All
That Glitters Is Not Gold
By Ron
Newt
Copyright
© 1998, 2010 Ronnie Newt
Smashwords
Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be
reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or
mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information
storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the
publisher.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published by Runaway Slave Publishing Co., United States
ISBN: 9781476316406
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Introduction
1. DEA
Task Force
2. Born Out of the Hairy Nest of Lust and Abuse
3.
Welcome to the Pimp Game
4. It Was Love at First Sight
5. The
School Drug Bust
6. Prince Gets Out of Jail
7. A Kill for a
Thrill
8. The Freak Show
9. The Heat is On
10. Mama Don’t
Cry
11. The Round Table
12. The Hit is on
13. Drug Wars
1978
14. Meeting with Vickie Von King
15. Prince Gets Shot
16.
Gotta Make a Change
17. The Beginning and the End of the
Newtrons
18. The Newtrons Meet Michael Jackson
19. Prince Goes
to Prison
20. Prince Escapes and Makes $8M Deal with MCA
Acknowledgements
This book is dedicated to:
The Lord and Jesus Christ, Lynn Newt aka China Doll, Michael Jackson, Ronnie Newt, Jr., my mother Neddie Ree Love, my father Johnny Newt and the rest of the family; I would also like to thank the following families: The Newts, The Beasleys, The Tatums, The Davises, The Adams, The Wades, The Nelsons, The Dykes, The Dicksons, The Loves, The Kings families, and the Kims; Gail Russell and Pamela McCoy.
Introduction
In All That Glitters is Not Gold, you are about to embark upon a journey into the darkest and most dangerous, secret inner world of pimps, whores, drug dealers and murderers. By candidly laying out the story of my life, you will get a rare and stark view into the thought processes that are the psychological makeup of someone, who has lived his life as a gangster-pimp.
Along the way, I will also take you into the depths of another “up and down” domain that I have inhabited and vividly played a part, and that would be a monster industry, unlike any other in the world; the music business.
Unfortunately, I regret that it is totally impossible for me to recount all of my activities as a gangster. To do that, would take a lifetime. My book, however, speaks of my remorse and how sorry I am for the many hearts I broke along the way. It also shows that, in the end, I reaped exactly what I sowed. Therefore, the purpose of my book is to educate you on life’s right and wrong values.
My story is based on the trials and tribulations of a man aka ‘Prince Diamond,’ who dreamed of living the richest of lives. I had everything I could have ever dreamed of and that the world had to offer; a gorgeous wife, seventeen whores and twenty-seven beautiful children.
I was a self-made millionaire, who achieved ghetto stardom. I was able to infiltrate the inner circles of the world’s greatest superstars and hang out with such celebrities as Michael Jackson, Jackie Jackson, Tito Jackson, Joe Jackson, the rest of the Jackson family, and Sly and the Family Stone.
In August of 1989, I landed an $8 million record deal with MCA Records for my sons, who were a relatively unknown group called The Newtrons.
At the time, although I thought I had it made, my past soon came back to haunt me, and dragged me down to nothing. It brought death to my namesake, Ronnie Newt Jr., who was gunned down at one o’clock on the afternoon on May 1, 1991 in San Bernardino, after attempting to rob a Korean grocery store so that he could be initiated into the L.A. Crips, one of America's most notorious street gangs.
Ronnie Jr. wanted to be just like me, because to him and so many others, I was bigger than big. I drove Rolls Royces, had mansions in three or four cities, and owned exotic animals like monkeys and black panthers. Though I was dazzled by worldly pleasures, when the game finally concluded, the end results proved extremely costly.
This is the story of me… Ron Newt aka Prince Diamond; a man who went from the mean streets of San Francisco all the way to the luxurious hills of Hollywood to rub elbows with some of the richest people in the world.
I rose to become the king of the West Coast Mob, making my fortune in drugs and prostitution, while surrounded by murderers. Ultimately, I paid the price and ended up being beaten down by the system and sent to Federal prison. My son, Prince Jr., followed my lead down the path to corruption and easy money, and eventually died in the streets.
I will divulge some of the events that allowed a man of my caliber to share the lives of some of the most famous people of our time, which included the late Johnnie Cochran, the famed attorney who won the infamous O.J. Simpson murder case. I also became acquainted with revered record label moguls, who would eventually make the false claim that I came to MCA Records armed with guns and a hand grenade to blow up the building; supposedly causing Vice President, Louil Silas to break and run for cover.
I was born June 20, 1949 in San Francisco, California to a car salesman and a ghetto grocer. As the third of nine children, I had a troubled childhood that included the divorce of my parents and a history of runaways that began when I was seven. After completing the 10th grade at San Francisco’s Woodrow Wilson High, I dropped out of school, and ran away from home and a hideously abusive step-father and mother. I spent the next few years in and out of trouble, and in the custody of the California Youth Authority.
In 1967, under the tutelage of Fillmore Slim, Bubba Hamp and others I began a life of street hustling and pimping that would take me to New York City, Seattle, Chicago, Minneapolis, Detroit, St. Louis, Houston, Dallas and San Diego. My further travels took me to Las Vegas, Portland, Oakland and back to San Francisco where, at any given time, I had as many as twenty women working; earning me as much as $500,000 a year.
With an income of a half of million dollars, I was allowed the opportunity to buy Frank Sinatra's 1967 Rolls Royce, and houses at 573 Weldon Street (off Lakeshore Avenue in Piedmont), and 66 Elysian Fields Drive, (off Golf Links Road in Oakland). During this time, I also made my acting debut when I appeared in the movie "The Mack," which starred actors Max Julian and Vonetta McGee.
Life on the street for a pimp like me also included the deadly white powder that ruled the streets in the 1970s and 1980s. Guns became a part of my every day attire and violent deaths were regular occurrences and constant threats.
