Corrupt City

Book 1: Corrupt City

by Tra Verdejo

Genres: African American Urban

Synopsis

Meet Donald "Lucky" Gibson, an African-America detective. He was considered one of the best, until he joined his last unit. He quickly became corrupted. Instead of catching criminals, these cops were acting like one. They were labeled legal thugs with guns. After years of abusing his badge which led to an out of control coke habit, losing his family and falling in love with a young runaway prostitute. Lucky had enough. One night after an innocent Blackman was killed by his white partners, he testified in court. He used the media to expose his dirty team including his Captain and the Commissioner. After that, he became a marked man. Even the Mayor wanted him dead, Welcome to Corrupt City This crime filled drama places you in the middle of the belly of the beast. Grab hold of your seat because this action packed, page-turner will have you falling off the edge with anticipation. Every twist is unexpected and every character is a suspect.

Release date: June 8, 2011

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

Peace to the Gods and Earths.

 

I first want to thank everyone who purchased this book. Thank you for the support. I mean that from the bottom of my heart. I will always put in 100 percent. Love is love.

 

Without a doubt I have to thank my mother, Mirta Davila. I hope you are resting in peace. I want to thank the second most important woman in my life, Purified Earth. You complete me, and thank you for two beautiful boys, Omighty and Destin. Everything I do is for them, my family.

I also want to thank my father, Pedro Verdejo, the man who taught me how to work hard. Next, I want to thank my sister Ana, who is holding it down on her own. Single parents, stand up. My little sister Nichole, I’m so proud of you, doing your thing and running your own business, too. My eldest sister, Tee, what’s good? I want to shout out the future of our family tree, my nieces and nephews Ray, Destine, Tyler, Nelly, and Kenya.

 

I also want to thank Freddy “Tone” Garcia. Many thank God for their second chances; I would like to thank this man for my second chance. Love you, Brah. You already know that. Melissa Edwards, I remember telling Eric when we were younger I would buy you a house. Trust me, I haven’t forgotten that promise. Thank you for stepping in there and providing shelter when I needed a home. I will love you forever. I also want to thank my entire family in Puerto Rico, especially my abuela, Carmen Alomar.

 

Now it’s time to show love to my other family, Remy Rich, Ray Rocca, and Daddio (Wagner Projects, stand up). Peace to the God-born Knowledge. I love you, Brah. My cousin Ruddy. My CNS family—Snypes, Ron, DB, Smoke, Last Breath, Buddha Bride, Ill Murda, Kauso, Lizzy Long, Boo Bizzy, Rob-U (RIP), and Gutta (RIP). And 119th Street and Lexington Avenue, stand up, baby!

 

Now the literary love. I first want to thank all the authors who believed in my vision and were part of the 2009 Sexy Scriptures calendar. Those authors are Kwame “Dutch” Teague, K’wan (good looking for all the love), Deshaun “Jiwe” Morris, Sexy, Julie Ojeda (BX Bookman, what’s good?), Kerry “Mr. Wagfest” Wagner, Dex, Shani Greene-Dowdell, and my Bronx connect, Iesha Brown.

 

I can’t forget all the beautiful models. I want to thank Mrs. January. Tish Love, for helping in finding most of the girls and our locations. I only had a few slots for the calendar, but there are a bunch of authors in the game I break bread with, and I have to shout them out as well. Authors Rukyyah J. Karreem, Silk White, Maxwell Penn (Peace God), Dex, Antoine “Inch” Thomas, Tenia Jamilla Conrad Glover (let’s make this movie). I also want to send love to authors like Ingrid, Winter, Robert T. Sells, Don, Dashawn Taylor & the many others who have done book signing at my spot in Baltimore.

 

To all my book vendors and distributors, good looking for the love, especially the ones that pay up front, Black & Nobel (Philly, stand up), BX Bookman, Purgo on 149th Street and Third Avenue, Black Star in Harlem, Charles in Baltimore (the Wise brothers), Shane by Lexington market, Cliff at Expression bookstore in Baltimore, African World Book, and the list goes on. I really appreciate the love.

 

On the other hand there are a lot of bookstores and vendors with bad credit and reputations. I’m not going to blast you, but please stop bull$hitting. I want to send a shout-out to all my co-vendors at the Patapsco Flea Market in Baltimore. Love is love.

 

I also want to thank two ladies, Jeannie Hooper and Helen Andrews. We spend a lot of time critiquing books. I gave these ladies the opportunity to read and review my book first. I also want to thank my weekly supporters who stop by the flea market. Thanks for the love.

