Marriage Mayhem (16 page)

After coming to the United States, Maurice had promised himself that he was no longer going to sell drugs, or do any harm to anyone. Being a citizen of the U.S. was both a blessing and a privilege to him, and under no circumstances would he do anything to jeopardize that.

In Jamaica, Maurice worked directly for a kingpin named Ronnie Black. If someone owed Ronnie Black money, regardless of the amount, Maurice would be sent to take care of it by all means necessary. If Ronnie Black wanted someone dead, Maurice handled it without question. Ronnie Black had given Maurice the rank of a lieutenant and had promoted him to be in charge of his army.

Because of Maurice's loyalty to Ronnie Black, when Maurice informed him that he wanted to get out of the game and go to the U.S. and start a new, straight life, Ronnie supported his desires. Not only did Ronnie Black arrange for Maurice a new identity and passport, but he had also given him two hundred and fifty thousand dollars cash to set himself up in something nice. Ronnie Black had also offered to supply Maurice with a couple kilos a month and a few of his men, but Maurice turned down his offer and told him that he was ready to get married, have kids, and be a family man.

“I'm finished with that life, man,” Maurice told Ronnie Black.

“You say that, but I don't think so, man. A man doesn't just walk away from having things his way, to a life that he knows nothing about. Here, you have your choice of bitches sucking you and fucking you, you have all the power you need here, and you have more money than you can spend here! Not in America! I respect your wishes, my man, but when the white man rejects you for a lousy fuckin' job because of your dreadlocks, or any other fuckin' race reject you because of where you're from and who you are, you'll see what the fuck I'm talkin' about, man!” replied Ronnie Black.

Everyone in Jamaica feared Ronnie Black, even the police. Ronnie had lieutenants, sergeants, and even captains and chiefs on his payroll. He made it well worth their time to take care of any business that Maurice couldn't. He was a reputable, notorious, wicked Jamaican who had no emotions and would kill quicker than the wink of an eye.

Once Maurice made it to the U.S., even though he had plenty of money, life just was not what he had anticipated. After purchasing a new Cadillac and a luxurious apartment in Inglewood, California, Maurice then began seeking employment, but there was a slight problem to the employers about his appearance: the dreadlocks. He was stereotyped and rejected by everyone that interviewed him. He knew the problem was his hair, but under no circumstances, especially for any fucking job, was he going to cut them off.

After two months of being refused employment, Maurice had decided to go back into the drug game.

There was an area in Los Angeles that was referred to as Little Jamaica. An associate of Maurice's named Slick Rick had schooled him on Little Jamaica and had shown him where it was. Numerous Jamaicans had migrated there, some with the intentions of living a better life, but the majority with the intentions to sell drugs and get rich quick.

When Maurice made his first appearance in Little Jamaica, he had run across three wicked men who had worked under his command in Ronnie Black's army. Maurice wasted no time recruiting those men. He knew of their past and more so of their capabilities and loyalty to their leader.

The beginning of Maurice's drug-dealing operation went well and was very profitable. Customers began coming from afar to buy his drugs, simply because his quantity and quality was the best thing around to win the favor of the addicts, and to steal his competitors' clientele.

Within a couple months, Maurice's operation had gotten so large that he was forced to hire more security. He had soon accumulated an armory of artillery and men who would not hesitate killing anyone. It was in their nature. The local drug dealers did not approve of someone who wasn't from their neighborhood selling drugs on their turf, but they did not dare bother or confront anyone associated with Maurice's operation.

Two addicts who had tried to beat Maurice out of some drugs were found dead. Witnesses said that both addicts had died after taking a hit of crack that had been personally given to them by Maurice. Rumor had it that Maurice had a particular batch of cocaine that was mixed with rat poison and cyanide that he kept for addicts who tried to cross him.

After a five-year reign of being “the man,” Maurice finally decided to retire. Fortunately, he had gotten out of the game clean without ever being arrested or without ever being a suspect by the police on the murders he was associated with. He quit while he was ahead.

