ROLL CALL ~ A Prison List (True Prison Story)

by Glenn Langohr

  Detective Pincher thought to himself while he put his gloves on, I should have had these on before, then I wouldn’t have to worry about my prints on anything. He wiped down the digital scale with a dish towel near the sink, turned and saw detective Maltobano standing in the doorway.

  Detective Maltobano thought about what he just heard and what it might mean compared with what he heard from Damon and Jade. He thought about how he knew Jade. I grew up on the same street as she did and our families knew each other. I also knew her through high school and she had always shown good character… But it’s been more than four years since then, a lot could have changed. I just can’t jump to the conclusion that narcotic detective Pincher and Marks fabricated evidence against them… But why was Pincher discounting the need for finger prints?

  Detective Pincher realized detective Maltobano couldn’t see him wiping the scale for prints. His own body was blocking the view. He continued his summary to his partner to cover up his shock at detective Maltobano’s arrival. “Like I was saying about primary evidence in drug cases, it really comes down to dominion and control. That means ownership of the property where the drugs are found. In this case, the apartment and utility bills are in their names. We use that to show dominion and control over the residence. Now we tighten up the scope on where I found the drugs and scale on the dresser in their room right next to their wedding picture. Then we make an exhibition of clothes, shoes and other things that belong to both of them to show sole and personal control of ownership for everything found in their room.”

  Detective Maltobano walked up to the two detectives and shook their hands. “I talked to Jade on the way in and she said you were calling child protective services to take her kids away.”

  Detective Pincher responded, “It’s within my authority to do so if I determine their welfare is at risk.”

  Detective Maltobano shook his head and said, “I’ve known Jade for twenty years and I don’t think that’s a good call.”

  Detective Pincher thought to himself, he just gave me the perfect opportunity to undermine his authority within the department! “First of all detective, I don’t appreciate your involvement in my case. You don’t see me involved in your rape cases do you? Even though I can see better ways for you to do your job, I stay out of your business. Secondly, I’m surprised you’re not professional enough to separate your personal relationships from your duties as a Sheriff to uphold the law! Should I assume you had an intimate relationship with Jade in the past? What are you doing here anyway?”

  Detective Maltobano shook his head. “That would be the wrong assumption Pincher! The reason I’m here is I was in the area to respond to the 911 call that came in from this residence.”

  All three detectives turned their attention to the front door where a number of Sheriffs came in with guns pointing everywhere. Detective Pincher took immediate control. “STAND DOWN!! CODE 4, CODE 4!!”

  Detective Pincher watched the Sheriffs entering the residence lower their guns. One of the Sheriffs turned around to yell a code 4 to those still outside. Pincher thought to himself, I have everything under control and I deserve the respect and control because I make the most arrest and keep the criminals off the streets.

  Detective Maltobano broke through detective Pincher’s thoughts. “So you’re going to arrest both Jade and Damon for that small amount of pot on the counter?”

  He watched detective Pincher’s expression carefully. It went from smug, to indignant and then irritated.

  “Listen carefully detective. I’m arresting both of them so I can pressure Jade into testifying against her husband who hasn’t been willing to admit to the pot we found in the back of his truck last night, or the pot we found in their room today. I have to ensure her testimony. Now for the last time, get out of my investigation! As I promised earlier, I’m reporting your behavior with your problem separating your personal life from your law enforcement duties!”

  Maltobano shook his head and responded, “I think you’re overreaching your own law enforcement duties by calling child protective services and taking their kids for that small amount of pot.”

  He walked out the door and heard one of the other Sheriffs observing say something.

  “Does that pot even weigh over an ounce and qualify as a felony?”

  At the Ford Taurus Maltobano leaned down to talk through the window. “Damon, you have to man up and cop to the pot. That’s the only way I can fight for him to drop the charges on Jade and not to call child services to remove the kids.”

  CHAPTER 34

  I got processed into the county jail and met Damon in the first cell along a line of seven more of them known as “the loop”. I listened to his story carefully and realized something. Bob Prescott was the reason my brother and I got raided! A few weeks back a friend of ours, Vince, brought him over to our house. I remembered how Bob Prescott had run down the same song and dance to us, “I’ve got this friend from Texas that’s big in the business and he moves a lot of product. He wants to get things going from here to Texas and back. This is a gold mine opportunity for you.”

  Now I pictured in my mind’s eye how my brother and I had a conference about it. My brother detected something foul about Bob Prescott right away. Looking back I could see it as clearly now as my brother had then. I saw his bleached tipped spiked hair, his lazy posture and build, and his eyes and body language. His eyes seemed devoid of a conscience, and his body language read that he would seize on any opportunity presented. At the time my brother and I conferred, I was looking at it from strictly a financial viewpoint. At the time, Bill and Kent were out of marijuana, and so was everyone else in the business, it was dry. It made the most sense to sell what we’d managed to hold on to in small increments for maximum value. My response to Bob Prescott had been, “If this guy does big things in Texas get a sample of the product he moves so we can inspect it.” I could picture now how Bob Prescott’s weasel eyes had darted around while his pea brain tried to figure out a tactic. He didn’t come up with anything and left. He came back the next day with the claim that his friend in Texas was dry of product also and that’s why he was in California, to find another line on product. I had asked some probing questions to determine what kind of mark up we could make if we did business with him and my greed over rode my instincts. He couldn’t answer so he pulled out the best distraction man ever invented, paper money. He pulled out $60 that I now realized was probably detective Pincher’s marked money. Bob Prescott had tried to talk me down to selling him $40. worth and I now realize the little rat was trying to pinch $20 from the detective to smuggle out a profit! Being the business miser I am I held out for the $60. While explaining all of this to Damon I had to face that I was the reason my brother was in juvenile hall and our world was upside down.

