Team Mom (13 page)

By ten o'clock the next morning, Vernon was out of his jail cell and back on the streets with his boys. Coach knew he was out because the watch commander called him and let him know while he was on his way to the hospital to see Lois. He had the Polaroids with him showing ten different angles of this wet wipe Vernon. Unfortunately, when Coach presented them to Lois, she couldn't identify him. Not his face, not his hands, not his arms, not his height, nothing. That would do no good in a court of law, and that was why Vernon's lawyer walked inside and walked out within fifteen minutes. No evidence. Coach went by the check-cashing dump, and to his surprise, there was an out of business sign plastered on the front door and Harry had disconnected his cell phone number and his record of address led to an abandoned house.

The more Coach thought about it, the more he was certain that Vernon and his boys were his prime suspects. They were the only ones making noise in the street at the time. Coach decided all the other stuff concerning the check-cashing scheme was irrelevant and moved it to the back burner for the moment, considering what had happened to Lois. Vernon had stood tall under the pressure from the police, but maybe his boys would not handle the pressure of being yanked and placed in a cell. Coach decided to pay them a visit, but he'd have to find them first.

When Coach saw the Impala for the second time, he wrote down the license plate number, but then he forgot where he had placed the piece of paper. He'd always had a very bad habit of writing things down and not remembering where he wrote them. Even in school he would take notes and place them in a notebook, but then he would have to waste way too much time figuring out exactly where he put them. Coach considered the time it took to look for the license plate number as the cost of doing business, and when he finally found it in the glove compartment of the car, he ran the plate and had a good address for Chucky Lang, the owner of the black Impala.

Chucky Lang was not like his partner in crime Vernon. Along with finding his address, Coach was able to do a background check on Chucky. He found out that he had some sense, at least on paper. He was twenty-two years old and a graduate of Georgia Tech, where he majored in bio-engineering, born and raised in Cobb County, Georgia. His address led Coach to an apartment complex that looked to have three to four hundred units stacked on top of one another, with a clubhouse made of stone in the middle of the complex. Coach parked his Chevy in parking space 331 and sat there for about twenty minutes before he decided to change it up. As he sat outside of Chucky's place, he wondered how a college grad from a top university could end up running the streets with an asshole like Vernon Wise.

There were too many units in the apartment complex and too many cars entering and leaving the parking lot for Coach to even begin looking for a black Impala. So he decided to walk up to the apartment listed on his background check—number 642. Right before he got out of the car, he looked up and was startled to find a black male standing in front of his car, close to the bumper, looking zoned out as he stared into it, trying to see what or who was inside. Coach wasted no time putting his hand on his Glock. From inside the car Coach demanded that the man step back.

The black man didn't move, and Coach thought that maybe the sight of the Glock pointed right at him would make him change his mind. Coach kept aiming the gun at him and opened his door. He stepped out to get a better look at this fool who had been staring into his car like a zombie on crack. Coach kept his distance but still pointed his weapon at the man.

Coach said, “Step up to the car and put your hands on it.”

The man began to move.

Coach said, “Nice and slow, gotdamn it.”

The man took one step before he was able to put his hands on the car.

Coach said, “So, this is where I ask you, why in the hell are you staring into my car?”

The man chuckled, then said, “He told me you thought you were the shit.”

Coach still had his pistol aimed at the man. By now a few bystanders had gathered nearby, and others had stopped their cars. One or two had even started to record the scene with their phones.

Coach said, “What? What are you talking about?”

He said, “Vernon. Vernon, told me your bark is louder than your bite.”

“Vernon?”

“Yes, my brother. I'm Chucky Lang.”

Coach and Chucky had a few words without moving an inch. Chucky said he fully understood why Coach was there to see him. He said that he wasn't going to talk to him there in the parking lot, though. Said if he wanted any information from him, they should discuss things at a car wash on the other side of town in an hour. Coach was willing to do this because something about this Chucky kid was different. There was no back talk after their first back-and-forth, and he carried himself like a young man growing into manhood. Even so, Coach called for undercover backup at the car wash, which was located thirty minutes away in Smyrna.

When Coach arrived at the car wash, he spotted the black Impala right away on the hand car wash side. It was dripping wet, and Chucky stood on the passenger's side with a towel, wiping it down. Coach pulled up behind him, leaving enough room between them so as not to look suspicious.

“Aren't you going to wash that thing?” Chucky asked when Coach stepped out of the car.

Coach turned and looked at his car. “It's brand new. Barely any dirt on it.”

“Not going to look good, sitting here dirty like that while I wipe this down. You can tell that's a cop car a mile away. Why don't you pop the hood or something? Act like you're checking the oil or something?”

