by Leo Sullivan
office I still had Marcus with me since it was our day together. In
a semi-trance, I drove straight to the Federal Detention Center. I
couldn’t walk away from that man if I wanted to. Believe me, I
wanted to.
On the drive there, Marcus was starting to get cranky and rest-
less. He had so much pent up energy, but not enough to want to
place him on dr ugs. I was thinking about the nuns back at the
school.
As I drove up to the FDC building there were still a few media
vans and trucks still scattered around the place. I knew that if it
weren’t for Life’s association with Willie Falcon he would not be
receiving all this publicity.
With suitcase in one hand and Marcus in tow, I entered the
building as my mind wrestled with what I was doing,
“Mommy, where we going?”
“To see a man about a dog.”
Instantly a few of the correctional officers recognized me with
a few raised brows.
Finally, after I went through all the procedures that are
designed to make people not want to visit their loved ones, like
waiting well over an hour and the search of my person, I was final-
ly accepted into the visiting area. I sat in one of these terribly
uncomfortable chairs. The building was cold, the air conditioner
was turned up high. A few rows down from us, an obese Black
woman with orange hair weave in her head sat eating chicken
wings that came from the vending machine. In the distance I
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heard the PA system call a name. My mind was in a blur.
“What am I doing here?” Marcus sat next to me his legs swing-
ing from the chair. He spotted the vending machine with the
candy and pointed.
“Candy, Mommy.”
“Not right now sweetheart.”
I exhaled and re-crossed my legs. Already the chair was start-
ing to hurt my behind. I looked up to see the large woman walk
over to the vending machine again just as three visitors entered,
two young girls in their early teens and an elderly woman who
must have been the Grandmother. In my peripheral vision, I saw
Life enter the room. My breath got caught in my throat. For the
first time I noticed his limp and the way he carried his arm. I
thought about the attempted murder on his life. He came and
stood in front of me. I could smell soap and something else, cocoa
butter? I got the impression he wanted me to stand and hug him.
“Sit down,” I said r udely, giving him a once over and then
glancing at my watch. He sat across from me. It felt like I was
hyperventilating. I forced myself to look into his eyes, and
searched his soul for some vestige of sincerity. For some reason he
and my son just stared at each other. It was bizarre, like two peo-
ple that knew each other but couldn’t remember the other’s name.
I looked between the two of them and damn near fell out my
seat. Marcus looked identical to his father like he was a miniature
copy, dimple and all. The scene was eerie. They continued to stare
at each other like two people stuck in a mirror. For the sake of
talking I started a conversation, just as a CO walked by.
“As an attorney I would advise you not to represent yourself at
trial. In fact, I would advise you not to go to trial, period.” No
answer, just the two of them staring at each other. I was on the
outside looking in. To my utter shock, I watched as my son
climbed out of his chair and ambled over to where Life was and
leaned against his knee. This was totally out of character. My son
is shy of strangers.
“Hope, I can’t believe this,” Life said. His voice was hoarse. I
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thought I detected anger. It was a big mistake to bring my son
there.
Life figured it out, the child leaning against his knee is his son
,
I thought as I waited for him to speak. He licked his lips and
peered closer at Marcus.
“He looks like ... he looks just like my father,” Life finally said.
The frown on his face was that of a man trying to understand fate,
strange happenstance, or maybe why I never told him he was the
real father to my child.
“Marcus, honey, go sit back in the chair,” I said sweetly. My
child ignored me.
“No, please. Let him stay.” Life’s words were soft and sound-
ed like a plea. Still neither of them took their eyes off each other.
“What’s that?” Marcus asked innocently, pointing at the
prison tattoo on Life’s forearm. It looked like it was recently done.
It was a picture of a child’s face beneath a tombstone. It read, “Rest
in Peace” with the name Shawn L. Bell inscribed on it.
“That’s a picture of my son, Shawn L., he went to heaven.”
Life spoke as if the gruesome scene was still fresh in his mem-
ory. I found myself leaning forward staring at the tattoo with my
son.
“Why he die for?” Marcus asked.
“Boy get over here!” I screeched. Life picked Marcus up in his
arms holding him affectionately, and at that time the two of them
looked at me accusingly. Lawd have mercy! It felt like a double
dose of regret. It suddenly dawned on me if the media, or anybody
else saw us together like this they couldn’t help but noticed the
comparison.
