Judge Seamus McCaffery shows up about 10 minutes late for court.
Beanie Sigel arrives 20 minutes after that.
The rapper emerges unceremoniously from a cab at 1100 Wharton St., wearing shades, a gold medallion on his chest, baggy jean shorts and a long white T-shirt.
His mother and two friends greet him with hugs, then lead him up the courthouse steps. Sigel jogs a little at first, bouncing lightly on his feet, like a boxer being ushered into the ring, and buries his face in his friend's back to duck a photographer.
His sharp cornrows turned up to the sun, Beanie Sigel, the platinum-selling rap star, starts disassembling himself.
First, in the hallway before the courtroom door, Sigel takes off his sunglasses, which he clips to his shorts, and his gold chain, which he hands to his mother. Once inside the courtroom, he slumps down in the last row, the back of his head resting against the wooden doorframe. There, his mother, Michelle Brown, spots his shades and takes those, too.
After waiting for about five minutes, Sigel starts to nod off--his eyes close, his head tilts back sharply, his mouth opens slowly with the onset of sleep. Almost immediately, his mother gently nudges him awake. A few heavy-lidded minutes later the clerk calls his name.
Then, as he reaches the bar--as if more proof is needed that he isn't much for courtrooms--his cell phone rings, blaring a discordant series of notes more rhythm than tune. The phone sparks an inadvertently comic performance. A shrill sound emanating from his pants, Sigel stands rigidly, respectfully, his hands folded at his waist. He makes no move to either answer the phone or shut it off, though it rings loudly enough to drown out the judge's voice.
Finally, at the clerk's behest, he reaches deep into the pocket of his long, baggy jeans and--with a sudden flick of his wrist--kills the music.
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In these few confused seconds, Beanie Sigel--the rapper who has won hearts, minds and dollars with his talent--is finally eclipsed, and Dwight Grant, the young man who may prove ill-equipped to enjoy these spoils, flickers into view.
Grant is a South Philly kid who blew up big and struck hip-hop gold, who took his rap name from Sigel Street--the street where he grew up.
Having two names bestows advantages: No doubt the colorful name Beanie Sigel better matches the weighty stares he casts from album covers, magazine racks and music videos. But it has other, probably unintended benefits.
Beanie Sigel puts out music. Dwight Grant gets hauled off in cuffs by cops.
Though Sigel's assault arrest in July 2001 drew headlines, until now his latest run-ins with the law have gone unreported--probably because his name went unrecognized on the police blotter. That's both understandable and surprising--mainly because, for those of you who've been living under a pretzel cart, the biggie-sized rapper has become one of hip-hop's leading heavyweights.
Beanie Sigel's been on a professional roll for almost five years now. He got signed to the mighty Roc-A-Fella music label without going through the usual demo-tape, open-mike-night hustle, and he scored hefty sales numbers despite making brutally uncompromising music.
His gangsta rap debut, The Truth, and its follow-up, The Reason, firmly established Sigel's star. With some of his power he reached back into North Philly to give a boost to the rapper Freeway, whose own debut bowed at No. 5 on the Billboard charts this past February. Sigel even started a film career with the decidedly urban flick State Property, now a semi-legendary slice of gangsta ultra-violence.
He's got the status symbols--the gold, the cars, the cash, the Gucci shades, the cell phone with the customized ring. The whip-wired, bomb blast, gut-grinding beats of his music resound in his whole look. And when he returns home to South Philly, the people there either embrace him as a hero or get the hell out of his way.
A walk down Sigel Street last week turned up numerous people who were afraid to give their names--and afraid of Beanie Sigel. That's because, along his road to glory, the hip-hopper's accumulated a growing list of arrests, including two cases that remain unresolved.
The preliminary hearing Sigel showed up late for last Thursday revolves around the kind of late-night escapade he raps about. A pair of patrol cops spotted him a little after 2 a.m. on April 20 in the 1600 block of South 22nd Street in a car without a yellow registration sticker.
