At Menard, King Jawbreaker greeted me. He recognized me from a shootout that had taken place at his house years before. Jawbreaker and his family were one of the last Latin King families in the Maplewood Park area of Chicago. The shootout at his house had been part of a gang war in which the Disciples were attempting to take full control of Maplewood Park and the Kings were trying to hang onto it. The Disciples had won. Jawbreaker had been incarcerated ever since that shootout. He took me around and introduced me to the other Latin Kings. Then he gave me a shank (handmade weapon) for protection, saying, “This is yours, my brother. Use it if you need to. There are some punk-ass motherfuckers in here.” “They may strip-search us before we get on the bus tomorrow,” I told Jawbreaker. “I may get caught with it.” “Bus, what bus?” Jawbreaker asked with a surprised look. “I’m just here overnight; they’re taking me to Shawnee tomorrow morning,” I explained. “Oh, man, give me that,” Jawbreaker responded as he took the shank from my hand. “You won’t be needing this there, bro. That’s a country club. You go there and chill, little brother. Don’t get caught up in nothing that will get you sent here.”
That was the best news I had heard in a long time. If Jawbreaker, a veteran of the Illinois prison system, said I was going to a country club–like facility, then that’s where I was going. I felt more at ease, as if I could do my time without a speck of trouble. But then again compared to Menard, most prisons throughout the country did feel like country clubs.
The next morning, right after breakfast, we were loaded onto the bus and taken to our final destination, Shawnee, a medium-security correctional facility. We were taken to the new inmate holding cells, where we waited to be integrated into the general prison population. By the time I joined the regular prison population, most of the inmates knew that I was a Latin King. The Latin Kings in turn knew that I was Lil Loco, a King who had been given a crown directly from the Inca (Tino). In the penitentiary, that carried a lot of weight; in a medium-security prison it meant even more.
Once I entered the regular population, I became close to the Shawnee leader of the Latin Kings. At his request, I became his advisor and the Kings’ treasurer. I was in charge of merchandise. I kept items—such as food, toiletries, and cigarettes—in my cell that the Kings gathered and that we used to supply our new incoming brothers and to purchase things within Shawnee like good haircuts and extra-clean, neatly folded laundry. New Latin Kings would get soap, toothpaste, a toothbrush, shampoo, and a pack of cigarettes, if they smoked. They had no need for the state-issued toiletries. That was one of the perks of being a King that other inmates admired. We did not expect the new King inmates to repay us for the initial merchandise. Anything beyond this, however, they had to pay back. We also required the Kings to donate at least one item on every commissary day. Any inmate who was not a Latin King could borrow merchandise from us in return for double payment of the same item. Payment was due on commissary day, and we accepted no excuses. Because inmates knew they were borrowing from the Latin Kings, payments were rarely, if ever, late. These practices ensured that the Latin Kings always had an ample supply of merchandise to trade.
I was determined to stay out of trouble and kept myself occupied with nonviolent pursuits. I spent most of my nights writing poetry and sketching. I used some of the sketches and poems I wrote to create postcards, which I sold to other inmates. The postcards I made were tailored “Hallmark moments” for the occasion. I made dozens of them, with different drawings, but waited to include the poem until I knew the occasion. For the holidays I made generic “happy this” and “merry that” cards, but I would also make a few original cards for those who wanted something unique and were willing to pay extra. I charged a pack of cigarettes for generic cards, two packs for the specialty cards. My card service allowed the inmates to get a handmade card that they could customize for their loved one for a much lower price than the mass-made commercial cards sold at the commissary. Although other inmates also created cards, I was the only one who provided original drawings and poems. The others usually traced cartoon characters onto a card and left the inside blank. Had I not been a Latin King, my little card business would probably have been frowned upon and most likely stopped.
What made me the designated card supplier was that I extended credit. I did not demand payment upon delivery and would often allow one or two commissary days to go by before collecting payment. For those inmates not fortunate enough to have an outside cash supplier, this was the way to go. I also gave the cards that didn’t sell away to these same individuals. The Latin Kings, however, had first crack at any cards I made or gave away.
