For Rectitude and Glory

By Fabian Hernandez

For Rectitude and Glory follows the journey of Jamel Frederick, the top-rated amateur middleweight in the world, from the deadly streets of Overtown to the Olympic boxing tournament in Rio de Janeiro Brazil. Boxing is Jamel's escape from the violence and poverty that plague his neighborhood. After enduring a

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sports
• Release date: Nov 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9798869000484

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For Rectitude and Glory

Fabian Hernandez

Copyright © 2023 Fabian Hernandez

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 1

On the outskirts of downtown, in a place left to rot and crumble under the forces of time, wind, and gravity, a man drags his mangled body under the dim streetlights. He lost blood with each step, staining the concrete and forming a path from the river through the hood. Limp after limp, the man held a single thought in his mind. It was the face that awoke him from death.

A few onlookers watched from the safety of their windows, doing nothing to help the critically injured man. Under the darkness of night, the man looked possessed as he snarled like a mad dog, drooling with every breath he took. Despite all the pain he felt, rage and vengeance kept him moving, limp after limp. All he could see was a dark path that led to the horizon. His left eye had swollen shut, the right eye nearly as bad. Both orbital bones were broken. Still, nothing would stop him from arriving at his destination, not even a bullet to the chest.

Percy... was all he could say.

15 years later...

The sun rose over the riverside, where the forgotten beings of society lived under the bridge like primitive humans. The area was infested with homeless people, starving individuals of sound and unsound minds. It was an ugly side of society that held captive the few who avoided a life of crime. The neighborhood was a crumbled disaster for seventeen avenues east of the river and thirty-six blocks to the north.

The area was broken up into two different races, composed of the north side and the south side. The south section was made up of immigrant Cubans, Nicaraguans, and Colombians. The north side was made mostly of Jamaicans and Haitians who were engaged in their own turf war. Somewhere in the middle was a mixed community where murderers, thieves, drug dealers, and drug addicts destroyed one another on a daily basis.

It was a typical Monday in December. Outside of Jackson's Food Store, the street was full of unemployed people on both sides of Seventh Avenue. A relatively young African American male with a thick beard was walking to the bus stop. He was an outsider, a stranger in a place that he once called home. On the way, he was stopped by someone who recognized him.

Say, man, do I know you? asked the short, stocky man who was waiting for his ride at the metro rail station.

I don't think so, said the outsider.

Yea, you went to Booker T. Washington. You're that athlete, uh, Frederick, said the local with a solid memory.

Oh, right. You're Charlie, replied the outsider.

So, where you been, man? Hell, I thought you were dead, said the shorter man from Overtown, a small, historic section of downtown Miami plagued by violence.

I was living in New Orleans, working as a welder. I heard there was work after Katrina, so I went. But my momma passed away. I'm here for the funeral, said the outsider. It had been fifteen years since he last roamed those streets. Nothing looked familiar to him, although little had actually changed. The reunion was brief. The outsider wasn't interested in rekindling a meaningless acquaintance.

The outsider got to the bus stop that was located in front of Jackson's Food Store. There were over a dozen people either waiting for the bus or loitering. Some of the homeless men acted obnoxiously loud and drunk in the early hours of the day.

I know he wasn't talking to me like that! I'll cut a motherfucker with no problem! No problem! said a homeless man wearing a dirty, faded L.A. King's hat. He was yelling at an older, homeless man who he thought had stolen his malt liquor.

I'll break my foot on yo mouth, said the older homeless man. Don't tell me I took yo shit, cause I ain't take nobody's shit!

The surrounding crowd was getting fed up with the confrontation. It was too early, and the bus was late. The outsider felt he had a minute to purchase a drink from the store. He greeted the owner at the register by nodding his head and saying, Morning. He walked to the refrigerator, and after heavy deliberation, he selected an energy drink. Then he walked to the register and paid for his drink. The attendant gave him back some change. The outsider received the money but dropped a quarter. As he bent over to pick it up, the can slipped out of his hand and rolled underneath a potato chip display rack. The man, feeling embarrassed, moved out of the line to let the next person pay.

After retrieving his items, the outsider asked the attendant, You mind if I get another one? This one might explode if I open it.

No problem, said the elderly attendant.

