Life Without Hope (60 page)

wooden chair staring them white folks in their faces, I saw some-

thing else. I was forced to admit, Scandels was good. After he fin-

ished his summation the reporters made a mad dash to the door.

One of the biggest trials of the centur y was over. That was around

the time I really started to take notice of the exultant praise like a

slow mournful hymn. The jury looked startled, so did the judge.

Black folks worshiping God the only way they knew how. I looked

over at Hope, she still had her eyes closed, lips moving, she was

humming with them too in a silent benediction for God to do his

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work. I looked over my shoulder and saw a sea of Black faces,

mostly old folks. All the way in the back, to my surprise, I saw

Black Pearl seated next to Blazack. I had to do a second take.

They were both dressed conservatively. Blazack wore a suit and

tie with a pair of rimless glasses that made him look anything but

gangsta. Black Pearl shyly winked her eye and blew me a kiss. I

also saw the woman known as Sister Souljah; she was sitting next

to Dr. Nandi Shakur, the expert witness that testified for my

defense.

It was over and vaguely I listened as the judge admonished the

jury that they were not to talk to anyone about this case. They

were to base their decision solely on the evidence. I watched as the

judge talked, a few members of the jury would furtively glance at

me. I pretended not to notice, but I felt their stares. I felt them in

a way that prods a man’s consciousness, my own fate was no longer

in my hands; it was in the hands of twelve white people. I’d rather

be flipping burgers at Burger King than have the seat I was sitting

in.

I looked up at the clock on the wall, it was past lunchtime. I

wasn’t even hungr y. One of the benefits of going to trial when in

federal custody the U.S. Marshals let you eat restaurant food. In

my case, he let my defense team bring me food. Let me tell you,

Black women knew how to throw down when it came to good

old-fashioned soul food.

*****

Hours later I was seated in a conference room with my

lawyers. The tiny room was nothing more than a holding cell with

a small barred window. A few rays of streaming sunshine piped in

the room. All three of my lawyers sat huddled around me as an

assor tment of spices, feminine enticements, the sweet allure of

perfumes mingled with my starved loins. It felt so good to be so

close to what we hustlers take for granted, our women. In that

room, that tiny cage, we discussed everything but my case. For

me, their laughter was intoxicating, inebriating. I wished that the

moment would last forever. We were no longer in a cage, this was

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the lion’s den, and they were the lionesses and I was the lion, and

all was secure from the hunt. These same women that just valiant-

ly fought for me were now trying to comfort me, placate me with

the nurturing instincts that women have. It’s all so natural, all so

beautiful, a Black woman’s love. One of the U.S. Marshals rapped

on the door and walked in. On the table was Bar-B-Q ribs, mac-

aroni and cheese and peach cobbler. He licked his chops as he

stared at the food. From the somber expression on his face I knew

what he had come for. We were informed that the judge wanted

us back in the courtroom. That could only mean one thing, the

jury reached a verdict. About eight hours passed since they went

into deliberations. Each one of my counsels hugged me. Hope was

the last. She did not want to let me go, that really touched me,

told me a lot. She continued to hold me even as the other women

looked on. I was confused, didn’t know how to react. Throughout

the entire trial, Hope never dealt in emotion and feelings, just

logic and sagacious strategies. I could feel her fragile body trem-

bling in my arms. The other women walked out and the Marshal

looked on. Hope pulled away from me and made a feeble attempt

at gathering her emotions. I watched as she nervously pressed the

wrinkles out of her dress with the palms of her hands. “I’m sorry.”

She looked up at me and whispered as she walked of out the room.

“
Sorr y about what?” I asked myself as she walked away.

*****

Moments later I was being escorted by four U.S. Marshals

down the long direful hall of the Federal building. I couldn’t help

but wonder,

how many other Black men took this long desperate trek

to a destiny unknown?

For me the walk was long, I can’t say what

anybody else has felt, but for me, them crackas had me scared to

death. I was at the mercy of the court. Normally the Marshals

would be congenial and talkative, but that day I was met with

stoic faces and cold stares.

As we entered the courtroom everyone turned to look in my

direction. I felt like a condemned man. The courtroom was eerily

quiet except for the herds of reporters. Like flies, they never

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seemed to go away. Most of the seats were vacant. I sat next to

Hope. Looking straight ahead she held my hand. In walked the

foreman along with the jury. They all piled into their seats. None

of them could look me in my eyes. The foreman handed the judge

a piece of paper. The judge read the paper and looked in aghast.

