2nd

Brianna sat cross-legged in the middle of her bed, her thumbs rhythmically tapping the screen of her iPhone. She paused, then hit the Send button, firing off a text message. ready?

Her soft hazel eyes lasered into the screen, anticipating—no craving—an instantaneous response. Jaden had told her to text him when she was about to leave the house. So why didn’t he respond?

She hopped off the bed and cracked open the door. A gentle tinkle—probably a spoon clanking against the side of a stainless steel pot—signaled that her mother was busy in the kitchen preparing breakfast.

Easing the door shut, Brianna leaned against it and closed her eyes. To pull this off, Brianna couldn’t just act calm, she had to be calm. Otherwise, her mother would surely notice. But at only thirteen, she’d become pretty good at finding ways around her mother’s unreasonable rules.

She gently shook the phone as if that might make Jaden’s response instantly appear. Brianna was both thrilled and nervous about finally meeting Jaden, her first real boyfriend—a boyfriend she wasn’t supposed to have. Texts and emails had been racing back and forth between them ever since Jaden friended her on Facebook five weeks earlier.

It still bothered Brianna—but only a little—that Jaden had refused to hook up with her on Skype or FaceTime or even talk to her on the phone. Jaden had explained that he wanted to hear her voice and see her face for the first time in person. When she thought about it, that was kind of romantic.

If it hadn’t been for her Uncle Dre, Brianna would never have been able to have a secret boyfriend. When her uncle presented her with an iPhone for her birthday two months ago, her mother immediately launched into a tirade about perverts and predators on the Internet. But Uncle Dre had teased her mother for being so uptight and successfully pleaded her case.

Thank God her mother was such a techno-square. Although she’d insisted that they share the same Gmail account and barred her from Facebook, Brianna simply used her iPhone to open a Facebook account using a Yahoo email address that her mother knew nothing about. As for her texts, she immediately erased them.

A quiet chime signaled the message Brianna had been waiting for. A ripple of excitement shot through her.

Jaden: hey B almst there cant wait 2 c u

Brianna: me 2

Jaden: cant wait 2 kss dem lips

Brianna: lol!

Jaden: luv u grl!

Brianna: luv u 2

Brianna tossed the phone onto the bed and covered her mouth with both hands.

OMG!

She was finally going to meet the love of her life. Jaden’s older brother Clint was taking them to the Starbucks off Wilmington. Her mother kept such tight reins on her, this was the only time she could get away. Jaden had promised her that Clint would make sure she got to school on time.

Turning around to face the mirror on the back of the door, Brianna untied her bushy ponytail and let her hair fall across her shoulders. The yellow-and-purple Lakers tank top her Uncle Dre had given her fit snugly across her chest, but wasn’t slutty-looking. Jaden was a Kobe Bryant fanatic just like she was. He would be impressed when she showed up sporting No. 24.

Slinging her backpack over her shoulder, Brianna trudged down the hallway toward the kitchen.

“Hey, Mama. I have to be at school early for a Math Club meeting.”

Donna Walker turned away from the stove. “I’m making pancakes. You don’t have time for breakfast?”

Brianna felt a stab of guilt. Her mother was trying harder than ever to be a model parent. Brianna had spent much of the last year living with her grandmother after her mother’s last breakdown.

“Sorry.” She grabbed a cinnamon-raisin bagel from the breadbox on the counter. “Gotta go.”

Donna wiped her hand on a dishtowel. “It’s too early for you to be walking by yourself. I can drop you off.”

Brianna kept her face neutral. “No need. I’m picking up Sydney. We’re walking together.”

Brianna saw the hesitation in her mother’s overprotective eyes.

Taller and darker than her daughter, Donna wore her hair in short, natural curls. Her lips came together like two plump pillows and her eyes were a permanently sad shade of brown.

Donna had spent several years as a social worker, but now worked as an administrative assistant at St. Francis Hospital. Work, church and Brianna. That was her mother’s entire life. No man, no girlfriends, no fun.

Brianna wasn’t having any of that. She was gonna have a life, no matter how hard her mother tried to keep her on a short leash like a prized pet.

Donna finally walked over and gave her daughter a peck on the cheek, then repeated the same words she said every single morning.

“You be careful.”

Brianna bolted through the front door and hurried down the street. As expected, no one was out yet. Her legs grew shaky as she scurried past Sydney’s house. Brianna had wanted to tell her BFF about hooking up with Jaden today, but he made her promise not to. Anyway, Sydney had the biggest mouth in the whole seventh grade. Brianna couldn’t afford to have her business in the street. She’d made Sydney swear on the Bible before even telling her she’d been talking to Jaden on Facebook.

As she neared the end of the block, she saw it. The burgundy Escalade with the tinted windows was parked behind Mario’s Fish Market just like Jaden said it would be. Brianna was so excited her hands began to tremble. She was only a few feet away from the SUV when the driver’s door opened and a man climbed out.

“Hey, Brianna. I’m Clint, Jaden’s brother. He’s in the backseat.”

Brianna unconsciously took a step back. Jaden’s brother didn’t look anything like him. On his Facebook picture, Jaden had dark eyes, a narrow nose and could’ve passed for T.I.’s twin brother. This man was dark-skinned with a flat nose and crooked teeth. And there was no way he was nineteen. He had to be even older than her Uncle Dre, who was thirty-something.

Brianna bit her lip. An uneasy feeling tinkered in her gut, causing her senses to see-saw between fear and excitement. But it was love, her love for Jaden, that won out. It didn’t matter what his brother looked like. They probably had different daddies.

As Clint opened the back door, Brianna handed him her backpack and stooped to peer inside the SUV.

At the same horrifying moment that Brianna realized that the man inside was not Jaden, Clint snatched her legs out from under her and shoved her into the Escalade.

The man in the backseat grabbed a handful of her hair and jerked her toward him. Brianna tumbled face-first into his lap, inhaling sweat and weed and piss.

“Owwwww! Get your hands offa me!” Brianna shrieked, her arms and legs thrashing about like a drowning swimmer. “Where’s Jaden? Let me go!”

“Relax, baby.” The stinky man’s voice sounded old and husky. “Just calm down.”

“Get offa me. Let me go!”

She tried to pull away, but Stinky Man palmed the back of her head like a basketball, easily holding her in place. Clint, who was now in the front seat, reached down and snatched her arms behind her back and bound them with rope.

When Brianna heard the quiet revving of the engine and the door locks click into place, panic exploded from her ears. She violently kicked her feet, hoping to break the window. But each kick landed with a sharp thud that launched needles of pain back up her legs.

“Let me goooooo!”

The stinky man thrust a calloused hand down the back of Brianna’s pants as she fought to squirm free.

“Dang, girl,” he cackled. “The brothers are gonna love you.”

“Cut it out, Leon,” Clint shouted, turning away to grab something from the front seat. “I’ve told you before. Don’t mess with the merchandise.”

“Don’t touch me!” Brianna cried. “Get away from me!”

She managed to twist around so that her face was no longer buried in Stinky Man’s lap. That was when she saw Clint coming toward her. He covered her mouth with a cloth that smelled like one of the chemicals from her science class.

Brianna coughed violently as a warm sensation filled her body. In seconds, her eyelids felt like two heavy windows being forced shut. She tried to scream, but the ringing in her ears drowned out all sound. When she blinked up at Stinky Man, he had two—no three—heads.

