He backed away and stumbled, then turned and got away from me. I don’t play well with child killers or molesters. What his friends did to Sharon Tate makes them child killers in my book, and I won’t tolerate any of those motherfuckers touching me or talking to me.
Normally, convicts do not respect predators who were famous on the street. They are not dangerous in prison. Men like Charles Manson, Richard Ramirez, Richard Allen Davis, and William Bonin are the lowest form of life in prison, and many convicts would take them out in a second if they were on the yard together. The public considers them scary monsters, but convicts consider them vermin and resent the fact that they are still alive. That’s why they always end up on a protective custody yard, with the other child killers and molesters, or don’t go to yard at all.
Tweak struck just as I finished showering. It was about a half hour until yard recall. The African came to the back of the yard area, where he began to undress to take a shower. He must have thought he was safe. Everyone had been friendly to him and no one had said anything to make him suspicious. He made a fatal error by not being aware and alert. Tweak approached him from behind and, as the African turned to look at him, Tweak stabbed him four times on the right side of his torso between the ribs. They were kill shots. The African realized the threat too late and didn’t have enough time to defend himself. He took two steps and fell. The gunner sounded his whistle and ordered everyone to lay flat on the ground.
“Everyone down. No one move,” he yelled. Then he addressed the African, “Can you walk? Try and make it to the gate.”
The other bulls came to the sound of the whistle and waited at the gate with a gurney. The African got up and fell, but got up again and stumbled to the gate. Blood flowed freely from his wounds. Then I looked closely at the bone-crusher Tweak used. It was a six-inch steel blade. There was no possible way he got that outside without the help of a bull looking the other way. Tweak smiled.
“See you in about ten,” he said.
I nodded.
“All right now. If you need anything while you’re in isolation, let me know.”
He was placed in isolation for ten days and then he’d return to the yard. Later I learned the African survived. He had a collapsed lung and other damage. He was lucky. However, he never returned to the yard and neither did Charles Manson.
Chapter 6
Childhood, 1970–1975
I began studying the martial arts at age six, after my father grew frustrated that his only son was constantly being picked on and beat up at school. I was the only Colombian boy, which meant I was different. Different, for the only and eldest boy in the family, meant a target was on my chest from the beginning.
I once took a horny toad to school for show and tell. I caught it on one of the many hunting trips my father and I had been taking since I was five. One of the bullies wanted to hold it as I waited my turn to show it to the class. I refused, knowing the boy would not give it back.
He got angry and said, “Give me the lizard, punk, or I’ll take him.”
He was used to getting his way. His brothers were all in the Blackwood Street Gang and at age six he was already on his way to becoming a member. He wasn’t the only one. Most of the boys in the school had older brothers in gangs who would back up their little brothers in any conflict. I had no one.
I was not going to let him take my lizard and kill it, even if that meant I would be hit. I once saw him take a bird from its nest and smash it. So I said, “No.”
What happened next would stay with me for the rest of my life. The boy tackled me, hoping to get me on the ground. As he did my head hit the corner of a desk and I lost consciousness. When I came out of the haze, kids were screaming and the teacher was calling for help. My head was split open and blood covered my face and shirt. I was scared, but mostly it hurt my feelings because I understood I wasn’t liked there. I wanted to fit in but no one wanted me. This would continue for years. My father enrolled me in martial arts classes, but still the beatings continued. How could I fight and win against members of a gang? I retreated further into my imagination and daydreamed of being someone else and living someplace nice.
My refuges from all of the bad things in my life were the martial arts and my family. It’s where I was safe and accepted. My parents loved each other and cared deeply for their children. My little sister, Sarita, who is sixteen months younger, was always close to me, and although things were bad at school and in the neighborhood at least I could come home and feel safe and loved.
All of this ended in 1973, when we returned to Colombia for a vacation. That’s when my father learned from his sister, Elvira, that my mother had betrayed him by sending money home to her family without his knowledge, for living expenses and to build a house. That’s when everything changed in my family. My father and mother never again showed each other affection, and they became very distant. My father began drinking heavily, and although he and I still hunted, fished, and went to tournaments together, my mother and sister were excluded.
My sister chose to remain close to our mother and was never again close with our father. I couldn’t choose between them. I loved both my parents and it killed me inside to see what was happening to my family.
Not choosing my father’s side made him angry and I often received physical beatings and emotional abuse as he vented his frustration. My mother added to the turmoil by withholding affection unless we told her we loved her and not my father. Other times she would bully my sister and me, especially when she became upset at my father for refusing to give her the amount of money she wanted.
The drama didn’t end there. My mother would lock herself in her room and announce to us she was going to kill herself. Other times she would take off in the car and tell us she would never return because we were bad and it would be our fault if she killed herself. I remember sitting at the door of her bedroom for hours begging her not to kill herself. I believed she’d do it. When she came out or returned in her car, my sister and I would agree to anything, including loving her more, if only she wouldn’t kill herself.
