Module 4800, the relatively new (to us) attempt by the Los Angeles County Sheriffs Department’s Operation Safe Street (O.S.S.) to curb the gang activity in the L.A. County Jail, wasn’t working. Their attempt to isolate us in a module, alone and out of the general population, was an impossible task.
The reasons they gave for such “preferential” treatment were initially cloaked in emotional rhetoric and sprang from the April 1984 rebellion, in which seventeen Crips erupted into rampaging headbangers in the 4000 floor chow hall. Heron, an O.G. from Spooktown Compton Crips, had been beaten by the pigs for some infraction and the other bangers just weren’t going for it. Fed up with the wanton abuse from the pigs, the Crips seized the chow hall. After the pigs were beaten and one temporarily detained for questioning, the rebels went after the trustees, the faithful servants of the pigs, who were notorious for shorting everyone on food. The trustees had also jacked up the price of donuts, which they stole from the main kitchen and sold to general population, from the established price of two dollars a bag. All were beaten and ran from the chow hall. Then the doors were barricaded and the demands began.
During the five-hour siege, the misinformation agents in the sheriff’s department told the media that the “riot” was only due to overcrowding and the breakdown of the air-conditioning system. While the pigs videotaped those in the chow hall from an elevated Plexiglas tower, acting sympathetic to the righteous complaints of the resisters, other pigs were busy evacuating the module adjacent to the chow hall—4800.
For five hours the resisters demanded to be “treated as men” and to be given “better food” and some protection from the “Nazi police”; for five hours they heard “Okay, gentlemen, you’re right,” and “Of course we are all men.” Then the resisters were made to leave the chow hall naked, walk through a gauntlet of pigs in full riot-repression gear for their well-deserved whack with the P-24 baton, and directed into 4800. The seventeen stayed naked, with no bedclothes, no visits, no showers, for three days. After that they were given bedclothes, visits, and gray jumpsuits.
The other eleven thousand prisoners wore blue jumpsuits, but the Crips had to wear gray. Every time they went to court, on a visit (under heavy escort) to the doctor, anywhere, they were subjected to the abuse of sadistic pigs who were looking for revenge. The Bloods, camouflaged in blue like the general population, also took liberty and attacked gray suits when they were caught alone or in isolated pairs.
Directly across the hall from 4800 the pigs set up the O.S.S. interdepartmental office. Ironically—or perhaps not at all—this was around the same time that the F.B.I. released a study on Crips that stated “one out of every four Crips is in jail for murder, or has done time for murder. And three out of four Crips have been arrested for weapons-related charges.” The counterintelligence of the Crips was kicked into full swing, and 4800 became the “Crip Module.”
It’s quite clear to me now what was taking place at that time. But then, in 1984, I was deaf, dumb, and blind. We helped the pigs gather intelligence on us and had no idea we were doing so. Instead of 4800 being a module to contain us and keep the general population safe, it became an intelligence satellite for law enforcement—probably the true purpose for which it was originally designed. For us, it became the ’hood, a place to call ours—another testing ground. The most astonishing thing I remember about 4800 was that there weren’t any books in the entire module, and we weren’t allowed access to the library. The decibel level was so high that when I didn’t have a headache, I felt funny.
Every set desperately tried to get their own set deep, because a deep set wielded power and could protect itself. Whenever, on our way to see a visitor or the doctor, we’d see one of our homies in blue out in the G.P. (general public), we’d tell the escort pig that the homie was a Crip, and the pig would get his name and booking number. That same night the homie would be moved to 4800, doomed like the rest of us. G.P. was smoother, much better than 4800. You could walk around unattended to visits, other modules, practically anywhere. Many Crips shunned the module for this reason. Some didn’t want to be labeled as Crip, and others couldn’t stand the stress. There were also those with dirt on them who had to dodge their homies for fear of a beating or stabbing. But when we’d see a homie in G.P., we felt like “Yo, man, bring yo’ ass home, to Cripville.”
The process of getting into 4800 was overwhelming, so cats tended to circumvent it for this reason, as well. You were made to stand and hold a placard with your name, your set name, and your ’hood on it for a series of pictures. The pictures were no doubt distributed among the pig population for intelligence. A lot of cats just didn’t want to deal with that. Inside the module were Crips ranging in age from eighteen to forty. The deepest sets were the Hoovers and the East Coasts, a deadly mixture of power. In the beginning, all the sets tried to get along, each individual making an effort to suppress his disdain for enemies that he was now face-to-face with—sometimes in the same cell.
In January 1985 this thin line of love and hate evaporated in the face of unfolding developments in the street. The first major eruption of violence occurred on a slow day, a day that looked and felt like any other day. I was in Denver-8 and my cellmates were Oldman from Nine-Deuce Hoover, Kenny Mitchel from the Sixties (he was arrested in the 1970s for robbing the Commodores), and Joe Dee from Atlantic Drive Compton Crips. We had just finished making a batch of pruno—jail-made wine—and were preparing to get drunk when we heard a voice.
“Cuz, who is that down there from East Coast?”
“Marstien,” the voice replied. I had seen Marstien at the street races on Florence and Main before the shoot-out with Li’l Fee and his crew.
“Eh, Marstien, what up, nigga? This Li’l Sad, cuz. I’m gonna come down there later and rap with you, homie.”
“Awright, cuz.”
Li’l Sad was on Denver row and Marstien was on Baker row below us. I was going to send my regards, but decided to wait until later, as I was enjoying my drink. Everyone had heard about Lajoy (Li’l Hoov) being killed days before, supposedly by East Coasts as he drove through his ’hood. So when Marstien came in, along with Vamp, for murder, it was believed that he must be in for killing Lajoy. Marstien now had two murders, as he was already in for killing a Swan.
