by Shelly Ellis
“I’m going to ask that you guys keep this information in here, among yourselves for now. Please don’t tell the students yet what’s happened to Cole, especially his classmates. Sometime this afternoon, we’re going to hold an assembly where we will let them know, but I don’t want this in the gossip grapevine, okay? I don’t want any crazy rumors.”
“Crazy rumors about what?” an English instructor asked.
“About how he died,” Derrick said. And why he died, Derrick thought, but didn’t say the words aloud.
Many of Cole’s classmates who knew he had a connection to Dolla Dolla would come to their own conclusions.
“How did he die though?” Morgan asked. Her green eyes were big and wet with tears that were threatening to spill over. “Do they know who did it?”
Derrick pursed his lips again and shook his head. “They’re still investigating it. They don’t know much, and what little they do know . . . well . . . I’d rather not go into detail right now if that’s okay with everybody. But I’ll share more info when its available.”
Several people nodded. A few more whispered or mumbled “okay” or “sure.”
“I know this is a lot to take in. Losing one of our own is . . . is not something that’s easy to accept,” Derrick said, lowering his eyes. “But we’ll get through this. I know we will.”
He was trying to sound encouraging, but the words felt hollow. Everyone in the room knew that the Branch Avenue Boys’ Youth Institute was a place where boys went to get a second lease on life. Instead, one of those boys had not only lost his second chance—but he’d also lost his life entirely at the young age of seventeen. His murder wasn’t just a gross injustice. There was something profoundly wrong about it, something uneven. Yes, children died every day all over the world from starvation, neglect, war, and any number of atrocities, but to know one of them personally, to have tried to save him and failed was a pain that was indescribable.
“I’ll send out an email to reschedule the meeting we had slated for today. In the meantime, say a prayer for Cole and his family. Thanks, everybody,” he said.
Unlike in the past when Derrick would adjourn the meeting, everyone didn’t rise to their feet and run for the door. They lingered in their seats and glanced at one another. Gradually, they stood and shuffled to the door in silence, like they were leaving a funeral. Only Morgan lingered behind.
Derrick watched the door and waited until everyone else had left before he slowly walked toward where she was sitting. He took the seat beside her and saw that she was crying. He reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. It was the first time he’d touched her since that night at the education banquet.
“How did it happened?” she asked between hiccups. “Tell me how it happened, Derrick. And I don’t wanna hear any bullshit about how the investigation is ongoing. You know something. I know you do!”
Derrick closed his eyes and loudly exhaled. “His mother said it happened this morning in the showers. They don’t know who did it. But one of the corrections officers found him in there on the floor. He was already dead. He’d been stabbed more than a dozen times.”
Morgan bit down hard on her bottom lip as the tears swam over her cheeks. She wiped them away with her hands. “That asshole he was working for is behind this. You and I know that.”
“Probably,” he said. He didn’t mean to sound so cool and detached, but with all the emotion Morgan was pouring out, it seemed better to contain his. “Cole told me in his own way that he was worried about his safety. I was hoping he was wrong.”
“Well, he wasn’t wrong—and now he’s dead! And the people who killed him will probably go unpunished and the son of a bitch behind it is still walking around and still capable of hurting or killing whoever the hell he wants,” she said before shoving Derrick’s hand off her shoulder and shooting to her feet.
“Morgan,” he began, but she quickly shook her head, silencing him.
“Don’t. Don’t, Derrick. I don’t want to hear any more!”
He then watched as she stalked toward the open doorway and out into the hall.
He didn’t run after her. He thought better of it. Besides, how could he make her feel better when he felt so bleak himself?
