“Excuse me for staring, but you’re not quite what I was expecting.” “I totally understand.” “So, what’s your game plan Ms. Mills?” “Please call me Val.” Her game plan was simple, she didn’t really have one. She was just gonna argue for the lowest bail she could get, which sounded good to me.
By the end of our 30-minute conversation, I felt confident about two things, she knew her job and she was ready to fight for the best possible outcome. For a minute, I guess I was a little concerned of what the club might think about me having a black female attorney, considering the MONGOLS didn’t allow any black members. But then again, she wasn’t a member. Though I wasn’t really prejudice the majority my MONGOL brothers were. The fact of the matter was, Val seemed to be a fighter and best of all, she wouldn’t cost me a penny. If she got me outta freakin jail I didn’t give a shit what color she was.
My second week on the 3100-high row, the Southsiders made a batch of pruno and respectfully offered me and PANHEAD a healthy issue, it wasn’t as good as my old recipe, but still had a pretty good kick. Housed in the cell to the right of me was an Armenian youngster in his mid-twenties who had also gotten a small batch of the sweet brew.
Glendale California was considered (at least to us), little Armenia due to the fact the City of Glendale was home to the largest Armenian community in the state of California. This also meant the county jail had its share of Armenian inmates, enough to start a clique called the A.P. (Armenian Power).
It wasn’t long before the pruno began to take affect and the row became noisy with a bunch of shit talkin drunks. My Armenian neighbor’s squeaky irritating mouth rambled to no stop until finally I’d had enough. “Why don’t you bring the noise down a little, before the bulls come I here and bust us all.” That little son of a bitch went off, calling me a few choice words including a punk and a bitch. Well, in prison and jail when someone calls you a punk or a bitch, those are automatic fighting words. Retaliation must be taken, or losing your convict credibility was at risk, and in prison, convict credibility was the only thing you had. The whole row suddenly sobered up and became silent, wondering what I would do next. I knew what had to be done, I said nothing else.
Before I could launch an attack on another inmate that wasn’t my race, I would have to get permission from the whoever was holding the keys, in other words (the shot caller). Since the majority on the row were the Southsiders their main guy would have to give me the okay. I personally felt like I didn’t need anyone’s freakin permission to handle business, but that was jailhouse politics and like everyone else, I had to abide by them. My plan was simple, I’d ask to read the newspaper. Since only one paper was issued a day, I’d have to use yesterday’s. I’d roll it up into a long narrow cone nice and tight, soak it, let it dry, then dip the tip in a piece of my own shit (to cause infection). Then when I came out to shower, I’d spear the little prick right in the freakin neck.
“Tillman!” When the big man arrived at my cell, I slipped him a kite (my permission slip) to deliver to the shot caller. I felt sick to my stomach realizing just how close I was to getting out, and now I was risking it all, but this dude crossed the line and left me no choice. The little Armenian heard me call Tillman over and may have seen me slip him the kite. Because, he instantly got paranoid and began to ask me if things were cool. Within minutes the Armenian passed me a kite which read “I fucked up, I’m sorry and don’t want no problems.”
As far as I was concerned, it was way too late for that shit. In this case, by remaining silent and not replying to his kite was mentally tormenting him, but that still wasn’t enough.
Soon Tillman returned with a kite from the shot caller, which read “Got a batch of wine cookin right now, can I handle it my way?” In other words, if I spear the little son of a bitch, it will probably cause a cell shakedown and the Southsiders will lose their batch of pruno. I replied the only way I could, “Okay.” While everyone on the row continued their constant cell to cell chatter, I sat in silence stewing over the incident.
My hands were tied, I couldn’t retaliate and no-one else knew the reason except me and the shot caller. I wondered what everyone else was thinking, I could hear laughing, were they laughing at me? In about an hour I heard a cell door rack open at the far end of the row, the shuffle of shower shoes (flipflops) were headed in my direction.
With a towel wrapped around his neck and in boxer shorts, his thin framed tattooed body approached my cell. With his mouth buried under a huge mustache, no words spoken, only a wink, that said “trust me.”