There were at least eighteen Hoovers in 4800 at that time, and equally as many East Coasts. There were four tiers in the module, each housing sixteen cells. Those on Able and Baker were six-man cells, while those on Charlie and Denver row were four-man cells. We were not allowed in the chow hall any more as a result of the rebellion, so we ate in the dayroom. Each tier had its own dayroom, and the inhabitants ate there respectfully. Of course, every cell was full.
When Able row was let out to chow, the East Coasts fell into a tight circle around Marstien and Vamp, creating a group eight deep. The largest contingency of Hoovers in the module was also housed on Able row, so no sooner did everyone get into the dayroom than the violence erupted.
“HOOVA!” someone shrieked, sounding like a deadman’s charge.
Crudely constructed knives were drawn and the Hoovers proceeded to stab and beat the East Coasts. The Coasts resisted, but were no match for the fanatical Hoovers’ aggression. From my cell I could see the battle. Some Hoovers had two knives in hand and were making daring dives into the crowd of retreating East Coasts, who looked more terrified than hurt. Other Hoovers had whole bars of county soap in socks and were swinging them into the heads and bodies of the reachable East Coasts. One East Coast—Snake, from Seven-Six—was armed with an ice pick, but in his attempt to strike at the charging Hoovers he slipped and stabbed his homie Vamp.
The battle was quick and decisive. When the pigs rode down, the Hoovers stood on one side of the dayroom, victorious, proud, and, as usual, arrogant, some still holding weapons. The East Coasts were crumpled in the opposite corner, wrecked, beaten, and shamed. Six were stabbed and all sustained bruises. The other Crips in the dayroom stepped back to let the inevitable take place.
O.S.S.’s response was a devastating blow to the Crip Module and gave some of us a glimpse at the type of control they really exercised. Marstien and Vamp were sent to the more constricting, High Power 1750 module. The Hoovers went to the Hole. But the real twist was that all West Side Crips were moved to Able and Charlie row and all East Side Crips were put on Baker and Denver row. Although the conflict did involve the West Side Hoovers and the East Side East Coasts, it was not an issue of East vs. West, but rather that these two sets—mere chapters of their respective sides—were at war. Their conflict entailed nothing else. But when O.S.S. split up the Crips, it gave the Hoovers and the East Coasts the opportunity to agitate each side into a war between East and West. And that’s exactly what happened.
At night the chanting began, with everyone from both sides participating.
“EAST SIDE!” Baker and Denver row would chant, repeating it three times and finishing with a set roll call.
“East Coasts, Avalon, Main Streets, Grape Street, Eight-Seven, PJ Watts, Fo’ Tray, Five Tray…”
And in response the West Side would chant, “west side! Hoova, Eight Tray, Sixties, Shot Gun, Raymond, Playboy, West Boulevard…”
The threat of the East Side became real. So real, in fact, that East and West Side sets that had never clashed began to do so under these conditions. All the while O.S.S. was conducting “interviews”—actually interrogations—to find out who was trying to bring about the long-lost unity of old.
In these times, many disappeared from the Crip Module. One afternoon we were all told to gather up our personal property and go into the huge communal showers. No one had any idea of what was taking place. We all crowded into the showers with our meager property. We waited for hours to find out our fate. Looking around at one another, at friends we had met while in this shark tank, at enemies we had forgiven in the light of a new “enemy”—the East Side—we felt like a family being torn asunder. Eventually, a pig came in with our JRC cards and began to call off names.
“Scott?” the pig shouted into the shower.
“Yeah,” I replied, wondering why I was being called first. “What’cha call me fo’ man, I ain’t—”
“Shut up. You are going to Charlie-10. Get your shit and move, now!” shouted the little pink-faced pig, who weighed no more than 150 pounds. I would have slapped the shit out of any other American for talking to me like that, but this scrawny little pig had the armed forces on his side.
I gathered up my property and moved down the tier to C-IO. This didn’t make much sense to me, because I was in C-8 before they rolled us up into the shower. It felt strange to walk past cell after empty cell, striped bare to the concrete and steel. I felt like the only Crip on earth. I got to the cell, it was electronically opened and I stepped in.
“Davis?” I heard the little pig say.
“Yeah, here.” That was Fat Rat from Five-Deuce Hoover.
“Charlie-10.”
Shit, that was my cell. Now I was tripping on what these pigs had in mind. Fat Rat came down the tier, laboring heavily under his crushing weight. Fat Rat was huge, with muscular arms and chest and a fat belly that, coupled with his dark complexion, made him resemble a potbellied stove. He and I were friends from juvenile hall.
“Cuz, what they doing? I mean why they movin’ us all around?” I asked Fat Rat as he plopped down on the bunk across from mine.
“Shit, cuz, I think they fin’ to mix us up. I pity the Cheese Toast”—disrespectful for East Coast—“that come in my cell.”
“You think that’s what they up to, huh?”
“Yeah, ’cause I heard one cop tell another.”
Another name was called.
“Anderson?”
“Right here.”
“Charlie-10.”
Fat Rat and I looked at each other, and Fat Rat smiled. Anderson was B.T. from East Coast.
“I got one,” Fat Rat said as he began to make his bed.
I didn’t know B.T., but since he had come to the module I had seen him around. He stood in front of the cell and waited to be let in. B.T. was six foot one, muscular, and dark—almost like a fit Fat Rat, but taller. He had been in the dayroom when the Hoovers vamped on the Coasts, but he’d hit the wall when it jumped, claiming he was under paperwork (Crip constitution) and couldn’t participate in Crip-on-Crip violence. He was one of the two who didn’t get stabbed.
