Thanks for posting this! It sucks is that the rapist killed the other guy. Usually it is the other way around. High Desert is off the hook with prison politics. It is one of the craziest prisons in California because the Pelican Bay SHU releases prisoners done with their solitary time there and Salinas Valley, another level 4 fire cracker. I spent 10 years in some of California's worst prisons on drug charges and started writing books from solitary confinement. God is good, now I have 8 published. http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00571NY5A
I’m honored and thrilled to be interviewing Glenn Langohr author of Roll Call, Upon Release From Prison, Race Riot, Lock Up Diaries, Gladiator, Underdog, Prison Riot and Pelican Bay Riot, on I Am Darmie Orem and Authors’ Curtilage with Darmie Orem.
Welcome Langohr.
“Thank you, Darmie.”
Langohr, 42, has spent 10 1/2. Years - approximately a quarter of his life – in prison, the result of drug – related convictions which has evoked his desire to write and write and write some more about the story of his life after he found God and a calling as a writer.
The salvation found well-built author ran away at 12. By 15, he was selling pot supplied to him by Mexican Smuggler. By 18 he was serving his first hold in jail. When he got out he resumed dealing drugs, this time he became one of the busiest amphetamine dealers in South Orange County and also became addict.
Langohr in all has written eight books. He has been invited to speak before criminal justice classes at colleges.
His most recent book Underdog, a crime thriller true story opened with: Sergeant Torrez crowding the convicts’ cell door with a smirk on his face with six IGI Gooners behind him.
Glenn as the character Bj in the book said, they called the inmate Gang Investigators Gooners because they wore similar uniforms to the regular prison guards and had additional black stitching on their shoulders and chest that resembled tattoos to signify they were in charge of deciphering; who the gangsters were, usually was based on their tattoos…
Using the experiences of one’s life and transforming them into fiction can be a great challenge. Langohr, how were you able to pull this off?
“I use the true colors of life and paint on a fictional landscape to protect the innocent and the not so innocent. “
From the opening of Underdog one could see that the story is tight and compelling. Did you have some sort of writing courses during your years behind bars?
“No. That is what we need to do as a society. Help prisoners get instructional writing guides and more learning power. What I did is pray and read the Bible every day. I also read everything else I could get my hands on. God answered my prayers and led me to write. Out of the blue, I got a letter from a Pastor by the name of David Hocking from the church, Hope For Today. From that point on I communicated with him and he sent me information on how to publish books and make movies. That lit a fire of encouragement inside of me and I kept on writing with new vigor.”
Obviously, you consider your life as some big book and ain’t ashamed to go on talking about it. Why did you use life as novels?
“I wanted to change the destructive path I was on. When I ran away from a divorced family at the age of 12, I was hurt emotionally and had to find a way to soothe the pain. The streets and the drug world was an exciting distraction at first but always ends with prison, insanity or a coffin. I will use a quote from my novel Roll Call to make the point. “Sow a bad thought and reap an action. Sow an action and reap a habit. Sow a habit and reap a character. Sow a character and reap a destiny.” I wanted to open up people’s eyes that God can turn any life around, even those that society has cast aside as the worst of the worst. It all starts with changing your thoughts.”
When did you first get down events in your life on the paper? Did you start by keeping a journal or simply started writing it as a book?
“I started writing from a prison cell in solitary confinement with the hope that I could write a novel about the drug war that would turn into a movie or TV series. I woke up at 4 AM and wrote sporadically all day and night. ”
How did you act when it occurred to you that you could turn your life experiences into books? Or was it somebody that opened your eyes that you could do that?
“After a year of writing I saw the light. I knew the content I was writing about was destined to be read and understood. I got excited and started pacing the length of the cell back and forth and it helped me think even deeper.”
What’s the central conflict of the novel Underdog?
