Upon Release From Prison

by Glenn Langohr

Benjamin smiled, glad to be back, “Topo you are a master director!”

  “My producer is God, you want some burritos?”

  CHAPTER—36

  Topo woke this time at 3:30 in the morning. Something was different. It wasn’t a tangible feeling, but there was a different energy in the air. He could feel a different thought pattern and identified it as a shift in the prison guard’s mentality. Like they were anticipating what was to come with so much force their thoughts and wonder breezed into the cell like the wind. Maybe this 9 month lock down was coming to an end. After the last blood bath war that had culminated from consistent violence and homemade weapon thrusting, the prison staff had declared all inmates were to be confined to their cell for a year. Topo remembered earlier wars and lock downs. It usually took a couple months to de-escalate and process a prison back to normal. That meant the first step would be for the prison staff to ask each race for a representative to come out of their cell to broker peace by walking the tiers together as a first glimpse that the war was actually over. Those reps would then walk cell to cell to communicate, maybe throw an olive branch out to other races and find ways to iron out differences. Then, each week the prison staff committee would hold a meeting with those reps to go over the process. Each week, the prison staff would feed info relating to goodies yet to come, like canteen to buy food and cosmetics, like quarterly packages for more of the same but also certain electronics like radios and even clothes. All this was meant to quell the violence to give the inmates something they’d missed and hungered for, as an incentive. The prison staff would also give the reps info on the next stage of the de-escalation process, like allowing an equal number of each race the chance to finally get out of their cell to once again become the building’s janitor and others to become the kitchen workers to provide the yard chow and others to get to the yard for maintenance and others even a chance to work in the prison staff offices to type all the paperwork.

  It was now 4:15 in the morning and the usual noise of the vestibule opening and closing to signify shift change still hadn’t happened, another hint that change was in the air. L’il man woke and stared at an already awake Topo.

  Topo said, “We are coming off lock down.”

  L’il man nodded his head he understood without even asking a question on how he knew. Topo had been right so many times.

  Two hours later the metal food carts on wheels still hadn’t arrived. They had been arriving like clockwork an hour ago. Both Topo and L’il man anticipated the change before word of it arrived. An hour later the deputies finally entered the building. L’il Man stood on his tip toes to look out the cell door over a crouching Topo also watching. The deputies all had different gestures. The way they communicated was tighter but at the same time more animated and weary.

  L’il man offered, “They are all taking mental bets on what will happen and when if we make it off lock down.”

  Two hours later a prison guard walked the tier dragging a trash can to throw away what was left of the food in the cell trays that had been slid under the doors. He got to Topo’s cell and picked up the two eaten trays and tossed them into the trash, then looked at Topo and said, “You guys are finally coming off lockdown. Who do you want to come out for your race as a rep?”

  Topo said, “Me.”

  CHAPTER—37

  Topo heard his cell door pop first, then he heard 3 other cells pop open in succession. He already knew Vincent was coming out as a rep for the white race, that black He-Man Pyro was coming out as a rep for the Black race and that smart and deadly short Vietnamese, A.K.A K-9, as a rep for the Asian race. His immediate thoughts went to survival. What if Pyro had heard the rumors of the Mexican against Black war? What if he was going to go on the offensive with the consideration that his odds were best at this very moment since he was almost twice as tall as me and weighed 100 lbs more? Those were much better odds then having to fight ten Mexicans catching him just coming out of his cell on the way to morning chow with 20 ice-picks, one in each hand. To quell the thought Topo put one foot in front of the other knowing God was in control and his cell mate was ready to slide a homemade killing tool under the cell door if needed for survival.

  He walked to the first Mexican cell and knocked from the side, patiently waiting and giving respect by not just sticking his face in the cell.

  An 18 year old doing a life sentence for a murder beef who went by CREEPER, came to the cell door. “Hey big hommie these pinche cops are finally letting us out huh?”

  Topo said, “Yeah they seem to have given us enough time to meditate in slow motion on a shelf. Time to get some much needed cosmetics and food from canteen.”

  Topo tried to send the message in the right direction.

  The youngster wanted to earn some points and said, “What about this war brewing with these pinche tintos?” Prison slang for the war with the blacks.