He relocated to Reseda, California, where he rented a one bedroom apartment and settled for an under-the-table job working for a moving company. He had even sold all of his expensive vehicles and purchased a non-flashy, older model Grand-Am.

A few weeks later, Maurice was on his way home from work one day and was distracted by a pretty young lady. She was standing at a bus stop looking as striking as ever. He hung a quick U-turn and doubled back to the bus stop.

In the beginning, Denise was not attracted to him at all. One thing she did find cute about him was his accent. Maurice's persistence and determination soon paid off. Denise moved in with him in three weeks. Four months later she announced to him her pregnancy, and on that day they got married.

At that point they had developed a deep, strong, unbreakable love for one another and had promised to never let anyone or anything interfere with or damage that love.

Meanwhile, back at headquarters, Detectives Cross and Baker were meticulously going over Denise's cell phone records. Actually that was the only piece of evidence they had. Since there were no fingerprints found in Jermaine's home, that case was going to be much more difficult to even get a lead on.

“Maybe this is our lucky break, Baker,” Detective Cross said, staring at the phone call received at 12:15 a.m. the morning of Denise's death.

Examining the records, Detective Cross noticed that calls had been made to and from Denise's cell to that particular 323 area code telephone number.

“Let's say we make a call and begin our process of elimination, Cross,” suggested Detective Baker.

“I'll bet my fuckin' badge, Baker, that this was probably a call from someone she was banging. That asshole husband of hers probably wasn't piping her right and caused her to go elsewhere for satisfaction. Most times, loudmouth, muscular men have small dicks and can't satisfy their women, you know. They may be good with their tongues, but a woman wants to be piped down every now and then. That makes them feel like a real woman, you know.” He spoke as if he were an expert on women.

“Yep, it's possibly a booty call.”

Detective Cross then dialed the number.

“What's up, this is KillaT?” answered Tyrone. He was sipping a forty-ounce and smoking a blunt.

“This is Detective Cross of the Lancaster police department. If you don't mind, sir, I'd like to ask you a few questions regarding a call you placed a little after midnight on the night of September sixth.”

“What the fuck you talkin' about, fool?” Tyrone replied, wishing he had not answered the phone.

Tyrone suddenly hung up, and then threw the phone down and stomped on it.

“Goddammit!” Detective Cross yelled. “Let's call the phone company and see who that phone is registered to. I should have done that before calling, but that's all right, we'll get that fucker!”

“Yep, we'll get 'im, Cross. I feel that we're on to something.”

The detectives then called the telephone company, but unfortunately they discovered that the phone had been reported stolen almost a year earlier.

“Another fuckin' dead end!” said a frustrated Detective Cross.

 

 

Karen was still in a coma and things were not looking as good as they were days ago. According to the doctors, Karen only had a fifty-fifty chance of living.

So far, the only family member who had visited her was her daughter, Jasmine. Jewell actually wanted to go visit her sister, but hearing Bobby's derogatory statements toward Karen had changed her mind. She knew that Bobby would get angry if she made any attempts or voiced any thoughts about going to the hospital and that would cause them to begin arguing.

“The bitch got what she deserved!” Bobby had yelled. “She was only taking up space in this world, anyway. The bitch has been a ho ever since I've known her. Every man she meets she tells her kids to call them Daddy! What kinda shit is that? I hope that bitch rots in hell!”

Whenever Bobby got enraged and begin speaking on Karen, Jewell most times agreed with him, but this time she did not have too much to say. Even though her sister had done her wrong on many occasions, she still did not wish bad luck on her. After all, that was her only sister.

Bobby's hatred toward Karen had first developed when she gave four of his friends a head job and would not give him one. He had brought a few of his homeboys to her apartment, who had given her over a hundred dollars of crack in exchange for sex. Bobby figured that since he did her the honor of seeing that she was supplied with dope, that he should get some head too. Karen felt that Bobby might someday tell Jewell about it, so she simply passed on him. Bobby was furious.

