Life

by Sullivan, Leo

  “All that Black conscious shit ya’ll be talkin’ bout, first chance you get you sell a nigga out. Now here you is, a fuckin’ slave catcher fo’ Massa. All you niggas and so-called leaders is nothing but fuckin’ sellouts!” he yelled at me, and for a moment I was sure that he was going to kick me. I could see large veins pulsating in his forehead and neck. In the distance I could hear frantic laughter, or perhaps it was a cry. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out, just a pained expression. He continued to berate me. I just sat there like a child being chastised only this was worse, much worse, as saliva dripped off my chin and for some reason as a Black woman, all his anger, all his rage found its way inside of me and nestled in a place that has been pre-conditioned to take abuse from Black men. His refuge. My reservoir, a vacuum to my soul that stored pain. I just sat there determined to weather the storm.

  I willed myself not to cry as I heard a shallow voice say, “I only came to help you.” Then a whimper that gave way to a sigh that lost its way down my throat.

  “Help me! Wasn’t it you that said that I’d end up dead or in prison? I didn’t think that you’d be the one to help put me there, you and ‘bout ninety other hot-ass muthafuckas about to take the witness stand against me and lie just to get their time cut and your pussy ass is down wit this shit?” Life was now screaming at me, with spit spewing out of his mouth.

  “Your lawyers are conspiring with my boss. They’re going to sell you out, try to make a good show of the trial for the sake of all the worldwide publicity. A guy by the name of Calvin Sweeny, you may know him as Lil Cal, he’s the government’s star witness,” I blurted out talking so fast that I could hardly catch my breath. I wiped at the saliva on my face with my hand as I watched the expression on Life’s face change from anger to disbelief, then hurt. I wanted to say more, plead with him, and let him know that he had a son that looked just like him and a woman that was willing to do anything for him. All this may have sounded insane, but I wanted to help. Suddenly, something washed over him, like the calm after the storm. He could no longer look at me. I saw him gaze up at the ceiling and saw his left eye twitch as he spoke.

  “Bitch, you think I believe you? I know them crackas sent you to set me up. What they offer you one of dem house nigger jobs? Mo’ money? Bigger office? You’re a sell out, you and the rest of your Uncle Toms.” His expression was sour, but I could read the confusion in his eyes–to believe me or not.

  I rose from the chair determined to keep my composure. This was so unexpected, so unreal. It couldn’t be happening to me. I reached into my briefcase and placed my new business card on the desk. I wanted to tell him that today was my last day working for the bureau but instead, I said, “Call me.” I heard my voice crack with emotions. It took everything in my power to keep a straight face. Life took one look at the card and laughed derisively causing the shackles on his legs to rattle.

  “Them crackas taught you well. Hope, how can you sell your own fuckin’ people out?” he asked as the CO came and opened the door. I walked out the door and was once again welcomed to the raucous applause of whistling, catcalls and some of the most vivid descriptions of my butt that I had ever heard. I briskly walked down the long corridor at nearly a jogger’s pace with my briefcase held tightly as if it were a shield. All of Life Thugstin’s preliminary hearings and evidentiary proceeding had run the course of time. Within a few days, one of the biggest trials the State of Florida has ever known was set to begin. What Life Thugstin didn’t know was the stage had already been set, rigged and arranged, like 98 percent of Federal cases. I knew this because I had taken part in more than a few legal lynchings. And every opportunity I was given, I tried my best to intentionally sabotage a trial, or a court proceeding.

  I remember one particular case, the girl’s name was Keychia Moore. She was 18 years old and the mother of three kids and pregnant again. Her boyfriend, a small time drug dealer, sold small amounts of coke in powder form, dime bags. A petty offense that carried, at the most, probation and a small fine. Her boyfriend made a sale to an undercover federal agent. The next day the undercover agent came back wanting to purchase crack. The boyfriend informed the agent that he did not have any. The agent propositioned the boyfriend with a deal; he would purchase a thousand dollars worth of the dimes if the boyfriend could cook it up into crack. The boyfriend agreed. They cooked the dope up in Keychia’s Section 8 apartment. Federal judges and prosecutors are aware of this scheme, where urban Black men are tricked into selling crack and then given life sentences.

