SUFFER WITH ME Page 5

  “You must’ve really loved your school to tattoo it,” Lee Lee says with suspicion in her eyes.

  Damn. Who’s the investigator me or her? Benji thinks. He can see in what direction her questioning is heading. He can either duck her inquisition now and be viewed as a liar later or tell the truth and see how it plays out.

  Fuck it. “Aiight, check. We gonna do this two second style. I can see where your line of questioning is going, so let’s get it over with. Any questions asked I’ll answer, truthfully. Shoot.”

  “Why do I get the drug dealer vibe from you?”

  “Because I’m a street dude and everybody who isn’t from the streets think we all sell drugs. Have I ever? Yeah, when I was younger. But, I read a book called African American Organized Crime and it made me see drugs for the poison they are. Next?”

  “Why you got Westside tattooed on you?”

  “Because I’m a blood and—”

  “Okay dates terminated. Let’s go Suffiyah, you not fucking up your career over a gangbanger. I refuse…” Lee Lee says as she pulls Suffiyah.

  “Suffiyah!” Benji says in an assertive way without yelling, causing both women to halt. “I gave y’all the opportunity to question me about anything and I would answer honestly. All I ask is that you afford me the opportunity to answer and hear me out.” Seeing they were no longer moving, he continued. “Blood as y’all see it and Blood as it was created differ greatly. I was once ignorant enough to follow blood as y’all see it but through maturity and growth, I left it behind. I no longer identify with a set. I am Blood by essence, not affiliation. I told you I had another business, right? I run a magazine called Why We Bang.” Benji hesitated for a moment. He didn’t want to tell them about the magazine. At least not yet. Both women gave him a peculiar look. For a moment they believed that Benji was lying. He continued to speak. “It touches on the roots of the atrocities being committed which first gave Blood necessity. Google it, then judge me. Machiavelli said, ‘He who has not first laid his foundations may be able with great ability to lay them afterwards, but they will be laid with trouble to the architect and danger to the building.’ Blood has a bad stigma behind it and I’m willing to fix it, even to my detriment. This is my dream. You became a cop to create a safer environment for our people, and I embrace Blood for the same reason. America and France both fought Hitler. I say that to say, just because we in two different armies doesn’t mean we don’t fight the same war. I’m gone though, enjoy the rest of y’all night.”

  How is it, that sometimes silence is louder than words? The quietness like a probe searching your conscience in search of guilt. Suffiyah sits and wonders as they drive home saying little. “Lee Lee? What did you think? Was he telling the truth?”

  The look on Benji’s face was heart wrenching. At first she wanted to see where Lee Lee’s interrogation would lead, until she experienced the aftershock. So many emotions played on his façade. Embarrassment fused with anger which allowed a hint of sadness that transformed into contempt.

  “I told you, eyes and posture—”

  “Cut the psychological BS Alicia! Please? Just answer me,” Suffiyah explodes with so much feeling in her voice it causes Lee Lee to pull over on the shoulder and look at her.

  “Su, why are you crying?”

  “That was messed up, Lee. Did you see his face? I have never seen a man that genuinely hurt because of me. It’s like we dragged him out here to ambush him. Oh my God! Did we? We did, didn’t we? That was so evil and I feel like a coward. I could have asked him when I saw his tattoo at lunch, but nooo,” she says exaggerating the word, “I had to push my responsibility on you. Now what?” Lee Lee shifts her body in her seat to face Suffiyah.

