by Leo Sullivan
bars. The sun felt hot on my skin. The Mexican lay in the top
bunk snoring with his mouth open. An angr y fly buzzed against
the windowsill. I watched him. He was no different than me, he
wanted to be free. About the only thing that a prisoner has that
the system can’t take away from him is his memories. Mental
mementos, everlasting reminiscence like old currency. Cherished
times will always retain their value to a prisoner by casting in on
all the vivid pictures that will forever be captured on the screen of
his mind. I thought about all my luxury cars, the clothes, the
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bitches, Black Pearl, Trina, Lil Man, Blazack, and always for some
reason, the woman, Hope Evans’ face flashed in my mind.
Instantly, I regretted taking her through this. Anyone could see the
trial was taking a toll on her body. She was thin as a rail and her
once beautiful complexion now looked ashen. Once again I
cursed, shit! I should have had trial on the streets. I turned to the
sound of the food carts. It was brunch time. The Mexican awoke
from a dead sleep giving me a startled expression, the kind that
said I was standing too damn close. I made a face and tried to
smile as if to say
my bad.
I walked over to the door as the CO put
the food trays through the food slot. I gave my food to the
Mexican. His long scrubby hair hung askew in his face, for the
first time he smiled at me, I noticed his teeth were rotten. I lit up
a cigarette and walked over to the window and looked out at the
world. I decided right then and there, I’d rather be carried by six
than judged by twelve. Come court day I had a surprise for the
world!
*****
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Chapter T
wenty Five
Chapter T
wenty Five
“The Day of Judgment”
– Life –
Tuesday, November 11, two days after receiving Hope’s letter, the
CO hurried me to get dressed. Again the U.S. Marshals rushed me
to the back of a van. They were taking me to the courthouse. To
this day I have no idea how the media got wind of my court
appearances before my counsel and me.
As we pulled up to the federal building, I noticed the streets
were littered with media vans, trucks and a few huge trailers.
Cameras flashed, microphones were thrust into my face, my hair
was nappy and I hadn’t brushed my teeth or washed my face. An
attractive white woman with a microphone shoved it in my face as
I walked past.
“Your boss, Willie Falcon, was convicted yesterday. If you’re
convicted today, do you intend to file an appeal?”
Momentarily stunned of learning of Falcons’ conviction, I
replied, “Lady, I don’t have a boss.” I tripped over the curb, the
Marshals stopped me from falling just as cameras flashed. I gri-
maced in pain as the shackles bit into my ankles with shark’s teeth.
Five minutes later I was seated around my attorneys. Their
smiles looked wry, but yet they welcomed me with warm
embraces. I could tell they were having a hard time trying to con-
ceal their fear. That day the courtroom was eerily quiet and near-
ly vacated. There were none of my father’s parishioners there; in
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fact, the only Black faces I saw were my defense team. Then it
dawned on me, that was the way they planned it. That’s why the
judge had them r ush me here at this hour without all the fanfare,
like some modern day legal lynching. I looked over at the prose-
cutor’s table, Scandels winked and waved at me. I will never for-
get that face. I knew right then and there, the fix was in.
Hope leaned over and whispered into my ear, “The jury has
reached a verdict.” Her voice cracked so bad I wondered if it hurt
for her to talk. She had a small rash on her bottom lip for some
reason and the makeup only seemed to make it look worse. Her
face was ashen and looked shrunken. She looked twice her tender
age of 26. I tore my eyes away from her. It hurt so bad to look at
her, instead I glanced over at the Bible on the table. Black Pearl
did as I asked of her and delivered the Bible to Hope. I sat there
uneasy as vaguely I could hear the murmur of voices around me.
I could feel Hope’s eyes boring holes through me. Finally, I
reached for the Bible. She grabbed my wrist, I pulled away and
turned a few pages. To my right I could see Scandels watching me
intensely. I found Jesus on page four hundred in Psalms. The pis-
tol was just as I had left it. It gleamed in the light. Now it was time
for me to serve my God. To serve the Lord in the only way I knew
how. I had found God in a prison cell. My God was the will to
want to survive, the kind of God that governs self. As I touched
the gun I felt that surge of power, that raw energy. If you’re going
to die, you might as well take somebody with you. It sounds crazy
to the average person, but unless you’ve faced a life or death situ-
ation you would never understand.
