motions. The police could have him under suspicion for any of a number of things, but with only a circumstantial case, he was going to walk. He wore his orange jumpsuit with a measure of pride.
A young boy with an old face — and eyes which had lost their innocence too soon — was next up before the judge.
'What's up, homie? Are you a thug?' the boy asked.
'Who asking?' Mulysa eyed him with bored wariness.
'I'm just sayin'. I got my own hoes,' he said with too much enthusiasm and empty braggadocio. 'I do some crazy shit. I ain't got time for that mess. My ass hurts from doing all this sitting. Waiting on my Johnny to get me off.'
'Nukka, you still got your baby teeth.' Mulysa couldn't be bothered to muster a bemused smile — more of a sneer masking a mild state of melancholy.
'I know how to jail,' the boy said as his case was called. 'Straight-up thug.'
Never show weakness, never back down, never step aside. The boy had already internalized some of the basic rules. The boy reminded Mulysa of how he was at that age: already a lost cause, beyond redemption. He knew what fate awaited the young'un, what few true options he had, and how he had embraced them.
They had pulled Judge Rolfingsmeyer, a fairminded jurist, with just an independent enough streak to piss off liberals and conservatives alike. This made him popular among the people. A jovial face, the judge's robes draped like a muumuu over him. At the moment, he appeared to be suffering a migraine as he rubbed his temples.
'I never wanted to hurt nobody. I just want to be a terrorist and blow stuff up,' the boy shouted out.
'You're too young to be doing these kinds of things. I mean, look at you: you haven't even grown out of your cute stage,' Judge Rolfingsmeyer said. 'I just want to eat you up.'
'Fuck you, judge.' The boy flipped him off. A bailiff immediately escorted him out. The judge ordered him held over for family court to decide the best course of action.
'Well, my, my, my. They grow up fast,' the judge remarked to his bailiff.
The hood was the main world Mulysa knew. Life in the Shoe was like a vacation in his summer spot. But in the court, mostly white faces greeted him from the judge to the bailiffs to the lawyers. He was in their world now. When they called his name or his case number, all he heard the word 'nigger'. Everything dripped with contempt. From the bench, the judge's words ran down his nose to him.
On the streets, he could defend himself. He'd go toe-to-toe with any fool who dared step to him. But in this world the assumptions weren't always physical. The pain crushed him in inner spaces, places he couldn't trace and rarely let himself acknowledge. He didn't know how to defend himself against this kind of attack. He only had his anger, and he stacked onto the kindling pile of his previous resentments and hates. His fist clenched out of reflex and his public aid lawyer nudged his arm and he relaxed.
Mulysa strode toward the judge, eyes meeting his, unafraid. Pride marched him forward now, as he was under the careful scrutiny of those in the gallery as well as those whose cases were up next. It was time for the show. Never show weakness, never back down, never step aside.
His court-appointed lawyer took apart the state's case, such as it was. He was little more than a person of interest, suspected of having knowledge in a few crimes. The death of Lamont 'Rok' Walters, even the fire at the Camlann apartments. Because the search was ruled illegal, the police didn't even have the drug charges to hold over his head. Not to mention how he was treated while a guest of the state.
'Son, sounds like you been into all sorts of mess,' Judge Rolfingsmeyer said. 'But it's not like the state has much of a case left. Got no reason to hold you on remand. A bit of an overreach, wouldn't you say, counselor?'
The state prosecutor mumbled to himself. Mulysa didn't like to be talked to that way. He tolerated it from Colvin. Mulysa grimaced under the pain of his own headache. They were getting worse now. Like a metal spike driven into his eye to stab him in his brain.
'You're going to be on a nine o'clock probation. You understand?'
'Yes, your honor.'
'So if your friends show up at ten-thirty at night and say 'Hey, we got a big ol' bag of weed',' the judge put on a street affect to perfection, ''let's go smoke,' what should you do?'
'I'd have to tell them 'Man, y'all shoulda been here earlier cuz I'm on curfew.'