“What up, cuz?” B.T. said to me as he hoisted his bedding up on the bunk above mine.
“Ain’t nothin’, just trippin’ off these canines.”
“Yeah, these devils is on one,” he said, then turned to Fat Rat. “What up, cuz?”
“HOOVA,” shot Fat Rat in a hard-core confrontational voice, “and I’ma tell ya right now, nigga, I ain’t likin’ you or yo’ homeboys.”
“Yeah, well I ain’t on no set trips and I ain’t into no tribalism. I’m hooked up and therefore forbidden to involve myself in that. In other words, I got no beef with you, just like I ain’t got no beef with Master Kody.”
“Monster Kody, not Master,” I said, annoyed.
“Yeah, yeah, that’s right, I’m trippin’.”
“Yo sho’ is if you think I’m goin’ fo’ that old bullshit you talkin’ ’bout, nigga. Fuck that. This is Hoova,” Fat Rat said stubbornly.
“I ain’t even trippin’ that.” And B.T. went on making up his bed. I knew that a confrontation between the two was inevitable.
I had heard about the Crip constitution, but that was the extent of my knowledge. The constitution was the latest topic on the wire. It was said that members of the organization were coming down to 4800 from San Quentin and Folsom to get things together in the Crip Nation. By this time I was moving toward that mind-set of unity. I had been living hard and could not expect to continue to do so and live or miss a life term in prison. The rumors surrounding the coming of the constitutionalists had the ring of truth to them. When people spoke of “them” or “those under paperwork,” they invariably did so with great respect. “They” seemed to us like descending angels coming to redeem the lost souls of Cripdom.
Some felt nervous. I could see it in their eyes when “they” were spoken of. Perhaps they had done wrong or feared the responsibility of having to handle some business. Some seemed relieved and eager for the constitutionalists’ arrival—those who were under everyday attack by vultures preying on setless individuals and shallow sets.
What the pigs had done was mix everyone up. As much as they could, they put one member from each set in each cell. They were now trying to force us back together after they had intentionally torn us apart, creating conditions for massive distrust and confusion.
Big Hog from 107 Hoover was a tier tender and went up and down the tiers trying to get those assigned to cells with oppositional members to refrain from any tribalistic violence. Most complied, but Fat Rat could not be deterred. He wanted to find out more about B.T.’s affiliation. He wanted to see who he was really connected to. The remaining East Coasts in the module had severed ties with B.T. because of his failure to act in their defense when they were attacked by the Hoovers. I had learned that day that the Coasts had put a “blue light”—a hit—on B.T. for his inactivity. Fat Rat knew that the Coast Car would not defend B.T., so he had little to worry about on that front.
When Big Hog came down the tier, sweeping up, Fat Rat called to him and began whispering something in his ear, no doubt about B.T.’s authenticity. Big Hog had been to the pen already and had been under the old constitution, so he’d know if B.T. was really hooked up or not. Fat Rat repeatedly insisted he was faking. After Fat Rat had spoken to Hog, with B.T. looking on in suspicion, Hog called B.T. over to the front gate. They began whispering. Fat Rat beamed as if to say “Now, the test of fire.” The conversation with B.T. hadn’t lasted but two minutes when Big Hog spoke up.
“This nigga ain’t hooked up in shit, Fat Rat, serve this nigga!”
B.T. backed up to the gate, facing us in the cell. His face said it all: coward. Fat Rat read it and moved in.
“Eh, hold on Fat Rat, cuz, I ain’t got no beef wit’ you, man.”
He knew he was doomed and was begging. Fat Rat had a reputation for being a “booty bandit” and thrived on weak men with tight asses. Poor B.T.
“Fuck that, why you lie, huh?”
POW!
Fat Rat smacked B.T. hard across the side of the head.
“Aw, cuz, I just ain’t into Crip-on-Crip, cuz, I—”
SMACK!
Another whack came down, this one across his face. The tiers grew quiet.
“Eh, Hog,” B.T. began, turning to Hog for relief, “tell Rat to stall me out, cuz.”
“I’m gonna stall you out awright.”
And with that Fat Rat grabbed B.T.’s boxer shorts by the elastic waistband and yanked them with one powerful tug. They tore right off of him. Surely, I thought, B.T. was going to mount an attack now. He had to.
“Bitches don’t wear boxer shorts, punk, men do,” Fat Rat shouted, throwing the ripped shorts on the floor near the steel toilet.
“Aw, Rat, you trippin’, cuz,” B.T. said, but made no move that telegraphed strength.
“It’s Mister Fat Rat to you, bitch. Now what you wanna do, huh? You wanna get ’em up or what?” Fat Rat eased into a strike-first position.
“I ain’t got no beef wit’ you, Fa—Mister Fat Rat.”
And that was it. His last vestiges of strength. He had yielded his manhood by calling Fat Rat “Mister,” a cardinal sin. In that instant, Fat Rat connected fist to face, knocking B.T. hard against the bars, where Hog took the liberty of grabbing his cheeks. B.T.’s knees buckled; until Hog had fondled his cheeks he was going down.
“Ahh,” B.T. gave a start when Hog’s hands touched his ass. “Cuz, what you doin’?”
“Shut up, punk. You know you like that,” said Hog.
Catcalls began coming from the adjacent cells. B.T. looked around like a frightened, trapped lamb. But in contrast to a meek, feeble-bodied person, he stood there six foot one and buff. Yet he had no inclination to defend himself from what was definitely a head-up situation.
