“Thanks, Uncle Fran. It’s good to see you too,” Kafisa offered with a smile before they parted.
“Great to see you, sweetheart. Keep making us proud. We’re over here rooting for you.” Fran winked for a second time and waved good-bye. Seconds later he was gone.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Jackson,” greeted the young waiter named Ralphie. “Ma’am.” He nodded to Kafisa.
Kafisa returned his nod.
Ralphie led them to their table, and once they were seated, he handed them the menus. “Are you ready to order, or do you need some time?” he asked, knowing full well that they had their favorite dishes memorized.
“No, we’re ready, Ralphie,” answered Kafis for both himself and Kafisa.
“Okay. Will you be having the usual, sir?” asked Ralphie, remembering that he had served Kafis baked ziti on several occasions when he had dined at the establishment.
“Not today, son. Today I think I’ll go with the linguini with clams. I haven’t had that in a minute,” answered Kafis.
“Excellent choice, sir. And for you, ma’am?” Ralphie said, directing his attention to Kafisa.
She smiled, doing her best to hold in her laughter at being called ma’am, especially by someone only a few years younger than she was, give or take. She knew that the young waiter had to be fairly new, because she had not seen him at the restaurant when she last visited almost three years ago, and besides, he would have known who she was if he had he been here for a while. After all, anyone who had worked at the Village Café for a while knew that she was one of Fran’s nieces and Kafis’s daughter.
“Yes, she’ll have the veal Parmesan,” Kafis said. “And can you bring us a bottle of white wine?” he added, looking up.
“Yes, sir,” replied Ralphie, collecting the menus.
After a fulfilling meal and a beautiful conversation between father and daughter to cap it off, it was time to call it a night. The two of them had spent hours just reminiscing about some of their better days in the past and discussing politics and world events. Kafis was so impressed by his daughter’s intellect. He was gloating and was proud to be her father. If only Camilla could see her now, thought Kafis, knowing that Kafisa’s mother would also be proud of her daughter, despite her personal views about him as a parent.
A slight sense of sadness fell over Kafis. It was no secret that he missed Camilla and wished that she could be there, sharing such moments with him and Kafisa. He still felt somewhat responsible for Camilla’s death. He had invited Kafisa out to tell her all she needed to know in case anything ever happened to him, but the evening had been going so well without him discussing his business, and so he had put the subject on the back burner for now.
Night had fallen, and Kafis was exhausted both physically and mentally. “Let’s go home, baby girl,” he suggested, rising from the dinner table. “Your old man is getting tired,” he added as he let out a yawn.
Kafisa smiled and rose from her seat as well. “Yeah, it is way past your bedtime, ole man,” she joked.
That made Kafis smile. His mood instantly changed from down back to up. His daughter had managed to pull him out of his funk without even knowing how he had just been feeling. It had been an enjoyable evening between father and daughter. Kafis was tempted to bring up what was on his mind but decided again to save it for the next day.
Chapter Five
Kafisa was awakened out of her sleep. She thought she had heard a noise. Throughout her childhood, because of the lifestyle her father had led, she had always been a light sleeper. She had been taught to be alert at all times. At a young age, Kafis had schooled her on the importance of being on point no matter where she was or what she was doing. Even when she was asleep, she had to be alert, he had told her. She remembered his words clearly, as if it was yesterday. “Never sleep. Only rest!” And later on in life this advice had proven to be very valuable.
Her wits had saved her from a situation during her sophomore year of college. A guy she was dating got tired of taking no for an answer. One night, after leaving a party intoxicated, he broke into her off-campus apartment, with the intention of forcing himself on her. Luckily for Kafisa, she heard the living-room-window glass hit the floor, alerting her to danger. When she hopped out of bed and made it to her bedroom door, she could hear tiptoed footsteps and heavy breathing outside her bedroom.
As soon as the guy eased the door open and stepped inside the room, he was met with a Louisville Slugger baseball bat upside the head. Had she not recognized his voice as he called out her name in a drunken stupor, Kafisa knew that she would have beaten him to death with the bat. Instead, she threw him out. She vowed never to tell a soul what had happened, especially not her dad. She knew if she had, the kid’s life would have ended for real.
Not sure about what she had heard, Kafisa climbed out of bed to go check on her father. When she reached his door and entered his bedroom, he was already awake. It was obvious that he, too, had heard a noise, given that he was standing there with a gun in one hand and a finger up to his lips, gesturing for Kafisa to be silent. At the sight of her father, her suspicions were confirmed. Someone unknown to them was in the house.
“Stay there,” Kafis whispered. He quietly walked over to where Kafisa stood. “There’s another gun in my top drawer. Get it out and use it if you have to. I’ll be right back,” he instructed, still whispering.
Kafisa just nodded her head. She was not afraid, not of the gun or the situation. She was familiar with them both. She was no stranger to danger, nor was she a slouch when it came to a pistol, and her father knew that.
“Lock the door behind me,” said Kafis as he crept out of his bedroom.
“Be careful,” whispered Kafisa.
