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Glenn Langohr's Real Life Prison Book Character Damien: Edits for Drug War Documentary

This is Damien, One of the Characters in Many of Glenn Langohr's 11 Prison Books. Check Out His Books in Print, Kindle or Audio Book Here~ http://amzn.to/19c9Gvo If you believe in Redemption please Buy, Share and Review His Books. God Bless You!

The Art of War: A Prison Memoir, is Glenn Langohr's newest book. It is in the top 10 in Criminology on Amazon for kindle. Join his Facebook page for a Free copy.

An Excerpt From Glenn Langohr's Newest Prison Book: Life in Lockdown

Heart had some court paperwork in his hands and he positioned it at the side of our cell door where the small crack was and slid it in.

I didn’t grab it and pinched Damon’s hand as he tried to reach for it. The paperwork was about an inmate who had 44 counts of Child Molestation. It might as well have been a bomb. It was going to force us to slice part of his face off. I didn’t like the position we were in. I didn’t want to force some kid to handle it, who wouldn’t know how, and I didn’t want to force a seasoned convict to do it who could catch a 3^rd strike and life sentence over it.

I waved Heart to the side of the cell door.

He positioned his back against the wall so his ear was inches from my lips at the side of the cell, just like a convict. I asked, “Are you going to help us get away with this one?”

Heart turned to talk into my ear through the side of the cell.  “You didn’t need my help today did you?”

Damon laughed and it forced me to relax. I grabbed the paperwork.

Truthfully, I was in over my head. I wanted enough control of the White inmates to keep us all safe, with level headed policies, like drug debt rules and other regulations to keep us tight, but this level of familiarity with a prison guard was new to me. Was I supposed to ask for dope, a cell phone or tobacco?

I responded, “Yeah but this one is more serious. Someone could catch a life case over this child predator.”

Heart said, “Just don’t kill him and the investigation won’t be serious. We let you guys get away with a lot on the yard.”

Heart tapped on our cell door and went next door.

We watched him get in line next to Mark.

We barely heard Mark say, “It was nice to meet you Sano. The I.G.I is going to take you to the hole any time. Pack your stuff.”

Mark noticed Heart standing there and got out of the way. I waved him back over to our cell.

Damon asked Mark, “Are they taking both of em?”

Mark stayed in front of our cell and shook his head. He was looking next door and trying to listen to what they were saying.

Heart was whispering into the side of their cell with his back to the wall. I looked at Garcia sitting at the podium below. He was watching. He said something into his microphone on his shoulder to the guard in the tower.

The guard in the tower tapped the microphone to signify an announcement. “Attention on the tier. The yard is on lockdown pending an investigation. Mark Grisham lock it up!”

Mark came to the side of our cell and said, “They’re taking Sano and leaving Boxer for right now. They don’t have enough room for both of them in the hole.”

Mark knocked on the door goodbye and walked to his cell six doors away.

A couple minutes later Heart said good-bye to Boxer and Sano and started walking past our cell. I pounded on the door and yelled, “Heart! How long are the White inmates going to be locked down?”

Heart stopped walking for just long enough to say, “Anywhere from a couple days to two weeks. They’ll have a meeting about it tomorrow.”

Chapter 3

Boxer’s Calling Shots Solo for the Chicanos

We heard our Mexican Mobster neighbors’ pound on the wall. I got off my bunk and got on the ground on all fours and banged on the wall back.

Boxer said, “I’m sending my line!”

I said, “Shoot it!”

Before we went to yard and gave Godwin a “soft whacking”, we had sent our homemade wine to their cell to keep it safe.

A line came flying into our cell carried by a milk carton container that had been smashed flat and weighted down with just enough state soap. I pulled the line in and felt it resist and heard the sound of liquid sloshing around. Our vino.

I heard Boxer say, “There’s a “wila” in there “tambien.” Mexican prison slang for a written message also.

I pulled the message out of a slot in the milk carton and handed it to my cell brother Damon.

Damon read it to me while I pulled in our not quite ready alcohol.