Hog was out on the tier and could not get in the cell. And I was not going to get involved. I had no beef with East Coast or B.T. Could I have prevented it? Yes, and I intended to, but it would be interesting to see how far this would go. I can’t now qualify my thinking at the time. In my mind it was kill or be killed, live and let die, law of the land.
Fat Rat had backed to the rear of the cell and begun to disrobe. I thought then that B.T. would strike, but he didn’t. He still seemed to think that Fat Rat could be deterred by reasoning, by appealing to his intellectual morality. B.T. had been to the pen and had gotten “tamed.” He’d learned manipulation and vocabulary skills. But shit, Fat Rat, like me, was uncut street, straight out of the bush. The only language Fat Rat knew or respected or could be persuaded by was violence. Everything else was for the weak. Action and more action—anything else paled in comparison.
Fat Rat stood wide-legged in tattered shorts, belly hanging over them. He looked like an enraged Buddha. He was ready to fight or fuck, and knowing Fat Rat, he planned on a bit of both.
“Oh, Hog, you just gonna let yo’ homie trip on me like this, huh?”
“You lettin’ him trip on you, nigga! I ain’t in that cell. My name is Hog, not Fat Rat.”
“Hey, Fat Rat, cuz, I don’t wanna fight wit’ you, man.”
B.T.’s pleading was reduced to a whimper, clashing hard with his appearance. He was evenly dark from head to toe, and standing there naked he looked like a Zulu warrior.
“Nigga, you gonna do somethin’,” Fat Rat said, massaging his groin and stepping up on B.T.
“Cuz, you trippin.’ Fat Rat—”
POW!
Fat Rat punched him hard in the solar plexus.
“Mister Fat Rat, punk!” Fat Rat exploded as B.T. doubled over in agony.
“Oooh… awright, awright,” he said, barely getting the words out.
“Now, what you gonna do? You ready to get ’em up or what?”
Fat Rat forced his way behind B.T. and made him move to the back of the cell.
“I don’t wanna do this, Fat Rat,” B.T. said, straightening up to his full height, towering over Fat Rat by at least three inches. Even Fat Rat had to take a small step back.
B.T. put his guard up and positioned his feet in a fighting stance. Then swiftly, like greased lightning, Fat Rat rushed into B.T. and began pounding him everywhere at once with furious blows. Fat Rat’s hands were hammering blurs, reducing the formerly upright B.T. to a pitiful clump of flesh under the steel sink. B.T. hadn’t thrown a blow, hadn’t said a word, hadn’t resisted with one fiber of his being, but Fat Rat didn’t seem to recognize this. He continued to hammer away at B.T.’s defenseless body as if he had put up a ferocious struggle. I believe he continued out of sheer fear of B.T., from when he had finally stood to do battle.
Fat Rat clearly wanted to make sure that B.T. never resisted again. When Fat Rat ceased hitting him, B.T. lay unconscious on the cold concrete floor. The entire side of Able and Charlie row was deathly quiet. Everyone was listening.
Winded and crazed beyond any reasoning short of death, Fat Rat began tearing his sheet into shreds. I knew what this meant. Once he had torn enough he dragged B.T. out into the middle of the cell. He then rolled him over onto his stomach and proceeded to tie his hands behind his back, then his legs; then he tied his bound limbs together. Only after he had been securely bound did B.T. start to squirm against the tension of the sheets, which held him in a hog-tied position. Fat Rat, in all his brutish arrogance, put one foot on B.T.’s back like a big-game hunter who had bagged a tiger and shouted from the depths of his lungs.
“HOOVA!”
And it seemed to echo forever, bouncing off wall after wall.
“Hey, Monster,” Snake from Seven-Six said to me from the lower tier, “what’s goin’ on?”
“Head up,” I replied, which also implied that there was nothing I could do.
Big Hog had to lock it up, but before he left he told Fat Rat to save some for him.
Fat Rat, enjoying his audience, wanted to make an impression as being a total brute. He looked over, as if just noticing me in the cell.
“Monster, what’s up, cuz? What should I do with this punk?”
“I don’t know Rat. Cuz is a coward-ass muthafucka, huh?”
“Hell yeah,” Fat Rat replied and looked down at B.T. with disgust.
“Let me up, cuz,” B.T. said, trying to sound irritated. A bit late for that shit. Fat Rat responded by pissing on B.T.’s back and head as he lay on the floor. I couldn’t believe it.
“Ahh, cuz,” B.T. cried, “you wrong Fa—”
BAM!
Fat Rat kicked B.T. hard in the side.
“Oooff… Mister Fat Rat.”
“And don’t even say ’cuz’ no mo’, you ain’t no Crip.”
“Fat Rat,” I said, “who gonna clean this shit up, man?”
“Him,” Fat Rat said, indicating B.T.
I knew Fat Rat wasn’t going to untie him and expect him to clean up. Surely B.T. would make an attempt on Fat Rat’s life now. Wouldn’t anyone so treated?
“You gonna untie cuz? Man, Fat Rat, you on one now,” I said.
“Monsta’, this nigga broke. He ain’t wantin’ to see me. Shit, I should change my name to King Fat Rat.”
I rolled my eyes to the ceiling at Fat Rat’s insanity. He then bent down and began to untie B.T. I slid back on my bed so as not to be in the way of what I was sure was going to be some stomp-down action. Once B.T. was loose, he stood up and went peacefully over to the sink.
Uhn-uhn, no you don’t,” Fat Rat said in a fatherly voice. “Befo’ you clean yo’ self you fin’ to clean these walls, the toilet and… Hey,” Fat Rat hollered over the silent tiers, “anybody need they drawers washed?”
