![]() ![]() Later, when he emerged as the first crack boss of the cataclysmic 1980s, after he went from slanging $25 rocks to wholesaling $1 million loads, that moniker sounded like a Southern California joyride: slick, agile, unfettered, one step ahead of the law. To be poor and illiterate in the shadow of the 110 was to be a junky-ass freeway boy. It was not uttered in awe, at least not in the beginning. He had grown up on 87th Place, where it dead-ends at the Harbor Freeway, which is how he earned his nickname: Freeway Rick. Originally a World War II disciplinary barracks, the compound became a maximum-security penitentiary after Alcatraz hit obsolescence Lompoc was “the New Rock.” It was a bright January morning in 1998, early into Ricky Ross’s sentence, and I had driven up the California coast, past Santa Barbara and over the Santa Ynez Mountains, where vineyards and seed fields meet razor wire and gun towers, to the federal prison in Lompoc. L.A.’s most famous dopeman was doing life. Rick Ross under the overpass at the Harbor Freeway Transit Center ![]()
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