“Jay, I know you’re not doing what I think you’re doing,” he yelled as he walked quickly to where I sat. He threw the can of beer into the street as he continued to walk in my direction. I tossed the Barbie behind me in total fear before my dad came up to me, gripped me by my neck and squeezed as hard as he could before letting me go. My body dropped back down onto the steps.
“Boy, what did I tell you about being out here playing with these girls? You’re supposed to be playing with boys. Ain’t no son of mine gonna be a sissy, do you hear me?” he yelled as he forcefully slipped off his thick leather belt without missing a loop.
The first whelp hurt the most as he caught me right across my chest. My eyes immediately filled up with tears as I began to holler out for my mommy. Simone dropped her doll and backed away as I got my ass whipped right there on the steps. My mother flew from the house holding a dishtowel in her hands.
“Earl, what are you doing to that boy?” she yelled.
“I caught him playing with dolls. You were here, you should’ve stopped him,” he yelled up to her as he continued to wale on me.
“Stop hitting him like that,” my mother demanded as she stood at the top of the steps.
“Mom, Mom,” I screamed louder and louder hoping that she would come save me from this humiliating episode.
“Brenda, shut up before I come up there and start beating on you,” he yelled. After he had gotten tired of beating me, he picked me up by my stinging arms and rushed me up the steps. He then threw me in the house on the floor and began beating me some more.
My mother walked back into the kitchen and finished doing the dishes.
After that tragic experience between my parents and me, there was no more late-night rocking in the chair with my mother. There were no more bikes and nice toys that parents give their children at Christmas. There was nothing but lonely silence in the Jiles house from my age of eight until I turned fourteen.
By the time I turned fourteen and was in middle school, I was too young to work, so I went to my father to talk about the issue of allowance. At that point I began to think that I was the reason for my family’s dysfunction and that the only way I could make it right and gain allowance was to go back to my roots. Being as though he was my father there was nothing I could do but to respect him, fear him, and do what I needed to do to keep him happy.
Along with me taking health class in school he also explained to me the process of conceiving and delivering and where exactly babies come from. He explained that a baby comes from a womb that lies inside the mother but he also explained how the seed is injected inside the mother. The seed is injected into the mother through a man’s penis, which in this case, that man was him. So he said I was disrespecting the root of a man by doing girlish things. Going back and making things right with the root would not only make it better but I could start receiving allowances.
The root ended up being his penis and I needed to kiss, caress, and suck it every night before bed. My duty also was to never let my mom find out about what was happening.
Four years later, after telling my psychology teacher what was going on, she then got in contact with my mother. My mother didn’t want to hear any more of the lies I had been telling my teachers at school. So she immediately packed my things and set them out on the doorstep by the time I got home from school. Since then Tyrell Karan had been the one father I knew and cared about. He’d made sure I always went to school and kept clothing on my back, even if he’d have to craft them.
I remember walking my first ball. Tyrell said he wasn’t gonna let me walk until I was ready; he’d never force me to walk, I would do it on my own. Back then I was flamboyant but not as flamboyant as I was now. Tyrell taught me to be myself under any circumstances and that’s what I did. The flashy lights and the colors and the big crowds at the balls didn’t intimidate me. I was taught to go in there and do what I had to do to win and get my trophy. It was never a jealousy thing for me because I knew I had the cutest face and I was always confident that I would win.
All around me were nothing but a bunch of faggots; I’m talking old queens, young queens, or just queens who came out to fuck or get fucked. It didn’t matter to me. I started from the beginning of the runway and sashayed to the judges’ panel where the famous Aiyana Kahn, John Karan, Meechie Laquai, Dwayne Milan, Mann Prodigy, Joey Revlon, and Sania Ebony sat waiting to judge my face for the first time ever. I watched her close as Aiyana waved her fan back and forth in front of her face sporting a pair of oversized Gucci glasses and a long weave giving off the Cher look.
Aiyana was the mother of the House of Kahn, which is a house that started in D.C. with her and Father Charles. Aiyana was born a male but had female organs and she was FIERCE. Her beauty could match a straight woman’s any day. Mother Aiyana was known in the ballroom scene for her beautiful face and Father Charles was known for his fierce voguing. The rest of the Kahn members were known as their angels. At the end of the runway, they all sat side-by-side waiting to see how much face I had; whether or not I had any scars, moles, and being as though I was young, I didn’t have to worry about them judging me on razor bumps.
I glanced across the panel as each judge took a hard look at my face, neck, and teeth. But before I knew it I had competition standing next to me—some dude from the House of Prodigy named Jason. Jason was a little shorter than me and we both had the same caramel complexion except most of mine was natural and he was painted. Jason had a lot more spunk than I did but due to my flawless looks the commentator told us both to stand to the side while the panel judged us individually.
I stood waiting while the crowd went wild over Jason’s face. I watched his house members chant their house name, “P-R-O-D-I-G-Y.” But by me being a new face, I had no one tooting for me but my good ol’ Father Tyrell. After the judges were finished with Jason it was now my turn. Father Tyrell had taken me under his wing so I now had the entire House of Karan chanting my name. Within a matter of minutes throughout all the noise and the cameras and the people, the judges chose me and awarded a trophy that stood almost the same height as me. I was flattered to know that my face was good for something other than putting lotion on in the morning. Then from that day forward everybody in the ballroom scene knew my name.
