by Carl Weber
Carla went around and stood next to Bradley behind his desk, marking her territory, I suppose. In her hand was a manila folder, which she placed in front of him. “If we are going to acquit these boys, we’re going to need a change of venue.”
“I’m not sure about that,” Bradley said.
Lamont agreed with him. “I’m not even sure we can get a judge to agree to that, and the prosecution will definitely be opposed to it.”
“They’ll definitely fight it,” Carla said. “But that’s the only way we’ll have a chance of winning this case.”
“Why?” I asked. “Why are you so opposed to Staten Island?”
“I’m sure you’re aware of what happened to Eric Garner a few years ago. They didn’t even file charges against the white police officers, even after the M. E. ruled his death a homicide—and the community didn’t even flinch.”
“Yes, but with the interviews Bradley’s doing and the media coverage we’re getting, people are already starting to question if the boys are guilty before we’ve even tried our case,” I said. It wasn’t even necessarily that I disagreed with her argument, it was just that she was Bradley’s new wife, and I would antagonize her any chance I got. The thing is, she knew this, so she would never back down, either.
“That’s the national news.” Carla stepped over to the computer keyboard on a side table. Bradley’s wall-mounted monitor changed from the Hudson logo to a web browser. She began typing, and the website SIlive.com came on the screen, with Bradley’s picture and a caption that read: CELEBRITY ATTORNEY’S SON BRINGS DRUGS AND GANG ACTIVITY TO STATEN ISLAND.
“This is the local news,” she said.
“That’s preposterous!” Bradley yelled.
“This just ran this morning on TV1/Staten Island.” This time, it was a video of Langston being led to a police car in handcuffs, and the caption scrolling at the bottom of the screen read: SON OF RENOWNEDATTORNEYBRADLEYHUDSONREARRESTEDFORATTEMPTINGTO FLEE THE COUNTRY.
“That’s just simply not true!” Bradley yelled even louder.
“Maybe, but similar stories have been running in the Staten Island Press and other local news sites 24/7. Langston’s bail being revoked is killing us locally, and if anywhere in New York City is Trump country, Staten Island is it. The island is sixty-nine percent white and heavily Republican. Less than ten percent of the black and Latino population show up for jury duty. You’re talking about four young, black men traveling with a significant amount of drugs in the car. We can’t win with that jury pool. I don’t care how many exceptions we have.”
“She’s right,” I said, and everyone turned their heads to me with wide eyes.
Sure, Carla and I were mortal enemies. Usually, however, my opposition to her was over trivial family matters. I’d never had to work with her on a legal matter, especially one involving my son. I hated to admit it, but I saw that she was good at what she did, and if agreeing with her was going to help Langston, then dammit, I’d swallow my pride just this once.
“You’re actually agreeing with her?” Lamont was stunned.
“I am. There may be some things I flat out don’t like about Carla, but one thing I have is a healthy respect for that little cluster of geeks she has working upstairs. She knows her shit, and I think she’s right about this. The best thing for us to do is file for a change of venue.”
I glanced up and saw a look of pride on Carla’s her face. I had to resist the urge to smack it right off.
“Then it’s settled,” Bradley announced. “We’ll file for a change of venue and hope that it works.”
“Where are we going to request it be changed to?” Lamont asked.
“They’ll never go for Manhattan or Brooklyn. Too much ethnicity,” Bradley said. “And we’re not going to go for Long Island or Westchester. Too segregated. We might as well stay in Staten Island for that.”
Carla looked at me, and we stared at one another briefly before we finally said in unison, “What about Queens?”
