Gang Leader For A Day Part 15

One man, addressing me as "Arab," told me I should get out of the neighborhood for good and especially leave alone their young women. Other people joined in: "n.i.g.g.e.r, get out of here!"

"Arab, go home!"

"Get the f.u.c.k out, Julio!"

Ms. Bailey tried to restore order. Amid the shouting she yelled out that I would explain myself.

I was still confused. "Let Sudhir tell you why he's meeting them!"

Ms. Bailey said, and then I understood: It was the writing workshop. People had seen me picking up the young women and driving away with them. Apparently they thought I was sleeping with them, or maybe pimping them out.

As I tried to explain the writing workshop, I kept getting drowned out. I began to feel scared. I had seen how a mob of tenants nearly tore apart the Middle Eastern shopkeeper who'd slept with Boo-Boo's daughter.

Ms. Bailey finally made herself heard above the riot. "He's trying to tell you that he's just helping them with homework!"

That quieted everyone down a little bit. But still, I was stung: Why weren't any of the women from the workshop in attendance? Why hadn't anyone come to defend me, to tell the truth?

After a few more minutes, things having calmed down a bit, Ms. Bailey told me to leave. There was other business to take care of, she said, laughing-at me-and clearly enjoying herself at my expense.

Leaving the building that night, I wondered how much more time I could afford to spend in J.T.'s territory. It was hard to think of any tenants who weren't weren't angry with me. angry with me.

SEVEN.

Black and Blue Of all the relationships I'd developed during my time at Robert Taylor, it turned out that the strongest one by far was my bond with J.T. As unusual and as morally murky as this relationship may have been, it was also undeniably powerful. Our years together had produced a close relationship. This bond would become even more intimate, to the point that J.T. felt personally indebted to me, when I had the opportunity to help save the life of one of his closest friends.

It was a cla.s.sic Chicago summer afternoon: a cloudless sky, the muggy air broken occasionally by a soft lake breeze. I was hanging around at Robert Taylor, outside J.T.'s building, along with perhaps a hundred other people. Tenants were barbecuing, playing softball, and taking comfort in the cool shadow of the building. Few apartments had a working air conditioner, so on a day like this the lawn got more and more crowded as the day wore on.

I was sitting on the lawn next to Darryl Young, one of J.T.'s uncles,who relaxed on a lawn chair with a six-pack of beer. Since the beer was warm, Darryl sent a niece or nephew inside every now and then to fetch some ice for his cup. Darryl was in his late forties and had long ago lost most of his teeth. He had unkempt salt-and-pepper hair, walked with a stiff limp, and always wore his State of Illinois ID on a chain around his neck. He left the project grounds so rarely that his friends called him "a lifer." He knew every inch of Robert Taylor, and he loved to tell stories about the most dramatic police busts and the most memorable baseball games between competing buildings. He told me about the project's famous pimps and infamous murderers as well as about one tenant who tried to raise a tiger in his apartment and another who kept a hundred snakes in her apartment-until the day she let them loose in the building.

Suddenly Darryl sat up, staring at an old beater of a Ford sedan cruising slowly past the building. The driver was a young white man, looking up at the building as if he expected someone to come down.

"Get the f.u.c.k out of here, boy!" Darryl shouted. "We don't need you around here. Go and sleep with your own women!" Darryl turned and hollered to a teenage boy playing basketball nearby. "Cheetah! Go and get Price, tell him to come here."

"Why do you want Price?" I asked.

"Price is the only one who can take care of this," Darryl said. His face was tight, and he kept his eyes on the Ford. By now the car had come to a stop.

"Take care of what?" I asked.

"d.a.m.n white boys come around here for our women," Darryl said. "It's disgusting. This ain't no G.o.dd.a.m.n brothel."

"You think he's a john?"

"I know know he's a john," Darryl said, scowling, and then went back to shouting at the Ford. "Boy! Hey, boy, get on home, we don't want your money!" he's a john," Darryl said, scowling, and then went back to shouting at the Ford. "Boy! Hey, boy, get on home, we don't want your money!"

Price sauntered out of the building, trailed by a few other members of the BK security squad. Darryl stood up and hobbled over to Price.

"Get that boy out of here, Price!" he said. "I'm tired of them coming around here. This ain't no G.o.dd.a.m.n wh.o.r.ehouse!"

"All right, old man," Price said, irritated by Darryl's enthusiasm but clearly a bit concerned. "Don't worry. We'll take care of him."

Price and his entourage approached the car. I could hear Price speaking gruffly to the driver while the other BKs surrounded the car so that it couldn't drive off. Then Price opened the door and gestured for the white guy to get out.

Just then I heard the loud squeal of a car rounding the corner of Twenty-fifth and Federal. Some kids shouted at people to get out of its path. It was a gray sedan, and I could see it roaring toward us, but unsteadily, as if one of the wheels were loose.

