Soul of a Gangsta: The Raw & Uncut Story of J. Diggs & the Romper Room Crew

By J. Diggs and E.J. Burney

Hip-hop artist, documentary producer, and president of the largest independent record label in the country, J. Diggs brings America the tale of two conspiracies. Survivor of eight different federal penitentiaries in ten years, a man who was convicted for conspiracy to commit armed bank robbery, BET's youngest American Gangsta, Diggs gives you the raw and uncut tales of hustling in the '80s, vivid accounts of bank robberies, prison stories, and the struggles of returning to his hood, the notorious Crest, located in California's Bay Area.

With the riveting stories that tell of ups, downs, years of fighting to rebuild his life after prison, the loss of his friend and hip-hop icon MacDre, and the ongoing battle to keep his freedom, Soul of a Gangsta reads more like fiction.

Soul of a Gangsta allows you a glimpse into the life of J. Diggs, the artist, the producer, the entrepreneur, the survivor, and the family man. Walk through the streets of crack dealing, murder, armed bank robberies, prison, riots, shoot-outs, and prostitutes--a past that will finally be revealed to the world through this autobiography, which tells the story of two worlds and a young Black man's fight to rebuild his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9781638818168

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Crest Side

The year is 2014, and I’m riding high in life. I mean, I’m really at the top of my game. For the last ten years, I’ve been president of one of the most successful independent rap labels in the world, Thizz ENT! I have put out dozens of rap albums by several artists; not to mention I’ve recorded and released at least a dozen of my own albums, including The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly, which were released on the same day, making me the first artist to ever release three albums on the same day. I was following in the footsteps of my good friend, MacDre, who was the first artist to release two albums on the same day: Ronald Dregan and Genie of the Lamp.

So yeah…life was good. I had it all. A seven-bedroom house located in the Southern Highlands area of Las Vegas, equipped with a giant swimming pool in the backyard. Next to the basketball court was a small fleet of luxury cars and trucks, which included a Mercedes Benz, a BMW, a Bentley Flying Spur, and an H2 Hummer. I also rented three condos across the city that were occupied by females in my inner circle. They were all considered high-end escorts who worked with me and for me. I usually kept between six and ten females on my team at all times, with thirteen being the most I had at one time. I had just recently bought a recording studio in Las Vegas from Floyd Mayweather and had partnered up with a platinum-selling producer named Wino from Southern California. Wino was the producer of Coolio’s Gangsta’s Paradise album.

I was a single father of seven and was raising my oldest son, Jerold, who was eighteen. Jerold was also my best friend, and he had been living with me for the last eight years. Jerold was a very spoiled teenager—the son of a rapper, with all the toys that came with that way of life. Not to mention, he traveled across the country with me and was my hype man on stage when I performed. I had also just finished recording my second collab album with an underground legend from Kansas City named Rich the Factor. The album was titled Street Ballin’.

So here I was…sitting at the top of my game and living the life most men could only dream about. I had a team of high-end escorts called the Dirty Girls. At this particular time, three of my girls were working at the world-famous Bunny Ranch in Carson City, which is right outside of Reno, Nevada. One member of the Dirty Girls was a Black girl from Seattle named Jazz, and there was also a bad blonde bitch who went by the name Barbie. Jazz and Barbie were both stars on the popular reality TV show that aired on HBO called Cathouse. This was a show featuring the owner of the Bunny Ranch, Dennis Hof, and it showcased his legal brothel, which was full of high-end escorts and prostitutes. My two girls, Jazz and Barbie, were two of the top moneymakers at the Bunny Ranch, as well as two of the top moneymakers on my team.

Dennis Hof and I had bad blood between us for years. It all started in 2008 when I sent a couple of my Dirty Girls to the Bunny Ranch to work. The girls were Dior, a pretty bleached blonde, five foot nine with a nice, petite body; and the other girl was Pretty Black, who was a slim, very cute Black girl I had knocked out of Seattle. To make a long story short, while Dior and Pretty Black were both out working at the ranch, they would often have wild catfights that led to the administration getting involved. Pretty Black told Dennis that she and Dior were always fighting because they shared the same man, and that kept them competing to see who would make the most money for their man. Dennis then asked Pretty Black if her man was a pimp.

Proudly, Pretty Black said, Yes, he’s a pimp and a rapper from the Bay Area named J. Diggs.

