Preview Chapters. The Hoshin Kanri Forest: Lean Strategic Organizational Design
LAST LAUGH--FREE PREVIEW FIRST 7 CHAPTERS
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Transcript of LAST LAUGH--FREE PREVIEW FIRST 7 CHAPTERS
1
PHILADELPHIA, THE PRESENT
“Control, code blue. Code blue. Riot in progress,” Officer
Sanchez yelled into his walkie-talkie. A baseball bat was
slammed against the head of an inmate, as Sanchez grabbed his
prison yard bullhorn, and yelled into it, “Get down on the
ground. All inmates down. Now. Faces in the grass.”
“Roger, Sanchez,” the control officer said, and then grabbed
the prison intercom. “All inmates report to their cells. Attention
all officers, we are in lock down mode. Lock down all units.”
“Fuck. This shit cannot be happening,” CO Sanchez said and
watched an inmate being hoisted into the air by two other
inmates. They slammed him into the ground and blood
R A H I E M B R O O K S
immediately filled the man’s face. He was then kicked by the
prison’s inmate law librarian. That baffled CO Sanchez. Inmate
Kareem Bezel was undoubtedly one of the most mannerly and
respectful inmates that he had ever encountered. But there he
was kicking a man that seemed to be dead.
Other officers ran out into the yard dressed in riot gear and
yelled repeatedly for inmates to get down. The inmates not
involved had laid out on the ground with their faces and toes in
the dirt. Lieutenant Brown looked on in horror. He had enough
to do with the daily paperwork to record the prison’s status, and
he did not want to report a riot. After a riot, in came the city
officials, detectives and a bunch of other people that he didn’t
want to brief on what had happened. Here was a situation that he
didn’t have any heads up about. Normally, he was prepared for a
prison war between the Philadelphia neighborhoods. He was
always tipped off by a prison snitch. But this time it was
different.
“LT Brown to Officer Sanchez,” the lieutenant said into his
walkie-talkie.
“Sanchez. Go, Lieutenant Brown.”
L A S T L A U G H
“Give a warning to those actively engaged in this fight to stop
or you will shoot.”
“Copy,” CO Sanchez said, and grabbed the bullhorn. “All
inmates this is a warning that we will shoot any inmate not in
compliance with our order to get down on the ground. I repeat.
We will shoot any inmate not in compliance with our order to
get down.” He put the bullhorn down and wiped his brow.
“These mutha fucka’s better not stop,” he said and unlocked the
gun locker. He smiled and raised the tower’s shot gun into the
air. He loaded it with bean bag rounds, and prepared to shoot.
He had waited long for the chance to gun down an inmate.
The shot gun was designed to be non-lethal and officers had
been taught not to shoot the gun in the extremities. A shot to the
head could crush an inmate’s nose or break their neck. Even
worse, a strike in the chest could send a broken rib crashing into
the heart and kill an inmate. That was not the point of the riot
rifle. It was designed to gain control of a riot, but CO Sanchez’s
day had been screwed up, and he planned to end this deadly if he
had control of the outcome.
The prison yard officers managed to gain some control of the
yard and most of the inmates from the D-E-F Units had been
R A H I E M B R O O K S
down on the ground. Kareem Bezel and Bryant Larson were
now going blow for blow at the top of the yard.
“You two need to get down now,” Officer Carson said, and
pulled her pepper spray from her waist band.
A band of officers dressed in riot gear had their guns trained
on the inmates that complied and was on the ground. A team of
nurses had been at the yard doorway awaiting full control so
they could go in and assist wounded inmates.
Kareem threw another punch at his attacker and was then hit
with a burning sensation to his face. He was sprayed by Officer
Carson, but that did not stop him from fighting. He reached out
for Larson and wrapped his arms around him and scooped him
into the air. He slammed Larson to the ground, while Officer
Carson continued to coat him with pepper spray. Both men
continued to throw punches and had not been effected by the
spray.
