Chapter 4 Chapter IV

"Jeffrey Deaver," the C.O. called into the bullpen. "C.O." was short for Corrections Officer; though he was technically a court guard; anyone in uniform back here could be considered a "C.O.," unless they had on a white shirt so you had to look for the "V"

stripes or gold bars or stars on the shoulders to determine if the person was a lieutenant, captain or deputy. There were no sergeants in the Department of Corrections (DOC) of New York City, although there were sergeants in the Department of

Corrections (DOCS) for New York State.

Get Right stood up and the small crowd parted for him. He gave hand daps to some of his peoples on the way out promising to keep in touch but they would only ever see each other again on The Island, the Tombs or the streets. The guard took him through two gates before arriving at a large elevator where he and a few other detainees were taken up by that same lone guard under the constant observation of evident or CCTV cameras. The many cameras had come as a result of years of abuse and torture by

court guards and corrections officers on detainees and prisoners. Hefty sums of money had been awarded to detainees who had sued the DOCS over the years.

The City, under the draconian yet bizarrely progressive Republican governor George Pataki, realized it would be more cost efficient to sacrifice some ultra-violent civil servants and (still) pay out (smaller) sums of money than continue to shell out exorbitant amounts and leave the few bad apples to spoil the bunch. After a few years during which the main body of the DOCS began shedding its bad apples (some even being arrested and placed in the same hideous circumstances they had placed countless other human beings, losing jobs and long awaited for pensions), other ultraviolent civil servants quickly calmed down.

The spacy elevator came to a stop on the fifth floor and the guard gave a paper with the names of all the detainees he had brought with him to a set of other guards sitting not too far away. That guard stood and chatted with other court officers as a roll call of the seven detainees was called. As soon as their presence was verified, their original escort made his escape on the elevator and one of several court guards escorted them to a bullpen, not too far from a door leading into the courtroom. Get Right was held back from entering the bullpen and followed the court guard to where his lawyer awaited him.

As soon as he saw his lawyer his jaw dropped. The lawyer smiled a knowing smile and they both sat. Get Right was still dumbfounded - these niggas were IDENTICAL twins! The lawyer introduced himself and they began talking. "Tell me everything, Mr. Deaver. I

need to know everythingso the District Attorney doesn't surprise me and I can defend you to the best of my ability."

"Y'all niggas even got the same voice," noted Get Right before recounting the whole story. "But Bison don't be talking all proper 'n shit, like you." "Bison" was Branson's street name.

"But he can, if he chooses to. We both went to the same schools up until high school graduation. I went to college but he chose the streets. So far, they've been kind to him," Kingson responded.

"Yeah, but the streets don't got no 401k, brother." They both fell silent, not wanting to vocalize where those thoughts would lead them. Again they spoke for a little while with Kingson taking notes.

"Okay, Mr. Deaver, our main objective is to get you bail or bond and I'm reasonably confident I can do that for you. If worse comes to worst, I can put a hold for you to be housed here at the Tombs if you'd rather avoid The Island." "The Island" was Rikers Island, the largest and deadliest county jail in the United States, located in Queens. Get Right had been there before and had held his own, but it would be easier for his people to come see him downtown.

He HAD made a ton of money on The Island last time, though...

"Just work on that bail, brother, and we'll take care of the rest when I'm out." Those were dangerous words: "we'll take care of the rest when I'm out"! So many clients had said that to Kingson and subsequently stiffed him on half the agreed upon cost. "We'll take

care of the rest" encompassed case file procurement from the DA (the District Attorney), the representative of the government whose job seemed to be to put away as many people of color as possible; Discovery; the occasional lawyer-client meeting to discuss case file strategy and prepping for trial if need be. Well, Kingson reasoned, still hesitating.... But he had promised his brother he would look at this case and the look of dependency and hope he saw in the eyes of so many clients shone brightly from the

eyes of Mr. Deaver as well.

"Okay, Mr. Deaver. See you in court in a few minutes. Don't worry about it, I've got the most important information. Now, let meworry about it. That's what you're paying me for." Kingson passed his card to Get Right through a tiny slit under the partition glass as they both stood.

Kingson's escort brought him back to the courtroom where he fraternized with his

colleagues to pass the time. Twenty or so minutes later, his client was the first defendant called. There were two tables a couple of meters in front of the judge's raised bench. The table on the left was representative of the Office of the Public Defender. An Assistant Public Defender was usually on hand to defend those detainees who could

not afford a lawyer. It was mentioned in the Miranda Rights one was read while being arrested anywhere in the United States of America: "You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided to you by the State free of charge."

