by Wes Moore
Ray wasn't done. He began to take unmerciful swings at Wes's face. His left and right fists took turns hitting their target while Wes tried to block the blows. The girl pulled at the man, trying to give Wes a little room to escape. Finally, Wes came to his feet and ran inside, but not before the man had significantly bloodied him up.
Wes went inside, but he had no intention of staying there. He ran to his room and straight to his closet. He reached up to the top shelf and pulled out the shoe box that held his 9mm Beretta and a few full clips. Wes opened the box, grabbed the gun and clips, and threw the empty box on the floor. As he left his room, he shoved a clip into the gun and cocked the slide hammer back, fully loading the weapon. He ran down the stairs and out the door, only to see the girl standing there by herself. Her eyes immediately trained themselves on the gun in Wes's hand.
Wes could only see red. He was blind with rage. Instincts kicked in. Tony's words rang through his mind. Send a message.
"What are you going to do with that?" the girl demanded and tried to block Wes's path.
"Shut up and get out of my way," Wes commanded. He pushed her to the side and started scanning the block for a sign of the dude who'd just worked out on his face.
Wes noticed one of his boys leaning out of a window along with dozens of other people, who were now curiously watching. The boy was one of Wes's partners in his drug operation, and when he saw Wes standing in the night air, face bloodied, with a gun in hand, he had his cue to join the fight. As Wes continued to scan the block for any clue of where Ray ran to, his friend joined him with his own trusty burner ready to blast.
The girl was still screaming at Wes, begging him to leave Ray alone, but for Wes her voice faded into the background noise of a now alert Dundee Village. After slowly pacing his street, looking for any movement, he finally saw what he was looking for. Ray leaped up from behind a car farther down the block and began sprinting, ducking behind cars as he moved around the enclosed complex. Wes chased after him. As they ran, he and his friend pointed their weapons in Ray's direction and began taking shots. Wes quickly figured out where Ray was heading and realized that this must be the "cousin" his jump-off was always visiting. Wes and his friend cut into an alley, trying to intercept Ray before he could get to his house.
Every time Ray rose from a hiding position, Wes and his friend would take turns firing shots at him, not only to try to hit him but to keep him from getting to his house. Shots rang through the development and car windows were shot out while the people staring out their windows backed away, trying to avoid stray gunfire. Wes and his friend ran through a dark alley, jumping over trash cans and fences, trying to get to the other side of the complex as fast as possible. Multiple shots had been fired, but the footrace to the house continued. All three of their hearts pounded--none of them would have imagined hours earlier what kind of night this would turn out to be.
As Ray's house came into view for all three young men, Ray decided to make a run for it, ducking behind a row of parked cars. Wes and his friend traded shots and finally heard Ray scream as he fell behind a black Toyota just fifty feet from his house. Wes and his friend stopped running. They saw no movement and figured the job was done. Not only that but the entire neighborhood seemed to be awake now, so they ran back to their homes, hoping to avoid identification. Adrenaline was rushing through Wes's body, followed quickly by fear, but no regret. Ray was a fool for stepping to him like that; he'd started something that Wes had no choice but to finish.
The girl Wes had been with was crying and screaming when he arrived back at his house. She was saying she was going to tell the police on him. Wes ran right by her, ignoring her threats as he slammed his front door behind him.
He was met by his mother, who was now awake and irate. "What is going on, Wes? What did you do?" she demanded.
Wes ran by her and, without even looking back, told her nothing was wrong and to go to bed. The blood on Wes's face and clothes, and the weapon in his hand, told a very different story.
Wes went straight to the bathroom. He shut and locked the door and began filling the sink with warm water. The pool of water quickly turned red as the blood fell from his face into the sink. He picked up his washcloth and a bar of soap and began to clean the blood coming from his nose and mouth. His mother was outside the door, knocking ferociously, demanding to know what had happened. Wes continued to clean his face, as if she weren't there.
Finally, vexed and frustrated, Mary called the only person she knew could find out what had happened. "Tony, Wes was involved in something out here, and I can't figure out what is going on. He's all bloody."
Tony jumped in his car and started driving toward Baltimore County.
Wes finished cleaning his face and removed his bloody shirt. After throwing his ruined clothes into the bathroom garbage can, he went to his bedroom and closed the door behind him.
He still had the gun in his hand and knew he wouldn't be alone for long. In the corner of the room was a large fish tank that was only a quarter full, but the bottom was covered with rocks and dark mud that clouded the water. Living in the tank were not fish but a large, green snapping turtle that took up almost half the sixty-five-gallon tank. The gun was still hot, so it created a small sizzle as it hit the cool water of the tank. Wes moved the sand around, clouding the already murky water even more, hoping it would hide the gun.
Wes heard commotion downstairs and knew his time was just about up. He reached into the wooden drawer next to his bed and got a clean blue shirt with white stripes on it. He pulled the shirt over his head and pushed his arms through the sleeves as he heard a parade of feet charging up the stairs. Wes hurriedly smoothed the shirt down and put his hands in the air, not wanting the cops to think he was armed. He knew how that scenario would end. Seconds later, Wes was being pushed facedown onto his own bed, his hands locked in cuffs behind his back.