Chapter 25
Jamal
Jamal screamed as he awoke, swinging and batting wildly at the hundreds of bees that had been attacking him in his dream. He opened his eyes and realized he wasn’t running in a forest, trying to elude an angry swarm that he had haplessly stumbled upon. Instead, he was in his darkened bedroom. He sat up, tiredly rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, and frowned. So if he wasn’t dreaming anymore, why did he still hear buzzing? He glanced at his night table. That wasn’t bees he was hearing, but the insistent buzz of his cell phone. The sound had somehow made it into his dreams. Someone had just sent him a text and for some reason they had sent it before six a.m. The sun wasn’t even up yet.
“Who the hell is texting me this early?” he mumbled.
He reached for his phone, removed it from his night table, and put on his glasses since his contacts were now floating in a solution in his bathroom. He stared down at the text message on the screen.
I sent you something last night. You still ain’t opened it. Check your email, nigga!
Jamal’s frown deepened. The text was from Ricky. What did Ricky email him that was so damn important?
Jamal pulled back the cotton sheets and threw his legs over the side of the bed. He yawned as he pulled up the email app on his phone and scrolled through the list, finding Ricky’s email within seconds. When he did, he saw an MP3 file. He clicked on it and heard Ricky’s voice. Less than a minute after that, he heard Mayor Johnson’s, too—and he almost dropped his phone.
“Yeah, I heard about that shit with the deputy mayor . . . how you asked Dolla to have him killed,” Ricky said on the recording.
“And he sent a seventeen-year-old boy to do it! Like it was some low-level errand,” the mayor replied. “Like he was delivering a package, as opposed to taking out someone who has been a nuisance for me since the beginning.”
Jamal sat stupefied as he continued to listen. His mouth fell open in shock.
“Goddamn,” Jamal whispered, shaking his head in awe. “Ricky did it!”
* * *
Jamal sat in the police station, looking anxiously at the door as one police officer filed out, then another. He was searching for a familiar face.
Jamal had already left three voicemail messages today with the detective who he’d told about Mayor Johnson’s involvement in his attempted murder, and, so far, he hadn’t received a response. He didn’t want to wait any longer. If the man wouldn’t return his damn phone calls, then he would come to him directly.
He leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees, staring at the linoleum beneath his feet until his vision began to blur. Finally, he spotted the detective strolling in with another man. Both were wearing cheap suits and paisley ties. When Jamal saw him, he shot to his feet.
“Detective Wingate,” he called out.
The detective stopped talking mid-conversation and turned away from his companion. He stared at Jamal quizzically.
“Mr. Lighty?” he said, strolling toward him. “What are you doing here?”
“Did you get my voicemails? Did you get any of them?” Jamal asked, unable to keep the urgency out of his voice.
The detective slowly shook his head and shrugged. “No, I’ve been in the field all day. Why?”
The son of a bitch told me to call his cell phone at any time if I needed anything and he doesn’t even answer or check his messages. That’s just great, Jamal thought in exasperation.
“I got that additional evidence you said you needed,” Jamal said, holding up his cell phone. “You have to listen to it. It could put Johnson away for good.”
The detective exchanged a look with his companion that Jamal couldn’t help but interpret as “Do you see the shit I have to deal with?” H
is thin lips quirked into a patronizing smile. He murmured something to his companion, who nodded before heading toward the door leading to the station’s inner offices. The companion opened the door, stepped inside, and let it shut behind him just as Detective Wingate strolled toward Jamal.
“Mr. Lighty,” the detective began, dropping his voice to a whisper, “look, you’ve already expressed to me your worries about the mayor and his threats. But I told you that you—”
“These aren’t just threats. Someone made a recording of him trying to put a hit on me. He offered them a favor if they would agree to kill me. It’s all on here.” He pointed to his phone.
Wingate squinted. “They? Who’s they?”
“A friend of mine.”
“I see.” Wingate was giving him that look again. “You should know that we prefer to do our own police work with this sort of thing. Your ‘friend’ could be prosecuted for conducting secret recordings of—”
“But he works for you guys,” Jamal interrupted.
“Huh?”
Jamal glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone was listening to their conversation. Luckily, everyone else standing around the crowded police station lobby seemed oblivious to what they were talking about.
