As soon as I arrived home I checked my answering machine. One message was from Stan, the man that I caught in bed with my ex-husband. I thought that was very strange for him to call. Three other messages were from Officer Coffee. I was avoiding him after I found out he was a playa, besides, the man was too damn fine and I didn’t trust myself.
I changed into my running clothes and went for a jog. I did five miles in record time, 45 minutes and some change. Afterward, I felt energized and aching in all the right places, a runner’s high.
At 2:15 in the afternoon, I decided to pick my son up early from the daycare center and we would do the family thing–go see a movie at the mall.
I arrived at Saint John’s Daycare Center, an ancient building that also served as a Catholic church run by elderly nuns. I paid a hundred and fifty dollars a week for Marcus to attend the school.
As soon as I walked inside I was pleasantly reminded of how it felt to be a child at heart. I smiled as I watched all the children frolic in a game of musical chairs. A child’s laughter is addictive. I looked on as the music stopped and the children scurried for chairs. A little girl with blue eyes and long locks of blond hair that made her look like a beautiful baby doll stood motionless as it dawned on her that she was the last person standing, eliminated from the game. I noticed that my son, Marcus, was nowhere in sight. I looked around for him. One of the nuns, Sister Mary, approached me. I could tell from the expression on her face she was trying to remember my name.
“Hi. I’m Hope Evans, Marcus Green’s mom,” I said politely with a smile.
Sister Mary extended a bony hand. She wore a silver ring of a crucifix on her middle finger. Her handshake was cold and calloused.
“Where is Marcus?” I asked as I looked over her shoulder. The amiable expression on her face froze only to be replaced with a blank stare.
“Marcus is in the Time Out room. Sister Grace placed him there this morning.”
“This morning!” I repeated indignantly looking at my watch. “What did he do?” I asked in a high-pitched voice causing some of the children to turn and look in my direction.
The nun sighed taking a deep breath, “Marcus curses like a sailor and fights with the other children.”
“Why wasn’t I informed of this?” I asked, disgruntled.
“Well, we thought that it was more than likely a bad influence coming from the household.”
I listened, not believing what I was hearing, but knowing what she was trying to insinuate, that I was a bad parent.
“We’ve talked with the school’s psychologist. The child is problematic, hyperactive and we believe that he has a learning disorder and –”
“He is 3 years old.” I said cutting her off, not believing what I was hearing.
She continued, “The doctor said that he wanted to place Marcus on a drug called Ritalin. It’s very popular with dysfunctional children.” All I could do was shake my head at this woman that was supposed to be a servant of God.
For the second time that day I counted backward from ten. That’s when I heard the little girl say, “I fucking quit, I don’t want to play no more of your stupid game.” The nuns must have heard too, but chose to ignore it.
“Where is my son?” I asked through clinched teeth. The nun pointed to the other side of the room. There was a large picture of Bozo the Clown along with other cartoon characters, a chalkboard with letters of the alphabet, ABCD, big enough for the seeing impaired to read. I saw my son huddled in the corner with his face up against the wall. I walked over there in a hurry, almost ran. “Honey, are you all right?” I asked affectionately.
He turned around and looked at me with almond eyes, face streaked with dried tears, his eyes the window to his soul. I saw something worse than hurt as my son looked up at me sniffling back his tears, “Mommy, I don’t like it herrrre.” He was trying not to cry. His little chest just heaved. The only thing I could see was his father’s face, and a young Black man being subconsciously trained by the system to put his face up against the wall. I picked him up in my arms and he latched onto my neck. “Mommy take me with you.”
“Mommy surely intends to take you with her,” I reassured him as I caressed his head.
I looked up to see the two nuns whispering as I approached. For the first time, I took interest in the other children, and I noticed that only two children out of about forty were African American, at least from what I could see.
“I will be removing my child from this school as of today,” I said curtly, while fighting to keep the anger out of my voice. Sister Mary stepped forward with a look of dismay on her pale face.
“Ms. Evans, that wouldn’t be a good idea. Your son is suffering from hyperactivity along with –”
“Whaat? My damn son is not suffering from anything, but white people syndrome. When did our society start giving three-year old children drugs because they were hyperactive?” I screeched.
“And another thing, if my son learned bad behavior it was from right here. I just heard that little girl curse.” I pointed at the girl. “And you heard it, too. Why is she not in the corner being trained on how to put her hands against the walls?”
The nun craned her neck backward with a look on her face like she smelled something awful, her cheeks flushed red.
“That’s preposterous,” she scuffed, turning up her long nose at me.
“No ma’am, what is preposterous is this school and the way it is run. Let me remind you of something, I’m a lawyer. If I find out that this school has a contract with a doctor and he is peddling drugs for profit outside the guidelines of the requirement of the AMA, I will personally have both of you placed so far under the jail, that the devil will be the only one interested in hearing your prayers.” Silence. Both nuns stared at me as if I were the great white hope. Marcus retrieved his book bag and the little white girl with the foul mouth said something to him.
Once Marcus and I were in the car, I placed him in his car seat and with a moistened thumb, I wiped away the shadow of dry tears from his handsome face.
