The Unknown Mongol 2

by Scott Ereckson

What happened to club security that fateful morning in Laughlin? How did the Hells Angels come roaring into the Harrah’s parking lot unnoticed? In my opinion, inexperience and negligence in leadership lead to the cause and results of the 2002 melee. I can say whole heartedly and without a doubt, if I were National President at that time, (which I wasn’t) and RED DOG was National Sgt.at Arms, (which he wasn’t), the incident in Laughlin 2002 would not have occurred, or at least had a different outcome. Being the National President of the MONGOLS M.C. believe me, wasn’t all peaches and cream. Yeah, there were a few perks like all the dope you could snort and all the women you could screw, but with the good came the bad.

  I was always under constant investigation and scrutiny from law enforcement. I knew my phone was tapped, I was tailed everywhere I went and dodged numerous indictments specifically, a federal grand jury inquest on charges for extortion in 1996. I’ve been asked many times over the years, was there money in it? The answer to that is, for me no. Yeah, the club paid for my phone bill and picked up the costs on all business trips, but besides that, it seemed I was always on the verge of losing everything I had, most importantly, my loved ones. Never during my four terms as National President was I paid a salary or accumulated any personal money. The job (or at least back then) was strictly voluntary. It is a fact I’m not proud to admit, but a week before my incarceration in 1998, I was actually homeless staying with different women and brothers. I even slept in a borrowed car for a couple of nights. Putting my personal life on hold, the MONGOLS M.C. always came first. I knew without a doubt; the job was dangerous when I took it. I’ve also been asked over the years, what kept me motivated? My answer to that is (The Dream).

  The Dream;

  “My dream of the perfect motorcycle club is a club where there’s no deceit or envy amongst brothers. A club where unconditional love for a brother comes before money, drugs or women. A club where the need for power is nonexistent, and the health and welfare for a brother is most important. Though I always strived for this, I knew it to be unobtainable. For our club is made of mere men who are far from perfect, and in mere men, a world of envy and the hunger for money and power will always exist.” (Scott “JUNIOR” Ereckson)

  ◆◆◆

  Saturday morning May 11th, 2002 (the day before Mother’s Day). I pulled into my parents driveway in a brand-new Dodge Ram I had purchased with hard-earned money, a week earlier. Entering the garage, I pulled the cover off my bike and quickly checked the oil. Carefully, I backed down to the street and fired her up. The up graded cam made the idle sound like an angry African drum beat. With nary a cloud in the sky, the day was perfect for a ride to the beach.

  Pulling into the La Habra complex, I rolled up directly beneath our condo balcony and revved the motor.

  Within minutes wearing tight Levi’s and knee-high leather boots, Dee came running down the stairs. There It was decided we’d head out to Long Beach to one of our favorite places, The Blues Café.

  After a thirty-minute putt down the 710 South, we weaved our way through the Downtown side streets and entered the bar parking lot. Upon entry, I Immediately noticed one of the tables to the far right of the patio was surrounded by group of MONGOLS and their ole ladies. My first reaction was to leave, but after a quick survey, I found none to be recognizable. I figured I’d been away from the club and all functions (except for the private shop party) for almost four years, surely if I didn’t know them, they wouldn’t know me, so I shut down the bike and we both dismounted. Still apprehensive, Dee and I nonchalantly maneuvered through the crowded patio. Finding a table on the opposite side of the partying MONGOLS, we took a seat and ordered a couple drinks. We had just barely received our cocktails when out of nowhere came one of the MONGOL brothers.

  “Brother JUNIOR, remember me? I’ve always been good with faces, especially when it came to my MONGOL brothers, but I was sure I’d never met this guy. Even after telling me his name, I still couldn’t place him. Trying to convince me we knew each other, he then became very adamant about Dee and I joining him for a drink over at the group table. “Let’s just go over for one drink;” said Dee. With reluctance, we followed him over to the table where the MONGOL brothers and ole ladies resided. After meeting all the new faces at the table, a felt overwhelmed with a feeling of uneasiness. I quickly chugged what was left in my glass, said a quick goodbye, grabbed Dee and headed for the bike. “Why are we leaving?” It wasn’t the time to give Dee a class on gut feelings; “DON’T ARGUE WITH ME, JUST GET ON THE BIKE!” Disappointed, she climbed on and we abruptly left.

