by Joy, E. n.
“What?” asked the thin man rhetorically with a twist to his face that was filled with merciless fury. Julia swiftly did as her husband ordered and closed the curtain. “Tell her not to call the police.”
“Don’t call the police. I’ve got everything under control,” yelled out Don Ramon to Julia.
The robber’s hand began to slightly quiver and it was clear he felt that the situation was slipping out of his control. An ear drum rupturing boom and a blinding flash was the last thing Don Ramon heard and saw before feeling his chest rip open by a white, hot bullet. Don Ramon could only whisper a child like grunt, which only his ears picked up, before collapsing back first onto his freshly watered grass.
The thin man in black stared down at Don Ramon’s deceased body for a fraction of a second after shooting him. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go down. But he’d panicked.
He then looked around to see if anybody had paid any attention to the gunshot. When he saw that no one had noticed anything, probably chalking off the sound as a firecracker, a car backfiring or something, he quickly dashed up the short steps that led to the old couple’s living room door. He feared that Julia, though, had heard the shot and was on her way to calling the police. The thin man grabbed the door handle and quickly turned it as he prepared to rush inside the house.
Julia was in her bedroom, seated on a chair next to her dresser, as she, indeed, was dialing the police. Her grandchildren were tucked away near her, under her bed. She would have joined them but she knew it wasn’t enough room for both her and the children.
The living room door came crashing open as the intruder stumbled inside. He franticly opened every door that he encountered in the small two bedroom house, until he finally found exactly who he was looking for. Then, without any pause, he raised the 38 revolver, pointed, and released three shots, which struck Julia in the head, just above her right ear, her neck and right shoulder. Julia’s head then slumped forward, near her knees as she slowly struggled to take her last breath.
Nine year old Jackie, the oldest of the three kids, placed her hand over Erik’s mouth, who was her five year old brother, as he began to softly whimper. Their cousin, eight year old Troy, remained silent from fear. But even if they would have made any sort of noise, the thin man would not have picked any of it up. His ears were still ringing from the gunshots.
He then began searching for anything that might seem valuable. He stuffed what he could in his pockets and snatched Julia’s purse off the dresser and ran outside. There, he kneeled beside Don Ramon’s body, rolled him over onto his stomach, and reached for the wallet that he had originally asked for. He pulled it out of his back pocket and with the swiftness of a starving animal that had just landed a meal, stuffed it in his pockets and speed walked down the street until he disappeared into the night.
The kids’ grandparents had told them before to run to the neighbor’s house if they were ever in trouble. A few minutes later, when they began noticing blood slowly streaming down the leg of their grandmother, they felt they couldn’t wait any longer. They crawled out from under the bed, and without trying to look at their dead, blood drenched, grandmother’s body, ran outside the house.
***
Don Ramon’s twenty-one year old next door neighbor, Kemo, had instantly stopped bouncing his two year old daughter, Rain, on his lap when he heard the man made thunder outside his small studio-like duplex apartment building.
Kemo was a handsome, light bronze flesh toned, well built young man. He sported a fade haircut, but always wore baseball caps. He also wore a diamond earring in his left ear, and dressed in hip hop flavored attire.
The smile that he and his daughter wore on their faces as they played together quickly faded to a look of wonder and worry. Kemo lifted Rain in his arms, stood up from the living room couch, and walked to their tiny kitchen. There, sitting at the small dinning table, was his baby mama, Jasmine.
Jasmine looked like she would make it in the top five for a Jennifer Lopez look a like contest, but would be rejected for her slight overweight figure.
Jasmine had some bills in her hand, along with a calculator. A pen and pad lay out across the table. She sat frozen, staring at Kemo as he walked towards her. “What was that? That didn’t sound like any fireworks,” said Jasmine.
“I know. It was a gun shot. And it sounded like it came from Don Ramon’s house,” said Kemo.
