by Leo Sullivan
looked on as the music stopped and the children scurried for
chairs. A little girl with blue eyes and long locks of blond hair that
made her look like a beautiful baby doll stood motionless as it
dawned on her that she was the last person standing, eliminated
from the game. I noticed that my son, Marcus, was nowhere in
sight. I looked around for him. One of the nuns, Sister Mary,
approached me. I could tell from the expression on her face she
was trying to remember my name.
“Hi. I’m Hope Evans, Marcus Green’s mom,” I said politely
with a smile.
Sister Mary extended a bony hand. She wore a silver ring of a
crucifix on her middle finger. Her handshake was cold and cal-
loused.
“Where is Marcus?” I asked as I looked over her shoulder. The
amiable expression on her face froze only to be replaced with a
blank stare.
“Marcus is in the Time Out room. Sister Grace placed him
there this morning.”
“This morning!” I repeated indignantly looking at my watch.
“What did he do?” I asked in a high-pitched voice causing some
of the children to turn and look in my direction.
The nun sighed taking a deep breath, “Marcus curses like a
sailor and fights with the other children.”
“Why wasn’t I informed of this?” I asked, disgruntled.
“Well, we thought that it was more than likely a bad influence
coming from the household.”
I listened, not believing what I was hearing, but knowing what
she was trying to insinuate, that I was a bad parent.
“We’ve talked with the school’s psychologist. The child is
problematic, hyperactive and we believe that he has a learning dis-
order and –”
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“He is 3 years old.” I said cutting her off, not believing what I
was hearing.
She continued, “The doctor said that he wanted to place
Marcus on a drug called Ritalin. It’s very popular with dysfunc-
tional children.” All I could do was shake my head at this woman
that was supposed to be a ser vant of God.
For the second time that day I counted backward from ten.
That’s when I heard the little girl say, “I fucking quit, I don’t want
to play no more of your stupid game.” The nuns must have heard
too, but chose to ignore it.
“Where is my son?” I asked through clinched teeth. The nun
pointed to the other side of the room. There was a large picture of
Bozo the Clown along with other car toon characters, a chalkboard
with letters of the alphabet, ABCD, big enough for the seeing
impaired to read. I saw my son huddled in the corner with his face
up against the wall. I walked over there in a hurry, almost ran.
“Honey, are you all right?” I asked affectionately.
He turned around and looked at me with almond eyes, face
streaked with dried tears, his eyes the window to his soul. I saw
something worse than hurt as my son looked up at me sniffling
back his tears, “Mommy, I don’t like it herrrre.” He was trying not
to cry. His little chest just heaved. The only thing I could see was
his father’s face, and a young Black man being subconsciously
trained by the system to put his face up against the wall. I picked
him up in my arms and he latched onto my neck. “Mommy take
me with you.”
“Mommy surely intends to take you with her,” I reassured him
as I caressed his head.
I looked up to see the two nuns whispering as I approached.
For the first time, I took interest in the other children, and I
noticed that only two children out of about forty were African
American, at least from what I could see.
“I will be removing my child from this school as of today,” I
said curtly, while fighting to keep the anger out of my voice. Sister
Mary stepped for ward with a look of dismay on her pale face.
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“Ms. Evans, that wouldn’t be a good idea. Your son is suffer-
ing from hyperactivity along with –”
“Whaat? My damn son is not suffering from anything, but
white people syndrome. When did our society start giving three-
year old children drugs because they were hyperactive?” I
screeched.
“And another thing, if my son learned bad behavior it was
from right here. I just heard that little girl curse.” I pointed at the
girl. “And you heard it, too. Why is she not in the corner being
trained on how to put her hands against the walls?”
The nun craned her neck backward with a look on her face
like she smelled something awful, her cheeks flushed red.
“That’s preposterous,” she scuffed, turning up her long nose at
me.
“No ma’am, what is preposterous is this school and the way it
is run. Let me remind you of something, I’m a lawyer. If I find out
that this school has a contract with a doctor and he is peddling
drugs for profit outside the guidelines of the requirement of the
AMA, I will personally have both of you placed so far under the
jail, that the devil will be the only one interested in hearing your
prayers.” Silence. Both nuns stared at me as if I were the great
white hope. Marcus retrieved his book bag and the little white girl
with the foul mouth said something to him.
Once Marcus and I were in the car, I placed him in his car seat
and with a moistened thumb, I wiped away the shadow of dry
tears from his handsome face.
