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

  I helped Damon pick up the chess pieces and grabbed our line to get the chess piece that slid out of our cell. On my hands and knees I slid the toothpaste container at an angle to hook the chess piece 4 feet away. As I pulled it back in the tower guard tapped the microphone to signal he was about to speak. We heard four last names called, then, "GET READY TO GO TO THE PROGRAM OFFICE."

  The four last names were Trigger's, Popeye’s, T-Bone's and an Asian's. I looked at the tower to the right and saw almost twenty prison guards mixed with the I.G.I Gooners. They were going to escort the inmates to the program office to discuss upcoming events. Then the reps for each race were going to explain the events to the rest of the race to let us know what was coming. I knew that each of the last names called were going to refuse to go to the program office unless each was allowed to bring his cell mate. We'd been through this before and the prison guards had been letting us win this small consolation.

  We watched the I.G.I Gooners lead the way and walk down from the tower. They went to Trigger's cell first and the standoff started. An I.G.I Gooner got on his phone. We knew he was calling the Watch Commander or a Lieutenant. He must have got the green light because we saw both Trigger and his cell mate Psycho undressing; squatting and coughing, then they got handcuffed and escorted. The same thing happened with Popeye’s cell, T-Bone's and the Asian's.

  Damon and I waited at the cell door for two hours without saying a word. Both distracted with our thoughts. I stared at the cell doors across and underneath. My vision went to the cells downstairs where the war had been. There was still blood on two of the cells and bald headed warriors stood behind those doors deep in thought. From the first cell by race it went, Black men standing at the cell door, next cell, Mexicans, next cell, Blacks, next cell, Trigger's empty one, next cell, Roosters, he was standing at his door, then two Mexican cells in a row, then Blacks, then another White cell with Scottay, Then the last four cells were all Blacks. I looked back at Rooster. He looked like he was unable to contain a murderous rage. I imagined what must be going on in his head. Before I went out to court on appeal, two weeks ago, we had just gotten word he had a probable child molester killer in his cell. The news came from a certain prison guard whose word had always been good in the past. But in this situation it took more than his word. We had to get bona-fides to secure it was true. The prison guard wasn’t giving up the paper work from the courts. To get the bona-fides we wanted two separate sources from the streets to send in either as police reports that matched the name Pat Dennings to the 44 counts of ANNLY-MOLEST, the prison guard said was his controlling case, or research that matched that name through internet searches with an .edu or .gov at the end of it. We didn't trust Google or any other searches that weren't under a more critical microscope like the academia’s or government used. We all knew Pat Dennings was the one, but we had all been wrong once or twice before, so we were following procedure. It wouldn’t take much longer for the two separate sources to get back to us in legal mail documents the prison wasn’t allowed to read.

  We heard the vestibule open with a clanking noise and saw the tower guards pushing buttons to pop cells. Popeye came in first with his cell mate Damaged behind him. Popeye was as big as T-Bone with an even bigger head. But the size didn’t matter as much as the heart and experience level. Besides the heart and experience, Popeye’s lower body was most of the reason he was a better warrior than almost all. His legs and hips were brutally strong and is where fights and wars become an issue with a rock for a foundation. Damaged was a pale and skinny but a tall White man from Venice Beach and as cold as ice and a veteran of prison warfare. Trigger and Psycho were next and looked like midgets after Popeye and Damaged and were followed by two more monsters, T-Bone and his cell mate with some kind of Swahili name, and then the two Asians came into view, about the same size as the Mexicans. Popeye looked right at my cell and ran up the stairs to us. Damaged went to Rooster’s cell below.

  Damon grabbed our Poker cards just as Popeye pulled up and stood at the side of our cell door with his back to the wall so he could see the tower at the same time, a veteran. “B.J grab the cards its time for war. The Black Program Administrator action Jackson the CC2-(Head Counselor) set this whole thing up with T-Bone to get their two races out. I’ll get at you on paper about it.”

  Damon shuffled the cards and slid them underneath the cell door. Whoever got the low card was the loser. Popeye picked them up and cut them down the middle so half the cards were in one hand and the other half in the other. He looked at us and said, “Which side?”

  I said, “Think long think wrong…Right side.”

  Popeye used his thumb to push the top card off his palm and we watched it fall to the ground…A two of Spades

  We looked at it and Popeye started laughing and there was nothing else for Damon and me to do but join in the laughter through gritted teeth.

  Popeye used the thumb of his other hand to knock the top card to the ground…A three of Hearts. He said, “We have buzzard luck. If you want me to I’ll tell Damaged we lost…”

  Damon and I both said, “Nope. We are in the batter’s box.”

  Popeye said, “Two best hitters in the game.”

