by Chris LeGrow
Clubba grabbed his turn to laugh. “That’s what you get!” he bellowed at them. “Wait till I get back,” he muttered. “Just wait.”
With a shrug, the little guy snatched up his choppers and slid them back into his mouth. His buddy stopped yucking it up for a moment and turned toward his friend as though checking to see if everything was okay.
The smaller man waved and said something to his buddy. Clubba couldn’t make out the words but a loud whistle came from the hole where the front tooth used to be. The men exchanged a wide-eyed look of surprise only to start howling once again.
Once they settled down, they fixed their attention back on Clubba. The pointing, whistling, and laughing started again. Fury enveloped Clubba. He refused to tolerate the ridicule a second longer.
“Who are you?” he called out to the duo. “I want dey names!” He screamed loud enough so his followers could hear. Jerking his head from the right side of backseat to the opposite window, he continued his tirade. “Hear me? Those two old dudes. I—want—dey—names!”
Over on the sidewalk the short one made a funny sound similar to what a person would hear at a football game during a long pass. “Wooooo-ah!”
Clubba glared at them through the black iron when he saw something fly through the air…a large tubular thing. Full of an amber-colored substance. “Beer?” Clubba asked out loud. Time slowed to a crawl as he tracked the projectile though the air. “What the—”
The bag headed straight for the barred window. The old men leaned on one another, pointed directly at Clubba without any fear. They mocked him with the smiles on their faces. They, too, followed the path of their airborne gift with almost childlike anticipation. They couldn’t seem to stop laughing.
Seeing their antics enraged Clubba. He pressed his face against the bars, opened his mouth to scream more contempt on them, just as the bag hit the bars. Ka-thwap! The impact split the rubbery container open. Clubba caught the brunt of the liquid directly in the face. Wide-eyed, enraged, sweaty, and bleeding, he couldn’t breathe, think, or swallow.
“Whaa-haaa-Haa. Wooooo-haaa-haa!” The sound filtered through the air from the crazy old guys nearby.
The mysterious liquid was a mystery no longer. A heavy concentrated, disgusting odor mixed with a slimy thick liquid doused Clubba’s head, his body, and the entire backseat. He jerked away, gasping for air. Big mistake. The move slid him across the drenched plastic-covered seat; he banged the back of his head on the opposite window bars.
Surprise, pain, and rage shot through him. The sack contained the foulest, slimiest body fluid ever: urine. By the smell it had to be at least a week old. Clubba opened his mouth to yell and draw attention to his disgusting situation, but nothing came out. His stinging eyes, cut eyebrow, and gash on the back of his head combined with the putrid taste in his mouth and throat brought a lurch in his stomach. He gagged, fought the urge to vomit, and swallowed hard…repeatedly. But the impulse wouldn’t be denied. On his back, he coughed up the contents of his stomach straight onto the cruiser’s ceiling. “Guaaagh-ahh!”
Officer Walker settled himself into the front seat of his patrol car. “What a freakin’ day.” He was grateful for the help-an-officer call response. Every cop had either been in a life-threatening situation or knew they would be. Every cop who ever had to radio for help would say the same thing: the sound of answering sirens was one of the greatest on earth.
His brothers and sisters in blue had helped him control the situation. With the area secured, the melee of twenty clamoring officers dwindled to a calm mop up. Three cruisers still had their red and blue rotator lights on. Charlie’s pulse slowed to a normal beat. The perp in the backseat yelled something out of the back window. Walker brushed it off and reached for his microphone. “2 Adam 22.”
“2 Adam 22, go ahead, 2 Adam 22,” the dispatcher responded.
“Transporting one male suspect to Central Headquarters for—” The back of his vehicle rocked and bounced. From his rearview mirror Charlie watched Clubba slide across the backseat, feet in the air and weird noises coming from his mouth. “Ah, nuts!” he muttered under his breath. “Forgot to seatbelt him in.”
