INTERVIEW WITH A COP KILLER

This article appeared in the Cot 21, 2010 issue of the L.A. Weekly. 

ABEL AND STONEY

Carlos "Stoney" Velasquez receives a visitor on the fourth floor of the Twin Tower Jail, an area so secure it's used by just one inmate at a time. Velasquez, 26, has been incarcerated almost constantly since he was 13, graduating from juvenile hall to the California Youth Authority, Los Angeles County jail and state prison.

Now, possibly facing California's rarely exercised death penalty if convicted for the 2008 shooting death of Los Angeles County Sheriff's Deputy Abel Escalante, he doesn't seem overly concerned.

"It's no biggie," he says, his grin more disconcerting than the graphic gang tattoos covering his arms and neck. "I don't really worry. Maybe sometimes, but not really. Of course I want to get out. But what can I do?"

It is a biggie to a lot of people. Escalante's family and friends. The extended family of deputies who worked with 27-year-old Escalante at the county jail.  Law enforcement in general, especially the Los Angeles County District Attorney's Office.

"Velasquez was the shooter," says Deputy District Attorney Phillip Stirling of the Crimes Against Peace Officers division. "Our goal is to seek justice and the truth — and we have the right people."

Stirling says eyewitnesses, cell-phone calls made from jail and "side-to-side conversation he made at the old Parker Center with [co-defendant Guillermo] Hernandez" will sink Velasquez.

Authorities contend that Velasquez, an Avenues gang member, killed Escalante outside the victim's childhood home in Cypress Park in the early hours of Aug. 2, 2008, just nine days after the gangbanger was released from state prison.

Escalante, a former Army reservist, was getting in his car to drive to work when he was shot several times. Velasquez's cell phone was very active right after the 5:38 a.m. shooting. Federal authorities and the LAPD obtained taped phone conversations — including some made to state prisoners with illegally smuggled cell phones — and used those conversations to put together evidence that led to Velasquez's arrest on Drew Street on Dec. 12, 2008.

The District Attorney's Office has not been able to prove theories that Escalante was killed because he was a deputy.

The theory among some police holds that he was shot as payback for the bloody February 2008 street shootout between the Los Angeles Police Department, Danny "Klever" Leon and Velasquez's brother, Jose Gomez, which left Leon dead and Gomez wounded.

The deputy was not involved in that shootout, which led to the shutdown of the infamous Leon crime family of Drew Street. But some in law enforcement saw the slaying of a Sheriff's Department deputy as revenge for the successful actions of the Los Angeles cops who felled Leon.

But, Stirling says, "I think Velasquez just went into Cypress Park because he's a gang member who wanted to kill someone. It might have something to do with his brother and Klever getting shot. [Or] it might have been because many of his homies got murdered by [rival gang] Cypress Park" and he mistook the deputy for a rival gang member.

The key evidence is a series of taped phone conversations in which Velasquez allegedly admits to co-defendant Guillermo "Flea" Hernandez and others that he was the deputy's killer — but says he didn't know he was killing an officer.

During pretrial testimony in Los Angeles Superior Court in September, when Judge William R. Pounders ordered Velasquez and Hernandez to stand trial for murder next year, a witness said, "Stoney said he fucked up." And one LAPD detective said, "He shot someone who he thought was a rival gang member — but it was actually a cop."

Stirling and the Los Angeles Police Protective League are upset with the L.A. Times for printing the names of pretrial-testimony witnesses, including a 15-year-old. Yet Stirling admits the vicious Avenues gang would have figured out these witnesses' names, and probably "green-lighted" them for attacks. Still, he grumbles: "The Times just made it easier for them."

Asked by the Weekly if he shot Escalante, Velasquez says, "No. Of course I'm going to say I didn't."

His upper left arm is covered by a tattoo of a fur-coat-wearing, bullet-riddled skeleton wearing a brimmed hat — the Avenues symbol. Velasquez joined the gang when he was 13, became a member of the notorious Drew Street clique, and now says, "Where I grew up you got to join the gang. It's like the street is calling your name. And, yeah, I answered." 

Authorities describe him as being "as hard-core as they get in the Avenues."

Velasquez seemed surprised that a stranger had come to find out about a man accused of shooting another stranger dead. "I don't have much visitors. I haven't had a visitor for months."

He says he wanted to be an astronaut as a kid, and that he enjoyed Jim Carey movies. He never really knew his dad.  Both his mother and his wife are in custody. He reads in jail, and the first book he mentions is The Princes of Tides, by Pat Conroy.. 

When asked "Did you know Abel?" Velasquez smiled, like it was a name he should know.  "Who?" he asked. Abel. He smiled again, shook his head. Abel Escalante, he's told.

"Oh, yeah. Man, I don't even know his first name."

After learning of the interview, his attorney, Michael Adelson, admonished him for speaking to a reporter and sought a protective order to prevent reporters from interviewing his client. Judge Pounders said he did not have the authority to tell the media they cannot request interviews, but suggested to Velasquez that it might not be in his best interests to grant them.

Although the District Attorney's Office has not announced it is seeking the death penalty, Velasquez could receive it if found guilty because of the special circumstances of the case. A section of California Penal Code 190 allows for the death sentence if "the defendant  intentionally killed the victim while the defendant was an active participant in a criminal street gang ... and the murder was carried out to further the activities of the criminal street gang."

The irony is that while some prisoners and hard-core gang members might look up to the Avenues for causing a young deputy sheriff's death, the after-effects of murdering Escalante dealt a debilitating blow to the Avenues gang on the streets — particularly to its most infamous criminal cell, Drew Street.

