Friday night postwhores
- Thread starter D-Rose
- Start date
On the morning of March 14, 2002, eight young men filed into Judge David Wesley’s court on the ninth floor of the Los Angeles County Criminal Courts building. They wore the clownish, baggy orange or blue jumpsuits of LA County Jail’s inmates. As K10 prisoners, the highest security level in the County system, they were shackled at the feet and their handcuffs were padlocked to a waist chain. The chains, what the deputies call “transport jewelry,” clinked noisily as the men left the lockup area behind the bailiff’s door and scuffled across the courtroom to their seats in the jury box.
This was the first morning that the eight men, all members or associates of the Avenues street gang, appeared together in the same court at the same time. Despite the gravity of the charges against the men, there was an atmosphere of happy reunion. None of them scowled or showed any sign of being unhappy with their circumstances. They nodded greetings and smiled to friends and relatives in the spectator seats.
Before the eight were allowed to enter, two deputies examined every inch of the jury box. While it looked like they were fluffing the cushions, they were actually feeling for weapons or anything the prisoners could use to unlock their shackles. To a practiced inmate and veteran criminal, even the plastic tips of shoelaces have been known to unlock the standard issue handcuffs.
Eight armed, uniformed deputies and four in plainclothes were scattered throughout the courtroom. The plainclothes cops wore their Hawaiian shirts untucked to cover the Smith and Wesson .40 caliber semiautomatics they wore in open-top, black leather basketweave holsters. They had CS spray canisters clipped to their belts on the offside, next to the two spare ammo magazines, spring-loaded steel batons, and handcuffs. Their badges hung down their chests on beaded dog-tag chains.
The tallest of the plainclothes deputies, Jail Supervisor Michael Kepley, whispered instructions to each deputy. The deputies then took strategic positions around the courtroom. Kepley sat in the last seat of the last row of the spectator area, positioned to observe the whole room at a glance. Only a few of the people in that courtroom knew that Kepley had already been targeted for murder by the Mexican Mafia. He was on a “greenlight” list, a hit list issued by “shotcallers”—Eme members or Associates with the power to issue orders at that high level. (The capitalized term “Associate” is the official California Department of Corrections designation for a person who has been taken into the confidence of the Eme and is doing work for them. Elsewhere in this book, “associate” is used with its conventional meaning.)
The fact that the custody detail felt that so much firepower was necessitated by eight shackled men—who had to perform yogic contortions just to scratch an itch—made it clear that these were no average street thugs. Javier “Gangster” Marquez was already serving a life sentence for prior homicides. Marquez was also reputed to be a newly-minted brother in the Mexican Mafia, what the Eme calls a “Carnal.” Anthony “Tonito” Medina was serving a sixty-five-year sentence for a revenge killing—not gang-related, but what the gangsters call a “personal.” Tonito also hated cops. While a fugitive for that prior killing, Medina was arrested for pointing a laser-sighted Glock 9 mm at two LAPD officers during a traffic stop. The youngest of the eight, twenty-year-old Richard “Lil Pee Wee” Aguirre, was charged with four homicides, the first of which he’d committed at age fifteen. Most of the eight defendants had nothing to lose, and the deputies were there to make sure that if any of them got brave, the consequences would be terminal.
Between them, the eight Avenues homies now sitting in the jury box were being prosecuted for seven homicides. The atmosphere among the defendents was nevertheless jovial. When Randall “Jo Jo” Rodriguez, at thirty-three the oldest of the eight, made eye contact with his mother, Connie, and tried by facial gestures and lip reading to communicate, one of the deputies stepped in front of him and said, “No talking.” Connie turned to the other spectators and shook her head, finding some sympathy with other families but getting a stony look from Kepley in the back seat. Connie’s a gray-haired mother of twelve with thirty-two grandchildren she rarely sees. Jo Jo is her youngest child.
Richie “Lil Pee Wee” Aguirre tried to engage the deputy nearest him in a conversation about baseball. The deputy told him to shut up. Pee Wee turned to Gerardo “Criminal” Reyes, to his left but separated by two seats, and mouthed something. Reyes cracked up, which sent a ripple of laughter through the spectators. With the deputies distracted, Scott “Gato” Gleason flashed two of the spectators the Avenues gang sign, the index and middle fingers pointed down with the thumb in between them to form the letter A. One of the two whispered loud enough for some sitting close by to hear, “Avenidas ‘til the wheels fall off.”
The man responsible for this gathering was Deputy District Attorney Anthony Manzella, an old-school DA with decades on the job and as keen to prosecute as he’d been when he was part of the Charles Manson prosecution team. Manzella was late and Judge Wesley wouldn’t appear until all the participants were in the room. Michael White, one of the eight defense lawyers asked where Manzella was. The clerk told him, “DA Manzella is wrapping up something else downstairs. We’re waiting, too.”
Manzella was double booked. He had an 8:30 court date on another case involving the homicide of Bernard Parks’s granddaughter, Lori Gonzalez. Manzella was prosecuting the shooter, Samuel Shabazz, and there was pressure on him to win it. Obviously, when the police chief’s own granddaughter is gunned down outside a Popeye’s Chicken in South LA, the city has PR issues to address. Manzella was the guy to do it, never mind that he was also prosecuting eight of the city’s toughest gangsters.
When he finally entered the courtroom with his assistant, Ruth Arvidson, all eyes turned to him. With a hint of the North Jersey accent that hangs on even after forty years in Los Angeles, Manzella looked around, smiled, and said, like a guy late for a lunch date with his pals, “You shouldna waited on my account.”
