“Boy, come. Sit.”
I sat down in a meditation position for martial artists. Knees bent under me, I sat on my heels. Master Yim began.
“I know you can fight, boy. That is not the reason I asked you to come early. I’m going to teach you how to control your beasts so you stop fighting yourself. You have two parts inside of you. To become one, you must master yourself, then your beasts.”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“You are angry. It fills you. I see it in your eyes. I want you to close your eyes and relax. Breathe, boy. In through your nose, out through your mouth. When you are calm, go to a place only you know. In this place, you are safe and master. When you find your place, picture your surroundings and know them. When you know every inch of it, you will become one with your place. Then and only then will you be able to bring your beasts there and control them.”
For the next few months, I went to the studio early each day and meditated. A part of me felt Master Yim watching me, so I did what he said. What I really looked forward to was seeing Michiko.
Somewhere along the way, something began to happen. During the meditation sessions I found myself in a small cave that I knew. During a deer hunting trip with my father, I had found the cave behind a waterfall. A reflection caught my eye as I walked by, and when I investigated I found that, just behind the falling water, I could squeeze between the face of the rock and the water. Suddenly the rock opened up to a cave.
It was approximately eight feet high, twenty feet wide, and forty feet deep.
I meditated, and found myself kneeling in the cave. I heard water falling and felt the coolness in the air. Opening my mind’s eye, I stood and searched my cave, touching everything and getting to know my surroundings. A presence brought my eyes to the mouth of the cave where the water fell, but nothing appeared.
For many months after that, the same always happened. A presence, nothing more. Then one day I arrived at the studio one summer afternoon after being jumped by three black members of the Greenberry Street Crip Gang. They had knocked me off my bike and hit me over and over again with a water hose and sticks. I fought back but they were much bigger than me. There was nothing I could do except take another beating.
When they finally stopped, I walked my broken bike to the studio. With each step I took, rage and hatred filled me. Michiko saw how beat up I was but said nothing. She didn’t want to embarrass me more, but I saw the look on her face and I hated that she pitied me.
I entered the studio, prepared to meditate, and knelt. My mind opened up. I was in my cave. The presence again arrived, and at the mouth of the cave a large black wolf leapt through the water and landed in front of me, shaking the water from his pelt. He looked at me and bowed his head. Reaching out, I ran my fingers through his fur and immediately knew he was my rage. Again, a presence caught my attention, and as we both looked to the mouth of the cave another large black wolf leapt through the water, landing before us. Identical to the first, he bowed and I knew him also. He was my pain. Rage and Pain were with me, and for the first time I began to understand I could only rely on myself to even the playing field.
Chapter 10
San Quentin Death Row, 1988
My sixth month of confinement in the AC was difficult. Reflecting on the choices I made that brought me to this point only magnified my sense of loss. Time dragged by as I anticipated the upcoming warden’s committee scheduled for the end of the month. Would they deny me yet again? I dreaded the possibility of spending another three months in the AC before another committee review.
I spent almost every waking moment creating compositions on paper, and as my desperation grew so did my intensity and feverish pace. I became a madman with a driven sincerity. Sheets of paper with compositions and drawings in all stages of completion covered my cell walls. Even more drawings were under my mattress. My work began to reflect a distinct undertone—darkness. My photo-realistic nightmares and dreams lay before me as if my mind’s wanderings and demons were taking on a life of their own.
My subconscious spilled over into my waking hours, and when I wasn’t drawing and recreating my mind’s pictures, I entered into a visual dialogue with the paintings of the artists I read about.
My dreams are a series of stark black-and-white images, like an old silent movie. Each image is like a picture cut out and placed in my view, followed by another, and then another. I’ve never heard of anyone else who sees dreams like this, but I always have, and always in black and white.
Even though condemned prisoners are not allowed inside the San Quentin Library, I have requested and read every book there regarding art. My art education is extensive, largely from studying those books, alongside my endless passion for expression. My art education is extensive, largely from studying those books, alongside my endless passion for expression.
A bull keyed the AC speaker and announced, “10-12 in the unit.” This is the code for a high-ranking official, and announcing it alerts all the bulls in the unit to be awake and put any contraband items in their lockers so they are not caught. I was so engrossed in my study I didn’t notice the warden and one of his captains had entered the tier where I lived.
I had my headphones on when they came by my cell. Engrossed in Robert Motherwell’s writings, I only noticed the group after a flashlight beam crossed my eyes to get my attention. I took off my headphones and stood up. Warden Vasquez, along with the captain, Heckle, and Jeckle, were standing outside my door looking at me.
“Morning, gentlemen, how can I help you?”
“I had the opportunity to take a look at your work on the wall of my quiet cell. I am very impressed by your talent. I’ve never seen anything like it. The detail and overall feel of the mural is enormously powerful.”
I didn’t say anything, and the warden continued.
“I see you’re condemned, so you’ll soon meet my committee for review. When you are given your grade-A status, I expect you will continue what you are doing. Do you do portraits?”
“I can draw anything I can see in here.” I pointed at my head.
