Showing posts with label gangs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gangs. Show all posts
Saturday, July 9, 2011
The owner of the convenience store on my street was robbed by a man with an ox. She must’ve meant axe. Oxen are notoriously hard to conceal.
Please click the title of this post and head over to my other blog for the full story behind the headline...
Monday, June 6, 2011
Neighborhood Watch 2011
Not one to enjoy a May Pole, I dutifully followed Sam-dog as he circled a telephone pole in search of a good pee spot, and chanced upon a sign.
It warns that the adjacent property is being monitored by police, which was true. I've seen many a squad car parked slightly to the north with their lights off. They'd hang out for several minutes, taking notes and sipping coffee. After a few minutes they'd swing around the block and re-park.
The building in question is a spider-infested, rotting mess. Most of it is obscured by trees, but there is a small patch of cleared gravel where "unauthorized assembly" took place. It's private property and this is a free country, but apparently there is still such thing as "unauthorized assembly".
The assemblers were a group of men and boys from Ethiopia who would flag down cars for the dealers inside. They'd lean into the cars and some sort of exchange would take place, and the cars would leave without bothering to park and pretend they were visiting. The Ethiopians were the Wal-mart greeters of the drug trade, and at first they did their job with broad grins and polite waving. Whenever I'd pass by they'd always have a smile for me. Eventually they stopped smiling and took on a tough exterior as gang life wore them down.
A neighbor friend of mine had befriended one of the men before he'd been swayed. They would have lively, heavily accented conversations about literature and art, he dressed in a snappy sweater vest with shined shoes and a laptop bag. When that changed, my friend voiced her dismay.
"Don't hang out with gangs, Amare!" she'd instruct. "They are bad news." He would nod agreement, pull up his over-sized jeans, pretend to tuck in his flashy sports jersey and change the subject.
Around the corner from the gravel there are a few dark doorways where the dealers worked. The doors were always open, and from time to time a pit bull or two would pop out to see what Sam and I were up to. The dealers were all of Hispanic descent. I'm not sure what country, but there is a large Mexican population out here so that makes the most sense.
The dealers were rough. They'd yell at each other and push other neighborhood dealers around, and these scuffles could be heard from half a block away. They'd head into the middle of the street, block traffic and carry on with their pit bulls by their sides. The squad car on duty would blip its siren, flash its lights and make arrests when needed.
I haven't seen any of the Ethiopians or their bosses around in the last few days. Though I'm certain the faded "Neighborhood Watch" sign didn't help, the constant harassment of police must have. The entire building is for lease. Eventually the owner will figure out that the "gang activity" warning is discouraging new renters and remove it, and it will be business as usual.
It warns that the adjacent property is being monitored by police, which was true. I've seen many a squad car parked slightly to the north with their lights off. They'd hang out for several minutes, taking notes and sipping coffee. After a few minutes they'd swing around the block and re-park.
The building in question is a spider-infested, rotting mess. Most of it is obscured by trees, but there is a small patch of cleared gravel where "unauthorized assembly" took place. It's private property and this is a free country, but apparently there is still such thing as "unauthorized assembly".The assemblers were a group of men and boys from Ethiopia who would flag down cars for the dealers inside. They'd lean into the cars and some sort of exchange would take place, and the cars would leave without bothering to park and pretend they were visiting. The Ethiopians were the Wal-mart greeters of the drug trade, and at first they did their job with broad grins and polite waving. Whenever I'd pass by they'd always have a smile for me. Eventually they stopped smiling and took on a tough exterior as gang life wore them down.
A neighbor friend of mine had befriended one of the men before he'd been swayed. They would have lively, heavily accented conversations about literature and art, he dressed in a snappy sweater vest with shined shoes and a laptop bag. When that changed, my friend voiced her dismay.
"Don't hang out with gangs, Amare!" she'd instruct. "They are bad news." He would nod agreement, pull up his over-sized jeans, pretend to tuck in his flashy sports jersey and change the subject.
