Fistful of Benjamins (9 page)

As a female DEA agent was searching me, Detective Boules walked over, his stony face now wearing a look of satisfaction. I rolled my eyes when I saw him coming.

“Didn't think you would see us again, did you?” Boules said snidely. I squinted my eyes into dashes and flexed my jaw.
Fuck you asshole!
I shouted in my head.

“You've been doing this a whole year, missy, and you almost kept getting away with it. Couldn't quite get you on the murder of Mr. Ortega, but watching you distribute drugs was good enough. And, I must say, using you to bring down such a big operation was lots of fun for us cops,” he said smugly. The look on my face must've been one of shock because Boules broke into a full smile, like he was getting a hard-on just watching my pain.

“Oh yes, Ms. Vasquez, those packages you delivered today, every one of them was equipped with a nice, government-monitored GPS tracker. That's right . . . so you took us right to every hot spot in town. We even got the boss—what's his name, Lance Baxter or Big Lance. What an ugly fucker he is,” Boules continued. I just hung my head. What a dummy I was for not listening to my own gut feelings. I had probably single-handedly helped bring down Lance and Luca's entire Virginia Beach operation.

“Yep . . . we followed Lance right to your house immediately after we purposely mixed up your package delivery. We kind of knew that would get him to come out of the woodwork—missing drugs does it every time. You know these ghetto bosses are so predictable. You were a great target to follow too—you never burned us because you are so oblivious to your surroundings. How did you not notice four cars following you for days? Ha! You would think a girl who chose to be a drug-delivery service would be looking around all of the time—nope, not you,” Boules laid it all out. I felt so stupid. Then it happened; I couldn't help it. My stomach had begun to swirl so badly that I just bent over and threw up. The vomit went all over Boules's shoes and the bottom of his pants. He jumped so high he looked like he was on a trampoline.

“Oh God! What the fuck!” he screamed. I was too sick to smile, but I felt at least a little vindicated inside. Right after that I was forced inside of a waiting unmarked police car. I looked out of the window and watched all of the feds swarm like flies to shit over Eduardo's spot.

“Get that mail truck. That's one of ours. It has the cameras inside. If that shit goes missing we won't be able to catch any more postal workers riding dirty. I am not trying to have HQ breathing down my neck about their new toy,” the female federal agent who had searched me yelled out to the other agents who were busy rushing around the truck and the house. I knew I should have never gotten in that truck that day, but what choice did I have? It was either go through with getting arrested, or get killed by Lance or Luca or whomever. I just hadn't realized that it was going to be a little bit of both. The day of the arrest, I had accepted the fact that I might spend the rest of my life in jail. I just didn't anticipate that the drama wasn't over.

W
hen I was led into the pale-brick federal building in handcuffs, I was purposely taken past a row of doors with small glass windows. Inside, I saw Eduardo in one room surrounded by two DEA agents, Lance in another sitting alone, Ant in one with two more agents, and Brick in one acting the fool, yelling and screaming about his lawyer.

Boules was telling the truth when he'd said everyone had been taken down from the packages I had delivered. That wasn't a good feeling. Not because I cared about those dudes, but because of the implications it had on me and my family. Tears welled up in my eyes because nothing about the situation could be good. I was put inside of one of the same types of rooms. It was really like some shit I had seen on TV. There was nothing in the room but a metal table, three metal chairs, and the usual double-sided glass mirror. It smelled of fresh paint and Pine-Sol. That didn't sit well with my already fragile stomach.

“Have a seat, Ms. Vasquez,” the same female agent said, pointing to the lone chair opposite the table. The male federal agent who was with her took off his DEA jacket and hung it on the back of the chair he was about to sit in. She kept hers on, but before she sat down she swept it back at the waist so I was able to see her gun, belt badge, and extra ammunition on her belt.

“I'm Special Agent Christy and this is Special Agent Farmington,” she introduced all official, her voice devoid of any emotion. I rolled my eyes and turned my head to the side.

“You have some choices to make today, Ms. Vasquez. You can cooperate with us or you can never see this little guy again,” Agent Christy said, sliding a picture of Andrew across the table at me.
How the fuck did they get that? Why are all of these bastards using my son against me?
Tears burst from the sides of my eyes instantly, like she had pressed some button in my brain. I tilted my head back and let out an exasperated breath. I refused to look at Andrew's little chubby face. I couldn't afford to let me son make me weak.

