Escape Artist

by William A. Noguera

  I gathered my things as Heckle and Jeckle stepped in front of my cell. “Just get your things. We don’t need to strip you. You’re grade-A and no longer our responsibility,” said Jeckle.

  “May I give Blue this small drawing?” I handed the drawing to Jeckle, who looked at it and then handed it to Heckle. He opened the tray slot and cuffed me behind my back.

  When the door opened I stepped out on the tier just as Heckle handed Blue the drawing in between the opening in the cell door and screen.

  “Old son, this here is a fine gift. Thank you. Best of luck to you and keep your head on your shoulders. It’s been a pleasure knowing you,” he said.

  “Same here, Blue. You take care.”

  With that, I turned and walked off down the tier where an East Block bull waited for me.

  Heckle and Jeckle followed behind but were not their usual selves. They didn’t shout “Clear” or “Escort.” Getting grade-A status somehow made me less dangerous. It’s funny how that works in prison. The word of the committee can suddenly transform an animal into a human. That’s a trick even David Copperfield would envy.

  The East Block bull took me out of the AC at 11:15 a.m. It was late September 1988, and as we walked I took in everything. Mainline prisoners wandered around freely, and as we walked by they stopped to watch me. They knew I had a death sentence and came out of the AC. Some nodded. Others just glared. This was San Quentin State Penitentiary, the most notorious prison in the United States, and I was headed for the main death row housing unit. The walk took a few minutes, but I didn’t mind. The buildings were old and showed serious neglect. I could smell the decay. This place was so different from the world I’d once lived in.

  As we rounded the corner to East Block we passed a brass fire hydrant with a prisoner kneeling next to it in the process of shining it. It was the only thing that seemed cared for in the entire prison. The prisoner seemed in a frenzy as he polished it. The bulls laughed and said, “That’s Corky, he’s a nut. He doesn’t shower and no one will go near him because of the smell, but he spends all day polishing that damn fire hydrant. Looks nice, huh?”

  Nodding, my thoughts returned to Blue. I don’t know why he came to mind. Something had changed in him over the previous couple of months, but at that moment I didn’t know what it was. Blue was one of the highest-ranking members of the Aryan Brotherhood. Some even said he was one of its original founders. I never asked him about it. It didn’t matter. To me, he was a good neighbor who often talked to me about his views of the world and San Quentin. At fifty-five years of age and after thirty years of a life term for murder, I saw something different begin to form inside him. He seemed tired of the dog-eat-dog world we lived in and longed for a normal life. He often spoke of washing and cleaning his soul and being reborn. As I neared East Block I wondered if he was looking at the drawing I left for him.

  In it, I created the world he longed for. An island, where he was free and reborn, where the shackles of the burden he carried fell from his wrists and ankles, where childhood resilience and memory gives hope and a future.

  We finally came to the huge iron doors of East Block. A sign at the top read, “Death Row.” The bull hit it with his baton. A small window at the center of the door opened and another bull looked out, then the doors swung inward.

  “New arrival for the row,” my escort said.

  “Name and number, convict,” said the doorman.

  “William A. Noguera, D77200.”

  The doorman wrote it in the unit log book and the other bull escorted me to the front desk.

  “We have Noguera from the AC, where do you want him? He got his grade-A.”

  “Place him in the holding cage while I figure out what cell is open and get him his bed roll and state-issue,” said the desk officer.

  Once in the holding cage on the first floor, I studied my surroundings. The place was filthy. I gagged from the strong urine smell. Looking down on the floor, I saw water ran freely from an unknown source, and roaches seemed to materialize out of nowhere. I placed my pillowcase over my shoulder. I didn’t want to put it on the floor. I looked up into the East Block housing unit and couldn’t believe how big it was. There are six floors to it. Five are tiers with rows of fifty-four cells per tier on both the bay side and the yard side. The first tier on the bay side uses eight cells for the sergeant, lieutenant, and other officers. That leaves just forty-six cells on that tier. The sixth tier is for the property officers and storage.

