CHAPTER V

11:45

"Garcia, Johnson, on the visit," yelled a c.o. from the "bubble," the guard station, from which the complete interior of both houses were visible. It was the c.o. command post, also known as the "OIC," from which two or three c.o.'s could monitor two dorms, one on either side.

Around the three sides from the top of the bubble down three or so inches was an iron grate. The rest was clear bulletproof glass and concrete spanning the bottom third. Officers often made announcements of visits, approaching rec runs, clinic appointments, Chapel, Law Library and other such runs through the iron grille. Some officers used the microphone-speaker system to announce everything. Detainees in one housing unit could see detainees in the other housing unit separated by the bubble and messages were sent like that, or, if commissary or other such things were being sent from one house to another, the c.o. could give permission for the items to be passed. There was only one way in and one way out of each dorm and the OIC: each had a heavy electronically controlled door that needed to be buzzed open from the bubble.

There were also cameras interspersed throughout each dorm - so many fights, cuttings and stabbings used to happen before their introduction a bit over two decades ago. Successful multimillion dollar lawsuits against the NYC DOC were rampant until City and State governments began instituting effective, somewhat progressive changes in the penile system. The cameras helped reduce wanton violence in detention because: 1.) If you were a c.o. perpetrating acts of violence on detainees or convicts, the cameras would prove this and the victim(s) could now come for a percentage of your every paycheck and/or your pension as well as still sue the NYC DOC; and 2.) If you were a detainee or convict caught on tape assaulting another detainee or convict, you would likely "catch a new charge." The latter meant that detectives or sheriffs in the county in which the crime was committed, in which the prison was situated, would come and take you out of your current prison to the county jail where you would be rearrested and charged with a new crime (or new crimes) and you would spend time in that county jail until being sentenced to more prison time in State prison. Or, in rare cases, until you beat the charge(s).

Once the verdict was handed down, the judge would decide whether or not your new verdict was to be served concurrently (at the same time as) or consecutively (after) your current prison sentence. So many young hotheads found themselves in prison for petty crimes and, wanting to prove how "gangsta" they were, committed acts of extreme violence on others and then, ten, fifteen or twenty years down the road, they were haunted by the massive and unnecessary acts of stupidity of their younger days.

Blood gang member named Tankhead. Went to prison with a two to four years bid. Had a few months to go before being eligible at his first parole board hearing. Committed an act of violence; received another two to four, to be served consecutively to his then current prison sentence. Committed yet another act of violence thereafter; received three to six years to be served consecutively. The acts of violence continued and the prison time did, too. This was in the nineties. He might still be locked up to this day. True story. But he's a "gangsta," well respected in prison.

But extreme acts of violence, violence in general, decreased as compared to back when. Bolo and Nut got to the visiting area - it was large and packed. They were greeted by a chorus of comrades they knew from the hood and a couple of busters looking to bandwagon. Their associates were in other housing units and there was no way to meet up with them except at Law Library, Chapel and Visits. Even Sick Call (the time when detainees could see medical personnel, usually a nurse) was done in the housing area. The nurses came and would examine the detainees and set the up for followups or doctor appointments or specialist appointments.

They were placed at a small table together. As they approached the table, two pairs of brown eyes in identical faces sat opposite, patiently observing their approach. Bolo and Nut had never seen the twins together (although everyone knew Bison had one) so it was a shock to finally meet both of them like this. They continued standing, looking from one twin to the other. Finally, Bolo pointed to Kingson and spoke.

"That's the boss." Daps were given all around and Kingson just smiled. When the real Branson spoke up, everyone had a much deserved laugh. They all sat down and began discussing the case at hand.

"What time did they arrest both of you?" Kingson asked.

"They locked him up just a few minutes before me," said Bolo, indicating Nut. "Could've been, what, two or two fifteen?"

"Chulo's wife - how many people saw you with her?" Kingson asked Nut.

