Playing Dirty (12 page)

S
itting in jail made me think of some things my mother had said to me as a child. Anytime she wasn’t pleased with me, she would say, “Yoshi, you are going to be a drug addict and an alcoholic and end up in prison just like your father,” her shrill voice cracking in Korean. From what I could gather, my mother hated my father’s guts after he left. She spoke of him only when the situations around the house got really bad. Like when we didn’t have food, or when a man would leave her bedroom and leave her crying. It was my father’s fault, all of it. When she made me smile for the men and wear sexy lingerie for them, if I ever complained, she would blame my father. But I dismissed it and thought how crazy her ass was.

I believed to this day that if he had never left New York, or if we had followed my father down to Virginia, my life would’ve been a lot better. I wouldn’t be so bitter and hard toward men. But, hey, what can I say? Wishful thinking. So I don’t dwell on that.

I still do have three pictures of him, and from what I observed, I’m the spitting image of him. Granted, he was a Black man, but he was a fine Black man with prominent features. His head was covered with tight curls, like he was mixed with some other race—maybe half white or Spanish. Believe me when I say my father was gorgeous. I believed that if he was still alive, he would probably look the same.

Unfortunately for me, when he passed away, not more than six years after he left New York, I was unable to attend his funeral. My mother told me that the next time I saw my father would be when I met my Maker. And she was serious as hell, too. Because when it was all said and done, I was still in New York while the funeral service was going on. I remember crying like a baby when she denied me from going down South. And what was really crazy was that she didn’t have to pay for my travel. My father’s mother, Grandma Anna, and my aunt Priscilla told my mother that they would drive the six and a half hours it took to get to New York to come and get me. But that didn’t matter to her. She stuck to her guns and kept my ass right in New York. I knew she did it to get back at my father, but she didn’t realize that it didn’t affect him, it affected me. And to this day, I was still being affected by it. I just hoped that one day I’d be able to get over it and forgive my mother for keeping me away from him.

Watching all of the prostitutes and crack addicts move like zombies around the crowded holding cell, I thought about what my mother would say if she could see me right now—probably something very demeaning, as usual. This shit was definitely beneath me. Here I was, decked out in designer clothes, sitting in a fucking jail cell with all of my shit confiscated. I sat still on the hard bench inside the jail like a mannequin on display. If another cop or detective or even a clerk had come to the cell to peek at me, I was going to scream. Apparently, word had gotten around that I was locked up. Was I the famous, or the infamous, Yoshi Lomax? At this point I couldn’t even say myself. I put my head in my hands and tried to think about my next move.

There weren’t many options, because as soon as I was processed, they took me straight in front of the magistrate. It wasn’t my girl Karen, so you know I was pissed. They took me in front of this idiot, Timothy Hawthorne. He was a fucking redneck, and I’d never liked him. So it didn’t surprise me when he denied my bail. “Bail denied!” he said sharply.

I looked at the tobacco-chewing son of a bitch like he was crazy and said, “What kind of shit is this? You are acting like I killed some damn body! I am an officer of the courts!” I protested.

He laughed. “You call yourself an officer of the courts?”

“You damn right I do! It’s evident! Check out my fucking stats and turn on the television sometimes. I’m on damn near every fucking channel.” I got cocky in my response to him.

“You are a disgrace, is what you are,” he commented. “You are out of line. Return to your seat or I will have you removed,” he barked, looking directly at the deputy who stood beside me.

Steaming, I damn near spat in that motherfucker’s face. I said, “You’re a piece of shit! You tobacco-eating fucking redneck! I got people like you cleaning my fucking toilets at home, so you could never be like me. You jealous bastard! I bet you want to fuck me, that’s why you carrying me like this. As a matter of fact, all of you underpaid motherfuckers want to fuck me, but it’ll never happen! I’m too high-class for you! You’d never be on my level! Never!” I screamed at the top of my voice.

By the time I uttered the very last word, the deputy had dragged me back to the holding cell. Everyone who was standing around, including my other criminal counterparts, looked at me like I was fucking crazy, but I didn’t give a damn. I was mad. I was mad to the point that I’d swing at the next person who said something smart to me. At this point I couldn’t care less what would happen next. I figured the worst has already happened; I was in fucking jail and these bastards were acting like they didn’t want me to leave. But fuck that! They were going to let me out, one way or another. I could guarantee you that.

Twelve hours passed and it was time for me to go in front of the judge. I just prayed that it was one that I knew. Other than that, my options were going to be very limited.

