Wifey, Part 1

by Erica Hilton

  The detectives placed handcuffs on me and prepared to cart me outside as everybody inside the restaurant looked on.

  “Oh my God!” I screamed in anguish. I couldn’t believe this was happening. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “It’s our job,” one detective replied, sarcastically. “We lock up murderers.”

  “I didn’t kill anybody!” I pleaded.

  “Jasmine be quiet!” Nico warned. “Don’t say anything else until your lawyer gets there.”

  Tears were on the verge of streaming down my face, but I wanted to be as strong as I could in front of Nico. I didn’t want him to see me crying and think that I would fold under questioning. As the detectives led me out of the restaurant the only thing I could think of was Mia’s last text message to me. I did go from mistress to wifey.

  But at what cost?

  Keep reading for an excerpt of

  Wifey:

  I Am Wifey

  Prologue

  Jasmine

  I was hauled off to Midtown South’s police precinct and all the way there my heart palpitated from fear. What have I gotten myself into? I wasn’t brought up this way. Not to be charged with murder at twenty years old. As we passed by yellow cabs, bright city lights, and numerous pedestrians, I realized I wasn’t going down without a fight. No one saw me do shit, and I wasn’t going to admit shit. I’m going to sit with a poker face, and if that didn’t work, I’d resort to tears.

  The marked police car pulled around to a side entrance and I was led out the cramped back seat by the taller detective. No one said a word to me as I stoically held my head up high. The police precinct was a stark contrast from the eerie silence I’d just experienced. The noise and chaos jolted my senses, and instantly I became jittery. I began to fidget, turning my wrists uncomfortably in the handcuffs until they became irritated.

  “Could someone loosen these cuffs?”

  Instead of accommodating my request, I was shoved, slightly, from behind. My pressure instantly rose, but I didn’t dare lash out. I was on their territory and realized, quickly, that I was way out of my league.

  Eventually I was escorted to a back room that looked cold and sterile. It had the quintessential desk and two chairs that you see on every cop television show. As the two detectives began to have small talk amongst themselves, I was handcuffed to a chair and then left alone.

  At first, I was relieved that they didn’t come back into the room to question me. I figured that Nico had hired me an attorney and the detectives were given strict orders to back off. But as the minutes turned into an hour, which turned into hours, I got restless.

  “Hello?” I called. I waited a few seconds and elevated my voice. “Hel-lo!”

  Where was everyone? Why had no one come back into the room to check on me? I continued to call out, angrily, until I got tired. Eventually, I put my head on the desk and fell into an uncomfortable sleep.

  Hours had passed when I was awoken by a female officer who took me to the ladies’ room and offered me something to eat or drink.

  “When am I being processed?” I asked. I just wanted to see a judge who would hopefully set a bail and I could go home to my warm bed. “I’ve been here for almost ten hours. And where’s my attorney?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know anything about your case. Are you sure you don’t want anything from the vending machine? Soda? Chips? Nothing?”

  Who could eat when you’re about to be charged with murder?

  “Nah, I’m good. Thanks anyway.”

  A couple hours after sunrise the door burst open and two middle-aged white gentlemen in jeans and button-up shirts came walking in. They both had intense eyes and a confidence that intimidated me.

  “Jasmine?”

  “Yes?” I replied, meekly. The fourteen-hour stint had broken any bravado I thought I possessed.

  “We’re transporting you to another location.” He then bent down and unclasped my handcuff. “Turn around and place your hands behind your back.”

  “What? What’s going on? Why am I being moved?”

  No matter how many questions I asked, none were answered. As I was led through the precinct, it seemed that we had the attention of everyone. I couldn’t understand why all eyes were on me, unless it was purely my imagination. And where was Nico and my attorney?

  This time we drove to lower Manhattan and went through an underground parking garage near Reade Street. I was led to an underground elevator where the man had to use a key card for entry. We rode up 27 floors and once again I was placed into a room. I had no idea where I was, but it seemed like I was in an office building as opposed to a police precinct. After around ten minutes, the door reopened with one additional person, a black female. Everyone took nearby seats and a tape recorder was turned on.

  “Jasmine, I’ll cut straight to the chase. My name is federal agent Dowd and these are my colleagues, Agent Battle and Agent Kelsey. We’ve taken over your case from the state police in the hopes that you’ll be smart and help yourself.”

  The moment he said he was a federal agent I began to drift in and out of lucidness. Why are the feds interested in me?

  Agent Dowd continued, “You will be indicted for the murder of Samuel ‘Shabazz’ Barton, and we will most certainly tie you into a conspiracy to distribute narcotics which will upgrade you to a RICO charge. Those charges alone carry a minimum life sentence. And if you know the federal government’s track record for successfully prosecuting cases, which is 98 percent—you’ll help yourself. So, think about your odds of beating the case before you tell us your answer.”

  “But I didn’t—”

  The black woman, agent Battle interjected.

  “Jasmine, we’re only going to make this offer once. And we don’t tolerate lies. We know you killed Shabazz in the iHop parking lot and we also know your boyfriend, Nico got you to do it. We’re not going to explain what evidence we have, but just note that we rarely take over state cases unless we are one hundred percent certain we can win. You’re a young, beautiful girl. Think about spending the rest of your life behind bars.”

  I was afraid to open up my mouth to protest my innocence. “You guys just pluck me out of the precinct violating my civil rights? No attorney, no phone call, nothing? My parents don’t even know where I’m at! That’s kidnapping! While I’m doing time y’all need to be in a cell right next to mine. How is this even legal?”

  Ignoring my slight outburst, agent Dowd continued. “We’ve had surveillance on the Ghetto Mafia crew for over five years. They’re going down with or without you.”

  Finally agent Kelsey spoke, and I didn’t like what he had to say. “We need you to help put Nico behind bars. And I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking about how much you love him. But better yet, you’re thinking about how much he loves you. You’re remembering all the expensive gifts he gave you—the BMW, watches and furs. Guess what? All that’s being confiscated. But what you should think about is that you’ve only been in here less than twenty-four hours, and your Nico has already hooked back up with his ex-girlfriend, Mia.”

  Agent Kelsey pulled out a few glossy photographs of Nico meeting up with Mia. One photograph showed both cars parked side by side. In the next, she’d hopped into his truck. The next, they were walking into our residence together.

  “This doesn’t mean shit,” I replied, defiantly.

  “Of course it does. It means that you can easily and will easily be replaced. You’re already a memory. It’s every man for themselves. You don’t honestly think that he’ll do this bid with you? Come on visits for the next seventy years of your life? Send you birthday and Christmas cards? Do you really think that?” He paused, and then continued. “Save yourself. No one will know that you’re working with us. On that I give you my word. No one will know. And once this is over and done with, you can find
yourself another Nico to buy you the finer things in life.”

  I exhaled. I knew one thing and that was I ain’t no snitch. But it wouldn’t hurt asking a few questions.

  “What would I have to do . . .”