Hood Lemonade Jamika's Vendetta Page 13

  She held Jamika like she was a close friend or relative. The comforting was what Jamika needed. She cried in the woman’s arms. They cried together. Finally, the woman spoke up, “I understand your hurt,” she began. “But, I am sure your mother would want for you to go on in life. You have to be strong for your little sister out there. Losing her mother and big sister in one week, has got to be pretty tough for her too. You have to pray, and let God fight your battles. He is the miracle worker. I know that losing your mother and being in federal custody, all at once, seems overwhelming. Well, maybe God has some great plan for you, and he needs for you to be strong enough to endure it. Remember, whatever doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. Life deals a lot of lemons, it’s up to you to make lemonade.”

  Jamika said, “Hey, my Grandma Marjorie told me that before.”

  “Yeah, my mother used to tell me that all the time.”

  “Really?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I really feel a lot better. Thank you for listening to me. By the way, what’s your name?” Jamika asked.

  “It’s Felise.”

  Jamika quickly turned to look at the woman when she heard the whisper of her mother’s name.

  The woman was suddenly gone. She hadn’t seen her leave, or heard any doors open or close. She got up, ran for the door and tripped. As her head struck the padded door, she sat up in bed. She felt her wrists that were unscathed, and realized that she had been dreaming. She sat there for a long time, thinking about the dream. Jamika felt as if her mother had visited her in the dream to give her needed strength. Jamika decided that she would be strong from here on out. She would survive this, as she had everything else. She quietly sang herself back to sleep.

  The next day at the bond hearing, Jamika was given a quarter of a million-dollar bond. She knew that her family could not afford that, so she’d have to sit in jail. She knew that Dee could afford it, and him being nowhere around, further confirmed that he knowingly put her at risk.

  She was given a public defender to defend her case. Jamika met with the attorney, and explained to him exactly what happened, and how she’d ended up with drugs in her suitcase. He told Jamika that there wasn’t any way to prove that, and that she was looking at a mandatory ten to forty-year sentence for the amount of drugs she was importing.

  He was pushing for Jamika to plead guilty to knowingly transporting the five kilograms of cocaine. Then maybe they could work out a plea agreement for less time, being that this was Jamika’s first and only offense. He explained to Jamika that the FBI won ninety percent of their cases that were taken to trial. He told Jamika she’d do more than the ten years if found guilty in a federal courtroom.

  Jamika needed time to think, time to let it all soak in. It looked as if either way it went; she would be spending time in prison. She felt the tears begin, but held them back. She was tired of crying, it never made anything better. She looked at the words across the indictment that she held in her trembling hands. It read, “United States of America -vs- Jamika Tyler.” She knew from that day forth, she would no longer cry. She would be stronger than she ever thought possible.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jamika entered the gates of the Tallahassee Federal Correctional Institution, in shackles and handcuffs. She’d been in Miami Detention Center for the last six months, before she was finally sentenced. Jamika plead guilty to the charges. She was given a reduction in her sentence, based on her being a first-time offender, with a non-violent charge. She ended up with a sentence of ninety-six months, down from the proposed one-hundred twenty months.

  Like everyone that gets indicted, Jamika was offered a further reduction for information on any other “federally qualified” crimes she may have known about related or not related to her crime. Just from being a product of the hood, Jamika could have turned in a laundry list. These people were criminals to the feds, but to her, they were her people. They were just trying to make a dollar out of fifteen cents. The feds had no idea of where they came from. Her people had nothing to do with her mess, so that was not a second thought to her. She told them she knew of no one.

  She struggled up the stairs in the shackles. She repeated the words that had become her personal anthem, “Life deals lemons, it’s up to me to make lemonade.” Most of the women at the Miami F.D.C. considered Jamika mean and caught up on herself, because she rarely talked or participated in games or recreation. Jamika would only come out of her room to eat and shower. She would stay in her room meditating, writing lyrics and humming along to songs she wrote. This was her outlet, and only means of release.

  The female officer was telling Jamika to strip and Jamika complied. She figured that Tallahassee wouldn’t be much different than Miami was. She was sure it would be filled with women of all types, from all different backgrounds. There would be the same constant catfights, and whispers of women talking about one another. Jamika thought about how two women could barely live together, let alone nearly twelve hundred.

  Jamika bent over, put her hands to her buttocks to spread them, and then coughed. She lifted her feet, and then her breasts one at a time. The practice had become so routine and mundane; that it had become as natural as something she’d learned at birth. She no longer felt ashamed or degraded by the intimate searches.

  She was then sent off to laundry for fitting. She was given four khaki shirts, three khaki pants, four pairs of socks, six pair of underwear, five brassieres, and a pair of steel-toed working boots. She thought that the government must have been unaware that that there were seven days in a full week.

  She then went to her assigned unit to get settled in. This was definitely different than Miami was. This was an open dormitory, with little spaces divided by short walls called cubicles. There were a set of bunk beds on each side of the cubicle that she was assigned to and she began to put her things away. She made the bed easily, being that she’d slept on a top bunk during her stay in Miami.

