Once a King, Always a King: The Unmaking of a Latin King

by Reymundo Sanchez

  They stood me up, searched me again, and sat me in the back seat of their car. A policewoman searched Lilly and, once it was determined that she didn’t have anything illegal on her, they removed the handcuffs and let her go. “Where are you taking him?” Lilly asked. “Good ol’ thirteenth district, Shakespeare and California,” the detective shouted as he got into the car. “I’ll get you out,” Lilly motioned with her lips as we drove off.

  These detectives, who were from the Gang Crimes Division in the Chicago Police Department, made it their business to know everything that happened within and between gangs. That’s how they knew about Imelda and me. They also knew about my past and about all the things I tried to do about my past.

  “Lil Loco, where have you been?” the detective on the passenger seat asked. I didn’t respond. “Tell me, Lil Loco, how do piece-of-shit gangbangers like you get such good-looking girls?” he tried again. Again I didn’t respond. “Stupid bitches,” said the detective driving. Nothing else was said to me until we reached the police station.

  At the police station I was taken into one of the gang crime unit rooms. There were four desks in the room and a bench. I was placed on the bench by one of the detectives, who sat at the desk nearest me. He put a form into a typewriter and began asking me questions. His name was Detective Garcia. He was a short, stocky, balding man with absolutely no Latin accent. While he filled out the form, the detective made comments about the gun they had taken from me. He mentioned how he hoped that a ballistics test would find that someone had been killed with it so that I could be pinned for the crime. “At least we’d drop the drug charge if we could get you for murder,” the detective said. I wasn’t worried about that happening. Cheo had given the nine-millimeter to me from a stash of brand-new weapons he had purchased to sell to gangbangers for profit. But I couldn’t be certain it had never been used before.

  Another detective entered the room with the gun in his hand and placed it in front of Detective Garcia. “The gun is clean, but we have some questions for him about where it came from,” the detective said. Detective Garcia got up from behind his desk, stood me up, and led me out of the room following the other detective. I was taken into another room. This room had only two desks. White detectives occupied both desks.

  Detective Garcia removed the handcuff from my left hand and put his right knee hard into the back of my right knee, making my right leg collapse to the ground and the rest of me right along with it. While I was on the ground on one knee, he handcuffed me to a radiator. Detective Garcia left the room and came back with the gun. He handed it to one of the detectives sitting behind a desk, and the detective got up and walked my way. The detective was a big, burly white guy, about six-five, two hundred and fifty pounds, with white hair and glasses.

  “Where did you get this gun?” he asked as he looked down at me menacingly. “I bought it from a junkie,” I told him. “Don’t give me that shit!” the detective screamed, grabbing me by the hair, tilting my head upward, and putting his face inches from mine. “There were over a thousand guns stolen from a gun shop out in Niles, and this gun is one of then,” the detective said, as he put the gun against my left temple. “You little motherfucker, where did you get the gun?” The detective pushed my face hard against the radiator. The heat was not turned on so the radiator was cold, but nevertheless it was painful. “I told you, I got it from a junkie,” I said. The detective let me go, walked away, and stood near his desk.

  Detective Garcia got up and walked my way. “Rey, hey, Rey, come on, man, don’t make this hard on yourself,” he said. I was getting ready to repeat my “I got it from a junkie” line when he lunged at me and kicked me in the stomach. “I’m sure you’re remembering now, right?” Detective Garcia said as he punched me in the back. “I got it from a junkie for an eight ball (eighth of an ounce of cocaine),” I gasped. “Listen, you fuckin’ punk, we’re gonna charge you for anyone killed with any one of those stolen guns, so you better talk,” Detective Garcia said while he pulled my head backward by the hair with one hand and grabbed my neck with the other. I just stopped talking. I didn’t have the information they wanted, so I didn’t say a word until Detective Garcia kicked me in the ribcage. “So you’re not going to talk, huh, motherfucker!” he shouted as he kicked me. “I don’t know anything about any fuckin’ stolen guns!” I shouted back when I regained my breath.

