Blood of a Boss: The Moreno Family

by Askari

  “Hello,” she answered.

  “Daph, it’s Sontino. Can you meet me somewhere?”

  *****

  In Lebanon, Pennsylvania...

  Tommy was sitting in Larry Santiguida’s waiting room with the heel of his foot tapping a hole into the carpet. Damn man, I hope this mu’fucka can get me outta this shit. He was still nervous and afraid from the phone call that he received from his grandmother earlier that morning. According to her, when she left the house for work and opened the front door, her porch was covered with lit candles, flowers and Teddy Bears.

  Initially, she didn't know what to think, but when she took a closer look and noticed that one of the Teddy Bears was holding an obituary with Tommy's picture on the front page she called him to make sure he was safe. Now, here he was sitting in his lawyers waiting room bitching! How did they know I was tellin? Do they know where I’m at? Are my peoples safe? All of these questions ran through his mind as he sat there nervously biting his fingernails.

  The phone rang at the receptionist desk, and Santiguida’s secretary answered it immediately. She nodded her head up and down, and looked at Tommy. After a couple of seconds, she placed the phone back on the receiver.

  “Mr. Santiguida is ready to see you, Mr. Wilson.”

  When Tommy entered the office, he paced back and forth with the facial expression of a doomed man. “Yo Larry, you gotta help me man!”

  “Whoa Tommy, just calm down and tell me what’s going on.”

  Tommy told him all about his encounter with Detective Smith and how he planted the gun in his car, and then pressured him into setting up Mook. He then told him about the phone call that he received from his grandmother earlier that morning. Santiguida wrote down everything he said, then picked up his phone and called Detective Smith.

  Ring! Ring!

  “Hello, you’ve reached Detective Smith. How can I help you?” The detective answered.

  “Good morning, detective. My name is Lawrence Santiguida, and I’m Tommy Wilson’s attorney. It’s been brought to my attention that you illegally searched my client’s vehicle and discovered a firearm.” He stated but still somewhat asking a question.

  “I illegally searched your client’s vehicle? I didn’t illegally search shit.” The detective snapped through the phone. After a brief pause, he calmed himself and chose his next words carefully. “Your client was speeding on a public street, and I pulled him over for a routine traffic stop. When I approached his vehicle, I smelled the distinct aroma of marijuana, and based on a reasonable suspicion that drugs were inside of the vehicle, I conducted a search and ultimately discovered an unregistered firearm.”

  “Well, based on my client's version of the events, you egregiously violated his rights to privacy under the 4th and 14th Amendments to the United States Constitution, and under Article I, Section 8 of the Pennsylvania Constitution. Moreover, according to my client, you’re using the illegally obtained evidence to force him to cooperate in the investigation of,” he looked down at his notes. “Michael Brooks.”

  “Well, did your client happen to tell you that he sold a kilogram of cocaine to my confidential informant, and that lab results confirmed that his fingerprints were all over the packaging?”

  “No, I was not aware of that fact.”

  “Listen, Mr. Santa, ah, whatever your name is. The only reason your client is a free man at the present time is because of me. I could’ve easily charged him with the possession of a stolen firearm and a direct sale, but I didn’t. I gave him the opportunity to do the right thing. Now,” he paused for a couple of seconds, “either he cooperates or his drug dealing ass is going to jail.”

  Click!

  Santiguida placed the phone back on the receiver, and then looked at Tommy. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but he’s got you by the balls. He’s claiming that you sold a kilogram of cocaine to his confidential informant, and that lab reports confirm the presence of your fingerprints on the packaging. Did this really happen?”

  “Fuck no. That pussy’s lyin’. I didn’t sell a brick to a confidential informant. I gave the brick to him so he could use it to build a case against Mook! I didn’t sell to a confidential informant! I am the confidential informant!” He continued shouting.

  Santiguida remained silent and just sat there tapping his pen against his note pad.

  “Damn, man, don’t just sit there. I need you to get me outta this shit!” Tommy cried. “I can’t testify against Mook! If I do, they’ll kill me!”

