October 6, 2025 • 32 mins
Thanks for tuning back in to "No Tears For Black Girls." Samantha Paul here, and do I have a treat for y'all today! We're diving deep into J.C. Reedburg's latest masterpiece, "No Tears For Black Girls: Prison Pimp'd," available now for free on Amazon Kindle. But act fast, 'cause after today, it's Kindle exclusive. As always, we've switched up some deets to keep things on the DL, but trust, this story is as real as it gets.
Picture this: Gwinnett County, Georgia, just a stone's throw from the A. Inside Phillips State, it ain't about how hard you can throw a punch, but how slick you can play the game. And Dejuan Rivers? This man's got manipulation down to a science. From his tiny cell, he's pulling the strings on a criminal empire that stretches way past the barbed wire.
With nothing but smooth words, black market smokes, and a PhD in mind games, Dejuan's got a whole crew of desperate women wrapped around his finger. Sandra's sending money orders, Keisha's wiring cash no questions asked, Patricia's smuggling in burners, and Valerie's begging him to find her missing kid. They each think they're his one and only, but the gag is, they don't even know about each other.
It's a fragile operation, and when the ladies start getting too curious and the COs start sniffing around, Dejuan's world is on the verge of imploding. In a place where every move is calculated and trust can get you killed, one wrong step could send everything he's built tumbling down like a house of cards.
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Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
(00:01):
No tears for black girls when they disappear.
No tears for black girls like they were never here.
But we remember. We'll speak their names.
Welcome back to No Tears for Black Girls.
This is Samantha Paul. Today we have a special treat
(00:25):
for you, an exclusive chapter reading from the latest
installment in our No Tears for Black Girls series on Amazon
Kindle. The book No Tears for Black
Girls Prison Pimped, written by our show's creator JC Reedberg,
is available now for free download.
After today, it will only be free for Amazon Kindle users.
(00:48):
Like all our books, this story draws from real life cases we've
covered on this podcast, though we've altered names, timelines,
and locations to protect everyone's privacy.
Our story unfolds in Gwinnett County, Georgia, just 30 miles
from Atlanta, within the stark concrete walls of Phillips State
Correctional Facility. Survival isn't about brute
(01:11):
strength, but cunning strategy. Diwan Rivers, a character first
introduced in Book 1 The Price of Silence, a No Tears for Black
Girls story, is a master manipulator who has transformed
his cramped 6 by 8 cell into thenerve center of a criminal
empire that extends far beyond the prison gates.
(01:32):
Armed with nothing more than persuasive letters, contraband
cigarettes and a keen understanding of psychological
warfare, Diwan has woven a complex web of desperate women
on the outside. Each believes she is the only
one who truly understands him, the only one he confides in.
(01:52):
Sandra dutifully sends money orders, Keisha wires cash
without question, Patricia risksit all to smuggle in phones, and
Valerie pleads for his help in finding her lost child.
They all believe they have a special connection with him, but
the truth is they don't even know of each other's existence.
It's a delicate House of Cards, and when the women start asking
(02:16):
too many questions and the guards grow increasingly
suspicious, D Juan's carefully constructed world begins to
teeter on the brink of collapse.In a place where every
interaction is a calculated transaction and trust can be a
fatal mistake, a single misstep could bring everything he's
built crashing down around him. No tears for black girls.
(02:37):
Prison pimped by JC Reidberg. Chapter 1.
The monster's appetite. Prisoners write all sorts of
letters, threats, scams, declarations of love to people
who will never write back. Michael Little Mike Thompson's
letters are different. He writes each one as if it will
(02:58):
be his last. Hunched over the narrow metal
desk bolted to the cinder block wall, his hands tremble, the pen
clattering occasionally against the paper, leaving ragged
ballpoint trails that bleed intoeach line.
He writes by the glow of the overhead fluorescent, that
unforgiving light flattening theworld to grayscale, bringing
(03:19):
every imperfection to the surface.
The flecks of chipped black Polish on his fingernails, the
streaks of fuchsia lipsticks smeared with the heel of his
palm. His arms are littered with old
needle scars and newer bruises, a purple bloom visible at the
edge of his sleeve. He starts and stops the letter,
(03:40):
reading each word three times before moving to the next, like
he's afraid the paper will catchfire if he lies.
He addresses it to Carla, even though he's not sure if she's
still at the address or if she even gives a shit.
He writes. Carla, I'm sorry, I know you
hate me now. That's fine, I'd hate me too.
(04:02):
I keep thinking if I could explain what happened, it'd make
sense, but there's no sense to it, not really.
The old version of me that you once loved is dead.
He's been eaten by a monster. He stares at the last word,
monster, until the letters blur together and he starts to sweat.
He sets the pen down and cups his face in his hands, smearing
(04:25):
tears and makeup into a muddy camouflage.
He doesn't hear the rest of the cellblock, but he knows it's
there, a continuous background roar of masculine violence and
boredom. The overhead intercom squawks
and bursts, punctuated by the clank of doors and the distant
rhythmic thump of a basketball. Little Mike sits in the belly of
(04:47):
Phillips State Correctional, andevery night the walls close in a
little more. He feels it in the way the
concrete sweats even when the ACis blasting, and how the guards
call him Princess or she bitch with that practiced prison blend
of contempt and boredom. He should be used to it by now.
He's been on this tier for two years, ever since his father had
(05:10):
him transferred for his own good.
His father. The word has a taste, bitter as
bleach and just as caustic. He writes.
They put me in protective custody, said it was for my
safety, but everyone here knows what PC means.
They call it pussy camp. A sharp ache starts in his chest
(05:32):
and radiates out, quick and hot.He closes his eyes and the
memories rush in, as vivid as the ink bleeding from his pen.
First week at Phillips, before he learned the rules.
Commissary line, slow as syrup. He's got nothing to trade but a
battered deck of playing cards, and even those are marked with
(05:53):
an old blood stain on the ace ofspades.
OX, from F Wing, 6 1/2 feet, allshoulders and empty threats,
steps up behind him and grabs him by the back of the neck.
You got the pretty face. Bet you taste like candy.
