Post by dawyked on Nov 29, 2005 23:23:48 GMT 1
here u have the story people:
On Monday, September 3rd, 2001, John Forte and some friends from New York were in a swanky Houston hotel called The Lancaster having a party. They stayed up late drinking white russians, eating french fries, and listening to Reasonable Doubt over and again. Forte spoke of a party he was going to throw at the end of the week in New York at Spa. He would buy out the bar as Mark Ronson spun. The day after he would fly off to Dublin with his girlfriend. He had that New York Of-course-we’ll-conquer-the-world swagger. He repeatedly said, in a female lilt, “More champage Mr. Forte?” There was no champagne around, it was just a way of saying the partying and high-living would not, could not stop.
Forte was a child of Brownsville, his mother’s only son, who won a scholarship to Phillips Exeter Academy in New Hampshire, the most presitigious prep school in America. He graduated and after a year at NYU found his way into the Refugee Clique, one of the hottest hiphop families of the mid-to-late 90s, headlined by Wyclef Jean and Lauryn Hill. His ’98 debut solo album, Poly Sci, had a few great moments, but the Hiphop Nation paid no mind. He was a rapper more book smart than street smart and that’s never been a winning combination. Since then he’s become friends with Carly Simon, been arrested for possession of cocaine, and recorded his second album i, John.
On the 4th everyone put on suits and testified on his behalf. On the stand John spoke of meeting a man with no day job who thought nothing of buying thousand dollar shirts and multiple bottles of multihundred dollar champagne at dinner. The two began talking about helping one another professionally. In July of 2000 a pair of girls from New York travelled to Mexico to pick up something and on their way back, were arrested. At a motel near Houston they called John repeatedly, frantically. He told them, “put the ice cream in the tub.” The phone was tapped. A day later the girls arrived at Newark Airport. John testified at length that he thought the suitcase they handed him was filled with money. I testified that “cream” is, indeed, hiphop slang for currency. But the suitcase contained $1.5 million in liquid cocaine. And he was surrounded by ATF agents.
On the stand he seemed neither sad, nor sorry, nor scared, but smart and smug, wearing a double-breasted, high-necked black suit a bit too stylish for the occasion. Back at the hotel the party recommenced. Perhaps it was a blues mentality, an urge to party and laugh in the face of unfathomable tragedy. Perhaps it was overconfidence. Perhaps it was an act: in private he was quiet, moody, afraid, depressed, drinking, not eating, and taking anti-depressives.
On the 5th, in her closing, the prosecutor said, “These New Yorkers think they can come down here with their money and their celebrity and fool us hicks.”
On the 6th, moments before the jury came back with their verdict, a juror’s daughter told John’s girlfriend, Don’t worry. The jury had liked him. When John heard that, the clouds that’d engulfed him for over a year suddenly lifted. He could see himself at Spa. He could smell Dublin.
The 12 filed in. On the charge of possession he was found guilty.
continue...
On Monday, September 3rd, 2001, John Forte and some friends from New York were in a swanky Houston hotel called The Lancaster having a party. They stayed up late drinking white russians, eating french fries, and listening to Reasonable Doubt over and again. Forte spoke of a party he was going to throw at the end of the week in New York at Spa. He would buy out the bar as Mark Ronson spun. The day after he would fly off to Dublin with his girlfriend. He had that New York Of-course-we’ll-conquer-the-world swagger. He repeatedly said, in a female lilt, “More champage Mr. Forte?” There was no champagne around, it was just a way of saying the partying and high-living would not, could not stop.
Forte was a child of Brownsville, his mother’s only son, who won a scholarship to Phillips Exeter Academy in New Hampshire, the most presitigious prep school in America. He graduated and after a year at NYU found his way into the Refugee Clique, one of the hottest hiphop families of the mid-to-late 90s, headlined by Wyclef Jean and Lauryn Hill. His ’98 debut solo album, Poly Sci, had a few great moments, but the Hiphop Nation paid no mind. He was a rapper more book smart than street smart and that’s never been a winning combination. Since then he’s become friends with Carly Simon, been arrested for possession of cocaine, and recorded his second album i, John.
On the 4th everyone put on suits and testified on his behalf. On the stand John spoke of meeting a man with no day job who thought nothing of buying thousand dollar shirts and multiple bottles of multihundred dollar champagne at dinner. The two began talking about helping one another professionally. In July of 2000 a pair of girls from New York travelled to Mexico to pick up something and on their way back, were arrested. At a motel near Houston they called John repeatedly, frantically. He told them, “put the ice cream in the tub.” The phone was tapped. A day later the girls arrived at Newark Airport. John testified at length that he thought the suitcase they handed him was filled with money. I testified that “cream” is, indeed, hiphop slang for currency. But the suitcase contained $1.5 million in liquid cocaine. And he was surrounded by ATF agents.
On the stand he seemed neither sad, nor sorry, nor scared, but smart and smug, wearing a double-breasted, high-necked black suit a bit too stylish for the occasion. Back at the hotel the party recommenced. Perhaps it was a blues mentality, an urge to party and laugh in the face of unfathomable tragedy. Perhaps it was overconfidence. Perhaps it was an act: in private he was quiet, moody, afraid, depressed, drinking, not eating, and taking anti-depressives.
On the 5th, in her closing, the prosecutor said, “These New Yorkers think they can come down here with their money and their celebrity and fool us hicks.”
On the 6th, moments before the jury came back with their verdict, a juror’s daughter told John’s girlfriend, Don’t worry. The jury had liked him. When John heard that, the clouds that’d engulfed him for over a year suddenly lifted. He could see himself at Spa. He could smell Dublin.
The 12 filed in. On the charge of possession he was found guilty.
continue...
