Influence

by Carl Weber

  “So, you a Blood now, bruh?” he asked.

  I leaned over and whispered to him, “If that’s what they think, then far be it from me to say otherwise. I’m just trying to get outta here in one piece.”

  “You ain’t answer my question.”

  “Aye, I’m starving. Give me some cookies or some chips or something,” I told him, changing the subject.

  He looked down at the floor. “Man, I ain’t got nothing.”

  “What the fuck you mean, you ain’t got nothing? Don’t tell me you gambled away all of that shit you had stockpiled, Krush. That don’t make no sense.” I shook my head.

  “Nah, I ain’t gamble it. After the fight, I was in the infirmary for a couple hours, and when I came out, they took my shit,” he said. “It’s cool. I’m try’na reach my pops to have him put some money on my books so I can buy some snacks and shit.”

  “Buy? Krush, man, what the fuck is wrong with you? Why didn’t you just take your shit back, or at least win it back like you did before?”

  Krush glanced nervously around the room, and I realized that his once confident, overly aggressive demeanor was now gone. As a matter of fact, he seemed damn near paranoid.

  He eased over to me and said, “I did. I knew exactly who took it, and when I tried to get it back, they said I won’t have to worry about nobody kicking my ass. I’d have to worry about someone fucking me in the ass.” He grimaced at the thought. “I can’t even sleep, man. I gotta get the fuck outta here.” I’d never seen him like this before. He’d always been loud and boisterous, even in the worst of situations.

  I put my hands on his shoulders to calm him down. “First of all, you need to man the fuck up. The last thing you need is for anyone to think is that you’re afraid.”

  He nodded his understanding. It was kind of ironic that a few weeks ago, he was the one trying to tell me what to do to survive. But being in here had finally gotten the best of him. Now he needed me to be the strong one.

  “It’s gonna be fine,” I told him. “Now, who took your shit?”

  He didn’t say anything or point to anyone, but he glanced in the general direction, telling me everything I needed to know.

  “They got the cell phone too?”

  “Nah, I hid that, but I haven’t been able to use it.”

  “A’ight. You stay here.” I got up and walked over to the brother who had asked me if I needed anything. “I need a gat.”

  Dude looked around for COs, then without hesitation, he reached in his mouth and pulled out a razor blade. I took it from him then walked directly over to the people Krush had glanced at. Four guys were playing cards. I just stood there watching their game until one of them noticed the razor blade in my hand. He stepped back, alerting the others.

  “Yo, can we help you?” They’d all been there when I got sent to the hole, so they knew who I was.

  “That nigga over there—” I gestured toward Krush, who was standing next to my chair. “He was holding my shit while I was in the hole. You niggas took it. I want it back. I’m not gonna ask twice.”

  Now, if I did this right like my brothers had taught me, nobody was going to get hurt; but if I didn’t, all hell was about to break loose. I stood there, silently caressing the razor blade, until each one of them got up and walked toward their beds. I walked back to my chair and sat down, watching as each one brought a pile of snacks over to Krush’s bed, leaving them there.

  Krush, who was still standing next to my chair, quietly mumbled, “Thanks.”

  “No problem, frat.” I lifted my hand for a fist bump, keeping my eyes straight ahead. “But just so we’re clear: half that shit now belongs to me.”

  I could feel him looking down on me as I stared straight ahead, but he didn’t take long to say, “Okay. You want some cookies?”

  “Yeah, man, I’m starving.”

  He headed over to his bunk.

  “Krush,” I called after him.

  He turned around. “Yep.”

  “I’m gonna need that cell phone too.”

  Kwesi

  48

  As soon as morning prayers were over, the guards escorted me into the room where my parents were waiting for me, along with my attorney. My mother made her way over to hug me, touching the black kufi that I wore over my hair, which I had decided to grow out.

  “Hello, Mother.” I greeted her with a smile.

  “You’re looking well,” she said, her face a mixture of sadness and pride. I could tell she was doing her best not to cry.

  “How are you, son?” My father stood and shook my hand before pressing his chest against mine in a brief hug.

  “I’m doing well,” I said then turned to Mr. Kimba. “Hello.”

  “How are things, Kwesi? Do you need anything?” he asked.

  “Other than to get out of here? No.”

  “Well, you know that’s everyone’s goal at this point,” Kimba said.

  “So, you told us that you had something to discuss,” I said, taking a seat. “Has there been some kind of evidence to clear us?” I knew that whatever Kimba wanted to talk about had to be important for my parents to be there.

  “No, no new evidence has been found yet,” Kimba answered, and I felt my hope deflating. “But we did have a meeting with the DA’s office that was quite interesting.”

  “Interesting how?” my mother asked.

  “Well, they offered the boys a deal,” Kimba told her. “They plead guilty and will be sentenced to three to five years.”

  “Three to five years? You want my son to stay in jail for three to five years?” My father’s voice was as stern as the look on his face.

  “That’s unacceptable, especially for something he did not do,” my mother added. I appreciated the fact that she never doubted I was innocent.

  “No, listen. He will not be in jail for three to five years. With the time that he’s already served, he will most likely be out in a year. The remainder of the time, he will be on probation, and I’m sure Kwesi wouldn’t do anything during that time that would land him back in jail.”

