Partnerz in Crime

Genres: African American Urban

Synopsis

Korey Taylor, aka “Killa Korey” and his ace, Hammer, were sentenced to serve two decades in federal prison, but after an unexpected change in the crack cocaine sentencing laws, Korey is released. Now he’s on his way home to Charlotte, North Carolina.

Like Hammer, Korey is a thug with a violent nature, nothing to joke around with in the cold streets. However, while serving his time, Korey took classes that he hoped would help him become someone other than a drug dealer. Armed with a new way of thinking and a deep desire to reconnect with his teenage daughter, Korey wants to wave good-bye to the game.
When he immediately links back up with Hammer, who was released months before him, Korey finds his most sincere intent to go straight challenged. He is reminded of their brotherhood and the street oath that he and Hammer vowed to never go back on. Korey is left with a serious decision to make in their world, where disloyalty is an unpardonable fault.
 Partnerz in Crime is a high-powered street tale of unbreakable love and loyalty.

Release date: May 30, 2017

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

Korey

I could hardly believe that I was actually on this Greyhound bus on my way back home after having given the Feds some of my best years behind steel doors and concrete walls. I loved the fact that I was now a free man again. But I didn’t know whether to feel happy about it or feel angry as I did well over a decade ago when I was sentenced. After all, I surely felt that I had done too much time for nothing, literally.

As I rode on this bus and thought on the anger that I honestly wanted to feel, I thought also on how I had worked so hard to rid myself of this anger while inside the joint. I took anger management classes to help me overcome the anger and deep hatred that had built up inside me for the criminal “justice” system. A system where “justice” is often delayed and usually denied to blacks and Hispanics and even some whites.

I felt that it was the whites in “high places” who wisely designed it to be this way. While in the joint, I had read that it was the CIA, run by whites in the eighties, who were responsible for cocaine being placed in the black communities, starting with poor black communities on the West Coast first, before making its way to the East Coast.

I, and so many of my thug associates, were blind to the trap and fell right into the mutha! Before many of us knew it, hustling crack cocaine had made us hood rich, with more cash in our pockets and stash spots than we had ever dreamt of having. My thug associates and I were doing it big in those days, buying big whips, the finest sneaks, gators, clothes, and cribs to live in. Then, boom! Here come the Feds, busting hustlers everywhere and hauling us off to a new reality. Federal penitentiary! The judge dropped twenty years on my codefendant and me. Twenty got’dayum years!

I was so enraged that, had one of my thug associates been able to slip me a burner in that courtroom, I would have shot the white prosecutor, the white judge, and the white female attorney who represented me! My attorney promised that she could get me an acquittal, being that absolutely no drugs were ever found on my person or at my place of residence. Not to mention the prosecuting attorney never proved beyond a reasonable doubt, as is required by law to establish guilt, that I even touched drugs! My codefendant never ratted. The government’s only witness was a cat who took the stand claiming that, on numerous occasions, he purchased fifty grams or more of crack from me and my codefendant. I told my attorney that the government’s witness was lying like the devil! But her ass raised no objection to the untruthfulness of this rat. It was enough for the jury to come back with a guilty verdict.

“Mr. Taylor, I apologize, but that’s just how our judicial system is. You win some, you lose some,” my attorney turned to me and said after all was said and done.

“Bitch, fuck you!” I looked in her ocean-colored blue eyes and barked, wishing like it was my birthday that I could have killed her ass! That’s how angry I was at that time in my life.

I entered the penitentiary hot mad for us getting judicially lynched, my codefendant and me.

I was twenty years old at the time, and I didn’t know if I was gonna make it. I found myself acting in a manner that was conducive to the hate and anger that I had built up inside me for the system and many whites. Every white officer who worked for the system who looked at me wrong while in the pen, whether male or female, I went out of my way to argue with them and call them derogatory names. I stayed in and out of solitary confinement as a result.

“Young blood, I know you hate what happened to you in that courtroom, but you have got to find a better way to channel your anger, or you’re gonna find yourself doing some serious hard time,” an elderly brother pulled me to the side and advised me on one occasion. He had seen me about to have it out with a white male officer for shaking my cell down and leaving it a complete mess.

“Man, I hate them muthafuckas! I wanna kill ’em all!” I told him.

