The Unknown Mongol 2

by Scott Ereckson

  As David left the building, my anxiety got the best of me so, I headed for the yard to try and get a glimpse at what I was up against. As I hit the crowded yard, the hot sun felt good on the back of my neck, taking a deep breath of fresh air, I focused across the busy yard on the pullup bars, where a large group of Woods congregated. I knew David told me to give him 20 minutes, but my adrenaline was on high and I wanted to get this confrontation out of the way no matter what the outcome.

  It was something about the adrenaline rush that always seemed to have a calming effect on me, I guess that’s one of the things that always made me different from others. The bottom line was, I was who I was, JUNIOR of the MONGOLS and again like so many times before, it was time to represent.

  As I walked toward the pullup bars I thought of Gloria, if things went sideways on this confrontation all my chances of a contact visits would be gone and even worse, the prison could refer any act of violence to the San Diego district attorney’s office who could charge me with my third felony.

  As I approached the pullup bars I saw what had to be him. Standing about 6’2’’and probably somewhere around 240 Lbs., they all congregated around him and laughed at every word he said. Yeah, he was big, but that didn’t mean shit, I was something he wasn’t, I was a full patch MONGOL and he was nothing but a fuckin wannabe. I knew I had to get him alone, away from his cronies to work my magic, the magic of intimidation.

  “Scott!” I turned to see David with an entourage headed in my direction. Now I knew why David disappeared for 20 minutes, he’d gone to round up his Vista homeboys. A quick headcount told me the odds were now just about even. With no time to waste, I made my move. With David and his homies now spread out behind me, I approached the muscle-bound Jameson. “Lemme get a word with you.” With a confused look on his face, Jameson reluctantly followed me from the pullup bars to the mainstream track that encircled the entire yard, we began to walk.

  Looking over my right shoulder, I could see both groups following a short distance behind. “So, what’s up?” he asked. “I’m JUNIOR from the MONGOLS.” Catching him off guard, I watched his facial expression change while searching for a reply. “You can’t stay on this yard!” “I’m already on this yard, and I aint goin nowhere.”

  As we continued to walk, Jameson’s eyes remained straight ahead refusing to make contact, and that’s when I saw him swallow. That was the sign I was looking for, right then I knew I had him. Still walking, I moved closer making sure only he could hear me, I softly said “This aint no chess game, but I believe it’s your move. “We’ll talk later!” Jameson replied as he veered off in the direction of his cell block.

  This really wasn’t the resolution I’d hoped for. The “We’ll talk later” thing obviously meant this shit wasn’t over and the way he B-lined to his cell block told me he was either gonna make a phone call or get a shank (knife). Still walking with David beside me now; “How’d things go?” I ran down the short conversation that I’d just shared with Jameson and David agreed I needed to watch my back.

  As David and I rounded the track, we came upon a small patch of grass just off to the right; “See that flat little sprinkler head?” David said with a sinister grin, I replied with a nod. “There’s a shank stuck in the ground about 3 inches to the left, it’s there if you need it.” That was all I needed to know.

  The confrontation with Jameson and the half day bus ride had mentally taken its toll leaving me tired, so David and I headed back to our cell block where I was looking forward to a well-deserved nap. Entering the building, I noticed a biker looking dude eyeballing me from one of the game tables. “Who’s that dude over there with the eye problem?” “Oh, that’s just Dooby, he’s nothing to worry about.

  Now in my cell, with the door safely secured, I took a deep breath and exhaled, with that door shut I was momentarily sealed off from the yard politics and could finally put all my senses to rest. Running some cool water to splash on my face, I stared into the dull stainless-steel mirror. I looked tired and needed a shave, my mind raced with the many possibilities, decisions and outcomes that were still yet to come. I couldn’t stop thinking about the knife stuck in the grass, I kept picturing myself retrieving it for use. “Shit, I may have to stab this motherfucker!” It had been years, but I’d been in this position before, and like then, I’d do whatever was necessary.

  The cold water felt good on my face and neck. Mentally and physically drained, I stretched out on the lower bunk. Looking up, I examined the many signatures and mass graffiti on the bottom of the upper bunk, I could feel my eyes get heavy.

