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The Ballad of Silky and Dubbs

May 23, 2006 on 1:15 pm | In Whatever | by Mr. Fidget | 1 Comment

I recently had the distinct displeasure of being made to look like a bit of an ass in front of a room full of people. Now, I’ll be frank that I’m no great stranger to looking like an ass in front of people, and it’s no salvation to say that it’s usually my own fault; I set in motion the chain of events that led to this recent incident myself, but unlike usual looking-or-acting-like-an-ass events, neither wine, beer, vodka, or a combination of any or all of those three in concert with a failed attempt to be funny was to blame. Instead, I had truly noble intentions, but as the prosecutor said to me, making cases can be a lot like making sausages; you may like the results, but you don’t want to see how it’s done.

In this case, I surreptitiously recorded myself and another investigator interviewing a guy in prison in which I reasoned, cajoled, coerced, prodded, pushed, argued, and ultimately, according to the judge who spent thirty days crafting a forty-five page opinion devoted solely to a legal dissection of my behavior, “overwhelmed” this young man. The nice thing about recording things in my job is that when a guy says “I had that gun for a minute”, it’s committed to magnetic tape and constitutes an admission of guilt. The not nice thing, as you can imagine, is when you say “listen, fucko, me and you both know you had the fucking gun, and it’s gonna hurt a lot more if I have to ram it up your ass than if you just admit that you had it and let me help you out of this mess”, particularly when you had no intention at all of “helping him out of the mess” but instead of using his own words to help you, well, jam it up his ass.

Okay, I’m proud to say, that’s not a verbatim quote of what I said, not the least reason of which is that I neither call people “fucko” or threaten to shove things in their asses. Well, I don’t threaten shoving things in people’s asses, anyway. My language does sometimes get a little salty.

But that’s all besides the point. What happened was this: a young man more or less freshly out of prison, on parole, needs some money. He figures a good way to get it would be to take it, possibly from some old Italian guys who have a weekly poker game where the pot grows into the thousands. He gets a gun and a buddy and they run into the game to stick it up. Nothing new or exciting there. The old Italian guys, though, aren’t impressed. The robber, in this case, weighs about a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet, so even with the added heft of a cheapo Hi Point .380 caliber handgun, the old Italians start smacking him and his friend, a shot rings out, the old Italians stomp the young black guys, subdue them, and call the police.

An arrest for the young man ensues, as does a dawning realization that since he is smart, has a keen memory, and has been present or very near to dozens of homicides, robberies, stickups, gun deals, shootings, and assorted acts of mayhem, as well as the leadership of a violent street gang, he has a lot more to offer the government—in the form of various detectives, agents, and prosecutors who are eager to get inside his brain—than desire to go serve a ten to fifteen year sentence for mistakenly trying to pick off the wrong card game.

So he starts talking. And talking, and talking, and talking. I can think of at least three fairly distinct cases on which I’ve gone to him for information, and each time he’s had a little tidbit to offer—if not a giant missing puzzle piece, at the very least a nugget of information, such as who may be kin with another, who might have a relationship with a certain woman, whose brother had a gun just like the one the shooter in some case supposedly had—some helpful little puzzle piece. He knows a lot.

And in one case, he happened to have a distinct memory of three days four years ago when he was released from jail before being picked up on a parole violation seventy two hours later, a time period in which he was at home, with a girl and their child, and two other men came over, showing off a gun. He grew annoyed at their callous behavior—there was a child present, after all—and so the three of them went down to the porch to smoke some marijuana, and one of the men said how he had “got a body the night before” and the other concurred that it was a “heart stopping moment.”

Four years later, I’m investigating a homicide at a drug house that occurred—you guessed it—the exact night before which my friend’s criminal history shows a gap of three days in which he was not incarcerated four years ago. So his information has credibility.

Because these facts are hard to keep track of when you’ve been working the investigation for years, I might as well utilize some names for the players. But first, a note about street names. There is no one involved in the game who does not use a street name. It’s not uncommon, in fact, for longtime friends or even cousins to not actually know one another’s “government names.” I won’t give up the actual street names of the people involved in this case, though trust that the names I utilize will be close enough in terms of realism.

