Escape Artist

by William A. Noguera

  “Good, you see the picture. Now, have you figured out how he’ll do it?”

  “Not a clue, but he has a plan. I’ll just stay on my toes, because he’ll try soon enough.”

  Olaf smiled again.

  “Listen, they lock us up every time someone else is let out of their cell. We’re either locked in our cell or we step out into the vestibule. Either way, he can’t get to you. What he has planned has to be done while he’s out, which is at night when the lights are off and you’re in your cell. There’s only two possibilities. One, he throws hot oil on you and lights it, or he’ll make a spear and try to stab you. He’s too stupid to rig the oil, so he’ll try and spear you.”

  I thought about the oil and being burned alive and it scared me more than any stabbing.

  “What are the chances he’ll try and burn me?”

  “Not a nice thought, huh? Don’t worry about it. It’s too hard to make, and Mexicans like to stab. It’s more personal.”

  He placed a small domino on the bars of my cell door.

  “Think about that for a while.”

  He walked off. Olaf loved his games. He loved making you think and guess, so at the end he could show you just how much he knew and how that knowledge could help you.

  About half an hour later he came back.

  “Figure out how that little domino will give you what you need?”

  “There’s no way I’m going to figure it out.”

  “Man, you’re no fun.” And he seemed sad for a moment, then smiled.

  “Okay, what I know that no one else does is that, if you place that domino at the upper corner of your door with a piece of tape when your door closes, it won’t really lock. The control panel will show it’s closed so the cop will leave, but you, by grabbing your bars and pulling hard, can open it. Look at the domino. See how it’s been sanded down on one side? It’s thinner than a normal domino and works perfectly.”

  If he was right, I could easily open my door, get out, and finish my business with Trigger.

  “I see the wheels in your head turning,” he said. “But here’s the best part. You’ll get away with it because, when the cop comes back and turns on the control panel, your door will automatically close and the cop won’t know how anything could have happened when all the doors are closed.”

  “You’re an evil genius, Olaf.”

  He smiled, bowed, and walked away.

  The next morning at 5:45 the tier cop got on the speaker and announced roof-yard. No one said anything, so he began to call out each dayroom group. When he got to my group, I put my towel through the bars to get his attention. My door opened and I went to the front of the unit and into the vestibule.

  “I’d like to go to the roof.”

  “You know, it’s cold as fuck up there and you’ll be up there until your hour is up.”

  “I understand.”

  “A judge has mandated we offer you roof-yard three times a week, starting today, so I’m to inform you that each morning at five forty-five an announcement for roof-yard will be made. Your schedule, because you’re in dayroom group three, will be Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. However, if no one wants their time up there, I’ll go down the list and release whichever group wants to go.”

  “Sounds good,” I said.

  The cop put chains on me and escorted me out of the unit to the elevator and up to the roof.

  As soon as I stepped outside the door the cold and wind hit me. The cop wasn’t lying. It was cold as fuck. To my surprise, my escort began removing my cuffs and chains. When I looked at him, he simply said, “Judge’s orders. You have to be given exercise time up here and you can’t exercise with chains on. You have an hour.”

  I turned and walked down the ramp to the lower level of the roof, and as I walked I let my lungs fill with air and I began to run. Suddenly I was no longer on the roof of the Orange County jail, and I wasn’t prisoner 730-256. I was sixteen and running the hills near my home. I didn’t think of any upcoming trial or all the grief I’d experienced. I didn’t think of how Trigger was planning to kill me. I simply ran.

  The next morning no one wanted roof time, so I took advantage of the opportunity. I went out every time it was my roof day, plus whenever no one wanted their time, no matter how cold or wet it was. I had to be in complete battle mode. And that meant being in perfect physical shape. I was in danger and I couldn’t leave anything to chance.

