The Dirty Red Series

by Vickie M. Stringer

  He walked as briskly as he could to the front door to avoid any unwanted attention. What he really wanted to do was get inside, sit down and ice his knee. Early in the preseason, a collision with an opponent had resulted in a torn ligament, forcing him to sit out the year. With him, his team had the opportunity to go to the finals; without him, well, the entire team was sidelined. At first Maurice was upset about his injury because he wanted to play. However, it was all good. No matter how long he was out, the money would still be coming in.

  Putting the key into the lock, he turned to look at the neighboring homes. Maurice smiled. The peace and serenity of the area instantly soothed his mind. He turned back toward the front door, turned the key and entered the home. Right away he noticed the boxes in the living room, and peeked inside.

  “Hmm . . .” he mused, “I thought she would have had all of her stuff moved by now.” As he walked to the kitchen, he passed the den. “What the—!” he exclaimed as his eyes focused on the deep crimson blood that was now soaked into the carpet.

  Alarmed, Maurice walked swiftly, opening doors to the various rooms, looking for anyone hiding in the house. He wasn’t afraid—he used to live in the Brewster projects, so he could handle his own if need be. He stopped in his tracks at a faint noise and looked up toward the ceiling. Silently, he began to make his way up the stairs to find out what was going on.

  • • •

  “Gotdamn!” Bacon grunted, feeling better after using the toilet. Finally, he gathered his composure, kicked the bathroom door shut and stepped into the shower to take care of his hygiene.

  Bacon finished showering and turned off the water. The knob squeaked as he turned it to the left to stop the flow of water. He stepped out, dripping water on the thick thirsty carpet, grabbed a towel from the linen closet and wrapped it around his torso. He walked toward the mirror and wiped the steam away with his hand. Turning to the side, he flexed a few times and admired his physique until he heard something.

  Creak . . .

  He automatically reached for his gun, but he wasn’t armed. He looked at the stainless-steel towel rack and lifted it off the attachment. At least she ain’t change this shit, he said to himself about Red. He stood behind the door waiting to swing.

  • • •

  Maurice looked down at the carpet as the floor beneath it creaked. He continued to creep stealthily, but the sounds he heard earlier had ceased. As he tiptoed upstairs, he saw clothes trailing down the hallway. He followed them and they stopped at a door to his right. In the air, he could smell soap. He put his hand on the doorknob and turned.

  • • •

  Bacon watched the doorknob turn, and the door began to open slightly. He saw something black jet out in front of him and swung the bar down hard, but a strong brown hand caught the bar in mid-strike. The men came face-to-face with each other and both glared.

  “Who the fuck is you?” Bacon spoke, giving the intruder his most deadly sounding voice.

  “I should be asking you that,” Maurice replied with an even more menacing scowl. He kept his hand firmly on the bar as he sized up Bacon.

  Just as Bacon attempted to jerk his arm back, the timbre of the intruder’s threat—“Give me one good reason not to crush your cranium with this pipe”—resonated in his mind with familiarity. His eyebrows rose as he turned his face sideways.

  Bacon looked up at the man, who was eight inches taller than him. “Reece?” he called out. “Reece, is that you?” A smile spread across both men’s faces. “Nah, it can’t be.”

  • • •

  Isadore Jeffries and Maurice Clarence had grown up together in the Brewster projects. At thirteen and fourteen years old, the way of survival was hustling—there was no other way. Although Isadore was more street-savvy and cautious, Maurice tried to follow along just to be a part of the in crowd.

  From the time they were young boys, there was something about Maurice that Isadore liked. Maybe it was his skillful way of handling the niggas when they played street ball, or maybe it was because he showed promise in getting out of the ghetto, but what he did know was that Maurice shouldn’t have been hanging around him.

  One night after Maurice and Isadore whooped up on some older cats in a fierce game of two-on-two, Isadore collected some major grip and started on the way home, but not before taunting their competition. As they walked home they ducked into an alley to divide up the money. Before they knew it, out of nowhere, the two older dudes they’d just defeated appeared.

