by Robert Rand
Sullivan had only a modicum of an idea as to what was expected of him. He knew that the whites were long time allies with the Sureños due to the pact that the Norteños had with the blacks. And though he didn’t like the Southern Mexicans, he harbored a deep prejudice against ignorance and stupidity and found the gang-banger mentality wrought with both, he told Spider, “Well, I guess you better introduce me to the shot-caller for the Southsiders.”
“Sure,” Spider started to lead the way toward a group of sixty or so Mexicans near the handball court.
Another familiar face appeared in the crowd. Sullivan spotted Rick McClain and called him over with a hand gesture. Rick walked over with a smile, but kept a wary eye looking at the Mexicans.
“Good to see ya, Sullivan.” Rick didn’t offer his hand. Sullivan noticed the sharpened length of welding rod that Rick was trying to conceal in his shirtsleeve. The thin steel rod was a readily accessible weapon on most prison yards. They were small, easily concealable and treacherous. The small hole was usually not a fatal one, but the exploratory surgery required afterward in order to repair any internal injury would leave lengthy incision scars.
“Why don’t you slide your hands in your pockets, Rick?” suggested Sullivan.
Rick pushed his hands deep into his pockets, further concealing the welding rod.
Several of the Mexicans broke off from the crowd as Sullivan, Rick and Spanky approached. The Mexicans were all much smaller than the white men who approached, but what they lacked in size they made up for in numbers. They were the majority in prison. Whites were a minority, greatly outnumbered by the Mexicans and blacks as well.
A small, rather thin Mexican, wearing sharply creased blue jeans that were probably a size 40 around his 30 inch waist and belted high over his hips, adjusted his blue bandana, which was folded to form a four inch wide band around his head, as he stepped to the front of the smaller group. He looked up at Spider, who made the introductions. “Night Owl, this is Sullivan Rourk. He’s got the keys for the woodpile now.”
“Wus up, Wood?” said the Mexican shot-caller while going through a series of handshakes that ended in closed fists hitting against one another. He continued, “Night Owl, Pacas, Sur”, indicating that he was a Sureño from the Barrio in Pacoima.
“Sullivan, Palm Springs” Rourk replied. After a moment of sizing one another up, Sullivan introduced Rick and Spanky, then said, “Things look a little tight, but you’ve got the numbers. I’m telling my people to stay out of it unless it looks like you’re losing.”
“What the fuck, Wood?” Night Owl was highly upset at Roark’s words. “You know the Woods is posed to back up the Southside, Ese. What’s this shit you ain’t gonna get down?”
Spider, Rick and Spanky were all equally surprised by the decision Sullivan had made, but wouldn’t say anything in front of another race.
“Look, Night Owl, you guys rock the yard and it lasts for, what – three to five minutes before there are enough bullets flying to send any Nam vet into a flashback. Then what? Everyone gets slammed. If we get into it, then we get slammed and that leaves the blacks to run the program and that is not going to be how it happens. You guys have the numbers. After it’s over, we will be able to run the tiers, help you guys out with food, smokes and dope. Or, you want to make this into more than what it is?”
Night Owl stepped away from Sullivan and his crew to discuss what he had just heard. When he returned, he said, “What if the Tintos jump with the pinchy-ass Busters?”
“If the blacks jump in with the Northerns, my people ride with you,” Sullivan replied.
“Alright, Wood, what you say is pretty smart.” With that, Night Owl turned back to his own people and continued to plan their attack.
As Sullivan led his crew toward the congregation of whites at the west end of the weight pile, Rick commented, “You can’t go anywhere without runnin’ things and runnin’ ‘em your way, can ya Sullivan?”
Spider broke in, “I liked the way you handled that, I thought we was gonna have to fight the Southsiders for a minute. This’ll be the first time I’ve ever been able to jus sit ‘n watch” he grinned.
“I’m not sending my guys in to fight someone else’s war. I don’t like the north or the south. They can kill each other off and the world would be better for it,” Sullivan stated coldly.
