The Unknown Mongol 2

by Scott Ereckson

  The weeks seemed to drag as I waited for my court date. With my mind engulfed with anticipation, it was like psychological torture. Was I getting out? Or finishing this long ass sentence?

  On Friday afternoon May 19th, 2000, just like every other day, I left work and returned to the yard for midday count where oddly enough Dooby was waiting by the gate. “Did ya hear what happened?” “The MONGOLS got raided this morning.” “How bad?” Dooby just shook his head. “All I know is what I heard on the news, 7OO cops from local and federal agencies hit chapters in 4 states and rounded up 80 MONGOLS after a 28-month investigation.”

  While returning to the cell block, I was instantly slapped with a surge of anxiety. A question suddenly emerged ; Was I really going back to court for an evidentiary hearing, or were they taking me back to indict me on R.I.C.O. (Racketeer, Influenced, Corrupt Organizations, Act.) charges? It suddenly all seemed so clear, the timing was too perfect, no-one ever gets lucky enough for a new trial. These bastards were bringing me back for a freakin R.I.C.O. charge which for me, likely meant a life sentence in federal prison. With a phone call already arranged, I dialed for the details.

  First, I called LONG HAIR DAVE, and there was no answer. My next call went to RED DOG, again no answer. Shit, why wasn’t any one picking up the freakin phone? Then it dawned on me, maybe they were both busted. With minimal phone time left, I called Dee knowing she’d have some sort of information. Within two rings she picked up. “Hey babe.” “What the hell is going on out there?” “The club had a fuckin snitch; They picked up RED DOG and LONG HAIR DAVE.” My brain struggled to digest what I was hearing, before I got busted, they were my Sgt. At Arms and Vice President, without a doubt the feds would be coming after me next. I listened closely while Dee read from the newspaper, which confirmed everything Dooby had heard on the local news.

  To my surprise, our club had been infiltrated by a federal agent. After a 28-month investigation, 700 law enforcement officers raided numerous homes in California, Oklahoma, Nevada and Georgia arresting 54 of my MONGOL brothers. This bewildered me, how could a freakin fed sneak into our club when we ran such a tight ship?

  First, a respected member had to raise his hand for you, followed with months of hanging around and an extensive background check before you were even considered for a prospect. Not to mention a personal interview with RED DOG himself, surely RED DOG could sniff out a rat.

  Dee promised to keep me informed on any new information, until then I’d just wait and wonder about the real reason of my upcoming trip back to court. My next move was to try and reach Bailey, maybe there was a chance he’d heard something about a possible federal indictment.

  The following day I reached Bailey. He had heard about the raid, of course who hadn’t, it was blasted on every freakin news channel and newspaper across the nation. On a positive note, Bailey hadn’t heard of any charges directed specifically at me, and the son of a bitch even had the gall to suggest I was being overly paranoid. I mean really, who in the hell was I foolin? If the feds were going to indict me on R.I.C.O. charges they sure in hell wouldn’t tell him.

  That weekend I enjoyed a Saturday visit with Dee, though she hadn’t heard any more about the raid, she did inform me that LONG HAIR DAVE had been released from federal custody and wanted me to call A.S.A.P.... I loved visiting with Dee but found myself spending the last hour of our visit clock watching and wondering how I could maneuver an evening phone call. It was obvious to her my mind was somewhere else, so we agreed to end the visit early. If it bothered her she didn’t show it, with so much shit going through my head I didn’t really care.

  Between Dooby and I, we always kept a big stash of canteen, whether it be coffee, tobacco or soups (Top Ramen’s) which were used for prison currency. If he or I didn’t have a phone call scheduled, we could usually buy one. Sure enough, Dooby hustled an after-dinner phone call for that evening.

  With the phone in my hand I stared at the wall patiently waiting for LONG HAIR to pick up. Just as I was ready to give up, I heard his familiar voice. “Hello.” “Hey what’s going on?” “Nuthin good.” I pressed the phone firmly to my ear careful to hear every word.

