Pelican Bay Riot (12 page)

I walked past 3 building right as the vestibule door opened and a sea of inmates came charging out, in a hurry to get to the work out bars, a card game or some other plan, like look for dope. I walked past 4 building and the same thing happened. I got to our table and stared at 5 building where Stranger would be coming out. The vestibule door hadn’t opened yet; the intake building always took longer to release.

I sat on top of the table and thought about my first priority. Scott had been sent to the chow hall to send word in to the Whites working inside. By now the yard had over 400 bodies out and I couldn’t see Scott through the sea of larger bodies. I did see Damon walking with Jason and both of them carried a negative energy, even worse than it should have been. Damon got to the table and said, “Lefty overdosed last night.” I never took my eyes off the yard toward the chow hall; I had to find Scott. This couldn’t go down until I found him. The action sped up and there wasn’t time to think. The vestibule door to building 5 opened.

As expected Stranger walked through the vestibule door first and just the way he walked offended me. I got off the table and walked toward him but so did a couple of Mexicans from their table. I thought quick and realized it would work out better if I let them talk to him first. It would give me a chance to let Scott catch up to the plan. I stood off to the side and pretended to stretch on the edge of the track so I wouldn’t be so obvious and gave myself an angle to study the yard.

Scott was at the chow hall having a hard time getting someone’s attention inside. Now that the yard was off lockdown the kitchen workers had a lot more work to do and the timing was different. Finally someone heard the pounding on the outside door and the note was smuggled in to the right person.

The 2 Mexicans were done with Stranger and I let them walk past me and cut Stranger off.  “Hey stud I need to talk to you.”

Stranger looked too sure of himself, like things were working out for him as the shot caller, and he tried to brush me off like I was an insignificant problem he’d already resolved. He looked at me like a peon and said; “Not now B.J I have to handle some shit.”

I usually don’t give someone I’d decided was an enemy combatant a chance but I felt my rage boiling and knew he didn’t have a chance either way so I did what I rarely do, talk, “You need to handle this dope policy, last chance.”

I was 6 feet away from Stranger and looked for Scott and found him. He was walking toward the White table as fast as he could and about 100 feet away. Close enough. Stranger looked shocked. Like it was too hard for him to believe I wasn’t bending to his will.

I didn’t wait for a response and rushed him. Instead of trying to knock him out with a punch, I used my right knee in an upper thrust into his right leg where I had the most leverage and was still able to fire a bomb of a right hand. It bounced off his forehead because he shuffled backward to not go down from my knee chop but I was on top of him raining down punches and crowding in on him until we were both on the ground. I leveraged myself on top of him and hammered punches into his face a few times until he bucked me off. I landed with my hands in front of me and popped back up and got to him before he made it all the way up and timed a kick to his face that sent him back to the ground. I charged him again but was met by other Mexicans. A sea of Mexican bodies had launched themselves from their table and everywhere else. I was barely able to see peripherally. My punches were the only thing clearing the way and Mexicans were coming at me from the side for cheap shots and their blows were landing but I only heard the thumps and didn’t feel them from the effects of adrenaline.

I saw Damon and remembered the plan. I punched both of my fists as straight and fast as I could. Damon ended up right where he was supposed to be and for a second we had our backs locked against each other impossible to surround, then shuffled backwards until we felt the side of the building behind us. I heard all the usual sounds; the alarm, the block guns, the orders from guards, “GET DOWN! GET DOWN!” and I felt my second wind, more adrenaline and the need to help Scott take over my being. I felt my vision adjust with my back safe and I was distributing punches and knocking the smaller Mexicans down.

Damon was doing the same thing next to me and we had enough space to see Scott 50 feet away. He was too small for the Mexicans and I saw one smash his head from behind and he crumpled to the ground with over 20 Mexicans stomping and kicking from every angle against his entire body. I ran and punched my way there and felt pepper spray as I passed prison guards but bulldozed onward. I got to Scott and started getting pummeled by Mexicans but still lifted him to his feet and dragged him toward the opening to the building where more guards were and fell down. After a few breaths I realized it was over and looked for Damon. He had followed me to Scott halfway and was lying on the ground painted orange from the pepper spray. I saw it dripping off his bullet head and almost laughed through my own pain. I looked at Scott’s scared face, it was swollen and bleeding but he’d be okay. I looked to our White table and saw Blockhead and Jason drenched in orange and found a bunch of other White inmates lying on their stomachs with their hands under them ready to pop back up if the Mexicans did. The D Yard gate opened and an army of other prison guards from the other yards finally made it and for the first time I was glad to see them.

Chapter 23

The army of prison guards stepped on or kneeled on White and Mexican inmates until the cuffs were placed on every wrist. I knew they would sort out who the actual combatants were in the Hole. I was lifted to my feet and met Damon and the others as we were corralled into a pile and escorted to the D Yard gate. It looked like all the Whites were okay other than some cuts and bruises.

On the walk to the Hole we passed the Warden. He was shaking his head at me and lifted both his arms in the air as if to ask, what happened?

I looked down at the ground. What could I say? These are the prison days of our lives. As I got to within 10 feet I smiled and said, “Fuckin drug addicts.”

GLADIATOR

Chapter 1

I had to put pen to paper and write my beautiful wife. It wasn't easy to write and not think about her at the same time. Questions riddled my brain like a tornado with, is she OK? Does she still live at the same address? Is she still going to church? WHY HAVEN'T I RECEIVED A LETTER FROM HER?

I got a letter from her a month ago saying she was being evicted, she couldn't afford the rent without me. We were paying 1,400 a month for a studio apartment in Laguna Beach, California and both working, her at Macy's in dresses and me as a waiter at a Bistro, we were both going to church and everything was great, until I got violated for parole for not reporting a change of address fast enough. I started writing.