Walker reached back and opened the window separating the driver compartment from the caged backseat. “Knock it off or I’ll have to—”
He stopped midsentence, stunned by a sight that defied everything he had seen thus far in his fifteen years of law enforcement. Dark chunks of disgusting slime dripped from the roof onto Clubba who lay on his back. The slop dribbled onto his hair and upper body. He was covered in it. Eyes bulging, he heaved again launching another mouthful toward Charlie.
“Oh, n—” Walker bolted into action, trying to slam the window between them shut. He was quick but not quick enough. His left shoulder and the front of his uniform dampened with the second round of regurgitation. “You stupid piece of—”
There were bad smells in his line of work, but this was the worst. The vile odor washed over him and cut off his words. His head reeled and he fought his own almost overwhelming urge to cough up his cookies as well. No way; not on the job. Charlie scrambled out of the cruiser trying not to breathe until he got fresh air.
The silence on the radio hadn’t gone unnoticed. “2 Adam 22, your disposition; 2 Adam 22, respond!” The dispatcher’s tone held a note of agitation.
Officer Turley came running. “Hey Charlie,” he said, “are you all— whoa! What the—”
“Just get out of my way,” Walker growled.
“What ha-happened?” Turley asked.
From Turley’s strained tone, Walker knew his compatriot was struggling not to laugh.
With the area subdued, six officers came over and surrounded cruiser 22. Two of them, Emery Johnson and Tyson Bradley, partners since joining the force together four years ago, glanced inside the cruiser. “Hey,” Johnson said, “isn’t that the big bad boy, Clubba?”
“Looks like,” his buddy Tyson chimed in. “He’s so bad that when he gets arrested he pisses and pukes himself.” The chorus of cops snickered and whooped in merriment. Everyone except Charlie Walker. He plucked at his shirt in a futile attempt to prevent spreading the contents of Clubba’s stomach to any other part of him.
“You’re dead,” Clubba said lying in the filth on the plastic-covered seat. “And those two old men. You’re all dead cuz I’ll break every bone in your bodies.”
“Not where you’re going,” said Officer Turley standing just outside.
“Shut up!” Clubba kicked his feet against the back door.
“Temper, temper,” Turley said.
“I’ll beat the shiiiii—uaggh!” He stopped midthreat. A chunk of vomit had dripped from the ceiling and landed in his mouth.
“Maybe he’ll get eighteen months the way things are with the overcrowding in Lincoln,” Turley said to Walker.
“I’ll take what I can get for this guy,” Walker said. He shot a disgusted look at his shirt and plucked it between index finger and thumb, holding it as far away as possible. “Jeeze,” he said and swallowed hard.
Dutch Louis, the area sergeant, arrived and immediately issued orders. “You two—” he pointed to Tyson and Turley leaning against Walker’s trunk. “Get this goof,” he pointed at Clubba, “into biohazard coveralls and transported to Central Headquarters. See if he’ll talk to the detectives. If not, book him.” He inhaled sharply.
“Ch-Charlie,” he said and pointed at Walker in an obviously lousy attempt at not laughing. “Get that cruiser to city maintenance for decontamination; I’ll drive you back to the precinct for the bodily fluids contamination report.”
Charlie nodded and walked toward his cruiser. “Ah…never mind,” Louis said turning his head to pull in a deep lungful of clean air. “Get cleaned up and call it a night. Go home. I’ll take care of the reports.”
“Thanks,” Walker said glumly.
Louis scrunched his nose. “Mother Mary, Charlie. You stink!”
The two old men slowly walked side-by-side a
way from all the commotion. The larger man, known as “Big Brock,” a twenty-five-year beat cop, was also known as the “squad gorilla” by the Sarge. In his day, men cowered when he glared at them. Though the years have bent his spine and softened his countenance, his dominating personality would never age.
He looked down to his much shorter companion and said, “Tiny, how did you know this guy Clubba was so bad? I heard you were on to him before we even formed the Ol’ Blue Unit.”
