• 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 vivid, clamorous account of the war on drugs. —Kirkus Discoveries, Nielsen Business Media, 770 Broadway, N.Y Yk

Glenn Langohr ran away from a broken home with a death wish and entered the drug war with abandon. Business with the Mexican Mafia and Hell’s Angels became a way of life until the Criminal Justice system interrupted him with Organized Crime charges. In prison he was involved in riots and spent years in the hole. From solitary confinement he started writing and hasn’t stopped since. Now, he is an usher at his church and loves to reach out to other prisoners to help them turn their lives around. He speaks as a guest Lecturer at Criminal Justice colleges and writes articles for newspapers. “I want to show the world and the students and leaders of tomorrow, that we are only building bigger criminals by locking up low level offenders, where in prison, an addiction is bred into an affliction much harder to escape.”

UNDERDOG, A True Crime Thriller of Prison Life

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Excerpt:

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 Stranger, who stepped up to fill their void, hadn’t respected the policy we had ironed out together. 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 baldheads 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.

He went back to using his fingers to sign letter by letter and asked if the drug user that caused the problem was still on the yard. Even though Lefty had overdosed we nodded our heads that he was technically right. Time ran out to communicate because prison guards from the building walked into the yard and stopped next to Bam Bam’s kennel. He didn’t seem to mind the intrusion and finger signed to us that we were going to be housed in B-Pod.

Everyone heard a prison guard from the gun tower inside the building announce through a speaker, “Yard recall! Your two hours in the kennels are up! Kennels A and B, stand by for an escort to your cells.”

For the next half hour we watched the kennels empty. One prisoner after another backed up and stuck both hands through a slot where a guard applied handcuffs to wrists. From there, we couldn’t see the prisoners enter the building from our vantage point but heard a thick steel vestibule door creaking as it slid open. It closed with the last of the prisoners with a resounding thud.

The building in front of us was a prefabricated tan color. A thick steel green vestibule door creaked and grinded open as it slid on rollers. Above, a black tinted bullet proof window filled up with two prison gunners holding rifles. Right next to the window in red capital block letters read:

WARNING! NO WARNING SHOTS FIRED- C-6 ADMINISTRATIVE SEGREGATION.

The procession of prisoners proceeded in front of us and we shuffle stepped forward inch by inch. Being the last in line it took two hours to get to the vestibule door and inside the building. As we made it I looked up and saw the two prison gunners pointing their rifles at us as if we could get out from our cuffs and become a threat. Shuffling through the vestibule door I kept looking up. We could see the gunners in the tower through a bulletproof Plexiglas they walked on. A 4′ by 8′ square of Plexiglas was constructed with a perforated opening to drop tear gas and fire the rifles through at us below. I heard the vestibule door behind us creak and slide shut and it felt like we were vacuumed into a dank and dark, all metal chamber of penal hell. I knew that a percentage of the prisoners living in these concrete corridors had been here for years and thought of Bam Bam, and wondered if he was one of them. We’d find out how things operated over here soon enough.

I looked back up at the tower through the Plexiglas. From up there, the gunners had a vantage point that allowed access to each row of cell pods and I counted three rows facing west, three facing east and three facing north. The south quadrant covered the yard the prisoners had just come from. Each quadrant had a thick steel green vestibule door. Above each vestibule red block letters signified the location. I found A through C-Pod stamped over the west side quadrant and watched one of the tower gunners hit a switch on a command table and the vestibule opened.

From the gun tower we heard a guard yell out our names and which cells we were to be housed in.

“B-Pod Cell 123!”

“B-Pod Cell 122!”

I was glad to hear that Damon and I were in the same cell and that Blockhead and Jason were in the cell next to us. On the way there I noticed our bedrolls and new prison garb all wrapped up in a bundle with a couple of plastic spoons and cups parked in front of our cells.

The guard in the tower spoke instructions over the microphone, “When we take off the zip ties strip out of your clothes!”

We passed the first cell, a 6′ wide by 10′ long chamber of concrete. The cell door was made out of steel with perforated holes from top to bottom, inches away from each other making it hard to see in or out clearly. The cell door looked like honeycomb. Inside the cell, two Blacks exercised and their silhouettes rose and fell as they took turns doing push-ups. I looked at the cell across from them and the same thing was happening with two more Black inmates. I assumed the Black and Asian inmates were getting their every other day yard tomorrow and were doing their exercises in the cell. We passed a few more cells and stopped at ours.