“Hell, yeah,” several voices replied from down the tier.
“Send yo’ line down here,” he shouted. “What you lookin’ at, punk?” he said to B.T., who flinched each time Fat Rat spoke. He was totally conquered.
B.T. washed the graffiti-packed walls, washed several pair of underclothes, braided Fat Rat’s hair, massaged Fat Rat’s back, and finally, Fat Rat made him eat a bar of County soap and drink some perm-repair shampoo. Rat was ruthless. After B.T. had done all of this without so much as a flicker of resistance, Fat Rat body-slammed him, tied him up again, and slid him under the bed on his stomach. Fat Rat had done all of this without an inkling of shame or remorse. B.T. was his de facto servant-slave. He followed through on every demand like a robot. The life had left his eyes and his swollen face showed no feeling. All of his movements seemed to be under the supreme command of Fat Rat’s verbal remote control.
It was at times as amusing as it was scary and pitiful. How could B.T. let this happen? How had he grown up in South Central and escaped being tested for weakness? His will to resist was sapped like soda from a glass slurped through a straw. Fat Rat pranced around the cell like a proud little Buddha who had just converted another disciple. He kept trying to explain to me the process of the “breaking stages” he was putting B.T. through. He had actually developed a little science to it.
“You see, Monsta,” he said like a college professor, “the first thing I did was strip him of his clothing, dig? This make him feel less than strong. Then I degraded him by pissin’ on him, you see? And then I wouldn’t let him wash it off, ya know? So he was feelin’ pretty fucked up inside, and wit’ a punch now and again, sheeit, fool ready fo’ anything.”
“Where you learn that from, Rat?”
“Slavery.”
“Slavery? Nigga, you ain’t never been no slave, fool.”
“Naw, but I read that in a book befo’, ’bout how the slaves wasn’t ’loud to have clothes or wash they self so they lost they self… esteem, yeah, that’s it. So I took his self-esteem, see?”
“Yeah, I seen that.”
And when I looked at B.T. his expression was one of utter helplessness. I felt a little sorry for him, but I was a hard-line conservative and felt that this was the life he’d chosen. Unlike the slaves, he had joined the Crips. He knew the job was dangerous when he took it. Module 4800—this testing ground—was for some a breaking station. We had started calling it Forty-eight Hours, because if you could survive the first forty-eight hours—the noise, fights, stabbings, cross-burning by the pigs, tribalism, set tripping, interrogations, and being crossed, doubled-crossed, and triple-crossed—then you were in. B.T. couldn’t handle it and froze up on the first occasion of hand-to-hand and knife-to-body combat. He’d left his homies out there alone—a fatal mistake. Now his homies left him to Fat Rat’s desires.
“Monsta, you can go on to sleep now, cuz. I can handle it from here.”
Fat Rat said this as if I’d actually been helping him work B.T. over.
“Yeah, I guess I’ll kick on back now. I’ve seen enough for today.”
I knew what Rat was up to. He was ready to sodomize B.T. and felt reluctant while I was awake. It made me feel like a conspirator. I hadn’t said a word in protest to Fat Rat about his treatment of B.T., and by not saying anything I felt like I was condoning it. Silence gives consent. When I opened my eyes to protest, Fat Rat had B.T. out from under the bed and was ready to rape him.
“Naw, Rat, I can’t let you trip that hard. Don’t do cuz like that.” I’d swung my legs over the side of the bunk and was looking directly at Fat Rat.
“Aw, Monsta, this ain’t got nuttin’ to do wit’ you, homie. Hey look,” he said, grabbing B.T. on the ass, “he got enough ass fo’ the both of us, Monsta.”
“Stall cuz out, Fat Rat. You done already ruined him in the gang world. He can’t go home. Now you wanna take his manhood, too? Stall him out, Rat.”
“Damn! Monsta…”
Fat Rat looked genuinely disappointed. I guess he figured he had done all of this and rightly deserved a piece of ass. But I couldn’t let that happen, not while I was in the cell. Fat Rat slid B.T. back under the bed and went to sleep.
The next morning he untied B.T., broke his jaw with a short right hook, and put him out of the cell. Twenty minutes later our names came blaring over the module’s P.A. system.
“Kody Scott, Ray Davis… roll it up for transfer.”
“Damn, Fat Rat, now look what you done,” I said. “Fool went and told.”
“Goddamn!” exclaimed Fat Rat.
Now he looked awfully silly as his pride over what he had done shrunk to a peevish little glare. We rolled up our property and went to face the music
We got our customary whacks from the pigs, a few stomach blows and a slap across the head, which we could do nothing about as we were handcuffed. They sent us to the Hole for ten days. We were given “joot balls” during our entire stay. These are brick-shaped blocks of all the preceding days’ leftover food mixed together. They were terrible!
I had my gray jumpsuit on the bars one day and a Blood, who was also in the Hole, came by, snatched it, set it aflame, and threw it over the tier. He shouted to his comrades that he had burned up a “trashman uniform.” Long before we had recognized and taken gray as one of our colors, the Bloods had zeroed in on it as symbolizing Crip. So my gray jumpsuit was just as good as a captured blue flag to the Bloods.
We were allowed out of our cells one at a time to shower. When I came out for mine I threw a milk carton of urine on the Blood who’d burned my jumpsuit.
“Burn this, slob!” I shouted and gassed him full in the face with my warm piss.
“Aw, Blood!” he cried, running to the back of his cell.
“Aw-my-ass, punk. Shut up,” I said and kept on stepping.
