Escape Artist

by William A. Noguera

  By 1998, William Bonin, Keith Williams, and Thomas Thompson had all been executed by the state. Executions had gone from myth to a real possibility in California, and for many men the reality was too much. Some killed themselves. Others lost their minds. I could hear some of them from my cell screaming the entire night and sometimes into the day, finding peace only when sleep overtook them and numbed their senses. While the chaos went on and minds shattered, I found fertile ground to focus my mind and it blossomed into even more recognition.

  In May 1998, Mark MacNamara, a writer for the San Francisco Magazine, came to see me about my work. He asked if I was represented by a gallery or dealer. I wasn’t, and I really didn’t know much about how that worked. He explained that most successful artists have an art dealer/gallery representing them. The representative gives the artist the freedom to work without the distraction of handling exhibits, exposure, and sales. With this freedom, the artist grows faster. Finding the right representative was the hard part. There are hundreds of them, but not all are honest. As an artist, and in my situation, finding honest and experienced representation would be the difference between swimming and drowning.

  After our interview, Mark and I talked a while about the possibility of introducing me to a gallery owner he knew and believed would be interested in offering representation.

  “I believe it’s vital for you to be represented by a gallery that will not only exhibit your work but speak on your behalf. I know a German artist who is also a gallery owner and dealer. He’ll understand how you feel about your work because he’s also a very impressive artist. I’ve known him for a number of years and he has a reputation for being fair and honest. If you’d like, I could introduce you to him. He only speaks German, so when he comes to see you, his wife, who is his business partner, will accompany him to translate.”

  “Yes, I’d like that. The opportunity to exhibit where my work is understood is something I’ve thought about for some time.”

  “Call me at the end of the week. By then I’ll have been in touch with Gerhard and Amanda Schumacher and shown them your work.”

  We said our goodbyes. He went his way to a normal life—a wife, family, friends, and freedom. I, on the other hand, went back into the belly of the beast—a world of hate, envy, torture, and death, where I live in a cage, awaiting my execution.

  I waited until the following Saturday to call Mark MacNamara, and as soon as he began speaking I knew he had good news for me.

  “I had the opportunity to show Gerhard your work and he was floored by it. He wants to represent you and wants to meet you as soon as possible.”

  “Wow. That was fast. Tell me, what pieces did you show him and what was his reaction?”

  “I went by his gallery after speaking with him on the phone, and all I told him was I had something to show him. I brought a small portfolio of your work that included some of your earlier pieces as well as your new work that’s on the Intangible site. He spent a long time just looking at it, and finally he looked at me and said, ‘Magnificent. Who’s the artist?’”

  “When I told him about you and that you needed representation, he immediately asked to meet you and explore the possibility of exhibiting your work.”

  Within a month, I met with Gerhard and Amanda Schumacher, and we came to an agreement. They would represent me and handle my work. Instead of selling my originals and taking a percentage, which was usually forty to fifty percent, they agreed to buy all originals at double what they currently sold for.

  My first exhibit was in Paris, France, at the Galerie Everarts in September 1998. It was a group exhibit where I was the only prisoner whose work was being shown. As part of my agreement with Gerhard and Amanda, I insisted my work should never be shown with pieces by other prisoners. I didn’t want the circus of being known as a death row artist. I wanted the respect and recognition for simply being a first-rate creator of fine art.

  The next month the San Francisco Chronicle ran a front-page article about my work. This was followed by an exhibit at Winchester Contemporary in San Francisco entitled “New Visions.”

