A Breed Apart: The True Story of a $40 Million Credit Card Conspiracy, Betrayal, Prison, and Redemption

A Breed Apart: The True Story of a $40 Million Credit Card Conspiracy, Betrayal, Prison, and Redemption

by Victor Woods
A Breed Apart: The True Story of a $40 Million Credit Card Conspiracy, Betrayal, Prison, and Redemption

A Breed Apart: The True Story of a $40 Million Credit Card Conspiracy, Betrayal, Prison, and Redemption

by Victor Woods


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In this “energetic” (Publishers Weekly) memoir, Victor Woods vividly recounts a trouble-filled and misunderstood coming-of-age in the suburbs of Chicago, the rollercoaster ride that led him to captain a multi-million dollar counterfeit scheme, and his life-changing stint in federal prison.

In 1990, Victor Woods was charged by the US federal government with organizing a credit card scam worth more than forty million dollars. He refused to implicate his family and friends for a reduced sentence. His lawyer at the time remarked that he was “a breed apart.”

In his authentic, matter-of-fact style, Woods shares the details of his evolution from a rebellious teen to a white-collar criminal and what inspired him to turn his life around while locked away as a federal inmate. Woods’s misdeeds and missteps remind us that sometimes we can be our own worst enemy. His remarkable turnaround shows us that no matter our past we can always make good on a second chance.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780743477390
Publisher: Atria Books
Publication date: 01/04/2005
Edition description: Reprint
Pages: 304
Product dimensions: 5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.80(d)

About the Author

Victor Woods is the founder and CEO of Success International Incorporated. His message of “never give up” has made him a highly sought-after speaker for corporations, colleges and universities, school districts, prisons, and other organizations across the US, as well as a consultant for law enforcement. He has been featured on CNN, The O'Reilly Factor, ABC News, C-SPAN, and BET. For more information visit VictorWoods.com.

Read an Excerpt

A Breed Apart

A Journey to Redemption

Chapter One

The Sting

It was a lovely Chicago summer day in July 1990. The sun was shining, not a cloud in the sky. My girlfriend and I were cruising down Lake Shore Drive in my Corvette. The convertible top was down, and I could smell the last vestiges of well-seasoned food we'd just eaten from the Taste of Chicago as we passed Grant Park.

The beauty of the sunlight reflecting on Lake Michigan was complimented by a cool breeze from the lake. In a matter of seconds, Soldier Field, home of the Chicago Bears, was behind us. A few minutes later, we passed the Museum of Science and Industry and then onto Stoney Island Avenue. We were on our way to Razor's jewelry store. It was near 69th and Stoney.

When we arrived, Delilah stayed in the car and I went in. I was greeted by Razor's wife, who took my watch and began cleaning it, as she usually did when I visited the store. There was no one else in the store, so we got right down to business.

Razor was a brother in his mid-thirties. I asked him if he had the money as we agreed. His negative reply irritated me. He then asked if I had the merchandise. I told him "No." Obviously, we were both being cautious about the exchange.

I told him the merchandise was nearby, and with a telephone call, it could be dropped off. He said once it was received, we would pick up the money at another location. I was perturbed that we had to alter our original plan. We finally agreed that I would instruct my guy to make the drop, and we would then proceed together to pick up my cash.

I called my guy, Jimmy, and told him to deliver the package to the Holiday Inn in Harvey, Illinois, as Razor requested. Twenty-five minutes later, Razor received a call that the 700 blank Visa Gold credit cards were received, and all was well. I then talked to my guy, and he confirmed that everything was cool.

Razor casually got into his new Thunderbird, and Delilah and I followed him to the drop. Rainbow Beach was also on Chicago's South Side, and not too far from Razor's store. It was afternoon when we arrived at the beach. There were a few cars scattered in the parking lot and several people enjoying the summer day. Razor parked near a Datsun 280Z, and I parked about twenty-five feet away from Razor. Again, I told Delilah to wait in the car.

Everybody got out of their cars simultaneously, looking to the left and to the right, while proceeding toward one another. After we converged, the brother from the 280Z said, "What's up?" He opened a duffel bag he had been carrying on his left shoulder, and showed me the money: $30,000 in 100-dollar bills. He then tried to hand me the duffel bag. I told him no thank you. There was no offense intended, but I didn't know him from Adam. I told him to give the bag to Razor, and Razor would give it to me.

As Razor took the money and reached out to give it to me, the whole parking lot lit up like a Christmas tree. There were undercover agents everywhere. Some were closing in on us in cars, while others were running toward us on foot, guns drawn. It was the most police I had seen in a long time. The United States prosecutor was even in attendance for the show.

