The Death of Justice Part II

How Long are you going to blame the system?

8 Hours Before the release

The next day they brought me to administration to undergo an exit interview with a prison social worker. Her name was Janice Robinson, and she was an African American. I was being granted Parole, so Mrs. Robinson had to confirm my plans for the pending release. Because of her position, I called her Mrs. Robinson, even though she was only slightly older than I was. Mrs. Robinson was tall and professional. Her mother was a court stenographer and had gotten her the job soon after she finished college. Mrs. Robinson started two years after my sentence started, and every opportunity I could get, I was coming to see her for something or another.

Like most inmates, we sat around creating reasons and excuses to leave the tier. One day it's, "I need to call my lawyer." Or, "I need to call my mom at her job" I would fill out a request, and Mrs. Robinson, who understood the dynamics and played along as long as you were respectful. She would grant the request, sending a Correction Officer to escort me to her office. Mrs. Robinson had beautiful, golden brown skin, hair like a Hispanic woman, and teeth sparkling white and perfectly set. Hours later, after a visit with her, my cell, I could still smell her. "Have a seat," she said, smiling but maintaining her professional composure. "You finally call me up," I said, sitting in the seat in front of her desk and returning the smile. "I have been requesting a phone call for two weeks. I thought we were cool." "From the tier, you can make all the collect calls you want." She said, taking a seat behind the desk. Her smile breaking through the boundary she was attempting to maintain between herself and an inmate. "I was on vacation for a week, so…But we have to go over a few things before your release. You feeling anxious?" Her smile was unmistakable now. She was happy about my pending release. I couldn't help but squirm a little and sit up straight. That nervous energy was making my skin crawl. After 48 months, I could step outside. Let my guard down. That's the one thing about prison. Everyone was on edge. Your guard had to be up constantly. The thought of being able to relax after four years was almost overwhelming in terms of anticipation. Imagine a child the night before Christmas. Well, I had been waiting for Santa for four years. "I'm ready to put all this behind me," I said. Taking a deep breath. "They took four years of my life. I can see if I was getting money, but I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. From this moment on, I need to be at the right place, at the right time, with the right people." For some reason, I began rubbing my hands together, further proof I really didn't know what to do with my body.

"Here we go...Let me guess...Wrong place, wrong time?" Janice said…The mockery in her voice, thicker than Texas Toast. "Yea, that's right." I said.

"Justice, you know we cool, and I always enjoy talking with you because you have a good mind, and you can carry a conversation."

" But," I said. Sensing that there was something Mrs. Robinson wanted to get off her chest.".

"I have heard that story 500 times… seriously.." At that point, Mrs. Robinson gets up to get a folder from the file cabinet as if she is agitated. I'm sick of brothers not taking responsibility. She slams the cabinet drawer closed with a bit of extra energy. "You remind me of people in my family," She says. Almost whispering as if she is ashamed and doesn't want that news to fall into the ears of the wrong person. "How long you gonna blame the system?"

"Mrs. Robinson, I swear, I told you the story. My boys and I were standing in front of his mom's building waiting for a ride." Now I'm looking down at the floor. "We were on our way to Manhattan. "I said, remembering the shock of how the events changed so suddenly.

Flash-Back

On the night I was arrested We were on the corner, waiting for Troy's best friend, on his way to pick us up. We were in front of the corner store. It was a Friday night, and we were just laughing and having a good time as we always did. We were in the heart of Brooklyn, Bed-Stuy, a neighborhood we had grown up in, and mostly we were at ease. After all, we played hide and go seek on this street as kids. Where we were standing is precisely where we stood every morning to catch the bus to school; Utica Ave 46. "Troy, you always talking about how many numbers you gonna get, but you always leave the club empty-handed."

Troy was my first cousin. He was dark-skinned, short and I guess you could say rugged. He had been in Job-Corp for a year and a half and had only been back for about six months. Troy dropped out of school in the ninth grade but went to Job Corps and was fortunate to get his GED. "Whatever, Just!" Troy shot back. He was sipping on a wine-cooler draped in a small brown bag. "You got one number, and you running your mouth. And Mike, I know you ain't laughing. But, yo! this guy was so drunk last weekend, this shorty from Crown Heights smack the hell out of him."