He looked closely at all the drawings and compositions on my walls.
“Impressive. As a grade-A prisoner you will have the chance to participate in the handicraft program and you can get art materials. I’m sure you will sell most, if not all, of your work, since you’re the best I’ve seen.”
“I look forward to that. However, your committee has turned me down twice, and I fear the same will happen again,” I said.
“I believe things will be different this time. My staff tells me you are no trouble and always address them with respect.”
“I try to treat everyone with respect, like I want to be treated.”
“Words to live by. I’ll let you get back to your work. I look forward to seeing you soon, Mr. Noguera.”
“Good day, Warden Vasquez.”
“Ah, good day, Mr. Noguera.”
They all turned and left. I stood there for a moment replaying the conversation in my mind. Had he just told me I’d get my grade-A status? My concentration was broken when my neighbor, Blue, called me to the bars.
“I heard what them bottle stoppers said. Looks like you’ll be getting that grade-A real soon, old son.”
“I don’t know, bro, I’d hate to get my hopes up only to get them smashed.”
“Nah, I know Vasquez. That old bull is pretty straight up, and he likes your work. I’ve checked out that mural you did in that cell back there, and so have a lot of these bottle stoppers, and every one of them leaves saying you’re the best they’ve ever seen, and I agree. That thing you do with an image is far beyond skill and talent. It’s magic.”
“Yeah, now you’re blowing smoke up my ass. What, you need a drawing for that fine twist and twirl you’re writing?”
He burst out laughing.
“Yeah, I’d love another drawing, but the truth is what it is.”
“Man, I’d really like to get over there to East Block a
nd call my family.”
“Them cats over there get on the moan and groan, yard, and leaning tower every day. Plus, you’ll be able to get in that art program.”
“The warden mentioned I’d be able to sell my work. How does that work?”
“They got a gift shop just outside the main gate where you can put your art, and bulls and the general public can buy it. There’s also a specialized contract the warden’s office puts out, so if a bull wants something special you and him can enter into a contract. You do the work and he pays. I have a feeling you’ll have a line in front of your cell waiting to buy your work.”
“Yeah, that would be something. I’d like to be able to support myself and send a bit home to my family.”
“Man, I’m going to miss having you as a neighbor when you’re gone.”
“I’m not gone yet. For all you know, I’ll be here another year.”
“I doubt that, old son. I’ll get at you later.”
“All right, take it easy,” I said.
Those few but powerful words from the warden brought a light to the darkness. I imagined what I’d encounter in East Block and what I could accomplish there. I didn’t completely understand what lay ahead, but I started to form an idea that could utilize my mind’s potential and the potency of my work. It could possibly restore the inner freedom lost during a lifetime of pain and mistreatment.
As my date with the warden’s committee approached, I tried to occupy my mind with work, exercise, music, and yard every chance I got. The committee was constantly on my mind. I was nervous, excited, and anxious to get an answer.
I paced back and forth the night before my hearing. I tried to sleep, but it was impossible. Sleep would not visit me that night. Instead, thoughts raced until an old enemy awakened.
I’ve been haunted by migraines since I was a small child. At times, they were so bad I’d throw up and have to close my eyes. Any light caused immediate pain so intense that nausea overwhelmed me.
I remember holding my head with my hands, and rocking back and forth when one of the headaches assaulted me, the whole time wishing I could break open my head to relieve the pressure and pain that throbbed like a heartbeat.
The headaches continued into my adult life. Anxiety was normally the precursor that set them in motion, subsiding only after hours or days of torture. I tried to relax as the headache came on. I washed my face in cold water and laid down on the concrete floor of my cell to meditate, using thoughts of the ocean and the joy it brought me.
The memory helped me relax and sleep came. There were no dreams, just sleep.
I woke suddenly. The headache had receded like an ocean tide. My cell was completely dark, but I could see the sky from where I lay on the floor. From that angle, I could see out the tier windows about fifteen feet from my cell. The sky took on a purplish glow. It was Wednesday morning. I had only slept about forty-five minutes, but I was ready.
After a bird bath I wrote out the points I wanted to make to the committee. As I waited to be called I wondered if my notes would do any good. Was I fooling myself? Had the committee already made up their minds? Was it all just a formality?
John Wooden’s famous words came to mind: Failing to prepare is preparing to fail.
At 9:45 a.m., Heckle and Jeckle came to my cell.
“You ready for committee, Noguera?”
“Been ready.”
“You know the drill.”
After the standard strip procedure they escorted me to the hearing, where the warden sat with the same captain who had come by my cell earlier in the month.
The change in mood was obvious from the moment I entered the room. Both the warden and the captain nodded to me in recognition.
“Mr. Noguera, please sit down.”
I sat and the warden began.
“Good morning. As you know, we are here to review your possible entry into the condemned grade-A program. Since your arrival at San Quentin you have been housed here in the AC for observation because of your possible attempted escape from the Orange County jail, as well as your violence on a number of occasions while you awaited trial. My staff and I have interviewed a number of prisoners and the officers who work your tier.”
