The Unknown Mongol 2

by Scott Ereckson

  Since I had just arrived from state prison where tobacco was abundant and legal to possess, I’m sure he figured I was the source, but with no physical evidence, couldn’t prove it.

  The days seemed to crawl by and I was reminded just how jacked up county jail time was. I’d been here before and I knew it was all about routine. You had to have a routine to keep from going insane.

  Mine consisted of sleeping in if possible, push-ups, sit-ups and running in place after every meal and ending each night with writing 2 letters. One was to Dee and the other to my Mom, due to the fact they were the only two addresses I knew by heart. When writing every night, it was easy to find myself writing the same old shit, so I tried to keep it fresh with an assortment of poems to Dee, and my deepest thoughts to my Mother.

  Early morning June 5th, 2000, I again found myself shackled and seated on a county bus in route to the San Fernando Valley court house. After almost 3 years, the too familiar drive that was always dreaded, this time was welcomed. This was it, with some new testimony, and a bunch of luck, I could be on the trail to freedom.

  Myself along with a few others, entered the rear of the court house and were marched down the echoing corridor to the holding tanks. As the tank door clanked behind me, and for the first time in a jail holding tank I was alone, the tank seemed bigger and even more odd was the silence. With eyes closed, I bowed my head to help absorb what was really happening. Just the fact I was sitting there seemed miraculous. Months earlier alone in my prison cell and in desperation, I had dropped to my knees and cried for help. Was it possible just maybe someone or something greater had heard me?

  Entering the court room, I hoped to see some family but to my disappointment the hearing had been limited to only those directly involved. Like a boxing ring, in my corner sat Bailey and Tucker, in the other sat the district attorney and that sawed-off little shit, Sergeant Butcher. Seated behind us, sat four men whom at the time I found to be unrecognizable.

  As the hearing began, each one of the men gave testimony to what they saw at Armand’s bar on that hot afternoon of August 2nd, 1997. Though there were slight differences, each testimony was basically the same describing what Bailey referred as (the unprovoked attack) against Reno and myself. Going after their credibility, the D.A. appeared agitated as each man stood strong when cross examined. These were simple hard working, beer drinking men who had no reason to lie and had nothing in common except sitting at the bar on that hot August afternoon.

  After 2 hours of testimony, the judge sat in silence, obviously in deep thought. With his elbow planted atop his desk and fist firmly pressed to his cheek, he then cleared his throat. “I find this new-found evidence most compelling, though I have no hard evidence of any mischievous or wrong doings on the behalf of law enforcement, I can’t help but feel as if something in this case might have been overlooked.”

  With those words said, the hearing was adjourned only to be continued in 30 days. I was led out of the court room and returned to my solitary holding tank. I felt sick to my stomach as my emotions battled between joy and disappointment. It was impossible to read the judge’s thoughts. Now I’d have to go another 30 days of mental torment wondering if there was a chance for a new trial or finishing out the rest of my 14-year sentence.

  L.A. County wasted no time in arranging my departure. The following day I was returned to Donovan state prison and found myself again in R&R. Though I was gone only 6 days, due to prison overcrowding, I had temporarily lost my cell with Dooby. After my prison property was returned, I was given a new cell in a different cell block which undoubtedly meant a brand-new cell partner.

  Moving into a new cell was a pain in the ass. When meeting a new cell partner there was always the question (who would be the alfa?) I mean I wanted to be respectful since I was moving into another man’s home, but on the same token, I wasn’t gonna take any shit.

  It was midday count as I walked across the empty yard to my new home, like always the afternoon breeze seem to whistle the same old tune of despair. While standing in front of my new cell block waiting for entry, I looked up to see a white dove perched atop a pultruding light. Cocking its head to one side, it seemed to be watching me as well. For a good minute, our eyes remained locked on each other. Like a convict stare down, neither of us seemed willing to submit. With our eyes still fixed, the snow-white bird suddenly dived from its steel perch in my direction, landing only a few feet from where I stood. Now on the ground almost close enough to touch, still it continued to stare unwilling to surrender eye contact. I know this may sound odd, but in a way, it seemed as if it was trying to communicate. From nowhere a chilling gust of wind came down upon us making the hair on my neck stand up and lifting the white dove high into the sky out of view. Something felt different, it was as if my wonder and worry had suddenly been changed to a feeling of confidence.