All of us were handcuffed and thrown against one of the unmarked police cars. As an agent pressed a shotgun against my head, Razor looked at me and asked if I had set him up. I just looked at him and the other brother in total disgust. On the contrary, I knew I had just been set up. They had Delilah surrounded in my Corvette. She looked over at me and smiled, as if to say it was all some big joke.

I rode downtown in an unmarked car with three Secret Service agents, just as I had three weeks earlier. But then, I knew the game was over. I knew I was headed back to prison. As I was sitting inside the federal building handcuffed to the wall, Lee Seville, the same gray-haired agent who had told me three weeks before to help myself and cooperate with the government, came into the room.

He informed me that my guy Jimmy was telling him so much that I had better start talking before there was nothing left to tell. He said if I didn't talk, I was going to the Metropolitan Correctional Center (MCC) in downtown Chicago. At that moment, I knew what I had to do. I began to reflect on the circumstances that had led me to this place and time - on how I came to find myself in big trouble for the second time.


My parents never spent much time talking about their parents. However, my father did tell me my great-grandmother was blind and deaf, and she had been raped by an Irishman. As a result, my father's mother was so fair that people thought she was white. I never met my grandfather. They had four children - my father and his three sisters - all with light skin. My father's hair was black, but his sisters all had red hair and freckles.

My father, Irving Woods, grew up in Florida at a time when segregation prevailed, and black people regardless of their complexion were treated like dogs. My grandfather left my grandmother, who was a nurse, when their children were small. My father grew up in a tiny house that rested on a dirt road. There was no toilet, only an outhouse. He grew up like most black people in the South at that time: poor and discriminated against. However, he had a tremendous amount of motivation and inner strength. Attending segregated schools that had only secondhand books, he read all he could. He worked odd jobs, and helped his mother, and prided himself on the fact that he never caused his mother any problems. At high school, where he was chosen to lead the band, he already had a good reputation.

Extremely handsome and intelligent, my father was and always had been a very proud man. He told me about a white instructor who administered the driver's test at a motor vehicles bureau, who insisted my father call him "sir."

"I'm not here to Uncle Tom you," replied my father. It was no surprise that my father failed the driving test.

Dad attended Morehouse College in Atlanta, Georgia, where he met my mother, a striking Spelman woman with beautiful honey-brown skin, big brown eyes, and an arresting smile. She was smart, incredibly talented, and had a good sense of humor.

My mother, Deborah Woods, grew up differently from my father and from most black people in the fifties. Raised in a sprawling home surrounded by beautiful things and wanting for nothing, she was the daughter of a prominent Detroit minister who had risen from humble beginnings to the very top of his field. Mama was the most popular girl in her high school and was always the center of attention. She sang and played piano at social gatherings. My mother lived a more privileged existence than most white people. My mother and grandmother told me many stories about my grandfather and how much he loved them and the Lord. Most of the important details about my grandfather were handed down to me by my grandmother.

My maternal grandfather, Rev. Dr. Anderson Major Martin, grew up in Mississippi, left home at an early age for Chicago and received his degree from the Moody Bible Institute. He was flamboyant and always had a new Cadillac. One man who knew my grandfather for years told me he was the most sharply dressed man he had ever seen. He had a pair of shoes and a hat to match each tailored suit. But most importantly, I've been told he was a great family man.

My grandmother, Mary Louise Martin, was a beautiful, extremely intelligent Christian woman from Brooklyn, New York. She adored my grandfather. Her whole world was her two girls, her husband, and the church.

At one time, Rev. Dr. Anderson Major Martin was one of the most respected ministers in the country. His sermons were said to be spellbinding. One Sunday morning, before I was born, he died as he wanted to: preaching in the pulpit to his congregation. Former President Richard Nixon sent flowers to his funeral. Before my grandfather died, he told my grandmother that if anything ever happened to him, he didn't want her to remarry because he wouldn't be able to rest in peace if anybody mistreated her. My grandmother never did remarry. A selfless person who lived to serve God and take care of her family, she worked as a math teacher so my mother and aunt could complete their college educations.

After college, my parents married. It was 1962, and although my father had a college degree, as a black man he had trouble finding a job, so they moved in with my mother's mother. My father took a job at a local grocery store stocking shelves, while continuing to look for a better job. Eventually he secured a job with a Fortune 500 company, and was promoted and transferred frequently.

I was born on March 23, 1964. People said I was a beautiful baby. My mother said that everywhere she took me people would stop her and ask to look at me. My parents were proud and showered me with attention.

