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DEDICATION AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost I would like to thank God; without Him nothing is possible.
I would like to dedicate this book to my family:
To my loving wife, Tondalaya Heyward, who believed in me when I was at the lowest point in my life and for putting up with me, because I know that I am “no walk in the park.” Love you always.
To my mother, Christine Heyward, my rock, thank you for always being there for me no matter what. I apologize for putting you through all this; you and I both know that you raised me to know better.
To my son, Gary Jr., and my daughter, Porsha, I hope that you can take the things that I have done—good and bad—and learn what to do and what not to do. I love you both dearly.
To my sister, Joyce aka Big Bunny! Thanks for always understanding my points of view but not being afraid to let me know when I am wrong.
To Johnny Mann Sr., aka Uncle Robert, thanks for everything—for your motivational talks, for always supporting me in everything that I did, and especially for loaning me your suit, tie, and shoes to go on job interviews. Things like that are priceless.
To my nephews, Alex and Dawud, I am proud of both of you. Keep following your dreams and being the true Heywards that you are; don’t let nobody tell you anything different.
To my brother, Terrance, and two sisters, Na-Na and Mo-Mo, and to all of my family in the South. I love you all.
To the “Good Money Brothers!” Fredrick Edwards, aka Black Fred, Carl Joseph Sr., Rapper Cashflow (Carl Joseph Jr), and Joe Hunter—they don’t make them like you guys no more! Thanks for the love and support for my grind to get this book done!
To my longtime best friend, Anthony Johnson, thanks for being there for me from day one. Never had an argument or disagreement in over forty years of friendship.
I would like to thank:
Atria Books and my editor, Todd Hunter, for guiding me, listening to my voice, not taking me out of my book, being supportive of my views, and most of all, being patient with me.
Sister Souljah for everything she’s done to get me here.
To my neighborhood (Polo Grounds projects), thank you for looking out for me. When I was on parole and had to be in the house by 9:00 p.m., everyone knew it, so at 8:30 p.m. I would get all kinds of warnings from my friends. No matter where I would be, they would tap their watches at this time, indicating to me that it was time for me to get my butt upstairs! To me, that’s love.
And to my coworkers and anyone else I did not mention—thanks for the love and support!
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Everything that I’ve written inside this book is true and recounted to the best of my ability.
The events that occur in Corruption Officer happened over a period of my life while I was employed as a corrections officer at Rikers Island. I wrote this book while serving time as a convicted felon for smuggling drugs and other contraband inside the jails.
At its core, this book serves to enlighten others about what can happen to you if you break the law and get caught. Having been convicted, I know that my story can be used to help other officers who are now corrupt or considering doing something illegal. I know no one is actively reaching out to corrections officers about what happens when you get caught for corruption. I’m aware of the arrogance of many within the Corrections Department who think they will not get caught for corruption or that they are above the law. But let my story show that there are consequences for corruption. I know. I’ve now lived on both sides of the law. Jail is a bad, bad place.
Some of the names inside the book have been changed. It is not my intent to put an officer’s business in the streets, nor is it to blatantly bad-mouth the Corrections Department.
Ultimately, Corruption Officer is a symbol of my second chance. When I was convicted, I never thought I would be in this place, an author at a major publishing house, telling my story for all to read. This is my opportunity to help others and to right my wrongs. This is my blessing.
CHAPTER 1
THE G-SPOT
“HEAD CRACK!” the houseman yelled.
“Alright, nobody move!” he said, as he went around the table to collect the money from the bettors.
The game was C-low and at this time my man Fungler was at the top of his game again. It’s a Friday night, payday, and I have every dime in the bank (the bank is the guy who takes the money for bets) on Fungler. I gave him that name because that’s what he yells every time he shoots the dice. I’m his hype, motivating him when he shoots and antagonizing the other bettors around the table to bet against him. Whenever he’d win we both made money. Lately Fungler was on a roll.
Fungler and I would be on our bullshit as usual. When Fungler would get the dice he’d shuffle them, then shake them in his hand. I’d be beside him screaming, “Thrilla in the manila dilla!” He’d shake his head indicating “no.” Then I’d scream, “Feva in the Funkhouse!” He’d shake his head again indicating “no.” Then I’d scream, “Rumble in the Jungle.” Then Fungler would say, “Rumble in the jungle without the fungle kungle,” while simultaneously releasing the dice and watching them register. Every time we did this routine, we’d hear the houseman yell, “HEAD CRACK!”
People who had bet against him would put their heads down or have the shit-face (upset facial expressions). Then a cheerleader from the side would yell, “Double or nothing, I bet he can’t do it again!” A cheerleader is a person on the sidelines with no money, talking shit about somebody else’s money! Fungler gets the dice, but before we go into our routine, in walks Chuck.
Chuck’s money is long. He has a lot of it. Every time Chuck comes in, muthafuckas who are scared, and have the bank with a lot of money in it, normally pass it to the next bettor. They don’t want to take a chance of losing it all in one shot. Everybody knows Chuck will stop up your bank—putting a large amount of money down on a bet equal to or more than what you have.