“I know you do,” he shot back. “That’s your problem, young blood—”

“Nah, I don’t have a problem! They’re the damn problem!” I cut him off.

“You do have a problem!” he jacked me up. “You are allowing the hate you have for them to cause you to act irrational and stupid. Look, man, hate destroys the hater! Don’t give them white folks that much power over you. Think, brother. Think!” he spat, before turning me loose and walking away, seemingly mad at me for continuing to act in an emotionally stupid way.

His words carried a lot of weight, for they repeatedly echoed loudly within me every time I felt like cursing out a white person or causing one harm. “Hate destroys the hater!”

I found out who this man was to think enough of me to give me wisdom that could help me exercise better judgment. I discovered that he was out of the Windy City and was a major shot-caller for one of Chicago’s largest and most notorious gangs. He was serving fifty-five years for having to put in mad work for his crew. But now, after serving over twenty years, he had reformed and was teaching an anger management course, which I took from him advising me to. From then on, the old man became one of my chief counselors, aiding me in my growth and development toward positivity. Before I knew it, I realized that my true enemy was not the white man or anyone else outside of myself. My enemy was me not being able to control my negative emotions.

“Never let your emotions override your intellect and better judgment,” the old man planted deep inside my head. I made up my mind that anger and hate would never control my actions again.

Now, I was on the bus on my way back home to Charlotte, North Carolina, also called the Queen City, or “Baby Atlanta” because of its growth and business opportunities. I hadn’t been in my city for twelve long years due to my incarceration. Neither did I think I would see my city anytime soon, being that I had to do 85 percent of my twenty-year sentence. Surprisingly, due to a recent change in the crack law, I received some very good news.

“Mr. Taylor, we’re gonna need you to pack your property. Your prison sentence has been reduced to time served.”

“Say what?” I replied, wide-eyed and excited at my case manager delivering me the news.

“Mm-hmm, yep. They want you up in R/D with your property and ready to go in thirty minutes. Congratulations!” he said and shook my hand.

Six months prior, I had received a letter from my codefendant, Hammer:


While riding home and listening to Sam Cooke’s “A Change Is Gonna Come” on my MP3 player, so many thoughts were running through my head. Thoughts like, what in the hell am I going back home to? My tenth year in prison I lost my mother to breast cancer. She could have survived it, but she depended on divine healing. She completely abandoned medical treatment from the doctors. “A nice-sized lump was discovered on the left side of my breast, son. The doctors say they’re gonna have to operate. I can’t let them do that. I came into this world with all of my limbs and body parts, and that’s how I’m going to leave. But, baby, don’t think Mama crazy. Mama just don’t like the medicines of man,” she shared with me. I cried like a baby when, fourteen months after speaking with her on the matter, she passed away.

I was on my way back to my city without a mother to hug and love on. This brought tears to my eyes. Other things came to my mind as well. Like losing my girl, who was also the mother of our daughter, Olivia. I knew the day would come when I would have to face her telling me that she couldn’t do twenty years with me far away from her. Thing was, she didn’t tell me shit! She just stopped writing and stopped sending pictures of her and our daughter. It killed me inside to not know how they were doing. Doing time without my girl and without knowing how my daughter was taking to growing up without a father was harder than accepting the fact that I had twenty years to give the federal government.

Moreover, I thought about how I needed to find me a job, a place to stay of my own, and some transportation. One thing was for sure, I knew shit wouldn’t be easy for me trying to do things the right way this time. Thank God I was not on any probation; I got time served.

I stepped inside the Greyhound bus station after my long seven-hour ride had ended. I looked in search of a payphone. After my eyes searched the station, I spotted one and made my way to it. I retrieved my address and phone book to phone Hammer. I wiped the phone with a napkin. I always did this in the joint to avoid germs. I dialed Hammer’s number.

“Helllll-looowah,” some female answered after the third ring, stretching the word “hello” very soft and sexy-like.

“Yeah, may I speak with Hammer, please?”

“May I ask whooooozzz calling?”

“Tell him it’s his brother, Korey.”

“Killa Korey?” Her voice got excited, like she knew me.

I thought before I responded. I wasn’t Killa Korey Taylor anymore. Just Korey. I didn’t have time to go all into this with a stranger, so I conceded. “Yeah, it’s Killa Korey.”

