Chapter 12
Then out of the night came a terror-stricken cry of "Sixties!!" followed by the rat-a-tat-tat of a rifle.
In an instant we both were belly down, looking at each other. She saw the anger in my eyes and said in a whisper, "Don't go, let somebody else play hero, baby, don't go."
"I gotta go, I gotta go."
"f.u.c.k you!!" she screamed, but I was on my way. I heard her faint sobs as I mounted my bike and peddled off.
No one was..h.i.t, but the response would have been the same in any case. We mounted up and rode back with swiftness. After that, to beat the heat, I went to Compton to kick it with some homies from Santana Block.
A week later, word was out that the police were looking for me and Crazy De for robbery. Which robbery, I wondered? s.h.i.+t, we had done so many robberies that I was at a loss to figure out which one we were wanted for. With the police out for us, I'd wake up early, get dressed, and be out of the house before 6:00 A.M., because that's their usual raiding time. I'd gravitate around homies' houses until their parents went to work, and then we'd kick it until the rest of the 'hood started stirring. Then I'd try to lose myself in the sameness of the community. I ran, ducked, and hid every time someone yelled "Rollers." I became so engrossed in escaping capture that my military performance slumped a bit.
The most frightening thing about being hunted as a banger is that you never really know what it is they are hunting you for. The banger's position is far from static, so one day you could be a robber and the next day you might be told to commit murder, only to be asked the following day to spray paint a wall. Controlled freedom-democratic centralism. The gang was all that.
De and I were both eventually captured and hauled off to jail. De was eighteen, so he went to the county jail. I was still sixteen, pus.h.i.+ng seventeen, so I went to juvenile hall. At my first court appearance I was remanded to the custody of the sheriff's department and sent back to the juvenile tank.
Upon arrival I quickly saw that things had changed. Bennose and Levi were gone. Both had been sent to Youth Authority. Taco was still there, and so were about fourteen other Grape Street Watts Crips, all tight allies of Eight Tray. The difference was that Tangle-Eye was parading around there like a stalwart member of the community, as if his drinking of urine and set jumping was all in some other life. Cyco Mike had somehow regained his position as lord of the fiefdom and all the other bangers were catering to him like a bunch of oppressed serfs. And to top it all off there was an N-hood living on Charlie row!
The N-hood was Lucky from One-Eleven. He had two homies downstairs on Able row. After greeting Taco and the others I immediately went about the task of procuring a weapon to stab Lucky with. I wanted to make a strong point that I was back and s.h.i.+t was gonna be dealt with swiftly and harshly. After I had secured some iron-a steel flat of metal sharpened to a double-edged point-I told Taco of my intent and my utter hatred for all N-hoods.
"You ain't gotta stab cuz. If you say move, he'll move. But really, cuz is awright," Taco said.
"f.u.c.k that," I told Taco. "This will send out a message to the rest of them punks."
The next morning I stepped to him and caught him asleep. I crept up, climbed on the stool and then the desk, raised my weapon like my fist was a hammer, and began my downward motion. His movement was swift and sharp. He rolled to one side of the bed and balled up. My downstroke pierced his blanket and mattress and finally stopped with a vibrating "pinggg!" on the steel bed frame.
"Monster Kody, wait!" Anyone who knows me calls me either Monster or Kody. Only enemies and strangers refer to me by my whole name.
"I'm gonna kill yo' punk a.s.s," I said, making a mocking stab at him, enjoying the terror in his eyes. "You outta bounds, N-hood, this is Grape and Gangsta 'hood, fool." I made another swing in his general direction.
"Cuz," he pleaded, hands held high like I was telling him to stick 'em up, "I didn't know. Taco said it was cool if I live up here. Ask him, Monster Kody, ask him."
I stopped swinging but began breathing hard, looking around like a lunatic. I went into my madman routine.
"You got three minutes by Gangsta time to roll yo' s.h.i.+t up, b.i.t.c.h! You here me?" I said, eyes bugged like a crack addict's.
"Yeah, Monster Kody, I hear you."
"MOVE THEN!!" I yelled, waking everybody up.
"What's up?" somebody said from down the tier.
"EIGHT TRAY GANGSTAS!!" I yelled, and someone said, "Aw, s.h.i.+t, he's at it again."
Lucky moved down on Able row and I consolidated Charlie row, resuming control of the tank. I found out that Weeble Wobble had gone to the penitentiary after taking a twenty-five-to-life deal. In San Quentin, the United Blood Nation murdered him. Popa and Perry had received ninety-six and ninety-eight years, respectively, and were in Folsom state prison. Chicken Swoop had also been found guilty and sentenced to twenty-five years to life. Chico was given fifteen years to life, Moman was sentenced to twenty-five years to life, and Old Man was given fifteen years to life. A lot of new people were there, and a few of the old ones still remained.
