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 sweatshirt 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.
“Damn, cuz got a
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
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 stitches 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 shit 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 shit ’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, “Damn, they fucked 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 passed 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’ muthafuckin’ ass in the mo’nin’, crab.”
“Fuck you slob-ass muthafuckas, this is ET muthafuckin’ 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. Shit. 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