My informing friend who failed to take off the poker game and instead turned into the single best source of criminal street knowledge my district has had in the past several years shall be called Black. He’s still a cooperating witness and Black is perhaps the single most common street name out there, so let’s use that for him. The man who confessed to the murder shall be called Dubbs. His “heart pounding moment” colleague is to be called Silky. (Black, Dubbs, and Silky are all names of other guys on the street that I know, but not related enough to the caper being discussed here as to feel inappropriate to use their appellations as noms de guerre for the characters herein.)

Anyway, so Black tells us that Dubbs confessed to a murder and Silky said something that made him think he (Silky) was there when it happened. That’s what we already thought—Silky himself had, on one fateful ocassion three years earlier, for the one single time in his life, discussed the murder in question, and knew facts that only a witness or someone who had firsthand information from the shooter would know.

As to the murder—a nineteen year old man who was visiting his cousins at their house, from which they dealt marijuana, answered the door during the Knicks game in June of 2001 and saw some men with guns standing at the door. He tried to push the door shut and for his trouble received a 7.62×39mm round in his neck, courtesy of a Chinese made piece of shit AK-47 knock off which Black tells us was dubbed “the chopper” by Dubbs and Silky and the others in their gang. The victim was dead before he hit the floor, which for better or worse means that the second man at the door, who we’ll call Gunna, missed when he fired his sawed off twelve gauge shotgun at the already-falling young man.

This young man’s death became intertwined, two years later and courtesy of me, with the shooting of a New York City police officer in Brooklyn. The cop and a bad guy got into the mix and the bad guy shot the cop, who shot him back. Neither died, though one is now serving life in prison, and the firearm that he was carrying fell to the ground. A search on the serial number showed that it had been reported stolen a few years earlier. Follow up with the local police department a few hours away showed that the burglar—let’s call him Soldier—who stole the gun had pled guilty and indeed given a statement that the gun had been in turn stolen from him by our friend Silky. As it so happens, he also confessed to another burglary in which he stole an AK 47, which was also stolen from him, by unknown parties, though he suspected it was the brother of Dubbs, who we’ll call B-Money.

B-Money is currently serving his own life sentence for killing a man we’ll call G, because G had been having sex with Dubbs’s girlfriend while Dubbs was in prison. For what it’s worth, Black thinks that one of the reasons that Dubbs may have killed the man at the weed house was because B-Money had asked him to “put something in the paper for me” and advised him to “get his stripes up”, the former being a term referring to committing an act that the newspaper would find newsworthy, and the latter meaning to just do something violent to grow his hierarchy in the gang. Dubbs apparently listened. Dubbs also, for what it’s worth, went on to have sex with his brother B-Money’s girlfriend once B-Money blew trial and went away to prison for life, and had a child with her.

Not incidentally, when the cop and the bad guy had their shootout in Brooklyn, and the cops traced the provenance of the bad guy’s gun back to the statement in which Soldier said that Silky had taken the gun from him, the cops started to look for Silky. Lo and behold, he was in jail in New York City. What would he be doing so far from home? Why, running away from a trial subpoena to testify for the prosecution at B-Money’s trial, since he was widely regarded as having been present when B-Money killed G. (In that case, Black was lucky enough to stay back at the house where he, B-Money, G, Silky, and another man named C-Murder had all been hanging out; he testified for the prosecution in that case, as did the woman who bore children to both B-Money and Dubbs. She is also Gunna’s aunt, though none of the people I’ve discussed here are twenty five yet, and bear in mind that most of the events I’m discussing date back to to 2001 or 2003, so they were all nineteen or twenty at the time of this madness.)

The police investigating the cop shooting go to talk to Silky, and he admits that he had the gun used in the cop shooting but tells them that it was taken from him by Black and B-Money. He had never been caught with the gun, and was never charged with its possession, and he didn’t have anything to do with it getting into the hands of the man who had the shootout with the cop. Being good investigators, they ask him if he knows of any other violent acts or murders. He tells them that a man named Dubbs killed a boy on Second street in our fair city with an assault rifle they all called the chopper.

The NYPD sees to it that this nugget of information makes its way up to the detectives a few hours away, and a few months later the local homicide detectives went back to Silky to try to get his story down on paper. He couldn’t remember any of what he had previously said and refused to speak to them. End of story.

Or maybe not. A few years later I got up to speed on this caper, did a few interviews, talked to some people, made myself a little flow chart to see who knows who and who’s related and who’s fucking and who’s committing homicides together and who’s got what criminal charges and you know what I notice?

