Cronin and others in the gang crimes unit were somewhat constrained. Because of the police department’s own internal workings, the gang crimes cops couldn’t launch extensive narcotics investigations, even though selling drugs was the major activity of the gangs. Such efforts were reserved for the department’s narcotics unit. But Cronin had obtained a warrant to search Lee’s apartment on the tip that he kept an automatic weapon there.
On November 1, 1986, Cronin and five other officers raided Lee’s second-floor west side apartment. After forcing open the door with a sledgehammer, they found Lee standing in the hallway, shirtless and barefoot. Cronin discovered more than he had bargained for. On the bedroom and kitchen floors and in the toilet were hundreds of packets of heroin plus various items of drug-packaging equipment, including two triple-beam scales, blenders, strainers, two beepers, two walkie-talkies, and three Daisy sealers. From an open window, Cronin spotted at the bottom of the air shaft a nine-millimeter assault rifle with a banana clip. It held twenty-eight live rounds.
Cronin also found Lee’s clothes in a closet, which would help prove in court that this was, indeed, his residence. In one suit pocket were the obituaries of two gang members, one of whom, Neal Wallace, Cronin remembered. A leader of the Traveling Vice Lords, Wallace had only recently been killed. When Cronin had searched Wallace’s apartment after his death, he found an essay the gang leader had written to himself. The handwritten composition explained that he sold drugs to make it easier for the next generation of black children to become lawyers and doctors. Like many of the others, Wallace, who used to give out Easter baskets every year filled with food and candy, clearly saw himself as a hero.
Despite the arrest and his previous record, Lee was released. He raised the $5000 in bail money. For a year, including the warring summer of 1987, he continued about his business. But, again in 1987, he was arrested for the alleged attempted murder of a policeman, a charge of which he was eventually acquitted. He again got the necessary bond money and was released.
At the trial, Lee’s attorneys raised doubts that the semi-automatic rifle belonged to him. His wife and the other woman were acquitted of all charges. Judge Boharic, however, found Lee guilty of possession of a controlled substance with intent to deliver.
In a presentencing report, Lee stated that he had supported himself by working as a manager of a car wash and that his wife received assistance from Public Aid. He also said his plans included the possibility of opening his own car wash.
But in the presentencing hearing in front of Judge Boharic, the prosecution attempted to establish Lee’s high ranking in the Vice Lords. Charlie Toussas told about the time Bird Leg had been shot and Lee led a band of his soldiers over to the Disciples’ turf. Cronin testified that the Vice Lords had expanded their operations to Iowa, Minnesota, and Mississippi. Another police officer estimated that the Conservative Vice Lords, the faction controlled by Lee, sold “thousands of dollars a day in both heroin and cocaine.”
The prosecutor, William O’Brien, in his closing statement asked that Lee be sent to prison for a long time. “The people would stress that we wish that this court would listen to the people at Henry Horner Homes, listen to the people of Chicago, and remove Jimmie Lee … to weaken the grip of gangs upon the public housing projects as well as the neighborhoods in Chicago.” O’Brien went on to suggest that a long sentence would send a message “that this court and the people of Cook County will not tolerate the type of behavior.”
Lee’s attorney, Maurice Scott, was the last person to address the judge that day. “I think that this man is on trial as an individual, not as a symbol of all that is wrong with out society,” he told the court. “To treat this case as a cause célèbre, to give this man some long, long term in prison, is not going to change the narcotics problem. I wish I knew the answer—maybe some form of legalization, something to take the profit out of it. I don’t know. But I know it doesn’t stop it by giving people long terms in prison.” Scott also argued that the heroin that had been found was far from pure and therefore was nowhere near as much as it seemed.
The judge then asked Lee whether there was anything he wanted to say before he was sentenced. “No, sir,” he replied.
