The Unknown Mongol 2

by Scott Ereckson

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  With a small bar of soap, I scribed the tenth mark on the wall. The daily routine of waiting for meals, pushups and masturbation had come to an end. My ten days in the hole really wasn’t shit, now that it was over. With my orange jumpsuit gone and now back in normal blues, they returned the plastic bag containing my personal belongings. Throwing it over my shoulder, I began the walk down that same abandon corridor, only this time in the opposite direction, toward general population. The sound of bouncing keys and echoing footsteps no longer rendered a feeling of regret, but now relief.

  Entering the sixth floor, we approached the 600 block dorms which would now be my new home. It was laid out exactly like 700 block, the only difference were the Deps and my new soon to be dorm mates.

  With my bag of belongings still hanging over my shoulder, I stood patiently waiting for the steel door to rack open. My heart nervously pumped with anticipation, you never knew what to expect before entering a new dorm. One thing was for sure, here in Wayside, Hells Angels were few and far between. For some reason, they weren’t really popular with the Southsiders. More than likely because of their racist attitudes combined with the fact that many of my MONGOL brothers were Southsiders before they were MONGOLS.

  I entered the new dorm and headed straight for my bunk, all I could think about was a nice hot shower. That once every 3-day shower shit in the hole wasn’t cutting it. As I undressed, I could feel all eyes upon me, which was to be expected. I was a new Wood in the dorm, covered in prison tattoos, and good size to boot. To those that didn’t know me, I was a possible threat and to those that did, I was a definite threat.

  Grabbing my flip-flops and a dingy towel from my bag, I headed in the direction of the shower. As I shuffled past a large group of Southsiders playing cards, I heard “Hey Wood!” There in the midst, seated at the table, was my old friend Husky. Our simultaneous smiles seemed to set all the staring Southsiders at ease but had an adverse effect on the Blacks that watched cautiously.

  I rushed through my shower, I couldn’t wait to share the last month’s events with Husky. As I approached the table, he stood from his seated position to give me a hug and a handshake. “How was your stay in the roach motel?” For a moment, I wondered how he knew, but hey, the Southsider network knew everything that went on in that place. “Ah you know, ten days of pushups and jackin off does the body good.” Leaving the table area, we found a quiet corner to chat.

  Husky knew all the details of my trip to the hole, even though he was in a different dorm. Taking the blame and punishment for the pruno, and my actions in the riot, had quashed all doubt and solidified my jailhouse integrity, not that there was any in the first place. Shit, I just did what any normal convict would do, but then again, there was a big difference between convicts and inmates. Convicts were those who had been to prison and abided by a different set of standards. Inmates were the ones just trying to make bail. In the county jail, inmates were always the majority. But weather convict or inmate, you were always held accountable for your actions behind bars.

  Husky informed me that the dorm Rep. for the Woods had recently caught the chain and the few Woods that remained desperately needed some guidance. “I’ll bet you could use a phone call.” With a smile and another handshake, I made my way to the vacant phone. Did I really want the responsibility of being a dorm Rep? I knew that’s what husky wanted. Having me as the Wood Rep. would guarantee a Southsider and Wood alliance in case of another riot. Being that Woods were by far the minority, the decision was a no brainer, I needed the Southsiders more than they needed me.

  Ring after ring I anxiously awaited but there was no answer. It wasn’t like RED DOG not to pick up that time of night so, I decided to give LONGHAIR DAVE a call. LONGHAIR picked up on the second ring and immediately filled me in on the heart-breaking news. RED DOG had been the victim of a hit and run accident and was in the hospital.

  While getting on the Freeway, some asshole in a Benz forced RED DOG into the guard-rail, crumpling his leg and his Softail Harley. I hung up the phone and walked back to my bunk, while RED DOG lay in a hospital bed fighting to keep his leg, I was stuck in this shit hole unable to help in anyway. I laid down on my bunk and closed my eyes. My thoughts took me back to a time that seemed like just yesterday. It was the weekend right before the jury found me guilty. RED DOG and I had pulled over on the dark abandon two-lane highway for a smoke-break. As we sat on our bikes admiring the distant sparkling lights of Laughlin Nevada, I remember him saying; “Hey JUNIOR, you and I both know nothing lasts forever, how do ya think it’s gonna end for us?” Pausing for a moment I replied, “One of us will probably end up doing life in prison and the other gettin killed.”

