Larceny Read online

  Larceny

  Triple Crown Collection

  Jason Poole

  www.urbanbooks.net

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Dedication

  CHAPTER 1 - “When We Met”

  CHAPTER 2 - “The Paralegal”

  CHAPTER 3 - “The Lawyer”

  CHAPTER 4 - “Only the Worst Could Happen”

  CHAPTER 5 - “The Lawyer”

  CHAPTER 6 - “School of Hard Knocks”

  CHAPTER 7 - “Welcome Home, Bilal”

  CHAPTER 8 - “Come on Home”

  CHAPTER 9 - “A New Beginning”

  CHAPTER 10 - “6 Months Later”

  CHAPTER 11 - “Long Time Coming”

  CHAPTER 12 - “The Next Day”

  CHAPTER 13 - “The Plan”

  CHAPTER 14 - “Forever Loyal”

  CHAPTER 15 - “Perfect Timing”

  CHAPTER 16 - “Untouchable”

  CHAPTER 17 - “Sky’s The Limit”

  CHAPTER 18 - “A Way Out”

  CHAPTER 19 - “No Way Out”

  CHAPTER 20 - “The Tightest”

  CHAPTER 21 - “Against All Odds”

  CHAPTER 22 - “The Unforgiven”

  CHAPTER 23 - “6 Months Later”

  CHAPTER 24 - “The Cruelest Lie”

  CHAPTER 25 - “Get Ready to Rumble”

  CHAPTER 26 - Two Years Later

  Copyright Page

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  For my son.

  Everything I do, I do it for you. Live by the jewels that have

  been handed down to you, and I assure you that there will

  never be any room for error.

  Love always, The one who has given you life, Dad

  Also I would like to thank Vickie Stringer, Triple Crown

  Publications and Kathleen Jackson for all of their help

  and assistance.

  DEDICATION

  This book is deeply dedicated to my most truest and

  dearest comrades,

  James H. Fowler, Ishmael Ford-Bey, and

  Ruben “Rat-Man” Bell, R.I.P.

  Forever I shall remain loyal, even in my death.

  J. Rock

  Special dedication to

  My brother, Eric “Fat-Cat” Poole, and my cousin,

  Michael “Six Pack” Modlin, R.I.P.

  CHAPTER 1

  “When We Met”

  SONYA

  It was a cool day in May of 1994 when we first met. As I entered the building most famous in Washington, D.C. for its political scandals and often seen on every news channel after 5:00 p.m., I felt good.

  For some reason, today seemed so good. I woke up this morning feeling more beautiful than ever. As I looked at myself in the mirror of my one-bedroom condo on Connecticut Avenue in Northwest D.C., I must say that I was proud of the reflection I saw. I could tell that the low-carb diet that I’d been on for the past month was doing my abs supreme justice. My stomach was almost flatter than Janet Jackson’s and my ass was more shapely and fatter than a Las Vegas stripper. Thanks to my mama, I had inherited one of her greatest assets. Also, I could see that the Palmer’s Coca Butter that I used kept my golden brown skin as flawless as Halle Berry’s. If I was to compare myself to someone famous, I’d say it would be Toni Braxton, but I am slightly thicker in all the right places.

  In most men eyes, I’m considered a perfect ten—a straight dime piece is what they call it—and to my surprise, not just men but women too, especially the ones who desperately want to sleep with me. I’m always getting indirect invitations from bisexual women, and to tell the truth, these women are gorgeous also. Although it may seem interesting letting another woman lick my pussy, I still decline. I’m not into that, and I don’t think I ever will be. I’m strictly dickly.

  I opened my bedroom windows this morning to get a feel of the summer’s cool breeze. The weather was nice. It was in the high 70s. As I opened my walk-in closet full of upscale business suits, casual tops and bottoms of the latest designer fashions, I thought it would be perfect to wear my new cream-colored Dolce & Gabbana short halter-top dress. I pulled out a pair of medium-heel ankle-laced sandals by Joan & David to show off my freshly pedicured toes. Since I felt so good, I planned to wear my hair back and let its tail fall down to crease of my spine, sort of how the famous singer Sade wore hers—and no, I do not have a big forehead.

