T.H.U.G. L.I.F.E.

by Sanyika Shakur

  “Take off your shoes and socks, put your feet on the yellow line in front of you, place your shoes and socks behind you,” barked a tall, muscular deputy who had a high and tight military haircut.

  “No talking, gentlemen. The faster we get through this process the sooner you’ll get to your housing units. Let’s go!”

  The smell in the strip space immediately assaulted Lapeace’s nose. Funk from what seemed a hundred years whirled up and slapped him several times across the face.

  “Take everything out of your pockets. Place it on the yellow line. Strip down and place your clothing on the yellow line. Do it now!” shouted the deputy. And then the funk from several unwashed and jaundiced bodies put Lapeace in a terrible head-lock. The prisoners, being searched like so many more before and to come, were from the dregs of society. Not all, but most. Drug addicts, homeless, derelicts—the hopeless. Prisoners of America’s class wars. The stench was just about overwhelming because most had been in substations for two days without showers, just sweating, kicking dope, worrying about their cases. Fear and neglect and apathy stinks.

  “Don’t look down. Look straight ahead. If I catch you looking down you’ll be sent back into the holding cells to be processed tomorrow. Let’s do this quick, gentlemen. Hold out your palms, lift up your arms. Lift up your nut sack, turn, bend at the waist, crack a smile, cough three times. Lift up your left foot, let me see the bottom, now your right. Okay, don’t put nothing on. Grab your clothes and come this way. Quickly!”

  The naked group, including Lapeace, was led to a communal shower and told to stand against the tiled wall. Standing naked and barefoot on the cold tile was a torture all its own. In came another deputy with a hose and opened up on the group with a milky-white antiseptic-smelling substance that was supposed to kill lice. The hair, armpits, and crotch areas were sprayed at length. They were made to shower next. Their clothes were taken and bagged and stored. And they were dressed out in county blues. Those with non-steel toed shoes were allowed to keep their own. Lapeace had on white and blue leather Nike Cortez. After having an X-ray, blood drawn, and a brief medical exam they were guided to yet another holding cell. Because Lapeace was classified “K-10,” special handling, he’d be spared another extended stay in the holding cells.

  He was plucked out of the bunch and escorted by two deputies through the jail and into K-10 module 1750. He came onto the narrow tier at 11:35 p.m. Lights were out but ever vigilant prisoners who were in tune to the slightest movement and sound gave off a warning to others as soon as the deputies’ keys were put into the lock to open the tier gate.

  “Front to back,” a prisoner yelled. And seeing Lapeace in cuffs carrying a bedroll, the prisoner added, “New arrival.”

  From the back of the tier came an acknowledgment, “Asante.” It sounded far away.

  Lapeace could feel eyes upon him as he passed cell after cell, but he kept his vision straight. He noticed that the bars were painted a forest green, the floor was a light brown, and mirrors lined the whole tier across from the cells.

  “Open eighteen, on Denver row.”

  One of the escorting deputies spoke into his walkie-talkie. The trio came to a stop in front of cell 18. The numbers were painted above the cell.

  “Step in,” Lapeace was ordered. He flung his bedroll onto the steel bed and backed up to the food-tray slot to get uncuffed. Without a word the deputies left. The cell was a tiny, one-occupant deal. Steel bed, steel combination toilet and sink. Paper thin, two-piece mat to serve as a mattress. It was freezing.

  “Hey Eighteen,” someone hissed from an adjoining cell.

  “Yeah,” Lapeace answered.

  “What’s your name?”

  By the tone, timber, and dialect, Lapeace could easily tell it was a New Afrikan speaking to him.

  “Lapeace,” he answered.

  “Aight then. I’m Lil Blue Ragg, South Side Compton Crips.”

  “Right,” said Lapeace. “I’m from North Side Eight Tray Gangstas.”

  “Aight, look. It’s late right now but I’ll holler at you in the mornin’, huh?”

  “Okay, I’ll be here, don’t look like I’ll be goin’ anywhere,” sighed Lapeace looking around the pathetic little steel cage. Even the walls were steel.

  “And that’s fo’ sho,” said Lil Blue Ragg.

