Escape Artist

by William A. Noguera

  I drew late at night while the others slept. Early each morning, before they woke, I threw away my latest creation and put the mask back on. No one knew. At least not for a while.

  A new prisoner arrived in the unit named Chango, who always joked around and had a grin fixed on his face. Chango always talked about his family. He had a wife, and a little boy and girl he loved and who came to see him on visiting days. His little boy sometimes smiled at me and played peek-a-boo behind his hands when I’d see them in the visiting room.

  Chango was in jail for receiving and selling stolen property. Unfortunately, his assignment to our housing unit was a mistake. Thinking no one would recognize him or remember his past, he didn’t provide the classification committee information they needed for placement in a P/C-unit. That would cost him dearly. Nothing is forgotten in prison and word travels fast.

  A gang member from Chango’s old neighborhood recognized him and sent word to Primo, a San Quentin convict who Chango had testified against. Within days, another gang member about to start trial for murder had his attorney subpoena Primo to testify. Two weeks later, Primo was on a bus headed for Orange County. Primo’s testimony was just a cover for a more sinister plan.

  Ten years earlier while both Primo and Chango were teenagers, they killed a rival gang member, and Chango’s testimony led to Primo’s conviction and assignment to San Quentin.

  A prisoner can have his attorney subpoena convicts from any of the California prisons to testify at his trial, and because the meetings to prepare for trial are legally protected from monitoring, it’s a secure way for gang members to meet and conduct business. One item of business is to confirm “hit lists.” Most of the time the attorney has no idea he’s being used for gang business. He subpoenas the men his client says he needs to prove his innocence.

  A hit list is active once confirmed, or green-lighted, by a made member of the gang. Once active, everyone on that list is marked for death and any member or associate can do the deed. Primo carried an active list and Chango’s name was on it. Primo also carried the paperwork that proved Chango was a rat.

  Primo expected to be housed in a different unit than Chango at the Orange County jail. Once there, he’d have to show paperwork and order someone in Chango’s unit to carry out the hit. Imagine his surprise when he found out Chango was in the cell next to his.

  Primo had taken to prison life like a fish to water. He trained, lifted weights, and became a Mexican Mafia soldier. Many wars later, he was a made member of the Mexican Mafia with a deadly reputation and temper.

  When Primo arrived he was the only carnal in the unit, so he was immediately in charge. At lunchtime when all the doors opened, he came to our cell and shook hands with Crow, Lucky, and Chente. They introduced me.

  “This is my perro, Mad,” said Chente.

  “Mucho gusto, Primo. Es un placer,” I responded.

  “Órale, carnalito, mucho gusto.” Primo said.

  We shook hands.

  Primo was a seasoned warrior, built like Conan the Barbarian.

  “Hey Crow, gracias for pulling me down from the pen.”

  “It was nothing. I just did what was supposed to be done. If it weren’t for Lucky, I never would have recognized Chango.”

  “Simón, that’s firmé.” Turning to Lucky, he laughed and said, “Maybe I should start calling you Hawk Eye instead of Lucky.”

  All of it happened right under my nose, but I didn’t yet know what it all meant. No one did except Crow and Lucky.

  “So what’s the plan, Prime Time?” asked Crow.

  “I want to handle this alone and right away. If Chango sees me, he’ll run and tell.”

  “Órale, what do you need from me?”

  “A piece. A bone-crusher. I want this puto six feet under.”

  Crow went over to the wall phone, next to the shower and above the toilet. He got a small Allen wrench, hidden in a bar of soap, and unscrewed the bolts that held the phone in place. Then he pulled the phone off the wall. Behind it, a steel bone-crusher nine inches long, one and a half inches wide, and one-eighth inch thick, was taped to the wall.

  Crow grabbed it and reattached the phone to the wall. He walked over and presented it to Primo.

  “Here, use my personal work on that rat. This should fix him.”

  “This is what I’m talking about. This is a wicked piece.”

