by K'wan
“You black son of a bitch!” The officer stood up and headed around the desk, but a voice from behind them brought everything to a halt.
“What the hell is going on here?” A tall man who had salt-and-pepper hair and who was wearing a white uniform shirt stood in the doorway, looking at Keith and the sergeant like they’d both lost their minds.
The desk sergeant stood at attention. “Sorry, Lieutenant. Just trying to clear up a little misunderstanding, is all.”
“Is that right?” The lieutenant looked at Keith.
Keith let the question linger for a beat. “Sure, just a misunderstanding. Seeing how you’re the resident voice of reason, maybe you can help. I’m here to see my client, Dante Archer, but he seems to have gone missing,” he said sarcastically.
The lieutenant looked to the desk sergeant for an explanation.
“As I was just trying to explain to Mr. . .”
“Davis,” Keith said, filling in the blank. He handed the lieutenant one of his business cards.
The lieutenant immediately recognized the name of the firm on the card. Most of the local law enforcement knew about, or at least had heard of, Hunt, Lehman, and Gold. Anybody associated with that firm was a problem the lieutenant didn’t want in his precinct. “We holding this man’s client?” he asked, looking to get Keith out as soon as possible.
“I didn’t see his name in the system,” the sergeant huffed.
“Then maybe you need to check in the back,” the sergeant replied sharply.
A sharp reply formed on the sergeant’s lips, but he held it back. “Sure,” he grumbled and headed off toward the holding cells.
Twenty minutes later the sergeant came back out with Dante. He stood a head taller than the sergeant and had broad shoulders and long dreadlocks that touched the small of his back. His thick arms were covered in tattoos that told the story of a life spent around violence. The minute Keith saw his battered face, black eye, and split lip, he understood why the cops didn’t want him to be seen.
“What happened to you?” Keith asked as he inspected Dante’s bruises. It was a question Keith already knew the answer to before he asked. The police had found time to throw him a beating before trying to lose him in the system.
The sergeant answered for him. “Seems he resisted arrest. We found your boy here hanging around a housing complex that we’ve got marked as a known drug area. When the unit rolled up to ask them for ID, everybody turned rabbit.”
“What’s the charge?” Keith asked.
“We haven’t officially ‘charged’ him yet,” the sergeant said as he made air quotes with his fingers. “He got a little feisty when they were bringing him in, so we put him in a cage to cool off. Your boy has a real problem with authority.”
“No, I just got a problem with pigs who like to whip on niggas for sport,” Dante spat.
“Not another word, Dante,” Keith warned. The more Dante spoke, the worse they could hurt him. He turned to the sergeant. “Twenty minutes ago, you claimed you’d never heard of Dante Archer, but now you know his story?” Keith cracked a cunning smile while waggling his finger accusingly at both the cops. “I know I don’t have to tell either one of you what this looks like, right?”
“Mr. Davis, I can imagine what you’re thinking, but—” the lieutenant began, but Keith cut him off.
“No, you can’t, because if you could, you’d have those cuffs off Mr. Archer and your PBA rep on the phone.”
The lieutenant motioned for the sergeant to remove the shackles. He reluctantly did so and shoved Dante toward Keith.
“You good?” Keith asked.
Dante nodded.
“Considering how small the charges against Mr. Archer are, I think we would be comfortable releasing him to your custody, with a future court date. He keeps his nose clean for six months, and this will all go away. Be like a bad dream,” the lieutenant promised.
Keith knew he was being played and called the lieutenant on it. “Right, sweep another black man getting his ass kicked by the police under the rug, huh? Well, not on my watch. Somebody is gonna wear this.”
“Mr. Davis, let’s not go getting too big for our britches. The only reason I’m being so amicable about this is as a courtesy to the firm you represent. I suggest you exercise some restraint before you go poking a hornets’ nest,” the lieutenant warned.
