Chapter 16

 

From Monroe projects Jahad was taken straight to Central booking where he was charged with two counts of first-degree murder, fingerprinted, then escorted to a small interrogation room. The walls, originally painted beige, were dullish yellow stained by years of cigarette smoke. Two metal foldout chairs set around a square wooden table across from a one-way mirror that Jahad turned his back to; feeling he was being watched.

For nearly 2 hours he sat handcuffed to an iron rail thinking nothing of his charges. He couldn’t, the picture of Janet in the arms of Hector was lodged into his memory, prohibiting him to think of anything else. The initial shock and pain was over. In its place a cold numbness, and passionate hatred for the Coco Twins and Janet. It consumed every inch of his being. He was so he caught up in his thoughts he never noticed when the two detectives walked in. The first through the door, a tall white man around 35 with strawberry blond haircut close to his scalp. The other, a average size Puerto Rican pushing 50, his long black hair graying at the temples was pulled back into a ponytail.

“Jahad Copeland, I’m Detective Page,” said the white cop, “And, this is my partner Detective Lopez. To make this simple, we’re about to ask you some very important questions and we expect some answers.” He reached in his shirt pocket and took out a pack of Marlboro‘s, “Smoke?”

Jahad ignored the offered cigarette, “I can’t help what you expect. I ain’t got shit to say to you. My lawyer will do my talking.”

“That’s your right, but a lawyer won’t help you,” Detective Page said, pulling out a chair while Lopez grilled Jahad hostilely. “We have an eyewitness who will be more than willing to testify that you murdered the two men in building 1835. He also gave us information that makes you an accomplice to the murders at PS 100 School Park. So most likely you’ll be charged with the murders of those two officers too. And before you get to thinking that Lateef Wilkins plans on going down by himself, get it out of your head, this is a one shot deal, right here. Tell us what happened before he does and we will see that you get some help when you go to court.”

At the mention of Razor’s name, Jahad’s heart began to race, then he thought about what was said and realized they were trying to get a confession out of him. “Help me? You’ll be helping me when you let me call a lawyer.”

“Since you wanna be a smart ass, let’s see how you like it in bullpen two.” Detective Lopez spoke for the first time in a harsh raspy voice.

Jahad had no idea what bullpen two was until he was dragged to a bullpen no bigger than 20 x 20 feet, crowded with Puerto Ricans. Before tossing him in without taking off the handcuffs, Lopez yelled in Spanish that Jahad was in for murdering fellow Puerto Ricans. This led to the worst ass whipping he ever took in his life. Every able-bodied Puerto Rican commended to beating his ass no sooner than the detectives walked off. With his hands in cuffs the attempts he made to fight back were futile. Five minutes later, the longest five minutes of his life, he was dragged from the bullpen, bloody and badly bruised, and placed in another bullpen, full of drunks and drug addicts. The nauseating smell of shit, piss, and unwashed bodies lingered in the air like fog, as he crawled to the back of the bullpen finding an empty spot near a sick heroine addict.

For the first time in his life he felt totally helpless, but he refused to feel sorry for himself. He fed off the pain and forced himself to think, plan, and prepare for what lay ahead. It wasn’t hard to figure out who the detectives eyewitness was, which meant Cream had to be dealt with. Once that problem was solved, he could devote his time to planning his revenge on the Coco Twins and Janet. For now though, his main concern was getting back on the street. He was still brainstorming when a guard called him from the bullpen and led him back to the interrogation room where detectives Page and Lopez sat waiting.

“This is the last chance to help yourself, Mr. Copeland,” Detective Page said, standing to offer Jahad a seat, “cooperate and will see that you get a good plea-bargain.”

Jahad looked at both men scornfully, making no attempt to sit, “I’ll tell you what you can do for me. Suck my dick!” He yelled.

