DISGRACELAND - Inspectah Deck (Wu-Tang Clan Chapter 5): Running Scams, Doing Time, and NYC’s Ongoing War Against the Drug Trade

Episode Date: September 26, 2023

At just 15 years old, Inspectah Deck had to learn how to hold his own against older, more dangerous convicts when he was sent to jail for selling crack to an undercover cop. It wasn’t the first time he did hard time. Multiple stints behind bars gave him nothing but time – to reflect, to strategize, to learn how to rap, and to take that new skill and use it to turn his life around on the outside. But years later, the bad decisions of his youth were just some of the reasons why the the NYPD, the ATF, and the FBI were so interested in his groundbreaking hip-hop group.To see the full list of contributors, see the show notes at www.disgracelandpod.com.Sign up for our newsletter and get the inside dirt on events, merch and other awesomeness - GET THE NEWSLETTERFollow Jake and DISGRACELAND:InstagramYouTubeX (formerly Twitter) Facebook Fan GroupTikTok To learn more about listener data and our privacy practices visit: https://www.audacyinc.com/privacy-policy Learn more about your ad choices. Visit https://podcastchoices.com/adchoicesSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is exactly right. Double Elvis. When a group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist, they take matters into their own hands. I vowed, I will be his last target. He is not going to get away with this. He's going to get what he deserves. We always say that trust your girlfriends. Listen to the girlfriends.

Trust me, babe. On the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. This season on Dear Chelsea with me, Chelsea Handler, we have some fantastic guests like Amelia Clark. When like young people come up to me and they want to be an actor or whatever. My first thing is always, can you think of anything else that you can do? Rather be disappointed in. Do that.

David O'Yellowo. I love this podcast, whether it's therapy or relationships or religion or sex or addiction or you just go straight for the guts. Dennis Leary, Gaten Matarazzo from Stranger Things, Tana Monsu, Camilla Morone, Carrie Kenny Silver, and more. Listen to these episodes of Dear Chelsea on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

Movies can make you feel, make you dream. Sometimes they even make you appreciate architecture. Is there anybody who's been hotter in a doorway than Elizabeth Taylor? That's the kind of analysis you'll find every week on Dear Movies I Love You, the new podcast from the Exactly Right Network. Every Tuesday, we break down the films we're crushing on, from blockbusters to deep cuts. Listen to Dear Movies I Love You on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis.

The stories about Wu-Tang Clan's inspected deck are insane. Growing up poor in the Staten Island projects, he stole and ran. and scams to get the things he didn't have. When he was 15, he was arrested for selling crack to an undercover cop. In jail, he learned how to hold his own against older, more dangerous convicts. But despite what he learned, he was busted for drugs again and wound up doing nearly two more years behind bars. It was in prison the second time that he began to work on his rhyming skills.

He made his tongue as sharp as a son. sword. And with that razor-sharp tongue, inspected deck made great music, some of the greatest music in hip-hop history as a member of Wu-Tang Clan. Unlike that clip I played for you at the top of the show, that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my Melotron called Resuscitation Dummy, M-K-2. I played you that clip because I can't afford the rights to escapitone. paid by Janet Jackson. And why would I play you that specific slice of save your troubles cheese could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on March 6, 1990.

And that was the day that two detectives were injured and one state cop was killed during a drug bus gone bad on the Lower East Side. The latest boondoggle in New York City's ongoing war against the drug trade, A war that inspected deck was both caught up in and desperately wanted to escape. On this episode, running, rhyming, undercover cops, dangerous convicts, drug busts gone bad, and Wu-Tang Clan's inspected deck. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is disgraceland. 1985. Brooklyn House of Detention

The kid kept to the corner of his cramp cell. He was quiet, reserved. He minded his own business, and he listened. The older inmates talked a lot. Their voices carried down the hallway and bounced off the walls. They talked about the things they'd done with their hands. The triggers and tits they'd squeezed, the blood they'd spilled, and the lives they'd ruined. Some talked about what they were going to do when they got out of the joint.

