Entangled (2 page)

Keisha Ferguson, her best friend, would tease her by saying she was a thug lover. Dream would taunt Keisha by saying Keisha liked the pretty boys with feminine qualities, the kind who didn’t want to get their hands dirty. It was true. Whenever they went out, all the roughnecks would step to Dream, and the pretty-boymodel-types would be drawn to Keisha. Dream and Keisha had been best friends since high school, and they had attended North Carolina Central University together. Keisha was the one person Dream could trust with secrets.

Dream had finished reading
Honey
. She’d begun to snooze when her mother walked out onto the terrace. “Dream, baby, I didn’t know you were still here,” she said with a warm smile. At forty-five, Janice Nelson had the body of a twenty-five-year-old thanks to diet and exercise. Her silky dark brown skin was wrinkle-free.

Dream was startled after hearing her mother’s voice. “Mama, what time is it?”
“It’s six o’clock. If I had known you were gonna be here this late, I would have cooked dinner for you.”
“Don’t worry about me, Mama. I got food at home and I can cook, you know.” Dream smiled.
“I know you can cook, but ain’t nothing like one of Mama’s home-cooked meals.”
“Well, maybe you
should
cook. Daddy says he never gets a home-cooked meal until I come over.”
“Child, you know your daddy can lie, don’t you?” Janice said, laughing. “Besides, I’m trying to get that man to back away from the table. Your daddy done got kind of chunky.”
“Mama, don’t talk about Daddy when he’s not here to defend himself.”
“I’m just saying men, always want you to look your best. Why can’t we require the same thing? See, right now, it’s all good ’cause you’re young, and you don’t need to work to keep yourself looking good. Those young boys you’re dating, they all still have flat stomachs. You just wait until you get in your thirties.”
“I’ll still look good.”
“Yeah, thanks to me you got good genes, but I don’t know about that boyfriend of yours. He’s gonna be the reason for some uglyass kids.” Janice laughed.
“Mama, you need to stop.”
“When was the last time you visited that hoodlum?”
“DeVon ain’t a hoodlum. He just made a mistake. In fact, he’s very intelligent. One of these days I’m going to let you read some of the letters he has written.”
“I don’t have the time to be reading anybody’s jailhouse poetry. I prefer Nikki Giovanni, myself,” Janice said before going back inside the house.
Dream knew her parents weren’t fond of DeVon, but they had never liked any of her boyfriends. They would prefer she date an executive, or an attorney in some fancy law firm, or at least someone with a college degree. Her parents were like most people in this country, equating a college degree with intelligence. Dream had tried dating those straight-laced academic types, but she could not seem to get into them. Their conversations were boring and their dates were predictable—most of the time it was dinner, a movie, and back to the apartment to listen to some jazz artist of whom she had never heard. Dream preferred hip-hop. She liked the bandana-wearing, diamond earring-sporting thug; the kind who would do eighty miles per hour on the freeway at night; the guys who would be ready to defend her if someone disrespected her. She liked the guys who didn’t necessarily play by the rules but took chances. She didn’t know why she liked that type, she just did.

The visitation room at White Mountain State Prison was filled to its capacity. The visitors were mostly African-American and Hispanics, sprinkled with a few whites. Some of the women wore their best clothing, while others came in jeans with big plates of food for their husbands or boyfriends. The children ran rampant playing, happy to see their fathers.

Dream wore white skin-tight Capri pants and a red midriff shirt that revealed a hint of her belly. DeVon loved it when she dressed sexy, and she enjoyed trying to please him, but she knew she had to dress tastefully because of the sex-crazed inmates. DeVon had told her about a case where one of the inmates had masturbated in front of a female correctional officer.

Dream sat at a table in the far right corner of the visitation room, out of the view of the correctional officers. DeVon always suggested she sit there so he could fondle her without the officers noticing. While waiting for DeVon to arrive, she read several chapters of a Terry McMillan paperback to pass the twenty or thirty minutes it usually took DeVon to arrive at the visiting room. The inmates wore green hand-me-down army clothes and black boots. Though the clothes were really gaudy, most of the guys still tried to look their best for visitation.

DeVon finally came out. He was a tall, pecan tan-colored man with a neatly trimmed goatee. He smelled of Obsession cologne— created by an inmate of course. Dream hugged him as soon as he approached the table. They made small talk and Dream noticed something seemed to be bothering him.

