In 1994, I was sentenced to forty-five years with another twenty years, running consecutively, or as the boys in the long house would say, “Running Wild.” I have served twenty-two and one-half years on the forty-five. I am now serving ten years on the twenty-year sentence. This obscenely long sentence was handed down because I refused to plea bargain for crimes I didn’t commit.
The Central Illinois Department of Corrections placed me in maximum security and sent me to the Hillsboro prison in Central Illinois. From there I was placed on a bus and sent to the Stateville Correction Center, the oldest prison in Illinois. In 1994, the Chicago and East St. Louis street gangs still had big juice in the Illinois Department of Corrections (IDOC) and I was headed to their playground in Statesville where a mostly black population of gang-bangers was running the system through intimidation and violent assaults on staff.
When I arrived at Stateville they placed me in X-House Receiving. Once I got my property, went through the medical evaluation and got my case read by the counselor, I was ready for processing into the cell population.
When I met with the Counselor, she told me that no white guys could go out to population in Statesville if they were not “plugged up” with a Chicago Street Gang, so they would have to put me into protective custody. Well I am from Kentucky by birth. But I was not going to the “honeycomb hideout” without a fight—a prisoner never gets any respect if he is in protective custody. So I refused her advice. Immediately she brought out a form for me to sign that would allow me to go to population. So I signed it.
After a week in that old cellhouse I was ready to go. The cell was straight out of the dungeon days: concrete slabs on both sides of the cell for sleeping, a toilet and sink in the center of the back wall and a small window high up on the twenty-foot-tall ceiling. To get to the window you had to climb on the sink. Opening and closing it was a real hassle each day.
It was March 1994 when I was given the order to pack up my property, my legal work, pen and some paper. I rolled up my two wool blankets, my washcloth and my towel. Inside that I tucked my toothbrush, toothpaste, and a bar of state soap, made at the Statesville Industry. My celly in receiving was a black man from Chicago. Fortunately, he had given me some advice.
I was to go out to the long house known as B-West and B-East. Once there I would be placed in a holding cell outside the Sargent’s office. Now this longhouse has five stories on each side, stacked straight up. A four-foot walkway was on each deck above the first floor. Down this walkway ran a welded screen attached to the rail. It ran from the bottom of the concrete deck to the ceiling. This was in place to stop bodies from being tossed off the decks.
Now these decks were divided in half by a service tunnel that ran between each side. B-East and B-West both had five stories on one side of the longhouse with fifty-six cells on each deck. I was placed in a holding cell on B-West, kept in by a welded box, nine feet by twelve feet long. It was here the gang recruiters would come down and ask about my affiliation.
Now my cellmate in receiving had warned me to walk carefully out here. For I was a neutron, a term meaning I was not plugged in to any gang in Chicago or East St. Louis. So finding a cell for me was going to be a long process where they would test my mettle to see whether I was a man or a wimp—the games were about to start.
The Sargent said to take a place in the steel cage, so I stepped in holding my small box of papers and my bedroll, which I had tied in a circle with some old shoestrings. Yes, I was the perfect picture of the bum—still in my yellow transfer jumpsuit. No coat, no real property.
I sat the bed roll on the floor at the back of the cage. Two black men were in the cage with me. So I slid into the back to watch what would go down. I read the hate on the faces of the men in the cage, for to them I was the “Opposition.” Yes, I had been sent straight to Gang Bang Gladiator School, for the gangs ran the cell house. Each mob had their cells where their gang members were housed. Above the door to the bottom deck, called “The Flag,” was a hand-painted picture. It said, “Welcome to the Wild Wild West.” On it were tombstones with the names of men and RIP—gang members who had been killed by the other rival gangs. These guys had gone home in a body bag. Hell of a welcome mat, you might say.
The first visitor to our cage was a Fin-Baller—a black gang member riding under the five-point star. He slid up to the bars of the cage and asked the two black men, “What you be about brother?” On his neck was a gang sign. One guy was under the Fin Ball, but the other was a Gangster Disciple. So he stepped away from their conversation. I just took it all in.
The guy gave his street name and set, meaning the streets in Chicago they had control over. The guy outside stated, “I will be right back.” Then he went up the stairs to the cell on the front of Seven Gallery. There he placed a call to the street. This to verify who this guy was, and the conviction he was in on.
About half an hour later, the Sargent came to release him, as the visitor had told the Sargent, “He is one of ours. Let him out. He is going in seven-two cell.” The Sargent logged the move in his books. The vice-lord was released to go up to Seven Gallery with his mob.
At the same time the Gangster Disciple was released to the Three Gallery. He had been vetted by his boys. The Sargent logged his cell location, then released him to get moved to his gang member cell.
