DIE LATER
Rahiem Brooks
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2011 by Rahiem Brooks
PRODIGY PUBLISHING GROUP
Philadelphia, PA
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Email Rahiem at rahiemb@prodigypublishinggroup.com
Editor: Jenetha McCutcheon
Cover Designer: Gregory Goodwin
PART 1
CHAPTER 1
Humans instinctively resist killing, but for Antoine it was done without thought. He had advanced ghetto training that robbed him of any individuality, and he was weaned on craving exotic cars, bling bling and other things that he could not afford. His Timberland Chukka boots crashed on the concrete as he made his way from the robbery scene. He ran and waved a gun, which simply confirmed that the neighborhood was normal. That was the sort of day Antoine was having as he ran, because his life depended on it.
Normal.
His heart pounded uncontrollably as he escaped the crime scene. The evening was undoubtedly normal, and it lacked luck. There were at least five people aware that a crime had been committed and who the perp was. Two of them side-stepped out of the robber’s path before the Rueger that he had pointed at them went off. Another witness was perched in an apartment window and watched from a distance. She somehow rooted for the thug to get away. After all, she was glad that the man who distributed drugs on their block had taken a loss.
Having planned this robbery two months in advance, Antoine knew that he would be able to stick up the man who picked up the cash just before he hopped into his car. Antoine dug his gun deep into the man’s temple. A clot of blood had formed on the man’s face as Antoine said, “Drop the fucking bag.” The bag hit the street and Antoine pulled back his hand and back-handed the man with thunderous force. Before the man hit the ground, Antoine picked up the duffle bag and exited stage left. He had turned the corner before the man could summon backup from in the house.
It was not until Antoine had bent the corner that he heard a gunshot. He was a gangster and never ducked for cover. He kept pushing down Wayne Avenue from Seymour Street. He raced by more witnesses, who he raised his gun at and demanded that they clear his path. What he had not expected was the cop car to be parked 50-feet from the corner.
The police scrambled for cover as Antoine jetted pass them. Officer Burros radioed for backup and hopped into the pilot seat of the Philadelphia PD cruiser. Officer Neismith took off after the gunman and yelled, “Freeze!” to the robber’s back. He was duly ignored. Antoine bolted south on Wayne Avenue and with the cops now in on the chase, the heat had been turned up.
Antoine typically flatlined any witnesses--cops included--but his only mission was to seek refuge and thwart being stopped. He reached Happy Hollow Playground and prayed that the gate was open. He had sped past his get-away car, and was pissed.
The gate was open.
He disappeared inside.
He hit the corner of the gymnasium, dipped past the swings, sliding board and monkey bars. Officer Neismith continued to pursue him. The robber reached the red-brick winding hill, which kids slid down sitting in milk crates. The hill had no lights. Under the cover of the October darkness, Antoine hoped that the policeman would back off because he was afraid of what lay ahead in the darkness. He heard the park’s residents chirp, buzz and bark, but the sounds were not loud enough to mask the jingle of the officer’s keys and footsteps. He ran and hoped that he beat the other officer in the cruiser to the Pulaski Avenue park entrance.
Two shots rang out.
“Shots fired,” Officer Neismith radioed to his fellow officers. “I repeat, the perp has fired.” He drew his service revolver and ducked to the ground. There was nowhere to take cover, but in the event the gunman began to shoot all over the place, he’d be low. He took up position and awaited backup.
Officer Burros had double-parked on the other side of the park and his car lights lit up the park. Antoine knew that he could not exit there. Cell phones in the hands of spectators who lived across the street from the park recorded exhibit “A” in the event there was a criminal or civil trial. While they hated criminals, they hated criminals who wore badges too. If the police resorted to stupidity and immoral corrupt behavior they would work for his dismissal without pay. For thirty years, they had been abused in the Germantown section of North Philadelphia, and they were not having it any more. They were tired of rogue police behavior, and were determined to promote moral, or at least amoral, police conduct..
The officers heard more gunshots and they both took cover. They did not care about Internal Affairs. With bullets dancing in the air, they were prepared to take a life. They radioed each other and planned to keep the robber trapped in the park until backup arrived to surround the area. Antoine had other plans, though. He dipped out of the park through an alley. It was an exit that only a native of the area would have known about. He emerged out of the alley and onto Clapier Street and was nearly run over by an SUV. The SUV froze within seconds of helping Antoine get out of his quandary.
The driver was pissed and hopped out of his truck barking condescending obscenities. His face was distorted with anger. But that changed to fright when he saw a gun in his face.
“Get the fuck back in the truck!” said Antoine.
Without debate, the driver did as he was told. He wanted to get away from the crazed gunman.
Police cruisers zoomed pass the top of the block, desperately wanting to get to the crime scene. The police visualized feeding their murderous hunger pangs. They wanted the opportunity, since one of their own had been shot at. They were so off base.
They sped pass a Range Rover and their man was deep into the floor of the truck with a gun trained on the driver.
CHAPTER 2
The Range Rover was eerily quiet as the driver cautiously drove north on Pulaski Avenue. He bypassed dozens of policeman headed to the crime scene. They had no idea that the robber had committed a second crime--carjacking and kidnapping--and drove by them. The driver drove methodically. He was forced to match his survival instinct against his street smarts. His night was suddenly derailed and his vision of a Sunday night in Atlantic City at the 40/40 Club looked grainy.
