by Nikki Turner
Once the time came for her to be discharged, Tallya drove Mercy in her SLK Mercedes-Benz to the mansion that she shared with her sugar daddy, Benjamin Arlow. Benjamin Arlow was a dirty old man hitting his sixties or possibly his seventies, although he tried to maintain his youthfulness by staying fit and keeping a bald head to camouflage his gray hairs. A suave, debonair, jazzy man who loved women, young women especially, he was just a few notches down from being the black Hugh Hefner of the hip-hop world. He had never been married, but fathered one daughter—and a week after her birth he had a vasectomy so he would never get trapped again. He paid the mother of his child a healthy sum and kept up with child support until his daughter turned eighteen. She still came around, and when she needed something, he doled it out to her just as if she were one of “his girls.”
He had wined and dined countless women in his day. Not only did he have a way with women, but he knew his way around a boardroom table, having his hands in a few urban companies making him a mega money bank.
Mercy had heard of Benjamin Arlow but didn't know much about him until Tallya showed her all of the articles he was mentioned or featured in. Mercy read up on him while she recuperated, and she stumbled upon this one tabloid talking about him and Tallya. Is she another Anna Nicole Smith? Mercy thought as she read the article. According to the gossip rag, Benjamin had really fallen for Tallya, because she was the first woman he ever took in to reside with him in his twelve-million-dollar house along with his butler, maid, cook, and chauffeur. Benjamin was nice to Mercy and treated her like royalty while she visited. He persuaded Mercy to work out with his trainer, utilize the pool and tennis courts. Just like any good houseguest, she did, but she didn't want Tallya to think that she was getting too comfortable.
She was well on her feet before she decided to go home. She and Tallya had been enjoying each other's company so well that she didn't mind hanging out. Although she and Tallya were cool, she didn't want to wear out her welcome. About a week before Mercy was planning to go back home, she and Tallya were out having lunch poolside.
“Girl, thank you so much for taking care of me,” Mercy said as she ate a forkful of the albacore tuna salad that the cook had prepared.
“That's what family for,” Tallya replied. “Especially big sisters. It gave me a chance to be the sister to you I never thought I would be.”
“Well, you're surely making up for it now,” Mercy said. “Thanks for never leaving my side and then having me into your home with your man. Not to mention buying me clothes and whatever else I needed. I truly appreciate it. I never had a sister to really hold me down. I mean, I see Zurri, but only when she needs a few dollars or for me to babysit. So I truly appreciate this.” Mercy gave her a hug.
“Look,” Tallya said, wiping her eyes, “you're going to make me get all teary-eyed.” She then changed the subject. “When I was in the hospital and you were all drugged up, they gave me your stuff from the hotel and I saw your screenplay. I don't want you to think I was being nosy all in your stuff, but I read it.”
“No, no problem, you're my sister.”
“Girl, I read it and—”
Mercy cut her off and asked, “And … ?” like any artist would when they were about to hear someone address their work.
“It was sooo good!”
“For real?”
“Yup,” Tallya said, nodding. Tallya's smile then faded away. Something was troubling her. “Once I brought you home from the hospital, I noticed Benjamin's been keeping late hours, which probably means he's fucking some bitch behind my back and think I don't know. Like I was so busy caught up into you that I wouldn't pay it any mind.”
“You think so?” Mercy said, genuinely concerned.
“It's all good, because it ain't nothing I ain't know would happen eventually.”
Mercy grabbed her hand. “Girl, I'm so sorry you gotta deal with this.”
“Oh, I got a plan, don't worry.”
“Do you need any help? You know I got you. You want to beat that bitch. What?”
“I got something else in mind for his old ass. But I do need you for real. We need each other. Fuck all dem niggas. It's about us. I know we were separated, but we can never lose each other again. We've got to be there for each other no matter what. We got to make sure we okay, because when the dust settles, we gotta be the last two standing. You know that's how Daddy would have wanted it.”
“I feel you. Now let a sister in on the plan. But can I ask you something first?” Mercy said with a puzzled look on her face.
“Go 'head.”
“What does any of this have to do with my script?”
“Look, your script is hot. Let's take that shit straight to DVD. You don't even need to waste your time with no big distributors like Miramax, Sony, and shit. Shit gets bootlegged to DVD anyway before it even hits its second week at the box office. I'm going to get the money from Benjamin, start my own straight-to-DVD production company, and we gonna Thelma and Louise this shit. Get us some real money so if Benjamin or any other nigga want to fuck around, we can roll out!”
Mercy was starting to get high off of the excitement and determination in Tallya's voice. “Let's do this shit, then,” Mercy said as she reached out to shake Tallya's hand.
Over the next few days, Tallya incorporated her company, Bermuda Triangle Entertainment. She had a contract drafted to purchase Mercy's script, and before Mercy got on her plane to go home she had in her hand a check for fifteen thousand dollars of the thirty-five-thousand-dollar advance. Mercy felt good knowing that she had money in her pocket and had found someone who believed in her work enough to buy it from her. She thought she would never come down off the cloud she was on. Her dream was finally turning into a reality; her script was going to be produced.
