Drug Lord- Part I Page 5

  "You're looking at jail time, son. Consider yourself lucky that you didn’t try to pull this stunt in a few months when you turn eighteen. There’s a crackdown on gangbangers out there; the DA would like nothing more than to throw the book at you."

  Leroy's eyes bulged, which inflamed his already aching head.

  "Gangbanger? No, that’s not… I’m not… listen, I was attacked by a police officer. All I wanted to do was go to my apartment."

  And check for the gun, money, and dope that I stole from the police, Leroy thought but didn’t say.

  The lawyer pushed his lips together tightly in a smug expression and then turned his attention to the paper on the clipboard in his wrinkled fingers. He flipped through several pages before starting to read.

  "The defendant approached the residence and was told that he could not enter as it was an active crime scene. Ofc. Michael Pontiac informed the defendant of this three times but the defendant did not stop his attempts to enter. Ofc. Pete Dalton tried to impede his progress by holding out a hand and preventing access to the building. The defendant was clearly irate, and every attempt to calm Mr. Walker failed. The defendant then cursed at Ofc. Dalton and uttered several racial slurs. When Ofc. Pontiac intervened, Mr. Walker took a swing at him. He missed and, in the process, slipped and fell to the ground where he was momentarily dazed when his head struck the concrete. He was subsequently apprehended without further incident." The public defender raised his eyes. "Does that sound about right to you?"

  Leroy was furious.

  "Sound about right to me? It’s absolute fucking bullshit, that’s what it is," he shouted, slamming his fist down on the table.

  The public defender, whose name Leroy couldn’t remember, leaned away and motioned for the guard.

  "That's all made up. I didn’t take a swing at anybody. They… they hit me. I was just trying to go to—"

  But the public defender wasn't listening anymore. He rose to his feet, his eyes locked on the guard who was in the process of unlocking the door.

  "My client is being hostile," he snapped. “I don’t have time for this.”

  Leroy's heart started to race.

  "Wait, wait! I’m sorry, I didn’t—I’m just frustrated. I didn’t—I didn’t do anything!"

  Leroy knew all was lost, however, when the public defender continued to ignore him and started making his way toward the now open door.

  "I can't take him to juvie, Karl," the guard said, his eyes flicking to Leroy. "I was told that nobody can go there for the next two weeks — overcrowded already. Unless I ship him upstate, and you know, what with the transportation costs…"

  Leroy's public defender, who was evidently named Karl, turned back in his direction and shrugged.

  "He looks like a tough kid," he said, patting the guard on the shoulder. "Put him with the big boys for the night, then we’ll see if he changes his mind about whether or not he wants to cooperate."

  ***

  Leroy had never been to prison and neither had his brother, Declan. His father, a man he’d never met, had reportedly been in and out of prison since he was a teenager.

  Thus, Leroy didn't know if what happened next was normal or not. He suspected that it wasn't; after all, his lawyer had met him for all of five minutes before basically telling the guard to take him away to an adult prison for the night.

  But what could he do? He didn't have money to hire someone else… well, aside from the envelope he’d stolen from the police. But if, by chance, the thug who’d vandalized his apartment hadn’t taken it, how could he get it? He couldn’t rightly ask his mom to retrieve it for him.

  Leroy protested as he was led to a transport van, but as soon as they started the trek to the Metropolitan Correctional Center, he thought it better to save his breath. He was the only prisoner in the van, and the officer who drove was either mute or deaf or both. The guard that accompanied him, the same one who’d interacted briefly with his lawyer in the conference room, introduced himself as Wayne Clement.

  "I'm going to give you a piece of advice, son," Wayne said as Leroy stared at his hands. They were trembling so violently that the chains that bound them sounded like wind chimes. "You need to get a better lawyer."

  Leroy raised his face to look at the man and a tear spilled down his cheek.

  "How?" he almost begged. "How can I afford a lawyer? And I didn't… I didn't do anything. All I wanted to do was get into my house. To see if…" Leroy let his sentence trail off.

  Wayne shot a glance at the driver before leaning towards the cage that separated the front from the back of the transport van.

  "Do whatever you can to get a good lawyer. Seriously, you need to do whatever you can."

  Leroy frowned and then turned his gaze to the window. Within minutes, they approached a tall, brown building that oddly reminded Leroy of the projects in which he lived. Even though there were no outdoor facilities, he still saw one in his mind, a patchwork vision of perhaps a dozen prison movies he’d seen over the past few years. He saw the chain link fence with razor wire bundled at the top, he saw shirtless men covered in tattoos pressing weights in the yard.

  He saw himself with his head low, walking slowly, trying to remain anonymous.

  What Leroy needed right now wasn't a lawyer, but a bodyguard. Because if he didn't survive the next few hours — or night, or however long Karl the public defender decided to keep him here before he did something about it — he wouldn’t need representation.

