Alibi II (14 page)

“You know Maeleen’s pregnant, right? She done came outside from a long cold winter with her belly sticking out.”

“No, you lying,” said Donna, knowing now that her brother Rev would end up with Maeleen for the rest of his life.

“I seen her yesterday. I meant to call and tell you. Her and Rev is having a baby.”

Donna called her brother from across the street. Rev came over all smiles, just as happy as he could be.

“How y’all feeling on this beautiful spring day?” asked Rev, hugging and kissing them both.

Donna jumped right on her brother for not letting her know that Maeleen was pregnant.

“Yeah, it’s like another miracle ’cause Maeleen’s tubes were supposed to be tied.”

Donna and Beverly looked at each other, knowing that the unimaginable was imaginable with Maeleen.

“Her tubes are tied and she’s pregnant?” questioned Donna as Maeleen walked up on the conversation.

“Rev, you gonna fix the doorknob or just let it fall off?” Maeleen asked, bossing him back to work as usual.

“Yeah, woman, I got that. I’ve got work to do, y’all,” he said, taking Maeleen by the arm and kissing her cheek. “Girl, your skin is so soft it’s like rubbing on a rabbit,” said Rev, rubbing Maeleen’s arm, smiling as if he were the luckiest man in the world.

He ran off and Maeleen, Donna, and Beverly watched him go back across the street.

“Your skin is beautiful, Maeleen. What kind of lotion you be using?” asked Beverly, ready to go out and buy some.

“Ain’t no lotion, I pee in the bath water just like my grand-momma told me to.”

“Aww, Maeleen, tell me you not over there doing that nasty shit,” said Donna, not feeling like hearing this crazy bitch and her bullshit today.

“I’m trying to tell you, all you got to do is pee in your bath water and your skin will be so soft, just like a newborn baby,” she said, smiling and rubbing herself.

“Maeleen, don’t start. Ain’t nobody peein’ in no bath water and sittin’ in it,” said Beverly.

“Well, I do, and that’s why that nigga’s over there right now, waiting to rub on my soft ass, okay? Shit, I don’t know why I waste my time even comin’ over here on this side of the damn street anyway. And I’m trying to help you the fuck out,” she said in her usual manner, cussing them out for the block to hear as she walked down the porch steps. “Oh, but you awake, right?” she asked, turning around and facing Beverly, eye to eye. “How many fingers am I holding up, Beverly?”

“Three,” Beverly responded.

“That’s what I thought,” Maeleen yelled, holding up her entire hand like Ike Turner as she flagged them both, deciding that she didn’t want to be bothered with the two of them.

“Hey, Maeleen, how you feeling today?” asked Uncle Ray Ray, opening the screen door holding a pitcher of half and half.

“I’m all right, how you?” she asked him right back, standing in the middle of the street. She had had a soft spot for Ray every since Beverly was shot and was in the hospital.

“I’m good, I got some ribs in the oven if you want some,” he said, willing to feed her any day of the week. In his heart, he believed that if not for her, Beverly wouldn’t be here today. Beverly thought he was just as crazy as Maeleen and sat there frowning along with Donna as they looked at Ray, Maeleen, and then each other, shaking their heads.

“All right I’m gonna cut me up a chicken and I’ll get some ribs later, Ray.”

Everyone watched Maeleen cross the street and walk back up her own stoop.

“You know she talking about cutting up one of those chickens she got in her backyard, right?” asked Beverly in all seriousness as they watched Maeleen walking down the sidewalk.

“If that crazy bitch don’t go get some Perdue and stop playing with me,” joked Donna, already knowing about Maeleen and all the chickens she kept in the back of her house, in a tiny box space next to the alleyway.

“Mmm-hmm, you sure are friendly with Maeleen, Ray Ray,” joked Donna.

“Don’t worry about who I’m friendly with. I’m just fine. Hey, y’all, let’s play some spades,” smiled Ray, ready to get a game going.

“Come on, you can’t beat me, Ray,” said Donna.

“Shut up, both y’all. You know you lose your dirty drawers coming up against me,” joked Ray as he grabbed a deck of cards off a side table on the porch. “Come on, let me show you who the man is around here. Hit me!”

