Life Without Hope (51 page)

hyperventilating. I forced myself to look into his eyes, and

searched his soul for some vestige of sincerity. For some reason he

and my son just stared at each other. It was bizarre, like two peo-

ple that knew each other but couldn’t remember the other’s name.

I looked between the two of them and damn near fell out my

seat. Marcus looked identical to his father like he was a miniature

copy, dimple and all. The scene was eerie. They continued to stare

at each other like two people stuck in a mirror. For the sake of

talking I started a conversation, just as a CO walked by.

“
As an attorney I would advise you not to represent yourself at

trial. In fact, I would advise you not to go to trial, period.” No

answer, just the two of them staring at each other. I was on the

outside looking in. To my utter shock, I watched as my son

climbed out of his chair and ambled over to where Life was and

leaned against his knee. This was totally out of character. My son

is shy of strangers.

“
Hope, I can’t believe this,” Life said. His voice was hoarse. I

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thought I detected anger. It was a big mistake to bring my son

there.

Life figured it out, the child leaning against his knee is his son

,

I thought as I waited for him to speak. He licked his lips and

peered closer at Marcus.

“
He looks like ... he looks just like my father,” Life finally said.

The frown on his face was that of a man trying to understand fate,

strange happenstance, or maybe why I never told him he was the

real father to my child.

“
Marcus, honey, go sit back in the chair,” I said sweetly. My

child ignored me.

“
No, please. Let him stay.” Life’s words were soft and sound-

ed like a plea. Still neither of them took their eyes off each other.

“
What’s that?” Marcus asked innocently, pointing at the

prison tattoo on Life’s forearm. It looked like it was recently done.

It was a picture of a child’s face beneath a tombstone. It read, “Rest

in Peace” with the name Shawn L. Bell inscribed on it.

“
That’s a picture of my son, Shawn L., he went to heaven.”

Life spoke as if the gruesome scene was still fresh in his mem-

ory. I found myself leaning forward staring at the tattoo with my

son.

“
Why he die for?” Marcus asked.

“
Boy get over here!” I screeched. Life picked Marcus up in his

arms holding him affectionately, and at that time the two of them

looked at me accusingly. Lawd have mercy! It felt like a double

dose of regret. It suddenly dawned on me if the media, or anybody

else saw us together like this they couldn’t help but noticed the

comparison.

“
I dunno what he died fo’,” Life answered somberly and then

his whole demeanor changed. He tickled Marcus’ sides. They

laughed together with the same smile. I was forced to look away.

Again I was tormented about why I came in the first place.

“
I saw you in the courtroom the day I fired my lawyers.”

I just looked at my watch, no words, lots of body language.

My intention was to get out of there with the least conversation

possible.

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“
My stepmother told me that you gave her one of your busi-

ness cards.”

“
She remembered me?” I accidentally blurted out not mean-

ing to break my silence.

“
Yeah, you’re the only person that gives out business cards

with no address on them.” He smiled, all dimples, and then

added, “Naw just playin’. She remembered you cause you was the

only Black woman that approached her. She said it was hectic.

White folks can be so r ude.” The moment stilled. I watched his

large hands as he played with Marcus, teaching him how to make

a fist to throw a punch, using the palm of his hands for punching

bags. “Harder! Harder!” he instructed.

Life persuaded Marcus to swing, until finally Marcus missed

and fell on his butt. My mask was unveiled. As much as I didn’t

want to, I couldn’t help but laugh. In fact, all three of us got a

good roar out of that. The CO walking by laughed, too. I guess

we must have looked like one big happy family. Before I could,

Life picked Marcus up and dusted off his pants and placed him on

his lap and they played horsy. I looked at my watch, determined

to make my exit. Suddenly Life stopped rocking Marcus and just

held him in his arms. “Hope, I’m concerned about the case.” He

couldn’t look me in the eyes, didn’t want to either, just stared

above my head like it was a clock up there or something. I tried to

read his mood, the thug nobody knew. I looked under all that

brazen gangsterism, underneath all that toughness and I saw a

lonely man with dark circles under his eyes. Gone was the glor y of

the game, only to be replaced by concrete, steel, mail call and the

same weekly three course meals. He was still not looking at me,

just rocking back and forth with Marcus in his arms.

“
I came to this town with a big money scheme. I should have

left a long time ago.” I didn’t know if Life was talking to me or just

pondering his thoughts. He paused and looked at the child in his

arms.

“
My stepmother doesn’t trust white folks. Neither do I.”

