“Sorry, no. Like my wife said, we were in the backyard when we heard the gunshots.” Mr. Jessie held the same exact attitude as his spouse when it came to delivering Clay’s fate on a silver platter. “Then we rushed in the house, making sure to stay there until whatever was happening was over.”
Regretful, seeing their sure-fire witnesses had gone from sugar to shit, the detectives informed the couple they could leave, but the department would be in touch if they had any further questions. They walked Mr. and Mrs. Jessie to the elevator, and when the door closed, they felt their last hopes of bringing a swift end to this high-profile murder was over.
“Ain’t this about some crazy and wild bullshit? That damn caller said it was seven motherfucking people out in the street standing around watching that man get done in cold blood, and they all supposedly ain’t see jack shit. I don’t understand it. Hell, they all act like they don’t even know Clay Jennings, even though he’s been slinging dope on their block for some time now. But I’m not crazy. I know how street life goes. You see, but you don’t see. You hear, but you don’t hear. Me and my family was once held captive by that mentality, but it kept us alive and out of harm’s way until we could relocate and do better. So even though I don’t like the game these people probably playing when it comes to snitching, I can relate. But damn, I still don’t know how they can act like Clay is a stranger altogether.”
“Me either.” Holding the memo, the detective grew infuriated coming up empty-handed on pressing first-degree homicide charges on Clay Jennings—their only suspect. “I mean, I can see the young ratchet female and possibly the kids being with that no-snitching crap, maybe. But a goddamn schoolteacher, an old lady, and now these two? The shit don’t make no damn sense.” He walked over to the window staring across the Detroit skyline. “I can’t figure this thing out. Seven different people from all different walks of life covering up for that thug don’t compute with me. What’s the connection?”
“Man, at this point, it don’t matter.” The lead detective stood to his feet looking for the keys to the holding cells. “That buster’s overpriced lawyer is all over this bullshit, and the memo from the prosecutor said if we don’t have a witness by one or maybe two p.m., we gotta cut him loose.”
Mr. and Mrs. Jessie
“Sweetheart, trust me when I tell you we did the right thing. Don’t worry. We did a great job of covering it up.”
Accepting the reassuring rub on the shoulder his wife was giving him, Mr. Jessie exhaled. In all his years of living, he had never once experienced anything like he’d just gone through over the past week or so. One minute his life was what he deemed as normal. He would wake up, maybe run his wife to the store. Then tend to some yard work and keep a watchful eye on what the brazen drug dealers were doing across from the longtime place he called home. Now, here they were leaving the police department after talking to homicide detectives. “Honey, are you sure that they bought it? I was extremely nervous. Matter of fact, I think I stumbled a few times.”
Mrs. Jessie clutched her purse close to her chest as they walked, praying what she was telling her husband was true. Finally, they got into the car. “Look, we did what we had to do. And we said what we had to say just now. That boy might be a drug dealer, but he stepped up, stepped in, and saved us both that night. You and I both know we could be dead if it wasn’t for him. Those little monsters tore up our house and disrespected me. I was terrified when you left with that thug. I was in the closet praying, not knowing if I would live to see another day.”
“Yes, that’s true, dear.” Mr. Jessie started the engine.
“Now, whereas I don’t agree with, by no means at all, what he did out in the street to Reverend Richards, the man had it coming, and we had no other choice but to cover up our own sins. I couldn’t stand the thought of you being in that boy’s spot. Think about it. It was by your hand that the monster in the backyard is gone. We have to respect what he is locked up in there for doing by keeping his mouth shut.”
“Once again, you’re right. He could throw us, well, me, anyways, underneath the bus,” Mr. Jessie said as he pulled off into traffic. “But obviously, that’s not his intention. I guess he’s a lot more than just some gangbanging drug dealer. And as heinous as the act of what he did to Reverend Richards, who am I to judge?”
