by Leo Sullivan
are aware of this scheme, where urban Black men are tricked into
selling crack and then given life sentences.
After the boyfriend made the sale, federal agents stormed the
house. The boyfriend was shot and killed as he tried to escape out
a bedroom window. Keychia Moore was arrested and charged with
the sales to the undercover agent and her three kids were taken
away from her and placed into foster care. The ratio between crack
cocaine and powder cocaine is 100-to-1. Now instead of facing
probation and a fine, she faced a lifetime in prison. I was assigned
as her prosecutor. There was no way in hell I was going to help
send this young woman to prison for life, and all she merely did
was open the door for the undercover agent when he came to buy
the drugs. Her lawyer, an old public defender, had hardly any
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interest in her case, heck, the same people that signed his check
signed mine.
On the day that she was scheduled to go to trial, I sat at the
prosecutor’s table, painfully frustrated. Keychia and myself were
the only Blacks in the entire courtroom. I felt so uncomfortable.
Keychia, like most young Blacks had no relatives and friends to
come to the courtroom to support her. Her pensive sobs rocked
the cour troom. I lay awake in bed trying to figure out a way to
sabotage the trial then it hit me. A plan. I would have to take a
great risk, but I had to do it.
On the day of the trial, I casually opened up the case file on
her and in a mock display of shock at what I was looking at,
lawyer turned actor, I looked up at the judge in confusion, and
asked him could I approach the bench. He stared at me quizzical-
ly over the rim of his glasses.
“Your Honor, I’m afraid the prosecution is forced to drop the
charges, due to the fact the statute of limitations has expired in
this case,” I said, as I tried to look flustered.
The judge looked at me with dismay as he removed his glasses.
“What do you mean you’re going to have to drop the charges?”
he asked, disgruntled. His skin turned beet red.
“The defendant filed a motion for a speedy trial, evidently it
was in oversight at my office, and just now discovered this.” I
passed the motion to the judge. The night before, I drafted it and
forged Keychia’s signature and post dated it. As the judge looked
at it, I prayed that Keychia’s lawyer would go along with it. Last
night the idea seemed like a brilliant plan, however, this morning
with the judge peering down at me, I realized just how stupid and
dangerous the idea was, I could lose my job, and possibly face
charges.
The judge massaged his face with a hand and sighed as he
began to rub the bridge of his nose the way people do when they
are having a long day.
“Counsel, what do you mean, oversight? This is plain and sim-
ple incompetence, and not in accordance with the jurisprudence
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of law that I practice in my courtroom,” the judge spoke sternly,
and then looked over at the defense table and shook the paper in
his hand as he pointed at Keychia’s attorney.
“Why am I just learning of this ... this so called oversight?” he
asked, and glared at me. Right then and there I wanted to run out
of the cour troom as I watched Keychia’s lawyer stand and look at
the judge in consternation as he responded, “I am not aware of
such motion your Honor.”
“Yes you is!” Keychia interjected indignantly.
Keychia’s lawyer approached the bench giving me a look that
said he was on to me and my scheme.
“Your Honor, someone needs to be investigated and disbarred
and maybe even arrested. This is a travesty of injustice,” the lawyer
said angrily as he pointed an accusing finger at me, and then
added, “I want my client released at this ver y moment, or else I’m
filing for prosecution misconduct.”
The judge looked on and shr ugged his wear y shoulders.
“This has been a long day for all of us,” he said as he looked
at me and shook his head, like he could not believe that I could
be so stupid. I glanced over at Keychia’s lawyer and I could have
sworn that old white man winked at me. One thing was for sure,
he had just proven to me that he was a better actor.
“Will the defendant please rise,” the judge said. I watched as
Keychia struggled with the armrest on the chair to stand. She was
a ver y pretty girl with a light complexion and long wavy black
hair. With her enormous stomach, she looked like she was carry-
ing twins.
“Young lady, I want you to consider yourself very fortunate.
Today, due the circumstances that would have violated your con-
stitutional rights, I have no other recourse but to drop the indict-
ment against you.” After the judge made his ruling, it was hard for
me to hide my delight. I turned my back and smiled as I walked
back to the prosecutor’s table.
*****
On the day that I visited Life Thugstin in SHU and he spit in
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my face, that pushed me over the edge in leaps and bounds. So
much hurt and pain, and yet, I had no choice but to turn the hurt
into motivation to propel myself forward. Life actually thought I
had sold him out, betrayed my own people, like so many others
had done. I wished that I could let him know, make him under-
stand me, the woman that only took the job for the government
in order to learn its legal tactics so that I could go back and help
others. If I were to become the female version of Hannibal I would
have to learn how to defeat these people at their own game. War.
