by Bobby Akart
He resisted the urge to walk briskly as Ashby obviously was in distress. She could be heard berating her attacker, an impulsive trait that can sometimes get you killed. It was far better to take a moment to assess your adversary, like Jake was.
Jake purposefully slowed his pace as he saw his opportunity ahead. A massive root ran along an area where the topsoil had eroded. He quickly debated if he should pretend to trip or allow his attacker to stumble. He decided on the latter.
Until now, Jake had been slow and methodical as they made their way around the corner of the house where he’d reached the darkest part of the yard. Then, short of breaking out in a run, he suddenly picked up the pace. His captor mimicked Jake’s pace and the brief distraction was all that was necessary.
Jake deftly stepped over the protruding root, but his attacker stumbled ever-so-slightly. Jake instantly knew his window opportunity had opened as the gun barrel slid off his back, upward, and to the side.
Jake ducked, spun to the left, and crashed the butt end of his knife into the man’s temple, knocking him to the ground. The rifle flew out of the his hands and landed against the tree. As he groaned in pain, Jake didn’t hesitate to pounce on his back. He covered the man’s mouth his with his left hand and dug the knife blade into his throat with the other.
Jake hissed in his ear. “Now, you listen to me jackass. I’m ready to die tonight, are you?”
The young man quickly shook his head from side-to-side. Jake continued.
“One sudden move, and I’ll spill your throat all over your body for your buddy to see. Got it?”
He nodded again. His eyes grew side as Jake gripped his mouth tighter and exposed his neck. He gently allowed the blade to draw blood in order to drive the point home.
“Last question, and you better be telling the truth. How many of you are there?”
The man slowly slid his hand along the ground so Jake could see. He was holding up three fingers.
“Good. Let’s get up slowly and not one word. I’ve killed a lot of people in the last week and I don’t give a damn if you’re next.”
They rose to their knees and the man of smaller stature cooperated with Jake. With Jake keeping his death grip on the young man’s mouth he pushed him around the house toward the clearing near the motorhome.
Ashby was leaning against the front of the Bounder as if she was a perp being held by a traffic cop. A boy in his late teens was standing to her rear about ten feet, nervously swinging his rifle from Ashby to the front of the house.
The motorhome shook back and forth slightly. Jake determined that someone was inside looking around. His captive squirmed slightly causing Jake to inadvertently dig the blade into the soft tissue around his throat a little more. Blood poured out and the man groaned in pain.
Jake took the initiative. “Drop your weapon or this one dies!”
“Dad!” the young man shouted but failed to heed Jake’s orders.
Jake glanced at the motorhome and saw it shake again. The sound of footsteps hitting the aluminum steps at the side entrance could be heard. There were several seconds of silence before a man’s voice called out to Jake.
“Nobody’s dropping any weapons but you!”
The man had circled around the backside of the motorhome. A smart move which allowed them two angles of attack on Jake.
Jake twisted his captive’s body ninety degrees to be used as a human shield. He glanced at Ashby and she provided him an imperceptible nod, indicating she was unharmed. It was now time to negotiate because he was clearly outgunned.
“Nobody needs to die tonight!”
The elder Davenport shouted back as he walked closer to Jake’s position with a 1911-style pistol trained on them. “Then drop the knife!”
“Nope, not gonna happen,” said Jake. “Your boy will be the first die. Are you ready to explain that to his mother? You know, the part about sneaking around in the woods and robbing people which got your kid’s throat cut open?”
“Dad, I’ve got a bead on him. I’ll do it. I don’t care.”
“Hold on,” instructed Davenport, but Jake didn’t wait to hear more.
“Hey kid! Have you ever killed anyone? I doubt it. I see your hands shaking from here. If you take the shot at me, you’ll miss and kill your brother. Can you live with that? Huh?”
Jake was relentless in applying the mental pressure to their attackers. He sensed immediately that the man and his two sons weren’t hardened criminals. Most likely, they stumbled upon an opportunity and got themselves in a bad situation as a result. The standoff, however, needed to come to an end before someone got killed by accident.
Davenport had slowly reached the driver’s side window and was barely thirty feet from Jake. The closer he got, the better angle he had to take a shot at Jake’s torso. Despite his bravado, Jake wasn’t not ready to die and he sure wasn’t interested in placing Ashby’s life in danger. He’d give up everything to keep her safe.
That’s when he reached a sudden moment of clarity. Ashby had been inching away from the from the center of the motorhome’s grill toward the right fender. As the younger man focused his attention on Jake, and the father kept his pistol trained on him as well, Ashby prepared to slip away.
Jake’s eyes darted back and forth between the armed gunmen. The younger man with the rifle had stepped closer and his peripheral vision failed him.
Suddenly, Ashby was gone. Jake never saw her slip into the darkness.
“Okay,” said the older Davenport as he inched closer to Jake. “Let’s talk. We didn’t come here to hurt anyone. Just drop your knife, let go of my boy, and we’ll be on our way.”
“How am I supposed to trust someone who teaches their kids to point rifles in people’s faces while lurking around their property?”