The table on the right was representative of the Office of the District Attorney, usually with an Assistant District Attorney present. The Assistant District Attorney was popularly known as "the Prosecutor" or the "ADA." His or her job was simply to incarcerate you for crimes for which you had only been accused. Most of the time the ADA offered plea deals to defendants who thought they would likely lose if their cases went to trial. Regardless of a defendant's supposedly presumedinnocence or guilt, the DA's Office automatically presumed all defendants guilty. In thousands of cases, the majority of defendants were innocent, but the DA, knowing full well that the person was

innocent, would offer a plea deal of "time served" (and therefore immediate release) or a very light sentence that the defendant, fearing the worst, would accept instead of going to trial, a risky and generally fucked up chance to take in the justice system, especially for Blacks and Hispanics.

However, that would leave the innocent person with a criminal history, which was a win for the DA's Office. Plea deals were also another mechanism used by the government to ease the backflow of thousands of cases which, if every defendant opted to go to trial, the system would break and they would have to release thousands of detainees

because the means to take each and every single person to trial simply were not there. But detainees had not yet realized their own power.

The Assistant Public Defender stepped away when Kingson crossed the swinging and knee-high partition to stand beside his new client. Mr. Deaver's docket was read, along with some particulars surrounding his arrest. He had been charged with Illegal Possession of a Firearm, Illegal Possession of a Controlled Substance and Creating a Disturbance. The Prosecutor sought to make a big thing out of the handgun and the cocaine possession.

"Will the Prosecution need the charge of Creating a Disturbance or can we simply do away with that one and focus on the most serious charges," asked Judge Maxwell, a rather short and very attractive Hispanic woman.

The ADA looked a bit out of sorts but kept cool. "Um, Your Honor, it's only a

misdemeanor so we can dismiss that charge and continue the proceeding," replied the ADA, a middle-aged man who should have known better than to acquiesce to do what he just did. On the spur of the moment, Kingson pressed forward.

"Good morning, Your Honor," Kingson greeted, "I would like to make a motion for the full dismissal of the remaining charges against my client." Consternation showed on the ADA's face and silence fell instantly in the courtroom.

Judge Maxwell put down her pen and looked away from her laptop at Kingson. "Proceed, Mr. Jackson," she allowed.

"First and foremost, Your Honor, I submit to the Court copies of accompanying documents found alongside the firearm in question, verifying the veracity of the legality of the firearm intheglovecompartmentof my client's SUV." Kingson gave a copy of the paperwork to the judge and another copy to the ADA (whom he knew already had it). "The firearm was legally procured by Mr. Deaver some time ago and he was in full compliance of New York's vehicular gun concealment laws." The ADA was starting to look a bit ill, likely wondering how Kingson could have gotten such information and documents so quickly. "Therefore, bylaw, this charge must be dismissed, Your Honor."

Judge Maxwell took a few notes and looked at the Prosecutor who had nothing to add or subtract. "Carry on, Mr. Jackson," she directed Kingson.

"Furthermore, Your Honor, the amount of cocaine retrieved on my client was negligible, less than half a gram, only half of which came back pure. So we're talking about possession of a quarter of a gram," Kingson peered over to the ADA before continuing. "I'm not certain even the DA's Office is petty enough as to go after this case, Your Honor, when it is clearly against their better interest." Kingson turned back to the judge. "Oh,

and the final thing, Your Honor: what exactly was the reason the officers gave for the search of Mr. Deaver and his SUV?" He pretended to think, hand under his chin. The excuse had been flimsy, that they smelled marijuana. "Well, if they smelled marijuana why didn't they just continue on their way then? The possession and use of marijuana is legal now, according to Governor Andrew Cuomo, the commander in chief of New York State. The simple matter of the fact is that the officers had no right to search my client nor his vehicle, let alone without a warrant. Your Honor, let us also note that my client has no criminal history-"

"He has had two marijuana possessions in the past," the ADA interrupted, his middle- aged and thick mustachios quivering.

"Which were sealed because he was under seventeen years of age and he was

accorded Youthful Offender status andsuccessfully completed Intensive Supervision Probation," Kingson finished. "Those files are sealed, sir, and are not to be mentioned, ever again, in any proceeding, ever!"

The silence in the courtroom was paradoxically deafening for some seconds before the shuffling and whispering of court attendees became the normal backdrop of the court from time to time. Judge Maxwell folded her hands on her desk and again looked to the ADA.

"Would the Prosecutor like to rebut?" she queried.

The Prosecutor discussed briefly with his assistant before looking again to the judge. "No, Your Honor, we will not rebut."

Judge Maxwell made a note and stood; the entire courtroom stood as well. "Well then, Mr. Deaver, it appears to be your lucky day. In the absence of a viable reason and rebuttal by the Prosecution, I hereby grant Mr. Jackson's motion for dismissal of all

charges. Court is temporarily adjourned." She struck the gavel and motioned to Kingson. "Mr. Jackson, a word with you in chambers, sir." It wasn't the normally appealing request a judge would make out of respect. This was a command.

