The Unknown Mongol 2

by Scott Ereckson

  Our group entered R&R (receiving and release) where we were stripped searched, given a pair of clean white boxer shorts, then placed in a holding tank while our inmate C-files (confidential files) were sorted depending on our committed offence and length of sentence.

  After a significate amount of time, each of us were plucked from the holding tank, given our personal belongings and a new bright orange jump suit with the letters (C.D.C.) inscribed on the back, then moved to another holding tank containing other inmates from neighboring counties. Some hours later, we were led to the modules that we would call home for at least the next 90 days.

  My last time in a reception center was Chino State Prison in 1982, it had been 16 years and things had since changed. While in reception, all inmates were now considered a level 3. Weather a dope dealer or a killer, we would all be housed together during classification.

  Level 3 also meant cell living, which gave you more privacy and was a hell of a lot better than a noisy ass dorm.

  The housing module (1 of 5) were made up of a four-concrete tilt-up walls, one side being the entrance and the other three sides were 2 tiers of cells.

  Slowly, the electric steel door closed behind us insuring no escape from this giant concrete cube. As I and half a dozen other new comers (referred to as Fish) were seated at the empty day room tables awaiting our cell locations, I looked up at the cells and saw the many curious faces peering, some even straining to see through the narrow window slots wondering who we were and which cell we’d be assigned to.

  Now standing in front of the second-tier corner cell that would be my home waiting for the door to electronically unlock, I glanced through the narrow window momentarily locking eyes with the man who would be my new cell mate. With a “CLANK” the cell door popped open a few inches allowing me to open it manually. Stepping in, I shut the door behind me.

  Sitting on the bottom bunk occupied with a legal pad and a golf pencil, it was clear by his demeanor he wasn’t thrilled about sharing what was once his private cell. “How’s it goin bro?” I said to break the ice. Never lifting his eyes from his project; “I’m not your bro.” As I looked around the cell, on the wall directly across from the bunks I couldn’t help but notice the large pencil drawn mural depicting white power and Nazi propaganda. Even though I was white and proud of it, I was born of Jewish decent and wasn’t into the Nazi shit.

  Looking up to the top bunk (which was mine) I saw the bare metal rack. My mattress was rolled up behind his back for extra comfort. “I’ll be needin that mattress.” Again, never lifting his eyes, there was no reply.

  This motherfucker was mud checking me, which left me no choice but to properly introduce myself. Dropping my small bag of stuff to the floor, I turned for a quick glance through the narrow window making sure it was safe to make my move. Quickly I undressed down to my boxers, so I wouldn’t get any blood on my jump suit, plus it would be easier to maneuver in the confined area. I had to do this shit fast before he had a chance to get off his bunk. Suddenly our eyes met. “No problem my brother.” He said as he leaned forward to remove the rolled-up mattress. Oh, now we were brothers. The bottom line was, he knew what was fixing to happen and made the right decision at the last moment. I found that in prison a lot of these so called (bad ass motherfuckers) aint shit when it comes right down to it, but then again, you may run across one that is.

  “There aint an horse that aint been rode and there aint a rider that aint been throwed”

  Grabbing the mattress, I threw it up on my rack, no other words were spoken. I was tired from the long bus ride, so I climbed up on my rack to rest.

  I don’t know how long I’d been sleeping, but as I laid in the fetal position facing the wall I sensed I was being watched. Instantly, I rolled over to see him now standing (back against the wall) staring at me. Like a smoldering fire being doused with gasoline, his pride had forced him to his feet. Then like a coiled snake, he struck.

  Trapped atop the upper bunk, I put my back against the wall and used my feet to fend off his wild punches. After his ineffective flurry and now out of breath, he backed up to the rear of the cell allowing me enough time to jump to the floor. Now at his level, with just a few feet separating us, we squared off for combat.

  Like a bull with his head down, he charged for the take down smashing me against the cell door which kept me afoot. In the grunting struggle, I managed to secure a guillotine choke hold. As the weight of my body slowly slid down the supporting cell door the choke became tighter.

