Lamar grinned and shook his head. The scene before him was comical, but it was not a laughing matter.
CHAPTER 31
More and more recently, AUSA Reynold’s found himself in deep thought about his South Philadelphia upbringing. He’d went to law school with the goal of becoming a prosecutor, and he was on the cusp of becoming the US attorney for the district.
Gunna was in the AUSA’s office along with SA Livingston having a chit chat. He was at a crossroad in the investigation that he dared to cross.
“Listen, Gerald, our case is strong enough to put these guys away forever now. You, too, if you must know,” SA Livingston said assuringly.
“This case is open and shut. We have drugs, guns, and numerous murders. We just need your testimony to make it all even stickier,” AUSA Reynold’s said, looking deeply into Gunna’s eyes.
Tears welled up in Gunna’s eyes. He had no idea what he’d gotten into. He thought back to the day that he became married to the federal government. He had been caught selling drugs to an informant and rather than go to jail, he served up his lifelong friends on a hood platter.
“If it’s open and shut, you don’t need me. I can’t do it. Testifying wasn’t part of our agreement. I helped build your case, now I’m done. It’s bad enough, I did that. Now you want me to expose myself to them, too?” Gunna tried to remain strong, but he was breaking down.
“I believe you have no choice, Gerald,” the agent said matter-of-factly.
“Your plea agreement at section Four D, specifically states that the government, that would be me”—the prosecutor gave him a curt smile—“will make known to the Court at sentencing the full extent of the Defendant’s, that would be you, cooperation, but the United States, that would be us, is not promising to move for departure pursuant to United States Sentencing Guidelines section 5K1.1, 18 United States Code Section 3553(e), or Federal Rules of Criminal Procedure 35.” AUSA Reynolds stood walked around the table and stood next to Gunna. He flipped the plea agreement to page three, sat in front of the defendant, and said, “And right here section Two H, you agreed to testify fully and truthfully in any proceeding. This obligation is continual. And, lastly, according to this agreement, the defendant agrees that all of these statements can be used at trial if the defendant withdraws from this plea agreement or is allowed to withdraw the guilty plea.”
“I don’t give a fuck what that says. I ain’t doing nothing. I’d kill Lamar to avoid a trial before I do that.”
“All righty then. It’s up to you,” SA Livingston said, sipping a cup of coffee. “But know that that threat is on the record.”
“Cuff him up,” AUSA Reynolds said wickedly. His smug smile flipped into a menacing frown.
Gunna jumped to his feet. Reflexively, the prosecutor pushed Gunna, slamming his back into the wall. Gunna’s body sank into the hollow plaster leaving a huge hole before he was gripped by his shirt and slammed to the floor. His head bounced off the floor and SA Livingston pinned his neck to the floor with his knee. With him subdued, AUSA Reynolds handcuffed him.
“Think you’re going to come into my office and threaten me,” AUSA Reynold’s said, pulling Gunna to his feet. “Sit down,” he added, pushing him into a chair, “and don’t ever in your life jump in my face.” He then cavalierly brushed off his suit and straightened his tie. He had a seat behind his desk, and said, “Don’t ever in your life jump up at me.”
“Looks like you’ve made him awfully angry,” SA Livingston said, pacing behind Gunna.
“Damn right he has. No one, and I mean, no one, jumps bad ass in my office,” AUSA Reynolds said, turning his computer screen around for Gunna to see.
Taking long deep breaths, Gunna had to calm down and think more methodically if he wanted to leave this office a free man. Despite his setting anger at the United States for assaulting him, he was equally upset with himself for getting in bed with the devil.
“You see this,” the prosecutor said, pointing at a dead body of Snake on the ground with a hole the size of Russia on his face. “You did this. Not Dunken, but you. How do I know? Try to withdraw this plea, go to trial, and I promise you’ll find out.”
“Let me tell you how we can play this,” SA Livingston said happily as if they’d prepared this tag team production in advance. “This murder is in furtherance of a drug conspiracy. It was premeditated, and we know through our own independent corroboration.”
“We’ve left this out of our talks believing you’ll fully cooperate, no doubt, leading you to believe we didn’t know about it. Well, my friend, we do, and I’m sure I’ll have my way in all three phases of a capital punishment matter.”
“All we’re asking for is your help to get this monster that shot one of ours for no reason off the streets.”
“He killed a woman in Upper Darby while you were in a coma by blowing two shots into her vagina. We get it, he hates women. Profilers confirm that’s because of his mother abandoning him leaving him to fend for himself.”
“Now, Gerald, look, you testify, get your 5K1 and go on your merry way. Nobody is doing time anymore, my friend. There is no honor or loyalty in the streets neither, so help yourself. If it were the other way around, they’d do it to you. So what are your going to do?” SA Livingston asked, smiling condescendingly.
CHAPTER 32
“Ms. Kittles, what up with you?” Slam asked
“I’m all right, Mr. Mason. I saw you on the front page Monday,” the CO answered, making herself comfortable to begin her shift.
Slam had been in the county for four days and seemed to have a thing for Ms. Kittles, who was the night shift officer on his unit. She didn’t give him any rhythm, though. His yellow complexion, salt-and-pepper hair, and muscular body were preserved from his long prison term, indeed a turn-on. His age and extremely institutionalized traits were a complete turn-off.
“Fuck a front page, I’m tryin’ to go home in a day or two. Maybe see you.”
“I hear that. Mr. Mason, where are you from out there?” she asked, logging into the jail’s computer system.
“Southwest. Bartram Village. I made Harley Terrace what it is.”
“Oh, really? You gotta know my boo, then. He a boss,” she said, digging into her purse to get a picture.
“Who ya boo? Where he be at?” Slam asked playfully, snatching the picture from her hands and turning it faced down.
“Lambchop. He get—“
Slam cut her off and aggressively said, “Yeah, I know, Lambchop. That’s my young bull. I ain’t seen him since he was like four or five.” He smiled at his lie. “You got his number for me?” Slam asked, hoping to get information out of the loud-mouthes hood rat.
She pulled a phonebook from her bag and gladly gave Slam Lamar’s number. She smiled as Slam walked off with the phone number after thanking her.
