Murder in Germantown Page 19

  I had problems and things going on in my life and I needed this chance to unleash them on this fool.

  I traipsed along the pavement with him behind me walking in the street. I shrugged off my mink jacket and lifted my sweater over my head. I kept on my lambskin gloves, though. I needed to protect my knuckles from being evidence. I had on a ball cap that I turned backwards.

  I marched to the Fitler schoolyard. I heard Smoov, DJ and a few other voices trying to stop him. Through the wrought iron gate, I walked in twenty feet and snatched off my T-shirt. I hoped my muscles scared him off.

  I threw up my hands and prepared to spar. Before his hands rose, I threw a fake left which sparked him to dip right. I caught him with a quick blow to the right side of his face. He paused for a second. Dazed. I should have popped him again, but I danced lightly on my toes as my dad had taught me. He threw a wild punch that did not land. My next did. I knew his face throbbed and pulsated with pain. This was what the hood brought out of me. Buffoonery. He had asked for an ass kicking. Am I to be threatened, stalked and badgered with trash talk?

  Lil Tone rushed toward me wildly, and I halted him with another punch. He wanted to wrestle.

  I didn’t.

  “Smoov, come get this dude. He can’t fuck with the faggot,” I said and danced some more.

  That angered him more. He charged me. I moved. He fell to the ground.

  “Dawg, I am not trying to fight you. Go ahead, man. Damn!”

  “Fuck dat!”

  “Somebody get him, please.” I begged.

  I had already pummeled the man and he was not worthy of risking arrest. I was mad as hell and I could have pulverized him, embarrassed him, but I didn’t. I wanted to get the hell away from Germantown.

  Finally, Smoov grabbed him.

  “Come on, Tone, this shit is over, man.”

  His face was swollen, and I felt no remorse. He asked for, and begged for that ass kicking. I wanted to taunt him, too. And I did.

  “It’s been over, Smoov.

  Now he can tell everybody that the faggot beat his silly ass,” I said as a few onlookers held him back from getting some more.

  I looked around for my garments and they were in Kensan’s hands. I tossed my T-shirt and sweater over my head. I was not cold at all.

  I wanted no parts of that bar at this point of the night. All I wanted to do was curl up under Dajuan. What had jumped into me? Was I possessed? That was totally out of line.

  CHAPTER 59

  Kensan and all of his muscular jailhouse body walked with me toward Wayne Avenue. As we chatted about why the fight started, his eyes glowed incandescently. After five years in the penitentiary his skin was amazingly clear, evidencing that gossip about jail preserving one’s youth.

  “Whatchu been up to, double R?” he asked me. He looked deep into my eyes and I looked away. He possessed the keys to prove me monogamously challenged.

  “Chillen, man. Staying out of the way. You?”

  “Hanging in there. Still haven’t found a job. No one wants to hire me. Not even stock at Target. It’s bullshit. But I am maintaining.”

  He still had a cracked front tooth that added to his sex appeal. Full pink lips told me, “People are not going to give you info out in the open, no matter how close you are to this hood. You’re a member of the bar, and no one knows your obligation to the courts. You’re going about this all wrong.”

  I began to cogitate. It didn’t take me long to conclude how correct he was.

  “Walk me to get a soda from Nikki’s.”

  We walked down Wayne Avenue to the soul food joint. I went into Nikki’s and grabbed a Sprite for him and a Hawaiian Punch for me.

  “You still drink Sprite, right?”

  “You remembered that bullshit?”

  “No doubt. I am a lawyer. I have a good memory,” I replied as we walked down Wayne Avenue toward Charlie B’s.

  We walked slowly. Romantically, actually. Was I cheating?

  “So, you remember how we used to get down, right? Don’t think that I am coming on to you. I am not,” he confirmed after noting the expression on my face. It was splashed with awe. “I ask because I was in love with a boy in jail and he crossed me.”

  Why the hell was he telling me that? I had no idea where he was headed, but cheating on Dajuan was absolutely out of the question. Kensan and I had not been sexually involved since I was 22. He helped me with Brandon, so I named him Brandon’s godfather. He went to jail and fucked that up.

  I told him, “Ken, dawg, you’re going to get crossed by lovers. That was some jail shit. I am sure that a woman out here...”

  “I don’t want a woman.”

  That was the moment that I felt like I was in a horror movie and the music that introduced danger was coming had just played.

  “I want a career, a house, and a real car. Hoes come a dime a dozen,” he said clearing up his last statement.

  Oh my. This could not be happening to me. I was lost for words. I just continued to walk, but I was speechless.

  “I know you’re all happily involved and shit,” he said. “I want to be happy, too, Ray-Ray. I am tired of Germantown, and I want to get my life together like you and get right. I do not want to be thirty and still living in my mom and dad’s basement.”

  “So how can I help you? How much money do you need?”

  “None. I don’t need you to give me anything. I’ll earn mine, but I need your direction. Show me the way. You know my family situation. In jail, I took a few classes through Penn State. They had professors come to my jail. I just can’t find a job. Not even cleaning dog shit at PetSmart. And I am not up on college enrollment.”

