last laugh--free preview first 7 chapters

1

PHILADELPHIA, THE PRESENT

“Control, code blue. Code blue. Riot in progress,” Officer

Sanchez yelled into his walkie-talkie. A baseball bat was

slammed against the head of an inmate, as Sanchez grabbed his

prison yard bullhorn, and yelled into it, “Get down on the

ground. All inmates down. Now. Faces in the grass.”

“Roger, Sanchez,” the control officer said, and then grabbed

the prison intercom. “All inmates report to their cells. Attention

all officers, we are in lock down mode. Lock down all units.”

“Fuck. This shit cannot be happening,” CO Sanchez said and

watched an inmate being hoisted into the air by two other

inmates. They slammed him into the ground and blood

R A H I E M B R O O K S

immediately filled the man’s face. He was then kicked by the

prison’s inmate law librarian. That baffled CO Sanchez. Inmate

Kareem Bezel was undoubtedly one of the most mannerly and

respectful inmates that he had ever encountered. But there he

was kicking a man that seemed to be dead.

Other officers ran out into the yard dressed in riot gear and

yelled repeatedly for inmates to get down. The inmates not

involved had laid out on the ground with their faces and toes in

the dirt. Lieutenant Brown looked on in horror. He had enough

to do with the daily paperwork to record the prison’s status, and

he did not want to report a riot. After a riot, in came the city

officials, detectives and a bunch of other people that he didn’t

want to brief on what had happened. Here was a situation that he

didn’t have any heads up about. Normally, he was prepared for a

prison war between the Philadelphia neighborhoods. He was

always tipped off by a prison snitch. But this time it was

different.

“LT Brown to Officer Sanchez,” the lieutenant said into his

walkie-talkie.

“Sanchez. Go, Lieutenant Brown.”

L A S T L A U G H

“Give a warning to those actively engaged in this fight to stop

or you will shoot.”

“Copy,” CO Sanchez said, and grabbed the bullhorn. “All

inmates this is a warning that we will shoot any inmate not in

compliance with our order to get down on the ground. I repeat.

We will shoot any inmate not in compliance with our order to

get down.” He put the bullhorn down and wiped his brow.

“These mutha fucka’s better not stop,” he said and unlocked the

gun locker. He smiled and raised the tower’s shot gun into the

air. He loaded it with bean bag rounds, and prepared to shoot.

He had waited long for the chance to gun down an inmate.

The shot gun was designed to be non-lethal and officers had

been taught not to shoot the gun in the extremities. A shot to the

head could crush an inmate’s nose or break their neck. Even

worse, a strike in the chest could send a broken rib crashing into

the heart and kill an inmate. That was not the point of the riot

rifle. It was designed to gain control of a riot, but CO Sanchez’s

day had been screwed up, and he planned to end this deadly if he

had control of the outcome.

The prison yard officers managed to gain some control of the

yard and most of the inmates from the D-E-F Units had been


down on the ground. Kareem Bezel and Bryant Larson were

now going blow for blow at the top of the yard.

“You two need to get down now,” Officer Carson said, and

pulled her pepper spray from her waist band.

A band of officers dressed in riot gear had their guns trained

on the inmates that complied and was on the ground. A team of

nurses had been at the yard doorway awaiting full control so

they could go in and assist wounded inmates.

Kareem threw another punch at his attacker and was then hit

with a burning sensation to his face. He was sprayed by Officer

Carson, but that did not stop him from fighting. He reached out

for Larson and wrapped his arms around him and scooped him

into the air. He slammed Larson to the ground, while Officer

Carson continued to coat him with pepper spray. Both men

continued to throw punches and had not been effected by the

spray.

Kareem was pulled off his feet by a member of the officer’s

goon squad. He kicked Larson as he came up. Kareem was hand

cuffed behind his back, and then marched through the yard by

two goons.

L A S T L A U G H

* * *

The jail’s main area was empty because all inmates had been

locked down. The House of Corrections had opened in 1874,

and was one of six county prisons that housed un-sentenced

misdemeanants. It was the only one with a “wheel-and-spoke”

design, first seen with the construction of Eastern State

Penitentiary in 1829. A Center Control served as a central

rotunda in the middle, which served as access to six two-tiered

cellblocks.

While being chaperoned swiftly through the jail, Kareem was

on his tiptoes being pulled with brute force. He was practically

floating on the air beneath his feet.

