Pelican Bay Riot (21 page)

The second demand was to eliminate group punishments. They went on to say that Pelican Bay punished an entire race if one individual broke a rule, and that the practice was used to keep that entire race in the S.H.U. indefinitely.

The third demand was for Pelican Bay to comply with the recommendations of the U.S. Commission of Safety and Abuse in Prisons regarding long term solitary confinement. They went on to say that as of May 18, 2011, California kept 3,259 prisoners in the S.H.U, with hundreds more in Administrative Segregation waiting for a S.H.U. cell to open up, with some prisoners kept in isolation for over 30 years.

The forth demand was to provide adequate food.

The fifth demand was to expand and provide constructive programs to engage in self help treatment, education and religious activities that were being denied even if the prisoners paid for it themselves.

One humanitarian group following the strike posted a request on the internet by family members of confined S.H.U. prisoners to write the Governor and legislators in Sacramento to demand justice against inhumane conditions at Pelican Bay’s S.H.U. They also gave some of the prisoner’s addresses in the S.H.U. and asked for letters of moral support.

Based on the prisoner’s last names I wrote 10 of them, 2 for every race, encouraging them that their hunger strike was paying off! That the media was picking up on it and that their 5 core demands were being broadcast to the world. I congratulated them on coming together as one to better their cause, rather than fight amongst themselves. None of the prisoners responded. I thought about the dogs at the Animal House for abandoned and abused canines. The prisoners would surely have written back just as the dogs would have welcomed a release from their cages to go for a walk.

Chapter 7

Following my directions I knew I was getting close. I looked out the window and was amazed by the beauty of the remote town that housed Pelican Bay. Ancient redwood trees soared hundreds of feet in the air like they were reaching out to the sky. An abundance of wildlife enjoyed an unspoiled nature of paradise. I watched a magnificent California condor soar through the air effortlessly and another smaller bird dive down to a river flowing through the forest. A sign on the road stated the cities nickname, The Redwood Gate to the Golden State.

I passed a diner and found the street to Pelican Bay, Lake Earl Drive and turned right. A sign said that Pelican Bay State Prison was 2.7 miles away.

Driving the last couple of miles to the prison compound the energy changed. The noise from the teeming wildlife stopped as if something tantamount was on the verge of happening. I began to make out the sounds of guns firing. At first, I thought the echoes of rifle fire was in response to a riot on the level 4 side of the prison where prisoners were allowed a limited program on the yard together. My mind instantly remembered all the riots I had been in, or watched from my stomach on a number of prison yards. Past scenes flashed by of men dressed in prison garb being pulled by the unseen force of willpower, punching, grunting, kicking, yelling, and stabbing at each other to their own destruction. I waited for the accompanying sound of the deeper, more explosive block gun, it wasn’t present. Nor, was the sound of the high pitched alarm. I listened on the edge of my seat waiting for the sound of an adrenaline charged guard from a gun tower yelling over and over through a loudspeaker to, “GET DOWN!” It didn’t come, only the reports of rifle fire, it wasn’t a riot.

I realized the explosions from guns being fired were coming from the gun tower prison guards, but it was target practice. I remembered that on level 4 prison yards they did that once in a while or when the yard was on lock down. Maybe the Pelican Bay hunger strike shut the whole prison down.

My body was tense and I realized my hands were gripping the steering wheel like a vise. The prison was coming into view as the forest opened up to fences filled with barbed wire. Inside the fences in contrast to the forest, the prison was filled with tan concrete buildings. I had to slow down because a California State Prison bus was in front of me waiting for a guard to open the first fenced in corridor to enter. A dirty cloud of exhaust lingered in the air over the drab green colored bus. The smoke slowly lifted over the tinted windows covered by steel bars. I watched a Pelican Bay prison guard dressed in a green uniform over laced up army boots take his time to get inside another boxed in fenced cage on the left side of the bus where he pressed a button and the gate for the bus opened. Two other Pelican Bay prison guards walked up with rifles and stood posted as sentries waiting. The door to the bus opened and two prison transport guards walked out holding rifles and greeted the Pelican Bay prison guards and handed them some papers. Another Pelican Bay prison guard walked up with a long thin piece of silver metal with a mirror attached to the end of it facing up. He walked around the edge of the bus with the mirror close to the ground while he examined the under carriage. Finished with his circle he nodded to the guard in the enclosed cage and the bus entered the corridor with another dark cloud of exhaust rising in its wake. I turned left and drove around the outskirts of the prison and knew I was passing the Maximum Security side of Pelican Bay. Through the barbed wire topped fences I saw the parts of the buildings the prisoners lived in that I remembered so vividly.

Five buildings went by in a tilted 180 degree circle and then the next prison yard came into view and I turned the corner and passed 2 more prison yards. A sign directed my path to the left to park in the visitor parking lot.

The parking lot for visitors was full. At least the prisoners were getting visits during their hunger strike. If I was right and the prison was trying to keep the prisoners from finding out that their hunger strike was building momentum by keeping their mail, it wasn’t working.

On my way to the visiting room I realized that most of the other visitors were media representatives. Some were outfitted with hats that signified which branch of media they were representing and I noticed that all of them had media passes hanging around their necks. I saw a forty something young black lady with a hat that signified she was from a radio station and noticed her name and nickname on her press pass hanging from her neck, Washina, Sista Soul.

I was hungry for conversation after the 14 hour drive, and curious. “Hi Sista Soul, who are you visiting?”

Sista Soul scrunched up her eyes like she was analyzing me to see if I was trustworthy so I smiled as big as possible. She must have seen something in my character that soothed her soul because her eyes crinkled a little. She asked, “Are you the F.B.I?” I laughed, “Not quite, I’m an ex-convict worried about my friend. I don’t think he’s been getting my mail.”