The first shots sounded like machine-gun fire. Everyone seemed to duck instinctively, except for me. I was frozen upright; my legs were stuck in place and everything turned to slow motion. The car came closer. Price and the other BK security men ran toward the building as more shots were fired. The car flew past, and I could see four people inside, all black. It looked as if two of them were shooting, one from either side.

Price got hit and dropped to the ground. The rest of his entourage reached the lobby safely. Price wasn't moving. I saw Darryl lying flat on the gra.s.s, while other tenants were crawling toward shelter-a car, a tree, the building itself-and grabbing children as they went. I was still standing, in shock, though I had managed to at least hunch over. The gray car had vanished.

Then I heard a second car screeching down the back alleyway. I was puzzled. In most drive-by shootings, a gang wouldn't risk a second pa.s.s, since the element of surprise had been used up. Indeed, looking around now at the expanse in front of the building, I saw perhaps a dozen young men with guns in their hands, crouching behind cars or along the sides of the building. I had never seen so many guns in Robert Taylor.

Price still hadn't gotten up. I could see that he was gripping his leg. Somehow the sight of him lying motionless moved me to action. I headed toward him and saw that one of the BKs had come back outside to do the same. We grabbed Price and started to drag him toward the building.

"Get Serena! Get Serena!" someone shouted down from an upper floor. "She's out there with her baby!"

The BK helping me with Price ran over to help Serena and her children to a safe spot. I dragged Price the rest of the way by myself and made it to the lobby just as the second car emerged from the alley. I heard some shouts and some more gunshots. I saw that the BK who'd gone to help Serena had draped his body atop her and her kids.

In the dim light of the lobby, I could see that Price's leg was bleeding badly, just above the knee. J.T.'s men pushed me out of the way. They carried Price farther inside the building, toward one of the ground-floor apartments. I wondered where J.T. was.

"Sudhir, get inside, go upstairs to Ms. Mae's-now!" It was Ms. Bailey. I gestured toward Price, to show that I wanted to help. She just yelled at me again to get upstairs.

About five flights up the stairs, I ran into a group of J.T.'s men on the gallery, looking out. "I don't see no more!" one of them shouted to some BKs on the ground outside. "It don't look like there's any more! Just get everyone inside and put four in the lobby."

I heard a stream of footsteps in the stairwell. Parents yelled at their children to hurry up, and a few mothers asked for help carrying their strollers. I heard someone say that J.T. was in the lobby, so I hustled back downstairs.

He stood at the center of a small mob, taking reports from his men. There was a lot of commotion, all of them talking past one another: "n.i.g.g.e.rs will do it again, I know they will!"

"We need to get Price to the hospital, he's still bleeding."

"No, we need to secure the building."

"I say we drive by and shoot back, now!"

As instructed, four young men now stood armed guard in the lobby, two at each entrance. Under normal circ.u.mstances young gang members like these bragged about their toughness, their willingness to kill for the family. But now, with the danger real, they looked shaky, eyes wide and fearful.

J.T. stood calmly, wearing dark sungla.s.ses, picking his teeth. When his eyes fell upon me, he fixed me with a glare. I didn't know what he was trying to communicate. Then he pointed toward the ceiling. He wanted me upstairs, at his mother's place, out of the way.

Instead I walked even farther into the lobby, out of his view. I asked a rank-and-file BK where Price was. He pointed down the hall. J.T. approached, patted me on the back, and pulled me in close. "Price isn't doing so hot," he whispered. "He's bleeding real bad, and I need to get him to the hospital."

"Call the ambulance," I said instinctively.

"They won't come. Listen, we need your car. If they see one of our cars come up to Provident, they may call the police. We need to borrow your car."

"Sure, of course," I said, reaching for my keys. I had recently bought a junker, a 1982 Cutla.s.s Ciera. "Let me get it."

"No," J.T. said, grabbing my hand. "You can't leave the building for a while. Go upstairs, but let me have the keys. Cherise will take him."

I gave J.T. my keys and watched him walk toward the apartment where Price was being looked after. It was common practice to have a woman drive a BK to the hospital so that he wouldn't immediately be tagged as a gangster. Cherise lived in the building and let the Black Kings use her apartment to make crack cocaine. J.T. sometimes joked that the young women in the projects would never turn on their stoves if it weren't for his gang cooking up crack.

J.T. commandeered a vacant apartment on the fourteenth floor to use as a temporary headquarters. The scene was surreal, like watching an army prepare for war. I sat in a corner and watched as J.T. issued commands. Small groups of men would come inside, receive their orders, and hurry off. J.T. a.s.signed several men to take up rifles and sit in the windows of the third, fifth, and seventh floors. He instructed other groups of men to go door-to-door and warn tenants to stay away from the west-facing windows.

