"I was with Jerrell Jackson." The room buzzed, spectators and jurors alike. The jurors were totally confused.

Forty was not hearing this. He was not hearing this s.h.i.t. The b.i.t.c.h was lying her a.s.s off. He never seen no one look that convincing. "She's lying! She's lying, your Honor!" He started screaming, wanting to run over to her and wring her lying b.i.t.c.h-a.s.s neck, but he could no longer use his legs. "She's lying. There's no way he was in Texas your Honor."

"Order, order!" said the judge as he banged his gavel. Once quiet reigned, he told them to proceed.

DeStephano continued. "Your Honor, I would like to present into evidence receipts for tickets purchased on Mrs. Harding's credit card, showing that she, indeed, was not alone."

"Your Honor, I object. That doesn't prove anything," argued Perachetti. And little did he know it, but that was exactly what DeStephano wanted him to do. Make a big deal over the tickets. After the battle over the tickets was settled and DeStephano had his way and the tickets were turned into an exhibit, he went back to his performance. He questioned Sharice Harding-Wilson continually, and she made a good show of breaking down, totally distraught. She was confessing to adultery and could lose her family, but at the same time she just couldn't sit back and let an innocent man go to jail. Forty couldn't believe she was sitting there.

That's when the tears came, "My whole life is ruined," she said as she took the handkerchief from DeStephano's hand. Who could deny such bulls.h.i.t in the name of justice?

Christ, thought Forty, why is this s.h.i.t happening? He could not believe it. He was paralyzed from the waist down, and counsel for the defendant had a sobbing woman on the stand explaining that she was married and she didn't want to ruin her marriage or her happy life, but she couldn't let this man go to jail knowing that he didn't commit this horrible crime. The jury seemed to like the soap opera before them and sympathized with this good woman who'd got herself mixed up with that Jerrell Jackson, who didn't really look like a criminal. Meanwhile, Jerrell was sitting there as if he was being stopped from saving the world because of this silly trial for kidnapping and attempted murder.

"No more questions, your Honor." DeStephano took his seat.

"Your witness," the judge said to the prosecutor. Perachetti knew she was lying. He went through a series of questions. The woman was a fine citizen, never had been arrested, no priors, or even a parking violation. No drug use, prescription or otherwise. She was a registered nurse and made it perfectly clear that she was cognizant of the night in question.

The drama was blinding even Forty. Maybe Jerrell wasn't there, he thought and thought. No, he knew it was Jerrell. He didn't regain consciousness for thirty-eight hours after he lost it, but when he came back it was Jerrell, Sam, Ran, and Sirnone, and where was Simone? He had no idea, but he knew who did. He remembered pulling off Sam's mask, he remembered that, then they pulled off theirs, then Jerrell shot him. Yes, it was definitely Jerrell who was the trigger man.

When Mrs. Harding was excused, defense counsel brought Forty back up on the stand, plunging into Forty with determination and consistency. However, Forty repeated his statements, never wavering, telling the jury again that they did, in fact, kidnap him, drug him, hold him for ransom, and then Jerrell Jackson shot him. By the time DeStephano was finished, the story read that "Christopher Cole, aka Forty, known in the street, was a drug dealer who, in fact, was kidnapped, was, in fact, shot, and yes he would be a paraplegic for the rest of his life. However, Jerrell Jackson was not guilty of these crimes."

DeStephano made his closing statements, stressing the fact that, while Christopher Cole had been starved, kidnapped, and drugged with thorazine, he probably didn't know who his captors were, he might have been hallucinating. "He doesn't know who shot him. He doesn't even know who kidnapped him, nor does he know where he collapsed. After saying he collapsed in the bas.e.m.e.nt, he was, in fact, found out on the porch. This man doesn't know, and when you get up from your chairs, walk into that room, and deliberate, I ask that you merely ask yourselves, ladies and gentlemen, in light of the evidence and testimony at hand, did Mr. Perachetti prove, beyond a reasonable doubt, that this man did, indeed commit that crime? All you need is one doubt, because if you have any doubts at all, you will be sending an innocent man to jail."

Wiping his head as if he'd just saved the unfortunate in Bosnia, Iran, and Somalia, he told the judge, "That's all, your Honor."

Forty wanted to kill that b.i.t.c.h for lying. He wanted to take her long a.s.s legs and wrap them around her throat and just choke the b.i.t.c.h. He saw the way the s.h.i.t was going down. Again, the system would fail, and again the s.h.i.t would f.u.c.k up what little faith a brother could have. This is such bulls.h.i.t. How could this be happening?