“Open up A-block,” one of the officers that dragged Kareem

said.

The unit was opened and two officers took Kareem to the

back of the wing to the shower. A third officer took out a pair of

scissors and cut the inmate’s light blue prison pullover off. His

tank top was cut off next. Kareem was then pushed under the

water.


“What the fuck, man?” he said, as the water hit his skin.

“Take off these cuffs. You got me under water in cuffs.”

Kareem’s voice was grave and deep. He was angry and prepared

to do whatever it took to protect himself from further harm. That

meant protecting his self from inmates and prison authorities.

But he could do nothing in handcuffs and the burning sensation

to his skin thoroughly made him aware of that.

“It’s to rinse off the pepper spray,” an officer said as Kareem

began to shake.

“The water is freezing and the spray is now running into my

eyes, you jackasses. Un-cuff me. My eyes,” he screamed. “What

the fuck?” He jumped in the air a few times. “Oh my God,

please un-cuff me.”

Kareem became afraid. The spray had seeped into his pores,

ran into his eyes, and he was cuffed behind his back. His pants

were soaked along with his sneakers. He was terrified at that

point. He could not see and thought that he was going to be

blind.

“My eyes,” Kareem said. He yelled, as he felt two officers

grab him by both arms and pulled him out of the shower.

“Where are you taking me?” he asked. He panicked. “My arm is

L A S T L A U G H

burning. Please don’t grip it so tightly.” He was helpless, and for

the first time, he truly regretted the feds sticking him in a county

jail to control the overcrowded Federal Detention Center (FDC)

in downtown Philadelphia. He hated the system and everything

that it represented. Sure, he had committed several crimes, and

maybe even, he belonged in jail, but he hated it.

He was ushered to the front of the lieutenant’s office and

placed inside an isolation cell. It wasn’t a cell at all. It mirrored

a pay phone booth, about 2x2 feet of metal. Kareem heard the

door shut and again asked to have the cuffs removed. His

request was ignored.

Every move that Kareem made forced him to brush against

the metal gates. He remained cuffed behind his back and each

time his skin touched the metal it burned. He began to sniff but

held his head high to prevent the tears from falling. He was even

more afraid. He still had no idea what was going to happen next.

The fact that he could not open his eyes and not knowing what

was going to happen next caused him to have a panic attack. His

back slammed against the cell, and he stood as still as possible.

For the first time, in a very long time, Kareem Bezel said a

prayer.


2

PHILADELPHIA, AN HOUR LATER

The prison librarian, Judy Butler, walked into the lieutenant’s

office and was accosted by three correctional officers and Lt.

Brown. She was Kareem Bezel’s boss and information seemed

to suggest that she could shed some light on what had transpired

on the prison yard. Kareem had a thing for working in the

education departments at the two jails that he had been in. He

was a bright man, and the educational staff appreciated an

inmate that could help lower their work load. While at FDC, he

was celled up with Calvin Bradshaw who had given him a lot of

insight into the law and legal proceedings. Calvin had even

helped Kareem get a job in the FDC library. Kareem used that

L A S T L A U G H

knowledge to get a job in the HOC library shortly upon him

being transferred there.

“Good morning, Mrs. Butler. So sorry to disturb your day

with this. However, I have to ask you a few questions about

Kareem Bezel’s involvement in this morning’s riot,” Lieutenant

Brown said and frowned. He was a huge man that was built like

a professional NBA power forward with neat dreadlocks, and a

thick Russian accent. Women found it sexy to hear a man as

black as coal sound like a Russian. He was adopted by a white

family from Russia whom moved him to Moscow, Russia, then

Burbank, California and later to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania to

be on the opposite coast.

“That’s no problem. I am here to help solve this, and perhaps

shed some light on what happened this morning,” Mrs. Butler

replied. She folded her arms over her chest and exposed red nail

polish that matched her even brighter red lip stick. She was

homely, but had a bit of spunk for an older white woman.

“Ok, great,” the lieutenant said. “Apparently this fight is all

about a deal gone bad. A drug deal.”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Mrs. Butler said. She

then added, “Now, I did intercept a letter, which has been turned


into the Security Lieutenant. It seemed to outline a payment

schedule with the units, where the drugs went and who should

have the money.”

“And your inmate Bezel delivered the letter?”

“No. Well, not exactly. I was escorting Bezel around the D-E-

F side to deliver inmate’s paid for print outs of legal cases.

