by Deja King
"Please buckle your seatbelts as we prepare for landing," the pilot announced as the plane began descending into the Newark, New Jersey airport. I closed my eyes, mentally checking off everything I had to do in order to get to the truth. Following my gut had the distinct possibility of taking me on a tumultuous journey. But weighing the odds, I didn't have a choice. After the flight landed I headed straight to the Enterprise Car Rental window. While waiting in line, I turned on my cell phone and checked my messages. There were a couple of voice messages from Maya and a ton from Supreme, not including the text messages he sent. I knew he would be furious to wake up and see that I was gone, but I had no choice. While deleting the fourth repetitive message from Supreme, my phone began ringing and it was him. I debated whether to take his call, but I didn't want him stressing, wondering if I was safe or not so I answered. "Hi," I said calmly. "Hi is all you have to say? Where are you?" "Handling some things." "Things like what?" I could tell by the tone of his voice that he wanted to explode on me but was trying to keep his cool. "It's complicated. But once I got it figured out I'll let you know what's up." "Nah, that's not going to cut it. I wake up in the morning thinking my wife is going to be lying next to me and you're gone. Our daughter has been kidnapped, we're caught in the middle of a disaster, and you wanna break the fuck out?" "Supreme, calm down." "Don't fucking tell me to calm down. I've been calling you since eight o'clock this morning and your phone is going straight to voice mail. It's six or seven hours later and you want to call me back talking about you out handling some things. You `un lost your damn mind. This shit is unacceptable. I want to know where you are right now." "Supreme, my phone is going out. I'll call you back." I pressed the end button and turned my phone off. Having a long, going nowhere conversation with Supreme was too distracting. I was on a mission and wasn't going to allow not even my husband to sidetrack me. After signing off on the paperwork, I got in the rented SUV and headed to the storage facility I still kept in Jersey City. When Supreme and I left the East Coast to start a new life in Cali, you would've thought I'd sever all ties to my past, but I couldn't bring myself to let go. I still kept money, a couple of weapons, clothes, pictures and other important items I took from my mother's house after she was killed. The warehouse represented my connection to my past, and for some reason I knew I would be back. Eyeing my watch once again, time wasn't on my side. When I got to the storage spot I grabbed two stacks that totaled twenty-five thousand, pulled out the nine, made sure it was fully loaded and broke out. I then hit the FDR and made a pit stop in Harlem to purchase a burner to make all my phone calls. In no time I was driving over the Brooklyn Bridge to pay an old friend a visit. When I pulled up to the corner of a quiet working class block in the Bushwick section of Brooklyn, I turned off the truck and waited patiently. Less than thirty minutes later, still maintaining the same schedule after all this time, my old friend came walking up the street carrying one bag of groceries, and headed into a modest brick two-story home. I waited ten minutes before getting out and knocking on the front door. "Who is it?" the pleasant voice asked through the door. "It's me, Precious." "Precious, Precious who?" "Precious Cummings." I heard the top lock being opened and the chain unclamped. "Precious, is that really you?" Ms. Duncan greeted me with bright eyes when she saw my face. "Child, I ain't seen you in forever. Come in this house and give me a hug." Seeing Ms. Duncan and feeling her arms around me gave me a brief moment of solace. This was the woman who would care for me sometimes when my mother was out pulling tricks. She was also the woman I trusted to make sure my mother had a decent burial when I felt it wasn't safe for me to show my face in Brooklyn. She had been one of the few people in my life that I felt I could count on without stabbing me in the back. That's what brought me to her front door, because I needed her help. "Yes, it's been a long time but here I am." "Look at you, still pretty as ever." Ms. Duncan gently grabbed my hand and led me into her cozy living room. Her floral couches were surrounded by a wall-length bookcase full of paperbacks and hardcover books. An elongated reddish wooden desk full of family portraits, cards that she'd gathered all through the years and desktop ornaments with passages from the Bible inscribed on them sat on the other side of the room. I knew that Ms. Duncan was a God fearing woman, but like most who came from poverty and had family members who hustled, she understood the struggle of the streets, and that's why we were always able to see eye-to-eye. "It's so good to see you. How have you been, and how in the world did you find me?" Ms. Duncan was sitting across me, and by the gleam in her eyes I knew she had a million questions for me. "I did some asking around and was told you no longer lived in the projects I grew up in and was now living in a house over in this area." "Yeah, my mother passed away last year and she left me this house." "I'm so sorry to hear that." "Don't be. We weren't close for many years. When she got remarried, her