by Teri Woods
The courtroom was packed, the majority of the people black. They had come to sit this one in. A lot of families that had lost a life to the hands of the Junior Mafia were there watching, hoping and praying for justice, justice that hadn’t been served. The prosecutor was their God. Only he could give them what they wanted. Only he could bring justice for this cruel and wanton behavior that had swept through the streets like Satan himself.
Paul Perachetti came through the double courtroom doors, his trench coat swinging as he made his entrance. He was on an all-time high. Things were looking good. He felt the power of City Hall calling him.
“All rise,” said the bailiff as the Honorable Eugene Pearlstein entered the courtroom. “You may be seated,” he said stiffly after sitting down.
Voir dire had taken three weeks. Perachetti had used his peremptory challenges early on, giving Jerrell’s attorney, Billy DeStephano, a slight edge in the jury selection. As far as DeStephano was concerned, he wanted his client to beat the case. Hell, he knew he was defending the so-called leader of the Junior Mafia, but he didn’t care. The bottom line was that the niggas and their bullshit had made him a millionaire at the age of thirty-six. Why stop now? He could not stand, nor afford, for Jerrell to be sentenced. There was no way he was gonna let his client receive capital punishment, which was exactly what the state was going for. Voir dire, one of the biggest problems with the justice system, is the method of jury selection in American jurisprudence. It was totally unfair, but DeStephano felt good about the twelve jurors who were selected.
The judge explained to the jurors exactly what their job was, which was to find guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. Court was adjourned until the following morning.
DeStephano went back to his office. He rehearsed his opening statement over and over again, preparing himself for the jurors, ready to look them dead in their eyes and tell them why they wouldn’t be finding his client guilty. When he was finished not only would the jury be dazzled, but also the verdict would be not guilty. He had $175,000 so far, and another $50,000 due him for the professional services he rendered. The world had gone mad and he was making money. His dead presidents fantasy was interrupted by his secretary. “Billy, your wife is on line three,” she said over the intercom.
“Thank you,” he said picking up the line.
Finishing with his wife on the phone faster than his record-breaking connubial speed, he hung up and told his secretary to hold all his calls so that he could go over his opening statement one last time. It was short, simple, and to the point. It was stated as succinctly as possible, just to whet the jurors’ appetites, anticipating what was to come. He had a promising future right there in the palm of his hands. The publicity alone was phenomenal, not to mention all the incoming calls for potential clients he had not yet had a chance to review. Thanks to the Junior Mafia, he was famous, and he would get Jerrell Jackson off. He had no doubts about it.
“All rise.” Judge Pearlstein seemed to take his sweet time sitting his fat ass in his chair. Jerrell couldn’t figure him out. Perachetti made his opening statement. Then DeStephano gave his opening performance. After opening statements were concluded, the prosecutor presented his evidence, then called his first witness, a hotel clerk who claimed he remembered two guys coming into the hotel and walking past him. When asked if either were sitting in the courtroom, he pointed at Jerrell.
“Ain’t that some shit? Ran and Sam went up in the hotel,” he whispered to Billy.
At least he’s honest, thought Billy as he glanced over and looked at his client.
The prosecutor seemed to introduce something into evidence about every ten minutes. From pictures to diagrams, he introduced it all, except a weapon. DeStephano objected to everything, and Pearlstein was getting tired of telling his ass overruled. A great deal of investigation and preparation had been done by the DA, and it was a shame all that work he had done was a waste of time, ’cause DeStephano was going to get his client off. For $225,000, he knew he had better.
DeStephano did a good job on cross-examination. “Well, at that time of night, it’s possible you were tired, and you didn’t know who you saw walk into the lobby of the hotel. From fifty yards away, how could anyone know if it was my client walking in that hotel room?” He asked each question with sincerity, constantly watching the jurors.
“Objection,” said the prosecutor, really wanting to say “Fuck you,” as did DeStephano, but the judge overruled him anyway.
