“Thanks, beautiful,” her husband gave her a kiss.
“This is just the kinda case we need,” she brushed the shoulders of his navy sportcoat.
“I hope so.”
“I have faith. Coy’s a good k**!”
“Well, I better get out of here.”
Seneca McLean drove like a bat out of hell to the county jail. “Fuck,” he yelled as the well-maintained British racing green 1999 Jaguar XJ8 sedan hit a pothole. ‘Sorry ass Board of Supervisors,’ he thought. The five-nine, sepia-skinned, huskular man held on to a tinge of resentment. He’d stood for one of the seats as a Republican in the previous election, but lost overwhelming to some old broad who had with very few ‘qualifications’.
Seneca knew it, but would never admit that folks in this area of the country were still not okay with him being married to a white woman. Even though he’d been with her for 20 years, there were still people of both races that found it disgusting – especially in the generation of the most active voters in local elections.
His four years in the Marines and law degree did not erase his Blackness. But if he were being honest, being Black was not the liability. The white wife was. It was the same logic brutally honest men shared with Martin Luther King, Jr. when he was in love with a Cacasian woman during his time in seminary. They explained that marrying her would hamper his ability to be a respected community leader. MLK acquiesced. The jarhead did not.
A deputy was posted outside waiting. “What’s up, McLean,” the balding, slightly tubby man smiled. “Come with me. I’ll take you to Reynolds.”
“Hey, Coy,” Seneca said solemnly as he set his briefcase on the table.
“Thanks for comin’, McLean! They’re tryin’ to frame me.”
“Hang on a sec, man. We’ll get to all that. First, here’s a representation agreement. It just says that you’ve hired me as your lawyer to represent you in this matter. Now, I’ve known you for a while so I’m gonna reduce my fee to $100 an hour. How much can you afford to put down now?”
Coy shrugged his shoulders. “About $250.”
“That’ll work,” Seneca agreed. “Well take care of that when we get you out of here. Sign there,” he pointed.
The formalities complete, Seneca picked up his pen. “What’s going on?”
Coy exhaled. “They say they wanna talk about me about Rosie.”
“You mean Evan Barker, right,” he confirmed.
“Yeah! Anyway, they’re curious about our relationship,” he made air quotes. “ And like I told you there was that P.I. motherfucker that came pokin’ around.”
“Okay! So what exactly was your relationship to the victim.”
“What I tell you is confidential, right?”
“Yeah, unless you confess you’re the killer.”
Coy took a deep breath. “Look, I knew her. This town ain’t that big, you know. I knew her a little better than most.” He paused. “Hell, it’s all gonna come out anyway. Fuckin’ Billy Gray probably runnin’ his mouth I bet. Don’t judge me.”
“I’m not here to judge you. I can understand this is a tough situation, but I’m here to help you,” the lawyer explained.
“Okay, man. Thanks! I fucked her. A few times. Not to toot my own horn, but she was fallin’ in love with me. I got a fiancee, bro! I called it off. She really wanted me to keep seeing her. I couldn’t. Someone says they saw a police car at her place the night before she was found.”
“Was it your car,” the Marine inquired.
“I’m a beat cop. I drive all over town. It could’ve been. But, I never saw her that night.”
“So it’s safe to assume that your DNA is at the victim’s residence?”
“Okay! What’s your alibi for the time of the murder.”
“I was on duty.”
“And I believe the City has GPS monitoring on the fleet.”
“As far as I know.”
“If I pull those records, am I going to find that you were in the area of the victim’s residence?”
“I don’t think so. Like I said, I was trying to stay away.”
Seneca considered the facts as he tapped the light gray legal pad with his pen. “Alright. I’m gonna talk to the prosecutor. See if we can just write a statement for now about your relationship to the victim and your whereabouts at the time of the murder. Hopefully, they’ll play ball. Back in a few.”
The inmate g****vine was highly efficient. Down at Wiley State Penitentiary. a mixed sissy with a svelte almond-colored body and light-brown eyes switched over to where the Billies were playing dominoes. “Excuse me,” he lisped.
The white dudes looked up. “What’s up, Sugarfoot,” chuckled a hardy man who was clearly the Alpha.
“Blank says he got some g****s you’ll want,” the k** explained his purpose.
“This better be good,” the career criminal scowled.
“It’s about your cousin, Roise.”
“What about her?”
“He got some info about her murder.”
“I thought they arrested that nigger.”
“There’s a new suspect!”
“Tell that motherfucker to meet me at the crux. Now!”
Joe Edd Archer stood up violently after slamming his sizable, tattooed fist on the table. The tiles were in disarray now. No one dared complain. They decided to start over. He marched to a table at the far end of the rec room. It was usually empty unless the various races needed a neutral space to chat amongst one another. Joe Edd was followed by a lackey just in case Blank was up to some bullshit.