The logistical kind you find in the courtroom. The battle of the
minds. When I had no way of possibly knowing, it would be a lot
sooner than I thought that I would find myself entrenched in war
in a crowded courtroom fighting for my client’s life.
*****
As planned, that was my last day working for the government.
I had “take this job and shove it” written all over my face. Well, at
least in my mind.
I walked up to my boss’ secretary, Joan Fiest. She was a
pompous overweight woman that wore too much make-up. Her
eyeliner made her look like a witch. She had a personality of a
shark with a wide mouth to match.
“Hi, Ms. Fiest. Is Mr. Scandels in his office?” I asked. She was
the gatekeeper to his office and loved the job. She turned and
looked at me with a gaze that left no doubt of her disdain for me.
“Hope, you know that David does not like to be disturbed
while he’s enjoying his morning coffee.” With that she gave me
one of her shark smiles with all eighty teeth. One tooth was
stained with red lipstick. She turned her back on me.
I stood there all of ten seconds counting backward, trying to
calm myself, trying to reason with my brain.
Why does this woman
dislike me so? I’ve had enough of her bulls
hit
, I thought as I decid-
ed to walk into my boss’s office unannounced.
I stormed by the gatekeeper. She looked up at me with rouge
cheeks, mouth agape.
“Wait!” she hollered. I passed through the door without even
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knocking. He was reclined in his chair, feet propped up on his
desk with a simmering cup of coffee in his hand, pinky finger
extended. A man caught in the solitude of his thoughts. Ms. Fiest
rushed in behind me. She was winded like she had just run a
marathon. “Mr. Scandels, I tried to stop her.”
“Excuse me sir, but I need to have a word with you. It’s impor-
tant.”
I watched as Mr. Scandels waved her away. After his secretary
had left, he cocked his head to an angle furrowing his brow in con-
centration at me in wonder, what could be so important to make
me barge into his office unannounced?
“What can I do for you?” he asked. Today he wore a starched
white shirt, with a brown tie. His hair was thinning and this
morning it looked wet. He had a strong angular jaw line with a
deep dimpled chin that reminded me of a car toon character. His
demeanor was always poised like a man used to giving orders. He
had this uncanny way of making you feel uncomfortable, the way
powerful people do. And in his own right, he was a powerful man.
The head prosecutor for the Northern District of Florida carried
a lot of weight. I’ll be the first to admit it, being a Black female in
the predominately white man’s world can be intimidating.
I stood in the middle of his office. On the wall I saw a picture
of him and President Clinton. On his desk were more pictures,
family, I guess. His office was huge, it made me feel small. I took
a deep breath.
“As of today I am resigning,” I said flatly, and walked up to his
desk and placed my resignation letter on it. He shot forward in his
chair as he removed his feet from the desk and knocked over a pic-
ture in a gold frame in the process.
“Resigning?” he retorted.
“Yes.”
“But you haven’t even given me a two week notice. We’re
already under-staffed and overloaded with cases.” I just gave him
a look that said,
that’s your problem.
“I’m afraid that it will not be possible for you to resign at this
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present time until we can find a suitable replacement for you.”
“No, I have had just about enough of this. I think this entire
criminal justice system needs to be overhauled. I sincerely thank
you for asking me to stay, bu –”
Scandels was on his feet. It startled me for a man his age to be
able to move so fast. “You cannot leave now!” he interrupted
pointing his finger at me. This was the other side of the man not
used to having his authority challenged and rejected, especially by
a Black woman. I stood my ground, Lord knows I wanted to avoid
this confrontation, yet in my own feminine solace I was delighted
to badger his male ego.
“David.” I called him by his first name just like everyone had
been doing me since I first started working in the office. He jerked
his neck narrowing his eyes at me letting me know that he did not
appreciate me calling him by his first name the way he does me.
White people. The nerve.
“It’s a done deal. I’ll be sending the movers for the rest of my
things in my office.” Saying that, I turned to walk away.
“Hope! I can assure you, if you try to play hardball with me,
you’ll end up being blackballed. If you walk out that door, I can
promise you, you will never find a job in this town practicing law,
even if you wanted to work for free.”