Around the corner from the gravel there are a few dark doorways where the dealers worked. The doors were always open, and from time to time a pit bull or two would pop out to see what Sam and I were up to. The dealers were all of Hispanic descent. I'm not sure what country, but there is a large Mexican population out here so that makes the most sense.
The dealers were rough. They'd yell at each other and push other neighborhood dealers around, and these scuffles could be heard from half a block away. They'd head into the middle of the street, block traffic and carry on with their pit bulls by their sides. The squad car on duty would blip its siren, flash its lights and make arrests when needed.
I haven't seen any of the Ethiopians or their bosses around in the last few days. Though I'm certain the faded "Neighborhood Watch" sign didn't help, the constant harassment of police must have. The entire building is for lease. Eventually the owner will figure out that the "gang activity" warning is discouraging new renters and remove it, and it will be business as usual.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Steep Decline, Straight-Up Report
This post is straight forward reporting on my part, as was the last. I'm observing the rapid decline of my surroundings, and my blog is becoming my outlet. The scenarios are now commonplace, and with the approach of summer things aren't going to get better. Warm weather brings the desperation, struggle and fear out of hiding. It brings out the stench of dumpsters and the anger of dogs. It is not welcome.
***
There were three fights near my home around 7:00 p.m. last evening. Police were called to each scene. I was walking home from a park and heard the sirens, then saw the cars, then heard the sirens stop. I knew I'd hear them stop near my home. They always do, even though Seattle is a big city.
A neighbor friend told me a distant relative of hers had been involved in one fight. He was beaten severely by four or five men right outside the Mexican restaurant next door, and is in the hospital. He was drunk, and probably trying to buy drugs. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong move.
When police asked if anyone had seen how it started (it started inside the restaurant) they all said 'no'. By the way they dress, it's likely they are members of various Crips factions. I haven't asked them directly.
Several of the assailants ran, and the cops didn't give chase. Another fight broke out within minutes on the street in back of mine. Then another a couple of blocks over. No weapons were found in any of the scenes and therefore there were no arrests.
My friend had been called to the first scene by another friend, and tried to intervene on her relative's behalf. She was told by yet another friend that she could have been killed because, "These guys have guns."
Late last night while taking Sam-dog out for his last piddle before bed, there were signs of a big drug deal on the corner north of my home. Men came from all directions and met out in the open. They passed something back and forth while shaking hands, and all involved dug in their pockets the whole time. The group then split up. $100,000 cars cruised the streets and slowed down next to those on foot. Were they watching to make sure no one decided to run with the money and the drugs? An ex of mine, years before we'd met, had been shot in such a deal.
I wasn't able to fully drain the dog before I realized two of them were watching me. One started coming my way, so I quickly went inside. Sam peed on the carpet in the middle of the night.
***
There were three fights near my home around 7:00 p.m. last evening. Police were called to each scene. I was walking home from a park and heard the sirens, then saw the cars, then heard the sirens stop. I knew I'd hear them stop near my home. They always do, even though Seattle is a big city.
A neighbor friend told me a distant relative of hers had been involved in one fight. He was beaten severely by four or five men right outside the Mexican restaurant next door, and is in the hospital. He was drunk, and probably trying to buy drugs. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong move.
When police asked if anyone had seen how it started (it started inside the restaurant) they all said 'no'. By the way they dress, it's likely they are members of various Crips factions. I haven't asked them directly.
Several of the assailants ran, and the cops didn't give chase. Another fight broke out within minutes on the street in back of mine. Then another a couple of blocks over. No weapons were found in any of the scenes and therefore there were no arrests.
My friend had been called to the first scene by another friend, and tried to intervene on her relative's behalf. She was told by yet another friend that she could have been killed because, "These guys have guns."
Late last night while taking Sam-dog out for his last piddle before bed, there were signs of a big drug deal on the corner north of my home. Men came from all directions and met out in the open. They passed something back and forth while shaking hands, and all involved dug in their pockets the whole time. The group then split up. $100,000 cars cruised the streets and slowed down next to those on foot. Were they watching to make sure no one decided to run with the money and the drugs? An ex of mine, years before we'd met, had been shot in such a deal.
