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Thursday morning, Crook was released from the hospital into police custody. He was arraigned and held without bail pending trial for his alleged barbershop murder. Upon arriving at the CFCF intake medical unit, nurses wanted to house him in a hospital wing because of his broken ribs and a punctured lung, but he refused, electing to be housed in a maximum security wing set aside for murderers.
CFCF was gladiator school, and survival of the fittest was an understatement. Inmates had access to cigarettes, drugs, cellular phones, and the occasional knife. For the right price, sex was on the table. Crook wanted in on all of this action and no parts of the hospital wing. CFCF was not new to Crook, who hadn’t been swept under the rug by a lengthy bid, but he had frequent admission miles on “The Road” because of the many times he was housed in one of the five county jails on State Road fighting case after case over the years. His last trip had been for eleven months when he had ultimately beat gun possession charges.
Sitting at one of the tables, he stared around the D1-2 unit un-phased by the idea of being back in jail, this time for an unbeatable homicide. A correctional officer said, “Lenox Oakley, you’re in cell twenty-four,” over the PA system.
Crook walked to the cell, tossed his bedroll inside, and came back out into the dayroom to see who he knew. After surveying the room, he made his way to the telephone hoping it had been activated for his use. He dialed his baby mother’s number and got no answer, so he decided to call Lamar.
“Wassup, playa, I been expecting your call,” Lamar said, accepting the call.
“Ain’t shit, li’l nigga. I just got out the hospital today,” he said touching his wounds lightly. “But, I’m straight, though. You know me, I still got my chin up, chest out, and my shoulders dropped back like the G I am. This ain’t ‘bout nothin’.”
“Good. Good.” Lamar laughed. “That’s what’s up.” Staring down the barrel of a life sentence seemed like something to Lamar. Hey, if you like it...
“I need you to put the full court press on niggas, you feel me?”
“Yeah, I already know.”
“Drop some money off at my folk’s spot, too.”
“I got you, my nigga. I’mma be laying low for a while. It’s hot as shit out this joint,” Lamar stated, shaking his head.
“I already know,” Crook mumbled. “Don’t let the block go to waste. Tighten shit up.”
“No doubt. I’m on it. This shit gotta get some order.”
“And quick.”