They signaled him to pull over, and Sigel allegedly hit the gas, leading police on a three-block car chase that turned into a foot pursuit when the heavyset rapper stopped the car and started running. The cops caught up with their man as he banged on the door of a house in the 1800 block of South 20th Street. Precisely how he thought the home's occupant could help him remains a mystery, but the police claim Sigel ditched a holstered .45-caliber Mauser handgun along the path of his attempted flight to freedom.
In true gangsta style, there were nine bullets in the gun, with one round already chambered. And the police also recovered the makings of a mighty fine party: two 16-ounce bottles of codeine cough medicine, a dime bag of pot, 22 Xanax pills, 21 Percocets and 10 unknown white pills. That's a lot of magic beans. But to make matters worse, the handgun turned up stolen from a private residence in Coatesville, so the charges against Sigel ballooned: possession of narcotics with intent to distribute, evading arrest, receiving stolen property and carrying a firearm without a license.
The gun charges are easily the most serious, with a possible penalty of 18 months in jail for Sigel if he's convicted. But that's just the start.
What those particular patrol cops didn't know was that Beanie Sigel was already wanted--on his third assault charge in four years.
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It is alleged in court documents that this past January, on the 1800 block of Wingohocking Avenue, a man named Wendell Mathis stood on the corner chatting up a young woman.
A burgundy Cadillac Escalade rolled slowly in front of them, and Beanie Sigel poked his head out the window.
"What's up, ho?" he said, evidently trying to woo the lady with his raffish charm.
"Why do you have to disrespect her?" Mathis replied.
At this, the car stopped and Beanie Sigel emerged, poking his nose into Mathis' personal space.
"Do you know who I am?" Sigel asked.
"Yeah," Mathis responded. "Beanie Sigel."
At 5 feet 10 inches and 260 pounds, Sigel's Big Mac measurements might not garner much response in a singles ad, but his pillow-soft frame bears about three tons of whupass. Standing out in the street, he's not the same man who needs to be disassembled and guided carefully through the vagaries of court--not the same man who doesn't know what to do with a ringing cell phone.
Beanie Sigel arrives 20 minutes after that.
The rapper emerges unceremoniously from a cab at 1100 Wharton St., wearing shades, a gold medallion on his chest, baggy jean shorts and a long white T-shirt.
His mother and two friends greet him with hugs, then lead him up the courthouse steps. Sigel jogs a little at first, bouncing lightly on his feet, like a boxer being ushered into the ring, and buries his face in his friend's back to duck a photographer.
His sharp cornrows turned up to the sun, Beanie Sigel, the platinum-selling rap star, starts disassembling himself.
First, in the hallway before the courtroom door, Sigel takes off his sunglasses, which he clips to his shorts, and his gold chain, which he hands to his mother. Once inside the courtroom, he slumps down in the last row, the back of his head resting against the wooden doorframe. There, his mother, Michelle Brown, spots his shades and takes those, too.
After waiting for about five minutes, Sigel starts to nod off--his eyes close, his head tilts back sharply, his mouth opens slowly with the onset of sleep. Almost immediately, his mother gently nudges him awake. A few heavy-lidded minutes later the clerk calls his name.
Then, as he reaches the bar--as if more proof is needed that he isn't much for courtrooms--his cell phone rings, blaring a discordant series of notes more rhythm than tune. The phone sparks an inadvertently comic performance. A shrill sound emanating from his pants, Sigel stands rigidly, respectfully, his hands folded at his waist. He makes no move to either answer the phone or shut it off, though it rings loudly enough to drown out the judge's voice.
Finally, at the clerk's behest, he reaches deep into the pocket of his long, baggy jeans and--with a sudden flick of his wrist--kills the music.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In these few confused seconds, Beanie Sigel--the rapper who has won hearts, minds and dollars with his talent--is finally eclipsed, and Dwight Grant, the young man who may prove ill-equipped to enjoy these spoils, flickers into view.
Grant is a South Philly kid who blew up big and struck hip-hop gold, who took his rap name from Sigel Street--the street where he grew up.
