Free World .01: Should’ve Could’ve Would’ve

By La Freda C. Ford

Meka is a manipulative ex-con who keeps the secret of her incarceration and her criminal lifestyle away from her husband Kendol, who goes by the nickname K-9. Kendol would do anything to become a rich and famous rap star. His determination makes him lie, steal, and neglect his family. He’s so focused on work that he never finds out about Meka’s incarcerated past or that she is the lover of Money, once the toughest female on the prison yard.

With K-9 unaware of where Meka met Money, he allows the woman to come stay with them, and Meka swears her ex-con lover to secrecy. Although a nasty man in his own right, K-9 quickly discovers that his wife and her girlfriend are ten times more ruthless than he could ever imagine.

Things get out of control when Meka and Money become desperate for cash and decide to rob the CEO of the record label that K-9 is hoping to work with. Destruction is imminent, as secrets will unavoidably be spilled. Greed has always been the motive, as a series of events leads these three people into an emotional battle that ends in grief and chaos.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9781663240361

La Freda C. Ford

La Freda C. Ford is an American writer, born and raised in Compton, California. She has a loving family and highly appreciates their support, always remembering that her past does not define her present. Even after losing her child Terrance, she pushed forward to make better lives for her other son Ricky and daughter Mo’Nae. Regardless of hard times, she continued her education and earned two college degrees.

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CHAPTER I

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J udge Jacob Whitmore sternly announced, "The State of California v. Monique Ann Simpson. Is she pre sent?"

An attorney replied, Yes, Your Honor, she’s here.

State your name and affiliation to this case, the judge said.

"Your Honor, my name is Carol Anderson. I’m the court-appointed attorney for the County of Los Angeles. I am representing Monique A. Simpson. This young woman has been detained in the California Youth Authority since she was thirteen. She was sentenced to stay in the juvenile detention center until she turned eighteen. She would then be transferred to state prison.

My client is a minor who was charged as an adult, and consequently, her sentence is twenty-five years to life. Her charge is first-degree murder, and she has been incarcerated for three years. She is in court today requesting a sentence modification. Your Honor, with all due respect to you and the court system, I say that Ms. Simpson’s punishment does not fit the crime and that she was sentenced unfairly. This is truly a heartbreaking situation. The more I read about her case, the more obvious it became that no effort had been made in her defense. It made me wonder if her prior attorney believed she was not worth the energy and guided her to hang. If he did, I give my humble apologies to Ms. Simpson. Furthermore, your Honor, she is requesting an opportunity to speak about the murder in hopes of leniency and a modification of her sentence.

Why should I let her speak today when she refused to speak during the last hearing of this case? the judge asked.

Carol thumbed through her documents and thought, I recognize that arrogant self-righteous attitude, but I’m not going to let him deter me from winning this case. Your Honor, during the initial hearing, Ms. Simpson did not have anyone in court to support her, and unfortunately, she was a scared girl who wouldn’t speak up on her own behalf. The DA was guided by prior allegations against her for assault, but the charges were dropped to mutual combat on school property. According to the school principal, that was the only confrontation she had had on campus, and after that, she became a productive student.

The judge’s expression was one of frustration, but he had no objection. I’ll let the defendant speak in fifteen days.

That was good news for Monique, but the days were dragging, and she was filled with anxiety. Her racing thoughts kept her awake every night.

Her court date finally came. She was back in front of Judge Whitmore, and everything seemed to speed up. The DA was talking so fast that it was hard for Monique to understand him. She was overwhelmed; her lip hung low. She couldn’t tell if people were speaking English. She thought, Be brave. You got this. She scanned the courtroom and focused on the judge. Her voice trembled. "When I was eleven, my mother died and my stepfather Reggie became my legal guardian. He was chosen because Child Protective Services couldn’t find my real father and my grandmother passed away a year before my mother died.

