Larceny

by Jason Poole

  I reached into my mattress and pulled out the eight-inch flat blade that Mack had given me when I first got there. I tucked it in my pants, took a deep breath, and headed to the TV room to kill my second victim, a nigga who truly deserved it. As I walked down the hallway, I could tell that I had on the ultimate disguise, because when I walked by Mack and Nut, they didn’t even recognize me.

  As I walked by, I could hear them talking. Mack said, “Man, where Jovan at? I ain’t seen him in about a week.”

  “He’s probably in the law library working on his case. Slim must really be trying to go home,” Nut said.

  “Yeah, I can respect that.”

  When I entered the TV room, it was just like I pictured: dark, loud, and smoky from the cigarettes and Black and Mild cigars. The atmosphere was perfect for my plan.

  I walked to the back of the room and saw Shorty and another dude sitting there, talking and kicking it about old times. He probably was telling his man how he got a free hundred and eighty thousand back in D.C., but little did he know that money was gonna cost him his life.

  I took a seat directly behind Shorty. There were three other dudes sitting in my row with me. They didn’t talk loud. To me it looked like they were minding their own business, like all convicts were supposed to do. Sitting in the row with Shorty was his man and two homosexuals sitting together.

  As the movie was about to start, I reached in my pants slowly, making sure no one saw me, and held the knife in the palm of my hand so tight that it felt as if I had dipped my hand in Super Glue. I wasn’t scared or nervous; I was calm and collected. I peeped my surroundings one more time, and then came the golden opportunity I was waiting for: the TV went blank for about five seconds. I reached my left hand up under Shorty’s chin and pulled back with all my strength, exposing his whole neck and throat to the blade. My first blow was vital, but my second blow was much more vicious. I drove the blade so hard through Shorty’s neck that the tip of the blade was poking out the back of his head. Shorty died instantly. He didn’t have a chance to scream or fight back. He didn’t even get a chance to tell on me. He was through!

  When the TV came back on, Shorty’s friend was quiet, and I could see that he was involved with one of the homosexuals sitting next to him. When he was finished and looked over at Shorty and saw that he was dead, he never even looked behind him. He just got up and left. In prison, when someone just gets up and leaves without saying a word, that means something just happened or was about to happen, and if you’re not involved, then you get up and leave also. So once Shorty’s man got up, everybody else got up.

  While niggas were trying to get outta the TV room as fast as they could, I laid back for a second, took off my sweat suit, balled it up, and left it in the corner along with the knife. I folded my celly’s kufi up and put it in my pocket and threw the shades in the trash. Now I looked like the average inmate with khakis ironed and pressed, boots shiny, and shirt buttoned up and tucked in.

  When I came back to my cell, I saw that my celly was already in there.

  “What’s up, Parker-Bey?” I said.

  “Hey, what’s up, young brother? I thought you were staying in tonight to work on your case. You wasn’t up in the TV room, were you?”

  “Naw, I went down to the law library to read up on a few things.”

  “Good,” Parker-Bey said.

  “Why you say that?”

  “’Cause I think something happened in the TV room tonight. I was just making sure you were a’ight.”

  “Oh, you ain’t gotta worry ’bout me. I only got five funky-ass years, and I’d be a damn fool getting into some shit,” I said.

  “That’s right, young brother. Your main concern is to get home to your loved ones,” Parker-Bey said.

  “Yeah, right, and that’s exactly what I plan to do.”

  CHAPTER 7

  “Welcome Home, Bilal”

  While Jovan was in Lewisburg trying to get these five years up off him, Bilal was at home doing his thang. Jovan always knew that Bilal would be the perfect hustler. He had it in his blood; plus, he was alone with no family and no place to go.

