I swear we just heard about a death at this prison. What is this prison's homicide rate??
Read the article here.
I swear we just heard about a death at this prison. What is this prison's homicide rate??
Read the article here.
Davontae Sanford, Anthony Haynes, Brett Hartman: You don´t know their names? Their faces?. This is an awesome site. Please give it some love and reblog it and share it on all the social media site. If we all get together and be the wind beneath each other’s angel wings, we can fly higher and further.
All of my drug war and prison crime thrillers are FREE for Prime Amazon members and on sale from .99 cents to 2.99 in kindle. http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00571NY5A Also available in print. Free copies for review and interviews available upon request.Here’s a review from Nielson Media in NY for Roll Call- A harrowing, down-and-dirty depiction–sometimes reminiscent of Steven Soderbergh’s Traffic–of America’s war on drugs, by former dealer and California artist Langohr. Locked up for a decade on drugs charges and immersed in both philosophical tomes and modern pulp thrillers, Langohr penned Roll Call, a light fictionalization of his troubled life. “I went from obsessively pacing my cell and wondering and worrying about how I was actually going to get my attorney to defend me, and how many years this sentence would bring,” writes Langohr in an afterword, “to realizing that if I find a way to write what’s in my head, I can find a way out of this hole I had put myself in!” Roll Call makes for exciting reading–gunplay, covert operations and backhanded deals abound. A vivid, clamorous account of the war on drugs. –Kirkus Discoveries, Nielsen Business Media, 770 Broadway, N.Y Yk
All of my drug war and prison thrillers are available on Amazon in print, kindle or audio book here- http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00571NY5A
We watched the yard gate open where dozens of prison guards from other yards were waiting to help with the escort. Over fifty 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 five hundred 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, Ad Seg, 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 two 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′ by 10′ of width to pace 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 Ad Seg, 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 collages 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 four White men. The four Whites were distinguishable from the rest of the prisoners by their sheer size.
All four men had large bald heads and only one 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 Ad Seg 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 fists to fire straight punches and we nodded our heads yes.
For all of my drug war and prison thrillers go here- http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00571NY5A Here’s a review for Underdog. It’s B.J. fighting for his life again in the wretched California prison system. In his latest novel, “Underdog,” Glenn Langohr takes B.J. back into the dreaded Supermax at Pelican Bay, California’s toughest prison. At first he’s just fighting to survive, hopelessly outnumbered by Mexican and black gang members, but then he goes back to try and help his friend, still inside, ferociously battling to change the penal system.
And ex-con Langohr can describe the hell of life inside better than any other writer. His vivid passages on just surviving in prison describe a nightmare we’d rather not know about.
He compares the plight of abandoned dogs, locked and horribly mistreated in rows of cages in animal shelters, to California prison inmates, locked and abused in the same cages.
Not a book for the faint of heart. We who sleep peacefully in our beds at night, unaware of the savagery going on behind prison walls, can only thankfully say: “There, but for the grace of God, go I.” John South, American Media
You can buy any of my drug war and prison thrillers here on Amazon- http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00571NY5A
Here’s an excerpt from my latest in the Prison Killer series…
We stood there staring at each other and neither Johny nor Topo said anything. I let what seemed like an eternity pass and said, “We have a problem. We’re being housed and labeled as southern Mexicans.”
There wasn’t any shock on Topo’s face. He was a stoic warrior who I knew had already given our situation a lot of thought. It began to dawn on me how much deeper our problem was. The southern Mexican politics in prison could be looked at like a mafia battle that incorporated up to 500 southern California street gangs. Not to mention their business with all of the cartels from Mexico. With all of that to deal with the pressure on all of them was enormous. They surely heard our problem discussed through the vent and heard Giant vehemently telling the Warden he wasn’t a southern Mexican. Maybe they felt insulted.
Topo nodded his head and said, “This is your ticket to enter if you want it?”
I realized that he was offering us his blessing to become southern Mexicans. Maybe the I.G.I guard at classification had that part of it right. That it was a Mexican Mafia tactic to recruit White inmates. I felt Giant looking at me to say something. I didn’t feel any pressure at all. I had never wanted to be a gang member or join a group to feel protected or part of another family. I made a show of looking at my arm and said, “I’m White and I’m not a gang member. So thanks for the offer but I think we make better friends.”
As soon as I finished I realized that Johny’s body posture relaxed. I looked at him and saw that authentic smile I remembered. I looked at Giant next.
There was a silent expectation building to hear what he had to say. Topo stared into his eyes. Johny turned toward him as well.
Giant stood there a foot and a half taller than Topo. I realized with his hair shaved down to the scalp he looked even more intimidating. I imagined him as a southern Mexican being used as a soldier to earn his points. He would never be able to break free and would spend the rest of his life in prison. He nodded his head to Topo and said, “Thanks for the offer Topo but I want to go home on my parole date in just under a year.”
Topo’s stoic expression didn’t waver. He nodded his head and said, “No problem. I can respect that.”
Now that we had the preliminaries out of the way I was curious to see how he and Johny would problem solve it. Johny got the ball rolling. He said, “When you get done with this SHU term in Solitary the next prison is going to send you to a southern Mexican’s cell. If you go in the cell it will be a big headache. Imagine if there are tensions with another race already on the yard you pull up too? What if one of the White inmates on the yard owes us a bunch of money for dope? Or what if there is a war brewing with the Black inmates?”
I thought about the level of secrecy the southern Mexicans held together with all of their gangs and issues. Having a White inmate in the cell would disrupt that.
Topo pointed out the problem even further. He said, “Plus you will have a hard time explaining to the rest of your White people why you are in a southern Mexican cell.”
I thought about it. If the wrong White people were in power on the next yard we landed on, they might shun us.
Topo said, “I’m not telling you what to do, but I wouldn’t go in a southern cell and let the door close on you.”
Giant said, “Refuse to get housed?”
Both Topo and Johny nodded their heads. Topo said, “But that is where your problems really start. Once you refuse to go in a cell think about how that will look to all of the southern Mexicans and all of the White inmates?”
I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it! The next prison would be like all the others. As soon as we got there the politics would began. An inmate would be in charge of studying all of the new arrivals to find out if they were a child molester, rapist or informant. They would ask for our criminal history paperwork. Not locking up was going to make us look like we had something to hide in a big way.
I shook my head in disgust at our positon and asked, “What do you suggest?”
Topo said, “Me and Johny’s names are well known. We’ll write a message for you to give to the southern Mexicans. That will take care of you at that level and it will actually work out well for you. The message will circulate up the chain of command to the shot callers. All the southerners will know you did us a favor and had our backs. How you deal with the Whites is on you.”
I realized that a message from both Topo and Johny would save us a lot of explaining. It dawned on me that our criminal history paperwork wasn’t in our cell right now. It had been boxed up and stored somewhere after the riot. All we had was the paperwork related to the riot. It would be enough to start with.
Johny filled in the rest of the blanks. He said, “You both better take our messages and your riot paperwork and wrap them up as small and tight as you can in plastic to wear out of here.”
What he was saying was to stick the paperwork up our asses and carry it to the next prison. Our property wouldn’t come with us to our next cell. Instead it would go through a search at the next prison for up to a month after we were cleared for the mainline.