Once her father was gone, Kafisa did as she was told. She locked the door and retrieved the .38 revolver from Kafis’s dresser drawer. Now, with the gun in her hand, she contemplated going downstairs to assist her father, but then she easily dismissed the idea. If he had wanted her to back him up, he would have said so, Kafisa reasoned. That was the type of man her father was, and all her life he had been that way. He was someone who knew what he wanted and how to go about obtaining it, and he wouldn’t hesitate to ask for a person’s help if that was what the situation required, no matter who or what it was. She didn’t want to go against his orders, so she stayed put, without fear.
She waited impatiently with gun in hand. She placed her ear to the door. She was unable to hear anything. Minutes went by, but still nothing. Then, just when she thought her patience had run out, she heard someone coming up the steps, or rather more than one someone, because she heard more than one set of footsteps, she was sure. Not knowing what to expect, and not having any time to think, Kafisa cocked the hammer of the revolver, stepped away from the door, and took aim.
The sound of the knob on her father’s bedroom door shaking caused her to tense up. Whoever at this door, tryin’a get in, is in for a rude awakening, thought Kafisa as she held her finger steady on the trigger. She believed that if someone was able to make it upstairs, then that could mean only one thing: they had to have gotten the drop on her father. With that thought in mind, Kafisa was ready, willing, and able to lay her life on the line and make whoever was on the other side of the bedroom door pay for her father’s demise.
The rapid knocks on the door startled Kafisa but did not scare her. The knocks almost caused her to squeeze the trigger of the .38 out of reflex. She gripped the gun tighter. She still had it cocked and aimed at the would-be target on the other side of the door.
Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! “Ms. Jackson, we know you’re in there. This is the FBI. We need you to open the door immediately!” shouted an unknown man from the hallway.
The words that had come from the other side of the door did not move Kafisa the way they might have the average female. Average was hardly a word that could be used to describe her. Kafisa was, in fact, a rare breed, possessing the best of both worlds when it came to perception. She was just as sharp
street-wise as she was textbook-wise, which was why she wasn’t impressed by the shouts that came from the unidentified man. She had been taught by one of the best.
For all she knew, the words spoken on the opposite side of the door could have come from a potential stickup kid, thought Kafisa. He and his partners could easily be posing as federal agents in an attempt to get her to let her guard down so they could enter the room to complete their robbery. She could hear her father’s voice in her head. Trust no one. This was the conclusion she drew, and there was no way that she was going to let that happen.
A million thoughts raced through Kafisa’s mind as she tried to determine the best way to handle the predicament she was now in. She felt tears begin to form in her eyes at the thought of what the perpetrators who had invaded their home could have done to her father, but she fought them back, knowing that now was not the time for her to be falling apart. She had to remain strong for both her and her father’s sake, because there was a good possibility that he was still alive, and he would be counting on her to use what he had instilled in her to get them through this situation.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
The repeated knocks on the door broke Kafisa’s train of thought. The same voice called out to her once again. “Ma’am, this is your final warning. Open the door now, or we’ll be forced to kick it in!” the so-called FBI man threatened.
This time, his words were spoken with more conviction. Something about them made Kafisa question her initial thoughts. Whoever stood on the other side of the door did not sound like any regular street thug pretending to be the police. She was almost positive, but not 100 percent sure, and so she was still hesitant about opening the door. What would my father do? Come on, Fee. Think, she said to herself. She could not process her thoughts quickly enough. A sudden disturbing noise shattered her concentration.
Boom! That was the sound the door made as it burst open from the impact of the battering ram. Kafisa’s heart skipped a beat. She watched the door break off its hinges and fall on the right side of the bedroom. Had it not been for the badge that she spotted instantly when the door flung open, she would have surely squeezed the trigger of the gun she still had in her hand and possibly shot one of the officers dressed in plain clothes. Federal agents began filling the room.
Confusion would be the best word to describe Kafisa’s reaction to the scene. As instructed, she dropped the .38 she held tightly in her hand and kneeled on the floor. She placed her hands behind her head, and one of the agents roughly lowered her arms and cuffed her hands behind her back. By now the room was filled with a dozen or so federal agents. The only thing on Kafisa’s mind was the whereabouts of her father. Her question was answered when she was escorted downstairs. Other law enforcement officers, wearing blue and yellow FBI jackets, were leading Kafis toward the front door.
The sight of his only child in handcuffs stabbed Kafis like a dagger to his heart. Shame fell upon him. All her life, he had put her through so much, without hearing so much as an ounce of complaining. He loved and respected her for that. Now he had placed her in a degrading position. He knew what was in store for her once they reached the local county jail, and he cringed at the thought that she would be subjected to this. There was no doubt in his mind that she was her father’s daughter and possessed his strength, but this was not a part of the game that she had been exposed to, and he wondered for a second how she would hold up through it all.
Her facial expression assured him that she was all right, but there was no telling how she was mentally. Like him, she had the ability to maintain a convincing poker face, even when she actually had a losing hand. He knew that her biggest concern would be his well-being and not her own, and he felt it was imperative that he let her know that he was good. Just before they whisked him away, Kafis looked at his daughter. He simultaneously shot her a wink and flashed her his famous “Daddy’s little girl” smile. Seeing that, Kafisa’s whole demeanor changed. She returned her father’s smile right before the two agents led him out the door.