He was escorted downstairs by three police officers, led to the back of their car, and shoved in. Wes could see police officers talking to witnesses about what they'd seen. He eyed the crowd; the jump-off he blamed for starting this mess was nowhere to be found. Wes's mother walked up to the backseat of the police car where her son sat and began to yell at him in between her tears. Through the car window and over the commotion in the streets, Wes tried to tell his mother to calm down. While the cops were still speaking to witnesses, he told her where the gun was. She asked him if he was the one who'd shot the boy, but Wes didn't answer. He simply stared at his mother with a blank expression, his head still spinning from the last hour's events. She asked him again, softly pleading with him to tell her something. Just then, the cops showed up and ordered her away from the car.
Two officers entered the cruiser and prepared to head back to the station. They had all the information they needed. They started the engine and the blue and red lights on top of their cars began to flash. As the cruiser began to pull off, Wes asked them to stop for a moment so he could say something to his mother. The driver slowed to a stop and rolled down the window next to Wes's head just a crack.
"Ma!" Wes yelled.
She was on her way into the house when she heard his voice. She ran to him. When she got closer, Wes craned his head to speak through the crack in the window.
"About your question. I don't know the answer."
The car pulled off. Wes closed his eyes and leaned his head against the black, plastic seat. The street began to clear, and after watching the car fade into the distance, Mary headed back inside her house.
Minutes later, Tony arrived. His mother stared at him, her face drained of emotion. "It's too late," she told him. "Wes is already gone."
Hunted
1994
The steady flow of people entering the Northern High School gymnasium had slowed to a trickle as the three o'clock start time for graduation arrived. The wooden bleachers that circled the floor were full of family, friends, and supporters of the crop of graduates, who had yet to enter the room. Within an hour they
would watch the high school experience of their children, grandchildren, siblings, nieces, and nephews come to an end. Many in the audience had thought the day would never come, but all were happy it did.
The state of Maryland had one of the highest graduation rates in the nation. Seventy-six percent of high school students who began high school in Maryland completed. In Baltimore County, the number was as high as 85 percent in some years. But in Baltimore City, where Northern High School was located, it was a dismal 38 percent. For many in the audience, this was the first high school graduation they had ever attended.
The procession of black robes entering the room was replaced by a wave of forest green robes--the students trailed shortly after the faculty. Smiles, waves, cheers, and whistles rang out. Camera flashes blinked over the parade, parents and friends shooting as wildly as paparazzi. Because his last name put him toward the front of the class, Woody was one of the first to enter the gym, walking with a confident strut. He saw his parents, sister, and grandmother, and smiled. He grabbed the edge of his green cap between his thumb and index finger and tipped it to them. A sign of respect, and gratitude.
Woody was one of the students who made it across the finish line kicking and screaming. He'd needed two points in the last few weeks to pass English. Gym was his favorite class. Every other class tied for last place. But as he entered the area where all the students were sitting to prepare for the ceremony, he knew none of that mattered. All that mattered was that he was here. He had accomplished his mission of completing high school.
The principal, valedictorian, guest speaker, and the rest of the graduation speakers gave their speeches as Woody fought to stay awake. Finally the moment he was waiting for arrived. The principal asked the class to rise, and one by one they walked across the stage to receive their diplomas. If the entire class that had started the ninth grade here had finished, it would have been a very long ceremony. But only eighty-seven seats were filled that spring morning. This wouldn't take nearly as long as it should have.
When it was Woody's turn, he practically danced up to the principal. The crowd laughed as Woody shook the principal's hand and looked up at his family, throwing his arms in the air in a triumphant stance. He carefully jogged down the steps at the end of the stage. As he turned the corner and looked at the dozens of folding chairs where the graduates were sitting, his mind wandered to the people who weren't there. He thought about Daemon, a ninth-grade classmate who didn't make it to the end of the year. Dae took a month off from school to care for his mother, who was sick with sickle cell. That month turned to two, and finally Dae stopped being a student. Woody thought about White Boy, his boy from the neighborhood, who picked up a job working at a restaurant called Poor Folks. He was tired of school and decided joining the workforce was a better option. Most of all, Woody thought about Wes, who had stopped going to school two years earlier.
Wes returned to Dundee Village six months after being locked up for the incident in which he shot at Ray. Wes caught two breaks that night. The first was that the bullet entered Ray's shoulder and went straight through. No major organs were hit, and Ray left the hospital a day later, so Wes was charged with attempted murder rather than murder. The second break was that Wes's case was sent to juvenile court instead of adult court. His attorney argued he should be tried as a juvenile because "he would not be a potential threat to the community."
Wes went back to school immediately after leaving the juvenile detention facility, the Baltimore County Detention Center in Towson. He enrolled at Lake Clifton High School in East Baltimore but knew pretty quickly that he would not last long. He was two years older than the other kids in his grade from repeating a grade and losing time locked up. Teachers already dealing with overcrowded classrooms didn't have the time to teach Wes the basics he'd missed. Wes's attendance became sporadic, and once his first child was born, he just stopped going.
