African Connection 1

                Chapter 1

“Is the government ready for sentencing?” Asked United States District Judge Rod J. Breden.

“Yes Your Honor,” replied assistant United States attorney Michael Clark Jr.

“How about the defendant and his counsel?” The federal judge asked.

My bull-shit ass federal public defender looked at me. I wanted to say what the fuck are you looking at but I remained calm as I looked back at him with a hard look. He nodded his head at me and turned back to face the judge, “Yes Your Honor.”

“Okay then, since a C-Plea has been entered by the defendant I guess nothing will change, but let’s go with the formalities anyway,” the federal judge stated.

My lawyer began, “Yes Your Honor. The government has entered a C-Plea agreement with Mister Kevin Brown on count four of the indictment of conspiracy to distribute cocaine for thirty-six months and counts one, two, three, and five will be dismissed.”

The government then spoke, “At this time the government is satisfied with the plea agreement it has made with Mister Kevin Brown.”

“Counsel do you have anything further you want to state?” The federal judge asked flipping through papers in front of him. My lawyer cleared his throat before saying, “Yes Your Honor. Your Honor my client is twenty-eight years old, and he has a two-year-old son and plans on marrying his son’s mother upon his release.”

That was a white lie about me marrying Eva. My bull-shit ass lawyer continued, “From day one he accepted responsibility for the role he played.”

That was another lie. I played no such role they had accused, indicted, and convinced me on.  Touching his glasses with his tall, skinny ass my lawyer continued, “And we are satisfied with the agreement we have made with the government of thirty-six months.”

My lawyer was happy with the plea deal, but what choice did I have, either take the three years or end up with twenty years of being a drug dealer’s friend.

The African American judge who looked about sixty years old with all his white hair asked, “Does the defendant want to address the court?”

“No Your Honor,” I said because whatever I tell the judge will not change a thing. The C-Plea has been set and no one can change it not even the judge, if he did that would be the only appeal right I had left.

“Very well,” said the judge before going back and looking at the papers in front of him.

As I stood there waiting for my sentence to be handed down I just couldn’t believe it. All the dirt I have done never caught up with me and now I was about to get three years just because I knew some people still in the game and I refused to snitch on them.

“Mister Kevin Brown I sentence you to the Department of BOP for thirty-six months, three years probation, and pay two hundred dollars for assessment fee,” and the judge hit the gavel.

Right on time the two U.S. Marshals in plain clothes came by the defendant’s table and ordered me to place my hands behind my back. While the cold metal went on my wrists my public pretender, not defender wished me good luck and turned his direction towards the prosecutor and started a conversation with him like two old friends.

The walk to the elevator seemed to take forever and I felt every pain with every step on my ankles due to the shackles on them. Finally getting to the elevator I welcomed the brief rest on the elevator before we got to the first floor.  Getting to the elevator the walk felt even longer from the elevator to the holding bullpen.

Before they put me in the bullpen I looked at the clock on the wall seeing that it was only 10:45 a.m. and I had the feeling that I was probably the first of the three inmates to go meet our fate, and seeing the other two inmates in the bullpen as I walked in I knew that I the first to go receive my sentence.

Among us, three were three other inmates who were there for their arraignment hearing and two more were there for a hearing to determine if they will get home monitor also called pretrial which will allow them to go home until their trial date and in the federal system it’s a great thing to go home before your trial because a federal case can take months to even years before the case makes it to court.

By noon all of our cases were heard except for those there for their home monitor hearing which is normally held in the afternoon. Still handcuffed and shackled we were placed in the van and headed back to the jail. En route, the two other guys that got sentenced cursed their judges. The younger of the two received a ten-year sentence for drug possession and the older man received a twenty-year sentence for bank robbery.

The bank robber also cursed himself for not being a first-time offender knowing if he was a first-time felon he would have received no more than five years for the same offense, now a career criminal the judge gave him the max. I remained quiet not daring to tell them I only got three years, even though my sentence was actually for guilty by association and for not becoming an informant.