He remembers the panic, the stench of O XS sweat and
(06:13):
discount Cologne, the involuntary freeze in his legs.
He remembers the snap in his skull when Ox slammed his face
against the bulletproof glass. Vernon Thompson, his own father,
coming down the tear. Later with his entourage, hands
tucked casual behind his back. The guards didn't even try to
intervene. Boys will be boys, they said.
(06:38):
He remembers what happened next,because it never really stopped
happening. Vernon rescuing him, dragging Ox
into the showers and putting theman's head through a tile wall.
The sick pride in his father's voice, the way he wiped the
blood from his son's lip with his thumb like it was a badge of
honor. See, you got to teach them,
(06:58):
Michael. You got to be the biggest,
baddest mother fucker, or else you're nothing.
He remembers Vernon's tough lovetalks, always alone, always in
the quietest corner of the block.
If anyone was going to take yourmanhood, it would be me.
Vernon would whisper, pinning his son's arms behind his back,
(07:20):
making Mike watch his own reflection in the black,
shatterproof glass of the showerstall.
That's the deal. That's what fathers do.
Little Mike blinks, and he's back at the desk, fists clench
so tight the pen snaps in half and blue ink seeps into his
palm. He breathes slow and shallow,
(07:42):
smears the ink across the page, turns it into a nervous doodle,
a swirl of spirals and shapes that won't mean anything to
Carla but mean everything to him.
He finishes the letter. If you never write back, I
understand. Just know I'm still alive for
now, and if they ever let me out, I'll come find you and
(08:03):
maybe we can start over. Or maybe you can just punch me
in the face and call it even. Love M.
He folds the letter, wipes his eyes, and seals it in a battered
envelope with Carla's last knownaddress.
In neat, perfect script, he slides it under the mattress
alongside a stack of other letters, Unsent, unmailed, maybe
(08:26):
unread. He stands and smooths his shirt,
fingers trembling as he tucks itin, careful to hide the bruise
at his collarbone. His reflection in the scratched
up stainless mirror is a study in contrasts.
Smeared lipstick, swollen jaw, ashimmer of defiance in his gaze
that no amount of prison time has managed to dull.
(08:48):
Footsteps echo up the corridor, slow and heavy.
Not the brisk click of a guard on rounds, but something more
deliberate. A shadow passes the frosted
window of his door, pauses just long enough to be seen.
It's time. Yard privileges.
Little Mike wipes the last streak of lipstick from his
(09:08):
mouth, squares his shoulders, and waits for the world to come
crashing in. The yard at Phillips State is
less a recreational facility andmore a living, breathing threat
assessment. Every race has its territory,
unspoken but rigidly enforced. The Aryans with their weight
bench and cigarette economy. The blacks orbiting the half
(09:31):
court like celestial bodies. The Latinos crammed into the
only shade, all eyes and muttered jokes.
Vernon Thompson strolls through it all like he's mayor of a city
built on violence and extortion.His two muscle bound satellites,
Rook and Juju, flank him, both fresh out of solitary and
itching for a reason. Vernon's shirt is always one
(09:53):
size too small, showing off the old fighters build, but his face
is all calm calculation. Little Mike trails three steps
behind, eyes fixed on the cracked pavement, careful not to
trip. There's a dark Halo on his jaw,
the gift of last night's lesson,and he wears it the way he wears
(10:13):
everything else. With a kind of practiced
resignation, Vernon's operation runs in plain sight.
He's the only man on the block with the stones to sell meth,
cigarettes and flesh at once, using his own son as both bait
and warning. Every Monday and Thursday, the
drop happens in the open, and the guards watch from the
(10:34):
towers, making notes for whoever's shift supervisor needs
a cut that week. Mike always hated the yard.
The sun is too bright, and the noise makes his skull vibrate.
Still, he prefers it to the dorms, where every shadow holds
a debt collector or a man with too many questions.
Today, the air is different. You can feel it in how the gangs
(10:57):
are watching not each other, butthe main gate.
Even the Aryans have stopped flexing their ringleader, Hawks
squinting through mirrored aviators like he's waiting on an
omen. When Dajuan Rivers steps into
the yard, the energy shifts. He's built like a sprinter, all
lean muscle and sharp cheekboneswith the kind of slow,
(11:20):
deliberate walk that makes you underestimate him.
He wears his prison Blues with aneatness that's almost
disrespectful, as if he's just visiting Gold.
Teeth flash when he smiles, but there's nothing funny about the
way he scans the crowd, reading,sorting, filing away every
threat and opportunity. Dajuan doesn't head to any
(11:42):
clique. Instead he cuts a slow orbit, a
calculated trespass through every group's invisible fence.
A ripple follows him, quiet at first, then a hiss of
speculation. Vernon watches this with the
interest of a man observing an exotic new animal.
That's Rivers, boy, he says to Juju, not bothering to lower his
(12:05):
voice. Heard he ran a whole block
upstate before they transferred him down here.
Juju grins, exposing a gold canine of his own.
He looked like he ran more than that.
Mike doesn't say anything, but he feels the animal tension
rise. It's always this way when a new
alpha arrives, especially one who doesn't bother to
(12:27):
acknowledge the old ones. Dejuan comes to a stop at the
far edge of the court, leans against the cyclone fence, and
waits. The sun hits him just right,
catching a lattice of scar tissue across his forearms.
He seems bored, but Mike can tell he's clocking every move
within a 50 foot radius. Vernon makes a production of
(12:51):
stretching his arms, then saunters over.
Rook and Juju keep their distance, which means Mike is
expected to follow. He does, keeping his posture
slouched and his gait exaggeratedly feminine the way
Vernon likes. As they cross the yard, eyes
lock onto them from every angle.There's always an audience for a
(13:11):
power play. Afternoon, Rivers.
Vernon says, flashing a smile that never reaches his eyes.
Dejuan glances over, cool and unblinking.
You got business just being neighborly?
Vernon puts his hands up, palms out.
Figured you might need the lay of the land.
It's different down here. I see that, Dejuan says.
(13:36):
His voice is calm, clipped, witha formal edge that's both
precise and mocking. Vernon laughs, but there's no
warmth. I run things.
