Nervously I pushed the thoughts down breaking eye contact. I was a prison virgin. Shit, I’d never even had a parking ticket prior to this. I’d heard the stories in county lock-up after my initial arrest. Apparently, because my parents had immigrated here, I had been a flight risk for the border, and there was no one who would pay the bond and guarantee I wouldn’t flee when given the chance. As if I had any desire to go back to a country I didn’t know and meant nothing to me. I knew what would happen to a girl like me, and I was not looking to become some woman’s prison bitch or anyone’s bitch for that matter.
I turned, looking her in the eyes, trying to not shake as I let the lie slip easily from between my dry chapped lips. “I killed a man.”
Not really, but once the words left my mouth and I watched her eyes widen a fraction, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders. I could have been honest, said it was all a mistake and that I’d been shawshanked, but that hadn’t won me any favors so far. Maybe I could use the charge to look tough and save my ass from a pounding.
Grant was still dead and would stay that way, beaten to a pulp with a tire-iron that came from the back of my rusted out Honda Civic–that much was true. I had used that same tire-iron to fix my flat tire a week earlier after driving home from the bar late one night. Of course my prints were all over it like a kid’s hand in a bag of candy. My conviction couldn’t have been easier won and the prosecution probably danced and drank themselves to oblivion with the win.
If only I had paid more attention to what Grant was doing in his free time besides screwing around. If only I had known he was a low-level gangbanger for Hector Rivera, a man he pissed off by skimming money off the proceeds of the drugs he sold. Hector’s street gang knew how to screw a person over big time, and they definitely got two birds with one stone by killing Grant and framing me for it. Leave it to me to pick a boyfriend messed up in the shit I was trying to escape. Not only would I never get out of the shitty Dallas neighborhood I was raised in, but now I was going to rot in Texas for a lot longer by going a dozen steps backward in the fast lane straight to Colby Meyers Women’s Correctional Unit.
“Woo! A real lady killer. What he do? Fuck you up, sista? I don’t blame you. Men are all cocksuckers.” She popped her lips for effect, and my stomach rolled.
She kept up her dialogue, “You have anyone to visit you?”
“No, I don’t.” Part of me was glad because I couldn’t be disappointed by the few acquaintances from school or friends from the bar where I worked when they never showed up.
“You get lonely, you let me know if you want Sharee here to wet your puss down real good. I got some ins with the Red Tribe even though my girls are the Sunshine Sisters.” She looked me over, licking her dark pink puffy lips, nodded, and stared out the window. Not even there, and already I had an offer from one gang. I wondered if this was the dark equivalent of pledging a sorority? I didn’t know how word got around quickly and maybe not knowing was best at this point. I had just about five years to contemplate this and the many other great questions of life ahead of me.
City buildings seemed to shrink, and cattle farms lined the highway mile after mile. I didn’t particularly want to know what Sharee had done to get a ride on this bus. I wasn’t exactly feeling social, but I did have other pressing needs.
Clearing my throat got her attention, and she smiled, waiting for me to speak. “I don’t know who the hell the Red Tribe is, but I’d settle for a contraband tampon if you can get one.” I didn’t know if we got sanitary supplies each month, or if that was something you had to buy at the commissary. There hadn’t been time to prepare or do research for this sort of thing and even months later, I was still overwhelmed by the speed with which the state had prosecuted me. I wasn’t about to ask a guard; they looked about as friendly and as helpful as a DMV employee with a down computer.
Sharee grunted, nodding before looking at me sympathetically. I may have killed a man, but my ignorance about what happened to you inside prison walls was obvious.
“You got it girl, regular or super?” I didn’t realize I still had a choice, grunting a shrug because any would do. It would be a miracle if I didn’t get shanked in the next four years, seven months, and twenty-nine days.
“So what do they call you, Chiquita?” It took a bit of convincing that I wasn’t into munching carpet once Sharee told me what that meant. That was a new turn of phrase for me. I definitely wasn’t into girls. Not if the one sitting behind us had it out for me, that was for sure. I’d barely gotten into boys trying to survive getting out of Dallas. I wanted to be left alone.
“Nene is my nickname, short for Benedicta.” Sharee backed off my pussy, offering to be my bitch once she learned I
’d killed a man, and I wasn’t going to correct her. Sometimes lies protected you better than the truth and I needed all the protection I could get.
Two
Cohen
“Cohen–you sure about this?” I looked over to my NARC unit commander as I slipped the suit jacket over my shoulders and adjusted my silver linked watch. The large crystal face covered the blue metal surface and silver roman numerals. I hadn’t worn a watch in years doing undercover work and the heaviness felt stifling against my wrist bone. Funny how this job with a monkey suit felt like a slow strangulation while the ticking watched only served to lengthen the endless wait to finish. I adjusted my tie, a figurative noose in this job.
“If there was any other way to do this, then sure, but fuck it, we haven’t gained any ground, and Hector’s gang is fucking shit up all over the place, drugs, armed robbery, prostitution, you name it.” Dallas had become a hotbed for gang activity, which ravaged communities with limited law enforcement resources, earning it the nickname North Mexico City.
“After all the hard work I did to get you a desk job, and this is the assignment you and Maris put your cap in for.” He shook his head, smiling despite his disappointment.
“To be honest, it was her idea. The Red Tribe is connected deep to the cartel–hence Hector’s little street gang. There’s only one way to get recruited, and that’s from the inside.”
“I can’t believe those gang-bangers are using women to transport drugs and establish the trade routes between southern Texas and Mexico.”
“You seem surprised. Don’t forget those females are full-fledged gang members,” I reminded my boss. They could be pretty, and according to our best profilers pretty deadly. They seemed to recruit the ones most likely to carve out your heart with an audience just for fun.
“Obviously, Cohen. I just hate the idea of sending you and Maris in so soon. The last job–well, you know.”
I didn’t need to be reminded. We had been ordered by the psychologist to take time off after losing one of our team members in a gang related street shooting. Unable to let it go, Maris and I decided to jump back in. Work was the best therapy for us. We’d barely used the vacation time we had coming anyway. A few days on a beach somewhere sounded nice, but we were driven to bring Hector’s gang down for good.
“We needed an in, but this was more than I think we bargained for, given the opportunity.” After all the red tape had been cut, explored and cross-examined, my partner and I had been given permission to go undercover, and my boss, James DeLuca, came back with reservations. I swore the timing was equal parts bullshit and bureaucratic red tape.
“And now we have one.” I smiled sardonically.
James snickered meeting my gaze. “Never pictured you as a warden, Cohen Shepard.”
“Yeah well, tell that to Maris who is going in for prostitution and distribution.” I thought about my undercover partner, Maris Ramos, curvy, dark hair, and big brown eyes that reminded me of sweet chocolate until she got riled up. Maris was capable of hitting back as hard as any of our male agents. She could take care of herself, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t concerned when she was going to be inside the prison without backup or a weapon to protect herself. I wasn’t a chauvinist; I was being realistic. Homemade shanks could kill and I couldn’t back her up the way I wanted to for my own peace of mind.