“Greetings BJ and Damon, glad you made it back from your mission. As you probably know, Sano is going back to the hole. Do you want to send any messages to your people in there? With Respect, Boxer and Sano”

They were following protocol. Our races were allied together. We shared the same spaces on the yard, we shared the same showers in the building and we even worked out together as if we were in the military and on the same side, at certain influential prisons. We passed messages for each other, fed each other and in general, cared for and respected each other.

Right now, they were asking if we wanted to send a message to anyone in the hole Solitary Confinement.

If we would have known who the “Shot Caller” for the White inmates was in the hole, it would have made us appear very organized and given us even more clout.

It always helped to have a Mexican Mobster on the yard because business was done right and riots didn’t happen, unless they had to. Right now, one was brewing between the Mexican and the Black inmates. Mexican pride was on the line after receiving a beat down six months prior.

We heard our neighbor’s bang on our wall again. Boxer asked, “Do you guys want to read the newspaper? We got the Orange County Register over here!”

I got down on the ground again and yelled, “Yeah, shoot it please!”

I got our line out and pinched it with my thumb as close as possible to the corner of our cell and extended the line with the milk carton far enough to wing it in a circular motion. By holding it pinched to the ground it flew out and under the cell door in an arc that brought it right under their cell door. We heard it whack their wall and I felt it get pulled in further.

A couple minutes later I pulled in the line with the newspaper wrapped around it.

Damon was on the top bunk studying the paperwork Heart gave us.

I gave him some space to get a brain full of stress and tried to act nonchalant by reading our hometown news.

As fate would have it, on the front page of the Orange County Register, there was an article about a friend of mine. His name was Jared Petrovich. He was a youngster at 22 years old.

I knew him when he was a 16-year-old runaway drug addict. He was absolutely harmless. Or he was then.

Now he was fighting a life sentence!

The article stated that he had been to prison for a sentence of a year, since I’d last seen him. Now, fighting another drug addict case for petty theft, he caught a high profile murder beef in our county jail. The authorities were even saying he was a “Shot Caller”, who organized the “Hit”.

But there was way more to the ugly story.

An Orange County Jail Deputy had told some of the Mexican and White inmates that they had a high profile “Child Molester” in their domain, his name, John Chamberlain.

The article alluded to the possibility that a few Sheriff deputies helped the inmates “handle the business” by leaving their watch post for a while.

I knew that part of the county jail. The Deputies had to have helped them by leaving their post. It was impossible for them not to see and hear the attack otherwise.

They were housed in a dormitory setting that was considered “low level” in the F Barracks at Theo Lacy Branch Jail.

I read between the lines and visualized what happened. The Sheriff deputy probably “alerted” way to many inmates about the “Child Molester” living with them, way to loudly, and that presented an enormous amount of stress.

The reason I deduced that it happened that way is because the article went on to state that three Mexican inmates and three White inmates were involved in the beat down that ended in Chamberlain’s death.

The mission had been put together haphazardly.

The Deputies turned a blind eye for to long. By the time they came back to their posts, medical attention was a tad to late.

Even worse, Chamberlain wasn’t even a Child Molester.

He was in jail for “Possessing Child Pornography”.

If the inmates had been more seasoned, they would have forced the Sheriff to turn over the court “Paperwork” to reinforce the claim before acting.

Damon broke through my reading by asking, “What does this penal code reference mean? ANNLY/MOLEST…”

I handed Damon the article to read and accepted the paperwork for Daniel Dennings.

There were 6 legal papers stapled together. The first two pages stated that Daniel Dennings had been charged with 72 charges. There were 44 counts of ANNLY/MOLEST that started on Jan 1, 1994. For the purposes of sentencing Daniel Dennings was found guilty on Jan 15, 1994, then on Feb 1, 1994, then on Feb 15, 1994 and so on for the entire 44 counts. Then his lesser charges were listed that included: Sodomy, oral copulation and lewd and lascivious behavior.

What the heck did ANNLY/MOLEST stand for? My mind flashed images of the worst Catholic priest scenario forcing anal sex on a little boy.

Chapter 4

Mexican Politics

Be sure to buy Caught in the CrossFire and How to Make Prison Weapons on Amazon in Print, Kindle or Audio Book!

