Yo what's good to the evil streets family, y'all already know we back at it with another one. Mad love to everybody tuning in, all my subscribers, and special shout to every single member who's locked in with the channel. If you feeling the content make sure you smash that like button and subscribe. That's what keeps the channel growing and lets me keep dropping these joints for y'all. Every single beat you catching in these videos and shorts, that's all produced by yours truly. So anybody interested in copping any of the production you hearing on this channel, hit us up at evil streets media at gmail.com. That goes for anybody trying to promote their music or push their business too. Slide in my DMs and we can cook something up real quick. We started uploading these episodes to Spotify's podcast platform too, so anybody can just listen on whatever device while you driving or out there getting it. Link's right there in the description. I'm launching a Patreon soon where I'll be dropping extended cuts with way more thorough deep dives, so stay tuned for that. Also, anybody looking to support the channel in general, you can send a dollar or send a million to our cash app evil streets tv. Every single cent that gets donated goes right back into the channel. Make sure you comment if you donate so I can shout you out on the next video. Aight I kept y'all waiting long enough, let's get into this gangster shit. Enjoy the show. Big Fee was the undisputed godfather of Oakland, the man calling all the shots when the streets were at their most raw. Back in the 70s and early 80s, Oakland was a black stronghold, the black mecca of California, and nothing moved in the underground economy without going through the hands of the African American community. If it was hitting the streets, drugs, stolen merchandise, anything illegal, it had to go through the right channels, and for a long time Big Fee was the right channel. He came up in the Acorn projects in West Oakland, a six block stretch of pure survival. Market, Filbert, Linden, Myrtle and Adaline Streets, bordered by 10th and 8th. If you grew up in the cornfields you saw everything, dope fiends, drunks, pimps, hustlers, stick up kids, crooked cops and straight killers. Big Fee wasn't just another kid getting caught up in the chaos though, he had vision. He went to high school in Berkeley, or as folks called it Berserkly, because of all the wild shit that went down over there. It was a mix of peace and love hippies and street cats trying to get a bag. Downtown Berkeley with Cal's campus just a stone's throw away was where all the action was. People's Park, that was an open air drug market, and young Fee made his first move in the game right there, flipping joints to his classmates. Hustling came natural to him, but he still kept his grades tight and graduated on time. Eventually Big Mama moved the family to East Oakland, settling in San Antonio Village, better known as 69th Village. This spot sat right next to the Coliseum and Oracle Arena where the Raiders, A's and Warriors played. The Coliseum BART Station cut right through, its elevated tracks looking down on San Leandro Boulevard, and the overpass connecting it to the arena made for the perfect pipeline. Folks from all over Northern Cali would come through for games, but it didn't take long before they found out that the real action was across the tracks in the village. Heroin was king back then, dog food, smack, hop, whatever you wanted to call it. At first Fee dabbled in pimping, but he wasn't slow, he saw where the real money was at. The track on East 14th Street was flooded with pimps, hos and tricks, and all of them were strung out on dope. The streets weren't just talking, they were screaming money, it was an epidemic, and Big Fee knew exactly how to capitalize. It wasn't just the locals coming through, everybody wanted a taste. Doctors, lawyers, scientists, people from every background and every race. Oakland was a melting pot of drug culture and Fee had the perfect setup. All he had to do was get his game plan tight and put together the right team. Luckily for him, 69th Village had a sister complex, Lockwood Gardens, aka 65th Village. These two projects had been riding together like family since Kermit the Frog was a pollywog, and if there was one thing 65th had, it was hungry young soldiers. Disenfranchised kids who saw the game as their only way out. Big Fee was about to turn the village into a gold mine. All he needed was the right pieces in play. Big Fee turned Oakland into a fortress. By 1973, his operation was so airtight that both 69th Village and 65th Village ran like a military base. Every piece of the puzzle was in place. Rooftop lookouts with heavy artillery, count houses for the cash, processing spots to bag up the dope, distribution points for the fiends, and even street level traffic control using walkie talkies. The real genius, the drugs and the money were never in the same place at the same time. The machine ran like this, a fiend would step to the traffic director and get sent to a designated location to drop off their bread. Once payment was confirmed, they'd head down an alley where a water hose would drop down from an upper level window. Once the call came through, their package would get shot down the hose straight into their hands. Quick, efficient, and damn near impossible to infiltrate. But Fee had one hard rule, no using on the premises. If you got caught nodding off or shooting up on his turf, you got dealt with. Some learned with a beating, others didn't get a second chance. By his early twenties, Fee