“In California and other prisons in the U.S, prison tattoos on inmates are being used as evidence to classify prisoners to solitary confinement where they don’t get to see the sun ever again. While I was in prison the Criminal Justice system sent way to many people to prison for drug crimes. That filled the prisons up to double their capacities. It made prison a more violent place and a bigger breeding ground for gangs. It was harder and harder to keep the peace and disputes arose over who could use things like tables, work out bars and showers. More and more riots happened. I was involved in a few that I did everything I could to avoid. When I went to the hole, solitary confinement, I saw first hand how the prison was falsely labeling prisoners as bad influencers based on their tattoos. I published Underdog one day after a prisoner died in a hunger strike over the same issues. “
You’ve been quite creative in transforming your life experiences into books. Any tips for those willing to also put out their life stories?
“Write every day until you are waking up before everyone else. Write before you get distracted! Don’t worry about it being perfect or you will never get started. Keep in mind that you have to develop conflict and characters early. Always remember that any script must have a beginning, middle and end. So break it into those pieces and it will come together eventually. Know that you have to rewrite the script many times so the first time don’t hold back. You can cut pieces out later. Just do it.”
Is there any word of advice for strayed children doing drugs?
“Don’t do it! God is so amazing and He made us in His image. Drugs are poison and pollute the brain and worse, they stain the very soul. You only have one brain, one soul and one body, treat yourself like a Holy temple for God. If you are a child who is lost, ask for help! Go to all the churches and boldly tell them your problems. If nobody is helping you, don’t worry. God will! While you are suffering, look at it as an opportunity to help other people who are suffering and you won’t be suffering as much!”
Now that you are reborn again into a clean path, what sort of man would you describe yourself?
“I used to have to work out for 4 hours a day to deal with life and feel good. I found a way better way. If you sing worship songs to the Lord you feel the same way and get even better looking at the same time! It’s true; singing makes your cheek bones more beautiful. The older and wiser I get, the more I realize I need God to direct my path.”
Are there any life’s failures which could make you go back to your old ways?
“There is no way! I’m still hyper sensitive and all the same pains and temptations still exist, but I don’t want to lose this connection I have with God. The Bible has proven itself to be the Holy Word of God by how many prophecies have been fulfilled. With that said, I believe the end is near and all this craziness is the last gasp of a fallen world. I want to be about God’s Kingdom, not the devils.”
Please provide links to your Website/blog, your social media profiles, and links to purchase your book (s).
“Here are links to all my books in the U.S. in print and kindle”
Besides turning your life story into books, do you have plans of selling them to filmmakers for movie adaptation? I think you should contact FeatureWorld and see what they have to offer you if you’ve got any plans like that. Or you market all your stories at TVFilmRights
TV film rights is the Film, Television, and Publishing Industry’s premiere online source for selling different kinds of scripts. There are always producers scouting movie ideas and screenplays on the site.
“Thanks for the links to sell the stories to the movies!”
Have you read through Glenn T Langohr interview? What do you think of him? Don’t you think he’s a product of grace everyone should reckon with? Feel free to submit questions for him at his email address and he will reply them promptly.
Once again Glenn, I’m honored and thrilled to have you stop by at my blogs.
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
I watched from the cell door and saw the brass come into the building. There was a dark black man over 50 years old who looked like he was the Warden, another black man with lighter skin who looked like he was the head counselor, known as the CCII, and a round table of three other lower level Prison Administrators. They all went into an office under the building’s gun tower. Heart stripped me out for security. I knew the drill and dropped the white state boxer shorts and lifted my testicles, then turned, then squatted and coughed, then lifted each foot and waited for the metal detector wand. Heart waved it by my butt cheeks and said, “I have to handcuff you but I’ll do it with your hands in front of you.” I walked down the stairs and saw the usual suspects behind cell doors watching. L’il Bird was always perched.
The office was a 14′ by 14′ room. There was a 6′ by 3′ wood table that my criminal history was spread out on. The brass was already positioned by rank. At the end of the table the Warden sported a name plate – Jackson. Next to him was the CCII, Allen. On the other side of the table the three lower ranking prison guards. Heart stood behind me waiting for me to be seated at the end of the table where the brass could study me like an insect. Everyone stared at the warden waiting for him to start. He had his head bent down while he scrutinized the papers in my file. His big black bald wrinkled head finally looked up at me. He studied me through bifocals for far too long, then said, “Benny Johnson…Sit down.”
I sat with my handcuffed hands resting on the table in front of me staring at the Warden, and waited…and waited…I broke the staring contest and looked at CCII Allen’s face. A little nicer, some smile lines, some laugh lines, compassionate eyes… Warden Jackson said, “What are you doing here?”
