CHAPTER XXI

23, 2021: 06:30

Wake yo ass up, nigga, said The Voice. Branson lifted his head, instantly awake. The grandmother's Voice (had it always been an old woman's Voice since... that time? he couldn't remember) cackled away, fading with the same alacrity with which he gained full consciousness. He wiped the cold from his eyes and looked over at the sensuous figure Naomi presented. But there was no time for that; tempus fugit, as the Romans said, and time did fly. He spent some few minutes replying to chat messages online and glancing at his notification, saving some to "Watch later" and such.

He slowly and quietly eased off the queen-size bed, put on his flip-flops and went to the bare living room where he lounged on the couch and called Kingson, who answered almost immediately.

"Yeah, so you picking me up or should I iron horse it up there?"

"Meet me at fifty-ninth street and Columbus Circle, by the entrance to the park." They hanged up and, while Kingson gathered together what might be some necessary files today, Branson took a shower. When he finished he remembered he hadn't brought any extra clothes with him. He thought about driving up to the crib but discarded that idea. Surely Kingson was already on his way to the train station, if not, already in the train on his way up. The bathroom here was stocked with all kinds of hygiene products so he brushed his teeth, dabbed on some lightly scented coconut oil ( for the ashy ass extremities). He went back into the bedroom only to find Naomi gone. Reaching for his gun, he relaxed when he caught the scent of microwaved turkey links and waffles. Getting dressed, he made his way to the kitchen, where Naomi had pulled back her glorious wealth of long curls and was whipping up breakfast in some tight spandex shorts and sports bra. She had just finished arranging his breakfast on a plate and wanted to take it to the living room. He sat on the kitchen counter and took his plate, eating in silence. She had an uncanny knack of understanding his need for silence, so she just leaned against him and let him think, watching him eat, as she occasionally nibbled something from his plate while drinking her mug of coffee.

"Thank you for the wonderful breakfast-"

"It's premade," she cut him short, smiling.

"Thank you for warming up the premade breakfast with love." Every single woman loved receiving compliments about her cooking. She smiled. Bingo.

"You're welcome and it's my pleasure." He came off the countertop and reached into his pocket. Peeling off fifteen Benjamin notes, he told her to keep herself occupied until he called or came back. As he went out the door though, he paused and thought about how stupid the apartment looked without furniture. This time his wallet came out and he gave her the American Express card, which she had used before and still knew the code for. They kissed and squeezed before he headed out.

The apartment building had two security doors you didn't need a key for to leave, but the outside gate might be locked. It wasn't, which made him both relieved and angry: relieved because he wouldn't have to go back upstairs for the keys and angry because what the fuck is a security gate doing open? In the early morning light of a newly breaking day, the new cars looked exotic and received admiring stares from many a passerby. The granite colored S90 and the burgundy G80 gleamed. He got in the Volvo and steamed up the engine a few minutes before taking off for Columbus Circle. As he arrived, Kingson was just coming out of the train station. He spotted Branson almost immediately - they had long ago become disenchanted with that whole "twin radar" thing. Twin radar was the ability of a twin to know precisely in which direction the other was at any given moment. Kingson admired the S90 as he approached and got in the car.

"Oh you fancy, huh?" Kingson joked.

"A li'l sum sum. But nah, I'm seriously just trying to stay low - the Benz is too hot right now."

"Oh? And you think... this... isn't?" Branson smirked and drove down the avenues until he reached the Queensborough Bridge at 59th Street and 2nd Avenue. He turned left on 2nd Avenue onto the bridge which really was between 59th Street and 60th Street.

"So what you gon' tell the nigga?" Branson asked his brother. Kingson looked up from a file he was reading.

"The same shit I told Bolo and Nut yesterday. The same shit I tried to tell him before he set up this impromptu rendezvous." He went back to a case he was reading, the appellate decision of which was similar to this case, but as all lawyers know, "similar" is not the same, sometimes even far from the same. Kingson thought about a case he had argued in law school based on this theory of similarity. He was cross examining a "defendant" and the defendant was certain that the person he identified was the culprit - however, two other witnesses in the exact same clothing were also apprehended at the scene of the crime. He maintained his surety that the man he picked out was the same man who committed the crime. Kingson had brought in a set of identical twin swimsuit models dressed in similar clothing.

"Mr. Attaway, would you same these two beautiful young ladies in front of you are the same person?"

"Of course they're not the same person, they're two different people."

"Would you say that they are identical twins?" The witness took another good glance at the models until the other law students began harassing and catcalling their peer for taking his time just to ogle the models.

"Sure, I'd say they're identical twins."

