When Thugz Cry Ch. 01byScott_Free©
This story is neither pure fact, nor pure fiction. It is a purposely skewed retelling of the events of my youth. Events and people have been intentionally changed to protect myself, and the other people involved; both the guilty and the innocent. It is not meant to be a confession, or an inspiration; although it could be interpreted as either. These events took place Detroit, in the early 1990's. It seems like it took place in another world. It was a very different time. Gangs and cocaine ruled the streets of Tha D, and the police were mostly just trying to keep everything within Detroit's borders, and keep it from spilling over into the surrounding suburbs. This is life how I saw it. It is gritty and raw, and if you are offended my strong language, drug use, sex, or criminality, just stop reading now.
I've never actually read a non-erotic story on this site, and I figure that few of you people will read this, either. I plan this to be a full-length book in the near future, and I'm just flexing my writing muscles, and trying to take my mind back over 20 years, and to briefly recapture my mind state. It is still in a rough draft, please excuse any typos. I guess that is enough bullshit disclaimers and rambling.
When thugz cry, we don't shed tears,
We shed blood.
Do you still wanna be a thug?
The cop's flashlight beamed bright through my window, causing my pupils to contract, resulting in a total loss of night vision. I knew that they did this on purpose to disorient suspects, as well as to check the car quickly for weapons, or drug paraphernalia. The cop had pulled out of a drug store parking lot behind us a half mile back, and presumably ran our plate. My bodyguard, Bear, had urged me to stay calm, and pull over when he flips his lights on. There was almost no chance that the fucking pigs wouldn't pull us over. It was 4:30am, and I was a white guy driving a car with a black passenger. To the reasoning of the cops, this meant one thing: a drug buy.
Sure enough, the cop had flipped on his red and blues, and I pulled to the curb slowly, keeping my hands on the wheel, where the pig could see them. This was not unexpected, and both Bear and I had been trained in traffic stops by our homie, Bitch Killa. We were instructed never to run from the cops, no matter what we had done, no matter what we had on our person, or in the car. There were to be no exceptions on this rule. The Gangta Mack Crips had rules for everything. These were the rules for traffic stops.
1. Pull over. Never, ever, ever run from the cops. Keeps your hands on the wheel, and no sudden movements. Sudden movements spook police.
2. Keep your fucking mouth shut. Be polite to the cops, but tell them absolutely no details about anything.
3. When they take you to jail, and they will, go quietly, because resisting arrest will get your ass beat, or get you killed.
4. When they question you, KEEP YOUR FUCKING MOUTH SHUT! They know that you are guilty of something, and if you run your mouth, sooner or later they will trap you into some bullshit, and then you might be stuck.
5. Ask for your lawyer. Call the Jew, and if he's not there, say nothing.
6. The more that you violate these rules, the more likely that you will go to prison.
These rules were memorized by all of us, and we actually fucking role played getting pulled over. It must have worked, because I should have been way more nervous than I was, given all the shit that we had in the car.
The cop made a twirling motion with his finger, to signal me to roll down my window. I slid the power window down on the 1979 Cougar RX-7. It was an immense hulk of a car, with a good engine. It was functional, but not fancy; exactly what we needed.
"License and registration please." The cop didn't look overly jumpy, but his had still rested on the huge revolver that he carried on his hip. I saw a second flash light start in the back seat, on the passenger side. The light flowed over Bear, and the second pig drew his gun.
"He's gotta gun, Frank." The second cop leveled his revolver at Bear's head, and the cop at my window drew his gun, and pointed it at me. Apparently riding down the street with a sawed-off shotgun in your lap is illegal in Detroit. I froze, my left hand on the wheel, my right hand on the sun visor, where my license, and the registration to the car were clipped. Bear's hands were on the dashboard, where they had been since the cops flashed their lights. He knew that we were riding heavy, and that we would be ok, as long as a jumpy cop didn't blow our faces off.
"We're not moving." I said calmly. "He won't reach for the gun. Everything is cool here, officer."
