U.S. vs Ferranti: that’s how the case was styled. The United States of fucking America versus me. At nineteen, I was charged with running a Continuing Criminal Enterprise by the feds and sentenced to twenty-five years. I turned to look at my mother as the US Marshals moved in and Judge Hilton of the Eastern District of Virginia said, “You will be committed to the custody of the Attorney General.” Great I thought, Janet Reno, my fucking babysitter.
I never thought I would get busted and prison was the furthest thing from my mind. I was white, middle-class, and from the affluent suburbs of Burke Centre, Virginia. I did the college thing: Penn State, West Virginia University, Virginia Tech, Radford, University of Virginia, East Carolina. My life was a party on wheels. Kind bud. Acid. Brick pot. I figured I was a career man. It was like, have drugs, will travel. But I found out that the feds don’t fuck around and justice doesn’t discriminate. My white skin and middle-class upbringing would only be a drawback in prison and that was no laughing matter.
The marshals handcuffed me and put me in leg irons. They pointed Mossberg 590 Tactical Shotgun at my face and put me on a bus with bars on the windows and an armed escort riding shotgun. It reminded me of some Mad Max type shit. The convicts on the bus called it “diesel therapy.” I could feel the eyes on me as I made my way down the aisle. I tried to look tough as I noticed there weren’t many white people and no one struck me as a suburbanite. In fact, I saw the only other white guy on the bus getting exposed. “What the fuck you looking at cracker?” Yelled a black prisoner. “Nothing.” Replied the white dude meekly with his head down. What a chump I thought as I sunk deeper into my seat and wished I was invisible.
When I hit the compound this old-timer, White Shoes, pulled me aside. I was wary at first, because you never know what a fucker wants in here. But I learned that he only wanted to help. He could tell I was green and I guess he saw convict material, because he took me under his wing. He wanted to see my paperwork to make sure I wasn’t no rat motherfucker. When I checked out he schooled me on prison etiquette. “Don’t gamble, don’t do drugs, and don’t fuck with punks,” he said. “When you talk to people look them in the eye and always be polite, because you never know when someone will lose it. Be cool and if you have a problem, come and get me.”
The advice was right on time as I was adjusting to my environment learning the more disturbing aspects of day to day life on the inside. Like the rest of middle-class America I had seen the movies, but this wasn’t any movie. This was real life. And the realities of prison, I learned, were vicious.
That first morning when the doors cracked I went to go to chow. But as I stepped out the cell this shorty creped on a sleepy-eyed brother and cracked the “nigga” on the dome with a lock in a sock, a favorite prison weapon. The sleepy-eyed con stumbled as he started bleeding profusely from the head. The little shorty punished him and screamed, “Don’t ever be dissing me again nigga.” I stood transfixed by the violence before me as shorty noticed me and said, “You didn’t see nothing did you, white boy?” I shook my head and went back into my cell, skipping breakfast. I later learned this was all about respect and in prison respect was the most important thing.
In prison they say that your word is all you got and if your word ain’t no good then you’re some shit. The concepts of respect and disrespect go hand in hand with that and are at the root of most beefs in prison. Say you bump into dude and you don’t say excuse me. This is a serious sign of disrespect. To get his respect the convict you accidentally bumped might stick six inches of steel into your gut.
In prison you get respect by giving it and demanding it back, by force if necessary. If you lose face just once you could be labeled soft. And if someone thinks you’re soft, they’re gonna try you.
I remember this one white kid Stevie from Maryland who came in. Nice, polite, slightly built, and middle-class. He was in for trying to blow up a gay bar. Some Gangster Disciples took him for a chump and pushed up on him for some commissary. Stevie, fresh to the system, thought he was doing them gangsta’s a favor and bought them a couple packs of smokes. But it didn’t stop there. The next week it was a carton of Newports, the week after some Nike high tops. Then they broke into his locker, taking everything Stevie had. Some white dudes stepped to Stevie and told him he needed to get down and handle his business. Still the idiot did nothing. And in prison you can’t help those that won’t help themselves. Finally the Gangster Disciples raped Stevie. He ended up being pimped out by the gang and is probably still sucking dick to this day.