The driver glanced into the rearview mirror and golden eyes stared at strong cheekbones and a wavy flow of hair. Women appreciated his charm, and the animal in the back seat was taking advantage of that. He had a show-stopping smile, but he was stone-faced as he watched red and blue lights fade behind him. At Manheim Street, Antoine demanded that the driver turn left. Undoubtedly, he did it. He was no dummy. His captor had been in the back seat less than a minute, but it seemed like hours. He surmised that the man was in a desperate situation that he needed out of before arrest occurred, or something more obnoxious.
“Left or right?” the driver asked, as he approached Wissahickon Avenue. The Social Security Administration building was in front of him, so he could not proceed straight.
“Swing a left and hop on the E-way,” the thug instructed and waved the Rueger in the air. He kept his index finger planted firmly on the trigger, as if the driver gave a damn.
The driver was extremely aware of the dangers to his health had he not obeyed. He also knew that the man needed him.
A lot!
“Where are you taking me to?” the driver asked, and he desperately wanted to know. He sounded and was probably perceived to be timid and passive. He was neither. He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a sinister sparkle in his captor’s eyes that evidenced little, or no, commonsense.
“Just drive!” Antoine said. His voice was grim and dark. Killer.
The driver slipped in with the other traffic onto I-76 at Fox Street. To his horror, traffic became gridlocked just after driving one mile to the City Avenue exit. “Fuck, an accident,” the driver said out loud and his visions of getting the gun toting ingrate to his final destination vanished. There he was doing a meteoric zero miles per hour with a caged animal in his back seat. He had to bust a move because the silence was extremely loud.
Antoine deemed the jam a very dangerous liability.
The driver cleared a lump in his throat and prepped to talk his way from up under the gun. That was the most moving moment in his life. To the kidnapper, he cordially said, “You’re running from the cops, huh?” He let that sink in and then added, “I can dig it. Been there before.”
“Cut the shit.” Antoine hissed. “I’m having a very bad fucking night.”
“I’m having a blast, being held at gunpoint in a traffic jam and shit,” the driver replied as he turned to face the man. He wore a smirk on his face.
The buffoon jumped up and slammed the Rueger into the driver’s side. He pressed it hard, even though the man was his accomplice.
“Go ahead and kill me. There’s no less than fifty sets of eyes on us. You’ll get very far on foot,” the man said mockingly. “You need me. Act like it!” He didn’t add pussy. He knew well that the criminal would not have shot him for that disrespectful line. Not at that point. It was best that he gathered all of the courage that he could to prevent that clown from sending him to meet his maker.
“Oh! You think you a tough guy?”
“Naw, I am a street nigga, though. Don’t let the smoothness fool you, my dude. Believe me, I am not the enemy. I am glad that you got away. Now get that gun out of my side.” The driver hoped that everything that he said registered. He prayed that he had a criminal in the back of his ride with a small dosage of deductive reasoning.
“You have a lot of balls to talk to me like that,” the gunman said to the driver as he pulled his gun back and slid back into his hole. “You make a good point, but I will kill you if you disrespect me again, between now and me carjacking you.”
“You want my fucking ride?” the driver asked, and snatched the key out of the ignition. He swung the car door open and hit the button to open the back hatch. He hopped out of the driver side, and said, “Take it!” He punctuated his statement by slamming the door shut. At the back of the truck, he pulled the hatch open. He was pissed and prepared to take that show on the road as the director. “You got a gun, running from the cops. To me that translates to you being a dealer or a robber. By the look of the duffle bag, I am thinking the latter. I can put you onto some serious cash, no gun required. But with that gun on me, that ain’t likely.”
Antoine looked at the driver shockingly. Inwardly he could not believe the audacity. To the driver’s dismay, Antoine did not budge. Not even blink. Just a crazy stare. Could he have contemplated shooting him in the face? The driver had no idea, so helped the driver helped the kidnapper along. He said, “You can’t kill me, man. Well, you could, but you shouldn’t. For one, I am a criminal just as much as you, or else I would be screaming for my life. Secondly, you have to no escape plan, sorta the same way you were prior to jumping into my ride.”
Antoine sat on the floor and conferred with his self for a moment. His train of thought was derailed by car horns blaring from vehicles behind them. The accident had been cleared and traffic began to crawl.
“How do I know that I can trust you?” Antoine asked, as he was ready to crawl.
“You don’t but I am standing here and not strolling away causing you to really have to think. Nor am I running from car to car and screaming bloody murder. Now what’s it going to be?”
“Get in. You’re drawing.” Antoine warned the driver, but he did not care.
“I am drawing? You hopped in my car after putting a gun in my face and forced me to drive you to God knows where. You’re drawing! I am not getting in the wheel with the gun.”
“What?”
“Toss the gun into the Schuykill River, hop in the front seat, and then we can leave.”
“Get the fuck outta here! What kind of dumb shit are you on?”
“Either the gun goes or I walk.”
“Walk!” Defiant.
The driver with equal defiance walked against the traffic without a care in the world.
“Hey!” Antoine yelled, he had had a second thought.
The driver ignored him and kept walking.
“Yo!”
The man turned around and found the kidnapper standing outside the truck. He had the driver’s son’s book bag in his hand and motioned that the gun was inside. He then swerved around a sixteen-wheeler and reached the edge of the bridge. There was a concrete wall and a six-foot gate topped with barb wire. He tossed the bag over and then jogged back to the truck and hopped into the passenger seat.
He stuck his head out of the window and then yelled, “The gun’s gone. Come back.” He pleaded.
