Can't Be Trusted: And Other Short Stories

By Tawana Logan

Butafli is a majestic Jamaican go-getta who, regardless of parole, uses her body and street knowledge to get whatever she wants. She makes the mistake of recruiting the assistance of her sister Tonka and her cousin Fresh to rob Kilo, not knowing behind every boss is another boss. Take the reckless journey filled with humor, sex, drugs, money, and deception. The saying goes when you want something done, you must do it yourself. Otherwise, you learn that people can't be trusted. Bonus Books A Diabetic Cereal Killer Joshua is a young man who grew up with juvenile diabetes. Without a dad and with an ungrateful mom, he has to collect cans and work, yet he still cannot make his mom happy. With deep anger and disappointment, Joshua takes out his anger on others in a twisted way to get what he always wanted love and a little sugar satisfaction. Justice or Unforeseen Occurance? On her birthday, Crylynn Dunbar drives into incoming traffic in a DWI accident that claims the life of a man. After a brief encounter with the victim's family, she learns more about him as well as his homicidal past. The justice system gives her a break, but will the family? She soon learns that, as always, one action has a chain reaction and a consequence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 8, 2019
• ISBN: 9781644243282

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Can’t Be Trusted

And Other Short Stories

Tawana Logan

Copyright © 2019 Tawana Logan

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc. 2019

ISBN 978-1-64424-327-5 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64424-328-2 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Justice or Unforeseen Occurrence

A Diabetic Cereal Killer

Can’t Be Trusted

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

To my family and to all the readers, thank you ever so much.

You are never too old to set another goal or to dream a new dream.

—C.S. Lewis

Justice or Unforeseen Occurrence

A short story

It was the morning of October l7, 2007. I had just turned twenty-one and was going to Club Liquid. It was already planned that I would meet several of my friends there. I looked fabulous with my long dark hair and caramel complexion. Inside of the club, they were buying me drink after drink. Seems like I drunk some of everything the bar had to offer. I felt on top of the world. I knew that I had too much to drink; however, I was used to making things happen by myself. Besides, I’m technically grown-up now and I remember my stepfather telling me I wouldn’t live to see twenty-one. Talk about motivation guess I just proved him wrong.

My friend Tangie asked me if I wanted to ride with her. I declined her offer, as I had driven home in a much worse state, and I had no problems. At 5:00 a.m., as I was driving down the Lehigh Expressway in Rochester, New York, I listened to Keyshia Cole’s Love CD on full blast and rolled down the window a little bit for some air. I remember singing along, never knew what I was missing. The next thing I knew, I was driving into oncoming traffic. That was when it happened—I froze. I couldn’t react to what was happening. I woke up in Strong Memorial Hospital, hooked up to a machine with an IV in my arm. I touched my head. It was bandaged, and it was pounding

My arm was all scratched and bloody. When I looked down, I had a cast on my leg. I immediately pressed the button for a nurse or anybody to come and assist me. I tried to yell, but my voice was really raspy A minute later, a nurse arrived along with the detectives of RPD (Rochester Police Department). As soon as the nurse asked, Are you okay? I asked her what happened. The police interrupted her and began asking me a series of questions. As the nurse was escorted out of the room, one of the detectives called me by my first and last name, Crylynn Dunbar. He told me that my blood alcohol level was 0.16, twice the legal limit, and that I was extremely lucky to be alive. I couldn’t believe it. I asked him, What is the date? and he told me it was October 18. Yesterday was supposed to be my special day, and now I was in a world of trouble

I couldn’t imagine the half of it! They told me I would be charged with a felony DWI, asked me where I came from, and what seemed like one thousand questions. I wanted this to be a bad dream. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, they would still be here. I closed them again, asking God to help this nightmare go away. The detective said my name again. I opened my eyes. This was not a dream. I refused to answer any questions. I know my rights, and I want to be left alone. Another detective came inside of the hospital room and spoke with the detective who was bothering me. I was hoping they were all about to leave. This detective introduced himself as Investigator Sloan. Hello, Ms. Dunbar, I’m sorry to tell you this, but someone has died. Every word thereafter was faint and in slow motion. I felt terrible, and I knew I was finished.