 

Shout-out to Flowers High in Largo, MD, whose seniors did a book report on my first book, Born in the Streets But Raised in Prison.

 

I also want to thank all the people who have hated on me. Yah are the reason why I stay motivated and work so hard. I know it must burn inside watching my success blossom the way it has. Get used to the feeling because I’m just getting started. Many thought my first book was just a one-hit wonder. I’m sorry to burst your bubble. But please remember one thing—Yah could kiss my Puerto Rican A$$.

10/22/2003

“Damn, we have been out here for like forty-five minutes, Toothpick. What’s taking them so long?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they changed their minds.”

“Changed their minds? We have a bag filled with money. How can they change their mind? It’s too late for that. They got fifteen minutes, or we out.”

Cash and Toothpick had placed an order for two kilos of cocaine and four guns, two of which were semi-automatic rifles. They were getting a bit nervous waiting for the drop. All kinds of scenarios ran through their heads, and they were hoping they weren’t being set up.

“I hope they’re not trying to pull any funny moves, ’cause I have a full clip,” Toothpick added.

They both took a deep breath and leaned back on their seat, both exhaling like two little bitches. They were in the Hunts Point area of the Bronx, parked in an empty parking lot behind a large agriculture warehouse between Garrison and Longwood Avenue. It was close to midnight on a breezy Friday night, and there wasn’t a soul in the area. That’s how cold it was. But it still felt strange because, usually, you would see at least a few crackheads roaming around. To the criminal-minded, it was one of those perfect opportunities to pull off a hit—no witnesses, and in the middle of nowhere.

After another twenty minutes went by, they finally decided to leave. In all honesty, they both were nervous and thought it was a bad idea to meet there, anyway.

“Fuck this! They’re not coming. Let’s go,” Cash said as he turned the car on.

“Wait. Look. Here they come.”

Cash looked to his right and saw headlights approaching. The lights blurred both their vision, and they couldn’t see the car. Both Cash and Toothpick placed their hands on their guns, just to be on the safe side. As the car got within twenty feet, they finally had vision on it but couldn’t see inside because of the dark-tinted windows.

After the car pulled up parallel to theirs, the passenger lowered his tinted window and told Cash, “Follow us.”

“First of all, who the fuck is you?” Cash shot back. “And where is Scratch?”

The window from the back started to roll down, and that’s when Toothpick pulled his 9-millimeter. He cocked it back so quickly, the window only rolled halfway down and stopped.

“Chill, Toothpick. It’s me, Scratch. I’m in the backseat. It’s all good. Put the gun away. Just follow us. We know a safer place. This shit here looks too creepy.”

Toothpick lowered his gun and told Cash to follow the car. For a moment there, it almost got ugly. Toothpick was seconds away from pulling the trigger.

While they were following the car, both of them were quiet, their minds were heavy with suspicion. Not knowing where they were going added to the suspense. They could be driving to a setup where more goons with guns could be waiting for them. This criminal life was full of surprises, and your reflexes had to be quick in order to survive. Second thoughts would get you killed in this game. Your first instinct was the first and only rule to live by.

Toothpick and Cash both knew something was wrong, but they were both strapped with loaded guns, so they risked it anyway, knowing the odds were against them. They knew it was a big mistake, but once you’ve committed and you’ve passed a certain point, there is no turning back.

They got off at the Castle Hill Avenue exit. They parked across the street from Castle Hill projects and both looked at each other.

“Toothpick, how in the fuck is Castle Hill projects safer?”

They both laughed.

“I don’t know, but we about to find out. These cats are fuckin’ amateurs, but keep your eyes open. Don’t even blink.”

As Cash was parking, Scratch jumped out and walked up to their car.

“Toothpick, you come with me. We’re going in this building behind me.”

“Scratch, what’s up with all these last-minute changes? You sure you have the bricks and the guns? Don’t fuck with us.”

“Toothpick, just trust me on this one. Calm down. We’re going inside to my cousin’s apartment. That way, you get a chance to check everything out while I count the money.”

“A’ight, cool. C’mon, Cash, grab the money.”

“Just you, Toothpick. Your boy has to wait in the car.”

“C’mon, Scratch, that’s my partner, we roll together. I’m not going upstairs alone.”

“Listen, either you come alone, or the deal is dead. It’s your decision. My driver is also waiting in the car. Don’t worry, your partner will be okay.”

Toothpick looked at Cash and waited for his approval. Once Cash nodded his head, he jumped out of the car with a bag of money. Toothpick kept looking back as he walked with Scratch, making sure no one was following.

