by Darrell King
By the beginning of 1983, I was making several plane flights per month from L.A. to DC and visiting my Aunt Jenny and Paco out there. I met with Raymond Edwards and Byron Trippi. They were chill, we all got together at my aunt’s mini-mansion in Fort Washington, Maryland and discussed business. After that, the five of us would take a gorgeous stretch limousine to Georgetown Hoyas or Maryland Terrapins basketball games. Raymond and Byron turned me on to the popular music of the area called “Go-Go.” I immediately got hooked on the funkiness of the drumbeats and the vivacity of the background instrumentals. Hell, I must’ve bought back more than a dozen Go-Go cassettes with me to L.A.
Money was good back in DC and I’m positive that I could have flourished as a drug dealer there. But I had left the East Coast long ago and I had no real burning desire to leave Los Angeles. This was my home and it was where I belonged and would stay. Paco was always more restless than I. Moving to Maryland with Aunt Jenny, now a budding drug lord herself, proved most lucrative for him. Cocaine and urban violence seemed to only increase in their popularity due to the success of the hit gangster film of 1983, “Scar Face,” featuring actor Al Pacino as the hot head, Cuban-born dope pusher, “Tony Montana.” That movie had more people thinking and acting like they were straight-up gangsters than anything at the box office.
Every single hustler I ever knew seriously TOOK the the theme of the movie Scarface to heart.Wanna-be gangsters were to be found everywhere, even in the suburbs, and the fascination for cocaine increased tenfold. Being a huge fan of the movie myself, I flew down to Miami with Melissa just to visit the areas of the exclusive coconut grove community where it was filmed on location. When we returned to L.A., I made sure that I got an autograph from Pacino on a poster advertising the film. The actor in return received my autograph which he found fittingly amusing.
1983 wasn’t all peaches and cream though. My plush garden apartment was ransacked and all three of my sports cars planted with explosives. The police had the entire apartment community evacuated and there were police dogs and FBI agents all over the place. The entire area was taped off and prohibited to all but law enforcement personnel. The bomb squad unit was called in shortly after I arrived on the scene with my girlfriend and emergency and police vehicles continued arriving at the scene in the dozens.
There was no mistaking the seriousness of the matter and I was taken into custody for questioning, along with Chief Tate’s daughter. We were interrogated in separate rooms of course by FBI agents who must have drilled me for over two hours, using all manner of legal scare tactics in order to break my calmness. But I remained cool as a cucumber, patiently enduring all of their verbal assaults and hard questioning with the composure of a pro. I only wished that Melissa was doing as well as I. She did quite well actually, and related to me that she found it fun-filled. She also went on to spill the beans about all of her father’s illegal activities and criminal pursuits. Melissa ratted everyone out of her family: Sergio Mendez, the SCORPIO syndicate, I mean every fuckin’ body, except me of course. She mentioned to the Feds that only SCORPIO could be responsible for planting bombs inside my apartment and under my vehicles and that her father’s organization had forced me to work with them or be killed in prison – and now that I was out on the streets, they wanted me dead so as to silence me because I’d squeal on their operation.
She was more believable. The FBI released us under our own recognizance and awarded us federal protection under the “Witness Protection Act.” That really started the ball rolling in the direction of SCORPIO and company. Life is so ironic; a big-time hustler and gangbanger being protected by the FBI in order to bring bigger drug dealers to justice. Chief Tate was brought in for questioning the very next day, while during that same weekend in May, federal agents converged upon the grounds of the Sergio Mendez estate and proceeded to raid his sumptuous hacienda, taking possession of loads of priceless merchandise, along with a plentitude of narcotics and a slew of smuggled firearms. Also recovered from the manor house were dozens of good-sized safe-deposits containing nearly inestimable sums of cash and personal data. All of these findings gave the Feds indisputable evidence of the opulence that Sergio Mendez enjoyed, being one of the nation’s premier drug lords that he was.
