by T. Styles
He stepped up to me. “You’re a prostitute, Lourdes. Of course you did something wrong,” he smirked.
He looked into my eyes and I could feel his disgust. He glanced behind him and then snaked his hand under my skirt and shoved his finger into my vagina. “Just like I thought,” he removed his finger and wiped it on his shirt, “once a whore, always a whore. You’re not even wearing panties.”
He stomped away, chuckling and shaking his head the entire time. Feeling defeated, I backed away from the bars, sat next to my briefcase and cried. What did I do to deserve this? All I wanted was to tell somebody what I saw so that Feather could possibly get some help and the little girl’s family could get closure. My mama always told me to be nice, fair and kind to people, but when are they going to be the same way with me?
When my throat throbbed from crying so much, I hopped up. I was tired of feeling sorry for myself. I gripped the bars and yelled, “I saw her get killed,” I yelled. “I saw Feather Holliday murder that girl! Please listen to me!”
When the other officers gave me accusatory stares, I backed up and sat on the bench again. It was obvious now. Nobody cared. Frustrated, I threw my face into my hands. “Mama, if you can hear me, I need your help right now. Please help me.”
“Did you say that you saw Feather Holliday kill the Bell girl?” a woman asked.
I lifted my head and stared into the face of the woman asking the question. She was a boyish looking woman, wearing a blue police uniform. Her long, brown hair was snatched into a ponytail that hung down her back. Despite her rough exterior, what I noticed the most were her eyes. They were kind, just like my mother’s.
I stood up and moved slowly toward the bars. “Yes,” I nodded. “I saw everything.”
She stepped closer to the cell. “Shhhh…” She placed a finger over her lips. “Listen to me and you hear me good.” She looked behind her and then faced me again. “Don’t tell another person in Houston what you’ve seen. Your life is in danger. Extreme danger. The Holliday family is notorious for covering their crimes. Now, if you want to live you’ll come with me tonight.”
“But where will I go?” I whispered. “I don’t have anybody.”
“I have some good friends in Baltimore. We’re going there.”
CHAPTER FOUR
PREACHER
The adjoining door opened and the black man, Mr. Burns, waved us in for the hearing. As we entered, there was a hushed murmur of voices. The mood was festive, that was, until we walked in. Then silence abruptly fell upon the room. Seated at a long table were the four parole board members.
As usual, Ms. Isabelle Crabtree was seated right by the door, a few feet away from me. She crinkled her beak nose at me with disdain as she scooted her chair away and clutched her purse at the same time.
Seated next to her was Bernard Penikle, he was in his late-sixties with a mane of gray hair and a long, curved nose like an eagle’s that was too big for his face. He wore a Vandyke mustache and beard, and had the coldest gray eyes I’d ever seen, with skin as pale white as a sheet. He looked at me as if I was some type of specimen as he twirled a pen in his hand.
Sitting across from him was Alice Grayson, an attractive white woman in her late-forties; she was a blonde, buxom woman. Her black, heavily mascaraed eyelashes were thick and stiff. Her lips looked like they had been injected with silicon. I could tell that in her day, she was drop dead gorgeous. She smiled at me when I entered. I needed a majority vote to gain my freedom. The last time, surprisingly, the vote was three to one against me.
The homicide detective Rick Mohorn and the officer I’d shot, Stanley Coleman, were seated, huddled in the back of the room talking. Coleman turned and looked at me with a gaping hole in his face where his nose used to be, his right eye was also missing pink flesh was exposed, green mucus drained from it. The entire right side of his head was contorted where a plate had to be embedded to replace his skull. I tore my eyes away from him.
My lawyer sat across from Ms. Crabtree. I was the only one standing at the head of the table. I could feel my right leg trembling when Mr. Burns spoke in a booming voice like a ripple of thunder. “The parole hearing for inmate Jamal Shield will now begin. For the record, today is August 2, 2010.” Several members of the board nodded their heads. Alice Grayson smiled at me.
