“I appreciate it,” I said, shaking his hand.
“You know I’m happy to hear that you don’t talk like them lil ignorant bastards passing themselves off as teenagers these days. ‘Yaknowwhati’msayingshawtyfolk.’ I’m like ‘no, what are you saying? and I ain’t short. I’m six feet three inches tall.’ I’m glad you can talk like you got some sense in your head.”
“Thanks, my man. You take care,” I said with a chuckle.
I got off the bus right in front of the Art Institute of Atlanta and ran across East Ponce de Leon to a tall high-rise building where Kwame’s lawyer had her office. I walked into the building and headed over to the information desk in the center of the lobby. I asked the receptionist to ring the lawyer’s phone, but before she could punch in a number, I saw the tall, well-dressed black woman rushing past me.
“Hey! Mrs. Ross,” I called out.
Yolanda Ross exemplified class and poise. I don’t know where my brother found her, but I was glad he did. She looked to be in her early thirties, but the most striking thing about her was how beautiful she could be without any hair on her head. She stopped and turned my way. She smiled at me with those perfectly white teeth.
“Hey, Romeo. How are you doing?” she said.
“Am I late?”
“Late for what?” she asked with a frown on her face.
“I thought we had a meeting today.”
“No. But I’m meeting with your brother today. As a matter of fact, that’s where I’m headed now.”
“What’s going on?”
“The parole hearing is today,” she said, moving steadily toward the door. “Did you forget?”
“I thought that was tomorrow. I guess I got everything mixed up.”
“It’s okay. You’re more than welcome to ride with me if you like, but we have to leave right now,” she said, tapping a diamond-studded watch.
My heart started racing. I hustled over and followed her out the big glass doors. A driver held the door of a Lincoln Town Car, and I climbed in the backseat after her. The driver closed the door and we were off to the Atlanta Federal Penitentiary.
“So what do you think is gonna happen?” I asked the minute we were in our seat belts.
“Hard to say. Things can be a little unpredictable at these parole hearings. Sometimes it seems that the state is more interested in keeping bodies in the cages than actually rehabilitating them.”
“What do you mean?”
“Prisons are big businesses, Romeo. The inmates work all day for twelve cents an hour. That’s not even a fraction of minimum wage. So if a company wants to make a big profit on its product, they go to the prisons so they can cut down on their labor cost. Why do you think they are building prisons right and left and won’t invest one brick in a new college? Let that be a lesson to you. Trouble is easy to find and hard to get out of. And the reason it’s hard to get out of is because your body is a valuable asset to the government.”
My heart stopped racing and fell out on the floor.
“In other words, you don’t think my brother is coming home.”
“I didn’t say that, but I don’t want you to get your hopes up too high. Parole is a tough task, especially on the first go-round. But let’s stay positive and prayerful,” she said as she opened her briefcase and removed some papers. “I have some other things in line for Kwame if this doesn’t work out. His appeal is still in the works.”
The winds were taken from beneath my sails, and I was quiet for the rest of the trip. Mrs. Ross tapped my leg and mouthed the words don’t worry before she stuck her cell phone up to her ear and chatted away with someone at the prison. I turned and stared out the window, closing my eyes and saying a silent prayer for my brother’s return.
4
ROMEO
We made it to the massive structure that was the Atlanta Federal Penitentiary. To me, the building itself was a crime deterrent. Fear kicked into overdrive as we passed through fence after fence topped off with concertina wire. Guard towers were everywhere, and straight-faced men with rifles paced back and forth, looking for signs of trouble from a place that housed some of the world’s most dangerous criminals. I hated that my brother was among them.
As we made our way onto the grounds, I saw a sea of black faces in the recreation yard on the side of the prison. The driver opened the car door and two guards escorted us inside.
We were searched, pushed through a metal detector, then quickly ushered down a long corridor. I don’t know why but I was petrified. Ever since I could remember, I’ve been deathly afraid of prisons. I had visited Kwame only once since he had been incarcerated, because I couldn’t shake the nightmares of the first time I visited him. We passed an inmate who was mopping the floor. He looked to be in his late twenties. He stopped what he was doing and openly lusted after me as if I were some pretty girl. I frowned and kept walking. I was quite offended but I wasn’t about to get into it with a sexually confused convict. He made a kissing sound and I turned around. He held up his hand and motioned for me to come to him. I gave him the finger and walked into the meeting room with Mrs. Ross and the guard.
The room was a plain and dull white with a long table and a few chairs. There were no windows or pictures on the wall, just a big square room. Mrs. Ross pointed to a chair in the corner, and I took a seat. A few minutes later, people started entering the room and taking their seats at the long table. My eyes lit up when Kwame was escorted into the room by a Hulk-looking correction officer. The officer nodded at him and gave him a thumbs-up. Kwame wore a matching khaki shirt and pants with a prison number stenciled across the left breast pocket. We both shared the same dark chocolate complexion, but he was taller and seemed to have muscles bulging from everywhere. We made eye contact, and he tossed his head back to say “what’s up” before taking his seat. The parole panel was made up of one woman and two men.
“Thank you for coming,” said the white woman, who looked to be old enough to have eaten at the Last Supper, before introducing the panel.
“Now, Mr. Kwame Braxton, why should we release you back into society?” the same white lady said.
“Well”—Kwame cleared his throat—“I know saying this may not help my cause, but I never should’ve been here in the first place. But since I’ve been here, I’ve kept my nose clean, and I’ve done almost a year’s worth of college correspondence courses.”
“It says here that you were placed in disciplinary dorms twice during your incarceration. Care to explain?” the woman asked.
“Ma’am, with all due respect, it’s almost impossible to do two years in prison without a few infractions. This is a very violent environment, and every day it gets worse. Gang activity is peeking at you around every corner, and sometimes asking them to leave you alone just isn’t enough. It’s not like in the streets where if someone bumps into you, you can say excuse me and walk on. In here if someone bumps you and you try to walk away, they’re going to think they can take advantage of you. So sometimes you have to fight just to keep the peace, not to mention your manhood. I’m not making excuses; it’s just the way it is in here.”
“Based on the severity of your crimes and the total lack of remorse on your part,” said a white man, who looked to be about Kwame’s age, “I’m finding it hard to vote that you be paroled.”
“Sir, I can’t be remorseful for something I didn’t do. You guys want me to—”
Mrs. Ross drummed her fingers on the table and Kwame stopped talking.
“You were convicted by a jury of your peers. And for the sake of argument, let’s say you are innocent. Then why would you sign a plea agreement