Brianna could feel the motion of the SUV pulling away from Mario’s Fish Market. She needed to do something. But her body was growing heavy and her head ached. The thick haze that cluttered her mind allowed only one desperate thought to seep through.

Mommy! Uncle Dre! Please help me!

Chapter 1

Day One: 8:00 a.m.

Angela Evans zigzagged her Saab in and around the slow-moving cars inching up Hill Street, ignoring the blaring horns directed at her.

“Shoot!” She pounded the steering wheel.

The lot where she normally parked for court appearances had a Full sign out front. It could take another twenty minutes to find a place to park. Twenty minutes she didn’t have.

She spotted a two-hour parking meter a few feet ahead and swerved into it. Grabbing her purse from the front seat, she tumbled from the car, not bothering to put change in the meter. She’d just have to deal with the fifty-dollar ticket.

When she rounded the corner, the line of people waiting to enter the Clara Shortridge Foltz Criminal Justice Center was at least fifty deep. The line for attorneys and staff was half as long. She strolled up to a middle-aged white guy in an expensive suit near the front of the attorneys’ line and flashed him a hopeful smile.

“Cuts? Pretty please?” she said, trying to catch her breath. “I’m way late.”

The man grinned and allowed Angela to step in front of him. A few people behind them had started to grumble, but by that time she was already dropping her purse onto the conveyor belt and walking through the metal detectors.

She jogged down the hallway and squeezed into an elevator seconds before the doors closed. The car shot straight to the fourth floor. When she finally reached the courtroom, Angela frowned. Shenae was supposed to be waiting outside.

Inside the courtroom, Angela was glad to find that the judge hadn’t taken the bench yet. She grew incensed, however, as she scanned the gallery. Her client was sitting off to the right, next to a man in a sports jacket and tie. Angela presumed he was the detective who had picked her up from the group home. On the opposite side of the courtroom, Angela counted four women and five men. The whole rowdy, tattooed group looked as if they’d just broken out of county jail. One of the men craned his neck in Shenae’s direction and scowled, confirming exactly what Angela had assumed.

She marched into the well of the courtroom and straight up to the deputy district attorney.

“Why haven’t you cleared the courtroom?” she demanded. “If you don’t get them out of here, I’m advising my client to take the Fifth.”

“Good morning to you, too, Counselor,” Monty Wyman replied with a forced smile. “I was going to do it. We haven’t started yet.”

Wyman was in his late twenties, with sandy hair and black-rimmed glasses. His doughy midsection publicized that exercise wasn’t high on his agenda.

“If you want my client to testify, do it now.” Angela cocked her head and smiled. “Pretty please.”

Wyman had spent the last six months of his young legal career in the sex crimes unit. He knew how traumatic it was for a twelve-year-old child to face her pimp in court. It irked Angela that the defendant’s homies were even allowed to be in the same building as Shenae.

Angela walked over to Shenae, greeted her with a hug, then escorted her to a bench in the hallway.

“You okay? You still want to do this, right?”

Shenae’s timid eyes fell to the floor. “Uh, yeah.” The thin, gangly girl never made eye contact for more than a few seconds.

Six months earlier, Shenae had been arrested for solicitation to commit prostitution. She was one of a dozen under-aged girls forced into prostitution by a pimp named Melvin Clark. Yet the justice system treated her like the criminal.

Angela represented Shenae in juvenile court on the solicitation charge and had arranged for her to be sent to a group home. As part of a special program, if she did well in school and stayed out of trouble for at least a year, the charge would be dismissed.

Angela was in court today to lend moral support.

“If I tell ’em everything I did, are you sure they’re not gonna arrest me?” Shenae asked.

“Yes, I’m sure.” Angela placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’ve already negotiated that with the prosecutor. You have full immunity. That means nothing you say can be used against you. Ever.”

Just then, the defendant’s cohorts were ushered out of the courtroom by the bailiff. Angela pulled Shenae close, blocking her face from the glares of her would-be intimidators.

Wyman stuck his head into the hallway. “We’re ready.”

Shenae wrung her hands. Her khaki pants and black sweater seemed a size too big. Her hair was gathered into a small puff that sat atop of her head, drawing attention away from her sad, round face.

“I know it’s scary,” Angela said softly. “But you can do it. You did really good when we practiced last week. Candace will be here any minute.”

Angela glanced down the hallway, praying that Candace Holmes would indeed appear. “Just keep your eyes on Candace or me. And whatever you do, don’t look at Melvin.”

As if conjured up by magic, Candace Holmes raced up to them. “Sorry,” she panted. “I had another client on the fifth floor.”

Candace, who was not much taller than Shenae, worked for Saving Innocence, a non-profit group that provided an array of support services to sexually trafficked children. She was here today to serve as Shenae’s witness advocate.

Candace swept her reddish-brown bangs off her face and bent to look Shenae in the eyes. “I’m proud of you. I know you’re going to do great.”

Angela opened the door of the courtroom. “Let’s go.”

Shenae didn’t move. She looked up at Angela. “I…I would feel better if I could take your purse up there with me.”

Angela glanced down at her camel-colored Dolce Gabbana bag.

“My purse? Why?”

“It’s a nice purse,” Shenae said, her lower lip quivering a bit. “If I had it with me on the witness stand, I would look important. Like you.”

A pained look passed between Angela and Candace. Angela handed the bag to Shenae and led the way inside.

The judge, jury and defendant were all in place now. Melvin, dressed in a suit and tie, sat next to his lawyer, a veteran public defender who’d obviously pulled the short straw. A portly man with a hard face, Melvin looked much older than twenty-eight. He glanced back at Shenae, but turned around when his lawyer tapped him on the arm.

Judge Willis Romer, known for both his shoe-polish-black hair and for nodding off on the bench, peered through his thick lenses. “Call your first witness, Mr. Wyman.”

“I call Shenae M to the witness stand.”

Shenae slowly rose to her feet and marched down the aisle, followed by Candace. After taking the oath, Shenae propped Angela’s purse on her lap and curved her small fingers around the pearl handle. She sat arrow straight, chin forward, her face blank of any emotion.

Candace was sitting in a folding chair just to the right of the jury box, facing Shenae.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” the judge began, “Ms. Candace Holmes is a witness advocate. She is here for emotional support for the witness, who is a juvenile. You should give no weight, pro or con, to her presence.”

Wyman rose from the prosecutor’s table and smiled warmly at Shenae. “Can you tell us your name for the record?”

“Shenae Mar—”

Wyman held up both hands. “That’s okay. Since you’re a juvenile we don’t need your last name. Is it okay if I call you Shenae.”

The girl smiled. “Yes.”

“And how old are you?”

“Twelve.”

“Do you know the defendant, Melvin Clark?”

Shenae nodded.

The judge leaned toward Shenae and spoke in a fatherly voice. “Shenae, we’ll need you to speak out loud. The court reporter can’t take down a nod of your head.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Yeah, I know him.”

As instructed, Shenae did not take her eyes off of Candace, not even to face the judge.

“And how do you know Mr. Clark?” the prosecutor asked.

Shenae swallowed. “He was my pimp.”

Melvin shifted in his seat, then angled his head and stroked his stubbly chin.

“Where did you first meet Mr. Clark?”

“At the Kentucky Fried Chicken on Crenshaw and Imperial. He bought me some chicken and fries cuz I was hungry.”

“How did Mr. Clark know you were hungry?”