Kareem was pulled off his feet by a member of the officer’s
goon squad. He kicked Larson as he came up. Kareem was hand
cuffed behind his back, and then marched through the yard by
two goons.
L A S T L A U G H
* * *
The jail’s main area was empty because all inmates had been
locked down. The House of Corrections had opened in 1874,
and was one of six county prisons that housed un-sentenced
misdemeanants. It was the only one with a “wheel-and-spoke”
design, first seen with the construction of Eastern State
Penitentiary in 1829. A Center Control served as a central
rotunda in the middle, which served as access to six two-tiered
cellblocks.
While being chaperoned swiftly through the jail, Kareem was
on his tiptoes being pulled with brute force. He was practically
floating on the air beneath his feet.
“Open up A-block,” one of the officers that dragged Kareem
said.
The unit was opened and two officers took Kareem to the
back of the wing to the shower. A third officer took out a pair of
scissors and cut the inmate’s light blue prison pullover off. His
tank top was cut off next. Kareem was then pushed under the
water.
R A H I E M B R O O K S
“What the fuck, man?” he said, as the water hit his skin.
“Take off these cuffs. You got me under water in cuffs.”
Kareem’s voice was grave and deep. He was angry and prepared
to do whatever it took to protect himself from further harm. That
meant protecting his self from inmates and prison authorities.
But he could do nothing in handcuffs and the burning sensation
to his skin thoroughly made him aware of that.
“It’s to rinse off the pepper spray,” an officer said as Kareem
began to shake.
“The water is freezing and the spray is now running into my
eyes, you jackasses. Un-cuff me. My eyes,” he screamed. “What
the fuck?” He jumped in the air a few times. “Oh my God,
please un-cuff me.”
Kareem became afraid. The spray had seeped into his pores,
ran into his eyes, and he was cuffed behind his back. His pants
were soaked along with his sneakers. He was terrified at that
point. He could not see and thought that he was going to be
blind.
“My eyes,” Kareem said. He yelled, as he felt two officers
grab him by both arms and pulled him out of the shower.
“Where are you taking me?” he asked. He panicked. “My arm is
L A S T L A U G H
burning. Please don’t grip it so tightly.” He was helpless, and for
the first time, he truly regretted the feds sticking him in a county
jail to control the overcrowded Federal Detention Center (FDC)
in downtown Philadelphia. He hated the system and everything
that it represented. Sure, he had committed several crimes, and
maybe even, he belonged in jail, but he hated it.
He was ushered to the front of the lieutenant’s office and
placed inside an isolation cell. It wasn’t a cell at all. It mirrored
a pay phone booth, about 2x2 feet of metal. Kareem heard the
door shut and again asked to have the cuffs removed. His
request was ignored.
Every move that Kareem made forced him to brush against
the metal gates. He remained cuffed behind his back and each
time his skin touched the metal it burned. He began to sniff but
held his head high to prevent the tears from falling. He was even
more afraid. He still had no idea what was going to happen next.
The fact that he could not open his eyes and not knowing what
was going to happen next caused him to have a panic attack. His
back slammed against the cell, and he stood as still as possible.
For the first time, in a very long time, Kareem Bezel said a
prayer.
R A H I E M B R O O K S
2
PHILADELPHIA, AN HOUR LATER
The prison librarian, Judy Butler, walked into the lieutenant’s
office and was accosted by three correctional officers and Lt.
Brown. She was Kareem Bezel’s boss and information seemed
to suggest that she could shed some light on what had transpired
on the prison yard. Kareem had a thing for working in the
education departments at the two jails that he had been in. He
was a bright man, and the educational staff appreciated an
inmate that could help lower their work load. While at FDC, he
was celled up with Calvin Bradshaw who had given him a lot of
insight into the law and legal proceedings. Calvin had even
helped Kareem get a job in the FDC library. Kareem used that
L A S T L A U G H
knowledge to get a job in the HOC library shortly upon him
being transferred there.
