Law and order

Come along on a Fourth of July spent in one of the city’s worst gang-infested neighborhoods

By Trent Modglin

So this is how my Fourth of July weekend went: I saw the Dave Matthews Band in concert with a bunch of friends, visited my parents while they were on an extended vacation in northern Wisconsin, cruised a couple of pristine lakes on a boat, soaked up some sun and ate a huge steak. Oh, and chased a gang member through a rough neighborhood and searched through weeds at close to midnight for a gun he tossed aside.

Yep, good times.

OK, probably should clarify. The two police officers I spent the evening of the fourth with, Arnie and José, did the chasing. I was merely a backseat observer, and a wide-eyed one at that. But I felt like I was in the chase. And I did help search for the gun. That part at least has some truth to it.

What exactly possessed me to tag along with two cops specializing in the worst gangs Chicago has to offer, I’m not exactly sure. But I’m pretty certain I’ll never take another night on the town for granted.

 

It’s all overwhelming at first. It truly is. The Spanish Cobras, Latin Kings, Maniac Latin Disciples, Imperial Gangsters, Latin Dragons. In all, there are more than 30 gangs believed to reside in the district they cover, and I’m getting a first-hand lesson right out of the gate.

The black gangs, I’m told, are mostly about dope and money. They’ve been known to share drug real estate so long as the money is split accordingly. They can be vicious, and they often go out of their way to police their own. With hispanic gangs, it’s all about gangbanging. Respect. Machismo. And they can be unbelievably violent. They may dabble in drugs, but it’s mostly done just to buy weapons.

Arnie has worked about every possible area in Chicago, but he’s a Southsider at heart. Still lives there, in the house he raised his family in, sharing a block with eight other cops and two firemen. “Safest block in the city,” he says with a chuckle.

He’s at the wheel all night, and a few minutes into my ride, he reaches above the visor and pulls out a handful of photos. Group shots of gang members, about 15 of them, mostly hispanic, drinking 40-ouncers on the stoop of an old brownstone, flashing signs and looking tough. Sitting next to them is a wooden box facing the photographer, filled with some candles, pictures, notes and empty beer bottles.

It’s a shrine, dedicated to one of their own who was killed at that spot. “That’s the one-year anniversary of the murder,” Arnie says. “They usually retaliate a year to the date. We’ve got a big one coming up July 8 where something will probably happen.”

 

Arnie and José used to be head-hunters. Their job was to get people off the street. The less desirables. The ones who don’t deserve to share the sidewalk with the rest of us. The ones you only hear about on the news, usually after it’s too late. Now, though, it’s more about fact-finding, gathering information for others that leads them to more dangerous thugs, more important busts. They leave most of the head-hunting to others these days.

When they pull gangbangers over, it’s not uncommon for them to get a little attitude when it comes to getting questions answered, so on occasion, they’ll put a guy in their unmarked squad car and drive to another neighborhood, a spot less familiar, where its a rival gang calling the shots. Suddenly, they’re not as tough as they were in front of their boys. Some of them are terrified. It’s all about strength in numbers and removing them from their comfort zone.

“We don’t let them out of the car though,” Arnie says.

“No,” José agrees. “It’s just more the fear factor that allows us to do our job. Most of the time they break down and give us information.

“We try hard to establish some type of rapport,” says José, who adds that they often visit gang members at their homes the day they’re released on parole to introduce themselves and show them they’re nearby, always close, always watching. “Sometimes our initial contact is something to get their attention, and after we establish it, it works out real well. They think we’re buddies, and they start talking to us like we’re old friends. Who’s getting these guns, what name can be linked to a murder and so on.”

We pass a shrine similar to the one in the picture, only the fence behind it is decorated with teddy bears. There was a shooting here last Wednesday.

The sun is still more than an hour from setting, but the police dispatchers are earning their pay, as the two radios in the car are buzzing with activity that needs attention. One of the female dispatchers announces that a male hispanic in a pink shirt is waving a gun at people somewhere. Another is a domestic disturbance, with a man beating his wife in their car with two kids in the backseat.

“You’re going to hear a lot of calls for officers needing assistance tonight,” Arnie warns.

 

Arnie and José are constantly scanning the sidewalks, the doorways, the cars passing by. Heads on a swivel, I don’t think we pass a single alley all night that they don’t look down, trying to pick up on any suspicious activity.

José tells me they pay close attention to cars going by. If they can recognize a car loaded down with guys, and they know they’re not in their own territory, it’s a tell that something could be about to happen.