“The situation can end up a little better for you than those guys out there,” Agent Farmington chimed in. “The way we see it, Gabriella, you were doing a favor for your boyfriend and it just got out of hand. They probably told you that you couldn't stop because it was going so well and so easy for so long . . . right? We know how this story goes. Nice working girl gets caught up with bad boy. Bad boy asks her for a one time favor, but it turns into many favors and then she just can't get out,” Agent Farmington said. I finally made eye contact with him. He was basically telling my story. He seemed to get a little excited that I was looking at him. I guess he thought he was making some progress with getting me to talk.

“Listen, Gabriella. We see this story all too often in our line of work. You're not the big-time drug dealer or distributor. We know that and we are prepared to tell the judge that on your behalf, but first, we need to know some things from you,” he continued. That's where he started to fuck up. I broke eye contact with him and hung my head. Just like he had seen cases like mine so many times, I had also seen these scenarios—like the one I was in right now—too many times on TV. I wasn't stupid. I wasn't speaking to those agents without a lawyer. In my assessment, I had enough money stashed away that my mother could get me a lawyer.

“You told me I had the right to remain silent. I am exercising my right and I want a lawyer,” I said flatly through dry, cracked lips. I could see the blood rush to Agent Christy's face and her fingers curl into fists. Agent Farmington grabbed her arm, I guess to keep her from reaching across the table and pounding me in the face. She was the bad cop, I guess. I chuckled inside. Through my eyes that bitch was weak without that gun and badge.

“Suit yourself, Gabriella, but this won't end well for you or your son. See, your mother is facing accessory to distribute charges, because when we executed the search warrant at her house—your last known address—we found stacks and stacks of dirty money. House is in her name . . . she is responsible. She goes to jail too. Not a pretty sight when we had to take that adorable little boy of yours to child protective services, kicking and screaming for his grandma and mama. I don't think I've ever heard a baby cry so hard and so loud. That's some set of lungs that kid's got. Guess he's never been away from you or your mom overnight. Now he has to stay in a strange place all night, alone. Better hope his foster parent isn't some registered sex offender that fell through the cracks,” Agent Christy said vindictively. I couldn't stop the waterfall of tears from falling, but they were hot, angry tears this time. I was breathing hard and thinking if I could be alone with this bitch for ten minutes what I would've done to her ass.

“Foster care, wow, all because his mother is a fucking drug distributor who made pennies compared to the people she is choosing to protect. What a shame. Wonder what kind of story that little boy will grow up and tell his friends about his loving, wonderful example of a mother. Oh—and Mama Vasquez, she's old with arthritis. Spending her nights in a cold, unforgiving jail cell will wreak havoc on her aching joints. What a shining-star daughter you are too. And all for those lowlives down the hall who are more than likely pinning all of this shit on you right now. Oh yeah, dudes like them will make you out to be the mastermind of this whole drug operation and then guess who gets one hundred years behind bars? You . . . not the so-called kingpins,” Agent Christy continued, her words feeling like a knife to my heart. I probably would've actually rather someone stab me a million times in my heart than to hear about what was happening to my mother and my son. It was all my fault. From day one, I put myself in this position. I was so desperate for love and acceptance after that horrible relationship with Andrew's father that I would've done anything. My head immediately began pounding with an instant migraine. The harder I thought about it the worse my head ached. I started imagining my baby daddy picking Andrew up once the foster care system got in touch with him. I knew he would use my son against me.

More tears started falling, but this time I put my head down on the table and hid my face. The feds were driving a hard fucking bargain, but snitching wasn't an option for me. I would just have to take my chances with a court-appointed attorney and one who could get my mother off. They still didn't know about the cash I had in safe deposit boxes at two different banks. It probably wasn't enough for two lawyers, but it would be enough for my mother to have a good one.

There was a long few minutes of silence in the room. I guess the feds were waiting for me to fold to their demands. I contemplated it, but it just wasn't in my nature.

“So . . . what's it going to be, Ms. Vasquez,” Agent Farmington asked. I still didn't look at him. “Are you going to let your mother and son suffer?” he asked. I inhaled deeply. My anger was starting to well up like a volcano. The fucking nerve of him to use my family as a pawn in this game! This is what the feds did, though. I heard all about it. They broke up families and put innocent kids in the system just so that they could get stats and bonuses at the end of the year. I wasn't giving them any more satisfaction over me.