“And I suggest you boys get your story straight,” Keith shot back. “The next time you see me, it’ll likely be through the hail of fire and brimstone I’m going to rain down on this department. You boys enjoy the rest of your day.” He grabbed Dante and steered him toward the exit.
Keith was fuming when he stormed out of the precinct. That lieutenant had some balls thinking that he would just sweep what they had done to Dante under the rug. Keith wasn’t dumb enough to think Dante was an angel, and he knew that Dante had possibly invited this trouble, but that still didn’t make it right. Law enforcement was getting out of hand with its treatment of minorities, not just in Atlanta but all over the country.
“Man, Mr. Davis, you let those pussies have it!” Dante said proudly once they were inside Keith’s Mercedes and away from the precinct. He went on and on with his spiel about being a victim, but Keith said nothing. A smart man would’ve picked up on the tense silence coming from the attorney and let it be, but Dante was too full of youth and adrenaline to notice and kept going. “Bitch-ass police always on some bullshit. I’m telling you, if they didn’t have them badges and guns, I’d . . .”
“You’d do what? Get your ass kicked again?” Keith said sarcastically.
“If I’d had my strap on me, things would’ve played out different,” Dante said in a tone that gave Keith a chill. He had gotten so used to looking at Dante as his troublesome little brother that he sometimes forgot the kid had a reputation as a killer.
“What’s the one thing that I always stress to you guys who work for me at the firm?” Keith asked.
“Mr. Davis . . .”
“What do I tell you, Dante?”
“Don’t give them a reason,” Dante said, repeating the quote that he heard from the lawyer at the end of every workday.
“Yet you take off running from them like that can’t get you killed in this day and age. I guess you don’t watch the news anymore, huh?”
Dante didn’t answer.
“What were you doing hanging in the trap, anyhow?” Keith paused for effect. “I gave you the morning off because you said you had to go with your mother to a doctor’s appointment,” Keith reminded him.
“I did, Mr. Davis. After I handled business with my ole bird, I stopped to check in on some friends. The police were sweating us because we were outside drinking beers.”
“Which is illegal, not to mention you were doing it in a high-traffic drug area,” Keith pointed out.
“It’s also the neighborhood I grew up in,” Dante reminded him. “I know what it looks like, but on the set, I wasn’t doing anything illegal. I was just kicking it with the homies.”
“The same homies who couldn’t even help your mother raise your bond the last time you got locked up for kicking it?” Keith asked. “If you hang around nine dudes with no aspirations, you’re bound to become number ten.”
“And what’s that mean?”
“It means you are who you keep company with. Dante, you’re twenty-three years old, a grown-ass man. If you wanna piss your life away, I won’t stand in your way. Just don’t waste my fucking time in the process. There’s at least a dozen other kids who’d kill for the opportunity I’ve given you. Get your shit together, or find another guardian angel.”
For the next few miles, they rode in silence. Keith would catch Dante shooting glances in his direction, but he didn’t say anything. Dante was pissed, and rightfully so. Keith probably didn’t have to go so hard on him, but he desperately needed Dante to understand what was at stake. In a perfect world, a kid could enjoy a cool drink on a hot day in the company of his friends without getting his ass k
icked, but the world they lived in was far from perfect. Police mistreatment of men like Dante was at an all-time high, and because of it, the country was trapped in a bubble of tension that threatened to burst at any moment. When the cops looked at Dante, they didn’t see a frightened kid; they saw a threat. This time Dante had lost only a bit of skin and some blood from running from the police, but the next time he could lose his life.
“Thanks, Mr. Davis . . . for coming to get me and all,” Dante said, breaking the silence.
“Oh, don’t thank me just yet. I’m going to work your ass like a slave all next week for this,” Keith promised.
Dante laughed. “I don’t doubt it. But thanks, anyhow. Say, can I ask you something, Mr. Davis?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“How do you do it?”
“Do what?” Keith wasn’t sure what he was getting at.
