As I realized a fight was coming, I heard a reassuring internal voice telling me, “I’ll do this. Nothing in my life matters except this. No moment in my life exists except this moment. I am born in this moment, and if I fail I will die in this moment.”
I punched, kicked, and did everything possible to defeat them, but as I fought Robert, his brother picked up a rock and hit me in the head. One moment I was fighting, the next I woke up in the street. I touched my throbbing head and found a large bump on one side and blood all over my face and shirt. I tried to stand, but couldn’t. The world spun and I managed to get to my knees, where I noticed my pockets were turned inside out. The chain and cross were gone and so was my lunch money for the week. I walked home bloodied and bruised, crying hot bitter tears.
I didn’t want my mother to see me, so when I got home I went to the backyard to feed and water my animals. I didn’t want to see anyone but my father. My sister came out and saw me. I told her what happened. She sympathized with me. We had a special bond and she was always protective. But what could she do?
When my father arrived home, my sister told him, “Papa, Billy’s hurt and needs to see you. He’s in the doghouse.”
The doghouse was my father’s workshop.
My father put his things down and went outside. When he entered the doghouse and saw me, I recognized the fire in his eyes. He was mad at those who had hurt me.
“What happened?”
“Robert and Ernie Hernandez wanted my first communion chain and cross. I wouldn’t give it to them, so they jumped me. I fought, but Ernie picked up a rock and hit me. That’s all I remember. When I woke up my chain and money were gone.”
“Are you okay?”
“My head hurts, but I’m okay.”
“Do you know where these fuckin’ Mexicans live?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, let’s go. Get in the van.”
We drove to their badly neglected house which had old cars parked everywhere. My father knocked on the door, and when the door opened I smelled the odor of food cooking inside.
“Are you Robert and Ernie’s father?” my father asked.
“Yeah, what’s up?” asked the man who stepped outside. He was as tall as my father, had a gut, and was a lot heavier.
“Your two sons jumped my son and took his money and chain. I’m here to get it back.”
The man turned into the house and yelled, “Roberto, come out here.”
When Robert appeared, the man asked him, “Did you and your brother take his chain and money?”
“No, we’ve been home and Ernie’s at baseball practice,” Robert replied.
“He’s lying. He has my chain on right there,” I said and I pointed at the chain and cross.
The man smiled and said, “Do you have a receipt or something that proves it’s yours? Because right now, it’s your kid’s word against Roberto’s.”
My father, sensing this wasn’t going anywhere, said, “Yeah, I have the receipt right here,” and punched the guy’s teeth in. It was so fast and such a powerful hit, the guy had no chance at all. But then, not many men had a chance against my father. The guy tried to fight back but my father beat him and only stopped when the man was out cold. Robert was there without his brother and I went to work. I floored him with a single punch and kicked him when he tried to fight back, then I collected my chain and cross.
As we drove away, my father smiled at me. “Never allow anyone to take shit from you. If they do, remind them what the price is, okay?”
“I will, Dad.”
The school year was coming to an end and it would be a couple of years until my path crossed Robert and Ernie’s again.
Chapter 7
San Quentin Death Row, 1988
After three months in the AC, the warden’s committee scheduled me to appear before them once again on Wednesday. Would they allow me to go to East Block? I had received no write-ups or 115’s, which are reports of rule violations. I kept to myself and was building a rapport with some of the AC bulls.
Some of the bulls were so impressed with the mural I did in the isolation cell they asked me to draw something for them. They seemed moved by the detail and imagery of that work. Drawing was starting to become a compulsion for me as I continued to put together compositions on paper. It seemed like something inside me needed release through my work.
I would sit on the concrete block of my bed for hours at a time and allow the world that surrounded me to melt away. In that place, there were no bars or threats. In that state of mind, I created images that were parallel to my mind’s wanderings during dreams.