  He sounded sincere, and I wanted to help. I knew the road to success and I knew the road was bumpy for an ex-con. The question, “Have you ever been arrested,” on an application was highly discriminatory. In fact, I thought about writing an article on the topic in the next issue of Brotherly Love. Kensan proved that all black youth were not as lurdan as the media portrayed them. Many wanted to be distinguishable, but without the guidance that Kensan asked for, how could they begin? Many were afraid to even reach out for help.

  It would have been a dereliction of my duty had I not replied, “Take my card. Come to my office tomorrow morning at seven a.m. sharp and dressed appropriately.”

  “You want me downtown at seven? All jokes aside?”

  “Yup, and bring a resume.”

  “I’ll be there,” he told me.

  “We will see,” I said and then called Dajuan to pick me up.

  Thursday, January 11, 2007

  CHAPTER 60

  I awoke to the pernicious blare of an alarm clock at 6 a.m. on the dot. It was Thursday, and I had a banging headache. It was a hangover. My last hangover was in my first year of law school. I recalled that much. In addition to some little man within my head chipping away at my brain cells, my mouth needed to be invaded by a rainstorm to stop the draught. My breath was short, as if I was asthmatic, and my eyes were on fire. I had vivid memories of tackling five screwdrivers in very short fashion at Charlie B’s. My cocktail had more vodka than orange juice. My body absorbed it and had become so pissed that it was teaching me an early morning lesson.

  More trouble was obvious when I tried to keep my eyes open. The light blinded me. The veins at my temples throbbed. This was no headache; it was a tension migraine. The mother of them all. I could lie in bed and have Dajuan massage my temples and sleep that monkey off my back. I had to shake this off all on my own.

  Why?

  I am an ambitious attorney who managed to plan to get up, down some aspirin, grab a cold shower, and be out the door by six thirty, as I had planned the night before.

  Quickly, I swung my legs to the floor. What was I thinking? My head began to spin dizzyingly. I was nauseated because the quick movement probably shook up my dinner. I grabbed my head and squeezed my temples to no avail. I took slow, deep breaths. I cursed my heart, because it pumped more blood than necessa
ry, forcing the arteries in my head to swell. Unlike the penis, my brain could not expand to accommodate the blood.

  Water.

  I need a gallon of water.

  Carefully, I stood and walked retarded to the bathroom. I looked in the mirror over the sink. I looked like dried shit. I turned on the faucet and let water run into my glass that I used to rinse after brushing my teeth. I drank slowly and did not allow a drop to run from the side of my mouth.

  That was better, but I was not fully hydrated. I had three more glasses.

  I stood in the shower for ten minutes. I had slapped a cucumber mask on my face and prayed it would rejuvenate me. My time was precious, and no day would be wasted because of a hangover. That was a copout. A defense of insanity.

  I stepped out into the warm air and toweled. In the bathroom, I got dressed. I was finished at 6:22. Eight minutes later, I walked out the door.

  Four minutes was all it took to get from my condo to the Prudential Building. I was cheerful, even hyped to meet with Kensan. Rebounding from a felony was the most difficult thing on Earth to do. Harder than becoming President. Ex-cons had to be fearless, hopeful, and optimistic. Most had the fearless bit to a science, but to be hopeful was hard to learn.

  I grabbed my briefcase and exited the car. I walked a few feet, and then looked at myself from head to toe in the garage parking lot mirror. Something about a Gucci suit gave me confidence. I developed the swagger of a millionaire when I donned a suit, tie and wing tips. Powerful. Unbothered. I imagined one-million other confident men of color dressed for success as I crossed 12th.

  I saw Kensan looking around aimlessly. He looked lost. I did not help him find the building. The first step to success was taking responsibility for himself. Learning to control himself. Knowing that his destiny was in his own hands and not his employers. No one held him back, but himself. It was imperative that he studied the men who came before him, and learned how they jimmied their way to where he wanted to be.

  Regaining strength, I walked solidly into my office. I had a cappuccino with an additional spoonful of Folgers to give it and myself a boost. I attached an Icy Hot patch to my right shoulder blade to relieve the soreness.

  Sometimes, I stood in my office window for an hour and watched the cars zip by rhythmically. It helped cure my legal block, which was like writer’s block. The sun was still rising and cast an orange glow across the sky. It warmed the City of Philadelphia. Everything seemed to be in perfect working order. This was my life. I could sit and devour the law until my legal appetite was content. That never happened.

  Security rang my desk phone. “Dammit,” I screamed.

  The sound was so loud. The hangover couldn’t take it. Hell, neither could I. I knew what they wanted, so I didn’t answer. I went down to the lobby to collect Kensan.

  The elevator opened and Kensan smiled at me. His face shone in admiration for a second. He had mixed an unexpected sartorial combination. A cream colored baggy suit with six buttons enveloped his tall body. He had on cream shoes with deep brown shapes, and a matching tie. His complimentary off-white shirt was ironed, but did not have that starched crispness.