  “Now you stop beating yourself up. One, I believe he was 100% sincere in his answers and feelings toward you. But two, which is always the number of something stinky, for the better or worse of it, he admitted to being in a gang. He never downplayed his former ignorance, to his credibility. But, you do understand some of those unsolved cases you have sitting around can easily have his name on them? And if so, how do you separate emotions from business? Sweetie, you are a detective and he’s a Blood. Your lifestyle can only increase his worth in the eyes of the world. But on the other hand, how does his lifestyle make you look? I’m sorry, but all I can see out of this union is pain and suffering.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Spring time is officially here. The flowers are starting to bloom as lawns transform back to the full beauty that winter robbed it of. Everything is rejuvenated, given a renewed sense of life. Well almost everything. In two different parts of the city, two people have yet to overcome the effects of the cold winter. Detective Suffiyah Adams clawed her way back to active status. Working cases with a cold vehemence, foreign to her style. They say your job should be something you do, but your career should be something you love. For Suffiyah it was, now she loathes it. Love at first sight is a myth. A fairytale created for people to have faith in the imaginary thing called, a soul mate. These are things that Suffiyah tells herself, but the pain that reverberates through her chest with every heartbeat tells a different story. Her career deprived her of her myth. Of her fairytale. She had to choose, or better yet feared the outcome of not choosing, work over a man. A man she barely knew, who quite possibly would have rejected her, a blow her pride couldn’t withstand. So she returned to work with no love and sheer determination. There was no “Sufee” in the office, just Suffiyah. No longer was this a place of family, just a place of business. On her lunch she sat at her desk and read. Printed in bold font, the title statement of the article screamed for attention.

  Man sentenced to 85 years for vicious gangland murder.

  This title is one that piques the interest of all who come across it. As humans, majority of us have a morbid infatuation with death and imprisonment. Regarding the names in the editorial as breathless characters in contrast to being sons or daughters. This perception allows us to detach ourselves from the aftermath of the incident, but that is not my perception. Dwayne Richards, a nineteen year old father of two, murdered Alfonso Jeffries, a twenty-two year old father of two. Two young men swayed into believing their only alternative to success in Cincinnati, Ohio was the business of the streets. Entrenched in strife, forgotten by the government and ensconced in poverty, these two fathers sought refuge in their only available resource. The streets. Fast forward to the day of the tragedy, in which we will see two “thugs” willing to die over the drug trade, instead of seeing two providers seeking to protect the only means of feeding their families. Until one laid in the throes of death as the other fled into the night. For those who only followed this story, it ended for you when Dwayne Richards was sentenced to 85 years. But to those of us who live this story with them, such as myself, it has only just begun. I went to visit both families and though there was only one casket, two men actually died. But only one was physical. Four children were orphaned. Two mothers were mugged of their hearts, yet we move on. How? Both men each had a son that may follow in their footsteps. Replaying the same chain of events that are concurrent worldwide. Not only in the ghettoes of America, but the slums of Ireland, the tenements of Jerusalem and villages of Africa. Only thing which can change these events are the initial change of self. Then unifying as a race. Not a race as far as nationality, but as a race of human beings. Together we can persevere the ills of the world. Never give up. Never stop fighting. If success was a sprint, the world would be successful. But because it is a marathon, few remain to see the goal. I’m no terrorist. I’m not anti-government, I’m just pro-us. Let’s save us. My words end here, but never the love. Peace!

  Just Benjamin

  His words resound with the effects of a hammer. Suffiyah has ordered every issue of Why We Bang printed. Reading his words are like hearing him speak, so this is how she calls on him.

  The teacher excuses himself from his class and leaves them with Benji. After the incident at Top Golf, he dug deeper into
his work. Creating a mentoring nonprofit company called MISFITS. Part of that venture is going to high schools and speaking to the students. He always asks for the teachers to leave so he can have the youths comfortable enough to speak freely. Only way to amend faulty thinking is to get to the root of it. So the kids have to be able to express themselves without judgment.

  “Good afternoon, young brothers and sisters. First and foremost, y’all see I got rid of the teacher so we can kick it and be a hundred with each other. No outsiders.”

  Twenty-two students and forty-four eyes watch him with suspicion as he rolls up his sleeves. Their eyes settle on the tattoos that adorn his forearms. This is the icebreaker to gain their trust. Anyone who is from the streets can read the story his arms tell.

  “My name is Mr. Cooper. I represent Misfits.” The kids laugh.

  “What the fuck is Misfits? A clown school?” A young male asks causing the laughter to amplify. Bingo. He’s exactly who Benji was looking for, the class spokesman.

