Thin Line Between Death and Dishonor

by Amir Sanchez

  Chyna, again, complimented her on her delicious cooking and handed her a huge wad of bills before telling her she could have the rest of the night off. The four of them left the table stuffed and satisfied.

  The night was capped off with a few more drinks, a toast, and a walk alongside the ocean. Black was still speaking hopeful of the future, and that was all that mattered to Gus. When they returned to the house, Black announced that he would be retiring for the night. He informed them that he had an important day ahead of him. Everyone returned to their rooms. Certainly, it wasn’t for sleep. There was something about the island and the ocean that made one’s hormones rage. If anybody was to walk in a twenty-foot radius of the house, they was sure to be in for an earful.

  The following morning, breakfast was brought to the bedrooms. It was an assortment of Brazilian pastries, fresh squeezed orange juice, steaming hot coffee, and spinach and feta cheese omelets. The maid that delivered the breakfast trays also handed Gus an envelope addressed to him and Trish with a private message from Black.

  “Damn, Gus, how do you feel about all of this?” Trish asked him after reading the note. “I think the nigga going to surely put you on. Either way, I’m always down for you,” she promised sincerely.

  “You know I know that. You’re Bonnie, baby, and I’ma always be your Clyde. I feel like good shit is in the works for me. But either way, one way or another, I’m going get to the top,” he swore.

  * * *

  An hour later, the four of them were seating themselves in the white Range Rover that Black’s driver had picked them up in. Black instructed his driver to stop at Ferno’s. It was a popular nightclub on the island that Black had his hands in. When they pulled up in the parking lot, there were only four or five cars parked there.

  “I’ll be back in ten minutes,” Black informed them before removing a small black bag from under the seat.

  No more than five minutes later, Gus heard what sounded like powerful engines gunning up the road toward the parking lot. As the sounds got closer, about five trucks pulled into the parking lot. The screeching tires spread dust everywhere since the parking lot was unpaved.

  “What the fuck!” Gus reached for the door to try to make a getaway as soon as he saw red and blue lights flashing through the headlights of the Suburbans and Yukons. “Trish, we need to get the fuck up outta here!” he yelled out as he reached for her with his other hand. Before they could even jump out, several masked men ran up on the Range Rover while the other men hopped out and ran inside the club.

  “Nobody move. Get out of the car and face down on the ground!” one of the men instructed everyone. The men identified themselves as FBI and began frisking Gus and the driver. Trish was frozen in place, terrified of what was going on. She lay on the ground praying that everything would turn out okay. She had a million questions, but she knew better than to say a single word. She’d seen enough on the news of people getting killed by police for much less, and she was not trying to have her name added to that list. She refused to become another hashtag. Within seconds, a voice came over the fed’s walkie-talkie.

  “We got the fucking mother lode,” was heard through one of the walkie-talkies. “We finally nailed the bastard. Take everyone in. The first one to talk gets the deal.” Within what felt like seconds, they were all blindfolded, cuffed, and thrown in the back of a truck.

  Twenty minutes later, Gus sat in a cold room, still blindfolded and cuffed to a chair. He was shocked and confused. He didn’t know what the fuck he had gotten himself caught up in, and the silence in the room was killing him. He was questioning if maybe Black had set him up. The last two days had felt like a dream, and he was beginning to wonder if it really had all been too good to be true. As he sat there trying to piece shit together, he heard a door suddenly open.

  “Well well well, Gustavo Santana.” Gus was finally able to see when the blindfold was snatched off of him. His eyes immediately adjusted, and he saw two men standing directly across from him. A steel table was all that was between him and the two men.

  “I guess you were trying to take over the family business, huh?” one of the men asked.

  “You paid Black a substantial amount of money to purchase one hundred kilos, and he’s willing to testify to it . . .”

  “Well, if you got all that, send me to the jail so I can get dug in. Y’all got all the answers so why the fuck are you questioning me?” Gus replied with an attitude. The agents both let out a wicked laugh.

