by Erica Hilton
The reason for the bombing and the destruction—Jessica. Maserati Meek was on a warpath.
14
They herded the criminals through like cattle at an auction. Central Booking was a busy place, and today wasn’t any different. It was early in the morning, and for dozens of criminals, it was arraignment day—bail or no bail, released or remanded. Some arrestees were dressed in orange overalls while others were in their civilian clothing. The daily routine for many court officials had legitimately started. The judge—an aging African American with salt-and-pepper hair, a clean-shaven face, and hard eyes—presided over the courtroom in his long, flowing black robe. To his left, the prosecution and the authorities gathered, and to his right, the court-appointed lawyers sat on the front bench with their economical suits, worn shoes, and tired eyes. They came and went, depending on the defendant they represented.
The bailiff started to call out each case by its document number, followed by the defendant’s name, and the judge rattled off drug charges, misdemeanors, robberies, armed robberies, assaults, parole violations, and some ambiguous sexual attacks. The defendants’ names were called and they were led forward to the bench for their prompt judgment day. Many stood in silence and awaited their fate. Paperwork was shuffled around, and some were denied bail while some were released on their own recognizance.
Among those waiting to see the judge was Jessica. She had seen better days. She was fatigued and her long hair was in disarray. She yearned to be a free woman again. Though it had been less than forty-eight hours, it felt like an eternity behind bars. She wanted to go home. She needed a long, hot shower, some decent food, sleep, and some dick. It took a lot of flirting with the guards and the gift of gab to have her case brought forward in the early morning, or else it might have taken her the entire day to see the judge.
She was escorted into the courtroom. Her charges were read for the judge to hear. Jessica stood still and silent. Her angry attitude was gone. It was replaced with a humbled and tired-looking young woman. She stared at the judge and he stared back. Her court-appointed lawyer flanked her. He was a middle-aged white male with a dark mustache, curly blonde hair, and blue eyes. He looked like he had never stepped foot in the ghetto. His clientele was mostly blacks and Hispanics.
The judge asked, “How do you plead, young lady?”
“Not guilty,” she replied.
He read over her case and her history: no serious priors, et cetera. Then there was the incident with the two female cops at the 1st precinct. The NYPD was at fault. Jessica had the right to file a suit. The prosecution wanted to throw the book at Jessica, but the judge had a lenient look in his eyes. Within two minutes of her appearance, he released her on her own recognizance. The judge gave her another court date two months from now. Jessica smiled. Finally, she could go home and meet up with Maserati Meek and tell him about everything.
Unbeknownst to her, the wheels of her demise had already started to turn; parked outside of the court building were Devon, The Kid, and Papa John. They were waiting patiently for her dismissal from the building. An informant on the inside had already given them the details, and now it was only a matter of time before they ran into her. The men were heavily armed—and cautious, too. Who else was waiting for the girl? There was tension inside the van. The men didn’t know what to expect. Maserati Meek had caught them off guard with his last stunt. What next? Would he try to blow up a city block too?
“Everyone be careful and watch your back,” The Kid said.
Devon nodded. He looked undaunted. The only thing he was concerned about at the moment was Jessica’s death. Papa John sat in the back looking cool as a cucumber, but on the inside it felt like he was falling apart with apprehension. The Kid sat with a poker-faced appearance, still portraying a cripple and hoping that he survived this ordeal.
While they waited on the Manhattan street, camouflaged amongst the morning traffic, their cell phones started to ring simultaneously. They looked at each other. Something was going on. What?
Eshon was calling Kid. He answered his phone. “What’s up?”
“Ohmygod, Ohmygod!” Eshon cried out frantically.
“Eshon, what happened?”
“You didn’t hear?”
“Hear what?”
“It’s all over the news…Jessica’s building exploded early this morning.”
“What the fuck?” The Kid uttered in awe.
Devon and Papa John were receiving the same news. Each man was also stunned by what they’d just heard.
“What you mean, exploded?” The Kid asked.
“They sayin’ it was another bomb! People are dying, Kid.” Eshon was clearly shaken up and upset.
The Kid sat there taking it all in. Maserati Meek was becoming more destructive. But why Jessica’s building? She was still in the courts. Something was going on, but what was it?
“What the fuck is goin’ on?” Papa John said.
“We can’t let this shake us up,” The Kid said.
“Nigga, he blew up a fuckin’ project building! What kind of crazy shit is that?”
The Kid sighed. Yeah, what kind of crazy shit was that? They had never seen anything like this. Muthafuckas were really crazy. Even Kip wouldn’t have been ready for this shit.
Devon had no words. There was some trepidation inside of him, too, but the anger he felt was even stronger. He gripped the .50 cal tighter while seated behind the steering wheel. He kept his eyes fixed on the entrance to the courtroom. Today’s date would be etched on Jessica’s tombstone!
***
Jessica came trudging out of Central Booking at a little after ten that morning. The sun was bright and the day warm, but her mood was dreary. It had been a long morning, and she looked like hell. Her dress was gone, replaced by the atrocious set of prison scrubs, and she still had on her high heels. Everything about her was unmatched and a mess. She had broken a few nails, her hair felt dirty, and she had the stench of jail all over her.