Tiny shrugged his shoulders and said, “All my life I’ve had to quickly pick out the bullies at school, in my neighborhood, wherever I was. Being as small as I was, they always came after me. I guess I got good at it. Once I became a cop, it was easy to see what other cops couldn’t. I spent my whole career riding guys like this Clubba, I always like to keep them focused on me. That always distracted them from the schemes they were working, then they would make mistakes and I’d nail ’em. I’ve been trackin’ this Clubba for a couple of months. Now he knows who I am, and I’m going to make him focus on me. This whistling tooth seemed to catch his attention, I think I’ll use it to ride this bully, Mr. Clubba.”
DOUGLAS COUNTY ATTORNEY BILL KYLE WASN’T IN THE mood for a jury trial. With ten years in the prosecutor’s office, he never tired of putting criminals behind bars, but this case was hardly worth wasting his breath on. Te’quan Yates Koak was a neighborhood celebrity as the calls flooding his office indicated, but these charges were minor felonies at best. If the deal was good enough, his defense attorney would plead it out. The question was how good was good enough?
“Hey.” Detective John Spears of the Domestic Violence unit popped into Kyle’s overstuffed office and settled his lanky frame into a wooden captain’s chair. “You ever read those things,” he said with a nod at the thick Nebraska penal code books lining his east wall.
“Of course,” Kyle said with a slight smile. “But not as often as I used to.”
“Know what you mean,” Spears said. “So what are you doing with that Clubba character?”
“You’re about the tenth person to stop by in the past month asking the same question. Probation probably,” Kyle said.
“You know he laid hands on that girl, right? Shanese?”
“Yeah,” Kyle said softly. “I know.”
“The problem is dealing with the Sudanese community in general. It’s next to impossible to get any information from anyone, even if they wanted to talk with us, which they don’t. Most are terrified of any government agents, let alone ones that carry guns.”
“So I’ve heard,” Kyle said. “You’re not the first to explain this to me. I know the cultural differences are striking, and there’s a lack of education and fear of being surrounded by so many white folks. I’d probably stay in my little community too.”
“It’s a problem all the way around. Some in the community smile and wave but never a word to us directly. There’s just no conversation with the group, and without that, we’re totally ineffective,” Spears said.
“I’ve heard,” Kyle said with a bit of good humor, “that they all share the same birthday.”
Spears chuckled. “They don’t keep track of those things, so when they arrived, no one knew exactly how old they were. The majority took the birthdate of January 1 coupled with the year estimated. New Year’s Day is always hopping with everyone celebrating and parties all over the city.”
“Seriously though, Bill.” Spears met Kyle’s gaze directly. “This Clubba reinforces the perception that the American police can’t be trusted. Plus, everyone in the community owes him for helping them. I’m not sure if it’s intimidation or admiration, but nobody speaks against Clubba. Ever.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“These girls coming forward—it never happens,” Spears said, plopping his feet on the corner of Kyle’s desk. “If we don’t put this thug away for as long as possible, we’ll lose total credibility in the neighborhood. They’re risking their lives.”
“How do you figure that?” Kyle asked and grabbed a manila folder off his file cabinet.
“This guy controls every freaking Sudanese in the city,” Spears said. “If we don’t help the ones who stick their necks out, we’ve set the precedent that we don’t care. Nobody will ever talk to us. If we protect these girls and put Clubba away for as long as possible, we might get a foot in the door up there. We need this, Bill.”
“He’ll be out in less than two years—and that’s all charges together.”
“I don’t care. We need this, man.”
Kyle scanned Te’quan Yates Koak’s name on the docket. “Sounds like a regular godfather.”
“That about sums him up,” Spears said. “We’ve tried everything in our power to get Clubba—for the last five years. He’s had his hands in all kinds of crimes all over the city. No problem working with different gang areas either; he gets along with every one of them. I don’t know how he does it.”
“Nobody does,” Kyle said. “You lucked out this time. If it wasn’t for that young girl with the cell phone, we wouldn’t have him now.”
“Reward that courage, Bill,” Detective Spears said. “Please.”
