"No, no. That wasn't the deal. This crime was not even in the cards for me to tell on," Gunna said.

"Right, but it happened on our watch, so it been added to the deck and we want answers. More specifically, we want Lamar Dunken off the streets," SA Brown said and stood. He walked closer to Gunna, bent down, and was nose to nose with him. "Are we clear on this?"

Gunna pushed back in his chair, and said, "Yeah, we're clear J-Rock."

Agent Brown had a stoic expression on his face. "Good," he said, "you're free to go, but remember it's Agent Brown in this office."

AT FIVE O'CLOCK SA Livingston stood outside cherrywood doors leading into courtroom 11-B at the United States Courthouse. He was with assistant United States attorney, Jack Reynolds, there, for an emergency appearance to secure a wiretap. Knowing he couldn't finish the day on an empty stomach, he wolfed down a Philly cheesesteak. His eyes were swollen with bags underneath, his complexion pale, and his formerly crisp suit was wrinkled from a long day. He anxiously checked his watch, wishing he had time to change his attire to be presentable. After finishing a phone call, he shoved open the courtroom doors and settled into the prosecutor's table―the one closer to the jury box.

Once he was seated, he pulled the wiretap request―a thick twenty-five-page affidavit included―from his briefcase, keeping his eyes trained on the doors. No one was supposed to be in the courtroom, but he had to be sure before requesting a sealed wiretap. At forty-five, SA Barry Livingston reminded folks of a toad. He was five-eight and as wide as he was tall, but solid. His blonde hair was pushed back, his neck invincible, his face slim in comparison to his wide body, and his skin was dry and blotched. AUSA Reynolds alerted the courtroom deputy to notify Judge Flennigan that they were prepared to proceed.

SA Livingston nodded at the prosecutor, and asked, "Are you all set?"

"I am," AUSA Reynolds replied confidently. "I've been in contact with the state's prosecutor to send me the files from Dunken's state case."

"Very good. I'm glad they agreed to drop the attempted murder charges to allow us to pick it up and bundle it into the conspiracy. This rotten piece of shit better not get a lawyer to help him walk."

"Trust me, he won't. Shooting Agent Brown's partner will get him a guidelines enhancement for that assault. Plus, the 924(c) violation for discharging a weapon is an automatic ten-year mandatory sentence on top of the weapons, drugs, and robbery offenses."

"I've been working hard to see that worthless, piece-of-shit in the chair. Agent Brown is extremely strong to remain undercover in this situation. I know how this hurts and understand why we need a favorable outcome. Believe me, I do."

"You can't for Agent Brown, though, Reynolds. Agent Rayfield was his wife, not just his partner."

AUSA Reynolds was wide-eyed, then heard the courtroom deputy calling the court to order. "All rise," he said. "US District Court for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania is now in session. Judge Matthew B. Flennigan presiding."

The judge swept into the room enveloped in a black robe. At seventy-three, Flennigan had small blue eyes, a piggish nose, and a receding hairline. He said, "I have before me a sealed request for a wiretap in the matter of United States v. Dunken, et al," for the record.

"That's correct, Your Honor," AUSA Reynolds said and stood. "I'm joined by FBI Special Agent Livingston and as he avers in the filing, the defendant has been indicted for being a felon in possession of a weapon in violation of 922(g). That indictment is sealed. To put this into context, I submit that the defendant was arrested eighteen-months ago for shooting a woman on the street, and we negotiated for the Commonwealth to drop these charges for us to bring them. However, what brings us here this evening is just this afternoon, he shot at and potentially killed a man during a drug deal with a weapon provided by undercover agents pursuing indictments in the area where the shooting happened. We have a CI who has made a monitored call to the defendant to acquire a confession, which was unsuccessful, but agents want to tap the phone in question to aide their investigation. I'll add that the defendant has brought minors into this conspiracy and the wiretap will establish that violation, as well. That is all."

"Does the agent have anything to add?" Flennigan said, stifling a yawn. "I've read the lengthy affidavit."

"Briefly, Your Honor," Livingston said and stood. "I wanted to add that the defendant paralyzed an undercover agent, resulting in the state case because we didn't want to blow our cover. We intend to pursue every avenue to get him off the streets, but he has ties to other dealers more powerful than him, and we plan to learn about these dealings through the wiretap. Without it, we can't accomplish that." He sat.

"You have a CI and an open-shut case for the shooting eighteen-months ago of the paralyzed agent, but I'm going to allow a brief thirty-day wiretap and request a full report by the twenty-fifth day if you intend to pursue this further via a wiretap. I'll be presiding over this trial and forewarning you that any material learned without a re-application will be inadmissible, and that is because I believe that you have enough to proceed, and I don't want a defense attorney motioning that the wiretap was unnecessary because you had the goods prior to getting the wiretap," the judge said, tapping his gavel and disappearing from the bench.

