by Mark Anthony
I remained silent as I turned onto Springfield Boulevard. In the daytime Springfield Boulevard was always crowded with cars. But at night there were certain stretches along Springfield Boulevard. that were usually deserted. I drove down the boulevard and the cops were still tailing us. Although the cops didn’t tell me to, I pulled over to the curb.
“Gotdamn it! Holz, what the hell are you doing? Drive this car! We still dirty! We didn’t get rid of the heat or the blow!” Latiefe screamed like he’d lost his mind.
“Just chill! I’m gonna play it off like I’m using the payphone. If they step to me, I’ll talk us out of any trouble.”
“Oh my gawd!” Latiefe said as he clenched his teeth. “What the . . . that’s not gonna work! Yo, I can’t believe that we’re gonna go to jail because of this nigga! Yo, Holz, drive this car!”
“I can’t do that,” I said. “I already pulled to the side and it’ll definitely look too suspicious if I all of a sudden pull off and start driving again.”
“Well, yo, do this. Just sit in the car, because you know that they are gonna stop right behind us, and as soon as they get out of their car and start approaching our car, that’s when you hit the accelerator and that will definitely give us enough time to dump this gun and these drugs, plus if we have to we would even have enough time to drive a few blocks and then get out and run on foot,” Randy said, sounding anxious and nervous.
“Nah, nah, trust me I got this,” I said as I prepared to step out of the truck.
Just as I was stepping out of the Blazer, the cops pulled up right behind us. They put their red flashing light onto the dashboard of their car to let us know that they indeed were cops.
I could hear the sound of thumping hearts coming from inside the stolen Blazer.
I calmly proceeded to walk to the payphone. The phone was located on the corner of Springfield Boulevard and Westgate Avenue, right in front of Montebello Park. As I picked up the telephone’s receiver, one of the detectives spoke tome.
“Put the phone down right now.”
The other DT shined his flashlight into the truck so that he could see exactly who was inside. The DT that had told me to put the phone down showed me his badge while he informed me that he was detective Mark Schienbart and that his partner was named Darryl Gates. They were with the 105th police precinct.
“Oh word,” I said sounding very cheery. “Your name is Mark? That’s my name. What a coincidence.”
Unfortunately, he didn’t find that to be a conversation starter.
“Oh, that’s nice,” he replied. “So, Mark, let me see some papers. Do you have a driver’s license?”
By this time the other detective had come over to where I was standing.
“Detective Daryll Gates,” he surprisingly and somewhat politely introduced himself. “Do you have a registration and insurance card for that vehicle?”
“Yes, I do. It’s in the glove compartment. Do you wanna see it?” I asked, thinking quickly.
“Yes, we would love to see it,” Detective Schienbart arrogantly and somewhat sarcastically responded. “But first I want to see your driver’s license.”
I showed him my license. He examined it real closely, and I guess he wanted to test to see if it was authentic or not, because he started to quickly grill me.
“What street do you live on?” he asked.
“234th Street,” I responded.
“How tall are you?”
“I’m six feet.”
“What’s your eye color?”
“Brown.”
“What’s your date of birth?”
“June 14.”
Finally he stopped with the quick line of questions, which were designed to try to see if I would slip up, and to see if I came across as nervous.
“OK, Mr. Holsey, now let’s see the registration, if you don’t mind.”
I was desperately trying to think of a way to buy us some time. I was willing to try anything in order to have us avoid being arrested.
“Can I use the phone first?” I asked. “I mean, that is why I pulled over.”
“No, you can’t use the gotdamn phone! Now let me see the friggin’ reggie and the friggin’ insurance card!” Schienbart yelled.
Don’t ask me what the heck friggin’ means, but apparently it is some type of white slang, because angry white men are always using it.
“But it’s a very important phone call,” I said, stil trying to buy some time. I then went to reach for the phone and begged as if I was trying to sound like a white boy. “Oh, c’mon. It’ll only take a second.”