Mark smiled with his back to the goon. Before he turned around, he threw on his “I-mean-business” mug and walked back to his car. He was cautious as if he hadn’t bought the car. With car horns assaulting him from every angle, he hopped into the driver seat and pulled off. To his dismay, the passenger wore an angry mask and pouted. It was hilarious to the driver. Held me at gun point and now he’s pissed. Some fucking nerve!
They drove about 100-feet before the kidnapper reclined his seat all the way back. Who was he hiding from? He was three miles from the original crime scene where the police were at, no doubt conducting a pulse pounding man hunt.
“What they call you, dude?” the driver asked him. He was entitled to know, he thought.
“Come on with the thousand questions. What the fuck kinda dollar are you tryinna turn me on to?”
“A job!” the driver said, and surmised that he had him.
“Job! Man I am doing my job right now. I ain’t looking to build a retirement pension. Fuck outta here.”
“Well, how’s that working out for you?” the driver asked as if he was looking to know about his workout regimen.
“You’re a real fucking smart ass. Just drive.”
“I am.”
“Look, shut the fuck up and get me downtown to the Clothes Pin sculpture across from City Hall. I can find my way from there.”
The driver was sure that he could. That was the central location of the SEPTA public bus/train system. The driver drove the rest of the way and formulated how he could convince the clown to get on his team. He had been masterminding a very elaborate scheme and needed a few guinea pigs to act in his criminal production. The ignorant asshole beside him would be the perfect actor. Ten minutes later they exited the expressway and headed down 15th Street. They passed Race, Arch, and Cherry Street before they reached JFK Boulevard and then Market Street. The driver pulled behind a bank of cabs.
“I guess this is your stop?”
“Naw yours,” Antoine said and pulled out his gun. “Hand over the wallet and cell phone, nut!”
“No problem.”
“You’re a smart ass. You’re lucky we’re downtown or I would have flatlined yo ass.”
“Your choice. Not mine.”
“Hand me the shit, pussy!”
The driver handed it over and Antoine opened the car door. He looked in the wallet and took out the car owner’s license. “You try any heroic shit, it’s a rap, Mr. Kareem Bezel. You’ll never make it back to Manhattan,” Antoine said and slammed the car door shut.
Kareem jumped out of the car and approached Antoine, as he pulled the duffle bag out of the car.
“You try any heroic shit and it’s over.” Hard stare.
Kareem was a bona fide hero and he really had no plans for things to be over. He proffered a goofy smile, and said, “Dig this. What I said on the bridge was not a game, or a ploy to earn my freedom. You got $500 in my wallet. There’re plenty of tellys close by. Check into one for the night. Let a load off and tomorrow afternoon meet me at the bar in the Ritz Carlton.” Kareem looked at the duffle bag and guessed that money or drugs or both were inside.
“You know what a hotel around here costs. Besides why should I trust you?”
“Because right now, you need me. I could be yelling for that officer right there and I am not. I did not tell you which hotel to go to because I don’t care. All I want is to shoot something your way tomorrow. It’s a grand opportunity.”
“Man, I’m good.”
“Look, you have my cell. I will call it tomorrow to confirm at 11:30 a.m. Is that cool?” Kareem asked very nicely.
Antoine thought a second and then said, “Call and I will let you know. But I swear, if you’re setting me up and tracking this phone,you will die and it will be painful!” He picked up his bag and then slowly disappeared down the spiral staircase that led to the subway system.
CHAPTER 3
The Special Housing Unit (SHU) at the Philadelphia Federal Detention Center was quiet for the evening and things had run smoothly for a Saturday. Just before 11 o’clock, Officer Johnson made her last minute round to assure that all inmates were alive and hadn’t escaped. She had an all-star cast of Philadelphia celebrities up there for their protection, albeit none of them wanted it. Prison officials didn’t see it that way.
Johnson made her way down the wing with her keys jingling to identify her presence. She said good night to each inmate as she flashed her flashlight into every cell. She stepped in front of 812S and said, “Good night, Mr. Bezel,” just as she did everyone else, just before looking inside. He was shirtless and she admired his physique a tad more than an officer should, but she was a woman and he was a fine specimen of a man. News accounts had made her fully aware of Andre Bezel and she was undoubtedly attracted to him. Dre had grown to an even six feet of chocolate. He maintained wavy hair by sleeping with a cut up sheet shaped like and tied like a doo rag on his head. Officer Johnson looked deeply into his dark brown eyes and smiled at his sly grin. She was in heaven on the grounds of a prison and was lusting over an inmate. A double whammy, but hey, she was a woman and quick to become emotionally attracted to a fine specimen, and Andre was one fine specimen.
Andre flashed a sexy smile and put up one finger indicating for her to stand there and she did. He stood on the stool and gave her a full frontal view of him. He was erect and his penis swung in the air. He stroked it with one hand and had his other hand behind his back. She was impressed and bound by his secret. To avoid suspicion, she tapped on his door and said, “Mr. Bezel, are you alive under that sheet.” She then put her face closer to the window. He was stroking himself and she was into it. He pulled his hand from behind his back and hurled feces at the window with the force of Philadelphia Phillies Cliff Lee pitching to a New York Yankee.
Officer Johnson jumped back and dropped her flashlight. It rolled down the corridor as she snatched her walkie-talkie from her hip and radioed for her SHU Lieutenant to switch to a secure line.
“Lieutenant Freeman, go.”
“LT, Andre Bezel just threw feces at his cell window as I was making my last round. From what I can see he’s nude, and...”