She had been with him for twenty minutes and he had not attempted to touch her; something that was usually the highlight of the visit. She tried to rub his hand underneath the table before he moved it.

An inmate walked up to the table. “How about a picture for you and your girl?” he asked.
“How about you getting the hell away from this table?” DeVon said.
“What in the hell did you say, punk?”
DeVon stood up from the table and squared off with the inmate. A heavyset correctional officer with huge, ape-like hands got between them. “You, go over to the other side of the room,” the correctional officer ordered the photographer.
“I ain’t even do shit,” the inmate protested before throwing his hands up in disgust.
“The other side!” the officer said while pointing. When the man was halfway there, the officer motioned for DeVon. “One more outburst like that, Mr. Williams, and I’m gonna recommend that your visiting privileges are taken away. You understand me?”
DeVon nodded before returning to his seat.
“What was that all about?” Dream asked.
“The guard was loud enough, I know you heard what he said.”
“I know what the guard said. I wanna know what your fuckin’ problem is. Why did you go off on the camera man?”
“I ain’t got no problem. You’re the one with the problem.”
“What the hell do you mean?”
“Do you know Corey Mitchell?”
“Yeah, Corey and I dated briefly at West Charlotte High School.”
“That’s not all you did together,” he mumbled.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Seems to me, you and Corey did a bit of role-playing. I mean, you used to play model, while he played photographer, right?”
Confused, she asked, “What are you getting at?”
“You know Corey is locked up here.”
“No, I didn’t know this.”
“Yeah, he is, and he has some pretty explicit shots of Ms. Goody-Two-Shoes.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, and whatever pictures he has have got to be more than five years old.” Suddenly she remembered the pictures. One evening after school Dream and Corey had gone to his house to make out, and he took some Polaroid pictures of her lying across his bed wearing only her panties. “What is the big deal?” she asked.
He stood from the table and the entire visiting room’s attention seemed to shift.
“The big deal is that I didn’t know I was dealing with a ho.”
“I’m a
what
?”
“You heard me,” he said, turning his back toward her. “I’m outta here.”
“So you just gonna call me a ho and leave, huh?”
“Watch me,” he said as he made is way toward the double doors of the visiting room that led to the prison yard.

I
TWAS
4:30 A.M. and DEA Agent Mark Pratt had finished his last set of push-ups and was just starting his second cup of coffee. He hadn’t slept later than 5:00 A.M. since his freshman year at the Citadel, a military college located in South Carolina. Mark was grateful for his education at the Citadel. It made him more objective and more disciplined, which prepared him for his career as a Drug Enforcement Agency officer. It was his discipline that kept him looking young. An almond-complexioned man, he had a baby face with serious eyes. His body was well-defined.

Mark had joined the DEA nine years earlier at the age of twentyfive. The years had passed so quickly. Though his job was hard work, there was never a dull moment. He had been on drug busts that took place as far away as Miami. He had been part of undercover operations that had lasted for several years and he had always wanted a career that would make a difference in people’s lives. He had come from a long line of preachers dating all the way back to his great-grandfather. His father was the pastor of Greater Mt. Sinai Baptist Church. With a twelve-thousand-member congregation, it was the second largest African-American church in Dallas. Mark admired his father and tried to pattern his life after Pastor Fred Pratt. Though he was miles away, Mark always called him for advice.

Son, always try to do what is pleasing in the sight of the Lord,
his father would say. Mark’s brother, Barry, was a youth minister; Mark chose a career with the DEA.

Though most of his friends supported his career decision, some weren’t too enthusiastic about him working for the government, particularly the DEA, which had a reputation for targeting blacks and Hispanics. Some even said the so-called drug war was a useless battle—a conspiracy to destroy the black man’s existence. Mark never denied that some of the blacks were pawns in this seemingly endless war. Some of his colleagues liked the profession because they knew they would always have a job. Mark wanted more than job security, he dreamed of a day when every drug dealer would be off the streets and the addicts put in treatment centers. If his dreams were to come true, he would gladly look for another job.

At 4:45 his phone rang.
“Good morning,” Mark answered.
“Yeah, is this Agent Mark Pratt?” the voice asked.
“Yes, it is,” Mark answered reluctantly. He knew the call was

“Agent Pratt, I’m Trooper Doug Morgan with the North Carolina Department of Highways. My captain asked me to give you a call about a situation we could possibly use your expertise on.”