Dennis immediately tried to break their ties to me. He told Dior that if she left me, she could be his girl, and he would make sure that she got the best customers that came to the ranch. Dior told him that she wasn’t having none of it. Dior was in love with me and the life that I had introduced her to, so she left the ranch and came home to me. After that, Dennis banned me, and all of the girls affiliated with me, from going to the ranch for years. That didn’t stop anything, though. I still sent girls to the Bunny Ranch with strict instructions not to mention me, my name, or the Dirty Girls.

Five years later, Jazz and Barbie were running the Bunny Ranch. Between the two of them, I was making ten and twenty thousand per week, and that was after the ranch took half of everything they made, including room and board. After having a great month, I decided to take the Dirty Girls on a moneymaking vacation to Honolulu. I told Jazz and Barbie to come home to Vegas because we were heading out! Jazz called me an hour later and said she had a friend who wanted to come home with her and be a Dirty Girl. I told Jazz to put the girl on the phone.

The first words the friend spoke to me were, Hi, Daddy.

That instantly put a smile on my face. I responded, What’s up, li’l momma? You ready to come home to Daddy? How much money you got?

She said she had $8,000 in cash on her and another $4,000 in the bank. I told her that would definitely be enough to make her a Dirty Girl. Jazz, her friend, and Dior all flew into Vegas that night, and the friend handed me $11,500. I left $500 in her account so she could book her ticket to Hawaii. I bought eleven tickets to Hawaii: seven for me and my bitches, one for my cameraman Smurf, and two more for my homeboys Big Baby and Gill. The only problem was that I had to split up the tickets in two days. Jazz and I left the night before everyone else, and the rest of the crew was scheduled to arrive the next morning. After I explained the flight arrangement to everyone, I rushed to the airport to catch my flight.

As I sat with Jazz waiting to board the plane, two Metro officers walked in from the runway doors and headed straight toward us. I was very confused. All I could think was, What the fuck is this?

The first officer stepped to me and said, Jamal Diggs?

As much as I wanted to say, Nope. Not me. You got the wrong guy! I knew that they knew they had the right person. Yeah, what’s up? I responded.

We have a woman in the car outside who says that you stole eleven grand out of her purse while she was at your house and that you left while she was in the bathroom.

I looked at the officer like he was crazy. I did what? I replied. She’s lying. I ain’t took no money from that girl. That’s my girlfriend’s friend, and she was supposed to meet us in Hawaii tomorrow. I don’t know what the hell is going on.

The officer asked if he could search me. Jazz and I both said yes.

After searching us, the officer pulled out two thousand in cash from both my pockets, and another fifteen hundred from Jazz’s purse.

Does this look like eleven grand? That bitch is lying, I said.

The officer asked why we had so much cash on us, and I told him that we were headed on vacation to Hawaii. After realizing that we didn’t have the money that the girl said we had taken from her, the officer took my ID and ran a search on my name. The officer then came back and placed me under arrest for an outstanding traffic warrant.

I stood there thinking, You’ve got to be kidding me! You’re going to arrest me for a traffic warrant? I asked him.

And that’s exactly what he did. He arrested me for a fuckin’ traffic ticket. I told Jazz to make her flight, and told her to make sure that everyone else made their flight as well. I told her that I would be in Hawaii within the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. Come to find out, the new bitch was so high on cocaine that she thought Jazz and I had run off with her money and left her in Vegas. She had called the police, made a report, and requested that they stop us at the airport. Although no charges were actually filed about the girl’s money, I did end up going to jail for the outstanding traffic warrant. How ironic…this was the second time I had attempted to go to Hawaii, and both times I ended up going to jail from the airport before even being able to get on the plane.

Within twenty-four hours of being arrested on the traffic warrant, I bailed myself out of jail and jumped on the next flight to Honolulu. Six of the girls and three of my homeboys had made it there by the time I arrived, so we started our vacation. My plan was for my girls to make money by day and for all of us to party by night. The plan was very effective until about three days into the trip. Barbie and I were inside a restaurant called the Big Kahuna on Kuhio Street. My cuddie, Big Baby, had the camera, and they were getting some footage for me for a video I was shooting to a song I had called Listen to Me, Baby.

