by Deja King
The non-stop blaring sound coming from the alarm woke me up at three o'clock in the morning. I had a five-hour ride ahead of me and I wanted to be one of the first visitors there. After washing my face and brushing my teeth, I slipped on the Dolce & Gabbana amaretto and white tweed suit I brought with me to wear for this monumental occasion. I discarded my standard designer ghetto fabulous attire and opted for a classic 3-button jacket paired with a belowthe-knee flip flared hemmed skirt, and brown suede Fendi peep-toe pumps. It had the perfect combination of elite sophistication and New York City career woman flare. I brushed my below-the-shoulder wavy hair up into a tight bun. I applied one thin coat of foundation powder, black massacre and clear lip gloss to give a polished appearance. To add one last professional touch, I put on some nonprescription reading glasses, grabbed my briefcase and bounced. I put the pedal to the metal, pushing it on the highway. My fucking nerves had me so antsy that I felt that I had been driving on Northway 1-87 for days instead of hours. My breaking point subsided when I noticed the exit I needed to take, 38N. Not long after, I was in Dannemora's main business district where the walls of the prison go right up to the streets. I inhaled deeply, counted to three, and then eased up to the first entrance to the prison. "I need to see your driver's license." The six-three guard was enclosed in a protected armored box that had bars over the square window, and two additional armed guards were posted on either side. The whole setup was intimidating, especially for someone who was trying to bootleg their way in. The guard slid out a metal tray for me to place my license in. My heart was thumping and I tapped my nails on the steering wheel, praying my shit would clear. "I'm not going to be able to let you through. I'll need for you to turn your car around and leave the premises," he said with no further explanation. "I'm scheduled to meet with a prisoner this morning, so what is the problem?" I kept my tone respectful but with a touch of authority as if I was confident in what I was saying and he was the one making a mistake. "Your name is not on any list that I have, and I spoke with the guard inside the prison and you're not on their list either. So I need for you to leave now, or you'll be arrested." I had reached that crossroad where I could put a halt to my undertaking, or push the envelope and go full steam ahead, risking having my cover blown wide open. Knowing I wouldn't be able to have a decent night's sleep ever again until I stared at Mike's face behind bars, I chose the latter. "I'm from the US Attorney's office and I've been given clearance to see one of your prisoners this morning. So I won't be going anywhere. Do I need to have the head of my department to place a phone call to your boss?" I asked, flipping open my phone as if I was about to dial the number. "You should've said that instead of handing me your driver's license." "If I'm not mistaken, sir, that's what you requested from me," I answered, putting on my most proficient white girl voice. "I need to see your ID." I placed it in that same metal tray. "And your paperwork," he added. I seized the certified letter from the envelope since that was the only paperwork Ricky gave me. I watched as the hard-nosed brotha scrutinized my shit as if he wasn't another low-on-the-totem-pole worker but instead owned the prison, and would lose millions of dollars he invested if I was able to make it through those gates. After another few minutes of waiting in silence, I was ready to snatch him out ofhis box and run him over several times with my rental truck. Noticing the metal tray slide back out with my ID and document, I snapped out of my illusions of torturing the watchdog. He remained on mute and I didn't know I had been cleared until the gate lifted, allowing me to drive through. I quickly snatched up my shit and put my foot on the gas before he wanted to get extra and grill me further. I parked the SUV and sat for a second with the key in the ignition. "This is it," I said, gazing at myself in the mirror. As I adjusted my reading glasses, I noticed the mammoth wedding ring on my finger and took it off. The last thing I need is additional attention put on myself and sporting a rock of this size will for sure bring it. It was now or never, so I grabbed my belongings, and when my Fendi pumps hit the concrete I became Angela Connor from the US District Attorney's office. I had to go through two more security checks before finally making it through the cold dreadful hall of the prison. Finally thinking I was home free, I had to deal with one last gatekeeper. "Hello, I'm Angela Connor here to see prisoner 18699-052." It bugged me out that out on the streets hustlers had a million and one different aliases but in jail that shit didn't mean anything, because in these walls they were nothing but a fucking number. "I need to see your identification," the hefty, lightskinned woman said tight-lipped. "I also need to check you for contraband." "I've already been checked twice." "Now you can make that three times." "I'm from the US Attorney's office. Do you really think I'm