Andre cut her off, and yelled, “Shut the fuck up, butch!” He heard the other officers running down the corridor and watched them gather around his cell. He smiled as he pressed the button on the metal sink and let water run into his hand. He poured it out and then threw sprinkles onto the window. He quickly dried his hand and then unrolled two strips of toilet paper from the roll. “Look at me now, chumps,” he said, and put the tissue over the feces on the window and covered it. The water helped the tissue stick there.
Officer Connelly banged on the cell window. “Uncover this window, Bezel. What are you doing, man?”
“You come do it, pussy!” Andre yelled and slid a piece of paper under the door with shit on it. Urine then began to come out of the door. “Get off my fucking porch, faggots!”
“You see this shit. Five minutes before shift change,” Officer Brown said to his colleagues. “This is bullshit.”
Lt. Freeman walked up to his subordinates and they didn’t have to explain much. It was obvious. Lt. Freeman was a tall, obscure looking man with a unifocal on his hip. He was an interesting man into sciences, but he had a peculiar way of handling inmates.
“Yo, Dre,” another inmate yelled out. “Yoooooo, Freeman is out there.”
“Connelly and Brown, cover the windows on this wing,” Lt. Freeman said and they moved. They went to retrieve black magnets shaped to perfectly cover the windows of inmates to prevent them from witnessing what was going to go down. To Andre the lieutenant said, “You know how this is going to end, Bezel. You’ve been up here a year and you’ve seen it all. Now uncover the window. I’mma get you some cleaning supplies to get that shit up off your window and then we can talk about what caused this action.”
“Get your 3-D glasses ‘cause I am coming straight at you, LT. Trust me, I have thought long and hard about this. I’m like expensive art work. Not to be touched.”
“Let’s talk about that, because if you think you’re dealing with Inmate McKenzey on the north side, I assure you that you’re in for the ride of your life, especially if we have to suit up and extract you. Now what’s the problem?”
“Your wife is the problem. She lied to me.”
“Ok, let’s talk about that. What’s the problem, Bezel? This is shocking to me coming from you.”
“Don’t let him sweet talk you like some negotiator, Dre!” an inmate yelled out.
“Who was that?” Lt. Freeman whispered to Officer Johnson.
“That was Cordona. Cell 803S,” Officer Johnson said.
“Shut his water off!” Lt. Freeman told her, and then to Andre he said, “What has Counselor Freeman told you, Bezel?”
“Was that a rhetorical question?” Andre yelled out.
Officer Brown and Connelly had returned to the front of the cell and Lt. Freeman ordered Connelly to get the camcorder because he was fully aware of Andre Bezel and his conniving ways. Staff had been briefed on his manipulative and malicious ways, and were warned to proceed with caution. He had a way with words and could be sinister.
“See that’s what I mean, Bezel. You’re a smart kid. So what’s the problem?”
“Fuck them, Dre! Don’t talk to him,” another inmate yelled and kicked his cell door five times with enough force to have the staff question if the doors could be kicked off the hinges.
“Where the fuck is my lawyer?” Dre asked. He pulled one of the strips of tissue back and looked at the lieutenant. “I wanna see you tell me a lie. Man to man.”
“You know we have no control over that.”
“Lying to me will force me to turn this up, LT. Please don’t prey on my intelligence, sir.”
“Look...”
“Uh...uh...uhn. Don’t start any statement off as if you’re chastising me. I assure you that you’re not in charge. Have one of your flunky’s look out of the window on Arch Street.”
“I’ll do that. But you take the other strip of tissue down,” Lt. Brown said and stared sternly at Officer Connelly, who walked off. And clean that shit off my glass.”
“Your glass. News flash, this is every American citizen’s glass. They pay the taxes to keep these kennels operating. What’s the matter? You don’t like the stench of shit with all of the bullshit that spills out of the mouths of all of you on team grey? It’s about time the boys in green and orange do some winning around here. What ya think?”
“We can debate this at some other time. In the meantime, take the tissue down.”
“What the fuck are you going to do if I don’t?”
“Have my guys suit up in their turtle suits.”
“Suit ya self. Be sure they’re wearing 3-D glasses,” Dre said and covered his window again.
Officer Connelly returned as Lt. Freeman asked Andre, “And why is that?”
“I am coming straight at whoever enters this cell!”
“That’s your best bet,” Lt. Freeman said and walked off. He asked Connelly, “What’s going on out Arch?”
Connelly held his head low, and said, “It looks like the entire tri-state area media has converged on the prison. There’s enough antennae on top of trucks out there to communicate with aliens.”
CHAPTER 4
Justin Ashburn had searched all of the self-publishing print-on-demand companies. He had settled on lulu.com. They were less intrusive than the others and didn’t require an ISBN or copyright to publish. All you had to do was upload a WORD doc and print. He could type whatever he wanted between the sheets, slap a template cover design on the material and have them print it up into a perfect bound book.
Justin was from Mecklenburg, North Carolina and had the IQ of God. He was in a dank room in South Philadelphia that he had rented from an old Italian woman. She welcomed his four months’ rent, which he paid in cash. He had been there two months and had been plotting the escape of his pal since he had word that he as arrested. That was what Iraqi vets did for one another. Before he could act, though, he had to develop a bona fide method to get word to DEA Agent Lucas McKenzey, who was housed in protective custody at the Philadelphia FDC.
Justin had surmised that Agent McKenzey was housed in PC to protect the malign, corrupt agent from killing someone in the general population, whether it was staff or an inmate. Justin did not like that and was coming to the agent’s rescue. This would not be a forceful escape plan involving blazing guns. This plan was sophisticated and tight, and what better place to put it than in a book? Certainly, the mail room would not read an entire book shipped from a publisher, titled Crying to Pretend I’m Not Laughing.
