Reaching deep inside, I called to them and they came. Leaping through the mouth of the cave and landing before me, my Rage and Pain. How long had it been? Far too long. I touched them both and suddenly there was another presence at the mouth of the cave. No wolf leapt forward. Instead a small child came forth and knelt in front of me. Looking into his eyes, I knew him. The Radiant Child. Never before had all of my parts come together, and it made me strong, complete, and ready to fulfill my potential.
I opened my eyes and saw the sun had lit the sky. I had meditated for about fifteen minutes, and now it was time to prepare for yard.
The bull came by at 6:00 a.m. and asked if I wanted to eat breakfast. I said, “No thank you.”
Upon hearing this, my neighbor, Silent, said, “Hey Bill, can I have your tray?”
“Good morning, Silent. Go ahead, I won’t be eating this morning.” I said it in a manner that made him wonder what was on my mind.
“Ah . . . ah . . . g . . . g . . . good m . . . m . . . morning, Bill,” he stuttered.
I noticed he stuttered when he was unsure of himself.
“Wh . . . what yard are you on?”
“Yard-1.”
“M . . . m . . . me too. Wh . . . wh . . . where you from?”
I knew he sensed a shift in me. I also knew others would be listening.
“Orange County.”
“Man. We . . . we . . . we’re homeboys. I’m out of O.C. too.”
“Listen, Silent, I’m preparing to go outside, so I’ll get at you on the yard.”
“All right, bro.”
“Yard release. All inmates prepare for yard release. Officers report to your yard assignments,” the desk officer said over the loudspeaker.
Taking a deep breath, I focused and reminded myself, Today, they’ll try to kill me.
Bulls began to file down the third tier to strip and escort prisoners to yard. The tier bull came for me.
“First day out to yard, huh, Noguera?”
“Yeah, time for some sun and exercise,” I said.
“Let’s get you stripped and on your way. Hand me everything you’re taking out and then go through the dance.”
“Okay, clear. Get dressed, Noguera.”
When I was ready, I turned around and backed up to the food port. Stevenson put the cuffs on my wrists. The door opened and I stepped out backwards, then turned to walk down the tier.
Stevenson took me to the first tier, where another bull used a metal detector wand to check for any metal I might have hidden in my mouth, under my arms, taped to my spine, in my ass, or under my nuts. Then another bull gave me a final pat down.
From there, I walked out the door to Yard-1 and got my first look at where I’d be spending my time when outside the cell. It was very similar to the AC yards—basically just a square concrete box surrounded by a fifteen-foot-high corrugated wire fence on two sides, and concrete walls the same height on the other two sides. One of those blocked the view between our yard and the bay. The main difference between Yard-1 and the AC yard was the larger number of prisoners.
I stepped past the first gate of the sally port for Yard-1 and 2. The gate closed and I backed up to the door so the bull could remove the cuffs. Next, the main door to Yard-1 opened and I stepped through. There were already over sixty men on the yard. It seemed crowded, which meant it would be extremely hard to detect moods and intentions among so many people.
I went to an empty table and placed my things there, then just watched the entire yard for a few minutes. It wasn’t that big—maybe half the size of the AC yards. The front of the yard had a shower area, sink, and toilet, all surrounded by a four-foot-high concrete wall. A row of steel tables lined the fence between yards 1 and 2. A basketball court was in the center; the iron pile, dip bars and assorted bench presses, and equipment were all in the back.
After a few moments a prisoner I recognized said, “Órale, carnal, qué pasa? How you been.”
We shook hands.
“I’m okay, Mouse, it’s been a few years. How’re things with you?”
“Man, you know, just doing the tiempo. I never thought I’d see you here. Watcha, let me introduce you to some of the vatos here so you know how things are.”
“Not just yet. Give me a minute. I got some business I have to handle before anything.”
“What’s up, man? Need help?”
“It’s nothing, but gracias for the offer.”
