Cracked Roots and Roses 7: The Ties That Bind

Gino and I didn’t feel as close anymore after what happened. I felt shame and tried my best to get back to the old me. At the time, I didn’t know I would never be the same. Gino was still sweet, but it felt like he no longer saw me as innocent or as “his Kim.” I was now dirty. He never said anything, didn’t ask any questions after the initial ones—I think he was trying to cope as a teenager himself. He was gone more than usual for a while and wasn’t touching me anymore. I was lowkey grateful for that. I didn’t want anyone to even brush against me passing in the halls.

It took months, but I think he sensed the irrational fear of men I now had. In hindsight, it also felt like he carried misplaced guilt. I could see where he blamed himself, likely because his lifestyle opened the door for me to become collateral damage. I’m sure he never considered this when he told the world I was his.

We were now 19 and 16—this was a gray area. When we started dating, we were both teens and went to school together. Now, I was jailbait. My mom caught on to my lies at some point, so I stopped using Tanya as an excuse and told her I was staying with his sister, the gambler. She would come pick me up sometimes, met my mom, and I’d bring one of her sons home with me occasionally to babysit. My mom was also grieving, so I stayed out of her way.

As the weeks went on, Gino became his playful self again. He got another tattoo on his arm with my name on it and began doing more with me on the weekends. We were different, but in a good way. It felt like real respect and love were developing. We could share a silence without needing to fill the space with words. I didn’t care if a few hairs were out of place and felt comfortable lounging around in one of his shirts and shorts. I liked this place much better.

One night, around 5 a.m., four loud knocks startled me out of sleep. Then, strangely, his mom’s voice followed: “Gino, I need you to come upstairs.” That was odd. In the past, if she wanted him, she’d stomp on the floor. She had NEVER come downstairs when I was there.

He sat up, paused, stood, unlocked the door, and slowly cracked it open. Right then, the door was snatched open, and someone yelled, “FREEZE! Don’t you move a muscle! GET ON THE FLOOR!” He sighed loudly, dropped his head, and laid on his stomach. There was a gun trained on me and two or three on him.

This had to have been a dream, but it wasn’t. I was awake, but not scared. It seemed to fit nicely with the arsenic pie I’d been served that year. The flashlights were so bright I couldn’t see anyone except the main guy. The man barking orders was white middle aged and balding, he wore wire gold-rimmed glasses, a bulletproof vest, and a badge on a wallet around his neck. Two officers cuffed Gino behind his back, stood him up, and walked him out in just pajama bottoms. It sounded like 20 men stomping up the stairs, through the house, and out the front door.

I sat frozen, trying to comprehend what just happened. It couldn’t have been a drug raid; they didn’t toss the room for evidence. These weren’t narcotics officers—they don’t come like that. I found out later they had warrants—multiple ones—for his arrest.

I got dressed and went upstairs when I heard more commotion. His sister, the gambler, had just gotten in from an all-night game of Tunk to find his mom crying at the dining room table. When she heard what literally just happened, she pointed her anger at her mom for letting them in without giving her a copy of the warrant. She yelled at her mother as if someone had died. She wanted to know how they knew to go to the basement and to which door.

I felt sorry for her in that moment because this was her life. All of her brothers were now in the custody of the state. Gino, closest to her age, had really helped her financially as well. I didn’t interject because shock had turned to confusion with a tinge of rage. I sat quietly on the edge of the couch and let them deal with their family business.

The truth was, his mom did help by coming down with them. She pointed out the door and told him to come upstairs. Had she stomped on the floor, he would’ve known to get out. I assumed this was the arrangement. Then again, maybe his mom was scared or just tired of harboring a fugitive—even if it was her last son on the outside. Even the gay one was now locked up for drug offenses.

I decided to stay there for the day. I wanted to talk to him and find out why he got arrested. Unfortunately, he didn’t get processed for hours, so we spent the whole day speculating. The arraignment wasn’t for two days.

His older cousin, who was now living upstairs with the drug-addict sister, knew all the ins and outs of the penal system. He said the bond should be about 10 gees and that Gino needed to get out to have a better chance at fighting the case. Nobody knew the charge yet, but the cousin assumed it was serious because the feds were involved. My head was spinning from stress and exhaustion. I already missed him and I had never navigated the part of hood life that included jail and court dates. I wasn’t ready.

He finally called around 8:30 p.m. He told his sister, the gambler, the charges, spoke with his nephew briefly, then told him to give me the phone. I asked him what happened. He laughed a little weakly and said, “Even if I could talk on this jail phone (not a private line), I wouldn’t tell you.”

He said, “Listen, don’t miss any more time from school. My sister told me you stayed there all day. Go home and go to school. I’ll call you at your house tomorrow.”

He then said, “Go downstairs, take all the money you can find in the Nike box on my stereo, lock my door, and go straight home.”

I got the wad of cash and told his mom I was taking the bus home. She said, “No, Gino told me to drive you home. I’m not about to be in trouble with him ‘bout you.”

I was grateful.

Against his wishes, I did miss school for his arraignment. I had to know what was happening for myself.

The charge was murder in the first degree.

Hearing those words choked the air out of me. I felt like I was in a tunnel. Everything was swimming away from me. In my mind, he was perfect, and he treated me like I was a literal princess. This man was now being called a murderer by the state. This could not be true. I sat speechless as the D.A. read his rap sheet. He was reading for a good eight minutes—everything from mob action to trafficking, to assault, to distribution, reckless use of violence, reckless use of force—and the list went on.

During the reading, Gino glanced over his shoulder and stared at me. My face must’ve been telling a story. I was mortified. His mother sat there, unmoved, like it was a normal day at the plant. The state’s description of him and the man I knew were incongruent. How could this be? He didn’t even raise his voice around me. He didn’t cuss around me. He didn’t smoke or drink. He was funny and very witty. We watched cartoons together and stayed up talking about any and everything. Even during intimacy, we laughed and played. He was my best friend, and I wanted to spend my life with him.