If you want respect you gotta keep the other prisoners in check. Being nice won’t get you respect but fear will. There is a saying in here, don’t mistake kindness for weakness. Still many of these ignorant fuckers do, so it pays not to be nice. You have to close yourself off and become known as a man that will do something when provoked. Because sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. Even if it means getting a shank and spilling blood. Better theirs, than yours. Don’t try to talk tough in here either, because your bluff will be called and if you don’t jump when called out you will be branded as a punk and your ass will be ripe for taking.
The best course to follow is to be respectful and assertive. Try not to draw attention to yourself, but don’t back down from a confrontation either. Most times, if you stand up for yourself, you’ll find an out, and avoid looking like a pussy. The problem could be laughed off, like “Chill out man, I was only joking.” But if the situation escalates you can get fucked up. It is a fine line to walk, but if you want to survive, you’ve got to learn when and where to draw that line.
Prison isn’t a nice place. There ain’t no good Samaritans here. When the tension boils it erupts like a volcano. As the pressure builds, you can feel it seeking its release. It’s not something easily described, it’s just an awareness. The air grows still, the silence becomes deafening and you can sense the drama about to unfold.
When the shit jumps off you don’t want to be around either. The best thing to do is just walk the other way and act like nothing is happening. Don’t even try to look or watch. Because if you’re seen watching when people handle their business you might be next or worse still you might be labeled a snitch.
It took about 6 months to scope out the basic social order in the joint. I noticed that the prison gangs played a big part in the social structure. There was a sort of prison politics going on with little diplomacy and lots of violence. The gangs were very active and protective of their hustles and interests. White gangs like the Aryan Brotherhood and Dirty White Boys co-existed with the Bloods, Crips and Gangster Disciples. The Latinos had their own crews also with the Mexican Mafia, Latin Kings, and Texas Syndicate. These fractions sometimes suffered violent and bloody struggles for power and control.
Prisoners also affiliated themselves by home states. So you had loosely organized homeboy crews from North Carolina, D.C., New York, or wherever. The Muslim religious sects were another faction that made power moves and were feared as their numbers were always deep.
It’s smart not to join or beef with a gang, because in such disputes or an all-out gang war things get brutal and you can wind up dead. The gangs controlled the drugs, the gambling, and the gumps. And if you fucked with their money they would hurt you bad.
There was this one DC cat who came down from the super max huffing and puffing. What a bad-ass he was. Dude was big, alright, and cut up. Straight diesel, like a Mack truck. But he started making his own moves, fucking with the gumps and shit. The queers he was banging belonged to the North Carolina Bloods and when they got the scoop they pushed up on the DC brother-man, telling him he got to pay to play. The DC convict told them bammers, “Fuck you.” So the Bloods retaliated, and stabbed “da nigga” 37 times. Leaving him dead with a shank up his ass.
There aren’t any fair fights in prison either. “Anything goes” as they say. If you take a wrong step you might get gangstered by a crew of homeboyz. The prison gangs always jump people and the Mexicans are the most notorious for it. If you put it on a Mexican you better have some back because like White Shoes says, “Thirty of those little burrito-eating motherfuckers are coming for you.” La Rasa will swarm like locusts, attacking in numbers to inflict maximum damage.
Most disputes are handled quietly and decisively though, because a gang war leads to bodies and that means lockdown, which stops the flow of the crews hustles. Most killings are internal also as up and comers make power plays and attempt to knock off rivals. As long as you are assertive, handle your business, and got some back, the prison gangs will leave you alone, because they prey on the weak and unconnected. In some prisons it pays to be affiliated if that is what the custom dictates, but in the end you’ll have to make your own decision, and live or die with it.
The gangs operate on the fear principle. They know their numbers and affiliation will intimidate you. But that isn’t always the case. Sometimes a crew might get into something they can’t handle and end up getting punished.