The apartment was too fly. It was living the way living used to be. Leather furniture, a pool table, and a bar in the dining room. Vertical blinds on all the windows and track lights throughout, an eighty-inch screen in the living room, and a sixty-inch in the bedroom. On the table sat a picture of Quanda and Quadir when she was first born. She’d never seen that picture before.

  Looking around the living room, she noticed the fine layer of dust covering everything. She could tell the place hadn’t been occupied. The garbage in the kitchen had an unbearable odor that filled the air. She opened some windows, letting in fresh air. The bathroom light wouldn’t go on since there was no Quadir to pay the electric bill. The bedroom walls and ceiling were covered with mirrors. Gena noticed a picture of Cherelle with Quanda sitting on his bureau, causing her heart to sink. There was another picture of Quadir on the dresser with some other girl Gena had never seen before. She found a photo album on a shelf—more girls. Pictures from Jones Beach in New York with every rapper and groupie on the East Coast and the Greek Picnic in Fairmount Park, the Greek in Virginia Beach, pictures at the Rutgers basketball games with the rappers and the ballers, from Kool Moe Dee to Alpo.

  There were pictures out in Vegas and Atlantic City at the Mike Tyson fights. Quadir was even on the West Coast in Cali with everyone you could think of, from Ice-T to Ice Cube, on down the line. The nigga was everywhere with everybody and had the pictures to prove it. She kept flipping the pages, scanning every pretty face and slim but voluptuous figure her man was leaning up against.

  She put down the photo album and began opening the dressers. All of them were filled and neatly arranged. The walk-in closet was lined with Dapper Dan leathers and a few fur coats. On the other wall was his tailor-made clothing, and down at the bottom were about fifty boxes of shoes he had never bothered to place on his shoe racks. Qua had as many clothes here as he had at the house. The different outfits, the different clothing. The constant switch, never in the same car twice. All the things she saw once but never saw again popped in and out of her mind.

  She went around the rest of the apartment, looking in the closets, taking her time, remembering the clothes she’d seen him wear. They were staring at her. She felt good, she felt bad, she felt miserable. She went back over to the closet and fumbled through his clothes, taking items and holding them up to her as if he were in them. Quadir’s scent again. How wonderful life was to have the scent of him again.

  The apartment was filled with a mysterious aura. It was as if Qua was there, as if someone was watching everything she did. Gena thought she heard something. Her poor heart started pounding as she went out to the living room, but no one was there. She looked in the kitchen and then secured the chain on the door. Gena walked past another closet door; it wouldn’t open. She tried every key until she found the one that fit the lock. Suddenly she felt a hand grasp her shoulder and let her free. Her heart pounded. Startled, she dropped the keys.

  She turned around as a cold chill went through her body. She looked behind her to see the apartment as it was when she’d first entered. She reached down and grabbed the diamond Q key chain. Finding the key, she opened the door, and staring in her face was a gray safe. A safe that sat on the floor and towered above her. It looked like something from out of a bank. Gena couldn’t believe it. She couldn’t believe what she’d found. The safe. Qua’s safe. Quadir’s money. She dropped to the floor in disbelief.

  * * *

  DeStephano put forth all his evidence. There were cross-examinations, redirect examinations, over and over again. Finally, DeStephano called Sharice Harding to the stand. The prosecutor jumped up.

  “I object. That name is not on the list.”

  Counsel approached the bench. DeStephano explained the relevance of the witness’s testimony and that suppressing her testimony would not be fair simply because there were no prior statements made by her concerning the criminal matter. She had recently come forth with crucial information concerning the case. Finally, it was settled. Ms. Harding would be allowed to testify. Court would be adjourned for a brief recess.

  * * *

  Gena paced and continued pacing. Searching the apartment for anything and everything she could find. Startled by the knocking at the door, she looked out the peephole at a short, light- brown-skinned man wearing a pair of glasses that seemed enlarged through the tiny glass hole in the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Locksmith. You called?”

