Chapter 11 Prime
PRIME
I watched the guard at the security checkpoint eyeball my license like it was a counterfeit Picasso. His eyes flicked between my face and the ID, brows furrowed in concentration so deep you’d think he was trying to solve quantum physics.
“Banks? Like the mayor?” He squinted at me, his double chin rippling.
“Yeah. Like the mayor.” My jaw tightened. I hated that connection. Hated that Vivica’s name still followed me like a shadow I couldn’t shake.
The guard handed back my ID, then looked down at Yusef, who was shifting nervously beside me. The kid’s eyes were darting around the room, taking in the metal detectors, the armed guards, the general sense of despair that clung to every surface like cheap cologne.
“He on the approved visitor list?” The guard’s fingers clacked against his keyboard.
“Should be. Yusef Ali.”
Yusef looked up at me, his eyes wide behind those glasses.
The bruise on his cheek seemed darker under the harsh fluorescent lights, and something in my chest tightened.
This kid was too smart, too gentle for the world he was living in.
I recognized that look—the same one I used to see in the mirror before Vivica and prison beat it out of me.
“Empty your pockets into the tray,” the guard instructed, sliding a plastic bin toward us. “No phones, no electronics, no weapons, no contraband.”
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my wallet, tossing it into the bin along with my keys and watch. Yusef followed suit, emptying his pockets—just some change and a small chess piece he’d been fidgeting with.
“That too,” the guard pointed at Yusef’s glasses.
Yusef hesitated, then carefully removed them, placing them in the tray. Without them, he looked younger, more vulnerable, squinting slightly as his eyes adjusted.
“Arms out,” another guard instructed, stepping forward with a metal-detecting wand. I spread my arms wide, watching as he passed the device over my body. It beeped near my belt buckle.
“Just the belt,” I explained. The guard nodded, moving on to Yusef, who mimicked my stance perfectly, arms stretched out like he was preparing for flight.
The wand passed over him without incident, but the guard patted him down anyway, clinical and thorough. I could see Yusef’s discomfort in the rigid set of his shoulders, the way he held his breath.
“You’re good,” the guard finally said, stepping back. “Collect your belongings and proceed through the door. No physical contact with inmates except at the beginning and end of your visit. Keep your hands visible at all times.”
We retrieved our stuff, Yusef quickly putting his glasses back on, looking relieved to have his vision restored. I placed my hand on his shoulder as we walked through the heavy metal door that buzzed open for us.
“You okay?” I asked quietly.
He nodded, but I could feel the tension in his small frame. “Is it always like this?”
“Pretty much,” I replied, keeping my voice low. “Just stay close to me.”
We followed a correctional officer down a long corridor, our footsteps echoing against concrete floors. The walls were institutional beige, scuffed from years of bodies brushing against them. The air smelled like industrial cleaner and sweat.
“First time visiting?” the CO asked Yusef, his tone surprisingly gentle.
“Yes, sir,” Yusef answered, his manners impeccable even when nervous.
“Just follow the rules and you’ll be fine, young man.”
We were led into a large room filled with small tables bolted to the floor. Other visitors were already seated—women with children, elderly parents, a few girlfriends or wives dressed in their Sunday best. Everyone trying to bring a little dignity to an undignified situation.
“Table twelve,” the CO pointed. “Your father will be brought in shortly.”
Yusef’s steps faltered, and I felt him instinctively move closer to me. I squeezed his shoulder reassuringly.
“I’ll be right here the whole time,” I promised.
We sat at the designated table, the metal chairs cold and uncomfortable. Yusef’s fingers drummed nervously on his knees, his eyes fixed on the door where inmates would enter.
The door on the far side of the room buzzed open, and a stream of orange-clad inmates filed in. Yusef sat up straighter, his body tense as a bowstring. I watched his eyes scan each face until they settled on Meech, who shuffled through last.
My first thought was that prison had fucked him up. A jagged scar ran from his right temple down to his jawline, puckered and angry against his dark skin. It wasn’t the clean kind of scar you’d get from proper medical attention.
My second thought was what did Zahara ever see in this nigga?
From what Rashid told me, he was a small time dealer and got popped for armed robbery.
He was just a soldier working for a boss, but didn’t have boss material.
Demetrius was Rashid’s sister’s son. Rashid had moved out of the area and wasn’t there to help mold him, so Meech fell through the cracks.
But he was always a bottom feeder, never worthy of someone like Zahara.
Meech spotted us immediately, his eyes narrowing as he approached. He moved with an exaggerated swagger that annoyed the fuck out of me, like he had something to prove.