  Lapeace spread out his bedding and laid on his back in the dark. In what seemed like an hour’s time, the lights came on and down the tier rattled a dilapidated food cart. He’d been sleeping hard and struggled to get up on his feet. What startled him out of his daze was looking out of his bars and seeing himself locked in. For a fleeting moment he’d forgotten about the mirrored windows facing all the cells. Not only could he see himself but he could see other prisoners too, both to the left and to the right of him, for at least four cells in both directions. He stood at the bars as he saw the other prisoners near him doing.

  “What up, homie?” greeted Lil Blue Ragg from next door. He was a tall, thin youth, trapped and held for a triple murder charge. A young gunfighter.

  “Hey, aight now. Damn, what time is it? Seem like it’s three in the morning.”

  “It’s about five-thirty or six. They feed late on Saturdays. It’s all garbage, though. After they feed I’ll lace you on the tier.”

  “Thank you.”

  The trustee, a Mexican, passed out the paper plate meal of cold scrambled powdered eggs and green potatoes, a milk, and a juice. Lapeace could see that hardly anyone ate. He paced his space and thought of his situation. Lil Blue Ragg finished his morning constitution and came close to the bars so he wouldn’t have to talk loud and be overheard.

  “On this tier it’s twenty-four cells. As far as Crips, there’s me, Silk from East Side Nine One Hustler, D-Rocc from DuRocc, and you. There’s a black dude from Tiny Rascal gang in the back. His name is Loki, he’s straight. There’s a couple others, Bennie, Free, and Thai: all nonaffiliates. The rest on this tier are southern Mexicans, Surenos. Your homeboy Chico is on the other side.”

  “Right. But what am I doing in this module?”

  “This is High Power. People with big cases, media cases, multiple murders, prison gang members, and shit like that are kept down here. They keep us locked down all day. Every other day for thirty minutes we can come out on the tier, one at a time, to shower or use the phone or just bullshit. Even and odd numbers. Today’s the fourteenth, so even numbers come out today. Here you go, Lapeace.”

  Lil Blue Ragg handed him a plastic bag with soap, deodorant, toothpaste, lotion, shower shoes, and coffee in it.

  “Thank you,” said Lapeace with gratitude.

  “Aw, that’s just a little care package, homie, don’t even trip. They start tier time from front to back. You’ll probably be coming out around two-thirty or so. I’m a holler at Chico to let him know you here, awright?”

  “Yeah, I appreciate that. Hey, but look here, I, um, brought a little something with me—if you know what I mean?”

  “Oh? Yeah, well if you tryin’ to get something over to Chico I can swing that. What you workin’ with?” Lil Blue Ragg asked in the strictest confidence.

  “Black, white, and green,” whispered Lapeace. He had two handcuff keys too. But he didn’t want to reveal that.

  “You tryin’ to do what, slang it?” asked Lil Blue Ragg.

  “The black and white, yeah. But I’m a blow the green.”

  “Me, I don’t get down, but I know you can do your thang here. The Mexicans is on that black, the woods is on that white. I’ll shoot a barua up the tier to see what’s crackin’. Give me a minute.”

  Lapeace met his other neighbor in cell 17. He was an Amerikan named Ray. Ray had a New Afrikan wife and wasn’t of the Nazi persuasion. He’d been snatched out of the U.S. Army and charged with a murder. Like everyone else he was innocent. Lapeace and Lil Blue Ragg became tight over the weekend. He told Ragg about his homies he’d met in LasVegas just the week before. About his girl, about his cars and his bike. Ragg did the sa
me. Lapeace spoke to the other Crips but really didn’t trust them. Besides, they acted funny and it wasn’t a damn thing funny about High Power.

  Lapeace kept his dealings between he and Lil Blue Ragg. He communicated with Chico on the down low and otherwise kept it low. Safi pulled him out Monday for an attorney visit and prepped him on what to expect on the next day’s court proceeding. Tashima and Aunt Pearl sat stoically on the benches of the big courtroom while other prisoners were arraigned on a dizzying array of charges. They grew bored by noon. With no sign of Lapeace they went to lunch. On the way back in they met up with Safi.

