Entangled (Real in the streets) Page 2

  She had been with him for twenty minutes and he had not attempted to touch her; something that was usually the highlight of the visit. She tried to rub his hand underneath the table before he moved it.

  An inmate walked up to the table. “How about a picture for you and your girl?” he asked.

  “How about you getting the hell away from this table?” DeVon said.

  “What in the hell did you say, punk?”

  DeVon stood up from the table and squared off with the inmate. A heavyset correctional officer with huge, ape-like hands got between them. “You, go over to the other side of the room,” the correctional officer ordered the photographer.

  “I ain’t even do shit,” the inmate protested before throwing his hands up in disgust.

  “The other side!” the officer said while pointing. When the man was halfway there, the officer motioned for DeVon. “One more outburst like that, Mr. Williams, and I’m gonna recommend that your visiting privileges are taken away. You understand me?”

  DeVon nodded before returning to his seat.

  “What was that all about?” Dream asked.

  “The guard was loud enough, I know you heard what he said.”

  “I know what the guard said. I wanna know what your fuckin’ problem is. Why did you go off on the camera man?”

  “I ain’t got no problem. You’re the one with the problem.”

  “What the hell do you mean?”

  “Do you know Corey Mitchell?”

  “Yeah, Corey and I dated briefly at West Charlotte High School.”

  “That’s not all you did together,” he mumbled.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Seems to me, you and Corey did a bit of role-playing. I mean, you used to play model, while he played photographer, right?”

  Confused, she asked, “What are you getting at?”

  “You know Corey is locked up here.”

  “No, I didn’t know this.”

  “Yeah, he is, and he has some pretty explicit shots of Ms. Goody-Two-Shoes.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, and whatever pictures he has have got to be more than five years old.” Suddenly she remembered the pictures. One evening after school Dream and Corey had gone to his house to make out, and he took some Polaroid pictures of her lying across his bed wearing only her panties. “What is the big deal?” she asked.

  He stood from the table and the entire visiting room’s attention seemed to shift.

  “The big deal is that I didn’t know I was dealing with a ho.”

  “I’m a what?”

  “You heard me,” he said, turning his back toward her. “I’m outta here.”

  “So you just gonna call me a ho and leave, huh?”

  “Watch me,” he said as he made is way toward the double doors of the visiting room that led to the prison yard.

  CHAPTER 2

  I TWAS 4:30 A.M. and DEA Agent Mark Pratt had finished his last set of push-ups and was just starting his second cup of coffee. He hadn’t slept later than 5:00 A.M. since his freshman year at the Citadel, a military college located in South Carolina. Mark was grateful for his education at the Citadel. It made him more objective and more disciplined, which prepared him for his career as a Drug Enforcement Agency officer. It was his discipline that kept him looking young. An almond-complexioned man, he had a baby face with serious eyes. His body was well-defined.

  Mark had joined the DEA nine years earlier at the age of twentyfive. The years had passed so quickly. Though his job was hard work, there was never a dull moment. He had been on drug busts that took place as far away as Miami. He had been part of undercover operations that had lasted for several years and he had always wanted a career that would make a difference in people’s lives. He had come from a long line of preachers dating all the way back to his great-grandfather. His father was the pastor of Greater Mt. Sinai Baptist Church. With a twelve-thousand-member congregation, it was the second largest African-American church in Dallas. Mark admired his father and tried to pattern his life after Pastor Fred Pratt. Though he was miles away, Mark always called him for advice.

  Son, always try to do what is pleasing in the sight of the Lord, his father would say. Mark’s brother, Barry, was a youth minister; Mark chose a career with the DEA.

  Though most of his friends supported his career decision, some weren’t too enthusiastic about him working for the government, particularly the DEA, which had a reputation for targeting blacks and Hispanics. Some even said the so-called drug war was a useless battle—a conspiracy to destroy the black man’s existence. Mark never denied that some of the blacks were pawns in this seemingly endless war. Some of his colleagues liked the profession because they knew they would always have a job. Mark wanted more than job security, he dreamed of a day when every drug dealer would be off the streets and the addicts put in treatment centers. If his dreams were to come true, he would gladly look for another job.