Hope tugged at my shirt. I turned and looked at her. Her eyes
were tearful. She gulped air and spoke barely audible, “Life ... I’m
dying.” She blinked her eyes, a tear fell. “I have no choice in this
matter, but you do. The only reason I brought you this Bible is
because, whom am I to deny you your freedom when I know the
criminal justice system is corrupted, besides what can they do to
me, but please, don’t do it.” I could hear the tremor in her voice.
Just then the jury foreman entered the room. The judge smiled.
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“Have you reached a verdict?”
“Yes,” the foreman responded.
As I sat there in that wooden chair, it felt like a noose was
being tightened around my neck, I was having trouble breathing.
The jury entered taking their seats. I turned my head to see Black
Pearl and Blazack enter the courtroom.
“Will the defendant please stand and approach the bench.” As
I slowly rose, I looked between Hope and the Bible hesitantly, my
God, Jesus.
Please don’t do it,
Hope’s voice played in my mind with
a continuous echo
Life ... I am dying.
I swallowed the lump in my
throat disregarding the gun and looked at Hope. She’s dying? I
walked up to the podium feeling like a slave about to be sold.
The judge snarled, “Today justice will finally be served and
you young man will either pay a debt to society with your life or
be set free. I personally have my doubts about you and your char-
acter. I will say this, there is a place for you and your kind.” The
judge did not disguise his prejudice. “And for the record, the
motion you filed for prosecutorial misconduct against Mr.
Scandels is being denied, with it goes the motion for mistrial,” the
judge said with humor in his voice as he looked over at the pros-
ecutor’s table. Adrienne Greene was on her feet fuming.
&nb
sp; “Your Honor! Under the rules of Federal Procedure you can-
not address that issue at a federal sentencing.”
“Sit down and shut up! If you don’t like it bring it up on
appeal with the Eleventh Circuit.”
“Appeal?!” She scuffed indignantly with her eyebrows knotted
in anger. Right then I think it dawned on all of us sitting at the
defense table, if the judge was talking appeal, then it meant that I
was going to be found guilty. I heard my stepmother’s voice. I
turned around to see all the people from the church. The old
Black folks piled into the seats, with them came their humming.
The judge made a face that usually comes with a curse word. Right
then and there I decided, if they were going to take my life then I
was going to take somebody with me, that was if I couldn’t escape.
I glanced at the back of the courtroom, Blazack shrugged his
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shoulders as if to say,
whatever
.
“Your Honor, may I please get my Bible?” I asked feeling my
palms starting to sweat. The judge chuckled like the devil. I’m sure
he thought he read fear into my actions, just like the thousands of
impoverished Blacks that are paraded in front of him for selling
small amounts of drugs and given large amounts time.
“Yes, you may go get your Bible,” the judge said and then
added, “I have a feeling you’re going to need it.”
I walked toward the defense table. Hope placed her hand over
her mouth as if willing herself not to scream at me to stop. I
grabbed the Bible and with it came the feeling of power, like an
adrenaline rush, for me the kind that only Jesus can bring. As I
walked back to the podium I glanced at Blazack. He nodded at
me,
whatever
.
*****
The jury foreman began to read the verdict. I opened my
Bible. The old folks were humming the gospel. My heart raced at
an accelerated pace. Like I said, I’d rather be carried by six than
judged by twelve. I’d rather be dead than spend the rest of my nat-
ural life in prison. For me, that was not living. So if it meant
shooting the judge in the head in cold blood and taking the jury
hostage, so be it. At least I was going out my way, on my terms,
and there was the slight chance that maybe I could actually get
away.
“On the first count, conspiracy to traffic cocaine, we the jury
find the defendant, Life Thugstin,” as the foreman spoke I slight-
ly aimed the Bible at the judge. “We, the jury find the defendant.”
I looked over at Scandels, felt like my hand had a mind of it’s own.
My hand was itching to shoot him first.
“We find the defendant …” the foreman dropped the paper he
was reading from. I had my hand on the gun. Finally he picked up
the paper and read, “We find the defendant, Life Thugstin, NOT
GUILTY.” The entire courtroom erupted in pandemonium. Black
folks acting like Lincoln had just freed the slaves. The judge
pounded his gavel frantically. I stood there as if frozen and then
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glanced back at Hope. The weary corners of her mouth tried to
smile but her eyes warned me. This thing was far from over.
