Nasty Girls (10 page)

“Yeah, baby?”

“I love you, Shy.”

I swear, when he said those three words, my heart almost stopped. I smiled. “I love you too, Roscoe.”

After that, the phone went dead. I guess they cut us off, hating-ass jail. I hung up the phone and started to breathe easy. I felt good that night. I got to speak to my baby, and that's all I wanted. I wanted him to come home to me next.

But I wasn't going to cry. I knew Roscoe didn't want me shedding tears. He wanted me to remain strong and ride with him till the end. And I planned on doing that.

 

N
ext Friday couldn't come fast enough for me. But faithfully, I was on the E train on my way to Queens Plaza, where I transferred to the M101 bus to Rikers Island.

Camille gave me the instructions, because she's been through the routine far too many times. She volunteered to come, her and Jade, but I wanted to do this on my own. I was a big girl, and I wanted to spend time with Roscoe alone, even though we wouldn't be truly alone.

The E train was kind of crowded, and I was lucky to catch me a seat near the doors. I was dressed in my finest; I had on this cute Diesel peach top, with my thin diamond necklace showing, some black tight-fitted J.Lo jeans that accentuated my figure, and these cute pink Steve Maddens. I had silver hoop earrings in my ear and sported a butter-soft black leather jacket over my outfit. It was almost the end of October, and the weather was getting kinda cool. I was determined to see my man. I carried a bag filled with the things that Roscoe had asked me to bring.

There was this lady sitting at the end of the subway car who had a terrible cold. She was coughing and sneezing. I started smiling and tittering to myself, because for some funny reason, I started thinking about Camille and her crazy ass.

I remembered one time, the three of us was on the A train on our way to Manhattan. We were young, and we were seated across from this woman who had to be in her early forties or something. But anyway, she had this serious cold—the flu or something—and the bitch kept coughing and shit, and wouldn't bother to cover her mouth. She had her germs flying all over the place, and you know that made me feel uncomfortable.

But Camille, with her gangsta ass, glared over at the woman and shouted out, “Bitch, cover your fuckin' mouth! Ain't nobody tryin' to catch your nasty-ass cold and get sick from your dirty ass!”

I swear Jade and I started cracking up, laughing. That poor woman, she felt so embarrassed that she just stared at Camille, who gave her the screw face back, and everyone in the subway car took notice. But shorty, I guess she had no words and was too embarrassed to stick around, because after the train pulled into the next station, she grabbed her things, jumped up outta her seat, and left the train.

I'd looked over at Camille, laughing, and asked, “Why you do that?”

Camille sucked her teeth and replied, “Fuck that bitch. I know her parents taught her some manners. Coughin' in front of me like the shit is cute.”

But that was Camille—in your face, don't give a fuck, and raw as can be type of girl.

Just then, I glanced over and saw this nigga watching me. He
was with his girl, and he'd been clocking me for the longest now. He was tall and looked like he'd seen better days. His girl stared out into space, not even knowing that her man been gazing at me hard all this time. I tried to ignore it, but his eyes made me feel really uncomfortable. I wanted to get up and move.

But I'm glad I didn't, because then I heard, “Nigga, why don't you just go over and talk to her, you lookin' at her that fuckin' hard!”

“Yo, what you talkin' about?” he asked his girl.

“Willie, fuck you! I'm tired of your dumb ass!” she shouted, before mushing him in his head. Then she got up and caught a seat down at the other end of the train car. All he could do was sit there and look embarrassed. I chuckled to myself. He couldn't even look at me anymore. Now that was comedy.

Finally, the E train roared into the Queens Plaza station, and I quickly grabbed my things and exited the train, and ascended the concrete steps, coming outta the grungy subway station and making my way out onto the streets. I glanced around for the bus stop, but ended up asking a lady where to catch the Rikers Island bus. She pointed to a bus stop a block and a half away. I thanked her and went on my way.

When I got to the bus stop, I noticed about eight other females waiting for the bus, and they all stared at me like I didn't belong, even though I looked and dressed better than all of 'em.

One bitch stared at me all hard, then gave me a nasty smirk. But I paid them bitches no mind.

