The rest of them said similar things.
“Okay, Noguera, let’s get moving,” the deputy said, prompting me to step away. I shuffled to the car and the next phase of my life.
The ride back to Orange County jail, the concrete castle where I’d lived for the past four and a half years, was short. I rode in a sheriff’s car with two deputies and a chase car following close behind. Until then I’d been transported to court with all the other prisoners in a bus, accompanied by a couple of deputies watching the entire group. The only distinction between me and the others was my cuffs and leg irons attached to a waist chain, plus a red arm band marked “K-10,” indicating the highest security level. Those additions let guards and prisoners know I was an escape risk or violent. After being sentenced to death, my travel arrangements were just one of many changes I’d face.
The gate closed behind us as the car passed into the jail courtyard. I took a deep breath and mentally prepared for the added scrutiny from other prisoners following the verdict. A death sentence changes the way people react to you. Guards who were once friendly before the sentence suddenly become more formal. Other prisoners show a new level of respect.
I didn’t know the details of what living on San Quentin’s death row would entail. Not knowing allows the imagination to invent new concerns and anticipate corrective responses. Strangely, it wasn’t dying that concerned me, but the prospect of living while on death row until they were finally ready to kill me.
The deputy opened the door to take me out of the car.
“Step out and stand fast,” he said. When I did, he pulled out his baton and stepped back. “Step to the side, Noguera. My partner will search you. Once he’s done, I’ll search the back seat.”
I stood as he patted me down for weapons and contraband. Then the first deputy pulled out the back seat and searched behind it.
“Clear,” he said. With deputies on either side of me, we entered the jail.
As the deputies escorted me past the normal holding pens and to the elevator, one deputy informed me, “The chains and irons stay on until we get you to your cell in solitary.”
The other deputy remarked, “This is procedure, not personal. Hope you understand.”
We kept walking and I didn’t respond. I was tired and needed to be alone. I didn’t know how long I could continue holding the mask in place—the one I wore when I was afraid or didn’t want anyone to know what I was feeling. It was the mask I learned to wear as a little boy.
Again the escort deputy spoke. “Your property is stored. You’re not allowed to have anything except your state-issued jumpsuit, blanket, sheets, towel, toothbrush, and toothpaste.”
Standing to the side, two regular deputies I knew smiled and nodded to me.
“We’ll take him from here,” said Hunt, one of the deputies.
Hunt was older and had worked in the unit most of the time I’d been there. The other two deputies left. We rode the elevator to the fourth floor, where the solitary cells were. Hunt, who usually talked nonstop, didn’t say anything. I was grateful for the silence. I wasn’t in the mood for small talk. I needed time alone to think.
“Open five,” he yelled.
The door slid open. I stood as the other cop removed the cuffs, chains, and leg irons, then I stepped into the cell.
“Close five.” As the door closed, he said to me, “If you need anything, just ask. I know you’ll want some time to yourself, but after that you know where I’ll be.”
I nodded, turned into the cell, and froze. As the emotions washed over me I slumped on the bunk where an old, thin mattress lay. The mask fell away and I allowed my emotions the freedom to run. I cried as I hadn’t in years. Why do we regress at these moments and experience similar feelings from childhood? I cried for all the times I was hurt and beat up as a child. I cried for that child I once was who still lived deep inside me, but who I had locked away to keep safe. And finally, I cried out in rage to God.
Over the next few days I was in a constant state of anxiety about what lay ahead. Deputies would transport me to San Quentin within ten days. Each time a door opened, keys jingled, or I heard footsteps, I bolted to my feet, my stomach tight and fists wrapped around the cell bars. I don’t know how many times I did that over the next eight days and nights. I could hardly sleep or eat. There was only the question: “When will they come for me?” As much as I dreaded the trip, waiting was worse.