De and I had been charged with a robbery that neither of us committed. The LAPD knew this, without a doubt. Apparently, a man had been robbed on Eighty-fourth and Western Avenue, his money and shoes taken, and he had picked De and me out of a mug book as the robbers. But we knew that it was a bogus charge. After putting out our feelers and finding out who had really robbed the man, we knew beyond a doubt that it was a setup. The actual robbers-two older homies-didn't resemble us whatsoever. It was impossible for that man to have been robbed by the other two homies and then have turned around and picked De and I. But it just so happened that De and I were the two hardest working bangers in the culture, committing crime sprees alone and together-a neighborhood's worst nightmare. So we surmised early on in the proceedings that all this was a game of get-us-off-the-street. Well, it worked. I received four years and De received five. Since I was a minor, I went to Youth Authority; De was sent to state prison.
While I was in the juvenile tank, my homeboy Eight Ball was murdered-blown up in a ride-by ambush. He died on IIIth Street and New Hamps.h.i.+re while riding Devil from 107 Hoover on the handlebars of a ten-speed. He had not been out of Youth Authority a month before being killed. Because of who he was with, and the neighborhood they were in when the ambush occurred, it was easy to ascertain where the shooters were from. No doubt they were Neighborhood Blocks-the Hoovers' worst enemy. The next day I snuck into the dayroom and ambushed Crazy Eight from One-Eleven N-hood for Eight Ball's death. I beat him b.l.o.o.d.y.
Not long after that I was transferred to Youth Authority, going first to the Southern Reception Center Clinic (SRCC) in Norwalk. The day after my arrival I was summoned to the officer of the day's office. When I got there a big, dark New Afrikan man and a scrawny little American woman sat behind two huge desks, both cluttered with papers and books. The New Afrikan man eyed me suspiciously, while the American woman busied herself with writing, not turning to look at me when I entered the room.
"Kody Scott?" asked the New Afrikan officer, peering over the rim of his gla.s.ses.
"Yeah," I replied.
"Monster Kody Scott?" he asked again, to be sure.
A bit hesitant now, I finally answered, "Yeah."
"Well," the officer began, sighing, pus.h.i.+ng his gla.s.ses up on his nose and sitting back in his chair all in one fluid motion, "we don't want you here. That is, in our inst.i.tution."
"What you talkin' 'bout, man?" I asked, eyebrows automatically connecting in preparation for a mad-dog stare.
"Welp," he started, through another sigh. "Kody, you don't mind if I call you Monster, do you? It kinda keeps me focused here," he said, making a playful attempt at clearing his junky desk.
"Naw, it's cool."
"Good, good," he said, as if he were instructing someone who had done a good job at something. "I must admit you are nothing like I imagined." And then, as if to himself, "No, no, nothing like I imagined." He went on, "Well, Mr. Monster... ha, ha, ha... Mr. Monster... sounds funny, huh?"
I didn't smile.
"Yes, well, the point is every gang member that comes through here-and we get a lot-has something to say about you.
"Is that right?" I said, more bored than flattered.
"Oh, yeah, you betcha. And so from talking to them, and overhearing others, I've come to know that you have killed many people."
"That's a lie, I ain't kilt n.o.body!"
"Hold on now, Monster, don't get riled up now-"
"Naw, man, people be lyin' 'n' stuff, I-"
"Well, we just think it's best if you are sent directly to Youth Training School to complete your introduction up there, where there are more kids of your caliber around. Besides, the security is much tighter there. You'll like it"
"Like it?!" I shouted. "What makes you think that I like tighter security? You m.u.t.h.af.u.c.kas be trippin'-"
"Calm down, Mr.-"
"Man, f.u.c.k you!"
Just then the door burst open and in rushed two linebacker-sized Americans who grabbed me, kicking and yelling profanities, and cuffed me.
The next morning, before the sun rose, I was in chains and on a bus to Y.T.S. to begin serving my four years.
7.
MUHAMMAD ABDULLAH.
The Gray Goose, as the Youth Authority Transport bus
There was a standard football field of plush, green gra.s.s surrounded by a red dirt 440-yard track. On one side of the track sat the bleachers, and behind them was a boxing gym. On the other side stood another huge gym containing Olympic weights and a full, hardwood basketball court. Adjacent to this was a swimming pool. After being locked in the concrete confines of South Central all my life-with the exception of youth camp-seeing such open s.p.a.ces of well-kept gra.s.s surrounded by a track, gyms, swimming pool, and bleachers only conjured up beautiful images of college campuses and well-to-do students.