Hours later, my mother arrived at the hospital. She received a call that I had been in an accident. I knew as soon as she saw me that she would start to pray. See, my mother had been saved and what she declared as sanctified for as long as I can remember. If nothing else, she made certain that me and my older brother, Lebron, were at Sunday school and Baptist church every Sunday. After a lengthy prayer, my mother began to tell me about her conversation with the detectives and advised me to be cooperative. Then she started chastising me because I killed someone.

Obviously, this was what I was looking forward to doing by the way she made it sound. When my brother turned twenty-one, he joined the military. She gave him her blessing. I never understood why Mom always talked about love and how God said we must love others, but she approved of her own son to go and possibly kill someone else. He had probably killed several by now. The more she spoke, the more hypocritical she sounded, and she was really pissing me off. I know, who was I to judge? I killed someone, but it was an accident.

She kept quoting scriptures, but I wanted her to leave and with Godspeed. After more chastising, she told me she was very disappointed in me and how I could make better choices. Then once again, she expressed her Agape love and requested that I repent of my sins. I thank God that she finally decided to leave me alone so that I can soak in my misery. Like clockwork, the detectives came back for round two as soon as she left. They came with their repetitive questions. I was so frustrated.

I said, It was my birthday. I went to Liquid to meet up with some of my friends. I was drinking, and then I chose to drive. They asked if I had ever heard of Percy E. Lee. I told them that I had not. That was when I got informed that Percy died after he had miraculously saved his twenty-year-old son from the vehicle I hit. I felt even worse. My decision to drink and drive cost an innocent person his life, a son his father. Why had I lived to endure so much pain?

The six o’clock news was coming on, and my friend Tangie had shown up to visit me. As soon as she saw me, she began to cry. She said, I should have taken your keys and demanded I ride along with her. As soon as we heard my name across the news, we became silent. The story sounded terrible. The man’s car was totaled. It looked as if it were made out of dollar-store aluminum foil. My Ford Explorer acquired minimal damage. The news anchor said, The body of twenty-three-year-old Monica Smitz was removed from the trunk of a Percy E. Lee’s car, who was killed in a DWI accident. Monica was the federal employee reported missing two days prior, as well as the daughter of a federal judge She had been dead for over twelve hours apparently. They found a candle inside her pocket.

What did that symbolize, or better yet what did it represent? A week passed, and the funeral for Mr. Lee was today at 2:00 p.m., according to news. I had been told by the doctor that my concussion was mild, and I was given crutches. He said I could be released today. However, the police were waiting outside to arrest me. I signed the release papers. The sooner the process began, the sooner I would be able to hopefully move past this. I was subsequently arrested, placed in a wheelchair, and cuffed to the side bar. They lifted me in the car, and I was wheelchair bound on the elevator and pushed into the courtroom. I met with a female attorney named Ms. Little. She explained to me that this was my first offense, and she was certain she could get me possibly probation. Then she said I basically did what the police should have done—I had stopped a criminal from killing again. The words that were proceeding out of her mouth were troubling to me. Would I get away with what I had done just because the victim was presumed a killer? What happened to innocent before proven guilty? Maybe he had no idea it was a body in the trunk. Who knows at this point? He was still a person who deserved life. Who was I to have taken that away? Don’t we all make mistakes? Eventually my bail was set at $5,000. In an orange jumpsuit, I called my real dad because I knew he wouldn’t judge me. He posted my bail. Mom was angry that I didn’t call her. I was what you could describe as a product of a on-again-off-again relationship. This was why my stepdad really couldn’t stand me. I had met with my lawyer only two times. I hadn’t had court in months, only to get a letter that stated my charges had been dismissed and my bail was being released minus 3 percent.

One year later, I made a full recovery.

I received a letter from a Mrs. Lee. It started out by saying, It all started ten years ago. If you would like to know more, meet me on October l7 at Magnolia Park. I was kind of worried why she’d taken so long to notify me about anything, especially on the date Percy died. Never mind my birthday—I find this to be extremely odd. Maybe she wanted to retaliate. I called my father and asked him what he made of it He knew my conscious was still bothering me. He told me that it couldn’t hurt to at least listen.

