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by Sullivan, Leo


  Scandels stormed by the cell door without even seeing me. I’m sure he didn’t know I was in the very next cell close to his star witness. This would not be the first time the feds had blundered like this. They have been known to place the rat and the accused in the same cell with the rat ending up getting killed as planned. I stared at the naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling outside the cell, lost for words, my feelings and emotions stuck in the back of my throat. There was an ancient-looking fingerprinting station in front of the cell.

  “Yo ... Cal ...?” I heard my voice carry down the hall as I felt my hands gripping the bars tightly. At the other end of the hall, shackles rattled, feet shuffled. “L? L? That you man?”

  “Yeah, nigga it’s me aiight. Wuz up?” I said acidly.

  “Man pah-lees! You gotta help me. Pah-lees!” Cal shrieked. I stepped back from the bars full of rage. I turned around and looked at some of the faces in the cell, read the deceit in their eyes like the graffiti on the wall. By the time our conversation would be over there would be a mad stampede to the prosecutor’s office. Everybody trying to get a time cut.

  “L … L ... You gotta help me!” Cal continued. His voice was panic stricken, like he was on the verge of delirium. Just the way the feds will make you when they break you, when you sell your soul for another man’s life. I listened to Lil Cal, careful not to get caught up in another indictment. “Both my grandma and her husband are missing.” I could hear Cal crying as he spoke, “Somebody ran up in my moms’ crib, snatched up my mama and my oldest brother Rob. Then yesterday, somebody mailed my brother’s head to the institution with a note, ‘lf you’re lookin’ for your brother, Ax Blazack, oh, and don’t worry about your Grandma and Pops. They were old anyway.’ L man, I never would do you!” Cal pleaded. His voice had taken on a feminine whine, that of a broken man. Of course he was also lying. All I could do was shake my head. Damn Blazack put in major work, the real menace to society. I hurried away from the bars, away from a conspiracy to murder and the kidnapping of Cal’s family. I talked solely for the audience of snitches and microphones that I was sure were in the cells.

  “Yo! My nigga, I’m telling you what God love, the truth. I ain’t got nuttin’ do wit dat. I’ma just pray to God and let Jesus, my Lord and Savior help me through this.”

  “Nigga, who you think you talkin’ to? I know you and Blazack are behind this.”

  I walked to the corner of the cell, lit up a smuggled cigarette rolled in toilet paper wrappings and tried not to listen to Lil Cal’s plaintive cries about murder and kidnapping. Don’t worry about your Grandma and pops. They was old anyway.

  *****

  As I entered the courtroom it dawned on me, that even after almost two months I was still not at ease with the media and all the attention. As usual, my stepmother called out my name along with her declaration of love. Strangely, no matter how bad my day was, she seemed to always get a smile out of me. In the back of my mind I worried about the conversation I just had with Lil Cal back in the holding cell. The feds are notorious for entrapment. I wondered if they were using him to set me up with a new indictment. I pondered, maybe Scandels did know I was back there next to Lil Cal in the holding cell all the time, and it was just an act. About the only thing for certain was that Scandels saved his best for last. Lil Cal was the last to testify against me of the 78 informants. So what the hell was going on if Cal said he wasn’t going to testify?

  After I greeted each of my all-female legal team and was seated next to Hope, she crinkled her nose up at me playfully, said I smelled like smoke. Her beauty, along with her body, was seriously starting to deteriorate. I could see her cheekbones, the shallow husk of flesh that covered her face. Her eyes looked to be too far back in the sockets. She was tired and wary. Uncannily, I could still see the impeccable courage in her eyes. She would not accept defeat. Never. Despite being the youngest amongst the entire group of lawyers, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind, she was the brainchild and our leader. Just about every petition, every motion, and every strategy, she had prepared it.

  I looked over at the rest of my attorneys. Today they looked stone faced, staring straight ahead at the judge. The entire scene was bizarre, like I was living in a dream. My defense counsels, Adrienne and Taya, continued to stare straight at the judge, as if they were somehow beckoning him, willing him, in some kind of way. Maybe that was their plea, as only Black women knew how to plead, a desperate attempt to save a Black human life. They failed.

