“No, we need to secure the building.”
“I say we drive by and shoot back, now!”
As instructed, four young men now stood armed guard in the lobby, two at each entrance. Under normal circumstances young gang members like these bragged about their toughness, their willingness to kill for the family. But now, with the danger real, they looked shaky, eyes wide and fearful.
J.T. stood calmly, wearing dark sunglasses, picking his teeth. When his eyes fell upon me, he fixed me with a glare. I didn’t know what he was trying to communicate. Then he pointed toward the ceiling. He wanted me upstairs, at his mother’s place, out of the way.
Instead I walked even farther into the lobby, out of his view. I asked a rank-and-file BK where Price was. He pointed down the hall. J.T. approached, patted me on the back, and pulled me in close. “Price isn’t doing so hot,” he whispered. “He’s bleeding real bad, and I need to get him to the hospital.”
“Call the ambulance,” I said instinctively.
“They won’t come. Listen, we need your car. If they see one of our cars come up to Provident, they may call the police. We need to borrow your car.”
“Sure, of course,” I said, reaching for my keys. I had recently bought a junker, a 1982 Cutlass Ciera. “Let me get it.”
“No,” J.T. said, grabbing my hand. “You can’t leave the building for a while. Go upstairs, but let me have the keys. Cherise will take him.”
I gave J.T. my keys and watched him walk toward the apartment where Price was being looked after. It was common practice to have a woman drive a BK to the hospital so that he wouldn’t immediately be tagged as a gangster. Cherise lived in the building and let the Black Kings use her apartment to make crack cocaine. J.T. sometimes joked that the young women in the projects would never turn on their stoves if it weren’t for his gang cooking up crack.
J.T. commandeered a vacant apartment on the fourteenth floor to use as a temporary headquarters. The scene was surreal, like watching an army prepare for war. I sat in a corner and watched as J.T. issued commands. Small groups of men would come inside, receive their orders, and hurry off. J.T. assigned several men to take up rifles and sit in the windows of the third, fifth, and seventh floors. He instructed other groups of men to go door-to-door and warn tenants to stay away from the west-facing windows.
He told one young BK that there probably wouldn’t be another shooting for at least a few hours. “Get some of the older people out of here,” he ordered. “Take them to 2325.” A BK foot soldier told me that Price had made it to the emergency room but was said to be still bleeding badly.
J.T. came over and told me what he knew. The first car, the beat-up Ford, was a decoy to lure some Black Kings out of the building. The attack appeared to be a collaboration between the MCs and the Stones. They were deeply envious, J.T. told me, that the BKs had been able to attract so many customers to their territory. The MCs and the Stones were a constant source of worry for J.T., since they were led by “crazy niggers,” his term for the kind of bad businessmen who thought that a drive-by shooting was the best way to competein a drug market. J.T. much preferred the more established rival gangs, since a shared interest in maintaining the status quo decreased their appetite for violence.
Every so often J.T. sent out an entourage to buy food for people in the building. A few tenants carried on as usual, paying little attention to the Black Kings’ dramatic show of security in the lobby. But except for a couple of stereos and some shouting in the stairwells, the building was eerily quiet. We all baked in the still, hot air.
Occasionally one of J.T.’s more senior members would throw out a plan for retaliation. J. T. listened to every proposal but was noncommittal. “We got time for all that,” he kept saying. “Let’s just see what happens tonight.”
Every half hour Cherise called from the hospital to report on Price’s condition. J.T. looked tense as he took these reports. Price was a friend since high school, one of the few people J.T. allowed in his inner circle.
I was just nodding off to sleep on the floor when J.T. walked over.
“Thanks, man,” he said quietly.
“For what?”
“You didn’t have to get mixed up in this shit.”
He must have heard that I’d helped drag Price into the lobby. I didn’t say anything. J.T. slapped my leg, asked if I wanted a Coke, and walked off to the fridge.