And there were people to see and scores to settle. Out in the common areas, the commissary, the chapel, the rooftop recreation center, Jason Hunter, the 15-year-old kid the world would later know as inspect a deck, put faces to those voices. The young deck, aka Jason here, watched just as well as he listened. And he was being watched back. Dudes twice as size, if not quite twice his age, looking him up and down, calculating the over-under on how fast.

he could run. How quickly and loudly he'd scream like a little bitch if they caught him. Jason knew what they were staring at. Clean Yankees cap on his head, new balance sneakers on his feet. These dudes had the power. All they had to do was give one look, make one move, say one word, and immediately they had the upper hand. Jason's nice clothes made him an easy target. He needed a strategy, a simple strategy, as in, don't start any shit. and don't give anyone a reason. Hang back, shut up, and keep watch. Watching came naturally.

So to going incognito. In the late 70s and early 80s on Staten Island, Jason Hunter hovered near the shadows, silent but observing, his mind cataloging his environment. Cigarette butts caught in the storm drains, rusted dumpsters overflowing with garbage, be boys with crazy legs and block party battle scars.

He was particularly interested in those dudes. The guys banging on tables and battling each other with their rhymes. Guys who thought they would be the next Rakhim, the next Bismarquis, the next cool G-Rap. He watched those guys, and he learned. He watched his single mother provide for him and his two siblings. His father was gone, dead, not AWOL. Other men in his family and other men in the neighborhood, however, they did make themselves scarce when it came to matters of the home.

The women were the ones doing everything. And they got up early and went to bed late. They punched the clock. And they paid for the clothes on your back and the food on your table. And they often went without so that their kids could have something, anything. Providing food and shelter was power. Being a source of love was power. And surviving was power.

Jason soon found that he had power. Even better than the power to be a fly on the wall, he actually seemed older and wiser than his age might suggest. 10, 11, 12 years old on paper, but twice that old in terms of basic life experience. Maybe you find yourself in the Staten Island projects in Park Hell, without a father figure or a strong male role model. It's only natural to seek out what you don't have. And maybe you find it in a kitchen inside one of the tenements down the street.

A bunch of older dudes, mid-20s, maybe. Old enough to be your dad, okay, maybe, but the point is, they're all huddled around tables and stovetops, and they drink and they smoke, and they tell dirty jokes, and you laugh, not because you get the jokes, because you absolutely do not, but because you want to be just one of the guys, you want to be older. So you steal a step from a 40. You catch a contact high from the weed that's being passed around. and you watch.

You watch these dudes work. Their work is to prepare and distribute Park Hills number one export. Crack cocaine. One part white powder, one part baking soda, and one part water. Heat it on a stovetop and transfer it to the counter and then chop it up and pop it inside a vial or a baggie and then it's out on the street. Now that is power. Possessing the very thing another person craves,

holding the key to their personal euphoria, and the only way they can get it from you is to pay for it, which means you also have the thing that everyone in Park Hill seems to be looking for whether they're an addict or not. Money. Like many kids on Staten Island at this time, Jason Hunter grew up fast. Drugs, guns, sex, illegal activity of every kind.

He witnessed it all, and very quickly, he became it. It wasn't long before he was dealing crack on the streets, and for no other reason because that was what you did. And although he was seeing and doing things far beyond his years, Jason was still just a kid, only 15, and he was still green. He couldn't make an arc as easily as some of the older guys. In his defense, it was getting harder to tell these days. The lines between good and bad were blurred.

In July that year, 1985, A former NYPD cop was found dead inside the trunk of his Oldsmobile in the parking lot of the Staten Island Hospital. Vincent Albano, 53, shot point blank in the face, chest, and back, gangland style. As a former detective who quit when he was demoted after being named suspect Numero Uno in the case, a $73 million worth of heroin and cocaine that disappeared from police custody. Even the cops wanted a taste. cops were just addicts by another name, high-functioning junkies. Jason had no idea the guy he was selling to now was undercover.