The outsider walked back to the refrigerator and exchanged the bent can for a new one. At the same time, a large, gangster-looking male wearing expensive Gucci shades and silver jewelry had finished buying a box of Black n Milds. The apparent gangster walked in front of Mr. Frederick as both arrived at the door at the same time. As soon as the apparent gangster stepped out the door, bullets fired into his chest by an unknown assailant. The victim flew back some distance and dropped to the floor.

The outsider fell to a knee and remained behind a display rack. Still, for a quick second, he got a good look at the shooter. He saw a white male who wore a black mask and a black, long-sleeve shirt. The assassin also had a strong build and a tattoo on his right wrist. After confirming that his victim was dead, the shooter ran from the scene.

Oh, fuck, he dead, said a witness before others began analyzing the body.

The outsider was in shock for a moment. Within a split second, he saw a man go from being alive to being dead and wasn't sure how to react. He looked beyond the display rack and saw blood pooling around the victim. His eyes were still open, which stirred a feeling of uneasiness with the outsider. The large gangster was the only fatality among the people who were in the shop.

Miami Dade County police officers and detectives swarmed the scene within minutes. The news stations arrived shortly after that. Detectives and CSI quickly closed off the area to perform an investigation. They hovered over the corpse to determine the shooter's location when the bullets were fired. Some detectives were on their knees, while others analyzed while standing.

Hello sir, I was told you're the witness? said a Cuban cop with a stern, overly-masculine voice. His name tag said, "Torres."

Yea, that's me, replied Mr. Frederick. I was standing right there. The man paid for his things, stepped out, and somebody shot him in the chest three times, I think.

Were you able to see who did it, Mr....? said the cop.

Frederick, Orlando Frederick, and no, I didn't see who done it, just a shadow, he replied.

Mr. Frederick, the man who is lying there dead, is an undercover Miami detective. If there is any information that you are withholding, we need to know, said the cop in an attempt to be intimidating.

I told you what I saw. That's all, said Orlando Frederick.

In a time when unjustified police shootings were being reported all over the nation, Overtown was the scene of America's biggest crime war. The Haitian 305 Boyz, the Jamaican Killa Posse, and the Latino 13th Street Mafia had poisoned the streets of Miami. From Miami Gardens to Homestead, death was everywhere. Bodies were discovered non-stop throughout the county. The police were finding more corpses than the morgue could handle. And it was all because of a drug war.

Gangs fought for territory. Whoever had more territory sold more Sizza and made more millions. It was cheap to make and highly addictive. Like all its synthetic predecessors, it had the ability to make people act like monsters, completely shutting off all sense of reality. Despite being so dangerous, the effects of the euphoric hallucination were hardly noticeable. The users experienced an intense high without demonstrating any obvious symptoms to the rest of the world. During withdrawal, the brain naturally increases neurotransmission to compensate for the overflow of neurotransmitters the drug releases. This rush, during withdrawal, ignited anterograde conduction of the brain neurons to an uncontrollable level, triggering the frontal and parietal lobes. The addict becomes like an uncontrollable beast during withdrawal, having no concept or awareness of their monstrous actions. For the most part, the rich had the money to keep their stock and maintain their sanity, while the poor turned into zombies.

Orlando Frederick was born in the heart of Dante's Inferno, the most dangerous subsection of Overtown. He lived his entire life in one house with his mother and seven siblings, most with different fathers. His mother, Marie Jean-Baptiste, was a prostitute and a heroin addict. She started prostituting on the day she arrived in America from Haiti. Orlando's father, Charles Frederick, was the first to get her pregnant when she was only sixteen. He was also her pimp.

Orlando grew up in a poisonous environment. He saw his two-year-old brother get run over and killed by a drunk driver. Three of his brothers were gang bangers, and all were killed before the age of seventeen. His sister, Justine, was still alive. But she was a prostitute and highly dependent on Sizza. The two youngest were twins, a boy, and a girl, and they were taken away from Marie by child services. Orlando hardly knew them and had no idea where they were.

A week earlier, Marie Jean-Baptiste was found dead under a bridge by the river. She was raped and murdered. He didn't return to Overtown to collect any valuables or pay any debts, only to bury his mother and return to New Orleans as soon as possible.

After the shooting, Orlando arrived at the front steps of his aunt's house, which was in Dante's Inferno. Before knocking on the door, he looked around the old neighborhood. It was as dreadful as he'd ever seen like bombs had been dropped from the sky. He stared across the street at the disgusting duplex where he once lived and at the spot where he saw his little brother run over. It was a miserable upbringing, the poorest of days; no food, no structure, no love.