One of the four prison guards behind us said, “After we take the cuffs off strip down and let us search you. You know the drill.”

I went first and got naked and waited for the instructions.

“Arms out wide…Arms up…Lift up your testicles…Turn around…Lift one foot and wiggle your toes…The other foot…Bend over and grab your ass cheeks and spread them…Now cough three times…”

Done with our strip search and locked up tight in our cell Damon let me take a birdbath first since I had more pepper spray on me. I filled up the sink attached to the toilet with water, then sat on the toilet facing the sink and splashed the water over my head with my cup. The water reignited the pepper spray and my eyes watered to ease the burning and I felt it in my lungs and started coughing.

Next to me Damon was taking one of his two pairs of boxer shorts apart. In the waistband of the boxers, after he pulled out the elastic, there was plenty of thread to weave together to turn it into a fishing line. He hooked three strands of thread to the cell door using the ventilated honeycomb and went to the back of the cell and began weaving the thread into one line.

From outside our cell, on the tier about four cells down, we heard a prisoner yell, “Cell 122 and Cell 123! This is Traveler in Cell 118! I’m sending my line!”

While continuing my bird bath I watched Damon fastening together a small piece of soap into a piece of plastic until he had it attached to his newly woven fishing line. He crouched down on all fours and looked out the side of our cell and yelled, “Shoot it!”

A few minutes of successful fishing he pulled in a written note from Traveler and read it to me.

Greetings brothers:

Welcome to the catacombs. We saw you communicate with big Bam Bam and know you were involved in a riot with the Mexicans. Glad to see you’re all right! I’m in the last cell in our B-Pod so I can get word to C-Pod when the prison guards open the door when they do the head count or pass out mail. I need you to send your paperwork as soon as possible to check you off the Roll Call list. Also, Bam Bam wants to know who ran up the drug debt? We get yard one day and showers the next with a day of zero program on Wednesday. On Wednesday the Prison Administration runs hearings. Speaking of hearings, that’s when you will get checked to see how long you will be confined in here. For a riot they usually keep you for a couple of months if they have you involved in it in their reports. As soon as I get your paperwork I have a care package for you.

Damon scribbled off a note to let Traveler know what happened on our yard along with how Lefty had taken a back door exit by overdosing on heroin.

The next morning four prison guards arrived at our cell for an interview… The first guard, a very large and dark black man who had an experienced face with kind eyes, and had a nameplate on his chest that read: Jackson. Jackson seemed to be the leader of the four and I realized he was a Lieutenant. The other prison guard standing at the cell was of Mexican descent and a little younger. He wore an expression of impatience, nameplate: Torrez.

Jackson scrunched up close to the honeycomb cell door and said, “Inmate Smith and Johnson, also known as BJ, here is your paperwork for the riot. Now time to ask you some questions…”

We accepted the paperwork through the side of the cell door, and each of us took our time to read it. The top of the page had the form number, 114-D and next to it- Lock Up Order For Administrative Segregation. Underneath it started with the reason: Violation of Rule 123 “Group Melee.” The report went on to read that the incident was a serious rule violation and for the safety and security of the prison we were deemed enemy combatants. The next paragraph had reports from prison guards who witnessed the riot from a gun tower and on the ground. I was glad to see that not one of the prison guards wrote who started the fight, just some of the inmates who were involved. It appeared that only fourteen inmates had pepper spray administered to their wardrobe. They were the only inmates considered, “Involved in the melee.” It looked like the other thirty-six inmates would get a reprieve and get “Kicked out” of Ad Seg and return to one of the other three prison yards soon.

Jackson started reading from the report…

“Inmate Smith and Johnson, you were both seen by tower guard Abadaco and Building 5 prison guard Jimenez as combatants involved in the riot and in their words ‘Punching both fists repeatedly hundreds of times during the altercation hitting inmates Guerra, Alejandra, Sanchez, Lopez, Cordoba, Marquez, and inmate Delgado repeatedly’. The report goes on to say you were both pepper sprayed. This is the proof needed that you were both involved in the riot so you don’t have much of a chance of beating the prison violations. Since weapons weren’t used I don’t think you have to worry about added charges with the District Attorney but these reports combined with your statements will be sent to them to see if the County wants to pick up additional charges. I don’t think they will. None of the inmates had to get stitched up and there wasn’t any great bodily injury other than some swelling and bruises and a little blood.”