Making a movie was harder work than Mercy could ever have imagined, but it was fun, too, and she learned from the pros. The professor at the school where she had wanted to take classes had looked over Mercy's script for her. He even offered to put her in touch with a director who could give her some pointers. Mercy soaked up every bit of information she could about the movie industry. She learned how a writing credit alone sometimes isn't enough. It's always good if directing and producing credits can be incorporated—that way, there is a paycheck for writing the script, a paycheck for directing, and a paycheck for producing. Now Mercy understood why actors always fought so hard to get producer credits. It didn't mean that they necessarily produced anything, but it did mean they got another check.
In order to put everything she was learning to work, Mercy started out assisting the folks that Tallya had put on payroll. Mercy was amazed at how helpful everyone she met was. It seemed like they all wanted to be known for helping this unknown talent get on her feet. It was as if they knew she was going to be something big.
The director who was giving her pointers gave her the phone number of Pete, a retired line producer in New York, who said he'd come out of retirement for one more job. Mercy didn't even know what a line producer was, but pretty soon Pete had helped her hire a camera operator, lighting director, sound crew, and an editor. A local assistant director came on board and brought some production assistants with her.
The crew was pretty easy to find. Once they all read the script, they couldn't wait to put their skills to work, but casting was another story. Mercy wanted to use unknown talents, because Tallya said they didn't even have enough money to pay for D-list actors. Mercy knew that there were plenty of unknowns out there with a raw unearthed talent, just waiting to be given a chance, just like her. All she had to do was find them.
Tallya, Mercy, and Chrissie, who had volunteered to help out with the casting calls, traveled from Richmond to Atlanta, finding just the right actors for the parts. They found a beautiful young woman named BoNita Numeya to play the lead female. She was so eager to have the part that she offered to do it for free, but Mercy insisted on paying her even though Tallya was willing to take the girl up on the offer.
&nb
sp; “If we don't pay her something, we'll regret it in the long run,” Mercy told Tallya. “I don't want to get known for being too cheap to pay my actors!”
“And I don't want to get known for being too broke to pay actors!” Tallya argued, but Mercy prevailed, paying BoNita a modest stipend.
Finally they were able to start shooting. Mercy read every book she could find on the ins and outs of shooting a movie. She still continued to absorb every piece of advice she could get from the film director she had first contacted as well as every member of her crew.
“It's your vision,” the camera guy said to Mercy. “You tell us what you want and we'll get it for you.”
They put in fourteen-hour days and worked six days a week, and at the end of four weeks, shooting was over. They couldn't have been more lucky that BoNita Numeya wasn't a diva, but just a hardworking girl who needed a break. She didn't mind the crazy long hours and the short pay. One actress tried getting out of hand, and Mercy fired her on the spot. That may have had something to do with Ms. Numeya's humble obedience.
“I don't have the time or patience for people who can't act like professionals,” Mercy shouted indirectly so that the other actors would take the girl she had fired as an example. Easy come, easy go. The same way that chick would be replaced, they could be replaced too.
In just a couple of months, Mercy had gone from being a dope runner to a scriptwriter and film director. She wished they had more time, but every day of shooting cost money, and fortunately they were able to shoot the whole thing right in Richmond, straight in the hood, which enabled Mercy to easily find plenty of extras. Although the film was done on a tightly tied shoestring budget, Mercy pulled it off just like she always did.
Then the big night came. The editors had finished doing their job, and Mercy, Tallya, Benjamin, and Chrissie watched the rough cut in Benjamin's media room.
At the last fade to black, the four of them sat quietly for a moment. Then Chrissie screamed and Tallya jumped up in excitement and Benjamin pulled out a bottle of Dom Pérignon while the girls danced around.
“Ms. Jiles,” Benjamin said as he proceeded to pop the cork, “I think you have a hit on your hands.” The champagne cork shot across the room.
“Benjamin, I think you're wrong,” Mercy said. “We have a hit on our hands.”
“Hear! hear!” Benjamin said as he poured them each a glass.
Mercy sat back and indulged in the taste of the Dom. It was official—she was on her way. For so long she had fought her way through the jungle trying to find a path to lead her out of it. Finally, she had located the path. The only thing was, was it the path leading her out of the jungle, or deeper into it?
CHAPTER 21
G-2
The Richmond jail was a city within itself. Just like the streets of Richmond, it was split up into sections. There were three main housing units within the jail: E, F, and G tiers, each occupying three separate floors. E pod was for the kitchen, school, trustees, and a few others. F pod was mostly for the guys north of the James River, and G pod was for the fellas from the south side. The open dormitory-style G-2 housing unit had eighty beds, but 140 bodies resided within its walls. There was one television, at best two working clock radios, five telephones—one of which was almost always guaranteed to be out of order—and one community shower with three spigots.
G-2 reeked of a foul indescribable odor: a combination of sweat, musky balls, armpit odor, feces, and other unidentifiable scents. It was basically hell on earth. As soon as a man walked through the door, it was survival of the fittest. If he wasn't strong physically or if he didn't have some street credibility or know someone who did, if he was lucky, he might get to sleep on the floor and keep his commissary. If he was unlucky, he got his stuff taken and the shit beat out of him. Or even worse. Some would rather check themselves into solitary confinement than go to F and especially G units.
