Dutch

  One-eyed Roc had just gotten out of Jumah, the Islamic prayer service held in the prison every Friday at 1:00 P.M. He walked down the hall, curious as to what was going on. Everyone was hyped up and loud; laughter rang as he returned to his cell and everyone was happy, open, and excited, like there was a party going on.

  “Yo, Roc, you ain’t heard?” asked some guy named Detroit as he ran up to Roc.

  “Heard what? I been in Jumah for the past hour and a half.”

  “Your man, Dutch! Yo, your man went all out! Nigga, shot up the courtroom, killed the judge, the jury, some mob muhfucker, everybody. Then he got away!”

  “Naw, naw, it ain’t go down like that,” said some other nigga who overheard Detroit and butted in. “The nigga ain’t get away,” the man said, clearing up the misconception.

  “Man, I heard the shit with my own two ears, fuck you talkin’ bout?” Detroit replied in an annoyed tone. He didn’t know where the guy came from or where he was getting his information.

  “You ain’t hear that! I’m tryin’ to tell you what the fuck I know.”

  Roc could see that the two men were about to begin arguing, so he walked away, shaking his head.

  Shot up the courtroom? And a mobster? Who they talkin’ ’bout, Frankie Bonno? Roc thought as he made his way into his cell. He quickly turned on the radio and searched the dial, until he heard…

  “We now know the identity of the shooters. There were approximately twelve in all, dressed as old ladies. They are believed to be members of an alleged group of women assassins. They call themselves Angel’s Charlies, their name courtesy of Angel Alvirez, a Hispanic woman who two years ago was convicted of killing a federal agent in a shootout in the St. Agnes Hospital parking lot and given multiple life sentences. At least seven of these women are confirmed dead. In total, eighteen people are dead. We are still waiting to learn what is known of Bernard James, aka Dutch…”

  Nina drove with her every thought on Dutch. Yes, she had finally made up her mind. She thought of the commitment she was making, the visits, the absentee holidays, the appeal denials, the disappointments, the dream, all of it. She was prepared… until she heard the reporter on the radio.

  “Yes, this is Miriam Roughneen reporting for Channel 11 news from the Essex County Courthouse where today’s trial ended in a deadly bloodbath.”

  In a daze, she heard the reporter but couldn’t believe what was said. Tears welled in her eyes. It hit her. It was over. There would be no remorse for Dutch, no other side of the game for him. He wouldn’t be going to prison, and she wouldn’t have to worry about the long trips to be by his side.

  She listened as the reporter ran off names of the dead, and she prayed his was not included. A horn honked behind her, and she pulled her car over to the side of the road. She couldn’t drive, her emotions wouldn’t let her, and as she realized the reality of the situation tears began to stream down her face.

  The reporter finished the list of names. Nina prayed that she wouldn’t say Dutch’s, and she didn’t. Relief filled her, and she thanked God, knowing that they were destined to be together. She put the car in drive and headed to the courthouse.

  Delores Murphy stood looking out the window of her penthouse apartment. The news played on the television behind her. She, too, heard the news and she felt heavy with grief. Grief because she felt the loss of her only son beginning to consume her. It was too much and merely a matter of time.

  There were too many murders and too many lives taken by the hand of one man. Dutch had caused tremendous pain and anguish, and Delores wished her son some peace. Yes, she wished peace for those who had suffered by his hand, too.

  The reporter’s voice could be heard coming from the television speakers.

  “Bob, I have a breaking update surrounding the trial of the century.”

  Delores turned to watch the television, unable to think of anything else.

  “We have with us Detective Edward Smalls. Detective Smalls, can you tell us what is happening?” the reporter asked.

  “This was certainly a tragedy no one expected. Somehow, Mr. James had smuggled automatic weapons through the elaborate detection system of the courthouse. We are trying to get all the facts at this time.”

  “Our sources confirm the deaths of Frank Sorbonno, Judge Whitak—”

  Detective Smalls cut the reporter off. “District Attorney Anthony Jacobs is also among the dead… excuse me,” he said, speaking quickly to someone standing behind him.

