Let That Be the Reason

by Vickie M. Stringer

  Chino was arrested because they followed him to Rock’s house, where the feds found a kilo in a cereal box along with a gun and some money. Rock was just at the wrong place at the wrong time. They had me for a direct sale to a confidential informant, which was G’s punk ass. I couldn’t even get mad. Yeah, I felt betrayed, but G had lived up to his fullest potential—a lame-ass bitch nigga, snitch nigga.

  They booked us, and because I was the only female, I was sent to the county jail in Franklin County. The feds confiscated all of my personal property. They didn’t leave me with shit. They took it all, removing all the jewels from my fingers, neck and wrists, and placing my items in a Ziploc bag marked with my name for storage. I was told to strip butt naked, squat, cough and remove my hair tie. I was ordered to shower in a filthy community stall and change into some jail greens. For three hours, I was stuck in a holding cell that smelled like a piss and shit combo.

  Finally, I was allowed my one phone call. I called my sister Lori in Michigan. I gave her a brief summary of what happened, but I wanted her to look into getting my son back. My sister assured me she would get me an attorney and that I would see her in court. I asked her not to tell our mother until we knew more and she agreed.

  I was sent to a dorm and had the unfortunate opportunity of seeing my dream become a harsh reality. There on the TV, headlining the evening news telecast, was me. All my business in the streets was broadcast; it was a complete loss of privacy. I was on another journey, this time instead of being on a come-up, I was being raped—public humiliation at its best.

  My new home, a two-room dorm, was designed to house fifteen ladies. There were no less than forty of us packed in there, with one toilet and one shower. There were bunks in every square inch of space. Some of the bunks were in direct contact with the toilet.

  The percentage of women incarcerated and charged with prostitution is extremely high. I, who was once an escort service owner, was now appalled at the thought of sharing a toilet utilized by someone who sold her body for a living. If you wanted to piss, there was no option but to share a toilet with women infected with HIV, hepatitis and other STDs.

  The only available sink was used by all the women to brush their teeth, wash their hands, drink water, wash out soiled undergarments and what not. The sink was a vector for a hybrid of contaminants. I found myself an available spot in a corner and began attempting to fluff out what the prison system considered a mattress. It was full of lumps, even though it was only an inch thick. There were gaping holes where cotton spilled out along the sides. I curled into the fetal position, placed my tattered sheet over my head, used my wool blanket for a pillow and tried to fall asleep.

  That night I was called out of the cell by a few federal investigators, and they asked me whether or not I wanted to talk to them. I said, “No! I will only talk to my attorney.” I was living a balla’s nightmare: on lockdown.

  Twenty-seven

  Because the state authorities arrested G, that bitch nigga, snitch nigga G, we were all taken before a state judge Saturday morning for our bond hearing. There we stood, all five of us in a row: Chino, Young Ty, Ramón, Rock and me. It’s not uncommon for the feds to snatch entire households, families and friends. My sister Lori was there along with Delano. They sat as spectators in the rows of the courtroom, looking at us anxiously as we awaited the judge’s decision on our fate. My sister was surprised to see me standing by Chino’s side and handcuffed. Chino’s grandmother and his wife looked even more surprised by the sight of the two of us together than by the fact that we were busted. Just like I had told my family nothing of Chino, I was certain he had told his family nothing of me.

  My sister got me an attorney, and I stood before the judge awaiting the bond amount. I was called forward first. The judge went into a huddle with the prosecutor, and then she looked up and spoke.

  “Ms. Pamela Xavier, also known as Pammy Xavier, also known as Carmen, your bond is two million dollars cash.” I almost fainted. I vaguely heard more words, but they resonated in my ears as a deep baritone voice, speaking in slow motion. “Ms. Xavier, you are a menace to society, and you have raped the city of Columbus.”

  “My son,” I cried. “My sweet beautiful baby!” My cries drowned out everything else. The bitch just told me I wasn’t getting out and would not see my son.

  She continued to speak. “Ms. Xavier, it is of the court’s belief that you are a flight risk. Your passport is revoked, and you are to remain in custody.”

