Criminal Minded Page 2

  We all met up and rode the bus to Park Hill. All the people on the bus looked scared of us: seven tall, black young men wearing do-rags and cold glares. I hoped that these Park Hill niggas would be just as intimidated. We arrived at my grandparents’ house, and I yelled through the screen door as I always do. Instead of Curtis, Uncle Eli appeared and unlocked the door to let us in. My uncle was tall like me, bald, with muscles that resembled a wrestler’s. I guess he spent his time working out instead of working a job. As we all entered, Uncle Eli seemed confused.

  “What brings you over here so early?” he asked.

  I told my boys to have a seat on the couch and I answered his question with one of my own. “Where’s Curtis at? Is he still sleeping?”

  Uncle Eli shook his head. “Curtis left for school about an hour ago.”

  Now I was confused. “He went to school?” I asked. “Are you sure?”

  Uncle Eli nodded. “Yeah, I’m sure.” He pulled me into the kitchen so that we could speak in private. I knew something was up.

  “Lamin,” he said, “did Curtis tell you about this cat at his school who’s messin’ with him?”

  I nodded. Obviously, Curtis and Uncle Eli had discussed the situation at hand. He continued. “He told me about that faggot, and I told him that anytime a nigga pulls a gun on you and don’t shoot, he ain’t a real gangsta! Every real gangsta knows that you don’t pull your gun unless you’re prepared to kill a muthafucka.”

  I nodded in agreement, but this still didn’t explain why Curtis went to school without me. “So, what made him go to school alone?”

  Uncle Eli poured himself a glass of Kool-Aid as he responded. “I told him not to let nobody punk him. Running from a nigga makes him feel like he got the upper hand. Ain’t no punks in the Michaels family.”

  I wanted to make sure that Curtis was alright. “Well, I’m going to the school with my crew to make sure Curtis can handle himself,” I said. I exited the kitchen and joined my boys in the living room. They were engrossed in conversation about how they intended to put a serious hurting on these cats, when the doorbell rang.

  Uncle Eli went to answer the door just as my grandfather, Papa, entered the room. Papa was the coolest old man on Earth. Whenever he went out—even if it was just to the supermarket—he always wore a sharp hat, which he’d dip to the side. His face was always clean shaven and his look was distinguished. Papa was the type to walk around the house wearing a Hugh Hefner-style bathrobe, dress socks, and house shoes … with a Rolex on his wrist. You had to respect his style.

  “Hey, young bloods,” he greeted us. “What it is?” Papa never caught up on the latest slang. He just stuck to what he knew. My friends smiled at the dapper old man with the old-school swagger and everyone greeted him warmly. Papa patted me on my back and smiled. “How’s my boy doing today?” he asked.

  Before I could answer, Uncle Eli entered the living room followed by about seven police officers. The look on my uncle’s face was grim. My heart sank. Immediately, I wondered what had happened to my cousin.

  “Are you the guardian of Curtis Michaels?” a female officer asked Papa.

  He nodded. “I’m his grandfather. He’s staying with me and my wife for the summer.” As if on cue, Grandma entered the room with a worried look on her face.

  “What’s going on?” my grandmother asked.

  The female officer spoke again. “Your grandson has been arrested for assault with a deadly weapon.”

  As the room erupted in shouts and chaos, my grandfather spoke over the noise. “What happened to my grandson?”

  The officer explained, “Curtis had an altercation with someone by the name of Joshua Cook. According to school officials, this Joshua kid is a spitfire … likes to start trouble, quick–tempered … a real handful. Apparently, Joshua singled your grandson out and badgered him. This must not have been their first altercation, since your grandson brought a firearm to school with him today to protect himself—”

  “A firearm?” my grandmother seemed incredulous, but I noticed the look that Papa shot at Uncle Eli. I knew that Uncle Eli kept an unlicensed handgun at the top of his closet, and so did Curtis. Suddenly, I understood why Curtis had been brave enough to go to school alone. Papa looked pissed.

  “Yes,” the officer responded. “Curtis hasn’t given us a statement yet. But, some of the other students told us that Curtis was being harassed. Apparently, Joshua was following Curtis—yelling threats at him and humiliating him. Curtis, it seems, pulled out the gun and shot Joshua in the chest at point-blank range.”