Dante paused for a moment to find the correct words to articulate what he was trying to ask. “Keep giving a fuck,” he said flatly. “I know you may not know it, but I pay close attention to you. You work twice as hard and twice as many hours as any of them funky-ass lawyers at the firm, and they still don’t treat you any better than a nigger working in the mail room. If it was me, I’d probably be tweaked the fuck out and hurt somebody, but you do this shit day in and day out and never complain. Doesn’t it get frustrating?”
“All the time.”
“Then why keep at it? Why continue to try to prove that you belong among muthafuckas who will probably never accept you?” Dante asked.
Keith thought about it. It was an excellent question, one that he had asked himself on more than a few occasions. “I guess because I’m trying to prove it more to myself than to them.”
Dante nodded but said nothing. For a long while, he was silent as he stared out the window, as if reflecting on Keith’s answer.
“You good?” Keith asked when they pulled up in front of Dante’s apartment complex.
“Yeah, I’m straight,” Dante said, but Keith didn’t believe him.
“So, what are you gonna tell your mom about the bruises?” Keith asked.
Dante shrugged. “I’ll tell her I got into a scuffle.”
“She’s gonna be angry at you for fighting.”
“I think she’d be more pissed if she found out I got arrested.”
“She’s going to find out eventually. I was serious about you suing them.”
“I know you were, Mr. Davis, and we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. For today, let my ole bird have her peace.” Dante paused for a beat. “You’re a good man, Mr. Davis. At least better than most I’ve ever met. You’re always first in line to offer folks a helping hand, even if maybe they don’t deserve it.”
“I guess it comes with the job. Years of defending others and all, ya know?” Keith said, downplaying it.
“Maybe, but I think it has less to do with your occupation and more to do with what’s in your heart. You’re a man of high character, and character is something that you can’t learn. You have to be born with it.”
Keith smiled, as he recognized his own words. “I guess you do pay attention when I talk.”
Dante shrugged. “Sometimes. One of these days it’ll be your turn for someone to do you a solid for once, and when that time comes, I hope it’s me that the honor falls to. See you Monday morning, Mr. Davis.” He saluted him, climbed out of the Mercedes, and ambled off toward his apartment complex.
Keith sat there watching Dante for a time. The young man’s shoulders sagged a bit under the weight of what he had just endured, but he tried not to show it. Keith admired Dante’s strength. With all he had gone through, with the biggest battle yet to be fought, his main concern was not wanting to disappoint his mother. It was a sentiment that Keith, above everyone else, could identify with.
CHAPTER 7
After the robbery, Ma and her sons had retreated to the place that served as their headquarters on the East Coast. It was an unassuming three-story house located in Westchester, New York. Normally, Ma and her crew kept temporary residences in whichever cities they were plundering, but when business had started picking up in the tristate area, she had decided that purchasing something small and out of the way was more financially sound. The neighborhood was home to mostly working-class families, who kept to themselves. For all they knew, she was a retired widow from down the street who spent her days watching game shows and occasionally baking goods for neighborhood functions. None of them had any idea what kind of illicit business was being conducted right under their noses.
By the time Ma and her boys got done dividing the spoils from their heist, night had fallen. She was tired, and her bones ached. All she wanted to do was take a hot shower and lie down for a few days. She quickly undressed in her bathroom, ran the water in the shower, and stepped in. As she showered, she took stock of her cuts and bruises.
They had barely made it out with their lives. After forty years of playing high-stakes games, she was beginning to wonder if she was getting too old to keep playing the game. Then she thought about all the cash they had just counted up, and pushed the thought from her mind. She was born by the gun and would die by it.
Her thoughts drifted to her eldest boy, Big John Savage. He had been in a sour mood the whole ride back. Fire Bug had tried to chat him up a time or two to break the tension, but Big John had been unreceptive. All he’d done was stare out the window, averting his gaze only to shoot murderous looks at his mother. When they arrived at the house, he had stayed only long enough to shower and then had rushed off to God only knew where. He’d left in such a huff that he hadn’t even bothered to take his cut from the heist. For Big John Savage to leave money on the table meant that he was really in his feelings. All Ma could do was shake her head as she stood in the shower. Her eldest boy was one of the most dangerous men she knew, but he could also be an emotional son of a bitch.