But, as with all things, that which looks good outwardly may be horribly ugly within. The well-kept face of Y.T.S. was but a facade, for behind the walls of the gyms and in the three units that stood around the outer track like mysterious statues on Easter Island, corruption of every kind was rampant-and for profit.
In 1981, the Youth Training School held 1,200 prisoners. No one, under California law, could stay in Youth Authority past the age of twenty-six. Y.T.S. was considered a senior Youth Authority. A maximum-security youth prison, it comprised three units, each divided into quarters. Each quarter was subdivided into halves, and each half was again divided into banks, or tiers. Every prisoner was a.s.signed to his own cell. Each cell had a sliding door of solid steel with a small gla.s.s window for observation by the staff. The units were organized so as to meet the individual needs of each prisoner as set forth by the diagnostic researcher designated to individual casework.
Each unit had four companies, all structured alphabetically. Unit One housed companies A-B, C-D, E-F, and G-H. A-B was for orientation. One had to stay here at least two weeks without going anywhere else but to testing-math, reading comprehension, and so on. If your grade-point average was not up to par, you were made to go to school. If you did not have your diploma or G.E.D., you had to work half a day and go to school the other half until you got it. C-D was where you could be trained in fighting fires and then sent out to do easy time at one of the many Youth Authority Camps. E-F was for drug abusers and people who, when sentenced, were specifically ordered by the judge to complete the twelve-step program as a requirement for release. G-H was for alcoholics with the same presentence or board-recommended stipulations in their file.
Unit Two, consisting of I-J, K-L, M-N, and O-R, was the last unit of specifications. I-J was a medical unit for mentally ill prisoners and prisoners with rape charges or with character defects that had led to the charges and conviction. K-L and M-N were young companies. Young prisoners, even though maximum-security material, were kept together. O-R-better known as the Rock, was the hole, one of the strictest maximum-security holes outside of Pelican Bay's Security Housing Unit and Marion's MCU. Once on the Rock you had to practically jump through hoops to get off. Every week a bus came and took prisoners off the Rock and onto a state prison. The Rock loomed as the ultimate discipline for those considered f.u.c.k-ups. Whenever we pa.s.sed the Rock, which was up above K-L, we gave sort of a thankful salute. The cool people just nodded respectfully.
Unit Three was considered the unit to be in: S-T, U-V, W-X, and Y-Z. W-X was where all the riders were. It had a reputation for everything from race riots to football, dope to weight lifting. It sat above S-T, which was a regular company, as was Y-Z. U-V was for those in 500 Trade. These were the uppercla.s.s sort of folks. Everyone in U-V got paid for their work. They kept the inst.i.tution clean and functioning properly. Everyone wanted to be in 500 Trade. The Youth Training School also had a huge Trade Line, where everything from upholstery to plumbing was taught. Upon completion of the Trade Line, one was given a certificate.
As with almost every inst.i.tution, correctional facility, or penitentiary, Chicanos and New Afrikans were in the majority. In Youth Authority, one began to learn about the larger prison culture that touched everyone's lives, including the staff who, after being in the inst.i.tution so long, began to a.s.sume some of the characteristics of the prisoners.
Lines of race, of national unity that defied political logic and overstanding, were clearly drawn in Youth Authority, which served as a junior college for the larger university of prison. The most blatant was that of the Allied Forces of Southern Chicanos-"southern" meaning any land south of Fresno-with all Americans. The Americans could have "White Pride," "White Power," swastikas, lightning bolts, "100% Honkey," and such tattooed all over them, clearly stating they were stone-cold racists, and the Chicanos would be more than comfortable in their presence. New Afrikans allied themselves with the more cultured Northern Chicanos. The Northern and Southern Chicanos were, and still are, locked in a very serious war. The film American Me ill.u.s.trates this. So, like the warring factions of New Afrikans, the Chicanos were split by geopolitical boundaries. What's striking is that the division of the two is signified in colors. The Northern Chicanos-Nuestra Familia, Northern Structure, and Fres...o...b..lldogs-wear red flags. The more numerous Southerners-Mexican Mafia, Southern United Raza, and South Side Government-wear blue.
The New Afrikans from Northern California-primarily Oakland, Berkeley, Richmond, San Francisco, and Palo Alto-call themselves 415s, which, until recently, was the area code for most of the Bay area. As if the Crip and Blood conflict was not complicated enough, the Crips do not get along with the 415s. Actually, the 415s don't like the New Afrikans from 213-the Los Angeles area code-but for strategic purposes they have chosen the Bloods as allies over the Crips. So in Youth Authority, the ground rules of prison are set-your friends, your enemies. As a rule, all Americans get along with all North, South, 415, and 213. This, I believe, is because of their minority status in most inst.i.tutions.