  Silence filled the room.

  “Where is Curtis now?” Grandma asked.

  “At the 123rd Precinct being processed. He’ll be arraigned this afternoon.” As the officer spoke, her walkie-talkie interrupted, noisily. She removed it from her pants and spoke into it. “Come again.” The words spoken by the person on the other end of the walkie-talkie sounded like gibberish to me but the looks the officers exchanged gave me chills. The officer in charge looked sadly at us and said, “Joshua Cook just died at Staten Island Hospital. It appears that Curtis will be charged with murder.”

  That was the very moment that I went from a boy to a man. My cousin … my best friend was going to jail. I knew that neither one of us would ever be the same.

  TWO

  zion

  Lamin

  Curtis was tried as an adult and sentenced to eight to ten years in a medium security prison upstate. This, despite the fact numerous witnesses testified that Joshua Cook was a menace to society. The kid had a rap sheet longer than my arm while Curtis had nothing on his record but minor offenses and no prior arrest record for any felonies. The prosecutor painted a picture of Curtis as a tyrant and a predator. Sure, my cousin had been arrested in junior high school for stealing some white boy’s bike. For that, he spent a year in Spofford Juvenile Detention Center. Curtis was no angel. But he was no coldblooded killer, either.

  Joshua, on the other hand, was a real jackass. He had been arrested for robbery, assault, inciting a riot—the list was ridiculous. He had even spent time in two group homes because his mother claimed that he was too wild for her to handle. Several teachers and social workers testified that Joshua had been an angry young man who had no idea how to direct his anger at the person who had berated him all his life—his mother.

  It’s funny how when a no-good mother loses her child she can act the part of a grieving parent by howling, crying, carrying on, and falling out as if her heart fell out of her chest. By all accounts, when Joshua was alive his mother didn’t give a damn about him. I did my homework in and around Park Hill, finding out what I could about this dude Joshua who got my cousin into all this trouble. Everybody that knew Joshua said that his mother always told him that he wasn’t shit and that he would never be shit. During the trial, it was revealed that Joshua’s father had been a bank robber back in the day. One particular heist went wrong and his father shot it out with the police and was slaughtered. His father’s death left Joshua’s mother penniless and alone. Joshua had been seven years old at the time, and his mother was pregnant. Eventually, she gave birth to a girl, and Joshua’s sister became the apple of his mother’s eye. He, however, looked so much like his father that to his mother he was destined to be a fuckup just like his daddy.

  Yet, in the courtroom Ms. Cook played the role of the grieving mother. She showed pictures of Joshua as a baby, wailed when they showed his autopsy photos, and carried on in front of the newspaper reporters by demanding justice for her son. Give me a break! It was an Oscar-worthy performance. The fucked-up part is that the predominantly white jury fell for it, and Curtis was not spared. My boy wound up behind bars at the age of sixteen. Aunt Inez was destroyed.

  Even as young as I was at the time, I noticed how lopsided the media’s coverage of the crime had been. One thing I noticed was that they referred to Joshua—a seventeen-year-old—as a “man” in the newspaper. Yet, when an article ran about the rape of a nineteen-year-old Itali
an girl, they called her a teenager. What type of bullshit is that? I think that’s when I began to see the world in black and white. For the first time, I realized that the odds were stacked against us simply for being young, black, and male.

  Grandma and Papa were determined that Olivia and I would not meet a similar fate. So, every Sunday after Curtis’ sentencing they showed up at our house to pick us up for church. My moms never even thought about going with us. She was glad to see us go so that she would have more time to spend with the endless parade of men she was screwing. So, Olivia and I would pile into Papa’s champagne-colored Buick Riviera (we called it the “pimpmobile” when he wasn’t within earshot) and we’d listen to Grandma’s gospel music all the way to church. I learned every song by Mahalia Jackson and Shirley Caesar in no time. The funny thing to me was that Papa never came inside. He would drive us there. He would pick us up after service. But he never went inside. I questioned him about it once and his answer was very vague.