  Detective Smalls stepped to the side while a uniformed officer whispered in his ear. He looked confused, then nodded and returned to the reporter.

  “We now have information on Bernard James.”

  “I told you he wasn’t dead!” Jazz shouted.

  “They ain’t say he wasn’t!” Moet responded just as loudly.

  “Yo, World! World, tell this stupid muhfucka that niggas like Dutch don’t die!” Jazz said, turning to Young World.

  Young World looked around at his young team of wolves. They were all just like him. He had schooled them all and he had learned from the best…

  Dutch.

  World was only nineteen, but he was black, hungry, and hopeless, which in the ghetto meant dangerous. He already knew what he wanted. Lil’ Kim sang it to him all the time.

  Money… Power… Respect.

  World had started on Dutch’s street team on Hawthorne, but when Roc fell, Dutch gave World Roc’s spot on Prince also. Dutch liked World. He spent many a night with him explaining and priming the young hustler. Young World thought back to their last conversation.

  “The streets is gonna be wide open like pussy after this. Niggas you thought you could count on either gonna flip and try and go for dolo or nut-up under pressure. And everybody gonna claim they speakin’ for me or on my behalf. Shit is gonna be crazy,” Dutch told him.

  “Now ain’t nothing I can do for you, you can’t do for yourself, but I’ma give you somethin’ for you to remember me by,” he added, handing Young World a large duffel bag.

  “The rest is up to you, lil’ man,” Dutch said, ending the conversation.

  Young World stood still as the television continued reporting on the trial of the century, as it was now being referred to. He had the duffel bag that Dutch had given him in his hands. Everyone was curious to know what was in the bag, even World himself. He still hadn’t looked in it. With Dutch, you never knew. So just in case that crazy nigga wanted his bag back, World considered himself holding it for a minute.

  “Yo, World, you think he dead or what?” Jazz repeated.

  Young World gazed at Jazz, his right-hand man. He knew if anybody flipped, it wouldn’t be Jazz or anybody in the room… they were a family to one another.

  Young World was about to finally answer, but before he could, the reporter came back on TV.

  “Detective Smalls, before you were called away, you said that you had information on Bernard James?”

  “Yes, we do. Bernard James is dead. We just found his body.”

  “Detective Smalls of the Newark Police Department has just informed me that Bernard James is in fact dead. A tragic day here in Essex County. We’ll keep you posted…”

  Young World’s street team all lowered their heads. They couldn’t believe their ears, but they had all heard it. Young World laid the duffel bag on the table and the sound of its zipper caught everyone’s attention. Young World reached in the bag and pulled out a .32 automatic. It was the gun that Dutch had used in his first murder. Then he began pulling out stack after stack of money, totaling five hundred thousand dollars. Then he reached in the bag and pulled out Dutch’s crown…

  Kazami’s infamous dragon chain.

  World slowly put the chain around his neck as if it had belonged to him all along. Everybody stared at him in awe. They knew the two men who had worn that chain and what it meant.

  Young World glanced down at the chain. He thought of Dutch, and all the things the man had taught him over the years. He felt honored
to be the one left holding the dragon chain, and he meant to hold the position Dutch had left behind.

  He placed the plate-sized charm under the light and watched the diamonds and rubies dance.

  “Ain’t no turnin’ back now. We ’bout to get this shit on and poppin’. Anybody feel different, need to bounce now,” said World, ready to play his position.

  No one moved.

  Qwan was sitting at his desk in his large church office watching CNN when he heard the news. He thought back to the day he saw Dutch in court, when he was testifying against him. No matter what, Dutch had always had his back, and what he did in the courtroom proved it. Qwan felt in his heart he had done the right thing, but he also knew in his heart that he had betrayed a friend. A good friend.

