The Autobiography of Gucci Mane

by Gucci Mane

  Those kids gravitated toward me because I was the closest thing to an established artist who said what he meant and meant what he said. That’s called authenticity. I don’t walk around acting hard but I do go anywhere that I want. Any club, any mall, any block, any hood. They see that I’m not hiding behind my music and they respect that. They like it that I’ll show up to T.I.’s party looking like a walking lick. They like that I’ll go to Macon and perform “The Truth.” They like that they can catch me riding around Zone 6 in a Phantom with no security. Part of being young is being brave. And part of being brave is being a little brazen, being a little reckless. It’s safe to say I’ve always been that.

  When they meet other established artists and it’s not the same, that can be hard for them. If they’re smart, they can figure out how to work industry relationships to their benefit. If they’re not, they’ll get used as pawns. For niggas like Thug and Peewee, coming from the world they came from, it’s not easy to flip a switch and all of a sudden be able to play the fake political games of the music business. Those boys were really in the streets. As much as Thug may have wanted to make it in music, he could never have been an errand boy for some big-name rapper waiting for his boss to put him on. He’s not a yes man. That shit is not in him.

  I’m honored by the credit I’ve gotten for introducing these boys to the world, but having them around helped me too. I may be considered the godfather of this trap shit but I was never the elder statesman at the Brick Factory, walking around with my chest out, acting like I could teach the youngsters a thing or two. If anything, it was the other way around.

  Keeping Thug and Peewee and Dolph and Migos around kept me connected to what was going on in the streets and what was resonating with the youth. I was getting older and richer and as much as I hate to admit it, the shit I was rapping—my reference points, my slang, my whole swag—could have easily become outdated. But these boys were still there. They were rapping about what they didn’t even have yet, what they were aspiring to. I fed off their hunger. It made me hungry. Their excitement excited me. It brought me back to when I was in their shoes and that made my music better. I’ve been blessed to work with a lot of great artists in my career, but I never had more fun making music than when I was at the Brick Factory with those boys.

  The other reason nobody broke artists in Atlanta the way I did was because my method didn’t make much sense on paper. An established recording artist, a multimillionaire, hanging out with twenty-year-old street niggas in a studio off Moreland in East Atlanta every day, that shit doesn’t add up. But for me it did. Because I always made myself accessible. No matter how much money I made or how famous I became, I was never able to withdraw myself from that world. That’s something that’s given me the reputation I have, but it’s something that’s had its drawbacks. Big ones.

  I didn’t get into music to make enough money so I could go sit in some mansion alone, isolated from the people and places I enjoyed being around. I got into it to make a good living doing something I enjoyed doing. And to me, going to the studio every now and then so I can put out an album a year and tour, that’s not living. That’s not me. That’s not how I operate.

  I knew when I got out I needed to make big changes. Still, I don’t think I could ever live like that.

  XXIII

  * * *

  CON AIR

  On May 13, 2014, I pleaded guilty to one count of possession of a firearm by a convicted felon. The government agreed to drop the second count so long as I waived my rights to that loaded .45 the police found in my lawyer’s office that day.

  I was happy to let the feds keep the guns. They could keep the bullets too. No problem. The rest of the plea deal was a harder pill to swallow.

  After months of negotiations between my lawyers and the US Attorney’s office, we settled on a sentence of thirty-nine months. Three years, three months. That was a whole lot of time to spend in federal prison. But what could I do? When the feds got you, they pretty much got you. I sure as hell wasn’t about to try my luck at trial. They’d give me the whole twenty if I did that. Thirty-nine months was not going to be easy, but it wasn’t twenty years. I could survive thirty-nine months, and it wouldn’t be too late for me to salvage my career when I got out.

  “Mr. Davis, you heard the summary coming from the assistant US attorney and you heard what the court has said,” said US District Judge Steve Jones. “Do you agree with what the assistant US attorney is saying the evidence would show if this case went to trial?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you agree with that?”

