Roy Glenn - In A Cold Sweat

“But think about that shit now. This fuckin’ Commission, all them niggas used to work for Birdie. Knowing that he’s got some influence over them-,” Bobby started.

“That’s how he knew where to find Birdie and Albert. He was down with them,” Black said.

“So we know he a snitch.”

“I hate fuckin’ snitches.”

“But Freeze depends on them,” Bobby pointed out. “He’s made his rep on knowin’ or being able to find out information. Information that you’ve relied on for years and you didn’t give a fuck where it came from.”

“What are you sayin’, Bob?”

“Mutha fuckas been snitchin’ for Freeze for years, you can’t hold that against him now, that’s all I’m sayin’.”

“Okay, but do you think Freeze knew about Mylo fixin’ the fight or tryin’ to kill me?”

“I don’t think so. Maybe it is just bad judgement for him to trust Mylo, but Freeze is too loyal to you for him to be a part of that.”

“I hope you're right. I don’t even wanna think about that,” Black said and looked out the window. The thought of Freeze betraying him was much more than he wanted to deal with right then. He didn’t want to believe it, but there was no way that he could ignore the possibility. Freeze was like a brother, a son even, to him. There is no way.

When they got back to the city, Black picked up Mystique and took her to the Marriott on 40 thstreet, where Bobby had two men waiting. She stayed awake and watched over Black while he slept for a couple of hours, before him and Bobby headed to North Carolina to settle a debt.

After rotting for more time than he thought was possible in the Federal Prison Camp in Atlanta, the day had finally come for him to get out of there. Former DEA agent Kenneth DeFrancisco wasn’t getting out of jail altogether though. He still had thirteen more years on the fifteen-year sentence he was serving for his involvement with drug trafficking that, had it been successful, would’ve had Mike Black in there instead of him. Then, two days after he was taken into custody, the government, confiscated all of his assets. His sprawling home, the condo on the North Carolina coast, his prized cars, motorcycles, even the cash he had neatly stashed in off shore accounts. The most important thing he lost was his wife.

He thought back to the last time he spoke to his wife Jane. “They’re putting me out!” she had cried that day. She had barricaded herself in the bedroom while IRS agents went through everything they owned. They hadn’t paid taxes on millions of dollars. “Where am I supposed to go? What about the kids? You need to fix this! You need to fix this, now!” That last conversation with his wife woke him up every night and reminded him just how much he hated Mike Black.

Even that didn’t matter that morning. For DeFrancisco, 6:00 am couldn’t come fast enough. He was up and dressed before five that morning and sat patiently waiting for something that he had begun to think would never come. He was excited, because this particular morning, DeFrancisco was being transferred to another institution.

“And it’s about damn time that arrogant prick Marshall got off his ass and did something for me,” DeFrancisco said as he got up from his bed and began pacing back and forth in his cell.

Even though he was talkin’ shit about it, he was at first surprised and then thankful the week before when the guard told him that he had a phone call.

“Somebody callin’ me?” he asked. He very rarely got any phone calls, and the entire time he’d been there, he had only one visitor. As he got up and waited for the cell door to open, DeFrancisco thought that it could only be his old friend and partner, Pete Vinnelli on the line for him. Vinnelli, dressed in biker gear and posing as DeFrancisco’s lawyer was his lone visitor. It couldn’t be anybody else , DeFrancisco thought as he was escorted off the cell block. When he got to the phone he was surprised when a female voice introduced herself after he said, “Hello.”

“Is this Kenneth DeFrancisco?” the perky sounding female asked.

“Yes, this is,” DeFrancisco responded curiously. He was sure that it was Vinnelli calling.

“My name is Danielle Summer. I am the personal assistant to Senator Martin Marshall. How are you today, Mr. DeFrancisco?”

“I’m fine,” DeFrancisco said excitedly. The words Martin Marshall were more than enough to cause that reaction. He had been reaching out to Marshall through Vinnelli and writing him letters since the day he got to that shit hole to do something for him. DeFrancisco felt like Marshall owed him that for not snitching on him about his involvement with Diego Estabon in the very case he was doing time for.

“Senator Marshall sends his regards and best wishes to you, and his sincere apology for not being able to speak with you personally. Senator Marshall wants you to know that he has received all of your of correspondence regarding a transfer to an institution in your home state due to the hardship it places on your minor children for visitation.”

“That’s refreshing to know,” DeFrancisco said, encouraged by the direction the conversation was going.

“The Senator wanted me to express that while he is understanding and very sympathetic to your situation,” Danielle Summer explained, “he strongly encourages you to continue to go through the established channels to secure a transfer. The Senator is confident that once your case is reviewed, that you will have no problem getting your request approved. However, once you have exhausted all other remedies at your disposal without success, please, by all means, do not hesitate to write the Senator again.”

“You are sayin’ that he won’t help me? Is that what you called to say?” DeFrancisco asked angrily.

“Not at all, sir. What I said was, the Senator is confident that once your case is reviewed, that you will have no problem having your request approved. That sir, is what I said. Do you understand what I’m saying now?”

“Yeah, I understand,” said a dejected DeFrancisco.

“Then you have a good day, sir.” And with that, Danielle Summer ended the call.

On the way back to his cell, DeFrancisco felt like he had just had his insides kicked out. Not only wouldn’t Marshall help him, he had the nerve to have some bitch call and tell him that he wasn’t gonna do shit for him. His mood had lasted for a couple of days when he was once again escorted from his cell. This time he was taken to the administration area where he was informed that he was to be transferred to another Federal Prison Camp.

“That is the very best news you could have possibly given me,” DeFrancisco said. “Thank you, thank you very much.”

On the way back to his cell, DeFrancisco thought back to his conversation with Marshall’s assistant. The Senator is confident that once your case is reviewed, that you will have no problem having your request approved. Now the call made sense to him. That was Marshall’s way of telling him that he had gotten it done for him.

Now DeFrancisco took back almost every bad thing that he had ever said about Marshall. “Except for arrogant prick; ’cause that son-of-a-bitch is one arrogant prick,” DeFrancisco said as he waited.

After DeFrancisco was processed, he was taken to Hartsfield-Jackson airport, which was located just outside Atlanta, and flown to Raleigh, where he would serve the remainder of his time at a minimum-security facility housing male offenders, located in Goldsboro, North Carolina.

Once they got off of their flight, DeFrancisco and the officer made the seventy-two mile drive to the Federal Prison Camp located on Seymour Johnson Air Force Base, east of the city limits of Goldsboro. When they got off of I-40 East and onto US-70 East, the officer noticed a car coming up behind them, and it was closing in fast.