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

by Reymundo Sanchez

  The next couple of weeks were pretty uneventful. Lilly visited me a few times. We pretty much just reminisced about our drug-induced sexual frenzies. I called her every so often on the phone, but we never had much to say to each other. Our conversations always revolved around things we had done and declarations of love for each other. I passed the time by playing cards and doing push-ups and sit-ups in my cell. The jail food was doing me some good. When I was processed into jail, I weighed a mere 128 pounds, mostly because of my cocaine addiction. I hadn’t even realized I had lost so much weight until I was incarcerated. After only two weeks of incarceration I was already gaining weight and feeling better physically.

  At the beginning of the third week, my street problems caught up with me, and my relationship with the Kings in the cellblock took a turn for the worse. That Monday, Macho had a court date. While he waited in the courtroom lockup to be taken in front of the judge, he met and talked to one of Spanky’s Kings, who was also waiting to be taken in front of a judge. Macho learned about my outside relationship with some of the Latin Kings and the reasons behind their desire to take me out. He also learned that I had been violated out of the Kings and since then had chickened out on a hit. After that, as far as Macho was concerned, I wasn’t a King and should be violated in jail for what I had done with Spanky’s wife. Macho also became convinced that I was a coward because of the time I had chosen to run instead of murdering someone on a hit. Macho brought all this information, and his feelings about it, back to the cellblock and shared it with the other Kings. My stay in Cook County Jail suddenly became uneasy.

  After dinner lockup was over, Guero asked me to come to his cell where he confronted me with Macho’s story. I gave Guero a brief history about my tenure as a Latin King. I told him why I got violated out and admitted having an affair with the wife of a Latin King brother. I also told Guero that King Tino still considered me a Latin King and had given me the blessings and respect reserved for a senior member. I explained that the only Kings on the street that had a problem with me were those that hung out with Spanky. About the hit, I told Guero that I had done my part for the Latin King Nation and therefore should not have to be forced by other Kings to go out and prove myself.

  Guero, surprisingly, took my side. He said as long as Tino had given me back my crown then I was indeed a Latin King regardless of what anyone else said. He also told me that he had problems with the new street soldiers expecting senior brothers to continue setting themselves out by committing hits. Guero agreed with my opinion that I shouldn’t have to continue proving myself worthy to be a King for new generations of members. “We did our part—they need to do theirs and respect us,” Guero said. He told me to stay in his cell while he made a phone call, then walked out.

  About fifteen minutes had elapsed when Guero walked in with the rest of the Kings from the cellblock. My first thought was that they were going to try and take me out right there and then. I stood up, put out my cigarette, and mentally prepared to defend myself any way I could. “I just spoke to King Papo,” Guero began. “For those of you who don’t know who King Papo is, he is King Tino’s second-in-command on the streets. King Papo made it clear that this brother should be respected as the Latin King he is.” Guero pointed at me. “Regardless of what happened, King Tino respects him enough to give him back his crown, and that’s all I and everyone else here needs to know.”

  I scanned the faces in the cell, looking for reactions. Everyone remained expressionless except for Macho, who stared at me, shaking his head in disbelief. “Does anyone here have a problem with that?” Guero asked, looking directly at Macho. “Break it up in there!” a guard yelled as he walked up the corridor toward the cell. Before we exited the cell, the guard stood on the other side of the bars. “What’s the problem, guys?” the guard asked. “Guero, come here.” Guero walked over to the guard. The rest of us left slowly, one at a time. “Punk ass,” Macho whispered, as I walked past him. I went back to my cell, and Guero assured the guard that he was putting a disagreement to rest and not starting one. For the remainder of my stay at Cook County, Macho went out of his way to discredit me. Life went on.

  THAT FRIDAY, GUERO went to court, and, just as he had predicted, his girlfriend dropped the charges against him and he was set free. That morning after breakfast, Guero came into my cell and gave me a Bible. “I’m going home today, bro, so I won’t need this,” Guero said. “Read it. It will help you out.” The following week, the Latin King leaders in Cook County Jail assigned Macho to be the new leader of our cellblock.

  I spent the next eight months in relative seclusion. Macho continued to try to draw me into confrontations but did not succeed. It crossed my mind to just get it over with and fight him, but I decided against it. It wasn’t because I was in jail. I knew the worst that could happen was that I would be sentenced to solitary confinement, then placed in a different cellblock. It would be a fight between two Latin Kings, so it was unlikely that new charges would be filed against either of us unless it was a onesided beating. More likely, we would be left in the same cellblock and Macho would have newfound respect for me. Either way, the harassment would stop. Other inmates made remarks about my manhood as Macho’s comments became louder and bolder. He made everyone in the cellblock believe that I was using the Latin Kings as my protection because I was a coward. (My membership meant that anyone putting his hands on me would possibly set off a riot throughout the jail.) In a way, Macho had a point. I did use my relationship with Tino to my advantage, to keep myself safe. But I knew that if I really had to, I would fight anyone who posed a real physical threat to me. As for Macho, I didn’t see him as a threat. I saw him as an ignorant young buck. I decided that he wasn’t worth my trouble and that there was no one in that cell-block I needed to prove myself to.

