ROLL CALL ~ A Prison List (True Prison Story)

by Glenn Langohr

  Huddy directed me to Mr. Dudley’s house and Mr. Dudley, Brock and Shana were in the garage waiting for me. Huddy excused himself to go see a girl who lived down the street and I met the family. Mr. Dudley was average size, bald, and had big eyes that appeared to smile a lot. He looked very ordinary and dressed casual. Brock looked like a G.Q. model with short cropped brown hair and a surfer build. He dressed local to the area in Black Fly and Lost apparel. Shana was a cute looking brunette that looked a little grungy and puck rockish. She was wearing a black mini skirt with a white tank top.

  Mr. Dudley shook my hand, introduced himself, and asked me, “What do you want to drink, A beer, or something stronger?”

  I looked at my watch. It was two in the afternoon. “I don’t drink sir.”

  Mr. Dudley looked shocked. I was already on the wrong foot with him. “Shana go get us a beer.”

  Shana ran in the house. Mr. Dudley walked me into the garage and watched me. I studied him right back until I realized he expected me to look around and comment on his custom Harley Davidson.

  I looked at it. It looked like a piece of art, like it had been sculpted. It was positioned at an angle that best represented it and I noticed it was parked there on top of a mirror. It had a chopper look with the forks kicked out at a rakish angle. It looked longer and lower than any other Harley I’d seen. The gas tank was painted powder white with all the colors of a sunset in ghost flames swirling through an Eagle’s face. The seat looked lower than normal and the back end extended at a slightly downward angle until the massive back tire stuck out giving it a very masculine look. The next thing my eye caught was the fat chrome exhaust pipe. I looked it over from the rear to the front of it and noticed how much more polished chrome the machine sported. Everything that wasn’t powder white frame was polished chrome. I’d never seen a Harley look like that. I looked back at Mr. Dudley’s expectant face and said, “It’s pretty.”

  Mr. Dudley looked like he was waiting for me to finish saying something, like it’s pretty… incredible. I noticed that Mr. Dudley had walked right to a certain spot in the garage when we entered it and assumed it was his station. I looked at the wall to the right and there was a black and white poster of someone spraying a machine gun. I looked closer. The man doing the shooting was in a shooters stance with his legs bent to hold on while a fusillade of bullets erupted from the gun, but you couldn’t see the man’s face. The picture was taken so you only saw the man up to the neck. It had to be Mr. Dudley.

  He noticed me looking at the poster and smiled. I saw him about to tell me something and I walked toward his custom Harley. I asked his son Brock, “Why is it on a mirror?”

  “The frame’s well joints are polished. You know how where the frame comes together there is usually the rough welded area? Ours are polished smooth. It’s a show bike. That’s how you show these kinds of bikes, on a mirror.”

  Mr. Dudley walked over and I had to stop myself from walking back to where his station was to reexamine the poster. He said, “I keep telling Brock it’s a motorcycle, not a bike. Brock used to race B.M.X. bikes and calls everything a bike that’s on two wheels.”

  I watched the father and son share in the joke and couldn’t help but walk back to look at the poster.

  Mr. Dudley followed me back over to his station and said, “You can’t keep your attention on one thing can you?”

  I looked at the poster and decided again that it was probably Mr. Dudley. “Is that you?”

  I finally looked right at Mr. Dudley again. His face looked irritated. I smiled and said, “I have A.D.H.D., is that you in the poster?”

  Mr. Dudley smiled like he was trying to figure out if I was just kidding with him or if this was really me. Then he looked at his son like they were sharing in another joke together. He asked me, “Do you know what kind of gun that is?”

  “No I’m not a gun buff. I could guess it’s an AR15 or an Uzi.”

  “Wrong! It’s a street sweeper that has been modified. It’s illegal to have it on automatic like that.”

  I understood. Brock took the picture of his father breaking the law in a humongous way. What a daredevil. I guess I better look impressed.