  “We’ve been here all morning,” protested Aunt Pearl, looking pensively at Safi.

  “Oh, well, I guess I should have explained this, but with big cases like Lapeace’s they tend to arraign them at the end of the day because of media coverage and all that. When you see reporters flocking you’ll know he’s about to come out. I’m going to make a couple of calls.”

  “Ain’t that nothin’? Shit, how were we supposed to know that, huh?” Aunt Pearl was growing indignant. She sighed and sucked her teeth and straightened her dress.

  “Don’t let it bother you, Aunt Pearl. We don’t have long to wait now. Half the day is already over,” Shima said soothingly while rubbing Aunt Pearl’s arm.

  The media came out of the woodwork with quickness. Following Safi’s advice and his lead, Aunt Pearl andTashima filed into court and took a seat. Media were fanned out throughout the courtroom talking among themselves excitedly. After ten minutes of them setting up and bullshitting, the judge rapped his gavel and the order to quiet down was followed.

  Lapeace was brought out of a side door in a blue two-piece county jail uniform, locked in waist and leg chains. He moved like a turtle. Every step was labored and looked to be painful. Lapeace was guided by a deputy to a table and stood next to Safi.

  The judge spoke with a dry nasal effect, looking at the court over the rim of his glasses. “This is the arraignment in the matter of the people of the State of California versus Lapeace Shakur. For the people?”

  The D.A. cleared her throat and said, “Yes, your honor. For the people, Katy Lake.”

  She was an attractive New Afrikan woman with shoulder-length hair and glasses, which only added to her attraction.

  “And counsel for the defendant?” asked the judge.

  “Yes, your honor, Safi Wazir, private counsel for the defendant, Lapeace Shakur.”

  “Thank you Mr. Baraka. Ms. Lake, now I will read the charges. Well,” said the judge, almost balking at the litany of charges in front of him, “let me see. Your client can enter his plea at the close of my reading.

  “Murder in the first degree. Eight counts, special circumstances.

  “Attempted murder, twelve counts.

  “Assault with intent to cause great bodily injury, twelve counts.

  “Shooting into an inhabited vehicle, five counts.

  “Mayhem, causing great bodily injury, seven counts.

  “Possession of a firearm, one count.

  “And one count of a gang allegation.

  “As to these charges, Mister Shakur, how do you plead?” asked the judge against the backdrop of a courtroom so quiet a mouse could be heard pissing on cotton.

  “Not guilty,” Lapeace said, loud and with conviction. Safi leaned over in support and whispered, “It’s all bullshit, stand firm.”

  “Okay, is there anything from the people, Ms. Lake?”

  “No your honor, not at this time.”

  “Defense?”

  “Ah, yes your honor, the defense moves to have a gag order and a media restriction placed on this case and all proceedings to follow,” Safi said.

  “People?” asked the judge to see if there was any resistance to this.

  “The people have no objections at this time, your honor.” Ms. Lake was quite gracious.

  “The matter is,” the judge began, pulling his glasses off and chewing on the arms’ ear piece, “that this is a free country. And this is a newsworthy item that has attracted the attention of a community overrun with violence of this kind.”

  “Be that as it may, your honor, my client has the constitutional right to a fair trial. And I’d not like to contaminate a potential jury pool with media visions of Mr. Shakur dressed in chains as if he were a convicted felon, because he is not. So this issue goes to that matter, your honor.”

  The judge thought on it for a moment and raised up in his chair. “I’m going to grant that, Mr. Baraka. Should it be challenged later on by the people it can be discussed.”

  “Thank you, your honor.”

  Lapeace was tapped on the elbow by a deputy and then led out of the courtroom through the same door from which he had been led in.

  He’d been given a copy of his charges and looked them over when he was alone in the court holding cell. It was enough to make him nauseated. At this rate he’d be given five death penalties and fifty years.

  Back at the county jail he was in a foul mood. In his cell he had to listen to stupid-ass conversations going on over the tier. Lapeace would just stand at the bars and look at the clowns around him. Big mouths with nothing to show. Sitting up in jail bragging about what they had, where they’d been, and what they were going to do when they got out. If it wasn’t so sad it would all be amusing, but it was profoundly real and terribly nerve-wracking.