An Excerpt From Glenn Langohr From His Newest Prison Book, How to Make Prison Weapons To Survive a Gang War in Prison: Life in Lockdown

Chapter 2

No Warning Shots Fired

I got up and walked to the cell door. The gun tower was 30 feet away. To the right along the wall there were two phones that inmates used when we weren’t locked down. In between each phone was a steel cage the size of a small phone booth for temporary security housing for inmates. Above, on the wall 15 feet high, were red block letters that read: WARNING! NO WARNING SHOTS FIRED, WARDEN

The gun tower was constructed of tinted bulletproof windows we could see through. There were bars from top to bottom every few feet. In between the bars there were open spaces in the windows for enough room for guns to be pointed to fire anywhere below.

One of the tower guards sitting in a swivel chair playing with his cell phone got up. He walked past the other guard sitting at a lit up control booth and stopped at a window that overlooked the prison yard.

A loud metal noise reverberated through the building. Someone was yanking a steel handle on the vestibule door back and forth on the yard side signifying they wanted entrance.

The tower guard looked down at whoever was outside and nodded his head. He turned to the tower guard at the control booth and said something.

The tower guard at the control booth pushed a button and the vestibule door underneath shrieked and rattled open.

The other tower guard walked back and looked down through a clear window overlooking the vestibule tunnel to watch the procession walk underneath him.

At the end of the tunnel Gomez, our building guard, was the first one through. Behind him were a couple other guards. The three stopped and looked up at the tower guards standing up facing them at one of the portals.

One of the tower guards asked, “Are we running showers this morning?”

Gomez said, “Maybe later. First we’re going to move Johnson and Smith to building one.”

Gomez was a short, stocky, mean looking Mexican who looked like he lived for the power he had as a prison guard. He turned and stared at our cell and looked right at me.

The tower guard asked him, “How did they get authorization to move out of the building that fast? Did they get the green light from you?”

Gomez stared at me with a frustrated look on his face and said, “I didn’t know about it until a few minutes ago. Inmate Grisham maneuvered it. I don’t know how that White inmate has so much juice on this yard.”

The tower guard said, “I do. He types all the paperwork for the Sergeants and Lieutenants in the Program Office.”

Gomez continued to stare right at me. He said, “I’m going to have a talk with Grisham and find out who authorized their cell move.”

Damon was sitting on the stainless steel toilet soaking wet and buck-naked. He was facing the sink filled with water. He scooped a cup of water out and dumped it on his head and back and asked, “Are they moving us now? I can give you some extra time by flooding the cell.”

Gomez was walking toward me and I muttered, “Here he comes. Flood the floor.”

Damon used both his hands and scooped out a flood of water that I let run under our cell door.

Gomez got to the cell and saw the water. He stepped to the side and said, “Get your bedrolls ready after you clean up all that water. You might be moving.”

I asked, “What do you mean, might be moving? We either are or we aren’t, right?”

Gomez said, “Not if I can help it. I’m going to try to block it because you guys didn’t get at me first. I told you we run the buildings and you guys run the yard. We give you that respect if we get ours.”

When we arrived to this prison a few weeks ago, Gomez told us we could stab inmates on the yard but not in the buildings. I said, “No disrespect intended Gomez. An entire cell became open in one block where we want to be. We need to get there before it gets filled. It’s an emergency. Can you help us?”

Behind me Damon said, “Way to clean that up homeboy.”

Gomez shook his head and said, “It doesn’t work that way. I run the building and you get at me first.”

Everyone heard a Mexican yell out the side of his cell. It was time for the Mexicans to work out.

“EXCUSE ME ON THE TIER!! THIS IS STRANGER! IT IS NOW TIME FOR OUR WORKOUT ROUTINE! SURENOS, RAZA!! ESTAMOS LISTOS?”

Over 70 Mexicans yelled out of their cells in unison, “LISTOS!!”

Gomez shook his head and walked back to his desk. He sat facing the vestibule entrance to the building and the tower guards above. A minute later he had a phone in his right hand clamped to his ear and was talking to the tower guard standing at the window above.

I went back to work on my prison weapon. There wasn’t any need to worry about noise now. Every Mexican cell in the building had an inmate dropping to the ground for pushups together in unison and the noise was boisterous and intimidating.