“Good morning, Mrs. Butler. So sorry to disturb your day
with this. However, I have to ask you a few questions about
Kareem Bezel’s involvement in this morning’s riot,” Lieutenant
Brown said and frowned. He was a huge man that was built like
a professional NBA power forward with neat dreadlocks, and a
thick Russian accent. Women found it sexy to hear a man as
black as coal sound like a Russian. He was adopted by a white
family from Russia whom moved him to Moscow, Russia, then
Burbank, California and later to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania to
be on the opposite coast.
“That’s no problem. I am here to help solve this, and perhaps
shed some light on what happened this morning,” Mrs. Butler
replied. She folded her arms over her chest and exposed red nail
polish that matched her even brighter red lip stick. She was
homely, but had a bit of spunk for an older white woman.
“Ok, great,” the lieutenant said. “Apparently this fight is all
about a deal gone bad. A drug deal.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Mrs. Butler said. She
then added, “Now, I did intercept a letter, which has been turned
R A H I E M B R O O K S
into the Security Lieutenant. It seemed to outline a payment
schedule with the units, where the drugs went and who should
have the money.”
“And your inmate Bezel delivered the letter?”
“No. Well, not exactly. I was escorting Bezel around the D-E-
F side to deliver inmate’s paid for print outs of legal cases.
When we entered E unit an inmate called Bezel over and I
watched him slip a kite into Bezel’s trousers pocket. I did not
search him on the block, but when we were next to Center
Control, I had a male officer search him. The letter was
confiscated and Bezel was taken to security.”
Lt. Brown sat there and jotted some notes. He then looked up
from his pad, and asked, “Did Bezel have a chance to read the
letter?”
“I am not sure. When we left E block, we did go to F and I did
keep an eye on Bezel, but you know inmates are slicker than oil.
However, I did not see him pull out the letter and read it.”
“Yes, even the suave, respectful ones like Kareem Bezel need
to be watched. I’ve long suspected he was not as straight up as
he appeared. I lost sight of the fact that he is here for committing
L A S T L A U G H
a federal crime. No matter how loyal he may have seemed to us,
he is still an inmate.”
“Especially him,” a CO said. “Have you seen the trickery that
he used to avoid a federal indictment in the past, and how he had
the decorated DEA agent arrested? He put everything on the
agent by saying he worked for the agent against his will. He may
try to say that in this situation too.”
The lieutenant went on. “It seems that the dealers that had the
money on two of the blocks were robbed that night and they
blame Bezel. They believe that he was in on the heist.”
“Oh, really. That’s interesting,” Mrs. Butler said and threw
them a curt grin. “I am not certain if he looked at the contents of
the letter, but that seems like a tall order for a law library worker
that seemingly has no involvement with the riff raff.”
“The operative word is seemingly,” the lieutenant replied. “If
he has been responsible for passing the notes from dealer to
dealer in the jail, he is very culpable for the movement of drugs
here in the jail.”
“Yes,” Senior CO Vanessa Bell said. She opened a file.
“We’ve taken the liberty of getting his file from the United
States Attorney’s office, which outlines his federal case. It
R A H I E M B R O O K S
appears that he was the catalyst to his brothers thriving drug ring
by supplying cash and guidance, making him one of the biggest
drug dealers in the city. He is not a dealer, but perhaps he has
helped the drugs to get around and orchestrated the drug trade
here as he did while on the streets.”
“Oh, my,” Butler said as she crossed her legs and blew a
strain of hair out of her face. “I had no idea he was that type of
guy. He’s so kind and respectful.”
“Yes. And conniving and sneaky. He’s a bona fide thief,” said
CO Bell.
“Excuse me a minute.” The lieutenant, stepped out of the
room, walked over to the cage that Kareem was in and grinned.
To Kareem, he whispered, “Why the tears, chum? Scared? Can’t
see? Getting out of there is easy. Just tell me what you know,
and where’s the money and drugs? Who is involved here as far
as my correctional officers?”