Shenae’s slender shoulders rose, then fell. “I guess cuz he saw me eat somebody’s leftover food after they walked out.”

For the next few minutes, Shenae stoically recapped her tragic young life. At ten, she’d been placed in a foster home after her mother’s boyfriend molested her. In the foster home, she was physically and verbally abused and ultimately ran away. She was eleven when Melvin offered to let her stay at his apartment.

“At first, he was nice,” Shenae explained. “He didn’t even try to have sex with me or nothing. He took me shopping and let me buy whatever I wanted.”

“Did that ever change?” the prosecutor asked.

Shenae lowered her eyes. “After about a month we started having sex. But by then, he was my boyfriend, so that was okay.”

One of the jurors, an older black woman who’d been carrying a Bible, puckered her lips.

“And then what happened?”

“One day, he told me that cuz he spent a lot of money on me, I had to make some money for him.”

For the first time, Shenae stole a quick glance at Melvin. She clasped the handles of the purse even tighter.

“How did he want you to make money for him?”

The courtroom grew quiet as Shenae’s eyes watered. “He put me on the track.”

Angela took in the jury. A few faces appeared shocked, others displayed confusion.

“Tell the jury what the track is?”

Shenae began to gently rock back and forth, still holding onto the purse. “Where johns go to pick up ho’s for sex.”

“What did you do on the track?”

Shenae did not answer for a few seconds. Wyman waited.

“At first I…I just sucked…I mean…I gave blow jobs. I got fifty dollars every time. I gave all the money to Melvin. But later on, he put me in a motel room so johns could come there to have sex with me.”

“I see a tattoo on your neck,” the prosecutor said. “M-M-M. What does that mean?”

Shenae’s hand absently caressed her slender neck. “Uh, it means Melvin’s moneymaker.”

Two female jurors gasped.

“How many men did you have sex with on a single day?”

“A lot,” Shenae sniveled and wiped away a tear. “Sometimes up to twenty.”

Several jurors winced. The black woman cupped a hand to her mouth.

“Did you want to have sex with those men?”

“No.”

“What would happen if you refused?”

Shenae was weeping softly now. “Melvin would beat me.”

Judge Romer spoke with genuine sympathy in his voice. “Shenae, are you okay? Are you able to continue?”

Shenae finally let go of the purse. She pressed both hands to her face and sobbed.

“Your Honor,” Wyman said quietly, “we’d like to take a short break.”

Chapter 2

Day One: 8:05 a.m.

When Brianna’s voicemail clicked on again, Dre cursed under his breath and hung up.

That was the second time this morning that he’d tried to call his niece. He didn’t even know why he even bothered calling her. Anybody under twenty only used a smartphone for texting. Talking took time away from their texting.

He chuckled to himself, then pecked out a text.

call me

Dre and his buddy Gus were installing tile in the bathroom of the two-bedroom house he’d recently picked up at an auction. The two men had done time together at Corcoran State Prison. Gus was good with his hands and Dre was happy to have the help.

Dre reached for a towel and wiped sweat from his shaved head. He was surprised when he didn’t receive an instantaneous response from his niece. The girl was usually glued to her phone.

Brianna had gotten a real kick out of the fact that he had called her to help him pick out a nice restaurant for his date tonight. His niece wasn’t your average thirteen-year-old. She was smart as a whip and knew almost as much about sports as he did. The fact that she looked more like him than his own son was another reason he loved her to death.

Dre had asked Brianna to go on the Internet and find him a nice restaurant in Marina Del Rey. He wanted just the right place for his reunion with Angela. Not super casual, but not too highbrow either. Brianna had given him three great choices.

Dre wanted to let Brianna know which restaurant he had selected. But he hadn’t told anybody that he was hooking up with Angela tonight.

“Hey, man, what’s going on?” Gus asked. He was in his late forties, with a lean, muscular body, perfected during his time behind bars. “Why you smiling so much today?”

“Didn’t know I was smiling.” Dre stroked his goatee. He was close to six feet with the kind of body built for hard work.

“Yeah, you were. Smiling and whistling. So what’s up?”

Dre grabbed another tile and carefully set it into place. He wasn’t sure he wanted to spill the beans about his plans tonight. It was as if doing so might jinx something. But he was excited as hell, so he had to tell somebody something.

“I’m taking Angela out tonight,” Dre said.

Gus nodded, but left it at that.

“You don’t have nothin’ to say?” Dre asked.

“Hey, bruh, who you go out with is your business.”

“Sounds like you think it’s a bad idea.”

“Ain’t for me to judge.”

Dre was surprised at Gus’ response. His buddy was never one to keep an opinion to himself.

“Well, I’m asking.”

Gus set aside the tile he was holding and looked over at Dre.

“You put it all on the line for that female and she left you hangin’. So if you ask me, hookin’ up with her again might not be the best decision you could make.”

This was no doubt the same reaction Dre would receive when he told his sister and mother that he was seeing Angela again. Unfortunately, they’d never gotten a chance to meet her. If they had, they’d surely feel differently. The only thing they knew about her was what they’d seen in the news reports. And that was bunk.

When Dre first met Angela at the Spectrum Athletic Club, she was weeks away from marrying some control-freak judge. She eventually broke off the engagement and they’d hooked up. Angela’s ex, however, had refused to accept the breakup and started stalking her.

In the midst of that drama and before Dre could tell her himself, Angela found out that he’d been in the business of dealing crack cocaine and had served time for possession with intent to sell. She then broke it off with him too.

Worried about her safety, Dre stayed close and had been there to intercede when Angela and her ex were wrestling over a gun. The judge took a bullet to the gut and Dre took the rap. The media immediately jumped on the story. A love triangle involving a federal prosecutor, a superior court judge and a drug dealer made salacious news. No charges were ever filed because the shooting had been ruled self-defense.

Dre had been both pissed off and hurt by Angela’s decision to move on, but the girl was a lawyer. Part of him understood her reluctance about having a relationship with an ex-con. He still kicked himself for not having been up front with her about his situation from day one.

It still amazed him that a woman he’d only known for a few weeks could take hold of his heart the way Angela Evans had. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t shake his feelings for her. It had been three months since he’d last seen her. Last week he’d gathered the nerve to ask her out to dinner and to his relief, she accepted.

Now that he was getting a second chance at being with her, Dre didn’t care what anybody thought. He was taking it.

He checked his smartphone again. Brianna still hadn’t texted him back. She was probably already in class by now. He called her again anyway. No answer.

Dre couldn’t wait to tell her about his date. At least Brianna would be happy for him.

Chapter 3

Day One: 8:10 a.m.

Clint glanced in the rearview mirror. Brianna was stretched out across the backseat, still knocked out cold, her head resting in Leon’s lap. Leon was alternately snoring and smacking his lips.

The grab had worked precisely according to plan. Clint just hoped it wouldn’t take too long to break in Little Miss Brianna. The girl looked like she had a lot of fight in her.

He punched a button on his cell.

“We should have her on lockdown in a few,” Clint said into the phone. “This one’s real fresh, man. Got them light eyes. She’s gonna bring in some long dough.”

He barked several instructions, then hung up.

Clint was relieved that everything had gone so well. You never knew what could happen when you were snatching a girl in broad daylight. So far, the Facebook scam was working like a charm. His boss was a genius.

Clint smiled to himself. “Mo’ money, mo’ money, mo’ money.”

Leon yawned from the backseat. “How far away are we?”