"And are they wearing identical swimsuits?

"Yes, they are."

"Well, Mr. Attaway, I can confidently tell you that these two women are, in fact, not only not identical twins, they're not sisters, nor cousins nor are they in any way related." He had planned for this particular project months in advance and happenstance had caused him to meet two strippers who looked exactly the same and were willing to be a part of his law school project. "Mr. Attaway, you also said they were wearing the same swimsuit, is that correct?"

"Yes, sir. Anyone can see they both got on red."

"Actually, Mr. Attaway, Sandy to my left is wearing the classic red bikini from Victoria's Secret's Spring 2021 catalog, whereas Mandy to my right is sporting the scarlet collection from H & M's Summer 2019 collection." There was applause. "Furthermore, Mr. Attaway, another point about these women being identical, I can assure you they most certainly are not. Mandy is a 34d while-"

"We get the picture, Mr. Jackson," the teacher, sitting in as "judge," drily interrupted. Students burst out laughing and that was one of several practicals he had aced in order to graduate.

Now, he thought back to that eventful day and an idea he had conceived yesterday began to crystalize in his mind.

Branson was daydreaming about his main chick and, right on cue, like a fuckin' mind reader or some shit, she called him. He turned his phone off and continued driving, turning left off the ramp as they descended not far from the birthplace of one of the greatest rappers alive: the birthplace (or at least where he grew up) being Queensbridge, the rapper being Nas, also known as King Nasir.

Branson weaved through Queensbridge before finally arriving at the Roosevelt Island bridge. Crossing over, both twins were assailed by so many memories, few of them worth bragging about. Passing the garage to their right as the first structure on the island, Branson cut a short left and went down the ramp smoothly. History states that Roosevelt Island used to be called "Welfare Island" more than half a century back. How befitting then, that the first residential building one saw at the bottom and directly across the street from the bottom of the two-way ramp was 4 River Road, the first and only low-income housing projects building, where the all the inhabitants were welfare recipients. The building was the first in a series of five, named "River Road," but whereas the other four buildings of River Road were well kept condominiums, 4 River was the "slum" of River Road; actually, that single building was considered the slum of the whole Roosevelt Island.

But Kingson and Branson used to hang out with many more people from 4 River than any other single building on Roosevelt Island, more so than all the other River Road buildings combined..

Branson laughed in his head at the irony and as they drove past River Road and the semi large park towards which the front lobbies of the other four River Road buildings faced. The front lobby, sans doorman, of 4 River faced the back of the next building in the subsequent four remaining buildings of River Road - no one could convince the twins that the layout of those buildings and how they seemingly shunned 4 River Road was accidental.

The Roosevelt Island garage passed by on the right - this structure was where the twins had "borrowed" their dad's cars and practiced driving until they felt comfortable and confident enough taking it out on joyrides. The recycling and waste management complex of the Roosevelt Island Operating Company (RIOC), the ultimate authority that ran Roosevelt Island, situated after and adjacent to the garage also lazily drifted by.

Past various gardens and tennis courts they drove until Branson turned left up a small two-way street where several ancient estates, not too far spread out, neighbored each other, with their tall and heavy leaved trees blocking most of said estates from casual public view. Near, between and around some of these properties were somewhat spacious fenced-in enclosures, small parks really, wherein churches or other private and public organizations, or people in the know, held social events. Branson parked in front of one such massive mansions, heavily cloaked by a large wall the continuity of which was broken only by a tall, spiked gate, the only entryway. Dogs could be heard carrying on their mysterious canine conversations from one to another property.

Right on cue, the entryway creaked open, a sound that could be heard a fair distance. Kingson wondered why the gate couldn't be oiled as he stepped out of the car. He then realized that the gate being left in such a condition was another security feature. Anytime that gate was opened, people in the house would know, and if you weren't supposed to be there, surely there was a backup plan. Into the entryway stepped a quietly beautiful and prim dressing young woman, likely alerted of their presence by the sound of the car. As quiet as a car can be, the mere movement of any vehicle in such a secluded sub-neighborhood in front of anyone's house would still be remarkable.

Branson knew the woman - she had waited on him, Chulo and Get Right a few nights back when Chulo had revealed to them his hideout, this house he had painstakingly purchased, and quietly, after Branson had put a bug in his ear several years ago, letting him know how valuable such a property could be. At the time, Chulo had not seemed the slightest bit interested but he was paying attention. Subsequently, and not just for financial motives, Chulo hired a real estate agent to quietly contact RIOC and find out the price of said property. The purchase was made six months later. That was _years_ ago; Branson could only wonder how much more the property was worth now.