My parents each competed for their children’s affection and placed the responsibility for family peace squarely on our young shoulders. We both blamed ourselves for any family disturbance since each parent made it clear we had the power to keep things peaceful. If only we acted right and said the right things no turmoil would erupt. This was a terrible burden to place on a child.
My relationship with my father was complex. I loved him, worshipped him, feared and hated him. He was a good father when he was sober and not angry, and during those times I liked being with him and would do anything to please him.
Tragically, he was obsessed with controlling everything following the betrayal he believed my mother had committed, and that fueled his darker side. He still provided for us, but his drinking increased and he became mean. Worst of all, he began to beat my mother.
I developed my ability to read body language and nonverbal cues as a survival mechanism while living with my father. He was usually normal until Friday, and then as the week drew to a close I’d grow more and more nervous anticipating how the week would end. I spent a lot of time waiting and watching. I’d sit on the curb in front of the house on Fridays, waiting for my father to come home. If he arrived by 5:30 p.m. we were safe—he had left work and driven straight home. He’d hug and kiss me, then announce we were going hunting, fishing, or to a tournament. I could relax. If he didn’t arrive by 5:40 p.m. I’d start to get nervous and begin to cry. I’d run in the house, get my finished homework, think of jokes to tell him—anything so he’d be happy and not in a dark mood. I’d sit on the curb and wait until he arrived. If it was past 5:45 p.m. I knew he’d stopped at the store, cashed his check, and bought alcohol.
When my father arrived home and I’d see the bag from the store, my effort to divert his attention went into overdrive. I’d try to please him, but normally to no avail. He’d walk through the house, put down his things, open a beer,
and comment on all the things wrong with the house. He’d demand to see my newest martial arts forms and my homework. He’d listen to my piano songs. He was only getting started, pumping himself up.
He’d check my sister’s chores, then go into the backyard and inspect all of my animal cages. Were the pheasants fed and clean? Had I let the pigeons out? Had I washed my dog’s area? Had I fed the snakes? Cut the grass? On and on it went, until he eventually found some shortcoming that I was guilty of. I was only nine years old then, with more responsibilities than anyone that age should have had. When he found a mistake or something that didn’t meet his standards, we’d get hit hard. Then he’d confront my mother about her lack of control over the house, and he’d start inspecting everything. All the while he drank, and his mood darkened.
After that he’d sit in the backyard drinking and I’d watch him from behind a window shade. I saw him thinking, and I knew that soon his anger would reach a boiling point. I sensed it, and tasted it in the air. Suddenly he’d rise and storm into the house. His temper terrified me. I knew where he was headed and soon I could hear the yelling, followed by the sound of him hitting my mother. At that moment I hated my father. I’d push into the room and try to defend her only to be thrown into a wall or punched. The physical pain wasn’t nearly as hurtful as the understanding my family was in trouble and my mother in danger.
I learned early on that I had two fathers. One was kind, loving, and most of all he made me feel like the most important person in the world. I loved him. From the age of five, he began teaching me how to track and hunt animals. He taught me everything I knew, and I experienced a world most could only dream of. To me my father was a god—a man who other men respected and feared.
My second father was a drinker, and mean. On his dark days, he would hit me as easily as speak to me. My sister and I were terrified of him, and although I loved him, a resentment was growing. My anxieties got worse as this side of my father took over. Even the sight of him coming towards me was often enough to make me wet my pants. A monster seemed to be living in my father’s body.
As the abuse and stress grew in my life, other parts of my life suffered as well. I found myself staring at a fly, and from there my mind would jump to some other distraction, and then to something else. It seemed like it never stopped. My attention span was extremely limited, which made school difficult. I never failed a grade, but learning was always a struggle because I couldn’t fully concentrate on the subject at hand.
Prior to 1975, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD) wasn’t recognized as a treatable medical condition. It was simply called hyperactivity and the response was typically punishment intended to reform the difficult child for not concentrating enough. No one, including my parents or me, really understood what the problem was, yet educators believed it merely required more effort from me. They grew more and more frustrated when their pressure tactics did not improve the situation. Teachers thought students with “hyperactivity” were just stubborn, and focused more attention on the students who were trying to learn.
By age eleven, I was withdrawing more and more to minimize the pain caused by others. It seemed like the whole world was against me and I didn’t understand how to change that. I was punished at school and beaten at home.
Things at home got steadily worse. My father continued his downward spiral and seemed to find new and worse things to do to my mother when he drank. I remember thinking he must plan while he was sober and act them out when he was drunk.
My mother also changed. She began to fight back with verbal insults, seeming not to mind that it only escalated the problem. I couldn’t understand why she would do that when she knew his response would be violence. Maybe it was her way of maintaining some element of control. Whatever the reason, it only added fuel to his rage. He responded with his fists, and by kicking down doors and tearing apart whatever she was working on. Many of my mother’s paintings were smashed as a result.