With the glamour of Hollywood stripped away, you will see the truth about life in the cocaine world and meet the characters like Double J, Donut, Diamond Jim, Preacher, Fillmore, Honey Bear, Candy Man, L Bo, and Little Butch, who inhabited that world with Ron.
Then, in 1971, unexpectedly, Love tried to put me on a path away from crime, when I met my future wife, Lynn Merritt. Two years later, Lynn and I started a family and born, from our union, were Shavon, Ronnie Jr., Bob and Little “J.” As our children began showing an early interest in music, Lynn and I decided to create a family of musicians similar to The Jacksons. That would mark my introduction to the music business when my children began performing at Pier 39 and earning $400 per day. Even Little "J" was earning $100 per day at age three.
Eventually, I was introduced to Sly Stone by Bubba Hamp, and I worked as an assistant road manager for the famed recording artist for a period of time. During that time Sly Stone was recording out of the famed Record Plant in Sausalito before it was finally seized by the FBI.
While I was associated with Sly Stone, I also managed several local groups; Larry White and Grand Theft, Dwayne Sweet and H. P. Riot, and The Performers. I hosted shows at Bimbo's, Village, and the California Hotel on Polk Street. I also sang and danced on stage with James Brown when he appeared in San Francisco. Between 1970 and 1983, I promoted shows and appeared on stage with Diana Ross and The Newtrons at the Circle Star Theater in 1983.
In 1983, Hamp Banks, Mark Davis and Don Joe of the Circle Star Theater, introduced me to Joe Jackson, who signed The Newtrons to Jackson Record Company and Jackson Management. Jackson also moved me and my family to the La Brea apartments in Los Angeles, and paid the rent. Jackson also advanced me $15,000, plus $2,000 per month in living expenses.
Jackson soon began grooming my kids for a recording career and paid their recording costs. At the same time, Jackson was able to convince Richard Aaron (former manager of The Jackson Five), to give me $30,000 as an investment in The Newtrons.
Joe soon introduced us to his son, Michael, who responded and immediately fell in love with me and the boys. That would mark the beginning of a relationship that would span nearly forty years, resulting in many of my family’s visits to Michael's closely guarded compound in Encino.
The relationship between Michael Jackson, my three young boys and me is documented in the many photos that were taken of us with Michael inside his home and inside the superstar’s inner sanctum; his infamous locked bedroom.
My regular visits to Michael's home, during the 1980s, made me an eyewitness to the repeated transformations that took place regarding Michael’s skin color and overall appearance; further documented in Chapter 18 (The Newtrons Meet Michael Jackson). That chapter will also include my role in helping Johnnie Cochran to settle the child abuse claims against Michael when I revealed the National Enquirer's offer of $200,000 for my story and pictures. The chapter will also reveal why I refused to conspire against Michael and will display the photos that were involved. There is also a tape recording of the meeting between me and the National Enquirer, where the Enquirer was trying to convince me that the superstar had made advances toward my children, and by saying there were two other boys that Michael had tampered with, who did not want to go public.
The Newtron’s first album, "Elementary Love" was produced by Joe Jackson, me, Felton Pilate and Larry White. It was distributed independently throughout California and sold 15,000 units.
This section of “All That Glitters Is Not Gold” provides an inside look at the less than glamorous side of "breaking into the record business." From the endless road trips and small appearances to the sales generated from stock kept in the van, you will be provided a counter-point description to the images of wealth and fame usually associated with "music careers."
As tough as promotion of The Newtrons’ first album was, it served as the catalyst for a contract with MCA; one of the giants of the recording industry.
Ironically, at the time the rewards for my years of effort came to fruition, when MCA made its approach to The Newtrons, I was serving time in a California state prison. My “gangster” past had finally caught up with me.
Federal and state agents, frustrated in their attempts to net a drug kingpin who was a former associate of mine, set me up for an arrest. A government informer of my acquaintance invited me, under false pretenses, to his house. Lured to the garage, I suddenly found myself standing near an unloaded shotgun and confronted by the police. I was arrested as a felon "in possession" of a firearm, but it was quickly made clear that if I "cooperated" in incriminating my former colleague, I would be set free. I chose prison and, thus, was "inside' when my sons’ career jumped to a new level.
I will detail prison life, including my gang membership and my being notified that the informer who set me up suffered the penalty determined by street justice.
In my absence, MCA VP, Louil Silas contacted Kenny Taylor, Marvin Robinson, Bubba, Hamp Banks and Richard Bougere.
The temptation to participate in this new development in the Newtrons’ career proved too great, and I decided to escape. Now a fugitive from justice, I returned to Los Angeles and resumed my responsibilities as Manager of the Newtrons.
MCA was aware of my fugitive status and assisted in hiding me for eight months. While I was on the run, MCA paid my rent. I received a publishing advance of $200,000; $60,000 for two masters; and $40,000 in producer fees for work performed on the Newtrons album.
When things eventually turned sour between MCA and me, they had me arrested, in the lobby of their building, on false charges; but, not before they sought the intervention of the leader of a powerful L.A. street gang to try to intimidate me.
The gangsters backed off, when one of them recognized me from prison and cautioned the "boss" against proceeding. MCA's phony claim that I came to the building armed with a gun and a grenade continue to cloud my reputation to this day. Subsequently, I was arrested at MCA and surrendered to the Federal authorities on June 21, 1990.
Then, nearly a year late on May 1, 1991, tragedy struck me, my family and the Newtrons. Ron Jr. the handsome and talented lead singer of the group, died senselessly in a robbery attempt that was the final step in his initiation into the Crips, one of L.A.'s most feared and deadly gangs.
