Blood Defense - [4]

TWO

I put as much attitude into my voice as I could muster and spoke over my shoulder. “Deshawn Johnson, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Silence. Oh God, I was wrong. This was it. This was how I was going to die. I should do something, jump on someone’s instep, make a fast turn and head-butt someone, but my brain was stuck on the barrel jammed against my head. The pounding of my heart was all I could hear.

Then, a figure stepped around from behind me and moved next to the guy holding the gun to my head. “Ms. Brinkman? Shit. What you doin’ here?”

The man holding the gun-whose haircut reminded me of Vanilla Ice-looked from me to Deshawn. “You know dis bitch?”

“She’s my lawyer.” He waved a hand. “Y’all back off.”

Vanilla Ice stepped back and slipped the gun into his pocket as the other one slid the pipe back up his sleeve.

My brain signaled for all systems to stand down, and the adrenaline ebbed-a little too fast. I had to swallow to keep from vomiting. I pulled my jacket around me and folded my arms around my waist.

After a few deep breaths, the throbbing in my head started to recede… and then I got mad again. Really mad. You know what I hate almost as much as getting jacked? Working my ass off on a case and seeing all that hard work get flushed down the toilet.

I’d spent a lot of nights putting together the motion I’d been working on for Deshawn. If I won, he’d be home free. But if the cops caught Deshawn out here jacking people, “home” would be Wasco State Prison for twenty-five to life. My motion would matter about as much as a squirt gun in a hurricane.

I stepped up close to him and tried to keep my voice low. “Are you kidding me with this shit? I busted my hump on that motion, your mom probably went into hock to pay my freight, and you’re out here crime-ing.” Deshawn looked down. I pulled my phone out of my purse. “Matter of fact, I’m gonna call her right now and let her know-”

“No!” He grabbed my hand. Mama Johnson was no one to mess with, and we both knew it. He looked around, remembered that his homies were watching, and whispered, “Come on, you don’t gotta do that. Why you want to upset an old lady that way?”

I swear if we’d been alone, I’d have smacked him. “Me? Did I call you up and tell you to go out and jack people tonight?”

Deshawn sighed and threw a glance at Vanilla Ice. “It’s just a favor for Lil’ J. He’s trying to buy a ring for his girl. That gun ain’t even loaded.”

“But you’d still get twenty-five to life.” I nodded at the pocket of Vanilla’s hoodie that sagged with the weight of the gun, and at the other guy’s sleeve where the pipe was still peeking out at the cuff. “That’s a gun, and that’s a deadly weapon. You’re a third-striker, Deshawn.” I pointed to my temple-the same one that had hosted the barrel of a gun just minutes ago. “Think, man. You’ve got no slack here.” Deshawn nodded, then looked down at the ground again. “You couldn’t tell Lil’ J to check out a layaway plan at Zales?”

Deshawn shrugged. “Lil’ J’s not much of a saver. We said we’d do one, maybe two hits-don’t let no one get hurt-and he’d have to make do with whatever we got.”

“That’s good parenting, Deshawn. Way to set limits.”

He started to smile. “Really?”

“No.”

Deshawn stared over my shoulder, taking some time to try and save face. “Okay, okay. Tell you what, I’m goin’ on home now. I promise. Just don’t call my moms.”

I took a few seconds to make it look like I was thinking about it. I wanted to make Deshawn sweat a little. I looked at his posse. They were watching us, a little bit wary, a lot curious. “I need you all to do Deshawn a favor and make sure he goes straight home. Now. No detours. Got it?”

They nodded. A pack of hyenas would be more reliable, but you’ve got to work with what you’ve got. I scanned the pockets of Deshawn’s hoodie. “You strapped?”

He held up his hands. “No. I swear.”

I gave him a skeptical look. “Let’s see those pockets.” If they got stopped on the way home and the cops found a gun on him, he’d be toast. Deshawn pulled out the pockets of his hoodie. They were empty. I pointed to his jeans. “Those, too.”

He gave an exasperated huff. “Come on, man. I told you, I’m clean.” He saw the expression on my face, sighed, and pulled out his jeans pockets.

As he did, a baggie full of white-ish powder fell out. I snatched it up, opened it, and sniffed. “Heroin? Seriously?” Deshawn had never been into junk. Coke, yes. Pot, yes. But heroin, never. I closed my fist around it, just in case anyone was watching. “This is enough to bust you for intent to sell. What on earth are you dreaming?”

Deshawn shook his head. “It’s not what you think. This is just business. That shit’s pure, man. I step on it hard enough, I’ll probably clear fifty, maybe even a hundred grand.”

I stared at him, wondering how he’d managed to stay out of jail long enough to get busted again. “I don’t even want to know how you scored this much pure shit. But your shop is now officially closed for business.” I dropped the baggie into my purse.

Deshawn’s eyes got big. “What? No! You can’t! You know what that cost me?!”