  After the boyfriend made the sale, federal agents stormed the house. The boyfriend was shot and killed as he tried to escape out a bedroom window. Keychia Moore was arrested and charged with the sales to the undercover agent and her three kids were taken away from her and placed into foster care. The ratio between crack cocaine and powder cocaine is 100-to-1. Now instead of facing probation and a fine, she faced a lifetime in prison. I was assigned as her prosecutor. There was no way in hell I was going to help send this young woman to prison for life, and all she merely did was open the door for the undercover agent when he came to buy the drugs. Her lawyer, an old public defender, had hardly any interest in her case, heck, the same people that signed his check signed mine.

  On the day that she was scheduled to go to trial, I sat at the prosecutor’s table, painfully frustrated. Keychia and myself were the only Blacks in the entire courtroom. I felt so uncomfortable. Keychia, like most young Blacks had no relatives and friends to come to the courtroom to support her. Her pensive sobs rocked the courtroom. I lay awake in bed trying to figure out a way to sabotage the trial then it hit me. A plan. I would have to take a great risk, but I had to do it.

  On the day of the trial, I casually opened up the case file on her and in a mock display of shock at what I was looking at, lawyer turned actor, I looked up at the judge in confusion, and asked him could I approach the bench. He stared at me quizzically over the rim of his glasses.

  “Your Honor, I’m afraid the prosecution is forced to drop the charges, due to the fact the statute of limitations has expired in this case,” I said, as I tried to look flustered.

  The judge looked at me with dismay as he removed his glasses.

  “What do you mean you’re going to have to drop the charges?” he asked, disgruntled. His skin turned beet red.

  “The defendant filed a motion for a speedy trial, evidently it was in oversight at my office, and just now discovered this.” I passed the motion to the judge. The night before, I drafted it and forged Keychia’s signature and post dated it. As the judge looked at it, I prayed that Keychia’s lawyer would go along with it. Last night the idea seemed like a brilliant plan, however, this morning with the judge peering down at me, I realized just how stupid and dangerous the idea was, I could lose my job, and possibly face charges.

  The judge massaged his face with a hand and sighed as he began to rub the bridge of his nose the way people do when they are having a long day.

  “Counsel, what do you mean, oversight? This is plain and simple incompetence, and not in accordance with the jurisprudence of law that I practice in my courtroom,” the judge spoke sternly, and then looked over at the defense table and shook the paper in his hand as he pointed at Keychia’s attorney.

  “Why am I just learning of this ... this so called oversight?” he asked, and glared at me. Right then and there I wanted to run out of the courtroom as I watched Keychia’s lawyer stand and look at the judge in consternation as he responded, “I am not aware of such motion your Honor.”

  “Yes you is!” Keychia interjected indignantly.

  Keychia’s lawyer approached the bench giving me a look that said he was on to me and my scheme.

  “Your Honor, someone needs to be investigated and disbarred and maybe even arrested. This is a travesty of injustice,” the lawyer said angrily as he pointed an accusing finger at me, and then added, “I want my client released at this very moment, or else I’m filing for prosecution misconduct.” />
  The judge looked on and shrugged his weary shoulders.

  “This has been a long day for all of us,” he said as he looked at me and shook his head, like he could not believe that I could be so stupid. I glanced over at Keychia’s lawyer and I could have sworn that old white man winked at me. One thing was for sure, he had just proven to me that he was a better actor.

  “Will the defendant please rise,” the judge said. I watched as Keychia struggled with the armrest on the chair to stand. She was a very pretty girl with a light complexion and long wavy black hair. With her enormous stomach, she looked like she was carrying twins.

  “Young lady, I want you to consider yourself very fortunate. Today, due the circumstances that would have violated your constitutional rights, I have no other recourse but to drop the indictment against you.” After the judge made his ruling, it was hard for me to hide my delight. I turned my back and smiled as I walked back to the prosecutor’s table.

