Dirty Work: Part 2

“Yo, get that muthafucka!”

The man hurried with his purpose. He didn’t have much time to carry out what was right—what he was instructed to do. Although he wanted to die, now wasn’t the moment, and he had to fight to live until it was. He hurried toward the eighth floor as bullets whizzed by his head. They wanted to kill him. He thrust himself from the stairwell with the remaining thugs not far behind him. On the eighth floor, he quickly unzipped his jacket and his true intentions were revealed. Strapped to him was enough dynamite and C4 to create total destruction. He removed his left hand from the coat pocket and positioned his thumb against the detonator. All it took was one simple push of the button. He rushed to a certain apartment while the building thugs came flying out of the stairway, scowling like rabid dogs and taking aim at the sudden threat. Now was his time to die.

He raised his left hand into the air, clutching the detonator, and shouted, “Allahu Akbar!” and then squeezed. The consequence was immediate—BOOOOOM!

The building shook violently, causing smoke and fire to bellow everywhere, and the thugs were blown to pieces. It was total destruction from floor to floor. Although the project building was still standing, a raging fire erupted and hell took over.

The suicide bomber’s name was Muhammad. He had succeeded in furthering the cause and dying for his beliefs—for Maserati Meek. He had no remorse and ordered another attack, and this place was unsuspecting.

The surviving residents were shocked. What just happened? The explosion was so loud and violent, that some were thrown from their beds while asleep. It didn’t take long for the entire neighborhood to see what had happened. They had been awakened to disaster and turmoil. Raging flames and debris were pouring from the sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth floor. Fire trucks and police sirens blared in the early morning.

The reason for the bombing and the destruction—Jessica. Maserati Meek was on a warpath.

14

They herded the criminals through like cattle at an auction. Central Booking was a busy place, and today wasn’t any different. It was early in the morning, and for dozens of criminals, it was arraignment day—bail or no bail, released or remanded. Some arrestees were dressed in orange overalls while others were in their civilian clothing. The daily routine for many court officials had legitimately started. The judge—an aging African American with salt-and-pepper hair, a clean-shaven face, and hard eyes—presided over the courtroom in his long, flowing black robe. To his left, the prosecution and the authorities gathered, and to his right, the court-appointed lawyers sat on the front bench with their economical suits, worn shoes, and tired eyes. They came and went, depending on the defendant they represented.

The bailiff started to call out each case by its document number, followed by the defendant’s name, and the judge rattled off drug charges, misdemeanors, robberies, armed robberies, assaults, parole violations, and some ambiguous sexual attacks. The defendants’ names were called and they were led forward to the bench for their prompt judgment day. Many stood in silence and awaited their fate. Paperwork was shuffled around, and some were denied bail while some were released on their own recognizance.

Among those waiting to see the judge was Jessica. She had seen better days. She was fatigued and her long hair was in disarray. She yearned to be a free woman again. Though it had been less than forty-eight hours, it felt like an eternity behind bars. She wanted to go home. She needed a long, hot shower, some decent food, sleep, and some dick. It took a lot of flirting with the guards and the gift of gab to have her case brought forward in the early morning, or else it might have taken her the entire day to see the judge.

She was escorted into the courtroom. Her charges were read for the judge to hear. Jessica stood still and silent. Her angry attitude was gone. It was replaced with a humbled and tired-looking young woman. She stared at the judge and he stared back. Her court-appointed lawyer flanked her. He was a middle-aged white male with a dark mustache, curly blonde hair, and blue eyes. He looked like he had never stepped foot in the ghetto. His clientele was mostly blacks and Hispanics.

The judge asked, “How do you plead, young lady?”

“Not guilty,” she replied.

He read over her case and her history: no serious priors, et cetera. Then there was the incident with the two female cops at the 1st precinct. The NYPD was at fault. Jessica had the right to file a suit. The prosecution wanted to throw the book at Jessica, but the judge had a lenient look in his eyes. Within two minutes of her appearance, he released her on her own recognizance. The judge gave her another court date two months from now. Jessica smiled. Finally, she could go home and meet up with Maserati Meek and tell him about everything.

Unbeknownst to her, the wheels of her demise had already started to turn; parked outside of the court building were Devon, The Kid, and Papa John. They were waiting patiently for her dismissal from the building. An informant on the inside had already given them the details, and now it was only a matter of time before they ran into her. The men were heavily armed—and cautious, too. Who else was waiting for the girl? There was tension inside the van. The men didn’t know what to expect. Maserati Meek had caught them off guard with his last stunt. What next? Would he try to blow up a city block too?

“Everyone be careful and watch your back,” The Kid said.

Devon nodded. He looked undaunted. The only thing he was concerned about at the moment was Jessica’s death. Papa John sat in the back looking cool as a cucumber, but on the inside it felt like he was falling apart with apprehension. The Kid sat with a poker-faced appearance, still portraying a cripple and hoping that he survived this ordeal.

While they waited on the Manhattan street, camouflaged amongst the morning traffic, their cell phones started to ring simultaneously. They looked at each other. Something was going on. What?

Eshon was calling Kid. He answered his phone. “What’s up?”

“Ohmygod, Ohmygod!” Eshon cried out frantically.

“Eshon, what happened?”

“You didn’t hear?”

“Hear what?”

“It’s all over the news…Jessica’s building exploded early this morning.”

“What the fuck?” The Kid uttered in awe.

Devon and Papa John were receiving the same news. Each man was also stunned by what they’d just heard.

“What you mean, exploded?” The Kid asked.

“They sayin’ it was another bomb! People are dying, Kid.” Eshon was clearly shaken up and upset.

The Kid sat there taking it all in. Maserati Meek was becoming more destructive. But why Jessica’s building? She was still in the courts. Something was going on, but what was it?