Pubdate: Mon, 28 May 2001 Source: Milwaukee Journal Sentinel (WI) Copyright: 2001 Milwaukee Journal Sentinel Contact: http://www.jsonline.com/ Details: http://www.mapinc.org/media/265 Author: James H. Burnett III DRUG TRADE HAS AN ALLURING PULL Those Who've Seen Its Destruction Long For A Way To Make The Myths Disappear [Sidebar: It ain't worth it. Your life is constantly on the line. Other thugs are constantly gunning for you. And a lot of times, this ain't about you thinking, 'I want to be a criminal.' Most of the time it's about just making it.] - - Jermel Gordon, imprisoned drug dealer On a Sunday evening a few weeks ago, a 5-year-old boy darted into the street in front of his north side home and was struck by a car. The boy was seriously hurt, and paramedics had to cut away his clothing to get to his injuries. They were alarmed to find small amounts of white powder in plastic bags tucked into his socks. The paramedics believed that they'd found illegal drugs, police sources say, and outraged investigators initially thought the boy was being used by an adult as a drug "mule." But the truth was almost more outrageous: The stuff in the bags turned out to be baking soda, not drugs. And the boy later told police he was imitating the "older boys" he'd seen in a park near his home, packaging and hiding on their persons little bags of white powder. It's a powerful lure, the drug-dealer lifestyle. But why? The news is filled with stories of drug-related shootings, young men sent to prison for their entire lives, users' lives destroyed. Maybe because movies and videos depict the other side: the wealth, success and power of big-time dealers. Four men who have seen the street drug life from practical, social, spiritual and academic sides paused recently to debunk what they insist are myths about the lifestyle. But in the end, they all asked, will their insights matter? A prisoner's tale Jermel Gordon, 29, insists that stories like that of the 5-year-old copycat are proof that the life of a drug dealer is no life at all - and definitely not worth imitating. "It ain't like Tony (Montana)," Gordon said in an interview, referring to Al Pacino's flamboyant, high-rolling drug kingpin in the movie "Scarface." He should know. Gordon, who began selling drugs in the Chicago area when he was barely 16, doesn't have a limousine or a Porsche. He's not wearing Versace, and he doesn't live in a Miami Beach mansion. Gordon has been in prison for the past seven years and is currently living at the Felmers Chaney (pre-release) Correctional Center, 2825 N. 30th St. But as drug dealers go, Gordon was once marginally successful. He built a large clientele, including many people from the west side Chicago neighborhood where he grew up. He made a little money but lost more. He made a few friends but gained even more enemies. The money he earned brought slight improvement to his lifestyle and that of his family and friends. But the drugs he sold ruined the lives of more people. He watched a neighborhood family get evicted from their home because the single mother had stopped paying rent, he said. "She was spending all her money on drugs," Gordon said, many of which she bought from him. Gordon watched a longtime friend wither away at age 19 from using exorbitant amounts of crack cocaine . . . some of which Gordon gave him. "This life is no good. It hurts. I've been through it," he said. "I wish I could tell these young folks, especially the ones who don't come from the rough life, that it ain't what they think. It ain't worth it. Your life is constantly on the line. Other thugs are constantly gunning for you. And a lot of times, this ain't about you thinking, 'I want to be a criminal.' Most of the time it's about just making it." Harold Moore has heard Gordon's story before. "You could interchange hundreds of names with his story, and they'd all start and end the same," said Moore, pastor of Mercy Memorial Baptist Church, 3233 W. Lloyd St. in Milwaukee's Metcalfe Park neighborhood. Gordon's words had special meaning to Moore, as Moore and other neighborhood leaders reflected on the May 1 execution-style slayings of three men, all under the age of 23. James C. Mitchell Jr., 19, Jejuan Brown, 20, and Willie Figures Jr., 22, were shot in the head as they slept in their apartment at 2627 N. 35th St. Robert Kidd, 35, who has since been charged with second-degree homicide for two of the shootings, told police the men menaced him over a debt of about $150 for drugs he'd bought from them on credit. He also said at least one of them sexually assaulted him and that he feared his victims would kill him first. Sources in the Police Department also said that Kidd figured he could cancel his debt if he canceled his dealers. Rev. Moore's lament Moore said he talks to street-level drug dealers all the time, and that many things never change: "They're not making money, they're just surviving. Many of them didn't have to do this but now that they're in, it's tough to get out. And the ones that find themselves stuck realize too late that there are no benefits and no retirement plan in their 'industry.' " The reality is that the average dealer earns little more than minimum wage, Moore said, adding that the honest ones admit their paltry earnings, when he can get them to pause and add up the hours and effort they spend to move their product. "I've had the girlfriends come to me asking for (financial) help, saying they needed money to buy formula for their baby or to pay their electric bill. Do you think they would've had to do that if their boyfriends were high-rolling drug dealers?" Street-level drug dealers are like high school athletes, Moore said. "Like one in a thousand high school athletes make it to the pros, right?" he said. "Well, the same can be said for these guys. Most struggle for little money. One in a thousand might make enough money and be organized enough to buy the nice new car and house. But definitely not most." One of the more successful silver screen drug dealers ever was Wesley Snipes' character Romillo Skuggs from the 1994 film "Sugar