When inside the block, they all looked the same, the only difference was the direction the building faced. Like a broken record, again I found myself in a new cell with a new cell partner. He seemed like a nice enough guy, but we really didn’t have much in common. After our initial introduction, he asked about the staples in the back of my head and found the Soma incident quite comical. We continued to share stories, but his were no match for mine.
He found the shit I’d been through the past 4 years somewhat amazing. How does any story compete with getting out on a writ, becoming a millionaire, losing it all and having to come back to prison? And getting a 20-month break on the streets in between prison terms was un heard of, not to mention an 8-year reduction in sentence. Even though I was broke, I was still the luckiest guy I knew.
About an hour before chow, a balloon and a lighter came sliding under our door. Jumping from my bunk, I quickly grabbed the gifts and looked out the window to see who delivered it, it was the tier tender, who nonchalantly continued past pushing his broom.
While my cellmate took point (lookout), I checked the contents of the balloon, it was tobacco. Who in the hell was sending me a balloon of tobacco? I’d only been in the block for hours; Did someone recognize me as I walked in?
As I stood in front of my door at chow release, I scanned all the other standers on the tier for a familiar face, but none rang a bell. Being in the reception center, tobacco was considered contraband and was not allowed to be possessed, which only presented more questions; Who had the connections, and what did I owe in return? Grabbing my tray, I quickly found a table and continued to scan while I ate.
Across the dayroom at a distant table, sat a group of Southsiders who were staring in my direction. Finding none recognizable, I gave a courteous nod of respect and they returned the gesture. It was them, something in my gut told me it was them who sent the tobacco.
10:AM the next morning, the doors popped open for day room. The line to the lower control office was long as inmates and convicts alike patiently waited to checkout decks of playing cards, board games like Scrabble, Chess, and Checkers, not to mention everyone’s favorite (Dominoes).
While the others staked claims on playing tables, I wandered the crowded dayroom floor looking for an unoccupied seat.
Sitting at the same table as the night before, the Southsiders who had kindly acknowledged me, were enthralled in a game of cards.
The one and only wall mounted T.V. (an octave louder than the dayroom chatter) was airing an episode of Forensic Files, with nothing else to do, I found an empty seat and began to watch. Suddenly grabbing a seat next to me, was one of the Southsiders from the card table; “Come over and join us.” Following him over to the filled table, I silently watched. Like always, (the alpha) introduced himself, sticking out his hand, he introduced himself; “Danger, from Watts.”
I’d always thought black gangs dominated the city of Watts, shows how much I knew. Danger’s huge hand dwarfed mine. An extremely big man for a Mexican, his large tattooed shaved head was nicked and scared, most likely from a life or violence. Danger continued, “My Dad’s a MONGOL, his name is RAGE, do you know him? Yep, I knew him alright.
It was back in mid-1996, I had just been reelected as National President. Among the many issues at hand, most importantly at the time was club membership. The MONGOLS membership had lingered to roughly 100 members nationwide. Though it was kept a secret, we knew we were the smallest of the big 3 California bike clubs, being us of course, the Hells Angels and the Vagos. To maintain respect, I had to figure out a way to boost our membership in bulk.
Prospecting potential members one at a time was okay for bringing in some new blood but due to a constant turnover proved to be futile. A new brother would patch in and an old brother would retire, which left growth in numbers impossible. The only way to achieve substantial growth, was to absorb a large group at one time.
I had received news of a group of independent bikers wanting to form a new Los Angeles area motorcycle club. With roughly 80 potential members, a meeting was arranged at our El Sereno clubhouse with 2 of the group’s spokesmen, Al “The Suit” (brother Doc Cavazos) and another dude introduced only as (Grizzly). Wanting to call themselves the Cobras, Al and Grizzly did their best to convince me that having another L.A. based motorcycle club was to my benefit, but I didn’t see it that way.
Though they had no idea, at 80 potential members if allowed to start, the Cobras would almost be as large as the whole MONGOL NATION and with some recruiting, could soon out number us. Before they could finish, I gave my answer; “NO WAY, don’t even think about it, and if I see or even hear of a Cobra patch, I’ll consider it an act of hostility.” But there was another alternative. This was exactly what I was looking for, now it was my turn to do the convincing.