husband didn't want nothing to do with me and my brother. Then after he died, she reached out to us. My brother was still bitter and didn't want anything to do with her, but I had forgiven her and we were able to find closure before she died." "I'm glad to hear that." I was trying to be serene with Ms. Duncan, but under my current circumstances, hearing about her dead mother wasn't on the menu. "Oh, child, enough about me," Ms. Duncan said, swinging her arm midair. "Last I heard you were married to some famous man and that you had a baby. Is that true, because you know I don't hardly watch any television or read the newspaper? It's always so much violence going on and I try my best to tune it out." "It's true, but I don't want to talk about them right now." If I didn't cut to the chase, I knew Ms. Duncan would be having a catch-up-on-the-past conversation with me for hours, and again that just wasn't on the menu. This visit was about me and what I wanted. "What can I do for you?" she asked, as if reading my mind. "Listen, I no longer have any connections in the streets. They're either dead, in jail or missing. I need to be hooked up with a person who can get me some fraudulent documents that look official, and I need them tonight. You have to know somebody still in the game that you can trust because I don't have anybody to turn to for help but you." "Precious, are you in some type of trouble?" "Trouble is an understatement. This is life or death." I wanted Ms. Duncan to completely comprehend that this situation was dire. Although the way I posed the question, it seemed as if I was asking for her help. In actuality, I was demanding it, but I hoped the subtle approach would be effective because I didn't want shit to get ugly. See, not only was Ms. Duncan's son a repeat felon, her younger brother was well connected in the streets. He even somehow managed to never do any serious prison bids, only doing short stints a couple of times for minor traffic violations. "I know if you've come to me you have no other way out. So I'll do whatever you need." Ms. Duncan rested her smooth coal-colored hand on top of mine as if trying to send a blessing through me. But the only blessing I wanted was that of a connect. "I'm going to place a call to my brother, Ricky. He can get anything done. I can also trust him to be discreet," she added. "I appreciate this. And you know I'm going to make sure you're taken care of for looking out for me." "You've always been good to me. Just for making the funeral arrangements for your mother, you gave me all that money to show your appreciation. Because of your generosity, I was able to keep my grandkids fed and clothed while their father was locked up and their mother was somewhere doing... hell, I don't even want to think about it. So if I can repay the favor, then it soothes my heart." I sat back and listened as Ms. Duncan picked up the phone and called her brother. I took a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves and maintain my sanity while my insides were slowly dying. Being proactive and conducting my own investigation instead of waiting on the police to break the case was the only thing that was keeping me sane. I was never one to leave my destiny in another person's hands, and I damn sure wasn't about to do it with the most precious person in my life. "Here." Ms. Duncan handed me a piece of paper with an address written down. "Ricky, said for you to meet him there in an hour." "Thank you." "Of course, you've always been special to me, Precious. Ricky is going to t
ake real good care of you. If you need anything else, you know where to find me. I'll always be here for you-I mean that." I nodded my head, not wanting to say too much. I could feel tears struggling to swell up in my eyes, but I refused to give in. I swallowed hard, fighting them back. "If you want to tell me what's going on in your life that's causing you so much pain, I'll be more than happy to listen." "Maybe another time. I really need to go." Before opening the front door this overwhelming need came over me and I turned back to face Ms. Duncan. "Would you please pray for me and my family?" I was never one to get down on my knees and beg God for anything. I got by in life with the belief that you don't wait for things to happen; you make them happen. It seemed to pretty much work for me, but at that moment something inside of my soul was moved to ask that of Ms. Duncan, because the battle I was about to fight needed more than just me. It required the blessings of a higher power. "That's all I've been doing since you sat down on that couch." Ms. Duncan gave me a sincere smile and I walked out of her house. When I arrived at a warehouse on a desolate stretch of Fountain Avenue, I hesitated to pull into the unpaved parking area. I took out my nine millimeter from the glove compartment, feeling uneasy. Ms. Duncan wrote down her brother's cell number on the paper so I dialed it to double check that I was at the correct location. Right then, I noticed a silver Lincoln driving up beside me flashing its high beams. I lifted up my gun ready to blast through the car's passenger window until the driver side door opened and a man who looked to be in his early forties stepped out. He had the same smooth coal complexion and big bright eyes as Ms. Duncan. "I'm Ricky. You must be Precious." I lowered my gun and relaxed. "That's right." "Park your car