SUFFER WITH ME Read online

  Copyright © 2018 by Robert Laboo.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to all who saw my potential, believed and supported me throughout this process. This book was motivated by all who didn’t. Thank you! Both parties are equally appreciated although for entirely different reasons. Without you I would have been given up. I hope you enjoy our story, because I was just the pen but y’all faith, or the lack of it, was the ink that saw it completed.

  - Baghdad Jig

  CHAPTER 1

  “Sir, I’m begging you to drop the weapon,” the woman states in an assertive tone.

  The young Caucasian man, with the piercing blue eyes, searches for any trace of a bluff in her features, as he holds the old man in front of him at knifepoint.

  Where did she appear from?

  What was supposed to be a simple robbery, to acquire the necessary funds to feed his habit, has become a hostage situation. His eyes dart back and forth trying to spy an exit from this potentially deadly scenario. Seeing none, he ups the ante.

  “Aaagh!” screams the elderly man as the tip of the knife digs in his throat.

  “Next one the blade goes through his neck, bitch. Now, I’m going to release him when I get to my car. If you attempt to follow us, his blood will be on my knife and your hands. Okay?” The man states with more aggression in his voice than he actually feels. POP! The car backfiring causes him to jump and mistakenly leave enough room for the three shots that tear into his torso. Suffiyah Adams remains in a shooter’s stance, though the perp lays motionless. She’s deaf to the commotion of the gathering crowd.

  “…the weapon!” The commanding voice snatches her from her state of shock.

  “Ma’am, drop the weapon!” One of the many South Orange police officers, that now have her surrounded screams. While doing as told, she explains,

  “I’m, I’m a—” The gunshot that robs her of consciousness is deafening.

  Later

  “In other news, an Essex County Homicide Detective was shot this morning on Valley Street in South Orange, a New Jersey suburb. Witnesses and the victim of the robbery say, the female officer shot and killed a 21 year-old Seton Hall student as he attempted to rob the 64 year-old man. South Orange police swarmed the Valley National Bank parking lot and allegedly shot the detective unjustly, as she was complying and laying down her weapon as commanded. The status of the shooting as well as her condition are unknown. More to come later…”

  The tension in the hospital is palpable as the Newark officers stare daggers through the few South Orange officers who dare to show their faces. Today the “blue code” they follow disappears and only colors which remain are black and white. A black woman, shot by a white officer is enough to create a blood feud between the departments that will rival the Hatfields and McCoys. The doctor’s approach interrupts the standoff.

  “Chief,” the baby-faced doctor says acknowledging the commanding officer, “she pulled through surgery and all is well. You should be proud, she’s a survivor.”

  Nine Months Later

  The reddish-brown leaves flit across the ground as Detective Suffiyah Adams steps out of her Maplewood condo’s entrance. The fall breeze lightly caresses her beautiful face and sifts through her shoulder length auburn hair. At 5’3” and 127 lbs., her model looks and curvaceous body lends her the air of an actress instead of a cop. The almond shaped brown eyes paired with her Meagan Good lips are traffic stoppers. She inhales the fresh air as she watches the kids on their way to school. Zipping her waist length leather jacket over her “Black Lives Matter” shirt, she makes her way to the parking lot. The windshield of her Honda Accord is plastered in leaves. A sight which a year ago would have aggravated her, but today feels like a blessing. She now embraces and appreciates every season as if it’s her last. As she exits the parking lot, she turns right onto Valley Street. Approaching Parker Rd., she makes a left. From her parking lot, making the left turn down Valley Street is a much quicker route, but even looking in that direction brings back bad memories. It’s the scene of where she took her first life and where her life was almost taken in the process. The day that she realized that blue wasn’t as great a color as she once believed. She drums her fingers on the steering wheel to the music, as she mentally prepares herself for her first day back at the department. Out of all the things to come, what she’s anticipating most, is her appointment with her psychiatrist. After three years of celibacy, these past seven months of therapy have been the closest substitute for her lack of intimacy. The mere thought of Dr. Jackson relaxes her immediately.

  Homicide HQ

  “Sufee!” the officers yell in unison.

  Balloons and streamers litter her cubicle she observes while drowning in the embraces of her co-workers. An overwhelming sense of love washes over her and spills from her eyes.

  “Knock it off, before y’all mess up my mascara,” she whines.