  “You have us confused. Black already told us your aunt and mother contacted him from jail and told him to plug you in with his connects. It’s already been confirmed. Now, we have reason to believe you have information about some shootings and murders you and your cousins were involved in back in the States. If your information leads to an arrest and conviction, we’ll help you out with a great deal, but you have to help us help you,” stated the fed.

  “Maybe you dickheads ain’t understand me, I don’t speak rat. And one thing is for sure about the Santanas, we’ve always been financially secure and represented by the best, so your allegations will be addressed in court, so fuck you and fuck your help.”

  With that being said, the agents punched, smacked, and kicked Gus for five minutes straight before exiting the room. An hour later, they came back in with a small stack of papers in their hands.

  “Trish . . . That’s a very special woman you have there. She can’t believe you chose jail over her. Don’t worry; I’ll take care of that little sweet black ass while Bubba is taking care of yours. You should have seen how fast she signed these statements about coming here to purchase one hundred keys and about your family in exchange for her freedom,” said the fed while pushing Trish’s statements over so Gus could see for himself. The other fed pushed Black and Chyna’s statement over as well.

  Gus read over the papers and although he was heartbroken, he didn’t let it show. Instead, he built up as much spit as he could in his mouth and spit on the face of the fed who beat him the hardest. Gus started to brace himself for another beat down as the agents charged at him. Suddenly, the door flew open and Gus heard a familiar voice.

  “Jack, Jill . . . That’s enough! Thank you,” said Black while entering the room. Gus sat there confused for a moment until he put it all together.

  “That was some bullshit, Black, and I ain’t like it, but I respect it.”

  “In this business, you can never be too certain or sure of someone until they’re put into an uncomfortable situation. You passed all my tests, especially this one. Many people die in this very room because they were willing to compromise who they claimed to be just to get out of a jam at someone else’s expense. But you stood strong and stood for who you are. As a token of my appreciation, it would be an honor to officially welcome you into my family. Now, come on out of here . . . Everyone’s waiting on you,” announced Black, leading Gus to where everyone was gathered.

  “Hold on, Black,” said Gus stopping in his tracks.

  “First of all, it’s an honor to be among your family, but it had nothing to do with how I carried myself in that situation. That there was expected of me, and I’ll forever live by it and die by it. Now, please, take me to see my girl. She got me all the way fucked up. I really thought she’d snitched me out.” Black and Gus chuckled at what had just happened. Gus wiped a little bit of blood that trickled from his lip, and his body was hurting, but his pride was helping him overlook the pain he felt. He was officially a part of the Black Squad, and he was sure the sky was the limit for him now.

  * * *

  Months after that final test, Gus was on top of his game more than he’d ever been in his life. Not only had he made the transformation from an average hustler to a business-minded entrepreneur. He also reconstructed his team in the process. Leaf was no longer indulging in street wars or unnecessary killings; he was now the family’s chief of security. He touched no drugs and only moved out if it was necessary and approved. Sha’Ron was in charge of maintaining
the product and distribution. He had refined his duties to a science, and the product was always consistent, which gave their street credibility a high rate of satisfaction. Gus was head of the family, as well as head of finances. He made sure his team was paid equally, and the money was laundered and profited through investments.

  Black had grown very fond of Gus ever since bringing him to the table. He’d proved to be an asset and a hell of a student. One thing Black loved about him was that he was a good listener and Gus used his advice as a tool to conquer the streets. Although Black only had a daughter, he was beginning to love Gus as if he were his own son. And, whenever he would introduce Gus to one of his associates, he would say, “This is my favorite young buck.” Black was close to retiring from the drug trade, but at the rate Gus was going, he figured one or two more years would make him at least a couple of million dollars richer.