When the mind is tortured, it searches for a way out, and for me, meditation served that purpose. It set me free. I could do anything, be anywhere, and most of the pain disappeared. But this time when I tried to meditate, instead of taking me away, I only had a heightened sense of the filth of the cell, and anger about what was happening to me. I focused on the unfairness I’d endured early in life, and wondered if my responses to situations later in life would have changed had I been treated differently. Normally I could steer my mind through hardship and doubt, adjusting and gaining strength that allowed me to feel empowered and in control. But I hadn’t faced anything this serious before, and the methods I usually relied on weren’t working. I had always quoted Nietzsche to help me mentally overcome adversity: “That which does not kill us makes us stronger.” But that didn’t work either.
I had fantasies about the moment they’d come for me. Dressed in black, an executioner with a battle axe and three guards would open the door, and I’d wait for my moment as I remained chained to the wall. Suddenly, I slipped my chains and the battle started. I fought in a frenzy, feasting on their fear. When injured, I fought harder, knowing it was for something bigger than myself. Those fantasies of battle eased my nervous anticipation about the future. Looking back now, I believe some part of my unconscious mind was showing me a path for surviving the coming months.
On the morning of the final day, well before dawn, I woke with a jolt. Something was different. A chill ran down my spine and I was on my feet instantly. I heard keys and a baton hitting the leg of a guard as he approached. I recognized the sound of the walk. There were no sounds from the kitchen, so it wasn’t yet 4:30. The guard, Hunt, stepped in front of the cell.
“You awake, Noguera?” he asked.
“They’re here for me, aren’t they?”
“I just heard over the radio that they’re on the way, and before they take you, I wanted to say a few things to you,” he said, moving closer.
“Look,” he continued, “I don’t judge you. What happened is in the past. I’ve had the opportunity to watch you and I think you’ll make it. What’s important is what you do now. San Quentin is a terrible place, but like my father used to say, it is what you make it.”
I nodded and told him I appreciated his words, and thanked him. Years later I would come to realize what he meant.
“Listen,” he said, “Don’t make me regret this. I know you’d like to say goodbye to your family. The phone’s on in the dayroom. Make it quick.”
He put his hand out and I shook it. For a moment he wasn’t a cop and I wasn’t a prisoner. We were just two men brought together by a moment of respect. He walked back up the stairs to the control panel and my door slid open. I hurried to the dayroom. I knew how much he risked by letting me make the call. Prisoners sentenced to death were kept isolated and weren’t allowed to make calls. While the day and time for transport to San Quentin remained a secret, isolation ensured there was no risk of prisoners setting up an escape by notifying their friends of the details. Allowing me to make a call could place many people at risk, and guards are easy targets in that type of escape. He obviously trusted me.
I dialed my sister’s number and the operator’s voice answered, “How may I help you?”
“Collect call from Bill,” I said. The phone rang as my stomach tightened like a fist.
On the third ring she answered, “Yes, who is this?”
“Collect call from Bill,” the operator said. I could tell she’d been sleeping but my name brought her awake.
“I accept,” she said. “
Billy . . . oh God, they’re taking you.” She began to cry.
“Yes, they’re here. I only have a few minutes but I wanted to call to say I’ll be fine. Please don’t worry and I’ll call as soon as I can.”
“Please be careful,” she said.
We talked for a few minutes. I tried to make her laugh but I wasn’t fooling her, or me. In the years to come, my sister’s words and encouragement would provide the strength I’d need to overcome difficulties and make better decisions than I would have otherwise.
We said goodbye when I heard the unit door open, and the sounds of chains. I took a deep breath and let it out, empty but relieved to know the waiting was over. I was determined not to let this beat me, or die a broken man. I put the mask back on, and quickly returned to my cell.
I was transported from Orange County jail to the airport, then flown to Marin County Airfield. The plane ride was difficult. I wore a waist chain with cuffs and leg irons, but the hardest part was having to listen to the cop talk shit to me. I didn’t say a word to him, but he wanted me to know from the start that he was in charge and that he was a tough guy not to be messed with. Even before takeoff he began his rant. He had bad breath and a bad attitude to match.