The Weekly's October 2009 cover story, "The Assassination of Deputy Abel Escalante," described how a huge June 2008 police raid before the deputy's slaying badly damaged the Avenues gang and Mexican Mafia in the Cypress Park and Drew Street area. In reaction, Mexican Mafia prison thugs who control Latino-gang drug trafficking tried to rebuild their operations.

According to the U. S. Attorney's Office, using illegal cell phones and passing messages during prison visitations, the Mexican Mafia put out word from prison that they were taking back Cypress Park. Police say they chose Carlos Velasquez, who was being released from prison in a few days, to step into the shoes of the wiped-out Leon family of Drew Street.

But now, Velasquez sits in jail. More than 170 members of the Avenues, which authorities say has around 500 members, have been arrested since 2008. Many of the 170 have since been released from jail, but their power is diluted.

Homicides in LAPD's Northeast Division, which covers the Avenues territory, have plummeted 74 percent in two years. So far in 2010, the area has seen six homicides — compared with 23 for the same period in 2008. Aggravated assaults have dropped 45 percent from 509 to 278. 

Much of that, police believe, is because the Avenues gang has been driven from residential streets longing for quiet and decency.

Velasquez says he is not particularly worried about returning to prison — perhaps because he'll have a special status on the yard.  

A former Drew Street shot-caller now in federal custody explained to the Weekly what it might be like: "Once you are in state prison, they talk about why you are here," says convict Francisco Real. "I'm here for killing an enemy. And it's like I'm in here for killing a cop. So it's like people [are] like, 'Damn, he's with it. You know. He'll kill a cop.'

"In the yard — 1,000 people — you might be the only one killed a cop. It distinguishes you."

Deputy D.A> Stirling agrees with that cold reality. "The fact that he killed a police officer absolutely distinguishes Carlos Velasquez from other killers."

But on Drew Street, the shadow long cast by this menacing gang has all but vanished. The graffiti is gone, too.

"It's quiet now," says Jose Luna, an apartment manager in the area. "The neighbors are working with the police now. The LAPD is doing good."

Two blocks from where Escalante fell, at the Principe de Paz Church that Escalante's parents often attend, the pastor says the difference between now and two years ago is almost unbelievable.

"We had memorial services for 13 people, including Abel," says Pastor Andrew Catalan. His was the 13th service. "Since Abel, we have not had any. I think his death helped stop the killings."

Escalante's parents live less than 50 feet from where he died. It is still too painful for them to speak about their son. "I can't talk about him," says his father. His wife is behind him, just off to his side. She is slowly shaking her head. 

They both put their right hands over their hearts, tap three times, thank a stranger for not pushing it and walk inside their home.

http://www.laweekly.com/2010-10-21/news/deputy-abel-escalante-s-sorrowful-revenge/full/

Slain Los Angeles County Deputy Sheriff Abel Escalante

Abel Escalante's Sorrowful Revenge

AMAZING NO MORE

Amazing Ain't What it Used To Be

Give the word a rest so it can regain its true magnificence.

October 11, 2010

By Michael Krikorian

It's sad when you see magnificence decline into mediocrity or worse.

Muhammad Ali, unable to speak. Mickey Mantle limping back to the dugout, head down, after striking out. Brando looking like a beached Pacific walrus, mumbling away. Liz Taylor avoiding the spotlight. Renoir with hands so arthritic he could barely hold a brush. The word "amazing."

For too long now, I have been painfully aware of the failing meaning, diluted power and loss of essence of "amazing."

I have known for a few years that "amazing" was stumbling and that it was only a matter of time before irrelevancy set in, but still it hurts. Probably what irks me the most is how people don't even realize the word needs to be put on the injured reserved list or out to pasture.

Folks, I'm here to tell you officially, it's time. "Amazing" — the most misused, bastardized, overworked superlative in the American language — is no longer valid. Oh, people might still use it ad nauseam, but the significance is gone. And when a word losses its original intent, it's time for retirement.

The final, inevitable blow came last week when a friend described a doughnut to me as amazing. I am big-time into food, but doughnuts are not amazing. They can be tasty; they can be delicious. Nothing wrong with that. But a doughnut cannot stop you in your tracks in wonderment, in, in, in amazement.

"Amazing" and I go back about 47 years. We first became close in 1963 when, as a hard-core 9-year-old Marvel Comics buyer, I became fascinated with Spider-Man. If you don't know, he was known, on the cover, as "The Amazing Spider-Man."

I mean, this teenager, Peter Parker, after a spider bit him, could shoot webbing out of his wrist and cling to tall buildings and even go swinging like Tarzan from skyscraper to skyscraper! Cat could do all kinds of stuff: fight evil supervillains; rescue damsels in distress; throw a rock 'em sock 'em punch. He was, well, amazing.

But, about three years ago, I began noticing that "amazing" had become the go-to superlative. More and more, I started hearing it in inappropriate situations. It was sad because my old friend was starting to annoy me. "Amazing" turned cheap, a shell of its former self.

It started to mean good — not that there is anything wrong with good. I like good. But suddenly every thing was amazing. How was that movie? It was amazing. How was the concert? Amazing. How's the dust on top of your refrigerator? You guessed it.

Last week at a restaurant in south Hollywood that I frequent, a couple — thinking it was my first time there — used the word seven times in roughly 90 seconds to praise the food and service. If they kept up that torrid pace, allowing for eight hours of sleep, they would have said the word 1,634,200 times in 12 months. What lives of wonderment they must lead.

Two nights ago, at a Hollywood and Vine restaurant, the waiter described the Brussels sprouts as "amazing."

If everything is amazing then nothing is amazing.

