Authors: Glenn Langohr
We got up to walk the asphalt and only made it a few feet. The alarm went off on C Yard a quarter mile away and the sound of a block gun echoed loudly. We listened to the alarm send a screaming sound that rose and fell in decibels over and over again. I looked around and saw frozen bodies all over the yard looking up at the main gun tower to see what was next; a few groups of people were already getting on the ground.
Next, we heard the tapping of a microphone and I looked at the main tower on our yard right as he yelled, “EVERYONE DOWN!” We got off the hot asphalt to the grass to avoid burning our skin. I followed Damon 15 feet into the grass and lay down on my stomach. Then we heard the vestibule doors to the buildings opening up and prison guards started running out. Two guards from each building ran toward the C- Yard gate with block guns in their hand’s facing the sky. The first White prison guard I’d seen so far came out of 1 Building and was in better shape and catching up to the slower dumpy out of shape guards.
Damon said, “I guess we can’t count on the guards to save us in a riot.” I asked, “Are there any other White guards on this yard.”
Damon laughed, “I’ve got a cool one in my building but we are practically in Mexico so get used to bean dip.”
We heard the order on the other yard yelled with more fervor, “GET DOWN!!” followed by more block guns. As the noise of the warring inmates increased the sounds from the block guns was swallowed up. The skirmish had to have over 20 bodies at war and I was assuming they were in the gym by the sound of the echoes. The noise sounded like frenzied animals with screaming and thumping sounds, then the sound of a live round, “Ping!”
The action died down and we watched the guards who ran from our yard walk back talking to each other with excited looks on their faces from the adrenal action. After they made it back into the buildings a couple minutes later we heard the main tower tap the microphone and say, “RESUME.”
Back on our walk around the asphalt track Damon filled me in on some more of the dynamics on the yard. He’d done a great job of building morale and holding the White line together, but I had to get the problem of the current White debt off my chest, it was eating me alive. Damon felt the pressure; like it was his fault and I explained it was time for him to delegate the problem to Jason. We found Jason and circled the yard and had a discussion on how to resolve the problem. A well written note later and Jason was off to the gym to smuggle it to the White debtors. Damon and I watched him cut diagonally through the yard to the gym and we kept walking the track so I could get a feel for the whole yard. We watched him make it to the gym.
The gym had two double doors that opened up at times to let inmates in and out. There were windows on both sides and you could see bunk beds and inmates stationed on them or nearby always keeping an eye on the yard so it was relatively easy to get someone’s attention. Jason was trying to slide the note between the two doors 40 feet away from the gun tower who was perched 50 feet in the air. We made it around the track and it was a good time for me to get to know the tower guard and run a distraction, “GUN TOWER!” I waved my hand and the Mexican looking sharp shooter until he looked at me and yelled, “WHAT?” I told him he looked like a war veteran and hit gold because testosterone is testosterone and most soldiers like to talk about it. He'd done one tour in Iraq before being a prison guard for the last 5 years. He was indeed a sharp shooter who had scored in the 98 percentile of his Marine Brigade. He looked like a good guy based on his body language and the features around his eyes, with silver black hair combed back tight over a solid chin. Maybe he would respond to me as a human and disregard the Warden’s memo, if he really put one out.
Jason had room to operate and he slid the message between the 2 doors. He walked directly back to us and said, "It's handled." I said, 'No it's not. We need to do some pull-ups and Damon has to nod his bullet head at the gym to set the message in. "There were 7 rows of bars that started with a pull-up bar and then a dip bar. I watched Jason do a set of 8 and had to show off by doing 28 next. Damon did 14 and came back to me and I nodded my head toward the outdoor pissers and drinking fountains we passed when we turned on the asphalt track 40 feet from the chow hall and about 60 feet from us. "What's the policy for the pissers?" Damon looked over there and said, "The 2 pissers and the 3 drinking fountains on the other side are regulated by races. The Whites and the Mexicans use them together while the Blacks and the Asians wait for us to get finished or vice versa. When everyone is out there is a 40 foot line at all times."