  “Well, I’ve gotta be honest with you Tommy. From what Detective Smith just told me, I’d say that your best bet is to cooperate.”

  “Man, they’re gonna fuckin’ kill me! They already know that I told. I’ll never even make it to the witness stand.” Tommy retorted. “Yo, it’s gotta be somethin’ you can do for me.”

  Santiguida shrugged his shoulders. “Look man, I don’t know what else to tell you. If you take your chances at trial, then there’s a strong possibility that you’re gonna lose. In cases like this, where it comes down to the word of a detective against the word of the defendant, more than likely the jury is gonna believe the detective.”

  Tommy gathered his composure. “Fuck it. I guess I gotta do what I gotta do.”

  After leaving Santiguida’s office, he went to his house, grabbed a brick of raw and headed back to Philly. When he pulled up in front of police headquarters at 8th and Race, he sat behind the steering wheel of his Benz, and broke down crying. The last thing he ever wanted to do in his life was carry the burden of being a rat, but unfortunately, this was a line that he had already crossed. Fuck it, man. It is what it is, he rationalized to himself.

  He entered the building and headed straight for Detective Smith’s office. Without knocking on the door, he barged inside of the small room, and sat the brick on the desk.

  “Here man, damn.”

  “What the fuck is that?” Detective Smith shouted. “And who in the hell do you think you are, storming into my goddamn office?”

  “Man, fuck ya office!” Tommy shouted. “You said that you wanted Mook, well now you got him! It’s a key of coke in that bag, and he just sold it to me on 10th and Susquehanna. Is that good enough for you?”

  Detective Smith looked at the bag and smiled. “Yeah, that’s good enough.” He laughed and stood up from behind the desk. “Now, turn around and place your hands behind your goddamned back. You’re rat ass is under arrest.”

  “Under arrest?” Tommy looked him, refusing to believe what he had just heard. “What the fuck you mean I’m under arrest? I did everything that you asked me to do.”

  “Let’s just say I need a little insurance. So therefore, you’re rat ass is gonna sit in the county jail until you testify, and after that maybe you can go home. Now for the last time, turn around and place your hands behind your fuckin’ back.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Following Morning...

  It was 4:59 a.m. and Detectives Smith and Sullivan, accompanied by the Dover Task Force, were standing outside of Mook’s estate, preparing to execute their warrant. The five security guards who worked the gated community were standing off to the side, and approximately thirty Swat Team members were positioning themselves around his mansion.

  Detective Smith looked around and smiled. “As soon as my watch hits five o’clock, we’re going in fellas. Our suspect is known for carrying a firearm so be extremely cautious.” He glanced at his G Shock. “Alright, in Five, Four, Three, Two, One.”

  Boom!

  Inside of the house, Mook and his wife Saleena were awakened by the sound of their front door being kicked off of the hinges. Initially, he thought that the invasion was an attempt on his life, but when he heard the intruders identify themselves as police officers, he knew that he was facing something far worse. Damn, these pussies caught me slippin’, he said to himself as he thought about the 200 keys of cocaine that was stashed in the vault behind his bed.

  He looked at Saleena. “Baby, put ya hands u
p and don’t move. These jealous ass crackers will shoot us at the drop of a dime,” he instructed in a calm voice. “And remember, whatever they ask you, just tell ‘em you don't know nothin’.”

  “I got you, daddy. I know the drill,” she responded with tears in her eyes and fear in her voice.

  Their bedroom door flew open, and two members of the Dover Task Force stormed inside with their guns drawn, aimed, and ready to fire.

  “Get on the fucking ground!”

  *****

  When Mook arrived at the police headquarters on the corner of 8th and Race all he could think about was whether or not the police had searched his house. If they did, he wondered if they found the cocaine that was stashed inside of his vault. After being processed, he was taken upstairs to the Narcotics Division, and placed inside of an interrogation room. A few minutes later, Detective Smith entered the small room with a huge smile spread across his face.

  “So, Mr. Brooks, we meet again.”

  “Fuck you, pussy. I ain’t got no mu’fuckin’ rap. Call my lawyer down here. You know his name, Mario Savino. It seems like every time you drag me down here, Savino drags his ass to the courtroom and I drag my black ass home.” Mook laughed, and then spat on the floor.