“Look, you little black nigger, you and your nigger friends will be making phone calls from jail if you don’t let me see the registration and the insurance card right now!”
The detectives had us, and they knew it. Their actions were so cocky, it made me sick to my stomach. Other than calling me a nigger, they were being way too polite. In the past, whenever we hadn’t done anything wrong and they pulled us over, they would always harass us. They would throw us on the floor and all of that. Now it was different. They didn’t even make Latiefe and Randy get out of the car. I suppose that they wanted to savor the arrests that they were about to make.
Again, for some strange reason, I still wasn’t as nervous as I should have been, but I would be lying if I said that my heart rate didn’t increase. Reality was quickly setting in, because I knew that I was running out of both time and excuses. I walked to the passenger side of the Blazer in an attempt to reach into the window. The DT was breathing right on my back with his hand near his gun. Just as I was about to pretend as though I was reaching into the glove compartment for the paperwork, I wisely paused.
“Look, please don’t shoot me or anything. I’m just gonna slowly reach into the glove compartment for the paperwork, a’ight?” I explained to the detective.
The detective didn’t respond, so I took that as an OK to proceed.
“Yo, Holz, what’s up, man? What did they say?” Latiefe nervously whispered as I stuck my head in the car.
“Nothing. They didn’t say nothing yet. They want the paperwork. But, yo, they got us. They know that they got us,” I quickly whispered back.
Just as I was about to pull away from the window, Randy, who was sitting in the backseat, whispered back to me.
“Holz, on three, a’ight?”
“A’ight,” I replied as I looked Randy straight into his eyes, trying my hardest to use ESP. I then backed away from the Blazer. I walked back over near the payphone.
“Yo, um, I don’t know, my pops must have taken the registration and the insurance card out of the car this morning, ’cause I can’t find it,” I said to the cops.
“Oh, is that right?” Detective Schienbart asked very sarcastically.
“Yeah, that has to be it,” I said as if I was trying to win an Academy Award for Most Convincing Thug In A Street Drama.
“Mr. Holsey, this car was reported stolen about an hour or so ago. And it’s registered to a Mrs. Jackson. You, of course, wouldn’t know anything about that now, would you?” Detective Gates asked.
There was a pause for a moment. Dead silence.
I thought about bolting and running for my life and my freedom. I contemplated hitting one of the cops in the mouth with the phone receiver, but it was too late for that.
“All right, get up against the gate and assume the position. Play time is over!”
I tried to keep both of the cops’ attention on myself. I figured that if I was at least able to keep them distracted, that would give Randy and Latiefe a chance to get away. There was no sense in all of us going to jail.
“Nah, nah! I’m tired of this harassment! I ain’t assuming no position! What! What!” I yelled in an attempt to show up both cops.
“Get your hands up behind your head and spread your legs apart right now!” DT Gates yelled as he kicked my legs apart and pushed me against a fence. The other DT was talking on his walkie-talkie. I guess he was asking for a squad car to
assist them in the arrest. I mean, after all, there were three of us that they had to haul in.
As I was being frisked, I purposely continued to resist. Again, I was hoping to at least free Randy and Latiefe. I couldn’t believe they hadn’t bounced by now! I didn’t know what the hell they were doing, but they were blowing their chance.
“Yo, money, you don’t gotta be grabbing all up on my nuts like that! I’m clean! I ain’t got nothing on me. Damn! Y’all cats be buggin’!”
These cops were way too confident. In fact, they were forgetting that they were cops, and that was probably because they knew that they were about to make a big arrest. They probably only made the rank of detective based on the color of their white skin, ’cause, man, they were so dumb with their tactics.
“Pull your pants down. I wanna see what’s under your ball sack!” Gates ordered as he rammed my face up against the park fence.
“What?” I asked. Even with all of my years of being harassed, that command was a new one for me.
“What the hell is under your balls? You got crack rocks? Let me know now!” Gates barked.
By this time Schienbart was off of his walkie talkie and he joined in on the crusade. He proceeded to sift through my belongings that Detective Gates had taken from my pockets, which at this time were on the ground.