  Well, it’s about time, Gena thought as she opened the door.

  “You called about a safe?”

  “Yeah. Hi. Thanks for coming.”

  “No problem.”

  Gena led him into the apartment.

  “Is this your apartment?”

  “Yes, it is. Why?” she asked, leading him to the locked closet door where the safe was.

  “I was just wondering. It’s very nice,” he said, noticing it didn’t look lived in.

  “You sure you can open my safe?” she asked.

  “I need to see the safe.”

  Oh, great, thought Gena. Just what I need. “What do you mean, you got to see it?” she asked, unlocking the door.

  “Damn, that’s a big one. That cost a lot of money right there.”

  What costs a lot of money that isn’t worth having? “You can get it open, right?”

  “Yeah, I can get it open.”

  “How?”

  “Well, there’s several ways to get into a safe. You can blow it open or you can use a torch.”

  “Oh, is that what you’re going to do?”

  “I can. It’s a lot quicker; the only thing is when you use those methods you risk damage to what’s inside. You can set what’s inside on fire.”

  “Oh, no. We won’t be going that route. That’s not the way.” Gena could see herself now, trying to salvage burning money. “How you gonna get it open?”

  * * *

  The courtroom was packed as people chatted among themselves, finally taking their seats. All were present, waiting on Judge Pearlstein. Finally, everyone rose, then after Pearlstein’s journey to his bench, they sat. Counsel for the defendant called his witness. Sharice Harding made the appearance of a lifetime. The bitch wasn’t bullshitting. She strutted down the aisle in a pale blue linen suit, clutching a pale blue Chanel bag by her side. Her hair was done and her makeup looked like something from a beauty counter.

  “Ms. Harding, do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

  With her hand on the Bible, she answered, “I do.”

  “You may be seated.”

  And so the drama began, from “State your full name” to “On the night in question . . . ?” Forty sat there and listened very carefully to the examination conducted by the defense attorney. Sharice Harding was a nurse. She lived in Texas with her husband and their four children. She had the story of life, and sis was not to be fucked with. Forty sat there intensely staring at her. He didn’t like where DeStephano’s questioning was leading.

  “Mrs. Harding, on December 28, 1989, where were you?”

  “I was in Dallas, Texas.”

  “Where were you, say, between the hours of ten p.m. and twelve a.m. on the night in question? Were you alone, Mrs. Harding?”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “Were you with your husband?”

  “Objection, Your Honor,” said Perachetti. “This line of questioning is irrelevant. The crime took place in Philadelphia.”

  “I will allow the questioning, but please get on with it,” the judge said, thinking about where to have dinner.

  “I’ll ask you again, Mrs. Harding, were you with your husband?”

  “No, I wasn’t with Charles.”

  “Were you alone?”

  “No, I wasn’t alone,” she said, glancing at the jurors, never once looking at Forty.

  “Who were you with?”

  “I was with Jerrell Jackson.”

  The room buzzed, spectators and jurors alike. The jurors were totally confused.

  Forty was not hearing this shit. The bitch was lying her ass off. He’d never seen anyone seem so convincing. “She’s lying! She’s lying, Your Honor!” He started screaming, wanting to run over to her and wring her lying bitch-ass neck, but he could no longer use his legs. “She’s lying. There’s no way he was in Texas, Your Honor.”

  “Order, order!” the judge said as he banged his gavel. Once quiet reigned, he told them to proceed.

  DeStephano continued. “Your Honor, I would like to present into evidence receipts for tickets purchased on Mrs. Harding’s credit card, showing she, indeed, was not alone.”

  “Your Honor, I object. That doesn’t prove anything,” Perachetti argued. And little did he know it, but that was exactly what DeStephano wanted him to do. Make a big deal over the tickets.

  After the battle over the tickets was settled and DeStephano had his way and the tickets were turned into an exhibit, he went back to his performance. He questioned Sharice Harding continuously, and she made a good show of breaking down, totally distraught. She was confessing to adultery and could lose her family, but at the same time, she couldn’t sit back and let an innocent man go to jail. Forty couldn’t believe she was sitting there.