"Amazing" is not the first superlative to lose its power. "Great" went long ago. But then, Alexander set the standard so high, it's demise wasn't shocking. For those of you who don't know, the word fizzled out in 1997 after announcer Al Michaels declared a four-yard run by Barry Sanders as great. I enjoyed watching Barry as much as anybody, but to me, you just about have to conquer Persia or at least the ancient port city of Tyre to be called great.

"Awesome" overdosed several years back. Everything was awesome. Remember that? The word went on life support and people backed off. It might never be the "awesome" we once knew, but it's making an ever-so-slight comeback

There's a tiny chance "amazing" can regain its former vitality. Unfortunately, it's highly unlikely, given the American love of superlatives and hyperbole. We'd all have to leave the poor thing alone. Realize what it really is. Maybe start abusing other words. "Tremendous" is still a tremendous word and not overworked. "Magnificent" is still magnificent.

"Amazing" should be deployed only for the truly special, um, spectacular. Like describing Yosemite in spring from Tunnel View. Like when Koufax pitched that perfect game against the Cubs. Like the aurora borealis. Like childbirth, (formally super-amazing). Like the 113-degree temperature last week downtown. Not like a crumb doughnut at Bob's, as much as I like crumb doughnuts on a Farmers Market morning.

I hope "amazing" gets the solitude it needs to recover. Do your part. The next time you hear it, stop the madness immediately. Explain that a once amazing word has hit the showers.

Michael Krikorian covered street gangs and the LAPD for The Times. He recently completed his first crime novel, "Southside," and a children's book, "The Sunflower Who Loved the Moon.

Amazing No More

Publisher's Weekly Review of "SOUTHSIDE"

Following is the Publishers Weekly review of Southside.

"The debut novel from Krikorian, a Los Angeles Times crime reporter, is a grim thriller that brings a sense of bleak reality to the streets of Los Angeles.

Michael Lyons is a flamboyant 12-year L.A. Times veteran specializing in gangs and well known for his ability to humanize the most thuggish criminal. When Lyons is shot and wounded in front of his favorite bar in broad daylight, his colleagues eagerly speculate about who is responsible. An outraged husband? A disgruntled gang member? Or Lyons himself, as an elaborate publicity stunt?

After recovering, Lyons begins his own investigation, one that takes him through the gritty and melancholy streets of L.A. and through interviews with the grieving parents of murdered or incarcerated young men. Meanwhile, Lyons’s assailant targets more victims, setting the whole city on edge.

Krikorian’s language is stark, graphic, and bitterly humorous, not unlike that of George Pelecanos. Though this book could use some fine-tuning, it moves with speed and purpose."

"Just a Little Lovin" ( Early in the Morning)

March 22, 2009

LIVES

Finding That Song

By MICHAEL KRIKORIAN

Back in 1998, I was driving down Pico Boulevard in Los Angeles when I spotted a man lying on his back smack dab in the middle of the street; one leg was splayed onto the westbound lane of Pico, the other onto the eastbound. I got out of my car, and as I approached I saw he was bleeding from his lower left side. I rushed to him, and before I could say anything, he said to me, “How you doin’?”

“How am I doin’?” I asked the man. “How you doin’?”

“I just got shot.”

By then, other people were there, trying to help. Someone put a towel under his head. Someone called 911. I heard the sirens nearing. I’d seen my share of gunshot wounds, and I knew this wasn’t life-threatening, so I went on my way.

It was nearly noon, and since I was nearby, I decided to go to Langer’s Delicatessen, renowned for its pastrami sandwich. I was about to turn off my car when a song came on the radio that grabbed me. I recognized the lyrics: “Just a little lovin’, early in the morning.” I’d heard the famous Dusty Springfield version of the song, “Just a Little Lovin’,” written by Barry Mann and Cynthia Weil, many times before and liked it. But this was not Dusty’s version. It was smoky and jazzy and extraordinarily uplifting.

So I sat and listened to the whole song, to relish it and find out who was singing. The D.J. came on and said it was Sarah Vaughan. Especially after seeing a man wounded in the street, I felt my spirits raised by the song. I went to Langer’s and had a No. 10, pastrami and Swiss with Russian dressing. Then afterward I called the radio station, but the person I talked to said he didn’t know what album it was on. Maybe a week later, I went to Tower Records on Sunset. It had several Sarah albums, but none of them had that song.

Years passed. I kind of forgot about it. But every now and then I would pass a record store and take a look. Never found it. More years went by. In 2006, I went online and found some Sarah Vaughan sites. Nothing. Amazon had hundreds of her recordings but not the one I was looking for. I posted a message on some online jazz board. I got a few responses from people saying they couldn’t find it, either. Some people made suggestions, but they didn’t pan out. And that was the last I thought about it.

Until a few weeks ago, when I found a small padded package in my mailbox. Inside was a CD with the recording of Sarah Vaughan singing “Just a Little Lovin’.” It was wrapped in a sheet of paper with some typed production info. The song is from the 1972 album “Feelin’ Good” (which, it turns out, became available online a couple of years ago). And there was a handwritten note from a man named Jerry in Amherst, Mass., that said, “Enjoy!”

I was flabbergasted. Immediately, I loaded it into the CD player in my bedroom. I was actually a little nervous. Would it sound as good as I remembered? It had been more than 10 years, and maybe I had built it up to legendary status when it was merely excellent. After all, discovery is usually a greater thrill than confirmation. I pushed play.

Oh, sweet Sarah. From the very opening notes of the piano and her first vocals, the song was just as I remembered it. I played it five times, slowly dancing around my room. I couldn’t wait to thank this guy Jerry, so I got his number from 411. “I’m glad you got it,” he said.

