The Unknown Mongol 2

by Scott Ereckson

  “Dad, you and I both know I got railroaded by the local cops, and when the truth comes out, I should have a good shot at an appeal.” I had taken my case to the box (jury trial) with no plea bargain. If I had taken a plea, there would be no chance for appeal, or for that matter any other legal action. “Well let’s keep our fingers crossed” he calmly replied, then passed the phone to my mom.

  Mom always did her best to stay strong, even though I knew it was tearing her up inside; “Just take one day at a time.” She said in her optimistic reassuring voice, and with a few more calming words, the call was ended with a goodnight. The fact of the matter was, appeals were seldom granted, and I knew my chances would be slim to none.

  Let’s go back a minute, this whole case was a bunch of bullshit, never in a million years could something so simple go so wrong. That guy in the bar came at my bro Reno with a freakin knife, and got what he had coming, a matter of fact he’s damn lucky that’s all he got. Yeah, I smashed the guy’s face with a freakin well glass, but he was trying to stab my bro, I would have done the same for anyone for that matter.

  If I was just an average Joe, I would have got off with nothing but a self-defense charge. The fact of the matter was I wasn’t an average Joe, I was JUNIOR the National President of the MONGOLS M.C., and that little sawed off piece of shit Detective Butcher from San Fernando P.D. went above and beyond to put me away. That little prick intimidated witnesses, tampered with evidence, and even lied on the stand to put my ass away. It was amazing how the knife was never found, and the whole self-defense case found its way right out the freakin window.

  I don’t know what the hell Butcher had on these people, but every eye- witness the state put on the stand couldn’t recall seeing a knife. Even Reno’s testimony seemed to have no credibility what so ever. Right before my eyes, somehow my simple self-defense case had turned to shit and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. I was now 38 years old, and the way I had it figured, I’d be about 50 by the time I got paroled. There had to be a legal way outta this shit, I just had to find it.

  I needed more phone time, I had to let RED DOG know I’d been transferred to Wayside. With the phone still in my hand, I looked to the card table locking eyes with Husky, who then held his hand up indicating I had 5 more minutes.

  Frantically, I dialed RED DOG’s number; “Hello?” “Hey brother, they shot me to Wayside.” “Everything cool?” I told RED DOG about Husky helping with a phone call. RED seemed familiar with the name Husky but couldn’t place where he’d heard it. “This Husky sounds like a good guy to know.” RED was right, Husky was a good guy to know. RED DOG continued “Scoggins is asking about the rest of his money?”

  Scoggins was the lazy-ass dump truck lawyer that defended me, or should I say tried to defend me on this case. This was the deal, we (the club) made a total of four cash payments to Scoggins. Meeting each time in a dark dingy titty bar, a payment was handed over in brown paper sack. Because of this method of payment, receipts would be written on whatever means available, a bar napkin, a coaster, or even on a dollar bill. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, but you gotta remember what we’re dealing with here. This is an outlaw motorcycle club dealing with what turned out to be a two bit a shitty lawyer, and at the time a formal receipt was the least of our worries. In addition to the four cash payments, a bonus payment was to be given at the end of trial, that is when we won.

  For some reason, Scoggins seemed to think after losing the case, he still had the bonus, or what he considered (the rest of his money) coming. Just the thought of that son of a bitch getting even a penny more pissed me off. “You tell that motherfucker he aint got shit coming, I’m sittin in here with a fuckin 14-year sentence, and that son of a bitch wants more money?” RED DOG strongly agreed and assured me he would pass the message on to Scoggins. I only had five minutes, so after a little small talk, Red and I cut it short and said our goodbyes.

  After the phone call, I went to my bunk for some much-needed rest. Just the thought of red faced alcoholic Scoggins pissed me off.

  Fuck that guy, what’s he gonna do, take me to court and sue me for the rest of the money? What, use a hand-written receipt on a titty bar napkin as proof of a binding contract? I was glad those receipts were written on whatever means available.

