by Zaire Crown
What she didn’t understand was that for a Michigan inmate the 6.500 Motion for Relief from Judgment was his absolute last chance at justice. It was only to be used after the appealing party had exhausted every other remedy from the lower courts to the higher to the federal level. The 6.500 motion was metaphorically a big gun with only one bullet: if it was granted the courts automatically vacated the prisoner’s sentence, but if it was denied, like in A.D.’s case, the prisoner was left with no more options. To employ a better metaphor, it was a Hail Mary pass.
After taking a minute to explain this to Tuesday, he said, “Baby girl, I ain’t never comin’ home!”
A.D. had natural life and in Michigan it meant just that. Without a governor’s pardon or a special commutation, he would spend the rest of his natural life in prison. After serving thirty years of his sentence, a special review board would examine his case every five years but they rarely, if ever, recommended a lifer for release.
Tuesday felt numb. It was like she was hearing what he was saying but the message hadn’t sunk in yet.
A.D. looked at her with earnest eyes. “You a down-ass bitch! You done had my back for six years out there and held me down for twelve in here—and that’s eleven more than the average bitch would have. But I’m not ’bout to have you waste yo life hoping for something that’s not gone happen. You done already wasted enough money and time on me. I gotta cut you loose now!”
She frowned at him. “Nigga, you don’t tell me what to do with my money or time! And I don’t feel like I wasted any on you. Plus I still can’t believe you just giving up on everythang like that—on yo freedom, especially on us!”
“Tuesday, you just sat here and talked about dealin’ with the reality of shit. The reality is I got life without parole! It’s a good chance I’m gone die in this bitch and I can deal with that. I ain’t boohooing about the time. I can do my bit.
“But I can’t do it here like this with you: in the middle of the D with you comin’ up every week. I’m a nigga who been shot six times but don’t shit hurt more than having to watch you walk out that door while I’m headed back to my cell. I was only able to deal with the shit this long cause I honestly believed I was gone make it out, but now—” He just shook his head. “This is the hardest thing I ever had to do, but I gotta do it for both of us or we’d never let each other go. I had to be the strong one. You gotta move on with yo life out there and I gotta move on with mine in here.”
Although Tuesday had never admitted this to herself consciously, in the back of her mind she always knew this day would come; the day when her faith, optimism or delusion ran into a reality that was as hard and cold as the bars used to cage him in. While she didn’t know much about the law, she knew that a guilty murderer going free on appeal had about the same odds of her hitting the lottery. She also knew that he was right about them needing to let go. This was why Tuesday couldn’t put together a strong argument against what he was saying.
Even though the mood and the moment didn’t seem proper, for some reason she began to laugh. Tuesday just got caught up in a sudden fit of uncontrollable laughter and soon he did too. The others in the room wouldn’t have guessed they were ending an eighteen-year relationship but rather sharing some fond memory—which was in a sense what they were really doing.
Still smiling, she asked, “So you don’t wanna see me no more ever?”
“I’m not gone say ever but at least not for a few years. I’m taking you off my visitor’s list, and like I said, don’t look for me to call or write either.”
The smile waned. Tuesday was looking serious when she said: “Well, you can’t control what I do on my end. I’m still gone keep in touch so you can expect to get mail from me.”
“I’m ripping up all yo letters without reading ’em!” He was lying and Tuesday knew it.
“Now you gotta be the strong one,” he said with a pain in his eyes that Tuesday had never seen. “You gotta get up, walk out that door and hurt me one last time.”
“No. I don’t. At least not yet anyway.” She glanced up at the wall clock. “It’s only eight fifteen, visiting hours ain’t over.”
“Tuesday, just go,” he said mournfully. “I don’t like this long sentimental good-bye shit!”
She sat there stubbornly. “Like you just said. I held yo black ass down for twelve years nigga, you can give me forty-five minutes!” She laced her fingers into his and locked eyes with him. “You still my man until nine o’clock.”