Any questions, you come to me. Dejuan looks him up and down,
pausing just long enough to be insulting.
That right? That's right, Vernon says.
(13:56):
And for new arrivals, I like to offer a little welcome package.
Helps with the transition. Dewan's eyes flick to Mike, then
back to Vernon. I don't need anything you're
selling. A few of the bystanders snicker.
Hawk from the Aryans leans back on his bench, arms folded.
The black Cliques leader, a blocky man with future tattooed
(14:20):
across his neck, just grins. Vernon's face goes hard.
You'll come around, maybe? Dewan says, already turning
away. But don't ever send one of your
boys to my bunk, you won't get them back.
Mike feels the words as a blow, but he's more impressed than
scared the way Dejuan said it. Matter of fact, not a threat,
(14:44):
but a statement of cosmic law. Only someone who knows real
power talks like that. Vernon stands there, frozen for
a split second before flashing another smile and turning on his
heel. Let's go, Princess.
He snaps at Mike. Mike falls in behind, careful
not to meet anyone's eye. You don't survive here by being
(15:06):
the strongest, he thinks. You survive by being the
smartest. And Dejuan Rivers just changed
the equation. On the way back across the yard,
Mike dares a glance over his shoulder.
Dejuan is still there, watching,one hand pressed to the fence
like he owns it. Mike doesn't know if he should
be terrified or grateful. He settles for both.
(15:28):
Knight in Phillips State doesn'tbring quiet, It just trades one
kind of threat for another. The main lights click off at 11,
replaced by sickly yellow bulbs that buzz and flicker overhead.
Most of the block pretends to sleep, but everyone hears the
footsteps when they come, and everyone knows to keep their
eyes shut. Little Mike counts the seconds
(15:52):
from lights out. 612220 Like clockwork, Vernon's shadow fills
his door. Vernon doesn't speak at first.
He paces the small cell, hands behind his back like a drill
instructor waiting for a recruitto break.
He lets the tension do the work,let's Mike squirm in
(16:14):
anticipation. Finally, he stops at the foot of
the bunk. You made me look weak today, he
says. The words are soft, almost
gentle, but Mike knows better than to answer.
Vernon leans down until their faces are close.
I don't care what those mother fuckers think out there, but
(16:35):
you, you're mine, You never forget that.
The first blow comes low, a precise jab to the ribs that
knocks the breath out of Mike's lungs.
He double S over, clutching his side, but Vernon is already in
motion. 234 more shots, each placed with a surgeon's
accuracy. Never the face, never enough to
(16:57):
send him to the Infirmary, just enough to hurt.
Mike makes no sound, even when something cracks in a hot
electric pain radiates through his torso.
Vernon grabs a fistful of Mike'shair and hauls him upright.
If I ever see you looking at that Rivers kid again, I'll do
worse than this, you hear me? Mike nods, blinking back tears.
(17:21):
He tastes blood, metallic and sharp, blooming at the back of
his throat. Say it.
Vernon hisses. I hear you.
Vernon drops him, let's him collapse onto the concrete.
Good, because you keep forgetting your place and I
don't have time to keep reminding you.
(17:42):
He wipes his hands on his pants and walks out, never glancing
back. Mike stays curled on the floor,
waiting for the pain to subside.The cell hums with the
aftershock, every nerve ending lit up and screaming.
He focuses on his breath, countseach inhale and exhale, tries
not to think about how much worse it could get.
(18:05):
Eventually, he crawls to the tiny sink and splashes water on
his face. The mirror above is smaller than
a pack of cigarettes, warped andfogged at the edges, but it's
enough to see the truth. His jaw is intact.
The bruise from yesterday is deeper, pooling under the skin
like an oil slick. His left eye is watery but
(18:28):
clear. He lifts his shirt and traces
the constellation of fresh weltsand purple marks blossoming
across his ribs. He presses A trembling hand to
his side, hisses at the contact,then laughs.
A short, ugly sound. He wipes a smear of blood from
his lip and studies it, then wipes the rest from the corner
(18:50):
of his mouth. This is what love looks like, he
thinks. This is what it's always been.
He looks back at his reflection and bares his teeth.
Enough. He lowers his shirt, wipes the
sink clean, and sits at the desk.
He pulls out the letter to Carlaand slides it into the envelope,
(19:12):
sealing it with the last of his spit.
He stares at the door, listeningfor footsteps.
There are none. He knows what he has to do.
The next morning, the yard simmers with the sour smell of
sweat and sun baked resentment. The hierarchy is a living thing,
reshuffled overnight by rumor and bruised egos, but most of
(19:36):
the regulars pretend nothing haschanged.
Vernon holds court as usual, cracking jokes with Rook and
Juju while swapping envelopes with the white supremacists near
the fence. He's in a good mood, which means
the mood of everyone around him is 10° colder.
Mike keeps to the periphery, pretending to watch a pickup
(19:56):
basketball game while scanning for gaps in the routine.
His ribs still throb under the uniform, but the pain sharpens
his focus. Across the yard, Dejuan Rivers
stands at the same patch of fence, arms folded, head tilted,
like he's listening to a privateradio broadcast.
Nobody goes near him, not even the guards who only pretend to
(20:19):
patrol this far. When Vernon gets pulled aside by
one of the guards, Harmon, the one with the lazy eye and the
taste for meth, Mike sees his chance.
He walks the long way around, keeping his shoulders slouched
and his stride soft, making himself as invisible as
possible. The prisoners are so busy
(20:40):
watching each other, they don't notice a skinny kid in the
shadows. Daewon doesn't move until Mike
is 2 feet away, then, without turning, he says.
You got something to say, Princess?
Mike keeps his eyes on the ground, voice barely above a
whisper. I know who you are.
Your daddy's a cop. Dejuan's expression doesn't
(21:04):
change, but Mike sees the flicker in his eyes.
Curiosity, not surprise. And Vernon runs everything in
here. Mike says, fast and quiet.
Drugs, protection, pussy, if youwant it.
Got half the guards on payroll, the other half too scared to
cross him. Dejuan's lips curl in a smile.
(21:27):
You trying to sell me something?Mike shakes his head.
