CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
2001 – Caught Up
Yeah, me.
The cops pulled me over, cuffed me, threw me in the back of a van and transported me back to the 88th Precinct.
“Yeah, boy,” one of the cops told me once we got to Clinton Hill, “we didn’t even know what precinct to write the warrant out of- 88th, 81st, 79th, 77th? You’re all city, kid!”
His cop buddy laughed and added, “I mean, we even considered getting in touch with the national police in Port au Prince and Panama City, Pierre. You’re a citizen of the world!”
So, it sounded like they’d been following me around for a while.
I took a wild guess and figured it had something to do with the guns in Eula’s crib and, by extension, Mundo’s Brownsville holding bay. And guess what- I was right. But the full story was even dumber than it sounded and more twisted than the Jackie Robinson Parkway.
I spent the next 14 hours shuffled from precinct to holding cell to court to Rikers, and then, finally, back to Brooklyn, where I sat in the Metropolitan Detention Center for weeks, waiting for word on what they were trying to charge me with.
At least I knew it was Federal.
And before I’d barely blinked, it was 2002.
