There are things Andre Ford regrets. Dealing dope, mostly. There's no future in it; that's what he would tell his kids.
They visit him sometimes. He's at the federal penitentiary in Beaumont, which isn't too far of a drive. Unless he can somehow get the 5th Circuit Court in New Orleans to hear his appeal--it's already been rejected once--he'll be here until 2020.
From the gangster scrapbook: More than 100
documented gang members had ties to Cymbal Drive.
Many, including some of those pictured here, were never
suspected of selling drugs on the block; others had a
heavy presence on the street.
Andre Ford was the founder of the Underground Nigger
Crips.
His was one of the heaviest sentences. Didn't make sense: They got him on an amount of crack cocaine he had never even seen, he says. Part of a conspiracy, they said.
Shoot, it was no conspiracy. It was every man for himself.
Still, he's not as bad off as Donald Banks. Banks wasn't even on the street during most of the undercover buys. He was locked up on a state charge. And still, they included him in this so-called conspiracy. He got 30 years, probably because he made the federal government go through the trouble of bringing him to trial. The way Banks figured it, that was his constitutional right. Same with Fields. All but one of the other gang members agreed to a plea bargain.
Ford still keeps in touch with some of them, Fields and the Leatch brothers mostly, as well as the ones in Fort Worth. Toothpick, he got sent clear out to California. Don't know why.
He tries not to think about how much time 20 years in prison is. He'll be almost 50 years old when he gets out, his kids grown. Best not to think about that. Best not to think about being forgotten.
Best to stay busy. During the day he works in the prison factory, making helmets for the army, and at night he reads, novels mostly, but also law books.
Sometimes he writes letters or talks to his girls on the phone. They're now 10 and 11 and live with their mother. They're doing good. His parents help out a lot. His parents are good people. "A lot of people stereotype people in a gang saying that they don't get love at home and all that. I mean, I had two parents at home, and I have a loving family, man, I just, I don't know," he says, chuckling. "I don't know."
He worries about his little boy, who's about to turn 6. He's growing up in the same neighborhood he did, with all the same temptations. He hopes he can be strong, that he won't end up in a place like this. That's all he can do now--hope.
These days, Victoria Navajas can park her car in the front if she wants. There are still bullet holes in her walls but little else to remind her of what the street once was.
She steps outside, pointing to the step where she once found someone dead. She points out the houses gang members used to control. No longer are they marred by graffiti and chipping paint. Now they are occupied by friendly neighbors.
Across the street, a man in a tank top is tending to his garden. A couple walks by with a baby in a stroller. On this late April morning Cymbal Drive is, above all else, quiet.
She goes back inside. There are the bars she put over her windows. Here is where she would cower, under this desk, when she heard gunfire. Upstairs, that's where the police put one of their cameras.
She looks toward the backyard, where she more or less lived during those years. She can smile at the memory. She points through the trees, at a big dilapidated two-story house. She's seen a lot of traffic there lately. Crack whores too. The other night one of them, looking for a fix, propositioned her boyfriend. The smile fades from her face. She knows what it all means. They're coming back.
Streets like Cymbal don't belong to anyone. Sometimes the police are on top, sometimes the gangsters are on top, and sometimes, if you're lucky, the street is quiet.