They approached the group of whites and spread out to pass the order – “Stay out of it unless the blacks jump in!”
Sullivan walked alone toward the other end of the weight pile where a large group of blacks were gathered. He walked up to the biggest guy he could find and told him, “The Woods are staying out of it as long as it’s just the Mexicans.” Then he turned around and walked back to the white crowd.
From behind him he could hear the blacks as they quickly agreed to stay out of the pending fight.
The guards were ready and waiting for what was about to happen. Normally there were only two armed guards watching over the yard, but with the rising tension between the two factions of Hispanics came the order for two additional rifle baring Correctional Officers to take positions on the rooftops of the housing units. The California Department of Corrections didn’t believe in preventative measures. Rather than order everyone on the yard to lie down, have staff search each person for weapons and send them back to their cells to cool down, they would wait until they could draw blood with their weapons; shoot first, ask questions later. Then when the smoke cleared, and the screams of the wounded were the only sounds carried upon the breeze, the C.O.’s would search everyone for weapons and injuries, and then escort them back to their cell, or the infirmary, or sometimes to the morgue, to cool down.
“Look at those bastard-ass cops,” Spanky was saying to Sullivan, “They’ve got their targets picked already, like sittin’ fuckin’ ducks!”
“And the Woods would normally jump into the middle of that shit,” Sullivan was incredulous, “Just because of some bullshit agreement made by someone nobody here ever met.”
Spanky laughed. “Pretty fuckin’ stupid, huh?”
His laughter was cut short as the melee began.
Hundreds of Hispanics charged one another. Northerners wearing red bandanas, Southerners wearing blue, as if it were inter-mural flag football.
Sullivan kept looking from the rooftops to the crowd of fighting Mexicans to the several groups of blacks, most of which were at his back. He watched Night Owl, thirty yards away, as he stood toe to toe with his adversary, each with a crude shank, exchanging deep, piercing wounds. Blood turned their white tank top shirts crimson.
A shot rang out from behind Sullivan’s back. The tower guard at the yards’ east end gave Night Owl some assistance by placing a .223 caliber bullet into the hip of the man he was fighting.
Night Owl turned, blood pouring from three separate punctures in his stomach, chest and arm, and proceeded to bury his knife into the back of another Northern Mexican who was fist fighting with another Sureñeo.
Rick yanked Sullivan to the ground as more shots echoed through the yard. The blacks and whites would remain on the sidelines. All of each race were now lying on the ground, watching the slaughter.
Less than a minute had passed since the first punch was thrown and already there were a dozen people writhing on the ground in agony from stab wounds, or gunshot wounds, or both. Bullets were being fired into the crowd indiscriminately. Unarmed combatants engaged in fistfights and wrestling matches were shot. People, one by one, began to drop to the ground, most in an attempt to escape serious injury or death, others due to just that.
In the two minutes that it took for the riot to run it’s course, 28 people were stabbed, 6 were shot, only two of which were carrying a weapon. And three were killed.
The yard alarm reverberated between the buildings. It was only a background noise to the cries for help. The senselessness of everything that had just happened struck Sullivan as being ironic. He wanted to yell at all of those who lay in their own blood, begging
for help, praying to God for life, crying for their mothers to comfort them, Sullivan wanted to tell them all as loud as he could, “YOU DIDN’T WANT HELP OR GOD OR MOMMY TWO MINUTES AGO! CAN’T YOU SEE THAT IT’S ALL JUST STUPID BULLSHIT! NOBODY CARES IF YOU DIE! YOU ARE ONLY PAWNS IN A GAME, BUT YOU ARE TOO STUPID TO REALIZE IT!” But he didn’t. He lay upon the ground, glancing at the white men around him who he had become responsible for and saw the gratitude in the eyes that looked back. Sullivan looked back at the war zone, thankful for the decision he had made.
