Crazy Kind of Love

by T. Styles

  “I guess if you get out I won’t see you no more,” she said in barely a whisper and pretended to weep.

  “I will never forget you. If I get out, you know I’ma leave you all my info. If you like, we can hook up on the streets.”

  For the first time that day, Wanda smiled and it was like a ray of sunshine when she batted her long, pretty, fake eyelashes and looked at me.

  “For real?” she asked excitedly, gesturing with her long, turquoise fingernails. “I want to cook for you…southern fried chicken, mashed potatoes, collard greens, and corn bread. We country girls can throw down.” She placed a hand on her hip. Wanda was from Hattiesburg, Mississippi.

  “Don’t trip. If I hit the bricks, I got you,” I said still stuffing papers in a yellow envelope. Then we both heard it at the same time. “Inmate Jamal Shield report to the classification building,” the intercom blared.

  The smile waned on her face as she wrung her hands. She spoke to me solemnly, “Please don’t go in there talking back to them white folks… and if you have to, just give them back their money…go home.” She pouted; her bottom lip trembled.

  Her leg did some type of jerky motion in frustration as she abruptly walked out the cell, leaving me alone to ponder my fate. That was her first time ever mentioning the money that was missing from the Brinks truck robbery. With everybody else, it had always been the three thousand pound gorilla in the room. No one dared to mention it, not even the homies. It would have been the same as asking me was I guilty for robbing a Brinks truck and killing a guard. The prosecuting attorney had offered me an agreement to plead guilty and return the money; I could possibly get a reduced sentence of five years. I turned it down.

  Two of my alleged partners had been killed in a shootout when the getaway car was pulled over in congested traffic on Annapolis Road in an unexpected police roadblock. I was the suspected lone gunman who was able to elude authorities in the gun battle, escaping with two duffle bags of money.

  The problem with the prosecutor’s case was he didn’t have one shred of evidence against me other than the hair that may have been planted in a ski mask by a rogue cop. If the parole board did give me back my freedom and I was released, would the 1.2 million dollars still be where I stashed it?

  I walked out the cell with the folder in my hand. To my surprise, there was an explosion of applause. The Christian community, along with a lot my friends and associates stood around clapping their hands.

  I shook some hands and gave some dap. To many, I was the embodiment of discipline and faith in God. To others, I was just a dude who had changed his life and had a chance at getting out the system. Somehow, that gave them hope.

  I spotted Wanda standing by the elevator waiting on me; she tapped her feet impatiently and glanced at her wrist, even though she wasn’t wearing a watch. I made my way towards her. We boarded the elevator together in silence. Her perfume radiated off her body. I inhaled her fruity fragrance.

  Neither one of us spoke. The moment was as fragile as a cracked hourglass.

  The elevator dinged as the doors opened.

  ****

  We entered the classification building. Instantly, the smell of disinfectant and some other odor emanated. The marble parquet floor was being waxed to a shine by an inmate who toiled with a buffer as he bobbed his head to music as we passed. He just happened to look up and see me.

  “Good luck, Preacher,” he said enthused, moving his headphones to the side of his head.

  Up ahead, I saw my lawyer Don Weinstein. He was seated in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs. He looked up when he saw us coming. Weinstein was short, white, and rotund. He stood five-feet four-inches tall and weighed 230 pounds. He had an unruly mop of curly gray hair with a receding hairline that made him uncannily resemble Albert Einstein. For some reason, he had a habit of squinting as if he was digesting information. At first glance, he looked like a bumbling idiot. He always looked disheveled, like he bought his clothes from the basement of Goodwill. That day, it looked like he had slept in his clothes. His brown suit was wrinkled and two sizes too big. The collar on his white shirt had turned yellow.

  Don Weinstein was a perfect example of how looks could be deceiving. He was nothing short of a genius. Not only had he kept me off death row, he had single handedly, for the past eleven years, fought my case diligently against the Maryland Court of Appeals, as well as the prosecutor’s office and the police department. His latest victory had caused the prosecuting attorney to file a motion asking the judge to remove Weinstein as my counsel for no other reason but to hinder my release.