  Topo responded, “Kill that noise. We don’t want that hitting the airwaves and forcing our hand if it isn’t necessary. Do you have any personal reasons to push that issue? Don’t you want to get out of your cell and get to the yard to use the exercise bars and handball court?”

  The youngster was bouncing on his toes. He said, “I’ll kill the noise and let you drive the car. Spenser big hommie.” Prison slang for excuse me.

  The next morning when the cell doors popped open Topo had his art depiction of a Samson-like man using his strength against his prison bars to open them and his cellie’s art, along with B.J’s P.O box number for art and scripts. He busied himself with passing items from cell to cell to all his Mexican brothers first, then the same help for other races. The mood was upbeat with the hope of extra things to come and nothing violent immediately on the horizon. Slowly but surely Topo was mixing in B.J’s P.O box and showcasing his and his cellie’s art. Pyro wanted to send some of his lyrics but was curious as to how to keep it from being stolen. Others inquired as to how B.J planned to sell and publish work?

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  CHAPTER—38

  Bonafino decided at his desk that he was going to get to the bottom of the Pincher affair. He thought about his nature and what led him to pursue an Internal Affairs career after work with the C.I.A. He loved seeking truth to the point he cherished facts. Then, Lee Strobel had to go and write the book, A CASE FOR FAITH. After reading it, Bonafino started attending a Christian Church connected to the Hope House For Abused Women. Upon attending the church something stirred within. It was the same feeling he felt watching his wife and April walk out of his office in tears toward Hope.

  He stepped into his wife’s white supercharged Range Rover he always borrowed when undercover. He changed the driver seat of perforated leather and the steering wheel to a computer chip stored arrangement with the push of a button. Above that button, Bonafino inserted a satellite tracker able to hone in on any cell phone transmitting frequency and within seconds analyze everything including: manufacturer, codes- incoming and outgoing and the location to within a dime.

  Bonafino went over a Pincher historical timeline concerning fact. Pincher had been under investigation by Internal Affairs in Orange County prior to his transfer to L.A, prompted by Maltobano. The investigation had been successfully stonewalled by Pincher who had utilized his 5th Amendment rights against self-incrimination. That didn’t make him guilty just because he was again under investigation. It wasn’t a fact. Bonafino always investigated the opposite way in that he looked for ways to prove innocence first. The reason he believed in this strategy was because unless an officer of the law actually witnessed a crime with their own eyes and reported it on paper, the question of fact was left to other untrained witnesses, most of whom were led by drug induced actions into drug related crimes.

  He thought about all the data he’d gathered on this particular investigation thus far. First, the news footage and print, then the follow up, “Pincher under investigation by the department”, then the District Attorney…During
phone conversations the head D.A allowed vital info to slip. Sawyer was investigating, “Possible compromised evidence from the evidence locker.” Nothing more… No suspects. Not even the type of evidence. Bonafino didn’t want to assume anything. His urge was to assume it was drug evidence because of the timing but he quelled such urges to keep an open mind rather than lean toward an uncertain direction. He would only allow himself to be directed by facts.

  He followed Pincher from a distance. Then, Bonafino realized where Pincher was going, to crack alley.

  Pincher woke up after four hours of sleep and tried to remember how many days he’d gone without. The attorney’s office…Then the cheap hookers for two days…Then the psychiatrist and doctor for the legal prescriptions for heroin and speed…Pincher’s thoughts were interrupted by his immediate need for some of Veto’s speed and he laughed a weird laugh, even to his own ears, at the further thought that the real stuff from the streets was always better than the pharmaceutical.

  He looked around his room. It was a pig sty. Clothes, soiled bedding, condoms, ashtrays, porn videos and magazines, half started projects and other crap lay everywhere. Where in the fuck is my dope from Veto! Pincher felt like an animal going through pocket after pocket of clothing. He threw everything toward a corner pile. Halfway through the search Pincher found his hands full and forgot what he was looking for, then remembered where the shit was and laughed the new weird laugh. It was in the jacket pocket.

