CHAPTER 12
SETTLING THE SCORE
“You can chase peace and die forgotten,
or chase fire, capture it, and live forever
as a legend.”
—Jimmy Henchmen
By the time I got to Elmira, Cadien had already left. It seemed like all of Rikers was there. I had no issues—I’d made my point back on the Island. News traveled. There was a bet going around that I wouldn’t live to finish my bid. They wanted to collect. It was my job to make sure no one cashed in. I always seemed to be the one against the odds—an easy target for suckers. My mother’s voice would creep in my mind: “Sonjè nou pa moun chansè. Tanpri veye moun ou rele zanmi ou yo.” (Remember we’re not lucky people. Please watch the ones you call your friends.)
The racism in Elmira was thick—reminded me of Sheepshead Bay, but worse. This was that overseer racism, straight from the stories your Southern relatives warned you about. Poor white guards with nothing to lose. They moved like a gang, and beating a Black man—if not killing him—was on their agenda daily. I walked lightly around them at first. They made it clear they were the real threat—not the inmates.
There were rules, too—whispers passed down by guys who did bids before. Don’t take candy off your bed from someone you don’t know. That’s a setup. A sign they planned to sexually assault you. But the worst was the rumor about Mother Dear. I’d heard about him since Rikers. Muscular, long hair, lipstick made from Kool-Aid, tight clothes—and a rep for knocking boys out with that peek-a-boo 52 style, then dragging them into his cell. Everybody said: avoid him at all costs.
My time in Elmira was cut short after a minor riot. I might’ve thrown a punch or two in the chaos. I didn’t want to leave though—I had just passed my G.E.D. and enrolled in college. But they transferred me “Box to Box,” straight into the lion’s den: Comstock. It was also called Gladiator school. A place known for sending men to the morgue.
When I arrived, a murder had just gone down. Threatening notes had already hit admin, warning that if I hit population, I’d be killed. They were trying to get me bounced to another prison. Prison brass gave me a choice—transfer again or population. I took the risk.
I didn’t even know who had beef with me in Comstock. Half the time it was just talk. The same mouths that shouted threats would go silent when I showed up in person.
First day in the yard, I posted with my back to the wall. Three men approached. I gripped my box cutter—didn’t have a shank yet. They moved like hitters. One stepped forward.
“You dem call Jimmy Ace?” He already knew the answer. I nodded, eyes locked.
“Dem call me Lloydy Massup, from the 31st Street Posse!” His patois was thick, his delivery theatrical. I almost laughed. He was trying to get a reaction, and my calm irritated him.
“So what your problem with me?” I asked.
“All mi a hear ’bout is Jimmy Ace and OttoShine. Mi waan know who’s who. Every time mi turn ‘round, man dem clap one of mi friends!” “Who did I shoot?” I said softly.
“You shoot Cranky!” he barked. Cranky had wandered too close to Veer and took a leg shot. He limped back to 31st street screaming my name.
Now I had a decision—escalate or defuse. I chose the latter. “Well, me and you never had no beef on the streets, so if there’s any issue, I apologize.” That cooled him down. He came looking for blood but today no blood would leak.
Massup was from Grenada about six-foot, built like a monster, with scars down both sides of his neck—he’d been shot there—he looked like he crawled out of a cave—part human, part animal. Most feared him on looks and bark alone. But I’d seen his type many time before.
What I really wanted was college. Comstock offered a program through Skidmore. I wanted to test my mind. And Crazy—my old Rastafarian bible carrying friend—was there too, and we’d build a vibe in the yard daily.
I had already embraced Islam secretly in Elmira. The solitary moments made it real. I wasn’t ready to go public though. To me, a man’s relationship with God is private & sacred. But studying religion came easy. Between my Islamic studies, Skidmore classes, Pan-African politics, and guerrilla warfare books—I was growing mentally dangerous. Quoting Quranic verses in Arabic, Socrates, Mao, Lumumba and others.
But Lloydy Massup wouldn’t let up.
I finished one semester before he pushed too far. I’d had enough. I wasn’t gonna stab him with a knife—I wasn’t trying to lose good time like Cadien did. But I needed to make a statement. Box cutter was my tool of choice. And just like that, I dragged Lloydy Massup across the prison yard like Achilles dragged Hector through the gates of Troy in the Iliad. I had to make him an example and that’s exactly what I did—bloody.
Back in the box.
One night, I heard banging on the wall. “Are you Muslim?” someone asked. He must’ve heard me making salat (prayer).
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“Dhoruba bin Wahad.”
I froze. I knew that name. Richard (Dhoruba) Moore. Former Black Liberation Army (BLA). Panther 21 trial and ran with Assata Shakur. Legend.