  "Leroy, I can’t do anything about your situation," Wayne said, drawing him back. "But that bruise… the one on the side of your head? How does it feel?"

  Confused, Leroy instinctively reached up and probed the wound. It was slightly tender to the touch, and it throbbed something fierce, but the pain was manageable.

  "It's fine," he replied in a soft voice.

  The driver stopped the car and they began the exit procedure.

  "I don't know. Looks pretty bad to me," Wayne said as he unlocked the cage and started toward the back of the van. "In fact, it has started to bleed again. They might have to take you to the infirmary instead of the general population."

  Leroy’s brow furrowed. A quick glance at his fingers revealed no blood.

  "No, I'm okay. Seriously I—"

  Wayne suddenly leaned in close and said, "Get a better lawyer, Leroy. Get a better lawyer and stay out of this place. It'll eat you alive."

  Then the man reached back and rabbit punched Leroy directly on the bruise. He did this with such speed and precision that there was a slight delay before Leroy realized what happened. And when he did, he swooned. As he slumped back in his seat, blood started to trickle into his eye.

  Chapter 11

  "You all right? You want me to call the nurse?"

  Drake could hear someone speaking, but he had no idea who it was, let alone where it was coming from. All he could see was Jasmine holding their baby, clutching Clay to her chest, when Deputy Inspector Palmer barged in. In this dream or vision or whatever it was, however, instead of taking Drake away, Palmer took Clay instead. The bastard wrenched the screaming newborn from Jasmine’s breast.

  "Mister?"

  Drake groaned and opened his eyes.

  His throat was raw and sore, and his entire right side was numb. Bright incandescent lighting bore down on him, forcing him to close his eyes again.

  "Shit, I thought you was dyin’," the voice said.

  After several deep breaths, Drake opened his eyes more cautiously this time and turned his head to face the voice.

  In the bed beside him lay a young black man with a dark bruise over his right eye. There was a bandage on part of the wound, a simple cotton pad that was stained a deep crimson.

  Drake tried to speak then, but his throat was still too raw.

  "You were saying something in your sleep — something about a cop. It was hard to understand, though."

  Drake turned his head back to center and closed his eyes again.

  "Mind your bus
iness," he managed in a voice that he didn’t recognize.

  Every time he swallowed, it felt as if someone were dumping a handful of rusty nails down his throat. The bed wasn’t helping either; the mattress felt like it was made of pressed tin. He shifted onto his hip, and then suddenly felt the urge to urinate.

  Badly.

  Drake looked around for a nurse, but it was only him and the young black kid in the room. The urge quickly transitioned to a desperate need and he grunted.

  "Is there a call button or something?"

  He tried to raise his arm to feel for one above his head — the most likely location — but a set of handcuffs restricted his movements.

  "Jesus, is there a call button?"

  Drake glanced over at the kid beside him, but he deliberately averted his eyes.

  "I'm just gonna mind my business,” he offered. “Just like you said.”

  Drake scowled and tried to shift his hips again. As he did, he started to piss himself. On more than one occasion, he’d woken up after a night of drinking only to find the front of his jeans soaked with urine. But this time was different. The thin blanket that covered his lower half didn’t get wet. In fact, the only thing he felt was a strange tingling sensation in his groin.

  "What the fuck?"

  Drake cautiously lifted the blanket and stared down at himself.

  There was a tube coming out of the end of his penis, one that ran up over the edge of the bed only to disappear beneath. And this tube was filled with a dark brown liquid.

  Drake shuddered and quickly lowered the sheet.

  The sound of a door opening thankfully distracted Drake from his thoughts. A man in a white lab coat with a stethoscope dangling around his neck stepped into the infirmary, a clipboard in hand.

  As Drake finished relieving himself, the doctor strode with his head down to the first bed. He flipped through several pages on his clipboard before finally raising his eyes.

  "Leroy Walker, how are you feeling? You took a nasty fall on the bus on the way over."

  Drake watched intently as the young kid named Leroy twitched uncomfortably.

  What's wrong with you, kid? It's a simple question.

  "I didn't fall," he said at last. "A cop hit me in the head with his nightstick for no reason. A corrupt cop, one who—"

  The doctor held up a finger and stared down his beak-like nose at Leroy.

  "Save for the judge, son. I don't care if you’re in here for vandalism, murder, or self-immolation. I only want to know how your injuries are.”

  Leroy closed his eyes and shook his head.

  "I shouldn't be here. I want to speak to my lawyer. A new lawyer — a good lawyer."

  One of the doctor’s thin eyebrows rose up his forehead.

  "I'm not a fan of repeating myself, Leroy. But if you insist on being difficult, I won’t give you anything for the pain and you’ll be shipped right back to gen pop. So, I’ll ask you one more time: how are you feeling?”

