What happens when a writer comes face-to-face with a young criminal, who loves boasting about his illicit antics? Plenty, as two people from different backgrounds, try to reach an understanding, with interesting results.
Slamming his brother's head against the canvass, the boy, eyes flashing and sweating profusely, dared his hapless opponent to get up. Teeth clinched, fist drawn, the first punch caught the frightened teen on the left side of his face, creating a bruise. The next punch landed on his stomach, causing him to tumble to the ground. It was then that he lost consciousness. Fifteen minutes later, the teen was transported to the hospital. Luckily, he would survive, but would forever be branded a victim of what law enforcement officials call youth violence gone wild.
The perpetrator in this case is *Leddy "Mad dog" Crawford, 17. Standing 6'3" and weighing 227 pounds, he is the persona of youthful rebellion gone awry. Moreover, since the Florida native has been in and out of juvenile detention centers since the age of 13, experts contend Leddy is one of juvenile violence's greatest salesmen.
As a writer who has interviewed dozens of juveniles, Leddy's mom asked me to talk to him, in an attempt to get her violent offspring to change his criminal behavior.
Thoroughly convinced he was among violence's greatest salesmen, based on his reputation and braggadocio attitude, I wanted to see if this knife- wielding, gun-toting- hoodlum was tough enough to go one-on-one with this veteran writer.
Getting inside this young man's head, I told myself, would perpetuate me into another dominion, and make me a legend among the thugs who prowl the streets at nights looking for a reason to commit a crime. In other words, I was scared to death, but determined to get my story.
To bolster my credentials, I vowed that under no circumstances would I let Leddy intimidate me, no matter what he did or said. Convinced that I was ready to do battle, I prepared to meet the infamous Leddy Crawford.
The meeting was set for Friday, my favorite day of the week. And although it was three days away, I was beginning to feel like a lion in the jungle, fearless and ready for battle. As Friday drew near and the hours ticked away, at 6:18 p.m., I found myself standing on a corner, known for criminal activity.
Staring at a broken bottle, I heard footsteps. Seconds later I turned and peered into the reddest pair of eyes, I've ever had the displeasure of looking into. It was Leddy, and the rest of him was just as intimidating. Taking note of his demeanor, I knew that one wrong move could tick this boy off. Exhibiting no outward signs of being frightened, I felt a slight queasiness in the pit of my stomach.
Extending my hand to Leddy, he declined to shake it, instead he brushed against me. Realizing he was testing me to see if I was afraid of him, it was then that I realized that he was just a boy, albeit a violent one. Looking at his head covered by a blue bandana I said inwardly, "This is a child of whom I am no more afraid of than a puppy."
As Leddy stared me down, never once did I flinch, instead I maintained my composure. Realizing I was not afraid of him, Leddy unclenched his fist. Delighted that I had broken the tension, it was time to find out why this hulking was one of violence's greatest salesmen. It didn't take long.
Reaching into his pocket, I waited, anticipating what he would pull out. Expecting to see a gun, imagine my surprise when a pack of cigarettes appeared in his left hand. "Leddie," I began, "why do you insist on hurting people? I mean what's your problem? What does crime do for you?" Wearing a frown as wide as the Mississippi River he proceeded to answer. "It ain't all about that. It's about survival. Out here on the streets you gotta be tough. That's how you survive."
Feeling I should get the chance to know him better, I then asked about his parents. "Hey lady, I made a deal with my moms and pops." " What's that?" I asked, looking him straight in the eye. "I told them that if they didn't bother me, I wouldn't bother them. If they mess in my business, I'll take em out," he says almost apologetically. "It's like that uh?" I said nodding my head. "Yeah, it's like that" he says laughing.
At that moment I wanted to delve into Leddy's mind, with the intent of learning as much about this walking advertisement for violence as possible. Flinching, Leddy reached under his shirt and began rubbing his chest. With a look on his face signifying pain, I asked him what was wrong. Pulling his shirt over his head, it was then that I noticed the puncture marks, which resembled bullet wounds.
"How many times have you been shot?" At first he didn't answer, then moving his hand over his chest he shouted, "Why you wanna know?" Reiterating that my purpose in talking to him was to find out what made him tick, I replied, "Calm down Leddy, I'm just doing my job."
He calmed down long enough to answer. "I've been shot five times." Expecting me to be surprised, he then concluded I was not there to attack him, but to uncover the truth regarding his behavior.
As he began to open up, I learned that he had seen it all and did it all. The first time he did crack he was 11. Now he sells it. As for his penchant for violence, he says that was ignited when he saw blood streaming from a transient's face, after beating the man with a baseball bat. "Why would you beat someone with a bat?" I asked, not bothering to hide my revulsion. "Because he tried to make a punk out of me. And I ain't down with being no man's bed mattress," he says, lighting a cigarette.
Having lived on the streets for the past ten months; where he robs, sells drugs and terrorizes people, I asked Leddy if he ever thought about returning to school. "Hell no," he says matter-of-factly. "Besides, what can school teach me that I don't already know?" Pointing to a syringe on the ground he says, "This here is the streets. No what I'm saying? I don't need a diploma to teach me how to survive out here."
Surrounded by sex, drugs and violence; I asked Leddy if he anticipated on having a normal life. "For me this is normal," he says. "Getting high is normal. Robbing is normal. Stabbing is normal. Looking for someone to attack is normal." Noting the quivering in his voice he concluded, "You may not like it, but this is all I know."
With the jagged scar on his throat, glistening like gold, Leddy told me he's been doing wrong so long, he wouldn't know right if it bit him in the butt. "I get off on hurting people." When asked if he was afraid of dying he just laughed. "Dying doesn't scare me, but living does." Asked to explain his offbeat comment, he responded, "You see if I die I don't know nothing about it. Because I'm dead, I'm outta here. That's why I'm gonna live until I die. And that's why I'm warning everybody out there, that I live to hurt people."
"How about prison, are you afraid of that?" I asked. "No, if I go, I go," he says vehemently. "Besides, I'm too smart to get caught up in that racket." Not believing what I was hearing, I reminded him that thousands of people thought they were too smart to get caught, only to end up in jail and/or prison. However Leddy was convinced he was different. Maybe he is, but I don't think so.
With the meeting over, I stood up and extended my hand. This time he took it. And as I watch him walk away, I couldn't help thinking, somewhere a mother prays for her child to abandon his violent lifestyle and come home. However, for Leddy's mom, it's another night of hoping, praying and waiting.
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