A few moments later, Kemo and his family heard a loud banging on their door. Kemo walked up to the living room door and looked through the peep hole and was barely able to make out some small heads below his view. He opened the door and the kids from next door quickly scrambled inside. A weeping Jackie explained what had happened, and as soon as she mentioned Julia being shot, Kemo ran to his closet, yanked the door open, reached up towards a shelf, and pulled out his 12 gauge Mossberg pistol grip shotgun, which was already fully loaded. He grabbed a box of extra ammo, stuffed it in his pants pocket, and ran towards the door.
“Baby, be careful,” yelled out Jasmine to Kemo as he stepped outside.
“Jasmine, call 911!” screamed Kemo when he saw Don Ramon’s body lying on the slick grass in the front yard of his house. He then looked towards the living room door entrance and noticed that it was wide open. Kemo didn’t want to take any chances, so he entered the house pointing the shotgun at any potential threat.
When he entered the bedroom where Julia sat dead, he knew it was all too late. He quickly looked away and stared at the wall in the hallway in total disbelief of what had occurred. His face had turned into a sickly pale color. Sweat lined the edges of his forehead. His heart felt like it was located in his throat as it pounded away with a rush of adrenaline. He closed his eyes and tried to compose himself.
A few seconds later, he remembered that he had told Jasmine to call 911. He didn’t want to tamper with any potential evidence that might lead to the killer, so he carefully turned to leave. Before Kemo had the chance to completely step out of the house, someone yelled from a distance, “Drop your weapon and get down on the ground, now!”
When Kemo saw the police officer pointing his gun at him, he instantly tossed his shotgun towards the officer, almost striking the man. The officer ducked to the side and was barely able to miss being hit by the shotgun. As soon as the shotgun was out of Kemo’s hands, he dived for cover next to the short concrete wall of the porch. A thousand things to say to the cop flooded Kemo’s mind, but only one managed to bypass his mental gate and exit out of his mouth. “Don’t shoot!”
Kemo knew that some cops were as trigger happy as any cold blooded hoodlum. Just when he was going to start yelling an explanation to the officer, Jasmine and the kids stepped outside and yelled out, “Don’t hurt him, he was trying to help.” Though the officer felt more at ease, he felt that he still had to do his job by the book and not take any chances.
“Stay inside. I’ll handle this,” said the officer to Jasmine and the kids. They never budged. The officer then instructed Kemo on how to surrender.
Kemo fully complied. At least I have witnesses if he does shoot me, thought Kemo as he walked backwards towards the officer as instructed.
The police officer then handcuffed Kemo and placed him in the back of his patrol car. After they investigated the crime scene, they determined that Kemo’s shotgun was not the weapon used to murder his neighbors. Another officer at the scene later approached the cruiser where Kemo was being held. He opened the door and said, “Don’t worry, you’re in the clear, but we still have to take you to jail for the shotgun.”
“But it’s legally ours. It’s under my girl’s name,” said Kemo.
“It doesn’t matter. You took a loaded weapon outside of your home and on to the streets. Our state doesn’t give permits to carry a loaded weapon. It’s supposed to stay in the home. And like you said, it’s her gun, not yours. But like I told you, don’t worry, it’s only a misdemeanor. You’ll be out by tomorrow.”
The officer then slammed the door s
hut. Kemo made a phone shape with his hand and mouthed to Jasmine, “I’ll call you.” The cop car then drove off to city jail.
It would be Kemo’s first time going to jail. As a teen, he had been to Juvenile Hall for petty stuff, so he hoped he could handle going to county jail as an ad
Chapter Two
When Kemo arrived at the city jail, the officer pulled the car inside a small parking garage that had two large electronically controlled gates on opposite sides. One was used to enter and the other to exit. The officer parked the patrol car in a vacant parking space. Kemo was pulled out of the patrol car and led to a bench, where the intake officers asked him to remove his shoe laces, jewelry, and to empty out his pockets. After Kemo obliged, they placed everything in a plastic bag, and then lifted him up by his elbows.
“Turn and face the wall,” commanded one of the booking officers. Kemo did as he was told. “Now, spread your legs and place your hands against the wall.” The officer then proceeded to pat down Kemo from head to toe. He lifted his semi baggy pants up high above his waist, then began running his hands around his crotch. When nothing illegal was found, the intake officers sat Kemo back down on the bench.