“Mister!” shouted the father. “You’re in no position to negotiate. I guarantee this bullet will rip through you faster than you can react with—.”
The metallic clicking sound of Ashby’s shotgun stopped him in mid-sentence.
“Drop your gun or I’ll splatter your brains all over your kids,” she growled.
The father hesitated.
“Now!” Ashby screamed louder than Jake had ever heard her before.
The man dropped his pistol to the ground and his arms rose into the air.
His son with the rifle swung it in Ashby’s direction but Jake grabbed his attention. “You too, kid! Drop the gun now or all of you will die. Do it!”
After a tense couple of seconds that seemed like minutes, the father nodded to his son and instructed him to lower his rifle.
“Drop it to the ground!” shouted Ashby. “And kick it away.”
The young man did.
“Go, father-of-the-year,” Ashby ordered, encouraging the man to enter the clearing in front of the motorhome. “Get on your knees.”
“You too,” demanded Jake of the other son. As both men fell to the ground in front of them, Jake shoved his hostage into them causing a three-man pile-up.
Ashby moved to a better position and Jake hustled to pick up the father’s handgun. He expertly dropped the magazine and saw the .45 caliber magazine was full. He shoved it back in and walked around to face the father.
Still hyped up from adrenaline, he began to berate the man. Jake didn’t let up as he admonished the man for putting his sons at risk.
Didn’t he value their lives, he asked repeatedly. Do they have a mother? How would she feel knowing her husband and boys almost died tonight?
Ashby stood by, constantly scanning the woods in the event more friends or family of these three decided to come looking for them.
Jake stopped to catch his breath and the father began to cry. He apologized and begged for forgiveness. He tried to explain why they were watching the house, but Jake fired back reason after reason why they overstepped. It became apparent the youngest son made a mistake in taking Ashby at gunpoint and the encounter escalated from there.
After retrieving the hunting ri
fle, he and Ashby backed away from the trio so they could decide their fate.
“I’m pretty pissed off, but not so much to execute them on their knees,” Jake began but Ashby quickly interrupted.
“Do you wanna give them a chance to run and then gun them down? That works for me.”
Jake glanced at her face to see if she was joking. From the hostile glare she was giving the three Davenports, it was obvious she was deadly serious.
“Ashby, it’s tempting. Somehow, I look at them as different from the thugs at Pressley’s Farm. These guys are stupid and misguided, not criminals.”
“They’re criminals now, wouldn’t you agree?” Ashby shot back. She wasn’t going to let it go.
“Yes, that’s true. I just don’t think I can shoot them.”
Ashby raised the shotgun slightly. “I can.”
Jake raised his left hand. “Okay, Okay. I get it. You’re pissed off too. We’ve got to draw the line somewhere, Ashby. We can’t just kill people because we’re mad at them.”
“Jake, they attacked us. We had to defend ourselves or we’d be dead right now.”
“I disagree. If they had intentions of killing us, my guy would’ve shot me in the back at the garage and your kid would’ve gunned you down while you were spread eagle on the hood of the Bounder.”
Ashby sighed. The fire coming out of her ears seemed to recede as Jake’s logic took over. The heat of the moment was escaping her body and now the practicality of the situation took over.
“What do we do with them, then? If we let them go, they might go retrieve some help and next time, we won’t get the chance to defend ourselves.”
Jake thought for a moment. It was the type of conundrum they’d face and have to address many times as the devastation of the Yellowstone eruption impacted society.
“If we tie them up, their friends will come looking for them eventually. If we let them go, we run the risk that you pointed out.”
Ashby shook her head, and then asked sarcastically. “Do you wanna make them pinky swear to be good boys and go home?”
Jake couldn’t help himself as he burst out into laughter. The three men snapped their heads toward him and looked puzzled as they tried to analyze what could possibly be so funny about their predicament.
His reaction prompted Ashby to relax and manage a chuckle. “Okay, Jake. I’ll handle this.”
She began to step toward the men and Jake quickly followed. He whispered to her. “Don’t shoot them.”
“We’ll see,” she said over her shoulder.
As Ashby approached, the father spoke first. “Please don’t shoot us.”
“Well, idiot, that was my first choice. Kill all three of you and be done with it. How does it feel, kid? I’ve got a shotgun pointed in your face. How do you think I felt when you pointed the gun at me?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I wouldn’t have shot you. I don’t know what—.”
Ashby cut him off. “Enough! I’m done talking and so is my friend. We are either gonna kill the three of you or let you go at some point.”
“Don’t kill my boys,” pleaded the father. “I swear. We’ll leave and not come back.”
Ashby studied them one last time. She raised her shotgun toward them. “Get up,” she snarled.
The three Davenports rose to their feet and the sons began to cry as they begged for their lives.
“Please. We’re sorry.”
“Don’t kill us.”
Ashby pointed the barrel of the rifle toward the Mad River. “Run! Don’t turn around and sure as hell don’t come back. I’ll kill you next time. Go!”
The boys led the way into the darkness and the father turned briefly to look Ashby in the eye. He mouthed the words, thank you.
Jake walked next to Ashby who began to tremble. He put his arm around her and pulled her close. He whispered in her ear. “They won’t be back.”
