by Leo Sullivan
I had about seven mill stashed various places in his house, split and buried in different places. I’d asked Sunday to grab about fifty grand of it that day. After discovering the bodies, she began scrambling around the house, crying hysterically as she searched all of the stash spots. She found the first stash and was making her way to the second, when the police pulled up. She was trying to stuff as much as she could in the pillowcase and get away when they charged in and arrested her for three homicides and robbery.
I had almost completed my push-ups and was sweating pretty good when the high-tech motion door slid opened. It led to another door, made of cast-iron steel with a slate to pass food or mail though. It also served as a porthole to peer inside the cell and, on a few occasions, tear gas had been thrown in on me when I refused to come out in order to have my cell searched.
“Listen, my nigga, what she sayin’ is you don’t need to call here no-muthafuckin-mo’. She got a man!”
I chuckled derisively to myself, thinking about the fake ass thug that Sunday called herself dealing with at the moment. In my mind, he was just keeping her company. There hadn’t been a single day that went by and I didn’t think of her and, as soon as I got out of my current predicament, my goal was to make her mine again. I just hoped she would forgive me for almost destroying her life.
As Sunday was getting arrested for robbery and a triple-homicide, I was on a little ass landing strip, the size of a football field, in Narino, the far southwest side of Antioquia, hidden in a rural area in the tall dense jungles of Colombia. They had mosquitoes the size of butterflies, along with large man-eating poisonous snakes, jaguars and other dangerous wild animals but come to find out that wasn’t the only real danger.
As we loaded bales of coke, we were ambushed by gorillas dressed in army fatigue. My immediate suspicion was that they were Santiago goons. Being a hood nigga, I was prepared for it. After being born and raised in the rough streets of Atlanta, I already peeped this as one of the oldest tricks in the book. Sell the vic some dope, then rob them later and take it back. It was an easy come-up; you would have the product and the money.
They had a nice plan, but the wrong nigga.
There was a shoot-out and two of my homies, childhood friends, were murdered right before my eyes. I blamed myself for their deaths because I’d been distracted. My mind was on Sunday. The last thing I’d heard before she ended the call was her screaming that the police were coming. I was worried about her and couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
Miraculously, a few members of my team and I were able to make it out, but only after a fierce gun battle. We flew back into the States on a small ass plane that was specially built to travel long distances but still small enough to not be detected by radar if we flew low at the right height. I made it safely back, but I still had one huge problem: Sunday. I needed to free her, but the problem was, I had no viable alibi at the time. I couldn’t tell them the truth and, even if I did, no one would believe me but the other men who had been there with me, three men who were now free and very rich. My logic was I’d just wing it since I hadn’t done the crime.
With no other options, I took the charge for Sunday and confessed that I knew about the money only. The prosecutor eagerly accepted my confession because of my reputation in the streets. Once he had me, I was charged with three counts of homicide, money laundering, conspiracy to traffic drugs and just about anything else they could throw at me. The mere fact I didn’t have an alibi was one of the nails in the coffin. With the lack of evidence, I didn’t think it made that much of a difference, but the jury did.
The only piece of substantial evidence was a strand of hair found on my goddaughter’s pants, DNA evidence that had been tested and come back inconclusive as to whether it belonged to me. For that reason, I began to file appeals and now, I finally had a chance.
“Inmate Banks, time to get dressed. You got a court appearance,” the C.O. yelled.
I looked up through the sweat burning my eyes. They were four-deep, dressed in riot gear, shields and other archaic ancient looking prison garb, along with weapons that they were prepared to whoop my ass with, if I let them.
It didn’t bother me because I was more than ready to go. I was on my feet with the quickness, a sheen of perspiration gleaming off my chest and arms as I strolled over to the doors.
“No working out in the cell. I should write you up!” one of the dumb ass officers said.
I had a feeling it was the officer by the name of Smitty. He was a short rotund man with a ring of dirty, stringy blond hair and a ball plate in the middle of his head that resembled a bird’s nest on his big ass head.
“Write up these nuts! Fuck you mean? I got handed all this fuckin’ time and y’all always on a nigga ‘bout workin’ out in this little ass torture box,” I said.
“Watch your fucking mouth!” came the response. One of them kicked on the heavy steel, cell door.
“Watch yo’ fuckin’ mouth, with yo’ redneck ass!” I mouthed back, as I bounced over to the door and peered out.
Just like I knew. It was Smitty’s old, evil, potbelly ass, with bloodshot red eyes makin’ him look like a basset hound gone wild. I was full of testosterone and anger. Our relationship was pure combative and hostile like the gang wars that existed in the prison system.
“We should let yo’ black ass stay in there and miss court,” another C.O. threatened.
I couldn’t help but chuckle at that mockingly. Prisons are run by a bureaucratic hierarchy with the federal judge at the top of the structure. The C.O. is at the opposite end of the totem pole and most of them hate their job, they get paid the less and do the most, they are only one tier higher than the convicts, so, basically, in the grand scheme of things they take out their anger on convicts.