  CHAPTER 3

  I’d been in that stinkin-ass dorm for over a month and by now the realization had set in, not only to myself, but to the club as well. All this shit was real, and I wasn’t getting out any time soon. Because of club protocol, my position as National President had officially been relinquished to my Vice President, LONGHAIR DAVE.

  Giving up my position was a relief, it felt like a weight had been lifted off my back. Now, I could focus on doing my time and finding a legal loophole to get me the hell outta there and besides, I liked LONGHAIR DAVE, he was perfect for the job, no ol lady, didn’t drink or do drugs, and had a legit 9 to 5 job. But most importantly, was honest.

  In my eyes, honesty is the most was important trait. The National President had to have the trust of the entire club. The brothers had to know in their hearts that all decisions were for the best interest of the club and I knew what ever LONGHAIR told me, was the truth.

  During my time in 700 block, Husky and I had become good friends. Over the short period we had spent together we had come to know a mutual trust and respect for each other. I guess this case, you could say “real recognized real” if ya know what I mean.

  One morning after breakfast I was approached by Husky and was informed the Blacks had intentionally disrespected the Southsiders by playing cards at one of their designated tables. Jailhouse rules went as this; Each race had their own designated playing tables. The number of tables depended on the number of men in each race. For example, the Southsiders had the largest amount of men, therefor they got the most card tables.

  This specific morning, the Blacks had purposely decided to inhabit an unused Southsider card table. Numerous Blacks were posted strategically around and in view of the table, while a few cautiously played cards. Even though the table wasn’t being used at the time, this was still considered a deliberate act of defiance and hostility, leaving the Southsiders with no choice but to act.

  I could now see Husky surrounded by fellow Southsiders in discussion. “JUNIOR,” Blaze motioned me over with a hand gesture to where the rest of the Woods were gathering. “It’s goin down, it’s goin down” he muttered in panic. I could now see the Blacks and Southsiders begin to rapidly separate to each side of the dorm, there was no doubt the shit was about to go down. “So where do the Woods stand?” I asked Blaze, “It’s not our beef.” “The hell it aint”, I said as I made my way to where the Southsiders all stood in readiness. Not only was Husky my friend, but the Woods had to prove an alliance to survive as the minority.

  You could cut the atmosphere with a knife. Nothing but twenty feet of day room separated the two large groups. Black men of all sizes stared at the Southsiders who fearlessly stood with clenched fists just feet away. The small day room where men had laughed and played cards only moments earlier, had suddenly turned into a potential UFC octagon. Like a keg of dynamite, it was ready to explode. Somebody just had to light the fuse.

  Tension had turned the room into complete silence. As the two mobs glared at each other, I kept glancing over at Husky trying to get a sense of when this volcano would erupt. At that very moment, a fuckin shoe went whizzing by my head. The fuse was lit! Immediately, I rushed the guy that threw the shoe taking him instantly to the ground. Straddling him, I began to rain down punches on his unprotected face. Though in the midst of utter chaos, I remained focused on my current task, pummeling that son of bitch that threw the shoe. As I continued to throw blows, suddenly out of nowhere “BOOM!” It was as if an M-80 went off just feet from my head. I could feel the sting of the rubber pellets on my neck and arms, dazed from the explosion, I rolled to the hard floor covering my ears and the side of my face. “Get down, get down!” I heard through my ri
nging ears, followed by the racking of the steel bar doors. The percussion grenade had done its job, turning the full-on flame of a riot into a simmer.

  Covered head to toe in riot gear, fast and with purpose the green gang entered the smoke-filled dorm, subduing the stunned combatants. One by one each man was stripped down to their boxer shorts, examined for injuries, cuffed with zip ties, then escorted to separate corners of the dorm according to race.

  After sitting handcuffed on the hard floor for what seemed like hours, the Blacks, then the Southsiders were stood up and separately marched out of the dorm where they would all be re-housed. As my friend Husky exited, he said his abrupt good bye with a wink and a nod. Since the Woods were the smallest group, and weren’t initially involved in the riot, we were temporarily the only ones remaining in the dorm.

