Dutch (22 page)

The blare of the car horn brought Nina out of her reverie. She glanced into her rearview mirror as she pulled off. She hadn’t
seen Dutch since the day she showed him her brother’s mural some time ago. She tried calling him, but the number she had for
him was disconnected.

She wanted to see him, in spite of everything that had been written in the paper every day since Dutch’s case went to trial.
None of it mattered. She missed Dutch, and more important, she wanted to be with him. She tried not to think of him, but the
media attention and press coverage were everywhere and everyone gossiped daily about the police precinct bombing and the trial.

On the news at six and eleven, Dutch was constantly referred to as a gangster or as a “notorious drug lord,” or as the “chief
orchestrator” of the Month of Murder. He was everywhere, and she knew he needed her. He had sent letters to her by courier
at her job asking her to meet him in certain places for lunch, but she never went. She never met him, and after a while, his
letters stopped. That’s when she tried to call him.

If only I had met him at Chin Chin. I should have met him. What was I thinking?
Questions like that repeated in Nina’s mind. She thought about all the opportunities she had had to be with him. How he had
sweated her to death when they first met, and how sincere and honest he had always been with her about his feelings.

As she made her way to the courthouse, she pleaded with God for the chance to tell Dutch how she really felt about him.

Jacobs was thoroughly impressed with Glass’s closing statement.
Won’t change nothing though
. Jacobs couldn’t help thinking that to himself. He would have been worried had the situation been different. But there was
nothing Glass could have said to change the course of the trial or of his career. Jacobs was going places, and he knew it.
He stood up slowly, cleared his throat, and began his closing statement.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. I thank you for your time and patience throughout these past few weeks. As I said in the
beginning, there are a lot of other things we could have been doing, but we had our duty to one another and ourselves,” he
said, quickly scanning the two rows of jurors.

“Yes, the last few weeks have been submerged in the murky waters of Bernard James’s life, his disregard for life, law and
order, and the property of others. From his youth and stealing cars to the present, his existence has been filled with bloodshed,
murder, innocent victims, and shattered lives.” He stopped for a moment to catch his breath as he looked at the twelve faces
that would make him famous.

“You must do for Simone Smith, her mother, and her father, what they are not here to do today. Remember Detective O’Neal from
the Twenty-ninth Precinct, the survivors, and their family members,” Jacobs said, glancing at Frankie Bonno, who smiled inwardly.

“Your duty is to them now. Your duty is to honor the memory of each and every life Bernard James has taken,” Jacobs said,
leaning on the rail of the jury box.

“Because if you don’t… then the lives he’ll take in the future will be blood on your hands. Let’s hope and pray his next victim
isn’t one of you, one of your children, your mother, your father, your sister, your brother, or your wife or husband,” Jacobs
said, pointing at the jurors.

“If we do not have justice and find the defendant, Bernard James, guilty today, then each and every one of you will leave
this courtroom as guilty as that man right there!” he ended, pointing at Dutch, his closing statement just as theatrical as
his entire trial.

Jacobs went back to the prosecutor’s table and sat down. He could have continued, but why? He had the case in the bag. Hands
down, he knew he had won.

The jurors sat still, waiting and wondering if he was finished.

“Thank you, Attorney Jacobs,” the judge concluded, making sure it was clear he was finished with his closing statement.

“Your Honor.” Jacobs stood, nodded at the judge, then sat back down.

“Ah, Your Honor, my client would like to… ahhh, address the court,” Glass requested as he glanced down at Dutch.

The judge looked down at Dutch in curiosity, inwardly smiling. He, too, had grown to despise Dutch after listening to the
past few weeks of testimony. He knew that Dutch would now beg for mercy, which he would, of course, deny. He wanted the press
and everyone in the courtroom to witness it.

“Is this true, Mr. James?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

The judge glanced at Glass, who didn’t have a clue. Then he looked at Jacobs, who subtly nodded, with an amused expression
on his face.

“This is a highly unusual request at this stage in the trial, but I will allow it. You may proceed, Mr. James.”

Dutch swiveled in the wooden chair before slowly standing up and facing the jury.

“I’m not gonna take up much of your time. Especially since I know what you’re thinking. I can see it in your eyes. You’re
dyin’ to say it, too. Guilty,” Dutch said, looking at each and every last one of the jurors prepared to send him to prison
for the rest of his life or worse, sentence him to the death penalty.

“See? It ain’t hard to tell. So, since we both know how you feel, I guess I’m suppose to throw myself on your mercy, have
remorse and sorrow, and say I’m sorry and beg you not to find me guilty?”

Dutch chuckled lightly and shook his head slowly, answering his own question.

“Naw… naw, I’ll let God judge me. But to you, I only got one thing to say: Fuck all y’all.”

The courtroom was buzzing in astonishment. The judge looked at Dutch with contempt, but Dutch just laughed. He laughed louder
and harder at the judge. The courtroom became silent at his maddening laughter, and the judge continued to bang his gavel,
requesting that Glass silence his client or he would be held in contempt of court.

“Dutch, please, the judge,” Glass said as Dutch stopped laughing. Glass was thankful. But just as he became silent, Dutch
reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigar and a lighter. He lit the tip of the cigar…

CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! The sounds of automatic weapons were ominous. No one moved. Even the judge stopped banging his gavel
as he heard the sounds.

Frankie Bonno’s gut told him he should have stayed home, but his pride, his pride, had him right where Dutch wanted him.

Anthony Jacobs, who felt like a man on the verge of success and status… only ran out of time.

Everyone in the courtroom lived different lives. Those last few moments, those last few thoughts, sealed time forever as the
sound of gunfire shattered the silence like glass.