I stared back at the warden wondering if I could create any smile lines…”I’m looking for Club Med. I must have made the wrong turn.”
The warden’s forehead creased in anger and it pulled his bifocals higher up his bulbous nose. I
looked at CCII Allen. He was trying not to laugh but his eyes were crinkled. I had to assume the warden meant, how did I get out of the last prison and make it to his so I said, “I didn’t make the arrangements, you’re going to have to talk to the travel agent.”
The warden still didn’t look like he liked my answers. His voice growing more irritated as he said,
“This file says you are an inch away from an indeterminate SHU.” That meant for the rest of my prison
sentence I’d do my time in the isolated Pelican Bay SHU. I stayed quiet though my soul raged; I don’t
have a single tattoo and have never claimed a gang! Yes, I have been involved in violence in prison but
how else do you survive?
The warden began with the questions…”What’s your AKA, what do they call you?”
“Benny Johnson.”
“What gangs are you affiliated with?”
“Which ever ones you house me with, or put me in a cell with.”
The warden was getting pissed. The bifocals were straining higher. The wrinkles in the forehead
deepened. In an angrier voice he asked, “What neighborhood do you run with?”
“I run solo, but sometimes circle the YMCA.”
The warden shouted at me, “Where are you from?”
I felt the anger rising in my soul like fire. This man just wanted to write down that I was a gang member or shot caller and put that in my file to discard me like trash, all with these questions to label me. I didn’t bother telling him I’m from my momma, and said, “I don’t have a tattoo, I’ve never
claimed a gang, I’m just a drug addict who struggles with impulse control and finances…” I shut my anger off by ending with, “But I’m saved by the blood of Jesus.”
The warden seemed to calm down and in a softer tone said, “You’ve got four counts of battery on
police officers, and a pile of violence in prison.”
He had it wrong, or at least the perspective. The sheriffs in Orange County jumped me in the county jail after I was a witness to police brutality and interviewed on the news. As far as the in prison violence, it is a predatory environ and if you don’t lead you either get pressured or led. I wasn’t going to try to explain myself. Nobody listened anyway.
The warden said, “I’m clearing you for yard but at this prison we shoot people like you. I’m going to post a memo for all the gun tower guards to keep an eye on you with a hair trigger.”
To purchase this kindle book go here- http://www.amazon.com/dp/B009K7IGOQ
A month into our solitary confinement our cell was called for I.C.C. I went first and walked to the office in handcuffs. The Warden held my right arm and guided me in the door. There was a large oak table with a collection of people sitting down staring at me like I wasn’t human. At the head of the table, staring at all the files in front of him, was a light colored Black man with reading glasses. Next to him was Lieutenant Pickler and two other White men. The Warden led me to a seat facing the prison administration and left.
The Black man looked up for a second and said, “Sit down inmate Johnson. I’m Counselor Moon. This is Lieutenant Pickler, Inmate Gang Investigator Moore and Doctor Brennan from Mental Health Services.”
Counselor Moon looked back at my file and fingered through more pages like he wasn’t ready to begin. Lieutenant Pickler was the only one in uniform and he was staring at me with a satisfied smirk on his face. Like he already had a plan worked out for my destiny. The other two at the desk blended in as if they were just taking notes.
Counselor Moon’s reading glasses moved up and down his nose while he studied my file. He found the page he wanted and looked up at me. “Inmate Johnson, who do you run with in prison?”
I answered right away. “I’m a White inmate, not a southern Mexican.”
Counselor Moon’s glasses flexed up his nose and his forehead creased into a skeptical look like he didn’t believe me. He said, “Why did you get involved in that riot?”
I couldn’t answer. The unwritten code of silence. If I said to much and it became a written report, I would be looked at like a rat or informant.
Counselor Moon shook his head and said, “In your file it says you were a cartel level gun and drug dealer. That leads me to believe you’re affiliated with the Mexicans. Your involvement in this riot leads me to believe your affiliation is with the southern Mexicans. Are you a south sider or a Sureno?”
