A California Pelican Bay Prison Story (Race Riot) Read online

  Damon came to the cell door to watch with me. The Gooners were dressed in uniforms slightly different from the regular prison guards. Their uniforms were a darker green and had insignia stitched into the shoulders and chest of their uniforms to represent that they were Inmate Gang Investigators. Some of the regular prison guards didn't like them because they acted like gang members to them, like they were better than. That often provided a relationship between a prison guard who worked the building and an inmate that guard had respect for who might be the target of the I.G.I. Gooner. Many times the inmate was being falsely accused of being a high ranking gang member and the prison guard would occasionally warn the inmate they were being investigated and to make arrangements to go to the Hole-Ad-Seg. That was happening below without the warning. Both Mexican Mafia reps were stripping down in their cell. We watched each Mexican squat and cough and put only boxer shorts on to get hand cuffed through the tray slot in the middle of the cell door. Then the lead Gooner pounded his hand on a panel above the cell door to signify to the tower guard he was ready for the cell to get popped open and we watched both Mexicans walk out of the building with hands cuffed behind their backs. For the next two hours the I.G.I Gooners lived in the cell they had just vacated going through every piece of the former Mexican occupants mail, clothes, store goods and other belongings until piles of state issue clothes littered the floor outside the cell and plastic bags of belongings the inmate Mexicans owned were the only thing left.

  When the trail of I.G.I Gooners and the rest of the guards cleared the building you could feel all the inmates thinking about how the changes would affect the building. Damon backed away from the cell door and picked up the chess board. When he looked at me I nodded I would play but waited until he looked me in the eyes. I said, “Time to figure out who will replace the Mexican Mobsters and call shots for the rest of the burrito.”

  CHAPTER 5

  For the next two weeks the prison administration slow dragged deciding the next move. We, the White race should have been off lockdown and running the building and kitchen for the guards, but we weren’t. There is something about being stuck in a cell for 24 hours a day that leads to resistance and violence. We were getting irritated with being powerless. We continued to spend time in shifts at the cell door monitoring the Mexicans to gain awareness and an understanding of who was going to be the Mexican shot caller. The welfare of the White race depended on observing and being diplomatic, or observing and reacting in time. It wasn’t looking good. Most of the Mexicans in our building were regular guys who used or sold drugs, with some who beat or stabbed people for drug control, with some who weren’t so good. At least the good ones tried to maintain honor with their word and were brought up to respect elders and as much of society as they could while being poverty stricken without a skill set to pay bills any other way then with dope. Some even had compassion and understanding and were prone to peaceful solutions…The bad ones were the gang bangers without any of that honor at all. Damon and I called them the predator gang bangers. Most of the gang bangers had a misguided honor but the bad ones were straight evil. You could feel it, you could see it in their tattoos, and you could see it in their eyes.

  It looked like the Mexicans had a new pair of shot callers. Downstairs, just to the right and across from our cell, two Mexicans were getting all of the attention. One answered to Trigger and the other Psycho. They were both from the same neighborhood in L.A and looked like brothers. At around 30 years old and all tattooed down, they had been raised by their gang and a life behind prison walls. They were both around 5'7 and 190 lbs and Damon and I studied their every move and listened to them take command with the other Mexicans. Every time one of their names was called by another Mexican in a different cell both Damon and I would watch them.

  The Black race was packed with sturdy long time prison warriors in our building. Most had a quiet respect to the way they carried themselves. A few of them, the ones speaking for their race, were starting to understand that Trigger and Psycho were going to represent the Mexicans. Damon and I could feel that they understood a chink in the Mexican's honor was missing. Like Trigger and Psycho were a little less seasoned then necessary. They started to communicate with Trigger and Psycho like they were friends but we knew better. They were playing them like a video game. They were developing pseudo respect and relations.

  The Mexicans continued to do their business by fishing lines and passing messages and Trigger and Psycho were the ones everything was going through. The Black race continued to yell their business. One Black O.G- Original Gangster, from Hoover Street Crips L.A, went by T-Bone and was downstairs and underneath us and to the right. He was in the cell next to Popeye. One morning after chow we heard him yell, "Trigger! Psycho! Yo Trigger! It's big T-Bone!"

  Both Damon and I went to the cell door to watch and saw Trigger come to his cell door and yell, "What’s up big T?"