Langston
39
I wiped away tears as I walked out of the visitor’s room after seeing Simone. Nothing like a forty-five-minute conversation in a prison visiting room to remind you how much you love and appreciate someone. I had mostly kept to myself for the past two weeks, especially since I had yet to run into any of the other guys, other than spotting Kwesi for a brief second when I was first brought in. I figured they were being housed in another building or unit. So after that much time feeling isolated, I can’t tell you how good it was to see my girl. We talked about school, friends, and what she’d had for dinner the past three nights, but more importantly, we talked about getting married. We were no longer going to wait until I finished law school to do it. I swear it was the most satisfying conversation I’d had in years. If I didn’t think Simone loved me before this, I sure as hell knew now, because my own mother wouldn’t get on that bus to see me. Sure, she accepted my collect calls, but she drew the line on coming to see me. So, having Simone come see me was like a fantasy, and all I could picture was her and me chilling on a beach, until the CO ended it. That’s when the grey walls, the steel doors, and the bars on the windows came back into view, and I remembered that I was in fucking jail.
As I walked down the corridor to my unit, tears just kept flowing. I didn’t give a shit who saw me crying. All I wanted was to go home and be with my girl. I’d tried to be strong, and I’d tried to be patient like my pops had told me to do the other day when he stopped by for a so-called legal visit. I think I would have been all right if it weren’t for seeing Simone, but as soon as I got back to my unit, I was going to call my father and plead with him to get me the fuck out of there. I’d been punished enough. I didn’t care if he had to break me out; I just wanted to go home.
In the unit, my plan changed, because there were long lines of men waiting to use the phones. They were usually less crowded late at night, so I’d make my call then. Instead, I decided to volunteer to go outside to the yard as part of a work detail one of the friendlier COs had told me about. It was just picking up papers and wrappers, but it got me outside in the fresh air where I was able to think.
I had made it from one side to the other, filling up half a bag of trash, before I looked over and saw Kwesi sitting at a metal picnic table near the fence. He was dressed in the same outfit as the rest of us, but on his head was a small, round hat looked to be made out of white linen.
I rushed over to him. “Kwesi! Oh my God, brother, you are a sight for sore eyes!”
He looked up at me but didn’t say anything or show any type of recognition. I tilted my head and asked, “Kwesi? You a’ight, man? It’s me, Langston.”
“I know who you are,” he said, sounding uninterested.
I ignored that, because I was just so damn happy to finally connect with one of my frat brothers. “Man, it’s good to see you.” I leaned toward him so that we could exchange our fraternity grip, but he leaned back as if I’d invaded his personal space.
“Don’t.”
I glanced around to see if maybe the guards were watching us and he didn’t want to get in any type of trouble, but no one was paying us any attention—except for maybe the other guys at the table. I leaned in again, but Kwesi gave me the same reaction.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Kwesi? You ain’t gripping me up? What’s up with that?”
“There is nothing wrong with me, Langston. The problem is you.” Kwesi was frowning, and his voice was anything but friendly.
“Look, frat, I’m sorry you’re in here. I’m sorry we’re all in here, but this ain’t my fault,” I said, starting to get a little pissed off with his attitude.
“You were going to leave us in here to face all these charges alone while you jumped bail.” Kwesi’s eyes were full of disappointment as he shook his head at me. “You are disloyal, Langston. I can’t believe you had the nerve to walk over here and greet me.”
Although he hadn’t laid a hand on me, I felt as if Kwesi had punched me
in the stomach. I exhaled harshly. “No, Kwes, man. I would never do that. I wasn’t jumping bail at all. We were going to hang out in Puerto Rico for the weekend—”
“Wow, so you felt that it was okay to go on a weekend vacation with your girlfriend while your brothers were sitting in jail? I don’t know which story is worse: the truth or the lie,” he said incredulously, making me feel worse than I already felt.
“No, that’s not how it was, Kwesi. Let me explain. . . .”
“There’s nothing to explain, Langston. You’re disloyal and dishonorable, and this entire situation just shows how privileged you truly think you are. We are no longer brothers.” He went to walk away from me, but I grabbed him.
“Kwesi, will you stop acting fucking stupid?” I said, tightening my fingers around his jumpsuit and raising my voice.