  Bay-area papers covered the exhibit and acknowledged my unique style and technique. In one article about my “New Visions” exhibit in the Palo Alto Daily News, an art critic wrote:

  Art is often more than just a pretty picture. It’s about self-expression and evoking emotion. In the gallery, no artist makes a clearer statement than William Noguera. Noguera’s pieces are unquestionably powerful. He uses a technique called pointillism, in which the picture is made up of millions of tiny black dots. Noguera’s pictures are rich in detail and some of his works take up to three hundred hours to create. The subject matter expresses some of his concerns and emotion: regret, pain, violence, the desire for freedom, and the specter of death. While Noguera’s nefarious past can easily overshadow the pictures, making them a curiosity, the quality of the craftsmanship allows them to stand on their own and Noguera’s situation helps put them in context.

  Having Gerhard’s support, I concentrated solely on my work. My time was spent exploring the limitless possibilities that existed in my mind’s eye, and the complexities of my work advanced quickly. A light switch was thrown, and my inner light allowed me to see with new eyes. I created In God’s Hands, The Encouragement of Sarah, and a number of extremely complex hyper-realistic pieces that opened the floodgates of emotion and allowed me to express the heart-stopping scream I suppressed for so long. The scream was fully on display when I created Achilles Last Stand, a piece that depicted in representational images the core of my pain—the very emotion that was both my strength and my weakness.

  Yet, throughout that time, there was another part of my mind at work. My unconscious hours were spent in a world of abstraction, where geometric shapes and mathematical arrangements combined with color and rhythm to form a calm state. During my waking hours I thought of this and tried to make sense of it all. My conscious mind wasn’t ready to accept and understand the progression and movement toward clarity that my subconscious mind firmly grasped.

  Chapter 35

  Orange County Jail, 1987

  Before my ten days in the hole were up, a huge racial riot broke out in the chow hall and I was moved out to make room for a man who was involved. I went to a one-man cell right under a housing unit for men awaiting trial for murder. Those men were representing themselves, or at least they gave the impression they were.

  They used a loophole in the law to obtain the legal title of pro per, or representing themselves, even though they also had attorneys. Because of their special status, they had extraordinary privileges compared to other prisoners. Their cell doors stayed open from 6 a.m. to 11 p.m., they had access to a phone the entire time, and their phone calls were free because they were made under the umbrella of “legal calls.” They had court orders for supplies, pens, pencils, markers, paper, typewriters, computers, stereos, tapes, etc.

  Normally visits were behind glass for prisoners in jail awaiting trial, but the men had court orders to have contact visits, not only with their lawyers but with the entire defense team. That included paralegals, witnesses, and agents of the defense.

  I’d heard about the privileges they had, but never paid much attention to them until I stood at the bars of my one-man cell and looked upstairs at their reflection through the Plexiglas barrier. I watched them for some time, and they seemed unaware of my presence until the second day, when I went to the shower and on the way back I heard someone call me.

  “Hey, Mad.”

  I looked up and saw a familiar face but couldn’t put a name to it. I just nodded and said, “What’s up.”

  I entered my cell and the door closed behind me. I tried to shave but the cuts and bruises were still visible on my face from the beating I’d taken, and made shaving difficult. Then the familiar face came to my cell.

  “Hey, what’s up, Mad? How you doing?”

  “I’m all right, just finishing up my last couple of days in the hole—overflow.
”

  “Yeah, I heard about what happened. You need anything?”

  “Nah. I’m straight. Thanks all the same.”

  “Listen, where you going to go after you get out of the hole?”

  “Don’t know. It’ll be up to the classification committee. It doesn’t really matter.”

  “Why don’t you come upstairs? Man, we got everything we need. You also know a few of the fellas.”

  I looked at him, not sure what to think. Was he setting me up? It was possible. I’m sure Boxer and his crew would continue with their politics against me in the hopes that someone would finish what they couldn’t.

  “Yeah. I’ll check it out. It might be a good idea.”

  “All right. In the meantime, here’s a few things to make your day cool.”

  He reached into his jumpsuit pocket and pulled out a small Walkman and earbuds, a few cassettes, a pack of Camel non-filters, and some candy bars.

  “Man, right on. Where the fuck did you get a stereo?”