  I hung my head in shame as I was escorted out of the courtroom and returned to the county jail. Not long after my arrival, my attorney came to visit me and said, “Pammy, you’ll go for another bond hearing before a federal magistrate because your case is going to be turned over to the federal government, so we’ll have another chance at bond. Now, about money. Your sister gave me twenty-five thousand dollars, but I think I’ll need more to defend you properly. You’re in a lot of trouble.”

  “How much trouble?”

  “You could get life. Do you have any more money?”

  Lawyers are fucking crooks. They’re the ones who really get paid in the dope game. Plus they get to keep drug money. Isn’t that some shit?

  “Look, check this out, I’ll get back with you.” Nah, he wouldn’t work. He was in this to get paid, buy a new Jag or something. Nobody was going to make a come-up off of me, especially not while I was in jail. Money laundering is often a charge given to drug dealers, but isn’t the attorney the one who charges five to six figures to defend a case for an unemployed defendant guilty of laundering drug money? This guy wasn’t trying to be in it to win it and I didn’t need his type. What I did need was an experienced Jewish attorney. Everyone knows that the legal system is managed by Jewish attorneys, prosecutors and judges.

  On the evening news, I learned that Chino and Rock made bond of $3,500. I couldn’t believe it. How could they have received such a low bond? I was happy for them, though, because I knew how bad I wanted to raise up out of there.

  They denied bond for my brother and for the driver. Our bonds were all two million in cash. Rumors flew everywhere that Chino was telling on people and that this was how he got out on bond. He had a prior record, and I was a first-time offender. This contributed a lot to the suspicion, but I knew my Chino would do the right thing. He would never flip on anyone. I knew I was the target. The feds wanted me, but I didn’t understand them keeping the others.

  I fired my first attorney and I acquired another attorney who came highly recommended because he had defended some other drug dealers and gotten them good sentences, plus he was Jewish. So I went with my new hired gun, Myer Levin, and his price was also $25,000. Problem was the other attorney had my first twenty-five Gs, so I was out of ready cash. I had a lot of money in the streets and at my home, not to mention the money that they caught me with, more than half a million cash, but it wasn’t like I could ask the feds to give it back. When I met with Mr. Levin, I assured him that I would get the fee together.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll get the money to you.”

  “Good. I’ll work with you, but we have a lot of work to do. I’ve spoken with the prosecutor on your case. I’ve worked with him before, and he’s the no-nonsense type. You need to take a deal. They want to give you life, and with these new drug laws, it’s possible.”

  Whatever happened to “Are you guilty?” or “Did you do it?” Where’s my due process?

  “They want to take your son from you and are prepared to play whatever game you want. They don’t want to let you out,” said Mr. Levin.

  “Will you still try to get me a bond?”

  “Yes, I’ll try, but it’s doubtful.” He saw the faint glimmer of hope disappear from my face. “I’m always going to be up front with you.”

  “Please do. I like to shoot straight from the hip. No games and no tricks. Are you a prosecutor in defense-attorney clothing? Will you sell me out?”

  “I’m insulted,” he told me as he gathered his paperwork and place
d it into his briefcase. “I always do my very best.”

  “I’ll see you in court on Monday. Go do your homework.”

  “Pamela, I’ll do my best to represent you. Stay positive.”

  “I will. Someone will be in touch. Bye.” He left the pro booth, and I waited to be escorted back to my dorm.

  My absentee father came out of the woodwork and offered his house and his retirement fund for my bond. My parents had been beefing for years. They got divorced when I was seven and couldn’t stand to be in the same room with each other.

  My mom offered all she had, too, and I was scraping together all I could. It was tough collecting from behind bars. I was limited to collect calls only, and no one in the streets wanted to talk to me because when someone gets knocked on a drug case, she’s hotter than a VCR in a crack house. I was soon learning how things went down once you’re inside, behind the walls. Not to mention the standard inconveniences of horrible food, terrible living conditions, stealing, bulldogging and the incredible noise level.