In all of his days watching how everything worked, he'd yet to witness this. Normal-looking dude, inconspicuous, a little rough around the edges. Not too rough. Quiet, but not too quiet. Eager, but not paranoid. It's not like he was scanning the streets anxiously for his wingman or anything. But as soon as the vial was in the guy's hand, and Jason had the money.

A switch flipped. The badge came out from under his shirt. And two other cops appeared out of nowhere. Guns drawn. Freeze on the ground. Hands behind your back. Neighborhood dudes hanging around scattered like rats running from the rumble of an oncoming garbage truck.

That bust was how we wound up here. Inside the Brooklyn House of detention just 15 years old. Once again, just watching. Once again, about to learn something new. The homicidal convicts staring at him from a across the room wanted his shit, that hat, in those shoes. But Jason wanted something from them, not their repeat offender lives. He wanted something better than that, something that would set him up to survive on the inside and the outside. He wanted. There's two golden rules that any

man should live by. Rule one, never mess with a country girl. You play stupid games, you get stupid prizes. And rule two, never mess with her. friends either. We always say that trust your girlfriends. I'm Anna Sinfield and in this new season of the girlfriends, oh my God, this is the same man. A group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist. I felt like I got hit by a truck. I thought how could this happen to me? The cops didn't seem to care. So they take matters into their own hands. I said, oh hell no. I vowed. I will be his last target. He's going to get what he deserves. Listen to the girlfriends.

Trust me, babe. On the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcast. This season on Dear Chelsea, with me, Chelsea Handler, we have some fantastic guests like Amelia Clark. When, like, young people come up to me and they want to be an actor or whatever, and my first thing is always, can you think of anything else that you can do? You'd rather be disappointed in. Do that.

Dennis Leary. I wake up and I'm hitting him in the head with a water bomb. And Bruce Jenner is on the aisle in a karate stance like he's about to attack me. Like, making karate noises. And his entire, the Kardashians family over there, everybody's going, and the air marshal is trying to grab my arms and screaming. I immediately know that I've been asleep walking. David O'Yello-O.

I love this podcast, whether it's therapy or relationships or religion or sex or addiction or you just go straight for the guts. Guy Branham. So anyway, Nicole Kimman broke up with Keith Thurban. Being half of a country couple was always a hat she was going to wear, not like a life she was going to lead. Oh, interesting. I like that.

Did you practice that on your way over? Gaten Matarazzo from Stranger Things. Tena Mongeau. Camilla Morone, Carrie Kenny Silver. And more. Listen to these episodes of Dear Chelsea on the IHeart Radio. app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. I'm Kate Winkler Dawson, host of the Wicked Words podcast.

Each week I sit down with the true crime writers behind some of the most compelling true crime stories and discuss their years spent investigating and why it still matters. He sees his father coming out of the woods with his hands over his face, and he knows something happened. His father just grabs him and says, she's gone, she's gone. These are the cases that leave survivors, families, and the journalists who cover them changed forever. Working in national television, it'll push you to your limits, and you'll end up doing things you never thought you do. You know, you look back at it and you're like, I can't believe that really happened.

Join me and step inside the investigation. New episodes drop every Monday on the Exactly Right Network. Listen to Wicked Words on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcast, or wherever you get your podcasts. The Black Pontiac Firebird Formula 350 hummed as it pulled to the side of the FDR. Tinted windows, rear spoiler, all muscle. The NYPD called it a flash car

because it looked like the kind of thing someone buying a lot of dope would tool around in. The undercover detective sitting behind the wheel prepared to act like just that kind of guy, which meant acting like he wasn't nervous. Thing is, though, he was extremely nervous. He was nervous because he was about to go buy some drugs from a Lower East Side dealer, but not just some drugs.