  I was suddenly awakened by a “Wrap!” on the door. “Ereckson, stand for count!” It seemed like just seconds, but I’d slept all the way through to standing count which meant it was only minutes till chow and only minutes till the next confrontation.

  When my door popped open, there stood the dude known as Dooby. Putting out his hand he introduced himself; “The name’s Ron Deubel, they call me Dooby.” As we waited at the base of the stairs for David, Dooby began to tell me his whole life story.

  Only a year older than me, the years had been visibly rough on him. With his small potbellied build and arms littered with prison tattoos, Dooby never shut up for a minute as he strolled to chow hall with David and I. Dooby chattered about all MONGOLS he’d done time with and heavy people he knew, I glanced over to see David roll his eyes.

  It was a fact that most convicts who didn’t have family financially helping from the outside, needed a hustle on the inside. For some, it was mueling dope or smuggling fruit and veggies from the kitchen, but for Dooby, it was tattooing and drawing, which could be one of the most lucrative, that is if you were any good at it. I looked to David who agreed Dooby was one of the best on the yard.

  As we entered the chow hall, David broke away to sit with his homies leaving me to sit with Dooby and a few of his homeboys who were all from San Fernando Valley. Like always, the slop on the plate tasted like shit, but hunger overruled, forcing me to swallow it down.

  As I ate and everyone else at the table rambled on about bullshit, I cautiously scanned my surroundings. I knew Jameson and rest of those Hells Angel sympathizing motherfuckers were in here somewhere, but where? Like a radar, I locked on. There they were, sitting to the far left taking up two tables. It seemed their numbers had grown from what I’d seen earlier on the yard.

  As I continued to eat, Jameson and I locked eyes. I wasn’t about to lose this stare down. Like fighters at a weigh in, we continued to stare at each other which became obvious to the others at our tables. The tension in the air was so thick you could cut it with a knife. It was as if everyone in the chow hall knew who I was and who they were. Then Jameson looked away and began to laugh, as if to down play the situation. “Yeah maybe he thought it was fuckin funny, but the bottom line was he broke eye contact first and like before, I knew I had him.

  After dropping off our plates, myself, Dooby and Clifford (who was Dooby’s cellmate) left the chow hall and hit the track to walk off the crap we’d just eaten.

  As we casually strolled, Dooby and Clifford debated about what California prison had the best yard, while I constantly kept aware of who and what was going on around us. As they playfully bickered, we rounded the track bringing us almost parallel to the pullup bars. That’s when I saw them, it was Jameson and his crew.

  A quick head count told me the odds were 8 to 3, we were outnumbered almost 3 to 1. Now perfectly parallel with the bars, again I locked eyes with Jameson. They’re Comin!” said Dooby. Sure as hell, they hit the track about 20 yards behind us and were closing fast. I quickly scanned the yard for David, but he was nowhere in sight. Jameson and his crew were gaining on us, the shit was going down.

  Now only about 10 yards behind, I had to think fast. “Get the hell outta here, it’s not your fight!” Ignoring my words, Dooby and Clifford remained beside me. Consequences were no longer a thought, it was all about survival. With no time to waste, I had to get to that fuckin patc
h of grass. It was like dejavu, what kept replaying earlier in my mind was happening.

  Coming up on the grass patch, I quickly flung my prison I.D. card to the ground and dropped to my knees as if to pick it up. Now kneeling in the damp grass, my hands frantically searched for anything that resembled the handle of a shank. As David said, it was just to the left of the sprinkler head. The handle was wrapped tightly with what looked to be mop strands, quickly pulling the pointed piece of Plexiglas from the ground, I stuffed it into my waistband. Rising to my feet I turned to see Jameson standing directly in front of me. “Hey JUNIOR, can we talk?”

  Something about Jameson’s demeanor had changed, he seemed humbler. Had he seen me put the shank in my waistband? With my hand under my shirt holding the shank from falling, Jameson and I continued to stroll, he spoke; “I talked to some people on the streets and without going into much detail, they said your word was good and that things on the streets are cool right now, so I really don’t see why we can’t co-exist on this yard, so are we cool?”