Coach was slowly becoming agitated by this guy's stealth tactics but did what he'd asked, anyway, just so he'd shut the hell up and they could get on with it. “So, you bring me way out here. You must have something to tell me.” Coach looked across the street and could see the undercovers he'd dispatched watching his every move.

“You're right. I do.” Chucky twisted his towel until the water escaped; then he shook it out to normal size and started on the passenger door.

“I'm listening,” Coach said.

“He did it.” Chucky kept wiping, as if he was getting his car ready for a date.

Coach said, “Say what?” Coach was listening intently to Chucky now.

“Vernon beat her.”

“How do you know?”

“I picked him up afterward, him and one of his boys around the corner from the house, and they were laughing about it.”

“You actually heard him say that he did it?”

Chucky stopped what he was doing for a brief second. “Of course I'm sure. You think I want to tell on my brother? Well, my stepbrother, but, shit, I've known him all my life.”

Coach said, “Tell me what he said in the car when you picked him up.”

Chucky was close to getting back to work on his car. “Said there's no way that bitch ain't dead. His exact words.”

Coach was silent.

“Yeah, makes you mad, don't it? But this is my first and last time telling someone about this. No more police, no court, none of that shit.”

Coach looked at him.

He said, “I'm serious, man. I will never admit to telling you any of this.”

“Well, why are you doing it now?”

“Because it needs doin'. Look, I'm a college grad, man. It has taken me damn near a year to find a job. My career choice is one of the most coveted in the nation, and here I am, stuck in this bitch, and couldn't even find work until last week, and the job's out west.”

Coach didn't really know where he was going with this.

“You want to know why?” Chucky walked to his trunk and pulled out a dry towel. He held it up to show Coach when he saw him position his hand to grab his Glock quickly if the need arose.

“It's cool,” Coach said. “So tell me.”

Chucky went back to work on his car. “'Cause of people like Vernon, that's why. All the shit he does, and people like him, on a daily basis. It makes people take it out on every black male that looks like him in every aspect of life. Like out in the country . . . hell, to a farmer a fox look like a fox, right?”

Coach said, “I guess.”

“Guess, your ass. I don't even blame people for their fucked-up stereotypes anymore. Not even when they read all my credentials and my shit is one hundred percent better than anyone else's. So that's why I'm telling you, Detective, so you can find a way to put his black ass in jail.”

Coach said, “Well, how am I supposed to do that when you won't back up what you say?”

Chucky said, “Not my problem. But I'll tell you this. Vernon has been stockpiling weapons for the past year. Don't ask me where, 'cause I don't know.”

Coach said, “You're still not telling me a damn thing where I can get him off the street.”

Chucky stalled for a beat. He lifted up one of his windshield wiper blades. “Well, you know the guy that I told you I picked up with Vernon the night the lady was beat up?”

“Yeah. I'm listening.”

“He's dead. His body is laying up in that check-cashing spot where you snatched up Vernon.”

After the powwow with Chucky Lang, Coach called for a cruiser by radio to head over to the check-cashing shop, and within minutes they were standing in the middle of a murder scene.

When Coach got there, he was told that the deceased, Mark Hollow, was a well-known street criminal who had been in the system since his teenage years. There was not much to do there besides check for fingerprints, as they decided that Mark had been murdered at another location and his body had then been placed inside the shop. Chucky Lang's tip had paid off, and it was too bad that Coach couldn't tap his resource any longer, because Chucky was on the road, heading out west, never to return.

Coach knew that they had to bring Vernon back in. From the time he left the police station they had had a tail on him and knew his whereabouts. Right now officers were sitting directly in front of his home. This Vernon was smart, and more than likely he had made a call to have Mark Hollow killed, otherwise, the tail would have followed him to the murder scene. Coach even thought that just maybe Chucky did the deed. He put that thought back in his mental file. For some reason, he was cheering for Chucky, wanted him to succeed and make something of his life.

Coach would have to work from home for a couple of hours, though. It was Shonda's birthday, and she wanted to have a small, quiet dinner with just the two men in her life, along with Calvin and her girlfriend Sherri, who she thought might be a good fit for Calvin. He had continually nagged Shonda for an invite and a friend introduction after seeing Sherri at their last game.

 

 

“J, you really look good in that suit, my man,” Calvin said. They had just finished dinner, and Coach was placing the birthday cake on the table. It was a double chocolate cake that he had ordered for Shonda at the neighborhood bakery.

Jarques didn't acknowledge Calvin other than giving him a head nod. He proceeded to pass the dessert plates around the table. When Coach sat back down, Jarques began to listen to what the Coach had to say.

Coach looked around the table.
Wow. A family moment,
he thought. “This is really special because it's the first birthday we have spent together,” Coach said. “And I really hope we can share more of your birthdays together, Shonda.” He looked around the table. “So, saying that, I think this would be a good time to go around the table and let Shonda know how much she means to us on her birthday.”