  “Yes, sir, I agree.”

  “Are you in fact guilty as alleged in count one of the indictment?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now, Mr. Davis, a lot has been said this morning. A lot of questions have been asked of you this morning. Is there anything that the court has asked you or said to you that you wish for me to clarify?”

  “I totally understand everything.”

  “Is there anything your attorneys have said that you disagree with during the course of this hearing?”

  “No, sir.”

  “At this time the court finds the defendant understands the charges and the consequences of his plea of guilty. I have observed the defendant during this proceeding. He does not appear to be under the influence of any substance that might affect his judgment or actions in any manner. The court finds that the offer of the plea of guilty to count one of the indictment has a factual basis, and is free of any coercive influence of any kind, is voluntarily made with full knowledge of the charge against him and the consequence of his plea.

  “I further find that the defendant is competent to understand these proceedings and to enter a knowing plea of guilty. I find that there has been no promises of any kind made to him by anyone except as incorporated in the plea agreement as set out here in open court.

  “It is hereby ordered that the plea of guilty of the defendant to count one of the indictment is accepted and entered. Mr. Davis, you are hereby adjudged guilty of count one of the indictment.”

  •

  In the fall I pleaded guilty to the incident at Harlem Nights with the soldier. For that I received another three years. But I’d get to serve my two sentences concurrently. There would be no going back to Fulton County. Ever. But I was going somewhere. The detention facility in Lovejoy was for inmates awaiting outcomes of their cases, and my cases were now resolved. It was time for me to go to federal prison.

  At my sentencing my lawyer requested I be sent somewhere on the West Coast, away from the distractions of home as I kept working toward rehabilitating myself. Specifically he’d asked that I be sent to FCI Taft in California or FCI Sheridan in Oregon, two minimum-security facilities that offered residential drug and alcohol programs.

  I’d now been sober for a year and I already knew I would never drink lean or use any type of drugs again. I’d always been a strong-minded person and I’d made up my mind. Some people can put those substances in their body and be totally fine. More power to them. I don’t judge anyone who does. I’m just not one of those people. I’d finally realized that. It wasn’t only that I’d learned my limits; I really had no desire to go back. I had no cravings. It was the opposite. I now associated drugs with my lowest moments, with prison, with all the time I’d cost myself and others. I didn’t know what else I could learn at one of these drug treatment programs, but going to a minimum-security facility sounded good to me.

  The judge had been receptive to my lawyer’s request but unfortunately my destination wasn’t his call to make. That decision belonged to the Federal Bureau of Prisons. And the Bureau of Prisons had other plans for me.

  I was given no heads-up of the transfer ahead of time. It was the middle of the night when they came to my cell in Lovejoy and told me it was time to go.

  Me and a few other inmates were bused to a secluded airstrip nearby where an airplane awaited us. Surrounding the plane were US Marshals, all of whom were carr
ying shotguns or rifles. We were lined up and patted down. Then, cuffed, shackled, and chained at the belly, I boarded the plane, where several dozen inmates were already on board from a prior stop.

  A slave ship of the skies.

  Hours later the plane touched down at FTC Oklahoma City, a holdover facility where all federal inmates stop before their final destination. After the intake process I was immediately sent to solitary confinement.

  My second night there I was shaken out of my bed by a rumble. Earthquake. It was my first and it scared the hell out of me, even more than getting caught in a tornado during that flight to Houston in ’09. It was like this prison had grown itself a pair of legs and started jumping all over the place.

  Two weeks later I was on a bus, staring out the window into an endless stream of countryside. I was headed five hours north, to the United States Penitentiary in Leavenworth County, Kansas.

  But this would be another pit stop. I now knew my final destination, the USP in Terre Haute, but there had been an outbreak of tuberculosis there and the place was on lockdown. I’d spend a month and a half in Kansas before the quarantine was lifted. Then, two months after I’d first left Georgia, I arrived at my new home in Bumblefuck, Indiana.

