Leroy “Nicky” Barnes: Godfather or Snitch?

From heroin addict to New York drug lord, "Mr. Untouchable" changed the lives of countless criminals when he finally snitched after four years behind bars. After 23 years in hiding, the Harlem legend explains himself in a new documentary directed by Marc Levin. Just don't ask us where he is.

By Trang Chuong

From director Marc Levin comes Mr. Untouchable, an explosive documentary about a man as infamous for his drug dealings as he is for his treachery. For the first time ever, audiences are invited to watch the true story of '70s Harlem drug kingpin, Leroy "Nicky" Barnes. Barnes, always dressed in signature glasses and tailored suits, reigned over his Harlem heroin empire, "The Council." He was a charismatic force who seemed destined to maintain his position as drug royalty. In 1977, however, The New York Times Magazine published a feature article, referring to the man who would now be known forever as "Mister Untouchable." After being sent to jail, Barnes spent four years in silence. He then opened up, officially making the transformation from dealer to snitch. From behind bars, he revealed secrets about robberies, prison escapes, internal drug rings, and even the planned assassination of former President Ronald Reagan. After 23 years of silence, safe within the Witness Protection Program, Barnes opened up to Levin about drugs, deals, and death. Below, Levin along with producers Damon Dash and Mary-Jane Robinson, sit down to talk about finally getting in touch with Mr. Untouchable himself.

BLACKBOOK: How did you get involved with this film?

DAMON DASH: I’m from Harlem. Everything that everyone in Harlem did, I did. Everything that affected Harlem, affected me. And Nicky Barnes affected Harlem. We all looked up to him. We didn’t look at it like he was killing the neighborhood. He was the freshest, the fliest, had the most cars, the most women, the best jewelry. He was a true gangster. I was conditioned to look up to that kind of guy. But then he told on his friends and it like broke Harlem’s heart in half. And then he disappeared for 30 years. When I got into the position to make movies, I wanted to make my version of The Godfather.

Barnes, left, in front of the courthouse.

BB: Did you experience many difficulties trying to make this documentary?

DD: I wasn’t trying to make a documentary. I was trying to make a feature film. To get a major study to invest in an urban story is one thing. To make them invest in a black gangster movie is unheard of these days.

BB: Did you ever have the opportunity to meet Barnes?

DD: I was too young, but a lot of people in my family did. They were part of his world. When my family found out I was making this movie, they said “Fuck Nicky Barnes. Let him die. Don’t bring him back to life.”

BB: But if he hadn’t turned into a rat, would he still have been a legend?

DD: If he hadn’t snitched, he would have been king. He basically shifted his place in history. He would have been Jesus Christ in Harlem.

BB: Are you disappointed that you weren’t able to interview Barnes?

DD: Where I’m from, how I’ve been raised, when somebody does something like that, you don’t speak to them at all. I have no desire to talk to him. I’m not even allowed the desire to talk to him.

BB: Even though it’s not a personal affront to you?

DD: Are you kidding? Snitching is snitching. The people you rat on are your friends. These are your partners. These are people you’d probably take a bullet for. There should be honor among thieves. It’s about playing the game and being man enough to abide by the rules.

BB: But what if said friends turn on you first?

DD: That’s part of the game. If you’re in the street, you get them back at them a different way.

BB: Put yourself in his position. He was a desperate man behind bars.

DD: I’ve been done dirty heavy. I’ve been betrayed by my friends. But I take the high road. I’ve been disrespected by people that I love. I know exactly how he feels, but there are things I would still never do.

Below, an interview with Marc Levin and Mary-Jane Robinson, the director and producer of Mr. Untouchable, respectively.

BLACKBOOK: How did this all start?

MARY-JANE ROBINSON: I met a man in a club. A very dapper, young man walked in and everybody wanted to talk to him. I was intrigued, so I went over and introduced myself. He said, “If you make documentaries, you should make one on Nicky Barnes. If you want to know more, give me a call.”

MARC LEVIN: I was born and raised in Brooklyn and was part of the ‘70s scene. I was well aware of Nicky Barnes.

BB: Did you know him?