Their fights always seemed to be about money. My father maintained control by withholding money from her, and she constantly tried to wrest control from him by getting more of it. He’d give her the exact amount to pay the bills, and only enough to buy the food we needed. No name brands or anything fancy for my father or his family. This enraged my mother. She was used to the best of everything, and didn’t want to settle for what he’d give her. Even with what she made, it didn’t cover the expenses for what she wanted to buy, so she began to steal. My mother was too proud to shoplift. That was beneath her. Instead, she switched price tags of lower priced items with the things she wanted to purchase and paid the lower amount. This happened every time we went shopping, and my sister and I thought it was normal. It allowed my mother to buy us name-brand items for school and everyday needs.
Anyone looking at our family from the outside would think I was lucky. We had a nice home, nice clothes, toys, bicycles, and I even had a motorcycle. My father and I often went hunting, fishing, bike racing, to martial arts competitions, and surfing. To the casual observer, it looked like I lived a very privileged childhood.
My parents, and especially my mother, were experts at false appearances. If my mother was asked about her marriage, she would say how loving and good my father was and that our family was very happy. I still don’t understand this, but to my mother it was vitally important that others believed we lived a charmed life. Of course, the neighbors and anyone close to us knew the truth, so when she told them how great things were they’d smile and nod, but the looks on their faces said it all.
During one of my father’s more violent episodes, my mother managed to call the police after she was beaten. My father announced they’d have to kill him if they wanted to take him, and before that happened, he’d kill as many of them as he could. He started loading his guns and preparing for battle. I knew my father was wrong. He had beaten my mother and he should have stopped and given up. But there I was, knocking on the door of the room he was in. I could hear him inside and I said, “Dad, it’s me. Open the door.” Everything grew quiet.
“Billy, what do you want? Get out of here.”
“Papa, let me in. I’ll help you.”
The door opened and there stood my father. I could see the rage in his eyes and the heat rolling off his body. I also noticed something else—pride. He was proud of me for standing with him against the outside forces. He hugged me and I felt at peace in my father’s embrace, even in the middle of the storm. I stood there hugging my father wishing the moment would never end. But it did.
“Check the rifles and load all of them,” he told me.
I looked on the bed at the arsenal he’d laid out. I did what he said without question. I told him how no one could stand up to him and that they didn’t understand who they were messing with. Gradually I changed the subject and talked about his job, how he’d soon be manager and run the entire company. I then switched to the competition I had coming up the following week and reminded him he still had to teach me some new strikes because I was ready to fight at the next level. Slowly my father calmed down and his anger drained away.
His rage faded and I pressed on. “Dad, remember how you taught me that spinning back fist I used on that guy in the Four Seasons Open? I need you to show me that combination where you go low and high, like you did a couple of weeks ago at the studio. That was awesome. You knocked that guy out.”
My dad was finally calm and almost back to normal.
There was a knock on the door. “Mr. Noguera, this is officer Deacon of the Industry Sheriff ’s Department. We need you to open the door and talk to us.”
At that moment my father’s next move would decide everything. He looked at the guns and then at me. He took a deep breath.
“Give me a moment, I need a moment to think.”
“Mr. Noguera, we just need to talk. Everything will be all right. Is your son in there with you? Is he all right?”
“He’s fine, just give me a moment.”
“Can he say some
thing so we know he’s okay?”
My father nodded.
“I’m fine, we’re finishing up the laundry,” I lied.
My dad smiled and relaxed. “Okay, I’m opening the door. I’m not armed. I’ll talk.”
As he opened the door they crashed in and rushed him. They were aggressive and angry and they beat him with their batons. I heard him cry out, “No. No.” Blood hit my face as they split his head, even though he wasn’t resisting. They weren’t paying attention to me. I decided my father needed my help and I moved in quickly. I kicked the cop closest to me in the leg and tried to pull him off my father as he turned to me. I didn’t see the blow, but his punch drove me against the wall and I lay still. My father looked at me before being knocked unconscious and dragged away. In that moment I understood my father. He felt like I did. It was him against the world. That day it had been us against the world.
This was not the only time my father and I fought side by side. Later that same year, two brothers, Robert and Ernie Hernandez, jumped me while we were at school. Both of them were bigger than me, and members of the Cadbrook Street Gang. They wanted the necklace my parents had given me at my first communion. It was a cross on a gold chain and it was hidden under my shirt. They saw it during P.E., and as I left Sparks Elementary School on my way home they demanded I give it to them.
Why couldn’t they just accept me and leave me alone? I knew they didn’t like me and didn’t want me in their neighborhood, but how could I make it end? Every day it was something else.
I took the chain off and I’m sure they believed I would give it to them. Instead, I put it in my pocket and said, “I’m not giving you shit. Fuck you and your brother.”
Two against one was not fair, but my life had never been fair, so I was well acquainted with odds being against me as a young boy fighting the world.
Escape Artist Page 7