  The United States Penitentiary in Terre Haute was not like the federal facilities I’d just come from in Lovejoy, Leavenworth, or Oklahoma City. And it was nothing like county jail. A maximum-security federal penitentiary is different. There’s a certain level of violence in any correctional facility but here it was intrinsic. It lived in the concrete walls. In the steel doors. It was always hanging in the air.

  I was surrounded by lifers and men on death row. The Aryan Brotherhood, MS-13, Crips, Bloods, mob bosses, terrorists. This was where the Oklahoma City bomber got the lethal injection. A few months after I got there I saw on the news that they were sending the Boston Marathon Bomber here to await his death. They call it Guantánamo North. I knew I’d fucked up but I didn’t belong here. It reminded me of when they had me a few doors down from Brian Nichols in Fulton County. This has to be a mistake.

  But I’m a man wherever you land me. Regardless of where that is or who is in front of me, there’s a standard that I hold myself to and a certain level of respect I expect to be treated with. When I first got to the USP there was a whole bunch of hoopla about my arrival, because for somebody doing life, having a celebrity in general population is exciting. It’s something to write home about. So I had to make it clear I wasn’t there for any dick-riding groupie shit or to be a part of the world they had going on here. I was here to do my time, protect myself, and then leave.

  That ain’t even on some tough-guy shit. Hell, I was scared too. When people talk about prison you often hear them talk about wolves and sheep. To survive you’ve got to be a wolf. But here it was all wolves. Tough guys were getting killed here every day. You could be Gucci. You could be Al Capone. It didn’t matter because they’d kill your ass the same. This was a place full of men with nothing to lose. There were nights I lay in bed and I could hear the sound of someone sharpening shanks. I prayed those knives weren’t meant for me.

  XXIV

  * * *

  EL CHAPO’S ESCAPE

  Prison is time. I tried to use the time to better myself. I kept up with the exercise, taking part in the workout classes they offered along with my own daily routine. I lost nearly eighty pounds in total. Keyshia was putting money on my books so I was able to work the cafeteria staff and eat a little better than the slop they were serving in there.

  I followed the changes I’d made to my body by working to strengthen my mind. I was devouring books. A lot of self-help, inspirational stuff. Tony Robbins. Deepak Chopra. Malcolm Gladwell. James Allen. The biographies of Pimp C. and Jimi Hendrix. Mike Tyson’s autobiography.

  I got an MP3 player from the prison commissary and started downloading instrumentals from the BOP’s music server. Then I got back to writing raps, something I hadn’t done much of since my incarceration. I’d been too jaded. Resentful. Mad at the industry. Mad at the world. Mad at every person I could point my finger at and blame my misfortunes on. For so long I’d felt like I’d been dealt a bad hand.

  But prison is a humbling experience. It was hell in there and over time that made me start to appreciate all my blessings on the outside. I had a damn good life waiting for me.

  I had a career that people still cared about, maybe now more than ever before. And I had so many things I still wanted to do. I wanted a platinum record. I wanted to tour the world. I wanted to direct and act in more movies. I wanted to have my own clothing line. I wanted to discover and groom more talent and become the next Berry Gordy. It wasn’t too late. And all of that was still attainable. It was all within reach.

  I had Keyshia, my first real love. The first woman I ever wanted to bring to a red carpet and let the world know this was my lady. Not just “This is Gucci’s girl and she’s pretty” but as my partner, my equal. She held me down the whole time I was locked up and showed me what it means to have somebody you can truly count on. I wanted to be able to return the favor.

  I had Bam, my little boy. He needed me. Before I got sent to Indiana he came to see me in Lovejoy and that visit was not easy. I could see him trying to make sense of why there was glass between us, why we were talking through a phone, why his daddy couldn’t have his hands on him. He was too young to understand it, but he knew it wasn’t supposed to be like this.

  I can’t get taken away from them again.