It was half past nine when the sergeant called me in for court. I was led into a small courtroom with my hands and ankles shackled as if I were some type of murderer. Rob sat in the back of the room wearing a skin-tight T-shirt and a pair of light-tinted shades with a confused look upon his face. I nodded to him, thanking him for making his appearance. At the time he seemed like all the family I had.
I walked up to the bench where a white gray-haired man sat back in his chair with his arms folded. After the clerk sat the necessary paper work down on his desk he then lifted up and placed his glasses on his face as the sergeant came and stood by my side. By that time Rob had already gotten up to search for a closer seat in the courtroom.
“State your full name, sir,” said the gray-haired judge.
“Juan Jamal Jiles,” I responded, looking him dead in his eyes with my hands cuffed to the front.
“Do you know why you’re in court today?” the judge asked now sitting with his hands folded on top of the desk.
“Your Honor, I’m really not sure but I do have an idea, yes,” I responded.
“Mr. Jiles, this is an arraignment held today for the charges that were filed against you in the state of Pennsylvania. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I said, standing there still in a pair of boxer briefs and a pair of slip-on socks that were given to me at the police station.
“Okay, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do will be held against you in the court of law, Mr. Jiles. Do you understand that?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, Mr. Jiles. If you choose to give up that right, everything you say can and will go on record. You have the right to an attorney; if you choose to give up that right, one will be ap
pointed to you. Do you understand? May I proceed?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Jiles, you’re being charged today with the following…Three counts of drug possession, which is a felony and can carry a minimum of jail time of five years and a maximum of thirty. Three counts of drug trafficking, which can carry a prison term of two years to ten years. Three counts of intent to distribute, which can carry a prison term of five years to twenty-five years. One count of carrying a firearm, which can carry a prison term of five years to ten years.”
I could hear Rob gasping in the background along with the other onlookers in the court. My heart had begun to beat extra fast as the judge shifted his eyes from mine to the sergeant’s.
“What were the forensics?” the judge asked the sergeant.
The sergeant stepped forward pulling out a few pieces of paper from his briefcase and placing them in front of the judge before he began to speak.
“This morning at approximately one o’clock a.m., we received a call from an unknown tipster stating that Mr. Jiles, who we have in the courtroom today, and Mr. Bryant Thompson are running a heavy drug ring between the two…”
“And who might the tipster be?” the judge asked, cutting off the sergeant in mid sentence.
“The unknown tipster would like to remain anonymous, Your Honor,” said the white sergeant whose face was beginning to turn red at the answer the judge was about to give him.
“Well, Sergeant Silverman, with all due respect, this case cannot proceed unless you reveal the tipster and the allegations,” explained the judge.
“Okay, sir, to proceed, the tipster, whose name is Melissa Childs, called in a tip last night to South detectives, stating that the perpetrator—who as I said is present in the courtroom—was Mr. Juan Jiles.” He pointed to me as I stood next to him. No the fuck this bitch didn’t lie on Bryant and me. She’s gone too far.
“As the tip came, myself and Detective Barnes handled the report that stated Mr. Jiles and Mr. Thompson were hiding illegal drugs in the Presidential Suites apartment building on Presidential Boulevard in Philadelphia. Once we’d received the tip and had the magistrate sign off on the search warrant, we then executed the warrant and went to the suspect’s home where we found three bricks of cocaine, numerous bags of marijuana and a firearm under the bed—a nine-millimeter handgun.
As the sergeant went on with the story my heart fell deeper into the pit of my stomach.
“Plus, Your Honor, when Captain Ingram, along with myself, reached the apartment we found a small brown paper bag sitting on the table that contained small amounts of cocaine, crack rock, and the street term ecstasy pills.” I turned around to look at the expression on Rob’s face; he seemed flabbergasted. The judge began writing figures down as I stood there with my dick getting hard from the cold air that came in from the vent.
“Okay, Mr. Jiles. Your bail is set at five hundred thousand dollars cash. Are you able to post that today?” He looked at me as if he expected an answer on the spot.
“No, not at this time,” I answered.
“Okay, until your bail is paid through a licensed Pennsylvania bail bondsman, you are to be housed at the Philadelphia Federal Correctional Facility.” He then banged his gavel on the desk. Almost immediately tears fell from my eyes as the sheriffs took me away into the holding cell. I had never been to jail. I feared for my life. Someone, please help me. I closed my eyes and prayed very hard. God, please help Your child.
Now I knew who had planted the drugs in my house. But when did he find the time and how did Melissa know?
By the time we got to the federal prison all of my tears had dried but I still cried silently on the inside. The blue-and-white school bus pulled inside of a garage known as the intake unit. Me and three other people were shackled together as we walked inside the building. I was led into another holding cell until my name was called to trade my boxer briefs in for a pair of county blues.
