"Man, I gotta take a piss," he stated with his hands on the hood of the patrol car. His eyes remained trained on his BMW as a policeman searched it. His nerves were shot from the stress of everything happening.
"We got fire in the hole," the officer searching the car yelled, holding up the 1911 with an ink pen.
"Hands behind your back," the officer standing guard over Jamie said. He grabbed the suspect and slapped handcuffs on him
"Come on, sir. That ain't my pistol."
"Now it's, sir. Get the fuck outta here," said the cop, pushing Jamie's head into the back of the police cruiser.
Ain't this a bitch, Jamie thought. He cursed Kesha for answering the door. The scorned man watched four police cars ride pass and realized the police's presence on the streets was extreme. Jamie’s gut figured they were looking for Slam, making it the reason he was in the predicament. With his mind turning many possibilities, he tapped on the Plexiglass separating him from the officers, and said, "Man, what the fuck made y'all pull me over? I wasn't speeding or nothing."
"You didn't stop at the STOP sign, dumbass. Just look around here. Every officer from the twelfth and seventy-seventh districts are out here. They're looking for a man that murdered a coupla guys over on Fifty-Second Street. Have you seen anyone running for their life or hiding?"
The officer's words confirmed Jamie's assumption. Now was the time to get out of going to jail. "Yup, I know how y'all are looking for," Jamie said, "and where he's hiding." He later testified.
"...Satisfied?" Mason asked, recovering from his trip from the past.
"So the police got you at Kesha's house?" Matlock asked. A cheap investigative query.
"Yes, they put cops over the area and waited for me to come out. I thought the smoke had cleared after two days, but they waited in the shadows for me and got me tired from fucking Kesha two days nonstop."
"Sloppy seconds," Mason said. "So how many people supposed to be outta here?" he asked, getting to the meat and potatoes of this tete-a-tete.
"Four is what I hear."
"When?"
“Tonight. Was going to be Sunday during the real Super Bowl, but the leaders bumped it up to throw off people that may know. Clever."
"Is that so? And you can tell me who they are?"
"I do, and the specifics. I won't tell you here. Meet me at the library at noon, right before the midday count. Be sure to clear all inmates out before I come out of the weight room. Ask to search my gym bag, I'll refuse, and you rough me up before tossing me in the library. Keep me there through count."
Mason waited, staring at those raised eyebrows trying to read him.
"Come on, Matlock, you wanna save the day or not?”
PART ONE—SEPTEMBER 2008—Eighteen Years Later
CHAPTER 1
Lamar "Lambchop" Dunken strolled hastily out of Curran-Fromhold Correctional Facility and gazed up at the afternoon sky, watching as a flock of pigeons soared over his head. It was a wonder any Philadelphian made it out of the jail alive or corrected. The personnel was about as trained as the staff of a Taco Bell fast food joint, maybe even less. At twenty, he was a determined, optimistic young man. With the exception of those whom he robbed or shot, he had little use for people.
He walked towards his partner in crime, Gerald "Gunna" Robinson, who was parked and waited for him. He passed a woman pushing a baby stroller headed to visit one of the maximum security inmates at CFCF. There was a loud, incessant banging coming from an inmate pounding a hair brush against their cell window trying to get the woman's attention. The day before, that was Lamar, but he was as free as the birds that flew above with no intentions of returning to the jail. He stood five feet six, weighed one hundred sixty pounds, and was solid. Dressed in a white cotton T-shirt and jeans, his feet encased in size nine Nikes, his light-brown skin glistened in the afternoon sunlight. The cool mid-September air didn't effect him. Lamar had always been oblivious to temperature. Weather, however, was something he could now appreciate. For the past eighteen-months the jail had been his home and in there it was all one season: Cold!
Lamar's enthusiasm surged as he got closer to Gunna and caught a glimpse of a gun print on his side when a light breeze brushed up against him. He was standing next to a black Oldsmobile Delta Eighty-eight, with his hand out for Lamar to shake.
"'Bout time, my nigga. I have been out here two hours," Gunna said, having grown tired of waiting.
At twenty-one, Gunna was a slim and youthful looking man, with a close-cropped set of waves, pronounced lips, and large brown eyes. His caramel complexion looked good and he was often called a pretty-boy, even though he had a neatly trimmed full beard. He lived the kind of reckless life forcing his mother to go to bed at night wondering if he was dead or alive, and that was his biggest problem. None of his crimes mattered.
"You all right?" Gunna asked, pulling onto State Road. He had noticed that Lamar was quiet.
"I'm tryin' to get to Nikia," Lamar replied, noticing that Gunna wasn't headed toward his house. "Yo, you going the wrong way."
"Chill, cannon. I'm gonna get you there, but first, I'm gonna get you right at the mall." Gunna smiled.
A half-hour later they pulled into the parking lot of Franklin Mills Mall. Gunna cut the car off, but the Young Jeezy lyrics about getting money still rang in their minds. Gunna removed a cherry-flavored Backwood laced with weed from his shirt pocket, looked at Lamar, and grinned.
"Let's blow real quick 'cause you look stressed the fuck out."
"Just got out of jail, man. Things on my mind."
"And what's that?"
"First, getting these clothes you promised me so I can get home to wifey."
"And?"
"Stacking ten million to get the fuck outta the game."
"Ten million?" Gunna repeated the amount with doubt riddled in his voice. He added a chuckle.
What a joke? Everything was a joke when you really thought about it.