I wasn't able to fully drain the dog before I realized two of them were watching me. One started coming my way, so I quickly went inside. Sam peed on the carpet in the middle of the night.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Banker's Hours
On Sam-dog's first walk of the day I overheard a fight between a man and a woman coming from behind the bank. "Bitch! Get the fuck out there! Fucking stupid!"
A woman dressed in a sweet pink sweater, nice heels and perfectly tailored black pants stumbled out of a gate. She wasn't crying. She didn't look frightened. She ignored traffic, held a bill in one hand and snorted something from the other.
Around 2:00 p.m. I took Sam for a quick jaunt and was confronted by a few drunks standing on the bank's lawn. "Lady! We want to say hi to your damned dog! Come'ere!" I waved and held my hand to my ear as if I couldn't hear them. After a couple more tries they gave up and dipped into their crumpled paper bags.
This evening, a boy about seven years old was running around the lawn while his mother went inside the bank. He was a hundred feet away behind a tree before she came out. She looked confused, so I pointed toward him and she stumbled off without thanks.
Sitting on the lawn was a group of boys maybe 17 or 18. They had tidy haircuts, were slightly plump and pink in the cheeks, and squinted into the lowering sun. A man with braids to his waist was leaning over them, standing perfectly still, silent. One by one, the boys got up and went to the cash machine. When each would return, they would plop back down. I crossed the street, looked back, and the man was gone.
On my return the man with the braids had another man pushed up against a wall in the bank's entryway. Again, he wasn't saying a word. Sam sniffed at his pant leg as we walked past.
A woman dressed in a sweet pink sweater, nice heels and perfectly tailored black pants stumbled out of a gate. She wasn't crying. She didn't look frightened. She ignored traffic, held a bill in one hand and snorted something from the other.
Around 2:00 p.m. I took Sam for a quick jaunt and was confronted by a few drunks standing on the bank's lawn. "Lady! We want to say hi to your damned dog! Come'ere!" I waved and held my hand to my ear as if I couldn't hear them. After a couple more tries they gave up and dipped into their crumpled paper bags.
This evening, a boy about seven years old was running around the lawn while his mother went inside the bank. He was a hundred feet away behind a tree before she came out. She looked confused, so I pointed toward him and she stumbled off without thanks.
Sitting on the lawn was a group of boys maybe 17 or 18. They had tidy haircuts, were slightly plump and pink in the cheeks, and squinted into the lowering sun. A man with braids to his waist was leaning over them, standing perfectly still, silent. One by one, the boys got up and went to the cash machine. When each would return, they would plop back down. I crossed the street, looked back, and the man was gone.
On my return the man with the braids had another man pushed up against a wall in the bank's entryway. Again, he wasn't saying a word. Sam sniffed at his pant leg as we walked past.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Domestic Row
Recently there has been a regime change, and not just in the Middle East. The block south of mine has shown some signs of improvement. Perhaps it's partly due to the cold weather, but I think it's something bigger than that. By all appearances, the man who used to control the neighborhood has succumbed to his own demons.
If you can't keep track of your crew, you can't lead. Impairment in any form--physical disability, drug addiction, mental illness, poverty, distraction--can cost a leader his job. One thing has remained, and it's more unpredictable and dangerous than any gang-related skirmish. He fights with his lady.
Law enforcement hates domestic fights. I have a cousin who patrols a neighboring city, and whenever he's called out on a "domestic" he braces himself for the worst. If a fight happens because of a deal gone bad or crew member getting out of line, the presence of police is usually enough to halt the would-be assailants. A fight born of deep emotion, betrayal, fading love or abuse of a loved one doesn't stop just because of an audience; even if that audience is armed. Tension rises in my cousin's voice when he relays stories of men dragging women into the street by their hair. Or a wife brandishing a knife and taking stabs at her controlling husband. Or a woman prepared to shoot her boyfriend because he won't pay back money he owes her.
What fuels the fights between my neighbor and his better half I cannot say, but there's certainly plenty to fight about. The last few times the police have been called in, they were able to enter the apartment complex where Mr. Ex-Pimp and his little band of crack addicts reside. With some effort they were able to quash the domestic, and once inside they could confiscate drugs and dealers. Impairment of emotion left that door wide open.