  Within a couple of days, our dorm was re-integrated with a new batch of Blacks and Southsiders. Though these two groups were new to the dorm, the scattered rubber pellets that were missed by a broom, acted as a reminder of the violence that had occurred just days before. Though an ember of new tension smoldered, it quickly fizzled out.

  As time moved along, every day was like the day before, waiting to catch the chain (the bus to state prison). I found myself looking forward to a convict’s two best friends, visits and mail. On the weekends, I would get visits from the brothers, and my folks would come up about every third week. During a normal week, playing spades and dominos 6 to 8 hours a day just wasn’t doing it for me, so I decided to take up a new past time, “ making Pruno.”

  Pruno was the name for homemade jailhouse wine. It was relatively easy to make. The ingredients: 1 pound of sugar to every gallon of fruit juice, and a pinch of yeast to kick off the fermenting period (which usually took about 3 to 6 days depending on the temperature). Cooking it was the easy part, the hard part was getting the ingredients, the most importantly the sugar.

  A pound of sugar:

  Raw sugar was almost impossible to get, but in the store (for those who had money) you could purchase bags of concentrated Kool-Aid powder, which were about 90 % sugar. Though it left the finished brew bright red in color, four bags of the powder, plus a few of the sugar packets you sometimes got for breakfast, did the trick.

  The juice:

  About once a week, we would get an orange in our sack lunch (handed out every day at breakfast). Everyone in the dorm was usually happy to donate theirs, just on the hope they would get a taste of the finished brew. After a couple weeks, the gathered oranges were peeled and squeezed with the pulp into a plastic trash can liner, then water was added to make the full gallon.

  The yeast kicker:

  For the kicker, we would use a sock tied at the top resembling a giant tea bag containing hand formed bread balls and orange pulp. The good thing was, the kicker bag could be reused over again.

  Finally, the kicker bag was dropped into the trash can liner of fruit juice tied at the top, wrapped in a blanket and then stashed to begin fermentation (the warmer the bag, the quicker the fermentation). Because of gasses caused by the fermenting, the bag would swell and need to be what we referred to as burped (opened and gasses released).

  Within usually 3 to 6 days the jail house brew was ready for all involved to taste. When done right, two large cups of the bright red drink rendered a definite buzz, which usually followed with a headache and diarrhea.

  As time passed, the more pruno I made the better I got at it, and when I say better, I mean the pruno got stronger. Soon, everyone was saving their oranges, buying Kool-Aid and asking when the next batch would be ready. Before I knew it, I’d become the dorm brew master. But with all the glory came a down side.

  With brewing it, also came the responsibility of hiding it. Getting caught manufacturing alcohol in the county jail could be another felony. Already having two strikes, one more felony could mean strike 3 you’re out. “Yeah, that’s right, a freakin life sentence.” I bet you’re asking yourself if making pruno was worth a life sentence. Well, the answer is hell no, but like anyone committing a felony, no-one ever plans on getting caught.

  The green gang were known to shake down (search) the dorm at any given time with no notice. And when they came, they came in force leaving no stone unturned. The last time we were raided my timing was perfect. I was in between batches and their search came up empty.

  We had heard rumors that when pruno was found in other dorm shake downs, it was just flushed it down the toilet. That rumor, true or false made me feel a little more at ease about the possible consequences I were to get caught.

  It had been about three weeks since our last shake down, and they usually hit us about once a month. I knew we were due and had a gut feeling we were gonna get hit but figured I had enough time to get one more batch up, before laying low for a while.

  5:30 AM on the following Monday morning. In a matter of seconds and without warning, the dorm doors were racked, and a dozen members of green gang rushed in; “Step away from your bunks and strip down to your boxers!” Said the stalky no necked sergeant.

  One at a time, each one of us were strip searched. Then, in nothing but our boxers, sent to a holding tank directly across from the dorm. We all watched while our common enemy (the green gang), tore apart our dorm. Knowing for sure it was only a matter of time before they found my brew, my heart raced with anxiety awaiting the outcome. What the hell was I thinking? I could have kicked myself in the ass. Id broken one of my own cardinal rules; “Always go with your gut feelings.”

