Monster: The Autobiography of an L.A. Gang Member Part 9

THE JUVENILE TANK.

No one, least of all Taco, could believe that I was going home. I found it hard to believe myself, especially after the homicide detectives had searched my cage, confiscated letters, and made their threat of ga.s.sing me as they left. Since I had been acquitted in trial, I knew that the district attorney could not refile the charges for the murder and attempted murders. I was, however, worried about the D.A. notifying homicide that I had been acquitted and then having them come down and book me for yet another murder. When I was let out of my cage for release, I went first to Taco's cell and held counsel with him. He was my road dog and now would be in charge. We talked softly through the bars.

"Yeah, homie," I began, reaching through the bars to grab Taco's hand, "I'm fin' to sky up and go get bent. Shoot up a gang of them snitchin'-a.s.s Brims and get some p.u.s.s.y, ya know?"

"Yeah, yeah, that's right, cuz, go on out there and handle that s.h.i.+t. If you run into my big homie Honcho, tell cuz to get at me."

"Righteous," I said, looking now into Taco's eyes. "d.a.m.n, cuz, I kinda hate to leave you in this m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka. But I know you gonna be firm and do what you gotta do. But cuz, watch that fool Mike 'cause you know he ain't likin' us no way, no how."

"That's right," Taco said in a "Preach On" tone.

"So you gotta keep what we built up goin', ya know?"

"Yeah, but I don't think cuz gonna try to trip. But if he do, I'll give you a call and you can drop some of his homeboys out there."

"Righteous."

"Besides, we all like one now since you and cuz got busy. So for him to try to start somethin' now would only make cuz look real bad to the homies in the pen, ya know?"

"Yeah, you right, but just stay alert."

Easing away from Taco's gate was like trying to push away from a ten-course meal after not having eaten in five days. We both knew that he was not going home. He was charged with fifty-nine counts of armed robbery and a murder. Taco had heroically ridden into the Nickerson Garden Housing Projects on a moped armed with a .357 magnum and gunned down a Bounty Hunter. Only moments before, the Bounty Hunter had shot Taco's girlfriend. Although Taco was a hero in the Crip community for his successful mission, he was but a thug to the district attorney, who was, as usual, seeking a life term upon conviction. Taco took most of it in stride, but I knew, just as we all knew, that the threat of being in prison for life was a m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka.

What we did in the juvenile tank was reflected inside the prisons where we were headed. The rank system never ended. Just as it was on the street with continuous levels of recognition, so too was it in jail. Those in placement-foster homes-looked up to those in juvenile hall, those in juvenile hall looked up to those in camp, those in camp looked up to those in Youth Authority, and those in Youth Authority looked up to those in prison. Most of us in the juvenile tank looked up to those in prison, because that's where the district attorney was trying to send us. We were all under tremendous stress.

When I backed off of Taco's gate, still looking in his eyes but also taking in the larger scenery of his cage-his bars, bed, sink, desk, and toilet-he seemed so content, so at home. And I wondered, had I looked like him just weeks, days, hours before? I didn't want to stay here all my life, but I had no way to stop the wheels of fate, already set in motion long before I had a ticket to ride. If I just stopped g.a.n.g.b.a.n.ging, perhaps I could avoid prison, an early death, and a few other occupational hazards. But to "just stop" is like to "just say no" to drugs, or to tell a homeless person to "just get a house." It "just wasn't happening."

Prison loomed in my future like wisdom teeth: if you lived long enough you got them. Prison was like a stepping stone to manhood, with everything depending on going and coming back. Going meant nothing if you never came back. The going was obligatory, but coming back was voluntary. Going didn't just mean prison, it circ.u.mscribed a host of obligatory deeds. Go shoot somebody, go take a car, go break into that house, go rob that store, go spray-paint that wall, or go up to that school. It never was "go and come back." "Go" was something that you bad to do. To come back meant that you loved the 'hood and your homies, and that what you did was simply "all in a day's work." Being locked up was an inevitable consequence of banging. Your "work" brought you in contact with the police and, since jail was part of the job description, you simply prepared ahead of time for the mind-f.u.c.k of being a prisoner. The glory came not in going but in coming back. To come back showed a willingness to "stay down." It fostered an image of the set as legitimate, and each individual who could go and come back brought something new-walk, talk, look, way of writing-to add to the culture of the 'hood.