  Shortly after my arrest in 1998 our San Fernando Valley Chapter had dropped to a total of only 4 members. In a situation like that, the chapter is given 3 options, recruit new prospective members, accept transferred members from other local chapters, or the worst case sonario, fold the chapter.

  Since San Fernando Valley was one of our most valued and oldest chapters, in my opinion, to fold the chapter was out of the question. My decision as National President, would have been to temporarily transfer a couple of Mother Chapter members to raise the membership and to help oversee new growth. But then again, I was no longer National President. The decision was made by others for the chapter to go on what I call a “recruiting spree.” Desperation for new members and the threat of chapter dissolution, in my opinion caused not only San Fernando Valley Chapter but the whole club to lose focus on one of the most important aspects, (security).

  CHAPTER 11

  They knew him as Billy St John, but his real name was Billy Queen an actual undercover A.T.F. agent. At San Fernando Valley Chapter’s lowest and most vulnerable point, Billy Queen like a slimy eel, saw an opening and slid through a small crack into the chapter.

  The media made a big deal of the fact Queen had climbed the ranks to the Secretary Treasurer, but in all reality, that didn’t mean shit, considering the chapter only had 4 members so, do the math. You got the President, Vice President, Sargent at Arms, and finally the Secretary Treasurer. Of course, that freakin rat Queen became Sargent at Arms, there was no-one left in the chapter to do it. It reminded me of the guy that bragged about coming in 2nd in a foot race, when there were only two guys running.

  So, like a homeless scavenger bouncing from dumpster to dumpster searching for anything that might be eatable, Queen bounced from chapter to chapter wearing a freakin wire, taping any little piece of bullshit he and his boss John Ciccone thought might be admissible in a federal court of law.

  On Wednesday evening, the 31st of May 2000 when I was notified I’d be going (out to court) early the next morning.

  The day I had dreamed about for two and a half years had finally come. But surely enough, it seemed my emotions were now caught in a tug a war between joy and fear. Was I returning for a chance at a new trial and maybe even freedom, or a life sentence in a federal prison due to a R.I.C.O. indictment? Though we didn’t know exactly, Dooby and I knew this day was eventually coming, so we were readily prepared.

  I had become somewhat spoiled while living with Dooby, whether it be food, coffee, or tobacco they were always at my disposal. One of the worst things about returning to county jail custody was you weren’t allowed to bring any of your state property with you. Which meant upon my arrival, I wouldn’t have shit. It could be weeks before I could get any money on the county books and even longer before I could make it to canteen. I didn’t even know how long I’d be there. The bottom line was I had to have money or some sort of bargaining power to get what I needed upon my arrival.

  By the year 2000, the use of tobacco was no longer permitted in any county facilities but still abundant in state prison. Without a doubt, smuggling tobacco into county jail would quickly get me all the supplies needed to make my temporary stay comfortable.

  Carefully stashed in his hobby kit, Dooby removed a pair of latex gloves that were saved for a special occasion and the occasion was now. With a razor blade, each finger including the thumbs were cut from each glove and set aside and worked perfect as smuggling balloons. Besides the tobacco, I would need rolling papers and most importantly, matches. From a book of matches, I plucked out each individual match then carefully split each one apart turning each head to 2, then each match was snipped about a quarter of an inch below the half head now leaving me a total of 40 mini igniters. After dumping them all into one of the glove fingers, I neatly folded 25 rolling papers in half (length wis
e), then starting from one end, rolled them into a little snail like circle and added them to the glove finger. Finally, I tore the striker off the match pack, peeled the paper from the back leaving only the thin sand paper front, this was also added to the little rubber package which was doubled and then tripled with more balloons to ensure no moisture could penetrate.

  Now it was time for the tobacco. Grabbing a handful from the blue Bugler can I spread the tobacco out evenly on a piece of paper lightly misting it with water. This would allow the tobacco to pack tighter in another balloon. The tobacco itself was important to triple balloon, a leak with that much-concentrated nicotine, (especially stuffed up your ass) could easily kill you.

