Authors: Glenn Langohr
Pelican Bay Riot
PELICAN BAY RIOT
By Glenn Langohr
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2012 by Glenn Langohr
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
PELICAN BAY RIOT
Copyright 2012 by Glenn Langohr
Book Cover by William Cook
All True Prison Books by the Author are in the Kindle Store, including:
Roll Call
Lock Up Diaries, Drug Debts
Race Riot
Gladiator
http://amzn.to/gladiator-ebook
Upon Release From Prison
Underdog
Contact Glenn Langohr:
Blog -
http://bit.ly/rollcallblog
Email -
[email protected]
Twitter -
http://bit.ly/twitter_rollcall
Facebook -
http://www.facebook.com/glennthomascalifornia?ref=ts
About the Author
Glenn Langohr
is the author of five true prison books: Roll Call, Upon Release from Prison, Drug Debts, Race Riot, and Gladiator, the latter three known as the California Pelican Bay Prison Diaries. Glenn spent ten years in various level 4 prisons in California. It was during this time that he wrote his first book, Roll Call. In this book, Glenn takes you on a journey from a runaway childhood, to addict and drug dealer, into the drug war for an inside look at Mexican cartel wars; corrupt overzealous narcotic detectives, and a California Prison Union bent on breeding bigger criminals.
Glenn openly admits that he is an obsessive-compulsive addict; in recovery, saved by God's Grace, who researched the U.S War on Drugs so deeply, that he met and did business with Mexican Cartels, outlaw bikers and street gangs until the criminal justice system interrupted him.
It was during his 10 years in prison that he wrote every morning at 4 AM, before the politics and survival in a variety of California level 4 prisons took over. Upon his release from prison, Glenn married his dream girl ballerina, Sanette, who was very much involved in her church.
RACE RIOT
Chapter 1
The prison was off the beaten path on a remote stretch 100 miles from civilization where nobody knew or cared about the nightmarish tension within. I thought about the war zone I was headed back to. This was one of the hardest core prisons in the state of California. The Pelican Bay SHU released inmates here and often times sent them back.
Redwood trees soared in the distance as the bus climbed a hill and the prison came into view. One fence after another boxed one little yard after another and was the only concrete other than the street taking us there. I counted 12 different mini fenced in concrete jungles and there were more I couldn’t see behind other buildings as the bus pulled into a narrow strip where the razor wire tops of fences started. We waited until a guard came out of a booth and checked the bus. We were waved in, and shuffled to the receiving part of the prison where we waited to get processed. I, who answered to the name B.J, was one of a handful who had already been housed. I’d left to court on appeal.
My case, a drug case, had already been heard in court but I sent it to the Supreme Court. The reason I did was for ineffective council. 6 out of 10 cases from Orange County, California that go to the Supreme Court on appeal are overturned, most for ineffective counsel. In my case I was guilty as hell of dealing drugs but still holding a chip on my shoulder for being labeled a cartel level gun and drug dealer, outright lies. I am a California bred white man who used to surf , play sports and go to church until drugs polluted my soul, and I started to use them to pay bills.
Being an obsessive compulsive hypersensitive individual I happened to be very good at gathering and collecting and had made to many enemies in the drug world who put together a collection of lies law enforcement was only too happy to write in police reports. Having already been housed in the mainline population of the prison I only had to wait a couple hours for the escort deputies to arrive.
On the walk from the receiving portion of the prison I had a prison guard on my right and left and was escorted down a 6 foot wide strip of concrete to building 6. On the way there I looked to the right where the prison yard opened up like a baseball field where a gun tower of green had a gun hanging out a square box where home plate would've been. Exercise bars were in rows where first base would've been, and a circular track surrounded the rest of the yard. To my left, we walked past building 4, then 5 and then I heard the guard on my right speak into his headset, "Escort deputy Landry, pop gate 6."
A chain link fence with swirling razor wire in circles at the top of it opened. We walked into a 70 foot by 70 foot Sally-Port the gun tower for building 6 was in watching from above. I looked up and saw the tower guard behind a bullet proof window with bars diagonally spaced a foot apart. He was carrying a 50 millimeter rifle hanging from a shoulder strap over a dog door sized opening he could take aim and fire through.
