April
The gates buzzed as they slid open, dragging through the morning like they knew he wasn’t in a hurry to walk inside. Zaire stepped through them anyway. He adjusted his hat and nodded at the guard who already knew his face. He came every chance he got, which wasn’t that often due to his fame. Sometimes before tournaments or sometimes in the middle of the week when the noise in his head got too loud. A couple threw head nods his way out of respect, and some even sneered because they didn’t wear blue.
One called out, “Cooks, go crazy this season,” and Zaire forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
None of it touched him today.
He wasn’t here to feel important.
He was here because his father was behind these doors and nothing in Zaire’s account could get him out.
It made the money not feel so good anymore.
People talked about money being power, but it seems they left Black people with money off that manifesto.
The C.O. tapped his shoulder. “He‘s waiting on you.”
Zaire exhaled and stepped into the visiting room where the noise hit him like it was his first time. Voices layered over more voices. Guards watching. Kids running around their tired mothers. It was loud, but that wasn’t what got to him. What got to him was seeing his father stand up when he spotted him.
Antwan Cooks had the same walk, same height, same shoulders. His beard was gray, and his jumpsuit looked stiff on his frame, but his eyes never changed, not even from behind the glass.
Zaire hated that glass more than anything in the world.
“You good, son?” his father asked as he sat down on the other side of the divider.
Zaire could read his lips. He could always read them. Even before he knew how to actually read, he’d learned how to hear what his Pops said without having to hear him.
Zaire picked up the phone. “Yeah. I’m straight.”
“You lying already?”
Shifting in the hard, uncomfortable seat, Zaire didn’t say anything yet. He always had to regulate his emotions and let shit sit when he came to chop it up with his Pops.
Antwan held his gaze like he was peeling back every layer Zaire tried to hide. Zaire looked down at his own hands because it was easier than looking at the man he couldn’t fix.
“I talked to the lawyer again.” Zaire’s voice wasn’t steady the way he wanted. “She‘s filing the motion next week…thinks there’s enough for an appeal this time.”
His father nodded but didn’t smile. “How much you spend now?”
Zaire shrugged. “None of your business.”
Antwan gave him that look. The one that warned him without raising his voice. “Everything about you…is my business.”
Zaire leaned back in the plastic chair and rubbed his jaw. “It don’t matter how much. I got it.”
“I didn’t ask if you got it,” his father said. “I asked what it cost you.”
Zaire felt his gut twist. “It don’t matter.”
He looked to his left and felt his blood climb when he caught somebody staring. Fame was stupid sometimes. It made peopleforget they were the same as him—just folks coming to see people the system swore couldn’t stay out of trouble.
His father studied him like he always did. Like he was checking for cracks. “You tired.”
Zaire didn’t respond, only licked his lips and found something else to focus on.
“You’re carrying too much,” Antwan expressed. “You always did. Even as a little boy, you tried to fix everything - your Mama…your friends…your school. Fighting boys who talked slick, and trying to take care of a house you wasn’t supposed to be the man of.”
Zaire gulped, feeling his throat tighten.
