Ronald Decker guilty of a first offence, minor drug dealing charge is put away in San Quentin where he is befriended by “old lag”, Earl Copen. Copen is well in with the White Brotherhood just one of the many White‚ Black and Chicano gangs in constant brutal conflict in San Quentin. Their growing friendship is tested by Ron’s rejection of a homosexual advance by another con which leads to an act of ultimately fatal violence and in despair they seize a remote chance of escape.
Bunker writes of the sordid, horrifically violent and lawless prison life where life is cheap and death by shiv awaits anyone looking the wrong way with a great literary quality and at a merciless pace that never falters and with the realism and knowledge gained from spending over 25 years in prison.
Edward Bunker, Mr Blue in Reservoir Dogs, was the author of No Beast So Fierce, Little Boy Blue, Dog Eat Dog, The Animal Factory and his autobiography, Mr Blue, all published by No Exit. He was co-screenwriter of the Oscar nominated movie, The Runaway Train, and appeared in over 30 feature films, including Straight Time with Dustin Hoffman, the film of his book No Beast So Fierce. Edward Bunker died in 2005 and another novel, Stark, was discovered in his papers. Along with some short stories published as Death Row Breakout.
‘Integrity, craftsmanship and moral passion…an artist with a unique and compelling voice’
- William Styron
‘Edward Bunker is a true original of American letters. His books are criminal classics: novels about criminals, written by an ex-criminal, from the unregenerately criminal viewpoint.’
- James Ellroy
‘At 40 Eddie Bunker was a hardened criminal with a substantial prison record. Twenty-five years later, he was hailed by his peers as America's greatest living crimewriter’
- Independent
www.noexit.co.uk
To my brothers—in and out.
They know who they are.
Dawn pushed a faint line of yellow on the city’s low skyline when the prisoners, nearly five hundred of them, were herded from the jail’s sallyport to the parking lot. Waiting was the fleet of black-and-white buses with barred windows and heavy wire separating the driver area from the seats. The air was filled with acrid diesel exhaust and the stench of rotting garbage. The ragtag prisoners, more than half of them black or Chicano, were in columns of two, six to a chain, a busload to a group; they looked like human centipedes. Everywhere were deputy sheriffs in knife-creased uniforms. Three deputies were assigned to each bus, while the others stood back with fat .357 Magnum Pythons dangling from their hands. A few fondled short-barreled shotguns.
Despite the smell, many men breathed deep, for no cool air entered the windowless jail, and they had already spent three hours in seventeen-foot bullpens, as many as fifty in each. Behind them the jail trustees were already sweeping the cages for the second court line of the day.
Ronald Decker was young, looked even younger than he was. In contrast to the generally disheveled clothes of nearly all the others, he wore a neat corduroy suit that had withstood three days of going to court, getting rousted awake at 3:30 a.m., standing in the jail cages, riding the bus in chains, waiting in the packed bullpen beside the courtroom, getting a twenty-four-hour continuance, returning to the jail in the evening. When the steel gates crashed, loud-speakers blared, and there was no sleep until midnight. Today it’ll be over, he thought. The attorney had tried to save him from prison, but a garage with two hundred kilos of marijuana and a kitchen table with forty ounces of cocaine was just too big a bust. No matter that he, or the fat fee, had convinced the psychiatrist to report that he was a cocaine addict who would benefit from treatment. No matter that the probation officer was convinced by his “good” family that an alternative program would be rehabilitative. The district attorney, who had a legion of subordinates and didn’t know one case in a hundred, sent a personal letter to the judge demanding prison. Ron grinned wanly, remembering what the deputy district attorney had called him yesterday: the “boy wonder” of drug dealers. At age twenty-five he was hardly a boy.
The prisoners climbed onto the bus, a deputy roughly guiding the befuddled winos so their chains didn’t entangle as they swung around to be seated. A Chicano even younger than Ron was handcuffed beside him. Ron had already noticed the yawns and sniffles of withdrawals and hoped the youth wouldn’t vomit the green fluid that junkies cast up when their stomachs were empty. The Chicano wore khaki pants and Pendleton shirt, the uniform of the East Los Angeles barrio.