  “All of us upstairs have them. Just some of the perks of being in the pro per unit. If you’re serious, I’ll go up to my cell and type out an order for you just like all of ours. Once your judge signs it, classification will have no choice but to house you with us. Write down your name and number for me and I’ll have it done by this afternoon.”

  I wrote down the information he needed and handed it to him.

  “I have court tomorrow. I just hand it to the judge and that’s it?”

  “Give it to your lawyer and tell him to ask the judge to sign it because you want to assist with your defense. You have a capital case, right? Well, the judge ain’t going to deny it because, if you get convicted, you could argue on appeal you weren’t allowed to assist in your defense, which is a reversible error. Besides, you got Judge Fitzgerald, right? He never looks at court orders. He just stamps them.”

  I knew my attorney wouldn’t bother to do it since I couldn’t even get him to talk to me. And my other attorney, a good guy but right out of law school, did everything Gonzalez told him to do. What could he do? Gonzalez was his boss. He hired him and brought him onto my case.

  While I was thinking it over, I was handed a pack of cigarettes through the cell’s food port. “Hey, I don’t smoke, but thanks anyway,” I said.

  “Look inside. Just a little something to make the music sound better.”

  After we shook hands, he left. I sat on my bunk and opened the pack of smokes to find three joints and two hits of LSD.

  The next day I entered court high as a kite, with the court order the familiar face had typed out for me. I gave the court order to my attorney’s paralegal, Maribel Rodriguez. She was a good-looking busty brunette who flirted with me every chance she got. I smiled at her and she smiled back. My smile was more a product of the LSD I’d taken than anything else.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah, could you have this signed for me so I can be housed in a different unit?”

  “Why haven’t you called? I’ve been worried.”

  “I can’t use the phone while I’m in the hole.”

  “But are you okay? You look terrible.”

  For a moment I just looked at her, then realized she was referring to the cuts and bruises on my face.

  “Oh, yeah. I’m fine. Could you get it signed for me? It’s important.”

  That afternoon, as I was escorted out of the courtroom, Maribel handed me the court order.

  “The judge signed it and a few other things.” Her hand lingered on my arm. “Please be careful, Bill. I’ll see you soon.”

  I smiled back, but it didn’t reach my eyes. I was exhausted and I was coming down from the LSD. All I wanted to do was lay down and sleep.

  Arriving back at the jail, I was escorted back to my cell right away. Being in the hole proved to be a nice perk. Otherwise, I would have been in a holding pen for over an hour then sent to chow. The only thing I truly wanted was sleep, and as soon as I lay down and closed my eyes it claimed me.

  Suddenly, I was in my childhood backyard playing with an energetic four-year-old little boy. His laughter filled my ears as we chased each other around. I saw images of his eyes, my eyes, his smile, my smile. I knew I was dreaming because everything moved as stark black-andwhite photographs. I didn’t care. In those precious moments, I got the opportunity to be with him, feel his embrace, and hear his laughter and voice.

  “Papa, I’m Superman. I’m going to save the world and you can help me.” He laughed, then jumped into my arms and I hugged him.

  “Sí, mijo. We’ll save the world. I love you.”

  “Noguera. Hey, Noguera.” I heard someone calling me but I didn’t want to leave him. I fought to stay, but the voice persisted.

  “Noguera.” My eyes opened.

  “Yeah, I’m awake.”

  “You have a legal visit.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Nine p.m.”

  “Give me a few minutes to get ready. Are you sure I have a legal visit?”

  “They just called from the visiting room.”

  I washed my face, the effects of the LSD still lingering, but I felt better than I had before I slept. I brushed my teeth and thought back to my dream. Emptiness filled my heart and tears ran down my face.

  “I’ll never forget you, son,” I whispered.

  My mask firmly in place, I stepped out of my cell and walked to the vestibule, where they put chains on me and then escorted me to the attorney visiting area.

  “Booth C, Noguera,” said the visiting room cop.