With the death of Ron Jr., MCA terminated the Newtrons’ contract. With me (their father and manager) in prison, it seemed that the Newtrons once promising career was over before it had truly begun. Anybody who thought so, however, had not accounted for my drive, determination and the new effort I would mount upon my release from prison in 1993.
To talk about the music business, it is pointless to discuss it if it does not reveal the hard work and struggle that is required before any group can become
an overnight success. You will meet the movers and shakers like Joe Isgro and Al Bell, whose promises of support turned out to be less than bankable; canny independents like Jay King, whose advice would turn out to be good more than once; and innumerable wannabes, who gravitate around any music project that has the smell of success.
With the loss of Ron Jr., and the loss of their contract with MCA, the Newtrons had not had their last setback. A rainstorm in December, 1995, would destroy all the master recordings from the MCA days, plus a lot of new work that had been intended for the "comeback" album, in addition to the materials Ron had been gathering for a movie.
All That Glitter Is Not Gold will conclude with the release of the Newtrons’ latest record and the preparations for the long delayed filming of "Man in the Mirror."
Chapter
One
DEA TASK FORCE
It was an August night in the summer of 1988. Several police officers from various agencies were viewing video tapes of crimes being committed in San Francisco and Oakland. The officers were all strapped down with shoulder holsters and talking about how they have been scaring the shit out Black people in Bayview, Hunters Point and other places in the Bay Area.
One particular subject about how a dope dealer left a pit bull in a vacant house, that almost took off one of the agents’ legs. It was a set-up. Someone called and reported that there were drugs being sold, but when the officers got to the house all they found was a vicious pit-bull.
Getting back to the real subject at hand, the meeting was called by the FBI, the San Francisco DEA, and the Oakland PD. The discussion centered on the West Coast Mob and the recent upsurge in drug and prostitution-related crimes.
One FBI agent said, "It's time we take the Bay Area back from the West Coast Mob. Them punks have got to go." An Oakland officer replied, "The main leader of the West Coast Mob, Ron Newt a.k.a. Prince Diamond, is over at the Oakland Coliseum with his family. His five kids are a singing group now. They are called the Newtrons."
They all started laughing and insulting the group. One of the FBI agents said, "He thinks he's going to get away with all he's done for the last twenty years, but we're going to get him soon." The crowd of officers shouted with approval.
At the Oakland Coliseum, rapper Too Short was onstage performing "The Ghetto." The Newtrons were backstage with me and China Doll. The kids were excited, waiting to go on stage. China Doll was excited, too, and nervous. She kept fussing with their hair and clothes. Prince Jr. was aloof; he shrugged his mother off when she tried to straighten his collar. He stared moodily at me. I'm smiling and acting cool.
When my portable phone rang, I walk into the side room, so I could hear. Prince Jr. watched me go by and shook his head in disgust. He knew I would soon be gone on another gang mission. The music of Too Short was audible in the background. On the other end of the line, Doc was asking for my help. I told him, "I promised my wife and kids I wouldn't get involved in no more street shit. I got my life to live." I listened and finally said, "My kids are about to perform, man! I can't... yeah, yeah, I hear you."
Doc was speaking from a pay phone in Sausalito. He said, "Listen Prince, this is serious shit. It's a matter of principle and your self-respect."
"Don't try to bullshit me, man,” I said. “It all comes down to money. You know me, Doc, I'll never have enough money, and I've always had enough trouble. I got to think of my family."
Doc responded, "You owe us, man. You started this price war with the Colombians. Now you got to help us straighten it out. The Italians and the Chinks are one thing, man, but these Colombians, they're dirty muthas!"
I told Doc, "You mean to say, they are smarter than us? They got the Black customers where they want ‘em, right down in the gutter, beggin’ for flakes of their shit."
"Yeah, well, if you so smart,” Doc Said, “how come you ain't there to help us out, Prince? We need your brains and your very special talent."
"You mean my gun," I said.
"Well, yeah,” he said. “But this is the last time. We need you, Prince. Don't let us down."
"OK, I'll do it this last time, but if I come down there, I won't be negotiating the prices. I'll be blowing their heads off. You and the boys be ready. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
I got the details and walked towards the door and the backstage area. My wife, China Doll, and my son Prince Jr., watched as I re-entered from the side room.
They knew what my look meant. 'He's leaving!' The music of Too Short drowned out the conversation between me and China Doll. We argued and she started to cry.
I told her not to cry. I said, "Honey, you gotta to be strong for the kids. They need you more than ever. Don’t worry, I'll be back. It's the last time. I promise."
Jay, my youngest son, grabbed me. He demanded to know where I was going. All the Newtrons gathered around me, except Ronnie Jr., who watched from the side. He smiled bitterly as I explained to the kids. "I gotta straighten out some things for some old friends, little Jay."
Jay looked at his mother who was trying to act like everything was OK. He started to cry, "Daddy, be careful. Something doesn't feel right. You can't leave us like this just before we're gonna sing."
I smiled and told them, "See you in Hollywood, Newtrons! I'll be listening to you on the radio, so be good!" I smiled and winked at the kids. As I headed out the door, I gave China Doll a kiss.
Ronnie Jr. grabbed me by the arm as I walked by. He said, "Hey, Dad! Don't make this the last time I see you, OK? I know how it goes down when you get with your gang." We embraced for a brief moment and I exited into the night.
I finally made it to where Doc, Monday and Spicy were waiting for me. They were all sitting in a black stretch limo. After spotting my boys, I parked my Rolls Royce two blocks away from the restaurant, heading towards the Golden Gate Bridge for my get away.
I got out of my car, put on my bullet proof vest and checked my guns. I then walked up to the black limo and tapped on the driver's side window and told the driver he could take the night off because the fellas were going home with me.
After making that statement, Doc, Monday and Spice exited the limo. They were all dressed in black leather coats with scarves covering their faces. “Let's do this shit,” I said, “so I can get back to my kid's concert before they come on." I then asked Doc, "Where are the Colombians?"
