Forever a Hustler's Wife: A Novel - Softcover

“Forever a Hustler’s Wife is one of the most-anticipated sequels of this century. Nikki Turner has once again taken street literature to the next level, further proving that she is indeed ‘The Queen of Hip Hop Fiction.’”
–Zane

“Always surprising, Nikki Turner’s prose moves like a Porsche, switching gears from tender to vicious in an instant.”
–50 Cent

Chapter 1
A Million Damn Dollars

As Yarni Taylor entered the old courtroom and searched for a seat toward the front, she couldn’t help but overhear clients arguing with their attorneys as well as the chitchat of folks waiting for their loved ones’ cases to be heard. “I wish they’d hurry up and get this started, because I got to go to work,” one person said. Another asked, “So you think that Boo-boo gon’ come to court and testify on Freddie Boy?”

She tried to control the sway of her ample behind as she walked down the aisle, but all eyes were on her. Yarni wasn’t sure if it was the confidence she exuded or her exotic looks—almond-shaped hazel eyes, high cheekbones, and caramel skin so smooth you wanted to lick it—which were complemented by her cream-colored Tahari suit that, like a little red Corvette going a hundred miles per hour on the highway, hugged every curve. Diamond studs glistened in her ears, and a huge six-carat rock weighed down her left hand. She wasn’t a stranger to the courts. A successful attorney, she had won many cases in the very room in which she was now taking a seat. This time, though, Yarni wasn’t there to defend a case.

If it wasn’t for all the bad luck, there would be no luck at all, Yarni thought as she sat there trying to be strong, holding back the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes. The system had railroaded her man, Des, once again. The last time was almost fifteen years ago, but no matter the outcome, just like before, she was going to hold her man down through it all: rain, sleet, hail, or sunshine . . . bad, good, happy, or sad . . . win, lose, or draw. One thing was for certain, and two things were for sure: She had Des’s back, and he had hers—through hell or high water.

When Yarni first met Des, he was already a street legend, and she was just a high school girl who had been raised by a single mother. Her mother had given Yarni every opportunity that a girl like her could ever want, all in hopes of her growing up to be a strong, independent woman, but once she met Des, Yarni didn’t care about anything her mother had given her or instilled in her or any of it. Yarni and Des fell in love with each other hard, but their perfect relationship was put through the test of fire when Des was arrested and convicted for a murder he didn’t commit. For ten years after that, Yarni rode for her man, never losing hope, and eventually got his sentence overturned. Yarni later became a lawyer to help other minority men caught up in the wrath like Des had been. And now here they were again, facing another murder rap. Yarni sat on the edge of her seat while waiting for her husband’s case to be called. But first, another defendant was up for a bail bond hearing, temporarily distracting Yarni from thoughts of Des.

“Samuel Johnson, you are being charged with three counts of murder, threatening a witness, tampering with state’s evidence, conspiracy to commit murder, shooting in an occupied dwelling, possession of a firearm while a convicted felon,” the court clerk stated as she looked up at the man standing in front of her before taking a deep breath and continuing, “use of a firearm in commission of a felony, kidnapping, torture, abduction, malicious wounding, felonious assault, and use of a firearm near a school zone.”

Yarni thought the clerk should have taken a bow after putting her vocals through so much work. Instead, the clerk looked out into the packed courtroom, which was so quiet you could have heard a mouse pissing on the carpet. The sheer number of charges forced every single spectator to direct his or her undivided attention to this particular case, curious as to how one person could have so many indictments against him. Damn, I haven’t heard anybody with that many charges since the Briley brothers, Yarni thought, recalling a 1979 case involving brothers that were sentenced to death for an eight-month string of gruesome murders in Richmond.

“Your Honor, we’re here to ask for a bond for Mr. Johnson,” the defense attorney said. “He’s a father and a Little League coach.” The attorney walked around the oak table where he and his client were sitting and approached the judge at the front of the courtroom. “He has always lived here. His roots are here, Your Honor.”

The judge’s hands were folded as he glared at the defendant through his glasses, which sat on the tip of his nose. Samuel Johnson fidgeted in his orange jumpsuit, his eyes never meeting the judge’s stern gaze. Just looking at the man, Yarni felt that Mr. Johnson was being taken for a ride. Instead of the nice trim or touch-up on the jailhouse braids most attorneys made sure their male defendants had before appearing in court, Samuel’s hair was in a nappylike ’fro. He hadn’t shaved, his goatee was raggedy, and it didn’t help that his fair skin accentuated his dark shades of hair. He turned around to glance into the audience and to make matters worse, his gray eyes were blinding, like sun rays around his pupils, making him appear almost devil-like.