“He’s an informant,” Jamal whispered. “He’s been working for you guys for a while now. He’s been working with two detectives with the Metro Police. I swear it to you! You can call them and check him out if you don’t believe me.”
Wingate’s expression remained impassive but Jamal could tell he was listening to him now. He wasn’t being dismissive like before.
“What detectives?” Wingate asked. “What are their names?”
“Ramsey and Dominguez, I think.”
“You think?” Wingate repeated, scanning him with those cynical blue eyes again. “Well, what’s the informant’s name? If he’s your friend, you should know that for sure, right?”
Jamal hesitated.
Ricky was putting his life on the line every day as an undercover informant. Even in the recording, in the portion Jamal could hear, Ricky had left out his name. If you didn’t know him personally or recognize his voice, you wouldn’t know who Johnson was speaking to. Ricky hadn’t trusted many people with that secret, and though Wingate was with the police department, Jamal didn’t know for sure if he could trust him with Ricky’s identity either.
Jamal had betrayed his friends enough in the past; he didn’t want to do it again.
He shook his head. “I’m not telling you anything else until you listen to this. Listen to the whole thing. Then you can talk to the detectives. They can vouch for this guy without revealing his identity.”
Wingate studied him for a long time, not saying anything. Eventually, he nodded.
“Fine,” he said as he walked to the closed door that other officers were disappearing inside. “You can come with me and I’ll listen, but this informant of yours better check out or none of this stuff is admissible.”
Jamal pursed his lips. “I understand.”
Wingate paused with his hand hovering mere inches from the door handle. “But if you’ve got what you’ve claimed you’ve got—”
“It’s no claim. It’s exactly what I said it is.”
Wingate cocked an eyebrow, gripped the handle, and tugged the door open. He gestured for Jamal to step in front of him. “Well then, let’s have a listen, shall we?”
Detective Wingate listened to the recording. He did it three times, and each time he blinked at the end like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard exactly what he thought he’d heard.
“This really happened?” he asked. “I mean . . . Mayor Johnson really said all this?”
Jamal nodded as they sat alone in an office with a lone cabinet and computer.
“Well, I can’t make any promises on how far we can go with it, but there’s no way we can ignore a threat like this one. This is . . . this is something. Jesus!” the detective said, slumping back in his chair in shock.
Wingate didn’t make Jamal any assurances, but Jamal knew in his heart that this time Johnson wasn’t getting away with it.
Jamal emerged from the police station an hour later, smiling ear to ear. He strode down the stairs and walked toward his car, feeling more optimistic than he had in months, maybe in more than a year. Suddenly, a thought dawned in his head—one that had nothing to do with Johnson or his fight to stay alive. It seemed to come out of nowhere, but he suspected it was a product of the newfound buoyancy he was experiencing. He felt willing to take a chance and to let go of past burdens. What better way of doing that than to try something new?
Jamal reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He scanned through old texts until he found it. When he saw her name and number, his smile became a full on grin. He dialed the number as he walked down the sidewalk and used the remote to unlock his car door.
“Hello?” a female voice answered hesitantly.
“Hi, is this Samantha?”
“Yes, this is she.”
“Uh, this is Jamal. You gave me your number a couple of weeks ago.”
There was a pause on the other end.
For a split second, he wondered if maybe she had forgotten him. Maybe she gave her number to random dudes all the time. Maybe after she had given him hers, she had pushed him to the back of her mind when he didn’t call her right away.
“We met at a coffee shop,” he elaborated, now feeling slightly embarrassed. “I used to be one of your—”
“I know who you are, Jamal!” she said, laughing. “I was just surprised to hear from you. I was hoping you would finally call. How are you?”
He sighed with relief. “I’m better. Definitely better than when you last saw me,” he said as he opened the car door. “Look, I won’t beat around the bush with this. I was calling you because I’d love to take you out this week. I mean out to dinner if . . . if that’s okay.”
