by Leo Sullivan
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Adrienne had to help her back to the defense table, they damn
near had to carr y her. I turned my head as Hope sat down next to
me coughing in fits. She was sweating feverishly and was having a
problem breathing. For the first time it truly dawned on me,
something was terribly wrong with Hope. I reached out to grab
her hand, this Black woman, the warrior that was fighting for me.
Her hand was moist, hot. Hope was on fire, a feminine inferno.
The judge
looked over at her. “Would you like to take that out of my
courtroom? If you’re ill we can stop the trial for recess.” Hope rose,
wear y on her feet, balancing herself by holding onto the table
edge.
“Thank you your Honor, but I’m fine. I welcome the oppor-
tunity to engage the prosecution in this case with hopes that jus-
tice may prevail,” Hope said magnanimously, and then smiled at
the jury and began to cough again. She sat back down and closed
her eyes as if to gather strength. I wanted to reach out and hold
her close to me, to shield her, as I realized I never wanted to hurt
a Black woman again as long as I lived, only now it was too late.
David Scandels was next with his closing argument. For three
hours he ranted and raved in his theatrical epilogue. Occasionally
he used the words “Black criminals” and “war on drugs” like they
were some kind of code words to the jury. I read the faces of the
jury while he talked. Most of the all white jury nodded in agree-
ment. These people were supposed to be impartial, they were sup-
posed to be a jury of my peers, but as I sat there on that hard
wooden chair staring them white folks in their faces, I saw some-
thing else. I was forced to admit, Scandels was good. After he fin-
ished his summation the reporters made a mad dash to the door.
One of the biggest trials of the centur y was over. That was around
the time I really started to take notice of the exultant praise like a
slow mournful hymn. The jury looked startled, so did the judge.
Black folks worshiping God the only way they knew how. I looked
over at Hope, she still had her eyes closed, lips moving, she was
humming with them too in a silent benediction for God to do his
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work. I looked over my shoulder and saw a sea of Black faces,
mostly old folks. All the way in the back, to my surprise, I saw
Black Pearl seated next to Blazack. I had to do a second take.
They were both dressed conservatively. Blazack wore a suit and
tie with a pair of rimless glasses that made him look anything but
gangsta. Black Pearl shyly winked her eye and blew me a kiss. I
also saw the woman known as Sister Souljah; she was sitting next
to Dr. Nandi Shakur, the expert witness that testified for my
defense.
It was over and vaguely I listened as the judge admonished the
jury that they were not to talk to anyone about this case. They
were to base their decision solely on the evidence. I watched as the
judge talked, a few members of the jury would furtively glance at
me. I pretended not to notice, but I felt their stares. I felt them in
a way that prods a man’s consciousness, my own fate was no longer
in my hands; it was in the hands of twelve white people. I’d rather
be flipping burgers at Burger King than have the seat I was sitting
in.
I looked up at the clock on the wall, it was past lunchtime. I
wasn’t even hungr y. One of the benefits of going to trial when in
federal custody the U.S. Marshals let you eat restaurant food. In
my case, he let my defense team bring me food. Let me tell you,
Black women knew how to throw down when it came to good
old-fashioned soul food.
*****
Hours later I was seated in a conference room with my
lawyers. The tiny room was nothing more than a holding cell with
a small barred window. A few rays of streaming sunshine piped in
the room. All three of my lawyers sat huddled around me as an
assor tment of spices, feminine enticements, the sweet allure of
perfumes mingled with my starved loins. It felt so good to be so
close to what we hustlers take for granted, our women. In that
room, that tiny cage, we discussed everything but my case. For
me, their laughter was intoxicating, inebriating. I wished that the
moment would last forever. We were no longer in a cage, this was
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the lion’s den, and they were the lionesses and I was the lion, and
all was secure from the hunt. These same women that just valiant-
ly fought for me were now trying to comfort me, placate me with
the nurturing instincts that women have. It’s all so natural, all so
beautiful, a Black woman’s love. One of the U.S. Marshals rapped
on the door and walked in. On the table was Bar-B-Q ribs, mac-
aroni and cheese and peach cobbler. He licked his chops as he
stared at the food. From the somber expression on his face I knew
what he had come for. We were informed that the judge wanted
us back in the courtroom. That could only mean one thing, the
jury reached a verdict. About eight hours passed since they went
into deliberations. Each one of my counsels hugged me. Hope was
the last. She did not want to let me go, that really touched me,
told me a lot. She continued to hold me even as the other women
looked on. I was confused, didn’t know how to react. Throughout
the entire trial, Hope never dealt in emotion and feelings, just
logic and sagacious strategies. I could feel her fragile body trem-
bling in my arms. The other women walked out and the Marshal
looked on. Hope pulled away from me and made a feeble attempt
at gathering her emotions. I watched as she nervously pressed the
wrinkles out of her dress with the palms of her hands. “I’m sorry.”
