The Greatest Story Never Told

Chapter 11 - My Reckoning

Ray and I got fired from the toy store after we got caught stealing. Ray and I needed cash to dress better, party harder, and the warehouse afforded an opportunity to do all of that. Initially, we started out small, just selling big candy stashes to all of the local bodegas. Then, we started taking orders for toys, the expensive ones, and other things that had street demand. We got greedy though. Money was filling our pockets, and disco life was off the hook. The girls loved how we dressed, and we were both great dancers. We were doing okay. But, we fucked up one evening, after putting a haul that we pulled just before closing time on the roof of the warehouse for later pick up. The store owner running a clothing store below heard our footsteps up over his store's ceiling and got curious.

He came up to the warehouse as Ray and I were coming back in through the window. He saw the swag and figured out we were stealing and called our boss on the phone.  The boss came to the warehouse, saw his product on the roof and had us come back to the store. Once there he gave both of us a full week's pay and said, 'This is not good. I'm not gonna call the cops, but I gotta let you guys go. I'm sorry.' Ray and I apologised as we took the walk of shame home. Weeks later, with no money flowing and being broke things went back to sucking again. I relapsed. I went back to the toy gun lick on the down low. 

I racked up a series of street licks, same moves, same random targets, still throwing dope down sewers and spending loot on drinking and smoking, and then I started tripping off of acid, which my people had moved into. Ray and some of the others moved into cocaine, which I still held in the dope category and wanted nothing to do with. Soon, people begin telling me what they had been telling me in the past. 'Yo Ace, the cops were looking for you. They were just here.' Since that arrest in 1976, I was now on their radar as a known stickup kid.  It all came to a life-changing head as I rounded the corner of Stanhope Street in early April of 1978. As I came onto the block to hang out, everybody was hanging out, but they were quiet. I asked them what was up and why were they so damn quiet, when Little Maria pointed at the unmarked police car sitting 20 feet away. They were there for me.

The detectives got out of the car with a photo of me. They asked me who I was, and I told them. They told me that they had a warrant for my arrest. They told me not to think about running and that I had to go with them. I nodded in agreement. I turned to the arresting officers and asked, 'Can I say goodbye to my friends?' They looked at each other and both nodded the okay. Everybody hugged me, the girls kissed me goodbye and I was taken into custody, heading to jail again, or so I thought.

After being booked on robbery charges, I was sent to The Brooklyn House of Detention to deal with my case. I was there for six months. During the legal process, I was offered a 1-3 year sentence if I copped out. I refused the offer. Then, I was offered a 2-4 year sentence, as the court applied the pressure game to get me to plead guilty and thus avoid an expensive trial. But, the fool that I was, listening to all of the jailhouse lawyers who kept telling me that I could beat my case at trial, I decided to hold out and take my case to trial. That decision was the worst decision of my young life. I cringe now whenever I think about it. Ultimately, I blew trial. There I was, standing before a very pissed off judge who looked over the rim of this glasses at sentencing saying the words that made my knees quake. He closed my case documents and grabbed his gavel and said, ' I sentence you to a minimum of six years with a maximum of twelve years to be served in a New York State Correctional Facility. This case is closed.' Banging his gavel hard! I was only 21 and heading Up North.

My experience on Rikers Island didn't prepare me for the seriousness of going to the state penitentiary. After being transferred from The Brooklyn House of Detention to Sing Sing, I was held there for a month and a half before being transferred to Downstate and then Elmira for holding. I was gradually making my way Up North. The next move was a transfer to a maximum security facility damn near in Canada. As the prison bus pulled slowly through the gates of this behemoth of a correctional facility, we slowly entered. The bus pulled into the waiting area, where 20 officers stood in a blue line. In front of them was a correctional captain. We were ordered off the bus by the captain via his bullhorn.