In prison, one is thrown in with all the other criminals, gang members, outlaws, misfits, outcasts, and underworld people from all over California. Since every jail I have ever been in seems designed to be recidivistic, as opposed to rehabilitative, the criminal culture is very strong. It saturates every level of every jail, from juvenile hall to death row. And so each individual going and coming back learns a new scheme to be used in the ever-growing a.r.s.enal of criminality. The 'hood also gains yet another expert in another field.

"I love you, cuz," I told Taco with a final salute of the "C" sign held high over my head.

"I love you, too, homie," Taco responded, hitting himself hard over the heart with the "C" sign.

I quickly moved to Levi's cell and rapped with him about standing firm in my absence. From his cell I went to Ben's, Dirt's, and Chico's before shouting my respects down to Able row. At that, I was on my way.

It took most of the night for me to be processed out of L.A. County Jail. Ever leery of the homicide detectives, who might pop out from behind some part.i.tion or desk with those "gas your black a.s.s" smirks smeared on their faces, as soon as I was finally released I bolted like a track star to an awaiting bus. Once on the bus I darted straight to the back and crouched down in the seat. The police are notorious for letting you think you have gotten away, and then just when you think it's safe to go back in the water-sharks!! So I moved under cover of darkness like I had just broken into-or out of-1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. On the bus, traveling through downtown L.A., I began to ease a bit, but not much. I knew if I got into South Central, the police's chances of apprehending me would be slim, sort of like Marines hunting for Viet Cong in their native habitat. A mere academy-taught soldier-policeman would be put to shame trying to track me in the concrete jungle of South Central.

At Fifth Street a pa.s.senger of youthful age boarded the bus. On point, I scoped his dress code: blue khaki pants, white All-Stars, blue Adidas sweat jacket over a blue t-s.h.i.+rt, and a blue baseball cap with two golf-ball emblems fastened to the front. He definitely was a banger. The two golf b.a.l.l.s could signify several sets. Back in the early eighties, we'd used numbers as codes of affiliation to circ.u.mvent police repression. All Trays, including three-time sets such as the Playboy Gangsters, Altadena Block Crips, and Marvin Gangsters, wore three golf-ball emblems on their hats. In contrast, Neighborhood sets and two-time sets like the 5-Deuces, 6-Deuces, and Raymond Avenue Crips wore two golf-ball emblems on their hats. Often, this alone would be a dead giveaway to set allegiance and quite enough to get one's brains blown out.

The banger paid his fare and started right down the aisle toward the back, toward me. He caught me scoping him and tensed a bit-not out of fright, but as a result, I'm sure, of an adrenaline rush in preparation for a confrontation. I had gotten my rush when I saw him board the bus. Before I saw any movement a small caliber weapon appeared in his right hand-a .25 automatic, I thought. He wasn't holding it in a threatening manner or aiming it at all. He was palming it as if to say "Yo, I'm armed, and if there is to be a confrontation this is my choice of weapon." He sat across from me and to the left, on the long, four-pa.s.senger seat. We eyed each other tentatively. All the while he palmed the weapon. After a few minutes that seemed like days, he hit me up.

"Where you from?" he asked in a serious, you-better-not-be-my-enemy voice. For the first time in my life I was scared of being shot, scared to die. Still reeling from the mental strain of being shot six months before, I couldn't summon the courage to die.

"I don't bang," I said and looked away in shame, fighting to keep down the bile pus.h.i.+ng its way up. The banger broke his stare and looked elsewhere, totally dismissing me. I felt at a complete loss. d.a.m.n, I was trippin'. I couldn't very well say, "Uh, excuse me, I made a slight error. You see, I'm from Eight Tray." That would be even worse than not initially saying where I was from. I wanted to make it back to the 'hood, and not in a body bag. I would gladly die in a couple of months, but not now, not here.

We rode in silence the rest of the way. Then it dawned on me: the banger was probably unmoved by my disclaimer of affiliation and was going to ride the duration of the bus route to see where I got off. Then he'd know I was an Eight Tray and gun me down. d.a.m.n, I thought, while in the juvenile tank I'd had Termite, a Chicano from East Side Clover, write ETG on the back of my neck. For sure when I got off the bus he'd scope the set on my neck and unload his clip on me. Then I would die in shame.

