Chapter 2 Kay’lo Mensah
The Trill-Land Justice Holding Center
The following day…
“I swear to God, I’m ‘bout to hit this nigga in his shit if he keep playin’ with me,” I mumbled while circlin’ my cell.
A nigga was tryna use the phone to call Toni and these bullshit ass guards was doin’ everything they could to piss me off on purpose.
I had been locked up for weeks now and every last guard in this bitch acted like I personally fucked their mama.
I ain’t know why they hated me and I damn sure didn’t give a fuck, but I wasn’t gon’ pretend they wasn’t on my ass.
Every time I asked to make a fuckin’ call they looked me dead in my face and told me to wait.
Then they walked off like I wasn’t shit.
I wasn’t built for this type of patience.
I ain’t never been no nigga who tolerated grown men playin’ with me.
I was already pacin’, already mad and already thinkin’ about Toni bein’ pregnant and home by herself while these lame-ass guards wasted my time.
I had circled the small ass cell so many times I damn near made a track in the floor.
Finally, one of the guards I couldn’t stand—the fat nigga with the crooked badge—walked up like somebody told him to hurry the hell up.
“Mensah. Phone,” he barked.
I sized him up long enough for him to swallow. He looked away first, which always amused me, but I ain’t say shit ‘cause if I opened my mouth I was gon’ add another charge to my name. So, I walked past him slow, just to piss him off, and made my way to the phones.
I picked up the receiver and dialed Toni’s number.
I pressed it tight to my ear, waitin’ to hear her voice, but all I got was a loud static that irritated the fuck outta me.
I hung up and dialed it again, but it was the same shit.
Static, fuzz and her voice jumpin’ in and out like she was underwater.
I could hear her say my name in broken pieces, but I couldn’t make out shit she was tryna tell me.
“Aye, what the fuck is wrong with this phone?” I snapped toward the CO, but he ignored me with that same bitch ass walk he always did.
I dialed again, my jaw clenchin’ as the static screeched in my ear. I was ‘bout to slam the whole phone against the wall when I heard somebody speak behind me.
“You dialin’ it wrong.”
His voice wasn’t loud or disrespectful, but it damn sure wasn’t friendly either. It was just dry, but smooth like he ain’t fear shit in his life.
I turned around slow and there was this damn white boy.
I had seen him a few times in passin’, mostly when he was disappearin’ into his cell right next to mine.
He had wild-ass white hair that looked like he cut it himself with a switchblade.
His body was tall as hell and tatted all the way up, ink crawlin’ across his skin like none of the shit hurt.
I had smelled weed from his cell more than once, and the nigga didn’t even try to hide it, but that was that white privileged shit.
His shit stayed jumpin’, people always stoppin’ by, which told me everything I needed to know.
“Nigga… I know my wife’s number,” I told him. “Mind ya fuckin’ business.”
He ain’t flinch or get offended. He leaned his shoulder against the wall like he had all the time in the world.
“You ain’t the only one with business, man,” he said calmly. “I need the phone too.”
I raised my eyebrow. Most people ain’t talk back to me in here unless they wanted they ass beat.
“Get the fuck in line then,” I told him. “I ain’t done.”
He let out a short laugh under his breath. Then he walked right up to the phone, movin’ past me without askin’ or hesitatin’.
Before I could tell him to back the fuck up, he pulled some sharp lil’ tool out from under his waistband, popped the front panel of the phone open, and tapped a couple wires like he been fixin’ jail phones all his fuckin’ life.
He ain’t study the shit or think about it.
He ain’t even look worried about somebody seein’ him.
He just flipped, tapped, slid somethin’ in place, then closed the panel like he worked here.
“Try it now,” he said casually while steppin’ back behind me.
I frowned but lifted the receiver anyway. I dialed Toni again, waitin’ for the bullshittin’ static. Instead, the automated voice came on and then the line clicked, and her voice came through clear like she was right beside me.
“Baby? Kay’Lo? You hear me now?”
My chest loosened as soon as I heard her voice. “Yeah, mama, I hear you. How you and my baby doin’?”
“I’m okay now that I hear you,” she said soft.
I talked to her for a while, lettin’ her know I loved her, and that I was holdin’ up as best as I could. Every word out her mouth made me hate this place more. I hung onto her voice like oxygen before I finally had to hang up.
When I turned around, the white boy was still standin’ there. I ain’t say shit. I brushed past him and headed back to my cell.
Later that evenin’, we was let out of our cells to move around for about an hour, and I stepped out tryna clear my head.
