by Leo Sullivan
for his small body. He had droopy hound dog eyes, and sagging
cheeks, that of a man that never smiled.
With everyone seated the clerk handed the judge court papers.
The courtroom was now electrified with suspense.
“The United States of America versus Life Thugstin,” the clerk
announced over the clamor coming from the defense table.
The judge glared at the table over the rim of his half specta-
cles.
“Hmmm, hummmm!” The judge cleared his throat in an
attempt to get the defense’s attention. Life and his attorneys
ignored him, until finally the judge banged his gavel.
“Is there a problem?” the judge asked.
Tom Braxton, the lead defense attorney, stood nervously. Even
with all his polished epicure and professionalism, I could hear the
tremor in his voice, “Hmmm, err, my client has just informed me
he no longer wants me or my staff to represent him.”
The judge pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose and
leaned for ward as if he were seeing counsel for the first time.
246
L i f e
“No longer wants you to represent him?” the judge intoned.
“You’ve been fired?”
It took only a few seconds for the rest of the courtroom to real-
ize what was happening. Then, slowly, the monotone of voices sig-
naled like a silent alarm, something about the courtroom pro-
ceeding was askew. A few reporters dashed out of the courtroom
door to call in their scoop of the day,
Life Thugstin, Lieutenant of
the Willie Falcon Colombian drug cartel, fires defense team, The
Dream Team 2
.
Tom Braxton turned his head to watch all the commotion as
the reporters left, he turned back facing the judge with disap-
pointment written all over his face. I looked over at the defense
table and Life moved his chair as far away from his attorneys as
possible, his way of showing his parting of their association.
The judge arched his bushy eyebrows at Life.
“Mr. Thugstin, am I clear on this matter, you want to fire your
attorneys?” the judge asked followed by a drone of whispering that
sounded like a tiny roar from little people. The judge pounded his
gavel and glared out into the courtroom. Life slowly rose from his
seat. From the angle I was sitting all I could see was the side of his
handsome face.
“I’m on trial today fightin’ fo my life. I feel these men,” Life
turned and gestured pointing, “are not in my best interest.”
“Why is that?” the judge asked.
“Well for one thing,” Life sighed and looked over at his ex-
lawyers, “I don’t feel these men are in it to help me. I see them
more on television doing interviews than I do in person.” The
judge shook his head in disproval at Thugstin.
“First off, let me admonish something to you. In America we
have a system of democracy, and in this democracy there are ser-
vants of the people, such as lawyers. In our society, lawyers are for
the benefit and best interest of the people.”
While the judge talked, Life just stood there looking helpless.
I glanced over to the prosecutor’s table, Mr. Scandels sat in a chair,
looking flabbergasted. He held onto the arm of the chair so tight,
247
L i f e
I thought he was going to break it off.
“Why do you want to dismiss your lawyers at such a critical
stage of the proceedings? The day of the trial?”
“Yo Honor, as I said earlier, I’m fightin’ fo’ my life. The only
time these men come to talk to me is about more money, legal fees
and whatnot. No one told me about a strategy, I ain’t even seen the
discover y list.” Life was talking about a motion called a discovery,
where the government is supposed to present all the evidence it
intends to use at trial.
“Yo Honor, I’ve learned more ‘bout my case from jailhouse
gossip than from my so-called paid attorneys. Where I come from
you don’t call yourself a team and then go against the grain.”
The judge had enough. “Fortunately we’re not where you
come from. You’re in my courtroom, which just so happens to be
a federal courtroom. In the federal system we do things different-
ly!” Threat.
Tom Braxton was still standing. He looked over to the defense
table as if to say,
what do I do now?
“If I let you fire your attorneys how do you intend to defend
yourself?” the judge asked.
“I’ma go pro se.”
“Pro, se?” The judge retorted.
“Yep.”
“You want to defend yourself?” the judge asked with a smirk
on his face about as close as he would ever be at smiling. “How
much education do you have?”
“The last time I was in prison I got my GED,” Life respond-
ed.
Someone in the back of the courtroom giggled. For the next
thirty or so minutes the exchange of words went on, until finally
the judge granted Life Thugstin’s permission to fire his lawyers.
The judge said he would need a week to decide if he would allow
Life to defend himself.