Just as these thoughts were wracking my mind, he reached up and pulled the exit bell. As the bus slowed for his upcoming stop, he stood and pocketed the weapon and walked toward the back exit door. Pausing, he turned and said, "You should join a gang, 'cause you already got the look. Stay up."

And he stepped down into the street without a backward glance.

I wanted to shout, "m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka, I got a gang!" but that would just fly in the face of what had already taken place. I rode on in silence, though I noted that he had gotten off the bus in an area of downtown where the only gangs were Salvadorans. This could mean one of two things: he belonged to one of the Salvadoran gangs, or he was just out riding the bus lines hunting for enemies. I quite possibly would have been one. What number, I wondered to myself?

The bus was now occupied only by myself and two other people, both elderly women. It turned right on Santa Barbara-now King Boulevard-and I wondered where the driver was going. When we got to King and Crenshaw, the driver hollered that this was the last stop. What? Last stop? Never familiar with the bus lines in L.A., I had apparently taken the wrong bus. Now I found myself on the corner of King and Crenshaw at 11:30 at night. This was the borderline between the Rollin' Sixties and Black P. Stone Bloods, and I had ETG on my neck and a folder in my hand saying the same thing. s.h.i.+t, tonight just wasn't my night.

I milled around in the shadows, ever-watchful, s.h.i.+fting nervously from foot to foot. "Wasn't n.o.body on the street but police and fools, police not givin' a f.u.c.k and fools doomed by their own ignorance," Li'l De had said after my shooting. Now karma had reared its d.a.m.n head and I was an ignorant fool, doomed. Every car was a potential tank manned by opposition troops. I had been dropped behind enemy lines and had to survive, had to get back to "my country." The mission of going to jail only proved successful if I made it back alive.

I was so far back in the shadows that I almost missed the bus going in the opposite direction. I was going to ride back down King Boulevard to Normandie Avenue, get a transfer, follow Normandie to Florence and then take my chances on foot at getting home. Mom didn't even know I was out. I could picture the utter surprise in her face when the police called.

"Uh, Mrs. Scott, this is Detective Joseph from L.A.'s homicide unit calling to regretfully inform you that your son Kody was murdered tonight."

Mom would calmly say that the officer was making a dreadful mistake. "My son Kody is in jail," she would say, probably right up until she had to I.D. my body in the morgue. She would never believe it could happen to me. But we had grown so far apart that if I were dying I would not have called her. Mom was the enemy at home. Mom was, to me, what antiwar protestors were to Westmoreland.

I rode to Normandie without incident, but while I was standing on Normandie and King, which is Harlem Rollin' Thirties neighborhood, a packed beige Cadillac rolled to a stop in front of me. Looking hard for recognition were the twisted, contorted faces of bangers from I-don't-know-where. I tried to look as unconnected as possible. The legal folder that held my letters and pictures from China-with the set scrawled blatantly across the front of it-was between me and the back of the bus-stop bench. I was being inspected for any signs of being a banger. Perhaps these cats were Harlems just patrolling their 'hood, something I have done a lot.

I've found some very out-of-the-way people in the 'hood on some of my patrols. One particular night I rode up on a carload of Miller Gangster Bloods sitting comfortably in an alley behind the Western Surplus. I was able to I.D. them by their loud talking. I was on a ten-speed bike, and once I confirmed they were enemy, I rolled up on the side of the car and emptied my clip into the faces and bodies of the occupants. Out of bounds, trespa.s.sing, free-fire zone-h.e.l.l, I had a dozen reasons to fire on them. "Free country" never crossed my mind. Besides, this wasn't America-it was South Central.

The Miller Gangsters were from clear across town, 120th Street. It's possible that they didn't know where they were. Or it could be that they did know but had little respect for our 'hood, since they had never had open confrontations with us. I'd tend to believe the latter. This is why it's necessary to read the writing on the walls. f.u.c.k street signs. Walls will tell you where you are.

Not seeing any clear signs in my face or dress code, the idling Cadillac began to ease forward. For identification purposes the pa.s.senger raised one hand out of the window with his thumb and pinky finger extended, the other fingers hidden in his palm. I recognized the sign immediately: Neighborhood Rollin' Twenty Bloods. No doubt they were on a military incursion through Harlem 'hood, their worst enemy. "Hurry up, bus," I found myself whispering. "Hurry up."