  Each night at six the large lights were turned off on the tier and Trigger came out to sweep. I kept my eyes on him, but I didn’t make it obvious. I knew he’d try soon. If he didn’t, he’d be considered scared. With all the talking he’d done to get on the broom and get the green light on me, if he didn’t handle it, his own people would take care of him.

  Every day after I came back from the dayroom I’d place the domino on the upper corner of my door, and I remained ready. I’d allow him to make the first move, then I’d finish it.

  I didn’t have to wait long. One night, after being let out, Trigger came by sweeping.

  “All right now, what’s up, Mad?”

  “Nada, just kicking it. You?”

  “Tú sabes. It’s all good. Hey, I got some bomb-ass gesca. You want to smoke it with me?”

  “Órale, gracias. That would be firmé.”

  He gave me the joint and then pulled out some matches and sparked it up for me. I took a hit and passed it to him. The whole time, I watched him. He took a few hits and gave it back to me and said, “Go ahead and kill it. I got more and I promised the carnal I’d smoke one with him.”

  “All right, Trigger. I appreciate it. Gracias.”

  He left and I put out the joint. Every muscle in my body was tense. I knew it was coming, but I stayed at my bars with my right arm hanging so he’d be sure to see it. I was tired of playing cat and mouse with him. I wanted it over and done with.

  He came back with the mop bucket and mop, and placed it in front of Chente’s cell, then went and got the disinfectant and poured it into the bucket. He returned the disinfectant, and when he came back, he did so quietly. As soon as he came in line with my cell and where I stood, he rammed the broomstick, which had a shank attached to the end, through the bars and into my right shoulder. It was a fast strike, but he tried to ram it through me. I saw it coming and rolled to my left, avoiding the spear, but he caught my shoulder. As the tip entered my shoulder and struck bone, my arm went dead. He pulled out and tried to spear me again, but I moved out of his range.

  “Yeah, puto, how you like that? You ain’t shit and never have been.”

  I pulled off my shirt and wiped off the blood so I could look at the wound. It was a puncture, nothing more. It bled, but it didn’t really hurt aside from the sting, and it was no longer numb, so I could move my arm.

  I was embarrassed that I’d allowed him to do even that much damage. But rage and hatred soon followed. I put on my shoes and went back to the sink to wipe the blood from my shoulder, where it still bled freely. I pressed my shirt to the wound with pressure that made me wince, but I held it there until the bleeding slowed.

  By then, Trigger was pretty proud of himself. He went upstairs to tell Shotgun, then went to Boxer to report.

  “Hey Bill, you all right?” Chente asked.

  “Yeah, it’s nothing. I got this.”

  I didn’t want to talk to him, or anyone. I focused on Trigger and when I would make my move. I waited for the unit cop to return to his control panel, do his check, and leave again. Once he was gone, he wouldn’t return for at least an hour. That would give me the chance I needed to take care of Trigger and not get caught.

  A few minutes later, I heard keys and my stomach tightened. The cop walked by to his control panel, checked his doors, and left. Moments later Trigger came by pretending to sweep, but he was curious. He wanted to see how much damage he’d done. I stared at him, allowing my hatred to show, and he took it as a challenge.

  “You can look all you want, ese, but remember who’s running this mot
herfucker.”

  By then, everyone knew what had happened and was at their bars, listening.

  “You think so, huh? You’re good when a door’s between us, but you’re a bitch and always have been. You’d run if this door weren’t here, and scream for the placa to save you.”

  “Sounds good, Sinbad. You’ll get your chance and we’ll see what you’re about.”

  “Why wait? Now’s a good time.”

  I grabbed the cell door and pulled hard on it and, just as Olaf said, it opened and I rushed out.

  The look on his face was worth the pain in my shoulder. He was frozen by surprise, fear, and the realization of his mistake. I didn’t hesitate to take full advantage of it. He tried to bring the broom up to swing it, but I was already too close for that when my right fist connected with his jaw, followed by my left. He dropped the broom and tried to hang on to me. I continued to pound his face. In a desperate attempt to stop me, he grabbed me around the waist and tried to wrestle me to the ground. At that close range it was hard to punch him, so I elbowed him instead, which opened up his face. He let go as he fell and I followed him to the ground, where I climbed on top of him and pounded his face with my fists, stopping only when he was out cold.

