Life

by Sullivan, Leo

  “I’m on trial today fightin’ fo my life. I feel these men,” Life turned and gestured pointing, “are not in my best interest.”

  “Why is that?” the judge asked.

  “Well for one thing,” Life sighed and looked over at his ex-lawyers, “I don’t feel these men are in it to help me. I see them more on television doing interviews than I do in person.” The judge shook his head in disproval at Thugstin.

  “First off, let me admonish something to you. In America we have a system of democracy, and in this democracy there are servants of the people, such as lawyers. In our society, lawyers are for the benefit and best interest of the people.”

  While the judge talked, Life just stood there looking helpless. I glanced over to the prosecutor’s table, Mr. Scandels sat in a chair, looking flabbergasted. He held onto the arm of the chair so tight, I thought he was going to break it off.

  “Why do you want to dismiss your lawyers at such a critical stage of the proceedings? The day of the trial?”

  “Yo Honor, as I said earlier, I’m fightin’ fo’ my life. The only time these men come to talk to me is about more money, legal fees and whatnot. No one told me about a strategy, I ain’t even seen the discovery list.” Life was talking about a motion called a discovery, where the government is supposed to present all the evidence it intends to use at trial.

  “Yo Honor, I’ve learned more ‘bout my case from jailhouse gossip than from my so-called paid attorneys. Where I come from you don’t call yourself a team and then go against the grain.”

  The judge had enough. “Fortunately we’re not where you come from. You’re in my courtroom, which just so happens to be a federal courtroom. In the federal system we do things differently!” Threat.

  Tom Braxton was still standing. He looked over to the defense table as if to say, what do I do now?

  “If I let you fire your attorneys how do you intend to defend yourself?” the judge asked.

  “I’ma go pro se.”

  “Pro, se?” The judge retorted.

  “Yep.”

  “You want to defend yourself?” the judge asked with a smirk on his face about as close as he would ever be at smiling. “How much education do you have?”

  “The last time I was in prison I got my GED,” Life responded.

  Someone in the back of the courtroom giggled. For the next thirty or so minutes the exchange of words went on, until finally the judge granted Life Thugstin’s permission to fire his lawyers. The judge said he would need a week to decide if he would allow Life to defend himself.

  After court was adjourned, I walked up to the woman that called out to Life in the courtroom. Just as I suspected she was his stepmother, Brenda Thugstin. I gave her my card, told her I was a lawyer interested in the trial. She took the card, looked up at me and smiled brightly with weary eyes. I could tell that she had been crying. Gray hair ringed her temples. The wrinkles in the corners of her eyes said she was much older than what she appeared. I couldn’t help but wonder where is her husband, the famous preacher, Freddy Thugstin? As I recalled he had taken ill. Diabetes. One thing was for certain, Life and his father could never seem to get along. As we talked, a herd of anxious reporters spotted her and we were swamped. With microphones being thrust in her face, timidly Mrs. Thugstin began to talk, “My baby ain’t done nuttin ta nobody.”

  I backpedaled away from that scene and all its madness, the courtroom hall filled with all them white faces. As I walked away, I made a quick glance over my shoulder. Mrs. Thugstin’s fearful eyes followed me like a child standing in front of a train. This was too big, too powerful. The magnitude of it all was like a grip of a tight fist. Drug lords, money, murder, mayhem, the young Thugstin from rags to riches, I was overwhelmed. Now the only thing I wondered was what is he going to do next?

  *****

  Later on that day, I picked my son up from the babysitter. He was asleep on the couch with his favorite stuffed animal, Barney, in his arms. Finally at peace with the world, I thought as I carried him in my arms to my car. God forgive me, but at 3 years old, my child was bad as hell. I guess when God was giving out intuitive curiosity he must have given Marcus an extra dose.

  “Mama, what color is the sky?”

  “Blue,” I would answer.

  “Why is it blue?”

  “God made it blue.”

  “Why he do that?”

  ***** I sat at home reading the newspaper, looking for cheap office space to rent. Marcus sat in front of the television watching “The

  Cosby Show”. The doorbell rang. I looked at the clock on the wall, it read 8:40 p.m. Who could that be? I wondered.