“Marcus, what did that little girl say to you before you left?”
My 3-year-old child bunched his lips together and batted his eyes looking away from me. A child’s way of pleading the fifth.
“Mommy isn’t going to spank you.” I prodded, “Tell me.”
“She said ... she said … fuckin A.”
“Fucking A?” I repeated my son’s words. “‘Is that what the nuns heard you say at school?” I asked. Marcus nodded his head up and down. Just like I figured.
*****
Life Thugstin’s trial loomed heavily on my mind, most importantly, the cutthroat lawyers that he had spent all those millions on. The media labeled his defense team The Dream Team 2, only I knew better. One day I overheard my boss talking, actually, I was eavesdropping on my boss while he was in conference. Mr. Scandels called me into his office to get some case files for a court proceeding because one of the lawyers had taken ill and I was assigned to fill in. I lingered at the file cabinet. Once I heard the name Life Thugstin, I was all ears. After all, he was the father to my child and the master to my most deepest darkest secret.
“With all the fanfare and media attention we’re getting, this should be a piece of cake, the trial shouldn’t last longer than two months. He has about as much chance at winning as an ice cube in hell.” Mark Buckly, the famous trial attorney, was talking to my boss. Buckly was Life Thugstin’s head attorney. Scandels cut in.
“I sure would have liked to nail his ass for tax evasion, but someone in his ring did a good job of organizing the operation. We think its Willie Falcon and his organized crime family.” Tom Braxon was another famous attorney hired on as part of The Dream Team 2. His career dated back over four decades. Tom had not tried a case in nearly three years, but still enjoyed the reputation as one of the best trial lawyers in the nation. However, like his partner, Mark Buckly, he was in it for the money. As far as Tom Braxon was concerned, Life Thugstin was guilty as
sin.
“We’ll put up a good show at the trial,” Mark was saying. “But by the end of the trial, we’ll make sure that you have your day.”
I listened, not believing what I was hearing. I could not believe that they would talk so freely in front of me. Maybe it was because I was a United States Prosecutor, a part of their elite team, or maybe it was because I was a woman. That day I played the part of the proverbial fly on the wall.
“Hope!” Mr. Scandels called my name. I flinched and moved as I turned away from the file cabinet. A woman knows when it’s time to take advantage of her charm, especially when she’s in the company of a room full of men. I gave them my hundred-watt smile, the one that Black women invented solely for the benefit of white men. I saw how they ogled me when I first came into the office. On the inside I was infuriated, on the outside I had to play the part that was handed down to me by generations of people that learned to survive by outwitting the man. It was right then that I had made the decision that I was going to warn Life Thugstin.
“Yes,” I responded to my boss.
“Are you having trouble finding the Johnson file?” he asked.
“I have it right here,” I replied as I held the folder up in my hands. I had also come up on something else of interest, the witness list of all the people that were going to testify against Life, including confidential informants. With my heart racing in my chest, I walked out of the room feeling like a spy behind enemy lines.
*****
Chapter Seventeen
“The Ultimate Betrayal”
– Hope –
On the day of Life Thugstin’s trial, I was still brooding after the way he treated me when I risked everything to warn him that his lawyers were going to sell him out. I told myself that I would not attend the trial, but I could not help myself. The event itself was a spectacle, with media from all over the world. That was mostly due to Life’s connection with the drug lord, Willie Falcon.
As I pulled into the courthouse parking lot, the media sensation was like a wild frenzy. The young thug, Life Thugstin, turned drug King Pin, with his aloof air of power and stoic thug appearance was handsome and charismatic. The media loved him. Somehow they came upon some pictures of him and Willie Falcon together on a yacht with a beautiful model. The paparazzi in England and Colombia ran full page articles on how Life Thugstin was being groomed to take over the throne of the multi-billion dollar empire at the time of his capture.
What made the case so interesting to the public was that it was alleged by the media that Thugstin had recruited all women as his lieutenants. The pictures of Trina, Tomica, Evette and Black Pearl made the front pages of the USA Today. The case was truly amazing. The government estimated Life Thugstin’s wealth at over a hundred million dollars because of his association with the infamous billionaire cocaine baron.
The Thugstin case, with all its intrigue and mystic, seemed to take on a life of its own. I illegally parked in one of the prosecutor’s parking spaces. I exited my car and waved through the throngs of media and ordinary people that just came for the attention of the hype, including groupies that came to watch what would one day be labeled the trial of the century.
As soon as I entered the courtroom I took notice of all the heavy security. I sat in the last row to make sure I was inconpicuous as possible. I wore my hair in a different style, I also donned a pair of Channel glasses. So far so good, no one noticed me.
I waited for the proceeding to begin. Sitting in a spectator’s seat was a change for me. I tried a few cases in this very same courtroom, and was more than familiar with the judge, William Statford. He was on the bench for over thirty years and was known as a no nonsense judge, that openly displayed no mercy for drug defendants. It was rumored that his daughter overdosed on heroin. My old boss, David Scandels, sat at the prosecutor’s table. Next to him were his assistant prosecutors, Brian Smith and Susan Swaltz. The prosecution motioned to have cameras allowed into the courtroom, but lost. The word in the judicial arena was that the United States prosecutor, David Scandels, was desperate. His political ambition ran as high as a seat in the Senate, but time was running out, and he was getting old. The Life Thugstin trial, and its connection to the infamous Willie Falcon cartel, would be just the stepping stone that he needed, once he made a show of defeating some of the best lawyers in the United States, The Dream Team 2. America was going to have to applaud his genius, and thus open the door to his political career.
