Trust No Man 3

by Cash

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.

  Wahida Clark Presents Publishing

  60 Evergreen Place

  Suite 904

  East Orange, New Jersey 07018

  973-678-9982

  www.wclarkpublishing.com

  Copyright 2012 © by CASH

  All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-In-Publication Data:

  CASH

  Trust No Man 3 Like Father, Like Son/ by CASH

  ISBN 13-digit 978-09818545-9-5 (paper)

  ISBN 10-digit 0-9818545-9-1 (paper)

  LCCN 2001012345

  Urban- 2. Atlanta- 3. Hip-Hop- 4. African American-Fiction- 6. African American criminals

  Cover design and layout by Nuance_*Art*

  Book design by Nuance_*Art*

  Edited by Linda Williams

  Proofreaders Rosalind Hamilton, Wanda Upshaw

  Printed in USA

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Being that this is my fourth book and I’ve previously acknowledged everyone who has been important to me in life and on my journey as an author, I’m not going to repeat what’s already known. So don’t feel slighted if I fail to acknowledge you again on here—it’s still love. Of course, I’ll always acknowledge my family, which includes the usual suspects and my mother, my sisters and brothers, nieces and nephews and my children. I love you all.

  I gotta single out Juwanda Alexander (Fat Meat) and my lil sis, Lisa Williams-Locklear (who I’m proud to say is a school principal) because they have done so much for me lately. Thanks and I love you.

  Lanesha (NeNe) Allen, thanks for your friendship and for typing the original manuscript. Niesha Morbley up in Freeport, NJ, ma, you ride hard for your boy. I told you I got you. Authors Aleta Williams, LaTonya West, and Andrionna Williams—keep striving. Author, Jennifer Luckett, I’ll always wish you well, and I'm impressed with your growth as a woman. Carol Huff and the family, thanks for trying. Hadiya McDuffie, Monica Moore, and the authoress LaToya Perry. My ardent fans and supporters on Facebook. I thank you all. To the real “Ava”, shawdy it's your time to shine so ignore the haters and blossom like the beautiful flower that you are.

  To Monique Phillips who typed the corrections and changes to the manuscript and to Linda Wilson who did some boss editing and brought the heat out of my pen. This book would be so much less without the two of you.

  A shout out to the whole WCP squad, but particularly to Anthony Fields (your pen is wicked, brah) and NeNe Capri (keep trappin’ ‘em). And the Queen, Ms. Wahida Clark (you stand for a lot, ma’am). To all the book clubs, reviewers, fans and even the naysayers—you are a part of my success and I thank you.

  One.

  DEDICATIONS

  I have now been on lock for twenty-one years. And in that time I have seen it all. Still, what remains a rarity is a man with solid principles and an indomitable will that never breaks. There are few of us. So I dedicate this to the few men and women behind bars who truly keep it gangsta.

  TRUST NO MAN 3

  LIKE FATHER, LIKE SON…

  BY: CA$H

  SYNOPSIS

  After his father was executed, Lil T vowed to seek revenge against every individual who played a part in Youngblood’s downfall. Anybody whose testimony helped convict and send Youngblood to death row was sure to catch hell on earth.

  Following in his father’s footsteps, Lil T dons the name Trouble, and his name holds the true weight of its meaning. The time has arrived when Lil T is all grown up and filled with bitterness. He’s dead-set on avenging his father’s death. The ATL is about to feel his pain!

  By his side like a trustworthy glock is his beautiful but deadly ride or die chick, Kamora, and his comrade, Criminal, whose gangsta is just as official as Lil T’s.

  Will love and loyalty prevail over the usual downfalls of greed, jealousy and betrayal as they set the ATL on fiyah?

  Prologue

  The Execution of a Street Legend

  March 3, 2003

  Four guards and the warden led Youngblood into the state’s death room at the Diagnostic Center in Jackson, Georgia. With respect to his culture, no chaplain accompanied him. Youngblood did not need a figurative crutch, he was ready to face his execution the same way he lived: with no fear.