A few hours earlier they gave me the green light to make my one phone call, but I elected not to use it. I figured, what would be the use? I had no one to call. Everyone at my law firm hated my fucking guts, so this would be the opportune time to laugh right in my damn face. It was also of no use to call my housekeeper, because it was not like she could’ve come and bailed me out. And I couldn’t call Maria, and deal with more of her wrath. If I called Brad, he would be too embarrassed about his precious reputation to come down and rescue me—there was no way he’d be associated with something like this in public. I couldn’t call Paul, because my arrest would be the kind of news that would make his day. He would liken my downfall to the fact that I wasn’t fucking him anymore. Not only would I get fired, but he’d also have a field day with my reputation.

My mind then went immediately to Luis and Adrianna; I knew they’d pick me up and pass no judgments on me. Plus, they’d have some of that blazing-ass coke waiting for me. But then, at the last minute, I decided against it. I figured, I might as well wait and see what happened when I went before the judge. Taking a chance on my own destiny was what I’d been doing my entire life, this situation was no different.

“Lomax!” the officer called, startling me out of my thoughts. There were about twenty officers outside the cell staring at me. If looks could kill, I would’ve dropped dead. I got up from the bench and walked to the cage door. The tall, lanky officer opened the cell and placed me in handcuffs. I was led out for court and my legs felt like mush. Not only did I need a sniff to get me over the anxiety that was bubbling in my stomach, but my nerves were like prickly needles that stood on end. The slightest noise, movement, or touch made me feel like screaming. My mouth was cotton-ball dry and I could feel sweat descending my spine like a leaky pipe—one drop at a time. I just knew my bowel would release at any time.

When the officer ushered me through the solid oak doors at the side of the empty jury bench, I looked out into the crowded room. I was astonished at how many people were there. I’d never paid attention to how much despair riddled the faces of the loved ones of the defendants. Right now, that was exactly what I was—a defendant, one who had nobody in the courtroom and no one to call on for advice. Even though I could afford a lawyer, I was too embarrassed to contact any well-known ones for fear they’d ridicule me—their peer. I began to wish I had somebody, anybody, to call. It was then that I realized what Maria had been drilling into my head for years: “Yoshi, you can play big and bad, but everybody needs somebody.”

Walking into the courtroom as the defendant, and not the defense attorney, was the most humiliating thing I’d encountered since the day my mother beat me with a broomstick in front of my friends. I wanted the ordeal to be over quickly, and I prayed all the way to the front of the defendant’s bench that I did not run into any attorneys from Shapiro and Witherspoon. I looked up and noticed the judge.
Whew!
I breathed a short sigh of relief; it was a judge I knew.

The judge looked just as surprised to see me there as I was to see her. We exchanged telling glances, but neither of us said a word. When I stood before Judge Rita Marshall, I knew I was going to be set free.

I had so much dirt on that bitch, she knew better than to play around. I’d had her on a trial once and she was just doing me in, never letting any of my objections be sustained and always cutting me off midsentence with “Counsel, let’s move on.” So I fixed that bitch. I’d heard that she swung both ways, but I also knew she was married to the deputy mayor, who wanted to run for mayor someday.

First, I hired a private detective to get some dirt on a few of the jurors. Then I had him follow Ms. Rita for a while. Sure enough, jackpot! The private detective provided me pictures of the judge inside a lesbian hot spot at the southern tip of Miami—and oh yes, she was tonguing down a chick. During my next court session, I threw the envelope with the pictures in it right onto her bench, after one of her “Counsel, let’s move on.” Judge Rita Marshall almost turned invisible, that’s how white she was with shock. Needless to say, court was adjourned early that day and I won my case hands down.

Now here we were, in another face-off of sorts.

“Judge, we propose that the defendant be remanded without bail until the preliminary hearing,” the prosecutor said as she stood up. It was the same bitch, Tiffany Wheatt, who was assigned to the Chisholm murder case. My heart sank when I heard her name. That was all I needed, for Sheldon to find out his high-priced lawyer was a jailbird cokehead.

“This is the defendant’s first offense, Your Honor. She is not a flight risk, nor did she have enough drugs to qualify for distribution charges. I would think release on her own recognizance, with a date to return for service order, is enough,” said Lucy Green, my little court-appointed lawyer. I remained silent, waiting for the decision.

I wondered if Judge Marshall was going to try to fuck me royally, like I’d done her. I decided to play it tough-ass. Maybe if she thought I still had those pictures, then her husband, who was now the mayor, would be humiliated, so I winked at her. In turn, she grunted and turned a sick-looking shade of pink. It was as if someone had thrown pink paint blotches on her face from a distance.

“Ahem”—she cleared her throat—“defendant will be released on her own recognizance for return in thirty days for service plan,” she said begrudgingly. I looked at Rita, as if to say, “You better had, you lesbian bitch!”

After I was processed out of this roach-infested jail, which took another two hours, I ran out of the courthouse. I was mentally and physically exhausted. A few weeks ago, I was a superstar with everyone, including Paul and Maria, in my corner. Now it seemed like nothing else could go wrong and I was all alone. My experience with getting arrested, and almost not having any options, taught me that everybody needed somebody. I just wanted to go home, take a nice, long, hot shower, and get my mind right.

