DRUG TRADE HAS AN ALLURING PULL

Those Who've Seen Its Destruction Long For A Way To Make The Myths Disappear

[Sidebar: It ain't worth it. Your life is constantly on the line. Other
thugs are constantly gunning for you. And a lot of times, this ain't about
you thinking, 'I want to be a criminal.' Most of the time it's about just
making it.]

- - Jermel Gordon, imprisoned drug dealer

On a Sunday evening a few weeks ago, a 5-year-old boy darted into the
street in front of his north side home and was struck by a car.

The boy was seriously hurt, and paramedics had to cut away his clothing to
get to his injuries. They were alarmed to find small amounts of white
powder in plastic bags tucked into his socks.

The paramedics believed that they'd found illegal drugs, police sources
say, and outraged investigators initially thought the boy was being used by
an adult as a drug "mule."

But the truth was almost more outrageous: The stuff in the bags turned out
to be baking soda, not drugs. And the boy later told police he was
imitating the "older boys" he'd seen in a park near his home, packaging and
hiding on their persons little bags of white powder.

It's a powerful lure, the drug-dealer lifestyle. But why? The news is
filled with stories of drug-related shootings, young men sent to prison for
their entire lives, users' lives destroyed.

Maybe because movies and videos depict the other side: the wealth, success
and power of big-time dealers.

Four men who have seen the street drug life from practical, social,
spiritual and academic sides paused recently to debunk what they insist are
myths about the lifestyle. But in the end, they all asked, will their
insights matter?

A prisoner's tale Jermel Gordon, 29, insists that stories like that of the
5-year-old copycat are proof that the life of a drug dealer is no life at
all - and definitely not worth imitating.

"It ain't like Tony (Montana)," Gordon said in an interview, referring to
Al Pacino's flamboyant, high-rolling drug kingpin in the movie "Scarface."

He should know.

Gordon, who began selling drugs in the Chicago area when he was barely 16,
doesn't have a limousine or a Porsche. He's not wearing Versace, and he
doesn't live in a Miami Beach mansion.

Gordon has been in prison for the past seven years and is currently living
at the Felmers Chaney (pre-release) Correctional Center, 2825 N. 30th St.

But as drug dealers go, Gordon was once marginally successful. He built a
large clientele, including many people from the west side Chicago
neighborhood where he grew up.

He made a little money but lost more. He made a few friends but gained even
more enemies.

The money he earned brought slight improvement to his lifestyle and that of
his family and friends. But the drugs he sold ruined the lives of more
people. He watched a neighborhood family get evicted from their home
because the single mother had stopped paying rent, he said.

"She was spending all her money on drugs," Gordon said, many of which she
bought from him.

Gordon watched a longtime friend wither away at age 19 from using
exorbitant amounts of crack cocaine . . . some of which Gordon gave him.

"This life is no good. It hurts. I've been through it," he said. "I wish I
could tell these young folks, especially the ones who don't come from the
rough life, that it ain't what they think. It ain't worth it. Your life is
constantly on the line. Other thugs are constantly gunning for you. And a
lot of times, this ain't about you thinking, 'I want to be a criminal.'
Most of the time it's about just making it."

Harold Moore has heard Gordon's story before.

"You could interchange hundreds of names with his story, and they'd all
start and end the same," said Moore, pastor of Mercy Memorial Baptist
Church, 3233 W. Lloyd St. in Milwaukee's Metcalfe Park neighborhood.

Gordon's words had special meaning to Moore, as Moore and other
neighborhood leaders reflected on the May 1 execution-style slayings of
three men, all under the age of 23.

James C. Mitchell Jr., 19, Jejuan Brown, 20, and Willie Figures Jr., 22,
were shot in the head as they slept in their apartment at 2627 N. 35th St.

Robert Kidd, 35, who has since been charged with second-degree homicide for
two of the shootings, told police the men menaced him over a debt of about
$150 for drugs he'd bought from them on credit. He also said at least one
of them sexually assaulted him and that he feared his victims would kill
him first.

Sources in the Police Department also said that Kidd figured he could
cancel his debt if he canceled his dealers.

Rev. Moore's lament Moore said he talks to street-level drug dealers all
the time, and that many things never change: "They're not making money,
they're just surviving. Many of them didn't have to do this but now that
they're in, it's tough to get out. And the ones that find themselves stuck
realize too late that there are no benefits and no retirement plan in their
'industry.' "

The reality is that the average dealer earns little more than minimum wage,
Moore said, adding that the honest ones admit their paltry earnings, when
he can get them to pause and add up the hours and effort they spend to move
their product.

"I've had the girlfriends come to me asking for (financial) help, saying
they needed money to buy formula for their baby or to pay their electric
bill. Do you think they would've had to do that if their boyfriends were
high-rolling drug dealers?"

Street-level drug dealers are like high school athletes, Moore said.

"Like one in a thousand high school athletes make it to the pros, right?"
he said. "Well, the same can be said for these guys. Most struggle for
little money. One in a thousand might make enough money and be organized
enough to buy the nice new car and house. But definitely not most."

One of the more successful silver screen drug dealers ever was Wesley
Snipes' character Romillo Skuggs from the 1994 film "Sugar Hill."