After changing into my blues I was given an inmate number which was 981571. I was no longer Juan Jiles. I walked into an area that was known to me as a pod. D-Pod was what they called it. I heard the sounds of people yelling from their cells, TVs and radios blasting.
“We got fresh meat on the block,” yelled someone from their cell as I walked up the steps carrying my blanket and sheets in my arms. I couldn’t let the other inmates know how scared I was of them and from watching a lot of TV programs I made sure that I would never let a nigga see me sweat.
“Open five cell,” yelled the C.O. from the bottom tier. I walked into the cell of two African American young bulls no older than eighteen.
“What’s up?” asked the light-skinned dude who wore his hair braided long past his shoulders. The other guy just lay on the top bunk reading a newspaper pretending as if he didn’t see me.
“Ayo, what’s the deal?” I responded, trying to act hard.
“You can take that bunk right there,” the cutie said as I walked over to the bunk to begin making my bed.
“So how long you in here for?” he asked as the other dude turned his face away from the paper. I looked up in his direction and nodded my head to let him know that I noticed him. He nodded back.
“Man, I don’t even know. They got me in here on some nutass shit,” I said. See I could talk that talk when I wanted to. The light-skinned dude walked over to me with an extended arm.
“My name is Dre,” he said, now shaking his hand. I put my hand out to shake his. I could tell from the difference in the texture of my skin that we both didn’t share the same taste in moisturizing cream.
“I’m Jay,” I greeted. I took the liberty of walking over to the other bunk where the other guy was and extended my hand to him as well.
“Just call me J-Rock,” he said, shaking my hand with a tight grip. This dude looked much older than eighteen. He was kind of freaky yet not so intimidating. One could compare him to that Philadelphia rapper Freeway. After making my bed I sat there and took in the entire scene. My particular cell was painted light blue with writing on the walls that read—Bok is a pussy—for a good time call faggot ass Ronny—Keyon was here 2005—me and my bitch and finally suck my dick.
“Chow up,” called the C.O. from the bottom tier as all the cell doors began to unlock.
“Yo man, it’s time for chow,” said J-Rock, hopping down from the top bunk and stepping into his slides. He sported a tight wife beater and county blue bottoms.
“What’s chow?” I asked quietly but didn’t want to make it obvious that I was naïve.
“That mean it’s time to eat, nigga,” he responded. Good, because I was hungry anyway. The last thing I remember myself eating was breakfast yesterday morning. We all began to exit the cell. I saw all types of Philadelphians making their way to the chow hall. Some of them I knew from growing up around the way but I made sure not to make eye contact.
Once we got to the chow hall, there was a long line of everyone waiting for their meal. I stood at the tail end holding a plastic cup and a plastic fork. After about ten minutes, I finally reached my turn at the window.
“Ain’t you that dude that owns that hair salon on South Street?” said a ghetto, young girl as she gave me my tray. The other inmates that surrounded me started to take heed.
“Who, girl? Let me see who he is because right about now I need me a hairdresser up in this bitch,” said a petite girl pushing the other girl out of the way. To my surprise that girl was Miss Hardcore herself—Lil’ Kim. She looked at me and smiled as she pulled my tray back in to direct the other girl to add more eggs and sausage to my tray.
“You know how to do hair?” she asked standing there with her big brown eyes and of course no makeup with her hair in two braids sporting her county reds. In the federal prison, the women wore red.
“Yes, I own Ché Mystic down in South Philly. What do you know about South Philly?” I asked, taking my tray.
“Chile, since I been in here I learned a lot of Philadelphia. Yo, check it. Can you hook my hair up for me
?” I gave her a grizzly look and searched my surroundings. She was asking me if I could do her hair as if we were on the street.
“Kim, how am I gonna do that? We’re in jail,” I said, switching my body from left to right.
“Nigga, I got pull in this whole muthafuckin’ prison. I can do what the fuck I wanna do. Just because I’m locked the fuck up don’t make me a slouch. Go ’head and eat your breakfast. I’ma have someone come get you from ya cell in a half hour,” she said, talking with her hands as she turned and walked to the back of the kitchen.
I took a seat at the end of the table in the chow hall and ate my breakfast. Thanks to Kim, I had a full meal and I really appreciated it because I was starving.
After leaving the chow hall and before going back to my cell I stopped in the dayroom to use the phone. I had the option of doing that before lockdown. The phones stood on the wall as if they were payphones but they weren’t. Everyone had to be called collect. The first call that I made was to my mother.
“Hello,” she greeted in her normal weary voice.
“Bell Atlantic has a collect call from Juan Jiles at the Philadelphia Federal Correctional Facility. To refuse this call, hang up. If you accept this call do not use three-way or call waiting features or you will be disconnected. To accept this call dial one now.” The phone turned total silent meaning she wished not to accept my call.
The next person that I needed to call was Rob. Fortunately for me he picked up the phone on the first ring and accepted the call.
“Hello,” I greeted.
“Girl, what the fuck are you doing with drugs in your house? I am so damn mad at you.”
“Damn, Rob, can you cut me some slack. They’re not my drugs. My boyfriend planted them there,” I said in my defense.
In Love with a Thug Page 13