Two kilos of cocaine. Four and a half pounds, $42,000 worth. And this is 1990 money that we're talking about, by the way. And this wasn't just another buy and bust operation. This was bigger than the NYPD. This was a joint task force, city, state, and federal, all working together to make a dent in the New York drug trade. The detective took a deep breath and stepped out of the Pontiac.

Wads of traceable bills stuffed in his pockets. It was early March, and the air was chilly. The East River was just beginning to thaw, and the neighborhood kids were just starting to return to the playgrounds after a long winter. The detective didn't have to wait for his man. The dealer was on time, according to plan. He led the detective into the courtyard of the projects nearby,

and they made their way to a side door of one of the buildings. And the dealer said the door led to the basement. That's where they make the trade. The detective felt his adrenaline kick in before he even walked inside. He kept his breathing under control so as not to blow his cover. And the dealer opened the door. The detective wasn't even two steps inside before he heard a guncock. A second man stepped out from the corner shadows inside the building

and pressed his piece to the detective's face. The money. Now. And there was no cocaine. and there was no deal. It was just this, a setup, a rip-off. The detective wasn't sure if the dealers made him for a cop or not, they'd know real quick if they searched him and found the wire stuffed down his shirt.

He knew they wouldn't even get that far, because thanks to that wire, his backup was closing in on the courtyard outside. Other officers in unmarked cars, state police, feds, still, at this moment, it was just him inside a building with two guys who wouldn't hesitate to shoot him dead. He didn't think twice. He leapt towards the guy with the gun. Shots fired. Outside, the courtyard erupted in chaos.

More shots. Officers, both plain clothes and uniform, flooded in from every angle. Some carrying automatic weapons and wearing helmets. And they took cover and returned fire. The bullets flew. German Shepherd canines tugged at their leashes and frothed at the mouth. Residents as high as 14 floors up knew the drill. They slammed their windows shut.

The dealer and his armed colleague tore ass from inside the building where they were attempting to rob the detective, and the cop gave chase. Within seconds another round of shots, and the cop fell to the ground screaming and grabbing his bleeding leg. When the shootout came to an end minutes later, two detectives were wounded. One state cop who took a bullet to his eye was pronounced dead at Bellevue, and two suspects, both in their 20s, both having started the day as dealers, and ended it as cop killers, were in custody. Beyond injury, death, and arrests, widespread fear had been sewn in the the projects in the community at large.

Doubts and suspicions festered. The gap between the poverty-stricken public and those sworn to protect them widened. And meanwhile, the goal of these undercover sting operations? The reason that street-level task forces like the tactical narcotics team were assembled in the first place? You know, the eradication of drugs from the streets of New York City? One could argue it was a complete failure. It put a record number of low-level dealers in handcuffs but failed to make so much as a

and drug trafficking on the street. It used taxpayer dollars to overcrowed prisons and overwhelm the court system, but it didn't lead to taking down the higher-ups. It was history repeating, and history did not and does not change. Jason Hunter's own history was repeating at the same time. It had been a few years since he was first busted for selling crack to an undercover cop, and now he'd somehow managed to do it again. This time, however, he was over 18 years old.

Then that meant two years in prison. Decades later, in 2013, when being interviewed about his classic verse in Wu-Tang Clan's groundbreaking track, Cream, Jason, aka Deck, spoke about the importance of staying alert at all times. There's a thin line between feeling safe and feeling in danger, he said. Anything can happen at any time. You need to stay awake to the ways of the world, because shit is deep. And the minute you get caught sleeping, you don't wake up. He was speaking from experience. Back when he was arrested for the first time at age 15

and found himself incarcerated with older, more dangerous men, Jason was careful not to get caught sleeping. He kept his distance than those who meant to do him harm, and he kept his nose clean. And after a brief spell behind bars, he walked out the front doors of the Brooklyn House of detention with that Yankees hat still on his head and the new balance kicks still on his feet.

