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 Roll Call, A Drug War and Prison Novel by Glenn Langohr

An Excerpt From Roll Call, A Drug War and Prison Novel by Glenn Langohr

All of Glenn Langohr's books are available in print, audio book and kindle.

Troy pulled up some statistics on the computer. I said,

“We’re going to show you statistics that approximately

70% of those incarcerated in the U.S. are there for drug

related crimes that aren’t violent in nature. You said that

we’re the leaders of the free world. If we’re the leaders,

don’t you think we should lead by example and show

more compassion to our own people who are addicted

to drugs rather than breed them into more violent

criminals? If you follow history, our country takes

these tough on crime stances first and other European

countries like Italy follow our lead. Italy has similar

drug crime policies and 70% of their incarcerated are

for drug crimes. Now it’s time to introduce you to your

real son. He told our friend that he wanted to tell you

what he’s been up to but hasn’t been able to bridge

the gap because the communication between you two

hasn’t been that established.”

Raymond Senior sat in the bonus room with a

stunned look on his face. “I would have never guessed

he was selling drugs!” 

In Glenn Langohr’s Newest Prison Memoir, The Prison Guards Pointed Out the Child Molesters for Some Victim Restitution, Prison Style

Chapter 3

Sex Offender Alert

Twenty minutes later the vestibule door rattled outside again. The tower guard walked to the window overlooking the yard and looked down. He nodded his head and the other tower guard at the podium opened the vestibule. It shrieked and rattled open.

Security Escort Heart was the first through the tunnel. Behind him was his partner Ligazarro. They walked to the podium and talked to an unhappy Gomez.

Everyone heard Gomez yell, “This is my F###ing building!”

I remembered how Heart had escorted us from the bus to the building. He had been talkative and seemed to take a liking to me. I had asked him about the riot between the White inmates and the Mexican inmates that made the news over six months ago. He’d explained that a White inmate had run up a $1000 heroin debt and then stabbed the Mexican dope man in the neck. Within a month, after the initial lockdown was over, over 100 Mexicans swarmed about 20 White inmates in a yard riot. The Whites took a massive beating and almost all were knocked unconscious with 5 minutes of unhindered violence that sent 16 of them on stretchers to the hospital.

Since we arrived in the building we found out that a 50-year-old White inmate by the name of Mark Grisham worked in the program office and got inside information from Heart for the two Mexican Mobsters on the yard, Sano and Boxer. We told Mark we were taking over the yard for the White inmates and talked him into moving us as close to the two influential Mexicans as possible. He’d succeeded with Heart’s help.

Heart wasn’t arguing with Gomez. He wasn’t even raising his voice. Ligazarro stood next to him leaning on the podium and it didn’t look like he liked Gomez. He leaned back and stepped away in irritation and looked at one of the tower guards holding a gun out the portal pointed at the ground.

He nodded his head to the tower guard and walked to our cell. Heart followed him.

Ligazzaro opened the cell door and Heart stepped almost into our cell. He said, “BJ and Damon, you ready to go meet your new neighbors?”

Heart looked like a Mexican version of me. He had short brown hair combed back over expressive eyes that tore into you. He wasn’t shy and when he smiled his dimpled cheeks made him look friendly. But his strong jaw, with a scar down the middle, similar to mine, told a different story. I pegged him for a borderline criminal, or at minimum, a drug user and someone who was more comfortable around gangsters.

I nodded my head and said, “Thanks for making it happen.”

He said, “No problem. Strip down. I have to follow protocol and search you.”

I took off my clothes and handed them to him and Ligazzaro until I was naked.

Heart and Ligazzaro felt the clothes for all the spots inmates sewed stash spots and then studied the shoes.

Done with the task, Heart dropped the clothes on top of the shoes and said, “Arms up, open your mouth and stick you tongue out, lift up your nuts… Okay, turn around. Lift each foot and wiggle your toes. Alright, bend over and squat and cough three times.”

I followed all the instructions and was glad that he didn’t make me grab my ass cheeks to open them. He had a better style than that and this was mostly for show. I grabbed my clothes and shoes and got behind Damon while he went through the motions.

After Damon was done, Heart pulled him out of the cell and walked him ten feet to a bench.

Ligazzaro stared at me and said, “BJ, back out of the cell, we have to follow protocol.”

I backed out of the cell and felt Ligazzaro’s hand grab my shoulder and turn me. We were following Heart and Damon to the benches.

Damon was already kneeling uncomfortably on one of the benches. Heart lifted a pile of chains on the ground and wrapped Damon’s legs together at the ankles. He pulled Damon off the bench and wrapped some more chains around his waist and locked his wrists to each side.

I went through the same process and we were steered toward the vestibule door. I looked at the gun tower above to avoid Gomez. There was a block gun pointed at me. The Mexican prison guard holding it was smiling. He said, “You pissed off Gomez. You better avoid buildings three and four where his friends work the towers.

We were on the border of Mexico and nothing was stopping a Wild West scenario from unfolding. The cards we were dealt forced us into action.

The vestibule door weighed over 400 pounds of steel and it shrieked and rattled open. We were pushed through.

I looked up at a two-foot thick clear bulletproof window above us and saw both tower guards staring down at us. At the other end of the 20-foot long tunnel the other vestibule door rattled and erupted open. It shrieked insane noises for 5 seconds and latched into a locked position giving us 5 feet of space to walk through.

