Larceny (9 page)

“Do you have any brothers and sisters?”

At that moment, when I looked at Jovan, I could sense something was wrong. I grabbed hold of his hand and said, “Hey, we don't have to talk about it if you're feeling uncomfortable.”

“Law offices of Rohon and Robinson. May I help you?” Cindy said.

“Cindy, Mark. Plug me in,” Mark said.

“Jovan, Mark's on line one.”

“Thanks, Cindy,” Jovan said. “Hey, Mark, tell me something good.”

“Okay, get your ass outta my chair.”

“Man, I'm not even in your chair. I'm walking around here, pacing, trying to figure a way out for Mr. . . . What's his name again?” Jovan asked, playing stupid.

“Davis. Bilal Davis.”

“Yeah, that's right. I think I got something.”

“Yeah, what?” Mark asked.

“Look, if you can get an extension for at least one week and get me a legal visitation pass, then I can interview this guy and possibly get some info on his witness that could contradict his testimony and maybe get an affidavit that could free him.”

“Well, I've got good news and bad news. Which one you want first?” Mark asked.

“Give me the bad first,” Jovan said, not really wanting to hear it.

“Well, I can't get you that pass because you must be a licensed lawyer.”

“Damn,” Jovan said, disappointed.

“But I can get you in with me on a temporary pass seeing as how you're my assistant, and anyway, I'll be interviewing another client at the same time, so you'd have at least an hour alone with him,” Mark said.

“Shit, that ain't no bad news, Mark, but I think I'm a little scared to hear your good news now.” We both laughed.

“Jovan, let me put you down on some inside law shit.”

“What's up?”

“As long as you know the law, how to work it, how to get around it, and fuck it the right way, you'll never have any bad news. Bad news to a lawyer is another way of saying it's time to lie.”

“So what's the good news then?”

“Jovan, good news will always be good news,” Mark said, laughing.

“Okay, I will ask you once again: What's the good news?”

“Hey, man, I got the extension a half hour ago.”

“That's great, Mark. You're always two steps ahead of the game,” Jovan said, proud to be working with Mark.

“Thanks, and you're getting good at it too, Jovan. You're also on the right track. Keep it up and when you become a lawyer, you'll always stay two steps ahead also.”

 

I was sentenced to five years in federal prison with no outside support from no one. I had a few broads that used to come and see me every now and then, but I wasn't focused on them. My main concern was how was I going to get back home and get a lawyer to do my appeal because once again I was broke. Well, not flat broke.

When I got locked up, I had Keda, who was my female gangsta at the time, go past my townhouse and get my jewelry and the MPV van and take them over to my grandma's house before the landlord found out he wouldn't be getting his eleven hundred dollars a month no time soon.

My BMW was seized by the government because it was used in a crime. I could have gone to court and tried to get it back, but I didn't want to risk the chance of them investigating how I paid forty-two thousand dollars cash and drove it straight off the lot, so I just took it as another loss.

The only person I was in contact with the whole time I was locked up was my grandma. I used to call her a lot, but since my father was nowhere to be found, I knew that Grandma couldn't keep paying for all those collect calls on her Social Security check. I slowed down on the calls and wrote letters and sent her cards occasionally.

Soon after I was sentenced, they transferred me to Lewisburg Federal Penitentiary. As the bus drove up to what looked like Castle Gray Skull and two of the biggest iron doors I've ever seen in my life opened, the first thing that came to my mind was,
How the fuck did I get here, and why are they putting me in a maximum security facility with niggas serving three life sentences?
I would be lying if I told you I didn't care where they sent me. Shit, I only got five years. I wasn't supposed to be in there.

After being processed and given my federal prison number, 20518-016, I was given a bedroll and sent to J block. When I got to my cell, I didn't bother to look around to see if I recognized anyone, because I was so tired that I just made up my bed and went to sleep.

The next morning when I woke up and went to the chow hall, the first nigga I saw was my man Mack from R Street. I knew Mack back in '88 when he had a convertible BMW. He was always cool with me. We never did business with each other, but we always acknowledged each other's presence.

“Hey, Jovan, that you?” Mack said.

“Yeah, what's up, Mack?” I said.

