Authors: Glenn Langohr
The army of prison guards stepped on or kneeled on White and Mexican inmates until the zip ties were placed on every wrist as handcuffs. I knew they would sort out who the actual combatants were in the Hole. I was lifted to my feet and met Damon and the others as we were corralled into a pile and escorted to the Yard gate. It looked like all the Whites were okay other than some cuts and bruises.
We watched the yard gate open where dozens of prison guards from other yards were waiting to help with the escort. Over 50 prison guards dressed in green uniforms that resembled military fatigues positioned themselves on both sides of the single file line of inmates. Every prison guard was holding something. Some had 50 caliber rifles, others block guns and others held pepper spray canisters the size of a fire extinguisher. In contrast, the inmates all looked like tattooed down body builders and soldiers of a different ilk. The procession stretched for nearly 100 yards. The experience felt eerie, almost out of body. As we walked I felt the pepper spray on the side of my face and neck eating deeper into my skin as it progressed down my body with my sweat, leaving a burned by fire feeling in its wake. We walked by the second prison yard and through the razor wire fences saw over 500 prisoners lying on the ground with prison guards walking amongst them holding guns at the ready in case our yard’s riot kicked off another there. We passed that prison yard and I knew the inmates would remain on the ground in the prone position until we were housed in the Hole Administrative Segregation.
We walked another 500 yards and passed two more prison yards before reaching our destination. The Hole, Administrative Segregation, was behind the last yard in an isolated compound and we circled it. On the way that eerie feeling magnified with the noise. Men were training their bodies in a choreographed and precise manner. One leader was barking orders with the rest of the group responding, followed by the sounds of bodies exercising and grunting. I began to make out the cadence, “Surenos!! Raza!! Estamos listos? Vamanos!” I knew enough Spanish prison slang to understand the cadence was being applied to the southern California Mexicans and the Mexicans originally from Mexico, the race, according to them and always at the ready to go. Around the corner the building opened up enough to peer in at the portion the prisoners were allowed to use for yard for 2 hours every other day. Instead of a regular prison yard, the prisoners were confined to kennels. Row after row of fenced in rectangular dog runs allowed two prisoners per cage 6 feet of width to pace 10 feet back and forth or work out like they were now. I realized something monumental. I had to find “L’il Bird” and “Boxer”, the two Mexicans labeled Mexican Mafia who were removed from the yard before the ensuing power struggle.
I needed to communicate to them that the policy we had ironed out together hadn’t been respected by Stranger who stepped up to fill their void. Now that Stranger was gone from the yard, now in line with us to get processed into Administrative Segregation, the yard we just vacated was void of leadership again. Both “L’il Bird” and “Boxer” had the influence and reach to send word to that yard to keep the peace. We turned the corner of the building again and were able to see the yard through the fence. I zeroed in on “L’il Bird” and “Boxer”. Their sturdy, older bodies stood out amongst the younger, less seasoned Mexicans. Both of their sweat glistened bodies were covered by tattoos blasted in aged ink from decades ago and fading. Both had collogues of Aztec war scenes and I was hoping their power to command wasn’t fading like the ink. I searched out the rest of the kennels and in the sea of Mexicans found 4 White men. The 4 White men were distinguishable from the rest of the prisoners by their sheer size.
All 4 men had large bald heads and only 1 of them didn’t have his scalp covered in tattoo ink to the forehead. That behemoth was the largest at 6’7 and at least 280 lbs of iron clad frame. He was scrutinizing us with so much energy I couldn’t look away. The eerie feeling magnified even more as I watched him focus on ascertaining why we were in line to get housed in Administrative Segregation with him, apparently his spot. He used his fingers for sign language and introduced his name, “Bam Bam”, his counterpart’s name in the kennel with him, “Blitz”, along with “Sinner” and “Traveler” in the next kennel. Next he used his fingers to ask us questions. “What prison yard had we just come from?” With our hands cuffed behind our backs in zip ties we had to communicate by nodding our heads or shaking them. He finger questioned, A yard? We shook our head no until he got to D yard. Then, he finger questioned, What happened with the Mexicans? His fingers were taking too long to go letter by letter so he resorted to mimicking possibilities that started with lifting a drink to his mouth to see if we had been drunk? We shook our heads no.