Chapter Five
When Tuesday left the prison, she went straight back to The Bounce and almost wanted somebody to be parked in her spot. The Caddy braked with screeching tires and she slammed the door so hard when she got out that old Mr. Scott, who was standing next door, knew better than to speak to her.
DelRay was on the door but as she walked up he could tell by the color of her eyes and the look on her face that Tuesday was in no mood for games. Everybody who knew her understood that her eyes being gray was a clear sign that she was pissed and not to be fucked with. DelRay just held the door open for her and let Tuesday breeze past without speaking. He didn’t care what she owed him or how smackable her ass looked, he made damn sure to keep his hands to himself.
Inside, Tuesday didn’t throw a glance to the stage or the crowd; she went straight for the bar and took the empty stool. She told Ebony to line up five shots of 1800 tequila.
The bartender thought it was an odd request since Tuesday was only a social drinker, and then never at work, but certainly wasn’t about to refuse her boss. Ebony lined up five shot glasses, filled them and then watched amazed as Tuesday slammed them back to back like a pro. Tuesday had hardly drained the last one when she asked for five more.
After pounding the second round she demanded the entire bottle and a sixteen-ounce glass to take back to her office. In it she sat behind her desk in the dark sucking down huge gulps of Cuervo for the effect rather than the taste.
Even with twelve years to process it, Tuesday still found it hard to believe that one of the coldest, most calculating stick-up men she’d ever known, who had gotten close to half the ballers in the city, would end up doing life over a poker game. At a weekly game in his cousin’s basement, A.D.’s hot streak and trash talk had built animosity between him and a long-time acquaintance named Speedy. A.D. scudded them for sixteen hours in a game that was typically friendly, but on that night was filled with tension and mounting hostility. Things finally came to a head when A.D.’s boat cracked Speedy’s flush, winning him another sizable pot while dealing equal blows to the man’s money and pride. In a weak moment, Speedy called A.D. a “bitch-ass nigga” and doused him with a cup of Hennessy, sparking that well-known Hollister temper. Others around the table watched dumbstruck as A.D. responded by upping his .40-cal and blowing away a portion of Speedy’s skull.
The whole thing was so petty and stupid to Tuesday that even after he was arrested, spent eighteen months fighting the case, and was ultimately found guilty, it still didn’t seem real to her. A.D. had a knack for slipping out of some tight spots whether it was being shot, a car accident, or a run-in with the police; so Tuesday always imagined that he would slide out of this too, a few years lost but wiser for the experience. After dealing with court appearances, prison visits and attorney’s fees for almost a decade and a half, the reality that her man and mentor had thrown his life away for nothing only sunk in that night.
She needed to get drunk. Fucked up.
Five minutes later Tushie came in and switched on the light. She found Tuesday pouring another glass from a bottle half empty.
“Gurl, whut tha fuck you doin’? It ain’t like you ta get faded like dat, especially at work.”
When Tuesday looked up at her, Tushie instantly knew that her girl needed a shoulder and not a sermon so she ran back to the bar to fetch a second glass. She pulled the door closed when she returned, then took the seat in front of her desk.
“So whut we toastin’?” she asked, pouring herself so
me.
Tuesday held up her glass. “The best day of my life!”
Tushie clinked her glass without bothering to ask what that meant. She wasn’t going to press because she knew that Tuesday revealed things at her own pace and in her own way.
So without conversation that was phony or forced, they just sat and got wasted. After killing that first bottle of 1800, Tushie went and got another from the bar. They smoked some more of that kush Tuesday had and neither of them made a sound other than the occasional cough from the good weed. It was moments like this that truly defined a real friendship. While a weaker person might try to pump for answers or spit a bunch of clichéd quotes that have been used a million times and provided no comfort, a true friend knew when to just shut the fuck up and drink. Sometimes more love and support was communicated through a silence than ever could be with words.
They butted the tail of the blunt and were halfway through the second bottle of Cuervo when Tuesday finally opened up about the crazy day she had. She told it in reverse: starting with the split with A.D., then ending with what Dresden had done to her at the motel.