Ron and the Chicano got seats, but the bus had just thirty-two and was carrying sixty-one men. The aisle filled.
“Okay, assholes,” a deputy called. “Move back in there.”
“Man, I ain’t no motherfuckin’ sardine,” a black called out.
But the men were packed in. Once Ron had seen some prisoners refuse. The deputies had come with mace and clubs and the rebellion was short-lived. Then the driver had raced down the freeway and thrown on the breaks, sending the standing men crashing around. Finally, so the word came, the rebellious ones had been charged with assault on a peace officer, a felony carrying up to ten years in prison.
It was 6:20 when the bus whooshed and started moving. Other buses were also getting under way, en route to dozens of courtrooms in every region of the vast county: Santa Monica, Lancaster, Torrance, Long Beach, and more obscure places like Citrus, Temple City, and South Gate. No court would convene until 10:00, but the sheriff’s started early. Besides, another five hundred had to be processed for court in downtown Los Angeles.
The mood on the bus had an element of levity. It was something to be riding down the freeway when the rush hour was just beginning. Some of the chained passengers, mostly the drunks, were oblivious to the sights, while others stared avidly at everything. Some, next to the windows, stood up when a car with a woman whipped by; they tried to stare down at the best angle to see bare thighs pressed against the car seat.
Ron was too tired. His eyes felt gritty and his stomach had a hollow burning. Already thin, he’d lost nearly twenty pounds after four months of jail food. He dropped his head back against the seat and slid down as much as he could, given the chains and the cramped leg space. Through the hubbub a set of voices, easily identifiable as belonging to blacks, pulled his attention. They were close and loud.
“Listen, blood, I damn sure know Cool Breeze. Breeze, sheeit, that nigger’s hotass wind! Nigger calls himself a pimp … an’ ain’t nuthin’ but a shade tree for a ho. He take a good workin’ bitch an’ put her in a rest home. Me, I’m a mack man an’ a player. I know how to make a bitch bring me monee …”
Ron smiled involuntarily, envious of anyone who could laugh and lie with such gusto in these circumstances; but blacks had had centuries to develop the knack. It was hard not to feel embarrassed when they boisterously called each other “nigger,” as if they hated themselves. And pimp stories were a cliché in jail; every black claimed to be that or a revolutionary. No, he thought, “every” was an unfair exaggeration. It was stereotyping, and by doing it he was being unfair to himself, too. Yet, those he’d found in jail were certainly different from the blacks he’d done business with, musicians, real hustlers who were cool. Indeed, he’d believed everyone’s stories when he first came to jail. He seldom lied about his own exploits, and because he’d made quite a bit of money, he expected to find others who’d done the same. He’d found incompetents and liars. Now he was going to prison. It was a long fall from a West Hollywood high rise and a Porsche Carrera.
The courtroom bullpen was twice as large as the cage at the jail, and concrete benches lined the concrete walls, which were defaced by graffiti scratched into the paint.
“Okay, assholes,” a deputy yelled as the column of prisoners filed into the room from a tunnel. �
��Turn around so we can get the iron off.”
Ron was among the first unchained and he quickly took a piece of bench in a corner, knowing that half the men would have to stand around or sit on the floor. When the deputies left, locking the door, the room quickly filled with cigarette smoke. The ventilation shaft in the ceiling was inadequate, though most prisoners had to mooch butts. A few men handed out cigarettes, and a dozen hands were extended. One red-faced man of fifty in a plaid shirt and work boots freely passed out cigarettes and used the largesse as a wedge to vent his woe.
“I’ve got sixty days suspended for drunk driving and they’ve got me again. What’s gonna happen?”
“Suspended?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Then he’s gotta give you at least sixty days.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Oh, God,” the man said, his eyes welling with tears that he tried to sniffle away.
