Part 7 (1/2)

The Chicano cat explained as best he could, which wasn't too good. When he had finished, the brother simply asked, ”You a Crip?”

”Yep.”

”Are you a real Crip?” ”Yep.”

”Here, then, paint your cast blue,” he said, handing me a blue marker.

Perhaps this was a ploy and he thought I wouldn't do it because of my situation. Well, I did. I broke open that marker and painted my cast Crip blue. The brother just stared. The Chicano was visibly upset. I went back out into the dayroom and had no further problems that night.

The next morning I went to court and got arraigned on murder and attempted murder charges. Because of the serious nature of the crime, I was being tried as an adult. This meant I would face the same time as any adult would for the case. Sixty years to life was the maximum penalty. Also because of their decision to try me as an adult, I had to stay in East Lake Juvenile Hall, also known as Central. Los Padrinos did not house juveniles who were being tried as adults. This was cool with me because Crazy De and other homies were at Central. I've always preferred it over L.P. anyway.

I was put in unit E-F. Central, like L.P., designates their units by alphabet. E-F and G-H were where all the hard-core bangers were housed. In E-F we had staff from South Central who treated us like family. There was Brother Blackburn, who let Crazy De use his radio so we could go into the unit library and jam. He also let us go into the unit office and lift weights. There was Brother Doc, who gave us phone calls all the time. He let us stay back from school and just kick it. He also tried to flirt with our mothers during visiting hours. There was Stewart, Heron, and Cryer, but our favorite cat was Brother Gains. He was a strong brother with a genuine concern for people of color. He was the source of all power in unit E-F.

De and I were on the same side, E side. Central was packed with future Ghetto Stars from both sides of the color bar and varying divisions therein. It was also packed with soon-to-be-dead gang members. Many who were there in 1981 have since been gunned down in street battles. Others were sent to prison and killed there. Few, very few, have lived since then in any prolonged state of peace.

Who became Ghetto Stars? There was Devil from Shot Gun Crips, Fish from Outlaw Twenty Bloods, Fat Rat from Five Deuce Hoover, Roscoe-a Samoan-from Park Village Compton Crips, Taco from Grape Street Watts, Mace from Eleven Deuce Hoover, and Kan from Black P. Stone Bloods. Each is of the highest level of banger. Even if any of them do not subscribe to banging today, their mark is firmly planted in their respective 'hoods.

Sundays in juvenile hall were perhaps the most exciting day of the week. Not only was it visiting day, but it was church day. No religious strings whatsoever were attached to church. On the contrary, church was a place to see the girl prisoners, and to see all your homies who were in different units. Chicanos and Americans went to the Catholic service, and New Afrikans went to the Protestant service. This was to be my first church service and, seemingly, everyone knew I had been shot, though all sorts of rumors had muddied the waters about my well-being. I readied myself for my first appearance the night before by ”pressing” my county khaki pants with soap and laying them under my mattress. I had procured a fresh baby-blue sweats.h.i.+rt that had a Central juvenile hall emblem on the front. I carefully cut the left sleeve off at the elbow to fit my cast. This, too, I slid under the mattress for pressing. My hair had been freshly cornrowed, and I had some new bubble-gum tennis shoes. The next morning I got dressed with all the enthusiasm of a student on the first day of school.

Unit E-F was the last to arrive at church that morning. With all the other units already seated and situated so the staff could halfway keep an eye on them, we came through the door. Juvenile hall policy dictates that all unit movement be conducted in columns of two and in silence. De and I headed up our unit. When we came through the chapel doors all heads turned to catch our entry. Standing in the doorway briefly, De and I scanned the pews like lords looking upon their subjects.

”There he go, that's Monster Kody in the cast,” said a faceless voice.

”d.a.m.n, cuz got a blue cast,” said another.

After being told by the staff where to sit, we moved in and took our seats. De pointed out friend and foe. Because we weren't allowed to talk or communicate to each other, our hatred and happiness were transmitted by stares and quick hand gestures. Only when the preacher began the service did the whispers cease.

I was the talk of the hall. Later in the week I met Sam from Shot Gun-the Shot Guns had recently killed a Rollin' Sixty-who was going with a female from the Sixties named Goldie. I had never met her. He said he had heard about me being shot from her. He then went to his room and brought back a letter for me to read. It was from Goldie. It was really a paltry little letter that ended with, ”Oh, yeah, my homies killed that tramp Monster Kody last night.” My heart skipped a beat when I read that. It was one thing to hear someone say it. Words spoken could be shaken off with a laugh or some other move that didn't make the effect of what's said last too long. They were just words in the air. But seeing it written was another thing. Unlike threat legends of getting killed spray painted on walls, this was written in the past tense, as in already happened. It was a bit eerie. I quickly folded up the letter and gave it back to Sam. I didn't comment on what she wrote, but I did store her name for future reference.

