Surviving My First Prison Riot

I arrived in the maximum-security Central Unit (AKA “the walls”) in Florence, Arizona, in September of 1984. I was there for all of two weeks before I got caught up in a riot. It was a Saturday, and there was going to be a big tackle football game on the athletic field. The whites were playing the Blacks, with the Mexicans serving as referees. It was a big deal. A lot of drugs and “green” had been wagered on the outcome.

I went there with several white friends. I didn’t care so much about watching the football game; I wanted to work out on the weight pile. The Aryan Brotherhood had a picnic table on one side of the field, proudly flying a huge rebel flag. I told my friends I was going to the weight pile to work out, but they cautioned me to stay with them. This wasn’t the time to be alone on the weight pile. Reluctantly, I heeded their advice.

During the game, it looked like too many calls were being made to favor the Black team. We later learned that the Mexican refs had been paid off to throw the game. John, who, along with his brother, Paul, ran the Aryan Brotherhood, had seen enough, and he went after one of the refs for a suspect call, smashing him in the face and knocking him to the ground. That was it. The riot was on.

At first, it was a free-for-all with whites, Blacks, Mexicans, and Indians all squaring off on each other. The front lines moved back and forth. You really didn’t want to get knocked to the ground because then you were in danger of being killed and stomped to death. Several prisoners on all sides were trampled in this way.

After a bit, the Indians withdrew out of the melee and went to a far corner of the athletic field. This really wasn’t their fight anyway. The Blacks then did the same, leaving the whites, who were led by the Aryan Brotherhood, to fight the Mexicans, who the Mexican Mafia led. We found out later that some of the prison guards got on their radios to the Florence Police Department and the Arizona Highway Patrol, inviting them to come watch the prisoners killing each other on the athletic field. It was war!

The whites charged the weight pile, driving the Mexicans toward the rec shack and the fence line separating the Central Unit athletic field from the Special Programs Unit in South Unit. Then, we discovered Brian, a white interstate transfer from back east, lying on the ground just in the back of the weight pile. He had the misfortune of being the lone white guy on the weight pile when the riot started. The Mexicans had stabbed him in the back and hit him in the head with a weight, breaking his skull open.

When I came upon him, he was lying on the ground flopping around. Brain tissue was oozing out of his cracked skull, and one of his eyes was rolled up. Mexicans were still throwing weights at him, trying to finish him off. While this was going on, Mexicans from South Unit began throwing weapons, including tools, over the fence to their compadres who were backed up along the fence. It was a standoff now, with both sides throwing whatever they could find at each other.

A prisoner named John joined me, and we stayed with Brian, blocking what was being heaved at him. There was nothing else we could do for Brian. After a while, the guards in the two gun towers fired a warning slug from their shotguns. The guards working rec on the athletic field locked themselves in the rec shack and rode out the riot safely.

John and I soon decided it was time to try to get Brian out of there if he would ever survive. We picked him up and carried him to the sallyport gate by his arms and legs. To do this, we had to pass through the Mexicans who were up against the fences on both sides. We could easily have been killed for our efforts.

When we approached the Mexican front lines, we had to stop. The youngsters looked back at their shot callers to find out what to do. I saw their leaders give them a hand signal to let us through, and we were the first ones to get off the athletic field. We put Brian down in the sallyport, and the guards told us to go straight back to our cell blocks and lock in.

The riot was over, and other wounded prisoners were slowly brought out. I wish I could tell you that Brian survived, but he died from his head wound on the way to the hospital.

I had come through my first prison riot without killing anyone. I had tried to save a life, an act which earned respect from both sides.

The next day, I had two visitors as the entire prison was locked down. The first was the white-run porter who came around collecting for the fellas in lockup. I gave him a bar of soap and a pack of Camels. He asked me if I was planning on going to the athletic field when the yard opened again. I told him yes. I was going back out to the weight pile.

My second visitor was our chaplain. As we knelt on opposite sides of my door, speaking through the trap, he asked me if I was okay. I told him what happened, and we prayed for Brian and all those who had been wounded. We thanked God for watching over me and for His protection during my first prison riot.

Gordon Grilz #42972
ASPC-T Santa Rita
P.O. Box 24401
Tucson, AZ 85734

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