CHAPTER 32
Two days had passed since the altercation between Jihad and Shawn at the African American Art Museum. Jihad made an attempt to make light of his words and Shawn casually dismissed it, blaming the liquor. Everything continued as normal.
Their shipment of cocaine was scheduled to arrive in three days. Shawn had a little over one kilo remaining, and the way his phone was ringing, he knew it would all be sold before the day was over. He was cruising down Broad Street in his blacked out Dodge Challenger SRT, zoning out to Meek Mill’s new mix tape when the phone rang. The music instantly muted when he answered.
“Wassup?”
“Wassup, young bawh?” Abdul Malik’s voice came through the car’s speakers. He was an OG from Passyunk Projects who ran the streets with Mack’s father back in the day. After serving a considerable amount of time in federal prison, he was sent back to the same streets a lot older, and stigmatized as a felon. The only place that would be slow to discriminate and quick to hire him was the streets. Therefore, he returned to what he’d been doing throughout his entire life – hustling.
“Wassup, old head?”
“Man, I’m mad as hell. I went to get a pack of smokes and they turned me down ‘cause I was short a quarter!”
Shawn picked up on the key word, which was quarter. That meant Malik wanted to buy a quarter kilo of cocaine. “Don’t worry about that, I’ll bring you a pack of smokes. Where you at?”
“I’m in Passyunk Projects.”
“Aaight, give me fifteen minutes.” Shawn hung up, drove to his apartment that was used to store his drugs, weighed two hundred and fifty grams on the triple beam scale, placed it in a plastic Zip Lock bag, grabbed his Taurus 9 mm, and left.
On his way to make the sale, he drove down Hartranft Street. Blake was standing in front of the corner store when he saw the Challenger heading in his direction.
He waved his hands in the air, getting Shawn’s attention. Shawn abruptly pulled over once he noticed who it was. Blake owed him thirty five hundred dollars. He got in the passenger’s seat and counted two grand for Shawn and promised to call him later to pay off the remaining balance. Blake got out of the car and Shawn pulled off, merging into traffic.
A Philadelphia patrol vehicle was a few cars behind, noticed the black Dodge Challenger pull into traffic without using its signal. The officer also noticed that the driver wasn’t wearing his safety belt. He activated his flashing lights. The two cars in front of him pulled over immediately. The officer sped up until he was directly behind the Challenger.
“Fuck!” Shawn cursed after looking in his rear view mirror. He saw the bright whir of lights. His first instinct was to fasten his seatbelt and put the 707 horsepower engine crammed into his Challenger Hellcat to the test. Shawn had a valid driver’s license and his new car was properly insured. After reasoning with himself, he pulled over.
Coming to a stop behind the Challenger, the officer slid out of his patrol car, and walked up to the driver’s side of the muscle car.
“Can you please turn your car off, sir?”
Shawn did as he was told. “Is there a problem, officer?”
“License and registration, please.” The officer gave the request, ignoring Shawn’s question.
As Shawn reached over to the glove box to retrieve the car’s registration, the officer placed his hand on his holstered firearm. He watched cautiously as Shawn grabbed the registration, and then dug into his jeans pocket to remove his driver’s license.
The officer looked from the license to Shawn – from Shawn to the license. He concluded that it was in fact his picture on the license. “You pulled away from the curb and into traffic without activating your turn signal. You’re also not wearing your safety belt.”
“I’m sorry, officer. I was in a rush to pick up my uncle from work.”
“Sit tight while I run your information.” The officer returned to his vehicle.
Shawn sat inside the car, doing his best to calm himself. He knew he didn’t have any warrants, so the most the officer could do was issue him a few tickets and send him on his way.
Within five minutes the officer was out of his car and walking back towards Shawn. By the time he made it to the door of the Challenger, another patrol car pulled over in front of it. “Sir, can you step out of the vehicle, please?” It was more of a demand than a request.
“Did I do something wrong?” Tiny beads of sweat quickly formed on Shawn’s forehead. His throat tightened.