Detective Lopez shot out of his chair and slammed a fist into Jahad’s stomach. You’ll regret it, you Moreno bastard! Trust me, you’ll regret it!”

~~~~

 

Hours later, handcuffed and shackled, Jahad was led outside by three police to a blue, orange, and white bus; his transportation to the notorious Riker’s Island.

From Eric, he had heard numerous stories how life was one the Island, now he was about to see firsthand. Fear bubbled in his stomach imagining what he was about to face, then as quickly as it came he pushed it away. Regardless of the circumstances he would hold himself down. This he was sure of.

The bus stopped at different booking houses on its way to Rikers, picking up prisoners who looked just as miserable as Jahad. The only difference was his battered face. Eventually he dozed off, exhausted from the days events, and the ass whipping he took, waking when the bus stopped in front of the third, fifth story building once they were on the Island. Correctional officers escorted the prisoners from the bus, inside to a bullpen to await dorm assignments. Ten other prisoners were already inside standing around waiting to go to court.

“Ayo Jah!” Someone called out from the rear of the bullpen after the Correctional Officers walked off.

With his left eye swollen shut, a flat lip and speed knots lining his forehead, Jahad spun around expecting another fight. Instead he was greeted by his fencer Budda. To be close to forty, Budda could easily pass for being in his mid twenties. His face and head were hairless except for the neatly trimmed goatee shaping his thick lips and although he was short, his build was thick, framed with muscles.

“Budda?” Jahad said, looking him up and down with his good eye, “What the hell you doing in here? I just saw your ass a few weeks ago.”

Budda smiled showing his one gold tooth, “Nah, what the hell you doing here? Somebody fucked you up good.”

“Yeah, like 50 Puerto Ricans beat my ass at Central booking.”

“Word? What happened?”

Jahad nodded to the back of the bullpen where no one was standing and motioned for Budda to follow, then related what happened starting with the Coco twins. When he finished Buddha reached in his sock and pulled out a long handmade ice pick, then spit a razor from his mouth. “Take these ‘cause you gon’ need ‘em. Let me put you on to something too, when you get to your dorm put down a demonstration on one of them Germans so niggas can see how you rock. Do . . .”

“Germans?” Jahad asked confused.

“That’s what we call Puerto Ricans on the rock ‘cause it’s so many of them muthafuckas. Now listen, niggas are drawn to strength, not sayin’ you gon’ be around some weak dudes, but when the time comes, when some Germans try to move on you, and trust me, they will, niggas might hold you down. So handle your business.”

“I’m sayin’, for what reason would some Puerto Rican’s wanna move on me? I ain’t did shit to ‘em.”

“For the same reason they got at me, the Coco Twins. Those muthafuckas got long arms.” Budda replied knowingly, “You know this German they call Man-Man?”

Jahad smirked, “Yeah I know scrams, or knew him. He’s dead.”

Budda smiled, “Good, he’s a fuckin’ rat. That’s what I’m doing here now. We were beefin’ over some stereo equipment I sold him, that no good bastard tried to get me; and you know how hard I hustle for my shit. So I robbed his ass, caught him coming out of his building and he turned around and put the damn cops on me on the low. They busted up my whole operation. Five days after I was here, the Coco Twins put the word out and this happened.” He turned so Jahad could see the long scar that ran from the top of his head, down to the bottom of his neck. “Three of them bastards ran up on me when I was in the shower, so keep your eyes open. After what you told me I’m sure they gon’ want you dead and these crazy ass Germans won’t mind doing it.”

“No doubt. What up with you tho’? You outta here or what?”

“I should be. They only got me on a possession of stolen property wrap.”

“If you touch get up with Tone and let him know Cream is on some bullshit and to handle that.”

Budda frowned, “You talking ‘bout pretty ass Cream? That’s you man right?”

“That’s what I thought, until he brought some Puerto Ricans to my moms crib to body me.”

“Get the fuck outta here! That bitch as nigga. If Tone don’t handle it, I will. That’s my word!”