She looked up at me and whispered as she walked of out the room.
“Sorr y about what?” I asked myself as she walked away.
*****
Moments later I was being escorted by four U.S. Marshals
down the long direful hall of the Federal building. I couldn’t help
but wonder,
how many other Black men took this long desperate trek
to a destiny unknown?
For me the walk was long, I can’t say what
anybody else has felt, but for me, them crackas had me scared to
death. I was at the mercy of the court. Normally the Marshals
would be congenial and talkative, but that day I was met with
stoic faces and cold stares.
As we entered the courtroom everyone turned to look in my
direction. I felt like a condemned man. The courtroom was eerily
quiet except for the herds of reporters. Like flies, they never
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seemed to go away. Most of the seats were vacant. I sat next to
Hope. Looking straight ahead she held my hand. In walked the
foreman along with the jury. They all piled into their seats. None
of them could look me in my eyes. The foreman handed the judge
a piece of paper. The j
udge read the paper and looked in aghast.
“Hmmm, errr, I have just been informed that the jury has reached
a deadlock.” His breathing was heavy, not concealing his disap-
pointment. He, like myself, was shocked that the jury had not
returned with a guilty verdict. He raised his hulked eyebrow over
the rim of his glasses. “It says here that the jury would like to
review the portion of the trial transcripts of the testimony of the
expert witness Dr. Nandi Shakur and her terminology of socioe-
conomic crimes,” the judge said with disdain and jerked his neck
at the foreman. “This is preposterous! You and the jury are to go
back in there and reach a verdict!” Adrienne shot to her feet.
“Your Honor, it is my understanding that the jury can take as
much time as they want to reach their decision and if they want
to review all records and evidence that may be of relevance such as
the court transcripts, they are at liberty to do so.”
The judge removed his glasses and glowered at Adrienne.
“Counsel is that all you have to say?”
“Yes.”
“If you, or any member of your staff makes an outburst like
that again I will charge you with contempt of court. Is that under-
stood?” Adrienne’s eyes turned to optic slits as she defiantly looked
at the judge.
“No it is not understood! My client is entitled to the full use
of his constitutional rights as it relates to the jurisprudence of law,
if the jury wants to hear –”
“I am warning you to sit down or I will charge you with con-
tempt of court.” I could see a vein protruding out of the side of
Adrienne’s neck, she was fuming with indignation. Hope gently
took her arm, and with a silent command of her head, she nodded
for her to sit down. The older woman complied. I wasn’t sure what
was going on; however, the judge did state reluctantly that the jury
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would be allowed to review the transcripts. He also stated that he
wanted to see my counsel in his chambers after the proceeding. I
wasn’t sure if it was good or bad that the jury wanted to go over
the transcripts of the professor’s theory about socioeconomic
crimes. This was all Hope’s strategy. One thing was for certain, the
judge sure as hell was not too pleased about it.
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Chapter T
wenty Four
Chapter T
wenty Four
“All Eyes On Me”
– Life –
It was Friday and we were all tired. I watched as the judge mopped
his face with a weary hand and admonished to the jury, once
again, they were not to read any newspaper repor ts about my case,
watch the news, or talk with anyone outside of the jury about the
case. The jury was sequestered in a hotel and ordered to hurry up
and reach a verdict.
On the ride in the van back to the FDC building it was one
of the most beautiful days I had ever seen, at least that’s how it will
always look through the eyes of a man that has lost his freedom. I
remember sitting in the back of the van in chains and shackles
feeling like a caged bird. The officious U.S. Marshal tried to talk
me to death. The van rode through Frenchtown. I searched for
Nina Brown. She was nowhere in sight. I saw a few rock stars. I
thought about Black Pearl and Blazack showing up at my trial. I
had to smile. Blazack was past keeping it gangsta. He was on some
guerilla G-Unit shit.
