All cells in the unit were eight-man cells. There were five cells per tier. Each cell had a sleeping area with eight bunks. A day room off to the side had a shower, a large metal table, a phone (for collect calls), and a TV. It may sound like a college dorm, but believe me when I tell you that the men I met there are still the most dangerous I’ve ever met in the system. They were gladiators. The only way I could survive would be to compete and win at their deadly game.
Though fighting is important in prison, many good fighters haven’t survived it. Equal in importance is the ability to understand and use prison politics to one’s advantage. This is another subject I learned from one of the best.
As soon as I entered the cell, I knew I was entering a whole new arena. The men here were serious, well respected criminals—men who were looked up to by everyone in the system. I knew I would be watched and tested right away to see if I measured up.
I put my things down and approached a convict who sat in the dayroom. I had seen him before and knew he was a Carnal of the Mexican Mafia. I also knew his reputation and that he ran the entire unit. His name was Eddie Monster, and if you looked into his eyes, you’d understand the nickname had nothing to do with physical stature and everything to do with his intensity, as well as his reputation for viciousness as a gladiator.
I stopped in front of him and said, “Órale, mucho gusto, mi nombre es Bill. I just got transferred. Which bunk can I grab?”
“Órale, youngster, mucho gusto, I’m Monster. Four vatos caught the chain this morning. Go ahead and grab any bunk you want. But first, sit down and tell me qué paso with them niggers.”
He, like many others, heard what I had done. I ran the entire deal to him and he liked what he heard.
“Watcha. I know Chili Red. He ain’t no punk and he may try you again, but this time he’ll come with a piece. Be ready.”
The three other men in the cell came over and introduced themselves to me. There was Huero from La Habra, Midnight from La Jolla, and Richard also from La Jolla. They were Southern Mexican soldiers, and all would later earn the status of Carnales in the Mexican Mafia.
I put my things on a bottom bunk and made my bed. I didn’t say much more. I was out of place with them and I wondered how I’d be tested.
At dinner we walked together to the chow hall.
“Sit with me,” said Monster.
I noticed the respect he commanded. Everywhere he went, other prisoners nodded or wanted to get his attention so they could say, “Órale.” The other three men in the cell got similar reactions from the others.
“You’re a regular celebrity,” I said to Monster.
“Yeah, as long as they pay I’m happy.”
I won’t lie—I was impressed. They projected poise and honor, especially to a nineteen-year-old kid. I saw the looks I got from many of the other prisoners. Many asked who I was. Others who knew, nodded or glared. I sat with an elite group. So what got me there? The answer was obvious: violence.
I’ve never been popular as a prisoner. Men like my new cellies, men who understood a certain discipline and code, usually didn’t have a problem with me, but others find me arrogant and aloof. I don’t like the majority of prisoners and I treat them with disdain. I have my reasons, and they’re firmly based on the fact that most of these men are back stabbers and scumbags.
When we returned to the unit, more prisoners were in the cell and the open bunks were filled. All three of the men who had just arrived knew the rest of my cellies from previous time spent in prison. I was the only outsider. The other three were Shark from Bakersfield, Jack from Whittier, and Bugsy from Santa Ana. I was introduced, and right off Bugsy and I didn’t get along. As he shook my hand, he asked Monster if he had claimed me. At first I didn’t understand, but I soon realized he was asking if I was Monster’s property. In other words, his bitch.
Monster’s response was, “I don’t fuck around, ese, and that youngster is firmé. He just took down Chili Red.”
Bugsy didn’t seem impressed, but let it go.
Later, Monster pulled me aside and said, “Listen, don’t trip on Bugsy. He’s an asshole, but no punk. He’s dangerous. He just wanted to know if he could try you.”
“I’m no punk. If that motherfucker tries me, I’ll hurt him.”
Monster stared at me. “Órale, I believe you.”
Over the next couple of weeks I got into a routine of working out and practicing my martial arts with the same intensity I had before my arrest. All the men in my cell were workout fanatics.
I stayed to myself and watched everyone. It was natural for me to take note of their habits, their strengths and weaknesses, and find weak spots in their armor. I sized up all of them as if preparing for a fight. I knew one of them would try me and I had to be ready.
All of the men in the cell were from Orange County except me. I was from Los Angeles, which meant all of the men had other members of their gangs in the unit. If I fought one of them, I probably would have to fight more. The truth was, I was one of only three men that were not from Orange County in the entire unit. Not good odds at all.
The third week in the cell proved to be an eye opener. A shipment of drugs came in light and the two mules who brought it in were stabbed as the penalty for cheating. Drugs are usually smuggled in by men who know they are headed to jail on a certain date. They go to a drug dealer under the control of a gang, and offer to bring drugs into the jail for a “kick-down” (a small percentage). When they report to jail they turn the drugs over, minus their cut. Most of the time it goes wrong because the mule is usually a drug addict. He’s strung out and needs a fix, and as soon as he can take the clavo out of his rectum, he uses all of his cut. After that, he begins to use from the other as well, which carries a severe price.