  Primo was right. The piece was indeed wicked. It was cut from a steel towel rack and sharpened to a razor’s edge on both sides with two bloodlines on each side. It was made to kill. The bloodlines are grooves worked into the blade so when the body tissue contracts around the blade, the user can easily pull the blade out and continue to stab over and over again. Without the grooves, the blade is harder to pull out and slows the attack.

  As soon as I saw it, I knew Chango didn’t have a chance. My thoughts went straight to his little boy and how he’d be devastated when he learned his daddy was hurt. I’d seen plenty of men stabbed, but I felt bad about this one. I was so moved by the thought, I didn’t hear Primo talking to me.

  “Hey ese, where you at?”

  I focused on him. “I was just thinking of some work I’d like to put in with a piece like that.”

  “Yeah, Primo. This vato knows that secret shit. Last year he took Chili Red down twice. The last time in the chow hall with a bunch of his guerrillas with him. Man, this motherfucker puts in serious ass-whippings,” said Chente.

  “Watcha, Mad, can you put a handle on this for me?”

  “Yeah, but it’s Crow’s piece and no one knows a piece like its maker.”

  “Primo, I made it. Let me put the finishing touches on it.”

  “Alright, ese. Get to it. I don’t have a lot of tiempo.”

  Crow set off to work on the handle, which wouldn’t take long. Using a razorblade, he cut two pieces from a chessboard approximately one and a half inches wide and four inches long, and placed them on the blade. Then he cut strips off a sheet and wrapped the pieces of the chess board tightly. After the handle was secure, he wrapped it in thin plastic and lit it on fire, allowing the plastic and strips of sheet to become one with the pieces of chessboard.

  Crow ran cold water over the handle to cool it, then dried it and gave it to Primo. I always tense and mentally prepare myself anytime someone near me has a piece in their hands. I just don’t trust anyone.

  “Muchas gracias, Crow. I won’t forget it.”

  A few moments later, the unit returned from lunch and the doors were opened.

  Primo shook all our hands and said, “I’m going to go kick back at the pad and wait for this puto. I’ll hopefully catch his ass at dinner.” And just like that, he was gone.

  Chango wouldn’t see it coming. At least not until it was too late.

  The rest of the afternoon, I busied myself writing and washing my sheets and other whites, but nothing helped me forget what was about to happen. I secretly hoped Chango had learned of Primo’s arrival and was moved to a P/C-unit. At 4:10 p.m., Chango and a couple of other men walked by en route to their cells after returning from court.

  “That rat gonna finally have its day,” Crow said, smiling.

  I knew Primo was preparing himself in his cell. He would not take anything for granted. He’d approach his foe as if he believed Chango was armed for battle.

  At 4:30 p.m., the unit officer stepped into his control area and announced, “Chow time. All inmates prepare for chow.” Then he opened all our doors. As usual, after opening the doors the cop went back to his office on the other side of the unit.

  Chente and I stepped out of our cell into a busy tier where men met before chow and talked. Men from every cell began walking by, but I didn’t see Chango. A few seconds later Primo came out of his cell in his boxers and tennis shoes. My eyes focused on his right hand where he held Crow’s bone-crusher.

  He walked by briskly and entered Chango’s cell.

  I felt a tightness in my stomach and emptiness in my heart. Mostly, I felt bad
for his little boy and the pain he’d suffer. Chango had fucked up, but his children would pay a price for the actions of their father. Rage filled me, and a part of me considered taking action, but that would be suicide. Even if I managed to stop it, my name would go on the death list. Sometimes doing nothing comes with a heavy price too.

  I couldn’t see into the cell, but the sounds told the entire story.

  Chango must have seen Primo enter the cell because he screamed, “Primo, por favor, no.”

  The sound of scuffling shoes on cement, then the distinct sound of a steel blade entering flesh reached our ears, followed by the bone-chilling screams from a scared man who knew death had come for him. Before this, he probably thought his only threat was hundreds of miles away in a cell at San Quentin. Every action has a consequence and price, and Primo was collecting his fee.

