Life Without Hope

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.

  *****

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  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