  “So you wanna talk shit,” the taller one of the two said to Isadore.

  “Man, y’all lost . . . fair and square. It ain’t my fault y’all can’t ball,” Isadore continued to tease.

  “You,” the shorter one said to Maurice, angry that he’d embarrassed him. “Why you got all that blood on your shirt?”

  When Maurice looked down, the short man pulled out a pistol.

  Isadore knew what that meant, but Maurice was clueless. “Reece, run!” he yelled and dived in front of his friend when the gun fired. A painful sting ripped through Isadore’s leg as he hit the ground but not before he retrieved his burner.

  “Don’t do it, man!” Maurice shouted.

  “Give me one good reason,” Isadore growled, then released a barrage of gunfire on the two men. The men went down instantly. Isadore looked to his right and saw Maurice running down the alley at record speed. Even way back then, Isadore knew that Maurice had a future and didn’t want him to mess it up. That was why he had protected him, even if it meant taking a bullet himself.

  Two days later, Isadore went to Maurice’s house to learn that his parents had moved the family immediately after the incident. Isadore was crushed because he didn’t get a chance to say good-bye to his friend.

  • • •

  Bacon looked at the man who stood before him. He’d always felt like a big brother to him and was glad that he’d made it out of the projects alive.

  “Go downstairs while I put my clothes on,” Bacon suggested. “We’ll talk when I come down.”

  While Bacon dressed, he wondered if Maurice was still in the NBA or if he had fallen victim to a dumb decision like Michael Vick. He knew he had the skills and definitely the height. Watching sports was a luxury in the joint. Many prisoners preferred football and boxing over basketball. They called basketball a bitch sport because there was no real contact.

  “My nigga done came up somehow,” Bacon said as he pulled up his socks. Although Maurice had grown several inches, matured in the face and obviously worked out, Bacon would know that voice anywhere. He’d never forget the timbre of it.

  Within minutes, Bacon joined Maurice in the living room, purposely avoiding the den.

  “So, how’d you find me?” Bacon questioned.

  “Half naked upstairs,” Maurice joked. They both laughed. “But seriously, I heard something so I went to check it out.”

  “I understand that, but why are you in my house?”

  “Your house?” Maurice raised his left eyebrow. “I just bought this property.”

  “Bought? I never . . .” Bacon paused. Now he knew why all the boxes were packed. Red was not only moving, she’d sold his house right up from under him.

  “You never what?” Maurice always felt that something was fishy about the sale at the closing.

  “That bitch,” Bacon muttered.

  “What bitch?” Maurice questioned.

  “That bitch up in my shit, got niggas all up in my crib, then she gon’ sell it?”

  “Oh, shit . . .”

  “I shoulda blew her ass away when I had my chance!” Bacon picked up one of the boxes and hurled it across the living room. Purses spilled onto the floor, along with some of their contents.

  “Calm down,” Maurice suggested. He walked over to the mess and picked it up.

  “I ain’t calming down, man! This bitch took everything I had, then gon’ lie about it. I left her fat and now I ain’t got shit!”

  Maurice looked through the junk and f
ound numerous IDs, all in different names. “This the ho right here?” He held out a photo license.

  “I swear I’ma—”

  “Hey, hol’ up, man. All this over a broad?”

  “Not just a broad. She was wifey. She was supposed to be holdin’ a nigga down while I was locked up.”

  “She fine and all, but that’s exactly why I ain’t settlin’ down,” Maurice admitted.

  Both men dapped.

  “Look, man, a bitch is a bitch, but a scandalous ho is like a rabid dog. It’s fucked up what she did, but you need to get your shit together and calm the fuck down. I see you still hot-tempered.” Maurice thought about something. “Hey, me and a couple of my teammates going on an all-male retreat in a couple of days. From the looks of it, you may need it more than we do.”

  “All-male retreat?” Bacon questioned as he looked at Maurice quizzically. “You on that DL shit?”

