Chasing the Dragon

by Tiana Laveen

  I couldn’t stand to look at myself in the mirror. I started to hate myself. I asked myself, ‘Why me?’ Unfortunately, it didn’t stop there. He did it more times, and it wasn’t always at his house. One time it happened at the school in the bathroom. Sometimes, he’d come up to the school and pick me and Jasmine up. I’m sure you remember. He’d bring us home and find a way to get Jasmine to run an errand or finagle some excuse for him and me to be alone. And then, he started giving me money and jewelry. The more it happened, the more helpless I felt, and the angrier and more detached from myself I became. I was changing, but I couldn’t stop it. I no longer cared about the things I used to care about, and that’s when Mama started complaining about my attitude. I am not saying that this situation alone led me to becoming a drug dealer, but I believe it had a hand in it. I just wanted to get away … pretend to be something else! I cannot apologize to you both enough for hating you for something you had nothing to do with. I believe in my heart now that you had no idea. I am the one who took Gable up on his offer to be his partner. I can’t blame anyone else for that poor decision but me. Now, three men died due to my lack of care of others. I didn’t pull the trigger, but I’m still to blame.

  I didn’t value life at all because I didn’t value my own life, either. I was just floating through, trying to escape time and time again. Money was a coping mechanism, as all the beautiful, shiny things were, but I was already rich inside because I had parents who loved me. What a shame that I didn’t know it. I want to quote a line from my favorite song, “Black Butterfly” by Denise Williams:

  ‘You survived, now your moment has arrived. Now your dream had finally been born.’

  My choices, good or bad, Mama and dad, were my way of surviving from the pain I had inside. I created a dream and chased it. It became my distraction. I was good at it. I was no one’s victim, and I would never allow myself to be done like that again. The mental, emotional, and psychological devastation from those events has never left me. I died the day Mr. Sam stole my innocence. Your daughter, as you knew her, no longer existed. But, he didn’t deserve that power. I handed it over to him. I let him kill my very soul by keeping my silence. Now, I want to live!

  Things I never cared about or thought I wanted are in the forefront of my mind, Mama. Dad, I remember you and me going to Home Aroma and looking at all the pretty houses when I was a little girl. I want a nice house filled with nice things—that hasn’t changed—but this time, I want a husband in there with me, and maybe a couple of kids!

  I never wanted to be a mother until recently. Or maybe I did, but didn’t think I deserved any so I pushed the thought out of my realm of possibilities. I stayed on birth control pills, as you knew mama, I have had an IUD for years to prevent that from happening. Children are a blessing and not everyone deserves to have some. Six months ago, thank goodness, I didn’t have any. I was incapable of letting down my guard enough to love openly and freely. I didn’t want to be seen, not the real me. And children need that openness, that all-encompassing, rich, vast love. Like the kind I had growing up.

  Babies … so innocent, so beautiful. I want to cook dinner sometimes. I want to run a state of the art music store with a built-in studio and offer music lessons and organize live music events that feature local jazz artists. I want to help girls who are victims of sexual abuse to find their voices again! I want so many things—things that cost way more than anything money could buy. I want to help law enforcement with trying to understand people like me better. To figure out our mentality, not so they can lock us up and get another notch on their belt, but so they can show some compassion!

  No one grows up and says, ‘I want my life to be in jeopardy every day.’ No one wants to have to look over their shoulder 24-7. I got addicted to the excitement, the adventures, the money, the things … while I need to get addicted to my well-being, to the possibilities, to my God-given talent to make money and run a business. I’m good at it and I’ve wasted many years working with someone else, doing all the work while he got all the shine, and he didn’t care about me in the least. I’ve got dreams and plans, Mama and Dad.