The experience was, in his own, words, the official birth of his alter ego. Even though inspected Deck was not yet a legitimate MC in Wu-Tang was years down the road. At this time, Deck was a concept, a product of his environment. The guy on the sidelines of the room, assessing, scheming, waiting to make his move when the coast was clear and the time was right. And while everyone else was acting impulsive and making fools of themselves, Deck was artful. Deck was smart. And though he wasn't a card-carrying member of the 5% nation, he was the manifestation of that movement's first three supreme numbers.

He did the knowledge and the wisdom, and he had the understanding. What Jason Hunter's first experience in jail did not do was curb his hustle, and not just hustling crack. As a teenager, Jason ran a scam at his place of employment. The Manhattan Delivery Service gave him bus tokens to make his deliveries, but unbeknownst to his employer, Jason wrote a bike. He didn't need the tokens, so he sold the tokens to commuters at bus stops and pocketed the cash. And when the delivery service found out about this particular side hustle, Jason was immediately fired.

Being unemployed, though, didn't face him. It gave him more time to flex the rhymes he was writing. Test them out on dudes from the next neighborhood over weren't so easily impressed. And if he needed to, he could always sling more dope. Plus, he was used to have him very little, so he was used to just taking the things he wanted. It wasn't odd for Jason to show up at high school driving a Cutlass Supreme for Chevy Corsica that wasn't his. And that is when he did show up at school. He cut class at every opportunity.

And when he was there, he was your basic class clown, screwing off, not paying attention and making other kids laugh. But when it came time to take a test, he aced it every single time. And that was perhaps his greatest hustle. That was Deck, how he made it look like he wasn't paying attention, even though he was making the calculations all along. And when the time came to act, when he had to make his move, he made it definitively. Because if you're not making your move, someone else is making it for you. Any 5% will tell you that the only power the devil has is the power that man hasn't already claimed for himself. Shit is deep.

Stay awake. If the devil catches you sleeping, you lose whatever power you thought you had. And then you don't wake up. We'll be right back after this world, word, word. There's two golden rules that any man should live by. Rule one, never mess with a country girl. You play stupid games, you get stupid prizes. And rule two, never mess with her friends either.

We always say that trust your girlfriends. I'm Anna Sinfield. And in this new season of The Girlfriends, Oh my God, this is the same man. A group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist. I felt like I got hit by a truck. I thought, how could this happen to me? The cops didn't seem to care.

So they take matters into their own hands. I said, oh, hell no. I vowed I will be his last target. He's going to get what he deserves. Listen to the Girlfriends. Trust me, babe. On the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcast.

This season on Dear Chelsea, with me, Chelsea Handler, we have some fantastic guests like Amelia Clark. When, like, young people come up to me and they want to be an act or whatever, my first thing is always, can you think of anything else that you can do? You'd rather be disappointed in. Do that.

Dennis Leary. I wake up, and I'm hitting him in the head with a water bomb. And Bruce Jenner is on the aisle in a karate scene. stance, like he's about to attack me, like, making karate noises. And his entire the Kardashian family over there, everybody's going, and the air marshal

is trying to grab my arms and screaming. I immediately know that I've been sleepwalking. David O'Yello I love this podcast, whether it's therapy or relationships or religion or sex or addiction or you just go straight for the guts. Guy Branham.

So anyway, Nicole Kidman broke up with Keith Thurban. Being half of a country couple was always a hat she was going to wear, not like a life she was going to lead. Oh, interesting. I like that. Did you practice that on your way over? Gaten Madarazzo from Stranger Things.

Tena Monsu. Camilla Morone, Carrie Kenny Silver, and more. Listen to these episodes of Dear Chelsea on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcast, or wherever you get your podcasts. Remember when you'd walk into your local video rental place, and there were always those two employees behind the counter arguing about movies?

Well, that's us. I'm Millie to Cherico. And I'm Casey O'Brien. And now we're arguing about movies on our podcast, Dear Movies I Love You, from the Exactly Right Network. Can I say something about the Criterion Clause? Go ahead, dude. They're letting too many people in there. Okay, that's another film grape I got to.

