Monster: The Autobiography of an L.A. Gang Member Part 19

In January 1985 this thin line of love and hate evaporated in the face of unfolding developments in the street. The first major eruption of violence occurred on a slow day, a day that looked and felt like any other day. I was in Denver-8 and my cellmates were Oldman from Nine-Deuce Hoover, Kenny Mitchel from the Sixties (he was arrested in the 1970s for robbing the Commodores), and Joe Dee from Atlantic Drive Compton Crips. We had just finished making a batch of pruno-jail-made wine-and were preparing to get drunk when we heard a voice.

"Cuz, who is that down there from East Coast?"

"Marstien," the voice replied. I had seen Marstien at the street races on Florence and Main before the shoot-out with Li'l Fee and his crew.

"Eh, Marstien, what up, n.i.g.g.a? This Li'l Sad, cuz. I'm gonna come down there later and rap with you, homie."

"Awright, cuz."

Li'l Sad was on Denver row and Marstien was on Baker row below us. I was going to send my regards, but decided to wait until later, as I was enjoying my drink. Everyone had heard about Lajoy (Li'l Hoov) being killed days before, supposedly by East Coasts as he drove through his 'hood. So when Marstien came in, along with Vamp, for murder, it was believed that he must be in for killing Lajoy. Marstien now had two murders, as he was already in for killing a Swan.

There were at least eighteen Hoovers in 4800 at that time, and equally as many East Coasts. There were four tiers in the module, each housing sixteen cells. Those on Able and Baker were six-man cells, while those on Charlie and Denver row were four-man cells. We were not allowed in the chow hall any more as a result of the rebellion, so we ate in the dayroom. Each tier had its own dayroom, and the inhabitants ate there respectfully. Of course, every cell was full.

When Able row was let out to chow, the East Coasts fell into a tight circle around Marstien and Vamp, creating a group eight deep. The largest contingency of Hoovers in the module was also housed on Able row, so no sooner did everyone get into the dayroom than the violence erupted.

"HOOVA!" someone shrieked, sounding like a deadman's charge.

Crudely constructed knives were drawn and the Hoovers proceeded to stab and beat the East Coasts. The Coasts resisted, but were no match for the fanatical Hoovers' aggression. From my cell I could see the battle. Some Hoovers had two knives in hand and were making daring dives into the crowd of retreating East Coasts, who looked more terrified than hurt. Other Hoovers had whole bars of county soap in socks and were swinging them into the heads and bodies of the reachable East Coasts. One East Coast-Snake, from Seven-Six-was armed with an ice pick, but in his attempt to strike at the charging Hoovers he slipped and stabbed his homie Vamp.

The battle was quick and decisive. When the pigs rode down, the Hoovers stood on one side of the dayroom, victorious, proud, and, as usual, arrogant, some still holding weapons. The East Coasts were crumpled in the opposite corner, wrecked, beaten, and shamed. Six were stabbed and all sustained bruises. The other Crips in the dayroom stepped back to let the inevitable take place.

O.S.S.'s response was a devastating blow to the Crip Module and gave some of us a glimpse at the type of control they really exercised. Marstien and Vamp were sent to the more constricting, High Power 1750 module. The Hoovers went to the Hole. But the real twist was that all West Side Crips were moved to Able and Charlie row and all East Side Crips were put on Baker and Denver row. Although the conflict did involve the West Side Hoovers and the East Side East Coasts, it was not an issue of East vs. West, but rather that these two sets-mere chapters of their respective sides-were at war. Their conflict entailed nothing else. But when O.S.S. split up the Crips, it gave the Hoovers and the East Coasts the opportunity to agitate each side into a war between East and West. And that's exactly what happened.

At night the chanting began, with everyone from both sides partic.i.p.ating.

"EAST SIDE!" Baker and Denver row would chant, repeating it three times and finis.h.i.+ng with a set roll call.

"East Coasts, Avalon, Main Streets, Grape Street, Eight-Seven, PJ Watts, Fo' Tray, Five Tray . . ."

And in response the West Side would chant, "west side! Hoova, Eight Tray, Sixties, Shot Gun, Raymond, Playboy, West Boulevard . . ."

