Escape Artist
Page 12
Our new cellies gladly accepted it all. Being cellies with the shot caller in the unit gave them the benefit of the respect he received.
That night I took over as the man on the broom and went to see who was in the unit. I was familiar with the prisoners who lived on the tier because at dinnertime, while we waited to go to the chow hall, a lot of the men had come by to introduce themselves. I already knew many of them from unit-A. The captain had miscalculated. By breaking up unit-A, he only temporarily inconvenienced the normal play in the game within those walls. Nothing really changed. The men who made mistakes would still be dealt with, the drugs would continue to come in, and the politics would never end. As I was about to climb the stairs to unit-32, I saw Cowboy and Casper standing in the area directly outside the unit.
“What’s up, Sinbad? I see ain’t nothing changed,” said Cowboy.
“Nah, just taking a look at the neighbors to see what’s up. You headed in here?” I asked.
“Yeah, a lot of us from A will probably end up here or in unit-C. They don’t want to throw a bunch of wolves in with the sheep,” said Casper.
Just then, Casper came close to the gate where I stood. “Dan didn’t talk and these bottle stoppers are too stupid to figure it out. They found the gang and plank but they won’t find anything. Cowboy wiped it clean.” He smiled from ear to ear and said, “Man, that cocksucker didn’t die, but he’ll be shitting into a bag for a long time and won’t be smashing anymore TVs.”
The cop came out of his office with a pair of cell cards in his hand. “You’ll both be in 32 cell-2.”
Casper and Cowboy picked up their bedrolls and came through the door when it was keyed open. They went up the stairs and into cell-2. I followed them up the stairs.
“I’ll let you get settled in. Time to see what the word is up here.”
Walking down the tier, I came to the last cell, where all the prisoners were black. Unit-A had no black inmates. They wouldn’t have lasted more than a night there.
One of the Africans came to the bars when he saw me. “How you doing, Sinbad? I saw you earlier but I wanted to wait until we had some privacy to talk.”
“What’s on your mind, Snake?”
Snake was a Crip and a convict who had spent most of his life in prison. The blacks respected him, as did Mexicans and whites. Snake was small, maybe five foot seven, wire thin, and black as night.
“Look, homes. That deal with Chili awhile back got out of hand. I just want you to know we’re not a part of that and don’t want no trouble with any of you eses. I speak for all of us, and you know my word is good as gold.”
“I feel what you’re saying. That beef was between Chili and me. He brought his people into it and I finished it as I always do. As far as I’m concerned, it’s done and doesn’t involve you or your people.”
“Right on, homes. Chili’s gone. No need to bring the past back. Besides, from what I hear, the beating you put down on him should leave little doubt who came out on top. Listen, I got a little something here for you and Richard. Send him my regards.” He handed me a balloon with both heroin and coke inside. “There’s a gram of heroin and two grams of coke there. I got something going we can talk about later, but for now just enjoy yourself.”
“Good looking out. I’ll get at Richard right now. Take it easy, and gracias. Don’t worry about that other pedo. I know where you’re coming from.”
I walked down the stairs to my cell and called Richard. “Hey, Snake sent this carga and soda for us. He says he’s not with that pedo with Chili and wants no trouble.”
“Yeah, he’s scared, but he ain’t going to do shit. He knows the position he’s in,” said Richard. “Let me tell the placa I’m done sweeping and I’ll come in. I just wanted to see what the word was and look around. Casper and Cowboy are in 32-2. Dan kept his mouth shut, as did everyone else. Now it’s party time.”
Chapter 12
Childhood, 1975–1976
I had a terrible first month at Immanuel First Lutheran. Hardly anyone talked to me and I felt isolated. My mother insisted it was a good school with no gangs, and told me I should be grateful to attend a school so many kids wished they could afford. The message was clear. I would attend this school no matter what.
I thought a fresh start in a new school would mean the past could be forgotten. What I failed to understand was that, even though we changed our environment, we still carried the emotional garbage from our past. I didn’t have to fight at school but the challenges were, in some ways, even worse. I knew how to deal with gangs and those who tried to physically harm me. At the new school, the bullies were weak physically but used emotional and intellectual manipulations to achieve similar results. I had no skill in fighting those battles, and I lacked any ability to get beyond their bias and make friends.
At first, no one picked me for their team during P.E. That changed when Mr. Tonjes forced a member of Donald’s inner circle, Stephen, to take me on his team. We won that game because I hit three home runs. I also excelled in basketball, football, and track.
I suddenly had value to those people when they needed to win a sporting event. That year I even won the merit award for excellence in sports. The following year I earned a presidential award signed by Jimmy Carter for my athletic achievements, as did my sister.
Only Degan Jackson, the black kid, was faster and better than me in any school sport. They recognized my value as an athlete, but they still didn’t include me in their social events. The kids would come back excited after weekend parties and trips to the beach, but never invited me. They only knew me when they needed my help to win. I still didn’t have friends.