  Weinstein shook my hand with a young man’s vigor as he raised a brow at Wanda, who was standing a few feet away next to a window. After we were seated, he cut straight to the chase.

  “I have some rather unpleasant news for you,” he said as he riffled through an ancient looking briefcase.

  Instantly my stomach felt queasy. At my last parole hearing, the news teams from CBS, NBC, ABC, CNN, and Fox had all showed up outside the penitentiary. Weinstein was offered a nice lump of money by Nightline News to appear in a reenactment segment of the armored Brinks truck heist. He turned it down, and then filed a motion in court and forced them to stop the filming because as he said it would jeopardize my trial. Reluctantly, the judge ruled in our favor.

  “The news is here?”

  The P.A. system blared as Weinstein spoke, I had to strain my ears to hear him “No, thank God the media is not here but Stanley Coleman is back to plead with the parole board not to grant you release.”

  “Stanley Coleman?” I groaned indignantly. It felt like all the air had been kicked out my chest. I happened to look over and see Wanda craning her neck, watching me with concern on her face.

  Stanley Coleman was one of the cops I shot when the Warrant Apprehension Task Force raided my house one cold December morning, as Tanya and I were leaving together. My daughter Shamika was just a baby. I thought my house was being invaded by a rival that I had beef with. When the task force kicked in the door I was waiting with an AK-47 and Coleman was one of the three cops I shot.

  He was a pathetic looking soul. Part of the right side of his face was missing, including his nose and right eye, but he refused to wear a prosthetic to hide the gruesome horror of his injuries. It was a miracle that he was able to survive and testify at trial. He said that before he entered my home, he announced that he was the police. The problem was the police lied; they never announced they were the officers. Stanley Coleman and his men were crooked cops that showed up at my place on an anonymous tip to rob me of the Brinks truck heist money.

  Eight years into my bid, Weinstein, discovered a police dispatcher had recorded the entire shootout when Stanley Coleman forgot to turn his radio off after asking for police back up before the raid. He was even recorded referring to me as a nigger. Nowhere in the recording did the task force announce they were the police when they raided my home.

  The Maryland Court of Appeals overturned my conviction, citing a violation of the 4th Amendment for illegal search and seizure. The evidence was thrown out and I was resentenced to ten years to life for possession of an assault rifle by a convicted felon.

  “What about the board members?” I asked my attorney with a ray of hope that they had retired.

  Weinstein gave me a shrug, as he took out a sheaf of papers from his briefcase. I could tell his mind was elsewhere. “Rick Mohorn is also going to make a statement asking the board not to release you on the claim that you’re a menace to society. You had been involved in several homicides—”

  “But I never was convicted, and my life has changed. I’m not the same person I was back then,” I raised my voice.

  Wanda gave me a warning glare to calm down.

  “You were arrested for a triple homicide when you were nineteen.”

  “The charges were dropped.”

  “Yes, because the only witness never showed up to court.”

  “I had nothing to do with that,” I prote
sted, which was a partial truth.

  My best friend Steve’s daughter, Kellisha, had been kidnapped as she walked home from school. She was only eight years old. The kidnappers demanded fifty thousand dollars. As proof, they cut off the child’s index finger and mailed it to Steve’s home. Steve couldn’t come up with all the money even though I gave him half. Little Kellisha lovingly would call me Uncle Jamal. Days later, Kellisha’s body was discovered in a shallow grave by a woman walking her dog. Autopsy reports showed Kellisha had bled to death only hours after her finger was cut off.

  I had been arrested for the gangland slaying of the three hoodlums who had abducted Kellisha. The witness picked me out in a photo lineup and was prepared to testify that she saw me force two of the suspected kidnappers into the trunk of a car at gunpoint in broad daylight. Luckily, the witness failed to show up for court.

  Weinstein suddenly turned to me and squinted his eyes three times, “This time I don’t want you to talk. Let me do all the talking. The last time you lost your temper,” he admonished.