“What's up, Joe?” When Mack spoke, he always expressed the word “Joe.” To the homies in D.C., “Joe” is our slang for main man or slim, dude or whatever. For D.C. niggas, it was different doing time in federal prison than doing time back home, because we made sure that we all got along with each other. It wasn't anything like our state prison, Lorton, where homies robbed, killed, and stole from each other. The homies in federal prison stuck together mostly for territorial reasons, so whatever beef a homie had with another homie that wasn't outside the limits of death was immediately squashed once they entered federal prison. We held back on any serious aggressions until it was time to go to war with others. D.C. had an image to protect, and homies rolled with homies no matter what.

Mack came over to me and gave me five and a respectful hug that is only reserved for real niggas.

“What's up, Joe? Why the fuck you down here? Last time I saw you, you were pushing a BMW with a bad-ass bitch beside you going down Georgia Avenue.”

“Yeah, slim, that same BMW got me these five fuckin' years,” I said.

“All you got is five years?” Mack said with a surprised look.

“Yeah, man.”

“Damn, Jovan, what the fuck you doing in Lewisburg? You're supposed to be in a camp, or at least a low security facility, man!” Mack said.

“I dunno what type of games these people playin'.”

“Yeah, you got to holla at your counselor about that tomorrow. Anyway, c'mon so I can introduce you to the homies.”

Mack introduced me to all his co-defendants first. Some I already knew, some I didn't, but as I grew to know these niggas, every last one of 'em was real. He also introduced me to Li'l Nut, and we became super cool. Nut, Mack, and me worked out regularly. It was these niggas that helped me get a six pack, triceps, biceps, and a chest that needed to be in an
Ebony
magazine centerfold. After six months in Lewisburg, my body went through a complete change. I lifted weights; not heavy weights, just light reps. I did pull-ups by the twenties and dips by the thirties. I did five hundred crunches in the morning, five hundred at count time, and five hundred before I went to bed. I turned myself into the ultimate physical machine, and then it was time to work on my brain.

I read all kinds of literature and books, mostly by Dr. N. Akbar, and I read a few by J.A. Rogers, Dr. Frances Cress Welling, Carter G. Woodson, Jerome Bennett, Noble Drew Ali, and Elijah Muhammad, but my favorite one of all was the Holy Quran.

There was something else missing in my life that I needed bad, real bad. It wasn't a female friend. I had plenty of those to call if I wanted to get freaky and tell 'em to play with their pussies while I listened, but I was beyond that. It wasn't money, although I could use some. It was something else that was holding me back, and when I passed the library, I knew just what it was. I needed to learn how to get outta there. I needed to learn the law, the same law that gave me five years. I needed to learn about it because who knew? I could one day give it right back to someone else.

By the end of the first week of trying to learn the law, I was frustrated. It seemed like every book I read didn't make any sense or went straight over my head. I stopped working out with Mack and Nut and focused all my attention on my legal situation. I still would do a thousand push-ups and crunches every day to keep my body toned, but mostly I was reading the Federal Criminal Code and Rules book.

One morning on my way to the law library, I walked by some new inmates, and I didn't look any of them directly in the face. I just glanced at them as they walked by me with their bedrolls, headed to their new blocks. As I turned toward the library, I took another glance, and suddenly I saw someone very familiar. I looked one more time to make sure my eyes weren't playin' tricks on me. Yep, that was him: that nigga Shorty, one of the bitch-ass niggas who had violated me. Now it was his turn to be violated.

I bent my head down and walked by again just to really make sure it was him, but after I heard someone yell his name, I knew for sure that this was my man.

“Yo, Shorty, you in that block over there,” said another inmate.

“Okay, thanks, money.”

Same name, same accent. Finally I would get a chance to get my due justice. I went straight to my cell. I didn't move fast; I just acted normal and calm. I sat in my cell and began to put my plan together. I thought about the time I had, only five years, but this nigga had violated me. I had to get him, but I also had to get away with it.

Think, Jovan, think!
The only way I could get this nigga was to get him in one of the TV rooms when nobody was there, or at least when a lot of people was in there, 'cause it was dark as shit in them TV rooms, and when that joint got packed, you couldn't see or move.

It was Friday, the day they showed the latest movies, so this was my chance to give it to a nigga who really deserved it. When my cellmate, Parker-Bey, came in the room, it was almost time for the movie. My celly was from Detroit, and he was in the Moorish Science Temple. He was the one I used to get all the positive literature from.

“What's up, Jovan?” Parker-Bey asked.

“Ain't nothin',” I said.

“You gonna go up tonight and check out the movie?” he said.

“Naw, I think I'ma lay back and finish reading this damn law book,” I said.