I knew that both were considered prison gangs under the heading of the Mexican Mafia. The Mexican street gangs all over southern California merged into one of those two headings in prison. I answered, “I’m a White man and I don’t claim any gangs.”
Counselor Moon snorted and said, “That’s hard to believe.”
Lieutenant Picker jumped in and said, “We’re going to have to assume your a southern Mexican.”
Investigator Moore asked, “Does he have any gang tattoos? Maybe something related to the number 13?”
Lieutenant Pickler responded, “He doesn’t have any tattoos at all but considering his crimes on the street and involvement in this riot, I think he’s a sleeper for the Mexican Mafia.”
I looked at the collection of faces. They were all nodding their heads solemnly in agreement. The feeling of doom was setting in. I imagined the worst case scenario. I could be stuck in solitary for years, mabye for the rest of my sentence.
Investigator Moore added, “That would be a Mexican Mafia tactic, to have someone on the inside with the Whites as a drug dealer and collector.”
Counselor Moon said, “We are clearing you for program in solitary but are considering you a southern Mexican inmate. You will go to yard with them and be housed in a cell with them.”
I almost lost it in frustration and found myself ready to give up the code of silence. I wrestled with it in my thoughts. If I explained myself without implicating anyone…
I said, “You know the policies at this prison related to space. You know that different races use different showers and sides of the dayroom and yard… All we did is defend ourselves. How does that make me a southern Mexican?”
I knew it wasn’t enough. I also knew that being stuck in solitary for a lot longer was now my destiny. I studied Counselor Moon. He was shaking his head. Lieutenant Pickler cocked his head back with a smug look on his face like he was enjoying my position even more. He said, “No other White inmates got involved in the riot on the entire yard, except you two.”
I looked at the Inmate Gang Investigator. He was staring at one of my files and taking notes. This wasn’t getting any better. I looked at the Doctor and felt like I needed a check up from the neck up.
I got back to the cell and it was Giant’s turn. While he was going through the strip search he asked, “What happened? Why do you look so focused?”
I said, “They have me labeled as a southern Mexican now. It’s all bad.”
Giant put on the jumpsuit and backed his way to the open tray slot. He bent over and stuck his wrist through the opening and looked into my eyes. He asked, “What should I do?”
A possible anwer came to me. “Hit up the Warden on the walk to the office. Maybe he can help us.”
For the next 20 minutes I paced the length of the cell back and forth like a locomotive. There was room to take 4 steps each way. Walking fast and turning on a dime at each end helped me think. To avoid the darkness of depression I thought about something good. We were getting cleared for yard for 10 hours a week. Solitary hell would be much easier to deal with.
I watched Giant walk back to the cell with his hands cuffed behind his back. He was hunched over and still almost a foot taller then the Warden. He looked like he was losing it. The Warden held his right shoulder. I heard Giant asking, “How am I a southern Mexican when I’m a White man from northern California? This shit is ridiculous!”
The Warden looked very confused. It didn’t look like he was going to be able to give us a quick fix. Giant was so perturbed that it looked like he had to see the Warden’s face. Bent over in a hunch already, he turned his neck and head to look at the Warden.
The Warden tried to avoid the issue and put his other arm in the air to signal the tower guard to pop the cell. The cell popped open and Giant walked in. The Warden quickly slammed the cell shut and put his key in the tray slot. Giant didn’t turn around. Instead, he looked at the Warden through the plexiglass and said calmly and slowly, “Warden Parker I’m a White inmate from San Francisco. That’s northern California. They just labeled me a southern Mexican so now I’m going to be stuck in solitary confinement for way longer.”
It looked like the Warden cared. His face had a pained look like he was frustrated. He asked, “How would that keep you in solitary confinement?”
Giant said, “Because when I finally get finished with my solitary time for this riot I’m going to refuse to get housed being labeled a southern Mexican.”
It looked like the Warden was beginning to understand how deep the racial issue was. I asked, “Warden, why aren’t you at the head of the table for the inmate Classification Committee? Why are you out here doing the grunt work of escorting inmates?”
The question stunned the Warden. His confused look turned into an authentic look and he answered, “I just transferred to this prison.”
