“I want my million’s worth from you,” she interrupted him. “Fix this shit, Fitz!”
“I will. I promise you,” he said. “I’ll be over to meet with you in a few hours. There are some things we need to discuss.”
Layla’s eyes were burning with rage. The court officers ushered her from the courtroom and back into the bullpen. She would not be going home anytime soon. She had to accept her new normal.
***
Fitzgerald arrived shortly before lunch. He brought Layla an expensive meal from Nobu. She didn’t thank him, as she knew it was purchased with her million-dollar retainer. As she began to devour the delicious shrimp fried rice and three-hundred-dollar oysters, he began speaking.
“We need to have this conversation. It’s still early on, but I wouldn’t be any good if I didn’t broach the subject.” He cleared his throat. “We haven’t gone through discovery, but I sat with the prosecutor on your case and not only is she good, but she’s confident.”
Layla stopped eating. “I don’t want to hear it! Get me the fuck outta here or so help me . . .”
Her voice trailed off for a reason. She wanted Fitz to imagine what could be done to him.
“Layla, please, no threats. We need to carve out our options. What I can definitively say is that they have a government witness. Someone is cooperating, and that leaves you in a precarious situation.”
“Who the fuck is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is it Maxine Henderson? Everything went downhill the moment that snitching bitch came home.”
Fitzgerald was well aware who Maxine was. She was a lot of things, but informant wasn’t one of them.
“From what I can glean from my talk with Gloria, it’s a John Doe.”
Layla resumed eating. She stuffed a large shrimp in her mouth and asked, “Do they have anything on my kids? Are they safe?”
“If they had a case on your children, they would have arrested everyone. But that doesn’t mean that they aren’t trying to build a case. For now, I think their man hours will be devoted to you and your husband.”
Layla nodded. “So what’s my strategy? Can we blame all this shit on Scott? Let that nigga take the fall.”
“Because you’re married to him and he’s your codefendant, it will be tough for any jury to believe you didn’t know about any of his illegal activity. So to point the finger squarely at him would be to your detriment.”
“Why would it be hard? Juries do it all the time for white women. Look at Bernie Madoff’s wife. That nigga was running a billion-dollar Ponzi scheme. Is she behind bars? But my black ass is being cooked.”
“Layla, that’s different.”
“Because she’s white!” Why had he gotten her started? “Name one wife of these white collar criminals that’s sitting in jail. Just one! I got plenty of time to wait.”
Fitz had to refocus his client. “Let’s stay on topic. Whoever the informant is, he will be pointing the finger at you. Do you have any female underlings in your organization that we could use to cast doubt on your guilt? Maybe have this person fall on your sword? I’m just talking out loud. As I said, we are still in the early stages, but if you could give me something to help refute an eyewitness, cast doubt, and confuse a jury that would help. I need a warm body to pin this on.”
Layla thought quickly. She was the only female in the West organization. Scott hadn’t even let Maxine in. And then she blurted out, “Lucky. She’s the only other female.”
“Lucky?” Fitz sat back in his chair and placed his hands in a prayer position and began thinking. “How old is she?”
“Twenty.”
“Is she currently in the game?”
“Not since the feds shut me down. I gave strict orders for her to stand down until I get through this.”
“It could work, but only if she’s on board. If I put her up on the stand I would crucify her. Her answers would leave her open for an indictment if the prosecutor found corroborating evidence. She would have to steer clear of the family business.”
Layla was desperate. She easily understood his strategy, which was usually used in murder trials. There were trials where, for instance, if the husband was accused of murdering his mistress, the wife would take the stand and allude that she could have done it. Or, sometimes, the defense attorney will name drop a person at trial who wasn’t a part of the defense team or strategy. In the O.J. Simpson trial there was a theory floating around that alleged his son was the killer. You just throw out phantom names and hope something sticks.
“She’ll do it. Her and Meyer will do whatever I say. I know my baby. She doesn’t want to see me behind bars for the rest of my life. She needs me. I’ll speak with her.”
