As a resident of death row, I wouldn’t see that yard except from a vehicle. Prisoners could run on the large oval track, and tables were set up for card and chess games. It was interesting to see some of the men doing time here out on the yard. My attention went to the large amount of free weights on the iron pile where huge men lifted weights. The men could do commercials for any fitness center, but in prison their extreme physiques had a more practical purpose.
Once we arrived at R&R I was escorted to change into state clothes, have my pictures taken, and complete paperwork. They told me the basic rules, and gave me a rule book and my CDC number. From then on I was CDC prisoner William A. Noguera, D77200, assigned to death row.
From the R&R building we went to the building where I would be living, the AC. At San Quentin the Adjustment Center is the hole for condemned prisoners. It’s where death row prisoners who don’t conform to prison rules or refuse to renounce gang affiliation reside, and where all condemned prisoners are evaluated for classification when first arriving at San Quentin. Privileges are few in the AC, and guards are tough guys with bad attitudes.
As soon as I walked through the door of the AC, the stench hit me. Smoke from cigarettes and cigars and the stink of unwashed bodies assaulted my senses as I was led to the front of the first tier on the yard side of the building. The AC has two sides with rows of cells three levels high on each side. The sides are referred to by what’s on the outside of the building, either yard side or chapel side.
The two bulls who drove me from the airport escorted me to my holding cell.
“You’re gonna be placed in the quiet cell for ten days with just what you’re wearing,” Hasman said. “You get three showers every seven days and after the ten days are up you’ll see the warden’s committee. They decide if you’ll stay here or go to East Block. ’Til then, enjoy the stay.”
From there, two tier bulls took over. They made it seem like my presence had interrupted something terribly important. I would later learn this is a common attitude among AC bulls.
“What’s your name?” said Ericson, a tall bull with a beard and bald head.
“Noguera,” I said.
“I need you to step into this holding cage and take off your clothes, Noguera,” Ericson barked.
I stepped into the cage, and as soon as the door closed I backed up to the food port so he could unlock the cuffs. He removed the cuffs and I began taking off my clothes, which included a pair of prison-issued shoes, blue denim pants, a blue shirt, and white boxers.
He ran me through the strip-out procedure: “Run your fingers through your hair, open your mouth, stick out your tongue, pull your ears forward, lift your arms over your head, lift your balls, now turn around, bend over, spread your ass, cough, lift your feet. Okay, he’s clear,” he said to his partner, an average-sized black bull with mirrored sunglasses, named Harland.
“Now put your clothes back on,” he said, and continued. “Every time you leave your cell you will submit to this search. Do you understand?”
I nodded.
“Turn around and back up to the bars. I’m going to cuff and escort you to your cell. You will walk between my partner and me. Don’t give us any trouble and we won’t have a reason to split your skull.”
The cuffs bit down on my wrists, and I clenched my jaw. They were testing me. They wanted to know if I’d complain or display some sort of disrespect. The cage door opened and the two bulls had their batons out. I wasn’t afraid, but I also wouldn’t give them a reason to beat me.
It was simply a test and, no matter what, I would pass. We walked down the tier. On the left were cells with screens in front of the bars. The screens were placed in front of the bars to prevent prisoners from stabbing other prisoners or staff through the bars as they walked by. Ahead of me four small mirrors slid out from the corner of the cell doors. I was being watched. I passed by without looking at the men who held the mirrors. I didn’t care who they were, just faces in a crowd. My eyes burned as I walked. Just about every cell had a burning wick sticking out of it, made from tightly-rolled toilet paper. The bulls would light them with their lighters because, although prisoners could smoke, they couldn’t have matches or lighters. Matches could be used to make a bomb.
We went to the end of the tier where the lighting was terrible. The four cells in the back were separate from the rest of the tier and could only be accessed by going through a locked door. Once through that door, each cell had a solid steel door with a small glass window in the center. They were the quiet cells, where new condemned prisoners and true J-Cats (crazies) were kept.
