“LIKE LL & MJ – I’M B.A.D.D.!” (Brothaz Against Drunk Driving)

Drawing of two cars crashing.

moziru.com

It was holiday season and the mood was festive. Black had been watching people come and go from the liquor store down the block all day. There would no doubt be a multitude of parties, and he knew that more than a few of these people would end up involving themselves in situations that would equal the risk of playing Russian roulette. 

He couldn’t help but think of his young cousin Jaquania, who perished months earlier in an alcohol-related automobile accident. She was an unnecessary victim of irresponsible drinking and poor decision making. 

The story his mother told him was that Jaquania, her girlfriend Cinnamon, and two other girls were hanging out at Stadium nightclub on New York Avenue. The club features nude female dancers and is a favorite amongst men, as well as LGBT women. 

Cinnamon had intended to be the designated driver. But after a little coercion from the other girls, she decided to partake in the libations. One of the other girls lived close by on Rhode Island Avenue, so they figured they would be fine. 

The girls partied like rock stars. And when the bartender announced “last call!” they made sure they had a place in line. 

The police report stated the white Acura TL, driven by Cinnamon, was headed westbound on New York Avenue. She pulled to the intersection of New York and Bladensburg Rd., ran the red light, and turned into oncoming traffic. A black Ford Expedition going 50 miles per hour rammed the passenger side. Cinnamon, the two other girls, and the driver of the Expedition were transported to an area hospital with non-life threatening injuries.  

Jaquania wasn’t as fortunate. The paramedics tried everything, but she couldn’t be revived. She had “given up the ghost” and was pronounced dead on the scene. She was only 25 years old. 

Black was locked up in D.C. Jail awaiting trial on a possession of a controlled substance charge when he received the news that Jaquania was dead.   

His mistake had been meeting with his man Fat-Fingers in an alley on Wahler Place, off Wheeler Rd. SE., to get two dippers for $35. Fat-Fingers was dipping the first cigarette when his eyes got big, as if he’d seen an apparition. Black turned and saw nothing but a regular looking group of guys pulling up to the corner in a Ford Fusion.  

When he turned back around, Fat-Fingers had vanished through a break in the fence that surrounded the development. Black saw he had dropped the moist cigarette by the fence, some ten feet away. But before he could even think to go pick it up, he was shoved to the ground. 

“WUT’DA (bleep)!” Black squealed as he tumbled to his knees. 

“FREEZE — YOU’RE UNDER ARREST!” yelled the narcotics officers.  

That was more than two months ago and he had been in custody since. 

Black couldn’t stop trembling as he hung up the phone, blown away by the news of his cousin’s death. He was overcome with grief when he thought about the fact he wouldn’t be able to attend the funeral. His mind was racing and his body temperature felt as if it were fluctuating. One second he had the chills, the next moment he was extremely warm. He felt tears welling up, but he beat them back.  

Black was so frustrated with life that he felt he had an obligation to act out. Misery loved company, so he was about to hold a recruitment session. “R.I.P. Jaquania. Somebody’s gonna pay!” 

He searched around the tier for a convenient nemesis and found Rob, a fellow whose look and demeanor rubbed him the wrong way. He had never encountered Rob on the outside and knew absolutely nothing about him. Black tried to understand why, but couldn’t. He just didn’t like Rob.  

Rob was playing “tunk” with two other inmates. “I HATE Y’ALL (bleep)s!” Black cried as he rushed the card table and flipped it. 

Then he pounced on Rob. “I GOT YOUR (bleep!) NOW!” he squealed.  

Black hit him with a roundhouse right, then a left jab. He grabbed Rob by both shoulders and threw him to the floor. Rob hadn’t even known he had an enemy on the tier. He was caught off guard, and his defenses were completely down. Rob had been caught slippin’.  

Simultaneously, Black screamed, “Mark Mosley!” as the intercoms sounded, “CODE BLUE!” He kicked Rob, and kicked more, as he saw in his peripheral the hoard of C.O.’s headed in his direction.  

“(bleep) ALL Y’ALL!!!” he shouted as he braced himself for what was about to go down. 

The officers converged, and Black felt himself being pulled at and tugged as they attempted to restrain him. His adrenaline was pumping and his instincts commanded, “GO HARD!”  

He was out of control and began to swing at everything. “CODE BLUE” turned to “CODE RED” over the intercom, as every available officer descended upon the tier.   

He didn’t know who he hit, but he knew he landed more than a few blows. Then he saw officer Mbasogo’s face front and center. This was the C.O. whom he hated the most. He quickly allowed his mouth to fill with saliva, then he spit — “SPLEWF!!!”  

Black instantly regretted it. It was like the music stopped and every eye on the tier was focused on him. One look at the murderous expression on Mbasogo’s face let him know the consequences would be stiff.  

“What did I do that for?!” he asked, as he watched the fluid glisten and slide down the officer’s cheek.  

The officers swarmed. They grabbed at Black as if he was a fumbled football on the visiting team’s goal line. He was given the Rodney King treatment, then dragged from the tier. They pulled him into a corridor and adorned him with handcuffs, shackles, and a waist restraint.  

Officer Taylor stepped up in his face and gave a smile so devious that it gave Black the chills. “Mr. Fields, today is your lucky day,” the officer said. “My guys say they’re not going to press charges. If it was up to me, you’d be going to Beaumont* for what you just did.”  

For a brief moment, Black was hopeful the repercussions for his actions would be slim. Then he noticed Officer Mbasogo and Officer Mugabe putting on their black leather gloves. He looked around the corridor for cameras and saw none. Something inside him said, “I done (bleep)ed up.” 

Seconds later, POW! SMASH! BOOM! to his midsection. Black was washed down with multiple cans of pepper spray, then hit with a flurry of blows. Handcuffed and shackled, all he could do was be the best punching bag he could be. 

Mbasogo hit Black from behind with a stun-gun and down he went. They took turns beating Black for almost 20 minutes. It was as if they had a practiced rotation. One was whipping, while one would be resting, as the other cheered them on. Black got the sense this was something they did often.  

The blows were mostly body shots. A bruised face would raise red flags. The officers were going to say Black’s injuries occurred in the short melee on the tier. Their word would be etched in stone, and Black’s truth would be ignored. 

Once they got tired of beating on him, they stripped him naked and threw him in isolation. Black languished for three days in the frigid padded room without as much as a blanket. His ribs were bruised, but his pride was still intact. 

All he could think about is how many people suffered because of Cinnamon’s transgression. Officer Mugabe threw his back out kicking at Black; officer Mbasogo got spit upon and bruised his knuckles; Rob and Black got their (bleep!) whipped; more than a few were just plain frustrated with life, and Jaquania was dead — all because Cinnamon thought it was okay to drink and get behind the wheel. 

Black was furious; but not at the officers.  

“(bleep!) Cinnamon!” he shivered.

*Beaumont, Texas is the location of a Federal penitentiary; all D.C. inmates are sent to the Federal penitentiary system. 


Issues |Death|Incarceration


Region |Washington DC

information about New Signature, a Washington DC tech solutions and consulting firm

Advertisement

email updates

We believe ending homelessness begins with listening to the stories of those who have experienced it.

Subscribe

RELATED CONTENT