Not selling, Just want you to know who you're dealing with.
Dejuan steps off the fence, closes the distance until their
faces are inches apart. Mike smells the menthol on his
breath, sees the micro scars on his cheek.
(21:48):
Why you telling me? Mike's chest tightens.
He waits until a group of black inmates pass by, their laughter
masking the next words. Kill him.
Mike breathes and take everything he's built.
For a heartbeat, Dejuan says nothing.
Then he nods once, like he's confirming an appointment.
(22:11):
Not today, he says, but soon. Mike steps back, heart pounding
so hard it hurts. He slips into the crowd before
Vernon even notices he's missingthe rest of the yard.
Time passes in a blur. The only thing Mike remembers is
the look on Dejuan's face, a mirror reflection of his own
(22:31):
hunger and fear, sharper and deeper than anything he's ever
seen. He thinks of Carla, of the
letter hidden in his cell, of the small hope he's kept alive
all this time. Maybe this is what change feels
like. The visiting room at Phillips
State smells like vending machine coffee and old sweat,
(22:52):
overlaid with the vague Tang of despair.
The tables are bolted to the floor, painted the same shade of
Gray as the cinder block walls, and the glass partitions are
polished to a foggy Sheen. Mike sits in the back corner,
head down, blending into the churn of families and broken
lovers shouting through plexiglass.
(23:12):
His ribs still ache from last night's lesson, each breath a
reminder of Vernon's precision. At the far end of the room,
Dejuan Rivers perches on the edge of a metal chair, posture
perfect, eyes locked on the man across from him.
Lance Rivers is every inch the cop, even out of uniform shirt,
crisp hands folded, voice a low current of authority that cuts
(23:36):
through the visiting room chaos.Mike can't hear every word, but
he reads lips better than most. He catches fragments, network
distribution, favors owed, then clearer phrases inside.
Connections, guard rotations, money flow.
Lance never gestures, just leansin, making everything sound like
(23:59):
a chess move. Daewan doesn't flinch or blink,
but his jaw works tight, a muscle jumping under the skin.
Father and son, Mike thinks, butnot like Vernon and me.
This is business. Beyond the barred window, the
yard sprawls in a patchwork of brown and green.
(24:19):
Vernon is out there, stalking between clumps of prisoners,
always looking for the next weaklink.
Mike wonders if Vernon knows what's happening in this room,
if he can sense the shift coming.
Mike watches Daehuan, watching Lance.
He studies the angle of Daehuan's body, the set of his
shoulders, the way his fingers drum silent messages on the
(24:41):
tabletop. Mike knows the tells.
He's lived with men like this all his life, but where Vernon's
power comes from fear and brutality, Dejuan's feels
different, colder, more calculated.
Lance slides a folded sheet of paper across the table, along
with what looks like a small photograph.
(25:02):
Dejuan covers both with his palm, not breaking eye contact,
then tucks them into his waistband in one fluid motion.
Mike's heart jumps. He knows whatever is written on
that paper will ripple through the whole prison before lights
out. The photograph bothers him more.
Faces mean targets, and targets mean violence.
(25:23):
This is how it starts, he realizes.
Not with fists or shivs, but with information.
The guard signals time. Lance stands smooth and
unhurried, says something final that makes Dewan's eyes narrow.
Mike catches the last word. Soon.
Dewan nods once, then waits a full minute before getting up,
(25:46):
head bowed as he walks to the door.
When Daewan steps into the hall,he glances toward the corner
where Mike is sitting. Their eyes meet.
Daewan's gaze is cool, assessing, but for a second it
softens, and Mike feels an electric charge passed between
them, Understanding, or maybe warning.
(26:07):
He knows I was watching. He wanted me to watch through
the window. Vernon catches Dejuan's eye.
There's no threat in the look, only the promise of collision.
Vernon's smile is all teeth, thekind that means someone's about
to bleed. Mike watches the three of them,
each orbiting the same gravitational pull.
(26:29):
Lance disappearing into the freeworld with his secrets.
Dejuan walking back to his cell with his orders.
Vernon prowling the yard, unaware that his Kingdom is
already under siege. Mike touches his bruised ribs,
feels the tender spots where Vernon's knuckles found their
mark. Change is coming, he thinks.
(26:51):
The only question is whether I'll survive it.
He wonders who will be the firstto break.
He wonders if it even matters. In his pocket, Carla's letter
feels heavier than it should, like a promise he's not sure he
can keep. Thanks for tuning into this
exclusive No Tears for Black Girls episode.
(27:12):
If you want to dive deeper into JC Reedberg's gripping story,
head over to Amazon Kindle and grab your free digital copy of
No Tears for Black Girls Prison Pimped.
It's available at no cost for everyone until October 6th,
after which it'll be a Kindle exclusive.
Before we go, let's set the moodwith Profit Profits Prison
(27:35):
pimped a track straight off our upcoming No Tears for Black
Girls soundtrack dropping later this month.
Get ready to vibe with us on Spotify, Apple Music, YouTube,
and all your favorite streaming platforms.
Stay loved, stay blessed, and stay safe.
This is Samantha Paul. You born alone die alone.
(29:28):
Every tears a new year man. Everyone slides by.
Realize you never cry alone. This pain.
Missing baby girls first steps on graduation date phone calls,
getting short of family, drifting away Mama getting
older. Can't help with the rent can't
help 25 a life sentence. Wonder where the time went?
My lady stopped visiting. I know what that means.
I know when she lonely she horny.
Somebody's in between Christmas behind bars Holidays hurt the
(29:51):
most time. Watch grown men breakdown like
they seen a ghost. Some count, some count years on
the calendar count them. Some just count reasons why they
amateur so many collect calls. Expensive 15 minutes Max.
Expensive family moving forward while I'm stuck in the past.
Time moves different when you cage like a beast.
Different same routine daily. But somehow you deceased.
Time flies. You get prison pimp throw.
(30:18):
You pimp the system. Yeah, yeah.
Life on the cell block can causeyou death if you don't listen.
Listen, you get prison pimp, don't you?
Pimp the system. Profit.
Life on the cell block can causeyou death if you don't listen.
Real talk. Real.
