At that moment, the passenger in the tan car pointed an AK-47 out of the window and started shooting. Several loud rounds were fired.
Tim and Bob were both startled. “Shots fired!” Bob shouted into the radio mic. “Just had a drive-by!”
Tortilla Flats gang members being arrested by Compton P.D.
Bob gave the description of the car, but the takedown units had heard the shots and were already on the way. As soon as the car headed south toward Compton Boulevard, the takedown units were on it. They arrested the suspects and recovered the weapon. The suspects were from Locos Trece, a rival of the Tortilla Flats. No one had been hit by gunfire, but the shooters were startled at how they’d been captured so quickly.
***
Months later, they were back in the undercover van doing another reverse sting, this time at the 300 block of Magnolia. It was the middle of summer and unbearably hot inside the van. Two other officers, Bruce Frailich and Fred Reynolds, were in the van assisting Tim and Bob.
This time, when the buyers pulled off after making their purchases, they were intercepted by marked vehicles at either Oleander or Acacia Street.
“An ice-cold beer would be good right now,” someone said.
“You motherfuckers want some beer,” Fred Reynolds replied. “I’ll get you some beer.”
Fred Reynolds was a great cop. He was a Black guy from Detroit, light-complexioned and funny, big and stocky with a good head on his shoulders. He wore glasses and was a self-professed ladies’ man. When he said he could get the guys some beer, they went in on him, disputing his words. Fred was determined to prove them wrong.
He got on the phone with his girlfriend, sweet-talking her into bringing the beer.
The guys laughed.
“You’re so full of shit.”
Fred hung up the phone with a broad smile.
“Just you motherfuckers wait.”
Fifteen minutes later, Fred’s phone rang. Fred opened the door as his girlfriend walked up to the van. She handed him a brown bag full of the Coronas and left.
The guys all burst into laughter.
Fred tossed each of the guys a bottle of ice-cold beer. He looked in the bag.
“That bitch didn’t bring us any limes.”
The guys thought he was joking. He wasn’t. Reynolds called his girlfriend again.
“We need some limes.”
Ten minutes later, there was a knock on the van door. There was Fred's girlfriend with a bag full of limes. She handed them to him and left.
The guys laughed hysterically.
“Fred, you’re the man!”
***
Five minutes later, they were guzzling down Coronas.
“Looks like we have a customer,” Bruce said. Someone was coming to buy drugs. Bruce radioed a description of the buyer’s car. Inside was an older Black male.
The van was facing eastbound against the south curb line. The buyer’s car headed westbound on Magnolia.
Just before buyer’s car arrived at Oleander, a takedown unit pulled up and blocked it from moving forward. The car slammed on the brakes and came to a stop. The driver threw the car into reverse, taking off at high speed. The car was speeding toward the van, fishtailing and swerving to the side. It lost control and slammed into the undercover van doing 40 mph.
The guys inside the van went flying. So did the beer.
While the suspect was immediately taken into custody, Tim, Bob, Fred, and Bruce hopped out, checking out the damage. The van was fucked up. Beer was everywhere. Jeff Nussman, the sergeant in charge of the narcotics unit was already in route. The guys were trying to figure out what to do. They’d been drinking on the job. How were they going to hide it?
They spotted a crackhead pushing a shopping cart.
“Hey! You want some bottles?”
The man came over.
“We need you to get these bottles of beer out of here as quick as you can.”
The man gathered the beer and left, happy. Sergeant Nussman pulled up just as the guy was pushing his cart away.
The guys were in a faux-panic. They reeked of Coronas. They all kept their distance as Sergeant Nussman shook his head, looking at the damaged van.
The guys tried to contain their laughter, still processing what had just happened.
It was still hot and, once again, they were clean out of beer.
13
WRONG PLACE, WRONG TIME
There were several murder cases over the years in the gang unit that affected Tim and Bob very deeply. They came to know many gang members quite well, and a good number of them often expressed how they didn’t expect to see their eighteenth birthdays. Many met that prediction at the end of a gun, dying untimely deaths with dreams never realized.
