Youngin' by Arlene Brathwaite

Youngin' by Arlene Brathwaite

Author:Arlene Brathwaite [Brathwaite, Arlene]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Urban, Fiction
ISBN: 9781570876998
Google: RzZkHwAACAAJ
Amazon: 1570876991
Publisher: Arlene Brathwaite
Published: 2007-04-01T04:00:00+00:00


When Jason woke up, he didn’t know where he was. He was quickly reminded when he moved his arm and felt the handcuff.

He looked toward the door and saw a uniformed officer. Shit, he thought.

“Yo, officer,” Jason called out.

The officer walked into the room. “What’s up?”

“I was hoping you could tell me. I was the victim here. Why am I the one cuffed to the bed?”

“The homicide detectives will be here shortly to answer your questions.”

“Homicide detectives?”

“Just sit tight.”

“This is some bullshit,” Jason said.

Last night was a blur. All he could remember, other than being in extreme pain, was officers asking him his name. He gave them the first name that came to mind, James Smith. Then they asked him what happened. “Dudes robbed me” was all he said. When he got to the hospital, he remembered the doctors hooking him up to a machine and shooting some kind of dye in him to see where the bullets had lodged themselves. Then he passed out.

Now, he looked around the room. There’s nothing to worry about, he told himself. When he looked at his hands, he realized that he spoke too soon. He saw traces of black ink on his fingers. Jason wasn’t a religious person, but today was as good as any to call on God, because no man could help him now.

A half hour later, two detectives walked into the room. The white detective with the coal black hair stepped forward, pulling out a pen and pad. “My name’s Detective Turner. You want to tell us what happened?”

Jason stared at the ceiling. “I got robbed, and they shot me.”

“Who shot you?”

“I don’t know.”

The detective who stood in the background just stared at him like he wanted to just pull his gun out and pistol whip him. Jason looked at him and nodded. The detective seethed at the gesture.

Detective Turner continued. “So tell us what happened from the beginning.”

Jason sighed. “I was on my way to a party, and these guys started walking toward me. I didn’t think anything of it ’til one of them pulled out a gun and told me to take off my jewelry. I complied with the motherfuckers, but they still shot me. Bitch ass niggas.”

“Can you describe any of them?”

“Nah, it all happened too fast.” Jason was getting tired of the question-and-answer session. He lifted his hand up. “Why am I handcuffed to this bed? Y’all acting like I was the one who robbed them motherfuckers.”

Both detectives looked at each other.

“What the fuck is going on here?” Jason demanded. “You can’t arrest me for anything.”

“Well, for one,” detective Turner said, “you gave us a false name”—he looked at his pad—“Mr. Jason Simmons.”

Jason’s heart pounded harder than a racehorse crossing the finish line.

Detective Turner smiled when he saw the blood drain from his face. “Prints don’t lie.” He flipped the pages on his pad.

“You know what else your prints told us?” He paused as if giving Jason a chance to answer the question. “They told us that you have a warrant in Manhattan.



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