“Oh, I know. That’s not why I’m upset.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I can’t believe I was ready to pull the trigger that easily. Jake, in my mind, it would’ve been easier to kill them and be done with the threat. I can’t believe it’s come to this.”
“We can’t feel bad about what we have to do to survive. It comes down to our lives or theirs. In this case, I believe we made the right decision. As time goes by, we may not have the opportunity to analyze whether to shoot someone. We’ll just have to do it.”
Ashby handed him the shotgun. “Tonight, I learned that I’m capable of just that. Doing it.”
PART TWO
Do you know the way to San Jose?
Chapter 13
CSP Solano
Vacaville, California
The California State Prison system had a storied history. Numerous accounts have been written about the early days of the state’s Department of Corrections. The first state-run institution was a two-hundred-sixty-eight-ton wooden ship named The Waban. Anchored in San Francisco Bay, the prison ship incarcerated thirty inmates who were used as labor to build the infamous San Quentin State Prison that continued to operate as the state’s only death row for male inmates.
For one-hundred-and-fifty years, California has housed some of the nation’s most famous inmates including Charles Manson, Sirhan Sirhan, Juan Corona, America’s worst serial killer, and Merle Haggard who was sentenced to fifteen years at San Quentin but was released early and later became one of the world’s most famous country singers.
Following a series of pardons and commutation orders by the Governor, the state’s Department of Corrections was in a state of chaos. Normal inmate transfer procedures were set aside for the sake of expediency. The amount of prison guards and staff to process the movement of inmates was reduced due to attrition as state employees of all types opted to stay home with family rather than continue getting paid for a job with money that meant nothing.
Such was the case as the first busload of inmates from Pelican Bay State Prison in the northernmost part of California arrived at CSP Solano in Vacaville, California. Once the address of Charles Manson, Pelican Bay was notorious for housing violent offenders and the use by prison administrators of psychological methods to subdue the inmate population.
The Security Housing Unit at Pelican Bay was designed to place high risk or problem inmates in twenty-two-hour solitary confinement in eight by ten foot cells made of poured concreted with perforated steel doors.
Despite being labeled as solitary confinement, inmates in the same pod were able to communicate with one another through these holes in their doors. Three of the inmates in one pod were known to each other from their days at CSP Solano in Vacaville. All were serving life sentences for manslaughter but the leader, Jesus Perez, was also on trial for murdering a fellow inmate.
Several years ago, while serving a life sentence for his 2009 first-degree murder conviction in Los Angeles, Perez killed his twenty-four-year-old cellmate during a prison riot at CSP Solano. Once the riot was subdued, the correctional officers found his cellmate missing and immediately began a search of the prison.
Fearing the inmate had escaped, they redoubled their efforts until they found Nicholas Rodriguez, or at least parts of him. Perez had sawed his cellmate in half, cut out most of his abdominal and chest organs, and disbursed the body parts into trash cans throughout the prison.
Because CSP Solano was a medium-security facility with a history of overcrowding, Perez and two of his alleged conspirators were removed to Pelican Bay to be held in the Security Housing Unit pending their trials.
The pod was abuzz as rumors began to circulate that Pelican Bay was being shut down. Outdoor recreation had been cancelled for days and it was only after one of Perez’s associates from CSP Solano had a visit from his attorney that the prisoners learned they were being transferred back to the prison in Vacaville.
This created excitement in the mind of Jesus Perez. He knew the procedures of inmate transfer because he’d been sent back and forth to court appearances so many tim
es. He laid in his bunk that afternoon, closed his eyes, and visualized the methods followed by the transportation team and the intake guards. He tried to recall their weaknesses and potential for miscues.
For hours, having nothing better to do, he contemplated what his life would be like back at CSP Solano and whether an opportunity would present itself for escape. He’d do whatever it took to gain his freedom as nothing compared to the enjoyment he took in tearing open his cellmate who tended to talk too much about his girlfriend.
Then, as he imagined the possible move, he heard the words he’d been waiting for.
“Roll it up! Everybody, you heard me. Roll it up. You have ten minutes.”
He, and his friends, were leaving.
*****
Two hours later, they were shackled aboard the Blue Bird Express heading southbound on Interstate 5 toward Sacramento before they made the final turn to Vacaville. Very little about this transport was normal.
First, it occurred in the middle of the day. Many times, prison buses holding inmates of their high security classification moved at night with highway patrol escorts. Today, there were no escorts and the only guards were the men stationed in the driver’s seat and in the cage at the rear of the bus.
Second, the highway was packed with traffic, all of which headed south. Perez and his fellow inmates in the SHU were oblivious to world events except what they heard through the inmate rumor mill or via letters from home. Perez, like most in Pelican Bay, never received any letters.
As they plodded down I-5, they caught their first glimpse of the ash fallout. A light dusting covered the road and ground as they passed through Redding. The fallout extended as far south as the highway to Yuba City before it started to clear. At first, Perez thought it was caused by one of the many wildfires that tended to plague California in the summer. But this was different. He’d never seen ash accumulate like snow.