This was Joe Edd’s third time at Wiley. He was in for d**g possession without a prescription for 24 months this go around. He was pissed in general that Rosie was dead. Firstly, she was his blood – her momma was his first cousin. Secondly, he enjoyed fucking her sweet, little, white rump when he was in the world. Rosie was taken too soon. He’d vowed revenge on the perpetrator.
Blank arrived with his own backup. “Sup, mane,” said the caramel-skinned athletically built convict.
“You tell me! What you got?”
“I hear they think yo’ cousin’s killer was a pig.”
“Who told you that?”
“Reliable source. Came from a duck,” he referred to law enforcement officer who shared information.
“Yeah. Local muthafucka. Name Reynolds.”
“Holy fuck,” Joe Edd snapped. “There is a pip squeak on the force with that name. I gotta check this out. Thanks!”
“I figured you’d wanna know.”
“Yeah! If this turns out to be true, pick one of our bitches and she’s yours,” he promised before walking away.
Joe Edd stormed to his cell. “Get the fuck out, bitch,” he yelled to the bubble butt blond femboi.
The sissy had been quietly reading a Louis L’Amour novel. Reading the Joe Edd’s, reddened face, clenched jaw, & throbbing neck veins, he scurried away without a word.
The above-average height, solid dude pulled out his mobile phone. He started making calls. Finally, he spoke to someone with half an idea of what was going on. The guy explained that Coy had been picked up while dining out. No, he wasn’t handcuffed. No, there wasn’t a scene. But folks were piecing things together – especially in the lower class set.
“Does it even make sense,” checked Joe Edd.
“It could. That nigger they got in county has maintained his innocence. He admits to sleeping with Rosie, but not killing her. No violent criminal history. No jailhouse snitches.”
“Shit! Thanks, man!”
He ended the call with the crooked city cop. He needed to talk to Blank again.
Theresa, Jessica, and Miles listened to Seneca’s offer of a statement. Theresa countered with a recorded statement. He was open to the idea with no questions today. She insisted that he answer clarifying questions and he’d be free to go this evening save for a confession. Seneca agreed.
Seneca returned to his client and drafted a list of talking points. “Only say this. Literally, just read it. If they ask a question, look at me. I’ll nod yes if it’s okay to answer. I’ll shake my head no, if you need to say you don’t recall.”
Coy spoke loudly so the machine could capture his voice. The detectives asked very few follow-up questions. He was released. Seneca drove him to the restaurant to retrieve his truck after a quick stop at the ATM.
“Do not leave town. You’re not under arrest, but you are a person of interest. Do not talk to anyone about this. Not your momma, Not your fiancee. Hell, don’t even pray out loud about it,” he warned.
“Yeah! I got it.
Coy hopped into his metallic red 2014 Toyota Tacoma 6-speed manual-shift, extended cab pickup. He went home to the house he rented with a friend who was a firefighter. He returned on the 17 missed calls from Paige.
“Hey, baby,” she whispered. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah! I’m fine.”
“What’s going on? People are saying may have some info about the murder.”
“I’m a cop, babe! We see things. We hear things. They just wanted me to talk about anything I might know.”
“So they don’t think D’Clinton did it?”
“I’m not a part of the investigation,” he lied. “I don’t know. I guess they’re looking at other suspects too.”
“Okay. Well, mother and daddy are worried about you.”
“Tell them everything is fine.”
Coy hung up the phone and took a beer from the fridge. He plopped on the couch and turned on the TV. “Shit,” he cursed aloud. Things were getting real. Real fucking fast.
“What you want, homie,” Blank asked.
“Just someone to lean on him,” Joe Edd said.
“Hard enough to know if he did it.”
“And if he did?”
Joe Edd said nothing. He simply took his forefinger and ran it across his neck.
“Alright. You know the cost, right?”
“Yeah! I need some stress relief.”
“Yeah, I bet. This shit crazy.”
“How much for that pretty mixed punk?”
“Done. Send him to me ASAP.”
Lashonda White sat in the congregation as Pastor Davis Martin extolled the virtues of giving.
“We know Satan is busy,” he boomed. “There are forces at work in this country. In…in…in this state. In our very own community” he leaned back and popped up straight for emphasis. “They’re working against our young Black men. The school-to-prison pipeline is real, my brothers and sisters. Oh it’s real!”
A chorus of ‘amens’ rang out from the crowd.
“And right now,” the ectomorph bodied dark-skinned man continued. “They’ve got our very own Sis. Lashonda White’s baby boy, D’Clinton Lewis, sitting in jail awaiting trial for a crime he didn’t commit! Oh Satan! Get thee behind!”
Various people shouted. “Yes lawd!” “Preach!” Tell the truth, pastor!”
