After about six or seven months—I’d completely lost count after a while, since they don’t exactly allow you to have a calendar in this high-security joint—I was sitting in the computer lab during my free time. The place was heavily guarded, and the computers were firewalled to hell.
But when you’re as good as me, prison security is child's play. I didn’t do anything too crazy. I just bypassed their restrictions to watch YouTube videos so I could keep up with the times.
I’d also watch some of my favorite anime on the screen. I was catching up on
Fire Force
and
Soul Eater
. Sometimes I’d put on classic
Dragon Ball
or
Yu Yu Hakusho
to pass the time.
Every time I was in the lab, I ended up sitting next to this quiet Brazilian dude. All he ever did was play on
Cool Math Games
, but he always looked over at my screen with a lot of interest. I found it a little creepy at first, but I kept minding my own business and let him watch whatever I was watching. He was actually pretty cool about it.
“Yo,” he whispered, leaning in closer. “How are you doing that in here?”
“I don’t know, bro,” I whispered back, not looking away from my monitor. “You’re sounding a little like a fed right now. And I don’t like communicating with the feds.”
I thought he’d get pissed or defensive, but he actually laughed.
“That’s fair,” he smiled. “But nah, I’m not a cop. I was actually wondering if you could help me over here. I’m just trying to play some
Halo
on this machine, bro.”
“You don’t look like the type of guy who plays video games, bro.”
“Man, we both know looks can be deceiving,” he shrugged. “From the way you’re dressed, you don’t exactly look like a person who should be locked up in a place like this either.”
He had a fair point. I was wearing my traditional Muslim kufi and thobe.
“Yeah, that’s fair,” I grinned. “But if you’re gonna be playing some
Halo
, let me play some
Halo
with you, too, dog.”
“Bet,” he said, his eyes lighting up. “I don’t want to play against those online sweats anyway. They be try-harding as shit, bruh.”
A few weeks after that, playing
Halo
in the computer room became our daily routine. We’d log on, queue up for matches together, and straight-up rage. It was the most fun I’d had in months.
“Bruh!” my buddy shouted, nearly jumping out of his seat. “Did this nigga just hit me with a 360 no-scope?!”
On his screen, the enemy player's character started aggressively teabagging his corpse.
“Nah, he’s disrespectful too?!” he groaned, slamming his hand on the desk. “We got to clutch this game now, Rico. They are talking way too much shit in the chat!”
“Don’t worry, I got this big-ass tank,” I whispered, my fingers flying across my keyboard. “I’m going to blow their asses up. You know this thing is overpowered.”
I started shooting to cover his flank, keeping the enemy from blowing up his tank with rocket launchers while he just laid waste to their whole team.
“BOOM!” he cheered, throwing his hands in the air. “Teabag me now, bitch! Take that L, pussies!”
We high-fived at the victory, laughing as we looked at the game chat. The other team was completely losing their minds, throwing out racist slurs left and right—even though they had no way of knowing I was Black.
“I don’t even have a mic,” I muttered, shaking my head at the screen, “and they’re throwing slurs like a Klansman with Tourette's.”
“They’re not even racist for real,” my buddy scoffed, shutting down his browser. “These keyboard warriors only talk like that because they’re mad. If any of these kids ever got pressed in real life, they’d turn pussy so fast.”
“I know, right?” I grinned, leaning back in my chair. “They talk all that shit, always acting like, 'Meet me outside!' you know?”
The Brazilian then looked over at me. “Yo, what’s your name, bro?”
“Oh, it’s Rico. Yours?”
“I’m Pedro,” he said. “What you in for anyway?”
I let out a long sigh, staring at my monitor. “Murder.”
“Murder?!”
“Yep.”
“Wait... you’re the Muslim dude?”
“Clipped him. Dumped him, too.”
“Fuck. How long you got? Life?”
“I’m not even sentenced yet, surprisingly,” I said. “I’m still waiting for my time in court, but they keep pushing my shit back.”
I could tell by the way he looked at me that he was actually intrigued. “Word? So you up in here with no bail?”
“Nah, I got bail, but that bitch is a million dollars. Like hell I’m getting out anytime soon. They might as well have said I didn’t have any bail, just to keep my black ass up in here.”
“Ahh... that sounds tough, buddy.”
“What you up in here for?” I asked, clicking my mouse.
“Ahh, just a bullshit DUI.”
“You were driving drunk?”
“Nah, man. I was hella high off weed. Locked my Brazilian ass up, too. I just got sentenced recently, though. I only got a few months.”
“At least you’re actually getting out of here, Pedro,” I sighed. “I’m either facing death or life without parole. At best, I’m looking at parole after my head is completely grey. So I’m just trying to get right with Allah. I spend my free time reading and playing games.”
