“They told me you were a killer, and if I we ever crossed paths, to watch my back.” I found that answer to be quite rewarding. Being feared by your enemies was the greatest honor a warrior could have, at that moment I realized all work I’d put into being a MONGOL had been worth it. Though I kept a poker face, inside I was smiling from ear to ear.
It didn’t take long to realize J.D. wasn’t a threat, he was just a young buck wanting to do his time and unfortunately happened to be a Hells Angel. As our after-dinner strolls became a common occurrence, so did the yard gossip. It’s not every day you see a MONGOL and Hells Angel walking the yard together.
As of my recent return to Donovan which was a level 3-4 prison, my sentence now had been cut in half, lowering my custody to a level 2. Knowing it was just a matter time before I was reclassified and shipped to a level 2 prison, I quickly scheduled another family visit. Though Dee and I had been down some rough roads while on the streets, we both looked forward to some much-needed intimacy.
Just as I had anticipated, in the middle of my 3rd week back, I received a ducat for reclassification. After I was reclassified to level 2 custody, I was moved to another yard awaiting transfer. I knew I’d soon be leaving for a lower custody prison but didn’t know which one.
My major concern was that all the level 2 prisons were located in northern California, which would put a damper on receiving visits. Being that far away, surely meant visits from Dee and my folks would be few and far between if at all. My best shot was to hopefully get to Tehachapi State Prison which was located south of Bakersfield California. Still a 2 and half to 3-hour drive from Dee’s condo in La Habra, Tehachapi was still the closest level 2 prison. Though an inconvenience, the drive was still doable.
The fact of the matter was, you could request a prison till you were blue in the face, but the C.D.C. sent you to where ever the hell they wanted, you never really knew for sure where you were going until you got there.
Now on the transfer yard, I searched for a familiar face, but found none. My new temporary cell partner was a guy named Von Helm. Von was an easy-going guy who worked as a clerk in the auto shop and loved to cook. Von had ordered a Hot Pot (for heating water) through the canteen catalog. Upon its arrival, he immediately disassembled it removing the thermostat, allowing the water to come to a full boil, which changed the hot pot’s status to contraband.
With his connections in the kitchen, he acquired some cooking oil along with a nightly issue of fresh vegetables (onions, tomatoes, green bell peppers). Though the canteen contained many different items, we purchased just the things we needed, lots of coffee, and some stuff we couldn’t steal from the kitchen, like canned roast beef (Hereford) and tortillas. Like I said before, almost everyone in prison had a hustle and Von’s was food.
Up on the shelf was a Bugler Tobacco can, containing pencils, pens and other nick-knacks including a spool of thin copper wire.
Von filled the now unbridled Hot Pot with cooking oil, turning it up to a deep-frying temperature. Next, with a razorblade, he Methodically chopped the assortment of fresh veggies into a large pile, but most important was the meat. Though expensive, at about 3 bucks a can, the (Hereford) roast beef was also chopped in small pieces and mixed with some pre-cooked Top Ramen noodles for bulk. Finally, the large tortillas were laid out on a towel and sparingly filled with the chopped ingredients, then carefully folded into burrito.
Using the thin copper wire, each burrito was bound (to maintain its shape) and carefully submerged into the Hot Pot. Deep fried until golden brown in color, the result was one of the best chimichangas I’ve ever tasted still to this day. Even at a cost of 4 Top Ramens a piece, inmates and convicts alike would form a line half way down the tier with hopes of buying just one of Von’s homemade chimichangas. This became an almost every night ritual, though it was work, it was one of the most profitable prison hustles I’d ever seen.
After enjoying the filling chimichangas, came a bloated stomach. Within an hour of the delicious meal we were both farting like pack mules, leaving our cell smelling like freakin sewer. This was where we invented “FART WARS.”
In the back of my upper bunk, was about a 2-inch gap separating the steel bunk frame from the concrete wall, which left just enough room to press my bare ass against the gap and shoot a fart down the wall ricocheting directly into Von’s lower bunk area.
Though this probably sounds warped, you gotta remember, we’re in freakin prison where anything’s game for a good laugh. Being that heat rises, Von retaliated by farting up the wall and smoking me out through the same gap.