*****
By the time I changed clothes and made it back into the unit
I was so fatigued that my brain even hurt. I needed a smoke bad
to get my lungs out of pawn. As soon as I walked into the unit, all
eyes were on me. In the distance I could see that most of the pris-
oners were watching the news. I had the uncanny feeling they
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already learned from the television about the proceeding of my
case. The first lesson a true convict learns in prison is, if you want
to enhance your chances of waking up in the morning without a
shank stuck in your back, keep your mouth shut. See nothing, but
at the same time, see everything. Being anti-social is the key to
survival. I learned that from my first bid in the joint.
I walked straight to my cell, opened up a pack of Newports
had in my locker and went and sat in the smoking range out in
front of my cell. Major walked over and sat down next to me. He
too was into the church lately since we caught our case. I inhaled
deeply on the nicotine. Irately, Major fanned the smoke away. I
could see all the faces watching us. Curiosity did not just kill cats,
I knew a few niggas that got killed, too. So I mean mugged a few
niggas as if to say,
what the hell you looking at?
Ever since I cracked
Stevey D’s cranium with the swift demonstration on how to pun-
ish a rat, I was respected by all. I’ve never been one to adopt the
fear factor of influence because I don’t care what anyone says, both
fear and love will produce illogical results when pushed to the
brink of precipice.
As Major and I talked about our cases and his lawyers decid-
ed that they would wait for the outcome of my case before going
to trial, so I thought. However when Major expressed to me that
he was going to cop out to ten years my heart sank. I tried my best
to keep a straight face as I blew smoke up at the ceiling. We both
knew that if he wanted to testify against me they would let him go
home. For him that was out of the question. We just mellowed in
our own silence, the way people do when they’re heavy into
thought. Finally, I said “Whatever you want to do my nigga, I’m
behind you one thousand percent. You or your family will never
want for anything.” With that, I gave him my word. Major was
still lost in thought. I surveyed the scene. Directly to my right was
a water cooler. I noticed this big dude spying on me. In fact, ever
since he first got here I caught him looking at me like he knew me
or something. It dawned on me he was the same dude a few weeks
ago who made a testimony at church saying his Lord and Savior
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Jesus Christ told him to come back from the penitentiary and tes-
tify against his homies. He said that he had his life sentence taken
off and reduced to five years. Everybody in the church hooped and
hollered praising the Lord, all Black folks and a white preacher. I
had to walk out of there. I was sick to my stomach. I knew that
the life of a Christian was going to be hard work for me, but
damn! I asked Major about the dude and I could tell from the look
on his face he did not want to tell me who he was. In fact, Major
began to stir uncomfortably in his seat. All major said was the
dude was once one of the biggest drug dealers in Tallahassee, then
he quickly changed the subject. We continued to talk, just shoot-
ing the shit. Occasionally I would see the big dude glance our way.
I made a mental note to step to the big
dude as soon as the oppor-
tunity presented itself. Major was holding something back. I won-
dered why?
At lockdown, I got into my hard-ass bunk, and for the first
time in almost a year, I slept peacefully.
Early the next morning I was awakened, someone was yelling
my name. “ Thugstin, you got a visitor!” I quickly took a shower
and got dressed in my prison jumpsuit. Whoever designed them
was playing a cruel joke on convicts. The CO checked underneath
my nuts and all in the crack of my ass. To this day I still haven’t
figured out what they were checking for.
I bounced into the visiting room halfway expecting to see my
stepmother, but I was instantly greeted by the jubilant frolic of
small kids scurrying about. Scooby Doo was on the television, the
acoustic volumes turned up loud enough to hide the humiliating
whispers of crestfallen men, gangsters, thugs, desperately tr ying to
hold onto a man’s most prized possession, his family, the jewels,
the cars, the money.
The delicious aroma of buttered popcorn and pizza delighted
my sense of smell. I approached the desk and gave the CO my ID
card just as a little brown girl ran into my leg at full speed ahead.
She bounced off my thigh and fell on the floor. She was about 3
years old. I resisted the urge to reach down and pick her up. She
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was as cute as a baby doll. She got back up and continued to play
with the rest of her new friends. The place was crowed. It was
Saturday morning. The CO seated me all the way in the back. As
I walked to my seat people pointed and whispered. My face had
been plastered on the television and newspapers so long that I’m
sure these people had me on celebrity status.
I sat in my chair and tried to look as inconspicuous as possi-
ble as I occasionally spied the front door waiting for whom it was
to arrive. Finally, I looked up to see Black Pearl and Trina stroll
through the door looking like sophisticated chicks the way broads
start looking when they get used to spending another nigga’s
money. Trina had her hair piled high on top of her head in some
kind of French bun with embellished designs. She wore painted
