BMF: The Rise and Fall of Big Meech and the Black Mafia Family

by Shalhoup, Mara

  The United States intends to present evidence as to the defendants’ involvement in various crimes and acts of violence (including but not limited to the brutal murder of Ulysses Hackett and Melissa Carter) in support of its request for a life sentence.

  On June 15, 2006, near the Upper East Side corner of Fifty-seventh Street and Madison Avenue, federal agents slipped behind a pair of heavy etched-glass doors. Above the entryway, silver letters mounted against a white tiled background spelled out JACOB & CO. Unlike the last time the agents traveled to Manhattan to visit Jacob “the Jeweler” Arabo, this time they arrived unannounced. And they were carrying a search warrant.

  The agents stepped into the brilliant space-agey showroom, moving purposefully across the glossy floor. Built-in jewelry cases glowed

  a purplish blue against gleaming white walls. The cases held chunky sixty-carat pendants, glimmering chandelier earrings, a one-of-a-kind canary-yellow diamond ring worth nearly a million dollars, and in the roped-off VIP section, Jacob’s signature diamond-encrusted “Five Time Zone” watches.

  The agents were on the hunt for documents pertaining to the Flenory brothers. And they had a search warrant that granted them better-than-VIP access to Jacob’s surreal jewelry salon. After passing rows upon rows of bling, they headed to Jacob & Co.’s office, where they went straight for a file marked “Damon Thomas.” Damon, an L.A. music producer who’d worked with the likes of Justin Timber-lake and Aretha Franklin, was an integral part of the feds’ investigation into the possibly criminal connection between Jacob the Jeweler and the Black Mafia Family.

  The previous summer, Damon had claimed to be the owner of most of a whopping $5 million in jewelry confiscated from Terry Flenory during a Missouri traffic stop. Jacob himself had claimed the six remaining pieces. It was part of a plan they’d hatched with Terry. It could never be known that the jewelry belonged to the cocaine kingpin. That would draw way too much attention.

  After claiming the jewelry, Jacob went so far as to tell the DEA that he’d never sold Terry Flenory a single diamond. To back up his claim, he produced a document showing that all the jewelry seized in the traffic stop either had been purchased outright by Damon Thomas or consigned to him. Even after Terry and Meech were indicted, Jacob continued to press the government for the return of the six pieces he supposedly lent Damon. On November 28, 2005, Jacob went so far as to send a letter to the U.S. Attorney’s Office, through his attorney, that stated: “Please make arrangements to have the jewelry in question returned to my client as soon as possible.” Attached to the letter was the fake document Jacob had created, purporting that the jewelry had been consigned to Damon. Basically, Jacob was delivering to the feds evidence that would later incriminate him.

  On June 13, 2006, two days before the DEA showed up at Jacob & Co. with their search warrant, Jacob sent yet another letter, again through his attorney, to the government: “It has now been seven months since my first telephone conversation with you concerning my client’s jewelry that was seized by the government. My client is quite perplexed and frankly does not understand what he must do to get his jewelry returned.”

  Little did Jacob know, Damon had already cooperated against him. Damon didn’t give in easily. He’d been subpoenaed to testify about the jewelry before a federal grand jury in Detroit the month before. Through his attorney, he invoked his Fifth Amendment right against self-incrimination and attempted to keep his mouth shut. The feds then filed a compulsion order to force Damon to testify, and he relented. He described the plan hatched by him, Jacob, and Terry. The feds then took a trip to New York’s Upper East Side. At Jacob & Co., DEA agents found in Damon’s file a photo of Terry and his girlfriend, Tonesa. They also recovered receipts showing that jewelry had been shipped to two Atlanta addresses with ties to the Flenorys: 404 Motorsports, the business owned by Scott and Kiki in which Terry Flenory was a silent partner; and the home of Yogi, Meech’s assistant.

