Post by The Celtic Club on Jun 12, 2021 13:17:40 GMT
OOC: This CD RP was posted elsewhere as well. Just wanted to give some people who may have not RPed with me before a little insight into the John Cavanagh character. DISCLAIMER THERE IS NOTHING TO DO WITH WRESTLING IN THIS RP! If you want to know a bit about him and some of the events that have shaped the character this RP is for you. Assuming people actually read and enjoy it I may continue doing this from time to time almost as a series of sorts--although my RPs sometimes include events of this nature as well when I decide I want to write about them.
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The scene opens to darkness, just the sounds of an alarm going off, followed by the sound of cell doors opening and sliding to the side. The scene opens to a row of men in orange jumpsuits. The camera pans across the faces of a multitude of men--caucasian, African, Hispanic it seemed as if each sector of society was represented inside of this facility, albeit some sectors in larger numbers than others. The camera continues to pan pass other tough looking faces until we land upon a familiar face with blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. The broad shoulders of the man rested as if he had a calm demeanor yet the stare in his eyes clearly gave the vibe of ¨Don´t fuck with me¨ to the average individual. This was John Cavanagh, but not the early forty-something year old we have become accustomed to--this was a much younger Johnnie Cav...somewhere in his early twenties. The line of men in front of him began to move as John Cavanagh turned, placing his face in perfect line with the camera and then he began to march. The scene continued, John and all of the other inmates from his tier walking forward towards waiting guards as John´s voice took over in a voice over.
John gets to the end of the tier, a middle-aged white man with a gray shirt and silver badge that reads ¨Corrections Officer¨ waving his nightstick. John opened his mouth as the officer began to check for any contraband as the scene cut to static.
The scene reopened to John Cavanagh wearing a leather jacket and blue denim jeans, he stood on the sidewalk smoking a cigarette near the street sign. The street signs above John gave us a clue as to our setting--10th Avenue and 45th Street...this was Hell's Kitchen, New York...this was where the Cavanagh family first immigrated to and where the Cavanagh family found out that the American Dream is not as cut and dry as it seems to most. John continued to smoke his cigarette as people walked by, bundled up for the cold season that had descended upon The City That Never Sleeps. The small snowflakes that fell from the sky and Santa Claus waving his bell around for a Salvation Army collection gave us our time of the year. Among all of the tourists and yuppies shopping, all of the smiles and families taking in the City sights...John looked a bit out of place.
A beige Buick LeSabre pulled up to the curb as John flicked his cigarette into the street. John opened the back, passenger side door and slid into the automobile. The car peeled off into trafficking, nearly cutting off a yellow cab and receiving a fair share of horns honking at it. The scene joined the inhabitants of the vehicle. John sat in the back seat behind the passenger who happened to be a younger Pedro ¨Spanish” Colon as evident by the glare produced on his bald head, the man behind the wheel also happened to be a younger version of a hood we previously met, Shane ¨Fitz¨ Fitzpatrick his Olde English lettering that spelled the word ¨HATE¨ sticks out from the hand that controlled the steering wheel and in the back seat next to John, his younger brother Chris. Chris lit up one of his Kool cigarettes and exhaled with a loud sigh as Shane´s voice came from the driver's side.
Shane Fitzpatrick: Johnnie, you bring the burner?
John moved the right side of his leather jacket to show a black pistol resting underneath his armpit in a holster.
Shane Fitzpatrick: That-a-boy!
John nodded his head as he stared out of the window. The scene continued to move on as we noticed buildings and pedestrians strewn across the streets, making their way to or from shopping, work, dinner, or who knows where. John peered outside, his thoughts running a thousand miles per second.
As the car continued to barrel down the street John looked to his left and saw his younger brother Chris. Chris was doing what he was accustomed to doing--smoking a cigarette and relaxing while waiting for one of the older men to tell him what his job was.
John Cavanagh: Pull over.
Fitz and Spanish turned to look towards the backseat, Chris looked at John--all three men looked at the man who would one day become the boss of their neighborhood with puzzled looks on their faces.
Spanish Colon: What?
John Cavanagh: I said pull over.
Shane Fitzpatrick: Yeah, but why?
