Dirty Work: Part 2

“And why did you decide to leave the club?”

“I was tired. I had a long day, and I recently lost my fiancé . . . he was murdered. So Jessica wanted to take me out to have a good time and make me forget about my worries.”

“My condolences,” he said.

She didn’t give a flying fuck about his condolences—like he cared about her fiancé and her well-being.

Officer Spielberg continued to ask more questions. He wanted to get to the bottom of the terrorist attack and arrest every culprit behind it. So far, this girl was their only lead.

A half-hour later, he was done with his questions. He received nothing useful, but because Eshon was so cooperative, he told her he would try to get Jessica to Central Booking earlier than originally planned and that he would let her know that her friend was worried about her.

“Please, don’t let her know that I was here,” she said.

With a raised eyebrow, he asked, “Why not?”

“I just wanted to know if she was safe. Honestly, we had an argument at the club . . . and we both said some nasty things to each other. Being truthful, I was tired, and it was getting late, and she was my ride. So I left without her. Then I hear about the explosion. I felt so guilty leaving her behind. And Jessica has an anger problem.”

“I agree,” he said.

“And I just want to get her to see that her anger is a problem.” Eshon tried to sell her story to the officer. So far, there was no reason to have any doubts about her. In his eyes, he simply saw a concerned friend.

He removed himself from the table and handed Eshon his card before exiting the room. She took it. She was free to go, not that she had been detained in the first place. Everything seemed to check out, and, besides, he had more serious matters to deal with than a lone club patron who was worried about a friend. He figured that she was lucky to be alive.

The moment Eshon stepped out of the precinct, she dialed Devon’s number. He answered, and she said, “She’s here, at the 1st precinct being booked on assault and resisting arrest charges. But they’re not sure exactly when they’ll transfer her to Central Booking.”

“A’ight, that’s what’s up. We on it,” Devon replied.

She hung up.

N

ow it was their turn to do something—and do it fast. Jessica needed to be dealt with before Maserati Meek dealt with them.

8

Fuck the NYPD, fo’ real, homes! Y’all ain’t nuthin’ but some racist-ass muthafuckas. Fuckin’ stupid pigs! Oink, oink assholes! This is bullshit, homes! Y’all got me locked up when there’s fuckin’ terrorists out there blowing shit up! Fuck y’all!” Jessica shouted.

She marched around the bullpen angrily looking like she was hopped up on drugs. She was the best dressed in the bullpen with her black and gold dress and red bottoms. Her adrenaline was on twenty and climbing. She wouldn’t shut up and the cops couldn’t make her, although they were tired of her reckless mouth and insults.

She gripped the rusted bars and glared at the cop reclined in a nearby chair, reading today’s newspaper. “Officer, where’s my fuckin’ phone call? Don’t I get a phone call, homes? Y’all gonna deny me my rights, too, pendejo?”

He ignored her. She was definitely hood, and her slang was becoming irritating. Jessica frowned and continued to march around the bullpen that was occupied with several other ladies waiting for their day in court and their one phone call. Things had been so hectic since the nightclub bombing, that everything was out of whack.

Jessica finally took a seat on the cold, hard bench in the middle of the bullpen and sighed heavily. She was itching to be released. She felt that they couldn’t hold her for long. She would have to see a judge soon—within forty-eight hours. However, she was desperate to make her phone call. She’d just escaped being murdered, and Kid and his goons were still out there, plotting against her, and perhaps going after Maserati Meek, her sugar daddy. Also, the bombing had her in awe. She had never been that close to an explosion. Though she was held captive inside the van almost a block away when the blast happened, Jessica literally felt the ground shake underneath her. It felt like the van was going to tip over. The blast made everything tremble like a giant was stomping up and down the block.

What if she hadn’t made it out in time? Would Maserati Meek still have detonated the device? He did love her, and he did care for her safety and well-being, right? The twist of killing people with bombs instead of guns was a whole new world for Jessica, and she was officially linked to a deadly terrorist. She was smart enough not to speak his name or say anything about last night. She was in enough trouble as is. While jailed, she had lost track of the time and the world felt still. She didn’t know about anything on the outside and was nervous about what could be lurking once she was freed. She had underestimated Kid. He was much smarter than she predicted.

A few hours later, she was finally granted her phone call. Her arresting officer, Spielberg, called her name and Jessica hurried to leave the large jail cell to make her phone call. It had taken damn near all day, and she wanted to spit in the man’s face. It was six in the evening. She had been awake for over twenty-four hours.

She picked up the receiver and her first call, of course, was to Maserati Meek. He was the only one that mattered. His phone rang and rang, but his voicemail picked up. She wanted to leave him a message, but what could she say with a cop in her face?

That asshole cop, Spielberg.

She hung up and she tried to redial his number. But Officer Spielberg suddenly stopped her, exclaiming, “You only get one phone call in here.”

“But no one answered.”

“That’s not my problem.”