Escape Artist

by William A. Noguera

  The bulls went through my cell searching for contraband and testing the bars. When they failed to find anything of interest they put me back in the cell, removed the cuffs, and shut the steel door.

  I have some difficulty describing what happened next because it’s not a common experience, and many people doubt the reality of the perception. Nevertheless, I know it’s real and will attempt to explain it with proper context. I get a feeling, which is like my personal psychic alarm system, when conflict is about to happen. My senses go into overdrive and I can actually smell the distinct odor of nervous sweat and testosterone as a man pumps himself up for an attack.

  I’m sure men who have been to war will understand the experience, though I suspect the trait diminished gradually among humans after years of living in civilized society, not having to fight for survival. Many animals show clear evidence of having this sense of impending danger, and a few prisoners have it too.

  I instinctively prepared myself for battle while taking off my shirt and shoes. I readily admit I was scared. I’ve come to learn that courage is not defined by being fearless, but by overcoming fear and acting as if the fear were not present.

  Still, one thing was puzzling—they had already cuffed me and removed me from my cell, so if they were going to harm me they would have done it then. What was I picking up on? I could see through the small window in the outer door of the cell that the bulls had all gathered with shields and batons. Then I remembered the closed steel door next to mine. They weren’t coming for me. I had allowed the unfamiliar surroundings to influence my judgment and I’d miscalculated what was really happening. I had to learn from the mistake and focus. Misreading situations and overreacting could cost me my life in prison. The tension in my muscles drained away slowly once I knew I wouldn’t be hurt today.

  The bulls opened the steel door right next to mine and I heard one yell, “Cuff up.”

  I had a sense that the bull and his partners didn’t want the prisoner to submit. The way they were pumped up with adrenaline, they wanted one thing—a fight.

  “Fuck you, faggot. I got something for you and your cock-sucking friends,” yelled the prisoner.

  He mumbled and screamed other things about the listening devices in his cell and that he wanted the camera taken out of his brain. He was a broken man with a shattered mind. Despite that, he was still ready for a fight because some part of his being told him to defend himself against the impending assault.

  I sat on the bunk and listened as the door to his cell was opened and the bulls rushed in. There was yelling from both the prisoner and the bulls, but the most distinctive sound was their boots pounding against the floor as they entered. Soon there was only the sound of the prisoner screaming, “Help . . . Stop . . . Please.”

  They were beating him senseless and I wondered if they’d kill him.

  They cuffed his hands and legs and took him away. The other bulls returned to search the cell and check the bars. I heard them talk about what they had done in excited tones.

  “Man, did you see how he came off the ground when I kicked him in the nuts?”

  “That crazy motherfucker will wake up with a bloody asshole from my baton,” another laughed.

  On and on, they boasted about the job they had done on him. I wished I could tell them they were punks for the way they’d treated a man who was clearly insane. Some other prisoners also realized what they had done and began yelling at them. But it wasn’t my fight, and I couldn’t afford the luxury of standing up for someone else. I had enough problems of my own.

  Chapter 3

  San Quentin Death Row, 1988

  The next nine days were all the same. Breakfast, trash pickup, search, and bar check, lunch, and dinner. Showers were on Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday.

  Each day I worked out, following an aggressive routine: five hundred pushups, five hundred sit ups, five hundred squats, a half hour of shadow boxing and another half hour of martial arts kicking techniques, fighting sequences, and meditation. Even this was a light workout compared to my daily routine when I was a competitive fighter.

  The nights passed slowly and were filled with the same nightmare, only the nightmare had become something I looked forward to. At least in my nightmares I wasn’t in a cell on death row. When I woke, it took a few seconds of conscious thought before I realized where I was—until that happened, I was free.

  On the tenth day I woke and prepared to see the warden’s committee. The hours passed without any word, until finally after shift change I saw Carlton walk past the small window in the steel door and I called to him.

