He was called Little Tee – befitting since he stood no taller than the BMX bicycle he struggled to mount, eager to tag along with the older kids to the mall.  His cheeks flushed, absorbing the praise, while my friends boasted over his skill for thieving.  I knew they were manipulating him, but I didn’t speak up – being equally manipulative in my silence.  I hoped he would grow tired on our trail and turn back, but he didn’t, determination cascading from his forehead with each trickle of sweat.  We arrived at the mall and did wheelies in the parking lot as Little Tee vanished inside.  By the time we later headed for home, we all sported new gold chains.

That was the first day I met Little Tee, a burgeoning menace with an unwavering desire to prove himself.  He stole anything that wasn’t nailed down, his confidence like silk in his veins.  Thievery was only a fragment of his willingness to fit in; one simply had to dare Little Tee.  He hung out all hours of the night, putting doubts to rest with a fearlessness inspiring to watch.

Nights at my house were sometimes spent with Little Tee sprawled out on the sofa or scoffing cold-cuts and gawking at video vixens.  I wondered about his family and whether his whereabouts were anyone’s concern.  He was no more than eight or nine, and yet no one ever came looking for him.  I didn’t mind that he showed up unexpectedly and seemed to never want to leave; I liked having him around.   He had a timely sense of humor and dreams of the future big enough to lend me some.  He gave unsparingly and never asked for anything in return.  To him, charity was synonymous to wealth. Little Tee was a joy, but he did have a mean-streak and fought with other kids all over town like it was the latest craze.  The bane of his freedom, it would earn him some stints in juvenile detention where he ultimately grew more devious.

A few years later, Little Tee transitioned from thieving to dope dealing.  He hopped into cars haggling crack rocks and turned profits with the best of ‘em.  He smoked cigarettes and weed, drank beers and cussed.  No one seemed bothered by his youthfulness, instead they encouraged him.  The more his behavior worsened, the more popular he became.  By twelve years old, he had as much clientele as dealers twice his age.  He was always the smallest guy on the block, but nobody had more heart.

One night Little Tee was at a local hangout when a scuffle broke out between two men with their pride at sake, one of whom had a shotgun.  Scorching iron-pellets ruptured Little Tee’s flesh as he was inadvertently shot in the face.  It would be months before he healed from his physical injuries, but his psyche hardly recovered. Suddenly, he was torn between upholding his image and breaking free from his notoriety.  He had grown weary of his terrible ways, yet he couldn’t break character. The truth was, the shooting ordeal changed Little Tee and heightened his conscience in a way others could never understand.  He wanted so much to be done with the streets… but the streets don’t always let go.

On Christmas day, December 25, 1997, I was posted up on the block when Little Tee strolled through.  We greeted one another and shared some laughs before his eyes took on a piercing glare.  He then let on about his dissension with rival dealers in a nearby neighborhood and asked for my help.  By then, Little Tee was like a brother to me – it was all the answer he needed. Apparently, he had rented a car and parked it on Gay Street.  He said he would swing by and pick me up later.  Little Tee disappeared up the street.  Some minutes later, gunshots devoured the joyous holiday evening. Gossip raced along the streets on the lips of hearsayers – Little Tee was just killed by the police!

I bolted heedlessly for Gay Street while at the same time down a road in my head that had no end. I kept thinking that if I got there quick enough, maybe I could save him.  I prayed the whispers were wrong but the look of despair on the faces of the spectators confirmed my worst realty. Someone was dead.  “Please, God, don’t let it be Little Tee.”

The shooting had taken place in the backyard which obscured my view of the body.  Rumors of what happened ran rampant among those gathered, igniting a bon-fire of tempers.  The ambulance arrived and carted out a body partially covered under a blood soaked sheet.  I recognized the sneakers and fell to the ground wailing…  Little Tee really was gone.

All Posts By Chanton

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson often writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, and this year he co-authored Crimson Letters, Voices From Death Row. He continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction. Terry Robinson has always maintained his innocence, and hopes to one day prove that and walk free. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285