We finished 10 sets of pull-ups and the heat was sapping my energy. Beads of perspiration ran down my face and body. It was hard to breath. It would take a week to get used to it. Damon noticed me burning out and said, “It will take you a week to turn into a lizard and adapt to this heat.”
We walked the asphalt track and I found out more about L'il Bird and Big Droopy. They sounded like legitimate mobsters. This was a good thing because they were all about respect and common sense and I was copasetic with both of those qualities. I constructed a written message for Droopy to extend my hand and let him know who I was. I mentioned some of his more notorious Riverside criminals I’d just left in the other prison to open up the line of communication even wider.
Our two and a half hours of yard was done and walking through the vestibule I walked toward L'il Bird's cell. Like his usual, his silhouette was perched at the cell door watching. I wondered if I should ask him where Big Bird was. L'il Bird was a short stumpy looking Aztec with dark brown skin. He was wearing white boxer shorts only. At 5'5 and around 180 lbs, he didn't have a body builder look like some of us but he wasn't soft either. I knew all too well that the body builder and ultimate fighter can pop like a balloon from an ice pick and I expected nothing less from a made guy who'd been around prison bars since the 80's. I looked into his dark brown eyes and said, “I’m B.J.” L’il Bird’s expressionless stoic face changed into a tiny smile, only around the eyes. He said, “I’ve heard of you. You’re from Orange County. They call me L’il Bird, mucho gusto.”
My business had never taken me to the Harbor Area in Long Beach but I knew his good homeboys from prisons. I mentioned a couple of them to break bread, “I just left Scrappy and Sporty. They were in the cell next to me.” L’il Bird nodded his head but didn’t show an expression. He was hard to read. He let me know how informed he was by saying, “They both have orders to go to the Pelican Bay SHU.”
That made sense. Scrappy and Sporty were youngsters in their mid 20’s and had gone from level 2 prisons all the way to the doorstep of the Bay. They were following someone’s, maybe L’il Bird’s orders to raise their hand for work that usually related to stabbing a child molester, rapist, rat or other less honorable reasons. I couldn’t understand it. There wasn’t any gold at the end of the rainbow. It was all a pride thing for nothing. I asked, “You need anything? My door is always open to you.”
The tower guard was tapping on his microphone and signaling to get up the stairs and in my cell but I waited. L’il Bird said, “No, I’m good.”
The next morning the top tier had morning yard and L’il Bird called me to his perch on my way out. I went to his cell and he slid a plastic wrapped message out the side of the cell door with Damon’s name on it.
Chapter 9
I walked to the White table and noticed all the Whites congregating on and around it. The word had got out fast. Damon introduced me to 46 inmates. Names like Bam Bam, Q-Tip, Whitey and Blockhead all ran together. Was I the only one who just used initials?
I made room for myself sitting on top of the middle of the table facing the main gun tower guard and Damon sat with his bullet head facing the opposite way to see the Building’s towers. I knew we only had a couple minutes before either the Security Escorts or Inmate Gang Investigators showed up. This was a change they weren’t used too.
I had time to learn that there was an auto shop and welding shop to learn a trade and my interest was piqued until I found out that they were never up and running with any continuity because the yard was always going on lock down. Also, both shops had a very fast turnover because inmates smuggled weapons. Even though they went through metal detectors they found a way by attaching ice pick thin welding rods, or straight sword length pieces of steel to a metal container the guards pushed back to the yard for working on toilets. It didn’t look like we’d be learning any new trades.
Damon finished giving the pep talk right as I saw the Inmate Gang Investigators. They were waiting for the D Yard gate. We watched them walk up in a group of 8 and they looked like prison guard gang bangers in darker green uniforms compared to the regular guards. They had a bunch of sewn in insignia in patches on their shoulders and chest that resembled tattoos. The first one, the apparent leader, name plate- Carasco, came right to me and said, “Come here.”