In total agreement, they would sell their house and relocate. The block they had called home and the house they’d raised their son in was tainted. Living there after the violation of the out of control teens would be too much. As they turned on their street, Mr. and Mrs. Jessie prayed them not bearing witness against Clay would aid him in being set free. Although considering all the other people who were on the block that fateful day, they knew the possibility of that taking place was probably slim to none. They vowed to never forget Clay and to always make sure to keep money on his books when he went to prison . . . of course, anonymously.
Chapter Twenty-seven
The Lawyer
After being led back to the out-of-the-way one-man cell, the highly paid lawyer of Clay Jennings was infuriated. First, at the fact he’d been treated as if he himself murdered someone as he was roughly frisked; second, that he was being made to meet and speak with his client under these circumstances; and last, that Clay was being held so long without being formally charged with any crime.
“Don’t worry,” he fumed as he struggled to write on his canary-yellow legal pad while standing outside the locked cell, “by the time I’m done with these cops and the inhumane way you and I are both being treated, we will have all their pensions by the balls. This type of thing is extremely irregular and uncalled for.”
Clay was glad he’d kept up on all the cash he’d paid to have a legal mouthpiece on call 24/7. He was sure that if nothing else, his civil rights would be protected. However, he stood mute when the lawyer revealed what he claimed the detectives had in tow when speaking with them.
“Now, son, I ain’t gonna lie to you. That ain’t gonna make shit any easier for you to swallow and me to deal with. Now, going under the assumption that what they say they have is indeed truth, we will be definitely fighting an uphill battle.”
“Okay, then, don’t hold me up. What they ho asses claim?” Clay asked, already knowing it was a loaded question. “What they got so crucial that’s gonna be a surprise to me?”
The lawyer turned the page on the pad and scribbled down a few more notes while fact checking some others. “Well, low key, one of the detectives I’ve dealt with before claims this is going to be one of the easiest slam dunks ever. He says they have a slew of eyewitnesses just about lining up to take their turn to testify against you. The man claims while you’re looking at a case of open murder now, by nightfall, it will be amped up to possibly first degree on every single body they have found, not just that preacher. I heard they are getting desperate as the hours go by.”
“Oh yeah? Ain’t that some shit? Man, fuck that ho-ass Bible-carrying fraud. He had it coming. I swear I wish I could get out and kill the son of a bitch all the way the fuck over again!”
Quick to silence his boisterous client, the lawyer looked around for any prying eyes or ears. “Look-a here, Clay, you gotta stop all that talking you doing right now. Be cool. Stay calm. Now like I said, it’s definitely gonna be one for the books if the cops have what they say they have and we walk away without getting football numbers. But anything is possible. Just stay the hell calm and let me do my job. In the meantime, I’m gonna work on getting you either charged so we can get on with the get-on or cut loose. I already paid the bail and got them to release your two friends, so they good. They’re free. Now, for the detectives who claim to have all these fabulous firecracker eyewitnesses, it’s about to be show and proof time on your behalf.”
Clay stood tall. With a mean mug, he walked away from the heavy steel bars and sat on his bunk. He had no remorse for doing what he had to do. Reverend Richards was a rat; nothing more and nothing less. And if everyone had to get a firsthan
d account of what happened to rats in the streets, so be it. It was what it was and what would be would be.
Rhonda
“I see both y’all crazy busters got outta that motherfucker hell trap, huh?” she smiled as Whip walked over, kissing her on the lips.
“Damn. What in the fuck kinda slimeball bullshit is y’all on?” Dorie shockingly asked taking two steps backward. “What’s up with all that? Y’all got a nigga confused as hell.”
“Come on, dawg, like I told you when we was locked up in there dude, fuck Clay. That sucker straight is over. He ’bout to do life for that crazy shit he pulled in broad daylight. I seen that shit all over the news, plus all the detectives been on our ass. You already know the way they was pressing us; he gonna do life for killing that preacher. That dumb-ass, bright-skin pussy nigga better be lucky we ain’t got the death penalty here in Michigan.”
“Yeah,” Rhonda quickly interjected, “because if they did, his ass would have a poison-filled needle dangling in his arm. His cheating ass would be in the morgue by daybreak.”
