I had my next court date fast as hell. That little bitch-ass lawyer had made a motion to dismiss, which was denied and I was set for another court date in six weeks. Six fucking weeks of sitting in the fucking Virginia Beach County Jail would be fucked up. Seeing my wife screaming and crying in the courtroom fucked me up inside and had me ready to kill a nigga for real. I looked back at her one last time before they took my ass back to the courtroom cells, and all I could do was hang my fucking head.
Right after that, they carted my ass off on that dirty-ass prison bus. As soon as I stepped up on that shit, I could feel the eyes of some of my enemies staring at me and grilling me. No matter when a street nigga like me went to jail, I was always gonna have enemies.
I wasn’t no fucking punk, and I was going to let these niggas know right now that I wasn’t to be fucked with. I kept my head up as I took small steps with my feet and hands shackled. I kept a confident air about me and screwed up my face, staring those bitch niggas right back in the eye. Without a word, I knew I was letting them know “don’t fuck with me.”
When I arrived back at the jail, I got into a different state of mind.
I wasn’t trying to hear the COs or none of these fucking inmates up in here. Of course, I was strip searched, body-cavity searched, and sprayed with cold-ass water from a hose—in other words, I was fucking dehumanized. I was given a fucked-up jumpsuit and those little piece-of-shit slippers. The CO handed me my fucking sheets, a blanket, and pillow. When I arrived on the tier, a bunch of niggas playing spades stopped to check me out. I kept eye contact with them, letting them know what was up. I wasn’t to be played with. It was important that I sent a message early. Shit, for all I knew, I might be doing a fucking life sentence.
I walked into my cell, and there was a dude on the floor doing push-ups. Looking down at him, I noticed his fucking arms were huge and he wore long dreads. When he heard the COs bringing me in, he got up to check me out. He looked me up and down, and I did the same shit to him. As long as he looked me in the eye, I did the same back. He had real dark skin and a scowl on his face like he wanted me to know he was a tough guy. I ignored him and placed my shit on the empty top bunk. The COs left, and shortly after, they called gate lock for the count. That’s the shit I didn’t miss. The constant fucking counting heads in jail—after every meal, at yard time, for new inmates, anything they had to do a fucking count.
I looked around the cell and noticed that the dude had mad legal books stacked on the floor. Oh, boy. Another prison lawyer trying to come up with his own defense, I thought to myself. I got up on my bunk, put my arm over my eyes, and remained quiet until it was time for lights-out.
Waking up in jail was the worst feeling in the world. I opened my eyes to gray cinder-block walls and a pissy-ass cell. Damn, I covered my nose and mouth because this nigga had taken a piss and didn’t flush the toilet. It was breakfast time, and I really wasn’t feeling like dealing with the niggas in general population.
I knew from experience these motherfuckers always thought they had shit to prove. I walked out of my cell toward the chow hall and wished a nigga would try me. I could hear some of them whispering and trying to figure out who the fuck I was. I looked around the chow hall tryna see if I recognized any of my boys, but I didn’t see nobody I knew yet. I got in the line for food. Looking at the slop was depressing. As I stood in line, sure enough niggas tried to start some shit with me.
“I smell new pussy,” I heard one of them say. The next thing I knew, one of the dudes was right up on me, while two more of them moved in position to try to surround me.
I crinkled up my face like the Incredible Hulk and turned around quickly, getting ready to bang those motherfuckers in the face with my tray. I wasn’t going to talk to these niggas; it was all action from Todd Marshall. I wasn’t no punk-ass nigga. Before I could do anything, my cellmate stepped between me and the dude.
“Yo, bitch ass, step the fuck off my celly and go find some other asshole to run up in, faggot nigga,” my cellmate barked, cracking his knuckles and flexing those big, black-ass arms.
Those niggas nodded and backed off, like they knew the deal with my cellmate. Obviously he had a reputation up in the joint.
“Dray,” he said to me, reaching his hand out for a pound.