  He had, by stopping his appeal, told the state to bring it on. Well, tonight, they were bringing it.

  Juanita, Poochie and Swag were present as witnesses, per Youngblood’s request. His mother, Ann, had declined to attend the legalized murder of her child. She wanted to be there to say goodbye to him, but she knew that they would have had to kill her, too. Because as soon as they strapped her baby to that gurney, she would’ve acted a fool!

  Three witnesses for the state were also present. They sat outside the viewing window along with Youngblood’s family and friends. Juanita and Poochie held hands, giving one another strength. Swag put a hand on top of theirs. “Try to stay strong,” he whispered.

  Youngblood saw their faces through the viewing window. He flashed them a strong smile and tapped his heart with his fist. There was no resistance from him when he was strapped down on the gurney.

  “Do you have any final words?” asked the warden, a black puppet. Youngblood turned his head aside so he could see his people. The death room had a PA system so his voice could be heard clearly.

  “Tell my Ma Dukes that I love her, and that my choices were my own. They in no way reflect on her. Tell all my seeds that I leave here at peace because I trust that they’ll be all right. Tell ‘em I love ‘em. Poochie, thanks for being here. I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” mouthed Poochie.

  “Swag, you held me down, fam’. Stay thorough and you’ll rape the rap game. Juanita, baby, no words can suffice. So I’ll just say you represent my legacy. You and my tribe. I love you, Queen. Knowledge, knowledge,” he concluded, which meant “peace” in their culture.

  “Peace God, I love you,” Juanita said aloud.

  “Hold Inez down,” added Youngblood. Juanita nodded, wiping away tears that poured down despite the strength she was trying hard to maintain.

  Youngblood smiled his understanding and blew her a kiss. “Swag,” he stated, “tell the streets I said Disloyalty is unforgivable—Trust No Man.”

  Youngblood then turned his head towards the warden. “Bring it on,” he said with a brave heart. When the death fluid was pumped into his arms, Youngblood did not flinch. He locked eyes with Juanita and relinquished his life, dying with eyes open, smiling at his queen.

  “I love you, always baby,” Juanita whispered through her tears, as she realized that Youngblood was gone.

  Poochie stood up from her seat in the viewing room, clutching her Bible so tight that her knuckles were white. She glanced in the window one last time and saw that Youngblood’s head had fallen slack in death, but his eyes remained fixed on them as if he were observing their reaction.

  Briefly, Poochie was afraid to move, unsure if her step would be steady enough to support her trembling legs. “Lord, you promised not to put more burdens on me than I can bear so I’m trusting in you,” she said silently. She knew His power.

  What she didn’t know was how she was going to be able to help stem the immense anger that Youngblood’s execution would breed in Lil T, Youngblood’s son by her daughter Shan.

  “I’m giving it all to you, Lord,” Poochie said as she felt Swag holding her up on one side and Juanita supporting her on the other.

  They e
xited the room with heavy hearts. Swag was bristling inside; his nigga was gone. He knew that Youngblood’s legend would live on because street niggas in the A would forever recall how Youngblood had put his robbery and murder game down, then stared death in the face and told those crackers to bring it on.

  Swag planned to glorify that in his music. There was no way he wouldn’t tell the streets how his fam’ went out like the gangsta that he had been in life. “And I’ma hold your fam’ down. My nigga,” Swag vowed.

  He looked at Juanita to see how she was holding up as they made their way down the long hall that led to the entrance. He saw Juanita release Poochie’s arm, then cover her face with both hands and began to sob. Swag let go of Poochie’s other arm and reached out for Juanita. She fainted into his arms.

  Painful Reactions . . .

  Kentucky Correctional Institution for Women

  Three years into a seven year bid for her role in a murder committed by Youngblood, but unrelated to the murders for which he was executed, Youngblood’s ride or die chick, Inez was heartbroken by the news that her boo had been put to death.