  “I’ll get it Mommy!!” Marcus yelled and raced to the door.

  “Marcus! Boy, don’t touch that door,” I said as I walked up and peered out the peephole. It was Officer Coffee wearing a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, and a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. Apparently, he was off duty, and as far as I was concerned, out of bounds for showing up at my home this time of night. Now it was my turn to read him his rights. I barely opened the door just enough to get my head out. “Mr. Coffee, I think it’s very disrespectful for you to be at my door unannounced.” Marcus popped his head between my legs.

  “Mistah Coffeeee,” he sang happily as he shuffled his feet from one leg to the other.

  “I just came to check on you and the kid,” he said uncomfortably.

  “Yeah, I bet you did,” I said sarcastically.

  “Mommy, let him in.”

  “Hi, little man!” Officer Coffee started to reach down and pat Marcus on the head but thought better of it since Marcus was between my legs. Instead, from behind his back, he produced a pizza and smiled for the first time.

  “Bribery will get you nowhere,” I gibed.

  “It’s only bribery if you accept.” He smiled, knowing he got me on that one.

  “Mommy he got pizza! He got pizza!”

  It felt like my son was going to plow my legs right from under me. All I could do was shake my head. “See what you did?” I scuffed as I relented and opened the door letting him in. He walked in, a mountain of a man. His cologne would forever be a signature on my feminine loins. He smelled like something good enough to eat.

  “I apologize,” he said, his thick baritone voice dripping with seduction.

  He bent down and pecked me on my forehead. We were standing too close. The man was too damn fine, and he knew it. The moment lingered like fog evaporating, lust titillating. In the background my son danced to a song he created about pizza.

  I pulled my eyes away from Mr. Coffee shamefully, like maybe he could read my thoughts. “Have a seat, I’ll get some plates.” Before I knew it, Marcus was swinging on the man’s arm. “Marcus! Stop that.” Mr. Coffee tossed him so high in the air I thought he was going to bump his head on the ceiling. Marcus shrilled with joyful glee.

  “It’s OK, I love to play with children, wouldn’t mind making a few myself,” he said and winked at me flirtatiously and tossed Marcus up in the air again. The two of them were having a ball and I realized just how much my son missed the companionship of a man.

  While we were munching on pizza and drinking Cokes, the phone rang. I picked it up, it was a collect call from a federal institution, Life Thugstin. I sighed deeply over the phone. In my heart I wanted him to call, didn’t I?

  “Ma’am will you accept the phone call?”

  “Yes,” I finally said and braced myself like a boxer preparing for a body blow.

  “Hope? Hope! You there?” He called my name like it was the day we first met.

  “What do you want?” I said acidly.

  “Hope, I called to tell you that I’m sorry. I heard that you quit your job wit them crackas. I guess you were serious, huh?”

  “What do you want?” I repeatedly, coldly.

  “Hope, I’m under a lot of stress. Can’t trust nobody, this shit big, ya know.”

  As Life talked, in the background it sounded like he was calling from a
n insane asylum. I could barely hear him “Hope, I need your help. Please?” All I could do was roll my eyes up at the ceiling. Black men, I thought. I noticed Mr. Coffee watching me closely.

  “Evidently there’s nothing I can do for you,” I said curtly. I was talking about the stunt he pulled back at the SHU where he spit in my face.

  “Hope, I said I was sorry.”

  “Uh huh,” I grumbled.

  “Tomorrow visiting hours start at 8 o’clock in the morning. I’ll make it worth your while if you –”

  “I don’t need your money!” I screeched.

  “Please, let me –”

  “I don’t have time.” I hung the phone up and walked over to the couch and sat down.

  “You OK?” Mr. Coffee asked.

  I tried to smile, but it felt like my face hurt, actually it was my heart. I gave the man my phone number and then hung up in his face. A sista can be vindictive.

  I lost my appetite along with my mood for any male company.