  It was a relief, this motherfucker had no idea how close he was to getting stabbed, but then again, maybe he did. What, this guy thinks he’s doing me a favor? I was already on the yard and wasn’t going anywhere; “Yeah, we’re cool.”

  From there Jameson and his crew headed back to the pullup bars while myself, Dooby and Clifford made another lap around the track. Coming up again to the grassy patch, we decided to sit and have a smoke. While Dooby and Clifford continued their debate on nonsense, I leaned back and discreetly replanted the shank back to its hiding place. “I’ll catch you guys in the morning for chow.” With that, I shook hands with my two new acquaintances and headed back to my cell block. Maybe Jameson didn’t know what that phone call meant, but I sure the hell did.

  CHAPTER 7

  Just shortly before my incarceration, I had come to talking terms with a few respected members of the Hells Angels and a verbal agreement was met. Though in whole, I knew most Hell Angels hated my guts but also knew there was still a high level of respect.

  There were three things the Hells Angels undoubtedly knew about me. [1] I was national Pres. of the MONGOLS M.C..[2] I was man of my word and [3] The thing they respected most, I was a fuckin killer. The agreement was simple, we (the MONGOLS) wouldn’t start any chapters in the Bay Area and in return they (the Hells Angels) would refrain from starting any new chapters in SO.CAL., but now with me being locked up and the MONGOLS having new leadership, I wondered if the agreement would still stand. By no means did this verbal agreement mean a truce, how could there be a truce if there wasn’t a war? (figuratively speaking) It just meant maybe it was possible for two major clubs to co-exist in a state and fly the same bottom rocker.

  After the first good night’s sleep I’d had in months, I stood refreshed and hungry as my door popped open for morning chow.

  There stood Dooby and Clifford eagerly waiting. I must admit they weren’t much to look at, but one thing was for sure, they hung by my side when the shit got hairy and that said a hell of a lot, especially when it wasn’t even their beef. Shit! I hadn’t even been there 24 hours, and I already had the foundation of a good little crew.

  After morning chow, we hit the track for a few laps. As we walked it seemed as if there was something on Dooby’s mind, “What’s eatin ya man?” “Well, I was thinkin, Clifford’s gonna be paroling next week and I was wondering if you might wanna cell up with me?” “Mmmmn, Lemme think about it.”

  As the three of us walked I thought about Dooby’s proposition, there was a lot to consider. Having Dooby as a cell partner meant his problems would also be mine, but then again, he’d already put his ass on the line for me, yeah but I’d have to watch that fat little fucker take a shit every morning, mmmmn but on the other hand, Dooby could sling ink and that meant I could probably get free tattoos and good ones at that.

  I knew my single cell status was temporary and wouldn’t last for long, they could put anyone in my cell at any time and more than likely someone I couldn’t get along with. “Okay, I’ll do it.” After a couple of laps, we headed back to the cell block where Dooby had a phone call scheduled which he offered to me and I gladly took.

  It was the first time I’d spoken to Gloria in two months. It was great to hear her voice and she seemed equally excited to hear mine. She informed me that she had contacted an appellate attorney who was willing to look at my case and would fill me in on all the details during our upcoming visit. The club had also given her $100.00 to put on my books, which was well needed. “Okay sounds great, I can’t wait to see you.” As I hung up the phone I couldn’t help but feel excited and optimistic, maybe she had found someone that might be able to get me out of this shit hole.

  Sure enough, later that week my single cell status ended. After an afternoon on the yard, I returned to my cell to find some old dude struggling to put sheets on the upper bunk. It took everything his frail body could muster to pull the sheets taught on to the mattress. When done, with tobacco stained fingers, he stuck out his trembling skeleton like hand to shake; “They call me Pops” “I’m JUNIOR.”

  Later that night, after he bummed a smoke and shot of coffee, I listened into the wee hours of the morning as he told his story of all things lost due to a life of heroin addiction. I acted interested even though I’d heard the same story a hundred times before and already knew how it ended. Though I was tired, his wheezing, coughs and an occasional fart kept me wide awake the whole night. Thank God, I only had to tolerate this shit for a few more days until Clifford left.

