Escape Artist

by William A. Noguera

  The warden and the captain both looked at the portrait of Joe Montana I was finishing.

  “Captain Hales, was I wrong in telling you Mr. Noguera would help you win your bet?” the warden asked.

  The Captain laughed, “There’s no doubt in my mind. No doubt.”

  “Mr. Noguera, the Captain is interested in commissioning you to do two pieces, both portraits. One of JFK and the other of Ronald Reagan.”

  “Gentlemen, I’m presently booked solid until next year. I’ve even turned down orders because of the long list of clients already waiting for my work.”

  “That’s unfortunate. I was really hoping you could help me.”

  I did a quick mental evaluation and decided to make an exception. I needed high ranking officials to appreciate and allow me to order the materials I needed to reach the level I envisioned I’d someday reach.

  “Captain Hales, I’ll finish this piece by tomorrow and I’ll make room for you. What do you have in mind?”

  “Well, as the warden mentioned, I’d like two portraits. I’ve brought you two small pictures I’d like you to use. I’d also like them done in dots like the portrait there of Montana. The portraits are for me, but an associate warden at Folsom Prison is convinced he has the best artist in the system there. I want to prove him wrong and win the bet we made.”

  “I’ll be happy to prove you right, but please understand, art is not about who makes a picture look life-like. There are different types of styles and mediums, so it’s difficult to judge whose is better. But I understand what you want. You want the work to be hyper-realistic as if it were a photograph.”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I want. How much will you charge me?”

  “Two portraits, approximately twenty by twenty-six inches, will take one hundred fifty to one hundred ninety-five hours per piece to complete, and will run three hundred seventy-five dollars per piece. A total of seven hundred fifty dollars.”

  I was taking a risk in raising my prices. But I believed the work spoke for itself, and everyone who bought one of my pieces always came back to order more, telling me how the galleries that framed the work spoke highly of the unique style and technique I used.

  “That’s fair. When will they be done?”

  “Give me five weeks and I’ll have them ready for you. Let me fill out a contract and we’ll both sign it, making this agreement official.”

  I prepared the contract and we both signed, then, to my surprise, the Captain opened my food port and put his hand through to shake my hand.

  “Thank you for taking time from your other work to help me. I appreciate it,” he said.

  “The pleasure’s mine, Captain. Thank you for the order and for believing in my work.”

  I then turned to Warden Vasquez. “Warden, I never had the opportunity to thank you for asking the handicraft manager to stop by when I first came to East Block so I could enter the program. She brought me art materials at your behest. Thank you.” I put my hand through the food port and the warden shook it.

  “I gave you a chance, much like I’ve given many other men. You made something of it. You did that, not me. This job rarely gives me the chance to see someone actually grow into something positive. Seeing what you’re doing gives me that chance.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  Once they left, I sat and stared at the contract we signed and then at the pictures he gave me to work from. I knew what I’d do and how I’d do it. I also became very aware of how badly I wanted the Captain to win his bet. Not for him, but for me. It was me, my work, that would be judged and I wanted no doubt in anyone’s mind who was the best. I wanted my work to be known in and out of prison. I wanted my name to be recognized and respected. I decided nothing would stop me from accomplishing that goal. Prison walls would not be enough to stop my escape.

  Two weeks after finishing the captain’s portraits, he stopped by my cell while I got ready to clean the showers.

  “How are you, Captain? I see you picked up your portraits. Were you pleased with my work?”

  “I am more than pleased. The portraits are absolutely stunning. I’ve framed and compared them to the work my friend in Folsom was so pleased with. Although his work was very nice, what you did, and how photo-realistic it is, blew him away. I came by to tell you that and, again, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. I was happy to help.”

  The Captain nodded. “Enjoy your day, Mr. Noguera.”

  After cleaning the shower, I turned on the hot water and, as the water cascaded over me, I thought, I’ve taken yet another step with many more to go, but I’m on my way. Art will be my vehicle of escape.