Now that Mr. Ex-Pimp has lost his edge, a newer, showier brand of boss has stepped in and kept the various mini-gangs in line. Fights involve shouting matches, posturing, puffery. When the volume hits a certain level, Mr. Yellow Hummer and Mr. Vintage White Jag appear out of nowhere, and the shouting stops. After all, noise makes us all aware of the problem, and noise is usually what causes us upstanding citizens to call cops; and cops are bad for business. Simple as that.
The prostitution has slowed due to the cold weather, but it's possible it won't come back this spring. That's not the focus of the new regime, as keeping a bunch of beaten, bedragled girls in line and doped up is a lot of work for not much payout. The ego of the old guard liked the feeling of power that came with controlling women. The new guys are more likely to become clients.
One trend I noticed even months ago was the one-on-one pimp/prostitute combo pack. A couple, desperate for drug money, supports itself via the girl turning tricks. There is no way to keep a woman safe if you don't have a reputation as a badass, and addicts aren't badasses. They're impaired. It becomes a domestic problem, and one that I imagine is difficult to track and control.
Love in the world of drugs: It's a beautiful thing.
If you can't keep track of your crew, you can't lead. Impairment in any form--physical disability, drug addiction, mental illness, poverty, distraction--can cost a leader his job. One thing has remained, and it's more unpredictable and dangerous than any gang-related skirmish. He fights with his lady.
Law enforcement hates domestic fights. I have a cousin who patrols a neighboring city, and whenever he's called out on a "domestic" he braces himself for the worst. If a fight happens because of a deal gone bad or crew member getting out of line, the presence of police is usually enough to halt the would-be assailants. A fight born of deep emotion, betrayal, fading love or abuse of a loved one doesn't stop just because of an audience; even if that audience is armed. Tension rises in my cousin's voice when he relays stories of men dragging women into the street by their hair. Or a wife brandishing a knife and taking stabs at her controlling husband. Or a woman prepared to shoot her boyfriend because he won't pay back money he owes her. What fuels the fights between my neighbor and his better half I cannot say, but there's certainly plenty to fight about. The last few times the police have been called in, they were able to enter the apartment complex where Mr. Ex-Pimp and his little band of crack addicts reside. With some effort they were able to quash the domestic, and once inside they could confiscate drugs and dealers. Impairment of emotion left that door wide open.
Now that Mr. Ex-Pimp has lost his edge, a newer, showier brand of boss has stepped in and kept the various mini-gangs in line. Fights involve shouting matches, posturing, puffery. When the volume hits a certain level, Mr. Yellow Hummer and Mr. Vintage White Jag appear out of nowhere, and the shouting stops. After all, noise makes us all aware of the problem, and noise is usually what causes us upstanding citizens to call cops; and cops are bad for business. Simple as that.
The prostitution has slowed due to the cold weather, but it's possible it won't come back this spring. That's not the focus of the new regime, as keeping a bunch of beaten, bedragled girls in line and doped up is a lot of work for not much payout. The ego of the old guard liked the feeling of power that came with controlling women. The new guys are more likely to become clients.
One trend I noticed even months ago was the one-on-one pimp/prostitute combo pack. A couple, desperate for drug money, supports itself via the girl turning tricks. There is no way to keep a woman safe if you don't have a reputation as a badass, and addicts aren't badasses. They're impaired. It becomes a domestic problem, and one that I imagine is difficult to track and control.
Love in the world of drugs: It's a beautiful thing.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Rolling with a Recidivist
"Yo, you got the time?"
"Who says 'yo' anymore?" I thought, but instead looked at my iPhone and said, "7:02." He stared at my phone, then my purse, then my face.
"Oh, yeah yeah game's still on, I hope. First Seahawks I seen since I out. This last time I sprung, anyways." He caught up and started walking alongside me. Sammy didn't miss a beat, and kept on sniffing the broken sidewalk like it was paved with dog treats.