"Don't matter; they not gonna talk." A few seconds passed before he continued. "She's just being kept away, hidden, for the moment." Kingson knew how he would beat this case: Ygritte was the key. She would be the hinge on which the entire case revolved. He looked at Nut and noticed reservation, an unsureness, unease - apparently, he was withholding information.

"What are you not telling me, Nut?" The direct route was better with these niggas. They didn't understand that a good portion of their lives were at risk. Kingson saw Bolo stiffen and look away uncomfortably as Nut took on an indignant and offended. Offended, likely because he had been discovered hiding something. "I'm going to tell you something right now." He leaned forward looking both in their eyes directly as he spoke. "Ygritte will be the only reason this case disappears. The only! Without her, the both of you going up top, no doubt about it. And when Chulo gets caught, he's gone too. We're looking at twenty years right now as it stands."

The environment had turned cool. Kingson picked up on a coolness even between Bolo and Nut. More so Bolo giving Nut a diffident but not happy side glance. Silence amongst them reigned supreme. Kingson leaned back. "I'll be talking to Chulo soon. There's no other winnable way that I see this can be done. As soon as she makes her presence known, though, the other side might try to take her into custody but I'm equally certain they'll give you both a bond or acceptable bail." No talk of outright release. Kingson believed it would be better to not raise hopes and they get denied than to possibly pull off a surprise release later.

"We got y'all a buncha shit and put some dough in y'all somissary," Branson told them. They dapped him in thanks and appreciation. Bolo and Nut had money but it was the gesture that counted. A bit more silence as Kingson fixed the mask under his chin. It was so strange how world governments could kowtow entire nations into doiny their bidding. Wearing of masks in many places was still compulsory but no one gave ever insisted that any of the four men wear a mask where it was deemed "mandatory." Even a mandate was not law. With the exception of Kingson, who was sometimes compelled to wear a mask in courtroom proceedings (but removed it as soon as he crossed the small swinging doors to the gallery and outside), owners of establishments mandating masks took one look at Bolo, Nut or Branson and decided exceptions could be made in some cases.

The people in some nations, however, including the US, were tired of masks and, since Biden had become POTUS, the governors of quite a few States, given, predominantly red States, had repealed mask mandates, even fining businesses and other establishments in their States that continued enforcing mandatory mask mandates. It was truly beginning to seem like the worst of times.

"Alright then," breathed Kingson in finality, but instead folded his arms. "Have they charged y'all with anything?"

"I got a c.o. here who said we going to the Grand Jury for Murder 2 and Man 1," Nut replied. Bolo looked at Nut in amazement, like, when the fuck was this dickhead planning on telling him this? The police would always put multiple charges on a defendant to try making a case stick, even if the charges were made up.

The first (or the "high") charge was usually the most serious - in this instance, Murder 2 (or Murder in the 2nd Degree). The second and (if necessary to the Office of the District Attorney) subsequent charges were those (lesser charges) on which the District Attorney felt s/he had a better chance of convicting you. Anyone charged with a crime, that is, a violation of the Penal Code of New York State - any State, in fact - was given the option of going before the Grand Jury of that particular County in which the alleged crime occured. The Grand Jury was a body of people considered to be the "peers" of the accused.

Many times it was mandatory to offer the accused a chance to appear before the Grand Jury, especially in serious cases like homicides, assaults and rape or any other sexual assault. The assistant district attorney (ADA) presented the charges to a Grand Jury oftentimes by direction and approbation of his boss, the City or the State District Attorney. The ADA had the right to ask the Grand Jury (a "jury" of the defendant's peers) to decide whether or not s/he would stand trial and for which charge or charges. A Grand Jury was not a trial jury - it could not find the accused guilty or not guilty. It could only look at a list of charges (or, in some terrifically rare cases, only one charge), listen to a "q and a" from the ADA and the accused and decide whether a case ended there or would go before a pretrial judge who would then set the stage for the defendant's eventual trial, unless a plea deal was reached beforehand.