I stared at Lieutenant Jackson and appreciated his honesty. He was letting us in on the full impact and ramifications of the situation rather than letting us sweat out those pertinent details relating to the potential of outside charges with the District Attorney. He was also coaching us in that whatever we said would be used against us in reports. His Mexican partner Torrez, who I realized was a Sergeant, scared the shit out of us.

“We’ve looked at the video footage of the incident and it shows you as the aggressor BJ…If you don’t cooperate with us we might have to write up the report to show that you instigated the riot. That will probably get the DA to pick up charges, plus we can raise the in-prison violation to a Level A charge…”

I knew the current charge we had read, “Group Melee”, was a Level D charge in the California Prison Guide, also known as the “Title 15”. The most it carried as in prison punishment was up to nine months in Ad Seg as a SHU term. Sergeant Torrez was referring to a Level A charge usually reserved for Murder, Mayhem, Extortion, or a much more gray area, labeling a prisoner responsible for calling those shots by exerting pressure.

Both Damon and I stood there with stoic expressions on our faces, waiting…

Lieutenant Jackson started the questions. “What started the riot? We only want to know to see how long to keep the yard it happened on locked down.” Neither Damon nor I spoke a word. We couldn’t, the unwritten code of silence.” Lieutenant Jackson nodded his head that he understood our predicament and wrote down and said, “No comment.”

Sergeant Torrez looked angry. His face contorted into that impatient frustrated look he brought originally. He said, “We know it was over dope. Did your race or you, BJ, do more dope than you could pay for and then decide the best way out was to get in a fight to get off the yard?”

I knew he was baiting me and it almost worked. I wanted to tell them that yeah it was over dope. Lefty saw half the Mexicans on the yard nodding off and scratching their bodies, high as fuck on heroin. His drug addicted diseased mind was jealous and the desire to use that heroin and get as fucked up as half the Mexicans pushed him past the point. Not that I was excusing his actions. But I was questioning how Termite was smuggling enough heroin into our prison to get two hundred Mexicans so high that they were throwing up all over the yard. Was a prison guard helping him smuggle it? I couldn’t imagine how through monitored visits with cameras everywhere that much heroin could slip through. Usually, smaller amounts made it by the visitor kissing a small balloon of packaged drugs across with it being swallowed by the prisoner and thrown up later…

I finally responded, “It was no big deal. That was a cheerleader fight. All we did is wave some pom-poms around. You can open the yard back up over there…” I knew they wouldn’t open up the yard for a minimum of two weeks. They would follow protocol and sweep the yard for weapons and a few other things first. I’d have time to contact L’il Bird and Boxer and restore peace…Hopefully.

Sergeant Torrez scribbled in his report with an angry face and I looked at Lieutenant Jackson. He noticed my worried expression and shook his head as if to say, everything will be all right.

Sergeant Torrez looked like he was trying to scrunch his face up into something intimidating. He looked at me as hard as he could and said, “BJ, you’re parole date is tomorrow. Why in the fuck did you get involved in this? Now you might not go home, unless you tell me what I need to know! What exactly happened over there so we can investigate the riot properly?”

I looked at the Sergeant for a while and finally said, “No comment.” I wanted to tell him that if I helped him by talking he would have to write it in a report that would then come back to us, that we would then have to carry with us and pass along to other prisoners. That would be another security threat because we weren’t supposed to talk about those kinds of things. Just because my parole date was set for tomorrow it wasn’t time to become a rat.

The Sergeant said, “Last chance to work with me and possibly go home tomorrow…” “No comment.”

Lieutenant Jackson smiled at us like we did what we were supposed to do. He knew the program and was just doing his job. He said, “We’re going to run showers for the Whites and Mexicans after we release the Blacks and Asians to the yard kennels. After that we have to take you two out of the cell for some pictures and some more questions about gang affiliation.”

Damon and I both said in unison, “No comment.”

A half hour later we heard cell doors pop open. We looked out the cell and saw Traveler and Sinner come out of their cell with towels and shower supplies. They came right to our cell and filled us in.