"They are in the back of the restaurant in a private room," he replied.
"Show me where,” I said.
We all crept to the back of the restaurant where the Colombians were having their meeting. As I stood, watched and listened from the outside window, I heard one fat motherfucking Colombian say, "Gentleman, the White government is happy with us. The cops are happy with us, as long as the stuff is good, eh?"
Everybody laughed. "We got the market cornered,” he continued. “These niggers will kill each other for our dope faster than we can find new niggers to sell to. Sometimes, they just make it too easy. You know what I mean?"
There was more laughter.
"They either go to jail or to the graveyard,” he said. “It don't matter. The drugs keeps them so sleepy, they'll never wake up and steal back their power. If they ever wake up and unite against us, we'll all be in trouble."
Another short fat ugly sucker started talking plenty shit. "We just have to keep the CIA and the cops happy, boys. It ain't so hard once you know."
The men in the room continued to eat, drink and laugh. I pulled the back rear door, and me and the other West Coast mobsters burst through with our guns blazing.
"Same thing makes you laugh, makes you die motherfuckers," I shouted.
We kept shooting until all the Colombians were shot. We were rolling hard back towards San Francisco on the Golden Gate Bridge. I put some Newtrons on, and headed toward the San Francisco Tenderloin.
When we got to the corner of Eddy and Polk Streets, I spotted an officer standing behind a Black man's car, in front of his own patrol car. He was writing the man a traffic ticket and giving him a hard time. Typical street action was going on around him in the Tenderloin; dealers were selling drugs and prostitutes were turning tricks. While he was finishing his ticket, he spotted my Rolls Royce out of the corner of his eye. He turned all of his attention on the four of us. He turned back toward the man he was citing and said, "This is your lucky day. Get the hell out of here. I’ve got bigger and better fish to fry."
I looked out of my rear view mirror and saw the officer jumping into his car and starting to follow us. In addition to the normal police weaponry, he had three hot sheets, one mug sheet, a stolen car sheet, and another list of twelve vehicle license plate numbers along with the colors of the cars owned by the West Coast mob. My car must have been one of the license plate numbers posted in his car on his hot sheet, so he radioed in to find out who the car was registered to. Five minutes passed, and he was still following us.
Looking into my rear mirror, I read his lips. He spoke into the handset and said, "I'd like a quick rolling three, six on Adam, Mary, zebra, four-one-five."
I knew what that meant. He was calling in to the Hall of Justice at 850 Bryant Street. I could tell by his face he was requesting information on my car. I could visualize the dispatcher walking over to the scanning data bank and grabbing the information sheet.
The dispatcher called back to the officer, "We got some information coming out on the vehicle license plate number, Adam, Mary, zebra, four-one-five."
"Roger, check, run it," the officer responded.
The dispatcher continued, "The vehicle is owned by a Negro male, age 40, height 5'8", 150 pounds, black straight hair and brown eyes, known weapons carrier. He’s a very dangerous high ranking drug lord and pimp. His name is Ron Newt, a.k.a. Prince Diamond."
After getting all that information, I knew he was surely going to pull me over. He radioed back, "I'm going to stop the vehicle at Market and Third Street. Please send other units. I am in need of assistance because there are four Black male suspects in the vehicle. Charlie check."
"Roger, Market and Third,” the dispatcher responded, “units on the way."
While the funk was going down, my car radio was tuned into KMEL radio station. They were broadcasting the Newtrons concert at the Coliseum. The Newtrons were singing the song, "Daddy."
I said, "Man, oh man. That fool got the flashing red light on me. Is anybody dirty? If you are, then tell me, so I can pull over where you can throw the shit out."
"That punk is just pulling us over,” Monday said, “because we're Black, in this freaked out purple Rolls Royce."
"Yeah man,” Spicy added, “If hate and jealousy was a loaded gun, the world be dead."
I turned around said, "Yeah. Don't nobody say shit. I will do all the talking."
The officer put on the red light. He shouted through the loud speaker, "Get out of the car." Two more police units arrived on the scene. Two officers jumped out of their units with their shotguns and pistols drawn, talking real crazy racial shit.
Officer Ham said, "Hit the ground and spread eagle. You men, put your hands where I can see them. One by one, step out of the car, and don't make any funny moves or you will make my night. The driver side first, then the right hand passenger side, then the man on the left back seat, then the fourth man on the right back seat. Everybody lay on the ground."
We all complied. My vehicle was being searched by the DEA officers for dope and guns. The seats of the car were being torn apart by the police. An officer shouted, "Don't any of you Amos and Andy-looking motherfuckers make a move!"
“Just look at those ugly niggers in that pretty car,” his fellow officer added. “I wonder what they got to hide. We got them now."
While they were handcuffing us, I started to think about the Newtrons. Something came over me while I was being led to the waiting police car. I heard the music of the Newtrons in the background. In my mind, I pictured the gathering crowd. People had their lighters burning to the music track, "My heart beats for you." I wanted to just die.
At the Federal building, Officer Butler asked me, "Prince Diamond, do you waive your rights to an attorney?"
I replied, "No, and I don't waive my right to be free neither."
"OK wise guy,” Officer Butler replied, “the tape is running. State your name for the record."
"Prince Diamond," I told him.
Officer Butler said, "State your age and the rank you hold in the West Coast Mob."
"I'm forty years old,” I said. “I have no rank in no kind of mob, nor have I ever been a member of a mob. Pimping is my fame and ho's are my game. I hold rank in that part of the game." I gestured at my crotch and swung my hips. I pumped up my chest like a super Mack Daddy.