Kyle closed his eyes in defeat. It went against his better judgment to waste time on lesser felonies, but it was a felony. And he—and the people of Omaha—owed the two women who risked physical harm to bring them the evidence. Excellent evidence.
“All right,” Kyle said with a short nod. “Let’s go for it.”
“That video shows Clubba clearly battering the victim, threatening her and choking her, in broad daylight. Yet he’s way too overconfident that no one will turn him in,” Spears said.
“Then Clubba’s life is about to do a one-eighty, isn’t it?” Kyle asked.
“His mother and every Sudanese in the city has been calling my office daily.”
Kyle tossed the file onto the growing pile atop his battered government-issue desk. “Everyone seems to think he’s pretty important to them.”
“Yeah, he’s a regular Sudanese community organizer,” Spears said.
“I may get one to five,” Kyle said, “and that’s if I really push.”
“Then push,” Spears said. “We’ll take what we can get.”
Kyle frowned. “He’ll only serve a little over a year.”
“Then that’s a year he’s not terrorizing our streets. Maybe we can make some headway with the folks left behind. At least Koak will be in state pen. Not too much trouble he can get into there.”
“You hope,” the county attorney muttered.
“Like the prosecutor said, other than this deal, a jury trial is your only other option, but it’s your choice,” Joseph Ledbetter said.
Clubba glared at his high-powered and highly paid attorney. “I should have smashed that phone,” Clubba said.
“There’s no getting around the video, that’s for sure,” Ledbetter said and pulled out his case file. “We can roll the dice, put the prosecution to its proof, and argue to a jury, but most trials end up in convictions. With your Candid Camera antics, the judge could give you consecutive sentences.”
Two sentences served one after another didn’t appeal to Clubba. He had bigger plans that required his presence in his city.
At the hearing, Clubba’s attorney saw that the prosecution had the officers and even Shanese show up. The evidence was there to send his client to prison for a very long time. “Take the deal,” his attorney said.
“One to five means you’ll be out in little more than a year.”
“I can do that standing on one leg,” Clubba said. The motion to plead was made at the hearing, and Clubba received the agreed-upon sentence.
Ledbetter nodded to the deputy sheriff who came over to shackle Clubba.
Shanese had lucked out; a plea bargain meant she wouldn’t have to face him in court and testify to his face. However, if she thought this was over, she was dumber than Clubba thought.
After his hearing, a small crowd gathered in the marble-floored halls
outside his assigned courtroom. Clubba’s gang members, soldiers as he liked to call them, met his gaze as he shuffled out. He jerked his head toward the elevators where Shanese and Melia stood with their backs to him.
If Shanese had squealed once, she could do it again. Clubba didn’t need the police nosing around his business. He nodded to his lieutenant, now in charge while he was in prison. He gave a curt nod toward Shanese. “Don’t thug her up,” he said in Sudanese, “yet.”
Message delivered. Clubba would take personal action on this one.
His proxy gave him a short nod. Message understood.
“A year max.” Clubba’s attorney pulled his attention back to the issue at hand.
“Yeah, I can handle that,” he said.
The deputies each grabbed one of Clubba’s arms to guide him back to the holding cell. He turned and lock-stepped down the aisle. A distinctive whistling sound, the one he’d first heard months ago stopped him in his tracks. That odd whistle…his arrest. Clubba jerked around and spotted a short man leaning on an exit door next to the same taller old black man. Their laughing images were seared into Clubba’s memory.
Clubba shot them a glare. Renewed rage raced up his spine. In an old brown rumpled suit and yellow tie, the unknown little man met and held Clubba’s gaze. Laughing through his dentures, the irritating trill came with each breath reminding Clubba of his greatest defeat and worst humiliation. Had they been anywhere else, Clubba would have taken him down immediately. Here, he was helpless. “You,” he sneered through gritted teeth, struggling to control his growing fury.
Scanning around him, seeking his soldiers, Clubba realized he was alone. He glared back at the old men.
With a tilt of his head, the smaller man grinned at him. He waggled his eyebrows and flourished an empty urine bag back and forth through the air.