There’s a kid on a bike, couldn’t be more than 16 or 17, who catches their attention. He’s with a group, then separates and moves his way down a sidewalk, looking over his shoulder. They pull up alongside him and tell him to stop. As if on an audition for a scene from a play he’s rehearsed dozens of times before, he walks over and puts his hands on the hood of the squad car, and José and Arnie begin the process of patting him down. I notice they take extra care with his hat, checking the lining thoroughly, as well as his shoes. He turns out to be clean, so they talk to him for a few minutes. It’s hard for me to make out what they’re saying, as I haven’t left the backseat. I’m unaware of the proper protocol with citizen ride-alongs, and I’m not even sure if I’m allowed to get out. I haven’t been able to cover that part yet.

Arnie and José give him back his belongings, ask where the barbecue is that he’s going to and tell him to be safe. As they get back in the car, Arnie tells me I’m welcome to get out of the car if I want to.

“I think I would if I were you,” José adds. “It’s probably safer.”

I ponder that statement for a moment, as they proceed to explain why they pulled the kid over. It seems gangs typically have someone, often a young recruit, on a bike standing watch at a corner when a drug deal — or worse — is about to go down. They keep an eye out for authorities or anyone else who could disrupt things, and sometimes serve as a trigger man. The bike allows them to stay mobile. Also, we’re in what’s known as a hot area. A lot happens here.

I ask about the extensive search, and they trade off telling me about the creativity they’ve witnessed when it comes to hiding drugs. They swallow it. Tuck it above their gums, in the crack of their ass, underneath their manhood, even put it in their kids’ clothes. Their necks have to be inspected too. Sometimes they have little guns or knives hanging on a chain. Crack cocaine is so small, they’ll hide it in their hat. Or cut a small hole in a waistband. With jeans loaded down with pockets these days, it only makes it harder to find. One guy they know is so fat, he once got caught with a gun stashed away underneath his gut. I couldn’t make that up if I tried.

 

The West side almost looks like a war zone tonight. Every kid, it seems, is outside, and most are lighting any firework they can get their hands on. Lots of partying and hanging out on steps. A thick smoke haze blankets the sky, and the constant din of explosions could make even the most stable soul a tad jittery.

After awhile, I find myself watching everyone on the streets. I notice their faces, I absorb what they’re doing, where their hands are. A lot of it is the neighborhood, but so many of the people we see walking the streets look guilty of something, perhaps a couple things. I wonder why they don’t stop everybody. I inform Arnie and José of my increased sense of suspicion. They smile.

“Welcome to our world,” Arnie says.

“You could take an average citizen around in a car for 30 minutes and then ask them what they saw, and he’s going to say he saw a store here, he saw this car, this and that,” José says. “But the policeman saw an armed robbery, a drug deal, he saw all kinds of stuff go down. It’s just what you’re looking for. The worst part is, when we go home, we’re still looking for shit.”

Arnie suggests looking for the “fish eyes.”

“They give you a look out of the corner of their eyes while they’re walking,” he says. “It’s kind of a sense that they’re watching us, but they don’t want us to know that they’re watching us because they’re dirty. (“Dirty,” by the way, is code for having something on you.)

“But they can’t stop looking. It’s like when you were a kid and doing something wrong and you thought your mom was looking.”

I quickly discover these two have to draw a fine line with regard to what they respond to. They have too much to worry about with the Latin Kings and Imperial Gangsters to truly concern themselves with an illegal U-turn or someone rolling through a stoplight, especially on a night like tonight, when picking your battles is essential. But probable cause can change things. A lot depends on if it’s a 70-year-old woman or a car full of 20-year-olds with their hats cocked to the side.

People in these neighborhoods notice cars quickly, for a lot of reasons. As soon as I see them, their eyes meet mine not more than a few seconds later. Few are caught by surprise when we roll through. Even fewer look relieved or happy to see us. We’re outsiders, a nuisance, on their turf, and the badge just gets in their way.

Over the radio, I hear about a girl whose party escalated quickly, leading to things being stolen. Also, two employees broke into the restaurant they work at. Hard to find good work these days.

 

José was in the Marines in the 1970s, then worked security for General Motors and was a fireman for 12 years. But he always wanted to be a cop, and the flame never died out, so he started off as a part-time officer in Mokena, Ill. and has spent the last 12 years in Chicago. His daughter is a junior at Notre Dame; his son is going to be a senior in high school. Both were raised in the city, but were moved around to assure a safe upbringing.

“This is Humboldt Park,” he announces on our approach. “A big Puerto Rican population down here. My people. A lot of Puerto Ricans don’t like coppers too much.”

I ask him if he feels he gets more respect on these streets as a Puerto Rican.