“Oh, hey, Killa Korey! I’m Hammer’s sweetheart. I have heard so much about you!”

“Okay, what’s up, Ms. Hammer?” I replied. Hammer never mentioned having a sweetheart but, hell, he loved women, so I wasn’t surprised that he had one answering his phone.

“Nothing much. Hold on. Hammer, your brother on the phone!” she yelled. “He is gonna be so happy to hear from you, Killa Korey. You are all he talks about! Here he is now.”

“Yo, what up?”

“What’s the business? This your brother, Korey. I’m home, fam.”

“Korey, don’t play with me, my nig. Are you home for real, yo?”

“In the Queen City at the Greyhound bus station as we speak.”

“Oh, shit! How long you been out?”

“Just stepped off the bus, fam. You are the only one who knows I’m home. What’s up?”

“Maaaan, oh shit! I can’t believe my nig out. Oh, shit!” Hammer sounded like he was going hysterical. “Look, stay right where you’re at. Someone will be by to pick you up shortly. You hear me?”

“I hear ya, fam.”

After disconnecting the phone with Hammer, I went and stood outside with my belongings in a duffle bag. My G-Shock watch read a quarter ’til 7:00 p.m. It was in the middle of December, and it seemed like I was the only person outside of this bus station without a jacket or coat on. The only clothes I had on to warm me from the slight chill factor were my prison-issued light brown button-down, heavily starched, and creased shirt and pants, with top and bottom thermals underneath, and my black leather steel-toe boots.

I saw three fine-ass chicks step out of the bus station carrying luggage. They walked past me slowly. Two of them looked back, one after the other, checking me out. I heard one of them say, “Dayum, that red nigga sexy and glowing!”

“Mm-hmm,” the other replied, smiling. “Must be one of them military brothas.”

“Or one of them guys just coming home from prison!”

I cracked a smile, having taken in an earful of their conversation regarding me. I almost stepped to them to get a name and perhaps a number. But when I heard 50 Cent’s “I Get Money” pumping hard through the high-amped speakers of a black Lexus coupe with dark-tinted windows and chrome rims pulling up, I knew this had to be my dawg, Hammer. 50 Cent was his favorite hip hop artist.

The car pulled into the lot of the bus station and parked. Seconds later, a fine-ass red bone with long, flowing black hair emerged, walking toward me in a long leather trench coat that was tied at the waist and matching black leather stiletto boots.

“Is this you?” she stopped in front of me and asked, showing me a picture of myself.

“Unless you were sent by the Feds to arrest me for something I’ve done in the past or are here to kill me, it is.” The picture, which had been taken in the joint, was one of me I had sent Hammer.

“Well, I’m not a cop, and I’m definitely not a killer. Heard you were, though.”

“Can’t believe everything you hear, cutie.”

“I don’t. But I do believe some things, especially coming from a reliable source. Hammer is a reliable source. Now, are those your bags?” She looked down at my belongings that were resting on the concrete.

“Yeah, they are.” I reached to pick up my duffle bag.

“I got it. Just follow me to the car.” She grabbed my duffle bag and started walking. We got to the car where she pressed a button on her keychain, causing the trunk to lift. She placed my duffle bag inside. Then she looked at me and smiled with a beautiful set of pearly whites. “By the way, I’m Keisha; and I’ve heard a helluva lot about you, Korey,” she said before walking over to the passenger’s side to open the door for me like I was a king she’d been sent to cater to.

“Well, Keisha. I just hope that whatever you’ve heard about me is all good.”

“Good is like beauty. It’s in the eye of the beholder,” she replied.

I took a seat inside, and she shut the door. Keisha hopped inside the car and ignited the engine, which caused the 50 Cent CD that was playing earlier when she pulled up to start playing through the high-amped speakers. “This is your brother’s CD, not mine. I like rap, but not a lot. I was told you love Stevie Wonder. Is that correct?” she asked, retrieving something from the console.

“Stevie Wonder’s my favorite,” I confirmed, trying to figure her out in my head.

“Mine too.” She hit a button on the CD player, causing the 50 Cent CD to eject. “I think Mr. Wonder’s a musical genius! How about this, Korey?” She put the CD that she’d retrieved inside the CD player. Seconds later, “Ribbon in the Sky” was making love to my eardrums.