The shot caller then continued his walk to the shower. On his return, he stopped in front of the little Armenian’s cell. I could hear whispering, though I did my best to ease drop, it was too faint to understand. Moments later the shuffle of shower shoes continued to the end of the row and his cell was racked shut. Suddenly, from his cell the shot caller’s voice rang out. “Everybody quiet on the row!”
All the chatter came to an abrupt stop. “Little David (the Armenian) has got somethin to say!” Everyone listened while little David cleared his throat. “Uh, I wanna apologize to JUNIOR of the MONGOLS for what I said, I spoke before I thought and don’t want no problems.” I could now hear some chuckling from some nearby cells. Though Little David’s public apology was obviously humiliating for him, it still didn’t satisfy me, but for the moment it would have to suffice.
The next day, the Southsiders pruno had cooked to full potency and like the time before, myself and PANHEAD received a good size issue of the sweet brew, but this time little David was passed up and got nothing. As the rest of the row enjoyed their buzz and engaged in playful conversation, little David was ignored. Even when trying to join in on small talk, he was blatantly excluded. Like a baby bird who had fallen from the nest, he had been Oster sized from everyone on the row.
Later that evening after the lights were out, the sound of jingling keys made their way down the row in my direction. Stopping at little David’s cell, his door was cracked open, echoing through the now silent row. With a bag of his personal belongings strewed over his shoulder, Deputies escorted the little David off the row.
The thing about county jail and especially prison, is it can be a lonely place. Once incarcerated, often an inmate’s family will abandon him, leaving peer acceptance the only thing to cling on to. And I’ve personally seen this need for acceptance make a man do almost anything, even commit murder. In little David’s case, the feeling of rejection and even worse, the loss of respect from his jail house peers was too much to bare, which led him to the worst decision an inmate or convict can make, (what we call) to roll up.
I never saw the little David again, where he went no-one knew, or for that matter no-one cared, most likely to another row or maybe even right above us, to P.C. (protective custody).
Before I knew it, the day had come for my bail hearing. Entering the familiar courtroom, I was seated next to an eager Valerie Mills who looked like the proverbial cat that just ate the bird. Behind me sat my parents along with my wife Dee. Not to mention directly to the right of them sat Butcher, the D.A. and another man who was unfamiliar. “Who the hell is that guy?” Valerie glanced over her shoulder. “That’s John Ciccone from the A.T.F. “What the hell is he doing here?” Val just shrugged it off. Maybe it was nothing to her, but his presence was bugging the shit out of me. Why was that son of a bitch here? Again, I looked over my shoulder, it was only my immediate family, where were my MONGOL brothers? Why was this little A.T.F. puke smirking at me? Something felt weird, it was only a freakin bail hearing.
The judge entered, took a seat and called the hearing to order. Suddenly the rear door of the court room opened, two plain clothed men quickly entered, one wearing a shoulder holster and the other displaying a gun on his hip. Turning to Val, “These guys look like freakin Feds.” Directly behind them, entered a small framed man in a three-piece suit. His regular men’s hair cut matched his neatly groomed white mustache. I stared, but he refused to make eye contact. A
gain, turning to Val. “Now who the hell’s this guy?” “That’s William Queen.”
As I looked him up and down, I did my best to place him, but only drew a blank. I was all too familiar with the name but positive I’d never seen him before. “Will the state call their first witness.” “Yes, your honor the state would like to call A.T.F. agent William Queen to the stand.” I did my best to keep from laughing.
Now on the stand, he still refused to make eye contact. I whispered to Val, “You mean to tell me this scared little bitch is the same guy that infiltrated our club?” Rolling her eyes, she ignored me.
For the best part of an hour the court listened while Billy Queen (an expert witness for the state), testified to my position as National President, my responsibilities, the extent of my power and the number of MONGOL chapters, just to prove I was a flight risk. As we listened to Queen’s bullshit, I kept a keen eye on the judge looking for some reaction. The judge seemed bored with Queen’s testimony and even used his hand to disguise a yawn. Valerie was aware the D.A. might bring in Queen as an expert witness and had done a fair amount of homework. When it was Val’s turn to cross-examine, like a Pitbull on a pork chop, she attacked Queen’s credibility, grilling him on his extensive drug use while undercover and his role in numerous felonies, which of course he adamantly denied.