I
t was February of 2006 and Nard was up for another parole hearing.
Motherfuckers ain’t gots to let me go no god damn where. I’m fine right here, you fucking bloodsuckers.
He spat into the toilet before zipping up his pants, then flushing. Nard stood in his cell talking to himself and thinking about the young man he once was when he came through the doors of Green, seemingly to never be released. He thought back to that dreary, cold, rainy day when he stood before the prison system’s hearing officer, who acted as a judge, and was resentenced all over again. His new sentence was fifteen to twenty-five, just as DeSimone predicted. He would never forget faggot-ass Smitty as long as he lived, Hawk, or Otis, and while he had gotten his revenge on each and every last one of them, revenge had a price. It cost him time. A lot of time, just like that bitch-ass Daisy Mae Fothergill. He wished he could get his hands on her. He dreamed of her every night and thought about her every day. He remembered her on the stand like it was yesterday. He would never forget that day as long as he lived.
That bitch…she fucked everything up. If I could get my hands on that bitch right now, damn!
He couldn’t help but think what he’d do. Flashes of strangling her, fucking her, then strangling her to death over and over and over never went away, and the feeling still hadn’t faded.
At least I got Otis’s fat ass and his faggot-ass crew.
He smiled at his thoughts, remembering the day he whooped Smitty’s ass to death.
Mmm-hmm, motherfucker, that’s what the fuck you get. Payback, bitch.

Smitty had had his back to him as Nard walked into his cell. He had watched Smitty’s cellmate roll out, making his way out to the yard. With his back turned, Smitty never saw Nard coming or his death that was right around the corner. He had just finished using the toilet in his cell, zipped up his institutional khakis, and flushed the toilet when he felt someone in his space.

He turned around quickly, blocking the wooden blade Nard was wielding. With the smoothness of an experienced street fighter, Smitty grabbed Nard’s free hand as he blocked the knife with his other hand. Smitty knocked the wooden shank out of Nard’s hand. He drove his fist into Nard’s small, young frame with an uppercut, to his midsection, but just when he thought he had Nard where he wanted him, cradled on the floor, Nard fooled him and was up again, wooden shank in hand, as he pummeled Smitty and stabbed him repeatedly until he fell to the floor.

Smitty, unable to breathe as blood began to gurgle out of his mouth, lay on his cell floor in excruciating pain, with Nard on top of him like a wild jungle cat, just as his crew walked down the block and saw Nard going in.

“Yo, man, what the fuck you doing?” asked Otis, as he took his fist and knocked Nard in the side of his head. Nard fell on the floor as Otis fell on top of him, landing punch after punch on Nard’s upper body. But Nard had the wooden shank, and he took on Otis and another guy who seemingly came from behind Nard and joined in the fight. By the time Nard was done, Smitty was dead, and he was holding some guy’s eyeball in his hand as two COs were standing in the middle of the block facing the cell, with their guns aimed and ready to fire.

“Drop your weapon and move slowly out of the cell with your hands behind your back,” said one of the COs.

The fighting stopped, and Nard realized that he was covered in blood, whose he didn’t know, but it wasn’t his. He looked down at the men sprawled across the cell. He dropped the wooden shank in his right hand and Otis’s squished eyeball from his left hand, put his hands behind his head, and began to walk slowly out of the cell as he had been instructed. Several correctional officers tackled him. After he was handcuffed behind his back, they dragged him from the floor, with Otis screaming in pain at the realization that his eyeball was gone.

“See if you see that, motherfucker! Huh, I bet you wish you never fucked with me! You lucky I don’t kill you,” Nard screamed, kicking his legs as he was dragged away by the two COs while other officers were assisting the injured inside the cell.

Little did Nard know, but he would be charged with murder and attempted murder and then placed in the hole so long he wouldn’t remember daylight, and for the past twenty years, he hadn’t.

The three men behind the desk in front of him looked at one another as they sat there evaluating Bernard Guess for possible parole. All they were doing was the same thing they had done the last six times he was up for parole, asking Nard the same ol’ stupid-ass questions with a red rubber denied stamp in their hands.

