Jumped In Page 4

  Hey wassup it’s me Lanaia

  I write back, Hi how you doin

  Good how bout you

  Then my thumbs pause in midair. What am I supposed to say next? I already asked her how she’s doing. I didn’t come with a game plan. Normally I’m a take-it-as-it-comes kind of guy. But suddenly I have no clue what to do. I’m glad we’re texting and not talking. Otherwise this would have turned into a very long and awkward silence.

  She decides to go next.

  Can I ask you a question

  yes im single and available, I text back. I’m walking along, not looking where I’m going, just a typical kid in the city. No reason for the cops to hassle me, right?

  Ha ha ha that was not my question

  Okay go ahead

  How old are you?

  Uh-oh. You know when a chick is using proper capitalization and punctuation, she ain’t messin’.

  I’m just debating what my answer should be when I hear a whoop, whoop. This is the sound that sends a cold dagger of fear through the heart of every black teenaged boy in this city.

  “Keep your hands where we can see them,” says a voice through a loudspeaker.

  It’s the five-o.

  I’m about to get ten-fiftied.

  NINE

  If you’re white, let’s be honest. You probably don’t even know what a ten-fifty is.

  If you’re black, let’s be even more honest. No two numbers in the English language will make you more nervous.

  Ten-fifty is the name of the form the police use when they conduct random stops. They’re allowed to stop people, anytime, anywhere, search them and ask them questions. They fill out a ten-fifty form and keep it on file. That way, if you ever get arrested in the future, they already have all kinds of dirt on you they can trot out in court. See, Your Honor? He’s not the innocent victim he makes himself out to be. Look at how many times we had to talk to him!

  The idea is, it’s supposed to make the city safer. Of course, what this usually means is that black kids get stopped constantly, while white kids get left alone. I know black kids who have been ten-fiftied twenty or thirty times. I knew white kids at my school last year who had never been ten-fiftied once in their lives.

  I ain’t trying to make it racist. I’m just saying. This is the way it is.

  You’re supposed to be able to decline a ten-fifty and keep going. We all know what really happens to people who do that. They develop a sudden case of handcuffs, and on their way to the station they probably get slapped around a lot. Cops hate it when you make them work for a living.

  “Just stay right there,” says the cop who is getting out on the driver’s side. This cop is white. Beefy, crew cut, mustache.

  Another cop is getting out of the passenger side. This one is black. Bald head, huge arms. Tattoos.

  You might think I’d be happy to see a black cop. Uh-uh. They’re even worse than the white ones sometimes. Almost like they’re trying to show their white buddies they don’t play favorites. A black cop might be less likely to shoot a black kid. But he’ll be ten times more likely to kick your ass just for fun. I know. It’s happened to me more than once. And I’m really hoping it doesn’t happen again today.

  “Take your backpack off and set it on the ground,” says the black cop.

  I do it.

  “What’s that in your hand?” asks the white one, like maybe his eyes aren’t working.

  “My phone,” I say.

  “Yeah? Lemme see it.”

  “It’s my phone,” I say. “I ain’t gotta let you see it.”

  “Why not? Who were you texting, your dealer?”

  “You mind if I go through this bag?” says the black cop, and he picks up my backpack and opens it. This is how they work. They ask you a lot of questions real quick and hope you make a mistake. “Anything in here that’s illegal? Anything gonna stick me? Where you coming from today?”

  “Get outa my bag,” I say. “I didn’t give you permission to search it.”

  “Why not? What are you trying to hide?”

  “I know my rights.”

  “Oh, he knows his rights,” says the white cop to the black cop. “A roadside lawyer.”

  “Where you coming from?” asks the black cop again. He’s still holding my bag, still going through it. I don’t keep anything illegal in there. I ain’t crazy. But he doesn’t give a crap about my rights.

  “I ain’t gotta tell you that.”

  “Well, looks like you’re going to jail then,” says the white cop, “since you wanna be combative and not help us out. Gimme that phone.” He grabs it out of my hand.