  “Carlton, a moment of your time, please.” He opened the steel door that I’d come to think of as a door to a room in a mental ward.

  “I’m sorry to bother you but I was supposed to see the warden’s committee today. I’ve been here ten days.”

  “Let me check the log and I’ll be right back.”

  Sometime later I heard the sound of his keys. The door opened and he stepped into the area right outside the cell.

  “I checked the log. You’re right, you’ve been here ten days, but it’s Friday and the warden’s committee and classification don’t meet until Wednesday, so you might have to wait until then.”

  I nodded and he stepped out and closed the door. I was angry. I wanted to be classified and be allowed to call my family. As it turned out, I would be denied the privilege for many more months.

  For the better part of the night I stared at the blank wall opposite my bunk, reliving love, hate, pain, anger, rage, passion, and thinking about how much I wanted my life back. I must have fallen asleep because the dreams came, only something was missing. There was calmness where usually a storm raged inside. This was the reason I’d surfed. It was the only thing that brought me real peace when I was a boy and through my teenage years. Maybe it was the rise and fall of the ocean, its peacefulness and sudden power. Harnessing that power by riding a wave was like being in total control.

  Suddenly I woke. At the sink I washed my face in cold water. I sat on the bunk and stared at the blank wall. I knew what to do. I took a piece of rag, wet it, and began scrubbing the wall until the dragon was gone. Then I grabbed the three pencils I found during my search of the cell, and I began to draw. I drew with passion, as never before in my life. I allowed the emotions to pour out, and as they did I was no longer William A. Noguera, prisoner D77200. A mental door had opened and the little boy from my dreams was there with me.

  Tears streamed down my face as I drew and poured out my deepest emotions. For the first time in years, I’d found a part of me, long ago hidden in order to protect it from all of the brutality.

  My means of coping with the emotional stress caused by the continual turmoil early in my life was to subconsciously compartmentalize my inner self into two parts. One half dealt with the abuse I suffered—the conflicts of a fractured family, and the never-ending sorrow and affliction I’ve always had to fight against. As time went by, this half grew stronger, responding instinctively to threats with cunning and aggression. This was the face I allowed everyone behind the walls of San Quentin to see. He was my Sacrificed Child, the one who defeated my enemies. The other half was caring, sensitive, intelligent, and creative. I hid him deep in my soul to protect him and keep him from being contaminated by the venom that always surrounded me. He was my Radiant Child.

  Sitting in a dark prison cell on death row overwhelmed me, and I realized my old methods of survival would no longer improve what really mattered—me. The Radiant Child had come to me in my dreams, slowly reconnecting as a guiding force, gradually transitioning into my conscious thoughts, making me whole like I’d never been before.

  Days and nights went by. Wednesday came and went and still the warden’s committee didn’t call for me. Different bulls asked what I was still doing in the isolation cell and my reply was always the same, “I don’t know, boss.”

  On the twenty-sixth day of my stay in isolation, Carlton opened the steel door to th
e cell and said, “Noguera, as I was coming in today I saw the associate warden and I mentioned your situation and how long you’ve been in this cell. He assured me he would look into it. Tomorrow’s Wednesday. You’ll probably be called for committee, so be prepared.”

  “Thank you, Carlton. I appreciate your efforts.”

  He noticed the wall and stepped into the area directly in front of the cell.

  “Dear God,” he breathed, and for the next several moments he just looked. Finally he turned to me and said, “That’s amazing, I’ve never seen anything like it. You’re gifted beyond words. You’re an artist.”

  He stepped away and closed the door, leaving me alone again. But at peace.

  That morning I’d finished the mural of the San Clemente shore where I’d surfed as a boy. I drew myself in various scenes: one struggling to the surface after freeing my ankle from my leash; one where I watched the little boy I’d dreamt of; and a third scene where I caught a wave and rode it. The entire wall was covered in photographic detail.