He told one young BK that there probably wouldn't be another shooting for at least a few hours. "Get some of the older people out of here," he ordered. "Take them to 2325." A BK foot soldier told me that Price had made it to the emergency room but was said to be still bleeding badly.

J.T. came over and told me what he knew. The first car, the beat-up Ford, was a decoy to lure some Black Kings out of the building. The attack appeared to be a collaboration between the MCs and the Stones. They were deeply envious, J.T. told me, that the BKs had been able to attract so many customers to their territory. The MCs and the Stones were a constant source of worry for J.T., since they were led by "crazy n.i.g.g.e.rs," his term for the kind of bad businessmen who thought that a drive-by shooting was the best way to competein a drug market. J.T. much preferred the more established rival gangs, since a shared interest in maintaining the status quo decreased their appet.i.te for violence.

Every so often J.T. sent out an entourage to buy food for people in the building. A few tenants carried on as usual, paying little attention to the Black Kings' dramatic show of security in the lobby. But except for a couple of stereos and some shouting in the stairwells, the building was eerily quiet. We all baked in the still, hot air.

Occasionally one of J.T.'s more senior members would throw out a plan for retaliation. J. T. listened to every proposal but was noncommittal. "We got time for all that," he kept saying. "Let's just see what happens tonight."

Every half hour Cherise called from the hospital to report on Price's condition. J.T. looked tense as he took these reports. Price was a friend since high school, one of the few people J.T. allowed in his inner circle.

I was just nodding off to sleep on the floor when J.T. walked over.

"Thanks, man," he said quietly.

"For what?"

"You didn't have to get mixed up in this s.h.i.t."

He must have heard that I'd helped drag Price into the lobby. I didn't say anything. J.T. slapped my leg, asked if I wanted a c.o.ke, and walked off to the fridge.

There were no more shootings that night, but the tension didn't let up. I never went home.

Within a few days, once he figured out exactly who was responsible for the attack, J.T. rounded up T-Bone and several other officers and went after the shooters. J. T. personally helped beat them up; the BKs also took their guns and money. Because these young rivals had "no business sense," as J.T. told me later, there was no hope of a compromise. Physical retaliation was the only measure to consider.

Price stayed in the hospital for a few days, but the bullet caused no irreparable damage, and he was soon back in action.

T-Bone called me one day with big news: J.T. was on the verge of receiving another important promotion within the citywide Black Kings organization. If all went according to plan, J.T., T-Bone, and Price would be responsible for taking on even more BK factions, which meant managing a considerably larger drug-trafficking operation. I could hear the excitement in T-Bone's voice. For him, too, the promotion meant more money as well as a boost in status. "Two years, that's it," he told me. "Two more years of this s.h.i.t, and I'm getting out of the game." Ever practical, T-Bone was saving for his future-a house, full-time college, and a legal job.

J.T. wouldn't be around Robert Taylor much for the next several weeks, T-Bone told me, since his new a.s.signment required a lot of preparation and legwork. But he had asked T-Bone to give me a message: "J.T. wants you to go with him to the next regional BK meeting. You up for it?"

I had been waiting for this phone call for a few years. I desperately wanted to learn about the gang's senior leadership, and now that J.T. was one of them, it looked like I'd finally have my chance.

By this point in my research, I still felt guilty sometimes for being as much of a hustler, in my own way, as the other hustlers in the neighborhood. C-Note had called me on it, and C-Note was right. I constantly hustled people for information-stories, data, interviews,facts-anything that might make my research more interesting.

So I was happy whenever I had the chance to give a little bit back. The writing workshop hadn't worked out as well as I'd wanted, and I was searching for another way to act charitably. An opportunity fell into my lap when the Chicago public-school teachers went on strike. Since BK rules stipulated that each member graduate from high school, J.T. asked Autry to set up a program during the strike so that J.T.'s members could stay off the streets and do some home-work. Autry had set up a similar program at the Boys & Girls Club, but gang boundaries forbade J.T.'s members to go there.

Autry agreed, and he asked me to run a cla.s.sroom in J.T.'s building. I obliged, pretty sure that lecturing high-schoolers on history, politics, and math shouldn't be too hard.

We met in a dingy, darkened apartment with a bathroom that didn't work. On a given day, there were anywhere from twenty to fifty teenage gang members on my watch. The air was so foul that I let them smoke to cover the odor. There weren't enough seats, so the kids forcibly claimed some chairs from neighboring apartments, with no promise of returning them.

On the first day, as the students talked loudly through my lecture on history and politics, J.T. walked in unannounced and shouted at them to pay attention. He ordered Price to take one particularly noisy foot soldier into the hallway and beat him.

