KEBA, BEING THE HOTHEAD SHE WAS, GOT INTO AN argument with a classmate. In the melee, the gun had fallen from under her arm.
“Nah . . . leave her go . . . it’s my gun!” I yelled as I raced back to the scene.
The officers handcuffed me and searched the truck. My heartbeat pelted against my chest.
We made that drop the other day. So I’m cool, these cops ain’t got anything on me. They can book me for gun possession. I’ll be out in the morning.
They reached for a laundry basket that was in the trunk. An officer smiled. He waved his partners over. Tucked in the laundry basket, wrapped in towels, they found three kilos of cocaine. They hauled me down to that juvenile detention center once again. This time felt different though. No one had to tell me that my chances had run out. It’s like gambling. I kept on playing the slots until I lost. It isn’t rocket science. It’s a game of probability. And the odds were telling me, Not this time, buddy. You lose.
All the trouble I had caused smacked me right in the face. I sat in the cell thinking about Fudge’s lessons. I thought about Old Man Booner and Junior. Why didn’t I listen? I was already getting beat up by regret, then Pearl and my stepmother showed up at the same time to get me out of the center. As much pain as I had caused Pearl, she never gave up on me. I gave up on myself. A mother’s love is long-suffering. A mother is always the last person to leave her son’s sentencing, the last one in the room when her kid’s life is evaporating due to complications from AIDS after a life of drugs and prostitution. Mothers never give up on their kids. A bell goes off when their offspring is hurting. It rings when their baby boy is stressed-out during his final exam in college. Fathers aren’t built with the same chip.
Son, I’ve carried you as far as I can. I’ve given you a map, but the rest of the journey is up to you. You’ve seen me suffer from the bullshit decisions I’ve made. Hell, that’s how I ended up with you. Don’t be stupid. God speed.
Isn’t that messed up? Most black boys begin with a cracked compass. It points you south when you’re supposed to be going north. Now you’re stuck in the marshes with alligators looking at you crazy.
What, nigga? You’re in our swamps. Don’t get it twisted homey. You get a pass this time.
Pearl and Lynn showing up at the jail was a disaster waiting to happen. All hell broke loose. They began fighting and caused all sorts of mayhem. I must be the only juvenile in Miami-Dade history who got stuck in the detention center because the people coming to pick him up got into a fight. Pearl had lost custody of me and she wasn’t having it. It didn’t matter how rotten a seed Maurice Young had become. I was her rotten seed. But Mama couldn’t save me now. I had to weather this storm alone. It’s like Wood said. This is grown man’s business.
I spent twenty-one days in lockup waiting for the courts to decide whom I should be released to. I sat there in that cell thinking my life was over. I used to bite at my fingers until the flesh bruised. My cellmate had to point it out before I noticed my bloody cuticles. All those times I fired my gun I wondered why I didn’t get hit. The afterlife had to be better than this sorry one I was living. Surely my life couldn’t have got any worse than it was already. I cried inside but no tears came. It did get worse.
He paid me a visit. I had seen this guy before. He was a white cat, rather portly fellow. He was at Santana’s warehouse on occasion and often cruised the strip in his gray Porsche. He was never much for words, just stared at me like he knew something I didn’t. Or at least that’s the way he tried to come off, all serious and enigmatic. He wore an Armani suit like a glove. Maybe Italian or Jewish, I couldn’t tell, but to a young kid in the Beans, a blue-suit-wearing white guy hanging with a Cuban dope king and kicking it in the Beans meant one of three things. He was either coming to the projects to get high, had a fixation for black hookers, or was the one calling the shots.
I was wrong. He was Santana’s lawyer. My respect for Santana grew by the minute. That hustler came to America, got folks these sides all coked up, and had the white boy doing all his dirty work. He didn’t strike me as a lawyer at first, but now it all made sense. He was hanging around the projects to keep watch over Santana’s workers. Like I said, we were slaves on a cocaine plantation. We didn’t know just how big America’s crack problem was becoming. I had no idea the war reached beyond our street corners. Reagan put us up on that. America had put Manuel Noriega in Miami federal prison because of the powder. I think Noriega was using the drug proceeds to better his country. The U.S. government couldn’t get a piece of the proceeds so they locked him up. It’s all a game, and brothers get locked outside when the real decision makers are in the boardroom.
Santana’s lawyer was a buffer. For a price he could bamboozle the justice system into an innocent verdict for Al Capone. He only came by to see if I was scared because Santana thought I may have snitched. I was a dead man walking if I did. At my age it was easy for me to crack. The cops already had me in that interrogation room. They played bad-cop, good cop. “Look, kid, we know the coke ain’t yours. You were just out there trying to take care of your family.” The soft approach was routine. “I grew up in the same projects. I know how it is.”