  We watched Popeye run back down the stairs and heard his cell door close and I thought about what he said about the CC2 Jackson and T-Bone setting things up. I realized T-Bone had done about 10 years of level 4 prison time at the same prison CC2 Jackson worked at, where he’d developed the handle-action Jackson. That meant the two had prior experience and a working relationship. There was no other way to explain how the Black and Mexican war could have ended that fast with the Whites in the cross hairs. I knew Jackson only from what I’d heard, his reputation was good, like he helped people out. He was Black and so was T-Bone so maybe It Was Different Strokes for Different Folks like that 1980’s sitcom… I looked at Damon and said, “Wat u talkin bout Willis?”

  CHAPTER 8

  The next morning after chow we watched Trigger and T-Bone running the building with brooms and mops and then they passed items from inmates in a cell to other inmates in another cell. Popeye yelled, “B.J! Shoot your line!”

  We sent our line flying off the second tier to land on the ground on the tier below and felt Popeye’s line pull ours into his cell. A few minutes later we heard, “Pull!”

  We pulled our line in and read the message inside the toothpaste container. B.J/DAMON: The day before the Prison Administration let Trigger and T-Bone out-CC2 Jackson was at the side of T-Bones cell asking him if he was sure he could come out. They worked something out. Get at me before you take flight.

  I flushed the message in the toilet and heard the tower tap on the microphone, then my last name and Trigger’s last name to go to the program office!

  I felt that nervous energy that proceeds adrenal violence and tried to contain it by pacing the length of the cell with a stop and at the cell door to watch the tower. My cell mate Damon was in the way and had to turn his body like I did every time I passed him. It would still be about 15 minutes before the I.G.I. Gooners came to the cell to start the process. After the third back and forth Damon dropped to the ground where our sword was. I knew he wasn't thinking clearly because our sword would take way too long to get out of the wall and was too long to smuggle out, it didn't fit in an asshole and we were getting searched. The sword was an in house (in the building) weapon. Damon got up realizing the futility and hopped on the toilet to get to our ice pick in the vent. I stopped pacing, knowing my nervous energy wasn't allowing Damon the ability to think clearly, and I noticed my thoughts were getting stuck without pacing. I looked up at the vent and watched Damon pulling on the aged string connected to one of the vent holes with a paper clip. The ice pick was hanging down the inside of the vent and you could hear it bouncing as it was lifted, "Tink", "Tink". I saw the 5 inch thin steel as Damon negotiated it through one of the many vent holes and with his other hand cut the aged string and sent it back through the vent hole. I said, "We aren't
using that."

  Damon's bullet head nodded he understood. He showed me he was one step ahead of not using it by sticking his right hand into the end of his mattress on the top bunk. Half his arm searched the inside of his mattress and found what he was looking for, the ice pick carrying case or luggage as we called it. The carrying case was made of plastic wrap that had been wrapped and melted into about 50 layers of comfort and protection. Damon fit the ice pick inside and melted the end of it. Then, he grabbed a finger full of hair grease and lubed up the package and bent over to insert it in his asshole. He stood up and squeezed with his hips and butt cheeks to force the package deeper in his ass canal and smiled, "I'm taking it to the hole for us."

  I thought about it and realized he just saved me from embarrassment later. If and when we both went to the hole, Administrative Segregation, we, I would have been in trouble for leaving it in the cell for another race to land in. The sword was different, it was tucked inside the wall and a makeshift key was needed to pull the electrical socket out. I looked to the tower and saw a guard facing the yard and knew the I.G.I Gooners were on their way. We heard the noise of the vestibule door opening and my nervous adrenal energy was quaking. I felt my voice chirp over the energy as I said, "When Popeye and the rest came back yesterday they got un-cuffed at the vestibule gate on the way back in."

  I looked at Damon to see if he understood and his bullet head nodded and he said, “On the way back.”

  The I.G.I Gooners entered the building. I said, “If we can get the chance after the program office I’m sending you to the gym to warn our White brothers.”

  The Gooners footsteps signified they were on the stairs, seconds from our cell.

  Damon said, “I’m not leaving your side. We go to the hole together.”

  The Gooners stuck ugly aggressive faces in our cell view and banged on the top of our cell to let the tower guard know to pop it. I told Damon, “Alright.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Half a dozen Gooners stood in front of our cell as it opened. They all just stood there staring at us. The Gooner in front of the rest, the apparent leader with a name plate-Torrez, said, “You know the drill. Strip out and lets go.”

  I stood in front of Damon and asked, “Both of us.”

  Torrez responded, “Both of you.”

  I dropped my boxer shorts and grabbed a handful of testicles and lifted, then turned so they could see my ass and bent over and coughed, then straightened my body and lifted one foot after the other and put my boxers back on. Then turned again to get handcuffed and stepped back deeper into the cell. Damon’s turn.

  We led the way down the tier and had a second to see the yard through a window before the stairs. It was a bright sunshiny day. Walking down the stairs I stared at Trigger’s cell for a second. A half a dozen Gooners surrounded his cell waiting for our group to go through the vestibule. As we entered the vestibule I heard Trigger’s cell door pop open for he and his cell mate.