My grandmother and I started loving each other from the first time we laid eyes on each other. Her love remains with me to this day. My grandfather's death had left a tremendous void in her life, so when I was born, she dedicated herself to me. As long as she lived she showered me with love, wisdom and knowledge. My grandmother taught math in Detroit for thirty-five years. I remember always going to school with her when I was a little boy. Before I could even walk or talk, I had already formed a strong spiritual bond with Mary Louise Martin.

Grandma treated me like a prince. She constantly showered me with gifts. I was a hyperactive child; I got into anything and everything. I was also spoiled rotten. I began to get into mischief early on. When I was two years old, I locked the baby-sitter out of the house. I ran around so much that she could barely keep up with me. I was so out of control, my doctor prescribed Thorazine to calm me down. Apparently, it rendered me almost comatose. I sat on the couch in front of the TV like a zombie. After a week, my mother felt sorry for me and took me off the medication. She resigned herself to letting me run wild.

At three, my parents enrolled me in Montessori preschool. I was Dennis the Menace, Chuckie from Child's Play, and Damien from The Omen - all in one. I wouldn't sit when they told me to sit, nor would I stand when they told me to stand. I followed none of the rules and was so disruptive that my mother was often called to pick me up early. Finally, the teachers gave up and told my parents not to bring me back - by age three, I had been kicked out of school. I had already started to develop a pattern of behavior I would maintain well into my adult life.

I refused to follow rules; it had to be my way or no way. And despite my incorrigible behavior, I could charm people. I had an early grasp of the English language, and people always commented on how well I spoke, how smart I was. Most people thought I was "so cute" and allowed me to get away with just about everything. I recognized that and used it.

When I was three, my mother gave birth to a baby girl. Valerie was a beautiful baby with a head of curly black hair. I used to get my sister into trouble by knocking her food onto the floor while my mother's back was turned. Valerie would cry and my mother would scold her while I sat back, watched, and enjoyed the show. Even though I sometimes got my sister into trouble, we did everything together, and eventually became best friends.

Suburban Life, Jack & Jill and Racism 101

I continued to act the fool in kindergarten. I refused to listen to the teacher or follow the rules. Valerie was the opposite. She was a very quiet child who didn't get into any trouble. My teachers began to tell my parents what they would hear throughout my school experience; I was smart, but didn't listen and wouldn't follow the rules.

My father continued to earn promotions and we were constantly moving. He was successful, and we were comfortable. I never remember wanting for anything during my childhood. My father took excellent care of us, determined to do what his father never tried to do.

Through all the promotions and moves, I maintained an intensely close relationship with my maternal grandmother, Mary Louise Martin. She wrote me loving letters and we talked on the phone. We always spent Christmas at her house in Detroit, or she would visit us. My mother's sister, her husband, and their two children would also gather at my grandmother's house for the holiday festivities.

My grandmother was a fantastic cook. She made cookies and cakes from scratch and the best hot rolls I have ever tasted. I remember sitting at the table watching her make rolls. I would eat the dough, and she'd say, "It's gonna rise in your stomach," and we would burst into laughter.

My grandmother's house seemed like a castle to me. There were two different stairways leading upstairs, five bathrooms, a bar in the basement and an attic as big as most apartments, equipped with a bathroom of its own. My grandfather's study had shelves of books and a handsome desk and chair. A large colored picture of him hung on the wall, and everywhere I moved in that room, my grandfather's eyes would follow.

When we went to see my grandmother, we attended service at Newlight Baptist Church, where my grandfather used to preach. My grandmother was still active in the church and was considered its first lady. The church was so huge that the preacher had to speak through a microphone. There were two choirs and nurses for people who caught the Holy Ghost. When I was growing up, all the people in the church knew and remembered my grandfather, and expressed love and respect for him.

After church service, we were treated like celebrities. People lined up to talk to me and meet the late reverend's grandson. Many old men and women just wanted to kiss me. It used to scare me, but I loved all the attention. I never could begin to imagine that one day I too would find myself in the pulpit, speaking to thousands of people.

My grandmother told me stories about my grandfather so often I felt I knew him personally. Some nights, in bed with my grandmother, I fell asleep in her arms as she talked about him. I was going to preach one day as my grandfather had preached, she said, making sure to keep my grandfather's memory alive. You're going to talk to large crowds." I disagreed, but she would laugh and say, "You just wait and see."

In the mid-1970s, we moved to Arlington Heights, Illinois, an affluent suburb of Chicago. We were the first black family to move there.



Excerpted from A Breed Apart by Victor Woods Copyright © 2005 by Victor Woods.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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