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“Princeton Reginald Elkanah you better open your mouth and tell me what the hell is going on right now!”
“She used your full government,” Countee chuckled before both Averie and Coco shot him a look.
“Word on the streets was that Dontrell, who is my mother’s nephew and my former friend, had something to do with El’s shooting,” Roc started.
“You thought your cousin had something to do with your brother being shot? Averie asked, “What in the Days of Our Lives is going on here?”
“Dontrell and Roc had a huge thing that happened some years ago. El will fill you in, but the bottom line is we haven’t heard or seen him in years. Continue,” Coco said.
“Junebug sent word that Trell wanted to meet up, so we met him,” Roc continued.
“When?”
“Right before El’s welcome home party,” Roc answered.
“Are you kidding me? The nigga that held a gun to your head and the nigga that falsely accused you of stealing called and meeting and you went?” Coco fumed.
“We had to get to the bottom of this, Coco,” I added trying to help Roc out.
“Neither one of those niggas is worth a shit. We should have killed them both,” Coco said.
“Murder is bad, Deyshonda,” Averie said.
“It’s only bad when they are human beings. Neither Junebug or Trell are human they are scum.”
“That’s all over now, Coco. We don’t have anything else to say to Trell,” Roc finished.
“If he found the shooter then he is going to think we owe him something!” Coco continued.
“No, he won’t. I told him in no uncertain terms that the information was never requested, so we won’t consider it a favor. Things will remain the way they always were,” Countee explained.
“So, where is this Elson nigga? We need to roll up on him now,” Roc said.
“I haven’t located him yet. I have my best trackers on it. He may have left the city, but it doesn’t matter because he can’t hide from us. We will find him,” Countee answered.
“I want him alive.”
“Alive?” Roc said.
“Yes, alive. If at all possible.”
“I will see what we can do,” Countee responded.
* * *
“I am Gloria Dunford,the wife of the slain police officer, Terry Huntington. My husband was shot during a civil disturbance in the inner city. The protest was due to some injustice that the people in that area suffered and are still suffering. My husband was shot by a man in the crowd who was identified and has since died by lethal injection. He wrote me a letter and apologized for killing my husband and tearing my family apart. I chose to forgive him. Mr. Reginald Elkanah is not responsible for my husband’s death. He was there protesting and trying to help his community. Neither I nor my family has ever held any ill will or harbored any ill feelings towards Mr. Elkanah. I would not be opposed to him being released from prison. He deserves the chance to enjoy the rest of his life as a man free from the burden of paying for a crime he did not commit. Thank you.”
Officer Huntington’s wife’s speech on behalf of my father was both accurate and thoughtful. She folded the piece of paper that she read from and stepped away from the small podium.
“Mr. Elkanah, please step forward.”
My father stepped to the front of the table and answered several questions that each board member had. I couldn’t judge how each person responded to his answers because they wore poker faces. I thought his answers were articulate and honest. We had letters from state and US senators, community activists, and JD. Each letter spoke highly of my father and encouraged the board to grant his parole.
“We will take a break to consider your request. Then we will let you know our decision,” one of the board members said.
Roc and I followed my father and the guard into the same small visiting room where we always met.
“What do you think?” my father asked after the guard closed the door.
