Jeffrey P. Frye
murderslim.com
Bank Robber's Blog
bankblogger.weebly.com
@bankblogger2

--- HOUSE COUNSEL ---
10th April 2013

I received this from Jeff in January. We'll be mixing in some stories that Jeff sent me when he was a slightly freer man than he is now. Don't worry, every post is 100% new. There are never any repeats on the Bank Robber's Blog.
Over to Jeff...

Fat lazy snowflakes fell outside the bars of the window out on the tier as I stood in front of my table making fish tacos for my cats. As I listened to Taylor Swift, content in my whiteness, I had four fish filets and a ring of soft tortilla shells laid out when a 6'3, 250 black gang member named T-Rex appeared in front of my bars and said, "G-Money wanna holla atcha." "G-Money" is Ghetto Boyee. I wanted to sound cool and say "Aiight" but I was too full of Taylor to pull it off so I just said, "Okay, tell him I'll be down in a minute." I wrapped the fish up in the tortillas, smeared sardine juice on the outside of them, and then sealed them in a Tupperware bowl and then washed my hands. I clicked on some Rick Ross to get into character and I cruised down the tier toward the hood.

Ghetto Boyee is in his thirties and muscular with tattoos all over his arms, chest and neck and has deadlocks that he wears tucked into a Rastafarian cap that's been crocheted in the colors of the Jamaican flag. He's blacker than an NAACP convention and has more gold in his mouth than Fort Knox. He's a Crip from Los Angeles, California and he has an I.Q. of around 150. Unfortunately, his alternative use of this I.Q., and a relationship with the Baja cartel in Mexico, resulted in a 150 count indictment. The government charged him with everything from RICO, conspiracy to distribute 572 kilos of crack cocaine, gun-running, running a street gang in furtherance of a racketeering enterprise, and murder, to Breathing While Black. They gave him a fair trial, then hung him in the form of three life sentences. All of these things make Ghetto Boyee unique, but what really makes him unique to me is that he's the only person in this penitentiary who can beat me at Scrabble. Although he doesn't use it, he has a vocabulary that far exceeds mine and when we play Scrabble he's always using abstract words and giving me false definitions to trick me into challenging them. But every now and then I'll catch him trying to "Black-up" a word and use slang that doesn't exist. He lives at the end of a tier that has nothing but guys from his set and every time I go down there I feel like a piece of cotton on a coal pile. Today was no different. As I walked up I heard Bob Marley flowing through a set of speakers and I walked into six Crips that all gave me dap and hugged my neck like they hadn't seen me in years. I'd seen them at least four times since lunch. I walked into Ghetto Boyee's 9x6 cell and he was sitting on his bunk in a pair of gray sweat pants and a white wife-beater leafing through a pile of paperwork.

He said, "Jeffrey Frye, You. Are. My. Nigga" and flashed me a golden smile. I replied, "I thought Obama was your nigga."
"Obama ain't shit. He's only black to you folks. To my people that nigger's whiter than Lindsay Lohan. But ,YOU, Jeffrey Frye are truly my nigga, as well as my favorite Caucasian."
"So I'm like an Honorary Nigga, huh?" I asked, then I added, "My ass can only hold so much smoke...what's up?"
He pointed to the mountain of paperwork spread across his bunk and said, "I need a favor. They just denied my appeal and now I'm gonna file an appeal against my no good, bum-ass trial lawyer for ineffective assistance of counsel."
"Who was your trial lawyer?" I asked.
"Johnnie Cochran."
"Isn't he dead?"
"Yeah, but I'ma still sue the motherfucker. I'ma make 'em exhume his no-good ass and get back that Rolex I gave him."

Before upgrading my vocation to Bank Robber I previously worked in a criminal defense firm and had a small company doing contract paralegal services for attorneys such as research and brief-writing. I've written successful appeals that have freed individuals who were wrongly convicted, and I even wrote a brief that inspired legislation to change a law that was constitutionally incorrect. Some people are naturally good at playing the piano or working on engines. For some strange reason I have a natural aptitude for the law. But knowing the law in a maximum security penitentiary where 80% of the people are appealing their cases is akin to being a pharmacist in a town full of drug addicts, which is exactly why I don't do legal work in prison. I'm retired. I now prefer to spend my days making fish tacos for my cats and writing Stories From The Life. But being that I had been bestowed with the title of Honorary Nigga, and given the fact that I like Ghetto Boyee, I considered helping him.

