Larceny (2 page)

 

Around nine o'clock in the morning, I got a call from my employer at his law office. There must have been some type of problem, because usually he would be in court around that time, trying to get one of his clients out of jail, or at least trying to fuck any district attorney who wanted to prosecute one of his clients. Here I was, Jovan Conrad Price, getting harassed by my boss at 9:00 in the morning, especially on my day off.

I worked for Mark Rohon, an attorney with the biggest criminal law firm in Washington, D.C., Rohon and Robinson. He was the leading attorney at his office, and he was very well known for his many highly publicized cases. His legal skill attracted the biggest drug dealers in the city.

If anyone who was getting some type of papers in D.C., or at least on trial for some murders, wanted to get off and win the case, then Mark Rohon was their man. Believe me, his services did not come cheap. It's been said that Mark worked so hard getting his clients out of jail that the government wanted to investigate him to see if there was some kinda way that he was involved with their criminal conduct. Like any other smart attorney, Mark always had a way of getting out of any scheme.

I'd only been working for Mark for about five months, and the more I worked for him, the more I saw how crooked lawyers were. But for me, a nigga from the streets of Southeast, I respected his game, and besides, this mu'fucka was getting paid out the ass. Niggas came by his office every day, dropping off shoe boxes full of money, and out of all this money, this fucker only paid me a punk-ass thousand dollars a week. Now, I was no lawyer, but most of the cases that were put in Mark's motions came from my labor.

I took a paralegal course for two years and received my graduate diploma about six months ago. I knew Mark from paying him on previous cases for some good friends of mine. We connected well and became cool, and he always told me if there was anything he could do to help me legally, he would; so when I received my diploma in paralegal studies, I went straight to Mark.

At first he seemed a little hesitant about hiring me, but once I explained to him my position and the need for money to continue my education, he graciously obliged. I was more than happy to get the job, but for real, I was still fucked up financially. I not only needed money for school, but I also had a lavish spending habit. I liked the finer things in life. I was used to having money.

All my life I'd been getting that money, loot, dough, cash, cheese, or whatever else you may call it. I had always had a lust for that paper. I craved it like a junkie craves a fix.

It used to cross my mind to get back into hustling, but I always knew that it took too much risk, time, and hard effort to achieve the type of bank I really wanted, and besides, there was too much competition in D.C. at the time.

The summer of '94 was a booming year. Everybody was getting it, doin' they thang. I often thought about kidnapping and robbing a few of these niggas out there getting that money; especially those punks who ain't suppose to have it. Nowadays, everybody was hustling, slinging them thangs. Niggas who ain't put in any work or come up hard from rock bottom was getting money, pushing 600SL's, Lexus Coupes, LS400's and 850I BMW's.

When the notorious Big Silk was on the scene, none of these niggas was flaunting their bank like that, let alone coming off their fucking porches, but as soon as they heard that this killer had gotten three life sentences, all of a sudden niggas started poppin' up with shit. Don't get me wrong; there were some real gangstas out there getting money when Big Silk was on the scene, but them punks who he peeped as variable niggas who wasn't fit to play in this game definitely got what was coming to them. They were being robbed at will.

Now that I was changing my life, it was hard for me to get used to not having a lot. Oftentimes I felt depressed, unfocused, and just plain ole broke as hell. I knew I had to put a plan together, the perfect plan that I'd been working on for the last two years. I called it the Political Move, and all I needed to make my plan work was a nice bankroll and a down-ass bitch.

I considered a few females that I was dealing with at the time, like Barvette. She was one of the top-flight broads in the city. Barvette looked good, and she had a business head on her shoulders, but the only thing about her that I couldn't get with was that she fucked around with too many major niggas. She wasn't looked at as some freak-ass hood rat. She was more like a female player who knew how to play her cards right. She was the type of female you could take anywhere and she'd adjust to the situation.

At one time we were considered almost an item. We had the most fun together. Although I still saw her every now and then, I still couldn't put her down with my move. It had been rumored that she was now dating an NBA star who played for the Washington Wizards. When I found that out, I just knew there was no way to fit her into my plans.

There was also Keda, who I called my gangster bitch. She had the total package: a pretty face, pretty eyes, nice body, nice job, education, good pussy, bomb-ass head, and was down for whatever. There was one area Keda lacked: she had two little boys from a previous relationship—not to mention they were bad as hell—and kids were not a part of this move.

Lastly, there was Peppa. Pep was cool. She fit all the criteria but only one thing: she was too much of a hood rat and loved the party life. Pep was the type of female who would walk into a business meeting with a Donna Karan Spandex suit and tennis shoes on. I definitely couldn't use Pep.

What I needed was a straight-up educated but down-for-whatever, no-children female. Face it; I needed a real live straight-up bitch like in Bonnie and Clyde.

Ring, ring, ring.
As I got up off the floor from doing my daily routine crunches to answer the phone, before I could even say “Who is it?” I heard a panicky voice.

“Hello? Jovan? Jovan! Are you there?”

“Yeah, I'm here. Who's this?”

“It's me, Mark.”

“Damn, Mark, I'm supposed to be off today, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, but right now I need you. It's urgent.”

Damn, usually I was the one telling a lawyer I needed him. “Okay, what's up?” I asked.

“Well, I need you to come down to the office and categorize a few cases for me and help format this motion for this evidentiary hearing we got coming up. I'll be calling you from court, giving you certain cases in between the hearings, and you can fax them to me,” Mark said.

“Damn, Mark, why'd you wait so late to file this motion?” I asked.

“Because the court didn't give the proper notice of service that one of my clients was just granted this evidentiary hearing on appeal.”

“So you mean to tell me this is an appellate case?”

“Yeah,” he said, “and I've got these fuckers by the balls.”