He looked me in the eye and said, "Very funny and cute Prince, but this is not a game. You are facing life in prison if you do not cooperate with me, today. As you know, you are being charged with crimes from drug dealing, racketeering and murder for hire. These crimes go back over twenty years. We've got enough evidence to put you away for life, believe me."
"I hear you." I said.
"Nevertheless,” he told me, “you have the right to remain silent and to be represented by an attorney of your choice. Do you have a lawyer?"
"My lawyer is LaRue Grim, and I do not waive my rights,” I replied. The only right I demand now is the right for you to get your Uncle Tom, house nigga ass out of my face."
He told me, "Yeah? Well, you can tell it to the Grand Jury when they fry your Black ass." He gestured to another officer and said, "Get this punk out of here and back in the holding cell with rest of those niggas. He ain't going to tell us nothing. He would die first."
The Federal Marshal led me to a holding cell with half of the West Coast mob, Mexicans, Colombians and Africans. Everybody was talking. The Federal Marshal came up to the cell bars with leg iron chains, waist chains and handcuffs.
Federal Marshal, Ed shouted, "It's court time. Listen up for your names and please step out of the cell and put your face to the walls." He then called out my name first, "Prince Diamond!" Then my partners in crime, "Doc Johnson, John Cobert, Lou Vega." After calling our names out with a smile, he then said, "You niggers are through. The Grand jury is gonna give you a hearing date. And believe me, cars will be flying when your Black asses gets out."
The FBI and all of the Marshals started laughing. Finally, we all were bound and gagged. Me, Doc, John, and Lou were handcuffed to each other, placed on an elevator on the twentieth floor and finally led to the courtroom on the 15th floor. Before taking us to our courtroom, we were paraded through several other courtrooms like a marching band of clowns. Finally, we all got to the courtroom where our case was being heard; the courtroom of the Honorable Judge Walker.
Awaiting us was our opponent, one of America's heavyweight champion prosecutors of the world. He was a million and 0; all by knockouts. He never lost a case. He was the impeccable George Bevans, one the United States of America's leading prosecutors, appointed by President George Bush.
Finally, we were seated before the bench of the Honorable Judge Walker on indictment charges of many crimes. The main charge was the Rico act. It’s called inter-state racketeering, meaning over two people conspiring in a crime. It carried a life sentence.
The courtroom was jammed packed full of the news media, television and newspapers, law enforcement personnel, and a mixture of other spectators, both Black and White. Camera flashes were everywhere in the packed courtroom. As Judge Walker walked out from his chambers, the courtroom became silent and the court clerk, Wynett, told everyone to stand up. Everybody stood up as the judge came in, and then they were seated. Defense council Ken Russell and Harold Brooks stood up.
Judge Walker said to the clerk, "Has the Grand Jury reached a decision?"
"Yes they have," the clerk said.
The Judge said to the foreman of the Grand Jury, "Please give the decision to the clerk to read to the court." But, before the decision was read, the Honorable Judge Walker told me and my co-defendants to stand up. We all stood up and the judge said to us, "You have been called to answer to these indictments charged by a jury of your peers.”
The clerk said, "We the Grand Jury find enough evidence to indict Prince Diamond, Doc Johnson, John Cobert, and Lou Vega on criminal counts 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-11-12-13-14-15-16-17-18-19- and 20.
After the decision was read by the clerk, the judge told me and my co-defendants that these charges carried a life sentence and no bail would be set because of the extenuating circumstances.
The judge said to all of us, "Is there anything that anyone would like to say before I set a court date one year from today?"
"What!” I scream. “We haven't even been found guilty yet! We gotta go do some time? Yeah I got a lot to say today!"
"Have your say,” Judge Walker said, “but please keep control of yourself."
Before answering the judge, I shook off the two U.S. Marshals’ hands, holding me prisoner between the two of them. I approached the judge's bench, stopped and then turned around to face the crowded courtroom. With a voice filled with knowledge beyond my criminal mind, I said, "Set my Black slave brothers free and free them from all your American warehouse jails. I say that because we are not the authors of crime and corruption. White America is! There is no Black man in this world that can bring freightliners of cocaine through customs from Colombia, only the White man. And I say that because he controls the custom lines. Millions of guns are made a day in steel factories owned by White corporate America. They put the drug and guns in Black communities to keep us fighting and killing one another. Then they put us in jail so that they can get free labor. To me that's a sign of slavery.”
As courtroom attendees listened, I continued, “The deck is stacked before we play the game. It makes me want to cry when I think of what drugs and guns have done to me and my neighborhood. I've seen seven and eight year-old children wandering aimlessly through the streets of San Francisco ghettos at eleven o’clock at night with no one caring where they were, that they had no place to go and nothing to do, trying to sell a rock or two, because their parents were hooked on crack and there was no food in the house.”
As I continued, it was as quiet as a mouse in the courtroom. “I've seen a school boy jogging around the track after school when four young gangsters took two shotguns from the trunk of their car and blew his head off. These shotguns came from White American gun factories straight to the hands of our Black community. How they got there I would like to know. I've seen a sixteen year old unwed mother who was a prostitute and a junkie, who lost her baby when she was "loaded" on crack cocaine. In tears she confessed to me, ‘I don't remember where I left my baby.’
“I remember the baby, in the projects, who had his ear eaten off by a rat while lying in his makeshift crib fashioned from a dresser drawer. I remember this small, eighty-five year old blind and crippled Black lady on Market Street crying because she couldn't reach into the garbage bin behind the market. ‘I'm starving! Help me reach the garbage,’ she sobbed.
“I remember running to Mr. Ford's store located on Oakdale and Lane in Bayview-Hunter's Point as a little boy holding a dollar bill in my hand, and a white patrolman yelling from his patrol car, ‘How come you runnin' nigga? You ain't never goin' nowhere in life.’