The storm within became quiet and a door opened inside me. There, at the open door, was the Radiant Child. The part of me I hid from harm for so many years surfaced to give me what I needed most—an escape.
At first it was difficult to find the door where that part of me lived. I eventually realized music provided the emotional trigger I needed to access that part of myself. Going to that inner place gave me inspiration and consolation. At times, it even brought me to a state of ecstasy.
I bought a small stereo and headphones through a prison vender and listened to music while I drew. At times, I was so far away I forgot to eat. In those moments, nothing else mattered. I was free.
The warden’s committee was a joke. Once again they escorted me in, and after a few moments of lectures on my use of violence and their concerns about how I justified my actions, I was again denied grade-A status and told to return in ninety days. I thanked them for their time and efforts in the process and assured them I understood their concerns and would do everything asked of me to earn their trust. I was learning their game.
I knew I could alter their perception of me by how I carried myself, and how I acted every day. It was simple in theory but more complex in practice. On one hand, I needed to convince the bulls and the administration I was a well-adjusted prisoner who understood their authority and respected them, while earning their respect for me. On the other hand, I needed the other prisoners to know my potential for violence was extremely high. In fact, they should expect it. Finally, when by myself, I removed both masks and worked toward my salvation within the realm of expression and imagination.
After four months of going to the yard, I had my first confrontation. It didn’t surprise me. Being prepared is part of my normal state of mind, which I based on an awareness of the kind of people surrounding me. Anyone who goes out to a yard without this frame of mind is a fool attempting to bury his head in the sand. Every time I leave my cell to go out to the yard I tell myself, Today they’ll try to kill me.
You could live next door to a prison and still be light years away in terms of understanding the rules that govern prison society.
After years in prison, men’s hearts blacken and many become creatures of violence. Paradoxically, while they’re dangerous, they’re also weak. They commit violent acts because they want acceptance. In fact, they will do anything they’re told by the gangs to earn that acceptance.
I don’t need acceptance from anyone. I alone define my boundaries. At the end of each day, I look in the mirror and know I’ve been true to myself.
Make no mistake, I am capable of extreme acts of violence, and I’ve had my share. For me, it’s a matter of survival. I get no pleasure from violence, other than to defend myself and demand respect. The fact is, respect is necessary in prison. Without it you become someone’s punk and property, or risk being killed. In here, the most respected and honored men are those who have killed other prisoners. The more potential a man has for that ultimate outcome, the more respect he receives.
When I speak of prison and its societies or culture, I mean places like Folsom, Trenton, Angola, and, of course, San Quentin. In those places, men are broken or made. You learn never to trust anyone. You learn how men deceive and plot in order to hurt you. For some, their sole objective is to murder you.
I wear the scars of many battles like badges of honor. They are a te
stament to the fact that I stand alone with dignity and that I demand respect. I will not allow anyone to hurt me or take anything from me. I am neither good nor bad, neither right nor wrong. Touch me in an attempt to harm me and I’ll make you regret it.
It was a hot day in June 1988. Fourteen men came outside to the yard that day. After all the men were out, I began my workout as I had for the previous four months. Aside from the casual “Good morning” to Pirate, Tweak, Wicked, and Bull, I said nothing else to anyone.
As the sun rose above the southeast wall of the yard, I finished my bar work and got ready to shower when suddenly I felt it. It wasn’t much, but it had touched a part of my awareness I’ve developed since childhood—the part of my mind that sensed tension, smelled fear, and knew the intentions of men as they prepared to act. I slowly and carefully scanned the yard. Tweak’s eyes met mine. He had sensed it, too. None of his crew seemed aware, so I knew the threat was not from him. I continued to prepare for the shower, but as I did I looked at Jose, the Northern Mexican, who was a sleeper for the NF.