Then, five days after that, I got an e-mail message from someone going by EAllen4787: I hope this e-mail address is still operative for you. This address was taken from a [2006] post. I, too, have been searching for a copy of Sarah Vaughan’s version of “Just a Little Lovin’.” I used to hear it from an album that we played in graduate school at Purdue that was owned by a fellow student in 1974-1976.

I wrote back right away and told him the story — that I’d just gotten the recording in the mail out of the blue — and that I’d send him a copy. He wrote back: Thank you so much. Thank God for this Internet. This is the best find by far I have ever made on the Internet. So I had my girlfriend’s son, Oliver, burn me a CD, and I sent it out to EAllen4787.

It has been a little while now, and I still play the song every day, usually in the morning. I love the piano and Sarah’s voice. But now it’s more than just a song. It makes me think of the gift I got from a complete stranger, this Jerry guy, and how good it made me feel to reach out to someone else and ask for nothing in return. And it makes me think about that guy who was shot who asked me how I was doing. I hope he’s alive and well, and I wish I could send him the song.

Michael Krikorian has written for The Los Angeles Times and LA Weekly. He last wrote for the magazine about visiting his namesake at the Men’s Central Jail in Los Angeles.

Finding That Song

The Three Heartbreaks of DaMar Rigsby

The Death of A Brother and Son 

September 13, 2013,

Los Angeles  

"Call 911! Call 911!", desperately said Damar Alan Rigsby to a friend as he stumbled last Friday evening into Al's Liquor Store at Figueroa and 108th and collapsed.  Shot once in the neck, those were the 24-year-old's last known words

Three time zones away, Margaret Rigsby, Damar's mother, was surprised to hear her phone ring after midnight.  This is her recollection of the heartbreaking phone call.

"Who is this?,' Margaret asked.

""I'm a social worker calling from Harbor UCLA. Are you Margaret Rigsby, mother of Damar Rigsby?"

"Yes. Why are you calling me?" 

"Something happened here." 

"What do you mean? Tell me. Did something happen to my son?"

"I will transfer you to a doctor."

"Wait! What happened? Did something to my son?""

Margaret Rigsby, 2,000 miles away in Indianapolis, was put on hold as hysteria began to take its own hold. An uncertain amount of time passed. A man identifying himself as a doctor came on the line and told Margaret her son had been shot. And then this even more devastating news.

"Even if we could have saved him, the bullet was too close to his spine." 

Wednesday night, at the Bethel A.M. E. Church on 79th and Western, Margaret pounded her chest and repeated that line "Even if we could have saved him. Even if we could have saved him."  

Margaret and her daughter, Jamila, had flown to Los Angeles from Indiana shortly after the worst news and were at the church to be part of a weekly "Cease Fire" stop the violence meeting and to raise awareness for their beloved DeMar.   

LAPD homicide Det. Rick Gordon said today that they believe the shooting was gang-related and  Rigsby was wrongly profiled as being from that Vermont Vista neighborhood which is a stronghold of the Denver Lane Bloods.     

"He was just walking down the street trying to get home and our belief was he was profiled by rival gang members," said Gordon. "With his background, being from out of town, he may have not been familiar with the area."

Rigsby was shot once in the neck on the east side of Figueroa and ran bleeding across the street into Al's. 

Gordon said one of the best detectives on the South Bureau homicide squad, Nate Kouri, is leading the investigation. Anyone with information can call LAPD's Criminal Gang Homicide unit at (213) 485 1383 or if one feels uncomfortable with calling the police, then they can E-mail me, MIchael Krikorian, at makmak47@gmail.com.

Demar's sister Jamila Rigsby,  eyes red from crying for days, said her 6-foot-4, basketball-loving brother had moved from Fort Wayne, Indiana to seek work as an electrician so he could send for his 18-month old daughter.  She said he had left Indiana also because he had broken up with the baby's mother and was heartbroken. 

"He was the nicest person in the world. He made people feel good," said Jamila in a kind of daze. She was finding this tragedy hard to believe. "I never even thought I would lose my brother to a shooting. Why? Why ? Why did they kill my brother?"      

Jamila and her family are having a vigil tonight  in front of Al's Liquor Store at 7 p.m..  

Since the shooting, Jamila has frequently been in this often-violent neighborhood trying to find out who killed DaMar.

"People ask me 'Why are you waking the streets around here? It's dangerous.'.  What can they do to me? Shoot me?  You already took my life. I'm  an only child now. I'm an only daughter. Why did the kill my brother? I still can't believe they killed my brother."

### 

The family of DaMar Rigsby needs financial help to transport his body back to Indiana and pay for his funeral.  They are asking for donations. If you can help at all. please send to P.O.Box 53165 Indianapolis IN 46253 to Margaret Rigsby Jamila Rigsby or written out to Covington Memorial Gardens!
 

DeMar Rigsby

The Linguini That Saved Naples

"Where are you staying in Naples?" asked the concierge of La Scalinatella, our quarters for a rich August week in Capri where a lone piece of sidewalk trash would elicit stares.

The Una Napoli Hotel, I told her. Near the main train station. If I had said "The Motel Five on the Southside of Aleppo, Syria" no greater look of alarm would have resulted. "It's far too dangerous," MIss Concierge warned. 

Nancy was just about to have her cancel our 70 euro-a-night pad for a 250 euro recommendation when I pulled her aside. "She lives in Capri. Her version of dangerous and mine, even yours, is, ya know, different."

So we stayed at the Una Napoli.  It was good enough for our 20 hours in Naples, though I could see the Capri point of view.  The blocks surrounding the hotel were kinda grimy. But, soon after we started our all-day stroll through the city, it became apparent those blocks near the hotel were not seldom seen in old Napoli. They were typical.  

