Nearly every successful escape from inside the prison was in a truck.
Dutch called out that the second half was ready to start, breaking into Earl’s fierce reverie. Earl made the coffee and walked back toward the television, noticing Dutch’s seamed neck and the stubble of white hair on the round skull. Dutch was an old man. His life was over. Fear curled through Earl. Everyone gets old and dies, and it doesn’t matter afterward, but it was frightening to be old and facing death without memories of having lived.
I’ll get out, Earl vowed, one way or another. Then he thought of Ron, wondered what was happening in Los Angeles. If Ron came back, he would have to be included in any plans for escape.
Beyond having more graffiti penciled and carved into its walls, the courtroom bullpen hadn’t changed, nor had the human debris jamming it. The puffed, doughy faces and dirty clothes were those of the helpless and poor, not of criminals. But where Ron’s attitude toward them had once been pity flecked with contempt, now contempt for weakness was uppermost. Also missing was the slight sense of fear that he’d known before. He leaned against a corner, legs extended along a bench, not letting a trembling wino sit down. When a husky young black began cursing the world, the rage trembling in his voice, Ron half smiled and felt bemused. Once the sight of such fury would have caused his stomach to knot up; now he knew it was probably a defensive bluff, noise to hide fear, and even if it was real, it was no threat. He’d learned that physical toughness didn’t make for real dangerousness. Being a tough guy was in the mind, in being able to steal someone’s life without a qualm. He now knew he was capable of that. What was it Earl said? “Rattlesnakes give off a noise, but cobras are silent.”
On the heels of these nihilistic thoughts came realization that they were a reaction to the devastating news Jacob Horvath had brought to the jail’s attorney room last night. Horvath’s drooping lower lip and pained eyes signaled the reality even before he spoke. He’d gone to see the judge in the afternoon, to get the feel of the situation, but expecting no trouble. The judge had shown him an incident report about the murder (Horvath hadn’t known), and a letter signed by the associate warden and the warden, saying that Ron Decker was a member of the notorious White Brotherhood, which group was responsible for at least half a dozen murders in California prisons within the past two years. Although the evidence was insufficient to prosecute for this latest killing, a number of anonymous but reliable inmate informants had linked Decker to it. Jacob Horvath’s voice had risen from sad concern to near indignation, as if Ron had somehow failed him. Ron’s first sense of deflation had been replaced by cold anger and contempt. He would meet the defeat with scorn; it diminished pain. And that had been his attitude all night long. He didn’t even want to appear in court; it was all a ritual sham. The matter was already decided and he wasn’t going to give anyone the satisfaction of showing that it hurt. He could be precisely what they thought him to be. Life was all the playing of roles anyway. All games; all bullshit.
When the deputy sheriff acting as bailiff called Ron to the gate and fastened the bright steel bracelets over his wrists, Ron felt a mild scorn, and a bizarre sense of pride or power, for if they were fetters, they were also symbols of society’s fear.
The courtroom was totally without spectators. Just the clerk and court reporter were there, and Horvath behind a seated deputy district attorney. Horvath was leaning over, talking into the man’s ear. Both of them laughed softly, but it sounded loud in the empty stillness. Ron felt a tug of anger. Not long ago he would have been benignly indifferent to such friendliness between competing attorneys, but now he thought it was traitorous. The prosecutor was the enemy, and war was never friendly.
Without being told by the accompanying deputy, Ron pushed through the low gate and sat on a chair inside the railing. The deputy hovered next to him. The clerk, a pudgy man in rimless glasses, saw the arrival of the defendant and went through the door at the left of the bench. This was the only case being heard this afternoon and he was notifying the judge that all was ready.
Ron was wearing khaki pants and shirt and prison shoes, the issue given men going to court. Once he would have felt self-conscious; now it didn’t matter that he was branded as different. Horvath waved but seemed ready to continue talking to the prosecutor until Ron beckoned with a peremptory gesture. Then Horvath came over, putting his attaché case on top of the counsel table en route.
