Carlito's Way: Rise to Power (6 page)

Me and Walter got together and wrote a summation for my case. Walter would sound off in the tank,

“Ladeez and genulmens of the ju-ree, yo’all is here to dee-termine iffen dis here boy be innercent or he be guilty. Now you got to know that this be important to the dee-fendant—now right away the Dee Ay gonna say that
the case is important to the peoples too. Now what kind of nonsense is that? The peoples cain’t go to jail, the peoples cain’t go to the ’lectric chair, is only this here boy can go—so damn sho’ more important to him! The judge he gonna tell you about reasonable doubts—ah say ain’t no reason to doubt that this boy be innercent. Ain’t no haps here, ain’t even
per
haps. Now what went down here—I’m gonna tell yo’all.

“De deceased, may his soul rest in peace, he were a villain—he done been busted for everythin’ in the book—assault, robbery, burglary, dope, and even unlawful entry on a young lady. He weren’t nothin’ but a dirty dawg. He was uptown—whut wuz he doin’ uptown? I’ll tell you whut—he was gorillaing peoples, mugging peoples—innercent hardwerking peoples like the defendant—that’ whut he was doing. Ain’t nobody gonna miss that mother—I’m gonna say it—that Chucho deserved killin’. That don’t mean the defendant killed him, but he deserved it. Now the Dee Ay gonna say my man here killed Chucho. That be a dirty lie. Iffen he was there he didn’t kill no Chucho, and ah ain’t sayin’ he was there—iffen he was there he was runnin’ fo’ dear life—they was shootin’ goin’ on in that joint— yessir, Chucho’ll tell you that—whut’s a man to do but run? Sheet, ah hear pop, pop, mah feet gonna run right out from under me. You people got to hip up that this weren’t no Waldorf-Astoria, this were Harlem—it’s mean out there. Now Guiso, he didn’t see nuthin’, he hit the dirt—I don’t blame him, but you think iffen he saw who shot up his customers he wouldn’ say? Damn
right he would, but he ain’t gonna lie—he don’t know. Ballistics, what did they say? They didn’t say nuthin’ ’cept that they was two guns used—who was the defendant then? Wild Bill Hickok or Wyatt Herp with two guns? You gotta know there was a whole lot of guns there—and what about Chucho and Nelson, what was they packin’? It weren’t no parcel post—and what about this third dude whut got away—where is he? where is he? That be the mystery here—why the Dee Ay don’t bring him here, where he hidin’, why he hidin’? Go to China, Dee Ay gonna find ya—go to Mangolia, Dee Ay gonna find ya—go to Spotsylvania, Dee Ay gonna find ya—meanwhile he cain’t find this dude whut was seen runnin’ in the park. That park ain’t so big—he got to come out sometime—somebody’s jiving.

“And the cops in this case—what did they tell you? That mah man come in under his own voluntary—yessuh, he come in under his own ree-cognizance—he was outa town on business awhile when he heard the law was looking for him and he come right on in. Ain’t no lammister here—he here to face the charges. Les talk about this here Nelson—you saw him slippin’, slidin’, and glidin’ here, didn’t you? Ooweee—what a dirty dawg! Talk about stealin’ a hot stove, this turkey will steal the stove, the pots, the pans, and the dirty underwear. It’s a dirty shame the Dee Ay with all his money got to bring in such a no-account witness—ah gets sick in mah stomach thinking about that Nelson—pardon me while I drink some water. That man would deal in confederate money—a menace to chillun and society.

“You saw him up there on the stand sashaying around—no shave, no tie—he ain’t got no respect for this courtroom. I’m gonna let you in on somethin’. You want to know who the killer is, you really want to know who the killer is? Don’t look no further than that Nelson. There he be, brazen as all git-out, with the mark of Cain on him, and he ain’t even got no tie on—whereupon look at mah man here—clean, respetable, white shirt and tie. That ain’t no killer sitting there, thas’ a Po’ Rican there, and thas why he’s there. Everytime somethin’ happen uptown the po-lice run out and grab the first Po’ Rican or nigro they can get their hands on. Pre-judice is heah, yes it is.