  At 4:45 his phone rang.

  “Good morning,” Mark answered.

  “Yeah, is this Agent Mark Pratt?” the voice asked.

  “Yes, it is,” Mark answered reluctantly. He knew the call was

  work-related but he wasn’t scheduled to go in to work for almost another four hours; he had planned on taking a morning jog. “Agent Pratt, I’m Trooper Doug Morgan with the North Carolina Department of Highways. My captain asked me to give you a call about a situation we could possibly use your expertise on.”

  “Who is your captain?”

  “Mike Lowman.”

  Mark and Mike Lowman were good friends. Mike’s son had

  played on Mark’s Little League baseball team a couple of summers ago. Mark had seen Mike a few weeks earlier at a gas station, and Mark had given him a card with his home number scribbled on the back.

  “Where are you?” Mark asked.

  “The state trooper’s office on Highway 49.”

  “Give me a chance to shower, and I’ll be right over.” Mark didn’t particularly like going to the state trooper’s office.

  The state troopers were comprised of a lot of good ’ole boys, and many of them weren’t too fond of black DEA agents. Mark had been pulled over a couple of times by officers he believed to be racist. In a couple of instances, if he hadn’t put his hands up in plain view he would have probably been a statistic.

  He showered and brushed his teeth, and twenty minutes later he pulled into the parking lot of the state trooper’s office and parked near the back door. He walked up to the door and tapped lightly. A tall, thin white trooper, with an elongated face and thinning gray hair opened the door and blocked the entrance. “Yeah, can I help you?” the man asked.

  Mark frowned. He hated these rednecks with their Robocop mentalities. “Yeah, I’m here to see Trooper Doug Morgan.”

  “Yeah, I’m Doug Morgan,” the man said.

  “I’m Agent Pratt,” Mark said, extending his hand.

  Doug paused before speaking, “You sounded different on the phone,” he finally said.

  Mark was used to people, whites in particular, saying this. People oftentimes attributed proper enunciation with someone being white. He considered his oratory skills a plus in his field. He was equally gifted at speaking street slang, and he spoke Spanish fluently, thus enabling him to go undercover easily. “Yeah, a lot of people say I sound differently over the phone.”

  Mark followed Doug through a set of double doors that led to a small conference room. Sitting at the table was a small black man who looked to be in his mid-forties, wearing gold earrings in both ears. Doug shut the door and introduced the man to Mark. “Mr. Ruffin, this is DEA Agent Mark Pratt.”

  Ruffin shrugged as if he could care less.

  “What’s going on in here?” Mark asked.

  “Ain’t shit going on but this cracker keep harassing me ’cause I drive a nice car,” Ruffin said.

  “There’s no need for the profanity,” Mark said.

  “I didn’t harass you.
I pulled you over because you were swerving,” Doug said.

  “What gave you the right to search my car?” Ruffin asked.

  “I searched your car because I saw you shove something underneath the passenger seat.”

  “It was only money. Y’all act like a black man ain’t supposed to have shit.”

  “How much money?” Mark asked Ruffin.

  “Why don’t you ask your fellow law enforcement officer,” Ruffin said.

  “Eighty-five thousand dollars,” Doug answered.

  Mark’s eyebrows rose. “Where were you going with that kind of money?”

  Ruffin dropped his head, staring at the floor. “I ain’t gotta answer that question if I don’t want to,” he said.

  “He’s a fuckin’ doper, that’s what he is. I ran his record. He already has two prior drug convictions,” Doug said.

  “Let me see the money,” Mark demanded.

  Doug left the room and reappeared with two manila envelopes. He handed them to Mark, who took the money out and spread it on a conference table. The money was in stacks of thousand-dollar bills, held together by rubber bands.

  “Mr. Ruffin, since you don’t want to talk about your money, take a last look at it,” Mark said.

