Gang Leader For A Day Part 11

Ms. Bailey shushed the crowd. "Excuse me, Ms. Cartwright," she said. "If you're suggesting that I may be benefiting in any way by the voting stuff going on, you can just come out and say it."

"I'm not saying you may may be benefiting," Ms. Cartwright said. "I'm saying you be benefiting," Ms. Cartwright said. "I'm saying you are are benefiting. You get that new TV on your own, Ms. Bailey?" benefiting. You get that new TV on your own, Ms. Bailey?"

This produced some more "oohs" and a round of outright giggling.

"Let me remind you," Ms. Bailey yelled, trying to reestablish order, "that we ain't had no hara.s.sment, no shooting, no killing for six months. And that's because these young men are getting right. So you can help them or you can just sit and moan. And about my TV. Who was the one that give you fifty bucks for your new fridge? And you, Ms. Elder, how exactly did you get that new mattress?"

No one answered.

"That's what I thought. You-all can keep up the b.i.t.c.hin' or you can realize that every one of us is benefiting from me helping these young men."

The rest of the meeting was similarly animated and followed this same pattern. Tenants accused Ms. Bailey of going easy on J.T.'s gang and personally benefiting from her alliance with them. She replied that her job was to help the tenants, period, and if that meant finding creative solutions to a mult.i.tude of problems, then she needed to be allowed such flexibility. To nearly every resident who complained, Ms. Bailey could cite an instance of giving money to that person for rent, for a utility bill, or to buy food or furniture. She plainly knew how to play the influence game. I'd been to her apartment a few times and, although she never let me stay for long, it was a testament to her skills: There were photos of her with political officials, several new refrigerators from the CHA, and cases of donated food and liquor. One bedroom was practically overrun with stacks of small appliances that she would give to tenants in her favor.

At one point during the meeting, Ms. Bailey mentioned the "donations" that she regularly procured from the gang, to be applied to various tenants' causes. J.T. had repeatedly told me that he had to keep Ms. Bailey happy-having his junior members carry out her orders, for instance, and paying her each month for the right to sell drugs in the lobby. But this was the first time I ever heard Ms. Bailey admit to this largesse. In fact, she discussed it with a measure of pride, highlighting her ability to put the gang's ill-gotten gains to good use. Although none of the tenants said so, I also knew from J.T. that some of them them received payoffs from the gang-in exchange for their silence or for allowing the gang to stash drugs, cash, or weapons in their apartments. For a poor family, it was hard to turn down the gang's money. received payoffs from the gang-in exchange for their silence or for allowing the gang to stash drugs, cash, or weapons in their apartments. For a poor family, it was hard to turn down the gang's money.

"Why are we even talking about J.T.?" asked an older man. "Why don't we just go to the police? Can you tell me what you get from taking their help-or their money?"

"You-all want this place clean," Ms. Bailey said. "You want this place safe. You want this and that. And you want it right away. Well, the CHA ain't doing nothing. So I have to find ways to take care of it."

"But we can't walk around safely," the man said. "My car got the windows shot out last year."

"Right," Ms. Bailey countered. "That was last last year, and sometimes that happens. But you see this place getting cleaned up. You see people getting rides to the store. Who do you think is doing that? Before you go yelling at J.T. and the rest of them, you better understand that they're family, too. And they're year, and sometimes that happens. But you see this place getting cleaned up. You see people getting rides to the store. Who do you think is doing that? Before you go yelling at J.T. and the rest of them, you better understand that they're family, too. And they're helping- helping-which is more than I can say for you."

That a tenant leader-one who was respected by politicians, shop owners, the police, and others-would praise a crack gang and work so closely with its its leader made me realize just how desperate people could become in the projects. But I was learning that Ms. Bailey's compromising position also arose out of her own personal ambitions: in order to retain her authority, she had to collaborate with the other power groups, in this case the gangs, who helped shape the status quo. This resulted in the bizarre spectacle of Ms. Bailey's publicly defending the very people who were shooting and causing trouble for her tenant families. Even though it was obvious that tenant leaders had few good choices, I still wasn't convinced that they needed to operate in such murky ethical waters. Nevertheless I found myself wondering how much Ms. Bailey's actions were actually a response to hardships that limited her options and how much arose from her own desire to have power. leader made me realize just how desperate people could become in the projects. But I was learning that Ms. Bailey's compromising position also arose out of her own personal ambitions: in order to retain her authority, she had to collaborate with the other power groups, in this case the gangs, who helped shape the status quo. This resulted in the bizarre spectacle of Ms. Bailey's publicly defending the very people who were shooting and causing trouble for her tenant families. Even though it was obvious that tenant leaders had few good choices, I still wasn't convinced that they needed to operate in such murky ethical waters. Nevertheless I found myself wondering how much Ms. Bailey's actions were actually a response to hardships that limited her options and how much arose from her own desire to have power.