As soon as he mentioned other prisoners, I feared someone told him about the incident on the yard with the Northern Mexican sleeper. That would be a reason to deny me grade-A once again.
The warden continued. “Everyone we interviewed told us you are not a gang member and have no ties or affiliation to any gang. Further, you have received no write-ups in the seven months you have been with us. In essence, you have done everything asked of you. Before I conclude this hearing, I’d like for you to consider the following. I have seen many men come to my prison with artistic talent. Granted, not many with the talent you possess, but I’ve checked up on them years later, and they used their talent to tattoo other prisoners or to create just enough art to support their drug habit. The question is, will you be different? When I check up on you, what will I discover? Will I find what I always find, or will you be that one I’ll never forget? Any thoughts, Mr. Noguera?”
“I’ve thought carefully about this moment and what I’d say to you, and I realize many men have come before you with words full of promise only to fail. I won’t make promises to you. My actions will speak for themselves. I’ll leave it at that and I’ll thank you for your consideration.”
“Nicely put, Mr. Noguera. Associate Warden, anything else?”
The associate warden turned to me. “I’ve been working at San Quentin since I left the Marines when I was twenty-three years old. That was over thirty years ago. When the warden said I should come to the AC to look at something a prisoner had drawn, and that I should bring my son who is also an officer here at the prison and who recently graduated from art school, I didn’t know what to think. I’ll tell you something, both my son and I were deeply moved with what we saw in the quiet cell. We also went to your cell while you were outside and examined your drawings and compositions. What you possess is a gift. What you do with it is entirely up to you, but mark my words, in thirty years in CDC I’ve never seen anyone like you.”
The warden then spoke. “It is the decision of this committee that you, William A. Noguera, CDC D77200, will receive grade-A status and will immediately transfer to East Block. You are assigned to Yard-1. I hope you appreciate this chance and take full advantage of it. If you come before this committee again, I promise you I will make it a point to keep you in the AC until I retire. Don’t forget that.”
“I won’t, Warden. Thank you for this opportunity.”
Finally. I’d get my chance in East Block. They took me back to my cell and Blue was waiting at the bars. He waited for the cuffs to come off and the two bulls to leave. Then he called.
“Bill, what happened?”
“Vasquez gave me a shot. I got my grade-A status. They said I’m going to East Block immediately.”
“Man, old son, that’s all right. Listen, they’re not going to come for you for a couple of hours, so pack up your stuff and then holler at me. I have a few things I want to run down to you before you leave.”
“Right on. Give me a few and I’ll be with you.”
I turned and looked at the cell I’d lived in for the last six months. There wasn’t much to it. Most of the things were state-issued, except my shoes, small radio, headphones, drawings, and hygiene items. I quickly gathered my personal things and placed them all inside a pillowcase. I felt like I’d just won the lottery.
As I think of that day now, I realize just how sad and pathetic it all was. Nothing had really changed. I was still on death row, surrounded by killers, rapists, and child molesters. They’re the worst men in our society, all corralled together waiting for their execution date. Still, I found a silver lining in all of it. I would not waste the opportunity.
I placed my pillowcase with my property next to the cell door, rolled up the mattress on the bunk, and placed a few items on top of it for the n
ext prisoner who would occupy the cell: soap, towel, bowl, cup, quarter tube of tooth paste, and three pencils. It wasn’t much, but that’s what I started with. I’d give the next man the same chance I had. When I finished packing, I stepped to the bars and said, “Blue, what’s up? I’m done packing. I didn’t have much. Do you need anything?”
“I appreciate it, brother, but I’m fine. I do want to give you a heads up about East Block and what you’ll find there.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Don’t be fooled about grade-A and what it’s supposed to mean. The men there are just as dangerous as the ones here, maybe more so, because they’re smarter and haven’t got caught. Keep your eyes open and don’t fall asleep. When you get there, a lot of people will know who you are because word travels fast and people talk. What happened on the yard with Jose is no secret. Some will like it, others won’t.”
He continued, “In East Block, every yard has over a hundred men and each one is integrated. You’ll have Crips, Bloods, Southern Mexicans, et cetera, mixed together, so stay on your toes. You feel what I’m saying? Trust no one but yourself.”
“Hey, right on. I understand and I appreciate you taking the time to tell me these things. Believe me when I tell you I’ve enjoyed having you as a neighbor and getting to know you. Is there anything I can do for you once I’m in East Block? Maybe make a call for you?”
“I’m good. I’m used to writing, so I really wouldn’t know what to do or say on a phone. Can’t remember the last time I used one. Hell, come to think of it, I’ve been in the hole so long I think I’d be uncomfortable using a phone. Can you believe that? Damn, this place has truly fucked up my mind.”
At that moment, I heard keys and footsteps coming.
“Noguera, you ready? East Block is here to get you,” said Heckle.
“Blue, that’s my ticket. My best to you. I hope our paths cross again under better circumstances. Until then, I have a little something for you,” I said.
“All right, Bill.”
Escape Artist Page 10