Kemo then noticed the gate from which he had entered began to open again. Another patrol car drove inside with a hand cuffed passenger in the back as well. As soon as the door on the cop car was opened, they all heard a young guy yelling out, “I can’t believe y’all really brought me here over this mess.”
The arresting officers remained silent as they led him to the bench where Kemo was. When the young guy sat down, he turned and looked at Kemo, then asked him, “What they get you fo’?”
“Gun,” Kemo simply answered.
“You see! That I understand. That could kill somebody. But my charge, come on,” the young guy pleaded.
“Why they get you?” asked Kemo.
“Fo’ some ol’ punk, small, almost invisible rock. Just one little one. Can you believe that? I didn’t do anything really,” the young guy said in a loud tone of voice.
“Take your shoes off and hand them to me,” said the booking officer to Kemo. When Kemo did, the officer slapped them together to see if anything fell out. When nothing did, he tossed them to the side then said, “Take your socks off and turn them inside out.” Kemo once again did as he was told. When the intake officer was done with Kemo, he told him to put his socks and shoes back on. When Kemo was almost done putting his shoes back on his feet, he noticed that the young guy who had come in after him wasn’t cooperating when it came time to take his shoes off.
“Take your shoes off you moron; now!” yelled the booking cop.
“Man, I ain’t doin’ nothing,” said the young guy.
“Hold him down,” said the booking officer to his fellow police officers. When they did, he lifted the young guy’s right leg up and yanked his shoe off. He did the same with his other foot. He slapped them together the same way he did with Kemo, but when nothing came loose he inspected them even more closely.
He flapped the tongue out, pressed down on it, and removed the shoes’ soles, but still found nothing. Then he reached for the young guy’s socks, grabbed them, and pulled on them as if he were a magician pulling on a table’s skirt that had many plates and glasses scattered across. Several crack cocaine rocks went flying out of the young guy’s socks, all showering down on the smooth concrete floor of the parking lot.
“Look at what we have here,” said the booking officer with a clown like grin. Kemo could only shake his head as he was led to one of the holding cells.
Kemo heard the young guy yell in anger from the outside.
Before Kemo was assigned to a cell, the booking officer stopped him and asked in a low tone, “What gangs are you affiliated with?” It was standard procedure for them to ask since they didn’t want any rivals clashing in one of their cells.
“All of ’em,” Kemo replied.
“What?” the officer asked a bit confused.
“I know cats from every side.”
“Is that right? Well, I’m just going to put you down as a Piasa, okay?
“Alright, that’s cool.” A Piasa was just a Hispanic civilian in jail. No gang affiliation.
As Kemo walked inside his cell he noticed several men of all colors, shapes, and heights sitting on concrete benches that ran along the dirty white wall of the small square holding cell. Some of the men slept on the benches, while others slept on the dirty floor. Several clear plastic bags lay scattered on the floor. Orange peels, empty milk cartons, bologna, and stale bread seemed to be the main decorative objects of the cell. There were discarded pieces of food from the leftovers of the lunch bags that the jail handed out to inmates.
Kemo looked up and saw an old television set that was incased in a metallic box. The blank screen on the television was protected by a clear plastic shield. The shield looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since it was installed. Kemo didn’t feel like watching much television anyway. Even if he did, he doubted he could see much of it, since the shield’s griminess made it look like it would be impossible to make out any figures on the television set. When Kemo noticed a phone attached to the wall of the cell, he stepped towards it. That’s when he caught a powerful whiff. He lifted his shirt up to his face and said, “Aw man.” Those who were awake chuckled.
“That’s these two nasty smelling cats right here,” said one of the inmates. He was pointing out two homeless gentlemen that were asleep on the dirty floor. Kemo shook his head and continued towards the phone. Kemo called Jasmine to make sure her and the kids were okay. He explained to her what the officer had said about him getting out tomorrow. When he hung up, he turned and walked directly to the cell’s only door, where the horrendous smell was not as effective. There Kemo stood for half an hour thinking about his neighbors, his family, his city’s dangerous reputation, and of a way to one day escape from it.