  “Fuck you, nigga.” Maurice laughed when he realized he could have used a better term. “Trust me, you’ll love this retreat . . . hos at your beck and call,” Maurice confirmed with a sly grin. “So you down?”

  Bacon nodded. “I’m down!”

  CHAPTER 6

  Following her botched kidnapping attempt of her boyfriend Mekel’s baby, Terry was taken to police headquarters, 1300 Beaubien, where she was processed and booked. Afterward, she was strip-searched and given new jail attire. Not only was she humiliated by the way her body looked, she felt violated in the most inhumane way possible. The thought even crossed her mind that the female officer who searched her was a lesbian because she seemed to have been enjoying the job a little too much.

  The walls of the jail were made of concrete and painted steel gray. You couldn’t understand any conversations because the echoes of voices seemed to bounce back and forth off the walls. It didn’t really matter all that much what the conversations were about, though; Terry was in jail for a foolish mistake and it all was beginning to settle into guilt and regret. Once placed inside the dorm-like cell, she found an empty bottom bunk to lay her thin mattress and blanket. Although the evening meal was served, Terry covered her head with the blanket and closed her eyes, holding back her tears of grief. It seemed like she had just gotten to sleep when her name was called for the morning court run.

  Terry appeared before a judge at the 36th District Court for her arraignment. She was dressed in prison orange, with shackles on her wrists and ankles. She stood stoically before the judge while the charges against her were read—attempted kidnapping of an infant and aggravated assault. Those words tore through Terry like a knife and she cried uncontrollably.

  “If convicted, you could serve up to ten years in prison,” the judge said to Terry. “Have you secured counsel?” Terry didn’t hear the rest of what she said through her tears and unintelligible mumbles.

  “Miss Washington, I’m rescinding my decision to allow bail in your case.”

  Terry heard that. “Why?” she screamed.

  “Your erratic behavior concerns me.”

  “Please don’t lock me up . . . please!”

  The judge carefully watched Terry before she delivered her final words. “I think you are a detriment to yourself and possibly others. Bail revoked.” The judge called for another case.

  Terry was whisked off to Wayne County Jail until her examination date.

  Once in her cell, Terry knew she was utterly alone in her situation. She couldn’t shake the memory of the way Red had glared at her and shook her head in disgust, then turned away, when she was handcuffed in back of the police car. Red was my dog since grade school. She act like she ain’t never did shit wrong. How she gonna just turn her back on me and act like I don’t exist?

  Terry’s anger was now getting the best of her. She thought Red would have at least come to the police station to explain to the officers that the situation wasn’t as it seemed. Whatever happened to staying down fo’ yo’ dog?

  What Terry failed to realize was that Red thought of her as a charity case and everything she did for her was not without purpose.

  Terry lay down on the hard bunk and tried to cover up with the one-inch thick, state-issued blanket.

  “You wanna choose sides, then choose, but for your sake, I hope you choose the right one,” she mumbled as she thought of Red’s betrayal. Covering up the best she could, Terry went to sleep. Her heart filled with dread for what lay ahead over the next couple of days. Would someone come to see what was happening with her, or would she, in fact, be left for dead?

  • • •

  After Terry’s initial meeting with her attorney, she had gotten a court order for a complete psychiatric evaluation. Terry underwent a series of tests and was assigned a therapist. Terry knew she wasn’t crazy but if playing crazy would give her a reduced sentence, then so be it.

  During the second counseling session, Terry began to realize that the sessions could be beneficial to her. It felt good to open up to someone who wasn’t biased, who had the ability to help her work through issues that were clearly identified.

  A timer rang, indicating that Terry’s session was now over.

  “Over so soon?” Terry said, somewhat exhausted.

  “Yes,” the therapist confirmed. “An hour can go by like that.” She snapped her fingers. The therapist walked to her door and opened it, indicating to the guard that it was time for Terry to leave.

  “Thank you,” Terry said sincerely as she stood up and began shuffling toward the door.

