Wifey: Part 1

Who could eat when you’re about to be charged with murder?

“Nah, I’m good. Thanks anyway.”

A couple hours after sunrise the door burst open and two middle-aged white gentlemen in jeans and button-up shirts came walking in. They both had intense eyes and a confidence that intimidated me.

“Jasmine?”

“Yes?” I replied, meekly. The fourteen-hour stint had broken any bravado I thought I possessed.

“We’re transporting you to another location.” He then bent down and unclasped my handcuff. “Turn around and place your hands behind your back.”

“What? What’s going on? Why am I being moved?”

No matter how many questions I asked, none were answered. As I was led through the precinct, it seemed that we had the attention of everyone. I couldn’t understand why all eyes were on me, unless it was purely my imagination. And where was Nico and my attorney?

This time we drove to lower Manhattan and went through an underground parking garage near Reade Street. I was led to an underground elevator where the man had to use a key card for entry. We rode up 27 floors and once again I was placed into a room. I had no idea where I was, but it seemed like I was in an office building as opposed to a police precinct. After around ten minutes, the door reopened with one additional person, a black female. Everyone took nearby seats and a tape recorder was turned on.

“Jasmine, I’ll cut straight to the chase. My name is federal agent Dowd and these are my colleagues, Agent Battle and Agent Kelsey. We’ve taken over your case from the state police in the hopes that you’ll be smart and help yourself.”

The moment he said he was a federal agent I began to drift in and out of lucidness. Why are the feds interested in me?

Agent Dowd continued, “You will be indicted for the murder of Samuel ‘Shabazz’ Barton, and we will most certainly tie you into a conspiracy to distribute narcotics which will upgrade you to a RICO charge. Those charges alone carry a minimum life sentence. And if you know the federal government’s track record for successfully prosecuting cases, which is 98 percent—you’ll help yourself. So, think about your odds of beating the case before you tell us your answer.”

“But I didn’t—”

The black woman, agent Battle interjected.

“Jasmine, we’re only going to make this offer once. And we don’t tolerate lies. We know you killed Shabazz in the iHop parking lot and we also know your boyfriend, Nico got you to do it. We’re not going to explain what evidence we have, but just note that we rarely take over state cases unless we are one hundred percent certain we can win. You’re a young, beautiful girl. Think about spending the rest of your life behind bars.”

I was afraid to open up my mouth to protest my innocence. “You guys just pluck me out of the precinct violating my civil rights? No attorney, no phone call, nothing? My parents don’t even know where I’m at! That’s kidnapping! While I’m doing time y’all need to be in a cell right next to mine. How is this even legal?”

Ignoring my slight outburst, agent Dowd continued. “We’ve had surveillance on the Ghetto Mafia crew for over five years. They’re going down with or without you.”

Finally agent Kelsey spoke, and I didn’t like what he had to say. “We need you to help put Nico behind bars. And I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking about how much you love him. But better yet, you’re thinking about how much he loves you. You’re remembering all the expensive gifts he gave you—the BMW, watches and furs. Guess what? All that’s being confiscated. But what you should think about is that you’ve only been in here less than twenty-four hours, and your Nico has already hooked back up with his ex-girlfriend, Mia.”

Agent Kelsey pulled out a few glossy photographs of Nico meeting up with Mia. One photograph showed both cars parked side by side. In the next, she’d hopped into his truck. The next, they were walking into our residence together.

“This doesn’t mean shit,” I replied, defiantly.

“Of course it does. It means that you can easily and will easily be replaced. You’re already a memory. It’s every man for themselves. You don’t honestly think that he’ll do this bid with you? Come on visits for the next seventy years of your life? Send you birthday and Christmas cards? Do you really think that?” He paused, and then continued. “Save yourself. No one will know that you’re working with us. On that I give you my word. No one will know. And once this is over and done with, you can find

yourself another Nico to buy you the finer things in life.”

I exhaled. I knew one thing and that was I ain’t no snitch. But it wouldn’t hurt asking a few questions.

“What would I have to do . . .”