"Both of you, put your fucking hands out the windows. Now, shitbags!" I complied, with my license and registration still in my hands. Bear had his hands out of the passenger side, and looked as calm as if we were just sitting at a red light. I have to admit that I was a little afraid. I knew that we were one mistake away from being on the news as the next police shooting victims. "Driver, I want you to reach into the car slowly with your left hand, and remove the keys from the ignition." He sounded a little less excited after we had our hands where he could see them. His partners light illuminated the ignition, as I fumbled, cross armed, trying to remove the keys. Finally, I held them out the window towards the officer.
"Drop em." His partner still sounded really tense. I dropped the keys, and the cop on my side used his flashlight hand to open my door. His partner did the same. It was a scripted dance that they performed thousands of times in their careers. I just hoped that it wouldn't end in bloodshed; especially if it were ours. They had me undo first my seat belt, then Bear's with my left hand. I guess they didn't trust the immense black man to have his hand so close to the shotgun's pistol grip. As soon as both of us were free from our seat belts, I was dragged out of the car by my jacket.
I hit the ground hard, my head bouncing off the black top. I heard Bear hit the ground a half second before the cop's bulk crushed me to the street. I felt the cop's elbow sticking into my neck. He clamped his handcuff around my left wrist, so tight that I would have cried out; if it wasn't for not wanting to look like a bitch in front of my cuz on the other side of the car.
"Put your right hand behind your back, asshole." I did as he said, and he clamped the cuff down brutally on my wrist, causing the steel to bite into my skin. He grabbed me by the collar of my shirt, and sat me up against the car, and made me put my legs out in front of me, and cross them. I heard Bear receive the same treatment.
"This is Kilo 4-5-4, requesting backup, and a K9 unit, possible narcotic involvement. We have a confirmed 10-32, with 2 suspects in custody." His radio chatter made no sense to me. I know he was calling for the drug dogs, and I would bet that a 10-32 had to do with the gun. They will probably tear the car apart, but they would find no drugs. I was positive about that. His radio crackled a minute later, but I couldn't understand it. The pig stood beside me, waiting for backup, and making sure that I didn't make a break for it. I sat, stone faced, trying to ignore the cold, and the fact that I was seated on the muddy ground, in February. The cop on my side of the car was shining his flashlight inside my open door, looking for anything that would further incriminate me.
"I've got another gun here," he told his partner. "It looks like a Beretta. Probably a nine mil." He held the gun up by an ink pen that had been inserted through the trigger guard. It was my gun. He knew it, and I knew it. It had been placed by the side of my seat so that it was out of immediate sight, but easy to get to. "Is this yours, shitbag?" I didn't even look up at the question. I wasn't going to answer shit. That was the fucking rule. People get themselves hemmed up all the time because they snitch on their self. Fuck that shit.
"I've got another on this side. Holy shit, it's a fucking Uzi pistol." I could hear the pride in that asshole's voice. He thought that he was the cop who had taken us off the street permanently. Whatever.
"Are you two some kinda high rollers, or something? What's in the duffel bag in the back seat?" I heard Bear laugh.
"It's your momma's fucking cunt. We would have brought the whole bitch with us, but the bitch was so fat that we couldn't roll her ass into the car. Shit, it was all that we could do to fit her huge fucking cunt into that bag." I laughed at the stupidity of the remark, and immediately saw stars fill my vision. Officer "Shitbag" had kicked me hard, right in the side of my head, knocking me over, and bouncing my head off the ground again. At least this time it was just the frozen dirt on the side of the road, instead of the asphalt. I heard Bear grunt, as the officer on the other side of the car worked him over. I heard the approach of tires, and "Shitbag" pulled me back to a seated position.
It was a detective in an unmarked brown Chevy Caprice. Within twenty seconds of his arrival came the K9 van, and a crime scene tech van. I was pulled to me feet by the collar of my jacket.
"Do you have any weapons on you, sir?" Oh, so I was "sir" when the detective was around. Fucking bullshit, brown nosing bastard.
"I have a folding knife on my belt. It's all legal though." Officer "Shitbag" began to frisk me. He went through all my coat pockets, then felt my pants pockets.
"What's this?" He pulled a tightly rolled wad of hundred dollar bills, held together by a thick rubber band. He laid it on the hood of the car. He unclipped my knife on my belt. He put my wallet, change, and everything else in my pockets onto the hood of the car, where they were collected in an evidence bag by the detective. After a thorough search of my nuts, and my ass crack, I was closed into the back seat of the squad car next to Bear.
