Blood in the Streets

The murderous violence that has recently gripped Opa-locka may have died along with its most infamous victim

On December 20, 1999, 37-year-old Tommy “Pookie” Bush, who had a history of drug charges, was shot and killed in front of 2196 Ali Baba Ave., in the Triangle. Again Trought's group was suspected. Then this past May 23, twenty-year-old Anthony Legget was shot in his new Chevy Impala after dropping off a friend at the Westview Terrace Apartments on NW 27th Avenue, just south of Opa-locka. Legget had no criminal history.

“I worried about him all the time,” says Legget's mother, Valerie Givens, from her home in the Triangle. “He had problems with those boys who came over from Carol City and took over. He told me a long time ago that they approached him. He was trying to stay away from them. I hate all this. I hate that it happened to my son.” (Though Trought and his minions are suspected in the deaths of Smith, Bush, and Legget, the victims' ties to Little D, if any, are unknown.)

“Itchy was making a big move in the area,” confirms Trought's acquaintance. But his ambitions to control the Triangle's drug trade were cut short at 12:51 p.m., May 25, in front of a Public Storage facility at 15760 NW 27th Ave., just north of Opa-locka. Trought and his two companions were there to move furniture, according to an affidavit filed by a Miami-Dade detective, when Quentin Williams drove up in a green Dodge Durango and rattled off nineteen shots from an AK-47. Twenty-six-year-old Trevor “Burlap” Clayton died at the scene. Eighteen-year-old Shondrick Johnson received a minor gunshot wound. Trought died at Jackson Memorial Hospital's trauma center later that afternoon.

At the eastern point of the Triangle, under the expansive canopy of a banyan tree, elderly men drink beer and play dominoes near a shuttered building that once housed a grocery store and restaurant owned by Rickey Brownlee. One of those men, whose street moniker is Greedy Man, ponders the convulsive violence that has rocked his neighborhood. He rubs a scruffy white beard and pushes back the straw hat on his head. Peeking out of his shirt pocket is a homemade crack pipe. “Why is there all that killing and shooting and kidnapping about the drugs and money?” he asks. “There's enough under-the-table money out there for everybody. It's ignorant and stupid.”

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