  The following day (Sunday, Mother’s Day), we joined my parents at their place in Brea for dinner. Even though the day belonged to my Mom, she had no problem preparing a pasta and meatball dinner. My mom was full blooded Italian and mastered the all-day art of making spaghetti sauce. Though my parents never really approve of my prison marriage, they accepted it for what it was and always treated Dee with respect. After a fantastic dinner and some positive conversation, I gladly grabbed the to-go plate Mom had in her hands and handed to Dee.

  I love my Mom; her unconditional love and unselfishness was always apparent, though I had hoped to find those same traits in my wife, they just weren’t there.

  Early the following week (Tuesday), after returning home from work, I got a phone call from an excited Max. After twenty months, the D.A. was finally ready to offer a plea bargain. A court date had been set for that Thursday morning 9:00am. Thursday, our small group consisting of my parents, Max and of course Dee and myself, met in the San Fernando Court house cafeteria. As we all sat for breakfast, an enthusiastic Max hoped for a (time served) deal but deemed it unlikely. “You know, it’s like making an offer on a house, if we don’t like the offer, we’ll counter offer.” We all listened while Max continued with his (shoot from the hip) strategy. “Everybody’s burned out on this case including the judge, it’s been going on for over four years and I feel confident their gonna come with a deal we can work with.” Swallowing what was left in my coffee cup, I checked my watch, it was time for court.

  As we entered the near empty courtroom, the D.A. awaited and beside him sat Billy Queen’s boss, A.T.F. agent John Ciccone. Like the time before, Ciccone stared my way with a smirk. Within minutes the judge entered the courtroom and immediately called Max and the D.A. to the bench. I turned back to see Ciccone who was now wearing a grin. After the short bench meeting, Max returned and asked me to step outside the courtroom into the foyer for an update. I could tell by Max’s expression he wasn’t happy. “So where did you go last Saturday?” My heart sank, in knew I was screwed. Max continued; “They got a fuckin photo of you at the Blues Café with a group of your brothers.” Pausing for a moment Max scratched the back of his bald head. “They wanna revoke your bail right now.”

  I had no-one to blame but myself, I knew I should left the moment I got there. My mind immediately started to replay the Saturday sonario.

  How did these guys get a picture? I was only at the group table long enough to finish a beer. It was obvious what had happened, but I didn’t want to believe it. The unknown brother was adamant about getting me to the group table, could it be true? No, it couldn’t be true, my club wouldn’t set me up. Maybe the brothers at the table were under surveillance. Max suddenly interrupted my sacrilegious thoughts. “The D.A. wants to talk to you.” Max stuck his head through the courtroom door and waved the D.A. to join us in the foyer.

  Reaching his hand out to shake, I reluctantly took it. I had no choice but to listen. The deal was this, I would take a plea bargain of a total of 6 years with credit for the 3 years I’d already served. If I took the deal today, I’d be allowed 30 days (to get my things in order) before having to turn myself back into court custody. I had to ask; “What if I refuse this offer?”

  “Well JUNIOR, if you refuse, I’ll be forced to immediately revoke your bail and take you into custody, where the state will formally refile charges and you’ll be held in the county jail until another court date
is set, and not to mention, if you’re found guilty again, you’ll start a fresh new sentence of fourteen years.”

  Just the thought of going back to L.A. county jail and waiting for a court date made me wanna puke, I could be sitting in there another freakin year before this thing even went to trial. I remained in the foyer while Max and the D.A. returned to the courtroom where minutes later I was joined by my family. Embarrassed and ashamed I broke them the news. I’d had a good run, I’d been out for twenty months and after a short family huddle, the decision was unanimous. We were all in agreement, I would take the deal. It just wasn’t worth the risk on a new trial and possibly getting convicted again. I’d surrender myself to the court in 30 days. “Screw it, I’d rather do another twenty-eight months in prison then a freakin year in L.A. county jail.”