His words stung me. I stood rigid and stared at the man who
went out of his way to give me all the low profile cases, cases that
no one else wanted. I couldn’t help but smile at that white man,
either that or curse him out. My daddy did not raise me that way,
so I just smiled at him as I walked up and placed my business card
on his desk. “This is my new employer,” I said pointing at the
name on the card. It read “Hope Evans, Attorney at Law” and for
some reason, that name instilled a kind of courage in me, the kind
that made a sista feel proud. “Feel free to use your power and pres-
tige to blackball me if you like, but from here on out I ain’t work-
ing for no one else but my damn self!” With that, I stalked out of
the door leaving him staring at my card.
*****
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I was getting ready to make my entrance into the world of cor-
porate America, an independent Black woman. I was 25 years old
and wet behind the ears, but determined to do my own thing.
Inside my heart and soul, although I would not admit it to any-
one, I was scared to death!
I left the building shortly after my confrontation with my ex-
boss with most of my office material in a box. As I walked across
the parking lot in the sweltering heat, with each step that little
voice in my head barged its way in, the fear of failure announced
its presence like an angry troll.
Hope, you damn fool! You shouldn’t have quit your job. Who’s
going to feed the baby?
The diction of voices echoed in my head acrimoniously. I
thought about my brother on crack, my other brother doing life
in prison and catching my husband in bed with another man. I
had enough blues in my life to sing a sad song, and to think, I had
just quit a sixty five thousand dollar a year job. God help me, now
I was going to try to make a career in a male dominated world. As
I was opening the car door, I could feel sweat cascading down my
back. I got in the car and tore my stockings on the door, ruining
them. “Damn it! Damn it!” I screeched as I pounded my fist on
the roof of my car, with it came a surge of emotions that I never
knew existed. For the past year or so, I had been holding so much
inside, tr ying to be strong, determined. I was a single parent try-
ing to raise my son. My marriage was a failure, not to mention my
husband was a homosexual. I was so filled with grief that I began
to weep openly. I noticed that a car pulled up waiting for my park-
ing space. The driver was an elderly Black lady. She watched me
cry for a moment. Then she got out of her car. Age had stooped
her body but she was still very attractive. I could tell she was once
a very beautiful woman. She wore her hair styled and colored in a
lovely shade of blue. She wore black slacks and white shirt.
“Child, are you OK?” she asked sympathetically as she lightly
caressed my back with her hand. Lord knows it felt like I was hav-
ing a nervous break down. I wanted to tell her no, everything was-
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n’t OK, my life was a joke, and my real baby daddy had spit in my
face and called me an Uncle Tom, and I had this stupid dream of
helping my people so I
quit my job.
“Yes ... I’m OK,” I finally said as the tears ran down my
cheeks, I cried openly.
The old woman grabbed my arm forcefully; I was surprised of
her strength for a woman of her age.
“You will be all right, you hear me?” she said passionately, but
there was something in her eyes that moved me. “You must never
give up!” The old woman raised her voice. I nodded my head,
swallowed the lump in my throat, breathed in air like it was new
found courage. I met her motherly gaze and felt like she was try-
ing to tell me something that I all ready knew.
“Thank you,” I said softly as I looked away from her, embar-
rassed, this old Black woman that I did not even know. There was
something in her warmth, her touch, and her eyes. She watched
me closely as I got into my car.
“If you’re not willing to sacrifice, maybe even die for your pur-
pose, what are you living for?” The old woman yelled at me as I
drove away. That was the day that my life would be changed for-
ever. There would be no turning back.
As soon as I arrived home I checked my answering machine.
One message was from Stan, the man that I caught in bed with
my ex-husband. I thought that was ver y strange for him to call.
Three other messages were from Officer Coffee. I was avoiding
him after I found out he was a playa, besides, the man was too
damn fine and I didn’t trust myself.
I changed into my running clothes and went for a jog. I did
five miles in record time, 45 minutes and some change. Afterward,
I felt energized and aching in all the right places, a runner’s high.
At 2:15 in the afternoon, I decided to pick my son up early
from the daycare center and we would do the family thing–go see
a movie at the mall.
I arrived at Saint John’s Daycare Center, an ancient building
that also served as a Catholic church run by elderly nuns. I paid a
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hundred and fifty dollars a week for Marcus to attend the school.
As soon as I walked inside I was pleasantly reminded of how
it felt to be a child at heart. I smiled as I watched all the children
frolic in a game of musical chairs. A child’s laughter is addictive. I