  I couldn’t imagine who was there, especially since my attorney never came to see me. I stepped through the security door and was surprised to see Maribel Rodriguez, my attorney’s paralegal, inside the booth. She smiled and I smiled back as I entered the five-by-sixfoot cubicle.

  “Surprise,” she said.

  “Hey, how’d you get in here?”

  “The court order. It allows for paralegals and agents of the defense to come visit you seven days a week, as frequently as needed and for as long as needed. Didn’t you read the order?”

  “Sort of. So you can visit me in these contact booths?”

  She smiled and her eyes told me she had a lot more in mind than my case. I also noticed we were completely out of the view of the visiting cop.

  “So what’s up? What made you come all the way back to Santa Ana? I mean, it’s nine o’clock, and it’s a long way back.”

  “You did. I wanted to see how you were and to file the court order with the jail. I’ve already spoken to the watch commander and your ten days in the hole are up tomorrow. You’ll meet the committee, then go to the pro per unit. Bill, are you all right?”

  “I’m just tired and need a hot shower.”

  She smiled at me and I couldn’t help but notice her low cut blouse and how hard she was coming on to me. I hadn’t touched a woman in four years and here in front of me was a beautiful and sexy woman who acted as if she wanted nothing more than to have me for dessert. I decided to play it cool. The last thing I needed was more drama in my life. But I’m a man, and the visiting cop couldn’t see us.

  After another hour I went back to my cell and fell back to sleep, hoping to return to my dream. I never know when those dreams will come and give me moments to share with him. It doesn’t happen as much as I would like.

  The next day I returned to court to continue jury selection. I was placed in a large holding pen with about forty other men waiting for their date with a judge. As soon as I was inside the holding pen I pulled out the small piece of plastic I carried in my mouth at all times and slid it between the teeth of my leg shackles and opened them, freeing my legs. I did the same with the ones on my wrists. After what happened to me ten days before, I wasn’t going to take any chances and give someone a chance to hurt me again.

  The door slid open again and another small group of men came into the pen. My eyes locked on a particularly muscular Mexican who came right up to me.
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br />   “Órale, carnal. Where they move you to? I sent some things to you, but the trustee said they moved you out of the hole to make room for the vatos that stabbed up them niggers.”

  We shook hands.

  “I’m in a one-man cell under the pro per unit. So what’s the word?”

  “It looks like Boxer and Trigger are behind that move on you. Are you okay?” Chente asked.

  “Yeah. I knew it. I just got caught sleeping on the job.”

  “Well, your new look fits you better. A few scars and bruises will stop you from looking so damn pretty,” he laughed.

  “Hey, don’t hate me because you’re so fuckin’ ugly. It’s no wonder you turned to a life of crime. No one would hire your fuckin’ ugly ass.”

  We both laughed.

  “Hey, so how you going to handle this once you’re out of the hole?”

  “I’d like to put my foot in Boxer’s and Trigger’s asses, but I’ll just keep doing what I normally do. I got a court order to be housed in the pro per unit, so we’ll see how that goes.”

  “That’s firmé. Those vatos have it made. Check it out. This whole pedo is political, so the only motherfuckers who will get involved are those in the same car with Boxer and his bunch of bitches. Everyone who I’ve talked to knows the business and sent their regards to you. They know you’ll handle your business like you always do.”

  “You got that right,” I said.

  “Noguera, Whitman, Craft, and Santiago.” The door to the pen slid open.

  “All right, Mad, I’ll see you soon.” We shook hands.

  “All right, Chente. Good looking out, man. I appreciate what you’ve done.”

  “I got your back, ese. Fuck Boxer and Trigger. They’re just pissed off because of the ass kicking you dropped on their parade.”

  I was taken to Judge Fitzgerald’s courtroom, where jury selection would continue for the next couple of months. It was an important process my lead attorney failed to participate in because he was in court on another case in Los Angeles.