Table of Contents
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Also Available from Infamous Books
The game don’t change . . . the players do . . .
CHAPTER ONE
“Mr. DeMarco Jones, I hereby sentence you to eighteen months at the Tryon Residential Center for your role in the robbery in question. You will remain in custody until the end of the eighteen-month term.”
As the judge spoke, DeMarco was off in his own world. He immediately began to think about all the time he was set to serve. For a teenager, eighteen months was an eternity. He wasn’t mentally prepared to be away from the streets of Queens and his friends for that long.
“Fuck,” he said under his breath.
“What was that, Mr. Jones?” the judge spoke in a deep baritone. He had the kind of voice that vibrated through you. There was no question that when he spoke, he meant business.
“Uh, nothing, Your Honor. I ain’t say nothin ,” DeMarco said, sitting there next to his lawyer who didn’t do shit for him.
“In closing, I hope you learn your lesson from this situation and make the best of it. You still have time to turn your life around, young man. Court is dismissed,” the judge said and banged his gavel.
* * *
Man, I see already I ain’t gonna like this shit, DeMarco was thinking to himself as he sat in a van with ten other kids on their way to Tryon. He was already contemplating ways to get out of the situation. He was imagining multiple routes to escape without even knowing the layout of the detention center. For the first time in his life, he felt like he didn’t have control and it was uncomfortable. He was used to doing things his way without being a “yes” man. This would be his first time locked away, but many of his friends had endured the same fate. From their experiences, he learned that you could do one of two things: sink or swim. Sinking was just not an option for him.
Man, the first chance I get I’m up outta here, he thought to himself. He was getting more annoyed by the minute as the kids around him started playing the tough-guy role. He sat quietly in deep thought waiting for someone to get out of line with him. He was always ready to knock a nigga on his ass if necessary. Finally, they pulled off the road and passed a sign that said, Welcome to Tryon Residential Center for Boys. Taking a deep breath, DeMarco stilled himself as he got out of the van.
“Grab your bags and follow me,” the driver said as he walked toward a door that read, Intake. Once at the door, the staffer held it open for the young men. DeMarco walked inside with his three bags and couldn’t believe that he was going to have to stay there for the next eighteen months. The guards stared each of the boys up and down, clearly trying to intimidate them. Some young men buckled at the knees, but DeMarco kept a straight face.
“Put your bags against that wall and then follow me,” one guard said to the group as he walked down the hall. “Now take a seat.”
Each of them found a spot and did as they were told.
“After you see the nurse, go across the hall and someone will give you a card with the cottage name on it. Once that’s done, come back up the hall and I’ll send you on your way.”
Man, this is some bullshit, DeMarco thought as he sat there waiting for his name to be called. All sorts of ideas flooded his mind as he looked around the room studying the other boys. He watched their movements carefully. He was taught not to trust anyone, not even your best friend. He was also taught to be ready at all times in the event an enemy attacked. He sat impatiently for the next fifteen minutes until his name was called.
“Jones!”
“About time,” he mumbled under his breath.
“What’s that?” the guard asked.
“I ain’t say nothin,” DeMarco replied.
DeMarco headed into the nurse’s office with a straight face. After about twenty minutes of bullshit, he walked across the hall to find out what cottage he was going to be in. He grabbed the card off the desk, turned, and stepped back out of the office.
“Ya card,” a guard said.
DeMarco handed it to him.
“Elmwood One. Oh, that’s Mrs. B. I think you’ll like it there. When you go out