ROLL CALL ~ A Prison List (True Prison Story) (15 page)

Now I pictured in my mind’s eye how my brother and I had a conference about it. My brother detected something foul about Bob Prescott right away. Looking back I could see it as clearly now as my brother had then. I saw his bleached tipped spiked hair, his lazy posture and build, and his eyes and body language. His eyes seemed devoid of a conscience, and his body language read that he would seize on any opportunity presented. At the time my brother and I conferred, I was looking at it from strictly a financial viewpoint. At the time, Bill and Kent were out of marijuana, and so was everyone else in the business, it was dry. It made the most sense to sell what we’d managed to hold on to in small increments for maximum value. My response to Bob Prescott had been, “If this guy does big things in Texas get a sample of the product he moves so we can inspect it.” I could picture now how Bob Prescott’s weasel eyes had darted around while his pea brain tried to figure out a tactic. He didn’t come up with anything and left. He came back the next day with the claim that his friend in Texas was dry of product also and that’s why he was in California, to find another line on product. I had asked some probing questions to determine what kind of mark up we could make if we did business with him and my greed over rode my instincts. He couldn’t answer so he pulled out the best distraction man ever invented, paper money. He pulled out $60 that I now realized was probably detective Pincher’s marked money. Bob Prescott had tried to talk me down to selling him $40. worth and I now realize the little rat was trying to pinch $20 from the detective to smuggle out a profit! Being the business miser I am I held out for the $60. While explaining all of this to Damon I had to face that I was the reason my brother was in juvenile hall and our world was upside down.

Damon and I noticed a twenty year young looking Sheriff that must have just started working for the department come to our eight man holding cell that currently had a dozen other inmates in it. He opened the door and announced the names of those moving to the next cell in the loop. Ours were among them.

We walked along a painted line next to the cells with our hands behind our backs behind the young Sheriff to the next cell. I noticed the slightly larger cell had a sticker on the cell door. It said the maximum occupancy was 12. I entered the cell first and noticed there were about 20 people packed along the edges of the cell like sardines and there wasn’t anywhere to sit. Even the mini toilet area had people posted up for space. I inventoried all of the faces quickly and spotted Vince in the corner.

I thought about Vince. My brother and I had met him about 6 months ago on our way to the beach. He was immediately on our good side when we found out his last name ended in a vowel. Prestolli. Full Italian. From Vince we learned a lot that he seemed hungry to share. He knew his lineage extensively and started from so far back, it was impressive. According to Vince, the Prestollis in Italy made a name for themselves in the Catholic church to the point one of them was a cardinal. Sometime long ago, one of the Prestolli daughters got swept off her feet, in love with a Faruso. The Faruso’s made a name for themselves in Sicily as high ranking Mafioso. From there the family tree bore some potent fruit. One of his grandfathers, sometime in the 1950’s to 1960’s here in California was such an intellectual that he published books on psychology. Another grandfather invented some kind of technology the U.S. government bought up for national security. Vince explained that neither grandfather cared much for money and were far more concerned with study. They set up a trust fund that doled out money to every member of their large family and extended family. They also acquired a large piece of property in Silverado Canyon that included water and mineral rights. That property went to Vince’s Mom Rutha. According to Vince, his Mom had a lot of the Faruso blood in her and she found her comfort zone in the underground. The property in Silverado Canyon became a playground for a chapter of outlaw bikers. They brought a lot of problems to the property and there were even rumors that a stolen cache of military weapons were buried on the property. According to Vince, his Mom then kicked the outlaw bikers off the property but it was too late. A federal search warrant was executed and the military weapons were not found, but the troubles just got worse. Vince claimed he and his Mom had been railroaded by Orange County ever since. While the feds and the county studied Rutha and her Silverado Canyon property, they alleged a dispute over the land deeds. They seized her approximately 50 acres of property, mineral and water rights and left her with enough room to live in a trailer. While Vince told his tale my brother and I shook our heads. It was such a deep tale, it was hard to believe. I looked into Vince’s tenacious brown eyes and felt his frustration. He obviously had been telling this story to many people seeking help, comfort or just somebody to listen to him because the scope of his story was so full of detail and sharpened. Part of the problem was the way he looked. At 20 years old he looked more like 14. He had a baby face and a kid’s build that was so chiseled and wiry that all eight of his stomach muscles showed cuts over a bronzed olive colored skin. His brown hair was always in disarray and gave him a wild appearance, until you really looked at how determined his eyes were. I believed in him and decided he wasn’t lying. But that didn’t mean his Mom wasn’t to him. I had gently probed in this direction and could tell that others had also by his quick response. “Look it up. It’s public record at the county recorder’s office. You can see we owned approximately 50 acres of land, mineral and water rights until it was seized. The federal search warrant for the stolen military weapons is also public record.” He was defensive about his Mom and had a good reason to be, he was her son. From Vince I had learned that his Mom didn’t think school was as important as life experiences so he rarely went. He explained that he didn’t have a ride there and when he did, he wasn’t dressed like the other kids. I realized Vince didn’t have a father figure in his life. The only ones he’d had were the outlaw bikers who ran through Rutha’s property and hung out. Vince explained how they gave him his first taste of methamphetamine at 9 years old by injecting him with a loaded syringe of it and taking bets on how many days he’d be gone. Vince explained how he’d walk for days, covering over a hundred miles, looking for those life experiences his Mom told him about.