  Shana came back with three beers and I declined mine. I took a furtive glance at Mr. Dudley and it looked like I was disappointing him at every turn.

  We went inside and the first thing I saw as we entered the front door was the bank vault. It looked like two refrigerators standing next to each other with one of those wheels to turn to open it. I stopped walking and stared at it. “Can I see what’s inside it?”

  Mr. Dudley stopped walking and looked at his son for a second and then walked back to the vault. He got down on one knee and dialed the combination. Then he remembered something and looked up at me and said, “I forgot that the alarm is armed. I can’t open it or it will trip the alarm and the Sheriff will be here within a couple of minutes.”

  I nodded my head to show him I understood and we went to the living room to sit down. He sat on a recliner facing where I was to sit on the couch and Brock and Shana sat on another couch where they could watch their Dad operate. Directly above Mr. Dudley was a massive marlin mounted on the wall.

  It was time cut through the red tape. “Mr. Dudley. Why did you want to meet me?”

  It looked like Mr. Dudley had to force a smile to cover up his irritation with me. “B.J. Do you do everything like this, directly to the point? Have a beer and relax.”

  “I don’t drink. I guess I’m uncomfortable because I don’t know what you want with me. I don’t know who you are so I’m trying to learn things about you by observing your surroundings.”

  I watched Mr. Dudley take on the concerned look of a clinical psychologist. He leaned forward like he was attending. “You’ve had a rough childhood haven’t you?”

  I thought, here we go. What has he heard? How do I probe for that information?

  “Mr. Dudley. I’d say I’ve got to the point where I would summarize my childhood as exciting.”

  Mr. Dudley forced that smile of his for a while… “I hope you don’t take offense to this, but I’ve done some homework on you. Your story intrigues me. I’ve heard that your father was an abusive alcoholic who beat you and your brother up pretty bad at times. And I don’t mean with a belt…”

  I felt his concern breaking a wall down. Maybe he does care. How can I probe further…?

  “Mr. Dudley… Do you believe everything you hear?”

  Mr. Dudley looked even more concerned and thoughtful. “No… I don’t believe everything I hear, but I do believe something like that must have happened because it fits with the rest of what I’ve heard. Excuse me for being so blunt, but I’ve heard that you sell speed and marijuana, and you do it in such a way that it has come to my attention.”

  I waited Mr. Dudley out, wanting to hear about the way I do things. I was comfortable in the silence. I tried to mirror Mr. Dudley and leaned toward him the same way he was leaning toward me.

  Mr. Dudley looked less comfortable than I. I guess I wasn’t giving him enough to work with. It felt like my silence was forcing his hand. He took on a dignified look and tried to make me more comfortable.

  “B.J. I’ve played both sides of the law myself. When I was in the field as an orthopedic surgeon, I was able to obtain pure cocaine with my license. I met a cartel level gun and drug dealer and even obtained an old western gun from him for my gun collection. One of these days I’ll show it to you. You’ve already seen the poster I have in the garage, so please feel comfortable talking to me. I want to help you.”

  I just stared at him, mirroring his every move until he continued.

  “B.J. another thing that intrigues me about you is that I’ve heard that you talk to a lot of people you do business with about God and the Bible. How does that go together with what you do for a living?”

  I felt all of my resentments surfacing… “Mr. Dudley. If you know God and the Bible, you know that everything that is good comes from God. Ev
erything bad, comes from the devil. It’s a constant spiritual war between good and evil. With that said, the Bible shows us how God works in mysterious ways and uses people nobody else would expect. A prime example is the story of Saul. Saul worked for the Jewish leaders for the Pharisees and persecuted Christians to try and kill their momentum and uprising. God revealed himself to him and showed him the error of his ways. From that point on he became Paul and represented Christ Jesus by writing most of what became the New Testament of the Bible. He showed the world the meaning of the word Love and that it comes from God in his letters to the Corinthians, Galatians, and Thessalonians…”

  “But B.J. if you know all of that, then why do you sell drugs?”