  “I wasn’t doin’ nothin’,” I say. “I was just walking.”

  “Put your hands up against the wall.”

  “But I was just walking down the street. I didn’t break any laws.”

  Technically speaking, that’s not true. I did sort of steal a lady’s wallet today. But they don’t know that. This is just a straight-up shakedown. Trying to fill their quota.

  “You don’t wanna work with us, you leave us no choice,” says the black cop, and he kicks my feet apart. He’s none too gentle about it. He starts patting me down while the white cop gets on his radio.

  I know this game. First they hope I’m gonna start crying and cooperate. They must think I’m a kindergartener.

  Next, they hope I either run or start fighting. Then they have an excuse to chase me down, beat me up and charge me with a real crime. They get to look like they’re doing their job. My brown ass sits in the can until they either decide to charge me or let me go. They don’t care. I’m not even a human to them. My freedom, my rights, mean nothing.

  They spend a long time going through my stuff. They take the money out of my pocket.

  “How’d you earn this money?” asks the white cop. He holds up the twenty bucks I have left after buying breakfast and the phone card.

  “I ain’t gotta tell you that,” I say.

  “You get it from selling drugs?”

  “No.”

  “Well, unless you can prove how you got it, I’m gonna seize it as the proceeds of a crime.”

  “Man…” I’m so angry, my legs are shaking. I’m afraid I’m gonna fall to the ground. But I know if I do that, out come the nightsticks. Oh, we thought he was trying to crawl away, so we had to use force to subdue him. “That’s my money. You have no right to take it.”

  “Oh, so you have a job?”

  “No, but…”

  “Then how did you get it? How’d you get this money?”

  I want to pop this cop in the face so bad, I can hardly hold it in. This is what it all comes down to right here. Five hundred years ago they started bringing us over here on ships so they could force us to do their dirty work. Now they got us standing on the corner with our hands on the wall and our legs spread, taking the money out of our pockets.

  Meanwhile, people are walking by on the street like the whole thing isn’t even happening.

  I told you. You haven’t seen me before, even though I’m omnipresent. I am every black kid on the street getting his ass beat by the cops, shot down, run to the ground, stomped on, treated like an animal.

  And you just keep on walking like it’s not even happening.

  I’m not the problem here.

  You are.

  TEN

  I’m standing there wondering if I’m gonna spend the rest of the day, or the rest of the week, or maybe the rest of my life, in jail. See, when poor people get arrested and charged, they don’t get bailed out. They can’t afford it. They stay in jail until the judge decides what to do with them. That can be weeks or months.

  And if you get hit with real charges, you don’t have a fancy lawyer to get you out of trouble. You get a public defender who has a hundred other people to deal with that day, so he tells you to plea out because the judge is in a hurry. If you waste the judge’s time, he’s just gonna come down harder on you. Of course you’re guilty. If you were innocent, you wouldn’t have
gotten arrested.

  This is how people’s lives get turned upside down in an instant, just because they’re black and poor. Doesn’t matter if you actually did anything. The system needs something to chew on.

  Suddenly, I hear another car screech up.

  The cops take their hands off me. I don’t want to turn around to see who it is. I don’t want to risk making any sudden movements. That’s a good way to get shot.

  There’s a lot of yelling going on. There are angry voices. Black voices. “Y’all better” this and “y’all better” that.

  The cops start shouting back at whoever is shouting at them. “Do not come any closer! Stay where you are! Keep your hands where I can see them!”

  Man, I really, really want to look. Slowly I begin to inch my head around, but I can’t see anything.

  I feel a hand on my shoulder. Not a cop hand. A friendly hand.

  “Yo, Rasheed,” someone says.

  Finally I feel like I can turn and look.

  It’s Worm. One of Boss’s lieutenants. He’s a tall skinny dude with dreads like mine. Looks kinda like Snoop, only not that tall. I saw Snoop from about a quarter-mile away once. Dude is nine feet high. It was like seeing Jesus.