The manager of the restaurant came over and asked Big Baby to turn the camera off because a customer was complaining about being recorded. Well, Big Baby got upset and got into an argument with the manager. I was able to calm the situation down, and we left without an incident happening.

The next day, we headed to the beach—me, the girls, my cuddies, and Smurf on the camera. We had a great time; we finished shooting the video and headed back toward our hotel on Kuhio Street. While walking past the Big Kahuna, I noticed a few of my USO cuddies, so I sped up to greet them. The girls kept heading to the hotel, and somehow Big Baby ended up arguing with the manager of the bar again.

While arguing with the manager, the security guard from the front door came up behind Big Baby and punched him in the jaw. A crowd instantly formed around them. I never saw the punch because I was talking to my USO partners, but when I saw the crowd, I rushed over to see what was going on. The Honolulu police were pulling up at the same time. I pulled Big Baby out of the crowd, and we walked across the street and discussed what had just happened.

When I got the whole story out of Big Baby, I instantly got mad as hell. I told Gill to go and find us some weapons—a couple of boards or sticks that we could beat the manager’s big ass with. See, that dude was not an average-sized dude. He was huge! He resembled an action figure. Gill came back with a couple of nice sized boards that looked like two-by-fours split down the middle, and he also brought back a kitchen knife from our suite.

So we were standing on the corner, directly across the street from the Big Kahuna, planning our attack on the action figure, when two more giants walked up to him, looking like they were fresh out of the WWF. Next thing I knew, the giants were at the crosswalk, waiting for the light to change, ready to head our way.

I told my cuddies, Heads up. These big fucks are on the way over here. I had one of the boards leaning against the light pole I was standing next to.

The three giants walked across the street and straight up to Big Baby. What the fuck you still out here for? Get the fuck out of here! they shouted.

I tried to play the middleman and stick my arm between them so the giants wouldn’t be in my cuddie’s face, but one of them slapped my arm down hard as hell. That was when I went into action. I grabbed the board and slapped the shit out of the main guy. It happened so fast that I was actually able to slap him about three or four times before he realized what had happened.

At the same time, Gill, Big Baby, and Smurf jumped into action and got on the other two guys. Gill whipped out the kitchen knife and slid it across one of their necks; the guy screamed like a bitch! Lucky for him, the knife wasn’t sharp, so it didn’t slice his throat. So here we were, in the middle of the strip on Kuhio Street, in an all-out brawl with three action figures.

Then came the sirens!

Police started coming from everywhere. I tried to run, but they tackled me. While I was on the ground, I saw the big ole bitches running to the police, ratting on us as if we had started the shit. Each of them began shouting to the police.

Look at my head!

Look at my neck!

He tried to kill me!

Gill, Big Baby, and I were all arrested. Smurf was able to get away. The three of us were charged with attempted murder at first, but the charges were dropped down to assault and terroristic threats. I spent fifteen grand bailing us out of jail, and we ended up taking a deal for four years of probation.

So here I am, a year after being put on probation in Hawaii. I’m sitting in High Desert State Prison in Nevada, right outside Vegas. I was sentenced to twelve to thirty months, and I have to do at least fourteen months before I can be released.

I thought I had it all figured out. I had been through it all; ten years in federal prison, shot twice—once in the neck, and I lived to tell about it. I had finally found myself on top of the game. I was a successful rap artist who had seen the worst that life could offer. I had made a change and was rewarded with the finer things in life…yet I still found myself locked back in the belly of the beast.

Even as I sit in this prison, I still believe I have a bright future ahead of me. However, before I can tell you where I am going, I have to tell you where I have been!

In every hood, you can always tell the different crews that form within the different blocks. Certain people are always hanging out with certain people, and that was us—the Romper Room Crew. Before the rap careers, before the robberies…hell, before we were even called the Romper Room Crew, we were just a crew of friends. There’s a big difference between a gang and a crew, and that’s just what we were—a crew from the Crest; Country Club Crest, as it was known to outsiders. However, this was our home; it was where we chilled and kicked back, the place that made me the man you see today.

It wasn’t until our negative actions started to make national headlines that the media and law enforcement decided to label us as a gang. To be honest, we actually got the name Romper Room from being a group of silly little kids. We were known for pulling numerous pranks. As the years passed, an older homie of ours named Jamie O. Eight gave us that title. See, me and my niggas were jokesters. We stayed playing all the time; especially my homie, Big Daunt. He was a real character.