  Damon and I noticed a twenty year young looking Sheriff that must have just started working for the department come to our eight man holding cell that currently had a dozen other inmates in it. He opened the door and announced the names of those moving to the next cell in the loop. Ours were among them.

  We walked along a painted line next to the cells with our hands behind our backs behind the young Sheriff to the next cell. I noticed the slightly larger cell had a sticker on the cell door. It said the maximum occupancy was 12. I entered the cell first and noticed there were about 20 people packed along the edges of the cell like sardines and there wasn’t anywhere to sit. Even the mini toilet area had people posted up for space. I inventoried all of the faces quickly and spotted Vince in the corner.

  I thought about Vince. My brother and I had met him about 6 months ago on our way to the beach. He was immediately on our good side when we found out his last name ended in a vowel. Prestolli. Full Italian. From Vince we learned a lot that he seemed hungry to share. He knew his lineage extensively and started from so far back, it was impressive. According to Vince, the Prestollis in Italy made a name for themselves in the Catholic church to the point one of them was a cardinal. Somet
ime long ago, one of the Prestolli daughters got swept off her feet, in love with a Faruso. The Faruso’s made a name for themselves in Sicily as high ranking Mafioso. From there the family tree bore some potent fruit. One of his grandfathers, sometime in the 1950’s to 1960’s here in California was such an intellectual that he published books on psychology. Another grandfather invented some kind of technology the U.S. government bought up for national security. Vince explained that neither grandfather cared much for money and were far more concerned with study. They set up a trust fund that doled out money to every member of their large family and extended family. They also acquired a large piece of property in Silverado Canyon that included water and mineral rights. That property went to Vince’s Mom Rutha. According to Vince, his Mom had a lot of the Faruso blood in her and she found her comfort zone in the underground. The property in Silverado Canyon became a playground for a chapter of outlaw bikers. They brought a lot of problems to the property and there were even rumors that a stolen cache of military weapons were buried on the property. According to Vince, his Mom then kicked the outlaw bikers off the property but it was too late. A federal search warrant was executed and the military weapons were not found, but the troubles just got worse. Vince claimed he and his Mom had been railroaded by Orange County ever since. While the feds and the county studied Rutha and her Silverado Canyon property, they alleged a dispute over the land deeds. They seized her approximately 50 acres of property, mineral and water rights and left her with enough room to live in a trailer. While Vince told his tale my brother and I shook our heads. It was such a deep tale, it was hard to believe. I looked into Vince’s tenacious brown eyes and felt his frustration. He obviously had been telling this story to many people seeking help, comfort or just somebody to listen to him because the scope of his story was so full of detail and sharpened. Part of the problem was the way he looked. At 20 years old he looked more like 14. He had a baby face and a kid’s build that was so chiseled and wiry that all eight of his stomach muscles showed cuts over a bronzed olive colored skin. His brown hair was always in disarray and gave him a wild appearance, until you really looked at how determined his eyes were. I believed in him and decided he wasn’t lying. But that didn’t mean his Mom wasn’t to him. I had gently probed in this direction and could tell that others had also by his quick response. “Look it up. It’s public record at the county recorder’s office. You can see we owned approximately 50 acres of land, mineral and water rights until it was seized. The federal search warrant for the stolen military weapons is also public record.” He was defensive about his Mom and had a good reason to be, he was her son. From Vince I had learned that his Mom didn’t think school was as important as life experiences so he rarely went. He explained that he didn’t have a ride there and when he did, he wasn’t dressed like the other kids. I realized Vince didn’t have a father figure in his life. The only ones he’d had were the outlaw bikers who ran through Rutha’s property and hung out. Vince explained how they gave him his first taste of methamphetamine at 9 years old by injecting him with a loaded syringe of it and taking bets on how many days he’d be gone. Vince explained how he’d walk for days, covering over a hundred miles, looking for those life experiences his Mom told him about.

  Damon and I stood in front of Vince sitting on a slab of concrete in the corner and I realized he had been talking to Damon about our cases while I was deep in thought. Now he was saying something to me.

  “I’m sorry for introducing you to Bob Prescott. I didn’t know he was working as an informant. I was just doing what you told me, to bring as much business your way as possible. I’ve been in Silverado Canyon since I last saw you and heard from a friend of mine that Bob Prescott raped my friend Sarah. I tried to get a ride to come to your house and tell you and ended up walking and hitch hiking. I got pulled over and arrested in Mission Viejo on my way. The Sheriffs said I had a warrant for 4 counts of assault and battery on a police officer. It must be that July 4’th incident at the San Clemente pier I told you about.”