It was a long drawn out process and I was eager for it to be over.
Ms. Crabtree adjusted her reading glasses and glared up at me with her brow wrinkled. “The last time you came before the board,” she began, “you called me a wrinkled old bitch and you had to be restrained. What could have possibly changed you since then to make me feel you are no longer a threat to society?” She removed her glasses and leaned forward. I was standing only a few feet from her.
“I… I was young and stupid. Since then, I have found God, committed my life to the work of my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. My heart has been heavy since last time I came before you. That is one of the reasons I wanted another chance to come back before the parole board. I wanted to apologize to you.” The other board member Ms. Alice Grayson nodded her head approvingly. So did my lawyer. I was on the right track, I thought.
“Your apology may be too late. It’s going to take a lot more than that to impress me, inmate Shield. Also, I find it ironic that every inmate that comes before us has suddenly found Jesus. What happened? Did you lose him when you were released from prison the last time?” I heard someone chuckle in the back of the room.
“I can only speak for myself. I truly am sorry for that incident,” I said looking her straight in the eye. She snarled at me, repulsed, and replied tersely, “I don’t believe you, inmate.”
“What have you done to convince the parole board that you deserve your freedom, Mr. Shield?” Ms. Alice Grayson asked turning around in her seat, giving me her full attention. Something about her reminded of Dolly Parton. She opened the door for me to go into my spiel.
I reached inside the brown envelope and showed them my G.E.D., my associate’s degree, and a certificate stating I was enrolled in college and about to receive my Bachelor’s degree. Ms. Grayson smiled at me. Both Ms. Crabtree and Mr. Penikle had shocked expressions on their faces. I didn’t know if that was a good sign or not because lately, people had been complaining that convicts shouldn’t have the right to education in prison. Mr. Burns casually glanced at my documents and frowned. I don’t know what it was about him, but I got the feeling that if keeping me in prison was going to give him job security, I would rot in a cell.
The process continued and I wasn’t sure if they were for or against me. I needed this to be over. I needed a conclusion.
Weinstein squinted several times, greeted each of them by name and addressed the board members as he would a jury.
“The charges were dropped as a result of an egregious violation of my client’s rights, all because an officer dishonestly testified that the police announced themselves before entering Mr. Shield’s home illegally, with guns blazing. Their failure to announce they were police officers resulted in a violent shoot out, in which three of the officers were shot and my client was brutally beaten. A ski mask that was allegedly used in a Brinks truck heist was found in the residence, and subsequently, my client was charged with the robbery, the murder of a guard and a host of other charges. Since then, the Maryland Court of Appeals has thrown out the charges.”
“Those charges were dropped?” Bernard Penkicle asked with a raised brow.
I saw a surprised look on all the board members’ faces when my lawyer replied yes. I happened to glance over at Ms. Crabtree and caught her frowning at me then rifling through a folder as if she was searching for something. That’s when Stanley Coleman snapped, spit spewed from his mouth because he had no teeth.
“The criminal justice system is a disgrace. He is guilty! Guilty! And he robbed that Brinks truck and killed the driver,” Coleman shouted.
The words came out like he was gargling snot; green pus-like mucus ran from his missing eye.
Alice Grayson’s face paled when she looked over at Coleman and then turned away, placing a hand over her mouth.
Mr. Burns stared at him for a moment, as if considering his words carefully drank from a paper cup and said calmly, “You will be allowed to address the board. For now, I am going to have to ask you to remain quiet.”
Stanley was fuming mad. Detective Mohorn placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, and then whispered something in his ear as he watched me intensely. The two were conspiring about something. This was not going to go smoothly.
Ms. Crabtree looked up at me from the folder and said, “For the sake of giving you a hearing and a chance at your freedom, I have reviewed your file and I have to be frankly honest with you. Rarely do I grant parole to inmates who have records like yours.” She stopped talking and briefly glanced down at my file. “It says here your next parole hearing is in 2038.”