  I stepped into the shower and turned on the radio to the station that played all the coolest jams. I turned the volume up as they played Tanya Blunt’s new song, “Through The Rain.” Tanya was also from Washington, D.C. and it was so good to see people from D.C. getting a chance to show their true talents.

  When I got out of the shower, I hadn’t realized that time had flown past so quickly. I had gotten in the shower at 9:30 a.m., and it was now 10:15. Damn, that shower felt so good. I guess I had gotten caught up and lost track of time, sorta like lovemaking, huh? Anyway, I let the cool breeze from my bedroom window dry my golden brown skin off, and then I lotioned my body with my Victoria’s Secret Amber Romance body lotion and put on my clothes, pulled my hair back, and looked in the mirror one last time. Oh, did I mention I’m also bowlegged?

  Here I am, Ms. Sonya Chanell Dunkin, an assistant producer at B.E.T. Studios, with a lavish condo in the upper northwest and the proud owner of a new emerald green convertible BMW 325, and for the record, I’m single, sexy, and free.

  I didn’t have enough time to grab a bite to eat because my appointment was scheduled for 11:15 a.m., so instead, I grabbed a granola bar, got in my BMW, and headed for 500 Indiana Avenue Northwest, Washington, D.C.’s Superior Court.

  It was this day that I met the man of my dreams, the most gracious and perfect gentleman I’ve ever met in my life. This was the day I met the man I plan to spend the rest of my life with. As I entered the elevator and the door was about to close, it opened back up again and there he was. There were two other women on the elevator, one who seemed as though she was a nervous wreck. I assumed she was an untrained court clerk getting the run around from her boss. The other one was an elderly woman with a pretty smile who wore the worst perfume I’d ever smelled in my life. And there he was, just about six feet tall, caramel complexion, jet black wavy hair, which he wore semi low with the grain. He had a precise shape-up, as though his barber had outlined it with a razor, and he wore a light, perfectly trimmed goatee.

  It was as if I had X-ray vision because when I pierced my eyes through his clothing, it was obvious this man was in extremely good shape. He had a body similar to the actor Shamar Moore. His face was very handsome. It reminded me of Denzel Washington when he played Malcolm X. As I glanced up and down at him, shoes first, I saw that he wore about a size 9 and he had on a pair of black calfskin slip-ons by Salvatore Ferragamo with the silver buckle, a pair of thin black slacks by Ferragamo with a matching black belt. His slacks weren’t tight nor too baggy; they fit him just right. When he stood still, the cuff of his slacks lay over the top of his shoes, and when he walked, the cuff would pop up, exposing the buckle of his shoes, which matched his belt. He had made sure that his outfit was perfect. He also wore a thin black long-sleeve mock neck shirt, which enhanced his Movado watch.

  On the other wrist he had a plain white gold bracelet designed like a bicycle chain. He also carried a small notebook case, and his walk was a gracious, cool, superior walk, as if to say “Nothing or nobody can fuck with me!” It wasn’t a thugged-out, “I’m trying too much to look hard” walk. It was more of a glide with a sense of security, boldness, and assurance.

  The elevator reached the third floor and the doors opened. As I was getting off the elevator
, I couldn’t resist the sensational smell of his cologne. I imagined it might have been “Curve” by Liz Claiborne or “Blue Jean” by Gianni Versace. Before the doors closed, he leaped out of the elevator and followed me as I continued to walk down the hall.

  “Excuse me, Miss. May I please have a moment of your time?” he asked.

  Although I knew he was talking to me, I still played it off. I looked up and down the hall and answered, “Are you talking to me?”

  “Yes, I am. Hello, and how are you?” he said, his voice sounding smoother than he looked. “My name is Jovan Price, and I normally don’t go out of my way much, but for you I had to make an exception. It is obvious by my actions that I’m extremely attracted to you. Is there any kinda way that you and I can get to know one another better?”

  Normally, I would have told the average brotha that I was either involved or engaged, but with him I respected his approach, so I said, “Well, Mr. Price . . .”

