The Autobiography of Gucci Mane
Gucci Mane & Neil Martinez-Belkin
PROLOGUE
September 13, 2013
The police had taken my pistol the day before but I wasn’t without heavy arms. I’d been stockpiling weapons at the studio. Glocks, MAC-10s, ARs fitted with scopes and hundred-round monkey nuts. All out in the open for easy access. I was in Tony Montana mode, bracing for a final standoff. I didn’t know when it would happen, who it would be, or what would force its occurrence, but one thing I did know: something bad was going to happen and it was going to happen soon.
I looked around my studio. The Brick Factory. It seemed like just yesterday this had been the spot. Everybody would be over here. At all hours of the day for days on end. But now the Brick Factory looked more like an armory than a place where music was made. I’d seen the looks on people’s faces when they came through. My studio was no longer a fun place to be. Onetime regulars started dropping like flies until I was the only one left. Alone.
Everyone was scared again. Not just scared of what was going on with me but scared of me. Scared to call me. Scared to see me. Keyshia had tried to be a voice of reason. She tried telling me the things I was stressing over weren’t as bad as I was making them out to be. That my problems were manageable. That we could figure them out together. But I was too far gone and even Keyshia had her limits. A few days earlier I’d snapped on her and she’d hung up the phone. She’d had enough.
A paranoid mess, I went and checked the CCTV monitor for any activity outside. None. The parking lot was empty. The gate was secure. If that brought me any peace of mind, it disappeared as soon as I looked away from the screen, down at my feet.
The ankle monitor. I was a sitting duck. Everyone knew I was here. And they knew I couldn’t leave.
That wasn’t entirely true. I wasn’t supposed to leave. But I had, the day before, when I’d gone to my lawyer Drew’s office and the police got called. They found a loaded .45 next to my belongings. They let me go but took the strap with them to get fingerprinted and turned in to evidence. I knew my days were numbered. I’d violated my house arrest and had a run-in with the law while doing so.
Fuck it.
If I was going back to jail anyway, I might as well go find these niggas I’d been having problems with. These were my old partners, but things had soured and they’d been sending threats my way. I didn’t want to wait until I got out of jail to see if these niggas were about all the shit they’d been talking. We could handle this now. I grabbed a Glock .40, some smoke, and was on my way.
During my walk to their spot I’d fallen into something of a trance, mumbling incoherent thoughts to myself as I wandered down Moreland Avenue. But my zombie-like state was interrupted by the red and blue flash of police lights. It immediately put me on high alert.
“Hi, Gucci,” I heard. “I’m Officer Ivy with the Atlanta Police Department. What’s going on?”
That was a red flag. No police had ever said “Hi, Gucci” to me like that before.
“Is everything okay? Your friends called us. They’re worried about you.”
Red flag number two. My friends were certified Zone 6 street niggas. They ain’t the type to call the law.
None of this was adding up. Even with codeine and promethazine syrup slowing me down, my heart jumped as I realized what was happening. Or what I thought was happening. This man was no cop.
I knew niggas who did this. They’d dress up in police uniforms, get a kit put on their Dodge Chargers, and pull someone over, impersonating police. They’d tell them it was a routine traffic stop and before they knew it they were tied up in the trunk of their own car.
“Gucci, do you have any sort of weapon on you right now?”
“I do got a weapon,” I barked back, pointing to the Glock bulging out of my jean pocket. “Don’t unholster yours. I ain’t surrendering nothing until you prove you’re for real. Call for backup.”
More officers arrived on scene but that didn’t calm me. The standoff continued. When I told them I’d shoot ’em up if they touched me, they moved in and took me down, arresting me for disorderly conduct. After they found the gun and weed, more charges would follow.
Cuffed or not, I wasn’t done fighting. I yelled, spat, and kicked as officers did their best to restrain me. Paramedics arrived and scrambled to inject me with a syringe. Were they poisoning me? When one wasn’t enough they shot me up with another. Only then did I start to let up. I sank into the stretcher, a chemically induced calm putting an end to my nightmare.
August 14, 2014
Eleven months later I was in the US District Court of Georgia watching a conversation between Judge Steve Jones and Assistant US Attorney Kim Dammers. It was my sentencing hearing.
“. . . Nonetheless, the government thinks that this is in fact a just sentence. Mr. Davis has a substantial history of violence in the past. He has an aggravated assault in 2005 that’s in paragraph twenty-nine in the presentence report, a battery that was also a probation—”
“I saw that,” said Judge Jones.
“—in paragraph thirty-three. He has an aggravated assault pending in paragraph thirty-eight.”
“I saw that.”
“And of course there was the murder in DeKalb County that he was charged with but never brought to an indictment. And then there was also a battery in Henry County where the victims were unwilling to come forward. Reading between the lines, you could fairly say—”
“Violence.”
“So given that, the government was not willing to enter in a low end of the guideline range. It’s only two months’ difference. It was more a matter of principle than anything, but I think thirty-nine months is a significant enough sentence for Mr. Davis to understand the seriousness of the offense.”
A few minutes later Judge Jones was ready to make it official. But before he handed down my punishment, he had some words for me.