Jenaleeta was a week from testifying in court, in which he former boyfriend’s, homeboy was to stand trial for using her car to transport some other dude’s dope. The cops said that if she didn’t testify she’d never see her car again and she was getting damned sick of walking and taking the bus and paying for UBER everywhere.

The Hub was a place she felt safe, with that terminator-looking- white dude in the body armor at the door. Shit, this joint was so safe run by these Taliban motherfuckers from Talibanstan that they had bought the American Legion post next door and turned it into a legal weed dispensary—a fucking stash house for people on Medicaid.

Janaleeta had to roll because her homegirl was headed home and a bitch who was being forced to rat on some heavy dude didn’t hang out on her own. They looked outside and no one was there but a little kid on his bike. Janaleeta and her homegirl went down the stairs—fuck the ramp—and headed right for her friend’s car and then her friend squeaked—and Janaleeta turned and saw the little kid racing away on his bike, heard the peel of tires from around the corner, saw the car screech around, saw it stop as her girl threw herself on the sidewalk, saw the door open, saw the nigga get out and the gun come up…

Janaleeta never made it to court.

This happened as the author was returning to Harm City on a slow train and was related to him by a former employee at the store across the street from the Hub, a bar he used to eat breakfast at, which he managed from 2006 through 2010. Janaleeta was a regular customer known to the witness, who is no way talking to the trifling BPD about what she saw.