Tim and Bob often wondered how things might have been for those who lost their lives if they’d just had another option or chose another way. Every murder affected them, but some were so senselessly brutal, they were sometimes left shaken, especially when the victim(s) were truly innocent, or involved children caught in the crosshairs of gang violence.
***
It was December 2, 1995, Bob’s father’s birthday, so he took the night off to spend it with family. Tim took the Saturday night off as well. Nights off on the weekend were rare for Tim and Bob, but there were two other members in the gang unit now, Eddie Aguirre and Ray Richardson. Because of that, there was some wiggle room to have a day off on the weekend every now and then.
They were enjoying the downtime. It was a beautiful, celebratory night. Little did they know it was about to turn into one of the bloodiest the city of Compton had seen in a long time…
***
The Nutty Blocc Crips, one of the larger Crip sets in Compton, were based in the southwest part of the city, between Alondra and Greenleaf Boulevards and Central and Wilmington Avenues. There were some two hundred Nutty Blocc Crips in what amounted to just one square mile. Wilmington Avenue separated them from their enemies on the east.
In the years leading up to this day, the Nutty Blocc Crips had been at war with three other smaller Crip sets: the Farm Dog Crips, the Acacia Blocc Crips, and the Spook Town Crips. These three Crip sets, which all had their own separate territories and got along with each other, were forced to form an alliance because they were so outnumbered by Nutty Blocc. Their name after merging became ATF, short for Acacia-Town-Farms. Their territory was between Wilmington Avenue and Alameda Street, between Greenleaf and Alondra Boulevards, right in the southern center of the city, about a half mile from the police department.
Tim and Bob knew both gangs very well, especially ATF. They had been working the groups their whole careers, specifically during the past six years of being assigned to the gang unit. They knew everyone, from the OG’s to the BG’s.
The feud between Nutty Blocc and ATF had escalated during the prior month, with several shootings. Around 1:15 pm that Saturday, several ATF members were hanging out in the 200 block of East Caldwell Street, a known gathering spot for the gang. If they weren’t on Caldwell, they could be found one street south, in the 200 block of East Johnson Street.
Over the past few years, Johnson Street had become one of the most dangerous places in the city. There had been so many shootings and murders there, it was almost hard to keep track. It was so dangerous, a wall there had the words “Welcome To The Warzone” spray-painted on it with tombstones drawn below the words. On each tombstone was the name of a gang member who’d passed on, with the letters RIP underneath.
A red minivan loaded with armed Nutty Blocc gang members hit the corner of Caldwell, the street where the ATFs were gathered that day. A woman was sitting in a car parked on the street. Several other ATF gang members were standing around it. This wasn’t just any woman in the car. It was Raneka Jones, aka “Monique,” the girlfriend of Alfred Eugene Shallowhorn, known as “Gene” on the streets. He was one of the leaders of the ATF.
Alfred Eugene Shallowhorn
Tim and Bob had known Shallowhor
n since he was a teenager. They even had an 8x10 photo of him on the wall in the gang unit office that had been recovered during one of their search warrants. It depicted Shallowhorn holding an AK-47 assault rifle and a blue bandana. That same photo would later be used against him in court.
The red minivan pulled alongside the car with Raneka inside and unleashed a hail of bullets from two handguns. Gangbangers and citizens all hit the ground. They knew the drill. They were used to this kind of thing.
The minivan sped off, leaving Raneka dead. She’d been struck several times, once in the chest and twice in her legs. Two ATF members were on the ground, both shot in their legs, but lucky enough to survive. Fellow ATF gang members hopped in a car and tried to chase down the red minivan, which they knew was heading back to Nutty Blocc territory just a short distance away.
The Compton P.D. was flooded with calls.
“Shots fired!”
“People down in the street!”
“…at least three gunshot victims!”
Patrol units were on the scene within minutes, trying to sort out what happened. Officer Duane Bookman was the first to arrive. He was a great street cop who had a good rapport with gang members and citizens alike. Witnesses came up to him willingly giving information.
“It was Nutty Blocc.”
“Nutty Blocc did it!”