  All the detectives walked out. About half an hour later, a uniformed police officer came and took me to the lockup area. I lay on one of the metal benches in a fetal position, nursing the pain in my ribs. I spent the night there and was transferred to Cook County jail in the morning to face a judge. That morning I limped in front of the judge, holding my midsection. I was charged for possession of twenty-three grams of cocaine with the intent to deliver. I was also charged with resisting arrest (a charge added by the cops to explain my beat-up condition). That charge was eventually dropped. No charges were ever brought for the possession of a gun. My bond was set at one million dollars, and I was taken to the infirmary right away.

  THE SERIOUSNESS OF what had just happened didn’t even dawn on me. I guess the pain I was in numbed me through the whole procedure. I came to learn that I had two fractured ribs along with a badly sprained wrist. I didn’t even realize the consequences of the day’s proceedings until I was cared for in the infirmary and then transported for processing into general lockup. I was taken into a room where I was stripped of all my belongings and thoroughly searched and examined. I was given a pair of beige pants with the initials D.O.C. (Department of Corrections) on the left leg, and a beige button-down shirt with the same D.O.C. on the back and on the left chest area. I was given the basic necessities, which included a bath towel, a washcloth, toothpaste, a toothbrush, and bath soap. I was also given a blanket, a bedspread, a pillow, and a pillowcase. I was allowed to keep the gym shoes I had on with the laces because I wasn’t a suicide risk. I was taken into Division One cell house where I would await my court date.

  It was the middle of the day when I arrived at the cellblock. I was twenty-one years old and didn’t know how long I’d be calling this place home. Because of my injuries, a guard asked the inmates in the television room to help me take my things to my cell. No one volunteered to help. No one even looked my way. But then I said, “Amor de Rey (King love),” and five guys sitting at a table playing cards got up and walked my way. Two of them grabbed my things while the others introduced themselves and shook my hand in the manner all Latin Kings did (slap each other’s right hands and come up forming the Latin Kings hand sign, which is identical to the “I love you” gesture in sign language). We walked past the television room and into a hallway with doors on either side. My cell was the third door on the left. I was relieved to find out that I had the cell all to myself. The Kings helped me get settled, and then we all went out to the television room to play cards.

  Division One is one of the oldest cell houses at Cook County Jail. The cellblock I was in had solid metal walls down the hallway that divided the cells, and it had metal bars on the outside walls. On the other side of the bars was a corridor that allowed guards to look into each cell. The cells consisted of a steel bunk, welded to the wall, layered with a thin twin-size mattress. There was also a toilet and a sink with a piece of stainless steel attached to the wall above it and used as a mirror.

  There were twenty-two inmates in that cellblock with me. All of us were either Latino or African American. Nine of the inmates were Peoples (Latin Kings and associates)—five Latin Kings and four Vice Lords, and the rest were Folks (Disciples and associates). The Kings’ leader in our cellblock was called Guero (White Boy) because he looked Caucasian, but he was Puerto Rican. He was in his late twenties with a medium build, black shoulder-length hair, and hazel eyes. Guero was one of the very few Latin Kings I ever met who didn’t have a tattoo. He was fighting a rape charge. The other Latin Kings were Macho, Flaco, Junior, and Dice. Macho was nineteen, with a chip on his shoulder. He was tall and muscula
r and always seemed to be looking for some kind of confrontation with the Folks. Macho was waiting to be tried on a murder charge. Flaco was a tall, skinny older King. He was in his mid-thirties, and his body was covered with tattoos. Flaco was a veteran of the prison system. Flaco’s charge was attempted murder and strong-arm robbery. Junior was also in his thirties. He was short and fat and had joined the Latin Kings while incarcerated in Cook County Jail. Junior was a Colombian who had been caught transporting a large amount of cocaine into Chicago. Dice was a quiet, low-key eighteen-year-old. He was very muscular for his slim build, and had a big lion’s head wearing a crown tattooed on his back. Junior was charged with the murder of two fourteen-year-olds killed in a drive-by shooting.

  In Division One, most if not all inmates were being held on charges that required a large sum of money to bond out, or they were being held without bail. Because of that, there seemed to be a mutual respect among them, even if they were from opposing gangs. Most of the Folks in our cellblock were in their twenties and thirties. Out of the twenty-two inmates, only four us were first-timers.

