Street Life: Redemption

By Pepi McKenzie

Street Life: Redemption reveals how law enforcement, the judiciary, prison psychologists, and those that rotate in the shadows of Minneapolis' cigar-smoke filled rooms have conspired to incarcerate by any means necessary, to fill their corrupt coffers.

This revolutionary fast-paced urban mystery thriller will take you on a journey into the

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cadmus Publishing
• Release date: Feb 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9781637510407

Pepi McKenzie

Pepi McKenzie was convicted of first-degree murder in 1992. He has used his hard-knock lessons acquired from jailhouse pimps, lawyers, prisoncrats, and members of street organizations to pen urban mystery thrillers that speak to the ineffectual judicial systems that harbor and coddle corrupt judges, prosecutors, and crooked homicide detectives whose aim is to incarcerate those that live in American ghettos. Pepi McKenzie's mission as a mystery writer is to bring urban mystery to the forefront by introducing the urban voices that are silenced by other mystery writers.

Book preview

Street Life:

Redemption

Written by:

Pepi

Cadmus Publishing

www.cadmuspublishing.com

Copyright © 2021 Pepi McKenzie

Published by Cadmus Publishing

www.cadmuspublishing.com

Port Angeles, WA

ISBN: 978-1-63751-040-7

All rights reserved. Copyright under Berne Copyright Convention, Universal Copyright Convention, and Pan-American Copyright Convention. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction; therefore, names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Caveat Emptor

This story may be true. The characters may exist. The crimes they’ve committed may have occurred - I’ll leave it up to you.

Special Honors To

My loving mother Ardella Mckenzie (R.I.P), Stacy Mckenzie, Willie (Zubby) Scott El, Jason Cheboya (R.I.P.), Adbul (Zeek) Musiqt, Willie X Lloyd Jr., Farley Cotton Sr., Calvin (Mufti) Everett, Edward (Lucky) Smith, Khabir (Pills) Rasheed, Anthony (Sugar Bear from Englewood) Edwards, John (Jon- Jon) Miles, Malachi (Manifest) Kilgore, Damion Williams (Sugar Bear from Long Beach California), Elizer Darus, Myon (Lil’ skitz) Burell, Damien Jones (Sugar Bea from Long Beach, California), Ambe Mckenzie, The Mckenzie Fam- ily, Robert (Die Slow) Kendell-Bey.

Dedications

This novel is dedicated to: The streets, the projects, the blocks that’s hot, the trap spot, the Hoods, the Brotha’s and Sista’s that got knocked, the Sista’s that hold down the spot when the Brotha’s are on lock, those that buy back the block, those that inspired me during this period of incarceration: C-Murder, Lil Boosie, T.I., Tupac, Scarface, J Prince, Suge Knight, Meek Mill, E-40, Plies, Larry Hoover, Yo Gotti, Shyne, Trick Daddy, Suga Free, Jeff Fort, Amina Fort, Slim Thug, Young M.A., Buju Banton, Beenie Man, Kendrick Lamar, Beanie Siegal, and all the Street Nations that are uplifting Humanity, rebuilding their

neighborhoods, and remaining positive - Stop The Violence.

Chapter One

Amy McCarthy leaned back in a custom black suede chair thinking about her new client. She had this case in the bag; it was a definite win-win. 3.5 million dollars to beat a double homicide was no sweat. She hadn’t spent her life in law schools, being a partner in top law firms in Minnesota, and New York for nothing. Her membership with the trial lawyer’s association, associations of criminal defense lawyers, and the few super-lawyer awards hanging on her wall, along with the other plaques and accolades made her and her law firm worth millions. Besides, the prosecutor was a putz, he didn’t have a clue; she had only one loss in the fifteen plus years of practicing law. Now, she was enjoying the view from her law firm from the 20th floor of Minneapolis’ iconic I.D.S. Building.

As she closed the file of her new client, she wondered about James. She managed to get the court of appeals to reduce his sentence to the guidelines sentence. She sent James numerous letters, but he would not respond. For some reason, her gut feeling told her to check on him. It had been two years since the last letter, and her drive to the prison. With her busy schedule, she’d have to send her investigator Moony to check on James, and let him know not to leave the prison without seeing James. Besides, she took it personal that she lost that trial. It was a for sure win. It wasn’t something she overlooked, and it wasn’t any legal technicalities. She was sure it was something behind the scenes; the more she thought about it, the more her wheels started turning, and she smelt a rotten rat. When she finished these few cases that were easy wins, she’d pull James’ file and review the facts of his case again. She leaned forward and pushed Moony’s number on speed dial. A few seconds later, she heard Moony’s deep voice respond.

"I’m here, what’s up?

Hey babe, it’s me, responded Amy.

Suga-Girl. What can I do for you?

I need you to go and visit James Blakley. The last I heard he was in Oak Park Heights. Do not accept no. I want to know how he’s doing.

Suga-Girl, come on now, you talking to me.

Alright Moony, I’ll talk to you later.

Moony had worked for Amy for over ten years; they met at a martial arts class, after she graduated law school, and worked for this crumby law firm that didn’t respect Amy’s skill as a lawyer. Since it was her second year out of law school, she bit the bullet and worked hard to win her cases. It didn’t seem that long ago, ten years just flew by, he thought. He knew where it went. Most of it went into his 1962 dark green Jaguar with tan leather seats, his collection of other cars, and a plush condo in downtown Minneapolis. He was glad he didn’t turn down Amy’s offer to help her investigate a couple of cases, and locate a few shady characters for her in a few of those dark places she would surely have trouble getting out of. Moony leaned deep in his black recliner deciding to pay a visit to a lovely young woman he met a few days ago, release some stress, and head to the prison to check up on James Blakely.

v v v

James took in deep breaths of fresh air, as he walked in circles in a cage they placed him in for his one hour of outside exercise. He thought about staying strong and not letting the situation and the forced sedative get to him. He had been at this prison for almost three years, and he still thought about, and remembered why, his name was his property. The straw man was the key. How could they dupe millions of people and get away with it for years? Over one-hundred years to be exact. It didn’t matter, because, either way, he wasn’t going to be locked up forever, someone was going to pay the piper, and he had a nice list floatin’ through his mind. He took another deep breath and stretched, because he knew they were going to give him a shot in few hours, and he wasn’t going to let them give it to him without a fight.

