Life Without Hope (58 page)

day I am sure that was what went through the jurors’ minds. Life

was a small time hustler, turned multi-millionaire, that deserved

to spend the rest of his life in prison, at least that was the message

Tomica was sending to the jury. Once again I couldn’t help but

wonder,

what could he have possibly done to this woman?

I glanced over at Life. It was the last day of Tomica’s testimo-

ny. He had his head bowed in prayer. For the first time, in what

felt like ages, I prayed, too, for both of us.

*****

I arrived home late that evening after picking my son up from

the babysitter across the street. I found an urgent message on my

answering machine. It was from my doctor concerning the blood

test. He said that he needed to see me immediately.

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Chapter T

wenty One

Chapter T

wenty One

“
We Die Hard”

–
Life –

I’m locked up and they won’t let me out! I remember sitting in a

federal holding cell, wearing a thousand dollar Armani suit, seven

hundred dollar Stacy Adam shoes and the weight of the trial

weighing heavily on my head. I remember always hearing rappers

and wanna be gangstas saying they’d rather be judged by twelve

than carried by six. That’s bullshit. You’ll never find a federal con-

vict agree to that, in fact, it’s the opposite meaning; they’d rather

have trial on the streets. That’s keeping it gangsta. Besides, in the

federal system if you have a life sentence your paperwork release

date simply states, “DECEASED.”

About the only bright spot in my trial was the fact that Trina

and Black Pearl beat their trial and got all the property and cars

back at the Chateau G.P. The feds gave them everything but the

money they found hidden underneath the floors. My right hand

man, Major, was in the same unit with me. His attorneys were

waiting for the outcome of my trial, so they continued to find ways

to delay his. I told Major to go on ahead and testify against me,

hell, 78 other niggas had done it for a time cut. Major flatly denied

my offer, said that this was just the other part of the game and it

felt too much like betrayal. Besides, once you start working for the

government, it’s a full time job, you become a government rat.

There was no doubt in my mind that after Tomica’s tell-all tes-

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timony, I was going to prison for the rest of my life. I had to give

Hope her props, she and the rest of my all female attorneys fought

for me. Hope even had a few specialists come testify on my behalf.

Black Pearl started writing me as soon as she got out. I never heard

from Trina’s punk ass. She got ghost on a nigga.

One of the specialists that testified on my behalf was a beau-

tiful redbone sista. She seemed to radiate on the witness stand.

Her long locks of hair were flowing down her back. Her name was

Nandi Shakur. She and Hope were good together, natural. If I did-

n’t know any better, I’d swear they were friends. When Dr. Shakur

spoke she commanded an aura of authority. I noticed a few of the

jury nodded their heads in agreement on the theory concerning

socioeconomical crimes and about the environment that was

intentionally created by the rich in the exploitation of the poor.

She explained how drugs had been placed in the Black communi-

ty and the fact that whites use more drugs but Blacks are the ones

targeted for arrest. Most important, federal judges, prosecutors

and some politicians have investments in stocks on prisons. Some

of the jurors started taking notes. I didn’t know if that was good

or bad. I knew the next day

USA Today

ran an in-depth article

with Nandi’s picture in it.

“
The Life Thugstin Defense takes a gamble by using a one-of-a-

kind defense never heard of before–the socioeconomical crime theory

and how the environment can play a factor in crime.”

The paper went on to give a detailed synopsis of the trial and

just how prudent the theory is. The young Hope Evans was how-

ever hailed as an young up and coming legal prodigy. The news-

paper compared Hope to Johnny Cochran in his early years.

*****

With each day I found it getting harder and harder for me to

concentrate on the trial. Hope looked like she was starting to dete-

riorate right before my eyes, and the media took notice, too. They

claimed in one of the tabloid magazines that she was about to have

a nervous breakdown due to the lengthy trial.

*****

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Chapter T

wenty T

wo

Chapter T

wenty T

wo

“
Change”

–
Life –

Like so many young Black men that find themselves trapped in

America’s penal system, I was determined to find a way out, so I

rever ted to my old ways. They say one of the most dangerous

things you can do is to lock a man up and for him to have noth-

ing to do all day but think. And that’s what I did in my cell each

day after trial. I found God in my cell and started praising Jesus,

too. I knew what I had to do.