  Out of the shower standing in front of the bathroom mirror, he stared at his reflection in frustration. He noticed his clamped teeth and tried to unclamp them. He couldn’t. Every time he loosened his jaw he found his eyes looking at another part of his reflection and felt his teeth clamping again! He gave up and stared at his almost naked body. Perspiration dripped down into his white, too tight fruit of the loom underwear and he looked into his eyes and said, “Fuckin tweaker sweat is gross.”

  He applied baby powder all over his body and decided another jolt of Veto’s speed was called for to get ready for the big day. He stared at his eyes the whole time wondering which one to look at as each nostril sucked hungrily for sustenance. He watched his black pupil get even larger. He stared directly into that eye and thought about crack alley and the plan to add a witness or two to ensure closer to 50 mil from the law suit against L.A.

  Pincher stepped into his black Dodge Challenger, hit the garage door button on his visor and gunned the engine. He watched the door open in his rearview mirror and reveled in the deep sound of the Challenger’s engine. He hit play on the CD player and turned up the volume to his favorite song. Play That Funky Music White Boy.

  Driving, he thought about the research on the CRIPS he’d done in the field as a narcotic detective and the recent homework he’d done on the internet. The CRIPS started in the 1960’s and was meant to continue the ideology of the Black community to represent- Community Revolution in Progress. 15 year old Raymond Washington started the CRIPS with co-founder Stanley “Tookie” Williams. “Tookie” started the “Westside CRIPS” and soon the CRIP gang outnumbered rival black gangs by 3 to 1, until in 1971 a CRIP gang set in Compton on Piru Street changed everything by disenfranchising and then uniting with the outnumbered gangs to start the BLOODS. Then there was the CRIP connection to crack cocaine. “Freeway Freddie”, the most notorious crack dealer with crack houses everywhere, some organized by CRIPS, became the Macdonald’s of crack, intent to serve over 55 million. Then there was Wayne Day, A.K.A “Honcho”, a Grape Street CRIP original, who also had big dreams and bought his own pager service in which the other gangs, including rivals, all started using with all proceeds going to “Honcho”. Then there was the rap group Easy E put together NWA, Niggas with Attitudes who took their street hustle into a recording studio to put their culture stamp out to the world through creativity. With all this in mind, Pincher drove to the same crack alley where he’d staged the attack for which he was now under investigation and suing the department.

  100 feet from the alley he saw a tall skinny black teenager and another bigger older CRIP. The youngster looked like a-wanna-be Snoop Dog. He wore braided hair in pony tails, black square shades, and big puckered lips busy on a cell phone, a white tank top with arms showing gang tattoos along with a seared-branded-cattle-style icon of some sort to signify even further CRIP allegiance, all over a skinny waist not quite holding black sagging jeans. Pincher thought, he’s the point man feeding the other end of the conversation, the dealers, info on every new arrival”. He tried to drive by and the wanna-be Snoop Dog turned his swivel neck to watch while inflated lips flapped info through the cell.

  Pincher reached the alley and looked in. 8 foot high cement walls lined both sides and about 100 feet down there was a hole the size of a dog door in the middle of the brick wall. It was covered by a homemade grill. Two other late teenage boys dressed the CRIP part waved him away. One ran to Pincher and tapped on the passenger window. Pincher lowered it.

  “We closed for a while nigga.”

  Pincher was getting used to the drill. Gone was the Hawaii-5-O shirt. Gone was the cop mustache. He took off his shades and put the snifter of Veto’s speed to his nose and inhaled so he wouldn’t look like a cop. Then he made his eyes look as crazy as possible and made up an exaggerated bayou accent, “Miss me with that nigga shit. Let me get some rock. I’m friends with Honcho and the late Easy E.”

  The gangsta at the window jumped back with exaggeration and came back to the window just as fast laughing, “Okay triple O honky. You can wait for us to open at the abandoned house round the corner.”

  Pincher watched the gangsta run back to his partner watching the whole time and nodded his head at him that he understood but said, “Fuck” under his breath and thought harder. He drove around the corner thinking; maybe I can incorporate someone at the crack house as a witness.

