Scott Ereckson - The Unknown Mongol 2 The Sequel

THE UNKNOWN MONGOL 2

THE SEQUEL

SCOTT JUNIOR ERECKSON

THE UNKNOWN MONGOL 2 THE SEQUEL

COPYRIGHT 2018 SCOTT JUNIOR ERECKSON

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

PREFACE

For those of you who read THE UNKNOWN MONGOL, youre probably wondering just what the hell happened. If you enjoyed the first book, Im sure youll enjoy this one as much.This journey starts where THE UNKNOWN MONGOL the first book left off.

The year is 1998 and SCOTT JUNIOR ERECKSON the National President of The MONGOLS Motorcycle Club has been convicted of assault with a deadly weapon. Because hes an ex-felon and its his second strike, hes been sentenced to 14 years in state prison

Follow JUNIOR as the unforgiving steel doors of freedom slam behind him. Go with him on this wild rollercoaster ride to hell and back. Experience the ins, outs, ups and downs of Los Angeles County Jail (the closest place to hell on earth), then on to California State prison. Hold on tight as you share the happiness, sadness and relationships in this unbelievable but true gripping expedition of one mans life.

CHAPTER 1

Wearing their green colors, I now found myself surrounded by one of the most notorious gangs in all L.A. County, The Sheriffs Department. The quick formed mob shuffled me to the front of the fully seated San Fernando Valley court room and toward the unforgiving steel door that would soon separate me from freedom. My sentence was 14 years and even with good time Id do about 12. Shit, what the fuck was good time? I now had 2 strikes, and in this wonderful state of California, any 3 rd felony (even as minor as pissing in public) could be used as a third strike, which meant an automatic life sentence.

The steel door clanked behind me sounding like the dungeon portal of some medieval castle sealing my fate forever. I was then escorted down a light green cinder block hall way that led to a 15 by 15-foot cell filled with others of all races whose fates like mine had already been sealed. So, what happened? A Wood (short for Peckerwood and prison slang for a white boy) reluctantly asked.

They maxed me out, 14 fucking years at 80 percent. In the state of California any violent felony conviction would result in a mandatory 80 percent served of the total sentence.

All the surrounding small talk fell silent. When it came to be getting broke off (getting a lengthy sentence) it was no laughing matter and was taken very seriously.

Within minutes, the silence was broken by the outside jingle of keys fumbling to open the holding tank door, the door opened, and a Mexican young man entered, the steel door quickly slammed behind him.

Motherfucker! Another Mexican yelled from behind me, following with a hard-overhand right connecting squarely with the new mans forehead. ONE ON ONE! Someone else yelled from the small contained crowd. Down on one knee, stunned and bleeding from the gash in the center of his forehead, the new man rose to his feet.

Everyone in the holding tank except the two combatants stood atop the 12-inch stainless steel bench that extruded from all four walls, leaving only enough room for a shit and piss stained toilet- sink combo that was mounted in the corner. ONE ON ONE! The same voice yelled again, now I could see who was shouting the command. He looked to be some kind shot of caller. The tattoos on his neck and shaven head seemed to radiate fear and respect from the majority in the tiny man-made arena. This shot caller and the two fighters were Southsiders, (Mexicans who represent Southern Calif. in prison).

Now squared off and encircling each other, we all watched in silence. The new man (the smaller of the two) was now bleeding profusely from the first punch. Blood streamed into both eyes obviously impairing his vision, his definite struggle to see cued his larger opponent to charge like a shark on a wounded seal. We all watched in silence while the bloody out- matched man became bloodier with every connecting punch.

OKAY THATS ENOUGH! Yelled the tattooed shot caller. The fight came to a sudden stop. CLEAN HIS ASS UP commanded the shot caller, other Mexicans quickly grabbed toilet paper dabbing at the numerous gashes doing their best to stop the bleeding. I overheard it had to do with someones cousin getting shot. But never knew for sure and really didnt give a fuck.

The Southsiders without a doubt ruled L.A. County Jail and outnumbered all the other races two or maybe even three to one. There was an ongoing joke Id always heard about L.A. County jail. Q: What has two black eyes and no shoes? A: A white boy in L.A. County jail. Which seemed to be pretty much the truth. The whites were by far the biggest minorities.

After everyone had their day in court, one at a time we were taken from the tiny holding tank, shackled together and marched down a corridor through a diesel fumed sally port, where an idling bus awaited us captive passengers. I was tired, stressed and couldnt wait to get back to my County Jail bunk in 9000 block (located on the 9 th floor) to catch up on some much-needed sleep.

Like the last three months while awaiting sentencing, I awoke again to the loud trumpeting of (revelee) through unseen speakers. I guess it was their little way of saying wake the hell up, this aint a bad dream and its breakfast time all in one. Grabbing the rust stained towel from the cross bar at the foot of my bunk, I zig zagged my way through human traffic in the direction of the dorm restroom, only to find myself in the rear of a line made up of shirtless tattooed thugs with towels draped over their necks waiting to brush their teeth with powdered toothpaste and three-inch toothbrushes. Within minutes dressed and ready, we all lined up and like every morning, we were marched like programed robots down the 9000-floor corridor to the escalator which made its way down to the lower floors.

The chow hall was located on 5000 (the 5 th floor). About the size of a high school gym, it probably fed about 500 men at once. Coming through the door, you picked up your tray of slop, then you were seated on one of the rows of the end to end stainless steel picnic tables. With only 15 minutes to eat, you were then herded like sheep through another door, and back up the escalators to your housing unit.

Crawling back in my bunk closing my eyes, I tried to give my stomach a few minutes to digest the powdered eggs, cream of wheat, and piece of bread I had just eaten before starting my morning pushups. ERECKSON, ROLE IT UP! Blasted over the speaker. I got out of bed and quickly grabbed what few belongings I had throwing them in my sheet. With a mattress tucked under one arm and the sheet thrown over my shoulder I made my way to steel door. Where am I going? I asked the Deputy whose mind was occupied on other things Wayside.

CHAPTER 2

Peter J Pitchess Detention Center or known as (Wayside) was first built for prison use in 1938. It was a minimum-security facility where inmates worked on a farm setting. In 1983 the Wayside Honor Ranch was renamed the Peter J. Pitchess Honor Ranch. All farming operations were shut down in 1992. Then because of state issues the jail its self was closed in 1995 and re-opened shortly after. Its currently running and operated by the Los Angeles County Sheriffs Department and is an extension of the Los Angeles County jail. As of 1998, with all three facilities North, East and South, it has a combined capacity of approximately 8,600 inmates who await hearings and trials. Not only is it the Countys largest jail, but also the oldest. Known as (Wayside) to all county inmates, the North Facility is now the maximum-security detention center also known as SUPERMAX, and because of its reputation for extreme violence, its often referred to by inmates as the THUNDERDOME.

I sat in silence with about 30 others as our bus headed North on Interstate 5. Looking to my left, in the distance I could see the towering rollercoasters that scrape the sky at Six Flaggs Magic Mountain, a smile came to my face thinking of days long past.