Authors: Leo Sullivan
day I am sure that was what went through the jurors’ minds. Life
was a small time hustler, turned multi-millionaire, that deserved
to spend the rest of his life in prison, at least that was the message
Tomica was sending to the jury. Once again I couldn’t help but
wonder,
what could he have possibly done to this woman?
I glanced over at Life. It was the last day of Tomica’s testimo-
ny. He had his head bowed in prayer. For the first time, in what
felt like ages, I prayed, too, for both of us.
*****
I arrived home late that evening after picking my son up from
the babysitter across the street. I found an urgent message on my
answering machine. It was from my doctor concerning the blood
test. He said that he needed to see me immediately.
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Chapter T
wenty One
Chapter T
wenty One
“
We Die Hard”
–
Life –
I’m locked up and they won’t let me out! I remember sitting in a
federal holding cell, wearing a thousand dollar Armani suit, seven
hundred dollar Stacy Adam shoes and the weight of the trial
weighing heavily on my head. I remember always hearing rappers
and wanna be gangstas saying they’d rather be judged by twelve
than carried by six. That’s bullshit. You’ll never find a federal con-
vict agree to that, in fact, it’s the opposite meaning; they’d rather
have trial on the streets. That’s keeping it gangsta. Besides, in the
federal system if you have a life sentence your paperwork release
date simply states, “DECEASED.”
About the only bright spot in my trial was the fact that Trina
and Black Pearl beat their trial and got all the property and cars
back at the Chateau G.P. The feds gave them everything but the
money they found hidden underneath the floors. My right hand
man, Major, was in the same unit with me. His attorneys were
waiting for the outcome of my trial, so they continued to find ways
to delay his. I told Major to go on ahead and testify against me,
hell, 78 other niggas had done it for a time cut. Major flatly denied
my offer, said that this was just the other part of the game and it
felt too much like betrayal. Besides, once you start working for the
government, it’s a full time job, you become a government rat.
There was no doubt in my mind that after Tomica’s tell-all tes-
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timony, I was going to prison for the rest of my life. I had to give
Hope her props, she and the rest of my all female attorneys fought
for me. Hope even had a few specialists come testify on my behalf.
Black Pearl started writing me as soon as she got out. I never heard
from Trina’s punk ass. She got ghost on a nigga.
One of the specialists that testified on my behalf was a beau-
tiful redbone sista. She seemed to radiate on the witness stand.
Her long locks of hair were flowing down her back. Her name was
Nandi Shakur. She and Hope were good together, natural. If I did-
n’t know any better, I’d swear they were friends. When Dr. Shakur
spoke she commanded an aura of authority. I noticed a few of the
jury nodded their heads in agreement on the theory concerning
socioeconomical crimes and about the environment that was
intentionally created by the rich in the exploitation of the poor.
She explained how drugs had been placed in the Black communi-
ty and the fact that whites use more drugs but Blacks are the ones
targeted for arrest. Most important, federal judges, prosecutors
and some politicians have investments in stocks on prisons. Some
of the jurors started taking notes. I didn’t know if that was good
or bad. I knew the next day
USA Today
ran an in-depth article
with Nandi’s picture in it.
“
The Life Thugstin Defense takes a gamble by using a one-of-a-
kind defense never heard of before–the socioeconomical crime theory
and how the environment can play a factor in crime.”
The paper went on to give a detailed synopsis of the trial and
just how prudent the theory is. The young Hope Evans was how-
ever hailed as an young up and coming legal prodigy. The news-
paper compared Hope to Johnny Cochran in his early years.
*****
With each day I found it getting harder and harder for me to
concentrate on the trial. Hope looked like she was starting to dete-
riorate right before my eyes, and the media took notice, too. They
claimed in one of the tabloid magazines that she was about to have
a nervous breakdown due to the lengthy trial.
*****
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Chapter T
wenty T
wo
Chapter T
wenty T
wo
“
Change”
–
Life –
Like so many young Black men that find themselves trapped in
America’s penal system, I was determined to find a way out, so I
rever ted to my old ways. They say one of the most dangerous
things you can do is to lock a man up and for him to have noth-
ing to do all day but think. And that’s what I did in my cell each
day after trial. I found God in my cell and started praising Jesus,
too. I knew what I had to do.