(31:07):
Old school pimps, schooling young cats on the real how to do
your time without losing what you're feeling.
Real. Some fine God, some fine books
for the mind, some fine. Strengthen the pain.
Leave the past behind. Keep your soul intact.
That's how you beat the rest. Stay strong.
(31:29):
You get prison pimped or you pimp the system.
Life on the cellblock can cause you depth if you don't listen,
listen, listen. You get prison pimped or you
pimp the system. Profit, profit.
Life on the cellblock can cause you depth if you don't listen.
Real talk from the yard to the block.
(31:53):
Profit, profit, survive survivors and pimp the pimp the
system. I decided.
Real pimp with the wisdom. That's what I provide.
No tears for black girls when they disappear.
No tears for black girls like they were never here.
But we remember. We'll speak their names.
Welcome back to No Tears for Black Girls.
This is Samantha Paul. Today we have a special treat
(00:25):
for you, an exclusive chapter reading from the latest
installment in our No Tears for Black Girls series on Amazon
Kindle. The book No Tears for Black
Girls Prison Pimped, written by our show's creator JC Reedberg,
is available now for free download.
After today, it will only be free for Amazon Kindle users.
(00:48):
Like all our books, this story draws from real life cases we've
covered on this podcast, though we've altered names, timelines,
and locations to protect everyone's privacy.
Our story unfolds in Gwinnett County, Georgia, just 30 miles
from Atlanta, within the stark concrete walls of Phillips State
Correctional Facility. Survival isn't about brute
(01:11):
strength, but cunning strategy. Diwan Rivers, a character first
introduced in Book 1 The Price of Silence, a No Tears for Black
Girls story, is a master manipulator who has transformed
his cramped 6 by 8 cell into thenerve center of a criminal
empire that extends far beyond the prison gates.
(01:32):
Armed with nothing more than persuasive letters, contraband
cigarettes and a keen understanding of psychological
warfare, Diwan has woven a complex web of desperate women
on the outside. Each believes she is the only
one who truly understands him, the only one he confides in.
(01:52):
Sandra dutifully sends money orders, Keisha wires cash
without question, Patricia risksit all to smuggle in phones, and
Valerie pleads for his help in finding her lost child.
They all believe they have a special connection with him, but
the truth is they don't even know of each other's existence.
It's a delicate House of Cards, and when the women start asking
(02:16):
too many questions and the guards grow increasingly
suspicious, D Juan's carefully constructed world begins to
teeter on the brink of collapse.In a place where every
interaction is a calculated transaction and trust can be a
fatal mistake, a single misstep could bring everything he's
built crashing down around him. No tears for black girls.
(02:37):
Prison pimped by JC Reidberg. Chapter 1.
The monster's appetite. Prisoners write all sorts of
letters, threats, scams, declarations of love to people
who will never write back. Michael Little Mike Thompson's
letters are different. He writes each one as if it will
(02:58):
be his last. Hunched over the narrow metal
desk bolted to the cinder block wall, his hands tremble, the pen
clattering occasionally against the paper, leaving ragged
ballpoint trails that bleed intoeach line.
He writes by the glow of the overhead fluorescent, that
unforgiving light flattening theworld to grayscale, bringing
(03:19):
every imperfection to the surface.
The flecks of chipped black Polish on his fingernails, the
streaks of fuchsia lipsticks smeared with the heel of his
palm. His arms are littered with old
needle scars and newer bruises, a purple bloom visible at the
edge of his sleeve. He starts and stops the letter,
(03:40):
reading each word three times before moving to the next, like
he's afraid the paper will catchfire if he lies.
He addresses it to Carla, even though he's not sure if she's
still at the address or if she even gives a shit.
He writes. Carla, I'm sorry, I know you
hate me now. That's fine, I'd hate me too.
(04:02):
I keep thinking if I could explain what happened, it'd make
sense, but there's no sense to it, not really.
The old version of me that you once loved is dead.
He's been eaten by a monster. He stares at the last word,
monster, until the letters blur together and he starts to sweat.
He sets the pen down and cups his face in his hands, smearing
(04:25):
tears and makeup into a muddy camouflage.
He doesn't hear the rest of the cellblock, but he knows it's
there, a continuous background roar of masculine violence and
boredom. The overhead intercom squawks
and bursts, punctuated by the clank of doors and the distant
rhythmic thump of a basketball. Little Mike sits in the belly of
(04:47):
Phillips State Correctional, andevery night the walls close in a
little more. He feels it in the way the
concrete sweats even when the ACis blasting, and how the guards
call him Princess or she bitch with that practiced prison blend
of contempt and boredom. He should be used to it by now.
He's been on this tier for two years, ever since his father had
(05:10):
him transferred for his own good.
His father. The word has a taste, bitter as
bleach and just as caustic. He writes.
They put me in protective custody, said it was for my
safety, but everyone here knows what PC means.
They call it pussy camp. A sharp ache starts in his chest
(05:32):
and radiates out, quick and hot.He closes his eyes and the
memories rush in, as vivid as the ink bleeding from his pen.
First week at Phillips, before he learned the rules.
Commissary line, slow as syrup. He's got nothing to trade but a
battered deck of playing cards, and even those are marked with
(05:53):
an old blood stain on the ace ofspades.
OX, from F Wing, 6 1/2 feet, allshoulders and empty threats,
steps up behind him and grabs him by the back of the neck.
You got the pretty face. Bet you taste like candy.
He remembers the panic, the stench of O XS sweat and
(06:13):
discount Cologne, the involuntary freeze in his legs.
He remembers the snap in his skull when Ox slammed his face
against the bulletproof glass. Vernon Thompson, his own father,
coming down the tear. Later with his entourage, hands
tucked casual behind his back. The guards didn't even try to
intervene. Boys will be boys, they said.
(06:38):
He remembers what happened next,because it never really stopped
happening. Vernon rescuing him, dragging Ox
into the showers and putting theman's head through a tile wall.
The sick pride in his father's voice, the way he wiped the
blood from his son's lip with his thumb like it was a badge of
honor. See, you got to teach them,
(06:58):
Michael. You got to be the biggest,
baddest mother fucker, or else you're nothing.
