the Other Wes Moore (2010) (18 page)

Wes had his entire operation organized with the precision of a military unit or a division of a Fortune 500 company. The drug game had its own rules, its own structure. He was a lieutenant, the leader of his small crew. Everyone in the crew had a specific job with carefully delineated responsibilities. On the lowest rung of the ladder and in most cases the youngest kids on the team, were the corner boys. These were the kids, sometimes as young as seven but normally no older than eleven, who served as the lookouts for cops. They would huddle on the corners, and when they saw a cop--or anyone who looked like a cop--they would yell "Hey, Tina," or "Hey, Susan," or whatever name the crew had designated for the week. That way they could alert the crew that cops were creeping, but if the cops questioned them, they could simply say they were calling for a friend and walk away unscathed.

The hitters were the ones who dealt with the money. This job was very important, for obvious reasons, and you needed to trust your hitter. This was also one of the most dangerous jobs, because if the money ever came up short, the hitter was the one whose neck was on the line.

The housemen were in charge of distribution. The drugs were usually cooked and cut in a house, and the housemen would have to make sure the sellers had their supply for the day. The housemen also resupplied the ground soldiers if they sold their allocated amount.

Last, you had the muscle, who were there to protect the crew and the lieutenant. They were usually carrying weapons of various kinds and were not afraid to use them. A crew's relevancy--their ability to hold their own corner and expand the business--was dependent on the amount of muscle they controlled and the level of violence their muscle was ready to get into. Sometimes entire crews were muscle.

This was the crew. They would work together, fight together, stay together. An unbreakable bond united the crew--for many members, it was the only support system they had. It was family.

Wes managed his team extremely well. At their peak, his team brought in over four thousand dollars a day. He wasn't one of the main players by any stretch, but he was not doing badly in relation to others in the neighborhood. There were over 100,000 known addicts in Baltimore, and the real number was arguably higher. Given that the city had a population of just under 700,000, there was an obvious glut of addicts. With a demand like that, and an ample supply, it was hard not to make money. Still, Wes would find himself wondering about the percentage of that money that found its way into his pocket. He and his team were taking all the risks; they were the ones who faced the arrests and the danger. His bosses, the connects, and the ones bringing the drugs into Baltimore were making the real money. They never had to show their faces on the hard corners where the supply looked the demand in the eye. It started to become clear to Wes: the drug game was raw capitalism on overdrive with bullets, a pyramid scheme whose base was dead bodies and ruined lives.

Wes stood on the corner in Dundee Village. He no longer lived there, but he had a little operation there--he would bring drugs into the county because he could sell them for a higher premium than in the city. He was surrounded by some guys from his crew. His day was ending; it was 3:00 P.M., and he planned to pick up a girl from around the way to go to the movies. He had to get moving, but he lingered. He liked the feeling of holding down a corner with his boys. It was the one place he felt safe, or at least in his element. Wes's green jumpsuit hung over a glossy green T-shirt. His Gianni Brunelli shoes matched his outfit. Wes stayed fresh.

He was saying his final goodbyes when a man sidled up to him. He was clean-shaven, wearing jeans and an oversize T-shirt. Wes had never seen this cat before.

"Do you guys know where I can buy some rocks?" the man asked, his voice conspiratorially gruff.

There are a few major tip-offs that tell dealers something isn't right:

If a person looks unfamiliar or really out of place, it's probably a cop.

If a person you saw arrested a few minutes ago is suddenly back on the street and trying to buy from you, he's probably doing it for a cop.

If a person is usually a dime-bag customer and is now trying to buy a brick, he's probably working for the cops.

If someone's lingo is wrong--if he comes up to you saying, "Do you guys know where I can buy some rocks?"--there's a good chance he's a cop.

"Nope," Wes replied, eyeing the man up and down.

The man began to walk away with his head swiveling, seemingly searching for someone else to get drugs from. Wes moved in the opposite direction, toward the girl's house. But for some reason, he couldn't let the sale go. He paused, taking a second look at the man. Wes thought about the small change he was turning down. The man threw up red flags, but Wes had dealt to people like that before and gotten away with it. He saw the man approach another corner boy and then walk away. Wes got antsy: the movie was starting soon, and if he was going to change his mind and make the sale, he'd better do it fast. He couldn't stop thinking about the money he could make off that sale--almost exactly enough to take care of this date. The logic felt right.

Wes looked to his right, saw a public phone booth, and began to move in that direction. As he approached the booth, he reached into his pocket and pulled out two dime bags of crack cocaine, twenty dollars' worth. He placed the small, clear, zipper-lock bags in the phone's metal-covered coin return bucket. He quickly scanned his surroundings, checking to see if anyone had seen his drop. When he felt sure that he'd been undetected, he moved toward the potential buyer.

It was a risk, and Wes knew it. But taking risks is at the heart of the drug enterprise, and scared money didn't make money.

"Hey, come here real quick," Wes yelled to the man, still wandering aimlessly around the block.

The man's head snapped up quickly. Wes looked him up and down again, desperate to recognize him and put his mind at ease. He couldn't. The man moved closer. Wes grabbed his right shoulder and pulled him in close. "I don't know who it was that told me, but if you give me twenty dollars, you can go over to that phone booth and they said you would be taken care of." The man nodded as his eyes met Wes's.

As Wes took the money, their hands touched briefly. The man's hands were smooth, and his nails were clean.
Damn
. It was time to get moving. Wes started walking, never looking back. He placed the twenty-dollar bill in his pants pocket and picked up the pace to the girl's house. He popped a breath mint in his mouth.