Weeks later, Karen told Jewell that Bobby had asked her for a head job. Jewell did not believe her. Instead, Jewell got angry with Karen and did not speak to her for a few months.

Another thing that really pissed off Bobby was Karen's choice to be on the streets getting high and selling her body instead of being a mother or a provider for her kids.

Like a faithful and concerned husband, Jermaine had taken a leave of absence and stayed at the hospital with his wife on a daily basis. At this point he was not concerned about who did it or why. His only interest was his wife's well-being. He had even requested that the nurses place a bed for him alongside of Karen's, but unfortunately the hospital denied him that convenience.

Jermaine prayed several times a day for his wife to be healed and to overcome this tragedy. He promised himself and promised God that regardless of what she had done in the past, and regardless of what her friends and relatives thought about her, that he would continue to love her unconditionally and continue to be a humble, loving, considerate man. He promised not to argue with her so much and he promised to treat her like a queen until the day he left the earth.

Tyrone's words, “Front Hood Crip,” and “Killa T” kept ringing in Maurice's mind. When Detective Baker had phoned Maurice and asked him whether or not the 323 area code telephone number meant anything to him, even though his answer was no, he was confident that the number belonged to Tyrone. Once he matched the telephone number with a number on his caller ID, he was then assured that Tyrone had killed his wife.

Thinking back to when Tyrone had shot him, and then had the nerve afterward to knock on his door, fueled Maurice even more to go after him. He would not rest until Tyrone was six feet under.

Maurice had recently sent for three ruthless killers that were straight from the heart of Kingston, Jamaica. They were the type of guys that killed for recreation.

“Where's the boy?” asked Mike B, who had a reputation in Kingston for killing anyone who looked at him wrong. His eyes would instantly scare the hell out of anyone.

“The boy in some gang,” Maurice replied. “I remember the boy yelled something like ‘Front Hood Crip' and ‘Killa T,' but I know the boy is nothing but a coward piece of shit!”

“Killa T, huh?” said Robbie, snickering. “I show the boy who the real killer is.” Robbie was reputed in Kingston for slashing throats. He had earned his rep at the age of eleven after slashing an undercover police officer's throat with a machete.

“I kill up the boy's whole fucking gang,” inputted Boom, who was on Jamaica's top ten most-wanted list for murder.

“The boy is a skinny piece of shit!” yelled Maurice.

“What about the girl in the hospital, man? If she was fucking the boy, she has to know where the boy lives,” Mike B said.

“The bitch is probably still in a coma, man,” Maurice answered.

“One way to find out,” said Robbie.

The Jamaican mob wasted no time making their way to the hospital.

Once there, they swiftly strolled through the hospital, not caring about the attention they were attracting. When making it to Karen's room, they noticed that she was still in a coma. Jermaine was sitting beside her, reading scripture to her even though she could not hear him.

“The bitch got all these fuckin' wires and monitors hooked up! Why they trying to save her life, and she's the cause of your daughter being dead?” said Mike B, staring at Karen.

Robbie gazed at Jermaine and then swiftly approached him. Maurice hurriedly stood between the two.

“Why are you reading the Bible to this bad girl, man? Let the bitch die!”

“Excuse me, but this is my wife,” replied Jermaine, standing.

“Sit down, boy!” yelled Robbie. “Say one more thing, boy, and I'll slash your fuckin' throat!”

Jermaine then had a seat and silenced himself and listened.

“This has nothing to do with you, Jermaine, so please stay out of it. I just don't know how you got mixed up with that bitch. Believe it or not, she's the reason that my wife, your daughter, is dead. Think about it. I ain't the type of man that can just lie down and do nothing, so please don't knock me for the way I'm handling this,” Maurice said.

“What about that detective, Maurice? You know that detective's going come looking for you if some shit goes down.”

“Fuck the police, man,” yelled Mike B. “No police wanna fuck with me, believe that!”

“Right now, I can't worry about that fuckin' detective, Jermaine. He's got a job to do, and so do I.”

