Upon Release From Prison

by Glenn Langohr

  The bus passed a street vendor and turned into a spiraling driveway that dipped underneath the courthouse. The bus stopped in front of a massive metal garage door. It started lifting by chain. Through the sound of the over worked county bus engine Damon heard the grinding chain running through metal with the excess chain falling to the ground creating a different sound. Underneath the opening garage door the legs of a deputy became visible. The bus sputtered inside.

  Chuco got up and put one leg chained foot in front of the other. The cramped space offered only enough room for a shuffle step and he found the 18’ inch length each leg could manipulate before the chain bit into the other ankle.

  Damon stood up behind Chuco and listened to the grating noise the metal chains made sliding down the 3 metal stairs to get off the bus. Damon watched Chuco almost lose his balance with the last step from the bus into the garage. Another deputy stood at the open bus door and kept him from falling.

  Chuco regained his balance and shuffled around the front of the bus to 5 metal stairs that led into holding cells underneath the courthouse. There was a row of 5 single cells on the left hand side and Chuco saw the biggest Mexican he’d ever seen shackled down in chains in the first cell. He looked into the most intense eyes he’d yet come across. Chuco felt the power in his eyes. Through those eyes underneath a shaved head, the man seemed to be able to pierce any fraud in a person with just a quick look.

  After a couple seconds of staring into Chuco’s eyes he said, “I’m Benjimin. What’s your name youngster?”

  “Chuco from East Los...”

  Chuco followed another deputy’s instruction to enter a 30 man holding cell and looked back at Benjimin. He stood in the single cell at around 240 lbs of iron clad muscle from a life of war and preparation. His eyes acknowledged that the deputies were busy with the task of getting all the detainees into holding cells and Chuco watched him spit something out of his mouth. He caught it in his right handcuffed hand connected to waist chain. He busied himself with what Chuco realized was a small paper clip turned into a makeshift handcuff key. He released both hands but kept them in now slightly open handcuffs on the waist chain. He smiled when he looked back.

  Damon sat down in the 30 man holding cell next to Chuco and thought about the youngster while taking in the surroundings. He liked the way Chuco carried himself from the minute he arrived in the county jail. He was a good kid who was loyal and wanted to matter to his loved ones. Unlike most, he didn’t brag about himself. He had a quiet demeanor and underneath there was something there you could count on. Like his word.

  While thinking about Chuco, Damon studied the graffiti on the walls and realized most of the 30 detainees in the holding cell were youngsters new to the underground system. A couple of younger Mexicans who were obviously partners walked toward the only toilet. One of the youngsters stood on the toilet. He used a smuggled in pen to write his street gang on the only unused space left.

  Like radar, Damon found two Mexican detainees watching. One of the detainees looked evil with a bald head blasted in Aztec art that spilled over his forehead just above the eyes. He was around 6'2 and 250 lbs of unhealthy size. He leaned down to confer with an older Mexican sitting down on a concrete slab who was the only other man in the holding cell with leg and waist chains. He was obviously the leader of the two and probably from the same neighborhood. The leaning down Mexican listened to the older one without taking his eyes off the two youngsters tagging their click above the toilet. Following orders the leaning down Mexican nodded his head and walked to the taggers.

  “Hey essays we have a no tagging policy so get your asses down from there and go meet the big hommie. I’m Travieso from 18th street.”

  Damon watched Travieso walk by. On his forehead, underneath the Aztec art spilling over his bald head in ink, it looked like a billboard with 18th street in old English and a devil’s horn on each side. Damon thought, he gets by on his overbearing size and mean looks.

  Then, Damon watched Chuco get up from the hard slab of concrete. He squeezed his hips and ass cheeks in an obvious way to the trained eye. Damon watched the older Mexican Travieso referred to as the big hommie notice what Chuco was doing. He immediately conferred with Travieso and the once again leaning over but looking at Chuco Mexican from 18th street nodded his head. He walked over to Chuco and leaned down to say something.

  “I’m Travieso from 18th street. It looks like you have some dope and tobacco in your business hole. You have to break off the big hommie over there.”