“Ladeez and genulmens of the ju-ree, it come to me last night when I was thinking what I am going to tell them intelligent peoples on that ju-ree—yessuh, I do believe the good Lord in his infinite wisdom, he done shot it down to me as I lay there thinking, and here’s whut I heard: this here Nelson and Chucho had a shoot-out between them, thas why each was shot with bullets from different guns; they collapsed and a thief ran away with both guns. Why, thas plain as can be. Now ah know ah ain’t no Clarence Darrence, but that don’t mean ah ain’t telling it like it is. You gotta go in the ju-ree room and argue and you gotta cut this man loose, ’cause he ain’t hurt nobody! Now, the law give the Dee Ay the last word—that ain’t right, but thas the law. But never mind whut he say, you remember whut ah tol’ yo’all, ’cause thas where it’s at.”

About that time I’d file in like I was the foreman of the jury and ol’ black Walter would say, “Mr. Foreman, has the ju-ree reached a verdict yet?”

I’d say, “We have, Your Honor.”

“And what is your verdict?”

I’d say, “Not guilty on all counts, and now we want to lock up all the lying motherfuckers the D.A. put on the stand.” Had a lot of fun with Walter.

T
HE REAL THING WENT DOWN DIFFERENT
. T
HE SOMBITCH
lawyer Steinhardt didn’t cross-examine Nelson right. On direct examination by the D.A., Nelson said he didn’t see who it was that shot him and Chucho. That ain’t good enough—he got to say no, that ain’t the man; otherwise with the other shit thrown in I’m gonna get tagged. Now Nelson wants to do the right thing, but the D.A. has him scared. All Steinhardt has to do is lead him over the hurdles to “No, that ain’t the man,” but he don’t know how to do it. First, he loves the sound of his own voice rolling all the
r
’s, then he don’t never use two syllables where six will do. He wants to know about wind velocity, about one foot from the door and was the doorknob on the left or the right; did the guy put his left foot in front of his right or his right in front of his left? And every time Steinhardt gets an answer to his stupid-ass questions he looks at the jury like, “Aha!” Well, by the time Steinhardt got through with Nelson, whatever the D.A. left out Steinhardt filled in. So we ended up with Nelson saying “I don’t know who,” and
I was in trouble. I couldn’t get on the stand because of my record and all the shit they might bring out.

The jury hung up. I made bail then and went back to the street. I was just getting back into the groove when Steinhardt calls me up.

“Manslaughter in the first degree with a ceiling of five.”

“A pound—that’s too much, counselor.”

“D.A. says he’s got a line on that third guy you chased.”

“He’s bluffing.”

“Maybe so, but you’re in no position to take chances; this is a P-and-D murder rap—there can be no recommendation of mercy.”

“Let me think about it.”

What was there to think about? I copped. The night before I went in we had a big party at the Copa. All the boys were there. Everybody was stoned—nearly everybody. Rocco pulled me aside—“Don’t feel too bad about going in, Charles, it’s only a couple of years. Keep your nose clean and when you come out you can get next to me. It’s taken me a few years, but now I’m ready. This rule about the junk is not for me. The bosses are sitting on millions and they say, you no do-a this, you no do-a that—meanwhile they close the books and the soldiers have to drive trucks on the side to live.

“I’ve told them, there’s a demand, there must be a supply—we step out, somebody else will step in. We can’t afford that, matter of economics. All the soldiers in all the gambling and shylocking don’t compare to what a few
guys can do with junk. There’s just no comparison. I was in Europe and my setup is complete over there. Over here I’ve had some trial runs with my boss—so far, okay; he turns his head away—except when I put the money in his hand, then he looks real hard. Of course, if anything happens, I’m dead—but that’s all right—a little balls, a little brains, that’s all you need. Why am I telling you this, Charles? Because I want you to go in knowing there’s a big place waiting for you when you come out. You’ve stood up under some bad breaks and you’ve learned how to take orders—I want you by my side.”

I was approaching my thirties, about time my train came in.

Upstate. I went first to Ossining, then to Green Haven. The whole neighborhood was up there. All junkies stealing to support their habit. Seemed like all of a sudden everyone was on junk. Got to be crazy, sticking that shit in their veins. Not crazy, just weak—and a bunch of them support one strong guy, that’s the law of nature. Big fish eat a whole lot of little fish, and one lion eats twenty zebras. Everyone down on the pusher, but he don’t push nobody, he only push the dope. He provides a service, that’s all—somebody got to do it. Somebody wants something, somebody else gonna step out and get it for him—he got to be paid for that, that’s the way it’s always been. As for me, if they’re gonna give me my druthers, I’d druther be a fucker than a fuckee.