The question was, which one us could come up with the most devious idea? One of my best moves was farting in a paper sack and slowly squeezing out the stinky air by Von’s nose while he was sleeping, abruptly waking him up, and leaving us both in stitches (especially me). Just when I thought I was the Fart King I was mistaken.
After a normal work day, Von entered the cell with a plastic container in hand. About 4 inches in square, the small container had a circular lid which was screwed on tightly sealing the contents. “This will be perfect for storing our cooking spices” said Von, I nodded in agreement. “It smells like someone was storing some fresh cinnamon in it.” Nonchalantly, Von tossed the sealed container in my direction landing on my bunk. “Mmmmn, fresh cinnamon?” I loosened the tightly secured plastic top anxious to smell the fragrant spice. “Shit!” with just a whiff, I began to gag on the contents. Von burst into laughter; “Got ya motherfucker!” As I continued to gag, Von went into detail on how he cupped the container to his bare ass, farted into it, then quickly secured the lid. “You’re a freakin pig!” Von was right, he got me on that one, and was temporarily crowned of The Fart King champion. Looking back, my only regret was that I didn’t think of it first.
It was November 23rd, 2002, pacing in my cell, I anxiously listened for my name to be called to the family visiting area. With still no sign of transfer, I was lucky to have one more intimate visit with Dee before I was stuck on a bus headed north to an unknown level 2 penitentiary. I knew she’d be here like the many times before, but the anticipation still played tricks on my mind, pinching and prodding me with doubt questioning her loyalty. Minutes later my doubt was proved to be a worthless emotion, I was summoned to the family visiting area where I patiently waited for a van ride to the bungalow.
Shortly after my arrival and walk through, Dee’s van showed up dropping her off with our pre-bought drinks and microwavable meals. After putting away the groceries, we sat down for a chat. Something was different, doing her best to paint a happy face, I saw right through the mask. Though she had promised to stick it out for the next 28 months until my release, a cloud of doubt had encumbered us. At the time I’m sure her intensions were sincere, but now I sensed a tint of uncertainty in her words. After 44 hours alone, we kissed and said goodbye. The intimacy was good but not great, I compare it to a beef stew that was filling but lacked meat and seasoning.
Dee’s multiple monthly visits had dwindled down to one. I could feel the relationship slowly fading away like a boat drifting out to sea with no anchor. The fact I’d soon be heading north, would certainly contribute even more unstableness to what already seemed a weary relationship.
◆◆◆
Christmas had past and a new year was about to arrive.Von and I celebrated our New Year’s Eve dinner with a couple of fat chimichangas and welcoming in 2003 with Dick Clark’s dropping of the ball in Time Square. On the eve of January 2nd, 2003, a transfer ducat was slid under my door informing me I’d be in route to Tehachapi State Prison early the next morning. I was lucky, I had hoped to get to Tehachapi and that’s where I was going.
CHAPTER 17
Tehachapi State prison (C.C.I.), is in the Cummings Valley, west of the small city of Tehachapi in southern California. C.C.I. has 1,650 acres including a Level 1 “Open dorms with a secure perimeter” housing; Level 2 “Open dorms with secure perimeter electric fencing and armed coverage” housing; Level 4 “
Cells, fenced or walled perimeters, electronic security, more staff and armed officers both inside and outside the installation” housing; This also includes a Security Housing Unit (SHU, which is “the most secure area in a Level 4 prison designed to provide maximum coverage”) for the most violent of inmates. As of March 2012, this prison’s total population was 4,753, or 170.8% of its design capacity of 2,783.
Opened in 1932, this prison was California’s first and only prison for women. For many years Tehachapi prison was independently operated until the beginning of 1944 where it became part of the California Department of Corrections. After the 1952 Kern County earthquake on July 21st made the brick dormitories unsafe, the institution was closed, and the 417 female inmates were sent to what was then the new California Institution for Women (C.I.W.) in Corona. In 1954 Tehachapi prison was reopened as C.C.I. (an all men’s prison).