Silent was standing by one of the tables, talking to another Peckerwood, and I decided to take care of business right away. I glanced up to check the gunner. He was looking out over the fifteen-foot wall at the bay.
I wanted to make sure the gunner wouldn’t see anything if Silent did something foolish. As I walked over to him I could sense I was being watched. I stopped to his right and he turned to look at me.
“Silent, right? I’m Bill. You got a moment?” I could tell he knew I was not happy.
“Hey homie, wha . . . wha . . . what’s up? Y . . . y . . . you n . . . need the phone?”
“Nah, I just need to get at you for a moment.” I looked at the cat he was talking to.
“Give us a minute,” I said, leveling him with the weight I knew my eyes carried.
He walked away and I faced Silent.
“Check this out. If you charge some of these lames for phone time, that’s your business. But I don’t pay no one for state-issue, you feel me? If this is a problem, say so right now and we can deal with it.”
“Hey, n . . . n . . . nah B . . . Bill. L . . . l . . . listen brother, it’s not like that. I w . . . was, you know...”
I cut him off.
“I know what you were doing, and I’m telling you it’s a dead issue with me.”
“Yeah bro, I don’t want no trouble. My bad. I’m s . . . s . . . sorry.”
“Are we straight?” I said.
He nodded.
I turned and went back to the table where my things were. A moment later Mouse came over with a heavily muscled Mexican. “Mad, this is Sporty.”
“Órale pues, mucho gusto, carnal,” said Sporty.
“Mucho gusto. Just call me Bill. I don’t go by any nickname.”
“Órale, that’s firmé. What happened with that Gavacho?”
“I just set him straight about the phone, that’s all.”
A number of other Southern Mexicans on the yard came over to us and began introducing themselves. Flaco, Chino, Diablo, Danny-Boy, Dino, Capone. One by one they shook my hand and went off to get ready to start exercises. Mouse and Sporty stayed behind to run down the yard rules.
“Watcha, Bill. The Blacks use the iron pile first, from seven a.m. to ten a.m. We can’t go back there and lift until ten a.m. when it’s our turn, and we have it until one p.m. The Woods lift at the same time we do. See that line in the cement there? That’s the start of the iron pile area. We respect their time and they respect ours. The pull-up bars, dip bars, heavy bag, and speed bag are also part of the iron pile and off limits until our time. We usually do our line exercises for an hour or so, run, then play basketball or bullshit until ten a.m.”
He was including me as part of “we” and he assumed I would go along.
“Órale, gracias, Sporty. I’m going to kick back today and just get a feel for the yard. I’ll get at you later.”
“That’s firmé. I’m going to start my line routine,” said Sporty. He walked off to be with the rest of La Raza.
It was obvious that Sporty was the shot-caller for the Southern Mexicans. I still wasn’t sure of his rank. Was he simply a Sureño (Southern Mexican gang member) who had the authority to speak and make decisions for the Sureños? Was he an associate of La Eme? A soldier working his way up, making his bones? Or was he a full-fledged carnal, a made member of La Eme?
“Hey, Mouse, you’re not going to work out?”
“Nah, not today. I’ll kick back with you until we can go to the iron pile.”
I had hoped to be alone and study the yard. With that m
any men, there would be a pecking order, and the faster I understood it the better it would be for me.
Since Mouse would be tagging along, I decided to get as much information from him as possible. I’m sure Sporty was thinking the same. He hadn’t called Mouse over to work out because he was hoping Mouse would later tell him about me. What Sporty didn’t know was that Mouse and I were cellies in Orange County, and Monster and Mouse were from the same neighborhood. Not that it mattered. When the time was right and I knew who all the players represented, I’d make my position crystal clear to everyone.
Mouse knew me fairly well so it didn’t surprise him when I asked, “So what’s the deal with Sporty? Who is he?”
“He’s from Varrio Nuevo Estrada (VNE). He’s a good dude, a solid Sureño. He just wants to know what you’re about.”
On yards like this, everyone was interested in a new player because the balance in power is usually based on strength in numbers.