Silky never paid for that gun. Not just never paid Soldier; he never did any time behind it. I looked deeper into his record. He caught his first felony at age sixteen and oddly, it wasn’t “YO’ed”, or hidden on his record as a youthful offense (still a felony, but never shows up on the record.) Most sixteen year olds get this the first time around. But he didn’t; so he was a felon when he got that gun. Then I checked the dates on his acquisition of the gun from Soldier; he was over eighteen, a mandatory for prosecution by my job. And when was it? Four years, eight months ago. Statute of limitations coming up quick.

And that interview by the cops in new york city? No Miranda warning. He was in jail. You need Miranda when three things are in play: Cops. Custody. And questioning (which could lead to vulnerability to prosecution.) They were cops; he was in jail, though on different charges, so it would be up to the lawyers to decide if that was “custody” or just his home at the time; and they were asking questions, though not to develop information about his own bad deeds, but about the cop shooter.

In any event, it didn’t seem to me that that NYPD detective’s scrawled notes would be the necessary ballast on which to hang my case; because what I decided to do was build this old gun charge into a fresh new prison bid to stick on Silky, in hopes that it would compel him to talk to investigators about the murder and in so doing reduce his time on the new gun charge.

I needed to get a new confession out of Silky. And so I did. I went up to the prison, with a prison investigator, and I hid a tape recorder in the drawer, and I interviewed him. Asked him all about the gun he had for “just a minute” back in 2003, reminded him how he’d already admitted to this gun to the NYPD back in 03, and when he asked “are you going to arrest me?” I said “it’s not in my interest to arrest you if you’re honest with me.” I convinced him that I was an investigator just “doing follow up” for the cop shooter case, and that he wasn’t in any other way involved. He grudgingly admitted that he had the gun briefly before he “threw it away by some train tracks” and that Black and B-Money then went and retrieved it.

I thanked him for his time and went home, to undertake the literally dozen hours of painstaking effort to create a nearly perfect transcription of the recording, since the tape recorder had been secreted in a drawer and Silky kept kicking the desk.

For those of you who might be interested, we were inside the prison, which means that we were quite obviously not armed, left our guns at the gate and took a little green shuttle van driven by an inmate in his green jumpsuit over to the dining hall where we waited in a little room for Silky to come down; he wasn’t handcuffed and again you could argue that he wasn’t in custody. But I read him his Miranda rights anyway, telling him that I was doing so because “we were in a facility.” Typically—or more accurately, when done properly—Miranda is not only administered but the investigator is then supposed to obtain an express consent of waiver of those rights to continue the interview. I gave him his rights, and then checked that he understood them—you understand? Yeah. All right, I’m here to ask you about a gun . . .

I didn’t exactly get the express waiver, but a subject’s willingness to talk after Miranda can override the lack of the waiver. It was my hope that the subject’s willingness to grunt grudgingly would also override the lack of the waiver.

Anyway. I now had a tape recorded confession from Silky that he had, indeed, possessed a handgun, which was in police custody (I picked it up from the Brooklyn DA’s office after the cop shooter’s trial was over), at a time at which he (Silky) already had a felony conviction, less than five years earlier. Good enough for about five more years in prison after his current sentence runs out.

But I like to play fair, so a few weeks later, I went back to see Silky, this time accompanied by the local homicide detectives who had unsuccessfully interviewed him a few years earlier after he told the NYPD about how Dubbs killed the boy on Second Street. “Hi Silky, remember us? Tell us again about Dubbs and the murder on Second Street.” “Nope.” When I tell you that absolutely nothing else of consequence was exchanged in that interview, I am being honest. I am also honest when I tell you that it lasted at least three hours of round and round. He just kept repeating “I ain’t a snitch.” “I ain’t a snitch.” “I ain’t a snitch.”

Remember, at this time, going on what Black had told us, we thought that Silky was present at the murder, but unlike Dubbs and Gunna, hadn’t shot at the victim (only AK 47 and shotgun rounds were found at the scene.) So we could vaguely understand him not wanting to throw himself into a murder, though why he ever talked about a murder he was present at in the first place would then be a big mystery. Though I have met many smart men caught up in the game on this job, I’ve also met some who are as dumb as salt shakers. Silky might be a little brighter than a salt shaker, but not by much, bless him.