  I could barely hear on the phone, and if I requested that someone lower her voice, that was a provocation for a fight. I was in another world full of its own drama, and everybody was just trying to survive, missing their families and trying to get out, wanting to be free.

  Twenty-eight

  My attorney told me that my codefendants had approached the prosecutor for deals against me, and that was how they got out so soon. Still, I refused to believe that Chino would leave me for dead—again. I had given Chino ten kilos, and he was caught with only one, so I knew he had nine kilos out there, which meant he had money for me. So I had Renaye, one of my former girls, try to page him. I gave her several ways to get in touch with him. Chino never called her back. Renaye went and told his sister that I really needed to speak to him, and yep—the muthafucka played me. I needed money to pay my attorney, and Chino had it. He didn’t give me nothin’. He didn’t even try to get in touch with me.

  “Renaye, are you serious?”

  “Carmen, yes, I am. His sister was snotty as hell and didn’t want to take my number. She finally did, but I got a feeling he won’t call. I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do for you? I have a couple thousand and it’s all yours.”

  “No, honey. I’m just thankful for you taking my phone calls.”

  “Carmen, I’m here for you, girl. Ain’t nothing changed. My service is doing well, thanks to all you taught me. If you need me or anything, I’m here. Actually, we’re all here for you. Gabrielle and I want to come see you. Can we?”

  “No, not yet. I’m not feeling up to any visits yet.”

  Renaye paused for a moment. She was hurt. “Well, keep calling me, and if you need me to bring you anything, let me know.”

  “Thanks, Renaye. Bye.”

  Chino had done it to me again. I just knew he would contact me somehow, through somebody. I knew he would use one of our secret codes or something. That bitch got out and didn’t have any intentions on looking back.

  The following Monday, we all went again for a bond hearing before the federal magistrate, and as I stood before him, Chino refused to even look at me. My attorney did his best representing my family and the reasons for allowing me out on bond. We tried it all from reporting bond to ankle monitoring to homes to cash to property to retirement funds, yet the magistrate (Mr. Bitch at this point) said, “Ms. Xavier, you will remain in the custody of the U.S. Marshals Service. This is the prosecution’s request, and you will remain until sentencing.”

  I leaned over to speak with my attorney, asking him, “What does that mean?”

  “It means they won’t give you a bond—you’re not getting out. You’re going from here to the county, and from the county to prison.”

  The words echoed in my ears as my heart fluttered rapidly. “Now we just need to work on for how long, and that’s where I come in. Let me do my job.”

  As they led me out of court handcuffed with a waist chain and leg irons, I felt an emotion that I still can’t find the words to describe. It was like my life flashed before my eyes. All the lessons. All the warnings. All the mistakes. All the regrets. All the betrayals and the wrongs that I had committed. All I wanted was for my son to have a father, for us to be happy and maybe with a lil’ flavor, a lil’ bling bling.

  In the holding cell, thoughts floated through my mind. I remembered meeting Chino one day with the vans. I had decided to surprise him and take our son with me. I gave him a bath and tried to dress him so he’d be extra handsome. I brushed his hair and put lotion on his lil’ face and just tried to make him look his best. I did all this hoping that if he looked nice, then maybe, finally, Chino would want him. My son was already beautiful, but I had run out of ways to try to get his father to love him. I thought maybe a new outfit would help in some way. Chino was happy to see the baby, but it still didn’t make a difference—he had no love for me and none for our son.

  Twenty-nine

  My brother and Ramón were held without bond. Chino and Rock were allowed to remain on bond without any monitoring. They had reporting bonds. Now, one can call it skill or call it lawyer expertise, because he had a thoroughbred lawyer, but all I can call it is bullshit because he utterly abandoned me. I was glad he was out, though. I still had days where I operated under the delusion that he would tie up business for me. Maybe he could help me like I helped him. I even thought that now he would spend time with the baby and get custody of his son. Well, I was wrong.

  Chino got his federal prints done as I waited in the cell. I glanced at him, but he still refused to look at me. Then he turned around and bounced up out of there, temporarily a free man. That was the last time I saw him or heard anything from him.