“Hah,” DeStephano wanted to say, thinking about the five hundred he spent feeding Judge Pearlstein dinner last night. “Ha ha” was more like it. DeStephano just took over the courtroom, making liars out of all Perachetti’s witnesses, until Perachetti called in his last witness. “Prosecution calls Christopher Cole.”
Christopher Cole, a paraplegic. Christopher Cole, aka Forty. By the time Forty got off the stand, the jurors were in tears. A mean stare was what they gave DeStephano and his client. Jerrell just wanted someone to shoot Forty’s ass.
“Can’t you do nothing to shut him up?” Jerrell asked.
“What do you want me to do?” Billy answered.
“I don’t know, object or something,” said Jerrell. “For a quarter million, do something! Damn!” Jerrell was really getting nervous.
Forty spoke directly to the jurors, telling them everything, from the girl, to the kidnapping, to the basement where he was kept until they received the million dollars. He told them how he pulled off Sam’s mask, and how Randolph and Jerrell Jackson took off their masks willingly. He told them that Jerrell Jackson was the one who pulled the trigger on him, first in his legs and then in his chest. He told them that he put the gun to his head and shot him.
DeStephano cross-examined him, not able to break his story, or intimidate him into giving the wrong answer, no matter how many ways he asked his questions. That had always been DeStephano’s forte, causing people to twist themselves up and make themselves sound like they weren’t sure of what they were saying. But, it didn’t work. Forty knew what he was doing and he knew why he was there. He wanted justice, he deserved justice, and justice would be his.
In Gena’s world the months passed quickly, and with them, so did her savings. It had been six months since Quadir died and Gena didn’t know if she was coming or going. Her brooding was in direct proportion to her financial situation.
The beauty and change that comes with spring didn’t come for Gena. Instead, she talked to herself and stayed in her room, which she shared with Khaleer. Gwendolyn’s other baby, Brandi, stayed in Gah Git’s room. Gwendolyn was still in jail because Gah Git wouldn’t let Gena put up the bail money. “No need in wasting. God says it’s a sin to waste and Gwendolyn ain’t right. So, you just hold on to your money in case you need it.”
Gena had nothing going on for herself. There were no adventures, no nights out on the town, no dinners in AC, gambling and spending frivolously, and no romance. She missed the romance of Quadir, the way he would grab her and hold onto her in a rough passion, tasting her, serving her his penis, which was one of a god, thick and fat with the perfect length. Just the thought of him sent chills down her spine. Only Qua could take Gena far beyond any fantasy ever could. Quadir. She felt him all the time. She talked to him every night. She cried for him in her sleep, twisting and turning, talking in the bunkbed above Khaleer.
Sometimes Khaleer would sleep in the bedroom with Gah Git and his baby sister. There wasn’t good sleep for Khaleer with the new baby either. Normally, Khaleer would be found sleeping on the kitchen floor, in closets and in the bathtub. Gah Git couldn’t figure it. Finally one night she caught him sleepwalking and called 911.
Gena couldn’t believe it, not the fact that 911 woke up the neighborhood at four in the morning, but the fact that Gah Git blamed Khaleer’s sleepwalking on her because she was always talking to a dead man. “You talk the boy right out of the room, Gena,” Gah Git had said.
Things just seemed to be going downhill. Even Gucci, the precious Persian
kitty had his share of life in the hood. One day while Gena was out, Gary and his friends were in the house rolling poor Gucci up against the wall like dice. Gena was so upset when she came in the house to see Gucci being tossed like a football, she didn’t speak to Gary for two weeks. The poor cat was never the same. He had started climbing up the walls and jumping on people as they walked by. Usually, he would climb on top of the refrigerator and wait for someone to walk in the kitchen, then jump on their heads. They had worked on Gucci every time Gena left the house. He’d become a mean cat, and now he was evil. Gena couldn’t stand him—he had changed so much. He wasn’t cute and cuddly anymore. Now Gucci was a mean ol’ tomcat with long straggly hair. Gucci blamed Gena for the bad meals and torture he was put through and usually would attack her on sight. Gah Git just wanted the cat out of her house. Then there were the twins. Bria and Brianna weren’t living in the same world with the rest of the people on the planet. They had boyfriends now. Life was Kevvy Kev, and don’t tell Bria it wasn’t, ’cause it would be something if you did. Brianna was blinded by the gold teeth, obviously, of some kid named Dalvin. “He’s all that; he’s all that. We use condoms. It’s my life.”