  I dragged him over to where the cells were. Just in case someone came by and looked down the tier. I was angry. Rage filled my vision until I was shaking with it. But I wasn’t done. I wanted him to remember me beyond the ass beating I gave him. My shoulder bled freely again and it only added to my anger. I wanted all of the men to know, if they didn’t know it already, I was not to be fucked with. It didn’t matter if they were a carnal, or an associate, or anyone else. When it came down to it, it would be me against them, and I would win.

  Trigger sat up, looking dazed—like he had been hit by a car. I squatted down in front of him.

  “Got anything to say now, puto?”

  He just looked at me.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  I got up, and he tried to do the same, slowly at first, to get his balance. When he came in line with Boxer’s cell, he stopped and Boxer handed him a towel to wipe the blood off his face. He said something to him, and Boxer’s reply was, “That’s on you, ese.”

  Trigger then turned to me and spit a mouthful of blood and saliva, hitting me on the arm, and said, “Fuck you, punk.”

  That was his ego and pride talking, but I didn’t care. I moved in, kicking him in the head, and punched him in the mouth. He crumbled to the ground.

  I grabbed him by the front of his jumpsuit and was ready to destroy him when Boxer spoke up.

  “Ya estuvo. He’s had enough.”

  “You green-lighted it, now I’ll finish it.”

  “Simón, but he’s done. It’s over. He ain’t going to be on the broom any more. Palabra, this is done.”

  He didn’t scare me. I knew he was trying to save his homeboy’s ass, and it was far from over. But short of killing him, there was nothing else I was willing to do. Slowly I let him go.

  “Keep your kids in line. This’ll happen to anyone who steps up to the plate.”

  “Órale, Mad.”

  I knew he wasn’t used to anyone, especially someone so young, talking to him like that, but I wanted him and anyone listening to know I wasn’t afraid and that I would be respected.

  I went back to my cell and stood just inside the door, listening and watching.

  A few moments later, through the reflection in the Plexiglas that separated us from the cops, I watched Trigger climb over the tier rail on the upper tier and into his cell. Half expecting him to come out with a piece, I stayed ready until I heard the unit cop approach and Trigger telling him he was done for the night and to lock his cell.

  I took in a deep breath, then went to my sink to wash up and apply pressure to my shoulder, again. I looked at my face in the polished piece of steel that served as a mirror, and saw for the first time the effect this had on me. A piece of me was dying. I could see the agony in my eyes. If something didn’t change, I’d be lost. I shoved the thoughts away, hardening my will as I washed my face. I would survive. No matter what, I’d never be a victim again.

  Chapter 24

  Adolescence, 1979–1980

  In December of 1979 my parents had their final face-to-face fight. I was fifteen years old. I came home from the studio, where I was preparing for the Hapkido Middleweight Championship. As soon as I opened the door and stepped into the house I sensed the tension. I was familiar with it, but it always hurt me deeply because there was nothing I could do to stop it, and I knew it would destroy our family.

  My little sister was crying, and as soon as she saw me she ran and hugged me. She kept repeating over and over, “Dad hit mom. Dad hit mom. Dad hit mom.”

  She shook violently, or maybe it was me who was shaking. I noticed a metallic taste in my mouth as fear, anger, despair, and hatred filled the pit of my stomach.

  I was no longer thinking, only reacting. The door to my parent’s bedroom was closed and I don’t remember how I got there, but I was at the door and I knocked.

  “Mom, open the door.”

  When the door opened my mother stood there crying silently. Her face was bruised and her blouse torn. I took one look at her and walked away. My vision clouded, and rage flowed through my veins. I didn’t know what I’d do, but I searched for my father.

