by Jason Poole
When Jovan got to his townhouse, he pulled his van in the garage, popped the hydraulic stash, retrieved the bricks, and went into the house to start cooking them up; but first he called all his clientele back and told them he’d be ready in a little while. Then he got the ceramic pie plate and baking soda out to cook the coke. He didn’t bother to whip it. He wanted this shit to be Grade A butta! He wanted the city to know he had that bomb shit, and plus, he was selling it two hundred dollars cheaper than the going price.
When Jovan busted open the first brick, he could see that it wasn’t the good shit he used to get. He didn’t see them icy-looking snowflakes, and the smell was dull. When he placed the coke in the pan and waited for it to dissolve, the shit fell straight to the bottom. He stirred and stirred it, but it still never came together. Instantly Jovan started to get mad, and he grabbed the phone. He was about to page his connect but decided not to. He thought maybe it was just one bad batch outta the eight.
So Jovan went back into the kitchen and popped open the next brick. It was the same shit, and after opening all of the remaining bricks and seeing they were all the same shit, he came to realize this mu’fucka had sold him eight bricks of cement. This bitch-ass nigga had violated him, and he already hated cruddy niggas, and now it was his time to express that hatred.
Jovan grabbed his Beretta 9 mm, jumped in his BMW, and headed straight back to the hotel where those bitch-ass niggas were staying. He was going to kill both of them whores right there in the hotel.
He was so mad that he was running red lights, speeding, and not bothering to turn on his blinkers. As Jovan got on the 495 highway, he was still speeding, dodging in and outta traffic, and the only thing that was on his mind was murder in the first degree. To him, it was going to be justified. They had violated him, and they deserved what they were soon to get, just like that fiend in the alley on Orleans Place back in ’85.
As Jovan dodged from the left lane into the right and back to the left, he didn’t notice the red-and-blue lights flashing until he finally, for the first time since he had gotten behind the wheel, looked into his rear view mirror. Damn, the fucking police! As bad as he wanted to outrun them, he couldn’t. Anyway, all he was doing was speeding. Plus, if he gave them a chase, he definitely wouldn’t make it back to the hotel in time to kill those bitch-ass niggas, so he went ahead and pulled over, put his pistol under his seat, and grabbed his license and registration from the glove compartment. Jovan planned not to argue with the police. He figured he would just take his ticket and then go kill those bitches before they left town.
When the officer got out of his car, Jovan could see through his side mirror that he was saying something into the radio. After he finished talking into the radio, he unsnapped his holster and put his hand on his gun. When he reached Jovan’s window, he asked him to turn the car off. Jovan did as he was told, and when he turned his head back to ask what he was being pulled over for, all he saw was the barrel of the officer’s gun.
“Don’t move! Put your fuckin’ hands up!” the officer said to Jovan.
As Jovan was literally being arrested while still sitting in his car, another cop pulled up and blocked his BMW in.
“Get out of the car slowly,” the officer said.
Both of these crackers had their guns pointed in Jovan’s face, and for a second he thought they were gonna shoot him right there on the spot. When Jovan got out of the car, one officer put his hands behind his back and handcuffed him, while the other one searched his car. They found his Beretta, which he didn’t have a license to carry, and that gave them more reason to go through his car. They sat Jovan in the back of one of their cars and continued searching his car for drugs or whatever else they could find. Jovan sat there for about an hour watching those crackers rip his BMW apart. They even called in drug-sniffing dogs. When they finally saw that there was nothing else in Jovan’s car, they transported him to the D.C. jail.
Since he had been on an interstate highway, they had jurisdiction to charge him in federal court. Here Jovan was in the D.C. federal court. At trial, he was sentenced to five years for carrying an unlicensed firearm, and his man Bilal had just come home two weeks before his sentencing.
Sonya
Jovan’s answers to my questions were interesting, but what I really wanted to know about Jovan was his family.
“Okay now, Mr. Lawyer, tell me about your mother,” I said, because if he had a lot of respect for his mother, then I knew he had respect for women period.