  The three white women she’d be sharing the cubicle with, did not bother to speak. Jamika noticed this, but really did not care. She wasn’t trying to make any friends. She climbed the ladder to her bunk, and began to read a book she’d been dying to get back to since she left Miami.

  She heard the many voices around her and tried her best to block them out. She quickly peered around. From the top bunk, you could see the tops of all the other cubicles, all the way down to the restrooms at the end of the row. Sleeping in the open like this was definitely going to take some getting used to. She felt the gaze of someone on her, and turned her head to see a tall, Mexican woman with long braids, standing in her cubicle beside her bed.

  The woman resembled a man. Jamika would have mistaken her as such, but she knew that only women were imprisoned there. Jamika looked at the woman, and then back down at the book she had been reading. Suddenly her bed began to vibrate. She looked up to see the woman shaking her bed and smiling at her. Jamika looked back at the woman without smiling. The woman stopped shaking the bed, now that she had Jamika’s attention. “What’s up, Mami?” she asked.

  “Nothing at all,” Jamika responded, again looking down at her book. Jamika heard the room grow quiet and instantly knew that her response must have been the wrong one.

  The woman snatched Jamika’s book and threw it on the floor. Jamika did not accept that kind of behavior from anyone. Yet, judging by the size of the woman; Jamika decided that it would be best for her to remain calm. “Listen, Brown Eyes. I am Juano. I get whatever I want, when I want it. I will meet you in the bathroom after lights out. I got something to show you.”

  “You ain’t got shit to show me!” Jamika blurted out before she realized it.

  The woman grabbed Jamika’s leg and started to press down. There was so much pressure on her leg that Jamika was positive she’d soon hear the crack of her bone. As the pain intensified, she knew that she had to get this woman off her, or she would have a broken leg.

  Jamika flipped herself on top of the woman, and they both c
ame down hard on the white tiles. Juano was surprised that Jamika had responded that way, and was trying to register what had just happened. Jamika took this opportunity to pound Juano with her fists.

  Jamika could hear rattling and running feet, as many of the other women jumped from their bunks to run over and watch the brawl. Then, Jamika felt a fist connect with her lower jawbone. She stumbled backwards and was sure that she was about to lose consciousness. She shook off the dizziness, and fought to keep her balance.

  Then she was overcome by a combination of intense punches. She felt the hard, tile floor as it connected with the back of her skull. After what seemed like forever, two officers appeared pulling Juano off her. The other women were ordered to return to their bunks.

  Jamika spent that night in the infirmary. She’d suffered a swollen eye and lip, a cracked knee, and one of the molars near her jawline had been knocked out. She felt proud that she’d defended herself and not cried. No more tears. The next day, she was taken to the Special Housing Unit, known to inmates as the SHU, pronounced “shoe”, the federal system’s version of the hole.

  For the first year of her sentence, the SHU was where Jamika did her time. She preferred it. When she was there, she had a cell to herself with its own toilet. She could enjoy her privacy. Unfortunately, her disciplinary and incident reports were becoming so plentiful, that she would soon lose all of her gain time and do every day of her eight-year sentence. She wanted to go home sooner than that, so she knew that eventually, she’d have to cool it.

  Jamika studied for her GED, and passed it on the first try. She then started to tutor other inmates wanting to get their GED. She also attended psychological therapy. Jamika’s mood had begun to improve; she had even begun singing again.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The time was slowly creeping by. Jamika still had six years left of her sentence. She, at most times, could not see the end. But, she had to do it, she had to remain strong. No more tears.

  One Tuesday, as Jamika was dressing for her tutoring job, an officer approached her cubicle and told her to pack out. When she asked where she was going, the officer only replied, “On writ.”

  Jamika was confused. She knew that inmates only went on writ if they had existing warrants, pending charges, violation of probation, appeals and things of that nature. Jamika had none of these. “What for?” Jamika asked the officer.

  “Just pack out, Tyler. Be at Records by nine ‘clock.”

  By eleven o’ clock, Jamika was on an airplane, guarded by U.S. Marshals, once again handcuffed and shackled. The plane landed in Miami. Jamika felt a quiet, happiness as she saw the familiar detention center that had initiated her time.

  After the initial strip search, Jamika was led to a small room. Five men were already inside, seated and waiting patiently. Three of the men, Jamika recognized immediately. Her attorney was there, along with the customs agent who had arrested her, and the district attorney for the United States, who had helped convict her. There were two other men present that Jamika did not know.

  The handcuffs and shackles were being removed and she was directed to take a seat next to her attorney. Unsure of what was happening; her hands began to sweat, as they always did when she became extremely nervous. She could not fathom what the reason could be for this “rush-rush and hush-hush” meeting.

  The DA began to speak. “Hello, Ms. Tyler, I am glad to see that you had a safe flight.” Jamika wondered as to when the district attorney started to give a damn about her well-being. He had tried to give her ten years, on a first-time offense. “Let me introduce everyone here,” he continued, “this is your arresting officer, Mr. Carter. This is U.S. Marshal, Donald Feelswell, and FBI agent, William Conner. Each man gave a slight nod as their name was called, as if they were all meeting for the first time at a cocktail party.