“Who is your captain?”
“Mike Lowman.”
Mark and Mike Lowman were good friends. Mike’s son had

played on Mark’s Little League baseball team a couple of summers ago. Mark had seen Mike a few weeks earlier at a gas station, and Mark had given him a card with his home number scribbled on the back.

“Where are you?” Mark asked.
“The state trooper’s office on Highway 49.”
“Give me a chance to shower, and I’ll be right over.” Mark didn’t particularly like going to the state trooper’s office.

The state troopers were comprised of a lot of good ’ole boys, and many of them weren’t too fond of black DEA agents. Mark had been pulled over a couple of times by officers he believed to be racist. In a couple of instances, if he hadn’t put his hands up in plain view he would have probably been a statistic.

He showered and brushed his teeth, and twenty minutes later he pulled into the parking lot of the state trooper’s office and parked near the back door. He walked up to the door and tapped lightly. A tall, thin white trooper, with an elongated face and thinning gray hair opened the door and blocked the entrance. “Yeah, can I help you?” the man asked.

Mark frowned. He hated these rednecks with their
Robocop
mentalities. “Yeah, I’m here to see Trooper Doug Morgan.”
“Yeah, I’m Doug Morgan,” the man said.
“I’m Agent Pratt,” Mark said, extending his hand.
Doug paused before speaking, “You sounded different on the phone,” he finally said.
Mark was used to people, whites in particular, saying this. People oftentimes attributed proper enunciation with someone being white. He considered his oratory skills a plus in his field. He was equally gifted at speaking street slang, and he spoke Spanish fluently, thus enabling him to go undercover easily. “Yeah, a lot of people say I sound differently over the phone.”
Mark followed Doug through a set of double doors that led to a small conference room. Sitting at the table was a small black man who looked to be in his mid-forties, wearing gold earrings in both ears. Doug shut the door and introduced the man to Mark. “Mr. Ruffin, this is DEA Agent Mark Pratt.”
Ruffin shrugged as if he could care less.
“What’s going on in here?” Mark asked.
“Ain’t shit going on but this cracker keep harassing me ’cause I drive a nice car,” Ruffin said.
“There’s no need for the profanity,” Mark said.
“I didn’t harass you. I pulled you over because you were swerving,” Doug said.
“What gave you the right to search my car?” Ruffin asked.
“I searched your car because I saw you shove something underneath the passenger seat.”
“It was only money. Y’all act like a black man ain’t supposed to have shit.”
“How much money?” Mark asked Ruffin.
“Why don’t you ask your fellow law enforcement officer,” Ruffin said.
“Eighty-five thousand dollars,” Doug answered.
Mark’s eyebrows rose. “Where were you going with that kind of money?”
Ruffin dropped his head, staring at the floor. “I ain’t gotta answer that question if I don’t want to,” he said.
“He’s a fuckin’ doper, that’s what he is. I ran his record. He already has two prior drug convictions,” Doug said.
“Let me see the money,” Mark demanded.
Doug left the room and reappeared with two manila envelopes. He handed them to Mark, who took the money out and spread it on a conference table. The money was in stacks of thousand-dollar bills, held together by rubber bands.
“Mr. Ruffin, since you don’t want to talk about your money, take a last look at it,” Mark said.
Ruffin raised his head and made eye contact with Mark. “Y’all mu’fuckas gonna give me my money back!” he shouted.
“We might give you the money back if you give us an explanation for it,” Mark said.
“What kind of explanation y’all want?”
“What were you doing with it and where were you going with it?” Mark asked, stuffing the money back into the envelopes.
“I ain’t no snitch,” Ruffin said.
“I know you ain’t no snitch, you’re a fuckin’ doper with a drug record dating all the way back to 1982,” Doug said.
“That ain’t no dope money,” Ruffin said to Mark. His eyes were red and pleading for understanding.
Mark wanted to believe Ruffin but his knowledge and expertise wouldn’t let him. Mark turned from Ruffin’s gaze. “Legally, Mr. Ruffin, I can’t hold you for possession of money.”
“I know. You gotta give me my money back,” Ruffin said.
“Wrong. This money is going to the district attorney’s office. Someone from that office will be in touch with you. You have a right to dispute the seizure.”
Ruffin rose from the table. “Can I go now?”
“That’s totally up to Mr. Morgan,” Mark said.
“He can go,” Doug replied.
As Ruffin headed toward the double doors, Mark called out to him, “Ruffin, I’m going to be keeping an eye on you.”
“Well, do your job,” Ruffin replied.