Before Jovan could open his mouth to answer my question, the waitress came over and asked, “Would you two like anything else? Some dessert, a glass of wine or champagne, maybe?”
“No!” I snapped.
The waitress turned and walked away with a serious attitude. Jovan looked at his Movado watch to check the time.
“Hey, Sonya, why were you so mean to the waitress?”
“’Cause she keeps interrupting my interview.”
Jovan smiled and looked at his watch again.
“Do you have something to do?” I asked.
“Naw, sweetheart,” Jovan said.
I wished he would stop calling me that.
“It’s only one-thirty. I’ve got all day. What about you?” he asked.
“I’m cool. I’m chillin’, and if I get bored, I’ll let you know.” We both laughed, and then I went right back to my question. “So, Jovan, tell me about your mom,” I said again.
“Well, my mother passed away when I was in school,” Jovan said with a sad look coming over his face.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” I said.
“It’s okay. Although I don’t talk about it much, I do feel comfortable talking about it with you. I was in school taking my paralegal course. When I went to school, my mother was diagnosed with diabetes and she never told me. I don’t know why, but I guess she didn’t want me to mess up my education worrying about her condition. When she passed, I was at the end of my paralegal course, and I knew she would have wanted me to finish, so even though her death fucked me up, I still finished the course.
“She was a good woman, but I always thought she worked too hard. She was a waitress at the NCO Club on Bolling Air Force Base. She was loyal to my pops even after they divorced. I never saw my moms with another man.”
Damn, Jovan’s moms musta been strong or madly in love with his pops, I said to myself.
“She used to take me places and buy me all the latest gear. Even though we lived in the hood, Moms always had enough to get me the things I wanted. I mean, I wasn’t spoiled, but I wasn’t neglected either.”
“Do you have any brothers and sisters?”
At that moment, when I looked at Jovan, I could sense something was wrong. I grabbed hold of his hand and said, “Hey, we don’t have to talk about it if you’re feeling uncomfortable.”
CHAPTER 5
“The Lawyer”
Ring, ring, ring.
“Law offices of Rohon and Robinson. May I help you?” Cindy said.
“Cindy, Mark. Plug me in,” Mark said.
“Jovan, Mark’s on line one.”
“Thanks, Cindy,” Jovan said. “Hey, Mark, tell me something good.”
“Okay, get your ass outta my chair.”
“Man, I’m not even in your chair. I’m walking around here, pacing, trying to figure a way out for Mr. . . . What’s his name again?” Jovan asked, playing stupid.
“Davis. Bilal Davis.”
“Yeah, that’s right. I think I got something.”
“Yeah, what?” Mark asked.
“Look, if you can get an extension for at least one week and get me a legal visitation pass, then I can interview this guy and possibly get some info on his witness that could contradict his testimony and maybe get an affidavit that could free him.”
“Well, I’ve got good news and bad news. Which one you want first?” Mark asked.
“Give me the bad first,” Jovan said, not really wanting to hear it.
“Well,
I can’t get you that pass because you must be a licensed lawyer.”
“Damn,” Jovan said, disappointed.
“But I can get you in with me on a temporary pass seeing as how you’re my assistant, and anyway, I’ll be interviewing another client at the same time, so you’d have at least an hour alone with him,” Mark said.
“Shit, that ain’t no bad news, Mark, but I think I’m a little scared to hear your good news now.” We both laughed.
“Jovan, let me put you down on some inside law shit.”
“What’s up?”
“As long as you know the law, how to work it, how to get around it, and fuck it the right way, you’ll never have any bad news. Bad news to a lawyer is another way of saying it’s time to lie.”
“So what’s the good news then?”
“Jovan, good news will always be good news,” Mark said, laughing.
“Okay, I will ask you once again: What’s the good news?”
“Hey, man, I got the extension a half hour ago.”
“That’s great, Mark. You’re always two steps ahead of the game,” Jovan said, proud to be working with Mark.
“Thanks, and you’re getting good at it too, Jovan. You’re also on the right track. Keep it up and when you become a lawyer, you’ll always stay two steps ahead also.”