I reached a breaking point in my life in terms of my willingness to accept my fate as an outsider. My resentment fueled a desire for revenge against the people who needlessly made my life more difficult as I struggled to fit in. I was developing a new coping strategy that would progress over time and result in severe consequences for me later.
I have a unique ability to remember numbers. Locker combinations became imprinted in my memory after seeing the locks opened once, and I could recall them any time. One day I noticed one of Donald’s friends, Jimmy, go to his locker during a break, open the combination lock, and remove a snack. After that, I knew Jimmy’s locker combination, and it gave me an idea.
As I returned from the bathroom, I stopped next to Jimmy to open my locker and get a notebook.
“What’s up, Jimmy?”
He continued eating his apple pie and didn’t answer.
“Did you see Kiss on TV last night? They were at Magic Mountain.”
He finished the pie.
“Can’t you see I’m eating, spick? Damn, get away from me.”
His words struck like blows. I turned and went to class. It was the turning point for me.
The next day, I asked to use the bathroom during second period and I went straight to Jimmy’s locker and dialed the combination. It opened. My heart pounded as I reached for his lunch bag. I glanced around to make sure no one saw.
I took it out and briefly looked inside. It was huge. I placed it under some trash in the garbage can and went back to class, smiling to myself. I had finally scored points for my team and I enjoyed it.
During recess I watched Jimmy go to his locker as he spoke to Kenny. Kenny always pretended he was playing the drums and constantly talked about the band he was forming.
Jimmy dialed the combination at his locker, but when it opened he frowned as he looked inside, moving his books and gym clothes around.
“Fuck, where’s my lunch?”
“Maybe you didn’t bring one?” offered Kenny.
“Bullshit, I always bring one.”
I smiled to myself. I had a lingering unease someone had seen me, but mostly I was satisfied. I just walked away. They usually ignored me anyway and this time was no different.
We all went to our homeroom at lunchtime. Jimmy sat alone, looking dejected. How does it feel to be me? I thought.
Everyone in the class laughed.
“I’m not Mexican, I’m Colombian, you idiot.”
“Here now, you kids. That’s enough. Bill and Oliver, you will see me after class.”
As soon as the bell rang and the class emptied, Mr. Shultz closed the door, walked over to his desk, and pulled out his paddle—two feet long with holes drilled through. He called both of us over.
“Oliver, what makes you think it’s okay to call people names?” No answer.
“Your comments will earn you two swats.” He bent Oliver over his desk and hit him twice.
“Now Bill, just because Oliver here cracked a joke about your culture doesn’t mean you can attack him with your own verbal insults.”
“That wasn’t a joke he cracked. He called me a wetback, just like many of these idiots have since I’ve been here, and you think it’s funny. I’ve seen you laugh when they do it,” I said.
“Listen here, this isn’t up for debate. Three swats.”
“For what?”
“For talking back and calling Oliver an idiot.”
Oliver smiled and I couldn’t help feeling defeated. There was no winning in this place. They were both white and I wasn’t. It was as simple as that.
Mr. Shultz was mad. It was obvious as soon as he grabbed me and I resisted. Oliver had just bent over to be hit because he knew he was at fault. I believed it was just another mistreatment by someone who didn’t like me.
“Stop resisting, Bill, or it will be worse.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong. Why am I being punished?” I asked.
With that, he shoved me into the desk with force and my mouth hit the corner of the desk, splitting my lip. Mr. Shultz roughly took hold of me and began hitting me as hard as he could manage. He hit me five times. I stood up and looked at him. I could see the anger in his face. When he saw my bleeding lip, he said, “You brought this on yourself. You made me lose my temper.”
He was no different than the bullies who had beat me up my entire life. I hated him and everyone at the school. As I went to my next class my ears rang and my vision clouded red with bitterness and hurt.
Sitting in my next class, I calmed down and the anger drained away. My vision returned to normal, but then the physical pain set in. Right after class I went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. My lips were swollen and cut, but my legs hurt the most. Quickly lowering my pants, I saw the reason for the pain. My legs were badly bruised from the middle of my upper legs to my butt. I allowed myself to imagine I was somewhere else. A place of my own.
Through the rest of the day I kept to myself and began thinking about what I could take from Oliver, as I had from Jimmy, so he’d experience a piece of what I did every day. I imagined stealing his girlfriend and taking her to the school dance. As we danced, we’d laugh at him. They were silly fantasies, but they eased the pain of my damaged ego.
I left my last class and nearly bumped into Oliver. As soon as our eyes met he taunted me.
“Now Billy, temper, temper. What have we learned today? Ah, yes, foreigners are not welcome here.”
He laughed and walked away with Donald and Jimmy. Watching him go, it suddenly hit me. I knew what I’d take.
Chapter 13
San Quentin Death Row, 1988
Speaking to my family the first night in East Block seemed more like a stage performance than reality. There were the usual tears from my mother and sister as I assured them I was fine. To me they seemed worlds away, and to bring them into my world would only upset them more. I kept their minds at ease by downplaying my situation and how dangerous things truly were.