Kareem was pressed against the gate, and could not stop
shaking. His trembling was dramatic and very noticeable. The
burning pain was horrific, but what could he do besides man up,
deal with it, and look forward to when it would stop. He was not
paying the lieutenant any attention. He was not a rat, and never
L A S T L A U G H
going to convert into one. They had nothing on him, and could
not force him to talk about anything that he didn’t want to.
“I don’t have anything to tell you, and what money are you
talking about. I know nothing about money,” Kareem answered.
“Sure you do. If not, I will be sure to bury you under the jail,”
the lieutenant replied and smiled.
“Well get ya fucking shovel, asshole.”
R A H I E M B R O O K S
3
PHILADELPHIA, FIFTY MINUTES LATER
About fifty minutes of Kareem being locked in the cage
passed before, he was ushered to an administrative segregation
cell and tossed inside. The door slammed behind him and he
turned around and backed up against the bars. He expected the
guards to take his cuffs off through the bars. They didn’t. He
heard their keys fading down the cell block and got the hint. He
was being punished for not talking to prison staff and he
understood that. And he didn’t plan to be pressed about it, so he
did not yell or rant about not being un-cuffed. He had an
uncanny adroitness that he felt was not matched by prison
officials. No one in position that have control of him was a
L A S T L A U G H
worthy opponent in his eyes. This was precisely why he did not
fear DEA Agent Lucas McKenzey when he was a central
problem. No, he could not open the cell and he could not remove
the cuffs. Despite that he was in control. This was a moment that
mental toughness prevailed and he was always a winner.
He opened his eyes slightly and peeked at the cell. It was
empty. Bare.
No sheets.
No blankets.
Not even a pillow.
Bastards, he thought and chuckled.
It was rare to get a pillow in the HOC anyway. No doubt, as
the prison law librarian he did. He had everything, though. He
was the man. The go to guy to write a letter to a judge for a
fellow inmate, or even a love letter to a lonely spouse. That’s
one skill that garnered him a lot of respect.
Kareem was able to weave words to women like no other. He
knew women and most things that surrounded making them
happy. He was surrounded by men that had very little education,
and they made his life there easy, as he made their lives just as
R A H I E M B R O O K S
easy. He had a prestigious Columbia University degree, like the
United States President, Barack Obama.
He sat on the bottom bunk bed. He told his muscles to grab
his face, but his arms were jerked back by the cuffs. He was
brought back to the sad reality that he was in prison, in a cell,
and remained in cuffs. “Don’t trip, Reem,” he said out loud, and
then shook his head.
He laid down on his side.
Disgust.
Rage.
Fright.
Three things consumed him and was born out of one thought;
his family. How was this about to affect them? He thought of his
son and fiancé, Toi. His parents, younger sister, and
grandmother. But most important, his older brother, Andre
Bezel.
Damn, bro. You might be pissed at me for this one, but I take a
lot of things, shit ain’t one of them, he thought, and sat up. His
skin was hot and the plastic mattress had made it hotter. He felt
like his insides were melting.
“Fuck.”
L A S T L A U G H
Kareem stood up and took two short walks around the cell.
“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” he said as a wave of heat
consumed him. It was weird because the cells were typically
freezing cold. He slammed his back against the wall and slid
down to the floor. “Heat rises. Fuck that,” he said and laid in the
fetal position on the floor. I’m a prisoner, he thought and smiled.
Don’t let anything stress me. None of their tactics can harm me.
Them mutha fuckas are not out to kill me. They’re trying to
break me. Picture that. I am staring down the barrel of a life
federal sentence and I am not losing any sleep about it. Why? I
have one very important man on my side. Well, two. First God,
and then Ravonne Lemmelle, my esteemed attorney.