  In February of 1992, Bilal Davis had the whole city on lockdown. When Bilal first came home, he got with Carlos Gonzales, a Spanish nigga he was down at Oakhill with. Carlos and Bilal became good friends while they were locked up, and they always promised each other that they would get together when they got out. Carlos fronted Bilal two kilos of powder for twenty-five thousand as a coming home present, and he went right back around his old neighborhood and started hustling. Niggas knew Bilal from when they were little, but mostly they remembered him killing Boo-Boo in the alley back in the day. At least that’s what they thought he did.

  Bilal took over the Northeast with an iron fist. Orleans Place was abandoned after John got locked up, and the fiends wasn’t on powder no more. They wanted crack. Bilal did the first thing that came to mind: he got together the most vicious youngin’s from around the way—Li’l G, Cat, Soup, and Shortdog—and he paid them to take out every major nigga that was sellin’ crack. That way, when it came time for him to open shop, every dime in the Northeast would be his.

  Bilal cooked both kilos up raw because he wanted his shit to be the best coke out there. Although it was the only coke out there, he still wanted to attract customers from other neighborhoods.

  When Bilal opened the alley back up on Orleans Place, it was jumping even harder than it did back in the day. It was rumored that Bilal was making at least thirty thousand a day selling dimes.

  After about a month, Bilal had more money than Carlos, but regardless of that fact, they remained partners and they put their money together, copped thirty kilos from one of Carlos’s uncle, and then Bilal had shit on almost every major strip in D.C. The last spot Bilal re-opened, the legendary Hanover Place Northwest, was the spot that was going to put him into multimillion-dollar status. It was rumored in prison that Bilal collected at least a hundred thousand a day from Hanover Place alone.

  As Bilal’s organization grew bigger, his stash grew just as big. Carlos and Bilal went to Mexico to meet a new connect because Carlos’s uncle could no longer meet their demand for more bricks. He ended up introducing them to his connect in Mexico. They went there and ended up with the deal of the century. The connect agreed to sell Bilal and Carlos ninety-percent cocaine for seventy-five hundred a kilo, but under one condition: when they purchased, they had to buy no less than two hundred kilos at a time. Bilal and Carlos immediately agreed and started doing business with the Mexican one week later.

  Here Jovan was stuck in Lewisburg Penitentiary with five years and no way to get in contact with his man, his true friend, his comrade for life, Bilal Davis, the new king of D.C.

  CHAPTER 8

  “Come on Home”

  As the months went by, Jovan spent every free hour that he had in the law library. He wouldn’t go to chow, watch TV, get on the phone, or anything. All he wanted to do was learn about the law. The more he stayed in the law library, the better he got. He also met some real niggas while working on his case that helped him out. Some showed him how to format motions; others showed him how to read cases. Big Linwood, Cashwell, Cookie, and Young Rico aka Ali Katabb all taught him how to fight the government with its own weapon. After he learned as much as he could about the law, he became known around the prison as Jovan the Law Fiend, Jovan Cochran, or the Jailhouse Lawyer .

  Jovan had been locked up for almost two years now, and the judge finally answered his appeal. At the 4:00 p.m. stand-up count, Jovan’s counselor told him to come into his office and sign the priority mail book.

  “What’s up, Stevens? Somebody sent me some money priority mail?” Jovan asked.

  “I don’t think so, Price,” Stevens said.

  “Then what is it?”

  “I think it’s some legal mail here for you. Just c’mon down and get it after the count,” Stevens said.

  During the whole count time, Jovan couldn’t stop from wond
ering what this legal mail was. He paced the floor back and forth, trying to figure out what it could be. He was hoping it was the answer to his appeal that he had put in about eight months ago.

  He hadn’t asked for a new trial. He asked that the whole charge and indictment be dropped on the basis of illegal search and seizure and racial profiling. The officer on his case never said he pulled him over for a traffic violation. He never wrote a ticket; he just placed him under arrest and searched his car without his consent. He also did not have any reasonable suspicion to search his car. He just saw a young black man driving a BMW doing about seventy in the left lane. The only thing he was supposed to do according to law was give him a ticket and go on about his business.

  After the count was clear and the cells popped open, Jovan raced to his counselor’s office.