  Within seconds his growls turned to whispers as he frantically clawed to release my deadly grip. Squeezing harder I could feel his boiling anger fade to a simmer, I only had seconds to make up my mind. Was it life or death? Even though my anger said kill, my common sense said no. His fight was gone. I released my hold and rolled his limp quivering body onto its back.

  His gasps for air were like a fish out of water, I watched as his face slowly regain its normal color with each breath. With my heart racing, I turned to the tiny cell window to see if our short but intense ruckus had aroused anyone’s attention, meaning any bull that might be making his rounds. The coast was clear, our fight for alpha male had gone undiscovered.

  Stepping over his shivering body, I took a seat on his bunk to catch my breath. Grabbing a hanging towel, I wiped the dripping sweat from my face. As I watched him recover, I realized how close I had just come to a life sentence. Taking his life would have meant no chance for appeal, and most certainly dying in here of old age. It was at that moment the realization came over me, how in the hell was I gonna make it 12 years in this stinking shit hole without catching another case? Anything could happen at any time, just an argument could lead to a fight, like today. What if I run into our rivals the Hells Angels? Surely there will be a violent confrontation.

  At any time, I could be forced to defend myself. The fact of the matter was; the miracle of an appeal was my only hope of ever getting out of here alive.

  Now on his hands and knees, I helped him to his feet and on to his bunk. “What Happened?” “You just got choked the fuck out!” As he bowed his head seemingly to regain his baring’s, I could now see his razor nicked and scared head. Not only was he regaining his baring’s but like a prize fighter who had just lost a title bout, he was trying to cope with his defeat. After an hour of silence and mental acceptance of what had earlier occurred, he began to open.

  His name was Ryan but went by Rye. He had spent almost half of his 26 years in California State custody. Raised by a single mother, Rye lacked a male role model and at an early age landed himself in juvenile hall for numerous counts of petty theft. Now Rye had graduated to a grand theft auto, and a string of liquor store robberies which had gifted him with an 18-year sentence here with the big boys.

  Living his young life here in Kern County, (which was mainly made up white middle-class households), Rye grew up in the system supporting white power groups, namely the Skin Heads. His medium built muscular body, tattooed and scared from many battles, now stood before me showing nothing but respect. The result of two unfortunate destinies had now led us here, to this place and time.

  Now, there was nothing but time, as hours passed I got to know more about Rye and he got to know more about me. I told Rye about my case and how that little prick Sergeant Butcher had intimidated witnesses and lied to get me convicted.

  How fucking convenient that none of the state’s witnesses recalled what happened to the victim’s knife. It was as if Butcher was holding something over every witness’s head. I knew there were a lot of people in that bar that night that saw what really happened, but for some reason they refused to come forward.

  Rye agreed that my conviction was based on who I was, not what I did, and if I could get the right people to speak up, I might get another day in court.

  After all the introduction, Rye filled me in on the weekly routine of the institution. We got yard two days a week which was rotated and shared with two other housing units (blocks), the rest o
f the week which ever days they fell on, we were locked down in our own blocks rotating 2 hours of day room time between upper and lower tiers. If we were lucky, we got a shower every third day. Breakfast and dinner were in the day room with a sack lunch eaten in your cell.

  On days with no yard, Rye and I would work out in the cell doing “burpees’’ (pushups and running in place) and triceps off the edge of the sink. Due to the hot summer heat and minimal cell ventilation, we constantly sweated profusely. Just lying in your bunk, sweat constantly rolled off your body always keeping your sheets damp with moisture. Because showers only came once every three days, we took bird baths in the cell to keep the smell of body odor down to a minimum.

  On or about my third week while on the yard, we (Rye and I) had just finished our bar routine and started our first lap around the track, when the yard alarm went off, meaning all inmates must immediately get down on the ground. While sitting on the damp grass, we watched as the bulls ran to the east corner of the yard where the dust was just beginning to settle.