In the Joint I always get in top shape; no coke, no pot, no pussy, so you work out. I always do good time—I don’t go ’round whining about how I got framed again. I’m a
hodedor
and I’m paying some of my dues. If I’m dressing out of Leighton’s and driving Caddies and Lincolns, there got to be a tab sometime; I got no time for these chumps crying about how they never had no chance ’cause their mammy was a whore or their daddy was a lush—who wants to hear that shit? You wanna be a hoodlum, be a pro; if you can’t take the time, don’t do the crime.

All these shrink and psycho mumbo-jumbo artists is making good money on these prison staffs and they don’t know shit. This here’s a capitalist country, ain’t it? Which means supply-and-demand and dog-eat-dog. First is best and fuck the rest. I’ll buy that, I’ll compete—but on my terms. I’ll go for the goodies, but I can’t compete with my brains or family or education, so I do it with my balls. I’ll take a shot where most people will step back. But if I come out the other side then I want a bigger cut of the pie—that’s the dues the system got to pay. Ain’t no mafia in China, but who wants to walk around in pajamas— see what I mean?

That’s the kind of shit that goes down in the Joint— three years I had to hear it. Who got twenty whores and three Lincolns on the street? All the rice-and-beans pimps. And who’s got the pipeline to the main man in France? All the nickel-and-dime bag-pushers. The criminal mind is a bitch. I don’t want nothing to do with these scumbags; I know where I’m going and it don’t include none of them. I’m with them but I ain’t into them.

Then there’s the sex problem in the Joint. When you’re in, the worst skank you ever had becomes like a movie star. I’ve heard guys talk about streetwalkers as “the
mother of my children” and “mi señora.” Unbelievable. But a whole lot of suffering behind that shit too—I seen stone killers cry on a Christmas or New Year’s, I seen a made-guy turn his head to a wall and will himself to death ’cause his old lady left him for another guy. Me, I don’t give a fuck. I stay loose at all times, travel light—always been like that ever since I hit the street, age twelve. Then you got the faggots. Bad news. Once a guy starts on that you got to put him down—pretty soon you don’t know who’s the poger and who’s the pogee.

And you get the legal faculty cons. Writing coram nobis and habeas corpses up the ass, arguing cases like they was Earl Warren. If you so slick, why you here, motherfucker? Get out my face.

Least, but not last, you got the stool pigeons. They go ’round dropping kites on everybody. Like:

Chief Judge

Court of Appeals

Federal Courthouse

Foley Square, New York

Your Honor:

On April 1, 1918, at 8:43
A.M
. I saw Joe Baciagalupe sell to Joe Abafangul a kilo of smack. I would be happy to testify about the herein incident. So far the five county D.A.’s, the U.S. Attorney, and the Attorney General have refused to act on my complaint. But I got something on them too. I know you ain’t on the take so I’ll expect to hear
from you soon. All I’m asking is consideration on my fourth felony which I got a bum rap on account of a stool pigeon name of Joe Ugatz.

Your friend,    

Louis Linguini

P.S. I’m sending a copy of this letter to your boss in Wash., D.C.

or

District Attorney

New York County

New York, New York

Your Honor:

On July 4, 1902, my then lawyer, Oscar Meyer, gave to Det. McNulty of the 32 the sum of $500 to beat my case. Meanwhile I’m still here. This is an outrage and I demand to be called as a witness. My time is your time.

Sincerely,

R.A. Fink

P.S. I’m sending a copy of this letter to Morris Nadjari.

W
HEN A GUY GOES BAD, HE
’
S A RENEGADE, BECAUSE HE
’
S
already lined up against society and now he’s going
against his own kind. He’s in no-man’s-land—and like the guys in no-man’s-land, he’s supposed to get killed. Unless he’s ratting on the Latins or the Blacks—then if he survives the first twenty-four hours, he’s all right; he can sit ringside at the Chateau Madrid or Smalls, ’cause the spooks and the spics can only stay mad twenty-four hours, then they forget—jive-ass. But the wops can stay mad a long time—one guy’s supposed to have been done under ten years later when he got spotted as an extra in some flick—ten years he’d been cool on the West Coast. I heard of spitters going down to Honduras and Panama to ice a rat. Now that’s staying mad! With the spics, if a stoolie moves from 111th Street to the Bronx he’s out of the jurisdiction—jive-ass. That’s why they all be in Lewisburg or Green Haven. Wise up, turkey.

If you been in the slams one time, you been in all of them, but if you’re gonna survive in there, you got to be cool. Your rep gets there before you do, but you got to come in mean—mad as a motherfucker.

What you looking at, motherfucker?

You talkin’ to a man, you motherless sombitch!

Don’t fuck with me, I’ll kill you!