I was led to my cell and found the solid steel door was actually one of two doors. The second one, a regular door with bars and steel mesh covering it, closed behind me.
I backed up to the food port and placed my hands through. Warm blood trickled down my fingers from the cuts the cuffs had made. That wasn’t normal. The cuffs had been altered to bite into a prisoner’s wrists and cut him. Once the cuffs were removed I turned and faced the bull. I didn’t look at my wrists. I just looked at him and then at the cell. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of acknowledging they had hurt me. The bull closed the food port and stepped outside the cell’s vestibule, looking at me through the outer door’s small window, and at the blood that ran down my hands onto the floor. He knew what he had done. I said nothing as I stood in the dimly lit cell. Satisfied they had made their point, they turned and left. I stood there for a few moments, truly alone.
A hopeless void opened in the center of my chest. I’d lost so much and could lose even more if I allowed them to take it. This place was made to break men like me. I realized I couldn’t let that happen. For all the things they were taking from me, they couldn’t control my response to each insult to my humanity. I would keep my composure and not give them an excuse to make things worse. I would survive.
As my eyes adjusted to the light I realized the cell was filthy. The walls, bars, and steel mesh screen that covered the bars were caked with dirt and feces. I noticed writing on the walls, mostly names, dates, and poems. The words, mom, love, and God were the most common.
The cell was nine feet by nine feet with a steel bunk frame bolted to the right wall. A thin, dirty mattress lay on top. Next to that was a steel toilet and sink, covered in vomit. A dead rat floated in the toilet. I couldn’t live like this. Both wrists continued to bleed, but when I looked around there was nothing to use to stop the bleeding. I didn’t want to touch anything for fear of infecting myself. I took off my clothes except my boxers and shoes and went to the bunk. I moved the mattress to the side so I could place my clothes there. As I did this, a rat bolted from under the mattress and ran into a small hole under the toilet. I jumped back and nearly yelled. My heart pounded in my chest and I took deep breaths of the stale air, trying to calm down. I gagged and nearly threw up. After a few minutes I got control again and prepared to clean the cell.
First I tore strips from my state-issued shirt and tied off my wrists to stop the bleeding, then I searched the cell’s hiding places. Searching the cage and finding all the items left by the last occupant is critical in prison. Many times, other prisoners hide things—contraband items—and either don’t get a chance to remove them when they move, or purposely leave them there. Typical things left behind are shanks, razor blades, fishing poles, and string. Two things almost never found in a cell are money or drugs. Those are extremely valuable in prison and are kept in the prisoner’s safe (their rectum, a practice called keistering). Sometimes bulls will purposely set up a prisoner by waiting two to three days after a prisoner has been assigned to a cell, then search it and find a shank they had planted. Possession of a weapon will land a prisoner in the hole for sixteen months. If the bulls don’t find it, they know you flushed it, and they know you’re on to their attempted frame job.
During my search I found six bars of state soap, a wash cloth, three pencils, a pen-filler, a razor blade, and an old newspaper that was hidden under the frame of the bunk. I flus
hed the razor blade along with the dead rat. The razor blade alone could extend my time in the AC an additional sixteen months. Anything that would extend my time had to go.
I heard men yelling from cell to cell, making football picks for the weekend and arguing about politics. I shut them out and continued with my task. I used my blue state-issued shirt and pants to clean, mop, and rinse the entire cell, bars, and screen. The light behind the metal bars at the back of the cell was much brighter after I cleaned it. I used a piece of my blue shirt as a mask to cover my face as I cleaned. The stench from the feces smeared all over the cell was overwhelming.
I continued to clean until I heard noise outside the steel door. Keys rattled and the outer door swung open. In the doorway stood two bulls. “Your name?” the first one asked.
“Noguera.”
“Stand to the back of the cell. When the food port is opened, step forward and take your food tray.”