After closing arguments, counsel submitted their points for charge to the court, the judge deciding what statements of law would be read to the jury and what would not. The jurors then retired to the jury deliberation room, to think real hard about the matter at hand. Forty-five minutes later, they returned. A foreman was ready to recite the verdict.

Gena couldn't believe it. She was so close, yet so far. "Is there something else we can do?" she asked, as if all hope were lost.

"Well, there's the old figure out the combination trick," he said pulling out a stethoscope.

"What's that for?" she asked.

"This is so I can hear."

"Hear what?"

The guy wasn't one for giving any lessons, but he tried to break it down to her the best he could. "Okay. See, near the combination is a chamber. Now, when you're turning this k.n.o.b, you can actually hear . . . well it's like a pin drop."

"What?"

"There are seven channels set on this combination. The channels are the numbers; you don't know the numbers. So you got to listen for the numbers."

"Oh. I understand. So, you think you can do it?"

"I've done it before."

It had been an hour and a half and he was still trying to open the safe.

"Oh, my G.o.d. Maybe I should try," she said, getting frustrated.

"What's in here?"

"Why? Why do you want to know that?"

"Because I can tell whatever is in here, you want it bad."

Boy Wonder, you're a real genius to figure that one out, aren't you? Gena thought, looking at her Rolex. Gena could not believe it. He wasn't getting the job done. She didn't understand. She was ready to take her chances with the torch. This was not the way. Gena looked at him with such dismay and frustration that she wasn't quite sure what to say. Her main concern was whether or not she had to pay him for all the waste of time. Time was money, and wasted time was wasted money.

Court was in session.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?"

"We have, your Honor."

Forty sat there. He knew that the crimes charged against the defendant had been committed by the defendant, and he was guilty and whatever punishment he received would be deemed just and fair. As the foreman rose, Forty looked at him. He glanced at Forty and made eye contact for one brief moment then he did the same to Jerrell, then began to read.

"On the charge of kidnapping, not guilty. On the charge of attempted murder, not guilty."

Forty was stunned. On the charge of this and on the charge of that, not guilty. Jerrell was free as a bird. Jerrell hugged Billy DeStephano, "You the man, you know that, right?"

"Of course I am," answered DeStephano. "No gun, no witnesses, you'll always go free," he said in a low voice. The man was all that. One hundred and seventy-five thousand plus another fifty thousand, such a small price to pay for freedom. Jerrell had been down for six months with no bail. He couldn't wait to get back out on the streets and start terrorizing everybody's a.s.s again.

For reasons understood, Forty was paralyzed, blessed to be alive. He couldn't move. His mind scrambled and "not guilty" was ringing in his ears. Jerrell strolled up to him making his exit from the courtroom.

Bending down, he whispered in Forty's ear, "See you in traffic, baby."

Once everything died down, including the reporters looking for a Pulitzer and the not guilty hype, Forty was left in the courtroom, sitting all alone. He might have been able to accept not being able to ever walk again in life if Jerrell had been punished. There was a lump in his throat too big to swallow, a tear in his eye that he couldn't hold back. Just thinking about what the rest of his life would be like as the tear rolled down his cheek, he looked up at the seal carved into the American woodwork behind the American judge's chair in the American courtroom, representing American jurisprudence. The American eagle, he thought. The same eagle seal that's on all the money. The same money that got me here, he thought as he looked down, holding some in his hand. He wiped the moisture from his face and rolled out into the hallway where the officers were waiting to take him back to North Dakota. He saw the DA approaching him. He wasn't trying to hear no more s.h.i.t.

"You know, there will be another courtroom and he won't be so lucky the next time. We're gonna get him. Don't worry, we're gonna get him."

Forty just kept rolling. They would never get Jerrell. They would never stop the Junior Mafia. The boy was too large. He was untouchable.

"It's not going to open," said Gena feeling all hope was lost. Then she heard the click. It was definitely a click, she heard it, and when his hand reached up and grabbed the handle on the safe door, Gena knew that all was not lost.

"Oh my G.o.d, where did all that money come from?" His eyes were totally focused on the inside of the safe. Gena was about to faint. Booyah kept flashing in front of her like a neon light. For one brief moment, Gena thought of this strange looking locksmith killing her and taking her fortune. Of course, she didn't know that the locksmith was also getting paranoid, wondering if she might kill him. It was just too much money for him not to be suspicious.

