HERO
J. F. Gonzalez &
Wrath James White
First Digital Edition
December 2009
Published by
Bloodletting Press
3732 Havenhurst Ct.
Modesto, CA 95355
www.bloodletting-press.com
[email protected]
Hero © 2009, 2008 by J. F. Gonzalez & Wrath James White
Cover Artwork © 2009, 2008 by Alan M. Clark
All Rights Reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Prologue
The nurse stood above the young boy watching his heart beat and his lungs expand and contract through a large surgical incision that went from his upper chest to his abdomen. All the critical veins and arteries had already been cauterized, stapled and sutured. The surgeon had left just minutes after finishing his last cut to attend to other patients, leaving her to close the incision.
There had been a drive-by shooting on Columbia Avenue. Five teenagers had been shot not including her patient. Two of them were already in the morgue. DOA. The other three were in the adjoining operating rooms. She could hear them screaming. There had been seven other shootings that night. A typical Saturday night. She’d barely had time to wash the blood of one victim from her hands before the next was wheeled in. It was like being a battlefield nurse. West Philadelphia, like South Philly, and North Philly, had become a warzone.
Only when the ER was busy like this did the doctors leave the nurses to close up their patients for them. Plus, they trusted her. She was one of the best ER nurses on the staff, next in line to be head nurse. She had never lost her cool, never been overwhelmed by all the blood and death and gotten emotional like some of the other nurses. She had always remained in control, professional, calm and efficient, if somewhat aloof.
She stood above the boy holding the needle, the cat gut and surgical staples. The anesthesiologist had already packed up and left as well. There was only one other nurse in the room, counting sponges and towels to make sure that none of them had been left inside the patient.
The boy could not have been much older than sixteen. Already he had gang tattoos covering much of his upper torso like a Yakuza body suit. Only these were not of ornate dragons, samurais, or koi, these were a confusion of tombstones, guns, biblical passages, crucifixes, quotes from hip hop songs, and names and pictures of dead friends and past lovers. He was a walking billboard for the thug lifestyle.
Interspersed between the tattoos or directly in the center of some crudely drawn skin art, were bullet and knife wounds, and surgical scars, some weeks old, some years old, and three that were brand new, newly stitched, along with the latest incision still gaping wide where the surgeon had gone in to remove several bullets and stitch his intestines back together.
The boy’s arm was in a cast from where a bullet had shattered both the radius and ulna in his forearm. The nurse had seen him before. She had helped put the plate in his arm that was now holding his shattered bones together as they healed. She could even recognize her own stitches among his many surgical scars. He was a frequent flyer, a regular customer.
Just weeks ago he’d been on this exact same table, the victim of a drive-by shooting. She’d done her duty then and helped put him back together. Now he was back. Only this time, he was the shooter. He’d been shot by the police as he’d tried to flee the scene. The other teenaged criminals and innocent bystanders she could hear crying out in pain from the next room and those who had ceased their crying and now lay cooling to room temperature in the post mortem room, were all his victims. She had helped give him life so that he could take the lives of others.
The nurse picked up a scalpel from the tray beside the table. She looked to see where the other nurse was…back turned, still counting sponges…then she dropped the scalpel into the open incision. She began to hum as she slowly stitched the wound closed, wondering how long it would take before the scalpel in the boy’s gut cut him open again. All it would take was for him to move the wrong way and he could puncture or lacerate some internal organ or artery. She wondered how long it would take him to die from internal bleeding. Or whether he would die of infection first. She hoped it would happen far from the hospital. She hoped it would happen before he could pick up a gun again.
The nurse finished stitching up her patient. She turned to the other nurse who had now completed her inventory and was mopping blood from the floor and throwing away all the bloody gauze.
“He’s all done now. You can take him to his room.”
She walked out of the room and into the hallway.
“Nurse! Nurse! We need you over here! We’ve got a hemo pneumo. He’s drowning in his own blood!”
The nurse turned to look at the patient, another gangbanger as heavily tattooed as her last patient, same cornrowed braids, same gold teeth, no older than seventeen; they could have been brothers. He was convulsing on the gurney as two EMTs attempted, unsuccessfully, to apply pressure to the wound in his chest and staunch the flow of blood. She could hear the boy’s lungs sucking air into his thoracic cavity. She could hear the bubbling sound as his chest cavity filled with blood and air, slowly collapsing the lungs. She turned and walked away.
“Nurse! Where are you going? He’s dying!”
She turned and smiled at the two EMTs.
“Good. One less to worry about. I quit.”