  I stared at Trigger and his cell mate Psycho in the same cell. They were huddled with Trigger crouching so Psycho could lean over to see, the same way my cell mate and I were. Everyone in the building heard T-Bone yell, "Trigger I proposin we tell the Prison Administration that we squashed this war between our races and that it was a misunderstandin over the exercise bars outside!"

  I knew Trigger was uncomfortable with discussing business in front of the whole building on the airwaves like animals barking in reaction. He thought for a while and followed with, "That sounds good but get at me on paper so the prison guards don't hear it."

  T-Bone yelled, "Naw fuck dat! I want those asswipes to hear. Let's fix this shit now! I proposin we tell em that we moved the Whites to the last pull-up bar, you Mex-i-cans get the other 3 and the Blacks get the other 4."

  My cell mate and I knew that the White race had just been put in the middle of their war. The crosshairs were facing us directly.

  The whole building heard a pounding on the wall and knew it was Popeye in the cell next to T-Bone pounding the side of his fist against the wall that separated the two cells. We heard Popeye yell, "T-Bone keep the White race out of your mouth! You aren't telling us where to work out!"

  I was glad Popeye aired the sentiment. The Blacks and Mexicans were discussing where our race could workout and it made our race seem insignificant. Like we were their children waiting to find out when and where we could congregate. Like we needed their authority to breath and were just taking up space they were to decide on. Unfortunately yelling that for all to hear sparked further outrage among the White race in the rest of the cells and I heard one of our White brothers who went by Traveler yell, "Fuck letting Ninjas or Mud-Ducks decide where we work out!"

  I felt the outrage but knew we, the White race were about to let T-Bone win in that we were about to make war with them or the Mexicans unavoidable by yelling racial epithets. I banged on the side of my cell to get attention and yelled, "White race this is B.J and you know we don't get dictated to by anyone but we also don't yell our business out on the airwaves! Let Popeye iron it out with T-Bone."

  I heard Traveler yell back, "Alright B.J… That shit just pisses me off and my blood is boiling! Thank you!"

  I yelled back, "Thank you brother."

  As if on cue everyone heard T-Bone yell in a more reserved voice, "Popeye I'm sending you a written message."

  Up to this point both Popeye and I played the role of guardians for the White race but neither of us put ourselves out there as the sole decision maker, or as the Mexicans would call it, the shot caller. It worked out better that way because one person could be manipulated easier if it was understood one person had the sole decision making authority, especially when dope was involved. We, the White race conducted our authority through a couple of front man channels, in this case, Popeye and I, and internally we had a board of advisors based on experience and brains.

  We all heard Popeye a few minutes later yell out, "B.J shoot your line."

  I sent my toothpaste container downstairs and pulled in Popeye's message. It read
: T-BONE BACKPEDDALED AND SAID HE DIDN'T MEAN ANY DISRESPECT BUT WE ALL KNOW HE JUST PUT OUR RACE IN THE CROSS FIRE. LIKE I MENTIONED IN THE MESSAGE T-BONE AND CC2 JACKSON WORKED SOMETHING OUT. MY CELL MATE AND I ARE GOING TO BLAST STEEL INTO T-BONE AND HIS CELL MATE'S NECKS IF IT COMES DOWN TO IT. WE CAN DRAW CARDS TO SEE WHICH TIER GETS TO ATTACK! WITH RESPECT, POPEYE AND DAMAGED.

  CHAPTER 6

  The next morning something ridiculous happened. Another Prison Administration Official came after morning chow was done and stopped by T-Bone’s cell again. Two hours later both T-Bone’s cell and Trigger’s cell popped open and they got to run the tiers with brooms and mops like a war didn’t even exist!

  My cell mate and I watched Trigger and I could feel a cold anger rising in my soul. Something was wrong. I looked at each cell below. A bald face scrunched up in concentration at every White cell door wondering the same thing. How did this happen? The first cell I looked at had a giant blacker than Black man in it and his expression at the cell door looked amused. Like he knew what was happening. The next cell I looked at had Rooster at the cell door. His face looked so angry words couldn't begin to explain. He'd recently let his red hair grow to the point it looked like a red Q tip with a couple of inches of it shooting straight in the air like fire. Underneath his receding hair line, creased wrinkles focused agitated eyes like lasers with unanswered frustration that followed Trigger's path along the tier. Damon huddled up next to me and said, "Rooster looks like he wants to kill."