The ride to MCAC short for Maryland Correction Adjustment Center was short, literally blocking away from the United States District Court. Once inside the jail, we were placed in a cell. The U.S. Marshals took off their cuffs and shackles from our wrists and ankles and then left. The C.O.s took over and made us strip taking everything off, and then making us grab our private parts while coughing and squatting at the same time so that if we did have any contraband stuck in our anus it will fall out.

Satisfied we have not smuggled any contraband from the well-guarded cells in the courthouse back into the jail we were ordered to put our clothes back on, which was a burgundy jumpsuit uniform or for others, it was a burgundy two-piece uniform and we had no choice in the matter of which one we get. Once dressed a C.O. wrote us a pass and told us to go back to our units.

Walking back to D-block I looked at the jail that used to belong to the state of Maryland called SuperMax. SuperMax was once a state prison that the state of Maryland used to house death row inmates even executing them in the same jail until the state abolished execution. The same jail used to also house troubled and dangerous inmates that other prisons in the state can no longer control until the federal government purchased the jail from the state turning it into a federal holding jail.

Walking to my dorm I shook my head not believing I have been locked up in a hell hole like SuperMax for a year. At first, I was going to take my case to trial even hiring a private attorney but once he told me I cannot beat a conspiracy case because the government does not have to prove I sold any drugs, and all the government has to show was my association with a drug dealer to get a conviction of a conspiracy, I fired him.

But, before I fired him his exact words were, “Physical evidence does not need to be produced to get a conviction of conspiracy as long as two or more people state that a continuing illegal activity was going on and you knew about it and know a person that was participating in such illegal activity.” He also added, “Your best bet is to get the best plea deal that you can get and I am here to help you get that.”

His words surprised me; nonetheless what amazed me, even more, was when another private attorney told me the same thing. After months of research, I realized both attorneys spoke the truth. I retained a third attorney who told me the same thing so I told him to get me the best plea deal possible. I also told him that I have researched my case so he should not fuck me over and I will not take anymore than five years or I’m taking the case to trial making the government spend money on my trial because I will call all kinds of experts that I don’t even need. I also prayed the government will not call my bluff.

The bars to D-4 opened. As I entered I was hit by the summer heat the block was holding; unfortunately, the blocks did not have any A/C, even though all the offices in the jail had one. Entering the unit, cell ten was opened and I ignored all those fools in the day area waiting for me to tell them how I made out in court, I went straight to my cell.

My cellmate looked at me then turned his attention back to the video game he was playing, “How did shit go?” He asked in his deep West African accent.

“You know they gave me the three,” I said sitting on my button bunk so that the two fans we had circulating can hit me. A fan was some of the things we are allowed to purchase.

My cellmate said, “Shit you good with the year you have in you’ll be home in eighteen months.”

The cell still amazed me as I surveyed it. The cell which was designed and small enough for one inmate was 6 by 8. It had a small window covered with a metal screen which brought no breeze in. Our furniture consisted of a stainless steel sink-toilet combination, and a metal desk with a stool attached to it, and our furniture made the cell even smaller.

I turned my attention back to Kojo my cellmate and shook my head watching him get pleasure from playing a video game. We were also allowed to purchase a thirteen or fifteen-inch television, PlayStation 3, eight games for the console; even though we end up getting more than that, and of course, we even had movies coming in since we could play them on the PlayStation.

We were also allowed to purchase a CD player, and eight CDs’, but we ended up getting more than that. We were allowed to purchase all these entertainment things but we were not allowed to purchase a typewriter. I guess one can say they preferred for us to entertain ourselves, but not educate ourselves.

I said to Kojo, “Shit if I get six months in the halfway house I should be back on the streets in a year.”

“You’re right. Yes indeed you are right,” Kojo said affixed to his game.

I looked at the closed cell door wishing that it was open so that I can try to go find some ice. With the door being closed I had to wait another hour before I can go out since they only open the doors every hour. Fortunately, I may not have to wait long since the few of us that went to the court made it back before lunch was served in the jail.

