ROLL CALL ~ A Prison List (True Prison Story) (7 page)

Deputy Jackson came back in from the other side of the building so I waved cell 223 off. Grisham asked me under his breath, “What did that guy ask?”

I told him, “Where we were from and affiliation… I told him O.C.”

We walked to our cells and I told Grisham the three cells I had identified as being white on the top tier. It was easy, all I had to do was watch the guy who had been finger signing me finger sign the other two cells. I scanned the bottom tier and saw a serious white face studying us at the corner of B-section in cell 117 and one studying us in the last cell in C-section, 125 right next to the showers. Every other cell had a Mexican or black standing there studying us. As I got to my cell I told Grisham I’d see him later.

While I waited for the tower to pop my cell open I looked into the cell to take a quick inventory. I looked at the sink and toilet because you can tell a lot about your cellie by how clean he keeps it. It was chrome polished to a shine and the floor looked clear of clutter and was spotless also. I noticed a couple of floor towels he must use to take cell showers and to mop the floor with. So far so good.

The cell popped open and I stepped in and studied my cellie. He stood there in his state issue white boxers and a pair of flip flops at just under six feet and about 190 pounds. He looked cut up in the right places but looked like he lacked any real power. He looked about thirty years old, was going bald, and had blue eyes that looked a little frayed from life and a bunch of happy tattoos. He must have loved the ying-yang because he had it tattooed on his chest, his shoulder and his stomach. There was a Yosemite Sam tattoo on his other shoulder and some tribal and barbed wire on his arms.

He stepped up to shake my hand and said, “I’m Dave from San Berdoo.”

I looked Dave in the eyes and shook his hand. “I’m B.J. from Orange County. Nice to meet you. How long have you been here?”

I moved around Dave to get situated and noticed his bed was made with his mattress rolled up on the top bunk. I had to wonder if he actually preferred the top bunk or if he just wanted to avoid any confrontation over wanting the bottom bunk, wanting control of the cell and a lot of other things that have to do with control. Dave started talking while I situated things.

“I’ve been here three months! I should be out of here any day now that I’ve seen my counselor and been classified. This place sucks! I hate it here! The counselors don’t want to do their jobs… And nobody else does either!”

I thought to myself, I only asked how long you’ve been here! David looked like your regular run of the mill drug user. I was guessing speed and a secondary drug or two like alcohol and pot. David continued with his negativity.

“You’re going to hate this place! We don’t get any program at all. This building has been locked down for six months. No yard, no dayroom, no store… nothing!”

I finished tying my sheets to the mattress and then rolled the mattress up in a tight roll and set it at the end of the bunk so my part of the cell was ship shape. I had heard from a few people what had been going on at Wasco but information is often unreliable. “Why has this building been on lock down?”

Dave said, “The Mexicans from Fresno have been going at it with the hommies on all of the buildings on D-yard.”

I said, “I already know they’ve been going at it on this yard for years. Ever since they stopped being allied with each other at prisons up north and Corcoran, but what does that have to do with the whites?”

Dave looked uncomfortable. He must not know. Or was he uncomfortable passing along what he’d heard, unsure if it was bona fide? Or did he just not want to get involved? I tried to fish out what his awareness was. “Is it because we’re allied with them at certain prisons like Southern California? Maybe because we work out together there? Or maybe because we do business with them, say our good mornings and good nights to them in our cadences? Maybe they think we’re passing weapons for them?”

Dave looked like these thoughts were out of his league. I had to wonder if he was really that naive. I tried to help him see what I was saying. Maybe we’re caught in their war’s crossfire? Maybe the Fresno Mexicans are just trying to flex on us as a show of force to try and hold down this prison and make a name for themselves since this prison is located in their backyard and it’s really their only chance to. Still nothing out of David.

So far David was failing every test in my eyes. He hadn’t done any homework on me to see who I was. He didn’t seem to know what was going on in our block and in general seemed to want to stay hidden under a rock. That didn’t inspire much trust in a place you needed to know your cellie had your back. I asked again with an edge to my voice. “Why are the whites locked down in this building? You’re telling me you don’t have a clue?”