  Kensan’s face was chiseled out of lemons. He had a bright yellow complexion, no more than two ounces of body fat, and inviting eyes. But he was dressed inappropriately. We shook hands and proceeded to my office.

  CHAPTER 61

  When I closed my office door behind us, I smelled the cappuccino and offered him a cup. He took it, but wanted to know what it was. He was standing at the door, as if he was afraid to enter.

  “Negro, if you don’t come into this office and get comfortable,” I told him.

  I then handed him a Harvard mug.

  “That’s expresso coffee mixed with frothed hot milk, and flavored with cinnamon, and Nestle Quik.”

  “You said that like I should have known that. I’m not a Starbucks kinda guy,” he said and had a seat on the sofa. “This is a nice office. They must pay you a lot of money?”

  “They do, but I earn it. More importantly, I practice law because I like it, not for the pay. Ergo, I work hard.”

  He laughed and said, “Stop lying.”

  “Ken, I do not do any lying. Look at teachers, they aren’t paid a lot, but they have a passion for their roles in America,” I said, checking my E-mail.

  Both Aramis and Jon Rude had forwarded reports of their findings from the James case. I printed their reports and avariciously snatched up the hard copies from the printer.

  “Aiight, you have a point, but you lie.”

  “In court. Maybe.” I laughed.

  “Whatever. I brought a resume.”

  I kept reading my investigator’s report and made notes on a yellow legal pad of what I needed done next.

  “That’s nice,” I said.

  “You don’t want to see it?” he asked.

  His face was twisted with confusion.

  “Not yet,” I said and sipped my drink. I typed a reply to Jon and simultaneously asked Kensan, “What courses did you take in jail?”

  “Uh...English, College Algebra, Creative Writing, Art History and Sociology,” he said. “I have 15 credits from Penn State that I can transfer to any college and Penn won’t even release that I took them in jail.”

  “Creative Writing?” I asked and kept writing.

  “I wrote a manuscript while I was down. I wanted to learn a few tricks.”

  “Makes sense,” I said, typing a reply to Aramis. “I want to write a legal thriller.”

  “You type fast as hell. What’s that 60 words per minute?”

  “Eighty.” Bragging. “But you must type fast, too to have done a novel.”

  “Actually, I wrote it long hand, but I type about thirty words a minute looking at the keys.,” he chuckled.

  “What kind of grades did you get?”

  “Three B’s, one A, and one C. The C was in Art History. I was not feeling the Teenage Mutant Ninja Painters.”

  I laughed. “Cute, but Art History is a humanities requirement in all schools I would think. It was for me at Georgetown. What kind of job do you want?”

  “Telemarketing. Retail. Customer Service. That sort of thing. Something for me to pay my own rent, while I get my book published. I am already writing another one.”

  I snatched up my phone. It was 7:40.

  “Johnson, this is Ravonne Lemmelle. My friend that I just let up will be coming down to make a run for me. You can let him back up.”

  I then turned to Kensan and said, “Ken, on the corner of 12th and Chestnut a few short steps from here is a Seven Eleven. Could you go grab me a Daily News? I need to read the article about Wydell’s case.”

  “Come on, Ray-Ray. Don’t turn me needing your help into being a flunky.”

  “I don’t need a flunky. I need your help. I have to run to the law library to check some things for a case this morning.”

  “I thought you asked me here to help me. How are you going to do that in court?”

  “I am going to help you. And like you told me last night, you wanted to earn your place.”

  “Not by being your slave. I had enough of that shit in jail. I don’t want to start out as an errand boy. You haven’t even looked at my resumé, Ray-Ray.”

  He glared at me like a piranha, prepared to bite my head off.

  “I do not need errand boys, Ken,” I said. It was like a warning. “In fact, I don’t need the paper, either,” I said and pulled the Daily News from my briefcase. “Let’s get this straight. I do not need you for anything. I do not owe you anything. I have no intentions of using you. So the next time I ask you to do something as small as that, do not interpret that as disrespect. You’re a sage man, I mean wise...”

  “Sorry to interrupt you from meandering on, but I read the dictionary in jail about an hour a day. I have a vast vocabulary.”

  “Good,” I said and could care less. “Do you have a license?”

  “No.”

  “Permit?”

&n
bsp; “No.”

  “Pen and paper?”

  “Nope.”

  “Zero for three. Nice!” I raved and rolled to my credenza.

  I grabbed a legal pad and slid it across my desk to him along with a pen.

  “Take notes,” I said and began to pace behind my desk. “Penn-Dot is at 11th and Market. You’re going to need to get the current copy of the driving manual.”

  He sat there.

  “You’re not writing, Ken.” I mentioned that and went on. “Afterward, you should walk, take the train, or get a cab over to the public library on Vine and 19th Streets. There you will find the business section, get a resume book, and write a resume that will get you a job doing whatever you want. Don’t forget a sample thank you letter for after interviews, as well. When I see the resume in your hand and the one that you will do today, I should see an improvement. Do you have a library card?”