Michael Lister: Blood of the Lamb

Though obviously still feeling invincible, DeAndré’s smile begin to fade a little, the first cracks in the seemingly secure foundation of his crime fortress beginning to show.

“The two condoms we found with saliva and vomitus on them were not from someone having oral sex, but from DeAndré muling the drugs in to Officer Whitfield. He puts the drugs in the condoms and swallows them, then vomits them up once he’s in the chapel. That’s what he was doing with Whitfield in the bathroom the night of the murder.”

Bobby Earl looked at DeAndré with contempt and disbelief, saying his name the way people have said that of Judas for the past two millennia.

The cold, hard, blank expression on DeAndré’s face didn’t change, his emotionless affect revealing the years of repression and hardening that had resulted in his current soullessness.

“The money found in here that night was Whitfield’s cut,” I continued. “For helping with distribution, he gets a shiny new sports car and stacks of tax-free contributions. Between the prints on the money and the DNA of the saliva on the condoms, there should be enough to bring charges, but in case they aren’t, I had Pete arrest Whitfield ahead of time so he couldn’t be here to receive the delivery. DeAndré’s probably got a couple of condoms full of crack or heroin inside him right now.”

Turning toward DeAndré, Jake started reaching for his cuffs, but before he could get them out, DeAndré pulled a 9mm from beneath his coat and pressed the barrel to Jake’s forehead.

Dropping the cuffs, Jake raised his hands. “It’s cool, man,” he said, though his voice told a different story. “Just relax.”

Having checked their weapons at the control station, Dad and Jake weren’t armed. In fact, except for the shotguns in the towers and the weapons locked in the arsenal, DeAndré Stone had the only firearm inside the prison.

“DeAndré,” Bobby Earl said, “don’t-”

“Shut your stupid mouth, Bobby Earl,” he said.

“But-” Bobby Earl began, then suddenly stopped as DeAndré pointed the pistol at him.

“I’m ‘bout to walk outta this motherfucker,” DeAndré said. “Any y’all follow me gonna get capped.”

He eased out of the door into the hallway, turned to head out of the chapel, and saw Merrill coming in, 38 drawn. Before Merrill could say or do anything, DeAndré fired a round, missing Merrill and shattering the glass of the outer chapel doors, then ran into the sanctuary.

“Figured we might need this,” Merrill said, holding up the revolver as we met in the hall.

Still shaken, Jake had yet to move, but Dad and Daniels weren’t far behind behind us as Merrill and I rushed toward the sanctuary.

“Black men not dying fast enough for you?” Merrill yelled to Stone.

DeAndré fired a round toward the back of the sanctuary for his response.

“I guess it’s unthinkable for the control room to pat down the warden’s nephew when he come in,” Merrill said, as we ran toward the sanctuary doors.

A few inmates who had been hanging around after the service began pouring out of the doors in a panic and suddenly Merrill and I were running upstream.

We each pulled open one of the double doors, ducked in the sanctuary, and crouched behind the back pew.

“Don’t fuck with me,” DeAndré shouted from the front of the sanctuary.

I dropped all the way down to the floor and looked beneath the pews. I could see the black pant legs of his suit and the expensive black shoes beneath them, but I also saw another pair of legs on which were blue pants above inmate boots.

I edged to the end of the pew and glanced down the center aisle. DeAndré was holding Dexter Freeman in front of him, his gun jammed against Dexter’s right temple.

“Come out where I can see you right now,” DeAndré said, “or I’ll splatter this nigga’s brains all over the frontta your church house.”

All I could think about was Dexter’s family, of how Trish, Moriah, and Dexter Jr. were just about to get him back. I recalled his son’s little navy-blue suit, his daughter’s white lace collar and imagined seeing them wearing them again for their father’s funeral.

When we didn’t get up, DeAndré yelled, “NOW, GOD DAMMIT.”

I glanced back at Merrill, and when I did, I saw Daniels edging toward the sanctuary door. As he stepped inside the sanctuary, a round fired from DeAndré’s gun shattered the glass of the door beside him and he jumped back into the hall.

“I got nothing to lose,” DeAndré said. “I’m probably gonna die anyway, so whoever gets close to me is going with me. Get my uncle in here.”

Standing up very slowly, I walked over to the center aisle and faced DeAndré.

“What the fuck you doin’?” Merrill asked.

Dexter’s eyes were wide with fright and moist with tears. The tendons in his neck were stretched taut under his shiny, sweat-covered skin, and when he swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple rose and fell slowly.

As Merrill stood up, DeAndré loosened his grip on Dexter and turned his gun toward him. When he did, I took several running steps and dove, tackling both men to the ground.

As we went down, DeAndré fired his gun and I took a bullet in the right shoulder. My skin and muscle felt as though they had been branded, a searing pain arcing out in every direction like the phosphorescent tails of Fourth of July fireworks.

As we hit the floor, DeAndré fired again. The side of Dexter’s head exploded and the pain in my shoulder was sucked into the vacuum in my soul. Suddenly, all the fight was out of me and I lay there on the floor, unable to move. Dexter was dead. I had failed again.

Merrill kicked the gun out of DeAndré’s hand and it bounced across the floor. He then rushed forward and grabbed it.

Merrill said, “How’s the arm?”

I shook my head. “I can’t feel anything.”

He glanced over at Dexter’s body and shook his head. “He was dead before we got here.”

We would never know-I would never know if I had done something differently, just one little thing, if the outcome would have been different and Dexter would have been spared.

After helping me to my feet, Merrill handed me the two guns. A violent wave of nausea swept over me as I realized I was holding the instrument of Dexter’s death in my hand and I dropped both guns on the pew.

Merrill then grabbed DeAndré and jerked him up.

“We got unfinished business,” he said. “Show me whatcha got, dog.”

DeAndré lunged for him before he even finished saying it.

Grabbing Merrill by the throat with both hands, DeAndré did exactly what Merrill wanted him to do-leave himself open to body shots.

With the hand speed of a fast light heavyweight, Merrill threw a barrage of punches into DeAndré’s abdomen. Unaware that Merrill was attempting to burst one of the condoms, DeAndré saw it as a challenge to keep choking him. As he did, Merrill continued to drive uppercuts into his gut, drilling them with such frequency and force that by the time he finally let go, DeAndré was coughing up blood.

Dad and Daniels ran up, Edward Stone on their heels.

“You all right?” Dad asked.

I shook my head and nodded toward Dexter.

“What the hell’s going on here?” Stone asked when he saw Merrill using his nephew as a heavy bag.

“If he’s still alive when Merrill gets finished, I’m arresting him,” Dad said.

“What’s the charge?” he asked.

“Narcotics possession with intent,” he said. “Bringing a firearm into a state prison facility, and murder.”

“ Murder? ” he asked, just as he caught sight of Dexter’s body on the floor.

“And I’m sure NOPD’ll have a lot of other charges to add before it’s over,” I said.