Jarrus Jackson's Momma

Annabelle Jackson looked like somebody’s mother. She had a big, broad face with soft, brown eyes and a smile that managed to be both shy and worldly at the same time, a picture of life’s ups and downs. Standing in front of the Desk Sergeant, in a well-worn, but immaculately clean and pressed winter coat and her Sunday church hat, she could only be somebody’s mother.

            Joseph Cahill, the Desk Sergeant that morning at Chicago PD’s Area III Headquarters, recovering from a night of heavy boozing after his bowling league, had a large, economy-size bottle of Rolaids in front of him.

Handcuffed to a bench in front of him, a junked-up street hooker had just puked down the front of herself and now sat patiently aloof to the rest of the world, picking the pieces off the front of her red Danskin top. Outside, a huge German Shepherd in a K-9 unit, parked directly in front of the door, was barking furiously.                                                  

Trying to decide who to shoot first, the hooker or the dog, Cahill glanced up from a stack of papers, took one look at the big, chapped hands holding the pocketbook in front of her, the face and the hat, and broke into a smile. “Good morning, Ma’am, can I help you?” 

            “I was hoping I could talk to Detective Virgil Cole.”

            “Certainly, just a minute, please,” Cahill smiled, picking up the phone and pressing the intercom button. “Virg, there’s a lady down here that would like to talk to you... what’s your name Ma’am?”

            “Jackson... Annabelle Jackson.”

            “Thanks... okay. Detective Cole is upstairs, Ma’am, he’ll be right down.”

            “Thank you, so much.”

            “You’re welcome, Ma’am, have a nice morning.”

            Detective Virgil Cole came down the stairs moments later. “Miz’ Jackson, nice to see you. You remember my partner, Detective Rondell Dixon?” Cole asked, nodding towards a slender black man standing beside him.

            “Yes, I do. It’s nice to see you again, Detective Dixon.”

            “My pleasure, Ma’am.”

            Smelling the foul, sour smell and noticing Annabelle Jackson’s raised chin, Cole said, “Let’s talk in our office...”, then hesitated. “I’ve got a better idea. Let’s go sit down in the officer’s break room,” he said, remembering it’d been a busy Saturday night and most of what was handcuffed to chairs in the Detective’s Squad Room, made the hooker look like the cover of Cosmo.

            A group of six uniform guys were sitting around a TV monitor on the wall, watching ESPN.

            As Cole, Dixon and Annabelle Jackson entered the room, one of the uniforms, stood up and scooted his chair across the floor. “Here, Virg, let the lady sit...”

            They went to a table in the far corner. “Can we get you some coffee, or something?” Dixon asked, as Annabelle Jackson sat in the chair and Cole slouched half on the edge of the table.

            “No, no thank you... I think I’m fine. I always have coffee with the other ladies from Mount Olive after church.” 

            “So, how can we help you?” Cole asked looking down at her. Perched on the side of the table, Cole, who was close to 6’ 5”, towered over her.

            “It’s Jarrus,” she said hesitatingly, looking down at the floor. “Jarrus my youngest. He got arrested last night -- I guess he was with some other boys from the neighborhood who robbed a man on 63rd Street. I think it might have had something to do with drugs...”

            Cole nodded. “We’ll find out a little more about this.”

            “He’s not a bad boy, Detective Cole. He gets good grades; he’s even going to college next year.... It’s the gang people... there’s one they call Concho that Jarrus is real scared of. Jarrus bags groceries at A&P after school and this Concho and his friends take most of the money. Now, he’s got Jarrus doin’ other stuff, deliverin’ things... probably drugs...”

            Cole glanced across at Dixon. “Ronnie, would you call downstairs, see what the preliminary sheet says and if they haven’t moved Jarrus to the County, have them send him up.”

            Dixon was back in a minute, shaking his head. “No big deal, he was in the backseat, a Tac Unit busted all four of them in the car. He’s still here, they’re sending him up.”

            “Okay, Miz Jackson, I’m going to have you wait in here in the break room. Detective Dixon and I are going to have a chat with Jarrus and then I’ll bring him down and you can take him home, okay?”

            There were tears in her eyes when she looked up at Cole. “You know, you’ve done a lot for my family...  I want you to know...”

            Cole held up his hand. “I know Jarrus. He’s a good kid. He’s just at that moron age... typical teenager.” Or Cole thought, as typical as any teenager gets in this neighborhood.

            “She’s a nice lady. What’s she raised, about ten of them?” Dixon asked, as they left the break room.

            “Yeah, I lost count years ago, but they all turned out decent. She’s spent a lifetime scrubbing floors and washing dishes to keep those kids fed.”