“Todd,” I said back, giving him dap. “These motherfucking punk-ass niggas always trying to find new ass to catch,” Dray said, grabbing a juice.
“I don’t need no protection,” I assured him, letting him know that I could hold my own. I wasn’t trying to let nobody fight my battles.
“Nah, I saw you about to handle yours with that tray, but it ain’t worth getting sent to the hole for,” Dray explained.
He was right. I was about to get an extra assault charge added to the fucking book of charges they had already put on me.
At yard time, me and Dray held a good conversation. He pointed out all of the new gangs and cliques that had arrived up in the prison since I had been out.
“Yo, those Spanish cats are a motherfucker. They all about cutting niggas down the middle to leave their mark,” Dray explained, pointing out the tatted-up Spanish dudes who were huddled around the pull-up bars. “Those Muslim dudes are solid. They keep to themselves, but if you cross them, you’re dead,” he continued, nodding toward a group of black dudes with little things on their heads. I knew about them when I was up in prison, but from what Dray was telling me, they had become more ruthless. In fact, he told me the jail-gang tracking unit now considered the Muslims inside the walls a gang and not a religion.
Two weeks up in the joint and me and Dray had gotten mad cool. He was always spitting legal terms and shit, telling me all the things I should be telling my court-appointed lawyer until I could get my new attorney. I was usually leery about cats I didn’t know, but Dray was cool, and I was kind of digging his style.
One day, we had worked out and afterward, I went to use the phone to call Shannon. I needed to find out what the fuck was going on with her and my son and with the money for the lawyer. I got more and more heated by the minute as I spoke to her. She was all crying and shit, telling me how none of those dudes I sent her to was trying to come up off the money they owed me. I was on fire inside when she told me that she still couldn’t find that nigga Jock and that the garage where I kept my trucks had been cleaned the fuck out—stash and all. The more I spoke to her and found out what was going on on the outside, the more this whole shit sounded like a fucking setup.
When I got back to my cell, I was fuming mad. I paced up and down the floor. I didn’t sit out on the tier and watch TV, nor did I feel like working out. My mind was racing, and my anger level was over the top. It seemed like shit was dim for me, and as I looked around, I started realizing this little fucking dank-ass cell might be my fucking reality.
Dray came into the cell and sat down on his bunk. He watched me for a minute, then asked what was up.
“Yo, I just met you, man. I ain’t into telling cats I don’t know my business,” I said.
“Nah, man, I fully understand,” Dray said.
But as I paced and paced and thought longer and longer, I just grew angrier by the minute. I wasn’t into telling dudes my business, but I was so heated I just let it out. I told him how my fucking wife was down to almost nothing. She was barely able to pay the mortgage on the house and was going to have to move to a smallass apartment. I told him how niggas in the streets who owed me money thought I was gone for good, so they wasn’t trying to come up off paper that they owed me. Dray was looking at me like he was thinking as I was talking.
“And, yo, the thing that gets me the fucking most is my main partner, Jock, ain’t nowhere to be found, and the whole reason I’m in this shit is because I took a fucking ratchet off his hands. I ain’t even got money for a fucking defense attorney right now!” I barked, with regret and anger behind my words as I continued pacing up and down my little cell. I regretted the words as soon as they left my mouth. You just never knew
who was who up in prison. I knew I had run my fucking mouth enough already.
“Yo, man, it ain’t all bad,” Dray said, rubbing his temple like he was feeling my pain.
“Nigga, this shit ain’t bad—it’s fucking tragic!” I screamed. Right now I ain’t have shit—no fucking lawyer and no chance to try to fix the chopped-up fucking job that court-appointed bitch-ass attorney had done.
“Yo, man. I think I can help you. I know a way you can make a lot of money in a little bit of time,” Dray blurted out.
“What? Whatchu talking about, nigga? You in the same boat as me,” I fumed, not trying to hear no bullshit fake-ass outside hook-up.
“Yeah, nigga, I am. But me and you are two different people. You ready to hear how you can get money to feed ya family and get a fucking lawyer for appeal before you sit in here and rot while ya boys fuck ya wife?” Dray said, not holding back his words.