So we eventually said, hey, if we had some lawyers here and some immunity for you would you play ball? He grunted what appeared to be affirmative, and we went home and set up a public defender to handle an immunity deal. But the defender sat with us, on the day we pulled Silky out of prison (six hours away—six hours he had to sit shackled in a bouncy van from an unexpected 3 AM wakeup to his 9 AM meeting with us and our Starbucks) and told us, if he really has any vulnerability on a murder, only total immunity would do—which we don’t offer, we only do “qualified limited use immunity”, which means we won’t use your words against you, but if someone we like more cooperates with us and nails you for what you told us, we may hit you with it.

But with total immunity off the table, and a pissed off inmate refusing to talk to us, we told the defender that we had no choice, and that his new client Silky would be back for an arrest in a few weeks, which he was.

But rather than the magic bullet of a new arrest with five years hanging over his head loosening his tongue, Silky just continued to say “nope.” His defense counselor reported that his only question was “how long?” and the defender said, well, maybe about five years. And Silky said Five years? Damn. I can do five. I ain’t got nothin’ to say.

So the lawyer, being crafty (I guess that’s redundant) started to think that my watertight, tape recorded confession might have some holes in it. The aforementioned lack of a waiver, my overwhelming of his poor client’s will, etc. So he starts in on motions intended to suppress the recording from potential usage at a trial.

We, meanwhile—myself and the homicide detectives—get corrections to separate Gunna and Dubbs, who are both doing bids on different charges incurred after the murder (Gunna doing seven flat for shooting a man in the ass, though investigators think he may have taken the weight for Dubbs actually doing the shooting; Dubbs for a gun possession which had a ballistic match to a shooting in which he shot a man through a door in the stomach while trying to stick up yet another weed house, though he doesn’t know about the ballistic match yet—I’m planning to arrest him on that in a few months, if all goes well, which, as you can see by now, it doesn’t necessarily.)

Anyway, Dubbs and Gunna are now in separate facilities and since Gunna is younger and according to Black and Silky not the actual death-shot shooter, we go at him first. And tell him how we just came from Dubbs telling us that he, Gunna, had the AK 47.

Damn, he says. That low down motherfucker, he must be thinking, because he proceeds to give us a full confession, draws us a little map as to where he was standing and where Dubbs was and where the vic was, and then, for the homicide investigator’s coup de grace, accepts our offer of a piece of paper and a pen. “so you might write an apology note to the family.” Which he does, and which basically says “I’m sorry for what I did”, and though I could share more details of it, there is something so intimate about taking a murder confession that even I have a smidge of good taste that prohibits me from further mining this young man’s apology note for entertainment.

The actual next day we go to Dubbs, and say hey man, we know you did that murder, let’s talk, Gunna’s already talking. To which he responds, and here I will quote verbatim, “Man, I’m outta here. I wanna go back to my cell and smoke a cigarette.” We don’t have any right to make him sit there and listen to us yell at him about how he’s a murderer, so off he went, and he and Gunna have since been arrested and indicted for the murder.

But the last question we asked Gunna was “who else was with you and Dubbs?” And he looked at us like we were crazy. Nobody, he said. You got a third man there, you gotta split the take three ways. He was kind enough not to add “you crazy white fools!”, but the sense was there.

So here we were, with one confession in hand, one murderer smoking in his cell, and Silky under arrest for the old gun charge when he wasn’t actually at the murder. I thought this was a good development, and happily told his defense counsel hey, we don’t even think he was at the murder any more! Get him to talk now!

Still, from Silky: Nope. I ain’t a snitch.

Now, just because we don’t think he’s at the murder back in 01, he still clearly knows about it—in 03 his telling the NYPD that it was Dubbs did the killing was the first anyone in law enforcement had ever had a clue about what was already a cold case. So whether he was there or not, he knows that Dubbs did it, somehow, maybe just from the confession at Black’s house the day after the murder, when he made the “heart stopping moment” comment to try to get a little street credibility and latch onto Dubbs’s murder for that, or maybe even Black’s memory was wrong. Who knows? One thing is for sure: Silky still knows about that murder.

Black tells us that for a hot minute back in 04 both Dubbs and Silky were on the street and Dubbs was trying to kill Silky but never got the chance because he thought that Silky had given the cops information on B-Money’s murder (remember, he ran away from the trial subpoena, and you don’t catch a trial subpoena unless the prosecution has reason to believe that you have some good damning evidence on the defendant.)