Yes, they were into sex, heavily into sex, and definitely down for experimentation. What was Gena gonna tell them? It’s 1990; you can catch AIDS! Like that would lead them in the right direction. They don’t believe; they just don’t believe, Gena thought. So she kept her mouth shut and always said, “Did the condom break? ’Cause if it did, you have six months to see if you’ll die.”
“No, Gena, it’s not like that.” Brianna just stared at her as if Gena was retarded. “Dalvin was a virgin until he met me.”
“He told you that?” Gena shook her head in disbelief, knowing game when she heard it.
“Of course he was a virgin. Are you crazy?” Brianna asked. This girl was out there. Gena’s mental level could not deal with the minds of just-turned-seventeen-year-olds. They just knew they were grown. There was no reasoning with them, and what they wanted to do, they did.
Gah Git kept fussing, and Gena would get real tired of the whole routine inside the house, but outside it was worse. The brothers seemed so angry. People were frighteningly frustrated. The inner city streets were hard and represented hard times. Gena hated it, the way it looked, all scribbled on and wasted.
Gena had become a hermit like Gah Git. She hated going outside at night. It was always something. The brothers wasn’t taking no shorts in the streets, either. They would rob you in a minute and victimize you for the smallest amount of materials or cash you may have. It was chaos and mass confusion.
She missed Quadir so much. It had been six months, going on seven, since his murder and nothing had changed. She still loved him and she still wanted him. She couldn’t forget him. She talked to him every day and night.
Nightmares of Qua’s death took the place of the happily ever after dreams, and Gena often woke in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, filled with a fear whose name she knew but wouldn’t say: despair. When she lost Quadir, she lost it all, including her spirit.
The summer months were getting hotter, and it only added to her ennui. Maybe an air conditioner will help, she thought. She called Rik. It wasn’t a problem.
“Two air conditioners?”
“Gena, that’s not a problem.”
“And five thousand dollars?”
“That’s not a problem either, G.”
No problem, Gena thought. Now that’s what friends are for. “Thank you, Rik. I’m on my way,” she said, hanging up the phone.
She ran into Gah Git’s room. “You got some money?”
“No, baby. Not yet. I will when the mailman gets here, though. Today’s the first of July,” said Gah Git, playing with her false teeth.
Gena wasn’t trying to hear it. She went outside and walked to the corner store. If she was lucky, she’d see someone who would loan her the money. She hated having to ask, but five dollars shouldn’t be a problem since they were out there selling caps on the very corner of her block. She was wearing a pair of jean shorts with a Chanel T-shirt tucked inside and a fresh pair of Reeboks.
As she walked on the sidewalk, the kids were playing in the street. People were sitting outside anywhere they could find shade and a cool breeze. The summer heat was unbearable. Gena’s Mercedes-Benz sat in the sun sparkling as if it were on a showroom floor. Gena crossed the street and walked up to the store like she was going in.
“How y’all doing?” she asked.
“Yo, Gena. What’s going on, baby?” asked Rob.
“Nothing, just chillin,” she said.
“Yo, Gena, think you could drop me off at my moms on Twenty-ninth and Lehigh?” he asked.
“Yeah, I could do that, but you gonna have to get some gas,” she said.
“That’s no problem. When you gonna take me?” he said.
“I’ll take you now.”
“Bet. Come on, let’s go.”
“No, Rob. You got to go get the gas and bring it back here before we can go.”
“Girl, is you crazy? The nearest gas station is on Broad Street,” said Rob looking at his boy, Shomby.
“I’ll go get the gas,” she said.
