“Reece, may I have a word with you?” Destiny asked. The bailiff escorting her formed a wall between them. Reece sucked his teeth and turned his back to her.
Destiny understood what that meant. “Look, I just want you to know, I never wanted to hurt you.” Reece said nothing. “I know you hear me, Reece. Please say something!”
Reece swiveled around in his chair, looked Destiny directly in the eye real cold like. “Girl or boy?”
“What?”
Reece pointed at her stomach and repeated the question.
“Boy,” Destiny whispered.
Reece chuckled and leaned back in his chair with his hands steepled. “Don’t worry about this here. I’ll be home no sooner than this is over,” he said. “Maybe I’ll get at you in traffic. Heh, heh, heh.”
Destiny started to respond, but the bailiff cut the conversation short when people started filing back into the room.
Malik Shabazz returned to the table and went over a few points for his closing. The jury filed into their box, and court was back in session.
Malik Shabazz coolly strutted to the center of the courtroom and shot the jury an infectious smile to begin his closing.
During the closing he focused on proof, or lack thereof. He called the government’s escapades a witch hunt and referred to the numerous women who ventured two hours to Raleigh just to see that justice was done for a man who always helped them. His client was a “saint” and should be applauded instead of harassed with aspersions. Malik Shabazz’s word play was so eloquent that even Destiny, who lingered in the back of the courtroom, was almost convinced.
Almost—she knew better, as did juror number six.
In the end it was a toss-up. The facts of the government, or the charisma of the defense.
After an hour of instructions from Judge Epps, the jury finally retired to the deliberation room.
Outside, single mothers picketed with signs reading “Free King Reece” in front of the courthouse.
None expected to receive a verdict within the day, so it was to the shock to everyone when after only an hour, the jury sent word that it was hopelessly hung. It seemed everyone thought Reece guilty of at least one count in the verdict, if not all. Everyone except juror number six, who wasn’t convinced.
Judge Epps recalled the jury and issued an Allen charge, encouraging them to end their deliberation. Thirty minutes later, the jury returned the same note.
When Federal Prosecutor Long observed the cool look on Reece’s face, his suspicions were confirmed. He dialed a number and waited. When his phone rang with confirmation, he requested to see the defendant alone in an anteroom. Reece agreed, but only if they removed the shackles.
Moments later, Reece was led into a room. Inside the room was a huge conference table, a microwave, coffeepot, and a television situated in the corner.
Prosecutor Long stood on the other side of the table with his right foot in a chair, elbow on his thigh. Reece pushed the door close and elected to stand beside it.
Long began talking with his hand by his mouth. “You know, I couldn’t figure out why you were so confident during trial. I mean, I know you people have a lot of pride, but you were just too cool. So about midway through trial, I figured it out. You put the fix in. You spread some of your dirty money around. I knew you would do it, and you proved me correct, although I figured you would bribe the judge. That being so, I prepared a little contingency plan. You didn’t know I was a Gulf War veteran, huh? Oh, yeah, I was. One thing we always emphasized was a contingency plan.”
Long took his foot down off the chair and stood straight up.
“See, you’re smart. I’ll give you that, but you have a weakness. Every man has a weakness.”
Reece sensed Long was stalling for some reason. When Long’s cell phone rang, Reece found out why.
After Long put up his phone, he turned on the television. What showed on the screen made Reece gasp.
Long laughed at Reece. “Behold your weakness, you prick!”
On the screen, Qwess and Doe were being led out of their studio in handcuffs. Across the bottom of the screen the ticker read, Street Rap CE. Arrested on Federal Racketeering Charges. The word LIVE flashed, indicating things were happening in real time.
Long had made his point. “Here’s what’s going to happen,” he said. “Somebody’s going to jail for a long time. Either you or them. You decide.” Long paused to let the words sink in. “Now Qwess, he could probably handle it. This isn’t his first rodeo. I’ve been on his black ass for a while, but could never get him. Now thanks to you, I can! Ha!”
Long taunted Reece, trying to get him to break. “Rolando? He’ll crack, sure as shit. It’s not in him. Inside the joint he’d definitely be someone’s bitch. You know it as well as I do. After all, he is your cousin. Judging from the audio we collected from the wire Agent Hill provided you with, I could easily get both of ’em for accessory to murder, conspiracy, et cetera. And Qwess, I could probably do some backtracking and surely pin a murder on that sneaky bastard! Either way, their lives would be ruined. I can guaran-fuckin’-tee you that. Those pricks would never see another piece of ass, except a hairy one.”
There it was. Long had played his final card.
“It’s on you, King Reece. Some-fuckin’-body’s going to jail! It’s up to you who goes.”
Reece stared at the television. Qwess and Doe were being put into the back of a tinted Suburban by FBI agents. A million thoughts crossed his mind.
“So, what’s it going to be, King Reece? We haven’t got all gotdamn day! Make your choice.”
Epilogue
Nine months later
The annual hip-hop Source Awards were being held in Miami, Florida. The entire weekend was being made into an event culminating into the awards show itself. Everybody who was anybody was in town. Collins Avenue was littered with tricked-out Bentleys, Lambos, Ferraris, and Benzes. Hip-hop was in town. There were other awards shows, but the Source Awards were hip-hop’s own baby. They catered specifically to the urban experience. Therefore, when you received a Source Award, it meant something. It wasn’t a token award given out during an otherwise lily-white ceremony. A Source Award was an award for the people, by the people.
All weekend the buzz was about the best album nominees and best new artist nominees respectively. Everyone was anticipating the artist Maserati to do a repeat sweep again. The previous year he had taken home the honors for Best Album, Best New Artist, Best Video, Best Single, and Hip-Hop Quotable of the Year. This year he wasn’t eligible for the Best New Artist, but he had formed a colossal group of rappers who were.
