Chapter 3 - Concrete Jungle
Months into the sentence
The weight room in juvie smells like sweat, disinfectant, and barely contained rage. I'm pushing iron, feeling the burn in my shoulders as I bench more than most grown men. Six months behind these walls taught me that respect don't come from conversation—it comes from breaking jaws.
Seven broken jaws, to be exact. Seven different punks who thought the White Menace was just some street legend, till they met the concrete floor face-first. Now I run this place like I ran Overtown. Got my own crew, territory marked, and enough fear spread around that nobody tests me anymore.
The guards know the score too. Took some cash to grease the right palms, but now I got a cell phone hidden in my cell and access to the weight room whenever I want. Money talks, even behind bars.
Word from the outside is solid. Ace and Blaze been holding it down real tight. Couple of crews tried to muscle in on our territory while I was locked up, thinking Young Menace was finished. They learned different. My boys put three fools in the hospital and sent the rest running with their tails tucked. Business been booming—college kids still want their party supplies, and we're still the only suppliers they trust.
I'm mid-rep when Jamie slides up to my bench. White kid, maybe fifteen, been rolling with me since his second week inside. Found him getting jumped by some Zoe Pound wannabes, helped him settle the score permanent-like. Kid's got heart and a brain between his ears—rare combination in here.
"Cross, they want you in the ring," he says, using the name everyone calls me in here. "Match is starting."
I rack the weight, sit up. The boxing matches are unofficial, but the guards let it slide. Keeps us from killing each other in the cells, gives us something to focus on. Plus, I never lost one yet.
"Who's the sacrifice today?" I ask, wrapping my hands.
The makeshift ring is just tape on the floor in the common area, but it draws a crowd every time. Money changes hands, bets get placed. Smart money's always on me.
Today's opponent is some Puerto Rican kid from Liberty City who thinks he knows how to throw hands. Got decent form, keeps his guard tight, but he's fighting someone who learned to box where second place means a body bag.
Three minutes later, he's eating canvas and I'm walking away undefeated. Reputation intact, fear maintained.
Later that evening, Jamie finds me playing chess with some punk from Carol City. Kid's got that look—something's eating at him.
"Spit it out, J," I tell him, moving my queen into position.Jamie glances around, then leans closer.
"New fish came in today. White boy, maybe younger than us. Trey's crew's already sniffing around him like vultures."
I don't look up from the board—checkmate in two moves. "Since when you become the welcome committee?"
"Come on, Cross. Kid don't belong in here, you can see it from a mile away. And you know how Trey operates—he's gonna turn that boy into his personal punk if nobody stops it."
That gets my attention. Trey Washington runs the biggest crew after mine, mostly Crips and wannabes from different hoods. We got an understanding—mutual respect, stay out of each other's business. But if he's targeting white kids, that's stepping on my territory.
"I ain't running no charity, J."
"I know, I know. But I hate that fat piece of shit, and this kid... he reminds me of my little brother."There it is. Jamie never talks about family, but that slip tells me everything. Kid's got a soft spot, and maybe that ain't such a bad thing in a place like this.
"Alright," I decide, standing up and abandoning my chess game. "Let's go meet your new friend. Rico, Devon—y'all come with us."
We find Trey's crew in their usual spot near the TV area. Sure enough, they got some scared-looking white boy backed into a corner. Kid can't be more than fourteen, still got that suburban softness written all over him.The common room goes quiet as we approach. Everyone knows the dynamic—Cross and Trey keep the peace, but cross that line and bodies drop.
"Yo, Trey," I call out, walking straight into his space like I own it. Because in here, I basically do.Trey turns, gold teeth flashing. He's big—but size don't mean much when you're fighting someone who feel pain.
"Cross," he says, voice neutral. "What you need?"
"Heard there's fresh meat in the building. Thought I'd come introduce myself."His smile fades.
"This here's gang business, white boy. Keep stepping."
The temperature in the room drops ten degrees. Everyone stops what they're doing. Trey just crossed a line he can't uncross.
I take a step closer, let my voice drop to that whisper that makes hard men nervous. "You sure you wanna play it like that, fat man? Been getting soft lately, might need some exercise."
Trey's crew shifts behind him, hands moving toward makeshift weapons, but they remember what happened to the last fools who tested me. Seven broken jaws don't lie.
The standoff stretches for what feels like forever. Finally, Trey's survival instincts kick in.
"Yo, Marcus," he calls to one of his boys. "Bring the new fish over here."
One of his crew members hesitates. "Trey, man—"
"Bring him," Trey cuts him off, voice tight with barely controlled anger.
Smart choice. Today ain't the day to die over some scared white boy.
The kid they push forward looks like he's about to piss himself. Pale, skinny, probably never been in a real fight in his life. Definitely don't belong in a cage with animals.
"Name," I say, keeping my voice level.
"Huh?" Kid's voice cracks like he's going through puberty.
Jamie steps up, tone gentler. "What's your name, man?"
"E-Ethan," he stammers, can barely get the words out.
"What'd you do to end up in here, Ethan?"
"It was an accident," he rushes out. "I accidentally hit an old man with my bike."I raise an eyebrow.
"He dead?"
"No! No, he's fine. Just some scratches, that's all."
"Then why you sitting in juvie instead of doing community service?"
Ethan's face crumples. "The man was rich, I guess. Had connections or whatever. He said I broke his hand, but I barely even touched him."
Jamie shakes his head. "Rich folks got different rules, man. That's some bullshit."
"How much time they give you?" I ask.
"Three months."
"Lucky little shit," Jamie mutters. "I got two years."
"One year for me," I add, then notice the kid's getting curious, fear starting to fade.
"What you wanna know?"
The kid actually looks me in the eye for the first time. "What did you do?"
I let the silence stretch, watch him squirm a little, then break into a grin. "Fired some shots in the air. Scared some civilians. Had good lawyers, so I caught a break."
Jamie jumps in, voice taking on a menacing edge just to mess with the kid. "Beat two bullies half to death. Put them both in the hospital for months."
Ethan goes white as fresh snow.We both crack up, can't help it. Kid's reactions are priceless.
"Relax, Princess," I tell him, clapping him on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble.
"You gonna get eaten alive in here if you jump every time someone looks at you wrong. Grow some backbone, or somebody's gonna rip it out for you."
The kid nods rapidly, still scared but maybe starting to understand that not everyone here wants to hurt him.
"Stick with us," Jamie adds. "Cross runs this place. Long as you're rolling with our crew, ain't nobody gonna mess with you."
I nod agreement. Kid reminds me of myself when I first hit the system—young, scared, but with something underneath that might grow into strength given time.
"You eat with us, you work out with us, you sleep where we can see you," I tell him. "Follow those rules and you'll walk out of here in three months same as you walked in. Break them..."
I let the threat hang in the air.
Ethan swallows hard but nods. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet, kid. Thank me when you're walking free."
As we head back to our section, I catch Trey's eye one more time. He got the message loud and clear—the white boy's under my protection now. Touch him, and we got problems.In juvie, that's as good as a death certificate.
To be continued...