“Anything new?” Ron asked.
“Nope. Nothing. I tried to talk to him in chambers, but his mind is made up. I don’t understand what the hell happened to you up there. You knew—”
“Quit it. What’s done is done.”
“I’m going to make a pitch, but—” He shook his head.
“Don’t waste your breath. I’ve got some things to say. In fact, just tell him I’m making my own statement. You don’t have to do a thing.”
“Instead of me?”
“Right.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Bullshit! Just tell him—”
Before more could be said, the clerk came out, banged the gavel, and intoned, “Please rise. Department Northeast B. Superior Court of the State of California, County of Los Angeles, is now in session, the Honorable Arlen Standish, judge presiding.”
It was the same as before, the few people getting to their feet as the black-robed jurist came out and gained majesty as he stepped up to the bench. That is, everyone stood except Ron. When the deputy tugged his arm, he leaned forward and raised his ass three inches from the chair. He wouldn’t have done that much except complete refusal might have brought a later ass-kicking. He managed thus to comply while showing how he felt. The judge, however, didn’t look up until everyone was again seated.
“People versus Decker,” the clerk said. “Hearing under Eleven sixty-eight of the Penal Code.”
When Ron stood beside Horvath, he was assailed by the fragrance of the lawyer’s aftershave; his awareness was magnified by a year of smelling nothing fragrant except farts.
“I suppose we have to … uh … have discussions on this matter,” the judge said. As before, he shifted unseen papers. He put on glasses, read something; then looked over the glasses toward Horvath. “I imagine you have something to say, Counselor.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Before Horvath could say more, Ron poked him with an elbow and hissed from between clenched teeth, “Tell him.”
“Rrr-uh,” Horvath stuttered, his articulate circuits jammed.
“Your Honor,” Ron said loudly, even more loudly and more shrilly than he wanted, “I’d like to address the Court in this matter.”
“No, no, Mr. Decker. You will speak through counsel. That’s what counsel is for.”
“In that case, Your Honor,” Ron said slowly, “I wish to remove Mr. Horvath as counsel of record and invoke my right to proceed in propria persona.”
The judge hesitated. “Are you dissatisfied with Mr. Horvath?”
“That isn’t the question. I simply want to represent myself at this hearing … and according to decisions, I have an absolute right to do so if I can make an intelligent waiver of my right to counsel. I believe the standard is that I know the elements of the offense, the defenses, and the penalties. It isn’t necessary that I be a trained attorney. The first two are moot at this point … and I obviously know the penalties.” As soon as he began speaking, the tension went away, and he knew he sounded articulate. It surprised him.
“Do you have any comment, Mr. Horvath?”
“It’s a surprise … I … I’ve done my best. I have no objection. Mr. Decker is far from illiterate and he knows what’s at stake.”
The judge looked to the youthful deputy district attorney. “Do the People have anything to add?”
The prosecutor came to his feet. “The People would like to make sure this is an intelligent waiver … that the defendant doesn’t double back later with a petition for habeas corpus claiming the waiver was invalid.”
“
I don’t think that the record will reflect incompetency,” the judge said mildly. “If we were in a critical proceeding where legal training … I would certainly make a lengthy inquiry before allowing a defendant to abandon the protection of counsel. But, as I recall, the decisions indicate the right to self-representation is absolute if the waiver is intelligent … and this defendant has recited the proper standards.” The judge nodded to Ron. “Proceed, Mr. Decker. You are your own attorney as long as you maintain decorum.”
Confronted with permission to speak, Ron was temporarily unable to. He’d intended to express disdain for the sham, but the avuncular judiciousness of the judge had ignited a flicker of hope. Perhaps it wasn’t already decided. Yet he didn’t want to show weakness, didn’t want to snivel. He would take the middle course and play it according to the response elicited.