I laughed. “That's good then. Who's the client you're representing?”

“His name is Bilal. Bilal Davis.”

 

 

 

As Jovan and I entered the restaurant, we were greeted by a young, shapely white waitress.

“Hello, and how are you? Welcome to Phillips waterfront restaurant. Today's menu includes our lavish seafood buffet of grilled tuna, baked salmon, lobster bisque, filet trout, and the soup of the day is shark fin chowder. The patio will be open until three o'clock, and we have a smoking and non-smoking section inside,” the waitress said.

I wondered if Jovan smoked, because that would be a complete turn-off. I looked at his lips to see if I could see any traces of purple that most smokers have. My cousin has the darkest lips ever from smoking, and every time we go out, it's a must that she cover them up with bright red lipstick. Since I wasn't able to detect any signs of smoking on Jovan, like the smell of his clothes, yellow-stained teeth, purple lips, and a need for a fresh pack of Newports, I assumed that he didn't smoke.

Jovan interrupted the young waitress as she continued to tell us about damn near everything the restaurant had.

“Excuse me. We would like to be seated outside on the patio if you don't mind,” he said.

The young waitress looked at Jovan as if to say “Why in the hell did you cut me off like that?” I liked that in Jovan: a sense of aggressiveness.

When we were seated, I thought I'd add a little humor to the situation. “Thanks. For a minute I thought she was gonna tell us how the place was built and give us a grand tour,” I said.

We both laughed, and then Jovan said, “You better be quiet, 'cause here she comes with the menus.”

“Shhh. I thought she already told us the whole damn menu.” We both laughed again.

I liked that about Jovan: he carried himself very well. I could see that we were starting to connect and feel a little more comfortable with each other.

 

 

 

Bilal Davis. All I could do was think back and reminisce about the last time I saw Bilal. It was the winter of 1985, and I had just turned 15 years old. He was from Northeast D.C., over there on Sixth and K, across the street from Wilson Elementary School, an area which would later be known as the Gold Mine that helped D.C.'s biggest drug dealer, Ray Edmonson, rise to multimillion-dollar status.

My grandmother lived a few blocks over on Ninth and G, right across the street from Golden Elementary and Sherwood Recreational playground. This is where all the major players and future NBA stars played basketball—people like Sherman Douglas, who played for the Boston Celtics, Curt and Charles Smith, Lawrence Morton, and Michael Gram. On weekends, some of the players from the Georgetown Hoyas would play against local drug dealers in exchange for certain gifts.

My favorite was to see Big Fat dunk on any and everybody that got in his way. Sometimes my big cousin Poochie and Uncle Bobby would go over to play, and I'd watch them, along with almost every pretty female from around the way. The playground was always packed with pretty females, but as usual, they were all too old for me, and besides, pussy wasn't the first thing on my agenda back then.

It was a cold day in November of '85, and I was at my grandmother's house, bored as hell. No one else was there but grandma and me. My father was a smooth nigga, and he wasn't around that much. He was mostly outta town on some type of business—at least that's what I thought. As I got older, I came to find out that he was on the run for some bank robberies he did back in the late '70s. This is why, when he came by grandma's to see me, he wouldn't stay long, but he'd give me a few dollars, throw a couple of jabs at me to make sure I knew how to fight, drop me a few jewels, and step off.

The one jewel that stayed with me the most was when he'd say, “Trust no one, master your condition, and keep all suckers in the bounds of moderation.” Of course, I wouldn't understand any of this shit until later on in life when it became reality.

 

 

 

Jovan ordered baked salmon filet with sun-dried tomatoes and a side order of creamed spinach, along with a glass of freshly squeezed grapefruit juice. I could see from his order that Jovan was very alert toward his health, which was something that we both had in common. I wondered if he drank occasionally, like myself. That would be a plus.

When it was my turn to order, I got a seafood salad with blue cheese dressing and a side order of steamed shrimp, along with a glass of lemon ice tea.

“Got a big appetite, huh?” Jovan asked me.

“Yeah, I was in a rush this morning and wasn't able to eat a thing.”

A slight grin came on his face. “So that's why you took my invitation to lunch. You wasn't even thinking about getting to know me better, huh?”

Before I answered, I blushed a little. “Look, Mr. Smarty Pants, if I didn't want to get to know you, I would have made the first right on Pennsylvania Avenue, headed home, fixed myself my own seafood salad, and watched the daytime soaps. And for the record, I must find you somewhat interesting, because I don't miss my soaps for nobody.”

“Well, excuse me.”

We both laughed while looking each other in the eyes. I wondered if he was thinking what I was thinking, did he feel like I felt, and did he want what I wanted.

“Well, Sonya, where are you from?”

“I grew up in the northeast over in Trinidad, all the way up until I got in the ninth grade, and then we moved uptown to Webster Street Northwest.”

“Is that where you went to school?”

“Yeah, I went to Roosevelt High, and I stayed there until I graduated. I had a rough time in school mostly because my mother stayed in the hospital a lot. She had cancer and died when I was in my last year of school.”

“Damn, boo, I'm so sorry to hear that.”

“It's cool. I've learned to deal with it. I can't let that hold me back from achieving higher things in life. In fact, I use it as motivation,” I told Jovan.

“That's good. Do you have any brothers and sisters?”

“My brother is—hold up. I just met you. I shouldn't be telling you all my personal business like this.”

“Sonya, your business only becomes personal when you hold it in; and when you hold it in too long, sometimes it may hinder you from getting what you really want in life.”

At that moment, whatever he said sounded good, and I thought about it for a second, especially when he said it may hinder me from getting what I really wanted in life. Right at that moment what I really wanted was to get to know Jovan better, so I continued with his little interview and anticipated the wait for my turn to ask the questions.