“
It was good you fired your lawyers,” I said. Marcus was

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falling asleep in his arms.

“
Yeah, I fired them because they were greedy, I could sense

that sumpin’ wasn’t right wit them.”

“
I came to tell you that the day you took your anger out on

me.”

“
I know, I know. I figured that out after you left. When I

heard that you quit your job, I realized then that I made a big mis-

take,” he said apologetically as his voice softened.

“
I overheard my ex-boss, Scandels, talking to your lawyers.

They planned to rig the trial so he could win, and at the same

time, bleed you for your money while enjoying all the free press.”

I don’t know why I was opening up to this man; perhaps it was

because he was the father to my child. Maybe it was because he

was a brotha.

“
You said somethin’ bout Lil Cal.”

“
Yes, while I was working for the government I stole your file.

In it was the discovery papers of all the people that planned to tes-

tify against you at this trial.” Life raised a suspicious eyebrow at

what I just said. “Lil Cal is in Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary

doing a life sentence. He agreed to come back and testify against

you in return for a reduced sentence. His real name is Calvin

Johnson. You know him?”

“
Yeah, I know ‘em,” Life said, his eyes cast to the floor, hurt

written all over his face. “That was my nigga. I bought his Mama

a big-ass house, kept his inmate account phat.” I looked away, did-

n’t want to wallow in his sorrow. Suddenly our little space, our lit-

tle world inside of a prison visitation room was filled with silence

louder than any words that two people can share.

“
Hope, I want you to represent me! Be my lawyer!” Life said

it like it wasn’t a question, it was a demand. He completely caught

me off guard. The moment lulled. I was sure he was trying to read

my expression. Finally I chuckled a strained laugh as fake as the

fr uit on Grandma’s dinning room table.

“
You can’t be serious.” I gestured. He made a face that said,

do

I look serious?

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“
First off, I don’t have the experience for a case of this magni-

tude, and more importantly, the prosecution is going to file a

motion for conflict of interest just to get me off the case because I

used to work for their office.” To me it sounded like a lame excuse.

“
You must try,” he said with conviction.

I’ll admit, I had thought about it. What would it be like to

represent a client in one of the biggest drug cases the state of

Florida has ever seen?

“
I’ll pay you double what I paid The Nightmare Team 2.

Hope, if I’ma die like some fuckin’ caged dog, then at least let me

be able to fight back.”

His words hit deep to the core of my soul, making me feel

kind of high, like an adrenaline rush that comes with a fight, a

fight for a Black man’s life.

“
Do you know what you’re asking of me?” I asked sternly.

“
Yes I do,” he shot back.

“
If I decide to take your case and they let me, it’s not going to

be like your last defense team. This is nothing short of war, and

it’s dirty and corrupt. I’m going to have to hire attorneys, investi-

gators, legal specialists such as psychologists and other legal

experts, and most importantly, Life?” I called his name with all the

sincerity that I could muster and I looked him in the eyes with a

cold stare. “If you lie to me, I promise you, I promise you, I will

drop you like a bad habit.” He just looked at me as he switched

positions moving Marcus from one arm to the other. My child was

fast asleep in his arms.

“
I’ll send you a check for a mill.”

“
A mi … mi … million dollars,” I stammered.

“
That’s not enough?”

“
That’s too much. What about taxes? The feds are already try-

ing to nail you for tax evasion.”

“
The money will come from a corporation. It’s all perfectly

legal, the same way white folks do it,” he said, as I listened and

learned.

I thought about the billion dollars that Willie Falcon was

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worth. I thought about Trina Vasquez and how two weeks after

Life’s arrest, she was arrested at the New York International

Airpor t with four million dollars in her luggage.

One thing was for certain, Life definitely had the finances to

buy the best defense that

money could buy. I did recall reading in one of the confiden-

tial dossiers while I was working for the federal bureau, Willie

Falcon paid each of his lieutenants 10 percent of each shipment of

coke. Each shipment was always valued at over a hundred million.

The bureau had an inside informant, a man by the name of Carlos

Menendez. He was going to testify that he personally took part in

at least five different operations where Life Thugstin imported

large shipments of cocaine from Colombia to the United States.

About a month ago, Carlos and his family were murdered execu-

tion style. Both of his eyes and his tongue were savagely cut out, a

warning to future snitches. His wife and two daughters, ages 5 and

3, all had their throats cut.

I warned Life not to get into any more trouble at the FDC

building. He already had been in several fights and assaults. I

knew that he wouldn’t listen. I jotted down the address of my new