“Get your hands off of me,” he said simply, causing my anger to bloom. Here I was trying to explain, and he was being dismissive.
“No, you’re gonna listen to me. None of this shit is my fault, and you know it. Simone booked the tickets through Skiplagged, and the fucking ADA James Brown has some kind of beef with my pops,” I said, still holding onto him.
“Here you go again. Normally you’re blaming your mother for everything that’s going wrong. Now it’s your father’s fault?” Kwesi snatched away from me. “A little advice: this is not Howard University, and definitely not Riverside Drive. This is jail. Your parents can’t rescue you here.”
“I don’t need your advice!” I was furious at this point, and I pushed my body against Kwesi’s with so much force that he stumbled backward. I reached out to grab him so he wouldn’t fall, but before I could catch him, I felt myself being pulled back. I turned to see three large dudes, one of whom had me by the collar.
“Is there a problem, brother Kwesi?” one of them asked as two different men helped him up, brushing him off like he was special.
All the men stood and stared at Kwesi as if waiting for instructions from him. I got the sense that if he told them to snap my neck, they would do it.
He glanced over at me before turning his attention back to them. “No, there is no problem. This man and I were just completing some unfinished business, but we’re done. Aren’t we?”
The big dudes glared at me with contempt. I was sure if I said the wrong thing, they could be my last words. So, I said the only thing I could say. “Yeah, we’re done.”
As he walked away, the men surrounded him like personal security and followed his lead. I watched them, dumbfounded by everything that had just taken place.
I heard someone say, “Man, what’s wrong with you? Don’t you know not to mess with them?” I turned and saw another inmate standing nearby, watching me.
“What do you mean, them? That used to be one of my best friends,” I told him.
“Yeah, well, it don’t look like you’re best friends to me. Word to the wise: there are certain folks you just don’t mess with inside, friend or not. You got the Crips, Bloods, MS13s, what’s left of the Latin Kings, and you got them.” His gazed in the direction of Kwesi and his entourage walking away. “The Muslims. You don’t fuck with none of them, or you’ll find yourself in trouble.”
“Muslim?” It dawned on me now why Kwesi was wearing the white cap. He had found another brotherhood in here. The question was, did he mean what he said? Did he no longer recognize the bond he had with me, Krush, and Tony? Saying that this could cause trouble would be an understatement.
Jacqueline
40
I stepped out of the hired car and quickly climbed the ten or twelve steps to the brownstone’s front door. Glancing around to make sure nobody was watching, I took a moment to catch my breath and get myself together before I finally pushed the small doorbell. It made the same weird buzzing sound it had thirty years ago. I couldn’t believe James still lived there after all these years. I mean, who did that? Who stayed in their momma’s house their entire adult life?
A few seconds later, I heard movement on the other side of the door. My heart began pounding when I saw the shadow come over the peephole.
“Who is it?” he asked.
I wavered before answering. “It’s . . . It’s me, James. Jackie.”
“Who?” I couldn’t tell if he was playing games or seriously didn’t know.
“It’s Jackie Cooper.”
There was a silence long enough that I almost turned to walk away, thinking he wasn’t going to open the door. Then the sound of the deadbolt unlocking stopped me in my tracks. Slowly, the door opened.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and managed to squeak out, “Hi, James.”
“Hello, Jackie.”
He stared at me, and I stared at him. He looked different yet the same. Like most of us, he’d gained some weight over the past thirty years, but he was still in shape for a guy his age.
“Can I come in?”
“Sure, I guess.” He held the door open, and I stepped inside.
It was different than I remembered. The décor was updated, but the earth tones said more late nineties than new millennium.
“I like what you’ve done with the place. Those windows must bring a lot of light in during the daytime,” I said awkwardly.
“It could use a new paint job. We renovated in ninety-eight after my mother passed.”
“I can’t believe you still live here. I thought you would’ve left Brooklyn. . . .”