"Because my aunt and uncle were on drugs and mentally unstable, CPS decided they were not a good fit. The next closest person was Reggie. He had no criminal record, a stable job, and a home. For that reason, he was declared the best choice. In the beginning, everything seemed fine. He housed me, fed me, walked me to school, and even came to get me when I got into that fight on campus. I fought a girl for talking about my momma.

"Reggie was a good father, but when I turned twelve, he changed. He started touching and rubbing on my private areas. I used to push him away and tell him to stop, but he would just laugh and say, ‘Ahh, don’t be so serious. I’m just playing with you.’ But as soon as I got my first period, at age thirteen, he wanted to have sex with me, but I didn’t want that. I wanted to hang with the other kids.

"I remember him sitting me on his lap and running his fingers up my leg to my shoulders and then down my back. It felt creepy. He tried to cover his perverted thoughts by saying, ‘You remind me so much of your mother. You look and smell just like her.’

"At first, I felt sorry for him and hugged him, but after that, I started to feel very uncomfortable with him, especially when he would burst into the bathroom offering to help bathe me. While washing me, he rubbed soap on my chest saying, ‘You’re becoming a young woman. You’re going to need a bra for your growing titties.’ Then in a seductive way, he whispered, ‘But I don’t like those things. I think bras are constricting. Breasts are so soft and so beautiful that they should be able to hang loose and free, don’t you think?’

"I didn’t agree with him, but I didn’t say anything. I just let him touch me. He kept me awake that night lying on top of me and rubbing his penis around the entrance of my vagina. I remember squirming around beneath him doing my best to keep him from penetrating me. I guess the excitement turned him on because he relieved himself between my legs. Then he put his hand tightly around my throat, squeezed it, and licked the tears from my cheeks. I felt myself blacking out, but I regained my focus once I saw him get up and walk out of my bedroom.

"The next night, I started quietly grabbing my things. My intention was to leave. I opened the bedroom window and saw cars and buses. I inhaled the night air and smiled, but when I looked down, my heart started beating fast and I couldn’t slow my breathing. I’m scared of heights.

"So with fear and disappointment, I quickly backed away from the window and fell to the floor in tears. I pushed my bag under the bed and got into bed. I did my best to lie still because in my mind he was coming and was about to catch me, but nope, he did not come into my room.

"I got up from the bed. My mind was still set on leaving that night, so I pulled my bag from under the bed and headed to the door. I thought he might not even be home, but I saw him lying on the front room couch. He looked asleep, so I tiptoed toward the door, but his eyes popped open and he stared at my bags. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he asked me. I told him, ‘I have to leave before something bad happens to me.’ He grabbed my arm and said, ‘Nothing’s going to happen to you. Come here and let me hold you. That’ll make you feel better.’

"I shouted, ‘No! I don’t want you touching me anymore!’ He kept trying to pull me close, but I maneuvered away and said, ‘Stop! Let me go!’ Spit was flying from his mouth into my face. I smelled cigarettes and Thunderbird, that cheap wine, on his breath. He hollered, ‘Shut up!’ He grabbed my hair and threw me across the floor.

With rage and force, he started ripping off my blouse. He was looking like the devil slapping me all around the front room. I can still feel his punches to my face.

Monique’s voice was wavering; she was in tears. Everyone in the courtroom felt sympathy for her. It was obviously painful for this young woman to relive such a horrific attack, but she had to if she wanted to save her life.

She sniffled, wiped her tears, took a deep breath, and forced herself to continue. "After that, he … he picked me up and slapped me again and again. I thought he would never stop. My nose and lips were bleeding. I saw lightning every time he hit me. I felt he was going to kill me, but it wasn’t over. He said, ‘You’re going to do what I tell you, ain’t you? Because if you don’t, I’m going to hurt you bad. Hell, I just might kill your ass.’