Chapter 2
We entered the building. Walking through a narrow vestibule underneath the gun tower I looked up and saw guards walking on the glass above and knew they had to see us in case we picked this narrow vestibule for a race war or other violent act to handle business. There were two squared openings in the thick glass, one for dropping tear gas, the other for firing rounds.
Twenty feet of vestibule later the building's interior. The noise from 200 inmates reached my ears. As the sound registered, so did something deeper, more pervasive, the energy behind the noise. Yelling from inmates locked in cells became visible as did a few inmates walking with brooms. A couple of Black crip gang members were showering on the bottom floor. One went by Danger and looked like a crack baby skinny as a rail and all elbows and kneecaps with a wild afro on to small of a head. The other went by T-Rock and looked like a body builder and was all business. Upstairs in the second set of showers were a couple of Mexicans rinsing off. One was from West LA and the other from south of the border Tijuana.
I looked up at the gun tower past the red block letter sign- NO WARNING SHOTS FIRED, WARDEN- and saw the 2 guards talking to each other, they weren’t paying attention, and this gave me some time to roam around before getting locked in my cell.
I walked toward my cell and seven cells down on my left I stopped at Popeye’s grilled door and knocked from the side allowing him privacy rather than stick my head in without consideration. "What's up Pops? I just got back from my appeal and lost. Now I need medical for a check up from the neck up."
"B.J...Just a second I'm just finishing my bird bath."
I gave Popeye space to finish his cell shower with my back against the wall so I could see the tower and everything else. I needed to know what was up with a cell across from him. The prison administration allowed a probable notorious child molester killer into our domain. We didn’t have the facts to validate he was indeed a child molester killer; we’d heard it from a prison guard. Whether it was on purpose or a mistake was yet to come out. Of utmost import was the cell mate of the possible child molester. Popeye and I did our homework as thorough as could be done so everything would come out of the wash and that took more research than most district attorneys would give.
In so doing, we went back way deeper. With David, AKA- "Rooster", the cell mate of the probable child killer, we knew David was an orphan who grew up in L.A and entered the prison system not as a gang member, or even any kind of violent or sophisticated criminal, just a homeless-drug addict. His life sentence for a number of petty thefts and residential burglaries kept him in hotels with a side of dope on occasion, at best. The prison system bred him into a shooter for the A.B, a notorious White Clan, by using him to put in work by stabbing their offenders. Now he was on his way to Pelican Bay. But the kicker was he was about to get a chance at having his life sentence reduced on appeal where the courts would have latitude to modify his sentence for stealing a piece of pizza, a petty theft, strike 3. Quite a dilemma. These are the days of our prison lives.
Popeye came to the door. "B.J...Our man of the hour is going to whack the piece of shit."
I had it figured that way. Even with the chance of hope for a sentence reduction it was too late. Rooster had been bred into a warrior with pride and honor devoted to his destruction. He couldn't fathom living with himself, or how others would view him, for living with a piece of shit that molested people’s daughters under the age of 10, then killing them. Could you blame him?
Popeye had more to say, "The war brewing with the Cans and the Blacks is about to go. We are not moving any weapons out to the yard for em."
I knew the Cans was short for Mexicans and that we definitely weren’t going to smuggle knives and cans of mackerel to the yard where they would get buried near sprinklers so the metal detectors wouldn't go off. Those same weapons could later be used on us, the outnumbered whites. No thanks.
I thought about how the two Mexican Mafia reps in our building had been working on both Popeye and I over the last month in, “Talks", at our cell doors to smuggle weapons to the yard. Neither Popeye nor I explained the repulsiveness at the thought of smuggling weapons for them, then burying them on the yard, and then imagining the opportunity for those same weapons being slammed into our own loved ones given a change in circumstances. Preposterous.
Popeye noticed at the same time I did. The showers across from us up stairs where the Mexicans were in were done showering and something was going down. The trained eye could see it in their even more controlled expressions as they dried off more businesslike and in concert with each other. They were more determined, and on a mission of some sort. Both lifted one leg to put a boot on the steel bars enclosing the interior of the shower while tattooed arms and hands hurried to tie laces tight in unison. Then the other foot lifted for the other boot. The Mexicans finished their task and I saw one of them lean down and pull a string that was coming out from under a cell 10 feet away until a brown lunch bag became visible and quickly slid inside the shower between the bars. It didn’t look like a lunch was inside.