“Fuck that!” yelled Robbie. “Let's pull the plug on the bitch! Why should this cum-drinking bitch live, and my homeboy's wife had to die!” Robbie then approached the monitors and angrily yanked the life-support plug.

“No, no! Regardless of what she's done, she's still my wife!” Jermaine quickly plugged up the life support, then rushed out to alert the nurses.

Suddenly, six guards stormed into the room ready to strike with their batons and demanded the Jamaicans leave.

“You gunless rent-a-cops wanna rumble, huh?” yelled Boom, approaching the guard closest to him.

Boom then grabbed the guard's testicles and squeezed them until the man fell helplessly to the floor, and then stomped the man several times, while Robbie and Maurice instantly attacked the other five guards.

Within seconds all six guards were laid out on the floor.

Almost the entire floor of nurses and doctors had witnessed the disastrous episode, but seeing the wildness and aggression of the Jamaicans caused them to not want to put themselves in harm's way. Once the Jamaicans finally fled the scene, six nurses rushed to see about Karen while another one called the police. Fortunately, Karen's heart was still pumping.

Hearing the call over the radio, even though it was not a homicide call, Detective Baker and Detective Cross appeared on the ward and initiated an investigation. Detective Cross had instantly sensed that Maurice was behind it.

“I knew that fuckin' asshole would try something!” said Detective Cross. He then turned his attention to Jermaine, who was leaning over his wife. “Where is he, Hopkins?”

“Hell, I don't know, Detective.” Even if Jermaine knew of Maurice's whereabouts, he still would not snitch on him simply because he was protecting his daughter's honor.

“You're lying!” yelled Detective Cross. “You're fuckin' lying! Those dreadlock-wearing muthafuckas might put fear in other people's hearts, but they damn sure don't put any fear in mine! I'll nail that fuckin' asshole if it's the last thing I do!”

Maurice and his crew had headed straight for Los Angeles. Due to Maurice missing his son, their first stop was at Denise's mother Renee's house.

When Maurice had taken a leave of absence from his job and had asked Renee to keep his son for a little while, Renee sensed that he was going to do something toward avenging her daughter's death. Standing face-to-face with these cruel-looking Jamaicans confirmed her instincts.

“Where's my son?” Maurice asked. His crew had already seated themselves.

After getting the okay from Maurice, Boom then pulled out a cigar-sized joint and fired it up. Trying to show some hospitality, Renee offered them some Hennessy. They gladly accepted.

“He's in my bedroom, asleep,” replied Renee. “He's been crying like hell for you and Denise ever since you dropped him off.” Renee then held down her head and began sobbing.

Maurice went to the bedroom and kneeled over his son and kissed him.

“I'll get that punk who took your mother away from us. I promise you, son, I'll get 'im,” said Maurice. He then picked up his son and gave him a long hug.

Minutes later Denise's half-brothers, Blaze and Red, walked into the house. Blaze was twenty-one years old, and Red was nineteen. Both of them were members of a Blood gang, and they both had reputations in their hood for fighting people who were twice their size and kicking their asses. They were also well-known for killing enemies.

Maurice's brothers-in-law both greeted him with a hug and a handshake upon him exiting the bedroom. Then they stepped outside and had a talk.

After revealing what gang Tyrone was from to Blaze and Red, they automatically wanted to assist in avenging their sister's death. To Maurice's surprise, Denise's half-brothers' gang had been rivals with Tyrone's gang since way back in the days. This was another opportunity to take out a few of their rivals. Now all they had to do was to find Tyrone.

Without his mother seeing him, Blaze went to his bedroom and grabbed the two AK-47's from underneath his mattress and then rushed out the front door and stashed them inside of Maurice's car.

The Rasta men were impressed by the youngster's bravery and readiness.

“You guys remind me of myself in my younger years,” said Mike B to the youngsters, after taking a long pull from the joint.

“Let me hit that, blood. A nigga gotta get ready, you know what I'm sayin',” said Red.

Maurice then led the crew to the garage where they began making reprisal plans.