I saw the cops look in amazement as the detective opened the gym bag in the back seat. It was stuffed to bursting with cash. It had exactly $88,400 in it, in small bills. I would love to deal with nothing but fifties and hundreds, but that isn't how our dealers get their money from the fiends.
"Just stay chill, Breeze. They don't really have shit. They can't pin us with anything except the guns, and you know that the Jew will tear that shit to shreds."
"Yeah, cuz. I'm not sweating it."
"This is your first time getting cuffed?" The huge black man looked at me with pride in his eyes.
"I've never even been pulled over before." It was true. It was easy to go under cops radar when you were a halfway regular looking white boy.
"You're doing real good, nigga. Keep up, Crip." He smiled hugely as he said this.
"You know it, cuz." I said this calmly, but I was worried about the guns. Federal firearms charges are a five year minimum sentence, and the Uzi was full auto, which I'm sure will add another five. I was in this all the way, and there was no way out but to keep my fucking mouth shut.
The K9 unit went through the car without even a hiccup. I knew that drugs were never anywhere near the money pickup cars just for this specific eventuality. The dog went back into the van, and the crime techs began slicing a long gash in the back seat upholstery. Did they really think that we were smuggling a rocket launcher inside our rear seat? These were fucking Keystone Kops. Officer "Shitbag" and his partner got back in the car, and started it up.
"It looks like you boys are gonna get to know what life is like inside Jackson." Jackson State Penitentiary was the largest prison complex in Michigan, and also where they sent the hardest offenders.
"How many dicks do you think that white boy will have to suck his first day in Jackson?" "Shitbag's" partner thought that he was funny, or thought that he was scaring me. I knew that my people were feared in Jackson, and that if my some off chance that the charges stuck, my reputation, and stripes would follow me there. The cops got into the car, and closed the door, and we drove away leaving the car, the guns, and the big bag of money in police custody.
Bear only said one thing to me on the way to the police station, "Remember the rules, Breeze." I just nodded. They rushed us out of the car, and dragged us down a long corridor to the booking room. They took fingerprints, and our mug shots. We played nice and never resisted once. I think that those dick bags were a little disappointed. Once that was over we were whisked away to separate rooms for questioning.
The room that I was in had a metal table that was bolted to the floor. It had a manacle that was welded to the table that the officer was good enough to attach to the chain running between my cuffs. At least they weren't cutting into me now, and my hands were in front of me. I sat in a metal chair, and across the table were two more metal chairs. A single boom mike hung out of reach on the ceiling, and a two way mirror took up most of one wall. So the waiting game began. I was told that they would try to sweat me by waiting; hoping that fear would build, and I would be convinced that I was getting ratted out. I knew that this wouldn't be the case. I slumped in my chair, looking as relaxed as I would have been in my own living room. It was all an act, though. Inside I was thinking about the Uzi, and the sawed off shotgun. I hope the Jew was as good as they said he was. Finally, after almost three hours of trying to take a nap in a hard steel chair; two detectives came into the room with shit eating grins on their faces.
They had a large file folder that they flopped heavily on the metal table. One detective was white, and the other was black. I wondered if they were going to try and play the race card here.
"So," began Blackie. "We had an interesting talk with your friend. He had a lot of things to say; especially about you."
"Basically," said Whitey, "He said that all of those guns were yours, along with the money, and that you were just giving him a ride." He patted the large brown file folder. "It's all in here, his sworn statement."
"It would go a lot easier if you cooperate with us," said Blackie. They seemed to not be playing good cop/bad cop. I'm not sure what they were doing.
"Yeah," I said confidently, "I will definitely cooperate." Both of them leaned forward almost imperceptibly. For people who were taught how to read body language, they sure didn't bother to mask it themselves. "I will tell you everything, right after I talk to my lawyer, and he arrives." Their change in expression was comical.
"I'll tell you what, white boy," Blackie said. "I'm really not feeling like going through all that hassle of lawyers, and all that bullshit. Why don't you just tell us about the money? If you don't, I'm sure that we can find a holding tank downstairs with four or five of the biggest, meanest niggas that you've ever seen."
