I had to put all of it aside. I didn’t have the time, not when the next day would be my first day on the yard. I had to prepare myself mentally, emotionally, and physically. I didn’t know the layout of the yard or who would be there. What I did know was that I was assigned to a yard where the worst and most dangerous men would be, at the worst prison in the nation. I knew I could be killed if things went badly.
I turned off my lights and plugged the air vent below my sink and toilet. I didn’t want to wake up and find a rat gnawing on my toes. I kneeled and prayed as I had since childhood. I’m Roman Catholic and, although I have been taught all the laws of the church, and how to pray, my prayers have always been more personal.
“I kneel before no man, but at the end of each day, I bow to you, Father.”
I have never prayed to saints or anyone aside from God. Why should I? My prayer was simple, and to the point.
“Thank you, Father, for my health, strength, and the food I eat. Please protect my family and those in need of your protection, especially the children who suffer and are in danger. I pray for strength to defeat my enemies and those who would see me harmed. Amen.”
Sleep came quickly. Nightmares stayed away and I slept deeply and peacefully.
I woke in darkness. It was cold because all the tier windows were open.
Older prison cell blocks are built with an outer shell that resembles a huge warehouse on the outside, with another building inside of that, containing rows of cells. The cells in the AC are numbered through seventeen on the yard side, and eighteen through thirty-three on the chapel side. Each of the three levels, or tiers, is numbered the same way. Windows are on the outer shell and have steel bars on the outside of each one.
I could see my breath as I exhaled. I got up, turned on the light, and put on a pair of socks. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and combed my hair. It wasn’t dawn yet, but it was near. I made my bed and sat down on it. I was nervous. Uncertainty was something I didn’t like. The moments came and went slowly, as if in quicksand. My mind was in overdrive. I imagined all sorts of things happening on the yard—from being attacked, fighting back and being shot because of it, to fighting someone who had a knife, using deadly force and killing him. No matter how the scenario went, it didn’t go well for me. I had to stop this. If I got jumpy and misread a situation, or reacted to something that had nothing to do with me, I’d seal my own fate. Just then one of the bulls turned on a radio and CCR’s “Born on the Bayou” began playing. Music has always done something to me. Emotionally it gave me resolve. My confidence grew and I knew that no matter what I faced, I’d survive.
Breakfast came and I refused everything. I wasn’t interested in food and I didn’t want anything in my stomach. Next, trash was picked up, followed by the bar check and search.
When that was done, Heckle and Jeckle walked the tier announcing, “Yard. All prisoners wanting yard, get ready. Yard release.”
Cuffs were placed on my door and a flood of bulls entered the tier. Two bulls came to my door and said, “Name?”
“Noguera, D77200.”
“Okay, strip.”
I went through the routine.
“Clear,” the bull yelled when he was done. I was handed back the two pair of boxers I was taking out, my shoes, socks, state-issued blue pants, shirt, and denim jacket.
“Just put on the boxers and shoes.”
I did as I was told and backed up to the food port to be cuffed. Again I waited for the bite from the teeth of the steel cuffs, but there was no bite today.
“Spike here,” the bull yelled again, and another bull came and opened my door. “Back out and stop.”
As I did, both bulls, one holding my cuffs, the other following to my right with his baton out, escorted me down the tier into a holding cage where two more bulls took over.
“Strip,” one barked.
I said, “I just went through this.”
“You have to be strip-searched twice before you go outside,” he said.
After going through the same routine again I was escorted outside by the two bulls. The morning sun warmed my face as I walked through the first gate of the sally port for my yard, and the gate closed and locked. I backed up to the door and placed my cuffed hands through the port. Once the cuffs were removed, the door into the yard slid open and I stepped through, into the concrete jungle of San Quentin’s death row yard.
It’s always an advantage to be the first prisoner to the yard, and that day I was first. It allowed me to begin my study of the new environment, and it gave me the chance to watch as each prisoner came through the gate. Questions ran through my mind as I mentally prepared for what was to come. Who runs the yard? Who are his followers? What are their gang affiliations? How strong are they individually and as a group?
There wasn’t a single cloud in the sky, but it was bitterly cold. I quickly put on the few clothes I had and realized it wouldn’t be enough. I blocked out the discomfort from the cold and focused on my surroundings. The yard was a large concrete pad, roughly fifty by thirty-five yards, enclosed by a large metal fence. A shower area with three nozzles, a toilet, and a sink were at the back, along with the pull-up and dip bars. A basketball court was on the other side. I looked up at the gunner who sat in the small shack up on the wall above me and he nodded at me. He carried an M1 rifle, a .38 revolver, and a whistle. That M1 was serious and I knew he would use it. San Quentin AC gunners were notorious for putting men in their graves. It was one more hazard to remember.