Bookman had handled hundreds of scenes like this and, in short order, had everything under control. It was likely that Nutty Blocc had been behind the shooting, but even though witnesses were saying so, none of them were willing to come forward. Several hours later, once the scene was cleared, things went back to normal, as much as normal could be on a street where people were used to shootings breaking out on the regular.
Revenge for what happened was already being planned by ATF. Gene Shallowhorn - tall and skinny with a short afro and a big smile - always had a humorous, lighthearted attitude whenever Tim and Bob came across him. He was a shot caller. He’d been in the streets his whole life and made his money as a drug dealer. He typically let the younger kids in the gang do the work and kept his hands clean, but this time was different. His girl had been murdered. Shallowhorn was going to get involved.
Reggie called Tim and Bob at home and explained what happened.
“You don’t have come in,” he said, “but stand by. More is coming, you can bet on that.” He added his usual closing. “So don’t get too drunk, motherfuckers. We might need you.”
The other gang unit members, Aguirre and Richardson, were already involved, so there was no real follow-up necessary from Tim and Bob just yet.
Still, they all knew Gene wasn’t letting his girlfriend's murder go.
***
One of the known hangouts for Nutty Blocc was the 1000 block of South Dwight Street. 1004 S. Dwight was the house where they usually gathered. Next door, at 1010 S. Dwight, sixteen-year-old Angela Southall and her friends, seventeen-year-old Ronice Williams and twenty-year-old Keane Faulkner, were getting ready to go rollerskating. They were all good kids, not involved in any way with gang activity. They knew Nutty Blocc Crips hung out at the house next door and did their best to avoid them.
The three walked out of the house into the front yard toward Keane’s car parked at the curb. An older yellow-on-brown Cadillac pulled up and two Black males opened fire from the back seat. One had an AK-47, the other a Tech-9. They emptied both on the three kids - over thirty rounds - then sped south on Dwight toward Caldwell. It was a horrible case of mistaken identity. The three kids went down, assailed with bullets before any of them even realized what was happening.
Calls streamed into the Compton P.D.’s dispatch and, in turn, calls went out to patrol cars. Officers George Betor and Pamela Moore were the first to arrive. The carnage was all too familiar. Family members were in disbelief, screaming and crying. Keane was lying in the street next to his car, the victim of multiple gunshot wounds, the worst of which were to his head. He was already dead when Betor and Moore arrived. Angela Southall was in the front yard, also shot in the head. Like Keane, she was already dead. Her father had heard the shots and rushed outside. He held her in his arms, stricken over what had just occurred. Ronice Williams was also in the front yard, shot numerous times in her upper torso, but she was still alive. More officers arrived on the scene, along with paramedics. Ronice was rushed to MLK Hospital, but died a short time later.
It was a triple homicide.[23] Aguirre and Richardson already knew it was the work of ATF in retaliation for the murder of Shallowhorn’s girl. They headed straight to ATF territory in search of the Cadillac. They drove over to Johnson Street and Tamarind Avenue and made contact with a reliable informant.
“The homies just put in some work on the Nuttys and were driving a piece of shit yellow Cadillac,” the informant said. “They got stuck in the Farms. Some of the homies are still down there. My homeboys just went over there to find ‘em and pick ‘em up.”
The Farms was the area claimed by the Farm Dog Crips, who were a part of ATF. It was east of Wilmington, just on the other side of Nutty Blocc’s turf.
Aguirre and Richardson rushed over to the Farms. They spotted Shallowhorn’s blue Oldsmobile Cutlass driving erratically. It was being followed by a red Mazda. They pulled over the Mazda, but the Cutlass got away.
Inside the Mazda were two ATF gang members and their girlfriends. A yellow-on-brown Cadillac was also parked on the street. It had bullet holes, damage that appeared to be from a fresh traffic accident, and a flat tire. Inside the car were 7.62mm caliber casings - the kind fired by AK-47’s - and 9mm casings. Aguirre and Richardson’s informant had given them good information. This was the murder vehicle. They detained the four people in the Mazda, who turned out to be enough to get the ball rolling on the case, but Shallowhorn was still at large.