  “One comin in!” Yelled from the control booth as the cellblock door began to slide open. The trance had been broken, it was now time to step back into reality. And sure enough, I had a knew cell partner.

  His name was Brett from Orange county. We shook hands and while unloading my belongings, Brett took the liberty of reciting his house rules. I just smiled and thought (whatever dude) I was only gonna be there until I could maneuver a move back to Dooby’s cell. After making my bed, I climbed to the upper bunk for a little snooze. I could tell he had a thing for oriental chicks by the numerous pictures proudly posted on almost every wall.

  The trip from L.A. County Jail had made my eyes heavy and I felt myself began to fade. “Hey, you like Asian women?” Suddenly woke me. “They’re okay.” I replied just to be polite. “My wife is Korean. “Though exhausted, I pretended to listen as Brett rambled on.

  The sack lunch I’d just scarfed down in R&R had suddenly become unsettling in my gut. Sitting up in my bunk, I prepared to jump down to use the toilet when I accidently farted. “Did you just fart while I was talking about my wife?” “Sorry dude my stomach’s killin me.” Feeling momentarily relieved, I laid back down. Brett’s rambling turned to silence. I was hoping he wasn’t dwelling on my farting accident. I truly didn’t mean any disrespect, it just slipped out.

  Suddenly Brett stood and began to pace. I had a feeling where this was going but hoped I was wrong. The last thing I needed was a confrontation, especially so close to a possible new trial. The littlest thing could ruin all my chances for freedom. It was no secret I’d been out to court seeking a new trial. Within a short time, word of my return would hit the yard giving all jail house lawyers and inmates hope. In our brief introduction, I had mentioned I had just returned from L.A. County Jail out on a writ. Thinking I probably wouldn’t risk any chances of near freedom, I feared Brett might try to push the fart issue.

  Prison was full of haters with sorry attitudes. I completely understood because I was one of them. When you’re broke off with a whole grip of time, the last thing you wanna hear about is some lucky bastard getting a break. Don’t get me wrong, a few of the guys were honestly happy for you, but the majority just weren’t feellin it. Prison’s full of innocent people who like me, got railroaded, just ask’em they’ll tell ya.

  As Brett paced, he began to mumble to himself. With each step the mumbling got louder, until I finally understood what he was saying. “You disrespected my wife, I can’t believe you disrespected my wife.” As it got louder and louder, I sat up in my bed and braced my back against wall, when suddenly the pacing stopped. Now facing me with his fists clenched at his side, Brett repeatedly began to yell; “YOU DISRESPECTED MY WIFE, YOU DISRESPECTED MY WIFE!” While he was yelling, my focus remained on his face. Though his screeching voice was piercing, it was the sight of his big gaping mouth that I found most irritating.

  Now my ego fueled pride battled with my common sense. As he continued, the voice in my head kept saying; “Don’t do it, don’t do it, you’ll lose everything.” Then, uncontrollably I just snapped. Like a coiled spring, I released a kick planting my size 12 shoe directly
on his big freakin mouth knocking him backwards into the fixed steel shelving. Seeing he was disorientated, I quickly jumped to the floor to finish him off. With both hands holding his face, he dropped to his knees. There was no need to continue, in fact I felt sorry for the weak son of a bitch. Suddenly my Hallmark feelings turned to worry.

  What the hell just happened? If this bitch rats me out, that’s another assault charge, not only will I lose my chance for a new trial, but I could get struck out. Again, like so many times before, my impulsive temper may have just jacked things up.

  A week had passed since the incident with Brett, leaving a definite imprint on our relationship (no pun intended). With only three weeks left until my court date, it was obvious a move back to Dooby’s cell wasn’t gonna happen. There was a lot of things that could be said about Brett, but being a snitch wasn’t one of them. Though we got off on the wrong foot, (again, no pun intended) he really wasn’t a bad guy.