The sunlight was blinding. I closed my eyes and barely opened them. Long ago honed survival instincts forced me to look to the left of our building to get a complete study of the yard. There was nothing that way except the fenced entrance to our D-Yard. I could see C-Yard’s gated entrance 50 yards further and noted that the yard next to our yard was also an empty ghost town and still on lockdown. I turned slowly and paced the foot and half with each foot before the chains bit and held me. It was a slow pace. We weren’t in a hurry to get locked back into a cell for 24 hours of 7 days a week of slow motion lockdown.

In front of me was the asphalt concrete track that circled the yard. It was around the same width and length as a high school track. The sweltering 110-degree desert heat made me dizzy looking at the heat waves rising from it. Just inside the track on the yard there was grass and a couple of concrete tables that would hold about three to four prisoners on each side during regular yard. I knew from experience that this was where the White inmates and southern Mexicans would congregate so I asked Heart, “Is this where the riot was with the Mexicans and Whites?”

Heart nodded his head and said, “Yep. I remember how bad the White inmates got beat. We couldn’t get the Mexicans to stop stomping and kicking them. After we finally got them down, one of the White inmates regained consciousness and started trying to crawl away. He fell on his head trying to crawl and was knocked out again for hours. His face had boot prints all over it…that guy has brain damage and can barely talk now.”

I looked at Heart and wondered if he was trying to intimidate me. I said, “The Whites are lucky prison knives weren’t used.”

Heart nodded his head but didn’t say anything.

I wanted more information so I asked, “Who had the yard for the Mexicans at the time of that riot. Whoever it was had the decency to keep weapons out of it.”

Heart nodded his head and thought about it. He said, “It was hard for us to tell who was calling shots. There wasn’t a bona-fide Mexican Mobster here at the time. I think it was some one from La Puente in LA. I can’t remember his name.”

All of the sudden I realized why Heart was helping me. He wanted to be involved and in the know. It was a competition among a certain class of prison guards to know things. It gave them clout.

One foot in front of the other locked in chains was taking a long time to get anywhere. The dry heat was drenching me in perspiration. To my right was building 4. The prefabricated building was a tan dreary color except for the green vestibule door and the tinted bulletproof tower window above. A tower guard stood watching with his gun pointed at the ground near us. I asked, “Does Gomez really have gun tower friends or was he just acting?”

Heart grunted and said, “He’s serious as a heart attack. He still lives in Mexico and drives across the border everyday to work, his friends caravan with him. Stay out of building three and four.

One foot in front of the other in a shuffle step got us to the middle of the yard. There was a handball wall that was 20 feet high. After that there was a thin cement walkway that cut through the middle of the yard. At the end of it to the right was the gym. Mostly Black Inmates were standing at the window watching. I saw a couple of tattooed down Asians and asked, “How long have the Black inmates had the gym?”

I knew the answer. Ever since the Mexicans and Black inmates had their riot.

Heart said, “It’s been over six months now. The Prison Administration is thinking of trying to put Mexicans in there from another yard to see what happens.”

I grunted and didn’t say anything. It wouldn’t work. It would be an immediate riot.

Heart surprised me by changing the subject, he asked, “Do you want help with this yard?”

I didn’t know what he meant so I remained quiet.

Each shuffle step seemed to take longer waiting for one of us to talk.

Heart finally said, “Do you want to know about any skeletons in the closet?”

Now I understood. He was asking if we wanted to know about any protective custody cases. I was immediately repulsed by the thought and asked, “Is this a protective custody yard?”

Heart noticed me staring right at him and said, “Not at all but there is always a sex offender who flies beneath the radar on every yard. Do you want help uncovering those kinds of things?”

I had stopped walking and felt Damon bump into me. I started shuffle stepping forward again and thought about it. Prisoners were given paperwork from their counselor that stated every crime they had ever committed. We really didn’t need his help. But who was I to muzzle the gift horse. I said, “I wouldn’t turn down help, but I was hoping for tobacco or a cell phone to start with.”

Heart ignored me and said, “There’s a notorious child molester in three building. Think about the worst Catholic priest scenario. He has forty-four counts and is doing a life sentence. I don’t know how he made it through New Folsom and Calipatria.”

What Heart was saying was he was surprised the inmates at those Maximum Security Prisons didn’t uncover his dirty deeds and stick a spike in his neck.

I said, “You would need to give me the paperwork that proves those charges for me to do anything.”

Heart said, “That I can’t do. You have to trust me.”

I said, “It has nothing to do with trust. It has to do with how it has always been done. Paperwork is the only way.”

Heart nodded his head and said, “I’ll see what I can do. I would have to go into his Central File to get it.”

I didn’t say anything. We were getting closer to our building and I wondered if Heart was helping the Mexicans the same way.

Heart said, “You have another potential problem that just arrived. A white guy just got here who has a “Cruelty to Children” charge and a “Corporal Injury to Spouse” charge. You should be able to fish that one out on your own. He had problems at Donovan Reception Center over it on his way to this prison. It will all be in his paperwork.”

Another revelation dawned on me. The prison guards at Centinella must like being on lockdown.

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.

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