and follow me inside." What looked to be an abandoned warehouse on the outside was a meticulously clean, fully carpeted mini pad on the inside. There was a full stocked bar with bar stools greeting you when you first entered. On my right side there was a round table and chairs, with playing cards and stacked chips, which were obviously used for gambling. To the far left there was a complete black leather living room set with a sixty inch plasma television mounted on the wall. "Would you like a drink?" Ricky asked as he deactivated one alarm and activated another. "No, I'm good." "Then let's do this." I followed Ricky to a bedroom in the back that had a door leading to another room that looked to be an office. He then hit a button on his key chain that activated the six-drawer chest against the wall, which shifted to the side to reveal a staircase leading to the basement. The set of steps led to a criminal's paradise. Without question, he had his operation on a tight leash, which explained why he never got caught and had to do some serious time. Unless you made it down the stairs, you would think that at the most he was running an after-hour spot, nothing of this magnitude. On one table there was an array of guns, anything from AK-47s to Mac-10s. On another table was a pharmaceutical heaven, from prescription drugs, ecstasy, cocaine, heroin, and drug paraphernalia. Then there were high tech computers, tons of machinery that I assumed were used to make counterfeit money, and whatever else he needed. "Your sister was right when she said you can get anything done. You have some serious shit popping off down here." "Yeah, and honestly I would've preferred not to bring you down here since only a handful of people have seen all this. But my sister said you were like family to her and you needed some documentation today. With short notice like that I didn't have a choice but to bring you right here where the magic happens and get it done." "So that's what some of these machines are for?" I asked, looking at them carefully. "You damn right. I have the exact same equipment the big dogs use to manufacture whatever documentation is required to get clearance anywhere. My packaging is so clean that it would probably pass intense scrutiny from the Central Intelligence Agency." "Now we talking, because I need the proper credentials to get inside a maximum security prison." "Which one?" "Clinton Correctional Facility." "Over there in Dannemora?" I nodded my head yes. "They call that New York's Siberia due to the cold and isolation. You know everybody from Tupac Shakur, 01' Dirty Bastard to Joel Rifkin, who is still locked up, has done time there. Their security is top of the line. I hope you're not trying to break anybody out, although for the right price it can be done." Ricky gave me a charming smile, letting me know not to underestimate his skills. I couldn't help but laugh to myself imagining the games he probably ran around women his age and much younger. Even in his forties he was maintaining his playboy form. With a well-built six-one frame, neatly trimmed edges highlighting his waves, handsome face that still wasn't showing any signs of stressful living, and grown man clothes that consisted of tailored slacks, tucked in shirt with a belt accentuating a preserved waist and manicured hands, his appearance was as tightly put together as his illegal operations. "No I'm not trying to break anybody out. In fact, I'm going to confirm that somebody is still in and that he won't be getting out." "I take it he isn't a friend of yours. What's his name?" "Michael Owens. Why?" Ricky went over to one of his computers and began typing in some information. "What are you doing?" He put up his finger motioning for me to wait. "The stats on here indicate that he's still locked up and has many more years to go before he'll have a chance to see the light of day." I stood next to Ricky to see the screen he was getting his information from. "Are you accessing the prison system?" "This is much more detailed. I've accessed the personal files of Clinton's prisoners. You see right there," he pointed to Mike's name. "I click on his name and all his information comes up. There is no reason for you to make that trip, this man is locked up." "Everybody keeps telling me that, but I need to see it for myself. And please don't ask me to explain to you what's going on. I'll pay you whatever you want. Just give me the proper credentials I'll need to get in that prison." Ricky didn't push any further. He started doing whatever it is he does and I went to sit down. While I waited, I checked my voicemail to see if Supreme left me a message with any updates about Aaliyah. When I came to the final message I wanted to throw my cell against the wall, because throughout all Supreme's rants, none of them gave me hope that the police were any closer to bringing my daughter home. I put my head down, wondering if I was losing my mind. What if everyone was right and Mike was sitting pretty in his jail cell with no access to me or my daughter? Maybe I so desperately wanted to believe it was Mike so I could put a face and name to the monster who stole my child, because not knowing anything at all seemed like a worse realization to bear. "This is crazy. I need to get my ass back on a plane and go home to my husband," I mumbled out loud. Just when I was about to tell Ricky to forget it and that I was