D’Clinton and the others had finished dinner and were corralled into the dorms for quiet time. He had Cass pinned against the wall. “You gon’ gimme some ass real quick?”
“Out in the open,” the sissy asked.
“We can behind the bunk.”
“Okay,” the bright-skinned bottom agreed.
They maneuvered for a bit of privacy. Cass got on his knees and extracted D’Clinton’s big dick. He sucked it with care. Once fully hard, he stood and turned his juicy booty towards the lanky fellow.
Pastor Martin was still going.
“We have to fight the good fight. Let’s reach down in our pockets and bless the Sis. White the way that the Lord has blessed us. D’Clinton had a job and helped pay rent. He lost it because of this i*****l imprisonment. The Father admonishes us to give for it is better than receiving.”
Ushers with gold collection plates started towards the congregation.
D’Clinton stuffed his 9-inch dick inside of Cass’ tender booty hole. “Damn, baby,” huffed.
“You like it, nigga,” whispered the punk.
“Yeah, bitch! I’ma fuck you later too!”
“Oh my god.”
The other two masculine inmates saw what was going on. They pointed to their crotches. The other two fags ran over and pulled out the cocks. They sucked up inmates as they all watched D’Clinton plow that sexy little bitch boi.
“This what I like,” admitted the murder suspect.
“Oh god! Yes, nigga! Fuck me!”
“Hell yeah, faggit! Take dis dick!”
“Oh shit,” cried the fairy.
D’Clinton pulled out and shot a fat wad on the nice, rounded butt cheeks. “Ooh wee! I need that!”
“Me too, daddy! Looks like we inspired the others.”
D’Clinton looked over to see their pair of punks sporting cum covered faces.
He laughed and signaled his approval to the other real men.
The service concluded at Temple Mount Missionary Baptist.
“Wait right here, sister,” the preacher said to Lashonda.
Pastor Martin disappeared into another room. “How’d we do?”
“I was thinking we take a 21.5% fee,” the finance guy opined.
“That’s only fair,” the minister approved.
“Then she gets $436.12.”
“Great! We can use our cut at Miss Mindy’s then.”
“You know it,” grinned the money changer.
Joe Edd waited back in his cell. His sex drive wasn’t what it was in his late teens and 20s. But, he still liked to fuck. He had seven k**s by five different women. Two baby mamas were white chicks, two were Black girls, and one was Mexican. He had a naturally sturdy build that easily gained muscle mass. His dark brown eyes and nearly black hair made him look mysterious. Women and sissies alike were drawn to him. It didn’t hurt that he had girthy 8-inch dick.
He spoke to his cellmate and prison wife, Honey. “We doin’ a threesome tonight.”
“Okay,” the nerdy punk said without looking up from the book. He knew enough to go with the flow. It only took one good ass whooping from his hubby to make him fall in line.
Sugarfoot showed up.
“Y’all strip,” he ordered. “And show me those pussies!”
The boiz undressed. They turned around and stuck out their booties. Honey had a small one, onion-shaped. Sugarfoot’s was slightly larger and rounder, but firm. They spread their cheeks apart.
“Who wants Daddy’s big White cock first?”
“I do,” purred Honey.
“You gotta share tonight, boi!”
“Yes, sir,” the white sissy lowered his gaze.
Sugarfoot and Honey got on their knees. Each of them lick a side of Joe Edd’s long shaft. Honey went down on it first while Sugarfoot sucked his balls. Then they switched. And switched again.
“Okay, fags! Get ready.” He spat on his rod and went inside Sugarfoot first.
“Owwwww,” whined the biracial cutie.
“Oooh wee! This ass is tight!”
“Yeah! Daddy loves ehtnic boipussy!”
He recalled fucking Rosie for the first time like this nearly 15 years ago. He went hard on Sugarfoot just like he had slayed the young, tender pussyboi back then. “Fuck, bitch,” Joe Edd yelled. He pulled out his dick and moved to Honey.
“Yes, Joe Edd! I’m your bitch,” wailed the brown eyed prissy bottom.
“Hell yeah! You’re my fuckin’ prison bitch, faggit!”
“I love your big White cock!”
“You better, whore! Daddy’s big White cock loves you too!”
Honey flailed about taking every inch of Joe Edd’s manhood.
Eventually, he got on the bunk. Sugarfoot rode him and then Joney did the same. The slutty boiz fucked his cock until he could take no more.
Joe Edd came on their faces. “Lick it all up, faggits!” He pulled up his pants and left,
Coy was now on his fifth beer. He sat drooped with his eyes wide staring off into the distance.
Pastor Davis Martin and Deacon Horace Wiggins, the finance man, were in the preacher’s glacier blue 2014 Cadillac CTS heading half an hour up the highway to the home of Miss Mandy.
Blank wrapped up his call giving the order.