Backstage: Street Chronicles (17 page)

Word in the hood was that Trapp snitched on OG Rosco. Rosco
was having his lawyer look into who signed statements on him. His lawyer said he would have the information in one week.

“Rosco, I have the DA working with me right now. Being that you copped out, we can’t get a motion of discovery to find out exactly who signed statements on you. However, the DA owes me a favor.”

“As soon as you find out who snitched on me I want to know right away, you understand me?” Rosco spoke sternly.

“I definitely will. You know this is going to add two thousand to your bill.”

“I don’t care if it’s twenty thousand, I need to know who snitched on me. If it is who I think it is—” Rosco stopped speaking before he incriminated himself. Someone was always listening to inmates’ conversations.

“I will see you in a week.” Rosco’s lawyer left the jail.

Rosco went back to his cell. He laid on his bed thinking about who he was going to get to do the job on whoever snitched on him.

“I won’t rest until I get the rat that put me in this hellhole.”

Rosco put his headphones on and went to sleep with visions of murder dancing in his head.

“Hey, Sammy, you were right, man, this guy Trapp is the truth. We want to sign him to a record deal immediately,” said Ronald Schwartz, the head of University Records. “We want a single out before the summer is over.”

“I’ll call him right now. We can be in your office in an hour.”

“That’s even better. Make it happen for me, baby,” Ronald said in an enthused tone before hanging up.

Sammy swiftly called Trapp, he answered on the third ring. “Come to the studio ASAP. Ronald Schwartz from University Records just told me that he wants to sign you immediately.”

“Say no more, let’s go.” Trapp was excited.

“I’ll see you at the studio.”

Trapp and Sammy drove to 456 East Houston Street in lower
Manhattan to the University Records headquarters. Trapp could smell fresh money throughout the building.

“Trapp is here to see Ronald Schwartz,” Sammy said in a professional tone on behalf of Trapp.

They must have known Trapp was coming because the red carpet rolled out as soon as he told the receptionist his name.

“Come right this way, Mr. Trapp. We’ve been waiting for you. Mr. Schwartz will see you in two minutes tops, he doesn’t want to keep his new rap star waiting.” The beautiful receptionist gave him a seductive smile. “Would you like something to drink; Hennessy maybe?”

Trapp was so mesmerized by her smile and round backside that he was at a loss for words. “Sure.”

“If you need anything, I mean
anything”
—she put extra emphasis on “anything”—”ask for Cookie.”

“No doubt, Cookie, you look like a sweet-ass cookie, too.”

“Ha-ha-ha.” Cookie let out a faint female laugh. “You are so funny, Trapp.” She grabbed his arm and rubbed it. “Remember,
any thing,”
she whispered in his ear right before sticking her tongue into it.

Trapp gave Sammy a raised eyebrow look. “Damn, I never had a chick that bad jump on my dick like that.”

“You’re going to get a lot of that soon. Get ready for the ride of your lifetime,” Sammy said with a smile.

“Mr. Schwartz will see you now,” Cookie said, winking at Trapp as he passed by.

“Have a seat, Trapp,” Ronald said after shaking Trapp’s hand extra long. “Now before you say anything, we want to show you our gratitude for considering us as your label. A man with your talent can sign a deal with any major label in town.” He paused and signed a check. “Here is a fifty-thousand-dollar check, and these are the keys to a beautiful loft apartment in SoHo. When you sign I will give you another hundred-thousand-dollar cash advance.”

He didn’t have to say anything else for Trapp to say “Where do I sign?”

“See, that’s what I’m talking about. You’re a man that doesn’t waste time. You know a good thing when you see it. For that we won’t waste time with you, either. I’ll have my engineer master one of your songs, and by Friday your song will be in rotation on every major radio station in the world. Then we will have your video in rotation on every major video show in the world.”

Trapp couldn’t believe his ears, but he knew this bald White man wasn’t faking. Trapp was in a daze, his head was spinning because everything was moving so fast.

“And on top of that, Cookie will take you down to the company garage. Pick out any one of the cars you want. I like the Maserati myself.”

“How could I ever repay you, Mr. Schwartz?” Trapp asked with humility.