“Big Daddy” himself had recently prepared to take flight out of the U.S. and seek asylum back in his native homeland of Columbia in South America. Unfortunately, his plans were dashed as he along with several cohorts were intercepted before they could even board their awaiting aircraft. Mendez was transported with his henchmen from Seattle to Los Angeles to await trial along with Captain Lawrence Tate. Anna Marie was herself taken into custody for being an abettor with the husband. Melissa’s younger siblings were put into the care of her mother’s sister Veronica Sanchez, who lived in Woodland Hills.
Melissa and I, like I stated earlier, were put under the protection of the “Witness Protection Program.” Since our testimony in court would be of grave importance to the federal prosecutors, we were placed in a seaport sanctuary outside the Los Angeles Harbor. The hideaway was nothing more than a huge houseboat. We were given the royal treatment during the few months we had to stay aboard the vessel. We got almost anything we requested. The only problem was, our freedom to come and go as we pleased was limited.
Also our sex life was put on hold with federal agents monitoring us closely day and night, around the clock, even as we slept. Telephone conversations were tapped and our visitors were not allowed access anywhere near the marina. They could visit us only at a good distance from the harbor area and even then, we were closely scrutinized by darkly-attired, straight-faced agents, standing motionless in the background. Neither of us could get high anymore, except maybe when we were allowed a few beers or maybe some wine. There was no need for us spending money because all of our living provisions and hygienic requirements were provided to us freely under the statutory regulations of the program.
By December of ‘83, the long awaited jury trial began, lasting well into January of the following year before a landmark decision was made by the jury. The prosecution lingered as though it would never end. “Big Daddy” Mendez as well as Captain Tate had legal experts who were unyielding in the defense of their clients and most masterful in their cross examinations. But their statements of defense did little to convince the jury of their client’s innocence. The overwhelming evidence of the prosecutors and incriminating statements of those of us called to witness, condemned Sergio “Big Daddy” Mendez, Captain Lawrence Tate, Anna Marie Tate, and scores of the SCORPIO affiliates to a resounding guilty verdict from the jury.
The scene in the courtroom was one of frenzied excitement as Sergio Mendez collapsed in his seat. A medical unit arrived shortly thereafter, rushing the illness-stricken drug lord to Cedars-Sinai Memorial Hospital. The medical report was that Mendez suffered cardiac shock brought about by the stressful rigors of the legal hearings and his overweight condition. He succumbed two weeks later. Also, shortly after the paramedics removed Big Daddy out of the courtroom and before the judge could return the frantic crowd to order, Valencia Milano broke through the throng of jurors pouncing at me, revealing a nasty looking kris in her upraised left hand, its serpentine blade glistening brightly beneath the ceiling fixtures. A bailiff jumped in between us and howled out in agony as Valencia plunged the wavy stiletto in between his shoulder blades. The bailiff fell backward, grabbing at his wounded shoulder which drenched the front of his shirt with gore.
Valencia kept coming in my direction with that damn knife glowering at me viciously. I clenched my fists, awaiting her approach so that I could hit her with a flurry of well-aimed, rapid-fire jabs. But my self-defense wasn’t needed, for a powerful gun blast sounded causing everyone present to run for cover. As frightened jurors tentatively arose from their crouched positions, they looked upon the beautiful form of Valencia Milano lying dead on the courtroom floor.
Another bailiff, who was standing near the exit doors, holding a smoking service rev
olver at his side, while breathing and perspiring heavily. Again, paramedics were summoned to the courthouse, removing a the wounded bailiff and dead gangster bitch. Lawrence Tate was stripped of his police chief title, and slapped with a thirty-year prison sentence. His wife, Anna Marie Tate, was hit with a much less severe fifteen-year sentence. Most of the SCORPIO syndicates across the West Coast and Midwestern US were infiltrated and brought to justice – with the exception of a few who simply disbanded after a while with no leaders and no funding. An era had come to a close.