He didn’t say anything after that. We just kept our heads down and played a few more games.
A few days after that, I was out in the yard getting my workout in. My strength had improved a lot since I first got locked up. I was benching and squatting two-seventy, and curling seventy-pound dumbbells. But I still spent most of my time doing calisthenics. I followed the exact same routine I used while training with Mr. Bone—pushing past muscle failure on my push-ups and pull-ups, and then squeezing out a few extra reps of planks and sit-ups just to test my limits.
Hell, the guys in the pod actually nicknamed me “Spider-Man” because I was the only person on the yard who could hold a horizontal human flag on the pull-up bars with absolute ease.
But right in the middle of my set, this massive Brazilian dude covered in tattoos walked over to my bar.
“Hey,” he grunted, his shadow falling over me. “My boss needs to talk to you.”
“Hold on, bro,” I grunted, my core burning as I held the bar. “I’m in the middle of my set. I got like another two minutes. I’m already at four minutes hanging like this.”
“Now,” he barked.
I just ignored him. Who the fuck was this guy to just walk up and interrupt my set? Some random-ass thug. But this rude-ass motherfucker actually reached out and pushed my shoulder, forcing me to lose my balance. I had to drop and awkwardly catch myself on the concrete.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, dick?!” I snapped, dusting off my hands. “I said I was coming!”
He stepped right into my space, getting dead in my face. “When my boss says he wants to see you, you better come and listen, boy.”
“I don’t know who you think you can bitch around in here,” I growled, clenching my fists, “but it’s sure as hell not me, fuck-nigga.”
Just as I was stepping up, ready to swing on him—
“HEY!”
I looked over. Mujahid and the rest of the Muslim brothers were already walking up, blocking the giant from getting any closer to me.
“Is there a problem over here?” Mujahid asked, his voice low and dangerous.
Before the big giant could even open his mouth, a shorter Brazilian guy ran over and aggressively pulled him back by the arm.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Adelino?!” the shorter guy hissed, before turning back to us in English. “Are you intentionally trying to start beef with the Muslims?!”
He stepped right between us, giving Mujahid a respectful nod.
“There’s no problem here, Mr. Mujahid,” he said quickly. “This dumbass behind me wasn’t taught proper manners. My name is Benigno, and our boss just wanted to speak with Rico.”
Mujahid crossed his arms, his eyes narrowing. “And what business do the Brazilians have with Brother Rico specifically? Because if I remember correctly, he’s been minding his own business and not bothering nobody.”
“I can assure you he didn’t do anything wrong,” Benigno said, putting his hands up. “In fact, he actually helped our boss out not too long ago. He just wants to express his gratitude.”
I stood there, completely confused, trying to figure out what the hell they were talking about. And then, it suddenly hit me.
“Wait,” I said, looking at Benigno. “Are you talking about Pedro?”
Mujahid looked back at me, surprised. “You know their leader, Brother Rico?”
“I mean, we play those Halo matches together on the computers in the lab,” I muttered, scratching my head. “Nothing too crazy. All I did was help him bypass the firewall so he could access more game servers.”
Benigno smiled. “No harm will come to Rico, Mujahid. He just wants to talk to him. You’re welcome to come along with him if you want.”
Mujahid and I exchanged a quick look. I looked back at Benigno and shrugged.
“Fine,” I said. “Only because me and him are pretty tight. And the man is a god with the sniper rifle.”
Me and Mujahid walked over to the corner of the yard where the Brazilians ran things. Pedro was sitting on a concrete bench, and the second we got close, he gave us a friendly nod.
I was still mostly annoyed at his giant enforcer, though.
“If your big-ass, Latino Hulk-looking friend had just told me you wanted to talk to me straight-up instead of putting his hands on me,” I muttered, crossing my arms, “I probably would’ve come sooner. I didn’t say no. I was just in the middle of my set.”
Pedro shook his head, letting out a soft sigh. He gave Adelino a cold, firm look, and the massive giant immediately looked down at the dirt, completely breaking his tough-guy gaze in shame.
“My apologies, Rico,” Pedro said, his Portuguese accent smooth. “Next time, I’ll make sure to send someone who actually has some sense. But I have a proposition for you.”
I tilted my head. “A proposition?”
“Since you were so cool to me and helped me play those video games in the lab,” Pedro said, leaning forward, “I want to pay your bond so you can get out of here.”
Mujahid immediately looked at him skeptically, his eyes narrowing. “This sounds like a setup,” he said, his voice flat. “No one pays a million-dollar bond in a place like this out of the goodness of their heart. What’s the catch?”