Dave gave me the universal ‘I don’t know’ shrugging of the shoulders but finally came up with something. “We’ve been having problems with the Fresno Mexicans and blacks at some of the other buildings on this yard and this is where all of the trouble makers are sent. Screwball has this building for the whites and he’ll give you the 411. He’ll be shooting his line over here to you…” Right on cue I heard a sliding thump and saw a flash under the cell door.

The cell door had about two inches of clearance space at the bottom of it for incoming and outgoing business. I looked at the toothpaste container a couple of inches in front of the cell too far and followed the line to where it came from. A granite stoic white face stood inside a cell six cells away staring at me. I nodded my head in acknowledgment and got down on the ground to pull his line in. My cellie already had a two foot long stick made of rolled up magazine up against the wall so I grabbed it and used it to get the screwball’s line. I asked my cellie, “Do you have a good line already made or do I have to make one or get one?”

Dave went through his stuff and pulled it out. It was a single serving milk carton that had been folded down with soap in it to give it added weight. While he was already in his stuff I asked him if he had his paper work so I could start running my make on him. Homework.

Inside screwball’s toothpaste container there was a folded up note or what we call a kite. Screwball’s kite was written in very small clear print like he was always conserving paper and space. It read: Greeting Komrad, this is screwball and my cellie is bouncer! We both send our loyalty and honor to you full blast. It’s good to have you here. You look familiar… I’ll be able to get out of the cell later and I’ll come by and talk to you. I’m responsible for this block so I’ll need to see your paper work, along with the guy that just rolled in with you a few cells down. Once that’s cleared I’ll get at you with the 411 on this building and yard. With Vigilance and Respect, screwball. P.S. stay tied to my line.

I got out all of my felonious paper work and found the one that said I didn’t have any sexual offenses and put it on top. I appreciated the fact that he wanted to see it because if screwball was doing his job right sex offenders who molested women and children would get at least something sharp poked in them to take to the infirmary and a scar for life to remind them of their ways. The rest of the paper work would show the manager of the building what kind of crimes were involved so nobody could try to act like a bigger criminal then they were. A purse snatcher couldn’t run his mouth that he was some kind of drug mobster and so on. It reduced fraud somewhat. I knew that when no one was running the building, yard or streets with an iron fisted program everyone wants to be that guy and it promotes a lot of bragging that I’ve done this or that. If screwball was a field general he’d call on those individuals to step up to the plate and be on deck to put in work to keep up the program of “Handle your business, not talk about it.”

I sent my paperwork to screwball and checked my cellie’s. He was a small time drug and alcohol abuser like I thought. The only thing that made me frown was a domestic issue he had with his spouse but it was one of those verbal fights more than anything seriously violent. I noticed the end of my cellie’s fishing line had another milk carton for a car on it so I called out to Grisham a few cells down that I was sending it. I sent it a couple of cells down and heard screwball yell for me to “Pull your line!”

Screwball’s next kite read: B.J., I know of you through the grapevine and many mutual acquaintances and it’s a pleasure to cross paths. I’m going to move you to my cell in the next few days. My utmost respect from one white soldier to another. This block has been locked down since November. Seven months of 24-7 slammed in your cell slow motion. No yard, no dayroom and worse yet no store! I’ve been working on the Lieutenant and the associate warden to at least let us get to the store for cosmetics. I shot your cellie a deodorant I broke into over ten pieces to pass around to the white cells in here. Let me know if you need toothpaste, soap or anything else at all, don’t hesitate. I got to this prison in December and started in one block where I did my homework on this issue we’re having with Fresno. To give you a feel for how they are apt to get down, 10 of them jumped a sixty year old wino of ours. I conducted a retaliation move to balance the books before they could mount one on us to get over here. I’ll fill you all the way in when I come by and for now keep it brief. Currently in this building we’re debating a peace treaty with Fresno but it’s lopsided. We have to send a white soldier we have in this block to another block to satisfy it. That white soldier peeled one of their caps with a razor in another building and got away with it by sliding the piece under a cell to get rid of it. I don’t want to get dictated to by another race like that but that is what’s on the table at this point. We get showers tomorrow so enjoy your fifteen minutes of freedom from your cell because that’s all you get three times a week. I’ll come by and talk to you then. I’m enclosing two of the four cigarettes I had left and the white roll call for all of D yard including what I know about in the administrative segregation hole building six so you’ll know if you have any of your loved ones here. Make sure you flush it when you’re done checking it out!! With that said good night to you and your cellie. Screwball.