  *****

  On the day that I visited Life Thugstin in SHU and he spit in my face, that pushed me over the edge in leaps and bounds. So much hurt and pain, and yet, I had no choice but to turn the hurt into motivation to propel myself forward. Life actually thought I had sold him out, betrayed my own people, like so many others had done. I wished that I could let him know, make him understand me, the woman that only took the job for the government in order to learn its legal tactics so that I could go back and help others. If I were to become the female version of Hannibal I would have to learn how to defeat these people at their own game. War. The logistical kind you find in the courtroom. The battle of the minds. When I had no way of possibly knowing, it would be a lot sooner than I thought that I would find myself entrenched in war in a crowded courtroom fighting for my client’s life.

  *****

  As planned, that was my last day working for the government. I had “take this job and shove it” written all over my face. Well, at least in my mind.

  I walked up to my boss’ secretary, Joan Fiest. She was a pompous overweight woman that wore too much make-up. Her eyeliner made her look like a witch. She had a personality of a shark with a wide mouth to match.

  “Hi, Ms. Fiest. Is Mr. Scandels in his office?” I asked. She was the gatekeeper to his office and loved the job. She turned and looked at me with a gaze that left no doubt of her disdain for me.

  “Hope, you know that David does not like to be disturbed while he’s enjoying his morning coffee.” With that she gave me one of her shark smiles with all eighty teeth. One tooth was stained with red lipstick. She turned her back on me.

  I stood there all of ten seconds counting backward, trying to calm myself, trying to reason with my brain. Why does this woman dislike me so? I’ve had enough of her bullshit, I thought as I decided to walk into my boss’s office unannounced.

  I stormed by the gatekeeper. She looked up at me with rouge cheeks, mouth agape.

  “Wait!” she hollered. I passed through the door without even knocking. He was reclined in his chair, feet propped up on his desk with a simmering cup of coffee in his hand, pinky finger extended. A man caught in the solitude of his thoughts. Ms. Fist rushed in behind me. She was winded like she had just run a marathon. “Mr. Scandels, I tried to stop her.”

  “Excuse me sir, but I need to have a word with you. It’s important.”

  I watched as Mr. Scandels waved her away. After his secretary had left, he cocked his head to an angle furrowing his brow in concentration at me in wonder, what could be so important to make me barge into his office unannounced?

  “What can I do for you?” he asked. Today he wore a starched white shirt, with a brown tie. His hair was thinning and this morning it looked wet. He had a strong angular jaw line with a deep dimpled chin that reminded me of a cartoon character. His demeanor was always poised like a man used to giving orders. He had this uncanny way of making you feel uncomfortable, the way powerful people do. And in his own right, he was a powerful man. The head prosecutor for the Northern District of Florida carried a lot of weight. I’ll be the first to admit it, being a Black female in the predominately white man’s world can be intimidating.

  I stood in the middle of his office. On the wall I saw a picture of him and President Clinton. On his desk were more pictures, family, I guess. His office was huge, it made me feel small. I took a deep breath.

  “As of today I am resigning,” I said flatly, and walked up to his desk and placed my resignation letter on it. He shot forward in his chair as he removed his feet from the desk and knocked over a picture in a gold frame in the process.

  “Resigning?” he retorted.

  “Yes.”

  “But you haven’t even given me a two week notice. We’re already under-staffed and overloaded with cases.” I just gave him a look that said, that’s your problem.

  “I’m afraid that it will not be possible for you to resign at this present time until we can find a suitable replacement for you.”

  “No, I have had just about enough of this. I think this entire criminal justice system needs to be overhauled. I sincerely thank you for asking me to stay, bu –”

  Scandels was on his feet. It startled me for a man his age to be able to move so fast. “You cannot leave now!” he interrupted pointing his finger at me. This was the other side of the man not used to having his authority challenged and rejected, especially by a Black woman. I stood my ground, Lord knows I wanted to avoid this confrontation, yet in my own feminine solace I was delighted to badger his male ego.

