The Unknown Mongol 2

by Scott Ereckson

  Out of all my co-workers, there was one guy I had a decent repour with. I really didn’t know much about Ernie, except the obvious, he was black, kept to himself and only spoke when spoken to, which I thought made him the perfect candidate.

  It was risky just asking him, what if he said no and decided to rat me out? I rolled the dice and asked him anyway and without any hesitation, Ernie said yes, for a small fee of course. Though the plan was simple, it had to be pulled off without a hitch.

  On Friday when entering the contraband room, I first had to locate the shoes, which in its self could be a problem, once I found them, I’d give Ernie the nod and he’d start a conversation with the bull keeping him occupied just long enough for me to stuff the shoes in my waistband hidden by a baggy jacket. Since we were already considered some of the most trusted inmates, we were seldom if ever searched when leaving the premises.

  I gotta admit, this whole thing made me a little paranoid, even as a kid, I’d always been a shitty thief. That whole week seemed to crawl by, then finally after what felt like eternity, the day arrived.

  Like every Friday, we lined up single file while the bull unlocked the door to the contraband room. Standing last in line, it was as if I could feel and hear each individual heartbeat pounding in my chest, beads of sweat began to gather on my forehead, not only was I already in prison, but completely held captive in the moment. Everything teetered on the next few minutes, my job, my word, my image and if caught, maybe even my release date.

  Entering the room, I nonchalantly passed the candy shelves to the clothing area where conveniently everything was organized. Sweats and beanie’s on one shelf, and all confiscated shoes taking up two others. “Shit, so many shoes, come on, where are you?” Bam; There they were, sticking out like a sore thumb, brand new shiny white Fila Disruptors. I quickly, made eye contact with Ernie who as planned, began a conversation with the bull.

  Pulling the shoes off the shelf, I calmly wedged each one in my waistband and covered them with my pre-buttoned jacket, it was done, everything had gone according to plan. “Times up, let’s go guys.”

  With pockets full of candy, everyone exited the room, the mission was accomplished, just one more door to the yard and I was home free.

  “Ereckson, hold up a minute.” I stopped in my tracks. Looking straight ahead to the yard, I swallowed to moisten my dry throat. “Ereckson, do me a favor and grab the wall.” Putting my hands against the wall, I spread my legs in compliance for the frisk. Going directly to my waistband, the bull removed the shoes. “What do we have here, aren’t these a little too small for you?”

  From the office I was escorted to a holding tank where I was stripped searched, then placed in handcuffs and escorted to the Sergeant’s office. For 20 minutes I was reprimanded as a father does a son, how he wasn’t angry, but disappointed, how he trusted me, and I betrayed him, as I listened, his repetitious words fell silent, though I didn’t say it I wanted to; “Okay fat-ass, enough with the sad dad bullshit, do what you gotta do.

  From that day on, I was no longer employed in R&R (terminated). The following week I patiently waited for my CDC 1-15 (prison write up) and a loss of time hearing. Due to what I can only describe as divine intervention, nothing else became of it, no 1-15, no loss of time, only embarrassment and termination of the job.

  The way my bust went down and the fact the bull went directly to my waistband, I couldn’t help but wonder if Ernie had last minute thoughts and decided to snitch. What a better way to get rid of the only Wood in R&R.

  About 2 weeks later, the bull that busted me with the shoes was working our dorm, I couldn’t help but ask; “Hey man how did you know?” “You were the only one without pockets full of candy.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Just like a small town, so was Tehachapi State Prison. Gossip spread fast and it wasn’t long before word of my termination was the talk of the yard. The consensus by inmates was; “Why would someone risk such a good job over a freakin pair of tennis shoes?” And by staff; “I always knew he was a piece of shit.” Regardless of what a bunch of nobodies thought, the few people that knew the truth, respected my efforts.

  With only 2 months left before my release date, I scored what I’d hoped to be my last job, working as the dorm 8# porter (janitor). The sudden fall from the top of the food chain (R&R) to cleaning toilets was a little humbling, but being a short timer was all that mattered. With not enough time to apply for another family visit, Dee and Linda continued to visit on a regular basis.