“You have a felony drug conviction, you’re in a car that costs over sixty thousand dollars, and you just pulled off from a known drug area. That gives me probable cause to search you.” He lied. “Now can you please step out of the vehicle?” The officer who was now accompanied by another, kept his hand on his weapon. His hawk-like eyes were lasered on Shawn. He was prepared to react if any sudden movements were made.
Shawn’s heart began to beat like African drums during a ceremony. He looked at the two imposing white policemen and knew that he had no chance of escaping.
The drugs and gun were tucked under the passenger seat. He had nothing on his person. He opened the door and eased out of the car as calmly as possible. The officers, who were seasoned, observed Shawn’s outward appearance. Nervousness and anxiety were clearly evident in his demeanor.
They escorted Shawn to the rear of his car. “Place your hands on the trunk and spread your legs, sir.” Shawn did as he was instructed. While conducting the pat down, the officer removed a large sum of money from his front pockets. “This is a lot of money. How much do you have here?”
“Umm...I have around nine hundred in my left pocket, and...two thousand in my right,” he said, after recalling exactly how much Blake gave him.
“What are you doing driving around with so much money on you?”
“I had a good night at the casino this weekend. Is it illegal to have money?”
“Not at all, but when I find someone to be in possession of large amounts of money, and the majority of the bills are in small denominations, it gives me reasonable suspicion to believe it’s drug money.”
“Well, that ain’t drug money.”
“Zartman, search his car,” the officer said to the other one.
“You can’t do that. I didn’t give you permission to search my car!” Shawn began to turn around to face the officer.
“Place your hands behind your back!” He commanded after spinning Shawn back around.
The will for survival took precedent. Shawn used his weight to push the officer back, then took off.
The officer quickly regained his footing and gave chase. “Freeze... Stop mother fucker or I’m going to shoot!” He radioed for backup.
The officer’s threat was ignored as Shawn rapidly threw one leg in front of the other. He dodged cars as he ran across the street, darted between two houses, heading toward the rear. There was a metal fence that was chest high about thirty feet in front of him. He mentally prepared to jump it as he quickly became closer. Shawn placed his hands on top of the fence, but before he could hoist himself up, a powerful force slammed into him, knocking his tired body to the ground, and the wind out of his chest.
The uniformed officer delivered a barrage of punches and kicks to Shawn’s face and body. “Stop resisting you son of a bitch!”
“I’m...not...resisting!” Shawn screamed in between blows from the relentless assault.
Out of breath and gasping for air, the officer turned Shawn over. He dropped a knee into his back, twisted his hands behind his back with such force that Shawn thought his arm was broken. He then slammed the handcuffs over his wrists, securing them tightly. Shawn screamed in pain while being pulled to his feet by the cuffs. The officer radioed in his location and informed the other officers that the suspect had been detained.
“What the fuck you beat me up for?” he asked, taking in huge gulps of air.
“Shut your black ass up. You’re lucky I didn’t feel like doing the extra paperwork or I wo
uld have blown your fucking head off, you piece of shit! It’s not like anyone would have given a fuck.” The back-up officers met them as they were coming from the rear of the house.
“Looks like he took a fall,” one of the officers said with a smirk, noticing Shawn’s busted lip, along with his blood and grass stained shirt.
“The asshole took a swing at me,” he lied.
“You’re lucky it wasn’t me,” the black officer stated. “If it was, the coroner would have been coming to pick your ass up.” Shawn was taken back to where the incident occurred and placed in the rear of a patrol car. A few minutes later, he was escorted to the police station and taken to an interview room. It was small, with nothing but a table that had a single chair on one side and two chairs on the opposite side. It was evident that the eggshell white walls hadn’t been painted, or even cleaned, in years. There was also a tiny camera nestled in the upper corner of the wall.
