Carl Weber's Kingpins: Jamaica
Carl Weber’s Kingpins: Jamaica
Marcus Weber
www.urbanbooks.net
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue - Donavan, aka Gaza
Chapter One - Gaza
Chapter Two - Gaza
Chapter Three - Camille
Chapter Four - Gaza
Chapter Five - Camille
Chapter Six - Gaza
Chapter Seven - Camille
Chapter Eight - Gaza
Chapter Nine - Camille
Chapter Ten - Gaza
Chapter Eleven - Camille
Chapter Twelve - Gaza
Chapter Thirteen - Catherine
Chapter Fourteen - Catherine
Chapter Fifteen - Catherine
Chapter Sixteen - Catherine
Chapter Seventeen - Gaza
Chapter Eighteen - Camille
Chapter Nineteen - Catherine
Chapter Twenty - Catherine
Chapter Twenty-one - Catherine
Chapter Twenty-two - Gaza
Epilogue - Camille
Urban Books, LLC
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Farmingdale, NY 11735
Carl Weber’s Kingpins: Jamaica
Copyright © 2018 Racquel Williams
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior consent of the Publisher, except brief quotes used in reviews.
eISBN 13: 978-1-60162-101-6
eISBN 10: 1-60162-101-9
ISBN: 978-1-6016-2096-5
This is a work of fiction. Any references or similarities to actual events, real people, living or dead, or to real locales are intended to give the novel a sense of reality. Any similarity in other names, characters, places, and incidents is entirely coincidental.
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Dedication
I dedicate this book to my three sons. Over and over, y’all have proven to be the best thing that could’ve ever happened to me. Each day I get up, I thanks Allah for giving me the chance to be in y’all’s lives. I love y’all with everything in me.
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, I give all praises to Allah. Without Him, none of this would be possible.
To Nika Michelle, my friend and sister, I want to say a big thank you. God knows I wouldn’t have been able to finish this book without your guidance. I will forever be grateful.
And to all my readers and supporters, I love and appreciate y’all. Thanks for rocking with me.
Prologue
Donavan, aka Gaza
“Compound is now open for breakfast,” Lieutenant Rodriguez yelled over the loudspeaker.
Fuck. How did I sleep this late? I’ve waited ten fucking years for this day to come, and my dumb ass fell asleep. I jumped off the top bunk onto the floor. I grabbed my shower bag and rushed toward the shower. To my disappointment, the shower stalls were already packed. Mostly with niggas going to work at Unicor or to the gym for their daily workout routine.
“Damn, homie. This yo’ day, ain’t it?” my homie Big Cee said to me as we exchanged daps.
“Yeah, you know it, mon. Yo, soon as I touch down, my nigga, I gotcha. You hear me, yo?”
“Man, I already know you got me, bro. Aye, yo, get out there, fuck some bitches, get money, and stay out the motherfucking way. Nigga, I don’t want to see you back in here. You heard?” He grabbed me up in a bear-type hug.
“Yo, my nigga, you already know, I’m focused as fuck,” I said. “Fuck the Feds. I ain’t never coming back to this shit. My nigga, keep yo’ head up. You know they passing these laws and shit. Yo’ day comin’, homie.”
“My nigga, I got fifteen bodies on me. Ain’t no motherfucking law can get me up out of here unless they drop the motherfucking charges, you dig? All I need you to do is bless a nigga with some change when you send me some pussy pictures. Other than that, go live life, my nigga.”
I nodded. “A’ight, man, I got you. I love you, my nigga.”
“Yo, lemme go. You know how I hate missing breakfast,” he said, trying to hide the tears that were coming down his face. I watched as he ran out of Unit 8H, into the dimly lit federal compound.
I used e’erything in me to fight back tears. Cee was my big homie, my partner up in this bitch. The only nigga that I had confessed a lot of shit to. But he was right; he been down for fifteen years, and the judge had sentenced him to life. E’erybody knew life in prison meant just that: life. The best I could do for homie to show him how much I appreciated him was to keep his books stocked and send him naked bitches....
“Shower open,” a dude yelled, interrupting my thoughts.
“Here I come.” I squeezed through, not giving a fuck who was next. I was ready to get the fuck up outta here.
“Nigga, how the fuck you goin’ to just cut? You see all these motherfuckers waiting to get in,” someone said behind me.
I stopped dead in my tracks, then turned around to face the little pussy nigga that had had the balls to say some shit like this to me. I stepped a little closer to his face. “What the fuck you say to me?” I had my fist balled up. Before he could respond, I hit him dead in his mouth. Before I could get another hit in, I felt someone grab my arm.
“Yo, chill out! You goin’ to let a bitch-ass nigga take yo’ freedom away?” It was Cee holding on to me.
“Nah, bro. Fuck that nigga. I ’on’t give a fuck.”
“Man, shut the fuck up. Get in the shower, so you can dress and get the fuck up outta here. You in a motherfucking position that myself and other niggas would kill to have.” I saw the seriousness in Cee’s face, and I knew he meant business.
“A’ight, man.” I snatched my arm away and walked into the empty stall.
