Entangled (Real in the streets)

by K Elliott

  Mark and Jeremiah were working together again. Jeremiah had apologized for offending him, and Mark had accepted the apology. Two days later, Mark overheard Jeremiah celebrating a trial victory of the Stinson brothers. Jeremiah was laughing about sending the boys’ seventy-one-year-old grandmother to prison for ten years. She was found guilty of conspiracy in allowing the boys to hide drugs in her house. The case was a real travesty, Mark thought. How could anyone delight in an elderly person’s misfortune?

  Mark decided not to confront Jeremiah and figured it would be of no use complaining to the supervisor. He decided he would try to forget what he’d overheard. But he couldn’t forget. When he got home he quickly turned on the six o’clock news. He didn’t see the news anchor. Instead, he pictured Jeremiah’s laughing face, and it made him literally sick. Mark’s head was pounding, and sharp pains pierced his brain. Whenever he got headaches he knew he was stressed.

  How had he allowed Jeremiah to get to him? Why was he thinking about the misfortune of the Stinson grandmother? During his nine years with the agency, he had witnessed whole families become confined. He had seen a disproportionate number of blacks get locked up for drugs, more than any other race, and yet he had not been affected. Maybe it was Jeremiah’s attitude, he thought. It seemed Jeremiah enjoyed locking up blacks.

  It was seven o’clock when the news went off, and Mark hadn’t the slightest idea of what the headlines had been about. He pulled himself up from the sofa and went to the bathroom. In the mirror he saw that his eyes were bloodshot. He was neither looking good nor feeling well. For the first time in nine years with the agency, he wasn’t having fun. At that moment Mark no longer knew if he still wanted to be a DEA agent. It seemed as though his work was in vain. His life had become a paradox. Was he the only agent with a conscience? Was he the only person in his department who didn’t delight in an elderly lady’s confinement? Were there other agents going through the same thing? There had to be. Maybe he needed counseling.

  Mark quickly dismissed the thought. Counseling was for crazy people. He wasn’t crazy; he needed someone to talk to. He thought about going to the agency’s chaplain, whom was Lutheran. Mark had only spoken to him once, and they didn’t know each other. Mark didn’t have anything against a Lutheran minister, but he knew there was nothing like the good old-fashioned, southern Baptist, fire-and-brimstone minister to tell it like it is. He needed the truth. He needed to know if he was wrong for having a heart. Was he wrong for disliking Jeremiah? He didn’t know how long he could go on without talking to someone.

  Maybe it was time for him to call it quits or time to find something else to do. He was thirty-four now, and he needed to start a family soon. He wanted children of his own. He wanted a wife, but every time he met a woman, she couldn’t understand his obsession with his job. It consumed him. Whenever he worked on a case, he gave one hundred percent. He took the job home with him and would often integrate it in his conversation. This sometimes annoyed women.

  Once, at thirty-one, he’d almost gotten married. Kendra was a twenty-nine-year-old psychologist he had met at a church picnic. She was everything he wanted in a woman—tall, attractive, intelligent, and spiritual. Two months after meeting, they were inseparable, and within six months, Kendra proposed. He had accepted. The wedding was to take place one year after their engagement. His parents were absolutely delighted because they loved Kendra, too.

  Mark remembered his father telling him, “Boy, you got yourself a virtuous one.”

  Mark was very happy until the agency sent him to Miami as a Panamanian to work undercover in an operation, targeting some big-time Columbian drug lords. He was then barely seeing Kendra, and his absence put a strain on the relationship. Finally she gave him an ultimatum: either he leave the agency or she’d walk. He had begged for her understanding, but she stuck by the ultimatum. When they split, he was in tears. The agency had cost him a lot.

  At nine o’clock Mark called his father but got no answer. His father and his brother had gone to a pastor’s conference in Memphis. At 10:30 Mark found himself taking in the cold night air while warming his hands with his breath on the doorsteps of Pastor Tommy Stevens.

  Pastor Steven’s smiled broadly. “Come right in, Mark.”

