PELICAN BAY RIOT, page 13
That seemed to satisfy her because she lifted her foot from the stubborn stance and pivoted to look at the rest of the dogs.
I studied the larger dogs. There was a Great Dane, 3 German Shepherds’, 4 mixed breeds, a Rottweiler and a Pit Bull. The Rottweiler was the biggest beast, built long and low to the ground. His face wore an expression of abuse. I looked closer and realized his last owner had branded a tattoo on his forehead where his hair was missing in the shape of a lightning bolt. The Pit-bull had the same lightning bolt markings over his pug nose.
Annette looked at all the large dogs and said, “I know which two you want?” “How?” “I know you. You want the ones that nobody else will take. The Rottweiler and the Pit.”
“You know me pretty well missy.” “Do these caged animals remind you of the time you spent in prison honey?”
They did. I had spent over 10 years in a variety of California level 4 prisons during my drug addicted and dealing years where I raged against the system. Now, in recovery from my addictions and old, ingrained behaviors, my goal was to help other prisoners find a new life outside of prison walls. Later today, I was taking a trip to the most notorious prison in California, Pelican Bay, to visit my friend Damon Smith, A.K.A. Rott. Damon had followed my path, by dealing marijuana while it was still illegal in the 1990’s, but unlike me, he got caught up in California’s overzealous determination to label him a gang member. We had both done time on some dangerously violent prison yards and keeping the peace for our White race at times called for violence just to survive. Unlike me, Damon had peppered his body with tattoos. Those same tattoos combined with the prison violations for violence, were the reasons he was in the Pelican Bay Security Housing Unit, also known as the S.H.U., or also commonly referred to as Super-Max. Lost in my thoughts, I noticed my wife studying me.
Annette said, “Honey I know you were probably in over 100 different cages like the ones these dogs are in but you made it. Having lived through it, what would you say are the most important things that need to happen to help other prisoners make the change into good role models?”
That was the million dollar question, but actually, how can you put a price on a human being..? I thought about how I turned it around. My Spiritual connection to God started it by realizing that even if nobody else in the world loved me, God did. If everyone else accused me, God forgave me. Back then, sitting in a cell for the umpteenth time feeling this wisdom wash over me, I focused on finding a way to turn everything I’d been through into a blessing.
I smiled at my wife and answered, “The first thing is love. It’s just like with these dogs, if you love them they will be the most loyal friends you could ever have. The next stage is direction. The prisoners need a way to put all their energy in a positive direction. The next vitally important step is faith. Once the prisoners or released prisoners see that other people believe in them, that they too can benefit the community, find employment, have a family and fit in, they will start believing a life in a fruitful direction is possible. When all this happens, hope opens up new doors. The reason 7 out of 10 released California prisoners return back to prison within three years is because they have no hope.” My wife smiled at me in a loving way and then turned her attention back to the dogs. She was thinking about how to rescue all of them again.
She said, “Go visit your friend Damon in Pelican Bay and offer him some hope. I’m going to figure out how to give these dogs some.”
I knew how she could do it. She had battled addiction while I was in prison and found recovery after she got involved in a support group for women, the Ashland Angel House. When I got out of prison we united and got married. Now she devoted her time to helping other women get back on their feet until they could get their kids back… She might be able to get the women at the Ashland Angel House to help these dogs, and at the same time help themselves by being needed and fortifying some self worth…
Chapter 2
Pelican Bay State Prison was a 14 hour drive from Orange County, California and the 5 freeway North gave me plenty of time to think about my friend Damon and why the California Prison system was trying to validate him as a gang member and keep him housed in the Super-Max S.H.U.
A number of years ago we had both been housed on a volatile level 4 prison where the White race was the minority. We only had 8% of the population. The Mexican inmates had about 40% of the population and the Black inmates about another 40%. The Asians made up the rest. For about a year and a half the Mexican and Black inmates fought each other in skirmishes with prison made weapons in riots that brought a handful of casualties. It had started in the gym where prisoners lived on bunk beds with hardly an inch to spare. The Mexican prisoners pushed the rules and regulations a little too hard with things like which toilets and showers each race was to use and it caused problems with the Black prisoners.
The Black prisoners decided enough was enough and took the initiative. About 40 Black prisoners jumped the Mexicans with just fist and feet. They won the first battle. The Mexicans won round 2 with prison made knives and we had a serious battle underway. The war had gone back and forth with one race of inmates attacking the other with a three month lockdown in between. It looked like it was finally coming to an end, but just before it did; the Prison Gang Coordinators took the 2 strongest leaders for the Mexicans, “Lil Bird” and “Boxer” off the yard by labeling them Mexican Mafia. Whether they were or not wasn’t my call but I did acknowledge them as good leaders. With them on the yard, Damon and I had developed a good program and established a safe policy for our separate races to get along. Now, without their presence the rest of the Mexicans fought each other to fill the void to control the yard for their stake and it was up in the air whether or not the policies we had in place with the former shot callers would hold. During this process some of our White race started running drugs for the Mexicans without anybody keeping a regulated eye on them.