Shawn sat in the uncomfortable chair inside the cold and unwelcoming room for nearly an hour, long enough to allow the depth of his situation to sink in. He thought of all the things he should have done differently to avoid being in the position he was in. Finally, he heard the sound of a key unlocking the door. When the door opened, a young, Hispanic man dressed in an inexpensive button down shirt, tan slacks and brown leather loafers walked in. He carried a cup of coffee and a file. After placing the items on the table, he introduced himself.
“Hello, Shawn Robinson. I’m Detective Melendez with the Philadelphia Special Investigation Unit.”
“How you doin’?” Shawn responded dryly.
Detective Melendez snickered. “A lot better than you, I’m afraid.” He watched as Shawn’s head sank, then continued, “Look, my man, I’m going to be honest with you. You’re in a shit load of trouble. You’re being charged with illegally possessing a firearm, possession of two hundred and fifty grams of cocaine, resisting arrest and assault on an officer.”
“Man, I never hit that cop. He’s lyin’!”
“I never asked you how you’re pleading to the charges. And to make matters worse,” Detective Melendez opened a brown file and fingered through a few pages, “you have a prior felony conviction for drug possession and assault.” Melendez shook his head in disappointment, placed his hands flat on the table, and looked Shawn directly in his eyes. “I don’t give a rat’s ass if you’re lucky enough to hire the best lawyer in the United States, you’re still going to prison for a very long time. And if we hand this over to the feds, which will more than likely be the case, you’ll be charged as an armed career offender. With these charges, you’ll get life.
“At this point you have two options: Either you can ask for a lawyer, at which point I will leave this room, and you will never take another breath of free air. Or, you can help yourself out of this situation. If you decide to help yourself, the only chance you’ll have at getting your freedom back is if you have something really big to offer. Either way, it’s up to you...”
CHAPTER 33
Vincent inhaled deeply as the crisp morning air shot into his nostrils, filling his lungs. He slowly exhaled while walking into the prestigious Goldman’s building, and mentally prepared himself for the tedious day that lay ahead. He made his way to the elevator and pushed the Up button. A moment later, the doors whisked open, and he entered. There were five other people aboard. He gave a courteous head nod, which for the most part went ignored by the people who were lost in their own world. He pressed fourteen, and then stood motionless.
Vincent had been on this elevator more times than he could count, and the awkward feeling never failed to present itself during the brief ride.
Everyone stood in an uncomfortable silence like horses in a starting gate, anticipating the opening of the door, so they can speed to their destination. Once the elevator reached the fourteenth floor, it issued a light chime, and the door opened smoothly. Just like the others, Vincent scurried off.
With one hand clutching his black, leather Marc Jacobs briefcase, he used his free hand to unbutton his wool pea coat, maintaining his stride. He shared curt greetings with those he passed en route to his office. Once there, he unlocked his door and entered, placing his briefcase on his desk and hanging his coat on the standing rack, and then took a seat behind his desk. Before he had a chance to turn his computer on, there was a knock at his door. “Come in!”
Vincent’s secretary, Marylin, walked in carrying a steaming cup of coffee, placing it next to him. Marylin was forty three years old, with a light tan, and sandy brown hair. She had hazel brown eyes that were filled with expression, high cheek bones and an admirable body that she dedicated one hour a day in the gym. She stopped aging ten years ago. “Good morning, Vincent.”
“Good morning, Marylin. Thanks for the coffee.”
“Don’t thank me just yet. I may have to make you a fresh cup. Jack just called. He asked me to make sure that you go to see him as soon as you step in. He said it’s urgent.”
“Have you noticed that everything around here is urgent?”
“Yeah, everything except a pay raise,” Marylin responded lightheartedly, and then left.
Vincent got up to leave, but before exiting, he retrieved his cell phone from his coat to take with him. Once again, he boarded the elevator and was struck with the same cumbersome feeling being cast off by a different group of people. Like them, he had become preoccupied in his thoughts.
Since the encounter at the black tie event, their conversations had become limited. Vincent understood that Jack held the power, and a wrong move on his end, or a simple decision by Jack, could derail his future at Goldman’s. Therefore, he had begun to prepare for the worst, and walked lightly in the process.
