Escape Artist

by William A. Noguera

  I didn’t want to press him too much and scare him away, but I also didn’t want him to think he could come back later and sign. If he did, he might have to wait many weeks or months for me to make room for him on my busy schedule. I also knew that once he left he might forget to come back or decide not to buy my work.

  “Let me see one of them contracts,” he said.

  By that time, everyone had gone by and yard had been released on the third tier, and they were releasing the fourth tier. I had to get the contract done quickly.

  “I’ll write both pieces up on one contract. When they’re both finished, and you’ve seen them, I’ll seal them and you can pick them up from the art manager to complete the sale. I do it this way to prevent someone from seeing your pieces and buying them on the spot.”

  “Go ahead and write it up and I’ll sign. I don’t want anyone touching what’s mine.”

  I quickly wrote a description of the work I would do for him. We both signed.

  “Thank you for the order. I look forward to starting your pieces.”

  “Thank you. I can’t wait to see them when you’re finished. I’ll check in next month to see how you’re doing.”

  “That sounds good. I should be close to finishing by then.”

  “Let’s get you outside before someone starts wondering why we’re up here shooting the breeze.”

  I laughed. “By the way, my name’s Noguera. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Tucker.”

  “Call me Tuck,” he laughed. “And the pleasure’s all mine.”

  He escorted me downstairs, where I went through the pat down and wand before going outside. I was satisfied with myself that I had two pieces to do for pay. I had taken a step in the right direction. It was the first step in a very long journey.

  Chapter 20

  Orange County Jail, 1986

  The guy with the hacksaw blades Trigger and Shotgun were waiting for came in and was placed in unit-A. During church the following Tuesday night, Trigger got the blades.

  Prisoners from any part of the jail, regardless of housing assignment, could meet at church. Drugs, shanks, information, and in this case hacksaw blades, were passed along there.

  As Friday drew near, I believed the escape would actually happen. The seventeen other men needed to carry the rope upstairs to the roof had been recruited, and in cell-4 a number of them were braiding long strips of sheets five feet long. They would be placed in each shoe of the twenty-five men involved. Of those men, only six planned to escape. I was sure, once others saw what was happening, they would run too, but I would not be one of them. For whatever reason, I had a bad feeling about the plan. It seemed solid, but I didn’t like the number of people involved, and being on the run with no real goal just didn’t appeal to me. Deep down, I still had something to lose.

  On Friday at lunch time, Trigger asked me if he could get on the broom because he wanted to check all the braided rope and give everyone involved their ten feet.

  I went into the cell and sat down at the dayroom table to watch the news when Chente approached me.

  “What’s up, man?”

  “Nada, just kicking back while Trigger takes care of his business,” I said.

  “You haven’t said much about this. Are you going with us? I got a place we can go to, get a ride, some cash, and be gone.”

  And then what? I thought. No one had a real plan after getting out. Being gone was not a plan, and if I decided to go it wouldn’t be with any of them. They were killers and warriors, but fighting and killing was different than making it on the run. All of them would get caught within a week if they got out because they’d stay close to what they knew.

  To be successful after an escape, you have to cut all ties, get far away, secure identification, and stay under the radar by living a normal and attention-free life. None of those guys could do that. Their plan was escape, have fun, continue to rob, steal, and kill. In other words, do exactly what they’d done their entire lives.

  I respected them because of how dangerous they were, but they were not the type of men I would associate with outside of jail. I admired some of their qualities, but outside of these unique circumstances we would not be on friendly terms. I wore a mask that fooled them all and I would continue to wear it, but my act never fooled the one person that counted—me.

  “I’ll check it out and decide when I see how things turn out, but you should know this: if I decide to fly, I won’t be going with you or anyone else. If I go, it’ll be alone. My chances of making it are better that way,” I said.

  “I hear you, but my offer stands,” he said.

  “Gracias, I appreciate it.”