  “Jovan. Please call me Jovan. Mr. Price is my father,” he said, smiling.

  “Okay then, Jovan. My name is Sonya, and it wouldn’t be any harm in us getting to know each other a little better, but right now I’m running late. I have an appointment in about sixty seconds. I shouldn’t be that long; maybe fifteen to twenty minutes.”

  “So, Ms. Sonya, is it good to say that you’ll have lunch with me?”

  In my mind, I was saying, “Hell yes, with your fine ass!” But, as always, I was too ladylike to be acting like my hood rat cousin, Trina, so I said, “Yes, I will have lunch with you.”

  “Good, then you can meet me on the first floor about twelve o’clock, which is a half hour from now.”

  “Okay, I’ll be there.”

  “I’ll be waiting, Sonya.”

  It was now twelve o’clock, the busiest time in downtown Washington, D.C. As I stepped off the elevator anticipating my lunch date with Mr. Jovan, I maneuvered my way through the crowd of lawyers, district attorneys, criminals awaiting trial, and busy protesters who often frequented this building. I looked all around for a minute, and I still couldn’t find him, until all of a sudden I heard that full, smooth voice, followed by that familiar sensational cologne scent.

  “Excuse me, Miss Beautiful, are you looking for someone?” Jovan asked.

  There he was, standing behind me. I didn’t realize he was that close at first, and any other time, when someone crept up on me like that I would have been on some type of guard, but with him for some reason, I felt a sense of security.

  “Oh, there you are. So what’s up?” I asked.

  “Where should we go for lunch? Do you like seafood? I was thinking we could go down to Phillips Seafood restaurant on the waterfront,” Jovan said.

  “Yeah, I could go for some shrimp and a salad,” I said.

  “Good then, are you driving?”

  “Yes. I’m parked in the garage over on C Street.”

  “Well, I’m parked about two blocks down from you.”

  “We can take my car and I can bring you back to your car after we finish lunch,” I said.

  “Oh, no, you don’t have to do that. I’m not due back in court. The hearing is over with. How about we meet each other in front of the restaurant?” he said.

  “Cool,” I said.

  As I pulled my BMW out of the parking garage, I started to contemplate what I was doing. Should I go to lunch or just head on home as though I never met this man? I started thinking as I retraced every step from the moment we met in the court building. He seemed okay: very sexy, polite, good manners, and fine as hell. I would say the perfect gentleman, but when he told me he wasn’t due back in court and that the hearing was over, my antennas immediately shot straight up.

  Now, I grew up in Trinidad northeast, one of the most treacherous neighborhoods in D.C., and there wasn’t too much you could get past me. Most of the game niggas ran on other bitches out there was so weak you could see right through it. I’d seen niggas talk a virgin into fucking on the first night, so whatever game a nigga was shooting at me was getting batted down off the break. So, I did what most people in my position would do: I took a chance because for one, he could be some type of criminal, which I doubted, or he could have had some type of lawsuit hearing, or he may have been some kind of lawyer. Who knew. I’d never know until I went to lunch and found out more about this man Jovan Price.

  As I pulled up in front of Phillips Seafood restaurant, I could see that Jovan had gotten there first and was standing in the walkway of the restaurant waiting for me. There were four other cars parked at the restaurant: a black corvette, a blue MVP mini van, a 500SL white Mercedes-Benz, and a gray two-door Acura Legend. Since Jovan had gotten here so fast, I guessed that the black Corvette was his, or maybe the Mercedes. Most guys I knew from D.C. wouldn’t be pushing a 500SL and wearing a Movado watch. They’d be rockin’ a Rolex.

  When I got out of my car, Jovan was a complete gentleman. He opened my door, grabbed my hand, and helped me out. He even added in a little humor.

  “Ms. Sonya, so glad to see you. For a minute I thought you had a change of plans.” When he smiled, I just looked up at him and imagined kissing him on those pretty, full lips.

