“Fuck you, punk, get yo’ bitch ass up,” I said vehemently.
When he stood up again he rushed at me, but not with swinging blows. Instead, he tried to wrestle me down. Each time he went to grab me I banked a blow across his face or head. I was backing up, sticking and moving, sidestepping and hooking. He was furious! Finally, when I had danced myself into exhaustion, he grabbed me in a suffocating bear hug. Using his strength and weight as leverage he succeeded in toppling me backward, falling on top of me. Once on the ground he tried to hit me a few times in the torso, but he left his face completely exposed and I took liberty with his mug. Taco moved to us quickly, as instructed, and pushed Mike off me. In a moment I was back up on my feet, dancing and shouting.
“C’mon, muthafucka, c’mon!”
Mike just stood there and then, to everyone’s surprise, extended his hand in a peacemaking gesture. He said that we were both Crips and had no business fighting. Thinking it was a ploy, I backed away sayin’ “Fuck that shit.”
When I went back amongst my troops I saw pride, love, and admiration in their faces. The spell was broken. I felt like a world champion, a liberator, but didn’t allow myself to get big-headed or pompous. Li’l Fella came over to me and without looking me in the eyes said thanks. Li’l Fella, like so many other noncrucial observers, thought that this was simply a result of the breakfast issue. Few knew that since my arrival this battle had been inevitable. Even I couldn’t articulate it then. But I did know that the growing tension had precipitated a brawl because Cyco Mike was wrong in so many instances and hadn’t the popular support to continue in his capacity as leader.
And so it went that I assumed responsibility for the juvenile tank. I didn’t simply demote Mike, but let him carry some responsibility—not nearly what he had been used to wielding, but enough so as not to break his spirit. I had Handbone beaten and stomped for being a general coward. I reduced Tangle-Eye to a basket case and enjoyed the sight. And it was during my reign that I fixed it so that Sixties were outlawed from Able and Charlie rows. I allowed individual freedom and no one was misused arbitrarily.
The Darwinian theory of survival of the fittest continued to rule our existence. No one got a free ride. Our dayroom time was mostly spent going chest: Charlie row against Able row, everybody bombing everyone else with torso shots. We did this to enhance our physical skills, because so many had lost this ability, as the gun had replaced hand-to-hand combat. But here the strong survived and the weak were phased out. Within three months we were a quality contingency of sheer terror.
Lounging in my cage one morning, reading—or trying to read—I was disturbed by Fat Rat from One-Eighteen East Coast. He said that he had just seen and overheard two detectives down front talking about coming to search my cell. Fat Rat was known for his clowning and could hardly be taken seriously half the time, so I told him to fuck off and went back to struggling with my comic book. Not ten minutes later my gate opened and I was ordered to step out. When I stepped out on the tier, sure enough, two plainclothes detectives accompanied by a sergeant were walking briskly down the tier toward me.
“Kody Scott?” the blond detective asked.
“Yeah, wha’s up?”
“We have a search warrant for your cell,” he said, as the sergeant cuffed me to the tier rail.
“Fo’ what?” I asked in utter disbelief.
“For murder, Mr. Scott, or should I say Monster Kody?”
“Man, y’all trippin’. I’m in here fo’ murder already.”
“Oh yes, we know that, but it seems that one of your homeboys has turned over on you for yet another murder.”
“Yeah, right,” I said, but now I knew that this was what Killer Rob had been talking about when I’d seen him in the Hall.
“So what y’all lookin’ fo’, guns? Oh yeah, I see, right here on this paper, a .32, a shotgun, a—”
“No, we’re only looking for correspondence that you have possibly entered into with some of your homeboys.”
They searched my cell for all of an hour. When they came out they had at least ten letters. While the sergeant uncuffed me, I told the detectives that I hoped they’d found what they were looking for, to which they replied that they had. As they were leaving, one turned back and said with a smile, “But we are going to wait until you are eighteen so we can gas your black ass.”
“Fuck you!” I called after them, but they went out laughing.
In June I started trial for the murder and six attempted murders. The district attorney said that if I pleaded guilty he would be lenient and only give me twenty-five years. “Oh, is that all?” I asked sarcastically.
The Brims turned out en masse. One after the other they testified that I had blasted them in the park. When my attorney asked them what I was wearing, they all described my attire differently. All said that I had gripped the shotgun with both hands. When asked if I was wearing gloves, each said no, that both hands were bare. My attorney then produced medical files that clearly showed that I had been released from the hospital that very night and, most important, had a white cast on my left hand extending up to my elbow.
The jury deliberated less than an hour and came back with a verdict of not guilty on all charges.
It was June 22, 1981, and all that I had on my mind—before sex, drinking, and smoking pot or PCP—was to blast some Brims. Really blast them. Before the sun rose the next morning, they would feel me strong.
6. THE JUVENILE TANK
No one, least of all Taco, could believe that I was going home. I found it hard to believe myself, especially after the homicide detectives had searched my cage, confiscated letters, and made their threat of gassing me as they left. Since I had been acquitted in trial, I knew that the district attorney could not refile the charges for the murder and attempted murders. I was, however, worried about the D.A. notifying homicide that I had been acquitted and then having them come down and book me for yet another murder. When I was let out of my cage for release, I went first to Taco’s cell and held counsel with him. He was my road dog and now would be in charge. We talked softly through the bars.
“Yeah, homie,” I began, reaching through the bars to grab Taco’s hand, “I’m fin’ to sky up and go get bent. Shoot up a gang of them snitchin’-ass Brims and get some pussy, ya know?”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s right, cuz, go on out there and handle that shit. If you run into my big homie Honcho, tell cuz to get at me.”
“Righteous,” I said, looking now into Taco’s eyes. “Damn, cuz, I kinda hate to leave you in this muthafucka. But I know you gonna be firm and do what you gotta do. But cuz, watch that fool Mike ’cause you know he ain’t likin’ us no way, no how.”
“That’s right,” Taco said in a “Preach On” tone.
“So you gotta keep what we built up goin’, ya know?”
“Yeah, but I don’t think cuz gonna try to trip. But if he do, I’ll give you a call and you can drop some of his homeboys out there.”
“Righteous.”
“Besides, we all like one now since you and cuz got busy. So for him to try to start somethin’ now would only make cuz look real bad to the homies in the pen, ya know?”
“Yeah, you right, but just stay alert.”
Easing away from Taco’s gate was like trying to push away from a ten-course meal after not having eaten in five days. We both knew that he was not going home. He was charged with fifty-nine counts of armed robbery and a murder. Taco had heroically ridden into the Nickerson Garden Housing Projects on a moped armed with a .357 magnum and gunned down a Bounty Hunter. Only moments before, the Bounty Hunter had shot Taco’s girlfriend. Although Taco was a hero in the Crip community for his successful mission, he was but a thug to the district attorney, who was, as usual, seeking a life term upon conviction. Taco took most of it in stride, but I knew, just as we all knew, that the threat of being in prison for life was a muthafucka.
What we did in the juvenile tank was reflected inside the prisons where we were headed. The rank system never ended. Just as it was on the street with continuous levels of recognition, so too was it in jail. Those in