“Organized evildoers cannot expect mercy from this court,” Judge Boharic told Lee and the assembled attorneys. “I feel that under the circumstances here there is a need to deter others from committing the same type of crime and from entering into the same path of life that the defendant apparently has chosen. It is all too often pointed out that persons who grow up in the area where the defendant lives are given tough choices in life and one of the very attractive aspects of being a gang member and being involved in the dope selling is the money and prestige that that brings. But I’m here to enforce the law and I’m here to show that there is a downside and a big cost involved sometimes when a person is caught with those very serious crimes that this defendant was involved in. We must teach people in the community here that society will deal harshly with those who prey upon the weaknesses of those people in the community. In the long run we must teach the youth of this community the old aphorism that crime does not pay.”
Judge Boharic then announced Lee’s sentence: the maximum term possible, thirty years. “If I could give him more years in the penitentiary under the law, I would,” the judge told the attorneys.
Word of Lee’s extraordinarily long sentence traveled fast. Gang members stationed at the courthouse inquired about the outcome of various trials and then, like eager stockbrokers, got on the telephone to deliver the news. By the time Cronin drove the four miles to Horner, people there had already heard of Lee’s sentence.
A neighbor delivered the news to LaJoe. “What?” Lafeyette asked, overhearing the hushed conversation.
“Shut up,” LaJoe told him. “I don’t want to hear it. You don’t talk about them peoples. They still got peoples out here.”
“Why?” asked Pharoah.
“He might be gone but there’s always someone out here. They could get the family hurt.”
A few days later, The Chicago Tribune ran a story on the front page of its Metro section about Lee’s sentence. In the accompanying picture, a teenage boy, maybe thirteen or fourteen, had his arms raised. He didn’t want to answer a question posed by the reporter, so he shrugged his shoulders and thrust his arms into the air. The Vice Lords thought he was celebrating Lee’s sentencing. The next day, they beat him up, badly enough that the boy’s father went to the police. Even without their leader, there was discipline among the ranks—and some ready to fill in for Lee. Jimmie Lee, it was clear, wouldn’t be missed long.
Fifteen
THE WHITE GYPSY CAB pulled up to the back of 1920 West Washington, its back seat and trunk loaded down with bags of groceries. LaJoe and Rochelle sat squeezed in the front seat. Once a month, when LaJoe received her public aid check, she hired a cab to take her shopping; it was nearly impossible to persuade a licensed taxi to come into the neighborhood. Rochelle often joined LaJoe so that she had some help. LaJoe would have the cab take them to three different stores—Jewel, Aldi, and a discount butcher store—all of which charged less than the hiked-up prices of the closer markets. Some local markets charged 30 percent more for food than other stores did. It was July and she had just received her restored benefits, and she resumed her routine as if it had never been disrupted.
LaJoe bought enough to feed herself, Lafeyette, Pharoah, the triplets, and LaShawn, LaShawn’s boyfriend and his brother, LaShawn’s two children, Terence, and Weasel, who had moved back home. LaShawn contributed her food stamps to this monthly venture. LaJoe never needed a shopping list and always came within dollars of the $542 she had in the combined sets of food stamps. The food was almost always the same—and because there was so much, LaJoe stored some of the meat in the freezers of two neighbors.
15 packs of bacon
8 packs of sausages
12 dozen eggs
6 loaves of bread
8 pa
ckages of hot dog buns
10 packages of hamburger buns
3 gallons of milk
6 gallons of orange juice
2 gallons of apple juice
4 six-packs of fruit juice cartons
6 packages of sliced American cheese
12 boxes of cereal, including oatmeal and grits
24 cans each of ravioli, Campbell’s soup, peas, carrots, mixed vegetables, applesauce, creamed corn, whole corn, baked beans, spaghetti, peaches, fruit cocktail, tomato paste, and tomato sauce
24 boxes of corn bread mix
4 packs of hamburger patties
14 round steaks
2 canned hams
7 packages of chicken
4 packages of pork chops
8 pounds of ground beef
20 packages of hot dogs
4 pot roasts
2 pounds of veal
4 packages of beef liver
10 packages each of salami and bologna
4 packages of ham
5 packages of frozen perch
2 boxes of frozen fish sticks
4 packages of cookies
4 packages each of doughnuts and Danishes
6 boxes of spaghetti
12 boxes of macaroni and cheese
6 cans of Spam
14 cans of sardines
and assorted fresh vegetables, including cabbage, onions, carrots, lettuce, collard greens, tomatoes, and potatoes, as well as sugar and seasonings.