I told him I was washing the cell and couldn’t eat in the filth. He seemed to realize what I was doing as the smell hit him.
“Son of a bitch. Why wasn’t this cell cleaned?” he asked his partner.
“You know Heckle and Jeckle, they’re in their own little world,” his partner said.
I assumed he was referring to the two bulls who put me in the cell.
“Stand fast, Noguera. I’ll bring you some things to finish the job,” he said.
The huge door closed and I continued cleaning. I didn’t really expect to see him again that day, but after a few minutes I heard keys, and the outer door opened. He brought me three towels, more soap, a cup of disinfectant, a new set of state-issued blues, two sheets, a blanket, and two pairs of socks, as well as clean underwear.
“Because someone didn’t do their fuckin’ job, you had to clean this mess. I’ve brought you a few things you should have received. I don’t do favors, so don’t ask.” He handed me the items through the food port.
“Thank you,” I said.
He nodded and said, “After you’re done I’ll bring you a tray.”
He turned and walked away.
I cleaned, scrubbed, and washed the cell six or seven times until the smell was gone. I plugged the hole under the toilet with the shirt I had used to wash and mop the floor, by soaking it in soapy water and squeezing it into place. I then stripped naked and took a bird bath in the newly cleaned sink. After drying off and putting on my new boxers, I sat on the mattress and relaxed.
Again, I heard keys and the outer door opened. The bull was back carrying a food tray and a milk carton.
“Maybe we’ll move you to a new cell every day so you can clean it like this one,” he said.
I didn’t answer, but the look on my face told him I didn’t know he was joking.
“That was a joke, son. Here’s your tray. I’m the third watch CO. I’m here five days a week. If you have any questions, I’ll answer them.”
“Thank you, boss,” I answered. “Do you have the time?”
“It’s ten p.m. My name is Carlton.”
I nodded and took the tray. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was. I hadn’t eaten since—I couldn’t remember the last time. I ate everything, and then, concerned that the dirty paper plate would attract rats, I ripped it into small pieces and flushed them. Exhaustion was welcome after a dreadful day. Finally, I could rest. I fell into an uneasy sleep.
Chapter 2
San Quentin Death Row, 1988
I woke in the grip of a nightmare my first night in San Quentin, covered in sweat and gasping for air like a drowning man breaking the surface of the water. I’d been surfing my childhood spot at San Clemente, California, when I was pulled under by my leash. I tried to fight being pulled down, but the force was too strong. I was pulled farther and farther. It was dark and cold and I understood this was how I would die. I thought of my dog—a beautiful German shepherd named Bullet, who I loved deeply. In that moment I saw him watching me, only he wasn’t alone. Next to him stood a little boy who also watched. I looked into his eyes and I knew him. I knew what he was thinking and what I had to do. I reached for my ankle and found the Velcro strap. I tore it open, freed my leg, and swam to the surface. In that moment, as I started to gain consciousness, I only thought of swimming to the beach and being free of the water’s danger. I was a teen once again and my only concern was getting to the shore.
That split second of freedom ended with the realization of my surroundings. I stood up and stepped to the sink. The cement floor was cold on my feet and I checked the hole I had covered under the toilet. Would it hold? Was that rat, at that very second, moving toward my feet to bite me? But there was no rat. The hole was still securely plugged.
I pushed the cold water button in the metal sink and washed my face. I didn’t know what time it was. Time stood still in a cell with no windows. I knew it was early because it was quiet. There was no yelling and I couldn’t smell the smoke from the toilet paper wicks that prisoners kept alive so they could light their cigarettes.
I stripped naked and took another bird bath in the sink. I didn’t know when the shower days were and I wouldn’t rely on them. I had soap, towels, and water. After finishing, I wiped down the cell and made my bunk in a manner that would impress a drill sergeant.
