The Unknown Mongol 2

by Scott Ereckson

  The next morning, Dee’s bags were packed hours before her pick-up time. Peeking continuously through the window, she waited anxiously for the departure van.

  Dee’s dramatic episode left no doubt this was more than likely our final family visit. I figured; “What the hell, it was good while it lasted and besides, I only had 10 months before I paroled.”

  The following day, I returned to work where Sylvia waited with a smirk; “So how was your family visit?”

  In the infirmary where we were employed and also the R.N. that treated Dee, gossip flowed like a river, Sylvia had already heard tale of the dramatic event. “That girl has got some serious issues.” “Yeah, ya think?”

  ◆◆◆

  Just before the chill of Winter, the New Wine Church returned for their last bike show of the year. It was great to reunite with R.J and just as I anticipated, he also hit it off well with TWEETY. Though the Peacemakers were far from being MONGOLS, they still demonstrated a sincere show of brotherhood and not just them, but the ole ladies also.

  This gave me an idea; It was obvious my relationship with Dee was headed south, but the truth of the matter was I needed her. With less than 9 months remaining on my sentence, I really didn’t give a shit about the family visits, I needed a place to parole and some wheels to get me around. I figured once I was out and got back to work, I’d be in a better position to do what was necessary, whether it be a divorce or possibly reconciliation.

  After sharing my personal situation with R.J. and Sharon, they agreed with my thoughts. It was obvious what Dee’s problem was, she was struggling with this whole prison relationship thing and needed support.

  It just so happened some of the Peacemakers ole ladies were involved in a woman’s support group. Meeting once a week, this group was designed specifically for this reason, to support wives in prison relationships. This was perfect, the question was, could I convince Dee to get involved? For some reason, Dee had this thing about going to church, she wasn’t having it.

  “Look, it aint about going to church, it’s about making new friends, just go one time for me.” Reluctantly, Dee agreed to one time, I’d schedule another phone call the following week to follow up.

  A month had gone by, surprisingly Dee had not only come to enjoy the women’s support group but was regularly attending Sunday church services. Maybe I had pre-judged the fate of our relationship, maybe there was hope.

  CHAPTER 20

  Christmas day 2003. For most people, this was a time of celebration, a time of joy, when families gather for mom’s home cooked meals and children giggle with anticipation as they open their gifts. But for us who were incarcerated, this was a time of anger and tension. It was easy to blame the state, the prison, and the bulls for depriving us of our Christmas cheer, but the truth was, we were angry at ourselves. It was our own actions based on poor decisions that put us in this situation.

  A rumbling sound from the rear of the dorm was a common occurrence, but during the holidays became more frequent. The rear of the dorm was where disagreements were settled. Usually a one on one fight between 2 men of the same race, ending with a handshake and nothing more than bloody nose, or at least you hoped that’s all it was. An unsanctioned fight between 2 men of different races, could quickly ignite into a full-blown riot.

  Like any normal evening before chow, we all sat quietly on our bunks while the bulls walked up and down the rows counting every individual head.

  When done, they routinely returned to their office and shut the door. After count, it was mandatory that we remain on our bunks until the words “COUNT CLEAR” were announced over the loud speaker, only then, were we aloud to leave our bunk areas and line up for chow release.

  As I lay on my bunk thumbing through a magazine, rumbling from the back of the dorm suddenly erupted, naturally, I rose to see who was involved. 2 Southsiders were violently trading punches, when suddenly a black convict bunked near the altercation yelled; “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LOOKING AT?” “Was he talking to me?” “He must be talking to me, he was looking right at me.” I’m sure most of you reading this are thinking; “So what’s the big deal?” “Just let it go.” But that aint how it works in prison.

  Immediately, I began to put on my boots. I was just challenged in front of half the dorm and no matter what the outcome, failure to immediately confront this situation could end up biting me in the ass later.

  They called him Johnny, after receiving a life sentence for murder, 20 years of clean time had landed him here at Tehachapi (a secure level 2 prison).

