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Sheets of rain swept across Route 37 that June, 2000 morning in Cranston. By the time Jarrod noticed the truck barreling down on him, it was too late. It smashed into the back of his black Cherokee. Jarrod’s niece in the back seat was unharmed, but the same couldn’t be said for his left elbow. Surgery repaired the torn ligament. Doctors also cleaned up bone spurs they discovered. Yet the real damage was the time he’d have to stay out of the ring—and the opportunity to revisit old habits.

Truth is, despite all the sweat and blood he shed while boxing, Jarrod never fully purged the street life. The Silver Lake boys weren’t simply friends; they were the only real family he had. Jarrod’s love of danger might have ebbed, but it hadn’t disappeared. Sometimes a man can only change so much. In between fights as both an amateur and a pro, Jarrod had still been putting back the Absolut-and-cranberries at Mecca, River Café and Remy’s. Still getting into the occasional brawl at nightclubs. Still dabbling in crime. Sidelined with his elbow injury and no fight in the foreseeable future, Jarrod fell right back into his Providence lifestyle. Only this time the stakes had gotten higher.

“We were criminals,” says Jarrod with a smile. What started with making fake IDs and selling stolen ’scripts evolved into a significant robbery enterprise. “We didn’t steal from business owners or shakedown hard working people,” clarifies Tillinghast. “We did things where the law wouldn’t be able to come back on us.” Specifically, they ripped off drug dealers and criminals.

“Robbing drug dealers was very common back then,” says Andrews. “It started with Raymond Patriarca.” While the Silver Lake crew didn’t have the clout or scope of Patriarca’s crime family, they were out “hunting” every night, a territory that included Rhode Island as well as parts of Massachusetts and Connecticut. “Now we weren’t robbing from Colombian cartels,” explains Johnny Angell, one of Tillinghast’s closest friends. “We knew better. We found the guys who shouldn’t be doing it. The wanna-be drug dealers.”

Some wannabes were kids slinging on the corner. “We’d dress in jeans and polo shirts like undercover cops,” explains Jarrod. “Then we’d roll up on them and jump out of the car yelling ‘Get on the ground!’” The dealers, thinking they’d been busted, would fall face first onto the street and give up their stash without a word.

They also found a trove of wannabes in the popular after-hours and rave scene. “Everyone was so happy-go-lucky in those places,” laughs Jarrod. “It was like fishing in a pool.” Jarrod and a few Silver lake boys would show up and ask around about buying some ecstasy. Within minutes a fresh-faced kid with a backpack brimming with X would appear. Instead of a sale, the kid would find himself hauled outside and getting arrested. Or so he thought. “I’d sit him on the curb and get on the phone and pretend I’m calling it in,” explains Jarrod. “I’d be like ‘yeah, I don’t know what to do with this kid. What do you think?’ I’d pretend to listen to an answer and I’d hang up and turn to the kid and say ‘today’s your lucky day,’ as I confiscated the backpack. These kids were so happy not to be going to jail they’d thank me.” While he admits he was a criminal, Tillinghast still conducted himself with a code. “Jarrod hated guns,” says Angell. “He never used ’em. He’d just beat your fucking skull in.”

Sometimes, according to Tillinghast, the dealers would go crying to wiseguys. Ask them to help get back their drugs. But the Silver Lake boys never complied. And Jarrod wasn’t worried about payback. “I got a pass for my dad, my name,” he says. “It gave me leverage. People were gonna think twice about retaliation.”

Jarrod shared his father’s last name, dabbled in the same line of work. but Jarrod was not Jerry. “Jerry Tillinghast was well known for robbing drug dealers,” notes Andrews. But Jarrod’s father’s M.O. wasn’t a left hook. Jerry was a suspect in the torture and murder of a pair of drug dealers/nightclub owners from Johnston as well as Elliott Bassett, a dealer from Dorchester who was thrown to his death from a New York City hotel window.

You’d think that during their regular phone calls Jarrod might brag about his latest score. Or maybe ask his father for counsel. But Jarrod kept his dad in the dark. “I never told him about robbing,” says Jarrod. “He didn’t want me in trouble. Didn’t want me to go down that path. That I was sure of. So the less he knew the better.”

But why risk his boxing career—and potentially his life—at all? For one, money. Jarrod claims to have made upwards of $150,000 one year. Another reason? The rush. “It was fun,” admits Jarrod. “The robbing, the cash. We had a lotta of laughs.”

Maybe too much fun. Months running the streets with his Silver Lake crew turned into years. His elbow had long healed but Jarrod didn’t walk back into Manfredo’s gym. He couldn’t bring himself to lace up the gloves. Jarrod points to his arm, claims the pain never went away. But more likely it was his heart and the fire that had gone out. In 1991, fellow Rhode Islander Pazienza also suffered a car accident. Broke his neck. Thirteen months later he returned to the ring and beat future WBC champ Luis Santana. “To get back in that ring by yourself takes a special person,” says Burchfield, Sr.. “You have to have a hunger. When you take a long break, get out of that rhythm, you’re making money and not taking punches, why then go back?”