"This whole city needs to be dragged through a car wash," I told Nancy as we walked for kilometers, nearly every wall here in need of a deep mortar cleansing and hi-pressure rinse. I have never seen a more graffiti-splattered city. Every single church. even their Duomo, was spray-painted. 

It was my kind of town. 

But, not our kind of day. Don't go to Naples on a Monday in mid-August. I had printed out a "36 Hours in Naples" from a January, 2013  New York Times article ( http://travel.nytimes.com/2013/01/13/travel/36-hours-in-naples-italy.html?pagewanted=all ) and, along with some Faith Willinger recommendations, we had places to check. They were all closed.  

Except for Da Dora Ristorante. (http://www.ristorantedadora.com/)  But, our reservation there was not 'til 9 p.m..   

So, for hours we walked. Four hours plus we walked.  It was hot, too, about 93 or so. We strolled the nearly deserted waterfront streets Via Caracciolo and Via Partenope and had warm, offensive red wine that even Nancy Silverton couldn't and wouldn't drink. We ambled through Chiaia, the area the NY Times proclaimed the "city's prime night life zone", studded with boutiques, art galleries and wine bars. That Southside of Aleppo would have been livelier

So, we stepped early to Da Dora, a mom and pop seafood restaurant on a narrow residential street lined with folding chairs occupied by middle-aged men and women fanning themselves, old teenage girls bouncing babies, and an Andy Garcia "Godfather III" character look-a-like who had a Che Guevara tattoo on his right forearm. Che and his neighbors eyed us without welcome.   

At Da Dora,  we were told "come back at eight."  We debated to cancel and head back to the Una Napoli.  No. At least Da Dora was open. We .walked around these drab blocks for another hour.  "If there's a murder in this neighborhood tonight," Nancy said, "And the police come around asking these people if they saw any unusual people..."   I laughed. She didn't.

*** 

The English-speaking waiter Antonio, who, (according to a Chowhound post by "Indy 67"  I read two days ago ) is "famous for his knowledge of state capitals," took our order. Linguini with seafood for me,  a shellfish platter for her and a fish soup for two.   

After finding out we were from Los Angeles, Antonio wasted no time, asking me if I knew the capital of California.  Before I responded, he said "Sacramento."  Soon we were tossing states back and forth. I know my capitals quite well, but when he said "Kentucky",  I had no idea. Even now, now that I know it's Frankfurt, it still doesn't sound right.  Tony's gloat didn't last long as i got him wiith Montana ( Helena) and South Dakota, ( Pierre).  Mess with me on some U.S. capitals. Italian, please.

Soon, he put the linguini with seafood down. One bite, that's all it took for me to know this was something extraordinary. One bite to make me close my eyes and savor.  One bite to know we had been so right to wait.  

The pasta was cooked to the right second. The sauce, to call this a "Tomato Sauce" would be like calling Sandy Koufax “a pitcher”. The assortment of seafood - lobster, shrimp, squid, mussels, clams - was so fresh it seemed like you could hear them talking to each other about what it was like to get captured earlier that day in Naples Bay. (Ok, Mike, back off. That's enough, Just admit here you're not a food writer.)  

I'm not a food writer. Clearly . But, that linguini was so damn delicious. it was one of those dishes that, as it began to become clear that it would soon be gone, I slowed my savour down considerably.  

Nancy's dish and the fish soup we split were both superb. But, that linguini. I'd go back to Naples on a Monday in August just to have that linguini again. 

###### 

(WARNING : Read further at own peril.) 

Advanced technology reached extraordinary levels during my stay in Naples when the NSA was able to decipher a highly encrypted conversation between the various shellfish on the plate of the above-described linguini. 

The conversation:

Clam on the pasta - What you doin' here, Red?

Lobster - You believe this shit? I was chilling in the Bay, taking it in, and all a sudden, Swosh. I'm in a goddamn net. 

Large Shrimp - Me 'n my boys, too. Fuck it, Was bound to happen. 'Least i ended up at Da Dora. Heard some my homies got froze to death and shipped out to Dubai.

Lobster -  I know what you mean. They boiled the shit out my cousin in China somewhere.

Shrimp - Yeah. You gotta go, might as well be to Da Dora.

Clam - And check it. That's Nancy Silverton eating with this guy.

Shrimp - She's having some assorted. 

Lobster -  I'd like to "Therma" her-"door", You feel me?

Shrimp - Indeed.  I go " Jumbo" on her. 

Clam  - Incoming!! 

(Much static is heard on the leaked NSA recording. The all is quiet, except a human saying "Damn, that was good.") 

The LInguini that saved Naples

Che in Naples

Da Dora's fish soup 

Dora and her husband

The waiter who knows the capitals

A review of "Southside" by the Library Journal

This is the Library Journal review of Southside scheduled to run in the 09/15 issue.

Mike Lyons has made a name for himself as a gang reporter in Los Angeles, mixing with some of the city's most dangerous gang members. As he leaves a bar one day, Mike is shot twice and survives but has no idea who's gunning for him. After all, there are plenty of suspects to choose from. Unfortunately, an audiotape surfaces with Mike telling a gang leader how getting shot and surviving can garner instant respect, and the chief of police is eager to embarrass a reporter who has smeared the LAPD one too many times. However, Mike, who didn't set up his own shooting, is determined to find the shooter before he finishes him off. When others are attacked, a startling connection among the crimes becomes clear. 