  Chapter 23

  Orange County Jail, 1986

  In a moment of anger I allowed myself the freedom to say exactly what was on my mind. Usually once the anger fades following a heated exchange, we regret the harsh words that seemed so appropriate in the passion of the moment. During my nine days in the hole, I repeatedly played back my last conversation with Trigger. But each time the result was the same. I didn’t regret it.

  Trigger would be coming for me. In fact, at that very moment he was probably developing a plan to deal with me. Chente, Shotgun, Trigger, and I would move to a segregation unit on our tenth day. I had to be ready to deal with Trigger.

  I thought of ways I could avoid the confrontation. Since I started it, I could apologize and say I was just angry. I quickly dismissed that option. Gang members like Trigger are consumed with protecting their reputation, and the way I talked to him demanded action. He would accept my apology, then wait until I relaxed and thought everything was fine—then he’d try to kill me. It was as simple as that. Trigger was a soldier, a convict, and a killer who couldn’t allow anyone to disrespect him as I had.

  I wondered if he still had a hacksaw blade. If he did, he would cut a piece with my name on it. We both knew there could be no turning back. But when the time came, knife or no knife, Trigger would fall.

  I briefly considered another option. I could apologize to him, then wait for my chance to strike when he let his guard down. But using deception to gain a tactical advantage was cowardly and had never been my style.

  The afternoon of the tenth day, we were escorted to the segregation unit in chains. From that point on, I would be in chains with an escort anytime I left the unit. The chains consisted of handcuffs and leg irons, both attached to a chain around my waist.

  We stood in the vestibule of the unit as the officer in charge decided which cells to put us in. Trigger and Shotgun said nothing to me the entire time.

  Finally, Chente stood next to me and said, “Ponte trucha. Watch out.”

  I nodded.

  “Silva, Noguera, 29-9 and 29-10,” the unit cop said.

  My escort removed my chains. When he uncuffed my ankles, I glanced at Trigger and Shotgun. They were both tense and expected me to act, which meant, if they had been unchained first, they would have attacked. The unit door opened and I went down the stairs to the bottom tier toward the open single-man cell. I knew a majority of the men who occupied the other cells.

  “What’s up, Sinbad?”

  “Hey, Mountain Man. So this is where they keep you, huh?”

  “Yeah, these fuckin’ bottle stoppers fear little old me. But that’s okay, because I’d be afraid of me too if I was them,” he laughed. “Ain’t nothing changed here but the place and time, old son.”

  “I suppose not.” I neared the bars and shook hands with him. “It’s good to see you, Olaf.”

  “Same here. Get settled in, and when I get out on the broom we’ll talk.”

  I nodded and stepped into the cell. Olaf, a.k.a. Mountain Man, looked every bit the name. He was six foot four and 275 pounds of muscle, with long black hair and a beard that came down to his chest. He looked exactly like a lumberjack cliché. He was also a fierce fighter who loved nothing more than scaring the hell out of cops.

  His eyes were his most distinctive feature. They were ice blue, so bright
you sometimes thought they were white. I first met Olaf over two years earlier in the hospital. At the time, I’d been seeing the doctor to treat my headaches. I was also depressed, had intense rage, and persistent feelings of doom. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was suffering withdrawal symptoms from the steroids I’d taken for so long.

  When we met, Olaf was being treated for gunshot wounds. His ex-girlfriend and her boyfriend had emptied a .38 revolver into him. When that didn’t put him down, they started shooting him with a .44 magnum. Unfortunately for them, Olaf picked up a hammer and ended the argument for good.

  The cell door next to me opened, and a few moments later Chente walked by and into the cell.

  “Hey, Mad. They put them vatos upstairs in cells 3 and 4. You know the business.”

  “Yeah, fuck them clowns and the car they rode in on. I’ll deal with them later.”

  “I have no doubts about that, ese, but you know I got your back no matter what. I’m there.”