“Instead of the Cobras, what about joining the MONGOLS?” Without an answer, a disillusioned Al and Grizzly left the clubhouse. Before our meeting, unto my knowledge other MONGOL members had also tried to convince this independent crew to join our club to no avail. RAGE, Danger’s dad was one of them.
Within a month, I was contacted again by Al “The Suit” wanting to set up another meeting at a neutral residence, but this time with his brother Ruben “Doc” Cavazos. I agreed, and arraignments were made.
Doc had numerous questions which I was happy to clarify, mostly just bullshit rumors he’d heard. “Is it true we have to hand over the pink slips to our bikes?” “Is it true we have to share our wives and girlfriends with other MONGOLS” Doing my best not to laugh, I assured him these were exaggerated and long extinct policies.
A more relaxed Doc replied; “Let me see what I can put together and I’ll get back to you.” With that, we shook hands in agreement our meeting and any further correspondence for the time was best kept a secret.
As the new National President, I chose to attend individual chapter meetings, not only to show support to the Presidents, but assure the meetings were conducted fairly and according to MONGOL protocol. Remember, I had been on a 5-year hiatus, leaving in 1990 and returning in 1995 on request of the current National President (POOR BOY) to rebuild a deteriorating San Diego (Dago) Chapter.
After a year as Dago Chapter President, I left the rejuvenated chapter only to be elected again as National President in 1996 with intention of rejuvenating the whole MONGOL NATION. But things were different from when I held the office 9 years earlier. Respect for the highest elected office in the club had somehow diminished amongst common membership. In the 5 years I was gone, turnover in the club had produced many new faces. Though many had heard my name, they really didn’t know me. Also, by attending these chapter meetings, gave me a chance to answer questions, properly introduce myself and establish forgotten policies.
In a surprise visit, myself and 2 other Mother Chapter members (RED DOG and BEAVER), decided to attend a San Gabriel Chapter meeting. The duration of the meeting went well, then right before closing, the San Gabriel Chapter President (Lil Ron) asked his members if they had any questions for me. Like always, the first question asked was “What are you gonna do about membership?” Without going into too much detail, I began to reassure the San Gabriel brothers that a plan was in the works, when I was rudely interrupted by an intoxicated brother. “Are you talking about Doc Cavazos and his crew?”
The room went silent while the drunk brother continued. “I tried to recruit those scared motherfucker’s months ago, and they don’t want nothing to do with us, as a matter of fact, the next time I see one of those pussy motherfuckers I’m gonna personally punch ’em in the fuckin mouth.” This guy was pissing me off, what the hell was he doing drunk at club meeting anyway? All the brothers in the room were now looking at me waiting for a reply. Or then again, maybe I was getting mud checked. “Whoa, wait minute brother, what’s your name?” “I’m RAGE, Chapter Nomad!” “Well let me tell ya something RAGE, if you or any other brother does so much as lay a hand on one of those guys, you’ll be prospecting quicker than
you can say the word MONGOL.” For a good 10 seconds RAGE and I locked eyes, and then he said it. “FUCK YOU!”
RAGE had just told me (the National President) fuck you in front of the whole San Gabriel Chapter. I was never one for hitting brother, but It was obvious I was being tested. At that very moment I knew everything was at stake, my reputation, image, and most importantly respect from my peers. My hands were tied with no other options, now was the time to properly introduce myself.
With one leap, I hurdled the only table that separated us, grabbing his neck we went to the ground. Landing on top, I quickly maneuvered to the ground and pound position and fired 3 straight right punches to the bridge of his nose leaving him bleeding and unconscious.
As he lay motionless, I rose to my feet, then looking at every brother in the room, I calmly asked; “Anyone else wanna tell me fuck you?”
As he lay there, members of his own chapter began to remove the club colors from his limp body. “What are you guys doing?” “We’re gonna pull his patch for disrespecting you.” “What for? “He’s already been punished.”