After court was adjourned, I walked up to the woman that
called out to Life in the courtroom. Just as I suspected she was his
248
L i f e
stepmother, Brenda Thugstin. I gave her my card, told her I was a
lawyer interested in the trial. She took the card, looked up at me
and smiled brightly with weary eyes. I could tell that she had been
crying. Gray hair ringed her temples. The wrinkles in the corners
of her eyes said she was much older than what she appeared. I
couldn’t help but wonder,
where is her husband, the famous preach-
er, Freddy Thugstin
? As I recalled he had taken ill. Diabetes. One
thing was for certain, Life and his father could never seem to get
along. As we talked, a herd of anxious reporters spotted her and
we were swamped. With microphones being thrust in her face,
timidly Mrs. Thugstin began to talk, “My baby ain’t done nuttin
ta nobody.”
I backpedaled away from that scene and all its madness, the
courtroom hall filled with all them white faces. As I walked away,
I made a quick glance over my shoulder. Mrs. Thugstin’s fearful
eyes followed me like a child standing in front of a train. This was
too big, too powerful. The magnitude of it all was like a grip of a
tight fist. Drug lords, money, murder, mayhem, the young
Thugstin from rags to riches, I was overwhelmed. Now the only
thing I wondered was,
what is he going to do next?
*****
Later on that day, I picked my son up from the babysitter. He
was asleep on the couch with his favorite stuffed animal, Barney,
in his arms.
Finally at peace with the world,
I thought as I carried
him in my arms to my car. God forgive me, but at 3 years old, my
child was bad as hell. I guess when God was giving out intuitive
curiosity he must have given Ma
rcus an extra dose.
“Mama, what color is the sky?”
“Blue,” I would answer.
“Why is it blue?”
“God made it blue.”
“Why he do that?”
*****
I sat at home reading the newspaper, looking for cheap office
space to rent. Marcus sat in front of the television watching “The
249
L i f e
Cosby Show”. The doorbell rang. I looked at the clock on the
wall, it read 8:40 p.m.
Who could that be?
I wondered.
“I’ll get it Mommy!!” Marcus yelled and raced to the door.
“Marcus! Boy, don’t touch that door,” I said as I walked up
and peered out the peephole. It was Officer Coffee wearing a pair
of jeans and a sweatshirt, and a shit-eating grin plastered on his
face. Apparently, he was off duty, and as far as I was concerned,
out of bounds for showing up at my home this time of night. Now
it was my turn to read him his rights. I barely opened the door just
enough to get my head out. “Mr. Coffee, I think it’s very disre-
spectful for you to be at my door unannounced.” Marcus popped
his head between my legs.
“Mistah Coffeeee,” he sang happily as he shuffled his feet from
one leg to the other.
“I just came to check on you and the kid,” he said uncom-
fortably.
“Yeah, I bet you did,” I said sarcastically.
“Mommy, let him in.”
“Hi, little man!” Officer Coffee started to reach down and pat
Marcus on the head but thought better of it since Marcus was
between my legs. Instead, from behind his back, he produced a
pizza and smiled for the first time.
“Bribery will get you nowhere,” I gibed.
“It’s only bribery if you accept.” He smiled, knowing he got
me on that one.
“Mommy he got pizza! He got pizza!”
It felt like my son was going to plow my legs right from under
me. All I could do was shake my head. “See what you did?” I
scuffed as I relented and opened the door letting him in. He
walked in, a mountain of a man. His cologne would forever be a
signature on my feminine loins. He smelled like something good
enough to eat.
“I apologize,” he said, his thick baritone voice dripping with
seduction.
He bent down and pecked me on my forehead. We were
250
L i f e
standing too close. The man was too damn fine, and he knew it.
The moment lingered like fog evaporating, lust titillating. In the
background my son danced to a song he created about pizza.
I pulled my eyes away from Mr. Coffee shamefully, like maybe
he could read my thoughts. “Have a seat, I’ll get some plates.”
Before I knew it, Marcus was swinging on the man’s arm.
“Marcus! Stop that.” Mr. Coffee tossed him so high in the air I
thought he was going to bump his head on the ceiling. Marcus
shrilled with joyful glee.
“It’s OK, I love to play with children, wouldn’t mind making
a few myself,” he said and winked at me flirtatiously and tossed
Marcus up in the air again. The two of them were having a ball
and I realized just how much my son missed the companionship
of a man.
While we were munching on pizza and drinking Cokes, the
phone rang. I picked it up, it was a collect call from a federal insti-
tution, Life Thugstin. I sighed deeply over the phone. In my heart
I wanted him to call, didn’t I?
“Ma’am will you accept the phone call?”
“Yes,” I finally said and braced myself like a boxer preparing
for a body blow.
“Hope? Hope! You there?” He called my name like it was the
day we first met.
“What do you want?” I said acidly.
“Hope, I called to tell you that I’m sorry. I heard that you quit
your job wit them crackas. I guess you were serious, huh?”
