The neighborhood was a typical ghetto scene straight out of a movie. Trash-strewn streets. Scraggly weeds growing out of the cracked sidewalks. Boarded-up houses abandoned and forgotten. Everything tagged and retagged with graffiti like dogs pissing on the same wall. Harold paused for a moment, taking in the whole decadent scene with a breath of dry, dusty air before opening the door to his Toyota. The scorching Phoenix heat washed over him, beads of uneasy sweat forming along his brow.

Shit, he thought, What the hell am I doing here? His attention turned to the slum of apartments ahead and he straightened his posture in an effort to calm himself, testing the tape recorder he gripped tightly in his right hand.

"Testing. My name is Harold Parker. Iím an ASU journalism graduate applying for a position as a reporter at The Arizona Republic. This is my demo interview. The date is April 21. My subject -- interview of an ex-gang member who agreed to talk about the brief war in 1995 between South/Central gangs and police resulting from the Rudy Buchanon, Jr. shooting."

Harold walked into the neglected courtyard. A rusted metal gate hanging precariously on one hinge whined in the dry breeze that blasted past him like heat from an open oven. He continued to the last door at the end of the apartments on the bottom level, passing a group of young black hoods standing outside an apartment a few doors away. Haroldís pasty white skin turned whiter in their menacing stares as he walked by the group, keeping his eyes to the ground.

"What the fuck you doing here, cracker!" said one of their number to Harold. The men walked up behind him as he turned to face them, the antagonist among them shoving Harold hard to the ground. "You hear me, mutha fucka!"

"Guys! Wait a sec," Harold stammered, squirming to pick himself up off the filthy pavement. "Iím a reporter. Iím here to do an interview withÖ"

"Get off him, nigga!" boomed a deep, stern voice. A monster of a man wearing black shorts and a white tank top emerged from the group, pushing the others aside like Moses parting the Red Sea. The man reached down a thick, meaty hand, helping Harold to his feet. "Iím the one you looking for."

"Thanks, man. I thought I was done for," Harold said, brushing himself off. "So where do you wanna do this?"

"Lets go to my place," said the man, leading Harold into the apartment at the end. The man sat down on a dirty, tan-colored couch, motioning for Harold to grab a chair from the small table across the room cluttered with dishes and food.

"Sorry about the mess. Before I tell you about what went down in 95, you said I didnít have to say my name, right? I can do this shit anonymous."

"Sure. Thatís not a problem. Iím just glad you agreed to the interviewÖ thisís really gonna help me a lot." Harold smiled, situating the chair in front of the couch.

"Yeah, itís cool," the man said, returning the smile. He relaxed back into the couch, stretching his feet out onto a wobbly coffee table scarred by knicks. "My cousin said you and him were tight in college. When he told me you needed an interview to get you a job at the paper, I said bring the little nigga over."

Harold turned on the tape recorder, setting it on the coffee table.

"So, tell me what itís like being a gang-member in South Phoenix?"

The man looked surprised by Haroldís cliched question.

"Gangsta life in South Phoenix?"

"Yeah. Whatís it like?"

The man looked away, gazing out the cracked living room window sealed with packing tape.

"Man, itís all about do or die. Getting high. Watching your back twenty-four-seven or your numberís up. Either you smoke, or you get smoked, know what Iím saying. Ainít no other way about it. Itís a chess game, but one you play for keeps -- a game of survival."

"So why gang-bang if youíre just going to get killed?"

"Man, donít matter if you claim a set or not! Always some fool getting smoked in South Phoenix. Gangstaís getting smoked. Pigs getting smoked. Children getting smoked. Gangstaís smoking gangstaís. Pigs smoking gangstaís. Gangstaís smoking pigs. Children caught in the middle. Itís just a fact of life in the hood. An everyday thing. Shit goes down all over the city, but most happens in South Phoenix. Itís like thereís an invisible line makes everybody living south of it crazy. People north of the line turn a deaf ear because they donít know, donít wanna know, or donít care."

Harold leaned in closer.

"Tell me about Tyrone Walker and how he started the gang war last year in South Phoenix."

The man looked back to Harold.