  No more running my store from a distance and just taking the money. I want to be up close, fall in love with the instruments all over again. I want to play my Hendrix records and dance barefoot on the living room floor. I want to fall asleep on a field of grass with my music playing through my headphones in the park while the breeze blows through my kinky hair! I want to see Mama’s big, pretty smile when she gets her Tiffany back, or better yet, a new and improved version. And Dad, you worked hard. I used to say you worked too much and neglected the family, but that’s not true. Yes, it would’ve been nice if you’d been to more of my concerts and could have come home earlier for dinner sometimes, but when we were together, you were the best! You played Barbie dolls with me, and we had tea parties, too. You read to me, helped me with my homework, and told me I could be anything I wanted. It isn’t your fault.

  No, it was me. I ran from everyone and everything. I flew away. Flight is a gift, but it’s not to be used to escape one’s problems. It’s to be used to explore, and get you to your next destination. I hope you can forgive me for not telling you any of this, but I just couldn’t at the time. I can barely write this letter, but you need it. It’s long overdue.

  I love you.

  Tiffany McCall

  (Black Butterfly)

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Charles Monroe – ‘School Boy’ – 6’0. Has a Bachelors in mathematics. An annoying laugh. Can’t shoot worth a shit. Fast on his feet. Smart. Is afraid of heights…

  Kenneth Ferris – ‘Plenty money’ – 5’11. A fucking idiot. Lifts weights, muscular. Bad temper. *Don’t do business with him*. Stays near Congress Pkwy.

  Dehaven M. Simmons – ‘Tech9’ – 6’4. Sometimes goes by his middle name, ‘Marcel.’ Second in command. The wrong man to fuck with. Intelligent. Manipulative. Serving 10-year sentence for 2nd degree.

  Neal Mangold – ‘Little Brooklyn’ – 6’1. Sells meth only. Was a crack baby. Has a thing for White women. Laid back. Always on time.

  Traci George – ‘Turbo’ – 5’9. Tattoo of melting skull on shoulder. Is a woman but can pass as a man due to low faded haircut and flat chest. Dresses masculine. Funny – good sense of humor, ruthless, blinks a lot.

  And the list went on.

  Page after page of Gangster Disciple member birth names, as well as aliases or nicknames, filled the pages, accompanied by interesting factoids. There had to be a method to Tiffany’s madness, for these bits of information must have allowed her to manipulate and twist many situations in her favor. Phoenix leafed through the book he’d obtained from her music store. The doors had been locked and chained since a few days after her disappearance, but everything inside appeared untouched. She’d paid the rent a year upfront and could return when and if she ever got to see the light of day again. But it looked as if she’d saved for a rainy day…

  Tiffany’s P.O. box had just been the tip of the iceberg. The woman had a treasure trove of intel, the kind that made DEA agents and the FBI weep with joy when uncovered. This included lists of locations for hidden drug and money storage, logs of cars with faux license plates, and names and addresses of illegal chop shops. She’d memorized them all and listed them—Each. And. Every. One. Of. Them! When she got the chance, she’d meticulously record what she knew in these little books. She’d stated that the problem with the cell numbers was that they changed often, which was understandable, so she needed his help with obtaining one in particular.

  As she’d said, he’d also found the receipts stashed in the beautiful body of the glossy black guitar with the red roses, stuffed inside a dark pouch, sorted by date. Records of each and every gun she and Gable had purchased, all bank receipts and transfers, you name it, were listed in there. This completed the puzzle.

  Earlier in the day he’d gained access to her iCloud storage and cackled when he came upon not just one video, but several ones
showing Gable having a damn good time at a party, waving his new gun around. From the look of it, the thing matched the one found by the fisherman. After giving Rick a call to update, he left for Tiffany’s house. Phoenix entered her home with caution, his gun raised and on alert. Just as Tiffany’s mother had informed her, the home was in shambles.

  He opened the door, the damn thing barely hanging on, and stepped on broken glass. The beautiful place was now nothing more than a den of stench and darkness. Someone had torn the bed sheets, smeared food all over the place, ransacked the cabinets and furniture in every room, and shredded every last bit of her clothing. Fortunately, Tiffany had planned accordingly. The sneaky little woman trusted few, and what Phoenix discovered next proved this without a shadow of a doubt.