After I made my statement to the courtroom, I then turned to the judge and said, "Nothing you can do to me, today, could ever match the oppression and sadness, tears and death I witnessed and experienced in my lifetime in the ghetto." Camera flashes exploded in the courtroom as the spectators gave me a rousing, standing ovation.
The judge tried, with little success, to restore order and shouted to the U.S. Federal Marshal, ‘Remove this young man from my court, now!"’
At that point, my eight-year-old son Jay, with tears in eyes, screamed out ‘He’s innocent! He was set up! Don't take my daddy away from me, my mama, brothers and sisters, please!’
I looked helpless as I was led out in chains. I knew, for at least a year, I would be trapped in the belly of the Great White Beast. After that they took me from the courtroom down to the basement of the Federal building at 450 Golden Gate Street. I was rushed into a waiting Federal van and driven to the Sacramento Airport, where other prisoners and I sat in the van heavily guarded waiting for a Federal 747 plane to arrive to pick us up.
When the plane finally arrived, some of us were called out by name, one by one, and were loaded on the plane; headed to destinations, all across the country. Though I had no idea where I was being sent, I spent the next six hours, without food or water, flying across the country and back.
Finally we arrived in the middle of the desert, where we were boarded onto a luxury tour bus and taken to a federal correctional facility. There, we were issued jail house clothing and given dog tag numbers; mine was #85231-011.
While I was at the correctional facility, I met a guy from the New York Gambino crime family, and some people affiliated with mobs from Chicago, Detroit and Philadelphia. After we all got dressed out in our new jail house attire, we were taken to a deserted Air Force base by the U. S. Marshall and the Bureau of Prisons; aka B.O.P. Officers.
Our “connecting flight,” a private 727 passenger jet soon arrived, and I was about to begin another six-hour journey to my final destination, Terminal Island in Long Beach, California.
As the jet entered back into the “Golden State,” I saw the infamous landmark Hollywood sign nestled into the Hollywood Hills. Minutes later, the plane smoothly passed over the bustling city of Los Angeles and headed south toward Long Beach, where the city lights glittered and twinkled below.
The plane circled over a deserted airstrip, adjacent to the Port of Los Angeles and Long Beach, California.
Suddenly, I could hear the air traffic controller saying, ‘Roger 13, you're clear for landing.’ My plane was finally making its descent as its nose angled upward and the rubber wheels touched down, barking and screeching as it came in contact with the tarmac.
Seconds later, no sooner than the plane taxied across the airstrip and came to a stop in a barren landing area, it was quickly and completely surrounded by a variety of law enforcement vehicles and ground force police commanders, which could be clearly identified by the insignias on both their vehicles and uniforms; i.e., FBI (Federal Bureau of Investigation), CIA (Central Intelligence Agency), DEA (Drug Enforcement Agency), U.S. MARSHALS, L.B.P.D (Long Beach Police Department), and B.O.P (Bureau of Prisons).
Tight security measures were being executed, commando style, with secured ground positions, and modern, sophisticated weaponry. Everything from hand machine guns to heavy assault rifles was visible. Their main focus was safe guarding the plane and its precious cargo of federal prisoners from criminal attack.
The area around the plane came to life as the headlights of Federal officers’ vehicles were turned on, completely illuminating the plane in a blanket of light. From above the plane, I could hear the sound of a hovering L.A. police helicopter. I then heard a loud commanding voice saying, ‘Everyone in position.’ The sound that followed was the metallic clicking of armory weapons chambering bullets, in anticipation.
I saw the rear exit door of the plane open, and a heavily-armed U.S. Marshall in commando uniform and gear, descended the steps to take a guard position at the bottom, while looking back at the top of the stairs. Two other ground personnel double-timed it to the van, opened the passenger side door, and took up a guard position on both sides of the opened doors.
A chain gang of nine federal prisoners and I exited the plane’s stairway with our hands shackled together in front of us by heavy sets of handcuffs. A chain ran through them and wrapped around our individual waists to restrict our arm movements. Our legs were also restrained with iron leg chains that limited our walking movements.
At the head of the prisoners’ chain line was one
Italian Mafia male, followed by an Oriental, a white, Hispanic, Nigerian, Hawaiian, Filipino male, a Colombian and an African American; me, Prince Diamond.
All nine of us looked as though we once had money and status to match our physical power. I was the last man to exit the plane. We were rushed into a waiting mini-van.
At the front entrance to Terminal Island Federal Correction Institution, the prisoners and I exited the mini-van, under tight, armed security. We were then escorted through the gate of a high fence topped with razor-rolled wire. There was a tower with an armed guard monitoring us as we made our way down a short walk way. As our handcuffs, waist and leg chains rattled, we entered into the lobby entrance of the federal facility.
We then shuffled through heavy security doors, on to the inside of the prison yard, where small groups of inmates watched our arrival. The prisoners and I talked among ourselves, during our short walk to a lone receiving building on the compound. The building reminded me of Hunter's Point projects.
Inside the reception center, I was put in a holding cell, where my hand, waist and leg chains were removed. I was then interviewed by a female guard official. I signed my signature to the many forms she gave me and was then told I had to submit to a routine body search, which consisted of me being stripped until I was completely nude.
A male officer directed me to face him, hold out my hands, extend them in front of him, and he turned them over to inspect them for contraband. Next, I was directed to run my fingers through my hair, then to open my mouth wide, and the officer looked in closely. I was then ordered to raise my arms above my head and the officer checked my armpits. The officer then glared at me and said, ‘Skin it back.’ I took hold of my penis, as instructed, pulled back the foreskin, and the officer looked down directly at my groin. I was ordered to turn around and then the Correction Officer said, ‘Now bend over, spread them wide and cough!’ I complied. Then they took my fingerprints and an identification picture, with a chart clearly showing my height on the wall behind me. I was then issued a bed roll, two gray blankets, a small bundle with two sheets, one pillow, a pillow case, a toothbrush, a can of tooth powder, and a small black comb.