Orlando knocked on the door, but nobody answered. He leaned forward and put his ear against the door to hear if anyone was home. There was no answer. He knocked a second time, and still, nobody answered. Instead of waiting, he walked to the side of the house, opened the gate, and checked the backyard. Nobody was outside, but the back door was partially opened.

Orlando entered the house through the kitchen. The dwelling was filthy and overrun by rats. They scattered into burrows as he walked to the living room. He found his aunt sleeping on the couch. A heroine needle was on the floor, next to the couch.

Aunt Clara, wake up. It's me, Orlando, he said while nudging her arm.

Aunt Clara struggled to come out of her slumber. Her eyes rolled back before she took her first deep breath. It took a minute, but she finally recognized her nephew's face.

Orlando, what are you doin here? Ain't you supposed to be dead? she mumbled.

I'm here to bury Mama. This place looks awful, he said.

Aunt Clara, still in a stupor, got insulted by Orlando's sarcastic comment. She did her best to sit herself up, but the heroin was still in effect.

How did you hear about Marie? asked Aunt Clara.

I called her last week. Her roommate picked up and told me, said Orlando.

I didn't know you two spoke, replied Aunt Clara. I don't know why you came back. You not even a memory anymore. Nobody knew whether you were alive or dead. So, time just made us forget about you. The future champ became a ghost. You always thought you were betta than us, she said with a spiteful look on her face.

Orlando wasn't there to waste time. He had few questions to ask and fewer relationships to rekindle. He waited patiently to allow his aunt to get herself together. Once she was able to sit on her own rear end, Orlando asked what he needed to ask.

What happened to Mama?

Same shit that happened to the rest of us, replied Clara as she rubbed her face in her hands to rub off the daze.

Dante's Inferno got her, and it didn't let go. It wanted her soul, and it got it.

Orlando knew what she meant. He knew that Dante's Inferno was a portal to hell. It fed off the souls of the lost and the wicked. As far as he knew, Orlando was the only person to escape the grasp of Dante's Inferno. It was all part of a past that he'd tried to forget.

Where Justine at? asked Orlando.

I dunno, ain't seen her, she said more alertly. Ain't you gonna ask about your boy? Or did you forget that you walked away from your son?

That was the one topic that Orlando wasn't prepared to confront. He'd been preparing himself to deal with the embarrassment of abandoning his son, but he didn't expect his aunt to bring up the topic so suddenly.

How is he? asked Orlando.

Jamel, heh, he's good. If you wanna find him, he'll be at the boxing gym. That's where he stays. But if I were you, I'd stay away cause he ain't want nothin to do with no deadbeat dad.

He don’t get in no mess? No trouble with the police? asked Orlando.

All that boy do is fight at the gym, all day, all night, and he don’t lose, replied Aunt Clara. I seen him fight once. He better than you were.

So I've heard, he replied under his breath.

Orlando couldn't help but feel proud, yet, he knew there was little to celebrate. He destroyed the relationship with his son, and he hadn't a clue how to fix it.

Chapter 2

It was going to be another hopeless day on the streets of downtown Miami for Jimmy Cho. There was no better indicator of this than the rancid mound of rice that he found in the garbage can. It was past noon, and he was starving. He searched for anything that wouldn't make him sick, but all the edible garbage had already been taken by someone else. He slammed the lid back onto the plastic can, grunted at his misfortunes, and kept walking.

Jimmy walked down 1st Street with a noticeable limp on his left side. He wandered towards the bay with no particular destination in mind. His agenda was as empty as his stomach. The stocky Asian held a street-tough look on his face at all times, refusing to look anybody else in the eye, staying committed to his I don't give a fuck attitude about the world. He hated seeing other people, especially happy and successful ones like lawyers and business executives. It was a sight that often triggered anger.

There was plenty of room on the sidewalk for people to walk in both directions, but Jimmy chose to walk in the middle, occupying both sides in hopes of initiating a conflict. A young lawyer in an Armani suit was headed to the courthouse while holding a briefcase. He walked with urgency while talking to his client on the cell phone, not paying any attention to the angry Asian man with a buzz cut walking towards him.

The lawyer was on the right side of the sidewalk, but Jimmy wasn't, and he didn't move on purpose. He tensed up his shoulders and rudely bumped the lawyer