The bus came, and I rode attentively down Normandie, reading the writing on the walls, pa.s.sing through several 'hoods. Normandie Avenue can be compared to the Ho Chi Minh trail. It is the main artery of well over forty sets, spanning from Hollywood to Gardena. Normandie is a vital supply route. From dope to dynamite, Normandie has seen it. From King Boulevard to Florence, the bus made its way through the Harlem Thirties, Rollin' Forties, 5-Deuce Hoovers, 5-Six Syndicate and 6-Deuce Brims. Block after block, set after set, everybody belonged to something. The writing scrawled on the walls told fabulous stories. I knew most of the names written by face, but it was hard to picture the individuals writing them. Bending down, moving, scanning to see who's watching them . . . some cats just seemed too sophisticated for that. It's funny, too, because as much graffiti as covers our city walls, hardly anybody ever sees it being done. As much as I have struck up on walls, I've never been asked to stop or been asked what I was doing.

On Seventy-first Street, the street before Florence, I reached up and pulled the signal cord to be let off. I disembarked at a walking-run. Florence and Normandie was a hot corner. I turned the corner onto Seventy-first and trotted past Li'l Tray Ball's house and wondered if I should stop. No, I decided, make it home first. It was now well past midnight. Although there are more murders in the city on the weekends than the weekdays, it has nothing to do with gang members being workers. Gang members work all day, every day. This was a Wednesday, but that didn't mean I was more likely to survive. No, I was more likely to be killed any time and any place they caught me!

I scurried along, ducking and dodging into driveways and behind trees. Anyone in any other part of this country would have thought I had either stolen something or was a nut. But any resident here who clocked my antics knew I was just trying to get from point A to point B in one piece.

When I got home I went to the back door, but it was locked. So I went back around to the front and knocked, but got no answer. I've never had a key, never wanted one. I never asked Mom for one, and she never offered one. I knocked again, harder. Still there was no answer, but Mom's car was there.

Suddenly I heard noises from across the street and saw flashes coming from Welow's garage. I went across the street cautiously. Welow was welding some pieces of metal together and working on his car. He was a civilian who worked at General Motors every day, but on the weekend he'd pull his 1974 Monte Carlo low-rider out and have a ball. He had a lot of tools and welding equipment. In fact, he would saw my weapons off for me and then smooth down the barrels on his grinder. When he saw me his eyes lit up. We rapped a bit before he broke out some pot. My system was clean from not doing any drugs while in jail for six months, so one stick of pot blew me over.

When I finally jetted back across the street I was really on paranoid. I banged on the door now.

BAM! BAM! BAM!.

I was doing the get-the-f.u.c.k-up-it's-the-police knocks.

BAM! BAM! BAM!.

And that's who Mom thought it was, because before they had come to my cell with the search warrant they'd gone to my house. Not believing Mom when she told them that I was already in jail, they still made her come out of the house and get on her knees on the front lawn like a common criminal.

I saw her now, peeking from behind the curtain. She couldn't recognize me, so she hit the porch light, splas.h.i.+ng me with light. I freaked and bent down to avoid in-coming rounds.

"The light," I shouted, pointing, "turn the light out, Mom!"

Hearing my voice, she finally registered who I was. Just as abruptly as I was splashed with light, I was now doused with darkness. The light was screaming "Here he is," but the darkness said, "Shhh, it's all right, it's all right." Mom opened the door slowly, after undoing more locks than I ever remember having seen on that door.

"Hi, Mom," I said with a dopey marijuana smile. I know she smelled it all over me.

"You know they going to come get you, don't you?" she said with a look of why-you-keep-doin'-me-like-this.

"Who?"

"The police, that's who!"

"Fo' what? I ain't done nothin'."

"Boy, you done broke out of jail!"

"Naw, Mom, I beat my case. They let me out."

Mom a.s.sumed that because I was sixteen she had to come and get me, like always. But I was not in juvenile hall anymore. In the juvenile tank they just let you go.

"Boy, are you sure?" she asked accusingly. "'Cause I can't take them trigger-happy fools running up in here treating me like no thug. I work too hard for that s.h.i.+t, you hear me?"