  I thought about what he’d told me. According to Vince, he’d been at the pier watching the fireworks where a mass of people filled the streets partying and listening to loud music. Vince had said that he’d been singled out by the Sheriffs for drunk and disorderly conduct and roughly pulled away from the crowd. He tripped while getting dragged and a number of Sheriffs proceeded to wipe the concrete with him by raining punches and kicks until he was almost unconscious and compliant. Vince had said his blood alcohol had registered zero because he hadn’t drank. His head and face were swollen and the black and blue bruises didn’t fully go away for over a month. I remember asking Vince why he and his Mom didn’t bring a law suit against the county. He had told me that his Mom decided since the beating wasn’t on video, the Sheriffs would just bring charges against him to cover it up. Now it looked like the charges were coming anyway.

  CHAPTER 35

  We got processed down the line of cells and got our pictures taken, finger printed and then interviewed. The interview process consisted of going into a little room where a smart looking older Lieutenant Sheriff sat behind bullet proof glass to determine what level of criminal he had in front of him. He asked me if I had ever been arrested and convicted of a felony before. I said no. He looked at a file he had in front of him and told me that I’d had a lot of marijuana at my house. I looked at him and shrugged. Then he asked me if I’d ever been to Orange County jail before. I said no. He attached a white band to my left wrist and told me I’d probably get O.R.’d and explained that meant I’d be going home and have to show up to court on my own. The last thing he said was to take care of myself until then. I took that as a warning that there must be a lot of problems in the jail.

  The next two cells were the largest and the stamp said the maximum capacity was 24. The second cell was empty and the cell I was going into looked packed to double the capacity. Vince and Damon soon followed me in. I looked around and realized that almost everyone in the cell was Mexican. I saw a few Asians huddled together in one corner and a few blacks huddled together in another corner. I found a couple of whites with their backs to the wall and we headed their way. On the way there we squeezed by Mexicans and avoided the stragglers who were laying on the ground. Standing there like sardines I noticed two serious looking Mexicans studying the floor to see who was laying on the ground. The tension in the cell magnified. I noticed Vince and Damon’s eyes were doing the same thing mine were, looking at the ground to see if any whites were laying down. We found one right when the cell door opened and an extremely observant looking white man squeezed into the cell. He looked about forty years old, was very large and stocky and very capable looking. He zeroed in on us and I wondered if my instincts to wake the white guy on the floor up were right. We did anyway and told him to stand up and make room like the rest of us were.

  The big white man squeezed his way over to our spot and introduced himself as Carl. We introduced ourselves and felt a little better with such an imposing presence. He looked wise to our environment and by body language and positioning; he took over as our leader and teacher.

  “Listen up youngsters. That was smart to wake that white guy up lying down before those Chicanos had to. They’re just laying down the jail law. Look around, we’re the minority in here. That means you have to stick together, look out for each other, strengthen each other and build each other up. That includes every white person you see because we’re only as strong as our weakest link. It’s simple in here if you keep it simple. It starts with respect. Respect yourself and all others at all times. Respecting yourself includes keeping yourself looking groomed and sharp, working out a lot and building up your mind so you can figure out how to stop coming back to this place!”

  Right then as Carl was educating, the Chicanos were waking up a Mexican wino who was still trying to sleep it off on the ground. He made the mistake of trying to push them away with his leg. The two Chicanos reacted and started firing punches, kicks and stomps. Ever
yone in the crowded cell squeezed against each other to get out of the way. I jumped up on the concrete slab for higher ground and saw the wino was knocked out while the Chicanos continued to soccer kick and stomp his face and head area.

  A few young looking Sheriffs arrived at the cell door watching, and waiting for enough back up to arrive. A few others arrived and I could see they were about to enter. The Chicanos stopped and tried to blend in, like that was possible. The cell door popped open and four Sheriffs rushed in with Billy clubs and pepper spray. Other Sheriffs came in behind them and handcuffed the two Chicanos and escorted them out of the cell. A medical team came running in and got the still unconscious wino on a gurney and rushed him out.

  As everything began to calm down Carl stepped up to the last Sheriff standing at the cell door and said, “What’s wrong with you people? You’ve got a wide open cell next door you could have put half of us in and this shit wouldn’t have happened! Do you like stacking us on top of each other so you can watch the violence?”

  CHAPTER 36

  Vince walked the line with a sea of other inmates coming out of the modules on their way to the bottom of the jail for a bus ride to court. He thought about the last three weeks of being locked up, and the other two bus rides to court. On the first trip to court the assault and battery charges had been amended to include G.B.I., great bodily injury. On the second trip to court a pretty lady came up in the holding cell and introduced herself as Stacy, his public defender. She explained the difference in the original charges and the amended charges. “The original charges carried a sentence of up to a maximum of a year in the county jail. The amended charges with the G.B.I. attached, carry a prison sentence that starts at two years and can reach up to four years.”