  That’s when the tears came. “My whole life is ruined,” she said as she took the handkerchief from DeStephano’s hand. Who could deny such bullshit in the name of justice?

  Christ, Forty thought, why is this shit happening? He couldn’t believe it. He was paralyzed from the waist down, and counsel for the defendant had a sobbing woman on the stand explaining she was married and she didn’t want to ruin her marriage or her happy life, but she couldn’t let this man go to jail knowing he didn’t commit this horrible crime.

  The jury seemed to like the soap opera before them and sympathized with this good woman who’d gotten herself mixed up with Jerrell Jackson, who didn’t really look like a criminal. Meanwhile, Jerrell was sitting there as if he was being stopped from saving the world because of this silly trial for kidnapping and attempted murder.

  “No more questions, Your Honor.” DeStephano took his seat.

  “Your witness,” the judge said to the prosecutor.

  Perachetti knew she was lying. He went through a series of questions. The woman was a fine citizen, never had been arrested, no priors or even a parking violation. No drug use, prescription or otherwise. She was a registered nurse and made it perfectly clear she was cognizant of the night in question.

  The drama was blinding even Forty. Maybe Jerrell wasn’t there, he thought. No, he knew it was Jerrell. He didn’t regain consciousness for thirty-eight hours after he lost it, but when he came back, it was Jerrell, Sam, Ran, and Simone, and where was Simone? He had no idea, but he knew who did. He remembered pulling off Sam’s mask, he remembered that; then they pulled off theirs, and then Jerrell shot him. Yes, it was definitely Jerrell who was the trigger man.

  When Mrs. Harding was excused, defense counsel brought Forty back up on the stand, plunging into Forty with determination and consistency. However, Forty repeated his statements, never wavering, telling the jury again that they did, in fact, kidnap him, drug him, hold him for ransom, and then Jerrell Jackson shot him. By the time DeStephano was finished, the story read that “Christopher Cole, aka Forty, known in the street, was a drug dealer who, in fact, was kidnapped, was, in fact, shot, and yes, he would be a paraplegic for the rest of his life. However, Jerrell Jackson was not guilty of these crimes.”

  DeStephano made his closing statements, stressing the fact that, while Christopher Cole had been starved, kidnapped, and drugged with Thorazine, he probably didn’t know who his captors were, and he might have been hallucinating. “He doesn’t know who shot him. He doesn’t even know who kidnapped him, nor does he know where he collapsed. After saying he collapsed in the basement, he was, in fact, found on the porch. This man doesn’t know, and when you get up from your chairs, walk into that room, and deliberate, I ask that you merely ask yourselves, ladies and gentlemen, in light of the evidence and testimony at hand, did Mr. Perachetti prove, beyond a reasonable doubt, that this man did, indeed, commit that crime? All you need is one doubt, because if you have any doubts at all, you will be sending an innocent man to jail.”

  Wiping his head as if he’d saved the unfortunate in Bosnia, Iran, and Somalia, he told the judge, “That’s all, Your Honor.”

  Forty wanted to kill that bitch for lying. He wanted to take her long-ass legs and wrap them around her throat and choke the bitch. He saw the way the shit was going down. Again, the system would fail, and again the shit would fuck up what little faith a brother could have. This is such bullshit. How could this be happening?

  After closing arguments, counsel submitted their points for charge to the court, the judge deciding what statements of law would be read to the jury and what would not. The jurors then retired to the jury deliberation room to think hard about the matter at hand. Forty-five minutes later, they returned. A foreman was ready to recite the verdict.

  * * *

  Gena couldn’t believe it. She was so close, yet so far. “Is there something else we can do?” she asked as if all hope was lost.

  “Well, there’s the old ‘figure out the combination’ trick,” he said, pulling out a stethoscope.

  “What’s that for?”

  “This is so I can hear.”

  “Hear what?”