  I knew he was past the point. He was living with a probable child molester killer and sleeping with those thoughts every night, and now this shit with the energy from every cell wondering about what T-Bone had yelled on the airwaves... I said to Damon, "Rooster is going to snap."

  The cell next to Rooster had a short young gang banger Mexican in it from L.A. He stood at his cell door in white boxer shorts without a shirt bouncing on his toes. Gang tattoos’ decorated his brown body and he was smiling like he knew what was going on. Like the joke was on the White race, the new target. He went by Creeper and everyone heard him yell, "TRIGGER...COME HERE HOMEBOY, ITS CREEPER!"

  We watched Trigger hustle over to Creeper's cell. Trigger was a short stout Mexican and a roll of fat hung off the sides of his waist like a spare tire. His bald head was facing into Creeper's cell so the back of it was visible. Like a billboard in ink LOS was spelled to signify L.A and above LOS were a pair of eyes like he could see what was coming behind him. I wondered if he could feel what I was thinking about the fat rolls creased together underneath forming what little of a neck he had. He needed surgery to remove all that fat. I looked at the cell next to Creepers to the left and saw our little White buddy Scott Krissman. We called him Scottay. He was a youngster of 21 years and didn't look like he belonged in prison. He should have been at the beach. An innocent Scottish looking face and cut up little boy body without a hair on him. He was a friendly little chap. He also tried to blend in and was at the moment using his fingers to sign words to Popeye across from him in a cell beneath us. I thought about Scott, his soccer mom had no idea her surfer son was being bred into a race warrior.

  Trigger was finished at Creeper's cell and he turned and looked right at us. Both Damon and I stood at the cell door staring at him on his way to our cell. He ran up the stairs like he didn't have a care in the world. Like something he could live with had been decided on. We lost sight of him for a couple of seconds without a panoptic see everything view while he negotiated the last of the stairs and came back into view a few cells down from us. He stopped in front of the cell. He didn't say anything. He just looked at us and made a weird noise like he was scolding us like we had done something wrong. I stood looking down on his shorter frame and looked into his dark brown eyes with mine creased and not wavering in the slightest. He stepped up closer to our cell like his part as the show off shot caller was done and now it was time for business. He squeezed his ugly face close to the side of our cell and spoke, "You and Popeye should have cooperated with us and smuggled our weapons to the yard."

  He waited at our cell door for our reply and both Damon and I grunted and waited him out. He didn't say anything. Just stood to the side of our cell all scrunched up. After almost a minute he stepped away right when I said, "I'll get at Topo."

  Topo was one of the two Mexican Mobsters, now gone. He was the one I had a 20 plus year rapport with.

  Trigger jumped back to the side of our cell door and scrunched up again. "What does he have to do with it?"

  Rather than get caught up in dealing with a political discussion with Trigger I was going to have to play some psychology on him. My other choice was to accept war on his terms and respond in a way he would use against me with the rest of the Mexicans, most of whom I liked and respected more than Trigger. Most of those Mexicans would understand what I was doing and respect it. Most of them knew me by reputation and knew my cell mate Damon, Popeye, his cell mate Screwball and a few more, as straight up warriors. I finally answered. "I only discuss business like that with Topo."

  Trigger didn't look like he knew how to respond. He took a step away from our cell to stare at us and didn't say anything. He was showing off again for all the other heads watching from their cells. I was looking at how his fat roll from his neck melted into a gang tattoo under his chin blasted across his throat like a banner, and again thought of surgery

  Trigger finally had enough waiting in front of the cell pondering my psychology and came back to the side of our cell to say, "I'll get at you on paper."

  I knew he was about to leave so I said; "Have one of the other homeboys get at me."

  It was another slight. I was playing him even closer. To tell him to have one of the other Mexicans get at me either said, I don't know you, or, I don't respect you. I'd let him ruminate on it.

  Damon broke the shock and dropped a Maxim magazine on the floor with a written message in it. He slid it under the cell and said, "Trigger, can you send this Maxim magazine to Traveler's cell for me?"

  Trigger bent down to get it and I heard Damon say, "Thank you!"

