Once Upon A Time in Compton

by Brennan, Tim; Ladd, Robert; Files, Lolita

  Internal Affairs was waiting for Gary when he arrived the next day. Gary’s appearance shocked everyone. He showed up at the command post at the Compton Lasbin Hotel wearing green army fatigues and carrying a shotgun. Two bandoliers of shotgun shells were draped across and around each of his shoulders, a la the way Mexican outlaws used to wear them in the old western days. As if that wasn’t enough, Gary had two more handguns on him.

  Gary was put on administrative leave immediately and he never came back.

  He was put on stress retirement shortly after that.

  ***

  The cops were now riding four deep per car, shotguns hanging out of their windows. Several of their units had been hit by snipers, even during daylight, so traveling in fours, armed and prepared for attack had become necessary.

  Things began to settle down once the Marines and National Guard arrived and a curfew was set. Bobby picked up Tim again for Day Four. Both men were still operating on little-to-no sleep.

  Roadblocks had been set up throughout the city at major thoroughfares. As Tim and Bob drove to the intersection at Alameda and Greenleaf Street, a bunker with sandbags around it was set up next to the train tracks. Inside the bunker was a soldier. He pointed a .50 caliber machine gun at Tim and Bob. Two more soldiers pointed M-16’s at them. Tim and Bob drove up with their badges hanging out the window.

  Shit was real. This was no longer just rioting citizens. The military had descended upon the area and guns were out at every turn. The command post at the hotel was even busier than the streets. The place was filled with Marines, the National Guard, as well as hundreds of officers from Orange, San Diego, Riverside, and San Bernadino counties.

  Everything was much slower this fourth night. Someone at the command post came up with the bright idea of letting Marines ride with the patrol units, so each car had two officers in the front and two Marines in the back.

  Tim and Bob had two very young Marines in their car, both dressed in full gear, including helmets and vests, and carrying M-16’s. One of the M-16’s had a rocket launcher attached to the bottom of the barrel. That alone was alarming, not just for Tim and Bob, but apparently for the Marine who was holding it and the guy sitting beside him. Both looked frightened. They had no idea what was going to pop off on the streets, so they were strapped for serious business. It didn’t help that both were from the Midwest and hadn’t had much contact with a Black community.

  Suddenly, the worst sound an officer could hear came screaming over the radio:

  “Shots fired! Shots fired! Officer down!”

  Tim and Bob weren’t far and arrived in under a minute. They parked a half a block away. A barrage of high-powered rifles, shotguns, and handguns could be heard going off. It sounded like a straight-up war. Two officers ran down the street. One of them, J.J. Jackson, was holding the other officer, Carl Smith, as they raced to their car. Smith’s arm was bleeding badly. They drove past Tim and Bob.

  “Was that the suspect shooting?” Tim asked.

  “Yes!” J.J. yelled as he rushed Carl to the hospital.

  Tim and Bob saw another officer, Michael Markey, being helped to a patrol car. His arm was also bleeding badly.

  Just like that, the shooting stopped. A cloud of gun smoke filled the air. When it cleared, they could see what had taken place.

  Because it was slow that night, four patrol cars, including Tim and Bob, had arrived at the location - a two-story apartment complex - so there were eight cops and eight fully-armed Marines. A witness told officers that a Black man had been outside firing a shotgun, then had gone back inside his apartment. The only way to access the place was via a set of stairs that led directly to the suspect’s front door.

  Three officers - Carl Smith, Michael Markey, and Fred Reynolds - had gone up the stairs to the front door. As soon as they reached the top, the suspect had unloaded on them, firing through the door with his shotgun.

  BOOM!

  He hit both Carl and Michael. They fell to the ground as Fred yelled back at the other officers.

  “Cover me!”

  This was where the confusion kicked in.

  Police officers were taught that the phrase “cover me” meant pointing their gun to cover their partner. It didn’t mean shoot. Not unless there was an immediate threat to life.