  She said it was where no one would look. She whispered to me, ‘Bedroom Floor.’

  Now in her bedroom, he looked around and sure enough, noticed the slight bump in the floorboard next to her destroyed bed. Pulling out a pocket knife, he dug the blade under the floorboard and lifted the plank. There, beneath it, sat a vintage orange and white Nike shoebox. He reached for the dusty thing and flipped the lid.

  “Holy shit!”

  Tiffany’s words, “I’m an information hoarder…” played over and over in his mind. The shoebox was filled with the names of police officers who’d played dirty—bought drugs, traded sex for letting some of the female or bisexual dealers off the hook, accepted bribes, and more. Tiffany had their full names listed, including their badge numbers, their district, their likes and dislikes, what they’d done, how much she and Gable had paid them to turn a blind eye, the works. An accusation was one thing, but Tiff had taken it a step further. Beneath the list was an assortment of old school cassette tapes and a player. In minutes, he was listening to the recordings of various male voices, presumably cops. Phoenix ran a hand over his face and shook his head in disbelief.

  Jesus! She could take this whole damn city down. Placing the shoebox beneath his arm, he left the house and made his way back to his car. For a moment, he simply sat in the vehicle to witness the sunset, watched the darkness take hold. He glanced up at the modern home with walls made of glass and an open floor plan, once so beautiful but now all broken and torn to pieces. Tiffany loved that house, but she’d felt trapped in it, as she’d been by everything she possessed. How strange that the place was destroyed, as if to ensure, in some strange way, that she started fresh. The glass walls of her castle were down, so now she could either cower in the debris, or finally escape her self-built jail cell, in which she’d experienced only mock freedom.

  Picking up his phone, he made a call. “Hello, Senator Duckworth. It’s Director Hale from the DCP. We met not too long ago regarding a review of police drug search and seizure procedures and I brought up a current case concerning a Ms. Tiffany McCall.”

  “Good evening, Phoenix. Yes, I remember that. Are you still in town?”

  “Yes, I am. I hope you don’t mind me calling your personal cell phone after office hours, but this is important.”

  “No, not at all. That’s why I provided it. What can I do for you?”

  “I have some information that I believe would interest you. I know it’s short notice, but I think we should meet up for dinner. This could take a while…”

  Two months later…

  It was a rare occurrence to meet a former drug dealer who’d never had a court appearance…

  The fact Gable had kept Tiffany in the background for so long had a silver lining; it had protected her from the political and legal limelight. She sat on the witness stand, her hair pulled up in a taut bun and a pearl necklace around her neck. Matching small pearl earrings adorned her ears. Her conservative baby blue blazer over a satin blouse and straight legged pants with low heels made her look demure, or dare she say, motherly even. She slinked into the new role the same way she’d slid into that witness stand. Smooth.

  Jane asked her a series of questions, as well as the prosecution, and the whole thing seemed to go on for an eternity. She’d understood this wouldn’t be easy.

  The charges brought against her were serious, and her defense and the prosecution would go through everything with a fine-tooth comb. Day after day, week after week, the trial dragged on. How miraculous, though, that some of the charges against her had been mysteriously dropped. All Phoenix would say was, “It was an Iran war veteran duck that went quack on her way to the White House. Now everyone knows…”

  The squeaky wheel—well, in this case, the squeaky floorboard—got the grease. The prosecution tried their damnedest to poke holes in the case, but with the mounting evidence Phoenix had provided to Jane from Tiffany’s store and house, such a feat proved virtually impossible. Gable sat with his attorney looking smug, but she could see through the bullshit. His goose was cooked, burnt to a crisp. And then … there was Gable’s flea-bitten fucker of an attorney.

