A Woman’s Work: Street Chronicles (25 page)

I
t was all over the news about Pastor Karen Jefferson-Duvall. They called her everything from the “Anonymous Madam” to the “Perverse Pastor.” When Rachida broke the story to the detective, he didn’t believe her initially. But as she handed over the evidence (after he promised he wouldn’t bust her for prostitution) and told him everything she knew, he worked out a deal that would put her into a witness-protection program and prevent her from doing any jail time.

Jefferson-Duvall’s duty at the church was to minister to battered and homeless women by taking them off the street and giving them a roof over their head, food to eat, and access to programs and classes that would help them get on their feet. That
was supposed to be the extent of her ministry. But somewhere along the line, it had turned into something criminal and sinister, all because of greed. Jefferson-Duvall had used her husband’s power and celebrity to build up a clientele for the prostitution ring.

At first she thought she hadn’t done anything wrong. She told the cops she was just trying to help these women by getting them off the streets. They didn’t have anywhere to go, and she gave them classes, taught them social skills, provided good doctors for them, and gave them twenty-four-hour security. They had the freedom to leave whenever they wanted, so why was she being charged with a crime? The women had willingly been prostitutes. Her calling was to minister to women and help them better themselves, and that’s what she’d been doing.

Well, just like everyone else who heard the story, the Atlanta Police Department didn’t buy it. In fact, while Jefferson-Duvall was in a small session ministering to a few battered women, Atlanta PD burst into the church and arrested her in front of her husband and parishioners. After she was read her rights, Jefferson-Duvall asked what she was being charged with. The officer said two counts of first-degree murder and twenty counts of solicitation for prostitution. They also told her she’d be extradited to Richmond as soon as possible. Even though she didn’t pull the trigger, she’d hired the man who did and she’d witnessed the execution.

Around the same time Jefferson-Duvall was arrested, the farmhouse was raided and the women there were charged with prostitution, while Uncle Brick, aka Bernard Jefferson, was charged with one count of first-degree murder for Scoot’s death and one count of being an accessory after the fact for Abie’s murder. It turned out that he’d murdered Scoot in a rage over his involvement in the extortion scheme involving his sister. He hated the fact that Abie had used him, and he wasn’t sorry she was dead.
It wasn’t hard for him to pump those bullets into Scoot’s chest and watch him die. Jefferson-Duvall refused to name the triggerman who’d actually killed Abie, but there was enough evidence to nail her as the mastermind behind the murder.

When the news broke, Councilman Sullivan was forced to step down after he was named as a client of the Southern Girls’ Escort Service. And he wasn’t the only one revealed. The press was given a list of all the clients, which caused even more turmoil in the community.

Rachida changed her name and moved to an undisclosed location. Since Jefferson-Duvall never named her accomplices, Rachida was sure there was probably someone out there who’d been paid to finish her off. It didn’t matter to her, though. She realized that Abie had been looking for a way out of a life that had become too much for her to bear. Abie had grown tired of being used by everyone she knew, and she just wanted to go away somewhere to get away from it all. Rachida was just happy that justice had been served for her best friend and that Abie was finally at peace.

“Y
ou have a call from Stacks at the Fulton County Jail. Do not use three-way or conference calling or your call will be terminated. To accept the call, press 1. To decline, press 2,” the automated message stated.

Damn
, I thought.
What the hell has happened now?
I had that fucked-up feeling deep in the pit of my stomach, the one where you know something is wrong but you can’t quite put your finger on it.

I quickly pressed 1 and waited for the operator to connect the call. I hadn’t seen or heard from Stacks, my live-in boyfriend of the last four years, all day, which was totally out of character for us. Although he was a hustler who worked on the streets, we always communicated and knew each other’s whereabouts.

Earlier that day, I’d texted him more than ten times, and the messages had gone unanswered. That had bothered the hell out of me and made me feel queasy.

“Babe, it’s me. I’m at the County on Bankhead!” he shouted through the phone.

“What for? Babe, what happened?” I asked.

