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I've been a member and leader of Chicago's Maniac Latin Disciples for 25 years. I can't say that it's been an empowering experience, though. Twenty-two of those years have been spent in and out of jails and prisons. That's half my life wasted behind bars because of my gangbangin', dope-dealin', violence, and general intimidation.

I guess I always knew in my heart that I was on a fast track to hell. But I never knew how to get off.

That was until three years ago.

The man I wanted dead
January 2001 wasn't only the beginning of a new millennium; it offered a new calendar to this aging and weary criminal. I had, with the help of a shrewd attorney, attempted one last legal maneuver to gain my freedom. But my plans backfired. Because of my reputation and the ability of my gang organization to corrupt the Cook County courts, my case was moved to suburban DuPage County, where my internal connections were useless.

On my first day in that jail, I discovered what fear really felt like. An unknown judge and some strangers on a jury had control of my future. Sure, I had been afraid before, but no one but I knew it. On the outside, I was always a cool dude—even if in my soul I was dancing on hot coals.

In the county jail, I was in a group with five other guys, all with lengthy records and no chance of catching a break. We were each in one-man cells. At lunchtime our food was brought to a small table just outside our cells, and the six of us were taken there to eat.

	How could a book written before I was born know me so well? How could it describe me and yet be so positive?

Outside my cell at lunchtime, I started casing the surroundings for the sake of my own security. As I looked over the five other guys coming toward the table, my eyes locked on one guy, a Vice Lords chief. We had tried to kill each other more than once. For 13 years, he and I had been mortal enemies, doing all we could to get rid of each other for more turf. As I looked in my adversary's eyes, instead of the expected rage and hatred, I saw peace and calm—maybe even contentment. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. There had to be a reason. I assumed he was high on weed to be that mellow in this place.

When he recognized me, he approached with an outstretched hand. I thought, What's goin' on here? What's he gonna try?

Responding with a hesitant handshake, I expected to feel the cold, sweaty palm of a guy struggling with fear. Instead, his hand was cool and dry, maybe even friendly.

I guess he sensed my bewilderment, because he said, "Hey man, the war is over. I'm no longer lost. I'm different." I yanked my hand back suspiciously, certain he was trying to catch me off guard.

I kept my distance for the next few days. I didn't want to let down my defenses until I figured out his game. I watched him across the deck through the glass wall of our cells and saw him drop to his knees three or four times a day. He would stay on his knees for 45 minutes or more at a time. Maybe he's gone crazy, I thought. What is he doing on his knees for so long? There ain't that much prayin' going on in the whole world.

Later that day, he was let out of his cell and he came to mine carrying a Bible. Again, the look of peace was all over his face. Opening his Bible and shoving it under my cell door, he said, "Read this."

It was Psalm 51. I read the whole thing slowly and carefully, to make sure I wasn't being set up somehow. Finding nothing of the sort, I shoved the Bible back under the door and said, "Hey, that's deep."

He closed the book and shoved it back to me. Confused, I asked him, "What kind of high are you on?"

He smiled at me and said, "Jesus." With that, he told me to keep the Bible.

I had been blindsided, just what I didn't want. "Thanks," I said and threw the Bible on my bunk.

I was focused on my court appearance, not Jesus. At court, because my legal motions were denied, my attorney had gotten a 60-day continuance.

Things weren't going well for me and I was angry—at the world, with the judge, with the district attorney, with my own lawyer.

Drawn to the Book
Returning from the courthouse to the jail one day, I took out my anger on the guards. For my little physical and emotional outburst, I was put on lockdown.

Locked in my cell for the next 29 days, I had never felt so lost and alone. I could have no visitors—no one to talk to, no one to lash out against. Bored, I looked at the cover of the book that the Vice Lords chief had left with me. "The Living Bible," read the words on the cover. I opened the pages to where my adversary had marked it—Psalm 51.

I read it again and again, hoping I would understand why a Vice Lords gang-banger wanted me to see that particular passage. After reading it several times, it dawned on me that the words could have been my own:

… For I recognize my shameful deeds—
they haunt me day and night.
Against you, and you alone,
have I sinned;
I have done what is evil in your sight.
You will be proved right in what you say,
and your judgment against me is just.

… Don't keep looking at my sins.
Remove the stain of my guilt. …
Create in me a clean heart, O God.
Renew a right spirit within me.

How could a book written before I was born know me so well? How could it describe me and yet be so positive?

Intrigued by what I read, I started reading the whole Bible, beginning to end. Seventeen days into my lockdown, I realized I wasn't so angry anymore. That horrible feeling of being isolated had disappeared. The nights were not so lonely. Something strange was happening to me. I even reached the point where I got on my knees and talked to a Person I couldn't see.

Somehow, alone in a stark jail cell, I felt a presence. I felt safe and comfortable; feelings I had never experienced before. It amazed me that as the days passed, I worried less. All of this was so strange to me. Maybe I was a maniac.

If I were as I had been, I would have been ranting and raging. Instead, I began to think that maybe jail was God's plan for me.

Not by chance
Now, three years later, I have the same peace I found in the DuPage County jail. I'm still trying to grasp God's will for my life, but my hold on it isn't yet solid. Throughout my transformation, I have come to believe that none of my experiences in the DuPage County jail was a result of chance. A gang chief turned Christian, a Bible, a particular psalm, and a 29-day lockdown had set the stage.

After I lost my case in court and was sent to the state correctional center, I finally quit running from God and myself. For the first time, I didn't like my past and all the wrongs I had done. I wanted something different, and I got it. I asked Jesus to forgive me … and He did.

Today, I want to be God's man, not the main man. I have a long way to go, but I know I'm on the right road, going in the right direction.

John Stahlman is a writer living in Springfield, Illinois.

Editor's Note: Danny D. (who asked that his full name not be used) is still serving time in an Illinois state penitentiary, but instead of leading a gang, he is taking Bible correspondence courses, attending chapel activities, and praying. Says writer John Stahlman, who interviewed Danny for this article, "I have seen with my own eyes how Danny's attitude of violence has become an attitude of peace. He's now a new man, God's man."

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