“Check that puto,” the Chicano addict sneered. “I’ve got the joint suspended, five years to life, and another robbery … I ain’t snivelin’.”
Ron grunted, said nothing. He knew that sixty days in jail could be a greater trauma for some than prison for others. What he couldn’t sympathize with was the unmanly display. Hidden tears he could understand. He felt them himself. But what he felt and what he showed were different. The man had no pride.
“Save that shit for the judge, turkey,” someone said. “We can’t do a thing for you.”
The quip brought a couple of chuckles, and the man rubbed his eyes with his knuckles and tried to compose himself.
The long wait began. Ron sighed, closed his eyes, and wished the judge could mail the sentence. What difference did his presence make? It was going to be the same no matter what.
After 8:00 a.m. the lawyers began visiting their clients, calling them to the barred door and talking softly. When the public defender came, carrying a yellow legal pad, a crowd gathered around the gate. Ron thought about cats in a television commercial.
“Fuckin’ dump-truck P.Ds,” muttered the Chicano. “All they say is “so stipulated” and “waive.” They waive you right to prison … punks all want you to plead guilty.” Nevertheless, he joined the crowd at the gate. He’s exaggerating, Ron thought, but not a whole lot. After four months I know more about justice from being in jail than from two years of college. They don’t really care about justice. “They” was both lawyers and judges. That he was disillusioned indicated how naïve he’d been to begin with.
“Okay, you drunks and punks and other assholes,” a deputy said at 10:00 a.m. “When I call your name, answer with your last three numbers and get up here.”
Ron paid no attention. This was the municipal court line, the misdemeanors. His court was for the afternoon. His eyes were still closed when a large key banged the bars. “Decker, front and center.”
Ron jerked from his stupor and saw his attorney, Jacob Horvath, standing slightly behind the bailiff’s shoulder. Horvath was tall, with long, thinning hair, flared suit, and upturned gray moustache. His hands were soft. He’d learned his trade as a deputy U.S. attorney, and now earned a dozen times that salary by defending the dope peddlers he once prosecuted. Narcotics laws and search and seizure were his specialties. He was very good, and charged a fee commensurate with his skill.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
“Tell me,” Ron said. “You talked to the judge.”
“Not good. The trial deputy would go for the rehabilitation center, but the big boys downtown are watching this one. The judge—” Horvath shrugged and shook his head. “And guess who’s in the courtroom.”
“Akron and Meeks.”
“Right. And the captain of the administrative narcs. It’s on their own time. They don’t get paid for this.”
Ron shrugged. Nothing would be changed by their presence, and he had accepted the inevitable weeks ago.
“I talked to your mother this morning.”
“She’s here?”
“No, in Miami, but she left a message to call her so I did. She wants to know how things look and told me to have you call her collect this evening.”
“Just like that. She thinks I’m in the Beverly-Wilshire.”
“I’ll get a court order.”
“Make sure it’s signed and goes back on the bus. The pigs at the jail won’t let me near a phone otherwise.”
“Okay … Anyway, the judge doesn’t want to bury you, but he’s under pressure. I think he’s going to send you to prison, but keep jurisdiction under Eleven sixty-eight. Keep your nose clean and he can pull you back in a couple of years when the heat’s off.”
“A couple of years, huh?”
Horvath shrugged. “You won’t be eligible for parole for six years, so two is pretty soft.”
“I guess you’re right. It isn’t the gas chamber. You did what you could.”
“You were selling dope like you had a license.”
“And I don’t see anything wrong with it. I really don’t. Somebody wants it.”
“Don’t tell the judge that, or anyone at the prison.”
A prisoner came back in handcuffs, escorted by a deputy. Horvath and Ron stepped back from the door so the man could be let in. When Horvath stepped up to the bars again, he glanced at his gold Rolex. “Gotta go. I’ve got a preliminary hearing upstairs scheduled for eleven. I have to see the client for a few minutes first.”