He remembers Vernon's tough lovetalks, always alone, always in
the quietest corner of the block.
If anyone was going to take yourmanhood, it would be me.
Vernon would whisper, pinning his son's arms behind his back,
(07:20):
making Mike watch his own reflection in the black,
shatterproof glass of the showerstall.
That's the deal. That's what fathers do.
Little Mike blinks, and he's back at the desk, fists clench
so tight the pen snaps in half and blue ink seeps into his
palm. He breathes slow and shallow,
(07:42):
smears the ink across the page, turns it into a nervous doodle,
a swirl of spirals and shapes that won't mean anything to
Carla but mean everything to him.
He finishes the letter. If you never write back, I
understand. Just know I'm still alive for
now, and if they ever let me out, I'll come find you and
(08:03):
maybe we can start over. Or maybe you can just punch me
in the face and call it even. Love M.
He folds the letter, wipes his eyes, and seals it in a battered
envelope with Carla's last knownaddress.
In neat, perfect script, he slides it under the mattress
alongside a stack of other letters, Unsent, unmailed, maybe
(08:26):
unread. He stands and smooths his shirt,
fingers trembling as he tucks itin, careful to hide the bruise
at his collarbone. His reflection in the scratched
up stainless mirror is a study in contrasts.
Smeared lipstick, swollen jaw, ashimmer of defiance in his gaze
that no amount of prison time has managed to dull.
(08:48):
Footsteps echo up the corridor, slow and heavy.
Not the brisk click of a guard on rounds, but something more
deliberate. A shadow passes the frosted
window of his door, pauses just long enough to be seen.
It's time. Yard privileges.
Little Mike wipes the last streak of lipstick from his
(09:08):
mouth, squares his shoulders, and waits for the world to come
crashing in. The yard at Phillips State is
less a recreational facility andmore a living, breathing threat
assessment. Every race has its territory,
unspoken but rigidly enforced. The Aryans with their weight
bench and cigarette economy. The blacks orbiting the half
(09:31):
court like celestial bodies. The Latinos crammed into the
only shade, all eyes and muttered jokes.
Vernon Thompson strolls through it all like he's mayor of a city
built on violence and extortion.His two muscle bound satellites,
Rook and Juju, flank him, both fresh out of solitary and
itching for a reason. Vernon's shirt is always one
(09:53):
size too small, showing off the old fighters build, but his face
is all calm calculation. Little Mike trails three steps
behind, eyes fixed on the cracked pavement, careful not to
trip. There's a dark Halo on his jaw,
the gift of last night's lesson,and he wears it the way he wears
(10:13):
everything else. With a kind of practiced
resignation, Vernon's operation runs in plain sight.
He's the only man on the block with the stones to sell meth,
cigarettes and flesh at once, using his own son as both bait
and warning. Every Monday and Thursday, the
drop happens in the open, and the guards watch from the
(10:34):
towers, making notes for whoever's shift supervisor needs
a cut that week. Mike always hated the yard.
The sun is too bright, and the noise makes his skull vibrate.
Still, he prefers it to the dorms, where every shadow holds
a debt collector or a man with too many questions.
Today, the air is different. You can feel it in how the gangs
(10:57):
are watching not each other, butthe main gate.
Even the Aryans have stopped flexing their ringleader, Hawks
squinting through mirrored aviators like he's waiting on an
omen. When Dajuan Rivers steps into
the yard, the energy shifts. He's built like a sprinter, all
lean muscle and sharp cheekboneswith the kind of slow,
(11:20):
deliberate walk that makes you underestimate him.
He wears his prison Blues with aneatness that's almost
disrespectful, as if he's just visiting Gold.
Teeth flash when he smiles, but there's nothing funny about the
way he scans the crowd, reading,sorting, filing away every
threat and opportunity. Dajuan doesn't head to any
(11:42):
clique. Instead he cuts a slow orbit, a
calculated trespass through every group's invisible fence.
A ripple follows him, quiet at first, then a hiss of
speculation. Vernon watches this with the
interest of a man observing an exotic new animal.
That's Rivers, boy, he says to Juju, not bothering to lower his
(12:05):
voice. Heard he ran a whole block
upstate before they transferred him down here.
Juju grins, exposing a gold canine of his own.
He looked like he ran more than that.
Mike doesn't say anything, but he feels the animal tension
rise. It's always this way when a new
alpha arrives, especially one who doesn't bother to
(12:27):
acknowledge the old ones. Dejuan comes to a stop at the
far edge of the court, leans against the cyclone fence, and
waits. The sun hits him just right,
catching a lattice of scar tissue across his forearms.
He seems bored, but Mike can tell he's clocking every move
within a 50 foot radius. Vernon makes a production of
(12:51):
stretching his arms, then saunters over.
Rook and Juju keep their distance, which means Mike is
expected to follow. He does, keeping his posture
slouched and his gait exaggeratedly feminine the way
Vernon likes. As they cross the yard, eyes
lock onto them from every angle.There's always an audience for a
(13:11):
power play. Afternoon, Rivers.
Vernon says, flashing a smile that never reaches his eyes.
Dejuan glances over, cool and unblinking.
You got business just being neighborly?
Vernon puts his hands up, palms out.
Figured you might need the lay of the land.
It's different down here. I see that, Dejuan says.
(13:36):
His voice is calm, clipped, witha formal edge that's both
precise and mocking. Vernon laughs, but there's no
warmth. I run things.
Any questions, you come to me. Dejuan looks him up and down,
pausing just long enough to be insulting.
That right? That's right, Vernon says.
(13:56):
And for new arrivals, I like to offer a little welcome package.
Helps with the transition. Dewan's eyes flick to Mike, then
back to Vernon. I don't need anything you're
selling. A few of the bystanders snicker.
Hawk from the Aryans leans back on his bench, arms folded.
The black Cliques leader, a blocky man with future tattooed
(14:20):
across his neck, just grins. Vernon's face goes hard.
You'll come around, maybe? Dewan says, already turning
away. But don't ever send one of your
boys to my bunk, you won't get them back.