Everybody knows the routine, but not Fungler. Fungler’s eyes lit up. He hollered at Chuck, “Get down, nigga. I know you ain’t come here to sightsee!” Fungler looked at me with a shit-eatin’ grin like, “I got this nigga!” I looked at him like, “Muthafucka, just pass the bank!” Then somebody on the side said, “Look at this STD (scared-to-death) ass nigga!” and everybody laughed.
Yes, scared ass nigga, a person who tries to gamble with the big dawgs but really has a low-paying security job, and has no business being at the gambling spot in Harlem, or anywhere else for that matter, ’cause he knows that he is living PTP (paycheck to paycheck). If he loses his money this payday Friday night, he will be like Sidney Poitier in A Raisin in the Sun when Willie runs off with all that money.
“Willie, don’t do it, Willie, not with that money, Willie!”
Yes, scared nigga. That would be me! Gary, Gee, Big Hey. It all depends on who is calling me. My momma calls me “Boy” or “Nutmo,” aka scared nigga!
So Chuck dropped his stack. And Fungler started talking shit, saying, “After this roll all you working niggas are going to be sick! You’re gonna throw up on your way to the ATM! I love taking a nine-to-five nigga’s money, but taking a hustler’s money is like winning ten thousand dollars on one of those scratch tickets. What is that?” Fungler asked the crowd.
Everybody except me. I was busy trying to get this nigga’s attention to pass that muthafuckin’ bank! Fungler continued to shake the dice, ridiculing Chuck.
“Taking a hustler’s money is like going to Rent-A-Center, getting a whole bunch of shit delivered to your apartment, then moving to Brooklyn!”
Again, everybody laughed, except me. I was still in scared nigga mode!
“Getting his money is like going up in a bitch raw dog and not worrying about kids ’cause she got her tubes tied!” Fungler continued, and said, “What’s that?”
“FREE MONEY!!” They all laughed.
I’m over here figuratively sharting on myself, like when you think you have to fart but mistakenly shit on yourself instead. Chuck screamed out, “Nigga, would you stop walking the cat walk and just roll the muthafuckin’ dice!” Fungler shook them, then looked at me. Man, listen, the look I gave him was not a confident one. I did not even play with this nigga.
“Fungle in the rumble jungle kungle without the ungle dungle sungle?” I screamed out. Whatever the fuck that meant.
Fungler threw the dice. It seemed like it took an eternity as they flew past my face. At that moment all I could think about was my kids asking me for Michael Jordan sneakers, my past-due rent. Mom Dukes ain’t taking no shorts on rent. If I lose, how am I going to get to work next week? Willie, don’t do it!
The dice hit the wall and registered one-one-six! Fungler screamed, “HEAD CRACK!” I momentarily blacked out, then came back screaming, “NIIII-ZZIIIII-GAA!” After the house collected the money, totaling about sixty-six hundred dollars, I went over to Fungler and copped out, saying, “Yo, man, I gotta go.” So Fungler passed the bank. We split the dough. I tore the door off its hinges getting the fuck out of there.
CHAPTER 2
STEP UP MY GAME
I called my man C to come pick me up.
“Hennimus Dogumus?” he says on the other end of the phone.
That’s our Greek name for Hennessy.
“Yeaaah, maan!” I say.
And automatically he says, “Oh, my God, this nigga must have cracked them niggas at the g-spot.” Well, I could not take the credit for Fungler’s work, so I was honest and told him.
“Hell yeah, nigga, you know how I do!” I said.
You see, C was my right-hand man and he always warned me about me having the shakes—an addictive gambling problem. He was there when I won and there when I lost.
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” he said.
While I was waiting, I saw a friend of mine named Fredis. He ran the g-spot and knew me since I was a youngster. He came over to me and playfully said, “Let me hold something before the hoes get you!” I knew he was joking ’cause he was another get-money Harlem cat whose pockets stayed fat. Me, I wasn’t a Harlem cat. I was just, ah . . . um, a person that lived in Harlem. I jokingly told him that he was too late because this money was already spent last week. He gave me dap, and while I was waiting for C we reminisced on when I first came to the gambling spot. Back then, I rarely had money. I used to just come to watch all the hustlers, scammers, and real Harlem thugs gamble. It would be a smoke-filled room with weed and anything else you wanted to smoke. Everybody had an MO or a hustle. There you had credit card scammers, pickpockets, and real live pimps with perms, rollers in their hair, and all. I would just sit there and listen to the tales of who’s making the most money and who fell off. I got to know a lot of people and they became my illegitimate family. I learned and I witnessed everything. Females would come in there looking good, all dressed up, and dudes would try to holla, but these chicks were about their business. They were professional boosters. I mean from hair spray to expensive mink coats, you could get it at the g-spot.
