Lies of a Real Housewife (15 page)

interested in becoming one of those witnesses?

“Sir, I’m sorry, but I don’t know anything about a hit out on a federal

agent. I did not even know his name was Leonard,” I said in tears.

I was an emotional wreck by then. My thoughts were in anguish and

there was no avenue of escape. My situation was dire, I was pregnant and stuck in jail.  An
d now I was finding out that my pregnancy was caused by a man I didn’t even f**king know. It was obvious to me that Shaheed was a

man who had been living a double life.

Was this sh** real? At this point my mind was in a state of conflict. The denial in me was fighting with my sense of realism. I was confused, overwhelmed, and felt betrayed. It was just too much going on at that moment. I just needed to pray. Pray and go to sleep. Maybe when I wake up this will all

be resolved. I’ll be able to climb out o
f the rabbit hole.

I awoke the next morning, and realized to my dismay that I was still

stuck in this horrible place and the nightmare was far from over. No matter how hard I pinched myself, and pleaded for my Lord and Savior to come to my rescue, I was still trapped. The law had caught me inside a maze of illegal

activities with no way out.

The federal agents’ interrogation from the day before, replayed

nonstop in my mind. I had to digest all the facts and the pictures they had showed me. While strategizing and reliving my relationship with Shaheed over and over again, I was connecting all dots. I had to figure out how I was

going to explain all this to my unborn child.

Maybe it was my sense of helplessness, but something about

this dreadful situation pushed my mind back to the horror story my father and mother told me repeatedly throughout my life. It was one of the most shocking murder scenes which o
ccurred in Buffalo, N.Y. The gruesome incident happened in 1978, and my family couldn’t get away from it. It made headlines throughout the east coast. No matter what television channel you turned to, it was on. And for the next several years, this terrible incident was

the talk of the town. It left a bitter taste on the lips of my family members.

October 31, 1978, was the day my first cousin, Gina, was violently

murdered. It was a day that my family will never forget. At eleven years old, Gina was the pr
ettiest child anyone would dare see. Her perfect milk, chocolate skin was accented by almond shaped eyes, and she had the perfect button shaped nose. Gina was a ballerina, and I was told how much she always loved me. My mother often told me that I was Gina’s baby. Gina ironed my clothes, fed me, bathed me, and played with me. I was only a year old at the time of her death. My mom, my dad, my brother, my Aunt San, my cousins Gina and Kevin, and I all lived in the same two-family house located on 27 Girad Street. We were a very close-knit family and nearly all of us were

raised in this home.

It was on a condensed street in Buffalo, New York. All the houses

were right next to each other, separated by no more than six feet of yard space. If a fire was started
in one home, the entire neighborhood would be burned down. On any day you could open your window and hear what your neighbors were watching on television. The houses were built the same way. They had the same height, foundation, and structure. They were just painted

in different colors.

The father of my aunt’s children, Lonzia Moss, practiced martial

arts. He was a black-belt karate expert, who had perfected the art of his choice. Then one day he snapped, and decided that he was not only going to

just kill himself, but take out everyone he had brought into this world.

My father was at work, but the rest of the family was home on this

fateful day. All of a sudden there was a loud knock on the door. Lonzia stood outside the door. He wanted to take his children to eat at McDonald’s. No one was aware of the shotgun he had hidden at the side of the house. My cousin Kevin, nine years old at the time, was asleep in the bed next to my brother, Lee. Even though Kevin was awake, Gina was the first one out the door. Then Kevin followed behind her.

It was over as soon as she stepped off the porch. Gina was shot once

in the chest with a double-barrel shotgun. She was murdered by the man who had given her life! She was fragile and her body could never survive a blow of that enormous magnitude. As her life was blown away, Kevin wasn’t given a chance to react. His father’s gun ran out of bullets, but that didn’t stop the deranged killer. With the butt of the murder weapon, Lonzia beat his nine year-old son, Kevin, into a coma.

Aunt San, my dad’s younger sister, ran out the door with every bit

of courage she could muster. Knowing she was no match for a black-belt, oh God, she put up a brave fight. Those were her babies! The man she once shared love with broke the shotgun on her face. Then he left the woman who had given birth to his children critically injured. She was lying in her own pool of blood right next to her children. My mother fought him off. Surprisingly she wasn’t harmed, but he wasn’t there to hurt her. Then the

coward ran off before anyone had a chance to torture him.