"I believed him, especially when he sat on my chest, pinned me down with his knees, and choked me. He stopped that just to hear me gasp for air. I was crying so hard and was in so much pain that all I could do was give up. I said, ‘Okay, I’ll do whatever you say. Just don’t hit me no more, please.’

"He grabbed my wrists and yanked me up to my feet so fast that my head snapped back, and it felt like he was pulling my hands off. He pulled me close, twisted my arms all the way behind my back, and in a loving tone, he said, ‘I love you. You’re all I got. I don’t want to lose you too.’

"He dug his nails into my shoulders and spun me around so that he was standing behind me. He pushed me away. He changed his loving tone back to an evil one and said, ‘Now get in there and wash all that damn blood and shit off so we can go to bed.’

"I was devastated. I headed to the bathroom. I had to pass the front door to get to the bathroom, and I thought about running out. I looked at him and then at the door. I did that a couple of times. He saw that and said, ‘I wish the fuck you would!’

"I was so scared. I was afraid that if I didn’t get out the door fast enough, he might beat me to death. I ran past the front door to the bathroom and wiped the blood off my face, but I was bleeding so badly that I needed another towel. I went to the linen closet in the hallway and opened it. That’s when I saw that big, shiny, chrome piece of steel staring at me. I had forgotten about his gun. I picked it up and got a feel for it and thought about shooting him, but I couldn’t do it. I thought there had to be a better way.

"Right when I was putting it back, he came down the hall asking, ‘What’s taking you so long?’ and saw me with his gun. He raced at me with his fist drawn back ready to hit me again. He yelled, ‘Goddamn you, you little bitch!’ I felt I had no choice. I had to stop him from beating me again, so I shot him in his chest. No, I didn’t call the police, and yes, he was still alive when I took a shower and went to bed. I didn’t know what to do.

An hour later, the police came to my house. An officer said, ‘We got a call about loud noises coming from this house. Is everything all right?’ I said no. They asked, ‘Where are your parents?’ I burst into tears. An officer asked, ‘What’s the problem? Why are you crying?’ I was whimpering. I pointed to the hallway floor, where Reggie lay in a puddle of blood, dead. That’s how I got sent to prison for life.

Carol said, Your Honor, if I may. He nodded, and she continued. At the time of Monique’s arrest, there were signs of physical and emotional abuse, but that was deemed inadmissible. Torn clothes that belonged to her were found in her room, but that evidence was thrown out of court as well. Another thing that was not allowed into evidence was the bloodstains on the living room floor leading through the hall and into the bathroom. It wasn’t Reggie’s. He died near the hall closet. The final report stated that the bloodstains in the living room and on the bathroom walls and sink were Monique’s, but none of that was admissible either.

The judge was glaring as she spoke. He never uttered a word of sympathy, but his expression was empathetic. The description of a child being brutally attacked and viciously raped brought out his sensitive side. He stopped twiddling his pen and started writing in a court document. Monique looked shamefully at the floor. When he called her name, she looked up. He said, Thank you for your testimony. Have a seat. Monique sat, feeling hopeless. He said, I have decided to grant the modification of her sentence. I’m dropping the twenty-five years to life to fifteen years with parole. That’s my order. Court’s adjourned.

After court, Carol spoke to Monique in the attorneys’ visiting room. I’m so happy for you! This is a victory! But Monique was expressionless. When she finally showed a little emotion, it was disturbing. She looked angry. She made Carol feel unappreciated. Aren’t you happy that you’ll have the opportunity to get out of here?

Monique was bitter. "It doesn’t matter that the judge reduced my sentence. I’m sixteen. I’ve gotten adjusted to this place. I don’t have any problems here. I have somewhere to sleep, and I don’t have to worry about some man trying to attack me. I have food and plenty of friends. I think that you didn’t do this to help me, that you did this for yourself. You’re just happy that you got a big win under your belt. You get to go home and spend the money you’re going to get for winning this case.