  Though RED wasn’t dead, and I wasn’t doing a life sentence, our situations were in a sense ironic. Was it prophetic? Nah, I don’t think so, let’s just say I had one of those gut feelings, and my gut feelings were usually right.

  CHAPTER 4

  1997 had all the makings of being a good year, the drugs were good, and so were the women, and believe me there were plenty of both. Who would have thought I’d be locked up a year later for keeping a bro from getting stabbed in a stupid ass bar room brawl?

  It was now mid-June of 1998, I’d been in the county jail since April 27th and even though it had only been 45 days, it seemed like a freakin year. I’d already been in a riot and spent 10 days in the hole for making pruno. I was more than ready to catch the chain to state prison. For the guys that had never been to state prison, it was scary not knowing what to expect, but for us convicts who had, after months in the miserable county jail, we couldn’t wait to get back.

  Prison was ten times better than the county jail. There was more freedom, a big yard to roam around on and the option to get a job or go to school. It was like living on a college campus, work all day, then back to your cell for count, then chow, and back to the yard. Time seemed to move a lot quicker, that is if you didn’t watch the calendar.

  Watching the calendar was one of the worst things you could do, especially if you had a grip of time.

  It could be your worst enemy, making time come to a crawl. At least in prison you could pick your friends instead of being cooped up all day with a bunch of freakin idiots trying to be something they weren’t. I hated county jail, but until my name got called to catch the chain, I was “Stuck like Chuck.”

  To pass time, I learned to play the card game Spades. The game strategy was simple, but it got a bit more intricate when playing with a partner. Partners would have to play in perfect sync to win. It seemed like everyone in jail played spades and everyone had a partner who they played best with.

  Tournaments were organized, and the winning team would win a pot of canteen items that were anteed in beforehand. Husky and I played the game well as partners, always knowing what each other was thinking helped us to win our share of tournaments and also when it came to jail politics. The respect we had for each other trickled down to the races we both oversaw “the Woods and Southsiders” and in our dorm, there was an unsaid but obvious alliance between the two. As a rule, each race policed their own people which kept the big problems to a minimum, but when you’ve got 120 men of all ethnic groups living together, problems always arose.

  One morning Husky and I were bullshittin over a game of spades when his serious face cracked a smile; “Hey, what do you think about hooking up with my ole lady’s friend?” Peeking at my freshly dealt cards, “sure, why not.” Husky filled me in on the details later.

  Her name was Gloria. Previously working together at a car dealership, Husky’s girl and she had become close friends. Husky had never seen her in person, so the only description we had was that of Husky’s girl.

  In past experience, I learned to become cautious when one female described another, especially when they were friends. She was described to me as being cute (of course), Hispanic, and “a good girl” (whatever that meant).

  Though her description was vague, the situation was c
onvenient. Gloria would catch a ride with Husky’s girl on visiting day, learn the visiting routine, and of course see if she and I were compatible. Plus, you got to remember, visiting someone in the Los Angeles County Jail could be quite over whelming for a person described as a “good girl.”

  Visiting day had finally arrived. Staring into a scratched-up piece of stainless steel that posed as a mirror, I massaged the pomade and water mixture into my thinning hair and scalp, taking a deep breath and exhaling, I dragged the tiny comb from front to back for the finishing touch. I don’t why I was nervous, but I was. I’d built a reputation on being calm, cool, and collected but my heart was racing. I don’t know, maybe it was the “good girl” thing, or the wanting of a steady female visitor that made me anxious. Don’t get me wrong, the occasional visits from my brothers, and parents were cool, but I wanted someone nice to look at, you know, maybe flash me a little cleavage through the glass and who knows, if things worked out maybe even helping me with my appeal.