“Now that’s what I’m talking about.” I nodded, looking over and into her eyes. They were a very pretty light brown, and I thought it very sexy that her eyebrows were arched sexy thin.

“You like that, huh?” She smiled, reminding me of a lighter version of the model Tyra Banks: very, very beautiful. I couldn’t believe I was sitting next to such a beauty. But here I was.

“I love it.”

“Again, your brother told me you would. He told me you would love this as well.” She untied her coat at the waist, then zipped it down. She opened it up while we were still in the bus station’s parking lot. Thank God no one could see inside this Lexus because of the heavy, dark tint on the windows. A nice, healthy set of double-D perky titties greeted my eyes, eyes that hadn’t seen tits up close and personal in years! I bit down on my bottom lip in admiration of her very lovely set of twins. She reached for my hand and guided it gently over them. They were warm and soft as the loveliest cotton. She felt my nervousness.

“You like how soft my breasts are, Korey?” she asked, looking into my eyes and continuing to guide my hand farther down.

“What man wouldn’t like how soft your tits are?”

“I know it’s your first day home, playboy. But relax. Relax and finger this pussy,” she said, gapping her legs and placing my hand between her soft, smooth thighs.

I thought before I dared to react. The guy who taught me “hate destroys the hater” also taught me that men leaving prison have got to stop wanting to fuck the first woman we meet. He taught me that you should take your time and get to know a woman first, and let her get to know you, so that something other than a “fleshy” relationship can surface, something everlasting like love. Having practiced and practiced and practiced self-control, I reluctantly removed my hand from between Keisha’s warm, soft thighs.

“I’m a’ight right now, Keisha,” I told her.

She cocked her head, surprised. “Dayum. You sure?” She gave me one of those “you’re not gay, are you?” type of looks.

“Yeah, I’m straight. Just wanna take it slow right now. That’s all.”

“Your brother seemed to think that this is what you wanted.”

“There’s a lot about me that my brother don’t know. People change. You are a very beautiful woman, though. What do you do for a living?”

“Well, thank you.” She blushed. “I’m an attorney. I’m sure your brother will tell you all about me.” She pulled out of the bus station’s lot and hit the road. “One thing’s for sure: he’s got an ass kicking coming to his crazy ass!”

“Why is that?” I looked over at her pretty face and smiled.

“’Cause his ass knows I could have been doing something else. Instead, he coerced me to come pick you up, dressed like this! That’s why!”

“Yeah, that’s him. Still crazy.”

“Well, that makes two of us,” she shot back, then turned the volume up on the Stevie Wonder CD.

After riding for about twenty minutes and vibing to that Stevie, we pulled into this nice-ass middle-class neighborhood and drove up to the driveway of this big two-story brick home. Parked outside was a milky white Corvette with chrome rims, a gray BMW, and a black Range Rover.

“Well, Korey. We’re here,” Keisha said, shutting the engine off.

We both stepped out. She popped the trunk and retrieved my belongings.

“I’ll take those, Keisha,” I said, reaching for my property.

She dodged my attempt. “Told you, your brother sent me to take care of you. So I got this.”

“Take care of me?” I chuckled. “What am I? A kid?”

“I don’t know,” she replied, looking down at my crotch area. “Your brother sent a real woman, and you didn’t respond. Not like most men would, anyway.”

She walked inside, smiling, with me following close behind.

“Killa muthafuckin’ Korey! My nig is home. Oh, shit! What’s up, dawg?” Hammer greeted me with open arms the moment I walked through the door behind Keisha.

“What is up, bruh?” I embraced him. I had never seen him smile as hard as he was smiling. Keisha walked past us, shaking her head and smiling at us carrying on.

“Man, it’s good to see my dawg,” he said, justifying his reason for cheesing so hard, and he hugged me again.

“Good to see you too, bruh. I didn’t think we were ever gonna get out of the joint.”

“Me either, dawg. Guess them crackas felt sorry for a mu’fucka.”

“They should have. How you gon’ give out twenty, thirty, forty years, and in some cases life, to cats who were petty-ass coke dealers? C’mon, bruh, you know they were. . .