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LIL WAYNE MOMENT FOR LIFE HOW TO
“I don’t know how to drive it yet,” says Wayne. Docked out back, under the palm trees, there’s also a speedboat. G, stands at attention next to the Prius he drives when he’s not on duty. (He’s bad with dates.) In the garage are a Rolls-Royce, a Bugatti Veyron and a different Maybach - the one his label bought him when his 2008 album - Tha Carter III - went platinum in a week. Wayne lives here, down the road from Billy Joel, in a $14 million modernist mansion he’s pretty sure he bought sometime in 2009. This island is called La Gorce - “a hidden oasis in the middle of Miami Beach,” in the words of the realtors. Six weeks later, Wayne is on another island, guarded by another gate.
LIL WAYNE MOMENT FOR LIFE FREE
For the first time in 242 days, Lil Wayne is a free man. But for now, as the doors roll shut and lock behind him, all he can think is that he made it. He’ll spend the afternoon getting his braids done and playing with his family, then board the private plane that will take him back home. From here, it will whisk him into Manhattan and back to his luxury midtown hotel suite, where he’ll hug his kids, smoke a celebratory cigar, and take a long, hot shower. The Maybach eases back out of the gate, trailed by an unmarked Department of Corrections van flashing red and blue. He’s nine or 10 pounds heavier, filled out by eight months of jailhouse push-ups he looks tired, even a little shellshocked.
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By now, he’s already changed out of his state-issued green work suit and back into civvies: a long-sleeved white T-shirt, a white hat, Vans. A Maybach peels off from the pack and drives inside to collect its cargo.
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His mom is in one car the man he calls his daddy is in another. Ten blacked-out SUVs (“Like we were picking up the president,” says his manager) moving with paramilitary precision. “What do you wanna wait for that jerk-off for, anyway? Go home!”Īs three turns to four turns to five to six, even the die-hards decide to call it a night, so there’s pretty much no one left when the convoy finally rolls up around 8 a.m. The burly corrections officer patrolling the parking lot is having none of it. Another says that’s bullshit, the cops are just saying that so everyone will leave. One guy says he heard he lost a day of “good time” and won’t get out until tomorrow. He was supposed to get out at midnight, so at this point, they’ve been here a few hours - checking their Twitter feeds, trading rumors. I got my own plane.”)Īt the far end of the bridge, outside the gate, they’re staked out, waiting. “Man, I bet you can’t wait to get on that plane, right?” another inmate said to him. (Later, he’ll love telling the story about the time they were all out in the yard and a jet took off overhead, on course, no doubt, to some barbed-wire-less tropical paradise. Across the bay, the red runway lights of LaGuardia Airport are blinking like a taunt. In the distance is the Manhattan skyline, the Empire State Building all glowing and white. “Hey, man - you got a cigarette?” whispers one. Outside, two inmates are sweeping up trash near the barbed-wire fence, shivering in their orange jumpsuits. The sky is black there’s a light rain falling. Presiding over the scene is a blue-uniformed guard, a warning hanging from his Plexiglas partition: no firearms, ammunition, knives, drugs, alcoholic beverages or recording devices permitted on Rikers Island. There’s a rusty old vending machine against one wall, and along the other, a bank of blue plastic chairs where wives and mothers wait for their men to be released, watching Oprah reruns in shared silence. Broken pay phone, roachy floors, harsh fluorescent lights. The processing room at the New York City Correctional Institution for Men is about as depressing as you’d expect.