stuff.”
I laughed, “Then you’ll have to wait and see I guess.”
Heart didn’t look like he knew what to do with my cryptic conversation. I looked up at the gun tower. Nobody was posted. The vestibule door was a thick metal barrier and painted green with a red metal handle next to it. I watched Security Escort Heart grab it and slam it back and forth to alert the tower guards he was ready for entry. A tower guard appeared above us and nodded at Heart. The vestibule door slid open with a grinding noise.
I walked in ahead of my escort and 20 feet later the building opened up. The gun tower was above me and a tower guard said, “Johnson you are in cell 211.” I looked up and nodded my head to acknowledge him and saw his block gun hanging from a shoulder strap, another Mexican guard. I heard cell 211 pop open and walked that way but not before taking in the building.
The building’s interior opened up with cell 150 on the bottom tier and cell 250 on the top tier, both on my extreme right. The cells counted backward down that wall and turned left at a right angle down the next row of cells before turning left again at another right angle down a row of cells to 1 on my extreme left.
I walked to cell 211 by way of the stairs to the left and circled back down the first row a little less than halfway. I knew that from inside the cell I’d have a good view of all the cells from 212 to 250. My vision started taking in the cells on both tiers for occupants. Almost every cell had a body and a pair of eyes studying me. This kind of vigilance was normal for an intake building. This was where the study of arriving inmates started.
Where were you from on the streets of California? Were you gang affiliated? What prison had you just come from? Where is your paperwork relating to your criminal history? And other questions had to be answered.
I got to my cell door and looked back at the tower. Underneath on the wall in red block letters- WARNING! NO WARNING SHOTS FIRED! - Then the same explanation in Spanish. Above, one of the tower guards was watching me from a control booth a few feet into the tower. He tapped a button that popped cells open and made a “clicking” noise that told me to get in and close the door behind me. I had to wait him out to see how irritated he’d get and looked at the other tower guard leaning on the open part of the tower window with his block gun still hanging from a shoulder strap. I entered.
The cell was 6 feet wide and 10 feet long with concrete bunk beds that filled half the width and ended with a stainless steel sink and toilet where I stood. My cell mate was a youngster and hopped off the top bunk. He was wearing white boxer shorts only and looked like a rich kid-skater-surfer type at about 5'7 and 170 lbs of cut up body without a hair on him and a small shaved head. He didn't look like he belonged in prison. Not one tattoo… like me. He smiled and stuck his hand out and said, 'Hi bro, I'm Scott from South Orange County."
I smiled at the happy looking European chap and shook his hand. "I'm B.J, also from South O.C." Scott practically jumped he looked so happy. "I've heard of you! I'm glad I've got a homeboy for a cell mate!" Scott's happy excitement was infectious and we played the who's who game and found our acquaintances’ we grew up with together. After that I learned a lot about the yard and program. He told me I'd be stuck in the cell until an initial I.C.C hearing cleared me for yard. It would take 7-10 days. Then, the Mexican and Black races were in the middle of a war and they themselves were on lock down so we and the Asian race had the yard to ourselves. That caught my interest. Then, we exchanged paperwork relating to our criminal history to follow protocol.
Nobody wants to live with a child molester or woman killer. Scott was doing his time for using heroin, taking a homeless man into his home, getting his
I laughed, “Then you’ll have to wait and see I guess.”
Heart didn’t look like he knew what to do with my cryptic conversation. I looked up at the gun tower. Nobody was posted. The vestibule door was a thick metal barrier and painted green with a red metal handle next to it. I watched Security Escort Heart grab it and slam it back and forth to alert the tower guards he was ready for entry. A tower guard appeared above us and nodded at Heart. The vestibule door slid open with a grinding noise.
I walked in ahead of my escort and 20 feet later the building opened up. The gun tower was above me and a tower guard said, “Johnson you are in cell 211.” I looked up and nodded my head to acknowledge him and saw his block gun hanging from a shoulder strap, another Mexican guard. I heard cell 211 pop open and walked that way but not before taking in the building.
The building’s interior opened up with cell 150 on the bottom tier and cell 250 on the top tier, both on my extreme right. The cells counted backward down that wall and turned left at a right angle down the next row of cells before turning left again at another right angle down a row of cells to 1 on my extreme left.
I walked to cell 211 by way of the stairs to the left and circled back down the first row a little less than halfway. I knew that from inside the cell I’d have a good view of all the cells from 212 to 250. My vision started taking in the cells on both tiers for occupants. Almost every cell had a body and a pair of eyes studying me. This kind of vigilance was normal for an intake building. This was where the study of arriving inmates started.
Where were you from on the streets of California? Were you gang affiliated? What prison had you just come from? Where is your paperwork relating to your criminal history? And other questions had to be answered.
I got to my cell door and looked back at the tower. Underneath on the wall in red block letters- WARNING! NO WARNING SHOTS FIRED! - Then the same explanation in Spanish. Above, one of the tower guards was watching me from a control booth a few feet into the tower. He tapped a button that popped cells open and made a “clicking” noise that told me to get in and close the door behind me. I had to wait him out to see how irritated he’d get and looked at the other tower guard leaning on the open part of the tower window with his block gun still hanging from a shoulder strap. I entered.
The cell was 6 feet wide and 10 feet long with concrete bunk beds that filled half the width and ended with a stainless steel sink and toilet where I stood. My cell mate was a youngster and hopped off the top bunk. He was wearing white boxer shorts only and looked like a rich kid-skater-surfer type at about 5'7 and 170 lbs of cut up body without a hair on him and a small shaved head. He didn't look like he belonged in prison. Not one tattoo… like me. He smiled and stuck his hand out and said, 'Hi bro, I'm Scott from South Orange County."
I smiled at the happy looking European chap and shook his hand. "I'm B.J, also from South O.C." Scott practically jumped he looked so happy. "I've heard of you! I'm glad I've got a homeboy for a cell mate!" Scott's happy excitement was infectious and we played the who's who game and found our acquaintances’ we grew up with together. After that I learned a lot about the yard and program. He told me I'd be stuck in the cell until an initial I.C.C hearing cleared me for yard. It would take 7-10 days. Then, the Mexican and Black races were in the middle of a war and they themselves were on lock down so we and the Asian race had the yard to ourselves. That caught my interest. Then, we exchanged paperwork relating to our criminal history to follow protocol.
Nobody wants to live with a child molester or woman killer. Scott was doing his time for using heroin, taking a homeless man into his home, getting his
Similar Books