The Grand Jury could also ask questions and the defendant could choose to answer them or not... though it was usually in the defendant's best interests to at least _appear_ cooperative with such a body. Otherwise, why come at all? At the Grand Jury hearing, the accused had a chance to tell his or her story. If she had little intention of answering questions, why bother even agreeing to attend the hearing? Because, truth be told, the show would go on with or without the accused.

Everything depended on Ygritte.

"Y'all wanna go to the Island or stay here?" Kingson asked. Bolo and Nut looked at each other, back at Kingson and simultaneously answered. But Bolo said, "The Island" whereas Nut answered, "Stay here"! Bolo looked at Nut with a question on his face, but when Nut didn't look back he crossed his arms and his face became wry with a sardonic grin plastered thereon. The courts would likely bypass the case adjudication in Bronx Criminal Court and go right to Bronx Supreme Court, a few days or weeks after which they would be called before a Bronx Grand Jury. On certain days of the week, dozens, if not hundreds, of Grand Jury hearings were called just in New York County (the borough of Manhattan). Kingson was already preparing case strategy but there was something being hidden here and he despised surprises in Court. He pretended to ignore their disparate replies to his last question.

"Is there anything, anything I need to know? Anything the detectives may know that I don't know? Anything?" The tense, uneasy silence returned. The seconds slower to a crawl; dust motes wafted in light beams arcing through the windows. Nut swallowed but no one spoke. Kingson again broke the silence. "Okay then. We go with what we have." There was something nasty or unforeseen that would emerge but, for now, if nobody wanted to reveal it, he would just play it by ear.

Kingson stood up and reached inside his sweatpants pocket for two cards. He handed one to Nut and one to Bolo.

"I am now your legal representative. Please do not speak to anyone without my prior and informed consent; please do not make any plea deals; please do not attend any meetings; please do not sign any contracts, of any kind, unless I am present. Do you both understand everything I've just said?" Bolo and Nut nodded. Branson had observed the entire exchange silently, taking mental notes himself. Branson now also stood up and so did the shooters. Daps were exchanged and he followed Kingson out of the visiting room. They went through several checkpoints and walked off the ramp connecting the Boat to shore. "I hope you notice how different the air smells out here than in there."

"Fuck that 'posed to mean?"

"You know what it's supposed to mean, don't be stupid." Indeed, the difference in air quality between any detention center and the air outside of it was noticeable. The difference... was freedom!

The oxygen of freedom is carefree and careless, as whimsical and directionless and as full of potential as the dust motes floating inside the visit room at the present. The air in detention, on the other hand, is turgid, stale, lifeless, full of despond and helplessness, going nowhere fast, running in place, as Darkman X once said about his situation in life.

They got to the Excursion, parked a couple of blocks away. When they got into the truck and Kingson started the ignition, he told Branson that Bolo and Nut were hiding something that could potentially harm the case later on.

"Well, I'ma talk to Chulo about it later this week," Branson pledged.

"I really wish you would let me talk to the nigga," griped Kingson as he pulled out into minimally congested but not strangled streets. Branson's phone rang and he answered without checking first to see who was calling.

"Hey, baby," a familiar feminine voice purred into his ear. But his entire body caught chills and he had to look out of the window while pressing the phone as tightly to his ear as possible.

"I can't talk right now," he all bit whispered.

"But baby, I haven't spoken to you since-"

"I said I can't talk right now," he said, crisply biting off every word between clenched teeth and hanged up the phone. Kingson glanced at Branson as the latter almost fumbled the phone putting it back in his pocket.

"You all right?" Kingson asked but Branson stayed quiet. "Yo, what up with shorty from a couple nights ago?" Inspiration struck Branson.

"That was her right there," Branson lied, warm inside from the fib but smug because he had covered up his main chick's mistake. Kingson remained quiet. They drove for a bit and Branson was just about to tell his brother to let him out when his phone rang again. Exasperated, he looked at the phone, about to pick up the call and get crazy with shorty, but the phone read: "Unregistered Caller.