So began the biggest and most complex Mexican Mafia murder and conspiracy trial ever prosecuted by the Los Angeles District Attorney’s office. The motions and countermotions would continue for a year. The actual trial wouldn’t start for nearly a year after that. “Violence is swift,” Manzella said on his way out of court that afternoon. “Justice is glacial.”
This was the first morning that the eight men, all members or associates of the Avenues street gang, appeared together in the same court at the same time. Despite the gravity of the charges against the men, there was an atmosphere of happy reunion. None of them scowled or showed any sign of being unhappy with their circumstances. They nodded greetings and smiled to friends and relatives in the spectator seats.
Before the eight were allowed to enter, two deputies examined every inch of the jury box. While it looked like they were fluffing the cushions, they were actually feeling for weapons or anything the prisoners could use to unlock their shackles. To a practiced inmate and veteran criminal, even the plastic tips of shoelaces have been known to unlock the standard issue handcuffs.
Eight armed, uniformed deputies and four in plainclothes were scattered throughout the courtroom. The plainclothes cops wore their Hawaiian shirts untucked to cover the Smith and Wesson .40 caliber semiautomatics they wore in open-top, black leather basketweave holsters. They had CS spray canisters clipped to their belts on the offside, next to the two spare ammo magazines, spring-loaded steel batons, and handcuffs. Their badges hung down their chests on beaded dog-tag chains.
The tallest of the plainclothes deputies, Jail Supervisor Michael Kepley, whispered instructions to each deputy. The deputies then took strategic positions around the courtroom. Kepley sat in the last seat of the last row of the spectator area, positioned to observe the whole room at a glance. Only a few of the people in that courtroom knew that Kepley had already been targeted for murder by the Mexican Mafia. He was on a “greenlight” list, a hit list issued by “shotcallers”—Eme members or Associates with the power to issue orders at that high level. (The capitalized term “Associate” is the official California Department of Corrections designation for a person who has been taken into the confidence of the Eme and is doing work for them. Elsewhere in this book, “associate” is used with its conventional meaning.)
The fact that the custody detail felt that so much firepower was necessitated by eight shackled men—who had to perform yogic contortions just to scratch an itch—made it clear that these were no average street thugs. Javier “Gangster” Marquez was already serving a life sentence for prior homicides. Marquez was also reputed to be a newly-minted brother in the Mexican Mafia, what the Eme calls a “Carnal.” Anthony “Tonito” Medina was serving a sixty-five-year sentence for a revenge killing—not gang-related, but what the gangsters call a “personal.” Tonito also hated cops. While a fugitive for that prior killing, Medina was arrested for pointing a laser-sighted Glock 9 mm at two LAPD officers during a traffic stop. The youngest of the eight, twenty-year-old Richard “Lil Pee Wee” Aguirre, was charged with four homicides, the first of which he’d committed at age fifteen. Most of the eight defendants had nothing to lose, and the deputies were there to make sure that if any of them got brave, the consequences would be terminal.
Between them, the eight Avenues homies now sitting in the jury box were being prosecuted for seven homicides. The atmosphere among the defendents was nevertheless jovial. When Randall “Jo Jo” Rodriguez, at thirty-three the oldest of the eight, made eye contact with his mother, Connie, and tried by facial gestures and lip reading to communicate, one of the deputies stepped in front of him and said, “No talking.” Connie turned to the other spectators and shook her head, finding some sympathy with other families but getting a stony look from Kepley in the back seat. Connie’s a gray-haired mother of twelve with thirty-two grandchildren she rarely sees. Jo Jo is her youngest child.
Richie “Lil Pee Wee” Aguirre tried to engage the deputy nearest him in a conversation about baseball. The deputy told him to shut up. Pee Wee turned to Gerardo “Criminal” Reyes, to his left but separated by two seats, and mouthed something. Reyes cracked up, which sent a ripple of laughter through the spectators. With the deputies distracted, Scott “Gato” Gleason flashed two of the spectators the Avenues gang sign, the index and middle fingers pointed down with the thumb in between them to form the letter A. One of the two whispered loud enough for some sitting close by to hear, “Avenidas ‘til the wheels fall off.”
The man responsible for this gathering was Deputy District Attorney Anthony Manzella, an old-school DA with decades on the job and as keen to prosecute as he’d been when he was part of the Charles Manson prosecution team. Manzella was late and Judge Wesley wouldn’t appear until all the participants were in the room. Michael White, one of the eight defense lawyers asked where Manzella was. The clerk told him, “DA Manzella is wrapping up something else downstairs. We’re waiting, too.”
Manzella was double booked. He had an 8:30 court date on another case involving the homicide of Bernard Parks’s granddaughter, Lori Gonzalez. Manzella was prosecuting the shooter, Samuel Shabazz, and there was pressure on him to win it. Obviously, when the police chief’s own granddaughter is gunned down outside a Popeye’s Chicken in South LA, the city has PR issues to address. Manzella was the guy to do it, never mind that he was also prosecuting eight of the city’s toughest gangsters.
When he finally entered the courtroom with his assistant, Ruth Arvidson, all eyes turned to him. With a hint of the North Jersey accent that hangs on even after forty years in Los Angeles, Manzella looked around, smiled, and said, like a guy late for a lunch date with his pals, “You shouldna waited on my account.”
So began the biggest and most complex Mexican Mafia murder and conspiracy trial ever prosecuted by the Los Angeles District Attorney’s office. The motions and countermotions would continue for a year. The actual trial wouldn’t start for nearly a year after that. “Violence is swift,” Manzella said on his way out of court that afternoon. “Justice is glacial.”
