Escape Artist

by William A. Noguera

  The next class would be English Lit with Mr. Holtz, the class where all book reports were due. Halfway through the class I got permission to go to the bathroom. The hallways were empty. Everyone was in class and it seemed peaceful as I walked to the locker area. I checked behind me to make sure I was alone. Despite all the scenarios I had planned for, getting caught had not crossed my mind until now. That thought quickly vanished when I neared Oliver’s locker.

  My heart pounded in my chest. Power and adrenaline flowed through me as I took control. I touched his lock and my fingers went to work, 37-12-16. The locker opened. I grabbed the report and locked the locker.

  Just as I had with Jimmy’s lunch, I put it under a bunch of stuff in a large trash can. No one would find it.

  Walking back to class, I felt vindicated. I was getting even for the times I was hurt, laughed at, and singled out. Although I was far from being even, I took comfort in the fact I was fighting back.

  The final twenty minutes of class seemed to take hours, but the bell finally rang and I practically ran to Mr. Holtz’s class. I didn’t want to miss a thing. Everyone was seated when the second bell rang—everyone except Oliver.

  Mr. Holtz began the class and passed out the list of books we could choose from for our next book reports. I looked at the list, but my mind was on Oliver. Where was he? It was ten minutes past the start of class and he hadn’t appeared. After another five minutes, Oliver walked into class.

  “So glad you could join us, Mr. Young,” Mr. Holtz remarked. “Did you get lost on the way here?”

  “No, Mr. Holtz. I can’t find my book report. I brought it to school and put it in my locker, but it’s gone.”

  “Should we call the stolen book report police? Or maybe we should ask your dog if he’s seen it.”

  “I’m not lying. I did my report and brought it to school.”

  “Sit down, Mr. Young. If you can’t produce it by the end of class, you will receive an F.”

  At the end of class, Mr. Holtz said, “Please pass your book reports forward. Is there anyone else whose report has vanished?”

  No one said a word. Mr. Holtz went through all the reports briefly, then came to mine.

  “Nice touch, Mr. Noguera. It seems you actually gave this some thought.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Mr. Young, have you found your book report?”

  “Mr. Holtz, I don’t know where it’s at. I did it.”

  “Since you have not turned in your assignment, you will receive an incomplete, which translates to an F for a quarter of your grade. Maybe next time you will be more careful.”

  Oliver looked defeated, and a part of me sympathized because I knew what he was going through, but when he caught me looking at him he said, “What are you staring at, greaseball?”

  I turned away, and when the bell rang he walked past me. He didn’t say anything to anyone. He was alone and I thought, How does imported medicine taste?

  Chapter 16

  San Quentin Death Row, 1988

  Blue was right. The men in East Block were no different from the ones in the AC. Their answer to most problems was violence.

  On my second day in the yard, after coming through the yard sally port, I went to a corner near the front of the yard and set my things on the floor.

  I scanned the yard for any sign of tension. The Blacks were at the back of the yard setting up to drive iron, and most of the Mexicans and Whites were drinking coffee or standing around talking before starting their line routines.

  Nothing seemed out of place, so I began to stretch and warm up. Mouse came up to me and said, “Good morning.”

  We exchanged small talk as I warmed up, but he soon left. He knew I hated being disturbed while I concentrated on martial arts. To me, it was one of the most intimate forms of expression I practiced. To reach the state of concentration required to abandon myself to the purity of my senses, I needed to be alone.

  He must have told Sporty and the others, since no one interrupted me.

  Wicked had seen my routine during his stay in the AC, so when our eyes met he simply nodded.

  During this state of concentration, my mind does not close itself off from the surrounding sounds, smells, or influences. In fact, my mind grasps everything within the scope of my senses and enters a state of hypersensitivity. In this state I become so in tune with my senses and body that when I start to move and practice the martial arts I’m like a machine—I can accomplish anything.

  I was aware of eyes on me when I took off my shoes and meditated before going through my fighting forms and techniques, and for the next hour and a half I practiced. At the end of my routine I knelt and meditated for five minutes, bringing my breathing to a controlled rhythm and disengaging my mind. During martial arts practice, I am at war. There is no other description that comes close to the mental state I enter to reach the goals I have for myself.

  Standing from my meditation position, I put on my shoes and started to run. I had time to run approximately two miles before it was our turn to cross the line and enter the weight area.

  As I ran, I thought of the area I ran as a boy and teenager: Hacienda Heights, La Habra Heights, and Turnbull Canyon. I knew those roads, all the turns and smells, from so many years of running them. Now as I ran, my mind knew by the subconscious count of footsteps just how far I had gone and where I would be if I were running the hills. Mental pictures came to mind, and at moments the vivid memories overwhelmed my senses and I’d catch the fragrance of a tree or flower I once ran by.

  When I finished running, I went to the sink at the front of the yard next to the shower. Some African prisoners were showering and their bodyguards watched me as I approached.

  “I need some water,” I said. I didn’t wait for an answer and stepped into the area directly next to the shower with my tumbler in hand and filled it. I drank deeply and refilled it, then walked away.

  Sporty asked, “What’s up, ese? How’s it going?”