When we entered E unit an inmate called Bezel over and I

watched him slip a kite into Bezel’s trousers pocket. I did not

search him on the block, but when we were next to Center

Control, I had a male officer search him. The letter was

confiscated and Bezel was taken to security.”

Lt. Brown sat there and jotted some notes. He then looked up

from his pad, and asked, “Did Bezel have a chance to read the

letter?”

“I am not sure. When we left E block, we did go to F and I did

keep an eye on Bezel, but you know inmates are slicker than oil.

However, I did not see him pull out the letter and read it.”

“Yes, even the suave, respectful ones like Kareem Bezel need

to be watched. I’ve long suspected he was not as straight up as

he appeared. I lost sight of the fact that he is here for committing

L A S T L A U G H

a federal crime. No matter how loyal he may have seemed to us,

he is still an inmate.”

“Especially him,” a CO said. “Have you seen the trickery that

he used to avoid a federal indictment in the past, and how he had

the decorated DEA agent arrested? He put everything on the

agent by saying he worked for the agent against his will. He may

try to say that in this situation too.”

The lieutenant went on. “It seems that the dealers that had the

money on two of the blocks were robbed that night and they

blame Bezel. They believe that he was in on the heist.”

“Oh, really. That’s interesting,” Mrs. Butler said and threw

them a curt grin. “I am not certain if he looked at the contents of

the letter, but that seems like a tall order for a law library worker

that seemingly has no involvement with the riff raff.”

“The operative word is seemingly,” the lieutenant replied. “If

he has been responsible for passing the notes from dealer to

dealer in the jail, he is very culpable for the movement of drugs

here in the jail.”

“Yes,” Senior CO Vanessa Bell said. She opened a file.

“We’ve taken the liberty of getting his file from the United

States Attorney’s office, which outlines his federal case. It


appears that he was the catalyst to his brothers thriving drug ring

by supplying cash and guidance, making him one of the biggest

drug dealers in the city. He is not a dealer, but perhaps he has

helped the drugs to get around and orchestrated the drug trade

here as he did while on the streets.”

“Oh, my,” Butler said as she crossed her legs and blew a

strain of hair out of her face. “I had no idea he was that type of

guy. He’s so kind and respectful.”

“Yes. And conniving and sneaky. He’s a bona fide thief,” said

CO Bell.

“Excuse me a minute.” The lieutenant, stepped out of the

room, walked over to the cage that Kareem was in and grinned.

To Kareem, he whispered, “Why the tears, chum? Scared? Can’t

see? Getting out of there is easy. Just tell me what you know,

and where’s the money and drugs? Who is involved here as far

as my correctional officers?”

Kareem was pressed against the gate, and could not stop

shaking. His trembling was dramatic and very noticeable. The

burning pain was horrific, but what could he do besides man up,

deal with it, and look forward to when it would stop. He was not

paying the lieutenant any attention. He was not a rat, and never

L A S T L A U G H

going to convert into one. They had nothing on him, and could

not force him to talk about anything that he didn’t want to.

“I don’t have anything to tell you, and what money are you

talking about. I know nothing about money,” Kareem answered.

“Sure you do. If not, I will be sure to bury you under the jail,”

the lieutenant replied and smiled.

“Well get ya fucking shovel, asshole.”


3

PHILADELPHIA, FIFTY MINUTES LATER

About fifty minutes of Kareem being locked in the cage

passed before, he was ushered to an administrative segregation

cell and tossed inside. The door slammed behind him and he

turned around and backed up against the bars. He expected the

guards to take his cuffs off through the bars. They didn’t. He

heard their keys fading down the cell block and got the hint. He

was being punished for not talking to prison staff and he

understood that. And he didn’t plan to be pressed about it, so he

did not yell or rant about not being un-cuffed. He had an

uncanny adroitness that he felt was not matched by prison

officials. No one in position that have control of him was a

L A S T L A U G H

worthy opponent in his eyes. This was precisely why he did not

fear DEA Agent Lucas McKenzey when he was a central

problem. No, he could not open the cell and he could not remove

the cuffs. Despite that he was in control. This was a moment that

mental toughness prevailed and he was always a winner.

He opened his eyes slightly and peeked at the cell. It was

empty. Bare.

No sheets.

No blankets.

Not even a pillow.

Bastards, he thought and chuckled.