On the afternoon of January 3rd, 2003, our bus sat at an idle while the 15ft chain-link gate mechanically opened. Though the buildings looked well weathered, the surrounding scenery was beautiful. Nestled in a valley incased by snow covered mountains I felt a sense of comfort knowing this prison would be my last and final home until my release. My E.P.R.D. (earliest possible release date) was set for the first week of July 2004, leaving me with only about 18 months until freedom. But in the back of my mind something felt wrong about that date, to my calculations it seemed a couple months early. I’m sure it was me that had miscalculated my good time credits, thank God they were the date calculating experts.
As our bus rolled into the R&R sally port, a small group of correctional officers and inmates holding clipboards anxiously waited to check us into our new facility. Their pink faces and thick denim jackets gave hint to the outside temperature. Exiting the bus in only an orange jumpsuit, the cold breezy mountain air cut like a knife.
Though the surrounding mountains still wore a blanket of snow, only slush remained on the ground where we now stood. The large outdoor thermometer which dangled off the canopy eave danced in the wind, making it impossible to read. In between gusts I caught a quick glimpse at the thermometer needle locked at 40 degrees. Standing in the cold like frozen statues, our shackles were removed; “As I call your name you may proceed into the building.”
Our small group entered the dilapidated building and into a dingy but warm R&R holding tank.
To my surprise, processing went rather quickly. Do to prison overcrowding not just at Tehachapi, but also everywhere else in state of California, we’d all temporarily be housed in the gym until vacancies in 1 of the 8 dorms were available. The gym was a freakin nightmare, the closest thing to L.A. County Jail I’d experienced since I’d been there.
Divided into 3 sections according to race, the giant room lacked any privacy, down to the open showers and toilets. After making my bunk and changing into some warmer issued clothes, I slipped on a jacket (a size too small) and headed for the yard I’d heard so many stories about. First and foremost, I had to figure out a way to get out of that shit hole of a gym and into a warm comfy dorm.
Everything in prison was about connections, who you knew and what kind of strings they could pull. With the amount of time I’d done and all the people I crossed paths with over the years, I was certain I’d find a familiar face.
All the stories I’d heard were true. The yard was huge, by far the largest I’d ever seen or been on. There was a grassy (now muddy) area with picnic tables in front of the dorms and behind them, a huge quarter mile dirt track which encumbered a vacant soccer field. There were tennis courts and a handball area. Where convicts once lifted weights, remained a covered patio now protecting an assortment of multi-faceted pull-up bars and sit-up benches.
As I walked to the far end of the huge open field, the chatter of voices dissipated into the distance, leaving me to a moment of complete solitude. For the first time while incarcerated, I stood completely alone, temporarily unbothered by other humans. Hearing nothing but the slight whistle of a mountain breeze, for once there were no voices. Gazing through the double chain linked perimeter fence, it momentarily became invisible from obstructing my view.
Staring at the distant snow-covered mountains in tune with the whisper of the wind, it was as if I’d been plucked from inside the prison walls and placed in the middle of a mountain meadow, at that very moment I felt totally free.
I decided to take a final walk around the abandon muddy track when I heard it. Someone in the distance was calling my name. I could see a figure standing at the corner of the building but too far for any facial recognition. I raised my hand in acknowledgment and began to walk in his direction. Wearing a pulled down beanie and a thick jacket, it was hard to make out his face, but as neared his distinctive walk left no doubt. It was Dooby.
While free on my 20-month habeaus corpus vacation, Dooby’s custody had also dropped to a level 2. The word at Donovan was he’d been sent to Folsom which despite its vicious reputation, was now a level 2 prison. Obviously, the word at Donovan was wrong, Dooby had been here at Tehachapi almost 2 years and just like at Donovan, had connections. He’d scored a job in the watch office as the Lieutenant’s clerk and would try his best to get me into a dorm A.S.A.P., it was like my prayer was instantly answered.