“Are you wondering what I’m about?” I asked.
“Fuck no. I know exactly what you’re about. If Monster couldn’t recruit you and you two were perros, no one can. I know you’re a free agent.”
Sporty and the rest of the Southern Mexicans were already doing their line routine, and I continued toward the back of the yard with Mouse.
There were a number of different teams, or workout crews, at work on the iron pile and I considered all of them carefully. Only two crews caught my attention. A large African who I’d met in the AC on the Crip yard ran the first one. As I neared, he noticed me and put down a pair of hundred-pound dumbbells. Stan “Tookie” Williams was approximately five eleven and weighed over 270 pounds, with massive arms and a huge chest from years of lifting iron.
“How you doing, Bill? I see they finally let you out of the sandbox.”
“Yeah, they figured it was either that or I’d continue to run up the cost of repainting the walls I was drawing on.”
He laughed. “It’s good to see you. If you need anything, look me up.”
“I appreciate the offer. Thank you.”
We shook hands and he went back to his workout.
“Hey, Mouse, who’s that vato with the blue muscle shirt lifting in the corner?”
“That’s Marcel. He’s a Crip from L.A. Him and that vato Tookie don’t get along. Something about their neighborhoods on the streets not being firmé.”
Marcel was impressive, and to me he seemed more dangerous than the rest. He stood about five eleven and weighed around 220. He was young—maybe twenty-three years old. The way he moved caught my eye. He knew how to use the muscle that surrounded his frame. I made a mental note of it and looked over to where the Peckerwoods sat.
Mouse said, “I know what you’re thinking and the answer is...”
I answered for him. “Wicked. He runs the show for the Woods. I was on the yard with him in the AC and we’re cool.”
We walked across the yard, and when Wicked saw me he grinned and called out, “What’s up, Bill? Shit, it looks like we meet again. How’s it going?”
“I’m good. Just getting a feel for the cats here and hanging out.”
Mouse shook hands with him and I met his crew.
“Hey Bill, let’s take a walk,” said Wicked. I fell in step with him. After a short walk, he began.
“Listen, I heard what happened with Silent and he didn’t mean anything by it. He’s shook up because you checked him, and he’s worried you might fuck his ass up.”
“Man, it’s over. I checked him to make sure he understood where I’m coming from. End of story. Tell him not to trip. I mean him no harm.”
“It’s what I figured, but I had to ask.”
Prison protocol demanded that Wicked, as the shot-caller for the Whites, investigate where I stood. If there was a problem it would have to be solved either by the Whites dealing with Silent on their own and satisfying the offense, or by coming together against me. If that happened, and if I were a member of the Southern Mexicans, a war would erupt.
This is the protocol for any offense that crosses racial boundaries. But I dealt with things on my own. If a prisoner happens to be of another race and brings his people into it, that would be his choice. Bottom line, it wouldn’t make a difference. He and I would eventually dance and he would lose.
We went back to where the rest of his crew stood and I excused myself.
There were four major forces on the yard—the Southern Mexicans, two Crips factions, and the Whites. Everyone else on the yard had some connection with one of those groups. There were no Northern Mexicans, Bloods, or BGF members on the yard, which made things easier. The absence of those groups meant fewer problems and fewer people to watch. Of course, the groups present were certainly dangerous. It’s just that by nature Crips and Bloods don’t get along, and neither do Northern and Southern Mexicans.
At 10 a.m. sharp, the Blacks cleared the iron pile area. As soon as they crossed the line, all the Mexicans, Whites, and Indians crossed over and began to set up shop. The new groups set hundreds of pounds of iron in the order to be used, and all began to lift. Crews of three and four prisoners formed a team that worked out on each of the many bench presses in the iron pile.
Turning to walk away, Sporty called. “Hey ese, give me a minute.”
I waited as he grabbed his shirt.
“What’s up?” I said.
“Nothing. I just wanted to kick it with you. I’ll take the day off.”