I nodded my head; I didn’t trust my voice to speak. I didn’t realize that I was holding my breath. I just happened to glance over a Wanda, who was staring at me with her mouth agape as she hung on to each and every word. This was a circus. It wasn’t a fair hearing, I was sure of it. More time passed and still no answer. Would I be released?
Mr. Burns cleared his throat as he looked at me with what appeared to be a gloating smirk. “Next, we will let the two officers who have filed complaints against the inmate address the parole board.” He nodded in the direction of the homicide detective Rick Mohorn and the ex-cop I shot, Stanley Coleman. They both rushed to get up at the same time. Rick Mohorn was up first. He read from a prepared statement.
“Members of the parole board, I come in front of you today to ask you not to grant inmate Shield parole. Since the age of twelve, he has been a menace to society; he had been involved in over a dozen homicides, gangland slayings and kidnappings, and the distribution of the dope that floods the city of Baltimore.”
For the first time, Weinstein stood and nearly knocked over the chair, “This is preposterous for you to come in here and make these accusations. Mr. Shield was never convicted of anything other than possession of a gun by a convicted felon and he has served over a decade for a crime that doesn’t carry a sentence of more than five years,”
Mohorn countered, “Just because he was not convicted does not mean he is not a threat to society. Over a million dollars is still missing from the Brinks truck robbery. We have reason to believe that as soon as he hits the streets, there will be a blood bath with a rival gang.”
“That is merely conjunctive speculation. Mr. Shield has been locked up over a decade. The gang rivalry is over with and Mr. Shield has changed.”
“I’m afraid not,” Mohorn shot back. “We have reason to believe that Shield’s mother was murdered in a robbery. She was tortured and the house was ransacked and we believe that the assailants who tortured her were looking for the money.”
“Tortured?” I shouted. My heart sank in my chest. “My mother was tortured?” I asked, barely able to control my temper.
“We decided to withhold that information from the media, in order to help us catch the culprits,” Mohorn said matter of factly.
“But what about me? That was my mother that was murdered. I have a right to know what happened,” I raised my voice.
I looked over at Wanda. She looked at me and then hung her head. For a fleeting second, I saw in her eyes, on her face, a sadness that mirrored my own.
“This meeting will be adjourned until the parole board has rendered its decision this afternoon,” said Mr. Burns. “Would you like to address the board, Jamal?”
My lawyer Weinstein shot me a warning glare, and then stood at my defense. “I will address the honorable board members,” Weinstein said. He gestured for me to remain silent.
“Honorable? What is honorable about this hearing?” I raised my voice, interrupting my lawyer. Weinstein tried to stop me with a wave of his hand but I shoved him to the side. “I came to you in the name of God in all fairness and sincerity. You won’t even judge me fairly as a man.” My voice trembled, as I looked each one of them squarely in the eye. A biblical verse came to mind and spoke. “He who is without sin among you, let him cast the first stone at me. Most of you are in the autumn of your lives. You don’t have much longer to live. Do you know what your chances of getting into heaven are after leading a life of spiritual and moral corruption just to keep your jobs, while thousands of men languish in prison?” I took a step forward. “A lot of you are going to rot in hell just as sure as you have made men rot in a cell.”
In my peripherals I could see Weinstein stutter step and grab his chest, like he was about to pass out from the shock of what was just said. At that point, I figured what did I have to lose? I was doing exactly what everyone warned me not to do but they weren’t going to let me out anyway.
“Just as you judge, you too shall be judged. Just as you condemn me, you too will be condemned for your sins. The prisons are packed full of young black men like myself.” My voice cracked with emotion.
Weinstein plopped back down in his chair hopelessly, certain that S.O.R.T. would come to take me out kicking and screaming again. I looked at Ms. Crabtree and for the first time, she cast a weary glance down at the floor as she fumbled with a napkin in her hand. Mr. Penikle and the house nigga Burns could no longer look at me. The other board member, Alice Grayson, gave me a triumphant smile as she hung on to my each and every word. I had a feeling she had been the only member who voted for my freedom at the last hearing.