“If you move even an inch out of place I’ll put a hole in you so big my fist will fit,” he said as he pulled out his .357 revolver.
I looked at it and then at his eyes. I didn’t show any emotion. I just read his face like I used to read the faces of fighters before a match. He was afraid, but like so many men he tried to hide it behind big talk and a big gun.
He looked away and the big talk continued. “I’ve read your file and you don’t scare me. All that Karate shit only works on pussies.”
I sat in the back seat of the small plane. He was in the front passenger seat about four feet in front of me, also facing the front. He was silent as the plane took off and I had time to take stock of the situation. He was out of shape, mid-forties, five foot ten and 250 pounds. He smoked and he was soft. He believed he was safe because I was chained and he had a gun. On the street, he wouldn’t think of saying a cross word to me. However, the present circumstance gave him a sense of security and he took full advantage to verbally assault me. He was careless and confident.
The pilot was also from the sheriff’s department, though he wasn’t armed. He was just a pilot doing a job. He was six feet tall, 165 pounds, and married.
Once we were in the air, I watched out the window and wondered if all the drivers below knew how lucky they were. The cop began again with the big talk.
“I see you’re a bad ass. What gang are you from?”
I didn’t answer. I knew he wanted me to engage him so he could escalate the abuse.
He continued, “I don’t think you’re that special. I know your type. Without a gang, you ain’t shit.”
I don’t know how he got the idea I was in a gang, but it couldn’t have been further from the truth. Eventually the talk died down. With his superiority clearly established, he could relax.
I watched the landscape out the window, but kept an eye on the cop. He pulled out a thermos and poured some coffee, then tucked the thermos between his legs before sipping from the cup. He surprised me by placing his gun on the small console beside him, less than four feet from me. My mind immediately grasped the possibilities and focused on the options. I wondered if it was a trick to get me to reach for the gun and give him an excuse to kill me. I could see he hadn’t emptied the bullets, so it wasn’t a trick. My imagination took over: first, remove the cuffs from my wrists. I could do that in less time than it took a cop to do it with the key. Anytime I left my cell I carried a thin piece of plastic in the back of my mouth under my tongue. I made it a habit after seeing men severely wounded when they couldn’t get out of their chains fast enough as another prisoner attacked them with a knife. Once out of the cuffs, I’d lean forward, grab the gun, and put it to the big-mouthed cop’s head, cocking the hammer while ordering the pilot to fly to the coast. If he hesitated, I’d shoot the tough cop and level the gun at him. He’d comply. He’d do it because his mind would look for a way out, and he’d realize I was his only hope. Even if he believed he was going to die, his only chance was to follow directions and try to negotiate for his life later. Once within sight of the ocean I’d order him to fly low, place the plane on autopilot, shoot him, and jump out. I’d make it. The plane would continue until it ran out of fuel and sank in the ocean. By the time the plane was found, I’d be in Mexico.
Freedom was that close. I could easily do it. The judge, DA, and the twelve jurors had already labeled me a cold-blooded killer and I was on my way to death row, so what did I have to lose? Every fiber of my body was suddenly alive. The anticipation from thinking all of it through had placed me in a state of heightened awareness as everything seemed to move in slow motion. I weighed the pros and cons. I knew I could make it, gain freedom, probably never be caught, and make the idiot cop lose his arrogance before he died. On the other hand, I would have to kill the pilot, who probably had children and was just here to make an honest living. How could I live with myself knowing I’d murdered a man to gain my freedom? I just couldn’t rationalize that. I’d fought and used lethal force to defend myself in the Orange County jail, but killing an innocent person in a purely selfish act was over the line. I took some deep breaths and remembered the earlier phone call. Sometimes the price was just too high.