I went over to an area where the sun hit the yard, so I could warm up. A total of eleven men on Yard-C came out that day, and others were taken to the other yards. The AC had three large yards with gunner shacks above each one. Gang affiliation determined which prisoners were assigned to each yard. On the days I went outside, Yard-A was for the BGF (Black Guerrilla Family), a black prison gang, and the Bloods, a black street gang. Yard-B was for the NF (Nuestra Familia), a Northern California Mexican prison gang whose main adversaries were the Southern Mexicans and La Eme (Mexican Mafia). My yard, Yard-C, was the integrated yard where a mixture of prisoners with no affiliation went. On Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, Yard-A was for Southern Mexicans, La Eme, and the AB (Aryan Brotherhood), a white prison gang. Yard-B was for Crips, a mostly black street gang, and Yard-C was another integrated yard.
Prison gangs are distinguished from street gangs because the former originated in the prison system and normally don’t maintain any kind of group organization or control outside of prison. La Eme is an exception. Although formed as a prison gang, they have a large street presence and control a vast criminal network outside prison as well as inside.
Once on the yards, most of the prisoners formed up for a very structured workout that closely resembles military basic training physical fitness. A single prisoner at the front directed the workout. They did pushups, squats, burpies (leg thrusts), and ran in place, all synchronized in time with the cadence called by the one in front.
I began to walk around the outside of the workout areas as I watched the activities and studied the players. No one had talked to me yet. I didn’t sense any tension on the yard, but I didn’t fully trust my ability to pick up on that yet. The best soldiers can disguise their intentions until the last possible moment, and only a man who has learned to read the slightest changes would know.
I continued to walk as the sun rose, and as I neared the pull-up bars I stopped to look at the men doing pull-ups. Four whites, with tattoos covering most of their torsos, were working out there. One of them broke from the group and came up to me.
“Morning,” I said, as I looked at his eyes.
“My name’s Benny. My brothers call me Pirate.”
“I’m Bill.”
“Where you from, Bill?”
I knew this was huge. Where you’re from, who you know, and where your loyalties lie can mean life or death, depending on who you’re talking to.
“Orange County,” I responded.
“I
know a lot of folks from them parts.”
I noticed his workout partners had stopped and begun moving toward us. The men were all heavily muscled and in shape. I glanced at them and Pirate continued talking.
“Let me introduce you to my boys.”
Pirate sized me up as he talked, playing the role of a friendly face in a large club while he evaluated my words and body language. He had noticed me watching his partners and my body tensing.
“This here is Bull.”
I shook Bull’s hand and he nodded.
“These two are Wicked and Tweak.”
I shook both their hands.
“I’m Bill.”
“All right, Pirate, stop stalling. We know you was tired and that’s why you stopped to talk. Let’s get back to the routine. Fuck all the bullshit.”
Pirate smiled and then laughed.
“Fuck you, Wicked,” Pirate retorted. “Bill, let me get back and teach these boys how to do a workout. Talk at you later.”
“Okay, Pirate, good to meet you.”
He turned and went to the pull-up bars where they continued their program. I stood for a few moments and then kept walking. The other men on the yard were doing their own programs and I discretely watched all of them. I wouldn’t work out. That day was for observation.
At noon, yard recall was announced and I made my way to the gate. I had come out first and I’d be first to go in.
“Hey Bill, you coming out Saturday?” asked Pirate.
“If my door opens I’ll be here.”
“Noguera, first tier,” yelled one of the AC yard bulls.
I walked into the sally port and the door closed behind me. I placed my hands behind my back and through the small port. Cuffs went on my wrists and the other door opened. Then they escorted me to the same holding cage I had been in earlier that morning. Again, I was strip searched then taken to my cell, cuffs removed, and finally released to my own little world.
Right away I saw the items on my bunk. Three books, a bag of coffee, a couple of instant soups, two candy bars, and a note that said:
Hey Bro,
Just a few things to make your time easier.
W/R
Your neighbor, Blue
I read the note twice, and went to the bars.
“Blue,” I called out.
“Yeah.”
“Was that you?”
“Yeah.”
“Listen, I appreciate it, but I’m okay, you didn’t have to do that.”
Accepting gifts, especially from a stranger, can be a dangerous mistake in prison. Normally prisoners don’t give away valuables just to be friendly. They usually want something in return and the repayment plan can be expensive, especially for those who don’t have money on their books yet. There are only so many ways to repay someone in prison where we aren’t allowed to have any cash.
“It’s nothing. Besides, that little piece of work you did at county for that young Wood won’t be forgotten.”
The prison system is a small world, and word travels fast. I didn’t say anything.
“Yeah, I know who you are, Sinbad, or do you prefer to be called Mad?”
“Listen, Blue, just call me Bill. The judge and jury called me killer and murderer, but I don’t go by those names either.”
He began to laugh. “I guess you’re right, old son. Ha. But know, I respect what you did.”
“I didn’t do it because the kid was white. He was scared and asked for my help, so I did it out of principle.”
“Well, enjoy the books and things. I feel what you’re saying. Your reasons are your own. I respect that.”
“All right now,” I said and sat down to eat my lunch that had been placed in my cell while I was on the yard.
I live my life according to principles based on a personal code of honor. Few prisoners are able to do that. In here, men live or die based on principles—either their own or those of a larger group. This also determines whether other prisoners consider you to be an inmate or a convict.