The bus came fifteen minutes later, and I was the last to get on, carrying this white shopping bag filled with packaged items for Roscoe. I had to catch a seat at the rear of the bus, because up front was all taken.

I figured that at least half of these women on this bus done made this trip before, and were either going to visit their boyfriends, baby daddies, brothers, or maybe fathers. They all looked like they needed a makeover, or was I the one who was overdressed?

Thirty-five minutes later, the bus pulled up to the visitors' entrance, and one by one, everyone exited the bus. We were greeted by three correction officers out front who made it clear that there were no cell phones, Walkmans, cameras, or any type of electronic equipment allowed inside the premises. And anyone found with any type of contraband would be subject to arrest and would be fully prosecuted.

I had nothing to worry about; all I had on me was underwear, clothes, and a few books for Roscoe to read.

We had to show ID and then proceeded into the building.

I was ushered through security, where we had to take off our shoes and belts, place loose items in a bin, and step through a machine and be scanned. The visitors' building was full of people and corrections officers. And this being my first time, I was totally baffled.

“Excuse me,” I said to one of the officers, who was standing around, observing the ladies entering the place. “I'm lookin' fo' my boyfriend. He's in C76.”

“You gotta go down to room seven”—he pointed down the corridor—“and give his name to the person behind the desk, and fill out a form.”

“Thank you,” I said, and walked off. I felt his eyes on me as I walked away. I turned around and caught him staring and smiling. The other male COs just watched me like I was doing something unlawful.

In room seven, there were two other ladies on line. I stood behind a hefty woman, who was black as night and needed a serious perm. She had buckshots in the back of her head, and dressed like she just woke up or some shit.

When it was my turn to approach the desk, I smiled down at the wiry light-skinned man with the horn-rimmed glasses and said, “I'm here to see Roscoe Richardson.”

“ID,” he said.

I went into my purse and passed him my state ID. I didn't have a driver's license, and this was the closest thing to it.

He glanced at it, then passed it back to me.

He went on his computer and searched for Roscoe's name, then looked up at me and uttered, “He's in C76 . . . dormitory 6M. Fill out this form, take a seat, and wait for the bus to arrive. It should be here soon.” The instructions poured out of his mouth like liquid.

I took the forms from his hand and searched for the nearest seat. I sat next to this light-skinned mother who held her child in her arms. She smiled at me, and I smiled back.

“I like your shoes,” she said, peering down at my Maddens.

“Thank you,” I replied.

“What are they?”

“What?”

“Your shoes?”

“Oh, Steve Maddens,” I replied, peering at my form.

She tended to her child for a moment, who looked tired, while I began filling out the information. It took me like five minutes. I was totally new to this, while everyone looked like they knew this place like the back of their hand.

“Who are you here to see?” she asked.

“Oh, my boyfriend,” I answered halfheartedly.

“Well, I'm bringing him to see his father,” she said.

I smiled lightly and said, “That's nice.” Like I gave a fuck.

“He hasn't seen his father in a year, and I know Red is missing his son.”

“Really . . . um.” I smiled.

As soon as I was finished writing down what was needed on the form, I heard someone shout out, “Those of you for the bus to C76, we're loading now.”

I quickly got up, grabbed my things, and followed the others toward the bus. We loaded in single file onto this white cheesy imitated school bus. The seats were stiff plastic and very uncomfortable, and the bus also reeked of a weird odor. But I roughed it just for Roscoe.

Minutes later, the bus stopped in front of C76, where the majority of the men and women started to file out of the bus one by one, anxious to see loved ones. I was next to last to get off the bus. We stood on another line, where a female CO came out and informed us about there being no electronic equipment allowed inside, and if you had any contraband, she pointed to an amnesty box and said now was our chance to remove it without any questions asked. Everyone was quiet, so she proceeded with the process. She collected our information, and we had to go through another metal detector and search. It was becoming a bitch.

It took me another thirty to forty minutes to see my man. I had to give 'em my ID, place everything that I had on me into a small locker, and wait to deposit shit into his commissary. And when I got the chance to, this bitch at the window told me that everything else was good, except for the boxers, because they weren't a solid white. They had blue and yellow stripes, and the inmates weren't
allowed to have it. I'm like,
Bitch, drawers is drawers. Who cares about fuckin' color?
So I had to take those back home when I left.