  Streets Is Watching

  A clear shot of Gus’s face appeared through the scope. Next, the image was locked in, followed by at least twenty shots. Amy sat in the backseat of the Explorer, relieved that she finally captured live shots of her target as he got out of his 750 BMW, talking on his cell phone and unaware that his every move was being monitored in one way or another. His house phone and cell phone were tapped, and he was being followed almost twenty-four hours a day. However, so far, Amy had nothing linking him to anything criminal. It was common sense that he couldn’t afford to drive a BMW and own a house with no job, but proving where the money came from was going to be harder than she had originally anticipated.

  So far, she had seen or heard nothing that tied him in with any criminal activity. I wonder if they got tipped off by an agent. I need to get inside. Who do they trust? Who can get me inside? Amy had been driving herself crazy trying to figure out how she was going to crack this case. A few months had passed since she’d graduated and officially been on the case, and she still had nothing to show for it. She was becoming obsessed with the case, ignoring everything else that fell on her desk. During her training at the academy, she was warned to be careful and not bring work home, but Amy found it impossible to leave this case at the office. It was all she thought about.

  Every day, she would pick up her kids from day care and head straight home so she could keep studying every fact she had on her case. One way or another, she was determined to close her case. Gustavo Santana had a mark on his head, and she couldn’t wait to pull the trigger.

  The Homecoming

  January 10, 2005, the Federal Building of Philadelphia’s parking lot looked like a Cash Money music video was being filmed. However, that wasn’t the case. Instead, major niggas throughout the city flooded the parking lot in fancy cars and mink coats awaiting the release of Connie and Consuela Santana. Their sons stood in front of two Range Rovers, one white and the other black, both brand-spanking-new off of the lot. Their release was ten years in the making.

  At 12:00 p.m., the front doors to the prison visiting room opened up and the twins strolled out. Connie was dressed in a cream Chanel dress with matching glasses and shoes, while Consuela was dressed in a red and black Gucci dress with matching shoes and glasses. When their sons saw them, they ran up and helped them into their chinchilla coats. They then exchanged long, warm hugs. The twins were so overwhelmed with joy that they cried as their sons escorted them over to the cars.

  As soon as the twins made their way to the parking lot, everyone cheered and clapped in celebration of their release. Shortly after, numerous people came up to pay their respects with hugs and envelopes full of money. The inmates in the jail went crazy, banging on their windows as they viewed the scene from the inside. The twins were overwhelmed and appreciative of how everyone had shown up to show their love and respects. As much as they wanted to go straight to their sons’ house, unfortunately, the twins had to report directly to the halfway house. That was to be their home for two weeks. The twins were disappointed when they’d been told they weren’t completely free yet, but they figured they’d waited ten years for this moment. They could suck shit up for two more weeks. Their sons supplied them their bank cards and cell phones before they departed. They waved their good-byes to all the supporters before hopping into their Rovers and pulling off.

  Shoot for the Moon If You Want to Find Stars

  “Jihad Cooper, report to the staff office . . . Jihad Cooper, report to the staff office,” stated the correctional officer over the loudspeaker at Graterford State Prison. Jihad was in the middle of a dice game when he heard his name being called. What a perfect time, he thought. Shit, I’m up 200 packs and that’s a perfect opportunity to leave with my winnings before the tables turn against me.

  When he finally made it to the officer’s station, they notified him that he had a visitor. He wasn’t expecting any lawyers, and he knew it wasn’t concerning any of his appeal motions because he hadn’t filed any yet. Serving a forty-to-fifty-year sentence for attempted murder and third-degree murder. Having only served five years of his bid so far, his expectations of getting any good news was the furthest thing from his mind. Jihad wondered if maybe his homeboy Leaf was paying him a surprise visit. It’d been a few months since Jihad had heard from him. Jihad and Ka’Leaf had been close friends since they were young bucks. The shooting skill Ka’Leaf had was mostly because of Jihad. Jihad was the same age as Gus, but they never clicked as hard as he and Leaf did. Jihad’s father had been OG marksmen back in the day, and he taught Jihad everything he knew. He would take Jihad out to the gun range every week and give him one-on-one lessons. Jihad would then turn around and show Leaf everything he learned. Leaf knew he wouldn’t be the sharpshooter he was if it hadn’t been for his friend Jihad. When Jihad got locked up, Leaf promised to take care of him for as long as he was in there. So far, Leaf had stayed true to his promise and regularly deposited $200 on Jihad’s books. He didn’t visit too often, but when he did, it was greatly appreciated by Jihad. Leaf was just about the only person that ever visited him. Respectfully speaking, he was all he had.