This unshaven man, a few feet from me in full body restraint cuffs in a beige DOC jumpsuit, was not the man I knew. The judge heard both sides and granted bond at $100,000, which meant $10,000 to walk. While being escorted out, he waved and winked at me.

This was par for the course. This is what came with having a drug dealer for a boyfriend. I didn’t choose this, this was another ugly part of the benefit package. I didn’t know anyone with a normal boyfriend. Boys in the hood are either ballers (basketball) or ballers (drug dealers). I dated two basketball players, and they were not like him. They were arrogant, neglectful, and entitled. I didn’t laugh with them. I didn’t dance or play fight with them. I was bored and not interested in hearing about sports.

On the flip side, I also didn’t get robbed, assaulted, or have to go to court being with them. So there was that. I had to pick, and the bed I picked was hard.

His mom was used to this. All of her sons had been in and out of jail. Her husband and brothers had also been in and out of jail. What a horrible thing. I had my problems, but no man in my family had ever been arrested. I knew I didn’t wanna live like that even at that age. I did want to be there for her until he got home. In my 16-year-old mind, the court would just let him go because he wasn’t guilty of this. I thought at the most he would go to trial quickly and be found not guilty. I was wrong.

He could receive visitors that following week. I was so excited. We had been talking on the phone every day, so I couldn’t wait to see his face in person. We went to see him in Division 5, but when we got there, a woman told us he was now being housed in Division 1, Maximum Security.

His mom asked why. The woman at the desk said, “Because he’s violent and a murderer—that’s where they all go.”

Those words rang in my head for a while. I was now given another description of him that I didn’t know. From that day forward, my mind wrestled with cognitive dissonance.

We got to Division 1 and had to be almost strip-searched before going in to see him in a glass booth with a phone. This was a big deal for me. I didn’t want anyone touching me, even if it was a woman. I was still very much on high alert. I got through it because I needed to see him—the him I knew.

He walked out, sat at the phone, and smiled. While his mom was talking a mile a minute, he stared at me. I think he was trying to read my face to see if I was about to give him a quick sayonara, but it had never occurred to me to break up with him. I loved him, but I don’t know if he knew that.

I sat on the metal stool and took the phone after his mom was done. He asked how I was doing. I said, “I’m fine. How are you?”

He said, “Well, this is jail, so not too good. I’d be doing much better if I was out there with you.”

I asked, “Why did you get moved to Maximum Security?”

He gave me that “man business” look, but I didn’t drop it.

He said, “I’ve had a couple of fights.”

I said, “You don’t look like you had a fight.”

He said, “I never do.” Then he said, “Enough of that. I need you to do something for me. When you go home with Mama, after my nephew is out of the house, go downstairs to my room. Go in and lock the door behind you. Get an empty shoebox, look under the mattress, and take all the cash you can find. Don’t touch anything else.”

He looked me right in the eyes and said, “Do you hear me? Don’t touch anything else. Put the shoebox in a bag and take it upstairs. Put it behind the corner chair. When he gets back, let him in my room and tell him to get everything else under my mattress. Get the cash first without anyone around, and after you have the cash, then get my nephew to come in and handle the rest.”

After the visit, I went back with his mom to the house. After a couple of hours, his nephew left to get food. Once I heard him lock the door, I went down to Gino’s room. I lifted up the mattress, expecting to see a few dollars, but I was wrong. There was so much cash I could barely see the box spring.

Up near the pillows, there were guns and a box of ammo behind the bed. I did not expect that. Then it all hit me—I had been sleeping on guns. The Feds were just down here, and he could’ve pulled one, and I would not be here! This was another slap in the face by reality.

I got myself together because I had to get the money in the box and upstairs before his nephew got back. There was nearly $10,000 there. I did an official count at home. I locked the door, took the bag upstairs, put it with my weekend bag, and waited for his nephew.

His nephew came in with his food and went to his room. I waited a few minutes, then knocked on his door and told him what Gino said. He came over and grabbed the guns, then said, “Is that all that was under there?”

I said, “Yes.”

“What else should be here?” I asked, scared he knew about the money.

He said, “Was there any work?” By work, he meant weed or crack.

I said, “Nah, I didn’t see anything else.” (I had never seen any actual drugs in my life.)

I locked the door, went upstairs, grabbed my bags, and got on the bus before it was dark. I legit rode the public bus with a shoebox full of cash.

Boy, was I soup-sandwich crazy back then. It wasn’t until I was an adult that I realized I could’ve died several times. God kept me even back then when I didn’t know He existed.

Anyway, I hid the box under my bed until he told me what to do with it. He started to call me collect every day, and we would talk on the phone for hours. I loved him even more from our jail conversations. Jail talk is the best talk. Oh, he’s gonna hang the moon for me when he gets out. He’s gonna deliver the ocean to my front door! He’s gonna straighten up and fly right, NEVER get in trouble again. This is the stuff shows like Love After Lockup are made of.

When he wasn’t busy selling me dreams, he was telling me how his father was an authoritarian, how he was in “the game” when they were young. I genuinely felt bad for him. He was also a product of his father, like me. What choice did he really have? These were the ties that bind.

A few weeks later, I went to his house to go with his mom to visit him. She hadn’t made it home from work yet, so I sat on the couch with his nephew and waited. His nephew said, “So, do you know why he’s REALLY in there?”

I shook my head no.

He said, “They’re saying he shot Jimmy in the head.”

I said, “Who is Jimmy?”

His nephew shot me a look, kinda smirked, and took a pull from his cigarette. He then said, “He had a late-model light blue car when he was alive.”