As soon as they got in the building and pressed for the elevator, two gunmen emerged from apartment 1B. It happened so fast, Toothpick didn’t have time to react or reach for his weapon. They pulled him inside the apartment, took his gun, and threw him on the floor.

Scratch leaned over him as he pressed the cold barrel against his cheekbone and asked him, “How long have you known your boy outside?”

“What the fuck is going on here, Scratch? Are you crazy? We are boys. What’s going on? Why are you asking about Cash?”

Before he could answer, about five to six shots rang out. Toothpick knew those shots were intended for Cash. He wanted to break loose and reach for his other gun, but he had to play it cool and wait for the right moment. There were three people in that apartment with guns in their hands. He wasn’t stupid.

“Were those shots? What the fuck is going on here?” Toothpick asked with a clueless expression, trying to work his way out.

“Answer my question. How long have you known Cash?”

“Not for long. My cousin set me up with him when I came home two years ago. Why?”

“Cash is police. He’s undercover. Please tell me you are not a cop as well.”

“A cop? Get the fuck outta here. Cash can’t be police, and if he is police, your boy just shot him. Why the fuck is you still here? That means police was either following us or on their way here. We need to bounce the fuck outta here. Let me go. You know I’m not a fuckin’ pig. Get off me, nigga. I’m not trying to get locked up today. Let’s bounce and handle business another day.”

Scratch looked into Toothpick’s eyes for about four seconds and couldn’t read any lies. He believed him and decided to let him go. “My bad. I had to make sure,” he said, helping Toothpick up and giving him his gun back, but with the clip and the bullet in the chamber. “Nowadays, you never know who’s undercover. Wait about fifteen seconds after I leave before you bounce. We’ll make the deal another time. Keep your money. No, as a matter of fact, give me this fuckin’ money. Next time, pick a better partner,” Scratch said before running out.

Toothpick waited for about five seconds before he reached for his second gun and ran out. He kicked open the front door of the building so hard, he got the attention of Scratch and his boys. By the time they realized where the noise came from, Toothpick was already approaching, shooting rounds from his 9mm Glock. Instantly, he dropped two of them with single shots to the head. Now it was just Scratch and his driver left.

It was an all-out war at one o’clock in the morning in the middle of the streets in the Bronx. Half the neighborhood was up watching the action from their windows, some ducking bullets. These projects were known for their high crime rate, but neighbors never saw anything like this.

Toothpick was in the battle of his life. He had to run for cover behind a parked car when Scratch’s driver pulled out a MAC-11 and emptied the entire clip at him. Bullets were flying all around Toothpick. All he could do was stay put and pray they didn’t go through the car and hit him.

He caught a break when the MAC-11 went silent for a few seconds because it ran out of bullets. As soon as he heard a pause in between shots, Toothpick jumped up, quickly let off two shots, and ducked back down. He’d shot the driver in the neck and shoulder.

Scratch realized he’d lost his crew. Now it was just him left. But he was still hanging, going out like a soldier, letting off rounds from his .40-caliber. When he noticed Toothpick reloading, he jumped in the car and tried to make a quick getaway.

Before he was able to switch gears, Toothpick ran up on him and pressed the hot barrel on his temple and yelled, “Freeze, muthafucka! You are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say will be used against you in a court of law—man, fuck that! And fuck you!”

Toothpick, whose real name was Donald “Lucky” Gibson, shot Scratch twice in the head then quickly ran toward his partner, praying for a miracle.

“Nine-one-three, nine-one-three. Officer down! I need a bus, and I need it now, goddamn it! Now! Officer down, I repeat, officer down. I’m on Castle Hill and Randall Avenue!” he yelled.

When he got to Cash, real name Michael “Tango” Scott, he was still breathing, but there was blood everywhere. He noticed Tango had been shot a few times in his chest. When they took this undercover assignment, they knew they couldn’t wear a vest. Tears overcame him because he knew his partner’s destiny.

Tango kept mumbling for Lucky to call his wife. “Please call her. I want to hear her voice before I die.”

“You are not going to die. Help is on the way. Hang in there,” Lucky replied, reaching for his cell phone.

Lucky started dialing the number, the phone rang once, and his wife, Tammy, answered. When he went to pass the phone over to Tango, he was already gone. He didn’t know what to do. Should he hang up or tell Tammy what happened? He couldn’t hang up because Tammy knew his phone number.

“Hello,” Lucky said, sounding like a scared little boy.

“Hello, Lucky? That’s you? What’s going on? I hear sirens in the background. Where is Michael? What’s going on, Lucky?”

“Tammy, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” a teary Lucky said.