  The guy wasn’t one for giving any lessons, but he tried to break it down for her the best he could. “Okay. See, near the combination is a chamber. Now, when you’re turning this knob, you can actually hear . . . well, it’s like a pin drop.”

  “What?”

  “There are seven channels set on this combination. The channels are the numbers; you don’t know the numbers. So you got to listen for the numbers.”

  “Oh . . . I understand. So, you think you can do it?”

  “I’ve done it before.”

  It had been an hour and a half, and he was still trying to open the safe.

  “Oh my God. Maybe I should try,” she said, getting frustrated.

  “What’s in here?”

  “Why? Why do you want to know that?”

  “Because I can tell whatever is in here, you want it bad.”

  Boy wonder, you’re a real genius to figure that one out, aren’t you? Gena thought, looking at her Rolex. Gena couldn’t believe it. He wasn’t getting the job done. She didn’t understand. She was ready to take her chances with the torch. This was not the way. Gena looked at him with such dismay and frustration, she wasn’t quite sure what to say. Her main concern was whether she had to pay him for this waste of time. Time was money, and wasted time was wasted money.

  * * *

  Court was back in session.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?”

  “We have, Your Honor.”

  Forty sat there. He knew that the crimes charged against the defendant had been committed by the defendant, and he was guilty and whatever punishment he received would be deemed just and fair. As the foreman rose, Forty looked at him. He glanced at Forty and made eye contact for one brief moment; then he did the same to Jerrell, then began to read.

  “On the charge of kidnapping, not guilty. On the charge of attempted murder, not guilty.”

  Forty was stunned. On the charge of this and on the charge of that, not guilty. Jerrell was free as a bird.

  Jerrell hugged Billy DeStephano. “You the man! You know that, right?”

  “Of course I am,” DeStephano replied. “No gun, no witnesses, you’ll always go free,” he said in a low voice.

  The man was all that. One hundred and seventy-five thousand plus another fifty thousand, such a small price to pay for freedom. Jerrell had been down for seven months with no bail. He couldn’t wait to get back out on the streets and start terrorizing everybody’s ass again.

  For reasons Forty accepted and understood, even though he was paralyzed, he felt blessed to be alive. His mind scrambled and “not guilty” was ringing in his ears.

  Jerrell strolled up to him, making his exit from the courtroom.

  Bending down, he whispered in Forty’s ear, “See you in traffic, baby.”

  Once everything died down, including the reporters looking for a Pulitzer and the not-guilty hype, Forty was left in the courtroom, sitting all alone. He might have been able to accept not being able to ever walk again in life if Jerrell had been punished. There was a lump in his throat too big to swallow, a tear in his eye he couldn’t hold back. Just thinking about what the rest of his life would be like as the tear rolled down his cheek, he looked up at the seal carved into the American woodwork behind the American judge’s chair in the American courtroom, representing American jurisprudence. The American eagle. The same eagle that’s on all the money. The same money that got me here, he thought as he looked down, holding some in his hand. He wiped the moisture from his face and rolled out into the hallway, where the officers were waiting to take him back to North Dakota. He saw the US attorney approaching him. He wasn’t trying to hear any more shit.

  “You know, there will be another courtroom and he won’t be so lucky the next time. We’re gonna get him. Don’t worry, we’re gonna get him.”

  Forty kept rolling. They’d never get Jerrell. They’d never stop the Junior Mafia. The boy was too large. He was untouchable.

  * * *

  Gena felt all hope was lost. “It’s not going to open.” Then she heard the click. It was definitely a click, she heard it, and when his hand reached up and grabbed the handle on the safe door, Gena knew that all was not lost.

  “Oh my God, where did all that money come from?” His eyes were totally focused on the inside of the safe.

  Gena was about to faint. Booyah kept flashing in front of her like a neon light. For one brief moment, Gena thought of this strange-looking locksmith killing her and taking her fortune. Of course, she didn’t realize that the locksmith was also getting paranoid, wondering if she might kill him. It was too much money for him not to be suspicious.

 

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