“Hmm, straight to the point, huh? Well, lucky for you, I like a guy who doesn’t beat around the bush,” she said, laughing again. “I’d love to go out with you. Unfortunately, I can’t do it this week though. I’m on the late shift at the hospital, but I’m free most of next week. How about Tuesday night?”
He climbed behind the wheel and shut the door behind him. “That would be perfect. Send me your address and I’ll pick you up at seven on Tuesday.”
“Seven, it is.”
He hung up and stared down at his phone screen. Are things finally starting to get better? he wondered. Shit! I hope so.
He inserted his key, threw his car into drive, and pulled off.
Chapter 26
Ricky
Ricky removed his hands from the wall and turned away from the textured wallpaper when he felt a pat on his shoulder.
“Okay, you’re good,” Dolla Dolla’s bodyguard said over the sound of thumping music. He winked at Ricky. “Have a good time, man.”
Ricky nodded, forcing a smile, but as he headed into the living room, his smile disappeared. Though he could see several men and women sitting on the leather sectional and armchairs in Dolla Dolla’s living room—laughing and talking, drinking glasses of champagne, and snorting lines of blow—he was in no partying mood. Once again, he had a mission to accomplish and not a lot of time to do it.
Derrick had finally confided in him yesterday the “issue” he had been having with Dolla Dolla. Derrick had only told him after one of his students had turned up dead in jail. Now Derrick was worried that Dolla Dolla’s inability to strong-arm him into using the Institute as another front business for his dirty dealings would lead to more deaths.
“I knew he would come after me,” Derrick had told Ricky. “But I can’t let him come after any more of these boys. I was willing to go down . . . to make the sacrifice, but I can’t stand to watch him pick them off one by one, if that’s his plan.”
“You should’ve told me this sooner, Dee,” Ricky had argued. “You should’ve told me what he was tryin’ to do.”
; Derrick had shaken his head. “You had enough on your plate. I don’t even like bringing up this shit now, but he took one of my boys. This has to stop, Ricky. If you can get him to back off, I’d appreciate it.”
Ricky now walked into the sunken living room and glanced up at the stripper who was dancing topless on the glass coffee table. He then scanned the rest of the room in search of Dolla Dolla.
The drug kingpin was a hard man to miss thanks to his gargantuan size. And if you didn’t see him, you could certainly hear his voice booming louder than a sonic jet.
Nah, he ain’t out here, Ricky realized when he still didn’t hear or see Dolla Dolla. But the man was somewhere in the apartment though. It was his party, and Dolla Dolla loved a good party.
“Hey, you’re Ricky, right?” someone shouted to him.
Ricky turned around to find José Palacios sitting on one of the armchairs, sandwiched between two half-naked, buxom women. One, who he gripped by the bottom, held a fingertip covered with white powder up to his left nostril. José leaned down, took a hit, and grinned.
“Yeah, it’s you!” José pointed up at him, wiping his nose. “I thought so. So where are your stuck-up bitches?” He laughed. “They decided they weren’t interested in doing business with us, huh?”
Ricky nodded. “Yeah, they passed.”
José laughed again. “Ah, well!” He reached up to massage one of the women’s breasts and then leaned forward to lick her nipple through the paper-thin fabric of her shirt, making her giggle. “We still got plenty of bitches to go around. Grab one if you like. We’re giving everybody a taste tonight. Let them try out the merchandise.”
“Maybe later,” Ricky muttered dryly. “I’m lookin’ for Dolla Dolla. Do you know where he is?”
“In the bedroom in the back, maybe,” José said, no longer looking at Ricky. Instead, his heavy-lidded eyes were locked on one of the young women and his hand was snaking its way up her short leather skirt. Just as she spread her legs in invitation, Ricky turned away. He’d had enough of José and his little peep show. He was here to find Dolla Dolla and plead Derrick’s case.