As I stood there thinking how much I hate doing legal work Ghetto Boyee must've read my mind because he said, "I'll pay you whatever you want."
I pointed to his mouth and said, "I want one of those teeth."
He got up from his bunk and went into his locker and came out with a string of dental floss and tied it around one of his teeth and walked over to the mirror. I nervously asked, "What are you doing?"
He pulled the string taut away from his mouth and said, "I'm fixin to pay you, nigga."
I yelled, "Wait!!!" I was just kidding. I only said that because some guys back here started a rumor that you yanked out one of your teeth in the L.A. County jail and threw it at your lawyer to pay him."
He pulled back the side of his mouth and showed me a hole in his grill and said, "Rumor my ass. That nigga also made me give him $250,000.00 with that tooth."

I said, "Look, man. I have lots of aspirations and goals in life, but being house counsel for the Crips isn't one of them. If I help you beat your case then I'm going to have everyone in this prison at my house thinking that I'm Chris Angel and that I can make their shit disappear too. And just so you know, I love black people. I really do. I watch 106 and Park, have Fitty Cent on my iPod, and some of my favorite dope dealers have been black. But if by chance I screw up your paperwork then I'm going to have the Zulu Nation all up in my grill like George Foreman. I don't see an upside here."
He laughed as he said, "George Foreman. I'ma use that one. I really need your help, son. I just want you to read my trial transcripts and tell me what you see." He thought about something for a minute then asked, "Do you have a problem with drug money?"
"Hell no" I responded, "I drug all kinds of money out of those banks."
He laughed again and said, "I gotta start writing these down" then he said, "How 'bout I wire two grand to your commissary account by 5 p.m. to read my transcripts?"

I replied, "How about you wire it to my ex's bank account and get her indicted for money laundering instead?" Then I said, "No, but I'll tell you what. I'll play you a game of Scrabble head-up and if I win, which I will, I don't do your legal work. But if YOU win then I'll read your transcripts and see if I can't find a shovel for you to dig Johnnie up with."
Ghetto Boyee grinned and said, "That's a bet, nigga" and went under his bunk and got his 25th Anniversary Edition Scrabble game. It was his prize possession and he was a freak over it. This guy probably still had millions of dollars his but he's territorial over this game and won't let anyone borrow it-even me. He called one of his boys and handed him the game and said, "Set this up on the plastic bucket on the tier and don't breathe any of your no-spelling, retarded-ass, Charlie Brown-looking germs all over it, nigga."

We walked out on the tier and sat across from each other in green plastic lawn chairs with the Scrabble game set-up on an upside-down, white, five gallon plastic bucket. About four of Ghetto Boyee's crew stood around us. They knew they'd incur his wrath if they even attempted to suggest something for him to spell, but that didn't stop them from leaning over my shoulder to rearrange my tiles into what they thought were words. Things like "Choo" (Choo look so fine, girl), or "Whodat" (Whodat your nappy headed-ass been talking to, girl?). We played for an hour and were neck and neck in points. I had four tiles left but they were all vowels. Ghetto Boyee also had four tiles left and he laid all of them down on the board and spelled the word "Adze." I stared at it for a minute and then asked, "What kind of negrofied word is that?" He gave me a look like he'd been caught so I said, "Use it in a sentence."
He said, "If I adze baking soda to cocaine I turns it into crack." I shook my head and said, "I challenge! Give me that damn dictionary." I thumbed through the As until, unbelievably, I came to the word "Adze." It said: "noun; a wood-working tool." I yelled, "Shit!!!" and threw the dictionary on the board and scattered the tiles and stood up. I'd had enough of Bob Marley and hanging out in the hood. I unclipped my MP3 from by waist and clicked to some Jessie J and headed back to my house to do my best to help a guy named Ghetto Boyee dig up a dead lawyer so he could sue him. As I walked down the tier I looked over my shoulder and saw that two of his crew were behind me carrying file boxes filled with paperwork. It looks like I'm coming out of retirement for a little while. This Honorary Nigga thing is turning out to be all title and no pay.

Jeffrey P. Frye
murderslim.com
Bank Robber's Blog
bankblogger.weebly.com
@bankblogger2

--- LOCK-UP SHOUT-OUT ---
7th April 2013

A letter from Jeff to celebrate the six month anniversary of The Bank Robber's Blog.
Click on the letter below to read it full screen.

Jeffrey P. Frye
murderslim.com
Bank Robber's Blog
bankblogger.weebly.com
@bankblogger2