Gang Leader for a Day (35 page)

J.T.’s gang also had a lot of older members, in their thirties and even forties, who were unwilling to accept a transfer, since that typically meant a drop in seniority and, accordingly, income. Some of these men began to leave J.T.’s command altogether, trying to secure positions within other gangs around the city—occasionally, to J.T.’s deep displeasure, within a rival gang.

A few of J.T.’s men traveled as far as Iowa to try to set up shop. I never went along on any of these out-of-state recruiting trips, but judging from the frustration of the BK missionaries who returned to Chicago, this plan wasn’t going to work out very well.

J.T. tried to hold things together, but the new economics of his situation conspired against him. He grew lonely, feeling as if he were being abandoned by his own BK family. His sense of paranoia grew even more acute. Whenever I saw him, he immediately began to speculate that the more senior BK defectors were revealing the gang’s secrets to rival outfits: where the BKs stored guns and drugs, which cops were open to bribery, which local merchants were willing to launder money.

And then there were the arrests. The federal indictments that had begun to tear apart other gangs were now striking the Black Kings as well. Barry and Otis, two of J.T.’s younger members, had recently been arrested. I wondered how long J.T. would be able to stay free himself. One night, driving back from one of the suburban gang meetings, he mused that jail might actually be the best of his options, since anyone who escaped arrest for too long was suspected of being a snitch and placed himself in real danger on the streets.

Soon after this conversation, I heard that T-Bone had been arrested. He was eventually convicted of trafficking narcotics and sentenced to more than ten years in prison. His prompt transfer to an out-of-state prison fueled speculation that he was testifying against his peers to get a reduced sentence. I tried every avenue I could think of, but I had no luck reaching T-Bone. I eventually heard that he had died in prison, and he became celebrated in death for never having cooperated with the police to sell out other gang members.

For a time I thought that J.T. and I might remain close even as our worlds were growing apart. “Don’t worry,” I told him, “I’ll be coming back all the time.” But the deeper I got into my Harvard fellowship, the more time passed between my visits to Chicago, and the more time passed between visits, the more awkward J.T. and I found it to carry on our conversations. He seemed to have grown nostalgic for our early days together, even a bit clingy. I realized that he had come to rely on my presence; he liked the attention and the validation.

I, meanwhile, grew evasive and withdrawn—in large part out of guilt. Within just a few months at Harvard, I began making a name for myself in academia by talking about the inner workings of street gangs. While I hoped to contribute to the national discussion on poverty, I was not so foolish as to believe that my research would specifically benefit J.T. or the tenant families from whom I’d learned so much.

As demolition became a reality, and as J.T.’s gang continued to fall apart, so did our relationship. When I told him that I’d been offered a job teaching sociology at Columbia University upon completing my Harvard fellowship, he asked me what was wrong with teaching in Chicago. “What about high school?” he said. “Those people need education, too, don’t they?”

 
 

The breakdown of the gang affected Ms. Bailey as well. When the gang didn’t make money, Ms. Bailey didn’t make much money either. And with demolition so near, she needed all the money she could get to help the tenants she wanted to help. She paid for day care so single mothers could go look for new apartments. She hired a car service to take tenants on their housing searches. She helped others settle their outstanding electricity bills so they’d be able to get service once they entered the private market.

But as the money ran out, some tenants began to turn on her. Even though the CHA was supposed to provide relocation services, it was Ms. Bailey who had stepped into the breach, for a fee, and so she was the one who now caught the blame. She was widely accused of pocketing the gang’s money instead of using it for the tenants.

I had never seen Ms. Bailey cry until the moment she told me about these accusations. “I have lived here for almost my whole life, Sudhir,” she said mournfully.

We were sitting in her office on a hot spring day. The old bustle was long gone. It used to be that we couldn’t sit and talk for ten minutes before Ms. Bailey was interrupted by a needy tenant; now we had the room to ourselves for well over an hour.

“You’ve been told before that you work too closely with the gangs,” I said. “Why does it bother you now?”