  Ruffin raised his head and made eye contact with Mark. “Y’all mu’fuckas gonna give me my money back!” he shouted.

  “We might give you the money back if you give us an explanation for it,” Mark said.

  “What kind of explanation y’all want?”

  “What were you doing with it and where were you going with it?” Mark asked, stuffing the money back into the envelopes.

  “I ain’t no snitch,” Ruffin said.

  “I know you ain’t no snitch, you’re a fuckin’ doper with a drug record dating all the way back to 1982,” Doug said.

  “That ain’t no dope money,” Ruffin said to Mark. His eyes were red and pleading for understanding.

  Mark wanted to believe Ruffin but his knowledge and expertise wouldn’t let him. Mark turned from Ruffin’s gaze. “Legally, Mr. Ruffin, I can’t hold you for possession of money.”

  “I know. You gotta give me my money back,” Ruffin said.

  “Wrong. This money is going to the district attorney’s office. Someone from that office will be in touch with you. You have a right to dispute the seizure.”

  Ruffin rose from the table. “Can I go now?”

  “That’s totally up to Mr. Morgan,” Mark said.

  “He can go,” Doug replied.

  As Ruffin headed toward the double doors, Mark called out to him, “Ruffin, I’m going to be keeping an eye on you.”

  “Well, do your job,” Ruffin replied.

  *** Jamal awakened around 7:00 A.M. He would look for a job today. He figured he would at least try to be legitimate. He had seen many of his friends get out of prison and come right back for hustling, but he didn’t really want to get caught up in his previous lifestyle. He remembered how much he hated prison. He would often say that if he could get out, he would work two jobs. McDonald’s even. He just didn’t want to go back to a dreadful cell. If that didn’t work, he would go back to what he had been accustomed to. He had to survive. This was his rationale.

  Jamal had been to at least thirty different places looking for work. They all wanted to know where he’d been for the last five years. McDonald’s wouldn’t even hire him. One man, Paul Angel, owner of Angel’s Courier Service, had actually hired Jamal before learning of his past. Jamal and Angel had chatted for twenty minutes. They’d discussed everything from current events to sports. Angel showed Jamal pictures of his son and daughter who both attended the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Angel even encouraged Jamal to go back to school and get an education. “Who knows? If you get the right schooling, you might end up running this business for me once I’m not able,” Angel said, smiling. “When can you start?” Angel asked as he extended his hand to Jamal.

  “Today,” Jamal replied. They continued their discussion in the small office.

  Angel’s jaw dropped as soon as Jamal informed him that he’d just been released from prison. “You’ve been locked up before?”

  “Yeah, I did five years in prison,” Jamal said.

  “For what?” Angel asked as he stood and paced.

  “I was locked up for selling drugs,” Jamal said, suddenly realizing he should not have been so honest.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Stewart, but we can’t use your services,” Angel said, unable to hold eye contact.

  Jamal felt like an idiot for even trying to play by the rules. His plan was to be wealthy. He wanted a mansion, exotic cars, and at least a half-million dollars in cash. He chuckled to himself for having the notion that a regular-paying job would help him reach his goals. He got into his truck and decided to call Angelo, his California drug connection.

  Angelo answered on the first ring. “Hello.”

  “Angelo, this is Jamal.”

  “Oh my God, when did you get out?” Angelo asked.

  “Almost a month now,” Jamal replied.

  “I knew it was about time for you to get out,” Angelo said. “What have you been up to?”

  “Trying to find work, but I ain’t having no luck. Whenever I tell somebody that I just got out of prison, they don’t want to have nothing else to do with me.”

  “Well, guys like me and you ain’t cut out for working for nobody else. Besides, you know the white man ain’t trying to deal with no black ex-convict, so why don’t you come on out here to see me? I’ll put you back to work.”

  “I’ll be on the next flight to San Diego.”