R A H I E M B R O O K S
4
BOSTON AREA, THAT EVENING
Former DEA Agent Lucas McKenzey had been holed up in
Cambridge, MA since his escape from federal custody. He killed
the man that helped him escape, and now made a great homeless
man. He panhandled money from hardworking MIT and
Harvard University students by day. And by night, he stashed his
homeless sign that read, I AM WANTED BY THE FEDS HELP
ME, in the top of one of the newspaper dispensers which held
free newspapers that covered the Boston area. His homeless shift
had ended, and he then proceeded to the Harvard Square train
station and rode into the Back Bay area of Boston.
L A S T L A U G H
The psychopath headed to a local Starbucks and changed out
of his homeless costume. He traded it for an Armani suit, fancy
wingtips, chrome briefcase, and a duffle bag. He tossed his
homeless duds into the duffle bag, and then headed to his suite
at the Four Seasons hotel in downtown Boston on Avery Street.
It was located across the street from the Boston Commons and
he enjoyed watching the people in the park from his suite.
When he entered the hotel, he was greeted by the bellman
who held the door open for him.
"Good evening, and welcome back, Mr. Trump," the bellman
said to him and smiled.
McKenzey simply nodded his head and smiled back. He
headed to his room and adored that the hotel was under the
foolish impression that he was a Trump, as in a brother of the
real estate tycoon, Donald Trump. They ate up all of his garish
stories about Christmas in the Trump home. They would
chuckle. So did he though. They'd be laughing at the absurd
things he made up about Donald Trump. And he'd be laughing at
them. It was all a game. His game. The former DEA agent
wanted to win. Winning over the hotel staff was easy enough. It
R A H I E M B R O O K S
was inmate Kareem Bezel that he hadn't beat. That had to
change. Enough time had lapsed, and he was ready to play.
McKenzey exited the elevator on the 6th floor and headed
down to his suite. It was named after former President Kennedy.
He entered his room, and then tossed his blazer onto the bed. He
had the hotel maid trained to have his TV turned on at 5:45 p.m.
along with a fresh pail of ice to compliment a bottle of Magnum
Grey Goose Vodka.
McKenzey slipped out of the rest of his clothing and then
walked over to the hotel windows. He was in a corner suite and
opened all of the curtains. He looked out at a postcard view of
Boston’s Public Garden, and smiled. No one could see him in
the buff, but he didn’t care if they had. In the distance he looked
out at Beacon Hill and the gilded dome of the State House.
Perhaps, I’ll have dinner at Cheers tonight, he thought. I’ll be
there, and everyone will know my name, but not know that I am
right there in their presence. He chuckled and then lifted the
vodka bottle into the air and took a big gulp. No glass was
needed for him to enjoy the smooth taste.
He was suddenly glued to the TV screen, having heard the
mention of Kareem Bezel and the words prison riot. CNN had
L A S T L A U G H
set the trap and former DEA Lucas McKenzey kissed the
television screen. He then placed his hands on each side of the
flat screen and extended his arms. He got a good look at the
reporter and said, "Thank you." Before kissing the screen again.
The news of inmate Kareem Bezel being locked down for
inciting a riot had been the best news since Lance Armstrong
confessed to using performance enhancing drugs. He hated all
things American, with no desire to flee the country until he
obtained revenge against the beloved Bezel Brothers. And it
seemed that at that moment was the right time to kick Kareem
when he was already down. The corrections staff had bound
Kareem and McKenzey was ready to gag him.
R A H I E M B R O O K S
5
PHILADELPHIA, LATE NIGHT
Andre Bezel sped down I-76 from Germantown headed to
Center City. He had a mission after watching the news broadcast
of his brother being the center of a prison riot. He was lost and
didn’t understand what had happened, but he wanted to help him
and be there for him as he knew that his brother was in danger.
Kareem was the exact opposite of his older brother. The one
year separation was just enough to render Andre the street corner
boy, and Kareem the nerd. But he was no ordinary street thug
and his younger brother was no common nerd. They were both
college graduates. Andre had a Business degree from New York
University and Kareem had one in International Marketing from
L A S T L A U G H
Columbia University. Andre swerved in and out of traffic and
recalled how they both lived in and terrorized New York City
while they were there studying. He was back in Philadelphia,
though, and rented out his New York property. There was no
way that he could live in a home where he and his brother
tortured a corrupt DEA agent who broke in with intentions of
killing him, his girlfriend and his son.