  CHAPTER 15

  The three of us pulled into the courthouse parking lot. It was hard to believe 30 days had passed so quickly. Lenore, Dee’s best friend shuffled through her purse. Even though things between Dee and I weren’t that great, we agreed to stick it out for the next 28 months, giving our relationship the benefit of the doubt. Since I had recently bought a new truck, I decided to sell my bike for a quick 10,000 to help Dee make the payments during the time I’d be locked up. Sadly, because I had taken the plea bargain, a motion was filed in behalf of the Contreras’s and the 3.2 million I’d been awarded in the civil suit was reversed.

  “Found em!” Said Lenore as she pulled a prescription pill bottle from her purse. “These should do the trick.” As she tapped the bottle, 4 zany bars (Xanax) fell into my palm. There was no telling how long I’d be sitting in a court holding tank, so why not take a little nap. Dee wiped what looked to be real tear from her face and after a final embrace, I walked alone in the direction of the courthouse for my surrender.

  I entered the courtroom where Max and the D.A. awaited. After about 10 minutes of formal bullshit, again I was in county custody. This time was different, over the duration of this case, I had grown familiar with almost every deputy that was assigned to that court. No handcuffs were needed as I was escorted down the hallway to the holding tanks I knew all too well. Over the past 4 years of court hearings, I had not only become a familiar face but also kind of a celebrity with the deputies and was honored with my own holding tank and not 1, but 2 sack lunches. Immediately, I found a new role of toilet paper to support my head.

  Laying down on the bench I stared at the ceiling as the last 20 months replayed like a movie in my mind. How in the hell could this happen, I’d gone from being a free millionaire to right back where I’d started almost 4 years earlier? I had no-one to blame but myself. Just like the ancient tale of the sirens whose beautiful songs lured ships and sailors to their crashing death on rocky shore lines, I was lured back into the grips of law enforcement by the desperate need of brotherhood. Only this time there was a big difference, I only had to do 28 more months.

  I could now feel the weight of the Xanax pushing on my eyelids, just 2 more months and it would be over. Just as I had closed my eyes, the sound of keys startled me back into consciousness, what seemed like only seconds had been hours. Abruptly, the tank door opened; “Ereckson, let’s go the van’s waiting!”

  The only thing that ever changes at L.A. County Jail are the faces and names. Processing was minimal since I’d only been out on bail. Again, punched in the face by the disgusting smell of sweat and raw garbage, I was marched down to the bowls of the old county jail, back to my old home, 1600 block.

  The judge had done me a great favor in ordering me back into state custody forthwith (return to state prison A.S.A.P.) and I couldn’t get back to prison soon enough.

  I had only spent about 2 weeks in the county jail when notified I was on the transfer list to state prison. Even though I’d been out for 20 months, I knew I was still on R.J. Donovan’s out to court list, which suggested at least to me, I’d be returned directly to Donovan State Prison, but that a wasn’t the case, I was being transferred to the central reception center at Delano.

  This would be my second time at Delano during the summer, which made it quite miserable but then again, miserable was just a frame of mind. On the eve before my bus ride, myself along with numerous others were moved up stairs to a transfer cell. Everybody housed in that holding tank were leaving for somewhere early the next morning. Though I was extremely exhausted, the combination of noise and anxiety made it impossible to sleep. While engaging in conversation with other anxious convicts I’d acquired a handful of Somas (Carisoprodol), a muscle relaxer that was issued through the jail infirmary.

  Desperately needing rest and hoping to get some sleep on the long upcoming bus ride, I washed a half dozen of the mini disk shape pills down with a cup of cold coffee hoping they take the edge off. Still overwhelmed with anxiety and with very little rest, at sun up, myself and a few others were herded on to a bus headed for Delano State Prison.

  About an hour into the bus ride, I began to get immense cramping in my neck. It was the Somas, instead of putting me to sleep, I was having an allergic reaction.

  My neck pain only increased as the bus slowly made its way through the hot desert. Now to the point of contortion, the more I fought to hold my head up straight, the cramping seemed to only push harder, forcing my head to rest on my left shoulder. After a two-and-a-half-hour bus ride we met our destination. Though still feeling some pain, the majority of the cramping had subsided.

