New details emerge in Norfolk 'battle rap' shooting deaths

CORRECTION: Daquan Hill drove himself to a friend’s home on Maltby Avenue, where he was later killed. An earlier version of this story identified someone else as having driven him to the home.

NORFOLK

Late one night at a house party, Trey Pound and Stress spit insults back and forth to a hip-hop beat.

The strangers, known by friends as sharp, freestyle rappers, rhymed back and forth, one-upping each other with verbal cuts.

Pound delivered two slams during the battle rap, witnesses later testified, that brought Stress to a boil. He called Stress "a hardback," an insult to members of the Crips gang, then said the 5-foot-3-inch rapper was short.

Stress pulled out a gun.

Pound held his hands up, court records state, and asked Stress if he was going to shoot him over a rap.

The two fought, and a court later found that Stress fired the single shot that killed Pound.

The 24-year-old Iraq War veteran - known to friends as Bill Bonney and Lil' Bill to his mom - collapsed on the front lawn.

Battle raps - face-to-face, lyrical duels featuring insults, boasts and rhymes - have triggered two recent murders in Norfolk, including Bonney's death in October 2008. In both cases, the men did not know each other well before they faced off.

Details about the confrontations and underground culture have emerged in court hearings and trials. They reveal a passion that can be as common as playing video games or listening to music.

Aspiring rappers spit out lyrics in living rooms, yards, open-mic clubs - almost anywhere young, hip-hop poets gather. The in-your-face rhyming is fed by pop culture and the siren of fame. Young rappers say they also are driven by a desire to spontaneously express themselves.

Seldom, however, do the raps turn violent. Police and prosecutors in other Hampton Roads cities reported no other serious incidents involving rap battles.

The lyrical duels have been around as long as hip-hop, and figure prominently in such movies as rapper Eminem's "8 Mile." The popular video music show "106 & Park" on BET features Freestyle Friday, with rappers dueling on a stage decorated as a boxing ring.

"It's a chance to be a star, to emulate what you see on TV," said Russell Hill, a radio host at Norfolk State University who goes by DJ Illmatic Beats. Hill, 27, won an emcee and battle rap competition last year at NSU.

Most do it because they love music, poetry and the face-to-face challenge, he said. Insults are central to the challenge. "I'm going to talk about all your insecurities and put them on Front Street," Hill said.

More often, rappers form a circle, known as a cipher, and share lyrics to a beat. It's less about competition than collaboration, said Justin Hernandez, a Virginia Beach emcee known as J. Pharaoh.

Almost every time he goes to a house party, Hernandez said, he ends up in the backyard with friends, a boombox and a freestyle stream of lyrics. "Just spur of the moment" he said. "There's something really true about it."

However, Hernandez backs away from battle raps because they can spin out of control. "These kids today are fearless," he said.

Hill said it takes maturity to shrug off the insults. "Controversy is good in Hollywood," he said, "but not in Virginia."

Daquan Hill rapped his girlfriend to sleep. Rapped to his friends, mother, anyone who would listen on the street.

One morning, he rapped in the shower, pounding out beats on the wet tiles, syncopated with the falling water. Michelle King, his girlfriend, told him to quiet down. "Babe, we got neighbors," she told him. "We're going to get put out."

Patricia Hill said Fufu, as her son was called, was the youngest of three children. They were close. "Every single day I got a hug and a kiss," she said during a recent interview at her Park Place home.

Daquan Hill got in trouble in school and ended up at Hanover Juvenile Correctional Facility outside Richmond. He could be aggressive and stubborn, his family said. But he matured and joined the Junior ROTC program, his mother said.

He held a steady job at a restaurant chain, Patricia Hill said, and had a knack for fixing cars. He took classes at Advanced Technology Institute in Virginia Beach to become a certified auto mechanic, and was one of the youngest in the class, she said.

On Jan. 26, 2010, Hill went to a friend's house on Maltby Avenue, near Booker T. Washington High School. King called at 2:30 p.m.; Hill told her he would be leaving soon for class.

Dominic Myrick, who lived in Suffolk with his wife, was with Hill that day. Court records show Myrick carried previous convictions for assault, grand larceny, and unlawful wounding.

According to an account filed with the court, the final half-hour of Hill's life went like this:

Just after 2:30, Myrick and Hill agreed to a rap battle at a friend's house in the 1200 block of Maltby Ave. They began to argue, curse and call each other names.

They fought and had to be separated three times.

After the third time, Myrick pulled a gun, according to the official account.

Patricia Hill said a witness told her that her son asked, "Now you pull a gun on me?"

Myrick, 31, admitted in court that he fired the shot that took Hill's life. He pleaded guilty last month and faces up to 21 years in prison when sentenced in July.

Hill was 19.

Bill Bonney grew up in an Army family. They returned to Hampton Roads when he was in elementary school, his mother Diane Davis said recently.

Her son was easygoing and creative, always drawing pictures, she said.

He stood just shy of 6 feet, but was tough enough to play middle linebacker in high school. "Boy could hit," said his cousin and close friend, Michael Crandle.

Crandle said Bonney wanted to get away from the streets. When Bonney was a teen, he saw a friend get shot at a club, Crandle said. Within a week of graduation from Booker T. Washington, Bonney left for Army basic training.

He served in a logistics unit based in Baghdad, his mother said. His Army friends told her he often loosened up the guys with his words and rhymes.

He did not want to redeploy and left the Army as a specialist. He returned to Norfolk, got a job with the city and also worked at his mother's child-care center. He picked up odd jobs along the way, always hustling for extra money.

He also kept rapping. He made a demo CD in a studio. Crandle, a music promoter in Pittsburgh, encouraged him. "Get into every rap battle you can," Crandle said. "You want to be seen."

On Bonney's birthday, his cousin had him freestyle over a cellphone with producers. They were impressed, Crandle said. Bonney could rap about the streets, women and fatherhood to any beat, he said.

Crandle had scheduled Bonney to perform at a Pittsburgh talent show. A week before the show, Crandle got the call telling him his cousin was dead. His first thought, he said, was "this is the dumbest thing I've heard in my life."

Crandle wishes someone had stepped between the men and cooled the exchange.

Police soon identified Stress as Craig Robert Mounger, a 23-year-old school dropout, landscaper and aspiring rapper, according to court records. After the shooting, he fled to Puerto Rico and lived for several months near family before he was captured, according to testimony.

He told the court in a written statement that he thinks he's an "OK person. I just have to learn to take control of situation's, watch who I hang around, and stop battle-rapping, and focus more on song's."

A judge sentenced Mounger to 25 years in prison; he is appealing the conviction.

Brent A. Johnson, chief deputy commonwealth's attorney in Norfolk, said battle rap, like any verbal argument, can turn into a deadly confrontation when handguns are easily accessible.

The confrontations often draw crowds - offering a chance for others to step in and cool things down. The crowds also can add pressure, said Norfolk State's Russell Hill, who is not related to Daquan Hill.

Most battles end with laughs and hugs, he said. Hip-hop doesn't cause the violence. "Some people are not mentally stable enough for this," Hill said.

But when it works, he said, "It's a surge of energy you can't touch."

On Mother's Day, Diane Davis pulled out pictures and all of her son's cards. He never missed sending her one, she said, even from the war.

"He was in Iraq, and he came home safe," she said, "and he lost his life in the street."

Patricia Hill also re-reads the cards her son gave her. He left her with a few last written words: "Love ya, Ma. UR Baby, Fufu."

Louis Hansen, (757) 446-2341, louis.hansen@pilotonline.com