Tribalism was most prevalent amongst New Afrikans, who began as one then split into Crips and Bloods. The Crips, ever the majority, were then plagued-indeed, traumatized-by the internal strife of "set trippin'." There was also struggle within each set for leaders.h.i.+p. In prison, beginning in Youth Authority, sets try to organize themselves on some level to deal with the new complexities of inst.i.tutionalization. With this new quest comes the rise of antagonistic contradictions. Since most leaders were not politically equipped to properly recognize, confront, and resolve the contradictions in organizing the unorganized in relation to the larger society, their efforts usually failed, doomed from the outset, or were aborted in the early stages by those who opted for the old platform of anarchy. This start-and-stop process of organization was characteristic of most sets there.
When I was at Y.T.S., we began our organizing process when our numbers swelled beyond fifteen. Our critical concern was organizing around the larger reality of the war. I had been reading Mario Puzo's The G.o.dfather and was devising a grand scheme for the set based on the Corleone family structure. Never did I take into account that first and foremost the Italians had a clear sense of who they were. That is, they overstood their heritage and their relation to the world as European people. We, on the other hand, were just Crips with no sense of anything before us or of where we were headed. We were trapped behind the veil of cultural ignorance without even knowing it. Yet here I was, trying to pattern our set after some established people, Europeans at that.
My opposition came primarily from Diamond. It got continually worse until 1983, culminating in my charges of set neglect against Diamond. This prompted a meeting of the entire set. Diamond was exonerated, but after that our relations.h.i.+p never recovered.
By this time, I had become very egotistical. My reputation had finally ballooned to the third stage and, by definition, I had moved into the security zone of O.G. status. My rep was omnipresent, totally saturating every circle of gang life. From CRASH to the courts, from Crips to Bloods, from Juvenile Hall to death row, Monster Kody had arrived. This, coupled with my newfound curiosity and interest in Mafia-style gangsterism, made me very hard to approach.
By 1983 I was physically the second biggest in the inst.i.tution, second only to an old friend, Roscoe, the Samoan from the Park Village Compton Crips. We were weight-lifting partners. He had twenty-one-inch arms, and mine were twenty and one-quarter. He was bench pressing five hundred and ten pounds and I was doing four hundred and seventy. I heard after I left that he went considerably higher-five hundred and ninety, I was told. My size added to the Monster image, and I capitalized on it at every opportunity.
We had planned a righteous gangster ceremony of bloodletting for the year 1983-the year of the Eight Trays. But 1983 found the set in shambles. Most of our combat troops were locked away, dead or paralyzed by lack of motivation. We found ourselves compensating for this in Y.T.S. by vamping on the Sixties. What sped this process up, apart from it being 1983, was the fact that Opie had just been murdered by the Rollin' Sixties. Caught in a secured driveway trying to climb over a chain-link fence, he was..h.i.t once in the side and died waiting for an ambulance. We were incensed with rage, because other than Li'l Spike-who was the darling of the 'hood-Opie was our sort of mascot. He was always filthy and unkempt, which didn't seem to bother him at all. But De and I would always make fun of Opie's appearance and shabbiness. We even had the Opie National Anthem, which opened: Where there's fire, there's smoke,
Where there's dirt, there's Op...
Opie would just look at us like he felt sorry for us, and De and I would double over in laughter. We'd take our hats off and place them solemnly over our hearts, looking very serious, and then fall into the Opie National Anthem. We loved Opie like a brother.
We needed to consolidate a meeting of all twenty-three of us in the inst.i.tution so we could move simultaneously. The only feasible place we could congregate without the staff detecting our intent was in Muslim services, which was held every Monday night. We knew that the attendance was low and that our move to this service would not be viewed with alarm by the staff members who worked as operatives for the gang coordinator-the dreaded Mr. Hernandez.
When Li'l Monster came to Y.T.S. from Ventura for whipping a female prisoner, Mr. Hernandez called us both to his office. Li'l Bro was in Y-Z and I was on the Rock. I had been put there as a result of Li'l Fee from the Rollin' Sixties telling Hernandez that I had instructed Stagalee to beat him down, which of course was true. Li'l Fee had just come down from Dewitt Nelson and was trying to be hard. When I dissed his set, he surprisingly dissed back, though he was out of firing range. In fact he was clear across the front field. The diss was not verbal, and no one other than he and I knew it was going on. When I saw him looking in my direction I flashed his set's sign and then, still holding my fingers in place displaying his 'hood, I put them in my mouth and chewed on them, insinuating that "I be eating his 'hood up." He in turn did the same to my set. But my gesture was based on fact; his was empty. Nonetheless, he had done it. I would have charged him immediately myself, but he was in step with his unit, escorted by two staff members and clear across the field, and I was in step with my unit, accompanied by staff. The chances of getting him were slim, taking into account the distance and the staff coverage. Besides, had I gotten there, how long would the brawl last? Surely not long enough to punish him for the crime of disrespect. In addition, I was a "G." That meant I had people to handle this type of thing. No problem.