“Her testimony is only a small step toward getting you acquitted. Have her set up a meet with me in a few weeks as we get closer to trial so I can prep her. Enjoy your food. We’ll talk.”
Fitzgerald had to quickly leave. His driver was out front waiting to whisk him away to the Hamptons for a cocktail party at a judge’s home. There he would hand out his business card to those same white collar criminals Layla had just spoken of.
15
Maxine dressed down for the task in front of her. Wearing tight jeans, a hoodie, goose coat, and sneakers, she loaded her BMW’s backseat and trunk with four large trash bags and two garment bags stuffed with several mink and chinchilla coats. Even with all this merchandise, she still had a closet filled with more where that came from.
Her Michelin tires hugged the road as she headed uptown to pick up Skip. She had her meet her on 125th and Amsterdam Avenue, which was not far from the iconic Apollo Theater and had a lot of foot traffic due to the retail stores in the neighborhood. In her waistband she had a pink handled .22 that Bugsy had given her to help her feel safe. A light snow began to blanket the streets, and Maxine hoped that the weather conditions wouldn’t get worse. Right now, it was relatively a warm winter evening, which usually meant that shit was about to be a blizzard.
She sat parked with the car idling for warmth and waited. Skip was supposed to arrive at five o’clock, and it was half past. Maxine called her cell phone repeatedly, but it kept going straight to voicemail. She didn’t want to think the worst, but where the fuck was she? Maxine hopped out to get two franks and a Pepsi. The aroma of the grilled hot dogs was making her stomach growl.
The Middle Eastern man with the dirty fingernails was less than polite. “Come on, hurry. What you want?”
“Two dogs with everything and a Pepsi.”
She watched as he barely loaded her hot dog with toppings and condiments. “I said everything. Add onions, more relish, more sauerkraut, mustard, and ketchup!” she snapped.
“This is what you get! You want more you pay extra!”
“Then I’ll pay extra! Damn!” Maxine turned around to see that a line had quickly formed behind her. People were getting off the train and wanted to grab a quick meal or hot peanuts before heading home. That’s what she loved about New York. It was truly the city that never sleeps. Rain, sun, or snow—the weather stopped no one.
“You know what? Give me another order.” Maxine heard a female suck her teeth. She turned around and glared at the younger female and then said, “You don’t want it.” And she didn’t.
Max sat in her luxury vehicle, wolfing down her food with Hot 97 blasting. As the clock clicked closer to six, a rage began to grow inside her. She was highly annoyed to be kept waiting this long and without a courtesy call. This is why she hated needing people. They always showed out. Just as she was wiping her hands so she could put her car in drive and peel out, Skip banged on her window, startling her. The anger written on Maxine’s face spoke volumes. Skip looked a little frightened but managed a weak smile. Slowly, Maxine unlocked the door and Skip slid in.
“Evidently my five is your six?”
“So sorr
y to be so late, but the train—”
“I’m not going to waste a second more of my time listening to an excuse. If I can drive from Midtown and make it on time then you shoulda fucking been here too! Especially when you live in fuckin’ Harlem!”
“You right, Max. My bad.”
Maxine rolled her eyes. She hated that. Here she was way uptown like a sitting duck with hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of merchandise in her car and Skip just didn’t give a fuck.
“Why didn’t you answer my calls?”
“Oh, because I didn’t get them. I was on the train.”
Maxine wasn’t letting this go. “So let me get this straight. You left your house at five when you were supposed to be here at five? So fuck me, huh? My time don’t mean shit?”
Skip didn’t allow anyone to talk greasy to her. She was a grown-ass woman, and Maxine was grilling her like she was a child. However, one-on-one, Skip knew she couldn’t win. Plus, she wanted to make some money tonight because she was dead broke.
“My bad, you right. Time is money, so how ’bout I lessen my cut from twenty to fifteen percent? This all on me. You good wit’ that?”