was already a multi-millionaire. His operation was moving like a mafia family. Armed bodyguards, chauffeurs, and enforcers who didn't hesitate to handle business. If you so much as thought about interfering with the program, you were gone. With the streets locked down, Fee started looking past the game. He had the fleet, Rolls Royce Silver Shadows, Phantoms, and a red Ferrari just like Tom Selleck in Magnum PI. He bought a spot in Walnut Creek, an upscale suburb, and made some legit moves, starting a limousine service on 73rd and MacArthur and a car wash on West MacArthur and Grove. What made Fee stand out wasn't just his money, it was his style. He wasn't a big dude, standing just over six feet with a slim build, dark complexion and a close cropped afro. But when he stepped out, he was always suited and booted, nails done, diamonds dancing. His signature piece, a golden miniature spoon on a thick Cuban link used for sniffing coke when politicking with other bosses. Back then, cocaine was a rich man's high, and Fee had the kind of money where indulging was just another flex. His crew moved like a unit. The mob all pushed four door Chevy Impalas, known as glass houses, rolling four deep, every car stocked with semi-automatic heat. Their look was unmistakable, everybody rocking Kojak cuts, that same clean shaven dome Telly Savalas had on Kojak. That look, that movement, that's still called mobbing in Oakland to this day. He wasn't just running one spot, he was setting up franchises. He had another heroin operation in the Lower Bottoms at Westwood Gardens, aka zero seven, seventh and Cypress, right under the old Cypress Freeway which later collapsed in the Loma Prieta earthquake. Another spot was in Campbell Village on ninth and Campbell. His main squeeze Sheila held down that turf. Her name alone kept people in line. That area was deep with politics, with the Black Guerilla Family putting pressure on anybody thinking about freelancing. Sheila was a key player in Fee's empire, always on the move with her blacked out Cadillac limo driven by Big Fred, making her rounds between the projects. Her job was simple but dangerous, drop off and pick up the goods. She'd walk through the Campbell Village in her all black leather outfits, looking like someone who ran things. Inside her handbag was ten thousand dollars worth of heroin, a thousand dimes to be exact. Sheila wasn't just handing out the dope, she was the distributor, giving out instructions straight from Big Fee. His operation was running smooth with no room for mistakes. Fee's mob wasn't just confined to Oakland. His reach extended across the Oakland Berkeley border where the Berkeley crew worked Sacramento Street and controlled San Pablo Park on Oregon Street. The guy running that squad was Number Nine, a man from Fee's high school days at Berkeley High. Number Nine was solid with the business, moving weight and keeping the money flowing north. Fee had Sacramento locked down too, with soldiers pushing his product all through the capital. By the mid-seventies, Big Fee had transformed from a neighborhood hustler into a legitimate crime boss. His tentacles reached into every corner of the Bay Area. He was making millions a month, operating with impunity while law enforcement watched from the sidelines, unable to crack the fortress he'd built. But power at that level don't come without enemies. The feds had him on their radar, and so did every other player in the game who wanted a piece of what Fee had built. By 1980, Fee was living large but the heat was starting to close in. Federal agents were building a case, surveillance teams were following his every move, and informants were starting to flip. The empire that took years to construct was about to face its greatest test. In 1985, Big Fee was finally arrested on federal charges related to his massive drug operation. Despite the charges, he maintained his composure and refused to cooperate with authorities. He took his sentence like a boss, knowing the code of the streets. Even in prison, Fee commanded respect. His legacy didn't diminish behind bars. Other inmates deferred to him, and his reputation only grew with time. The man who once controlled Oakland's entire drug trade became a symbol of a different era, a time when one individual could rise from nothing and build an empire through sheer will and organization. Felix Mitchell's story is a cautionary tale wrapped in a window into American urban history. He was a genius strategist who could have applied his brilliant mind to legitimate enterprise, but instead became a product of his environment and his era. His death in prison in 1992 marked the end of an actual chapter in Oakland's history. But his legacy lives on, not as something to celebrate, but as something to understand. Big Fee represents what happens when intelligent, ambitious young Black men see the drug game as their only path to success. His story should remind us of the systemic failures that created conditions where hustling became more appealing than legitimate work. Felix Mitchell was the undisputed king of Oakland's underworld, but his true legacy isn't measured in the millions he made or the empire he built—it's measured in the lives destroyed by the poison he distributed, the families torn apart, and the countless young people who followed his example into the same self-destructive path. His rise and fall tell the real story of the streets: power, respect, and money earned through the drug game always come at a price that's too high to pay. That's the gospel truth, and that's something we can never forget.