To myself again, "Who says 'sprung' anymore?" And then I continued, to myself, but almost out loud, "You have my undivided attention..."
"You mean from prison?" I indelicately inquired.
"Yeah, I been in and out for eight years, going on. They put me in for hittin' a guy. I get out, I hit a guy. It's what I do."
Well, isn't this a treat? A gang escort, right through the heart of his own territory. He asked me if I lived in the area, and when I said I did his posture relaxed.
"Oh. Yeah. Well I be in fights with a CO. You know what that is? It's a corrections officer, and they muthafuckahs. They hit on you an' pick fights an' when you retaliate? After they let you out of the joint they find you the next day and they put you back in for hittin' on a cop. Fuckas set me up," he explained.
At this point I thought he might need a little encouragement, so I told him I knew how bad it could get because I'd met people who had done hard time when I was in rehab. "Rehab isn't fun, but it isn't prison," I added, and I looked to him for a response.
"Rehab suck, prison suck harder but, yo, rehab suck."
I told him I knew intake could be the worst part of jail or prison, with all the searches and being tossed in with yet another group who might not be so welcoming. Too bad he'd endured it so many times. He gently tapped my arm in a familiar gesture. I'd gained a little trust, for the time being.
"So I hit a guy again, but I ain't been caught this time. He ain't said nothin' because he know he deserve it. He know it was comin'. What time you say it was, again? Can't wait for that game!" A broad grin took over his face.
No doubt he was an enforcer for his dealer. He was the muscle. Though he looked a mess, with his prison acne and torn coat, he was fairly broad in stature. Not exactly the kind of person you'd want to pass in a dark alley, and his halting motions and rapid head movement made me think he was in mild withdrawals--a dangerous condition for both him and anyone near him.
We came to the main intersection, and here he turned to a white cohort and waved. Then he suddenly shifted his gait, and limped toward a fellow black. He waived me off with a nod. I said, "See ya."
He wouldn't be seen with me. Me. A white, soccer mom-looking woman with what appeared to be some sort of designer dog in a little ski jacket. I suppose that could taint his credibility a bit.
"Who says 'yo' anymore?" I thought, but instead looked at my iPhone and said, "7:02." He stared at my phone, then my purse, then my face.
"Oh, yeah yeah game's still on, I hope. First Seahawks I seen since I out. This last time I sprung, anyways." He caught up and started walking alongside me. Sammy didn't miss a beat, and kept on sniffing the broken sidewalk like it was paved with dog treats.
To myself again, "Who says 'sprung' anymore?" And then I continued, to myself, but almost out loud, "You have my undivided attention..."
"You mean from prison?" I indelicately inquired.
"Yeah, I been in and out for eight years, going on. They put me in for hittin' a guy. I get out, I hit a guy. It's what I do."
Well, isn't this a treat? A gang escort, right through the heart of his own territory. He asked me if I lived in the area, and when I said I did his posture relaxed.
"Oh. Yeah. Well I be in fights with a CO. You know what that is? It's a corrections officer, and they muthafuckahs. They hit on you an' pick fights an' when you retaliate? After they let you out of the joint they find you the next day and they put you back in for hittin' on a cop. Fuckas set me up," he explained.
At this point I thought he might need a little encouragement, so I told him I knew how bad it could get because I'd met people who had done hard time when I was in rehab. "Rehab isn't fun, but it isn't prison," I added, and I looked to him for a response.
"Rehab suck, prison suck harder but, yo, rehab suck."
I told him I knew intake could be the worst part of jail or prison, with all the searches and being tossed in with yet another group who might not be so welcoming. Too bad he'd endured it so many times. He gently tapped my arm in a familiar gesture. I'd gained a little trust, for the time being.
"So I hit a guy again, but I ain't been caught this time. He ain't said nothin' because he know he deserve it. He know it was comin'. What time you say it was, again? Can't wait for that game!" A broad grin took over his face.
No doubt he was an enforcer for his dealer. He was the muscle. Though he looked a mess, with his prison acne and torn coat, he was fairly broad in stature. Not exactly the kind of person you'd want to pass in a dark alley, and his halting motions and rapid head movement made me think he was in mild withdrawals--a dangerous condition for both him and anyone near him.