Tushie was the only other one in the group who knew that their silent sixth partner was a dirty lieutenant who treated her girl like his personal ATM and fuck doll. While she was saddened to hear about A.D., it only pissed her off to hear about Dresden. She said, “Gurl, it might be time to get dis nigga up out our mix!”
Tuesday shook her head. “You don’t know how many times I done thought about killing that bitch but we just can’t do it.” The girls were thieves, not a hit squad, and definitely didn’t want the drama that came with killing a cop, even a dirty one. For Tuesday there was only one solution for dealing with Dresden and that was hitting a lick that gave her enough money to get out the game for good.
Tuesday wanted to put Tushie up on the new lick but didn’t want to do so until all the girls were together. She left the others texts about an emergency meeting. Jaye, who must’ve been close by, was there in ten minutes, but it was thirty-five more before Brianna and Baby Doll called back, and then they didn’t show up until an hour after that. They came in together, both quiet and looking equally pissed off to be pulled away from whatever they were doing. With Doll’s sleepy eyes and sweated-out perm, Tuesday figured that she was just somewhere getting fucked.
Once the door was closed and all the ladies had taken seats, Tuesday stood up at her desk. “Hey, I’m sorry for callin’ y’all in like this but something done just got thrown in my lap today that we need to move on fast.”
This was the first time they had ever been summoned to an emergency meeting and they didn’t know what to expect. Plus they could tell by Tuesday’s bloodshot eyes and slurred speech that she was peeled so Bree, Jaye, and Doll looked at Tushie for a clue to all the secretive shit. Since Tushie knew no more than the rest of them, she just shrugged then turned back to hear what the business was.
Trying her best to sound sober and failing, Tuesday said: “First off, I want to apologize again for how bad the Tank thing went. We good at what we do and we worked too hard and too long to only walk away with thirteen racks—it almost felt like we took a loss. We got fed some bad info on that but regardless, I’m willing to take the blame.”
Tuesday went into her desk drawer and pulled out four envelopes. She passed them out to the girls and they found a little bit of money in each one: thirty-two hundred fifty dollars.
“That’s my cut split between y’all,” she said, leaning over her desk. “It’s my way of taking responsibility for what happened.”
Tushie said, “Gurl, you ain’t gotta do dis.”
“Yes the fuck she do!” Brianna snapped, tucking her envelope into a purse.
“Well, now, it’s time to put that behind us and focus on this next thing!” Tuesday fell back into her seat. “We got another job, a big one. The biggest we ever had.”
Jaye looked around to gauge the other’s reactions before she spoke: “Already? It’s kinda soon but long as it make up for the last shit I’m in.”
Tushie and Baby Doll made agreeable comments too; of the girls, Brianna was the only one who seemed skeptical. She made a loud sputtering noise. “Is this comin’ from the same source who put us on Fat Boy? ’Cause if it is, I’m straight! I ain’t ’bout to be putting in four and five months to crack a nigga for less than what I spend in one trip to the Gucci store.”
Tushie smacked her lips. “Bitch, please! Havin’ five pairs of heels don’t make you da shit.”
Brianna fired back. “Bet yo big country ass can’t see my shoe game. Real Prada don’t come in a size thirteen, Boo-Boo.”
Doll giggled and gave her girl some dap.
Tushie stood up. “I betcha my big country ass can see yo shoe game and you, bitch.” She stuck out one of her black Louboutins. “It’s only a size five but it’s gone feel a lot bigger up in yo ass!”
“Y’all bitches, chill!” Tuesday said, restoring the order. Then, turning to Brianna: “And for yo information, I’m talkin’ ’bout a seven-figure lick! Shit, we might fuck around and walk away wit a mil apiece!”
All the girls stared at Tuesday as if she were on some bullshit. There was even doubt on Tushie’s face, who always rode with her girl.
“A mil apiece?” she asked. “Who you got lined up?”