            Dixon stood beside the front desk, smoking a cigarette and exchanging grins with Sergeant Cahill, as a very apprehensive Jarrus Jackson walked down into the stairwell with Virgil Cole.

            Cole was back several minutes later and gave Dixon a half smile that only used the left side of his mouth. “Jarrus and I had a serious chat about street gangs, hard-working mothers and kids who embarrass their hard-working mothers.”

            Dixon nodded. “Good job. Why don’t you try your luck with her?” he asked, pointing the cigarette at the hooker, who was coughing and hacking, getting ready to puke a second time.

            “Why don’t you go fuck yourself?”

            “Last time I looked, we were assigned to Area III Homicide, not The Officer Friendly Program...” Dixon gruffed.

            “Quit bitchin’. We’ll go have a couple of chili dogs at Lindy’s for lunch and then we’re going to drive over to 26th and California and have a little come-to-Jesus session with a certain Disciple general named Charles “Concho” Owens, who’s locked up there. He’s the guy Jarrus got busted with. He’s a real hardcase. Jarrus is scared shitless of him.”          

            McDonalds had probably spent three days and five grand to build the big red wooden fence between their parking lot and the alley strewn with paper and broken glass. It’d taken someone five seconds to make the fence fit the neighborhood, by spray painting GO Mc FUCK YOURSELF in large black letters across the big yellow happy face logo. Walking through the fenced-off police parking lot that bordered the opposite side of the alley, Cole reached across, rummaged through Dixon’s suitcoat pocket and took one of his Kools and his lighter.

            “Let me guess, you’ve quit, again?”

            “Naw,” Cole said through a puff of smoke, lighting the cigarette, “Yours just taste better.”

            “You know, nothing is gonna’ change over there,” Dixon said, nodding his head towards the Robert Taylor Housing Projects, which stretched for almost a mile down South State Street. “We’ll get this shitbag off Jarrus’s ass, just so he can find somebody else’s to climb on.”

            “You want perfection in an imperfect world,” Cole shrugged,

            “No, I want somebody smarter than you and me to figure out a solution for the Mekong Delta over there.” Dixon said, pointing to the massive buildings of Robert Taylor Homes.

            “What the hell do you care? You just work here. You live in Hyde Park and your kids go to Catholic school.”

            “Damn straight, there ain’t a social workin’ bone in my body. I’d live next door to Ward and June Cleaver, if I could.”

            “Fuck Ward,” Cole laughed, “But did I have a thing for June Cleaver. I spent a lot of happy hours under the sheets, playing with my dick and thinking about June Cleaver.”

            Dixon shook his head. “Ya’ know, Virg, we’ve been partners for a long time. Your godfather to two of my kids, but you never fail to amaze me... you’re about as crazy as my Uncle Clyde’s pet tomcat....”

            “Seriously, Ronnie. I used to have this thing about June Cleaver stark-assed naked, except for those high heels and that string of pearls, pushing that vacuum cleaner around the house....”

            “If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never understand you white folks....”

            An hour later, Cole and Dixon were standing in an interview room at the Cook County Jail, as a deputy brought the prisoner, dressed in a florescent orange county jail jumpsuit, into the room. The deputy closed the door behind him and left, a knowing smirk plastered all over his face.

            Charles Owens, the gang banger who’d been arrested with Jarrus Jackson, looked to be about twenty-three or twenty-four. He was over six foot, raw-boned and angular, built like a light heavyweight fighter. He had a medium-dark complexion that made the two scars by the left side of his mouth more pronounced. His hair was short, with a distinctive part shaved into the left side. He slouched against the doorframe, appraising Cole and Dixon with a cocky grin that showed cracked front teeth.

            Cole took one of two chairs in the room, moved it to the far corner, took off his suit coat and hung it on the back of the chair. He pulled the second chair away from the metal table that sat in the middle of the room, pointed to it, and said calmly, “Sit down.”

            The prisoner took his time getting to the chair, the smile never leaving his face.

            “You know me, right?” Cole asked, pleasantly.

            “Yeah, yeah, everybody know you. You was some kinda’ Green Beret or some such shit... they call you Cold Virgil Cole. You the poleece that throwed Willie Bradley down the stairs... I ain’t impressed. I’ve see’d a few folks go down stairs, if you get my drift?...”

            “Actually, I put Willie Bradley’s face through a plate glass door,” Cole said matter-of-factly, studying his own reflection in the two-way glass, noting how much gray he was getting in his blond hair. He’d seen a lot of assholes like this one, in twenty years on the police department. “Your name is Charles Owens. They call you Concho,” he said, picking up a manila folder from the table.

            “Yeah... you sharp. You must be one of them poleece they sent to night college, huh?”