The threat of the East Side became real. So real, in fact, that East and West Side sets that had never clashed began to do so under these conditions. All the while O.S.S. was conducting "interviews"-actually interrogations-to find out who was trying to bring about the long-lost unity of old.

In these times, many disappeared from the Crip Module. One afternoon we were all told to gather up our personal property and go into the huge communal showers. No one had any idea of what was taking place. We all crowded into the showers with our meager property. We waited for hours to find out our fate. Looking around at one another, at friends we had met while in this shark tank, at enemies we had forgiven in the light of a new "enemy"-the East Side-we felt like a family being torn asunder. Eventually, a pig came in with our JRC cards and began to call off names.

"Scott?" the pig shouted into the shower.

"Yeah," I replied, wondering why I was being called first. "What'cha call me fo' man, I ain't-"

"Shut up. You are going to Charlie-10. Get your s.h.i.+t and move, now!" shouted the little pink-faced pig, who weighed no more than 150 pounds. I would have slapped the s.h.i.+t out of any other American for talking to me like that, but this scrawny little pig had the armed forces on his side.

I gathered up my property and moved down the tier to C-IO. This didn't make much sense to me, because I was in C-8 before they rolled us up into the shower. It felt strange to walk past cell after empty cell, striped bare to the concrete and steel. I felt like the only Crip on earth. I got to the cell, it was electronically opened and I stepped in.

"Davis?" I heard the little pig say.

"Yeah, here." That was Fat Rat from Five-Deuce Hoover.

"Charlie-10."

s.h.i.+t, that was my cell. Now I was tripping on what these pigs had in mind. Fat Rat came down the tier, laboring heavily under his crus.h.i.+ng weight. Fat Rat was huge, with muscular arms and chest and a fat belly that, coupled with his dark complexion, made him resemble a potbellied stove. He and I were friends from juvenile hall.

"Cuz, what they doing? I mean why they movin' us all around?" I asked Fat Rat as he plopped down on the bunk across from mine.

"s.h.i.+t, cuz, I think they fin' to mix us up. I pity the Cheese Toast"-disrespectful for East Coast-"that come in my cell."

"You think that's what they up to, huh?"

"Yeah, 'cause I heard one cop tell another."

Another name was called.

"Anderson?"

"Right here."

"Charlie-10."

Fat Rat and I looked at each other, and Fat Rat smiled. Anderson was B.T. from East Coast.

"I got one," Fat Rat said as he began to make his bed.

I didn't know B.T., but since he had come to the module I had seen him around. He stood in front of the cell and waited to be let in. B.T. was six foot one, muscular, and dark-almost like a fit Fat Rat, but taller. He had been in the dayroom when the Hoovers vamped on the Coasts, but he'd hit the wall when it jumped, claiming he was under paperwork (Crip const.i.tution) and couldn't partic.i.p.ate in Crip-on-Crip violence. He was one of the two who didn't get stabbed.

"What up, cuz?" B.T. said to me as he hoisted his bedding up on the bunk above mine.

"Ain't nothin', just trippin' off these canines."

"Yeah, these devils is on one," he said, then turned to Fat Rat. "What up, cuz?"

"HOOVA," shot Fat Rat in a hard-core confrontational voice, "and I'ma tell ya right now, n.i.g.g.a, I ain't likin' you or yo' homeboys."

"Yeah, well I ain't on no set trips and I ain't into no tribalism. I'm hooked up and therefore forbidden to involve myself in that. In other words, I got no beef with you, just like I ain't got no beef with Master Kody."

"Monster Kody, not Master," I said, annoyed.

"Yeah, yeah, that's right, I'm trippin'."

"Yo sho' is if you think I'm goin' fo' that old bulls.h.i.+t you talkin' 'bout, n.i.g.g.a. f.u.c.k that. This is Hoova," Fat Rat said stubbornly.

"I ain't even trippin' that." And B.T. went on making up his bed. I knew that a confrontation between the two was inevitable.

I had heard about the Crip const.i.tution, but that was the extent of my knowledge. The const.i.tution was the latest topic on the wire. It was said that members of the organization were coming down to 4800 from San Quentin and Folsom to get things together in the Crip Nation. By this time I was moving toward that mind-set of unity. I had been living hard and could not expect to continue to do so and live or miss a life term in prison. The rumors surrounding the coming of the const.i.tutionalists had the ring of truth to them. When people spoke of "them" or "those under paperwork," they invariably did so with great respect. "They" seemed to us like descending angels coming to redeem the lost souls of Cripdom.