Sadly, that rental place doesn't exist anymore. It's probably a store that sells running shoes. Or an ice cream shop with an extra pee and an E at the end. So consider us your slacker movie clerks in podcast form. I would like to establish a timeline of the moment you figured out who Channing Tatum was. Every Tuesday, we dig into the movies we can't stop obsessing over, from hidden gems to big screen favorites. New episodes drop every week on the exactly right network. Listen to Dear Movies I Love You on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

The Riza didn't know how much clearer he could be. Rayquan, meth, ghost, deck, were they all doing? Dealing? Hustling? Getting shot at? Pinched? Going to jail? They're all bugging, running around in circles.

And there was no power in that kind of movement. Only wasted energy. To have true power. To have the upper hand, to have truth. Because power is truth and truth is power, as the 5% nation, aka the nation of, gods and earths taught them. You have to elevate. Riza had a ground floor opportunity that would take them straight to the penthouse, an opportunity to lead them straight out of darkness and

into the light. All each of them had to do was pony up a hundred bucks, and that would pay for their studio time. Whatever was left over would go towards the first pressing. Put up the capital, put in the work, and then thank Rizza later. This is the most epic wake-up call in hip-hop history. Jason Hunter, of course, had just woken up. Like, woken up, for real, while incarcerated for a second time. And what was there to say? He was human. And like the man said, to fuck up is to human.

But to learn from that fuck up is divine. Or something like that. Thing is, you sit in a jail cell for almost two years and you either get clarity or things become even cloudier. For Jason, the clarity was blinding. There were two options. Either continue down this well-worn path dealing, getting caught, getting locked up, but eventually winding up dead, or break the cycle and put all that energy into something positive.

He wasn't going to become a kingpin dealing crack. He would just become a clown. And Jason Hunter did not want to become a clown. He wanted to become inspected deck. That was the catalyst. Prison Round 2 was where Deck went from Observer to Rapper. Prison round two is where Dex sharpened his tongue. His tongue was his sword.

His sword was his power. His power was his voice. And his voice silenced everyone who wanted to silence him. Everyone who wanted to strip him of his power. In his cell, he put in the reps with his verses the way other guys put in reps with sets of weights. He found his own cadence. He found his own flow. And when the flow didn't feel quite right, he moved the words around and tried again.

And those words gave him purpose. those words gave him an identity. Before long, Deck was lyrically sharp, verbally agile, and when he left prison, he was a humble warrior, like Hung C. Kuan. In the 1977 film,

Executioners from Shaolin. He was moving the weak spots in his body with his own mind. Or like Gordon Liu in the 1978 classic, the 36 chamber of Shaolin, the one where a monk has that great line without wisdom there is no game. Deck was as invincible as Lo-Mang, aka Toad and five deadly venom,

lying prone on a bed of nails with his iron skin to keep him safe. But with one tight verse, he could deliver a single-stroke kill like that of the lone samurai in the 1980 Revenge film Shogun Assassin. These were the qualities that the Rizza sought out when he brought together eight other disparate personalities from Park Hill, Stapleton, and Brooklyn. Guys who were invincible, guys who could deliver a fatal blow, No one else in the rap game was ready for what they had, and no one was expecting it, but everyone got the message. Protect your neck.

March 1997, Los Angeles. The suburban idled on the side of Sunset Boulevard. Inspector Dex sat shotgun. He passed a blunt to U-God in the driver's seat. Dex, Wu-Tang brothers took a hit and stared at the window. Billboard Live, the club right outside their car, drew them like moths to a flame. Fuck, U-God said, I still can't believe that he's gone. The club was the last place they'd both seen Biggie Smalls alive.