We told Silky’s lawyer, tell him, Dubbs wants him dead! We’ll make these gun charges go away! Nope. Okay, I say. He doesn’t have to testify, just sit down with me, fill me in on the scene back that summer, maybe he knows where the chopper went, knows something we can use, we’ll make the charge go away. Nope. We’ll see you at the suppression hearing.

So we go to the full hearing, a courtroom, a very no-nonsense judge, the best prosecutor in my district and a very talented public defender. Who between them have their own history, because when the public defender got out of law school and joined the PD’s office, all fresh and bushy tailed, in his first week he had a few nice victories, according to him, until he came up against this prosecutor, who at the time was already a veteran with the DA’s office, and who jammed a hard deal for one of the PD’s defendants down his throat and knocked the rookie PD back on his ass.

The prosecutor throughout this case bemoaned to the PD, you’re not letting your guy cooperate because you’re still mad at me for jamming you with a guilty plea fifteen years ago! The PD laughed and said he didn’t even remember the case, but me, as the impartial observer? I think he remembered it. And I like this PD, I think he does a bang up job for his clients. I don’t think he wasn’t letting Silky cooperate because of something that happened fifteen years ago. But I think he didn’t mind the chance to stick one back to the prosecutor.

So we go to the full hearing, and naturally, I’m the star witness. The corrections investigator who was present for the interview takes the stand and immediately gets aggressive and belligerent with the PD. Bad move. Never, never, never let them make you mad. Everything must be, yes, counselor. No, counselor, it wasn’t like that.

I take the stand and on direct examination give my version of events. I think I do an okay job on cross, also, allowing the defense to land some punches—you have to let them get some punches in, there’s no way not to without appearing like a totally bellicose and defensive prick, so you nod dumbly and shrug thoughtfully and stick to your guns on the important matters, namely, I read him his fucking rights! Did you read it from a Miranda card you carry? Yes. (You can hear me on the tape fumbling for the card in my wallet.) Can we see it? Sure. Your honor, defense exhibit number 1. And you read him lines one through four, but then you didn’t read lines five and six, “are you willing to speak to me at this time” and “are you willing to waive your right to an attorney at this time?” Blast! He got me! But you always get a re-direct to rehab your fuck-ups on cross. So the prosecutor goes over with me how we segued naturally into conversation and makes the plea that this, clearly, constitutes a waiver.

But the point at which I felt like an ass was when we all—me, the corrections investigator, the prosecutor and defense counsel, the judge, Silky, and the stenographer—all put on headphones and listened to my half hour interview with Silky. Remember, at that point, the judge doesn’t know I’m there on a mission from God to try to jack up a new charge on a guy I think knows about a murder in order to trade him his knowledge of that murder for five years of his life—I fear I just look like an agent who’s chasing a nearly five year old gun case on a young kid who’s already in prison. So I felt like a big ass. Again, not a particularly new feeling, but I’ve usually got a little buzz to take away the pain. The judge doesn’t allow merlot or microbrews during testimony, naturally, so I had to sit there, looking over at Silky, who barely acknowledged me, listening to my own words for the maybe fiftieth time.

You know how you always think you sound a little off and odd when hearing yourself on a tape recording? Yeah. That was in full effect.

To my salvation, on my direct examination, my pursuit of Silky’s case in order to flip him, or convert him into a witness against Dubbs, became apparent to the judge. I trust it was apparent to Silky. I caught his eye at one point and nodded at him. I don’t think a man is shit if he can’t look in the eye of a man he’s arrested, at any time—on the street, in court, at trial, in jail, wherever—and give him a direct nod. I just had a trial and it wasn’t until the second or third day that I caught the defendant’s eye and nodded and said simply “hey, James.” He nodded, as did Silky, and I like to think that they know that we both have a code, and that, to quote the title of a great album by rap pioneers EPMD, it’s always business, never personal.
And speaking of codes, Silky certainly has his. And I have my theory. Here is a young man—twenty two—on his second bid in prison. He has nothing. When he comes out there is no money, no one to take care of him, no education to fall back on, no real friends to speak of (not in the way I have friends, men and women who would be there for me in any way I needed at any time I needed, no matter what.) Nothing. Dad’s gone, mom’s sick, sister has her babies. I’ve seen his visitor’s list in prison; no one. Phone calls? Ain’t no one out there paying MCI’s highway-robbery collect call rates to listen to him for a half hour talk about what’s going on in prison.

