50 CENT has sold more than 20 million records worldwide. His record-breaking debut album,
Get Rich or Die Tryin', has sold more than 12 million units worldwide, with the largest debut in SoundScan history, while
The Massacre sold more than 1.14 million copies in its first four days of release. He is the first artist to have four songs in the top ten of
Billboard's Hot 100 since the Beatles in 1964. He published his life's story in the
New York Times bestseller
From Pieces to Weight, hailed as "cool, hard, and vivid, a minor classic of gangster rap noir" (
The New York Times). His business empire includes: a record label (
G-Unit Records, a division of Interscope Records), apparel/footwear ventures (G-Unit Clothing and footwear, joint ventures through the Ecko- Clothing Company and Reebok, respectively), vitamin water (Formula 50, through Glacéau's Vitamin Water), and a watch line (
G-Unit Watches, through Jacob & Co.). His future plans include his most prized project: the nonprofit organization The
G-Unity Foundation, which aims to better the life of urban youth.
Prison: One of the few places on earth where sharks sleep, and where "you reap what you sow."
The note that prisoner Jamel Ross attached with his (so-called) urgent request to see the prison psychotherapist was supposed to appear desperate: "I need to address some serious issues because all I can think about is killing two people when I leave here. Can you help me!" And that's all he wrote. But, even more than the anger, revenge, and redemption Jamel was ready to bring back to the streets, he also had the prison's psych as a target; a target of his lust. And that was a more pressing issue at the moment.
"As far back as I can remember life has been about growing pains," he told her. "I've been through the phases of a liar in my adolescence, a hustler and thug in my teens, and an all-out con man in my twenties. Maybe it was just my instincts to acquire what I considered resources -- by whatever means necessary -- but it's a shame that once you get away with all of those behaviors, you become good at it, like some twisted type of talent or profession. Eventually even lies feel like the truth...
"I had a good thing going with Superstar. The magazine. The cable television show. Meeting and commingling with the big-name celebrities and all. I was positioned to have the biggest multimedia company in New York, the biggest to focus on black entertainment exclusively. BET was based in Washington at the time, so I had virtually no competition. Jamel Ross, the big fish in a little pond...
"And of course I got away with murder, figuratively, when Angel -- yes, the singer with the TV show and all her millions of fans -- didn't go along with the authorities, including her mother, who wanted to hit me with child molestation, kidnapping, and other charges. I was probably dead wrong for laying with that girl before she turned eighteen. But Angel was a very grown-up seventeen-year-old. Besides, when I hit it she was only a few months shy from legal. So gimme a break.
"In a strange way, fate came back to get my ass for all of my misdeeds. All of my pimpmania. That cable company up in Connecticut, with more than four hundred stations and fifty-five million subscribers across the country, was purchased by an even larger entity. It turned my life around when that happened; made my brand-new, million-dollar contract null and void. There was no way that I could sue anyone because lawyers' fees are incredible and my company overextended itself with the big celebrations, the lavish spending, and the increased staff; my living expenses, including the midtown penthouse, the car notes, and maintenance for Deadra and JoJo -- my two lovers at the time -- were in excess of eleven thousand a month. Add that to the overhead at Superstar and, without a steady stream of cash flowing, I had an ever-growing monster on my hands.
"One other thing, both Deadra and JoJo became pregnant, so now I would soon have four who depended on me as the sole provider. Funny, all of this wasn't an issue when things were lean. When the sex was good and everyone was kissing my ass. Now, I'm the bad guy because the company's about to go belly-up."
With a little more than two years left to his eighty-four-month stretch, Jamel Ross finally got his wish, to sit and spill his guts to Dr. Kay Edmondson, the psychotherapist at Fort Dix -- the federal correctional institution that was a fenced-in forty-acre plot on that much bigger Fort Dix Army Base. Fort Dix was where army reservists came to train, and simultaneously where felons did hard time for crimes gone wrong. With so many unused acres belonging to the government during peacetime, someone imagined that perhaps a military academy or some other type of income-producing entity would work on Fort Dix, as well. So they put a prison there.
The way that Fort Dix was set up was very play it by ear. It was a growing project where rules were implemented along the way. Sure, there was a Bureau of Prisons guidebook with rules and regulations for both staff and convicts to follow. However, that BOP guidebook was very boilerplate, and it left the prison administrators in a position in which they had to learn to cope and control some three thousand offenders inside the fences of what was the largest population in the federal system. It was amazing how it all stayed intact for so long.