It was rare to get a pillow in the HOC anyway. No doubt, as

the prison law librarian he did. He had everything, though. He

was the man. The go to guy to write a letter to a judge for a

fellow inmate, or even a love letter to a lonely spouse. That’s

one skill that garnered him a lot of respect.

Kareem was able to weave words to women like no other. He

knew women and most things that surrounded making them

happy. He was surrounded by men that had very little education,

and they made his life there easy, as he made their lives just as


easy. He had a prestigious Columbia University degree, like the

United States President, Barack Obama.

He sat on the bottom bunk bed. He told his muscles to grab

his face, but his arms were jerked back by the cuffs. He was

brought back to the sad reality that he was in prison, in a cell,

and remained in cuffs. “Don’t trip, Reem,” he said out loud, and

then shook his head.

He laid down on his side.

Disgust.

Rage.

Fright.

Three things consumed him and was born out of one thought;

his family. How was this about to affect them? He thought of his

son and fiancé, Toi. His parents, younger sister, and

grandmother. But most important, his older brother, Andre

Bezel.

Damn, bro. You might be pissed at me for this one, but I take a

lot of things, shit ain’t one of them, he thought, and sat up. His

skin was hot and the plastic mattress had made it hotter. He felt

like his insides were melting.

“Fuck.”

L A S T L A U G H

Kareem stood up and took two short walks around the cell.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” he said as a wave of heat

consumed him. It was weird because the cells were typically

freezing cold. He slammed his back against the wall and slid

down to the floor. “Heat rises. Fuck that,” he said and laid in the

fetal position on the floor. I’m a prisoner, he thought and smiled.

Don’t let anything stress me. None of their tactics can harm me.

Them mutha fuckas are not out to kill me. They’re trying to

break me. Picture that. I am staring down the barrel of a life

federal sentence and I am not losing any sleep about it. Why? I

have one very important man on my side. Well, two. First God,

and then Ravonne Lemmelle, my esteemed attorney.


4

BOSTON AREA, THAT EVENING

Former DEA Agent Lucas McKenzey had been holed up in

Cambridge, MA since his escape from federal custody. He killed

the man that helped him escape, and now made a great homeless

man. He panhandled money from hardworking MIT and

Harvard University students by day. And by night, he stashed his

homeless sign that read, I AM WANTED BY THE FEDS HELP

ME, in the top of one of the newspaper dispensers which held

free newspapers that covered the Boston area. His homeless shift

had ended, and he then proceeded to the Harvard Square train

station and rode into the Back Bay area of Boston.

L A S T L A U G H

The psychopath headed to a local Starbucks and changed out

of his homeless costume. He traded it for an Armani suit, fancy

wingtips, chrome briefcase, and a duffle bag. He tossed his

homeless duds into the duffle bag, and then headed to his suite

at the Four Seasons hotel in downtown Boston on Avery Street.

It was located across the street from the Boston Commons and

he enjoyed watching the people in the park from his suite.

When he entered the hotel, he was greeted by the bellman

who held the door open for him.

"Good evening, and welcome back, Mr. Trump," the bellman

said to him and smiled.

McKenzey simply nodded his head and smiled back. He

headed to his room and adored that the hotel was under the

foolish impression that he was a Trump, as in a brother of the

real estate tycoon, Donald Trump. They ate up all of his garish

stories about Christmas in the Trump home. They would

chuckle. So did he though. They'd be laughing at the absurd

things he made up about Donald Trump. And he'd be laughing at

them. It was all a game. His game. The former DEA agent

wanted to win. Winning over the hotel staff was easy enough. It


was inmate Kareem Bezel that he hadn't beat. That had to

change. Enough time had lapsed, and he was ready to play.

McKenzey exited the elevator on the 6th floor and headed

down to his suite. It was named after former President Kennedy.

He entered his room, and then tossed his blazer onto the bed. He

had the hotel maid trained to have his TV turned on at 5:45 p.m.

along with a fresh pail of ice to compliment a bottle of Magnum

Grey Goose Vodka.

McKenzey slipped out of the rest of his clothing and then

walked over to the hotel windows. He was in a corner suite and

opened all of the curtains. He looked out at a postcard view of

Boston’s Public Garden, and smiled. No one could see him in

the buff, but he didn’t care if they had. In the distance he looked

out at Beacon Hill and the gilded dome of the State House.

