends with them during the ceremony.

  “If Pyro’s not there with me, then I’m not doing it, Chanel. He’s my brother, and Mecca is your best friend. What kind of friends would we be if we didn’t invite them to our wedding?”

  She knew he was right. She sighed. “You’re right.”

  “I know I’m right. And why wouldn’t you want them there in the first place?”

  “It’s just that you and I have been through so much, that . . . it’s nothing important, Mateo. It’s just stress,” she explained.

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m okay.”

  ***

  Pyro wrapped his arms around Mecca and held her affectionately in the bubble bath. They were sipping on wine, eating strawberries, listening to R&B music, and having a romantic time together in the scented bathroom.

  Mecca lifted her hand and smiled at her ring. It was truly beautiful.

  “I love you, baby,” she said.

  “And I love you too.”

  “So, how many kids do you want me to give you?” she joked.

  “Oh, so you want a number?”

  “Don’t be going crazy with it, either. We’re in the twenty-first century, not the nineteenth century.”

  He laughed. “Okay, shit . . . you’re so beautiful and fine, I might fuck around and put six kids into you.”

  “Six?” She shrieked with laughter.

  “You said give you a number.”

  “You want me to give birth to the Brady Bunch?”

  “Hey, I wouldn’t mind a big family,” he joked.

  “Well, three at the most, and you better look into adoption for the rest.” She laughed.

  “Adoption?”

  “You know what giving birth to six kids will do to my body?”

  “Yup, make you even finer,” he said sweetly.

  She beamed. He always knew the right thing to say to her to boost her confidence. She hoped their chemistry continued until the end of time.

  As they lingered in the warm tub, Mecca’s cell phone rang, and it was Chanel calling her.

  “Damn, she got perfect timing,” Mecca said. “Give me a minute, baby, and let me see what she wants.”

  She climbed out of the tub and Pyro grinned at her wet, succulent ass. He wanted to bite her butt. Mecca grabbed a towel and stepped out of the bathroom. Just then, Pyro’s cell phone started to ring too. It was Mateo calling him. Each was getting a phone call from their friend at the same time. Before Pyro could answer his phone, he heard Mecca squealing her happiness into her phone.

  What the fuck is that about? he thought.

  “Mecca hollering all crazy and happy,” he said to Mateo.

  “That’s because she got some good news,” said Mateo.

  “And what’s that, my dude?”

  “Chanel and I are gonna get married soon. We decided to just do it—go down to the Justice of the Peace and say our vows there,” Mateo said.

  “Oh word? Y’all gonna just do it—get married just like that? Man, congratulations,” Pyro returned, trying to project that same happiness Mecca had squealed to her friend.

  “And you know I want you there by my side when I say ‘I do’ to her. I love her, Pyro, I truly do. I don’t know what I would do without her,” Mateo said.

  “Well, I’m happy for you.”

  “I’m happy for you too, Pyro. You and Mecca make a great couple.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Look at us, two engaged hustlers from the block moving on up wit’ our lives and about to get hitched. Damn, Pyro. We sprung, my nigga?”

  Pyro laug
hed. “We’re something,” he replied.

  “One, my nigga.”

  “One.”

  Their call ended, and as if on cue, Mecca came back into the bathroom. She was smiling and happy for Chanel. Pyro’s mood about their friends’ wedding didn’t match hers.

  “You think Mateo will be disappointed? Cuz we probably won’t be able to make their wedding,” he said.

  Mecca looked at him like he was crazy. “What are you talking about? Of course we’re gonna make it. There’s no way we can miss it.”

  “But it being short notice, them getting married at the Justice of Peace, and I got so much to do.”

  “So much to do? Pyro, Mateo is your best friend, and when it comes to something special like this, it should be your priority to be the best man at his wedding.”

  “I’m happy for him.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked. “Wait a minute. What’s this really about? Because the Pyro I know would kill to make it to this wedding. They are our best friends and they’ve been through so much and lost so much—nearly their lives. And if you don’t think this is important, then I don’t know what to tell you.”

  Pyro exhaled. There was no getting out of it.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  High-profile defense lawyer D’Angelo Bratcher and his legal team, along with the New Jersey detectives, were disappointed that they weren’t able to find any third-party female DNA in God’s apartment. The cops were able to get a photo of Charlie’s license plate as she traveled over the George Washington Bridge several days before they found Kym in the apartment with the murder victim, but they weren’t able to place Charlie at the residence. No witnesses saw Charlie, and she was hard to miss with her red hair.

  Kym was devastated. She was going to go away for a crime she didn’t commit. Her attorney had a knack for spotting liars, and he believed in her innocence. D’Angelo had been a lawyer for twenty-five years, starting out as a Brooklyn prosecutor and then transitioning into a defense attorney because there was more money in it and he wanted to help those who couldn’t help themselves. D’Angelo Bratcher had seen his fair share of overturned verdicts—mostly black and brown men and women convicted of a crime because they couldn’t afford a good lawyer.