vigilant eye out for sentries or stragglers who might announce my presence and blow my surprise attack. And, of course, the very real possibility existed that if I did not strike swiftly, causing much damage and confusion, they could mount a response and trap me in the school. I had brought only two shells, both 00. At each corner I crouched and peeked from a low position—combat training I had learned from old war movies. But as I negotiated each corner I found no one there. Where were they? Then a terrifying thought occurred to me—the roof. These muthafuckas were on the roof. This gave them a vantage point far superior to my ground-level position.
But the sound disproved my theory: it was an even-level sound and not, as I had surmised, an above-level sound. My second thought was confirmed as I made my way around the next set of bungalows. They were not even in the schoolyard, but outside its gate, parked on Sixty-eighth Street, talking as they played the car radio, beer bottles on the hood and roof of the car. Luckily for me, they were on my side of the street, for had they been on the other side I would not have been able to maximize my damage.
Not only did I have to shoot through the fence, but my targets were in the street. This put about seventeen feet between us. I had 00 buckshot, which would compensate for the distance; but my weapon was sawed off. This meant that my shot would be more of a spray than a solid impact.
Realizing that my transportation was clear across the school, I debated whether I should expend one or both barrels. Expend one and use one to secure my escape, or pull both triggers at once, using the tremendous sound as a diversionary tactic and hoping to realize my intent, which was a funeral or two.
Making my decision, I stepped to the gate, stuck the barrels through and shouted, “Gangsta!”
BLOOM, BLOOM!
I let loose one and then the other in rapid succession, then turned and ran back through the bungalows and the lunch area and finally reached the fence on Seventy-first. Stopping to put the shotgun in my waistband, I saw a car bend the corner. I held the shotgun out instead and ducked behind a trash bin to let the car pass. It was occupied by two older civilians. When I got back up and shoved the gun in my waistband, I jumped. “Ahhh!” The barrels were still hot and burned my private parts. Holding the gun in my hands, I scaled the fence.
I ran back to where I had left the bike and, goddamn, someone had stolen it! Now I began to panic, because Western Avenue, the first parallel, was over a block away. Surely, I thought, the survivors would be in the vehicle looking for their assailants—and they’d be armed. Besides, I had no shells.
I turned on my heels and trotted down Seventy-first, trying to stay as close as possible to the lawns in case I had to run through a yard. Once I got to the first parallel I felt better, but no safer. The barrels had cooled down enough now to put the gun in my waistband, so I hid the weapon. Finally I made my way down our driveway and into the house.
I reloaded the shotgun and laid it against the stereo speaker. I then turned on the TV and watched the “Benny Hill Show.” I felt much better.
Then next night, while Gangster Brown and I were traversing to a party in the ’hood, an undercover car pulled to a stop beside us. Both police officers exited the car and approached us.
“Monster, what’s up?” said the first officer, with a fake appearance of friendship.
“Nothing,” I said with as much deceiving concern as I could muster. Actually, nothing but hostility exists between us and them, but some officers try to put on a jovial show of cosmetic concern to woo the naive banger into a trusting relationship with them.
“Listen,” the officer continued, “auto detail wants to talk to you about a stolen car. Now I know that ain’t your style and I told them that, but you need to come on down to the station and iron it out.”
My instincts said run, but I didn’t.
I said, “Man, you know I don’t be stealing no cars, that’s bullshit!”
“Yeah, we know, but it’s best if you clear this up now.” His partner had now joined in on the “friendly persuasion.”
I looked at Brown to see what he thought.
“Don’t worry, Brown,” the first officer said. “We’ll bring Monster right back to the party.”
Still Brown said nothing. By now I was being handcuffed. I told Brown that I’d see him later and to hold down the party until I got back. He said he would. After we drove off, the jovial facade vanished.
“Monster Kody,” the driver said, as if weighing the poundage of my name. “You are in big trouble.”
Damn. I felt claustrophobic, trapped and helpless.
“You cannot keep going around killing people and leaving witnesses.” He was shooting stares at me through the rearview mirror as he spoke. “Now we got you. You done fucked up this time. Yep, got an eyewitness who saw you plain as day.
“But listen,” he continued. “What’s been eating away at me is this… Was that you driving that burgundy Grand Prix that shot Lip Dog from Brim, which we chased and lost?” His eyes held mine for a moment.
“Naw, man, that wasn’t me.”
’Oh, you can tell us, we don’t give a fuck one way or the other. I just wanted to compliment you on your driving.” Now he broke a faint smile. ’Oh, incidentally, Lip Dog survived those four holes you put in his chest.”
“I told you, man, that wasn’t me.”
“Well listen, Ace Rat said he saw you kill his homeboy D.C. last night.” He was speaking now in a matter-of- fact tone. “We wouldn’t even bother with it if he hadn’t positively I.D.’d you.
“But,” he continued, “Ace Rat ain’t gonna be no good witness no way. Hell, he shot his own brother today.” With that he winked in the rearview mirror.
Now I was really wondering just what was going on. How had anyone seen me under the cover of darkness? Or, better yet,
According to the homicide detectives handling the case, myself, Sidewinder, who had been captured, and an unidentified driver caught several Sixties on the corner of Sixty-seventh and Van Ness and opened fire with a 9 millimeter and a .22 rifle. I supposedly had possession of the .22 and had allegedly shot Delta Thomas, a.k.a. D.C., several times. He was said to have run half a block and then expired. Sidewinder had supposedly supplied cover fire. I had been positively identified as the murderer of Delta Thomas.
Of course I knew I had not shot D.C., but how could I explain that I had been at another site, possibly killing other Sixties? I had no alibi as to my whereabouts that night. I made no statement at the station other than, “I want to speak to my attorney.”
I was asked a series of questions ranging from how old I was (most of the policemen couldn’t believe I was sixteen) to what my body count was. I shook them off with ignorant stares and shoulder hunches.
Later, after what seemed like hours in the cooling tank—a deliberately chilled holding cell designed to keep its occupant freezing and uncomfortable—I was transported to Los Padrinos Juvenile Hall. There I was strip searched, made to shower, dressed in jail clothes, and escorted to the box. The box is actually solitary confinement, where those being held for murder one are sent for seven days. I was not sweating the case in the least. In fact, once I was put in my room I went directly to sleep.
But when I awoke the next morning I felt the strain of being captured. Now I’m quite used to being trapped behind a heavy metal door or a barrage of bars. Even behind Pelican Bay’s 8,200 holes—a metal slab over the entire front of my cell with multiple holes drilled in it—I can function quite normally. But back in those days, before my prison-life conditioning, I had a hard time coping with cell living.
In those days my writing and reading were bad. I couldn’t compose a decent letter or even read a whole comic book. I began to think about my schooling and my relationship with my mother, which had deteriorated to a series of staring matches, when we could even stand to be in each other’s company for any length of time. I felt she didn’t overstand my generation. She, on the other hand, said I was a no-good hoodlum. Our clashes were frequent.
On my second day in solitary she came to see me. I strode out into the dayroom visiting area and sat next to her. For a few seconds she said nothing. Then she looked straight into my eyes with the most puzzling look and spoke through quivering lips.
“Kody,