“Are you sorry for what you did?”

No, no the fuck I’m not.

“Why did you kill those two men on Somerset Street?”

Because it was the right thing to do?

“Why did you squeeze your victim’s eyeball?”

So that motherfucker would never see me coming.

That seemed to be why he was continually denied, Otis’s god damn eyeball. Forget the fact that he had killed a man, the parole board just couldn’t get past him squeezing Otis’s eyeball. It ruined his parole chances every time.

Ain’t this some shit? They still harpin’ on that. This nigga’s eyeball could have me in here for fucking ever.

“Are you sorry for what you did?”

No, bitch, no the fuck I’m not. I’m glad I killed Smitty before he killed me and I’m glad I whooped Otis’s ass, stabbed up the other two and squished the man’s eyeball. And if you let me out this motherfucker and I see any of them niggas in the street, I’m gonna try to knock all their eyeballs out their head and squish them again as best I can,
he thought before he responded.

“Yes, ma’am, of course I’m sorry, who wouldn’t be, it’s cost me my life, ma’am.
These white folks is killing me with all these questions. They can just let me go on about my day. I got shit to do in this motherfucker.
And he did, Nard worked in the kitchen, so he always had the extra food for favors. Not to mention a championship chess tournament, and of course, the chess king himself was playing. He looked at the clock on the wall and then back to the hearing officers. They just wouldn’t stop.
Please, white people, please, my chess game is about to start.

All those questions, just wasting time as Nard’s mind wandered back to his block. He looked at the clock on the wall again, feeling so impatient he was ready to burst out of the door and haul his ass back to his cell.
I have got to go. I got a game, man.
He sat with his hands folded in front of him in his lap wearing his state-issued blues as he jittered his leg, tapping his foot on the floor. He had on a pair of dark navy blue pants and a light blue button-down shirt.

“Do you think if you are let back into society you will commit another act of violence?”

Yes, ma’am, yes I will. And that’s my final answer!
He laughed to himself, thinking of his new favorite game show.
Bitch, let me out this motherfucker so we can see.

Every night and every day Nard would search in his mind how he ended up in prison for so long.
That bitch Daisy and her fucking testimony.
Truth was he wasn’t a fool, he could count time. He should have been home back in 1988 instead of being found guilty of murder for Smitty’s fat ass and attempted murder for the rest of those guys, especially after what they did to him. At least he got respect for sitting in that hole for three years and coming out head still strong. The hole can break you mentally, but it didn’t break Nard. Every day he got himself through, every night he dreamed himself freedom. And more than often, he dreamed of the day he’d get his revenge on that Daisy bitch who sold him down the river like a broken-down slave. Had she just given the testimony she was supposed to, he’d never have gone to jail in the first place. At least that’s how he saw it. After being denied parole six times, he never imagined seven would be his lucky number. Two weeks later, his counselor broke the news.

“I already spoke with Ms. Gotling from the halfway house. She said she’ll have a bed ready for you next week. Isn’t that great, looks like you’re outta here on the seventh of February, just in time for Valentine’s.”

His counselor smiled, happy and excited about his release. What could be better than going home? For some reason, Nard couldn’t answer that question. For him, it didn’t feel better. Nard faced his counselor as he stamped some papers, passed Nard a copy, initialed others, and kept moving paper. Nard wanted to join in the celebration, but for some strange reason, he wasn’t elated. He was somber, as if the news was someone else’s and not his own.

“What’s the matter? Why aren’t you happy?” asked his counselor, noticing Nard looked as if he had just lost his best friend.