We connected immediately. He sent me the COINTELPRO files—papers he won after suing the government. It was like opening the devil’s playbook. He schooled me daily—on law, on survival, on purpose. We worked out, read, and prayed from our cells. One night, he said: “Promise me you’ll finish college. Stay out of trouble.” I gave him my word—as a Muslim, I meant it.
Then court called. I was in transit and stopped at Sing Sing. That’s where I ran into Leslie—my childhood nemesis. The one who robbed and beat me at 15, the one who claimed to kill Spangler. When we saw each other, both of us froze. I was 20 now, in shape. He looked weak—I wondered if this drug called “crack” had eaten him alive.
He greeted me cautiously. “You’ve made quite a name for yourself,” he said.
I nodded. “Yeah, I’m older now.”
But I watched his eyes. He was still crafty. I went to my cell and retrieved my box cutter. I knew what was coming.
Leslie had terrorized me. Robbed me. Beat me. Killed my friend. I prayed two rakats before the door opened. I needed God’s clarity. I was about to break my promise to Dhoruba to stay out of trouble. When I stepped out, Leslie was waiting—with two men behind him, gloved up. That meant they had knives.
“You got a problem with me?” I asked.
“I don’t trust you,” he said, eyes cold.
I smiled, calming the moment. “Everything level, man. I was a kid.”
We walked toward the showers. His men followed. “I had to kill Spangler,” he said, “he kept robbing me.”
I felt rage boil, but kept moving. His men fell further back. Then I whispered: “You know what I don’t understand Leslie, you killed Spangler ‘cause he robbed you… then you turned around and robbed me?”
I had one chance. I stepped back subtly.
I grabbed him in a chokehold and felt him wiggle like a sacrificial animal realizing he’s about to be slaughtered. It was too late. I dug the razor into his eye and pulled down. He screamed from shock and pure pain—and I kicked him off me. Ready. He ran. Fast. Straight. I don’t think he knew where he was going but he wanted to get away from me. I was the angel of revenge. I turned to his crew—knives drawn. But my demonstration made them freeze. Then the CO grabbed me. I laughed like a madman, a laugh I waited 5 years for.
I’d settled a score that haunted me. For me. For Spangler. For Norm. For Veer.
This one? This made me legend.
CHAPTER 12
SETTLING THE SCORE
“You can chase peace and die forgotten,
or chase fire, capture it, and live forever
as a legend.”
—Jimmy Henchmen
By the time I got to Elmira, Cadien had already left. It seemed like all of Rikers was there. I had no issues—I’d made my point back on the Island. News traveled. There was a bet going around that I wouldn’t live to finish my bid. They wanted to collect. It was my job to make sure no one cashed in. I always seemed to be the one against the odds—an easy target for suckers. My mother’s voice would creep in my mind: “Sonjè nou pa moun chansè. Tanpri veye moun ou rele zanmi ou yo.” (Remember we’re not lucky people. Please watch the ones you call your friends.)
The racism in Elmira was thick—reminded me of Sheepshead Bay, but worse. This was that overseer racism, straight from the stories your Southern relatives warned you about. Poor white guards with nothing to lose. They moved like a gang, and beating a Black man—if not killing him—was on their agenda daily. I walked lightly around them at first. They made it clear they were the real threat—not the inmates.
There were rules, too—whispers passed down by guys who did bids before. Don’t take candy off your bed from someone you don’t know. That’s a setup. A sign they planned to sexually assault you. But the worst was the rumor about Mother Dear. I’d heard about him since Rikers. Muscular, long hair, lipstick made from Kool-Aid, tight clothes—and a rep for knocking boys out with that peek-a-boo 52 style, then dragging them into his cell. Everybody said: avoid him at all costs.
My time in Elmira was cut short after a minor riot. I might’ve thrown a punch or two in the chaos. I didn’t want to leave though—I had just passed my G.E.D. and enrolled in college. But they transferred me “Box to Box,” straight into the lion’s den: Comstock. It was also called Gladiator school. A place known for sending men to the morgue.
When I arrived, a murder had just gone down. Threatening notes had already hit admin, warning that if I hit population, I’d be killed. They were trying to get me bounced to another prison. Prison brass gave me a choice—transfer again or population. I took the risk.
I didn’t even know who had beef with me in Comstock. Half the time it was just talk. The same mouths that shouted threats would go silent when I showed up in person.
First day in the yard, I posted with my back to the wall. Three men approached. I gripped my box cutter—didn’t have a shank yet. They moved like hitters. One stepped forward.