DEA agent McKenzey had given the Bezel Brothers all that
he could to take them down and for a while it seemed like it
worked. That was not the case, though. The brothers remained a
step ahead of the agent. Money made that a simple thing, and the
brothers had plenty of it. They also had a plan: Accuse the agent
of forcing Kareem to embezzle money from the bank where he
worked at and to fund the illicit drug ring headed by Andre. And
it seemed to work. McKenzey had been indicted and jailed just
like the brothers.
Kareem had managed to stay out of jail on bail, while Andre
was in jail. He was eventually released on bail after the
Government was repeatedly unprepared to proceed. But in a
major twist, Kareem was arrested and accused of aiding
McKenzey’s escape. It was an absurd set-up that landed his
R A H I E M B R O O K S
brother in jail and now locked down for a prison riot. That made
no sense to Andre.
“Fuck out of the way,” Andre said to a slow moving car on the
expressway.
He was determined to put some sort of plan into motion to get
his brother out of the jail. Or at least the county one, and sent
back to FDC. The way he had seen it, they should not have
warehoused Kareem in a county jail to relieve the federal
building of its overcrowding issue in the first place.
It was rumored by police that Kareem was the mastermind of
the operation, and they were probably right. But one thing was
for certain, Andre Bezel had an equally brilliant mind, and he
was headed to meet with Kareem’s lawyer to execute a plan to
help his brother.
L A S T L A U G H
6
PHILADELPHIA, GERMANTOWN
Grandmom Jean-Mary was in her kitchen baking a cake and
enjoying it. She sang a Smokey Robinson tune, although
disturbed by the news that her beloved grandson had been in
trouble in the jail. Andre didn’t really didn’t want to tell her
what he had learned, but Grandmom Jean-Mary wasn’t an
ordinary grandparent. She was down to earth and didn’t pretend
to have traded in her street smarts to become an out of touch
grandmother.
Toi, Kareem’s wife walked into the kitchen, and plopped on a
chair. She watched Grandmom Jean Mary spreading icing on her
cake and humming to the radio. The radio was set to the
R A H I E M B R O O K S
contemporary station, and she was mumbling the words to
Tonight by John Legend.
“Grandmom, what you know about that, John Legend?” Toi
asked smiling.
“I know a lot about that,” Grandmom Jean Mary replied and
chuckled. Amir came into the kitchen and curled under his great-
grandmother’s wheel chair. “Here boy, you can have the icing
spoon.” To Toi she said, “I have you know I know a few new
songs. Thank you very much.”
“I see,” Toi replied and sang a little of the song too. She
wished that Kareem was not in jail, so that she could experience
some of the things in John Legend’s song.
“Amir, take that spoon in the living room, and let me talk to
your mom, ok, honey,” Grandmom Jean-Mary said to her baby.
She covered her cake, and said, “Latoya Eala, you better snap
out of it.”
“I can’t Grandmom. A riot? That’s so scary. How are you so
cool about this? I just can’t imagine what’s happening with him.
I am so afraid.”
“Listen here, you have that child in there to worry about.” she
said giving Toi a hard stern stare. “Let me tell you what you
L A S T L A U G H
already know, Kareem doesn’t get involved in anything that he
has not masterfully mapped out how to get out of. You’re
worried about nothing. He is a warrior and you need to relax.”
“So you’re not worried, Grandmom. As long as we’ve been
living here with you, I haven’t seen you worry. That’s very brave
of you. I guess that is where Kareem got it from.”
“Oh, baby, I worry. The thing that you just pointed out is that,
you don’t see me worry. That’s no way to live. I don’t exhibit
my worry for the world to see. I’ve had my foot amputated and
go to dialysis three times a week, and guess what? I am not
worrying. God has me, and God has your husband.”