  “Nooooo!” cried out Inez, sinking to her knees on the cold bare floor of her cell. Her cellmate turned off the radio to spare Inez more grief from the sad news. Tears streamed down Inez’s face in rivers. “Baby . . . baby . . . baby.” She sobbed as she made it up on her knees and laid her head on a pile of letters that she received from Youngblood from death row. She looked up to search through the pile for the very last letter he had written her. It had arrived yesterday. Finding it, she read the words once more.

  Hello Beautiful,

  The time is nearing when I’ll depart this earth in the physical but I know I’ll forever be alive in your heart. Real talk, shawdy, I’ve never known a woman who is a rider like you. You didn’t just ride until the wheels came off; you rode on an axle and hope. When those crackers pressured you to flip, you gave ‘em the finger. That’s the same toughness I expect you to show when I close my eyes for the last time. If muthafuckas think you’ll fold when I’m gone, they don’t know the boss female I loved and respected to the utmost. Baby girl, a nigga’s love for you can’t be expressed with words, it’s too deep. Just know that as I count down my final hours I’ll be reminiscing about you, wishing I could hold you just one more time and whisper these three words in your ear: I Love You . . .

  Inez could read no further because her tears blinded her. It felt like his soft lips were pressed against her ear and his strong arms were wrapped around her. But she knew that neither could ever happen again. He was dead.

  She picked up a picture of him that she had cut out of Don Diva. “I’m going to miss you so much.” She turned the radio back on to hear what else was being broadcasted about her baby’s daddy. In tribute of Youngblood, the station was blasting “Missing You” by Puff Daddy, featuring Faith and 112.

  Life ain’t always what it seems to be/words can’t express what you mean to me/even though you’re gone we’re still a team . . . Inez’s sobs echoed throughout the cellblock.

  “I know it hurts, chick,” her cellie Brandi said, wrapping a motherly arm around Inez.

  “Yes it does,” Inez said as she wept.

  For the past three years as Youngblood sat on Georgia’s deathrow awaiting an execution date, Inez had known that this day would eventually come, but knowing it hadn’t made it any easier on her heart. The ache in her chest doubled her over. Inez buried her face in Brandi’s lap and sobbed.

  “Hold on to the fond memories and let go of everything else,” said Brandi. But even to her own ears that sounded impossible. From the many long talks that they had shared, Brandi knew that Inez’s love for Youngblood was epic, and so would be her pain.

  “What a life to take/what a bond to break . . . I’ll be missing you.” Inez tried to sing along with the song on the radio. There was no melody to her tone, just pure heartache. She wept for his children, his mother and herself as memories of Youngblood flashed through her mind and the pain rose up to choke off the next verse of the song before it could come out of her mouth.

  “I’ll never stop loving him,” she vowed once the sobs calmed down a bit.”

  “I know, baby. I know.” Brandi’s voice was consoling.

  “Even his death won’t break our bond.”

  * * * * *

  No bond is stronger than the bond between mother and child. Ann was at home praying that the phone call she awaited from Poochie would bring news that there had been a stay of execution. “My father in Heaven, blessed be thy name. I know that my son has forsaken you. But, oh Lord, I have served you faithfully even when you took Toi away and I wanted to give up. But I trusted in you, Lord. I don’t ask you for much, so please hear this prayer. He’s my firstborn; please don’t take him away from me. Touch his heart and may he preach your Word from inside the prison. Give ear to my words, O Lord. Consider my meditation. Give heed to the voice of my cry, my king and God, to you I pray.”

  The shrill ringing of the telephone interrupted her prayer. She jumped as if she were frightened by the sound.

  “I’ll answer it,” her husband said. He had been at prayer by her side.

  They rose up together. “Lord, if you must, take my life and spare my child’s,” she prayed. Her husband reached for the cordless phone on the nightstand.

  “Hello?” He listened to the caller without saying a word. Finally he replied, “Thank you.”

  Behind him, Ann’s body shook with nervousness. She tried to read the expression on his face once he turned. A pregnant silence quickened her heartbeat. “I’m sorry. He’s gone,” he finally said.

  Ann fainted across his arms.