  He hit the off button on the remote and watched as the television screen faded to darkness. He did not want to hear any more about the trial or about Dutch. It was all a part of the past now, or at least for him it was. He had made his peace with his past. It had haunted him for so long, but now he felt he could let go. And his demons were exactly where he wanted them, in the past.

  He bowed his head and said a short prayer for Dutch’s soul.

  Delores Murphy stood frozen and still. Her heart became saddened as she heard the detective say her son’s dead body had been recovered. For Dutch, she would be strong. There would be no tears for Delores, only another ache to add to her long list of life’s disappointments.

  You kept your promise though and died free. You didn’t let them lock you up. You put up a fight. I love you, son.

  She felt her eyes begin to draw tears. She wiped them, quickly, then walked into her kitchen to make a cup of tea.

  Delores was from that era when black was power and freedom was all you had. But a black man never had any real freedom and still doesn’t. Back in Delores’s day, freedom was something to fight for if you wanted it. Delores and her generation were that generation of people who fought. The Malcolm Xs, the Huey Newtons, the Black Panthers, and so forth fought in their day; they just didn’t win.

  They fought a war that never got printed in the history books or taught in the public school system. However, Delores kept notes. And today her son would not go to a white man’s prison and be a slave. She was honored by his exit.

  She smiled, then sipped her tea.

  O’Neal sat in his living room watching Channel 9 report the news from the courthouse. It was finally over. He looked down at his missing legs in his wheelchair. He had felt the pain of his loss every day since the police precinct bombing. It had literally shattered his world. Never being able to walk again was something he still hadn’t come to terms with. He stared at the television as the reporter spoke of the dead body of Bernard James, which had just been found.

  He smiled, held up the beer he was drinking in a mock toast, and said his own little prayer for Dutch.

  “Burn in hell, nigger.” He laughed.

  Mrs. Piazza switched the television to another channel, searching for more news on the trial of the century and Dutch. Her phone rang, but she did not answer.

  Thank you, Dutch. She spoke to herself as tears streamed down her face for Dutch.

  She hadn’t returned to the courthouse after seeing Dutch, but she thought of him every day. Dutch, to her, was like the son she never had.

  When Roberto had the heart attack, Dutch rushed to the County Memorial Hospital emergency ward. He stayed with Roberto, by Mrs. Piazza’s side.

  “Dutch, go on now, go home, get some rest. I’ll be fine,” whispered Mrs. Piazza, as she placed a warm hand on his back.

  “How can I leave him like this? He’s the only man that’s been in my life since I was young, and now I’m a grown man. He’s the only man I’ve ever known to look out for me like a father and I know that if it were me, he’d stay,” said Dutch, his eyes filled with tears for Roberto. Mrs. Piazza put her arms around Dutch and hugged him tightly, holding her close to him.

  “Stay.”

  When he died, Dutch stayed right by her side as he knew Roberto would have wanted. She had her sisters and his family, of course. But there was a special bond she and Dutch shared. She remembered their last meeting prior to the trial.

  A few weeks after Fat Tony’s death, Mrs. Piazza called Dutch and told him to meet her at the pizza shop. When he got there, the lights were off, but the door was left open.

  He walked into the parlor and flipped the light switch on the wall, but the lights did not come on.

  “Dutch, come in. I’m in the back.”

  “Mrs. Piazza,” Dutch called out as he nervously moved in the dark to the sound of her voice.

  She lit a lighter and he saw her face behind the flame.

  “Mrs. Piazza, you okay?” Dutch asked, bending his head and looking at her, somewhat confused.

  “You must leave, Dutch. Frankie Bonno has set you up to fall. He’s paid the prosecutor’s office to investigate you. They’re going to indict you and put you in prison, where you will be murdered. The other families, well, what can I say, they agreed.”

  “Did they agree to this before or after Fat Tony’s death?”

  “Dutch, you know the answer to that. Fat Tony’s death changed a lot of things for everyone, not just you,” she said, thinking of the loss Fat Tony represented to all.

