Life Without Hope (45 page)

with such a high degree. I was sure that America could be charged

with the cruel and inhumane act of genocide. That day I walked

down the halls, it felt like I was walking down the gallows to hell.

However I was determined to do my best to tr y to change all of

this. The same dreams that I had when I was a little girl growing

up, I wanted to help my people, help my brother, I still clung to,

only now my convictions were stronger, more dedicated and

determined.

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That day I was going to do my damnest to help Life Thugstin.

I was risking all I had. I came to warn him of the insidious trap

that awaited him if he intended to go to trial with his team of high

powered lawyers. I overheard his attorneys conspiring with my

boss, David Scandels, the head prosecutor and a ver y ambitious

attorney that would stop at nothing in order to win a conviction.

To date this was by far the biggest case of his entire twenty-year

career, and he had no intentions of losing it.

The federal government had a 98 percent conviction rate,

which means an innocent defendant had about a 2 percent chance

of success if he was going to trial. Life Thugstin was facing a life-

time sentence, plus thirty years if he was convicted. My office was

prepared to offer him a thirty-year bargain and a ten million dol-

lar fine. I took a deep breath as I waited with my briefcase in hand

outside a steel door marked SHU, Segregation Housing Unit.

In my career as a prosecutor and going inside prisons I quick-

ly noticed a distinctive odor that omitted from the inside of pris-

ons. It smelled like generic Pine Sol and semen, marinating in fear.

About a month ago, Life was placed in SHU for the assault on a

confidential informant. He assaulted the inmate with a ten-pound

weight on the recreation yard. The inmate nearly died. He

received over two hundred stitches. The informant’s name was

Steven Davis, a.k.a. Stevey D, a small time drug dealer turned

informant. He was amongst the 78 inmates that were scheduled to

testify against Life Thugstin; in return they would all get signifi-

cantly reduced sentences. Some would be immediately released if

Life were convicted. Only one or two of the people actually knew

him and the government was aware of the fact that most of the

people testifying were lying, but that is how the system worked

with its 98 percent conviction rate.

Finally the steel door opened and I walked inside the

vestibule. I had the jitters; my stomach was in knots. The hum of

the air conditioner droned, and in the distance I could hear the

staccato of a steel cell door slamming. I was thankful I wore my

suit coat.

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“
May I help you?” a deep baritone voice asked from a speaker

above my head.

I flashed my ID with its gold star and announced, “Hope

Evans, the United States Prosecutor’s office. I’m here to see inmate

Life Thugstin. My office made arrangements earlier,” I said with

authority. Silence. I waited patiently. In the dim of the booth

inside the officer’s station flickered lights illuminated an array of

bright colors that looked like the inside of the bridge of the Star

Ship.

Click!

“
You may go inside. Someone will be there to assist you

in a minute,” the voice said from the speaker.

I walked through the door into another world. A world with-

in a world. A world where 88 percent were of poor impoverished

Blacks and Spanish decent. The federal prison institution used to

be a predominately white man’s institution in terms of incarcera-

tion, until corporate America discovered astronomical profits that

could be made of cheap slave labor. Politicians and federal judges

had financial investments in the cheap labor. Thus, harsh sen-

tences were given out, as a way to insure their investment. One

only had to go check the Wall Street stock market and he would

find prisons are amongst the best investments for wealthy white

men.

The cacophony of loud voices hollering and screaming roared

in my ears like a million angry Black men chanting, begging to be

let free. I thought about my brother, my own flesh and blood, liv-

ing in one of these dungeons. I thought about how my ancestors

were packed on slave ships like sardines in a can. This was no dif-

ferent than a slave ship. Even though I had been here before, it

always felt the same, cruel and inhuman.

Directly in front of me was a line of cells. Men ogled me. It

felt like I was at center stage at the Apollo Theater. I heard a voice

say, “Hey, Dirty! Hey Dirty! Come to the cell door. Look at dis

bitch here’rr! She fine as a muhfa.” Then suddenly a frantic banter

of voices echoed, signaling my presence, like a ship being sighted

by men marooned on an island.

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“
Hey! Psss. Damn, she thick.” Catcalls ensued. I tried my best

not to look, not to stare. Directly across from me I detected a jerk-

ing motion.

I know damn well this negro ain’t doing what I think

he’s doing,

I thought as a large burly officer approached. He had a

grin on his face, the kind men wear when they’re being mischie-

vous.