And now, just days after Biggie was killed, they found themselves here again. They both kept low, slumped down. in their seats, ball caps pulled down tight over their brows. Their minds constantly pouring over the details of the shooting instead of focusing on making Wu-Tang's sophomore album, the reason why they were in L.A. in the first place. They didn't stay at that spot very long. It was intense, sitting here and thinking about a slain New York rapper. Their contemporary, it was morbid, and it made your brain spiral off to other tangents. Like if that shooting was, in fact, bigger than B.I.G. If it had further implications for other East Coast dudes out west, like, say, Wu-Tang,

then stationed here like sitting ducks at a high-traffic spot, was a dumb move, even if they were keeping a low profile. U-God pulled the suburban out into traffic, then they blended in. Still, they couldn't shake the feeling that they had targets on their backs. Biggie was dead. Tupac was dead. Deck and U-God knew there were dudes out there who were looking out for Wutang. They'd heard all about the Crip who approached Method Man in the house of Blues

and tried to hand him a cannon for his protection and they also knew there were dudes looking for them, period. That seemed to be never ending. Whether it was the San Francisco PD that forced Ray, ghost, and meth on the ground and put them in cuffs, or guys from Staten Island and Brooklyn

back when the hustle was street level. Deck and Yuga didn't play that game anymore. Dealing, running, undercover officers that buy and bust bullshit. They were legit now, worldwide. They were dumb looking over their backs. Or so they thought. U-God noticed a BMW first.

It followed closely behind them, headlights reflecting brightly in the suburban's rear-view mirror. U-Gaud put Deck on alert. Yo, man, what the fuck is this? Deck turned around to look. The Beamer held tight. It shadowed their every move. It definitely was not some random car out for a joyride.

Whoever was in that BMW wanted to make themselves known Whoever was in that BMW only had to step on the gas And pull up alongside them windows down guns blazing Neither Deck nor U-God were packing They had to make a move fast Without warning U-Gaud spun the wheel and made a hard right turn The Suburban's wheels squealed on the pavement The BMW made an identical move just as quickly

Shit they had no other choice now It's on, U-God said to deck Word, deck reply pull up in front of this hotel. U-God pulled up to the side of the road and jumped out of the car. This being the late 90s, he had a beeper strapped to his belt.

And if you hit the clip on the beeper just right, you can make it sound like you were cocking a gun. It was an old trick, but he'd seen it work plenty of times, especially in the dark. U-God made his approach and snapped the clip on his beeper as the windows rolled down. He waited for the BMW to back down and peel out.

The car didn't move. The U-God braced for the worst. He got closer. And then he looked inside and... Wait, Latifah? He could hardly believe it. There were no dudes with a grudge in the beamer. No weapons locked and loaded.

Just four women, including Queen Latifah, rap goddess, fellow East Coast OG, friend of Wu-Tang, and the last person, Deke and Ugat expected to see out here. Latifah explained she'd been following them to make sure they were okay, seeing as they're all the way over here, and some would say enemy territory at the very moment that the hip-hop community. was in turmoil. Latifah was a stabilizing presence. She put things at ease, and things did seem to get easier from that point forward. The strange vibe around Biggie's death cooled down. Wu-Tang

finished their second record. And even when there was a flood of Rizasasatine Island studio, which destroyed the tapes for Dex's first solo album, Deck took it in stride. It was a setback he recovered from. He dealt with worse. It meant that his debut solo album, Uncontrolled Sub-Ework, wouldn't see the light of day until 1999. And by that time, Dek and Wu-Tang had new problems. Much bigger problems on a much larger scale. The agent returned from his lunch break with heartburn so bad

he felt like a volcano was about to erupt under his sternum. He loosened his tie. Was it the garlic on that sandwich? Or maybe the tomatoes? Fucking tomatoes. He didn't want to think about food right now, though. He just wanted to get back to work. The stack of paperwork on his desk

called to him. This was his life, paperwork, sandwiches, heartburn, and overtime. He picked up the document from the top of the pile and began to read. Universal case file number, 166E-NY-27179694-1A1. Field Office acquiring evidence, New York. Date received 1139.99. Description. Original notes regarding interview of Russell Jones, a.k.a. Old Dirty Bastard. Whoever took down these notes had a really nice handwriting. Probably Janet. Maybe Barbara. These were notes from an interview between Wu Tang's Old Dirty Bastard and a handful of FBI agents and NYPD detectives conducted at a rehab facility in California.