Though unorthodox but necessary, word of the incident quickly spread throughout the ranks, elevating my level of respect as National President. Did they respect me, or was it fear? I really didn’t give a shit, whichever it was, it worked. As leader of the MONGOL NATION, I couldn’t afford to be challenged by a brother, or for that matter, anyone else.
By October of 1997, RED DOG and I had cut a deal with Rueben “Doc” Cavazos and Grizzly. The initial 80 members that we’d hoped for (after vetting) ended up being 40, which enabled us to start two new chapters the following month, Pico Rivera (Pico) and El Sereno (Sereno). As part of the deal, Cavazos was appointed Pico Chapter President and Grizzly was to oversee Sereno Chapter. These two new chapters I guess you could say, “Got the ball rolling” which quickly lead to the beginning of the Covina and Rosemead Chapters. By mid-1998 not quite a year later, the MONGOL NATION had doubled in size, and since then has continued to grow, not only into a multi- state but an international M.C...
“Yeah, I know your dad.” Danger pushed away from the table and stood up, now I could see the actual size of him. Standing well over 6 ft. tall and out weighing me by at least 50 pounds, he said; “Let’s go talk.” I followed the huge tattooed Southsider to the T.V. area where with only a nod, a couple of vacant seats quickly appeared.
Clearing his throat, he began to speak; “Yeah, my dad’s a Nomad out of San Gabriel Chapter, he’s a standup guy and has always been loyal to your club, that’s why I can’t figure out why he got the shit beat out of him at a chapter meeting, and I gotta tell ya, that shit fuckin pissed me off.” My heart was beating like an African drum, I wondered if he knew It was me that did it? Thinking I might have to fight this freakin monster, I quickly glanced over each shoulder to see if his crew was getting in position to flank me. Danger continued;
“When I first heard about it, I’d made up my mind I was gonna kill any MONGOL that crossed my path, I mean what the fuck, I’m already doing life for murder, I got nothing to lose. But after reading my Dad’s letter telling me he had it coming, I’ve reconsidered and decided to support his club and brothers 100%, so let me know if there’s anything else I can do. Oh, and by the way, I wrote my dad a letter telling him you’re here.” That told me for the time being I was safe, or at least until RAGE replied. Hopefully since I was just here on a layover, I’d be long gone to Donovan before RAGE’s letter arrived possibly fingering me as the one who kicked his ass.
What was supposed to be a couple of days, had turned into a week. I should have been gone by now, what was the freakin hold up? Inpatient, I decided to ask one of the bulls to check my custody status and why I hadn’t yet been put on a bus headed south, the following day I got my answer.
Yes, it was true I was only supposed to be there on a temporary layover, but while I had those freakin staples in my head, I was stuck there on a medical hold. Not until the staples were removed would I be cleared for transfer. My hope was to catch a bus before Danger got the reply letter from RAGE, but that wasn’t the case.
One afternoon in the dayroom while watching T.V., I was approached by Danger letter in hand. “I got a letter from my dad.” The time I was dreading arrived, I braced myself for the outcome.
“He sends his love and respect.” My racing heartbeat quickly downshifted from third to first gear. The letter had validated what I hoped to be true, RAGE was a stand- up MONGOL. With no hate or malice, like a true MONGOL he took responsibility for his own actions. Suddenly I felt like a proud father. Members like RAGE is what we looked for, if we only had a hundred more like him.
“FOR THE STRENGTH OF THE PACK IS THE WOLF, AND THE STRENGTH OF THE WOLF IS THE PACK.”
(The Lion King)
On my 12th day at Delano, the six staples were plucked from the back of my head, 2 days later I was on a bus headed south to San Diego
CHAPTER 16
I loved San Diego, usually greeted with an ocean breeze, the hottest Summer days rarely rose above the high 80’s in temperature. This was my home, where I was raised, but also where I was known. Here, danger lurked around every corner, a smiling face and a handshake didn’t mean shit, total awareness was a must and any mistake could be costly.