  “Stevens, you got that mail for me?” Jovan asked.

  “Yeah, Price, it’s right here, but first sign the log stating that you received it.”

  Jovan signed the log and grabbed the mail. He couldn’t wait to read it, so he opened it up right there in Stevens’ office. It read:

  The United States District Court For the District of Columbia

  In the instant matter of the United States vs. Jovan Conrad Price, the District Court grants appellate’s motion, reverses the conviction, and drops all charges.

  The Petitioner is to be released from Federal custody IMMEDIATELY.

  At that moment, Jovan almost fainted. He rushed to his cell to retrieve all of his personal belongings and went to call his grandma to tell her the good news.

  Ring, ring, ring.

  “Hello?” Jovan’s grandma said.

  “This is a collect call from Jovan. If you wish to accept this call, please press five now,” the operator’s voice said.

  Grandma pushed five and said, “Hey, baby.”

  “Hey, Grandma, how you doing?” Jovan said excitedly.

  “Oh, I’m doing okay. I would be better if you or your daddy was here,” she said.

  “Well, Grandma, I don’t know about my daddy, but I’ll be there soon.”

  “How soon, baby?” Grandma asked.

  “Sooner than you think, Grandma. I just won my appeal!” Jovan said, jumping for joy.

  “Stop playing, boy!” Grandma said, screaming.

  “Grandma, I ain’t playing. I’m dead serious.”

  “Well, that’s good, baby. When you leaving?” she asked.

  “I think tomorrow morning. You gonna come pick me up from the bus station?”

  “Yeah, baby, I’m so glad you’re coming home, because now you can get that damn van from in front of my house. It’s been sitting here for almost two years.” We both laughed.

  “I’ll call you in the morning, Grandma,” Jovan said.

  “Okay, baby. Love you.”

  “I love you too, Grandma.”

  “Oh, Jovan,” Grandma said before hanging up.

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you read about your friend Bilal in the newspaper?”

  When Grandma said that, instantly Jovan thought Bilal had been killed.

  “Naw, Grandma, what happened, and when was he in the paper?” Jovan asked her, afraid she was getting ready to tell him Bilal was dead.

  “About two days ago, baby. It said something about him being a drug kingpin and being arrested with a whole lot of money in his possession.”

  When she said he had gotten locked up, Jovan was relieved to find out he wasn’t dead.

  “Did they catch him with any drugs on him?”

  “I dunno, baby. It didn’t say anything about drugs, just money, and a whole lot of it, too. I hope he’ll be all right. Bilal’s a good boy. He’s just been through so much.”

  Jovan wondered if Bilal ever came by his grandma’s while he was away.

  “Hey, Grandma.”

  “Yes, baby?”

  “Did Bilal ever come over there while I was locked up?” Jovan asked her.

  “Oh yeah, baby. He came over a few times. I was supposed to give him your address, but every time he came over I couldn’t find it,” Grandma said.

  Damn, Jovan thought, my man was out there getting all that money and he was still loyal. I bet if Grandma had given him my address, my account would have been fat as shit. Now this nigga gets locked up and I’m on my way out the door.

  CHAPTER 9

  “A New Beginning”

  On December 31, 1993, Jovan was home free. The first thing he did when he got home was call Peppa over to his Grandma’s house. He fucked her all night long. He fucked her so hard that when she got up in the morning, she couldn’t even walk straight.

  “Damn, Jovan, you act like you ain’t never had no pussy before,” Peppa said when she woke up the next morning.

  “It ain’t that, Pep. It’s just that I ain’t had none in two years.”

  “Shit, I know you was in there playing wit’ that thing.”

  “Yeah, I jerked off a few times, but it ain’t nothin’ like the real thang,” Jovan said, laughing.

  Jovan didn’t have to make love to Peppa, because she was a hood rat, so it didn’t matter if he fucked her like a ho or caressed her like a gentleman. She was gonna fuck with a nigga like him regardless, because she already knew his status and capabilities of getting money again, so giving him that pussy any way he wanted it was more like an investment to her.

