Part 6 (2/2)

”Naw, Monster, you hold it. Yo' mama only tryin' to tell you what's right.” This was Big Lynn.

Knowing her prowess I eased closer toward Li'l Tray Ball, who was armed. If she made an attempt at physically persuading me into the house I was going to bust a cap in her a.s.s.

”Check this out, I'm only right here in the yard. I'm comin' in in a minute, okay?” Now I was looking for some support from the homegirls. I got none. Mom had apparently wooed them before I rode up.

”Kody, please come in the house.” Mom was so overwhelming that even Li'l Tray Ball was now urging me to comply.

”Homie, you should go on in the pad.”

I laid down the bike and stalked off toward the house, arguing about Mom being of another generation and not over-standing me. This, of course, was a genuine cop-out. For it was I who had lost touch with reality. I had encapsulated my block of reality into a tamper-proof world that made every other point of view absurd. This was especially so if I felt the other point of view was threatening to my livelihood.

Once in the house I went to my room, shut the door, and sat on the bed. Li'l Monster was out campaigning, so I began sorting through our ”oldie” collection. Actually, the records belonged to Li'l Monster, who was, and still is, an ardent oldie fan. I dug out something fitting and placed it on the turntable. ”I'm Still Here” by the Larks came screaming over the stereo, and I fell back on my bed and let the lyrics seep in. The refrain, ”I'm still here,” kept lifting me up. It held a special meaning to me after being shot six times. ”I'm still here.” I undressed and dozed off with the refrain still resounding in my ear, though the record had long been off.

I got up the following morning and pulled on some fresh Ben Davis jeans, a sweats.h.i.+rt, and croaker sacks-shoes made from burlap. I gathered up Mom's car keys to go to the store for some cereal. When I began rolling out of the driveway I found I was blocked by an unmarked police car. Two American detectives got out and approached the driver's side of the car, so I got out. One of them asked if I was Kody Scott. I replied that I was. The other then produced a piece of paper from the inner pocket of his suit coat. He explained that they had apprehended the guy who shot me. When I asked who that was, he said Pretty Boy. I knew who Pretty Boy was. He and I used to be friends, until the start of the conflict. He, like Crazy De and me, was fiercely loyal to his 'hood and had on many occasions shot or shot at our homies. This was widely known. In fact, after his involvement in Twinky's death, he was elevated to Threat Level Two and put on our Most Wanted list. I knew he hadn't shot me, but to try and explain this to these two would be futile. The paper the officer handed me was a subpoena to appear in court as a witness to Pretty Boy's shooting me. I took the paper and threw it into the car and they left.

I made my way to the store and back without further incident. When I returned, I found my mother and my niece, Tamara, in the front garden cleaning out weeds. I spoke to them briefly and then went into the house to enjoy a big bowl of cereal, as I was quite hungry. My mom's house is a moderate three-bedroom mid-sixties dwelling with two huge picture windows on either side of the front door. When the drapes are open one can see clear into the house. We had a nice front lawn and a huge rubber tree out in the yard that gave us great shade in the summer and camouflaged military launches at night. Right in front of the porch was a beautiful garden that Mom took great pride in keeping up. It was in this garden that she and Tamara now worked as Li'l Monster and I sat staring out of the picture window eating raisin bran. As I lifted a spoonful of cereal to my mouth a car drove past at a slow observer's pace. I stopped in midmotion and let the face of the staring occupant sink in. Enemy Sixty!

”Sixties!” I shouted to Li'l Bro, who had already recognized them and was heading down the hallway toward our room and the cache of weapons now stored there. Once we had seized two weapons-both long-barrel shotguns-we made it back to the front room just in time to see the vehicle turn up into a driveway and begin to come back our way. Perhaps their intent was to shoot into the house, shoot Mom, or simply undertake a reconnaissance mission. Whatever it was, we had no intention of letting them leave this block. As they began approaching us, going westbound-the driver closest to the house-we burst through the door and leapt over Mom and Tamara and ran at top speed toward the car, weapons leveled. When Mom recognized what was happening she shouted for Tamara to go in the backyard. Before the driver could mount a response we were within killing distance of them.

Leveling the barrel to the driver's head, I shouted, ”This is Eighty-third Street, m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka!” and pulled the trigger.

The gun was on safety.

If there is a G.o.d, He was between me and that driver because the driver, for sure, was dead that morning. Ducking down into the seat and swerving sharply to the right, he punched the accelerator, jumped the curb, and ran down Mrs. Bucks's fence.

Mom said nothing as we retreated past her and back into the house. We ate the rest of our cereal with guns in one hand, spoons in the other. It was this particular incident that rang the bells in Mom's head that said, ”Hey, this thing is serious.” No sooner had we finished our cereal, not ten minutes after the incident, than a black-and-white patrol car came to a halt in front of our house. Bending down so as not to be seen by the police, we darted down the hallway to stash the straps. We both discarded our clothes and donned bathrobes to shake a description, in case someone had seen us in action earlier. We then heard talking up front.

”Is Kody Scott your son?” one of the policemen asked my mom.

”Yes, Kody is my son, why?”

”Well, ma'am, we have a warrant for his arrest for murder and six counts of attempted murder.”