  A month later, in July 2006, sixteen more people were added to the Flenory brothers’ indictment. Jacob was among them. He faced one count of money-laundering, for allegedly circumventing the IRS so that the Flenorys could spend their drug money on his jewelry—and for lying to the feds about the true owners of the bling. The indictment also nabbed Meech’s second-in-command, J-Bo; Terry’s right-hand man, Slim; his girlfriend’s son, Marlon “Lil Dog” Welch; Meech and Terry’s longtime associate Wayne Joyner (the one who’d allegedly introduced them early on to their Mexican cocaine connection); Paul Buford, who was chief of security for Sean “P. Diddy” Combs; and, most surprisingly, Meech and Terry’s father, Charles Flenory.

  Meech believed the feds were trying to rattle him by charging his fifty-eight-year-old father, who’d never been in trouble with the law before. Charles’s alleged crime: handing envelopes stuffed with Terry’s cash to a contractor working on the White House. It didn’t matter that neither the money nor the home belonged to Charles, and that he appeared not to benefit in any way from the transaction. The alleged act still constituted money-laundering. Considering the insignificance of the allegation, Meech felt the government was targeting his father as a way to pressure him and his brother into pleading guilty. Perhaps if the brothers fessed up, the feds would spare Charles a trip to prison.

  But neither Meech nor Terry took the bait. Their father didn’t want them to. As the brothers neared the one-year anniversary of their indictment, each seemed determined to beat their charges—while faced with two very different sets of challenges. Terry’s problems were more immediate. By the summer of 2006, his relationship with his Detroit-based attorney, Steve Fishman, had deteriorated. Terry requested that Fishman be removed from the case. He also claimed that he was destitute and therefore unable to retain a lawyer on his own. Terry asked that the court appoint him an attorney, and the judge obliged. The appointment of a public defender marked a precipitous fall for a man who was accustomed to driving Bentleys and Maybachs and dropping fifty thousand dollars on Lakers’ tickets.

  Meech, on the other hand, was doing his best to keep up appearances while behind bars. His well-respected legal team—Findling, out of Atlanta, and James Feinberg, out of Detroit—worked aggressively to challenge the hundreds of motions filed by federal prosecutors and to investigate the government’s voluminous evidence. In the meantime, Meech wanted everyone to know that his current situation wouldn’t derail his dreams. From behind bars, Meech kept BMF’s publicity machine humming. He even attempted to keep his year-old magazine, the Juice, afloat—despite having published only one issue the summer before.

  On his MySpace page, where well-wishers left comments that proclaimed BMF 4 LIFE AND FREE BIG MEECH, the boss posted letters to his followers. One of them, dated August 30, 2006, suggested that he’d be out soon—and that he expected those on the outside to behave accordingly:

  As you can see they can lock up my body, but not my mind! So I just want everyone to know that this is the “Real Big Meech” MySpace web site, and I appreciate everyone for logging on sending your pictures, music and comments. Everything gets forwarded to me in St. Clair County jail where I’m temporarily being held. … The world is still BMF’s. We still here and we’re not going anywhere! … Even though I’m locked up I’m still focused on my “vision,” making my challenges temporary but my “vision” permanent. So understand that nothing disturbs the trials of the present like the expectations of the future!!! I will be back in black soon, so until my pencil meets my paper again remember loyalty is not just a word, it’s a lifestyle.

  By the time Meech’s MySpace letter was posted, Doc Marshall had been holed up in an Orlando jail cell for nearly a year. He’d been allowed out on several occasions, to travel to no less than three states to assist authorities in their BMF investigations. He testified in front of grand juries in Atlanta and Detroit. He showed up in Greenville, South Carolina, to take the stand against Kiki and J-Rock (though he was relieved of having to testify after the duo entered last-minute guilty pleas). He met on nu
merous occasions with detective Burns and agent Harvey in Atlanta, to help them identify specific members of BMF. And in early 2007, he agreed to sit down with another Atlanta lawman—one who’d toiled through three BMF-related murder investigations in as many years.

  Despite a couple of promising leads, Atlanta homicide detective Marc Cooper had made no arrests in a string of brazen killings: a shootout that left two men dead behind Club Chaos, a vicious brawl that took the life of a man behind the Velvet Room, and the apparent revenge killing of a drug defendant and his girlfriend. But in one of those cases, Cooper was about to get the break he’d been waiting for. Near the end of 2006, the detective got a call from the DEA. Doc Marshall, who was under federal indictment in Florida, had information he was willing to share about a murder he’d witnessed. He wanted to come clean about what happened behind the Velvet Room.