It was 4:30 p.m. when Maurice and his crew touched down in Tyrone's neighborhood. After questioning a couple crackheads, for ten dollars one of them had directed Maurice to Tyrone's house. The addict also told Maurice that every day Tyrone and his homeboys hung out on his mother's porch smoking PCP and drinking beer, while making crack sales.

Sticking to the plan, upon spotting Tyrone, Mike, Boom, and Robbie jumped out of the car and strolled nonchalantly toward Tyrone's house. They approached the porch and asked Tyrone where they could score some weed. As usual during that time of day, Tyrone and his homeboys were on the porch getting high.

“Let me smoke those muthafuckas!” demanded Blaze, while eyeing the person who had killed his sister. He attempted to get out of the car.

“Yeah, Maurice, let us do this. She was our sister, man, so let us handle this shit,” said Red, grabbing one of the AKs.

Maurice thought about his wife, then his mind abruptly flashed to the day Tyrone shot him. That moment the three ruthless Jamaicans pulled out their guns and shot Tyrone and his homeboys, and simultaneously Blaze, Maurice, and Red bailed out of the car and ran toward the house firing their AKs. The fact of Tyrone already being dead did not mean anything to Maurice. He still fired a countless amount of rounds at the man who had killed his wife.

There were several neighbors and passersby who had witnessed the scenario, but only one of them had the courage to identify the criminals on network news.

“Three of them had long dreadlocks, one of them had a short, neat haircut, and the other two dark-skinned boys with the red bandannas tied around their heads looked to be teenagers,” said Mr. Roper, the reputed nosiest man in the neighborhood.

An ordinary day to Mr. Roper meant driving through the neighborhood checking things out. Mr. Roper knew who sold the drugs, who smoked dope, he knew who the whores were, he knew who the neighborhood thieves were, and basically he knew everyone's business in the neighborhood. He made it a point to collect all the gossip he could and he did not have a problem snitching on anyone.

 

 

Even though this incident was out of Detectives Cross and Baker's jurisdiction, after making a few calls and then getting permission from the captain to go to Los Angeles, the detectives hurriedly made their way to the city. They insisted on following this case and putting together every piece necessary until things were completely resolved, even if that meant flying to Jamaica. This case had become personal to the both of them.

The detectives were going over a few loose ends until they observed Mr. Roper being interviewed by
Eyewitness News
, voicing what he had witnessed.

“I think we need to have a talk with that witness. If we show him this picture of Banner and he positively identifies him, then we've got him by the balls,” said Detective Cross.

“Yeah, you're right, Cross, but that won't help us solve the murder and attempted murder that took place in our own jurisdiction. Besides, with us being out of our jurisdiction now, we do not have the authority to really even question this witness. We'll have to go down the proper channels to get that authorization.”

“That fucking Banner is behind this, Baker! This has something to do with his wife's death and I know it does. Banner and his flock took those gangbangers out because he knew that they had something to do with killing his wife. I know I'm right, Baker, I can feel it.”

“First, let's talk with the investigating officers, and then we'll have a talk with the witness,” suggested Detective Baker. Luckily, Detective Cross had retrieved a picture of Maurice from the immigration department months earlier.

The homicide detectives in Los Angeles South-west Division that were handling the case were very cooperative with Cross and Baker. Baker discovered through Tyrone's mother that the 323 area code telephone number belonged to Tyrone in the past, but not presently. The detectives also discovered that Karen had spent numerous nights in Tyrone's bed during her marriage. The most significant information the detectives had gotten from Tyrone's mother was that during a heated argument, Karen had sliced Tyrone's penis in several places. His mother also told the detectives that ever since that particular incident she had heard Tyrone on many occasions say that he was going to kill Karen.

Pieces of the puzzle were now beginning to come together for the detectives. With Mr. Roper's statement and positively identifying Maurice as one of the shooters, the detectives now had a case against Maurice, since Tyrone was no longer in the picture.

“Well, Baker, at least we no longer have to search for suspects. But what really puzzles me is how does Denise Banner fit in to all this,” said Detective Cross.