Who Is White John?

White John was the kind of kid who thought rules were just speed bumps. He started small—100 grams, one border crossing, and a cocky smirk. “Who’d suspect me?” he laughed. Turns out: the DEA.

Busted in Laredo, he turned that courtroom into open mic night. No remorse, just big promises: “This ain’t my final act.” And it wasn’t. Ten years in FCI Three Rivers turned him from punk to planner.

Inside, he learned from the real players—guys who ran pipelines instead of pickup trucks. By year three, he had a notebook full of names, routes, and ideas “for later.” By year five, folks stopped calling him dumb and started calling him dangerous.

Now he’s eight years deep, running poker tables and trading ramen for loyalty. He still talks about “when I get out,” like he’s planning a business launch, not a federal reentry.

Legacy

White John ain’t dead. He’s just… buffering.

There’s a fresh tattoo on his arm that says “Next Time, No Witnesses.” There’s a busted payphone in the yard where he whispers to ghosts of old deals. And there’s always some young fool in the cell next door, asking, “Yo, you really ran ten keys solo?”

He just grins. “Boy, I taught the route.”

White John lives. Not free, but never quiet. And when the gate opens—God help whoever’s standing on the other side.

Bo still checks in on him sometimes – never brings a file, just stories from back home.
Rev Diesel once sent him a wrench soaked in oil and scripture, no note attached. John keeps it under his pillow like a relic. He heard Bubba’s name on the prison radio once – laughed so hard he got written up.
“If that bastard’s still loose,” he said, “there’s hope for me yet.”