Traveler was as tall as Damon at 6’3″, with a shredded bulletproof build. He said, “We heard that interview, good job with the no comment. BJ if your parole date is tomorrow you might have to stay a few extra days but you will go home. Take this Title 15 and read it. The state can’t keep you indefinitely for a riot unless there is good cause for the District Attorney to charge you with a new beef. Since weapons weren’t used you’re out of here. L’il Bird and Boxer are already on top of things and they got at us to tell you they send their respects and regards and to not worry about the yard you just left. They’re sending Cyclone back to take control of the yard for the Mexicans and the policy you guys already had in place is going to stay the same. The only thing they want is for Lefty to get dealt with…”

The first thing I thought was that it was a good thing I spoke loud enough to Stranger for Cyclone and Termite to hear before the riot. They must have heard, or already knew, the drug policy we had worked out was being violated. The second thing I thought, thank God they were handling their business so honorably.

We handed our Lock Up Order 114-D paperwork to Traveler to follow protocol and he slid us a sack of goodies that included some prison store food, toiletries and some writing paper and stamped envelopes. Sinner had a handful of books for us to read to help kill the time stuck in our cell almost 24-7 in slow motion. I had to ask, “How long have you guys been here?”

Traveler said, “Bam Bam has been here the longest at two years and two months. They’re determining if he’s going to Pelican Bay as a validated mobster. He wanted us to warn you that this prison seems to want these cells in Ad Seg filled. They’re on a fishing expedition to validate as many prisoners as shot callers as possible. My cellie and I have been here for a year and a half for defending ourselves in a riot outnumbered 20 to us 2. With such bad odds we both had weapons in our hands. The weapons have us screwed. What did they want us to do, just let them kill us?”

We watched Traveler and Sinner leave our cell and heard their cell door shut. A couple of minutes later we heard the vestibule open and we got some more visitors.

Sergeant Torrez crowded our cell door with a smirk on his face with six IGI Gooners behind him. We called the Inmate Gang Investigators Gooners because they wore similar uniforms to the regular prison guards but 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 based on their tattoos.

We backed up to the cell door one at a time and stuck our wrists through the slot to accept the handcuffs. After we backed out of the cell we had one IGI Gooner on each side of us holding our shoulders to steer our direction. Sergeant Torrez led the way and just as we got to Traveler and Sinner’s cell he said, “Time to take some pictures of you to add to the gang file and have an interview out of hearing so you can really open up to us.”

I knew he was trying to stir the pot and make it look like we might yap our gums and talk. They were always trying to play the divide and conquer game to keep the prisoners fighting each other instead of uniting for a common cause, like finding a new life away from prison walls…

We stopped at an office and there were two other IGI Gooners inside with cameras and a table full of files next to them. Sergeant Torrez grabbed our files off the desk and handed them over. I read the nameplate from the first Gooner’s shoulder to receive our files, Velazquez, and noticed he was listed as a Lieutenant. The other Gooner to get our files was Perez, another Lieutenant.

Sergeant Torrez looked at us like a bully and said, “Strip down to nothing. It’s time to take some pictures to beef up your files. Let’s see those tattoos.”

I knew I would disappoint this branch of faultfinders. I didn’t have any tattoos. Damon on the other hand was a sculpted banner of ink. They were going to have a field day with him.

I stripped down and stared at Sergeant Torrez. He looked even more frustrated. He said, “Turn around BJ.”

I turned around and heard him say, “Not one tattoo BJ? What’s wrong with you? Every other prisoner has tattoos. How do you have so much influence without them?”

I responded, “Who said I have influence? If I have any it’s because I’m not trendy.”

I heard Sergeant Torrez whistle and say, “Look at all that ink on Smith. We should be able to label some of that ink as gang affiliated.”

“Turn around Smith”

Damon turned around and looked at me with a sour expression on his face and I whispered, “Don’t say anything.”

We heard Sergeant Torrez pull one of the Inmate Gang Investigators aside and close the office door behind them. We listened and barely heard the Sergeant say, “We can put everything on Smith and write it up that he was the shot caller that provoked the riot…”

We heard the IGI Gooner respond, “Yeah, I like that. With all of those prison tattoos we can write it up that he’s part of a prison gang and a leader. We should be able to keep him housed in Ad Seg until the Pelican Bay SHU has an opening…”

The door opened and they walked back inside.

“Turn around.”