  That was what Fred was requesting so he could have a chance to help Carl and Michael.

  “Cover me,” however, meant something entirely different for Marines.

  It meant open fire, which was exactly what the eight Marines did, unleashing the hell that was their M-16’s on the apartment, emptying their clips.

  When the Marines opened fire, the police officers thought they were being fired upon again by the guy in the apartment, so they opened fire on the apartment as well, emptying their shotguns.

  More than 160 rounds were fired into that apartment. The place looked like Swiss cheese.

  Crips and Bloods/Pirus gather at Lueders Park during the gang truce.

  The L.A.S.D. SWAT team was called in. There was a long standoff, but a negotiator was eventually able to get the suspect to surrender. To everyone’s amazement, the suspect was unscathed, despite the number of rounds fired into his place. His girlfriend and their small child were also inside. All of them emerged without a scratch.

  Two years later, the suspect and his family sued the Compton P.D., despite his having shot two police officers during the incident. A jury ruled in favor of the department.

  ***

  When the dust literally settled and all the rioting and fires ceased, many Compton residents put their old televisions and furniture out by the side of the road. A lot of people had new electronics and furnishings - spoils of the chaos from those smoldering, violent days of protest.

  Flyer promoting Crips and Bloods/Pirus uniting at Lueders Park.

  An unexpected turn had also occurred as a result of the collective outrage being expressed in the streets: for the very first time, the Crips and Bloods/Pirus came together. There were several events at parks in Compton where huge crowds of Crips and Pirus gathered in peace.

  One night there was a get-together at Lueders Park. Hundreds of Crips and Pirus were there, mingling, drinking, all wearing their colors. It was a sea of red and blue.

  Tim and Bob couldn’t believe what they were seeing after years of witnessing these sets murder each other. Now here they were, hugging, everything seemingly forgiven.

  Some refused to participate. The long-standing enmity that existed and the loss of loved ones over the years was too much to just let go of for the sake of the kumbaya that was happening in the wake of the riots.

  “How can we act like we like them,” some asked, “when they killed my brother, when they killed my homie?”

  As much as they hoped otherwise, Tim and Bob knew the peace wouldn’t last.

  At the gathering in Lueders Park, things started calm and conciliatory, but the tension was real and it was thick.

  Tim and Bob were there to just to monitor the situation. All was going well, then…

  Bam! Bam! Bam!

  Shots rang out.

  “He gotta gun!”

  People scattered, running and screaming. Amid the hundreds fleeing for their lives, it was impossible to see who’d fired the shots. Tim and Bob requested additional units as they drove into the park, their guns drawn.

  It was madness. People jumped over the hood of their patrol car trying to get away. Tim and Bob knew this was about to be a major bloody scene, but it turned out to be some idiot who’d fired shots in the air at an event that, while well-meaning and good-intentioned, was a precarious affair to begin with. One false move would have been enough to worry even the most hopeful of those who wanted the truce to prevail. One ill-fired bullet had been enough to create a stampede.

  “Fuck the police” graffiti that began to appear after the riots.

  There was also a tremendous amount of bad blood between police officers and gang members during this time because the c
ops in the Rodney King trial had walked. “Fuck the police” graffiti appeared all over South Central Los Angeles, along with “187 police.”

  Gangs were literally calling for the deaths of cops. Police officers were very concerned for their safety.

  ***

  The gang truce and the get-togethers they were having remained a concern. The probability of things going left at these events were high. The gang unit spent a lot of time staging, just in case that very thing happened.

  Crips and Bloods call for “open season” on L.A.P.D.

  One night, a call came over the radio that saw those concerns realized. Two Mexican males were in the middle of the 400 block of Rosecrans Avenue, naked and beaten. This was a known Piru area, between the Fruit Town Pirus and the Tree Top Pirus. The gang unit was staged at a school at the time.

  “C’mon, let’s go,” gang unit boss Reggie Wright, Sr. said to Bob. “We have to check this out.”