  Drake could see that Leroy wanted to protest further but thought better of it.

  "Bad… very bad."

  The doctor nodded, wrote something on his clipboard, and then reached into his lab coat pocket. He pulled out two white pills and handed them to Leroy.

  "Take these and you’ll sleep until the morning. You should feel better then.”

  Leroy hesitantly took the pills.

  "In the morning? You mean I'm staying here all night? But I haven't even… I haven’t…"

  But the doctor had already moved on. The first thing he noticed when he came up to Drake’s bed was the tube of brown sludge extending beneath. He lifted it with a finger, nodded, and then marked something down.

  "Damien Drake," he said, switching to another page on his clipboard.

  Drake grunted an affirmative.

  "I don't think I have to ask you how you're feeling. In fact, I'm surprised you're still alive. According to your file, over the past six months, you nearly died from methanol poisoning, you've practically pickled your liver from alcohol, you were shot in the leg, and now I see that you've lost your left lower incisor and you have grade 3 pitting edema of the esophagus."

  Drake frowned.

  "Thanks for being so optimistic, Doc.”

  The doctor ignored him as he done Leroy and walked over to an IV bag hanging above the bed. Drake, who hadn’t noticed it before, followed this tube to the back of his right hand.

  Without further comment, the doctor withdrew a syringe from his pocket and injected it into a small port on the IV bag. Then he slipped the syringe into a biohazard box at the back of the room and started toward the door.

  Before reaching it, however, the doctor turned and addressed them both one final time.

  "You two behave yourselves — I'll be back in an hour to check up on you. If you start fighting, I'll send one or both of you back into gen pop," he paused. "And I’m pretty sure that that isn’t the best place for a police officer or a 17-year-old kid, do you?"

  With that, the doctor knocked on the window and the guard stationed outside opened the door. When he was gone, an uncomfortable silence fell over the infirmary and its only two residents.

  Eventually, Leroy turned to face Drake.

  "You're… you're a cop?"

  Chapter 12

  "Was," Drake corrected the kid. "I was a cop. But that was a long time ago."

  Clearly, his assertion for Leroy to mind his own business hadn’t been taken to heart. But now that he’d learned a little about the kid, Drake figured there was no harm in speaking to him.

  "Seventeen years old, huh? What the hell did you do to end up in this hellhole?"

  Leroy shook his head.

  "I didn't do nothin’. It was the fucking cops. They’re the ones behind my brother’s murder, and they’re the ones…" He let his sentence trail off as if stopping himself before he said too much.

  But Drake was intrigued now.

  “I might have been a cop once, but I'm not anymore — I'm in your camp now. And most of them are assholes. Most of them are corrupt assholes working for that prick of a Mayor Ken Smith. When I get out of here…"

  Now it was Drake's turn to let his sentence trail off. As he did, he clenched his teeth, which caused his gums to flare in pain.

  "Looks like we have something in common after all," Leroy remarked.

  Drake nodded.

  "Looks that way — and it also looks like we’re stuck here for the night. You want to tell me what happened to your brother? Why you ended up here?”

  Leroy took several deep breaths, some of which were so long and deep that Drake thought that the kid had fallen asleep. But then his eyes snapped open and he started to talk. And talk he did. Leroy spoke for nearly 15 minutes straight, telling a story about how his brother had met with the cops, had exchanged parcels with them, only to be shot minutes later.

  There was an investigation into his brother’s murder, he said, but it went nowhere. Just another black kid gunned down in the streets for dealing drugs.

  It was clear to Drake by how forthcoming Leroy was, that the kid was green; he wasn’t a hardened criminal. Nobody with any experience would reveal to a stranger that they’d taken things into their own hands, that they’d robbed the cops, taken drugs, a gun, and money from them.

  "And you’re seriously claiming that you don’t deserve to be here? That you didn’t think that robbing two cops would get you thrown in jail?”

  Leroy shook his head.

  “I was never arrested for that — they have no idea that that was me. The guy who killed my brother? He also broke into my place and attacked my mom. When I tried to get inside, the fucking cops, Officers Dalton and Pontiac, roughed me up. That’s why I’m in here. That and my fucking lawyer got his law degree from a box of Corn Pops and doesn’t give a shit about anything but his next blowjob from a tranny hooker.”

  Drake shook his head. To most people, especially a late-thirty Caucasian male who’d grown up in the middle class, the story would hav
e been unbelievable.

  But not to Drake. Drake had been a beat cop before he’d been a detective, and he knew a little bit about Leroy’s world. Most of the New York City ghettos were like quicksand: the more you struggled to get out, the more it conspired to suck you deeper.

  After a deep, shuddering breath, Leroy turned to face him. Drake was surprised to see that there were tears in his eyes.