Damon and I stood in front of Vince sitting on a slab of concrete in the corner and I realized he had been talking to Damon about our cases while I was deep in thought. Now he was saying something to me.

“I’m sorry for introducing you to Bob Prescott. I didn’t know he was working as an informant. I was just doing what you told me, to bring as much business your way as possible. I’ve been in Silverado Canyon since I last saw you and heard from a friend of mine that Bob Prescott raped my friend Sarah. I tried to get a ride to come to your house and tell you and ended up walking and hitch hiking. I got pulled over and arrested in Mission Viejo on my way. The Sheriffs said I had a warrant for 4 counts of assault and battery on a police officer. It must be that July 4’th incident at the San Clemente pier I told you about.”

I thought about what he’d told me. According to Vince, he’d been at the pier watching the fireworks where a mass of people filled the streets partying and listening to loud music. Vince had said that he’d been singled out by the Sheriffs for drunk and disorderly conduct and roughly pulled away from the crowd. He tripped while getting dragged and a number of Sheriffs proceeded to wipe the concrete with him by raining punches and kicks until he was almost unconscious and compliant. Vince had said his blood alcohol had registered zero because he hadn’t drank. His head and face were swollen and the black and blue bruises didn’t fully go away for over a month. I remember asking Vince why he and his Mom didn’t bring a law suit against the county. He had told me that his Mom decided since the beating wasn’t on video, the Sheriffs would just bring charges against him to cover it up. Now it looked like the charges were coming anyway.

CHAPTER 35

We got processed down the line of cells and got our pictures taken, finger printed and then interviewed. The interview process consisted of going into a little room where a smart looking older Lieutenant Sheriff sat behind bullet proof glass to determine what level of criminal he had in front of him. He asked me if I had ever been arrested and convicted of a felony before. I said no. He looked at a file he had in front of him and told me that I’d had a lot of marijuana at my house. I looked at him and shrugged. Then he asked me if I’d ever been to Orange County jail before. I said no. He attached a white band to my left wrist and told me I’d probably get O.R.’d and explained that meant I’d be going home and have to show up to court on my own. The last thing he said was to take care of myself until then. I took that as a warning that there must be a lot of problems in the jail.