Stranger yelled, “FIRST GROUP… READY, BEGIN!!”

My right hand flew back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

Into the routine, Stranger yelled even louder, “MEXICANS HOW DO YOU FEEL?”

Over 70 Mexicans yelled out of their cells in unison and it was like thunder, “ONE HUNDRED PERCENT!!”

Stranger yelled, “NEXT SET, VAMANOS!!”

I was down to one inch left, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

Damon was at the cell door watching Gomez. He said, “As soon as you have that piece of steel removed I’ll make the carrying case while you stand at the door. We’ll leave the floor soaked for extra time if we need it. The gun tower won’t pop our cell for us to leave with it flooded.”

The six inch long piece of steel was hanging by steel threads. I angled my razor edge intimately at just the right angle to carve it our cleanly and it fell to the floor. I picked it up and put it in the air and said, “Done. Check it out and make me a smooth carrying case to stick it up my ass. Be gentle. I’m a virgin.”

I handed it to Damon and stood at the cell door.

Damon said, “Virgin? Your ass has done squat routines with a seven-inch sword up it before. Miss me with that shit.”

I laughed through gritted teeth and it felt like I was high on adrenaline. Gomez was still on the phone and he turned his head and looked right at me.

I turned to avoid his stare so if we won and were moved, I wouldn’t be rubbing it in. He had already insinuated that he had gun tower guard friends in other buildings who would shoot us.

Damon had a pile of plastic saran wrap on his lap. We saved it every time we took it off our state issued lunch sandwiches. He was busy molding it into a layered covering. My ice pick was going to fit snuggly inside with a half inch of plastic protection.

Stranger yelled, “SURENOS, RAZA, COMO SE SIENTE?”

I understood it to mean: southern mafia, Mexican race, how do you feel?”

The now pumped camaraderie of the Mexicans was bursting out even louder. All the Mexicans yelled at the top of their voices, “ONE HUNDRED PERCENT!!”

The echo of all of their voices resounded through the building. Every building on the yard could hear our building’s Mexicans working out. It was a show of force. Everyone in California’s prisons knew the southern Mexicans were warriors. It didn’t matter how small, or how young, they were known for kamikaze missions for respect and loyalty. They were a deadly foe and there was no bend in them.

Unexpectedly, our cell door popped open. I looked at Gomez. He was staring at the tower guards and looked angry. The tower guard at the podium tapped the microphone signifying an announcement.

“Inmates Johnson and Smith! You’re moving to building 1, cell 212.”

Damon handed me my luggage and grabbed our floor towel to wipe up the water. I got behind him so he was blocking the view into our cell and studied my ice pick sheltered in plastic wrap. It was about the size of a long poop. I spit on the end of it for lubrication and bent over.

With my weapon up my ass, I squeezed my butt cheeks together so it would climb deeper in me. There was a good chance Gomez would strip-search us. If he did, he would make us bend over and grab our ass checks to open them and cough three times. I didn’t want my ice pick to peek out at him.

Want more? Email me at rollcallthebook@gmail.com for a gift copy. My Author page  http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00571NY5A

To contact Glenn on facebook~https://www.facebook.com/glennlangohrcalifornia

To contact Glenn on Linkedin ~ http://linkd.in/ZH8lc7 Glenn’s audio books for a free sample on Amazon~ http://amzn.to/Yi9Uxo 

An Excerpt From, How to Make Prison Weapons To Survive a Gang War in Prison: Life in Lockdown by Glenn Langohr

An Excerpt From, How to Make Prison Weapons To Survive a Gang War in Prison: Life in Lockdown by Glenn Langohr

by lockdownpublishing

I had to stop making my prison knife. The razor edge of the fingernail clipper was digging to far into the steel table. It was starting to run into deep resistance. Little steel shank slivers were the problem and they were making an obscene amount of noise. The grinding sound was reverberating through the deathly quiet building into a hundred prisoners’ ears. Instead of hearing a pin drop, inmates who had experience, knew steel was being carved into a killing tool.

I looked at my cell brother Damon on the top bunk from my crouch on the ground. His long angular, bullet shaped head had a prison made beanie over it wrapped just above his eyes. His eyes were the color of blue ocean water and were focused into laser beams of stress. He said, “Hey homeboy every cell in this building knows you’re carving out a knife. You might as well keep carving.”

