We were all amped about Big’s 2nd album dropping. ‘Ready To Die’ was John Blaze, but it had been three years since it dropped. Biggie had done laced up all types of collabos, Jay-Z, Mary J. Blige, R. Kelly, enuff for him to maintain his crown as the King of NY. Plus that whole East/ West coast beef that resulted in rival Tupac Shakur’s death 6 months earlier, that shit was so thick that fans everywhere wanted to hear what, if anything, Big Poppa had to say. In my office, we were repping about 60% of the Hitmen producers that worked on the album, Deric Angelettie, Ron Lawrence, Nashien Myrick, Harve Pierre, plus Clark Kent had that “Sky’s The Limit” joint on it. We even repped songstress Kelly Price. My ties with Jay-Z, Damon Dash and Roc-a-ella Records had been freshly severed, fresh enough that we’d bumped into them whenever we dropped by Daddy’s House Recording Studio on the west side of Manhattan. Not that I stayed in the studio, that wasn’t my lane, but damn if it seemed like ‘Life After Death’ was being made by my operations. All the paperwork we did behind that sure felt like it. Still, most of us involved in that project in one way or another came up together, so it felt like we were all in one way or another family. Even DJ Premiere felt like he was an extended cousin.

D-Dot would stop by our office, showcasing his performance as the newly christened Madd Rapper. He was also amped about the new “Hypnotize” joint he and Ron produced, especially since it was the first single. I specifically remember him describing how the video shoot went, “they even got some mermaid bitches in a big ass fish tank swiming around!” Having the first single on Big’s joint was mos def reason to celebrate. And celebrate we did. Big was our New York representer, our Hip Hop ambassador, and being that he was the hottest rapper in the world, New York carried him like we do the Yankees. In the music industry, in New York, in our little and extended circle, we were having a great effin run.

I didn’t make it out to the Soul Train awards that year. My 1st son had  just been born three months earlier and I was getting accustomed to some of the sacrifices a family man has to make. I felt a kind of ways though, because EVERYONE I knew was headed out there. Even chicken head chicks that had no business being there flew out from all the five boroughs. Regardless, I had a ginormous sense of pride in knowing that my name would be listed in Big’s album liner notes. For all the behind the scenes work we did. That was reward enough. The evening of March 8th, my wife and I decided to sleep over at her parents home in Brooklyn. Their space was bigger and mad comfortable. We had an uneventful night and went to sleep early. Around 7am the next day, my father in law knocked on our door. He was always a music man, him being a record producer, plus he loved to keep up on everything current. He was also a major reason why I was able to land a law office in Midtown. When I answered, he said “they killed Biggie last night. It’s all over the radio. Hot 97, 1010 Wins, everywhere.”

“No way” I thought. I was kinda sleepy, so maybe I didn’t hear it right. Or maybe my father in law got it wrong. Still, when I came downstairs and looked at the papers, it was all there. On the radio too. Instantly the numbness hit. Like I couldn’t feel anything about anything. Like no matter how hard we worked, or how much we were producing good music, or how fun them parties was, in the end, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered when cats could swiftly take away Christopher Wallace’s life like that. From here on, it felt like we were all going through the motions. The week that followed was rough. The stories we were hearing from 1st hand eye witnesses. The number of gunshots heard, how the assailant’s car sped off, the confusion, the rush to the hospital, the blood, all that. Too much. Contracts still needed to be signed, meetings had to be taken. Bad Boy had just received their shipment of “Life After Death” cds. I went to the office to pick up my copy. The album was dope, but the intro, with Puff talking about Big’s death so soon after it became a reality was too much. Numb. We were all zombies. I remember having a meeting with Clark Kent at Chris Lighty’s Violator offices, and running into Busta Rhymes. Busta and Clark talking about how they were done with this music shit. How the rumors started circulating about how Puff most definitely was done with this shit. We had signed an act, a 13 year old kid named Jerome Childers to Bad Boy. My partner was actually the production company. We wanted to know what the future was with our deal. We spoke to Puff maybe 5 days after March 9th. On the phone. Dude sounded so lost, empty. “For now, ya’ll gonna have to make all the decisions, take the project where ever you want. I can’t deal with this right now.” We understood.