I was still fuming. But I felt where the big homie was coming from. I had a chance to walk out of here a free man today, and here I was, trying to fight. I cut the shower on, releasing the water on my head. I need to get my mind right before I stepped out today....
Twenty minutes later, I was dressed and ready to go.
“Donavan Coley, to R & D. Donavan Coley, report to R & D.”
This was my time, I thought as I strutted to the main building. Niggas were passing by me, giving me daps and reminding me to keep in touch. I assured them I would and kept it pushing.
Freedom at last, I thought.
* * *
When average prisoners left prison, they’d either go to a halfway house or go straight home if they maxed out. However, for me, it was different, I was on my way to an immigration holding facility, where I would stay until they shipped me back to my home country of Jamaica.
I was ten years old when Mama and I made our way to the “land of opportunities.” Those were my mom’s words for the United States. Since I was born and raised in the Kingston slum of McGregor Gully, my destiny was already carved out for me. Mama was a higgler who bought and sold clothes, shoes, and whatever else she could get her hands on to support her five children. There wasn’t no Daddy, and the few no-good niggas that came around didn’t stick around, especially when it was time to come up off that paper.
After watching Mama struggle by herself for a few years, I decided that I had to go out there and get money by any means necessary. I and two of my partners s
tarted hustling weed. The business started off slow, but as time went on, it grew. At first, I was able to help Mama with our food bill. Eventually, I was able to afford more. I remembered the smile on my younger siblings’ faces when I bought our first television and brought it home. Then I purchased a nice bed, and before you knew it, our little two-bedroom board house was decked out. I smiled as I thought about the joy on my mama’s face....
At some point, a relative of ours in the United States offered to help Mama out. So Mama, my oldest sister, and I came to New York one summer, with no intention of going back to Jamaica. The rest of my siblings remained in Jamaica and lived with my grandmother. Mama quickly married some dude and got her green card in no time. About a year later, my sister and I got ours also.
I wasn’t no book-smart nigga, not that I didn’t know a little something, but my focus wasn’t on that. I wanted to make money fast—not a few dollars, but plenty of them. I started off small, with an eight ball, and worked my way up. At first, things moved slowly for me, because I was the new kid on the block. One night at a club in the Bronx, I met two cats from Jamaica, Leroy and Gio. We became a trio and were inseparable. Whether we were grinding or fucking bitches, if you saw one of us, you saw all of us. It didn’t take me long to convince them that we could make this money and start running shit. Later, we made friends with a Trini dude, Demari, who would forever change our lives.
It took me about six years to get shit moving the way I wanted it to move. I found a connect out in Cali to supply me with pure, uncut coke. Within a year we were copping twenty-five kilos on each run. Putting in that work, me and my crew of five niggas had the East Coast on lock. We were supplying niggas in Jersey, Delaware, Virginia, and as far away as Florida. Money was flowing in, and so was the hate from other niggas. That didn’t stop shit, ’cause after a few altercations and niggas getting dropped, the word was out there that we were not to be fucked with. Shit started getting hot, but that didn’t deter me and my crew. Matter of fact, we started going harder at the grind.
I was so caught up in the grind, I was oblivious to the fact that one of my runners, Demari, had got torn off in Delaware by the Feds and had decided to rat on me. What made matters worse was that I had fucked with this nigga hard. Had brought the nigga to my crib, had gone on trips with this nigga, and had even bought this nigga a brand-new Lexus truck. Demari hadn’t been moving no way different, so I had had no reason not to trust him or believe he was anything short of loyal.
A year later, I was on my way to one of the trap houses when a black SUV cut me off. I pulled my gun, getting ready to bust at this clown, before I exited my Range Rover. Five other black SUVs pulled up. Niggas jumped out and ran up on me.
“US marshals, get down! Get down!” one of them shouted.
Fuck! I just shook my head. I thought about trying to shoot my way out, but I was surrounded. I looked up and saw a helicopter flying low. It was like in the movies. These motherfuckers were everywhere. They put the cuffs on me, and just like that, my life was changed.
As it turned out, all the trap houses were raided, my niggas were locked up, and accounts were seized. As I sat in my cell in MDC Brooklyn, I kept wondering how the fuck the Feds knew so much about my operation. The answers soon came to me in my motion for discovery. There was an undercover confidential informant. A bitch-ass nigga that I fed had crossed me! My lawyer fought, but in the end, the Feds had too much shit on me. From hours and hours of wiretapping, they had amassed a mountain of information about my drug activities and discussions of shootings. My lawyer advised me to go ahead and plead out.
In the end, the judge sentenced me to 180 months in prison, which was equal to fifteen years. I heard Mama screaming out after the sentence was passed down, but I, on the other hand, was feeling blessed. I wasn’t happy, but, shit, with all the evidence that they had on me, they could’ve easily given me life in prison.
I whispered “I love you” to Mama as the marshal led me away. Within weeks I was shipped to Beckley, West Virginia, to do my time. That had been my home for the past thirteen years. Until today . . .
“Let’s go, Reid,” a marshal yelled, interrupting my deep thoughts.