I ain’t feel like talkin’ to nobody, but bein’ on the block was better than starin’ at concrete and losin’ my mind.
Niggas was everywhere, playin’ cards, arguin’ about shit that didn’t matter, or walkin’ in circles like it made time move faster.
I kept to myself while I moved through the crowd.
I wasn’t lookin’ for nobody, yet my eyes still fell on the white boy who fixed that phone like it was nothin’.
He was leaned on the wall with his shoulder pressed into chipped paint like he was chillin’ in a lounge and not a damn jail.
His hair was wild, fallin’ in messy waves like he woke up and ain’t give a fuck.
His whole upper body was tatted, ink crawlin’ across his skin in a way that made it hard to tell where one piece ended and the next started.
When he shifted his jaw, the lights hit the silver open-face grill in his mouth.
He looked crazy, dangerous, and too calm for somebody locked up… but for some reason I felt the nigga.
A dude walked up and dabbed him, and the way he returned it was smooth and relaxed, like he wasn’t pressed about shit. They talked low for a minute, and whatever was said had the dude grinnin’ before he walked off.
I wasn’t tryna give him props, but the way he fixed that phone earlier for me had stuck with me. He ain’t make it a big deal. He just handled it like he been fixin’ shit his whole life, and that alone made me walk over.
“Aye,” I said. “Good look for that phone shit.”
He tilted his head a lil’, his eyes half-lidded. “You were loud as hell about it,” he said, his voice calm and low. “I fixed it so you would stop stressing me out.”
I smirked. “Say… whatever nigga.”
He ain’t flinch at the word, or take it wrong. While we stood there, somebody else walked up behind him. They ain’t speak. Dude just stood there like he knew the drill.
White boy lifted his chin once, slid his hand in his sock, and pulled out a small bag of weed like it was nothin’. He took out some rolled-up papers he must’ve made from somethin’ in the unit, opened the bag, and dropped a small amount in the nigga hand. Then dude bounced quick after that.
I kept my eyes on the bag without meanin’ to. I had been locked up for weeks and ain’t smoked shit. And my nerves was crawlin’ for somethin’ to take the edge off.
The white dude caught me lookin’.
“You gon’ keep staring?” he asked, his eyes droppin’ to my face then back to the bag, “or you want this work?”
“I’on smoke everybody shit,” I told him.
“In here?” he said, liftin’ a brow. “You ain’t really in a position to be picky, bro.”
I sucked my teeth. “How much?”
He tucked the bag away with that same slow confidence. “I’ll get up with you later,” he said. “I’ll get you straight.”
He said it low and certain, like that was just how he moved.
I nodded and walked off, not tryna show how much I actually needed it.
That night, after count, I laid back in my bunk starin’ up at the wall. My head was everywhere, and I was tryna force myself to sleep when I heard the sound of keys jigglin’.
I sat up quick, lookin’ toward the bars, and there was the white boy.
He was standin’ there holdin’ the keys in his hand like he had been waitin’ for me to look up.
“What the fuck you doin’?” I asked, swingin’ my legs off the bed.
He smirked like he expected that reaction. “You wanted the green, remember?”
I stood up slow, not sure if he was serious or on some set-up shit. “Where the hell you get keys from?”
“Does it matter?” he asked. “You coming or not, bro?”
I stared at him hard ‘cause I ain’t know this man, and I damn sure ain’t trust nobody inside this bitch. He leaned his shoulder against the bars, tiltin’ his head like he was studyin’ me.
“Bro, I don’t know you to be goin’ nowhere with you,” I said.
“I don’t know you either,” he replied. “And from the looks of it, you’re not built for sitting in this cell, so if you want something to take the edge off, roll with me.”
I looked toward the hallway, then back at him. He ain’t blink. He just held the keys like he owned them hoes. I breathed out slow.
“If I get caught…”
He pushed the cell open just enough for me to slip through. “If you scared, stay tucked in like a princess, bro. I’ll smoke without you.”
Runnin’ my hand down my face, I stepped out and followed him, and we moved through the jail silent as hell.
He walked with confidence, cuttin’ corners, movin’ through shadows and knowin’ exactly where to go.
I ain’t know how the fuck he knew the layout, but everything he did told me he wasn’t no regular inmate.
Niggas in here learned how to adapt, but he had mastered this shit.
When we reached one of the staff rooms, a black female guard was standin’ close by with her arms folded like she been waitin’ on us. She shook her head at dude like he was somethin’ she shouldn’t be dealin’ with but still chose to.
“You got an hour, Kelli,” she muttered.