  It reminded me of a massive birdcage. It seemed to fit since there were hundreds of birds everywhere, even a few seagulls. The combination of the birds and the yelling prisoners made the noise truly deafening.

  Water ran off the tiers like a cascade where men washed out their cells. It was a lot to comprehend. I had never seen anything like it in my life. It was a madhouse.

  The desk officer announced over the loud speaker, “Third tier officer, bayside, you have a new arrival in the holding cage. Come get him.”

  I looked up and noticed a bull coming down the tier. He was blond with a handlebar mustache, about six feet tall, two hundred pounds, and wore sunglasses. He came down the stairs, briefly checked with the bull at the desk, then came over to me.

  “You Noguera?”

  “Yeah, boss.”

  “Is this all your property?”

  “Yes, I didn’t get my state-issue yet.”

  “We’ll get it on the way up. My name’s Stevenson and I’m the third tier bayside officer. You’ll be living in cell-83. Let’s get you settled in.”

  I turned around so he could cuff my hands behind my back. Stevenson opened the cage door and we went to the laundry exchange next to the front desk. He grabbed three sheets, three towels, three boxers, three shirts, two wool blankets, and two pillowcases.

  “Everything came in new yesterday, so let’s load you up,” he said.

  After getting everything I needed, we climbed the stairs to the third tier, and into cell-83.

  “The cell’s clean, but I put a few extra towels in here, plus soap and scrub pads in case you want to wash the cell. Shower days are Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday, but if you go out to yard, you can shower out there every day. What yard were you assigned?”

  “Yard-1,” I said.

  “You’ll be allowed out every day to that yard. It’s a normal yard, unlike Yard-4, which is P/C (Protective Custody). They don’t go out on Wednesdays.”

  “Boss, what are the rules on using the phone? I’d like to make a call to my family. I haven’t spoken to them in over six months.”

  “The tier phone man schedules all phone calls. Phones run from seven a.m. until ten p.m. The phone man is your neighbor. When he comes in from yard, ask him to schedule you.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  Stevenson left and I looked at my cell. The first thing I noticed was how small it was. Approximately four by nine feet. I could stand in the center of it and place my hands on opposite walls. I could reach up and touch the ceiling. It was a box. A very small box.

  Chapter 11

  Orange County Jail, 1985

  More than a year had passed since I first went to mod-A, cell-3 in the Orange County jail. I spent most of my time there with Monster. We worked out together, and usually the workouts led to sessions where he’d give me his perspective and opinions on racial issues, political problems, and views on the world I lived in. I took everything in and listened carefully. I was getting the best “clecha” one could ask for about prison from one of its leading professors. At the core of everything he taught me were a few simple rules: never rat out anyone, never half step—if you commit yourself, believe in it and follow through—and never break your word or back down.

  Monster saw my potential and made it no secret that I was his road dog and had his backing.

  His power carried the weight of the most powerful organization in the prison world, La Eme. That was important beyond words. Because of who he was, I had his political power, and by invok
ing his name I could essentially open doors or close them on someone.

  On more than one occasion, I made it clear to Monster I was not interested in ever becoming “made.” I respected him and what he stood for, but that life was not for me. Following orders from another prisoner was not my style, especially when it meant killing someone over prison politics.

  He explained that in prison or on the street, being part of a brotherhood had its advantages and those advantages should not be taken lightly. Of course, this dialogue between us went on all the time. At first, he was convinced that at some future time I would see his point of view and agree with him.

  That never happened. I understood all too well what he said was true. However, from everything he taught me I also saw the danger in his words. Prison gangs are all about politics. If you make the mistake of aligning yourself with a member who goes out of favor, you too will fall because of fear that you’ll retaliate. It’s no different from what happens in the Italian Mob. There are different “crews” in a family. If the captain of a crew falls because of in-house politics, usually all his crew members also fall.

  Monster respected the fact that my position never wavered. Over time he realized my mind wouldn’t change, and he trusted me. He didn’t have to fear I would one day stab him in the back in a grab for power.