The guards knew what was on James’ mind, that’s why they were nice to him when they had to escort him outside, or whenever they passed him his food. It was, Hi Mr. Blakely this, Ok Mr. Blakely that, whatever; they knew what it was, thought James. James knew he had to be cool. He had to call his dad and see what he was up to; he hadn’t talked to him in a few months. Every time he fought against taking the shot, they would write him up, place him on in-house segregation, and his phone privileges were put on halt. He was cool with it, as long as he got to talk to his family every now and then. The only thing he was concerned about was getting those straw-man papers filed. James’ thought was interrupted by two guards who came to take him back into the mental health unit because his one hour was over.

A few minutes later, James paced the stale white cell with fluorescent lights that would drive a normal human being insane. He did push-ups and squats by the hundreds to keep his mind on his endgame instead of what the Roman soldiers had in store for him. He had to keep his body strong; he knew they were trying to take his mind. If he let his body go, his mind would surely follow. He learned while he was in St. Cloud: mind, body, and disposition are connected. If one was weak, they all would eventually be weak. He took note of the guys in the mental health unit that were overweight, or bloated from the anti-psychotic medications they were being given. James knew, whatever they were taking slowed them down to the point their bodies were soft and saggy. James did another set of fifty more push-ups thinking, that’s a damn shame; I ain’t goin’ though. After he finished another set of push-ups, he heard a knock the grey steel door that confined his body but not his mind. He looked up and Dr. Weinstein stood there looking stupid.

Are you ready to take your meds James?

James stood erect, his body glistening from the sweat accumulated from exercising. He motioned for Dr. Weinstein to come in his cell, and silently recited: and no wrong shall never again assail thy peace, nor error hurt thee more. Attune thy heart to purity, and thou shaft reach the place where sorrow is not, and all evil ends. Come give it to me bitch, James said in a low deep gruff, that made Dr. Weinstein wish he was a lawyer instead of a psychiatrist.

v v v

Moony leaned back in his dark green 1962 Jaguar coasting down 35 East on his way to Oak Park Heights with the Isley Brothers coming through the speakers. Minnesota’s best kept secret, he thought. Yeah, this is the place they send people when they want to lose them. He wondered about a few high-profile serial killers the court lost in this abyss of sterile cells and cages. He wondered about Joseph The Batman Ture and Harvey The Hammer Carrigan. Moony knew about Oak Park all too well. Whenever he heard something about the prison, it was a sex scandal. It seemed to him that the child molesting guards should be locked up instead of the guys they have behind the doors, or at least with them. After all, they build prisons for a reason. Everybody’s not innocent, he thought, as he coasted to For the Love of You, by the Isley Brothers. As he drove, he remembered investigating a civil case Amy won a few years back, after the guards beat the crap out of a guy while he was being housed in the segregation unit. Kicking on a door must be a serious rule violation. Although, it was an open and shut case, the prison administration made it difficult for him to talk to Amy’s client with the red tape bullshit they use to be evasive. He had Amy make a few calls to the D.O.C. headquarters. After the call, they were in line. He hoped it wasn’t that same warden. That chump looked like a weirdo if he’d ever saw one. His black hair, the 1970’s square frame glasses, and his tired tweed suit jacket; that dude looked like he jumped straight out of Catholic church with an altar boy on his lap. Moony pulled in the prison parking lot, parked, and walked to the front desk, showed his identification, and asked to visit James Blakely. The guard at the desk made a call for him to see James.

She responded to the message with a nod, and told Moony, Mr. Blakely wasn’t allowed any visitors at this time.

Moony leaned closer to the desk, in a stern, low voice Moony responded, listen sweet-heart, I’m Mr. Blakely’s investigator. I am here on official business. Would you please call who you were talking to and let them know that? He stood there while she picked up the phone and called the mental health unit.

She hung up the phone after a brief conversation, and told Moony, Mr. Blakely’s visits were canceled per Dr. Weinstein.

Raising his eye brow, he responded. Who is that?

He is the unit psychiatrist.

Standing tall to show his six-foot three frame, and folding his arms. Oh, really. Well, sweetheart, why don’t you call someone in charge of the prison? I’m not leaving until I see my client.

She stared at Moony’s smile, she couldn’t tell what he was thinking behind his five-percent tint glasses, but she knew he wasn’t budging from in front of the check-in desk. She picked up the phone and called the warden. A few minutes later, the warden approached Moony. Moony thought, damn she sure is fine. Jessica Lynn had been the warden at Oak Park Heights for about three years. She transferred from Colorado as a result of the prior warden, Jim Burton, being canned because of his admiration for sexually harassing female officers. Moony immediately shook Ms. Lynn’s hand, admired her five-foot five petit physique, and long sandy brown hair an average Joe would kill over. Moony had been with many women like Jessica. Head strong, independent, and determined, no kids, loved wearing the pants, but admires the strong man from afar and in between the sheets. Moony was all business, he would have to let his little head take a back seat on this one.

Hello, I’m Jessica Lynn.

How are you today, Mrs. Lynn? Moony said, as he shook her hand.

Actually, it’s Ms.

"Oh, sorry to hear that.