After uploading the interior document, Justin worked on the cover. He uploaded a smile and then positioned a tear drop to hang from the corner of the lips. Now it was time to type in the title and the author: Kareem Bezel. He smiled at the joke, and thought, laugh now.
CHAPTER 5
Amir Bezel sat in front of the family room TV on the floor playing with a Tonka truck. He had a bowl of ice cream on a fold-up table that was being ignored in favor of playing. It was 10 p.m. and for a three-year-old, bedtime was approaching fast. He wanted to have as much fun as possible before his day ended.
“Andre Bezel has held himself hostage in his prison cell,” a newscaster said. That caught Amir’s attention.His face lit up like fireworks and he yelled, “Mommie.”
Tasha poked her head through the kitchen door and looked at her son pointing wildly at the televison. She donned an apron over boy shorts and a tank top and yellow cleaning gloves covered her hands. “Amir, what did you say? I am trying to clean the stove, baby,” she said to her boy. He was a bright toddler and worked overtime to garner attention, despite the overwhelming amount that she had been giving him.
“What did you say, honey?” she asked and stared at him from the kitchen doorway. She then heard the distinct sound of a newscaster as she approached the family room. She wore a worried mug and hoped that her son was not exposed to another media storm about his father. She had worked double-time to protect him from the foolishness that was aired in the news. She sat on a lovely crocodile sofa that she had imported from Spain and curled her feet up under her. Tasha had prepared herself for the late-night movie tentatively titled, “Hanging Andre Out to Dry.”
In a box above the newscaster’s head was her fiancé in a mug shot taken two years earlier. In her entire life, and all of the times that she had reinvented it, she had never been so confused. She had endured weekly searches as she visited the Philadelphia Federal Detention Center with her son. She had no desire for her boy to lose sight of who his father was. She was in the world alone with a baby to protect from news reporters looking to badger her with questions about her man, but she had nothing to say. She lived in a clandestine home in Upper Merion, just a few blocks from Andre’s high school. She really wanted to Tivo the broadcast or catch it later on the station’s website, but she knew that she was in for a rude awakening if she tried to change that channel. Amir would have showed his ass, and there would not have been much that she could have done about it. Oh, my fucking God, why is this happening? I have enough to deal with, hiding from federal agents and news reporters looking to badger me without regard to my son and family. Shameful, and now this she said and listened intently to the reporter on the TV screen.
Newscaster Jason Martin was on the pavement in front of the African American Museum with a silver microphone in his hand. He was directly across the street from the Philadelphia Federal Detention Center, and Tasha saw several other news vans. Everyone was vying to get the latest gossip about the Bezel Brothers out to the jury voir dire. She never understood why they placed a federal jail across the street from a museum with such a rich root in history. On the other corner was a Federal Reserve Bank. There was something symbolic about the prison’s location, she thought.
“It was a rare state of panic today at the Federal Detention Center. There were smoke bombs let out in the Special Housing Unit after inmate Andre Bezel tossed feces at his cell window and encouraged fellow inmates to flood their toilets and caused the entire unit to be filled with water. This flooding has extended beyond the SHU, also known as the hole.” The reporter paused and showed still photos of the SHU. “In these prison photos, you can see that the wing is shaped like a narrow triangle and none of the inmates can see what’s going on more than six feet from their cells; hence, this was a very coordinated prison riot and it comes as no surprise that Andre Bezel is the ring leader. He is scheduled to begin trial this Monday for crimes ranging from drug trafficking to murder. The United States Attorney’s Office has estimated that the Bezel trial may last two months and court records indicate that in excess of 30 people are scheduled to testify for the prosecution.”
“At this point, the U.S. Marshal’s Office has deployed agents to the prison to generate order. The entire prison is locked down. Apparently, inmates have an in-house communication system unlike the old fashion passing of kites that they use. Because they are locked on their respective floors and are only allowed to leave for personal/legal visits and trips to medical triage, they push the water out of their toilets and use rolled newspapers to yell through the system from floor to floor. It seems that that has happened here, as each floor including the women’s floor has refused to lockdown and has flooded their units. Each unit is staffed with one officer who has either made it off their assigned units, or are locked in the staff office for their protection. There is not enough staff to go and lock down each unit at once, so it’s assumed that the marshal’s have arrived to help the prison staff go unit by unit and lock the prison down.”
Prison officials have not communicated with the media to make a public statement, but we will bring any statements to you live when they happen.”
Tasha panicked and immediately picked up Amir. “Come here, baby,” she said and held him tightly.
Two years ago, Andre was arrested and in an effort to have easier access to him, she left their home in New York. She wanted no parts of the inner city, nor did she want to expose Amit to it, so she lived in Upper Merion, a middle class enclave 15-miles from Philadelphia. Her home had four bedrooms, a 50-foot driveway that led to a three car garage and a pool shaped like a tear drop.
“Mommie sad?” Amir asked. He had a loving tone designed to comfort his mother, and wished that he could comfort her further. He had no idea what bothered her, but he knew his mother well enough to know when she was upset. Her mood had shifted downward, and he did not like that. He would console her the best he knew how and when things were too much too bear, he would cry, which was the only mechanism that he had mastered. He realized that when he cried, his mother became stronger. What he did not know was that she had to be stronger for him and that she would deal with her pain internally to care for him.