  He watched the news for a few more minutes, then got up and went to his bunk to lay down. He wasn’t happy. He wanted me to come with him, but when I refused it was as if I’d let him down. Maybe I should have kept my thoughts to myself, but the last thing I needed was for him or any of the men to think I’d be going with them, then once out, change up on them. That could cost me. Maybe even my life.

  I had to play my cards right. Although I had no intention of escaping, once I saw the open cage and others leaving, my mind might change. If it did, I wanted no misunderstandings.

  Trigger gave everyone their pieces of the braided rope and placed handles on each of the four hacksaw blades to make sawing easier.

  We went to dinner and got back by 5:30 p.m. Roof-yard would begin at 7 p.m. In the meantime I got on the broom and took note that everything seemed normal. The men involved were doing what they usually did. If I didn’t know what was about to happen, I wouldn’t have been tipped off by their behavior.

  Maybe I was the one acting different. I had ten feet of rope coiled at the bottom of my shoes and I was nervous. Since I wasn’t planning to escape, it all seemed like a bother to me and a completely unnecessary risk. The consequences behind the attempt, successful or not, would be huge. That’s what I feared the most.

  At ten minutes to 7 p.m. the unit officer stepped into his control booth and I hoped he would announce roof-yard was canceled. I’ve always had a sixth sense, and when it tells me something isn’t right I listen. But what could I do in those circumstances? Could I say, “I’m sorry I don’t want to be involved?” If I did and something went wrong, I’d be the scapegoat. I’d be blamed, or it would be rumored that I didn’t want to help and maybe I told. My reputation would probably save me if that happened, and those who knew me would speak up for me, but what about those who didn’t think highly of me? There were those who hid among the smiling faces who would love to see me brought down. They’d float the rumor again and again until someone smelled blood and they’d kill me like sharks.

  As much as I didn’t like the idea, I couldn’t think of a good reason for not believing it would work. I still had a bad feeling about it, but voicing the concern would only bring unwanted attention.

  The unit cop picked up the microphone. “Roof-yard. All inmates wishing to go to the roof, get ready. Five minutes to release.”

  All the doors opened and everyone stepped out. Normally about half the unit went to the roof, but that night everyone was going, which meant a lot more people knew what was going on and didn’t want to stay behind. Maybe they wanted a chance to escape. Some likely didn’t want to be the subject of scrutiny if something went wrong. Staying behind might suggest they told the cops what was happening. They could be stabbed and killed based on someone’s speculation and frustration over the failed attempt.

  I put the broom away and went over where Trigger, Shotgun, Chente, and another Mexican named Goofy were talking.

  “This is good. With this many vatos going to roof, that lazy-ass placa won’t search us. As soon as we get upstairs, Goofy will start tying the rope together in the bathroom. When he’s done, he’ll fold it up and carry it down to us. While he does that, Chente, go over and talk to the placa in his booth. Ask him the time and then bullshit with him about whatever to keep him from seeing Goofy with all that rope,” said Trig
ger.

  “Órale. I got it covered. Just do some fast cutting,” said Chente.

  “All right, gentlemen. Roof-yard release time. Everyone going, file out,” yelled the cop.

  We made our way to the hallway outside the unit where we were normally searched, and, as Trigger had said, the cop asked us to empty our pockets without even looking, then told us to go ahead to the roof.

  As soon as I stepped out into the night, I was hit by sadness and a sense of longing. I’d been in jail for nearly two years and I was alone. I had never been in jail or done time before, and seeing the night sky always affected me in a way I didn’t care to dwell on. But I couldn’t help it. I thought of all the things I missed out on. I wondered where I would be if I hadn’t lost control that night, and finally I bowed my head and thought of William and all of the things we could have done together. If only he hadn’t been taken from me, he’d be two and a half years old.

  This was how the thoughts always ended. I wiped my eyes to hide my tears, and replaced them with anger to fill the void where my future used to be.