  Time seemed to slow down to the tick of a clock. This by far was the hardest time I’d ever done. Everything pivoted on this upcoming court hearing. It was emotionally rough, one moment I felt confident thinking I was getting out and the next moment I was overcome with despair. I’d heard of a few guys going back to court on appeal and even a writ, but it was rare to see someone get out.

  It seemed like forever, but the day had finally arrived. I was back in county custody and again, on my way to L.A. County Jail. Though the past thirty days had moved like a snail, it now felt like I was on this bus only yesterday, except this time I’d opted not to bring an ass full of tobacco. It was nice to have some things when you arrived, but to me, packing your ass was way more of a headache than it was worth and who knows, there was a slim chance I might even get out.

  On Wednesday July 5th, 2000, I reentered the same San Fernando Valley court room but this time to a different feel. With the seats now littered with people, the on lookers were split, family and friends on one side, Butcher with his entourage of cop cronies on the other.

  Sitting before the same judge who had sentenced me just over 2 years earlier to a 14-prison term, I found myself again at his mercy.

  By no means where we considered friends, but due to the many times I’d appeared before him, familiarity had become unavoidable. It was as if over the past years a mutual respect had been gained. I guess we were kind of like ying and yang, stuck together but (in the eyes of the people) representing two opposite things. Him, being every that’s right, and me in the being everything that’s wrong. The common bond was that we were damn good at what we did, and both of us knew it.

  The court fell silent as the judge prepared his well thought over statement. As both factions sat patiently, the judge talked through all the preliminary bull shit that at least to me, didn’t make a lick of sense, then finally, he got to the point. Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes and bowed my head preparing for his final decision, the judge began to speak.

  “After much consideration and hearing new testimony from four men, in which I believe have nothing to gain by lying, I have concluded that if this additional evidence would have been presented at the time of trial, it’s possible and very likely the outcome may have been different. Therefore, in my opinion, there are grounds for a new trial.”

  The court erupted in a combination of cheers and jeers. “Order! Order in the court!” The judge continued; “Therefore I am granting Mr. Ereckson a new trial with a date to be yet determined by the court, and may I say to you Mr. Ereckson, in my 25 years on the bench, this is the first writ of habeaus corpus I’ve ever granted so, consider this your lucky day.” Suddenly Baily rose to his feet. “Your honor, due to Mr. Ereckson’s new custody status, we would respectfully request that he be released immediately on his own recognessess.”

  Infuriated, the D.A. also rose. “Your honor, I object to this preposterous request, Mr. Ereckson is very high profile and must not be released.”

  At that time, a bail hearing date was set for 30 days. firmly shaking hands with John Baily and Dan tucker I thanked them for doing a fantastic job. “So, where do we go from here?” As Baily shuffled his large gathering of notes back into his briefcase he turned with a slight smile and answered; “As your state appointed attorney my job is done but, if you wish to retain me I would be more than happy to continue.

  Money was tight. The club had already shelled out more money for my case than any MONGOL before me. John Baily and Dan tucker had got me a new trial. I again shook their hands and said goodbye. Upon returning to the county jail, the word of my judicial victory had obviously made it back before me.

  I was detained alone in a holding tank with my hands cuffed behind my back for 4 hours, before I was finally returned to my cell. The next day I was relocated from the 1600 row to 3100 (high power) where I was reunited a few familiar faces.

  CHAPTER 12

  The infiltration of A.T.F. agent William Queen was the first hard hit by law enforcement the MONGOLS M.C. had experienced. Though I myself was not indicted, most of my arrested MONGOL brothers were detained in federal custody, including RED DOG.

  All along RED DOG had a gut feeling that Billy Queen was a federal agent but failed to convince other high-ranking brothers, who for some reason thought RED was just being what they called (overly paranoid). Just as RED DOG had it out for Queen, the feeling was mutual. Wearing a wire, Queen recorded RED DOG simply saying; “Pass me the gun” which was enough for a federal indictment. Though most of the indictments were federal, there was still a handful of MONGOLS also being held in state custody.

