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“I heard that bitch got a new man, some clown nigga wit’ money. So why was she tryin’ to fuck my nigga, huh? She’s a selfish fuckin’ bitch, and don’t get it twisted, it’s fucked up that she’s dead, you know what I’m sayin’, but that bitch was living a foul fuckin’ life, real talk, officer.”
“So you never met this boyfriend?”
“That bitch never brought him around, like she had something to hide, or thought he was too good to bring him around the fuckin’ hood. But anyway, she better be glad she ain’t fuckin’ introduce him to me—shit—because karma would be a muthafucka and I definitely woulda threw some pussy his way, you fuckin’ feel me, officer?” Eshon proclaimed, loud and clear and ghetto fabulous. “An eye for a fuckin’ eye! And I know I got the bomb-ass pussy—my shit is fuckin’ platinum!”
A deep sigh escaped his mouth. She was a headache over the phone.
“Another question, do you know a Stephanie Brown?” he asked.
Eshon remembered the name she had given to Spielberg that day at the precinct. She reacted with, “She a phony bitch too—some bitch Jessica be chillin’ wit’ lately, bitch tryin’ to be BFF wit’ that fake bitch. We don’t fuckin’ rock like that, officer. But I don’t really know that fuckin’ bitch.”
Questioning Eshon became a frustrating task for Spielberg. She cursed a lot and she was still angry. It seemed like a dead end. There were more questions, but the s
ame ghetto attitude and anger spewed out.
By the time he hung up the phone, he was completely convinced that she wasn’t the same girl looking for Jessica at the precinct. There was no love there. And no one knew the name or the location of this mystery man Jessica was seeing. They didn’t even know what he looked like. But he was confident that Jessica’s cell phone records would give them a clue.
After her talk with the cop, Eshon exhaled loudly.
The Kid was proud of her. “You did good,” he said.
“I’m gonna be sick,” she uttered.
She shot up out the chair and rushed to the bathroom where she threw up chunks into the toilet. Her stomach couldn’t take the stress any longer.
27
The EgyptAir flight from Cairo landed at JFK Airport in Queens early in the morning after a thirteen-hour trip. When the plane touched down on the runaway, almost every passenger had jet lag from the long journey across several time zones. Passengers departed the plane and made their way into U.S. Customs to the grueling ritual of passenger and luggage searches, and questioning. Among those trying to make their way through U.S. Customs were Shahib Abu Mudada and his wife, Asma.
They reached Passport Control where their immigration status had to be confirmed, and their passports and visas were checked; both of theirs were valid.
And then came the questions.
“And what is the purpose for your visit to the United States?” a male custom agent asked the couple.
“Pleasure. Our son is getting married tomorrow,” Shahib answered.
“And how long will you be staying?” the agent asked.
“A week,” he said.
“Do you have anything to declare?”
“No, sir.”
He locked eyes with Shahib and watched his movement. Shahib stood in front of the agent dressed in a pair of khaki pants, black sandals, and a white button down shirt. His appearance was strongly Middle Eastern with short-cropped jet-black hair, graying sideburns, and a goatee. He was levelheaded, but deadly—and one-hundred-percent committed to the Al-Qaeda.
It wasn’t his first trip to the United States, but it had been a long time since he had last set foot on U.S. soil. He remained serene. His wife was the same, standing by her husband’s side with a smile. On the inside, she hated everything about America and despised their government and their ways. She loathed this trip, but it was necessary. She was a beautiful woman dressed a hijab headscarf and an abaya.
Everything was high-tech security; fingerprints were scanned and their pictures taken. The agent saw nothing wrong and stamped their customs forms. They were free to move along and enter the United States.
“See? So simple,” Shahib said to his wife.
They walked through the terminal coolly, pulling along their rolling luggage. Outside the terminal, there was a fleet of cars, buses, and taxis waiting to pick up the arriving passengers. Shahib and his wife stepped out into the heat and were immediately approached by Amir. Amir greeted the couple with respect and the saying, “As-salamu-alykum,” which meant Peace be upon you.
“Waalaykuu salaam,” Shahib replied—And upon you, peace.
The couple was escorted to a classy dark Mercedes Benz. Some onlookers believed that Shahib and Asma were royalty, diplomats, or oil tycoons. They got comfortable in the backseat. Amir climbed into the driver’s seat.