CHAPTER 6
“School of Hard Knocks”
Jovan
I was sentenced to five years in federal prison with no outside support from no one. I had a few broads that used to come and see me every now and then, but I wasn’t focused on them. My main concern was how was I going to get back home and get a lawyer to do my appeal because once again I was broke. Well, not flat broke.
When I got locked up, I had Keda, who was my female gangsta at the time, go past my townhouse and get my jewelry and the MPV van and take them over to my grandma’s house before the landlord found out he wouldn’t be getting his eleven hundred dollars a month no time soon.
My BMW was seized by the government because it was used in a crime. I could have gone to court and tried to get it back, but I didn’t want to risk the chance of them investigating how I paid forty-two thousand dollars cash and drove it straight off the lot, so I just took it as another loss.
The only person I was in contact with the whole time I was locked up was my grandma. I used to call her a lot, but since my father was nowhere to be found, I knew that Grandma couldn’t keep paying for all those collect calls on her Social Security check. I slowed down on the calls and wrote letters and sent her cards occasionally.
Soon after I was sentenced, they transferred me to Lewisburg Federal Penitentiary. As the bus drove up to what looked like Castle Gray Skull and two of the biggest iron doors I’ve ever seen in my life opened, the first thing that came to my mind was, How the fuck did I get here, and why are they putting me in a maximum security facility with niggas serving three life sentences? I would be lying if I told you I didn’t care where they sent me. Shit, I only got five years. I wasn’t supposed to be in there.
After being processed and given my federal prison number, 20518-016, I was given a bedroll and sent to J block. When I got to my cell, I didn’t bother to look around to see if I recognized anyone, because I was so tired that I just made up my bed and went to sleep.
The next morning when I woke up and went to the chow hall, the first nigga I saw was my man Mack from R Street. I knew Mack back in ’88 when he had a convertible BMW. He was always cool with me. We never did business with each other, but we always acknowledged each other’s presence.
“Hey, Jovan, that you?” Mack said.
“Yeah, what’s up, Mack?” I said.
“What’s up, Joe?” When Mack spoke, he always expressed the word “Joe.” To the homies in D.C., “Joe” is our slang for main man or slim, dude or whatever. For D.C. niggas, it was different doing time in federal prison than doing time back home, because we made sure that we all got along with each other. It wasn’t anything like our state prison, Lorton, where homies robbed, killed, and stole from each other. The homies in federal prison stuck together mostly for territorial reasons, so whatever beef a homie had with another homie that wasn’t outside the limits of death was immediately squashed once they entered federal prison. We held back on any serious aggressions until it was time to go to war with others. D.C. had an image to protect, and homies rolled with homies no matter what.
Mack came over to me and gave me five and a respectful hug that is only reserved for real niggas.
“What’s up, Joe? Why the fuck you down here? Last time I saw you, you were pushing a BMW with a bad-ass bitch beside you going down Georgia Avenue.”
“Yeah, slim, that same BMW got me these five fuckin’ years,” I said.
“All you got is five years?” Mack said with a surprised look.
“Yeah, man.”
“Damn, Jovan, what the fuck you doing in Lewisburg? You’re supposed to be in a camp, or at least a low security facility, man!” Mack said.
“I dunno what type of games these people playin’.”
“Yeah, you got to holla at your counselor about that tomorrow. Anyway, c’mon so I can introduce you to the homies.”
Mack introduced me to all his co-defendants first. Some I already knew, some I didn’t, but as I grew to know these niggas, every last one of ’em was real. He also introduced me to Li’l Nut, and we became super cool. Nut, Mack, and me worked out regularly. It was these niggas that helped me get a six pack, triceps, biceps, and a chest that needed to be in an Ebony magazine centerfold. After six months in Lewisburg, my body went through a complete change. I lifted weights; not heavy weights, just light reps. I did pull-ups by the twenties and dips by the thirties. I did five hundred crunches in the morning, five hundred at count time, and five hundred before I went to bed. I turned myself into the ultimate physical machine, and then it was time to work on my brain.