VERDICT:  Former "Los Angeles Times" reporter Krikorian takes his readers on a quick and dirty ride through some of the most dangerous territory in L.A. in this fast-moving debut crime story of revenge and murder. The author knows his territory and isn't afraid to highlight the terrifying reality of gang life as well as the very human stories at its core, without ever resorting to cliche. His sparse style will appeal to readers who like their crime fiction no-nonsense and full of realistic grit.--Kristin Centorcelli, Denton, TX Copyright 2013 Library Journal (09/15/2013)

The MENU of the World's Second Best PIzzeria

PEPE IN GRANI

This is the menu of Pepe in Grani, my second favorite pizzeria in the world This is rationally explained in a previous official document first released here and read by more than 45 people and later, thanks to a tweet by Ruth Reichl, (@ruthreichl) by over 1,000.  Franco Pepe sent this menu to Krikorian Writes and urged Pepe in Grani loyalists to join his facebook page which is https://www.facebook.com/pepeingrani

Pepe in Grani is located in the town of Caiazzo roughly 50 kilometers north of Naples and 150 kilometers south of Rome. 

Vico S. Giovanni Battista, 3, 81013 Caiazzo, 

 +39 0823 862718

Classic pizzas

 La pizza a libretto €1,50 

 smaller size pizza with tomato sauce, garlic, oregano and evo oil caiazzana variety 

Schiacciata €2,50 

salt, oregano, evo oil caiazzana variety 

Margherita €3,90 

tomato sauce, fiordilatte, evo oil caiazzana variety 

Marinara classica €3,00 

tomato sauce, oregano, garlic, evo oil caiazzana variety 

La Boscaiola €6,00 

tomato sauce, fiordilatte, mushrooms, speck, oregano 

Ai porcini €6,00 

fiordilatte, porcini mushrooms, oregano 

La Piccante €5,00 

fiordilatte, tomato sauce, spicy salami, oregano 

Al pomodorino fresco €5,50 

fiordilatte, cherry tomatoes, basil, evo oil caiazzana variety 

Calzone classico €6,00 

fiordilatte, tomato sauce, cooked ham 

The original

 Marinara di mastro Stefano €4,00 

the classic + anchovies and capers   

Pdo Margherita €6,50 

S.Marzano Pdo tomato sauce, Pdo buffalo mozzarella, evo oil caiazzana variety 

L’Alifana €6,50 

fiordilatte, scamorza cheese, Alife onions, bacon, oregano 

La Pinsa conciata del ‘500 (mastunicola) €7,00 

nero casertano lard, pepper, Alto Casertano oregano, basil, conciato romano (Alto Casertano pecorino cheese), on demand, Cilento figs jam 

La Riccia Nero ripiegata €8,00 

fiordilatte, smoked scamorza cheese, nero casertano sausage, curly endive, oregano 

La nero casertano €8,50 

tomato sauce, fiordilatte, smoked scamorza cheese, nero casertano sausage, oregano, evo oil caiazzana variety 

Il sole nel piatto €9,00   (ORDER THIS )

Pdo buffalo mozzarella, Pdo Vesuvius’ piennolo tomato, Cetara anchovies, caiazzane olives, Alto Casertano oregano 

Il piennolo €7,50 

Pdo buffalo mozzarella, Pdo Vesuvius’ piennolo tomato, basil, evo oil caiazzana variety 

L’orto del giorno €6,50 

 fiordilatte, seasonal vegetables 

Ai sapori del Cilento €9,00 

Pdo buffalo mozzarella, ricotta from Paestum and Cilento Pgi artichoke 

La ceci delle colline caiatine (subject to availability) €9,00 

fiordilatte, Caiazzo hills chickpeas, loin of nero casertano, curly endive, garlic, evo oil caiazzana variety 

Aglio, olio e peperoncino €6,00 

garlic, Cetara anchovies, chili pepper, parsley, nero casertano lard, Alto Casertano oregano, evo oil caiazzana variety 

Calzone con scarola riccia €8,00 

curly endive, Cetara anchovies, capers, caiazzane olives, evo oil caiazzana variety 

4 stagioni €7,00 

tomato sauce, fiordilatte, carciofi, mushrooms, capers, anchovies, olives, cooked ham 

Capricciosa €6,50 

tomato sauce, fiordilatte, capers, anchovies, baby artichokes, caiazzane olives 

Ai Formaggi €6,00 

fiordilatte, scamorza cheese, pecorino cheese, grana, oregano 

Con patate lesse e condite €5,00 

fiordilatte, potato with evo oil caiazzana variety, oregano and garlic 

Calzone de “Il Casolare” €8,50 

Pdo buffalo mozzarella, ricotta, scamorza cheese, nero casertano sausage, spot of tomato sauce 

Schiacciata gustosa €7,00 

fiordilatte, scamorza cheese, porchetta (italian roasted pork), arugula, oregano 

Schiacciata fresca €7,00 

fresh tomato sauce, pecorino cheese, raw ham, arugola 

Fried pizzas 

Calzone €4.00 

ricotta cheese, smoked scamorza cheese, salami, pepper 

Montanara €4,00 

tomato sauce, oregano, capers 

Tasting menu

 (we recommend a minimum of 3/4 people) 

1] Pdo Margherita, Marinara, Calzone con scarola riccia, La nero casertano, La pinsa conciata del 500. €42,00 

2] Pizza fritta, Il Piennolo, Calzone con scarola riccia, Calzone de “Il Casolare”, La pinsa conciata del ‘500. €46,00 

3] Pdo Margherita, Il sole nel piatto, La riccia nero ripiegata, La cilentana, La pinsa conciata del ‘500. €50,00 

Pizzas are served in succession and divided by the number of diners to taste the quality without overlapping the flavors. For this reason, the tasting option provides a slight increase in price compared to the sum of the individual pizzas, due to the greater time of occupation of the table. Equivalent service mode, will be considered tasting menu. 