Do you? Do you know how it is to walk with holes in your shoes until your feet blister where jigga worms reside? The other kids at school call you Pearl’s food-stamp baby. You shoot at boys who look like you because these realities make you hate yourself. No disrespect, Officer, but things sure have changed since you left the Beans.
They offered me McDonald’s and any other treat they thought would sucker me into giving up the man, but they had already lost the war. The powder had given kids a chance even if the outlook was bleak. I sat there for hours and ignored their advances.
“Did you know the dope was bad? Did you know your fairy godfather was ripping you off?”
I smirked, a rare show of emotion.
“Oh, yeah, your connect’s been robbing you guys blind. Been stretching the product.”
Damn. All this time I noticed fiends had been coming to me complaining about their high. I even drew my fire on a couple of those who got in my face. They had good reason to be angry. The dope wasn’t coming back. When coke goes out, it’s supposed to drop. We were already not getting a lion’s share of the profits although we took the most risks. Now I found out that black fiends weren’t even valued enough to be served quality coke.
Life is ironic though. If I didn’t go to jail that day, I’d probably have been dead that night. The package was to be delivered to one of Miami’s other dope kingpins, who didn’t take kindly to being ripped off. God works in mysterious ways I guess. I couldn’t see it back then to understand this divine intervention during the worst of times. I was staring down my future with a handful of rotten eggs.
I still didn’t give up any names. That wasn’t part of the rules of engagement. It was against the G code. It might sound crazy to the civilized world, but a person will never understand if he or she hasn’t walked that road. My crew had families. They supported younger brothers and sisters. I couldn’t jeapordize their well-being because I got caught up in some shit. Each world has its principles. I made this bed, now I had to sleep in it. Even if it was laid out next to those I chose to avoid in this life for my own sanity.
The cops gave up. “It’s your ass, kid. Sleep tight in the pen.”
The lawyer sauntered in after they left. He checked my temperature. “How we holding up?”
“I’m cool,” I answered.
“Seriously, how are we holding up?” This time he peered into me. He dug deep into my core. In that moment, my life hung in the balance. Every decision one makes definitely has consequences.
“Look, y’all ain’t got to worry about me. Just leave my family out the shit,” I said.
He was out of there faster than I could say ’bye. Just like that, my time had run its course. Some other young, hopeless kid would push their product. Finding new workers was easy given the other economic options in Miami.
My family completely washed their hands of me. I had brought too much drama to everyone. I knew I hit rock bottom because folks reached the point at which they were tired of my very sight, like a rash that won’t go away. My presence caused a bad taste in everyone’s mouth. I was the pariah. I was permanently put out the house. I stayed with Tronne the weeks before my sentencing. His mother, who we called Ms. Fish, was always good to me. She always took me in when I got kicked out. Even when she was advised otherwise, she took me in. I could see where Tronne got it from. His mother had a heart of gold.
My rap sheet already reflected I was a career criminal. Society could have done better without the likes of me. At that moment I realized why some guys killed themselves. It’s so easy to throw in the towel.
At the arraignment the judge’s tone was much the same: “Once again you’re in my courtroom. Time and time again you’ve been given chances, but you’re determined to continue down this reckless path.” He looked at my public defender. “Not surprising that no guardian has showed for your defendant. I would be fed up too.”
I pleaded guilty. It was the best option I had. The judge threw the book at me. He tried me as an adult. I was sentenced to four years in prison for armed trafficking with intent to distribute cocaine. I was only sixteen.
I spent the next several weeks trying to get my weight up, so to speak. Anyone in the juvenile detention center who tried me, I dealt with. I heard stories from the older hustlers who revolved in and out the pen when they came home. They advised on making sure one’s reputation was trunk tight before going inside. Guys in my hood would do a bid like they went on vacation. The same way suburban kids are destined for college, prison was inevitable for us.
My transfer out of the detention center took longer than expected, but I got ready that morning and prepared for the worst. This was the final stop. I wasn’t dead, so prison was the next best thing. I had a cast on from a broken arm I had suffered in a fight. I was handicapped already.
Anyone who says he wasn’t scared when he went to prison for the first time at my age is a damn liar. I was terrified. Smacking around and firing on a couple rivals on the strip was one thing. Going into a zoo overrun by the men society keeps far away from civilized folks is another. No one inmate is the most dangerous inmate in the pen. One guy in there will garner the most respect, but you better believe every minute he’s in there he’s being tested. If there was a hell, it couldn’t be worse than where I was headed. If there was such a place, it would prove my fear at the time that fate truly loves some and not others.