“I dunno what he died fo’,” Life answered somberly and then
his whole demeanor changed. He tickled Marcus’ sides. They
laughed together with the same smile. I was forced to look away.
Again I was tormented about why I came in the first place.
“I saw you in the courtroom the day I fired my lawyers.”
I just looked at my watch, no words, lots of body language.
My intention was to get out of there with the least conversation
possible.
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“My stepmother told me that you gave her one of your busi-
ness cards.”
“She remembered me?” I accidentally blurted out not mean-
ing to break my silence.
“Yeah, you’re the only person that gives out business cards
with no address on them.” He smiled, all dimples, and then
added, “Naw just playin’. She remembered you cause you was the
only Black woman that approached her. She said it was hectic.
White folks can be so r ude.” The moment stilled. I watched his
large hands as he played with Marcus, teaching him how to make
a fist to throw a punch, using the palm of his hands for punching
bags. “Harder! Harder!” he instructed.
Life persuaded Marcus to swing, until finally Marcus missed
and fell on his butt. My mask was unveiled. As much as I didn’t
want to, I couldn’t help but laugh. In fact, all three of us got a
good roar out of that. The CO walking by laughed, too. I guess
we must have looked like one big happy family. Before I could,
Life picked Marcus up and dusted off his pants and placed him on
his lap and they played horsy. I looked at my watch, determined
to make my exit. Suddenly Life stopped rocking Marcus and just
> held him in his arms. “Hope, I’m concerned about the case.” He
couldn’t look me in the eyes, didn’t want to either, just stared
above my head like it was a clock up there or something. I tried to
read his mood, the thug nobody knew. I looked under all that
brazen gangsterism, underneath all that toughness and I saw a
lonely man with dark circles under his eyes. Gone was the glor y of
the game, only to be replaced by concrete, steel, mail call and the
same weekly three course meals. He was still not looking at me,
just rocking back and forth with Marcus in his arms.
“I came to this town with a big money scheme. I should have
left a long time ago.” I didn’t know if Life was talking to me or just
pondering his thoughts. He paused and looked at the child in his
arms.
“My stepmother doesn’t trust white folks. Neither do I.”
“It was good you fired your lawyers,” I said. Marcus was
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falling asleep in his arms.
“Yeah, I fired them because they were greedy, I could sense
that sumpin’ wasn’t right wit them.”
“I came to tell you that the day you took your anger out on
me.”
“I know, I know. I figured that out after you left. When I
heard that you quit your job, I realized then that I made a big mis-
take,” he said apologetically as his voice softened.
“I overheard my ex-boss, Scandels, talking to your lawyers.
They planned to rig the trial so he could win, and at the same
time, bleed you for your money while enjoying all the free press.”
I don’t know why I was opening up to this man; perhaps it was
because he was the father to my child. Maybe it was because he
was a brotha.
“You said somethin’ bout Lil Cal.”
“Yes, while I was working for the government I stole your file.
In it was the discovery papers of all the people that planned to tes-
tify against you at this trial.” Life raised a suspicious eyebrow at
what I just said. “Lil Cal is in Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary
doing a life sentence. He agreed to come back and testify against
you in return for a reduced sentence. His real name is Calvin
Johnson. You know him?”
“Yeah, I know ‘em,” Life said, his eyes cast to the floor, hurt
written all over his face. “That was my nigga. I bought his Mama
a big-ass house, kept his inmate account phat.” I looked away, did-
n’t want to wallow in his sorrow. Suddenly our little space, our lit-
tle world inside of a prison visitation room was filled with silence
louder than any words that two people can share.
“Hope, I want you to represent me! Be my lawyer!” Life said
it like it wasn’t a question, it was a demand. He completely caught
me off guard. The moment lulled. I was sure he was trying to read
my expression. Finally I chuckled a strained laugh as fake as the
fr uit on Grandma’s dinning room table.
“You can’t be serious.” I gestured. He made a face that said,
do
I look serious?
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“First off, I don’t have the experience for a case of this magni-
tude, and more importantly, the prosecution is going to file a
motion for conflict of interest just to get me off the case because I
used to work for their office.” To me it sounded like a lame excuse.
“You must try,” he said with conviction.
I’ll admit, I had thought about it. What would it be like to
represent a client in one of the biggest drug cases the state of
Florida has ever seen?
“I’ll pay you double what I paid The Nightmare Team 2.
Hope, if I’ma die like some fuckin’ caged dog, then at least let me
be able to fight back.”