As the meeting broke up, people approached Ms. Bailey for one-on-one conversations. They all had their grievances: no hot water or a broken sink, a child getting in trouble, prost.i.tutes taking clients into the stairwell, crack addicts partying the whole night.

Afterward Ms. Bailey motioned me into her office. Catrina was looking over some notes she'd taken at the meeting. Ms. Bailey asked her to get together with Millie, the LAC secretary, to prepare a list of tenant concerns to pa.s.s along to the CHA.

Ms. Bailey opened a small refrigerator and took out sodas for all of us. Grabbing a small blue rag, she wiped her sweaty forehead. "Did that live up to your expectations?" she asked me with a wink.

"Well, I thought you were just going to make a few announcements!" I said, laughing. "What do you do with everything you heard? I mean, a lot of it was directed at you. They were saying some pretty harsh things."

"We tell the CHA that things ain't working in the building, and we try to get them to fix it. That's it."

"And do you tell them about residents accusing you of taking gang money?"

"We tell the CHA that things ain't working in the building, and we try to get them to fix it."

She smiled cunningly and looked over to Catrina, who returned the dutiful glance of an ever-loyal junior officer.

"Sudhir, you have to remember something," Ms. Bailey continued. "In the projects it's more important that you take care of the problem first. Then you worry about how how you took care of the problem." I opened my mouth to object, but she stopped me. "If no one dies, then all the complaining don't mean nothing, because I'm doing my job. If all I got to worry about is a few people wondering where the money's coming from, then around here that's a good day! No one dies, no one gets hurt, I'm doing my job." you took care of the problem." I opened my mouth to object, but she stopped me. "If no one dies, then all the complaining don't mean nothing, because I'm doing my job. If all I got to worry about is a few people wondering where the money's coming from, then around here that's a good day! No one dies, no one gets hurt, I'm doing my job."

"That's an awful way to live," I blurted out.

"Now you're starting to understand," she said in a tone somewhere between pedantic and patronizing. "Maybe you're even starting to learn."

Someone knocked on the door, and Ms. Bailey got up to answer it. Catrina leaned in toward me. "Watch how she helps people," she whispered. "She says it don't matter, but she's amazing. Have you seen how she gets apartments fixed around here?"

I told her that I hadn't.

"Have you seen how she helps women around here?" Catrina pushed her gla.s.ses up the bridge of her nose and kept her voice low. I felt as if we were in high school and I was sneaking a conversation with the teacher's pet.

"Well, Ms. Bailey gives away food to the mothers, right?" I whispered back.

Catrina shook her head and inhaled deeply, looking disappointed in me. "That's not what I'm talking about. You watch what she does when she helps women. Pay attention to that. that." Her voice was insistent, but she offered no more details. "She is the the most amazing person I know." most amazing person I know."

As I spent more time with Ms. Bailey over the coming months, I found that most tenants were less suspicious of me than they'd been in the past. Sometimes, when a tenant came into Ms. Bailey's office to talk about a problem, the tenant would say, "It's okay, I don't mind if Sudhir listens."

Like J.T., Ms. Bailey seemed to enjoy the fact that I was interested in her. Perhaps she, too, thought I was going to be her personal biographer. I could see why she might make this a.s.sumption. I took every opportunity to express my fascination for her life, which seemed more fascinating the more I hung around.

One cold winter morning, I sat in Ms. Bailey's office with Catrina. It was a slow day, and only a few tenants visited. Ms. Bailey asked if I would go out and get her some coffee, and Catrina came with me. We bundled up and trudged through eight inches of fresh snow. The wind was nearly strong enough to blow you over; it was too cold for even a conversation. Catrina and I just concentrated on stepping in the footprints of people who'd made a first pa.s.s in the snow. Catrina wondered aloud what kind of G.o.d would make the earth so cold.

