Cracked Roots & Roses 8: Life Continued

What did I just hear? The way he said it was as if he were placing the blame for both of these men’s actions squarely on my 15-year-old shoulders. Everyone was pointing the finger at this point, so I guess it was now my turn to take some of the blame. I was used to taking the blame as the middle child, but I didn’t ask for any of what happened. I was caught in the middle of a pissing contest and didn’t even know it was going on. I was still a kid in many ways. At home, I still had a dresser full of hand-me-down Barbies.

I was still processing the loss of my father, which was odd because I was initially relieved when I heard about his passing. So I wasn’t expecting the barrage of feelings that would come with his name or face in my mind. Then I had to navigate my new membership of the club nobody ask to join. I had a new, irrational fear of men, along with embarrassment and shame. This part was the worst of all of it. I now lived in a constant state of anxiety. I didn’t want to be looked at, complimented, or acknowledged on any level.

I can still remember, shortly after it happened, walking to the bus stop after school when an older boy from another school approached me. He said I was pretty, asked if I had a boyfriend, and then asked if all my hair was mine before reaching out to touch it. I yanked away so hard I almost fell backward. Needless to say, I was not okay. I didn’t know there was such a thing as counseling—or any form of help—for what had happened to me. So, I allowed “time” to heal. And what a bang-up job it was doing.

Thank God for Jesus!

On top of all of that, I had just lost the man I chose to love—not the one I was born to fear, but the one who chose me and made me feel safe and heard. He was now in jail—and possibly because of me and THAT was just too much to bear.

His sister eventually came into the living room, so I asked her, “Who is Jimmy?”

She shot her nephew a nasty look and held it. When she finally turned to me, she slapped her fist into her hand and said, “All I know is, Gino is innocent! They gon’ free him!” She declared this as if this answered my question. That was a pipe dream we all held onto for years. So it seems they all knew something but I wasn’t supposed to know. I didn’t understand that.. why not just tell me? Today I understand why they didn’t tell me. If the DA knew the connection between the two he would surely be convicted of premeditated first degree. This carries a stiffer sentence. As it stood there was no connection, it was random but because everyone knows him they placed him at the scene. To this day I do not know for sure because I never saw him again after the raid.

His first few months in jail were grueling. While they had him in custody, the charges piled up. They were able to run his prints as often as they needed. In the past, he would be picked up and released because they couldn’t get a clean match. Not anymore. Here’s the game: when he was out, he kept a small safety pin somewhere on his clothes. He would tear his fingerprints up so that, if arrested, they couldn’t get a clean print. But in jail, there are no safety pins. Every outstanding warrant was addressed. It didn’t help that he was not a model inmate. He was a fighter who enjoyed it—and did not lose.

Gino and I continued to talk on the phone every day and write letters every week. He had great handwriting—funny, the things I remember. He would also draw things to make me laugh and send me greeting cards. I would put money on his books from the shoebox I had until one day, he called and told me to give the box to his mom.

I asked, “Why?”

He said she knew about the money and was demanding it for the lawyer. From his tone I could tell that he knew that wasn’t true. A guy that worked for him had already given her money for the lawyer. She wanted to spend it on herself. Within a few hours, she was downstairs, so I ran down with the Nike box and handed it to her. She spent it all within a month. She also couldn’t pay the lawyer anymore, which tells me she didn’t even use all the money the guy gave her on the lawyer. He was soon issued a public defender. This was the nail in his proverbial coffin. You don’t want a PD to fight a murder charge. They spend their time trying to get you to plea and none on actually fighting the case. They work with the DA everyday so there is no real sense of competition or need to get their client off. When this switch happened his case was given a continuation every other month for years or until he agreed to a plea. She may not have been guilty of handing him over, but she was for mismanagement of funds and greed.

During this time I continued going to his house to hang out with his sister, the gambler. I liked her. She thought I was smart, and we would do almost everything together. She would take me everywhere with her. I was the third wheel to her and her married boyfriend when he was in town from Virginia. The part I didn’t like was her taking me with her to all-night card games. We wouldn’t even know the people—just heard a Tunk game was happening and would show up.

That stopped after Gino caught wind of me being out running the streets with her all night. So when she went to card games, I would stay back and help his mom babysit her two kids.

About three months after Gino’s arrest, his sister was playing cards at the dining room table while running a bath for her two boys. While she was in the middle of the game, her one-year-old son was either pushed or fell into the tub. I never got a clear answer from her.

While all of this was happening, his mom and I were out shopping for shoes and having lunch. When we pulled onto the block, the ambulance was pulling off. His mom’s face said something was wrong. She pulled into her normal parking spot and sat staring at the gambler from the car window.

Right then, his sister screamed, “Mama! I’m sorry!” and collapsed onto the ground.

Her one-year-old son has “fallen” into a full tub of water and was now hooked up to life support in critical condition. I never got the real story. The tub was one of the big ones with feet, it was as tall as him. So her story was impossible, but what was the alternative? Perish the thought. I can still see him lying in that hospital bed with nothing but a diaper on. He had a tube going into his head for brain swelling, an oxygen mask on his little face, and a red bulb attached to his big toe. The room smelled of metal and blood. I can still smell that room to this day.

After three days on life support, the baby was declared brain dead. I can still remember the quietness of the room as they stopped the machines. I can still see him in that casket, dressed in a white tuxedo with a blue teddy bear at his feet.

A child’s funeral is one of the worst things a person could experience.

That’s all I’ll say about that.