Pelican Bay Riot (16 page)

The cell door flew in an arc that hit Hernandez in the head and both inmates were on him. Sano grabbed Hernandez’s head in a choke hold and rushed his legs backward dragging a limp Hernandez. Rodriguez had an ice pick in his right hand it flashed in an arc into Hernandez’s neck. Blood squirted out but Rodriguez didn’t stop flashing his hand again and again. Each time the ice pick pierced Hernandez’s neck more blood sprayed and made a wet sound. Sano continued to run drag Hernandez backward and Rodriguez continued to stab him in the neck with the ice pick. His limp body passed our cell.

Rodriguez yelled, "RIGHT THERE SANO!"

They left his body in front of a Norteno's cell. Rodriguez dropped his ice pick on Hernandez's dead chest and both inmates ran back to their cell. On the way, they both wiped up the blood trail and got back inside their cell and closed the door. The next thing we heard was their toilet flushing.

Damon said, "They're flushing the evidence."

I said, "We aren't getting off lockdown. Sacramento is coming again."

Chapter 18

43 days later- 2 days before my release from prison...

Damon said, "I've decided to take your place and move to Red-Bone's cell so you can go home."

I shook my head and said, “No way, not going to happen.”

Damon paced the cell. He had been studying Red-Bone for 2 days, ever since he got word from Popeye. I knew what they were doing but was resisting and trying to understand why.

Damon said, “It’s not your call any more homeboy. Popeye is calling the shot. You are to go home and take care of your wife.”

My wife finally sent me a letter with an explanation. She didn’t sleep with her ex; she just needed a place to stay, stranded on the streets, without any options. She finally made a good decision and talked to my brother who was very well off and he took care of the rest. She was living at his mansion and already back at her job at Macy’s.

It wasn’t my call anymore. I was going home and the rest of my race wasn’t. The scary thing was, I didn’t want to leave them…These are the prison days of our lives.

Underdog

Chapter 1

My wife Annette and I walked into the shelter and a putrid odor assaulted us. Mr. Robinson, the current owner of The Animal House, a non-profit shelter for abandoned and abused canines, turned on the light. With the light came the noise. Over 50 dogs started barking and I listened carefully. There was a mixture of angry and violent barking, combined with some fearful and desperate howling.

The small barn the dogs were housed in was packed. It was overcapacity. There were 2 rows of cages with a 4 foot walkway down the middle for about 30 feet. The first steel cage was 6 feet long and 2 feet high and contained a group of dogs fighting for space. They were packed into the cages like sardines without an inch to spare. Poodles, Beagles, Collies and some mixed breeds bumped, jumped and jockeyed for position to get as close to us as possible. Their floor was filled with scraps of old newspapers and I realized where the odor came from. The newspapers were soiled with their excrement. Poop and piss. I looked at my wife to see if she noticed. She did. Her thick brown hair flew in an arc over her tiny face as she whipped her gaze at me. Her turquoise green eyes, shaped like almonds, focused all of her energy at me to do something.

I looked at the man trying to understand if he was a slum lord for dogs, or if he was really trying to help them. Mr. Robinson was overweight and unkempt. His posture radiated a lazy, not too interested in other people countenance. His face looked like a walrus with baggy hanging jowls covered by a peppering of brown beard that matched the hair on his head and resembled dust balls behind the refrigerator. I asked, “Why do you make them live in their own shit and piss?”

Mr. Robinson gave me a stare and then a glare. Like that was going to scare me. It pissed me off so I asked, “How would you like it if I put you in that cage to sleep in that filth?” It looked like Mr. Robinson decided that I could and would. His face changed into a defensive smirk and he quipped, “I don’t have any help around here. I can’t do it all alone!”

I looked at my wife. It was her turn. She kicked one of her legs out in an aggressive and sexy posture and exploded with a litany, “I bet you’re really good at raising money from the public as if you take care of dogs! You better hire someone or do the work yourself, or the County will shut you down.”