“Smitty, fuck you, man! We both know that if you all don’t take me to court, they gone lock you ole ass up and you going to be in a cell with Booty Bandit playing spades for ass. Get da fuck outta here, white boy!”
I almost laughed at the expression on his suddenly pale face as he knocked on the door with the baton that he wasn’t even supposed to be carrying.
I listened as they stood in the hall, pretending to be occupied leaving me alone with my thoughts. I walked over and laid on my bunk, nonchalant like I wasn’t more excited than I had ever been in my entire life. This was my last hope, I just needed to keep my composure and hope for the best. Finally, they opened my cell door to get me and it was one of the biggest reliefs of my life, however, I was apprehensive too. In life, there is always the fear of failure that lurks in your mind whenever you take on a challenge.
This was a huge challenge.
It had been a minute since I had on civilian clothes. I was wearing some baggy blue jeans, a gray t-shirt, and some off-brand gym shoes that were three sizes too big. The tags on the clothes said Walmart, but I didn’t care. They were better than prison clothes and smelled better too. I was happy as hell to have them on! In the past, I wouldn’t get caught dead in get-up like this, but my only concern was getting out of the cold, inhumane prison cell where I would have languished 24/7. That day, I was anxious to see the sunshine.
The only downside was that I was still wearing jewelry, courtesy of the Federal Government D.O.C. The chains holding me down were heavy as shit as I waited to be escorted out the supermax facility. They had me wrapped up like I was a danger to society and a platoon of guards stood around, the security was heavy. Everyone was on notice that King Banks was finally about to leave the building.
I wasn’t even prepared for what would happen next.
5
King
* * *
I was airlifted on a shitty government plane that had seen better days. We traveled to Atlanta, the 11th Circuit of appeals, U.S. Court. As soon as we landed at the airport, I was shoved into a van, surrounded by a caravan of cars. You would have thought I was a big cartel drug dealer. Technically speaking I was, but this shit was ridiculous. We drove with a car in fr
ont of me and another in the back. I sat in the middle vehicle wedged between two Marshals that barely talked to me. Riding in silence, looking out the window, I placed my thoughts on the bright, majestic sun which I imagined was beckoning me to freedom.
There’s a chance I can go home, I thought. I could barely believe it.
It had been a long time since I had seen the sun and the streets. Downtown Atlanta was bubbling with people and beautiful Black women but at the moment, I could only think of one. Well, two, but after the way that Sunday put her nigga on the phone when I called her, my attitude was ‘fuck both of ‘em’. I was entitled to a free phone call once I made it to my destination and I planned on calling my ex.
Though we hadn’t been together in a while, Makita had been holding me down since I got locked up and had quickly moved from being a player on the bench to a star component in my life. There was actually a chance for a future together for us. Her loyalty to me had been nothing short of God sent. She was the glue that kept my operations working while I was on death row fighting for my life. I’d always been told ‘if you want to find out who your real friends are, go to prison’. When I got locked up, a lot of people who I thought would stick around left me hanging, but Makita never did that. Now I was about to have a chance to be free and I would remember the ones who stayed by my side; Makita being the main one.
Just as I suspected, the Feds had a plan for me. I was driven to the Atlanta Federal Penitentiary and placed in a segregation cell, sequestered from all the other convicts, not even given a phone call or a window to look out of. A convict, named Keith, worked as an orderly and he was the only one I was able to connect with once I got there.
“Aye, they don’t give nobody no calls down here?” I asked him, catching his attention when I saw him come forward with a broom in hand.
“Nah, you might have to call your lawyer for that. They be trippin’ up in here. Especially when it comes to niggas like you, head of The JDB.”
As soon as he mentioned my crew, I tensed up wondering whether to consider him a friend or foe. He lifted his hands up, instantly seeing the alarm in my eyes.
“Listen, man, I got nothing but respect for you and your crew. My brother ran a trap and The JDBs used to serve him weight. What he made from that put food on my mama’s table. You got a loyal friend right here.” He jabbed his thumb to his chest. “Matter of fact, I take out the trash in the visitor’s bathroom,” he added, dropping his voice barely above a whisper. “If you get a visitor with something special in hand for you... they should make sure to use it.”
I caught what he was saying and gave him a simple nod. Makita would definitely be down to smuggle some weed, a phone or anything else into the jail for me if I asked. The only problem was, I had no idea when I would be granted a visit. So far, things weren’t looking too good.
It wasn’t until day, just when I was about to start wrecking some shit, that I finally had a visitor come through. My lawyer, Dick Masson, was one of the best criminal defense lawyers in the state. He was an older man in his sixties and expensive as hell. He was thin with gray hair that sprouted at the sides and top with eyes that were deep-socketed and blue. His face was pleasant with a jutting chin that reminded me of Abraham Lincoln with the beard to match. As usual, he was dressed immaculate in a gray two-piece with a burgundy tie that matched his shoes.
I was handcuffed to a steel rod in the room two tiers down from my cell and the sound of inmates resonated around us echoing so loud I had to raise my voice so he could hear me speak.
After greeting me with a quick pump of my hand, he took his seat.