  Bob jumped in Reggie’s car and they drove to the area. They stopped a hundred yards or so west of the location. Around two hundred Pirus were yelling and running around on the street. Rosecrans was a busy major thoroughfare in Compton, yet this massive throng of Pirus had shut down traffic.

  “We’re going in,” Reggie said.

  “You sure you want to do that?” asked Bob.

  Bob knew that even though the gang members knew him and Reggie, they were still police, and the word on the street was that police were the enemy. Fuck police. 187 ‘em. Cops needed to die.

  Plus, Bob was white. A white cop. In that moment, those were two strikes against him.

  “They won’t do anything,” Reggie declared.

  “Yeah, not to you!” Bob protested. “You’re Black!”

  They laughed.

  Then Reggie drove directly into the madness.

  Bob couldn’t believe it. It was insane. But this was Compton. They couldn’t let the gang members see any signs that they were afraid.

  When they drove in, a few Pirus ran up to the car like they were going to do something. Then they saw that it was Reg behind the wheel.

  “You better get your asses away from our car!” he yelled.

  The responses came quickly.

  “Fuck the police!”

  “Fuck that white boy!”

  Things were tense for a moment, then some of the OG’s came up.

  “It’s the Reg,” they said. This neutralized the crowd.

  Moments like this were when Reggie Wright's respect was most apparent…and most necessary.

  Now Reggie and Bob could see the two Mexican men naked in the street. They were unconscious, badly beaten.

  “Hold your boys back,” Reggie said to the OG’s. “We’re coming in to get those guys.”

  Bob called for the paramedics.

  “Get off the street!” the OG’s yelled.

  The Pirus reluctantly began to disperse. Most of them went inside an apartment complex at 401 West Rosecrans.

  Reggie was the only person who could pull off this kind of feat. Tim and Bob were often in awe watching him work. He had managed to clear over two hundred Pirus from a street they’d shut down. Had he not been there, it probably would have turned into a full-blown battle of the cops versus the Pirus. People would have definitely gotten hurt, on both sides. Instead, the paramedics were able to come through and get the two beaten Mexican men, who survived.

  Reggie Wright, Sr. had saved their lives.

  ***

  To no one’s surprise, the gang truce ended after two months. Like clockwork, the shootings and killings started up again. Everything was back to normal, if shootings and killings could ever be considered normal.

  It was Compton’s normal. And things were about to get worse. After the short-lived truce between the Crips and Pirus, the Latinos were now about to make a stand.

  11

  THE ORDER IS GIVEN

  While the truce between the Crips and Pirus was happening, the Latino gangs were still at war with each other. Most of the ones in Southern California followed the lead of the so-called Mexican Mafia, aka La eMe (“The M”), a network of Latino prison-based gangs known to be the most powerful within the prison system.

  All the gangs aligned with the Mexican Mafia adopted the number 13 (“M” was the thirteenth letter of the alphabet) added to their set name to show their allegiance. These gangs shared drug profits, did hits for the Mexican Mafia, and abided by their rules. The gangs that didn’t do so could see their members “greenlighted” - killed in prison or the streets by the gangs loyal to La eMe.

  Around this time there were several meetings of Latino gangs taking place in the Compton and Los Angeles area. La eMe had a new set of rules to be implemented. Effective immediately, all Latino gangs were ordered to do the following:

  Black members who claimed Latino gangs were to be removed.

  All taggers had to join a local Latino gang or leave the area.

  There were to be no more drive-by shootings. All shootings had to be walk-up and there were to be no innocent victims as collateral damage.

  All neighborhoods shared with Black gangs were to be taken over by any means necessary.

  All narcotics dealers in the neighborhood were to be taxed.