One day, the older homies stood on the block, hustling as usual. This particular day, it was bumping; cars and people were everywhere. Dudes were running back and forth from the curb to the street making hand-to-hand sales. As they conducted their business, we crept down the block, one by one, and got close enough for them to hear us as we started screaming, Rollers! Rollers! Of course, there were no police around, and of course all the older homies took off running. Finally, they realized we were joking, and from that day on, we were known as the Romper Room Crew.

Romper Room was a show that aired from the mid-’50s until the mid-’90s; it was like some Sesame Street shit; it wasn’t bad or violent or any of that. It was hosted by an elderly lady named Ms. Nancy. At the end of every episode, Ms. Nancy would sit in a circle with a group of kids, grab her magic mirror, turn it to every child, and then say their names. This was the show the homies and I grew up watching, and because we were so silly and always clowning around, the older homies just started calling us those badass little Romper Room kids.

The Original Mac

The Mac was the first rapper out of the Crest. Prior to Dre and Mac Mall ever dropping a record, the Mac dropped his debut album called The Game Is Thick. He was the musical motivation to our neighborhood. He was the only one we saw doing music on a big level. Because of that, we looked up to him.

Outside of the hustlers, the Mac was who all the kids wanted to be.

Around 1991, three niggas slid through our neighborhood looking for our older homie, Big Narc. Although Big Narc was nowhere to be found, the Mac was front and center, and the niggas knew he was really close with Big Narc. Once they saw the Mac, they pulled over and began asking him all types of questions, trying to see if he would tell them where Narc was. When they saw that he wasn’t going to cooperate, they shot the Mac dead with three shots—one striking him in the neck. The killers, while flying out of the Crest, ended up getting into a high-speed chase with the police. The chase concluded with a vicious car wreck that left two of the three men dead. I guess it didn’t take long for karma to strike.

After the Mac’s death, the Crest went fuckin’ crazy. This was our legend, our hero, someone we looked up to…and he had just been gunned down in a place where he was supposed to feel safest. Our neighborhood was at a loss for words. After the death of the Mac, and once we were finished mourning, all eyes were on the next superstar in the making—MacDre.

The legend himself, Andre Hicks, better known to the world as the legendary MacDre! My nigga was truly one of a kind; there will never be another. Dre had the type of personality that just stood out…period. If he was in the room, he took it over. If you were mad around him, I guarantee that by the time you left, you were going to be straight. He would just keep you laughing. He was always cracking jokes all day. He was a comedian first, then a rapper. But don’t get it twisted… Dre was ’bout that action too. I can recall a time when he pulled a gun on our homie, Ray Ray, and shot him right in the face. Yeah, Dre had a little savage in him.

Dre wasn’t originally from the Crest. He was from a hood right outside of ours called Bridgeside, but he got close to a lot of my cuddies while in high school. My homie, EB, who was like the daddy of the hood, was actually the first one to bring him through the Crest, and once Dre touched down, he fell in love. He would come around so much that everybody started thinking he was from there. I guess the Crest had that type of effect on people. Once you stepped a foot within those Vallejo city limits and came to our neck of the woods, it would for sure be hard for you to leave. Dre eventually made the Crest his home, sleeping in the cuddie’s car and eventually living with a couple of different cuddies.

Dre ended up getting really close with my little cousin Kilo before he was ever close with me. Even before we spoke any words, before I ever saw his face, Kilo would always tell me about Dre and how he was a dope rapper. So by the time I did finally meet up with him, I was a little interested in hearing him flow just because I rapped too. The very first time I met Dre, he was at Kilo’s house in the middle of the driveway. He was tall, lanky, and you could tell he was silly as hell. That day ended up being the first time I heard MacDre rap.

Right outside of our hood in College Park, there was a spot called the Omega Continental Boy’s Club. Growing up, this was the place to be! Before we were old enough to hit the club, we would hit the Boy’s Club. The club would throw a lot of little parties, and they would just let us rock out. We called the parties the Ninnals. Everybody would always hit the Ninnals; it was the teen hangout spot.