When my father returned home, Gina’s mangled body was still lying

in the driveway. His niece was dead, his sister, and nephew were critically injured. My mother lost it, my brother was taken to a neighbor’s house, and I was at the window watching, but I was unable to talk about what I had

witnessed. I wasn’t old enough to understand what I had witnessed. Or was I?

I have often wondered if something followed me from my dreaded

past. How and why did Shaheed end up in my life? And now my child, just like my cousin, Gina, was to be the child of a psychopath? The similarities were mind boggling. Shaheed was a black-belt. He was a master of his art of

choice. It was no secret that he could kill with his bare hands.

Would he ever do what my cousins’ father did? I instantly felt a

connection with my aunt, and started wonderin
g how our lives placed us on similar paths. One thing was for sure. I decided then and there that I would learn from Aunt San’s own experience. I was going to get the hell away while I still had a chance.

During the next forty-five days while waiting for
my inevitable

transfer to Clayton County Jail in Georgia, the last free moments of my life would constantly rewind in my mind. It left me thinking about what I could
have done differently. I began wondering if Sheree told me everything she knew. Did she set me up? What was E thinking? Did he believe I set him up when he was told to return to the hospital? Who was giving these agents all the information? Why was I being questioned in Tennessee about Shaheed, when we both resided in Georgia? How did they know about my involvement with Shaheed? Was Phaedra going to stick to her word about representing

me? Was I going to be out before my baby was born?

The bevy of questions was rampant. There were just so many

possibilities rapidly running through my mind at
one time. So many questions left unanswered, not even I could provide an answer. I couldn’t find peace

anywhere. The desperation of my situation constantly haunted me.

I was an emotional wreck by the time the date of my transfer had

rolled around. The
ride from Tennessee back to Georgia was long overdue. Even though I was still incarcerated, at least I was closer to my family. I was also getting closer and closer to my due date. Being transferred to Clayton County came with some rewards. If I did have the baby while I was incarcerated then my mother could come right to the hospital, and pick her up. The jail was only fifteen minutes away from my mother’s home so I would have visitation every week. Yes, I will say that I thought I had the whole thing figured out.

It happened like clockwork. Every week, my mother came to visit

me. Just like any good mother, she was at all my court appearances supporting me one hundred percent. I had been in Clayton County Jail for nearly two weeks now, and it seemed like no one could get in touch with Phaedra. She was avoiding every person that tried to contact her on my behalf. All the calls to her personal cellphone and home number went unanswered and were never returned.  So I had my cousin, Scott, call attorney, Ronald Freeman’s office

on a three-way phone call from jail. I spoke directly to Ronald myself.

“Ron, what’s up with Phaedra? I mean she is avoiding all my calls

when she knows what’s going on with me. I don’t know what is about to happen, but I know she promised to represent me. Now, she doesn’t want to

answer the phone,” I said.

Ronald Freeman was well aware of the criminal activity that existed

between Phaedra and me. Phaedra Parks shared an office with him on Spring Street. I knew for a fact that he de
finitely did not want to be implicated in any kind of way. Ronald briefly placed me on hold. Moments later, Phaedra was

speaking with me on the phone.

“Phaedra what’s up?” I yelled arrogantly.

She promised to visit the next morning. I hung up then waited. The next morning when she arrived for the visit, Phaedra went on and on about how we needed to let the air cool down. She told me that she had not forgotten about me, and promised that I would
get out of this situation. I was facing four felony counts of forgery in the first degree for the transferred car

titles in Georgia.

Auto Theft Detective, Pete McFarland, made sure he showed up at

every hearing or court date that was scheduled. Phaedra
promised me that everything would be over before I knew it. She gave me her word that she would look after my family if things went sour. Phaedra also explained and decreed that if anything happened to her, we would all lose. That was already understood. I said, “Just get me out of here Phae! I got to get home to my

babies.”

In the courtroom, I stood handcuffed and shackled. My big belly

was protruding and bumping into anything in its way. My hair was nappy and braided straight to the back. My mother and
Aunt Carrie sat inside the courtroom that day. They watched and listened as Phaedra pleaded our case. She was a great attorney, and did try her best, but what the hell happened to her influence? And what happened to the secret society amongst lawyers and judges? Superior Court Judge Matthew Simmons sentenced me to serve five years in the state penitentiary. I watched my mother fall to her knees. I broke my mother’s heart that day. She cried like a baby as the Sheriffs led me away