  The prison gangs had an astonishing amount of power over the street gangs, but there was logic to their ability to control the streets from behind bars. Most gang members were criminals, many of who were often caught and sent to prison. Choosing to ignore the orders of the Mexican Mafia could work for a little while on the outside, but once a gang member was arrested and sent inside, they had to deal with the prison gangs. That’s when the reckoning would happen. There was nowhere to hide.

  Latino gang member.

  Latino gang members and graffiti.

  This edict by the Mexican Mafia would introduce a very violent time for law enforcement that still continues two decades later.

  In Compton, every area claimed by a Black gang had always been shared with a Latino gang. Blacks and Latinos had lived side-by-side in the city, growing up together, going to school together. The same applied for members of their gangs. They shared the same turf. Black gangs and Latino gangs sold drugs on the same street. This had been going on since the early seventies with few conflicts. Occasionally Black and Latino gang members would have beef, but it would be quashed quickly by the OG’s and the Veteranos.

  Latino gang graffiti.

  It didn’t take long for the Mexican Mafia’s new orders to hit the streets of Compton. The first real drama began between the Setentas, who were the Compton Varrio 70’s (the CV70’s, also called the Seven O’s), and the Acacia Blocc Crips. Both gangs had turfs in the middle of the city, just south of the Compton police station. The Seven O’s were a large Latino gang formed in 1970, thus the “70” in their name. When the Mexican Mafia’s edict was handed down, the Seven O’s told the Black gangs they had long shared the turf with to get out. They were going to take over the neighborhood and the drug market.

  The Acacia Blocc Crips were also well-established and didn’t take well to being told to give up their share of the drug game. Violence commenced immediately. Fighting. Shooting. Suddenly these two groups who had grown up together and shared the same neighborhood were now killing each other.

  ***

  One afternoon, Tim and Bob were patrolling the neighborhood south on Acacia from Alondra. As they passed Raymond Street, they saw Seven O’s gathered in the 200 block. This wasn’t unusual. It was their hang out. Tim and Bob continued one block south, past Reeve Street. There they saw a large group of Acacia Blocc Crips hanging out in front of a house. It was the home of G-Ray, one of the most notorious gangsters in Compton. G-Ray had already killed two Seven O’s who tried to sneak up on him and shoot him while he was in his own yard. Those two Seven O’s bodies were found with guns in hand. G-Ray claimed self-defense. No other witnesses came forward, so G-Ray got away with both killings.

  Tim and Bob had dealt with G-Ray throughout their career
s. The two dead Seven O’s were not the first time his name had come up in relation to murders. It was well-known that G-Ray was not afraid to pull the trigger and Tim and Bob had arrested him many times.

  G-Ray was a tall Black man, around six feet, with a strong medium build and big infectious smile. He was quite charismatic and very well-spoken. G-Ray always carried a gun and never fucked with the police. He would run from them, but never fight. Despite all the arrests, Tim and Bob had a good rapport with him.

  Once G-Ray was hanging out on the corner with several of his homies when Tim and Bob pulled up. No one ran, so Tim and Bob got out to talk with them. It was during the feud between the Acacia’s and the Seven O’s. G-Ray was cool as they talked.

  After chatting for a few minutes, Tim asked him, “You don’t have any guns on you, do you?”

  “C’mon, Blondie,” G-Ray said. “You know I got one. It’s in my back pocket.”

  Tim pulled a 9mm semi-automatic handgun from G-Ray’s back pocket.

  “C’mon, Blondie! C’mon Ladd!” he said, frustrated and more than a bit pissed. “You know I need this for protection! The Seven-O’s are always trying to kill me.”

  He was right. They were.

  Tim and Bob took the gun that day, but didn’t arrest G-Ray. Not arresting him could be hard for some to understand. Here was a known killer and Tim and Bob had the chance to take him off the streets, but that wouldn’t have solved much. Plus, G-Ray could have run from them when he first saw them. He could have shot them if he’d wanted, but he didn’t. He was straight up with them, admitting to having the gun when asked. That kind of forthrightness meant a lot in the streets. It meant there was mutual respect.