John Cavanagh: PULL THE FUCK OVER!!
The car’s brakes squealed as the automobile came to a dramatic stop on the side of the road. John popped his door open as quick as light filling a dark room when the blinds were opened. John rushed from the car and to the other side, cars whizzed past John as he opened the rear, driver-side door. Chris looks up at his brother with a smoking cigarette clenched between his right thumb and index finger.
Chris Cavanagh: What the fuck Johnnie?
John Cavanagh: This is where you get out of the fucking car.
Chris raised his right eyebrow--he was unsure of how to react. Here was his older brother, a man who had been both a bully and a protector in Chris’ life telling him to get out of the car but Chris knew he was SUPPOSED to be in that car. Chris looked to Spanish who shrugged his shoulders, Fitz maintained his stare in front of the car. Fitz’s gaze could tell us what we needed to know--this situation was serious and was not for the light of heart.
John Cavanagh: One more chance, kid. Get out of the car or I’m going to rip you out of the car.
Chris Cavanagh: You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!
Chris stepped out of the car and stood up facing his brother face to face.
Chris Cavanagh: You know that Sheamus wants me on this...right?
John nodded his head. He was the son of Ryan Cavanagh, he knew exactly how this neighborhood worked.
John Cavanagh: Yeah, I’ll deal with Sheamus. You get your ass back to The Blarney Stone and help Mom out.
Chris’ facial expression was that of a child who had just lost their favorite toy. Chris pouted his lips, he looked back to the car to see if Spanish or Fitz would help him out and argue with John. Chris waited for a moment before he realized the inhabitants of the vehicle were not about to step in between the quarrel of the Cavanagh siblings.
Chris Cavanagh: John--I’m not a fucking kid anymore.
John Cavanagh: You’re MY kid brother and if I tell you to get outta the car and go back to the Blarney...you’re gonna disregard what that old fuck Sheamus said and listen to me, right?
Chris paused for a moment. He pondered the words that John had put down and Chris was definitely picking them up. Chris nodded his head and smiled.
Chris Cavanagh: Yeah, yeah...you’re right, Johnnie. You’re always looking out for me.
John Cavanagh: Somebodies gotta fucking do it.
The Cavanagh brothers embraced in a hug before Chris walked to the sidewalk and began to stroll back in the direction the car came from. John stared at his brother as Chris slowly disappeared down the block. John reached in his pocket, he grabbed his signature green pack of Kool menthol cigarettes and lit a cigarette up. John took a deep inhale and exhaled through his nostrils as the scene froze on John.
John Cavanagh (VO): See, something as simple as that…”get the fuck outta the car”...a very short phrase, something that holds little to no weight to the average situation but in this instance...it was that short phrase that took my baby brother out of a shit show of a situation that was still to come.
The scene unfroze and John sat back down in the backseat of the Buick. The moment John’s door closed, Fitz hit the gas pedal and the car began to lurch forward, cutting into traffic with no directional--it was clear there was a reason why Fitzy didn’t (and still doesn’t) have a driver’s license. As the car continued to travel in a northern direction the scene continued on the inside. John reached down beneath the driver seat and produced a duffel bag--he zipped open the bag to find a pair of leather gloves and a Glock 17 nine millimeter handgun..
Spanish Colon: She’s ready to go, Irish.
Shane Fitzpatrick: This cock sucker has no idea what is coming his way.
John maintained his silence. Johnnie Boy was getting “in the zone”. This wasn’t going to be an easy piece of work, as a matter of fact...it would be the first “piece of work” of this kind that Johnnie Cav had ever dealt with.
The scene jumped to the same Buick LeSabre, however the time of day has changed drastically to the darkness of night. In the absence of sunlight the silhouettes of the three men housed inside the automobile are barely visible. The scene jumped to the inside of the Buick as Spanish Colon passed a blunt to Shane Fitzpatrick. From the backseat John Cavanagh can be heard snorting.
Spanish Colon: You good man? You don’t usually fuck with la blancita.
John’s face appeared on the camera, rising from his outstretched hand that still had a small trace amount of a white powder on top of his fist. John’s nostrils were reddened, his eyes wide and pupils dilated. He snorted once more and shook his head before his respiration rate visibly increased.