“I wish I had my husband,” she said and smiled.
“Oh, honey, you need some nooky?” Grandmom Jean-Mary
asked and cracked up.
“You’re too much, Grandmom.”
“No, I am not. I am just real. See, you have to really
understand that I am as much your friend as your grandmom.
You can tell me anything. I am a great listener, and I can tell you
some great things.”
“I will keep that in mind.”
R A H I E M B R O O K S
“Good, now, do you want coffee or tea or cocoa to go with
this cake?’
“Hot chocolate,” said Amir as he walked into the kitchen. He
climbed on his mother’s lap, and added, “Cake, too.”
“Boy, you’re too much.” Grandmom Jean-Mary cut the cake.
L A S T L A U G H
7
PHILADELPHIA, RAVONNE LEMMELLE’S HOME
Andre Bezel pulled onto Pine Street, and stopped in front of
the driveway of attorney, Ravonne Lemmelle’s home. The Olde
City area was clean and quiet, but was about to get shaken up by
Andre Bezel. He parked at the end of the driveway and blocked
in a parked BMW 750LI and a Range Rover. Ravonne and his
lover, Dajuan’s vehicles.
He didn’t anticipate any problems with the attorney, whom
was also his cousin. He was prepared though, to act a fool if
Ravonne didn’t cave into his demands and plan. His plan that
needed to be tweaked and worked on, but never less it was a
plan. Andre knew that since Ravonne did the Harvard Law
R A H I E M B R O O K S
School thing and moved from Uptown to Downtown, so his
innate ghetto training may need to be adjusted.
Andre exited the car and then walked up the driveway. He had
a peculiar look on his face when he looked down at his vibrating
cell phone. It was his girlfriend, Tasha, he ignored the call. True,
he loved her and she was his world, but his chief concern at that
time was his little brother. He sent her a text informing her that
he was at Ravonne’s and that he would contact her when he left.
Andre made his way up the five stairs that led to the home
and the door opened before he could knock.
“Took you long enough, cuz,” Ravonne said, and held his
hand out for Andre to shake. “We’ve changed the carpet from
white to cream, but we still ask our guests to remove their shoes
and wear moccasins.”
“Let me guess, that must be the man of the house rules,”
Andre said and laughed.
“Oh, you have gay jokes right out the gate, huh? Actually, it’s
my rule, ugly ass alien.” Ravonne headed to the bar. “Besides,
the man of this house is grown ass Brandon, not Dajuan.”
“Oh, wow. He’s grown now?” Andre asked, “What’chu
drinking?”
L A S T L A U G H
“Brandy, man. You don’t know about that. I have some ripple
for you.”
“You’re a fool,” Andre said walking over to the bar. He raised
a bottle of Ciroc into the air. “I’ll take this.” He crack the bottle
open and took a long sip. His face bunched up as the vodka
coated his throat and stomach. “Now, I can really hatch a plan.”
“So you’re going to just purloin my liquor.”
“Come on, cuz, with the big ass words. Although, I know that
one. We have to get Kareem out of there,” he said as Ms. Pearl
circled his feet.
Ravonne pick up his stocky, white Manx and held her in his
arms. He sat on the piano seat before he put her on the floor, and
dug into his briefcase.
Andre looked around the living room and smiled inside. He
was proud of his cousin and despite his same sex love affair,
Ravonne was his flesh and blood and he loved him as that. He
looked at the piano and the large clock that was made out of a
drummer’s cymbal and thought about Ravonne’s lover.
“Where is Dajuan and Brandon?”
“They’re at the chess club,” Ravonne said pulling his eyes
from a document long enough to reply.
R A H I E M B R O O K S
“Chess club?” Andre asked shocked. “So your six year old
learns Spanish, takes boxing and Judo, and now chess?”
“I am raising a child prodigy. Just like his dad.”
“You ain’t no damn child prodigy. How’s he holding up
knowing that Dajuan killed his mom? I still can’t believe it.”