  “Sup, Worm,” I say.

  “Get outa here,” Worm says.

  “What?”

  “You heard me, fool. Bounce. We got this.”

  I can hardly believe what kind of day this is turning out to be. How is this even possible?

  When I turn around, I see how it’s possible. I see no less than six Locals standing on the sidewalk and in the street, arms folded, guns in plain view in their waistbands. I have to admit, Locals are a scary sight when they mean business. They all wear sunglasses. They all have big muscles and wear white sleeveless shirts. And they definitely do not care about the law. Around here, they are the law.

  All these guys showed up for me? I feel like a celebrity.

  I grab my bag and take my phone out of the white cop’s hand.

  “Thanks, pork chop,” I say.

  You oughta seen the look on his face. He’d like nothing better than to shoot me right then and there. But he is not that crazy, not that stupid.

  He knows who really runs this neighborhood. The E Street Locals do, that’s who.

  “Yo, Rasheed,” says Worm. “Boss gonna catch up with you later.”

  “Word,” I say.

  I turn and start walking.

  After I go about ten yards, I start running. I run like I’ve never run before. I know those cops might change their mind at any moment.

  I run to my hideout behind the Seven. I don’t care how bad that dumpster smells. I snuggle up right behind it and pull a cardboard box over myself.

  Man, that dumpster stinks. But I’ve never been so glad to smell garbage in my life.

  I pull out my phone. My heart is pounding. I need to relax. I fire up one of my old TV shows. I wish I was in that black-and-white world right now, where nothing bad ever happens and no one ever dies. Everyone is smiling and everything is perfect.

  I’m in there for about five minutes. Suddenly the cardboard gets yanked away. Bright sunlight hits me in the face. I can’t see.

  A strong hand reaches down and grabs me by the shoulder. It yanks me to my feet. I squint. It’s Worm.

  “What you doin’ back here?” he says. “Man, it stinks.”

  “Just hidin’ from the cops,” I say.

  “Man, I told you, you ain’t gotta worry about them,” Worm says. “We run this hood. They know it. Everyone knows it.” His eyes narrow. “Everyone except you, seems like.”

  I shake my head.

  “Uh-uh,” I say. “I know it.”

  “You know it. And now you gonna show it. Come on with me, fool. Today is your lucky day.”

  He grabs me by the arm and pulls me out of the alley. Three more Locals are standing there waiting for us. Behind them is a black Monte Carlo, stereo bumping, doors open. The inside of the car is pitch black. I can’t see anything. It’s like looking into the gates of hell.

  “What do you mean, my lucky day?” I say.

  “You gonna get made a Local,” says Worm. “Boss says. I dunno why. You ain’t done nothin’ to deserve it, far as I’m concerned. But Boss speaks.”

  I think about running again. But that’s just crazy. The cops are easy to avoid. The Locals know everything about me. I can never hide from them.

  Worm gets into the car on my right. Another Local gets in on my left. The other two get in up front. The car starts moving.

  On our way down the street, we pass by my house. I look at it with longing. I never liked that house, but suddenly it’s where I want to be. It stands for everything in my life that was ever worth saving.

  But the front door is closed, and the screen door has bars on it. So do the windows. The curtains are drawn tight. Our house is always on lockdown. No one in there can help me. I’m on my own.

  Okay. Fine. I can get through this. I can get through anything. I want to start crying, but I know that will just make things worse.

  So I grit my teeth and get ready for whatever lies ahead.

  ELEVEN

  I used to wonder what getting jumped in would be like. I knew it would be bad. One of my main goals in life was to avoid it. But sometimes the things we try the hardest to avoid are the things we sail right into.

  We drive down to a house on E Street that I never pass, no matter what. It’s the house where the Locals hang out. Just another run-down bungalow with bars on the windows, weeds in the yard, a half-starved pit bull tied up behind a busted fence. There are always people coming and going from that place. I’ve heard that some of them go in and never come out again.