But Skuggs had a business degree from Harvard.

"Believe it or not, it's the business aspect" that sinks most young
dealers, said Johnny Ferguson, director of community organizing for the
Lisbon Avenue Neighborhood Development Corp. "These kids don't understand
the nature of the business, especially the ones who didn't come from a
rough life growing up or a terribly dysfunctional family."

Under normal business rules of consignment, a supplier, like a wholesaler,
advances product to a "retailer" with the understanding that he can
conditionally return the unsold portions to the supplier at the end of a
set period of time.

Drug dealers and their suppliers don't have so pleasant a relationship,
though, when it comes to unsold product.

"OK, a supplier gives one of these naive kids a certain amount of cocaine,
say a kilo," said Ferguson, a lifelong inner-city Milwaukee resident. "This
kid takes it out, thinking the stuff is going to jump out of his hands. It
doesn't. He has to work really hard, putting in long, crazy hours, and at
the end of the week, when the supplier wants his money, this kid has only
sold half of that product.

"Now the supplier is angry. He gave that kid the drugs on consignment. And
the way he sees it, that kid wasted some of his time and money, 'cause
someone else could've been moving the other half of that product. So not
only does the supplier want the rest of that drug sold as quickly as
possible, now he wants to act like a loan shark and penalize the kid for
not selling it all fast enough. You see the vicious cycle? It keeps going,
till the kid is so far in the hole to the supplier that he's trapped. If he
does try to get away before he's paid off his 'debt,' he'll probably get
made an example of."

If a young dealer does get lucky and becomes the "one-in-a-thousand guy,"
he becomes a target for every other neighborhood dealer and even some
customers, Ferguson said. "It's like king of the hill. Who's going to knock
off the king?"

Tumbling down Ferguson has seen the king of the hill get knocked off, and
not just in the movies.

As a teenager and high school student on Milwaukee's north side, he watched
Leonard Ross flourish, but not immediately, as a drug dealer.

"He was a decent student. He played football. He was a popular guy,"
Ferguson said. "Then he thought he could just dabble in the life. He
thought he could make it big. Unfortunately for him, he did make it big."

Milwaukee Police Department sources estimate that at one point Ross was
moving as much as $150,000 to $200,000 in cocaine each week.

In the mid-1980s, Ross became king of the hill on Milwaukee's north side
before he was 26. Then, four of his own soldiers turned on him. At 29, Ross
was found facedown in bed. He'd been shot in the back.

"No matter how much you hear about (Ross), I'm always amazed that all you
hear about is the money, the cars, the jewelry," Ferguson said. "You never
hear about the other side. The fact that you can trust no one, and that you
can never relax. Ross trusted some people in this game. You never hear
about the gruesome details of how he ended up."

Power and respect R.L. McNeely, a University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee social
welfare professor and attorney, has studied drug-dealer life for decades.

"It might surprise you, but power and respect mean more in this game than
money," he said.

"The ultimate appeal is based on the simple fact that most of these young
people - for whatever reason, no matter what their backgrounds - are
convinced that they cannot make it in mainstream society."

Having control over something that's dangerous and in high demand creates
an awesome sense of power, McNeely said.

The proof to that theory may actually be in the fact that the average
street-level dealer makes so little money, he said.

"To you and me, if all you're earning is minimum wage, the natural question
is, 'Why not flip burgers or bag groceries for it?' And the answer to that
question is the question in reverse," McNeely said. "These young people are
thinking, 'If I'm only going to make this much money, I may as well have
some excitement while doing it. Who wants to work fast-food?' "

Wanting out Perhaps the saddest element of the game is the growing number
of young people who want out, Moore, McNeely and Ferguson agreed.

"I can't tell you how many times I've had these young men come to me and
say, 'Pastor, if you can help me find a legitimate job, I'll stop this,' "
Moore said. "The problem is, though, so many people talk a big game, but no
one is willing to actually step up and take a chance on one of these kids.
. . . These kids have dealt drugs; they didn't finish high school, many of
them; and they have no marketable job skills.

"We have professionals, business people - smart people, who don't even see
that they're making a judgment call that it's less risky to let these kids
continue dealing and dabbling than to help them out with real work.

"It tears me up inside each time I have to look another one of these young
men in the eye and say, 'I'm sorry. I tried, but I just couldn't find
anyone this time.' "

McNeely insists that even if employers would take a chance, most low-paying
jobs won't be enough to hold that youth's attention for very long.

"When you get somebody a minimum-wage job, if you think that's gonna
straighten them out you're sadly mistaken," he said. "It takes a clearly
defined career path that they can progress on if they keep out of trouble.
Without that path laid out so as to convince these kids that one day they,
too, can lead a normal, healthy life, the job is too little and often too
late."

Gordon, who has been training to be a carpenter in anticipation of his
release from prison later this year, agreed. Jobs with benefits, training
and possible advancement are being arranged for him by corrections officials.

"I see where I can take this," he said. "I've learned a real skill, and I
can use it. It sounds simple, but that's what I needed. I needed to see
some light down the road and convince myself after seeing it that I can
make it legit."