Mulysa's public defender lowered his head.
'Right…' Judge Rolfingsmeyer glanced up from the stack of papers before him. 'The correct answer is 'weed is illegal and I still have to drop a piss test.' But I suppose that's as good as I'm getting.'
With that, Judge Rolfingsmeyer signed the papers and Mulysa was once again back on the streets.
Prez hated to visit his father. He knew in his heart of hearts that no one begrudged him his visits with his old man, especially now. Imminent death had a way of forcing that: cancer ate at his father's insides. Death rarely weighed on Prez, though its specter hung like a shadow over his soul.
Especially now, considering King. It wasn't as if Prez could talk to King. Though King had said it best before he was shot: 'Forgiveness is the only way to let go of the past. Relationships are fragile. Repair the rift between you and your father before much more damage is done. You don't know when the people you love will be called home. Time is always short.' Some things were morbidly expected, no, not expected, but rather unsurprising; only the method of his father's eventual demise had been up for grabs. Diet was never a particularly high concern as he ate pig's feet and barbecue ribs, and fried everything, washed down with vodka and Coke. Or brandy and Coke. Or rum and Coke. The man loved Coke. Say what you will, the man was brand-loyal, thus his twopack-a-day Kool habit. And exercise? Only if you counted his four-hundred-videotape porn collection, some of which he inherited from his father; and his predilection for chasing women other than his mother. So Prez had long resigned himself to the fact that his father was not long for this world. The only surprise was that he lasted so long.
The family had a cancer scare a few years back. Months of agonizing waits, treatments, and surgeries culminated in the removal of a lung. The crisis seemed over, the doctors confident that they got it all. His father lost a lot of weight ('the chemo diet', he called it) and gave up smoking. The family took its cue from him, hanging their hopes on his own lust for life. That was then.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Prez suspected that his father started smoking and drinking in earnest again in the hopes of dying. Like maybe he took a look at the measure of his life, realized what a waste his was, and decided that it wasn't worth it. Prez wasn't even sure things worked that way, but the thought stayed with him. The cost of treatment had strained the family's resources to the breaking point, but all they thought about was getting him better. However, Prez recognized the anger in his father's eyes, behind the laughter and bravado. Anger that he was ineffectual as a provider; anger that his body betrayed him; anger that he was no longer his own man.
So when the cancer returned, he chose to die the way he lived: at home.
Prez hadn't been home since he left a couple years back to stay with Big Momma. She had brought him up here, cause kin was kin, and she wasn't trying to get between folks, and she wanted to help mend things when she could. The way she saw it, that's how good church folks did: stay up in your business and help, whether you wanted it or not. Folks didn't always know what was good for them. She was God's little busybody.
The family set up home hospice care. Big Momma didn't say anything as they entered the house, politely not commenting on the odor of mothballs, old people funk, and medicine. The day nurse — a squat, buxom woman with the face of a teamster — wasn't dressed in all-whites like Big Momma assumed she would be. The nurse escorted Earl Parker Wilcox from the bathroom to the couch. She untangled the array of tubes from his medicinal pump and oxygen canister, then excused herself to see about lunch. Prez and Big Momma waited until the door closed behind her and Earl to settle into the couch before they exhaled their pleasantries.
'Dad? It's me and Big Momma.'
'Boy, you know I'm a grown-ass man. A dying grown-ass man, but still a grown-ass man. And I'm too grown to be calling a grown-ass woman 'Big Momma.' How you doing, miss lady?'
'Just fine, baby. You lookin' good.'
'Shit. 'Preciate the lie though. You all clear a space and sit down. All that standing around on occasion is making me nervous.'
Prez had forgotten how much he missed the raspy baritone of his father's voice. A filigree of wrinkles radiated from his mouth. His face was much thinner than he remembered, but he was still his father. Prez never understood all the angst most folks had about their fathers. He decided early on that his father was not someone he wanted to pattern his life after. They could be… he didn't know the best word to describe the kind of (adult) relationship he