"On the pound" nicknames were appreciated and accepted since it was a step away from a man's birth name, or "government name," which was the name that all the corrections officers, administrative staff, and of course, the courts used when addressing convicts. So on paper Jamel's name was Jamel Ross. On paper, Jamel Ross was not considered to be a person, but a convict with the registration number 40949-054, something like the forty thousandth prisoner to be filtered through the Southern District of New York. The "054" ending was a sort of area code in his prison ID number. He was sentenced by Judge Benison in October of 1997 and committed to eighty-four months -- no parole, and three years probation. The conviction was for bank robbery. However, on appeal, the conviction was "adjusted" since there was no conclusive evidence that Jamel had a weapon. Nevertheless, Jamel certainly did have a weapon and fully intended to pull off a robbery, with a pen as his weapon. So the time he was doing was more deserved than not.
But regardless of Jamel's level of involvement, it was suddenly very easy for him to share himself since he felt he had nothing to lose. It was that much easier to speak to a reasonably attractive woman, as if there were good reasons for the things he did and why. So he went on explaining all of his dirty deeds to "Dr. Kay" Edmondson as if this were a confessional where he'd be forgiven for his sins. And why not? She was a good-listening, career-oriented female. She was black and she wasn't condescending like so many other staff members were. And when she called him "Jamel," as opposed to "Convict Ross," it made him imagine they had a tighter bond in store.
"So this dude -- I won't say his name -- he let me in on his check game. He explained how one person could write a check for, say, one hundred grand, give it to a friend, and even if the money isn't there to back up the check, the depositor could likely withdraw money on it before it is found to be worthless. It sounded good. And I figured the worst-case scenario would be to deny this and to deny that..."
"They don't verify the check? I mean, isn't that like part of the procedure before it clears?" Kay generally did more talking than this when convicts sat before her. Except she was finding his story, as well as his in-depth knowledge of things, so fascinating.
"See, that's the thing. If the check comes from the same region, or if it's from the other side of the world, it still has to go through a clearing house, where all of the checks from all of the banks eventually go. So that takes like a couple of days. But banks -- certain banks -- are on some ol' 'we trust you' stuff, and I guess since they've got your name and address and stuff, they do the cash within one or two days."
"Really?"
"Yup. They will if it's a local check from a local bank. And on that hundred grand? The bank will let loose on the second day. I'll go in and get the money when the dam breaks..."
"And when the bank finds out about the check being no good?"
"I play dumb. I don't know the guy who wrote the check. Met him only twice, blah blah blah. I sign this little BS affidavit and bang -- I'm knee-deep in free money."
Dr. Kay wagged her head of flowing hair and replied, "You all never cease to amaze me. I mean you, as in the convicts here. I hear all sorts of tricks and shortcuts and -- "
"Cons. They're cons, Dr. Kay."
"Sure, sure..." she somehow agreed.
"But it's all a dead end, ya know? Like, once you get money, it becomes an addiction, to the point that you forget your reasons and objectives for getting money in the first place."
"Did you forget, Jamel?"
"Did I? I got so deep in the whole check thing that it became my new profession."
"Stop playin'."
"I'm for real. I started off with my own name and companies, but then, uh..." Jamel hesitated. He looked away from the doctor. "I shouldn't really be tellin' you this. I'm ramblin'."
"You don't have to if you don't want to, but let me remind you that what you say to me in our sessions is confidential, unless I feel that you might cause harm to yourself or someone else, or if I'm subpoenaed to testify in court."
"Hmmm." Jamel deliberated on that. He wondered if the eighty-four-month sentence could be enhanced to double or triple, or worse. He'd heard about the nightmares, how bragging while in prison was a tool that another prisoner could use to shorten his own sentence. "Informants" they called them. And just the thought of that made Jamel promise himself that he wouldn't say a thing about the weapon and the real reason he caught so much time.
"Off the record, Jamel..."
"Oooh, I like this 'off-the-record' stuff." Jamel rubbed his hands together and came to the edge of the couch from his slouched position.
"Well, to put your mind at ease, I haven't yet received a subpoena for a trial."
Jamel took that as an indication of secrecy and that he was supposed to have confidence in her. But he proceeded with caution as he went on explaining about the various bank scams, the phony licenses, and bogus checks.
The doctor said, "Wow, Jamel. That's a hell of a switch. One day you're a television producer, a publisher, and a ladies' man, and the next -- "
The phone rang.
"I'm sorry." Dr. Kay got up from her chair, passed Jamel, and circled her desk. It gave him a whiff of her perfume and that only made him pay special attention to her calves. There was something about a woman's calves that got him excited. Or didn't. But Dr. Kay's calves did. As she took her phone call, Jamel wondered if she did the StairMaster bit, or if she ran in the mornings. Maybe she was in the military like most of these prison guards claimed. Was she an aerobi...