***
Reggie called Tim and Bobby to come in. Bob had been drinking most of that day into the night with his dad and brothers, so he couldn’t come until the next morning. Tim went in and was assigned as the lead investigator on the case. Aguirre and Richardson had already begun to interview the girls who were in the red Mazda. Their interviews would break the case wide open. They told Tim, Aguirre, and Richardson that Shallowhorn and two Black teens named “Lil C” and “Tiny-E” had been responsible for the shooting.
The gang unit cops knew all of them. Lil C was an eighteen-year-old named Cortez Elliott. He’d been born into the gang lifestyle. It was all he knew and he lived and breathed it. Tiny-E was a seventeen-year-old named Aaron Sealie. He was pretty hardcore for someone his age, but was the weak link amongst the three, not someone who came across as very bright. They believed they could break him.
That night, Tim, Aguirre, Richardson, and assisting detectives conducted over twenty-three interviews. At least six of those interviews implicated Shallowhorn, Lil C, and Tiny-E. By the time Bob arrived the next morning, they already had Shallowhorn and Lil C in custody. Bob felt a little guilty for not being able to come in the night before, and Tim, Aguirre, and Richardson didn’t hold back letting him know all the work they’d done. Bob didn’t feel that bad about things, though. It wasn’t the first time one of them couldn’t be on hand when a murder went down. With all the constant violence in Compton and only four people in the gang unit, sometimes one of them needed a break. By mid-day, Tim and Richardson had finished their reports and gone home.
Of the three implicated in the murders, Tiny-E was still outstanding. Bob felt that, after all work the rest of the gang unit had put in the night before, it was on him to bring the kid in. Bob was well-rested and fresh. He thought if he could catch Tiny-E, he could definitely break him.
Aguirre completed the paperwork he’d been working on and Bob could tell he wanted to go home. He felt bad for asking, but he needed Aguirre’s help. If they went after Tiny-E, the kid would run the moment he saw them. Aguirre was young and in shape, and even though he was exhausted from working all night, Bob knew Aguirre would get an adrenaline rush if he saw Tiny-E and
would be able to catch him. Tiny-E most likely had already heard the cops were after him. Word in the streets traveled fast.
“C’mon,” Bob said to Aguirre. “Do this with me. Just one trip through the ‘hood. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Aguirre looked at Bob with disgust. Seriously? After he’d worked all through the night and that morning? He wanted to go home.
“C’mon, bro,” Bob pressed. “Just one time.”
Aguirre stared at Bob, his frown slowly turning to a smile. “Fuck it,” he said. “Let’s go! You drive.”
***
Bob and Aguirre hopped in a gang car. Bob was behind the wheel. He drove south on Tamarind Avenue from Alondra, an area just two minutes away from the station. They saw a young Black male walking south on Tamarind several blocks ahead.
“That looks like him,” Bob said to Aguirre as they got closer.
Both men laughed.
“No fucking way,” said Aguirre. “He can’t be that stupid.”
The guy walking was at Johnson Street. Tiny-E lived at 1406 S. Tamarind, which was where they were headed. When they were about thirty feet away, the guy turned and looked at them.
“That’s him!” Bob and Aguirre both exclaimed.
Aguirre jumped out of the car. “Stop!” he yelled.
As predicted, Tiny-E took off running. And Aguirre, as expected, got a fresh burst of adrenaline and was hot on his heels.
Tiny-E and Aguirre turned east on Bennett. Bob radioed for assistance to set up a containment area as he sped to Johnson Street to cut Tiny-E off. Within minutes, backup units had arrived. Aguirre briefly lost Tiny-E, then patrol officers spotted him running back down Tamarind Avenue. Aguirre and assisting officers finally caught him in a backyard and took him into custody. Tiny-E’s head was bleeding as Aguirre walked him out of the yard. It wasn’t hard for Bob to figure out what happened.
Aguirre put Tiny-E in the back seat of their car, then got inside.
“He hurt his head jumping over fences,” Aguirre said.
Once Upon A Time in Compton Page 16