  The last time, the seventy-six year-old bag, Ms. Crabtree, didn’t bother to hide her racism when she interrupted me as I made my presentation to the board on why they should award me my freedom. Ms. Crabtree commented, “You black people need to be locked up.” I completely lost it. I remember calling her an old bitch. I had to be restrained.

  Suddenly, the Plexiglas mechanical double doors leading to the parole hearing opened. The only black member on the parole board, Jeff Burns, stepped out. He was clad in a charcoal-gray pinstriped suit and a black turtle neck sweater. He had massive shoulders that slightly slumped with age and graying hair. In his mid-sixties, he resembled the Supreme Justice Clarence Thomas. He had an aura of gloom about him when he said in a deep baritone voice, “We will be ready to start the proceeding in one minute.”

  Right then, I knew that all my prayers had come down to that crucial one minute. I looked over at Wanda. She had her eyes closed as her lips moved silently. It suddenly dawned on me that she was praying.

  Weinstein turned to me and said, “Remember, speak only when you’re asked a question. Other than that, I will do all the talking.”

  I gave the lawyer a nod as I felt something churn in my stomach like I needed to use the restroom.

  CHAPTER THREE

  LOURDES

  I stood in front of the busy police department, clutching my briefcase. I observed a few faces in the flurry of civilians who exited the jail. I felt invisible. Some of them looked unhappy, and others look relieved to be free. I had been in front of this building many times. So many times, I’m embarrassed to admit out loud for fear my mama might be listening up above. She told me if she ever died she would watch over me, to protect me and guide me down my path.

  My mind went back to some of the nasty things I’d done in the dark, and my head dropped in shame. I guess she could see that stuff too. Maybe I shouldn’t be so worried what she thought about those dark times. After all, she was the one who taught me prostitution. I guess part of me believed she was in heaven now with a new outlook on my life. Maybe she didn’t approve of how I made a living now. But this day would be the first time in my life that I was doing something for someone besides me. I only hoped I would make her proud.

  I was about to walk up the stairs when I heard a voice behind me. “Lourdes, what are you doing out here?”

  When I turned around I was looking into Officer Billy Ross’ puffy black face. His skin was potted like an old statue, and the smile he gave me was just as fake…just as lifeless. He had arrested me for prostitution at least fifty times that I could remember, and my mama about double that amount. My stomach felt swirly and I was starting to think that maybe I had made a huge mistake. I was tempted to run but he grabbed the forearm of my injured hand like I was under arrest. I winced in pain.

  “I asked you a question, girly.” he stepped closer. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  “I…uh…I was just coming to—” my words were lost into the ether. I couldn’t find them if I wanted to. Suddenly, I felt as if I were the one who had done a crime.

  “Come on inside, and explain it to me there. And stop being so shaky. If you ain’t do nothing wrong, there won’t be a problem.” He smiled again. “You know that. It ain’t like me and you don’t go way back.” He released my arm but my feet didn’t move. “Come on now, time is money and money is time.”

  Wanting to get this over with, I followed him cautiously. He marched ahead of me and I continued my trek as if I were a stray puppy. Once inside the building, the first thing I felt was extreme stuffiness. It was as if I had stepped into a sauna fully clothed. The familiar scent of fresh paper, fast food and coffee slapped me in the nose and I felt ill.

  He walked me past a set of gray cubicles toward the back of the precinct. When we got to his cube, he stepped inside and slammed his husky body down behind his computer. I took the only seat available across from him. I felt out of place. He tapped his keyboard a few times and the computer awakened and chimed. His face was suddenly kissed with blue light from the glowing computer screen. He removed his wrinkled blue jacket and tossed it behind his seat, as I wondered one thing: what does he want with me?

  “So, talk to me, Lourdes,” he eyed my breasts. “What brought you here?”

  When I saw him trying to glance under my tiny mini skirt, I placed my briefcase in my lap and crossed my legs tightly, forcing my thighs together. He appeared disappointed by my action, because his forehead crinkled and his eyelids lowered.