It seemed as though the whole SCORPIO criminal movement perished along with its founder, Sergio “Big Daddy” Mendez. 1984 brought a few surprises of its own. I ran into Marci Clark again in June of ‘84. No longer the seemingly virtuous devout Catholic girl she had once fronted – although she was never that virtuous in the first place, she was now heavy with child, about maybe seven months pregnant and with a small, light-skinned, curly-haired little boy following her around. I presented myself to her about her kid. She told me that he was seven years old and that his name was DiVante. I knelt down and took the tot’s hand in mine and studied his delicate features as I made small talk with him.
He was indeed an attractive looking little youngster with features strikingly similar in resemblance to mine. I even recognized in the boy the same burst of temper as I punched him playfully and he let fly with a wallop of a punch upside my head, which for a seven-year-old was well-aimed and powerful. It left a ringing in my ear which lasted for some time. I put my hand to my ear and laughed out in jocularity. As Marci grabbed his little clenched fist in order to scold him, I promptly restrained her hand, assuring her that her son had done no wrong in defending himself from my imagined aggression.
I hoisted the chubby little pugilist into my arms and held him lovingly to my bosom while kissing him on his forehead. When he was placed back down he commenced to wiping his face most vigorously in order to remove my wet kiss. Marci and I both laughed at DiVanté’s comic antics. Even though Marci didn’t say anything to me about DiVanté, I knew that this curly headed little roughneck was my kid. He was the spitting image of me. Attitude and all.
I asked Marci if she needed a ride home but she stated that her boyfriend would be by shortly to pick her up. No sooner than that was said, an old red Road Runner drove up. Behind the wheel was seated “Pretty T,” who gave me the Reaper gang sign, which I in turn acknowledged by throwing up mine. Marci winked at me and softly whispered goodbye before taking little DiVanté by the hand and getting into the car with my old rival and driving out of my life along with my progeny. Marci was a part of my past now. She had been claimed by the Reapers a long time back, I guessed ever since that hijacking of the church bus way back when. I didn’t really know her anymore… no more than she knew me. And as for that son that our brief union produced, I figured that he’d do just fine in life without me.
Soon she’d be giving birth to Pretty T’s baby. Now that sort of fucked with my head a little bit, ‘cause I always felt that T was a punk ass bitch motherfucka, not worthy of even owning my old dirty underwear, much less fucking with a broad that I once loved. But nothing ever did faze me much. Then I just accepted whatever fate threw my way and went on with life.
During that same month, while playing dice with some cats up on Crenshaw, a magnificent looking BMW pulled up and a huge Chicano got out from behind the wheel and drew an uzi machine gun on me. All of the other players stood around frozen in terror as the big Mexican wearing full chicano gang garb, sporting an overgrown gold rope around his neck and numerous gold rings on his hands, approached me threateningly. I had no idea who in the world this fool could be, but with an uzi in my face, I didn’t have much of a chance to contemplate on whom I’d pissed off recently.
I arose boldly and spread my arms wide looking the bandanna-wearing Mexican in his face, with fearlessness and offered time to do his dirty work if he had the balls to. As I did this I got closer to him, calling him a variety of insulting names as I courageously drew nigh. As the drama unfolded, a good sized crowd gathered about us anxiously awaiting the blast of the weapon which would riddle my skull with a hail of bullets. That blast never came. Instead the big guy simply held his head back roaring with hilarity. Everyone was puzzled at the mirth of the Mexican.
But none more than I. Like a cat I pounced on the ox and we both fell on top of the hood of his beamer. Before I could drive my fist into his jaw he stopped my blow in mid-air and nimbly removed his sunshades revealing his identity. It was big Francisco! I jerked my hand from his angrily and pulled out my gat and playfully pressed it down between his legs and told him the next time he pulled a stunt like that I’d blow his genitals to hell. We hugged and made up and the both of us finished the dice game—emptying the pockets of everyone dumb enough to challenge us. We walked away with several hundred dollars and a couple dozen pieces of gold and platinum-plated jewelry.
