Abuse of Discretion

by Pamela Samuels Young

  I don’t know what to do. I want to defend myself, but my dad gave me strict instructions. If a cop stops you, don’t say a damn word.

  Officer Fenton bumps my thigh with his knee again which makes me flinch. “Look, Graylin, we need you to be honest with us. If you do, we can cut you some slack.”

  Even though I wish he wouldn’t sit so close to me, at least he talks nice to me. Still, I keep quiet.

  “According to the report we received,” Mean Cop continues, “you’ve been going all over the school showing people a naked picture of your classmate.”

  Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “No, I didn’t! Somebody’s lying on me!”

  Of course, I’d planned to show the picture to my best friend Crayvon, but you can’t go to jail for something you were only thinking about doing.

  “If you have the picture on your phone,” Officer Fenton says, “just be truthful about it and we’ll see what we can do to keep you out of trouble.”

  They must think I’m stupid. I do what my dad told me to do and keep my mouth shut.

  Mean Cop pounds the table with his fist, making me jump two inches out of my chair. “Where’s your phone?”

  I still don’t answer. Everybody has the right to remain silent, even kids.

  “I said where’s your phone?” Mean Cop repeats.

  I hide my hands underneath the table, so he can’t see them shaking.

  Officer Fenton pats me on the shoulder. “C’mon, Graylin, you seem like a good kid. I bet you make good grades, don’t you?”

  I nod and start to tell them I got honors certificates in math and science last year, but I figure they still won’t let me go. “My dad”—I start to stutter—“my dad told me not to talk to the police without his permission.”

  “Why don’t you help us out here?” Officer Fenton says. “We really need to see your phone. We’ll take a quick look and if there’s no picture, we’ll send you back to class.”

  A squeaky voice comes out of my mouth. “It’s…it’s in my backpack.”

  As soon as the words are out, I want to kick myself. Now I’ve just lied to the police. Again.

  “And where’s your backpack?”

  “In my locker.”

  “Why don’t we go with you to your locker, so you can get it?” Officer Fenton says.

  “My dad told me not to talk to the police without his permission,” I say for the third time.

  Officer Fenton frowns. “This is a very serious matter, son.”

  Mean Cop thumps his fingers on the table. “Why don’t you just—”

  The voice of Young Thug singing RiRi fills the room.

  Ah-ah-ah work

  Do the work baby do the work

  Tonight baby do the work baby do the work.

  When I hear my ringtone, my stomach lurches up into my throat. I’m about to throw up the oatmeal I had for breakfast.

  Mean Cop scrunches up his face like a WWE wrestler. “Did your daddy also teach you to lie to the police? Give me the damn phone!”

  I shakily pull it from my pocket and set it on the table.

  Officer Fenton picks it up, taps the screen, then looks over at me. “What’s the password?”

  I stare down at the table.

  “I said what’s the password?” Now he’s turning mean too.

  “LeBron forty-three.”

  “For your sake, young man, I hope you’re telling us the truth.”

  I keep my eyes on the table. A bead of sweat falls from my forehead into my eye, but I don’t wipe it away.

  “Why’re you sweating?” Mean Cop says. “You afraid we’re going to find that naked picture?”

  After a couple of minutes, Officer Fenton looks at Mean Cop and shakes his head. “Nothing in his photos or texts. I only see a few recent emails. Nothing there either.” He sets it back on the table.

  Mean Cop grunts. “Let me look.” He stretches one of his short arms across the table and grabs my phone.

  He taps the screen a few times, then starts smiling. “Well, well, well, what do we have here? Looks like you forgot to check his deleted pictures, partner.”

  Mean Cop holds up my phone and shows me the picture I thought was gone forever. A warm trickle of pee runs down my left leg.

  “You’re quite the little liar, aren’t you?” Mean Cop yells at me. “Where’re the rest of the pictures?”

  “There aren’t any more,” I stutter. “That was the only one I had.”

  “Did you take it?”

  “No.”

  “You lied about your phone being in your locker, you lied about having this picture, and you’re still lying now!”

  “My…my dad”—I can’t get my words out—“my dad told me not to talk to the police without his permission.”

  “When your daddy told you that, he didn’t realize you’d be in this kind of trouble. If you didn’t take this picture, how’d it get on your phone?”

  “Somebody sent it to me.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  My throat hurts and it feels like somebody’s pressing down on my chest. If the table wasn’t in the way, I’d hug my knees to my chest.

  Mean Cop pulls out his handcuffs and dangles them from his finger. “Stop lying and tell us the truth,” he barks. “If you don’t, you’re going to jail.”

  CHAPTER 4

  The Shepherd

  If you have to do time, Seagoville Federal Correctional Institution outside Dallas—or The Low as we call it—isn’t a bad place to spend a few years.

  I’m in the yard, sitting at a picnic table, gazing down at my chess board, contemplating my next move. The sun is shining and the birds are chirping. The only thing spoiling this day is the heat. The Texas humidity is thick enough to butter a roll.

  Marty Geller, a pudgy, ex-hedge fund manager, sits across from me. Everybody calls him Wallstreet. Few guys go by their real names at The Low. A full name is too much information to give up to just anybody. I only know Wallstreet’s full name because he’s my cellie.