  *****

  The proceedings were underway and Lil Cal was seated at the witness stand. For some reason, Scandels looked very uncomfortable. The prosecutor fumbled with his suit coat buttons as he asked, “Mr. Johnson, do you see Life Thugstin in the courtroom?” Cal looked over at me with piercing eyes, brows knotted in contempt. I tried to match his stare, as I held my breath, and felt my heart beating in my chest in a way that makes it hard for a man to breathe. That very moment felt like a showdown. Time was infinity that lasted ... lingered on forever.

  “Naw, I don’t see him in the courtroom,” Lil Cal answered and turned his chin back to the prosecutor with his head held high. Scandels flinched uncontrollably. It looked like his feet came two inches off the floor like a man that just had the biggest surprise of his life. It showed on his face.

  “Are you sure you don’t see the defendant, Life Thugstin, in the courtroom?” Scandels asked, raising his voice, making his question sound like a command.

  “No!” Cal answered without even looking at me.

  Scandels turned beet red. Through clinched teeth and angular jawbone protruding in an irate temperament, Scandels looked like he wanted to yank Lil Cal off the witness stand and beat him to a pulp. Again, I was reminded of the old saying, a rat don’t care who he bites when trapped in a corner. All Cal wanted was to free his mama and not receive another Ax Blazack letter. Scandels fumbled with some paper. “Are you aware of the statements you made, in the form of over a one hundred page deposition, where you alleged you and the defendant, Life Thugstin, sold drugs?”

  “Objection!” Adrienne Greene was on her feet, her large breasts heaved forward pronouncing her point for added emphasis. “Your Honor, the witness has already stated he does not know the defendant. The prosecutor’s only purpose is to badger the witness with hopes to illicit anything incriminating.”

  “Objection sustained,” the judge said like he was not all too impressed with having to take orders from the defense.

  Scandels tried another line of approach. He looked over and smiled at the jury, wiped at a tuft of unruly hair on his forehead nervously and walked up closer to the witness stand.

  Genuinely he asked, “Do you remember talking to me for hours in my office?”

  “I would like to plead the fifth,” Cal said smugly with his thick lips bunched together as if to say, I will not be answering any further questions. There was a buzz in the courtroom. I have never been good at reading people’s hearts, but growing up in the ghetto you had to know how to read people’s minds. So I looked at all twelve of the white jurors’ faces, faces that our society says are my peers. But I knew then what the verdict was going to be. Just like I knew what I was going to have to do to cheat life and win my own trial. I can’t lie. The broad, Tomica, and a few of the other witnesses that testified against me hurt me bad! Now the trial was almost over, nearly two months of verbal gymnastics of what is termed law. I would’ve rather gone out in a hail of gunfire. At least that way it would’ve felt like I was fighting back. For any Black man being on trial and having to be forced to be judged by an all white jury is truly a humiliating experience. Then as I thought about the dope game, and all its street fame, I can bare witness, its two sides of the game. The other side ain’t nothing nice and it comes with a hell of a price. Right there in the courtroom, I opened my Bible. Secretly I enjoyed the way the media always took note of every little thing I did. If I dozed off or laughed, it would be in the next day’s newspaper. Reading the Bible made no differenc
e. They quickly took notice of that too, just like I wanted them to. I remember my stepmother always telling me when I was a small child and been bad, to pray to Jesus. So that’s what I did, I read my Bible and prayed to Jesus. *****

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “The Verdict”

  – Life –

  At the end of all trials, the defense and the prosecutors are allowed to present their closing argument. This, in legal terms, is known as summations.