That day he was let out of the Hole and I got no additional flack from the others. In fact Pee Wee from Swan was my neighbor, and he and I got along fine. He had given me the names of some East Coasts that were telling on him. He said one of them was in Forty-eight Hours. I told him I’d get on it. A rat was a rat. Pee Wee was charged in the deaths of two East Coasts. He eventually got the death penalty.
When we got back to the module things had changed. It had only been ten days, but as soon as I came in the door I sensed it and saw it on every face in the rotunda. “They” were here, is what the faces said. I began to sweat a bit as I wondered about B.T. What if he really was hooked up?
I went to Denver row, and Fat Rat went back to Charlie row. I was assigned to Denver-7. My cellmates were Sam from Santana Block, Killer from 107 Hoover, and Li’l Bubble from Six-Deuce East Coast. I had known Killer from the street and Li’l Bub from the hall. The conversation inevitably came around to B.T.
“What happened?” Killer asked seriously.
“Fat Rat just dogged dude out,” I said.
“Did he fight back?”
“Naw.”
“Did y’all fuck him?”
“Hell, naw! I ain’t into that shit.”
“Oh, ’cause that what we heard. I just wanted to be sure ’cause people been askin’ ’bout him.”
“Who?”
“Just some people…”
Damn, B.T. was hooked up! I wondered what this meant. Were Fat Rat and I—the silent observer—going to be blue-lighted?
“Was B.T. under the constitution?” I asked Killer, who had been to the pen.
“No, but he was one of our prospects.”
“Our? Are you in, or under it?”
“Yep,” he said proudly. “Been in the organization for three years now.”
I had one right in my cell! I didn’t really know how to talk to Killer after I learned he was in the organization. It all took on an air of mystery. No one really knew much about it, and most were reluctant to speak about it. This only caused more confusion and hyped speculation surrounding the means and goals of the organization.
I didn’t want to ask Killer outright about the group for fear he would take it wrong, so I just observed him for a few days. His attitude had changed tremendously. He had none of the old craziness that I remembered him for when we were growing up. He had gone to camp back in ’79 for kidnapping a Nine-0 when the war broke out. His demeanor now was humble and sure, with an air of confidence. He was respectful to the point of being almost silly. “Excuse me” and “please,” he’d say, and instead of thank you he’d say “asante,” which is Kiswahili for thank you. I was tripping out on his actions. Every morning he was the first one up, cleaning the cell, wiping the floor with a wet rag on his hands and knees! And each morning he’d say “Habari ya asubuhi”—good morning in Kiswahili—to Elimu (Honey Bear from Venice Sho-line) and Ronnie T. from West Boulevard. Throughout the day they’d speak to one another in Kiswahili over the tier. When they did so, the whole tier would fall quiet and just listen. They were upright, respectful, physically fit, and mentally sharp. They used “Afrikan” in place of “Black,” and never said nigger. They were socially conscious like Muhammad, but they weren’t Muslims. I finally asked Killer about his change one day when we were alone.
“What changed you, Killer?”
“Actually the process took some time,” he said. “At first it seemed strange to me. You know, having someone tell you what to do or how to act, what you can say and what you can’t say. But by reading about our Afrikan heritage I learned that the things that my comrades were saying were right and that most of what I learned in school or in the ’hood was wrong. Through our heritage I learned what it really means to be a Crip. A real Crip.”
“Wha’cha mean, real Crip.”
“We in the Consolidated Crip Organization, or C.C.O., believe that CRIPS means Clandestine Revolutionary Internationalist Party Soldiers. And with this knowledge of ourselves we believe we as a tribe have an obligation to our people. We don’t disrespect our people and we don’t fight against the United Blood Nation.”
“Who?”
“The U.B.N.—United Blood Nation, which is the vanguard organization representing the Blood Nation.”
“They got a constitution, too?”
“Yep,” Killer replied.
My head was spinning with all of this. Clandestine Revolutionary Internationalist Party Soldiers—CRIPS. That was heavy. Nation and tribe, Kiswahili and unity—words that when spoken in isolation from anything tangible were meaningless. But when they were applied in sync and sequence to concrete developments and everyday circumstances, they held meaning and could be seen as clearly as the bars that held us captive.
“Monster, Crip is a bad word only because we have turned inward on our community, preying on civilians and turning them against us. We are our own worst enemy. So C.C.O. has set out to re-establish CRIP as a positive influence in our community.”
“Yeah, but how you plan on doing that?”
“With people like me and you who have clout and pull in our ’hoods. But we gotta be sharp, ya dig?”
“Yeah, yeah I hear you.”
From then on Killer would pull me to the side and drop little lessons on me. Elimu talked to me, too. He was especially strong academically and was a great inspiration to all of us in the module.
There were ten C.C.O. members in the module, spread out on different tiers, all working their magic on the uncultured Crips. They began to transform Forty-eight Hours into a training station teaching military science, political science, Kiswahili, and Crip history. People knew more about American history than Crip history, so that was definitely an area of concentration. Most of us were receptive to their knowledge, but as always, there were those hardheads who had to “be their own man.” They were tolerated initially, but when they began to disrupt the program they were dealt with and removed. Most complied out of the realization of C.C.O.’s presence in the population. San Quentin was the C.C.O. headquarters—though recently the Central Committee has been moved to Folsom—but they had well-disciplined cadres in every prison who, upon order, were ready to plant some steel in anyone’s chest. More important, they were educators, teachers, and protectors of the Crip Nation.