  Damon watched Chuco just stare at the 18th streeter like an expressionless stoic. Damon knew Chuco’s lineage. It was the oldest and most powerful in southern California. It controlled most of the California prisons. All Chuco had to do was breath the name. He still didn’t say a word. He just stared unafraid like a soldier.

  Travieso looked impatient, like he wasn’t used to being an unsuccessful bully. His face twisted demonic and he hissed, “Who are you? Where are you from?”

  Damon feared for Chuco and wanted to help. Like some who knew, with a flexible enough body, he slid his waist chains underneath and down his hamstrings underneath his knees and bent those knees enough to fit the loop of chain down to his ankles and free. He now had a length of chain to swing in his hands.

  Travieso was distracted by Damon’s obvious intentions.

  Chuco continued to look up at Travieso. He was a stone statue. A tiny smile broke through. He said, “I’m Chuco, Topo’s nephew. Don’t worry about where I’m from if you don’t know. We don’t publicize our biz.”

  Damon realized the tension in the holding cell was as explosive as electricity. Every mouth had shut. Every eye was watching.

  Right then, the booming voice of a jail deputy broke the tension building in the holding cell. “EVERYONE SIT DOWN AND BE QUIET. ROLL CALL. WHEN YOU HEAR YOUR LAST NAME ANSWER WITH THE LAST 3 OF YOUR BOOKING NUMBER!”

  Benjimin watched the holding cell closely. He saw the youngster stand up and squeeze and knew intimately from experience that the kid was either squeezing a weapon or dope back up the poop shoot. He had the same pressure on his ass. He had a feeling the youngster was the one he was looking for. Topo, who he had just left at High Desert State Prison to face his own appeal here in L.A, had word for him. Very important instructions. He listened to the Roll Call list of names and smiled as his instinct was confirmed as the youngster’s last name was the one.

  Damon watched the holding cell. The tension died down as everyone sat. Travieso sat next to the older Mexican and conferred what Chuco had said. The older Mexican stared at Chuco with an angry grimace. Damon knew the 18th street gang was at war for parts of L.A territory and had yet to break the iron hand of Topo’s East Los structure. Damon noticed Chuco wasn’t in the staring contest with the two 18th streeters. He was smiling at the Mexican in the single man holding cell they had passed entering. Damon thought, now that Mexican is a die-hard warrior. Damon watched him studying between the two 18th streeters and Chuco as he pretended to do an exercise routine of squats. Damon knew he was pretending because he had his right hand out of his waist chain behind him to pull something from his ass as he squatted a repetition. He captured the excrement laden plastic and used angles like a magician to have his hands in the sink as if he might have just scratched his butt a second ago. In the sink under some water a few layers of plastic were removed. Damon figured that is either an ice pick in a makeshift plastic carrying case or dope. He realized he was wrong on both counts as Benjimin slid the too thin and small of a package of heavily wrapped plastic across the floor to the other holding cell to a waiting Chuco while the deputies weren’t paying attention.

  Chuco scooped up the plastic wrapped missile on his knees and popped to his feet. He walked to the toilet and noticed Damon follow him and post up as a watchman. Chuco peeled plastic down to a folded up piece of paper. The paper unfolded into Topo’s delicate artistry. The paper had been shaded in pencil to appear as an aged scroll. The message was in the middle
and Chuco read– I want you to flush the clavo of dope down the toilet where it belongs. – Enclosed is the contact info for lock down publishing– Get word to all the homeboys inside to send all art, lyrics and storyline scripts to Benny Johnson–

  Chuco read the message three times familiar with his uncle Topo’s writing. He wasn’t shocked that Topo had a change of heart over the dope. He remembered seeing Topo flush 16 ounces of heroin after being addicted to it for over 2 years. He had sweated over the toilet and flicked it off with his middle finger like he was doing it to the devil himself. He’d said, ‘there goes your black heart diablo’ as the package kept flushing down the drain.

  Benjamin watched the youngster follow Topo’s new orders to flush the dope and smiled. He wondered…Maybe, while I’m in L.A dealing with the appeal, I’ll get a visit and hear how my family is doing from the free side of the concrete street. I hope so.