  Everything I represented was at stake, first and foremost the MONGOLS and secondly the Woods. With less than 8 months left, this was the last thing I needed, but it had to be dealt with. I wasn’t about to do the rest of my time labeled as a punk.

  Though the count still hadn’t cleared, I didn’t give a shit. Suited, booted and fully prepared, I snuck away from my bunk B-lining to the rear of the dorm in Johnny’s direction. This guy had been locked up over 20 years and had the battle scars to prove it, there was no doubt he’d seen every prison game and knew how to play’ em.

  The thing I had in my favor was the fact he’d worked hard doing all those years of clean time just to get here and probably wouldn’t do anything stupid to jeopardize it.

  I approached Johnny’s bunk, unaware of my presence, I caught him seated and off guard. The way his bunk was situated (last to the wall) he was trapped with no escape and by the look in eyes, he knew it. I was standing, he was sitting (advantage JUNIOR). “Were you talking to me?” “No man, not to you specifically, I was talking to everyone in general who was looking this way, I just didn’t want them dudes to get busted.”

  I don’t know, maybe he was telling the truth or maybe he was lying because he knew at that moment I had him, whichever it was, I really didn’t give a shit, Id accomplished what needed to be done, (confronted him on his comment). Satisfied with his non-combative demeanor, there was no reason to push the issue. Relieved with the outcome, I went back to bunk thinking of a phrase I’d once heard; “It was only when a mosquito landed on my testicles, I learned to solve a problem with no violence.”

  “COUNT CLEAR, COUNT CLEAR” sounded through the speakers. I had just grabbed my jacket and was leaving my bunk area when I saw them. Johnny and 2 huge-ass black dudes barreling down the row in my direction. Within seconds they blocked my passage, now I was the one that was cornered (advantage Johnny). “Hey man, you fuckin disrespected me, let’s take it to the back.”

  It was obvious that peer pressure was the motivation of Johnny’s sudden change in demeanor, never the less the old mosquito on the nut-sack metaphor didn’t apply anymore.

  Throwing my jacket on the bunk, I pulled off my shirt, I wasn’t about to take a chance on any potential hindrances for this fight.

  Shirtless, I followed Johnny to rear of the dorm where a crowd of black onlookers awaited. Now in the back, I suddenly realized I was alone, I was surrounded by Blacks; “Where’s my back up?” Suddenly memories of the Queen Mary incident from 1989 resurfaced; “Where’s all the Woods?” In a second, my situation had turned bleak. Alone in a crowd of antagonizing Blacks, I squared off with Johnny. Voices from the crowd rang out; “C’mon Johnny, you got this!” “Let’s go Johnny, beat that Peckerwood’s ass!”

  Johnny started dancing around doing a Mohamad Ali imitation. With my feet firmly planted and my right hand cocked, I patiently looked for the knock-out.

  Then, out of nowhere TWEETY came barreling through the black crowd; “What the fuck’s going on here?” The tides had instantly turned, now the crowd of Blacks that surrounded me found themselves surrounded by the Southsiders. “BREAK IT UP, BREAK IT UP!” Yelled the bulls as they ran from their office. What was almost a raging fire had quickly dwindled to a simmer.

  Later that evening a meeting was held between shot callers from the Blacks and Southsiders, the Blacks didn’t understand why the Southsiders were backing me (a Wood) but the fact was, they weren’t backi
ng me, they were backing TWEETY.

  Nobody really wanted a riot, the repercussions meant a lockdown, hole time and loss of visits for all those involved. After some negotiation, the incident was accepted by both races as a simple misunderstanding and squashed. Though the incident was over, another problem had surfaced.

  TWEETY’s choice to back me up had gotten him into some hot water with his own race (the Southsiders) and was looking at a possible regulation (ass kicking) for punishment.

  The question that was raised when TWEETY first arrived had come into play; “What if a riot between the Southsiders and the Woods were to jump off, what would we do?”

  Even though this wasn’t the situation, in the Southsiders eyes, TWEETY had violated protocol by backing me (a Wood) against another race (the Blacks) which intern almost drew the Southsiders into a riot. The bottom line was, it should have been the Woods that had my back, not the Southsiders.