“Yeah, you gonna have to, ’cause it’s hotter than a motherfucker out here. Shit, I might fall out or anything,” he said.
“How you rolling in a Mercedes-Benz with no gas, Gena?” Shomby asked.
“Look, times are hard, okay?”
“Here, Gena,” Rob said, as he handed her a five dollar bill.
“I’ll be right back.”
“Mmm, hmm,” he said nodding as she walked off pocketing his five dollars. “Shit, times must be hard. It wouldn’t be no way. She walking to the gas station,” he said shaking his head unable to believe it.
Gena walked six blocks to the nearest gas station and got a gallon of gas, which she carried in a milk container. She was tired from the walk. The hot sun blazed as she walked down the city street. She turned the corner as a black Mercedes-Benz turned the corner and pulled up along beside her. It slowed down, and Gena knew it was about to stop for her.
“Yo, Gena, you okay? You need a ride or anything?” asked the guy behind the wheel. With the sun blaring in her eyes she didn’t know who it was until she bent down and saw Jamal smiling at her.
“Hi, Jamal,” she said, with a smile back at him. It was good seeing him, especially since she was in true blue need of a ride. It had been a long time. So much had happened. She had changed, and one would hope that he had too. Of course he questioned the gasoline in the milk container before dropping her off in front of her car.
“I’ll see you around,” he said.
“Thanks, Jamal. I appreciate it.”
She situated the gas problem, dropped Rob off and went straight to Rik’s house. He had just moved into a nice house off the Main Line. Rik was all that. He was still hustling, of course. But he was so kind to Gena and she was truly grateful.
“Where’s my kiss?” he said to her as she walked through the door. Gena and Rik sat for awhile talking about how time had changed things for the both of them. Gena, not really wanting to let him know how right he was about moving back home, sort of came out of nowhere and told him she was ready to move. Rik, just looked at her. He didn’t want to say “I told you so,” so he didn’t question her at all. Just said they could contact a few realtors and start looking around for her new place tomorrow. Gena was excited and content with hearing that. For the first time in a long time she thought of all her furnishings in storage.
“Can I come up here with you Rik?” she asked, knowing his house had to be a couple hundred thousand at least.
“Yeah, there’s some houses around here for sale,” he said, thinking of the advantages of having Gena close by.
After she left Rik, she went to an appliance shop and bought two air conditioners. A big one for downstairs, and a small one for her bedroom. Gena felt good. Rik gave up loot, like Quadir always did. Ther
e was something about walking around with a couple thousand in your pocket. Gena had forgot the feeling.
She dropped the air conditioners off at Gah Git’s, and went to Le Chevue. Everyone was real happy to see her. Bev wasn’t there; she and Charlie had just a baby girl, so some girl named Lisa did her hair. When she was through, she stopped by her post office box to check for mail, something she rarely did. She had gotten a post office box when Quadir’s mother, Viola, put her out, with her “mine, mine, it’s all mine” routine. Gena hadn’t checked on the box much. There was never any mail to her, just a lot of junk mail and mail for Quadir. Unlocking the box, she found thirteen envelopes.
Getting back into the safety of the Mercedes-Benz, she opened up each letter and scanned over the mail. There were three letters from a realtor and a Notice to Vacate addressed to Quadir Richards, 234 Green Street.
“Damn, what’s this?” Gena whispered to herself. She started the car and went back to the house. She called the number on the notice, but got an answering machine. It was a real estate office, but the office was closed. Gena hung up the phone. She sat on the edge of her bed and read the Notice over and over to herself. 234 Green Street. She wasn’t even sure what part of the city that was.
Gah Git had the air conditioners pumping cool air into the hot and stuffy housing project unit. “Keep that door closed,” she hollered to Khaleer who liked running in and out. “Child, here, drink some water,” she said to him. “You gonna fall out. It’s too hot out there. Sit your ass down and rest yourself some.”
“I’m okay, Gah Git,” he said walking toward the door.
“Boy, sit your ass down and rest a minute,” she said, rocking Brandi.