That evening we heard the vestibule door grind open. An army of 8 prison guards entered the building. The tower guard tapped on the microphone and announced, “Shower time! From now on you will get showers 3 times a week. We have more prison staff. Since we don’t have much time tonight you only get 10 minutes.”
The Mexican from Tijuana acted normal in his greeting as he led the way and gave the Mexican
from LA a shadow to hide in. The Mexican from Tijuana clapped hands in a handshake with Danger,
who had his arm sticking out the steel bars enclosing the showers.
His black arm got slammed at an angle against the steel bar at his elbow and the Mexican kept
pushing it that way. I heard the bone fracture and Danger screaming in pain. He tried to resist by arm
wrestling his arm back into the safety of the shower but it was useless. His fractured arm wouldn’t
respond it was uselessly folded at the elbow.
The other Mexican came out from behind and thrust a thin steel ice pick at an angle through the
shower bars into Danger’s face as he leaned away to use the steel bars for protection, while at the same
time still trying to get his fractured arm back through the bars. After getting hit in the cheek just below
his eye he backed hard enough to free himself.
The other Black Crip, T-Rock fired punches at the second Mexican attacker. The steel bars
enclosing the shower were blocking any further action and the outraged T-Rock yanked the door open,
yelled, and slipped in shower shoes. The second Mexican took advantage of his slip and used his left
arm to hold the shower door open and with his right hand jabbed the steel into T-Rocks shoulder. TRock
gathered himself with even more rage. The warrior took the ice pick poking as if it were only bee
stings and fired so many punches that the Mexican backed out of the shower, but closed the door on the
forward charging T-Rock. He made it through the narrow closing door but took the impact on his
shoulder and head and was made even more furious. His anger alone separated him from the two
attacking Mexicans. Incited by his partners rage, Danger came running out of the shower with his
fractured arm hanging at an unnatural angle.
The sound of the block gun was next, “Boom!”
I slid down Popeye’s cell with my back against it to sit on my haunches and realized inmates in
cells were yelling and kicking their cell doors. I looked at the tower and saw the smoke from the tip of
the rifle and at the same time heard the alarm send a siren of decibels in screeches that rose and fell.
Another tower guard at the control booth yelled into the microphone, “Get down! Get down!”, then ran to the opening in the tower window with another rifle.
The two Black Crips were engaging the Mexicans with punches, kicks and grapple throws with
arms going everywhere. All four inmates were bouncing off cell doors with the fight going further
away from the tower, down the tier. Prison guards poured through the vestibule and got as close as they
could and fired block guns, then pointed canisters of pepper spray at them from four feet away, a
stream of painted orange followed the combatants still fighting and bouncing off cell doors.
The gun tower yelled into the microphone, “Get the fuck down! Live rounds coming!” I saw the
four inmates fighting hesitate for a millisecond, like they knew what they’d heard from the tower
changed this melee into deadly consequences or life sentences but they kept fighting for honor waiting
for the other side to back down first.
“Boom!” The block gun spoke, then “Ping”, a live round ricocheted, and it was enough. All four
inmates sprawled out on the floor just as another army of prison deputies with gas masks came pouring
through the vestibule with plastic shields thrust in front of them.
Popeye said, “That was weak.”
Twenty minutes later the four inmates were led out of the building in handcuffs. The building’s
occupants inside cells emanated energy that blew rage, frustration and confusion through the air like
wind. I walked up the stairs wondering if any Mexicans or Blacks heard Popeye say in disgust, “That
was weak.” I agreed with him, it was weak.
Not the battle, the reason for it and the position it would put every single one of the inmates in,
along with the deputies, along with the families of both, along with the communities outside the prison
walls.
My cell door popped open and I took a last look with my shirt over my mouth. The tear gas fog
floated slowly in a cloud and I could see the canisters it came out of under the tower still whispering
gas. Almost every inmate and guard coughed and felt the sting burning their eyes.
Down the tier from the canisters, the floor was painted orange in a path the pepper spray
extinguishers’ sent, followed by a line that went up and on a few of the cell doors the combatants had
bounced off. Blood stains soaked some of the floor and stained a few of the cells. Almost every cell
still had a bald head with a pair of eyes at their cell doors, studying the building the way I was, with
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
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.