  “Me.” Benji says. “And you. And her. And majority of the class. Misfits is an acronym which stands for Misguided Individuals Seeking Fortune in the Streets. I chose that name to represent us street individuals. A name that has no age, nor ethnicity, nor gender. A name that defines you…”

  After class Benji sits in his van and processes his progression. Years ago you couldn’t pay him to go to high school. Now he goes to multiple high schools, for free. His charisma and upfront demeanor wins over the most rambunctious teenagers. He gives them his whole life, in exchange for just a small glimpse of theirs. Time to get back to work.

  CHAPTER 9

  “Detective Adams, since your return you seem…” He thinks for a second, “For lack of a better word perturbed. Your demeanor is standoffish and insulting to some of your co-workers. You once walked around with warmth emanating from you, which has been replaced with frigidness. These are just my observations. I would love to hear yours.” Dr. Jackson turns the floor over as he crosses one leg over the other.

  His waves are perfect as though he had them drawn in. Sitting with quiet arrogance in his gray slacks and powder blue dress shirt with suspenders. The gold Oyster Perpetual Rolex gleams in the office light. He looks like he’s posing for a GQ magazine cover instead of working. Why couldn’t she feel for him? It would be so easy. Their lives and work are so similar. How could it end badly? She remembers at the first lunch with Benji, he said, “Everybody’s regular around here. By regular I mean the same. Damn near every man and woman emulates the next until their like the same entity. Fad chasers. It’s so easy to fit in and be invisible. Overlooked. But to stand out and be accounted for, that’s hard. To put your flaws on the forefront and be judged by a condescending world. Anything easy is usually not worth having. But the thing that is hardest to attain and keep is usually worth more than we can imagine. That’s why my realness is my greatest treasure. Because it’s priceless and its nothing anyone could trade me for it.”

  “I would say I’m bitter. But who wouldn’t be? I returned to a job I almost died for, only to be a victim to gossip and suspicion. Given a shove out the door as if I was a panhandler. Defamed by my lieutenant, decried by my peers. Then cheated out of a life that would have been hard to live, but I know I would have loved. Only to crawl back here and swallow my dignity, my pride. Have I no right to be bitter?”

  “What is the life you were cheated of?” Dr. Jackson, steeples his fingers together while looking at her quizzically.

  “I met someone, but our occupations don’t agree or complement each other. Or so I’ve been told. So to save this life, I traded that one. Did you ever hear that song when Alicia Keys asks, ‘Have you ever tried sleeping with a broken heart?’? Well my answer is yes. For many months now and I’m still trying.”

  Benji stands on the balcony of his hotel room. Never one to be particularly religious, he just stares at the sky. “If you exist, what’s Your problem with me? Everything You place in my life for a moment, You snatch back. You aren’t nothing but an Indian giver. I cry and cry, while You are up there laughing at me. What do I have?” Warm arms wrap around his waist as a feminine frame presses into his back and rests her head in the crevice between his shoulder blades. He instinctually goes to cover her hands with his own and just like that, the presence disappears. “Nothing.” Benji answers himself.

  Duty calls. There were two more murders in Essex County. In the first, a twenty-seven year old Hispanic man sat in his car as a masked assailant rapidly approached the driver’s side window. Opening fire into the dark tinted window and striking the victim in the chest three times. He was rushed to the hospital and listed in critical condition. But his nine year old daughter, who was in the passenger’s seat, was shot through the left eye and pronounced dead on arrival by EMT’s. Every scene is depressing but a murdered child is Suffiyah’s Achilles Heel. To see the innocence which is a child, displayed in such a macabre fashion is beyond too much for her. Which leads her here to the second scene. This seedy, drug infested hotel on Halsey Street is a hot bed for depraved crack whores, dealers, and all walks of the underworld. The tenants of the establishment peek out their rooms nosily, in an attempt to get a glimpse of the cause of the commotion. Suffiyah holds her breath in as she prepares herself for the image she’s about to walk in to. The pent up breath escapes her lungs in relief. Instead of a nude “Suffiyah” look alike, with her card on their person, there is a gorgeous Spanish woman. She lies on the bed in a defensive position, which means she died fighting. She looks to be about 5’6 with a body worth millions. Her perfect nails and expensive clothes which are strewn over the floor, reveals her status is far above others who frequent here. Ronald Eastman walks beside her.

