Steven Hunley
03-28-2018, 03:33 PM
The Fish Tank
I was in the fish tank for over $48,000 worth of traffic warrants and F.T.A.s, which is pretty embarrassing to admit. Not to you, you understand, but to any other prisoner. If your reason for arrest doesn’t include a taste of violence or at least a hint of drugs, it’s regarded as a bit of a humbug. So when another inmate would ask me,
“Whattcha infor?”
I’d say, “Warrants,” or, “$48,000 worth of warrants.”
That usually took care of it, and didn’t make me look quite the knick-knack criminal I was.
This fish tank at Twin Towers Correctional Facility at 450 Bauchet St, Los Angeles, was like all fish tanks; full.
There wasn’t enough room on the stainless steel benches to sit, so you had to cop a squat wherever you could. Many were standing. Just before the sheriffs herded us into the ‘get naked' room they packed us like sardines into a holding tank. Two guys collapsed from the extreme body heat and lack of oxygen.
The great iron door slid open with a metallic click, and we all watched to see the new arrivals like we were kids at a zoo. Many greetings were shouted and returned, and many gang names were mentioned. But something evil was in the air. Bad looks were given freely, then worse words were being exchanged, when the guy next to me suddenly stood up to face a man who’d just walked in and said,
“I’m Tiny of the Milli Gangstas 127th St. Watts. Maybe you want summa this.”
He proceeded to thrust out his chest and chin like a silver-backed gorilla. The crowd hooted and hollered. They wanted to see a fight, not ending with a decision or even a knock-out. They wanted blood. It was to be man to man, face to face, and toe to toe. It was time to take your chances.
“Well, you be talkin’ **** to Fat Man of the 7O’s, Compton. How ‘bout maybe you want somma this?” Fat Man replied, and swung hard with a round-house right.
When Tiny’s head caressed the concrete, it made the sound you hear when a butcher drops a side of beef off his shoulder and it hits the cold cement of the freezer floor.
Then, since they were on the floor now, they commenced to rasslin’.
Suddenly the crowd moved back, like iron filings being pulled to the corner of the tank by some gigantic magnet.Now they started to cheer and comment,
“Are you gonna let him do that to you?”
Or whispering to someone nearby, “I wouldn’t let him do that to me.”
Tiny lost one shoe kicking Fat Man, as his laces had been removed by the thoughtful sheriffs, in case he was suicidal. (he wasn’t) He kicked him vigorously; taking advantage of the fact the Marquis of Queensbury was not present that day.
With each brutal contact of his toe to Fat Man’s chest a snapping sound was heard, like the snap of a turkey wishbone after Christmas. Fat Man was not to be outdone however, and now had Tiny’s face pushed into the corner, crushing his nose against the cement, leaving crimson drops splashing against the wall, decorating the tank with Tinys’ lifeblood. Fat Man became suddenly coatless, as Tiny pulled it off , failing to hang it up.(no coat hangers in jail, sharp objects prohibited)We put both shoe and coat aside for safekeeping.
It was better than the last fight I saw on T.V, better than Pay-per-View or H.B.O. It was commercial free. It was live. All the way live and twice as convincing.
This is the true danger of jail. When men have no suitable entertainment, they often provide their own.
Finally, just when it was getting good, the noise from the crowd awakened the sheriffs.
We gave them plenty of room. Both inmates seemed to be winners somehow.
The sheriffs, being the thoughtful guys they are, awarded each one of them his own private cell for participating in the championship bout, and provided each an escort upon leaving, two sheriffs on each arm.
The audience was satisfied and felt they’d got their moneys’ worth. Later, when the post-fight talk died down, we made arrangements to return the shoe and coat to the proper owners, and gave the sheriffs explicit instructions to do so. They were more than happy to cooperate. The fight was over now, but not for long. The ever-thoughtful sheriffs keep the facility open twenty-four-seven for your entertainment convenience and were probably competing with the Vegas police.
I’d be only there for the night and the next day was scheduled to go in front of a judge in the Compton Courthouse. After all this excitement I was exhausted and only interesting in being assigned a bunk for now.
That would be upstairs.
Before light out I played cards with three other criminals. All of them said they were innocent. Said it was a matter of misidentification, or a case of wrong race, wrong place, or wrong time.