Perhaps, I’ll have dinner at Cheers tonight, he thought. I’ll be

there, and everyone will know my name, but not know that I am

right there in their presence. He chuckled and then lifted the

vodka bottle into the air and took a big gulp. No glass was

needed for him to enjoy the smooth taste.

He was suddenly glued to the TV screen, having heard the

mention of Kareem Bezel and the words prison riot. CNN had

L A S T L A U G H

set the trap and former DEA Lucas McKenzey kissed the

television screen. He then placed his hands on each side of the

flat screen and extended his arms. He got a good look at the

reporter and said, "Thank you." Before kissing the screen again.

The news of inmate Kareem Bezel being locked down for

inciting a riot had been the best news since Lance Armstrong

confessed to using performance enhancing drugs. He hated all

things American, with no desire to flee the country until he

obtained revenge against the beloved Bezel Brothers. And it

seemed that at that moment was the right time to kick Kareem

when he was already down. The corrections staff had bound

Kareem and McKenzey was ready to gag him.


5

PHILADELPHIA, LATE NIGHT

Andre Bezel sped down I-76 from Germantown headed to

Center City. He had a mission after watching the news broadcast

of his brother being the center of a prison riot. He was lost and

didn’t understand what had happened, but he wanted to help him

and be there for him as he knew that his brother was in danger.

Kareem was the exact opposite of his older brother. The one

year separation was just enough to render Andre the street corner

boy, and Kareem the nerd. But he was no ordinary street thug

and his younger brother was no common nerd. They were both

college graduates. Andre had a Business degree from New York

University and Kareem had one in International Marketing from

L A S T L A U G H

Columbia University. Andre swerved in and out of traffic and

recalled how they both lived in and terrorized New York City

while they were there studying. He was back in Philadelphia,

though, and rented out his New York property. There was no

way that he could live in a home where he and his brother

tortured a corrupt DEA agent who broke in with intentions of

killing him, his girlfriend and his son.

DEA agent McKenzey had given the Bezel Brothers all that

he could to take them down and for a while it seemed like it

worked. That was not the case, though. The brothers remained a

step ahead of the agent. Money made that a simple thing, and the

brothers had plenty of it. They also had a plan: Accuse the agent

of forcing Kareem to embezzle money from the bank where he

worked at and to fund the illicit drug ring headed by Andre. And

it seemed to work. McKenzey had been indicted and jailed just

like the brothers.

Kareem had managed to stay out of jail on bail, while Andre

was in jail. He was eventually released on bail after the

Government was repeatedly unprepared to proceed. But in a

major twist, Kareem was arrested and accused of aiding

McKenzey’s escape. It was an absurd set-up that landed his


brother in jail and now locked down for a prison riot. That made

no sense to Andre.

“Fuck out of the way,” Andre said to a slow moving car on the

expressway.

He was determined to put some sort of plan into motion to get

his brother out of the jail. Or at least the county one, and sent

back to FDC. The way he had seen it, they should not have

warehoused Kareem in a county jail to relieve the federal

building of its overcrowding issue in the first place.

It was rumored by police that Kareem was the mastermind of

the operation, and they were probably right. But one thing was

for certain, Andre Bezel had an equally brilliant mind, and he

was headed to meet with Kareem’s lawyer to execute a plan to

help his brother.

L A S T L A U G H

6

PHILADELPHIA, GERMANTOWN

Grandmom Jean-Mary was in her kitchen baking a cake and

enjoying it. She sang a Smokey Robinson tune, although

disturbed by the news that her beloved grandson had been in

trouble in the jail. Andre didn’t really didn’t want to tell her

what he had learned, but Grandmom Jean-Mary wasn’t an

ordinary grandparent. She was down to earth and didn’t pretend

to have traded in her street smarts to become an out of touch

grandmother.

Toi, Kareem’s wife walked into the kitchen, and plopped on a

chair. She watched Grandmom Jean Mary spreading icing on her

cake and humming to the radio. The radio was set to the


contemporary station, and she was mumbling the words to

Tonight by John Legend.

“Grandmom, what you know about that, John Legend?” Toi

asked smiling.

“I know a lot about that,” Grandmom Jean Mary replied and

chuckled. Amir came into the kitchen and curled under his great-

grandmother’s wheel chair. “Here boy, you can have the icing

spoon.” To Toi she said, “I have you know I know a few new

songs. Thank you very much.”

“I see,” Toi replied and sang a little of the song too. She

wished that Kareem was not in jail, so that she could experience

some of the things in John Legend’s song.