The very first night I met Dre, we went to the Ninnals, and he prepared to hit the stage. He grabbed the mic, got in his zone, and gassed! I can’t even really remember the song he did, but I remember just being like, Damn! My nigga had the whole crowd rocking, and not with just his words either. He was a real showman. With rapping, Dre really stood out among a lot of muthafuckas just because of his character, his charisma, and his stage presence. Whenever he was in front of a crowd, he knew how to control them. Yeah, my nigga always had it.

Life in the Crest was like no other. Even though my family eventually moved out of the hood when I was younger, my grandma stayed there her whole life. She still lives there. Matter of fact, the Yo Gotti Act Right video was shot right on my grandma’s block, right in front of her house. So instead of staying with my parents as a kid, I spent most of my time in the Crest at my grandma’s house. I can recall being mad as hell when we moved. As soon as we got to our new house out in Hercules, I just stayed in my room all day. I was taken away from all my friends, and I didn’t feel like talking or being around anybody. I had that feeling you get when you switch schools in the middle of the school year. You don’t want to make any new friends; you just want your old ones back.

As I sat in my room one Saturday morning, my mom woke me up and decided to play the ultimate April fool’s joke. She rushed upstairs and instantly started screaming, We’re moving back. Come on, get up, get your clothes. Come on, we’re going back!

Man, I couldn’t jump up quick enough. As I stood to my feet, I immediately began to think, what’s the first thing am I going to do? Whose house am I going over first? The thoughts that flooded my mind were endless. Just as I finished getting dressed and packing up my clothes, I began to head downstairs, and my little momentary celebration was cut short when my mom told me she was just joking. Once again, I was devastated. Although we hadn’t been in our new house that long, I was already sick of it and ready to move back to the Crest.

Now…because the Crest wasn’t that big, the neighborhood was like one extended family; plus, it was 99 percent Black, so that just made everybody that much closer. Our neighborhood always had a strong sense of Black pride. Back in the earlier days, around the ’70s and ’80s, everything was really tight. You didn’t have to worry about anybody breaking into your house or robbing you because everybody had a job and was working. As for the youngsters, our families were so close that it damn near made us family. That was how the term cuddie originated. It was a mixture of cousin and buddy. You know how you always had that group of friends you were so close with…friends that you considered to be like cousins, but they were just your buddies? Well, we decided to put the two words together and made the term cuddie. Everybody in our hood was clicked up; that was our thing. Within the Crest, we always formed little cliques. The Romper Room Crew wasn’t the only clique; we were just one of them, and probably the most influential.

*****

You could bet your last dollar that two things were going to happen in the Crest every day: sigging and fighting. Sigging was what we called roasting or capping; and with us, there wasn’t too much of anything that was off limits. Because we were so close, everybody knew everyone’s business. So if your mom was on drugs, or if she was out being a ho, then that’s what we talked about. We called it going for blood. Man…niggas would be mad as hell once the jokes started flying out of our mouths. And once we got started, it was damn near impossible for us to stop. Nine times out of ten, those intense sigging sessions would lead to some intense fistfights.

Fighting for us was second nature. It was one of the main things the Crest would become known for—some good-ass hood fights. Whether something had happened at school, or somebody was fucking your girl…it didn’t matter; every single day, we saw a fight. The fights between us wouldn’t go past the fist, though. Like I said, we were more like family, so we weren’t out to kill each other; but I did knock more than a few niggas out. You can almost say it was like practice. We used the internal fights to help us get sharp for the external fights with other hoods. Fighting as a kid could be a little awkward; getting your first bloody nose or busted lip…that would shock the shit out of anyone, especially a little kid, but we practiced so much that after a while, fighting never really fazed us.

We had a dude in our hood named Mike Fish. We used to just call him Fish. Fish was the neighborhood dope man. He was the first dude in our hood to actually start selling crack. He was a little older than us, so we always looked up to him. He used to keep two pairs of boxing gloves in his front yard, and as we walked home from school, Fish would grab us up, pair us together, and make us fight. We had boxing matches right in the middle of the street, and there was no way of getting out of it either. There wasn’t any crying or nothing like that allowed; we were forced to knuckle up and fight. No one could see me with the fist, though. All the kids Fish would pair me up with, I whooped them…and badly too. It got to the point where I was whooping so much ass that everybody started calling me Hercules, or just Herc for short. God gives everybody special gifts; one of my gifts just so happened to be fighting.