As he turned the corner, he heard a yell behind him. "Stop moving and get your hands up!" Wes kept walking. He looked forward, hoping they weren't speaking to him, hoping they'd just disappear. He maintained the same pace until he caught sight of two men running toward him.

Guns in hand and silver badges swinging from metal chains around their necks, the men pointed their weapons at Wes and ordered him to the ground. Wes saw another man, wearing a woodland camouflage shirt, crawling from beneath the bushes, reaching in his waist, and pulling out a weapon. In total, ten police officers moved toward Wes. He got down on his knees and laced his fingers behind his head.

"What did I do, man? I didn't do anything wrong," Wes pleaded with the cop who was reaching over to cuff him while the rest kept their weapons on him. Getting arrested was starting to feel routine. Wes wasn't shocked or afraid anymore, just annoyed. Why him? Why now? Why couldn't they just leave him alone? He had enough to worry about.

Wes continued to plead his case as the police read him his rights.

Ding, ding
.

Two bells rang through the mess hall, signaling the corps of cadets to leave lunch and head back to barracks for their afternoon classes. At the sound of the bells, the corps moved en masse toward the cafeteria doors at the end of the building.

I stood up from my chair and ordered my platoon to "stand fast," or remain still, as I reminded them about the room inspection that was going to take place immediately after school. My platoon responded with a coordinated "Yes, Sergeant," and began to join the flood headed toward the door.

I was now a platoon sergeant, a cadet master sergeant, and the youngest senior noncommissioned officer in the entire corps. Three years ago I'd been one of the insubordinate kids first entering the gates of Valley Forge. In an ironic turn, I was now one of the ones in charge of them.

My mother had noticed the way I had changed since leaving for military school. My back stood straight, and my sentences now ended with "sir" or "ma'am." My military garrison cap was intentionally a size too big, forcing me to keep my head up, walking taller with every step. Our standard motto, "No excuses, no exceptions," and our honor code, "A cadet will not lie, cheat, or steal, nor tolerate those that do," were not simply words we had to memorize but words to live by. With the support of people like Cadet Captain Hill and the others in my chain of command and on the faculty, I'd actually started to enjoy military school. They made it clear that they cared if I succeeded, and eventually so did I. The financial strain Valley Forge brought on my mother was lessened significantly after the first year, when the school gave me academic, and later athletic, scholarships.

On my way back to the barracks, I met up with my friend and "plebe brother" Sean. Sean, from a single-parent household in central New Jersey, had lost his father when he was young as well. We'd started Valley Forge at the same time and lived down the hall from each other. We were among the few still at the school from our plebe class. We were the "survivors," the "old men" who were on pace to go the long haul.

We stopped in the mail room. In my box were three letters, two branded with the logos of colleges, and one from Justin, my best friend back in the Bronx.

I was a starter on the Valley Forge basketball team, the only sophomore on the starting squad that year and the first sophomore starter in over five years. I was making a name on the court, and colleges were taking notice, writing to me fairly frequently. These two letters, from Lafayette College and Georgetown, were just the most recent.

I spent my summers at prestigious basketball camps like 5-Star Basketball and Eastern Invitational, camps where college coaches prowl, looking for fresh prospects. I was almost six feet tall at the time, with a quick first step, a passion for defense, and an okay jump shot. But I was cocky as hell. I would sit in my room and practice the "grip and grin" that would take place the day the NBA commissioner announced my name as the Knicks' first-round pick in the NBA draft. I would pantomime putting the hat on my head and work on just the right bland lines for the press: "Our team works hard in practice, and it pays off in the games." "When the game was on the line, my team put its confidence in me, and I am just thankful things worked out." "I believe we can beat any team on any given day, as long as we play our game."

One day a few months earlier, my uncle Howard took me out to shoot hoops at a park in the Bronx. I was telling him about receiving the recruiting letters from colleges, talking about how I knew I could make it to the pros. My uncle was still much stronger than I was and would use his size to post me up down low and then execute a quick turnaround hook shot or layup, reminding me that I wasn't quite in the NBA yet.

After he finished beating me, we sat next to each other on the side of the court and he started to spin the ball on his finger. "You know, your game is getting pretty good, and I hope you do make it to the league, then we would all be living nice," he said with a smile on his face. "But it is important that you understand that the chances are not in your favor, and you have to have some backup plans." I took the ball out of his hands, wanting to practice my midrange jump shot instead of listening to a lecture about my future prospects. I stood up, dribbled the ball from side to side, but never took my eyes off him, probably more to practice keeping my head up than for any other reason.

"Think about it, man. It's simple math. Only 60 players are chosen in the NBA draft every year. There are 341 Division One schools, each with 13 players on the roster. This makes 4,433 college players who could declare eligibility for the NBA draft. These numbers don't even include Division Two or Three players. Or international players, for that matter." My uncle had obviously been practicing this speech.

The dose of reality hidden in the impressive math exhibition was beginning to bother me, so I cut him off and asked him if he wanted to get another game going. A small smile appeared on his face again, and he pulled himself up using the metal fence that surrounded the court as support. I thought about him now, as I stared at the college seal on the top left corner of the envelope I held.

Next, I slipped my finger into the opening of the letter from Justin. Justin and I exchanged dozens of letters after I left the Bronx for Pennsylvania. I was one of the few outlets Justin had, and my leaving wasn't easy on either of us. We'd always been best friends, despite the urging of one of the deans at Riverdale, who'd once pulled Justin to the side and given him a stern warning: "Justin, you are a good kid, you need to stay away from Wes or you will end up going nowhere just like he will." Justin simply shook his head and ignored him. It amazed Justin how easily they would write off a twelve-year-old.