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  • Government Name: Tewhan Butler
  • Register Number: 26852-050
  • Age:34
  • Time Served:11 years
  • Home Town:East Orange, NJ
  • Sentence:30 yrs.
  • Current Charge:RICO
  • Alias:Massacre
  • Release Date:2029
  • Prison Affiliation:Blood (Double ii/QSBG)
  • Circle of Influence:Altariq Gumbs, Emmanuel Jones, Lester Alford, Marco Miguel Robertson, Pele Brown, David Drone, Jermaine Ray, Marcus Martin, Michael Simpson, Omar Austin, Quaheem Edwards, Torvos Simpson, Vincent Gamboa
  • Institution:USP McCreary
  • Here, my life behind bars offers understanding for those of you who venture into ‘the life’ with no understanding of its consequences: the adversity, the obstacles and the journey one must travel alone when the gavel is slammed, your cell is locked and the lights go out.

Pardon the Truth Gangstas

Tewhan-Butler-Righteous-Man

A bus just rolled in the other day, and as always I’m there to see the new arrivals and check the temperature of those who may enter the terror-dome with something other than peace on their mind. As I strolled into the chow hall, a few trusted komrades in tow, I recognized a familiar face. This dude was a street reputable. He was known to stack millions, and this was back in my day, so his street notoriety was mountain high. Before he could spot me, I chilled the way only I could, and watched his demeanor. Something seemed strange. This street gangsta and I hadn’t really had too many personal run-ins in the town, thus being he was from Dirty Jerz he was considered a homeboy here in the feds. Yeah, this shit is way geographical. A guy you have never known, never seen before, let alone spoken to, is now your homeboy just because you share the same last three digits in your federal register number.

Back to it. As I watched, he paced slowly through the chow line carefully scanning his surroundings. Truthfully, I could’ve read a lot into his constant head swinging, but being cautious in the pen is necessary and so I overlooked this look. However, as he got closer, we locked eyes and there it was. FEAR! This dude was petrified. His money couldn’t carry him, nor his neighborhood crew of bodyguards. He now had to stand alone. Easy, or so you would think, but ten toes down, head up, and chest out is very complex for those who went many years playing the part. Anybody could be somebody as long as they kept their ass in their city streets. But in this system nobody cares about any of that, and by the look in his eyes, he must’ve gotten the memo. Honestly, I wasn’t surprised. There are many who you’ve seen in recent years flossing their jewels or posting selfies with bottles of Ace of Spades, a few bottle girls around, and ice grills straight out of Compton, who caught federal cases only to be sent off into this place where one has any choice but to be a man amongst men or fold like a lawn chair, and they get quieter than choir boys. After looking and laughing inside, he approached with his hand out. “What’s going on?” I asked. As you all know I’ve been walking inside these federal pens for the last nine years and have been held captive for the past fourteen, so I knew this look well. The humor I found in it wasn’t just because, but one of my talk being supported by my walk. No, all days for me haven’t been easy and things HAVE gotten thicker than movie-scripted war scenes, thus I’m still standing. This million dollar man whose money shielded him on the outside was left courageously poor behind the wall and this was Saturday Night Live funny, in my opinion. He was looking for help. No, that might be the wrong word. He was looking for was protection. That I couldn’t offer him. Everybody when posed with tough choices use the “I’m a man” statement to get out of their personal responsibilities. You know like, it’s time to put that work in, and your number has been called. The quickest response to duck that rec is “I ain’t no send off. I’m a man.” Well, as a man, he nor anyone else should be behind these walls looking for protection, I mean help. He was best to get it how he lived. I know this seems a bit uncaring or cold, but what I see it as is the truth. When those bottles were poppin’ and thousands were being spent on females whose names they wouldn’t remember in the morning, I and the many were here being men. No protection, no help!

Rich ass homeboys who stopped answering your calls when the unavailable popped up on the screen, pop up in prison and want help from the men. My advice is to stay rich! Stay free! Behind these walls a man’s wealth has nothing to do with his money!

Pardon the truth Gangstas.

  

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