going to smuggle illegal goods in here for a prisoner?" I was getting so caught up in my charade that I was starting to believe I really was that bitch with the official job title. "Miss, you have no idea how many seemingly intelligent women walk into this prison with all intent to uphold the law but fall for the bullshit one of these inmates run on them, and end up leaving as a criminal themselves." "Point made." After checking for contraband, she then patted me down, although I had already gone through a metal detector before getting this far. "You can go straight ahead." I followed the direction she pointed in. Then I heard a buzzing sound and the heavy steel door opened. I jumped when it clanged shut behind me. As I trailed behind two guards, I tried to get my thoughts in order. We entered a closed off space and the chilly white walls reminded me of the interrogation room the cops drilled me in after Jalen Montgomery, the basketball player I briefly dated, had been beaten so badly that he ended up in intensive care. They were convinced I had something to do with it, but Mike later informed me he was responsible for the pointless bloodshed-another crime Mike was never held accountable for. That beatdown caused Jalen to miss the entire remaining season, and to this day sports critics say his once-coveted jump shot has never been the same since the incident. I sat in the chair facing the door waiting for the guards to bring Mike down. Anger began brewing inside of me as I reminisced over all the havoc he had caused. I pulled out a folder filled with meaningless papers and a notepad so it would appear as if I was handling my business. I flipped my pen on the hard-topped table, no longer filled with the fear of being exposed. All that remained floating inside of me was hate for Mike. I could hear movement coming from the hallway, and from the positioning of my chair I could see two guards on both sides of a man who looked exactly like Mike. He is locked up! He couldn't have kidnapped Aaliyah. Then who did? Why didn 't Ilisten to Supreme? I thought. As the questions were darting around in my head, the men were getting closer. I put my head down and began writing any fucking thing on my notepad so Mike wouldn't instantly recognize me. "The prisoner is here," the guard announced. I kept my head down, ogling the shackles around his legs, and I slowly worked my way up his gray two-piece apparel to his shackled wrists. "Is this really necessary?" he said, lifting up his shackled wrists. "I'm cooperating; I ain't give ya no problems on the way here." The guards eyed me as to see if I had an objection, and my silence let them know that I didn't. Knowing they were eyeing him like a hawk with fully loaded clips, I felt safe. When the prisoner sat down in the chair across from me, I had to admit the resemblance was uncanny, but my gut instinct was right. The man sitting in front of me wasn't Pretty Boy Mike, but a damn good imposter. He even bore a replica tattoo on the inside of his left wrist of a dagger with a teardrop on each side. "How are you this morning?" My voice was subdued because I was digging around in my brain on what to do next. My dumb ass hadn't even prepared for this possibility, and I had to find a way to expose the truth without blowing my cover. "Better than I been in a long time... now that you're here. Damn, you sexy as hell, even with that uptight do you got going on. You the type of woman the big boys got handling jailhouse business now? You can come visit me anytime." He licked his lips at me as if I was about to drop my panties for him. It was crystal clear why the last watchdog felt the need to school me, but I couldn't believe women would be falling
for this lame game he was kicking. They had to be straight knuckleheads. I opened my folder pretending to be reading over documents. "Your name is Michael Owens, correct?" "That's right." He leaned back in the chair, oozing with haughtiness, and I couldn't blame him. On paper he was a dead ringer for Mike. They shared the same height, build, complexion and hair texture. With there being almost three thousand inmates, no one would think otherwise. I was dying to know how in the hell Mike orchestrated this bullshit and who helped him. "So what can I help you with..." The imposter leaned over and grabbed my lapel to read my tag, "Ms. Angela Connors?" "Sit back. There is no touching," the guard reminded the arrogant sonofabitch. "What's so funny?" he asked as I let out a slight chuckle. Unbeknownst to him, the bright idea I needed in order to change the tides had disclosed itself. "Guard, I believe we have a problem," I said in my most concerned voice. "Man, we ain't got no problem. If the flirting is making you uncomfortable I'll stop," the imposter said as if doing me a favor. I locked eyes with the Mike wannabe and paused before speaking. "You wish that was the only problem you had." He sat up straight in the chair as if something clicked in his head telling him he was fucked. "What is the problem?" the guard asked, glancing over at the prisoner with a look that said he was yearning to have an excuse to bust his ass. There has obviously been some sort of security breach, because this man is not Mike