I nodded, agreeing with my cellie. “Yeah, we might be bros on the computer, Pedro, but this is still prison. Nothing in here is ever given with nothing in return. There’s always a catch. Hell, a motherfucker will leave a dollar-fifty honey bun on your mattress just to collect your soul as payment. I know how this game works.”
Pedro clapped his hands together, laughing happily. “See? This is exactly why I like you, Rico. You’re always smart. I understand why you’re skeptical. But you helped me bypass that firewall out of the kindness of your heart, with absolutely nothing in return. So it’s only fair I do the same for you. I’m paying your bond so you can get out of here.”
Me and Mujahid were completely taken aback. But we were still highly skeptical. This was a million-dollar bond. How the hell was some kid doing time for a minor DUI in a local Florida jail supposed to generate that kind of cash?
Pedro saw the look on our faces. He smiled, leaning back on the bench.
“My full name is Pedro Herbas Camacho,” he said quietly. “Does that ring a bell?”
Obviously, I didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about. But beside me, I heard Mujahid let out a sharp gasp. His jaw completely dropped. He looked at Pedro like he was looking at a ghost.
“Marcola...” Mujahid whispered.
“Yeah,” Pedro nodded, his smile widening. “Marcos Willians Herbas Camacho, AKA Marcola. I’m his bastard son. My father is the maximum leader of the PCC. Even from a maximum-security federal facility, he directs a multi-billion-dollar international cocaine operation. He controls a massive prison network, too.”
Pedro looked up at me, his eyes dead serious.
“So yeah... I can make that million dollars happen for you very quickly.”
“But what’s the trade?” I asked, looking at Pedro. “A million is a lot of cash, bro. You know I’m gonna have to work this off.”
Pedro thought about it for a second. “Well... let me think. You ever push drugs before?”
“Of course he hasn't—” Mujahid started.
“I pushed a few pounds of weed, yes,” I cut in.
Pedro blinked. “Wait... really?”
“I know, surprising,” I said. “I’ve done a whole bunch of stuff. The only thing they legally caught me with was attempted murder and murder.”
Mujahid looked over at me, his eyes wide. “Wait, Brother Rico. You attempted to kill somebody else before this?”
“Yeah,” I said, dismissively. “I got it expunged when I turned eighteen. But to be fair, he was a grown-ass man who was hitting on a freshman in high school.”
Pedro laughed, shaking his head. “Yeah, never mind. You dangerous, dangerous. But that’s besides the point. You move some coke for me that I don’t feel like dealing with while you’re on the outside, and we’ll call it even.”
“I’m gonna need some exact numbers, bro,” I said, crossing my arms. “I can’t just do this blindly. I need an exact timeframe. Months? A year or two?”
“Hmmm, damn,” Pedro muttered, a smirk playing on his lips. “You don’t even leave any room for error, huh?”
“Fuck no.”
“Well, depending on how long it takes for your trial... let’s say a year. And you won’t even have to sell face-to-face. You’re good with computers, so just sell some keys on the dark web, and we’ll call it even.” He reached his hand across the concrete table. “Deal.”
I looked at his hand, and then I looked at Mujahid.
“I’m surprised you don’t have more objections, Brother Mujahid,” I said.
“I don’t have the right to tell you not to take a chance at freedom,” Mujahid said, giving me a supportive nod. “For me, it is too late. But not for you. You should at least be able to enjoy your life instead of sitting in this cage waiting for court. And surprisingly, they have a habit in Florida of fast-tracking your trial when you’re out on bond compared to when you’re inside.”
I thought about it for a minute, weighing the pros and the cons. The absolute worst they could do was catch me with the keys, revoke my bond, and throw me right back in jail with a heavy drug charge on top of the murder.
Fuck it,
the voice in my head chimed in.
We’re already facing life or death as is. A drug charge on top of that don’t sound too bad.
I leaned forward and shook Pedro’s hand.
“Deal. But knowing my old prosecutor, she’s going to be very curious about how a nigga on a first-degree murder charge suddenly got a cartel to pay his million-dollar bond.”
“You let me worry about that,” Pedro grinned. “You just enjoy your free time.”
Shortly after that, I was out.
A few days of paperwork, and I walked right out the front gates a free man again. Pedro even set me up with enough cash to get myself an apartment to live in.
So now, I’m back in the game. I’m pushing bricks of cocaine on the dark web to pay off a million-dollar debt for the next year. But I get to keep twenty-five percent of the profits from the sales, which isn’t too bad of a deal. Still, I wasn’t really focusing on the fast money. My main priority was using this freedom to find a way to beat the murder charge.