  “I’m good. Just getting ready for that iron.”

  “You ever lift iron before?”

  “Not much. My routine is about endurance, bar work, and overall balance in the martial arts. But I look forward to getting started.”

  “I saw what you were doing earlier. What was that?”

  “A combination of Hapkido, Karate, Taekwondo, and Jeet Kune Do I’ve molded into a more focused form of mixed martial arts.”

  “Man, it was impressive. All these motherfuckers, especially the Changos, were checking you out.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “You got enough left in the gas tank? Because my workout is going to push you to failure,” Sporty said.

  “I’ll be all right. I won’t be lifting the weight you can, but give me a minute and I’ll catch up.”

  “Yeah, I’ve had a lot of vatos say that, and they end up quitting. So I hope you’re different.”

  “You’ll soon find out that when I say something, I do exactly that. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.”

  “Órale, ese. Relax a few because we start at ten a.m.”

  “I’ll be there,” I said, and left to get my things. It got hotter as the sun rose above the fifteen-foot wall at the back of the yard. Many of the Africans had finished working out on the iron pile and were either showering or near the tables. It wasn’t 10 a.m. yet, so I just sat and looked at the yard and took note of who was doing what. Learning the habits of those men was a good way to understand and identify when something changed and a good indicator when something was about to happen.

  Over the years, I’ve become a student of human behavior. In prison the ability to read a person, group, or entire yard can be the difference between living and dying.

  At 10 a.m. Sporty stepped over the line along with the rest of the Mexicans, Whites, and Indians. I helped Sporty stack the iron in the order we would use it. I wondered what Sporty had in mind as we stacked thousands of pounds.

  “Watcha. On Monday, Wednesday, and Fri
day I work torso: chest, back, shoulders, and abs. On Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday it’s arms, abs, and legs. One day light, the next heavy. I work fast and it’s about trust. Trust that when I’m doing a set, no one’s going to sneak up on me because you’re spotting me. If we work out together, trust is the first and last thing. I give you my word that no one will ever harm you while we work out together. If someone attempts it, I’ll smash him.”

  “You got my palabra, ese.”

  We shook hands.

  “Órale, let’s put the lick down. We’ll be super-setting everything. Today’s Friday, so it’s torso. Let’s warm up,” he said.

  We placed a two-hundred-pound bar on the rack and Sporty pressed it eight times as if it were paper. He then stood and stepped to the pull-up bars and did eight pull-ups.

  “That’s one set, ese. We’ll be doing over seventy-five sets today.”

  I got down on the bench and un-racked the two hundred pounds and pressed it eight times. Shit. It felt like three hundred pounds.

  “Feels heavy, huh?”

  “Yeah. What’s up with that?” I said.

  “This is pig iron. It’s not balanced. The ends are welded on so we can’t use the plates as weapons, and as you’ve noticed, the bar doesn’t rotate like weights should.”

  “Damn, that’s rough man,” I said.

  “You’ll get used to it and soon you’ll crave this shit,” said Sporty.

  I laughed and we continued to work. After two sets on the two-hundred-pound bar, we took it down and placed the two-hundred-fifty-pound bar up and did sets again. Sporty did eight reps. I managed only three each set and eight pull-ups.

  “Okay, I’m going to keep raising the weight until we reach the four-hundred-forty-pound bar. When you can’t go up anymore, we’ll exchange the weight so you can do your set.”

  At that moment he smiled. “Yeah, you didn’t realize when you signed on that I was crazier than a bed bug, huh?”

  “Man, that’s some serious iron. I admire your workout,” I said.

  “Our workout. You’ll soon be doing it as well. You’ll see. Any fat idiot can hit four hundred pounds once. But it only counts if you can hit it after you’ve finished your workout. Endurance and strength, speed and explosiveness, is what our routine is about. You’ll need all of it during a war if you find yourself in the middle of one, and from what I hear and saw this morning, you would be unstoppable. You feel me, ese?”

  Sporty was right. If I could combine the strength, explosiveness, and endurance he had with what I already possessed, I might very well be unstoppable.

  Nearing the end of the workout, I noticed a shift on the yard. It wasn’t much, just a slight change, but enough to raise the hairs on the back of my neck. I continued to work out, but I began looking at each group carefully. Nothing really seemed out of place. Either I was overly tired and the fatigue had me jumping at shadows, or someone was extremely good at shielding his intent. That wouldn’t surprise me, but it would bother me. On that yard, with so many men in such a small area, it would be easy to shield and strike without warning.

  “Hey Sporty, ponte verga.” I looked at him in a manner that left little doubt he should stop and pay attention.

  “What’s up, ese?”

  “I’m not sure, but something’s going down. I can feel it.”

  He looked at me, then at the yard. “It’s all good. No one’s trippin’.”

  I let it go, but I knew better and I also knew Sporty was nothing more than a thug. He survived out of dumb luck. He assumed because of his physical size and strength he was superior, but he was incapable of reading a yard or a person. He was not sensitive to shifts or reading the intent of men. At some point that might cost him his life or mine, since I had to trust his ability to watch my back while I lifted hundreds of pounds of iron.