"I bet that after an hour or two of being unsupervised down there in the holding cell, this saltine will tell us everything that we want to know." Whitey said this with dead earnestness, and with absolutely no humor. "You know," he continued, "We can hold you for seventy-two hours on suspicion."
"Seventy-two hours of getting ass raped, and sucking dicks is a long time, white boy." Blackie smiled. He had a gold tooth for one of his front teeth. It gleamed yellow in the greenish fluorescent lights of the interrogation room.
"I want my phone call, and my lawyer. That is all I have to say to you." I said it calmly, and matter-of-factly.
"Holding cells it is," said Whitey. "I hope tt you like dark meat." Both of them laughed at this apparently hysterical joke. Maybe if I was a pig, it would have been funny. They picked up the file folder, and left the room smiling.
About a half an hour later, a uniform came, and led me down to the holding cells. These looked like drunk tanks, or overflow to me. They had no bunks. They had a long wooden bench that took up the three sides that didn't have the door. There were about five cells in all, and when I was brought in, some of the prisoners, all of them black, started hooting, and cat calling at me. They took me to the rowdiest cell. It had five guys in it already, and three of them were standing on the benches telling the cops to put me in there with them.
"Step away from the door, you animals." The people in the cell stepped back towards the back of the cell. The cop had his nightstick out, and didn't look like he was in the mood for any bullshit. They opened the door on his signal, and I stepped inside. The door closed remotely behind me with a loud clang.
"Hey, white boy," said a man with an afro that was badly in need of a trim. "What are you in for, sucking dicks?" A couple of the other guys laughed. One guy didn't crack a smile though. He was a big guy, not tall, but really muscular. He looked kind of familiar.
"Yo!" the muscular man said. "Don't fuck with that guy. I know him. He is a Gangsta Mack Crip, and one of the big dogs. He could have you killed just for looking at him wrong, and nobody would ever say shit about it." The cell instantly fell silent. Fear is a strong deterrent. Everybody who was on the street knew the G.M.C., and knew that our crew was not to be fucked with. We had the rep of not only making people who fucked with us disappear, but their families as well. The single guy who was sitting on the short side of the bench cleared off, and I sat down as calm as could be. None of the other guys would make eye contact with me. I nodded to the muscular guy, letting him know that I would remember him doing this for me; and that was that.
A couple of hours later a cop came in to give out bologna sandwiches. He seemed surprised to see me sitting alone, with the other guys not even looking at me. He gave out sandwiches, and the guy with the afro gave me his, and mumbled an apology. "Sorry, man. I didn't know who you was." I nodded, and took the sandwich. I had just finished my second sandwich when the uniform came back in and took me back to interrogation. There was a guy in an expensive suit standing outside the room with Blackie and Whitey. He was definitely a Jew, but he wasn't The Jew. This kind of pissed me off. We paid The Jew a shitload of money, and he sent one of his hired guns? I didn't like it, and neither would anybody else.
"I will need some time to confer with my clients. I saw Bear just around the corner, his hands cuffed behind his back. Mine were cuffed in the front. I guess that they counted me as a lesser threat. I'm sure that Bear got a kick out of that. Everyone I knew stepped lightly around me, even people who didn't know me well. I gave off a vibe that savvy people recognized as dangerous, and other people just perceived as creepy. Either way, I was as dangerous as they came. I noted this down in my mental notebook for later.
The uniforms led us to a conference room that supposedly wasn't bugged. The lawyer opened his briefcase, and pulled out a thing that looked like a microcassette player, but it had no tape. He switched it on.
"This is just in case they are trying to listen in electronically. It defeats almost all non-military grade listening devices, and renders them useless. Now tell me exactly what happened." We told him every detail of the traffic stop. He nodded, and made no notes.
"Ok, this is how it is going to go. We are going to go in there, and you aren't going to say anything. I will do all the talking. If they ask a question, and I nod just say yes. If not we will confer, and I will tell you what to say." We both nodded in agreement, and he signaled the uniform in the hallway that we were ready. The three of us sat down in the interrogation room, across from Blackie and Whitey.