King's Justice: The Knights of Breton Court, Volume 2 by Maurice Broaddus Page B

time, this black student – honor roll, track star, showed real promise – got killed by three white kids. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong side of them tweaking. Lee hunted those bastards down as if they'd killed his own kin. Didn't care how long it took, how many sessions in the box, how many times he had to pull them in, he was going to get them. And he did. He wasn't a racist.
      "Unclench, motherfucker. Damn. You let this stress get to you and it'll kill just as surely as a bullet."
     
 
     

CHAPTER THREE
     
Rellik stared into the mirror as he buttoned up his shirt, a simple white collared thing left from his last court appearance. Yet he dressed with the solemnity and attention of a man of occasion preparing for an evening out. Freckles collected in clusters on each cheek, offset by his light skin. Reddish-brown braids draped to his shoulders. Perpetual and bloodshot, his black eyes fixed straight ahead while the prison guard waited impatiently at his cell door. Though the day was slow in coming, it wasn't as if Rellik served the entire amount of time he could've. Should've. Guilty of many crimes he wasn't tried – much less been convicted – for, he followed the simple belief that confession wasn't as good for the soul as people would have him believe. He'd confessed only to as much as the state could prove, and even then, only to shave a few years off his bid. He strode toward the guard, who stepped back and allowed him to lead the way.
      Allisonville Correctional Facility, a Level Four prison. The A-V. The Ave. Prison. Projects. Projects. Prison. Either way, cram too many desperate motherfuckers into a place and things were bound to jump off. Rows of white metal bars formed a gauntlet, one he'd run every day for seven years. The voices of his fellow inmates fell silent as he walked by. Cunning, private, unhousebroken, he was just another animal in a cage and the only thing the cages were good for was to better train animals. Breed them for contempt. Of themselves. Of each other. Of authority. Of society. Then cut them loose with bus fare, severed freedoms, and dim hopes to make a real fresh start in life. Because no one forgot and no one lets you forget.
      "Gavain Orkney," the face behind the bulletproof glass said through a microphone.
      Rellik bristled. It had been more years than he could remember since anyone called him by his slave name. And not since elementary school since anyone emphasized the pronunciation of "vain" rather than correctly as "vin."
      "One toothpick, unopened. A set of cuff links. One Movado wristwatch. Three rings. And one cross necklace."
      After sliding on each item in a protracted manner designed to drag out his time there – his shiny Jesus piece the last for him to don – he opened the toothpick and slipped it into his mouth.
      "We ready?" the guard asked.
      "Let's do this."
      The metal gate at the end of his cell block clanged open, a metal mouth of two rows of teeth which snapped shut behind him. Three sets of such jaws stood between him and what passed for freedom. Surviving prison was all about clinging to some semblance of faith. He had to believe in something to make a real go of things. What and whoever it took to get a brother through. God. Allah. A girl. A guy. The myth people called love. Those things carried some people through, but not him. No, Rellik had faith in his crew. The game. It never let him down. Like anyone who had reached a dark night of the soul, those times of profound doubt and questioning when his faith was at its lowest ebb, he was forced to make mental gymnastics in order to keep hold of his faith. In his case, it wasn't his crew that let him down, who abandoned him, who remained silent when he needed them most. He had let them down with his weakness.
      Rows of lockers. Signs regarding contraband. Warnings about personal safety. The gray walls. The gray and white linoleum. Rellik would miss none of this place, though it