“Where did you get all of this money from?” Schienbart asked.
I kept silent.
“Cuff him,” Schienbart said.
“Handcuff me for what?” I demanded to know. “What did I do?”
“Where did you get all of this cash from?” Schienbart asked again.
With my fingers interlocked in place behind my head, I turned slightly and looked at the cop.
“I worked for it. I work for the utility company. Can’t a black man have a job? Or is that also against the law?”
As I said that, I glanced at Latiefe. It looked as if he had winked his eye at me, but it was dark and kind of hard to see with the glare from the street light. I then turned my head back toward the fence.
“Yeah, right!” one of the cops yelled while he slapped me upside my head. “No job pays an eighteen-year-old nigger that kind of money.”
While he was saying that racist mumbo-jumbo, I counted in my head.
“One thousand and one . . . one thousand and two, one thousand and three.”
As soon as I reached one thousand and three I heard either Latiefe or Randy make a hissing sound, sort of like when you’re flirting with the opposite sex.
“Spsss, pssss, sssps.”
Being with the crew day in and day out for so many years, and based on my empirical wisdom and intuition, I knew at that moment to just hit the ground.
Right after the last “Sssps” sound, I instantly and violently dropped to the concrete and covered my head with my arms. I sort of squished and balled up into the fetal position. As I lay balled up on the ground, I heard the massive sound of shattering glass, followed by the sound of rapid gunfire.
The gun that was being fired sounded as if it was just spitting out bullets and it wouldn’t stop. I felt a thump on my body. I then cautiously peeked up and saw that it was one of the detectives. He’d fallen on top of me after being shot! I tried to look to my left and I saw the other detective, Darryl Gates, fall to the ground!
As the sound of gunfire was still rapidly erupting, I could hear Schienbart groaning in pain as he continued to lie on top of me, sort of acting as my human bulletproof vest. As I lay underneath him, I didn’t know who it was that was doing the shooting. I couldn’t tell whether it was Randy or Latiefe. And to tell you the truth, I really didn’t care who was pulling the trigger. I just knew to concentrate on keeping myself covered up, and to hope that I didn’t catch a bullet. The detective still had bullets entering into his body as he lay on top of me.
Finally, after about ten seconds, which actually felt more like ten minutes, the gunfire stopped. There was nothing but dead silence. I felt like I was in a scene from a Rambo movie.
“Yo, Holz, you a’ight? Holz, get up, man. Come on, get in the car.”
I couldn’t tell if I was still alive, but I had no time to pinch myself because this was definitely real life big time drama. I pushed the cop’s body off me, got up, and quickly examined the gruesome scene.
I saw the whole right side rear passenger window of the Blazer literally missing! Then I saw two white detectives bloodier than ever and lying face first on the pavement. Their bodies were riddled with bullet holes. They looked as though they were cardboard that someone had used for target practice. Spaghetti sauce-like blood spilled out of their bodies. Some of their blood had managed to get on my clothes.
“Come on, Holz! What the hell are you looking at? Let’s go! We have to be out! Now get in the car!” Latiefe yelled.
“Nah. No! Oh hell no!” I screamed back. “I ain’t leaving yet! I’m getting mines! It’s time for the big payback.”
After saying that, I slipped into a sadistic rage. I yelled as I kicked Detective Schienbart in the face. I repeatedly yelled and kicked him in the face and ribs. His blood got all over my pants and sneakers. I didn’t care, though, because I knew that he was just about dead. But the pig still had enough energy to try to grab my leg.
“Yo, get off of me!” I yelled. Then I kicked him three more times. Each time that I kicked him, I would yell out, “Ugh!” The sound helped me expel the maximum amount of strength that my body could dish out. I got up real close to Schienbart’s earlobe.
“Don’t you ever try to arrest me!” I hollered. “Ugh!” Then I kicked him again. “That’s for all those times y’all harassed us for no reason at all. Ugh! How does that feel!? Ugh! You dumb pig! Thha. I just spit in your face. Get up, punk! Thha. I spit on you again. Aren’t you gonna arrest me!?”