  “Okay, okay. Y’all mofos leave my baby ay-lone,” Sonya kids. “Welcome back, Mama. Don’t scare me like that no more, you hear?” Sonya whispers as she guides Suffiyah to her cubicle. The desk is loaded with cases. She gently nudges her forward, “I love you. Now get to work!” Suffiyah laughs at the sudden change of tone. Plopping down in her office chair, she just relaxes and re-familiarizes herself with her surroundings. She shuts her eyes only a couple of seconds before she feels an eclipsing presence over her and jumps slightly.

  “Whoo! Lou you scared me,” she says touching her chest.

  “Quit daydreaming Adams! Hope you enjoyed your months in the big house, now it’s back in the field for mas’sa,” Lt. McFarland mimics a slave. “How are your sessions with the residential quack coming along?”

  “I’m progressing nicely, Sir. As if you haven’t already checked my files thoroughly. I’m completely sane and able to work,” Suffiyah says sarcastically while smiling.

  “That’s a girl. Well, I’ll leave you to it.” He exits her cubicle. Home sweet home, she thinks.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Relax.” The husky baritone of his voice is the candlelight to her dinner. “Forget the world’s expectations of Suffiyah Adams. Forget the world’s perception. Forget everything that that day took from you.” He continues. “What did it give you? There is a gift disguised in every curse. What was yours?”

  You. Suffiyah says in her head, but her mouth says, “Life.”

  “I realized how much I truly want to live. To smile. To love. How much I truly want everyone else to live,” she admits sadly. “But the curse is greater than the gift. Death snuffs out my every smile. I fear loving anyone that will be taken from me suddenly. Most of all I’m afraid to live outside the box, out of the fear of being placed in a box.”

  Dr. Jackson is a handsome man and not what many would expect from a psychiatrist. At 36 years-old, he stands at 6’1 with a muscular, boxers build. His wavy brush cut hair and high yellow complexion coupled with his looks are neck breakers. But they come a distant second to his perfect white teeth and green eyes. The same striking eye that are staring at Suffiyah, as he furrows his brow in contemplation. His stare renders her speechless.

  “Something wrong, Detective?”

  “Huh? No. Uhm, I was just gathering my thoughts.” She smiles. />
  “Okay, let’s continue.”

  “Dr. Jackson, I guess what I’ve really come to understand is this job, as much as I love it, is the source of my fear. It is literally composed of death. I’m seriously considering quitting.” This admission catches Dr. Jackson off guard and a brief look of surprise registers on his usually unreadable face, which causes Suffiyah to smile. Got you gorgeous!

  “Uhm. You should really reconsider that decision. Weigh the pros and the cons in totality. At the least, allow me to do my job before you quit.” He smiles, which is a pleasant rarity.

  “I think its best, Doc. But, I’ll take a day or two before coming to a decision.”

  Later

  A little girl cowers in the corner of the attic, as the monster frantically searches for her. She silently prays to God that he doesn’t look behind the boxes of clothes stacked in front of her. “Suffer! Suffer!” He screams as he flings objects out of his path. “Here you are!” But his voice is coming from across the room, directed at someone unseen. “Now you must suffer with me…”

  “Aagh!” Suffiyah’s scream awakes her. The cold sweat has her nightgown clinging to her breast. Her short, heavy breaths, as recurring as this nightmare she’s been having since being shot, are uncontrollable. The doctor’s professional opinion is, she either invented this image or she’s been repressing memories that are trying to make their way to the forefront. The clock on the nightstand reads 4:28 AM. She has to be up in two hours anyway and after that nightmare, sleep is very unwelcome. She swings her small pedicured feet over the side of the bed. With much effort, she stands and heads to the bathroom. Undressing to shower, she admires her body in the mirror. At 33 years-old her body can rival and beat out most 20 year-olds. Her C-cup breast sit perfectly above her toned stomach. Explosive hips compliments her equally explosive rear. This unbelievable package in front of her, yet no man behind her to hold her on nights such as this. Get it together. She shakes the thought from her head as she steps in the shower. The water feels so good as it cascades down her naked body. Feeling like a million tiny fingers teasing her in places that have become a “no man” zone. The sudden tautness of her nipples lets her know that her mind is wandering. She swiftly washes and evacuates the shower, before she succumbs to her desires. The towel and terry cloth robe hug her like an old friend. Taking away the last lingering effects of the nightmare. In the kitchen, she puts on the tea kettle and grabs some turkey bacon and an English muffin. The nagging growl of her stomach led her here. Her finger absentmindedly rubs the bullet wound in her head, as she stares at the white wall with the blue trim. So much has changed.