As the twins approached the exotic beauty at the gate, her eyes darted from one to the other twin in minor surprise and thoughtfulness showing on her face. She was dressed in a tight fitting but knee-length ocher skirt with an equally tight fitting white cotton Calvin Klein button down shirt. Her high heels made her appear almost tall but she was a shorty, a not unpleasant trait in most women. Curly hair frame outstanding facial features, but it was her... prominent and fully rounded breasts that attracted Branson's attention. Damn, he hadn't realized just how thick she was in that schoolteacher outfit she had worn the other night.

"Mr. Branson?" she asked correctly of him, surprising him now. He smiled and nodded.

"Yes," Branson confirmed. Her eyes gleamed with the knowledge that she had chosen the right twin. Suddenly, he stopped and Kingson bumped into him from behind while again perusing some files. "Wait. How do you know my name? I never told you my name." She smiled coyly, a tad bit mischievously.

"My brother told me your name," she responded.

"Your brother has never ever, not once, pronounced my name correctly. So how is it you know my government?" Branson's memory tweaked for a moment. It was as if he knew this chick, but from where exactly...? She didn't respond but just continued to smile.

"Please close the gate behind you. It self locks." Kingson was last in line and closed the door, hearing a distinct click as the gate door, apparently, self locked. They were led upstairs and into an orderly, large and clean study. The entire walk Branson had kept his eyes on the ass of this fine young Dominican Mami Chula. Her waist sashayed with more sensuality than the other night. He just wanted to reach out and slap that ass to see just how it jiggled. Alas, the daydream came to an abrupt end as they found themselves too soon in the spacious study with an almost full bookcase along one wall and a small bar opposite. The third wall of the study teased a beautiful view of the East River behind sheer cream drapes floating in the breezes of a large open window. In front of the window sat Chulo, a bit haggard and somewhat sallow-skinned but still a boss. He rose and greeted the twins as both approached the large and intricate desk behind which he was working when they had come in.

"Nice to finally meet you, Kingson," Chulo greeted with both hands holding onto Kingson's.

"The pleasure is mine, Mr. Rodriguez," Kingson retorted, retrieving his hand before Branson dapped and hugged Chulo. The twins sat in the thick armchairs facing Chulo. "Please, before we begin and for all our security, please turn off your phones." They acceded to Chulo's request. "Branson, I see you and your brother... identical?" Normally, Chulo's choppy pronunciation of English cracked him up, would even cause him to smile or laugh a bit, but a type of gravitas hanged over this meeting. Branson didn't feel the slightest bit amused . He felt as if the Sword of Damocles hanged over him.

"Yeah, Chulo, we identical as grains of rice," Branson responded. Kingson reached over and held him by the back of his neck affectionately.

Too bad you ain't shit, though, The Voice commented menacingly. Branson blinked, caught a bit off guard. He took a deep breath, a time buying technique about which he had forgotten ever since.

"Mr. Rodriguez, I'm going to need you to tell me the story as it happened," said Kingson, getting right down to business. "I'm almost certain that you're not going to tell me everything, but please tell me anything serious that the cops or the District Attorney might know, just so I don't get caught off guard. In any event, tell me the story, first and foremost, as it concerns you!" Chulo thought about where to start and then looked at Branson, who shrugged his shoulders.

"Only way he gon' know how to properly defend you, homie." As Chulo began speaking, Kingson began taking notes. Branson noticed that the same exact story Chulo had told him a few nights back had barely changed. He was sticking to it and that was that. Kingson listened and when the recounting was ovr. There were obvious gaps in Chulo's narrative but those would be shored up as time went on and they began prepping for the day when Chulo was going to be cross-examined by the District Attorney.

"Mr. Rodriguez, I must ask: do you or your family own any legitimate businesses?"

"Yeah, the family got one on Brooke and one on University and one in Canarsie."

"And all are legally owned by members of your family?"

"Pero si."

"Do you have any fear of retaliation from Julio's people?" Chulo thought about the question and finally just shrugged.

"I no think so but I also don't care." Kingson continued writing.

"How many people can you bring with you to court every time you have to go?"

"Many," Chulo replied.

"How long have you been married to Mrs. Rodriguez?" Kingson asked. The room became perilously still. Kingson was staring at Chulo when he asked that question and had seen a multitude of emotions running across his face, the two most prevalent being wrath and grief. "I'm sorry I have to ask you these questions, Mr. Rodriguez, but I can assure you that the District Attorney is going to say and allude to much worse things. Can we please move on?" After a few moments of covering his face with his hand, Chulo nodded.

"Eight years."