When I woke the next morning I was in terrible pain. My stomach was in knots. No sooner had I gained consciousness than I started vomiting. I tried to eat, but I could not keep any food down. This went on most of the day. De said that I should go to the nurse, but I declined. The next morning I was vomiting blood and the whites of my eyes had turned yellow. That evening I turned myself in to the nurse who, in turn, alerted the doctor. One look at me and he called for an ambulance. I was rushed back to the U.S.C Medical Center-also known as General Hospital-and operated on immediately. When I woke up the next day I was in the same old pain of three weeks ago, the same tubes running here and there, the same machine next to my bed. My stomach once again looked like twisted and torn railroad tracks. The only difference now was that I was chained to the bed by my ankle. Two days went past and I got a visit from my mom. We talked a bit, but when I showed her my stomach, she left.

Two weeks later I was transported back to Central. When I got there the place was in an uproar. Staff members were running here and there, obviously stressing. I quickly learned that a friend of mine had escaped. Q-Tip from Geer Gang had broken out. I was happy for him. This was Valentine's Day, 1981.

I was placed in the infirmary until my st.i.tches were removed. On that day, February 21, I walked around the corner from the infirmary to the connecting unit R and R-Receiving and Release-to exchange the hospital gown I had been wearing for facility clothing. Coming in were Li'l Monster, Rattone, and Killer Rob. All three looked haggard and distraught.

”What's up,” I asked Li'l Bro with a light hug.

”Aw, man, we think Li'l Capone snitched about the murders,” he said in a very tired voice. They were still dressed in street clothes. Bro had on one of my Pendletons.

”Y'all in here for murder?” I asked, looking from one to the next.

”Yep,” Rattone replied.

”I think he told 'bout some s.h.i.+t you did, too,” Killer Rob said, ”'cause the police was askin' me 'bout some bodies left in the Sixties.” Killer was speaking as if he were simply saying ”Yo, man, your shoe is untied.” Murders were that commonplace.

”Yeah, well, dude don't know s.h.i.+t 'bout me 'cause I wouldn't steal a hat wit fool,” I spoke up, trying to put a good face on this dreary news.

”Scott,” a staff member called out, so both Li'l Monster and I went to the desk. He was referring to Bro, so that he could be dressed in, but since we were both Scott and we both needed to be dressed in, he let us go together. Stepping into the next room, we rapped about family, Mom, and our neighbors.

When I took off my gown Bro said, ”d.a.m.n, they f.u.c.ked you up,” and broke into tears. Through sobs and sniffs he said that he had never seen me that skinny.

”We'll get 'em,” I said.

”That's right,” Bro replied.

We talked some more and then I was sent to my unit. Because Bro, Killer, and Rattone had murders, they had to go to solitary for a week. When their seven days were up only Rattone and Li'l Monster remained. Killer had been transferred to the county jail because he'd turned eighteen while in solitary. Also captured were Li'l G.C., Al Capone, and Li'l Capone. Slim had gotten away.

Bro was put in unit M-N, across the field. Mom came the following week to see us both. The week after that I tore my cast off in the shower and began lifting weights.

When I went to court for a preliminary hearing, I was transferred to the county jail to be housed in the notorious juvenile tank. To this day, I still don't know why I was sent to the county jail. I hadn't even gotten into a fight yet. But this was par for the course for my entire life. It only served to irritate me further by allowing me no stability. I was a bit uncertain about L.A. County after hearing so much over the wire, especially because of my weakened physical condition. Fighting now would be quite a task.

It took an entire evening for me to be processed into L.A. County. I arrived in 3100, the juvenile tank, after midnight. Now, I'm told, the juvenile tank is located in the old hall of the Justice Building, but in 1981 it was still in the new jail.

All the lights were out when I came on the tier, and there was no noise, no sound. With an almost terrifying clang, my cage was opened and I was told by the deputy to step in. Once locked behind the steel bars, I surveyed my surroundings. There were two tiers consisting of Able row and Charlie row. Each tier had twenty-six cages on it. Each cage was single occupancy, very small, very dirty, and very cold. There was a toilet and sink in each cage, as well as a light that the soldier-cop controlled. There was a rickety desk that hung halfway off the wall with no stool. I didn't remember seeing anyone awake or moving in any of the seven cages I pa.s.sed to get to mine. I was number eight. This was a ploy, but I knew nothing of it then.

”Blood, where you from?” a voice shouted from the back of the lower tier-Able row. Its sharpness startled me momentarily, but my instincts overrode any delay in responding.

”North Side Eight Tray Gangster Crip.”

”Aw, Blood,” said another voice from the opposite direction. ”We got one.”

And then, as if from the adjacent cage to my right, number nine: ”We gon' kill yo' m.u.t.h.af.u.c.kin' a.s.s in the mo'nin', crab.”

”f.u.c.k you slob-a.s.s m.u.t.h.af.u.c.kas, this is ET m.u.t.h.af.u.c.kin' G, fool.”

”We'll see 'bout that in the mo'nin'. Let the gates be the bell.”