*****
Holding cells are like New York train stations, only worse. You
get in where you fit in. You got dudes sprawled out on the pissy
floor, sitting on steel toilet stools and hard benches as well as sleep-
ing under them. The clamor of loud voices is maddening like lis-
tening to every scream at the same time. Cigarette smoke bellowed
to the top of the ceiling, thick enough to obscure the crude graf-
fiti written on the walls as well as satires about the judge’s moth-
er.
Finally, the door leading to the holding cells opened, with it
came a punctuated pause as deep as a bottomless pit, a protracted
silence, the practiced unison of prisoners listening, waiting to hear
their name called, as if God Himself were standing at the door
choosing who will make it into the gates of heaven. In prison,
lawyers are like Gods that work for the devil, only worse, consid-
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ering a prisoner is dependent on them as the intermediate. That’s
where the problem starts. Like being in a foreign country without
speaking the language. Many a man has signed his name on the
dotted lines, after paying a king’s ransom for what he thought
would secure his freedom, only to find he has paid a price to do a
lifetime. Lawyers are the biggest crooks God ever created.
We all listened for our names to be called by our attorneys. In
the distance the metallic sound of chains, shackles dragging across
the cold concrete floor, signal the arrival of another prisoner,
another destitute agony to mount in the chaos of madness.
Everyone in the cell listens. I strained my ears. Two cells down, I
thought I heard my name in hushed tones. I bolted to the cell
door accidentally stepping on two people.
“
Shh,” I hissed gesturing with my finger over my lips. Of
course they all complied. Over half the federal system is full of
informants, snitches eager for a free ticket out of prison.
I had the most famous case that the State of Florida had ever
known. So of course cats in the cell were quiet, acting like it’s
respecting me, but I know that they were really ear-hustling for
information on my case to get a time cut. In the feds they have an
old saying, “You got two kinds of people, those that told, and
those that wished they had told.” Those that told will never stop
telling even for the sake of their moral integrity. Those that don’t
staunchly refuse to compromise their code of ethics, for it is
intrinsically embedded in their virility. Real men do not tell on
their best friends, family members, wives and kids. They die for
what they believe in.
I peered between the cell bars down the hall. I saw Scandels in
a heated conversation, all agitated and animated, talking with his
hands raised in the air tr ying to argue a point. Then I heard
another voice that sent chills down my spine. It was a voice that I
had not heard in years. It belonged to my nigga Lil Cal. He came
back from the penitentiary to do me, to take the stand and testify
against me. His testimony would be the coup de grace sending me
to prison for the rest of my life. I remembered Hope showing me
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Lil Cal’s name on the discovery sheet, but I just never thought he
would actually rat on me. Shit! I made the crucial mistake of
telling him too much, doing too much. I bought his moms a big
house, took care of his baby mama and put thousands of dollars
in his inmate account. In the process, I left a paper trail that even
a blind man could follow.
Scandels stormed by the cell door without even seeing me. I’m
sure he didn’t know I was in the very next cell close to his star wit-
ness. This would not be the first time the feds had blundered like
this. They have been known to place the rat and the accused in the
same cell with the rat ending up getting killed as planned. I stared
at the naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling outside the cell,
lost for words, my feelings and emotions stuck in the back of my
throat. There was an ancient-looking fingerprinting station in
front of the cell.
“
Yo ... Cal ...?” I heard my voice carry down the hall as I felt
my hands gripping the bars tightly. At the other end of the hall,
shackles rattled, feet shuffled. “L? L? That you man?”
“
Yeah, nigga it’s me aiight. Wuz up?” I said acidly.
“
Man pah-lees! You gotta help me. Pah-lees!” Cal shrieked. I
stepped back from the bars full of rage. I turned around and
looked at some of the faces in the cell, read the deceit in their eyes
like the graffiti on the wall. By the time our conversation would
be over there would be a mad stampede to the prosecutor’s office.
Everybody trying to get a time cut.
“
L … L ... You gotta help me!” Cal continued. His voice was
panic stricken, like he was on the verge of delirium. Just the way
the feds will make you when they break you, when you sell your
soul for another man’s life. I listened to Lil Cal, careful not to get
caught up in another indictment. “Both my grandma and her hus-
band are missing.” I could hear Cal crying as he spoke,
“
Somebody ran up in my moms’ crib, snatched up my mama and
my oldest brother Rob. Then yesterday, somebody mailed my
brother’s head to the institution with a note, ‘
lf you’re lookin’ for
your brother, Ax Blazack, oh, and don’t worry about your Grandma