He nailed it with his next one. He mimicked the act of registering a needle and shooting dope into his arm. We nodded our head vigorously that he was so warm he was in the oven with us. Next he lifted his hand and ran his fingers together in the universal sign for money and then used his hand to slide by his throat to say the money hadn’t made it. We nodded our heads that he understood our problem. He then used his hand to make it look like he had a knife in it and jabbed it into his other hand repeatedly to ask if weapons were used. We shook our heads no. Then he used both of his fist to fire straight punches and we nodded our heads yes. He went back to using his fingers to sign letter by letter and asked if the drug user that caused the problem was still on the yard. Even though “Lefty” had overdosed we nodded our heads that he was technically right. Time ran out to communicate because prison guards from the building walked into the yard and stopped next to Bam Bam’s kennel. He didn’t seem to mind the intrusion and finger signed to us that we were going to be housed in B-Pod.
Everyone heard a prison guard from the gun tower inside the building announce through a speaker, “Yard recall! Your 2 hours in the kennels are up! Kennels A and B, stand by for an escort to your cells.”
For the next half hour we watched the kennels empty. One prisoner after another backed up and stuck both hands through a slot where a guard applied handcuffs to wrists. From there, we couldn’t see the prisoners enter the building from our vantage point but heard a thick steel vestibule door creaking as it slid open. It closed with the last of the prisoners with a resounding thud.
The building in front of us was a pre-fabricated made tan color. A thick steel green vestibule door creaked and grinded open as it slid on rollers. Above, a black tinted bullet proof window filled up with 2 prison gunners holding rifles. Right next to the window in red capital block letters read: WARNING! NO WARNING SHOTS FIRED- C-6 ADMINISTRATIVE SEGREGATION.
The procession of prisoners proceeded in front of us and we shuffle stepped forward inch by inch. Being the last in line it took 2 hours to get to the vestibule door and inside the building. As we made it I looked up and saw the 2 prison gunners pointing their rifles at us as if we could get out from our cuffs and become a threat. Shuffling through the vestibule door I kept looking up.
We could see the gunners in the tower through a bullet proof plexiglass they walked on. A 4 foot by 8 foot square of plexiglass was constructed with a perforated opening to drop tear gas and fire the rifles through at us below. I heard the vestibule door behind us creak and slide shut and it felt like we were vacuumed into a dank and dark, all metal chamber of penal hell. I knew that a percentage of the prisoners living in these concrete corridors had been here for years and thought of Bam Bam and wondered if he was one of them. We’d find out how things operated over here soon enough.
I looked back up at the tower through the plexiglass. From up there, the gunners had a vantage point that allowed access to each row of cell pods and I counted 3 rows facing west, 3 facing east and 3 facing north. The south quadrant covered the yard the prisoners had just come from. Each quadrant had a thick steel green vestibule door. Above each vestibule red block letters signified the location. I found A through C pod stamped over the west side quadrant and watched one of the tower gunners hit a switch on a command table and the vestibule opened.
From the gun tower we heard a guard yell out our names and which cells we were to be housed in.
“B Pod cell 123!”
“B Pod cell 122!”
I was glad to hear that Damon and I were in the same cell and that Blockhead and Jason were in the cell next to us. On the way there I noticed our bedrolls and new prison garb all wrapped up in a bundle with a couple of plastic spoons and cups parked in front of our cells.
The guard in the tower spoke instructions over the microphone, “When we take off the zip ties strip out of your clothes!”