The last call was to my father. I dialed his number and the operator answered.
“How may I help you?”
“Collect call from Bill.”
The phone began to ring.
“Hello.”
“Collect call from Bill.”
“Yes, Billy?”
“Hey dad, it’s me.”
“Are you okay, son?”
“Yes sir. I was finally given grade-A status this morning and I’m now in East Block.”
“How are things there?”
“Well, I’m not sure. I’ll probably go outside tomorrow and get a feel for this place.”
“Son, I need you to be careful. Keep your eyes and ears open. I know you’ll survive this. Trust no one.”
“I won’t, Dad. I know where I’m at and who surrounds me.”
“You know if you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. I’m here for you.”
“I know, but I’m okay, thanks.”
We spoke for about fifteen minutes and my dad told me of his marriage to Maria, a Colombian woman twenty-three years younger than him. He also mentioned I should expect to be a big brother soon because they planned to have a child.
“You have to do things differently this time. I don’t want another child going through what I had to.”
“Things are different now. This is a whole new ball game.”
“Raising a child is never a game.”
“No, it’s not. You’ll see. I give you my word.”
“I better get going. I have to prepare myself for tomorrow.”
“Listen. I’m very sorry about everything I put you through. I never intended to hurt you or to have things turn out like this. Knowing what I know today, I would have done things differently. I’m sorry, son.”
“Don’t worry about it, Dad. I don’t blame you.”
“I love you, son.”
“Me too, Dad. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
I hung up the phone and sat on my bunk for a few moments. My father is the only one who has ever apologized to me regarding my childhood. Not that I blame him, or anyone else, for what’s happened to me. But I could hear it in his voice. He blamed himself and the burden weighed heavily on him. It takes a certain type of man to own up to his mistakes and take responsibility for his actions. I admire my father despite all of his faults. He is a man who takes responsibility, and I love him for it.
My thoughts were interrupted by the tier bull.
“Are you done with the phone?”
“Yes, thank you.”
The bull closed my food port and pushed the phone away to the next person on the list. The phone was on a wooden cart with wheels, which the bulls rolled from cell to cell according to the phone schedule the tier phone man made each day.
My neighbor, hearing I was off the phone, called out, “Hey, Bill, did you get through to your people?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Listen, I can put you on everyday if you’d like. Ju . . . ju . . . just, you know, look out for a guy when you ca . . . ca . . . ca . . . can,” he stuttered.
“I appreciate the offer, but I’m good for now. Goodnight.”
“Ah, yeah. G . . . g . . . g . . . goodnight.”
I already didn’t like my neighbor. As soon as he came in from the yard and noticed someone new was next door to him, he called over, introduced himself, and asked if I wanted to use the phone. His name was Silent, but I couldn’t figure out how the hell he got his name since he hadn’t shut up since coming in from the yard. But that wasn’t the reason I immediately didn’t like him. It was the fact that he attempted to sell me phone time. He hadn’t done it in a direct way, but it was clear it had to be dealt with right away.
In a penitentiary like San Quentin, only those who are weak or on a P/C yard pay another prisoner for something that’s state-issued. If I let it go unchecked, he and then others would take it as a sign of weakness and attempt to prey on me. Even if I didn’t need to ever use the phone again, the fact that he’d played it like that meant I had to pu
ll him up and make my position clear.
I finished cleaning my cell and put the few items I had in a box Stevenson had given me. The cell was fairly clean, but I followed my normal routine to search and then completely clean any cell I am assigned. I took a bird bath and made my bunk, then laid down with my lights turned off and thought of what I might encounter the next day on the yard. So many things crossed my mind. I recalled what the warden told me, what Blue said, and finally, as sleep came for me, I thought of how much I missed being on hallowed ground.
Upon waking that first day in East Block the smell of the ocean filled my senses, and for a moment I lay on my bunk wondering what I’d do today. Surf, then go hang out with my friends. The speaker just to the right of my cell clicked twice and brought me back to reality. I had forgotten where I was, and just for those few seconds I was free. I sighed, and got up. It was 4:45 a.m. I stripped naked, took a bird bath, brushed my teeth, and combed my hair. As I finished, the birds in the unit began to sing.
After making my bunk I placed a five-gallon bucket next to the bars of the cell door and sat down. A large window was directly across from the front of my cell. Four feet wide and twenty feet long, most of the glass was broken out, but the bars on the outside remained intact. The sky was still dark, but I could see light reflecting on the bay water. Looking across the bay, I could see the lights of Richmond, an urban war zone where drugs, gangs, and violence held residents hostage. But from inside the walls of San Quentin at that time of morning, the city looked as beautiful as Oz.
The prisoner on the floor above me flooded his cell and the area outside of my cell door became a waterfall. The sound triggered a memory and I knelt down and closed my eyes. The bars melted away and I was once again inside my cave, only it was empty and abandoned. So much time had passed. The drugs, the grief, and the pain had kept me from that place for so long, but no more. I was back. I would never again allow anything to come between me and my hallowed ground.