  I walked over to the rail in front of the ping-pong table and stood there as a game started. The roof was a huge area with a top level where I stood and a bottom level where there was a basketball court, handball court, volleyball court, and track.

  An officer sat in his office in front of me and read a book. He was the only cop there, and he wouldn’t step outside his office with as many prisoners as there were on the roof. If he saw something he’d simply call for backup and wait for the cavalry to arrive.

  Whatever he was reading, it must have been great because he never looked up. In the meantime, Shotgun was directly behind me on the bottom level cutting away at the cage. I cast a glance his way and it occurred to me he wouldn’t make it. There was just too much to cut in the time he had left. I turned back around to see the clock above the cop’s office. It read 7:30 p.m. By that time, one by one, men were filing into the bathroom where Goofy was tying the pieces of braided rope together.

  I waited another five minutes then made my way to the bathroom. When I stepped through the door, Goofy looked up and smiled at me.

  “Órale, Sinbad. I’m almost done. Three more vatos’ shoes and I’ll take this to the fence. Think this shit will hold?”

  “Man, if it doesn’t, it’s a long way down. Maybe only one should go at a time so there’s not so much weight on it.”

  I took off my shoes and handed him the two pieces of braided rope I carried. As he took them and started tying them to the rest of the rope, I noticed how much rope there was and how difficult it could be to walk it all outside unnoticed.

  “All right, ese. I’m gone,” I said. I made my way back outside. Instead of watching the ping-pong game, which had too many people watching anyway, I went to the bottom level and walked around the outside of the basketball and volleyball courts. When I reached the handball court at the far side of the roof-yard, I allowed myself to look in the direction of where Trigger and Shotgun worked on the fence. Trigger cut and Shotgun kept watch. When Trigger got tired they’d switch places. They had cut about four feet straight down and needed another cut four feet across the bottom so they could fold the fence back and slip through, but they weren’t going fast enough. They should have been working together while someone else watched their backs.

  Goofy came out of the bathroom with all of the braided rope inside his jumpsuit. It was a dead give-away, but other prisoners surrounded him as he made his way to the bottom level of the yard and the cop was busy talking to Chente so he didn’t notice anything.

  Once he made it to the level where I was, Goofy took the braided rope out of his jumpsuit and laid it on the roof. He rolled it up in a bundle, similar to the ones rock climbers carry. Once the fence was open, he would have to slip out and tie the rope to the ventilation system and throw it over the side, hoping it didn’t get tangled.

  I glanced at the clock. It was 7:36 p.m. There wasn’t enough time to finish at the pace they were working. When I neared them, Chente came over to see how far they needed to go and he must have also sensed they wouldn’t make it. He grabbed one of the hacksaw blades and began to work on the fence with Trigger.

  I continued to walk, stealing glances at their progress, and it seemed with Chente helping they had a chance. If they’d had the right tools from the start, it would have taken less than half an hour. But with plastic and cardboard handles attached to the blades themselves, it was far from easy, and luck would have to be on their side.

  At 7:45 p.m. the bottom of the fence was close to being done. They attempted to fold and bend it back, but the cut wasn’t big enough for them to fit through. Realizing this, they started to cut the remaining two links as fast as they could.

  At 7:56 p.m. the cop in the office got on the loud speaker and announced the end of roof-yard time.

  I looked at where Chente and Trigger were—they had failed. They’d tried to fold the fence back in place so it wouldn’t be noticed right away, but that would depend on who came out to the roof next. If it was unit-C, they wouldn’t say anything. The fence and braided rope would be ignored. But if it was a unit for soft inmates or P/Cs, they’d run and tell the cops as fast as they could.

  Chente and Trigger managed to bend the fence back to where it wasn’t easily noticed, but the braided rope was an entirely different story. If Goofy had five more minutes he could have taken it back into the bathroom and, with help, flushed most of it down the toilet. What was left could go back to the unit and be flushed there. But he hadn’t thought ahead. By 7:50 he should have known the fence would not be cut on time, but it was too late. He hid the rope behind the equipment locker on the lower level. If no one noticed it, there stood a good chance no one would know which unit had been involved, especially with the segregation units using the roof in the mornings.