Tammy became hysterical because she knew it only meant two things—he was either in critical condition or dead. “Lucky, goddamn it! Tell me the truth. What happened to my husband? Is he okay? Oh please, God, help me. Please, God.”

“I’m sorry, Tammy, our cover was blown, and Tango, I mean Michael, didn’t make it.”

The phone went dead.

Tammy had yanked the cord from the socket. She was throwing a tantrum at the house. Her twin boys, only eight years old, woke up asking their mother what happened and why she was crying. She was speechless. She didn’t know how to tell them their daddy was never coming home.

Meanwhile, back at the crime scene, Lucky, still in shock, was trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together. Two questions kept bugging him. How did they know about Tango’s identity? And why was it taking so long for backup to arrive?

Lucky was starting to get a major headache and was feeling weak. He dropped to one knee, and that’s when another cop at the scene noticed Lucky had also been shot. They rushed to his aid and treated his wound on the spot.

He was hit on the side of his stomach, a flesh wound, nothing serious. His adrenaline was running so high, he’d never felt the shot. After a fifteen-minute conversation with his captain, he finally agreed to get in the ambulance and head to the hospital as a precaution.

The Present (2006)

Lucky woke up sweating and out of breath. He was dreaming about the night one of his ex-partners, Tango, was killed three years ago. That was one memory he would carry with him for the rest of his life. Till this day, he suspected it was foul play that led to Tango’s cover being blown.

Today was a big day for Lucky. He turned on the TV and listened to the news reporter, while getting dressed for court.

“Today, June 21, 2006, the biggest case against the State of New York is set to hear the prosecution’s main and last witness, Donald Gibson, a former, fifteen-year veteran police officer, was one of the four officers present the night Perry Coleman, a twenty-five-year-old Black man, was gunned down by the NYPD. The other three officers are all being charged with murder.

“Perry’s case has drawn national attention, and the entire state of New York is behind the Colemans. New Yorkers, already sick and tired of thugs roaming the streets, don’t want to have to worry about these trigger-happy rogue police officers running wild in their community.

“Even the great Minister Al Muhammad has joined the family and their legal team. We all know the minister’s reputation for bringing attention to police brutality cases.

“Today, the jury will hear the shocking testimony of Mr. Gibson, where he indicates Perry Coleman was murdered on the night in question for no apparent reason. The courtroom will be filled with supporters, police officers, and politicians. Everyone is anticipating what will take place today.

“Rumors are circulating that Donald has been hiding under his own protection, without the help of the government, because he knows how crooked the system has become. In another forty-five minutes, we will finally hear what happened the night Perry Coleman was murdered. I’m Destine Diaz, live from the courthouse, Channel 5 News.”

Those three officers were confident the charges would be dropped until Donald “Lucky” Gibson re-appeared and agreed to testify.

Meanwhile, it was pandemonium outside the courthouse. There were news stations parked everywhere, and reporters were interviewing anyone who wanted to get in front of a camera. The crowd was asking the same questions over and over. “Will this be the case that will rock the state of New York and shine the spotlight on police brutality? How many more innocent bodies need to drop? Better yet, how many more minority bodies need to drop?”

Inside the courtroom, there were barely any seats available. The NYPD tried to take up most of the seats to prevent supporters and protesters from entering the courtroom. Court officers had to ask police officers to move to the right side of the courtroom or exit.

Police officers were not happy, and some even argued their point. The police department knew their future relied on the verdict of this case. Though the evidence against these three cops was not in their favor, they strongly supported their own. The cops involved were all suspended with pay, which was nothing but a paid vacation.

The people demanded more severe punishment, not a slap on the wrist. However, Mayor Ralph Gulliano and Police Commissioner Brandon Fratt made it their business to point out that Perry Coleman had a criminal record on file and the people shouldn’t rush to judge and crucify these officers who were doing their job. Both the mayor and police commissioner received harsh criticisms for their stance. Blacks and Hispanics were not shocked, because the lack of support in their communities had always been evident.

The mayor tried to smear Perry’s image. Perry Coleman had been working at the same job since he was nineteen years old and had no record of felonies or misdemeanors. They were referring to a juvenile robbery charge. Perry and a few of his high school friends got caught running out of a store with jewelry when he was fourteen years old. Part of his plea bargain was that his record would be sealed, which meant closed, and would never resurface again, after he completed eighteen months of probation. But the following night after Perry was killed, newspapers were already printing stories about his juvenile record, hoping the court of opinion would at least convict him of being a thug.

The public didn’t care about what he did when he was fourteen. He turned out to be a good human being and role model to others. Perry was a manager at a furniture store and was a year away from earning his bachelor’s degree in business communication. He was . . .