  When finally done, with each layer of latex balloon tied off at the top with dental floss (for easy reusable access) there sat two little 2-inch bullet shaped pellets greased up and ready for a quick insertion. I know for some of you reading this, it may be hard to grasp (no pun intended) but to us who are incarcerated, carrying stuff around in your ass, like dope or sometimes even weapons was often necessary and considered just to be part of the program. Yeah, that’s right people, welcome to the big house.

  That evening, I was careful not to eat any dinner knowing I’d have two balloons crammed up my ass for at least an hour and a half bus ride, not to mention the additional time it took to be reprocessed back into county custody. I literally couldn’t afford to take a shit. It could be as long 8 to 10 hours before I got a cell.

  At about 4:00am the sudden opening of my cell door awoke me. Quickly I grabbed the two pre-greased balloons from under my pillow, wasting no time, pushed them up into their temporary vault (my ass). Within minutes my uniformed escorts were at the door waiting.

  The walk from my cell to R&R had quite the different ambiance, considering it was something I hadn’t expected for another 10 years. Though I wasn’t going home, or at least not yet, still a faint tinge of freedom seemed to linger with hope of a possible release directly from the county jail.

  Entering R&R, I quickly recognized the green uniforms worn by two members of the green gang (L.A. county Sheriff’s Dept.), who were busy signing papers. There, I was placed into a holding tank where my state blue button-down shirt and creased denim pants were traded for an orange jumpsuit. In what seemed like minutes, I found myself shackled in both wrist and ankle restraints and then shuffled out the door and into a court yard where an empty white van awaited. “Wow, my own private limo?” “Am I that important?” I said in joking manner but got no response. Those freakin L.A county Sheriff deputies were all cloned from the same mold with the sense of humor of a freakin sea urchin.

  It was hard to believe I had the whole van to myself, then again, it was hard to believe I was leaving the walls had of Donovan State Prison and headed for interstate 5. Though the ride was quite scenic and enjoyable, I still dreaded my destination. I was on my way back to the closest place to hell on earth, (L.A. county jail.)

  Once there, to my surprise processing went quick due to the fact all the custody change papers (state to county) had all been signed before I left Donovan.

  6 hours from my prison departure, I found myself locked down in the 1600 block on the old side of L.A. county jail. This block was basically fish row (temporary housing) for gang related high power new arrivals, and home for some of the most dangerous men in county custody. I never really considered myself to be in that category but due to the fact I was the ex- National President of the MONGOLS M.C. and a direct transfer from state prison, apparently, they did.

  The cell was small, old and stunk like shit, definitely a far cry from what I was used to. I found it necessary to scope things out before I could even think about extracting my 2 concealed packages.

  Directly across from my cell was a wall with 2-way glass about 4 feet from the floor, meaning I would never truly know when or if I was being watched by Sheriff Deputies. Taking my time, I slowly made my bed and surveyed every inch of my new home. Doing this, I found what looked like a blind spot at the foot of my bunk out of view from the adjacent 2-way glass, but I couldn’t be sure. When done, I laid down for some well needed rest and began to listen.

  When arriving in a new block or at least for me, keeping your mouth shut and ears open was a most useful tool in finding out about your surroundings. Inmates in the county jail and especially in a single cell block, always seemed to run their freakin mouths 24/7 giving me insight to who was who and what cell they were housed in. Within the first hour of my arrival, I knew almost everyone’s name on the tier, what cell they were in, and who was calling the shots merely by listening.

  It was now time to retrieve the balloons. Still in my bunk and covered with a gray wool blanket, I rolled onto my left side putting my back to the wall, reaching around I released the two balloons into my right hand.

  With the balloons now cupped in my hand, I nonchalantly rolled out of bed, went to the sink keeping my back to the bars and washed away the residue.

  Once they were rinsed of all fecal matter, I cupped one in my hand and popped the other in my mouth. Keeping in mind, one balloon held tobacco and the other contained papers, match-heads and a thin strip of striker. Next on the list, was to sell this shit A.S.A.P.