Standing at the top of the long court stairs, Jessica looked around cautiously. No Maserati Meek—nobody was there to greet her. Her cousin Jalissa hadn’t relayed the message to her man. She’d thought she could trust her, but it was obvious that Jessica was on her own. No Meek—also, no Kid, she assumed. So far no trouble. The area was busy with people and traffic.
The first thing she thought about was going home, then yearning to see Meek. She had no idea what had happened just a few hours ago—that there was no more home for her. Her entire family was dead.
With her cell phone in hand, she jogged down the stairs and stopped on the sidewalk. She looked at her phone and cursed. “Fuck!” It went dead. She had no way of contacting anyone. What a mess. What to do? she thought. It was a long way back to Harlem from downtown. She had little cash on her. Pay phone, yes—a pay phone would help her out. Although they were obsolete in the age of the cell phone, Jessica was sure she could find at least one still around. She started to walk and looked around for the nearest one.
Following her from a distance and trying to fight the morning traffic were The Kid and his crew. They watched Jessica’s every move, including her cursing her dead phone.
“Follow that bitch,” The Kid said.
“Not a problem,” Devon said.
Jessica stood out from the downtown crowd in her prison scrubs and high heels. She received fleeting looks and probing gazes while roaming with the white-collared pedestrians in the downtown district. Despite her rough-looking appearance, her strut was still fierce. Muthafuckas could look at her any way they wanted, but she knew that with one phone call, her world would be back right—girl on top loving a boss nigga.
Devon rode at a snail’s pace three cars back as he rounded the corner toward Jessica. They couldn’t snatch that bitch right in front of the court building; there were too many witnesses around and not much room for an escape. They had to wait unti
l the perfect moment presented itself. With the morning crowd everywhere, the right moment was looking almost impossible. But they were determined. If they lost sight of her and let her get away, then there was no telling the ripple effect that could come.
The waiting was the difficult and nervous part. She walked two blocks, then three—and finally, she turned left from the busy street onto a side street. Beekman Street was a narrow block, a one-way with few people and little traffic. Jessica fumbled with her cell phone a bit and looked around for a pay phone and became unaware of her surroundings. A bad mistake. She continued to walk while cursing her situation while Devon slowed the van down almost to a crawl, riding parallel to the curb.
Papa John slowly slid the door back with his eyes on the prize. The foot traffic was sparse, and it gave him a window of opportunity. When they were close to her, Papa John leaped out from the back and grabbed her from behind. His hand covered her mouth to prevent her from screaming for help. There was a struggle. Jessica wasn’t going down without a fight. She elbowed Papa John in his stomach. It was a hard enough blow for him to loosen his grip around her. She attempted to run, but Papa John maintained his hold on her.
“Get the fuck off me! Help! Help!”
He grabbed her in a chokehold. She resisted by biting his flesh and squirming madly while in his clutches. She was feisty. The Kid had to intervene. He leaped from the van and smashed the butt of his pistol against her head. The blow hard enough to make her dizzy and her knees buckle. They quickly dragged her into the van and closed the door. Finally, they had that bitch in their possession again.
“Drive, nigga!” The Kid instructed Devon.
Devon drove away as quickly as he could, but downtown Manhattan wasn’t the perfect place to execute the Indy 500. The blocks were inundated with traffic, construction, and people walking. He did the best he could, at the same time trying to remain inconspicuous. Jessica was on the floor of the van in pain with blood on the side of her forehead. Her blurry vision was coming back. The Kid held her hostage at gunpoint. He smirked when she looked up at him.
“Your boyfriend can’t save you, and there’s no miracle escapes for you anymore, bitch. We on point now,” The Kid said.
Once again, Jessica found herself in a sticky situation. How had she gotten here again? How could she have been so sloppy? This time, there was definitely no escape. Her fate was sealed. All she could do was lock eyes with Kid and frown. The Kid wouldn’t try to kill her while they were in the city. He’d have to wait until they were someplace secure and remote—and then she would try to make yet another escape.
Twenty-five miles away from New York City, on a remote and shrouded road called Helmetta Boulevard in East Brunswick, New Jersey, Devon pulled the van onto the shoulder of the road and put the vehicle in park. Now was the time. Jessica stared at Kid, trying to keep her cool, but on the inside she was falling apart with fear. The Kid pointed a .9mm with a silencer on the end at her dome. He glared at her with pure hatred. He’d been waiting for this moment.
“All your family is dead,” he said to her.
“You’re lying!”
The Kid smiled. “You’ll see the truth shortly.”
He put the gun to her head and she looked at him with a fierce look. She refused to close her eyes—so be it. Her luck had run out A few tears trickled from her eyes. The Kid squeezed the trigger—Bak! Her blood splattered, and Jessica’s body crumbled backwards to the floor, her blood pooling underneath her. They removed the prison scrubs and red bottoms, leaving her stripped down to her bra and panties. They’d destroy her clothes and shoes later. The van door opened, and her body was dumped on the side of the road. Let the wildlife have at it.
“Y’all niggas hungry?” The Kid asked.
They drove off.
