Dutch
Dutch thought of where he was and where he wanted to be.
He contemplated his next move, knowing that stealing cars was a thing of the past. He would always love the thrill of the
chase, of stealing cars, of speeding. But the short bid he had served brought on an accelerated maturity, and he realized
that the rewards were no longer worth the risks. He wanted bigger rewards. His mother’s unusual and unexpected talk had convinced
him of what he had already known.
He could never go back to prison.
He thought about an offer Angel had made to get Barrett to put him on. Dutch couldn’t see it though, nickel and dimin’ for
somebody else. Hell no! That wasn’t for Dutch, but the lines had been drawn while he was away.
He was young, black, and free, with nothing to lose, and there was nothing more dangerous than that combination.
Just then an idea hit him like a brick in the face, so hard it almost physically staggered him.
Kill Kazami! Take Kazami and his blocks.
“A major pioneer of street fiction.”
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TRUE TO THE GAME
TRILOGY
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are
used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Grand Central Publishing Edition
Copyright © 2003, 2009 by Teri Woods
Story by Dutch
Reading Group Guide questions copyright © 2009 Hachette Book Group
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced,
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ISBN: 978-0-446-55845-7
Contents
RAVES FOR THE TRUE TO THE GAME TRILOGY
CHAPTER ONE: OPENING STATEMENTS
CHAPTER THREE: ROBERTO’S PIZZERIA
CHAPTER SEVEN: REVEREND TAYLOR
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: CLOSING STATEMENTS
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: THE REACTION
A PREVIEW OF
DUTCH II: ANGEL'S REVENGE
This book is dedicated to Chucky Booker, my big brother. For everything you do for my boys, Lucas and Brandon, you are the
best uncle in the world. And for babysitting me in my darkest hours, I do love you.
And to my assistant, Tracey Braithwaite, I truly thank you for all your dedication and hard work. Your loyalty is priceless;
it’s like a commercial.
I would like to thank my family, Phyllis and Corel, Chucky, Dexter and Judy, Andrew, Christopher, Carl, my children, Jessica,
Lucas, and Brandon.
I
s the state ready to proceed with its opening statement?”
“Yes, Your Honor, we are,” said District Attorney Anthony Jacobs as he turned to look at the defendant, Bernard James, aka
Dutch.
He couldn’t help but sneer as his lips tightened, eyeing the notorious Dutch. He savored the sight of the Armani-clad black
man as he imagined the wooden chair Dutch would sit in while begging for his life as electric shocks jolted the breath out
of him. Jacobs had been waiting for this moment his whole life. The day he’d prosecute and convict the infamous “Dutch.” Anthony
Jacobs had risen through the District Attorney’s Office by making himself indispensable to his mentor, District Attorney Fred
Ligotta. Old Man Ligotta, as Jacobs referred to him, had brought Anthony up, priming him for this very moment.
Ligotta himself had an illustrious career. He managed to amass the most trial convictions of all of his New Jersey contemporaries
within the last thirty years. And although most DAs preferred a plea to a long and costly trial, Ligotta never gave a defendant
the option.
It’s not my fuckin’ money. Besides, any time some piece of shit breaks the law in my county, I want the bastard to pay in
full
. And they usually did, either under the table into Ligotta’s pockets or by serving years in prison. It was Ligotta’s way
of saying either pay through the nose or pay out the ass. But, then there was Dutch, the only trophy that had constantly eluded
Ligotta, and he was now sitting across the floor at Jacobs’s mercy.
How the fuck does a piece of shit nigger like Dutch keep getting away? Christ!
This was Ligotta’s attitude whenever an informant conveniently came up missing or the police seemed to make stupid errors
that allowed cases to be dismissed.
Why don’t they make those errors with anyone else?
Ligotta was constantly questioning the cat with nine lives. Even judges seemed to shy away from cases dealing with him. Dutch’s
talons were sunk deep in the machinery of the city and Ligotta died not knowing why or how. But, for some strange reason,
within the past few years, lady luck had defected from Dutch’s camp as top men in Dutch’s organization took big falls, landing
right in Jacobs’s lap.
I know you’re smiling, old man,
Jacobs told himself as he thought of Old Man Ligotta.
I got him.
