Authors: Glenn Langohr
Chapter 6
The next morning I woke with shift change at 4 AM. My cell mate Scott was still asleep. He'd wake at 6 AM when the chow carts were wheeled inside the vestibule and into the building. I knew it was almost time for me to get processed and allowed to go to yard and I needed to get there.
Yesterday after Scott came back from our top tier's two and a half hour afternoon yard, he'd dropped a potential disaster in my lap. It appeared that a number of our White race inmates who claimed to be Skin Heads down for White Supremacy were planning on running up drug debts they had no intention of paying to the Mexicans! I thought about that conversation…Scott watched me vent with a locked jaw grimace on my face while I paced the cell digesting the outrage. The first question I asked while I paced, "Who are these White scumbags?"
I had taken glances at Scott's face and registered that he didn't want to be a snitch and imagined his uncomfortable feeling from being unaware how I would deal with my rage. I knew he was uncomfortable with members of the White race running up a debt that would hold the whole race accountable so I played off that and said while pacing, "Scott, It pisses me off that a Skin Head that is supposed to represent White racial power would be so confused as to use drugs because that is the opposite of White power. More like a white slave. Do you realize that if Skin Heads are running up drug debts they don't intend to pay, that they are essentially saying fuck you to the rest of their race and I don't care if you have to take part in violence heavily outnumbered, my drug high is more important."
I let that seep in and asked again who the Skin Heads were. He answered me and I found out there were 3 of them in the gym. The 3 dumb asses weren't even real Skin Heads, they were wanna-be's. They were even giving some of the dope away they were getting on the front to other White inmates in buildings along with messages on paper saying they thought the Mexicans were going to get shipped to other prisons due to the war with the Black race. They were trying to infect others, poor role models.
I talked while pacing 8 feet one way, then 8 feet the other, the length of the cell. "So these dumb asses think because there is a war between the Mexicans and Blacks, the Prison Administration is going to back up prison buses and ship all of the Mexicans and Blacks to other prisons? Think about it. That would cost a lot of money and speaking of money; these racial wars are profitable for the prison guards. You see how they are bringing the food to us in those silver 8 foot high food carts on wheels every morning and night? That means the guards are getting paid time and a half for hazard pay and they can work over 100 hours like this in 7 days in back to back shifts, then take 5 straight days off to go play with their $150,000 a year incomes. When the yard isn't on lock down, the guards have to work way harder watching all the inmates and the pay is less. Do you understand what I'm saying?" Scott nodded his head and said, "Someone heard the rumor from one of the guards that they were considering backing up the buses." I said, "Bullshit, not going to happen. Think about it, if it doesn't make dollars it doesn't make sense. This prison and the rest of California's prisons level 3 and 4 always have race wars. Do you ever see buses backing up to ship them out?" Scott shook his head no.
I continued, "This prison we are in always has stabbings and it is business as usual. Ever since this prison opened up it has had the reputation for allowing things to work themselves out and lock downs that last 6 to 9 months. All they will do is re-house a small percentage of Mexican and Black inmates to one of the other 3 yards right here at this prison. So the drug debts will still be an issue. Even if they were going to ship all the Mexicans and Blacks to other prisons we still don't play that shit. You want fuckin dope; you pay for it and keep the rest of the race out of it."
The memory of the problem consumed me. I needed a solution. While pacing the cell thinking about it Scott woke up with the sounds of the breakfast carts and I could see he was still thinking about it also.
After breakfast, he went to yard and 10 minutes later Security Escort Heart came to my cell and told me to get ready for the I.C.C hearing to get cleared for mainline and yard program.
Chapter 7
I watched from the cell door and saw the brass come into the building. There was a dark Black man over 50 years old who looked like he was the Warden, another Black man with lighter skin who looked like he was the head counselor known as the CC2 and a round table of 3 other lower level Prison Administrators. They all went into an office under the building's gun tower. Heart stripped me out for security. I knew the drill and dropped the white state boxer shorts and lifted my testicles, then turned, then squatted and coughed, then lifted each foot and waited for the metal detector wand. Heart waved it by my butt cheeks and said, “I have to handcuff you but I’ll do it with your hands in front of you.”