An inmate thinks only about day-to-day survival in prison. He isn’t governed by principle. He follows all the rules. If a bull tells him to jump he says, “How high?” He is a coward. If someone strikes him he will run. He is blind. If something happens around him, he doesn’t understand it because he hasn’t learned to evaluate situations. If asked what happened, he will tell. He is an informant. He has no self-discipline and no principles. He’s a punk and a motherfucker.
A convict lives by a code. Often this code is twisted and dangerous, but by their own standards convicts are the elite because they believe in something. They have standards. Their class structure is established by the prisoners themselves, not by any official edict. Convicts build their own establishment. They function among themselves as contending forces. They instruct the young on acceptable behavior, train them to have honor and to live by a code. Often convicts test newcomers in order to make them strong, brave, and proud. Those who respond appropriately are on track to become part of their society. They’re as hard as the steel which encloses them. They don’t cooperate with the authorities, and they hate all cops. There are not many of these men left. The prison system has learned to separate the convicts from the population, and slowly the snake, without its head, has begun to die.
Not long after my arrest I realized there was no future in prison gangs and the only person I could rely on was myself. I began to discover the principles I would later forge into a code to live my life by, regardless of the circumstance or situation. That personal code has guided my life ever since.
Chapter 4
Orange County Jail, 1984
I hate bullies, rapists, child molesters, or anyone who harms a weaker person just because they can. I identify with children who suffer at the hands of irresponsible adults, and I don’t maintain my composure when one of those creeps is within range. I realize some view this way of thinking as Neanderthal, but I believe a real man can’t stand by and allow the rape, molestation, or harm of a child to take place in his presence or with his knowledge. I also believe in using whatever force necessary to stop it.
That “little piece of work” Blue referred to happened at the Orange County jail and was not planned or expected. I was in the shower early on a Sunday morning when most of the men in the unit had gone outside to the yard. I stayed back to wash my clothes and just get away from the idiots. A young kid, maybe eighteen years old, who looked more like twelve, came into the shower area. I focused my attention on him because he seemed nervous. I wondered if he had orders to attack me. Even a twelve-year-old can inflict damage with a knife. He was scared, but I didn’t think it had anything to do with me.
A few moments later I noticed a black man walk by, look inside, and signal to someone as he pointed into the shower area.
The kid said, “Help me please, they’re going to rape me.”
I turned off the shower and began putting on my shoes. Three black men came into the shower area. I stood and focused on them. I knew who they were. I had seen them taking items from other prisoners as they came back from canteen. Now they planned to rape the kid. At that moment I decided they wouldn’t have their way. I wouldn’t mind my own business and walk away while the motherfuckers raped that kid.
“What’s up, Mad Bill? This don’t concern you, homes. We ain’t fuckin with no Chicans, just this sweet-ass cracker.”
The one talking was Chili Red. He was a light-skinned African who had been to prison and rumored to be BGF. He was in good shape. I had seen him fight and, although he wasn’t the best I’d seen, with two friends he wouldn’t be easy. There was no turning back. Talking to them would do no good. I looked at the kid and he pleaded with his eyes. I’ll never forget that look.
I turned to Chili Red and said, “Your business don’t concern me.”
For a split second he relaxed and at that moment I struck, hitting him in the throat. He grabbed his throat, and I advanced, kicking his feet out from under him. He fell to the floor and
I smashed his face with my right fist. It all took less than a second and a half, and like most bullies or rapists he was a coward. I moved fast, kicking the second wannabe tough guy in the balls. As he doubled over, I kneed him in the face. Before I could turn, the third guy cut me with a razor blade attached to a handle. It cut a thin but deep line down the inside of my right elbow. I rushed him, deflecting his clumsy attempts to cut me again. I hit him in the mouth, and as he fell I hit him over and over again until he lay still. I looked at my arm and cursed out loud.
I grabbed my stuff and left the shower, followed by the kid. I had to stop the bleeding before the cops saw my arm and put two and two together. I walked into my cell and tied my arm off to slow the bleeding. My cellie, a Mexican named Spider, who had stayed back from yard as well, asked, “What the fuck happened, ese?”
“It’s been handled.”
He immediately pulled out a shank from its hiding place, and asked the kid what happened. I wiped off the blood and put tape around the wound.
Word soon spread about what happened. The rest of the unit returned from outside and the whites came to my cell to discuss the situation. I told them what I told Blue, that it wasn’t racial. I got involved because no one was going to rape anyone—man, woman, or child—when I could stop it. Period, end of story.
It wasn’t the first or last time I’d fight for that principle. It’s what I believe in. Violence is the only answer when faced with those circumstances. In jail or prison, you’re respected and feared for your capacity for violence.
A few days after the incident in the shower the cops transferred me to another unit. Someone talked to the authorities and they knew what I did. Instead of just writing me up, they placed me in the most notorious unit in the entire jail, A-1 and A-2. Known as Blood Alley because of the high number of assaults and stabbings there, it was also run by La Eme. The unit was for convicts—men who served many years in prison. The majority of them were “made men”—Carnales—soldiers, associates, or prospects of La Eme. There were also some AB members. I was the youngest prisoner in the unit. I was placed in A-1 cell-3, where my true education would begin on the finer points of prison life, like invoking fear in those who opposed me.
Escape Artist Page 5