My beautiful wife: I pray this reaches you in God's Hands. It sucks here without you, but it would suck anywhere without you! Please write me and let me know you're OK, if you get this...I love you more than words can express and treasure you and our memories and look forward to those yet to come. 90 more days, hang on! Your always faithful loving husband...

Chapter 2

My cell mate Damon was watching me agonize over the letter and knew I'd be done quick, unable to allow my heart to feel like a sponge getting squeezed dry. We had to be calloused. Emotions couldn't play a part in this part of our life, there wasn't room for it. Much like a Marine on duty in hostile enemy territory, surviving life in a California level 4 prison wasn't the place for missing a loved one where calculated killers roamed the cell block and gun tower guards with rifles staged gladiator wars and fired unholy justice. The pressure was relentless.

"She's alright. You have a gorgeous, strong willed wife who is loyal and loves you like no other. How could she not, you're a freak of nature. Don't let your mind tell you otherwise."

I studied Damon standing 2 feet away from my bottom bunk. At 6'3 and 230 lbs of shredded muscle from 20 years worth of California prison race war training, tattoos covered his body. His stomach had his nickname in block letters, ROTT, his chest was covered with a banner of prison ink displaying a gambling scene with an Ace of Spades flying off a table, and there was some more ink spilling over his shoulders. The most endearing thing about him visually as a friend from the beach in Orange County, California and these California prisons we kept meeting in, was the way his big, bald, shaped like a bullet head, sat on the rest of his long lanky frame. Underneath his bullet head his forehead creased into wrinkles and pale blue eyes were lasers of scrutiny. The whole package always made me laugh.

"I know she'll always be down for me, but my mind isn't right, I've always felt like a needy insecure orphan. I just hope she's alright and isn't getting lost without me."

Damon tilted his bullet head back and half closed his eyes in a look that told me I was out of my mind and then gave me his classic laugh that sounded like, "Up up up up."

I knew my time was up to think about the outside world, my 5 minutes of leaving the cell in a letter was over. It was time to study the cell block again where we always have issues that kill 24 hours a day, 7 days a week all year every year.

Damon accelerated me back into our gladiator world, "We’re still on lockdown, the Mexicans are going to kill one of theirs soon and we have a White crip on the way we have to deal with any day now."

I said, "You forgot something as usual. The gun tower guard Hernandez has a Mexican mafia hit out on him."

I visualized why the tower guard Hernadez had a Mexican Mafia hit out on him from conversations with inmate Rodriguez who knew first hand from seeing it go down, both at the same prison before they transferred to this one.

A couple of years ago at the Corcoran SHU State Prison in California, Hernandez was in the gun tower thinking about the inmates. Visually, Hernandez was a dark Mexican-Indian with a receding hairline and a long sloping forehead with bushy eyebrows like a whisk broom that grew into one brow. He looked like a porcupine. His dark brown eyes seemed to be all pupils over a fat wrinkled face. He looked down from the gun tower at the inmates. They were all of White and Mexican decent and there hadn't been any problems for the last month.

Every inmate was in top physical shape from workout routines done together and sweat glistened over tattooed down naked bodies other than white state issued boxers and shoes. Hernandez wanted some action and figured out how to get it...The Mexicans from southern California are at war with the Mexicans from northern California and the Whites are at war with the Black inmates. All I have to do is pop open the wrong cell at the right time...

Inmate Pericho was 20 years old, both his parents were killed when he was 10 and gang life in an east LA barrio had been the evolution. He was short at 5'7 and 170 lbs, but blended in with the other brown skinned Mexicans as they walked into the building ahead of the White inmates.

Hernandez leaned against the gun tower window 25 feet above and wondered who he should instigate some animosity with? There's inmate Rodriguez, inmate Beliz, how about the young looking inmate Pericho... He yelled at the inmates walking underneath, "Hey Pericho! You were charged with raping your niece, how come it never went to court for trial? Did you rat on your homeboys?"

Inmate Rodriguez was a 40 year old veteran gangster for the southern California Mexicans and knew Hernandez just made up the story about Pericho. He put his arm over Pericho's shoulder in a protective manner like a mother hen but it was too late.

Inmate Pericho looked up at Hernandez and yelled, "Fuck you Hernandez it was your niece I fucked and you can't rape the willing cause she's in love. Stop bein jealous you couldn't make it as a gangster and had to be a cop puto."

The dark fat Indian features on Hernandez's face changed from evil stoic to evil amused as he realized he'd won with the verbal bait on a hook.

Inmate Rodriguez tried to calm things down by placating both sides. He knew death lay right around the corner if he wasn't successful. "Come on Hernandez you don't have to earn any more stripes we know you're a killer, but leave youngster Pericho alone. He's in here for being a gangster not a rapist."

Ten minutes later with all of the inmates locked in their cells Hernandez tapped on the microphone and announced to the building, "SHOWER TIME! WHEN YOUR CELL IS POPPED OPEN YOU HAVE 10 MINUTES!"

Pericho's blood was boiling from the confrontation. He stood alone at his cell door; his cell mate was out to court on a trip to the LA county jail on another charge.

Every other cell had two inmates standing at their cell doors in white boxer shorts holding a towel waiting to see who Hernandez in the tower was going to shower first.

Rodriguez stood at the cell door watching with his cell mate and said, "Get ready for war, I can feel it coming. Hernandez is going to shower us with our northern enemies."

The first cell that opened was Pericho's. He walked to the showers and heard 2 other cells pop open right in front of him on the way to the showers 50 feet away from the gun tower.