  “Oh, so Mr. Big Shot wants his grease ball attorney huh?” The detective taunted him. “Sorry to tell you this dickhead, but that whop attorney of your’s can’t get you outta this one. I’ve gotta surprise for you. Can you guess what it is?” Detective Smith laughed.

  “Fuck you, Smitty! I want my fuckin’ lawyer!” Mook demanded.

  “Alright, alright. I’m gonna let you call him. Just be sure to tell him that I’ve got a witness who is willing to testify that on the fifth of December, you sold him a kilogram of cocaine. To make things more interesting, his testimony is gonna be corroborated with the fingerprints that you left on the duct tape that you used to package it,” Detective Smith stated in a cocky voice.

  After hearing all of the evidence that the detective had against him, Mook felt relieved. He knew they didn’t find the 200 keys, because if they did, Detective Smith would have surely threw it in his face.

  “Yo, I ain’t try’na here that shit you kickin’. Whatever it is gotta say, tell that shit to my fuckin’ lawyer.”

  The detective chuckled. “Well, unless you can bring Mr. Cochran back from the dead, I’d pretty much say that you’re fucked.”

  He shook his head from side to side, and then left the room. Next door, Detective Sullivan was watching Mook through a two way mirror. Smitty entered the room and gave him a high five.

  “We finally got him, Sully.”

  Detective Sullivan smiled. “You got that right partner. When the D.A. is done with him, he’s gonna look like Al Sharpton’s hairdo...fried, died, and laid to the friggin’ side.”

  *****

  An Hour Later...

  Mook was transported to the Curran From Correctional Facility, also known as CFCF. After spending the remainder of the day going through the intake process, he was placed on A Block for quarantine. The Philadelphia County Jail was a city within the city. Everybody knew everybody, and for the most part, everybody rolled with the niggas from their section of the city.

  There was nothing on the streets that you couldn’t get in the county jail. If a nigga wanted some pussy, he could get it. If he wanted drugs, he could get it. If he wanted a cell phone, a DVD player, or an iPod, for the right price, he could get it. To say that these items were a good thing to have in the county jail would be an understatement, but at the same time, they were the last thing on a nigga’s mind. The most important and first order of business was getting their hands on a whack!

  As soon as Mook stepped on the cell block in his orange jumpsuit, damn near everybody on the block knew who he was. Some loved him, some envied him, but at the end of the day, they all respected his gangsta. When he went to his cell, he saw that his man Reon from Southwest Philly was lying on the bottom bunk, and rapping the lyrics to Beanie Siegel’s, What Ya Life Like.

  Niggas wanna know if Beanie Siegel’s life is real/ Nigga, twenty-five to life is real/ I catch a body, send me right to jail...

  Reon was arguably one of the craziest niggas from Southwest. He had just beaten a double homicide back in September, and not even three months later, here he was back in the county, fighting another body. When the cell door popped open, he jumped off the bed with a whack in each hand, and his war face on full display.

  Mook just stood there smiling at him. “Nigga you crazy, but ya crazy ass ain’t stupid,” he laughed.

  Reon looked him in the face, and then placed both of the whacks back in his waistline. “Man, I didn’t even recognize ya big ass.” He smiled back. “What the fuck is you doin’ in here, dawg? Rich niggas don’t go to jail.”

  Mook stepped inside of the small cell and gave Reon some dap. “Rich niggas don’t go to jail, huh? Try tellin’ that shit to Big Meech.” He continued smiling, and then sat his linen package down on the desk. “But, what’s up wit’ you though? What they try’na book you for?”

  Reon shrugged his shoulders as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “Another body, but it ain’t really ‘bout shit. I’ma spank this jawn, just like I spanked my last two jawns.” He sat back down on the bed, and lit up a Newport. “So, what's ya situation?”

  “Awww, man, these pussies talking ‘bout I sold a brick to a confidential informant. Now, you know that’s some bullshit! I ain’t served a nigga just one brick in over ten years.”