We exited the bus at R.J. Donovan single filing into R&R I was plucked from the small group of new arrivals and ordered to take a seat in the package receiving area. Dejavu, though it had been almost 2 years since my departure, nothing in the room had changed. From the faded D.A.R.E. poster on the adjacent wall, to same wise ass bulls that worked the counters, it was as if I’d never left and my time on the streets was only a dream.
Staring at the D.A.R.E. poster, I momentarily became lost in what was real and what wasn’t; “Ereckson!” Suddenly I snapped back into reality and bellied up to the counter. While I stood silent, the same Sergeant that checked me out 23 months earlier read over my paper work. “You’ve been out to court for two fuckin years, what the hell happened?” “It’s a long story.”
The dusty gunny-sack that held my few belongings was set atop the counter. “Make sure it’s all there.” loosening the drawstrings, I opened it to refresh my memory. The beat-up tennis shoes, Tupperware tumbler and photo album I’d forgot about were accounted for. Of course, they were easy to forget about, I never planned on coming back.
In a short time, I found myself back on the #3 yard sharing a cell with an old dope fiend that talked to himself. Being on the streets for so long and now having to come back to this shit hole left a bitter taste in my mouth and easily irritated. After making my bed, I slipped on my well-worn tennis-shoes and headed out to the hustle and bustle of the crowded yard.
In the 2 years I was gone things had changed, the people I knew were gone, no Dooby, no Jameson. My few acquaintances that were still there, had all heard I’d beaten the system and gotten out. For those who saw me back on the yard, like so many others that had left, it was taken for granted I’d already returned on a parole violation or new case. It didn’t take long to find out about the biggest change of all, now there was a validated Hells Angel on the yard.
A shot of adrenalin shot up my spine, screw it, here we go. I wondered how our soon to be confrontation would go down. The recent Harrahs’s Laughlin incident had put a damper on any decent relationship between our two clubs leaving a tremendous cloud of hostility that still lingered like a meat fart in an elevator. Though I hoped for a positive outcome, something told me violent confrontation was inevitable.
Alone, I walked the gravel track in search of my potential nemesis. On such a small yard, it wasn’t long before I located him. Tall with tattooed sleeves, he stood out like a sore thumb.
As approached we locked eyes, there was no doubt he knew my identity. Even though he was surrounded by a large group of supporters, his demeanor signaled a sign of passiveness. My battle senses suddenly down shifted from 3rd to 1st gear, my senses told me this soon to be introduction wouldn’t be violen
t. Reaching out his hand to shake, I clearly saw the brightly colored Hells Angels death head tattooed on his forearm, giving me positive identification. Much taller than me, I grabbed his large hand and firmly gripped it. “Let’s walk.” Gladly agreeing to my request, we began to stroll the track.
His name was J.D., a tattooist by trade, he ran a little tattoo shop located in the Pacific Beach area of San Diego. Much younger than me, his shop tattoos, tall medium build, chiseled facial features, and greased back hair may have been intimidating to others, but not to me. He had heard of my name, and seemingly knew everything about me, down to the year I became a MONGOL and even the fact I was the shooter in the 1982 Fat Ray incident. Oddly enough, instead of resentment, he showed respect. At that moment it was obvious to both of us that a bad choice would determine how we spent the remainder of our incarcerations, so we chose to leave the hatred and animosity between our two clubs on the streets for others to contend with.
Politely, he asked; “Tell me about the old days.” Knowing only one side of the story, he was curious to hear my version of why and what was caused our two clubs to hate each other. Feeling a bit awkward, I searched for a way to give an unbiased explanation, but there was none. As we walked and talked I kept a cautious eye, wondering if something I said might trigger a violent reaction, but no, in a way J.D. almost seemed sympathetic for the MONGOLS. I was curious of what had become of the local (Dago Chapter) Hells Angels that were once my enemies some 20 years earlier.
Though a few still lingered, most had long passed. This was a rare opportunity, a game of question and answer with a longtime adversary, so I also took advantage of the situation.
I’d always wondered what the Hells Angels thought of me. It was obvious they freakin hated me, after all, I killed one of their members, but how did they rate me as a man? I figured if I was ever gonna get an honest answer, now was the time to ask.
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