John Cavanagh: Yeah pendejo, it’s all good--just gotta be ready for this.
Shane took a hit off of the blunt and inhaled before passing the blunt to the backseat and the waiting fingers of Cavanagh. John put the blunt to his lips and took a hit.
Shane Fitzpatrick: Johnnie Boy--you sure you're good for this, man? You know I wanna make my bones--you can take over the wheel.
John removed the blunt from his lips, inhaled and began to speak.
John Cavanagh: Fuck off, Fitzy. This one is mine..
Spanish chuckled and shook his head, Fitz looked to Spanish and shrugged his shoulders--it was worth a shot in his mind.
John Cavanagh: Can’t believe you even fucking asked that…
Shane Fitzpatrick: What’s the problem? Just trying to help a friend out.
John takes another hit from the blunt and passes it towards the front of the car to Spanish.
Spanish Colon: Sheamus asked Johnnie to do the work--Johnnie gotta do the work. Shit, I ain’t even a potato eater like you and I get the way this shit works.
John Cavanagh: It’s more than that. One of the pigs tells Sheamus this prick has been sharing neighborhood secrets.
Shane Fitzpatrick: Yeah, that’s why I wanted to be the one to take him out.
John Cavanagh: Your time will come Fitzy…tonight is mine.
Spanish took a hit off of the blunt and passed it to Fitz while shaking his head.
Spanish Colon: You fucking Irish are outta your minds...sitting around trying to argue who’s gonna pull the trigger. What the fuck is wrong with you people?
John and Fitz laughed while Spanish continued.
Spanish Colon: No really, like what the fuck? My mother moved us from Bayamon to Hell’s Kitchen thinking this place would have a better life for us. She dies of fucking cancer and here I am stuck with you crazy bastards. Dios me ayude (God help me).
John Cavanagh: Enough of this bullshit small talk. This prick is gonna be outta there soon enough. You guys remember what to do, right?
Shane Fitzpatrick: I’m good Johnnie. Meet you at 34th and 5th.
John had looked down and seen the last bit of powder on his nose--he abruptly snorted the residue into his nostrils and shook his head. John opened the duffel bag that he had previously placed at his side and slipped the gloves on prior to retrieving the pistol and putting it on his waist.
John Cavanagh: Yeah...yeah.
John opened the door and paused for a moment. It was if he was thinking of something--maybe something to ask? Did he hear Shane right? Did he even remember where he was supposed to go? Without saying a word John stepped out and shut the door of the car. The car’s headlights were turned on from inside of the vehicle and illuminated the vacant parking lot for a split second before the car began to slowly pull off and disappear around the dark building. Cavanagh looked around the vacant parking lot before deciding it was best to run behind the dumpster to not be seen.
The scene cuts just as a young John Cavanagh pulls the pistol out from his waist and cuts to a black screen that says "10 Months Later". We are greeted once again by a younger John Cavanagh, this one with a buzzed head and a prison jumpsuit. The Hell’s Kitchen resident is shackled with his hands in front of him, his feet together and an extra set of handcuffs adjoining the two previously mentioned pairs. A balding man with a portly stomach and square wired glasses stands on the opposite side of the cell that John currently finds himself housed in.[/i]
Lawyer: John, you gotta listen to me--this is the best we are going to get.
John Cavanagh: It’s my first offense, Josh!
The lawyer, now identified as Josh, raised his eyebrows and took a breath while trying to figure out the most delicate way to put this to his client.
Josh: If it was your first offense and it was assault I’d understand your frustration. Hell, if it was an armed robbery you’d have a better deal. You fired five rounds into the man, you were caught a few blocks away wired on cocaine, alcohol and God knows what else and apprehended.
John Cavanagh: And that proves what exactly?
Josh: That’s when Vladimir Lebedev was able to identify you from mugshot photos in the hospital bed...just a day before he died.
John Cavanagh: Yeah, a dying man on morphine points me out and that’s enough to convict me? I was fucked up and so was the guy IDing me!
Josh: Being fucked up definitely helped us establish that this wasn’t a first degree murder charge when the victim passed away. That’s why you were re-arraigned on a second degree murder charge John--do you forget what my job is?