“Holz, come on and get in the car or you’re get-tin’ left!” Latiefe insanely pleaded with me. “We ain’t got time for this!”
“Go ahead and leave me ’cause I ain’t finished with these pigs yet. Ugh!” I yelled as I went running and kicked the other officer square in the nose. “You don’t look so bad. Ugh! Here’s another! Ugh!” I let loose a barrage of punches to his face. I threw those punches with every ounce of energy that was inside my body.
“Thha thha thha thha,” I spit in his face until I couldn’t spit no more, then I kicked him numerous times, making sure that I broke some of his ribs. I reached and picked up a stick that was nearby and I rapidly and repeatedly whacked detective Darryll Bates with the stick. Then I performed the two deadliest acts that could be dealt out to police officers. I took the 9 mm pistol that Bates was carrying. I also took his badge from around his neck.
“I got your badge! I got your gun! And you know what? You ain’t much without a gun or a badge! Come on, knuckle up now! What?” I yelled. “Get up punk! Spread your legs, get your hands over your head! Drop all of your drugs on the ground right now! Lift up your nut sack. You don’t got no crack, do you? Tell me now and I’ll make it easier on you. Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!” I grunted as I whipped the officer with his own gun.
“Holz, I’ll shoot you right now if you don’t get in this truck!” Randy screamed as he pointed his gun in my direction.
“Yo . . . I thought we was doing this to have fun,” I said to Randy and Latiefe as I struggled to catch my breath. “What’s wrong? Y’all ain’t having fun yet?”
“Didn’t I tell you to get up!? Ugh!” I hit Bates. “That’s for Eleanor Bumpers. Ugh! That’s for Phillip Pannell.” I ran back to the other officer and whacked him in the mouth with the gun. “That’s for Michael Stewart. Ugh!” I hit him again. “That’s for me and all of my homeboys. Ugh! And that’s for my boy Rodney King out in Los Angeles.”
Randy again pointed the gun out of the missing window and he hollered with renewed anger and conviction.
“Holz, come on! I hear sirens!” I ignored him and I took the wallet out of Schienbart’s pocket.
“Is this your wife?” I asked. “Is it? Answer me! S
he looks good. I think I’ll leave now and go pay her a visit. I want you and your partner to think about that while the two of y’all rot in hell! And think about all the people you’ve harassed over the years.” I spit in the detectives faces and then I quickly gathered all of my money and ID that was still on the ground. After doing that, I quickly ran the few feet to the Blazer with the Detective’s gun in my hand. My adrenaline was racing.
As I put the car in drive and violently peeled off, Randy let his gun off, aiming it in the direction of the detectives. He did that to ensure that the two detectives were dead. Then he stuck his head out of the window and screamed in ecstasy.
“Woooooo!”
“Holz, we could’ve got bagged!” Latiefe scolded me. “Why did you put on that show for so long?”
“Forget that, man!” I said while still breathing heavily.
After realizing what had just transpired, I was now more nervous than ever.
“Yo that . . . that was my one shining moment in time!” I said, still panting. “You . . . you only get one shot in life, and I had to take advantage of my one shot. . . . Yo, kid, did you see how I slaughtered those pigs? Yo, I took his gun! I beat a DT and took his badge and his gun! Ha ha ha.”
Latiefe instructed me to hurry and go back to 228th, where we had stolen the car from. So when we reached 228th Street, which was about a minute from where we’d shot the detectives, we parked the car about two blocks from in front of the actual house that we had stolen it from. We all hopped out of the truck and proceeded to run non-stop for six blocks until we reached Randy’s basement on 234th Street.
In his basement we all sat huffing and puffing. I had to pull off all of my clothes and sneakers because of the blood that was on them. I placed the soiled clothes that still had warm detective blood on them inside a plastic garbage bag to dump later, and Randy gave me some of his gear to put on.