  I spent most of my days in my cell reading the Bible, sketching, and writing poetry. Every so often I would go out and watch television, or play chess or cards. After a while the older inmates in the cellblock gained respect for me because of the way I chose to deal with Macho. Some would come into my cell and read my poetry, comment on my drawings, or discuss the Bible with me. That kept me at peace and helped me overcome the desire to attack Macho.

  Lilly continued to visit me every week. She was still taking drugs when she first started to visit, but then things began to change. We began to have conversations that had nothing to with sex or drugs. We talked about religion and our future. We began to see the mistakes we had made and discuss ways of changing. The attorney Loca hired never showed up to visit, but he did show up in court. I would go in front of the judge once a month to have my case heard, only to be taken back to Cook County to await another trial date. It was just one frustrating continuance after another. I never said a word, nor was I asked to say anything. The assistant district attorney would ask for more time to gather evidence, or my attorney would ask for more time to prepare his case; the judge would agree and I would be taken back to my cell. It was a sham if ever I saw one.

  After four months my attorney began asking for more money. Loca had disappeared. Lilly tried to raise money for the lawyer, but she couldn’t quite come up with all of it. For my last two court dates I was represented by a public defender. Finally, in the eighth month of my stay in Cook County, I was taken to court and my case actually went to trial. At the advice of my public defender, I optioned for a bench trial as opposed to a jury trial. He said that if I were found guilty, the sentence would be much harsher if I took a jury trial. With a bench trial, the decision over my guilt or innocence would be totally up to the judge.

  I was found guilty on the charge of possessing cocaine with the intent to deliver, and sentenced to four years in a State of Illinois correctional facility. The eight months I had spent in Cook County Jail would count toward that time, so I would actually do forty months. With good behavior I would do half of that, and I could be free in less than two years.

  The seclusion I had been in—both by being incarcerated and b
y keeping to myself as much as possible—became my saving grace during this time. I started to realize that being there was actually a blessing in disguise. I drew that conclusion from reading the Bible in its entirety, praying, and learning how to count my blessings. If I were still on the streets, I reasoned, I would be either dead by drug overdose or dead at the hands of Spanky’s boys.

  My nightmares had also noticeably decreased. While I was living with Lilly, they had decreased due mostly to the drug use. Once I was incarcerated, they stopped almost completely, and those I did have weren’t as horrifying. Maybe it was because I was finally paying for a crime I had committed. Maybe it was because I had started to consciously accept my wrongdoings. Whatever the reason, I was relieved by the infrequency of my nightmares.

  I had spent a birthday, a Christmas, and a New Year’s Day in Cook County Jail without once feeling depressed or angered about my situation. When I was convicted, I wasn’t shocked or disappointed. I had come to terms with the possibility of being found guilty and had prepared myself to do the time. I concluded that serving two years in the penitentiary was a small price to pay for the crimes I had committed or been involved with in my life.

  A week after I was convicted and sentenced, I was transferred to Joliet State Penitentiary to await processing into a medium-security prison somewhere in Illinois. I took the Bible Guero had given me along with an odd feeling of peace.

  Because all my life I had felt I was cursed, I never knew what a blessing was. Being at peace allowed me to begin to understand. I remembered guns pointed at me at point-blank range that never fired. I recalled bullets shot at me that did less damage than a bad fall or the beatings at the hands of my own gang. I compared them with the events that had taken the lives of so many others but had somehow spared mine. Then I thought about the huge amount of drugs I had poured into my body, yet I was still alive. It was these thoughts that made me realize the meaning of a blessing. It was then that I started to consider my conviction as a blessing. It was actually the first blessing I counted.

  7 Doing Time

  I ARRIVED AT Joliet Correctional Center on a cold, snowy day. There were thirty inmates on the bus with me. We were taken directly into the processing unit and then to our cells. A portion of Joliet served as a temporary holding facility for those just entering the Illinois Department of Corrections (IDOC) from Chicago and the surrounding area. Most inmates sent there would eventually be transferred to other IDOC facilities throughout the state. We arrived at Joliet under lockdown conditions, which meant that inmates in the processing unit and the regular prison population were not allowed out of their cells except to shower once a week. Even then, only a handful of inmates were marched to and from the shower area at any given time.

  Four days before I was transferred to Joliet, a fight involving the Latin Kings had broken out, and a rival gang member was fatally stabbed. Apparently, the Latin Kings had walked into the cafeteria to find two members of a rival gang occupying tables used by the Kings. In the penitentiary, that is a major sign of disrespect. All inmates know which tables belong to which gang. If you sit at a table belonging to your rivals, you are pretty much calling them pussies. If the disrespected gang does not respond with an appropriate retaliation, that gang is then targeted for similar acts and more disrespect by the other gangs.