  *** When Jamal and Dawg stepped off the plane, they took an escalator to the first floor of the airport. Angelo was there to greet them. He was a thin man with a wavy gray ponytail. He looked to be in his mid-fifties. He hugged Jamal. “Man, it’s been a long time,” Angelo said, happy to see his old business acquaintance.

  “Angelo, you remember my friend, Dawg, don’t you?” Jamal asked.

  Angelo and Dawg shook hands.

  The three men hurried to baggage claims and grabbed the luggage from the conveyer belt before heading to the parking lot where a blue Chevrolet Suburban transported them to Northern San Diego County. Angelo pulled into the driveway of a beautiful ranch-style, stucco house, nestled among eucalyptus trees. The inside of the home was richly decorated, and furnished with beautiful, green, Italian leather furniture. The floors were made of marble tile and a huge aquarium was built into the wall. A small octopus swam wildly as Jamal and Dawg looked on, very impressed. Angelo led them into a room in the back of the house, set up with a huge round table in the center. The three men took a seat. Shortly afterward, two women joined them.

  “Fellas, I want you to meet my girls,” Angelo said.

  “Hey, guys, I’m Connie,” one of the girls said. She was tall with skin the color of coffee. Her hair was short and stylish. “This is my friend Jennifer,” she said.

  Jennifer was tall and looked biracial. The girls shook hands with the guys, and the meeting began.

  “Well, I think everybody in this room knows what we’re here to discuss, so I’m gonna get right down to business,” Angelo said. “My man, Jamal here just got out of prison, and he wants to make some money. I’m gonna help him as much as I can because I know he is a stand-up guy. I feel like I owe him because when he went to prison, he could have been a bitch and brought me down. I would have died in prison, so I appreciate this man. Besides he’s like a son to me,” Angelo said.

  Jamal was surprised Angelo had such strong feelings for him. Angelo was right. Jamal could have given the Feds information and never served a day in prison. The two men had met while Jamal was in high school, at a downtown hotel where Jamal worked. One day Jamal overheard the hotel manager saying that he believed Angelo was into some type of illegal activity. Shortly thereafter Jamal told Angelo what he’d overheard, and the two had been friends ever since. “Yeah, I definitely need to make some money, but I don’
t want you to think you owe me anything,” Jamal said.

  “Then let’s just say I feel obligated. Plus I feel like I should make your transition back into the game as smooth as possible. So, I got a proposition for you. I think you might want to hear what I’ve got to say,” Angelo said.

  “I’m game for anything that’s gonna put some money in my pockets,” Jamal said, placing his forearms on the table.

  “Okay, this is the plan: I got a friend living in Charlotte. I’ve known this man for years. He’s willing to pay $25,000 for a kilo of cocaine.”

  “Where do I come in at?” Jamal asked.

  “I’m getting the kilos for $13,500. I’m going to give them to you for $18,500, and you can pass them on to Ruff and make $6,500 off the top.”

  “Your man is okay, ain’t he? I would hate to see my boy get caught up in some more bullshit,” Dawg said.

  Angelo stared at Dawg coldly. “I understand you, but this guy is cool. Trust me. Nothing is going to happen,” Angelo said before a smile materialized on his face. “Besides, he gets rid of dope faster than anybody I know.”

  “So, basically, my job is to be a runner for you?” Jamal asked.

  “If that’s all you want to be, that’s fine, but I’ll give you your own product on consignment, I mean, however you want to do it. That’s on you.”

  Jamal smiled broadly. “That’s what I want to hear. I need to make some money. I ain’t accustomed to being without it. When will the plan go into effect?”

  “As soon as you leave, the girls will make the delivery the next day.”

  “Well, hell, I’m leaving tomorrow. I like California and all, but I need to get this money.”

  CHAPTER 3

  T WO DAYS LATER, with four kilos attached to their girdles, the girls had gone through the airports undetected. The plan to get the product across the country had been successful. As soon as Jamal and Dawg got the product in their possession, Jamal called Ruff and got the directions to his home. It took thirty-five minutes to get to Ruff’s house from Jamal’s downtown condo.