Ghettoside

Ghettoside Plot Summary

Introduction

In the summer of 1994, as Los Angeles was still recovering from the riots that had torn through the city two years earlier, a grim milestone passed largely unnoticed. The homicide rate for young Black men in South Central had reached levels comparable to American soldiers in combat zones - a domestic crisis hidden in plain sight. While politicians debated crime bills and media focused on sensational cases, a fundamental failure of American justice was unfolding in neighborhoods where murder had become routine and killers regularly walked free. This devastating pattern reveals one of America's most profound moral blind spots - not the over-policing that dominates headlines, but a persistent under-protection that has left generations of Black Americans vulnerable to violence with little recourse. Through meticulous research and powerful storytelling, we discover how America's failure to consistently solve murders in Black communities has created alternative systems of justice, perpetuated cycles of violence, and undermined the very foundation of civil society. By following dedicated detectives fighting against overwhelming odds, we witness both the tragic consequences of this neglect and the transformative potential of taking Black homicide seriously - a lesson with profound implications for how we understand justice, governance, and equality in contemporary America.

Chapter 1: Origins of Selective Justice: Policing Black Communities (1865-1950)

In the decades following the Civil War, a troubling pattern emerged in American law enforcement. While the abolition of slavery had legally freed Black Americans, the justice system that evolved in its wake created new forms of control and subjugation. Throughout the South, legal institutions appeared to observe constitutional due process, but real power was held outside the law. This "winking" system went through the motions of justice while allowing violence against Black Americans to continue with impunity. Southern law had been deliberately weakened even before Emancipation, as slave owners wanted the power to discipline slaves without legal constraints. After the Civil War and Reconstruction, ex-Confederates murdered their way back to control, terrorizing emancipated Black people and their white supporters into submission. This set the stage for the racist atrocities of Southern law that followed—stacked courts, fee systems, and chain gangs—abuses so systematic that across the South, Black people dismissed the whole framework as "the white man's court." For Black Americans, this system meant being "killable." They were "shot down for nothing" by whites with little fear of consequences. But the violence wasn't limited to white-on-Black crime. Black people also murdered each other—in fields, labor camps, and at Saturday night gatherings where there was "so much cutting and killing going on." Their rates of death by homicide were similar to—and at times higher than—what they would be decades later in northern inner cities. In Atlanta in 1920, the rate hit 107 deaths per 100,000 people. In Memphis in 1915, it was 170. When people are stripped of legal protection and placed in desperate straits, they are more likely to turn on each other. Lawless settings are terrifying; if people can do whatever they want to each other, there are always enough bullies to make it ugly. The condition of being thrown together just because they were the same color should be considered one of the injustices Black people suffered in segregation. White people saw to it that solidarity among Black people was kept to a minimum, enlisting Blacks as spies, favoring "their Negroes" over other Black people, and using them as pawns. This legal abandonment created a self-reinforcing cycle. In Black communities, police avoided areas "where most Negro homicides occur, but rather stayed on the main thoroughfares." Black communities became, "at least to some extent, self-policing." The message was clear: formal law impinged on Black Americans only for purposes of control, not protection. Small crimes were crushed, big ones indulged—so long as the victims were Black. As researcher John Dollard observed in Mississippi during the 1930s: "One cannot help wondering if it does not serve the ends of the white caste to have a high level of violence in the Negro group." The legacy of this early period would echo through generations, establishing patterns of selective justice that would persist long after the formal end of segregation. When millions of Black Americans migrated north and west in the early 20th century, they brought with them not just hopes for better lives, but also the trauma of having lived under a system where justice was selectively applied based on race. This historical foundation would prove crucial for understanding the cycles of violence that would later emerge in urban centers across America.