Owens." "Bitch, shut the fuck up! You don't know what the hell you talking about," he barked, standing up from his chair. All that sugary, fake-ass charm he was delivering was gone. "I'm ready to go back to my cell. This broad crazy." "Have a seat," the guard ordered. He sat back down with reluctance and folded his hands on top of the table. He struggled to regain his composure, but he was breathing so hard his muscles were flexing through his jailhouse attire. The dagger from his wrist was now coming through his eyes as he fixated on my face, attempting to freeze my words out of fear. Of course, the pathetic thing had no idea he wasn't dealing with a welterweight. "This some bullshit," he mumbled, only further annoying the guard. "This is Michael Owens. Do you have any proof to suggest otherwise?" The guard lifted his eyebrow, waiting to hear my answer. "Nah, this troublemaker ain't got no proof. Shit, look at my wrist. That's a Mike Owens' tattoo. Don't nobody have this but me," he argued, extending out his arm for everyone to see. "You're absolutely right, that is a Mike Owens' tattoo that you had duplicated. But just now, you had to check my badge. The real Mike Owens would have recognized me from past meetings. I'm also willing to bet that no matter how much you were compensated for this sham, you weren't willing to get the five-inch scar that decorates the upper right side of the real Mr. Owens' back," I taunted as he felt the painful squeeze I had on his balls. I turned my attention back to the guards. "I'm sure if you check Mr. Owens' records you will see that was one of the distinguishable marks listed in his report." I cracked a smile as I witnessed the color drain from the imposter's face. There was no way for them to prove that Mike hadn't met with a US Attorney named Angela Connors, and luckily, Ricky had given me a copy of Mike's profile. If I hadn't read through the information last night, I would've never known how to back up my story. "I'm going to need you to turn around and lift up your shirt," the guard stated. But instead of complying, the fraudulent Michael Owens jumped over the table and clutched his hands around my throat. "You trifling cunt!" he roared, spitting the words in my face. I gasped for air as he chocked the life out of me. I could see the guards using all their strength to wrestle the maniac off of me, but his grip was cemented around my neck. My vision began to blur as my lungs fought for air. To make matters worse, the fool started banging my head against the cement floor. Why the fuck did I let them take those shackles of his wrists? was all I could think. I heard a few more guards run in, and it took all of their manpower to get him off of me. "I shoulda ripped off your head! That's what snitchingass bitches deserve!" he continued as the guards dragged him out. "We need to get you to the infirmary." One of the other guards lifted me up and sat me down on the chair. "No, I'm fine, just hand me that water." That motherfucker is as crazy as Mike, I thought, feeling a migraine about to sneak up on me. "Miss, you need to be checked out." "Listen, I'm fine. When I leave here, I'll have my own doctor check me out. Your only priority right now should be alerting the police that one of your inmates has escaped." "We're already moving on it. If you hadn't brought this to our attention, there is no telling how long they could've gotten away with it. We appreciate the tip." "I was only doing my job, which I better get back to." "We need for you to wait. We have to fill out a report, and the watch commander might want to speak with you." "Of course I want to help in any way that I can, but I'm already running late and I have to be going. I will call you when I get back to my office and you can fax me over whatever paperwork I need to fill out. The commander can also call my office if they have any further questions," I said, babbling off at the mouth and gathering my belongings at the same time. Knowing every second I was in the prison I risked being discovered as an imposter made me want to hop, skip and jump out this motherfucker, but I kept telling myself to remain cool. When I finally did exit from the confinement of gray concrete walls, I couldn't put my key in the ignition fast enough to make a getaway. When I made it back to the hotel, before heading up to my room I had stopped at the store in the lobby and purchased some Excedrin Migraine medicine. My headache was kicking my ass the entire five-hour drive, but paranoia wouldn't allow me to stop until I reached my destination. Between my concern of someone at the prison tracking me down, and now knowing for a fact that Mike was loose on the streets, I was triple checking over my shoulder. I checked my phone messages and Supreme was steady cursing me out on each of his messages, but the police had no leads on Aaliyah. That wasn't surprising since they had never put Mike in the mix. I prayed that soon all the news outlets would announce that he'd escaped from prison so the LAPD would get on their job. I wanted to call Supreme and the detective to share what I learned, but then how I got the information would cause me serious repercussions. What I did was illegal, and although