"Okay, what's your name?"

"Chris," he answered nervously.

"Chris, here, I think this should cover you for your troubles." Gena reached in the safe. Taking a large stack of fifties, she handed them to him. The guy just stood there, looking like a plucked bird unable to accept her generosity.

The guy was just staring. He couldn't believe it. Gena rushed him to the door. "Thank you for everything, Chris," she said as she closed the door behind him.

She went into Qua's bedroom and she got some pillowcases out of his closet door. She started stuffing the money in the pillowcases and sat them neatly by the door. When all the money was out of the safe, Gena had thirteen pillowcases neatly lined up by the door. It was unbelievable. She couldn't think straight. She was nervous and wanted to leave. She understood how Quadir felt having this money. s.h.i.t, how could he sleep? She looked around the apartment. And she thought of Quadir. She had loved him with all her heart, had been faithful day and night, sacrificed with patience, and even though he had cheated, it didn't matter, understanding why as if he were right there with her explaining everything. "Qua, I know you're here, 'cause your money is here. Come with me. Please come with me." Gena felt him, she felt him all around her. She knew he heard her. She knew, 'cause there was no way anyone could rest with all that money left untouched. Oh, no. Qua was there, he was definitely in the apartment. But now, he could rest. She would be okay with that paper. He had hustled for seven years. Seven years of hustling and grinding out there in the streets. Seven years of dodging jealous enemies. Seven years of dope fiends and pipers. Seven years of the streets. There was no one he wanted to take care of more than Gena. There was no one but Gena who was ent.i.tled to what was in that safe. And she finally found it. He had waited on her a long time, but she got it. She got it all.

Gena took the poster size picture of them in a platinum and gold frame off the wall. She looked at it for a moment, thinking about the times they had shared. "I don't know how I've made it this long without you, baby." She looked around for a moment as she walked to the empty safe and locked it back up. She quickly loaded the car with pillowcases, and with her pocket book straped around her shoulder and last pillowcase of money in her hand, she blew a kiss into the air, hoping that in the breeze Quadir could feel her love. She turned and opened the door, but felt something pulling at her shoulder. She turned around, but nothing was there. "I love you, Quadir. I always did, and I always will." Gena closed and locked the door to apartment 307.

She didn't know what to do, where to go or who to call. For the first time, Gena trusted no one and on the strength of Quadir, she never would with his paper. Not even Rik. If Qua didn't, why should she? She got in her baby-blue Mercedes-Benz and sat there trying to collect her thoughts. She wanted to go somewhere, but where? She definitely wasn't going to the projects with thirteen pillowcases filled with money. Not, she thought to herself.

She picked up the cellular phone and called Gah Git. "I'll be staying with Tracey," she said.

"Okay, baby. Thanks for calling me, I was starting to worry about you. You be careful, you hear me?"

"Yeah, tell Khaleer he can sleep on the top bunk."

"Knowing that fool he'll be in a closet somewhere or in the tub."

Gena could hear Brandi crying in the background. "I got to go, there goes the baby. Call me tomorrow," said Gah Git.

"I love you, Gah Git," she said, disconnecting the cellular line. Gena didn't want to tell Gah Git about the money. Gah Git didn't keep no secrets. She would be on the phone calling the ghetto gazette telling Gena's business.

"What to do?" she asked out loud, wanting guidance. Sitting in the car, Gena thanked G.o.d for his blessings. He had truly been merciful. But a reality struck her that life was about change. The funny thing about it was no matter how much you change, memories always stay the same.

Qua was gone, and the money couldn't take his place. It would never take his place. Nothing would ever take his place, and there would never be another love like Quadir's. When she sat back and thought about it all, his life and the time that they spent together, and how his life brought her more riches than the contents of those pillowcases. It was incomparable with the money she found in that closet. If she could give the money back in exchange for his life, in exchange to have him back, she would in the wink of an eye.

Gena took the diamond Q key chain and turned the car's ignition. She took a long look at the apartment building before pulling off toward the Ben Franklin Bridge and the New Jersey Turnpike. Her destination, Exit 16, the Lincoln Tunnel, New York City.

JUST A LITTLE NOTE.

In a world where evil lurks on every street corner and peace within oneself is a hard thing to come by, we must travel beyond mere existence and live our lives to the fullest, the best we can.