I laughed at my cell brother’s blunt way of putting things and pretended to go with it and focused on the steel table to see how he would react. The edge of the table had a piece of thin steel that folded over and tucked under that gave me two inches to work with along the two feet of table top length. I had a six-inch long straight line carved an inch deep that was starting to poke through. I had to be extremely careful not to push to hard and fracture off to small of a piece or all my work for the last three days would be for nothing. I positioned my clipper edge in the already cut open steel and angled it and slid it back and forth as lightly as possible.

Damon grunted above me and I heard him moving in agitation as he maneuvered off the top bunk.

I heard his feet hit the ground, as did the rest of the quiet building. I knew he was headed for the cell door to see what the prison guards were doing. I asked, “Are the guards trippin?”

I knew the building guards were gone to feed the rest of the buildings but the tower guards were always there.

Damon grunted and said, “They’re slippin. One is asleep and the other one is either texting someone on his phone or looking for a new girlfriend on Facebook. There are a few Mexicans in their cells staring over here. They know what you’re doing.”

I asked, “What about the Black inmates?”

Damon grunted and said, “None of them are up. They assume everyone has a knife and sleep through everything while locked down.”

It was time for me to stop but I didn’t want to. I had to get this done before the guards came back inside. I said, “We might get moved to building one next to the Mexican Mobsters this morning or this afternoon. I want this done before then.”

Damon didn’t even turn around and look at me. He stood like a statue staring at the inside of the building deep in thought. He was probably pissed at me for being so hard headed. I should have talked strategy with him before plowing through survival stress on my own these last three days. I knew he trusted me, but cell brothers had to stay on the same page.

I said, “Excuse me for not consulting you on this. My bad.”

That was all it took. Damon turned and faced me with a stoic expression. I got as close to a smile as I was going to get and saw him relax a little.

He nodded his head and said, “So much for sleep. I’m going to work out to drown out some of the noise from your machine shop.”

He stood two feet in front of me and had just enough room to drop to the ground for a set of pushups before the toilet and cell door swallowed up our space. I watched him pump out five pushups and then jump back to his feet and lift each knee to his chest. After his tenth set of burpies, his long and muscular white body got damp with sweat. It was over 100 degrees outside and sweat started glistening down his body. It made the ink on his tattoos shine with more clarity. On his shredded back I watched a collage of ink crafted into a gambling scene move around as his muscles flexed and contracted. There was an Ace of Spades and a three-leaf clover circling toward each other like they were being shuffled every time he did a pushup. Underneath, on his lower back there was crime scene tape that read: DEATH BEFORE DISHONOR.

I turned back around and started carving again lost in my thoughts. Half of my shank was visible. The fingernail clipper, my third one in three days, was getting dull and it was taking longer.

I got the last clipper of the two-fingernail set and went back to work. Very lightly, I slid the sharp edge three inches back and forth. Sweat beaded and ran down my forehead and I realized making the knife was a form of therapy. It was a calming reaction to the stress of a potential race war with the Mexicans, and always the possibility of other problems.

Time disappeared and evaporated as another inch of my new shank became visible. My hand adjusted and found the two-inch range to drive the razor edge of the nail clipper back and forth.

The sounds of Damon’s feet dropping to the ground and popping back up stopped. The grinding noise against the table shrieked obscenities unhindered again into the now quiet building so I stopped and turned to look at Damon.

He was staring at me with his head tilted back in a look that I decided was a constant appraisal. Like he was studying an unknown insect to see if it was poisonous.

He said, “BJ you can finish in a few minutes when the Mexicans work out. After I shower I’ll make you a carrying case for your new luggage.”

I nodded my head and then couldn’t help but laugh at my life. How did it get to this point? Want more? Email me at rollcallthebook@gmail.com for a gift copy. My Author page  http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00571NY5A

To contact Glenn on facebook~https://www.facebook.com/glennlangohrcalifornia

To contact Glenn on Linkedin ~ http://linkd.in/ZH8lc7 Glenn’s audio books for a free sample on Amazon~ http://amzn.to/Yi9Uxo 

Glenn Langohr's Prison Book Underdog Got Another Great Review From One of Amazon's Top 500 Reviewers!