“Marcus, what did that little girl say to you before you left?”
My 3-year-old child bunched his lips together and batted his
eyes looking away from me. A child’s way of pleading the fifth.
“Mommy isn’t going to spank you.” I prodded, “Tell me.”
“She said ... she said … fuckin A.”
“Fucking A?” I repeated my son’s words. “‘Is that what the
nuns heard you say at school?” I asked. Marcus nodded his head
up and down. Just like I figured.
*****
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Life Thugstin’s trial loomed heavily on my mind, most impor-
tantly, the cutthroat lawyers that he had spent all those millions
on. The media labeled his defense team The Dream Team 2, only
I knew better. One day I overheard my boss talking, actually, I was
eavesdropping on my boss while he was in conference. Mr.
Scandels called me into his office to get some case files for a court
proceeding because one of the lawyers had taken ill and I was
assigned to fill in. I lingered at the file cabinet. Once I heard the
name Life Thugstin, I was all ears. After all, he was the father to
my child and the master to my most deepest, darkest secret.
“With all the fanfare and media attention we’re getting, this
should be a piece of cake, the trial shouldn’t last longer than two
months. He has about as much chance at winning as an ice cube
in hell.” Mark Buckly, the famous trial attorney, was talking to my
boss. Buckly was Life Thugstin’s head attorney. Scandels cut in.
“I sure would
have liked to nail his ass for tax evasion, but
someone in his ring did a good job of organizing the operation.
We think it’s Willie Falcon and his organized crime family.” Tom
Braxon was another famous attorney hired on as part of The
Dream Team 2. His career dated back over four decades. Tom had
not tried a case in nearly three years, but still enjoyed the reputa-
tion as one of the best trial lawyers in the nation. However, like his
partner, Mark Buckly, he was in it for the money. As far as Tom
Braxon was concerned, Life Thugstin was guilty as sin.
“We’ll put up a good show at the trial,” Mark was saying. “But
by the end of the trial, we’ll make sure that you have your day.”
I listened, not believing what I was hearing. I could not believe
that they would talk so freely in front of me. Maybe it was because
I was a United States Prosecutor, a part of their elite team, or
maybe it was because I was a woman. That day I played the part
of the proverbial fly on the wall.
“Hope!” Mr. Scandels called my name. I flinched and moved
as I turned away from the file cabinet. A woman knows when it’s
time to take advantage of her charm, especially when she’s in the
company of a room full of men. I gave them my hundred-watt
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smile, the one that Black women invented solely for the benefit of
white men. I saw how they ogled me when I first came into the
office. On the inside I was infuriated, on the outside I had to play
the part that was handed down to me by generations of people
that learned to survive by outwitting the man. It was right then
that I had made the decision that I was going to warn Life
Thugstin.
“Yes,” I responded to my boss.
“Are you having trouble finding the Johnson file?” he asked.
“I have it right here,” I replied as I held the folder up in my
hands. I had also come up on something else of interest, the wit-
ness list of all the people that were going to testify against Life,
including confidential informants. With my heart racing in my
chest, I walked out of the room feeling like a spy behind enemy
lines.
*****
242
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Seventeen
“The Ultimate Betrayal”
– Hope –
On the day of Life Thugstin’s trial, I was still brooding after the
way he treated me when I risked everything to warn him that his
lawyers were going to sell him out. I told myself that I would not
attend the trial, but I could not help myself. The event itself was
a spectacle, with media from all over the world. That was mostly
due to Life’s connection with the drug lord, Willie Falcon.
As I pulled into the cour thouse parking lot, the media sensa-
tion was like a wild frenzy. The young thug, Life Thugstin, turned
drug King Pin, with his aloof air of power and stoic thug appear-
ance was handsome and charismatic. The media loved him.
Somehow they came upon some pictures of him and Willie Falcon
together on a yacht with a beautiful model. The paparazzi in
England and Colombia ran full page articles on how Life Thugstin
was being groomed to take over the throne of the multi-billion
dollar empire at the time of his capture.
What made the case so interesting to the public was that it was
alleged by the media that Thugstin had recruited all women as his
lieutenants. The pictures of Trina, Tomica, Evette and Black Pearl
made the front pages of the USA Today. The case was truly amaz-
ing. The government estimated Life Thugstin’s wealth at over a
hundred million dollars because of his association with the infa-
mous billionaire cocaine baron.
