Stop Snitchin’

Still, their bullets hurt just as much as those in Philly or D.C. "A lot of people here think, 'This is Akron — we don't have a gang problem here,'" Zimmerman says. "Oh yes, we do. I deal with it."

Since 1999, when Ohio passed its anti-gang law, Akron has knocked out over 100 convictions for gang activity. Members are usually picked up for trafficking, break-ins, and assault, and V-Not dominates that list.

As 200 kids danced to Yung Joc and Juelz Santana at The Cage that night, Feaster and his crew surveyed the room for rivals — namely the Hilltoppers, who claim the string of barbershops, liquor stores, and barbecue joints along Copley Road as their home.

For months, the two groups had been feuding. They'd meet at parties and high-school basketball games to throw up gang signs, fight, and occasionally start shooting.

"They usually just shoot each other in the legs," Zimmerman says. "We don't know why they have a beef. They just do. It's a territory thing, most likely."

That night at The Cage, each gang made it clear through pubescent bravado that if the other didn't step off, there would be trouble. And there was.

As people began to throw punches, the room turned into chaos. The owners intervened and kicked everyone out.

Kids flooded into the parking lot. More fights erupted. As the Hilltoppers whaled on V-Not, Feaster and his guys knew it was time to make one thing clear — no one fucks with the Valley.

A V-Not associate would later testify that Feaster and at least two other V-Nots ran to the dumpster, where they'd hidden their guns. Shots rang out. Kids ran for cover.

After firing at least 15 rounds into the crowd, according to court records, Feaster and his guys ran across the street to the Board of Education parking lot. Among them was Earl Davis, a lanky 15-year-old, who seemed to equate blasting away at an innocent crowd with manhood. "You can't say I don't bust," Davis said before slipping his gun into his pants, according to court records.

As sirens wailed in the background, Davis' uncle Timmy arrived. He drove the boys back to Manchester Road, where they crashed at a V-Not hangout, playing video games before falling asleep.

Days later, Feaster got word that Shawrica Lester was dead. Two recklessly fired bullets had lodged in her back as she ran to her car. She died before she reached the hospital.

The news must have stung. Feaster knew Shawrica. The Lesters lived in the heart of V-Not territory. The two kids attended Buchtel High School together. The following week, he attended her funeral with other V-Not members.

Meanwhile, police collected bullet fragments from three different guns. They also tracked down dozens of kids who were in the crowd that night. "We jumped on this in the first 48 hours," says Detective Darrell Parnell. "At first, people were very emotional, and we got a flood of information."

Several witnesses saw Feaster firing into the crowd.

On the morning of February 11, police caught Feaster on Manchester Road after a brief foot chase. He was charged with murder, aggravated rioting, felonious assault, and participating in gang activity.

The following day, he appeared before Judge Linda Tucci Teodosio to deny all charges. "The Lester family has our deepest sympathies," said his lawyer, Jane DeLoach. "He's just sick to his stomach. He can't eat. He can't sleep. This whole thing has torn him up."

But his regret was short-lived. As prosecutors began to build their case, V-Not worked just as hard to dismantle it. Police still didn't have the murder weapons, the gang knew, so a case could be made only with solid witnesses.

Members began hanging "Stop Snitching" T-shirts on street signs. They jumped on MySpace, sending out messages that anyone caught helping the police would be killed. They even knocked on Sandra Lester's door, requesting a donation for Feaster's defense fund.

One by one, witnesses fell silent. "A lot of people probably thought, 'Well, if they killed Tuna, why couldn't they come after me?'" says Sandra Lester.

Detective Parnell expected such obstacles. During his decade in homicide, he's seen the power of Akron's no-snitching law.