“Go to your room and get your emergency bag, Amir. You can bring some toys too,” she said when they reached the top of the stairs. She looked over the banister into the living and through the window out into the dark night.
“Why mom? Call cops,” he said in his toddler drawl and pulled her toward her bedroom. “Come on mom. ”
“No, son. It’s not that sort of emergency. Daddy needs us. He’s in trouble at the jail. So, we’re going to Grandmom Jean-Mary’s, ok? That’s why we have our emergency bags, so that we can leave quickly, if we have too, ok?”
“Yes, mommy,” Amir said and raced off to his room.
Tasha grabbed a checkered Louis Vuitton duffle bag and her cell phone off the night stand. She picked up her phone and pressed speed-dial number 2.
Into her phone she said, “Kareem there is a problem at the jail with Dre.”
“I know,” Kareem was calm.
“I am worried, so I am headed to Mama’s house right now. Can you meet me there?”
“Sure.”
“Do you know what this is about?”
“No, but I am on the line with Ravonne trying to get an understanding of this. What is going on with this man throwing shit at the fucking cell window and barricading himself inside two days before he’s scheduled to start trial? This is a goddamn shame and I’m irked.”
“Ok, I have no idea what is going on. None. I just saw him on Friday and he did not mention this stunt.”
“And a stunt it is. I know him. He has some reasoning for this, but how the hell he managed to get the media outside the prison at the precise time that he was going to do this is confusing me.” I am so going to hell for this butchered acting job, but there was no way that I would let her in on my brother’s and my vision. We had it all figured out.
“Me too, but I will see you at Mama’s. I am leaving now.”
CHAPTER 6
Life for Jean-Mary Bezel had been going along swimmingly since she had been returned to the Bezel Brothers after being kidnapped. Although Agent McKenzey did not torture her, the fact that he took her from her home and ransacked it was enough. The agent had lured her into his vehicle after he had convinced her that he was an agent--well he was--and had to take her in for her protection. Agent McKenzey had explained that a corrupt agent was out to kill her grandchildren, when all the while, he was the agent.
He had lovingly walked her to a non-descript Crown Vic and then drove her away. He drove an hour from her home and then handcuffed her to a chair deep inside a barn in the middle of Newark, Delaware. She hated him for that, and was glad that that was one of the reasons that the agent was warehoused in the federal detention center like the rest of the criminal cretins. Jean-Mary was a fiesty woman, born in the North, and to experience that was not a thing that hurt her; it made her mad. And she wanted revenge.
She snatched up her glasses and looked at the TV screen. It was horrific as she painfully watched the entire tri-state area media converging on the jail that housed her grandson and the monster that had kidnapped her. She was confused that Andre had decided to act out with his trial date just two days away. She surmised that he was stressed, scared and perhaps he was looking for a way to get away from the obvious: long-term imprisonment. The way she viewed things was that he deserved some time in a federal penitentiary. She was his grandmother, but she was a realist. She believed that you reaped what you sow and Andre had some owning-up to do. Promoting a prison riot was a stretch and if she knew her boys, that was not an Andre Bezel exclusive plan. Kareem Bezel was written all over it. When he brought his narrow tail into her home, she planned to get to the bottom of the current episode of “All My Inmates.”
Earlier that night, Jean-Mary had made her favorite home-made biscuits and with the family coming, she put on a fresh pot of coffee. She was a jovial, light hued woman in her mid-sixties, and she had pumped the boys full of caffeine since elementary school. Preparing a shot of coffee was imperative for the night to flow smoothly. Jean-Mary had raised those boys, and she knew what her babies liked. Her house was the family head quarters, and she had prepared for a business meeting. The elder woman of the family knew that when they all arrived, it would be all business and no play.
CHAPTER 7
Like a lot of seasoned criminals, Kareem Bezel was on top of his criminal game. But he was not playing a game. Everyone wanted to play, but he didn’t want to. He had a lot on his plate and worked to clear it off. First, the vegetable, then the starch, and then the heavy red meat.
Kareem did not visit Wyneva Street often. As he pulled onto Jean-Mary’s block and parked, he once again hated that she refused to leave. Toi sat in the passenger seat reading a book on her Kindle E-reader. The Germantown section of North Philadelphia was not the roughest, not the worse, but it wasn’t the Upper East Side of Manhattan where he had lived for four years. He lived in the penthouse of his building for two years and despite his long-term girlfriend Latoya Eala bringing another man into his home, he loved her and was still with her. Kareem looked over at Toi with his chestnut-brown eyes and licked the full pinkish lips set on his dark-skinned face. He leaned over and kissed her.
She stopped reading, and Kareem had no doubt that she was prepared to offer whatever she could to solve the problems that they faced. This was not just a Kareem and Andre problem. This was all of their business, as everyone played a role in spending the money, so everyone had better be prepared to get out of this quagmire that Andre faced. In fact, it was designed that way.
Before Andre had turned himself in to the government and agreed to a no-bail situation, Kareem and their attorney, Ravonne Lemmelle, met with the United States Attorney assigned to the case. The deal was that Andre would be indicted for possession of a weapon while being a convicted felon, distribution of crack cocaine, and murder. It was no surprise that the Bezel Brothers and their attorney had a plan, and on Monday it was show time. Time to see if all that they had worked for would pan out in their favor.