  TWEETY and Linda had built a relationship and had even gone as far as mentioning the word marriage. As for Dee and I, talk of my upcoming parole was always the main subject.

  Dee seemed genuinely excited over the fact I’d be coming home soon and suggested buying a house together, it was hard to believe after all I’d been through it was finally almost over. Before leaving, Dee mentioned there were some serious issues going on within the club and it was urgent I contact my club brother 8-BALL for details.

  Being the dorm 8# porter sucked but it did have a couple of perks. I always had extra rolls of toilet paper stashed “which believe it or not was quite lucrative” and action on all the unsigned phone call slots, meaning I could usually get a phone call a day.

  That evening I got a call out to 8-BALL and without going into detail, he mentioned some heavy shit had gone down involving the club; “You and TWEETY need to watch your backs.” “What do ya mean watch our backs?” “I can’t go into detail over the phone, but I’ll be up next weekend to run it down to ya, so for the mean time being, you guys be careful.”

  8-BALL was right about one thing, all the dorm phones were heavily monitored and recorded, so you always had to watch what was said. I was hoping for some type of news to ease my mind, but unfortunately, our short phone call left me with more concerns than answers; “Why is it the closer you get to getting out, the more shit happens?”

  The following weekend as promised, 8-BALL came up to visit. Somehow during my incarceration, Doc Cavazos had slithered his way up the ranks to the position National President. Though the club had doubled in size under his leadership, the quality of the brotherhood had taken a drastic hit.

  I listened while 8-BALL vented. “This dude is fucking everything up. He’s selling a patch to any gang banger that’s got the money and a lot of these guys aint even got bikes let alone know how to ride. Worse yet, he’s filling his pockets with the dues and membership fees.”

  “I dont get it, why is the club allowing this?” 8-BALL continued; “He’s forcing out all the old members and bringing in new ones that don’t know any better.”

  I’d always had a gut feeling about Doc. Years back when RED and I had given him Pico Chapter, there was something shady about the guy. It was like he always had a hidden agenda or an ulterior motive, and now that son of a bitch is getting rich off the club. That wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. Though our original MONGOL constitution stated the office of National President was a voluntary position, Cavazos and his crooked cabinet took it on their selves to rewrite the constitution purposely omitting that section

  Like I’ve mentioned before, when I was National President, I was always broke, there was even a short time I lived out of my car. Yeah, the club paid my cell phone bill, but that was it. And when we had President’s Meetings, the first issue was always the National Treasury, the total, what went in and what came out. Any chapter president, or for that matter, any MONGOL member at any time, had the right to ask how much money was in the National Treasury and how it was being spent.

  Now it was my turn to vent; “That money belongs to the MONGOL NATION, not to the freakin National President. When I was Pres, anything I bought with club funds had to be pre- approved at a President’s Meeting and afterwards I had to show all the freakin receipts.”

  Trust me, when I say while holding the position National President, the negatives outweighed the positives 3 to 1. Yeah, there were some perks, women, free drugs, and being catered to
but along with that, came mental stress, an often-overwhelming sense of responsibility and worst of all, constant harassment by law enforcement.

  I couldn’t go anywhere without being tailed, pulled-over or ticketed. Shit, I got sentenced to 14 years for a freakin bar fight, what’s that tell ya? Maybe I should have hid in my house and put the club dues in my pocket like that punk Cavazos, but I believed the only way to gain full support and respect from my MONGOL brothers was to lead by example.

  No matter what challenges the MONGOLS M.C. faced, I made sure I was the first one in, and the last one out, that’s part of the freakin job. The only difference between me and any other MONGOL brother was my title. Though I had the respect of all my MONGOL brothers, looking back, I guess my style of leadership may have contributed to what eventually led to my downfall. The wild west is history, as are the true outlaws.”

  “So why do me and TWEETY have to watch our backs?” 8-BALL explained; “A lot of these new brothers left their neighborhood gangs to join the MONGOLS, which is causing some hard feelings. Many of the local street gangs are demanding money or a threat of violence.” “You mean they’re trying to tax us!” “Yeah, don’t worry, the club voted as a whole and we aint paying em shit, but now some of the neighborhoods have banded together and put a green light on us.”