Another fine mess I had gotten myself into. s.h.i.+t. I had no idea of how I'd get out of this one. Amazingly, I never once thought of rankin' out, pleading, or otherwise backing down. Even in the face of insurmountable odds I would rather die fighting than live as a coward. I made my bed and lay there staring at the roaches gathering on the desk top. I dozed off, but I don't know when.

I was awakened by the heavy sound of moving metal, cages being opened and closed. I quickly got up and put on my tennys and stood ready. Able row was being let out first. Looking down over the tier I saw a crowd gathering along the wall. Most faces were staring up into mine, though no teeth were being shown. No happiness lived here.

I didn't know any face down in the crowd and none, I guess, knew me. No one said anything to me, nor did I say a word to them. They began to file out to what I guessed to be the chow hall. Charlie row was next. ”Let the gates be the bell” was fresh in my mind. My neighbor to the right had said that last night. So it was best, I thought, to tie into him immediately.

”Charlie row watch your gates, gates opening,” the soldier-cop called down the tier.

With some effort the cage door began to slide open. When there was enough room to squeeze out I made it through and was on the tier in what I reasonably thought to be Blood 'hood. But when my neighbor in cage nine came out it was a familiar face: Bennose from 107 Hoover. Ben recognized me and broke into a wide grin. But still I was tense. Next I saw Levi from 107 Hoover, then Popa and Perry-who I didn't know, but had seen on the news-from Harlem Crip. Taco from Grape was there, too. It had all been a test to register my commitment level when in dire straits. I pa.s.sed with flying colors.

They had already known that I was coming, perhaps long before I did. The grapevine could be very efficient at times, and at other times it failed miserably. I found out quickly that above and beyond unit E-F and G-H in Central juvenile hall, this was where they housed the ”worst of the worst.” I fell in step and was right at home. Both Able row and Charlie row were Crips. There were Chicanos housed there, as well. No Americans could survive on Able or Charlie row, nor could any Blood. Later I fixed it where Sixties were excluded, too. Bloods, Americans-there were very few-and victims lived on Baker and Denver rows, or P.C., Protective Custody.

The ”slob game,” as it came to be known-played on me to test my courage-was also used to uncover and weed out real Bloods. Because every American put into the tank was severely beaten or in some cases raped, the entire populace of American soldier-cops despised the juveniles of Able and Charlie rows with a vengeance. Often we'd get beat for the most trivial things. And, of course, there was inter-rivalry.

When I got there, Cyco Mike from Main Street Crips was supposedly in charge. He was a tyrant, taking food and other things from people, especially those on Able row, without so much as a word in return. He was a big, dark-complexioned cat with long hair. He, like the rest of us, had a murder charge. From day one he sensed my potential to threaten his tyrannical rule. It wasn't leaders.h.i.+p he was providing. He had gotten his position not by popular support but by brute strength. On his team he had Green Eyes from Venice Sho-line Crips, Eric from Nine-Deuce Hoover, his homies Killer Rob and Cisco from Main Street, and Handbone, who was also from Venice Sho-line. They were all on Able row. The other Crips on Able row were simply cannon fodder. The rumble between Cyco Mike and me was inevitable. All the while I kept lifting weights and training for that day.

”When two totalitarian powers make war on each other, the anger and hatred that arise can be appeased only by the death of one or the other. More than this, such killing is profoundly satisfying. Anger and hatred are 'fulfilled' in destruction insofar as such emotions know satiety. The more lives the soldier succeeds in accounting for, the prouder he is likely to feel. To his people he is a genuine hero and to himself, as well. For him, war is in no sense a game or a dirty mess. It is a mission, a holy cause, his chance to prove himself and gain a supreme purpose in living. His hatred of the enemy makes this soldier feel supremely real, and in combat his hatred finds its only appropriate appeas.e.m.e.nt.”

J. Glenn Gray The juvenile tank has got to be the most blatant exercise the state has ever devised for corrupting, inst.i.tutionalizing, and creating recidivism in youths. At the behest of a judge or on the recommendation of the probation officer or district attorney, these youths can be whisked from a structured program monitored by a civilian staff-who attempt to counsel the captured youths by developing a healthy, human rapport with them and their parents-and dropped into a prisonlike setting with not so much as an inkling of counseling or adult support or the benefit of any meaningful, structured program to aid them in correcting whatever problems they may have. Removing them from a program designed for immature, unsophisticated youths and hurling them into a highly compet.i.tive, one hundred percent criminal population and setting-where the only adults are the very same police deputies responsible for their initial capture-is clearly a way to breed a criminal generation.

Probation officers and deputy district attorneys ultimately decide who will be tried as an adult. This decision is based on what the P.O. and D.A. call ”maturity of the circ.u.mstances surrounding the crime.” This, of course, is euphemistic and, when examined from my side of the bars, means ”If you're New Afrikan or Chicano and have a murder charge, regardless of the circ.u.mstances, you are mature enough to be treated as an adult.”