  I found him in the backyard sitting at a marble table and bench, watching our birds as he drank. As soon as he saw me, he looked away, but I’d seen the scratch marks on his face.

  “You promised never to hit her again.” I stood in front of him, clenching my fists.

  “She started it. And who the fuck do you think you are to ask me anything? I’m your father. Now get out of my face.” He shoved me back and I stepped right back in front of him. I was taller than my father and, although he outweighed me by thirty pounds, I realized at that moment I no longer feared him. I loved him and it hurt me beyond words what that confrontation would mean, but I didn’t back down.

  “You’re a liar. You blame everyone but the person whose fault it is. You’ve destroyed our family. You’re drunk.”

  I slapped the beer off the table and sent it flying.

  His response to it was immediate. He grabbed me by the throat and slapped me across the face. I allowed it to happen. I wanted him to hit me. A part of me needed to be consumed by the moment. My face stung, but I got right back in front of him and he hit me again. This time his closed fist struck me hard on the side of my ear. I saw stars when he connected, but he was off balance and drunk and his momentum carried him and he stumbled and fell. I stood over him, crying.

  I don’t know what I felt. I don’t know if I cried because my father had died in my eyes and was just a man, or because I knew my family was finally dead.

  I walked past my father and left the house. I don’t remember how I ended up near the school, but I ran and I didn’t stop until I was totally exhausted. It was very late, and the next thing I remember was waking up on the side of a hill in Turnbull Canyon. I was mentally, emotionally, and physically drained. Then I remembered what happened and went home. It was the first time I stayed out all night without anyone knowing where I was.

  When I arrived home the house was empty. It was Saturday. My father was probably at work and had already forgotten what he had done, or he would simply play it down and apologize as he’d done a thousand times. But this time felt different, more serious. I took off my clothes and showered, letting the hot water wash over me.

  When I got out, I heard my mother and sister come into the house and they were in a hurry.

  “Mom, qué pasa?” I asked.

  “Get your suitcase and put all of your clothes in it and some things you’ll need for a few weeks.”

  “Why, what’s happening?”

  “We’re leaving, and until we get a judge to sign a court order to make your father leave, we’ll be staying at a friend’s house.”

  “I don’t want to leave our ho
use.”

  “Fine, stay then. I know you’ve always loved your father more than me. Even after he’s done all the things you’ve witnessed. But remember this. If you stay, when we come back and your father is ordered to leave, you will not be welcome here with us.”

  It was always like this with my mother. It was always about choosing a side, which I didn’t want to do. Why did I have to choose? They were still my parents and, just because they would no longer live together and were obviously getting divorced, that didn’t mean I had to pick a side as if I were going to war. Yes, my father was wrong. Yes, he should never have done those things to my mother. But why couldn’t I salvage as much as I could from my family? No matter what, I still loved my father. And although I allowed my mother to manipulate me again, I was determined not to choose sides.

  My sister was different. She saw a lot of the things my father did over the years and she felt justified in cutting my father out of her life.

  I packed my things and my mother drove us to Carlos and Irene’s house, which was a block from ours. I didn’t want to stay there. Carlos was a nice guy and I didn’t understand why he’d get involved. He was one of my father’s best friends, but his wife was distant. I felt like we were a burden to her, as if she had been pressured to allow us to stay.

  That night my father came to Carlos’s house and knocked on the door. When Carlos answered, he asked to speak with me. He was very calm, which concerned me. My father was not known for his passive manner or etiquette.

  “Mijo, I came home and your things were gone. I see your mother has moved out.”

  “Dad, she’s getting the divorce and she’s getting a judge to order you out of the house.”

  I could see his jaw clench, but he kept calm.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “I’m okay, but I don’t want to stay here.”

  “Then don’t. Come home with me.”

  “I can’t. Mom said if I did, I wouldn’t be welcome in her house when you’re ordered out.”

  “Well, no matter what, you are always welcome in mine.”

  “I know, Dad.”