  “Nice to see you, Detective.”

  “Morning, Ronnie. What could you tell me?”

  “Facts. She definitely had consensual sex before whatever led to this.” Motioning for her to follow him to the body. “Look at her neck. The marks are conducive of strangulation, which first led me to believe our perp had struck again. Though the physical description has changed, that isn’t abnormal. But these,” he points to her face. “Don’t fit his modus operandi.” Her face is bruised, the upper lip split, her eye shows a popped blood vessel. “The perp was angry. No control like at the previous scenes, Detective. Too much testosterone was in this room. Luckily, we were able to bottle some of it up. Our guy left some DNA.”

  “That’s great! Hopefully it matches something in our database. Do we have identification?”

  “Aaliyah Perez. A twenty-three year old from Harlem, New York.”

  “What is she doing in Newark?”

  “If I could answer that question, then I’d be doing your job along with my own.”

  Suffiyah smiles. “Thanks Ronnie.”

  Marie Ciccio, is a thirty-something, history teacher. Equipped with all the traditional assets that give Italian women a classic beauty. Long hair, grace, a fiery attitude and a hint of her mother tongue fused with her English.

  “Mr. Cooper, what is it you say that’s so special or secret, that I can’t hear it?” she asks Benji, as she sits on the edge of her desk with her arms crossed. Her knee length skirt shows off her muscular calves, accentuated by her high heels. He could tell that underneath the clothes lays a body of a Goddess.

  “No secrets, Mrs. Ciccio-“

  “Ms.,” she says with emphasis while dramatically flashing her ring-less left hand.

  “Pardon me, Ms. Ciccio. But it’s really to create a less scrutinized environment for the students. Without fear of disciplinary consequences or judgment, they’ll give you their hearts. They just need to know the person their passing it to will care for it and protect it. That’s my burden and no disrespect to you or any other administrator, but I don’t know you well enough to share the task.”

  “You speak of it with such romance and passion. I’m going to give you my students but they come with a price,” she says staring. “…Lunch. You
owe me lunch afterwards. And for the record I’m great with hearts. If I’m allowed to get my hands on one, I treat it as my own,” she says as the bell sounds and the students start spilling in. In the blink of an eye the lust disappears from her gaze and is replaced with a more appropriate look, as she breaks her eye contact with Benji. “Settle down, my lovelies. Good morning, unfortunately I will not have the pleasure of your company this period,” she explains with the flare of a drama major. “But I will be leaving you to this intriguing gentleman, Mr. Cooper. I ask you to please extend to him the same trust and respect you grant me. Ciao!” she says and sashays from the classroom with a little more twist for Benji’s benefit. Benji faces the class and rolls up his sleeves.

  Benji stirs the sugar into his Peppermint tea as he sits in the coffee shop. Across from him is Ms. Ciccio, who has shed her glasses and released her dark tresses from its ponytail.

  “Not much of a coffee drinker, Mr. Cooper?”

  “Nah, it ain’t really my twist. Oh pardon me, I meant—”

  “Perfectly fine. I understood. Talk as you feel comfortable, it’s refreshing.”

  “Okay. By the way, call me Benji.”

  “Benji it is.”

  Over bagels and tea, their discussion touched on the intimate and personal aspects of their lives. Benji found out Ms. Ciccio was a divorced gym rat, who loves yoga and traveling. Only thing that she loves more are her students. Through teaching she’s living out her childhood dream. She speaks of it with such fervor, that she creates an atmosphere that makes him want to spill his passions. He starts with MISFITS and goes into Why We Bang which, uncharacteristically for him, leads to Sakinah. Sakinah is a hand he keeps close to his chest and reveals to few. His sentiments show on his face as he tells his tale of lost love. Once he gets to her murder, he dances around the specifics to keep from tearing up. As they walk out of the coffee house, Ms. Ciccio slides her slight hand inside his.