  The street turned into a dead end. About 50 feet into the dirt lot a decrepit wooden house about the size of a big garage with paint peeling off in flakes, sat off to the side in dusty, dirty abandonment. Pincher looked around the abandoned structure and noticed a dirt trail behind it that sloped around to the other end of crack alley. Desperate low-bottom crack addicts probably panhandled that end for crack and used the abandoned house. It didn’t look like anyone was using it.

  Pincher walked to the front. No way in. Around back he found the door and knocked.

  “There aint nobody here unless you got some rock for me.”

  Pincher pushed the door open and it almost fell off the top hinge. Inside, he saw a single black man. He was around 50 years old, had knotty, nasty, unkempt dreadlocks poking everywhere, and a dark, wrinkled face with both hands working a crack pipe between his lips…Those lips were sucking so hard they appeared blue. Pincher laughed and thought this is going to be easy. “If you’ll be my witness I will make you a rich pimp.”

  The black man sucked the pipe with even more fervor like it was about to get taken. He knew his crack was almost gone and wondered, “How can I come up on this stupid looking honky? What u got?”

  Pincher pulled out his snifter. “I got ambushed in front of crack alley over a week ago. All I need is a couple witnesses to get 50 mill from the county. I’m about to nail a couple of the niggas that jumped me. I just need you to say you saw the ambush to identify them…”

  The black man finished sucking the last of the crack through the pipe and all he heard was, here is some more for you. “Bring me some of that.”

  Pincher noticed the man only had one tooth now that a crack pipe wasn’t in the way. It was sticking way too far out for an ordinary tooth. Pincher laughed and handed his snifter to him. As soon as it left his hand he felt one of the black man’s legs hook behind his while both of the crack smoker’s arms shoved. Pincher fell backward. He tried to regain his balance during the fall with both arms flailing to right him. The force of the shove was too much and his right wrist landed on the ground at an unnatural angle. He tried to get up and realized his wrist was damaged.
Then he realized the real problem. The rest of his speed was gone.

  The black crack fiend, who at one time was a star running back in high school, sprinted out the door. On the way out he yanked the door and the top hinge released leaving a slanted door as a barricade.

  Pincher grabbed the hanging door and realized how bad his wrist was throbbing. Overwhelmed by the need to get his speed back he flung the door open. The wider than normal arc of the door opening was too much for his forward propelling body and he felt the corner of it slam against his chin. Temporarily unperturbed, he chased. The black man was already 40 yards ahead turning the corner and out of sight at the back end of crack alley. Pincher again felt the throbbing wrist and now his brain registered a burning sensation on his chin. Running hard, reacting on impulse his right hand touched his chin for damage. It hurt his wrist immensely from the bouncing contact. He got to the same corner and the thief was gone. Pincher wondered if he ran down the alley..? Probably not, he must have another spot to hide on one of the other streets and the realization that he’d just been successfully robbed of his product hit full force. He stopped running. He looked at his right wrist and was shocked at what he saw. His wrist was hanging sideways and blue and swollen to double its size. The metacarpals for all four fingers were fractured and almost popping through the skin. The throbbing got worse.

  In a fit of rage that erased the pain Pincher screamed, “Fuck the CRIPS I am the head honcho!”

  He ran back to his car intent on vengeance. There was a Glock-17 hand gun in the trunk. It was his personal weapon of choice. There is no way that nigger is going to burn me!

  At his Challenger, with gun in left hand, he came up with a better plan. I’m going to shoot the head crack dealer in the alley and say he was one of the many assailants from before. Gunning the Challenger around the corner Pincher’s mind raced with heroic images and the first explosion pierced his thoughts. From behind, glass flew inside the Challenger everywhere as he heard continued gunfire. He reacted by firing his gun out the window indiscriminately toward the hole in the wall. Bullets ricocheted off the grill and wall until he stopped at the grill and kept firing into it until the firing pin just made empty noise. His brain caught up with him and he realized out of the corner of his eye while turning the corner into crack alley the gangsta snoop dog look alike was the one who had fired at him and looked back. The youngster was walking on his toes toward the Challenger while reloading another clip. Right as he was pointing Pincher hit the gas and stared in his rearview mirror half ducking down. He saw a white SUV come out of nowhere almost hit the gangsta. He lost sight of it as he turned the Challenger around a corner.