13 minute read
iN HIS OWN WORDS
OF THE NOTORIOUS CECIL JACKSON DRUG GANG
Currently serving a life term plus 145 years in federal prison, he tells his story of the drug trade, contracts on his life, & the fedreal investigation which lead up to his conviction.
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DEUCIE ROYAL TEE CHARLES HERRON SOUTHWEST CLICK SUPERNOVA ENTERTAINMENT
FEATURE ARTICLES: P1. iN HIS OWN WORDS:
The Cecil Jackson Story p7. Royal-Tee
get to know the front runner of Street Dreamaz Ent. P8. dEUCIE: qUEEN OF THE UNDAGRINDFounder OF SoLo Entertainment, HAS THE MUSIC WORLD IN HER POCKET P9. supernova camp: meet the artists of the supernova camp P17. SOUTHWEST CLICK: CONTINUING THE SOUTH’S HIP-HOP DOMINATION. P18. charles herron
starfleet recording’s heavy hitter
tHE USUAL SUSPECTS:I. gutta magazine organization - the fam P16. Up and comming artist - Alaze back cover. THE RAP UP:
Publisher La’Reuance Allen Graphic Design/Web Design/Layout Design Karon Mack, Christopher McKnight, Tyron Arrington, Mark Anthony Sales/Marketing Sandy Hudson Contributing Writers Amy Boteilho-jacobus aka white diamond, Erica Hill, Sandy Hudson Street Promotions Vernon Gilyard, Brian “Pep” McManus Editor
Trasha Black Photographers john strayhorne JL Concepts, Tyron Arrington, Sandy Hudson, Chris Jenkins Contributors Nick D, Dee Evans, Keisha Douglas, AJ Stoner, Doug Miller, F/L Bonding, Charlotte cares grandmothers, Tone X, J Vanderhorst, Deucie, Charles Herron
from drug sales to jail cell, the legendary leader of the “cecil jackson drug gang” tells all. leader of gang gets life
5 others sentenced in trafficking case
In 1990, United States District Court Judge Robert “Maximum Bob” Potter sentenced me, a young, twenty two year old African American male, to the terms of life plus an additional one hundred forty five years in a federal prison. The charges stemmed from violating statues US 21 848 “Continuing a Criminal Enterprise”. This highly rated charge is viewed as a “kingpin charge,” which has been passed to certain inmates like mafia members and drug cartel leaders. Basically, it fits the criteria of a drug dealer who has been determined to be the head of a drug group or crew by either confessing that he is the leader or by a number of co-defendants pointing them out as the leader. That was why the initial life term was handed down. The additional term of one hundred forty five years was handed down for the conviction of 13 counts of possessing, carrying, and using a firearm during/while committing a drug offense. At the time of my conviction and extreme sentencing, I was barely old enough to drink an alcoholic beverage. Authorities claimed that I organized and headed one of the most ruthless drug gangs that the city of Charlotte had ever witnessed, estimating a $35,000 weekly profit in selling twenty dollar bags of crack for two years. They also alleged that the gang that I headed used brute and excessive force to protect our drugs and our drug profits. The government painted a picture where they alleged that we also used that force to intimidate drug rivals and people in the communities with the goal of increasing power and gain respect. (What would you do if contracts were out on your head and people were trying to blow you up with homemade bombs.) In a mere sense, those were just tremendous catalysts to help seal my young fate. It was a well propelled fabricated scheme to instill in the minds of the public that I was an extreme danger and menace to society deserving to be locked up for the rest of my life alongside the likes of the Bloods and Crips gang members, world renowned Mafia members, international terrorists in which I have exceeded in prison length for the crimes committed. (Statistics show 192,179 inmates are housed in the United States federal facilities.)
Although, this experience in prison has been a most intriguing and challenging one, it has yet to break me mentally as otherwise designed. Instead, it has made me stronger, a lesson well deserved learned, and mentally aware enabling me to share my story with GUTTA Magazine. I hope to give a constructive insight on the fairy tale, quick hustle come up that from which almost no one escapes and to deter our young adults and generations from the crime plagued streets of today.
We’re in such a day when unfortunately the street culture has been glorified and commercialized to such a degree that it has now captured not only the hearts and minds of the black inner city communities, but also the well-to-do ones who marvel at the gangster and thug label that is swallowing the hopes of our younger generation. To visualize the lifestyle is one thing, but understanding the consequences that are heavily at risk is the major factor in this game. Reaping the repercussions of your actions is the most important need of this national negative culture as well as determining the ones who are in reality truly living the American Dream by benefiting the most from this love affair with the streets.
What I will display is the life of a so called gangster or thug. But what you don’t know is that this particular lifestyle is much deeper than it appears to be on the surface and so misunderstood by many who seek it and don’t even understand that their freedom and well-being are at risk. Warning! There will be no need to understand the concept once you have entered the system because by then it is too late. Once the net is tossed and you are caught up in it, there is nothing you can do.