“I’m good with it.” Maxine felt respected again.
Skip smiled broadly. “Now give me a hug, bitch. I ain’t seen you in a minute.”
The two met in the middle of the console and Skip leaned in and gave Maxine a tight hug. Her arm brushed against Max’s pistol, and Skip was even more relieved that she hadn’t challenged her in any way.
“I bought you some food.”
“Thanks, bitch. This right here gonna hit the spot. I’m starving!”
“Don’t spill shit in my car.”
Skip paused and looked at the beautiful vehicle as if seeing it for the first time. “This you?”
“All day.”
“I need to meet that type of niggas you fuckin’ wit’. Like, damn, bitch. You doing it real big.”
Maxine nodded and then got down to business as Skip dug into her hot dog. “Where we going first?”
“I got a lot of clients lined up. They expecting me, and they all wear a size four or six just like you, so we should be good on the sizes. This one Puerto Rican bitch is loaded. Her family own a string of beauty parlors, but her man into selling weight. We gonna go there first and then keep it moving. Make a left . . .”
The moment Maxine pulled up to the tenement building in Harlem, shit didn’t feel right. Why was someone who was loaded living here in such a basic building?
“You sure about this? I mean, I’m not selling Adidas suits and Steve Madden shoes.”
Skip laughed. “We good. Trust me. That’s her mom’s beauty parlor. They stay packed with the wash and sets. Upstairs are apartments. They own the whole building but keep an apartment for convenience.”
“So she doesn’t live here?”
“Nah, I don’t know where she lives. It’s some secret shit. One minute she acts like she lives in Jersey, then Westchester. Not like I give two fucks.”
Both ladies got out and unloaded all the bags. Skip rang the doorbell and announced herself, and they were rang in.
A mean-faced old woman answered the door and she was less hospitable than Maxine was used to. She stared at them and walked away. Skip and Maxine dragged the bags into the living room and just stood there. Maxine looked at all the white, red, and pink figurines, several shrines, crosses, lace doilies, and gaudy statues. There were two pictures of young Latino men in caskets taped above several lit candles. The house smelled of oils and incense. It was clear they were into Santería as their religion.
Finally a beautiful woman came into the room. She smiled wide and gave Skip a hug.
“Hola, Skip.”
“What’s up, Marisol? This is my friend Max. This her shit.”
Marisol extended her hand and both women exchanged pleasantries. Marisol looked at all the bags and was completely taken aback.
“All this is for sale?”
Maxine simply nodded.
Marisol opened the first bag and began pulling out garments. Her mouth dropped open when she recognized outfits that Kim Kardashian owned and snapped on Instagram, things that Beyoncé and Rihanna wore to award shows. Quickly, the Latin beauty stripped down to her panties and bra and began trying on the merchandise. She paraded in front of a full length mirror, twisting and turning so she could see her ass, thighs, and profile.
The room was pin-drop quiet. Marisol would take off an item and toss it on the sofa. Soon the pile was damn near to the ceiling. When she got to the fur coats she began speaking in Spanish. She called her mother in the room to watch her model them. The once stern face was replaced with smiles, Spanish talk, and then more smiles. Skip and Maxine didn’t understand a word. Nor did they know which items she wanted to buy.
The mom looked toward the women and asked in perfect English, “Would you like something to drink? Juice? Malta? Water?”
Maxine replied, “No, ma’am.”
Skip smiled and shook her head. “No, thank you.”
Finally the last bag was opened and the Hermes bags came out. Marisol just stared for a long moment. “Are these real?”
Maxine was a little insulted but didn’t show it. “They are.”
“Where did you get all this? I mean, you could boost all of this?” Marisol questioned.
“Nah, this her shit,” Skip answered. “Her ex-man bought it all.”
Marisol looked at Maxine skeptically.
They had been there for quite some time watching the fashion show, and Marisol had yet to make a purchase.
“Marisol, do you see anything you like? Cuz we gotta bounce. I have other customers.”