Having two names bestows advantages: No doubt the colorful name Beanie Sigel better matches the weighty stares he casts from album covers, magazine racks and music videos. But it has other, probably unintended benefits.
Beanie Sigel puts out music. Dwight Grant gets hauled off in cuffs by cops.
Though Sigel's assault arrest in July 2001 drew headlines, until now his latest run-ins with the law have gone unreported--probably because his name went unrecognized on the police blotter. That's both understandable and surprising--mainly because, for those of you who've been living under a pretzel cart, the biggie-sized rapper has become one of hip-hop's leading heavyweights.
Beanie Sigel's been on a professional roll for almost five years now. He got signed to the mighty Roc-A-Fella music label without going through the usual demo-tape, open-mike-night hustle, and he scored hefty sales numbers despite making brutally uncompromising music.
His gangsta rap debut, The Truth, and its follow-up, The Reason, firmly established Sigel's star. With some of his power he reached back into North Philly to give a boost to the rapper Freeway, whose own debut bowed at No. 5 on the Billboard charts this past February. Sigel even started a film career with the decidedly urban flick State Property, now a semi-legendary slice of gangsta ultra-violence.
He's got the status symbols--the gold, the cars, the cash, the Gucci shades, the cell phone with the customized ring. The whip-wired, bomb blast, gut-grinding beats of his music resound in his whole look. And when he returns home to South Philly, the people there either embrace him as a hero or get the hell out of his way.
A walk down Sigel Street last week turned up numerous people who were afraid to give their names--and afraid of Beanie Sigel. That's because, along his road to glory, the hip-hopper's accumulated a growing list of arrests, including two cases that remain unresolved.
The preliminary hearing Sigel showed up late for last Thursday revolves around the kind of late-night escapade he raps about. A pair of patrol cops spotted him a little after 2 a.m. on April 20 in the 1600 block of South 22nd Street in a car without a yellow registration sticker.
They signaled him to pull over, and Sigel allegedly hit the gas, leading police on a three-block car chase that turned into a foot pursuit when the heavyset rapper stopped the car and started running. The cops caught up with their man as he banged on the door of a house in the 1800 block of South 20th Street. Precisely how he thought the home's occupant could help him remains a mystery, but the police claim Sigel ditched a holstered .45-caliber Mauser handgun along the path of his attempted flight to freedom.
In true gangsta style, there were nine bullets in the gun, with one round already chambered. And the police also recovered the makings of a mighty fine party: two 16-ounce bottles of codeine cough medicine, a dime bag of pot, 22 Xanax pills, 21 Percocets and 10 unknown white pills. That's a lot of magic beans. But to make matters worse, the handgun turned up stolen from a private residence in Coatesville, so the charges against Sigel ballooned: possession of narcotics with intent to distribute, evading arrest, receiving stolen property and carrying a firearm without a license.
The gun charges are easily the most serious, with a possible penalty of 18 months in jail for Sigel if he's convicted. But that's just the start.
What those particular patrol cops didn't know was that Beanie Sigel was already wanted--on his third assault charge in four years.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It is alleged in court documents that this past January, on the 1800 block of Wingohocking Avenue, a man named Wendell Mathis stood on the corner chatting up a young woman.
A burgundy Cadillac Escalade rolled slowly in front of them, and Beanie Sigel poked his head out the window.
"What's up, ho?" he said, evidently trying to woo the lady with his raffish charm.
"Why do you have to disrespect her?" Mathis replied.
At this, the car stopped and Beanie Sigel emerged, poking his nose into Mathis' personal space.
"Do you know who I am?" Sigel asked.
"Yeah," Mathis responded. "Beanie Sigel."
At 5 feet 10 inches and 260 pounds, Sigel's Big Mac measurements might not garner much response in a singles ad, but his pillow-soft frame bears about three tons of whupass. Standing out in the street, he's not the same man who needs to be disassembled and guided carefully through the vagaries of court--not the same man who doesn't know what to do with a ringing cell phone.
