Monster: The Autobiography of an L.A. Gang Member Part 23

C-R-I-P! C-R-I-P!.

Whata'ya want? (Freedom!)

When you want it? (Now!)

How you get it? (Power!)

When you need it? (Now!)

UHURU, SASA! UHURU, SASA!.

Everyone would beam with jubilation at the close of each cadence call. The Nation lived!

The pigs were furious, and word was that still more C.C.O.s were coming down from the pen. Meanwhile, word also came down that there was a rat among us. I had searched out those whom Pee Wee had told me about, but they were not in the Forty-eight Hours. Another cat's fate was sealed when paperwork arrived-transcripts-revealing his testimony. I volunteered for the mission. The C.C.O.s wanted him stabbed, which was fine with me. Elimu, however, chose Rebo for the mission.

Later that day, in front of the nurse and everyone else, Rebo stabbed Richie Rich eight times with an ice pick. We went on immediate lockdown and O.S.S. began "interviews." Nothing was yielded, so we stayed on lockdown. For two weeks we were given no roof time, visits, showers-nothing. On our fourteenth day we were allowed visits. Then Sam from 107 Hoover, who was under investigation by C.C.O. for collaboration with O.S.S., knocked out a trustee in the visiting room and we went back on lockdown.

But this time we protested. We were instructed by C.C.O. to tear our wristbands off and refuse to give our last three-our I.D. numbers-at count time. We threw our wristbands on the tier, and when the pig came to our cells we went mute.

"Scott, last three?" asked the pig, looking down at the count board for confirmation.

Silence.

"Scott, what's your last three?"

Silence.

"Let me see your wristband."

Silence and no movement. I just gave him a cold stare, as did my cellmates, who flanked me wearing identical stares that said We ain't having it.

The pig started off to the next cell but never made it. An anonymous hand reached out and busted him in the head with a bar of soap. The pig dropped the count board and bolted for the grill gate.

"Monsta Kody?"

T-Ray from Nine-four Hoover had taken Rebo's place on the initiation of the cadence.

"Yeah?"

"MONSTA KODY?"

"YEAH?"

"MACHINE IN MOTION!"

And I began the cadence, knowing that the pigs would be back. But instead of coming on the tiers they were up on the catwalk, trying to identify the caller of the cadence. They stopped in front of our cell and stared. I got louder. A minute later my gate opened.

I stepped onto the tier, never stopping the cadence. Three pigs stood at the end, beckoning me to come to them. They would not come on the tier to get me, so instead of moving toward them I went in the opposite direction, continuing the cadence until it was over. Only then did I walk to them. My cellmates hung back as I moved past cell after cell, giving and receiving dap handshakes from the troops.

When I got to Elimu's cell he said, "Can't forgive, won't forget."

"Righteous," I replied and went on down the stairs to the red-faced pigs, who held huge flashlights.

"Unb.u.t.ton that top b.u.t.ton," one of them demanded.

I did that, no big deal.

"Turn around . . ."

I turned toward my cellmates and raised both hands high in the air, displaying a clenched fist with my right hand and a "C" with the left.

"Motherf.u.c.ker," said one of the pigs, grabbing me by the back of my collar. "Didn't you-"

BAM!.

I swung on the one closest to me, hitting him square in the face. I tried to swing my body around to get to the one behind my back, but he had a death grip on me. When I charged another instead, the one behind me literally jumped up on my back, choking me as he did. Briefly I heard the troops shouting in the background.

"Cuz, they fightin'! Monster's gettin' 'em up wit' 'em!"

The wrestling match was on, and we were all over the floor.

I was kicking, elbowing, scratching, jerking, and swearing, while simultaneously trying to protect my private parts. In less than a minute the cavalry arrived and I was swarmed by pigs. The only thing that saved me from being beaten to death was that there were too many pigs vying for a punch, kick, groin shot, or insult. I don't even remember hearing "n.i.g.g.e.r," but I'm sure it was said fifty times.

After they'd beaten the h.e.l.l out of me, I was cuffed and whisked off to a holding cell. I screamed the whole way.

"CAN'T STOP, WON'T STOP, m.u.t.h.af.u.c.kAS! CAN'T STOP, WON'T STOP!'

I wound up in 1750 High Power, maximum security-the story of my life.

The troops tore the module up, burned their blankets and mattresses and, where possible, engaged the pigs. I was charged with conspiracy, a.s.sault, and arson, but the charges were later dismissed.

While in High Power I met Suma, the general of C.C.O. He said he had heard of me and that if I needed anything to let him know. He and Tony Stacy, another C.C.O. member, had come down from Folsom, but O.S.S. had locked them in 1750 right away. Peabody, general of the U.B.N., was there, too.

On a visit one night, Tony said that they had come down to try to hook me up. They wanted me and Insane from Playboy Gangster. I was flattered but skeptical. Once in the organization, you were in for life. He asked if I wanted to take a stand and I told him I'd think about it.

"Monsta," he said frankly, "you've done too much damage to the Crip Nation. We can't let you continue to kill our citizens. Either you hook up or you must be destroyed for the good of the C-Nation."

I was dumbfounded. I couldn't speak, couldn't hear. It was practically what Crazy Keith had said after the shoot-out. Was C.C.O. also the new West Side Syndicate?

"Was that . . ." I started to ask, but couldn't.