Not too long after, Budda was called out for court; Jahad was orientated, seen by the medical staff, then escorted by two Correctional Officers to his sleeping quarters in C-74. Before leaving Buddha explained how the use of the phone worked. Three phones were in the sleeping area; one for the blacks, one for the Puerto Ricans, and a neutral phone usually controlled by the Puerto Ricans also. Phone time depended on three things, who you knew, how well you fought, and how well you used a razor, knife, or ice pick. Since he was beefing with Puerto Ricans Jahad’s mind was made up to take their phone. Walking through the Sallyport leading to his dorm, adrenaline rushed through his bloodstream at the thought of what he was about to do. As he stepped through the entrance of his sleeping quarters, he stopped and took in his surroundings. The phone’s Budda spoke of were to his right, next to the showers. On both sides, to his left and right, cells lined the wall, eight on the left, nine on the right. A few people stood outside their cells talking, some posted up in the back of the dorm, all watching Jahad as he walked in. Jahad went straight to his assigned cell, ignoring their probing stares, stored belongings he had, then stepped from his cell to make his announcement.

“Ayo! Who phone time is between four and five on the German phone?” He called out so everybody could hear him, masking his fear with a straight face.

Instantly all the attention was his, even those who were in their cells peeked out at Jahad, who now stood in the middle of the dorm. A second later a huge Puerto Rican walked from his cell near the telephones. He stood close to 6’5” and weighed 300 pounds, if not more, with his long black hair braided in two long braids.

“I run the phone period. You said that shit like you plan on taking my shit or something. You think you built like that?” The Puerto Rican asked, closing the distance between himself and Jahad.

Jahad took a few steps back so he couldn’t be seen by the Correctional Officer who stood in the control booth overlooking the dorm while adjusting the razor between his fingers. Through his peripheral vision, he noticed that two of the Puerto Ricans had stepped clear of their cells, watching him closely.

“Nah Duke, it ain’t like that. All I’m sayin’ is I need to rock the phone around that time.” Jahad clutched the razor between his thumb and index finger, “I mean, if that’s a’ight...” He swung the razor opening the side of the Puerto Rican’s face as soon as he stepped within striking distance.

Surprisingly the Puerto Rican didn’t even flinch and try to spit a razor from his mouth, but Jahad, acute to his move, swung a hard left hook that connected flesh to his jaw. Thinking off the ass whipping he took earlier at Central booking, rage took over. Jahad grabbed him by the collar of his wife beater and started ripping his face, repeatedly, releasing mounds of built up fury. After about 15 swings he dropped the razor and threw a series of left and right hooks until the Puerto Rican fell to the floor convulsing, the side of his face looking more like raw hamburger meat.

Still caught up in his own rage, Jahad turned just as the two Puerto Ricans who stood outside their door ran towards him. He quickly snatched the ice pick from his waistline and squared off, forgetting all about the odds, “Bring it muthafuckas.”

Taking notice of the deadly intent in Jahad’s eyes, the two Puerto Ricans froze. This was only one of the reasons they stopped though. Behind Jahad, without him knowing it, four black dudes stood; all holding pocketknives, giving the two Puerto Ricans the same deadly look.

“The German phone is mine now! Whoever was rockin’ on it is dead until you come see me. Whoever don’t like it, see me now!” he shouted, then walked to his cell, still on his adrenaline high.

A few minutes later, a tall slim brown skinned dude with Strong West Indian features, wearing a black Ralph Lauren jean suit, his hair braided in four thick cornrows approached Jahad’s cell, “Ayo, Carlos, the German you just chopped up, is caked up. If I were you I’d clean his room out before the CO’s flood the spot...by the way, that was some pretty work you put in.” He smiled, showing two rows of gold teeth with Buck town engraved in red stones.

Jahad studied the guy for a second to see if he posed a threat before replying, “What room was Duke in?”

“Ten, right beside the shower... what’s your name, where you from?”

“Jah, from the boogie down... you?”

“Jah, I heard that name before, I’m that nigga Sha’” He said with a slyly grin, “East New York, Cypress projects.”

“So you a Brooklyn nigga, huh?” Jahad returned the grin, “How is shit poppin’ off in here?” He asked, looking out his cell catching hostile glares from the Puerto Ricans who had gathered around Carlos.