As we slogged our way back to the building, coffee and doughnuts in hand, a young woman hurried over to us as best as she could. "Catrina, you got to come quick," she said. "Ms. Bailey ran upstairs to Taneesha's apartment. She said you have to call Officer Reggie."

Catrina shoved the coffee at me and ran off as fast as possible under the circ.u.mstances. Since tenants had a tough time getting the police to respond, Ms. Bailey summoned Officer Reggie, the cop who'd grown up in Robert Taylor, when the situation warranted.

"Where's Taneesha live?" I yelled.

The young woman who'd summoned Catrina shouted back over her shoulder, "Twelve-oh-four!"

Approaching the building, I encountered a couple of J.T.'s gang members. They wore brown work boots and thick down jackets with the Oakland Raiders' distinctive silver-and-black insignia. To me it seemed too cold for business, but I could see a steady stream of cars coming down the alley to buy drugs. White and black addicts jumped out of their cars and ran into the lobby to buy crack. As I walked inside, one of J.T.'s men shouted to me, "They're up on the twelfth. Elevator's broken."

The stairwells were brutally cold. I had to stop a few times to catch my breath. I came across quite a few other people, all of them upset by the broken elevators. "Merry f.u.c.king Christmas," one said to me bitterly as he pa.s.sed by with a heavy laundry bag.

As I stepped into the gallery on the twelfth floor, I saw a group of men standing outside Apartment 1204. I recognized C-Note and a few other squatters among them. They were all moving about, trying to keep warm, some of them jumping up and down. The gallery floor was concrete, so even if you were wearing thick-soled shoes, the cold still shot up your legs.

The door of 1204 was partially open. Ms. Bailey stood over the sofa and, when she caught sight of me, beckoned me inside. I had met Taneesha a few times, most recently at her twenty-first birthday party, which J.T. had thrown. She was tall and very pretty, with long, straight black hair, and she was trying to make a career as a model. She currently modeled clothes at various nightclubs-so-called lingerie parties-and also went to college at night. She had a baby boy, Justin, named for her favorite high-school teacher, who had encouraged her to pursue modeling.

Everyone suspected that J.T. was the baby's father. He had told me never to ask him about the baby.

The light in her apartment was dim, but bright enough to show that her face was beaten badly and her white T-shirt was stained with blood. Her breathing was labored, her eyes closed; you could hear the blood gurgling in her mouth. Another young woman held her hand and comforted her. "They're coming," she said, "the ambulance is coming. Just relax, 'Neesha."

Ms. Bailey pulled me aside and asked if I would drive Taneesha to the hospital.

"I don't have a car, Ms. Bailey," I said. "Didn't you call the ambulance?"

"Okay, then, do me a favor," she said. "Ask C-Note to tell the boys in the lobby to take her."

"What about the ambulance?"

"Oh, no, baby," Ms. Bailey said softly. "They never come."

I wasn't sure whether to believe her, but at least fifteen minutes had pa.s.sed since I'd arrived and there was no ambulance. Provident Hospital was only two miles away.

I walked out to the gallery and told C-Note, who simply leaned over and yelled down to the street twelve floors below. "Cheetah! Yo, Cheetah! Ms. Bailey says bring the car 'round! You got to take her to the hospital!"

"C-Note!" Ms. Bailey shouted out. "Don't yell! He's still in the building. d.a.m.n, we can't have him leaving the building."

I was confused. Whom didn't she want to leave the building? Whom didn't she want to leave the building? Before I could ask, she rounded up the men and addressed them as if she were a general and they, however ragged, were her troops. "She got hurt pretty bad. She'll make it, but she don't look so good. I need you-all to find him. He goes by 'Bee-Bee.' He may be in 407, inside that vacant apartment, or at his cousin's. I want to see him before you do anything to him." Before I could ask, she rounded up the men and addressed them as if she were a general and they, however ragged, were her troops. "She got hurt pretty bad. She'll make it, but she don't look so good. I need you-all to find him. He goes by 'Bee-Bee.' He may be in 407, inside that vacant apartment, or at his cousin's. I want to see him before you do anything to him."