Marisol panicked. “No, don’t go to anyone else. I want it all. I just have to call my man.”
“Everything?”
“Si, si. I want everything for the right price. How much would you sell it for?”
Maxine could not believe that she would sell all her items to one buyer, but she would play along. Between seven furs that cost anywhere between fifteen and seventy thousand, five Hermes bags, and all that other good shit, Scott paid nearly seven hundred thousand, retail. Maxine would be more than satisfied with half that. But she decided to come in a little high and let Marisol negotiate her down.
“Half price is four hundred and fifty-thousand. You can add up the tags and also look on the internet.”
“Would you take four hundred?”
Maxine paused, “I guess, but I’m not too happy because Skip gotta eat too.”
Skip knew the game. “But she’s one of my best customers so if you could look out on the strength of me then I owe you a solid.”
Marisol smiled at Skip for taking her side.
“Okay. You can buy it all for four hundred K.”
Marisol pulled out her cell phone and called her man, Juan-Pablo. There was a lengthy exchange before she said he was on his way.
The women sat down and waited for nearly three uncomfortable hours. Marisol repeatedly apologized, continued to call Juan-Pablo, and made assurances that he was coming. To pass the time they sat down and had a home cooked meal with the family. Finally, at half past nine, Juan-Pablo showed up with three goons flanking him.
Juan-Pablo was a thug in every sense of the word. He and his goons surrounded Skip and Maxine and instantly they felt threatened. Juan-Pablo began looking at all the pricy items while his men just stared at the women. Maxine’s heart was beating irregularly. She placed her hands on her hips, one clutched to her pistol. She also noticed that Marisol and her mother had fled the room.
“Where did you get all this shit from?” Juan-Pablo asked.
This time Maxine spoke. “My man got knocked and the feds froze our assets. I’m trying to raise this money on the low to pay a private detective to find out who the snitch is on the case.�
��
This was news to Skip and also piqued Juan-Pablo’s interest.
“Who’s ya man?”
“You might know of him. Scott West. The West organization.”
Hell yeah, he knew of him. Scott West was affiliated with the Garcia cartel. Heavy hitters. Everyone had heard about this case. It had made the national news.
He stepped and took a closer look at Maxine.
“That’s your BMW outside?”
“Yeah, that’s me. I’m usually driven with my protection, but I told Scott that Skip was taking me to see her favorite client, Marisol on 108th, and that I was in good hands. He gave me permission to come alone. I barely have any mileage on that car.”
Juan-Pablo nodded and said something to his men in Spanish. And then, “How much you want again?”
“We negotiated four hundred K.”
Juan-Pablo whistled. “Could you do three?”
Maxine quickly noticed that the body language had changed. It felt less aggressive, but still assertive. She wasn’t out of the woods yet, but she had to stand her ground and show no fear.
She shook her head. “Can’t take less than four.”
Juan-Pablo tapped his right-hand man and excused them from the room. When they left, Skip was about to bolt. Her whole body was trembling. Maxine knew that if Skip ran she wouldn’t make it far. They were all convened in a bedroom just steps away from the front door, and the front door was locked. Skip was about to say something and Maxine put her finger to her mouth and then whispered, “Stay strong.”
Skip nodded.
Inside the bedroom, Juan-Pablo and Marisol were in a heated debate in Spanish. Marisol thought she had the perfect vics for a robbery. When she saw all that high-end merchandise she told her man to come and murder these fools. Marisol was spoiled by family and her man and she wanted what she wanted, when she wanted it. However, there were too many loose ends and Juan-Pablo liked living. If Maxine told Scott West that she was going to meet Marisol and ended up dead they would never be safe. He copped ki’s from Scott’s twin sons. In fact, the West organization supplied most of the five boroughs. This was so complicated on so many levels. One, he could only get his hands on $250,000, and two, Marisol kept saying in Spanish, “Kill them! Kill them!”—until he had to silence her with a slap. She began to cry. Her mother began to cry.
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