  Prosecutor Evanston approached her, set to destroy her once and for all. She was ready for him—all amped up and enjoying the game. Tiffany was accustomed to men like this, the ones with tiny penises, who thought too highly of themselves and overdosed on their careers because their inadequacies ran amuck.

  “How would you know that the gun in the video just presented to the jury is the same gun that was used by my client?”

  “I remember how it looked.” At this, the attorney feigned disbelief, rolling his eyes and grinning. He slapped the witness stand and glanced towards the jury, then back into her eyes.

  “Your account of that night, the car, all of that.” He waved his hand. “The details of your deposition could just be your imagination. It was dark and raining. You couldn’t remember such details.”

  “But I did.”

  “Oh really?” He sneered. “Then why don’t you tell us everything you saw?”

  “Sure.” Tiffany stated cheerfully. “The Bentley, the car I was driving, was going west. We parked three and a half miles away from Turner Point. On the left there was a line of trees, mainly oak that bent to the far left.”

  “None of this is pertinent, Ms. McCall. I want you to get to the gun.”

  “Your honor, I request that my client be allowed to answer the question in the manner that was asked. The prosecution asked that she describe the evening in question, and that is what she is doing.”

  “Sustained,” the judge stated gruffly. “Ms. McCall, you may continue.”

  “Thank you. On the right side, the trees bowed to the right, which meant that the area was accustomed to strong winds during rain storms. The road was covered in asphalt; however, where we were parked, the two wheels on the passenger’s side sat in the grass, which was soaked with rain, and caused mud to rise. At approximately 10:31 p.m., the silver SUV with the three DEA agents approached…” Tiffany continued, going more into detail to describe everything—from the way the rain fell to the sight of a squashed squirrel she’d noticed in the middle of the street.

  “And he smelled of tobacco, his clothing that is, though he wasn’t a prolific smoker because there was no discoloration to his fingers and lips, nor did his breath smell of it. It was a cover, part of a disguise to blend in. He wore a camel colored Tom Ford jacket with a slight discoloration and bend right under the left breast bone. I noticed this because I realized that was where he had one of his weapons hidden. His brows were not similar; one was much straighter than the other giving him the look of a man who was always questioning someone…”

  Photo after photo was pulled out of the victim’s SUV, the Bentley and the tires, and the victim’s clothing, to corroborate her testimony—even the Tom Ford jacket she’d perfectly described with the puckered area, the crease still visible below the blood splatter.

  “The gun Gable used had several crisscross markings, which made it unique. Those markings are on the handle: seventeen on one side, fifteen on the other. It also has his name on it, proving that it was his.”

  “I would like to present exhibit D, please.” Jane brought up a phot
o of the gun that was found and zoomed in on the crosshatching marks Tiffany spoke of. The gasps from the courtroom thrilled her, though she kept her gaze keenly on Gable, who sat there like some toad … getting under her fucking skin just by being and breathing in her presence. Up until that moment, he’d been feeling fairly confident no doubt, but once she started talking about the weapon, his face dropped.

  “His name is not on the gun.” The prosecution smiled self-righteously, then zoomed up on the photos of the weapon.

  “Yes, it is. You see that initial, ‘C.G.’? Those are his initials.”

  “Ms. McCall, my client’s name is Gable Johnson. You’ve made a mistake. See? This photographic memory you supposedly have is flawed.”

  “No, C.G. is his street name, just like mine is Butterfly. We used to call my cousin Clark Gable, like the old movie star. C.G. … Clark Gable.” The jury whispered amongst themselves, causing the judge to bring down the gavel. Tiffany memorized the attorney’s face at that moment … and it would be one of her fondest memories of all time.

  The next two days turned out to be much quieter in the courtroom, though the prosecution made it their business to bring into the limelight Tiffany’s unscrupulous behavior, her depraved character, and lack of concern for the wellbeing of others. She couldn’t blame them; it was all they had to hang onto. She sat stoically during other testimonies, but the character witness from her mother ripped her heart out.