  “I’m just tired, overworked and underpaid,” I said, forcing my cheeks to form a smile. He just looked at me. I could tell he wanted to ask about the phone call. A portion of cold pizza sat on the table. I looked at Marcus, he sat nodding his head like a yo-yo, fighting sleep. I faked a long drawn out yawn like I was sleepy, too. Mr. Coffee smirked at me as if to say, I can take a hint.

  I walked him to the door. He turned and tried to kiss me and at the same time, cop a feel. Mr. Man was smooth, but a little too slow. I ducked my lips giving him a hug. He caressed my backside and for a fleeting moment, I thought about letting him take me upstairs and rock my world. In the end, I ended up shoving him out the door. From the look in his pants he was going to have to take a cold shower when he got home, if that’s where he was going.

  Early the next morning, I awakened my son. He was not an early person. If this was any indication of his disposition as an adult, some woman was going to be in trouble.

  I smothered his tiny face with kisses. “Wake up Pookie,” I cooed in his ear. Both his mouth and his nose crinkled into a sleepy grimace. My child’s rebuff with his eyes still closed, I smothered him with more kisses against his weak resistance until finally I was rewarded with a protracted yawn and a whimper with petulant lips. The sound that he made is what I imagined what dove’s sound like when they cry.

  “Noooo Mommy,” he crooned as his beautiful long eyelashes fluttered like butterflies. Afterward we took a bubble bath together, my son and I. We were both unemployed. I was out of work and he was out of school. For that day I decided that we would just have to be inseparable.

  *****

  I drove to the 7-Eleven and bought some breakfast. While I was in line with the rest of the early morning commuters, I couldn’t help but notice the magazine rack, Newsweek, People, Ebony, The National Enquirer. Holy cow! On the front page of Times, was a picture of Bill Clinton with a background silhouette of the White House. The title of the article was, “WAR ON DRUGS, Is it working?” and in the left hand corner was a picture of Life Thugstin and Willie Falcon. I scooped up the magazine and started reading it right there in line.

  Back in the car I pulled over to the side of the gas station, forgetting to pump my gas. In the magazine were pictures of Life’s estate, along with pictures of Trina Vasquez, Tomica Edwards, Evette Keys and a young beautiful Black girl by the name of Annie Bell. She miraculously survived after being riddled with bullets in a botched assassination attempt on Life Thustin. Unfortunately her 3-year-old son died. I was already familiar with the case and all its gory details. Still I was fascinated. The authorities were still searching for the lieutenants. They were known only as the Miami Boys. They seemed to have disappeared as quickly as they appeared.

  It was alleged that Life and his crew of hoodlums were responsible for hundreds of brutal assaults and murders. In some instances, body parts were found missing, such as heads and arms. One of Life’s lieutenants had been murdered, a man by the name of Johnny Davis, better known as Dirty. I knew him from my neighborhood in Miami, the Pork and Beans Projects.

  *****

  I finally found the appropriate office space. It wasn’t much bigger than my walk-in closet at home, but it was mine, and this was where I was going to make my start. I signed a lease. They wanted a thousand dollars a month for rent. I planned to buy used office furniture, start from scratch and work my way up. I will never be able to explain why I made my next move. Maybe it was just an overwhelming impulse. On the same day that I rented the office I still had Marcus with me since it was our day together. In a semi-trance, I drove straight to the Federal Detention Center. I couldn’t walk away from that man if I wanted to. Believe me, I wanted to.

  On the drive there, Marcus was starting to get cranky and restless. He had so much pent up energy, but not enough to want to place him on drugs. I was thinking about the nuns back at the school.

  As I drove up to the FDC building there were still a few media vans and trucks still scattered around the place. I knew that if it weren’t for Life’s association with Willie Falcon he would not be receiving all this publicity.

  With suitcase in one hand and Marcus in tow, I entered the building as my mind wrestled with what I was doing,

  “Mommy, where we going?”

  “To see a man about a dog.”

  Instantly a few of the correctional officers recognized me with a few raised brows.

  Finally, after I went through all the procedures that are designed to make people not want to visit their loved ones, like waiting well over an hour and the search of my person, I was finally accepted into the visiting area. I sat in one of these terribly uncomfortable chairs. The building was cold, the air conditioner was turned up high. A few rows down from us, an obese Black woman with orange hair weave in her head sat eating chicken wings that came from the vending machine. In the distance I heard the PA system call a name. My mind was in a blur.