His legs began to cramp from standing so long in the same position. He noticed an area of the cell where the men who were sitting on the bench were not all bunched together. There seemed to be room for him if they could just scoot over a bit.
Kemo walked up to that area and kindly asked, “Could y’all scoot over just a little somethin’ so I could sit down real quick?” Kemo was ready for the guy that never failed to show his ugly face in situations like the one he currently found himself in. He was expecting that maybe someone was not going to take his request kindly. In Juvenile Hall, some kids were just waiting for any opportunity to start a fight. So he was ready.
“Oh, yeah, it’s all good,” said one of the larger inmates as he tapped on the guy next to him to let him know that they needed to make space for the new guy. Kemo sat down and exhaled a sigh of relief when he felt his body’s weight get transferred from his legs to his butt.
“I wanted to stand too when I first got here. Until I realized that I wasn’t goin’ anywhere fo’ a long time,” said the big fellow with a smile.
“How long you been waitin’ here fo’?” asked Kemo.
“Four hours,” he replied.
“Man, I hope I don’t have to wait that much time in here,” said Kemo.
“You will,” said another inmate. It was the same one who had pointed out the smelly bums. “That’s how they do it. They take they sweet time. They are not in no kind of hurry to get you up out of here, trust me. It’ll come, don’t trip. Just chill, amigo.”
Another half hour passed by as more people kept getting booked. Kemo’s cell was filled slightly passed the max, so they began placing all the new arrivals in a different cell. Kemo was now ready to watch some TV in order to pass time. When he spotted some deputies pass by his cell, he stood up, jogged over to the door, and hollered out, “Ay, could you please turn on the television?”
“It doesn’t work,” responded one of the deps.
Kemo disappointedly walked back to the bench where he had been sitting. Another hour passed by and out of sheer boredom, Kemo had resorted to reading the ingredients on on
e of the many milk cartons lying on the floor. When he was done, he put the carton down and looked around. He noticed that all the men were sleeping. “What time is it?” asked Kemo when he spotted a deputy nearby.
“Midnight,” responded the officer.
“It’s midnight already?” whispered Kemo. His talking woke up one of the inmates. It was the big one that had scooted over to let Kemo have a seat. He stood up and walked over to the door.
“Midnight, huh?” the big guy asked Kemo.
“Yup,” replied Kemo. “Don’t they have any beds here for us? My legs hurt from standing so long, and then my butt starts hurting from sittin’ on that hard bench,” said a visibly frustrated Kemo.
“Beds? No, not here; not until we get to county,” said the big inmate.
Kemo continued sitting on the hard concrete bench, shifting the weight on his butt every so often. Another hour passed and Kemo felt that he couldn’t take it anymore. He stood up from the bench and walked up to the door. He began banging on it in an attempt at getting the deputies’ attention. When one of the deps did manage to show up, Kemo then asked him, “Could you please, please, give me somethin’ to read, a magazine, a newspaper, anything to read, please?” Kemo had never before wanted to read as badly as he did at that point and time. But his idle mind was driving him crazy.
“Sorry, can’t do it,” said the deputy and simply strolled off. To Kemo’s surprise, he returned a few moments later with something for Kemo to read. “Here. Read this. I hear it’s a pretty good book.”
Kemo anxiously took the reading material, but when he looked down at it, a look of surprise covered his face. “The Bible?” Kemo asked as the officer simply walked off laughing.
This hadn’t exactly been what Kemo had in mind, but he was ready to read anything. So, he did what his Grandmother used to do. He looked away from the Bible, opened the book and just began reading the random page. It was Hebrews. He began reading, and a short while later, he got to a verse that he felt was kind of ironic considering where he was at. It was Hebrews 13:3 “Continue to remember those in prison as if you were together with them in prison, and those who are mistreated as if you yourselves were suffering.”
