The Unknown Mongol 2

by Scott Ereckson

  THE UNKNOWN MONGOL 2

  THE SEQUEL

  SCOTT “JUNIOR” ERECKSON

  THE UNKNOWN MONGOL 2 THE SEQUEL

  COPYRIGHT © 2018 SCOTT “JUNIOR” ERECKSON

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  PREFACE

  For those of you who read THE UNKNOWN MONGOL, you’re probably wondering just what the hell happened. If you enjoyed the first book, I’m sure you’ll enjoy this one as much.This journey starts where THE UNKNOWN MONGOL “the first book” left off.

  The year is 1998 and SCOTT “JUNIOR” ERECKSON the National President of The MONGOLS Motorcycle Club has been convicted of assault with a deadly weapon. Because he’s an ex-felon and it’s his second strike, he’s been sentenced to 14 years in state prison

  Follow JUNIOR as the unforgiving steel doors of freedom slam behind him. Go with him on this wild rollercoaster ride to hell and back. Experience the in’s, outs, ups and downs of Los Angeles County Jail (the closest place to hell on earth), then on to California State prison. Hold on tight as you share the happiness, sadness and relationships in this unbelievable but true gripping expedition of one man’s life.

  CHAPTER 1

  Wearing their green colors, I now found myself surrounded by one of the most notorious gangs in all L.A. County, “The Sheriff’s Department.” The quick formed mob shuffled me to the front of the fully seated San Fernando Valley court room and toward the unforgiving steel door that would soon separate me from freedom. My sentence was 14 years and even with good time I’d do about 12. Shit, what the fuck was good time? I now had 2 strikes, and in this wonderful state of California, any 3rd felony (even as minor as pissing in public) could be used as a third strike, which meant an automatic life sentence.

  The steel door clanked behind me sounding like the dungeon portal of some medieval castle sealing my fate forever. I was then escorted down a light green cinder block hall way that led to a 15 by 15-foot cell filled with others of all races whose fates like mine had already been sealed. “So, what happened?” A Wood (short for Peckerwood and prison slang for a white boy) reluctantly asked.

  “They maxed me out, 14 fucking years at 80 percent.’’ In the state of California any violent felony conviction would result in a mandatory 80 percent served of the total sentence.

  All the surrounding small talk fell silent. When it came to be getting broke off (getting a lengthy sentence) it was no laughing matter and was taken very seriously.

  Within minutes, the silence was broken by the outside jingle of keys fumbling to open the holding tank door, the door opened, and a Mexican young man entered, the steel door quickly slammed behind him.

  “Motherfucker!” Another Mexican yelled from behind me, following with a hard-overhand right connecting squarely with the new man’s forehead. “ONE ON ONE!” Someone else yelled from the small contained crowd. Down on one knee, stunned and bleeding from the gash in the center of his forehead, the new man rose to his feet.

  Everyone in the holding tank except the two combatants stood atop the 12-inch stainless steel bench that extruded from all four walls, leaving only enough room for a shit and piss stained toilet- sink combo that was mounted in the corner. “ONE ON ONE!” The same voice yelled again, now I could see who was shouting the command. He looked to be some kind shot of caller. The tattoos on his neck and shaven head seemed to radiate fear and respect from the majority in the tiny man-made arena. This shot caller and the two fighters were Southsiders, (Mexicans who represent Southern Calif. in prison).

  Now squared off and encircling each other, we all watched in silence. The new man (the smaller of the two) was now bleeding profusely from the first punch. Blood streamed into both eyes obviously impairing his vision, his definite struggle to see cued his larger opponent to charge like a shark on a wounded seal. We all watched in silence while the bloody out- matched man became bloodier with every connecting punch.

  “OKAY THAT’S ENOUGH!” Yelled the tattooed shot caller. The fight came to a sudden stop. “CLEAN HIS ASS UP” commanded the shot caller, other Mexicans quickly grabbed toilet paper dabbing at the numerous gashes doing their best to stop the bleeding. I overheard it had to do with someone’s cousin getting shot. But never knew for sure and really didn’t give a fuck.