There were no more shootings that night, but the tension didn’t let up. I never went home.
Within a few days, once he figured out exactly who was responsible for the attack, J.T. rounded up T-Bone and several other officers and went after the shooters. J. T. personally helped beat them up; the BKs also took their guns and money. Because these young rivals had “no business sense,” as J.T. told me later, there was no hope of a compromise. Physical retaliation was the only measure to consider.
Price stayed in the hospital for a few days, but the bullet caused no irreparable damage, and he was soon back in action.
T-Bone called me one day with big news: J.T. was on the verge of receiving another important promotion within the citywide Black Kings organization. If all went according to plan, J.T., T-Bone, and Price would be responsible for taking on even more BK factions, which meant managing a considerably larger drug-trafficking operation. I could hear the excitement in T-Bone’s voice. For him, too, the promotion meant more money as well as a boost in status. “Two years, that’s it,” he told me. “Two more years of this shit, and I’m getting out of the game.” Ever practical, T-Bone was saving for his future-a house, full-time college, and a legal job.
J.T. wouldn’t be around Robert Taylor much for the next several weeks, T-Bone told me, since his new assignment required a lot of preparation and legwork. But he had asked T-Bone to give me a message: “J.T. wants you to go with him to the next regional BK meeting. You up for it?”
I had been waiting for this phone call for a few years. I desperately wanted to learn about the gang’s senior leadership, and now that J.T. was one of them, it looked like I’d finally have my chance.
By this point in my research, I still felt guilty sometimes for being as much of a hustler, in my own way, as the other hustlers in the neighborhood. C-Note had called me on it, and C-Note was right. I constantly hustled people for information-stories, data, interviews,facts-anything that might make my research more interesting.
So I was happy whenever I had the chance to give a little bit back. The writing workshop hadn’t worked out as well as I’d wanted, and I was searching for another way to act charitably. An opportunity fell into my lap when the Chicago public-school teachers went on strike. Since BK rules stipulated that each member graduate from high school, J.T. asked Autry to set up a program during the strike so that J.T.’s members could stay off the streets and do some home-work. Autry had set up a similar program at the Boys & Girls Club, but gang boundaries forbade J.T.’s members to go there.
Autry agreed, and he asked me to run a classroom in J.T.’s building. I obliged, pretty sure that lecturing high-schoolers on history, politics, and math shouldn’t be too hard.
We met in a dingy, darkened apartment with a bathroom that didn’t work. On a given day, there were anywhere from twenty to fifty teenage gang members on my watch. The air was so foul that I let them smoke to cover the odor. There weren’t enough seats, so the kids forcibly claimed some chairs from neighboring apartments, with no promise of returning them.
On the first day, as the students talked loudly through my lecture on history and politics, J.T. walked in unannounced and shouted at them to pay attention. He ordered Price to take one particularly noisy foot soldier into the hallway and beat him.
Later I asked J.T. not to interrupt again. The kids would never learn anything, I insisted, if they knew that he was going to be monitoring them. J.T. and Autry both thought I was crazy. They didn’t think I had any chance of controlling the unruly teens without the threat of an occasional visit by J.T.
They
were right. Within a day the “classroom” had descended into anarchy. In one corner a few guys were admiring a gun that one of them had just bought. (He was thoughtful enough to remove the bullets during class.) In another corner several teenagers had organized a dice game. The winner would get not only the cash but also the right to rob the homeless people sleeping in a nearby vacant apartment. One kid brought in a radio and improvised a rap song about their “Injun teacher,” replete with references to Custer, Geronimo, and “the smelly Ay-Rab.” (It never seemed to occur to anyone that “Arab” and “Indian” were not in fact interchangeable; in my case they were equally valuable put-downs.) The most harmless kids in the room were the ones who patiently waited for their friends to return from the store with some beer.
Things got worse from there. Some of my students started selling marijuana in the classroom; others would casually leave the building to find a prostitute. When I conveyed all this to J.T., he said that as long as the guys showed up, they weren’t hanging out on the street and getting into any real trouble.