Appetizers 

Bruschetta €1,50 

fresh tomato, oregano, garlic, evo oil caiazzana variety 

Tagliere del territorio €10,00 

culatello from Matese or local ham, sausage, sun-dried tomatoes, Alto Casertano cheese, caiazzane olives 

Potato croquettes (3 pcs, homemade)  €3,00 

Typical dishes

 (based on day availability) 

Soffritto (chilli steamed pork offal) 

Pancotto (bread, ham and vegetable soup) 

Baccalà (fried cod) 

Dessert

 Homemade or artisan pastry €3,00 

“Nonna Amelia” biscuits, 1 portion (3 pcs) €3,00 

with Pallagrello wine, olive oil caiazzana variety 

and hazelnuts

Also from the menu : 

Pepe in Grani is a project of Franco Pepe. It’s the place in which the experience of three generations of masters of the bakery converge and where Franco practices its desire of experimentation. Pizza, research and hospitality are the three point of reference of the whole structure, which is meant to be a window on the territory, on the gastronomic tradition and the virtuous producers of Alto Casertano area. 

The dough is made exclusively by hands and it’s worked in the cupboard of wood, without the use of mixers or electricity and is left to rise naturally to ambient temperature.

The products present in this menu are researched and personally selected by Franco and served following the seasons, as well as its pizzas and its fillings. 

A homage to Franco Pepe's country . 

42 YEARS AGO, DEC. 15, 1979, RAYMOND WASHINGTON, FOUNDER OF THE CRIPS, WAS SHOT AND KILLED

This article below about Raymond Washington appeared in the L.A. Weekly back in 2005  days after Stanley "Tookie" Williams was put to death in San Quentin. A movie about his life is said to be in the works.

On The Trail Of The Real Founder Of The Crips

By Michael Krikorian , Dec 15 2005

The founder of the Crips was not lethally injected minutes after midnight Tuesday morning in the sterilized death chamber of San Quentin State Prison. There was no news of his death. There were no Oscar winners or rap stars urging that his life continue. Fifty-year-old white women in $5 million Hancock Park homes did not ponder the gang leader’s fate in his final days. No bums pushing shopping carts on Sunset and Vine had opinions on whether a governor should spare him from a state-inflicted death.

No, the founder of the Crips was gut-shot with a sawed-off on a dreary South Los Angeles corner 26 (now 42) years ago.Contrary to popular assumption, Sranley "Tookie" Williams, who was fatally injected Tuesday morning and pronounced dead at 12:35 a.m., was not the founder or even the co-founder of the Crips. The undisputed father of the notorious black street gang was one Raymond Washington, a mighty 5-foot-8 fireplug who loved to fight and loathed guns. He was killed at age 26 by a shotgun blast — allegedly by someone he knew — on the corner of 64th and San Pedro streets on August 9, 1979.

There was no mention of his death in the Los Angeles Times or any other major newspaper as there was of the death of Williams. But on the hardcore streets of South-Central Los Angeles, Watts and Compton, the slaying of Washington was akin to a presidential assassination.

“All this talk lately about Tookie, we was wondering when someone was gonna finally tell the real story about the Crips, tell the story of Raymond,” said Debra Addie Smith,  who knew the gang leader back in the early and mid-1970s.Raymond Washington was born in Texas, but grew up on 76th Street near Wadsworth Avenue, just west of Central Avenue.

“Raymond was a good kid when he was a boy,” said his mother, Violet Barton, who now lives in Phoenix. “Raymond didn’t go out of his way to fight or do anything bad, but if someone came to him, he would protect himself. And he was well-built. He tried to protect the community and keep the bad guys out. But after a while, every time I looked up, the police were coming to the house looking for Raymond.”

Others on 76th Street, a well-kept block of small single-family homes that is now more Latino than African-American, said that while Raymond protected the boys and girls from bullies from other neighborhoods, he bullied them himself.

“I don’t have a whole lot of good to say about Raymond,” said Lorrie Griffin Moss, 48, with a laugh. She grew up directly across the street from Washington on 76th Street, just west of Wadsworth. “Raymond was a bully. A muscular bully. He wouldn’t let anybody from outside our neighborhood bother us. He would bother us. Raymond could be very mean.”

Washington was known as a great street fighter.“Raymond could really toss ’em,” said Los Angeles Police Department Detective Wayne Caffey, referring to Washington’s fist skills as a street fighter. Caffey’s cousin attended Fremont High School, where Washington was occasionally schooled when he wasn’t kicked out for fighting. “He was an awesome football player, but he didn’t want to play organized ball. He wanted to be a knucklehead.”

Raymond, Caffey said, deplored guns and considered those who brought guns to a fight to be punks.

Washington — who had three older brothers — was a street legend, especially to his one younger brother.

“He was real, real good with his hands. He could bring it from the shoulders. Like Mike Tyson  in his prime,” said Derard Barton, 46, who added that his brother had 18-inch arms and a 50-inch chest. “He weighed abut 215. All muscle. I never saw my brother lose a fight, except to my older brothers when he was real young. But when he got older, he could even take them.”

Even youths miles away from Washington’s 76th Street neighborhood remember him.“I remember that Raymond Washington was a hog,” said Ronald “Kartoon” Antwine, a community activist from Watts who remembers seeing the Crips founder at the Watts Summer Festival. “By hog, I mean Raymond would take his shirt off and fight his ass off all day long.”