I got off the table and followed him about 20 feet away. He was as tall as me at 6 feet but a little smaller in frame and build. I stared into his eyes and listened. “You just got here and the politics on the yard change immediately? That’s not very smart.”
I knew he was right and responded honestly. “I’m an idiot genius. That means I make two stupid moves and then have to make a genius one to fix things. I’m working on it.” Carasco smiled around the eyes and surprised me. “Look I just got back from Pelican Bay. They kicked me out because I didn’t believe in what the rest of the Gang Investigators were doing. I know some of you guys are alright and actually good for these yards because you keep the peace and keep the program running the right way. Go ahead and stab the child molesters, rapist and rats but do it on the yard, not in the buildings.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. This man had compassion and understanding. He knew that California’s prisons were creating gangs and war zones where low level addicts were being locked up instead of getting rehab and that their addictions were being bred into an affliction much harder to escape where races are segregated and violence is the only solution when diplomacy just isn’t viable. I asked, “Are you an Angel?” Carasco smiled even bigger and said, “I’m a brother in Christ.” I felt my heart warm and almost started crying. I said, “We need to do something to focus our energy in a positive direction. This tough on crime didn’t work. There wasn’t compassion. Imagine if we flipped it and put computers in every cell at Pelican Bay and only allowed the prisoners to use them to learn how to write and market their art. Or build resumes, or start businesses. Something other than…this.” Carasco said, “Not going to happen, California is a prison state and the Prison Union like the mafia. The Warden made me look through your file and I saw you don’t claim a gang but be careful with your building guards, they suck up to the Warden.” I watched the Gang Investigators walk away and said, “Mexico isn’t so bad.”
Chapter 10
Back in the cell Scott asked, “How did you organize our race that fast?” I looked at my little buddy with his small shaved head and inquisitive innocent blue eyes and responded, “All I did was write a greetings kite for this building to establish a program with some common sense rules and regulations to keep our race safe. Damon did the rest.” Scott asked, “How did he do it?” “He wrote the same kite and had it passed to every White cell in the other 4 buildings and the gym by attaching another little note with the cell numbers in boxes so that each White cell that got it put an X through their cell's box and passed it to the next one. Everyone was made aware of the new program. Now we just have to follow rules that have been in place for honor and loyalty among the lost."
Scott smiled and the dimples in his 22 year old cheeks again made me wonder what he was doing in prison. He was one of the reasons I asserted myself, I didn't want these kids led the wrong way or hurt by selfish or dumb leaders. He said, "I like the way it feels on the yard now, there is a lot more unity."
Twenty minutes later our cell door popped open and we both got off our bunks to look. 3 guards were walking up the stairs to our cell. 2 of them were the building guards and one was from the gun tower. They all had plastic gloves on and that meant a cell search. I said, "Here we go, our cell is going to get tossed like a salad.”
We got handcuffed and were told to go stand in the dayroom of the building. I walked down the stairs and walked toward L'il Bird's cell and looked at the only tower guard in the gun tower. I read his name plate- Hernandez. He didn't look happy, he looked cruel. He was a dark short Mexican with Indian features. I couldn't stop looking at his fat floppy lips and his too close together dark brown eyes under eye brows that resembled a whisk broom and a sloping forehead. He was staring at me like he had it out for me and had already decided on hate. I tore my eyes away from him lest I make him hate me more and sat on one of four benches facing L'il Bird. He was there perched as usual and using sign language with only his fingers asked me if I got the message to Damon. I signed back that I forgot...I got swarmed by the I.G.I.
He laughed at my honesty. Getting caught with a message was an offense that earned a stabbing but I try not to lie, it makes me feel bad. I put my forefinger in the air in the universal, hold on a second, and turned around to face my cell.
The 3 guards were having a field day and disrespect was the calling card. Many of our belongings were being heaved off the second tier and landing on the floor beneath. The 5 gallon jug that used to be a syrup container from the chow hall bounced and slid, there went the container I was going to use to make whiskey. Other belongings we were allowed to have, like blankets and homemade pillows landed and slid.