The inmate turned away and began to rub his chin as he pondered his situation. Was it time to just take the plea deal so he knew when he was getting out? So the rest of the neighborhood knew that one day John Cavanagh was definitely going to be coming home? John snapped out of his trance before returning to Josh.
John Cavanagh: They never proved I had the gun!
Josh: The Glock was retrieved from a dumpster six hours after they took you in. Ballistics checks out that it was the murder weapon. While it is true you were not in possession and you left no fingerprints on the firearm or any of the bullets inside of it or shell casings retrieved at the scene--your hands did test positive for gunpowder via the Modified Griesse Test. John, I really do appreciate that you’ve been spending some of your time thinking about your defense and trying to make my job a bit easier but, you do know what they say about someone who tries to represent themself, correct?
color=white]The shackled man shot a puzzled stare at his representation.
Josh: He has a fool for a client. Now, John, you’ve been sitting behind bars for ten months now--this is the last plea the District Attorney’s office is willing to provide. If we turn this down we are going to trial.
John shrugged his shoulders.
John Cavanagh: Yeah, and?
Josh: If you’re found guilty at trial the judge could sentence you to twenty years behind bars--that means you’re not seeing the parole board until you’ve served thirteen, by the end of trial that probably means you’ve got a little under twelve years to go before you MAYBE get home. Organized crime affiliations don’t really help with the parole board or with judges so I’d expect the twenty year sentence and I’d expect to get hit at the Board at least once if not twice before you have any chance at coming home.
John sighed and outstretched his neck towards the top of the cell. His father, the Cavanagh family patriarch, was currently eight years and change into a seventy-five year stretch in Federal prison for racketeering and a slew of other charges that went along with it. John didn’t like the idea of his having a multi-decade sentence being a tradition in the family--not this soon in his lifetime at least.
John Cavanagh: And if I take the deal?
Josh: You’ll plead to manslaughter with a sentence of no less than five and no more than twelve years. You’ve almost got a year in--that’s really no less than four and no more than eleven. New York State's sixty-five percent policy on a five year stretch means you could see the Parole Board at about three and a half years. Play your cards right and you could be back on the street in about two and a half years, but I’d bank on four because of your family ties.
John Cavanagh: That’s still a lot of shit to miss.
Josh: Didn’t you just have a birthday a couple of months back?
John Cavanagh: Yeah...February.
Josh: So you just turned twenty-three...you’ve already spent one birthday behind bars--do you want to risk it being another twelve to nineteen of them...or do you prefer maybe four to eleven of them?
John shook his head--he knew his situation wasn’t ideal but he was hoping for a Hail Mary type miracle.
John Cavanagh: My fucking grandmother and mother are going to kill me. Yeah, fuck it, let’s take the deal and get this shit over with.
A look of relief quickly spread across Josh’s face upon John’s statement.
Josh: Good, good...I think you’re making the right call.
Josh walked off to tell the DA before John changed his mind. John began to pace back and forth, the clang from the shackles could be heard echoing through his cell. The Irishman continued shaking his head back and forth as the scene cut to static.
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The scene opens to darkness, just the sounds of an alarm going off, followed by the sound of cell doors opening and sliding to the side. The scene opens to a row of men in orange jumpsuits. The camera pans across the faces of a multitude of men--caucasian, African, Hispanic it seemed as if each sector of society was represented inside of this facility, albeit some sectors in larger numbers than others. The camera continues to pan pass other tough looking faces until we land upon a familiar face with blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. The broad shoulders of the man rested as if he had a calm demeanor yet the stare in his eyes clearly gave the vibe of ¨Don´t fuck with me¨ to the average individual. This was John Cavanagh, but not the early forty-something year old we have become accustomed to--this was a much younger Johnnie Cav...somewhere in his early twenties. The line of men in front of him began to move as John Cavanagh turned, placing his face in perfect line with the camera and then he began to march. The scene continued, John and all of the other inmates from his tier walking forward towards waiting guards as John´s voice took over in a voice over.