CHAPTER 7

Lamar Dunken woke up a few minutes past eleven a week later. His head throbbed and his throat was dry. He hadn't been away from Nikia's house in days. Empty Bacardi vodka bottles and fast-food wrappers littered the top of the bedroom dresser. Since his involvement in the Dot shooting, he had been laying off weed to remain as alert as possible. He mistakenly believed a vodka shot was less problematic than a weed high when the police were possibly on his ass. Stupid.

Amongst the clutter on the dresser were several hundred dollar bills, the proceeds of Gunna's drug deals that he made while Lamar was locked down in the house, letting the heat from the Dot shooting die. He wished that he had the courage to kill himself. How could he, though, when he was petrified of what was on the other side? He glanced over at a photograph of him and Nikia in New York's Times Square on the wall, both of them with bright smiles on their faces. He had to get his act together before he lost the best thing that had happened to him. She and her mother were sent from heaven, and a part of him wanted to keep a smile on their faces.

Fueled by desperation and rage, he decided to get out of the house to get a meal and to get a hold of Gunna to put some things into perspective while Nikia was at class. After getting dressed, Lamar hopped into the pilot seat of the Marauder, shuttling his eyes back and forth to be sure he ducked any Philadelphia PD detectives. While he thought of where to eat, he heard his cell phone vibrating. He checked the called ID, saw that it was Gunna, and answered the phone.

"Lambchop, wassup?" Gunna sounded eager.

"Nigga, where the fuck is you at? We need to have a conversation, but not over the airwaves," Lamar said, pulling into traffic. He was overly aggressive right out of the gate.

"Man, I'm in traffic right now. I would be more than happy to talk to you when you calm the fuck down, though."

"You the one running around gettin' high and blowin' money you ain't even got." He still couldn't believe that Gunna had called him asking about shooting Dot.

"So, what you sayin', nigga?" Gunna replied.

Lamar, fully irritated, hung up the phone and threw it into the empty passenger seat. Ten minutes later, driving up Fifty-Second Street towards Arch Street, he stopped in front of Yummy's Diner. Lamar parked and grabbed a hoodie off of the backseat, before walking into the restaurant.

Once inside he understood why Yummy's was a spot where one could sit down, eat, and gain a piece of mind. It was busy, but quiet as the staff serviced the customers in a professional and personal way.

As he stood by the door awaiting a booth, he heard, "Lambchop? Oh, my God. How are you doing, boy? I ain't know you came home." A mature waitress greeted him with a hug.

Recognizing the familiar face filled with excitement, Lamar cracked his famous half-smile. "Yo, Amilli, what's up, Shorty?"

She was a CO at CFCF and kept him laced with weed and gave him a cell phone when he was there. "Nothing much, just working this part-time gig. You know I'm 'bout my money. When you get home?" she asked again. "I thought they sent you up state from the jail."

"Nope, I been home about a week now. I have just been busy as shit. I figured I'd come see you and grab a bite to eat while I was over this end." He lied.

"Oh, OK, I see you still look good." She complimented him and pat his shoulder.

"Yeah, you know, I'm moving at the speed of light out here. You need to give me ya number, though, so I can take you to a movie or the park or something. I'll have you home before dark, I promise. Scout's honor." Lamar held up two fingers, symbolic of the Boy Scouts.

The gesture caused Amilli to blush. "Oh, you're adding Luther tunes to your game now. Sexy," she said, running her fingers through her hair.

"Yeah, you know I'm a real playa, and I like 'em a little older than me. I'm about to get a new car and I want you to be the first to ride with me. What you think?" Lamar said, thinking that she'd be perfect to get him a car in her name, using her credit.

Amilli had butterflies thinking of dealing with Lamar. She had always looked at him as just another man who had an early death forthcoming or who was destined to spend life in jail. She worked two jobs, was in her first year of college, and didn't have time to chase men around, especially ones that frequented her primary job. She was twenty-nine-years-old and really did like the young buck, but debated with herself if she could survive his lifestyle or get him to leave it.

"Yeah, whatever, Lambchop," she said, playfully, rolling her eyes. "Are you orderin' or what, boy?" she asked, putting her cell phone number into his phone.

"Yeah, let me get the usual. Turkey bacon. Eggs and cheese scrambled. Home fries. French toast." He smiled, walked to the back of the diner to wait for his food, and played with his phone. While doing so, Gunna called him back.

"Yo." Lamar was clearly agitated.

"Come on, that ain't for us, bro. Stop with the girl shit."

"I ain't on no girl shit, dog. I just think you ain't been keeping it hunnid with me lately."

"What are you talking about, you just fuckin' came home, my nigga," Gunna said desperately, trying to figure out where all the hostility came from. "Mattafact, meet me right now," demanded Gunna.

"I'm at Yummy's. I was about to slide out in a minute. I'll wait on you, so hurry up, I don't have all day."

"We got a lot of talking to do, nigga." Gunna never gave Lamar a chance to respond before he ended the call.

Lamar then yelled to Amilli, "Make that for here."