Monster received half of what came in. Later that night, all of my cellies were high. Monster asked me if I wanted to “get on the broom” (sweep the tiers), which wasn’t about sweeping, but meant I would be trusted by everyone to handle drugs and deliver them from cell to cell, or in some circumstances deliver a shank to an individual. In my cell, there were three bone-crushers. Each one was at least seven inches long, made of stainless steel, and hidden so well the cops never found them, even during cell searches.
Because they were hidden so well to ensure guards didn’t find them, they also couldn’t be accessed very easily, and unless it was planned ahead of time any fight would be absent those weapons.
I reported to Monster at the end of each day on what was moved. I also gave him the kick-down I received in payment.
“Don’t you use?” he asked.
“Only gesca (pot). I have to stay on my toes. I’ll trade you for it.”
I gave him all the coke, crystal, and heroin I received, and he gave me some gesca.
“Watcha, I don’t have much gesca, not enough to cover everything you gave me, but I’ll get back to you,” he said.
“That’s firmé. Gracias for the time on the tier.”
“From now on, that’s you. Every day you take care of business out there.”
I nodded and went over to my bunk and rolled joints. I gave three to each of my cellies. It wasn’t much, but the show of respect got their attention.
Bugsy came up to me to thank me for the joints and told me he hurt his back and asked if I would please allow him to use my bunk for a few nights until he could climb up to his bunk. I told him I understood and not to worry. I’d move my things to his top bunk until he’d recovered. Of course, he thanked me. He called me a “young stud,” but I knew what he was doing. He wanted to see if he could talk me out of my lower bunk. If he could, he would progress and see what else he could take from me.
Over the next few days, I watched him improve until he began working out again. I waited yet another day, and while he made his bunk I said, “Looks like your back is fine. I need my bunk back.”
He smiled and said, “Come on stud, you’re young and can climb up like nothing. I’m getting old. Do me th
is favor.”
“You said a couple of days ’til your back was okay. Time’s up.”
“Okay, okay, after chow.”
I headed for the chow hall, and while walking I caught up to Huero and Monster.
“Watcha, this vato Bugsy is playing me. If we get into it, is he on his own?”
Monster responded, “He’s a loud mouth. If you feel disrespected, handle your business. No one will interfere. But remember, he’s not going to lie down. He’ll fight and, if given a chance, he’ll use a piece.”
“Right on,” I said, and continued to chow.
This would be it. I would once again ask him to move and I’d take it from there.
When we all returned and everyone was sitting around, I began to take my mattress off the top bunk.
“What are you doing, ese?”
“I’m taking my bunk back. Time’s up.”
“Come on, homie, let me keep it. Maybe we can share it, you bring your fine ass down here at night and I’ll keep you warm.”
They all stopped what they were doing to watch. I continued taking my mattress off the top bunk.
“Nah, ese, I’m taking what’s mine,” I said.
“Check this out motherfucker, the bunk’s mine. I ain’t giving you shit back. And starting now, when you go to the store you’ll be paying me to live here and you’ll give up that sweet ass if I want it.”
There it was: his true feelings. He didn’t like me and didn’t believe I belonged there. He thought I was just a kid he could use and then throw away.
Bugsy was over six feet tall, and two hundred pounds. He was around thirty-two years old, a career criminal, and an associate of the Mexican Mafia. He was also used to getting his way. At the time, I was six foot one, 170 pounds, and angry.
He stepped up to me in a menacing manner and I didn’t hesitate. Before he could extend his right arm to push me, I hit him in the face. As he fell I strapped my arms around his neck, and in less than ten seconds I choked him out. When he was out I let him go, took his mattress off the lower bunk, and put mine there. He began to come out of it and did what I knew he’d do. First, he allowed his emotions to override his mind. I’d embarrassed him and he wanted to satisfy his wounded ego. He stood up and walked past me to the shower area. I knew one of the three shanks lay hidden there—a big mistake. When he got it, he came out talking.
“Fuckin’ punk motherfucker.”
Prison-made shanks normally have a sharpened point, but the edges are not as sharp as a regular knife, so the user must stab or poke instead of cut. That’s fine if the target isn’t expecting an attack, but not so good in situations like this, where I knew he was coming for me. He needed to get close to me to use it. I hit him in the face, this time breaking his nose, and as he charged blindly, swinging like an idiot, everything slowed down. He scratched my shoulder and I felt the sting but it never went further. I moved in, smashed his ribs with my fists, and picked him up and slammed him to the floor. The shank fell out of his hands and I punished him—striking his face until it was a bloody mess and he didn’t move.
I then dragged him over to the sleeping area and said, “This motherfucker tried to play me. I know you’ve known him longer than me, so if this is a problem, we can deal with it now.”
“Fuck him,” was all anyone said.
I would have fought them all if they backed his play.
Monster struck that idea by stating, “Get that piece of shit out of my sight. I told him if he tried you and lost, he’d be out of here. He lost.”
I looked at him and narrowed my eyes.
“Before you got at me about him being on his own and handling your business, he asked for a green light to test you. He doesn’t like you and thought you were here to rat us out,” Monster said.
“I’m no rat.”
“I had to see your reaction. If I protected you, it would have been a lot worse in the long run. Now they all know you won’t hesitate to fuck someone up. All these vatos respect that.”