Sista Soul smiled as deeply as I was smiling and her whole face turned into a glow that centered on her eyes. She said, “He probably isn’t getting your mail. The media showed up right as the prisoners started hunger striking and there were groups of protesters already here. The prison kicked the protesters out but they couldn’t keep us out. They put the whole prison on lock down but it didn’t stop the message from getting out. Prisoners at 4 other prisons joined in the hunger strike.” I knew that Corcoran, Centinella, Calipatria and Folsom had just followed suit with Pelican Bay in the hunger strike but was curious about her visit, so I asked again, “Who are you visiting?”

“I’m visiting a Mexican inmate who is dying. He’s a validated gang member from east L.A. doing a life sentence. He’s been in the S.H.U. for 8 years and the Inmate Gang Investigators are preying on his bad health. They keep telling him that if he debriefs and gives up information on his neighborhood they’ll make sure he gets better medical attention. He refused and when he came back from surgery the staples in his stomach opened. He had to hold his intestines inside his stomach all night and then, when the guards finally came they told him he had to wait for the next shift.”

I didn’t have any words and just stared at Sista Soul’s face. It had hardened into one of perseverance. She had definitely climbed some mountains and still fought for the underdog.

Chapter 8

I made my way to the visiting room and realized something. I’d only sent letters of inspiration; I’d never had a visit with a prisoner from this perspective. Up to this point, I was the one in prison. Having enough of that experience, I knew what I was facing. Damon knew I was coming and the reprieve from his cell and daily torment, for a small touch of the outside world, would be like a drop of manna from heaven. I also knew the downside. That he would have to go back to his cell, back to the slow motion riot of sadism.

Pelican Bay’s visiting room wasn’t any different than most of the newly built prisons and county jails. They were all following the famous philosopher and architect; Sir Samuel Benthon’s panoptic design so that every prisoner was facing the prison guards in a circle so there weren’t any blind spots. I made it through the process and was told to go to booth 23.

I walked through another door and saw the visiting booths next to each other in a gradual circle. It looked like there were 10 booths before the next segment of the circle continued behind another doorway. The booths were small enclosed rooms about the size of a large closet with a number on the door. Booth 23 was the second one, next to an empty one for attorney visits. Every other booth had a visit in progress or planned. I opened the door to booth 23 in anticipation of seeing my friend’s face. It was empty so I sat down and picked up the phone connected to the plexiglass and rubbed the end I would be speaking through on my shirt and watched.

A few minutes later the visiting door opened. A prison guard’s face came into view and he entered. He took an inventory by running his hands under the metal seat and table, and then he picked up the phone and pulled on it, then studied the visiting glass separating us and then exited. 2 other prison guards were behind him and I realized they were I.G.I. Gooners. They must be Damon’s escort.

I was waiting in anticipation to see what Pelican Bay was molding my friend into. In my last memory of him he was 38 years old. Gifted with good DNA, he was 6’3 with a long angular build that ended in a large bald head that I told him was shaped like a bullet. The large bald head made him an intimidating presence with his athletic and ripped frame peppered with tattoos, but I saw the soft heart inside of him and was hoping Pelican Bay hadn’t wiped it away.

I saw a hunched over form shuffle stepping behind the two I.G.I. Gooners with two other prison guards holding each shoulder. Damon’s bald, bullet shaped head was facing down and his forehead looked like the wrinkles had deepened. His skin looked pale. He wasn’t the same person. The two prison guards stopped him in front of the door and made him kneel down by pressing on his shoulders and I realized he had leg chains around his ankles. He still had his head bent down facing the ground. I couldn’t see his face. While the prison guards took off his leg chains one of the two I.G.I. Gooners entered the visiting room and picked up the phone and looked at me. He was waiting for me to put the phone to my ear. I put the phone to my ear without taking my eyes off my friend, and said, “What?”

The I.G.I. Gooner said, “Look at me.”

I tore my eyes from Damon, wondering why his head was down, and looked at the Gooner. A pair of brown eyes focused on mine. I looked at his chest for a name, Parker, then noticed his rolled up sleeves. Parker looked like a body builder on steroids. His face was pockmarked with acne underneath brown hair combed straight back. On top of his shoulder, over the uniform, there was a plastic straw set up to drink from. He must have some kind of diet or protein drink attached somewhere attached to his uniform. I focused back on his eyes. Parker said, “Now that I have your undivided attention listen up. This visit is being monitored. Anything said that we think can disrupt the security of the institution will end the visit. Don’t talk about the prison. Are we clear?”

I wanted to tell puffed up Parker to get a life but just answered, “Crystal.” Parker set the phone down on the table and walked out. The two I.G.I. Gooners were done taking the ankle jewelry off and they lifted him to his feet and pushed him in the cell. Without lifting his face much he entered the booth while the door was closed by guards behind him. He backed his handcuffed hands up to a tray slot in the door behind him and one wrist was released and then the other. Damon lifted his face to look at me.

His face was swollen and battered. His right eye was black and was a mixture of red broken vessels straining against the green color of his iris. Both of his lips were busted open and swollen beyond belief. The gash in his upper lip needed stitches to close the half inch gap. I smiled at him like nothing was out of the ordinary and watched him pick up the phone and put it to his ear as he settled in his seat.

With a gravely tired voice Damon said, “Thanks for coming.”

My mind was a tornado traveling a million miles an hour in circles looking for the perfect words of calm inspiration. My friend’s battered body and weary soul had me in shock. I held it in and said, “I love you brother. Of course I’d come to see your bullet head.”

Damon smiled and I saw the exterior of Pelican Bay’s influence melt away a little. He said, “We can’t talk about what life is like in here. They’ll shut the visit down.” I nodded my head and said, “Let’s talk about what life will be like when you get released.”