  One can look at my stance and interpret it as having my cake and eating it too. I knew the power he had and the benefits I received by being his road dog. Our friendship was based on respect and a mutual interest. We were both machines and we both benefited from it. Around me, Monster was free to be himself. He could express his views and innermost thoughts without political backlash. In prison, peace of mind is priceless.

  In unit-A, known as Blood Alley, the assaults and stabbings continued and the captain of the jail was tired of it. He set up a meeting in the chow hall after breakfast one Saturday, with two men from each of the cells in unit-A, twenty men in all. After a ten-minute wait the captain entered the chow hall with twelve of his deputies and addressed us.

  “Gentlemen, I’m going to come right to the point and tell you that if one more beating or stabbing takes place in unit-A, I’m going to break up the unit and send you all to different units. Believe me, you won’t like the change.”

  With that he turned and left. His deputies followed.

  They kept us in the chow hall another hour and then we returned to the unit. Monster told the rest of our cellies what the captain had said. No one seemed concerned.

  “Man, fuck that red-nosed puto. He can break up this unit and shove it up his ass. I wouldn’t give a fuck,” said Monster.

  Most of my cellies were waiting to catch the chain to prison, so they’d be gone in the next week or so, including Monster. What happened here didn’t concern them.

  Exactly two days after the meeting with the captain, a prisoner named Dan Viola returned from court and later that day created a problem. He was upset because the judge in his case refused to drop the special circumstances on a case that was over ten years old. That made him a candidate for the death penalty.

  He and his cellies were watching TV when he suddenly bolted up, picked up the TV from its shelf, and slammed it against the floor. Of course, the loud crash brought the cops to investigate. When they arrived at his cell, the prisoners all said the TV fell while they were cleaning it.

  I don’t know if the cops believed the story, but they returned to their booth and opened the door to the cell so the broken TV could be removed. It would take a few weeks to get a replacement.

  I’m sure most thought it was over, but I knew better and so did my cellies. Dan was a convict and a stone cold killer. He had a reputation for having a hair-trigger temper. He would stab anyone who crossed him. At six feet two inches, and over 240 pounds of muscle from years of driving iron, he was a serious force. However, it wouldn’t matter. He disrespected his cellies by breaking the TV, and brought heat to his cell. He would pay a price for that.

  The next morning was unusually quiet. I sensed the tension in the air as soon as my eyes opened. It was 5 a.m. I slept from 12:00 a.m. to 5:00 a.m., just as I had my entire life. Five hours is all the sleep I require. Any more and my old enemy, the migraine, awakens and tortures me as punishment for sleeping too much.

  I showered, and when I stepped out Richard and Monster were both up and having a cup of coffee.

  “Buenos días,” I said.

  “Órale, buenos días, carnal,” said Monster.

  “Richard, you jumping in the shower?”

  “Simón, I want to grab a quick one before the fireworks start.”

  He smiled at me and inhaled. “Damn, you gotta love the smell of violence in the air. Violence is the only answer.”

  I laughed and sat down next to Monster to put my shoes on.

  “I was hoping for a peaceful day of intellectual stimulation over a cup of tea,” I said.

  “Yeah, you’re a fuckin’ humanitarian. Remind me to nominate you for a Nobel Peace Prize,” Monster quipped.

  He laughed and his eyes came to life as they usually did when something was about to happen.

  “Who do you think will do the deed?”

  “My money is on Casper,” I said.

  “Not mine. Prince will take care of it. He loved that TV.”

  Prince was a huge mountain of a man who looked like he was created in a Russian lab. At six feet four inches, close to 270 pounds and with tattoos covering his entire torso and arms, he could be the poster child for what a killer should look like. Nevertheless, looks aren’t everything. I knew for a fact he was weak. If cornered, he’d fight and hurt you, but I knew he was also an informant, and that he was cutting a deal with the DA’s office where he’d be let out in exchange for his testimony against his co-defendants in a murder trial. About a month before, I saw him in the attorney visiting room speaking to the DA’s office investigator. On another occasion while we were in court, I caught sight of him en route to a hallway where the deputy DA waited for him. I don’t believe in coincidences.