  The therapist smiled slightly and nodded. “Oh, and Terry, remember, it takes time. The first step is always the hardest but I know you can do it.”

  Terry nodded to acknowledge her statement, then turned and began to follow the guard through the maze-like halls. Terry couldn’t step to the beat of her heart because it was racing. She was anxious because it was time to meet with her counsel. She wanted to see what their plan was before she went before the judge at her examination hearing. She had only met with her briefly once she arrived, but Terry could tell she was well seasoned in the court of law. As Terry played follow-the-leader through the hallways, she reflected back on the two counseling sessions.

  During the first day of counseling, the therapist sat quietly jotting notes, not saying a word, but allowing Terry to get everything off her chest. What the therapist noticed was that Terry never once mentioned Mekel’s baby after it was born. She seemed stuck on the relationship as it was prior to then.

  On the second day of counseling, things were different.

  “Well, Terry, it seems like you’ve been down a rough road.”

  “Yes, I have,” Terry said, wiping the tears away. She had just told her what happened the last time she was physically with Mekel and how he put her out of his house, naked. “If Mekel and I didn’t argue around Christmas, he never would have gone to Vegas and we would still be together,” she told her.

  “I can understand why you feel that way,” the therapist said. “However, let’s focus on one person right now.” Puzzled, Terry stared at her. “Let’s focus on you.” Terry blew her nose and held the wet and snotty tissue in her hand.

  “But Mekel is the one who did this to me!” Terry protested, blaming Mekel for everything. “It’s his fault.”

  The therapist walked from behind her desk and leaned against its front as she formulated her words carefully.

  “Mekel did not make you responsible for his actions with Kera, so you can’t make him responsible for your actions. Mekel did not force you to have sex with him, Terry. Mekel did not make you go to the hospital. Mekel did not place his son in your hands. Mekel did not do this to you, Terry.” She paused for a minute and pointed her finger. “You did.”

  A chill ran through Terry’s spine while she reflected. She recalled chasing Mekel around all the time. She couldn’t hold a job because she was too bent on making sure Mekel wasn’t fucking around with no other bitch. Her children began to lose respect for her because she neglected them for Mekel. She couldn’t cart them aroun
d town while following up behind him, so she’d left them at her mother’s more than she should have. Terry looked up at the therapist, her eyes filled with salty tears and her bottom lip quivering, and nodded in agreement.

  “The first phase of the healing process, Terry, is identifying that you and only you are responsible for your own actions. Once you come to terms with that, then you can move on to the second phase.”

  “What’s that?” Terry questioned in a scared, childlike voice.

  “The second phase is to sincerely apologize to Mekel and Kera. It won’t take away what happened, but it may ease some of the pain for all of you. Once that is done, then you move on to the third phase.”

  Terry looked at her with eager eyes.

  “The third phase will come in due time and that is for you, Terry, to forgive yourself. This will be the hardest because you’ll have to live with your decisions. No matter how hard we try, actions cannot be taken back.”

  • • •

  Terry thought back to the therapist. She wanted to take her advice on beginning the healing process but was unsure if she could at this moment in time because she was still hurt.

  After about a five-minute walk, the guard stopped at a steel gray door and opened it. Terry walked in and sat down. No more than thirty seconds passed before the door opened. A younger woman walked in, carrying a briefcase and two folders.

  “Terry?” the woman asked.

  “Yes. Who are you?”

  “I’m Chass.” The woman put her items on the table, then extended her hand. “Chass Reed. Your new attorney.”

  Terry raised her clasped wrists, indicating that she couldn’t shake her hand.

  After their initial meeting, the public defender, a middle-aged white woman, who was originally assigned to Terry, took on another case that was more high profile. Terry was now assigned the fresh-out-of-law-school Chass Reed. Terry had heard of people getting fucked by the system because the state replaces public defenders all the time. She took it for what it was worth and prayed that this change would benefit her and not make her just another judicial statistic.