”Oh,” Mom began with a slight chuckle, ”you must be mistaken. Kody was just released from the hospital two days ago. He could not have possibly killed anyone.”

”Well, we have several eye witnesses who say it was in fact Monst-I mean Kody who they saw.” His voice sounded no-nonsense.

”Well,” Mom said, trying another angle, ”can you call the station to make sure it's Kody you want?”

”Ma'am, we are sure who we want. Now is Kody here?”

”Yes, he's here. Kody!” Mom called out after me.

After hearing as much as I needed to I began to get dressed. Me and Li'l Bro hugged and said our good-byes. I stepped forward and allowed the police-henceforth soldier-cops-to take me in.

At the station I got the details. Some Brims had said that while they were shooting dice in their park, Harvard Park, I had stepped out of the shadows with, of all things, a double-barrel and blasted them. This was supposed to have happened the same night that I was released from the hospital.

Once again I found myself in solitary confinement at Los Padrinos Juvenile Hall. But this time I was in bad physical condition from the shooting and the operation. I also had the cast on my arm with the 'hood struck up all over it, along with the names of some homies. After my standard week in the box I was transferred to unit C-D. In Los Padrinos the housing units are designated by alphabet. I had pretty much been in them all. When I got to C-D I met up with Queek from Eight Tray Hoover. He and I were the only Crips in the entire unit. All of the New Afrikans were Bloods, and the Chicanos and the Americans were strongly supporting them.

There were approximately twenty-five people in the day-room. At least thirteen were New Afrikans and the rest Chicano or American. There were twenty plastic chairs on metal frames welded together in rows of five. These were situated in front of an old black-and-white television. Queek and I sat there, primarily because to sit any other place would be foolish. We also wanted to stipulate the distinction between us and them, Crips and Bloods. Most of the Bloods were Pirus from Compton. Every so often, as if on cue, one of the Pirus would leap to his feet and shout, ”All the 'Rus in the house say ho!” at which time everyone-except Queek and me-would jump to their feet fanatically shouting ”Hoooo!” This went on throughout the night at hour intervals, but no one approached Queek or me personally.

The next day while Queek and I sat on our bench-our meager territory-and talked, we drew some pretty mean stares from the chair section. Once, in the course of conversation, I said ”cuz” to Queek and the whole dayroom fell abruptly silent. Even the characters on television seemed to pause and look over at us. No one moved, no one said a thing. And then, as if he were an amba.s.sador to the U.N., Bayboo from Miller Gangster Bloods cleared his throat and started walking over toward us. He was a viciously ugly person with a huge jug head, which was covered with small braids in no fixed pattern. His complexion was dark, but not that s.h.i.+ny smooth darkness like Marcus Garvey or Cicely Tyson. It was a flat darkness, broken in spots by chicken-pox marks that had become infected from scratching. His eyes held no light, no humor, no remorse. His eyes each had black rings around them and they were sunk deeply into their sockets. His lips and nose were uncut Afrikan from the continent. I would guess he weighed 170 pounds then, quite muscular with a broad chest. He stopped in front of me.

”What did you say?” he asked, looking down on me with total ugliness.

I looked at Queek for some sign of mutual liability, but my stare went unacknowledged. I stood up so he would not have the advantage of a downswing.

”I said cuz to my homeboy,” I replied. Murmurs from the chair section began to grow louder.

”You must not know where you at, Blood. This is our unit and we don't allow no punk-a.s.s crabs over here. I should knock you out, boy.”

Far from being a fool, I took a step backward out of his firing range.

”And what you think I'm gonna be doin' while you knock-in' me out?” I shot back, hoping I hadn't made him too mad, because for sure I was in no physical shape to fight anybody, especially him.

”Wha . . .” he started, and made a quick step in my direction. I took one step back and a brother whom I hadn't even noticed came between us, but facing Bayboo.

”Man, stall dude out. You see he all f.u.c.ked up, cast and s.h.i.+t,” the brother said to Bayboo.

”f.u.c.k that fool, he don't know where he at or somethin'.”

”I know where I'm at,” I managed to say.

The staff was becoming suspicious, as the dayroom had grown too quiet. s.h.i.+t, everything was fine as long as there were Pirus shouts every hour, I guess. But the quiet was out of order.

”You,” a Chicano staff member said, pointing at me. ”Come on in here.” He gestured at his office. When I went in and sat down he asked what the problem was. I told him that there was no problem, but he wasn't buying it.

”Oh, I see, you a Crip. And,” he continued, turning his head to read the graffiti on my cast, ”you are from ETG, Eight Tray Gangster, huh?”

”Yeah, that's where I'm from.”

”Well then, that explains it. You are starting confusion in my unit,” he said matter-of-factly.

”Man, I ain't startin' nothin' in yo' unit,” I tried to explain.

At this, he opened a desk drawer and brought out a red marker.

”Paint your cast, 'cause the gang graffiti is a problem,” he said, pus.h.i.+ng the marker toward me.

”I ain't coloring my cast dead”-a disrespectful term for red. ”You must be crazy.”

”Oh, well, we'll see about that.”

He reached for the phone, dialed, and talked with someone. Five minutes later a New Afrikan man came in.

”What's happening?” he said.

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