“Mr. Davis, again, I want to explain to you why I’m accepting this binding thirty-nine months’ confinement. You have a serious offense here. Possession of a firearm by a convicted felon is a serious offense and I think in looking at the 3553(a) factors, I have to take that into consideration, the history and characteristics of the defendant, and also deterrence. You are not supposed to have a firearm. I also look at the overall record and looking at everything—the factors and the presentence report—I find this to be an appropriate and reasonable sentence under the circumstances. Now, the sentence you are going to receive, the rest of it I’m going to tell you about in a minute . . .
“You are still a young man. You still have a full life in front of you. From what I’ve been told by my nieces and nephews, you have a very famous life. But I’m an old man and I’ve seen a lot of things in these years and I’ve seen a lot of famous people lose out in life. And I won’t go down the list. I’m sure your lawyers can tell you who they are. I’ve seen a lot of famous athletes, a lot of famous people in music, movie stars. If they continue—if you continue down the track you continue down, you are going to be like a lot of them. You are going to wake up one morning broke. You are going to wake up one morning back in prison again. Or worse, you’re not going to wake up at all one morning.
“You have a talent. Again I apologize, I’m still a Four Tops guy. It’s hard to keep up. I’ve been trying to find out more things. According to my nieces and nephews you have a great career in front of you. You’ve got a prison term that you’ve got to do and after that you are still a young man. You can do a lot if you abide by and follow the law.
“The law applies to everybody. No matter who you are, what you do, the law applies to you. It applies to me. It applies to Ms. Dammers. It applies to the agents. To your attorneys Mr. Findling, Mr. Singer-Capek. Everybody in this room. You follow it, and again from what I’ve been told you have a lot you can get done.”
Thirty-nine months. No surprises there. I’d agreed to it as part of a plea deal I’d accepted back in May.
While the judge, Ms. Dammers, and my lawyers went on to review the terms of my confinement and probation period, I started doing the math. A calculation I’d made a thousand times since they offered me that plea deal.
Thirty-nine months. I’d already served eleven, so that meant twenty-eight more. I could handle twenty-eight. Maybe only twenty-four if they let me serve the end of it on house arrest. Drew seemed certain we could make that happen. Twenty-four months. Two more years. Three total.
Give or take a few, thirty-nine months was about the amount of time I’d already spent locked up over the course of my life to date. But that time had been spread out over a series of different bids. Thirty-nine months straight up wasn’t going to be easy. But I could get through it. And when I got out I’d still have some time to make things right.
When I did come home I’d have to start moving a different way. I was getting another chance but this was the last one. They were making an example out of me this time. Next time they were throwing away the key. No room to make the same mistakes.
Good. Things had to be different this time. I’d already started making changes. But I wasn’t done. If I really wanted to start fresh I was going to have to find closure with everything that landed me here. Maybe I could do that in twenty-four months.
Talking about my life has not been easy. It’s been that way for a long time, really ever since I caught that murder charge right as I was getting my start in the rap game. I remember walking out of DeKalb County Jail the day I made bond and seeing the line of reporters waiting for me. I wondered how long they would follow me. I wondered how long the events of that night would follow me. That was such a strange time.
I hated doing interviews. I’d try to keep my composure but inside I’d be festering, fuming that people were putting me in a situation where I had to speak on things that were the last things I wanted to speak about. I’d tell myself to give them the benefit of the doubt. That these were journalists doing their jobs. That they didn’t know how fucked up it was to ask me those questions. That they weren’t trying to disrespect me. Still, I always felt disrespected.
Over the years I tried to numb those feelings, to forget them, to pretend they didn’t bother me. Didn’t work. There are some things in life you can never completely walk away from, as badly as you might want to.
But I could try to make peace with all that had happened. And a lot had happened. Ups, downs, and all that led up to those ups and downs.
“Mr. Davis, is there anything you want to say before I sentence you?” Judge Jones said, bringing my attention back into his courtroom. “Anything you want to present?”
“I just want to first say that—”
“Stand up, please,” he interrupted.
I stood up.
“I want to say that I thank you and I definitely don’t want to withdraw my plea. I just thank you for your time.”
“Okay. Thank you, Mr. Davis.”
PART ONE
I
* * *
THE GUCCI MAN
I’ve got such strong ties to the city of Atlanta that people forget I didn’t move to Georgia until I was nine.
My roots are in Bessemer, Alabama, a country coal town about twenty miles south of Birmingham. My great-grandparents on my daddy’s side, George Dudley Sr. and Amanda Lee Parker, moved there in 1915 from the even more rural Greensboro, Alabama, where the Dudley family tree dates back to the 1850s.
George Sr. and Amanda headed to Bessemer in search of a better life. It was an area rich with natural resources—coal, limestone, ore—all the ingredients to sustain what was then a booming industry—steel. George Sr. managed to secure employment as an ore miner at the old Muscoda Red Ore Mining Company, near the community of Muscoda Village.
Back then steel companies looked out for their workers. Employees received cheap housing so most of the black miners of the mining community lived in company-owned homes. They created schools, a church, a medical dispensary, and a commissary where workers could purchase food and supplies on credit.
Soon enough white folk of the area turned jealous of the blacks’ housing and the company-operated social programs, and decided they wanted them for themselves. So the blacks were moved out. Many were left homeless. But that wasn’t the case for my great-grandfather. With the help of his money-minded wife he purchased a small home at 723 Hyde Avenue in Bessemer, a property that is family owned to this day.
George and Amanda had twelve children together—and 723 Hyde was bustlin’. Their household was a place where family and friends in need of a hot meal or a place to stay were always welcome. They were loving folks with big hearts.
When George Sr. would collect his paycheck, the stub would often be blank because of the money he owed the commissary for food. It never bothered him in the slightest.
George Sr. loved food—all the Dudleys did—and he loved to see his family eating right. He’d come home exhausted after a long day’s work at the coal mine and still find the energy to cook something up for his family. And he’d always bring back a treat for his children—cookies, penny candy, fruits. He’d divide equally among all of ’em.