Chapter 2: The Big Years: South LA's Homicide Epidemic (1980-2000)

The period from 1980 to 2000 marked what homicide detectives in Los Angeles would come to call "The Big Years"—a time when murder rates in South Los Angeles reached catastrophic levels. In some neighborhoods, the homicide rate for young Black men approached 300 per 100,000, making their odds of violent death higher than those of American soldiers in combat zones. These weren't just statistics; they represented a human catastrophe unfolding in plain sight, yet largely invisible to the wider American public. The crack cocaine epidemic that began in the mid-1980s accelerated the violence. As crack markets expanded, so did the need to protect territory and drug profits. Gangs that had once been neighborhood social groups transformed into more organized criminal enterprises. The Bloods and Crips, along with their numerous subsets, engaged in deadly turf wars that claimed hundreds of lives each year. Firearms became more prevalent and more lethal, with semiautomatic weapons replacing revolvers as the weapons of choice. What made this period particularly devastating was the institutional response—or lack thereof. Police departments were overwhelmed, with homicide detectives in South LA divisions carrying caseloads that would have been unthinkable in wealthier areas. One detective described working "three-callout weekends" where multiple homicides would occur in a single shift. Cases piled up faster than they could be solved, creating a backlog that further eroded community trust. As one veteran detective put it: "Nobody cares! Nobody gives a shit!" The media's selective attention compounded the problem. Murders in South LA rarely made headlines unless they involved particularly shocking circumstances or innocent bystanders. This invisibility reinforced the perception that Black lives mattered less. As one homicide detective noted, the "indifference of the media" was "a daily slap in the face." The lack of public outcry allowed resources to remain inadequate year after year, creating what one officer called "the Monster"—a self-perpetuating cycle of violence and impunity. For residents, this period created a generation-defining trauma. Children grew up attending multiple funerals before reaching adulthood. Young men developed what one detective called "a battlefield sense of mission," constantly watching their backs, studying passing cars, and learning which streets to avoid. The psychological impact was profound—many developed a fatalistic outlook, expecting early death rather than planning for long lives. As one resident put it: "We police our own. Soldiers are heroes. Why are we called gangsters?" By the late 1990s, homicide rates began to decline, though they remained far higher than national averages. The causes were complex—better policing strategies, demographic shifts, the waning of the crack epidemic, and community mobilization all played roles. But the legacy of the Big Years would continue to shape South LA for decades to come, leaving behind unsolved cases, traumatized communities, and a deep distrust of the justice system that would prove difficult to overcome even as conditions improved.

Chapter 3: Between Two Systems: Street Justice and Legal Indifference

In the vacuum created by inadequate legal protection, an alternative system of justice emerged in South Los Angeles and similar communities across America. This parallel structure wasn't formal or organized—it was organic, inconsistent, and often brutal, but it filled a void left by official neglect. Residents found themselves navigating between two systems: the formal legal apparatus that rarely delivered justice and an informal code of street rules that governed everyday life. The street system operated on principles of respect, reputation, and retaliation. When someone was murdered, families often knew who was responsible, but without witnesses willing to testify, legal recourse was impossible. Instead, vengeance became the default response. As one uncle of a murder victim told detectives in the police station: "I'll have it done my way! I can get it done!" This wasn't idle talk—it was a declaration that if the state wouldn't provide justice, the community would create its own version. This informal justice system created its own terrible logic. Young men carried weapons not primarily to commit crimes but for self-protection in an environment where calling the police was often futile or dangerous. As one detective observed when arresting a paralyzed man in a wheelchair for gun possession: "Black men who lived in Watts were in constant danger. Those who sold drugs were in more danger. And those who couldn't run away? One could almost say it was a matter of time before serious violence visited a drug dealer in a wheelchair." The coroner's office regularly saw bodies with old bullet scars alongside new fatal wounds—men who had been shot once, survived, only to be killed later. It was as if they were "dying in slow motion," one examiner remarked. The first shots maimed or paralyzed them. The next ones, months or years later, finished them off. This pattern reflected the relentless nature of street violence when left unchecked by effective law enforcement. Parents found themselves making impossible choices. Some moved their families to distant suburbs, only to discover that danger followed their sons. Others tried to prepare their children for the harsh realities of street life, sometimes even escorting them to fistfights to settle disputes, hoping that allowing "fair fights" would prevent shootings later. As one detective noted, encouraging "catching a fade" (fighting) was seen as "a hedge against homicide"—parents sought to ensure their sons weren't labeled "punks," which might increase their risk of being shot. The tragedy of this dual system was that it trapped residents in a cycle of violence while reinforcing stereotypes about Black criminality. Outside observers often blamed "the community" for not cooperating with police, failing to recognize that non-cooperation was a rational response to a system that had repeatedly failed to protect them. As one mother whose son had been shot explained her refusal to help detectives: "They never want to solve it if it is a young Black man." The result was a profound alienation from the formal justice system and a reluctance to trust it with matters of life and death.