Being ushered from one room to another and getting searched constantly, I felt like the fucking inmate. I mean, these muthafucking COs are thorough with they shit; it's a wonder how people be sneaking shit up in this bitch.

But finally, I was escorted into a large room, which was the gym mapped out to be a visitor's center. I looked around, gave the man my slip, and he instructed me where to take my seat.

I looked around, and there were over two dozen men and women seated around me. There was chatter throughout the room, but it was kept low. I saw a few cuties seated around me. They were incarcerated, but hey, I got attention too.

A few minutes passed. I sighed, turned my head, and a huge smile spread across my face when I saw them bringing out my man. He was in line with three other inmates, swathed in a gray prison jumper and wearing brown open-toe sandals with white tube socks.

I got up, and he came to me, all smiles.

“Hey, baby,” I said ecstatically.

I gave him the deepest and most loving hug; it felt so good being held in his arms. It felt like it had been forever since I saw him. I kissed him, and didn't want to let him go.

“Shy . . . ,” he said. “Umm, you feel so good, baby.”

We finally took our seats, him across from me, with this miniature wooden table in between us. I was still able to touch and kiss my man. He held my hands across the table, massaging my fingers gently as he gazed into my eyes, smiling.

The chairs were red and plastic and looked like something out of a toy catalog.

“How you been?” he asked.

“I'm missin' you,” I told him.

Roscoe looked good. He looked unscathed.

“I'm sorry, Shy. I know I fucked up. It's my fault. Shit went bad that night. I promised you that we were gonna do us, and I end up here.”

I wanted to say it was okay, but in reality, I was scared. “What's gonna happen?”

“My lawyer, he's on top of things. He told me that the D.A. is willin' to plea wit' me. If I cop out and do ten. But I ain't doin' no dime. Fuck that. Fuck, I'll do a year or two, city time. I ain't tryin' to fuck wit' upstate. It wasn't even my fault, Shy. The nigga I shot had a gun. He was gonna shoot me first, so I had to react. But now I'm hearin' from my lawyer that they say the nigga didn't have a gun, or they can't find one, and they tryin' to hit me wit' first-degree murder and shit! He had a gun, Shy, I know it too. He had like .380 on him, and he came at me on some raw shit. Fuck, Shy!”

“Roscoe, I'm here for you, baby . . . no matter what happens. I'm gonna be right here, holdin' you down. We gonna beat this.”

“It's bad,” he said.

“No, it's not. You say he had a gun, right? And I know the truth is gonna come out.”

“They tryin' to pin a witness on me. I don't even know who.”

“They lyin', Roscoe,” I said, holding his hand and wishing I could make this go away—make the situation for him better.

“But anyway, you look good, Shy . . . you damn sure do,” he said, his expression turning from a frown to a smile.

“Thank you. You know I had to come up here and represent for you. Show these haters in here what you got at home waitin' for you.”

He chuckled. “I like that. Any problems comin' up here?”

“No, but it's a bitch. Damn, they want you to do this, and take off this and that, remove this, go through this machine. No jewelry, rings, watches. Fuck, Roscoe.”

“You think that's bad, try bein' on the other side of these walls, where these niggas don't give a fuck about you.”

“Oh, I brought up everythin' you asked for. But they said they couldn't take the boxers because they weren't all white. I got you these cute boxers with stripes and shit. But they weren't allowed,” I told him.

“Damn, niggas don't want you having any clean drawers up here. What the fuck! That's a'ight.”

“And I put like fifty dollars in your account.”

“A'ight.”

Roscoe glanced around the room, looking at inmates and seeing who they were with. “I swear, majority of these niggas up in here are on some fake shit, Shy. Niggas come out here lookin' all hard, like they got it like that. But on the inside, it's a different story. Like that nigga right there.” He discreetly pointed out a slim, tall man who was with his girl. “He on some down-low shit. He fuckin' pussy, Shy. He be fuckin' wit' this homo nigga on the regular. Now he up in here kissin' and huggin' up on his girl, like he don't take dick.”