            Cole smiled at Dixon, who was leaning against the wall on the far side of the room. Walking across and reaching down into the breast pocket of his suitcoat, Cole took out a stamped envelope, a blank sheet of white paper, a #2 lead pencil and set them on the table in front of Owens.”

            “What kinda’ shit that?” Owens asked, looking at the paper and pencil.

            “That’s an envelope already addressed to Internal Affairs, it’s even got a stamp on it, see? The other thing is a piece of paper. It’s to write your complaint letter and there’s a pencil to write it with.”

            “Aw Man! Why doncha’ y’all quit trying to be cute... y’all jus’ send me back to my cell.”

            “You’re not getting the picture, asshole. After we get done here, you’re going to have something to complain about.... You can write can’t you, Charles? You’re not just a clown who’ll draw gang symbols on the paper, are you?”

            “Owens eyes flashed; he folded his arms across his chest. “I ain’t got nothin’ to say to ya’ll... I want to go back to my cell... I want my lawyer.”

            “He’s busy chasing ambulances. Besides, you aren’t here to talk, you’re here to listen,” Cole said evenly, then with the open palm of his right hand, slapped Owens hard in the side of the head, knocking him completely off the chair.

            “Mutha Fu...!” Owens howled, climbing off the floor.

            “Cole let Owens make it to his feet, before a second, even harder slap to the side of the head sent him back to the floor.

            “Ya’ll can’t do this shit! ...”  Owens howled.

            “Make a note of that, would you?” Cole smiled at Dixon.

            “Good point,” Dixon nodded. “That’s the kind of information we otta’ pass around, let everybody know about it.”

            Owens sat down gingerly and looked at Dixon who was still leaning against the wall, a broad grin on his face.

            “Don’t look at me with your sad-assed expression, nigger.  I ain’t your god damn daddy,” Dixon laughed.

            “This guy’s a stud,” Cole said, looking over Owen’s rap sheet in the manila folder “He’s been busted for raping a fifteen-year-old girl, assaulting an eighty-year old-woman in a wheelchair during a home invasion, pistol whipping a clerk during an armed robbery...” 

            “Yeah, kinda’ makes you understand why they’re passin’ out free rubbers...maybe, we otta’ change your street name from Concho to Rubbers,” Dixon laughed.  

            “I’m gettin’ the picture. That little Jackson boy narced me out and his tired little black ass is gonna’ be real fuckin’ sorry when I get outta’ here....” Owens muttered and then yelped, as Cole backhanded him out of the chair.

            “Hey Rubbers, when you gonna’ quit actin’ like a bitch and get up off that floor and whip his white ass?...” Dixon sneered, “ Big time stud like you, crawlin’ around the floor....”

            Owens came off the floor fast, but Cole stepped forward and slammed a left hook to Owens’ chest just below the heart. Owens made a high-pitched wheezing sound, his knees buckled, and he crumpled forward, his forehead coming to rest on the floor.            

            “Hurts like hell, doesn’t it?” Cole said, calmly. “What happened is your heart stopped for a second. Lay there and catch your breath. When you get up, you’re going to be a new man. You’re going to sit up straight in the chair and speak only when you’re spoken to. You’ll speak English, not that mush-mouthed street shit and you’ll address Detective Dixon and me as, “sir”. You got that?”

            Owens nodded his head, still unable to speak. Cole reached down and there was a loud smacking sound as he slammed both open palms against Owen’s ears. “You got that?”

            “Ye... yes, sir,” Owens squeaked, his forehead still resting on the floor.

            Owens pulled himself all the way up onto the chair and sat with his left hand holding his chest and right index finger poking gingerly at one ear, then the other.

            “Jarrus Jackson... the kid you’ve been leaning on, collecting protection money from?”      

            “Yes, sir?” Owens wheezed.

            “If I ever catch you or any other gang member within one city block of Jarrus Jackson, or any member of his family, I will personally fix you so that you spend the rest of your life in a fucking wheelchair, do you understand me?”

            “Yes, sir...”

            “If anything, no matter how small, happens to Jarrus Jackson, or any member of his family, I’m not going to bother figuring out who did it. Instead, I’m going to find you and when I’m done, people will be sending you their nickels and dimes, because you’re gonna’ look like one of Jerry’s fuckin’ kids. Do you understand me, Charles?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Now, no one knows what happened in this room. You didn’t lose any cred out on the streets, right?”

            “No, sir.”

            “You’re still a General in the Gangster Disciples, right?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “So, we have no further business to conduct, do we, Charles?” Cole asked, picking up the paper, pencil and envelope and sliding them back in his suitcoat pocket.

            “No, sir, we don’t....” Owens said softly, looking at the floor....