  Mark eased in the door, and Pastor Stevens took his coat.

  Pastor Stevens’ home was modest with antique furniture. On his living room wall was a huge mural of Christ nailed to the cross. A family Bible sat on the coffee table. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

  “No, I’m fine,” Mark said.

  The two men sat down. “So what brings you here?” the pastor asked.

  “I’m troubled a little by my work.”

  The pastor’s eyebrows rose. “Have you prayed about what it is that’s bothering you?”

  “Yeah, I have, but I thought I needed to talk to someone about it.”

  “Well, I’m glad you decided to come, because if you can’t bring your problems before the church, then who can you turn to?”

  “I don’t want to take up too much of your time. You know that I work for the DEA, right?”

  “Yeah, I think you told me this. I commend you on making a difference.”

  Mark took a deep breath and stared up at the ceiling. “My career and my beliefs are in direct conflict, and sometimes I find it hard to deal with.”

  “How are they conflicting?”

  “I have a conscious, unlike some of my coworkers. I love my work, don’t get me wrong, it’s just that . . . I became a DEA officer to help the community keep the kids safe.”

  “So you feel your coworkers are not working to help the community?”

  Mark looked at the pastor with serious eyes. “I had one of my coworkers revel in the fact that he locked up an elderly lady.”

  The pastor looked surprised. “What in the world did she do to get locked up?”

  Mark waited a few seconds before speaking. “It wasn’t my case, but I think she may have had knowledge that her grandsons were drug dealers.”

  “And for that she got locked up?”

  “Yeah. It’s called conspiracy, meaning if you assist with any aspect of the crime, you’re just as guilty, no matter how small your role is.”

  “Wow, I didn’t know they could do that.” The pastor placed his hands behind his head. “I can see why you’re having a difficult time doing your job. Mark, I really don’t know what to tell you except to keep doing your job and know that there are more good people out there than bad.”

  Mark nodded. He was glad he had talked with someone about his problem. He had actually known officers to go to therapy sessions for job-related stress, but being a man of God, Mark felt he could only get his counseling from above. Pastor Stevens hadn’t been much help to him, but his soul was soothed.

  The pastor picked a Bible up from the table and showed Mark a scripture. Luke 48:

  Much is required from those to whom much is given, and much more is required from those to whom much more is given. Mark was familiar with the scripture. He knew that the Lord would not place a burden on him that he could not handle. A lot was required of him. Most of the time he welcomed new challenges, but lately he hadn’t been up to the day-to-day confrontations that came along with being a black DEA officer. It had become hard to distinguish the good guys from the bad. Some of the bad guys were working right alongside him, and some of the so-called street thugs weren’t that bad underneath. He had to admit that his visit with Pastor Stevens had been a good one, and the scripture he had read was refreshing. He stood and the pastor retrieved his coat. They hugged before he left.

  CHAPTER 16

  I TWAS NOW THE end of November. At 6:00 A.M. the alarm clock sounded. Dream promptly hit the snooze button and dozed for five more minutes before jumping up and heading to the shower. Breakfast consisted of bacon and pancakes. After she was through eating she finished grading the tests that she had started the previous night. At 7:15 her doorbell rang. She looked through the peephole and DeVo
n was standing outside with a white hard hat in his hand. She quickly opened the door.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, surprised. “I just came to give you your money back for the tools you bought.”

  “Come in.”

  “Okay, but I can’t stay long; I have to be at work at eight. I got to catch the bus, unless you want to take me.”

  “Where do you work?”

  “Downtown.”

  “I can drop you off. I see no harm in that.”

  DeVon pulled a brown leather pouch from his pocket and took out two wrinkled hundred-dollar bills. “I’m sorry the money is so worn.”

  “Are you sure you’re able to pay me?”

  “Yeah. I can stand it. I’m expecting a big paycheck Friday. I’ve worked at least three hours overtime each day since I started. Take the money. You don’t know how much I appreciate what you did for me. I want to take you out to show you a good time.”

