Riding Dirty on I-95 (9 page)

“Don't worry about it, ma,” Chocolate yelled out the door to Mercy. “I got you. Don't worry, you'll be okay. Just don't say shit, because they'll use it against you. They some real pigs, too. They eat they own shit. Just look at them with these smiles on their faces. So keep your mouth shut, and I'll be right down there to get you. Believe that.”

A couple of the officers shot Chocolate dirty looks. Mercy just nodded to let him know that she heard what he was saying, but he hadn't said anything she didn't already know. After all, she had been raised by the thoroughest of the thoroughbreds. Her father
was a stand-up type of dude straight out the gate, and it didn't stop there; the genes had been passed on to his daughter.

Mercy couldn't believe this was all happening as the police car pulled off. Not once had it crossed her mind that Brianna and her low-life friends would go and file charges against her. After all, it was a mutual battle, and Brianna had asked for it. When Mercy got down to the Ninth Street Station to be booked, she was charged with three counts of aggravated assault, malicious wounding, assault with a deadly weapon, and two attempted murder charges. Bail was set at fifty thousand. She needed five thousand ninety-five dollars to get out with a bondsman.

Now where the fuck am I going to get that money from?
Mercy wondered.
I know Chocolate ain't gon' come up off all that for my black ass, and I ain't got shit. I can't believe these cave-rat bitches. They been fucking with me and my niece for months now, and when I beat them down, it's a damn problem. What kind of shit is that?

The bullpen was cold and smelled like piss, shit, vomit, and menstruation mixed together. She couldn't figure out if it was the stench seeping through the cracks of the concrete or the woman that was balled up in a knot over in the corner shaking. It could have been the old lady wearing the twisted wig who kept running to the toilet to hurl. Mercy could tell she was a dope fiend and prostitute. As she observed all of the women around her, tears started spilling out of Mercy's eyes.

“Don't cry,” a girl said to her, placing her hand on Mercy's shoulder. “It's not that bad.” The girl paused, waiting to see if she was going to get a response from Mercy. Mercy wiped her tears, but said nothing. “What you in here for?”

Mercy looked up at the girl, and easy on the eyes she was not. Her hair was a mess. She had been forced by the prison guards to remove the tracks of weave from her hair. It was evident that they'd been painfully ripped out. There were traces of brown hair
glue clinging to her hair and scalp. Her skin was a little rough, but it wasn't nothin' that a little makeup couldn't cover up. Mercy looked at the girl's hand that was resting on her shoulder and noticed that two of the five nails on her hand were on point, like the Koreans had just finished airbrushing them. The other three were chipped up or broken down to the skin. And those nails were acrylics, so Mercy knew that shit had to hurt. She frowned when she thought of the broken nails and the pain they inflicted. For some reason, even though they were both in the same predicament, locked up, Mercy pitied her.

“Assault,” Mercy answered, making a long story short.

“I don't know why they got you in here. From looking at your face, it looks like the other person should be in here. Did
y
o' nigga beat you up or something?” she asked, observing Mercy's eye.

“No,” she said with a whimper. Her head was still pounding.

“Girl, don't worry. You'll be okay.”

“Shit, I don't know where these motherfuckers at?” another girl interrupted. When Mercy first saw this girl, she could have sworn she was on the wrong side. She could have easily been placed on the men's side of the lockup. The girl had on some brand-new Timbs, and a sweat suit sagging off her butt. She was a little chunky and even walked around the holding tank with a slight pimp, cupping her private area like she had a nut sack. Her hair was braided in zigzags like Allen Iverson. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure it out: She was as gay as a bird.

The gay girl continued, “These mafuckers better bring they ass. Ain't nobody trying to sit down in this motherfucka all day and then have to be moved to the jail. This is some bullshit.”

“What you in for?” the girl who had been talking to Mercy asked the gay broad.

“Petty larceny,” she replied.

“How much
y
o' bail?” the girl asked.

“Five hundred.”

“Damn, all you need is fifty dollars, and you can't get out? Shit, I wish my bail was only five hundred. I keeps that type of change in my pocket.”

“Oh, my peoples is coming. You better believe that. You can lay flat and bet that my peoples will be here.” She looked the nice girl over, not believing the girl was getting slick out the mouth with her.