After almost a week, I finally made the gym phone list and got a call out to Dee to let her know I’d arrived at Tehachapi. It was good to hear her voice and she seemed anxious to come up for a visit. Fortunately, Dee was already on my approved visiting list which Tehachapi honored. There were other prisons that made new arrival’s visitors re-apply. Someone once said, “Patients is a virtue”; I guess after all my years in prison I must have finally become virtuous, because I had to wait for everything.
Even though Dee was approved to visit, it would still take another week for my approved visiting list to be updated.
Everything in prison was a freakin waiting game, you stood in line for canteen, chow, visits, medical attention even to take a shit on a Sunday morning after breakfast. Forget any privacy, the toilets were side by side and only about 2 feet apart with no partitions. The trick was to bury your face in a newspaper to keep your mind off the guy who was farting next to you. Let’s put it this way, the toilets were so close that if you were right handed and the guy shitting next to you was left handed, you’d bump heads if you wiped your ass at the same time.
After 2 miserable weeks in the gym, Dooby pulled through and somehow maneuvered my name to the top of the dorm transfer list. Thanks to the power of connections, I was transferred to dorm 8#.
It a was night and day difference, the dorm was quieter and more laid back. The showers and toilets were in the front right-hand side of the dorm well secluded from the barracks, making it more comfortable to shit and shower.
Living in a dorm, meant learning a whole new set of rules. When brushing your teeth, you never spit in the sink, you only spit in the nearby trash can or designated toilet. There were 2 types of toilets, stainless steel and porcelain, the stainless one’s were used for spitting and pissing, and the porcelain for shitting. Violation of these rules could lead to a freakin riot.
Anyone just entering the dorm started out on an upper bunk, unless you could prove you had existing medical condition which required a lower, such as a prior knee or back injury. Otherwise, getting a lower bunk could take months on a waiting list according to seniority.
Nearly a month after my arrival, I got my first visit form Dee, it had been almost 8 weeks since I’d seen her. After grabbing a couple sandwiches from one of the many vending machines, we were lucky to find our own table without having to share. After her initial complaining about the drive, we engaged in some normal small talk.
She looked tired and had noticeably lost weight. Doing her best to hide her tired eyes with makeup, I wasn’t fooled. As we talked, I wondered if it was drugs or depression that was stealing her beauty knowing both issues had plagued her in the past. I knew one thing; our first visit wasn’t the time to discuss it.
After
a 4-hour visit, we said our good-byes. It was good to see her, but the visit seemed to leave me with more concerns than satisfaction. I figured it was just the lack of intimacy causing my sudden sense of insecurity, so I scheduled a family visit.
One of the most important things in doing time is what we call “programing.” Having a good program helps time go by faster and a good program meant having a job. The problem was there were more inmates than jobs, especially good jobs. Just to get a job as a dorm porter which consisted sweeping, mopping, and cleaning toilets meant getting on another freakin waiting list. To get a good job that paid, again took connections.
Dooby’s working as a clerk directly for the Lieutenant, (though frowned on by some), gave him first hand access to the available job list and to upcoming jobs that hadn’t yet been posted. It so happened that the prison’s X-ray Tech’s assistant was due to parole, and that job would soon be available.
“Hell yeah, I’m interested!” Dooby replied with a “Lemme see what I can do.” This job wouldn’t be easy to get and would have numerous hurdles to jump, mainly because the X-ray Tech was female. Do to the fact that I’d be working in close quarters and occasionally behind locked doors with her, meant my C-file would be closely scrutinized. Thanks to Dooby, I was the first and only applicant since the job hadn’t yet been posted. The first hurdle was a meeting with the watch commander.
Sitting before the over-weight balding Lieutenant, I watched his gray caterpillar like mustache twitch as he silently scanned my C- file (confidential file). Everything about me was in that file, every arrest, every prison write-up (CDC 1-15) since my first incarceration in the early 80’s, including being a validated member of the MONGOLS M.C... It knew what he was looking for, any record of sexual misconduct. The Lieutenant broke the silence, “Well Mr. Ereckson, I can see you’re not a pervert, just a violent motherfucker.” Removing his glasses, he looked me dead in the eyes. “If I recommend you for this job, you’re not gonna lose your temper over something stupid and kill my X-ray Tech, are you? “No sir.”
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