  High Power had one amenity that Lapeace could appreciate: television. Behind the mirrored windows in front of every other cell were twenty-five-inch color televisions. When anyone went to court his case usually was shown that night on the tiers. So it wasn’t a surprise that at ten o’clock on Channel 11 Lapeace’s arraignment was shown at length. There were ohs and ahs up and down the tier. And another curious thing happened—a switch was thrown in the mind of Bennie Weems. It dawned on him that it was Lapeace, in cell 18, that Sweeney had told him about and who he was supposed to try and get information from regarding the Cren mass. Bennie decided to sleep on it and approach Lapeace in the morning.

  17

  After morning roll call, Bennie called over to Lapeace and had him retrieve a brief note off the tier.

  It read: Brotha, I just wanted to let you know that I am in a similar situation as you. And if you ever feel like having a mature conversation, I’m here. A true brotha, Bennie.

  Lapeace read the kite a couple of times and paced his cell. He looked over at Bennie’s cell and saw him sitting at his steel desk reading. Lil Blue Ragg said he was all right, but sort of a braggard. He was from New Orleans. Lapeace didn’t really know what he meant by a “mature conversation” or by his being in a “similar situation.” From what Lil Blue Ragg said, Bennie was in jail for burglary.

  A curious thing happens to people when incarcerated. When not in the presence of their attorneys, where it’s best to ask questions and seek advice, they feel a lonesome need to question their case factors vis-à-vis their imprisonment. This is especially so when in the throes of High Power custody. Because the prisoner is in the company of people with heavy cases who are going to trial and coming back guilty 99 percent of the time, where one is laden with shackles and chains every time one leaves the cell—whether it’s to a visit, court, or the shower—a permanent sense of doom hovers over the High Power module like a virulent strain of deadly ebola.

  This state of dread causes most to reach out to fellow prisoners and seek some form of solace in the face of all the dread. When in doubt and raging against the cacophony of guilt, one seeks and reaches out for that whisper in the storm. It is a soft spot, a chink in the armor, of every prisoner held.

  It was this chink that Bennie was knocking against and attempting to lay open for entry.

  “Hey Bennie,” Lapeace spoke over the space of Ray’s cell, “I got that and I appreciate your offer. I guess I could use some decent conversation. Basically it’s me and Lil Blue Ragg over here choppin’ it.”

  “Yeah, well you know, I pretty much know a little somethin’ about most things.
You into sports?”

  “Naw. Takes too much attention and time. I’m into business ventures, music, and I guess some politics. You got anything to read?”

  “I got some law books, that’s about it. I be studying the law. I’m trying to get up outta here,” Bennie said, standing on one foot then the other and resembling a person with the hot foot.

  “Yeah, I hear that, me too,” confirmed Lapeace. “I got a question. How can they charge me with all the things they have when it’s just me?”

  “Well,” began Bennie, licking his pink and brown lips and squinting his eyes in anticipation, “I don’t know anything about your case except what we saw on the news last night.”

  “I’ve been advised by my attorney not to talk about my case with anyone. Not even the media can come in my court anymore,” Lapeace conveyed, keeping his voice low. And while the television didn’t come on until noon, which would somewhat mask any conversations, it wasn’t a fail-safe against hungry ears or recordings.

  Lapeace told Bennie he’d write his points and seek his counsel on paper. This, of course, was perhaps the worst, because words spoken evaporated into the atmosphere. Words written, however, remained in existence. They’d stay in this world for any to see as long as the material the words were written on stayed intact. Therefore, this was perhaps the worst Lapeace could have decided to do. Bennie, no dummy, exploited this chink to his advantage. He’d let Lapeace lead with a vague question concerning the merits of witness testimony and then feign ignorance, causing Lapeace to have to go deeper into his case for examples and thus giving Bennie more information. Lapeace made another poor choice in his secret communications with Bennie. He failed to ask for his communiqués back. Therefore his thoughts, questions, and fears were piled up in the cell of this unsavory character Bennie.