"How many children do you have together?"

"Two girls." Chulo smiled at the thought of his girls. Kingson paused and reflected. Chulo was a family man, all about his family. Despite a few peccadilloes (and which human had none?) he was a man directly dedicated to his wife and daughters, and what had happened would haunt him until the end of his days, as attested by the dark shadows under his eyes. Chulo loved his daughters, that was clear, and as any father should... On a whim Kingson decided to speed up his jurisprudential plans. He had these sudden "whims" and they had rarely, if ever, steered him wrong.

"Mr. Rodriguez, we have to talk about Ygritte's involvement in your defense."

"Please, Kingson, let us find another way-"

"Mr. Rodriguez, I promise you: there is no other way!" Kingson replied, emphasizing his last words by punching into his palm. The room quietened. The lady who had met them at the door and escorted the twins inside had been sitting quietly off in a corner, reading a book. She now got up and went to Chulo; she spoke to him in cool, measured tones - her voice was calm and measured but the tone was cold. Their conversation was completely one-sided from the beginning. Chulo's responses were fiery and heated but were thoroughly doused by the coolness of the woman.

The Spanish dialect they were speaking was beyond the understanding of the twins - only a few words out of their rapid converse could be grasped. From what the twins observed, Dominicans spoke with more rapidity and emotion than Puerto Ricans, Mexicans, El Salvadorans, Columbians or other Latin, Southern and Central Americans. Their speech was more... colorful. This is why the twins loved Dominican and Black women so much.

"My small sister here, she tell me I must listen to you," said Chulo, embarrassed by the chastening his small, little sister had given him in front of the twins.

But, Kingson reflected, at least he's willing to listen now.

The small sister then sat on a stool to one side of Chulo, directly opposite Branson who, the more he looked at her, the more a distant memory teased and he was certain he knew this woman. His eyes widened.

"Oh, shit!" Branson exclaimed, sitting up straight. This fine thing was... He then noticed Chulo and Kingson looking at him quizzically while the former's little sister smiled a secret smile. "Yo, Chulo, this is little sis from that high school graduation like six years ago?" Chulo nodded and the girl burst out in pleasant laughter; she jumped from her seat and into Branson's arms, who had just barely also stood up in time to catch the little thick mami. They hugged tightly until Chulo cleared his throat. "Niña?" Branson asked, calling her by a general Spanish nickname for young girls that loosely meant "little girl," a nickname he had called her by jokingly at her high school graduation seven years ago, one year after he, Chulo and Get Right had formed The Forum and blood was being spilled in the streets for the territory they would eventually come to control.

"Yselle," Chulo said, clarifying for Branson her given name. Yselle had graduated from Art and Design high school on the East Side. Because of his closeness to Chulo, Branson hadn't stayed in touch with Yselle at all - that kinda shit got a nigga killed!

"I can't believe you didn't recognize me the other night."

"Can you blame me, Niña?" He quickly glanced in contrition at Chulo. Kingson harrumphed and Branson held up his hands, silently apologizing.

"Come downstairs and help me with some breakfast I was about preparing." Branson looked at Chulo, who waved them away. When they left, chattering about erstwhile memories, Chulo stood and turned to the large, open window with a stunning view of much of the FDR Drive and the buildings thereabouts. Kingson allowed him to his thoughts as he jotted down notes, connecting timelines, discarding some plans, okaying other ideas. Chulo turned back to Kingson and the latter put down his pen.

"Mr. Jackson, what Ygritte did to me, I cannot forgive. Our marriage is forever broken and I can never love her again." Kingson waited a few moments before replying.

"And that's perfectly understandable, Mr. Rodriguez. The fact, however, remains that, without Ygritte, you will be arrested, tried and prosecuted to the fullest and most detrimental extent of the law. If, however, we can present a united front against the system, no one need go to prison and those already in lockup are sure to come out. I'd like for you to let me talk to Ygritte first and to explain some things to her. Preferably, in front of you. You don't have to ever forgive Ygritte - that's your personal choice and I won't infringe on it. But it doesn't mean she need be your enemy, either. That's the woman that carried your two beautiful daughters?" Kingson asked, pointing to a picture on one of the shelves of the bookcase to his right. The picture depicted the family as a whole, in better days and at better times. Chulo and Ygritte were at the beach. Chulo was holding the hand of one of his daughters and Ygritte was carrying the other, younger, one. Chulo looked at the picture for some time before bowing his head and nodding.

"It's better if she come here or we go there?" Chulo asked of the situation.

"She will definitely need to come here. But there are some things she has to do before she comes, and other things you both will have to do together. Let me explain..."