“You dem call Jimmy Ace?” He already knew the answer. I nodded, eyes locked.
“Dem call me Lloydy Massup, from the 31st Street Posse!” His patois was thick, his delivery theatrical. I almost laughed. He was trying to get a reaction, and my calm irritated him.
“So what your problem with me?” I asked.
“All mi a hear ’bout is Jimmy Ace and OttoShine. Mi waan know who’s who. Every time mi turn ‘round, man dem clap one of mi friends!” “Who did I shoot?” I said softly.
“You shoot Cranky!” he barked. Cranky had wandered too close to Veer and took a leg shot. He limped back to 31st street screaming my name.
Now I had a decision—escalate or defuse. I chose the latter. “Well, me and you never had no beef on the streets, so if there’s any issue, I apologize.” That cooled him down. He came looking for blood but today no blood would leak.
Massup was from Grenada about six-foot, built like a monster, with scars down both sides of his neck—he’d been shot there—he looked like he crawled out of a cave—part human, part animal. Most feared him on looks and bark alone. But I’d seen his type many time before.
What I really wanted was college. Comstock offered a program through Skidmore. I wanted to test my mind. And Crazy—my old Rastafarian bible carrying friend—was there too, and we’d build a vibe in the yard daily.
I had already embraced Islam secretly in Elmira. The solitary moments made it real. I wasn’t ready to go public though. To me, a man’s relationship with God is private & sacred. But studying religion came easy. Between my Islamic studies, Skidmore classes, Pan-African politics, and guerrilla warfare books—I was growing mentally dangerous. Quoting Quranic verses in Arabic, Socrates, Mao, Lumumba and others.
But Lloydy Massup wouldn’t let up.
I finished one semester before he pushed too far. I’d had enough. I wasn’t gonna stab him with a knife—I wasn’t trying to lose good time like Cadien did. But I needed to make a statement. Box cutter was my tool of choice. And just like that, I dragged Lloydy Massup across the prison yard like Achilles dragged Hector through the gates of Troy in the Iliad. I had to make him an example and that’s exactly what I did—bloody.
Back in the box.
One night, I heard banging on the wall. “Are you Muslim?” someone asked. He must’ve heard me making salat (prayer).
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“Dhoruba bin Wahad.”
I froze. I knew that name. Richard (Dhoruba) Moore. Former Black Liberation Army (BLA). Panther 21 trial and ran with Assata Shakur. Legend.
We connected immediately. He sent me the COINTELPRO files—papers he won after suing the government. It was like opening the devil’s playbook. He schooled me daily—on law, on survival, on purpose. We worked out, read, and prayed from our cells. One night, he said: “Promise me you’ll finish college. Stay out of trouble.” I gave him my word—as a Muslim, I meant it.
Then court called. I was in transit and stopped at Sing Sing. That’s where I ran into Leslie—my childhood nemesis. The one who robbed and beat me at 15, the one who claimed to kill Spangler. When we saw each other, both of us froze. I was 20 now, in shape. He looked weak—I wondered if this drug called “crack” had eaten him alive.
He greeted me cautiously. “You’ve made quite a name for yourself,” he said.
I nodded. “Yeah, I’m older now.”
But I watched his eyes. He was still crafty. I went to my cell and retrieved my box cutter. I knew what was coming.
Leslie had terrorized me. Robbed me. Beat me. Killed my friend. I prayed two rakats before the door opened. I needed God’s clarity. I was about to break my promise to Dhoruba to stay out of trouble. When I stepped out, Leslie was waiting—with two men behind him, gloved up. That meant they had knives.
“You got a problem with me?” I asked.
“I don’t trust you,” he said, eyes cold.
I smiled, calming the moment. “Everything level, man. I was a kid.”
We walked toward the showers. His men followed. “I had to kill Spangler,” he said, “he kept robbing me.”
I felt rage boil, but kept moving. His men fell further back. Then I whispered: “You know what I don’t understand Leslie, you killed Spangler ‘cause he robbed you… then you turned around and robbed me?”
I had one chance. I stepped back subtly.
I grabbed him in a chokehold and felt him wiggle like a sacrificial animal realizing he’s about to be slaughtered. It was too late. I dug the razor into his eye and pulled down. He screamed from shock and pure pain—and I kicked him off me. Ready. He ran. Fast. Straight. I don’t think he knew where he was going but he wanted to get away from me. I was the angel of revenge. I turned to his crew—knives drawn. But my demonstration made them freeze. Then the CO grabbed me. I laughed like a madman, a laugh I waited 5 years for.
I’d settled a score that haunted me. For me. For Spangler. For Norm. For Veer.
This one? This made me legend.