“Get your shit first, then we can build. I want to introduce you to some good niggas too. Oh yeah, don’t sweat those Germans. They won’t fake no moves since Carlos is out the way.”

Jahad nodded as Sha’ walked off, thinking, Riker’s Island was no different than Spofford. Different place, same rules: Only the strong survived. A motto he lived by.

A smile lit his battered face when he entered Carlos’ cell. It was cluttered with food, clothes, sneakers, and an assortment of jewelry. Two Cuban link chains, one gold, one platinum, both with diamond crusted crucifix medallions, to gold bracelets, three gold diamond rings, and a platinum pinky ring. The clothes were all made by expensive designers, Polo, Pelle Pelle, Sean John, Rocawear, Phat Farm jean suits, Gucci, Louis Vuitton velour sweatsuits, Iceberg sweaters and jeans, four pair of sneakers and two pair of Timberland boots. It took three trips to transfer everything to his room, and he took everything including the thick beach towels. On his last trip, he found a box of Gemstar razors and an ice pick stashed in a pair of construction Timberlands. The ice pick he tucked in his waistline along with the one he got from Budda, then made his way to the back of the dorm where Sha’ stood with three other dudes smoking weed.

“You get right?” Sha’ asked.

“Hell yeah, Duke was caked up for real... good look.”

“No doubt.” Sha’ said, turning to the guys he stood with, “These are my mans, Star, Lord, and Prince... this wild nigga here is Jah from the Boogie Down.”

Jahad nodded, taking in their appearance. Star was the shortest, standing 5’7” in his beef and broccoli Timberlands. He wore an army fatigue suit with Congo dreadlocks hanging to the middle of his back and shaping his baby face. Lord, dressed in a brown Timberland hoodie, Pelle Pelle blue jeans, and a pair of wheat colored Timberlands was the biggest weighing a solid 240 pounds, all muscle, an even 6 feet with a short haircut. A long scar ran from his temple to his chin, results of a knife fight his second day at Rikers. Prince, the pretty boy out the bunch, reminded Jahad a lot of Cream, but there was nothing soft about him. He and Jahad stood around the same height and size, but where Jahad was dark, Prince was high yellow, with a short curly Afro. He wore a white Louis Vuitton sweatsuit, white Nike Air One’s, looking like he was ready to strut across a catwalk. Sha’ went on to explain that Star was from Queens, Forty Projects, Prince from Harlem, Wagner Projects, and Lord from Brooklyn, Bed-Stuy.

“What happened to your face dog?” Star asked looking at Jahad’s swollen eye, “I didn’t see Carlos get nothing off.”

“Some Puerto Ricans got at me at Central Booking.”

“Oh word!” Lord chuckled, “Now I see why you chopped Carlos ass up. Damn, they beat the shit outta you Sun,” he passed Jahad a lit blunt still laughing.

Jahad screwed up his face, “That shit wouldn’t be funny if twenty muthafuckas jumped your ass. I’m lucky, they didn’t body me.”

Lord laughed even harder.

“At least you got your face back.” Prince said punching Lord who was seized by a fit of giggles, “Keep your eyes open tho’, those Germans are some sneaky ass dudes.”

Sha’ gave his friends a thoughtful look, then turned to Jahad, “Ayo, peep it, we be holdin’ each other down in here. We saw how you get busy and it’s like this, you hold us down, and we hold you down.”

Jahad looked at them suspiciously, “You know, I’m feelin’ that, right, but what’s the catch?”

“No catch.” Sha’ held up his hands, “We’re official niggas, you seem like an official nigga and official niggas should always hold each other down. At least that’s how we see it. I mean, to keep it real with you, you probably won’t last another day in this muthafucka with these Germans without somebody watching your back. Especially after that shit you did to Carlos. So we can make you stronger and you can make us stronger; feel me?”

A crooked grin spread across Jahad’s face, “Yeah you made a good point. Since it’s going down like that, let’s bus’ these down.” He pulled the box of razors from his back pocket.

“Nah, you keep ‘em, we got crazy guns.” Star pulled out a Barlowe pocketknife, with a six-inch blade. Sha’, Prince, and Lord followed suit, pulling out their knives.

Jahad laughed, “Shit, fuck the razors, I want one of them.”

They all laughed.

By this time the Puerto Ricans had dragged Carlos to the front of the dorm so he could get some medical attention. For any of them to even mention what happened meant an automatic death sentence, being they would be labeled snitches. The word alone meant death.