When Kafisa arrived at the local FBI office for questioning, it was obvious that the agents thought that holding her on suspicion of conspiring with her father in his illegal activities would make her spill his entire operation, as if she were a scared little girl. That was far from the truth. She held her ground. Her father would be proud if he saw her resilience.
“Now, Kafisa is it? We have a sticky situation here, and I think you already know the outcome, so coming clean now may help your case. What can you tell us to put some leverage out there for you?” asked the FBI agent who had placed the handcuffs on her. He sat at a table across from her.
“I don’t know shit. Where’s my lawyer?”
“So you need a lawyer?” the agent asked, knowing the interview was over before it had even started.
“Yes, I do.”
“Okay. I guess you are entitled to a lawyer. It may be a while before we can get one. Sit back and relax. Can I get you anything?”
“No. Again, I want my lawyer, you fat fuck.”
Just then a knock was heard on the door. One of the FBI agents got up to open the door. A well-dressed, six-foot-two, dark-haired man entered the room and stood before them.
“Good morning, gentlemen. My name is Andrew Parker. I’m Ms. Jackson’s attorney. Now, if my client is under arrest, please let me have a word with my client.”
The FBI agents looked at each other in surprise.
“Can you guys get the fuck out now? I need to talk to my lawyer,” Kafisa demanded.
“Sure thing, Mr. Parker, but I have one question for you,” said the agent who had addressed Kafisa.
“And what would that be, sir?” Andrew asked.
“Who contacted you?”
Kafisa only prayed that this lawyer was on her side and wouldn’t let these bastards railroad her into selling out her father.
“Sorry, but that is privileged. Now please, I would like a word with my client.”
A smile appeared on Kafisa’s face. She knew exactly who had sent the lawyer. Her uncle Fran was always looking out for those close to him. After the agents left the room, she immediately asked about her father. “What’s going on with my father? Is he okay? Is he in this building?”
Andrew took a seat vacated by one of the agents. “Hello, Ms. Jackson. I know you want to know about your father, but at this time it looks like they had him under surveillance for the past year. A confidential informant even infiltrated his crew. In this business there’s always a snake lurking around the corner, waiting to take everything, even if that means sleeping with the enemy.”
“Someone in his crew snitched on him?” Kafisa let out a deep breath.
“But you, young lady, have a small problem. They want to charge you with some trumped-up charges. Since they needed to break into the room where you were, the first charge will be resisting arrest. Second, attempted murder of a federal agent, because you were holding a loaded weapon and aiming it at them. Third, conspiracy, because you were seen with your father all day yesterday. Now, most of these charges won’t stick, and since this is your first offense, you have a good chance of walking after seeing the judge.”
“Conspiracy, attempted murder, resisting arrest! This is some real bullshit. What’s my uncle Fran saying?” Kafisa was confused about where these charges had come from. The only charge she thought would be accurate was a weapons charge, since she had no permit and the gun was used only for protection. She only hoped that her father had no bodies on that gun, or else she would definitely be facing some jail time, no matter how good a lawyer she had.
“Your uncle is very confident of my legal abilities, or else I wouldn’t have been on retainer for the past ten years.” Andrew smiled.
“Okay, since it was one o’clock in the morning when they broke into my father’s home, when do I go in front of a judge?” Kafisa asked, hoping to get the answer she was looking for.
“You should be seeing the judge no later than ten this morning. I
have already put in all the necessary motions for you.”
“And my father?”
“He, on the other hand, will have to take it to trial to reduce his time,” Andrew answered truthfully.
“Well, we all know he won’t take any deals. He would have no remorse or regrets if he had to do his time for the crime.” Kafisa lowered her voice a bit, knowing her father might be facing some serous time, far greater than his previous five-year bid.
“Okay, Ms. Jackson, I will be in court, doing what I have to do so you can be released on bail. You keep your head up and say nothing to any agent. I don’t care if they ask you how you are doing.” Andrew stood up to leave.
“Thank you,” Kafisa said as he headed for the door.
“No need to thank me. This is what I’m paid to do.” He smiled before he walked out the door.
Kafisa wanted to cry, but she knew that would be the last thing her father would expect. For now she was going to sit back and relax, because everything was being handled.
A few hours later Kafisa found herself before a judge. Her hands were sweaty. She was nervous because she did not know what the outcome would be. Andrew didn’t look worried at all. He was smiling at Kafisa to assure her that they would prevail.
“All rise for the Honorable Judy Weinberg,” the bailiff announced. “We have docket number two-eight-five-zero-five before you.”
The judge entered the room and took her seat on the bench. She got down to business straightaway. “You may be seated. State, what are your remarks?”
“Good morning, Your Honor. Ms. Jackson is charged with conspiracy with a known criminal, the attempted murder of federal agents, and resisting arrest. We are asking that bail be denied.”
Kafisa wasn’t shocked to hear the charges, because her lawyer had already told her what to expect, but hearing them delivered out loud by the state’s attorney added an intensity to the whole matter and made her a little wary about whether or not she would be walking out of the courtroom a free person.
Carl Weber's Kingpins Page 6