"Yeah, yeah, I hear you, Mom," I said with my head down, wandering the length of the hallway feeling like "d.a.m.n, ain't nothin' changed, I see." "You been to see Shaun?" I asked, trying to get her off my back.

"Yes, I went last weekend. You know they gave him thirty-six years and life. My poor baby."

Uh-oh, I thought, here it comes. "Mom, I'm tired, I need some sleep."

"You need to stop smoking that G.o.dd.a.m.n weed," she hollered after me as I walked down the hall.

I closed my bedroom door and waited, hoping she wouldn't come into my room and continue preaching. I knew she meant well, but I wasn't up to it tonight. I wanted to be loved, to be missed, to be wanted, not scolded.

Now I was angry. I changed into my combat black, went out the window and into the garage. In a bag under the old chest of drawers, I had a 45 automatic that I had gotten from A. C. Rabbit, our Korean homeboy, before my capture. The .45 had only two sh.e.l.ls in the clip. I went across to Welow's and he gave me eight more sh.e.l.ls. I got on Li'l Monster's new ten-speed and rode quickly toward Brim 'hood, all the while cursing about my mother's disregard for my feelings, never questioning mine for hers.

From Sixty-ninth to Sixty-second I pumped furiously, needing to shoot somebody, eager to vent my anger. Rounding the corner on Sixty-second and Denker I encountered what looked to be two couples sitting on the back of a car playing oldies, hugging, being lovers. I slowed my pace and gave them the most evil mad-dog stare I could come up with. All four turned their heads and, I'm almost sure, prayed that I kept going. I made a tight circle in the street to see if any one of them were looking at me, but none were.

I peddled on toward Halldale. When I found no one there I doubled back. Noticing that the couples had vanished, I peddled on up Sixty-second to the other side of Brim 'hood by Harvard Boulevard. Getting halfway up the block, I noticed a furtive move to my left in my peripheral vision. Turning abruptly in the direction of the movements, I grabbed for my weapon. Before I could draw, the movement shot out of the shadows like fluid. "d.a.m.n," I said to myself, "a cat." s.h.i.+t, the d.a.m.n cat seemed to be doing just as I had been doing not more than an hour before, trying to get from point A to point B in one piece. I watched the cat momentarily before I continued my scan of the park.

Turning right on Harvard Boulevard, I saw two Chicanos leaning against a brown Gremlin, talking. Both, I guessed, were from FI3. We had no beef with them. Further down the block I saw three cats who looked my age leaning against a van, talking and drinking beer. Bingo-enemies. I rode to within a house distance, approximately twenty to twenty-five feet, and made a circle to make sure they saw me. On my final loop I came up blasting.

DOOM! DOOM! DOOM!.

"Ah, Blood, I'm hit!"

"Run!" screamed a distant voice. "Just keep running'!"

One Blood lay motionless in the street. The other two were pinned behind a tree. The van took the majority of my rounds.

DOOM! DOOM!.

The .45 had the low, slow baritone of a big ba.s.s.

When I heard no other noise, I took off, retaining one round. Peddling as quickly as possible straight down Harvard, across Gage Avenue, and into the peripheral interior of my 'hood, I felt like a Native American on horseback retreating back to my camp after slaying the enemy. I made a left on Sixty-seventh Street and relaxed a bit. On Denker I turned right and made my way home. I put the bike in the garage and entered the house. I went to my room and fell asleep. I slept very well.

"You may tie your shoes in the morning, but the mortician may untie them at night," Alma, Crazy De's mother, was telling us as we waited for De to gear up. She knew we were up to no good.

Dressed heavily and in dark gear, Diamond, Tray Stone, and I sat on the couch, oblivious to anything Alma was saying. Our minds had long been locked on our upcoming mission. For once in a long time, we had gained the initiative in the conflict with the Sixties. We knew we had to keep up the pressure. Tonight would be but another offensive strike in a series of military maneuvers we had been conducting in the Sixties 'hood to wear down their resistance. We had made so many successful runs in and out of the Sixties that we arrogantly began calling ourselves the Demolition Squad. We had been seen so often by so many civilians that as of late we were getting waves and head nods. We simply waved back.