“Where the fuck is Zahara?” he demanded before he’d even reached our table, loud enough that several visitors turned to look.
Yusef flinched beside me.
“Watch your mouth,” I said quietly, keeping my voice level. “Your son is right here. That’s who you wanted to see, right?”
Meech’s eyes flicked to Yusef, then back to me, his jaw tight with anger. “That wasn’t the deal. She was supposed to be here too.”
“There was no deal. I brought your son to meet you. Be grateful and sit down, lil nigga.”
“What?!”
“Don’t make a scene. You wanted to see your boy, sit down and talk to him,” I demanded.
Other inmates turned to see the commotion between us.
I had just punked this nigga, putting a target on his back.
I ain’t give a fuck though. Something told me that he had done something to hurt Zahara.
Therefore, he deserved whatever prison would deal him.
His eyes flashed with anger, and I saw his hands curl into fists on the table.
“You don’t know me,” he growled.
“I know enough.” I turned to Yusef, who was watching this exchange with wide eyes. “This is your father, Yusef. Demetrius Johnson.”
Yusef swallowed hard. “Hi,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Meech seemed to remember himself, forcing his features to relax as he focused on his son. “Damn, boy. You got big. Last time I saw you, you was just a baby.”
“I’m twelve now,” Yusef said.
“Twelve,” Meech repeated, shaking his head. “Time flies when you locked up.” He studied Yusef’s face. “You look like your mama. Got her eyes.”
Yusef nodded, uncomfortable with the attention.
“What happened to your face?” Meech asked, pointing to the bruise.
“Some kids at school,” Yusef mumbled.
Meech’s expression darkened. “They jump you?”
Another nod.
“You fight back?”
“Not really.”
Meech looked disgusted. “Your mama ain’t teaching you to stand up for yourself? What kind of—”
“That’s enough,” I cut in. “You’re here to get to know your son, not criticize his mother.”
“His mother should be here,” Meech snapped. “Where is she? Too good to come see me now?”
“She’s in the car,” Yusef said quietly. “She didn’t want to come in.”
Meech laughed bitterly. “Course not. Still running, ain’t she? Always running.”
I felt Yusef tense beside me. “Focus on your son,” I said, my voice carrying a warning. “You’ve got thirty minutes. Don’t waste it.”
Meech gave me a look that would have made a lesser man nervous, but I’d seen worse. Much worse. After a moment, he turned back to Yusef.
“So, what you into? Sports? Girls? What?”
“I play chess,” Yusef said. “And piano.”
Meech’s face fell. “Chess? Piano?” He looked accusingly at me. “The hell kind of soft shit is that? That’s why you can’t fight and is out here gettin’ yo’ as beat.”
Before I could respond, Yusef straightened his shoulders. “I’m good at it, though. I’ve won tournaments.”
“Tournaments,” Meech repeated flatly. “For chess.”
“Yes. And I’m going to music camp this summer. For gifted students.”
I felt a surge of pride for the kid. Standing his ground. Defending who he was.
Meech leaned back in his chair. “Your mama got you playing that bougie shit instead of learning how to defend yourself. You needa learn how to scrap, boy.”
“Mom works really hard,” Yusef said, a defensive edge creeping into his voice. “She’s starting her own business. She makes these amazing cinnamon rolls called Zinnamon Rolls. They’re really good.”
“Zinnamon rolls,” Meech scoffed. “What kinda boujie shit is that? Always thought she was too good for the streets.”
“Maybe she was,” I said coolly. “Maybe she still is.”
Meech’s eyes snapped to mine. “Nobody asked you.”
“Nobody had to. Your son is sitting right here telling you about his life, and all you can do is talk about his mother. Focus, man.”
“Where is Zahara?” Meech demanded again. “I need to talk to her. This is important.”
“More important than meeting your son for the first time in a decade?” I asked.
Meech’s face flushed with anger. He jabbed a finger in my direction. “You don’t know our situation. You don’t know what she did—”
“I know she raised your son while you’ve been in here,” I cut him off. “I know he’s smart, talented, and respectful despite never having you around. So whatever you think she did, looks to me like she did something right.”
Meech stood up suddenly, his chair screeching against the floor. “Who the fuck do you think you are? You don’t know shit about me and mine!”
Several guards looked our way, hands moving to their belts.
“Sit down,” I said calmly. “Before you get yourself in trouble.”
“Fuck you, man. I need to talk to Zahara. This is about—”
“Sir,” a guard approached our table. “You need to lower your voice and sit down.”