  Hope went first. Wary and fatigued she spoke passionately, exposing all the key points where the prosecution had blundered. Dramatically she exhorted the jury to see the logic in her argument and the flaw in the prosecutor’s case. As I looked on, she really touched my heart, because to me with all her big words and drawn out statements, she looked like a Black woman pleading for a Black man’s life. I wondered, how many times in history has that happened? I felt bad and ashamed of myself. The dope game was not worth this. For two hours, Hope’s voice carried like the wind. The church played their part with reverent hymns to Jesus with enough fervor to get God’s attention. I’m sure to this day the imperial heavens must have peeked down in wonder at what was going on in that old courtroom.

  Hope ended her summation with a standing ovation. All Black folks clapping their hands with the commotion, I looked around the courtroom as the judge pounded his gavel. Most of the white faces in the courtroom looked uncomfortable. I watched as Hope held on to the rail next to the jury box for support. She was coughing violently in spasms; she looked so weak, faint. Taya and Adrienne had to help her back to the defense table, they damn near had to carry her. I turned my head as Hope sat down next to me coughing in fits. She was sweating feverishly and was having a problem breathing. For the first time it truly dawned on me, something was terribly wrong with Hope. I reached out to grab her hand, this Black woman, the warrior that was fighting for me. Her hand was moist, hot. Hope was on fire, a feminine inferno. The judge looked over at her. “Would you like to take that out of my courtroom? If you’re ill we can stop the trial for recess.” Hope rose, weary on her feet, balancing herself by holding onto the table edge.

  “Thank you your Honor, but I’m fine. I welcome the opportunity to engage the prosecution in this case with hopes that justice may prevail,” Hope said magnanimously, and then smiled at the jury and began to cough again. She sat back down and closed her eyes as if to gather strength. I wanted to reach out and hold her close to me, to shield her, as I realized I never wanted to hurt a Black woman again as long as I lived, only now it was too late.

  David Scandels was next with his closing argument. For three hours he ranted and raved in his theatrical epilogue. Occasionally he used the words “Black criminals” and “war on drugs” like they were some kind of code words to the jury. I read the faces of the jury while he talked. Most of the all white jury nodded in agreement. These people were supposed to be impartial, they were sup-posed to be a jury of my peers, but as I sat there on that hard wooden chair staring them white folks in their faces, I saw something else. I was forced to admit, Scandels was good. After he finished his summation the reporters made a mad dash to the door. One of the biggest trials of the century was over. That was around the time I really started to take notice of the exultant praise like a slow mournful hymn. The jury looked startled, so did the judge. Black folks worshiping God the only way they knew how. I looked over at Hope, she still had her eyes closed, lips moving, she was humming with them too in a silent benediction for God to do his work. I looked over my shoulder and saw a sea of Black faces, mostly old folks. All the way in the back, to my surprise, I saw Black Pearl seated next to Blazack. I had to do a second take.

  They were both dressed conservatively. Blazack wore a suit and tie with a pair of rimless glasses that made him look anything but gangsta. Black Pearl shyly winked her eye and blew me a kiss. I also saw the woman known as Sister Souljah; she was sitting next to Dr. Nandi Shakur, the expert witness that testified for my defense.

  It was over and vaguely I listened as the judge admonished the jury that they were not to talk to anyone about this case. They were to base their decision solely on the evidence. I watched as the judge talked, a few members of the jury would furtively glance at me. I pretended not to notice, but I felt their stares. I felt them in a way that prods a man’s consciousness, my own fate was no longer in my hands; it was in the hands of twelve white people. I’d rather be flipping burgers at Burger King than have the seat I was sitting in.

  I looked up at the clock on the wall, it was past lunchtime. I wasn’t even hungry. One of the benefits of going to trial when in federal custody the U.S. Marshals let you eat restaurant food. In my case, he let my defense team bring me food. Let me tell you, Black women knew how to throw down when it came to good old-fashioned soul food.