  “Right on, Chente. I hear you.”

  Sometimes it’s a comfort to know those around you are interested in helping. The only problem with that is, one minute you’re showing your hand to someone you believe wants to help, and the next thing you know there’s a knife sticking out of your back. Trigger had been right when he said I was nobody—meaning I wasn’t connected to a gang or crew.

  Therefore, politically I had no muscle and anyone who sided with me would be taking a big risk. That was another reason not to trust any Southern Mexican, including Chente.

  He may want to help me, but I would not take the chance. Trusting him could prove to be fatal. I was alone in my fight, and I would deal with it alone.

  As soon as all of us were locked in our cells, Mountain Man stepped in front of my cell.

  “I’ll bring you some cleaning supplies so you can clean your cell.”

  “Right on, Olaf.”

  When he went to the mop room, I searched the cell. The cells were extremely small and there weren’t many places to hide things. I searched every inch of it and found nothing.

  Olaf returned with the mop bucket, scrub pads, towels, and bleach. By then I had folded my mattress back and taken off my jumpsuit.

  “Here you go. I put some smell-good in the mop water, and here are some things to maintain your pad.”

  “Right on, man. Good looking out.”

  “Not a problem. I’ll get with you in a bit. I got some things I want to look into.”

  I nodded and began cleaning the cell. I would be in the cell twenty-three hours a day. No more walks to the chow hall—all my meals would be served to me in my cell. I’d be out to shower for ten minutes, and to use the dayroom—a large cell with a table, toilet, sink, and phone—for an hour each day with my group. In the dayroom I could make calls, play poker, or work out.

  About an hour later Olaf came by to pick up the mop bucket and we had a chance to talk.

  “So what’s the deal? Why did they slam you in here?”

  “They haven’t said shit to me. No write-up, no nothing. All they said was that it’s an ongoing security concern, but it’s probably because of the attempted escape off the roof.”

  I ran the entire deal to Olaf and he listened. When I finished, he laughed and said, “Well, fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke. It’s their job to try and keep us in and it’s ours to try and fly.”

  He suddenly stopped and smiled. “So did you find it?”

  I knew Olaf, and he loved to have his secrets.

  “Find what?”

  “Come on, old son. Did you search the cell?”

  “Of course I did. There’s nothing here.”

  His smile widened.

  “Okay, where is it? Because I can’t find it.”

  He looked up and I followed his eyes to the top of the door.

  “Here, use these.”

  In his hand he held two bent combs with all the teeth missing except the ends. I took them but I still didn’t understand what they were for. Seeing my confusion, he said, “Take the combs and slide them into the slot above your head where the door runs. Inside, there’s a lip right above the track where the door runs, and on that lip I put one of my babies.”

  I took the combs and slid them along the lip above the door track until I heard the distinct sound of metal rubbing against metal.

  “Careful now, you don’t want it to fall, because everyone will hear it. Just slide it to the edge of the slot where you can see it, then grab the end and slide it out.”

  I did as he said and pulled the piece from its hiding place.

  “Nice piece of work.”

  “Wicked, isn’t she? It took me a few days in the shower to sharpen it to a razor’s edge, but it can cut paper.

  Olaf was right. It was one of the best pieces I had ever seen. Eight inches of steel that was sharpened on both sides, with bloodlines running down both centers. It had one purpose: to kill.

  “She’s yours if you need her.”

  I looked at Olaf.

  “That guy who came in with you is upstairs cutting a piece from the towel rack,” he said. “He sent a kite to Boxer, who’s also from Orange, asking to get on the broom tonight so he can get at him. I also heard him talking to his neighbor who came in with him about you, and it wasn’t good. What’s the deal?”

  “I basically told him to shut the fuck up because he was acting like a clown and I wasn’t in the mood for it.”

  “So how you going to handle it?”

  “Don’t know yet, but I’m sure it’ll happen. He can’t do all this talking and not do anything, especially in front of his homeboys and crew.”