This is what happened…
The yard was at full capacity, which meant that all of the Mexican and Black inmates were back on the yard and off lock down and getting full program. That left a very small area for the White inmates to congregate on the yard. There were 12 concrete tables and we had 1 as our share to view the yard and put our heads together. Damon and I had come up with a strategy to keep the White inmates united and on the same page as much as possible for the safety of the entire unit, with a protective eye on the youngsters. Our aim was to focus on the potential for problems and to take preventive measures to keep a race war from happening. In prison, perception is reality. You have to handle your business with precision to maintain honor. As a whole, if your race or gang looks weak, like there is a kink in the armor, it invites every vulture, shark and piranha on the yard to the feast. With this in mind, we authored a program on paper that was sent to every White inmate’s cell to establish some rules and regulations. We only asked that every member of our race show up to yard to show solidarity, to work out to show honor and to respect everyone at all times. Our drug debt and alcohol policy was one of zero tolerance but how can you control another’s addiction? The rule was, don’t get high if it can make other people die. Dope and alcohol were to be purchased, “Off the shelf”, which meant with store items owned on your shelf. No fronts or loans. Most of the drug transactions in prison that bring violence and death are done with money order payouts and when a race isn’t paid someone has to get stabbed to cover the bill. We had just found out that a White inmate had done $700 of heroin from the Mexicans, as if he could pay it He couldn’t, putting every other White man on the yard in jeopardy of a war against the Mexicans outnumbered over 15 to 1. The Mexicans were counting on the bill being paid with a money order mailed out from the streets. That money was going to fund another shipment of dope into prison.
I had another problem. My parole date was days away and part of me wanted to tuck my tail and avoid this issue. The other part of me knew I wasn’t going to stop being me. The years of prison life had molded me into a leader and my survival and pride were tied to how I’d faced things. I couldn’t let it go.
Damon and I had finished our workout routine in our usual spot by our buried swords in the back corner of the yard where we sat on the curb to survey things when Blockhead, a fellow White man walked up looking serious.
“Hey brothers, I have some bad news.” Blockhead further explained how “Lefty”, a White man and our responsibility, ran up the drug debt for heroin.
It was hard to pay attention to Blockhead because Damon and I were watching three of the newest Mexican power brokers while they walked the yard. There was Termite, one of the Mexicans who was trying to call shots, but was more of a drug smuggler and the current big connection for heroin. There was Cyclone, a straight gang banging killer, who also had aspirations to take over and call shots, but was too young and lacked the experience. The third Mexican went by Stranger from the Harbor Area in Long Beach. We deduced Stranger as the one who would take over. I didn’t like him. He was all about posturing, without enough conscience.
Stranger was walking by us with Cyclone on his right and Termite on his left when we heard Stranger say just loud enough, “I got the yard for the Mexicans now and I want you to be my mouthpiece Cyclone.” Cyclone was out of his element as a yard politician. A murderous rage flowed through his blood and his instincts were on edge. He didn’t say anything because he couldn’t. He’d already told all his “homeboys” that the yard was his. All of his “homeboys” in San Bernardino would think he was a joke if he became Stranger’s puppet. The whole territory and every other Mexican with a 13 tattooed on their body would laugh at him.
Stranger knew that Cyclone had asserted that he had the keys to the yard and was calling shots. He also knew that Cyclone had squeezed in on Termite for a cut of his dope. Having more experience, he knew that it was put up or shut up time and stopped walking.
Both Termite and Cyclone were caught off guard and kept walking a few paces then stopped, both with confused looks on their faces, they turned to look at Stranger. Stranger said, “Termite from this point on a third of the dope you bring in goes to me to run the yard.” Termite nodded his head he was fine with that and it looked like he was thinking about how Stranger had just got to the yard recently from where he’d left the biggest mobsters in southern California at Palm Hall, the most notorious section of Chino prison, where most of the inmates were waiting for a bus ride to the Pelican Bay S.H.U, and what that implied.
Cyclone stared at Stranger with so much uncomfortable energy flooding through his veins he was shaking, on the edge of aiming that force against Stranger just to get it over with.
Stranger, Termite and Cyclone were within 20 feet from us.
I got up and walked just close enough to the 3 Mexicans and stood 10 feet away and felt their energy and zeroed in on Cyclone. His hands were balled up in fist and they were still trembling.
I watched Stranger's eyes drop and notice Cyclone on the verge. He avoided the fight by cutting the tension with me as the distraction. He said, "What's up B.J?" I realized if I hadn't gotten up they would have been going at it in a fight over their internal power struggle, maybe it wasn’t too late, "You guys look busy. Let me talk to you when you’re done."
It was in that moment I picked Stranger to fight if diplomacy broke down and peace wasn't possible. The energy vibrating off Cyclone was palpable and familiar to me, it said, my childhood was so wrong that I would rather die than not live up to my own expectations. Cyclone finally looked at me. His dark brown eyes were void but there was an internal dialogue going through his brain that could change them back to rage in a nanosecond.