We passed the first cell, a 6 foot wide by 10 foot long chamber of concrete. The cell door was made out of steel with perforated holes from top to bottom inches away from each other making it hard to see in or out clearly. The cell door looked like honey comb. Inside the cell 2 black prisoners exercised and their silhouettes rose and fell as they took turns doing pushups. I looked at the cell across from them and the same thing was happening with 2 more Black inmates. I assumed the Black and Asian inmates were getting their every other day yard tomorrow and were doing their exercises in the cell. We passed a few more cells and stopped at ours. One of the 4 prison guards behind us said, “After we take the cuffs off strip down and let us search you. You know the drill.”
I went first and got naked and waited for the instructions.
“Arms out wide…Arms up…Lift up your testicles…Turn around…Lift one foot and wiggle your toes…The other foot…Bend over and grab your ass cheeks and spread them…Now cough three times…”
Done with our strip search and locked up tight in our cell Damon let me take a bird bath first since I had more pepper spray on me. I filled up the sink attached to the toilet with water, then sat on the toilet facing the sink and splashed the water over my head with my cup. The water reignited the pepper spray and my eyes watered to ease the burning and I felt it in my lungs and started coughing.
Next to me in the cell Damon was taking one of his two pairs of boxer shorts apart. In the waist band of the boxers after he pulled out the elastic there was plenty of thread to weave together to turn it into a fishing line. He hooked three strands of thread to the cell door using the ventilated honey comb and went to the back of the cell and began weaving the thread into one line. From outside our cell, on the tier about 4 cells down, we heard a prisoner yell, “Cell 122 and cell 123! This is Traveler in cell 118! I’m sending my line!”
While continuing my bird bath I watched Damon fastening together a small piece of soap into a piece of plastic until he had it attached to his newly woven fishing line. He crouched down on all fours and looked out the side of our cell and yelled, “Shoot it!”
A few minutes of successful fishing later he pulled in a written note from Traveler and read it to me. Greetings brothers: Welcome to the catacombs. We saw you communicate with big Bam Bam and know you were involved in a riot with the Mexicans. Glad to see you’re alright! I’m in the last cell in our B-Pod so I can get word to C-Pod when the prison guards open the door when they do the head count or pass out mail. I need you to send your paperwork as soon as possible to check you off the Roll Call list. Also, Bam Bam wants to know who ran up the drug debt? We get yard one day and showers the next with a day of zero program on Wednesday. On Wednesday the prison administration runs hearings. Speaking of hearings, that’s when you will get checked to see how long you will be confined in here. For a riot they usually keep you for a couple of months if they have you involved in it in their reports. As soon as I get your paperwork I have a care package for you.
Damon scribbled off a note to let Traveler know what happened on our yard along with how “Lefty” had taken a back door exit by overdosing on heroin.
The next morning 4 prison guards arrived at our cell for an interview…
The first guard, a very large and dark Black man who had an experienced face with kind eyes, had a nameplate on his chest that read: Jackson. Jackson seemed to be the leader of the four and I realized he was a Lieutenant.
The other prison guard standing at the cell was of Mexican descent and a little younger. He wore an expression of impatience, nameplate: Torrez. Jackson scrunched up close to the honeycomb cell door and said, “Inmate Smith and Johnson, also known as B.J, here is your paperwork for the riot. Now time to ask you some questions…”
We accepted the paperwork through the side of the cell door, and each of us took our time to read it. The top of the page had the form number, 114-D and next to it- Lock Up Order For Administrative Segregation. Underneath it started with the reason: Violation of rule 123 “Group Melee”.
The report went on to read that the incident was a serious rule violation and for the safety and security of the prison we were deemed enemy combatants. The next paragraph had reports from prison guards who witnessed the riot from a gun tower and on the ground. I was glad to see that not one of the prison guards wrote who started the fight, just some of the inmates who were involved. It appeared that only 14 inmates had pepper spray administered to their wardrobe. They were the only inmates considered, “Involved in the melee”. It looked like the other 36 inmates would get a reprieve and get “Kicked out” of Administrative Segregation and return to 1 of the other 3 prison yards soon.
Jackson started reading from the report…