“Amir, take that spoon in the living room, and let me talk to

your mom, ok, honey,” Grandmom Jean-Mary said to her baby.

She covered her cake, and said, “Latoya Eala, you better snap

out of it.”

“I can’t Grandmom. A riot? That’s so scary. How are you so

cool about this? I just can’t imagine what’s happening with him.

I am so afraid.”

“Listen here, you have that child in there to worry about.” she

said giving Toi a hard stern stare. “Let me tell you what you

L A S T L A U G H

already know, Kareem doesn’t get involved in anything that he

has not masterfully mapped out how to get out of. You’re

worried about nothing. He is a warrior and you need to relax.”

“So you’re not worried, Grandmom. As long as we’ve been

living here with you, I haven’t seen you worry. That’s very brave

of you. I guess that is where Kareem got it from.”

“Oh, baby, I worry. The thing that you just pointed out is that,

you don’t see me worry. That’s no way to live. I don’t exhibit

my worry for the world to see. I’ve had my foot amputated and

go to dialysis three times a week, and guess what? I am not

worrying. God has me, and God has your husband.”

“I wish I had my husband,” she said and smiled.

“Oh, honey, you need some nooky?” Grandmom Jean-Mary

asked and cracked up.

“You’re too much, Grandmom.”

“No, I am not. I am just real. See, you have to really

understand that I am as much your friend as your grandmom.

You can tell me anything. I am a great listener, and I can tell you

some great things.”

“I will keep that in mind.”


“Good, now, do you want coffee or tea or cocoa to go with

this cake?’

“Hot chocolate,” said Amir as he walked into the kitchen. He

climbed on his mother’s lap, and added, “Cake, too.”

“Boy, you’re too much.” Grandmom Jean-Mary cut the cake.

L A S T L A U G H

7

PHILADELPHIA, RAVONNE LEMMELLE’S HOME

Andre Bezel pulled onto Pine Street, and stopped in front of

the driveway of attorney, Ravonne Lemmelle’s home. The Olde

City area was clean and quiet, but was about to get shaken up by

Andre Bezel. He parked at the end of the driveway and blocked

in a parked BMW 750LI and a Range Rover. Ravonne and his

lover, Dajuan’s vehicles.

He didn’t anticipate any problems with the attorney, whom

was also his cousin. He was prepared though, to act a fool if

Ravonne didn’t cave into his demands and plan. His plan that

needed to be tweaked and worked on, but never less it was a

plan. Andre knew that since Ravonne did the Harvard Law


School thing and moved from Uptown to Downtown, so his

innate ghetto training may need to be adjusted.

Andre exited the car and then walked up the driveway. He had

a peculiar look on his face when he looked down at his vibrating

cell phone. It was his girlfriend, Tasha, he ignored the call. True,

he loved her and she was his world, but his chief concern at that

time was his little brother. He sent her a text informing her that

he was at Ravonne’s and that he would contact her when he left.

Andre made his way up the five stairs that led to the home

and the door opened before he could knock.

“Took you long enough, cuz,” Ravonne said, and held his

hand out for Andre to shake. “We’ve changed the carpet from

white to cream, but we still ask our guests to remove their shoes

and wear moccasins.”

“Let me guess, that must be the man of the house rules,”

Andre said and laughed.

“Oh, you have gay jokes right out the gate, huh? Actually, it’s

my rule, ugly ass alien.” Ravonne headed to the bar. “Besides,

the man of this house is grown ass Brandon, not Dajuan.”

“Oh, wow. He’s grown now?” Andre asked, “What’chu

drinking?”

L A S T L A U G H

“Brandy, man. You don’t know about that. I have some ripple

for you.”

“You’re a fool,” Andre said walking over to the bar. He raised

a bottle of Ciroc into the air. “I’ll take this.” He crack the bottle

open and took a long sip. His face bunched up as the vodka

coated his throat and stomach. “Now, I can really hatch a plan.”

“So you’re going to just purloin my liquor.”

“Come on, cuz, with the big ass words. Although, I know that

one. We have to get Kareem out of there,” he said as Ms. Pearl

circled his feet.

Ravonne pick up his stocky, white Manx and held her in his

arms. He sat on the piano seat before he put her on the floor, and

dug into his briefcase.

Andre looked around the living room and smiled inside. He

was proud of his cousin and despite his same sex love affair,

Ravonne was his flesh and blood and he loved him as that. He

looked at the piano and the large clock that was made out of a

drummer’s cymbal and thought about Ravonne’s lover.