Kingson directed Mr. Deaver to sit in the gallery with the rest of the few spectators while he went to face the music. Get Right joyfully and instantlycomplied.

A court officer escorted Kingson to the chambers of Judge Viviana Maxwell, married to an internationally acclaimed mining engineer, Roland Maxwell, a handsome fellow as many women convinced him so on a daily basis. She hadn't removed her robe and was fiddling with some bric-a-brac on her desk. As soon as the officer closed the door, she went over to him and began roughly kissing him, touching him everywhere she could. Slowly though, her lust diminished as she realized that he wasn't reciprocating her advances. She stepped back and gave him a quizzical look. He turned away to the sole full length window in her chambers behind her desk.

Looking out and down at the millions of lives that intersected every day with no thought as to how profound each meeting was or could be, Kingson became lost in his reflections. He was brought back to the present when Judge Maxwell hugged him from behind. In a moment of lyric nostalgia, he put his hand over her crossed ones on his stomach. They stood like that for a few minutes and then she came around to his front looking up at him wistfully.

"In all seriousness, I'm glad you've become such a dedicated husband," she said. "It's

made you more handsome and so much more attractive, King." And that's just how life was - something becomes far more attractive the moment it belongs to someone else.

Reaching out, she cupped his face with both hands and brought it down to kiss him deeply, in a most personal manner. He responded, briefly thrown off kilter by her quiet passion, but they held each other in that kiss for a few more minutes, tasting of each other as they hadn't for some time. Surprisingly, she released him first. His eyes were shut and he still held her close. She put her hands on his chest and fixed his tie. "You'd better go, King."

He straightened and slowly let her go, taking a deep breath to orientate himself before making his way out of her chambers and into the courtroom, where he could see Mr. Deaver at his utmost ease on the back bench of the spectators gallery.

As Kingson approached him he stood up and they both exited the courtroom. They had to go down to the Property Room to retrieve Mr. Deaver's phones. Anyone who got locked up and went to the Tombs could collect their property on the side of the building (during normal business hours) or inside at the bottom floor if you knew people. And Kingson knew people. After some weeks or months, though, if the detained person was sent to The Island, he or she could always retrieve their personal property from the Intake office of whichever building they happened to be housed when leaving. The gun

would have to wait a week or so for pickup, after some security checks would have been made.

Walking back down to Canal Street Kingson offered Mr. Deaver a ride uptown, which offer was gratefully accepted. It was just after 4p.m. when they got on the West Side Highway at Chambers Street. About half an hour and some light-hearted banter later, Kingson took the 72nd Street exit and drove to 8th Avenue before taking the streets straight to 145th Street.

He found a parking spot halfway down 8th Avenue and they hopped out of the Excursion to walk down to the corner store on the 144th Street side. Not far from the corner store was a firmly gated entrance to 404 8th Avenue, the building in which Branson lived. Kingson rang several times and waited. When no one answered, he stepped back and looked at the windows; they were all dark. Kingson stepped over to Get Right, who was still being welcomed by his affiliates and workers.

"Mr. Deaver," Kingson called out, approaching him and some of his team members. "It appears Twin isn't around." He then remembered that he could have just called Branson.

"It's i-ight, brother. Bison prolly bustin' a move right now." Well, if his brother was "prolly"

(probably) "bustin' a move," then maybe he shouldn't distract him. "Call 'im later, he'll be around; and of course he'll see your work for itself," he finished pointing both index fingers at himself. Mr. Deaver and Kingson shared a laugh between people who've been through some trying event and both came out on top. The young men and women on the corner were inspecting Kingson slyly, cautiously, greatly amused that one of the bosses had an identical twin. Some appeared skeptical, like maybe that was Bison and he was just testing his people or playing a prank (even though they had heard of the boss's twin for the longest).

"Okay then, I'll be on my way," said Kingson, giving a final dap to Mr. Deaver and heading back to the Excursion. As he reached the truck, a hand tapped him on his right shoulder. Instinctively he turned left, simultaneously raising his left arm up to block any incoming blow.

"Nigga, what the fuck!" Get Right exclaimed as he stepped back, startled. "I see y'all both into that kung fu shit, huh?" he asked rhetorically, smiling in admiration. "Anyway, this is my appreciation for your work today, brother. It coulda went any which way but you showed just how g'ed up you are. Mad respect!" The last part he said with a fist pump to his own chest.

"Mr. Deaver, Twin already paid me," said Kingson as Mr. Deaver tried to hand him an envelope.

"Yeah. He gotto cuz we on the same team. And that was your retainer, not your fee - I know the difference." He put the envelope on Kingson's chest. Kingson took it and put it in his inside suit pocket. "Freedom ain't got no price, bruh, and I value mine more than anything." Another hand dap and Get Right spun away, walking over to spit game to a couple of fine women minding their business, passing by. Kingson got in his truck and made his way back to the West Side Highway, focused on beating the madness of rush hour.