I thought when lunch is served I could try my hand and go get some of the food they will be serving instead of only eating the bag lunch that was given to us in the courthouse consisting of either low-grade peanut butter and jelly sandwich or bologna and cheese sandwich which was fixed and frozen days ago and have lost any flavor or taste so most inmates use the bag lunch as a pillow on the concrete benches in the bullpen of the courthouse unless one is really hungry then they go ahead and eat their bag lunch.

Most C.O.s’ will not mind us eating the much better lunch served in the jail instead of the bag lunch given to us at the courthouse. Those C.O.s’ that will not allow us to get the jail’s lunch will insist that we already got our lunch at court, even though they knew how bad those lunch bags were.

When lunch arrived in our block all the cell doors opened and I quickly got out of the cell to see which C.O. was serving lunch. Seeing it was one of the cool C.O.s’ I went and joined the line. I got my food and hung out in the day area to kick it with a few guys I had gotten to know in my year of incarceration. Kojo tends to stay to himself so he got his lunch and went back to the cell.

Just like that our 2 p.m. lock-down arrived and all the cell doors opened for us to go lock in for shift change and the three o’clock count. I got into the cell only to see Kojo lying on his bed watching TV. Once in our cells for count or lock-down was the time most inmates will remember the small things we had forgotten to get before lock-down; just like I had forgotten to get some ice.

As always I was not the only one that had forgotten to get some ice to at least help us cool down in the summer’s heat that had engulfed our cell. As other inmates started yelling to the dorm orderlies for some ice I got a small plastic bag we were not allowed to have ready to give to one of the dorm orderlies and waited by the door in anticipation. 

“Get me some too,” said Kojo.

I did not respond because he always does that, and he knew the ice was going to be for both of us anyway. Ten minutes later one of the orderlies finally came and got us some ice. With the ice in the cell, we fixed some Kool-Aid. Kojo decided to put Lil Wayne’s CD into the PlayStation and our television became our speakers.

“So you should be out of here in two weeks,” Kojo said as he turned to face me.

“I hope. You know sometimes they might keep you here longer than that once you get your time,” I reminded him.

“Let’s hope not,” Kojo said as he stood beside the metal desk with his Kool-Aid in his hand.

“I feel you,” I said as thoughts of him and his troubles invaded my mind.

Kojo got locked up for all types of white-collar crimes. He made money from checks, credit cards, and identity theft and netted millions in doing so. Until I met him I never thought that someone can make so much money off these white-collar crimes. From what he told me and what I read from his charging documents these guys doing such crimes were making more money than an average drug dealer including myself when I use to be in the game selling coke.

When Kojo told me the amount of money he had made doing white-collar scams I did not believe him. I recalled telling him, “Get the fuck outta here. You tryna tell me you made more loot than me with your bull shit white-collar scams.”

He did not say a word he just showed me his paperwork and some of his pictures. He had three homes in three countries, one in the U.S., another in London, and the third in his country Ghana, West Africa. Apart from the homes, he had businesses in all those three countries and it did not stop there. He had properties, cars, women, and money was never his problem.

Reading his paperwork, I learned the police seized half a million in cash in his home. He also had more money in different banks under different names that totaled his cash flow to over a cool mill. At the age of twenty-eight, he started the white-collar scam and by thirty-one he was one of the biggest white-collar criminals not only in the United States but across the globe making seven figures and that’s when the feds took notice of him.

His downfall came when he slipped and allowed an informant to penetrate his team and the informant ended up earning Kojo’s trust. His tale to me was he found out about the informant when he went back to Africa and saw this medicine man and the medicine man told him about one of his good friends is an informant. The medicine man also told him how to find out who the informant was.

He did as the medicine man instructed him to do. Once he found out who the informant was his emotion took over and he killed the informant. He told me he felt so betrayed by that person because he even introduced him to some of his family; something he normally did not do unless he fucks with you like that.