For me, what? What’s next for me? Huh? Shit. What do I have to be happy about? Fifteen years of my life will be gone, and it’s been a very long time since I saw anything outside these walls. Man … When I get out, I’m not going to have any money or anywhere to go. So tell me why I should be so fuckin’ happy about getting out and going back into the free world.

Carol’s jaw dropped. She blinked a few times and tried to regain her composure. I’m not the one you should be mad at. I successfully won your case. It doesn’t matter if you care or not. What matters is that I’ve won your case, a case no one else wanted to take on. You can at least show me a little gratitude.

Monique didn’t care about that. When the deputy entered the room to take her back to jail, she stood and raised her arms to be shackled. Carol watched the deputy shackle her wrists to the chain around her waist and shackled her feet in the same way. Carol wanted to give the girl some encouragement, but at first, she couldn’t find the words. She shook her head in dismay and took a deep breath. She chose her words carefully. Your life outside will be what you make of it. You have to change your way of thinking and not let your past determine your future. Set some goals for yourself, and become confident. The future’s yours. Being optimistic will lead you to a much happier life, so forget the negatives.

CHAPTER II

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M onths later in California Youth Authority (CYA), Monique had a run-in with Alicia, another juvenile inmate. She was six feet tall and 195 pounds. She was a transgender Hispanic. Her facial features were masculine, and she had a light mustache. She seemed to have more testosterone than estrogen; her voice was raspy, and she had manly hands. Her short torso and long arms made her look odd. She wanted a solid chest, so she bandaged her bre asts.

One evening, Alicia was walking by the deputies’ station and stopped at a plexiglass window and flexed her muscles. She said, I look better than any man you’ve ever seen. Yeah … I look good. But the other inmates said she looked like Alice the Goon, a cartoon character.

She was a bully who stole from others and started fights that her friends joined in on. They spoke English, but they preferred Spanish. The Hispanic population dominated the dayroom and forced everyone to leave the televisions on Spanish channels.

Monique, an African American, was not manly; she was five-six and slim and had cocoa-brown skin. She understood just a few Spanish words. Her friends were all black; they spent most of their time playing spades in the dayroom and trying to drown out the TV by laughing and talking as loud as they could and pounding out a beat on the metal tables. Sometimes, they would fall on the floor and roll around laughing. Their antics were so entertaining that sometimes, the Hispanics just watched them bust their moves.

Most people in both groups wanted to make friends with each other, but there was an ongoing feud between the Blacks and the Hispanics, and Alicia and her group plotted to harm the Blacks.

One Saturday morning, Monique was playing spades while her white clothes were in the washing machine. When she slammed a full hand on the metal table, the sound ricocheted off the brick walls. She got up, and the other card players yelled, "What’re you doing? Where are you going? The game ain’t over! She giggled, slapped her knee, and stomped her feet. As most of the others expected, she gave no explanation. Everyone watched as she hung her tongue out like Jordan and scurried alone to the laundry room. The deputies told her to slow down, and she did.

She opened the washer door and started pulling her clothes out. She yelled, What in the world happened to my white clothes? They’re all pink! She wondered if she had put something red in with her whites. "Awww, man, this looks bad."

Alicia and her crew were in the doorway looking at her and laughing. They crowded the doorway causing Monique to feel trapped. She knew they were responsible for her clothes changing colors. She was fuming mad but outnumbered. To prevent getting jumped, she calmly pulled all her clothes out and went to the door, but Alicia was blocking the way. It was an intimidating moment but not enough to prevent her from getting out of the room.

When a guard yelled, Unlock! Monique and a few other inmates went to their cells. Alicia waited for Monique and her cellmate to leave their cell, and once they were gone, she went in and stole some of their commissary and property.

Hours later, the guard yelled, Okay, ladies, the dayroom is now closed. Grab your things and get to your cells. Time to lock it down! Monique liked nighttime lockdown; she believed each night brought her a day closer to her release. That night while walking to her cell, she wondered what life would be like when she was transferred to