He had finished working out, but was shielding as hard as possible, trying to act normal, hoping no one would “see” him. I kept him at the edge of my vision and started to shower. I wasn’t sure yet if I was his target, so I didn’t rush or give away the fact that I knew he was shielding. The gunner was sitting, looking at the yard, though he didn’t have a clear view of the entire shower area. That was where the NF soldier would make his move. I got out of the shower, dried off, and put on my boxers and shoes. I spotted him walking to the showers. He carried his roll and jacket. As he walked, he began to pump himself up, and his shields came down.
The heat from his adrenaline and fear hit me like walking out of an air-conditioned store in the hot summertime. His intentions were clear and his eyes locked on mine. Everything slowed down. I dropped my shields and allowed that place within me to come alive. Rage and hate filled my every fiber. My storm rushed forward. I saw him flinch as it reached him, but he had committed himself. In a split second, in the moment when two warriors meet on the battlefield equipped with their true nature, I knew him and his biggest fear. He feared defeat at my hands. He pulled his shank from its hiding place in his jacket and rushed forward, dropping his shower roll and striking in a short thrust aimed at my torso.
Most men carrying a piece expect little resistance from their intended victim. It’s no surprise that if they get hit, their plan dissolves. As his blade kissed my flesh, my fist connected with his eye socket, and I followed through with strikes to the throat and face. He dropped the piece and I kicked him in the groin and finished him with a crushing blow to his jaw. All of this lasted maybe three to four seconds. The gunner saw nothing. I picked up his piece and flushed it.
I looked around daring anyone else to challenge me. My message was clear. Don’t fuck with me.
Understand that I live in a world where one must speak the language spoken. Here, that language is violence. I would prefer to live in a world where men respected kindness and understood the deeper qualities of the soul. The road I walk is one of dignity and honor. I am not like the rest of these men, but I speak their language.
The Northern Mexican never came out to the yard again. When the bulls saw his busted up face he explained he had fallen while playing basketball. He didn’t come back out because he knew what would happen. In prison if another prisoner attacks you, there is no longer a chance to be friends. There is no possibility of restoring trust. He’d have to try and kill me again. But I would not allow him to position me with smiles and disarm me with friendliness. No, one of us would have to die, and it wouldn’t be me.
Later, I found out he had orders to kill me. I still don’t know the reason.
Perhaps they thought I was a sleeper for La Eme, or maybe it was my arrogant manner and ability to stand alone. Many gangs take issue with someone strong enough to become a dominant Alpha alone. It sets a precedent which conflicts with their premise that everyone needs a gang to survive.
This does not mean I openly defy anyone. I stay to myself and respect other Alphas as well as gangs and their codes. However, I will not engage in any activities that conflict with my moral code. My code is part of me and doesn’t change regardless of circumstance or situation.
Chapter 8
Orange County Jail, 1984
I’m far from perfect. I’ve made grave mistakes in my life and I readily admit to my faults. We all make mistakes, but it’s what we learn from the mistakes that defines us. Not long after I arrived in A-1 cell-3, I started using drugs again. For a while I stayed away from the heavier stuff and just smoked pot, but as the guy “on the broom” each day, the amount of drugs that passed through my hands was incredible. Every day I handled heroin, coke, pot, LSD, crystal, and everything in between. I was trusted, and although I was not a gang member, everyone knew who I associated with and what I was capable of.
At first I took LSD and snorted coke, then heroin. I trusted my cellies enough to let my guard down around them, so I got high and partied.
Most of the men in the unit got high, but I didn’t do it because everyone did. I did it because I wanted to, because I found pleasure in my senses going into overdrive, and because it allowed me to escape. I became more aggressive, difficult, restless, and irritable because of the drug use. It muddled my thinking and drowned out my pain, making my situation seem less real and not as serious. It was a dangerous mindset to have in a place where life and death decisions were made by men who constantly preyed on any weakness they could find.
For the next few months, I continued my job as “sweeper.” I passed drugs, money, shanks, and kites, which are notes with instructions about the most sensitive matters that occur behind prison walls.