“What do you want?” I repeatedly, coldly.
“Hope, I’m under a lot of stress. Can’t trust nobody, this shit
big, ya know.”
As Life talked, in the background it sounded like he was call-
ing from an insane asylum. I could barely hear him “Hope, I need
your help. Please?” All I could do was roll my eyes up at the ceil-
ing.
Black men,
I thought. I noticed Mr. Coffee watching me
closely.
“Evidently there’s nothing I can do for you,” I said curtly. I
251
L i f e
was talking about the stunt he pulled back at the SHU where he
spit in my face.
“Hope, I said I was sorry.”
“Uh huh,” I grumbled.
“Tomorrow visiting hours start at 8 o’clock in the morning.
I’ll make it worth your while if you –”
“I don’t need your money!” I screeched.
“Please, let me –”
“I don’t have time.” I hung the phone up and walked over to
the couch and sat down.
“You OK?” Mr. Coffee asked.
I tried to smile, but it felt like my face hurt, actually it was my
heart. I gave the man my phone number and then hung up in his
face. A sista can be vindictive.
I lost my appetite along with my mood for any male compa-
ny.
“I’m just tired, overworked and underpaid,” I said, forcing my
cheeks to form a smile. He just looked at me. I could tell he want-
ed to ask about the phone call. A portion of cold pizza sat on the
table. I looked at Marcus, he sat nodding his head like a yo-yo,
fighting sleep. I faked a long drawn out yawn like I was sleepy, too.
Mr. Coffee smirked at me as if to say,
I can take a hint
.
I walked him to the door. He turned and tried to kiss me and
at the same time, cop a feel. Mr. Man was smooth, but a little to
slow. I ducked my lips giving him a hug. He caressed my backside
and for a fleeting moment, I thought about letting him take me
upstairs and rock my world. In the end, I ended up shoving him
out the door. From the look in his pants he was going to have to
take a cold shower when he got home, if that’s where he was going.
Early the next morning, I awakened my son. He was not an
early person. If this was any indication of his disposition as an
adult, some woman was going to be in trouble.
I smothered his tiny face with kisses. “Wake up Pookie,” I
cooed in his ear. Both his mouth and his nose crinkled into a
sleepy grimace. My child’s rebuff with his eyes still closed, I
252
L i f e
smothered him with more kisses against his weak resistance until
finally I was rewarded with a protracted yawn and a whimper with
petulant lips. The sound that he made is what I imagined what
doves sound like when they cry.
“Noooo Mommy,” he crooned as his beautiful long eyelashes
fluttered like butter flies. Afterward we took a bubble bath togeth-
er, my son and I. We were both unemployed. I was out of work
and he was out of school. For that day I decided that we would
just have to
be inseparable.
*****
I drove to the 7-Eleven and bought some breakfast. While I
was in line with the rest of the early morning commuters, I could-
n’t help but notice the magazine rack,
Newsweek
,
People
,
Ebony
,
The National Enquirer
. Holy cow! On the front page of
Times
, was
a picture of Bill Clinton with a background silhouette of the
White House. The title of the article was, “
WAR ON DRUGS, Is
it working?”
and in the left hand corner was a picture of Life
Thugstin and Willie Falcon. I scooped up the magazine and start-
ed reading it right there in line.
Back in the car I pulled over to the side of the gas station, for-
getting to pump my gas. In the magazine were pictures of Life’s
estate, along with pictures of Trina Vasquez, Tomica Edwards,
Evette Keys and a young beautiful Black girl by the name of Annie
Bell. She miraculously sur vived after being riddled with bullets in
a botched assassination attempt on Life Thustin. Unfortunately
her 3-year-old son died. I was already familiar with the case and
all its gory details. Still I was fascinated. The authorities were still
searching for the lieutenants. They were known only as the Miami
Boys. They seemed to have disappeared as quickly as they
appeared.
It was alleged that Life and his crew of hoodlums were respon-
sible for hundreds of brutal assaults and murders. In some
instances, body parts were found missing, such as heads and arms.
One of Life’s lieutenants had been murdered, a man by the name
of Johnny Davis, better known as Dir ty. I knew him from my
253
L i f e
neighborhood in Miami, the Pork and Beans Projects.
*****
I finally found the appropriate office space. It wasn’t much
bigger than my walk-in closet at home, but it was mine, and this
was where I was going to make my start. I signed a lease. They
wanted a thousand dollars a month for rent. I planned to buy used
office furniture, start from scratch and work my way up. I will
never be able to explain why I made my next move. Maybe it was
just an overwhelming impulse. On the same day that I rented the