Our missions were successful largely because we had logistical help from the LAPD CRASH units. For four nights in a row now, we had been getting helpful hints from "our friends" in blue-as they liked to refer to themselves. "But," they'd quickly add, "we are from the Seventy-seventh Street gang, which just happens to not get along with the Rollin' Sixties."

Ignorant, very eager, and filled with a burning hatred for the "enemy," we ate that s.h.i.+t up. We never realized that the Seventy-seventh Street gang didn't get along with anybody in the New Afrikan community.

"Hey, Monster," a tomato-faced sergeant said, "I tell you, them G.o.dd.a.m.n Sixties are talking about murdering you on sight."

"Oh yeah, who?"

"Peddie, Scoop, Kiki, and a few others. If I were you I'd keep my gun close at hand, 'cause those boys seem mighty serious."

"Yeah, well f.u.c.k the Sixties. They know where I'm at."

"Yeah, but do you know where they are? I mean right now?"

"Naw, you?"

Then, calling me to the car in a secretive manner he said, "They on Fifty-ninth Street and Third Avenue. All the ones I just mentioned who've been bad-mouthing you. I was telling my partner here that if you were there they'd be scared s.h.i.+tless. If you get your crew and go now, I'll make sure you are clear. But only fifteen minutes. You got that?" he added with a wink and a click of the tongue.

"Yeah, I got it. But how I know you ain't settin' me up?"

"If I wanted to put you in jail, Monster, I'd arrest you now for that gun in your waistband."

Surprised, I said, "Righteous," and stepped away from the car.

We mounted up and went over to Fifty-ninth and Third Avenue. Sure enough, there they were. And just as he had said, we encountered no police.

This was our fifth night out in collaboration with "our friends" in blue. We had a .22 magnum that shot nine times. I had loaded it myself with long hollow points. But first we went in search of a car to use on the mission. Jack at gunpoint for a vehicle with the .22. Once the vehicle was secured, we'd go and get more heavy weaponry for the mission.

It had been two weeks since I was released. China was complaining that I didn't spend enough time with her, that all I did was think about the Sixties. Since Li'l G.C.'s capture for murder, she seemed to have lost some of her ability to be confrontational with the enemy. She still walked, talked, and dressed gangster, but since my release she had not gone on one mission with me. In 1980, she was putting in much work. Now she wanted to be loved in a way that I could not approach seriously. I loved her, for sure, but I was far from being a romantic. I felt threatened by romanticism, thinking that perhaps I'd like it more than banging. So I s.h.i.+ed away from it.

So much had happened since the start of the conflict. Before the war, we-as a set-were more like a family than a gang. Picnics, collective awareness, unity, and individual freedom abounded. Sure we struck out at foes, but it was all in keeping with traditional Red and Blue rivalries. Business, strictly business. We had one dead, one wounded.

Now, in 1981, we had three dead at the hands of the Sixties and numerous-too numerous to note-wounded. As soon as the war started, freak accidents seemed to befall us. Cocaine was killed by Mexicans in a burglary attempt. Bam was allegedly killed by one of our own. Dirty Butch was run over by a car. D.B. was stabbed to death by a wino. Some Bounty Hunters kicked in Joe Joe's door and shot his mother and brother.

Also, many had been captured. G.C was given fifteen years to life. Big Spike, Dumps, Fred Jay, and Li'l Jay received sentences ranging from four years to twenty-five to life. Madbone had been captured for murder and given seven years straight. Time Bomb and Harv Dog had also been captured for murder.

Gangster Brown's house was being shot up three nights a week, and the summer hadn't even come yet. The set sagged miserably under so much, so fast. In as little as a nine-month period, we had gone from being a happy extended family with an infrastructure capable of meeting many of the needs of those driven to the street, for whatever reason, to an exclusive military machine. By June 1981 those who had stuck it out were well-seasoned veterans who could be compared to Long-Range Reconnaissance Patrol Soldiers in Vietnam. There was nothing else for us but war, total war.

After no success whatsoever in finding a vehicle to commandeer, Crazy De, Tray Stone, Diamond, and myself found ourselves clear up in the Rollin' Nineties-not one of our more cordial neighbors-before we decided to double back toward the 'hood. Diamond was in control of the strap. We walked down the adjacent alley off Western Avenue in twos, ever on alert. When we got to Eighty-ninth Street, we crossed Western hoping to catch a victim in Thrifty's parking lot. There were none.