"Let me know what you decide so I can inform Suma."

I walked back to the module in a trance.

The following day I called Big Frogg and asked him what he thought. He was under the old const.i.tution of Blue Magic, which had been combined with Blue Machine to form the Consolidated Crip Organization-a synthesis of the two.

"No," said Frogg angrily. "Don't do it, homie. It ain't for everybody."

"What'cha mean?"

"I'll be down there to see you tomorrow, all right? But don't do nuthin' till then."

I hung up and went to my cell, confused.

The next day I went to court and missed Frogg's visit. The following day I told Tony I was ready-that I was in. When I went to court again the following day I met Bwana from Hoover-a C.C.O. member who had also come down from the pen. He filled me in on small things. When I got back from court, the const.i.tution was on my desk. To this day I don't know how it got there, as Tony and Suma were clear across the module in another section.

I was trembling even before I began to read it. I had to be sure about this, but it really was do or die. Though I wasn't actually being forced into it, I did feel a little pressured. In the end, it was my choice, and I took it. I read the const.i.tution and afterward burned it, as instructed. I was in, hooked up, a member, a comrade, a soldier. I turned all of this over again and again in my mind. I didn't feel much different and didn't feel like I knew any more than before I'd read the const.i.tution.

Late that same night a new brotha came on our tier and was put in the last cage. When Maurice from Five-Six Syndicate asked his name, he replied Salahudin Al-Muntaquin. He was a member of the Black Guerrilla Family-B.G.F.-a quasi-revolutionary organization with an awesome military machine. They had clashed with Crips several times in prison and supposedly had killed Pee Wee from East Coast in Tracy in 1983. My intelligence was up to date on him and when he said his name I knew who he was. I made immediate plans to stab him. Oldman, who was my neighbor, made a knife out of plastic and sent it to me. I was the tier tender and planned on spearing him the following morning when I came out to pour the milk.

The next morning I went down to his cell, the knife tied to a broomstick, hoping to catch him asleep. When I got there he was up doing Salat. He was a Muslim. He stood up and came to the bars.

"How you doing this morning, brotha?"

I was momentarily dazed by his humbleness, for we had always heard that B.G.F.s were antagonistic toward Crips, offensive and hostile.

"I'm fine," I said, looking for an opening. I had the broomstick on the head of the broom, but not screwed in. At the other end, covered by my hand, was the knife.

"You a B.G.F., ain't you?" I said, hoping he'd get hostile.

"I am a revolutionary," he said, "and the weapon is unnecessary. I'm not your enemy."

"What?" I said, noting that my hand was no longer around the weapon, but on the handle.

"Do you know Suma?" he asked.

"Yeah, that's my comrade," I declared proudly.

"Ask him about me. He knows me well."

At that I went back down the tier and repeated everything to Oldman. He agreed we should wait on Suma.

That afternoon I got a note from Suma saying that C.C.O. had no beef with B.G.F. and that if I could, to watch out for Salahudin. I'd almost made a costly mistake.

Salahudin and I eventually became good friends, and it was he who named me Sanyika.

Not long after that I left County with a sentence of seven years in state prison. My life has never been the same.

10.

RECONNECTED.

I arrived at Chino state prison on June 5, 1985, eager to begin serving my seven-year sentence. As soon as I got off the bus a confrontation started brewing with a Chicano who kept looking at me. We were herded into R & R like cattle. "Nuts to b.u.t.ts" is how the Correctional Officer (C.O.) explained the way he wanted us lined up. I was relieved that he didn't have a flashlight. We were crowded into a cold, dim room with puddles of water on the floor, as if the ceiling had been leaking.

"All right, listen up," the C.O. said in a deep baritone that seemed to shake s.h.i.t loose from the walls. "The first thing I want you to do is take off your wristbands and throw them in this box. Next, I want you to strip naked and have a seat. If you want to send your clothes home, hold on to them. If not, throw them in this cart. Once you've stripped naked, we can follow through with the procedure."

All the while this Chicano kept staring at me. Every time I looked at him he was looking at me. Even when I looked elsewhere, keeping him in my peripheral vision, he was watching me. I had already been briefed on our relationship with the Southern Mexicans: C.C.O. and the Mexican mafia-the Southern Mexican vanguard-were at war.

"If you think one of them has detected you," Suma had told me on a visit, "take off first."

Now here was this dude burning holes in the side of my d.a.m.n head. I played it cool and went through the procedures that the CO. was explaining.

"Put your hands over your head. Let me see your armpits. Open your mouth and wiggle your tongue. Lift up your nut sack. Turn around, bend at the waist, spread your cheeks and give me five big coughs. Let me see under your left foot. Now your right . . ."

This was nothing new. We had to do this every time we came from court in L.A. County Jail. At first it bothered me a lot. I felt like a diseased piece of meat being examined by some pigs at an auction. A bunch of guys getting their kicks off of watching forty naked men moving into different positions of humiliation at the command of a voice. In all my days, months, and years of being a prisoner, I've never seen one of these searches yield anything.

What are they expecting? Some pig says, "Okay, bend at the waist and give me five loud coughs," and plink! a knife falls out of a man's a.s.s? Although I know that prisoners do secrete weapons, drugs, and other things in their b.u.t.ts, the pigs haven't ever found anything on the searches I've been involved in. This process is just another ritual designed to degrade.