  About a dozen inmates were handcuffed and marched away. There had been a skirmish between the Southsiders and the Blacks.

  For the next hour, we remained seated while the next process took place. Each cell block was called off by number, and one at a time each race of inmates were separately stood up, frisked and escorted inside. After baking in the hot summer sun for an hour, our block was finally called, and after the procedure we were back inside.

  Because of the yard incident, the yard was put on lockdown. After 3 weeks with no yard and only 2 hours of day room every other day, the rest was cell time. Now, my routine consisted of going to chow, cell workouts, napping, birdbaths, waiting for mail, and ending each day composing a letter to Gloria.

  Since I was currently housed in a reception center, visits and phone calls weren’t allowed, so writing letters was my only way of communication to the outside world. When I wrote Gloria, it was like my only link to freedom. With a pencil and paper, I found it easy to describe my inner most feelings. I felt as if I could paint her a picture with my words.

  In a letter, Gloria informed me that she had obtained a current list of state appointed appellate attorneys and would began researching to find the best one to suit my case. I wished I had the money to hire a top-notch lawyer, but the funds just weren’t there. In fact, state appointed attorneys weren’t only free but sometimes proved to be more efficient at practicing law. I still had plenty of time; I had to be at least 60 days into my sentence before I could start any motion for appeal.

  On or about our 5th week of lockdown on a hot sunny day, echoing from the day room speakers we heard “YARD, YARD, ALL INMATES PREPARE FOR YARD.” Finally, we would be getting back to our normal program. Rye and I quickly threw on our jumpsuits anticipating a walk in some real honest to goodness sunlight.

  As the dungeon door of our concrete home slowly opened, our single file line headed in the direction of fresh air, only to be met outside by a gauntlet of bulls more than willing to frisk each one of us for homemade weapons. Now in the yard, I closed my eyes and faced the sun, the natural heat felt good on my face, taking a deep breath, a subtle breeze carried the scent of freshly cut grass. Though still confined behind two layers of electrified fence, for a moment I was free.

  Suddenly like a reoccurring nightmare, “YARD DOWN, YARD DOWN!” Rye and I hit the ground looking up to see a full-on brawl. The Southsiders were attacking the Blacks at the pullup bars when suddenly the un mistakable “CRACK!” of a gunshot from gun tower grabbed our attention. The warning shot had no effect as the melee continued. From nowhere, bulls dressed in riot gear wielding belly clubs converged as the smell of pepper spray drifted through the air.

  Now, the gunners from all surrounding towers took aim ready to take deadly control. The pepper spray and battering from the belly clubs brought the coughing combatants to their knees. Once again, we found ourselves sitting on our asses on wet grass for what seemed like hours while each race was sorted, searched, and returned to their cell blocks.

  I had been at Delano for almost 3 months which had seemingly been the worst time in my life. No phone calls, only 8 days of yard, some dayroom, and the rest of the time locked up in a hot unventilated cell. I felt as if my life had reached an all-time low.

  As the next few days slowly passed, for once I began to doubt myself. I wondered how much more of this shit could I take? The answer was not only obvious, but simple, I had no choice, I had to endure. Then on the eve of September 23rd, 1998, one of the bulls pounded on our door waking us from a dead sleep “Ereckson, you’re the chain to Donovan tomorrow”.

  CHAPTER 6

  Richard J. Donovan Correctional Facility (RJDCF or RJD) is a state prison located in unincorporated southern San Diego County, California, near San Diego. Part of the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation, it sits on a 780-acre (320 ha) facility and is the only state prison in San Diego County. Opened in 1987 the prison was named after the late Assemblyman and Judge Richard J. Donovan who sponsored legislation to build a State Correctional Facility in the San Diego area. However, the Honorable Donovan died before the institution was built. Though the Medium – Maximum security prison was built to house 2,200 inmates, as of Dec. 31st, 2012 (due to overcrowding) it housed 3,600 which puts it at 161.8 percent of its total capacity. The prison itself is located on a mesa about 1.5 miles from the Mexico-United States border, in the foothills of Otay mesa overlooking the Mexican border. Two notable prisoners recently housed there are Sirhan Sirhan who is serving a life sentence for the assignation of Robert Kennedy and Erik Menendez of Menendez brothers who were convicted of the brutal murder of their parents in infamous1989 Beverly Hills case.

