𝐃𝐎 𝐈𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐆

40

"Inmate, come on down for breakfast. Don't be with all that Hans Solo shit today." A scruffy, overweight CO stood at my cell with a smug expression on his face. He had a donut glaze stain on his shirt and he had his CO hat turned backwards like he was making a fucking fashion statement. We called him Great Value Gucci and he knew it. Ever since I came to this shit he been fucking with me for whatever reason. Maybe he had pressure. Maybe he knew me from outside the jail. I don't fuckin' know. Regardless, I laid in my bottom bunk still looking up at the bars that held this shit together. I looked over to the concrete slab they called a wall and narrowed my eyes to look at the calendar.

I been in jail for about 5 months but it felt like forever since all the shit happened at Ana house. I thought about that shit everyday and it made me feel sick each and every time. Since I been here, my mama would come see me religiously in the same royal blue tracksuit she kept for situations like this. She didn't bring my little sister off my requests, I didn't want her thinking this shit was normal and apart of the routine. But I missed her big brown eyes and big ass smile. I'd kill to hear her call me by my nickname. But I didn't want her up in here.

I seen the sick niggas jacking they dick looking out the window at the different inmates' visitors who came to see them. They didn't give a fuck about age. They saw titties, ass, or some kind of soft feminine feature and they was all glued in. I knew I'd break a nigga face in if I caught even the slightest wind they was jacking they dick to my 13 year old sister.

But other than my mama.. nobody else came. Not my homeboys. Not my cousins. Not the bitches that blew up my phone. Not Ana.. just my mama. Now a lot of people wonder how the fuck I got my court date and everything after being in here less than 6 months when niggas been sitting in the cell for a damn near year and haven't even gotten a hearing and it all comes down to the basic common factor: cash. I had stashed almost 500k in rainy day money in the safe at my mama house and I told my mama the code to get me the best humble Jewish lawyer she could call in the Gable to represent me. And best believe 5 phone calls, 3 consults, and 2 deposits of 40k later gave me my lawyer.

If I would've just listened to my homeboys and settled for a county lawyer provided by the state I would've just withered and died in this prison. Fuck that. I didn't plan to sit here and wait for my life when I ain't even do shit. And despite what my lawyer said about circumstantial evidence or whatever the fuck, I knew what was the deal. I trusted God and I kept praying for better. I saw the stress building in my mama face and it only took a few minutes for her to tell me what they were pinning on me— 4 homicides and an attempted homicide one Kandi. She cried during our whole visitation and I had to keep my poker face. But I never seen my mama break down like that before. Even when she lost our first house she never cried like this. But she kept coming. She kept believing in her baby.

I guess that's why people always gave mamas of real murderers and rapists so much grief. But it all boiled down to the simple fact that this was their flesh and blood and a mother's love goes hard.

But even faced with all this adversity, my mind always wandered back to Ana. How was she? Where was she? Why she hasn't wrote me a letter or came to see me? Her birthday was coming up and I wanted to send her a letter but I didn't even know an address to send her a letter to.. shit was fucking me up real bad. I even tried to call Sweet mama, Brenda but she wasn't accepting my collect calls. I was a fool thinking news of my trail wasn't buzzing around the projects like flies to shit but I kept my stance. I ain't do shit. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"Inmate! Do you hear me, son?"