At the rear of the table, both Stanley Coleman and Rick Mohorn looked on with scorn. I was prepared for them too.
“Mohorn and Officer Coleman, I hate to be labeled a snitch. I wanted to hold my tongue but this is my life we’re talking about,” I said. “There were many nights I met both of you in dark alleys. I paid you guys thousands of dollars for protection, to sell drugs and to do my dirt.”
Mohorn was out of his seat in a flash. “You are telling a goddamn lie.” He shook his fist at me. His gray eyes exuded hate.
“I can prove it. I still have the phone with your voice on my answering machine asking for more money, Stanley Coleman’s voice too. I could have my lawyer, Mr. Weinstein, look into it and it will show that on the night you guys raided my house and the three officers were shot, you all had actually come to rob me.”
The detective began to mumble under his breath. “He’s crazy,” Mohorn said as Stanley Coleman looked like the wind had suddenly left his sails. He looked like he was ready to leave.
“All you have to do is challenge me, Officer Mohorn, and I will have my lawyer deal with this issue promptly,” I said and watched as the detective nudged Coleman. They whispered amongst themselves. I had the board members’ attention. Even Wanda looked on with her mouth open, as if she were looking at a suspenseful movie.
Finally, Detective Mohorn and Stanley Coleman gathered their belongings and prepared to exit the room as Mohorn continued to mutter under his breath. Before leaving, he stopped in front of the board members and made his final statement as Stanley Coleman stood beside him looking out of place. “This man is nothing but a habitual criminal and a liar, not even worthy of having his say,” Mohorn said. “He should not be granted parole.”
The two cops stormed out of the room.
Burns, the chairman of the board, announced in a somber tone, “The meeting will adjourn for an hour. Then we will render our decision.”
****
“That was crazy! Have you lost your freaking mind? You may have dashed all hope of ever getting out of prison,” Weinstein said once we were back in the anteroom waiting for the parole board to make their decision. He paced the floor and ran his hands through his unruly, gray mane. It looked like he had aged ten years.
“What do you want me to do with the tapped phone messages between you and Mohorn?” Weinstein asked as he paced the floor nervously.
“Keep them, I have a feeling that one day they will come in handy.”
“O
kay, I will do that,” he said.
The large door leading to the hearing room opened and the room got quiet. Mr. Burns stuck his head out. “Inmate Jamal Shield, we are ready to see you now. We have made our decision,” he said, grim faced. My heart plummeted in my chest and my legs wobbled.
“Oh, dear God,” I heard Wanda say from across the room as everyone looked at me. I walked into the room, where my fate awaited, followed by Weinstein and Wanda.
“Jamal Shield, your parole has been granted,” Mr. Burns smiled.
Wanda screamed in elation, jumping up and down. Her mammoth breasts bounced and caused all the board members and S.O.R.T. look at her strangely.
It felt like the weight of the world had been lifted off my shoulders. I was a free man!
Mr. Burns looked up from some papers and passed one to my lawyer. “He qualifies for the R.C.P.”
“R.C.P.?” I asked Weinstein as we headed out the door past some poor soul who was about to go in front of the board.
“He is talking about the Reintegration Christian Pilot program. You qualify because you are on lifetime parole, but if you enter the program and you successfully complete it, your parole will be terminated in three years.”
“Yes, yes! I want to enter it! Being on lifetime parole is like having one foot on a banana peel and the other on the penitentiary doorstep. It’s a trap.”
“It’s a pain in the ass, Jamal. You’d have to work with other troubled people with dark pasts and be responsible for their conduct. It’s like being attached at the hip but worse. If they fuck up, you’re automatically fucked and you’ll get sent back to the penitentiary. As your lawyer I’d advise you not to go into the program because the recidivism rate is eighty five percent. That means the majority of the inmates who join the program return to prison in less than a year.”