I figured out that the man who had beat up Taneesha was hiding in the building.

"What if he starts to run or gets crazy?" one of the men asked. "Can we get him then?"

"Yeah, I suppose, but don't hurt him too bad before I talk to the fool. And don't don't let him get away. Sudhir, could you call J.T.?" let him get away. Sudhir, could you call J.T.?"

I nodded and followed C-Note and the others as they made for the stairwell. I recognized most of them as squatters who helped C-Note fix cars in the warmer months.

As soon as we were out of Ms. Bailey's earshot, I told C-Note I wanted to come with him.

"Call J.T.," he said, shaking his head. "Don't mess around with this. Do what Ms. Bailey says, boy. boy."

C-Note had called me "boy" only a few times, the last one when a friend of his was caught in a knife fight and C-Note instructed me to watch from inside a car, where I couldn't get hurt.

"I will, I will," I insisted. "But I want to go."

C-Note realized I wouldn't take no for an answer. "Just stay near me," he said. "But if s.h.i.t gets crazy and I tell you to leave, you go, right? You hear me?"

Eight of us made our way down the stairwell, our breath leaving trails of hot steam in the frigid air. There were a lot of questions I wanted to ask. Who was Bee-Bee and what was his relationship with Taneesha? Did C-Note and the other men know him? But we were moving too fast, and C-Note was preoccupied, his eyes ablaze.

We stopped just above the fourth-floor stairwell, since it was thought that Bee-Bee had taken refuge in Number 407. "Charlie, you and Blue go ahead," C-Note said. "Shorty, you and them go to the other stairwell in case he runs past. Sudhir and me will stay in the back. Charlie, I'm right behind you, so if he got a knife, just let him go. I'll get him."

It struck me that I might not be as far out of the way as I'd planned.

All the men hurried to their positions. I could see the door to Number 407 from where I stood in the stairwell with C-Note. Charlie and Blue approached it. Like C-Note, they wore secondhand clothes and ill-fitting shoes. Charlie had a crowbar in his hand. Blue's fist was clenched, but I couldn't tell what he was holding.

Charlie knocked. The thin wooden door gave a hollow sound. All the other apartments on the floor had thick steel doors, but the CHA used wooden doors to designate which apartments were vacant. "Yo, n.i.g.g.e.r!" Charlie called out. "Hey, Bee-Bee! Taneesha says she wants to talk with you. Come on out. She says she's cool with everything." He looked back at us. C-Note waved his hands, signaling him to shout again. "Yo, Bee-Bee! Taneesha says she just wants to talk, n.i.g.g.e.r! I'll take you up there." Why would Bee-Bee need an escort to go back upstairs? Why would Bee-Bee need an escort to go back upstairs? I thought. I thought. And why on earth would he believe any of this? And why on earth would he believe any of this?

Just then a voice rang out from the stairwell above us. "He's on eleven, and he's coming down the stairs! Get him, he's coming down!"

C-Note instinctively pinned me against the gallery, letting Charlie and Blue go past. They stopped just inside the stairwell. C-Note and I crouched down a few feet behind them. The intense cold made me shiver. Charlie pressed his hand toward the floor a few times, motioning us to stand still. I had never heard the building so quiet. Apart from the wind and some cars in the distance, the only sound I could make out was a mouse or rat scratching around in the incinerator room.

Then, from above, I heard some distant footsteps turning into a rumble. Someone was running down the stairs, breathing heavily. I found myself grabbing onto the back of C-Note's jacket. Charlie and Blue were crouched just in front of us. I made out what was in Blue's hand: bra.s.s knuckles.

Just as the footsteps reached the fourth floor, Charlie jumped up and swung the crowbar, waist high. He struck Bee-Bee full-on, bowling him over.

"Yeah, n.i.g.g.e.r!" Blue shouted, then jumped over and started pounding Bee-Bee in the side. His head hit the wall of the stairwell and snapped back. "Leave that b.i.t.c.h alone, you hear me?" Blue shouted, punching him repeatedly in the gut. "You better leave her alone, n.i.g.g.e.r!"

Bee-Bee was tall and strong, and he threw Charlie off him. He stood up and began shouting, but Blue tackled him, smashing Bee-Bee into the wall. The two of them started tumbling down the stairs. Charlie grabbed Bee-Bee's leg, so he, too, fell down the stairwell.