  Dream walked over to the dining room table, picked up her test papers, and packed them in a small white book bag. “Listen, DeVon, I don’t think that’s a good idea. I mean, you know I have a boyfriend. This can’t happen. I can’t go out with you. I can’t believe you haven’t met any women working downtown.”

  “Those women downtown are too damn stuck-up. They see a brother with a tool belt on and he gets no play. They want those white-collar mu’fuckas.”

  Dream knew exactly what he was talking about. She had known many women who refused to go out with a plumber or an electrician. Doctors and engineers were in, not a man in a tool belt. She gathered her things and they left.

  They chatted while listening to the Russ Parr morning show. DeVon told Dream how much he was enjoying his job and that his boss was thinking about sending him to school. Devon said he planned to be a licensed electrician by the following year.

  “Good for you,” she said.

  He didn’t say anything; he just nodded and glanced over his shoulder.

  “I hope you stick with it; I know electricians make decent money.”

  “Yeah, they do all right I guess.” He looked back again. “What kind of car does your boy, Jamal, drive?”

  “Why?”

  “Because someone is following us in a white BMW.”

  Dream looked over her shoulder quickly before refocusing on the road. She knew the car immediately. It was Dawg, and he was talking on his cell phone. She drove a half a mile farther and pulled into a service station.

  “Who the hell is that, and why are you pulling into the gas station?” DeVon asked.

  “Don’t worry. Relax. Everything is going to be okay.”

  DeVon looked frightened. He was jittery and kept jerking his leg. “Is that your boyfriend?”

  “No.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Nobody,” Dream hopped out of the jeep and walked to Dawg’s BMW.

  He rolled his window down. “Jamal is on his way.”

  “For what?” she asked.

  “He’s probably gonna want to know who that mu’fucka is you’re riding with this early in the morning.”

  “You know what? You are a stupid motherfucker, Dawg. It’s not what you think,” Dream shouted.

  “No, you are the stupid mu’fucka. You’re the one with the nigga in the jeep,” Dawg said, laughing.

  “What did you tell Jamal?”

  “You’ll find out. He’ll be here in about five minutes.”

  DeVon walked over and stood beside Dream. “What’s going on?”

  “Playboy, I think you about to have a bad day,” Dawg said

  “What the hell is he talking about?” DeVon asked Dream.

  “Don’t pay him any mind.”

  “I don’t like the fact that this mu’fucka just threatened me,” Devon said.

  “I didn’t threaten you. I just promised you an ass whoopin’,” Dawg said.

  “Get out of the car, and I will fuck you up,” DeVon shouted.

  Dawg turned his car engine off and bounced from the seat. He was met with a hard right across his nose. He quickly nursed his nose and held one arm to protect his face. DeVon charged him swiftly, his head pounding Dawg’s stomach hard before they landed on the pavement.

  “Stop it, dammit!” Dream demanded.

  “I’m gonna fuck you up,” Dawg yelled from the ground.

  Dream tried to pull DeVon off Dawg, but he was too strong for her. She finally yelled for someone to break up the fight but nobody cared.

  Jamal’s Mercedes arrived. Dream ran to his car quickly. “Jamal, please break it up.”

  Jamal got out of his car and shoved Dream out of his way as DeVon pounded Dawg’s face violently. When he reached the fight he grabbed DeVon’s neck, forcing him backward until Dawg was up on his feet. It was now two against one. DeVon made a futile attempt to cover his face. Jamal and Dawg pounded and kicked DeVon for three minutes.

  Finally, Dream went inside the store and returned with the manager, a thin Indian man. “I am going to call the police if you don’t get off the property,” the manager said.

  “You need to call the ambulance,” Dawg said. “This mu’fucka needs some medical attention. Look at him, bleeding like a bitch,” Dawg said, pointing at DeVon, who was lying unconscious with blood oozing from his mouth and nose.

  Jamal pulled Dream aside. “Who the hell is this nigga and why were you with him?”

  “No, the question is, who in the hell do you think you are?”

  “So you’ve been playing me, right?”