Shonda placed a smile on her face. “No, you don't have to do that.”

“Oh yes, we do,” Calvin said, pushing. “I am very happy to know you right about now, and you too, Sherri.” Calvin moved his chair closer to Sherri.

“See? There you go, Calvin,” Shonda pointed out.

Sherri was not shy. She stepped right in and shared with the others how Shonda had always been there for her and how much she enjoyed working with her on a daily basis. When she finished talking, she even stood up, walked around the table, and gave Shonda a big hug. When she sat back down, Calvin moved even closer to Sherri.

Then it was Jarques's turn, and he looked at all the smiling people around the table, waiting to hear what he had to say. “I love you, Mom, but I wish you would get rid of his ass,” he blurted as he pointed at Coach.

Calvin had really moved in on Sherri at this point and was so mesmerized by her that he told Jarques, “Nice job.” When he suddenly realized what Jarques had said, he looked up and said, “Huh? Say what?”

There was a brief silence, because no one believed what had just come out of Jarques's mouth. Coach was stunned that Jarques had said this about him.

Jarques shouted, “I don't like him, he shouldn't be here, and I want him to stop coming over here.”

There was no mistaking what he was saying now.

“Jarques, what's your problem? You better apologize right now.” Shonda ordered.

“No.” Jarques got up from the table and walked out of the kitchen, through the living room, and out the front door.

Everyone at the table was dumbfounded and couldn't imagine what was happening. Calvin stood up to go after Jarques, but Coach interceded and let him know that he'd go see what was going on. Shonda didn't move, because she was trying to understand it all.

Jarques was standing on the small concrete porch just outside the house. When he noticed Coach standing at the door, peering at him, he stepped off the porch, headed down the driveway to the sidewalk, and stood right under a street lamp.

Jarques looked back and noticed Coach was walking up on him. “You still here?”

Coach was very confused as to what was going on. “Yeah, I'm here,” he said quietly.

“Well, why don't you leave?”

Coach stopped and stood behind Jarques. “Look, did I miss something here? Did I do something?”

“Yes, man, I already told you. You're here.”

Coach looked up at the street lamp and took a deep breath. “Look, why don't you turn around like a man and talk to me?”

Jarques didn't move. “The same reason you didn't tell me that being seen with you was going to get me killed.”

Coach was taken aback by his words. He tried to understand what he was saying. “What do you mean, get you killed?” Coach walked around to face Jarques, and then Jarques turned his back on him again. “Damn it, son, talk to me.”

“I'm not your son,” Jarques remarked.

Coach opened his arms, then dropped them to his sides. “Jarques, what are you talking about, get you killed?”

Coach stood there without saying another word until Jarques got that he was not leaving until he found out what he was talking about.

Jarques said, “I'm talking about at school.”

“At school?”

“All day today there was a crew of boys that kept coming up to me, saying things, handing me notes.”

“Saying what? What kind of notes?”

“Telling me, ‘Tell your daddy cop to back off, and if your daddy don't back off, we know where you and your mother live.'” Jarques finally looked Coach in the eye. He screamed, “Do you know how it is to move around school like that? Do you know how it feels to be threatened all day, and you don't even know what it's about? I couldn't even tell my mother, because I didn't want her to know.”

“Tell me what, Jarques?” Shonda said. She had come out of the house. As she headed their way, Coach knew he would have to explain. “What? What is it, Jarques?”

Jarques didn't answer. He looked at Coach.

“There are some boys at school that are threatening him,” Coach said.

“Threatening? About what?” She went to put her arm around Jarques, but he moved away from her.

“The case that I'm working on. I guess they have seen me drop him off at school or something,” Coach explained.

All sorts of thoughts were running through Shonda's mind at lightning speed. “What?”

Coach tried to put his arm around Shonda. “You don't have to worry. I'll—”

“Jarques, are you okay?” Shonda said.

The boy nodded his head yes.

“Go inside. I need to talk to Coach for a second.”

Coach began to pace a bit, thinking about that fool Vernon, who had found a way to get at Jarques. He said, “Look, Shonda—”

She cut him off. “No, you look. That's my boy in there. I don't know what kind of case you're working on that now involves my son, but this is not going to work.”

“Shonda, listen . . . I will get to the bottom of this. Jarques will be fine,” Coach said.

She said, “How do you know that? How the hell, all of a sudden, can my son be brought into something you're doing on your job? Do you even know what he's talking about?”

Coach hesitated and put his head down. “Murder.”

She moved closer to him. “What did you say?”

“Shonda, it's a murder case.”

Shonda almost screamed but covered her mouth. “Murder?”

“Yes.”

She began to cry. “Good-bye, Coach.”

Coach tried to move close to her.

“Good-bye,” she repeated, then turned and walked away.