  Let me clarify, by no way am I implying that the Woods in prison are weak, on the contrary, for having the smallest numbers, they are considered by many to be the most dangerous, but on that day, the ones that were housed in the south side of dorm 8 wouldn’t and couldn’t bust a grape with a sledge hammer.

  This was some bullshit; My MONGOL brother had my back when no-one else did and now he was facing an ass kicking? Somehow, I had to figure out way to stop the regulation.

  Though the Southsider shot caller for the yard wasn’t housed in dorm 8, he had a reputation as a reasonable guy and at my request, agreed to join me for an after dinner stroll the following night.

  “Look JUNIOR, I told you when TWEETY drove up this could turn into an issue, and now it has.” “Believe me, I understand how Southsider politics work, I ran a motorcycle club that consists of two 2/3rds Southsiders and though the MONGOLS aint no prison clique, our rules are pretty much the same, one MONGOL fights, we all fight; Look man, TWEETY wasn’t backing a Wood, he was backing his National President, and just like a Southsider, he didn’t have a choice, so if you’re gonna regulate TWEETY for doing what a MONGOL has to do, I guess you gotta regulate me too.”

  The shot caller cracked a smile; “Believe it or not, there is democracy in our clique too, I’ll pass your reasoning on to my people and see what happens, no promises.” “Hey, that’s all I can ask for.”

  With some luck and understanding the Christmas incident blew over and TWEETY wasn’t regulated. Though it was never said, I knew how prison politics worked, “get a favor, owe a favor.”

  CHAPTER 21

  By early February of 2004, most of the snow had melted making the drive to the prison much safer, enabling Dee to come up for her first visit of the year. When I first saw her, the change was remarkable. She had gained weight, looked healthy and had a glow, the same glow that drew me to her. The dark cloud that had encumbered her months earlier had been lifted. It turned out, introducing her to the New Wine church had been a good choice.

  Dee couldn’t stop talking about the church activities. She went on and on about Pastor Bob, the Peacemakers and their ole ladies. She mentioned that the church had introduced her to what you might call a (surrogate) family to oversee here welfare while I was locked up.

  The Cramer family consisted of Joe and Lilly Cramer, their 2 boys Tony and Jack and their kids. The Cramer’s as a family, never missed a church service or a function and were well respected by the rest of the congregation.

  The eldest son Tony Cramer took pride in video recording each service and oversaw sales and distribution of all C.D.’s sold at church functions. Then there was Jack.

  Recently divorced, Jack Cramer rode a Harley and was well on his way to becoming a full-patched Peacemaker. Like any other bike club, you had to earn your patch (prospect) before you were accepted as a full-patched member. The Peacemakers ran the same program, not to the extent of a 1%er club but basically the same principle, referring to their prospects as (Disciples). As a Disciple, Jack ran errands and tended to the Peacemakers needs.

  Though I’d never met the Cramer’s personally, I trusted the church’s judgment and felt confident they had Dee’s best interest at hand. I was please to find out that Dee had also made a friend in the women’s support group (Linda) that showed interest in meeting TWEETY and was looking forward to a visit. This was great, once Linda was approved, Dee would have someone to keep her company for the long drive up and could hopefully visit more often.

  Things were going well at work, my typing skills had drastically improved as did my relationship with Sylvia, she was not only my boss but had become a friend and a confidant. There was even some talk on the yard that our relationship had become sexual, though I may have fantasized about it, it couldn’t have been further from the truth. I’d now been in the X-ray department about a year and was considered by all staff to be dependable and trustworthy. When I say all staff, that also included the Watch Commander.

  Another job had become available in R&R (receiving and release), this was considered by all to be “the dream job” and only the most trusted inmates were eligible.

  Like I said before, there were convicts and there were inmates. To us inside, we knew who the convicts were, they were the ones that represented their race and their home town, the ones that had nothing to hide and would fight at the drop of a dime, but through the eyes of prison staff, we were all referred to as inmates.