“What you in for, Big Money Grip?” the gay chick asked the nice girl.

“Murder, and I ain't got no bond,” she snapped.

“Damn,” Mercy said, looking up at the girl. At that moment she didn't feel so bad after all. Mercy knew enough about the law to know that half of the stuff they were charging her with would eventually be dropped. But even then, the little crappy charges that would still be hanging over her head weren't for murder, that was for sure. She knew that she had a bond, and even if nobody came and got her she was going home one day, but ol' girl was a completely different story. She had a murder rap. She was going to be sitting for a minute, if not for the rest of her life, if found guilty. And in Mercy's eyes that was far worse than her own predicament.

Mercy could feel a little tension between the two chicks. She also heard the guard approaching the cell, jingling keys getting closer and closer.

“Alice Smith,” the guard called. “ATW.”

The gay girl jumped up, and at that moment she looked at the other chick. “All The Way means I'm all the way out of this bitch.” She grabbed her sweat-suit jacket and said, “I told you my peoples was coming.”

“How about ATW don't always mean you going home,” the girl said, pissing on the gay chick's parade. “Shit, don't let them
fool you. You could be going to the next jurisdiction to get another stack of warrants.” Nonetheless, the guard escorted the gay girl out of the holding cell with her blowing a kiss to the other chick on her way out.

“By the way, my name is Yorkey” the nice girl said to Mercy.

“Mercy,” Mercy responded.

“Want a piece?” Yorkey asked Mercy as she pulled out a Snickers bar.

“Thanks,” Mercy said. The two of them were soon talking as if they'd known each other forever. Yorkey explained that her murder rap was really self-defense. Her ex-boyfriend had gone crazy when he saw her with another man, and he had attacked her in her own house. She had to kill him or he was damn sure going to kill her.

“What about you?” Yorkey asked. “Who did you assault?”

“Oh, nobody important. Just this jealous-hearted bitch who wouldn't shut her mouth, so I shut it for her. I tried to knock her teeth out.”

“Well, she'll probably drop the charges, soon as word gets out on the street about it,” Yorkey assured her.

They talked for a few hours, and Mercy told Yorkey all about living in the foster homes and how she just wanted to take care of her little niece. Yorkey listened to everything. Then she said, “When you get out of here, and I know you will, you need to try to do something with your life. I can tell you ain't the kind of person to just lay around and let people walk all over you. Your daddy was right. You better than that.”

“I hope you get out, too, Yorkey. You don't need to be spending your life in one of these shit holes.”

After a while they ran out of things to talk about. They watched as the deputies brought the male inmates in from court, and Mercy sat on the bench wondering what she could do to get
out. As her thoughts continued, she heard a familiar voice call out her name.

“Mercy? Is that Mercy in that cell?” the voice asked.

Mercy ran to the bars. “Who is that?” she asked.

“Who you think? It's Shawn,
y
o' brother,” Nayshawn said. “And what the fuck you doing in here?”

“Long story,” Mercy sighed.

“I'm listening,” he shouted back. Although Nayshawn was the younger brother, he seemed like the older brother. The system had turned him into a man before his time.

“I got da fighting. Some broads jumped me. They all took warrants out on me and shit.”

“You just like Daddy was, strong as shit. You know Daddy would beat a motherfucker down.”

“I know.”

They both were quiet for a minute thinking about their father until Nayshawn broke the silence. “Damn, that's fucked up about dem bitches.”

“Ain't it?”

“Yup. I wish I was out there. I would beat them bitches just on GP,” Nayshawn said, letting his sister know that he had her back no matter what.

Nayshawn was really her half brother. Same father, different mothers. He was two years younger than she was, but he'd been sentenced to juvenile life only three years ago for an armed robbery after he ran away from a foster home. His mother had turned into a straight junkie after their father got killed. It had been a few years since the last time they had seen each other—when they were placed in the same foster home after being separated for four years.

Mercy thought back. It was the middle of the night, and as Mercy lay in bed she could feel a presence standing over her. When she opened her eyes, it was Nayshawn.

“Let's play,” Mercy remembered him saying.

The next thing Mercy knew, Nayshawn had climbed into bed with her and tried to touch Mercy in places that he shouldn't.