October l7, 2008

I met with Mrs. Lee. She was Caucasian and somewhat attractive. She had a huge Hermes bag, and she was really short, with a honey-blond wig. She had a cane and a weird disposition, but she looked harmless. We sat on the bench. She wouldn’t allow me to apologize. She told me it was okay. Then she began to tell me how it all began. She had a small basket full of what smelled like stale bread, and she fed the beautiful birds. She said, "In the early eighties, I met my husband, Percy, whom I called Cee for short. We were young and very much in love We didn’t have much, but we had each other. For six years, we worked odd jobs. It became a struggle making ends meet. That was when I found out that I was pregnant. While frequenting the local pub, Cee ran into a couple of guys who were, let’s just say, businessmen of pharmaceuticals. They were making lots and lots of money.

"The infatuation was intense for Cee, and the risks seemed minimal, so he thought I was never upset or bitter that he had gotten involved in the illegal drug trade. Quite naturally, we needed the money. Cee began taking all these trips and keeping a pharmacopeia, which is a book containing a list of drugs. He would never tell me exactly what his role was, but it was best if I didn’t know anything, then no one could ask me anything, and I would be telling the plain truth. One November day, Cee pulled up in a brand-new orange ’87 Ford Thunderbird and told me to pack all our clothes, pictures, and anything I thought was important Next thing I knew, we were living in an upscale area in a town called Gates. The house costs were around twenty-two thousand, which was a whole lot of money in those days.

"The inside was fully furnished. The baby’s room was all set up, and everything was a pretty royal blue with a crown border. He just knew we were having a boy, and sure enough we did. Everything was great. We were so happy. Cee had befriended a guy named Rick he had met at the pool hall. He even came over late one night. Cee ended up leaving with Rick that night. I wasn’t too concerned because I knew Cee, and he was no dummy When Cee Jr. was six months old, Cee started acting really paranoid. He had this constant look of worry. I asked him on several occasions what was wrong.

"One day, he finally told me that he was being followed, or at least he felt that way. A week later, he took another trip. Two days after he returned, there was a federal raid at the house. They took Cee to jail along with twelve others, including his friend Rick. Authorities took everything, including the house and the car. I had no choice except to move. I applied for public assistance and housing. I was very embarrassed. However, I had to put pride aside and raise our son. It was hard being by myself with a small child. Cee had put some money up for rainy days of course, but it was to no avail when it all went to his attorney. Eventually, he still received a ten-year sentence, which was his statutory mandatory minimum. First, he was in Ohio, and then they kept moving him around. I found a job, and I would send him money whenever possible. I kept in contact with him through the phone, letters, and pictures. The whole time he was incarcerated, he was bitter. He would express his remorse for having left us.

"He wanted revenge, and he always kept the paperwork of everything pertaining to his case. To add insult to injury, his friend Rick only received three years. In l998, Cee was released and was placed on five years of supervised release, but that never stopped him. Once he put his mind to doing something, he did it. He really missed Jr., so everywhere he went, he made sure Jr. was his shadow. I became concerned when I went into the basement and saw several news articles.

"The oldest newspaper was dated February 9, l999, a year after Cee was released. A California man named Miguel Luis was found dead execution style, with an ounce of cocaine inside of his pocket. The second newspaper was dated March 10, 2000. An octogenarian from Pennsylvania, who also owned a lot of real estate, was found dead inside one of his lavish homes. A bottle of oxycontin along with several other pills were found. It appeared to be an overdose. The third newspaper was dated April 11, 2001. A news reporter who was known to cover most drug stories was found stabbed to death just minutes after she was sent in the field to investigate a possible drug raid at a vacant mansion on Rochester’s east side. When she was found, she had a newspaper covered over her body and an article circled in blood. It read Judge Andrew Smitz to receive the Honorary Award of Excellence. He dedicated his award to his twenty-three-year-old daughter. The fourth newspaper was dated May 12, 2002. Supreme Court Justice Leonard Thomas was attacked and beaten to death