“It’s like a double-edged sword,” he says. “I think they’ll stereotype me as a Puerto Rican copper, but when we go one-on-one with these gangbangers, some of them like the fact there’s a Puerto Rican copper out there because they feel like maybe they can relate to me more.

“We’re working with a lot of pieces of shit out there, but we give them the respect and they respect us. Your reputation proceeds you. They know we’re clean and we can be trusted. And if we say we’re going to do something, we’re going to do it.”

The irony thus far is that we’re not driving through the projects. Not at all. Pick up most of the homes and buildings in the area and place them in Wicker Park or Roscoe Village, and you’d never know the difference.

A lot of yuppies purchase investment property on the troubled West Side, off Division or North Avenue, and they haven’t a clue. They come with a realtor during the day, when the kids we’re questioning tonight are in school or hibernation. The price is right for a rehab project, and next thing you know, they’re signing on the dotted line. Then they pay a visit at night, and things aren’t the same. Pretty soon, they’re calling their realtor back.

“But we hardly hear of any of these people getting harmed or robbed or anything,” Arnie says.

Reason being, there are special rules with gangs. You’re not allowed to steal from your own neighborhood because it makes the area hot, bringing unwanted attention to where you’re at and what you’re doing. Doing so is what’s called a “violation,” and you can receive a two-minute beating from a handful of members for it.

Other violations occur when you come up short on money for dope, lose a gun — it’s nearly unforgivable to lose a gun — or want out of the gang for whatever reason.

When you want out, so much depends on if you’re in good standing. If you’ve earned respect, say you’ve done time for someone or pulled off a retaliation shooting, they may actually let you leave. It’s called being “blessed out.”

If not, you get a beating. If you stop hanging out and try to ease your way out of the gang in hopes no one notices, they’ll give you a beating every time they see you on the street. That’s sometimes called an “S.O.S.” for “smash on site.”

“It’s tough to get out,” Jose says. “The only way to get out is to move out. Move out and don’t come back. For any reason.”

The other factor that is difficult to ignore in these parts is the number of children running everywhere late at night, with no supervision. Not a parent to be found. Shooting fireworks, running in the streets, hanging way too close to way too many of their elders on probation.

Meanwhile, another block, another makeshift shrine. This one is a retaliation for an earlier murder, believed to be over drug money.

We cross over North Avenue, heading south, and things suddenly feel more intense. It’s almost surreal, like a movie set with all the smoke and noise and people in the streets. A Roman candle is shot off near the car, rap music blares from a rooftop party and a group of guys walks across the street in front of us, all shooting a glance. Not a stare, just a glance. Fish eyes.

We pull up to the district police station. They’ve got items to show me. The sun is setting now, and things are picking up.

“You’ll see a big difference between daytime and night,” says Arnie. “The sheep are out now. Tonight, it’ll be the wolves.”

 

In the police station, they have what they call the “gang room.” It has a few computers and notices about recent happenings, but the real attraction is all the goods that have been confiscated over the years. Gang shirts, hats and sweaters, dating as far back as the ’60s and ’70s, the kind of unique items that current gangbangers have offered cops $1,000 for. You could make a serious Halloween costume in here. The kind that would get you laughs in Lincoln Park and killed down here.

Much like the military’s most-wanted list for Al-Qaeda, the CPD has one for each district’s most notorious gang members. Holding the pictures and descriptions of these guys into the wall are tiny knives with decorative handles, like a skull or a cobra, that were found on those recently picked up.

By the door, there is a huge poster with around 200 mugshots on it. Rough dudes. The kind you don’t make eye contact with on the street. Admitted gangbangers, brought in for any number of crimes.

José notices me eyeing the poster and nods.

“Those guys are all dead,” he tells me.

 

As we round a corner, we see two hispanic men, I’m guessing early 20s, getting ready to fight. They’re in the trash-talking phase, dancing around, fits clenched, a few bystanders watching with peaked interest.

We come roaring up on them, and Arnie and José bolt from the car to step between them. The bigger one backs down and starts walking away, looking over his shoulder with every other step. The other one, though, dressed in baggy jeans and a white tank-top, is less interested in calming down. He keeps chirping at the other one, telling him it’s not over. His mother is out in the street now, talking to Arnie about the situation. She gives her son a disapproving, if not disinterested look.

“Get the f--k in the house, stupid,” she yells. He does, for a moment, only to throw on a different shirt and a hat and come out to vent to his friends, perhaps trying to blend in without us noticing. He’s still worked up, looking down the street and spewing into his phone.

A few onlookers are shooed away, Arnie and José give warnings to everyone involved and before long, we’re back in the car. About 100 feet away, a large group of kids are lighting fireworks in the middle of the street, unaware of, or more likely unfazed by, what just happened.