It’s a trip how fast their language became our language and how their ways became the ways of us all. Together we were a nation—the Blue Nation. The tribalism all but ceased. One cell was designated as the Community Canteen; everybody had to donate something out of their share of store-bought items to the Canteen. It was used for those who had nothing and no one to send them anything. At night—every night—instead of East Side–West Side chants we did the Universal Crip Cadence. Initially Elimu would lead, but he eventually taught me the words so I could conduct them. Everyone would be up on their feet, facing the tier, repeating the words, shouting after me. The sound was earth moving. We called it Machine in Motion.
“Monsta Kody!” Big Rebo from Compton would holler every night.
“Yeah?” I’d say.
“MONSTA KODY!” he’d holler again, just to make sure everyone knew what was going on.
“YEAH?” I’d reply again.
“MACHINE IN MOTION!” which came out with a rhythm like “MAH-SHEEN-IN-MOE-SHUUUN!”
And I’d answer “MACHINE IN MOTION!”
Then, from my left, Elimu would yell, “Handle that shit!”
And I’d begin.
C-R-l-P, C-R-I-P
Crip! Crip!
Minds of steel, hearts of stone,
Crip machine is movin on.
Blue steel, blue flag,
Crippin’ hard, no turnin’ back.
Raise the “C” and hold it high,
Forever forward, do or die.
Spread yo’ wings, raise yo’ head,
We are risin’ from the dead.
Who say?
“C” say!
Who the greatest?
“C”the greatest!
Can’t stop, won’t stop,
Will not ce stopped!
Soldiers! Soldiers!
War! War!
Lose one, kill two,
Never rest until you do.
Hear the spirit from the grave,
Got to Crip every day.
The “C” is strong, the world is weak,
Strength and loyalty is our key.
Across the sea and over the hill,
Gauge in hand we come to kill.
Coast to coast, state to state,
C-machine is on its way.
Who say?
“C” say!
Who the greatest?
“C” the greatest!
Can’t stop, won’t stop,
Will not ce stopped!
In sixty-nine the “C” was born,
Sixteen years and growin’ strong.
From out the east came the “C”
From the west came the rest.
East Side, West Side,
North Side, South Side,
Nationwide, unified,
CRIP! CRIP!
Raymond Washington did his best,
Cripped for years, now he rests.
Big Took, ce like him,
Dare to struggle, dare to win.
Mac and Satiy, they were down,
O.G. Compton, strong and proud.
Hoova Joe, he was right,
Cuttin’ throats day and night.
Up the hill, down the hill,
Through the land, kill the Klan,
Kill the dog, on the wall,
Bring him down, bust his crown!
Who say?
“C” say!
Who the greatest?
“C” the greatest!
Cant stop, wont stop,
Will not ce stopped.
Keep the busters on the run,
If you catch him slice his tongue.
Back him up against the wall,
To his knees he will fall
Hold your sword, make him beg,
No compassion, take his head!
Plant the “C” everywhere,
For we are those who will dare.
Uptown, downtown,
Blue flags all around.
Chitty-chitty bang-bang,
Nothin’ but a Crip thang.
C-R-I-P! C-R-I-P!
Whata’ya want? (Freedom!)
When you want it? (Now!)
How you get it? (Power!)
When you need it? (Now!)
UHURU, SASA! UHURU, SASA!
Everyone would beam with jubilation at the close of each cadence call. The Nation lived!
The pigs were furious, and word was that still more C.C.O.s were coming down from the pen. Meanwhile, word also came down that there was a rat among us. I had searched out those whom Pee Wee had told me about, but they were not in the Forty-eight Hours. Another cat’s fate was sealed when paperwork arrived—transcripts—revealing his testimony. I volunteered for the mission. The C.C.O.s wanted him stabbed, which was fine with me. Elimu, however, chose Rebo for the mission.
Later that day, in front of the nurse and everyone else, Rebo stabbed Richie Rich eight times with an ice pick. We went on immediate lockdown and O.S.S. began “interviews.” Nothing was yielded, so we stayed on lockdown. For two weeks we were given no roof time, visits, showers—nothing. On our fourteenth day we were allowed visits. Then Sam from 107 Hoover, who was under investigation by C.C.O. for collaboration with O.S.S., knocked out a trustee in the visiting room and we went back on lockdown.
But this time we protested. We were instructed by C.C.O. to tear our wristbands off and refuse to give our last three—our I.D. numbers—at count time. We threw our wristbands on the tier, and when the pig came to our cells we went mute.
“Scott, last three?” asked the pig, looking down at the count board for confirmation.
Silence.
“Scott, what’s your last three?”
Silence.
“Let me see your wristband.”
Silence and no movement. I just gave him a cold stare, as did my cellmates, who flanked me wearing identical stares that said We ain’t having it.
The pig started off to the next cell but never made it. An anonymous hand reached out and busted him in the head with a bar of soap. The pig dropped the count board and bolted for the grill gate.
“Monsta Kody?”
T-Ray from Nine-four Hoover had taken Rebo’s place on the initiation of the cadence.
“Yeah?”
“MONSTA KODY?”
“YEAH?”
“MACHINE IN MOTION!”
And I began the cadence, knowing that the pigs would be back. But instead of coming on the tiers they were up on the catwalk, trying to identify the caller of the cadence. They stopped in front of our cell and stared. I got louder. A minute later my gate opened.
I stepped onto the tier, never stopping the cadence. Three pigs stood at the end, beckoning me to come to them. They would not come on the tier to get me, so instead of moving toward them I went in the opposite direction, continuing the cadence until it was over. Only then did I walk to them. My cellmates hung back as I moved past cell after cell, giving and receiving dap handshakes from the troops.
When I got to Elimu’s cell he said, “Can’t forgive, won’t forget.”