“Yeah, you doin' the right thing trying to get outta jail, something a lot of these unconscious brothers should be doing, but instead they'd rather stay in jail and kill each other,” Parker-Bey said.

I was thinking to myself,
Yeah, you got that right. Well, at least part of it, 'cause I'm definitely trying to kill a mu'fucka, but I ain't trying to stay in jail.

“I'll holla at you later, Jovan. I'ma check this movie out.”

“Okay, Parker-Bey,” I said, turning back to the law book I was pretending to read.

When Parker-Bey left, I waited a good five minutes before I started working on my plan.
Damn, I pray this shit goes right. It's a must that I kill this nigga, but it's an absolute must that I get away with it.

First thing I did was put on my khaki uniform and black boots. Then I put my gray sweatshirt on over top, making sure you couldn't see the uniform underneath. I looked at myself in the mirror, but the more I looked, the more I felt I needed a better disguise. I put on one of my celly's gray kufi and a pair of those shades they sold in the commissary. As I looked at myself in the mirror again, I was now completely happy with what I saw, I looked like a militant Black Panther type dude. No one would know who I was, so no one would be able to identify me, and no one would know how vicious a killer I was but me.

I reached into my mattress and pulled out the eight-inch flat blade that Mack had given me when I first got there. I tucked it in my pants, took a deep breath, and headed to the TV room to kill my second victim, a nigga who truly deserved it. As I walked down the hallway, I could tell that I had on the ultimate disguise, because when I walked by Mack and Nut, they didn't even recognize me.

As I walked by, I could hear them talking. Mack said, “Man, where Jovan at? I ain't seen him in about a week.”

“He's probably in the law library working on his case. Slim must really be trying to go home,” Nut said.

“Yeah, I can respect that.”

When I entered the TV room, it was just like I pictured: dark, loud, and smoky from the cigarettes and Black and Mild cigars. The atmosphere was perfect for my plan.

I walked to the back of the room and saw Shorty and another dude sitting there, talking and kicking it about old times. He probably was telling his man how he got a free hundred and eighty thousand back in D.C., but little did he know that money was gonna cost him his life.

I took a seat directly behind Shorty. There were three other dudes sitting in my row with me. They didn't talk loud. To me it looked like they were minding their own business, like all convicts were supposed to do. Sitting in the row with Shorty was his man and two homosexuals sitting together.

As the movie was about to start, I reached in my pants slowly, making sure no one saw me, and held the knife in the palm of my hand so tight that it felt as if I had dipped my hand in Super Glue. I wasn't scared or nervous; I was calm and collected. I peeped my surroundings one more time, and then came the golden opportunity I was waiting for: the TV went blank for about five seconds. I reached my left hand up under Shorty's chin and pulled back with all my strength, exposing his whole neck and throat to the blade. My first blow was vital, but my second blow was much more vicious. I drove the blade so hard through Shorty's neck that the tip of the blade was poking out the back of his head. Shorty died instantly. He didn't have a chance to scream or fight back. He didn't even get a chance to tell on me. He was through!

When the TV came back on, Shorty's friend was quiet, and I could see that he was involved with one of the homosexuals sitting next to him. When he was finished and looked over at Shorty and saw that he was dead, he never even looked behind him. He just got up and left. In prison, when someone just gets up and leaves without saying a word, that means something just happened or was about to happen, and if you're not involved, then you get up and leave also. So once Shorty's man got up, everybody else got up.

While niggas were trying to get outta the TV room as fast as they could, I laid back for a second, took off my sweat suit, balled it up, and left it in the corner along with the knife. I folded my celly's kufi up and put it in my pocket and threw the shades in the trash. Now I looked like the average inmate with khakis ironed and pressed, boots shiny, and shirt buttoned up and tucked in.

When I came back to my cell, I saw that my celly was already in there.

“What's up, Parker-Bey?” I said.

“Hey, what's up, young brother? I thought you were staying in tonight to work on your case. You wasn't up in the TV room, were you?”

“Naw, I went down to the law library to read up on a few things.”

“Good,” Parker-Bey said.

“Why you say that?”

“'Cause I think something happened in the TV room tonight. I was just making sure you were a'ight.”

“Oh, you ain't gotta worry 'bout me. I only got five funky-ass years, and I'd be a damn fool getting into some shit,” I said.

“That's right, young brother. Your main concern is to get home to your loved ones,” Parker-Bey said.

“Yeah, right, and that's exactly what I plan to do.”