I sat down to wait and began reading some of the foolishness written on the walls. There were silly drawings in no particular order, mostly of men and women engaged in sexual acts. It seemed like the same prisoner had done all of them over a period of several days. Only the wall across from my bunk was free of graffiti, except for a large dragon outlined in pencil. The wall had been painted fairly recently, so it held potential as a blank canvas if I could remove the dragon and clear the other stains first.
Once again, I thought about the little boy watching me during that moment in my nightmare. I knew him. I’d known him my entire life, but now, as I experienced the moment, he seemed more real—his eyes more haunting—than just a memory.
I fell into a sort of daydream sitting there staring at the wall, and I imagined using the pencils I had found yesterday when I searched the cell to cover the wall in a collage of my memories.
The sound of keys brought me back from my thoughts like a rubber band snapping back to its original shape. Closer they came until a face appeared in the small window in the solid steel door. He and his partner looked in, checking to see if I was alive. It was the two bulls who’d placed me in the cell and hurt my wrists. Heckle and Jeckle was what Carlton had called them. Instinctively I stood as the door opened.
“You eating? Stand back as I open the food port,” Heckle yelled.
I stepped back and watched, like an animal in a cage, as the bull brought the food tray over and put it in the food port. Then he backed away and yelled, “Clear.” Only then could I walk over and pick up the paper tray and small carton of milk.
“You want coffee?”
“I need a cup,” I said.
Smiling, he said, “People in hell need ice water.” He closed the door.
I stood there for a moment furious at the two of them for their dehumanizing words, but more at myself for playing into their hand and giving them the easy set up.
Heckle and Jeckle fed everyone on the tier, then picked up the trash. I didn’t say anything to them, even when they spoke to me. I placed my paper tray in the food port for pick up but kept the empty milk carton to use as a cup for coffee the next morning. When they noticed I had kept the carton they pointed at it, then at me, and one of them said, “The monkey learns fast. Dance, monkey, dance.”
I said nothing, but I was hot with rage.
Right after breakfast, I started pacing back and forth in my cell. I was lost in thought when I heard a lot of keys and what sounded like banging. I couldn’t see what was happening, but it sounded like prisoners being removed from their cells.
I heard a bull yell, “Spike,” which meant “Key,” so prisoners were being taken out of their cells, but that didn’t explain the banging.
A
number of bulls passed in front of the steel door of my cell and then opened it.
“Bar check and search. Turn around and strip.”
I did as I was told, going through the always disturbing and inhuman strip search that I’ve been subjected to for the past thirty years. No matter how much time goes by, a strip search is something I will never get used to. To be forced to stand naked in front of a number of bulls, lift up my nuts, then turn around, spread my ass, all while a high-intensity flashlight is used to look into these areas, is humiliating.
“Put your hands behind your back and back up to the bars,” another bull yelled.
They put cuffs on my wrists. I anticipated the pain of the teeth biting into my wrists. While that pain never came, even having them properly placed on my wrists hurt because the cuts were still healing.
The cell door opened and they told me to walk backwards out of the cell. Once outside the cell, a bull grabbed the chain connecting the two cuffs and guided me to face the wall directly in front of the cell. Two other bulls entered my cell. All the bulls had their batons out, and as I stood there I noticed some of them had hammers in their hands which they used to hit the bars of the cell to check for tampering. Prisoners can cut through the thick steel bars in their cells, then launch a surprise attack on other prisoners, or guards when they walk by. By hitting each bar with a hammer the bulls can tell by the sound if the metal is solid. This was the banging I heard earlier. All the cells were being checked except one—the one next door to me remained closed.
How does a prisoner cut through steel bars? A man can do some amazing things when left in a cage with little else but time to think and plot, especially when he’s angry. I saw a man use dental floss and nail clippers to cut a hole in the bars big enough to crawl through, then cut a bone-crusher, a large metal knife blade, out of his bunk that he sharpened by scraping the edge against the concrete floor. He did all this within thirty-six hours and attacked another prisoner. The attacker wasn’t a smart man, but he was determined and completely focused on his objective.
Escape Artist Page 3