“Your Honor, there’s no question that I sold a lot of marijuana and cocaine, but that means there were a lot of people buying it. In fact, millions of people don’t see anything wrong with it. It’s pretty well established that it isn’t any worse than cigarettes, and less harmful than alcohol. I don’t feel any guilt about doing it. I didn’t hurt anyone. Getting caught was … like getting hit with lightning. Not justice or retribution. Just an act of God.
“When you sent me to prison, I was afraid of it. But I didn’t expect prison to change me … not for good, not for bad. But after a year I have changed, and the change is for the worse … at least by society’s standards. Trying to make a decent human being out of someone by sending them to prison is like trying to make a Moslem by putting someone in a Trappist monastery. A year ago the idea of hurting someone physically, hurting someone seriously, was abhorrent to me—but after a year in a world where nobody ever says it’s wrong to kill, where the law of the jungle prevails, I find myself able to contemplate doing violence with equanimity. People have been killing each other for eons. When I was selling marijuana, I pretty much had the values of society, right and wrong, good and evil. Now, after a year—I’m being honest—when I read about a policeman being killed I’m on the side of the outlaw. That’s where my sympathies are turning. Not completely yet, but with seeming inevitability.
“What I’m trying to say is simply that sending me back isn’t going to do anything. Prison is a factory that turns out human animals. The chances are that whatever you get out of prison will be worse than what you send in. I’ll have to serve at least five more years before I’m even eligible for parole. What will that do? It won’t help me. It won’t deter anyone else. Look around. Nobody will even know … so how can it deter?
“I don’t know what I’ll be after half a dozen years in a madhouse. And I’ve already lost everything outside. I think I’ve already suffered enough punishment—” His voice trailed off. His mind searched for more words, but he could find none. “That’s all,” he said finally.
When he sat down, breathless and flushed from his loquacity, the judge nodded to the deputy district attorney. “Do the People have any comment?” As he finished the question, the judge’s eyes swiveled almost pointedly to look at a clock on the opposite wall.
The prosecutor, who was pushing back his chair to rise, let his eyes follow those of the judge. “Uh … the People … uh … concur with the letters from the prison officials and submit the matter.”
The judge faced Ron again, and the visage of kindly patience seemed to harden, or maybe it was the timber of his voice that made his face seem like granite. “Mr. Decker, you originally came before this court and were convicted of a serious offense. Because of your youth and background, I tried to leave an opening to avoid sending you to prison for a long term. I wanted to give you a chance both to see what the future could hold and to help yourself. From the information sent me by the prison officials, you are a dangerous man. Whether you were already that or became so in prison is immaterial. The ultimate factor is not whether prison will help you, nor whether your imprisonment will deter anyone else. The main thing is to protect society. Anyone who can kill another person in cold blood—and you nearly admitted that you can—isn’t fit to live in society. I know society will be protected for at least five years. After that the parole board, if they wish, can let you out. I’m not going to modify the sentence. Motion denied.”
“Then fuck you!” Ron said loudly, unexpectedly, scarcely believing it himself. “Right in your old wrinkled ass!”
The deputy’s fingers digging into his arm and tugging him stopped the words. “Watch yourself,” the deputy said, his voice quiet but taut. “That’s a judge.”
“Yeah, okay.” Ron was up, his eyes flicking over Horvath’s astonished face. Then he was going up the aisle, the deputy reaching for the handcuffs. He stopped at the doors and put out his wrists. By head gesture and a hand on his shoulder, the deputy told him to turn. The outburst caused the handcuffs to be put on behind him, making him more helpless. He turned and complied, the shadow of a sneer on his face. He was wondering how long it would be before he got back to San Quentin.