When I exited the reception center, I was escorted by a prison guard with what appeared to be a 5”x8" index card in his hand. As we walked toward the prisoners' housing building and across the prison yard grounds, the guard pointed out the other buildings and told me what they were for.
I finally reached my prison unit, Building A. which the inmates referred to as “A Unit.” After checking in at the unit’s front office, I walked out the office, passing the lobby area where there was a group of prisoners watching television. They looked away from the television, briefly trying to measure me up, as if to say, I wonder what he's here for.
I glanced up at the television and, to my horror, a video rerun of my son, Prince Jr., who had been shot and killed by a Korean store owner in San Bernardino, was being shown on the television show, Hard Copy
“Oh my God,” I said to myself, “I can't believe it. They’re still showing that nightmare,” and I began to cry. I asked myself, "When is it gonna stop?"
I continued to my assigned bed area. Tears were still streaming down my face while I was putting all my prison belongings away in my locker. After securing my belongings, I put my bath towel around my shoulders and staggered away from my bed to the washroom. I had to wait to wash my face because all of the bath room sinks were being used by other inmates. I stood there staring at them with a blank expression like a dead man’s.
One by one, the inmates gathered up their toiletries and left. I took my spot at the sink, looked into the counter mirror, and saw the reflection of myself. Immediately, my thoughts seemed to drift into the mirror, and the song "Man in the Mirror" began to ring in my ears, speaking sad, tearful words of wisdom to me.
The first line with the echoing sound of Michael Jackson's sweet voice saying "You gotta make a change for once in your life," pierced my heart deeply. AS the song echoed away, I continued looking in the mirror and saw the reflection of the minister eulogizing over my dead son as he lay in his casket.
The mirror transformed into a slow motion video of my life. I could see myself reliving that tragic moment, when I was being escorted to my son's funeral by the FBI in tight security style as if I was John Gotti, the Godfather himself, or Alfonse Capone. There were G-men on the roofs with sniper rifles, and streets had been blocked off for miles around.
That day as I rode in the BOP prison van, I was daydreaming of what was happening at my son’s funeral. It was déjà-vu in my ear as I imagined precisely what the preacher was saying. I could hear him saying, “Although I didn't know the young man that lays here before me, I did know his father, Prince Diamond, who called me from his prison cell and asked me to minister over his son because he couldn't be here today.”
The church was filled to capacity with one side for the music stars and the other side for family members; China Doll, the kids, my mother and father, and other musicians. The other side included Vicki Von King and Sergeant Kitt.
The mass choir wore their white and gold robes and sang "End of the Road." While Pastor Green stood near the Christian Center Church house doors, waiting to go inside, I could hear him say, "I have a message for you today from God. All of you who sit here, today, in the presence of God, surrounded by his angels, have a chance to make peace with God before you come to the end of your road, like sixteen year old Ronnie Jr. a.k.a. Prince Jr. As you sit here, my brothers and sisters, if not only for today, you will be your brother's keeper. For God has a plan and, no matter how far you go, you too will come to the end of your road and be judged. I ask you here, today, if you have made your peace with God? If not, God is calling you before it's too late.”
Pastor Green slowly wiped his brow with a handkerchief and said, “Let me talk, here, to the weeping mother, and the sisters and brothers of the deceased. Death is like a thief. Just like the reason for the season... there is a time to cry, a time to laugh, and a time to die. Children, death is promised to us here on this earth, and there is nothing you or I can do about it. When God calls us home, we have to stand accountable for our deeds done in this life. You can rest assured that all of you sitting here, today, will come back here one way or the other. Are you ready to be judged by God? I know that some of you out there don't think that you need God, now, but if you just think about it, you'll realize you need him for everything. I don't understand why people wait so long for God's help. Don’t wait, today. You can be saved, today, and not have to wonder about it when you come to the end of your road.”
Pastor Green paused briefly, then continued, “Ron Newt, aka Prince Diamond, was not able to be here due to circumstances beyond his control, but I know he would want to pay his last respects to his son."
At the sound of the powerful deliverance of Minister Green, the church’s outer doors swung open and, with a flash of light, I was standing there. I stepped through the doors with six FBI agents escorting me down the aisle. The choir quietly hummed, "We Come to the End of the Road." As the agents and I made our way down the aisle, I could see my son lying in a gold and marble casket.
Patti LaBelle spotted me coming down the aisle and was overcome by the Holy Ghost. She jumped up, screamed, and ran towards my son's casket. Nearing the casket, she slowed down a little bit, walked over to the casket, put her hand on my son's hands and started to cry. Patti had the whole church crying.
She said, "I've got to sing my song, Somebody Loves You Baby."
I leaned down into the casket to kiss my son. He felt my broken heart, moved his head, and a tear drop fell from his sleeping eyes. I saw the tear, and said, "My God, why? Why? Why? Why, my child?" I then fainted and fell to the floor; handcuffs, chains and all. My heart said to my soul, "You reap what you sow. Now, let me show you why. Let me take you back to your corrupted past."
My mind completely blacked out.
Chapter
Two
Born out of the Black Hairy Nest of Lust and Abuse
Then in the blink of a light, I was being born out of the black hairy nest of lust. In San Francisco, where its beauty sits anchored near the famous Golden Gate Bridge and 600 feet from the Fisherman’s Wharf Shore, the city by the Bay is a place where the city lights are bright and the nightlife is right for a Pimp to be born. That's right, a good place for a pimp to be born. You see, San Francisco is a tourist place where people come from all over the world to visit because of its beauty and fast track of pretty women that carry the flavor of light, bright, and almost white.