On a number of occasions, I dealt out serious beatings to those who challenged me or attempted to disrespect me. The truth is, I became as unstable as I had been on the outside. Drugs, power, and my temper controlled me. I wasn’t thinking. I acted without thought.
Looking back, I’m ashamed I allowed myself to sink to that level. I was young and I didn’t understand the consequences of my actions. How could I, when the men who made the rules respected me based upon my ability to take care of business?
Another encounter with Chili Red enhanced and elevated my status even more.
The unit went to dinner as it normally did. We entered the chow hall, walked in a straight line to a small port in the wall, and one by one received a tray passed to us through the port.
I was halfway to the port when I looked at the far wall of the chow hall and saw him. He sat among a score of his warriors and stared at me openly. I glared back and continued on my way to pick up my tray.
Huero touched my arm and said, “You see Chili?”
“Simón, ese, I got him,” I said.
“He won’t be coming alone. That puto has his guerrillas with him. I know some of them,” he said.
At that moment Richard, who was about six feet tall and 210 pounds of muscle, cut in line along with Monster and said, “Watcha, get your tray and sit down and let’s see what this bitch wants to do.”
Chili could summon more than thirty Africans to his side. It was the first time I had seen him since our dance in the shower. He was in F-unit on the fourth floor and I was in A-unit on the third floor. Normally, we would never cross paths. They ate in one chow hall on the fourth floor, and we ate in the one on the third floor.
Later, I learned repairs to their chow hall was the reason our paths crossed and they had advance notice of the possibility, which gave them time to prepare.
I picked up my tray, walked over to a table, and sat down along with Monster, Richard, and Huero. No one ate. We waited. The tables surrounding us were full of seasoned gladiators including Roy-Boy from San Diego, Shark, Midnight, and Jack from Whittier, Sporty, and Chente. There were at least forty Southern Mexican soldiers and Mexican Mafia associates with us. But none of that mattered to me. My eyes focused on Chili. There was no pretens
e here, no shield to drop at the last possible moment. I freely allowed my intent, my desires, and my hatred to show. This piece of shit was a rapist and I would gladly finish what I started. There was unfinished business between us, and as far as I was concerned, it was just him and me.
“Watcha, Monster, let me handle this. This punk motherfucker is scared. I’ll walk through him,” I said.
“He ain’t coming alone, ese,” Monster responded.
I continued to watch him as word spread among us that the shit might hit the fan, but everyone was to wait to see how things went.
Chili got up with six Guerrillas following close behind. They all left their trays on the table. The cops told him and his crew to sit down, but they ignored the cops.
I stood up and tipped my tray over to empty the food. The trays were made of metal, and even if he had a shank he no longer had an advantage. Huero, Monster, Shark, Chente, Richard, and Roy-Boy stood with me and advanced on Chili. I knew from the sound that some of them followed suit and carried their trays.
As we approached them, he and some of his crew pulled out shanks. Until that moment, I hadn’t fully understood their intentions. They didn’t want to simply fight and beat me up. Their intent all along was to kill me.
They kept coming, and at the last possible second I flipped my tray sideways and threw it like a boomerang, hitting Chili across the face. The edge of the tray opened up a gash on his cheekbone and staggered him. In his wildest nightmare, he never expected that. He made a mistake of epic proportions in underestimating me. He believed, since he had a piece and position, he had the advantage, and normally he would. However, battle is a moving, breathing element that changes. Unorthodox fighters will always surprise those who can’t adapt to change.
As he began to recover, I kicked him, and my right foot connected with his stomach, which knocked the wind out of him. He looked at me, and just as he reached out to steady himself on a table, I grabbed the hand that held the shank and twisted it to the side and toward me, breaking the wrist. He screamed, the shank fell to the ground, and I pounded him. The entire chow hall erupted into a fighting frenzy. All around me, men fought, and the cops ran out of the chow hall in fear for their lives.
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