And this was true. Jacobs did have Dutch where he wanted him. Along with the informants, there was a mountain of evidence,
and even though it was all circumstantial, it was enough for Jacobs to do what Ligotta had failed to. And it felt good, damn
good. Nothing, not graduating law school, not his first conviction, not even his election as district attorney, could compare
to the feeling of power and surge of potency he felt as his dick hardened right there in the courtroom, something that rarely
happened outside the courthouse, let alone in it. As he rose, he tried to discreetly readjust his crotch, then cleared his
throat and approached the jurors’ box.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I am District Attorney Anthony Jacobs and I want to thank you for your attendance. I know
some of you may deem my gratitude unwarranted, because I am sure if you didn’t have to be here, you wouldn’t.”
The jurors acknowledged the truthfulness of his statement with slight body gestures and nervous smiles.
“But who would be here? I know I wouldn’t. Trust me, I feel the same as you. I do. I mean, I would love to be somewhere playing
golf or at my daughter’s piano recital or just enjoying a quiet day at home, but I can’t. I can’t because this is my duty,”
he said as he brought his hand down firmly on the jurors’ box railing to emphasize his point. “It is my duty to be here just
like it is yours. Your duty to assure your fellow citizens, whom you represent, who are playing golf, or at the piano recital
or just relaxing at home, that the streets will remain safe to do such things. Just as it is the duty of the police to do
the same for you and me,” then, pausing, he added, “duty,” for more effect. “But above and beyond our civic duty, above and
beyond the inconvenience, duty sometimes imposes on the dutiful; therefore, it is our right!”
The word “right” got the attention of the apathetic yet patriotic all-white jury, as it would that of any other red-blooded
American of their ilk.
“It is your right to be safe in your homes. It is your right to oversee justice and the workings of your judicial system and
it is your right to be heard as citizens. Especially when citizenship is taken for granted and…” he paused, glancing over
at Dutch.
Who the fuck he think he looking at?
thought Dutch to himself as he eyeballed Jacobs’s cracker ass right back.
“… when the uncivilized play mockery on our sense of security,” said Jacobs, finishing his sentence.
Who the fuck he think he calling uncivilized?
Dutch thought of the nerve this guy had as he listened.
Jacobs walked slowly away from the jurors’ box as he cleaned his glasses. Turning back to them, he placed his glasses on his
face and began again in a more subtle tone.
“I know we are all God-fearing human beings, and those here who aren’t, well, you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t recognize
the law, and you certainly wouldn’t be sitting here if you didn’t know the difference between right and wrong. So, I say to
you, what if I could present to you the very embodiment of wrong?” he questioned, pointing straight at Dutch. “What if the
cause of murder, thievery, victimization, and cruelty stood before you? Would you hesitate to look wrong in the face? Would
you banish wrong from our society? Would you turn away from guilt if it were staring you in the face?”
No one budged. The jurors were too busy remembering all the wrong that had ever been done to them and feeling Jacobs’s every
word as if he was preaching to them from a Bible. Dutch just looked at the jurors as they sat there listening to this motherfucker
like he was Santa Claus or somebody. One lady was taking notes, another had her mouth open, and an old man was clinging to
Jacobs’s every word.
You got to be kiddin’ me.
Jacobs stood there, inwardly smiling gleefully, as the look of vindication subtly played across the faces of the jurors.
I knew I’d get them with my opening statement.
Jacobs had picked the jurors sitting before him precisely and to the T. Despite Dutch’s defense team’s attempts to dilute
the jury pool, Jacobs had succeeded with this jury.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I know what you would do if given that chance. I’m here today to give it to you. I will
prove to you beyond any reasonable doubt that Bernard James, aka Dutch, is the embodiment of this city’s wrong. He is the
root cause of the blanket of fear prevalent in this city and the degradation of our civil order. It all stems from the actions
of this man!” blustered Jacobs as he pointed his finger straight at Dutch’s head.
“Yo, man, who he think he pointin’ at like that and shit?” whispered Dutch as he leaned into the ear of Michael Glass, lead
counsel for his defense team.
“Don’t pay him any mind; just act like you’re writing notes. Don’t let the jury see you get upset,” said Michael Glass as
he watched Jacobs give his opening statement.
“I will show a path of corruption and waywardness for this man’s short life of twenty-eight years. Bernard James is an instigator,
an antagonist, and he’s the head of the organized crime that has terrorized New Jersey for the past twelve years.”