Washington was kicked out of every school he ever attended for fighting. He would go away to juvenile detention camps and be sure to let everyone know when he was back in the neighborhood, said Griffin Moss.“He’d go away for a few months, and when he came back, he come up to my dad and mom and say, “Hey, Mr. Griffin, I’m back. Hello, Mrs. Griffin. I’m back.”

His younger brother remembers Raymond fondly and proudly.“He was like a Robin Hood type a person, stealing from the rich, giving to the poor,” said Derard Barton from his home in Phoenix. 

Washington admired the Black Panthers and tried for a while to emulate them as a youth. He eventually joined the local gang called the Avenues led by a youth named Craig Munson. He later left the Avenues after “he kicked Craig Munson’s brother’s ass,” according to Detective Caffey.He started his own gang.

The origin of the name Crips has many tales, has become folklore. Some, including Tookie, have said the name came from Raymond’s gang the Baby Avenues, which became the Avenue Cribs. In a drunken state, Cribs mispronounced their name into Crips.

However, Washington’s brother and Griffin Moss say the name simply came from an injury that one of Raymond’s older brothers incurred.“My older brother Reggie was kind of bowlegged, and then he twisted his ankle bad one time, and he was walking with a limp, so he put “Crip” on his Chuck Taylor Converse All Stars and Raymond took the name,” said younger brother Derard.

As for Raymond’s nickname, he was sometimes referred to as Ray Ray — as many Rays are for some reason — but mainly he was just called Raymond.“Raymond didn’t need a nickname,” said Derard Barton.

Barton said being the younger brother of the founder of the Crips had some benefits.“Sometimes I would get into fights, but once people knew I was Raymond Washington’s brother, they were the nicest people in the world to me,” said Barton, who works at a hospital for disabled people as a behavioral health technician. “Plus, no one ever broke into our house. He was really a goodhearted person. He was really kind to elderly people. He liked to fight, yeah, but if he liked you, he’d treat you so well. If he didn’t like you, he would hate you.”

Raymond had a simple and very effective tactic of expanding the Crips.“He would go to the leader of another gang and fight him,” said Derard Barton. “He went straight to their main man. Once he put the guy on his back, everyone else would join up and follow him.”

Said Detective Caffey: “He went to other neighborhoods and said, ‘Either join me or become my enemy.’  

Most kids living on the edge of thuggery joined. Some did not. Those that were fighters, who were not intimidated, kept to their own gangs.

Eventually, the pressure of the Crips became so intense, so bloody, that the other gangs — the Piru in Compton and the Brims near USC — aligned themselves into a loosely knit gang group called the Bloods. The Swans and Bounty Hunters also signed on with the Bloods alliance. And the bloody battle of South Los Angeles, Watts and Compton was on.

Although inspired by the Black Panthers, Washington and his group never were able to develop an agenda for social change within the community. Early big-shot members included Mack Thomas of the original Compton Crips, Michael “Shaft” Concepcion, Jimel “Godfather” Barnes, Greg “Batman” Davis and Stanley Tookie Williams.

Williams, of course, gained international infamy as his death sentence gained unprecedented publicity. Legend has it that Washington approached Williams to expand his gang to the west side of the Harbor Freeway and Williams became a leader of the Westside Crips.

“It’s just wrong to say Tookie was the founder of the Crips,” said Wes McBride, president of the California Gang Investigators Association.

Moss also remembers Tookie Williams coming by all the time to visit Raymond. “He’d be walking down the street looking like the Pirelli man,” she said. Still, though Williams was killed by the state Tuesday morning and referred to himself as the co-founder of the Crips, many say Raymond Washington is being forgotten.

Many young wannabes calling themselves Crips these days don't even know who Raymond Washington was. It would be like a young Dodger prospect not knowing who was Sandy Koufax.

Back in the 1970s, as the Crips became more deadly and infamous for robbing youths of their black leather jackets and drive-by shootings, Raymond started to become disillusioned with the gang he founded.

“He started running with a black motorcycle goup,” said retired Los Angeles County Sheriff’s gang investigator Curtis Jackson. “I think he felt that the youngsters were getting too crazy, getting totally out of control.“My interaction with Raymond was minimal, but he was very approachable,” said Jackson. “I had no trouble talking with him. Most gang members are actually very personable, and I’ve never had any trouble rapping with them. Tookie was an exception, as he always had a few thugs around him, so he always had an attitude.”

On the bleak corner of 64th Street and San Pedro is a drab pink, two-story apartment building — 6326 S. San Pedro St. — complete with runaway weeds, peeling paint, three rusty barbecues and a large cart labeled Rick’s Hot Dogs, all nestled against a ratty chain-link fence.

It was here on an August night in 1979 that Raymond Washington was blown away by a blast from a sawed-off shotgun. Someone inside a car had called out his name, and Washington walked over. The pellets tore into his guts, and he was rushed away to a hospital, where he died.

It was the end of the founder of the Crips, and it was the beginning of the end of the Crips as a united gang.

Though no one was ever arrested, rumors spread — erroneously — that the Hoover Crips (now Hoover Criminals) were responsible. Shootings broke out between Raymond’s Eastside Crips — now known as the East Coast Crips — and the Hoovers.

Right around then, feud broke out between the Rollin’ 60s Crips and the Eight Trey Gangster Crips, and shootings erupted between those large and extremely violent Crips factions. Other Crip sets chose sides, and Crips have been killing Crips ever since then. More even than Crips kill Bloods or Bloods kill Crips.

As much as he relished a good fistfight, Raymond would be sad and disappointed to see what havoc was wreaked on the gang he founded. Rare is the time when two guys meet in an alley or park anymore and “toss ’em.” The days of bringing it from the shoulders were coming to an end, and the days of bringing it from the holster were the way it would be.