Riding Dirty on I-95 (26 page)

“So, Mercy, tell me,” the reporter asked, “how does a girl who grew up in eleven foster homes, who was assaulted by armed robbers, and who has endured so many struggles find herself on the path of becoming a recognized celebrity?”

It was obvious that Mercy hadn't yet polished up her interview skills as she sat in the studio fidgeting.

“My life has been filled with turmoil and obstacles. But like Tallya, my sister, who believed enough in my screenwriting gift that she single-handedly financed its production, God is a restorer. He restored my life, and now look at all he has blessed me with.” Mercy spoke from her heart, so everything flowed naturally.

“What do you say to people who call you an overnight success?”

“I'm not an overnight success,” Mercy said with sincerity. “My
script might be an overnight success, but me, Mercy the person, is no overnight success.”

Cleezy sat on the top of the table dumbfounded. He could not believe Mercy was doing the damn thing and doing it big. Suddenly the guard popped the door and the guy Cleezy had seen earlier in the hall with the mattresses walked through, smiling like he was somebody.

“Man, this got to be my lucky day,” Cleezy said, rubbing his hands together as he turned his attention away from Mercy's interview on TV.

“What up?” Ty asked, thinking he was talking about the news because Cleezy had told him about the past encounters he'd had with Mercy. Through their hours of jawboning, Cleezy had told him that she was more or less the one who got away, the one he wished he could have made his.

Cleezy looked at the newcomer, toting his mattress in his hands. “It can't be,” he said, as he got up for further inspection. He noticed the five-percenter tattoo on the newcomer's right hand. He recognized the tattoo and the face. There was no doubt he was standing face to face with one of the two guys that had robbed him of his brother's chain in Miami. Indeed the world was small.

“Yo, man, that's da clown that stuck me up down in Miami,” Cleezy informed Ty.

“Who? That New York nigga you was spittin' about?” Ty replied.

“Fa' certain, this shit crazy.”

“You want to go get that nigga now?”

“Naw, let that motherfucker get comfortable first.”

“A'ight,” Ty said. “This world is small as shit. Motherfuckers traveling I-95 need to understand this here Richmond City Jail is
a fucking stop-off point at one time or another. And a nigga shit better be right when he come through. Especially dem New York jokers who go from state to state, hustling.”

The whole clique was notified as to what was up as the word spread around the tier. The New Yorker had three whammies against him. First, he was from New York and didn't belong there, next he had robbed Cleezy, but most important, he was a snitch.

“Motherfuckers need to understand that all guns are left at the quartermaster,” Cleezy said. “It ain't no guns allowed in here. If a nigga's knuckle game ain't airtight he better check himself into solitary.”

Ty laughed and cosigned. “Many niggas done got their head smashed. They don't understand that behind these walls they got to give account for that shit they do with a gun,” he said, laughing while eating a Twinkie.

Once Raheem got far enough from the door and deep enough in the terror dome, someone he knew from the streets let him know that he needed to set up his bed in the back of the tier. Once he was all comfortable, out of nowhere came a powerful blow to his eye. The Styrofoam slippers he wore made him slip on the floor, which was one of the reasons why he couldn't fight back. However, the main reason he couldn't fight back was because there were about twenty niggas on him. Fists and feet were raining down on him from all directions. Before it was all over, damn near the whole tier got a piece of his ass. Some he knew and some he didn't. That's how it went down on G-2. If one fought, then they all basically fought. By the time all the guards and backup arrived, the fight was over and Raheem had been pounded to within inches of his life. The tier went on lock because nobody would reveal who was fighting, and Raheem was rushed off to MCV.

By the time the tier had calmed down, it was almost eight o'clock at night, and that's about the time Cleezy's lawyer finally
came to visit him. His lawyer wanted to do the small-talk thing, asking him how he was doing. Cleezy cut to the chase.

“Man, what's the deal? Whose name is on them papers?” Cleezy asked anxiously.

The attorney looked down at his paper although he had the name memorized in his head. “Uh, Shawn Justice,” the attorney muttered.

Cleezy was quiet for a minute. “What? Let me see it with my own eyes.”

The attorney adjusted his glasses on his nose before handing Cleezy the papers. He then added, “He said he was there the night in question.” The lawyer carefully thought before he said each word. “And if he testifies this could be detrimental to our case.”

“Look, just do your job,” Cleezy said, smacking his lips. “This nigga is lying. He ain't seen shit, because it wasn't nothing to see.”

“He's your homeboy so why would he lie?”

“I don't know why, but I know he ain't going to be able to look me in the face. Naw, that nigga ain't taking no stand. Trust me.”

The attorney was quiet as he packed his briefcase up. “Stay strong, man.”

“No doubt.”

Cleezy realized that this wasn't his lucky day after all, and to put the icing on the cake, G-2 was locked down and they couldn't get any visits or use the phone. So he had to “tier hop” to another tier and make a phone call to put all this madness to bed.

“Man, look, I ain't got but a minute because we on lock. That nigga Jus is on my paperwork. I need you to—”

“Say no more, my nigga.” Cook'em-up cut him off. “Say no more. No need to worry. I got you.”

As Cleezy made his way back over to G-2, tears filled his eyes, and his stomach was balled up in a knot. His right-hand man had rolled over on him. Jus, his best friend since the sandbox, was the
prosecution's key witness for this murder charge. It hurt him to his heart. What scared Cleezy most—all he would be able to think about for the next few days—was what else Jus had told. They had sold so much drugs and done so much dirt together…. what else had he told? What else? He wondered over and over when the Feds would come.