Chapter 4: Craftsmen Against the Monster: Detectives Fighting Systemic Failure

Within the LAPD, a small cadre of homicide detectives developed a different approach to solving murders in South Los Angeles. These "craftsmen detectives" rejected the institutional indifference that had become normalized and instead embraced an ethic of relentless pursuit. They understood that solving homicides in communities with deep distrust of police required extraordinary effort and commitment—what one detective called "another level of vigor." These detectives operated with a battlefield mentality. John Skaggs, one of the most successful, had a simple philosophy: "Always be closing." He refused to accept the conventional wisdom that gang cases couldn't be solved. Where others saw "gang-related" as a reason to expect failure, Skaggs saw it as a challenge that demanded more determination. He treated every case as solvable, regardless of the victim's background or the circumstances of their death. The craftsmen approach required immense physical and emotional stamina. These detectives worked punishing hours, often returning to crime scenes multiple times, knocking on the same doors repeatedly until someone answered. They understood that witnesses wouldn't come forward on their own—they had to be found, convinced, and sometimes protected. As one detective explained: "It was like South Central was a twelfth-century village," requiring detectives to simply "walk around and talk to people, relying on serendipity and the power of face-to-face interactions." This approach stood in stark contrast to what some called "checklist detecting"—going through procedural motions without the passion and persistence needed to break difficult cases. The craftsmen detectives distinguished between what looked like work and what actually solved murders. As Skaggs put it, there was a way of working that "met all the technical criteria for how a job was supposed to be done" yet lacked "some essential quality of passion, determination, velocity." Their methods were not revolutionary—they relied on traditional detective work rather than forensic breakthroughs or technological solutions. What set them apart was their refusal to give up and their willingness to invest in relationships with reluctant witnesses. They gave out their personal cell phone numbers to victims' families and sometimes even to the parents of suspects. They attended funerals, visited hospitals, and spent hours listening to people's stories and concerns. Perhaps most importantly, these detectives understood that their work was about more than just clearing cases—it was about affirming the value of every life lost. When a detective named Nathan Kouri was asked by a social worker if he wanted to be involved in a case involving a murdered teenager's family, his response was unequivocal: "We are involved." This perspective transformed homicide investigation from a bureaucratic process into a moral mission. As one detective put it, their job was "taking sides—always the same side, always without reservation. The victims' side."

Chapter 5: The Tennelle Case: When Justice Finally Matters

When eighteen-year-old Bryant Tennelle was shot and killed on a warm spring evening in Los Angeles, his murder initially appeared to be just another statistic—one more young Black man gunned down in South Central. But this case would ultimately demonstrate both the devastating consequences of America's indifference to Black homicide and the possibility of breaking that cycle through determined investigation. Bryant was the son of LAPD homicide detective Wally Tennelle, who had spent decades investigating murders in Los Angeles. Unlike many officers who commuted from distant suburbs, Tennelle had chosen to live in the community he policed—a principled decision rooted in his belief that "if you live sixty miles away, it's easier to disrespect people." This choice reflected Tennelle's character: meticulous, organized, dedicated to his craft and to the ideal that every victim deserved justice regardless of background. Bryant himself was a gentle, creative young man who loved animals, cooking, and building things with his hands. Though he struggled academically, he worked multiple jobs and had just earned his high school diploma after years of effort. He was walking down the street with a friend when a gunman emerged from a car and fired. Bryant died at the hospital that night, another victim of what appeared to be a gang-related shooting, though he had no gang involvement himself. The initial investigation stalled despite promising leads. Witnesses described the shooter and the vehicle, but no one would come forward to testify. A breakthrough came when forensic analysis matched bullet fragments from the scene to a revolver seized in an unrelated arrest, but this lead too went cold. As weeks passed without an arrest, the case became a source of quiet anguish within the LAPD—a painful reminder of the department's inability to solve even the murder of one of their own. The turning point came when supervisors assigned John Skaggs to the case—a veteran homicide detective known for his relentless approach and extraordinary clearance rate. Skaggs attacked the investigation with characteristic intensity, reinterviewing witnesses, pursuing new leads, and refusing to accept dead ends. His persistence paid off when he identified two teenage suspects who had mistaken Bryant for a gang member because of the Houston Astros hat he was wearing. The Tennelle case revealed the tragic randomness of much urban violence—how a simple misidentification could end a promising young life. It showed how the shadow system operated, with killers targeting someone they perceived as an enemy without concern for his actual identity. But it also demonstrated that with sufficient resources and determination, even the most challenging cases could be solved. Most importantly, it illustrated what was possible when the state treated Black homicide with the seriousness it deserved—when detectives refused to accept that some murders simply couldn't be solved.