  Mid-day September 24th, 1998, exiting the bus, the cool San Diego air filled my lungs. Maybe it was my imagination, but I could swear the subtle breeze carried the scent of the ocean. It was somewhat ironic I would find myself here, the town I grew up in. It felt good to be home, but I knew this San Diego prison may not be so welcoming.

  Though my journey as a MONGOL had started here 18 years earlier, my name and the crime I committed would still lay fresh in the minds of some, and some being the Hells Angels. Though the MONGOLS had always given them a run for their money, the Angels had always seemed to maintain a stronghold in San Diego county, which I knew surely had found its way over these concrete walls and onto the prison yard. Once I was housed, I knew I needed to move quickly in finding allies (if any) and confronting any problems. This had to be done fast and hopefully before the word was out I had arrived. I didn’t want to give any potential enemies time to congregate and be waiting with a plan.

  R. J. Donovan being the most southern prison in the state, was also used as the southern reception center. I had already been classified to stay, so I would bypass the reception yard and be sent straight to a permanent housing unit and a yard which for me, could be the lion’s den. But first and foremost, I needed to get a letter and visiting request out to Gloria.

  Now I was eligible for contact visits, and once the proper documents were submitted maybe even a bone yard visit (conjugal visit). Shit, maybe I was putting the proverbial horse before the cart, I could find myself locked up in the fucking hole depending on how things went in the next couple of hours. Never the less, with no other choice, I patiently waited in R&R for processing.

  Within an hour I was processed, photo’d (for a prison I.D. card) and given a new AKA, inmate #P08772. My destination would be #3 yard which had the reputation of being the most violent yard in the institution.

  Our small entourage entered the desolate yard which was currently locked down for midday count. With the weights now some years gone, in the short distance I could see the empty pullup and dip bars which had taken their place. The stillness of the empty yard combined with a slight whistle of an afternoon breeze seemed to play a song of unsureness that I forced in one ear and out the other. I couldn’t let any hint of unsureness erupt into fear, fear being my big
gest enemy.

  I entered the v-shaped cell block (1 of 5 on the yard) where an assigned cell awaited. Again, like times before I could see the many curious faces peering through the narrow window slots. As I walked across the empty day room in the direction of my assigned cell, that’s when I heard it, “Scott!” It was coming from one of the upper tier cells, but I couldn’t tell exactly where.

  Entering the empty cell, I took a seat on the lower bunk, in such a crowded system it was rare to have no cell partner. Now standing at the cell door, it was I who now peered through the narrow window slot into the empty dayroom. Who called my name? Why did they call Scott and not Junior? It had to be someone who personally knew me, only family and friends called me Scott. The scenario drowned all other thoughts from my mind, who was it that called my name? Within minutes the cell door popped opened, midday count had cleared.

  Entering the now crowded day room, I waited at the bottom of the steel stairway looking for any familiar face when I heard it again, “Scott!” it was coming from a young thin Hispanic.

  Walking down the stairs in my direction, at first I didn’t recognize him; “Who the hell is this guy? “Oh shit, its David!” He was one of my son Jeremy’s friends from the neighborhood when we lived in Vista. David hand motioned me to follow to the far corner of the day room. Once there, I strategically positioned my back to the wall, while David gave me the scoop on the yard politics.

  To my surprise David informed me there were no actual Hells Angels on the yard, but they still had good size car (group) of supporters that were led by a bully named Dennis Jameson who could always be found at the pullup bars. Now was the time, I had to make my move before Jameson and his boys new I was here. David asked me to lay low for about 20 minutes until his return.