  Near dinnertime we were locked up in our cells. Guero lived two cells down from me, and began talking to me through the bars. “We’ll be in here until they bring chow,” Guero said. “Ponte hacer sit-ups o push-ups para matar el tiempo (Do situps or push-ups to kill time),” he advised. I sat on my bunk, staring at the steel walls. They were a depressing gray color. It was obvious that they had been painted over and over without the old paint ever being removed. Even with the sounds of different styles of music and conversations blaring in the air, it seemed silent.

  I stared into nothingness with no thoughts or feelings. For a brief moment it was as if nothing existed; even the pain in my wrist and ribs went away. But finally it all came crashing down on me. I was incarcerated with almost no chance of getting out unless I could beat the charges against me when I went to trial. A $1 million bond meant that $100,000 would be required to bail me out. The possibility of anyone I knew putting up that kind of money was nil.

  The loud clanking and simultaneous opening of cell doors woke me from my empty daydream. Guero opened my door. “Chow time, brother, come on,” Guero said. I silently followed everyone into the television room. Flaco had already gotten six food trays and put them on our table. The trays were the stackable kind, made of solid plastic with built-in food compartments. That evening’s meal was baked chicken with mashed potatoes and corn. The food was tasteless and bland, but we ate it as if it were gourmet fare.

  After dinner we were locked up again so the trays could be collected; then we were let back out. This was the usual routine, day after day, for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. At all of our meals the Kings’ routine was to wait for everyone to be present, say a prayer that was half religious, half Latin King–related, and then eat.

  At the front of the cellblock there were two telephones, one on each side of the entrance door. The phone on the left was used exclusively by the Peoples, the one on the right by the Folks. Exceptions were made, but only with prior permission. This rule, like all other jailhouse rules set by the inmates, was enforced by intimidation and violence. The Peoples and Folks knew to respect each other’s boundaries or risk an all-out gang war that would likely spread to all cell houses. Those not associated in any way with a gang had to pay for the privilege to use the phone. These payments came in the form of food, cigarettes, arrangement of outside jail favors, or sex, although sex as payment did not apply to the Latin Kings as they had strict rules against homosexual activity, which resulted in extremely severe punishment. Inmates not affiliated with a gang who did not follow the jailhouse rules were severely beaten. Those who were tough enough to fight back usually ended up joining the gang opposing the one that had beaten them. The jail administration and the guards supposedly overseeing the inmates were powerless to stop or even curb the enforcement of jailhouse rules. It was a way of prison life, and nothing could be done about it.

  Since I had just arrived at the cellblock that day, I was allowed first use of the telephone that evening. Only collect calls could be made from those telephones. I called Lilly.

  Lilly was anticipating my call and sounded relieved to hear my voice. “How are you?” she asked in a very happy voice. “I’m alright,” I responded. “Have you seen Loca?” “She’s right here.” “Put her on,” I demanded. I don’t know how Lilly felt about me asking for Loca immediately, but at that moment Lilly’s feelings were the furthest thing from my mind. Loca was the only person who could help me regain my freedom and I knew that.

  “Hey, Lil Loco,” Loca said. “There will be a lawyer coming to visit you soon. You tell the brothers in there who you are and that you are a King under Tino.” I sat silently, listening to her, waiting to hear that she was coming to bail me out, but I knew those words would never come. When Loca finished talking there was a long silence between us, as if we were both quietly praying that there was something else that could be done.

  “Do you want to speak to Lilly?” Loca asked, finally breaking the silence. “Yeah,” I responded. “I’m so sorry,” Lilly said when she came on the phone. “It’s not your fault,” I assured her. “It was that fuckin’ Spanky.” Both of us went silent for a moment. Since we had become a couple, we had not spent any time apart until now. Our lack of verbal communication had never been as evident as it was at that very moment. The fact that our six-month relationship was based on sex and drugs became clear. “I’ll call you tomorrow and give you visitation information so you can come see me,” I finally said. “I love you and miss you so much,” Lilly responded. “I do, too,” I said in a whisper. “Good-bye.” I heard Lilly’s quiet good-bye as I hung up the phone. I walked straight to my cell and lay down.