  “You have been brought here because we think that maybe we could help one another,” the DA continued. He glanced at Jamika to see her reaction. She remained still and expressionless.

  He started to speak again, “Mr. Carter, your arresting officer has explained how convincing you were at your arrest, as if you really knew nothing of the cocaine that you imported. Your attorney has been in criminal defense for over seventeen years, and has a real knack for determining the guilt or innocence of his clients, although he’ll defend either.” The men around the table chuckled lightly.

  “When we asked him why he fought so hard for you, he told us because he was positive that those drugs weren’t yours,” he paused and again looked at Jamika. She still showed no emotion.

  “Over the past two years, we’ve arrested four women coming from various countries with cocaine. They all have claimed to be going to meet with record or talent agencies. We’ve arrested one rapper, one other singer, and two models. All four are very young like yourself, no priors, and say that they were sent by Daddy Dee.”

  Mr. Feelswell then took over, “As we understand it, this Daddy Dee is a real lady’s man. A smooth, flower-bringer type of guy. It seems that he preys on the talent of young, ambitious women, to keep his undercover drug scheme going. No telling how many girls he’s sent that actually made it through. You girls get caught, sent off to prison and he never does. Well, I personally think that it is time that he does.”

  The DA paused from some type of reaction from Jamika, then started to speak again, “We are almost positive that his real name isn’t Deonte. To make a long story short, we’ll offer you immediate release without probation and complete clearance of your personal criminal record, if you help us bring in Daddy Dee.”

  The room grew quiet as the men waited for some type of response from Jamika. Jamika had a definite vendetta against Deonte, or whoever the hell he was. She thought back to the night of her seventeenth birthday party. She’d forgotten that she’d sung that night at her surprise party. Dee had been there and had indeed already known that she could sing.

  She thought about the song, “Hood Lovers”. Last year the song had gone to the top of the charts. She hadn’t received a single dime or any notoriety for her soulful hook that brought the song to life. Most of the women at the prison loved that song. Jamika never told them that it was her voice being broadcast over radio waves everywhere. Now there may actually be a chance for her to be compensated for all that she had been through.

  “What are the conditions?” Jamika asked, still expressionless. The district attorney began, “We’ll allow you six months on the streets to reel him in. All we need is an admission from him, on tape somehow, that he sent you.”

  “That sounds really easy,” Jamika said sarcastically. “Well, we have a lead on his whereabouts. Agent William Conner is an undercover agent. His sister is Juicylicious.”

  Now they had Jamika’s attention and her excitement was hard to contain. “The female lyricist, Juicy, is your sister?” she asked.

  “No doubt,” the agent said, with a New York dialect.

  Jamika studied Agent Conner for the first time since she’d been in the room. He was the only black man present. He sported a short cut with a goatee, and definitely had hip-hop quality. She guessed that the suit is what had thrown her off at first. “Okay… and?” she said, still looking at Agent Conner. “And his sister knows Daddy Dee personally. He’s done beats for her on both of her albums. She helps line up opening acts for his potential superstars. Mr. Conner has a copy of his schedule, for the next three months. We want to send Mr. Conner in as your manager. You’ll do some opening performances at some of the places his people will be performing. We feel that maybe this way, you two could become reunited.” Jamika remained quiet and listened intently.

  “Mr. Conner will assure your safety. We have a one-bedroom apartment for you, so that your family will not be involved. You are to tell everyone that you were released on early parole. No one is to know the true reason you are back on the streets. Before I go any further, I need to know if you are willing to participate in this.”

  “If I snag him, are all the thin
gs you’re promising me guaranteed and in writing?” Jamika asked, genuinely interested now.

  “Of course,” the DA said.

  “Do I have to spend the whole six months with ‘Agent half-thug’ over there?” she asked.

  A few of the men chuckled, as Agent Conner smiled.

  “No. It’ll be only for sting purposes. You will be able to relax at your apartment alone. You will have your quiet and peace of mind.”

  “Okay, peace of mind is good. But, I have been incarcerated for over two years. A piece of a man would be even better!” she said jokingly.

  All of the men laughed at that. They were beginning to like Jamika. She was young, intelligent, and more assertive than they had anticipated. She had just about won the respect of the entire room.

  “Okay, Ms. Understandably Horny; you meet a nice guy, we wire the first few dates to check the guy out. If he’s cool, you can bring him home.”

  “All right, I can go for that. One more thing. If I get this guy, do you agree to let me keep that apartment and give me a little boost, say twenty-thousand dollars?” she asked.

  “What?” the DA asked.

  “Look, if you hear Daddy Dee say those drugs were his, you’ll know that I honestly knew nothing of this. I am only twenty-two years old and this has uprooted my life. Now, you want to put my life in danger to get your man. Well, what about me? The least you can do is help me get my life back.”

  “Uh, I don’t know. Do they allow gratuity of that sort, Marshal Feelswell?” he said.