When Kareem had completely parked, he hopped out and opened Toi’s door. Toi had an unblemished golden-rod complexion wrapped tightly around a statue that mirrored a work of art at the Philadelphia Art Museum. She was half Filipino and half Black, and her exotic look was lethal. He closed the car door behind her and they held hands as they walked up the street to Jean-Mary’s home. It was mandatory that he be a gentleman. That was how he was taught to be by Jean-Mary Bezel. And since his father had been in jail serving a LIFE sentence since he was 14, he had learned a lot from GQ and Esquire Magazines. They were his go-to guides to move into being an elitist.
Prior to moving to New York, he was a fan of Philadelphia Magazine, too. He recalled his very first date with a young banker. He had searched the Philadelphia rag for a good day spa and enjoyed a massage, manicure and pedicure for the first time. Afterwards, he made a trip to Neiman’s and brought a Prada suit. Decked out in his sharp clothes, he picked up his date and took her to The Bronze, a five-star restaurant in downtown Philadelphia. Of course, that night he made love to her and she taught him everything that he needed to know about the banking system. She had no idea that she was teaching him how to commit crimes that he should be on trial for.
“I see she has hired a gardener?” Toi said and admired the landscape of the six feet by six feet lawn.
“Nope, she has been getting out there with her neighbors. Look at all of their lawns. They’ve been working together. Supposed to be planning a block party and as you can see, they want to show off.”
“Oh, ok that sounds like fun. So are we going home tonight? I had enough of Philadelphia, and with the trial starting Wednesday, I need the next few days to rest up.”
“Yes, we can go home tonight,” he said and stuck his key into the door. He opened it, and said, “But I want to be back here in Philly early Monday, because I want to be there for the jury selection in case he needs my help with the selection process.”
“Well, I thought that was what his lawyer was for?”
“True, but remember that I told you that Ravonne technically only represents me. They made Dre get a court-appointed attorney because although I am an unindicted co-conspirator, I am still on the case and we can’t have the same attorney. And he couldn’t hire one unless we let them know about our financial livelihoods. This is very complicated,” Kareem said and was greeted by Amir screaming his name.
“Uncle,” Amir said and jumped into Kareem’s arms as he walked through the vestibule. “Hi, Aunt Toi,” he said blandly, but with a smile.
“What’s up, baby boy? What’re you doing up this time of night?” Kareem asked.
“My dad was on TV. ”
“Yup, he’s famous, all right. And when you grow up, you’re going to be famous, too, right?”
“Yes.”
“Where’s your mom?”
“She’s upstairs in your room. I think she sad ‘cause my dad was on TV.”
Kareem could do nothing but smile. For three, his nephew was very bright and analytical. He was off base this time, but he had made an attempt to understand what was going on.
Amir was full of the life and optimistic spirit that people lived for. Especially people like Kareem who had been born and reared in the ghetto, but was encouraged by a strong woman to do what it took to get out of the ghetto. Jean-Mary wanted the best for Kareem, so she used to drive him a half hour to Upper Merion High School every morning. He did graduate high school at sixteen and attended Columbia University in New York City the same year. He later graduated at the top of his class, but not before working at a bank and embezzling money that the feds could not recover.
A part of his deal for being an unindicted co-conspirator had required that he disclose the whereabouts of all the money that he stole. Not! There was no way that he had proffered with the US Attorney’s Office to give them all of the money that he had stolen. He had given the prosecutor the money that he knew they could find and left the money that he had hidden in remote locations for himself. He had a multi-million dollar life line, and no one knew that, except the bankers who set up the off-shore and foreign accounts, and he intended to keep it that way.
Kareem walked into the kitchen and greeted Jean-Mary with a hug and a kiss. She was wheelchair bound, having had her foot amputated due to complications from diabetes. She also had dialysis three times a week. Strong was her middle name. She forbade Kareem give up his life in New York City to move back to Philadelphia. She had a live-in nurse and was confident that she could do everything herself with a little assistance. Her spirit to live had not changed despite her situation.
Kareem sat at the kitchen table and did what was in for the twenty-first century. He sent Tasha a text and asked her to come to the kitchen so that they could chat. It was an informal thing and very impersonal, but it beat yelling through the house and disturbing every one.
Toi came and had a seat at the kitchen table. She said, “Ms. Bezel, I love the new pot set. And the way you have it hanging adds something to the kitchen.”
“Thanks,Thanks honey. I have no intentions of leaving this home, but I can certainly make it look and feel like I am in one of Oprah’s homes. So how’s the baby coming along?”
Toi was stuck. She was not prepared for that question. Hell, she had no idea that Jean-Mary even knew that she was expecting. Tasha had walked into the kitchen just in time to hear Jean-Mary’s unexpected question.
“Say it ain’t so?” Tasha said and had a seat at the table.
Jean-Mary said, “Why do you seem so shocked, Toi? Was that a secret?” Inside Jean-Mary knew that she was pissed. I mean, does she really think that my grandson would not share something like this with me? I am closer to him than his parents. Of course he told me.
“Well, I am four months now, and I guess we’re going through with it,” Toi said and smiled.
“You don’t seem excited,” Tasha said.
“No, I am. I was just afraid that Kareem had so much going on that he would not be able to handle me having a baby. I mean there is a lot going on with his company and him working towards his master’s degree and this trial. I know how stressful life is now, and a baby is just an added layer.”
“We will be fine, baby,” Kareem said and wrapped his arms around her. He rubbed on her stomach and smiled. “This is the heir to my throne in here.”
“Um. What if it’s a girl, sir?” Jean-Mary asked.
“She’ll be the heiress to my throne,” he said and chuckled. “Now that we all are here, let’s chat a bit.”