  Three Latin Kings left the chow line and attacked the two inmates sitting at their table. One of the Kings had a homemade knife and used it to stab one of the inmates. The prison guards know very well that specific gangs occupy certain groups of tables. For whatever reason, nobody said anything to the two rival members, and nobody paid any attention to the Kings until the actual attack took place. Knowing the way gangs operated, the guards must have or should have known something was going to go down. They saw the steps leading up to the inevitable confrontation and did nothing to stop it.

  In Joliet my cellmate was a black guy called Smokey. Smokey was a member of the Four Corner Hustlers, a gang connected to the Vice Lords. He was about six-one, muscular, with a small afro and countless gang-related tattoos. It was Smokey’s second time in the prison system. His current charges were aggravated assault with a deadly weapon and violation of parole. He had been sentenced to two years on the new charge, plus he would have to complete the year he had left on parole in prison. Smokey and I had one thing in common—we both kept to ourselves. This made for a good cellmate relationship.

  After a week and a half of being locked down, we were finally let out of our cells on a routine basis. We were allowed daily visits to the cafeteria, the yard, and church services. The inmates who had participated in the brawl had been moved out of Joliet. The remaining Latin Kings gathered all the new arrivals in the yard and gave us a quick rundown of the rules. They made us aware of which section of the yard and the cafeteria was ours and which belonged to our enemies. We were also told that the King brother who had been the leader of this portion of the cell block in Joliet had been shipped out during the lockup. We had to decide who our next leader was going to be. The vote was scheduled for the next day in the yard.

  The next day, about seventeen of us gathered in the yard and introduced ourselves. Surprisingly, and luckily, as it happened, for me, several Kings not only recognized but also respected the name Lil Loco. (News from Spanky and his gang wouldn’t have mattered—there are different rules of respect in the penitentiary.) That notoriety got me nominated for leadership. I turned it down but agreed to serve as advisor—to help make decisions in matters where action needed to be taken, but not to make the final decision. I thought that this would allow me to try to keep the peace without being judged on my choice not to break the peace if it came to that. The first thing I advised was that those Kings who wanted the leadership position should provide us with brief backgrounds of themselves, and we would wait until the next day for the actual vote. One nonmember among us said his brother was a Latin King from Maywood. I advised that he hang out with us so we could look out for him, but he would not be allowed to voice an opinion on any decision made by the Latin Kings. For the most part, we all agreed.

  Just as on the streets, in prison there is always at least one guy in the crowd who wants to be chief at all costs. This guy is always very vocal, aggressive, and usually makes decisions based on promoting his ego. In our group, that guy was Tarzan. Tarzan was a heavyset guy with shoulder-length hair. From the beginning, he thought there was no need for a vote for leadership; we should automatically appoint him because he had been there before, and had been a leader before. But very few in our group were first-time offenders, and furthermore, no one liked Tarzan’s attitude. Tarzan didn’t like the idea of taking the nonmember under our wing. Tarzan thought that the guy should be initiated into the Kings if he wanted to hang with us; otherwise he’d have to be on his own. “For all we know, he could be lying,” Tarzan said. I disagreed with him. “You don’t know shit about him,” Tarzan replied.

  As it turned out, we did find out from another inmate that the guy’s brother was not a Latin King. Since I had been so vocal about taking him under our wing, I had the uncomfortable task of approaching him about it. Of course, it was expected that some kind of violence would be inflicted on him for lying to us. The guy confessed that he had lied. He explained that he lived in an area of Chicago that the Latin Kings controlled, and that he had been locked up for three counts of grand theft auto he had committed with a Latin King. He also told me that he was afraid to hang out by himself in prison and that he wanted to be a King. At that point, all I could think about was the reputation I would carry while I was locked up in the penitentiary. How I handled this situation would probably become the foundation upon which I would be judged by the Latin Kings as I did my time.

  All the inmates milled in the corridors of the cell house, preparing to go to chow, creating a shield from the guard’s view. I made sure that I wouldn’t be seen, then threw two punches at his face. The first punch hit his eye and the second hit his nose. When he reached up to
cover his now-bloody nose, I kicked him in the groin with all the force I could muster. He fell to the floor, holding his groin in pain, as many looked, laughed, and turned away as if nothing had happened. “Don’t you ever betray the Latin Kings, punk. Amor de Rey,” I growled, as I stood over him.

  The chow line finally started moving from the cell house toward the cafeteria. Inmate after inmate walked past the guy lying on the floor; nobody said a word to the guards. Finally, when the cell house was almost empty, the guards found him. By this time, I was halfway to the cafeteria, a good distance away from him. The guy never told the guards who had hit him. I guess he knew that the consequences would be worse if he did. There was no lockdown or any other repercussion after that incident. It just went away. Coincidently, I was shipped out of Joliet to Shawnee Correctional Center two days later.

  After breakfast one morning, a group of inmates, including myself, were shackled and loaded onto a bus to be transferred to other correctional facilities. Our first stop was Lincoln Correctional Center. We had lunch there, and some inmates were unloaded to begin doing their time there, while others were picked up to be transferred elsewhere. Next we stopped at Menard, a maximum-security prison, where we had supper and spent the night. Menard was famous at the time for being the prison where serial killer John Wayne Gacy remained on death row.