When I finally hit the hay, I went over the events of the day. How my daughter and son were driving home with food to go from Twofers. I was in the back seat with the hamburgers and fries, hungry, smelling them through the bag, trying hard not to pull a few fries out, when a cop pulled us over and asked us all for identification.
He takes his time. They always take their time. You’re not going anywhere.
“Step out,” he said to me.
“Oh, Jeez.”
“You’ve got forty-eight thousand dollars-worth of warrants.”
I patted my pockets.
“No can do. I haven’t got forty-eight cents.”
I hadn’t made a court appearance for a traffic ticket from three years ago. Here’s my advice to you. If you sign a traffic ticket, show up.
They’d found me guilty in absentia, like I’d gone offshore or pirate or something. I had a million Failure to Appears. They added up over the years.
“Put your hands behind your back.”
The deputy put on the chrome bracelets and took me to the Lakewood Station. I was past nine o’ clock. Missed dinner in jail, but after a while some other deputy took pity on me and brought me a couple of hotdogs smothered in beans. The beans were pretty good but when I got to the hot dog, it was streaked with a bluish tinge. Hungry? Yes, very hungry, but sorry, no blue hot dogs for me.
In Compton, the next day, I talked to a lady in a suit and sensible shoes, a public defender. Told her my entire story, the whole enchilada. How I got the ticket and lost the car and my son was shot but survived, and my oldest daughter was dating a guy who did GTA’s, and we’d moved away from Compton to Paramount to save what was left of us. How it was a miracle my youngest daughter was graduating from Long Beach State when all odds were against her.
She disappeared into some door where I couldn’t go.
When we went to see the judge, he threw the charges out,
“...In the furtherance of Justice,” Judge Goodjudgement said, and banged his gavel.
I walked out and faced Compton Boulevard. There were a few deserted buildings, a taco shop, a hamburger joint, palm trees, a bus stop, and the train tracks. When we first moved up here, I had the impression we were on the wrong side of the tracks. That’s one thing I learned about Compton, but only when it was too late. In Compton, both sides of the tracks are the wrong side. The courthouse was on one side and the Police Station on the other.
It wasn’t Scorcese and it wasn’t Mean Streets. Los Angeles and Compton have their own stories.
And they are just as mean.
©StevenHunley2018
https://youtu.be/5o_umKOTXIs Taking it to the Streets Doobie Brothers
I was in the fish tank for over $48,000 worth of traffic warrants and F.T.A.s, which is pretty embarrassing to admit. Not to you, you understand, but to any other prisoner. If your reason for arrest doesn’t include a taste of violence or at least a hint of drugs, it’s regarded as a bit of a humbug. So when another inmate would ask me,
“Whattcha infor?”
I’d say, “Warrants,” or, “$48,000 worth of warrants.”
That usually took care of it, and didn’t make me look quite the knick-knack criminal I was.
This fish tank at Twin Towers Correctional Facility at 450 Bauchet St, Los Angeles, was like all fish tanks; full.
There wasn’t enough room on the stainless steel benches to sit, so you had to cop a squat wherever you could. Many were standing. Just before the sheriffs herded us into the ‘get naked' room they packed us like sardines into a holding tank. Two guys collapsed from the extreme body heat and lack of oxygen.
The great iron door slid open with a metallic click, and we all watched to see the new arrivals like we were kids at a zoo. Many greetings were shouted and returned, and many gang names were mentioned. But something evil was in the air. Bad looks were given freely, then worse words were being exchanged, when the guy next to me suddenly stood up to face a man who’d just walked in and said,
“I’m Tiny of the Milli Gangstas 127th St. Watts. Maybe you want summa this.”
He proceeded to thrust out his chest and chin like a silver-backed gorilla. The crowd hooted and hollered. They wanted to see a fight, not ending with a decision or even a knock-out. They wanted blood. It was to be man to man, face to face, and toe to toe. It was time to take your chances.
“Well, you be talkin’ **** to Fat Man of the 7O’s, Compton. How ‘bout maybe you want somma this?” Fat Man replied, and swung hard with a round-house right.
When Tiny’s head caressed the concrete, it made the sound you hear when a butcher drops a side of beef off his shoulder and it hits the cold cement of the freezer floor.
Then, since they were on the floor now, they commenced to rasslin’.
Suddenly the crowd moved back, like iron filings being pulled to the corner of the tank by some gigantic magnet.Now they started to cheer and comment,
“Are you gonna let him do that to you?”
Or whispering to someone nearby, “I wouldn’t let him do that to me.”