“A long way,” Clint said. “Just shut up.”

Leon ran a hand over Brianna’s rear end. “This girl is bangin’.”

“Don’t mess with the merchandise,” Clint snapped, eyeing him in the rearview mirror.

“I’m just sayin’.” He stroked Brianna’s face.

A phone began to ring. Leon looked around, then realized the sound was coming from Brianna’s backpack.

“Don’t answer it!” Clint shouted. “Give it here.”

Leon pulled the iPhone from an outside pocket on the backpack and tossed it to Clint. The caller ID read Uncle Dre. He turned it off, then placed it on the console between the seats.

“I’m hungry,” Leon complained. “We need to hit a drive-thru.”

“We ain’t stoppin’. I ain’t about to risk nobody seeing that girl tied up in the backseat.”

Clint shook his head. His cousin was such a screw-up. But what did he expect from a crack head? His boss would have a big problem with Clint having brought someone into the operation without his personal approval. Hopefully, he would never find out. This was the second and last time he planned to use Leon. His regular cohort, Darnell, had to make a run to Oakland to pick up some new girls. Clint didn’t want to reschedule “Jaden’s” hookup with Brianna. Leon had worked out okay on a last-minute grab a couple of weeks ago in Inglewood. So Clint had called on him again.

It took close to an hour in rush-hour traffic before the SUV exited the Harbor Freeway at Gage. Clint drove a few more miles and slowed when he reached a yellow house that was little more than a shack. Except for a group of boys strolling along the sidewalk, the street was empty. Clint hit a button opening the electronic gates, then steered the Escalade down a short driveway and parked on the grass behind the house.

Leon hopped out first, followed by Clint. Leon bounced on his tip toes as Clint pulled a money clip from his front pocket and peeled off fifty bucks.

“You can go now.” Clint shoved the money into Leon’s hands.

“Thanks, cuz!” Leon gazed excitedly at the bills. “When you gonna need me again?”

Never. “I’ll let you know. Just make sure you keep your big mouth shut.”

Leon was already trotting back down the driveway. Clint knew exactly where he was headed. To get high at one of three neighborhood crack houses.

After first opening the back door to the house, Clint easily collected Brianna’s limp body from the backseat and hurled her over his shoulder.

The house was stuffy and night-time dark, even though it was still morning. Every windowpane in the place had been painted black. He flicked on a light switch in the kitchen and marched down a narrow hallway. He stopped outside the second bedroom on the west side of the house. Using a single key, he unlocked the three deadbolts on the door.

Inside, a low-watt bulb hanging from the ceiling provided minimal light. A naked girl with wild blonde hair sat huddled in a corner hugging her knees to her chest. Her face was clear and smooth, but her chest, arms and legs bore red, black and blue markings that stood out against her white skin. The filthy mattress where she sat was the only piece of furniture in the room.

“I brought you some company,” Clint announced. He dumped Brianna on the mattress next to the frail girl.

“If you’re ready to act like you got some sense, I’ll bring you something to eat.”

The girl, who looked to be close to Brianna’s age, didn’t respond.

“Well?” Clint said.

“Yes,” she mumbled. “I want something to eat.”

“Okay then. You better get with the program. Next time, just do what I tell you or I’ma beat your ass again.”

He pointed toward Brianna.

“When the new girl wakes up, you tell her the deal. Let her know that if she plays along, everything’ll be fine. But if she plans on being hard headed like you, life is gonna be rough.”

Graylin Alexander is a model fourteen-year-old. When his adolescent curiosity gets the best of him, Graylin finds himself embroiled in a sexting scandal that threatens to ruin his life. Jenny Ungerman, the attorney hired to defend Graylin, is smart, confident and committed. She isn’t thrilled, however, when ex-prosecutor Angela Evans joins Graylin’s defense team. The two women instantly butt heads. Can they put aside their differences long enough to ensure Graylin gets justice? Unbeknownst to Angela, her boyfriend Dre is wrestling with his own drama. Someone from his past wants him dead. For Dre, his response is simple—kill or be killed.

Read an Excerpt Below!

Chapter 1

Graylin

“What’s the matter, Mrs. Singletary? Why do I have to go to the principal’s office?”

I’m walking side-by-side down the hallway with my second-period teacher. Students are huddled together staring and pointing at us like we’re zoo animals. When a teacher at Marcus Preparatory Academy escorts you to the principal’s office, it’s a big deal. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. I’m a good student. I never get in trouble.

Mrs. Singletary won’t answer my questions or even look at me. I hope she knows she’s only making me more nervous.

“Mrs. Singletary, please tell me what’s wrong?”

“Just follow me. You’ll find out in a minute.”

I’m about to ask her another question when it hits me. Something happened to my mama!

My mama has been on and off drugs for as long as I can remember. I haven’t seen her in months and I don’t even know where she lives. No one does. I act like it doesn’t bother me, but it does. I’ve prayed to God a million times to get her off drugs. Even though my granny says God answers prayers, He hasn’t answered mine, so I stopped asking.

I jump in front of my teacher, forcing her to stop. “Was there a death in my family, Mrs. Singletary? Did something happen to my mama?”

“No, there wasn’t a death.”

She swerves around me and keeps going. I have to take giant steps to keep up with her.

Once we’re inside the main office, Mrs. Singletary points at a wooden chair outside Principal Keller’s office. “Have a seat and don’t move.”

She goes into the principal’s office and closes the door. My head begins to throb like somebody’s banging on it from the inside. I close my eyes and try to calm down. I didn’t do anything wrong. It’s probably just—Oh snap! The picture!

I slide down in the chair and pull my iPhone from my right pocket. My hands are trembling so bad I have to concentrate to keep from dropping it. I open the photos app and delete the last picture on my camera roll. If anyone saw that picture, I’d be screwed.

Loud voices seep through the closed door. I lean forward, straining to hear. It almost sounds like Mrs. Singletary and Principal Keller are arguing.

“It’s only an allegation. We don’t even know if it’s true.”

“I don’t care. We have to follow protocol.”

“Can’t you at least check his phone first?”

“I’m not putting myself in the middle of this mess. I’ve already made the call.”

The call? I can’t believe Principal Keller called my dad without even giving me a chance to defend myself. How’d she even find out about the picture?

The door swings open and I almost jump out of my skin. The principal crooks her finger at me. “Come in here, son.”

Trudging into her office, I sit down on a red cloth chair that’s way more comfortable than the hard one outside. My heart is beating so fast it feels like it might jump out of my chest.

The only time I’ve ever been in Principal Keller’s office was the day my dad enrolled me in school. Mrs. Singletary is standing in front of the principal’s desk with her arms folded. I hope she’s going to stay here with me, but a second later, she walks out and closes the door.

Principal Keller sits on the edge of her desk, looking down at me. “Graylin, do you have any inappropriate pictures on your cell phone?”

“Huh?” I try to keep a straight face. “No, ma’am.”

“It’s been brought to my attention that you have an inappropriate picture—a naked picture—of Kennedy Carlyle on your phone. Is that true?”

“No…uh…No, ma’am.” Thank God I deleted it!

“This is a very serious matter, young man. So, I need you to tell me the truth.”

“No, ma’am.” I shake my head so hard my cheeks vibrate. “I don’t have anything like that on my phone.”

“I pray to God you’re telling me the truth.”

I don’t want to ask this next question, but I have to know. “Um, so you called my dad?”

