Part 25 (2/2)
Suddenly the rats stopped abruptly and darted for cover. This told me someone was coming. Sure enough, the spear of light shot out like some d.a.m.n lightning bolt, but I'd prepared for it and it missed me.
”Scott,” said the voice of my earlier invader, ”gather your things, bud, you're outta here.”
”Can you turn the light out when you leave?”
”Leave? No, Scott, we are letting you out of Deep Seg and putting you in Palm Hall.”
I sat there and waited for the door to close, a cruel joke played on a repressed man. But it didn't. He was still standing there.
”Who is that with you?”
”It's me,” said a female voice, ”the M.T.A., Scott.”
This was the prison nurse.
”Am I really leaving here?”
”Yes, Scott, you been back here too long.”
I gathered my things: two sheets and a worn blanket. I rolled them, sleeping-bag style, and backed to the bars to be chained up. I was escorted slowly across the hall to the normal Hole. The nurse examined me, telling me to open my eyes to let them adjust to the light. When I did, the pain was not as intense as it had been in Deep Seg. The floodlight in that tiny s.p.a.ce was one thousand watts-deliberately so. I hadn't been in prison two weeks and was already subjected to this type of treatment. From the start there was perfect hate. I was grateful for a shower and a change of clothes.
From Chino I was sent to the prison at Soledad. I was taken off the bus and put directly in the Hole. I was put in the cell with my li'l homie, Li'l Rat. I taught him the small amount of Kiswahili that I knew. He asked if I was hooked up and I told him I was. He was curious and wanted to be in the organization, but I told him to be certain that it was what he wanted to do. Just because I was in didn't mean he should be in. I told him to think about it.
That day I was let out to the general population. Li'l Spike, C-Dog, and Rattone from the set were out on the mainline and greeted me cordially. We talked and kicked it about old times, but they sensed something wasn't right when they found me reluctant to speak on the war between the Sixties and us. I told them I wasn't into the set tripping-tribalism thing anymore. I told them that it was now all about the unification of the C-Nation under the government of the C.C.O. They freaked.
”Cuz, you hooked up?” Rattone asked. He'd been down since he and my brother had been captured in 1981 for the payback killings in response to my shooting.
”Yeah, I'm in. You?”
”Naw, never was my style. I know all of them, though. Where they hook you up at?”
”The County.”
”d.a.m.n, cuz,” said Li'l Spike, ”why you go out like that?”
”What you mean out like that?”
It was the first time I'd heard someone say anything remotely against the C.C.O.
”I mean, the set is the only organization you need,” he continued. ”It held you fine till you came to prison. So why it won't hold you now?”
”I ain't left the set, I just think that we could be stronger combined as a nation than as a little set. After all, we all Crips.”
”I kill Crips,” Li'l Spike declared. ”I'm a gangsta.”
”He's right, Monster,” added Rattone. ”Remember what Rayside used to tell us 'bout that-”
”f.u.c.k Rayside!” I exploded. ”Where is he now, huh? That s.h.i.+t was cool out there as long as we had guns in our hands and dope in our systems. But that Sixty, Nine-O killa s.h.i.+t ain't gonna work for us here, cuz. It ain't gonna work! We got too many other enemies to be trippin' on one another. Too many! Until Rayside come to prison and walk on the yard and see what we gotta deal wit' daily, monthly, yearly, cuz can't tell me s.h.i.+t!”
”I don't know, homie,” C-Dog said. He was the youngest of us all.
”How many Sixties here?” I asked them.
”Three.”
”How many Nine-O's?”
”None.”
”How many Mexicans from the south, and how many n.a.z.is?”
”s.h.i.+t, 'bout three hundred or so, but-”
”You see?” I said.
”But they ain't killed no Eight Trays,” Rattone countered.
”They've killed black people . . . they've killed Crips. It's just a matter of time, Ratt. You been down five years. You know!”
”Yeah, you right.”
”I'll always be from Eight Tray, that's my neighborhood. But I was born black.”
”Monster, you trippin',” Li'l Spike said.
”Naw, Spike, you trippin'! I ain't ashamed of being black, I know I come from Afrika. I am a soldier for my people, all citizens of the C-Nation.”
”Yeah, all right, Monster. We gonna see how long you think like that,” Li'l Spike said, looking over the top of his Locs at the others.
”Yeah,” I said, standing to walk away. ”You'll see.”
My commanding officer was Kidogo-Whiskey from Santana Block-who I had known from the county jail back in the early eighties. But the line was being run by Drack from Six-Deuce East Coast. He had been there two or three years. There were thirteen of us-C.C.O.-in Soledad. I was in charge of C-wing. It was my duty to make sure that no Crips came out on the tiers with shower thongs on, because this was a security risk. One couldn't very well defend himself in shower shoes. I had to make sure that there were at least two knives out on the tier and available whenever we were out in the wing or the dayroom. I designated two people to carry the weapons. Any time one of us took a shower, the area was cordoned off and secured. A quiet period was designated from eleven P.M. till seven A.M. Every Sat.u.r.day was ma.s.s exercise day. All two hundred and twelve Crips would form three huge circles on the yard and go through the routine.
Kidogo was dissatisfied with Drack and pet.i.tioned the Central Committee to remove him. He had to go to Folsom for court in a stabbing incident and said he'd handle it down there. I was left second in command. When Kidogo returned, Drack was removed for inept.i.tude and poor leaders.h.i.+p. Kidogo and I forged ties with the other new Afrikan groups there-U.B.N., Vanguards, B.G.F.s and 415s. We networked with communication, military intelligence, and in some cases, weaponry. We got our hacksaw blades from the 415s who worked as plumbers. I had Crips in C-wing cutting steel off of everything to make weapons. There was never a shortage of knives or people to make them.
One afternoon I came into the wing from the yard and found Red from Shotgun showering with no cover. I went in the dayroom, and there was Shark from Harlem watching soap operas! I asked him who had security and he said he did. I told him to go and cover Red in the shower. But Doc from West Covina, who was on the disciplinary crew-those who were used to stab and beat law breakers-said he'd supply cover for Red. Well, that wasn't his job. So I again told Shark to go handle it. When he left I called over Zacc from Hoover and began discussing the lax atmosphere. Unexpectedly, Shark came stomping back into the dayroom saying how tired he was of being a security guard and how he wanted some action. I asked him where Red was. He said he had left him in the shower.
I exploded and slapped him hard across the face. He responded by reaching for his waistband, where he kept the knife. But before he could draw it, Doc stepped up and put his knife to Shark's throat. I disarmed Shark and slapped him again.
”If you would have pulled the kisu out I would have killed you! Now get yo' sorry a.s.s outta my face!”
He staggered out of the dayroom, holding his face.
I gave the kisu to Zacc and he took up the slack at the shower. Doc stayed by me.
That evening I held a meeting in the back of the unit to explain the importance of security.
<script>