As usual, my wife nailed it and got to the root of the problem. A week ago we started looking for a dog or two on the internet. The Animal House didn’t look like this. Mr. Robinson must have been using someone else’s pictures from a shelter that actually groomed dogs for new homes. These dogs didn’t have any hope. We turned our attention to the rest of the confined cages. It got worse fast. We started walking slowly, now my wife and I were leading the way. There were 6 more cages in both rows housing multiple canines like the first cage, but the last one had a cage on top of a cage and I stopped. Fecal matter and strips of wet newspaper hung from the top cage in sections where the bottom opened a tiny bit. The small dogs in the cage beneath looked even meaner than the other dogs because they had the poop and piss dried up on their coats of hair. I almost lost it, but instead got into action. I picked up the cage and walked it past Mr. Robinson forcing him to jump out of the way as I walked out the barn. The barn opened up into a fenced in area and I set the cage down next to a bunch of dog leashes hanging from the fence. After all the dogs were leashed to the fence an appropriate distance from each other I walked back into the barn.

“Mr. Robinson, clean the cage and wash them while we pick out a couple of our new watch dogs.” My wife smiled at me and we walked deeper into the barn. Now, the big dogs were in the last 5 cages of single celled animals. I looked at both rows and wanted all 10 dogs.

My wife said, “I want every dog here B.J.” “I know honey, but we can only take two.” I studied my wife and saw her razor sharp brain operating. She was going to figure out a way to have them all. She had her foot down in that way that said she wasn’t budging. I helped her figure it out. “Baby, the only way to rescue all of the dogs from this fraudulent dog rescuer is to take over his operation. Until we figure that out we can only take two.”

That seemed to satisfy her because she lifted her foot from the stubborn stance and pivoted to look at the rest of the dogs.

I studied the larger dogs. There was a Great Dane, 3 German Shepherds’, 4 mixed breeds, a Rottweiler and a Pit Bull. The Rottweiler was the biggest beast, built long and low to the ground. His face wore an expression of abuse. I looked closer and realized his last owner had branded a tattoo on his forehead where his hair was missing in the shape of a lightning bolt. The Pit-bull had the same lightning bolt markings over his pug nose.

Annette looked at all the large dogs and said, “I know which two you want?” “How?” “I know you. You want the ones that nobody else will take. The Rottweiler and the Pit.”

“You know me pretty well missy.” “Do these caged animals remind you of the time you spent in prison honey?”

They did. I had spent over 10 years in a variety of California level 4 prisons during my drug addicted and dealing years where I raged against the system. Now, in recovery from my addictions and old, ingrained behaviors, my goal was to help other prisoners find a new life outside of prison walls. Later today, I was taking a trip to the most notorious prison in California, Pelican Bay, to visit my friend Damon Smith, A.K.A. Rott. Damon had followed my path, by dealing marijuana while it was still illegal in the 1990’s, but unlike me, he got caught up in California’s overzealous determination to label him a gang member. We had both done time on some dangerously violent prison yards and keeping the peace for our White race at times called for violence just to survive. Unlike me, Damon had peppered his body with tattoos. Those same tattoos combined with the prison violations for violence, were the reasons he was in the Pelican Bay Security Housing Unit, also known as the S.H.U., or also commonly referred to as Super-Max. Lost in my thoughts, I noticed my wife studying me.

Annette said, “Honey I know you were probably in over 100 different cages like the ones these dogs are in but you made it. Having lived through it, what would you say are the most important things that need to happen to help other prisoners make the change into good role models?”

That was the million dollar question, but actually, how can you put a price on a human being..? I thought about how I turned it around. My Spiritual connection to God started it by realizing that even if nobody else in the world loved me, God did. If everyone else accused me, God forgave me. Back then, sitting in a cell for the umpteenth time feeling this wisdom wash over me, I focused on finding a way to turn everything I’d been through into a blessing.

I smiled at my wife and answered, “The first thing is love. It’s just like with these dogs, if you love them they will be the most loyal friends you could ever have. The next stage is direction. The prisoners need a way to put all their energy in a positive direction. The next vitally important step is faith. Once the prisoners or released prisoners see that other people believe in them, that they too can benefit the community, find employment, have a family and fit in, they will start believing a life in a fruitful direction is possible. When all this happens, hope opens up new doors. The reason 7 out of 10 released California prisoners return back to prison within three years is because they have no hope.” My wife smiled at me in a loving way and then turned her attention back to the dogs. She was thinking about how to rescue all of them again.