“Yes, I did. He’s on his way down here now.”

I hug myself and start rocking back and forth. Even though I deleted the picture, my dad is still going to kill me for having to leave work in the middle of the day.

“I also made another call.”

At first I’m confused. Then I realize Mrs. Keller must’ve called my granny too. At least she’ll keep my dad from going ballistic.

“So you called my granny?”

“No.” The principal’s cheeks puff up like she’s about to blow something away. “I called the police.”

Chapter 2

Dre

“We haven’t heard much from you this afternoon, Dre. How’ve you been making out?”

I instantly straighten up from my slouched position on the therapist’s too-soft couch. This clueless chick has no idea how much I hate being here. Her suffocating, windowless office with its mint green walls, inspirational sayings and shiny cement floor make me feel like a caged animal. Almost like it felt when I’d been caged up for real.

“I’m making it.” I squeeze my niece’s hand. My sister Donna is sitting on the opposite side of Brianna, looking as worried about me as she is about her daughter.

Having to participate in this kumbaya session with this over-articulate sister who keeps pressing me to bare my soul—something I ain’t gonna do—is almost painful.

If I’d met her in a club, she definitely would’ve piqued my interest. Cute face, nice tits, and thick around the hips, just the way I like my women. But as I stare across the room, that’s not what I see. She might as well be one of those annoying, yellow happy faces because that’s how she comes off.

The therapist folds her arms and rests them on her enormous boobs. “Oh, c’mon, Dre. You can surely dig a little deeper than that.”

If this chick tells me to dig deep one more time, I swear I’m gonna kick her ugly-ass purple coffee table across the room. She seems to believe that constantly picking at my scabs will cause my pain to seep out and float away like the excrement that it is. Everyone in this room knows that’s bull. Nothing—not even time—can heal this hurt.

My lips curve into a tight smile. “As long as Bree’s good, then I’m good.”

This is only our third family counseling session, but it feels like the thirtieth. Whenever the urge to bolt hits me—like now—I tell myself that after everything Brianna’s been through, spending an hour a week listening to this psychobabble is the least I can do.

“But we want to know if you’re good,” the therapist presses. “Brianna wasn’t the only victim. This was a traumatic experience for you too.”

I inhale as the silver plaque on the wall above her head catches my eye. Life is lived forward but understood backwards. Yeah, tell me about it.

“As I’ve said before, I’m dealing with it.”

“Actually, he’s not dealing with it at all,” my sister volunteers. “The Shepherd’s in prison, but Dre wants him dead. To be honest, I’m more worried about my brother than my daughter.”

My baby sis is such a drama queen. Except this time, she’s right on the money.

As much as I’ve tried, I cannot wrap my mind around the fact that children like my thirteen-year-old niece—babies really—are being sold on the street like dime bags of weed. Before Brianna’s kidnapping over a year ago, I knew nothing about the world of child sex trafficking. Now I could teach a college course on the subject. My niece was literally snatched off the street as part of a Facebook scam run by a thug called The Shepherd.

It pisses me off that the dude only got a measly twelve years. He’s even in a low-security federal prison. From everything I’ve heard, that’s basically summer camp.

The therapist is waiting for me to say something. Unlike most people, she’s quite comfortable with silence. To get her off my back, I pretend to open up.

“Most of the time I’m fine.” I fake a long sigh and lower my head, but my voice starts to quiver all on its own. “Then I think about what Brianna went through and I get pissed off.”

Brianna pats my hand. “I’m okay, Uncle Dre. And you’re gonna be okay too.”

A warm sensation sweeps across my face and my heart. This little girl has such a hold on me. I lean down and kiss the top of her head.

The therapist gives Brianna an encouraging smile. “I’m proud of your progress, Brianna. How’s everything between you and your mother?”

“Um, pretty good.” Brianna gives her mother a quick sideways glance. “But she still won’t let me have another cell phone or an Instagram account. She won’t even let me sleep over at my friend Kendra’s house.”

“I’m with your mother on the cell phone tip,” I say, turning to my sister. “But you could back up off her a little bit. Why don’t we give Instagram a try and see how it goes? All the kids do is post a bunch of pictures on it. I trust her not to do anything crazy. Right, Bree?”

“Right,” Brianna says eagerly.

“Yeah, okay, I guess,” Donna says, full of reluctance. “But I’m getting one of those programs so I can monitor everybody you’re talking to and everything you post.”

Brianna gives her mother a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, Mommy!”

“But I’m still not ready for a sleepover,” Donna insists. “Whenever Brianna’s out of my sight, I still get nervous about somebody kidnapping her again. I can barely handle her being back in school.”

“Let’s try this,” the therapist suggests. “How about having Brianna spend the night at her grandmother’s house first? Then we’ll go from there.”

Donna grimaces.

“You do trust your mother to take care of her, right?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

Brianna’s face lights up. “And when you and Angela get married,” she says, nudging me with her elbow, “I can have a sleepover at your house too. Don’t you think it’s about time you bought Angela an engagement ring?”

Outwardly, I chuckle, but on the inside, dread slithers through my veins like a warm shot of heroin. My girl Angela is the best thing about my life these days. But the timing of us finally getting together couldn’t be worse.

Neither Angela nor my family knows about the call I received from my cousin this morning. From behind prison walls, The Shepherd put the word out on the street that he’s gunning for me.

This poses a problem on multiple fronts. I promised Angela that my life of crime was behind me. And, at the time, I meant it. But The Shepherd’s threat changes things. Angela’s a lawyer who walks the straight-and-narrow. If she knew what was going on, she’d want me to report it to the police. That ain’t my style. I’m gonna handle my situation my way.

My top priority for the moment is keeping myself and everyone around me safe. Unfortunately, Angela and I recently decided to move in together. She texted me this morning about checking out a rental house in Leimert Park. I have to find a way to slow her roll, at least until this situation is resolved. If we shack up now, she could end up as collateral damage.

Brianna’s voice punctures my thoughts. “And when you propose to her, you better get down on one knee.”

“You’re a little smarty pants. You know that?”

“Yep. And I’m also smart enough to know that you’re going to be okay. Just like me.”

Brianna presses her right cheek against my chest and hugs me tight.

My niece’s words are soothingly prophetic. I will indeed be okay. As soon as I find a way to kill The Shepherd.

Chapter 3

Graylin

The police!

My mouth is as dry as sand. “I don’t have a naked picture of anybody on my phone, Mrs. Keller. I swear, I don’t. Why’d you call the police on me?”

“I had no choice.”

My right knee won’t stop bouncing up and down. “Who said I had a naked picture?”

“I can’t disclose that information.”

There’s a knock on the door. When two police officers step into the room, I almost pee on myself. They introduce themselves to the principal but ignore me.

One of the cops is short and Asian with biceps that look like two boulders. He turns around and mean mugs me. “Is this the student?”

Principal Keller nods and hands him a piece of paper. He reads it, then turns back to me.

“I’m Officer Chin and this is Officer Fenton,” the Asian cop says, referring to a tall white man with slicked-back hair who’s staring down at me too. “We need to talk to you.”

Officer Chin opens the side door leading into the principal’s private conference room and tells me to go inside. I’m so nervous it feels like I’m walking on toothpicks.

The white cop sits in the chair next to me and turns sideways. He’s sitting so close to me that his knee keeps brushing against my thigh. I want to ask him to move back, but I don’t. Officer Chin sits on the other side of the long table, glaring at me like I shot somebody.