Hill." But Skuggs had a business degree from Harvard. "Believe it or not, it's the business aspect" that sinks most young dealers, said Johnny Ferguson, director of community organizing for the Lisbon Avenue Neighborhood Development Corp. "These kids don't understand the nature of the business, especially the ones who didn't come from a rough life growing up or a terribly dysfunctional family." Under normal business rules of consignment, a supplier, like a wholesaler, advances product to a "retailer" with the understanding that he can conditionally return the unsold portions to the supplier at the end of a set period of time. Drug dealers and their suppliers don't have so pleasant a relationship, though, when it comes to unsold product. "OK, a supplier gives one of these naive kids a certain amount of cocaine, say a kilo," said Ferguson, a lifelong inner-city Milwaukee resident. "This kid takes it out, thinking the stuff is going to jump out of his hands. It doesn't. He has to work really hard, putting in long, crazy hours, and at the end of the week, when the supplier wants his money, this kid has only sold half of that product. "Now the supplier is angry. He gave that kid the drugs on consignment. And the way he sees it, that kid wasted some of his time and money, 'cause someone else could've been moving the other half of that product. So not only does the supplier want the rest of that drug sold as quickly as possible, now he wants to act like a loan shark and penalize the kid for not selling it all fast enough. You see the vicious cycle? It keeps going, till the kid is so far in the hole to the supplier that he's trapped. If he does try to get away before he's paid off his 'debt,' he'll probably get made an example of." If a young dealer does get lucky and becomes the "one-in-a-thousand guy," he becomes a target for every other neighborhood dealer and even some customers, Ferguson said. "It's like king of the hill. Who's going to knock off the king?" Tumbling down Ferguson has seen the king of the hill get knocked off, and not just in the movies. As a teenager and high school student on Milwaukee's north side, he watched Leonard Ross flourish, but not immediately, as a drug dealer. "He was a decent student. He played football. He was a popular guy," Ferguson said. "Then he thought he could just dabble in the life. He thought he could make it big. Unfortunately for him, he did make it big." Milwaukee Police Department sources estimate that at one point Ross was moving as much as $150,000 to $200,000 in cocaine each week. In the mid-1980s, Ross became king of the hill on Milwaukee's north side before he was 26. Then, four of his own soldiers turned on him. At 29, Ross was found facedown in bed. He'd been shot in the back. "No matter how much you hear about (Ross), I'm always amazed that all you hear about is the money, the cars, the jewelry," Ferguson said. "You never hear about the other side. The fact that you can trust no one, and that you can never relax. Ross trusted some people in this game. You never hear about the gruesome details of how he ended up." Power and respect R.L. McNeely, a University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee social welfare professor and attorney, has studied drug-dealer life for decades. "It might surprise you, but power and respect mean more in this game than money," he said. "The ultimate appeal is based on the simple fact that most of these young people - for whatever reason, no matter what their backgrounds - are convinced that they cannot make it in mainstream society." Having control over something that's dangerous and in high demand creates an awesome sense of power, McNeely said. The proof to that theory may actually be in the fact that the average street-level dealer makes so little money, he said. "To you and me, if all you're earning is minimum wage, the natural question is, 'Why not flip burgers or bag groceries for it?' And the answer to that question is the question in reverse," McNeely said. "These young people are thinking, 'If I'm only going to make this much money, I may as well have some excitement while doing it. Who wants to work fast-food?' " Wanting out Perhaps the saddest element of the game is the growing number of young people who want out, Moore, McNeely and Ferguson agreed. "I can't tell you how many times I've had these young men come to me and say, 'Pastor, if you can help me find a legitimate job, I'll stop this,' " Moore said. "The problem is, though, so many people talk a big game, but no one is willing to actually step up and take a chance on one of these kids. . . . These kids have dealt drugs; they didn't finish high school, many of them; and they have no marketable job skills. "We have professionals, business people - smart people, who don't even see that they're making a judgment call that it's less risky to let these kids continue dealing and dabbling than to help them out with real work. "It tears me up inside each time I have to look another one of these young men in the eye and say, 'I'm sorry. I tried, but I just couldn't find anyone this time.' " McNeely insists that even if employers would take a chance, most low-paying jobs won't be enough to hold that youth's attention for very long. "When you get somebody a minimum-wage job, if you think that's gonna straighten them out you're sadly mistaken," he said. "It takes a clearly defined career path that they can progress on if they keep out of trouble. Without that path laid out so as to convince these kids that one day they, too, can lead a normal, healthy life, the job is too little and often too late." Gordon, who has been training to be a carpenter in anticipation of his release from prison later this year, agreed. Jobs with benefits, training and possible advancement are being arranged for him by corrections officials. "I see where I can take this," he said. "I've learned a real skill, and I can use it. It sounds simple, but that's what I needed. I needed to see some light down the road and convince myself after seeing it that I can make it legit." - --- MAP posted-by: GD