  Just from listening, I realized I was one of only two Woods on the tier with the other one conveniently housed in the cell directly to the right of me. Tapping on the wall, I hoped to get his attention. Within seconds a tattooed hand grasping a small circular mirror appeared through the neighboring bars revealing his hardcore image. I was right, sure enough he was a Wood (white boy). “You’re here from the Pen?” “Yep, shoot me over some paper and a pencil.” I said with a whisper. Just as I had gained information earlier by merely listening, I knew everyone else could also, so the rest of our conversation continued in kites (small notes) passed back and forth.

  His name was Eddy Joe and was fighting a murder robbery charge. If convicted, I knew that charge carried the death penalty and I’m sure he did too but nothing of that was said. Through our kites, what my ears had told me earlier was validated. Eddy Joe and I were the only 2 whites on a predominantly Hispanic row. Holding the keys (the shot caller) was a Southsider who we’ll refer to as Temper. The tier tender was an inmate whose job it was to maintain the tier. After each meal, the tender pushed a broom passing every cell.

  He was also used as what you might refer to as kind of a mailman delivering kites from cell to cell along the way.

  After dinner, I watched as the tier tender slowly pushed his broom pass my cell. Our eyes locked but no words were said. Reaching the end of the tier, he made a U-turn and again made his way in my direction.

  Clenched in my hand was my kite (a small piece of paper describing my smuggled cargo). As he passed I grabbed his attention. “Give this to Temper” as the kite smoothly traded hands. Within minutes he returned with a reply. Handing off the kite, he continued pushing his broom. I opened the tiny paper to read “What do you want for it?” What I had was gold, not only did I have the tobacco, but also the fire to light it, which was worth just as much if not more.

  I could have broke down the bulk and sold individual cigarettes, making more of a profit, but along with that came with more unneeded attention, and that’s something I didn’t want. I went through the hassle of smuggling this shit to get the things I needed, not spending my stay in the freakin hole.

  With no need to get greedy, my list only covered basic needs. It was Wednesday evening and though I hadn’t yet been told an exact court date, I figured it had to be the following Monday or Tuesday which still left the question, when would I be returned to state prison? As for my list, I wanted to keep it short and simple, shower shoes, writing paper, pre-stamped envelopes, and munchies such as chips and candy.

  In prison, Top Romen soups and coffee are a must, but in the county jail, getting boiling hot water was a problem. Within an hour, Temper (I’m sure with some help from his homies) had the tier tender deliver a pillow case filled with my requests, where I
then gladly traded my smuggled cargo minus a few smokes and lights for Eddy Joe and myself.

  The next morning, the whole cell block reeked of burning tobacco, it seemed a cigarette had reached almost every cell. As the main gate opened and the breakfast carts were push in, the deputy yelled; “Better get rid of the fuckin tobacco!” Since my smuggled cargo was triple wrapped in rubber, I kept my personal balloon safely stashed in my ass. With the smell of burning tobacco being so prominent, my past experience told me what to expect next.

  I had just slid my empty food tray out on the row for pick up, when I heard the block gate quickly open followed by the sound numerous shuffling feet. Just as I had anticipated, the green gang flooded the row, it was a shakedown. Now, with a deputy at every cell, all doors simultaneously opened. Already in boxers, we were then handcuffed and seated on the floor against the wall directly across from our cells. Fueled with anger and purpose, we watched as the green gang desperately tore our shit apart searching for contraband (mainly tobacco).

  When they were done, my cell looked like it had been hit by a freakin tornado, sheets torn off, mattress on the floor along with my scattered newly acquired items. Only after the strip search, were we allowed to return to our cells to reassemble what little we had. Just as I had finished remaking my bed, I turned to see some fat pimply face little deputy wearing coke bottle glasses standing in front of my cell.

  With his hands on his hips, I caught glimpse of sergeant bars sewn on the shoulders of his wrinkled shirt. “Ereckson, can you explain why you arrived only yesterday with nothing and now you have a pillow case full of canteen items?” It was obvious where he was going with this. “Ah, I guess my neighbors felt sorry for my broke ass and all pitched in to help a brother out.” I could tell by the look on his face he wasn’t buying it.