Never Go Home Again

Chapter One Damn! Corey quietly cursed himself as he sat on the hard wooden holding-cell benches, awaiting his fate. As he stared off into space, his mind was in another world. Or at least he wished he were. Presently, he was confined to a trash-littered bull pen beneath the Bronx Supreme Court that strongly reeked of urine from an unflushed toilet in the back corner. Combine that with the musky mixture of body odor that still lingered from the countless prisoners that had passed through the bowels of the justice system this day and the stench was damn near unbearable.Just a few short hours ago, this very bull pen had been bursting at the seams with blacks and Hispanics. Some were going to arraignments and preliminary hearings, while others were here for more serious matters, such as sentencing and bail-reduction hearings. Their crimes varied from shoplifting to murder. Corey watched closely with his face pressed between the thick steel bars as the court officers marched defendant after defendant into courtrooms, like cattle being led to the slaughterhouse. Silently he wished each and every man good luck, knowing that whatever their fortune or misfortune was, it could easily be his, when it was his turn to face the judge.His hopes soared like an eagle whenever a man caught a break or got released. Then they'd plunge faster than the stock market whenever a man received what Corey perceived as a travesty of justice from the court. He was on a never-ending emotional roller-coaster ride.Naive to the ways of the system, Corey would learn the hard way, over time, that it would take more than just luck or well-wishing for a minority to get a fair shake in any courtroom in America. Contrary to popular belief, the system of justice isn't blind; it sees very well the color of a man's skin. As morning slowly turned to afternoon, one by one the majority of the prisoners returned to the bull pen with all hopes of freedom dashed. Each man returned to the holding cell with his own personal horror story."Mmmaann, them crackers is playin' hardball in dat courtroom!" one black man said. "I came here for a bail reduction and dem bastards raised my bail. They gave me a ransom. Dat bitch-ass D.A. Miller told the judge that I was a habitual offender, a menace to society. Then they started talkin' 'bout dat three strikes shit..." His high-pitched voice bounced off the cell walls. This was center stage and he was holding court. He had the undivided attention of every prisoner in the cell. Every man wanted to know just exactly what he was up against.The skinny black man continued, "All I did was pick a few pockets and snatch a few chains on the train. I'm a smoker. I ain't kill nobody."After Corey and a few other serious criminals heard the man's reason for his crime spree, they lost what little respect they had for him. He was just another crackhead -- someone who was looked down upon in the criminal realm. At the bottom of the street food chain, he was nothing but a customer, a consumer -- chasing a high -- whereas Corey was a drug dealer -- chasing a dollar. People like this man were messing the drug game up. A crackhead like him had gotten Corey into his current predicament."Hope y'all got paid lawyers, cuz dem faggot-ass public defenders ain't worth shit!" the man said with anger in his voice. "Mine just sat there looking stupid while the D.A. assinated my character." Then as quickly as he started running his mouth, volunteering information, he stopped and started begging. "Ay, yo, papi, lemme getta short on dat cigarette," he appealed to the old Hispanic man he was talking to, who never said a word, just handed him the cigarette butt that had been passed around and smoked by practically every man in the bull pen. But that didn't stop the man from wrapping his own lips around it. He wanted a pull on the cancer stick bad. He wanted to fill his lungs with some nicotine, to calm his nerHolmes, Shannon is the author of 'Never Go Home Again', published 2004 under ISBN 9780743487832 and ISBN 0743487834.