Given that they were using my “classroom” to deal drugs, gamble, and play with guns, I wondered exactly what J.T. meant by “real” trouble.
My role was quickly downgraded from teacher to baby-sitter. The sessions lasted about two weeks, until news came that the teachers’ strike was being settled. By this time my admiration for Autry’s skill with the neighborhood kids had increased exponentially.
Despite my utter failure as a teacher, Autry called me again for help. The stakes were a little higher this time-and, for me, so was the reward.
Autry and the other staffers at the Boys & Girls Club wanted me to help write a grant proposal for the U.S. Department of Justice, which had advertised special funds being allocated for youth programs. The proposal needed to include in-depth crime statistics for the projects and the surrounding neighborhood, data that was typically hard to get, since the police didn’t like to make such information public. But if I took on the project, I’d get direct access to Officer Reggie Marcus-“Officer Reggie” to tenants-the local cop who had grown up in Robert Taylor himself and was devoted to making life there better. I jumped at the chance.
I had met Reggie on several occasions, but now I had an opportunity to work closely with him and cultivate a genuine friendship. He was about six feet tall, as muscular and fit as a football player; he always dressed well and carried himself with a quiet determination. I knew that Reggie often dealt directly with gang leaders in the hopes of keeping violence to a minimum and that he was a diplomatic force among the project’s street hustlers. Now I would be able to ask as many questions as I wanted about the particulars of his work.
Why, for instance, did he try to reduce gun violence by making sure that the gangs were the only ones who had guns?
“They don’t like gun violence any more than the tenants, because it scares away customers,” he explained. “So they try to keep things quiet.”
One wintry afternoon I met Reggie at the police station in the Grand Boulevard neighborhood, a few blocks from J.T.’s territory. When I arrived, he told me he still had some phone calls to make, so I went to find a water fountain. The police station was drab, row after row of bland gray cubicles; the air was cold and damp, the tile floor slippery from the tracked-in snow.
Near the water fountain, I came upon a wall covered with Polaroid pictures. They were all of black men in their teens and twenties, most of them looking dazed or defiant. Beneath each photo was a caption with the person’s name and gang affiliation.
Taped next to the photos was a party flyer headlined “MC Southside Fest.” J.T.’s gang hung similar flyers all around the buildings when they were sponsoring a party or a basketball tournament. On the MC flyer, there were several names handwritten along the right margin, as if it were a sign-up sheet: “Watson,” “O’Neill,” “Brown.”
Reggie came by as I was inspecting the flyer.
“Let’s not hang out here,” he said, looking concerned. “And let’s not talk about that. I’ll explain later.”
We were heading over to the Boys & Girls Club to talk to Autry about the Department of Justice grant. As we walked to Reggie’s SUV, parked behind the police station, I was still thinking about the MC flyer.
I recalled a party the Black Kings had thrown a few years back, having rented out the second floor of an Elks Lodge. The women were dressed up, and the men wore spiffy tracksuits or pressed jeans. They drank beer and wine coolers, danced, and passed marijuana joints around the room.
As J.T. and I stood talking in a corner, a group of five men suddenly busted into the room, all dressed in black. One of them held up a gun for everyone to see. The other four ran to the corners of the room, one of them shouting for everyone to get up against the wall. Four of the men were black, one white. J.T. whispered to me, “Cops.” He and I took our places against the wall.
One of the partying gangsters, a huge man, at least six foot two and 250 pounds, started to resist. “Fuck you, nigger!” he shouted. Two of the men in black promptly yanked him into the bathroom- where, from the sound of it, they beat him brutally. We all stood silently against the wall, listening to his grunts and groans.
“Who’s next?” shouted one of the men in black. “Who wants some of this?”
Two of them pulled out black trash bags. “Cash and jewels, I want everything in the bag!” one shouted. “Now!”
