Chapter Twenty-nine
After rotting for more time than he thought was possible in the Federal Prison Camp in Atlanta, the day had finally come for him to get out of there. Former DEA agent Kenneth DeFrancisco wasn’t getting out of jail altogether though. He still had thirteen more years on the fifteen-year sentence he was serving for his involvement with drug trafficking that, had it been successful, would’ve had Mike Black in there instead of him. Then, two days after he was taken into custody, the government, confiscated all of his assets. His sprawling home, the condo on the North Carolina coast, his prized cars, motorcycles, even the cash he had neatly stashed in off shore accounts. The most important thing he lost was his wife.
He thought back to the last time he spoke to his wife Jane. “They’re putting me out!” she had cried that day. She had barricaded herself in the bedroom while IRS agents went through everything they owned. They hadn’t paid taxes on millions of dollars. “Where am I supposed to go? What about the kids? You need to fix this! You need to fix this, now!” That last conversation with his wife woke him up every night and reminded him just how much he hated Mike Black.
Even that didn’t matter that morning. For DeFrancisco, 6:00 am couldn’t come fast enough. He was up and dressed before five that morning and sat patiently waiting for something that he had begun to think would never come. He was excited, because this particular morning, DeFrancisco was being transferred to another institution.
“And it’s about damn time that arrogant prick Marshall got off his ass and did something for me,” DeFrancisco said as he got up from his bed and began pacing back and forth in his cell.
Even though he was talkin’ shit about it, he was at first surprised and then thankful the week before when the guard told him that he had a phone call.
“Somebody callin’ me?” he asked. He very rarely got any phone calls, and the entire time he’d been there, he had only one visitor. As he got up and waited for the cell door to open, DeFrancisco thought that it could only be his old friend and partner, Pete Vinnelli on the line for him. Vinnelli, dressed in biker gear and posing as DeFrancisco’s lawyer was his lone visitor.
“Is this Kenneth DeFrancisco?” the perky sounding female asked.
“Yes, this is,” DeFrancisco responded curiously. He was sure that it was Vinnelli calling.
“My name is Danielle Summer. I am the personal assistant to Senator Martin Marshall. How are you today, Mr. DeFrancisco?”
“I’m fine,” DeFrancisco said excitedly. The words Martin Marshall were more than enough to cause that reaction. He had been reaching out to Marshall through Vinnelli and writing him letters since the day he got to that shit hole to do something for him. DeFrancisco felt like Marshall owed him that for not snitching on him about his involvement with Diego Estabon in the very case he was doing time for.
“Senator Marshall sends his regards and best wishes to you, and his sincere apology for not being able to speak with you personally. Senator Marshall wants you to know that he has received all of your of correspondence regarding a transfer to an institution in your home state due to the hardship it places on your minor children for visitation.”
“That’s refreshing to know,” DeFrancisco said, encouraged by the direction the conversation was going.
“The Senator wanted me to express that while he is understanding and very sympathetic to your situation,” Danielle Summer explained, “he strongly encourages you to continue to go through the established channels to secure a transfer. The Senator is confident that once your case is reviewed, that you will have no problem getting your request approved. However, once you have exhausted all other remedies at your disposal without success, please, by all means, do not hesitate to write the Senator again.”
“You are sayin’ that he won’t help me? Is that what you called to say?” DeFrancisco asked angrily.
“Not at all, sir. What I said was, the Senator is confident that once your case is reviewed, that you will have no problem having your request approved. That sir, is what I said. Do you understand what I’m saying now?”
“Yeah, I understand,” said a dejected DeFrancisco.
“Then you have a good day, sir.” And with that, Danielle Summer ended the call.
On the way back to his cell, DeFrancisco felt like he had just had his insides kicked out. Not only wouldn’t Marshall help him, he had the nerve to have some bitch call and tell him that he wasn’t gonna do shit for him. His mood had lasted for a couple of days when he was once again escorted from his cell. This time he was taken to the administration area where he was informed that he was to be transferred to another Federal Prison Camp.
“That is the very best news you could have possibly given me,” DeFrancisco said. “Thank you, thank you very much.”
On the way back to his cell, DeFrancisco thought back to his conversation with Marshall’s assistant.
Now DeFrancisco took back almost every bad thing that he had ever said about Marshall. “Except for arrogant prick; ’cause that son-of-a-bitch is one arrogant prick,” DeFrancisco said as he waited.
After DeFrancisco was processed, he was taken to Hartsfield-Jackson airport, which was located just outside Atlanta, and flown to Raleigh, where he would serve the remainder of his time at a minimum-security facility housing male offenders, located in Goldsboro, North Carolina.
Once they got off of their flight, DeFrancisco and the officer made the seventy-two mile drive to the Federal Prison Camp located on Seymour Johnson Air Force Base, east of the city limits of Goldsboro. When they got off of I-40 East and onto US-70 East, the officer noticed a car coming up behind them, and it was closing in fast.
Thinking that the car was just another speeding motorist, the officer flipped on his lights to slow them down, but the car kept coming. Before he could react, the speeding car slammed into the back of his cruiser.
“What the fuck!” The officer said as he tried to regain control of his vehicle.
DeFrancisco bounced around in the back seat. “What the hell is goin’ on?” he yelled.
“Some crazy son-of-a-bitch just ran into the back of us!” he yelled as the car slammed into them again. The officer sped up and tried to get away. As he began to pull away, he reached for his radio, but was startled when he heard a loud noise. “They shot out our tire. Hold on!” he shouted to DeFrancisco. The officer grabbed the radio, but it fell out of his hand when the car slammed into the back of the cruiser again. This time the car stayed on them and rode them off the road.
Before the officer could regain his composure, two armed men wearing masks were on either side of the car. One quickly opened the driver side door and dragged the officer out of the cruiser, while the other pulled out DeFrancisco. The shaken officer was led away from the car at gun point by one of the masked men and handcuffed to a nearby tree, while DeFrancisco was taken to their car by the other. “Who the hell are you?” DeFrancisco yelled as he struggled.
“I’m your executioner,” the masked man said and hit the former agent with the butt of his gun, knocking him out cold.
When DeFrancisco came to and looked around, he was in what appeared to be an abandoned house. Once he began to move he could hear voices. “He’s wakin’ up, Mike.”
“It’s ’bout time. I didn’t think I hit him that hard.”
As DeFrancisco’s eyes began to focus, he saw two black men coming toward him. One of the men immediately hit him in the face. “Who the fuck are you?” DeFrancisco yelled.
“You don’t know who I am? After all the shit you did to me, you don’t know who I am.”
“No, I don’t know who you niggas are or what you want, but I’m tellin’ you-” DeFrancisco started, but his words were met with a fist in his face.
“It don’t even matter if you know who I am. I just wanna ask you one question.”
DeFrancisco spit blood from his mouth. “What?”
“Why did you kill my wife?”
DeFrancisco dropped his head, but quickly looked up at the man that stood before him. “Mike Black?”