  The dorm gate racked open just enough for Husky and I to squeeze through. Side by side we walked down the corridor that led to the visiting room; “Ereckson, you’re in 12” I heard as the door opened. Swallowing to try to quench my dry throat, I counted as I walked down the narrow row of visiting booths, 9, 10,11.

  There she stood, my eyes were immediately drawn to her enormous cantaloupe size breasts, trying not to stare, I quickly made eye contact. Her innocent green eyes had a soothing effect.

  Simultaneously picking up the phone, I watched her lips as she said “Hello.” To my surprise our conversation began to flow quickly. She seemed to know a lot about me, as if she’d done some research. She was curious about why I’d chosen to live this type of lifestyle, and having been asked that question many times before, again I didn’t have an easy answer.

  “Tell me about you” As she went on, I could hear her voice, but I wasn’t listening. My attention had been drawn to her unblemished olive skin and the way her long black hair draped her shoulders. Our conversation seemed to move quickly and so did the time. Before I knew it, visiting was over. As she stood to say goodbye, I could now see how tall she was, our eyes were even. “Hope to see you again” awaiting some sort of answer she replied; “You will.” On the walk back to the dorm Husky asked how the visit went; “It was okay.”

  As days past, Gloria and I became closer. She gladly accepted my collect phone calls, sent letters almost every other day, and was now coming to visit on a regular basis. It was a good thing; besides a friendly game of spades, my time and mind were completely consumed by her. Was it really a good thing? Or was I getting weak over a chick? Was I allowing myself to be vulnerable? These were the questions I kept asking myself.

  The last thing I needed was a freakin head trip over a chick. When you’re doing a grip of time, having an ole lady you can depend on is a positive thing, but on the other hand, having a jacked up ole lady can make time stand still. My years in prison, I’d seen many stand-up guys crumple over jacked-up chicks. I even knew of a convict who was on the phone with his wife. Thinking she’d hung up the phone, it was accidentally left off the hook.

  Staying on the line and continuing to listen, he heard her having sex with another man. After tearing the phone off the wall, he returned to his cell and hung himself. I didn’t need a jacked-up chick to make me do hard time. It was imperative to keep my mind and heart in the right place.

  As days past, it seemed my heart was softening. Like the swing of an axe, with each visit Gloria chopped away at my heart until it began to fall. With visits every weekend, within a short time we had formed a special bond. There was nothing we couldn’t talk about. She knew about my crime and my 14-year sentence but seemed unphased by it. And when I talked of appeal action, she seemed genuinely interested and eager to help in any way.

  As the law stood, I couldn’t start my appeal until 60 days after sentencing, but in the meantime, I could get access to a list of state appointed public appellate defenders, in other words, a free attorney’s that specialized in appeals. Maybe Gloria wasn’t all that street smart but was extremely book smart and was more than happy to help in any way she could.

  Her beauty, warmth, innocence and wanting to help me get the hell outta prison, made my come to one conclusion; this shit was too good to be true. Was it love? Who the hell knows, but I wasn’t about to let it slip through my fingers. In July 1998, only knowing Gloria for a little over a month, I asked her to marry me and without any hesitation, she said yes.

  Why would a beautiful, large breasted, intelligent woman want to marry some incarcerated MONGOL whose soonest possible release date was July 2010? I wasn’t really sure myself. Was it the recognition of being JUNIOR’S wife? Or maybe she was genuinely in love. My needs where simple, a letter now and then, visits, and footwork on my appeal. Another thing to look forward would be the conjugal visits.

  Also known by the C.D.C. (California Department of Corrections) as family visits, once at my designated prison and provided all necessary legal documentation proving marriage, I could schedule a family visit, meaning 44 hours of unsupervised time with my new wife.

  While in the dorm, I had heard of an ordained minister that could and already had performed marriages over a three-way phone call. With a little asking around, I got his phone number and quickly forwarded to Gloria.

  Gloria had never been married before and I knew every woman looked forward to having a traditional wedding and especially her first. It bummed me out I couldn’t give that to her, but due to our obvious situation, the phone marriage would have to do.