  A month later, on January 15, 2007, detective Cooper traveled to Orlando to interview Doc. The former CFO was at ease with the detective, and he chatted comfortably. He filled Cooper in on some of the people who were part of Meech’s entourage that night. He said Meech’s right-hand man J-Bo was there, of course. So was Meech’s close friend, the rapper Bleu DaVinci, and his third-in-command, Fleming “Ill” Daniels—who was jokingly referred to as Ill Pesci, because his short stature and tough-guy attitude brought to mind the actor Joe Pesci. Omari “O-Dog” McCree was part of the crew, too, as were several other midlevel players: Baby Bleu, Deron “D-Shot” Hall, Martez “Tito” Byrth, and Ameen “Bull” Hight. “Just regular guys that we hang out with,” Doc told Cooper.

  After asking Doc to describe where everybody was situated in the parking lot, Cooper got to the point. “Let me ask you this,” he said. “Was the guy laying on the ground when he was shot?”

  “Yes,” Doc said. “He certainly was.”

  Cooper then asked Doc to slow down and start from the beginning.

  “Ill was backing his vehicle up, and he didn’t see the guys behind him,” Doc recalled. “So the guys start banging on the window. One of them said, ‘Hey, look man, you about to run us over.’ So at that point, Ill was like, ‘Y’all motherfuckers don’t ever touch my car again.’ ” By then, Doc said, Meech and his bodyguard were gone. J-Bo was pulling out of the lot himself. And those who were left jumped into the fight. “It starts out to be about five on three, and they are beating the guy pretty decently,” Doc said. “One of them slips out and leaves, then about five minutes later you hear ‘bang, bang, bang.’ He just shooting up in the air and everybody drops.”

  Doc said that it was clear to everyone involved that one of the guys who was getting beat up had squeezed off a few warning shots. It wasn’t a big deal, he claimed. The fight appeared to be winding down, anyway. Then, he said, one of Meech’s guys snapped. “At that point, Ill goes to the car. I seen his weapon when he pulled it out. Now, the guy is already beat down good. So Ill goes ‘bang, bang, bang.’ Then he waited, and in another second—pow! He dropped the last one.”

  “So you actually saw him?” Cooper asked.

  “Yeah,” Doc said. “This is something where you hook me to a polygraph, and I’m right there with it. It’s not no third-party or hearsay.”

  “You definitely didn’t see the victim with a gun or anything?”

  “No. He was whooped up. It didn’t make any sense. The guy was busted. I don’t know if that was just a retaliatory thing that Ill did. He was off the chain most of the time.”

  A week later, Cooper obtained an arrest warrant for Fleming “Ill” Daniels, charging him with the murder of Rashannibal “Prince” Drummond. Ill already was jailed on a minor probation violation charge. As soon as he finished serving that time, he’d be transferred to another jail to deal with the far more serious accusation.

  Debbie Morgan had been waiting nearly two years for an arrest in the murder of her son. She’d been in regular contact with detective Cooper and special agent Harvey. Early in the investigation, she’d tried to help investigators by convincing Prince’s friends to tell police about what happened that night. She’d also rebuffed an offer, sent to her through people she assumed were Meech’s minions, to handle this whole ordeal “the street way.” Instead, she sought out a distraction—something that might help her forget that there’d been no closure in Prince’s case. She found a small space for rent inside a tattered shopping center just off Boulevard, along the gritty but hip stretch between the Atlanta neighborhoods Old Fourth Ward and Cabbagetown. She would open a Jamaican restaurant there, called One Love.

  But before the restaurant opened, Debbie’s world fell apart again. Her eldest child, Rasheym, was gunned down in broad daylight by two men on Martin Luther King Drive. At first, she thought Rasheym’s death was retaliation for the heat drawn to BMF over Prince’s murder. But she was mistaken. The killings were unrelated. Nonetheless, agent Harvey responded to the crime scene himself, just to be sure. Rasheym’s suspected killer was arrested the following day. It was a small consolation, but consolation nonetheless.