"Grab his other leg!" Charlie yelled in our direction. C-Note jumped down the stairs and made a grab. Blue, meanwhile, was struggling to get out from under Bee-Bee, who had Blue's head in a choke hold. I could see that Blue was struggling to breathe; he looked like he might pa.s.s out, or worse. I felt as if I had to do something. Running over to them, I kicked Bee-Bee in the stomach, which made him relax his grip on Blue. The other men smothered him, and I could hear his m.u.f.fled words: "Okay, okay. All right, enough."

Blue, the strongest of them, bent Bee-Bee's arms behind his back, bringing him to his knees. I don't know whether it was the cold air, the adrenaline, or the swift kick I'd delivered, but I was badly out of breath. I leaned against the wall near the incinerator room. "Charlie, run back up the stairs and make sure he didn't drop nothing," C-Note said. "We'll meet you at the office."

The rest of us walked Bee-Bee downstairs to Ms. Bailey's office. She wasn't in, so C-Note sent another squatter to fetch her. We all stood outside the office, silent. No one seemed to worry that Bee-Bee would run away.

He sat down on the floor with his head pitched back, resting against the wall. This was my first opportunity to get a good look at him. He was young, his face light-skinned and boyish but with a menacing air. And he appeared to be aging fast. His nostrils were black, his eyes hollow and glazed, telltale signs of crack use. He wore a brown sweatshirt over a stained white tank top, with loose jeans and unlaced sneakers dirtied by the winter slush. I saw a gang tattoo on his neck, the crescent-and-star pattern of the Black P. Stone Nation. The Stones had been largely dismantled in the 1980s by the feds, with some remaining factions now aligned with the Black Kings. Why, I wondered, was Taneesha hanging around with this this guy? guy?

C-Note had caught his breath by now. "You really f.u.c.ked up this time, Bee-Bee."

Bee-Bee said nothing. He wiped the sweat from his face.

I heard Ms. Bailey coming. I'd never seen her move so fast before-she was practically galloping, trailed by Catrina and a few older women in blue Tenant Patrol jackets.

Ms. Bailey hurried past without looking at me. Catrina, however, gave me one of her signature looks that I now recognized as meaning this: Ms. Bailey's got the situation under control, and all will soon be right with the world. Ms. Bailey's got the situation under control, and all will soon be right with the world. Ms. Bailey unlocked her office door and went inside. Blue and Charlie, who'd returned from upstairs, picked up Bee-Bee and brought him into the office. Bee-Bee seemed cooperative. The three of them entered the back room in Ms. Bailey's office, and then someone shut the front door. I stayed outside, along with the other squatters and the Tenant Patrol women. C-Note, his work done, took off. Ms. Bailey unlocked her office door and went inside. Blue and Charlie, who'd returned from upstairs, picked up Bee-Bee and brought him into the office. Bee-Bee seemed cooperative. The three of them entered the back room in Ms. Bailey's office, and then someone shut the front door. I stayed outside, along with the other squatters and the Tenant Patrol women. C-Note, his work done, took off.

Then Catrina poked her head out the door and waved me inside. Get in here! Get in here! she mouthed silently. I did, and she pointed me to a chair. she mouthed silently. I did, and she pointed me to a chair.

It was hard to make out the full conversation behind Ms. Bailey's closed door, but once in a while her voice was loud enough for me to hear: "You got some nerve, young man! . . . Beat her like that.... Where do you live, huh, where do you live?! . . . She's a good girl. She owe you money? She wouldn't f.u.c.k you? Why did you do that? . . . Say something!"

Then came the beating. Charlie or Blue, or maybe both of them, started hitting Bee-Bee. I also heard Ms. Bailey cry out in a m.u.f.fled tone. Maybe Ms. Bailey is. .h.i.tting him as well, Maybe Ms. Bailey is. .h.i.tting him as well, I thought. I heard chairs scuffing the floor. Then, for the first time, I heard Bee-Bee's voice: "Oh, s.h.i.t! . . . Get off me. . . . f.u.c.k that! She deserved it." I thought. I heard chairs scuffing the floor. Then, for the first time, I heard Bee-Bee's voice: "Oh, s.h.i.t! . . . Get off me. . . . f.u.c.k that! She deserved it."