When the bag reached us, J.T. calmly deposited his necklace and his money clip, fat with twenties. I put the cash from my pocket, about fifteen dollars, into the bag. As I did so, the man holding the bag looked up and stared at me. He didn’t say anything, but he kept glancing over at me as he continued his collection rounds. He seemed puzzled as to what I, plainly an outsider, was doing there.
When they were done, the five men dropped the bags out the window and calmly filed out. After a time J.T. motioned for me to follow him outside. We walked to his car, parked in the adjoining lot. Some other BK leaders joined him, commiserating over the robbery.
“Fucking cops do this all the time,” J.T. told me. “As soon as they find out we’re having a party, they raid it.”
“Why? And why don’t they arrest you?” I asked. “And how do you know they were cops?”
“It’s a game!” shouted one of the other BK leaders. “We make all this fucking money, and they want some.”
“They’re jealous,” J.T. said calmly. “We make more than them, and they can’t stand it. So this is how they get back at us.”
I had a hard time believing that the police would so brazenly rob a street gang. But it didn’t seem like the kind of thing that J.T. would lie about; most of his exaggerations served the purpose of making him look more powerful, not less so.
I had forgotten the incident entirely until I saw the MC flyer at the police station. I wondered if the names written in the margin were the cops who had signed up to raid the party. So I told Reggie about the BK party and J.T.’s claim that the robbers were cops.
He took a deep breath and looked straight ahead as he drove. “You know, Sudhir, you have to be careful about what you hear,” he said. Reggie drove fast, barreling over the unplowed snow as if he were off-roading. Our breath was fogging up the windshield. “I’m not going to say that all the people I work with are always doing the right thing. Hell, I don’t do the right thing all the time. But-”
“You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to.”
“I know that, I know that. But you should know what’s going on. Yes, some of the people I work with raid the parties. And you know, sometimes I feel like I should do it, too! I mean, guys like J.T. are making a killing off people. And for what? Peddling stuff that kills. But it’s not for me. I don’t participate-I just don’t see the point.”
“I’ve ridden along with J.T. and a few of his friends in their sports cars,” I said. “Sometimes a cop will pull us over for no reason. And then-”
“He asks to see a paycheck stub, right?”<
br />
“Yeah! How did you know I was going to say that?”
“Think about how frustrating it is to do policing,” Reggie said. “You’ve been hanging out with these guys. You know that they never hold the cash that they make. They have all these investments in other people’s names. So what can we do? We can’t arrest their mothers for living in a nice house. But when we stop them in their fancy cars, we can legitimately ask whether they stole the car or not. Now, again, I don’t do that stuff. But some other people do.”
“But I don’t have to carry around a paycheck stub. Why should they?” I knew this was a naïve-sounding question, and I was fully aware that there was a big difference between me and the gang members. But because naïveté had worked in the past, I’d stuck with this strategy.
“You are not peddling that shit,” Reggie said, stating the obvious. I wasn’t sure if his explanation was meant to be sarcastic, whether he was humoring me, or whether he just wanted to make sure I understoodprecisely the police officers’ rationale. “You aren’t making millions by killing people. Sometimes we’ll take their car away.”
“What do you do with it?” I asked. I knew Reggie didn’t believe that the drug dealers were each “making millions,” but some of their earnings were still sufficiently greater than the cops’ to make Reggie upset.
“A lot of times, we’ll sell it at the police auction, and the money goes to charity. I figure it’s a way of getting back at those fools.”
On a few occasions, I’d been riding in a car with some gang members when a cop stopped the car, made everyone get out, and summarily called for a tow truck. On a few other occasions, the cop let the driver keep the car but took everyone’s jewelry and cash. To me the strangest thing was that the gang members barely protested. It was as if they were playing a life-size board game, the rules of which were well established and immutable, and on this occasion they’d simply gotten a bad roll of the dice.
Gang Leader for a Day Page 22