“So, Graylin, do you know why you’re here?” Officer Chin asks.

“Nope,” I mumble. Then I hear my grandmother’s voice. She’s old school and is always telling me to be respectful to adults. “I mean, no, sir.”

I don’t like looking at the Asian cop. If they try a good-cop, bad-cop act on me, he’s probably going to play the bad cop.

“First, I need to tell you that you’re in some major trouble,” the mean one says.

I’ve already decided that’s what I’m going to call Officer Chin—Mean Cop—because that’s what he is.

I don’t say anything since he hasn’t asked me a question.

“How old are you?”

“Fourteen.”

“Your principal got a report that you have a naked picture of one of your classmates on your phone.”

“But I don’t.” Not anymore.

“Do you know Kennedy Carlyle?”

“Yes.”

“Is she your girlfriend?”

I screw up my face. “No.” Kennedy is way too stuck-up to be anybody’s girlfriend.

“Well, how do you know her?”

“She’s in my English and algebra classes.”

I don’t want to talk to them because I know they aren’t on my side. I watch a lot of TV crime shows with my granny. The cops always act like they want to help you, but they’d rather shoot a black kid than help him. That’s why we need Black Lives Matter. They just need to read me my rights and—Oh snap! I suddenly remember what my dad told me to do if the police ever stopped me.

I sit up straight and try to look brave. “My dad told me not to talk to the police without his permission.”

Mean Cop rolls his eyes. “Is that right? Does your daddy know you have a naked picture of one of your classmates on your phone?”

But I don’t. I want to smile, but I know that will get me in even more trouble.

Mean Cop grips the edge of the table and leans forward. “If I were you, I’d want to defend myself. So, if you want us to hear your side of the story, you better start talking.”

I don’t know what to do. I want to defend myself, but my dad gave me strict instructions. If a cop stops you, don’t say a damn word.

Officer Fenton bumps my thigh with his knee again which makes me flinch. “Look, Graylin, we need you to be honest with us. If you do, we can cut you some slack.”

Even though I wish he wouldn’t sit so close to me, at least he talks nice to me. Still, I keep quiet.

“According to the report we received,” Mean Cop continues, “you’ve been going all over the school showing people a naked picture of your classmate.”

Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “No, I didn’t! Somebody’s lying on me!”

Of course, I’d planned to show the picture to my best friend Crayvon, but you can’t go to jail for something you were only thinking about doing.

“If you have the picture on your phone,” Officer Fenton says, “just be truthful about it and we’ll see what we can do to keep you out of trouble.”

They must think I’m stupid. I do what my dad told me to do and keep my mouth shut.

Mean Cop pounds the table with his fist, making me jump two inches out of my chair. “Where’s your phone?”

I still don’t answer. Everybody has the right to remain silent, even kids.

“I said where’s your phone?” Mean Cop repeats.

I hide my hands underneath the table, so he can’t see them shaking.

Officer Fenton pats me on the shoulder. “C’mon, Graylin, you seem like a good kid. I bet you make good grades, don’t you?”

I nod and start to tell them I got honors certificates in math and science last year, but I figure they still won’t let me go. “My dad”—I start to stutter—“my dad told me not to talk to the police without his permission.”

“Why don’t you help us out here?” Officer Fenton says. “We really need to see your phone. We’ll take a quick look and if there’s no picture, we’ll send you back to class.”

A squeaky voice comes out of my mouth. “It’s…it’s in my backpack.”

As soon as the words are out, I want to kick myself. Now I’ve just lied to the police. Again.

“And where’s your backpack?”

“In my locker.”

“Why don’t we go with you to your locker, so you can get it?” Officer Fenton says.

“My dad told me not to talk to the police without his permission,” I say for the third time.

Officer Fenton frowns. “This is a very serious matter, son.”

Mean Cop thumps his fingers on the table. “Why don’t you just—”

The voice of Young Thug singing RiRi fills the room.

Ah-ah-ah work

Do the work baby do the work

Tonight baby do the work baby do the work.

When I hear my ringtone, my stomach lurches up into my throat. I’m about to throw up the oatmeal I had for breakfast.

Mean Cop scrunches up his face like a WWF wrestler. “Did your daddy also teach you to lie to the police? Give me the damn phone!”

I shakily pull it from my pocket and set it on the table.

Officer Fenton picks it up, taps the screen, then looks over at me. “What’s the password?”

I stare down at the table.

“I said what’s the password?” Now he’s turning mean too.

“LeBron forty-three.”

“For your sake, young man, I hope you’re telling us the truth.”

I keep my eyes on the table. A bead of sweat falls from my forehead into my eye, but I don’t wipe it away.

“Why’re you sweating?” Mean Cop says. “You afraid we’re going to find that naked picture?”

After a couple of minutes, Officer Fenton looks at Mean Cop and shakes his head. “Nothing in his photos or texts. I only see a few recent emails. Nothing there either.” He sets it back on the table.

Mean Cop grunts. “Let me look.” He stretches one of his short arms across the table and grabs my phone.

He taps the screen a few times, then starts smiling. “Well, well, well, what do we have here? Looks like you forgot to check his deleted pictures, partner.”

Mean Cop holds up my phone and shows me the picture I thought was gone forever. A warm trickle of pee runs down my left leg.

“You’re quite the little liar, aren’t you?” Mean Cop yells at me. “Where’re the rest of the pictures?”

“There aren’t any more,” I stutter. “That was the only one I had.”

“Did you take it?”

“No.”

“You lied about your phone being in your locker, you lied about having this picture, and you’re still lying now!”

“My…my dad”—I can’t get my words out—“my dad told me not to talk to the police without his permission.”

“When your daddy told you that, he didn’t realize you’d be in this kind of trouble. If you didn’t take this picture, how’d it get on your phone?”

“Somebody sent it to me.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

My throat hurts and it feels like somebody’s pressing down on my chest. If the table wasn’t in the way, I’d hug my knees to my chest.

Mean Cop pulls out his handcuffs and dangles them from his finger. “Stop lying and tell us the truth,” he barks. “If you don’t, you’re going to jail.”

Chapter 4

The Shepherd

If you have to do time, Seagoville Federal Correctional Institution outside Dallas—or The Low as we call it—isn’t a bad place to spend a few years.

I’m in the yard, sitting at a picnic table, gazing down at my chess board, contemplating my next move. The sun is shining and the birds are chirping. The only thing spoiling this day is the heat. The Texas humidity is thick enough to butter a roll.

Marty Geller, a pudgy, ex-hedge fund manager, sits across from me. Everybody calls him Wallstreet. Few guys go by their real names at The Low. A full name is too much information to give up to just anybody. I only know Wallstreet’s full name because he’s my cellie.

The opportunity to rub shoulders with the criminal elite is what I like most about The Low. We have our fair share of low-level drug dealers and con men, but there’s also a guy on my floor who’s a Harvard grad convicted of embezzlement and a couple of doctors who wrote too many illegal prescriptions. When this is all behind us, Wallstreet and I have already made plans to do a deal or two.

Once I make my move, Wallstreet shoots me a grin. “You sure that’s the move you wanna make, Rodney?”

I chuckle. Real names are a no-no around here. Everybody calls me Cali because that’s where I’m from. Saying my real name is part of Wallstreet’s tactic to unnerve me, but I’m not easily rattled.