The guards rolled up Bugsy soon after that. They asked what had happened and interviewed everyone in the unit. Funny, everyone said they hadn’t seen anything because they were showering or asleep.
Bugsy was placed in another unit where he made the mistake of bad-mouthing Monster. For his mistake he was stabbed repeatedly and ended up in protective custody.
Chapter 5
San Quentin Death Row, 1988
I took advantage of each opportunity to go outside regardless of the weather. Each day, I worked out with intensity and purpose and also became familiar with yard politics and who the main players were. My yard was for non-affiliated prisoners, so in theory it was less prone to violence. The reality was that gangs often sent sleepers to other yards, including that one. Sleepers are active gang members who convince the warden’s committee that they’re threatened and can no longer function within their group. The committee will then change their yard assignment based on their word that they’re no longer active. After that, the gang has a representative on a yard they previously couldn’t reach. Sometimes gangs will even stage a fight with a chosen member so the bulls will take him off the yard and place him on another yard. Of course, it’s all an act designed to get a member of their gang within striking distance of an enemy. Once sleepers are on the new yard, they may lay dormant for weeks, months, and sometimes years, until the designated target arrives.
Other prisoners who are sympathetic to a particular gang may also be ordered to “put in work” to get out from under some difficulty, such as a gambling debt owed to one of the gang members. The consequence of declining the order would likely be fatal.
My yard had three sleepers. All were extremely dangerous and two of them were activated just a few months later.
During that time I discovered the San Quentin library and its collection of books on art, poetry, and philosophy.
I devoured the books. Although I couldn’t go to the library, I could order books and have them delivered to my cell. I read José Ortega y Gasset, the Spanish philosopher, as well as Søren Kierkegaard, and Alfred North Whitehead. I was delighted by the French poets, Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Mallarmé, Lautréamont, and Paul Valéry. But it was the artists and their work that moved me. That’s where I found passion, love, hate, fury, and all of the human emotions that would later be the basis for my own work.
I studied Rubens, Caravaggio, David, and all the Masters of Realism, as well as the Impressionists, the Cubists, the Futurists, the Surrealists, and every art form available to me. But it was the Abstract Expressionists that captivated me most. When I looked at the works of the men of the New York school—Robert Motherwell, Jackson Pollock, Willem de Kooning, Franz Kline, Arshile Gorky, Clyfford Still, Mark Rothko, and others—a dialogue materialized between us. One look at their work and I was thunderstruck, and I knew immediately what was being conveyed. I discovered I was a “sensitive viewer,” and the works came alive for me, breathing emotion and filling a void inside me.
Meanwhile, I lived two separate lives: one, as a prisoner inside the walls of the most dangerous prison in the nation, and the other as an artist. I think it’s of great importance that I make a distinction here in my meaning of “artist.”
There are many men in prison who can draw as well as an advanced student in art school, but that fact does not make them artists. If a man can cook, that alone does not make him a chef. The same applies to men who can draw. What makes an artist? There are many viewpoints, and everyone from the Realist to the Expressionist will give you theirs. For me, it is the ability to retreat from the world surrounding me where otherwise I cannot. It is the ability to escape by allowing my mind to actualize itself and render external what otherwise would be internal. It is also the process of accepting one’s surroundings where we bear witness to the chaos within us and bring order to it by an abnormal sensitivity to a medium. I create because I must. Art to me is not a luxury, but a necessity.
San Quentin in 1988 was a violent place and I w
as not immune to it. For some reason as the heat of summer intensifies, violence explodes in prison. Men are moody and quick to strike as if cold blooded. The heat gives them mobility, as well as a thirst for blood.
Two of the sleepers on my yard were Tweak and Jose. Tweak was a white, extremely aggressive prospect of the Aryan Brotherhood.
The second sleeper was Jose, who had ties to La Nuestra Familia.
The tension on the yard was high that day. The whites were not working out and that was very rare, especially on a hot day. There were three new prisoners on the yard. One I recognized right away as Charles Manson. The other two were Africans I had never seen before. I decided to begin my workout and keep an eye on the various groups to see what developed. I began my three-mile run as I usually did, and watched.
The tension was still obvious after my run, so I headed over to Pirate and Bull.
“Morning,” I said and shook hands with both of them. “Seems to be a little tense out here today.”
“Yeah, that fuckin’ nigger right there with the bald head stabbed and killed a Wood a few years back. It’s time for him to pay the piper.”
“You gotta do what you gotta do,” I said. “I’m gonna finish up my routine, I’ll talk to you later.” I walked over to the pull-up bars.
I was hoping nothing would happen until the end of yard time. I wanted to finish my routine, shower, and not have to deal with the drama I sensed coming.
I noticed Charles Manson approaching, which interrupted my thoughts. He came right up to me, grabbed my hand, and said, “Brother, it’s been years since I’ve seen you. It’s good you’re back. What do you need?”
I pulled my hand away. I had never met this piece of shit before, and fixing my eyes on him, I said, “If you ever touch me, talk to me, or even look my way, I’ll rip your fucking face off. Do you understand me, you fucking baby killer?”
Escape Artist Page 6
