The Fence: A Police Cover-Up Along Boston's Racial Divide by Dick Lehr Page A
Authors: Dick Lehr
Tags: Fiction, General, Social Science, True Crime, Political Science, Ethnic Studies, Criminology, African American police, Law Enforcement, Police misconduct, Boston (Mass.), African American Studies, Discrimination & Race Relations, African Americans, Police Brutality
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he had a knack for getting out of the trouble that inevitably came his way. He was soon arrested by Boston police, but was later found not guilty of the drug-dealing charge in Dorchester District Court. In early January 1992, he was arrested again, but he beat that drug-dealing charge too, winning another ruling of not guilty.
Hosting Hip-Hop Night was a display of business acumen by the Cortee’s. Generally speaking, Boston was not a destination for rappers and hip-hop shows. The shows that did make it to New England took the stage at the Centrum in Worcester or the Providence Civic Center in Rhode Island.
Walking inside, Smut and Boogie-Down were swallowed by the club’s darkness. The dance floor in the center of the room was full. The bar along the right side was deep with patrons. The few tables were all taken. The DJ in a booth straight across the room was playing everything—from Notorious B.I.G., the king of hip-hop, to Wu-Tang Clan to Nas, the street poet. Lots of “gangsta rap,” vicious and raw, violent and drug-fueled.
Smut spotted Tiny Evans.
Tiny was with Marquis—or Jimmy—Evans, Tiny’s younger brother. He was the biggest of them all—more than six feet tall and weighing 220 pounds. Smut hardly knew Marquis, who was his age, twenty-three. And Marquis had just gotten out of prison—convicted at age seventeen of using a sawed-off shotgun in an assault case. The one thing Smut knew was Marquis could be a hothead, which Tiny sometimes manipulated to his advantage.
Tiny saw Smut and hurried over. Tiny had spotted a kid named Little Greg who was affiliated with the Castlegate Street gang. “Tiny was saying, ‘Little Greg is in the club, Little Greg is in the club,’” Smut said. “He was talking a mile a minute.”
Tiny and Little Greg had a beef going back a couple of years—beginning when Tiny ripped Little Greg’s chain right off his neck and kept it. Then the previous summer Little Greg got some revenge. Tiny told Smut he was getting his hair cut when Little Greg burst into the barbershop and fired a shot. The next time Smut saw Tiny he was walking with a cane. “He got hit near his scrotum.” Not surprisingly, neither event was reported to police. They were matters for the street. Now inside the Cortee’s, Tiny and Little Greg exchanged looks. Smut saw that Tiny was monitoring Little Greg’s whereabouts. Smut reminded Tiny it was his birthday. “Leave it alone,” Smut said.
Looking around, Smut observed friend and enemy alike. But among the foursome—Smut, Tiny, Marquis, and Boogie-Down—he felt secure. The group stood at the bar. Boogie-Down spotted his girlfriend and snuggled with her. Marquis was broke but wanted to buy a round of drinks in honor of his brother’s birthday. He had the gall to ask Tiny to loan him $20. Tiny couldn’t believe it, but dug into the pocket of his blue jeans, where he had a roll of more than $700 in cash. Drinks were on Marquis.
The songs worked loud and hard on Smut. He ordered a drink, another smooth Cask & Cream. Smut loved rap. He saw himself as a budding lyricist and eventually would go from toying with words and beats inside his head to writing them down on paper.
They were mostly autobiographical lyrics like:
I had a Daddy who was crazy so I lost my patience
That’s when I hit the street, searchin’, hurtin’, wantin’ salvation.
My occupation was me cuttin’, puttin’ rocks in a bag….
It was a verse from a song “Our Hoods” by Smut Brown, whose hook went:
Ya’ll don’t know what it is
To grow up in our hood (our Hoods!)
Ya’ll don’t know what it is
To see the things that we would.
CHAPTER 3
Kenny Conley
W hen Kenny Conley arrived that night at the station in the South End of Boston to work the overnight shift—known as the “last half,” from 11:45 P.M . to 7:30 A.M .—he first went to his locker on the second floor to get his equipment squared away. Then he walked back downstairs to read some reports and talk
Hosting Hip-Hop Night was a display of business acumen by the Cortee’s. Generally speaking, Boston was not a destination for rappers and hip-hop shows. The shows that did make it to New England took the stage at the Centrum in Worcester or the Providence Civic Center in Rhode Island.
Walking inside, Smut and Boogie-Down were swallowed by the club’s darkness. The dance floor in the center of the room was full. The bar along the right side was deep with patrons. The few tables were all taken. The DJ in a booth straight across the room was playing everything—from Notorious B.I.G., the king of hip-hop, to Wu-Tang Clan to Nas, the street poet. Lots of “gangsta rap,” vicious and raw, violent and drug-fueled.
Smut spotted Tiny Evans.
Tiny was with Marquis—or Jimmy—Evans, Tiny’s younger brother. He was the biggest of them all—more than six feet tall and weighing 220 pounds. Smut hardly knew Marquis, who was his age, twenty-three. And Marquis had just gotten out of prison—convicted at age seventeen of using a sawed-off shotgun in an assault case. The one thing Smut knew was Marquis could be a hothead, which Tiny sometimes manipulated to his advantage.
Tiny saw Smut and hurried over. Tiny had spotted a kid named Little Greg who was affiliated with the Castlegate Street gang. “Tiny was saying, ‘Little Greg is in the club, Little Greg is in the club,’” Smut said. “He was talking a mile a minute.”
Tiny and Little Greg had a beef going back a couple of years—beginning when Tiny ripped Little Greg’s chain right off his neck and kept it. Then the previous summer Little Greg got some revenge. Tiny told Smut he was getting his hair cut when Little Greg burst into the barbershop and fired a shot. The next time Smut saw Tiny he was walking with a cane. “He got hit near his scrotum.” Not surprisingly, neither event was reported to police. They were matters for the street. Now inside the Cortee’s, Tiny and Little Greg exchanged looks. Smut saw that Tiny was monitoring Little Greg’s whereabouts. Smut reminded Tiny it was his birthday. “Leave it alone,” Smut said.
Looking around, Smut observed friend and enemy alike. But among the foursome—Smut, Tiny, Marquis, and Boogie-Down—he felt secure. The group stood at the bar. Boogie-Down spotted his girlfriend and snuggled with her. Marquis was broke but wanted to buy a round of drinks in honor of his brother’s birthday. He had the gall to ask Tiny to loan him $20. Tiny couldn’t believe it, but dug into the pocket of his blue jeans, where he had a roll of more than $700 in cash. Drinks were on Marquis.
The songs worked loud and hard on Smut. He ordered a drink, another smooth Cask & Cream. Smut loved rap. He saw himself as a budding lyricist and eventually would go from toying with words and beats inside his head to writing them down on paper.
They were mostly autobiographical lyrics like:
I had a Daddy who was crazy so I lost my patience
That’s when I hit the street, searchin’, hurtin’, wantin’ salvation.
My occupation was me cuttin’, puttin’ rocks in a bag….
It was a verse from a song “Our Hoods” by Smut Brown, whose hook went:
Ya’ll don’t know what it is
To grow up in our hood (our Hoods!)
Ya’ll don’t know what it is
To see the things that we would.
CHAPTER 3
Kenny Conley
W hen Kenny Conley arrived that night at the station in the South End of Boston to work the overnight shift—known as the “last half,” from 11:45 P.M . to 7:30 A.M .—he first went to his locker on the second floor to get his equipment squared away. Then he walked back downstairs to read some reports and talk
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