Chapter 6: The Price of Impunity: Communal Trauma and Institutional Abandonment

The consequences of America's failure to address homicide in Black communities extend far beyond individual cases. Decades of selective justice have created a profound collective trauma that affects entire neighborhoods and generations. This trauma manifests not just in grief and fear, but in a fundamental alienation from the institutions meant to protect all citizens equally. In South Los Angeles and similar communities, homicide became normalized to a degree unimaginable in more affluent areas. Children grew up attending multiple funerals before reaching adulthood. Parents lived in constant fear for their sons' lives, developing elaborate protective strategies that shaped family decisions about everything from where to live to what colors to wear. As one mother explained after her son was killed: "I been trying to get the hell out of here." But economic constraints and housing discrimination often made escape impossible. The psychological impact of this environment was devastating. Young men developed what one resident called "a sickening sensation" of constant danger—"knowing a bully awaits them after school, wanting to fight. But the difference for these men was that the feeling was sharpened by fear of death and pervaded their adult lives." Many adopted aggressive personas as preemptive defense, appearing tough to discourage challengers. "It was an exhausting act to keep up. But it was worth it to feel safer." For families of murder victims, grief was compounded by institutional neglect. When a thirteen-year-old named Da'Quawn Allen was killed in a gang shooting, police officers at the scene didn't even kneel to talk to the dying boy. Later, when officers flooded the neighborhood in response to the murder, they focused on stopping and searching young men rather than finding witnesses or building community trust. As one resident observed: "People are being shot, and what are they doing? Just jacking people up!" This pattern of response reinforced the perception that the state cared more about control than justice. In one telling incident, a homicide detective intercepted child welfare workers who were preparing to remove the remaining children from a murder victim's home. "What's the bigger picture here?" the detective asked. "Taking two kids? Or solving a murder?" This moment crystallized the conflict between different approaches to law enforcement—one focused on punishment and control, the other on healing and justice. The cost of this neglect extended to the criminal justice system itself. Detectives working homicide in South LA faced crushing caseloads, inadequate resources, and bureaucratic obstacles that made their jobs nearly impossible. Budget cuts and overtime restrictions meant investigations were often cut short. As one detective lamented: "You have all the burden of the families who think about nothing but this. And you can't do your best." Perhaps most tragically, the failure to solve homicides created a self-perpetuating cycle of violence. When killers faced no consequences, retribution became the default response. As one mother whose son was murdered observed: "We police our own." This informal justice system was brutal and indiscriminate, claiming innocent lives and perpetuating trauma across generations.

Summary

America's failure to effectively address Black homicide represents one of our nation's most profound moral failures. For generations, the criminal justice system has responded inadequately to violence against Black Americans, creating conditions where homicide flourishes and alternative systems of justice emerge. This is not primarily a cultural problem but a governance failure—the state's inability to establish its monopoly on violence in Black communities has left a vacuum filled by retributive violence, gang structures, and codes against cooperation with authorities. The path forward requires recognizing that solving murders is not merely reactive justice but preventive policy. When killers face consequences, the message is clear: violence will not be tolerated, regardless of the victim's race or background. This requires investing in homicide investigation, witness protection, and prosecution with the same vigor currently devoted to preventive policing and drug enforcement. It means training and supporting detectives who understand the communities they serve and can build trust with reluctant witnesses. Most fundamentally, it requires acknowledging that Black lives matter not just as a slogan but as a principle that guides how we allocate resources, measure success, and hold our institutions accountable. Only then can we begin to heal the wounds of historical neglect and build a justice system that truly protects all Americans.

About Author

Loading...

Jill Leovy

Jill Leovy is an award-winning reporter for the Los Angeles Times. She lives in Los Angeles with her family.

Read more