Streetz 2: The Tried

2. Nosey

Michael Carter.

With a simple Instagram search and with the help of O's nosey ass, I was able to piece together the man in the video with Ariana. Okay, so it wasn't that simple. The search took a minute and revolved around going through a few pages, posts, and likes. That was simple enough to me though. It got me what I wanted.

He was a lame ass nigga originally from Houston. He didn't have many pictures posted but the ones he did, wasn't appealing. He looked rubbish, maybe late 30s hard 40s. He had tattoos covering every ounce of skin, dreads, and a fake ass grill. He definitely wasn't her type.

I mean, it was dark in the club and she probably didn't get a good look at him. I wasn't trying to be cocky, but the step down was ridiculous.

Hearing a guard shuffling keys down the hall, I tossed my phone back into its designated area and pretended to be busy reading.

"Asghedom," Office Manny sighed, "You got quite the visitors today."

I glanced over at him, "What? You must be tired of lettin' me out?"

He simply shuffled his keys to unlock the gate. He didn't like me and that was clear. He cuffed the handcuffs tightly around my wrist, patting me down ever so roughly to let me know that he was in charge. I rolled my eyes, annoyed with the process. Due to my risk level, I had to be handcuffed mostly anywhere I went.

Most inmates here earned the privilege of not having to wear them, however, that takes time. If guards feel as if you aren't a threat, security measures drop and there's not much need for restraints. Yet, we always still get searched. That was never going to change.

Due to my inability to cooperate the first few months I was here, my risk level was high, so if I wasn't going to therapy or going to the caf, I was always in handcuffs.

"My man," O dapped up my closed fists as he and my lawyer stood up to greet me. We were told to keep our distance, but O waved them off and proceeded to sit down at the table.

O was sporting a plain black tea and Nike sweatpants. I knew they had patted him down before walking in here so there was no chance that he had brought anything for me to have.

"They on yo ass in here," O shook his head, "How you holdin' up?"

I shrugged, "I'm holdin'."

"Lawyer man got some news." Ohaji smiled.

My lawyer, Cane Westbrook, was one of the top lawyers in Detroit and was well-known for his victories and extraordinary cases. He was a black man, about 6'3, and better be worth every penny I could conjure up for his ass. I remember when I was younger, I would always see advertisements, billboards, and commercials of the man. I never thought that I would ever depend on him to save my life.

He was like the Annalise Keating in How To Get Away With Murder, minus the dirt and grimey shit they do.

"Any good news?" I waste no time in asking. The past few months he had been coming in giving me nothing, no leads, no tips, nothing. All he would tell me was to stay out of trouble and work with the therapist. He wanted me to clean my image on the inside, but I didn't give a fuck about what they thought about me in here.

"You have a court date coming up on the 23rd." He stated. That was a month from now. "I've been working hard with other Attorneys to figure this whole ordeal out-"

"Is there any good news?" I cut him off, getting frustrated, "Cause if not, you can hold ya breath there."

"Police were finally able to get the DNA results back. There's no evidence to tie you to the murder weapon that was used against him."