“Some niggas from Decatur set me up. Jetta and me were over there handling bid’ness with some major cats. Before we had a
chance to make good on the drop, the po-pos stepped in.” He sounded defeated and exhausted.

I braced myself before I asked the next question. “How long until you get a bond?” I already knew the answer but I asked anyway.

“There ain’t gonna be a bond. I violated my parole. Even if I beat the drug rap, they caught us red-handed with the guns. I’m gonna get an automatic five years. There ain’t no way to beat it—not even if Johnnie Cochran came back from the dead. They caught me dead in the wrong on this one.”

My stomach went from queasiness to a simmering boil. Everything stood at a standstill. Stacks was my man, my lover, my every-fucking-thing. He had been holding us down for years.

Not only was Stacks a bona fide hustler, he was also a hell of a provider. The world was ours, and he made sure to serve it to me on a silver platter. We had it all: Benzes in every color, iced-out jewelry, condos, and various waterfront properties. If money could buy it, we had it.

My baby had so much money, the streets called him G-Stacks. He had truly earned his moniker and lived up to it, although he’d moved beyond the G-marks to millionaire status. He kept it real and he kept it gangsta.

“T, I’ma need you more now than evah to keep shit tight for me. I can’t say much over the phone, but come down to visitation tomorrow and see me. I’ll explain everything. I need to see you face-to-face. Now ain’t the time for tears. I need you to man up,” he said.

“Okay, baby, I got you,” I said. I know I had to be strong. My nigga needed me to be mentally right for the task at hand. Whatever it was he needed, I was prepared to do it. I was his “Ride or Die Chick.” Him being behind bars was not going to change that.

I took a deep breath, gathered my thoughts, and put my psyche in check. My man was a boss, and I was a boss bitch. Whatever he
needed, I was prepared to handle. Knowing Stacks, it was not going to be anything simple. The truth is, there ain’t nothing simple about him, or me either, for that matter.

“T
aylor Dixon, you may go back and see Felix Martin. He will be brought in momentarily by one of the guards,” the corrections officer stated. I hated jails, almost as much as I hated the police. I know they’re supposed to protect and serve but most of the time, the only thing those motherfuckers do is harass people and lock up our black men. To me, there ain’t nothing noble about that.

I sat at the visitation booth and waited for Stacks to be brought in. When I saw him, my heart almost stopped beating. My baby had a black eye, a bruised lip, and a swollen face. “What the fuck happened to you?” I asked.

“Nothing I can’t handle. Detective Morgan, one of the po-pos, got upset because I wouldn’t talk their language. So since he couldn’t get me to narc on my connect, he took it out on my face. He’s a fucked-up nigga anyway. You know me, baby, I’m gonna make him earn that badge.”

I was steaming. I made a note to find Detective Morgan and pay him a visit later. I wasn’t going for that shit—no way, no how. “So what is it you need me to do? I called your mom and she sends her love. She’ll be down to visit later today,” I spat out without a breath in between. I hate visits because after you leave, you always realize there was something you forgot to say.

“Taylor, I need you to take over the operation,” he began. I thought I was hearing things but I knew I wasn’t. Whenever Stacks is serious, he calls me by my government name.

“I know you’ve been off the streets for a few years now, but you still know the ropes. I’ma be down for at least five years. I got too much product out there to collect on. Niggas need to know that while I’m down doing this li’l bid, my crew can handle bid’ness. I ain’t trying to come back to the block and rebuild,” he said, looking at me more seriously than I’d ever seen him do in a long time.

“Why can’t we just stack what we have and work legit from here on out?” I asked. “We have enough cash to live comfortably. The boutique is pulling in enough to cover the mortgage. The car wash is holding its own, and our restaurant ain’t hurting at all. It’s a cash cow all by itself.” The truth of the matter was, I was proud of our businesses. Even though they started from illegal money, they had become legit.

