BMF: The Rise and Fall of Big Meech and the Black Mafia Family
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Authors: Mara Shalhoup
BMF
THE RISE AND FALL
OF BIG MEECH AND THE
BLACK MAFIA FAMILY
MARA SHALHOUP
BMF: THE RISE AND FALL OF BIG MEECH AND THE BLACK MAFIA FAMILY
. Copyright © 2010 by Mara Shalhoup. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
Insert photographs copyright © Ben Rose/Ben RosePhotography.com
Black Mafia Family Tree by Brooke Hatfield
Photos for Black Mafia Family Tree courtesy Atlanta Police Department; DeKalb County, Georgia, jail; Fulton County, Georgia, jail; Spartanburg County, South Carolina, jail; U.S. Marshals Service
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Shalhoup, Mara.
BMF : the rise and fall of Big Meech and the Black Mafia Family / Mara Shalhoup. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-312-38393-0
1. Flenory, Big Meech. 2. Black Mafia Family. 3. Drug dealers—United States—Biography. 4. Drug traffic—United States. I. Title.
HV5805.F53S53 2010
364.1092—dc22
[B]
2009040090
First Edition: March 2010
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
This account is narrated in real time and based on allegations raised in court documents, trial transcripts, wiretap excerpts, and other law enforcement material. Although more than one hundred defendants with ties to the Black Mafia Family ultimately were convicted of their criminal charges, other associates were not charged or pleaded guilty to lesser offenses. Individuals who are mentioned in connection to certain acts of alleged misconduct but who have not been charged with or convicted of those alleged acts are, of course, entitled to a presumption of innocence.
For Peaches,
whose soul survived too great a loss
This book would not have been possible without the support of Ken Edelstein, who guided me through the infancy of its research. I’m also indebted to my fellow journalists Scott Freeman and Shaila Dewan, my husband, Todd, and my parents, Diane and Alfie, for their generous insights and critical feedback. I owe a huge dose of gratitude to the investigators who helped me bridge the narrative’s gaps, to the attorneys who shared their insider knowledge of various criminal cases, to Rasheed McWilliams for noticing my early coverage of the Black Mafia Family, to my amazing agent, John T. “Ike” Williams, for listening to Rasheed, and to my ever-patient editor, Monique Patterson. Lastly, thanks to Tammy Cowins for keeping me in the loop—and to Big Meech for his willingness to sit down and talk.
BLACK MAFIA FAMILY AND ASSOCIATES
(See insert for the BMF family tree)
Demetrius “Big Meech” Flenory
Terry “Southwest T” Flenory
Charles “Pops” Flenory
Chad “J-Bo” (“Junior Boss”) Brown
Fleming “Ill” Daniels
Barima “Bleu DaVinci” McKnight
Eric “Slim” Bivens
Benjamin “Blank” Johnson
Arnold “A.R.” Boyd
Wayne “Wayniac” Joyner
Omari “O-Dog” McCree
William “Doc” Marshall
Jacob “the Jeweler” Arabo
Jerry “J-Rock” Davis
Tremayne “Kiki” Graham
Scott King
Eric “Mookie” Rivera
Ernest “E” Watkins
Ulysses “Hack” Hackett
Jay “Young Jeezy” Jenkins
Radric “Gucci Mane” Davis
INVESTIGATORS
Bryant “Bubba” Burns
Marc Cooper
Jack Harvey
Rand Csehy
Rolando Betancourt
BMF
As bad as they wanted me, there was no winning.
—
DEMETRIUS “BIG MEECH” FLENORY
T
he most notorious inmate ever to set foot in the St. Clair County, Michigan, jail is reclined on a ledge just off the hallway that leads to his cell. His hair, unwound hours earlier from the braids he usually wears, is pushed back from his face, falling to his shoulders in kinky waves. He’s saddled with a few extra pounds, but that’s to be expected. He’s been locked up in this suburban facility, an hour north of Detroit and just across the water from Ontario, for three Michigan winters. That’s countless days stuck in a coop where you can’t be let outside, not even to exercise, not even for an hour, unless the thermostat creeps above 40 degrees. Fat chance of breaking 40 in February, or even in March. He’s actually looking forward to prison, hopefully somewhere down South where it’s warm.
Still, he’s not complaining. They’ve been good to him here. He’s polite and well mannered, and that’s earned him certain privileges. When visitors come in from out of town—a guest list that he claims
has included rap superstars Akon and Young Jeezy (Snoop Dogg tried to come, but got snowed out)—the deputies go out of their way to accommodate them. To the inmate, preferential treatment is nothing new. On the outside, he was used to getting what he wanted. Jail is no different.
Knee propped up, back pressed against the cement wall, he leans into the glass partition. There’s no chair on his side, and though a guard just announced over the loudspeaker to please refrain from sitting on the ledge, he’s sitting on it anyway. So he has no choice but to look down at me. It’s not a patronizing gesture, but one that brings to mind his unshakable pride, his famed largesse, his ability, even now, to salvage some of the grandeur to which he’d grown accustomed.
I ask about one of his other reputed traits, one that paints him in a less generous light—or, as a federal informant once put it, his street rep as “a vengeful killer who threatens people.” He kind of chuckles and takes pause, as if bemused by the question. “I’ll put it to you like this,” he says, leaning in closer, casual and friendly. “If trouble comes to me, then I’m going to deal with it.”
That kind of stuff—petty stuff, stuff that got blown out of proportion—used to happen all the time, he says. There’d be jealousy over girls, or people thinking their crew is better than his crew, and so forth. “Some guys make a fool of themselves,” he continues. “Then, before they know it, they look up and there’s a bunch of us. We just handle the problem the best way we know how.” Again, he claims, that’s only when people come asking for it. He’d prefer to keep things civil. “I’m more old-school, more family oriented,” he says. “I don’t believe in airing differences in public places.”
It’s a reasonable explanation, from a seemingly reasonable man. But it’s not hard to glimpse the darkness behind the facade. He offers it up every now and then. It slips from behind that transformative smile, peeks around a pair of otherwise warm and engaging eyes. Those eyes narrow when I bring up a murder charge filed against one of his closest crew members. It’s the only violent allegation to hit his
inner circle that ever made it to the trial calendar. “That’s ridiculous,” he says, though witnesses say otherwise. “I can’t see him doing something to somebody like that.” He blames the murder rap on an overzealous snitch—one who came forward only after he himself was in trouble, and who claimed to have witnessed the killing but did nothing to stop it. “What was he doing? Sitting there watching? It doesn’t add up.”