When I wasn’t making cards or writing poetry, I read nonfiction books, especially autobiographies, and books that taught me something new about the world such as An Original Man: The Life and Times of Elijah Muhammad, Chariots of the Gods, and Uncle Tom’s Cabin.
All Shawnee inmates were given the choice to go to school or take a daily job within the prison. The daily jobs included kitchen duties, floor detail, yard detail, laundry, and more. For the most part, inmates chose work details instead of school. They worked during the day or night, depending on their assigned duties, and hit the weight pile during gym or yard time. I chose to go to school. I had no intention of ever coming back to the penitentiary, so I took the opportunity the State of Illinois Department of Corrections offered me to get educated in some form or another.
At Shawnee I learned how to operate various computer software programs. I learned how to type and how to use WordPerfect and Lotus 1-2-3. In the evening I would go to the yard and read or have my daily conversation with Shawnee’s leader of the Latin Kings.
King Leo was fifty-two years old. He had been in jail going on twenty years, most of which he had served at a maximum-security prison. His many years of good behavior had earned him a transfer to a medium-security facility. The prison personnel knew very well that Leo was the Latin Kings’ highest-ranking officer at Shawnee and respected him as such. Leo was Puerto Rican, about five-four, and weighed about one hundred and fifty pounds. Although he was a small man, Leo, a former Marine and Vietnam vet, was serving a life sentence for killing two men with his bare hands. His crimes got him recruited by the Latin Kings while in the penitentiary. Leo had no possibility of parole.
By the end of my first month at Shawnee, Leo had taken me under his wing. He valued the fact that I was using my jail time to grow as a person intellectually, and that I had no desire to become muscle-bound. Leo enjoyed reading the poetry I wrote for myself, which was a far cry from the trite crap I put on cards. The poetry I wrote for myself was dark and filled with pain and anger. Even love poems became dark when I expressed my true thoughts.
Roses are red,
But only when soaked by the blood of a victim of some desire.
Of the desire to be in the spotlight.
Roses are red,
But only when painted by the blood spilled for freedom of inconspicuous needs.
Of the need to spread the wings of freedom and fly away.
Roses are red,
When beating and being beaten is a passion.
Of the feeling that the passion received is deserved.
Roses are red,
When all is right and nothing is wrong.
When the blood spilled by all colors is for the assurance of attention.
For whatever it takes,
Roses are red.
Leo advised me to continue writing this way, as it would heal a lot of the pain and anger I carried around within me. With King Leo’s support, I was able to explore this outlet for my feelings, and for the first time I connected my writing and drawing with my inner sense of peace.
“Look at those brothers over there,” Leo told me one day, looking in the direction of the weight pile. “All of them short-timers, a couple of years and they’re back on the street. Son pendejos, mi pana (They are idiots, my partner). En ves de enfuerzar sus mentes, enfuerzan sus cuerpos (Instead of strengthening their mind
s, they strengthen their bodies). They leave just as stupid as they came in, only stronger.” Leo turned to face me. “Most of them will come back, some of them as lifers like me. No seas haci de pendejo (Don’t be an idiot like that),” he concluded. I understood, and I stayed on the course I had chosen to reinvent myself.
After four months into my stay at Shawnee, I got a letter from Lilly with surprising news. Lilly had not been able to make the trip to Shawnee to visit me and could not afford constant collect phone calls since she was no longer dealing, but we wrote to each other regularly. In this particular letter, Lilly announced that she had found my mother and sisters and that she had become my mother’s friend and companion. The news took me by complete surprise. Sadly, I had not even thought about my mother or sisters in quite some time. Even then, although I began to wonder how they were and if Pedro was there with them, the desire to see them never surfaced.