  As I peered through the reinforced window in the direction of the dorm, I watched as the gloating little no necked sergeant approached the tank holding a punctured trash bag like a prize-winning fish.

  They’d found my shit. “Who’s in bunk 22?” He yelped with a shit eating grin, my bunky and I stepped forward. “Who’s the wine maker?” I had wrapped the pruno in a blanket and stuffed it in a laundry bag that hung off the corner of our bunk post. It was futile to try and lie, besides I wasn’t about to let my bunky take the rap. The bottom line was, I knew the job was dangerous when I took it. “It’s my wine!” With a satisfied look on his face, Sergeant No Neck walked away with the dripping evidence in hand.

  When we returned to the dorm, it looked as if it had been hit by a freakin tornado. Sheets ripped from the mattresses that now lay on the floor, personal items such as cosmetics, food and books tossed about with no regard. I guess they figured it was their job to fuck with us, as it was our job to give’em a reason to. Later that night before lights out, I was notified I’d be appearing in Sergeant’s Court within 3-5 days for possession of contraband. “What the hell, at least that was better than manufacturing alcohol in a county facility.”

  Sergeant’s Court was nothing but a bunch of formal bullshit. I was read my charge, which was “possession of contraband,” asked how I pled, which was guilty and sentenced to 10 days in solitary confinement (the Hole). From there, I was led to a solitary holding tank with nothing to do but wonder what the next 10 days would bring.

  Awakened by the sound of jingling of keys, I lifted my head from my toilet paper role pillow and slowly rose to my feet. As the windowless steel door slid open, before me stood two unfamiliar Deputies. Taking a few seconds to size me up; “So, this is the National Pres. of the MONGOLS,” one said as the other tightened the handcuffs around my wrists. With one Dep at my side and the other behind me, I was escorted down an abandoned corridor to what was known as the Hole. As we walked, the bouncing keys and echoing of our own footsteps seemed to saran-aid a song of regret and loneliness.

  Arriving at our destination, we were met with yet another steel door which led to a small block of single cells. There, my handcuffs were removed. Standing against the wall directly across from the control booth outfitted with 1-way glass, I was stripped butt naked and thoroughly searched. It was the same old routine, hands, feet, lift your nut sack spread your ass cheeks, squat and cough. I was then given a clean pair if boxers and a bright orange jump suit.

&nbs
p; As we walked toward the row of single cells, I saw that the control booth door was wide open, and at the panel desk sat two female Deps. It was obvious they had watched and most likely enjoyed my entire strip search through the 1-way glass. “Did ya like it?” I said with a grin as we walked by. That didn’t go over so well, I was told shut the fuck up and keep walking. “Here’s your new home smart ass.” I stared at the black stenciled numbers on the white tray slotted door as it slid open. As I entered the dimly lit cell, “Enjoy your stay” was said followed by a chuckle as the door slid shut.

  Instantly overcome by the smell of urine, the plastic encased florescent bulb gave off just enough light to survey the small room. It was obvious the strong smell of piss came from the filthy toilet and sink combo that was mounted to the left of the door.

  Adjacent from the toilet, a steel rectangle frame pultruding from the concrete wall supported a two-inch-thick foam mattress which posed for a bunk. After a few pushups and some back and forth pacing, I laid down. The summersaulting thoughts in my head finally gave in to the silence and weight of my tired eyes.

  Chow time, chow time” coming from an outside speaker woke me from a deep sleep.

  Clogging the sink with a wad of toilet paper, I made a small pool of water to throw on my sleepy face, just minutes later the tray slot opened, and breakfast was slid in by a faceless hand.

  As the day began, the silence from the night before had turned into what I can only describe a human jungle of caged animals. I now realized I wasn’t alone. The noise ranged from cell to cell conversation, arguing, threatening, animal calls and screaming, not to mention the blacks trying to harmonize to old doo wop songs. During the day, it was useless to try and nap, even toilet paper ear plugs weren’t enough to muffle the ongoing chatter that lasted till the wee hours of the morning. As the caged animals tired, there was finally silence.