  The Southsiders without a doubt ruled L.A. County Jail and outnumbered all the other races two or maybe even three to one. There was an ongoing joke I’d always heard about L.A. County jail. Q: What has two black eyes and no shoes? A: A white boy in L.A. County jail. Which seemed to be pretty much the truth. The whites were by far the biggest minorities.

  After everyone had their day in court, one at a time we were taken from the tiny holding tank, shackled together and marched down a corridor through a diesel fumed sally port, where an idling bus awaited us captive passengers. I was tired, stressed and couldn’t wait to get back to my County Jail bunk in 9000 block (located on the 9th floor) to catch up on some much-needed sleep.

  Like the last three months while awaiting sentencing, I awoke again to the loud trumpeting of (revelee) through unseen speakers. I guess it was their little way of saying wake the hell up, this aint a bad dream and its breakfast time all in one. Grabbing the rust stained towel from the cross bar at the foot of my bunk, I zig zagged my way through human traffic in the direction of the dorm restroom, only to find myself in the rear of a line made up of shirtless tattooed thugs with towels draped over their necks waiting to brush their teeth with powdered toothpaste and three-inch toothbrushes. Within minutes dressed and ready, we all lined up and like every morning, we were marched like programed robots down the 9000-floor corridor to the escalator which made its way down to the lower floors.

  The chow hall was located on 5000 (the 5th floor). About the size of a high school gym, it probably fed about 500 men at once. Coming through the door, you picked up your tray of slop, then you were seated on one of the rows of the end to end stainless steel picnic tables. With only 15 minutes to eat, you were then herded like sheep through another door, and back up the escalators to your housing unit.

  Crawling back in my bunk closing my eyes, I tried to give my stomach a few minutes to digest the powdered eggs, cream of wheat, and piece of bread I had just eaten before starting my morning pushups. “ERECKSON, ROLE IT UP!” Blasted over the speaker. I got out of bed and quickly grabbed what few belongings I had throwing them in my sheet. With a mattress tucked under one arm and the sheet thrown over my shoulder I made my way to steel door. “Where am I going?” I asked the Deputy whose mind was occupied on other things “Wayside.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Peter J Pitchess Detention Center or known as (Wayside) was first built for prison use in 1938. It was a minimum-security facility where inmates worked on a farm setting. In 1983 the Wayside Honor Ranch was renamed the Peter J. Pitchess Honor Ranch. All farming operations were shut down in 1992. Then because of state issues the jail its self was closed in 1995 and re-opened shortly after. Its currently running and operated by the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department and is an extension of the Los Angeles County jail. As of 1998, with all three facilities North, East and South, it has a combined capacity of approximately 8,600 inmates who await hearings and trials. Not only is it the County’s largest jail, but also the oldest. Known as (Wayside) to all county inmates, the North Facility is now the maximum-security detention center also known as SUPERMAX, and because of its reputation for extreme violence, it’s often referred to by inmates as the THUNDERDOME.

  I sat in silence with about 30 others as our bus headed North on Interstate 5. Looking to my left, in the distance I could see the towering rollercoasters that scrape the sky at Six Flagg’s Magic Mountain, a smile came to my fa
ce thinking of days long past.

  I remember walking with my kids Jeremy and Bonnie, each of their tiny hands gripping mine as we strolled through the local town carnival, each of their young little faces filled with anticipation of what the day will bring. I miss those days, where does time go?

  As the bus turned off interstate 5 on exit 173, now it was my face filled with anticipation of what the day will bring. The bus rolled slowly passing a large sign, reminding all present that we had entered the 2,600 acres known as WAYSIDE. As the bus made its way down the winding hot asphalt road, our destination began to appear in the distance.

  The dismal gray pentagon shaped buildings could probably be considered by some as an architectural masterpiece but through my eyes, it was just another L.A. County human warehouse.

  Entering the huge garage, giant steel rollup doors automatically begin to close behind us to ensure no escape. My heart starts to race, I can feel beads of sweat start to well up on my forehead, I’ve got to keep my composure. I know that image is 90 percent of the battle, and the other 10 percent is the willingness to do whatever needs to be done without hesitation.