It appeared Stranger knew he'd just avoided a trip to the hole over a yard fight, temporarily, and played another move to distract Cyclone. "Cyclone do you want to talk to B.J?"
Cyclone's mind flooded with impulses unsure of what to do..."No." It looked like Stranger realized the best move was to get into action before the tension hit a crescendo again so he waved at me to have the talk with him.
Stranger’s eyes never left Cyclone and he tried to continue to command the situation. He nodded at Cyclone and said, “I’ll get at you when I’m done.”
I watched Stranger take a few steps into the yard for privacy leaving Cyclone and Termite on the track. He’d been doing this all his life and it showed but it was all posturing. He wasn’t a made guy yet. I positioned myself so I was facing the gun tower with Stranger in between and with Damon sitting on the curb to the right. To keep my vantage point the way I wanted, I kept the 10 foot gap between Stranger and me.
Stranger was still waiting for Cyclone and Termite to leave and walk the track but they were still standing there like they didn’t know what to do. I broke through Stranger’s lack of attention on me by saying loud enough for Damon, Cyclone and Termite to hear, “Stranger are you who I talk to for the Mexicans? I want to make sure you know what has already been established between our 2 races for our drug policy.”
Stranger’s face flashed toward me. All the tension from his power struggle with Cyclone was now facing me head on. His dark brown eyes creased into a frown, angry soldier. He took a step toward me to close the gap, postured and asked in a quiet voice meant for us, “Do you always talk so loud?” I glanced at the gun tower 50 yards away and 100 feet in the air poised with his rifle. He was watching. Then I smiled to break the tension and said in a quiet voice, “I had something worked out with L’il Bird before he left. I need you to get at him to verify it but take my word for it now and implement it, 180 dollar of the shelf dope policy. I heard Lefty owes Termite 700 dollars.”
Stranger looked confused, like I was speaking a foreign language.
I didn’t hesitate to help him understand. “Come on Stranger, you’ve been around. Drug debts get out of hand without a policy, 180 off the shelf max. That way dope fiends can’t cause our 2 races problems.”
Cyclone and Termite finally walked away. Stranger’s eyes followed their path along the track until they were under the gun tower and then looked back at me. “I know what you mean but I have to get at L’il Bird in the hole first.” That was going to take too long. I needed Stranger to run the yard with an iron fist for the Mexicans to keep the problem with drug debts from delivering chaos before it was too late.
It didn’t look like Stranger was up to the challenge so I urged him in the right direction, “Come on hommie, you know what’s up. We have to handle our business faster than that. Why don’t you take my word for it while you get at L’il Bird to confirm it and I’ll deal with it on my end by getting as much of the 180 dollars from Lefty before he gets dealt with?” By now, Cyclone and Termite were all the way down the track by 5 building and circling it past our White table. I noticed Damon was watching them. Stranger nodded his head as if he agreed with me but said, “Nope, I need that 700 dollars lefty owes and if you had that 180 dollar policy worked out with L’il Bird I’ll consider implementing that policy then, when I find that out. It’s my yard for the Mexicans now, L’il Bird is gone.”
For the rest of the day it was a delicate balance to figure out how to deal with things. Our White race was used to dealing with the policy already in place regarding drug debts so we couldn’t ask them to cover the 700 dollar bill. Doing so would have made us look bendable. Like we were made of money and any kind of pressure would separate us from it. We bounced around the idea that we could collect a small amount of the money from each White inmate until the $700 was covered but realized that would have been sending the wrong precedence. That would have sent the message to the rest of the White inmates that it was okay to run up a drug debt like “Lefty” had, because the whole race would just kick in to cover it…
Chapter 3
The next morning was a scorcher in the desert sun. Now that the yard was off lockdown the walk through the building and vestibule to get to the yard was crowded. Bodies of every skin color rushed their way out to get to desired locations on the yard.
When we made it out the vestibule I noticed that our building was opening first and Damon and I were the only ones wearing state prison issue denim jackets buttoned up tight over denim jeans over boots. Every other inmate was in casual clothes from their packages like shorts and tank tops and tennis shoes. If the guards and gun tower were paying attention, this was the first sign. Damon went toward 1 building just to the right and I walked to our White table in front of 5 building to the left.
I walked past 3 building right as the vestibule door opened and a sea of inmates came charging out, in a hurry to get to the work out bars, a card game or some other plan, like look for dope. I walked past 4 building and the same thing happened. I got to our table and stared at 5 building where Stranger would be coming out. The vestibule door hadn’t opened yet; the intake building always took longer to release.
I sat on top of the table and waited. By now the yard had over 400 inmates congregating into sections near the workout bars, basketball court and handball court. I found Damon walking with Jason, “Lefty’s” cell mate, and both of them carried a negative energy, even worse than it should have been.