Ravonne was not prepared to relive the moment that his
estranged now deceased wife, Ariel and his gay lover had faced
off, and she met her maker as a result. “Dajuan was in a life or
death situation, and he did what he had to do,” he replied and
thought about how Dajuan was arrested, but later released on
bail. He was eventually acquitted because the murder had
happened right in front of the FBI. They were following Ariel
for conspiring in a plot with a serial criminal, Mr. 357, to kidnap
Brandon and murder Ravonne.
Ravonne snapped back from memory lane and handed Andre
a document. “So what’s your plan to get Kareem out of jail that
you rushed over here to tell me?”
“I’m thinking he has to be broken out. Kidnapped.” Andre
said, and then looked at the papers that Ravonne handed him. “If
McKenzey has been out for this long, I am sure we can get
Kareem out and keep him out.”
L A S T L A U G H
“You make a great point, and that is what the legal document
that you’re holding seeks to do,” Ravonne said and sipped his
Brandy. “In your hands is the most powerful Motion to Dismiss
that I have ever written.”
“This is all good, man, but this doesn’t guarantee my brother’s
release.” Andre tossed the motion on the sofa next to him. “He
needs to be out of there right now.” Andre was beginning to get
angry and wasn’t sure that Ravonne understood his urgency.
“Andre, I hear you, but this is all we can do. It’s a great novel
that you have spinning in your head, but we can’t pull off an
escape plan. Besides, it’s not worth it. There is no way that he’ll
be found guilty of aiding Agent McKenzey’s release. No jury
would believe that.”
“Cool,” Andre said and then stood up. “Well, you have no
problem helping me get him out of there. Illegally.”
“First of all, you need to have a seat. You’re making me
nervous standing and pacing around,” Ravonne stood up also.
He walked over to the bar, poured another drink, and then
returned to his seat. “I tell you what. I can get Kareem out of the
House of Correction and taken back to FDC. That’ll at least get
R A H I E M B R O O K S
him out of county segregation and back on a normal housing
unit.”
“No, fuck dat,” Andre said and sipped the vodka again.
“While they are transferring him, we can grab him and get him
out of that bullshit. May have to kill a couple of Secret Service
agents or marshals on top of that, but I don’t give a fuck.”
“Man, you need to stop that. Are you belligerent?”
“It’s called drunk.” Andre smirked. “I am not, though.” He
looked at Ravonne and smirked again. “Perhaps it’s called
inebriated in your world.”
“Man, don’t you start.”
“Start what? You act like I am trying to hear that uppity shit.
You still a nigga. I don’t give a fuck about your vocabulary,
man. Start talking what I want to hear in my language.”
Ravonne paused a minute and gathered himself. He knew
Andre all too well, and he hated for anyone to go against him. It
was a mandatory thing for him to get some counseling because
his belief that the world revolved around him was a delusion.
Delicately, Ravonne said, “I apologize for this, but we have to
do the right things if we want to help Kareem.”
“That’s the bottom line.”
L A S T L A U G H
“Yes, so we’re not breaking the man out of jail for a case that
will undoubtedly be dismissed, and cause him even greater
problems.”
“You wanna, bet.” Andre opened the vodka bottle again. He
took another big gulp that scorched his throat. He stood up. “I
am going to get him out of there, and you’re going to fucking
like it.”
“You need to stop that. I need a client.”
“You have one. And, guess what? You can still represent him
in absentia, because I am going to come up with a shownuff way
to get him up out of there.” Andre slipped his boots back on.
“And all you have to do is get an acquittal and he won’t have to
turn himself in. Hell, they can pretend to search for him like
they’re doing McKenzey.”
“Come on. Listen to yourself. You know that I can’t convince
a client of how successful a motion will be with the court, but as
my cousin, I assure you that this motion is winnable.”
“Your job should be easy in that case, counselor,” Andre said
as he opened the front door and left the condo.
R A H I E M B R O O K S