“Go fuck yourselves,” I gritted. My chest was heaving with anger by then. Sweat was dancing down the sides of my face. Agent Christy jumped up from her chair so fast and furious that the chair slid back and hit the wall behind her. I didn't even flinch. I eyed her, daring her to hit me. I knew that she was going to do her bad-cop, intimidation tactics now. I smirked at her. She knew fucking better.

“You fucking stupid ghetto bitch. I hope you never see your son again. Bitches like you don't deserve to be mothers. You're fucking ghetto trash!” Agent Christy snapped. She was so close to my face I could see that her pupils were dilated. I didn't back down or move back. I had come too far in this game to stop fighting now. I tilted my head at her as if to say, “Go ahead and hit me, bitch, so I can own you.”

“C'mon . . . she's not worth it,” Agent Farmington said, pulling his female counterpart away before she caught a brutality charge—or worse, a fucking career-ending lawsuit. I laughed as they started to leave the room. It was a crazy, maniacal laugh, but it wasn't because I found anything funny. I laughed because it was all I could do to keep myself from screaming to the top of my lungs.

I
spent two days in a federal holding cell before my first court appearance. I felt sick, dirty, and weak. I hadn't eaten, slept, or drank anything since I'd been locked up. My legs felt like they weren't even connected to my body. My stomach was growling too as I was pulled from the courthouse holding cell.

“Vasquez! It's your time to shine,” a court officer called to me.

I barely had the energy to walk. When I was led to the defendant's table inside of the courtroom, I was shocked to see a different lawyer standing there waiting for me, instead of the court-appointed attorney I had seen the day before.

“Ms. Vasquez, I'm Saul Shapiro, your new attorney,” the slim, white man said, extending his hand for a shake. My eyebrows dipped low on my face.

“Where's Mr. Baum?” I asked, confused as hell. Mr. Shapiro wore a tailor-cut suit, Rolex watch, and a Gucci tie, so I knew full well he wasn't one of those low-paid court-appointed attorneys.

“He's been replaced and I've been hired to represent you. I'll explain later. Let's just say you have friends in high places,” Mr. Shapiro said.
Or enemies,
I thought to myself. I turned slightly and looked around to see who was in the courtroom. Sure enough, at the back of the room were two rows of very scary-looking Hispanic men, all dressed in their goon-outfit suits and wearing the obligatory dark shades. They looked very similar to the bodyguards who had showed up to the apartment with Lance the day he threatened me. My heart started rocking in my chest. I quickly turned back around, too scared to return all of the glares I had received from the goon squad. The judge came to her bench and she was saying something. I couldn't even concentrate on what she or my new, apparently expensive, attorney were saying. All I could think about were those men glaring at me from the back. I knew all of them had to work for Lance—or worse, for Luca.

“Your Honor, I'd like to enter myself as new representing counsel for Ms. Vasquez,” Mr. Shapiro called out, flashing a big smile like he was a celebrity. I couldn't believe he had the balls to smile at the judge. The judge was an evil-looking old lady who wore wire-rimmed glasses that sat so far on the tip of her nose I wanted to rush up to her and push them up.

“And just what fairy godmother came down and paid your ridiculous retainer for this poor little drug-dealing postal worker?” the judge replied sarcastically, looking over the rim of her glasses at my attorney. Mr. Shapiro chuckled and flashed that smile again. I looked at him like he was straight crazy. Didn't people get held in contempt of court for stunts like this?

“Well, hello to you too, Judge Hartwell. It has been a while since we've shared our moments, huh,” Mr. Shapiro joked with the judge. I took it from the exchange that he and the judge were very familiar with one another. The judge grunted as she examined some of the paperwork in front of her. Mr. Shapiro said some more legal-speak that I didn't understand and the next thing I heard was . . .

“Bail is set for two hundred thousand dollars. Passport needs to be turned in by four o'clock today. We are on for three weeks from today. Make sure your client shows up, Mr. Shapiro, or else I'll send the entire United States Army to find her,” the judge said, banging her gavel.

“I guess I owe you one,” Mr. Shapiro joked.

“Don't push your luck, counsel,” the judge grumbled.

My attorney turned toward me, flashing the brightest-veneered smile I'd ever seen on an older white man who wasn't a Hollywood actor.

“Well, sit tight for a few and your bail will be posted. I'll meet you at the doors when you're released. I have a few more people in your crew to represent and everyone will be reunited like one big, happy family,” he said with a fake cheeriness that made me want to spit on him. I wasn't smiling or happy about my abrupt release. It smelled of a setup for sure. I shot a quick glance to the back of the courtroom and all of those scary dudes were gone. There was nowhere to run now.