  *****

  Hours later I was seated in a conference room with my lawyers. The tiny room was nothing more than a holding cell with a small barred window. A few rays of streaming sunshine piped in the room. All three of my lawyers sat huddled around me as an assortment of spices, feminine enticements, the sweet allure of perfumes mingled with my starved loins. It felt so good to be so close to what we hustlers take for granted, our women. In that room, that tiny cage, we discussed everything but my case. For me, their laughter was intoxicating, inebriating. I wished that the moment would last forever. We were no longer in a cage, this was the lion’s den, and they were the lionesses and I was the lion, and all was secure from the hunt. These same women that just valiantly fought for me were now trying to comfort me, placate me with the nurturing instincts that women have. It’s all so natural, all so beautiful, a Black woman’s love. One of the U.S. Marshals rapped on the door and walked in. On the table was Bar-B-Q ribs, macaroni and cheese and peach cobbler. He licked his chops as he stared at the food. From the somber expression on his face I knew what he had come for. We were informed that the judge wanted us back in the courtroom. That could only mean one thing, the jury reached a verdict. About eight hours passed since they went into deliberations. Each one of my counsels hugged me. Hope was the last. She did not want to let me go, that really touched me, told me a lot. She continued to hold me even as the other women looked on. I was confused, didn’t know how to react. Throughout the entire trial, Hope never dealt in emotion and feelings, just logic and sagacious strategies. I could feel her fragile body trembling in my arms. The other women walked out and the Marshal looked on. Hope pulled away from me and made a feeble attempt at gathering her emotions. I watched as she nervously pressed the wrinkles out of her dress with the palms of her hands. “I’m sorry.” She looked up at me and whispered as she walked of out the room.

  “Sorry about what?” I asked myself as she walked away.

  *****

  Moments later I was being escorted by four U.S. Marshals down the long direful hall of the Federal building. I couldn’t help but wonder how many other Black men took this long desperate trek to a destiny unknown? For me the walk was long, I can’t say what anybody else has felt, but for me, them crackas had me scared to death. I was at the mercy of the court. Normally the Marshals would be congenial and talkative, but that day I was met with stoic faces and cold stares.

  As we entered the courtroom everyone turned to look in my direction. I felt like a condemned man. The courtroom was eerily quiet except for the herds of reporters. Like flies, they never seemed to go away. Most of the seats were vacant. I sat next to Hope. Looking straight ahead she held my hand. In walked the foreman along with the jury. They all piled into their seats. None of them could look me in my eyes. The foreman handed the judge a piece of paper. The judge read the paper and looked in aghast. “Hmmm, errr, I have just been informed that the jury has reached a deadlock.” His breathing was heavy, not concealing his disappointment. He, like myself, was shocked that the jury had not returned with a guilty verdict. He raised his hulked eyebrow over the rim of his glasses. “It says here that the jury would like to review the portion of the trial trans
cripts of the testimony of the expert witness Dr. Nandi Shakur and her terminology of socioeconomic crimes,” the judge said with disdain and jerked his neck at the foreman. “This is preposterous! You and the jury are to go back in there and reach a verdict!” Adrienne shot to her feet.

  “Your Honor, it is my understanding that the jury can take as much time as they want to reach their decision and if they want to review all records and evidence that may be of relevance such as the court transcripts, they are at liberty to do so.”

  The judge removed his glasses and glowered at Adrienne. “Counsel is that all you have to say?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you or any member of your staff makes an outburst like that again I will charge you with contempt of court. Is that understood?” Adrienne’s eyes turned to optic slits as she defiantly looked at the judge.

  “No it is not understood! My client is entitled to the full use of his constitutional rights as it relates to the jurisprudence of law, if the jury wants to hear –”

  “I am warning you to sit down or I will charge you with contempt of court.” I could see a vein protruding out of the side of Adrienne’s neck, she was fuming with indignation. Hope gently took her arm, and with a silent command of her head, she nodded for her to sit down. The older woman complied. I wasn’t sure what was going on; however, the judge did state reluctantly that the jury would be allowed to review the transcripts. He also stated that he wanted to see my counsel in his chambers after the proceeding. I wasn’t sure if it was good or bad that the jury wanted to go over the transcripts of the professor’s theory about socioeconomic crimes. This was all Hope’s strategy. One thing was for certain, the judge sure as hell was not too pleased about it.

 

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