“Out there they don’t have anybody,” she said. “Out there they think they can make it on their own, but . . .” She tried and tried, but she wasn’t able to finish her sentence.

I wanted to say something worthwhile but couldn’t think of anything. “They’ll . . . they’ll be okay,” I sputtered. “Hell, they lived through the projects.”

“But you see, Sudhir, I know that and you know that, but
they
sometimes forget. It’s like I told you many times: What scares
you
ain’t what scares
them.
When they go to a new store or they have to stand at a bus stop in a place they never been to before,
that’s
what scares them. I wanted to help them feel okay. And just when they need me, I can’t be there for them.”

“You can still do things—” I started to say. But I stopped. The pain on her face was evident, and nothing I could say would console her. I just sat quietly with her until we’d finished our coffee.

I saw Ms. Bailey a few more times, but she was never again the same. For health reasons she moved into her nephew’s home in the middle of West Englewood, a poor black community about two miles from the projects. I visited her there. She had several ailments, she told me, but it was hard to sort out one from the other. “I stopped going to the doctor’s,” she said. “One more test, one more drug, one more thing I got to pay for. And for
what
? To live
here
?”

She waved her hands out at the miles and miles of poor tracts surrounding her nephew’s house, tracts that held far too few of the people from her old high-rise home, the people who’d once given her life meaning.

 
 
 

Winter in Chicago comes fast, and it comes hard. The cold delivers a wallop, making you shudder longer than you’d expect. The first blasts of chilling wind off the lake feel like an enemy.

It was a late Sunday morning in November 1998, and I was waiting outside J.T.’s building one last time. About a half dozen Robert Taylor buildings had already been torn down, and his was due for demolition within a year. Nearby businesses had started to close, too. The whole place was starting to feel like a ghost town. I had changed as well. Gone were the tie-dyed shirts and the ponytail, replaced by the kind of clothes befitting an edgy young Ivy League professor. And also a leather briefcase.

I leaned against my car, stamping my feet to keep warm while waiting for J.T. I was just about to get back into the car and turn on the heater when I saw his Malibu charge down Federal Street.

J.T. had called the night before to request a meeting. In his characteristically ambiguous way, he wouldn’t divulge any details. But he sounded excited. He did tell me that the federal indictments were probably over and that he wouldn’t be arrested. I wanted to know how and why he had escaped arrest, but I didn’t have the guts to ask. He’d always been secretive about his contacts in law enforcement. He also asked a few questions about what kind of research I’d be doing in New York. I mentioned some possible ideas, but they were vague at best.

We greeted each other with a handshake and a smile. I told him he looked like he’d put on a little weight. He agreed; between his work and the needs of his growing children, he said, there wasn’t as much time to exercise. He pulled a small piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to me. There were several names and phone numbers printed in J.T.’s scratchy handwriting. Among the names was that of Curtis, the gang leader in Newark we’d talked about before.

“You should call these people,” J.T. said. “I told Curtis that you wanted to see how things worked out there. He’ll take care of you. But Billy Jo, that’s the one who really knows what’s happening in New York. Here, give him this.”

J.T. had often talked about his friends who ran drug-dealing operations in New York. But what with the federal indictments, the demolition of Robert Taylor, and my own career moves, I had pretty much forgotten about them. Also, given how things had turned out with me and J.T.—it was pretty obvious by now that I wasn’t going to write his biography—I was surprised that he’d go out of his way to put me in touch with his contacts back east.

He took out another sheet of paper, tightly folded over in fours, the creases a bit worn, as if he’d been carrying it in his pocket for a while. His hands were so cold that they shook as he unfolded it. He gave the paper to me and blew on his hands to warm them up.

“Go ahead, nigger, read it,” he said. “Hurry up, it’s cold!”

I began to read. It was addressed to Billy Jo:
Billy, Sudhir is coming out your way.Take care of the nigger....
My eyes scanned down and caught a phrase in the middle of the page:
He’s with me.

