But they were
seventeen-year-old kids with no foreseeable future until Dutch gave them one. The have-nots would have and if they didn’t,
then they’d die trying. But God had other plans for Qwan, and he knew that as he sat very still in the witness stand thinking
of past demons.
“Reverend Taylor! Reverend Taylor, are you okay?” asked Jacobs. He needed Qwan’s full attention and focus. The reverend did
not realize just what his testimony had done for his case, but Jacobs was acutely aware.
“I’m okay, yes… yes… I’m fine,” Qwan said, coming back to the reality of the courtroom in which he was sitting, where he was
telling his deepest secrets, secrets he had harbored all his adult life.
“I realize this must be difficult for you to relive, Reverend Taylor. Should you like, we could take a short recess?”
“Well… If it isn’t too much to ask, I think I need a moment,” Qwan said weakly, which, unsurprisingly, annoyed Jacobs. His
offer was one of courtesy, not one he expected to be accepted.
What the fuck,
he sighed to himself before turning to the judge.
“Your Honor, I ask for a short recess on behalf of my witness.”
“This court stands for a fifteen-minute recess on behalf of the reverend,” Judge Whitaker said, banging his gavel.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” replied Jacobs, not grateful at all.
Qwan, on the other hand, was relieved. He needed a cigarette, and he badly needed to get out of that room. He had felt Dutch’s
eyes on him throughout his testimony and it felt good to be away from him.
As soon as he began to walk out of the courtroom, he caught Dutch smiling at him. And for the life of him, he knew he’d never
be free.
Nigga, them demons you carrying around wit’ you ain’t goin’ nowhere! They gonna be there for the rest of your life. You think
your testimony gonna change something in this life, nigga, ’cause you confessed something for who, for who, them crackers.
Naw, that’s all you did. Think you doing something for yourself, nigga you ain’t!
Qwan heard just what Dutch’s smile meant.
Outside, Qwan was puffing on his Newport, thinking incessantly, trying to calm down. He remembered how he’d first met Dutch,
how they got locked up together. Man, it was all Dutch’s idea, and he ended up in Jacksonville fighting a bunch of demons
from Newark.
He lit another Newport from his first and thought back to the day they went to see Sugar Ray.
“Man, you little niggas done went crazy,” Sugar Ray said in his slow, smooth, southern drawl.
Qwan, Dutch, and Craze had gone to see Sugar Ray at his favorite hangout, a poolroom in Elizabeth on St. George’s Avenue.
Sugar Ray wasn’t only a ladies’ man, he was also an expert pool hustler who would take young rich white boys hanging out at
the poolroom for hundreds of dollars at a time.
“How the fuck you think of some shit like that? Why would you think of some shit like that?” Ray drawled as he chalked up
his cue stick and eyed the next shot.
“Anybody could get it,” said Dutch.
“Yeah,” Ray answered back, banking the nine ball in the side pocket, then looking up at Dutch. “That shit goes both ways.”
Then he walked around the table to analyze his next shot. “Look here, youngun, you know the man you talkin’ ’bout hittin’
done had two hits put on him? By the mob at that, and guess what? They missed both times. So what the hell makes you think
some lil’ niggas like y’all gon’ get this muhfucka?”
“ ’Cause they hittin’ at him the wrong way. That’s why we need you,” Dutch explained as Sugar Ray sat back, lit a Newport,
and listened. “That’s why we need you, Sugar Ray. His broad is the weak link.”
“They always are,” chuckled Ray.
“So I figure if anybody could bag this chick, it’d be you. Shit, the mob might miss, but everybody knows Sugar Ray don’t!”
Dutch said, smiling and stroking Ray’s ego. Ray knew he was being stroked
seventeen-year-old kids with no foreseeable future until Dutch gave them one. The have-nots would have and if they didn’t,
then they’d die trying. But God had other plans for Qwan, and he knew that as he sat very still in the witness stand thinking
of past demons.
“Reverend Taylor! Reverend Taylor, are you okay?” asked Jacobs. He needed Qwan’s full attention and focus. The reverend did
not realize just what his testimony had done for his case, but Jacobs was acutely aware.
“I’m okay, yes… yes… I’m fine,” Qwan said, coming back to the reality of the courtroom in which he was sitting, where he was
telling his deepest secrets, secrets he had harbored all his adult life.
“I realize this must be difficult for you to relive, Reverend Taylor. Should you like, we could take a short recess?”
“Well… If it isn’t too much to ask, I think I need a moment,” Qwan said weakly, which, unsurprisingly, annoyed Jacobs. His
offer was one of courtesy, not one he expected to be accepted.
What the fuck,
he sighed to himself before turning to the judge.
“Your Honor, I ask for a short recess on behalf of my witness.”
“This court stands for a fifteen-minute recess on behalf of the reverend,” Judge Whitaker said, banging his gavel.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” replied Jacobs, not grateful at all.
Qwan, on the other hand, was relieved. He needed a cigarette, and he badly needed to get out of that room. He had felt Dutch’s
eyes on him throughout his testimony and it felt good to be away from him.
As soon as he began to walk out of the courtroom, he caught Dutch smiling at him. And for the life of him, he knew he’d never
be free.
Nigga, them demons you carrying around wit’ you ain’t goin’ nowhere! They gonna be there for the rest of your life. You think
your testimony gonna change something in this life, nigga, ’cause you confessed something for who, for who, them crackers.
Naw, that’s all you did. Think you doing something for yourself, nigga you ain’t!
Qwan heard just what Dutch’s smile meant.
Outside, Qwan was puffing on his Newport, thinking incessantly, trying to calm down. He remembered how he’d first met Dutch,
how they got locked up together. Man, it was all Dutch’s idea, and he ended up in Jacksonville fighting a bunch of demons
from Newark.
He lit another Newport from his first and thought back to the day they went to see Sugar Ray.
“Man, you little niggas done went crazy,” Sugar Ray said in his slow, smooth, southern drawl.
Qwan, Dutch, and Craze had gone to see Sugar Ray at his favorite hangout, a poolroom in Elizabeth on St. George’s Avenue.
Sugar Ray wasn’t only a ladies’ man, he was also an expert pool hustler who would take young rich white boys hanging out at
the poolroom for hundreds of dollars at a time.
“How the fuck you think of some shit like that? Why would you think of some shit like that?” Ray drawled as he chalked up
his cue stick and eyed the next shot.
“Anybody could get it,” said Dutch.
“Yeah,” Ray answered back, banking the nine ball in the side pocket, then looking up at Dutch. “That shit goes both ways.”
Then he walked around the table to analyze his next shot. “Look here, youngun, you know the man you talkin’ ’bout hittin’
done had two hits put on him? By the mob at that, and guess what? They missed both times. So what the hell makes you think
some lil’ niggas like y’all gon’ get this muhfucka?”
“ ’Cause they hittin’ at him the wrong way. That’s why we need you,” Dutch explained as Sugar Ray sat back, lit a Newport,
and listened. “That’s why we need you, Sugar Ray. His broad is the weak link.”
“They always are,” chuckled Ray.
“So I figure if anybody could bag this chick, it’d be you. Shit, the mob might miss, but everybody knows Sugar Ray don’t!”
Dutch said, smiling and stroking Ray’s ego. Ray knew he was being stroked