  I climbed the ramp to the top level where the main door stood open and everyone filed out. I could tell a lot of the men were upset. Others understood that when the cops found out about the attempted escape they would tear our unit apart and a number of people would go to the hole for a very long time.

  Once we were back in the unit, a quiet lingered. Everyone waited for the second shoe to drop. I got on the broom as I usually did because changing routines was a clear indication something was different, and the last thing I wanted was to draw attention to myself.

  It was close to 10:15 p.m. when the unit cop walked into his control booth and told me to lock up.

  “It’s not eleven yet. I still haven’t mopped the tier,” I said.

  “Don’t worry about the tier. Just lock up.”

  I nodded and put the broom in the storage room, then went to my cell. The microphone clicked.

  “All inmates . . . all inmates . . . emergency count. All inmates stand at the bars in full jail issue. Emergency count,” the cop barked.

  As soon as I entered my cell, a number of cops entered the unit holding books with our pictures in them and counted us. I could hear the same in other units.

  They knew we went to the roof, but two other groups had gone after us and said nothing. It was the 10 p.m. roof group that told, which meant any of the Friday roof groups could have done it, and if no one had inspected the roof in the morning, as far as the cops were concerned, the attempt could have happened yesterday.

  As soon as the cops left, Chente pulled me up.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “That they don’t know who cut the fence. They’ll find out no one’s gone and relax. Then they’ll begin interviews, but they’ll wait to see if someone begins to brag about it or what rumors pop up. Hopefully these idiots will keep their mouths shut, but the entire unit knows about it and someone will open his mouth.”

  “Damn, we almost had it. A few more minutes and that would have been it.”

  “Yeah, that and twenty-five cents will buy you a fuckin’ cup of coffee. Forget what could have been and worry about what’s going to happen.”

&n
bsp; “Man, fuck these placas. They don’t know shit. They’re stupid.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” I said, but I knew different. The cops weren’t stupid. If they didn’t find out what happened, they’d wait, shake the tree, and see what fell out.

  The weeks passed and nothing came of the attempted escape. Once everything went back to normal, everyone relaxed. We were allowed back to the roof and the evidence of the attempt was obvious. The entire bottom four feet of the fence had been double reinforced, so cutting it would be impossible. Mirrors had been installed in all the corners, so the cop in the roof office could see every part of the roof. All blind spots were eliminated, along with the possibility of escape.

  I sat watching the news nearly six weeks after the attempt when the unit cop got on the microphone. Before he spoke, I knew something was wrong. I don’t know how, but I knew it and I also knew it involved me. Over the previous couple of weeks I’d overheard conversations about the attempted escape, and the prisoners speaking were not in the unit when the attempt was made. Prisoners from another unit talking about it in such a casual manner meant the cops would soon know all about it.

  “The following inmates, roll it up for housing change.”

  My stomach tightened.

  “Gomez, 830-122; Martinez, 830-124; Silva, 818-145; Noguera, 730-256.”

  I looked at Chente. “Damn it. This is all I need,” I said.

  The names and numbers they had called belonged to Trigger, Shotgun, Chente, and me.

  The announcement didn’t include where we were headed, but as soon as I was in the unit vestibule and saw the red jumpsuits and chains waiting for us, I knew we were going to the hole.

  They took and stored our property. We stripped naked and handed over our normal mustard yellow jumpsuits and put on the red ones worn only by prisoners in the hole. Our orange wrist bands were replaced with red ones that read K-10.

  K-10 is the highest security level in the jail system.

  I said nothing as we went through the process, but I knew it was about the attempted escape. If it were for drugs, fights, extortion, or any of the many things that routinely landed prisoners in the hole, we would simply be thrown in the hole for ten days. Changing the wrist bands meant our assignment had changed to segregation.