“Is Pamela out there?” Ron asked quickly.
“I didn’t see her.”
“Shit!”
“You know she’s got troubles.”
“Is she hooked again?”
Horvath made a face that confirmed the fact without saying it. Ron had wanted Horvath to ask the judge to let them get married, but this piece of information stopped him, sent a hollow pang through his stomach. As he nodded and turned back to the bench, he resented Horvath as the bearer of bad tidings, thinking that he’d paid eighteen thousand dollars to go to prison, recalling the promises that Horvath had made to get the money. Ron had learned since then that the business of lawyers was selling hope. Hot air was what they usually delivered. In all fairness, Horvath had fought hard to get the search warrant, and all the narcotics seized from its use, thrown out as evidence—but the warrant was solid, based on oath and affidavit, which wasn’t what Horvath had said when he asked for a fifteen-thousand-dollar retainer.
Just before lunch the last pair of prisoners from morning court were brought in, new faces who’d probably spent the night in a substation, skinny youths with shoulder-length hair, peach-fuzz beards, and filthy blue jeans. They looked like city hippies, but their voices were pure Georgia farmboy. Ron wouldn’t have noticed them except that they asked him to read their complaint. It said they were charged with violation of Section 503 of the Vehicle Code, auto theft. They couldn’t read, didn’t know what they faced, and yet didn’t seem disheartened by their predicament. They were more interested in when the food was due.
At noon a deputy dropped a cardboard box outside the bars, calling all the assholes to get in line. Some crowded and jostled. Ron hung back.
“Straighten up, assholes, or I’ll send it to Long Beach,” the deputy called. Long Beach was where sewage went.
“That’s where it belongs,” someone called.
“Then gimme yours,” another said.
“Knock it off!” the deputy yelled.
The men quieted and the bags came through the bars, each with salami between two pieces of bread and an orange. It was all the food they’d get until morning unless they got back to the jail early, which was unlikely for those going to afternoon court. On his first court trip, Ron had looked at the bag’s contents and handed it away. Now he wolfed it down with the same gusto as the undernourished winos, pocketing the orange and dropping the bag on the floor. Litter everywhere mingled with the odor of sweat, Lysol, and piss.
Because he was the only prisoner going to this particular courtroom, the deputy handcu
ffed Ron’s hands behind his back. They went down a concrete tunnel and reached the courtroom by a side door. The deputy took off the handcuffs before they entered. Court was not yet in session and the room was empty except for the police emissaries in back spectators’ seats. One of them smiled and waved. Ron ignored the gesture, not because of a particular animosity, but because a response would have been unseemly. The young prosecutor was shuffling folders at his table while the court reporter and clerk moved around on hushed feet. A huge state seal flanked by the flags of California and the United States was on the wall behind the bench. Ron was struck by the contrast between the back-room cages of justice and the courtroom’s solemn dignity. The public saw the mansion, not the outhouse.
“Take a seat in the jury box, Mr. Decker,” the deputy said, and as Ron followed the instructions he smiled, thinking he had gone from “asshole” to “mister” by walking through a door. In a few minutes he’d be “asshole” again.
Horvath scurried in with perfect timing. He’d just put his briefcase on the counsel table when the clerks jumped into place, court reporter at his machine, clerk beside the chamber door.
“Department B of the Superior Court of the State of California is now in session, the Honorable Arlen Standish presiding. All rise.”
As the few people stood up, the judge came through the door and mounted his throne. He was all brisk business in his black robes. He was a big ruddy man who radiated vigor. Except for tufts of white hair above his ears, he was totally bald—but his pate was tanned and marked with freckles.
Everyone sat down as the judge shuffled some papers, then looked up, first at Ron, then at the policemen, without changing his expression. He nodded to the clerk.
“People versus Decker, probation hearing and sentence.”
Ron didn’t wait for the deputy to motion before getting up to join Horvath at the counsel table.
The Animal Factory Page 1