My office got the package. Invites to Big’s funeral. As a send off the Frank White, those invites were the hottest tickets to New York’s biggest party. It ain’t change. Yeah, we was all fucked up, and literally, the music stopped. They killed the music that was coming out of New York. But old habits die hard. And one of Puff’s worst habits was throwing parties. scheduled nine days after his death, March 18th, the ceremony was to be held at the posh Upper East sideFrank E. Campbell Funeral Chapel. I got there early, because if you ever attended any of Puff’s parties, you knew it was going to be a zoo. The streets were blocked off, like there was going to be a parade. After I found a seat, the place started filling up with all types of family, friends and stars. Dame Dash and Jay rolled through and we cooly acknowledged each other, because of how we had recently stopped doing business with each other. The newest member of the Bad Boy team Ma$e was tearing up crazy, the Lox stood stone faced, stoic. Ms. Wallace sat center stage, right in front of Big’s casket, Puff by her side. Puff’s eyes said it all, dude was lonely, confused, hurt, mostly he looked lost. Like he didn’t recognize any of the many faces that came to pay their respect. And Faith, sitting proud, focused, like a soldier’s widow.

Then the show began, they played that “We’ll Always Love Big Poppa” song by The Lox. It was dope, the best of the best as a show business funeral. And I’m thinking “how the hell could anyone even record anything right after Big’s death?” The reverend did his thing, followed by 112 singing a parting song. Classy, sad, but entertaining. Charli Baltimore was in the house, and cats were letting their imaginations runs as to Big’s love life. That’s when Lil Kim shut the place down. She walked in with her road dog Mary J. Blige by her side, and the closer they got to the casket, the louder she got. You know how at some cat’s funerals, how there might be a side chick who out mourns wife and kids put together? That was Kim. Loud, sobbing, wailing, falling. Not judging whether it was an act or not, whether it was real love between them, but Kim let everyone in the room know that she was the Queen Bitch.

That’s me, Mary J. Blige and Lil Kim

When it was all over, the crowd outside turned into a mob. Big’s funeral was an incredible show, but when it was all over, we were back to feeling empty. I headed straight back to my office, to try and get back to my game plan, and to try and dig through some more of them contracts. The party was officially over. I kept the television in my office on at all times, either on CNN, NY 1 News or MTV. This was before the Internets, and this was how I stayed on top of things. As the day progressed, news hit that Big’s funeral procession made a detour to drive through his Bed Stuy St. James block as a gesture to his oldest fans to pay their respect. It was soon reported that the procession erupted into a full blown block party, “Hypnotize” being blasted from street speakers. Biggie went out with his neighborhood giving him the best possible send off a rapper could ever want.

As bad as all this was, the cat who seemed to have it the worst during the day Biggie died was former street cat turned record exec, and all around good cat Don Pooh. Pooh was a hustler who landed newcomer Foxy Brown as his management client. Pooh flew out to LA to attend the Soul Train Awards. That day, he was on his way to pick up his tickets to the event. Crossing the streets like a typical Brooklyn cat does, he was naturally run over by an LA driver. Pooh was hurt badly. Seemed like the big dude broke every other bone in his body. Banged up, hospitalized, he was laid up in a hospital bed, unable to peep the festivities. After he learned about the Big incident, unlike most New Yorkers who got the messae and flew outta dodge, knowing there was limited or no love for New York, Pooh was in no condition to leave the hospital, let alone fly a 4 hour plane ride back to the east coast. Like a P.O.W. trapped behind enemy lines, Pooh was forced to stay in Los Angeles for roughly 3 months. When I finally saw hin in New York months later, still on cructches, banged, bandaged and hobbled up, we talked. I asked him how was it out there for all them months. He told me it was the lonliest, scariest, most painful three month of his life. “The worst trip I ever took.”

13 years later, today, the music lives on. Puff got back on his feet, and Jay took the crown.  13 years later, I’m saying we’ll still always love Big Poppa. R.I.P. Christopher Wallace.

And fuck them cowards that killed him in cold blood.