I walked down the stairs and saw the usual suspects behind cell doors watching. L’il Bird was always perched. The office was a 14 foot by 14 foot room. There was a 6 foot by 3 foot wood table my criminal history was spread out on. The brass was already positioned by rank. At the end of the table the Warden sported a name plate- Jackson. Next to him was the CC2- Allen. On the other side of the table the three lower ranking prison guards. Heart stood behind me waiting for me to be seated at the end of the table where the brass could study me like an insect.
Everyone stared at the warden waiting for him to start. He had his head bent down while he scrutinized the papers in my file. His big black bald wrinkled head finally looked up at me. He studied me through bifocals for far too long, then said, “Benny Johnson…Sit down.” I sat with my handcuffed hands resting on the table in front of me staring at the Warden, and waited…and waited…I broke the staring contest and looked at CC2- Allen’s face. A little nicer, some smile lines, some laugh lines, compassionate eyes…Warden Jackson said, “What are you doing here?” I stared back at the warden wondering if I could create any smile lines…”I’m looking for Club Med. I must have made the wrong turn.”
The warden’s forehead creased in anger and it pulled his bifocals higher up his bulbous nose. I looked at CC2- Allen. He was trying not to laugh but his eyes were crinkled. I had to assume the warden meant, how did I get out of the last prison and make it to his so I said, “I didn’t make the arrangements, you’re going to have to talk to the travel agent.” The warden still didn’t look like he liked my answers. He said in a getting more irritated voice, “This file says you are an inch away from an indeterminate SHU.”
That meant for the rest of my prison sentence I’d do my time in the isolated Pelican Bay SHU.
I stayed quiet though my soul raged; I don’t have a single tattoo and have never claimed a gang! Yes, I have been involved in violence in prison but how else do you survive? The warden began with the questions…”What’s your AKA, what do they call you?” “Benny Johnson.” “What gangs are you affiliated with?”
“Which ever ones you house me with, or put me in a cell with.”
The warden was getting pissed. The bifocals were straining higher. The wrinkles in the forehead deepened. In an angrier voice he asked, “What neighborhood do you run with?”
“I run solo, but sometimes circle the YMCA.”
The warden shouted at me, “Where are you from?” I felt the anger rising in my soul like fire. This man just wanted to write down that I was a gang member or shot caller and put that in my file to discard me like trash, all with these questions to label me. I didn’t bother telling him I’m from my momma and said, “I don’t have a tattoo, I’ve never claimed a gang, I’m just a drug addict who struggles with impulse control and finances…” I shut my anger off by ending with, “But I’m saved by the blood of Jesus.”
The warden seemed to calm down and in a softer tone said, “You’ve got 4 counts of battery on police officers, and a pile of violence in prison.”
He had it wrong, or at least the perspective. The sheriffs in Orange County jumped me in the county jail after I was a witness to police brutality and interviewed on the news. As far as the in prison violence, it is a predatory environ and if you don’t lead you either get pressured or led. I wasn’t going to try to explain myself. Nobody listened anyway. The warden said, “I’m clearing you for yard but at this prison we shoot people like you. I’m going to post a memo for all the gun tower guards to keep an eye on you with a hair trigger.”
Chapter 8
I walked through the vestibule and was blinded by the sun after not seeing it for a couple weeks. The heat, at 110 degrees took my breath away. I squinted my eyes into it to see and started to imagine the yard with all the Mexicans and Blacks off lockdown and on the yard with the Whites only 8% of the population. I’d be imagining every angle of the yard in my cell for survival purposes daily. Scott had told me the Whites had one table on the yard and I looked to the left while walking from the building and saw Damon- Sir Rott. He is 6’3 and 230 lbs of shredded muscle with a skater punk rock look and an angular body that ended with a bald bullet shaped head. He was sitting on our table facing me walking toward him.
