“His mother should be here,” Meech snapped. “Where is she? Too good to come see me now?”
“She’s in the car,” Yusef said quietly. “She didn’t want to come in.”
Meech laughed bitterly. “Course not. Still running, ain’t she? Always running.”
I felt Yusef tense beside me. “Focus on your son,” I said, my voice carrying a warning. “You’ve got thirty minutes. Don’t waste it.”
Meech gave me a look that would have made a lesser man nervous, but I’d seen worse. Much worse. After a moment, he turned back to Yusef.
“So, what you into? Sports? Girls? What?”
“I play chess,” Yusef said. “And piano.”
Meech’s face fell. “Chess? Piano?” He looked accusingly at me. “The hell kind of soft shit is that? That’s why you can’t fight and is out here gettin’ yo’ as beat.”
Before I could respond, Yusef straightened his shoulders. “I’m good at it, though. I’ve won tournaments.”
“Tournaments,” Meech repeated flatly. “For chess.”
“Yes. And I’m going to music camp this summer. For gifted students.”
I felt a surge of pride for the kid. Standing his ground. Defending who he was.
Meech leaned back in his chair. “Your mama got you playing that bougie shit instead of learning how to defend yourself. You needa learn how to scrap, boy.”
“Mom works really hard,” Yusef said, a defensive edge creeping into his voice. “She’s starting her own business. She makes these amazing cinnamon rolls called Zinnamon Rolls. They’re really good.”
“Zinnamon rolls,” Meech scoffed. “What kinda boujie shit is that? Always thought she was too good for the streets.”
“Maybe she was,” I said coolly. “Maybe she still is.”
Meech’s eyes snapped to mine. “Nobody asked you.”
“Nobody had to. Your son is sitting right here telling you about his life, and all you can do is talk about his mother. Focus, man.”
“Where is Zahara?” Meech demanded again. “I need to talk to her. This is important.”
“More important than meeting your son for the first time in a decade?” I asked.
Meech’s face flushed with anger. He jabbed a finger in my direction. “You don’t know our situation. You don’t know what she did?—”
“I know she raised your son while you’ve been in here,” I cut him off. “I know he’s smart, talented, and respectful despite never having you around. So whatever you think she did, looks to me like she did something right.”
Meech stood up suddenly, his chair screeching against the floor. “Who the fuck do you think you are? You don’t know shit about me and mine!”
Several guards looked our way, hands moving to their belts.
“Sit down,” I said calmly. “Before you get yourself in trouble.”
“Fuck you, man. I need to talk to Zahara. This is about?—”
“Sir,” a guard approached our table. “You need to lower your voice and sit down.”
Meech ignored him, still glaring at me. “Tell her I need to talk to her. It’s about?—”
“Last warning,” the guard said. “Sit down, or your visit ends now.”
Yusef was shrinking in his seat, looking mortified. I put a hand on his shoulder, trying to reassure him.