ODB told him how he woke up in bed to find unknown male one standing over him, wearing a black ski mask and pointing a gun in his face. A 357 or a 45. ODB wasn't sure. He didn't waste time figuring it out either. He quickly jumped out of bed. He grabbed at the piece, but unknown male number one wasn't about to let it go that easily. They wrestled.

The gun went off. Two shots. The first hit ODB in the arm, and the second in his back. Unknown male number one was about to bail, but then unknown male number two appeared, also in a ski mask. You get the shit? Number two asked number one. ODB figured they were talking about his jewelry. He told him to take it.

Unknown male number one snatched ODB's chain and rings right off of his body. Ten grand worth and then both of them, one and two, were out the door. Gone. Only then did the pain really set in. His arm and his back hurt like hell. But despite that pain, ODB drove himself to St. John's bleeding out all over the interior of his range rover. The FBI agent paused to look at the rest of the documents and the stack of papers on his desk.

this file was getting larger. The case against Wu-Tang clan as a criminal organization, the one mounted by the NYPD, the ATF, and the feds that was all here in this stack. But the picture wasn't fully clear yet. What seemed to be clear, though, was that this narrative about Wu-Tang is a bunch of guys who had left criminal lifestyles behind them to walk the straight and narrow, seemed to grow thinner by the day. There was the death of Wise God Allah in Steubenville, the death of Robert Johnson on Staten Island. ODB's home invasion, ghost-faced killers unlicensed gun and hollow-point bullets. But there were still pieces of the puzzle missing, and there were unanswered questions and

untold secrets. And then, there was this. A little-known fact. A fact that had eluded every member of Wu-Tang as well as the majority of agents at the FBI. The fact that at this very moment in 1999, one of the members of Wu-Tang clan's trusted inner circle was a federal informant. I'm Jake Brennan, and this episode of Disgraceland

is to be continued. It's Graceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page at disgracelandpod.com. If you're listening as a Disgraceland

All-Axist member, thank you for supporting the show. We really appreciate it. And if not, you can become a member right now by going to disgracelandpod.com slash membership. Members can listen to every episode of Disgraceland ad free. Plus, you'll get one brand new exclusive episode every month. Weekly unscripted bonus episodes, special audio collections,

and early access to merchandise and events. Visit disgracelampod.com slash membership for details. Rate and review the show and follow us on Instagram, TikTok, Twitter, and Facebook at DisgracelamPod, and on YouTube at YouTube.com slash at Disgracelandpod. When a group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist, they take matters into their own hands. I vowed, I will be his last target. He is not going to get away with this. He's going to get what he deserves. We always say that, trust your girlfriends.

Listen to the girlfriends, trust me, babe, on the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. This season on Dear. Chelsea, with me, Chelsea Handler, we have some fantastic guests like Amelia Clark. When like young people come up to me and they want to be an actor or whatever, and my first thing is always, can you think of anything else that you can do? Rather be disappointed in. Do that. David O'Yello.

I love this podcast, whether it's therapy or relationships or religion or sex or addiction or you just go straight for the guts. Dennis Leary, Gaten Matarazzo for. Stranger Things, Tiana Monsu, Camilla Morone, Carrie Kenny Silver, and more. Listen to these episodes of Dear Chelsea on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Sometimes a suspect is found guilty before a verdict is ever read in court. On the Wicked Words podcast, I talk with the writers who dig deep into the cases that changed history, including

Marsha Clark, who went from prosecuting one of the most famous murder cases to writing crime fiction. It doesn't matter that you didn't take part in the murder. If you were at the scene at all, you're guilty of murder. Every week, the real story is revealed. Join us every Monday for new episodes of Wicked Words. Listen to Wicked Words on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.