John Cavanagh (VO): The funny part about life is that it is just like a fucking book. We all have chapters and each chapter of our lives holds its own setting. Each of us has our own fair share of conflict--with each conflict we all have our own rising action, climax and falling action. Ya know the fucked up part, though? None of us have full control over where our story is headed--it is almost like there really is some author out there typing our lives away as we do everything we can to convince ourselves that we control our own destiny. Us, mere human beings, in control of our own destiny? In control of our own conflicts? You would have fucking thought! Trust me, if I had that kind of pull in life...I would have never wound up where you see me right now.
John gets to the end of the tier, a middle-aged white man with a gray shirt and silver badge that reads ¨Corrections Officer¨ waving his nightstick. John opened his mouth as the officer began to check for any contraband as the scene cut to static.
The scene reopened to John Cavanagh wearing a leather jacket and blue denim jeans, he stood on the sidewalk smoking a cigarette near the street sign. The street signs above John gave us a clue as to our setting--10th Avenue and 45th Street...this was Hell's Kitchen, New York...this was where the Cavanagh family first immigrated to and where the Cavanagh family found out that the American Dream is not as cut and dry as it seems to most. John continued to smoke his cigarette as people walked by, bundled up for the cold season that had descended upon The City That Never Sleeps. The small snowflakes that fell from the sky and Santa Claus waving his bell around for a Salvation Army collection gave us our time of the year. Among all of the tourists and yuppies shopping, all of the smiles and families taking in the City sights...John looked a bit out of place.
John Cavanagh (VO): While we all have the ability to make our own decisions and those decisions will then affect the future of our lives--we are far from an all-powerful being. Once upon a time, I was not the man you see before you today...once upon a time I was nothing more than a hood walking around the streets of the Kitchen. My father had done the same before me and unfortunately he was no longer in power--he was too far removed from the Kitchen to have any influence on what would happen with the guys that ran the neighborhood...and he was definitely too far removed from his family to have the influence that a young John Cavanagh needed. My father, Ryan, at this time he was about seven years into an eighty year sentence for racketeering, murder, drug trafficking, et cetera...you name it and Poppa Cavanagh probably did it. People wonder how kids turn out the way they do...a lot of the time all a parent needs to do is look in the mirror. A child is never inherently racist or genetically predisposed to criminal tendencies--these are all traits and characteristics that we learn and are acquired from the nurturing we receive and the nature we are surrounded by. Maybe if my father wasn't the head Irishman in the neighborhood, maybe if he listened to Momma Cavanagh and moved us out to the suburbs--maybe then things would be different.
A beige Buick LeSabre pulled up to the curb as John flicked his cigarette into the street. John opened the back, passenger side door and slid into the automobile. The car peeled off into trafficking, nearly cutting off a yellow cab and receiving a fair share of horns honking at it. The scene joined the inhabitants of the vehicle. John sat in the back seat behind the passenger who happened to be a younger Pedro ¨Spanish” Colon as evident by the glare produced on his bald head, the man behind the wheel also happened to be a younger version of a hood we previously met, Shane ¨Fitz¨ Fitzpatrick his Olde English lettering that spelled the word ¨HATE¨ sticks out from the hand that controlled the steering wheel and in the back seat next to John, his younger brother Chris. Chris lit up one of his Kool cigarettes and exhaled with a loud sigh as Shane´s voice came from the driver's side.
Shane Fitzpatrick: Johnnie, you bring the burner?
John moved the right side of his leather jacket to show a black pistol resting underneath his armpit in a holster.
Shane Fitzpatrick: That-a-boy!
John nodded his head as he stared out of the window. The scene continued to move on as we noticed buildings and pedestrians strewn across the streets, making their way to or from shopping, work, dinner, or who knows where. John peered outside, his thoughts running a thousand miles per second.
John Cavanagh (VO): The events in our lives that truly shape us...the events that stand out as we reminisce on what made us the person we are today...we, as imperfect beings, are great at not realizing them occur until its a bit too late. You think that every moment in your life is just a series of unrelated events that you don’t need to ponder deeply yet when you are able to step back and truly take a look at your life from the outside looking in...with that perfect twenty-twenty hindsight vision...you realize how your decisions helped to shape yourself and those around you.