I move my queen to the opposite side of the board and wait.

On the street, I had a solid rep as a strategist. I ran my operation like a business—and not just any business—but like a Fortune 500 corporation with checks and balances. I’m not like most guys who pursue criminal activities. I rarely lose my cool, I respect the concept of patience and I understand that all money isn’t good money. I’m also a college graduate.

Wallstreet places a finger on his rook, waits a few seconds while he triple-checks himself, then zips it horizontally across the board.

I taunt him with a smile. “Are you sure that’s the move you wanna make?”

“You can’t bluff me,” he says. The uncertainty in his eyes undercuts his response.

I pretend to study the board, then make a move that I put in place three turns ago. “Check…” I like stringing out the words “…mate.”

“What?” Wallstreet leans in for a closer look, then chuckles with brotherly admiration. “Okay, you got me. You got me good. This time.”

He starts setting up the board again, but I stand up. “I need to take a stretch.”

I begin a leisurely walk across the compound. This place looks more like a private college campus than a prison. Manicured grass, leafy trees, paved walkways. Brick buildings that could pass for college dorms. Cells with actual doors, not bars. But it’s the freedom to roam the place—within limits—that I appreciate the most.

My given name is Rodney Merriweather, but I’m known as The Shepherd on the street. The feds convicted me of sex trafficking—the politically correct term for pimping nowadays. The guys I associate with at The Low know that trafficking is the reason I’m here. But that’s all they know and I prefer to keep it that way. Criminals have a strange code of ethics. A man can stab his own mother in the heart and get a pass. But some dudes think pimping little girls is akin to being a chomo—the prison nickname for child molesters. Even though my conviction for trafficking requires me to register as a sex offender once I get out of here, I’m not a chomo. I’m a businessman who was smart enough to capitalize on a product that happened to be in high demand.

Because I had no prior criminal record and no history of violence, my point total—the way the feds determine whether a convict will end up in a low, medium or maximum-security prison—qualified me for The Low.

I spot my target. Correctional Officer Sims is walking out of unit 5. As I get closer, he gives me an almost imperceptible nod as he walks past.

That’s the signal I’ve been waiting for. I pick up my pace and head inside the building. I walk to the end of the hallway and open the door of the Education Department, where I work as a copy clerk. All inmates at The Low are required to work at least four hours a day. The minimum wage in federal prison is $5.25 a month. If you have a high school diploma, a job like mine, where I spend my days making copies for the Bureau of Prisons, pays a whopping $100 a month. If you can swing a gig with Unicor, the company that makes clothes for the entire prison system, you can make upwards of two or three hundred dollars a month.

Old School is waiting for me. He’s a sixty-plus serial burglar from Decatur, Georgia, with nobody who cares enough to put any money on his books. So he hustles anyway he can.

Without words, he moves to the doorway and acts like he’s talking to me. What he’s really doing is serving as my lookout. If he sees the police—that’s what we call the correctional officers behind their backs—he’ll give me a signal.

I dash over to the third file cabinet on the north wall and retrieve the iPhone Sims left for me in a folder.

It was harder than I expected to find a correctional officer to buy off. But after bonding with Wallstreet, he introduced me to C.O. Sims. Like any working man, Sims has bills to pay and mouths to feed. I have needs too, like decent food, Michael Kors underwear and regular access to a cell phone. It was well worth the two grand. I had one of my guys wire the money to a special bank account Sims set up in his brother’s name.

I dial Willie’s number.

“How’s the new project working out?” I never offer a greeting. Willie knows my time is limited.

“I found a new guy who can get to work on it right away. Everything’s in motion.”

Willie’s been running my trafficking operation since my arrest. Prior to my hiatus, he handled security at my now-defunct strip club, City Stars. I promoted him to my second-in-command out of necessity, not because he has the requisite skills for the job.

“You doing much advertising?”

“Yeah. I practically announced it from a bullhorn.”

That makes me smile. I can see Dre Thomas now. Cowering someplace wondering when my guys are coming for him, never anticipating my bait-and-switch move. Before we get to him, we’re actually snatching his niece Brianna for a second time.

The man brought all of this on himself. He should’ve been grateful to get the kid back and moved on. Instead, he had the balls to testify against me in court. And for that, he’s going to pay.

“Sounds like you have everything under control. How long before the project is operational?”

“A few days at the most.”

“And the new guy is somebody you trust, correct?”

“For sure.”

“How’s the other business working out?”

“Like butter, baby.” I can almost see the smile on Willie’s thick lips.

He’s referring to my Birmingham operation. After the feds shut me down, I shipped the few girls I had left down south.

Once we snatch Brianna, she’ll be headed there too.

Chapter 5

Dre

Two of the people I trust most in the world are kicking it at my crib right now.

Mossy is sitting on my couch, while I’m slouching in an easy chair across from him. My cousin Apache is standing with his back pressed against the door. Every few minutes or so, he lifts the edge of the curtain covering the picture window and peers outside.

“I’m telling you, man, it’s all over the street,” Apache says. “It ain’t no bluff. The Shepherd put the word out. He wants you dead.”

A long, braided ponytail runs past his shoulder blades. He earned his nickname because of his Native American features: bronzy skin, shiny, coal-black hair, and a bold, fearless demeanor that defies his small stature.

“I’m hearing all of this,” Mossy says, his face drenched in disapproval, “but I ain’t hearing no solutions.”

My buddy is a large, chunky dude who sports a smooth, bald head like me. Mossy is a careful guy. He prefers to analyze all the pros and cons of a situation before making a move. “So what’s the plan?” he asks.

Apache grins eagerly. “The plan is to kill his ass. That’s the only way to shut him down for good.”

Mossy smacks his lips. “Man, how you gonna take out a dude in federal prison?” He glances my way for confirmation that my cousin’s statement is crazy.

When my eyes meet his and Mossy realizes I’m on board, he retreats.

“C’mon, man, I’m all the way down with having your back. But I ain’t trying to go down for no murder.” He hooks a thumb toward Apache. “And certainly not with this cowboy.”

“Ain’t nobody going down for nothing,” Apache says. “I know how to handle my business. If you wanna punk out, the door is right over there.”

“Dude, you’re full of—”

“Hold up!” I shout. “This ain’t helping. We’re just talking. Considering our options.”

This whole scene feels like deja vu. We convened here after Brianna went missing. We were successful then and we’ll be successful this time too.

I understand Mossy’s reluctance about working with Apache. So if he bails on us, I won’t hold it against him. My cousin can be a bit of a renegade. He’s likely to ignore any agreed-upon plan and go off on his own tangent. But Apache does have his strong points. He knows the streets of L.A. and has both direct and indirect ties to the criminals who run them. More importantly, he’s the most loyal, fearless dude I know. When somebody he cares about needs help, Apache transforms into a flame-retardant super hero, willing to run naked into a blazing building.

“We should’ve taken him out when we had the chance,” Apache complains. “I could’ve caught his ass walking into that courthouse and busted a cap right in the middle of his forehead.”

“That would’ve been a real smart move,” Mossy says.

I rub the back of my neck and slowly twist my head from side to side. In stressful situations, tension always settles deep in my neck.

“Whatever we do,” I say, “we have to be smart about it.”

Apache nods his agreement, then takes another surreptitious peek out of the window.

“Why you keep looking outta that window?” Mossy grumbles.

“For The Shepherd’s dudes. We don’t know when they gonna strike.”