The foreman cleared his throat, looked around the courtroom
nervously. “As of count two of the indictment CGE, Criminal
Enterprise.” This was the most serious charge–it carried life. The
foreman continued, “ NOT GUILY.” Again the courtroom erupt-
ed. I closed the Bible and along with it a chapter of my life. I
looked over at Scandels, his face was red, he was overcome with
grief, like he needed to be placed on suicide watch. The judge
pounded his gavel so hard it broke as Black folks ran around cele-
brating, hooping and hollering. The few reporters that arrived late
could only look in. I weaved through the crowd with fake Bible in
hand. Someone was trying to hug, touch me, and shake my hand.
I searched for Hope. She was nowhere to be found. Finally I was
able to reach the table with my lawyers. I saw Taya and Adrienne
bent down looking at something on the floor. I walked over and
to my utter shock it was Hope lying on the floor with a smile on
her face, her ebony eyes were glassy, distant, as if she were looking
at something we could not see. I dropped to my knees cradling her
frail body in my arms. Taya screamed as she held Hope’s wrist,
“Ohmigod! She doesn’t have a pulse!” I gently wiped a tuft of hair
from Hope’s face. She smiled up at me, tried to laugh. She
coughed. I yelled to the top of my voice, “Pleeeze! Pleeeze!
Somebody call an ambulance!”
As I rocked Hope’s body in my arms tears spilled down my
cheeks falling onto her face. “We ...won,” Hope said in barely a
whisper.
“No Hope! No Hope! You gotta stay with me. I don’t want to
live without you. I can’t win without you. Noooo!” I wailed as the
tears streaked my face.
“Don’t cry,” she cooed. “Don’t think of it as death. Think of it
as life. I did what God intended of me to do. I gave you life, twice
... this trial and bearing you a beautiful son.”
“Son?” I repeated as I cried.
“Yes, Marcus is your son,” she said and reached up and feath-
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ered my cheek with a delicate finger. Promise me that you will take
care of him.”
“Okaay, okaay,” I droned as I wept sorrowfully. The pain in
my chest, I couldn’t describe, it hurt so bad. Why couldn’t God
take me? I would have gladly given my life for this woman.
The entire courtroom had taken on a still quiet. Through
blurry eyes I looked up to see Black folks in a circle around me
swaying and humming an old dirge. Hope took a deep breath, her
very last breath, “I love you,” she said and closed her eyes. She died
right there in my arms, in them white folks’ so-called cour thouse.
She had a victorious smile on her face.
The medics arrived. Blazack and my stepmother had to wres-
tle me away from Hope’s lifeless body.
*****
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Epilogue
Epilogue
“The Beginning”
– Life –
A year later, I married Black Pearl on August 21. Life is strange. I
am still trying to get to know my son. However, Black Pearl and
Marcus are inseparable, mother and child. She calls him Lil Man.
Black Pearl and Trina are still friends as well as business partners.
They design clothes for many companies. One of them is a com-
pany called Phat Farm. Blazack is doing time for manslaughter.
Ironically they found no body and no evidence, just an eyewitness
that saw him abduct a man in broad daylight.
Tomica, the lesbian that testified against me at my trial–I
guess God don’t like ugly. The last I heard, Tomica was str ung out
on heroin somewhere in New York, in a place called Hell’s
Kitchen. Evette, her ex-lover, is still in prison. She calls the house
&
nbsp; from time to time to gossip with Pearl. Gucci and the rest of
Miami’s notorious Oplica Triangle crew went home. They now
own a chain of car detail businesses. Major, my all-purpose man
that was on the case with me, is doing time in a federal prison in
Edgefield, South Carolina. Two months after Big Mike was
released from prison, someone caught him at a red light and
pumped 41 bullets into his body. One for each person that he tes-
tified against. As for myself, I started a non-profit organization
called The Hope Evans Scholarship Foundation. It’s designed to
help impoverished young Black children make it to college.
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Hope’s death taught me a lot. I no longer refer to Black women as
bitches and whores. One of the world’s best kept secrets is, a Black
woman gave birth to humanity, and historically, she had been used
and abused, histor y stolen and relegated as just a woman, when in
all actuality she was the first “Womb-man.” To date, AIDS is the
number one killer of young Black women. Black women are 25
times more likely to be diagnosed with AIDS than white women.
The leading cause of HIV among Black men is having sex with
other men. The leading cause of HIV among black women is hav-
ing sex with men.
I’m still tr ying to survive with this thing called
Life
.
THE END!
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