The first thing I would have done was buy that man a pair of brown contact lenses, Yarni shook her head at her thoughts.

The defense attorney was trying to pretend to have con- fidence, but because of the number of charges, he knew he really didn’t have a leg to stand on. He hadn’t even done the proper research to prepare for the hearing. What was the use? “Your Honor, he isn’t a flight risk.” The attorney went through the motions.

“I beg to differ,” the feisty prosecutor interjected, rising from his chair. “These are very serious charges, Your Honor. With serious consequences. There’s no reason for the defendant not to run.”

The judge looked at the defendant and then at his defense attorney and bluntly said, “No bond. Next case, please.”

The defense attorney turned, walked back behind the table, and began gathering his paperwork. “I’m sorry,” he said, unable to look his client in the eye. “I did all I could do.” When his client did not respond, he shrugged his shoulders and added, “I don’t know what you were expecting. With all those charges, you were fooling yourself thinking that a bond would come out of this.”

“I was expecting what the fuck you promised,” Samuel snapped. “You promised me a bond, motherfucker. You sold me and my girl a fucking dream.”

The bailiff was slowly walking over to escort Samuel John- son out of the courtroom, and before anyone could stop him, Samuel spit on his attorney. Next, he drew back and punched his attorney in the eye. The lawyer fell to the floor holding his face. Snatching up a chair, Samuel screamed, “Succckkk my dick!” and hurled the chair at the judge. It missed, but as the judge was running for his chambers, his black toupee fell on the ground.

For a few minutes the courtroom was completely out of control, and although the deputies were trained to handle situations like this, they were shocked themselves and very slow to react. Two of the three deputies looked like they had been eating a few too many Twinkies, which was probably why they weren’t too swift on their feet.

Samuel charged toward his attorney, who had gotten up and was trying to make it to the door. Unfortunately, the attorney wasn’t the track star he used to be, so he wasn’t fast enough either. Samuel grabbed him by the neck and hit him three times in the back of the head before the deputies got a hold of him and pulled him away. The bystanders were in a frenzy. While Yarni didn’t agree with all of the defendant’s actions, she could understand his frustration. His lawyer appeared to have given up on him.

There was a brief recess not only to get the courtroom back in order but also to get the judge’s toupee back on and straight. Once all was calm, the bailiff announced the next case: “The state of Maryland versus Desmond Taylor.”

Yarni’s heart raced and skipped a few beats when the deputy sheriff brought in Des. He, too, had on a bright orange jumpsuit, but Des’s dark chocolate complexion, compact muscular body, and swagger made him stand out. Yarni’s heart melted as her eyes met Des’s for the first time in more than three weeks. The last time she saw him was when he jetted out the hospital room after the birth of their first child, Desi Arnez Taylor.

“Your Honor, this defendant is being charged with the murder of his former attorney,” the prosecutor stated. “We recommend denying bail because this man is a serious flight risk.”

“Excuse me, Your Honor, but the prosecutor is mistaken,” said Mark Harowitz, Des’s new high-profile attorney. He was a commanding presence in his custom-made navy pinstripe suit and elaborate bow tie. His cockiness let everyone in the courtroom know that he was not some public pretender who was on the same payroll as the prosecutor. It wasn’t hard to imagine that his bank account held quite a few more zeroes than the judge’s.

“Desmond Taylor has a stable residence in Richmond, Virginia, where he was born and attended college,” Harowitz said.

The prosecutor leaned back in his chair, placed his folded hands over his stomach, and countered, “And Virginia was the place where he served a ten-year prison sentence for murder, Your Honor.”

Harowitz cleared his throat then calmly voiced, while holding his hundred-dollar ink pen, “A murder that he did not commit and for which he received an unconditional pardon.” He turned to look at the prosecutor. “He was robbed of ten years of his young life.”

“How ironic is it that two years after he is released from prison his attorney, who Mr. Taylor feels railroaded him, is murdered in cold blood,” the prosecutor responded. And we have evidence that the defendant was less than forty miles from the scene of the crime on the same day.”

Harowitz stood and looked directly at the judge.“Technically this evidence as well as any mention of prior crimes is inadmissible in a bail hearing. We’re here only to prove that he isn’t a flight risk, which he isn’t, and to determine what is a reasonable amount for a bond,” he said calmly.

“My client has strong ties to the community. He has a newborn daughter and a large family that loves and supports him. He and his wife have a lucrative luxury-car dealership, which he manages himself. His wife is a very successful attorney, who is here today in the courtroom.” He turned and briefly made eye contact with Yarni; she offered a small smile to the judge before looking at Des. Des smiled at her, and her heart melted again.