  “What am I doing here?” Marcus sat next to me his legs swinging from the chair. He spotted the vending machine with the candy and pointed.

  “Candy, Mommy.”

  “Not right now sweetheart.”

  I exhaled and re-crossed my legs. Already the chair was starting to hurt my behind. I looked up to see the large woman walk over to the vending machine again just as three visitors entered, two young girls in their early teens and an elderly woman who must have been the Grandmother. In my peripheral vision, I saw Life enter the room. My breath got caught in my throat. For the first time I noticed his limp and the way he carried his arm. I thought about the attempted murder on his life. He came and stood in front of me. I could smell soap and something else, cocoa butter? I got the impression he wanted me to stand and hug him.

  “Sit down,” I said rudely, giving him a once over and then glancing at my watch. He sat across from me. It felt like I was hyperventilating. I forced myself to look into his eyes, and searched his soul for some vestige of sincerity. For some reason he and my son just stared at each other. It was bizarre, like two people that knew each other but couldn’t remember the other’s name.

  I looked between the two of them and damn near fell out my seat. Marcus looked identical to his father like he was a miniature copy, dimple and all. The scene was eerie. They continued to stare at each other like two people stuck in a mirror. For the sake of talking I started a conversation, just as a CO walked by.

  “As an attorney I would advise you not to represent yourself at trial. In fact, I would advise you not to go to trial, period.” No answer, just the two of them staring at each other. I was on the outside looking in. To my utter shock, I watched as my son climbed out of his chair and ambled over to where Life was and leaned against his knee. This was totally out of character. My son is shy of strangers.

  “Hope, I can’t believe this,” Life said. His voice was hoarse. I thought I detected anger. It was a big mistake to bring my son there. Life figured it out, the child leaning against his knee is his son, I thought as I waited for him to speak. H
e licked his lips and peered closer at Marcus.

  “He looks like ... he looks just like my father,” Life finally said. The frown on his face was that of a man trying to understand fate, strange happenstance, or maybe why I never told him he was the real father to my child.

  “Marcus, honey, go sit back in the chair,” I said sweetly. My child ignored me.

  “No, please. Let him stay.” Life’s words were soft and sounded like a plea. Still neither of them took their eyes off each other.

  “What’s that?” Marcus asked innocently, pointing at the prison tattoo on Life’s forearm. It looked like it was recently done. It was a picture of a child’s face beneath a tombstone. It read, “Rest in Peace” with the name Shawn L. Bell inscribed on it.

  “That’s a picture of my son, Shawn L., he went to heaven.”

  Life spoke as if the gruesome scene was still fresh in his memory. I found myself leaning forward staring at the tattoo with my son.

  “Why he die for?” Marcus asked.

  “Boy get over here!” I screeched. Life picked Marcus up in his arms holding him affectionately, and at that time the two of them looked at me accusingly. Lawd have mercy! It felt like a double dose of regret. It suddenly dawned on me if the media or anybody else saw us together like this they couldn’t help but noticed the comparison.

  “I dunno what he died fo’,” Life answered somberly and then his whole demeanor changed. He tickled Marcus’ sides. They laughed together with the same smile. I was forced to look away. Again I was tormented about why I came in the first place.

  “I saw you in the courtroom the day I fired my lawyers.”

  I just looked at my watch, no words, lots of body language. My intention was to get out of there with the least conversation possible.

  “My stepmother told me that you gave her one of your business cards.”

  “She remembered me?” I accidentally blurted out not meaning to break my silence.

  “Yeah, you’re the only person that gives out business cards with no address on them.” He smiled, all dimples, and then added, “Naw just playin’. She remembered you cause you was the only Black woman that approached her. She said it was hectic. White folks can be so rude.” The moment stilled. I watched his large hands as he played with Marcus, teaching him how to make a fist to throw a punch, using the palm of his hands for punching bags. “Harder! Harder!” he instructed.