I guess he too must have been enjoying himself at the expense

of my arrival. After giving me a quick once over, with gaiety he

said, “Follow me.” I walked down the long narrow corridors as

Black men stared behind caged bars, open mouths with their faces

pressed against the steel. With each expression, invitation, flirta-

tion, masturbation, I regretted wearing my high heels and tight-

fitting skirt. We approached a door. The officer pointed and I

looked inside. Life sat in a chair wearing an orange jump suit and

leg irons. His right 1eg was shackled to a steel rod in the wall. All

of a sudden, the realization of what I had come to do dawned on

me, and for the first time in a long time I was scared to confront

a man. Not just any man, but the father to my child. I needed him

to know this. I needed him to know that I was going to quit my

job and help him. I was here to help him.

I turned to the CO, “I will interrogate the inmate alone.” His

eyes narrowed and looked as if he wanted to say something, but

thought better of it.

As I entered the room, Life looked up at me. His hair was mat-

ted. It looked like he hadn’t shaved in weeks and most of all, the

expression on his face said that he was not too happy to see me, at

all. The room was small. His presence was large, he actually was

intimidating me with his stare. In the room was a dilapidated old

desk and a crumbled Coke can that someone used for an ashtray.

There were two chairs, the metal folding kind. He sat in one and

the other one was a few feet away from him. The man just con-

tinued to look up at me with my son’s eyes. Call me sentimental,

but I wanted to break down and cry. But I didn’t, I had come to

warn him, protect him. I sat down next to him tried to smile at

the same time, taking the opportunity to compose my thoughts. I

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could feel my heart pounding in my chest trying to find its way

out. My tongue searched for the words that wouldn’t come out.

The moment was awkward, like his stare seemed to pin me to the

wall. I was here for my own personal redemption, the female ver-

sion of Hannibal. I was here to betray my government for the sake

of the love for my own people. God help me!

“
Life, I come to help.”

“
Listen, you Uncle Tom-ass bitch.” His voice was low, guttur-

al, like he had been saving up all his agony and pain for me. “If

you wanna help me, get a fuckin’ razor and let me slit your fuckin’

throat,” he said and leaned forward and hunked up a large wad of

spit and spat in my face. A trickle of saliva dripped from my chin

onto my lap. I just stared at him stunned, shocked beyond belief.

Lord have mercy this can’t be happening to me,

I thought. I was

here to help him, save him from this racist system that intention-

ally set out to destroy Black men.

“
All that Black conscious shit ya’ll be talkin’ bout, first chance

you get you sell a nigga out. Now here you is, a fuckin’ slave catch-

er fo’ Massa. All you niggas and so-called leaders is nothing but

fuckin’ sellouts!” he yelled at me, and for a moment I was sure that

he was going to kick me. I could see large veins pulsating in his

forehead and neck. In the distance I could hear frantic laughter, or

perhaps it was a cry. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words

came out, just a pained expression. He continued to berate me. I

just sat there like a child being chastised only this was worse, much

worse, as saliva dripped off my chin and for some reason as a Black

woman, all his anger, all his rage found its way inside of me and

nestled in a place that has been pre-conditioned to take abuse

from Black men. His refuge. My reservoir, a vacuum to my soul

that stored pain. I just sat there determined to weather the storm.

I willed myself not to cr y as I heard a shallow voice say, “I only

came to help you.” Then a whimper that gave way to a sigh that

lost its way down my throat.

“
Help me! Wasn’t it you that said that I’d end up dead or in

prison? I didn’t think that you’d be the one to help put me there,

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you and ‘bout ninety other hot-ass muthafuckas about to take the

witness stand against me and lie just to get their time cut and your

pussy ass is down wit this shit?” Life was now screaming at me,

with spit spewing out of his mouth.

“
Your lawyers are conspiring with my boss. They’re going to

sell you out, try to make a good show of the trial for the sake of

all the worldwide publicity. A guy by the name of Calvin Sweeny,

you may know him as Lil Cal, he’s the government’s star witness,”

I blurted out talking so fast that I could hardly catch my breath. I

wiped at the saliva on my face with my hand as I watched the

expression on Life’s face change from anger to disbelief, then hurt.

I wanted to say more, plead with him, and let him know that he

had a son that looked just like him and a woman that was willing

to do anything for him. All this may have sounded insane, but I

wanted to help. Suddenly, something washed over him, like the

calm after the storm. He could no longer look at me. I saw him

gaze up at the ceiling and saw his left eye twitch as he spoke.

“
Bitch, you think I believe you? I know them crackas sent you

to set me up. What they offer you one of dem house nigger jobs?

Mo’ money? Bigger office? You’re a sell out, you and the rest of