A bit later, after we assist another police officer in arresting two teenagers who shot a bottle rocket at her squad car, we pass an alley and Arnie nods in its direction, reminiscing. He tells us of a time several years back when he was chasing a gang member down that alley, and when he got to the fence at the end of it, the guy pulled out a small machine gun on him. Arnie raised his gun to fire, but it was on safety. The only time in his life he can recall his weapon being on safety. The gangbanger never fired, and instead got stuck while jumping the fence. When they were arresting him, Arnie asked why he never fired when he had the chance. “Because I thought you were gonna shoot me,” the guy replied. Arnie never carried the gun again.

 

“It’s the poverty here,” José explains, looking down an alley that is littered with small children who should be in bed but instead are dangerously close to the action. “A lot of these people don’t want to be here. If they had the opportunity to leave, they would leave. But a lot of times, they’re a victim of their own environment.”

“You see the way some of these kids get smacked around by their parents, and you can see why they turn violent,” Arnie adds.

Every corner we come to looks like trouble is lurking. Sending your teen-aged son or daughter out for a gallon of milk is out of the question. We stop a few guys who look suspicious and ask questions, but they check out.

“The worst thing is, and I can’t emphasize this enough, 90 percent of these people are good people,” José continues, “but it’s the 10 percent that are just shit and bring everything down around them.”

As the dispatcher informs us about a kidnapping in progress and a fight in an alley, José recognizes gunfire. I hear bottle rockets, maybe an M-60. Arnie sides with José, and he slams on the gas.

“There, there,” José yells, and the car screeches to a halt next to a group of about 10 men. “It’s coming from there.”

José instructs them to stop where they’re at, and all of them do, except one, who nervously peers back with a pair of fish eyes, tucks something in his baggy pants and bolts down the alley. José is out the door after him. Arnie slams the car into reverse, and with José’s door still open, we speed down the next block and spot the suspect cutting through a yard. When he reaches an alley, Arnie sees an opportunity and cuts him off. Arnie jumps out of the car and takes the guy to the ground.

During the course of the chase, José believes the man now in custody took off his outer shirt, wrapped the gun in it and tossed it somewhere. Two backup squad cars arrive to keep track of the now-handcuffed man, and we begin to scour the area leading up to where he was apprehended. A party rages next door to the sidewalk he sprinted through, and those involved pay little attention, as teenagers who barely look old enough to drive pass bottles of liquor, dance and occasionally look up with untrusting eyes. Not surprisingly, none of them saw anything. An older couple down the street views the action with the same fervor most of us would watch a sunset. All too commonplace to create much of a stir.

Arnie and José question the detained man and empty his pockets on the hood of their car. There’s candy, a cell phone and a bunch of money crinkled up in a big wad. He says it’s from shooting dice and claims it was another guy who fired the gun. He only ran because he thought there was a warrant out for his arrest. There isn’t, and without a gun, they can’t hold him.

“You beat us this time, but it won’t happen again,” Arnie tells him while he unlocks his cuffs. “Next time, don’t run from the damn police.”

The man walks away with an exaggerated limp, and Arnie and José aren’t happy at all. They particularly enjoy getting guns off the street, and somewhere on that block is one they feel is rightfully theirs. “Man, did you see his fish eyes when we pulled up?” Arnie asks. “He wanted no part of us.”

 

I ask Arnie and José if they ever get frustrated knowing they can have a productive day on the job and still feel like they’ve fallen further behind in the bid to clean up the streets.

“The homicides really bother me,” José answers first. “When I go to sleep at night, I still see them. But I have a 72-hour rule. After three days, I’m done with it. I let it go, ’cause it’ll drive you nuts.

“The only thing that affects me is kids,” Arnie says. “I refuse to deal with that. I can’t stand it, seeing kids die. Gangbangers, I’m sorry, but that’s the life they picked. But some of these kids don’t have a real chance.”

They tell me a story about a woman they helped move out of town. She has four sons. Two are in jail, one carries a home-monitoring device and the other one, the youngest at 16, just got a tattoo on his face that displays what gang he’s in. It’s a rival gang from that of two of his brothers. She used to give the police permission to search her house anytime they wanted and would call whenever one of her kids missed a court date and inform them where they could be found.

José’s cell phone rings to the sound of the Notre Dame fight song. It’s his daughter checking in. Then his mom calls to tell him she has a plate of food for him to take home from the barbecue he missed tonight.

It’s midnight. The night is still young, but the shift is over. And on my drive home, I can’t help but find myself scanning the streets, still searching for fish eyes.

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