The table was 6 feet long and 3 feet wide and made of concrete and just inside the asphalt track on the grass. Damon came off the table and wrapped his long arms around my back in a bear hug and said, “What’s up home slice, good to see you.” I returned the hug and sat on top of the table with my feet resting where you would normally sit, facing the building I’d just come from. I looked down at the curb right before the asphalt track. There was a 2 foot patch of dirt before the grass started. It was a spot where weapons were often stashed. The dirt could be dug under the curb and ice picks could be buried out of range of metal detectors. Damon asked, “Looking for where we bury our weapons?” “Yep.” Damon laughed and nodded his bullet head to the other side of the yard so I spun myself around 180 degrees and planted my feet the other way to view the whole yard. He did the same and nodded his bullet head a little to the left and said, “20 feet away next to the sprinklers. The swords are along the curb on the other side of the yard where the asphalt track curves just outside of the chow hall. We hide everything in the chow hall’s roof when we get word of a serious search.”
I looked and found the metal sprinkler head sticking out of the grass by 6’ inches and imagined ice picks stuck into the grass straight down with strings attached so they could be pulled out. I turned sideways to look at him. He was two years younger than me at 38 and was just another drug addict who got caught up in the popularity game of life and didn’t care for it. He used to surf, skate back yard ramps, and go to punk rock shows until the criminal justice system made such a big deal out of experimenting with drugs. Didn’t any of the 60’s generation make it into politics? I had to get funny before serious and used my hands to measure Damon’s long angular bullet shaped head and said, “It’s larger than a Jack n The Box head but better shaped.”
I studied the yard some more while Damon filled me in on some things. He’d been here for 2 months and had just under a year left of his sentence before paroling to the streets. The yard only had around 120 inmates on it currently, all either White or Asian, walking the asphalt that circled the yard, playing handball, or basketball, or using the workout bars underneath the main gun tower in deep left field from our table. Damon explained that we had 88 White inmates on our top tier and that on an average day over 30 of them didn’t come to yard due to their prison jobs. That left 58 to mingle with up to 260 Mexicans and 240 Blacks. I turned and looked behind me again at the curb and imagined it filled with squatting Mexicans down the line to the next table 40 feet away that belonged to the Mexicans. I followed the curb still imagining Mexicans squatting along it for another 200 feet to the handball court. One side of it was for the Whites and Mexicans to share and the other side of the 20 foot high wall was for the Asians and the Blacks. The basketball court was next and then the track turned down a 60 foot straightaway and reached the Chow Hall where the track turned again. I asked Damon, “What kind of program have you established for the drug policy?” “We don’t have much of one.”
I had Damon give me a piece of paper and started writing and explained that the White’s needed to follow rules and regulations for the benefit of the whole. When finished I handed the written message to Damon and said, “This is your standard greeting to all the new arrivals in my building. Nobody gets fronted off as the shot caller this way.” Damon looked closely at the print and read it out loud.
“GREETINGS WHITE MEN: THOUGH WE ARE SHORT IN NUMBER WE ARE STRONG IN UNITY AND SPIRIT. WELCOME- WE HAVE A MANDATORY YARD PROGRAM MON-FRI WHERE WE GREET EACH OTHER AT OUR TABLE TO START TO MAKE SURE EVERYONE IS O.K. OUR DRUG AND ALCOHOL POLICY IS AS FOLLOWS- DON’T BE ENSLAVED TO A HIGH THAT MAKES OTHERS DIE. IF YOU PURCHASE DRUGS IT IS TO BE “OFF THE SHELF” THAT MEANS NO FRONTS ON LOAN. WHAT YOU HAVE ON YOUR SHELF IS YOUR CURRENCY. KEEP THE DRINKING TO YOUR CELL ONLY. IF YOU COME TO YARD DRUNK YOU WILL GET KNOCKED OUT. RESPECT YOURSELF AND ALL OTHERS AT ALL TIMES AND FIND OUT HOW YOU CAN HELP KEEP OUR LINE TIGHT AND BE AN INTEGRAL COMPONENT. NO DIVISION WILL BE TOLERATED. IF YOU ARE HUNGRY OR NEED SOMETHING DON’T HESITATE TO ASK. SIGNED- D-YARD COUNSEL.”
Damon nodded his bullet head that he liked it. “Did you bring this down from Pelican Bay?” “Nope, it is a blanket set of rules for most hard level 4 prisons in California.”