stopping this wild goose chase before going any further, he announced he was done. "You're finished already?" I looked down at my watch and I'd been waiting for over an hour, although it didn't feel like that long. "Young lady, I'm a pro at this. All I need you to do is go stand over there so I can take your picture." As he snapped my picture, Ricky explained how it would work. "I've programmed all your information into the correctional facility database, so if they type your name and ID number in, your photo and job title will come up." "US District Attorney's office? That's who you have me working for?" "As I explained, they run a tight ship. That prison is especially prone to violence. A few guards have been killed in the last couple of years by the prisoners. The inmates are restless and ruthless. Being cautious is imperative, so it makes our options limited. His attorney of record is a man. You're not on his visitation list, and honestly, being from the District Attorney's office is about the only way you're going to get anywhere near a prisoner without raising suspicion. But to be extra careful, take this." "What is it?" "It's the certified letter that the prisons rarely require when you need to speak with an inmate without prior notice, depending on how anal the person working that shift wants to be. They may be in a good mood and verifying your ID information is sufficient, or they could be pissed at the fucking world and want to stick it to you. You never know, that's why it's better to be prepared. Here is your New York driver's license in case they want two forms of ID." "This shit is no joke. You got this whole covert operation on lock. I thought
only the feds were able to get all into a person's private business." "This country doesn't have any privacy. They're always preaching about protecting yourself from identity fraud, but it's just another way for the corporate snakes to make money off of apprehension. With the right resources you can own another person's life and they'd be clueless until the walls come tumbling down. But the less you know, the better. All you need to do is prepare for your prison visit tomorrow." "If I'm wrong and Mike is still locked up, I hope when we come face-to-face he doesn't blow my cover." "More than likely he'll try, but remember, you have clearance, your driver's license and ID will check out as being legitimate, and he's the one locked up. They're used to prisoners showing out, so keep your cool and your only objective should be to get the hell out of there. Within thirty-six hours this identity will be completely wiped out of the system, so as long as you get out they won't be able to trace it back to you." "So I'm straight?" "I guarantee with what I've given you, you won't have any problem getting in. Just remember, no matter what happens, remain cool under pressure." Remaining cool under pressure was my specialty, but I had to admit that stepping into uncharted territory had me shook. "I appreciate the advice." "I didn't tell you anything that you don't already know. I've been in this game long enough to spot a soldier. You may be young, but your eyes carry years of wisdom. If I had to put my money on it, I would say you're a warrior." Ricky was on point with his assessment. I was a warrior. I just carried all my battle scars on the inside. Unfortunately, the stakes were so high that I couldn't afford to be anything less than stellar with my performance tomorrow. "How much do I owe you?" "Five g's. I pulled the money out of my purse and handed it to Ricky. "You going to count it?" "Nope, I'm good at weighing money by how it feels in the palm of my hand." "Whatever works for you." I placed the envelope with my ID, driver's license and certified letter inside of my purse. "One more thing. Can you print out a copy of all the documentation the correctional facility has on file for Mike?" "Not a problem." After Ricky handed me the papers, I followed him back to the front and he deactivated the alarm to let me out. "It was a pleasure doing business with you." "I feel the same, especially if it works and all goes smoothly." "It will. You're fully loaded with all the ammunition you need. You have my number; don't falter about using it if you need me." Ricky gave me one of his charming smiles as he watched me get in my car. I gave him a slight wave as I drove off. Something about him reminded me of Boogie. Before Boogie was murdered right in front of my eyes by his own nephew, he was the only person I looked up to as a mentor. He knew the ins and outs of the game and schooled me on it, especially when it came to gaming men. But like so many fallen soldiers, the game eventually beat him. I hoped that wouldn't happen to Ricky, because he was full of knowledge that would be priceless in the right person's hands. That evening after checking into my hotel room, I took a long hot shower, mentally preparing myself for all of the "what ifs" that could await me during my prison visit. When I got in bed I was tempted to call Supreme, but I knew that small percentage of reluctance I had about going through with my plan could easily grow much bigger after speaking with him. With a few carefully selected words he might convince me to come home and abandon my mission. So instead, I pulled out the confidential information from Mike's personal file and read it thoroughly before falling asleep. WELCOME TO THE JUNGLE