  One of those brothers was housed in the cell directly to the left of me and was known as PANHEAD. Charged with second degree murder, PANHEAD’s case as far as the state was concerned, was the whale in a sea of minnows.

  All the other cases against brothers were small time bullshit, like drugs and gun possessions that would only carry up to five years. But if convicted, PANHEAD’s case carried a life sentence.

  Ran by the Southsiders, 3100 block was a good block to be in, and most the time everyone on the row got along. The Southsiders had heard of the club raid and gave PANHEAD and I the utmost respect, that is as long as we played by their rules. The whole freakin jail was ran by the Southsiders and It would have been foolish to buck their program.

  The tier tender on our row was a large black guy whose name was Henry Tillman. When not sweeping, or mopping, Tillman was often seen jogging up and down the row shadow boxing for exercise. Being I had some boxing experience it was obvious that Tillman’s quick jabs and monstrous left hooks were not that of a rooky. Only years later would I find out just who Henry Tillman was.

  Henry Tillman won the heavyweight amateur boxing title in the 1984 Olympics held in Los Angeles California defeating Mike Tyson not once, but twice. Later Tillman turned professional with a record of 25 wins and only 4 losses, two of the losses being to Evander Holyfield in 1987. Then three years later June 16th, 1990, getting knocked out in 2:47 of the first round ironically by Mike Tyson.

  As I patiently waited for my bail hearing date, Dee would visit as often as allowed. Though only through glass, I still looked forward to her visits. She told me that Bailey (who was no longer my attorney) had another attorney in mind whose expertise were bail hearings and wanted me to call his office for details. I looked forward to that call, considering at the time I had no legal representation. That same day after my visit, through Tillman I was lucky enough to score a late afternoon phone call.

  Once you made it to the phone everything was cool, it was getting to the phone where one needed to be cautious. Housed on the tier directly above us were the P.C.’s (protective custody inmates). Long before I arrived on the row, a war between our two rows erupted.

  The P.C. row was cantilevered over ours so, if you stayed underneath the cantilever, you’d remained safe from falling gas bombs.

  Gas bombs consisted of empty milk containers or plastic bags filled with human excrement, yeah, I’m talking piss and shit. If you veered out f
rom the safety of the cantilever, more than likely you’d get bombed. The sad fact was the P.C.’s had a great advantage considering, they were above throwing downward making us (high power) inmates below always vulnerable and easy targets. Occasionally, we’d get lucky and loft a homemade spear at one of them on the way to the shower. Spears were made from rolled up wet newspaper into a long cone and left to dry like paper machete. The tips were hard and pointed, though seldom deadly, would still puncture the skin getting the point across, (no pun intended).

  Once I was safely to the phone, Bailey informed me he had contacted a colleague (also a public defender) who was willing to represent me in my upcoming bail hearing. “She’s ruthless and relentless, perfect for your bail hearing.” It sounded good to me, especially the since it wouldn’t cost me a dime. Her name was Valerie Mills and with my approval, I could expect a visit any day.

  On the second day after talking to bailey, sure enough, I was called for an attorney visit. This was the first time I’d ever been represented by a woman lawyer. As I was escorted through the corridors to the attorney visiting booths, I fantasized on what Valerie looked like. Was she a tall blonde with large breasts? Or maybe more sophisticated looking, like a hot brunette wearing glasses, hair in a bun, wearing a tight mini skirt with a matching blazer. I didn’t even know her, but somehow the anticipation of our first meeting was jabbing me with a sexual punch. Rounding the corner I caught a glimpse of a female figure sitting in the furthest booth. As I got closer my eyes began to focus.

  No, that couldn’t be her, there must be some kinda mistake. As I sat down on the stool, I was now directly across from her. “Hi, I’m Valerie Mills and you must be JUNIOR.” I momentarily stared with no reply. She was black! Her shoulder length semi afroed hair shined of Jheri curl and her smooth chocolate skin was without blemish. Her thin face and high cheek bones corresponded perfectly with her frail upper body. Though not prejudice, I was completely taken by surprise.