He went first by saying, “Listen, just don’t do anything rash until I look into this. It may be nothing; it may be something. Either way we want to err on the side of caution. Okay?” he ended looking for me to agree.
That's what Big D brought to our partnership: legal eyes. He's well seated in the justice system after spending damn near forty years in law enforcement. He was well connected and versed in the law. He would hold off investigations and advise during legal woes. He'd have officers reassigned at the boarder when trafficking and troopers recant their reasons for pulling over dirty drivers. It was a marriage made in heaven. Until recent discoveries.
“D, if there was something I should know, you would tell a nigga, right?” looking him square in his eye. I could tell when someone was misleading me by doing just that.
“Aww, come on, Young Blood! Would I do that?” he answered.
That was all I needed.
My mentor, the man that had guided my life like a father was lying to me. He had shit all fucked up. My chest tightened at that discovery, and disappointment engulfed me. Years of trust and devotion abruptly vanished. I couldn’t believe that I’d been so na?ve to his deceit. I’d always known that Big D had a huge corruptive feature to his persona, but never did I expect to be on that side of it regarding me and my family. This was the end of our path, perhaps the beginning of my fury.
“Indeed,” I answered before a lingering pause. “Ummm...D,” I called out.
“Yeah, son?”
“She's also alleging that you had my pops killed.”
D's eyes rose to me so quickly and defensively. It was almost as if he'd been jabbed in the gut.
“What the fuck is up with your line of questioning to me, Young Blood?”
I held my hand out trying to deceivingly present as harmless. “I'm just asking about the bullshit she’s running, Duke. Easy.”
“Divine, you think I would set up your father, a man I endured academy training with? Somebody I had to face those racist pigs with? Do you know what hell they put us through?” he said suddenly becoming aware of his heightened tone and muting.
“I owe that man my life. Too many times he talked me down from killing those pigs. That's why it was no sweat of my goddamn balls to take you in.” He wiped his forehead while looking out to the water and I continued to study his theatrical antics.
He looked back to me. “What proof does that bit...” he caught himself. With a calmer resolve he continued. “…what evidence does she have? I'm a subscriber of hardcore evidence, son,” he howled, resolute to his story.
I pulled out my iPhone and hit play to a recording where a now forty-six year old reformed Muslim was telling the story of how a young uniform strolling the beat in Brooklyn in '86 had a proposition for him. He described the officer to the “T”. His citing of this officer arresting him twice prior to the murder being on his record made his story more influential. He mentioned things that only Big D could know like my father’s schedule for that day and what he’d be doing at that school that particular day—watching his son accept an academic award.
Once the recording was over, Big D stood frozen in his steps, unable to speak. So I did it for him.