For as long as I can remember, I was always fighting, and a lot of times, I would be fighting dudes who were five, six, or seven years older than me. My pops had a government job at the Mare Island Naval Shipyard, and one morning when I was around seven, while my pops was at work, my mom, my oldest sister, and I were at the house. My sister and I wanted a sandwich bad as hell, but we didn’t have any bread, so my mom left the house and went to the store right around the corner. As soon as she left, the neighborhood bully, a dude name Russell, came into our house trying to fight me. This was what Russell did all day, every day. He was the neighborhood bully.

At that time, he was around thirteen years old and much bigger than me. All of that meant nothing, though. I beat Russell’s ass for damn near five minutes, and right as my sister pulled me off him, I bit him right in the head. I bit the nigga so hard that my tooth actually broke off. By the time my mother came back, Russell was outside our house, bleeding on the sidewalk, with his mother and the police. We worked everything out, though, and everybody went on their merry way.

My cousin Kilo would always use my fighting skills against people too, being that he was a little smaller than everyone else. A lot of times when we were younger, if a nigga got the opportunity, he would try to take advantage of Kilo, then Kilo would call me, and I would show up. Kilo and I always had this one-two combination ever since we were younger; we always had a strong bond, a bond that started around the time we were six or seven years old; that was when I realized that in him, I really had a true friend, a brother, and not just a cousin. We ran the streets together, robbed banks together, served time together, and everything else you could imagine. In my parents’ house, it was just me and my sisters. Yeah, I had other cousins, but Kilo was always the brother I never had.

CHAPTER 2

Young Nigga, Move that Dope

Wasn’t always a bank robber. Nawh…before I was robbing banks, I was hitting pizza parlors, hotels, and tollbooths. Even before that, I was a hustler. The only reason I started committing the robberies was because the dope game had dried up. Northern California got hit with a crazy drought, which forced me to seek other routes to make some money.

Like I said before, my older homie Mike Fish was the biggest dope boy in the Crest around the time crack hit. Shit…he had crack when a lot of people didn’t know what crack was. He was the first person we knew to start selling it, and he introduced it to all of the younger cats. Fish was a straight baller too, so it made the introduction that much sweeter. He didn’t have to do a lot of talking to us; his money and possessions said enough. When Fish was eighteen or nineteen years old, he had Benzes, 5.0s, BMWs…you name it, he had it. Fish was the model of what every boy in the neighborhood wanted to be, especially me. The moment I saw Fish driving around in his Benz, and all the women he had coming to and from his house, I knew right then and there that I needed to be doing whatever it was he was doing.

Fish gave me my first sack, and I was the first one out of the crew to actually start hustling. Whatever Fish would hit me with, I would give it to the crew. I sort of became the neighborhood plug for the younger generation. By the time I was sixteen, I was selling weight. Hundred pops, quarter ounces, half ounces… I was known for shit like that. Since I was directly connected to the main plug, Mike Fish, my rock days went by real fast. He introduced it to me, and I introduced it to all of my homies; and everybody did their fair share of hustling too…even Dre. My nigga sold coke, sold crack, everything. My little cousin Kilo actually got the name Kilo because of the dope game. He got his name from bagging up a whole kilo in straight rocks.

Right around the corner from us was the Naval yard where my pops worked. This particular Naval yard employed damn near every man from our city, and they got paid every Thursday. So you can imagine how every Thursday would be…the hood was on fire! Many of them came and spent their whole checks on crack. Others came and paid the money they owed from the week before. This particular job paid damn good, so I always made sure that I had dope set to the side just for Thursday; that was our payday too.

During this time, my family lived out in Hercules, but my grandmother still lived in the Crest, so, of course, that’s where I was. My dad was an extremely hardworking man, probably the hardest working man I know, so I was always able to keep him out of the loop a little bit since he would be on the job for most of the day. My mother, however, was a little more observant, so it was always a task trying to keep her from finding out I was hustling.

I would split the week up. For two or three days, I stayed with my parents out in Hercules; the rest of the time, I was with my grandmother in the Crest…or so my parents thought. I spent the majority of my time with the cuddies, right on the block, hustling off whatever bit of crack I had.

When I would go visit my parents, I always kept my dope somewhere in the Crest, real close by. I knew better than to bring dope to my parents’ house. My mom was the most anti-drug person I knew…still is. Whether selling or using, it didn’t matter…my mom wasn’t with any form of