As the car continued to barrel down the street John looked to his left and saw his younger brother Chris. Chris was doing what he was accustomed to doing--smoking a cigarette and relaxing while waiting for one of the older men to tell him what his job was.
John Cavanagh: Pull over.
Fitz and Spanish turned to look towards the backseat, Chris looked at John--all three men looked at the man who would one day become the boss of their neighborhood with puzzled looks on their faces.
Spanish Colon: What?
John Cavanagh: I said pull over.
Shane Fitzpatrick: Yeah, but why?
John Cavanagh: PULL THE FUCK OVER!!
The car’s brakes squealed as the automobile came to a dramatic stop on the side of the road. John popped his door open as quick as light filling a dark room when the blinds were opened. John rushed from the car and to the other side, cars whizzed past John as he opened the rear, driver-side door. Chris looks up at his brother with a smoking cigarette clenched between his right thumb and index finger.
Chris Cavanagh: What the fuck Johnnie?
John Cavanagh: This is where you get out of the fucking car.
Chris raised his right eyebrow--he was unsure of how to react. Here was his older brother, a man who had been both a bully and a protector in Chris’ life telling him to get out of the car but Chris knew he was SUPPOSED to be in that car. Chris looked to Spanish who shrugged his shoulders, Fitz maintained his stare in front of the car. Fitz’s gaze could tell us what we needed to know--this situation was serious and was not for the light of heart.
John Cavanagh: One more chance, kid. Get out of the car or I’m going to rip you out of the car.
Chris Cavanagh: You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!
Chris stepped out of the car and stood up facing his brother face to face.
Chris Cavanagh: You know that Sheamus wants me on this...right?
John nodded his head. He was the son of Ryan Cavanagh, he knew exactly how this neighborhood worked.
John Cavanagh: Yeah, I’ll deal with Sheamus. You get your ass back to The Blarney Stone and help Mom out.
Chris’ facial expression was that of a child who had just lost their favorite toy. Chris pouted his lips, he looked back to the car to see if Spanish or Fitz would help him out and argue with John. Chris waited for a moment before he realized the inhabitants of the vehicle were not about to step in between the quarrel of the Cavanagh siblings.
Chris Cavanagh: John--I’m not a fucking kid anymore.
John Cavanagh: You’re MY kid brother and if I tell you to get outta the car and go back to the Blarney...you’re gonna disregard what that old fuck Sheamus said and listen to me, right?
Chris paused for a moment. He pondered the words that John had put down and Chris was definitely picking them up. Chris nodded his head and smiled.
Chris Cavanagh: Yeah, yeah...you’re right, Johnnie. You’re always looking out for me.
John Cavanagh: Somebodies gotta fucking do it.
The Cavanagh brothers embraced in a hug before Chris walked to the sidewalk and began to stroll back in the direction the car came from. John stared at his brother as Chris slowly disappeared down the block. John reached in his pocket, he grabbed his signature green pack of Kool menthol cigarettes and lit a cigarette up. John took a deep inhale and exhaled through his nostrils as the scene froze on John.
John Cavanagh (VO): See, something as simple as that…”get the fuck outta the car”...a very short phrase, something that holds little to no weight to the average situation but in this instance...it was that short phrase that took my baby brother out of a shit show of a situation that was still to come.
The scene unfroze and John sat back down in the backseat of the Buick. The moment John’s door closed, Fitz hit the gas pedal and the car began to lurch forward, cutting into traffic with no directional--it was clear there was a reason why Fitzy didn’t (and still doesn’t) have a driver’s license. As the car continued to travel in a northern direction the scene continued on the inside. John reached down beneath the driver seat and produced a duffel bag--he zipped open the bag to find a pair of leather gloves and a Glock 17 nine millimeter handgun..
Spanish Colon: She’s ready to go, Irish.
Shane Fitzpatrick: This cock sucker has no idea what is coming his way.
John maintained his silence. Johnnie Boy was getting “in the zone”. This wasn’t going to be an easy piece of work, as a matter of fact...it would be the first “piece of work” of this kind that Johnnie Cav had ever dealt with.