Some felt nervous. I could see it in their eyes when "they" were spoken of. Perhaps they had done wrong or feared the responsibility of having to handle some business. Some seemed relieved and eager for the const.i.tutionalists' arrival-those who were under everyday attack by vultures preying on setless individuals and shallow sets.

What the pigs had done was mix everyone up. As much as they could, they put one member from each set in each cell. They were now trying to force us back together after they had intentionally torn us apart, creating conditions for ma.s.sive distrust and confusion.

Big Hog from 107 Hoover was a tier tender and went up and down the tiers trying to get those a.s.signed to cells with oppositional members to refrain from any tribalistic violence. Most complied, but Fat Rat could not be deterred. He wanted to find out more about B.T.'s affiliation. He wanted to see who he was really connected to. The remaining East Coasts in the module had severed ties with B.T. because of his failure to act in their defense when they were attacked by the Hoovers. I had learned that day that the Coasts had put a "blue light"-a hit-on B.T. for his inactivity. Fat Rat knew that the Coast Car would not defend B.T., so he had little to worry about on that front.

When Big Hog came down the tier, sweeping up, Fat Rat called to him and began whispering something in his ear, no doubt about B.T.'s authenticity. Big Hog had been to the pen already and had been under the old const.i.tution, so he'd know if B.T. was really hooked up or not. Fat Rat repeatedly insisted he was faking. After Fat Rat had spoken to Hog, with B.T. looking on in suspicion, Hog called B.T. over to the front gate. They began whispering. Fat Rat beamed as if to say "Now, the test of fire." The conversation with B.T. hadn't lasted but two minutes when Big Hog spoke up.

"This n.i.g.g.a ain't hooked up in s.h.i.+t, Fat Rat, serve this n.i.g.g.a!"

B.T. backed up to the gate, facing us in the cell. His face said it all: coward. Fat Rat read it and moved in.

"Eh, hold on Fat Rat, cuz, I ain't got no beef wit' you, man."

He knew he was doomed and was begging. Fat Rat had a reputation for being a "booty bandit" and thrived on weak men with tight a.s.ses. Poor B.T.

"f.u.c.k that, why you lie, huh?"

POW!.

Fat Rat smacked B.T. hard across the side of the head.

"Aw, cuz, I just ain't into Crip-on-Crip, cuz, I-"

SMACK!.

Another whack came down, this one across his face. The tiers grew quiet.

"Eh, Hog," B.T. began, turning to Hog for relief, "tell Rat to stall me out, cuz."

"I'm gonna stall you out awright."

And with that Fat Rat grabbed B.T.'s boxer shorts by the elastic waistband and yanked them with one powerful tug. They tore right off of him. Surely, I thought, B.T. was going to mount an attack now. He had to.

"b.i.t.c.hes don't wear boxer shorts, punk, men do," Fat Rat shouted, throwing the ripped shorts on the floor near the steel toilet.

"Aw, Rat, you trippin', cuz," B.T. said, but made no move that telegraphed strength.

"It's Mister Fat Rat to you, b.i.t.c.h. Now what you wanna do, huh? You wanna get 'em up or what?" Fat Rat eased into a strike-first position.

"I ain't got no beef wit' you, Fa-Mister Fat Rat."

And that was it. His last vestiges of strength. He had yielded his manhood by calling Fat Rat "Mister," a cardinal sin. In that instant, Fat Rat connected fist to face, knocking B.T. hard against the bars, where Hog took the liberty of grabbing his cheeks. B.T.'s knees buckled; until Hog had fondled his cheeks he was going down.

"Ahh," B.T. gave a start when Hog's hands touched his a.s.s. "Cuz, what you doin'?"

"Shut up, punk. You know you like that," said Hog.

Catcalls began coming from the adjacent cells. B.T. looked around like a frightened, trapped lamb. But in contrast to a meek, feeble-bodied person, he stood there six foot one and buff. Yet he had no inclination to defend himself from what was definitely a head-up situation.