“Call me, Ron, that’s what all my close friends call me. I got a feeling that we are going to be pretty close in the future. All I want you to do is to keep making that hot music, baby.”

Trapp drove the aluminum-gray Maserati with care on the Long Island Expressway. “I can’t believe it. Two weeks ago I was just regular old Trapp from the hood. Now I’m Big Trapp. I’m Hood Rich in one day.”

When Trapp got to Brentwood, he drove the Maserati through every block that was popping. By the next day his whole hood was talking.

It didn’t stop there. Ronald kept his promise and Trapp’s new single “Trapp or Die” was in rotation on every major radio station in the world. “Trapp or Die” was a huge success early on. “Trapp or Die” reached number one on the hot singles charts in two weeks.

Trapp shot a video in his hood, and just as Ronald promised, the video premiered on every music TV station. Trapp was quickly catapulted into rap superstardom overnight.

Trapp couldn’t go to the mall, or to the local bodega, because he was too famous. There was a riot at South Shore Mall because Trapp went to Foot Locker to cop a pair of Jordans. It would take Trapp twenty minutes to get a Dutch Master because he had to sign fifty autographs before he could leave. All this fame and he didn’t even have an album out yet, just a single.

Trapp’s whole lifestyle changed. He was becoming bourgeois because of his new associates. He was mingling with important New York socialites who accepted Trapp because of his newfound success. If it weren’t for that, they wouldn’t even let Trapp use their bathrooms.

“How’s the rest of the album coming out?” Ronald asked.

“It’s coming out hot as ever, Ron.” Trapp was lying.

Trapp ran into a little problem. He was running out of new material to steal from the rhyme book. The only songs left were songs that JJ already recorded before he got locked up. Trapp knew that if he recorded them, people that had JJ’s CD would automatically know that Trapp stole his lyrics straight from JJ Gates.

It was crunch time for Trapp. Either he used the songs or forfeit getting more money from the label.

“Fuck it, don’t nobody know JJ Gates like that anyway, he was just a local cat,” Tripp reassured himself. “Plus that nigga doing life, he can’t do nothing with them.”

Trapp went into the studio and began recording all of the songs in JJ’s rhyme book. He completed his album and turned it in to Ronald. When Trapp’s album was released, it reached the number one spot in the country, selling one million units in the first week.

Trapp was officially a rap star. He was leaving a legacy that would live on for years to come. A legacy that was stolen.

JJ sat on his bunk reading
The Destruction of Black Civilization
by Chancellor Williams. Solomon was putting him on to Black scholars.

“These Black scholars are unsung heroes. They turned down big money and opportunities to teach African history in less fortunate, predominantly Black neighborhoods,” Solomon said to JJ with the passion of a scholar himself. “These are the only true sources that we as Blacks can rely on to teach us our history. We cannot rely on the White man as a reliable source on Africa. They will always paint Africans in a negative light.”

These type of talks were what made JJ begin to read more about his African history. Before he was arrested, he could care less about his African history, all he cared about was making drug money.

Getting locked up brought JJ back down to earth. He was stripped of all his jewelry, his money, and his street status. Anyone in jail could be whatever they wanted to be, but in reality, in jail he was just another number.

JJ was reflecting on his life more nowadays. He missed going to college, and his family. His short stint in the drug game taught him more than he expected to learn. He thought everything was peachy when he was making money riding around bragging about how Hood Rich he was. The image of young Cannon’s body laying cold on the concrete showed him that the drug game is not a game at all, it’s serious.

That could’ve been me shot up like that
, JJ thought to himself.
It’s not worth it
.

It didn’t take much to turn JJ away from the drug game. He realized that he really wasn’t built for it.

JJ worked out regularly with Solomon. When he wasn’t working
out, he was writing letters to his new lawyer and love interest, the beautiful and intelligent Sasha. Being locked up brought out the romantic side of JJ. All he thought about was Sasha, and his case, which wasn’t looking good.

Apparently, the DA had a smoking 40-caliber handgun with JJ’s fingerprints on it. Because of that, the DA was pushing for the maximum on the attempted murder charge, which was twenty years if JJ blew trial. The DA offered him ten years if he copped out in court, otherwise he was facing twenty years to life.