The elevator came to a rest on the twentieth floor where Jack’s office was located. He was greeted in the reception area by Lois, Jack’s secretary. “Good morning, Vincent. Jack is in his office. He’s expecting you.”
“Thank you.” Vincent casually made his way to the large mahogany wood door and knocked.
“Come in, Vincent.” The barrier muffled Jack’s voice to a barely perceivable sound.
Vincent walked in and saw Jack in a tailored gray suit sitting behind his large and unquestionably expensive polished mahogany desk. His piercing eyes settled on Vincent, never wandering away as he neared. “Have a seat.” Vincent sat down in a leather chair in front of his boss. “I would like to ask you a few questions.”
“Go right ahead, sir.” Vincent felt like he was back in college having an uneasy conversation with the dean, as butterflies churned in his stomach.
“Do you like your position here at Goldman’s?”
“Yes, sir. This has been my dream since high school.”
“There’s no question that you have a knack for what you do, but I’ll be honest with you. Everyone who works in this building has talent. Relying solely on your skills set can only get you so far. Is your ultimate goal to ascend the ladder, or are you satisfied with remaining complacent?”
Vincent shifted slightly in his seat. “Of course, I would love a higher position.”
“Well, that can only be done if you have the backing by the right people...people like me. And, in order for me to make that recommendation, I have to feel confident that your ultimate goal is to make sure that this company continues it’s legacy of being profitable. You must understand that the position you attain will come as a result of the role you play.” Jack’s words trailed off into silence. He wanted to be sure that Vincent digested them completely before he continued. “Are you ready to play a more pivotal role here at Goldman’s?”
“Sure.”
“Fine. Here’s your first task. I want you to sell eighty percent of the company’s shares of Schumblinger.”
Vincent was very familiar with Schumblinger. It was an oil company that had been receiving a lot of attention over the past few weeks. “But Jack, why would you sell eighty percent of those shares? Schumblinger is preparing to merge with oil field equipment mak
er, Carmen, in a deal that’s valued at eleven point six billion dollars. This will make them the world’s largest oil field company. The Schumblinger shares jumped forty two percent at the news that both companies approved the deal. The shares are going to rise another thirty-four percent, at minimum, before the close of the day.”
“No, Vincent. As of right now, those shares are valued at fifty nine dollars and ninety three cents. By the end of closing, I’ll be surprised if they’re worth eight dollars.”
“With all due respect, Jack, what you’re saying doesn’t make sense. Goldman’s will make millions of dollars because of this merger.”
Jack leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the desk and interlocking his fingers. “Listen to me, son. The board of both companies did approve the deal, but the transaction is still subject to Carmen shareholders’ approval, and regulatory approval. There will be a meeting today and by the end of this evening it will be announced that the deal did not go through.”
“How could you be certain that this will happen?”
“Maybe one day you will work yourself up to my position and you will align yourself with allies as I have.” Jack leaned back in his chair. “For your work, I will issue you a two hundred thousand dollar bonus and approve a ten percent annual raise.”
“Is this the same way you lured Marty Frankel into destroying his career?” Vincent asked, locking eyes with Jack.
“What in the hell are you talking about?”
“This is insider trading and you know it. You also know that I’m cleared to trade those stocks, so if the shit hits the fan it’ll blow in my face while you stay squeaky clean!”
“Let me tell you something, asshole,” Jack’s voice boomed like a father when scolding his son. “Marty made the decision that destroyed his career. He began as a team player, then during the middle of the game he wanted to change the rules to suit himself. That’s not how it goes! Do you think that what I’m doing is groundbreaking? No, it’s not. Insider trading builds money, which builds power, which is the foundation of this company. Goldman’s is a juggernaut. Neither one of us can stop its growth. Hell, Jesus can’t stop it. Now I suggest you get off your moral high-horse and get with the goddamn program, son.” Jack’s voice dominated the room.