We began to walk up and down the side of the yard by the tables.
I started, “I know you have questions about me, so let’s get to the point. I’m a no-nonsense type of cat. I’m straight up. I don’t beat around the bush.”
“I know you just got here, so if there’s anything you need, I can help you out.”
“I appreciate it. Gracias, but I’m okay. My main concern is tomorrow, and where I can lift.”
“Ah, homes, these vatos can’t keep up with me, so maybe you can team up with me on my bench. All the other benches are already taken.”
“Yeah, that’ll work, but there’s something you should know about me.”
“What’s that?”
“I do my own thing. I’ll lift with you, but you have to know, I don’t make moves for anyone. I don’t take orders and I’m not anyone’s puppet. If someone asks me to do something, I’ll lay them the fuck out right then and there. If I have a problem, I’ll deal with it. If you see me fighting against three or four cats, don’t get involved. Sit back and watch the show. It’s only going to last a few seconds before they’re laid out. As you get to know me, you’ll understand. I’m an extremely serious motherfucker. I hate drama and bullshit. If you can live with that, then you get a workout partner. Otherwise, I appreciate the offer but I’ll find another bench.”
“Nah homes, I can live with that. I don’t like bullshit either and the less drama the better. Besides, I wouldn’t have asked you to lift with me if I didn’t already know a little about you. I heard about what you did to Jose in the AC, and I like your style. I know you’re Colombian and have no ties to anyone but yourself. I like that.”
We continued to walk and he explained his weight lifting routine and his theory on muscle development and response. Sporty knew what he was doing and I liked his discipline. It was obvious he lived what he preached.
“I saw the line routine you did with everyone and I won’t be doing that,” I said.
“Why, you don’t like Mexicans?” He laughed.
“Nah, I just have a routine I’ve been doing since I was five that I stick to.”
“That’s fair, do what you do, ese.”
“What’s the deal on the showers? Is there a set time I can use it?”
“You can shower whenever you like, but we normally go in there after we lift. As you can see, the shower is full of changos now, and they set up bodyguards that stand there and watch their backs while they shower. They don’t want one of these big bad Mexicans to sneak up on them.”
I look
ed and, sure enough, while the Blacks showered, four bodyguards stood watch.
I showered as everyone was going in at the end of the yard day. I waited until the end because I wanted to talk to Wicked.
When yard time was over and the bulls called my name, I walked through the first gate into the sally port. I turned around and the cuffs went on my wrists. Taking a deep breath, I thought, one day down.
Chapter 14
Orange County Jail, 1985
Richard transferred to Folsom Prison soon after we moved to unit-F. Monster and most of the other men I knew also transferred to prison. The players were different, but the game remained the same. I remained too. I was fighting a capital case and would be there for a couple more years.
My new cellies were Chente from Santa Ana, his homeboys Lucky and Crow, the darkest Mexican I had ever met, Handsome from Stanton, who looked like the Hunchback of Notre-Dame, Psycho from Fullerton, Apache from Orange, and his homeboy, Slick Rick. They were all extremely violent convicts fighting cases that carried many years in prison. All were ages twenty-four to twenty-eight, and each one had something to prove. Facing long prison terms, they wanted no doubt in anyone’s mind that they were serious soldiers.
Those men were all respected gang members and they treated me as one of them. I had a reputation for taking care of business and I had Monster’s backing, and his influence continued to affect behavior there. Chente and I hit it off right away and worked out together.
Every day with those men was a day with potential for death, and any sign of weakness was an invitation to be killed. I often demonstrated why I was called Mad. It was important they saw it for themselves. I wanted those men to know that any attempt to harm me would become a nightmare for the one who tried it.
My life was a mess. Although I acted like I didn’t have a care in the world, I lived in a constant state of despair.
I think if a few things in my early life had turned out differently I would have been a great actor. My performance there surely deserved an Academy Award. I was playing a role, and any slip of the theater mask could bring deadly consequences.
Escape Artist Page 13