  I frowned. “I haven’t done anything to be put in jail for now.”

  My father looked at my mother, then at me. “One year? That is not that much time.”

  “It really isn’t,” Kimba said.

  I looked at my father in disbelief. “I think you don’t understand what he’s asking me to do. He wants me to plead guilty and admit to doing something that I didn’t do.” Shaking my head adamantly, I said, “I’m not doing that. I don’t have to.”

  “Son . . .” My mother reached out and took my hand.

  “Mother, I know that Mr. Kimba is my attorney, and I appreciate you hiring him. But don’t forget, he’s not working by himself. The Hudsons are working on the case also, and Bradley Hudson is one of the best.”

  “Yes, you’re right, Kwesi. The Hudsons are working hard as well, but the fact is that they have yet to come up with anything that will clear you all. They’ve tried everything, and it’s not working. This case is not looking good, and my fear is that if you don’t take the plea deal and the trial does not go our way, you are facing twenty years in prison,” Kimba said gravely.

  My mother gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. “That cannot happen,” she cried.

  “Son, this may be the only chance for you to gain your freedom soon.” My father gave me a hopeful look.

  Twenty years, I thought. In twenty years, I’ll be over forty years old. My parents were both in their fifties. Even though they were in fairly good health, would they live another twenty years? Should I risk being in jail for twenty years for a crime I didn’t even commit?

  “Kwesi, you’re a smart young man with a bright future ahead of you,” Kimba told me. “Think about it.”

  “If I plead guilty, that future will no longer be bright,” I said, speaking to my parents. “I cannot go to medical school or even practice medicine as a convicted felon. No one would award me a fellowship to pay for school anywa
y. Pleading guilty will cost me greatly. I’m afraid they would try to deport me if I have a criminal record.”

  My father’s eyes saddened as he realized the reality of what they were asking me to do.

  “Maybe not.” Kimba put his hand under his chin as if he were deep in thought, then said, “We can request that the DA lower the charges to misdemeanors.”

  “Can we do that?” I asked.

  Kimba nodded.

  “Then that’s what we will do,” my father said firmly. “Kwesi will accept their offer—if the charges are lowered and his record will not be affected.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Kimba.” My mother’s smile widened.

  “Well, it is Kwesi’s decision to make.” Kimba turned his attention to me.

  Unlike my parents, I wasn’t ready to throw a victory party. Something told me that this wasn’t going to be as simple as Kimba was making it out to be.

  “I will think about it and talk it over with the others,” I told him.

  “Well, wait a minute, Kwesi,” Kimba said. “I don’t think you should do that.”

  “What do you mean?” I peered at him, wondering why he seemed to be withholding things from me.

  “There is a possibility—well, a strong chance—that the DA will agree to our terms in exchange for our cooperation.”

  I frowned at Kimba, who was now fumbling with his colorful bowtie and looking down at the table.

  “What does that mean?” my mother asked.

  “It means he wants me to testify against my brothers,” I told her, and then I asked Kimba, “Is that true? That’s what you mean when you say cooperation, isn’t it?”

  “Uh, yes.” Kimba nodded slowly.

  “Then, no,” I said adamantly.

  “Kwesi.” My father called my name the same way he always did when I was about to be lectured. But I wasn’t a teenager anymore who had forgotten to take out the trash. I was an adult whose freedom was on the line, and I didn’t have to listen.

  “No, Father,” I told him. “They are just as innocent as I am. All of us are.”

  “My son, how do you know they aren’t making the same deal with the DA? Are you certain that they are not agreeing to testify against you?” my mother asked.

  I became quiet, because I didn’t know the answer to her question. Were my friends considering a plea agreement to save their own necks? They wouldn’t betray me like that, would they? A few moments ago, I’d been considering doing whatever it took to be released in a year. Were they doing the same thing?

  “This meeting is over,” I said, standing up.

  “Kwesi . . .”

  I looked over at my mother and said, “I cannot make a decision at this time. I will consider it, but I must pray first.” I knew they weren’t happy that I was ignoring my lawyer’s advice, but I hoped it would bring them some comfort to know I was relying on faith to make my decision.

  “I will speak with the DA and see what he says, so we will have a full understanding before you decide anything,” Kimba offered.

  “Thank you.” I hugged my parents and then called to be escorted back to my cell.

  * * *

  Later, as evening prayer ended, I spoke with the imam while we were walking into the day room. I explained what was going on with my case and the offer that was being made. His answer surprised me.

  “Kwesi, if I were in your predicament, I would be counting down the next three hundred and sixty-five days and thanking Allah.”

  “Huh? Even if it means betraying my friends?” I stopped in the middle of the hallway. “And admitting to doing something that I did not do?”

  “You don’t have to admit to doing something you didn’t do,” he told me.

  “I would have to plead guilty.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  Frustrated, I leaned against the wall and shook my head. “I’m so confused. It’s like you’re talking to me in riddles and—”

  “Calm down, Kwesi. I’m not trying to confuse you. I’m trying to help you see all of your options. Let’s go over here and sit.” He pointed to a table on the opposite side of the day room.