Y
es, Bob, I’m standing outside the Essex County Courthouse in Newark, New Jersey, and as you can see from the number of police
cars and ambulances, there has been an unbelievable tragedy here today.

“The trial of Bernard James ended in gunfire only moments ago; details are sketchy. But this is what we do know. The gunfire
started from somewhere inside the courtroom among the spectators. We are not sure how many, but we do know several spectators
opened fire inside the courtroom.

“Among those confirmed dead are Frank Sorbonno, alleged crime boss of the Cerone crime family. Also, confirmed dead: Judge
Whitaker, the judge who presided over the case. Eight members of the jury—I’m sorry, Bob, make that nine out of the twelve
jurors are dead. Their names, however, are being withheld until contact has been made with family members. The other three
members of the jury have been rushed to St. Agnes Hospital with gunshot wounds, and we are waiting for an update on their
conditions. As soon as we have more details, we will report them to you.”

•   •   •

One-eyed Roc had just gotten out of Jumah, the Islamic prayer service held in the prison every Friday at 1:00
P.M
. He walked down the hall, curious as to what was going on. Everyone was hyped up and loud; laughter rang as he returned to
his cell and everyone was happy, open, and excited, like there was a party going on.

“Yo, Roc, you ain’t heard?” asked some guy named Detroit as he ran up to Roc.

“Heard what? I been in Jumah for the past hour and a half.”

“Your man, Dutch! Yo, your man went all out! Nigga, shot up the courtroom, killed the judge, the jury, some mob muhfucker,
everybody. Then he got away!”

“Naw, naw, it ain’t go down like that,” said some other nigga who overheard Detroit and butted in. “The nigga ain’t get away,”
the man said, clearing up the misconception.

“Man, I heard the shit with my own two ears, fuck you talkin’ bout?” Detroit replied in an annoyed tone. He didn’t know where
the guy came from or where he was getting his information.

“You ain’t hear that! I’m tryin’ to tell you what the fuck I know.”

Roc could see that the two men were about to begin arguing, so he walked away, shaking his head.

Shot up the courtroom? And a mobster? Who they talkin’ ’bout, Frankie Bonno?
Roc thought as he made his way into his cell. He quickly turned on the radio and searched the dial, until he heard…

“We now know the identity of the shooters. There were approximately twelve in all, dressed as old ladies. They are believed
to be members of an alleged group of women assassins. They call themselves Angel’s Charlies, their name courtesy of Angel
Alvirez, a Hispanic woman who two years ago was convicted of killing a federal agent in a shootout in the St. Agnes Hospital
parking lot and given multiple life sentences. At least seven of these women are confirmed dead. In total, eighteen people
are dead. We are still waiting to learn what is known of Bernard James, aka Dutch…”

Nina drove with her every thought on Dutch. Yes, she had finally made up her mind. She thought of the commitment she was making,
the visits, the absentee holidays, the appeal denials, the disappointments, the dream, all of it. She was prepared… until
she heard the reporter on the radio.

“Yes, this is Miriam Roughneen reporting for Channel 11 news from the Essex County Courthouse where today’s trial ended in
a deadly bloodbath.”

In a daze, she heard the reporter but couldn’t believe what was said. Tears welled in her eyes. It hit her. It was over. There
would be no remorse for Dutch, no other side of the game for him. He wouldn’t be going to prison, and she wouldn’t have to
worry about the long trips to be by his side.

She listened as the reporter ran off names of the dead, and she prayed his was not included. A horn honked behind her, and
she pulled her car over to the side of the road. She couldn’t drive, her emotions wouldn’t let her, and as she realized the
reality of the situation tears began to stream down her face.

The reporter finished the list of names. Nina prayed that she wouldn’t say Dutch’s, and she didn’t. Relief filled her, and
she thanked God, knowing that they were destined to be together. She put the car in drive and headed to the courthouse.

Delores Murphy stood looking out the window of her penthouse apartment. The news played on the television behind her. She,
too, heard the news and she felt heavy with grief. Grief because she felt the loss of her only son beginning to consume her.
It was too much and merely a matter of time.

There were too many murders and too many lives taken by the hand of one man. Dutch had caused tremendous pain and anguish,
and Delores wished her son some peace. Yes, she wished peace for those who had suffered by his hand, too.

The reporter’s voice could be heard coming from the television speakers.

“Bob, I have a breaking update surrounding the trial of the century.”

Delores turned to watch the television, unable to think of anything else.

“We have with us Detective Edward Smalls. Detective Smalls, can you tell us what is happening?” the reporter asked.

“This was certainly a tragedy no one expected. Somehow, Mr. James had smuggled automatic weapons through the elaborate detection
system of the courthouse. We are trying to get all the facts at this time.”

“Our sources confirm the deaths of Frank Sorbonno, Judge Whitak—”

Detective Smalls cut the reporter off. “District Attorney Anthony Jacobs is also among the dead… excuse me,” he said, speaking
quickly to someone standing behind him.

Detective Smalls stepped to the side while a uniformed officer whispered in his ear. He looked confused, then nodded and returned
to the reporter.

“We now have information on Bernard James.”

“I told you he wasn’t dead!” Jazz shouted.

“They ain’t say he wasn’t!” Moet responded just as loudly.

“Yo, World! World, tell this stupid muhfucka that niggas like Dutch don’t die!” Jazz said, turning to Young World.

Young World looked around at his young team of wolves. They were all just like him. He had schooled them all and he had learned
from the best…

Dutch.

World was only nineteen, but he was black, hungry, and hopeless, which in the ghetto meant dangerous. He already knew what
he wanted. Lil’ Kim sang it to him all the time.