As a special favor for Lafeyette, she had bought some cans of oysters, which he loved to eat with just a touch of hot sauce. For Pharoah, she bought ripe pears. For all the children, to celebrate the restoration of her benefits, she bought apples, grapes, plums, peaches, and Popsicles. The treats would all be gone within a few days.
Lafeyette and the triplets raced out of the building to help their mother carry in the bags of food. Timothy grabbed two containers of milk. Tiffany and Tammie rummaged through the bags for the sweets. Lafeyette, who was growing taller and stronger, picked up two heavy sacks, teetered for a moment, and then walked back toward the building. Where was Pharoah? LaJoe wondered. He always showed up to help. She had told him she was going shopping. Maybe he forgot. That was just like Pharoah to forget, she thought. Daydreaming again. Oh, that Pharoah. Still, she wondered where he could be.
Three blocks south of Horner sits a condominium complex called Damen Courts. Its manicured lawns and graffiti-free walls seem immaculate next to the rubble of Horner. The three-story red brick buildings look elegant and proper beside Horner’s grim and worn high-rises.
Pharoah can’t recall when he first discovered this small paradise, but when he did, he retreated regularly to the comfort of the lush lawns that circled the buildings. He was there when his mother returned from shopping.
The grass carpet offered a quiet resting place; it was like going to the beach. Pharoah found a shady place on the lawn and shot marbles or read a Captain America or Superman comic. Or, if the mood fit him, he just sat and daydreamed. He thought about school and next year’s spelling bee. He urged on the Chicago Cubs and imagined himself a professional wrestler. It was at Damen Courts that he came up with the name for a scraggly gray cat that was now staying with the family: Useless. “He hardly don’t catch no mice. He just want to freeload off our heat,” he explained.
Pharoah had long sought such a refuge. For a few months last spring, he’d attended Bible classes at the First Congregational Baptist Church. Washington Boulevard was lined with churches, but most of them now served people who had since moved from the neighborhood. Churches had lost their authority in areas like Horner. Pharoah grew bored with the classes and began to question whether there was indeed a God. He often prayed to him, asking that he let them move from the projects. But, Pharoah would say, “I be praying but he don’t do nothing. Maybe there ain’t no God.” It was as much a question as it was a statement.
At Damen Courts, Pharoah found some respite. No one knew of his discovery, not his mother, his cousin Porkchop, his friend Rickey, or Lafeyette. He wanted it that way. He wanted a place that he could escape to by himself, where nothing would interrupt his daydreaming, where no one would try to fight him, where he didn’t have to worry about gunshots or firebombings. When his mother asked where he was going, he said to the corner store to play video games. He didn’t want anybody to know about his hideaway.
In the weeks immediately following Jimmie Lee’s conviction, an unusual calm descended over Horner. Several other gang leaders had been jailed. The drug dealing and beatings didn’t stop, but they certainly slowed down in comparison with the relentless battles of the previous summer.
With fewer shootings and a reprieve from some of the family’s troubles, Pharoah’s stutter became less noticeable. In later months, it would recur, but never would it get so bad that it would immobilize or silence him as it had during the past year. LaJoe had taken Pharoah to the Miles Square Health Center, where a counselor urged Pharoah to slow down when he spoke. Think about what you want to say before speaking, he told Pharoah. The stuttering is partly due to nerves, he explained. Pharoah was bewildered. “What’s it got to do with nerves?” he later asked his mother, who did her best to explain that when people started fighting and shooting, he got nervous and scared and would begin to stutter. It acted as a kind of warning mechanism to himself to be vigilant and cautious. Pharoah understood. He always seemed to understand—when he wanted to.
