Kimo v. the State

Kimo is early, anxious. He propped open the doors of his bodega hours ago, left his oldest son, Mohammed, behind the counter. Now he's outside the Department of Consumer Affairs, which doesn't open for another forty-five minutes. Nine-to-fivers hustle past. The sun has not yet struck the last of Broadway's thirteen miles.

Kimo's lawyer texts: She can't make it, but her lawyer husband can. He'll ask if the charge—selling cigarettes to an underage person—can be dropped, or dismissed, or simply fined away. "It's all money," he says. If not, Kimo will be sent to a judge who will decide what he can and can't sell, how much between the bodega's net and gross he can spend.

One day last summer, Mohammed kept the store while his father went to jury duty (the evening-shift guy couldn't cover). Mohammed was alone, between political-science classes at college. A young man came in and asked for a loosie. But they don't sell single cigarettes. The young man—big, angry—hulked out the door, then came back, swift and demanding. "Newports," he said. Mohammed paused, then pulled the pack from the display and handed it over, put the money in the register. The man left, which was what Mohammed wanted him to do.

Mohammed knows what's what. He grew up in that bodega. The neighborhood is gentrifying so fast you can hear it—the drilling and hammering—but not long ago it was rough, and sometimes still is. Mohammed's seen his father get bitched-out and spit on by customers. Seen his father hand a hot cup of coffee to a customer and have it thrown back in his face. The store's been robbed twice. And, well, his name is Mohammed. This is partly what has made him a shy, sweet, nonconfrontational kid.

A few minutes after the Newports went out the door, Inspector Felix Negron came in: A citation would arrive in the mail. Ashamed, afraid of what this meant for the store, Mohammed didn't tell his father for days, then disappeared. Kimo eventually found him at a friend's in Manhattan.

The charge sticks. If his license is taken, that's one year's cut into Kimo's income—plus the paperwork and time it takes to get it back. "I serve our community," Kimo tells me, "but this is a hard business to live by."