  I found a missing piece of myself—long neglected but not forgotten. It was the beginning of my artistic journey, the start of what would fill my days over the next thirty years and allow my mind an escape from the inhumanity and filth I encountered along the way. I had found the key that would allow me to become the man I was meant to be.

  The next morning I woke at 5:00 a.m. I paced the entire morning until Heckle and Jeckle came for me. Unlike their normal routine of fucking with any prisoner they encountered, they were unusually professional and simply said, “The warden and the committee want to see you. Put on your blue shirt, pants, and shoes. We’ll be taking you.”

  I nodded. “I’m ready now.”

  I was strip-searched first, then one of them said, “Turn around and back up. I’ll be double locking your cuffs so they don’t tighten up on you and cut off the circulation to your hands.”

  This dirty motherfucker purposely hurt me the first day I arrived to show me his power, and thought it was funny. Now he was concerned about the circulation in my hands. I didn’t say anything, but I knew the game and I hated their hypocrisy. I was about to see the warden, and if I complained about what they had done to me before, there would be an investigation. But they had nothing to worry about—I wouldn’t say anything. My only interest was in being classified and getting placed in East Block where the majority of the condemned prisoners were housed. There, I would have access to a phone and visits, and start to put some sort of life together.

  They escorted me to the second floor of the AC where the warden, Daniel Vasquez, and the committee waited. I entered the room and observed the impression my appearance had on them from their facial expressions and lack of eye contact. I wasn’t a person to them. I was only prisoner number D77200. I was told to sit down and Heckle and Jeckle stood on either side of me, like I was an animal.

  Sitting around the table were the warden, the associate warden, a captain, a lieutenant, a counselor, a shrink, and the AC senior sergeant.

  The warden began by stating: “William A. Noguera, CDC prisoner D77200, you have been sentenced to death and until your appeals are completed you will be under my charge. This is my classification committee and we will review your file and determine if you meet the requirements to be given grade-A status and moved to East Block where you will enjoy the privileges of a grade-A prisoner. I’m sorry you spent so much time in isolation. I was not aware of your situation. Normally ten days is the maximum time a prisoner is allowed to stay in those cells. Nevertheless, here you are, so let’s begin.”

  I foolishly allowed myself to think I’d be given grade-A status because of the mistake they made in keeping me in isolation so long, but soon my hopes were smashed.

  The associate warden said, “I’ve reviewed your file, Mr. Noguera, and I’m particularly concerned with this attempted escape as well as your use of violence. Since your arrest you’ve had a number of incidents mentioned where you were involved in the assault of another prisoner. This is very troubling indeed.”

  Then the shrink cut in with an insulting tone, “You do understand that violence is not the answer to all conflicts?”

  I cut him off, “I understand your concerns, but please allow me to explain.” I thought no matter what I said, they wouldn’t understand. They seemed to have already made up their minds.

  I continued, “I’ve spent the past twenty-seven days in isolation when I should have been there for only ten. Your staff will verify I did not complain nor did I do anything that would indicate I will be a problem to you. I’m not a gang member nor do I have any affiliation to any gang. The incidents you refer to in my file were unavoidable under the circumstances. I was nineteen years old when I was arrested and thrown into a unit where the majority of prisoners were grown men with long histories in prison. I fought to stay alive and protect myself. Tell me, doctor, what would you do if a man—a convict—a killer, attempted to rape you and take away your manhood? Would you fight, or try to reason with him to end his pursuit of your ass? As for the attempted escape, I was placed in isolation for a year for something I was not involved in. An informant pointed me out, but he lied and I was never charged for it. It was all untrue.”

  “Thank you Mr. Noguera, this will all be considered. However, it is the opinion of this committee that you need an adjustment period. We will review this again in ninety days. Meanwhile you will remain in the AC during this period of observation.”

  The warden’s words had the ring of a canned statement he’d used hundreds of times before. I’d wanted a fair hearing, but instead I was left feeling gut-punched.