  A few of the inmates greeted him and made small talk. He spoke to them, then motioned for me to take a seat. When we were alone, he quietly began talking. “I understand why you’re troubled. But there is another option for you.”

  “What?”

  “Have you heard of nolo contendere?” he asked.

  “No contest,” I said, thankful for the year of Latin I’d taken.

  “Yes. It’s not an admission of guilt. Essentially, it means that you agree to the facts of the case, but not your guilt, and it protects you from the plea being used against you in any future civil or criminal proceedings,” he explained.

  Hearing this option gave me a little more clarity about taking a plea agreement.

  “I could maintain my innocence,” I said.

  “Indeed.”

  “But what about having to testify? I am not a snitch.”

  “That is something you’re going to have to figure out. But I will tell you this: twelve years ago, I was offered a plea deal by a DA anxious to put away the dealer that I happened to be working for. All I had to do was testify, and I would be out in less than thirty-six months. I decided that I hadn’t done anything wrong, and the evidence they had against me was circumstantial anyway, so I rolled the dice with a trial . . . and I lost. I was sentenced to ten years, and after a couple of other unfortunate circumstances during that time, that ten turned into a few more. If I had it to do all over again, I would’ve taken those thirty-six months and skipped out of here in less than three years after singing like a canary.” He sighed. “Now, there’s no telling when I’m getting out.”

  “I . . . I don’t know,” I said, feeling the weight of his story.

  “What is more important to you? The bond with three men that you’ve known less than five years, or your freedom and the future medical career that you’ve dreamed of your entire life?”

  Desiree

  49

  We had less than twenty-four hours until the beginning of my brother’s trial. Michael and I had been working nonstop, reviewing case law and preparing questions for character witnesses. We’d been at it since before the sun came up, going over final documents and making sure everything was in order, while my father and Lamont went to Rikers Island to prep our clients and explain the plea-bargain that was offered by the DA. By the time I realized what time it was, we’d missed lunch and dinner, and my eyes had started getting heavy.

  “I need coffee. A big pot of black coffee.” I leaned back in my chair and stretched my arms over my head.

  “And food. Something other than Chinese or deli sandwiches,” Michael added, leaning on his elbows as he stared at one of the many files we had piled up. “You want me to make a run?”

  “Make a run where?” I asked.

  He was already grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair.

  “Don’t even try it, mister. It’s damn near ten o’clock. Where are you going at this time of night to get food other than Chinese or the deli?” I laughed. “You’re just looking for an excuse to get out of here.”

  “Who, me? Why would I want to get out of here?” He dramatically placed his hand over his chest as if he were offended by my accusation.

  “Maybe because we’ve been working fifteen and sixteen-hour days for the past three months?” I answered.

  “True.” He sat back down. “But believe it or not, I’m enjoying it and learning a lot. This is the greatest experience of my life.”

  “Yeah, too bad it came at my brother’s expense.” I sighed.

  “I didn’t mean . . .” He stopped mid-sentence and frowned.“Hey, look, I can see what type of toll this is taking on your whole family. If there’s anything I can—”

  “Don’t hand me that bull, Dad!” Lamont was in the hallway, yelling so loud that they could probably hear him on the first floor. I jumped up from my seat, think
ing I should go remind them to keep their voices down, but it quickly became clear that they were too angry for me to stop them. I stayed in the conference room with Michael as the fight intensified.

  “What you did was unethical, immoral, and possibly enough to get you sanctioned by the bar, and you know it!” Lamont bellowed.

  “What are you talking about, son? I presented the offer to them, and they turned it down,” my father replied. “What’s unethical about that?”

  “You told them what you wanted them to hear. Hell, I’m a lawyer, and I would’ve turned down that deal if it was presented to me like that. You’re misleading our clients for your own ego, and one of them happens to be my brother. A brother I love, I might add!”

  “I love him too,” my dad shouted back. “This is not about my ego. It’s about your brother and his freedom. I am not going to let him go to prison and ruin his life. Just like I wouldn’t let you or your sister or Perk go down like that. You have to trust me on that.”

  I shot a glance at Michael, and he was hanging on to every word of this fight that Lamont and Daddy should have been having in private.

  “Now, so we are clear, I presented them the damn offer, and they didn’t take it—end of story. I don’t wanna talk about it anymore,” my dad said.

  “If we lose, this is on your fucking head!” Lamont shouted emotionally. The next thing I heard was the slamming of a door.

  “Fine! Act childish! But we have a trial starting tomorrow, so your ass better be prepared.”

  I had just taken my seat when Daddy walked into the conference room.

  “What the hell was that about?” I asked.

  He shrugged then sat down across from Michael at the table. “Your brother seems to think that I misrepresented the DA’s plea offer. That I don’t want the boys to take the deal for personal reasons.”

  “Did you misrepresent it?” I asked cautiously.

  “Not you too, Desiree.” He exhaled, rubbing his temples. “I’m going to tell you the same thing I told those boys: If you’re guilty, then take the deal. If you’re innocent, let’s fight these motherfuckers, because the only thing worse than going to jail is going to jail for admitting to something you didn’t do.”