Later I asked J.T. not to interrupt again. The kids would never learn anything, I insisted, if they knew that he was going to be monitoring them. J.T. and Autry both thought I was crazy. They didn't think I had any chance of controlling the unruly teens without the threat of an occasional visit by J.T.

They were right. Within a day the "cla.s.sroom" had descended into anarchy. In one corner a few guys were admiring a gun that one of them had just bought. (He was thoughtful enough to remove the bullets during cla.s.s.) In another corner several teenagers had organized a dice game. The winner would get not only the cash but also the right to rob the homeless people sleeping in a nearby vacant apartment. One kid brought in a radio and improvised a rap song about their "Injun teacher," replete with references to Custer, Geronimo, and "the smelly Ay-Rab." (It never seemed to occur to anyone that "Arab" and "Indian" were not in fact interchangeable; in my case they were equally valuable put-downs.) The most harmless kids in the room were the ones who patiently waited for their friends to return from the store with some beer.

Things got worse from there. Some of my students started selling marijuana in the cla.s.sroom; others would casually leave the building to find a prost.i.tute. When I conveyed all this to J.T., he said that as long as the guys showed up, they weren't hanging out on the street and getting into any real trouble.

Given that they were using my "cla.s.sroom" to deal drugs, gamble, and play with guns, I wondered exactly what J.T. meant by "real" trouble.

My role was quickly downgraded from teacher to baby-sitter. The sessions lasted about two weeks, until news came that the teachers' strike was being settled. By this time my admiration for Autry's skill with the neighborhood kids had increased exponentially.

Despite my utter failure as a teacher, Autry called me again for help. The stakes were a little higher this time-and, for me, so was the reward.

Autry and the other staffers at the Boys & Girls Club wanted me to help write a grant proposal for the U.S. Department of Justice, which had advertised special funds being allocated for youth programs. The proposal needed to include in-depth crime statistics for the projects and the surrounding neighborhood, data that was typically hard to get, since the police didn't like to make such information public. But if I took on the project, I'd get direct access to Officer Reggie Marcus-"Officer Reggie" to tenants-the local cop who had grown up in Robert Taylor himself and was devoted to making life there better. I jumped at the chance.

I had met Reggie on several occasions, but now I had an opportunity to work closely with him and cultivate a genuine friendship. He was about six feet tall, as muscular and fit as a football player; he always dressed well and carried himself with a quiet determination. I knew that Reggie often dealt directly with gang leaders in the hopes of keeping violence to a minimum and that he was a diplomatic force among the project's street hustlers. Now I would be able to ask as many questions as I wanted about the particulars of his work.

Why, for instance, did he try to reduce gun violence by making sure that the gangs gangs were the only ones who had guns? were the only ones who had guns?

"They don't like gun violence any more than the tenants, because it scares away customers," he explained. "So they try to keep things quiet."

One wintry afternoon I met Reggie at the police station in the Grand Boulevard neighborhood, a few blocks from J.T.'s territory. When I arrived, he told me he still had some phone calls to make, so I went to find a water fountain. The police station was drab, row after row of bland gray cubicles; the air was cold and damp, the tile floor slippery from the tracked-in snow.

Near the water fountain, I came upon a wall covered with Polaroid pictures. They were all of black men in their teens and twenties, most of them looking dazed or defiant. Beneath each photo was a caption with the person's name and gang affiliation.

Taped next to the photos was a party flyer headlined "MC Southside Fest." J.T.'s gang hung similar flyers all around the buildings when they were sponsoring a party or a basketball tournament. On the MC flyer, there were several names handwritten along the right margin, as if it were a sign-up sheet: "Watson," "O'Neill," "Brown."

Reggie came by as I was inspecting the flyer.

"Let's not hang out here," he said, looking concerned. "And let's not talk about that. I'll explain later."

We were heading over to the Boys & Girls Club to talk to Autry about the Department of Justice grant. As we walked to Reggie's SUV, parked behind the police station, I was still thinking about the MC flyer.

I recalled a party the Black Kings had thrown a few years back, having rented out the second floor of an Elks Lodge. The women were dressed up, and the men wore spiffy tracksuits or pressed jeans. They drank beer and wine coolers, danced, and pa.s.sed marijuana joints around the room.

As J.T. and I stood talking in a corner, a group of five men suddenly busted into the room, all dressed in black. One of them held up a gun for everyone to see. The other four ran to the corners of the room, one of them shouting for everyone to get up against the wall. Four of the men were black, one white. J.T. whispered to me, "Cops." He and I took our places against the wall.

One of the partying gangsters, a huge man, at least six foot two and 250 pounds, started to resist. "f.u.c.k you, n.i.g.g.e.r!" he shouted. Two of the men in black promptly yanked him into the bathroom- where, from the sound of it, they beat him brutally. We all stood silently against the wall, listening to his grunts and groans.