  After exiting the bus, our convicted crew was marched into an open room and then ordered to form a large circle encompassing a group of Deputy Sheriffs, who themselves surrounded a table supporting a box of latex gloves and what looked to be a batch of pre-counted sack lunches. After dropping what measly belongings we had directly in front of us, one by one we were unshackled.

  Now fanning out and facing us, the Deputies spaced their selves one between each two of us. I’d been through this drill so many fucking times I knew it by heart and the part I hated most was coming next. We were then told to drop the linen (get buck ass naked).

  As we all stood in our birthday suits, a deputy spoke; “Okay gentlemen, raise your arms above your head, now bring’em down in front of you, let me see the palms of your hands, now run your fingers through your hair, reach down and lift your nut sack, turn around, lift your right foot, now your left, bend over and spread those ass cheeks, now squat and cough.” The Deputies always looked close at your asshole, thinking some type of contraband such as dope or a weapon would shoot out when you coughed, but in all reality, I just figured them to be a bunch of gay bastards who got off on checking out 200 to 300 different assholes a day.

  One of my many fantasies was when spreading my ass cheeks, was to rip a nice greasy fart, but more than likely it would probably result in an ass beating with a one-way ticket to the hole, and one thing for sure was, to fight or rebel against the green gang “especially in their house,” was a futile battle that couldn’t be won. Over the years I’d seen a few men try but the stupidity was quickly beaten out of them.

  Since I had just come from the Men’s Central Jail, all the preliminary bullshit had already been done. After the customary strip-search, we were given clean underwear, a set of blues (always too big or too small), a sack lunch that consisted of two pieces of reddish bologna sealed in plastic, a bruised red apple, and a rock-hard sugar cookie. Oh yeah, and if you were lucky, you might even get a mustard packet to smear on that stale bread.

  Now in a single file line and our hands tucked in our elastic waist bands, we were escorted to the dormitory blocks which would be our temporary homes until we caught the chain (the bus to state prison). We then entered what was known as the 700 block.

  The supermax 600 and 700 block had a reputation of being two of the most violent places in the entire L.A. County Jail system, and as luck would have it, there I was. But the thing I had going for me was, I wasn’t your every day run of the mill white boy, I was the National President of the MONGOLS Motorcycle Club and being that the club was made up of 85 percent Mexicans, especially in the Los Angeles area, that was a good thing. I knew the chances were good I’d run in to an affiliate of some kind, and even better another MONGOL brother. Shit, there was a good chance the word had already spread I was coming. Hopefully whatever circumstance lied ahead it would be to my benefit.

  From our group, I and two others entered the 700-block dormitory where my survival mode instinctively went into action. Like a laser beam, my eyes scanned my temporary home, not only looking for a familiar face but a potential enemy as well. Abruptly my intense thought was interrupted. “Ereckson, you’re in 22 up.”

  While making my upper bunk bed, I sized up each man in the immediate area and it was quite apparent they were returning the favor. Like a bird on a perch, I sat atop my bunk where I could get a better view. Now I could count the number of men of each race. It was imperative to know the ratio in case of a riot, I had to know what I was up against. I needed to figure out who would jump first. In case of a riot, they would be my first target.

  It was always an unsaid rule that the Woods (Whites) would unite with the Southsiders against the Blacks if something were to jump off, which being part of such an obvious minority, was to our benefit.

  I knew that not every man would fight. Just like in the MONGOLS, you had the ones that would, the ones that might, and the ones that wouldn’t. I just had to figure out which one was which.

  Each race had a Rep. (Representative). The idea was the Reps were supposed to keep their own race in line and act as a spokesman if any racial tension were to arise. The big picture was that each race would police their own people which in theory, would prevent a riot. (yeah right)

  It wasn’t long before one of the Woods made his way toward my bunk, his strut had a hint of arrogance. As he got closer, on his arms I could see needle track scars that his shoddy prison tattoos couldn’t hide, his squinty eyes and the smirk on his pale pitted face reeked of deceit. Reaching into his back pocket he pulled out a comb, dragging it through his greasy gray hair, he introduced himself.