  She looked at him confused, wondering if he understood. If Fat Tony was dead, and Frankie Bonno was still walking, it wasn’t too hard to figure out what the families had agreed to.

  “Go, please. You must leave, now. Get yourself out of the country while you can,” she ordered him.

  “I can’t leave, but I thank you. You’ve always been there for me. You’re like a mother to me, you know that?” he asked, looking into her watery eyes.

  “You’re like a son to me, too. You know that, Dutch, like a son,” she said putting her arms around him and cradling him in her arms, desperate for his future.

  She was risking her life meeting him. But she knew it was the right thing to do, just as Dutch had saved her life so many years ago. She had every intention of returning the favor.

  “I love you, Dutch. You take care of yourself, capisce?”

  “Si, capisco.”

  Mrs. Piazza took his face in her hands and kissed Dutch’s right cheek, then his left, before letting his face go. He took her hands into his and removed the lighter she was holding.

  “I need this, Miriam,” he said. He had never before called her by her first name.

  “Wha’? You don’t smoke. You startin’ fires, now?” she asked jokingly as she handed it to him.

  “I’m ’bout to,” he said, smiling his infamous smile, letting her know he had it all under control.

  She grabbed a tissue and wiped the tears from her eyes and face. Oh, Dutch, if only you had listened to me. She grabbed the remote to the television and pressed the off button.

  By the time Nina reached the courthouse, the police had blocked off the area. Luckily, she found parking, and it was then that she heard the reporter speaking with Detective Smalls.

  “We just found his body.” Those were the words still ringing through her body. She dropped her small purse on the passenger seat as her body went limp. She had never gotten the chance to tell him how she felt. How she wished to be with him. Now, he was gone.

  Nina bent her head as tears began to stream down her face. She felt the same pain and shed the same tears as she had for her brother, so long ago.

  Angel sat on her bunk listening to NPR News. She heard the words, but it didn’t register. Dutch, dead? He can’t be, and her mind would not allow her to associate the two. Dutch can’t die. She wouldn’t let him. She felt her chest tighten as she balled up her fist, and she tried to hold back tears. She had not cried in over twenty years. She wanted to hit something, hard, to let out the pain. She hit her pillow, then began swinging the pillow harder and harder onto the metal railing of the bunkbed until the pillow burst open and its stuffing showered the cell like rain. I love you, Dutch, she
silently thought.

  In his hotel suite, Mr. Odouwu received a phone call, informing him about the news of Dutch. He hung up the phone and smiled lightly as he poured himself a Scotch. Taking a sip, he went back to the phone, dialed a number, and waited for an answer.

  “Book me a flight to France, right away,” he ordered, then hung up the phone.

  • • •

  “See, I knew it. I knew that soldier was a fighter. God damn, we fighting a war and we done started winnin’ now!” yelled the war-torn soldier, still sitting at the bar.

  “I told you, old man, the war is over, calm down,” said the bartender from the other end of the bar.

  “Man, you must not be able to see what I do.”

  “See what?”

  “See,” said the old man. Then he smiled… just like Dutch.

  The news of Dutch’s death went through the city like an electrical current. Everyone felt the shocking effect of his demise and the void left behind. There were eight million stories told at his wake. The police kept vigil on the streets in hope of preventing the rise of the next young hustler trying to walk in his footsteps. But none would ever fill his shoes.

  Dutch was a legend.

  He had promised himself never to return to jail. He said he’d hold court in the streets. But the truth was, he had held the streets in court.

  EPILOGUE

  DON DIVA INTERVIEW… ONE YEAR LATER

  I went to see Rahman Muhammad at the federal penitentiary in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania. He had contacted me and informed me he would like to do the interview that I had proposed to him a week before. Rahman Muhammad, aka “One-eyed Roc,” was one of the original members of Dutch’s New Jersey clique. He is now Muslim, and is serving several life sentences.

  He walked into the visitation booth and picked up the phone. Our visit was held in a booth separated by six-inch-thick Plexiglas. Communication was facilitated by phones on both sides of the glass.