  The unit officer finally heard the screams and ran toward the commotion. He stopped when he came in line with the cell where Primo was slaughtering Chango, and he could see the whole thing. With his flashlight, the cop hit the Plexiglas divider that separated us from the cops.

  “Garcia, stop.”

  The cop yelled to no avail. Suddenly the screaming stopped and Primo emerged from the cell covered in blood. The sight of him startled the cop. To be honest, it left an impression on me as well.

  Primo still carried the bone-crusher, and his eyes were filled with primal, animal-like intensity. But it was his smile, now that his hatred was satisfied, that had the most impact.

  “Time to go home,” he said, and went to the door where the scared cops waited for him.

  He was sent to the hole first, and from there back to San Quentin. The DA’s office rarely prosecuted prisoner-on-prisoner violence, even if someone died.

  They rushed Chango to an outside hospital. I didn’t know if he’d live or die. At the core of everything for me was what I knew his little boy would experience when he found out what happened to his father, and a part of me cried with him.

  Late that night I sat down to draw and experienced a rare moment of clarity as my emotions and vision became one with my imagination. As I allowed that to happen, a frenzy overtook me. I poured my fear, hatred, and finally love into what I created.

  While in this state, I hadn’t noticed Chente wake up and walk over to me. He stood behind me and watched as I worked. I don’t know how long he was there, but suddenly a part of me sensed his presence and I bolted upright to face the possible danger.

  Not expecting my response, Chente stumbled backward and fell in surprise.

  “Hey, what’s the deal, ese?” he said.

  I got a hold of myself and saw him through rational eyes, and recognized him.

  “You surprised me. Never do that again. You understand?”

  I shook the emotions away from me, but it was too late. Chente had seen it, and the evidence was still present on my face in the form of tears and on the table in the drawing. Chente stood up and looked at me.

  “What are you doing? I woke up and saw you here. I talked to you, but you didn’t answer, so I came to see what was up. But man, you were somewhere else.”

  I looked at him and anger swept through me. He had interrupted me, intruded on my most intimate moments, and a part of me hated him for it.

  I grabbed the sheet of paper I was working on and went to throw it away.

  “Carnal, wait. I saw you were drawing. Let me see it.”

  I hesitated, then turned to face him.

  “Watcha, I’m sorry, dispensa, for disturbing you. I didn’t know what you were doing and I came over to talk to you.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You surprised me, that’s all,” I said.

  He repeated his request. “Can I see what you were working on?”

  I handed him my work.

  “Fuck, ese. I didn’t know you could draw like this.”

  “No one does.”

  “Damn, this is some deep shit. Look, I saw what you were going through when you were drawing. I can still see it on your face. You shouldn’t hide this. This is you.”

  Maybe he was right. After he went back to bed, I sat and looked at my work. I wasn’t ready to let anyone truly see me. How could I when I couldn’t truly see myself?

  No, I’m not ready, I thought. I stood up and threw the sheet of paper in the toilet and flushed it. I watched it go down. As it disappeared, so did the part of me that felt. I slid the mask back in place and got ready for another day in hell.

  Chapter 15

  Childhood, 1976

  The bruises from Mr. Shultz’s beating were still on my legs and butt a week after Oliver instigated the situation that led to my punishment. They had turned an ugly purple and black, and I wanted to cry every time I looked in the mirror. More and more I anticipated how I’d pay Oliver back.

  Book reports were due the following week. Everyone had picked a book to read and write a report about. The grade we received from that report would count as a quarter of our grade for the entire class.

  I read Of Mice and Men and had already finished my book report. Many of the kids in class were still reading their books and Mr. Holtz, the Lit class teacher, continued to remind everyone that only a few days remained to turn in the book reports.

  My anticipation grew as the due date approached. I constantly thought of the different things that could go wrong with my plan. Success depended on perfect timing, good weather, and Oliver sticking to his habits.

  I woke up the morning the reports were due and immediately looked to the window and thought I may never get my chance because it was raining.

  I was proud of the job I had done on my report. Since I finished it early I had the opportunity to think about how best to present it, and I decided on a nice blue cover that gave it the look of a professional folder.