  I would walk ten miles out of my way to avoid this house.

  We pull up and get out. I know if I run, I will have to keep running for the rest of my life. And I’m worried about what they’ll do to Moms and Daneeka. I’m still so close to home I can see my house from here. They can have them in a minute if they want them.

  So I let them take me in.

  We go through the house and out the back door to the yard. Four Locals in black do-rags are sitting in lawn chairs. They’re playing dominos around a patio table. Boss is one of them. When they see me, they stop playing.

  “Sup,” he says to me.

  I don’t say anything. One of the Locals hits me in the back. He doesn’t use his hand. It feels like something metal. A gun.

  “Boss say sup, you say sup back,” says the Local.

  “Sup, Boss,” I say.

  “Five-o was after you,” Boss says.

  “Yeah, Boss.”

  “E Street Locals done saved your ass.”

  I have to admit that’s true. No way around it.

  “Yeah, Boss.”

  “Your daddy was a Local. Locals run this hood. Time you face that fact.”

  “Yeah, Boss.”

  “You gettin’ jumped in, son.” He pulls a phone out of his pocket. “Today the first day of the rest of your life.” He grins, gold grill shining in the sun.

  I don’t have a word for the feeling in my stomach right now. I’ve never felt this way before. All I can think is, I don’t want to die.

  I stand there for a long time. Boss makes some calls. Locals start showing up at the house. The yard fills with them. Soon there are dozens. They’re all standing around looking at me. They all know who I am. I get the feeling more than a few of them know who my daddy was too.

  I get pushed into the center of the yard.

  There is no speech. No instructions. No whistle blows. They just start.

  They come from behind me, from the side, from in front. Their fists fall on me like meteors. I can’t do anything against them. I fall to the ground. Then they use their feet.

  They just don’t stop.

  I can feel myself breaking. There is no air down where I am. No sunlight. Nothing but pain. I curl into a ball and wait for it to end.

  For the longest time,
it doesn’t.

  Then, suddenly, it does.

  The sea of people parts. Sunlight streams in once again. A hand reaches down and pulls me up. I feel as if I’ve been reborn.

  Which, I guess, is the whole point.

  Somehow time passes. I don’t know how much. A day. Everything hurts, but nothing is actually broken.

  I don’t get to go home. Someone gives me some food. Barbecued chicken. Someone else gives me a black do-rag and a white muscle shirt. I lie down in a corner of that filthy house and sleep.

  Morning comes.

  I get taken to the corner on the main drag and dropped off. There is a soldier with me. He sits in an SUV and watches me.

  Before I know it, I’m selling crack to crackheads like I’ve been doing it all my life.

  It’s simple. They come up to you and tell you how much they want. You look at their missing teeth, their knotted hair, their filthy clothes, and you feel disgust. You don’t even want to touch their money. But you do.

  You tell a runner what you need. The runner is a little kid. He goes off and comes back with your order. He hands it to you. And you hand it to the crackhead, who was once a human being and is now more like a ghost. These people are the lowest of the low. They are at the worst point in their lives. And the stuff I’m selling is keeping them there.

  I hand the money over to the soldier in the SUV.

  I do this all day. I think about college. I think about Lanaia.

  I think about criminal justice.

  When I’m out of rock, I get in the SUV. We head back to the Locals’ house. The lieutenant who was with me hands the money over to Worm. He makes a big show out of counting it. Like I was going to steal from them.

  “See you tomorrow,” says Worm.

  And that’s it. I can go home if I want. First day at the office is over.

  I walk the fifty yards that separate my old life from my new life. I take the black do-rag off before I go into the house. I have the same conversation again with Daneeka. I make my mom some tea.

  I lock myself in my room.

  And I take out my phone and dial Officer Friendly.

  TWELVE

  I told you those Locals are dumb. So dumb they don’t even realize that just because I look like a Local doesn’t mean I am one. So dumb they don’t realize I want nothing more than to hurt them after what they did to my sister.