Angeles and very near to County USC Medical Center. At one time, as Esteban well knew, this facility housed those juveniles considered the most violent and dangerous, but that task had now fallen to Barry J. Nidorf Juvenile Hall in Sylmar. At that facility, there was a barbed-wire-surrounded enclosure known as The Compound, which housed those children, some as young as fourteen, whose cases had been direct-filed by the district attorney to be adjudicated in adult court.
The state of California had decided some years back that children as young as fourteen could think like adults when caught up within some potential criminal act, but could not think enough like adults to be able to vote or sit on the juries that were called upon to hear their cases.
As he sat in the very familiar dayroom in Unit K/L, Esteban again considered the idiocy of these kinds of laws. One of his homies, a small kid called Shadow, had been sentenced to two hundred fifty-five years plus eight months for killing the guy who murdered his brother. Shit, what adult wouldn’t go off on the guy who murdered a family member? Most would, he knew, despite all their dumbass speeches about “taking the law into your own hands!” Especially if, like with Shadow, the kid brother had died right there in his arms! Who wouldn’t “overreact” as the judge called it, especially considering Shadow was only fifteen at the time? Oh yeah . Esteban chuckled inwardly. I forgot, he was an “adult” at that moment!
He, himself, had never killed anyone, but he’d sure as hell tried more than once. He knew he’d go down for life in prison if he got nailed for those “attempts,” but on these streets, it was kill or be killed. What the asshole DAs and judges didn’t want to admit was the war mentality of gang life, how it was no different than any dumbass war this country got itself into. Who the hell would fight a war and not try to win any way they could? These guys didn’t give a shit about reality. They’d love to put him in prison for life and feel they’d gotten a “dangerous predator” off the streets.
But he knew, and they knew, that the real power guys were still out there. Much as his pride hated the notion, Esteban knew well enough he was just small fry, easily replaceable, very expendable. That’s why all the children in prison these days didn’t put a dent in the “gang problem.” They just became the hardened thugs everybody already thought they were. Man, he was getting tired of all this shit.
However, what he’d told Ryan he knew to be untrue. Sure, the cops’d love to get every gangster battling his enemies so’s to wipe each other out, and then all the authorities would have to do would be to clean up the mess. But that wasn’t what was happening. No, something else was going on with this tagger. It wasn’t the cops. And it wasn’t Jaime’s ’hood, neither. He shook his head in amazement. He and Jaime had been best buds when they were kids, until the other boy had moved to an enemy neighborhood. Now all they could do was try and kill one another. Crazy ass shit, he knew, but that was life on these streets.
He glanced around the dayroom, careful never to give the impression he was staring at anyone. He was seated in a cheap-ass plastic chair at one of the several metal tables used for meals. About thirty other boys, aged fifteen to seventeen, wearing county-issued pants and white T-shirts, sat at the other tables. Some were writing letters while others played cards, arm wrestled, or watched the basketball game on TV.
He had quietly moved among them ever since he’d gotten here, even talking with the black kids, normally against the gang code. But he needed to know what they knew about this tagger-guy, and all their stories struck a similar chord. Same MO as in his ’hood—the guy had tagged up their markings with that crazy “A” thing, but no one even caught a glimpse of him.
Esteban had always been smart in school, maybe
The state of California had decided some years back that children as young as fourteen could think like adults when caught up within some potential criminal act, but could not think enough like adults to be able to vote or sit on the juries that were called upon to hear their cases.
As he sat in the very familiar dayroom in Unit K/L, Esteban again considered the idiocy of these kinds of laws. One of his homies, a small kid called Shadow, had been sentenced to two hundred fifty-five years plus eight months for killing the guy who murdered his brother. Shit, what adult wouldn’t go off on the guy who murdered a family member? Most would, he knew, despite all their dumbass speeches about “taking the law into your own hands!” Especially if, like with Shadow, the kid brother had died right there in his arms! Who wouldn’t “overreact” as the judge called it, especially considering Shadow was only fifteen at the time? Oh yeah . Esteban chuckled inwardly. I forgot, he was an “adult” at that moment!
He, himself, had never killed anyone, but he’d sure as hell tried more than once. He knew he’d go down for life in prison if he got nailed for those “attempts,” but on these streets, it was kill or be killed. What the asshole DAs and judges didn’t want to admit was the war mentality of gang life, how it was no different than any dumbass war this country got itself into. Who the hell would fight a war and not try to win any way they could? These guys didn’t give a shit about reality. They’d love to put him in prison for life and feel they’d gotten a “dangerous predator” off the streets.
But he knew, and they knew, that the real power guys were still out there. Much as his pride hated the notion, Esteban knew well enough he was just small fry, easily replaceable, very expendable. That’s why all the children in prison these days didn’t put a dent in the “gang problem.” They just became the hardened thugs everybody already thought they were. Man, he was getting tired of all this shit.
However, what he’d told Ryan he knew to be untrue. Sure, the cops’d love to get every gangster battling his enemies so’s to wipe each other out, and then all the authorities would have to do would be to clean up the mess. But that wasn’t what was happening. No, something else was going on with this tagger. It wasn’t the cops. And it wasn’t Jaime’s ’hood, neither. He shook his head in amazement. He and Jaime had been best buds when they were kids, until the other boy had moved to an enemy neighborhood. Now all they could do was try and kill one another. Crazy ass shit, he knew, but that was life on these streets.
He glanced around the dayroom, careful never to give the impression he was staring at anyone. He was seated in a cheap-ass plastic chair at one of the several metal tables used for meals. About thirty other boys, aged fifteen to seventeen, wearing county-issued pants and white T-shirts, sat at the other tables. Some were writing letters while others played cards, arm wrestled, or watched the basketball game on TV.
He had quietly moved among them ever since he’d gotten here, even talking with the black kids, normally against the gang code. But he needed to know what they knew about this tagger-guy, and all their stories struck a similar chord. Same MO as in his ’hood—the guy had tagged up their markings with that crazy “A” thing, but no one even caught a glimpse of him.
Esteban had always been smart in school, maybe
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