  Again, like my last trip here, the summer sun was unforgiving. This time was different, though I was free for 20 months, in the eyes of the state, I was still considered (out to court). Instead of the 90-day stay at Delano reception, I was only there on a (layover), meaning I’d be on my way back to Donovan within a few days.

  With the combination of the heat and Somas, I began to feel nauseated. I had to somehow make it through processing without puking. All I could think about was getting to a bunk, so I could sleep it off. Within 2 hours I was assigned to a cellblock and cell. The neck cramps had pretty much subsided, turning into exhaustion.

  My assigned cell was located on the 2nd-tier south side of a building that was facing north, which avoided direct sun light, making it somewhat cooler than other cells. A sheet had been jury rigged to cover the narrow window that faced the yard, leaving the tiny room well shaded. My cell partner who went by the name Steve was a soft-spoken middle-aged convict who like myself, was convicted of his second strike.

  Sharing some small talk, he found my Soma story quite amusing, which drew a chuckle from both of us. Chow was still 2 hours away, which gave me some time to rest. The coolness and shade of the tiny cell projected a safe atmosphere, that felt much different than my prior visit 4 years earlier, relaxing came easy. Suddenly, I woke to the opening of the electronic cell door, it was chow time.

  Every prison had their own way of dispersing their inmates to chow. Since I was housed in the reception side of Delano, chow was delivered to the cell block. In case of a riot, the violence could be contained to the actual building itself instead of turning into a chow hall free for all.

  The reason for this was due to the fact reception inmates had yet to been classified, meaning all inmates were housed together. The reception yard was a prison melting pot that boiled down to 2 types of people, convicts and inmates or should I say, the hunters and prey. Except for the county jail, the reception yard was always the most explosive, with violence erupting at any given second and for any dumb ass reason.

  Standing at attention in front of our doorway, we waited for the signal to proceed down stairs to the dayroom, where chow was served. Standing there, I began to feel light headed and through my eyes everything looked to have a pink tint. Rubbing my eyes and blinking had no effect, everything I was seeing was still pink in color. Once we got the signal, we made our way to the end of the tier, and down the stairs to the dayroom. Grabbing a tray of food, Steve and I found a seat at one of the circular tables where I began to inspect my food.

  My eyes suddenly ope
ned, still blurry they quickly focused. I was on my back surrounded by bulls; “DON’T MOVE, DON’T MOVE!” Turning my head, I could see everyone in the dayroom was on the ground looking in my direction. What the hell just happened? The back of my head was itchy and wet. Touching it, my fingers were covered in blood.

  My first thought was I’d been moved on (attacked). Turning to Steve, who was sprawled out next to me; “WHO HIT ME?” No-one hit you, you passed out.” With food all down the front of my shirt and my tray splattered next to me on the floor, it was obvious I must have pulled it off the table as I fell. The gash on the back of my head was caused from the impact of the concrete floor.

  It suddenly dawned on me, it was the Somas! A delayed reaction from the Somas had caused me to black out in front of everyone eating in the dayroom; “Shit, what a freakin embarrassment.”

  Still surrounded by bulls, I tried to sit up. “DON’T MOVE!” Within minutes medical staff had lifted me on to a rolling gurney and was wheeling me out of the building. I soon found myself in the infirmary being pummeled with questions about my medical history; “Has this happened before?” “Are you diabetic?” “Are you on any medication?” All my answers were the same, no, no, no.

  The last question, began to worry me, what if they check my blood and find the Somas, I’d just told them I wasn’t on any medication; Would they give me an under the influence charge? I was rolled onto my stomach, the back of my head stung as a nurse dabbed at it with a moist compress; “Looks like you’re gonna need a few staples.”

  The infirmary cell was nice, larger than a normal cell and a definite upgrade in bedding, quiet and felt safe. Sleep came easy and when the food trays were delivered they were still hot and seemed to have more flavor. The doctor did take a blood sample, but nothing of the Somas were ever mentioned. The luxury of the infirmary was short lived, on the morning of the 3rd day, I was moved to a different cell block.