Even though I wanted to punch him in the fucking mouth for what he had just said, I couldn’t front. I was interested in what the fuck he was talking about.
I was all ears. What did I have to lose? At this point, nothing!
Shannon
It had been almost a month since Todd got locked up and still no sign of Jock. Todd was fucking heated off the situation, because if he didn’t get a good lawyer soon, they were definitely going to be pressuring him to take a plea at his next court appearance.
These so-called street cats weren’t trying to come up off the money they owed Todd, and I was down to absolutely nothing. I was having one more fucking garage sale today to sell off some more of my bags, shoes, and coats so I could scrounge up enough money to get a little apartment up in Dolphine Cove on Military Highway. I wasn’t about to wait around for the marshals to come put my ass out once the fucking foreclosure proceedings started on the house. So far, I had had two sales and made a little cash to get me and Lil Todd through the month and enough to put some on the books for Todd. For real, though, I never knew how good I had it with my husband around until now, when I was left to survive on my own.
I was busy packing when I got a call on my cell from Todd.
“Wassup, baby?” I said, trying to sound upbeat so he wouldn’t be all stressed out in there worrying about me.
“I got something to tell you. It’s real important,” he said, sounding all excited.
His excitement confused the hell out of me. Shit, I couldn’t feel the same. There was nothing he could tell me right now—except that he was getting out—that would make me excited.
“What is so important?” I asked him, twisting my lips and rolling my eyes, glad he couldn’t see the look on my face.
“I gotta tell you about a foolproof plan to get this one big lick. Shannon, I’m telling you, with what we can make, you will be able to get me an attorney for my appeal and get the fuck up outta dodge until I get out,” Todd said, still sounding all excited.
By this time I was annoyed. How can this nigga even sound the least bit excited at a time like this? I thought while I listened to him talk.
“What is it?” I finally asked, sitting down on the couch, leaning my head on my fist. To me, it already sounded like a fucking pipe dream. I didn’t want to sound all negative, but what the fuck did he expect me to do now? It was easy for him to sit up in that fucking jail and say “Shannon do this” and “Shannon do that.” He was locked up, three square meals a day and not facing all the embarrassment I was facing from my friends and family, not to mention the streets was talking like a motherfucker. The street chronicles already had me on welfare; sucking dick for money; and, the best one yet, I was a paid informant for the same pig-ass cops who arrested my husband. I’m telling you the streets could spread some bullshit.
And to top it all off, when my hating-ass cousins had heard about my situation and heard I had to sell my most prized possessions, they all came over to rummage through my shit. Those bitches was spending they last dollar on my shit. They was buying up all my exclusive shit with their little welfare checks just so they could turn around and say they had Shannon’s shit on their backs. Pride aside, I took their money too. I had no fucking choice.
During the conversation, Todd was rambling on in fucking code again, talking some shit about how his so-called master plan was gonna involve me and how I needed to be a “soldier.” At first, I was saying hell fucking no when I figured out that I would have to be involved. But the more my husband spoke and the more I looked around at all of the boxes containing what was left of my belongings and thought about having to move and feeding my son, I got right into a ride-or-die bitch mind-set.
“What’s the plan?” I asked again. He had my attention now; he had kind of got me interested in the money part. Todd instructed me not to speak over the phone. I would be visiting him tomorrow, and I guess I’d be finding out what I was about to do.
Todd
“A’ight, tell me again about this nigga Bobby Knight,” I asked Dray as I paced again. My mind was racing with a million fucking thoughts about the money Dray had said this cat Bobby Knight had up in his crib.
“Yo, I’m telling you, nigga. He is fucking crazy paid. He owns all the strip clubs in the Chesapeake, Virginia, area. He is not just a two-bit hustler—that motherfucker is basically the head of his own fucking cartel. On my word, he got paper. Yo, what I’m talking about would be the ultimate heist. But I’m telling you, your people would have to mirk this nigga, because if not, he will kill you, your crew, and ya whole fucking family—puppy dogs, grandmas, and all,” Dray informed me. Once again, the sound of a money machine was ringing in my ears. I could just see the fucking paper this nigga had, and I could also picture my fucking hands right on it.