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  CHAPTER—33

  I felt the sun’s rays beating down on me as I planted the signs for the prison protest. It was a beautiful clear warm summer morning in downtown Laguna Beach. I heard the noise of surfers, swimmers, volley ball players, beach walkers and sunbathers all blending behind me and melting into the noise of traffic in front of me.

  A friend I had quickly adopted from the Laguna Shelter a few days ago, who didn’t want any more involvement than building and transporting the protest signs in his truck, flipped a U-turn and waved goodbye to Annette and I. Leaving us to our destiny. I watched him inch past us in the stop-and-go traffic, normal for another summer day in paradise.

  The signs stood 10 feet high on a foundation we could stand under without having to hold anything. I stepped as close to traffic as possible about 10 feet away and looked at the signs. The first sign, my sign, was a 6 foot banner of black with white block letters that read– SEEKING TRUTH – The next sign– PRISON UNION=MAFIA –The next sign– PRISON UNION=STAGE GLADIATOR FIGHTS – The next sign– PRISON UNION CREATES HAZARD PAY=TIME AND A HALF – The next sign– PRISON UNION BREEDS GANGS – The next sign– PRISON UNION=TERROR TACTICS TO PUSH LAWS AND BUILD PRISONS – The last sign Annette was standing under– JESUS SAVES AND LOVES YOU

  Annette’s brown hair flew behind her exquisite neck and I lost my breath. Her beauty was that powerful. She stood in heeled sandals in a sun-dress that climbed at an angle I was familiar with and stopped at her waistline. Her hips always seemed to jut forward at an angle in a sexy way. I looked at her face turned away from me hoping to will her to turn to look at me. While I waited, my mind told me to look back at her waist. A small portion of her tan stomach was showing.

  I stopped looking at Annette and looked toward where she was looking and wondered why she was looking that way. The Coast Hwy turned up a slight hill on the beach side and passed a toy store. Other clothing boutiques, art shops and restaurants condensed into each other on that side of the street. I looked across the street as far as my eye could see to where the Coast Hwy narrowed. Around that corner, an underground parking lot for the nightclubs offered protection. The clubs started back toward me with the White House, then Ocean Brewery and then Hennessey’s. From there the Coast Hwy wound down into some of the major art studios, a movie theater right across from our protest then, an ice cream shop and other restaurants and the Laguna Canyon road with a gas station on each corner. I heard the honking horns signify that Veto and his family were here. I looked up the Coast Hwy north. It climbed a steep hill past a Starbucks coffee shop for about 50 yards and sat on a ledge where the Wyland Art Gallery and Art Museum sat at a traffic light. At the top of the hill I saw Veto’s Town car leading the L.A caravan. A black suburban was next and had hands waving out the two passenger windows. The light turned green and the L.A caravan inched down the hill. Three other vehicles belonged to Veto’s L.A caravan and I watched them stop at the Laguna Canyon traffic light where most of the occupants got out. I knew Veto wouldn’t be taking part in the protest. He was going to the vantage point at our rock. Veto’s grandparents and family members got out and walked to me. I shook each of their hands and they stood under the signs. Some had their own signs. A Mexican lady, who stood under the sign next to Annette, held– Give our kids back– in one arm proudly raised.

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  Detective Sawyer shook hands with a Laguna Beach police detective standing in the middle of the canyon road in front of 6 police cars already checking each car as they inched through the barricade stationed right in front of the Laguna Canyon Alcoholics Anonymous club.

  “We have three road blocks all up and running. Each checkpoint blocks the only possible routes out of Laguna.”

  Sawyer said, “I’m going to conduct the warrant arrest right now. Be ready B.J’s a runner.”

  Sawyer drove a couple miles through the windy canyon road with hills on both sides and boulders jutting off cliffs precariously balanced and navigated into the back of the Chevron gas station and parked. He got out and opened the trunk for his binoculars. Almost out of view, he searched through the binoculars at the protest.