I had read screwball’s kite out loud for my cellie’s benefit, common courtesy. I threw it in the toilet and began reading the roll call list to myself.

Dave asked me, “What’s on that kite? The roll call list he mentioned?”

I nodded my head yes while scanning for familiar names. I found a couple in six block’s hole, one on the other side of our block and a couple in building’s one and two. It’s a small world after all.

Dave intruded and said, “You’re the seventh cellie I’ve had and none of us have gotten to check out a roll call list.”

I didn’t say anything. Dave was winning some small points by coming out from under his rock. The pause got pregnant and he wasn’t pushing the issue. It got a little uncomfortable and he finally got bold enough to ask, “Do I have any homeboys from San Bernardino?”

I decided to throw a dog a bone and let David feel a little less neglected and read off the Inland Empire A.K.A.’s on the list.

CHAPTER 14

Screwball came by my cell the next morning after I was done with the fifteen minute shower. Screwball stood there with a soldier’s posture at just over six feet of thin but strong tendony muscle. He carried himself with poise like he’d already faced what the world could throw at him and found himself able. His eyes radiated how intense he was. When they fixed on your position they were like lasers that could reduce all fraudulence to the barest reality. He had a small lightning bolt tattoo under his right eye that accentuated his granite cheek bone. Other tattoos on his body looked like they were going to have meaning to him until the day he died and looked like they were placed strategically by an architect. He managed to still carry a clean, almost G.Q. look despite the ink. He began by explaining the most serious incident. I imagined seeing it in my head.

Pequeno was standing on the toilet in his cell so he could talk to Tico his neighbor through the vent.

“Hey, homeboy!! Did you get the kite?” He was talking about the kite all of the Mexican’s from Fresno were passing to each other cell to cell. Both Pequeno and Tico were kids and didn’t realize there was a white cell above them who was attached to the same vent listening to their conversation.

Tico stood on his toilet so he could get up to the vent and level with Pequeno. “Yeah homeboy I got the kite… It’s from the big hommie and it says it’s mandatory and on site…” Tico paused wondering if it was okay to talk about this kind of stuff through the vent. Then he blew it harder so he wouldn’t look as scared as he felt about everything. “When the cells crack open it’s time to take flight on the whites.”

Pequeno blew it just as hard. “Yeah homeboy, tomorrow morning at breakfast it’s on and cracking.”

Both Pequeno and Tico considered that since their cells weren’t going to get popped open as early as most of their other homeboys they might not be involved. They both breathed a sigh of relief until they remembered that last week their section went to chow first! It was a long night for the youngsters.

In the cell above, Mike also known as Italy, was writing a warning kite to cell 106 about what he’d just heard. He knew that was going to be the first white cell released to breakfast in the morning.

For breakfast the food was set up in deep dish pans for the inmates to file in a single file line to get their issue one section at a time. Jason, also known as Damaged, was standing inside cell 106 staring out the Plexiglas window. He was in the last cell of A-section, a corner cell. Out of the other five cells in front of him four of them held Mexicans from Fresno, the other held black inmates. Damaged thought about he and his cellie’s odds, eight against two, not good. Damaged went over the things in his head that he did have going for him to balance the odds. Their cell was a corner cell so they couldn’t get surrounded initially being the last cell in that line; they were already aware of their adversary’s intentions; and, most important, he had a lot of level four experience under his belt.