  I thought about it. How do I tell him I’ve been on the streets, desperately seeking other options, yet finding them in the underground drug culture… What else could I do, panhandle and preach at the same time?

  “Mr. Dudley, I’ve been traveling through hell and running into other people who have been abused, raped, put down and have never been shown where real love comes from, then, since I know where it comes from, I try to be a messenger as much as I can. I believe that God uses people, and brings people together to pass His message along. The people I run into might not be receptive to the words coming out of the same mouths that abused them. They might have lost faith in their parents, their preachers and their government. They might be more receptive to someone else going through what they’re going through… I guess I’m still fighting against something too, mostly hypocrisy. People who say they believe in God and then put you down like they are without sin. The Catholic priests who molest, the politicians who lie and steal but cover it up with finding fault with others to support their self righteousness, the police and courts who steal, cheat and bend the law however they want in the name of righteousness, the tax collectors and tax payers who cheat and then feel righteous because they give 10% to the church. Even some of the churches, for judging people so hard and then not even practicing what Jesus taught, to help those in need rather than condemn them. The thing with me is I know I’m a sinner. I know I have a bunch of chips on my shoulders. I also know that God is going to show me my own hypocrisy. This road I’m on right now is just a section of my journey.”

  I finished talking and felt my passion bubbling at the surface. I realized it was giving me far more energy than the speed I used!

  I studied Mr. Dudley and he looked impressed! He clapped his hands and said, “Bravo, bravo. Well said.”

  I felt a lot more comfortable, like I fit in. Even in Mr. Dudley’s mansion.

  “B.J, I would like to help you make it to that next section of your journey. We can call it the Promised Land if you want. I’m the fabricator of some of the best custom Harleys on the planet. That one you saw in the garage is my first one so you’re on the ground floor with me. I’m giving you the chance to be my partner but it’s going to take a commitment out of you. You’re going to have to come over here and treat this business deal like a job to show me you’re serious. Are you willing?”

  “Of course I’m willing! I’ve been trying to find a legal business to get involved in for what seems like forever! What do you want me to do?”

  “I would need you to invest $12,500 in my next custom Harley. You would have to come over here every day, Monday through Friday, just like a regular job. I’m going to teach you about the Harleys I’m building until you know them well enough to represent them with my son and I.”

  CHAPTER 84

  I drove to Mr. Dudley’s the next morning, got a pass from the gate guard and entered the gates.

  Mr. Dudley and Brock were waiting for me in the garage. I pulled the Festiva in between Mr. Dudley’s V-12 Mercedes and his Wife’s B.M.W.850 in the driveway.

  Mr. Dudley met me and said, “Why don’t you park behind Brock’s truck.”

  I looked at Brock’s raised Ford F-350 with the four door extended cab, custom grill and added-on suspension. It was parked along the curb. There wasn’t any room to park behind him. That left around the corner from the house. I parked over there and walked back.

  Mr. Dudley was standing next to his custom Harley creation with that smile of his. It felt like he was waiting for me to fawn over it and validate what an amazing fabricator he was. He had a camera in his hand and Brock got on the Harley and put on his skull cap helmet. Mr. Dudley took some pictures and we went inside.

  I sat back on the couch exactly where I had yesterday and watched Mr. Dudley set up a video.

  It was a Harley Davidson video. As it played, Mr. Dudley talked about himself.

  “I grew up in San Bernardino. I remember when the biker gangs started after the war. I personally know some of the boys who came back from the war and felt like they needed another club after the government left them high and dry…”

  I listened and thought, okay, you’re a doctor/dentist during the week and a biker on the weekend but you’re a part of the real thing in San Bernardino…

  I watched the video and saw all kinds of custom Harleys, and then Mr. Dudley’s. His did look like one of the very best ones, if not the best.