I tell this story from the perspective of someone whose intent is not to glorify the game, especially when it seems like we are winning because the money, the cars, and the women are hollering our names. Instead, I will give you the real and affirmative account from someone who has experienced it first hand and is now paying the price. I will give you the concept of how the game initially was portrayed in the south but which has now turned into a court system craze. My price is too high regardless of whether or not I was guilty or innocent of the charges in which I was convicted and sentenced. Unfortunately for me, I was misinformed, ignorant, and blind to the fact that it was going to last forever. This is what the game was really about. This was nothing short of a design by the real gangsters, the United States Government. So mainly in this writings, I explore not the side of getting easy money and women because if you heard one dope boy story you have heard them all. Instead the side seldom told is of the realities and pitfalls of living a lifestyle where one rises only to fall. Not only read my story, but read between the lines of the trials and tribulations of my come up. Read between the lines of the shoot-outs. And read between the lines of my sentencing and conviction. Even though you may not have gone through the system, it is likely that a relative, a family member, a friend, or maybe someone you have heard of has and will experience the same trials of the federal court system. My Story. February 1967, I was born the eldest of four children all raised by my mother on Charlotte, North Carolina’s lower west side in one of the neighboring housing projects known as Pitts Drive. This area made a strong and healthy name for itself. We all know as the oldest, you are to be an example to your siblings and I was to a certain degree. The area was a low income, single parenting, and drug infested neighborhood for most that lived there. Almost like every other housing project throughout the nation, it had its share of black on black crimes which could be viewed daily and it was heavy with unemployment. The run down housing complexes were renovated like every fifty years it seems. You broke a window; it took them thirty days to come fix it. The grass was cut once a month. When we tossed the football around, we had to be careful where we threw it. If we threw it too hard or too far it might hit the wet clothes that were hung out on the neighbors clothing lines. In my hood, there was little or no fathers present. Either your father came and went or he was not there at all. The holidays were a mere joke especially Christmas. The gifts from the local salvation or Goodwill were not as exciting as the toys would have been from K-Mart. My siblings and I played with our neighborhood friends everyday. Basketball,
football, and baseball were fun, but there was nothing like walking the local creek for no reason at all on a hot summer’s day. Playing knock, knock zoom, zoom (where you would knock on the neighbor’s door and run before they answered.)
By the tender age of 10, the constant sirens of police, fire, and medic became tunes to my ears to where we were simply immune. Sometimes we heard them so much, that when we didn’t hear them we felt lost. Yellow is my least favorite color due to the fact of all the yellow tape I saw marking off crime scenes in my neighborhood from the night before. The gunshots! Who can forget the gunshots? They were more common than anything on Pitts Drive. After the last night gunshots came the sirens. Though we were pretty normal kids in a sense of participating in the same activities as any other kids, there were things that separated us. As we got older, we were somewhat advanced. The games got old as we were getting older, which meant our young minds started exploring what was going with the older crowds in the projects. So my younger brothers and I paid strong attention to what we were seeing; the constant exposure to the negative criminal element as the drug dealers, gambling, and the violence that the community was offering us. There was a particular incident as a kid I have never forgotten. While my friends, my brothers, and I were playing sandlot football, we all witnessed a man shot to death with a 30/30, a highly powerful deer hunting rifle over a parking space. After observing the man’s lifeless body fall helplessly to the pavement, we walked up to the dead man only to view the gruesome sight of blood pouring from his body and the insides hanging from his body loosely. The black shirt that was on the man as he lay on the ground turned burgundy that quick. His eyes were closed as if he was sleeping but we all knew he was dead. I noticed that his pants were soaked by his groan area. But the area was of a clear color and not blood. Personally, I did not know either of the men. To this day, the thoughts of him lying on the ground remains as one of the most unforgettable memories for me and my friends who witnessed the ordeal. The up close and personal sight was the first for me but was far from the last. I guess for someone to loose their life over something as small and insignificant as a parking space should give you something to think about. Not us, we absorbed what was in front of us for good and bad and went on about our business. Nevertheless, despite the experiences as a kid, with my mother’s guidance I got off to a good start. I was average in my academics and played various sports due to the fact I was taller than most of the kids my age. I was basically doing everything expected of me at a young age. But I was always looking for something to satisfy this hunger I was experiencing. It was not puberty, but the thought of something more outside of the Pitts Drive Housing Projects. I thought indulging in sports would crave it, but it only fueled my soul to a certain degree. However, with the teenage years came the rebellion which is somewhat common in almost every household. With the lack of a strong, black positive role model to instill the guidance I needed to stay on the right track, this part of my life was easy to journey away. Eventually, I strayed away from the guidance and advice of my mother by the time I was 14. Easily being influenced by what I had already endured and what I was witnessing, I quickly gravitated toward the streets where the very people I should have been avoiding were located. The drug dealers and hustlers of the community became my role models. Emulated and fascinated with the things they had the cars, the clothes, the jewelry, and the women. All those things were what I wanted for myself and what I had been craving. Being persuaded by the daily things I saw, I then convinced my inner self that the game was where I wanted to be. I entered the game, my hand was dealt, and I was going to play to win. It was the mid eighties when I was roughly 16 or 17 when marijuana (weed) was the big and profitable drug of choice. The nation along with the rest of the world was smoking it (97.8% of today’s nation has at least tried marijuana.) Eventually, as is typical of many inner city kids who grow up in a community infested with drugs, violence, and crime; me being a product of the environment and also attracted to the lifestyle and the potential to get fast and easy money, my decision was made. In 1986, I ditched high school where I was a sophomore member of the varsity basketball team and quit my daytime job where I worked at the local corner store. For me of course, my days of scrubbing floors for that little or nothing pay was over. When I ditched school, I would cycle back to the projects to watch as the hustlers would conduct their drug transactions. I started out as a holder (someone who holds the drugs in case the police would roll up.) I would stand away from the hustlers until they needed me to come re-up them. In my new job, I was making fifty dollars a day. Then it seemed I was promoted quickly to full-time employment. My promotion consisted of me conducting hand to hand transactions making a real profit. I would get a weed package of nicks ($5 nickel baggies of weed stuffed in to small brown envelopes) from my supplier (one of the older hustlers in the hood) and sell it at profit. (Continued on p.11)