  Maltobano followed Veto’s caravan at a discreet distance and pulled into the Chevron gas station. He saw Sawyer and parked next to him behind the station out of view. He got out and watched Veto drop passengers and turn into the canyon road. From studying the satellite map earlier he knew Veto could take the canyon to the freeway to get back to L.A or take a side street up windy steep hills to get back to the Coast Hwy going north into Corona Del Mar, and then Newport, all to Santa Monica eventually. He nudged up against Sawyer and put his own binoculars to his eyes and heard Sawyer.

  “An anti-Prison protest, check him out.”

  Through the binoculars, Maltobano zeroed in on B.J across the street. “Seeking Truth...That’s B.J.”

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  I felt the energy surge through my body like electricity. Store owners, employees, patrons and pedestrians all stared at the protest in wonder. Then, I heard vehicles send a cacophony of different sounding horns. Almost every car honked as they passed the protest. The energy increased as even more horns started honking up the hill where Veto’s caravan had inched down. I looked and found the hundreds of marching protesters I knew were coming from L.A that Annette had organized. She had talked to the president of the F.A.C.T.S organization. The Families to Amend the California Three Strike law were holding signs and chanting their sentiment. I couldn’t hear the words to their cadence but my heart filled with hope for the inmates detained in cells all over California in almost 40 prisons waiting for mercy for drug charges, petty thefts and crimes that didn’t warrant life sentences the 3 strike law had falsely targeted, rather than going after the sex criminals and violent criminals the law was propagated over. I looked back down the hill to the Canyon Road expecting to see the Chanel 4 news van Annette had invited and my eye caught the glint of something. I looked closer and saw binoculars pointed right at me, detectives, one that looked familiar…the one from the L.A jail in the white Mercedes.

  Sawyer felt his cell buzzing. “Sawyer...” “The channel 4 news van with Patrick Healy just checked through our Canyon checkpoint and is heading your way.” “Roger that. We are within minutes of the arrest. Stay alert.”

  I stared at the two detectives in the back of Chevron almost out of view and my cell vibrated. “Ya what up?” “You have checkpoints just where you anticipated them. The channel 4 van is on its way. I’m out of here. If you make it you know how to get at me. Good luck.”

  “I’ll make it.”

  I got off the phone with Veto and looked at the hill above the Chevron in the distance and saw another glint of sunlight from Veto’s binoculars. He was a half mile above the Chevron watching everything like an eagle.

  Patrick Healy sat in the passenger seat of the channel 4 news van staring through the windshield at the scene u
nfolding in downtown Laguna. The energy was palpable and was becoming more frenzied by the minute. He noticed Benny Johnson from years before by his stature. He was standing in black dress pants with sharp creases offset by a white tank top with black suspenders and a pinstriped fedora pulled low over his eyes. He was standing underneath a sign that read– SEEKING TRUTH–. The man standing under the next sign was dressed the exact same way. The driver of the channel 4 van said, “Benny looks like a fighter.”

  Patrick Healy said, “He is and he’s also a runner, get the video camera rolling!”

  The marching protestors were the most powerful show of force I’d ever seen. There were so many people walking in rows of two I couldn’t see the end of the line. From the top of the hill a half mile away the procession looked like a tsunami spilling over the concrete. The front of the line was a 100 feet away waiting for the traffic light. They were hoisting signs in the air and opening their mouths to a cadence I now could hear. “C.C.P.O.A. GO AWAY! C.C.P.O.A. GO AWAY! GIVE OUR KIDS BACK TO STAY!”

  I knew that the C.C.P.O.A stood for the California Corrections Peace Officers Association. If only the general public knew how un-peaceful their tactics were at times…I watched the marching protesters walk in a line behind us on a walkway that curved around and back to the Coast Hwy. Then, I looked back toward the detectives and noticed the Channel 4 news van waiting at the traffic light. The light turned green and the news van inched out in the stop and go traffic and I saw a caravan of police cars pull into the gas station. The police officers huddled with the detectives. The detective next to the one in the white Mercedes pointed at me. He started running toward me with the others trailing.