  * * * *

  Meanwhile, up in the A, another one of Youngblood’s baby mama’s hadn’t kept it thorough at all while Youngblood was alive, and now that he had just been killed by the state, the guilt of her shady acts had her by the throat.

  Cheryl’s arm went around her daughters as they listened to the television reporter announce that Youngblood’s execution was successfully carried out. “What is executed, Mama?” asked eight-year-old Eryka.

  “Yeah Mama, what’s exemacuted?” chimed her sister who was only eleven months younger.

  Cheryl didn’t know what to tell them. They both loved their daddy so much it was heartbreaking. They had been toddlers when she ran off with them and Youngblood’s million dollar stash. That was so lowdown, she admonished herself now. Because even though Youngblood had emotionally abused her, he had been very loving to his children.

  She had stolen his babies and his stash to run off with another nigga. A man who’d ultimately stolen the stash from her. When she returned to Atlanta she had four children instead of just the two she had bounced with. By then, Youngblood was already on death row.

  Cheryl had thought that without money Youngblood wouldn’t be so arrogant, and that a cold taste of karma would make him nicer. Obviously, she had been wrong; her thievery had brought out the beast in him. But she also knew his more gentle side. Memories of him giving her a piggy back ride and playing hide and seek with the girls came rushing back in still photos in her mind. Yes, he’d been a killer, but he’d also been her dude and her first love. I’m sorry for what I did to you, she thought.

  Cheryl’s shoulders rocked as guilt welled up inside her.

  “Mama, what’s wrong?” asked Eryka, hugging her while Chanté tried to wipe away her tears.

  “I’m okay.” Cheryl sniffled.

  Somehow, she found the words to explain to her daughters what executed meant. Their cries wounded her heart, and when Youngblood’s mug shot flashed on the television screen again, Chanté ran up to the flat screen and kissed her daddy’s face, announcing, “Nope, Mama, my daddy ain’t dead.”

  Cheryl, hearing this, began to weep harder.

  Later, after she had sent them off to bed and looked in on her five and four-year-old sons, she passed her mother on the way to the bathroom. “They killed Youngblood tonight,” she re
ported somberly.

  “Humph!”

  “Dag, you could show some sympathy.”

  Her mother turned to face her and blared, “Did he have any sympathy for me when he kicked in my door and attacked me? What about those people he killed? Did he have any sympathy for them? You know, The Good Lord said an eye for an eye.” With that, she continued into the bedroom, leaving Cheryl’s mouth agape.

  It took every ounce of strength in Cheryl’s body not to react. He is still your granddaughters’ father! She kept her rants to herself as she went into the bathroom and closed the door behind her.

  She ran a tub of hot water and undressed. Memories flooded her brain, causing tears to fall again. I shouldn’t have allowed myself to get fat. I knew that he wanted a showpiece. That was my fault. It was dead ass wrong for me to steal his money from him, knowing he’d give me the world. And to take his kids? Who was I hurting? My girls, that’s who. That’s probably what gave him that “fuck the world” attitude.

  Then there were the things that Youngblood had never found out about.

  After Cheryl had gained weight and lost Youngblood’s interest, his indifference toward her had crushed her. To get even, Cheryl had fucked damn near every nigga in the apartment complex where she, Youngblood and the kids lived. She thought that this would make her feel better, but it had made her feel worse.

  She was a ho.

  Worse. She was a fat ho.

  She couldn’t blame him for no longer desiring her. No man wanted a fat bitch who couldn’t keep her legs closed. And she was stupid as hell, Cheryl decided herself. He hadn’t let her down; it was she who had failed to measure up to what he needed.

  It destroyed her to know that he died without ever forgiving her. Her torrent of tears dripped into the bath water as she reached for the Gillette razor on the side counter. I sold him out just as badly as his partner did . . . She shivered as she thought of her betrayal. It was her fault he was gone, leaving her children without their father. There was only one thing she could do to atone. She swiped her wrist with the razor and was surprised not to feel any pain. The razor made a thin but deep cut across her wrist. Closing her eyes, she cut deeper . . .