I had gotten to the Sargent’s hut at eight in the morning. It was now going on 11 a.m., and all I had in conversation was a short, “That honky mother ain’t none of ours,” from a Latino who had stopped down to see what was in the fresh fish cage. So I remained seated and let the game play out. For my celly had explain the game afoot. The blacks had the numbers at Stateville Prison. But the Latino gangs would give a honky a spot to boost their numbers. All I had to do was wait it out.
In 1994 the blacks had black gangs, and the Latinos had Latino gangs. On the streets of Chicago these blacks and Latinos from rival gangs killed each other. But in prison the Latino gang under the five-point star set the rivalry aside and banded together for strength in numbers. The honky was not allowed to join the North Side gang at Stateville. For the Gangster Disciples had the numbers and declared death to all Southern Illinois white gang members. So the honky had to hook up with the Latino game to get a cell in population.
There was also the Latin gang that rode under the six-point star. They held alliance with the Gangster Disciples and all the other gangs under the six point star.
These rival Vice Lords, and Four Corner Hustlers rode with the Latino gangs under the Five Point Star Club. It was a Latin king who finally approached me from the cellhouse. I told him I was from Quincy, that I had sixty-five years for armed robbery, and that I had refused protective custody in the “Honeycomb Hideout.” He smiled, for he liked that fact. I gave him my name and case number out of Adams County. He went up to Seven Gallery and disappeared from sight. So I sat back down on my bedroll while I waited to be vetted by them.
The Sargent gave me a lunch tray around one in the afternoon. At three the shift changed with me still in a steel cage at the front of the Wild, Wild, West Cellhouse. The men went to eat starting at around 4 p.m. The second shift Sargent brought me a supper meal in a styrofoam tray. He said one sentence, “If you do not find a cell by nine your ass is going to P.C. Understand me?” I knew I was going to find one so I just smiled. He went back into his shack.
At seven that night the Latino guy and a buddy of his returned to the steel cage. “We have a cell for you if you want it?”
I grabbed my small box and my bedroll. The Sargent opened the door and let me out. I followed these two Latino men up to Seven Gallery to cell seven twenty-nine. “You can throw your stuff on the bottom bunk.” I went in the cell and pulled back the curtain hanging in the front of the beds. To my surprise there was a young white guy sitting on top of the bunk. The bottom bunk had no bottom to it. “Just throw your stuff on the floor,” was all he said. Then he hopped off the bunk and disappeared out the door.
Tony Montana was the Latin king who had come back down to get me. The Gallery Chief had joined him on the second lookover I had been given. It was his yes that got me a cell. Not much of one, but a cell. No P.C. for me. So I followed Tony Montana down to the Gallery Chief’s cell. Once there they laid out the rules for me. I was given a cell. I would pay two packs of the Kool Cigarettes to the box each month, and I would work the cell. This meant I would sit in a chair each day with a clip board and record where each guy went each morning. If they needed to leave their knife behind I would wear it. Yes, wear it.
I was in the cell where the Vice Lords territory ended and the Latin Kings started. The Latin Kings had it all the way to fifty-six cell at the end of Seven Gallery in the Wild, Wild, West cell house. My celly in receiving had told me, “You Honkies are in our world now. So you got ta fit in where you can get in.” So I was told my role: security man at the start of the Seven Gallery in Latin King Kingdom. It was Latin King nation cells and I was to fit in to get in. So I was given the job of holding the knives, and recording their whereabouts. I was the first line of defense. If another prisoner, who did not live there, came up I had to stop him. To brace him and ask his business. Then get approval for him to walk down the Latin King cellblock.
My celly was a guy named “Little Joker.” Slightly retarded, he was in for the murder of a rival gang member. He was not treated nicely because he had told on his brothers when questioned about the murder. He was serving thirty years, twenty calendars to be lived out inside this madhouse. He was a real snake.
So I went back to my cell to take inventory of my new living arrangements. The toilet would not flush. I had a five-gallon wax bucket I could fill with water from the sink. Then dump it into the toilet to flush it. The floor wax came in these plastic buckets, and they were a hot commodity when empty. Little Joker explain, “Don’t let Russell get my Bucket.” Russell was the other white guy on the deck. He cooked wine into brandy. Moonshine was the Latin Kings major moneymaker. This was my first day, and I was like a big sponge, mouth shut and ears at work.
At seven a.m. the joint opened up. After count the cell doors were rolled. I had to be up, with my shoes on at 7 a.m. or face violation. A beating for not being ready to go to war. There was no sleeping in here. It was a war zone. So I got just a few hours that first night. Their house, their rules. I was just fitting in where I could get in.
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