I had no qualms about breaking the law, getting caught was never an option. With Aaliyah being in the hands of a sociopath like Mike, I couldn't afford to be locked up not even for a day. I had to keep the faith and believe that soon the Clinton Correctional Facility would get their story straight about how they allowed that shit to go down at their prison and make the fucking information public. But all they were probably stressing was damage control, and that wasn't doing me orAaliyah any good. Then it came to me. Sometimes you have to force a motherfucker to crawl out from under the rock they're hiding under. When I got in my hotel room, I opened up the phone book and found the numbers I was searching for. I picked up my burner and began making calls. "Hi, I work at the Clinton Correctional Facility in Dannemora, New York," I paused so the person who answered could take the location in. "It's a maximum security prison," I added to someone who sounded like an older white lady on the other end of the phone. I wanted her to start imagining big black treacherous killers running free, possibly in her neighborhood, after I dropped dime on her. "Hmm, hmm," was all I got as I assumed the perplexed woman wondered where this one-sided conversation was going. I continued, "Well, one of our most dangerous inmates escaped a few days ago and is thought to be in the New York City area." "What!" she gasped. Now that I had her full attention, I continued to wheel her in. "Yes, the prison hasn't made an announcement because they're trying to spin the story, you know, for damage control." "How dare they!" "I know, I'm with you. I was concerned about innocent citizens, like you, being in danger, so I felt it was my duty to alert the media since the prison hasn't. But of course I have to remain anonymous because I can't lose my job-I have five kids to support with no husband." "I totally understand. That prison should be ashamed. What is the name of the escapee?" "Michael Owens." I could hear her writing the name down on a piece of paper. "He is a thirty-three year old Black male, about six-two and two hundred-twenty pounds." "You've done the right thing-thank you." "When are you going to release t
he information?" "Immediately. I'll call over to the prison and give them the opportunity to comment on the story, but then I'll be sending it out to all of our affiliates." When I hung up, I set the lines on fire, calling several other news stations and newspapers. Once I felt I had the news trickling, I rushed packing all my shit, intent on making the seven o'clock flight out of Newark. I zipped up my last bag and was about to walk out the door when I heard my cell ringing. "It's probably Supreme," I moaned, rummaging though my purse. "Hello?" "It must feel good to be back home. I've tried to picture it, but I can't see you being happy in Cali. You're a New York girl at heart, always have been and always will be." A chill went through my spine that Mike knew I was in New York. I wondered if he had already got word about what went down at the prison earlier and he was trying to piece shit together by baiting me, or was it something as simple as his peeps hearing I had been in Brooklyn and they alerted him. I decided to try my own bait trick. "How does it feel to be out of prison, Mike?" "I wouldn't know. I'm still here counting down the days when I'll be able to finish what I started with you." "I'm sure it'll be sooner than you think. But wait, if you're still locked up, why did you tell me you have Aaliyah? In your last phone call you did say you were spending time with my daughter... correct?" "I lied. I don't have our daughter-yet. You know how much I enjoy playing games with you." "Excuses, excuses. How convenient. I'll tell you what. Since my mood is in an upswing, I'm willing to give you two choices. But this offer is only good this one time." "I'm a fair man, enlighten me." "Your first choice is you can return my daughter unharmed on your way back to prison, or you can return my daughter unharmed and die. It's up to you. You have ten seconds to make up your mind." I began my count from ten. When I reached one, I hung up the phone. I had to muster up all my strength not to plead for Aaliyah's return, but if I was going to win this war with Mike and get my daughter back, conventional tactics wouldn't work. I couldn't let him smell not even an ounce of my horror, or he would use it to make me so crazy I would have no alternative but to check into a mental institution. Mike also believed Aaliyah could be his daughter, and that belief was her saving grace. As psycho as he was, he would never harm a child that had his blood running through her. I closed my eyes and visualized her safe return. In the same image, Mike was dressed in an all black suit and was being lowered six feet under. We were at his funeral, and every eye was dry, including his own mother's. All the visitors who came to pay their respect showed absolutely no emotion. But once his coffin was placed securely underground, the thousands of people who showed up came alive as they threw dirt over his coffin, determined to bury him into oblivion. What a beautiful image that was, and one I vowed to make come true. WARNING