“We’re not here to discuss his wife,” the prosecutor said in an irritated voice. “We’re here to discuss your client’s checkered past.”

Harowitz was about to let loose a verbal onslaught on the prosecutor, but the judge finally stepped in. “Sidebar.”

Both attorneys approached the judge’s bench.

“Fellas, this isn’t a boxing match.”

“Your Honor.” The prosecutor jumped in, determined to have the first say. “I’m making it known that this guy is an ex- offender and doesn’t deserve a bond.”

“Ex-offender?” Harowitz said. “No. He was railroaded in the previous case, and by law he’s indeed innocent until proven guilty.”

“Which I intend to do,” the prosecution said, lacking conviction.

“I’d like to see that happen when the only evidence you have is a measly gas receipt charged to his company credit card from some station forty-eight miles away from the murder scene. On top of that, any one of his twelve employees could have used the card to purchase gas. Where are your witnesses? Your exhibits?” Harowitz looked at the prosecutor, who seemed to be tongue-tied and unable to respond. “Cat got your tongue? Or better yet, did a law change and someone forgot to send me the memo? My client deserves a reasonable bail.”

The prosecutor looked to the judge, his Shriner buddy, for some help. “Your Honor, the only reasonable bail in this case is no bail.”

“I hear you both, and you both have good arguments.” The judge sighed. “Bail is going to be set at a million dollars.”

“Your Honor!” Harowitz exclaimed. “A million dollars? That’s a bit excessive, don’t you think?”

“That’s my ruling. It is what it is. Let’s not forget that I’m the judge, and I make the final decisions in this courtroom.” With that, he struck his gavel once and signaled with a nod for the attorneys to take their places back behind their tables.

“Thank you, judge,” the prosecutor said as he walked away with a smile of victory on his face and a bounce in his step. Although his Shriner brother had set a bond, he had still, in effect, ruled in his favor. As far as the prosecutor and the judge were concerned, no black man besides an athlete or entertainer could ever make that kind of bail.

Both attorneys positioned themselves behind their respected tables facing the judge. When Des observed the big smile plastered on the prosecutor’s face, his first thought was that he was conquered, but his gut told him differently, and his gut was usually right. Harowitz didn’t give him any indication of what was said during the sidebar, so Des just focused in on the judge as he began to speak.

“Bail will be set at one million dollars cash.”

Chills went up Yarni’s spine, but she tried not to let the ruling affect her. She focused only on what the judge had to say. “The rules on this bail are as follows: You can put up one million dollars cash, or if you own a piece of property valued at least three times the one million dollars, that can be put up to secure your bail.”

At least there was a bond, so Yarni knew there was hope. She struggled to hold back her tears. She didn’t want to break down, not now at least, not in the courtroom. Des gazed over at her as he whispered in his attorney’s ear. Yarni quietly moved her lips to say “I love you,” and nodded, offering him a small smile, which Des returned.

Because of the last episode, it seemed the bailiff was moving much faster. Before Des was even finished speaking to his attorney, the bailiff pulled him away. A few minutes later, after Harowitz gathered his case files, he made his way outside the courtroom to where Yarni was waiting.

“So, a million dollars?” Yarni said as he walked over to her.

“I’m sorry, Yarnise. I wish it wasn’t so—”

“I know. You did really well in there. We both know that it could have been so much worse.”

“The prosecutor is a complete asshole, and he knows he doesn’t have a case. The bail is so high only because they’re the good ol’ boys.”

“I kind of figured that.” She paused. “For the record, Mark, I will help with any research that you need. I really appreciate this. I can’t tell you how much.”

“Oh, I know you will, but I’m going to put my best foot forward. I’ll handle this. You just take care of that little baby girl of yours.”

Yarni’s face lit up at the mention of her daughter. “Taking care of my little Desi is mandatory, but I will not kick back and let my husband fall victim to this system again. I can’t. I won’t,” Yarni stated with determination. “I’m simply not going to let that happen.”

“I know,” Harowitz said, placing his hand on Yarni’s shoulder. “We’ve just got to be on top of everything, and it starts with a million dollars.”

“I know.” She glanced down and then looked back up at him and repeated, “A million dollars, huh?”

He nodded slowly and echoed, “A million dollars. I know it’s a lot of cash, but I think it would help us prepare for the case if Des was out of jail.”

“He won’t be in jail,” Yarni assured Mark.

A million dollars wasn’t going to stop Yarni from having Des with her. Des was her all—he was her everything, her world, her heart, her mind, her soul, her husband, her baby’s father. A million dollars, though a lot of money, was not enough to stand ...