Mike feels the words as a blow, but he's more impressed than
scared the way Dejuan said it. Matter of fact, not a threat,
(14:44):
but a statement of cosmic law. Only someone who knows real
power talks like that. Vernon stands there, frozen for
a split second before flashing another smile and turning on his
heel. Let's go, Princess.
He snaps at Mike. Mike falls in behind, careful
not to meet anyone's eye. You don't survive here by being
(15:06):
the strongest, he thinks. You survive by being the
smartest. And Dejuan Rivers just changed
the equation. On the way back across the yard,
Mike dares a glance over his shoulder.
Dejuan is still there, watching,one hand pressed to the fence
like he owns it. Mike doesn't know if he should
be terrified or grateful. He settles for both.
(15:28):
Knight in Phillips State doesn'tbring quiet, It just trades one
kind of threat for another. The main lights click off at 11,
replaced by sickly yellow bulbs that buzz and flicker overhead.
Most of the block pretends to sleep, but everyone hears the
footsteps when they come, and everyone knows to keep their
eyes shut. Little Mike counts the seconds
(15:52):
from lights out. 612220 Like clockwork, Vernon's shadow fills
his door. Vernon doesn't speak at first.
He paces the small cell, hands behind his back like a drill
instructor waiting for a recruitto break.
He lets the tension do the work,let's Mike squirm in
(16:14):
anticipation. Finally, he stops at the foot of
the bunk. You made me look weak today, he
says. The words are soft, almost
gentle, but Mike knows better than to answer.
Vernon leans down until their faces are close.
I don't care what those mother fuckers think out there, but
(16:35):
you, you're mine, You never forget that.
The first blow comes low, a precise jab to the ribs that
knocks the breath out of Mike's lungs.
He double S over, clutching his side, but Vernon is already in
motion. 234 more shots, each placed with a surgeon's
accuracy. Never the face, never enough to
(16:57):
send him to the Infirmary, just enough to hurt.
Mike makes no sound, even when something cracks in a hot
electric pain radiates through his torso.
Vernon grabs a fistful of Mike'shair and hauls him upright.
If I ever see you looking at that Rivers kid again, I'll do
worse than this, you hear me? Mike nods, blinking back tears.
(17:21):
He tastes blood, metallic and sharp, blooming at the back of
his throat. Say it.
Vernon hisses. I hear you.
Vernon drops him, let's him collapse onto the concrete.
Good, because you keep forgetting your place and I
don't have time to keep reminding you.
(17:42):
He wipes his hands on his pants and walks out, never glancing
back. Mike stays curled on the floor,
waiting for the pain to subside.The cell hums with the
aftershock, every nerve ending lit up and screaming.
He focuses on his breath, countseach inhale and exhale, tries
not to think about how much worse it could get.
(18:05):
Eventually, he crawls to the tiny sink and splashes water on
his face. The mirror above is smaller than
a pack of cigarettes, warped andfogged at the edges, but it's
enough to see the truth. His jaw is intact.
The bruise from yesterday is deeper, pooling under the skin
like an oil slick. His left eye is watery but
(18:28):
clear. He lifts his shirt and traces
the constellation of fresh weltsand purple marks blossoming
across his ribs. He presses A trembling hand to
his side, hisses at the contact,then laughs.
A short, ugly sound. He wipes a smear of blood from
his lip and studies it, then wipes the rest from the corner
(18:50):
of his mouth. This is what love looks like, he
thinks. This is what it's always been.
He looks back at his reflection and bares his teeth.
Enough. He lowers his shirt, wipes the
sink clean, and sits at the desk.
He pulls out the letter to Carlaand slides it into the envelope,
(19:12):
sealing it with the last of his spit.
He stares at the door, listeningfor footsteps.
There are none. He knows what he has to do.
The next morning, the yard simmers with the sour smell of
sweat and sun baked resentment. The hierarchy is a living thing,
reshuffled overnight by rumor and bruised egos, but most of
(19:36):
the regulars pretend nothing haschanged.
Vernon holds court as usual, cracking jokes with Rook and
Juju while swapping envelopes with the white supremacists near
the fence. He's in a good mood, which means
the mood of everyone around him is 10° colder.
Mike keeps to the periphery, pretending to watch a pickup
(19:56):
basketball game while scanning for gaps in the routine.
His ribs still throb under the uniform, but the pain sharpens
his focus. Across the yard, Dejuan Rivers
stands at the same patch of fence, arms folded, head tilted,
like he's listening to a privateradio broadcast.
Nobody goes near him, not even the guards who only pretend to
(20:19):
patrol this far. When Vernon gets pulled aside by
one of the guards, Harmon, the one with the lazy eye and the
taste for meth, Mike sees his chance.
He walks the long way around, keeping his shoulders slouched
and his stride soft, making himself as invisible as
possible. The prisoners are so busy
(20:40):
watching each other, they don't notice a skinny kid in the
shadows. Daewon doesn't move until Mike
is 2 feet away, then, without turning, he says.
You got something to say, Princess?
Mike keeps his eyes on the ground, voice barely above a
whisper. I know who you are.
Your daddy's a cop. Dejuan's expression doesn't
(21:04):
change, but Mike sees the flicker in his eyes.
Curiosity, not surprise. And Vernon runs everything in
here. Mike says, fast and quiet.
Drugs, protection, pussy, if youwant it.
Got half the guards on payroll, the other half too scared to
cross him. Dejuan's lips curl in a smile.
(21:27):
You trying to sell me something?Mike shakes his head.
Not selling, Just want you to know who you're dealing with.
Dejuan steps off the fence, closes the distance until their
faces are inches apart. Mike smells the menthol on his
breath, sees the micro scars on his cheek.
(21:48):
Why you telling me? Mike's chest tightens.
He waits until a group of black inmates pass by, their laughter
masking the next words. Kill him.
Mike breathes and take everything he's built.
For a heartbeat, Dejuan says nothing.
Then he nods once, like he's confirming an appointment.
(22:11):
Not today, he says, but soon. Mike steps back, heart pounding
so hard it hurts. He slips into the crowd before
Vernon even notices he's missingthe rest of the yard.
