Madison GDs. Some time ago, he splintered off and formed his own gang in the area north of the U-District. Down here, the GDs focus mostly on drug dealing. I understand Donnie’s taken the NSSBs in a whole new direction- they’re totally focused on prostitution. Basically, they’re organized pimps.”
“Any idea how big they are?” I asked.
He thought for a moment, and then he shook his head. “I don’t know for sure. Probably not very big, be my guess. Donnie never impressed me as the organizational type. I don’t think he was overly worried about growing anything. Except his own wallet, maybe.”
“So you know this Donnie Martin personally?” Toni asked.
“Oh, yeah, indeed I do. In fact, as a youngster, around about ten years ago, he used to come to Sunday school here off and on. His aunt was a member of our congregation, and he mostly stayed with her back then. Sadly, she passed away earlier this year-I think it was February. Of course, Donnie hadn’t been to services in years, but he came to her funeral. He was driving a white BMW with tinted windows. He was dressed really sharp. I asked him what he was up to, and all he’d say was that he’d moved up north. So later, I started asking around-kind of subtle-like.”
“People talk to you?” I asked.
He smiled. “I’m the pastor, aren’t I?” he said. “I’m not ashamed to say that I have no problem snooping information from the members of the church in order to protect them from some of the bad apples around here. And, of course, they talk. Most of them, anyway. Sometimes, the gang members come back and spread some of their money around. That tends to quiet folks down a little. But not everyone, and not forever. So I talk. And I listen. A little hint here, a little hint there, eventually the whole picture starts to emerge.”
“Do the guys themselves ever talk to you-other than Donnie at his aunt’s funeral?” I asked.
He smiled. “When they were children, they did. When they grow up-well now, that’s different. They don’t have so much to say now. Every now and again, one of these guys will step back in for a talk. And if they’re trying to do something positive with their lives-why then I’ll help ’em, of course. But if it’s just business as usual for them, then they know about me and who I am. They know better than to tell me anything if they’re involved in something illegal. I’ll turn from their best friend into their worst enemy in a quick minute.”
“What do you mean-they know about you and who you are? You mean in your role as a minister?”
He looked at me. “Annie didn’t tell you?”
I was puzzled. “No. Tell us what?”
He smiled. “I was one of ’em,” he said. “I was one of these guys. Before I was ordained, I spent seven years in Folsom State Prison in California for drug trafficking. I spent seven years of my life in prison because I was moving drugs for the Stone Canyon Bloods in east LA. I did that every day for years, and I finally got nailed. Praise God I didn’t get killed. I was in the gang for almost twelve years before prison, and for another couple in prison before I woke up. These guys up here?” He stopped and smiled. “They got nothin’ on me.”
“For some reason that I don’t understand and cannot explain, the Lord Jesus Christ has seen fit to give me not one life but two-the first life before I accepted Him as my savior, in which I didn’t do a single thing I am proud of-at least, nothing that comes readily to mind, and the second life after I accepted Him-in which I’ve made it my life’s work to make up for the first one. Maybe God wants this humble servant to be His instrument in my small part of the world-I don’t know. But I know one day, sitting in my cell by myself, that a light went on-figuratively speaking. You may think I’m crazy, but I actually heard a voice-all but commanded me to change my ways. There was a faith-based group within the prison, and I joined. Not long after, I left the gang for good. I took my newfound faith in the Lord, I got my GED, and then I actually used the rest of my time to get a bachelor’s degree in divinity from Lincoln College. When I got out, I became an ordained minister.”
“That’s a pretty incredible success story,” I said.
“I’ll say,” Toni added. “A remarkable turnaround.”
“Could’ve turned out a lot different,” Reverend Art said. “I owe it all to a power bigger than little old Arthur Jenkins. I owe it to the Lord.” He paused, lost in thought. His eyes were closed-perhaps he was praying. I couldn’t tell. Then, he opened his eyes suddenly. “And to some good people who saw something worth salvaging in me. But one thing’s for certain,” he added. “I am left with a pretty thorough knowledge of what makes these young people around here think the way they think and live the way they live. I’ve been there. And I can tell you-it’s real simple. In fact it comes down to two things: money-,” he held up one finger, “-and respect.” He held up another. “These guys think if they get one, the other’s gonna follow.”
“And being a pimp gets them plenty of money.”
“Oh, it sure does. A lot of money. From their perspective, it’s like selling drugs, only better. After you sell the drugs, they’re gone. These guys sell these girls over and over again. Carla tell you how many times she got sold?”
We nodded.
“That’s tragic,” he said. “Another thing. With drugs, you actually have to get your hands a little dirty. You got to make pickups and deliveries. There’s guys with guns all over the place. With pimping, the girls do all the dirty work. The guys stay home and get stoned. All they have to do is keep the girls in line. It’s a perfect gig. That is, long as you don’t care that you’re stealing somebody’s soul.”
“And you think this sounds like it could be Donnie Martin in this case?”
He looked at me and nodded. “Yep,” he said with resolution. “If it’s the North Side Street Boyz who are involved, I’d say it’s almost certain. This is right up Donnie’s alley.”
“He’s probably twenty-one now, maybe twenty-two. Tall guy. Good-looking. Turned into a sharp dresser. Spent some time in juvenile detention-a couple of years. I wish I had an exact address for him now, but I don’t-best I can give you is a general area.”
He paused and thought for a second before he continued. “Like I said, I talked to him at the funeral. I can say that he may be a disturbed young man, but he’s smart. Course, he won’t tell me too much, but I remember he did say that he’s living north of the university. Says he’s working in ‘entertainment.’ Yeah, right. So later, I start talking to people, piecing things together, you know what I’m saying?”
We nodded as we both wrote down the information in our notebooks.
“Here’s what I find. You know you got your typical gangbangers all over the south side of Seattle getting into prostitution right and left. But Donnie? No. I find out that Donnie’s gone north, just like he said. Everybody else working south; Donnie’s working north. Smaller market but almost no organized competition. He’s probably got everything north of Lake Union marked as his territory. Apparently, he and some other guys run a string of prostitutes up there.”
“Would one of those other guys be this Mikey character?” Toni said.
“Mikey,” Reverend Art said, slowly. “Yeah. I think that’d most likely be DeMichael Hollins. He’s Donnie’s usual sidekick. He grew up here in the neighborhood, too.”
We wrote this down.
“What’re these guys’ natures?” I asked. “What are they like? Are they dangerous? Psychos? The kind of guys that hurt people for fun?”
He leaned back in his chair. “Wow,” he said. “Let me think about that. I’ve got to try and recall my college psychology classes here.” He pondered the question for a few moments, and then he leaned forward and said, “I wouldn’t say these boys are crazy-not in the clinical sense, anyway. I don’t believe they were born with some sort of physiological deficiency that made them into the guys they are now. That’s the good news. The bad news is, it doesn’t matter. They still show many of the same symptoms. Mostly, I think they’re just fools who grew up without the proper guidance and developed the wrong moral compass. It happens all the time around here. They didn’t start out bad-they just grew into it.”
“You’re right,” I said. “In the end, what’s the difference?”
He smiled. “Maybe something in the nature of reformability, I suppose. Can’t really cure a guy with a loose screw in his brain. But you might be able to reshape someone who grew up bad. Look at me. I was a pretty bad dude, myself. Not like Donnie, but I was no saint. I wasn’t mentally ill, though. So when the calling came, I was able to answer, praise the Lord.” He paused for a moment, and then he said, “But as to your real point-what’s the difference? Ain’t no difference at all if either of ’em’s got the drop on you. Don’t matter if the guy holding the gun is