“No, Jacqueline. I’ve always been satisfied living here. I don’t need a mansion and a Bentley to be happy. But I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” he said, walking past me.
I followed him into the living room. “I guess I deserved that.”
“That’s an understatement,” he commented as he flopped down on the sofa. “I would ask why you’re here, but that would be a dumb question.”
“Well, I called your office and left several messages, but you didn’t return any of my calls.” I waited for him to offer me a seat, but he didn’t.
“So you decided to show up on my doorstep unannounced? That’s more Bradley’s style than yours.” His attitude was cold, but he had let me in, which let me know he was open to having a conversation. I took it upon myself to sit down.
“Maybe, but I needed to talk to you,” I told him.
“We have nothing to talk about. As a matter of fact, it’s probably best that you leave. I’m sure this is violating some type of ethical line, since I’m prosecuting your son’s case.” He stood, and I jumped up as well.
I took a deep breath, knowing that it was time for me to have the conversation I’d been avoiding for damn near three decades. There was no way around it.
“Why are you prosecuting my son’s case?”
“Because it’s my job. I’m the lead prosecutor, and this a high-profile case. That’s what they pay me for, to prosecute criminals,” he told me with a hint of anger in his tone. “And if they haven’t told you yet, your son had two kilos of heroin in his car. That makes him a criminal. Or is that little fact immaterial?”
I stuffed my own anger deep down inside. I couldn’t risk blowing up at him the way I wanted to. He held Langston’s fate in his hands.
“He’s not a criminal until convicted,” I said calmly. “But what is material is that you, me, and Bradley have history, and by definition, you should recuse yourself from the case.”
“I’ll tell you what. If you and your ex-husband think a thirty-year-old spat between colleagues who haven’t seen each other in at least that time is relevant, then by all means, have Bradley make a motion to the court to have me removed from this case.” He laughed. “I’m sure that will play well on the six o’clock news—but not as well as you showing up at my door after hours trying to sway this case, Ms. Federal Judge.”
I swear, if I were a man, I would have punched him. “We just want a fair trial for our son.”
“And I’m not going to be fair?” he snapped. “Think back, Jackie, because when we met, I was the fairest, most honor
able man you ever met.”
“What happened to that man?” I regretted that question as soon as it left my lips.
“You happened!” he shouted. “You and your nice ass and your perfect fucking tits, taking my virginity and making me fall in love like a schoolboy. I didn’t deserve what you did to me, Jackie, and you know it.”
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly.
“It’s too late for that.”
“I know, and you’re right. It is too late, but I still owe you an apology. I was wrong. We were wrong. And I’m sorry.”
“Yes, you are. Now, you can go.”
“That’s it? That’s all you’re gonna say, James?”
“What else is there to say?”
I stepped closer to him—so close that I could smell the scent of his cologne, mixed with the perspiration that was starting to form on his neck.
“You want me to say that I forgive you for what you did? Because I don’t! He was my best friend, and he ruined my life. But the worst part is that you were my fiancée, and you helped him,” he said.
“I know that. We were wrong. I was wrong,” I repeated. “But, James, I was young and naïve, and he was bold and charismatic. He was driven, and . . .” I tried to find the words to explain the fatal mistake that had been made all those years ago when all three of us were just trying to find our way.
“And I was stupid,” he said adamantly.
“No, James, I was the stupid one,” I explained.
“Not too stupid. You ended up being a federal judge. I mean, I get it. He was a challenge, and we all know how much you love a challenge.”
Even if he was right, he was starting to irritate me. God, how I wished I could have gone another thirty years without talking to James Brown.
“You’re right. He was a challenge, and you were neglectful,” I retorted, thinking it was time to chop him down a peg. “I could have never fallen in his arms if you weren’t pushing me out of yours.”
“Pushed you out? My father had just been diagnosed with stage four lung cancer!” he screamed, and suddenly, it all came racing back to me.