  Homicide HQ

  “Got a live one, Su. Hit the interrogation room.” That’s her and Sonya’s code for informants. It never ceases to amaze her how they build up the heart to commit these brazen crimes. But soon as the handcuffs bite into their wrists, they lose all the heart, their codes and laws and moreover the loyalty. “On my way, Mama.”

  The young dread head man with the face full of tattoos, runs his mouth freely with little coercion.

  “I don’t owe no man shit, feel me? This ‘bout me and my kids.”

  “That’s exactly right brother, think about those babies.” The detective conducting the questioning further persuades him. “But why was the driver shot? Wait, who shot him, you? I’m looking at the witnesses’ account of the incident and they have the shooter matching your description.”

  “Hell no! That was Merko. We just look like brothers.”

  “He can’t look that much like you. I ain’t running with that. I gotta see a picture of y’all.” The detective leans back feigning disbelief.

  “On the set! I don’t have no pictures of us but watch; pull up his pic, he been bagged before. His name is Marco Jacoby. Watch, we look just like twins. I bet you!” The young boy smiles foolishly.

  “Okay, you got a bet. I’m about to go see. You hungry?”

  “Hell yeah!”

  “Okay. I’ll be right back. Ay, remember I didn’t cuff you because I trust you. Don’t try to escape and make me look bad, killer.” He smiles at the kid. As he exits the room, he spots Suffiyah. “Hey, baby girl. I don’t know if it’s the schools or the drugs, but these kids get dumber and dumber.” She shakes her head as he strides away triumphantly.

  The rest of the day passes uneventfully. Around twenty minutes to shifts end the fatigue sets in. The phone rings. “Homicide division, Detective Adams speaking.”

  “Suffiyah,” The way her name leaves the callers mouth gives it a vulgar feel. “There’s been a murder. A young woman needs you on Ridgewood Avenue. Hurry, she’s suffering.”

  “Who is this, Sir?”

  “The murderer.” The phone goes dead as the caller hangs up. It’s something eerily familiar about the voice. Though his tone was so dead and devoid of emotion. Whoever in this office decided that they should play a prank on her would regret it.

  Clock out time. Finally. Suffiyah gathers her things to head home.

  “Adams! One hundred block of Ridgewood Ave. Get there and explain to me why your name is there.”

  “Excuse me, Lieutenant?”

  “Your name is at the scene.”

  Ridgewood Avenue

  Butterflies flutter rampantly through Suffiyah’s stomach as she pulls her department issued Crown Victoria to the crime scene. Her imagination paints vivid pictures of the scene that lays in wait for her inside the house. Taking a deep breath, she puts her game face on and exits the car. A lone patrolman stands at the front door of the two-story townhouse. He nods at her as he glances at the shield around her neck. The unmistakable smell of blood invades her nose and turns her stomach. She pauses to put the booties over her shoes to prevent crime scene contamination. Walking pass all the blood spatters on the wall and floor, her imagination once again shows her the carnage she can expect. A dismembered corpse or a disemboweled woman. Maybe a woman with multiple stab wounds to the head, face and torso. Of all the horrible images that flooded her mental, none prepared her for what she walked into. The head CSI man, Ronald Eastman, kneels over the corpse. “Ronnie?”

  “Good evening Detective Adams, I see you received your invitation to the party.” Eastman says without looking back once. She stands over his shoulder, glancing pass his balding dirty blond pate. In front of him lays a beautiful young woman. The ugly bruises around her throat look profane on her otherwise flawless body. As she lays there completely nude, one thought comes to Detective Adams mind.

  “Were there more victims?”

  “No. The asshole splashed the house with someone or something else’s blood. Hell of a promoter. Decorated the place and everything for us. Cocksucker.”

  For the first time she realizes the woman bears a striking resemblance to herself. Height, weight, complexion and hair color. She instinctually wraps her arms over her breast, feeling suddenly overexposed.

  “Where do I come into play, Ronnie?”

  Saying nothing, he points a latex gloved finger towards the victim’s shoulder. A small white card is tucked slightly under her shoulder. She doesn’t need to kneel down to see it’s her name on the card.

  Down The Street

  The camera captures the flustered look on Detective Adams face as she exits the house. Her expression screams, “Get me outta here!”, but her posture remains stoic. If you had to judge the severity of the crime from her demeanor, you’d believe it to be unintimidating. But not to the trained eye of Benji Cooper. He reads the subtle telltale signs her body sends off. The glassy eyes and faraway look. The shaky hand that swipes the loose hair off her face. The greatest indicator is the way she refuses to look back, as if whatever is behind her needs to be escaped. And like most people being pursued, she’s running away. Again, her body doesn’t say that, but her face is telling a totally different story. Benji’s camera is the recorder catching every word her face speaks.