Time passes in a blur. The only thing Mike remembers is
the look on Dejuan's face, a mirror reflection of his own
(22:31):
hunger and fear, sharper and deeper than anything he's ever
seen. He thinks of Carla, of the
letter hidden in his cell, of the small hope he's kept alive
all this time. Maybe this is what change feels
like. The visiting room at Phillips
State smells like vending machine coffee and old sweat,
(22:52):
overlaid with the vague Tang of despair.
The tables are bolted to the floor, painted the same shade of
Gray as the cinder block walls, and the glass partitions are
polished to a foggy Sheen. Mike sits in the back corner,
head down, blending into the churn of families and broken
lovers shouting through plexiglass.
(23:12):
His ribs still ache from last night's lesson, each breath a
reminder of Vernon's precision. At the far end of the room,
Dejuan Rivers perches on the edge of a metal chair, posture
perfect, eyes locked on the man across from him.
Lance Rivers is every inch the cop, even out of uniform shirt,
crisp hands folded, voice a low current of authority that cuts
(23:36):
through the visiting room chaos.Mike can't hear every word, but
he reads lips better than most. He catches fragments, network
distribution, favors owed, then clearer phrases inside.
Connections, guard rotations, money flow.
Lance never gestures, just leansin, making everything sound like
(23:59):
a chess move. Daewan doesn't flinch or blink,
but his jaw works tight, a muscle jumping under the skin.
Father and son, Mike thinks, butnot like Vernon and me.
This is business. Beyond the barred window, the
yard sprawls in a patchwork of brown and green.
(24:19):
Vernon is out there, stalking between clumps of prisoners,
always looking for the next weaklink.
Mike wonders if Vernon knows what's happening in this room,
if he can sense the shift coming.
Mike watches Daehuan, watching Lance.
He studies the angle of Daehuan's body, the set of his
shoulders, the way his fingers drum silent messages on the
(24:41):
tabletop. Mike knows the tells.
He's lived with men like this all his life, but where Vernon's
power comes from fear and brutality, Dejuan's feels
different, colder, more calculated.
Lance slides a folded sheet of paper across the table, along
with what looks like a small photograph.
(25:02):
Dejuan covers both with his palm, not breaking eye contact,
then tucks them into his waistband in one fluid motion.
Mike's heart jumps. He knows whatever is written on
that paper will ripple through the whole prison before lights
out. The photograph bothers him more.
Faces mean targets, and targets mean violence.
(25:23):
This is how it starts, he realizes.
Not with fists or shivs, but with information.
The guard signals time. Lance stands smooth and
unhurried, says something final that makes Dewan's eyes narrow.
Mike catches the last word. Soon.
Dewan nods once, then waits a full minute before getting up,
(25:46):
head bowed as he walks to the door.
When Daewan steps into the hall,he glances toward the corner
where Mike is sitting. Their eyes meet.
Daewan's gaze is cool, assessing, but for a second it
softens, and Mike feels an electric charge passed between
them, Understanding, or maybe warning.
(26:07):
He knows I was watching. He wanted me to watch through
the window. Vernon catches Dejuan's eye.
There's no threat in the look, only the promise of collision.
Vernon's smile is all teeth, thekind that means someone's about
to bleed. Mike watches the three of them,
each orbiting the same gravitational pull.
(26:29):
Lance disappearing into the freeworld with his secrets.
Dejuan walking back to his cell with his orders.
Vernon prowling the yard, unaware that his Kingdom is
already under siege. Mike touches his bruised ribs,
feels the tender spots where Vernon's knuckles found their
mark. Change is coming, he thinks.
(26:51):
The only question is whether I'll survive it.
He wonders who will be the firstto break.
He wonders if it even matters. In his pocket, Carla's letter
feels heavier than it should, like a promise he's not sure he
can keep. Thanks for tuning into this
exclusive No Tears for Black Girls episode.
(27:12):
If you want to dive deeper into JC Reedberg's gripping story,
head over to Amazon Kindle and grab your free digital copy of
No Tears for Black Girls Prison Pimped.
It's available at no cost for everyone until October 6th,
after which it'll be a Kindle exclusive.
Before we go, let's set the moodwith Profit Profits Prison
(27:35):
pimped a track straight off our upcoming No Tears for Black
Girls soundtrack dropping later this month.
Get ready to vibe with us on Spotify, Apple Music, YouTube,
and all your favorite streaming platforms.
Stay loved, stay blessed, and stay safe.
This is Samantha Paul. You born alone die alone.
(29:28):
Every tears a new year man. Everyone slides by.
Realize you never cry alone. This pain.
Missing baby girls first steps on graduation date phone calls,
getting short of family, drifting away Mama getting
older. Can't help with the rent can't
help 25 a life sentence. Wonder where the time went?
My lady stopped visiting. I know what that means.
I know when she lonely she horny.
Somebody's in between Christmas behind bars Holidays hurt the
(29:51):
most time. Watch grown men breakdown like
they seen a ghost. Some count, some count years on
the calendar count them. Some just count reasons why they
amateur so many collect calls. Expensive 15 minutes Max.
Expensive family moving forward while I'm stuck in the past.
Time moves different when you cage like a beast.
Different same routine daily. But somehow you deceased.
Time flies. You get prison pimp throw.
(30:18):
You pimp the system. Yeah, yeah.
Life on the cell block can causeyou death if you don't listen.
Listen, you get prison pimp, don't you?
Pimp the system. Profit.
Life on the cell block can causeyou death if you don't listen.
Real talk. Real.
(31:07):
Old school pimps, schooling young cats on the real how to do
your time without losing what you're feeling.
Real. Some fine God, some fine books
for the mind, some fine. Strengthen the pain.
Leave the past behind. Keep your soul intact.
That's how you beat the rest. Stay strong.
(31:29):
You get prison pimped or you pimp the system.
Life on the cellblock can cause you depth if you don't listen,
listen, listen. You get prison pimped or you
pimp the system. Profit, profit.
Life on the cellblock can cause you depth if you don't listen.
Real talk from the yard to the block.
(31:53):
Profit, profit, survive survivors and pimp the pimp the
system. I decided.
Real pimp with the wisdom. That's what I provide.
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