  He said, “I went to church from the day I was born until the day I moved out of my mama’s house, boy. The Bible says, ‘Train up a child in the way he should go, and he will not depart from it.’ I ain’t never depart from it either, Lamin.”

  I was confused. When we got out of the car and Papa pulled off, I asked Grandma what Papa meant by what he’d just told me. Grandma shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. “Pray for him, Lamin. Just pray for him.” I later learned that Grandma had been trying for years to get Papa to come to church, and he wouldn’t budge. When I found this out, I had to respect Papa’s smooth talking. Papa had a way of answering a person’s question so eloquently that they’d forget what the fuck they asked him in the first place. Now that’s a true playa!

  Once inside, the same ushers directed us to Grandma’s favorite pew each Sunday. It got to the point that I wondered if she had that seat reserved. Grandma wasn’t the type to tolerate us wearing casual, street clothes for church. No way. I couldn’t stand the slacks, dress shirt, tie, and shoes I had to don every Sunday. I complained, but Grandma wasn’t having it. She made sure that we looked appropriate every week and that meant no baggy pants and no sneakers. I hated that shit. But church made me really love black people. Everyone came dressed to impress, and the ladies on the deaconess board wore the hell out of them hats! The choir had their good days, and it was during those times that I found myself enjoying church service. I would never admit that, though. It wouldn’t be good for my image.

  One Sunday (maybe two weeks after Curtis was sentenced), Papa picked us up after church and drove to his house. They usually dropped us off at home after church, so I was curious about the change in routine. When we arrived, Aunt Inez was there. She squeezed into the backseat next to Olivia, and Papa explained that we were all going to visit Curtis. The drive seemed to take forever, but two hours later we arrived at Eastern Correctional Facility in Napanoch, New York. I had never seen a town like that one. There were farms and town stores, and I was used to project buildings and corner stores. This was like being in the middle of nowhere. The prison itself looked like a castle. I thought about the irony of that. Papa always told us that we were descendants of kings and queens—that our ancestors in Africa had been royalty. All these descendants of African kings and queens were being caged in a prison that resembled a castle. I wondered how many of them had stories similar to Curtis’ misfortune.

  As we were being processed for the visit, I noticed that the COs looked like hillbillies. I had spoken to Curtis on the phone since his arrest. And as the officers barked orders at my aunt and my grandparents, I recalled his complaints about how rude some of them were toward him.

  Once we got inside the visiting room, my eyes scanned the other prisoners receiving visits. Some of those guys looked diesel! For the first time, I feared for my cousin’s safety. When I looked at Olivia, though, I realized that I would have to keep my poker face on since she looked scared to death. I noticed one of the inmates eyeing my sister like she was a snack. Despite the fact that she was only fifteen years old at the time, Olivia had a body on her! It seemed that no matter what she wore, it always hugged her curves like it was tailor-made. Olivia is dark-skinned like me and she’s tall for a girl. She stands five feet ten inches tall … only a few inches shorter than me. She inherited our mother’s high cheekbones and her father’s bright eyes. Add to that the fact that her skin is flawless and she has perfect teeth, and I could understand why this dude couldn’t take his eyes off of her. But Olivia was still a little girl—and more importantly, she was my baby sister. So I stared that nigga down like I had the heart of a lion. He chuckled at me and turned back to his visit. I didn’t care that he didn’t see me as a threat. As long as he took his eyes off of Olivia, I had done my job.

  When Curtis entered the room wearing a green prison-issued jumpsuit, my heart broke. My cousin’s hair was uncut and he looked so fuckin’ sad. We were more than just cousins—he was like my brother. We always had each other’s back. This was the first time that he had to endure something without my help. Now that he was locked away in this hell, I felt like part of me was locked away, too.

  He approached the table and we all stood up to greet him. He hugged Grandma and Olivia. Looking at Olivia, he shook his head and smiled a little. “You are just too damn beautiful, girl!” he said. Olivia’s eyes lit up and she said, “If these cornrows weren’t so tight I would be smiling like crazy!” That broke the ice and everyone laughed. Next, Papa shook Curtis’ hand and gave him a firm embrace. Then Aunt Inez stepped up and she held on to Curtis like she never wanted to let him go. She tried to fight her tears, but soon she was crying and Curtis was reassuring her that he was alright. Papa pried her off of him and consoled her. That’s when I decided to seize the opportunity to give my cousin a pound. Curtis seemed shaken by his mother’s emotional breakdown, so when he grabbed my hand and hugged me I whispered in his ear. “Don’t worry about Aunt Inez. I’ll make sure she’s okay.”