  I never told anyone what I knew about Prince. If I had, they would have killed him and I didn’t want responsibility for that.

  Richard came out of the shower and began to get ready for breakfast, as did the rest of our cellies.

  “Check it out: if Prince does it, I’ll make your bed and give you my dinner for a month,” I said.

  “Fuck that, I won’t be here for a month. Let’s make it an even hundred grandes.”

  “Deal. Locked in. If Prince does it, you win. If Casper does, I win.”

  Richard jumped in and said, “But if you two vatos are wrong and someone else does it, I win.”

  “Put up or shut up. If you’re in, then the winner takes two hundred,” I said.

  “Órale, I’m in, and thank you for your donation,” said Richard.

  A few moments later the unit cop came into the booth, racked all the doors in the unit, and announced, “Chow time. All inmates wishing to have breakfast, prepare yourself. Chow time.”

  For the next ten minutes, all the doors remained open while everyone prepared for breakfast. The cop left his booth as he normally did and went into his office on the other side of the unit, where he couldn’t see our cells. We exited our cell and waited by the wall directly in front of all the cells. We all knew it was when Dan would be hit. The cops would have a hard time finding the perpetrator since all the doors were open.

  Dan came out of his cell acting proud and defiant, as usual. That wouldn’t last. Just then, Casper appeared without any shoes or socks on.

  It was easy to miss him. He wasn’t a face you’d remember because he looked ordinary. He was just another face in a crowd at five eleven, 170, short blond hair, clean shaven, and no tattoos. Hell, he was the guy next door. Never judge a book by its cover, though. Casper was a killer. He would spend the rest of his life in prison serving three life terms. This was his opportunity to earn his bones and get the attention of the right people by killing Dan.


  Just as Dan came in line with our cell, Casper called and walked up to him. “Dan, Shady is taking your stuff and rolling it up. You better go see what the fuck he’s doing.”

  “That motherfucker.” Dan turned to walk to his cell. Knowing Dan’s mind was on Shady, Casper pulled out a steel bone-crusher nearly eight inches long and stabbed him repeatedly in the chest. Dan staggered in shock but fought back. He tried to grab Casper and wrestle him to the ground. Because he was bigger and stronger, it seemed like the only rational move. But Casper was relentless. He stabbed repeatedly, covering Dan’s torso in gaping wounds. With blood pouring from his wounds, Dan pushed Casper off in a desperate final move and ran to the door at the front of the unit.

  “Deputy, help me, I’m bleeding,” he yelled from the door. The cop, who was in his office, saw Dan covered in blood. He rushed over and opened the door.

  Casper removed the handle from the piece, then gave the blade to Cowboy, who wiped it down and hid it behind the sink in the mop room.

  Casper stripped off his jumpsuit, threw it in the mop room sink where the water was already running, and Cowboy poured bleach and soap on it. Next, Casper jumped in the shower and washed off Dan’s blood. He was out within two minutes. Cowboy checked him for blood or any signs of the incident. Finding none, Casper put on new boxers and a new jumpsuit. It all took less than three minutes. Finally, he put on his socks and shoes. He hadn’t worn shoes because he didn’t have an extra pair he could throw away if they got bloody like his jumpsuit.

  I looked at Richard and Monster. “When do I get paid?” They mumbled they’d get their people to put it in my account by the weekend, and I smiled.

  “Thank you for your support.”

  We finally made it to the chow hall about two hours later. We were interviewed separately after eating. I told them what I usually did, “I was in the shower. I saw nothing.”

  The next day, true to his word, the captain broke up the entire unit. They sent Richard and me to unit-F31, cell-3. It was an eight-man cell like our previous one. As soon as we were settled in, word came from Monster, who was in unit-C15 cell-2. Richard would be running the unit. All of our new cellies accepted that as if God himself had spoken. They knew who Richard was and they immediately offered him a bottom bunk, which he took. I, on the other hand, grabbed a top one. I’d wait until someone left and then I’d take a lower one.