With the uneasy calm, Pharoah found other distractions in addition to Damen Courts. He and Lafeyette frequented the outdoor swimming pool in Union Park, four blocks to the east, and in this large pool filled with flailing bodies, both boys learned to swim. They also regularly visited the Boys Club to play basketball or shoot pool or to get free sandwiches, which had become endearingly known among the children as a “chokes.” Or they might just hang about their building, playing basketball on the jungle gym or wading in the permanent pool created by the fire hydrant. Sometimes Red, a small man in his fifties who lived in their building, would ride around the high-rise on his adult-size tricycle with presents for the neighborhood children stuffed in his basket. He found the used gifts in trash bins or behind stores. He’d give the little girls plastic necklaces and metal pendants; the little boys got tennis balls. To LaJoe and the other mothers, he presented gladioli and daisies which, in their late bloom, florists had thrown away. Over the years, Red had become like a year-round Santa to the building’s kids. The triplets in particular adored him, and on his arrival on his tricycle could be heard screaming, “Red, oh, Red! What it is, Red?” as they ran up and surrounded him and gave him hugs in exchange for the presents.
Pharoah continued to badger Lafeyette and Rickey and any other older friend he could corner to take him back to the railroad tracks, which he remembered for the quiet and solace he’d found there. But no one would take him. The stories from last year of lost legs were still fresh in their minds. And now there were exaggerated children’s tales of “raper mans” and other loonies hiding in the buildings by the viaduct. So, with the older boys’ refusal and his own fear of what he might meet at the tracks, Pharoah spent more time at his private sanctuary.
He stayed on the lawn at Damen Courts until a security guard or janitor shooed him away, but he always left happy and satisfied. Being there for even an hour gave him a chance to catch his breath, to find the tranquillity he treasured.
On this particular afternoon, after his mother had finished putting away the groceries, Pharoah wandered through the front door, his head cocked slightly to one side. “Where you been, Pharoah?” his mother asked.
“Nowheres,” he said, turning away. It was hard for him to lie, especially to his mother.
“Pharoah?”
Pharoah thought about telling her but didn’t. “I been playing video games with Porkchop,” he said and walked back to his room.
In later weeks, he finally confided in his mother about his discovery. “My mind be cleared of everything th
ere,” he told her.
Fall 1988–Winter 1989
Sixteen
IN THE INTERVENING MONTHS, Lafeyette and Rickey had become friends or, in Lafeyette’s word, associates. Closer in age, they seemed a more likely pair than Pharoah and Rickey. LaJoe speculated that Lafeyette first started hanging out with Rickey because he wanted to keep a close eye on Pharoah. But Rickey and Lafeyette took a liking to each other.
Rickey introduced Lafeyette to some of his friends, many of whom had been in trouble with the law. A group of them, including Rickey, had been arrested regularly for what was known as “smash and grabs.” They smashed the windows of cars stopped at the traffic light on the corner of Damen Avenue and Lake Street and then grabbed jewelry from the motorist or snatched a purse or valise from the passenger seat. It had become such a troublesome problem at Horner that the police had assigned two young plainclothes officers to watch for the thefts. Rickey had also been picked up for stealing a car. The police caught him and a friend driving it around Horner’s parking lots; Rickey could barely see over the Cadillac’s steering wheel.
Rickey had been arrested at least half a dozen times and was known by all thirty officers in the Thirteenth District’s tactical unit. “By the time he’s eighteen, he’ll be dead or in the penitentiary,” one cop prophesied. They had once found two bullets in his bedroom—which they searched after Rickey’s mother gave them permission. And Rickey’s close friend Terrell had been picked up for possession of a zip gun that was constructed from a toy plastic pistol.
There Are No Children Here Page 15