My mother had returned to Chicago from Puerto Rico about two months after I was convicted, and moved near Humboldt Park. There, one of my sisters began to date a Latin King. She coincidently ended up at the apartment of a Queen who showed her pictures of the old crew from Kedzie and Armitage Avenue. My sister recognized me in several pictures and began asking for me and about me. Shortly after, somebody introduced her to Lilly, who filled her in on where I was and why I was there. There wasn’t a flood of mail between us trying to make up for lost time. The extent of our communication consisted of Lilly writing, “your mother and sisters said this,” and me writing back, “tell them I said this.” “Your mother asked how you are doing,” Lilly would write. “Tell them I’m fine,” I would respond. “Your sisters send hugs and kisses,” Lilly wrote. “Give hugs and kisses to my sisters,” I’d respond. I guess the separation had been too long for any of us to know where to begin. Or maybe we just didn’t care. From my end, I anticipated a “How are you, my son?” letter that never arrived. I was clueless how to open a line of communication with my own family. I was happy that they were OK. I was happy to know that my mother had finally left Pedro, my stepfather, who had brutally beaten me. Otherwise, nothing changed; they were still missing pieces from my life.
AFTER SIX MONTHS of my stay at Shawnee, the tensest moment of my incarceration took place. Guards caught a Latin King called Ghost with a homosexual in his cell. The fact that they were each given a week of solitary confinement made it obvious they were doing something other than just visiting. Although homosexual activity is common inside prison walls, for a Latin King, getting caught participating in a homosexual act is a death sentence. Most inmates and prison officials knew this about the Latin Kings. It was also a known fact throughout Shawnee that eventually the King they caught would be dealt with. We, in turn, tried to play down the incident and denied that the brother had been caught in a sexual act.
While Ghost did his solitary time, the rest of us decided his fate. The overwhelming opinion was that we had to take him out in order to restore respect for the Latin Kings, which he had destroyed by getting caught with a homosexual. One of us, maybe two, would face a murder rap for doing so, but would forever live in prison comfort as an elite member of the Latin Kings. There was no doubt that whatever maximum-security prison the killer ended up at, other King inmates there would show him ultimate respect for restoring the pride and honor of the Latin Kings. This was a matter of who was willing to take the honor of spending the rest of his life in jail. Surprisingly, many volunteered. Whether their hearts were really in it, I will never know, but Leo felt differently.
All this talk took place in the yard. Leo asked me to walk with him. As we walked and discussed the situation, the other Kings spread out into the weight pile and into the basketball and handball courts. Leo was not at all impressed by the show of hands willing to do the job. He thought that most of those Kings volunteered only to make themselves look tougher. He could not believe that so many guys were willing to spend the rest of their lives in jail over some homosexual bullshit. He asked my opinion. I thought that if we did not assert discipline, the Latin Kings would be sending a message that the gang and homosexuality went hand in hand. This reputation would stay with the Kings at Shawnee long after we were gone, I told Leo. Leo said he understood, but he did not want to be responsible for another Latin King brother spending the rest of his life in jail. “If you can keep that from happening, go for it,” Leo told me. “Cool, brother. Nobody knows about this decision but you and me,” I responded. We both lit up cigarettes as we walked back toward the bench where we had been sitting. Leo motioned to a couple of Kings to join us. “Tell all the brothers to chill until we hear Ghost’s side of the story, then we’ll decide,” Leo told them. Minutes later, it was time to return to our cells.
The homosexual involved in the incident requested authorities to keep him in solitary—he feared the Latin Kings would take him out. Ghost could have requested the same thing, but he chose not to. When he was released from solitary, we met in the yard to hear his side. Ghost begged the Kings for forgiveness and assured us that he had not committed a sex act. Most of the Kings present expressed their feelings of disbelief and contempt for Ghost’s actions, and they let him know in no uncertain terms that they thought he was bullshitting.
Bear defended Ghost. Bear was not just the biggest Latin King; he was one of the biggest inmates at Shawnee. Because Bear was in his thirties and a veteran of the prison system, I thought we could entrust him with the task of disciplining Ghost without anyone else knowing. “You brothers better not touch this brother,” Bear said as he stood next to Ghost. “You all don’t know this brother like I do; he’s righteous.” At Bear’s urging, Ghost began walking away from us with him. I went with them and asked Ghost to stay to himself, away from the other Latin Kings, until tempers cooled off. “Hang out with this brother, Bear,” I told Bear as I looked Ghost in the eyes. “You’ll be alright,” I assured Ghost. “This brother is righteous, listen to him,” Bear told Ghost as he put his massive hand on my shoulder.