  It continued to rain as my mother drove me and my sister to school, but just as she pulled into the parking lot the rain stopped and the sun peeked through the clouds.

  My sister and I got out of the car and kissed our mother, and waited as she made the sign of the cross and blessed us. My sister met up with some friends and ran to the playground. I watched her go then headed for the classrooms. It was a few minutes before class started, but I wanted to know if Oliver was here. For it to work, he’d have to go outside at recess and remain on the field until the last possible moment, then rush to class, arriving late. This was his normal pattern and would make it unlikely he’d stop at his locker to collect his report until just before Lit class.

  Opening my locker, I pulled out books for my classes and went to a bench in front of my homeroom. Oliver arrived a few moments later. He opened his locker and put a folder inside, then pulled out his baseball glove and ran out to the field to play.

  I watched him go and wished I was popular and had friends. If I did, I would be happy. I had never had a real friend, but I thought I could be good at it. I even began to wonder: if I were white, maybe Oliver and I could be friends. I would forget all the hurt and pain he caused me. I would forget it all, if only he’d be nice to me and truly be my friend.

  The bell rang and I continued to daydream.

  Mr. Tonjes passed me and said, “Bill, the bell rang. You’d better get to class.”

  “I’m on my way, Mr. Tonjes.”

  “I expect you to go out for track and field. We need you.”

  Nodding, I went to class thinking, Yeah, you need me to help you win. Then once I’ve done my part, I’ll just be the stupid wetback again.

  I arrived in class as the second bell rang and sat down. Mr. Shultz was at his desk going through the newspaper.

  “Everyone take your seats. I’ll be a few moments.”

  I pulled out my book report when Donald, Jimmy, Oliver, and Kenny came in late.

  “You four are late. Didn’t you hear the bell? Maybe you’d like a date with my paddle. She just loves to kiss bottoms.”

  “Ah, sorry, Mr. Shultz. We were practicing our baseball signals. We want to win against Hope Lu
theran,” said Donald.

  Mr. Shultz went back to his paper, and as Oliver and Donald passed my desk, Oliver flipped the folder with my book report off my desk. When it hit the ground, Mr. Shultz looked up and then went back to reading. I got up to pick up my book report.

  “Bill, what are you doing? Sit down,” said Mr. Shultz.

  “I’m picking up my book report.”

  “I don’t care. Sit down.”

  He knew what Oliver had done, but it didn’t matter.

  “You saw what happened, but you only pick on me.”

  “What did you say?” he asked.

  “You only pick on me. When others do something you ignore it, but when it’s me, you always yell at me or punish me.”

  “Come here.”

  I stood up and went to his desk.

  “You will learn to keep quiet and not talk back.”

  “I wasn’t talking back, but you won’t listen. Why is it okay for anyone to do anything to me, but if I complain you punish me?”

  Mr. Shultz stood up and said, “Shut up.”

  It was hopeless. He didn’t care what anyone did to me. He didn’t like me, and no matter what I did he’d find fault in it.

  “Your mouth will cost you a swat.”

  He pulled out his paddle, grabbed me by the arm and pushed me forward. The sting of the paddle hurt the already bruised flesh. Once again he had become angry and hit me to satisfy that anger.

  Walking back to my seat, Oliver smiled at me.

  I sat down and anger crept into every part of my body. I didn’t pay attention to the class or anything being said. The only thing I thought about was Oliver. It’s strange, but usually no matter what I’m doing, focusing is always difficult because of the ADHD. But when angered or hurt, my focus is laser sharp.

  The sun continued to shine, and at recess Oliver did exactly what I expected him to do. He was so proud of himself for the swat I received, he didn’t even notice me watching him. And why should he? In his mind, I was nobody and couldn’t hurt him.

  He ran to the baseball field, along with Donald, Jimmy, Kenny, and a number of others, and I stayed there, even after the first bell rang. I watched, and before the second bell I slipped into class and waited. Sure enough, after hearing the second bell, they ran in straight from the field without their books.