W
hen I became a free woman again, I had nothing. They’d kept my car and all of the belongings I had with me. I was given a voucher and told I could pick up my shit on the next business day. Were they fucking kidding me? I needed money. How the fuck was I supposed to get home? After thinking about it for a minute, I reluctantly decided to walk to the firm. The courthouse was closer to my office than to my house, and I had a small amount of cash and cocaine in the bottom locked drawer of my desk. I needed both right now—the cocaine to get me through the rest of the day and my cash to get home. I knew I had a little ways to go and I needed to make it to the office, so I kicked off my Gucci sandals and got to walking. I could not believe this shit. I—the great Yoshi Lomax—had to fucking walk the streets. As I passed the regular working-class people, with their slumping shoulders and heavy loads, and the homeless people, with faces of hunger and despair, I realized that all the stuff that I had could be gone in a flash. I guess I wasn’t immune to failure after all. I looked at a homeless woman slumped up against an office building. She looked half dead, and I wondered if she was ever as great as me and had let drugs be her downfall.

My mind was heavy as I continued toward the office. I realized that I was slowly losing it all, and as much as I thought I was in control of shit, I could see that maybe I wasn’t as strong and disciplined as I always thought I was. If I believed in voodoo—as fast as shit was going bad for me—I would’ve believed that someone had put a curse on me.

By the time I reached my office building, I was beat the fuck up and haggard out. My feet felt numb, and the aches I felt for a hit of coke had me almost running into the building. I knew I looked like pure shit, but I couldn’t care less what the motherfuckers at Shapiro and Witherspoon thought about me right now. Since I’d been put out of my office suite, I knew I could make it to my new tiny hole-in-the-wall without running into Paul. When I had about fifty feet left to get to the building, I slid my sandals back on, held my head up high, and walked through the front doors of the firm like my shit didn’t stink. I sped past all of the nosy-ass lawyers that I called my coworkers and burst into the safety of my office.

I closed my door, put my back up against it, and slid down to the floor. If I was the crying type, I would’ve broken down. Instead, I sighed and shook my head from side to side. “What are you doing, Yoshi? What has become of you?” I asked myself under my breath. I couldn’t even answer my own questions, but I knew that I really needed to pull myself together. As much as I thought about losing my job, my home, and my good name, none of that could stop my urge to get high. I looked over at my locked desk and scrambled up off the floor. My cocaine was waiting for me—calling out to me. I got down on my knees and searched under my chair for the spare key to my desk.

“Got it!” I said, growing excited. With my hands unsteady, I fumbled with the lock. I felt like a real fiend. It was sad, but I kept going, and when the drawer finally slid open, there it was. My girl…snow white! I sprinkled the beautiful powder out on my desk, and just as I put my head down to snort, there was a loud knock on my door. I almost jumped out of my skin. I couldn’t just leave that beautiful white dust there, it was calling to me.

“Fuck!” I grumbled. I sniffed half the pile of coke, and swiped the rest back into the canteen. The knocking grew louder and louder, so I became paranoid and I was pissed at the same time. “Who is it?” I yelled, but I got no answer.

I got another knock, though. “Who is it?” I screamed again as I got to my feet. On my way to the door, I smoothed my clothes out as best I could. Then I grabbed a hold of the doorknob and flung it open as hard as I could. And standing right before my eyes was Paul’s worrisome ass. Someone either told him I was in the building or he smelled me.

“You are skating on thin ice, Yoshi,” he threatened, pushing his way into my office.

My heart thumped. Oh, my God, did he know about my arrest or about the cocaine in my desk? I could never confess to it. He would hang my ass out to dry. But what if he had cameras put in my office after our little disagreement, I thought as he bullied his way around me. Ultimately he invited himself in and closed the door behind him.

“What are you talking about now, Paul?” I asked, sniffling. I was hoping there was no coke residue on my nose.

“You sent my wife a letter, you bitch,” he growled, whispering and accusing me.

“I did what—” I started, but Paul jumped into my personal space.

“Don’t play dumb with me, Yoshi! You know what the fuck I am talking about!”

“Look, I don’t have time—” I began to say, but yet again he cut me off in midsentence.

“Bitch, you better have time!” he spat back. “You are so lucky Witherspoon and the firm’s board don’t want to fire your sleazy ass! But I will tell you this, you are going down,” he threatened, storming out just as fast as he’d come in.