“Where is Dajuan and Brandon?”

“They’re at the chess club,” Ravonne said pulling his eyes

from a document long enough to reply.


“Chess club?” Andre asked shocked. “So your six year old

learns Spanish, takes boxing and Judo, and now chess?”

“I am raising a child prodigy. Just like his dad.”

“You ain’t no damn child prodigy. How’s he holding up

knowing that Dajuan killed his mom? I still can’t believe it.”

Ravonne was not prepared to relive the moment that his

estranged now deceased wife, Ariel and his gay lover had faced

off, and she met her maker as a result. “Dajuan was in a life or

death situation, and he did what he had to do,” he replied and

thought about how Dajuan was arrested, but later released on

bail. He was eventually acquitted because the murder had

happened right in front of the FBI. They were following Ariel

for conspiring in a plot with a serial criminal, Mr. 357, to kidnap

Brandon and murder Ravonne.

Ravonne snapped back from memory lane and handed Andre

a document. “So what’s your plan to get Kareem out of jail that

you rushed over here to tell me?”

“I’m thinking he has to be broken out. Kidnapped.” Andre

said, and then looked at the papers that Ravonne handed him. “If

McKenzey has been out for this long, I am sure we can get

Kareem out and keep him out.”

L A S T L A U G H

“You make a great point, and that is what the legal document

that you’re holding seeks to do,” Ravonne said and sipped his

Brandy. “In your hands is the most powerful Motion to Dismiss

that I have ever written.”

“This is all good, man, but this doesn’t guarantee my brother’s

release.” Andre tossed the motion on the sofa next to him. “He

needs to be out of there right now.” Andre was beginning to get

angry and wasn’t sure that Ravonne understood his urgency.

“Andre, I hear you, but this is all we can do. It’s a great novel

that you have spinning in your head, but we can’t pull off an

escape plan. Besides, it’s not worth it. There is no way that he’ll

be found guilty of aiding Agent McKenzey’s release. No jury

would believe that.”

“Cool,” Andre said and then stood up. “Well, you have no

problem helping me get him out of there. Illegally.”

“First of all, you need to have a seat. You’re making me

nervous standing and pacing around,” Ravonne stood up also.

He walked over to the bar, poured another drink, and then

returned to his seat. “I tell you what. I can get Kareem out of the

House of Correction and taken back to FDC. That’ll at least get


him out of county segregation and back on a normal housing

unit.”

“No, fuck dat,” Andre said and sipped the vodka again.

“While they are transferring him, we can grab him and get him

out of that bullshit. May have to kill a couple of Secret Service

agents or marshals on top of that, but I don’t give a fuck.”

“Man, you need to stop that. Are you belligerent?”

“It’s called drunk.” Andre smirked. “I am not, though.” He

looked at Ravonne and smirked again. “Perhaps it’s called

inebriated in your world.”

“Man, don’t you start.”

“Start what? You act like I am trying to hear that uppity shit.

You still a nigga. I don’t give a fuck about your vocabulary,

man. Start talking what I want to hear in my language.”

Ravonne paused a minute and gathered himself. He knew

Andre all too well, and he hated for anyone to go against him. It

was a mandatory thing for him to get some counseling because

his belief that the world revolved around him was a delusion.

Delicately, Ravonne said, “I apologize for this, but we have to

do the right things if we want to help Kareem.”

“That’s the bottom line.”

L A S T L A U G H

“Yes, so we’re not breaking the man out of jail for a case that

will undoubtedly be dismissed, and cause him even greater

problems.”

“You wanna, bet.” Andre opened the vodka bottle again. He

took another big gulp that scorched his throat. He stood up. “I

am going to get him out of there, and you’re going to fucking

like it.”

“You need to stop that. I need a client.”

“You have one. And, guess what? You can still represent him

in absentia, because I am going to come up with a shownuff way

to get him up out of there.” Andre slipped his boots back on.

“And all you have to do is get an acquittal and he won’t have to

turn himself in. Hell, they can pretend to search for him like

they’re doing McKenzey.”

“Come on. Listen to yourself. You know that I can’t convince

a client of how successful a motion will be with the court, but as

my cousin, I assure you that this motion is winnable.”

“Your job should be easy in that case, counselor,” Andre said

as he opened the front door and left the condo.


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