I opened my eyes and realized the plane had landed. We were in Rhode Island. This was where the immigration prison was located. Mama had told me that the lawyer said I shouldn’t be here for nothing over two weeks. But shit, you know how fucked up the system was; these motherfuckers did what the fuck they wanted to do. But fuck it. I done did my time. This shit right here was nothing compared to the shit I had done went through in the pen.
As I exited the plane, I stopped and took a long breath. This shit felt good.
“Move it, Coley,” this pussy-ass marshal yelled, as if I was his bitch.
I looked at that nigga, smiled as I kept it pushing. In another lifetime, this nigga would never come out his mouth at me like this. I walked off to the van that they had waiting. We all climbed in and sat there waiting in the hot-ass van, laughing and talking.
“Yo, it’s fucking hot in here,” a nigga in the back hollered.
But his plea fell on deaf ears. The marshals continued on about their business, ignoring us.
“Yo, pussy. It’s hot up in dis van,” I yelled.
“What the fuck you just said?” said a white, redneck, bitch-ass nigga as he stepped in the van.
“Nigga, you heard what the fuck I said.” I looked that nigga dead in the face. We stared each other down for a good two minutes. This nigga finally backed away. I knew he’d seen in my eyes that there wasn’t no bitch in my blood.
Minutes later the other bitch-ass nigga got in the van and pulled off. About thirty minutes later, we arrived at the immigration prison, climbed out of the van, and marched inside. I was eager to get in there, to get a shower, and get something to eat. This small prison was nothing compared to the one I had come from. It was quiet, and I welcomed that. After being in the pen all those years and being around niggas, being in a quieter place was far better. Once you got in bed in the pen, you could never really get a good night’s sleep, because niggas were constantly getting killed. You had to be on guard all the time, or you might just be the next victim.
Being the nigga I was, I was always on guard, ’cause I had promised Mama that I would come home to her alive, and not in a body bag, and that was a promise that I could not break....
Chapter One
Gaza
It was surprising how shit had changed in the thirteen years that I’d been gone. I had left Jamaica with Mama and my sister at the age of twenty-two, and here I was, returning at thirty-five, a grown-ass man. I felt kind of funny as I stepped off the United Airlines flight that had taken me from Rhode Island to Kingston, Jamaica. Yes, I was born at Jubilee Hospital and raised in McGregor Gully. When you mentioned the Gully, niggas automatically knew what you were all about. If you were from the Gully, you already knew we were all ’bout our paper. Either we were slinging them rocks, sticking up other dope boys, or pimping bitches out. We were goin’ to get it one way or the other....
It was humid as fuck, but it felt good. I stood outside, inhaling and exhaling the air on this hot August day. I looked around me; nothing seemed familiar. The last time I was here, in my country, I was a little-ass young man. I ain’t goin’ to lie: I started feeling crazy as fuck. I felt everyone was staring at me. I knew they were aware that this was the plane that carried the deportees.
After going through customs, I finally walked out the door. People were everywhere, and cars were pulling up to the curb. I felt like I wanted to run back inside the terminal, hide from all this chaos around me. . . .
“Donavan.” I heard someone yellin’ my government. I immediately recognized the voice without seeing the face.
I looked at the crowd of people that were standing around, and there was my mama, my queen, waving at me. I smiled and pushed through the crowd, trying to get to her.
“Oh my God. My baby is free!” she screamed as she hugged me
. Then she started planting kisses on my forehead.
Seconds later a car pulled up, and dude started honking his horn at us.
“Go the fuck around. You see me hugging ma child,” Mama said and flicked the man a bird.
“Come on, Mama. ’Cause if him, that pussy, say anything to you, it’s gonna be bloodshed out here today.” I was so serious, and I let it be known.
She finally let me go out of her tight embrace, pointed to her car, and climbed behind the wheel. I threw the envelopes that I had in my possession on the backseat and then got in the front passenger seat. Mama pulled off, still cussing the man out with her raw Jamaican accent, which seemed to get stronger the older she got.
“Damn, Ma. Ain’t nothing change. You still a gangsta,” I joked.
“Baby, don’t yuh start, now. You know yuh mama can handle herself.”
Her ass was nothing but about four feet five, but you couldn’t tell by her voice, which was strong whenever she spoke. Mama was the type to whup on niggas and bitches. I remembered how she used to beat this nigga Tony that she used to fuck with back when we lived in Jamaica. I mean, Mama used to use a broomstick on that nigga. It was funny as hell, because this nigga was big and bulky. He used to run out of the house, yelling cusswords until he got outside the gate. Thinking back on those good old days, I couldn’t help bursting into laughter.
“What the hell so funny, boy?”
“Ma, you remember how you used to run after Tony, hitting him with a broomstick and shit?”
“That damn fool Tony. You know he got killed a few years back? Gunmen ran up in his house in Portmore and killed him and his son. Word had it, him and his son was wrapped up in that scamming thing.”
“Really? That’s fucked up.”
“Boy, watch yo’ damn mout’,” she said with her raw Jamaican accent.
“My bad, Mama, but you do know I’m thirty-five years old now, right?”