  I made it through and after not seeing the sun for almost a month it was like coming out of a cave. The sunlight was so bright I couldn’t see at first. I squinted against it at the end of the Sally-Port where the vines of razor wire topped fence were. It opened and we walked the same path I’d walked when coming back from my appeal. I looked up at the tower where home plate would have been and tried to figure out how Damon and I were going to talk to the Whites in the gym. I asked the lead Gooner, Torrez on my left, “Can you let us talk to the gym inmates?”

  Torrez responded, “Which one?”

  I knew he wanted me to put someone out there he could add to his gang file, especially if something happened, that was about to. I said, “It doesn’t matter, as long as he’s a White man.”

  Torrez said, “We’ll see what the Lieutenant says.”

  We made the turn to building’s 3, then 2, then 1 where the stands for the baseball game would have been and turned almost a full circle from building 6 to where the program office was. I looked at the gym to the left of it, almost directly across from the building we were in. At the end of the gym the walkway stopped and a parking lot opened up for all the prison guards and staff to park. We stood in front of the program office and could hear the noise of the gym. One hundred and forty inmates had to get along on bunk beds with people farting and snoring right next to each other and only a half a dozen toilets and a few pissers. What a nightmare. It was about to get worse. The Program office door opened and a Lieutenant let us in and escorted Damon and me to a room.

  Damon and I sat down across from a grizzled old black Lieutenant with a name plate- Spinks. Trigger and Psycho came in next and sat down in chairs next to us leaning forward so their handcuffed hands had room behind their backs.

  Spinks said, “I’m opening up yard in a couple of days. Are there any unresolved problems you guys need to iron out?”

  I stared straight at Lieutenant Spinks like the rest and wondered why he was bringing us in? There had to be a reason. It came.

  Spinks said, “I heard there might be a problem looming over the exercise bars.”

  T-Bone won. There was nothing I could do to avoid it. I heard Trigger say, “No problems.”

  Spinks looked directly at me, then Damon and I both said in unison, “No problems.”

  Spinks looked suspicious, like he knew better. He cocked his head to the side and said, “Okay, I’ll take you at your word.”

  Hearing that pissed me off even more, what was I going to say, or rather whine about, that we got worked and dictated to and now we are just going to bend, until we are bending over? I asked, “Can we go tell the gym?”

  Spinks said, “Sure.” Then looked at the Gooner- Torrez behind us and said, “Escort them to the gym.”

  Torrez said, “I asked them who they wanted to talk to and they wouldn’t give me a name.”

  Spinks smiled and said, “They don’t want you to log it and then take the person to the Hole- Ad-Seg the next time you do a gang sweep. They aren’t stupid. Just have the tower guard pick one like we usually do.”

  The Gooner Torrez nodded his head and said, "Let’s go."

  On the way out of the program office Trigger chimed in, "Hey Torrez can we go talk to the gym?"

  Torrez said, "Which Mexican?"

  Trigger laughed, "The gym tower knows how we do it."

  Torrez walked us over and kept pushing Trigger, "How do you do it?"

  Trigger said, "The gym inmates see us outside. It isn't a puzzle."

  Torrez just nodded his head; he was always fishing and trying to make a name by writing down all the names of prisoners who seemed to have influence. All he was doing was taking even those who were peace makers with influence and burying them with shot caller status in a dark hole where they couldn’t keep peace.

  The gym was about the size of two full basketball courts and walking past the first part we all heard some Mexicans inside working out. They were following a leader who instructed in Spanish to the others replying in Spanish. Then the bullet proof glass next to the double doors came into view. Twenty feet inside the gym bunk beds started and two rows could be seen. Each race had a look-out from a bunk somewhere down that line to look for opportunities to speak to inmates from the buildings or to see when the Gooners were on their way or a myriad of other reasons. I saw Blockhead’s giant head immediately. We joked with him in the past that he had a Jack in The Box bobble head. We loved him at over 50 years old and from the High Desert area in the Inland Empire, California. He was another drug addict raised in the desert and California’s prisons but he had a conscience with honor and dignity. I studied his scrunched up face and knew he was having problems in the gym as a leader for the White race. He came to the door immediately.

  Trigger already had a Mexican leader, a young gang banger from Artesia L.A at the other opening to the double doors ten feet away. I heard Trigger talking to him in Spanish. Damon and I huddled up with Blockhead in a small circle and Blockhead spoke first. “The Chicans are trying to bully us. They are ch
anging which shower we can use and making up all kinds of other rules in here.”

  All I said in the huddle is, “We are about to take flight on em so when you hear the alarm either get your money or be ready for them to attack.”

  After those words left my lips I broke a foot away from our huddle to lighten the situation and started having regular, loud enough conversation for the guards in the tower and on the floor at a podium twenty feet away to hear. “We are coming off lockdown. I guess its time to play on the workout bars.”

  A minute of filler conversation later Torrez said, “That’s enough. Let’s get you back in your building.”

  We walked the track back almost full circle and I started studying our tower. Two guards were standing their watching the escort. One had a block gun. No big.