With force.
And clocking in at one hundred two MPH.
Long winded arguments raged on, spliced with legal jargon, but all SA Livingston thought about was Lamar Dunken. Finally, he heard the judge say, “After carefully hearing all arguments and taking into account all legal briefs, arguments, character letters and the PSI report, it is the judgment of the court the Jackson Bobb, is hereby committed to the custody of the Bureau of Prisons for a term of four hundred and twenty months as to the one count of the indictment.”
Music to the agent’s ears.
The judge’s ruling, not the mumbling behind him, words in thick Jamaican accents.
The judge took off her glasses, stared at the audience and pounded her gavel once. Before she continued, she could hear a pin drop.
CHAPTER 24
After selling the Marauder, Lamar was eight thousand dollars richer because he gave Nikia’s mother five hundred for her troubles. In the rented Impala, he headed straight to Bartram Village. There, he found Trap kicking it with some other up-and-coming goons and signaled for him to hop in the car.
Jogging from across the street, Trap jumped into the passenger seat, and said, “What’s up Lambchop?”
“Same shit, li’l nigga. I can’t call it,” Lamar answered, pulling into traffic. “You finish that work?”
“Yes, sir, I got your money at my mom’s crib.”
Lamar chuckled. “Good, good. You playin’ ya part, so I’m ‘bout to take you down South Street to get some clothes and shit.”
“Aight, bet.”
“We gon’ bag up when we get done,” Lamar said, handing Trap a burning Backwood.
“Cool,” the youngin’ said, “what’s up with Gunna?”
“He’s still on support. I wanted to see him today, but I got side tracked trying to get on the block to bag up and I sold the Marauder. Insha Allah, he makes it back out here with us to enjoy this ride to the top.”
“Damn, man, you sold the Marauder?”
“I had to, Trap. That jawn was used in too many getaways,” he said, texting Nikia at a red light. He asked her if she wanted anything from South Street.
SA LIVINGSTON WALKED out of the courtroom carrying a copy of the United States Sentencing Commission Guidelines Manual under his arm. He was met by one of his partners, undercover, FBI Agent Scott Anderson, known to his Southwest suspects as “Stan.”
“We have five minutes,” SA Livingston said to the young operative.
“I bought the Marauder from Dunken. It’s with a forensic team. I gave him eighty-five marked hundred dollar bills, and Agent Clarke is tailing him. We’ve intercepted a text message that indicates that he’s headed to South Street as we speak and plan to record any bills that he may use while shopping.”
“Good. Be sure that Clarke gets photos. You juries love a photo shoot,” SA Livingston said, walking along Arch Street pass the African American Museum. “Photos and all surveillance, too. Swap the marked bills for clean money with the store owners, and log the bills in as evidence that he sold you the car.”
“Got it. What’s with the guidelines?” Agent Anderson said, looking at the legal tome under his superior officer’s arm.
“Homework, my friend,” the senior officer replied, walking away vowing to be sure he didn’t arrest Lamar Dunken until the hoodlum racked up enough antics to get a mandatory life sentence, or worse, the death penalty.
CHAPTER 25
Thursday morning, Crook was released from the hospital into police custody. He was arraigned and held without bail pending trial for his alleged barbershop murder. Upon arriving at the CFCF intake medical unit, nurses wanted to house him in a hospital wing because of his broken ribs and a punctured lung, but he refused, electing to be housed in a maximum security wing set aside for murderers.
CFCF was gladiator school, and survival of the fittest was an understatement. Inmates had access to cigarettes, drugs, cellular phones, and the occasional knife. For the right price, sex was on the table. Crook wanted in on all of this action and no parts of the hospital wing. CFCF was not new to Crook, who hadn’t been swept under the rug by a lengthy bid, but he had frequent admission miles on “The Road” because of the many times he was housed in one of the five county jails on State Road fighting case after case over the years. His last trip had been for eleven months when he had ultimately beat gun possession charges.
Sitting at one of the tables, he stared around the D1-2 unit un-phased by the idea of being back in jail, this time for an unbeatable homicide. A correctional officer said, “Lenox Oakley, you’re in cell twenty-four,” over the PA system.
Crook walked to the cell, tossed his bedroll inside, and came back out into the dayroom to see who he knew. After surveying the room, he made his way to the telephone hoping it had been activated for his use. He dialed his baby mother’s number and got no answer, so he decided to call Lamar.
“Wassup, playa, I been expecting your call,” Lamar said, accepting the call.
“Ain’t shit, li’l nigga. I just got out the hospital today,” he said touching his wounds lightly. “But, I’m straight, though. You know me, I still got my chin up, chest out, and my shoulders dropped back like the G I am. This ain’t ‘bout nothin’.”
“Good. Good.” Lamar laughed. “That’s what’s up.” Staring down the barrel of a life sentence seemed like something to Lamar. Hey, if you like it...
“I need you to put the full court press on niggas, you feel me?”
“Yeah, I already know.”
“Drop some money off at my folk’s spot, too.”