  Of course, Rasheym’s death was an excruciating reminder of the loss she’d already suffered. After the second of her three sons was killed, Debbie needed closure for Prince more than ever. Doc Marshall helped deliver that. After he agreed to talk to detective Cooper, Debbie finally had a clearer picture of what happened that night. And she was relieved to know that the man believed to be her son’s killer was finally locked up. From the beginning, she felt that the Black Mafia Family was responsible for Prince’s death. She’d been looking for validation for three years. In fact, her quest had started with a letter she wrote to the Atlanta mayor days after Prince was killed.

  Dear Mayor Shirley Franklin,

  On July 25, at approximately 4 A.M. in the parking lot of the Velvet Room, my son Prince and my nephew were jumped on, stomped and beaten by a group of men. Prince was shot and died in the parking lot. I believe the detectives involved will do a thorough job. However, this is a gang of drug dealers and murderers who have set up shop in most major cities—and make no mistake, business is booming. They travel under the guise of a promotions and record company. Ms. Franklin, I appeal to you not as my mayor, but as a mother who knows the pain of childbirth and would understand the loss of a son. You have seen your son grow to manhood, and your dreams of seeing your grandchildren may have already come through. My son died without a child. My dream of seeing his seed grow has been shattered.

  These individuals drive around this city in luxury cars, doing what they please, living by the motto, “We rule the world.” My question, Ms. Mayor, is do they rule Atlanta?

  Within months of Ill’s arrest, another seemingly dormant murder investigation would be revived. And another mother who lost a child would be left wondering how, under the watchful eye of the government, such a terrible thing could happen.

  Nearly three years after Misty Carter’s death, her town house on Atlanta’s Highland Avenue was just as she’d left it. Katie Carter wanted it that way. To Katie, the mere thought of the town house was excruciating at times. She imagined the police trudging into the bedroom that had become a crime scene. She imagined the paramedics carrying Misty out. But the town house also was a source of solace. Katie kept it for as long as she did because, at other times, it helped convince her—if only for a second—that Misty was still there. Katie could visualize her daughter surrounded by all her things, breathing and laughing and alive. She didn’t believe she was crazy to think that. She believed she had to do what she could to keep going. Her only child, the joy of her and her husband’s life, was gone. So it was okay to pretend. When she stopped pretending, then she’d have to admit to herself that Misty was truly and forever gone.

  After Misty died, Katie began to work long hours at her husband’s medical practice. The work took her mind away from things. At home, the pain was constant. Plus, being away from the house gave Katie another chance to make believe. She’d often call home from the office to check her answering machine. One of the messages would always be fro
m Misty. It was the last message Katie got from her daughter. She couldn’t bring herself to erase it.

  By the spring of 2007, three years had passed since that terrible night, and time had done little to ease the pain. But there was one small source of solace. In April of that year, Katie and her husband, Dr. Paul Carter, traveled from their home in Fayetteville, North Carolina, to a federal courthouse four hours away. They wanted to be sitting in the courtroom when the judge read the prison sentences of Tremayne “Kiki” Graham, Scott King, and Eric “Mookie” Rivera.

  The hearing in Greenville, South Carolina, would be unusual as far as sentencings go. Prosecutors were hoping to prove that Kiki had lied to the feds, thereby breaking his “contract” for a reduced sentence. To prove that he’d misled the government, his associates Scott and Mookie would be testifying against him. If the judge believed them, Kiki could be sentenced to life without parole on his cocaine charges. Still, there was a chance the judge wouldn’t buy their stories—and Kiki was willing to gamble on that. The possibility of a life sentence hadn’t been his only option. Even after he failed his polygraph, Kiki got one last offer from the government. The prosecution was willing to go as low as thirty-five years—five years less than the sentence his boss, “J-Rock” Davis, received. But Kiki turned the deal down. Despite the fact that prosecutors intended to bring up evidence of his alleged role in the murders of Misty and Hack, he was willing to risk it all.