  My attorney later told me things that Chino’s attorney told him, about our past together. Chino told his attorney about how I’d shot him and that the baby wasn’t his. He went on about how jealous I was of his wife. Weak-ass bullshit like that.

  Then his family accused me of setting him up. What kind of setup would put me in jail and him out on the streets, free and with over $200,000 of my money in his pocket? Street bullshit at its finest. Money can’t stop the drama, and money can’t buy you love.

  I returned to the county jail, and my attorney came to see me that night.

  “Xavier, pro visit!” a correctional officer yelled.

  “Coming.” I was directed to the pro visit booth.

  “Hi, Pamela, I have some bad news for you. The feds have seized all of your property.” He shuffled through some papers, then continued, “They have a black BMW 525, a green Jeep, a white Jeep, a condo and a home in the Muirfield suburb. Sounds like a very nice home. You’ll get copies of all this. I’ll always give you copies of everything.”

  “Great, but I can’t really keep paperwork in here. No lockers.”

  “I’ll try to get you something to keep them in. It’s a lot of paperwork, but we’ll go over it all during our visits. I have a lot of questions for you, but first I need to tell you what you are facing. They have new federal guidelines that start at a mandatory minimum of ten years to life. Your drug sale puts you in the minimum, and they want to convert the money they found on you into drugs. When we get the motion of discovery in a couple of weeks, we’ll know more. But as it stands, you’re at a guideline level of thirty-four, and based on this, you’re facing 151 to 188 months in prison, which is eleven to fifteen years, give or take.”

  I felt nauseous.

  “I’ll keep giving you information as I get it. I’ll be meeting with the prosecutor soon to see what he wants to do with you.”

  “So, I’m screwed?”

  “That you are, but don’t give up hope.”

  I put my head on the table and lay there in response.

  “There is still a light at the end of the tunnel. I doubt you’ll get life, and they are very interested in talking to you. In fact, they’ve been calling my office. My last client got twenty years, and that was with a deal. I have got another client who pleaded t
o six years with the witness relocation program. You may want to consider a deal to help yourself before the others keep rolling on you and you end up with no chance.”

  These are encouraging words?

  “Your name has come up with the kid who got caught at the hotel with some kids from the North Side gang, as well as with this kid who’s in for murdering and robbing some drug dealer with a strange name. I forget it. Also, a guy named Joseph ‘Joe Bob’ Jamieson, who got a case a couple years ago, mentioned your name and Chino’s in relation to his case. So they’ve got a file on you and your son’s father. Chino’s name has been downtown for several years, and this is the same prosecutor who prosecuted him on his state case. He’s very familiar with Chino, and basically, they have someone to directly set you up. The feds always hear things—they’re the feds—and now they got you. So just think about it, and I’ll be in touch. You’ve got my home number. Don’t hesitate to use it whenever you want.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. I began feeling panicked, so I blurted out, “How long will this process take? How long will I have to stay in this county jail?”

  “Mmm? Let’s just say for about fifteen months, give or take a few. My last client stayed for nineteen months.”

  “What! Fuck that! Just send me to prison. Why wait?”

  “Don’t worry. That’s where they’re sending you, all right, but it’s a process, so be patient.”

  “No contact visits for fifteen months? I have a baby.”

  “Pammy, it’s a squeeze. They know you have a baby, and they know you want to see and touch him. But this is how they do things. I don’t make the rules. Anything else?”

  “No! Keep me posted.” Fuck it! I want my mommy.

  Thirty

  I was escorted back to the cell. Then I called my mom to update her on everything that had just transpired. I even tried to explain all that I had been doing to get into this trouble, but she just stopped me from talking and said, “Pamela, I am your mother. I’m not your friend. I don’t care about the past because that is just what it is. We have to focus on today and tomorrow. We can’t cry over spilled milk. I don’t care if you did what they are saying you did or not. You’re my baby, and you can’t do any wrong. I will always be here for you. We will work through this. You are not alone.”