Chapter One
Adelle Smith watched quietly as North Philadelphia whizzed by the limousine window as if her life were flashing by. These were the same streets she was born on, the same streets where she’d lived her entire life. She watched the landscape morph from one of emaciated crackwhores and teenaged murderers and drug pushers strutting brazenly along the sidewalk, glaring defiantly into her window, to one of quaint shops and cafes and businessmen and women in wrinkled suits scurrying home after a long day at the office. Young couples dressed up for an early dinner and a night on the town. Many of the professionals dashing about in suits and ties were the same age and color as the ones she’d passed further up Broad Street in sagging jeans with pistols in their waistbands. The world had changed so much since she was young.
Even the couples walking arm and arm with ear to ear smiles and love sparkling in their eyes were a mixed bag o
f White, Black, Asian, and Puerto Rican, in various combinations. She saw as many Black men, young and old, with White women on their arms as she did with their own kind, and that was certainly a change. In her day a mixed couple couldn’t go anywhere without being harassed by both Blacks and Whites. Lynchings may have been before her time, but beatings, stabbings, and even shootings were still pretty common. No one would have said a thing about killing a Black man for corrupting the virtues of a young White girl. She’d seen many brothers killed for less. A Black man’s life wasn’t worth an ounce of spit back when she was a young girl.
A Black police officer drove by laughing out loud with his Italian partner. Adelle smiled.
I guess this is progress, she thought.
There were Black police officers here and there back when she was young too. But only in the ghettoes, and they were never that comfortable with their White partners. They were most often quicker to crack a Black skull to impress their buddies in blue than the White cops were. They overdid it trying to fit in, which made them an even bigger menace.
She watched a mixed couple cross the street, the overweight White girl dressed as if she’d stepped right out of one of those hip-hop videos, cornrows, baggy jeans, FUBU shirt and all, with her African American boyfriend clinging to her as if he were afraid someone would try to steal her from him.
“I guess.” She sighed, shaking her head. She wasn’t sure this was exactly what Dr. King had in mind. Then again, she was never a huge fan of King. She always thought he was too soft. She preferred Malcolm X and, later, Huey Newton, Bobby Seale, and Stokely Carmicheal, men who didn’t wait around begging for their freedom and equality but were prepared to take it at any cost. There weren’t any men like that around any more. Even Farrakhan was soft in her opinion. A whole lot of talk, but not one bill passed or law ratified by anything he’d done or inspired. In her day they made changes. They made laws and changed laws. There weren’t any Black leaders like that nowadays.
They approached City Hall and Adelle remembered when she’d gone on field trips there when she was a kid. One of the boys in her class had told her that you could walk all the way up to the top of William Penn’s hat just like the statue of liberty and she’d been disappointed when she hadn’t been allowed up there. Even back then she was sure it had something to do with her being Black. To this day she still wasn’t sure whether or not you could really walk all the way up there. One day she’d have to find out.
The driver rolled the partition down that separated the passenger seats from the front seat and smiled back at her.
“We’re almost there. I have to tell you it is an honor to have you in my car. You have always been one of my heroes.”
“Why thank you, young man.”
She was still not used to being looked at as a hero. Back in the sixties when she was out there marching and protesting for her rights she was called a great many names and hero was definitely not one of them.
“Let me ask you something, did you really try to kidnap a judge?”
“That was a long time ago,” Adelle said. The memories flashed by, both good and bad. Reliving them, talking about them with this young White man who was so obviously interested in hearing about it was certainly something she never thought would happen. “You know how stories get exaggerated, ‘specially when they’s that old. We were young and crazy and desperate for our freedom back then. As I recall, we were just staging a sit-in, but a few of the brothers had pistols so things got a little misinterpreted. It wound up being one of the longest police stand-offs in Philadelphia history. All because we wanted someone to listen to our complaints about the way police were beating up and killing everybody.”
“Were you scared?”
“I tell you, I was scared to death! I was only twenty-two years old. I hadn’t even graduated from college yet. All I could think about was that if the police didn’t kill me, my daddy would. It’s hard to believe that was over forty-five years ago.”
“Is that how you got started with the Civil Rights movement?”
“That was my first protest. I didn’t think then that it would be the start of a lifelong crusade. Just between you and I, I was really just going along to get out of classes for a day. I never really was fond of schooling. I only went to college to make my daddy happy. I was going for a Business degree. I never graduated, though. After spending two years in jail fighting those kidnapping charges I sort of lost interest in becoming anybody’s typist or secretary. I was too pissed off.”