I could feel myself breaking into a wide smile. J.T. reached into his car and pulled out two beers.

“I’m not sure I’m ready for another big research project just yet,” I said.

“Oh, yeah?” he said, handing me one of the beers. “What else are you going to do? You can’t fix nothing, you never worked a day in your life. The only thing you know how to do is hang out with niggers like us.”

I nearly choked on my beer when he summarized my capacities so succinctly—and, for the most part, accurately.

J.T. leaned back on the car, looking up at the high-rises in front of us. “You think niggers will survive out there?” he asked. “You think they’ll be all right when they leave here?”

“Not sure. Probably. I mean, everything changes. You just have to be ready, I guess.”

“You hungry?” he asked.

“Starving.”

“Let’s go down to Seventy-ninth. There’s a new soul-food place.”

“Sounds good,” I said, chugging the beer quickly. “Why don’t you drive?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, jumping into the car, “and I got one for you! What would you do if you were me? I got this new bunch of guys that think they know everything. . . .”

He began telling me about his latest management dilemma with a gang he was running in Roseland, a neighborhood where a lot of the Robert Taylor families were relocating. As he spoke, I became lost in his voice. His steady and assured monologue comforted me; for a few moments anyway, I could feel as though little had changed, even though everything had. He turned on some rap music, opened up another beer, and kept on talking. The car screeched out of the parking lot, J.T. waved to a few women pushing strollers in the cold, and we sped down Federal Street.

 
 
 

Within a few years, J.T. grew tired of running a gang. He managed his cousin’s dry-cleaning business, and he started up a barbershop, which failed. He had put away enough savings, in property and cash, to supplement his lower income. Once in a while, he did consulting work for Black Kings higher-ups who tried to revive their citywide hold on the drug economy. But this effort never came to fruition, and with the crack market severely depleted, Chicago’s gangland remains fragmented, with some neighborhoods having little if any gang activity.

I still see J.T. now and then when I’m in Chicago. Although we’ve never discussed it explicitly, I don’t sense that he begrudges my success as an academic, nor does he seem bitter about his own life. “Man, as long as I’m not behind bars and breathing,” he told me, “every day is a good day.” It would be hard to call us friends. And I sometimes wonder if we ever were.

But he was obviously a huge part of my life. For all the ways in which I had become a rogue sociologist, breaking conventions and flouting the rules, perhaps the most unconventional thing I ever did was embrace the idea that I could learn so much, absorb so many lessons, and gain so many experiences at the side of a man who was so far removed from my academic world. I can still hear J.T.’s voice when I’m on the streets far away from Chicago, somewhere in the unruly Paris suburbs or the ghettos of New York, hanging around and listening to people’s stories.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Many of the names and some of the identities in this book have been changed. I also disguised some locations and altered the titles of certain organizations. But all the people, places, and institutions are real; they are not composites, and they are not fictional.

Whenever possible, I based the material on written field notes. Some of the stories, however, have been reconstructed from memory. While memory isn’t a perfect substitute for notes, I have tried my best to reproduce conversations and events as faithfully as possible.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

There is one basic truth in the South Asian immigrant experience: Do as your parents tell you. This notion was put to the test during my junior year of college, when I informed my father and mother that I wanted to study sociology. My mother seemed agnostic, but such decisions were made by my father, who said he preferred that I stay on the path toward a degree in bioengineering. I was not interested in science, and after several conversations we reached a compromise: I would study theoretical mathematics.

I knew that my father supported me, and I even understood his rationale. We were immigrants with no connections, no wealth, and all we had lay between our ears; a math degree would at least guarantee me a job.

A year later, when I told my father I wanted to apply to graduate programs in sociology, he continued to support me, giving advice that I now share with my own students. His counsel often took the form of parables and was laden with examples of people he had seen succeed (and fail). What he told me might take a full evening to relay, over wine and my mother’s cooking, but the essence was always clear: write every day, visit your professors with well-formed questions, and always read everything that is recommended, not just what the professor requires.