I had to restrain Frisco, at one point, from popping two twin brothers that tried but failed in cheating him. We hung out for several weeks during June and July. Then in late July, the big Mexican lost his life to a drive-by gunman, coming out of his favorite nightclub, “The Sinful One.” There must have been a few SCORPIO members left lurking the streets of South Central, ‘cause the black van that pulled that drive-by hit on Francisco clearly had the zodiacal glyphs adorning its sides.
The next couple of months in September, I ran into another homie of mine – Todd Pulaski. I was having a “Path Finder” I’d recently purchased, washed and waxed at a local carwash shop when a black stretch limo pulled into the parking lot of the shop. The chauffeur got out and asked me if I was DiAngelo Lovette, and I nodded yes. He then proceeded over to the rear of the lengthy luxury car and opened the door. Todd stepped out with a pair of glamorous beauty queens on both arms, and looked as suave and debonair as any player can look. He was decked down to the nines in an expensive Hollywood designed double-breasted suit. As he and his playmates emerged from the limo, almost the same time did four Herculean bodyguards, also dressed fit to kill, withdraw from the vehicle along with him.
We embraced and kicked it with each other for about fifteen or twenty minutes before Todd made me an offer. Todd told me that his uncle, a wealthy Texas oil tycoon and dealer in cocaine and firearms, had recently passed, leaving him the family inheritance. His uncle fathered no children of his own. My multimillionaire homie assured me that once again we could be working together as a duo. I would only have to relocate to Houston, Texas, and take command of his South American cocaine operations and gunrunning while he solely concentrated on the daily running of the oil business, equities, commerce, etc.
I thanked Todd for his kind and most considerate offering. But after what I had only months earlier went through dealing with big-time dope and criminals, I felt much more at home simply just being a small time hood after all. I turned down his offer graciously and he understood. He wished me well, and invited me over to his plush hotel suite in Hollywood, where we had drugs, alcohol, and women in great abundance; fully indulging ourselves in whatever fantasy our hearts desired until the dawn broke. Todd left me his business card and told me that whenever I wanted to visit I was more than welcome in his home. He hoped that I would later reconsider and accept his offer… I never did though, and that was the last I ever heard from or saw from him again.
As the years went by and I grew older and wiser, I began to tire of the fast lane. Drugs, money, expensive material items, and quick sex with money hungry broads no longer interested me. By 1989 I’d gotten arrested four more times, fathered at least ten children by more than six different women, including two 16 year olds. I robbed and mugged dozens of innocent folks, and murdered more than thirty people in the name of the Reapers and gang violence.
Melissa bore me a daughter in ‘86 – Chantel
Sierra Lovette. She then went on to graduate from
UCLA, acquiring her Master’s Degree in Business Administration, or an MBA. She is now the chief e
xecutive of a prominent Atlanta-based record company. She was wedded not long ago to an Atlanta Falcons football star and they had two sons together. Her private and public life is wonderful and I’m happy for her and her family. She’s an intelligent sister and she deserves the best.
I haven’t seen Chantel in a while, but I call her up often, and she always sends me photos of her and her little brothers. She’s four years old now and just as smart as she wants to be. Chantel visits Mama from time to time as you know, and Shanté visits Atlanta almost every summer to see Chantel and Melissa. Don’t you think that girl should just move there, man?
As for DiVanté, his mom Marci got strung out on crack cocaine really bad and started tricking in order to support her habit. She nearly died behind that. When I found out about her condition I took her to the rehabilitation center in downtown L.A. kicking and screaming, and as soon as I found out who her supplier was I became livid with rage. Her own sorry ass excuse of a lover, Pretty T, had turned his own baby’s mother into a pipehead and a trick. Now, because of her pitiful condition and haggard appearance, he up and left her and the kids high and dry. When I found him shooting pool at one of the pool halls in Watts I dragged his sorry ass outside and beat him within an inch of his noaccount life. I drew my nine on his punk ass and put the barrel between his teeth, but death was too kind of a gift to give him. So I just cracked him across his mug a couple of times with the pistol, I’m sure breaking his nose and jaw along with a few teeth in the process.