  She looked at him then turned toward DeVon who was still on the pavement. “It’s not even what you think. You are so fucking stupid. You didn’t ask me what was going on; you just reacted.”

  “Look at me,” Jamal turned her face toward him. “What in the hell am I suppose to think when my girlfriend is riding with a nigga this early in the morning?”

  The shrill sounds of police and paramedic sirens rang out. Dawg walked over, wedging his way between Jamal and Dream. “Jamal we need to get the hell out of here.”

  Jamal and Dream stared at each other for a few seconds before Dawg pulled Jamal away, ordering him to get in his car and drive away.

  The police arrived, and the manager told the police that Dream had seen the whole altercation and was engaged in conversation with one of the perpetrators.

  “Ma’am, you want to tell us what you saw?” the officer asked.

  Dream gathered her thoughts. She knew the police wanted to know who assaulted DeVon. She was caught in the middle. The right thing would be to tell the police what had happened and to give the officer some names. She then looked over toward DeVon who remained unconscious, with the paramedics tending him. Finally he was carried away on the stretcher.

  She looked the officer directly in the eye. “It started over an argument.”

  “What were they arguing about?” the officer asked.

  Dream looked at her watch. “Listen, can I talk to you later? I’m a middle school teacher and I’m already late. Do you have a card? Maybe I can call you later.”

  The officer stared at her oddly. “Now the store manager said you saw the whole thing and that you were talking to one of the assailants. Do you want to help us out or not? You’re not under arrest, but you do have a moral obligation, and I should hope you would want to do the right thing since you are a teacher.”

  Dream stared at the pavement. “I don’t want to talk right now.”

  *** Dream didn’t even bother going to work. She couldn’t after the fight. She knew she wouldn’t be in any mood to concentrate until she heard something from DeVon. At three o’clock that evening, she had called several hospitals before locating DeVon at the Carolina’s Medical Center in Room 338. Upon arrival the receptionist said only family was allowed, and Dream quickly lied, saying she was his sister. Inside DeVon’s room, Dream found him conscious, sitting up in the bed wearing a light blue hospital gown with thick white bandages wrapped around his head and several tubes inserted in his mouth. The nurse had tol
d her that his jaw had been broken and his ribs fractured. He had also suffered a minor concussion.

  Dream approached to the side of his bed and grabbed his hand. He jerked it back as he looked at her intently.

  “DeVon, I know you’re mad and you have a right to be. I’m really sorry this happened to you.”

  He turned his back toward her.

  “So you’re going to turn your back on me?” she asked.

  He then turned and faced her again. He pointed to a small pad and pencil on the table beside his bed. She handed him the items, and he jotted some words down and gave it back to her.

  The paper read, Did you tell the police who did this to me? She looked down at him. Finally she shook her head and he asked for the paper and pencil.

  He jotted more words on the paper again and handed it back to her.

  You are the one who turned your back on me. He looked sad, and his eyes were full of disappointment. She looked at him for long time. He was right. She had betrayed him. There was no denying it. She had been in a very compromising position, and she hated to betray anyone, she really did. Suddenly a tear trickled down her cheek.

  DeVon pressed a button on the side of his bed and a nurse appeared and he indicated he wanted Dream to leave.

  *** An hour before dark, Keisha and Dream, draped in thick sweat suits, walked through Dream’s neighborhood, absorbing brisk air and the dying sunlight. They walked swiftly facing traffic. Walking was Keisha’s favorite exercise, simply because she could talk and burn calories at the same time. Dream had contemplated telling Keisha about the fight. Finally, on the last mile, she decided to confide in her.

  Keisha stopped in her tracks. “They were fighting?” Dream stopped. “Yes.”

  Keisha smiled. “It must be nice to have three men fighting over

  you.”

  “DeVon is in the hospital,” Dream said.

  “Are you serious?”

  Dream didn’t answer, instead she started to walk again and

  Keisha followed.

  “Are you serious?” Keisha repeated.

  “Yes. Dawg and Jamal jumped him and the nurse said a couple

  of DeVon’s ribs are fractured, and his jaw is broken.”