Dorie couldn’t believe what he was seeing and hearing. With dirty clothes on his back and smelling like a few foul nights in the county jail, he wanted nothing more than to take a hot shower and brush his teeth. However, Whip and Rhonda were obviously showing their true colors toward Clay, taking center stage, so he waited. “Dawg, that guy sent us both a fucking lawyer and paid our bail before he got knocked, and now you out here throwing dirt on his name just like that? That’s foul,” Dorie campaigned for his homeboy, not ready to accept half of what could be factual. Clay was about to do some serious time for murdering the preacher in front of all the witnesses the detectives had bragged to them about having. “And all that shit them ho-ass police saying he did on the block as far as us being is some bullshit too. Clay been a hundred with us from jump street, flat the fuck out. So y’all can miss me with the rest of that madness.”
“Fuck Clay. Fuck his devious wanna-fuck-everything-that-move ass—like he king of Detroit,” Rhonda fumed as she kissed Whip once more on the mouth. “My new man Whip is right. He about to come up in the game and take his rightful spot, and I’m gonna be right by his side, posted. Clay is over in these streets. It’s Whip’s day.”
“Yo, y’all both truly bugging.” Dorie didn’t want any part of what they were conspiring on against his people. “So this that new so-called bad bitch you been fucking around with that was so top secret? Damn. You creep foul for this one for sure!”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rhonda planted both hands on her hips and bucked her eyes.
“It means just what in the fuck it sounds like it means.” Dorie was far from backing down on how he felt. “You two is on some real snake shit. I expect that from your hood rat in a skirt ass desperate for a come up. But, Whip, come on, dawg, don’t go out on our people like this; especially with a ho like this riding shotgun.”
“Fuck Clay,” Whip yelled out toward the jail, hoping Clay could hear him through the concrete walls and paint-darkened windows. “Ole boy was conveniently not there when the shit jumped and changed his number—like fuck us. So guess what? It’s fuck him.”
“Yeah, so it’s fuck Clay. I already told you once—Clay is done,” Rhonda bragged with a smile on her face, tugging down on her skintight fitted shirt. “I made sure of that when I called the police on his good lying sneaky ass! Killing that man in front of all them people like they about that street life and gonna ride for him. They done rounded up and got all them good, law-abiding citizens who seen him do it. So you already know his reckless ass fucked in the game now fo’sho.” Rhonda bitterly frowned, showing every jealous bone in her body. “Now let that slut Trinity he cares so much about protecting go hold him down in jail for the rest of his life! Fuck ’em both!”
Dorie was disgusted. He couldn’t believe Whip. This was pissing him all the way off. It was bad enough the cops had him up every hour on the hour trying to get some information about their operations. But now this. It was only a few short forty-eight hours or so ago that he, Whip, and Clay were getting money and living like hood kingpins. Walking away from his newly former friend and his rat-ass-mentality new bitch, Dorie started walking toward the hood after calling for a ride. Clay may have been facing life after killing ole boy in broad daylight, but there was no way in hell he was gonna just be flat-out disrespectful, considering all they’d been through over the years. “Stand tall, my dude. You got this. Linwood for life.” Dorie spit on the ground as Rhonda and Whip sped by with smiles on both their faces.
Chapter Twenty-eight
The Aftermath
“Well, this is it. We gotta let this bastard free. As much as we hate it, it looks like he done messed around and got away with murder. We done pressed all those witnesses and put our foot on his workers’ necks when we had them locked up. Still no damn cigar. This son of a bitch gotta be one of the luckiest motherfuckers alive.”