  “Subject is leaving a crime scene. She appears to be take
n aback by the incident but carries it well. She’s approaching a blue Crown Victoria and—” Benji Cooper stops mid-sentence as Detective Adams appears to look right at him.

  He slumps down in his chair as soon as her head swivels in his direction. The act in itself proving superfluous, given the dark tints on his minivan. Realizing his brain fart or lack of thinking, he returns to his proper sitting position. Just as suddenly as she turns towards him, she turns away. His heart flutters, her eyes hold such sadness in them, it is unmistakable. In that look they exchange in that brief two seconds, the stranger with the face of an angel and eyes of a widow, had grabs his heart. With the grace of a ballerina, she dances in and out of his world. In what seemed like a lifetime but only lasted a few seconds. The brake lights of the fleeing Crown Victoria stops his meandering. He tosses the camera and starts his car to follow her. Pulling out of his space in a manner as not to garner attention, as he stalks his prey. They say everyone has a twin in this world somewhere and here is hers, in the living, breathing flesh.

  CHAPTER 3

  Benjamin ‘Benji’ Cooper. Once known infamously in the bullet riddled, pothole infested streets of Newark as “Benji Ru”. Mr. Cooper has carved the excess fat from his character and become a somewhat model citizen. Throughout his career as a gangbanger, for a lack of a better word, he sought out B.L.O.O.D.S to define him. But In defining B.L.O.O.D.S., he found the contradiction. The Acronym means Brotherly Love Overrides Oppression of Destruction of Society. Yet, he and his cohorts were the parasite of society. Newark, NJ was built on savage tales of horrendous crimes and murders. Not much unlike his predecessors, he was one of the architects of this carnage. His realization came in the form of Sakinah. They say behind every good man is a great woman. This cliché personified Sakinah. She was the “yin” to his “yang”. For everywhere he was aggressive she was passive. When his soul was angered she was his calm. In times of confliction and doubt, she was his surety. So, to call her his “everything” would be an understatement. He thrived in the underbelly of society by pillaging and exploiting the inner city. Born into poverty and strife, he felt he was unable to lose or moreover, scared to lose. So, with his affiliation came status and he took all that he felt the world owed him. But his “college girl”, as he called her, proved to be the undoing of that outlook. Sakinah taught him that fearing to lose is fearing to live. She discovered his love of writing and sought to exploit it, in his favor. He told her of being Blood and she never judged him. She didn’t acknowledge “Benji Ru”. She knew Benjamin, the gentleman who picked up her dropped school books at Starbucks. The 5’10 155lb. superhero. His complexion was like peanut butter and his hair he wore in a taper with 360-degree waves. In the looks department he was average, but his swagger increased him to irresistible. He could fit in inside any crowd but manage to stand out in the same instance. He was her superhero because he made her not fear living, so in turn, he saved her from herself. During their times of early courting, she talked him into getting his GED. From there, college was next. He majored in creative writing. His intelligence coupled with his street edge was daunting. His writing style could captivate her and chill her in the same sentence. He was her drug. Balancing school and the streets were proving to be a burden. He needed to quit one but couldn’t choose. To leave the streets was to let down the “set” and to leave school was to let down Sakinah. He couldn’t do either. Sakinah never tried to talk him out of “banging”, it was a part of him. Her only advice was “bang” better. “Bang better?” He didn’t understand. Before winter break was scheduled to begin, he had a term paper due. He wrote about how insurance companies paid out funds to slave traders in England, for loss of slaves during the voyage, being they were only cargo. Going in depth on how a boat load of slaves were diseased and thrown overboard by the traders. Unable to make money from the market with sick slaves, they opted to drown them and make an insurance claim. This way they could still obtain profit for the dead slaves, thus not rendering the travels fruitless. These events were one of the major ones spearheading the abolishment of slavery in England. His paper earned him the highest grade in his class. He couldn’t wait to share the news with Sakinah. Benji went home to await her arrival. He had to practice self-control, so he wouldn’t call her every two minutes. Out of fear that he would expose the news over the phone that he wanted to give in person. He forced himself into slumber to stave off his anxiousness. Waking up sometime after midnight to an empty apartment, his anxious state was replaced with jealous anger. He snatched up his phone, no messages from her. Immediately he dials her number. After the third ring an answer, “Hello?” the man said…