He has nothing but his code, which says “don’t snitch.” Clearly, for this young man, who has nothing, that is all that he has. His code. It doesn’t matter to him that Dubbs would have him killed just for knowing what he knows, whether he talks about it or not. It doesn’t matter to him that he could walk away from five years in prison, another five years of his life, for just sitting down with me for an hour and saying, yeah, Dubbs told me he shot that boy, I think he brought the gun down to his cousin in such-and-such a city. Christ, he could have come in and said, I heard Dubbs shot that kid from a guy in jail, I don’t remember his name, I heard he threw the gun in the river. Totally made up, and we’d still out of some sort of ethical obligation probably let him walk away from the charge.

But, as it turns out, after thirty days, the judge spoke, and he wrote a very long opinion, in which he determined that I “overwhelmed” Silky’s reticence to speak to me, and that his entire statement should be suppressed on the grounds that it was coerced and not given of his own free will. In fact, his language was so pointed about my tactics and behavior that he actually included a footnote which admonished my agency to note that the language he was using was legal language and though it wasn’t necessary he wanted to include a “softening note” to show that he was aware that law enforcement occassionally needs to utilize extreme measures and subterfuge and deceit and his suppression of the statement wasn’t meant as a criticism of me personally.

Gee, thanks, your honor.

So what happened? We decided we didn’t want to go to trial on this case. It was now clear that nothing but nothing was going to make Silky talk about Dubbs’s murder, and we have more important things to work on. The prosecutor also has a 100% conviction rate, as do I, and we weren’t about to go to trial on this guy and waste our time and risk our stats. But before dropping the case outright, the prosecutor dangled a guilty plea to time served and immediate release in front of the defense counsel. A trial would take months more of incarceration before it began, and though he might win, he’d probably eat another half year in the can. He took the guilty plea to time served and we technically won, though clearly no one won anything.

A week or so ago I was waiting to meet someone at Starbucks when I saw the defense counsel go by. I hadn’t seen him since the decision had come down so I chased him down the street to congratulate him. We talked about Silky and how he is now on parole and how he has to get out of town. The defender said that he just feels so bad for him, that he got to know him a bit and learned how he saw his father shot in front of him when he was a kid and his mother has AIDS, etc. He acknowledged that he doesn’t see Silky in the same environments that we do, on the streets, with the guns, present at or aware of multiple murders, shootings, robberies, etc. And I acknowledged that I know that a young man like him has a really difficult life, with tragic and overwhelming odds against him and any chance at success or true happiness or fulfillment.

There wasn’t much else to say and I said I’d see him again soon on another case and went back to my coffee and he ran off to the bank.

Throughout this case I felt like a piece of shit for secretly recording someone who is empirically not bright as I badgered him into admitting something which was true but which only my charm and persistence overwhelmed his common sense and allowed him to admit having that gun, not to mention my near-assurances that “it’s not in my interest at this time to arrest you.” It just felt shitty.

But I kept telling myself, and I still do, that if someone murdered my darling little boy—if he at nineteen God forbid goes to watch a Knicks game at the house of some asshole friends who are selling weed at their house and answers the door and an armed robber shoots him in the neck and the armed robber’s friend won’t help the police—well, I hope that an investigator somewhere will stop at nothing to jack up anybody available on any charge available in hopes of breaking the case on the shooter wide open. So that’s why I do what I do, and for that, I guess, I’m willing to feel like an idiot and a bit of a shit.

Where are they now? (Just like the end of eighties teen movies, only with criminals!)

Black is in jail awaiting a very short sentence for the card game robbery, vastly diminished thanks to his cooperation. He’ll likely testify at Dubbs’s murder trial.

Dubbs and Gunna are both in prison on their old gun charges, but under indictment for the murder; the case is what it is, not as strong as it would be with Silky, not good but not impossible.

Silky is now a three time felon with another violent (gun) felony on his record, out on parole from the state charge he was serving when I interviewed him.

Soldier is in on a state charge which was reduced thanks to cooperating against Silky.

B-Money remains in prison as he will for the rest of his life for the murder of G.

Me? I’m on to other cases, and I’m hoping to jack Dubbs up on the other shooting where he didn’t kill the kid which would be like a fifteen to twenty year charge, in case the murder doesn’t work out or maybe to help force a plea on both to a concurrent sentence.

And even without any tape recorders around, I’m still finding ways to look like an ass.