The driver laughed. Adelle smiled. The driver hadn’t even been born when all of that took place, yet he still considered her his hero. But that didn’t surprise her nearly as much as the fact that he was White. She had to admit, this was definitely a better world. She made a note to add a little comment about what it felt like to be driven here in a limousine by a White chauffer to her acceptance speech. She thought it might be best to leave out anything about all the Black men she saw with White girls on their arms. White people might still be a little upset about that, as well as a few Black women.
“Congratulations on receiving the NAACP award tonight. It’s about time.”
“Well, there were a lot of people who did a lot more than I did. I knew they’d get around to me eventually.”
They rounded City Hall and cruised down the parkway. The sun was setting and the city lights looked to Adelle like Christmas lights. It had been so long since she’d been in Center City. She couldn’t remember it having so many tall buildings and so many lights. She felt like a kid as she pressed her face against the car window and craned her neck to see to the top of the buildings. Last time she’d been in Center City, City Hall had been the tallest building and you could see the top of Bill Penn’s hat no matter where you were. Now the Rouse towers completely blotted old Bill from view.
The limousine pulled up outside the Four Seasons Hotel. As it slowed to a stop, Adelle gathered her purse and coat. The limousine driver exited the vehicle and opened the door for her. As Adelle stepped out she was greeted by a sea of eager faces. Cameras flashed. She was a little taken aback at first, and for a moment the headache she started experiencing earlier that afternoon came back full force, then dwindled back to a dull ache. A familiar face and voice was at her side instantly. “Come on, momma, this way.”
“Tonya,” Adelle smiled as she grasped her daughter’s hand. “I didn’t think you’d be able to get off work.”
“And miss this? You gotta be kidding?” Tonya Brown smiled at her mother as she led her through the crowd. One of those smiling faces belonged to Ernie Grover, an old friend from the days she’d just been talking about to that young limo driver. Ernie had been involved with the NAACP for over thirty years now.
He stepped forward and took her elbow. “Let’s get you through this crowd,” he said.
As Ernie and Tonya ushered Adelle through the crowd and into the lobby of the Four Seasons she asked her daughter how things were going. “Oh, you know. Same ‘ol same ‘ol. I’m overworked and underpaid, same as everybody else.”
“Least you have a job,” Adelle said. Tonya worked as an administrator for a banking firm and held a degree in finance.
“Oh, I know,” Tonya said as they escorted Adelle down the hall. “And I’m not complaining…it’s just tough to get away from the office sometimes.”
The hallway in the lower floor of the hotel was filled with people. They were all dressed to the nines in smoothly tailored suits and dresses. The men looked handsome, the women were beautiful. Some of them began applauding her as she was led past. Ernie nodded at some of the people they passed by, his grip on her elbow protective yet loving. “CNN sent a crew to tape the awards ceremony,” he murmured softly. “Local news is here, too.”
Tonya gave her a quick hug. “This is so exciting! I’m so proud of you, momma!”
They were at the double doors to the banquet hall now. Adelle felt a slight flutter in her stomach as Ernie opened the door. She’d given dozens—no, hundreds
—of speeches since the 1960’s, and she still got a little nervous before facing an audience. It was something that would probably never completely go away.
As Ernie led Adelle and Tonya to their table he said, “We’ve got twenty minutes before the ceremony starts. You doing okay, Adelle?”
“I’m as good as I’ll ever be,” Adelle answered.
Ernie held her chair out for her like the gentleman he was and sat down beside her. Brian Swanson, head of the local NAACP chapter in Philadelphia was already seated at their table and he flashed Adelle a warm smile. “So good to see you, Adelle!”
Adelle smiled.
The rest of the evening flew by in a whirlwind.
* * *
It was very late when Adelle Smith arrived home.
She let herself in her simple two-bedroom apartment, locked the door behind her, threw the deadbolt in place, set the award she’d received a few hours ago down on the end table and took her coat off. She sighed as she slipped out of her shoes. She’d left the living room light on as she always did to give the appearance she was home, but in this neighborhood that no longer mattered. She’d heard of a few home invasions occurring in this area and she’d taken the necessary steps to protect herself. She kept a loaded Bulldog .45 semi-automatic handgun in the upper drawer of her nightstand and a Sig Sauer 9 millimeter handgun in the magazine rack in the living room. The firearms were a necessity. Thirty years ago she wouldn’t have dreamed of using them. Back then, she had the physical capability for self defense and had done so when put in the situation. Now she was old and tired, but she was still a crack shot. Thankfully, she never had to use the weapons. Besides, she was very well known in the neighborhood. Even the gangbangers who hung out on the corner of Broad Street and Columbia Avenue showed her respect.
Hero Page 1