  The day Clifford left, we put in for the cell move and it all went smoothly. Since I was traveling light, within a matter of minutes I was all moved in. Dooby’s cell was set up nice and had all the comforts of home, well almost, I mean it was still a fuckin prison cell, but there was plenty of food (mostly Top Ramens), bags of instant coffee (Taster’s Choice) and a carton of tailor made smokes (Camel nonfilters). Oh, did I mention the 12” Magnavox T.V.?

  The cell was also on the north side of the building meaning no direct sunlight, which kept it cool in the summer time. It had all the little things that made doing time as comfortable as possible. That evening we skipped the chow hall and celebrated in the cell with Top Ramens and warm sodas for dinner, which was probably better than the shit they were serving anyway.

  As days past I got to know more about the man Ron Deubel (Dooby). His Mom and Dad, (both full blooded German) had migrated from Germany in the mid 1950’s and settled in the San Fernando Valley. From an early age Ron was quite rebellious and, in his teens landed himself in juvenile hall. Never finishing High School, Ron relied on what he did best which was drawing. Now at the age of 39, Ron had spent a total of 18 birthdays behind bars on numerous prison terms and over time had turned his artistic skills into a lucrative business. Everybody in this fuckin place needed a hustle and Ron’s was drawing.

  Specializing in personal cards, (birthday, anniversary and Mother’s Day) he could draw whatever was requested and made money doing it. Besides the cards, he’d mastered the art of prison style tattoos, which were high in demand. His unique drawing skills enabled him to free hand, meaning to tattoo without stencils, but the hardest things about being a prison tattooist was acquiring ink. Just an ounce of black liquid was worth $15.00 in canteen items or drugs, which was risky but still another hot commodity.

  At Donovan, a privileged inmate (anyone who went years without a write-up) and had proof of artistic skills, could apply for what was known as a hobby card. This card enabled them to purchase certain art materials through a closely monitored catalog. Things such as drawing tablets, pastels, paint, paint brushes and even permanent drawing ink. What? Did I say permanent ink? That’s right, Dooby legally purchased his ink through the (Dick Blick art supply catalog) with his hobby card and had it delivered right to the freakin prison. Just selling the ink by the ounce to other tattooists was a hustle in its self. Between Dooby’s hustles and the money I would soon be getting from the club, we’d be li
ving large, as far as prison standards went.

  Standing in front of the mirror using barrowed clippers, I carefully trimmed my mustache to the prison compliance. Gloria had finally been approved to visit and today was the big day. With my hair slicked back and mustache trimmed to the top of my lip, I looked sharp as a 9-dollar butcher knife. The barrowed creased shirt and pants I wore, were a little big but comfortable. Now it was just a matter of waiting for my name to be called over the yard loud speaker. “Man, I hope she shows up.” With his eyes glued to the T.V. Dooby replied, “Why wouldn’t she?” My mind began to think of numerous but unlikely reasons.

  Over the years I’d seen many guys wait all day dressed out for a visit, only to be disappointed by a no show. Boy, I sure hoped that shit didn’t happen to me. What a freakin embarrassment, to be dressed up and waiting all day and your ole lady pulls a no-show.

  The day room clock read 11:00AM and I was starting to get worried. “Damn, she should a been here by now.” It wasn’t really that I was worried about her as much as it was my image, because to me image was 99% of everything, then I heard it “ERECKSON, REPORT TO VISITING, YOU HAVE A VISIT.” She was finally here, I never doubted it for moment (yeah right). One more look in the mirror, and I was off.

  I entered the visiting room, already sitting at a table she waved me over. She was gorgeous as ever. Her shining jet-black hair seemed to highlight her emerald eyes and flawless cream-colored skin. As I approached, she smiled then for the first time we kissed. Her lips were soft as velvet and her smell was that of a bouquet of roses. I wanted another kiss but only two were permitted, one for hello and one for good bye. Just as before, her eyes seemed to put me in a trance. I watched as her perfect lips spoke words which momentarily fell on my deaf ears.