“I said might!” Tuesday clarified, giving them a warning glare. “And this is who we goin’ after.” She reached into her purse and pulled out an eight-by-ten black-and-white surveillance photo that she got from Dresden. She handed it to the girls, who passed it around seeing nothing remarkable about the dark-skinned man in dark sunglasses and a dark-colored suit who was either climbing in or out of the backseat of a dark sedan. The shot was taken from about thirty feet away and in poor light so there wasn’t much about him that could be identified from the photograph.
“So who the fuck is this nigga?” asked Doll, who had the picture in her lap. “And if he so helluva how come we ain’t got at him before now?”
“ ’Cause before now most of us didn’t even think he was real, let alone knew where to find ’em.”
Tuesday had been purposely drawing this out for dramatic effect. She wanted to get a good read on the girls faces to see who would be fascinated and who would be frightened when she finally dropped the bomb. “That’s Sebastian Caine!”
For a full minute after that, the room was unnaturally quiet. The girls seemed to have had trouble processing what they were told. It was like Tuesday had set up some joke and not delivered the punchline. The four of them just sat there looking confused.
This was because each of them was familiar with the story of Sebastian Caine. Everybody knew that he had started off as a real person but for twenty years that infamous name had been entangled in so much gossip and rumors that no one could separate the man from the myth. Whenever a nigga in the game blew up and became major, it was whispered that Caine had made that happen, and whenever one of those same niggas came up dead, it was whispered again that Caine had made it happen. His name was attached to half the murders in the city and put a twinge of fear in the hardest nigga. The stories that were spread about him elevated his status to that of an urban legend. Some said he had moved to Mexico and took over one of the cartels, others believed he secretly owned the Motor City casino and was living in the hotel’s penthouse. Some believed he was in prison, others believed he was dead, then there were those who swore he walked the streets of downtown Detroit at night disguised as a hobo. It was said that he kept the heads of his enemies as trophies and took baths in their blood. The conspiracy theorists believed he was a high-ranking Mason with ties to the Illuminati while those with a religious bent believed that he had sold his soul to the devil or was possessed by Satan himself. Sebastian Caine was a hood nigga’s version of the Boogeyman; while your mind told you he couldn’t be real, you still remembered those stories whenever you had to walk alone at night.
“Bullshit!” Brianna called out from her spot on the couch.
>
“This is the Sebastian Caine?” Doll asked, pointing down to the photo. “How old is this picture, ’cause I heard he doin’ a million years in the fed? I heard they got his ass up under the jail over there in Guantanamo Bay with them terrorist niggas.”
“I heard that nigga was dead!” Jaye broke in. “My cousin said the police killed him a few years back but kept it on the hush. They say they buried him under a different name so his family don’t even know where he at.”
Brianna snatched the picture off of Doll’s lap and studied it with a frown. “This could be any muthafuckin’ body! How do you know it’s really him?”
Tuesday rolled her eyes. “I already knew you would be the one with something negative to say. Why you just can’t take my word for it?”
Tushie wasn’t trying to side with Brianna over her girl but had her doubts too. There was an apologetic tone in her voice when she said: “You gotta picture of a nigga we can barely see claiming it’s a nigga dat ain’t nobody ever seen. I know y’all done had ya little disagreements but damn, even I can see why a bitch would be skeptical.”
Tuesday did understand. Neither Brianna, Jaye, nor Doll knew about Tuesday’s connection to Dresden and she wasn’t about to explain everything that he had told her when she voiced the same concerns to him. Along with the photo, Dresden produced enough evidence to convince her that the DEA thought he was the real Sebastian Caine and that had been enough.
Tuesday explained her position. “The nigga on that picture is either the real Sebastian Caine or some helluva-ass dope boy who just using that name. We not sure which but it really don’t matter. You gotta be doing some real, real major shit to even pretend to be that nigga. If the feds think it’s him, then he gotta be layin’ like that. So whether this is the original or just some nigga frontin’ with his name, we still gone get his ass.”