Their main competition was a solo artist who had taken the rap world by storm. At just twenty years old he had heads worldwide singing his new-age ode to area codes. Maserati’s main competition was the young artist’s label mate and CEO.
The night the award show took place, everyone crowded into Miami arena, which was transformed into an elegant ballroom. The show kicked off with an electric performance from R & B sensation Niya. She licked her lips and wiggled her hips, getting the crowd excited. Immediately after her, another rap nominee performed. The show was kicked off in style.
The master of ceremonies, a veteran comedian, took the stage to crack a few jokes on the audience, then got down to business.
“All right, y’all. We gon’ get to the main awards right now, because from past experience, this show is liable to be interrupted at any time.” The audience laughed as they remembered the show two years prior. “Y’all know what I’m talking ’bout. Niggas—oops, I ain’t supposed to say that, but I did. Ha ha! Niggas be mad ’cause they ain’t win. Stop saying your man rhymes, and you might win somethin.”
The crowd barely giggled.
“All right, all right. I know y’all saying, ‘get on with it.’ So here goes.” He whipped out the envelope. “The nominees for Best New Artist are: The Gangstas for “I be killing ish”; Flame for “Worldwide Ladies”; Lady Treacherous for “My p is
the bomb”; and Saigon for “Queen Spittah.” Damn, the ladies representin’! Fellas you better step your game up. And the winner is . . .”
He opened the envelope up, then screamed, “My man, FLAME, repping that A.B.P.!”
Applause!
Flame sauntered on the stage solo in a white linen suit with the heavy A.B.P. pendant swinging from his neck. He accepted the award and gave a brief speech.
“I’d just like to thank God, my hood family. Fayettenam, stand up!! My managers. And a special shout out to my mans an’ ’em J.D., Fat Black, and Lil J in the bing. Hold ya head high. Tough times don’t last, tough people do. Thank you.”
More applause.
The MC introduced a hot new actress to present the next award. She slinked onstage in a see-through top that showed her red nipples clear as day.
“Um, I’m here to present the next award, which is Album of the Year. So, without further ado, here are the nominees: Maserati for “Pearl Tongue”; Qwess for “Long Live a King”; and J Rize for “New Jeru Souljah.”
The actress opened the envelope.
“Ooh. I just found out that the winner for Album of the Year is also the winner for Best Video, Best Single, and Hip-hop Quotable of the Year. Ooh, a clean sweep! Well, y’all, that person is . . . Qwess!!”
Thunderous applause! Standing ovation.
Qwess slowly walked to the stage with Doe, Flame, and Hulk in tow. When he stepped to the podium, the actress hugged him, whispering in his ear, “Call me.” Then she commandeered the microphone, shocking everyone.
“Um, I’d just like to congratulate Qwess for keeping it real and stepping out to say what needs to be said. In such a fake world, it’s refreshing to find a genuine person. Congratulations, handsome.”
Qwess thanked her and spoke into the mic.
“First off, Alhamdulillah! Without him, nothing’s possible. Thanks to the fans for feeling my pain. Doing this album was really cathartic for me. There was a lot going on in my life, and without music, I couldn’t cope. So, thanks for sharing my pain. To my fiancée, thanks for hanging in there. And most importantly, to my man King Reece, who this album is titled after and dedicated to . . .”
Qwess held up the platinum- and diamond-encrusted crown around his neck.
“You showed the brothers what true sacrifice is all about! May they learn from your shining example. Hold ya head up. I got you, my nigga. I got you!”
Hundreds of miles away in a federal penitentiary in Lewisburg, Virginia, Reece watched the awards in the dayroom. When Qwess called his name, the other inmates dapped him up heavily. Outside the dayroom, on the tier, brothers started chanting: “King Reece.”
Reece was oblivious to it. He eagerly awaited Qwess’s performance. He was performing his single, “Ode to the King.” Reece was excited for Qwess. Seeing him get an award was like seeing himself get one. After all, he made the sacrifice for Qwess and Doe to stay free. A sacrifice he would make again without a moment’s hesitation.
In the end, Reece ended up pleading to conspiracy and getting five years. The federal prosecutor wasn’t happy about it, but it was either that or let him go free altogether. So he went along with it. Reece could appeal at any time. All he had to do was reveal he had bribed a juror. Of course, everyone would believe him because only one juror moved out of state, purchased a new house and car, and was never heard from again . . . although Reece knew where to find him. However, five years was nothing for a multimillionaire to do, so he rode with it.
Qwess was finally performing his single when the CO tapped Reece on the shoulder.
“What?!” Reece barked, irritated with the audacity of interrupting him.
“Here’s your mail.” The CO passed him an envelope. Reece didn’t even look at it until the performance was done. When he did, he smiled.
He knew it would only be a matter of time.
The envelope’s sender read: Katrina D. Hill.
DON’T MISS
Blood Ties
by Shaun Sinclair
Trained to be a Special Forces killer, Leader came back from his tours of duty broke—and near broken. So when the streets came calling, he rose from ruthless hood enforcer to a powerful international cartel’s most feared “cleaner.” And when tragedy hit home, his sensitive son, Justus, turned out to be a natural assassin—and unshakably loyal to his father.
Together they are an unstoppable team who leave no trace behind.... until a mysterious woman from nowhere begins working Leader’s deep-hidden weaknesses. Slowly, she’s exploding all his secrets—and turning Justus’s devotion into a weapon. Now with father and son gunning for each other, survival is down to sheer killer instinct, nothing left to lose—and shattering betrayal only family can deliver . . .
Available wherever books are sold.
Street Rap Page 24