  He continued, “You are a grade-B prisoner. However, you will be placed on a group yard that goes outside three times a week and you will be moved into a normal cell by yourself where you will receive mail and go to the prison store for your necessities. You will not, however, be allowed phone use. That privilege is reserved for grade-A prisoners. Do you have any enemies?”

  “I do not.”

  He assigned me to a group yard. I would be allowed outside Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. I was led away and back to the isolation cell.

  “We’ll be back for you in a while. We have to move a guy’s stuff out of a cell for you. He got his grade-A,” Heckle said.

  After they left, I sat on my bunk, defeated. At least three more months in the hole. I stared at the mural I’d created on the wall. I was so far away from home.

  I stayed in isolation for the rest of the day. Heckle and Jeckle were still recovering from their display of “professionalism” during the committee meeting and didn’t have the strength left to move me. Bulls from the next shift moved me to another cell on the first tier after dinner. A part of me didn’t want to go. Being in solitary confinement so long had affected me in ways I didn’t yet realize.

  I entered the new cell. It didn’t have a solid steel door—just a door made of heavy steel bars covered with steel mesh. The cell was the same size as the quiet cell I moved from, but with cells on either side. In a cell with bars instead of a solid door, I could talk to my neighbors.

  The cell had a steel toilet and sink, a bunk and a light with a switch that allowed me to turn it on or off when I wanted. Otherwise, the cell was bare, but clean. I took off my blues and folded them, then placed them on the bunk. I took a deep breath and set out to search the cell as I always did, looking for contraband and a possible set-up. The only thing I found was a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. I had begun reading it when Carlton came to my door.

  “Noguera, I have your property. It’s not much, but I’m sure you want and need it.”

  It was depressing when he handed everything to me through the food port. The handful of things was all I owned in the entire world. I had fallen far and fast from where I had once been.

  I noticed right away a new toothbrush, paste, and tumbler were in a bag with my property. I told Carlton there had been a mistake, those items didn’t belong to me.

  He smiled and said,
“I’m by the book, convict. I never saw a thing,” and he walked off.

  He placed the items in my property. But why? He didn’t know me. I decided to accept the gifts and inventory what I had: a pair of prisonissued blues (jacket, pants, and shirt), three pairs of socks, two towels, three T-shirts, three boxer shorts, two sheets, a wool blanket, a comb, a pair of state-issued shoes, a pair of Nike basketball shoes. Since mail was not allowed in isolation, a bag of unopened letters sat among my things. I put all my property on the mattress and rolled it up so I could clean the cell. I would be there for at least the next three months, so I was determined to make the best of it.

  After finishing with the cell, I took a bird bath, made easier by having the tumbler. I dried the floor, then brushed my teeth. In isolation I couldn’t brush my teeth because they wouldn’t give me a toothbrush or paste. I unrolled the mattress containing my property and made my bed. After I finished everything else I opened the bag containing the letters. This would be difficult. For the previous twenty-seven days I’d basically shut out the world and lived in my inner world of childhood memories and dreams. Now I had to open myself up to what others were experiencing.

  There were nine letters in all. I scanned them and read the ones from my mother and sister first. My mother’s letter asked that I call her as soon as I could, and emphasized that I should pray and stay away from trouble because she loved me. My sister said similar things, and told me to always know she missed me and worried about my safety. There were no letters from my father. I hadn’t expected any. My father and I had an understanding: words weren’t needed. I knew he was on my side, and if I needed him I only had to ask.

  The remaining letters were from Maxine. She was the person who taught me what friendship is. I met her years earlier through her brother. She was like a sister to me, and we had remained friends.

  After reading her letters, I wished I could speak to her. What would she think? I disappeared after speaking with her briefly the day I was brought here, but that was nearly a month ago. Had she called the prison to ask about me? Did she know I was in isolation? Her letters gave no indication about this. They were all written in the first five days after my sentencing.