Over the next few days, instead of coming to the yard, Ghost went to the gym. Bear went with him on some days and came out with us on others. Often he would spend a little time in the gym with Ghost before coming out to the yard with us. Throughout this time, Bear made it clear to the rest of the Kings that he was on Ghost’s side and would fight along with him. Leo and I advised the other Kings to let it be for a while. That’s all it took to keep the majority of the Kings away from Ghost and for Bear to gain Ghost’s trust and confidence.
A week to the day after Ghost’s release from solitary, it was time for Latin King discipline to take place as King Leo and I had planned. As always, Bear went to the gym’s weight pile with Ghost. The weight pile in the gym was located at the far left end where the basketball/volleyball floor ended. On this day, the wall of inmates watching the games going on and waiting to play was denser than usual, thereby obstructing the view of the guards, who stood by the gym’s inside entrance. Ghost prepared himself to do a chest-press exercise. Bear stood at the end of the bench to serve as a spotter. When Bear observed Ghost tensing up to lift the barbell, he picked up a twenty-five-pound plate and dropped it on Ghost’s head. Ghost was knocked out cold, so there was no screaming or sudden inmate reaction to alert the guards to what had happened. Bear worked his way out of the gym and out into the yard as he always did.
The inmates in and around the weight pile slowly and inconspicuously walked away. The guards did not find Ghost until it was almost time for the inmates to head back to their cells. Ghost survived the attack. He didn’t say who had hit him. It took over a hundred stitches to close the wound in his head. Ghost chose to spend the rest of his time under protective solitary confinement. After the incident, Shawnee was in lock down for almost a week. Our cells were thoroughly searched on two different occasions during that lockdown. Leo was taken to see the warden and was questioned about the incident. The warden threatened to send Leo to Menard if he didn’t disclose information about the attack on Ghost. It was only after
Leo made it clear that the Latin Kings did not plan any retribution for Ghost that the warden left Leo alone and the lockdown was terminated. Leo later told me that the administration worried that if the Latin Kings did not inflict justice on one of their own then there might be a riot. He assured the warden that the Latin Kings had disowned Ghost. He was on his own. Nobody was charged with the attack on Ghost. The Latin Kings’ respect was restored at Shawnee, and therefore so was the peace.
Two months after the attack on Ghost, I received notice that, due to my good behavior, I was being transferred to Stateville’s minimum-security unit, to await placement in a work-release facility. Only Leo knew of my impending transfer until just a few days before the actual date. I turned over all the King merchandise except for two packs of cigarettes to a Latin King in my cell house. I gave all the cards I had left over to Leo. “You’re a good brother,” Leo said. “You’re going to make it.” “I hope so, man, I hope so,” I responded as we shook hands Latin King–style and embraced. The next day I was off to the Statesville Correctional Center.
BEFORE I WAS convicted and sent to prison, I didn’t understand why so many people I knew went in and out of such a terrible place as if there were nothing to it. After my own experience, I realized that going to prison was really nothing to worry about, especially if you were in a gang. Aside from child predators, abusers, and some rapists, most inmates can do time relatively easily if they play by the rules. The rules are very simple. Don’t fuck with nobody and nobody will fuck with you, and if someone does fuck with you, take matters into your own hands. There is nowhere to run and nowhere to hide, so you have to stand up and be counted. The easiest and safest way to do that is to align yourself with a gang. Latino inmates in Illinois with no gang affiliation align themselves with the Latin Kings, Latin Disciples, Spanish Cobras, or one of their Latin affiliates. Blacks align themselves with the Black Gangster Disciples or the Vice Lords. Whites run with the North Siders or the Aryan Nation. Protection from victimization is available for all who are willing to live and possibly die for a cause.
Once a King, Always a King: The Unmaking of a Latin King Page 8