The letters and phone calls to Sasha, the working out and reading books helped him to cope with his situation. But mostly it was Sasha that kept him grounded.

Sasha spoke to JJ on the phone for two hours every day. Sasha had taken a minor in psychology, so she was good at comforting JJ in his time of need.

Sasha was also getting attached to JJ. She thought about him every day. She wondered what would happen if he did get acquitted of his charges.

Is he going to do all the things he mentions in his letters?
Sasha thought to herself.
I think I love JJ, although it’s too soon, I still do
. Then the thought occurred to her,
What if he blows trial?

A million thoughts ran through Sasha’s mind. She knew that his case wasn’t looking good. The DA wasn’t budging from her offer. Sasha had the evidence, and it would be almost impossible to beat this case.

No matter what, I’m going to fight to the end for my king
, Sasha thought with determination.

Her phone rang. She knew exactly who it was. “Hi, JJ, how are you doing today?”

“I’m doing better now that I hear your voice. How is your day so far?” JJ asked.

“I’m okay, but I have bad news about your case.”

JJ’s stomach dropped. “Lay it on me.”

“Well, the DA claims to have your fingerprints on the weapon.

I know you told me that Cannon shot the weapon, but the forensics test came back positive for your fingerprints.”

“I’m telling you, Sasha, I didn’t touch that weapon. I let Cannon handle that, there was no need for me to touch it.”

“I don’t know, JJ, it doesn’t look good. You were at the scene with a weapon that had your fingerprints on it. As your lawyer I have to give you my expert opinion. I think you should cop out. I can see if I can get you five years instead of ten on the cop out. I don’t think you can win at trial, their evidence is too strong.”

JJ’s hope fell off a cliff when she said that. He went silent, a thousand thoughts ran through his head.

“There has to be a way to prove my innocence,” JJ said with desperation in his tone.

“It will take a miracle.”

The TV was playing in the background. Music videos were playing loud, and all the young men were gathered around the TV bopping their heads. Something about the words to the song sounded so familiar to JJ. The more he listened, the more he was drawn to the screen.

“Sasha, let me call you back.” JJ hung up the phone and strolled toward the TV.

When JJ got within eyesight of the screen, he couldn’t believe what he saw. “That’s Trapp!” Some of the guys heard him. JJ was ecstatic at first to see Trapp on TV, until he listened closer to the words of the song.

“Yo, that’s my shit! That’s my rhyme!” JJ suddenly got angry. “How the fuck is this nigga spitting my rhymes?”

He stood and listened to Trapp spit the verses right from his precious rhyme book. JJ couldn’t believe what was happening. He was actually standing in jail watching his rival get the credit and the money from his work. JJ took pride in the songs he wrote.

Solomon saw JJ’s expression while he watched TV. “What’s happening? Why the long face?”

“He stole my rhymes.” Tears of anger were welling up in JJ’s
eyes. “I use to get money with that dude, and now he is spitting my songs on national TV.”

“Wow, that’s serious, my man.” Solomon always had something wise to say, but this time he didn’t know what to say besides, “Don’t let this situation get you down, there is still a chance for you to turn this around.”

“Turn it around! First my lawyer tells me to cop out because my fingerprints are on the gun. Then I look at the TV and my enemy is spitting my songs. What’s next?” JJ said in an angry tone.

“I hear you, my man, but one thing is for sure. As long as you have life, things can change for the better.”

“Yeah, whatever. I’m going to my cell. I’ll see you tomorrow.” JJ moped his way to his cell. He was hurt beyond belief.

What else can go wrong?
he asked himself.

Big was laid back as he rode in his vintage 1989 Cadillac Deville. It was gold with spoked rims and a system that knocked like he was in a club. Ever since the day that JJ gave Big a copy of his CD, that was all Big played.

“I’m telling you man, JJ Gates is the truth. Cats ain’t fucking with my boy,” Big said to Vic, who was riding in the passenger seat.

“I don’t know, Big, there’s this new cat out named Trapp. Trapp’s album is the hottest album out.”

“I never heard of him.”

“I got his CD in my pocket.”

Vic took out the CD. Big ejected JJ’s CD and inserted Trapp’s CD. As Big listened to Trapp’s lyrics, he unconsciously started singing along with him. He knew all the words to his song.