We came to the main intersection, and here he turned to a white cohort and waved. Then he suddenly shifted his gait, and limped toward a fellow black. He waived me off with a nod. I said, "See ya." He wouldn't be seen with me. Me. A white, soccer mom-looking woman with what appeared to be some sort of designer dog in a little ski jacket. I suppose that could taint his credibility a bit.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Welcome to the Hood, Wisconsin!
Coming back from walking my dog today--Christmas Day, juggling a Starbucks latte and a bag of pastries--I noticed a car had been broken into. There was a duffel bag in the back seat, unzipped, that kind of looked like a golf bag. That's a little too much temptation for some of the junkies around here, so I before I saw the plates I knew the owner didn't live nearby.
I'm a concerned citizen in a rapidly declining, gang-infested neighborhood, so I stopped to ask a few neighbors if they had guests (no), then made a call to the po po to do a little snitchin'. Here's the conversation:
"Non-emergency services!" said a chipper female who sounded like smiley emoticons were floating out of her mouth. No further prompting for me to speak, so I tentatively started in.
"Uh, I'd like to report a car that has had its rear, driver's side window broken into. Wisconsin plates. I'm not the unfortunate tourist owner."
"If you're not the owner, there's nothing we can do but wait for them to call in!" I pictured her in an elf costume with a jar of candy canes on her desk.
"Seriously? You can't run a trace and get their number?"
"No, they will have to call, especially if they are from out of state!"
"And if I try to call Wisconsin State Patrol and see if they can help?"
"They won't be able to give you any information for security reasons!"
("The ship has sailed on security, lady," I wanted to say, but didn't.) "Okay, well. Uh. May I give you their license plate number?"
"Sure!" She chirped. Has this woman ever had a bad day?
"It's 4**-***. I'd also like to give you the intersection where it's parked." I waited through 30 seconds of silence, half expecting to hear hold music in the form of Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters' jazzy rendition of "Jingle Bells".
"Go ahead!"
"*****-**st Ave. N.E. Gang territory, as you can no doubt see, so please add this to all the other stuff that goes on around here."
"Oh... Yes... Seattle, Lake City area... Okay... I'll definitely do that!"
I thanked her and hung up quickly, in case she was tempted to breach protocol and wish me a Merry Christmas. It was like talking to a cruise director; useless, but pleasant nonetheless.
:)
I'm a concerned citizen in a rapidly declining, gang-infested neighborhood, so I stopped to ask a few neighbors if they had guests (no), then made a call to the po po to do a little snitchin'. Here's the conversation:
"Non-emergency services!" said a chipper female who sounded like smiley emoticons were floating out of her mouth. No further prompting for me to speak, so I tentatively started in.
"Uh, I'd like to report a car that has had its rear, driver's side window broken into. Wisconsin plates. I'm not the unfortunate tourist owner."
"If you're not the owner, there's nothing we can do but wait for them to call in!" I pictured her in an elf costume with a jar of candy canes on her desk.
"Seriously? You can't run a trace and get their number?"
"No, they will have to call, especially if they are from out of state!"
"And if I try to call Wisconsin State Patrol and see if they can help?"
"They won't be able to give you any information for security reasons!"
("The ship has sailed on security, lady," I wanted to say, but didn't.) "Okay, well. Uh. May I give you their license plate number?"
"Sure!" She chirped. Has this woman ever had a bad day?
"It's 4**-***. I'd also like to give you the intersection where it's parked." I waited through 30 seconds of silence, half expecting to hear hold music in the form of Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters' jazzy rendition of "Jingle Bells".
"Go ahead!"
"*****-**st Ave. N.E. Gang territory, as you can no doubt see, so please add this to all the other stuff that goes on around here."
"Oh... Yes... Seattle, Lake City area... Okay... I'll definitely do that!"
I thanked her and hung up quickly, in case she was tempted to breach protocol and wish me a Merry Christmas. It was like talking to a cruise director; useless, but pleasant nonetheless.
:)
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