  My words seemed to comfort Curtis, and he nodded in response. We all sat down and Papa began the conversation by telling Curtis that things weren’t the same at home without him. Curtis smiled and joked, “Y’all miss me, huh?”

  Grandma smiled back and tapped him playfully on his nappy head. “Looks like you miss the barbershop, huh?”

  Curtis laughed at Grandma’s wisecrack and I was so glad to hear that laugh. Even Aunt Inez seemed to relax somewhat. Olivia asked the question that was on all of our minds.

  “Curtis, what’s it like in here?” she asked.

  Curtis shook his head and lowered his eyes. “It ain’t no joke, Olivia. Word. This place is nothing fun.” Looking at his mother, Curtis tried to sound more upbeat. “But, I’m a man now so I can handle it.”

  Papa spoke up. “Tell me this, Curtis. And tell me the truth.”

  Curtis looked nervous. Papa always meant business when he demanded to be told the truth. If Papa asked for the truth and he found out later that it was a lie, there were sure to be consequences and repercussions!

  Papa continued. “Did your Uncle Eli give you that gun to take to school?”

  Everyone was on the edge of their seat. So far, Uncle Eli had insisted that he had no idea that Curtis had stolen his gun and taken it to school. Aunt Inez wasn’t buyin’ it and Papa had his doubts as well. Uncle Eli had a reputation for being irresponsible.

  Curtis shook his head. “Nah, Papa. I just took it.” He cleared his throat. “That day, I was just determined to put an end to the drama with that nig … with that kid.” Curtis and I knew that our southern-born grandparents hated to hear anyone say the N-word, regardless of their skin color, so I was glad that he corrected himself.

  “Uncle Eli told me to handle my business like a real man. I wasn’t planning to shoot him, though. I honestly tried to walk away, but he kept following me. Uncle Eli let me know real men don’t pull a gun unless they ready to use it, so I pulled the trigger.”

  Curtis shook his head at the memory. “I wish I shot
him in the leg or something. But at the time, I just reacted.”

  Papa nodded his understanding. “It’s hard to think when your life is on the line like that,” he said. “And your Uncle Eli shouldn’t be talking about what a ‘real man’ would do. Next time he gives you advice like that you tell him that ‘real men’ don’t live in their mama’s basement when they’re forty-two years old!”

  Aunt Inez managed to chuckle at that remark and I was glad to see that she was lightening up a little. The visit lasted a couple more hours and we all asked Curtis questions. Aunt Inez was concerned about what they were feeding him and he seemed thrilled when she told him that she had left him a bunch of food with the COs. At the end of the visit, while Papa went to put some money in Curtis’ commissary and Grandma, Olivia, and Aunt Inez went back to the car, I got a chance to talk to Curtis alone.

  “Yo, La,” he said. “This shit is for the birds, man. Don’t never get bagged for no major shit and have to come to this place.”

  “Are they fuckin’ with you in here?” I asked.

  “Nah, not really. This shit is just a bunch of niggas who swear they hard, trying to prove a point to everybody. Most of these muthafuckas walk around here with their chests poked out, flexing their muscles and all that bullshit. They just got something to prove. I just go to the gym or play some ball. Half the time I be in my cell reading.”

  “Reading?” I thought I must have heard him wrong.

  “Yeah, nigga! Ain’t nothing else to do in here besides beat off and think about some shorty I used to mess with.”

  We shared a laugh, and I agreed to give Curtis’ address to this chick named Michelle who used to like him. Hopefully, she would write to him and help take his mind off of his situation. I hated leaving my cousin there. Walking out of that visiting room, seeing my cousin sitting there in his prison greens, realizing that this would be his reality for the next ten years … that shit made me hide my face and cry silently all the way back to Staten Island. I made sure nobody saw me, though. I had a reputation to uphold.