M
ercy sat by the pool at Tallya's house, drinking a vodka and tonic. She looked down at her perfectly painted toenails and admired the pedicure she had gotten the day before. She finally felt like she was living the life she was born to live. Her straight-to-DVD script was a blockbuster.

“It's a good thing, girl, that we went straight to DVD,” Tallya said.

“Why is that?”

“ 'Cause most bootleggers spend more time pushing films that's slated for the big screen. Their whole hustle is based on providing consumers with something that ain't available yet for home viewing,” Tallya explained.

That made sense to Mercy. People always found pleasure in getting things they weren't supposed to have, even if it did mean taking money from an artist. But since Mercy's joint skipped that entire process and was immediately accessible to the public, her work didn't get hit as hard.

No store on the East Coast could keep copies of her movie on the shelves. Her name was ringing all over the country; reporters from magazines and television alike wanted interviews with her.

People were amazed by how successful she was becoming, but even more so, they were moved by her story of the road she had traveled before becoming such a success. Everybody roots for the underdog, so when they learned that Mercy had been a foster child, was only twenty-three years old, had barely finished high school, had taken no formal writing courses, and yet despite all that had written one hell of a screenplay, that made them love her that much more. She was an inspiration to every young black girl in the hood and was labeled “a diamond in the rough.” Even schools were soliciting Mercy to come talk about her success. At first Tallya forwarded all of the inquiries she received on Mercy's behalf directly to Mercy. But it seemed like lately she was trying to screen who had access to Mercy, so Mercy finally asked her about it.

“I just don't think it's good PR to have you on TV and going to schools and stuff doing those interviews,” Tallya said, setting her drink down on the table between them.

“Why do you say that?” Mercy asked. She was just starting to accept the fame that promised a financial fortune.

“Because, you know, image is everything.”

“Okay, so what are you trying to say? My image ain't up to par? I think I dress cute whenever I am in front of the camera.”

“Yeah, but I looked at the repeat of you on
106 and Park
and you was looking like a stuffed turkey. Benjamin even said something to me about you being fat.” Oooohhh, that hurt Mercy. First Taymar with his mean comments about her weight issues and now this.

“What does my weight have to do with anything?” Mercy snapped.

“People just view you different when you are not fit and in shape. Makes you seem lazy, like you just sittin' around eating steak and lobster all day, collecting the money from what they spend on your work.”

Mercy looked down at herself in her new bathing suit. She wasn't fat, maybe a little thick, but Tallya had carried it too far. This was not how sisters should treat each other.

A day later she left Tallya's house and flew back to Richmond. As she flew the friendly skies she thought about the way Tallya had been treating her. In the beginning, Mercy had had no idea that Tallya would turn jealous of her. After all, Tallya was making much more off of Mercy's work than Mercy was. But Mercy was too new to the game to realize that different players played the game for different reasons. Some want the money more than they want the fame. Others get orgasms off of name recognition alone and couldn't care less whether they are broke just as long as people know who they are. Then there are those, the real players, who want it all.

Mercy realized that Tallya wasn't jealous that Mercy was the one getting all the attention. Tallya was all about the money, but she was small-time compared to the major film and distribution companies out there. She knew it would only be a matter of time before all of the attention and press that Mercy was getting would land Mercy an offer she wouldn't be able to refuse. Tallya was tearing Mercy down in any way she could to convince her that nobody else wanted to work with her in spite of what seemed like overnight success.

“They all want screenwriters with experience,” Tallya had said to Mercy. “You're still rough. No one will take your script like we did and work with it. The story was good, but it wasn't well written.”

“Well, the same way you thought it was good enough to work with, someone else will,” Mercy replied.

“Do you know how many scripts they get from experienced people? They come a dime a dozen, girl. Do you think they want to spend as much time as we did cleaning up your scratch when
they have someone who already knows what the hell they are doing?”

Mercy didn't know what to say. She had never thought about it like that before. She was just going to let it go because she didn't want to keep going back and forth with Tallya, but Tallya wasn't that quick to let things go. She didn't stop tearing down the house just at the roof; she wanted to see that sucker crumble to the ground and then light a match to it.

“Besides,” Tallya continued, “I don't think you have another good script in you, not as good as this, so you should just milk this project for everything it's worth. This will probably be the most money you'll ever get out of a deal. We could have taken our money and put anybody on, but no, we chose you. Not that your script was the best out there, but because you are my peoples.”

Mercy was starting to feel as if Bermuda Triangle had done her a favor and she hadn't done shit for them, but once Mercy really had time to sit and think about it, Tallya had basically stolen her screenplay. Although neither was sure of the going price for a script such as Mercy's, they agreed to pay her $35,000. Somehow they managed to chicken-feed her the money. Mercy had only received $15,000 upon signing the contract and was promised the rest when the film came out. Tallya told her that she needed a few weeks to make the money back she'd spent on the project and then she would pay her. As bad as Mercy needed the money, she tried to understand the big picture and believe in the growth of Bermuda Triangle. She wanted it to succeed so bad that she even directed the film—working with the actors and the crew, spending long hours in the editing room with the editor and not charging Tallya anything because she wanted her project to be done the right way. Most important, she understood the struggle. But Mercy struggled financially in her own life while Tallya still lived
the glamorous life, never giving a damn about compensating Mercy.

Mercy never complained about the way Tallya nickel-and-dimed her by paying her the balance of her money five hundred dollars here and a thousand dollars there when her project was moving like uncut dope at the first of the month.