John Cavanagh (VO): I had done a lot of bad shit by the time I reached my twenty-first birthday. Things that the average person probably never partakes in during their lifetime. Robbery? Check. Selling drugs? Great at that. Bookmaking? That was fucking easy. Prostitution? That shit sells itself. This though...this was a first of its kind. This was a moment that would forever define who John fucking Cavanagh was as far as Hell’s Kitchen and its world famous folklore was concerned. This was the beginning of my legacy--this was the continuation of my father’s legacy--this was something that I HAD to do.
The scene jumped to the same Buick LeSabre, however the time of day has changed drastically to the darkness of night. In the absence of sunlight the silhouettes of the three men housed inside the automobile are barely visible. The scene jumped to the inside of the Buick as Spanish Colon passed a blunt to Shane Fitzpatrick. From the backseat John Cavanagh can be heard snorting.
Spanish Colon: You good man? You don’t usually fuck with la blancita.
John’s face appeared on the camera, rising from his outstretched hand that still had a small trace amount of a white powder on top of his fist. John’s nostrils were reddened, his eyes wide and pupils dilated. He snorted once more and shook his head before his respiration rate visibly increased.
John Cavanagh: Yeah pendejo, it’s all good--just gotta be ready for this.
Shane took a hit off of the blunt and inhaled before passing the blunt to the backseat and the waiting fingers of Cavanagh. John put the blunt to his lips and took a hit.
Shane Fitzpatrick: Johnnie Boy--you sure you're good for this, man? You know I wanna make my bones--you can take over the wheel.
John removed the blunt from his lips, inhaled and began to speak.
John Cavanagh: Fuck off, Fitzy. This one is mine..
Spanish chuckled and shook his head, Fitz looked to Spanish and shrugged his shoulders--it was worth a shot in his mind.
John Cavanagh: Can’t believe you even fucking asked that…
Shane Fitzpatrick: What’s the problem? Just trying to help a friend out.
John takes another hit from the blunt and passes it towards the front of the car to Spanish.
Spanish Colon: Sheamus asked Johnnie to do the work--Johnnie gotta do the work. Shit, I ain’t even a potato eater like you and I get the way this shit works.
John Cavanagh: It’s more than that. One of the pigs tells Sheamus this prick has been sharing neighborhood secrets.
Shane Fitzpatrick: Yeah, that’s why I wanted to be the one to take him out.
John Cavanagh: Your time will come Fitzy…tonight is mine.
Spanish took a hit off of the blunt and passed it to Fitz while shaking his head.
Spanish Colon: You fucking Irish are outta your minds...sitting around trying to argue who’s gonna pull the trigger. What the fuck is wrong with you people?
John and Fitz laughed while Spanish continued.
Spanish Colon: No really, like what the fuck? My mother moved us from Bayamon to Hell’s Kitchen thinking this place would have a better life for us. She dies of fucking cancer and here I am stuck with you crazy bastards. Dios me ayude (God help me).
John Cavanagh: Enough of this bullshit small talk. This prick is gonna be outta there soon enough. You guys remember what to do, right?
Shane Fitzpatrick: I’m good Johnnie. Meet you at 34th and 5th.
John had looked down and seen the last bit of powder on his nose--he abruptly snorted the residue into his nostrils and shook his head. John opened the duffel bag that he had previously placed at his side and slipped the gloves on prior to retrieving the pistol and putting it on his waist.
John Cavanagh: Yeah...yeah.
John opened the door and paused for a moment. It was if he was thinking of something--maybe something to ask? Did he hear Shane right? Did he even remember where he was supposed to go? Without saying a word John stepped out and shut the door of the car. The car’s headlights were turned on from inside of the vehicle and illuminated the vacant parking lot for a split second before the car began to slowly pull off and disappear around the dark building. Cavanagh looked around the vacant parking lot before deciding it was best to run behind the dumpster to not be seen.
The scene cuts just as a young John Cavanagh pulls the pistol out from his waist and cuts to a black screen that says "10 Months Later". We are greeted once again by a younger John Cavanagh, this one with a buzzed head and a prison jumpsuit. The Hell’s Kitchen resident is shackled with his hands in front of him, his feet together and an extra set of handcuffs adjoining the two previously mentioned pairs. A balding man with a portly stomach and square wired glasses stands on the opposite side of the cell that John currently finds himself housed in.[/i]
Lawyer: John, you gotta listen to me--this is the best we are going to get.