The sanctuary of the psych ward was also a gilded cage. Earl luxuriated in the solitude, but he also fretted at the inactivity. Now that the murder charge was no threat he was ready to go back to “B” Section and do whatever punishment the officials wanted. It was a gauntlet that had to be run before he could get back on the big yard. The psych ward time didn’t count toward the segregation term. And if he stayed too long in his “nervous breakdown,” they would transfer him to the Medical Facility, where he might be given shock treatments—and rumors of lobotomies were sifting back. The old-fashioned brutality of “B” Section was preferable. Moreover, only two successful escapes had been made from within the Medical Facility during the fifteen years it had been open; both escapees had used the gamble of cutting cell bars and going over double fences in the shadow of gun towers.
Still he hesitated until word came that Ron was back from court and in “B” Section. The next morning he told the doctor that he was feeling better. Dutch and the other attendants marked the charts to show an end to his delusions. After a week, the doctor diagnosed a Ganzer syndrome, a form of psychosis that convicts call going “stir crazy.” The following Monday the doctor discharged him. He knew the paper was signed within minutes and had his gear packed when the guards suddenly appeared.
“Get your shit together, Copen,” one said. “The vacation is over.”
When the “B” Section door was unlocked and the noise and the stench poured out, Earl’s stomach turned queasy. Fuck it, he thought stoically. You’ve gotta know how to take a loss or you can’t enjoy winning. He walked in, carrying a pillowcase with all his worldly possessions.
The chunky sergeant in charge of “B” Section was an old-timer who liked Earl. “How’s it going?”
“I’m okay.”
“I thought you might not make it when they took you out.”
“I wouldn’t cheat the state out of a minute.”
“There’s a cell near your friends up on the third tier. That’s where you want to go, I’d guess.”
“Is Decker up there?”
“Two cells from Bad Eye. You’ll be on the other side. You’ll all be close enough to talk.”
“You mean close enough to scream.” Earl jerked his head toward the tiers where the voices were a magnified babble. “We exercise together, huh?”
“Same program, one tier at a time.”
Because they took Earl upstairs at the end and then down the third tier rather than along the bottom floor, nobody noticed his arrival. He looked into the cells as he walked by, especially those near where he was going, but everyone seemed to be asleep. As the sergeant turned the huge spike key in the lock and motioned for the bar to be dropped, Earl threw his pillowcase on the bare mattress on the floor and looked around. One wall was charred and blistered from a cell fire, but the toilet and sink were still on the wall; and the mattress and blankets seemed cleaner than usual. He began setting things in order; this would be his residence for a long tim
e.
Not until lunch, when the hurricane of noise slackened temporarily, did he call out to make his presence known to Bad Eye and Ron. Even then it was necessary to yell, and it was impossible to hold a real conversation. He was glad the doctor had continued his Valium prescription. He hated noise and this was the World Series of chaos twenty-four hours a day. It was never entirely quiet, though near dawn only two or three men held screamed conversations. Every few months someone committed suicide by hanging, and half the men were on the edge of insanity. Bad Eye had been in here for nine months and awaiting transfer to Folsom, seething with hatred at the world. Earl remembered when Bad Eye had been merely a wild kid; now viciousness and evil had permeated the marrow of him.
“B” Section had its own exercise yard, actually outside the walls of San Quentin. A doorway had been cut into the outer cellhouse wall—facing the Bay. The hospital ran beside it, an area one-hundred yards long with a fence topped by concertina wire, outside of which was a gun tower. Another rifleman was perched just over the door from the cellhouse. Nobody was going anywhere. Except for an intervening headland a mile away, the Golden Gate and Alcatraz would have been visible.
Each tier had a special classification and was unlocked separately for two hours twice a week, morning or afternoon. The bottom tier was the hole, men serving short punishment sentences, most going back to the big yard afterward. The second tier was militant blacks. The third tier was for militant whites and Chicanos, mostly members of the White and Mexican Brotherhoods. The fourth tier was a mix, men locked up for rules violations who weren’t affiliated or expected to start trouble. The fifth tier was protective custody, full of queens and informers, and very few of its occupants came out to the yard to exercise, for as they passed the other cells they were cursed, spat upon, and splashed with piss and shit.
The Animal Factory Page 19