Ms. Bailey started to yell louder. "Deserved it? . . . You'll get worse if you come around here. . . . Don't ever, don't ever ever touch her again, you hear me? touch her again, you hear me? You hear me? You hear me? Don't ever come in this building again." Don't ever come in this building again."

Ms. Bailey threw open the door. Blue dragged Bee-Bee out. His face was badly worked over; he was drooling and mumbling something unintelligible. Blue hustled him past Catrina and me and threw him to the floor on the gallery. Two other men grabbed him and led him toward the stairwell. Ms. Bailey followed them, with the members of the Tenant Patrol right behind.

I started to get up, but Catrina stopped me. "Sudhir! No, let them go! They're just taking him in the car, and they'll leave him on State Street. Come up with me and see how Taneesha's doing."

Taneesha's aunt answered our knock. She and Taneesha's mother told us that Taneesha was at the hospital; she had some bad bruises, but it seemed as if she'd be okay. "I don't know what she's going to look look like, though," said the aunt. "He beat her pretty good." Taneesha's mother promised to call Ms. Bailey later that night. like, though," said the aunt. "He beat her pretty good." Taneesha's mother promised to call Ms. Bailey later that night.

We went back downstairs to Ms. Bailey's office. She hadn't returned yet-she was apparently visiting Taneesha at the hospital- so Catrina told me what she knew. Bee-Bee had been managing Taneesha's modeling career, booking her at lingerie shows and dances. For this, he received a 25 percent cut-and, according to Catrina, he made Taneesha sleep with him. When Bee-Bee heard that Taneesha was going to sign up with a legitimate modeling agency, he got mad and started beating her. Today wasn't the first time this had happened. In fact, Ms. Bailey had repeatedly warned Bee-Bee to stop. But he kept hara.s.sing Taneesha, even stealing money from her apartment. It was only because Ms. Bailey felt there was no other recourse, Catrina explained, that today she had rounded up C-Note and the others to form a sort of militia. In the projects this was a long-standing practice. Militias were regularly put together to track down stolen property, mete out punishment, or simply obtain an apology for a victim.

In a neighborhood like this one, with poor police response and no shelter for abused women, the militias sometimes represented the best defense. "It's hard when you can't get n.o.body to come around," Catrina said solemnly. She was sitting in Ms. Bailey's chair, a soda in hand and her voice a.s.sured, seeming for all the world like the heiress to Ms. Bailey's throne. "No police, n.o.body from the hospital. We can't live like this! That's why Ms. Bailey is so important. And especially for women. She makes sure we're safe."

"I suppose," I said. "But it's a horrible way to live. And wouldn't you rather have the police come around?"

"I'd rather not live in the projects," Catrina shot back. "But women are always getting beat on, getting sent to the hospital. I mean, you have to take care of yourself. Ms. Bailey makes these men take care of us. I don't see what's wrong with that. Unless you live here, you can't judge us, Sudhir."

For some reason I couldn't restrain the judgmental voice of my middle-cla.s.s self. "You all didn't call the police, did you?" I blurted out.

For the first time since I knew Catrina, she couldn't look me in the eye. "No, we didn't."

"Why?"

She took a deep breath and raised her head. "Because we're scared of them."

"You are scared? are scared? Women Women are scared? are scared? Everyone Everyone is scared?" I asked. "Who is scared?" I asked. "Who exactly exactly is scared? I hear this all the time." is scared? I hear this all the time."

"Everybody. But for women it's different. You wouldn't understand." She paused. "At least we have C-Note and the rest of them when things go crazy." It was clear that Catrina didn't want to talk further. I decided to ask Ms. Bailey about this when things calmed down.

I'd seen some police around the neighborhood, and I'd seen them work with Autry at the Boys & Girls Club. But since most tenants were so distrustful of the cops, I kept my interactions with them to a minimum, since I didn't want to be thought of as being "with" the cops.

Still, I had a hard time accepting the idea that tenants wouldn't call the police for something as serious as an a.s.sault. I also found it tough to believe that the police wouldn't show up-or, for that matter, that an ambulance wouldn't respond either. But as Catrina sat now in total silence, staring at me expressionlessly, I realized I might well be wrong.