As we landed and the small plane came to a stop in Marin County, I noticed the two California Department of Corrections cars parked just to our right. As the three bulls advanced, the cop started his big talk again.
“Now we’ll see how bad you really are. Guys like you are turned out in San Quentin. Within a week you’ll be somebody’s bitch or they’ll pass you around until you hang yourself or learn to love it. Welcome to Hell.”
I looked directly at him, allowing the weight I knew my eyes carried to bore into him. He looked away.
Turning my focus to the bulls as they came close, I dismissed the cop from my thoughts.
“How we doing this morning?” one of them asked, then told me to step out.
“Watch your step,” said a black officer. His name badge identified him as Hasman.
He was six foot six, 290 pounds and all muscle. He spoke with a roaring voice that commanded immediate attention, yet he didn’t seem to be aggressive—just clearly someone not to be crossed. It was obvious he had spent years on an iron pile, and it was also obvious he understood the impression he left. I stepped out and stood there while the big-mouthed cop and pilot exchanged paperwork, my file, and small talk with the bulls from San Quentin. Moments later two of the bulls escorted me to the car while a third, a sergeant, got into the chase car. They all wore batons, and the sergeant and one officer had .38 revolvers.
The car picked up speed as Hasman merged onto the freeway and put on some R&B. Toni Braxton sang about lost love and passion.
“This your first time in prison? Your file’s thin and I don’t see any prior convictions or CDC record,” the other bull asked.
I considered not saying anything but he wasn’t pushing and he seemed like he was just curious.
“It’s my first time.”
“What the hell did you do, kill five or six people?”
Hasman answered him, “Nah, he’s out of Orange County. Them folks hand out the death penalty like it’s candy, especially if you ain’t white. Ain’t that right, dawg?”
I just nodded. The other bull, whose name I would later learn was Ovaldo, just shook his head and said, “Young or not, first time or career criminal, this ain’t no joke.”
He was right, it wasn’t a joke, and after all these years this conversation is as fresh in my mind as if it occurred yesterday.
The car slowed as we got off the freeway, then made a right and passed through the exclusive San Quentin Village, right on the shore of the bay. Suddenly, there it was—the East Gate and, beyond that, the prison. Established in 1852, San Quentin
looks like a medieval castle on 275 acres of some of the most expensive property in the wealthiest county in California. Across the pristine bay from San Quentin is a million-dollar view of San Francisco. No wonder the residents of Marin County continue to fight to close the prison and develop the property.
Hasman pulled up to the officer at the East Gate and reported, “One prisoner, one weapon, supervisor in chase car with one weapon.”
The gate officer directed us to move the car to the side to wait for clearance to proceed. After a few moments, we got the all-clear and moved forward two hundred yards to the main entrance of the prison. This was where staff entered and left the prison each shift. It’s also where guns are dropped off when returning to the prison with a prisoner. The armed bull and sergeant went to the armory to turn in their guns while I waited in the car with the one unarmed bull. Then the other bull and sergeant returned to the cars and we drove around the back of the prison to the main sally port where vehicles enter and leave the prison grounds.
Sally ports are common in prison as a means to prevent escapes. They consist of two gates, only one of which can be opened at a time. If the entrance had only one gate, a prisoner could wait for the gate to be opened, then rush the gate before it closed. The vehicle sally port allows a thorough inspection of vehicles entering and leaving the prison before passing through the second gate.
Inside the sally port Hasman handed the bull working there some papers and signed in. The sally port bull checked inside and under the vehicle, as well as inside the trunk and under the hood. When he was satisfied we were clear, the second large iron door opened slowly and we drove through.
Inside the thirty-foot-high walls of the prison, the road runs along the perimeter wall in a large oval. The main exercise area, the lower yard, is inside this loop on the right side of the road. The lower yard is roughly five acres. It’s the largest exercise area at San Quentin and is used exclusively by mainline prisoners.
Escape Artist Page 2