Just when I was starting to feel some confidence, the D.A. came out with a surprise punch, and brought up the fact that while out on bail in April of 1998, I left the state and was photographed at the river run in Laughlin Nevada without permission of the court.
Back in 1998 (while the jury was out), I had asked the judge for permission to go to Nevada and was denied. At the time, I’d figured it could be my last big party and like a dumb ass, I went any way. Now here I was years later, sitting in the same court before the same judge trying to make bail and thanks to the D.A., he was freshly reminded of that incident (not that he forgot).
Maybe it was Valerie’s persistence but somehow, she persuaded the judge to set my bail at 250,000 dollars. Val and I were happy, and to go without saying the D.A. was pissed. Was it a win?
I guess so, I had a set bail amount, but where in the hell was I gonna get 250K? In a bail that high, I needed 250K in collateral.
I returned to county jail where my club brother PANHEAD and others were waiting to hear the outcome. Everyone seemed to be happy for me, my case was like a beacon in the night, showing everyone wrongfully convicted the way home. Even though a bail had been set, 250K seemed almost impossible. Freedom was right there within my grasp, but still out of reach.
Early the following morning the familiar sound of jingling keys made their way down the row in my direction, stopping at my cell; “Ereckson roll it up, you made bail.” “What!” As my trembling hands quickly gathered up what few items I owned, my cell door was keyed and popped open.
I couldn’t believe it, it was a miracle, after doing 28 months on a 14 sentence, I was getting out. As I passed PANHEAD’s cell, he stood at his bars, being in the next cell, he clearly heard the news. “You made bail.” “Yep.” As we did the MONGOL hand shake PANHEAD’s eyes began to get glossy, I wondered if he was happy for me, or was it the realization that the only true brother he had on the row was leaving, it was probably both. Wishing him luck, I passed my sack of canteen items through his bars and said my final good bye.
CHAPTER 13
Miraculously I found myself looking to the sky. The sun, barely awake, peeked through a small cluster of clouds. Thanks to my parents using their house as collateral, I could now inhale my first breath of freedom after 28 months of incarceration. Though Butcher and his crooked cronies gave their best effort to screw me, I’d found a tiny loop hole in the system and somehow managed to slip through it.
As I walked across a two-lane back street, I recalled the time when alone in my prison cell, I fell to my knees and pleaded for help. The number of writs of habeas corpus granted, were like 1 out of 5 hundred filed. Did I believe in divine intervention? I wasn’t sure, but It felt like a greater force had heard my plea, not only heard it, but answered it.
I entered a small twenty-four-hour bail bonds office directly across from the Twin Towers Men’s Central Jail and asked to use the phone. Dee picked up on the first ring, “I’m on my way baby.”
In what seemed like only minutes, through a window clustered with a blinking neon sign, I watched as a beige Ford Contour pulled up to the curb, it was her. With nothing but the clothes on my back, I got in the tiny car and gave my new wife a kiss.
As we headed down the 60 freeway toward the city of La Habra, an occasional smile at each other took the place of words. After being locked up for 28 months I was more intrigued with the passing scenery then engaging in conversation. At that moment, just trying to digest all that had happened in the last month was mentally overwhelming. Yeah, she was beautiful alright, but the fact of the matter was, this jailhouse marriage had suddenly become an in your face move in relationship with a woman I barely knew. Due to my conditions of bail, I needed a permanent residence. My hands were tied, I had to make this relationship work.
We turned off Idaho Street into a mediocre condo complex quickly parking in a covered carport, then hiked up a flight of stairs to the second-floor condo. With all on my mind, I must have forgotten her mentioning two teenage boys, but I was quickly reminded when we opened the door. Greeted by blazing head-bashing music and the odor of marijuana, Dee pounded on the back-bedroom door yelling “turn down the music.” One by one, a group of red eyed teenage kids (boys and girls) came out and introduced themselves.