We were all hysterical with laughter. Just engulfed with a Friday night in Brooklyn. That's when we heard the undercover cop car come to a halt, the tires burning on the asphalt, coming to a screeching stop. The passenger doors opening before the motion of the vehicle was final. Two undercover police officers emerge, with guns drawn and badges dangling from their necks. It was officer Trigiani and his partner, Officer Baker. "Thug life Fool!! Don't nobody make any sudden moves! Put your hands where I can see them." His gun was out, and so was the smile on his face. The smile could have been brought upon by the vodka and orange juice, or Officer Trigiani simply enjoyed devastating the lives of young black men. I would bet my last dollar on the latter.

"On the wall! Spread your legs! Hug that freaking wall!" Officer Baker shouted, His gun going from side to side... His adrenaline pumping. Officer Baker had been on a desk assignment until that morning while the shooting on Jefferson was being investigated. He had been cleared, but as I said, at times, it is difficult to determine who is innocent and who is guilty.

We all obliged to the angry instructions but understandably irritated. Troy was the first to protest. "What the hell is going on? Ya'll cops ain't got nothing better to do? Let me guess, trying to get that quota up. Trig, you in line for a bonus or something."

"Keep your mouth shut before I put my gun in it!" Trigiani shot back. My heart was pounding because I was in a different place than Troy was. Job Corps had changed Troy, and it wasn't long after he came home he started hustling, selling weed. Small-time, but he was learning the game hanging out on the corner. At 19 years old, I just wanted the cops to leave us alone, but Troy had a temper, and he had been acting like he had something to prove. So, I felt the need to calm him down, hoping the cops could move on to the next group of black men to harass." Chill Tee". I whispered, my face inches away from bricks and mortar of the corner store. That's when Officer Baker grabbed my arm, which was up against the wall. "What did you say, smart ass?" He took my right arm, placed it behind my back, and then grabbed my left hand, bringing it down behind my back and connecting both wrists with stainless steel handcuffs. You could hear the clicking as the cuffs were being squeezed as tight as they could be. "Ahh! They too tight!" I belted out. "I didn't say nothin!."

"Are you resisting arrest?!" Trigiani said, his lips too close to my ear. I turned my head slightly only to see the veins protruding from his neck and the color of his skin glowing with redness. I turned my head away and closed my eyes as if I had exposed them to Lucifer himself. Officer Baker then pushed my head against the wall, holding my neck with one hand in a black leather glove. With his other hand, he places the gun barrel against the back of my head. This is when he whispers in my ear, his lips now touching my ear-lobe. His hand squeezing my neck. "You play games with me, boy, and I'll blow your brains all over this wall...You hear me?" I could smell the liquor on his breath and coming out of his pores mixed in with his sweat.

"Come on, we didn't do anything." I pleaded. Up until this moment, I had not known fear. I felt a sense of dread before. Like, walking into the projects at three in the morning. That's a sense of dread. But, I had not known fear until this violent, white man, a member of New York City's finest, had me in his clutches. I had not known fear until this moment. My heart had never pounded so fast. My breath had never been taken away until the night, a member of the NYPD had me up against the wall with a gun pressed against my skull. I did my best to hold back my tears, but I couldn't.

"Yea! We didn't do nothin!" Troy said. "We going be alright, cuz." He said, making eye contact with me. I turned my face away from him, looking in the other direction to hide the tears sliding down my cheekbones. A small crowd began gathering. People shaking the head. They were either saying to themselves, "they getting what they deserve" or "they need to leave the young men alone." Not Sure.

Then, Officer Trigiani looked at his partner and said, "Bake, search over there in and around those trash-cans… I'll monitor the suspects." "Yes Sir!" Officer Baker said. He went to a nearby trash can, and after rummaging through it for a few minutes, he picks up a brown paper bag; he reaches into the brown paper bag and pulls out a sandwich bag filled with bottles of crack. "Bingo was his name!" Officer Trigiani said. He then turned and looked at me. "Since you couldn't keep your mouth shut, I'm a take you on a ride you'll never forget." The two officers, one holding each arm, drug me in the direction of the police car. "That's not mine! That's not mine! You arresting the wrong person; I am not a drug dealer! I don't sell crack." "Yo Cuzz, we gonna get you out…." Troy shouted. They stuffed me in the back seat of the police car awkwardly. Slammed the doors and sped away, laughing all the way to 72nd percent.