  “Hurry up and answer the question, Lourdes. I don’t have all day.” He stabbed at his keyboard again without looking at me this time.

  I swallowed the lump in my throat and said, “I want to report a crime.”

  His fingers levitated over the keys and he stopped typing. “Did you say you want to report a crime?”

  I nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “The same bitch who I caught letting teenage baseball players look at her pussy for five bucks a pop?” His voice rose and I looked around, embarrassed that somebody might hear him and agree.

  “I know it seems odd, but it’s the truth. I saw a horrible crime and I’m here to report it.”

  “Oh I remember now,” he continued. “You’re the same bitch who had a whore for a mother, before somebody got the sense to blow her brains out and send her to her maker.”

  He stared at me as if he was waiting on an answer but I didn’t have one.

  “So all of a sudden you want to be a good citizen. Is this what you’re telling me?”

  My heart pumped and I could see my breasts rise and fall when I looked down. “Maybe I should leave. You’re right; I don’t have a right to be here. I made a mistake.”

  “You’re not going anywhere until you tell me about this crime you want to report, Lourdes.” He leaned back into his chair and it squeaked. “You’re not going to cheat me from this moment. I gotta hear this shit.”

  I felt something crawling down my face. It wasn’t until I swiped it away that I realized it was a tear. I desperately tried to pull myself together to tell him the story. “I…there was a girl…I saw the whole thing. It happened in the field behind the school.” I swallowed again. “She stabbed a girl to death…on the ground while a group of teenagers watched.”

  His eyes widened. “Which school?”

  “Berry Mills,” I said with trembling lips. I placed my fingers over them to get them to stop moving. Why couldn’t I stop quivering?

  “Are you sure about this?” He asked.

  “I swear. I wouldn’t lie about something so horrible. The girl who did it, I mean, the girl who committed the crime I believe she has a problem. She may need help…mental help and that’s why I’m here.”

  “Before getting into all of that, I have one question.”

  “Sure, I’ll answer anything.”

  “What were you doing behind the school?”

  I wiped more of my tears away. “What? I don’t understand wha
t you’re asking me. I just said a child hurt another child.”

  “You understand exactly what I’m asking, bitch.” He paused. “What were you doing behind the school?” I remained silent. “Let me guess, you were behind the school servicing one of your customers.” He folded his arms over his chest, and gave me that look. That look he gave me when he knew he could rape me in his car after picking me up for prostitution last Christmas because I didn’t want to go to jail. He knew I wouldn’t tell anybody because nobody would believe me.

  “Maybe I should leave,” I said standing up. “I’m sorry to waste your time.”

  “Sit down.” When I kept walking he yelled, “I said sit the fuck down!”

  I took my seat and tried to stop trembling in my chair. He pressed a few more buttons on the keyboard and I wondered what he was doing. I wanted to ask but I didn’t want to disturb him and make him angrier. Fifteen minutes later, he hopped up, snatched a stack of papers off of the printer and clutched my elbow.

  “Where are we going?” I asked him. He doesn’t answer. “Where are you taking me?”

  When my briefcase dropped to the floor I yanked away from him to pick it up. My world was inside of that case. My hopes and my dreams for a better life and I couldn’t give it away for anyone. When I had it in my grasp again I said, “Can you tell me what I did wrong? Why are you treating me like I’m a prisoner?”

  He remained silent. Then, he snatched me by the arm again pulled me past all of the officers I saw before when I was here. They were giving me contemptuous glares, like they already knew what I had done. Once again she’s been caught selling her body. What a shame, they were probably thinking. But they were all wrong.

  Before long, I was thrown into a waiting cell, with a shove to the back. When I turned around, the door slammed in my face. I tossed my briefcase on the bench and rushed up to the bars. With both of my hands wrapped around the iron rods, I squeezed my face between them. “Why are you doing this to me? I didn’t do anything wrong! I’m a witness to a crime.”