On his way farther downtown, Kingson mentally replayed the incident that had just happened between him and the young professional lady with whom he worked in the same building, who many of the males that worked in the building also called "Ms. Thang," a term of endearment among Black people, attraction and admiration for a Black woman who was beautiful and had a gorgeous body and likely also had a job and was "doing her 'thing.'"
He parked his Ford Excursion on the side street of some Chinese Triad gangmembers he had represented some years ago fresh out of law school. No one had wanted to take the case since it involved a certain well-known shipping magnate who was trying to muscle over the Customs dock space of one of the Chinese mafias. Kingson had reached out to one of his dad's contacts and, over a period of two years, he managed to work out a terribly complex deal suitable to the shipping baron and acceptable to the Triad wherein both profited from the symbiotic union. Aside from the salary he had earned, the Triad had provided an always secure and protected parking space for him here on Canal Street. The restaurant owned by the Triad on Grant Street would also serve him meals for free whenever he stopped in. Some of the Triad members exchanged waves of greeting with him as he strolled to a nearby Mickey Dee's. He
ordered a Number 5 (supersize) and got to work on the food, preferring to dine upstairs. His mind multitasked as his body was nourished but there was one nagging issue he
had put off thinking about for the moment. Mia.
His wife of four years, Mia had become short-tempered, withdrawn, and generally moody in recent months. The issue of her not being able to successfully carry a child to term was the elephant in the room. She had twice before miscarried and was just past thirty years old. It was common knowledge that the older a woman got the more
difficult it became for her to bear children. Their love life had all but vanished, but there was somethinghe had been feeling lately, like something he was supposed to have grasped but kept missing by the smallest of margins. She had gone to visit her mother who lived on 241st Street and White Plains Road. Glancing at his Samsung Galaxy 10 he decided to call her.
"Hey, babe," Mia answered, sounding inquisitive, a bit guarded even. "Hey, ma... How you feeling?" he asked. A pause ensued.
"I'm better," she replied. But he knew she wasn't and would never be until she had successfully given birth, even if only once. Kingson knew it would come and never stressed about it. He worried about the emotional, mental and physical wellbeing of Mia more than anything and in that order. The one year anniversary of both miscarriages
had passed a few months ago in December. He didn't realize he was just holding the phone and hadn't said anything.
"Oh okay. Sorry, I was... woolgathering." Woolgathering. Him and his words. He could see her in his mind rolling her eyes and he smiled. "Alright then. Let me let you go. Please greet the matriarch Mama H for me and the rest of the family. I'm near the court now to handle a situation for Branson."
"Oh.... Okay, babe," she faintly responded. "I'm-I'm about to jump in the shower. We'll talk later. Love you." Before he could ask what was wrong or even say "I love you" back, the line went dead. A feeling of vertigo overcame him and he again felt something, just beyond his understanding... The revelation retreated, taking with it his appetite and frustrating him immensely. He gathered up the rest of his food and soda, walked down and out the side exit and almost immediately found a homeless man to whom he gave his remaining meal and five dollars. His dad had always taught him to be charitable and to him, whether or not a person could repay him was irrelevant. Kingson's definition of integrity was to do the right thing, even when no one was looking.
At approximately 1:45p.m. Kingson entered the courthouse at 100 Centre Street. After a few minutes conversing with some guards and colleagues, some of the latter directed him to a fifth floor courtroom. As a lawyer, he got to speak to his client but from behind a screen and on the same floor as that on which his client would be arraigned. The wheels of justice were rusty and clunky so his client was still being moved from bullpen to bullpen in the process of detainee defendants seeing the appropriate judge and their lawyers within a reasonable amount of time after arrest.
A "bullpen" is simply a temporary holding cell for detainees and prisoners, the latter being convicted and the former still awaiting trial; both detainees awaiting trial and prisoners who had already been tried were never supposed to be in the same bullpen
but overcrowding and embezzlement of public funds meant for use in the penile system were an unsavory reality of the penile system. Kingson was escorted by a court guard through a side door in the courtroom to a waiting area a few steps away where partitioned cubicles with iron grilles separating the speakers were arranged for lawyer- client privacy.