Hog was out on the tier and could not get in the cell. And I was not going to get involved. I had no beef with East Coast or B.T. Could I have prevented it? Yes, and I intended to, but it would be interesting to see how far this would go. I can't now qualify my thinking at the time. In my mind it was kill or be killed, live and let die, law of the land.

Fat Rat had backed to the rear of the cell and begun to disrobe. I thought then that B.T. would strike, but he didn't. He still seemed to think that Fat Rat could be deterred by reasoning, by appealing to his intellectual morality. B.T. had been to the pen and had gotten "tamed." He'd learned manipulation and vocabulary skills. But s.h.i.+t, Fat Rat, like me, was uncut street, straight out of the bush. The only language Fat Rat knew or respected or could be persuaded by was violence. Everything else was for the weak. Action and more action-anything else paled in comparison.

Fat Rat stood wide-legged in tattered shorts, belly hanging over them. He looked like an enraged Buddha. He was ready to fight or f.u.c.k, and knowing Fat Rat, he planned on a bit of both.

"Oh, Hog, you just gonna let yo' homie trip on me like this, huh?"

"You lettin' him trip on you, n.i.g.g.a! I ain't in that cell. My name is Hog, not Fat Rat."

"Hey, Fat Rat, cuz, I don't wanna fight wit' you, man."

B.T.'s pleading was reduced to a whimper, clas.h.i.+ng hard with his appearance. He was evenly dark from head to toe, and standing there naked he looked like a Zulu warrior.

"n.i.g.g.a, you gonna do somethin'," Fat Rat said, ma.s.saging his groin and stepping up on B.T.

"Cuz, you trippin.' Fat Rat-"

POW!.

Fat Rat punched him hard in the solar plexus.

"Mister Fat Rat, punk!" Fat Rat exploded as B.T. doubled over in agony.

"Oooh . . . awright, awright," he said, barely getting the words out.

"Now, what you gonna do? You ready to get 'em up or what?"

Fat Rat forced his way behind B.T. and made him move to the back of the cell.

"I don't wanna do this, Fat Rat," B.T. said, straightening up to his full height, towering over Fat Rat by at least three inches. Even Fat Rat had to take a small step back.

B.T. put his guard up and positioned his feet in a fighting stance. Then swiftly, like greased lightning, Fat Rat rushed into B.T. and began pounding him everywhere at once with furious blows. Fat Rat's hands were hammering blurs, reducing the formerly upright B.T. to a pitiful clump of flesh under the steel sink. B.T. hadn't thrown a blow, hadn't said a word, hadn't resisted with one fiber of his being, but Fat Rat didn't seem to recognize this. He continued to hammer away at B.T.'s defenseless body as if he had put up a ferocious struggle. I believe he continued out of sheer fear of B.T., from when he had finally stood to do battle.

Fat Rat clearly wanted to make sure that B.T. never resisted again. When Fat Rat ceased hitting him, B.T. lay unconscious on the cold concrete floor. The entire side of Able and Charlie row was deathly quiet. Everyone was listening.

Winded and crazed beyond any reasoning short of death, Fat Rat began tearing his sheet into shreds. I knew what this meant. Once he had torn enough he dragged B.T. out into the middle of the cell. He then rolled him over onto his stomach and proceeded to tie his hands behind his back, then his legs; then he tied his bound limbs together. Only after he had been securely bound did B.T. start to squirm against the tension of the sheets, which held him in a hog-tied position. Fat Rat, in all his brutish arrogance, put one foot on B.T.'s back like a big-game hunter who had bagged a tiger and shouted from the depths of his lungs.

"HOOVA!"

And it seemed to echo forever, bouncing off wall after wall.

"Hey, Monster," Snake from Seven-Six said to me from the lower tier, "what's goin' on?"

"Head up," I replied, which also implied that there was nothing I could do.

Big Hog had to lock it up, but before he left he told Fat Rat to save some for him.

Fat Rat, enjoying his audience, wanted to make an impression as being a total brute. He looked over, as if just noticing me in the cell.

"Monster, what's up, cuz? What should I do with this punk?"

"I don't know Rat. Cuz is a coward-a.s.s m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka, huh?"

"h.e.l.l yeah," Fat Rat replied and looked down at B.T. with disgust.