  To get a job in R&R, you had to have a clean prison record and be recommended by someone with clout, in my case it was the Watch Commander. Then came interviews with the R&R Sargent, the bulls and even your would-be co-workers (other inmates). The job entailed checking in all new arrivals, unloading the transport bus, distribution of clothes to new arrivals, inventory of inmate packages (as they arrived), and not to mention janitorial work (cleaning the holding tanks, pissers, shitters Etc.), but the benefits outweighed the work.

  In prison, getting the jump on potential enemies was one of the keys to survival, and by working in R&R you had firsthand information on everyone who was coming and going out of that prison.

  Let’s cut to the chase, even though the X-ray job was damn good, the R&R job was better. So, after jumping over all the necessary hurdles, I scored the job. After a year in the X-ray department, I said good-bye to Sylvia and transferred to R&R the first week of March 2004.

  In the middle of the month, again we were visited by the Peacemakers and the New Wine church. Over their numerous visits, I’d become familiar with not only R.J. and Sharon, but many other members of the church. It was always a pleasure see and talk to these people, but my biggest concern was Dee’s welfare. A few of the support group women were present and proudly boasted of Dee’s growth and positive interaction. Everything Dee had told me checked out, not that I thought she’d lie, but on the contrary, it was reassuring to know she was in good hands. Just like she said, she’d been attending church with the Cramer family on a regular basis. I had to hand to these Cramer’s, what ever they were doing seemed to be working.

  By April, I had settled into my new job. And like I’ve said before, everybody needed a hustle to make ends meet, and thanks to the new job, my locker stayed full of everything I needed.

  Each inmate could be sent one personal package per yearly quarter (four a year) from family. Once the package arrived at the prison, it was received into R&R where it was opened and searched with a fine-tooth comb. Before the package could be sent in from the streets, a list was pre-sent to the family with details regarding package size, weight and most importantly allowed contents. Anything not on the list would be confiscated, labeled as (contraband) and returned home at the inmates expense.

  Though the list was specific, almost every package contained some type of contraband. These items usually consisted of unauthorized candy, foods and clothes items, such a bandanas, sweatpants, beanies and Doo Rags that were not the specified colors (navy-blue or gray only). Since most inmates didn’t have sufficient funds to send back their confiscated items, all remaining contraband was boxed up and
locked in special room.

  Every Friday, one of the bull’s would unlock the door allowing us workers 10 minutes to stuff our pockets full of confiscated candy. When on the yard, it was easily traded for needed commodities such as cosmetics or Top Ramens which were used as currency.

  The big money wasn’t in selling candy, it was smuggling out confiscated items and returning them to the rightful owners.

  Let me specify, I wasn’t charging convicts to give them back the shit that was already theirs, I was charging for the risk of smuggle the shit out of R&R. If I were caught, with out a doubt I’d get fired and probably catch an added charge, leading to additional time.

  One evening while walking off dinner, TWEETY and I were approached by the Southsider shot caller. Remember earlier I said, “get a favor, owe a favor.” It was no secret I worked in R&R and though never advertised, it was known among convicts what my hustle was. At the time there were no Mexicans employed in R&R and no denying I still owed a favor, obviously I was the go to guy.

  The mission, if I decided to accept, was to locate and smuggle out a pair of confiscated white Fila Disruptor (shark bottom) tennis shoes. It was risky, but with the proper planning it could be done.

  I could have said no, but that really wasn’t an option. I knew 2 things, it had to be done on a Friday since that was the only day we had access to the contraband room and I had to have a point man (a look-out).

  The point man was the biggest issue, here’s why. Contrary to what people may think, I’m not a racist, remember, over half my MONGOL brothers are Mexican, but in prison the rules are different. In there, it’s highly frowned upon to conduct business out of your own race. In this case, all my R&R co-workers were black, which meant I had no choice but to use a Black for a point man. Though I knew this may end up biting me in the ass later, my want to fulfill this favor outweighed the prison political bullshit, so I was willing to take the risk.