*****

Holding cells are like New York train stations, only worse. You

get in where you fit in. You got dudes sprawled out on the pissy

floor, sitting on steel toilet stools and hard benches as well as sleep-

ing under them. The clamor of loud voices is maddening like lis-

tening to every scream at the same time. Cigarette smoke bellowed

to the top of the ceiling, thick enough to obscure the crude graf-

fiti written on the walls as well as satires about the judge’s moth-

er.

Finally, the door leading to the holding cells opened, with it

came a punctuated pause as deep as a bottomless pit, a protracted

silence, the practiced unison of prisoners listening, waiting to hear

their name called, as if God Himself were standing at the door

choosing who will make it into the gates of heaven. In prison,

lawyers are like Gods that work for the devil, only worse, consid-

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ering a prisoner is dependent on them as the intermediate. That’s

where the problem starts. Like being in a foreign country without

speaking the language. Many a man has signed his name on the

dotted lines, after paying a king’s ransom for what he thought

would secure his freedom, only to find he has paid a price to do a

lifetime. Lawyers are the biggest crooks God ever created.

We all listened for our names to be called by our attorneys. In

the distance the metallic sound of chains, shackles dragging across

the cold concrete floor, signal the arrival of another prisoner,

another destitute agony to mount in the chaos of madness.

Everyone in the cell listens. I strained my ears. Two cells down, I

thought I heard my name in hushed tones. I bolted to the cell

door accidentally stepping on two people.

“
Shh,” I hissed gesturing with my finger over my lips. Of

course they all complied. Over half the federal system is full of

informants, snitches eager for a free ticket out of prison.

I had the most famous case that the State of Florida had ever

known. So of course cats in the cell were quiet, acting like it’s

respecting me, but I know that they were really ear-hustling for

information on my case to get a time cut. In the feds they have an

old saying, “You got two kinds of people, those that told, and

those that wished they had told.” Those that told will never stop

telling even for the sake of their moral integrity. Those that don’t

staunchly refuse to compromise their code of ethics, for it is

intrinsically embedded in their virility. Real men do not tell on

their best friends, family members, wives and kids. They die for

what they believe in.

I peered between the cell bars down the hall. I saw Scandels in

a heated conversation, all agitated and animated, talking with his

hands raised in the air tr ying to argue a point. Then I heard

another voice that sent chills down my spine. It was a voice that I

had not heard in years. It belonged to my nigga Lil Cal. He came

back from the penitentiary to do me, to take the stand and testify

against me. His testimony would be the coup de grace sending me

to prison for the rest of my life. I remembered Hope showing me

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Lil Cal’s name on the discovery sheet, but I just never thought he

would actually rat on me. Shit! I made the crucial mistake of

telling him too much, doing too much. I bought his moms a big

house, took care of his baby mama and put thousands of dollars

in his inmate account. In the process, I left a paper trail that even

a blind man could follow.

Scandels stormed by the cell door without even seeing me. I’m

sure he didn’t know I was in the very next cell close to his star wit-

ness. This would not be the first time the feds had blundered like

this. They have been known to place the rat and the accused in the

same cell with the rat ending up getting killed as planned. I stared

at the naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling outside the cell,

lost for words, my feelings and emotions stuck in the back of my

throat. There was an ancient-looking fingerprinting station in

front of the cell.

“
Yo ... Cal ...?” I heard my voice carry down the hall as I felt

my hands gripping the bars tightly. At the other end of the hall,

shackles rattled, feet shuffled. “L? L? That you man?”

“
Yeah, nigga it’s me aiight. Wuz up?” I said acidly.

“
Man pah-lees! You gotta help me. Pah-lees!” Cal shrieked. I

stepped back from the bars full of rage. I turned around and

looked at some of the faces in the cell, read the deceit in their eyes

like the graffiti on the wall. By the time our conversation would

be over there would be a mad stampede to the prosecutor’s office.

Everybody trying to get a time cut.

“
L … L ... You gotta help me!” Cal continued. His voice was

panic stricken, like he was on the verge of delirium. Just the way

the feds will make you when they break you, when you sell your

soul for another man’s life. I listened to Lil Cal, careful not to get

caught up in another indictment. “Both my grandma and her hus-

band are missing.” I could hear Cal crying as he spoke,

“
Somebody ran up in my moms’ crib, snatched up my mama and

my oldest brother Rob. Then yesterday, somebody mailed my

brother’s head to the institution with a note, ‘

lf you’re lookin’ for

your brother, Ax Blazack, oh, and don’t worry about your Grandma