  When Jihad entered the visiting room, he was directed to a booth in the back. Once inside, a pretty black chick introduced herself as Amy Tyler. She was accompanied by a smug-looking white man that seemed to be reading through some paperwork on the table. The man was so engrossed in the paperwork that he didn’t even bother to look up at Jihad when he walked in.

  “Take a seat, Mr. Cooper,” Amy instructed him. Jihad complied, anxious to see what this was all about.

  “We’re going to get right down to business,” Amy said, not wanting to waste any time beating around the bush. “We are with the FBI and ATF, and we feel that you may be able to help us out. In return, we are willing to help you. If we both come to an agreement, we may be able to assist each other. We believe in the exchange program, meaning we can get you out in the snap of a finger, but you have to be willing to help us with a situation we are attempting to resolve,” she said.

  “Look, lady, you’re cute and all, but I doubt you and your boy over there have the power to get me out.” Jihad sat across from them with doubt written all over his face. “I don’t know if you know, but I’m in here for at least forty years.”

  “We are well aware of your situation, Mr. Cooper,” the white man finally spoke and looked up at him.

  “My man, who the fuck are you?” Jihad questioned. The man’s face turned red, and even a blind person would be able to tell Jihad’s question had pissed him off.

  “I’m sorry,” Amy interjected. “This is my associate, Adam Steinberg.”

  Adam cleared his throat and tucked at his shirt collar. He hated having to work deals with convicted felons. He didn’t necessarily agree with the exchange program, but he didn’t make the rules or the laws. His job was to enforce them, and that was always his main priority.

  “As I was saying,” Adam paused before continuing, “we are well aware of your situation. You’re serving a fifty-year sentence for killing a man and shooting his girlfriend twice in the neck.” Adam glanced down
at the sheet of paper he had been reading when Jihad walked in. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but according to your statement, you shot the man and woman because they had, and I quote, ‘disrespected your gangster,’” Adam said as he did his best to hide the disgust he felt inside. He felt sick to his stomach to have to do business with scum like this.

  “A’ight.” Jihad didn’t confirm nor deny Adam’s statement even though he knew the man had just retold exactly what his case was. “. . . and what’s your situation?” asked Jihad.

  “With all due respect, I can’t share that information with you unless we have a signed agreement that you are willing to cooperate. It is classified, but I can assure you we can make good on our promise to get you released and possibly even have your sentence considered as time fully served. Do you need time to think about it, or do we have a deal, Mr. Cooper?” Amy asked while sliding a pen and paper over to him.

  Jihad had a million things running through his head. He wasn’t crazy about the idea of becoming like all the other niggas and bitches he knew who had turned their backs and shitted on him the second he was sentenced. As good as the offer sounded, Jihad was against any assistance or cooperation with the police. In fact, he was an antirat. He had personally killed snitches and barred them from his sight in the past. Jihad almost felt sick to his stomach at the thought of becoming a rat. Realistically, though, he knew he’d probably never get this opportunity again, and at the rate he was going in prison having to fight all the time, he most likely would end up having to do the whole fifty years his sentence called for.

  Just then, almost instantly, a brilliant plan came to mind. He would sign just to get out, and then warn whoever they were onto before going on the run. He picked up the pen and signed his signature.