The next two cells were the largest and the stamp said the maximum capacity was 24. The second cell was empty and the cell I was going into looked packed to double the capacity. Vince and Damon soon followed me in. I looked around and realized that almost everyone in the cell was Mexican. I saw a few Asians huddled together in one corner and a few blacks huddled together in another corner. I found a couple of whites with their backs to the wall and we headed their way. On the way there we squeezed by Mexicans and avoided the stragglers who were laying on the ground. Standing there like sardines I noticed two serious looking Mexicans studying the floor to see who was laying on the ground. The tension in the cell magnified. I noticed Vince and Damon’s eyes were doing the same thing mine were, looking at the ground to see if any whites were laying down. We found one right when the cell door opened and an extremely observant looking white man squeezed into the cell. He looked about forty years old, was very large and stocky and very capable looking. He zeroed in on us and I wondered if my instincts to wake the white guy on the floor up were right. We did anyway and told him to stand up and make room like the rest of us were.

The big white man squeezed his way over to our spot and introduced himself as Carl. We introduced ourselves and felt a little better with such an imposing presence. He looked wise to our environment and by body language and positioning; he took over as our leader and teacher.

“Listen up youngsters. That was smart to wake that white guy up lying down before those Chicanos had to. They’re just laying down the jail law. Look around, we’re the minority in here. That means you have to stick together, look out for each other, strengthen each other and build each other up. That includes every white person you see because we’re only as strong as our weakest link. It’s simple in here if you keep it simple. It starts with respect. Respect yourself and all others at all times. Respecting yourself includes keeping yourself looking groomed and sharp, working out a lot and building up your mind so you can figure out how to stop coming back to this place!”

Right then as Carl was educating, the Chicanos were waking up a Mexican wino who was still trying to sleep it off on the ground. He made the mistake of trying to push them away with his leg. The two Chicanos reacted and started firing punches, kicks and stomps. Everyone in the crowded cell squeezed against each other to get out of the way. I jumped up on the concrete slab for higher ground and saw the wino was knocked out while the Chicanos continued to soccer kick and stomp his face and head area.

A few young looking Sheriffs arrived at the cell door watching, and waiting for enough back up to arrive. A few others arrived and I could see they were about to enter. The Chicanos stopped and tried to blend in, like that was possible. The cell door popped open and four Sheriffs rushed in with Billy clubs and pepper spray. Other Sheriffs came in behind them and handcuffed the two Chicanos and escorted them out of the cell. A medical team came running in and got the still unconscious wino on a gurney and rushed him out.

As everything began to calm down Carl stepped up to the last Sheriff standing at the cell door and said, “What’s wrong with you people? You’ve got a wide open cell next door you could have put half of us in and this shit wouldn’t have happened! Do you like stacking us on top of each other so you can watch the violence?”

CHAPTER 36

Vince walked the line with a sea of other inmates coming out of the modules on their way to the bottom of the jail for a bus ride to court. He thought about the last three weeks of being locked up, and the other two bus rides to court. On the first trip to court the assault and battery charges had been amended to include G.B.I., great bodily injury. On the second trip to court a pretty lady came up in the holding cell and introduced herself as Stacy, his public defender. She explained the difference in the original charges and the amended charges. “The original charges carried a sentence of up to a maximum of a year in the county jail. The amended charges with the G.B.I. attached, carry a prison sentence that starts at two years and can reach up to four years.”

Vince thought about his public defender Stacy. She seems to care so much I think I’m in love. Vince smiled to himself and considered how blessed he was to have such an honest and caring person fighting for him. Most of the other inmates talked about how much they hated their public defender. They called them public pretenders who cared more about their association with the D.A.’s then their clients. Vince thought about what his cellie Joe was going through back in the modules. Joe claimed that in his case the prosecution was mounting a landslide of evidence against him and his public defender wouldn’t use any of his own evidence and the testimony of witnesses to refute the prosecution’s slant. Vince thought about Stacy and how she’d said “if I get the pictures from my Mom of my swollen head and black and blue face, she’d shock the judge by the excessive force and discredit the police and their reports. I hope my Mom comes to court with those pictures!”