Across from the prosecutor’s table was The Dream Team 2: Tom Braxton and Mark Buckly along with a host of assistant lawyers. There were only two key participants missing, the judge and the defendant.
On the first day of any criminal trial the anxiety runs high, like watching two opponents getting ready to battle.
As I waited for Life Thugstin to enter the courtroom I reflected back on everything that happened the last nine months after his arrest. Three different branches of federal agencies orchestrated the arrest, the FBI, DEA and ATF along with the local and state authorities that raided the Chateau. Inside the authorities discovered a treasure trove–money, jewelry and expensive antique cars. The ironic thing was none of the property was in Life’s name. It was in the name of a young girl, Annie Bell, who was also known as Black Pearl. Miraculously, she survived after being shot during an assassination attempt on Life. She awoke from a coma a few weeks after she was shot and learned that her three-year-old son was killed. Federal authorities placed her under arrest in a three-count indictment.
What fascinated me most about the case was how intricately designed the money trail was in concealing the assets. It led to stockholders that anonymously withheld their names, all accept Annie Bell. The shares of stock were in a corporation of investors. Under federal law it was all perfectly legal. A lien for a large amount of money had been placed on all the assets. If the feds confiscated the property they would also be held responsible for paying off the liens. This was nothing short of brilliant, and the feds quickly abandoned their pursuit to seize the assets, at least until they could figure out a way to get around the paper trail. I never would have imagined that dope dealers could be so sophisticated. And still I could not believe that this was the same brotha that I drove into town, and all he had were big dreams, big guns and a large heart. I thought about how I was the one who personally introduced him to Trina, my frat sister.
When I heard that Life could have connections to Willie Falcon, I knew it was possible.
Life entered the courtroom escorted by U.S. Marshals. The soft murmur of voices rose like the ocean tide.
Life wore a black Armani suit, gray shirt and alligator Stacy Adams. With his chiseled dark features he was by far the most handsome man in the courtroom; with his briefcase in hand he could have easily passed for a lawyer. His eyes scanned the courtroom, taking in every face, including mine, causing my heart to stir. He waved at an elderly Black woman. “I love you son,” the woman said loud enough for the entire courtroom to hear. As soon as Life sat down, the artists from various media affiliates, including CNN began drawing courtroom scenes. Since Judge Statford barred all cameras this was the next best thing.
As I looked on, once again I thought to myself, I knew why Johnny Cochran, one of the best lawyers in the world, refused to do federal cases against the government. Like myself, he knew the deck was stacked.
Life was talking with his attorneys. They appeared to be arguing. Adamantly, Life shook his head in disagreement, indicating he was not happy about something. I leaned forward just like the rest of the courtroom trying to hear bits and pieces of what was being said.
“All rise!” The bailiff bellowed. In walked Judge Statford, an elderly rotund man with a large head that appeared to be too big for his small body. He had droopy hound dog eyes, and sagging cheeks, that of a man that never smiled.
With everyone seated the clerk handed the judge court papers. The courtroom was now electrified with suspense.
“The United States of America versus Life Th
ugstin,” the clerk announced over the clamor coming from the defense table.
The judge glared at the table over the rim of his half spectacles.
“Hmmm, hummmm!” The judge cleared his throat in an attempt to get the defense’s attention. Life and his attorneys ignored him, until finally the judge banged his gavel.
“Is there a problem?” the judge asked.
Tom Braxton, the lead defense attorney, stood nervously. Even with all his polished epicure and professionalism, I could hear the tremor in his voice, “Hmmm, err, my client has just informed me he no longer wants me or my staff to represent him.”
The judge pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose and leaned forward as if he were seeing counsel for the first time.
“No longer wants you to represent him?” the judge intoned. “You’ve been fired?”
It took only a few seconds for the rest of the courtroom to realize what was happening. Then, slowly, the monotone of voices signaled like a silent alarm, something about the courtroom proceeding was askew. A few reporters dashed out of the courtroom door to call in their scoop of the day, Life Thugstin, Lieutenant of the Willie Falcon Colombian drug cartel, fires defense team, The Dream Team 2.
Tom Braxton turned his head to watch all the commotion as the reporters left, he turned back facing the judge with disappointment written all over his face. I looked over at the defense table and Life moved his chair as far away from his attorneys as possible, his way of showing his parting of their association.
The judge arched his bushy eyebrows at Life.
“Mr. Thugstin, am I clear on this matter, you want to fire your attorneys?” the judge asked followed by a drone of whispering that sounded like a tiny roar from little people. The judge pounded his gavel and glared out into the courtroom. Life slowly rose from his seat. From the angle I was sitting all I could see was the side of his handsome face.
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