It wasn’t great, but it wasn’t bad, a living and dining room combination with a patio overlooking the carports, a tiny kitchen with the master and the spare bedroom to the rear. Id lived in better, but I’d just come from worse, anything was an upgrade from the county jail. After checking out the new pad, we went over to my parent’s place in the city of Brea, which was only about ten miles down the road.
There, you could always find fresh Italian cold cuts in the fridge and like all moms, mine had mastered the art of making a sandwich, (no-one makes a sandwich like mom). After lunch while Dee and my folks chatted, I went down to the garage.
There she was, I could see her silhouette pultruding through the dusty cover. Dad and I had discussed selling her, but for some reason he never did. Maybe he just never got around to it or hoped somehow or someway I’d eventually come back home. Wasting no time, I gently removed the dusty cover and unveiled her. Ah yes, just like I’d left yesterday.
I had put a lot of work into that 1990 Springer Softail. With Patrick Heads, the cam and S&S carburetor all perfectly in sync, she ran like a raped ape. I had gone to the Flanders Handle bar factory and had the 22-inch ape-hangers custom made.
Painted burgundy with silver ghost flames, like a beautiful woman clinging to your arm, other men stared in envy. Dad had kept her on life support (a trickle charger) and on occasion would start her up to get her blood flowing. I turned on the ignition switch and saw her heart (the battery)was good, after a couple of coughs, she fired right up.
Coming out of the housing complex, I made a left on Lambert Blvd. and headed straight for Carbon Canyon. As I roared past the bobbing oil pumps and into canyon, I was finally home, thunder between my legs, wind in my face, and reunited with the open road.
The first couple of days seemed to go well considering I was still mentally adjusting to my sudden liberty. I was free, but still out on bail. Bail was different than parole, in the way I didn’t have a parole agent continuously climbing up my ass or dropping by the house unexpectedly.
The only stipulation and a strict one at that, was under no circumstances could I hang out with any of my MONGOL brothers or attend any MONGOL functions.
If caught, it would result in an instant revocation of bail and considering there was no new trial date, there was no telling how long I’d be locked up, I’d just fought like hell to get out of that shit hole and I sure as hell didn’t pla
n on going back.
On my third day of freedom, Dee had offered to baby sit a friend’s 9-year-old son for the day. Needing my own bathroom cosmetics and some clothes, the three of us headed off to Walmart. Once entering the store, Dee mentioned she needed some (female items) and took off, leaving me and the 9-year-old to fend for ourselves. He was a cool little kid, but how in the hell did I get stuck being the freakin babysitter on my third day out? So, there I was, in a Super Walmart, with no freakin cell phone, and my wife nowhere to be found.
After looking down a few isles I gave up the search and went to plan (B). “Hey bud, you hungry?” With giant grin, the youngster gave a positive nod, so off to the in-store Mc Donald’s we went. I grabbed a Big Mac, a Happy Meal for the kid, and found a table. As we munched, I kept an eye out for any sign of Dee, but nothing. Now I was starting to get pissed, we’d been in the store almost an hour and I hadn’t seen Dee in 50 minutes. Mmmmn, maybe she’s waiting at the car.
“Come on kid, grab your box we’re going out to the car. Sure enough, Dee was waiting at the car. As we approached she saw the Happy Meal in the boy’s hand. “I hope you brought me something to eat too.” I didn’t reply thinking it was some of a sarcastic joke, but I quickly realized she was serious. The last thing I needed was to get in an argument in the Walmart parking lot, let alone in front of the kid. “Come on, get in the car lets go.” Dee got in and slammed the door.
As I drove toward the condo Dee relentlessly complained about missing out on a freakin Big Mac until I couldn’t take it anymore.
“SHUT THE HELL UP, HOW COULD I GET YOU FOOD IF I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW WHERE THE HELL YOU WERE!” Dee began to pout and cry like a baby. “GIVE ME A FREAKIN BREAK, HOW MANY FREAKIN KIDS AM I BABYSITTING HERE?” Continuing to weep and looking out the passenger window she said; “You weren’t supposed to get out.” “What did you just say?” Dabbing her eyes with a tissue she repeated those stinging words, “You weren’t supposed to get out.” At that moment, I knew where we stood, suddenly flung from a prison marriage into a real one, we were both having second thoughts.
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