“I don’t know what to say. I’m a little shocked, I guess.” Nard responded politely. The truth was he was scared to death. He didn’t know what he was going to do. Where he was going to go or how he would take care of himself. Of course he was happy to be going home, to have freedom and to be with his family, but after that, he knew the cold reality of what lay ahead. He had spent the last half of his life in jail, and at forty-two years old, he had no idea what lay ahead for him, and the thought of what life had in store was bleak. He heard guys talking all the time about when they would be released, only to find themselves right back in prison, usually in less than a year. Most of them couldn’t make it out of the halfway house, let alone function in society, and in most cases they ended up right back on the block. Most of the guys said the same thing. No one would give them a job, no one would give them a chance, all because of their criminal record. Especially the violent offenders; they could forget it. No one wanted a violent person in the workplace. Life was already stressful enough, can you imagine having someone who was capable of doing harm, on the job? Absolutely not! And if they were to find work, they would have to lie about their criminal history to get the job. But once the employer did a background search, FIRED! So, there you had it. No job meant no money, no money meant no livelihood, no livelihood meant no reason to care. He went back to his cell, which he shared with a guy named Merlin Watkins. Merlin and Nard had become thick as thieves. Nard was okay with Merlin, even if he did talk in his sleep a lot. That Merlin knew his entire life story. He shared his good fortune at making parole with literally everyone he came in contact with, vowing never to see them again.

The seventh wasn’t far away, just around the corner. Actually the time passed so quickly, Nard wasn’t prepared to leave. He quickly finished packing his box as Merlin helped him. Two correctional officers came to the cell, looked in, and asked him if he was ready. Nard had promised to keep in touch with Merlin, but Merlin knew he’d probably never hear from him again. Nard followed them quietly, taking his last walk down the hall.
I won’t miss it, not one bit. Good riddance!
The correctional officers led Nard downstairs to the discharge unit. He was given his personal belongings and was allowed to change into the suit he had been wearing when he was sent to prison. They cashed a state-issued check for forty-three dollars, which was what they gave every inmate upon his release. And that was it, they were kicking him out.

The time seemed like it had flown by, a long, hard bid, but he couldn’t believe that he had spent the last twenty years locked away.
It’s all that bitch’s fault.
And while the long, hard road of incarceration was now behind him, in his mind, he was still trapped in a cell.

Transferred to the halfway house down in North Philly on Twelfth and Lehigh Avenue, he was led inside by his sheriff escorts.

“Here you go, Ms. Gotling. I got another one for you,” said one of the sheriffs as he signed off on some paperwork, passed it to the woman standing before him, watched as she signed it, then turned and walked away.

“Have a good one,” he said, closing the door behind him.

A ruckus could be heard out in the hallway as Luis, one of the guys who worked at the halfway house, was arguing with a parolee.

“It’s not my fault, man, what do you want me to do?”

“You taking my stuff, that’s my stuff.”

“Hey, Hector, calm down, he’s just doing his job. You know the rules. You got caught and you’re going back to jail,” said Ms. Gotling, tough as nails.

Ms. Gotling was having Hector Gonzales arrested for violating his parole. Hector had been caught with a cell phone. This fool was talking to his girlfriend at one o’clock in the morning. His love for Maria Consquela would now cost him his freedom. Yup, back to jail for our buddy Hector, all because he couldn’t sleep and wanted to hear her voice.

“Please, Ms. Gotling, please, please, I swear to God, please, just one more chance.”

“No, you know the rules. Get him out of here,” she ordered the two sheriffs dressed in green uniforms who were there to escort Hector’s pleading ass right on back to jail.

“Next!” she hollered, like a general leading in combat.

“My name is Bernard Guess, I’ve been transferred fr—”

Nard couldn’t get another word out before Ms. Gotling cut him off. “I know who you are; sit back down,” she commanded as she walked back into the intake office. Nard didn’t know who this woman thought she was talking to but he wasn’t going back to jail, so he sat down as he was told. Ms. Gotling ran him through the procedures at the halfway house and made it perfectly clear if he didn’t have a job in two weeks, he’d be going back to jail.

“Do you understand, Mr. Guess?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Nard, being as polite as any gentleman could be.

“That’s what they all say, and yet I have the sheriff’s number on speed dial waiting to escort all of you back upstate. I don’t understand it. You guys taste freedom and forget you’re still state property. I suggest you follow the house rules or you’ll be just like him, going back to where you came from. You catch my drift, Mr. Guess?”

“Yeah, I catch it,” answered Nard, looking at Ms. Gotling and wondering why no one had found her naked body mangled, tied up, and locked away in a closet somewhere.
Speed dial if you want to, bitch, see how this shit goes down.