I remember one time I was hanging out there and Fredis asked me to go with him to one of his other spots—a crack house. I was about fifteen years old, and Fredis always looked out for me. So I went with him there to drop off some stuff. We arrive and all I see is about five or six guys, some sitting, some standing—all getting blowjobs. I was like, “Oh, shit!” I was shocked. I was still a virgin. Fredis saw the look on my face and without me knowing pushed me out into the middle of the room. I tried to play it off like, “Nah, I’m cool,” but they wouldn’t let me walk. So this chick, who was not a bad-looking crackhead, proceeded to give me a blowjob. Little did anybody know, it was my first one. Some dudes would be traumatized that an older woman touched them, but in my hood I’d hear young dudes saying stuff like, “Yo, Miss Peterson sucked your dick, too?” They’d laugh, give each other dap, and say, “I’m going back tomorrow, and she’ll make sandwiches.”
Back in those days, 1986, ’87, crack hit the streets hard. Whew! I remember Fredis and a bunch of other guys in the neighborhood had all the fine chicks in the projects. They would not give a young brother, like myself, any play, knowing that my only source of income was a summer youth job. What happened to that program?
I would try to impress the fly girls though. I remember taking a kitchen knife with me to the armory on 139th Street to get my paycheck and then risking my neck to go to a Jew-man’s store that sold the latest sneakers for cheap. The knife was for the people waiting outside the store to rob you. But when crack hit, it was like freaknik up in those burnt-out buildings. Every time one of those fly chicks slipped and got strung out, news traveled like a police blotter.
EXTRA! EXTRA! LISA FROM BUILDING 1 WITH THE FAT ASS THAT USED TO DATE CARLOS IS OPEN!
With five dollars and a dream all a young dude’s fantasies would come true.
When C pulls up, we bounce to the liquor store not far from where we are. We got some Hennimus and park in the “office”—this is where we go to have real talk, the corner of 155th Street and Eighth Avenue, in front of the supermarket. C was a state corrections officer and he was always telling me that I had to step up my job game. I was working as a security guard, one step up from a summer youth job. Security work was year-round, though. I told him that I had taken several city and state job tests and was still looking. I’d been looking ever since I came home from the marines as a Gulf War veteran. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking . . . a Gulf War veteran and you’re only a security guard.
CHAPTER 3
THE LETTER
C dropped me off at my building. We had agreed to meet up later to hit a club. I ran into Junebug, a local crackhead, on my way into my building. Junebug would fix anything for you—a TV, a typewriter, a radio, anything. He asked if I wanted to buy some batteries. He assured me that he had had them for a year and that they were still good because he kept wrapping them with aluminum foil and putting them in a refrigerator. I wondered, Nigga, you live in the streets. Where’s the fridge? I bought them from him anyway, mainly because officially he was my cousin from my mother’s side of the family. I already had my own batteries wrapped in aluminum foil in my fridge, which had lasted me three years. Not many people in the neighborhood knew Junebug was my cousin. Sometimes it’s embarrassing to have a family member strung out on crack, but then in my neighborhood who didn’t have a family member who was a part of this epidemic? My brother died from the drug while I was in the military. So, after I copped the batteries with the lifetime warranty, I proceeded to get on the only elevator out of six that was still working.
As I stepped in I saw the pool of piss on the floor. The gremlins, aka kids or grown-ups who piss in the elevator and spit on the buttons so you could not press your floor, were hard at work. I often wondered why the military was wasting time trying to find Saddam Hussein when they should be trying to catch these muthafuckas. Well, anyway, I got Junebug to press the button for my floor, the elevator door closed, and it started up. Then it jumped, stopped, then started up again, going at a snail’s pace. All I could do was curse and think again about what C had told me about stepping up my job game. I knew I had to because my
situation right now was crazy. I had a bullshit security job that wasn’t paying much. I was married to my childhood sweetheart, who lived on the same floor as I did with my two kids around the corner. She lived with her moms and I lived with mine. I wanted a better job so I could get us an apartment and so we could act as a family. Although she and I had our differences while I was in the military, we were still willing to try.
We had a son and a daughter and I desperately needed to do something, because I grew up around here all my life. Times were changing fast. It used to be that there was a level of respect because all the muthafuckas doing the robbing and killing were the same individuals that your moms used to babysit. So it was a weird sense of comfort that you knew that your momma might get robbed but they weren’t going to kill her. Nowadays these young kids don’t care. Yo momma, my momma, it don’t matter. Anybody can get got. The projects are something else and I knew I had to get out.
As the elevator got to my floor, before I got out, I let out a real stinky fart, a little present for the next person who’s going to walk into the elevator—you know, to go along with the spit and the piss. Shit, fuck dat! Them niggas do it to me. As I was walking to my door I checked the walls for the latest news of what’s going on in the projects. It’s always in the form of graffiti. They always had some shit like, “If you wantcha dick sucked, go see Tasha or Monique in apartment such and such.” I hope I never see my daughter’s name up on that wall. If I do, somebody gots to die. So, after scraping the bottom of my feet on the hallway floor, my best attempt to get the piss off the bottom of my shoes, I entered my mother’s apartment. Yes, I was living with Mom Dukes at the age of twenty-nine. Man, I wanted to get out. I was trying.
As per usual, I put down my things and proceed to look in the pots to see what she cooked.
Corruption Officer Page 1