  Mr. Dudley saw my reaction and pulled out a couple of Harley magazines and flipped through the pages until he found his creation to show me, impressive.

  Mr. Dudley and Brock walked me to Brock’s room. Brock got on the computer and pulled up an agreement. It had my name on it and described my investment. I read the agreement. It stated that if I invested $12,500, I would get an estimated return of between $3,000 to $6,000 on my money when the Custom Harley he’d already built sold. The term estimated it would take approximately 3 months to sell the Harley. I had that much in the frame of the Festiva. I handed over the cash, signed the agreement and got a copy.

  I came over the next day with a list of questions. I wanted to know why, if I was just an investor like the contract said, he wanted me to come over every day. He told me that I was being given the chance to be more than an investor. He said that he had the hope that he might get a contract for a T.V. show about custom Harleys, or maybe franchise his business ideas into dealerships across the country. That was enough for me. I got called through his gate every day, showed up for work, polished his Harley, learned about it in detail, watched the second one, a fat boy softail, get fabricated and compiled a portfolio to advertise Custom Creation Harley.

  CHAPTER 85

  Dad. What do you plan on doing with B.J.?”

  “Nothing. The courts already have plans for him. He’s got prison time hanging over his head. He won’t have a leg to stand on to try and sue me for the money, he’s a drug dealer!”

  “Dad, you know I sell pot. What’s the difference?”

  “Brock, you only sell pot to get yours for free. That’s kind of like buying alcohol for someone and getting a few beers out of it for buying it and making the delivery. B.J. tries to control the trade. He’s a control freak! He’s digging holes all around himself and is sure to fall into one of them. Now I’m going to teach him a lesson about control, and who’s town this really is, and push him into one of those holes.”

  “Did you do this to teach him a lesson, or did you need his money?”

  “Both. I spent all I could for Custom Creation on advertising to put the wide glide in that video and the magazines.”

  CHAPTER 86

  Every day I went to Mr. Dudley’s house and studied his custom Harleys until I could talk about his fabrications as if I’d built them myself. At Paul’s I’d practice running down my portfolio to him. How the 96 cubic inch motor transferred the power through the gears like a dragster. How the drive train held the Harley to the ground for added handling. How his Harleys were different from the competition in a better way and the difference in the design to give it its own look. Paul asked me how we were coming along on selling the wide glide, was it going to sell within the next month to meet the three month expectation? I told him about the annual Harley River Run that was coming up in a few weeks and that it wou
ld probably sell there.

  For the next week I went to Mr. Dudley’s house and prepared for the annual River Run. I learned that Harley riders from all over the U.S. were making the trek to Nevada to celebrate together. Amongst the huge partying gathering there was going to be a trade show of Harley apparel. Mr. Dudley was going to have a prime station to represent his two Custom Creation Harleys he’d fabricated. I had my portfolio in my lap and could see myself right there at the station closing a deal on our custom Harleys. Then my phone rang. It was Miles.

  “B.J.! Dennis is in jail. He’s being charged with a bunch of strikes for home invasion, mayhem, extortion and grand theft.”

  I remembered how Dennis had told me that after I left, he and Miles looked for Maniac’s speed. They couldn’t find it and drove away with his car thinking it might be stashed in it. I wondered if they caught Dennis driving it. “How did they catch Dennis?”

  “I don’t know. We left Maniac’s car in an underground parking lot at a hotel. What I do know is that the police came right to Dennis’s house and arrested him. I found out from his wife, Denise, the details of his charges. He’s facing a life sentence. What do you want to do?”

  I thought about it. It felt like an avalanche was about to fall on us if we even moved.

  “I don’t know. Just sit tight. Don’t get caught up in it or you’ll end up with Dennis in jail. If that happens the D.A. will try and force you to cooperate and talk about it. If you don’t, you’ll be fighting the same life sentence as Dennis.”

  “But B.J.. We have to keep Maniac from showing up to court! Or Dennis will catch a life sentence!”