Big John had been against coming north from the start. He hated New York, preferring the familiarity of New Orleans, where he ran the Savages’ other criminal enterprises. A few days ago, she had called him in to help out on the Mob heist. It was going to be an important job, and she needed her most reliable son to watch her back. Of course, Big John had pitched a bitch, but all Ma’s children knew better than to argue with her. He had wisely got on the next flight to play his role like a good son. As a result, he had lost a close friend. She wished it hadn’t gone that way, but it was Big John’s own fault for bringing the boy. You couldn’t trust outsiders, and that was exactly what he was. Ma didn’t care how well Big John knew him or how trustworthy he claimed he was. The boy wasn’t a Savage, and therefore, he was expendable.
Ma longed for the days when she didn’t have to rely on hired help and reluctant children to pull heists. When the family was whole, things went according to plan, but the family hadn’t been whole for quite some time, and she was partially to blame. She ran her family with an iron fist, but sometimes heavy hands bruised hearts.
Ma was just toweling herself dry when she heard the doorbell ringing. It seemed that she could never have even the smallest moments to herself without someone intruding. She tried to ignore the doorbell, hoping Bug would get the door, but the ringing continued. “Hold on!” she shouted, slipping into her robe. She shuffled through the house in her furry slippers, wondering where her youngest child was and why he hadn’t answered the door. Ma had just crossed into the foyer when the ringing graduated to a banging. “I said I’m coming, damn it!” she cursed and swung the door open angrily.
On the other side was a man wearing a brown UPS uniform and hat. The hat was pulled down low, covering most of his face, but it did little to hide the nasty scar near his eye.
“What the fuck do you want?” Ma Savage asked suspiciously.
“Package for the Savages, ma’am.” He nodded toward the parcel on the doorstep. It was about the size of a hatbox and was wrapped in plain brown paper. “I just need your signature right here.” He handed her the cl
ipboard.
Ma Savage snatched the clipboard, scribbled her name on it, and slammed it back into the deliveryman’s chest. “Here. Now get the hell off of my property before I put a hole in you, ugly!”
The deliveryman tipped his hat. “You have a good one, ma’am.” He smiled and left.
Ma Savage picked up the box and noticed that it was a lot lighter than she had expected it to be. She carried it into the living room, where Fire Bug was sitting on the floor, wearing a pair of headphones, with his eyes glued to the big-screen TV. He was so engrossed in the video game he was playing that the roof could’ve fallen on his head and he probably wouldn’t have noticed. She gave him a sharp slap to the back of his head to break his trace.
“Didn’t you hear the doorbell?”
“No, ma’am. Can’t hear much with these new Bose headphones,” Bug said, rubbing the spot where she’d hit him.
“See, that’s the slacker shit I be talking about. A good soldier is on point at all times. For all you knew, that could’ve been the enemy at our gates. They could’ve killed me and been gone before anybody noticed,” Ma scolded him.
“If it had been the enemy, I seriously doubt they’d have rung the bell first. And they might’ve made it in.” He reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out one of his homemade explosive devices. “But they wasn’t gonna make it out.”
The older woman took a cautious step away from her son. “Didn’t I tell your little ass not to play with your toys in the house?”
“Relax, Ma. This one ain’t live, but the six I got buried in the front yard and the backyard are. Anybody try to come round here without an invitation gonna go boom!” He slapped his hands together for emphasis, scaring the hell out of his mother.
“I know I shouldn’t have smoked weed when I was pregnant with you,” she mumbled. “Bug, you shut that game off and go disarm that minefield this instant. The last thing I need is for you to bring the law down on us for blowing one of these good white folks up by accident!”