  Trigger followed polite prison etiquette between our two races and responded, "Thank you." Then he headed off down the tier.

  I told Damon, "If things don't start changin I know who our tier is getting if our card pops up."

  CHAPTER 7

  The next morning things didn't improve. Trigger and T-Bone roamed the tier while Damon and I studied. You could feel the change in the air. We had been hoping that the Mexicans were just playing the Blacks out of pocket, as if they were pretending it was over but were really just mounting up the ideal time to take it to the Blacks for round two. It didn't look that way.

  Trigger came by our cell and dropped off a tiny folded message wrapped in plastic wrap and Damon and I read- B.J/DAMON MY RESPECTS...TRIGGER IS WHO YOU TALK TO FOR OUR RACE...GOOFY...

  I looked across the tier at the cells on the second floor like ours. The first cell had a Black man at the cell door, the next cell, a Mexican, the next cell, a Black, the next cell, a Mexican, then finally a White cell, then Goofy’s cell. He wasn’t at his cell door.

  Over a chess game Damon and I played but talked about the lay of the land outside our cell in our building. We used the conversation to throw the other's chess game off as much as possible to multi-task and lighten the reality of the situation if you were the one winning. We usually didn’t finish these games. I mentioned, "The Mexicans want to bully us when they shouldn't have started a war with the blacks they weren't ready to finish. It's weak."

  A couple chess moves later as Damon moved a piece where my next move was vital, he said, "Yeah you're right. So if our card comes up where will you organize an attack before one is organized against us?"

  I thought out the chess move on the board for over a half an hour, then once I had the best move figured, I talked about the war looming outside the cell. "If our card comes up and we rush the Mexicans, we have to think about the other buildings and the gym."

  I mo
ved a pawn and waited Damon out. Unlike me, he talked right away..."So you and Pops will want to give the other buildings and the gym a heads' up?"

  This time I talked right away while waiting for him to make a move on the chess board. "It's going to take more than just a heads' up for the gym. With 140 inmates in the gym and out of that over 50 Mexicans and over 50 Blacks, the Whites only have 16 heads with the Asians the rest. The Whites are in serious peril. We have to tell them it is in their best interest to go when they hear our building go."

  Damon didn't say anything and I imagined the scenario I'd just laid out. It was ugly. The last time the gym had been searched by I.G.I Gooners it took all day. They actually brought in tools to take down light fixtures and pull electric outlets off the walls where we were known to hide knives. At the end of the day 59 knives were recovered. An inmate who happened to get escorted from medical back to our yard said he saw a massive collection of homemade swords, ice picks, socks holding cans of Mackerel or beans and even a few homemade shields!

  While concentrating on the chess board and what I'd said, Trigger came to our cell door, knocked and threw a written message wrapped in plastic under our door and walked away. I got off the lower bunk from sitting Indian style and retrieved the message. Both Damon and I read: GREETINGS B.J./DAMON...WE WANT YOU TO GET AT YOUR WHITE RACE AND TELL THEM THE LAST PULL-UP BAR ON THE YARD IS THE ONE FOR YOUR RACE TO USE...WITH THAT SAID WE WILL FORGET YOU REFUSED TO SMUGGLE OUT HOT ONES TO THE YARD FOR US...WITH RESPECT-TRIGGER

  Damon flipped the chess board off the bunk and paced the cell. The chess pieces were all over the floor and one went under the cell door. I understood the reason my cell mate was losing it. There went any possible opportunity for the White race to avoid war. Pride is an ugly weapon in prison but it was also the only way to survive when diplomatic relations broke down to nothingness. I did what I always do and prayed to my Lord to open a door or supernaturally clear the path rather than violence but either my faith was weak, or this was just part of the journey, because I didn't feel any Grace coming to change the circumstances. I prayed for God to show me the way to handle this situation. I knew a good portion of society might judge us for being stubborn and say, just let the Mexicans and Blacks organize where you can eat, where you can work out, and where you can shower and to just get along. But my response would be, OK, and we will let them organize how much of our store they can have, or how much money we will send their families, or even who they can borrow to have sex with, just to get along. Thinking these inevitable thoughts brought my good friend Rage into my being. My friend Rage at times was my drug, when Sin was so rampant I needed it to cope. After holding to much wrong in, it had to come out.