  Everyone on the streets of L.A. knew what a green light meant, and it wasn’t good. For those who don’t know, a green light meant the MONGOLS were now a target for L.A. street gangs, not only on the streets but especially in the L.A. County Jail.

  This meant any MONGOL ending up in the county jail would be in imminent danger. Now, not only did we have an on-going conflict with the Hells Angels, but also with numerous street gangs in Los Angeles. “Sorry my visit couldn’t be under better circumstances.” “That’s okay brother, good look-in out.” With a MONGOL handshake and a hug, I thanked 8-BALL for coming up.

  My main concern was obvious, did the green light stretch beyond the streets of L.A. and the county jail into the prison system? More importantly, had it reached here to Tehachapi?

  If so, that left me and TWEETY with 2 options. (Option A), P.C. up off the yard, or (option B), get ready for battle. Before discussing it with TWEETY, I already knew (A) wasn’t an option.

  Leaving the visiting room, I entered the yard where TWEETY anxiously waited. “So, what did he say?” TWEETY carefully listened while I described the situation. “So, now what?”

  “Well brother, I don’t know about you, but I aint gonna wait around for a bunch of Southsiders to roll up on us.” Nodding his head in agreement, “So what’s the plan?” “I say we take it to them first.”

  Since I’d been fired from the R&R, I’d seen the shot caller on the yard numerous times, but nothing about the Fila’s was ever mentioned, only a slight smile and courteous nod when passing. Like I said before, the few that knew the real reason I tried to steal those stupid ass shoes seemed to respect my effort, but did the shot caller respect it enough to give me a straight answer on this green light shit? Maybe he didn’t even know about it and just maybe I was shooting myself in the foot by asking.

  Deciding it was best to confront the problem, that evening after dinner, TWEETY and I hit the yard looking for the shot caller. It wasn’t long before we spotted him sitting at a table playing dominoes safely encumbered by his Southsider soldiers. As we approached, all except him, rose to their feet.

  “Whoa, whoa, hold on, I just want a minute or your time.” He gave a nod and all his boys sat back down. It was obvious by the look on his face, the sudden interruption of his game was far from welcomed. Reluctantly, he pushed away from the table; “Okay JUNIOR, you got me for one lap.”

  Followed by his entourage, we hit the track. Before I could say a word; “I’m sure this is about the green light, look man, I aint gonna hold you responsible for what some idiot in your club did on the streets, this aint L.A. and this sure the fuck aint the county jail, what happens there is beyond my control, but as for here, the green light doesn’t carry, that is unless I’m told different by higher-ups.”

  Though I did my best to remain cool, I couldn’t hide my exhale of relief. As we finished our lap he turned to me; “Oh by the way, nice try on the Fila’s, too bad ya got caught.”

  CHAPTER 23

  On Monday morning, June 28th, 2004, I found myself sitting in front of my counselor filling out my parole plans. With my release date set for Wednesday, July 7th, I only had 10 days left before this nightmare was over. Now on what the state referred to as S-time, I was too short to work. I was so short I could sit on a dime and swing my legs (figuratively speaking).

  The next time I would see Dee would be on Wednesday when she came to pick me up. Its hard to put into words, all the mixed emotions and thoughts that go through your head as the days wind down closer to freedom. All my parole conditions were handled, I had a job waiting at Perkins Iron, I had a place to live, and Dee still had the new Dodge, everything was lining up perfectly.

  Though Dee and I had seen some rough times, with a little effort on both parts, I felt confident things would work out. As the infamous day neared, it was normal to find yourself second guessing reality, asking yourself questions like; “Am I really getting out, or is this a dream?” “ What if they screwed up my date and I’ve gotta stay longer?”

  Having your date yanked at the last minute was probably a short timer’s biggest fear, though I’d heard tale of it happening, it was a rare and seldom occurrence.