The characters residing on G-2 were even worse than the living conditions. It was basically five kinds of guys residing on G-2. There were guys that were “no-hope” cases: guys usually sentenced to forty years to life whose next stop was to live among the living dead for the rest of their lives in the penitentiary. Their only way out was in a coffin. Then there were the “doomed” cases: the ones who were simply doomed for their own foolish reasons. They were too comfortable in their present situation, as if the jail was home to them, and they depended on what their bullshit-ass court-appointed attorney said was law. That kind would never take a trip to the law library to see if they were being sold out or what the actual guidelines were on his case. Instead, they spent their time playing cards, fucking faggots, wrestling, joking, making wine, and getting high like it was all good. Then there were the “penny guys” who had a small bond but no one would bail out because they'd burnt so many bridges. The fourth kind were the timid guys who feared for their lives and would do anything for protection. Last was the minority, who were sharp in all dimensions: the streets and the penal system. These were the ones who wanted to understand their case and wanted to prepare themselves for their defense or whatever their hand called for.
Cleezy sat at the stainless-steel table on the G-2 housing tier kicking it with his man, Ty They appeared to be homeboys since the sandbox, but in all actuality they had just met only a month ago while both were doing time down at the city jail. A lot of bonds and relationships are made and formed behind prison walls. Cleezy's and Ty's was just one.
“Man, I hope this fucking lawyer comes to see me and lets me know who the motherfucking snitch is on that motion of discovery,” Cleezy said.
“When did he file it?” Ty asked, so that he could calculate how long it should be from the date of the filing to when Cleezy's lawyer should be visiting him.
“Shit.” Cleezy paused to think. “It's been 'bout a month now.”
“Yeah, that nigga should be coming down here, because it takes 'bout that long to get them back. I think it takes 'bout twenty-one days, plus he's got to get it in his hands and look it over. He should be down here any day now.”
“I'm going to call my girl and see if she heard anything from him.” Cleezy got up to walk over to the phone to dial Paula. A lame on the phone saw Cleezy waiting for the phone and didn't recognize that he needed to get the fuck off. See, Cleezy and his clique on the tier had a phone open at all times for them. No one was to touch that phone unless they got permission from someone in the clique to use it. Permission was only given for important calls, a lawyer call, or someone trying to make bond—and that was decided on a case-by-case basis.
“Yo, who let you on this phone?” Cleezy shouted.
He waited for a few seconds, and when he had just about decided to bust the lame across the head, he was distracted by a loud voice screaming, “Laundry.” It was the CO.
Cleezy called out to Ty, “Yo, get my shit, too,” as Ty headed for the catwalk—the space between the cage and the window where the guards make their rounds—so they could switch out their laundry without the fear of being attacked by the inmates.
Once Cleezy put his clean linen on his bunk, he and Ty sat at the back in the cut and jawboned about who had fucked the bad-dest bitches until chow was called. Cleezy ran and grabbed his knife and headed for the door. Some of the other inmates had the homemade shanks—a metal spoon with the top broken off and filed down—but Cleezy had a six-inch fold-out buck knife. Although the jail officials had it set up where each pod was supposed to go to chow separately, the deputies sometimes fucked up. And when they did, Cleezy had to be good and ready for beef. So just as most people never left home without their American Express cards, he never left out of G-2 without his shank.
In most jails, correctional centers, prisons, or penitentiaries, the chow hall was usually the place where fights went down. The other place was the rec yard. Before Cleezy walked to the chow hall, he ran upstairs to holla at a few brothers on G-3.
“Yo, Cleeeezzzy” one of his homeboys called out to him.
“Wha
t up?” Cleezy said.
“Man, niggas up here saying that one of yo' niggas giving you up and shit.”
“What?” Cleezy said, stopping in his tracks.
“That's my word, my nigga.”
“Naw, not none of mine. Niggas just talking because I ain't got nothing but straight soldiers on my squad.”
“I just wanted to put you up on coversations those jokers putting down. Get P to come and see you tomorrow, because my people coming.”
“Just tell yo' people to call Paula so they can work that shit out, but I got you, partner,” Cleezy said, knowing what time it was. That was another thing about the beefs. The visiting rooms were the only place where guys from all the buildings were not segregated, so most of the time guys from the same set tripled up in the visiting room, having their family come at the same time so they wouldn't be in the v-room alone, left to get jumped by another set.
Although this was Cleezy's first bid, his brother had been in and out of jail and had always been deep into the game. Silently observing how Lynx did his, Cleezy pretty much handled the prison politics like a seasoned vet. However, on the inside it bothered him that he didn't know his destiny or who the snitch controlling his destiny was.
As Cleezy exited the chow hall, he saw a guy carrying his gear and mattresses. The guy had just gotten processed into the jail. He looked kind of familiar. Cleezy knew that the guy was probably snitching because he was coming back from the federal penitentiary. Cleezy hoped and prayed that the clown came to G-2.