Back to the Present

"Two ounces of crack-cocaine. Possession with Intent to Distribute, and the Manufacturing of Crack Cocaine. My bail was $150,000 cash. After I sat in Jail for a year, unable to post bail, The public defender told me if I accepted the plea of seven years since I had a year in, I only had to do another 7 months, and I would get out on Parole." I looked up from telling my story only to catch Mrs. Robinson watching me intensely. She was observing me. Watching for a tell, an indicator of deception.

"That was 4 years ago. I trusted my lawyer. She convinced me that I would lose in a trial, and if I blew trial, I would get a mandatory minimum of 20 years for a First-Offense. "

"And I was innocent….The first year, I just couldn't believe this was happening to me. I was in shock… Public Defender? More like a public pretender."

"You expect me to believe that?" Janice said.

"Cross my heart and hope to die," I said as I crossed my heart, and tried to smile, although re-telling the story resurrected some pain I was trying to bury.

"Cross your heart, hope to die, stick a needle in your eye?" Janice joked. "Stick a dirty needle in my eye." At that moment, we both laughed and enjoyed a moment of silence as she processed my story.

"Seriously though…" I said, breaking the silence. "If I'm innocent, then how many other brothers in here are innocent? They got us caged up like animals! The Stabbing and raping each other..Beating each other...There are five hundred people on my tier, built to hold two hundred, and there are only five white guys housed there. FIVE! Out of Two Hundred... Did you know You could drive drunk, kill somebody, leave the scene and get less time than "possession with intent to distribute? "

"How do you know that?" she said. Her finger pressed against her jaw in deep contemplation. "I'll tell you how I know Because one of the few whites guys to be on my tier. Came and did his time since I been here. He left last month... But I'm still here… Four years of my life were snatched away. I missed so much...My cousin Joe was murdered, I missed the funeral, my sister grew up…They took four years of my life. The time I will never get back. White racist correction officers telling me when to eat, when to sleep, you know Sergeant Mckenzie called me a black bastard." I could hear my voice getting. loud… "If I see him on the street…"

"You see, you angry.." Janice said.

"I have a right to be angry,"

"But How are you going to be successful when you leave this place with all that anger and resentment?" She asked, "How you going to reintegrate back into society? Just because you have been locked up, I hope you don't think the world owes you something, Justice... You keep...talking like that...you gonna end up killing somebody...and when you come back, Justice," Mrs. Robinson is now whispering, but every word reverberated in my soul."you will not be on B block; you'll be on Death Row, D-Block. And when you on Death Row, Justice, you don't get visits with the Social Worker. You don't get to play basketball and spades with your homies..Reminiscing about what you did around the way, Twenty-three hours of segregation and isolation…Until the day… you…. Leave… this earth. So remember that!"

"Maybe I need some group therapy," I said, attempting to change the fabric of our conversation. "You need something." She shot back with a laugh. 

"Maybe I just need a good woman." My smile had to be wider than a Sammy Davis Junior Smile at that moment.

" Whatever, Don't look at me lie that…Look over this form make sure all the information is correct because this is the information that will be supplied to your parole officer. I read it over, and it sounds like you have a plan. After reading it over, I said," This looks legit."

"You sure? Because Parole will be making a home visit, a random visit. If you get your life together…(she looks around) If you stay clean…Maybe."

"Don't even say it, I interrupted." If it's meant to be, I'll... run into you...Can I get a hug though it's been four years of hell, but... every time I came up here, it felt like heaven" 

After a moment of hesitation, she stands up and hugs me with her desk in between us. "I'm going to call, my pastor tonight and ask him to pray for you." She Turns around to the file folder, and her voice was obviously choking with emotion. She puts away the file. "I see so many brothers wasting their life away in here. But you a good person! You not like all these guys in here. If I see your face in here again, it's going to break my heart…."

"You'll never see my face in here again!! Im never coming back. " Mrs. Robinson pulled out a pocket Bible from her desk and handed it to me. It had my name inscribed on the first page inside. 

To Justice Jennings,

From Janice Robinson. God has great things in store for you!!

I then taped the glass to get the CO's attention, who was sitting outside her office. I felt like If I stayed one more moment, Janice Robinson would see me cry. But, I had not shed a tear in four years; after all, this is prison.

"Take care of yourself."

" You too Justice, I don't want to see you back in here."

" Remember when I said, "I…am…..never…..coming back to this prison or any other prison .?"

"Yea, I remember, that...but that's what."

"Well, I'll see you in heaven... before I see you back in here…."

I had no way of knowing those words would later come back to haunt me.

To Be Continued