  What good is fame if I can’t enjoy it? What good is money if I can’t spend it? How long will Keyshia stick around if I keep going back to jail? Or if I’m so gone off the lean I’m having seizures? Or if I’m taking chances that could end with me getting shot up and paralyzed? Or killed?

  I can’t put myself through this shit anymore.

  For all the promising things I had waiting for me outside this prison there was just as much danger waiting if I wasn’t on point. I wasn’t invincible. I was hearing about other artists overdosing on drugs. I was hearing about Bankroll Fresh and Chinx Drugz and Doe B, young niggas who were on their way to making it and getting killed in some street shit. Beasley, who’d helped me set up my studio and was like a sister to me, had gotten shot and killed outside of her restaurant right on Bouldercrest in front of her kids.

  Unlike a lot of the guys in this place, I was getting another chance. My last one. I couldn’t drop the ball again. I needed to do more than pray. I needed to make better decisions.

  •

  On the morning of July 12, 2015, I walked into the common room where a bunch of inmates were gathered around the TV. They seemed excited. Joaquín “El Chapo” Guzmán, the head of Mexico’s notorious Sinaloa cartel, had broken out again. This guy was a damn escape artist. His partners dug a mile-long tunnel that went under the prison and up to his cell. All Chapo had to do was go down the hole in his shower stall. A dirt bike was at the bottom, waiting for him. He did it again. Unbelievable. Legendary.

  Now I was excited. Chapo was my guy. I’d done a song in his tribute years back. I’d always had an interest in the stories of the narco kingpins, just as a fan of history. Chapo, Escobar, Griselda Blanco, the Félix Brothers. I fucked with all of ’em.

  My mind was off to the races. What move could I pull with this news? I’d already used my ten minutes of phone time that morning, but maybe tomorrow I could do an “El Chapo” freestyle on the phone and have Sean record it on the other end. Or maybe he could just put some old songs together, get a dope cover made, and we could drop an El Chapo mixtape. At the very least my Twitter should have something to say about this.

  Later in the day I was typing away on CorrLinks, the Bureau of Prison’s e-mail system for inmates. I’d spent all day thinking up ideas for the El Chapo mixtape and we needed to move on it ASAP before someone else did. Halfway through writing that e-mail I stopped.

  I wanted to leave this place as soon as possible. I’d spoken to my lawyer a few days earlier. He was
in the middle of negotiating with the BOP to get my release date sorted out. We were aiming for an early release and for me to serve the end of my sentence on house arrest in Georgia. Maybe glorifying El Chapo’s escape from behind bars wasn’t going to help my case there. Maybe this just wasn’t the best idea after all.

  I logged out of CorrLinks and went back up to my cell so I could change into my exercise clothes. I had a workout class that was starting up shortly. I wanted to be ready for it.

  •

  In February 2016 we got everything sorted out with the BOP. For a while my release date had been listed as March 2017, because they weren’t giving me credit for time served prior to my sentencing. I knew eventually we’d get that fixed.

  My new release date was September 20, 2016, but I would get to come home in May and serve the last four months on house arrest. Just three more months.

  I couldn’t wait to get home. To see Keyshia. To see Bam. To see my brother. Mother dearest. The rest of my family and my close partners.

  I couldn’t wait to get back to work. With the help of Todd I’d patched things up with Atlantic and they were ready to roll out the red carpet for my comeback album. They wouldn’t have to wait long for it. I couldn’t wait to get back to work. I’d gone through all the songs I’d written and I knew which ones I wanted for this album. They just needed beats. So I told Zay and Mike Will that I needed them as soon as I came home. They were ready to join me on house arrest and lock in. The New York Times wanted to come interview me. Fader magazine wanted me on their cover. XXL wanted me on their cover. The clothing brand Supreme wanted me for their fall collection and Harmony was going to shoot the video for it. I was nearly finished writing my memoir. Believe it or not, I even had a couple of book deal offers on the table.