  On Tuesday night July 6, th I made my last phone call to Dee and she assured me everything was set according to plan. A good friend of mine (Josh) would pick her around 6:AM giving them plenty of time to arrive at Tehachapi before my noon release. After doing 29 months in prison, getting out on the writ of habeaus corpus for 21 months then having to return to prison for another 26 months, I was more than ready to put this shit behind me. Yeah, it had been one hell of journey but tomorrow it was finally over.

  Tossing and turning all night, I was in a constant Kung-Fu fight with my sheets and was losing. The thought of freedom just hours away made sleep impossible. From my bunk, I could see the clock that hung above the office window, the movement of the second hand and my heartbeat were in perfect sync, I felt my eyes getting heavier, but my mind was moving like a hell-bent rollercoaster, though I wasn’t tired, I wanted sleep only to pass time.

  “CHOW TIME, CHOW TIME!” My eyes opened, the morning sunlight flooded the dorm, it was here, parole day was finally here. Anxiousness and excitement ate away my hunger, but I went to the chow hall anyway, not to eat, but to say my goodbyes. During my 18 months at Tehachapi, I had many acquaintances, but just a handful of friends who each wanted some private time to joke and hangout helping me to reach the 10:00 hour

  By 9:00AM, I was back in the dorm taking my last public shower and by 9:30, I was dressed and cleaning out my locker.

  Everything I had in food and cosmetics went to my MONGOL brother TWEETY, who loyally stood by my side putting our brotherhood first and foremost just as he did on the streets.

  At 10:00 sharp, I entered my old place of employment (the R&R office). Though I’d been fired from there months earlier, any animosity from staff had dissipated. After they rummaged through what few belongings I was taking home (mostly paperwork), I was handed a box that contained my dress-outs (parole clothes sent from the streets).

  I couldn’t remember when something so often taken for granted like a pair of Levi 501’s and a pocketed black tee-shirt felt so good.

  Ironically, Dee had sent in a brand-new pair of size 13 Fila Disruptors for me to walk out in (she thought it would be funny). I felt good, 190 LBS, dressed to kill and on my way out of that shit-hole.

  From the R&R office, a phone call was made to verify my ride had arrived. Sure enough, Dee and Josh were at front gate office waiting. “Everything’s a go!”

  From R&R I was escorted past the canteen toward the visiting room. While walking, the bulls I’d worked with and come to know ha
d no problem cracking jokes “Hey Ereckson, aint those the same shoes you tried to steal?” “ Ha ha ha yeah, whatever.”

  As me and my 2 escorts arrived at the visiting room entry door, 1 of the bull’s walkie-talkie radio sounded; “Hold custody, hold custody!” “What the hell?” Suddenly, bursting through the watch office door, my counselor began running full speed in our direction yelling; “Ereckson, be cool, just be cool!” Out of nowhere, 2 more bulls emerged from the visiting room; “Stay cool Ereckson” I was surrounded.

  Out of breath from the short sprint, my fat-ass counselor now stood before me. “Ereckson, please just remain calm.” “What the hell’s going on?” “ Your release date was miscalculated, you still owe 120 days.”

  I began to laugh “Okay guys, nice try, enough with the jokes.” Surrounded by stone faces, I looked for a hint of a giggle but there was none, it wasn’t a joke, it was real. The worst thing that could possibly happen to a convict had just happened to me. With freedom at the tips of my fingers, it was suddenly ripped from my grasp.

  Instantly, I entered an emotional place I’d only been once before (the day I was sentenced to 14 years), a place of silence, a place of darkness, a place where hurt and anger are intertwined, a moment where reality and nightmares collide. Then, something I’d once heard suddenly came to mind.

  “There’s a battle in every man, two wolves that exist inside us. One is evil and anger, the other, love and hope. Do you know which one wins? The one you feed. “Ereckson, Ereckson, you okay?” “Yeah man, I’m good.”

  In a trance of disbelief, I was escorted back to R&R where I removed my dress-outs and put back on the same state clothes I’d worn only minutes earlier. Trying to keep my composure, I walked across the busy yard in the direction of my dorm while inmates and convicts of all races stared in disbelief.