15
A sea of flashing lights from all types of emergency vehicles flooded the Harlem block. Fire trucks, police cars, ambulances, the bomb squad with their bomb-sniffing dogs and, of course, the FBI crowded 133rd Street and Old Broadway from corner to corner. It was a circus of law enforcement. Several news helicopters circled the area, catching a glimpse of the project building that had been bombed.
The area residents were in awe. Their homes had been transformed into a spectacle for the world to see. Many people had suddenly become homeless, some were forced out of their apartments by the authorities for safety reasons, and every building was warily inspected. The city wasn’t taking any chances. Harlem now had the world’s attention, and the city would remain on red. This was an act of terrorism. But the location had many scratching their heads. They were baffled. Why Harlem? Why suddenly this location? What did these terrorists have to gain by attacking the ghetto? These were nothing but average folks: no political ties, no power, no money. It didn’t make any sense.
The ripple effect from the bombing had already started. How many were dead? They didn’t know yet, but people were growing mad. They had lost family, children, and friends. It was the Muslims’ fault. The audacity of terrorists attacking their ghetto. Discrimination started to escalate, and a fight broke out at the bodega two blocks away from the bombing. Several black men attacked the owner. His name was Abdul, and he was a man the people had seen every day for years, but now he suddenly had become public enemy number one. A scuffle broke out, and Abdul had a bottle smashed against his head. They jumped him—kicking and stomping him—and shouted obscenities at him. They were angry. Somebody had to pay, and the people didn’t care who it was.
The cops had to break up the brawl. They were going to kill Abdul. But that wasn’t the end of it. If someone looked Middle Eastern, they became a sudden target for the growing lynch mob. The authorities, especially the FBI, were hauling everyone into custody for questioning, and their targeted groups were Muslims, Middle Eastern, or South Asian men. The city was falling apart with fear and racism. No one thought that Harlem would ever be under attack, but now certain folks took it upon themselves to take the law into their own hands. The police suddenly found themselves overwhelmed with hate crimes expanding across all five boroughs.
***
Officer Spielberg heard about the Harlem bombing through his police radio. He had just walked into the 1st precinct to start his shift when it was all over the radios, and on the news. He couldn’t believe it himself. It seemed so unreal. What was happening to his city?
Everyone was uneasy and on high alert. If they could attack Harlem, then what was to stop these people from attacking cops and police stations? Every cop in the city was on edge. At roll call, every cop was briefed on current terrorism intelligence and tactics. They were told to keep a keen eye out for anything suspicious, to not overlook anything no matter how small or simple it appeared to be. If there was anything left unattended, packages or bags, they were to contact the bomb squad.
Cops were gathered at certain locations and deployed to various soft-target locations. The Financial District was under intense twenty-four-hour coverage. NYPD was on constant watch everywhere. They didn’t need a full-blown panic from New Yorkers. They needed to keep the peace and keep people calm.
“Keep an eye out there for anything suspicious, and be safe out there, too. I want everyone to come back safely to their families,” their sergeant said to the uniformed cops at roll call.
The sergeant dismissed roll call. Officer Spielberg stood there in his police uniform and clenched his fists. He wanted to do something about the bombings. He felt he wasn’t doing enough. He gave the feds what he had on Jessica, and the phone number that was most likely linked to the terrorists. He wondered if the feds had followed through on the evidence he’d presented to them. He didn’t want to be played for a fool.
“You okay, Spielberg?” the sergeant asked him.
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
The sergeant tapped his right arm and said, “You’re a good cop out there. Keep your head up. We’ll find these assholes.”
He nodded.
The sergeant left the room with Officer Spielberg right behind him. When they entered the hallway, they saw the feds swarming their precinct like busy bees in their dark suits and badges. The man they asked for was Officer Spielberg.
“I’m right here,” said Spielberg.
“The director wants to have a word with you,” said an agent.
Officer Spielberg was ready to talk and share everything he knew so far. He figured he had given the feds their only good lead in these bombings. The club Sane bombing didn’t have any reliable footage, there were only a handful of survivors, and so far there were no groups out there taking credit for it—no witnesses, no suspects. For all the feds knew, it might be homegrown terrorism instead of ISIS or Al Qaeda.
Officer Spielberg felt a tinge of nervousness as he rode to the federal building with the agents. The feds were the big league, and now he had their attention. He wanted to impress them. Spielberg had always been smart and observant. His mother always told him to look, listen, and learn. He always felt that he was born to be a cop, maybe something higher, and he always wanted to do the right thing. He had been considered a Boy Scout since he was ten years old.
Officer Spielberg did his best not to look nervous as he took a seat in one of the many rooms at the federal building. The room was windowless, carpeted, and closed-circuit. It was similar to the typical interrogation room at his precinct, but a lot nicer looking. He sat proudly at the table waiting to speak with someone. He had been told it would be the director himself. He took a deep breath and waited.
Moments later, the door opened and the director stepped into the room with a few of his subordinates. The man was sharply dressed in a dark blue suit with a bright red tie, polished wingtip shoes, and his credentials showing. He had black hair, strong blue eyes, and was clean shaven with a refined stature.