  “How’s it goin brother?” “I’m Blaze from San Fernando Valley, I’m the Rep for the Woods.” Unimpressed I replied, “I’m JUNIOR from the MONGOLS.” Like magic, his taste of arrogance disappeared. Right then, what I really needed was a phone call, I needed to let people know I’d been transferred to Wayside. “How do I get on the phone list?” Looking at his feet in reluctance, he fumbled for an answer. “Well, since we’re the minority, the Woods only get the phone every other day, signups are a day in advance and we’d just had’em this morning.

  ” I needed a phone call A.S.A.P, I wanted to ease the minds of my loved ones, and of course RED DOG, my National Sargent at Arms, who made it mandatory to immediately be informed of any sudden change.

  “I aint waitin no two days for a fuckin phone call, who’s runnin shit around here?” Blaze’s head turned in the direction of a table filled with card playing Southsiders; “Which one?” I asked while examining each player. Before Blaze could answer, I headed straight for the table.

  It was plain to see which one the hog with the big nuts was (figuratively speaking). All eyes acknowledged my approach except his. Was it the odor of arrogance I smelt, or just an overabundance of self-confidence? Whichever it was, he purposely ignored my presence.

  His actions assured me of two things, he was the one I was looking for and it was time to play jailhouse politics. Okay then, let the games begin. “I’m JUNIOR from the MONGOLS.” In my peripheral vision, I could see other Southsiders began to move in our direction, within moments I found myself surrounded. “I’ve heard the name.” He replied, never removing his eyes from the fanned cards held in his hand. “Lemme get at ya after the game.” I responded with nod and returned to my bunk.

  Within a matter minutes, he and his entourage headed in my direction. I could now see his stalky build and the confident swagger in his walk. Standing about 5’ 7” and built like a fire hydrant, his shirtless scared upper body displayed the tattooed pictures and words undeniably from numerous prison terms and a hard life on the L.A streets; “I’m Husky” he said putting his hand out to shake, I gripped it firmly; “I know a lot of your MONGOL brothers on the streets.” This was a great way to open the conversation, Husky and I spent a good while throwing around the
names of brothers and people we both knew. Even though Husky and I were from different cultures, we seemed to have a lot in common and here where in every dark corner lurked a potential enemy, it seemed I might have a potential friend.

  After dinner that evening, I watched as Husky and other Southsiders hovered around an unused wall mounted telephone, I knew from what Blaze had told me earlier, that the Woods would have no phone privileges till the following day. Just as I had given up hope, I heard whistle and looked to see Husky motioning me to the phone area, with a smile on his face he said, “You got 15 minutes.”

  My Dad answered the phone, which was a rare occasion. My Dad was hard as prison steel. Losing his mother at the age of 9, he was raised by an older sister then later by his Grandmother.

  Shortly after his 17th birthday he enlisted in the Navy where he saw action in the Korean conflict. While in the Navy, his Dad was killed in a car accident.

  As a child and even now I never doubted my father’s love, I knew his traumatic youth caused his inability to hug or ever show any physical affection. Growing up, he always told me “Men don’t hug, they shake hands.” When it came to me and my Dad, hello and goodbye always began and ended with a handshake.

  “How’s it goin?” “How about you?” After a short pause, I began to vent. “Fourteen fuckin years seems like an awful long time for a bar room brawl.” Clearing his throat, he tried to disguise the obvious crackle in his voice. “It’s not what you did that got you the time, it’s what you represent.” For the first time in my life, I realized the rock-hard man I knew as my Dad was starting to cry. It was like a chain reaction. Hearing my Dad, automatically made my eyes start to well up. Looking straight ahead at the wall, I could only hope no-one saw the tears rolling down my face.

  The last thing you wanted in jail was for someone to see you cry. It wasn’t the 14-year sentence that got to me, it was the pain I heard in my Dad’s voice.