  “Damn, my nigga, you know whatchu gotta do right?”

  “Come on man, you know a nigga on point. I just gotta get word to my young buls. Them niggas don’t even know I’m locked up. But trust me, as soon as them niggas know what’s good, they gon’ move.”

  “What’s up wit’ a bail? Did they give you one?” Reon asked, while exhaling a cloud of smoke.

  “Yo, they got my shit at $1,000,000 wit’ no ten percent.”

  “Dizzamn! Even if you pay that jawn, all they gonna do is sic the feds on you.”

  “Shit, who you tellin’? I’m try’na get in touch wit’ my lawyer though. He should be able to get me a bail reduction, and if he does, I’m a have my lil’ homie put up a property and get me the fuck outta here.”

  “Yeah, I feel you my nigga. Oh, yeah, you know ya young bul, Tommy, on D24?”

  At the mention of Tommy’s name, Mook’s blood pressure began to boil. “Nizzaw, I ain’t know he was here. What’s up wit’ him? He good?”

  “I don’t know.” Reon shrugged his shoulders. “I never got a chance to holla at the nigga. When they brought me on the block for quarantine, they was movin’ him to D24.”

  *****

  The Following Morning...

  Mook’s attorney, Mario Savino, came to see him for an official visit. When he entered the segregated cubical, and saw Mario sitting at the desk in a navy blue, Louis Vuitton dress suit, a wave of relief washed over him.

  “Mario, what’s up man?” He shook the Italian man’s hand, and then took a seat at the desk. “Yo, they got my bail set at a $1,000,000. I need you to get that mu’fucka reduced so I can get outta here.”

  “I’m two steps ahead of you. I already filed a bail motion, and if it’s granted, I’ll have you outta here by Thursday.”

  “That’s good shit,” Mook smiled. “What’s up wit’ Saleena? Is she home yet?”

  “As of right now, she hasn’t been released. My guess is that they’re playing hardball, and trying to get her to flip on you.”

  “Man, you know Saleena's gon’ hold it down. My baby’s a rida. Them pussies ain’t doin’ nothin’ but wastin’ their time. If I woulda knew she was still locked up, I woulda told you to get her out before you came to see me.”

  “Alright, I’m on top of it. Before we get to that, I need you to clear something up for me. I spoke to the District Attorney about an hour ago, and he’s claiming that he has a witness that’s willing to testify that on the fifth of December you s
old him a kilo of cocaine.”

  “Yo Mario, that’s some straight up bullshit.” Mook protested. “I haven’t sold just one kilo in years.”

  “Well, according to the District Attorney you did, and they’re further claiming that your fingerprints were all over the packaging. Now,” he leaned back in his chair. “I do have some good news. A buddy of mine works in the district attorney’s office, and he provided me with the name of the confidential informant. Does the name Tommy Wilson mean anything to you?”

  Mook nodded his head. “Yeah, I know that nigga, but I haven’t seen him in over three months. There’s no way I could’ve sold him a brick a couple of days ago.”

  “Well, how in the hell did they get your fingerprints on the packaging?” Savino asked with a confused look on his face.

  “Back in August, I fronted the nigga thirty keys, and then he skipped town on me. That’s the only way they coulda got my fingerprints.”

  “Alright, well at least they don’t have any wiretaps or video surveillance. If this thing makes it to trial, I’m pretty sure that I can establish reasonable doubt, but then again why risk it?”

  Mook took the hint. In so many words, Savino was telling him no witness, no case.

  Savino smiled. “Without Mr. Wilson, I can beat this shit in my sleep.”

  Mook nodded his head. “A’ight, write down this number, 215-555— that’s my young bul, Sonny. When you leave, I need you to call him and tell him to send somebody up here to see me, preferably a female that's not connected to our situation.”

  Savino wrote down everything that Mook said, and then laid his pen on the notepad.

  “I’ll handle that as soon as I get back to my car. Is there anything else that you need me to do?”

  “Naw, just make sure that you get me called down for the bail hearing. I wanna see the look on Smitty’s face when I slide up out that mu’fucka.”

  *****