Not surprisingly, without a high school diploma or job training--and with a criminal record--Wes found it almost impossible to find a job to support his growing family. Alicia was living with the baby in her mother's house while Wes stayed with his aunt Nicey. Nicey was strict and made it clear from the day Wes moved in who was in charge: "You need to either get a job or go to school, one of the two, but neither is not an option."
Wes found another option: he decided to make himself scarce. In the mornings while Nicey was at work, Wes would play videogames in the house and then head out to check on his drug operation. When she was home in the evenings or the early morning, Wes would normally be out, "trying to find a job," as he would tell her. This charade went on for months. Wes didn't live there so much as he used Nicey's home as a place to rest and, increasingly, a place to hide his drugs.
Wes had his entire operation organized with the precision of a military unit or a division of a Fortune 500 company. The drug game had its own rules, its own structure. He was a lieutenant, the leader of his small crew. Everyone in the crew had a specific job with carefully delineated responsibilities. On the lowest rung of the ladder and in most cases the youngest kids on the team, were the corner boys. These were the kids, sometimes as young as seven but normally no older than eleven, who served as the lookouts for cops. They would huddle on the corners, and when they saw a cop--or anyone who looked like a cop--they would yell "Hey, Tina," or "Hey, Susan," or whatever name the crew had designated for the week. That way they could alert the crew that cops were creeping, but if the cops questioned them, they could simply say they were calling for a friend and walk away unscathed.
The hitters were the ones who dealt with the money. This job was very important, for obvious reasons, and you needed to trust your hitter. This was also one of the most dangerous jobs, because if the money ever came up short, the hitter was the one whose neck was on the line.
The housemen were in charge of distribution. The drugs were usually cooked and cut in a house, and the housemen would have to make sure the sellers had their supply for the day. The housemen also resupplied the ground soldiers if they sold their allocated amount.
Last, you had the muscle, who were there to protect the crew and the lieutenant. They were usually carrying weapons of various kinds and were not afraid to use them. A crew's relevancy--their ability to hold their own corner and expand the business--was dependent on the amount of muscle they controlled and the level of violence their muscle was ready to get into. Sometimes entire crews were muscle.
This was the crew. They would work together, fight together, stay together. An unbreakable bond united the crew--for many members, it was the only support system they had. It was family.
Wes managed his team extremely well. At their peak, his team brought in over four thousand dollars a day. He wasn't one of the main players by any stretch, but he was not doing badly in relation to others in the neighborhood. There were over 100,000 known addicts in Baltimore, and the real number was arguably higher. Given that the city had a population of just under 700,000, there was an obvious glut of addicts. With a demand like that, and an ample supply, it was hard not to make money. Still, Wes would find himself wondering about the percentage of that money that found its way into his pocket. He and his team were taking all the risks; they were the ones who faced the arrests and the danger. His bosses, the connects, and the ones bringing the drugs into Baltimore were making the real money. They never had to show their faces on the hard corners where the supply looked the demand in the eye. It started to become clear to Wes: the drug game was raw capitalism on overdrive with bullets, a pyramid scheme whose base was dead bodies and ruined lives.
Wes stood on the corner in Dundee Village. He no longer lived there, but he had a little operation there--he would bring drugs into the county because he could sell them for a higher premium than in the city. He was surrounded by some guys from his crew. His day was ending; it was 3:00 P.M., and he planned to pick up a girl from around the way to go to the movies. He had to get moving, but he lingered. He liked the feeling of holding down a corner
with his boys. It was the one place he felt safe, or at least in his element. Wes's green jumpsuit hung over a glossy green T-shirt. His Gianni Brunelli shoes matched his outfit. Wes stayed fresh.
He was saying his final goodbyes when a man sidled up to him. He was clean-shaven, wearing jeans and an oversize T-shirt. Wes had never seen this cat before.
"Do you guys know where I can buy some rocks?" the man asked, his voice conspiratorially gruff.
There are a few major tip-offs that tell dealers something isn't right:
If a person looks unfamiliar or really out of place, it's probably a cop.
If a person you saw arrested a few minutes ago is suddenly back on the street and trying to buy from you, he's probably doing it for a cop.
If a person is usually a dime-bag customer and is now trying to buy a brick, he's probably working for the cops.
If someone's lingo is wrong--if he comes up to you saying, "Do you guys know where I can buy some rocks?"--there's a good chance he's a cop.
"Nope," Wes replied, eyeing the man up and down.
The man began to walk away with his head swiveling, seemingly searching for someone else to get drugs from. Wes moved in the opposite direction, toward the girl's house. But for some reason, he couldn't let the sale go. He paused, taking a second look at the man. Wes thought about the small change he was turning down. The man threw up red flags, but Wes had dealt to people like that before and gotten away with it. He saw the man approach another corner boy and then walk away. Wes got antsy: the movie was starting soon, and if he was going to change his mind and make the sale, he'd better do it fast. He couldn't stop thinking about the money he could make off that sale--almost exactly enough to take care of this date. The logic felt right.