“
Hmmm, errr, I have just been informed that the jury has reached

a deadlock.” His breathing was heavy, not concealing his disap-

pointment. He, like myself, was shocked that the jury had not

returned with a guilty verdict. He raised his hulked eyebrow over

the rim of his glasses. “It says here that the jury would like to

review the portion of the trial transcripts of the testimony of the

expert witness Dr. Nandi Shakur and her terminology of socioe-

conomic crimes,” the judge said with disdain and jerked his neck

at the foreman. “This is preposterous! You and the jury are to go

back in there and reach a verdict!” Adrienne shot to her feet.

“
Your Honor, it is my understanding that the jury can take as

much time as they want to reach their decision and if they want

to review all records and evidence that may be of relevance such as

the court transcripts, they are at liberty to do so.”

The judge removed his glasses and glowered at Adrienne.

“
Counsel is that all you have to say?”

“
Yes.”

“
If you, or any member of your staff makes an outburst like

that again I will charge you with contempt of court. Is that under-

stood?” Adrienne’s eyes turned to optic slits as she defiantly looked

at the judge.

“
No it is not understood! My client is entitled to the full use

of his constitutional rights as it relates to the jurisprudence of law,

if the jury wants to hear –”

“
I am warning you to sit down or I will charge you with con-

tempt of court.” I could see a vein protruding out of the side of

Adrienne’s neck, she was fuming with indignation. Hope gently

took her arm, and with a silent command of her head, she nodded

for her to sit down. The older woman complied. I wasn’t sure what

was going on; however, the judge did state reluctantly that the jury

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would be allowed to review the transcripts. He also stated that he

wanted to see my counsel in his chambers after the proceeding. I

wasn’t sure if it was good or bad that the jury wanted to go over

the transcripts of the professor’s theory about socioeconomic

crimes. This was all Hope’s strategy. One thing was for certain, the

judge sure as hell was not too pleased about it.

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Chapter T

wenty Four

Chapter T

wenty Four

“
All Eyes On Me”

–
Life –

It was Friday and we were all tired. I watched as the judge mopped

his face with a weary hand and admonished to the jury, once

again, they were not to read any newspaper repor ts about my case,

watch the news, or talk with anyone outside of the jury about the

case. The jury was sequestered in a hotel and ordered to hurry up

and reach a verdict.

On the ride in the van back to the FDC building it was one

of the most beautiful days I had ever seen, at least that’s how it will

always look through the eyes of a man that has lost his freedom. I

remember sitting in the back of the van in chains and shackles

feeling like a caged bird. The officious U.S. Marshal tried to talk

me to death. The van rode through Frenchtown. I searched for

Nina Brown. She was nowhere in sight. I saw a few rock stars. I

thought about Black Pearl and Blazack showing up at my trial. I

had to smile. Blazack was past keeping it gangsta. He was on some

guerilla G-Unit shit.

*****

By the time I changed clothes and made it back into the unit

I was so fatigued that my brain even hurt. I needed a smoke bad

to get my lungs out of pawn. As soon as I walked into the unit, all

eyes were on me. In the distance I could see that most of the pris-

oners were watching the news. I had the uncanny feeling they

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already learned from the television about the proceeding of my

case. The first lesson a true convict learns in prison is, if you want

to enhance your chances of waking up in the morning without a

shank stuck in your back, keep your mouth shut. See nothing, but

at the same time, see everything. Being anti-social is the key to

survival. I learned that from my first bid in the joint.

I walked straight to my cell, opened up a pack of Newports

had in my locker and went and sat in the smoking range out in

front of my cell. Major walked over and sat down next to me. He

too was into the church lately since we caught our case. I inhaled

deeply on the nicotine. Irately, Major fanned the smoke away. I

could see all the faces watching us. Curiosity did not just kill cats,

I knew a few niggas that got killed, too. So I mean mugged a few

niggas as if to say,

what the hell you looking at?

Ever since I cracked

Stevey D’s cranium with the swift demonstration on how to pun-

ish a rat, I was respected by all. I’ve never been one to adopt the

fear factor of influence because I don’t care what anyone says, both

fear and love will produce illogical results when pushed to the

brink of precipice.

As Major and I talked about our cases and his lawyers decid-

ed that they would wait for the outcome of my case before going

to trial, so I thought. However when Major expressed to me that

he was going to cop out to ten years my heart sank. I tried my best