She said, “Go visit your friend Damon in Pelican Bay and offer him some hope. I’m going to figure out how to give these dogs some.”

I knew how she could do it. She had battled addiction while I was in prison and found recovery after she got involved in a support group for women, the Ashland Angel House. When I got out of prison we united and got married. Now she devoted her time to helping other women get back on their feet until they could get their kids back… She might be able to get the women at the Ashland Angel House to help these dogs, and at the same time help themselves by being needed and fortifying some self worth…

Chapter 2

Pelican Bay State Prison was a 14 hour drive from Orange County, California and the 5 freeway North gave me plenty of time to think about my friend Damon and why the California Prison system was trying to validate him as a gang member and keep him housed in the Super-Max S.H.U.

A number of years ago we had both been housed on a volatile level 4 prison where the White race was the minority. We only had 8% of the population. The Mexican inmates had about 40% of the population and the Black inmates about another 40%. The Asians made up the rest. For about a year and a half the Mexican and Black inmates fought each other in skirmishes with prison made weapons in riots that brought a handful of casualties. It had started in the gym where prisoners lived on bunk beds with hardly an inch to spare. The Mexican prisoners pushed the rules and regulations a little too hard with things like which toilets and showers each race was to use and it caused problems with the Black prisoners.

The Black prisoners decided enough was enough and took the initiative. About 40 Black prisoners jumped the Mexicans with just fist and feet. They won the first battle. The Mexicans won round 2 with prison made knives and we had a serious battle underway. The war had gone back and forth with one race of inmates attacking the other with a three month lockdown in between. It looked like it was finally coming to an end, but just before it did; the Prison Gang Coordinators took the 2 strongest leaders for the Mexicans, “Lil Bird” and “Boxer” off the yard by labeling them Mexican Mafia. Whether they were or not wasn’t my call but I did acknowledge them as good leaders. With them on the yard, Damon and I had developed a good program and established a safe policy for our separate races to get along. Now, without their presence the rest of the Mexicans fought each other to fill the void to control the yard for their stake and it was up in the air whether or not the policies we had in place with the former shot callers would hold. During this process some of our White race started running drugs for the Mexicans without anybody keeping a regulated eye on them.

This is what happened…

The yard was at full capacity, which meant that all of the Mexican and Black inmates were back on the yard and off lock down and getting full program. That left a very small area for the White inmates to congregate on the yard. There were 12 concrete tables and we had 1 as our share to view the yard and put our heads together. Damon and I had come up with a strategy to keep the White inmates united and on the same page as much as possible for the safety of the entire unit, with a protective eye on the youngsters. Our aim was to focus on the potential for problems and to take preventive measures to keep a race war from happening. In prison, perception is reality. You have to handle your business with precision to maintain honor. As a whole, if your race or gang looks weak, like there is a kink in the armor, it invites every vulture, shark and piranha on the yard to the feast. With this in mind, we authored a program on paper that was sent to every White inmate’s cell to establish some rules and regulations. We only asked that every member of our race show up to yard to show solidarity, to work out to show honor and to respect everyone at all times. Our drug debt and alcohol policy was one of zero tolerance but how can you control another’s addiction? The rule was, don’t get high if it can make other people die. Dope and alcohol were to be purchased, “Off the shelf”, which meant with store items owned on your shelf. No fronts or loans. Most of the drug transactions in prison that bring violence and death are done with money order payouts and when a race isn’t paid someone has to get stabbed to cover the bill. We had just found out that a White inmate had done $700 of heroin from the Mexicans, as if he could pay it He couldn’t, putting every other White man on the yard in jeopardy of a war against the Mexicans outnumbered over 15 to 1. The Mexicans were counting on the bill being paid with a money order mailed out from the streets. That money was going to fund another shipment of dope into prison.