Childhood Friends Divided by Prison Gangs

Anthony McCarary writes about the brutal world of prison gangs, where loyalty is often tested—and sometimes shattered—by the rigid lines of race and power.

He was a Southsider, a Southern California Mexican gang member. He rose to the rank of a shot caller. Rubbed shoulders with killers and drug dealers.

He didn’t used to be like that. I went to elementary school with him long before he became a made man from his barrio. He was a momma’s boy and a straight-A student. But I was a member of the Bloods, even back then.

As a teenager, he started making a name for himself in the underworld. When I was 16, I remember joking with him, “When you become a made man and a certified shot caller, always remember our friendship. Don’t act weird or different toward the Sangres [Bloods].

Marked for Death by Prison Gangs

His name was Cholo. Rumor is he made a bad call on a few people, had a couple of people hit. He got a little power and got carried away. People died at his direction, and someone higher than him said he had to go.

He landed at the prison where I was. When he came in with his bedroll, I greeted him, “They’ve been talking about it on the yard. They’ve been waiting on your arrival. You know you’ve got something coming. They’re going to kill you.”

He paused and looked into my eyes. “Mi padre always told me it’s better to die on your feet like a man than to live like a coward on your knees. I’m not going into protective custody. They’re going to have to kill me.”

I looked at my friend and was hurt that I couldn’t get involved. Prison politics wouldn’t allow it, because he was Mexican and I was Black. In California State Prison, everybody is separated by race and prison gangs. Segregated by self-proclaimed territories on the prison yard. The Bloods have their own area, the Crips have theirs, the Mexicans, Asians, whites, skinheads all have their own areas. On a maximum security prison yard, level 4, you aren’t allowed to walk into another group’s area. That will get you killed or pop off a race riot. The only exception is if you’re given permission.

So while we attempt to keep it peaceful and respectful in prison, for the most part, they keep their distance and set boundaries.

Although Cholo and I were childhood friends, we couldn’t be seen oversocializing with each other. Being too friendly could get one of us attacked or killed by our own people. Cholo didn’t care; he was marked for death anyway. But I had to look out for myself.

The Hit

Cholo was on the yard for two months, and the plot against his life never materialized. So he got comfortable. His people had made false promises assuring him that he was no longer in bad standing with the gang. He was no longer anxious and expecting it to happen.

Then one day, as I was sitting in the day room playing chess with my cell mate, I noticed something strange. I watched large prison-made shanks [knives], white tape wrapped around the handles, come from under the door of a cell occupied by Hispanics. A guy retrieved the weapons discreetly and gave them to two other inmates. I knew they were about to do a homicide in the middle of the day room.

I attempted to whistle to get Cholo’s attention, but he was talking on the phone to his daughter. I heard him say, “Feliz cumpleaños baby girl!” His back was turned, and he couldn’t hear me.

Then, action. In broad daylight, on camera, in the day room, it happened. I witnessed on Southsider grab him from behind and take Cholo to the ground, while another Southsider straddled him. They hit him with blows to the chest, knives going in and out. A third man got his in too, stabbing him in the face and neck.

Where were the correctional officers? Upstairs, far away on the second tier, pretending to be searching cells. Every time a knife came out of his chest, blood squirted 10 feet toward the ceiling. They had 10 long minutes on him, and I couldn’t help. If I had gotten involved in another case of race politics, I would’ve been marked for death.

A Silent Death

What baffles me is that Cholo never screamed for help or caused a scene. All I heard was feet shuffling a few times. He took every blow to his organs almost silently, with occasional soft moans and grunts.

Finally, a guard in the gun tower saw it. But she froze on the trigger as the prison gang attackers butchered Cholo to death.

Want to read more about prison gangs? Try Prison Gangs, Politics And Other Problems

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