I read all kinds of literature and books, mostly by Dr. N. Akbar, and I read a few by J.A. Rogers, Dr. Frances Cress Welling, Carter G. Woodson, Jerome Bennett, Noble Drew Ali, and Elijah Muhammad, but my favorite one of all was the Holy Quran.
There was something else missing in my life that I needed bad, real bad. It wasn’t a female friend. I had plenty of those to call if I wanted to get freaky and tell ’em to play with their pussies while I listened, but I was beyond that. It wasn’t money, although I could use some. It was something else that was holding me back, and when I passed the library, I knew just what it was. I needed to learn how to get outta there. I needed to learn the law, the same law that gave me five years. I needed to learn about it because who knew? I could one day give it right back to someone else.
By the end of the first week of trying to learn the law, I was frustrated. It seemed like every book I read didn’t make any sense or went straight over my head. I stopped working out with Mack and Nut and focused all my attention on my legal situation. I still would do a thousand push-ups and crunches every day to keep my body toned, but mostly I was reading the Federal Criminal Code and Rules book.
One morning on my way to the law library, I walked by some new inmates, and I didn’t look any of them directly in the face. I just glanced at them as they walked by me with their bedrolls, headed to their new blocks. As I turned toward the library, I took another glance, and suddenly I saw someone very familiar. I looked one more time to make sure my eyes weren’t playin’ tricks on me. Yep, that was him: that nigga Shorty, one of the bitch-ass niggas who had violated me. Now it was his turn to be violated.
I bent my head down and walked by again just to really make sure it was him, but after I heard someone yell his name, I knew for sure that this was my man.
“Yo, Shorty, you in that block over there,” said another inmate.
“Okay, thanks, money.”
Same name, same accent. Finally I would get a chance to get my due justice. I went straight to my cell. I didn’t move fast; I just acted normal and calm. I sat in my cell and began to put my p
lan together. I thought about the time I had, only five years, but this nigga had violated me. I had to get him, but I also had to get away with it.
Think, Jovan, think! The only way I could get this nigga was to get him in one of the TV rooms when nobody was there, or at least when a lot of people was in there, ’cause it was dark as shit in them TV rooms, and when that joint got packed, you couldn’t see or move.
It was Friday, the day they showed the latest movies, so this was my chance to give it to a nigga who really deserved it. When my cellmate, Parker-Bey, came in the room, it was almost time for the movie. My celly was from Detroit, and he was in the Moorish Science Temple. He was the one I used to get all the positive literature from.
“What’s up, Jovan?” Parker-Bey asked.
“Ain’t nothin’,” I said.
“You gonna go up tonight and check out the movie?” he said.
“Naw, I think I’ma lay back and finish reading this damn law book,” I said.
“Yeah, you doin’ the right thing trying to get outta jail, something a lot of these unconscious brothers should be doing, but instead they’d rather stay in jail and kill each other,” Parker-Bey said.
I was thinking to myself, Yeah, you got that right. Well, at least part of it, ’cause I’m definitely trying to kill a mu’fucka, but I ain’t trying to stay in jail.
“I’ll holla at you later, Jovan. I’ma check this movie out.”
“Okay, Parker-Bey,” I said, turning back to the law book I was pretending to read.
When Parker-Bey left, I waited a good five minutes before I started working on my plan. Damn, I pray this shit goes right. It’s a must that I kill this nigga, but it’s an absolute must that I get away with it.
First thing I did was put on my khaki uniform and black boots. Then I put my gray sweatshirt on over top, making sure you couldn’t see the uniform underneath. I looked at myself in the mirror, but the more I looked, the more I felt I needed a better disguise. I put on one of my celly’s gray kufi and a pair of those shades they sold in the commissary. As I looked at myself in the mirror again, I was now completely happy with what I saw, I looked like a militant Black Panther type dude. No one would know who I was, so no one would be able to identify me, and no one would know how vicious a killer I was but me.