After killing the informant; his man, Kojo said he took too long getting his affairs straight before leaving the country by then it was too late. One of his many girlfriends that were questioned by the feds got scared and told them exactly where to find him. Instead of facing a charge that he would have done just a few years for all the money he had made, he was facing a murder charge for killing a federal informant instead, and they did not hesitate to add all the white-collar crime charges they had conjured.

Kojo kept on telling me he was going to beat all the charges he was facing and not only because he had one of the best federal lawyer money can buy, but he also had some medicine man working for him. I wished him luck on that. I didn’t believe in any medicine man bull shit, but for his sake, I hoped that was true because the feds have a 98% conviction rate.

For seven months he told me so many stories about the amount of money he was making, he even had my hands itching for some of that easy money. He told me before, “My brother when I get out I will teach you everything I know because me and this country are finished. All I want to do is go back home and enjoy the real freedom Ghana has.”

I felt him, but I doubt that he will ever get out. I hate to tell that African fool; my friend, that the feds don’t play fair. Here I was with three years and I wasn’t even caught with anything so what makes him think that he’s going to beat a charge they have dozens of evidence against him including the murder on audio.

I definitely didn’t want to mess the man’s hopes up and I wished him the best, but I knew that day of us hooking up on the streets was very slim.

                   Chapter 2

Days went by and we killed our time by playing video games and listening to the nice collection of CDs we had. Kojo used that time to also get me high by talking about how sweet the white-collar hustle was and a large amount of money it generated. Two weeks after my sentencing Kojo and I were in our cell after dinner as the other inmates were in the small day area making loud noises as usual over the one television that hung on the wall.

In our cell, we had Jay-Z’s classic Reasonable Doubt CD playing while we talked about our past lovers, and all of the sudden our cell door opened. It was not count-time so we knew the C.O. wanted one of us. By the time I got off my bunk to peep out the cell, an African C.O. was by our door.

The dark-skinned, short African man with a beer belly said, “Mr. Brown you will be leaving tomorrow do you have anything you want to send home?”

Before I spoke I looked at my cellmate and a bittersweet moment overtook me. I saw the same feeling on my cellmate’s face. “Yeah! I have a few legal mails let me get them together,” I told the officer.

The C.O. turned around making a gesture to another C.O. in the bubble to close our cell. And just like those inmates in the dorm knew I was leaving the next day. As soon as the C.O. Left the dorm all the jailhouse vultures flew to our cell door since they knew I had no intention of sending home all the things I had accumulated in the past year they started yelling.

“Ay yo, let me get the TV,” one inmate uttered.

“Ay yo let me get the PlayStation,” another inmate said.

“Ay yo let me get the CD player,” said another inmate. And so forth and so forth from a lot of inmates. Even inmates that were stuck in their cells started yelling, “Ay yo K.B. don’t forget about me.”

Kojo, on the other hand, was cool he did not need anything I had he had his own so I must decide who gets what like I owe it to them and since I did not I told them, “I’ll let ya know who gets what but not now.”

The vultures by our cell door were hesitant to leave. I had to scream at them even threatening them that no one will get anything if they do not leave before they left. After Kojo and I exchanged info we fixed some coffee and put on the CD we love so much which was Tupac’s Greatest Hits CD, and then just talked, but still, the vultures would not leave us alone. They kept coming to our cell including inmates I had never dealt with before and now they want me to leave them something, I got frustrated.

I felt that I came to jail by myself and now I was heading to prison by myself so I owed no one anything. I decided to leave Kojo everything giving him the task to decide who should get what. Kojo advised me if I ever decide to get my hands dirty again I should consider getting into the white-collar trade. I took a mental note of everything he said.

A different C.O. came to our cell and asked me have I had gotten all the things I want to send home ready. I told him yes and handed him the manila envelope filled with my legal papers, pictures, letters, and anything I valued or thought was important to hold on to. The C.O. then looked inside the cell and asked me what I was going to do with the rest of my things.

“I’m leaving them,” I told him.