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The Thugstin case, with all its intrigue and mystic, seemed to
take on a life of its own. I illegally parked in one of the prosecu-
tor’s parking spaces. I exited my car and waved through the
throngs of media and ordinary people that just came for the atten-
tion of the hype, including groupies that came to watch what
would one day be labeled the trial of the century.
As soon as I entered the courtroom I took notice of all the
heavy security. I sat in the last row to make sure I was inconspic-
uous as possible. I wore my hair in a different style, I also donned
a pair of Channel glasses. So far so good, no one noticed me.
I waited for the proceeding to begin. Sitting in a spectator’s
seat was a change for me. I tried a few cases in this very same
courtroom, and was more than familiar with the judge, William
Statford. He was on the bench for over thirty years and was known
as a no nonsense judge, that openly displayed no mercy for drug
defendants. It was rumored that his daughter overdosed on hero-
in. My old boss, David Scandels, sat at the prosecutor’s table. Next
to him were his assistant prosecutors, Brian Smith and Susan
Swaltz. The prosecution motioned to have cameras allowed into
the courtroom, but lost. The word in the judicial arena was that
the United States prosecutor, David Scandels, was desperate. His
political ambition ran as high as a seat in the Senate, but time was
running out, and he was getting old. The Life Thugstin trial, and
its connection to the infamous Willie Falcon cartel, would be just
the stepping stone that he needed, once he made a show of defeat-
ing some of the best lawyers in the United States, The Dream
Team 2. America was going to have to applaud his genius, and
thus open the door to his political career.
Across from the prosecutor’s table was The Dream Team 2:
Tom Braxton and Mark Buckly along with a host of assistant
lawyers. There were only two key participants missing, the judge
and the defendant.
On the first day of any criminal trial the anxiety runs high,
like watching two opponents getting ready to battle.
As I waited for Life Thugstin to enter the courtroom I reflect-
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ed back on ever ything that happened the last nine months after
his arrest. Three different branches of federal agencies orchestrat-
ed the arrest, the FBI, DEA and ATF along with the local and
state authorities that raided the Chateau. Inside the authorities
discovered a treasure trove–money, jewelr y and expensive antique
cars. The ironic thing was none of the proper ty was in Life’s name.
It was in the name of a young girl, Annie Bell, who was also
known as Black Pearl. Miraculously, she survived after being shot
during an assassination attempt on Life. She awoke from a coma
a few weeks after she was shot and learned that her three-year-old
son was killed. Federal authorities placed her under arrest in a
three-count indictment.
What fascinated me most about the case was how intricately
designed the money trail was in concealing the assets. It led to
stockholders that anonymously withheld their names, all accept
Annie Bell. The shares of stock were in a corporation of investors.
> Under federal law it was all perfectly legal. A lien for a large
amount of money had been placed on all the assets. If the feds
confiscated the property they would also be held responsible for
paying off the liens. This was nothing shor t of brilliant, and the
feds quickly abandoned their pursuit to seize the assets, at least
until they could figure out a way to get around the paper trail. I
never would have imagined that dope dealers could be so sophis-
ticated. And still I could not believe that this was the same brotha
that I drove into town, and all he had were big dreams, big guns
and a large heart. I thought about how I was the one who person-
ally introduced him to Trina, my frat sister.
When I heard that Life could have connections to Willie
Falcon, I knew it was possible.
Life entered the cour troom escorted by U.S. Marshals. The
soft murmur of voices rose like the ocean tide.
Life wore a black Armani suit, gray shirt and alligator Stacy
Adams. With his chiseled dark features he was by far the most
handsome man in the courtroom; with his briefcase in hand he
could have easily passed for a lawyer. His eyes scanned the court-
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room, taking in every face, including mine, causing my heart to
stir. He waved at an elderly Black woman. “I love you son,” the
woman said loud enough for the entire courtroom to hear. As
soon as Life sat down, the artists from various media affiliates,
including CNN, began drawing courtroom scenes. Since Judge
Statford barred all cameras this was the next best thing.
As I looked on, once again I thought to myself, I knew why
Johnny Cochran, one of the best lawyers in the world, refused to
do federal cases against the government. Like myself, he knew the
deck was stacked.
Life was talking with his attorneys. They appeared to be argu-
ing. Adamantly, Life shook his head in disagreement, indicating
he was not happy about something. I leaned forward just like the
rest of the courtroom trying to hear bits and pieces of what was
being said.
“All rise!” The bailiff bellowed. In walked Judge Statford, an
elderly rotund man with a large head that appeared to be too big