ML: No, but I had a buddy that I played basketball with in high school. He was black. Studio 54 had just opened in 1976, and he always used to kid me, “You think that’s hot nightlife? You need to come uptown.” I’d heard about these after-hours clubs in Harlem, so one night I went around 3:30 in the morning. I was like the only white person there, with hippie hair down to my back. I got thrown up against the wall and intimidated, hoping that I might get out alive. When we met Nicky and related that story, he said, “Too bad you didn’t know me then Marc. You could have been up to my VIP suite and you would have been up to your head in freak week.”

BB: What was your initial reaction when Barnes agreed to meet with you?

MJ: Elation. But you don’t believe it until you’re sitting in a room with someone.

ML: We staked out the airport because we weren’t sure he was even going to arrive.

MJ: Suddenly, he’s crossing the front of our car, and we’re having to hide because we hadn’t even formally met him yet.

BB: Why Marc, since you’ve known about Barnes all these years, did it take so long for the project to come to fruition?

ML: Sadly, it was about a black Godfather, and society wasn’t really ready to marry the gangster story with the American story. It’s taken this long for it to reach a level of respectability.

BB: Had any film studios approached Barnes before?

ML: There had been attempts to write his story, but they just failed, time and time again.

MJ: His story is epic on so many levels. It’s a political piece, a piece about race in America, an intimate family piece, and his life story. I think people got lost in it. We had a hard time gripping it ourselves. It’s a very hard story to grapple with.

ML: Also, he hadn’t gotten out yet. Remember, he was in prison for 21 years. He flipped, but he didn’t flip until he was in prison for four years. He didn’t get out until 1998.

BB: Was he in solitary confinement?

ML: No, it’s like a wing. It’s a rat wing. I think he became a teacher, believe it or not, and he graduated college. When we left, I remember saying, “This guy should be a college professor because he has such intellect. Obviously, he’s done all these morally repugnant and vile things, but he does have a massive mind. He knows everything about contemporary hip-hop music. He knows about Damon. He knows about Jay-Z. He knows sports and politics. The guy is incredibly well informed.

BB: Can he lead a normal life now that he’s out of prison, without always having to look over his shoulder?

ML: I don’t know. I mean, he wouldn’t come to New York, put it that way.

MJ: We don’t push for too many details about what he’s doing now, where he is, and how his life is, but the sense I get is that he works extremely long hours and doesn’t do much else. He’s in a very small town where there probably aren’t many black people. He laughs at the idea that he would be recognized where he is.

BB: Do you think he regrets the things he’s done?

ML: On a fundamental level, no. There are certainly things that he regrets and that he feels bad about, but overall, I think he’s rationalized being a drug dealer. At that time, he didn’t see any other choice, much in the tradition of other ethnic groups—the Irish, the Jews, and the Italians who all used illegal methods to take their piece of the American Dream. Violence is a part of that. In his mind, I think he feels that by organizing a council, by bringing a kind of corporate mentality and marketing to the heroin business, he actually lessened the violence. He once said, “It was like that white powder controlled me. I learned how to make it work for me. I didn’t just abstain from it. I made it work for me.” He actually thought he was providing a service.

Barnes, with bodyguard, left.

BB: Was he behind any murders?

ML: Yeah, he acknowledged eight homicides.

MJ: He never admits to actually pulling the trigger, but he definitely ordered hits and was involved in deciding that people would be murdered.

BB: Do you think he ever pulled the trigger?

ML: Yes.

MJ: Maybe not at that point in time, but to get there, sure.

ML: To get there, absolutely. I mean, at the end of our weekend with him, I saw the side where he could be charming as hell, but if you’re about to leave and there’s a gun at the back of your head, he’d pull the trigger if he thought, you know, it was in his interest.

BB: Of all the drug lords that you’ve interviewed, what makes Nicky Barnes special?

ML: Nicky has an awesome mind, and it’s tragic that it was used for illegal gain. He has a certain kind of charisma. He could have been a political leader or a demigod. You read all these things about Barnes and you think, “No one can live up to it.” This guy lived up to it. And you can certainly imagine the power he must have had back then in New York.

BB: Why is the crime genre so alluring to you both?

ML: Look around you. We live in a corrupt, violent world. It’s easier to watch gangster films, but deep down we sense there’s truth in them. I joked last night when someone asked me, “Why did you focus on Nicky Barnes?” I explained that I couldn’t get to Dick Cheney.