  “You got that right. Just keep your eyes open. It’ll take him a few days to get used to the program here. When you want to know how to get to him, let me know.”

  “Right on, Olaf. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  I looked at Olaf ’s piece. I’d never used a piece on anyone, and wouldn’t start now. I needed to find a way to catch Trigger alone and without the shank he was making. I decided to play it by ear and get to know my new surroundings. I’d see things much more clearly after that.

  The next morning I woke at 5 a.m. After washing up, I stood by the bars and listened.

  I could hear the sound of breathing, and men snoring. Other than that, it was quiet. I stood there and thought how much I wished none of this was happening. It was hard to understand just how things had gone so wrong—not just the pending situation with Trigger, but everything.

  I knelt down and bowed my head and asked for the strength to overcome my enemies, and for victory. I’ve never been religious, but I’ve always had a personal connection with my God. I hold my beliefs close and won’t share them in detail, not even here in these pages. In general, I believe I won’t be given any burden so great I can’t bear it. I am so confident in this, I rarely ask for more than strength and victory over my enemies.

  That afternoon, I went to the dayroom at four and stayed until six because the next group didn’t want to use their time.

  I took the extra time to observe how the program was run and who was in charge. For the Mexicans, it was Boxer. For the Whites, it was an Aryan Brotherhood member named Little Steve. I didn’t know the men aside from their reputations.

  My dayroom group consisted of Chente, Indio from San Pedro, and Diablo from Azusa. Indio and Diablo were crime partners and, I later learned, both made members of the Mexican Mafia. That didn’t surprise me since they were in administrative segregation (high-power). But they were laid back and their biggest concern seemed to be finding a newspaper to see which NFL teams had won on Sunday.

  When we got to the dayroom, Chente asked what I would do about Trigger. I played it off by saying I wasn’t worried about it because we would never be close enough to do anything to each other. We were on two different tiers and I doubted a chance would ever present itself. I don’t know if he believed me, but he didn’t say anything else about it.

  Being in high-power meant I couldn’t
walk around and I was in a solitary cell. I’d adapt. I always did. But part of me was bothered that I had simply adapted to so many changes over the past two years. Maybe compared to what I’d already lost and had been through, this was something I knew I could survive.

  After two weeks in high-power, I looked up from the book I read to find Trigger at my door. I was surprised, and it must have shown on my face because he smiled.

  “Órale, Mad. Watcha, I wanted to come down here and get at you so we can squash this pedo between us. We had a misunderstanding and it’s over. If that’s firmé with you, we can go back to how it was before.”

  “Yeah, don’t trip. I lost my temper and you know how that is.”

  “Órale,” he said, and put his hand through the bars. We shook hands. I didn’t believe a word he said. I knew he wanted me to relax and then he’d try to kill me, and for some reason it didn’t bother me. I went back to reading my book and didn’t think about it until the next morning when I woke up.

  The question on my mind was, “How?”

  He must have a plan already. I just had to figure out how he’d attempt to murder me. He swept the tier at night, a job his homeboy Boxer had given him. That meant Boxer knew his plan. Trigger had to tell Boxer what he wanted to do and get a green light to do it. Obviously he’d received the green light.

  After breakfast, Olaf came out of his cell to sweep and pass some things from cell to cell.

  He came to my door. “Old son, let’s smoke this joint. This is some prime shit.”

  He handed me the joint and I pulled out a book of matches and sparked it. I inhaled and passed it to Olaf who took a lung full. We passed it back and forth and then allowed it to take effect.

  “I see that cat Trigger is now the sweeper at night. I heard what he said to you last night.” Olaf smiled, which meant he had something in mind. I decided at that moment Olaf didn’t mean any harm and that he didn’t much care for the Mexicans.

  “Do you buy it?” he asked.

  “Not a lick of it. He got that sweeper gig because he has something in mind, and Boxer gave him a green light. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be on the broom.”