  “David.” I called him by his first name just like everyone had been doing me since I first started working in the office. He jerked his neck narrowing his eyes at me letting me know that he did not appreciate me calling him by his first name the way he does me. White people. The nerve.

  “It’s a done deal. I’ll be sending the movers for the rest of my things in my office.” Saying that, I turned to walk away.

  “Hope! I can assure you, if you try to play hardball with me, you’ll end up being blackballed. If you walk out that door, I can promise you, you will never find a job in this town practicing law, even if you wanted to work for free.”

  His words stung me. I stood rigid and stared at the man who went out of his way to give me all the low profile cases, cases that no one else wanted. I couldn’t help but smile at that white man, either that or curse him out. My daddy did not raise me that way, so I just smiled at him as I walked up and placed my business card on his desk. “This is my new employer,” I said pointing at the name on the card. It read “Hope Evans, Attorney at Law” and for some reason, that name instilled a kind of courage in me, the kind that made a sista feel proud. “Feel free to use your power and prestige to blackball me if you like, but from here on out I ain’t working for no one else but my damn self!” With that, I stalked out of the door leaving him staring at my card.

  *****

  I was getting ready to make my entrance into the world of corporate America, an independent Black woman. I was 25 years old and wet behind the ears, but determined to do my own thing. Inside my heart and soul, although I would not admit it to anyone, I was scared to death!

  I left the building shortly after my confrontation with my ex-boss with most of my office material in a box. As I walked across the parking lot in the sweltering heat, with each step that little voice in my head barged its way in, the fear of failure announced its presence like an angry troll.

  Hope, you damn fool! You shouldn’t have quit your job. Who’s going to feed the baby?

  The diction of voices echoed in my head acrimoniously. I thought about my brother on crack, my other brother doing life in prison and catching my husband in bed with another man. I had enough blues in my life to sing a sad song, and to think, I had just quit a sixty five thousand dollar a year job. God help me, now I was going to try to make a career in a male dominated world. As I was opening the car door, I could feel sweat cascading down my back. I got in the car and tore my stockings on the door, ruining them. �
��Damn it! Damn it!” I screeched as I pounded my fist on the roof of my car, with it came a surge of emotions that I never knew existed. For the past year or so, I had been holding so much inside, trying to be strong, determined. I was a single parent trying to raise my son. My marriage was a failure, not to mention my husband was a homosexual. I was so filled with grief that I began to weep openly. I noticed that a car pulled up waiting for my parking space. The driver was an elderly Black lady. She watched me cry for a moment. Then she got out of her car. Age had stooped her body but she was still very attractive. I could tell she was once a very beautiful woman. She wore her hair styled and colored in a lovely shade of blue. She wore black slacks and white shirt.

  “Child, are you OK?” she asked sympathetically as she lightly caressed my back with her hand. Lord knows it felt like I was having a nervous breakdown. I wanted to tell her no, everything wasn’t OK, my life was a joke, and my real baby daddy had spit in my face and called me an Uncle Tom, and I had this stupid dream of helping my people so I quit my job.

  “Yes ... I’m OK,” I finally said as the tears ran down my cheeks, I cried openly.

  The old woman grabbed my arm forcefully; I was surprised of her strength for a woman of her age.

  “You will be all right, you hear me?” she said passionately, but there was something in her eyes that moved me. “You must never give up!” The old woman raised her voice. I nodded my head, swallowed the lump in my throat, breathed in air like it was new found courage. I met her motherly gaze and felt like she was trying to tell me something that I all ready knew.

  “Thank you,” I said softly as I looked away from her, embarrassed, this old Black woman that I did not even know. There was something in her warmth, her touch, and her eyes. She watched me closely as I got into my car.

  “If you’re not willing to sacrifice, maybe even die for your purpose, what are you living for?” The old woman yelled at me as I drove away. That was the day that my life would be changed for-ever. There would be no turning back.