Things have been so hard for a race of misused and rejected people that our African American families today are still suffering. The streets can make you and the streets can break you. The way you play the game is up to you.

To those caught in the trap of temporary pleasures, let me tell you this: the root of all evil, which is the love of money and the next man's pain, will surely come back to haunt you. We have a choice. I believe everyone has a heart, and within our hearts is a conscience. And I know the inner peace we are lacking in ourselves can be found. I know all the burdens we carry can be lifted. I also know our perseverance, our will to survive.

Love yourselves and love one another. Give yourself time to grow and open your minds to education because it is a key to the way out. Whatever you do, make it worth something. All your consequences in life are dependent upon your behavior. If you know what the consequences are, why do you still exhibit detrimental behavior?

Because . . . you're true to the game.

When I wake up to travel what is unknown, yet certain for me and for my life, throughout the day and night, I give thanks for all the many, many blessings embraced upon me.

Forever protect me, forever guide me, and forever love me. You are the most merciful, the most beneficent, the most gracious. I love you.

READING GROUP GUIDE.

A Letter to Readers.

Discussion Questions.

Excerpt from True to the Game II.

Dear Readers:.

I think back to the beginning all the time. Before the business of publishing became my business, before it became my life. I knew back in the early nineties that I'd have to do something to get my life together. I never dreamed it would be this. I never thought I would ever write a book, let alone sell one. I was told countless times that there was no market for a book like True to the Game. No market? Well, I guess we made that market, didn't we?

People ask me all the time how I did it. How did I sell a million books by myself? I always tell people I've done nothing by myself. I try all the time to explain the power of my people and how they demanded this book and how they made corporate place it on those big shelves of Barnes and n.o.ble and Borders. I love you so much for that because I could never have done that by myself. I tell people how, when I started selling True to the Game in Philadelphia, it was handmade with the white cover and the gold gun on the front. People bought that book from me for twenty dollars, even though it fell apart once they opened it because it was really handmade. To this day, they're holding that book in a plastic bag thinking it will be worth money one day. I love you for that.

I tell people how I came to New York and stood under the Mart 125, selling my book hand to hand in the freezing cold. The lady from the YMCA on 135th who let me, a stranger, sleep on her sofa. Amil from the Roc, who let me stay at her house, wear her clothes, and drive her BMW so I could be fly and do New York. And even Lenise (aka Queen Pen), who introduced me to Brooklyn, who let me stay in her home with her children, whenever I needed. I love you guys so much for that.

I try to tell people there were times when I had nowhere to go and so I would simply sleep in my car, but you best believe even then, I had street angels and the brothers would watch over me so that nothing happened to me. I love you for that. I try to tell people all the time I never expected others would relate to what I had written, that I had no idea my ghetto fabulous lifestyle was understood in such a way that it would transform itself into this great big business of urban fiction. I had no idea that my brothers and sisters out here would follow me and independently publish their stories and make money and have a better way of life for themselves, but you did and I love you for that. This letter is not to say thank you, but it's to let you know that I humble myself to you and I am so grateful. I want you to know that I will never take you for granted and I will always love you for all that you have done for me.

Truly, Teri Woods.

DISCUSSION QUESTIONS..

1. Why do you think Gena was attracted to Quadir?

2. Do you think Gah Git should have had a stronger influence in Gena's life?

3. Do you think Gena was affected by Sahira's death?

4. Do you think Gena's att.i.tude toward life is indicative of a certain generation?

5. What do you think was Gena's biggest mistake?

The following is a sample chapter from TERI WOODS'S.

eagerly antic.i.p.ated sequel to TRUE TO THE GAME.

TRUE TO THE GAME II: GENA'S STORY.

will be available in November 2007.

wherever books are sold.

CHAPTER ONE.

The second time Gena saw the black BMW in her rearview mirror, she thought it was a mere coincidence. The third time she saw the Beemer, she thought that it was just another car traveling east, amid a plethora of other vehicles. And then she saw it a fourth time, and then a fifth. It was deliberately trying to keep its distance, trying not to be noticed, trying to blend in with the other vehicles on the highway. But she noticed it. And now she suspected that she was being followed. Who the f.u.c.k is behind me?

She stomped on her gas, only to see the BMW increase its speed. When she slowed down, it too slowed. And now, she was about to conduct the ultimate test. She was about to exit the turnpike and turn back around toward Philly. If the BMW exited the highway and turned around with her, then she would definitely have her answer.