“The hearing will be tomorrow. Sorry for the inconvenience but this is how the government works with high profile cases like yours,” he explained. “They don’t move fast.”
That’s a fuckin’ understatement, I thought.
“And they don’t give you the best accommodations...” Gesturing with his arms spread, he commented on the squalor of the small room we were in, located right next to the officers’ station so they could keep a close eye on us. “You’ll be separated from everyone else until your court date.”
I nodded my head as I tried not to listen to the various sounds around us.
“Great, I just want to get this over because, under the law, if they throw out the evidence of the hair and fiber, then the murder convictions and the conspiracy charges and others have to be thrown out, too. Right?” I asked, leaning forward. When I shifted, the chains rattled on my ankles and wrists.
Masson glanced down at my legs and frowned.
“You’re right, and I like our chances. This case shouldn’t have never made it to this point, but I will say, your reputation in the streets is what really hurt you. The government still feels you’re running a gang. The John Doe Boys are a real threat and not just to Atlanta to America. After The JDB music production company was started, the members grew exponentially, and it’s started an entire movement across the nation. You have a lot of supporters, even celebrities. There are threats of riots and violence if you’re not let go. And, as you know, the Federal government doesn’t negotiate with terrorists.”
My brows jumped. “Terrorists?”
“Yes, The JDB gang is being referred to as domestic terrorists,” he said as he dove through some papers in his briefcase. And added, “Last month black during a traffic stop, a twenty-year-old black man was accidently shot and killed in front of his wife and two daughters when the police said they mistake his driver’s license for a gun. Three weeks later, that cop was murdered in a Kroger’s parking lot, he was with his wife and family. A note was left on his car, signed by The JDB, that said, ‘Every time you murder one of ours, we killing one of yours’. This has to stop, that cop was with his children.”
“What about the black brotha that was killed in front of his children. That don’t matter?”
“That was an accident. The officer that was killed in the store was a law-abiding citizen,” my attorney responded.
“Shit, we live in two different worlds. In my world, white cops kill innocent black men almost daily.”
“Not as much as black people kill each other,” he responded.
“That makes it justified?” I asked as I looked at my attorney. He was starting to irk me. All I could do was mop my face with the palm of my hand as he shook his head at me like I didn’t get it.
“Even while you have been in prison, the government still feels like you’re running an illegal drug empire and you’re still a serious threat.”
“Fuck that! This America. It ain’t a crime to be in a gang until you get caught up. It ain’t right for me to be judged for something I ain’t even been convicted of. John Doe Boys and whatever else.”
“You’re right but juries have been known to find a defendant guilty based off that, even though it’s not supposed to be considered. Then there is the testimony of the people that testified against you,” he added.
“Fuckin’ rats. They were lyin’ and shit to get a time cut. I wonder what they gon’ do if I beat this case.”
I sighed deeply and glanced up at the celling as he slid a sheaf of papers at me.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Case law. Read it and remember it. It’s pertaining to your hearing. Hopefully, you can walk out of here a free man tomorrow or at least get a new hearing.”
I couldn’t help but smile for the first time in what felt like years. Then a thought crossed my mind.
“A friend of mine, Makita, and my mom was on my visitation list when I was at the pen in Colorado. Can I call them and get visits?” I asked with suddenly with enthusiasm from the probability of seeing a familiar face.
My lawyer furrowed his brow.
“I remember Ms. Makita. She was pretty,” he said with a with a hint of a smile as the corners of his mouth turned up, he then crossed his legs.
I cut a glance at his burgundy leather Tom Ford shoes. He wasn’t wearing any socks. The old guy had a little swag. I quickly diver
ted back to the subject at hand.
“Yeah, that’s her. This place is some shit. They denied me my rights, no calls and no visits, the food is terrible,” I said as my mind plotted. If I could get her in here, it was going down. She was a real ride or die chick and I needed her to rally all the support I could get to attend my hearing.
Makita was a hood chick with business sense and a college education. Her dad was the infamous Jack Penny, a legendary gangster. He had been murdered by rivalries, but before then he was a big kingpin when she was a teenager. As they say, the fruit doesn’t fall too far from the tree and that was true in her case, which is why we broke up in the first place and I ended up with Sunday. Makita was too fast; I was too slow. Girls mature faster than dudes, she was running laps around me as a teenager. Plus, at a very young age she had a mentor, her legendary dad. My mentor was the streets and a teenage mom that raised me alone. I was a bastard; I never knew who my dad was.
I called her Knight because she was black as night, beautiful with long legs and a banging body with ass for days. She was a chick that thought very much like a man and acted like one, too. When we broke up, we were teenagers and, though she was young, she was running a crew of older chicks like a pro. They were doing all kind of crimes: fraudulent credit card schemes, identity theft and stealing out high-end stores, as well as robbing and setting dudes up to be murked. She was obsessed with getting money, just like her dad had been even though it sent him to an early grave. When I introduced her to my mom, the two got along, but it was nothing like when my mom first met Sunday. The two quickly formed a bond that was inseparable.