“T, haven’t you realized that once you’re in the game, you can’t just walk away? This empire I built ain’t about to crumble just ’cause I gotta lay down behind the walls. Niggas are depending on me out there. Families eat because of me. Li’l niggas who ain’t got no daddy and got crackheads for mommas are enrolled in colleges ’cause I pay for that shit. This shit goes deeper than the little boutique money that you make for a hobby. The reason you can do the things you do is because of the moves I made for us in dem damn streets. Now I’m not asking you to do no more for me than what I’d do for you.” I could tell by his tone that he meant it. I thought for a moment. I knew that if the shoe was on the other foot, Stacks would do whatever I asked with no hesitation. My mind flashed back to our first encounter.

It wasn’t like I was new to the shit he was asking me to do. Hell, I met Stacks on the block. Back then I was an eighteen-year-old wayward teen trying to make a dollar out of fifteen cents. My mom had passed away because of a drug overdose and I never knew my father. How I managed to complete high school was a mystery all in itself being that I was practically from pillar to post. My mother,
God bless her soul, could never keep a steady roof over our heads due to her addiction, so I quickly learned that I could do one of two things: starve or survive. I chose the latter and learned how to sell drugs. Stacks was a mid-level-weight man who was known to have a good heart. Although he made his money selling drugs, he was one of those who gave back to the community. It wasn’t unusual to see him throwing a barbecue for the neighborhood, paying someone’s rent who would be facing eviction, or taking the less-fortunate kids of welfare mothers on shopping sprees. I guess he tried to karma all the bad shit he did. He was a little sweet on me and I knew it but never used it to my advantage. I bought my first fifty-cent pack from him. I flipped it, came back, and got a hundred-dollar slab. Once I flipped that, I copped an eight ball. I eventually moved up from an ounce to an ounce and a half. The next thing I knew, I had worked my way up to a bird. Stacks was impressed by my hustle and took me under his wing.

I won’t lie and say that I wasn’t attracted to him. Hell, Stacks was finer than a motherfucker. I’d have been a fool not to be interested in him. I was actually a nice piece myself. I stand 5′6″ with caramel-colored skin, long beautiful wavy hair, and a body to die for. I’m a showstopper by any man’s standards, but I learned early in life that beauty can only get you so far. Stacks would constantly tell me that I needed a real thoroughbred to help me man these streets. I took what he said in stride until one night a drug deal gone bad almost cost me my life. I’d been serving this customer, Tate, for about six months. By this time, I’d moved up to the majors. I was purchasing ten keys a week. Tate would buy two keys at a time and was never short. But this particular night he seemed different. He normally just cops his product and bounces. This night he was a little extra friendly, but I paid it no mind. That was my first mistake. After making our normal exchange, he started grabbing me and fondling one of my breasts.

“T, you a fine-ass bitch. Let me get a piece of dat ass,” he said.

I could smell alcohol and weed on his breath. Normally I pack my “Nina,” but since I’d been dealing with him on a regular basis, I saw no need. I should’ve known better than to get caught slipping. The streets like to call our gun of choice Ninas, short for nine-millimeter Glock.

“Look, Tate, you need to back the fuck off. I ain’t trying to deal with you like that. You’re drunk and you’re high. I’ma act like this shit ain’t happen,” I said in my hardest try-a-bitch-if-you-wanna voice. But he wasn’t trying to hear that shit. “No” was a word he wasn’t used to. As we began to wrestle, he got more belligerent. I managed to scream but then he slapped me so hard he knocked the taste out of my mouth. I had just about given up hope of winning the struggle when Stacks appeared out of nowhere with a gun to Tate’s head. He cocked the trigger and said, “The lady said no, nigga. Ain’t you ever heard ‘no means no’? What are you, some kind of rapist?” Stacks asked the question not really expecting an answer.

“What the fuck you doing at my house?” Tate asked. I knew that he was crazy because no one in their right mind would question a man who’s holding a gun to their head.

“Dude, you got a lot of nerve talking shit right now,” Stacks said. He uncocked the gun and hit Tate upside the head, knocking him unconscious.

Realizing I was free, I quickly pushed Tate off me. I glanced at him lying on the ground. I couldn’t control the anger that had erupted inside me. I started kicking him and punching him. He didn’t budge. Then I spit on him. Stacks gently took me in his arms and held me. I was trembling and out of control. “Thank you for saving me. How did you know I was here?” I asked.