He hadn’t let me get a word in edgewise. I had no fucking idea what note he was referring to. I hadn’t told his wife anything. Although I kept saying I was going to send her an anonymous letter telling her stuff about Paul, I never had the time, between fucking the Santanas and chasing my high. I giggled to myself. Paul was all bark and no bite, I reasoned. He wasn’t going to do a damn thing to me. Like he said, no matter what, I was protected by Mr. Witherspoon and the board. Those motherfuckers knew I was still the firm’s top biller, so they’d be a fool to let me go. Besides that, I was the only attorney they had who would take on some of the most dangerous clients. Those corny-ass lawyers in this entire firm wouldn’t even take the cases of rappers. I didn’t know if they were afraid or just straight prejudiced. Whatever the reason, I was fine with it. They just left all the big-paying clients to me and I loved it.

As soon as Paul left, I locked the door behind him and picked up where I’d left off. I snorted up the entire canteen of coke. I felt really lifted and better about my situation. No one would ever find out I’d been arrested and humiliated. The drugs had me feeling confident and powerful again, like the old Yoshi Lomax. I picked up the black drawer insert in the center drawer of my desk and took out the small stack of cash I had stashed there. It was my emergency fund, just in case I ever got a client who needed to be impressed. I flicked through the money. There was enough there for me to get more coke and to get home in a taxi.

I decided to check my messages before I left. I lifted my phone and punched in my code for my office voice mail. There was a message from Maria. She was telling me how angry she was at me for not heeding her warnings. I didn’t even listen to the entire message; I deleted it.

Next, there was a message from Sheldon. As usual, he wanted to speak with me and it was urgent. Every fucking thing with him was urgent. I would go and see him tomorrow. Which reminded me, I needed to start working on his murder case, and I definitely needed to get in touch with Brad. That bastard had changed his phone number. Brad owed me the acquittal for Sheldon’s drug charge, and he was going to come through or else. Sheldon’s pretrial hearing would be in another week. If I was late or missed that, he was liable to send someone after me.

There were two messages from Luis Santana. He wanted to invite me to another private party. I erased the messages, with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. He had gotten too comfortable with inviting me to his little parties.

“Well, I got what I came here for. Now I need to get home and wash my ass,” I mumbled to myself. I felt dirty as hell. I looked around my office one last time. That small-ass office was a reminder of just how badly shit was going for me…down-fucking-hill.

As soon as I opened my door to leave, I was startled by two men; they were standing directly in front of my door, like they were waiting for me.

“Shit! You fucking scared me!” I said, placing my hand over my heart. I had no idea who the two huge men were, but after a few seconds, I kind of had an idea. Neither of them said a word. “Can I help you?” I asked.

Then one stepped forward and began walking toward me, backing me up into the office. They both came in as I walked backward to my desk.

“Who are you?” I asked nervously.

“Mr. Chisholm has been trying to reach you,” a very tall, bald black guy growled. He was standing so close to me, I could see the enlarged pores on his face.

“I just saw him, not even twenty-four hours ago. What could he want now?” I asked.

“He wants to have another meeting with you. So he wants you to come back down to the jail so you two can talk,” the same guy said.

“I have court in the morning, so that’s going to be kind of hard,” I replied.

“Well, Mr. Chisholm needs you down at the jail, so I’m sure you’ll do the right thing.”

“I do have other clients,” I snapped back.

“I’m sure, but Mr. Chisholm will take precedence right now,” he threatened, simultaneously sweeping his hand over his waistband to make sure I saw his gun. The fucking nerve of him! I was Sheldon’s lawyer, not his fucking slave or his fucking wife. I was enraged, but I held it back.

“Tell Mr. Chisholm I will come see him right after court, which will probably be no later than noon.” I had to play tough. They had me pissed the fuck off, invading me like this.

“No. You will go tomorrow morning, first visit,” the same man said. His Haitian accent was very prominent. He looked similar to Sheldon; I wondered if it was his brother or some other relative of his.

“Alright, I will be there,” I relented. It didn’t make sense to say I wasn’t going to go, because either they’d kill me right there in the office, or we would be there all day going back and forth. And I wasn’t in the mood for that bullshit! I wanted to get home and take a fucking shower. I felt like shit. If one more fucking strange thing happened, I was liable to have a nervous fucking breakdown. I was paranoid now, between the shit with Paul and then Sheldon sending his henchmen. I didn’t know what the fuck was coming next.

After Sheldon’s men left, I walked downstairs and caught a taxi to my house. But before I walked out of the building, I had a dozen eyes staring at me. They were all wondering why I was looking the way I was looking. But they weren’t that bold to ask.

And what was even funnier was when I stepped to the curb to hop into a nearby taxi, all the valet drivers stood there in disbelief. I imagined they were wondering where the hell my car was. And why was I dressed down in a pair of jeans with my hair thrown back in a ponytail?

I had never come to work like this, so I knew that they were assuming something was really wrong with me. At this juncture I didn’t care how they looked at me. I was on a mission, and until everything came to a head, they might see me like this a few more times.