  After Peppa left, Jovan went outside to check on his van. He popped the hydraulic stash and saw that he still had his P13 .45 automatic. He closed the stash back and took his van to the nearest detail shop, and after his van was done, he went back home to spend some time with his grandma. She had cooked a nigga so much food that when Jovan got up from the table, he almost threw up. Jovan kicked it with his Grandma for a while, talking about what he was going to do with his life.

  The next morning, Jovan decided to get his tags renewed along with his license. He got together all his old clothes—well, not old, because most of the shit he had was still brand new and the tags were still on ’em. He still had a nice wardrobe, mostly Versace and Armani, and you know that shit wasn’t going outta style for a minute, plus most of the Versace shit he had he bought from California on Rodeo Drive. He had shit niggas hadn’t seen yet.

  Jovan was glad Keda went back to his townhouse and got his shit for him when he got locked up, ’cause if she hadn’t, he’d really be fucked up.

  Jovan hadn’t seen Keda yet, but when he did, he was gonna let her know how much respect a nigga had for her. The whole time he was down, outta all the bitches he had, Keda was the only one that kept it real. She’d send him a few dollars, some cards, and a couple of flicks of herself with thongs on. Although he wasn’t too impressed with that at the time, he still recognized real when he saw it.

  After Jovan left the Department of Motor Vehicles, his next plan for the day was gonna be hard. He had to get a job. Yeah, Jovan C. Price, outta jail with a paralegal diploma trying to find a job at any law firm that would accept him.

  The first place Jovan went to was the Law Offices of Rohon and Robinson. As he was parking his van in front of the office, Mark was just pulling up in his green 535I BMW. Perfect timing, he thought as he grabbed his diploma and hopped out of the van. Just as Mark was getting outta his car with a flimsy briefcase full of motions, Jovan greeted him.

  “What’s up, Mark? How you doin’?” Jovan said.

  “Hey, my main man, Jovan. What’s up? What brings you by the office? You caught a new case or something?” Mark asked.

  “Naw, the life of crime is over for me. I came to ask for a serious favor.”

  “Well, if you want me to represent one of your friends or something and they don’t have any money, then I can’t do that for you, but I’ll work with you if you can pull a rabbit out your hat and drop me a few Franklins,” Mark said, laughing.

  Jovan laughed at Mark’s slick way of telling him “if your bank ain’t right, you better get outta sight.”

  “Naw, Mark, it ain’t
like that. It’s a little more important.”

  “Tell you what, Jovan; I’ve got a few minutes before I have to go back to court. Come in my office so we can talk.”

  Mark’s office had changed a little since the last time Jovan was there. He also had a new secretary that was phat as hell. She had booty like J-Lo. Her name was Cindy, and she looked all right to be a white girl.

  “I see you made a few changes, huh?” Jovan said.

  “Yeah, the more money I get, the better the office looks. Now, what’s your problem and how can I help you?”

  Jovan told Mark everything he needed to know. He told him how bad he wanted to be a lawyer and how bad he needed a job so he could pay for his next two years at Howard University. To his surprise, Mark accepted his plea.

  “Look, Jovan, I’m going to hire you and teach you as much as I know, but for a thousand dollars a week, you’re gonna have to bust your ass for this law firm. We don’t lose many cases, and for the ones we do lose, we end up winning on appeal. Another reason I’m hiring you is because I know you know a lot of these fools that keep getting locked up, and you may have a better approach to them than I do. So yeah, I’ma need you, but you’re gonna have to work hard,” Mark said.

  “Thanks, Mark. I’ll never forget this. When do I start?”

  “Is there someplace you gotta be right now?”

  “No,” Jovan said.

  “Well, you can start as of this moment. Here’s some cases. Look them up and copy them for me.”

  Jovan picked up the cases and was about to go straight to work.