  The opportunity to rub shoulders with the criminal elite is what I like most about The Low. We have our fair share of low-level drug dealers and con men, but there’s also a guy on my floor who’s a Harvard grad convicted of embezzlement and a couple of doctors who wrote too many illegal prescriptions. When this is all behind us, Wallstreet and I have already made plans to do a deal or two.

  Once I make my move, Wallstreet shoots me a grin. “You sure that’s the move you wanna make, Rodney?”

  I chuckle. Real names are a no-no around here. Everybody calls me Cali because that’s where I’m from. Saying my real name is part of Wallstreet’s tactic to unnerve me, but I’m not easily rattled.

  I move my queen to the opposite side of the board and wait.

  On the street, I had a solid rep as a strategist. I ran my operation like a business—and not just any business—but like a Fortune 500 corporation with checks and balances. I’m not like most guys who pursue criminal activities. I rarely lose my cool, I respect the concept of patience and I understand that all money isn’t good money. I’m also a college graduate.

  Wallstreet places a finger on his rook, waits a few seconds while he triple-checks himself, then zips it horizontally across the board.

  I taunt him with a smile. “Are you sure that’s the move you wanna make?”

  “You can’t bluff me,” he says. The uncertainty in his eyes undercuts his response.

  I pretend to study the board, then make a move that I put in place three turns ago. “Check...” I like stringing out the words “…mate.”

  “What?” Wallstreet leans in for a closer look, then chuckles with brotherly admiration. “Okay, you got me. You got me good. This time.”

  He starts setting up the board again, but I stand
up. “I need to take a stretch.”

  I begin a leisurely walk across the compound. This place looks more like a private college campus than a prison. Manicured grass, leafy trees, paved walkways. Brick buildings that could pass for college dorms. Cells with actual doors, not bars. But it’s the freedom to roam the place—within limits—that I appreciate the most.

  My given name is Rodney Merriweather, but I’m known as The Shepherd on the street. The feds convicted me of sex trafficking—the politically correct term for pimping nowadays. The guys I associate with at The Low know that trafficking is the reason I’m here. But that’s all they know and I prefer to keep it that way. Criminals have a strange code of ethics. A man can stab his own mother in the heart and get a pass. But some dudes think pimping little girls is akin to being a chomo—the prison nickname for child molesters. Even though my conviction for trafficking requires me to register as a sex offender once I get out of here, I’m not a chomo. I’m a businessman who was smart enough to capitalize on a product that happened to be in high demand.

  Because I had no prior criminal record and no history of violence, my point total—the way the feds determine whether a convict will end up in a low, medium or maximum-security prison—qualified me for The Low.

  I spot my target. Correctional Officer Sims is walking out of unit 5. As I get closer, he gives me an almost imperceptible nod as he walks past.

  That’s the signal I’ve been waiting for. I pick up my pace and head inside the building. I walk to the end of the hallway and open the door of the Education Department, where I work as a copy clerk. All inmates at The Low are required to work at least four hours a day. The minimum wage in federal prison is $5.25 a month. If you have a high school diploma, a job like mine, where I spend my days making copies for the Bureau of Prisons, pays a whopping $100 a month. If you can swing a gig with Unicor, the company that makes clothes for the entire prison system, you can make upwards of two or three hundred dollars a month.

  Old School is waiting for me. He’s a sixty-plus serial burglar from Decatur, Georgia, with nobody who cares enough to put any money on his books. So he hustles anyway he can.

  Without words, he moves to the doorway and acts like he’s talking to me. What he’s really doing is serving as my lookout. If he sees the police—that’s what we call the correctional officers behind their backs—he’ll give me a signal.

  I dash over to the third file cabinet on the north wall and retrieve the iPhone Sims left for me in a folder.

  It was harder than I expected to find a correctional officer to buy off. But after bonding with Wallstreet, he introduced me to C.O. Sims. Like any working man, Sims has bills to pay and mouths to feed. I have needs too, like decent food, Michael Kors underwear and regular access to a cell phone. It was well worth the two grand. I had one of my guys wire the money to a special bank account Sims set up in his brother’s name.

  I dial Willie’s number.

  “How’s the new project working out?” I never offer a greeting. Willie knows my time is limited.

  “I found a new guy who can get to work on it right away. Everything’s in motion.”

  Willie’s been running my trafficking operation since my arrest. Prior to my hiatus, he handled security at my now-defunct strip club, City Stars. I promoted him to my second-in-command out of necessity, not because he has the requisite skills for the job.

  “You doing much advertising?”

  “Yeah. I practically announced it from a bullhorn.”

  That makes me smile. I can see Dre Thomas now. Cowering someplace wondering when my guys are coming for him, never anticipating my bait-and-switch move. Before we get to him, we’re actually snatching his niece Brianna for a second time.

  The man brought all of this on himself. He should’ve been grateful to get the kid back and moved on. Instead, he had the balls to testify against me in court. And for that, he’s going to pay.

  “Sounds like you have everything under control. How long before the project is operational?”