April was strapping Lisa into her car seat when the first gunshot sounded. It was quickly followed by another and another. If she had been able to keep count through the rapid fire bursts, the number of shots was forty-seven, but she lost count after six when it began to sound like hundreds of shots all at once. She stood quickly and looked at the prison. Her thoughts automatically turned to her husband and his safety. She could see a dozen guards, batons in hand, and running back toward the north yard that she had so recently left. Her fears increased. The baby cried. April removed her from the car seat and held her to her chest. Along with several dozen others, she hurried to the visitors’ entrance area. Worried wives and mothers, brothers, fathers and friends all vied for the attention of the two officers working inside.
One officer was trying to speak above the cacophony of voices. “The institution is on lockdown. You will all have to leave!”
“What were all the shots?” one visitor asked.
“Is anyone hurt? How do I find out if my son is okay?” asked another.
The officer tried again, “Please, please calm down. The shots you heard were from the gun range” he lied, “Everything is fine. You can come back next weekend for visiting.”
“Bullshit!” boomed a heavyset man in his sixties, “You just said there was a lockdown. They don’t go on lockdown because of target practice unless our boys are the targets!”
The other officer picked up a phone and called for assistance. “This is Hendricks at the visiting gate. We need a public information officer here pronto, or else we’ll need a Special Response Team for this crowd.”
A dozen or so visitors managed to push their way past the two guards. An amplified voice boomed from the nearest tower, “You are not authorized to be in this area. Turn back or we will use whatever force necessary to stop you.”
The group of visitors continued marching toward the administration building; women, children and senior citizens. The tower guard chambered a round into his rifle.
The two guards below looked up at the sound of the bolt slamming forward, amazed that their co-worker would even consider such a move.
April, with Lisa in her arms, chose that moment to slip past and join the visitors heading into the prison. The rest of the people in the visitor center followed April. The two guards grabbed at various arms, but gave into the mob that surged by. Officer Hendricks grabbed his walkie-talkie and keyed the mike, “Visitor center to control.”
“Control” came the immediate reply.
“We have several dozen visitors heading to admin – they stormed the gate – over.”
The emergency buzzer and light went off above the administration building in way of response to the radio call. “Security squad and all available personnel respond to administration. AOD 10-19 control” echoed the voice on the public address system.
The crowd traversed the sixty yards between the visitors’ gate and the admin building before the first security squad members could arrive and began pouring through the entrance doors.
Hendricks looked up at the guard in the tower and asked sarcastically, “Why didn’t you shoot a couple of old ladies, McCoy?” Then he told his partner to remain on post while he responded to the alarm.
McCoy flipped his extended middle finger at the retreating figure of Hendricks.
Officers and medical personnel quickly swarmed the yard. The combatants were handcuffed and left lying in the grass until a medical tech could evaluate them. Those with the most serious injuries were placed on gurneys and taken to the infirmary – some of those would be taken into town for treatment at the hospital.
“You can take the cuffs off of this one,” said an MTA to Sgt. Cook.
The big Sergeant gave the MTA a menacing glare as he snarled his response, “They all stay cuffed.”
“I just didn’t’ think you, of all people, would want to bury a perfectly good set of handcuffs” the MTA shot back sarcastically before concluding in a serious tone, “This man is dead, Sergeant Cook.”
The sergeant bristled visibly, turned and walked away.
Sullivan watched, and heard, the entire exchange. To Spanky he said, “That’s the bastard who choked me out in O-Wing.”
“Nice guy,” Spanky replied.
“Before I leave here I’ll get even” Sullivan said to no one in particular, his voice distant and icy. The look in his eyes was no different than the blue-steel glint that he saw in the killers he had met. Sullivan didn’t know it, but he had become one of those men who found violence to be an acceptable means to an end. He no longer thought of the taking of a life to be a heinous act. Now he saw that the taking of a life could be a quick and swift meting out of harsh, but true, justice.
Spanky could see the change in his brother-in-law. Not that he would ever be able to articulate it or even fully comprehend what he was seeing, but he knew that this place had taken custody of Sullivan beyond the physical sense.
