muscular body into a modified lotus position, closed his eyes, and listened to his own heartbeat. He concentrated solely on its rhythm until the space between beats grew remarkably wide, and his breathing was shallow enough to be imperceptible. He pushed out thoughts of anger and self-pity, and wrestled with the self-awareness that caused him to both love and loathe himself. Finally reaching a more peaceful state, John thought about all the people he loved in his life. There were exactly two—his wife and his daughter. Prior to meeting his wife, Anh Nguyen, he had no familiarity with either love or fear, and the sudden appearance of both disrupted his core beliefs. Love and fear threatened his way of life. They made him vulnerable in ways that could get him killed, and he felt love, in particular, weakening him every day. It must be love, he thought, “because it brings a lot of pain.” His mind didn’t land on the notion that love brings a lot of happiness. There’s far too much conflict and guilt and rising thoughts of violence associated with love for it to ever offer John the false hope of pure joy. Love was far more likely to fuel his rage.
“Somebody hit my wife one time in a nightclub,” John recalled. “I was in New York, and somebody called me and told me. They’ve never seen that guy again. And nobody ever will. He shouldn’t have put his hands on her. The fact of the matter is the guy will never, ever do that again. Whoever knew about it, or was involved in it, they were getting whatever he was getting. When it comes to my wife, I’m not arguing. I don’t have a problem with taking out five or six guys just to get to the right one. Then it’s over. And I sleep a little better.”
The memory of having done the right thing helped John relax. He continued rubbing his thumb and forefinger gently, smoothly, and continuously for nearly an hour, and he thought only about his wife and daughter.
“May they be well, happy, and peaceful,” he said over and over.
John was so entranced by his meditative state, so singularly focused on his purpose, that he was able to achieve a serenity that stood in stark contrast to his surroundings. John Willis was quietly celebrating his forty-second birthday in jail. He would certainly celebrate his forty-third, and there could be as many as eighteen birthdays after that spent behind bars.
Before rising from the floor, John took a moment to recognize the circuitous nature of his life’s journey. Sitting on the cold jail floor, alone and praying, was notably similar to when John was fifteen years old and convinced he would die on his kitchen floor. He was cold, hungry, and alone then, too.
“I wasn’t looking to do anything other than survive as a kid,” John says. “I went from surviving to basically taking everything I wanted. The way I look at it, there’s a lot taken for granted in this country. You go home, you shut your door, you’re inside, you have heat, you eat food, and you live there. But what happens when I’m a kid and my mom dies? There’s no more food, there’s no more heat. Now there’s a need to survive. I wanted to actually make something of my life. In the beginning, I was angry at the world, very angry that my mother had passed away and I was in a situation with no money. No nothing. I didn’t have family, because my sisters were caught up in drugs. I was basically taken in by a family who was Chinese. I grew up just a whole different species than what was around me. I found myself in a society that didn’t trust anybody, never mind somebody white, somebody American. And then to be given duty, honor, and respect—to me that was something I cherished, and to this day I do.”
What John offers there is a stripped-down summary of his life that attempts to explain why he chose an amoral, greedy, and violent path, but never broaches why he rejected an infinite number of alternate routes. His circumstances, dire as they were, taught him lessons that some would affirm and others would renounce. But from the time he was a boy, John Willis was convinced he knew what it meant to be a man. He was taught that a man is a soldier. And nothing more.
Willis didn’t fight on a traditional battlefield. He fought in the streets, and the enemy was constantly changing. Willis’ enemies were from rival gangs or the local police. Both were out to get him. There were the businessmen he robbed, and the victims he bludgeoned. All sought vengeance. There were prostitutes and gamblers, drug dealers and drug users, and countless others who would have loved to see John Willis taken down or taken out. But Willis survived it all. And what’s the point of surviving, if you’re not going to live a little? That’s why, despite his own best advice and against his own self-interest, he bought a Porsche, a Bentley, and a multimillion-dollar home. Those purchases were self-destructive, but they made him feel good. He knew the police took notice of a gangster flashing lots of cash, but like an addict, Willis needed to feel good, if only temporarily. Those purchases were not only his drug; they were evidence of his righteous pursuits. He was winning the war, so God must be on his side.
“I believe that God loves me,” Willis says with conviction, but anticipates his faith may be met with doubt, and adds, “You might say, ‘How could God love me?’ Well, if he doesn’t love me, he doesn’t give me anything. Some people he puts to the test. I’m all about the test. I really do think God loves me, and I love people. I’m not a monster. I love people, and I have a value for each and every person. But I also believe if you’re a person deserving of what you get, that’s what you get. That’s how it goes.”
And in John Willis’ world, he decides what a person deserves. For instance, the man in the Chinese restaurant who once brazenly told John to “shut the fuck up” deserved to be struck with an open hand and hit over the head with a Glock pistol. So, John did those things.
“And then I stuck the gun in his eye,” John continues. “He’s bleeding. People are looking at me and they’re scared. They took the guy into the bathroom and cleaned him up. For me it was nothing. He was no one. I turned, and had a drink with everybody. I thank God the man left, because I might have gone back in the alley and shot him. When I go back to the bar, I’m not shaking. I’m thinking—where do I want this to go? Did I go too far, or did I not go far enough?”
Such is the mentality of a street soldier. John is convinced now more than ever that a man fights every day for his own survival. A man is a self-centered creature who recognizes that contentment, like true happiness, is not only unattainable; it is the foolish pursuit of the embattled and desperate losers of the war. John Willis is a man. He lives these principles unwaveringly. He is a soldier who believes he is fighting the good fight, and that he is winning the war. Shedding his white skin, adopting a culture he was not born into, and surviving into his forties is proof of that, and surviving remains the greatest accomplishment of the man his enemies call the White Devil.
JOHN WILLIS was born May 11, 1971, at Boston City Hospital. He was brought home to a three-family house at 37 South Munroe Terrace in Dorchester. His father, an ex-con who worked as a carpenter, was a large, angry man who drank too much and beat his wife, Francine. When he ultimately ran afoul of the Irish Mob, he escaped to an Indian reservation in the mountains of South Carolina. It was better for everyone that he left, but John, who was only three years old at the time, grew to hate a father he never really knew.
So, John was raised by his mother, Francine, and her three much older children from a previous marriage. John’s brother, Richie, who owned the home and lived on the second floor with his wife and three daughters, took on paternal responsibilities. He helped with the bills and administered strict discipline. Richie was a hardworking man who built a successful carpet business. He had two passions: fishing on his large boat, and drugs. John says Richie did a line of cocaine every night when he came home from work.
John’s last memory of his brother is when Richie forcefully threw him down the stairs.
“I wish you were dead!” John cried out.
Two days later, Richie died of a heart attack brought on by his cocaine addiction. He was thirty-four years old.
“That