  Within the week Gloria had contacted the minister and sent me the necessary documents to sign. The rest was simple, I would send her back the signed documents, she would fax them to the minister, he would handle all the legalities. Then, at a prearranged date and time I would call her where they would both be waiting on a 3-way call.

  Without any hitches (no pun intended), in the third week of July 1998, on a three-way phone call from Los Angeles County Jail, Gloria and I were married. The following weekend Gloria and I had our first visit as husband and wife. Even though we stared at each other through a glass window, there seemed to be a different kind of magic in the air. We laughed and talked about a possible future together.

  It was dejavu, I had been through this before. It seemed like just yesterday when 15 years earlier on my first prison term, I had had the same conversation with Johanna. Though I knew Gloria’s intensions were sincere, I also knew what prison visits did to a relationship over time.

  I knew the chances of Gloria waiting around until 2010 were slim to none. As I watched her talk, I thought about our first family visit. I couldn’t stop thinking about her slender voluptuous body pressed against mine. Though it had only been a couple of months since I had felt any intimacy, I hungered for Gloria.

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  Monday morning July 27th, 1998. Like every other morning, I was awakened by the trumpeting of “revelee.” After standing in line to take a piss and wash my face, I returned to my bunk to get ready for breakfast. Like normal, at about 6:15AM the dorm gates opened, and the rolling food tray racks were pushed in. Forming a single file line, assigned inmates carefully handed out one tray per man.

  Sitting down at the designated (Woods) table, I examined my tray which contained a small portion of cold powdered eggs, 2 pieces of bread and scoop of what they called grits, when suddenly our breakfast was interrupted by the crackle of the intercom. All remained silent knowing the list to catch the chain was about to be announced. “ERECKSON, ROLL IT UP!” “Did I just hear what I thought I did?” “You’re outta here” came from someone sitting at my table. Immediately looking over to the Southsider table, I saw Husky looking my way. With a wink and grin, he continued eating his breakfast.

  The day I’d been waiting for had finally arrived, within the next hour, I’d be on my way to state prison. Suddenly anxiety impaled my thoughts, I needed to call Gloria and let her know I was leaving; it could be mo
nths before I would see or talk to her again.

  My wish to call my new wife was quickly smothered. For security reasons the dorm phones would remain off until well after I was gone.

  I had 20 minutes to pack the small amount of stuff I owned. Only legal papers and mail would be allowed to travel with me.

  Stuffing my belongings into a net bag, I looked up to see Husky standing there. “Don’t worry about Gloria, I’ll make sure she knows you caught the chain.” Locking eyes and a firm handshake, the deal was sealed, Husky and I had become friends.

  You meet people who forget you. You meet people you forget. But sometimes you meet people you can’t forget. “Those are your friends” (Mark Twain)

  CHAPTER 5

  North Kern State Prison (NKSP) or commonly known as (Delano), is a medium-security prison located in Delano, Kern County California. Opened in 1993, this state prison houses over 5,000 inmates. North Kern serves as a reception center for incoming inmates. Inmates usually serve 2 to 3 months at North Kern while staff processes their criminal and health records while also assessing their physiological and social needs before assigning them to another prison.

  The 150-mile bus ride seemed to take forever. The air-conditioned windowless bus was designed purposely to rob us of any view constantly keeping our location a mystery. For the last hour, I had been tortured by an itch on the back of my neck which was unreachable due to my shackled hands. Except for the continuous groan of the engine and the occasional crinkle of a paper sack as someone dug for their stale sandwich, the bus remained silent.

  Finally, the groan turned to a purr as the bus down shifted slowly working its way to a complete stop. We had met our destination. After waiting patiently, it was my turn to exit the air-conditioned bus.

  With my hands and feet shackled, I carefully stepped down to asphalt and was greeted by the hot summer sun. As a C.O. (correctional officer) also sometimes referred to as bulls (plural) removed my waist chain, the hot sun blazed on my shaven head. The sweat burned as it rolled down my forehead into my eyes. Though it had been many years, I knew this was just one discomfort of many more to come. I was now at the reception center, where I’d be locked down 23 hours a day for anywhere from 2 to 3 months while being evaluated.