“Righteous,” I replied and went on down the stairs to the red-faced pigs, who held huge flashlights.
“Unbutton that top button,” one of them demanded.
I did that, no big deal.
“Turn around…”
I turned toward my cellmates and raised both hands high in the air, displaying a clenched fist with my right hand and a “C” with the left.
“Motherfucker,” said one of the pigs, grabbing me by the back of my collar. “Didn’t you—”
BAM!
I swung on the one closest to me, hitting him square in the face. I tried to swing my body around to get to the one behind my back, but he had a death grip on me. When I charged another instead, the one behind me literally jumped up on my back, choking me as he did. Briefly I heard the troops shouting in the background.
“Cuz, they fightin’! Monster’s gettin’ ’em up wit’ ’em!”
The wrestling match was on, and we were all over the floor.
I was kicking, elbowing, scratching, jerking, and swearing, while simultaneously trying to protect my private parts. In less than a minute the cavalry arrived and I was swarmed by pigs. The only thing that saved me from being beaten to death was that there were too many pigs vying for a punch, kick, groin shot, or insult. I don’t even remember hearing “nigger,” but I’m sure it was said fifty times.
After they’d beaten the hell out of me, I was cuffed and whisked off to a holding cell. I screamed the whole way.
“CAN’T STOP, WON’T STOP, MUTHAFUCKAS! CAN’T STOP, WON’T STOP!’
I wound up in 1750 High Power, maximum security—the story of my life.
The troops tore the module up, burned their blankets and mattresses and, where possible, engaged the pigs. I was charged with conspiracy, assault, and arson, but the charges were later dismissed.
While in High Power I met Suma, the general of C.C.O. He said he had heard of me and that if I needed anything to let him know. He and Tony Stacy, another C.C.O. member, had come down from Folsom, but O.S.S. had locked them in 1750 right away. Peabody, general of the U.B.N., was there, too.
On a visit one night, Tony said that they had come down to try to hook me up. They wanted me and Insane from Playboy Gangster. I was flattered but skeptical. Once in the organization, you were in for life. He asked if I wanted to take a stand and I told him I’d think about it.
“Monsta,” he said frankly, “you’ve done too much damage to the Crip Nation. We can’t let you continue to kill our citizens. Either you hook up or you must be destroyed for the good of the C-Nation.”
I was dumbfounded. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t hear. It was practically what Crazy Keith had said after the shoot-out. Was C.C.O. also the new West Side Syndicate?
“Was that…” I started to ask, but couldn’t.
“Let me know what you decide so I can inform Suma.”
I walked back to the module in a trance.
The following day I called Big Frogg and asked him what he thought. He was under the old constitution of Blue Magic, which had been combined with Blue Machine to form the Consolidated Crip Organization—a synthesis of the two.
“No,” said Frogg angrily. “Don’t do it, homie. It ain’t for everybody.”
“What’cha mean?”
“I’ll be down there to see you tomorrow, all right? But don’t do nuthin’ till then.”
I hung up and went to my cell, confused.
The next day I went to court and missed Frogg’s visit. The following day I told Tony I was ready—that I was in. When I went to court again the following day I met Bwana from Hoover—a C.C.O. member who had also come down from the pen. He filled me in on small things. When I got back from court, the constitution was on my desk. To this day I don’t know how it got there, as Tony and Suma were clear across the module in another section.
I was trembling even before I began to read it. I had to be sure about this, but it really was do or die. Though I wasn’t actually being forced into it, I did feel a little pressured. In the end, it was my choice, and I took it. I read the constitution and afterward burned it, as instructed. I was in, hooked up, a member, a comrade, a soldier. I turned all of this over again and again in my mind. I didn’t feel much different and didn’t feel like I knew any more than before I’d read the constitution.
Late that same night a new brotha came on our tier and was put in the last cage. When Maurice from Five-Six Syndicate asked his name, he replied Salahudin Al-Muntaquin. He was a member of the Black Guerrilla Family—B.G.F.—a quasi-revolutionary organization with an awesome military machine. They had clashed with Crips several times in prison and supposedly had killed Pee Wee from East Coast in Tracy in 1983. My intelligence was up to date on him and when he said his name I knew who he was. I made immediate plans to stab him. Oldman, who was my neighbor, made a knife out of plastic and sent it to me. I was the tier tender and planned on spearing him the following morning when I came out to pour the milk.
The next morning I went down to his cell, the knife tied to a broomstick, hoping to catch him asleep. When I got there he was up doing Salat. He was a Muslim. He stood up and came to the bars.
“How you doing this morning, brotha?”
I was momentarily dazed by his humbleness, for we had always heard that B.G.F.s were antagonistic toward Crips, offensive and hostile.
“I’m fine,” I said, looking for an opening. I had the broomstick on the head of the broom, but not screwed in. At the other end, covered by my hand, was the knife.
“You a B.G.F., ain’t you?” I said, hoping he’d get hostile.
“I am a revolutionary,” he said, “and the weapon is unnecessary. I’m not your enemy.”
“What?” I said, noting that my hand was no longer around the weapon, but on the handle.
“Do you know Suma?” he asked.
“Yeah, that’s my comrade,” I declared proudly.
“Ask him about me. He knows me well.”
At that I went back down the tier and repeated everything to Oldman. He agreed we should wait on Suma.
That afternoon I got a note from Suma saying that C.C.O. had no beef with B.G.F. and that if I could, to watch out for Salahudin. I’d almost made a costly mistake.
Salahudin and I eventually became good friends, and it was he who named me Sanyika.
Not long after that I left County with a sentence of seven years in state prison. My life has never been the same.