I sent word to Stag, who was in M-N with Li'l Fee. The very next day, Stag put an old-style gangster whipping on him. Li'l Fee informed Hernandez-who got involved in every fight that was gang related-of the dissing the previous day, and Hernandez locked me up on the Rock. Li'l Fee was sent back to Dewitt Nelson. The next time we would meet would be over the barrel of a gun.
When I got to Hernandez's office I was surprised to see Li'l Bro. I had heard that he was here, but had not seen him because I was locked on the Rock. Hernandez gave us some bulls.h.i.+t-a.s.s speech about not wanting to allow two Monsters into his inst.i.tution. I wasn't even paying attention to what he was saying. When in the course of his spiel about what he would not tolerate I jumped up out of my seat and shouted "f.u.c.k it, I'm ready to go to the pen!" Mr. Hernandez was shocked and sat looking at me bug-eyed. Li'l Bro grabbed my arm and told me to "be cool," I sat back down and burned a hole right through Mr. Hernandez, who now knew that I was beyond his little threats. How could I be cordial with the same man who had locked me up and now sat before me espousing threats? I was escorted back to the Rock without further comment from Hernandez. I saluted Li'l Bro and exited the room.
From the Rock, I sent word for the meeting in Muslim services. The following Monday evening we fell into Muslim services twenty-three deep. Besides us there were seven or eight others, including the two Muslim ministers, Muhammad and Hamza. Although staff members escorted them for supervisory coverage, they left soon after the ministers began to speak. On this night, our first night, the Muslims had set up a film on slavery, which held no interest for us. As soon as the lights went off I began in on our needed sweep to rid the inst.i.tution of the Sixties. During the course of my talk to the homies, the lights flicked on, and the film projector was turned off. We sat up from our hunched positions and were faced with a very angry Hamza.
"Check this out, brothas," began Hamza, who stood before us in a black thobe over black combat boots and a leather jacket. "Y'all disrespecting our services, over here rappin' among y'all selves like little women-"
"Wait a minute, man," I said in quick defense of our status. "We Eight Trays, we ain't no women."
"Yeah, well the way y'all-"
"Naw, man, f.u.c.k that, we gangstas."
"Well, if y'all ain't gonna watch the movie, then y'all can leave."
"Oh yeah?" I said, standing up and slowly turning in the direction of the homeboys. "Let's bail." I stalked off without a backward glance, followed by the troops.
Once outside the Protestant church, which is where Islamic services were held, we made our way to the Trade Line's smoke-break area and stood around. All at once powerful lights..h.i.t us from the tower overlooking the facility, and moments later inst.i.tutional cars and vans sped toward us, stopping within inches of our gathering. We were put on the fence and brick wall surrounding the smoke-break area and searched by irate staff members. When asked what we were doing "out of bounds," we said that the Muslims said we could leave. I was taken back to the Rock, while the others were locked in their cells pending an explanation by the Muslims, who had supposedly let us out of services without proper escort. The next day we found out that the Muslims had, in fact, backed up our story and, with the exception of me, all the homies were taken off lockdown.
The next week, while I was in the infirmary waiting room just wasting time out of my cell, Muhammad came through. At first I was a bit reluctant to approach him because of the disrespect issue. But I felt obligated to say something, because they had backed us up when the staff had asked them about the incident. I motioned him over.
"What's up, man?" I asked, not knowing how he would respond. "Don't you remember me?"
"Yeah," he said, "I remember you."
"Yeah, well, I just want to apologize for disrupting your services last week and say thanks for backing us up on our statement."
"Yeah, I hear you, but actually y'all didn't disrupt our services at all. And as far as the pigs trying to lock y'all up, naw, we ain't gonna contribute to that."
"Righteous," I said, noting that Muhammad's style of speech was straight out of the 1960s. He was about six feet even, with a very dark, s.h.i.+ny, well-kept blackness. He wore a full beard, gold gla.s.ses, and a turban. His dress code was militant. He was a black ayatollah.
"Isn't your name Monster Kody?" asked Muhammad.
"Yeah," I replied.
"From Eight Tray, right?"
"Right."