His words hit deep to the core of my soul, making me feel
kind of high, like an adrenaline rush that comes with a fight, a
fight for a Black man’s life.
“Do you know what you’re asking of me?” I asked sternly.
“Yes I do,” he shot back.
“If I decide to take your case and they let me, it’s not going to
be like your last defense team. This is nothing short of war, and
it’s dirty and corrupt. I’m going to have to hire attorneys, investi-
gators, legal specialists such as psychologists and other legal
experts, and most importantly, Life?” I called his name with all the
sincerity that I could muster and I looked him in the eyes with a
cold stare. “If you lie to me, I promise you, I promise you, I will
drop you like a bad habit.” He just looked at me as he switched
positions moving Marcus from one arm to the other. My child was
fast asleep in his arms.
“I’ll send you a check for a mill.”
“A mi … mi … million dollars,” I stammered.
“That’s not enough?”
“That’s too much. What about taxes? The feds are already try-
ing to nail you for tax evasion.”
“The money will come from a corporation. It’s all perfectly
legal, the same way white folks do it,” he said, as I listened and
learned.
I thought about the billion dollars that Willie Falcon was
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worth. I thought about Trina Vasquez and how two weeks after
Life’s arrest, she was arrested at the New York International
Airpor t with four million dollars in her luggage.
One thing was for certain, Life definitely had the finances to
buy the best defense that
money could buy. I did recall reading in one of the confiden-
tial dossiers while I was working for the federal bureau, Willie
Falcon paid each of his lieutenants 10 percent of each shipment of
coke. Each shipment was always valued at over a hundred million.
The bureau had an inside informant, a man by the name of Carlos
Menendez. He was going to testify that he personally took part in
at least five different operations where Life Thugstin imported
large shipments of cocaine from Colombia to the United States.
About a month ago, Carlos and his family were murdered execu-
tion style. Both of his eyes and his tongue were savagely cut out, a
warning to future snitches. His wife and two daughters, ages 5 and
3, all had their throats cut.
I warned Life not to get into any more trouble at the FDC
building. He already had been in several fights and assaults. I
knew that he wouldn’t listen. I jotted down the address of my new
office just as the CO announced the end of the visitation. Maybe
I should have hugged him, whispered words of encouragement,
but I felt that it was important for me to keep our relationship
strictly business. But once again, a nod of the head, a shrug would
have to suffice. I took my son out of his arms, and marched out
of the door to the sound of my heels on the cold linoleum floor.
If knew then what I was getting myself into, I would have never
taken the case, United States of America versus Life Thugstin.
*****
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Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Eighteen
“A New
Beginning”
– Hope –
The next day I was at my new office. The movers arrived around
10:30 in the morning, with the used furniture that I bought from
Goodwill.
It was one of them hectic days, hot and sweaty. Of course, my
air conditioner was not working, and there wasn’t enough space in
my cramped office for all of these huge men to be maneuvering
around me. Someone bumped into me and I turned around to see
a handsome guy in a Federal Express uniform. He smiled and
began to apologize for accidentally touching me from behind. I
shrugged it off because one of the movers mistakenly pushed him
into me.
“You know who Hope Evans is?”
“That’s me.” I signed my name on the dotted line. He passed
me an envelope marked American Yacht Association. I opened it
and there was a check for one million dollars in my name. I sat
down on a box and heard something break. The guy in the uni-
form looked at me like I was crazy.
*****
The next morning, bright and early, I arrived at the Federal
Building downtown. I went inside the clerk’s office and filed a
motion that I would be representing Life Thugstin. At the time I
thought I was fully aware of the repercussions of what I was doing.
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The only real bright spot was the judge would be relieved to learn
that Life was trying to hire a lawyer. Whenever a defendant repre-
sents himself, it’s always a sure debacle, and I was sure the
Honorable Judge Statford was not about to let that happen in his
courtroom. The major hurdle now was my ex-boss down at the
United States Prosecution’s Office, David Scandels. If he decided
to file a motion citing conflict of interest, more than likely I would
be thrown off the case. This was too much to bear. Maybe I was
stressing, but for the last few weeks I had been feeling ill, could
hardly eat and didn’t get much rest. Not to mention the nervous
breakdown I had in the parking lot a few weeks ago.
At last, I arrived home. Crowds of media were camped out in
my front yard. I had to honk my horn just to enter my driveway.
“What the ....” Microphones were thrust into my face as I exit-
ed my car. Too many cameras and too many faces. A sea of people