  I twisted and turned on my bunk, thinking about my situation. I wanted so much to smoke a joint, to snort some cocaine. I got up and walked toward the cell door, only to turn around and lie on my bunk again. I was losing my mind. “Hey, dude, come on out of there, man,” I heard Guero say as he walked past. I didn’t respond. I just got up and sat at the end of my bunk with my face in my hands. “Oye, chico, vente aca (Hey, dude, come over here),” Flaco said, as he opened the door to my cell. “Toma, bro (Here, bro),” he said as he handed me a pack of cigarettes. “Me voy a quedar a aqui un ratito (I’m going to stay in here for a little while),” I told Flaco. “Gracias por los cigarillos (Thanks for the cigarettes).” I got up and shook Flaco’s hand with the Latin King handshake. He gave me a book of matches and left my cell. I sat on my bunk with my back against the hard, cold wall and lit up a cigarette.

  BEING IN JAIL didn’t bother me as much as not being able to get high. I was a Latin King, and the gangs ran the prisons, so in that sense I was safe. I didn’t have to worry about being beaten up, raped, or taken advantage of in any way. Even if I ran into any of Spanky’s boys in jail, I didn’t have to worry about retaliation. In fact, they would have to back me up if it ever came to a conflict. Within a few short hours, I had a clear understanding of what “doing time” meant. Time just crawled by, allowing an inmate to think things through or go completely crazy. My thoughts were directed at things I could do very little about. Mostly, I thought about the whereabouts of my mother and sisters. I had not seen nor heard from them since my mother had sent me to live with her drug-dealing stepson. Maybe my sisters had become objects of abuse since I wasn’t there any more. More likely, all was well for them because I was no longer a burden. I wondered if I would ever see them again. I also wondered how long it would be before I would see the streets again.

  After a while Guero came into my cell and sat next to me. “Are you, alright, King brother?” Guero asked. “I’m cool, just need a pase (snort of cocaine),” I responded. “You’ll get over that feeling soon enough. Just don’t let it get to you. What are you in here for?” Guero asked. “Possession with the intent to deliver perico (cocaine),” I told him. “I got a million-dollar bond, bro, a million dollars! I’m a million-dollar man,” I added. W
e both laughed weakly at that. “No shit, man, it’s that RICO shit they came up with,” Guero said. “I don’t know about no Rico but I hate his ass already,” I said. In the fight against drugs, RICO (Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations), made drug users and dealers a higher priority in the courts than even murderers, rapists, or other violent criminals. RICO enabled judges to hand out high bail requirements and mandatory sentences, and allowed the law to seize everything owned by offenders. I found it quite ironic that I was subject to a law whose name sounded like a street nickname.

  “What did you do?” I asked Guero. “I’m in for rape, man, but I didn’t rape that bitch,” Guero responded. “That bitch wants to get back together with me now,” he added. According to Guero, he was a victim of his girlfriend’s vindictive nature. She was teaching him a lesson by falsely accusing him and having him incarcerated. Guero explained that they had broken up because of a one-night stand he had had with her cousin. She didn’t accept his “I was drunk” excuse and kicked him out of their apartment. After a couple of weeks, she finally allowed him to come back to the apartment to retrieve his property.

  He went there and found her getting high. Supposedly she offered him marijuana and booze but he turned her down. She led him into the bedroom so he could get his things and then began seducing him. Guero said he could’ve, but didn’t resist, and they ended up having sex. During their sexual encounter she suddenly reached up and scratched his face and neck. She then began screaming loudly for help. Guero said he slapped her in an attempt to calm her down, but that only made her scream louder. The neighbors heard the commotion and called the police. The police arrived as Guero was leaving the apartment and arrested him. He had been in jail ever since. He had been in Cook County Jail going on eight months when I arrived. His bond had been set at $100,000. He was certain that on his next court date, which was less than a month away, he would finally be released. “The court doesn’t even know that this bitch is talking to me on the phone saying she is sorry and that she wants me back,” Guero told me. “She has already talked to my lawyer about dropping the charges. It’s up to the state now.” I thought he was lying and making excuses to convince himself of his innocence. After all, even I considered myself innocent, knowing very well that I was involved in criminal activity.