John Cavanagh: It’s my first offense, Josh!
The lawyer, now identified as Josh, raised his eyebrows and took a breath while trying to figure out the most delicate way to put this to his client.
Josh: If it was your first offense and it was assault I’d understand your frustration. Hell, if it was an armed robbery you’d have a better deal. You fired five rounds into the man, you were caught a few blocks away wired on cocaine, alcohol and God knows what else and apprehended.
John Cavanagh: And that proves what exactly?
Josh: That’s when Vladimir Lebedev was able to identify you from mugshot photos in the hospital bed...just a day before he died.
John Cavanagh: Yeah, a dying man on morphine points me out and that’s enough to convict me? I was fucked up and so was the guy IDing me!
Josh: Being fucked up definitely helped us establish that this wasn’t a first degree murder charge when the victim passed away. That’s why you were re-arraigned on a second degree murder charge John--do you forget what my job is?
The inmate turned away and began to rub his chin as he pondered his situation. Was it time to just take the plea deal so he knew when he was getting out? So the rest of the neighborhood knew that one day John Cavanagh was definitely going to be coming home? John snapped out of his trance before returning to Josh.
John Cavanagh: They never proved I had the gun!
Josh: The Glock was retrieved from a dumpster six hours after they took you in. Ballistics checks out that it was the murder weapon. While it is true you were not in possession and you left no fingerprints on the firearm or any of the bullets inside of it or shell casings retrieved at the scene--your hands did test positive for gunpowder via the Modified Griesse Test. John, I really do appreciate that you’ve been spending some of your time thinking about your defense and trying to make my job a bit easier but, you do know what they say about someone who tries to represent themself, correct?
color=white]The shackled man shot a puzzled stare at his representation.
Josh: He has a fool for a client. Now, John, you’ve been sitting behind bars for ten months now--this is the last plea the District Attorney’s office is willing to provide. If we turn this down we are going to trial.
John shrugged his shoulders.
John Cavanagh: Yeah, and?
Josh: If you’re found guilty at trial the judge could sentence you to twenty years behind bars--that means you’re not seeing the parole board until you’ve served thirteen, by the end of trial that probably means you’ve got a little under twelve years to go before you MAYBE get home. Organized crime affiliations don’t really help with the parole board or with judges so I’d expect the twenty year sentence and I’d expect to get hit at the Board at least once if not twice before you have any chance at coming home.
John sighed and outstretched his neck towards the top of the cell. His father, the Cavanagh family patriarch, was currently eight years and change into a seventy-five year stretch in Federal prison for racketeering and a slew of other charges that went along with it. John didn’t like the idea of his having a multi-decade sentence being a tradition in the family--not this soon in his lifetime at least.
John Cavanagh: And if I take the deal?
Josh: You’ll plead to manslaughter with a sentence of no less than five and no more than twelve years. You’ve almost got a year in--that’s really no less than four and no more than eleven. New York State's sixty-five percent policy on a five year stretch means you could see the Parole Board at about three and a half years. Play your cards right and you could be back on the street in about two and a half years, but I’d bank on four because of your family ties.
John Cavanagh: That’s still a lot of shit to miss.
Josh: Didn’t you just have a birthday a couple of months back?
John Cavanagh: Yeah...February.
Josh: So you just turned twenty-three...you’ve already spent one birthday behind bars--do you want to risk it being another twelve to nineteen of them...or do you prefer maybe four to eleven of them?
John shook his head--he knew his situation wasn’t ideal but he was hoping for a Hail Mary type miracle.
John Cavanagh: My fucking grandmother and mother are going to kill me. Yeah, fuck it, let’s take the deal and get this shit over with.
A look of relief quickly spread across Josh’s face upon John’s statement.
Josh: Good, good...I think you’re making the right call.
Josh walked off to tell the DA before John changed his mind. John began to pace back and forth, the clang from the shackles could be heard echoing through his cell. The Irishman continued shaking his head back and forth as the scene cut to static.
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