 

Ionia Martin "Ionia" - See all my reviews
(TOP 500 REVIEWER)   

This review is from: UNDERDOG, A True Crime Thriller of Prison Life (Prison Killers- Book 4) (Kindle Edition)

I find this a difficult book to review--at least for me personally--let me preface this with the reasons why. I want this review to be fair and honest so I would like everyone who reads this to understand my position.

This is not my genre, nor is it my standard reading material. I tend to review literary fiction, genre fiction, non-fiction historical, and classics. I teach English Literature. I am not familiar with the writing style of this author or the subject matter at hand, and I lived in Crescent City, California so I may have a bit of a preexisting opinion of the City and Pelican Bay from that. I will do my best to offer an impartial review regardless.

Glenn Langohr has written a gritty book filled with truth about the side of prison life that we don't see from the outside. He writes from a position of authority, having lived what he writes about first hand. This makes his writing very honest, but also difficult for me to judge by my usual standards. I can't say that this was the most refined writing I have ever read, but the honest truth is--it didn't matter.

The tale this author weaves begins in a way I hadn't expected, and I wasn't sure what to think. The first chapter fumbled a little in my opinion, as though he was trying to find his legs beneath him. After that, the book really took off and it was impossible to put down after that. The story he tells of how inmates are treated at Pelican Bay was difficult for me to reconcile as I do know what a boost to the economy the prison brought to one of Northern California's most desperate cities. I do believe his story, and I feel for those who have had to live through the things he spoke of, but sometimes it is hard to accept reality--especially when you are used to seeing the other side of the coin.

What I liked about this book the most, and what I felt earned this book the four stars I gave it, was Glenn's ability to retain the reader's interest. He may not have attended a fancy university to hone his craft of writing, but there is such a human element to his words and his ability to connect with you as you read his story on a personal level made this the kind of book you want to keep reading and tell your friends about. His message at the end of the story is both compassionate and detailed, which added a lot to this book in my opinion.

The one negative I will mention, and it is just my opinion of course, is that I don't get the cover. It somehow reminds me of 'Joker' from batman, and I don't really get what it has to do with the story. It looks cool, but I also think it might make this book seem a little more fantasy than reality and might frighten off some of the more mature people who would ordinarily pick this book up and give it a try.

** Update: I have just discovered that the cover I am looking at is only one of the covers. So, disregard this last part if you have the orange and black cover, which is perfectly appropriate for the story.
Overall, this was short, unexpected and something that I think has a lot of value, both as entertainment and a dose of reality.

This review is based on a digital copy from the author. My opinions are my own.

Lift You UP Blog - Always there for You: GUEST AUTHOR INTERVIEW WITH GLENN LANGOHR

Lift You UP Blog - Always there for You: GUEST AUTHOR INTERVIEW WITH GLENN LANGOHR Check out this awesome page from my new friend James in the UK. He has a great site for authors to promote their books and for readers to connect with authors and find great new books! He is a great Christian and he let me talk about how I went from writing in prison on drug charges to becoming a best selling author of drug war and prison thrillers that are chalked full of redemption.

Another Great Review For My True Prison Story Prison Riot!

Prison Riot by glenn langohr review From http://www.dealsharingaunt.blogspot.com

I was not too surprised when I read Glenn's latest book Prison Riot. I previously reviewed Underdog here !
This book was about what happens after a prison riot. The prison dynamic is a  hard one to follow, and is not for the faint of heart. Being in lock down was horrible. They do not care if they get your name right, or your information right. The main goal is to keep the prison safe. What has to be done to ensure your own personal safety was a little surreal to me. We take for granted how we live, and our freedom. The thing that I took for granted the most was showers. It is a good thing that these prisoners were not afraid of small spaces. I would be terrified. The guards own you, and everything you do. This is a true story, and that made me feel even more for the innocent prisoners that were not involved in the prison riot. I recommend this to crime buffs everywhere so that they can see the other side of law enforcement. I am Giving this book a 5/5, because I am still interested in reading more from this author. Even though I have already read two of his books.