Tiny lost one shoe kicking Fat Man, as his laces had been removed by the thoughtful sheriffs, in case he was suicidal. (he wasn’t) He kicked him vigorously; taking advantage of the fact the Marquis of Queensbury was not present that day.
With each brutal contact of his toe to Fat Man’s chest a snapping sound was heard, like the snap of a turkey wishbone after Christmas. Fat Man was not to be outdone however, and now had Tiny’s face pushed into the corner, crushing his nose against the cement, leaving crimson drops splashing against the wall, decorating the tank with Tinys’ lifeblood. Fat Man became suddenly coatless, as Tiny pulled it off , failing to hang it up.(no coat hangers in jail, sharp objects prohibited)We put both shoe and coat aside for safekeeping.
It was better than the last fight I saw on T.V, better than Pay-per-View or H.B.O. It was commercial free. It was live. All the way live and twice as convincing.
This is the true danger of jail. When men have no suitable entertainment, they often provide their own.
Finally, just when it was getting good, the noise from the crowd awakened the sheriffs.
We gave them plenty of room. Both inmates seemed to be winners somehow.
The sheriffs, being the thoughtful guys they are, awarded each one of them his own private cell for participating in the championship bout, and provided each an escort upon leaving, two sheriffs on each arm.
The audience was satisfied and felt they’d got their moneys’ worth. Later, when the post-fight talk died down, we made arrangements to return the shoe and coat to the proper owners, and gave the sheriffs explicit instructions to do so. They were more than happy to cooperate. The fight was over now, but not for long. The ever-thoughtful sheriffs keep the facility open twenty-four-seven for your entertainment convenience and were probably competing with the Vegas police.
I’d be only there for the night and the next day was scheduled to go in front of a judge in the Compton Courthouse. After all this excitement I was exhausted and only interesting in being assigned a bunk for now.
That would be upstairs.
Before light out I played cards with three other criminals. All of them said they were innocent. Said it was a matter of misidentification, or a case of wrong race, wrong place, or wrong time.
When I finally hit the hay, I went over the events of the day. How my daughter and son were driving home with food to go from Twofers. I was in the back seat with the hamburgers and fries, hungry, smelling them through the bag, trying hard not to pull a few fries out, when a cop pulled us over and asked us all for identification.
He takes his time. They always take their time. You’re not going anywhere.
“Step out,” he said to me.
“Oh, Jeez.”
“You’ve got forty-eight thousand dollars-worth of warrants.”
I patted my pockets.
“No can do. I haven’t got forty-eight cents.”
I hadn’t made a court appearance for a traffic ticket from three years ago. Here’s my advice to you. If you sign a traffic ticket, show up.
They’d found me guilty in absentia, like I’d gone offshore or pirate or something. I had a million Failure to Appears. They added up over the years.
“Put your hands behind your back.”
The deputy put on the chrome bracelets and took me to the Lakewood Station. I was past nine o’ clock. Missed dinner in jail, but after a while some other deputy took pity on me and brought me a couple of hotdogs smothered in beans. The beans were pretty good but when I got to the hot dog, it was streaked with a bluish tinge. Hungry? Yes, very hungry, but sorry, no blue hot dogs for me.
In Compton, the next day, I talked to a lady in a suit and sensible shoes, a public defender. Told her my entire story, the whole enchilada. How I got the ticket and lost the car and my son was shot but survived, and my oldest daughter was dating a guy who did GTA’s, and we’d moved away from Compton to Paramount to save what was left of us. How it was a miracle my youngest daughter was graduating from Long Beach State when all odds were against her.
She disappeared into some door where I couldn’t go.
When we went to see the judge, he threw the charges out,
“...In the furtherance of Justice,” Judge Goodjudgement said, and banged his gavel.
I walked out and faced Compton Boulevard. There were a few deserted buildings, a taco shop, a hamburger joint, palm trees, a bus stop, and the train tracks. When we first moved up here, I had the impression we were on the wrong side of the tracks. That’s one thing I learned about Compton, but only when it was too late. In Compton, both sides of the tracks are the wrong side. The courthouse was on one side and the Police Station on the other.
It wasn’t Scorcese and it wasn’t Mean Streets. Los Angeles and Compton have their own stories.
And they are just as mean.
©StevenHunley2018
https://youtu.be/5o_umKOTXIs Taking it to the Streets Doobie Brothers