“Yeah, this time, maybe. But a guy with as much on his rap sheet as Clay Jennings has, he’ll be back. This time he just dodged the bullet. But before we give up totally, I want to at least place a call to each of the fraudulent witnesses and see if they remember something else or have had some sort of miraculous change of heart since last contact with us.” With a hopeful spirit, he then sat down behind his paper-scattered desk and started the task. First on his list was the teacher, Lynn Banks. Forced to leave a voice mail, she eventually returned the call after school hours. She stuck to her story and asked not to be bothered any further. Next, the detective reluctantly dialed Mr. Silah’s number. After two rings, he picked up and wasted no time in vowing to lawyer up and bring racial and religious harassment suits against the entire Detroit Police Department if they continued to make an issue about what his children “didn’t see.” The detective knew he wanted to avoid any extra dealings with the chief and mayor should a lawsuit be involved, so he ended the conversation as quickly as possible, being as apologetic for the intrusions as he could be. Shaking his head, he knew he had to at least give it a shot, and he’d done just that. He felt there was no great need to get in touch with the Trinity Walker or Mrs. Gale, but just as he forced himself to call Mr. Silah, he proceeded to do the same with them as well. Mrs. Gale answered almost immediately. To the detective’s credit, he allowed her to damn near talk his ear off about God this and God that before telling her thank you for your time after finally hearing she knew nothing else more than what she’d originally revealed. Speaking to Trinity made him damn near sick to his stomach the way she cursed him out about calling her phone and told him to basically suck her dick, as if she really had one. He knew after that, it was time for him to retire and be on a boat somewhere fishing instead of being subjected to all that verbal abuse. Thankfully, Mrs. Jessie was more pleasant when reached. Although making it clear she and her husband could shed no further light on the untimely murder of Reverend Richards, she promised to call them if they happened to hear or see anything on the block that could assist in them closing the case and bringing closure to the victim’s family.
“Well, I be damned. All seven of them done stood strong on their stories. I guess that tip we thought was the fucking bomb was no more than a damn dud. Shit. I’m running out of leads.” The detective lowered his head in defeat, knowing he had to break the bad news to his team, and then, worst of all, the chief of police.
* * *
“Whelp, this is it. We ain’t got no damn choice. We done grilled every witness, kept our foot on the necks of his homeboys, and ran behind every lead we got. Ain’t shit left for us to do. This shit is messed up. I mean, who in the hell gets away with gunning down a well-known, respected, and loved preacher in the middle of the street and walks free? I mean, this arrogant punk done beat the damn system! I know it happens from time to time, but why on my damn watch?”
This was it. All the days of investigating, pounding the pavement, and taking crap from random citizens as far as the Richards’s murder investigation was done. Ov
er. Finished. It was looking as if it was final. The group of seasoned veteran detectives had shot their shot and failed miserably. As two of the weary minded and defeated detectives unlocked the main secured door, they looked at each other, shrugging their shoulders.
“Well, this shit didn’t go as planned. Not at all.”
“Naw, it really didn’t. If you told me we’d be letting free the only possible shooter in this shameless case of murder, I would say you was crazy.”
“Yup, I would say I was crazy too; but here the hell we is. I swear I hate this part in the job. The part where the bad guy thinks he won; thinks he beat the system.”
“Yeah, man, me too. But it is what it is. Somebody gonna break one day, and if not him, then whoever truly murdered Reverend Richards will be brought to justice. It’s only a matter of time. But for now, let’s get on with it and cut this joker loose.”
Full of regrets, they slowly approached the cell located all the way near the back of police headquarters. It was isolated from the others just in case the officers wanted to do or say things that were not deemed acceptable per the rules and regulations. The cell was no longer up to code, but it didn’t matter. Although every cop on the force was not against bending the rules when need be, all felt that special prisoners accused of certain crimes deserved special treatment harsher than others. And all agreed Clay was one of those that deserve to be treated no better than shit on a stick.
With each step the detectives took, an eerie feeling came over them both. They momentarily made eye contact. Each felt as if something was wrong. It was extremely quiet. Clay Jennings was not one to hold his tongue. The suspected murderer with a rap sheet that was enormous was highly spirited, to say the least. Twice-convicted felon Clay had been loud, talking and cursing everyone out that would come within ten feet of his cell for what seemed like an eternity. Now the cops who he’d claim were trying to lock him away forever were only inches away, and the devout thug was silent as a church mouse.
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