“So if the nigga is so thorough, how you think this shit gonna go down?” I asked, rubbing my chin deep in thought. It was obvious this ultimate-heist shit was gonna take some planning.
“Listen, T-man, the one thing that is Bobby Knight’s weakness is pretty women,” Dray said, giving me a telling glance.
“Whatchu saying?” I asked, crinkling my eyebrows, knowing what he meant.
“I’m saying that I’ve seen your wife on visits. No disrespect, but she is gorgeous and she is one hundred percent Bobby’s type. All she would have to do is get in and set that shit up,” Dray said, his words tumbling so fast I couldn’t think.
“Nah, nigga, that sounds like some indecent-proposal-type shit,” I replied, not willing to give no nigga at no cost a taste of my fucking wife.
“She don’t have to fuck him. All she gotta do really is get that nigga to sweat her. Listen, man, I used to work around that dude, and I know his weaknesses. The cat got low self-esteem, and if you saw him, you’d know why. But see, he keeps the most pretty bitches in his stable and on his arm so he can make other niggas believe these gorgeous-ass woman are really attracted to his hideous ass,” Dray explained, chuckling. “I’m saying I know Knight very well, and he would definitely latch on to your wife from day one,” Dray continued.
“So, why you trying to get that cat set up?” I asked. Not trying to look a gift horse in the mouth, but I needed to know why Dray wanted to do this nigga Bobby Knight dirty.
“It’s simple. Bobby Knight is a backstabbing prick bastard,” Dray gritted, spit flying out of his mouth as he spoke. “He turned his back on me, and he had my brother killed. We had been loyal street soldiers in Bobby’s army. See, that nigga Bobby Knight got a God complex, and he thinks he is untouchable. Basically he is, unless you know his inner workings and how he operates,” Dray explained, his eyes getting small and squinty like he was either gonna cry and shit or kill a nigga. I could feel his pain of being betrayed too. I was now convinced that that nigga Jock had turned his back on me in the worst way.
“So how much money you think this dude is sitting on?” I asked, trying to change the subject since Dray seemed to be having a hard time talking about why he hated Bobby Knight. His explanation was good enough for me. Shit, I lived by the death-before-dishonor code, so I w
as feeling Dray all the way.
“Nigga you couldn’t understand the magnitude of this dude’s bank. He is a millionaire a thousand times over. We talking Pablo Escobar—type money … rooms full of money. See, he can’t put that shit up in no bank with all these money-laundering and money-tracking laws, so the nigga got rooms in his house just filled with boxes and boxes of money!” Dray said, spreading his arms wide to illustrate how much and sounding like he was getting lifted just thinking about it. “I’m talking about boxes of money. You ever seen that movie Blow? How them dudes had money in a room from floor to ceiling? That’s the type of money I’m talking about,” Dray explained.
I knew just what the fuck he was saying. I had watched that movie at least ten times; aside from Scarface, it was probably my favorite movie of all time.
“When I went down, this motherfucker Bobby ain’t so much as put a dime on the fucking books for me, and he took away my brother, leaving me with nobody,” Dray continued, his chest heaving a little bit.
I could tell Dray was trying hard to keep his composure. I noticed that it was a sensitive topic when he spoke about Bobby Knight.
“Boxes of money sound good to me. Where this nigga stay at?” I asked, putting a halt to my pacing. Dray started drawing on the inside of a small cereal box. He drew zigs and zags like a fucking maze.
“We talking about a complex. It ain’t no regular house—that’s what I’m trying to tell you. This nigga live behind big iron gates with a massive security system. He got his own closed-circuit TV security system that he can see anywhere in the house,” Dray explained, passing the little drawing to me. I examined it closely.
Heist Page 3