“Let me pour coffee and I prepared biscuits too,” Jean-Mary said and sat coffee cups in front everyone. She poured everyone a cup of joe, and said, “Get your own creamer and sugar.”
Everyone at the table settled into their seats and sipped their coffee and let their thoughts percolate. No one but Kareem really knew what was happening and they all relied on him to keep them abreast of Andre’s legal dealings. All parties at the table were responsible for him being in jail, and they all knew that he sacrificed his freedom so that they could have theirs.
“So, here’s the situation,” Kareem said and everyone looked at him hard. When he spoke people listened and that was the way that he wanted it. “Dre has not lost his mind.”
“Um, he threw shit at a cell window. He sat his ass on a toilet, released his bowels, dug his hand inside a toilet and gripped up shit. Yes, he has lost his mind,” Tasha said and bit her biscuit. “I was disgusted by that.”
“And he had the audacity to throw it at a window in a cell that he is locked in. Can you imagine the smell?” Toi asked and frowned. “He’s turning into a mental case.”
“Ah, babe, you’re right and that is the theme of his act. If Casey got off from killing her child using the insanity defense, so can my bro.”
“This is bananas!” Tasha said. Tasha had a jasmine hue and doe-like, jade-colored eyes. She was beautiful and brainy, although she had not worked since Andre was arrested. In high school though, she doubled as the head cheerleader and a member of the Math Counts team. And she was Andre Bezel’s boo, the girl of the star running back of the Upper Merion High School football team.
“Get the hell out of here,” Jean-Mary quickly added.
“Now, I am not the smartest woman on Earth, but I thought that his insanity had to be predicated during the time that the offense was committed and not now. I mean, he’s been in jail...”
“Yes, locked in a cell 23-hours a day and for no reason other than they think that he is some sort of mob boss. Agent McKenzey worked very hard at mentally controlling us. Or at least that is our story. There is no way that we are going to bear all of this and let him get off very easily because he is one of them. I assure you all that this has been well thought out and we have prepared for this by thoroughly researching case law and the past rulings of the Third Circuit Court of Appeals, the Supreme Court and even the District Judge assigned to his case. We have hired the best law professors out of the University of Pennsylvania’s law program to assist with this.” He took a breath and sipped his coffee before adding, “There’re a few other things that will be in play and trust me when I tell you, this trial will be one to remember. Casey Anthony has nothing on what is about to transpire in the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.”
Tasha dropped her face into the palms of her hands. “Kareem, I need Andre home. Amir needs his father home. I love everything that you do to be there for my son, but he needs his father. Chicanery like this just does not seem like it is bullet proof. Why can’t he just plead guilty and do his time? Work out a neat deal to get him home?”
“No, I am not having that.” That was Jean-Mary. “Now I know that my babies are not innocent of all charges, but to plead guilty is not what a man does if he has a fighting chance.”
“Yes, Tash. Trust me, I agree with you and I wish that things could be very neat, but the government attorney’s is not having that. They are out for blood and want to see my brother locked away for the rest of his life.”
“Or for a time period that seems like his life,” Toi added. “We have to trust, Kareem and Andre, Tasha.”
“Toi, don’t say too much. You have your man and your unborn child will have a father, seeing that Kareem conveniently kept himself outta jail while my son’s father is locked away throwing shit around.”
“Are you kidding, Tasha?” Toi asked.
“Ladies, we’re not here to argue,” Jean-Mary said. “We are past that bridge Tasha and there was a decision made by Kareem and Andre and I am not going to argue to disturb it. My thing is, I don’t really understand it either, but what can I say, if I do not know every single element, and I doubt that you do either. Besides, you’ve been kept out of jail as well.”
Everyone sat silent for a moment. Jean-Mary had always had a way with words and this time was no different. When she spoke, people listened.
“Listen, I get it. I am just so stressed. Kareem you’re not allowed in the jail. You can’t begin to understand what it’s like to board a secure elevator and be shot to the 8th floor of a building to see your fiancé in a small room behind glass and talk to him on the phone. The closest thing to touching him is placing our hands at the same place on a see-through glass window an inch thick.”
“Toi, this is hard on you, I know. And Amir too. But you must know that this is just as hard on me. That is my brother and I have known him my entire life. Do you think I am not as emotionally attached to this as you?”
“No, it’s not that, Kareem. I need you all at this table in the worse way. Living in that big house all alone is very hard on me.”
“Tasha, you can stay here with me.”
“Yes, we are all here for you, Tasha,” Toi said. “You can call me any time.”
“I know. I am just so alone. It’s painful.”
“Sorry, Tasha,” Kareem said and then hugged her. “We never intended to hurt you sis. I am very sorry that it has been this way, but trust me on this. We are going to get Kareem out of there.”
Tasha looked deep into his eyes and asked, “You promise?”
“I promise. Just wait ‘til they get a load of Kareem and Andre Bezel. What they have seen thus far, is nothing more than the appetizer. They want no part of the entree.”
CHAPTER 8
Not many svelte women were decorated with plentiful breasts that mirrored Roxanne’s. She laid flat on her back on her bed wrapped in a chenille robe. The belt was loose. The lapel created a perfect V and allowed her cleavage to spill out and bounce vivaciously each time lewd licks from the man between her legs touched her wet spot. Her flat stomach showed feminine cuts each time she wiggled. Her vagina was so deeply impressed by his vibrator-like tongue that it had became soaked and moist. It developed a devilish, sagacious little mind of its own. A mind prepared to manipulate and dominate the average man, and Antoine was average. He typically thought with the head between his legs, which made it bad for him. He was doomed.