“I'm tellin,” Mercy threatened, although she would never have snitched on her brother. If she had learned nothing at all from her short stay with her uncle Roland, she'd learned that snitching was never an option. Her uncle had murdered two brothers who were the triplets to the dude who had snitched on his brother. He believed that when a man told, the only proper thing to do was go to his mother's house and hurt somebody to make a snitch feel the heat. So Mercy had only used the threat against her brother to scare him off. After that night it didn't go farther than that, but Nayshawn was embarrassed every time he looked at his sister. He'd started acting out until he was sent away. She never blamed her brother for what he did that night and loved him dearly. She blamed the system. It was the system's fault, for separating siblings. Brothers and sisters should always know each other. Never should they be apart.

“So, how you doing?” Mercy said, bringing herself back to the present.

“I'm maintaining. Just trying to knock these last years out.”

“You know I got Zurri's baby staying with me while she doing her time.”

“I know. That's good lookin out.”

“How you know?” Mercy asked curiously.

“Because you my sister and I keeps up with you.”

“A'ight now. Y'all know males and females not supposed to be talking,” a female deputy said. Of course Mercy and Nayshawn ignored her.

“I know when and if I get up out of here, I'm going to keep up with you, too. Fo' real. I'ma write you and hold you down. I promise,” Mercy said.

“Write me for real,” Nayshawn said in a sincere tone.

“So, what you doing down here now?”

“I got a street charge. A nigga tried me, so I had to handle my business.”

“So, you running up
y
o' time, huh?”

“Naw, just handling my business. You know you got to in here.”

“Well, know I'm here for you if you ever need me,” Mercy said.

At that moment, the deputy called out, “Mercy Jiles, ATW I'll be there to get you in a minute.”

That minute seemed like the longest of her whole entire life. She was smiling, and in spite of the reeking odor in the holding cell, the deputy's words were a breath of fresh air.

Yorkey looked at Mercy and said, “I told you it won't be so bad after all. And if you want to get the charge dismissed, just take out a warrant on those bitches.”

“I do want it thrown out of court, but I don't do warrants,” Mercy replied. “I'm a real bitch, and real bitches do real things. And taking out warrants is some fake-ass, bitch-type shit.”

The cell door popped open, and Mercy gave Yorkey a hug and her phone number so they could keep in touch.

From the other cell, Nayshawn yelled, “Mercy, if I ever need you, I'm going to write you at Ms. Pat's house.”

“Aight, I got you. But I'ma write you as soon as I get home and get situated so you can have my address. Make sure you call me. I love you, bro.”

When Mercy got to the last door to finally exit the lockup, the first thing she saw was Chocolate Smooth standing there with De-onie in his arms asleep. A smile immediately crossed her lips. Mr. Bones, the bondsman, was also standing there with his Polaroid camera to take her photo in case she skipped out. He snapped his pic, damn near blinding Mercy, then was on his way.

“Yo, I'm glad to see you,” Chocolate said. “Your lil' baby been going off all day. After she heard me tell Ms. Pat that I was going to get you out, she wouldn't let me out of her sight. When I tried to leave, she held on to my leg and wouldn't let go. Ma, that lil' girl is strong as shit.”

Mercy quickly pulled Deonie out of Chocolate's arms and took her into hers.

As they started to walk away, Chocolate asked, “So how was your four hours in the Ninth Street Hotel?”

Mercy just shook her head. She didn't even want to think about that place anymore. All she wanted to do was go home and hold Deonie. She hadn't realized how much she missed her in just that little bit of time.

“Look, ma, sorry I took so long, but Mr. Bones was late,” Chocolate apologized. He continued apologizing for taking so long and not getting her out any quicker as they rode home.

Mercy stared out the window, suspicious of Chocolate. She didn't know why he went out of his way to bail her out. She didn't mean shit to him. As far as he was concerned, she was just some clerk at a local hotel who used to let him get rooms by the hour. But, hell, it wasn't like she had given him the rooms for free. He paid for them, so they were even. It was a business transaction; nobody owed the other squat. So why was he doing something for nothing now? Nobody had ever looked out for Mercy. So why now? she thought. What did this dude want?