  Continuing to lift, I went through the motions, but my eyes and senses were on alert. Something was about to happen, but I hadn’t figured out who the players were.

  From groups to individuals I scanned until I focused on a Peckerwood who, as he got a drink of water and began to stand, dropped his shields. It was that fast, but the heat rolled off his body as he reached in his jacket and pulled out a piece of plastic with a pair of razorblades melted into it so the blades formed a makeshift straight razor. It’s a deadly weapon, but one reserved only for men not worthy of the time and effort it takes to make a bone-crusher.

  Rapists, rats, or child killers are typically the ones attacked using razorblades. A warrior would be insulted if someone used that weapon on him. I know I would.

  I grabbed the bar just as Sporty was about to lift it off of the bench rack and said, “Check it out,” and shifted my gaze to the yard tables. Sporty got up from the bench and looked. The Peckerwood walked straight to the tables where four whites played cards.

  One of the whites was my neighbor, Silent, who had his back to the yard. The Peckerwood, Domino, grabbed Silent by the forehead with his left hand and pulled his head back. At the same time he brought the razors across his throat, leaving a cut from ear to ear.

  Silent grabbed his throat and stumbled backwards as the blood ran down his shirt. The commotion caught the gunner’s attention, and he blew his whistle and ordered everyone on the ground.

  Bulls from every part of the unit came running at the sound of whistles from the yard. Silent lay on the concrete holding his throat. Domino sat a few feet from him, laughing.

  “Yeah, how’s that feel, punk motherfucker? Just die,” he said, and continued to laugh.

  “You, on the ground. Can you walk?” the gunner yelled. “I need you to get to the gate where staff can assist you,” he directed and aimed his M1 at Domino.

  “I’ll help him, CO,” said Domino as he laughed.

  “You, don’t move,” yelled the gunner and chambered a round.

  “Okay, I was just trying to help this piece of shit,” he laughed.

  I watched as Silent dragged himself to the gate, where staff cuffed him and placed him on a gurney, then carried him to the hospital.

  The gunner yelled, “You, come to the gate,” while pointing at Domino.

  “I’ll see you in about two,” he said to Wicked.

  “All right, bro, give my regards to the fellas,” said Wicked.

  The Peckerwood knew the routine. He would go to the AC, and if he kept his nose clean they’d let him back to East Block in two years.

  Sporty turned to me. “You were right, ese.”

  I nodded.

  After the entire yard was cleared, the investigation squad took pictures and gathered evidence that would eventually go to the DA’s office, where the file would sit unopened. What can you do to a man already sentenced to death? Not a fucking thing.

  After returning to my cell, the tier bull came to my door.

  “Noguera, how do you feel about the shower and phone job? They’re yours if you want them.”

  “What would I have to do?”

  “It’s simple. The shower job is cleaning the shower after everyone’s done. You’ll be able to shower every day, and you’ll receive an extra tray each meal, plus all the extras. The phone job doesn’t really pay, but it gives you a chance to use the phone whenever you want and all you have to do is make a schedule every day and give it to the tier officer. It would be a favor to me if you’d take the jobs. I want someone who can handle it.”

  “How do you know I can handle it?” I asked.

  “Carlton and I have known each other for years, and he told me about you. He said you’re a talented artist and carry yourself well.”

  “Carlton’s a good man, boss. I appreciate the offer and I’ll take the jobs. Thank you.”

  Silent’s loss was my gain and I would take advantage of it.

  Chapter 17

  Orange County Jail, 1985–1986

  The men who lived with me in the eight-man cell never seemed to mind being in jail. For them, it was a time to meet with crew members and wait for transport to prison, w
here, as they put it, “all the action is.” Family members or women who came to see them were just a form of entertainment, like going to a movie on the weekend.

  They would write a woman and eventually she’d come to visit. It was as normal to them as if they had asked her out and they agreed to a date together. They were so used to that life, they didn’t see anything twisted about any of it. They were “institutionalized,” and their whole world existed behind bars. The world outside was just a place they sometimes visited. With this state of mind, it was natural they spent most of their lives in prison. In prison they were respected and honored. The prison culture was what they loved and where they thrived. It called to them and they answered readily. Outside prison culture they became uncomfortable and uncertain. Those men truly had no place in society other than as pawns to support the prison industry. Despite all that, men resent being locked up and think about getting out and living free, ignoring the fact they’re more suited for life inside.

  At the end of 1984, two of the men I lived with, Lucky and Crow, took deals of fifteen years to life. Those deals spared them a possible death sentence and meant they didn’t require a trial. They were transported to Folsom State Prison within two weeks. The two men who replaced them, Shotgun and Trigger, were from the City of Orange in Orange County. Both men were Mexican and facing more than seventy years in prison for a string of robberies and a possible murder charge that was still pending. The district attorney did not have enough evidence to charge them with murder, but they were nervous about him getting it. It was only a matter of time, and they could both possibly face a death sentence.

  Shotgun and Trigger were always together and always seemed to be planning something. They were known gang members with tattoos covering most of their arms, chests, and backs. Both men were short, heavily muscled, and bald, and across their stomachs the word “Orange” was tattooed in Old English font.