“You know if you leave them for someone and they shake-down and his name is not on the things they will take them so you are better off sending them home,” the C.O. advised.

“I know but I’m not sending them home.”

The tall white C.O. looked at me, then at Kojo who smiled at him, the officer walked away with the manila envelope.

Kojo and I continued drinking coffee after coffee as we made it a Tupac night. I heard the federal prison does not allow inmates to purchase CD players let alone allow inmates to purchase CDs, and the music they sell for the mp3 player they also sell on commissary only have clean versions of the song so I tried to absorb enough Tupac songs to last me the entire year I will be in the feds.

During lockdown time only the dorm orderlies remained out of their cells to clean up and that’s when Inmates started sending the orderlies to come to my cell and see what was up with what I was leaving for them. I told the orderly to go tell them that my cellmate got them. The sad thing was most of them did not even wish me a safe trip they just wanted something from me.

It was a few minutes passed 2 a.m. Kofi and I were caffeine up and heavy in conversation when we heard a voice come through the intercom in our cell. The intercom was so poor we couldn’t make out what the officer was saying. We turned off the music, which was not even loud so that we can hear what the officer was saying.

The officer repeated, “Kevin Brown, Kevin Brown.”

“Yeah,” I yelled.

“Be ready in thirty minutes for transport.”

“Be ready! It’s only 2-O-5,” I shouted.

“This coming from downstairs just be ready in thirty minutes,” and the officer’s voice was gone.

I looked at Kojo who was sitting on my bottom bunk which in minutes will become his and saw him shrug his shoulders and then spoke, “Man I don’t know what the fuck is up with that they usually get you with the court guys.”

“I know. I hope they don’t keep me downstairs til they get the court cats at eight,” I replied.

Usually, inmates being transported to a federal prison leaves with inmates that are going to court that day because the Marshals transporting inmates to federal prison come to the courthouse, not the jail to get inmates that they will be transporting to federal prisons and all this takes place after breakfast. Since I have been in SuperMax I had never seen anyone that was being transported to prison leave in the middle of the night.

“Maybe you might be going to a layover,” Kojo suggested.

“I hope not.”

The last thing I wanted was to go to do a layover which is a temporary federal prison. You will be housed there for two weeks to a month until they have enough prisoners going to the same destination as you then they will take the whole crew to their new home.

“Well wherever you are going it will be way better than here,” Kojo said.

“You right about that,” I replied finishing my coffee to his statement.

SuperMax is so messed up that inmates will actually celebrate leaving the place as though they just won their freedom back, although they were actually about to go start their federal sentence; which it’s never a short one. Being in SuperMax some of my cellmates had been roaches and mice. Sometimes you will wake up to see them having a party at your expense by being all in your commissary. You will see that the mice and roaches are in perfect harmony beside each other all in your food and when you see them they won’t even run away instead they will give you a look of, what the fuck are you looking at this our house.

Don’t waste your time trying to kill them because that is the only time they will run away from you. They will run to one of their many escape routes and then return later with more of their crew to fuck with your property and make sure to leave you a note consisting of their droppings. After finding all this out we just left them alone; we allowed them to do what they want to do and then leave.

A flashback of what I was going to miss was interrupted by the sound of our cell being opened. “Mr. Brown are you ready?” A woman’s voice echoed inside our cell.

Even though it was not exactly thirty minutes I knew better not to start an argument knowing the officers always win since I was in their house just like the roaches and the mice. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

“Well come on,” said the officer.

Kojo and I looked at each other and knew it was time for each man to go their separate ways. No matter how tough you are if you spend months in a small room with someone, sleeping in it, at times eating in it, even having to smell your cellmate’s shit and fart, you will develop some type of feelings for that person.

An underline bond and friendship will be developed without you even knowing it. After all, you shared each other’s thoughts and pain; I guess that is why they call it cell buddy. We embraced a one-arm hug and he said to me, “Aight be good.” I replied the same thing, broke our embrace, and then walked out of the cell.