“Drug conspiracy 846; Minors Use 861(a); Drug Distribution 841(a); Weapons 922(g); Weapons 924(c); and a Telephone count 843(b),” the agent said, ignoring Lamar’s asinine question. “Get this piece of shit outta here.”

“What about...um...the dick sucker?” another agent asked.

“You can let her go. It’s no crime in being in love with a loser. Plenty of women are into that.”

CHAPTER 51

Sitting in the back of an unmarked FBI vehicle, Lamar watched agents rummaging through his car. I don’t know what the fuck they’re looking for. Ain’t shit in that wheel. I am walking up outta this situation without an issue. The only problem he had at that point was the .45 ACP semi-automatic handgun that an agent took from the floor of the driver’s seat, a mere first-degree misdemeanor. He had planned on killing Slam and his daughter with that gun. Fuck!

It was apparent to Lamar how heavy he actually was. He smiled to himself as a known face walked up and opened his door. He found it funny that the man that had bought his Marauder was wearing a blue FBI jacket. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! That means they had the car from the Upper Darby crime scene for months now. Lamar started to panic but continued to wear his poker face.

“I believe we’ve met already, Mr. Dunken. Sorry that we have to meet again under these circumstances. I was really hoping that no blood was found in the car. I was wrong.”

“Your point?” Defiant.

“I am going to give you one chance to help yourself because, with everything that you’re charged with, you will die in prison. That little whore of yours will be sucking a lot more dick while you're gone with the wind.”

Lamar raised his eyebrows and raised his shoulders. “I don’t give two fucks, homie.”

“All I want to know,” the agent said, “is who, what, when, and where are Oz’s people getting in his shipments of coke. You know that I know, but I need your confirmation in exchange for asking the judge to be lenient on you by way of 5K1.”

Lamar grinned.

“Listen here, man. That bitch out there ain’t my bitch. She belongs to the game. Shit, I can make her suck every cop on this scene dick. Even ya little white dick. And, if you know everything, then what the fuck do you need me for? Get the fuck outta my face with the dumb shit. Call my lawyers. Yeah, plural, mutha fucka.” Lamar stopped talking and stared sternly at the agent. “Just shut the fuckin’ door and take me to jail. I have been waiting for this my whole life. I wear a size two-X jumper and a size nine shoe. Call FDC to get that ready.”

“You little faggot. You’re going to wish that you had cooperated. Or got it like ya boy Hamma. He’s still getting scraped up off the street.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Your buddy thought that he could go against us. That was even dumber than all of the other shit he’s done. Now there are water hoses getting whatever remains of him off the street. That’s exactly what I am going to do to you in the courtroom. I am going to have you killed by lethal injection, just for everyone to see.

The agent’s words cut Lamar deep, but he refused to wear his heart on his sleeve. He simply cracked a halfway and nodded his head, before he hawk and spit in the agent’s face, smiling. “That’s for killing my homie, pussy.”

Instinctively, the agent wiped Lamar’s phlegm from his face. He then dragged Lamar from the back seat and commenced to beating the regret out of him, while handcuffed.

CHAPTER 52

After spending the night at the FBI’s downtown Philadelphia office, Lamar was escorted to the United States Federal Courthouse at Sixth and Market Streets. He was processed into the system by federal marshals, and then taken before U.S. District Judge Matthew B. Flennigan.

The judge read him the charges from the indictment, and asked, “Mr. Dunken, how do you plead?”

His lawyer, Cam Moore, stood, and said, “Not guilty, Your Honor.”

The judge nodded and turned to the prosecutor. “Bail?”

“We’re drafting a memorandum to have the defendant denied bail. This defendant has—”

“We’re prepared to stipulate to detention pending trial, Your Honor,” Mr. Moore said, interrupting the AUSA before he was able to get any of Lamar’s criminal antics into the court of public opinion or on the record.

“Why the hell would we do that?” Lamar said, looking sternly at his attorney. He was bold and loud; the entire courtroom heard him.

“Do you have something to say?” the judge asked, staring at Lamar.

“Sure, I do. Why is this PD sitting here telling you all that I don’t want bail? I am not biting my tongue.”

“Let me stop you right there,” the judge said.

A big smile was spread across the prosecutor’s face.

“Firstly, your lawyer’s name is Mr. Moore. Second, he’s the attorney of record, so his word is what matters in here, you got that?”

“Well, I want another lawyer. I want to buy my own lawyer.”

“Your Honor,” AUSA Reynolds said, standing. “If I may the Court’s indulgence. The defendant completed the financial assessment and indicated that he has no job. He further indicated that he has no assets. Any attempt by the defendant to acquire his own attorney will be objected to by our office, putting the burden on the defendant to prove where the money came from to hire any attorney.”

“You see that Mr. Dunken?” the judge asked. “This is why you’re always warned of your right to remain silent. That doesn’t only refer to snitching on co-defendants. But in any fashion, it’s best to remain silent and discuss things privately with your attorney, and not in open court. I am going to set this matter aside, and I expect papers from the defense and prosecution with respect to bail or detention. If that is all?”

“It is, Your Honor,” AUSA Reynolds said.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Mr. Moore said. He then whispered to his client, “ I will be up to the jail to see you in a day or two. Do not talk to anyone about your case in jail or on the phone. No one. That includes your cellmate and your mother.”

“My mother’s dead.”

“My apologies. Your father.”

“My father’s dead.”

“Wow,” the lawyer said, watching US marshals pull his clients away. He knew then what type of client he had on his hands.

AFTER BEING ESCORTED to a courthouse bullpen, Lamar looked over the indictment. He didn’t even know some of the names listed as codefendants. The document was lengthy and filled with enough legal terms to be mistaken for a Black’s Law Dictionary. While trying to understand the legal jargon therein, he was distracted by the voice of a man he wanted to kill: Sean “Slam” Mason.

Seconds later Slam—bitching and complaining—walked by him, wearing a pair of shiny handcuffs followed by two suit boys. “But, I wasn’t selling drugs with them, young niggas, out there.” They locked Slam in the cell next to Lamar and walked away.

How the fuck I end up on a case with this clown? Lamar thought. This pussy—

Interrupting his thoughts, Slam yelled, “Aye, young buck, ya man, Gunna, outta pocket.” He was locked in the holding tank next to Lamar. “That nigga lined me the fuck up, dragging me in y’all bullshit conspiracy. That nut ass nigga sold me guns and wore a wire on me when I paid that nigga to kill you. Now I know why he failed.”

“Oh, yeah,” Lamar said calmly. He was blown away by the revelation, though.