  “A few days at the most.”

  “And the new guy is somebody you trust, correct?”

  “For sure.”

  “How’s the other business working out?”

  “Like butter, baby.” I can almost see the smile on Willie’s thick lips.

  He’s referring to my Birmingham operation. After the feds shut me down, I shipped the few girls I had left down south.

  Once we snatch Brianna, she’ll be headed there too.

  CHAPTER 5

  Dre

  Two of the people I trust most in the world are kicking it at my crib right now.

  Mossy is sitting on my couch, while I’m slouching in an easy chair across from him. My cousin Apache is standing with his back pressed against the door. Every few minutes or so, he lifts the edge of the curtain covering the picture window and peers outside.

  “I’m telling you, man, it’s all over the street,” Apache says. “It ain’t no bluff. The Shepherd put the word out. He wants you dead.”

  A long, braided ponytail runs past his shoulder blades. He earned his nickname because of his Native American features: bronzy skin, shiny, coal-black hair, and a bold, fearless demeanor that defies his small stature.

  “I’m hearing all of this,” Mossy says, his face drenched in disapproval, “but I ain’t hearing no solutions.”

  My buddy is a large, chunky dude who sports a smooth, bald head like me. Mossy is a careful guy. He prefers to analyze all the pros and cons of a situation before making a move. “So what’s the plan?” he asks.

  Apache grins eagerly. “The plan is to kill his ass. That’s the only way to shut him down for good.”

  Mossy smacks his lips. “Man, how you gonna take out a dude in federal prison?” He glances my way for confirmation that my cousin’s statement is crazy.

  When my eyes meet his and Mossy realizes I’m on board, he retreats.

  “C’mon, man, I’m all the way down with having your back. But I ain’t trying to go down for no murder.” He hooks a thumb toward Apache. “And certainly not with this cowboy.”

  “Ain’t nobody going down for nothing,” Apache says. “I know how to handle my business. If you wanna punk out, the door is right over there.”

  “Dude, you’re full of—”

  “Hold up!” I shout. “This ain’t helping. We’re just talking. Considering our options.”

  This whole scene feels like deja vu. We convened here after Brianna went missing. We were successful then and we’ll be successful this time too.

  I understand Mossy’s reluctance about working with Apache. So if he bails on us, I won’t hold it against him. My cousin can be a bit of a renegade. He’s likely to ignore any agreed-upon plan and go off on his own tangent. But Apache does have his strong points. He knows the streets of L.A. and has both direct and indirect ties to the criminals who run them. More importantly, he’s the most loyal, fearless dude I know. When somebody he cares about needs help, Apache transforms into a flame-retardant super hero, willing to run naked into a blazing building.

  “We should’ve taken him out when we had the chance,” Apache complains. “I could’ve caught his ass walking into that courthouse and busted a cap right in the middle of his forehead.”

  “That would’ve been a real smart move,” Mossy says.

  I rub the back of my neck and slowly twist my head from side to side. In stressful situations, tension always settles deep in my neck.

  “Whatever we do,” I say, “we have to be smart about it.”

  Apache nods his agreement, then takes another surreptitious peek out of the window.

  “Why you keep looking outta that window?” Mossy grumbles.

  “For The Shepherd’s dudes. We don’t know when they gonna strike.”

  That reality sends another spasm through my already-tight neck muscle
s.

  “You know he’s still running little girls from prison, right?” Apache says.

  My head jerks up. “You serious?”

  “As a heart attack. Shep’s got a whole new trafficking operation down south in Birmingham. He also owns a bar over on Central called Craps. The dude who used to own it was going bankrupt. Shep bought him out and lets him work there. The dude’s name is on the paperwork, but it’s really all Shep. Ain’t that a mother?”

  “Where’s Gus?” Mossy asks.

  Gus is more like Mossy, a rational, out-of-the-box thinker. But if somebody pushes his button, Gus can be even more volatile than Apache.

  “Graylin got into some trouble at school,” I say. “Hopefully, Gus’ll be here any minute.”

  Mossy nods. “As much as he’s paying to send Graylin to that private school. I hope he ain’t down there screwing up.”

  “Naw,” I say. “That boy’s college material for sure. I wish some of his smarts would rub off on Little Dre.”

  “So back to the problem at hand.” Apache’s focus is solely on The Shepherd. “The first thing we need to do is go on the offensive.”

  Mossy’s about to say something when my phone rings. I grab it from the table and start moving toward my bedroom. “It’s Angela. Give me a minute.”

  Before I can say hello, Angela’s excitement gushes through the phone. “Did you get my text? When can you come look at the house? It’s a three-bedroom on Edgehill. It’s so cute.”

  I suck in a deep breath.

  “Dre? Are you there?”

  “Yeah, babe.”

  “The real estate agent has two other people interested in it. So we have to act fast.”

  My fingers tighten around the phone. “Can’t do it today.”

  “Okay, what about tomorrow morning?”

  I count off five long beats. “We’ll see.”

  “We’ll see? What does that mean?”

  I love black women. They can transition from syrupy sweetness to outright indignation at the flip of a switch.