On June 20, 1946, I was born in this slick city town. It was just before the break of day that another pimp was born! I was born Ronnie L. Newt, aka Prince Diamond, to Neddie Ree Love and John Willie Newt; two people who didn't know the meaning of love and who fucked for lust, and not for trust. I know that is cold to say, but my mother made it that way when she told me that she had never loved my father; that the only man she had ever loved was my stepsister's and stepbrother's father, Clifton Bowman… a sick motherfucker!
Clifton Bowman was a man I should have killed a long time ago because, from the time I was able to walk, the nigger was whipping me like a runaway slave pleading to the master for his life. He whipped my ass naked with three extension cords together. He never whipped my stepbrother or my real brother Robert Earl Newt, or my oldest stepsister Vorine, or his first son Clifton Jr., like he did me.
When Clifton Jr. was born, his name was Donnie Newt because he was supposed to have been my father's son. My mother's slick butt got caught up, somehow, in the "cheat; what goes in the wash must come out in the rinse" syndrome. You see, there were a lot of games being played with the three of them.
Once I saw my father creeping back to my mom, while my punk-ass stepfather Clifton was working at Children’s Hospital. Amazingly enough, when my baby brother, Darryl, was born, he looked a lot like me. Maybe that’s why I received those ass-whippings, so my stepfather could show my mother how much he resented her, because he could clearly see that his last son might have been my father's son, instead.
I was caught up in that lust shit again! "Oh well," I thought, "the next time that motherfucking stepfather of mine puts his hands on me, I’m going to kill him and everyone in the house." He whipped me again and the plot was on.
It was a chilly winter, Halloween night, and my mother told me to be home at a certain time. I got home two hours late and, when I walked in the door, her first words were, "Boy, where have you been all night? I told you to have your black ass in the house at a certain time. I'm going to tell your Clifton to beat your ass for not minding me. You hear me, boy?"
I muttered under my breath, saying to myself, "Yea, yea, yea, I ain't going for no more of them slave ass-whippings.”
Well, unfortunately, my mother’s hearing was keener than I realized. She said, "Boy, I heard you. You’re talking smart to me, huh? I'll take my shoes off and knock your damn head off. Go in my bedroom and get my Lucky Strike cigarettes and some matches."
While I was walking back from the bedroom, I was trying to figure out how to soften her up so she wouldn’t tell on me. So, I said to her, "Mama, do you want me to light your cigarette for you?" Before she could say anything, I put the cigarette in her mouth and lit it.
Mama said, "Boy, I know what you’re trying to do. Don't try that sweet shit on me. You are still going to get your ass whipped, nigga. Go and help Donnie wash those dishes and take out the garbage."
I walked towards the kitchen whispering to myself, "Not tonight, mother dear; not if I burn this motherfucking hell-hole down." When I finally got to the kitchen, I grabbed the garbage to take downstairs. I still had her matches in the pocket of my Levi jeans, and as I remembered the last ass-whipping Clifton had given me, I heard a little voice in my head say, "You better burn this motherfucker down before that fool gets home." So, without a second thought, I took the garbage can and put it up against the wall. I took the matches from my pocket and lit the trash in the can. Flames started leaping out of the garbage can like the devil, himself, was trying to pull me in.
I ran from the fire like it was chasing me, and as I got to the top of the stairs, I calmly walked back into the house as if nothing had happened.
Donnie was still drying dishes and asked, "Do you smell fire, Ronnie?"
"No, I don't smell nothing," I said. No sooner than I said that, flames leaped up from the floor. Donnie dropped the dish towel, took off running and screaming through the house, sounding like a fire alarm. My mother came running and screaming, and all my brothers and my sister were running for their very lives.
I was laughing like a motherfucker, to myself, as I thought about all the times they stood by on the sidelines, watching and laughing while I was getting my ass ripped to shreds. This time, I was having the last laugh. I remember that night so well because, beyond all the commotion.
Flames were shooting from the windows and lapping at the roof, threatening to consume the house. I could hear my brother yelling about the toys, and my mother was crying her heart out. But, the most pathetic moment came when my punk-ass stepfather pulled up and jumped out of his white Caddy, screaming like an inconsolable little bitch, "My kids, my clothes, my Sunday suits."
For a moment, I stared at his pathetic ass. I found myself wishing he were in the house burning up with the Sunday suits that he was bawling about. Never mind that thousands of dollars, from the store he and my mother owned across the street from Candlestick Park, were stashed away in overnight bags, inside the house, which was just about totally engulfed in flames. So, I raced into the house and saved my mother’s and Clifton’s life savings.
When the fire department finally showed up, 1006 Hollister had already burned to the ground. Nevertheless, everybody in the neighborhood was clapping for me because, that night I had become the neighborhood hero, who had single-handedly saved the day, while my pitiful, poor-excuse-of-a-man, stepfather, was prepared to just let everything go up in smoke.
With no home to go to, I ended up sleeping over at the home of the Whispers, where ten lovely daughters happened to reside. All in all, it was a pretty good night as the “hero” got nest from Betty Ann, that night.
Betty Ann and I laughed a lot that night, because she knew that I burned the house down. And, before this book was written to finally reveal the actual events of that night, Betty Ann has never told on me.
Payback is a motherfucker, huh? The next day I was sent to live with my grandmother, Nora Newt. She was known as Big Mama, because she called all the shots in the Newt family. My grandfather, Dave Newt, affectionately known as “Big PaPa” was a softy. My Grandmother loved the ground I walked on, and I called the shots right along with her. She was my whole world and, when she died, a part of me died with her.
My grandmother had five daughters and, among them, Aunt Kitty, Aunt Chuck and Aunt Dit were my favorites. Aunt Mae died before I was born and my Aunt Beauty never liked anyone. I still loved her, even though she thought I was a gangster.