That reality sends another spasm through my already-tight neck muscles.

“You know he’s still running little girls from prison, right?” Apache says.

My head jerks up. “You serious?”

“As a heart attack. Shep’s got a whole new trafficking operation down south in Birmingham. He also owns a bar over on Central called Craps. The dude who used to own it was going bankrupt. Shep bought him out and lets him work there. The dude’s name is on the paperwork, but it’s really all Shep. Ain’t that a mother?”

“Where’s Gus?” Mossy asks.

Gus is more like Mossy, a rational, out-of-the-box thinker. But if somebody pushes his button, Gus can be even more volatile than Apache.

“Graylin got into some trouble at school,” I say. “Hopefully, Gus’ll be here any minute.”

Mossy nods. “As much as he’s paying to send Graylin to that private school. I hope he ain’t down there screwing up.”

“Naw,” I say. “That boy’s college material for sure. I wish some of his smarts would rub off on Little Dre.”

“So back to the problem at hand.” Apache’s focus is solely on The Shepherd. “The first thing we need to do is go on the offensive.”

Mossy’s about to say something when my phone rings. I grab it from the table and start moving toward my bedroom. “It’s Angela. Give me a minute.”

Before I can say hello, Angela’s excitement gushes through the phone. “Did you get my text? When can you come look at the house? It’s a three-bedroom on Edgehill. It’s so cute.”

I suck in a deep breath.

“Dre? Are you there?”

“Yeah, babe.”

“The real estate agent has two other people interested in it. So we have to act fast.”

My fingers tighten around the phone. “Can’t do it today.”

“Okay, what about tomorrow morning?”

I count off five long beats. “We’ll see.”

“We’ll see? What does that mean?”

I love black women. They can transition from syrupy sweetness to outright indignation at the flip of a switch.

“I have a lot going on at the moment.”

“Look, Dre, you’re the one who brought up moving in together in the first place. If you’ve changed your mind, you need to tell me now. I don’t want to waste any more time looking for a place if—”

“Hey, young lady, hold your horses,” I say with a chuckle. “I haven’t changed my mind. I just have a few things I need to handle first.”

“What few things?”

“Nothing I have time to explain right now. Can we talk later?”

I let the silence linger. Angela’s a classic Type A. Impatient, proactive, always in control. She hates being in the dark about anything.

“Dre, if it’s about money and you don’t have your half of the deposit, I can—”

“It’s not about money, babe.” My tone hardens. “Give me some time to handle my business. Okay?”

Strong women dig strong men. Whenever I toughen up, she goes soft. But only temporarily.

“Okay,” she says hesitantly.

I rush her off the phone and head back into the living room.

“Like I was saying,” Apache starts up again, “first thing we need to do is show him you ain’t running scared. Let’s step to his bar and let his peeps know that Shep’s the one who needs to be watching his back cuz Dre got people in the joint who can make things happen.”

“But he don’t,” Mossy points out.

Apache puffs out his chest. “I got connections to all kinda dudes who can get the job done.”

Mossy moves to the edge of the couch. “Hold up. Whatever we do, we need to be smart about it. The more people involved, the more potential for problems.”

“You’re underestimating me, my brutha,” Apache declares with a crooked smile. “Need I remind you that I’m the only one in this room who ain’t never seen the interior of the county jail, much less a prison? There’s a reason for that.”

I smile to myself. Mossy has no comeback.

“I like the idea of showing up at Shep’s bar,” I say. “Let’s do it tomorrow night.”

Chapter 6

Gus

I’ve been sitting in a hard-ass chair outside the principal’s office for almost 15 minutes now, getting more and more irritated. I don’t know why, but something doesn’t feel right.

What the hell did Graylin do?

I tried calling him, but got no answer. He must have his phone on mute since they aren’t allowed to use it in class.

The door to the principal’s office opens and Mrs. Keller shows me inside.

“What’s going on? Where’s Graylin?”

“Why don’t you have a seat, Mr. Alexander?”

I sit down, but I’m still on edge. “I need to know what’s going on with my son. Where is he?”

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but we received an anonymous report that Graylin had an inappropriate picture on his cell phone.”

“What kind of inappropriate picture?”

“A photograph of a female classmate.” Mrs. Keller swallows. “Naked.”

I’m momentarily taken aback. My son’s no angel, but this isn’t something I would’ve expected from him. But then again, in this day and age with everything kids are exposed to and all this technology mess, who knows what they’re up to. I start to breathe a little easier. A naked picture of a girl isn’t the end of the world.

“Okay. I’ll handle it. Who took the picture?”

“We don’t know.”

“Well, what did Graylin say about it?”

“He denied having it.”

“Did you see the picture?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know he has one?”

“As I said, we received an anonymous report.”

“Did you check his phone?”

“No.”

I’m not one of those parents who thinks my kid is an angel, but this sounds like something blown way out of proportion.

“So what you’re telling me is that you don’t even know if the allegation is true.” And that’s all it is as far as I’m concerned. An allegation and nothing more.

“You have to understand that when we receive a report like this, there’s a certain protocol we have to follow.”

I exhale. This is a bunch of crap. I can’t believe I had to drive all the way down here for this bull.

“I’ll talk to him. Where is he?”

“He’s being interviewed by the police.”

“Police?” I shoot to my feet so fast the chair topples backward, banging into the wall. “Like hell he is! The police can’t talk to my son without my permission. Take me to him. Now!”

I hear yelling coming from the door to my right. Before the principal can stop me, I burst through it.

“What the fuck!” My son is in handcuffs, a white cop gripping him by the forearm.

“Dad! Dad! Please help me!” Graylin cries. “Dad, please don’t let them arrest me!”

I charge up to the cop holding Graylin. “What are you doing to my son?”

“Sir, you need to calm down,” yells an Asian cop. He extends his right palm toward me while his other hand grazes the butt of his gun. “Please back up, sir!”

I defiantly stay put. “I asked you what you’re doing to my son. You can’t interrogate him without my permission.”

“I told you to step back!” the Asian cop yells, twice as loud as before.

When I still don’t move, he snatches his Beretta from its holster and points it at me. “I said back up! Now!”

“Oh my God!” the principal cries. “Please, Mr. Alexander. Please step back!”

“Dad, Dad, please go back!” Graylin’s sobbing hysterically now. “They’re going to shoot you. I’m okay! Please, Dad, go back! Please!”

The only reason I take two small steps backward is because the cop’s hand is so unsteady I fear he might actually shoot me. But I’m way madder than he is nervous.

The cop lowers his gun but doesn’t return it to the holster.

Heat stings my face. “What are you doing to my son?”

“Sir, you need to lower your voice,” says the cop restraining Graylin.

“You can’t talk to him without my permission.”

“We don’t need your permission,” the white cop says.

“Please, Dad!” Graylin cries. “It’s okay! I’ll be okay. Please, Dad! I don’t want them to shoot you! Please do what they say!”

The Asian cop looks past me at the principal. “We found the picture.”

Principal Keller gasps and cups her mouth.

I’m so pissed off my vision is blurry. But it’s my son’s terror-stricken face, not the Beretta still in that cop’s hand that forces me to regain control of my senses. I take a few more steps back, lower my voice, but amplify my outrage.

“Why is my son in handcuffs?”

The Asian cop eyes me with contempt. “Because he’s under arrest.”

“For what?”

“Possession of child pornography.”