The Acting Officer of the Day, (AOD), was the person in charge of the entire complex when the warden wasn’t at the facility. That person could be an associate warden, the chief medical officer or, as this days’ rotation had called for, the SVEI, Supervisor of Vocational and Educational Instruction, Dr. Anthony Maxwell.
Dr. Maxwell held a PhD in education, was on the Governor’s Blue Ribbon Panel to overhaul the state’s floundering public school system, a member of MENSA, on the Board of Regents at UC San Jose and, from looking at him, you would never be able to tell. More than once he had been stopped by a rookie guard who thought he was a con trying to escape by walking boldly out the front gate in civilian clothes. Dr. Maxwell was stocky, with small eyes, close cropped, sparse gray hair and a nose that looked to have been smashed in more than one prison riot. If central casting were to need the archetypical convict, Dr. Maxwell would be first choice. He had been heading to the North Facility when he was paged by control and advised of the problem at the main gate. He quickly changed directions and jogged toward the front of the complex.
He approached from the outside with several guards in tow. Stepping onto a bench, he yelled to make himself heard. “Ladies and gentlemen, please!”
The crowd slowly began to quiet and turned to listen to the man in the suit. At least he dressed like he was in charge.
“Please, everyone, come back outside so I can give you what information I have.”
The visitors grudgingly complied. For that, April was grateful, because the people pushing and shoving had began to make her fear for Lisa’s safety.
As everyone gathered around the AOD, he became inundated with questions. Holding his hands above his head in mock surrender, he asked the crowd to quiet down. Once he had everyone’s attention he addressed the crowd, “I know you are all anxious to know what is going on.” A few people began to holler back “Yeah!” and “Hell, yes!” Dr. Maxwell quickly continued, “I’m Dr. Anthony Maxwell and I am the acting warden. I can’t tell you a lot because I don’t know all the details yet – I had to come over here first.” That stopped the rumbling in the crowd. “Here is what I do know. There was an incident on the North Unit- Two yard between various groups of inmates. That incident has been quelled by the custody staff.”
“Was anyone hurt?” yelled one old black man.
“We heard so many shots”, pleaded a heavy Hispanic woman, “is my son okay?”
April’s heart sank. Sullivan and Spanky were on that yard! Her mind screamed questions that her mouth was too afraid to give voic
e to. She knew it was silly, but she couldn’t help but think, ‘Sullivan had been shot 12 times and survived, he wouldn’t make it if he was shot a 13th, that was an unlucky number.’
“If everyone will please take a set at these benches and allow me to go do my job, I promise to be back as soon as humanly possible to provide you with a more thorough briefing” Dr. Maxwell promised the crowd.
As the people began to comply, Maxwell ordered the guards to find coffee for those who wanted it before taking off at a fast trot toward the North Facility. He could hear the scream of several ambulances as he rounded the corner by the vocational area and he knew it wasn’t going to be a pretty sight when he got to where he was going.
The injured were still lying in the grass for the most part. Of the six who had been shot, four had been taken away on gurneys – the other two wouldn’t be leaving until the coroner arrived with his black plastic body bags. Those who had only superficial cuts and abrasions, or weren’t hurt at all, were being handcuffed and taken to O-Wing, X-Wing and any other place that could hold people in segregation, including several dozen telephone booth size cages located at various spots around the facility.
Spanky had to pee. He had been squirming for the past twenty minutes. He had asked one guard and a lieutenant to let him use the head, both told him to shut up and hold it.
“Piss in the grass,” Spider advised.
‘Fuck it’, thought Spanky, as he rolled over on to his side and unzipped his fly. He pulled out his dick and let loose a bright yellow stream that arched a good three feet. As he finished and pulled his zipper back up, he began scooting sideways to avoid laying back into his own piss. Before he had moved more than a foot, Sgt. Cook marched over and stomped his size 12 Vibram soled boot onto Spanky’s hip.