  “No, I didn’t have a change of plans. I guess your car is just a lot faster than mine,” I said, giving him the opportunity to tell me which one of those lovely cars was his; but he just smiled and positioned me in the direction of the restaurant.

  CHAPTER 2

  “The Paralegal”

  Jovan

  Around nine o’clock in the morning, I got a call from my employer at his law office. There must have been some type of problem, because usually he would be in court around that time, trying to get one of his clients out of jail, or at least trying to fuck any district attorney who wanted to prosecute one of his clients. Here I was, Jovan Conrad Price, getting harassed by my boss at 9:00 in the morning, especially on my day off.

  I worked for Mark Rohon, an attorney with the biggest criminal law firm in Washington, D.C., Rohon and Robinson. He was the leading attorney at his office, and he was very well known for his many highly publicized cases. His legal skill attracted the biggest drug dealers in the city.

  If anyone who was getting some type of papers in D.C., or at least on trial for some murders, wanted to get off and win the case, then Mark Rohon was their man. Believe me, his services did not come cheap. It’s been said that Mark worked so hard getting his clients out of jail that the government wanted to investigate him to see if there was some kinda way that he was involved with their criminal conduct. Like any other smart attorney, Mark always had a way of getting out of any scheme.

  I’d only been working for Mark for about five months, and the more I worked for him, the more I saw how crooked lawyers were. But for me, a nigga from the streets of Southeast, I respected his game, and besides, this mu’fucka was getting paid out the ass. Niggas came by his office every day, dropping off shoe boxes full of money, and out of all this money, this fucker only paid me a punk-ass thousand dollars a week. Now, I was no lawyer, but most of the cases that were put in Mark’s motions came from my labor.

  I took a paralegal course for two years and received my graduate diploma about six months ago. I knew Mark from paying him on previous cases for some good friends of mine. We connected well and became cool, and he always told me if there was anything he could do to help me legally, he would; so when I received my diploma in paralegal studies, I went straight to Mark.

  At first he seemed a little hesitant about hiring me, but once I explained to him my position and the need for money to continue my education, he graciously obliged. I was more than happy to get the job, but for real, I was still fucked up financially. I not only needed money for school, but I also had a lavish spending habit. I liked the finer things in life. I was used to having money.

  All my life I’d been getting that money, loot, dough, cash, cheese, or whatever else you may call it. I had always had a lust for that paper. I craved it like a junkie craves a fi
x.

  It used to cross my mind to get back into hustling, but I always knew that it took too much risk, time, and hard effort to achieve the type of bank I really wanted, and besides, there was too much competition in D.C. at the time.

  The summer of ’94 was a booming year. Everybody was getting it, doin’ they thang. I often thought about kidnapping and robbing a few of these niggas out there getting that money; especially those punks who ain’t suppose to have it. Nowadays, everybody was hustling, slinging them thangs. Niggas who ain’t put in any work or come up hard from rock bottom was getting money, pushing 600SL’s, Lexus Coupes, LS400’s and 850I BMW’s.

  When the notorious Big Silk was on the scene, none of these niggas was flaunting their bank like that, let alone coming off their fucking porches, but as soon as they heard that this killer had gotten three life sentences, all of a sudden niggas started poppin’ up with shit. Don’t get me wrong; there were some real gangstas out there getting money when Big Silk was on the scene, but them punks who he peeped as variable niggas who wasn’t fit to play in this game definitely got what was coming to them. They were being robbed at will.

  Now that I was changing my life, it was hard for me to get used to not having a lot. Oftentimes I felt depressed, unfocused, and just plain ole broke as hell. I knew I had to put a plan together, the perfect plan that I’d been working on for the last two years. I called it the Political Move, and all I needed to make my plan work was a nice bankroll and a down-ass bitch.

  I considered a few females that I was dealing with at the time, like Barvette. She was one of the top-flight broads in the city. Barvette looked good, and she had a business head on her shoulders, but the only thing about her that I couldn’t get with was that she fucked around with too many major niggas. She wasn’t looked at as some freak-ass hood rat. She was more like a female player who knew how to play her cards right. She was the type of female you could take anywhere and she’d adjust to the situation.