We turned around and I studied Sergeant Torrez. I was starting to hate him. He was a power tripper who was willing to do whatever it took to screw people like us. He grabbed one of the cameras and got close enough to Damon’s naked body for it to feel weird. The feeling intensified because his face took on a glow, like he was getting off on the process. With his face six inches away from Damon’s stomach he asked, “What does Rott stand for? Is that you’re AKA?”

Damon didn’t say anything…

“What about that banner of ink flowing across your chest with the Ace of Spades flying off the table with the dice? Does that mean you control the gambling in here?”

Damon remained silent…

“What about the 737 on your shoulder, what does that stand for?” Lieutenant Inmate Gang Investigator Perez came closer with an excited look on his face. “That’s a gang tattoo! I know I have it in my files somewhere.” The energy increased with Perez’s excitement and the questions came in rapid fire.

“What do they call you besides BJ?”

“What do they call you Smith?”

“Who do you run with?”

“What gang are you from?”

“What neighborhood do you represent?”

“Are you affiliated with the Aryan Brotherhood?”

“How about the Nazi Low Riders?”

“Are you Skin Heads? Are you Peckerwoods? Come on I know you’re someone!” The feeling of doom intensified as the reports were scribbled faster along with the flashing lights from the cameras. It felt like we were on an out of control train about to get derailed.

Inmate Gang Investigator Torrez flipped the pages in his gang file and with excitement that bordered on glee, said, “See, right here! Look at the tattoo on this inmate… He has the number 737 tattooed on his shoulder also. When we interrogated him he admitted his AKA is Casper and also admitted his gang affiliation as OCS, short for Orange County Skin Head. He also told us the structure of White gang leadership in prison starts with the Aryan Brotherhood dominating the Nazi Low Riders, who dominate the Skin Head gangs. He said a Roll Call list is taken on every prison yard in California to organize the power structure…”

On the walk back to our cells we passed Traveler and Sinner standing at their cell door watching. I remembered Traveler’s warning about the fishing expedition. It felt like we’d just been hooked and thrown all over the place. But where were we going to land? It felt hard to breath, like a fish out of water…

The next morning started with Sergeant Torrez. He stood in front of the cell smiling at us looking smug, like he had won the war. He had some papers in his hand and said, “Here’s some more paperwork related to the riot you caused Smith, or should I call you by your AKA, Rott?”

I pulled the reports through the side of the cell and realized what was happening. They’d decided to focus on Damon because they didn’t have time to focus on me since the DA wouldn’t pick up the charges and keep me from making my parole date. I’d be going home within five days according to the Title 15. With me gone, I wouldn’t be able to be a witness for Damon that he didn’t coerce me into doing what I did…

Sergeant Torrez took one last parting shot with, “If you would have cooperated with me you wouldn’t be in this mess. I could have saved your ass from living in solitary. It still might not be too late…. If you give me enough good information about the gangs in here, I still might be able to help you avoid this hole for the rest of your life.”

I knew I was going home and leaving Damon to this fate. He still had three years left on his sentence and it looked like it might be spent in isolation. I looked at him and watched him say, “No comment.”

A couple hours later Lieutenant Jackson showed up. He also had reports. He handed them through the side of the cell. We took our time reading them and found the Lieutenant had investigated more thoroughly and found the truth and defended us, somewhat. We listened to him say the same thing that we were reading…

“I pretty much know with certainty what happened over there to cause that riot. The Mexicans were without any leadership and there were too many chiefs and not enough Indians. Also, somehow, there was enough heroin on the yard to kill a hundred people. From there it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that the White inmate who overdosed ran up a drug debt. I also know that a year ago on the same yard the Whites were attacked in a riot that sent sixteen Whites to the infirmary on stretchers. It was over a drug debt. You guys were probably just protecting yourselves the best you knew how. I’ve been around these California prison corridors for thirty years and I know it’s just a system of warehouses filled with mostly drug addicts and alcoholics. I don’t like what Sergeant Torrez is doing to you Smith. He wants to become an Inmate Gang Investigator and his passion to do so pushes him too far.”

It was nice to hear but was it and the report enough to help Damon? Probably not.

Lieutenant Jackson shook his head and kept being honest. “BJ, you’re going home tomorrow. Smith you’re going to be stuck in this cell, in isolation for at least three months while the investigation proceeds. You will probably do the rest of your sentence in here and Pelican Bay while the Administration decides if they can validate you as a prison gang leader. Make the best of it and good luck.