I put it in first and drove off. From the start I knew it was built right and to the gills. Its transmission had close-ratio gears and the roar of the engine sent chills up my spine. Under the dash was a huge monster tach that indicated the RPMs. Then suddenly, while I drove, the engine started to die. “What’s wrong?”
“Fuck, I don’t know,” I said. I flipped the switches on the polished aluminum dashboard. The first one turned on the lights and the second one was for the inside lights. As panic set in, I flipped the third one and the sound of the electric fuel pump caught my ear as life flowed back into the engine. My panic wasn’t because I thought I’d get caught, but because I thought I might not be able to make it to the warehouse, and I’d lose the ride.
I jumped on the freeway and opened it up. Damn, it was powerful, and Francis said, “This is the baddest motor around.”
I knew he thought he should have kept it for himself, but it was mine now.
We arrived at the warehouse a little after 1:30 a.m., and as soon as I parked I turned on the lights and closed the door. Adrian came in and locked the door behind him. It was then Francis said, “You scored. Look at this motor.” He opened up the deck lid and what I saw made me smile. The entire motor was chromed out with 48 IDA Webers and velocity stacks. It was beautiful, and it was mine.
I went through the entire car and found receipts for the engine and trans, built by Rimco and Small Car Specialties.
The receipts told me the motor was a 2180cc powerhouse that would blow the doors off of anything around. Francis was right. I had scored.
For the next two days and nights, Adrian, Francis and I worked on stripping the ’67 of everything and placing its front end and trans on my new pan. Once that was done, we unbolted the ’63 and called Julian, who brought Ruben and Renee—Francis’s brother and another member of the club—to help us lift the body and place it on the pan.
As soon as they saw what I had, they all approved.
“Bill, this is one badass ’63. When you pop out with it, you’ll be holding down,” Julian said.
“What are you going to do with the ’67?” asked Ruben.
“Probably cut it up. I don’t want it to be found around here because the cops may start looking around,” I said.
“Let me have it. I’ll bring a flatbed this afternoon and it’ll save you the work of cutting it up.” I knew Ruben had a connection with a car stereo place and could get some of the best stereo equipment.
“How about I give you the ’67 and you hook up my stereo with amps and speakers?”
“Deal. I’ll bring it by this afternoon.”
By that afternoon, I finished putting my car together and Ruben took the ’67. Everyone was gone except Adrian and Francis. I was tightening down my carbs while Francis and Adrian finished lowering the front end. The next day I’d change the door locks and take it to a place that specialized in interior and carpeting.
“Start this motherfucker up, ese,” said Adrian.
I got inside and looked at my ride. Everything was perfect. I flipped the hidden switch for my electric fuel pump and turned the key. The engine came to life in its new body with a roar. I backed it out of the warehouse and Adrian and Francis got in. Revving the engine, I pulled onto the street, driving around the block to get a feel for the car. I don’t know if I was happy, but for that day the void inside was satisfied. How could I have known that to stay satisfied I’d have to steal over and over again?
Chapter 28
San Quentin Death Row, 1993-1994
In these pages you may come to the conclusion that I am a contradiction. You would not be alone in thinking so. On a number of occasions I’ve even been referred to as “a perfect contradiction.” I’m a man well-read who understands a progressive state of mind as well as the sensitivities of the soul. And yet the polar opposite exists side by side, in good standing. I’m a Neanderthal, a man ruled by primal instinct and an animalistic focus. I am both sides of the coin, and I make no excuses for who I am. I refer to it here in order for you to understand there is truth—and value—to both sides.
What may not be apparent is that I am afraid. Fear is at the center of this existence. Each day I live behind these brutal walls, I fear for my life and of disappearing as an individual. Fear triggers the inferno deep inside me that rebels and struggles against the opinion that I deserve to die, that I have nothing to contribute, and that I will be defined by my surroundings, thus becoming one with them.
Maybe I’m trying to prove it to myself as well. I made a horrible mistake—one I regret and think about daily since that night so many years ago when I lost control. Never far from my thoughts is the fact that I’m responsible for the loss of a life, and nothing I ever do will make up for it. So why try? Why continue with the struggle against this opinion? Because I am a human being. Because I regret it. Because I am responsible and wish to express my remorse and apologize for the pain I have caused.
This struggle, if you haven’t guessed, is also against myself. I caused others to view me this way. It’s solely up to me to attempt to change it.
In the months after the execution of Robert Alton Harris, I noticed certain developments taking place. My dreams and nightmares often had fields of color and music. Never before had that happened. My subconscious mind had always seen and interpreted everything in stark black-and-white images, where only numbers and equations quieted the chaos and storm. Now the fields of color, accompanied by music, moved in like the ocean tide, slowly and gently, but with an unstoppable force that threatened to drown me if I didn’t drink in its influence and find its meaning.
I rarely spoke to any of the prisoners around me. Instead, I spent my days thinking of color—the intensity of its influence and its connection to emotions. I longed to speak to another artist about this, but none existed in my world. I was alone with my thoughts, dreams, and this new language made of color.
As all of these revelations were occurring to me, everything around me remained the same. Violence is something that never grows tired here, and when a particular person grows tired of performing it—when his thirst is quenched and he has been used and devoured—it jumps to the next willing person, like a disease.
One person who, for the span of less than fifteen seconds, would fall under the influence of violence was an African American man named Penmen.
I hardly knew Penmen beyond the casual nod while passing each other to and from the iron pile. I did not associate or have any type of relationship with him. However, as with all of the men on the yard, I was intimate with their habits, what made them tick, and their nature.
By that time, I no longer worked out with Sporty. He and the majority of the Mexicans on the yard ended up in the AC for an act of violence. Sporty had come out to the yard one day and stabbed another Mexican repeatedly until the gunner put four rounds into the wall just above his head. It had been over two years since the incident, and he wouldn’t be back for another few years, if at all. After arriving in the AC, he’d stabbed yet another inmate. It seemed Sporty was well on his way to becoming what he considered a respected man.
After nearly five years on the iron pile, I also looked different from the twenty-three-year-old kid who struggled with 250 pounds on arrival. I weighed over two hundred pounds, adding thirty pounds of muscle to a six-foot-one frame. It made me look a lot like those gladiators I was once so impressed by.
I had eighteen-inch arms hanging, nearly twenty inches when flexed, a fifty-inch chest, a twenty-nine-inch waist, and less than six percent body fat. I looked like a machine, and I was a man whose body language, attitude, and appearance said one thing: “Don’t fuck with me.”
One overcast Friday, I considered not going out to the yard. I’d been out every day since Sunday, and I wanted to finish the portrait I was doing for a member of the San Francisco 49ers, but the call of the iron pile won out. I made my way to the yard after being searched thoroughly, which raised my attention. Being searched on the way to the yard was n
ormal. Being searched so thoroughly meant the bulls expected something to happen. I wondered if maybe I was suspected of something, but that thought was quickly dismissed when I saw everyone being delayed because of how closely they were being searched. I looked to the gunners and there were more of them than usual. My stomach tightened as I continued on my way. Something was up and the bulls expected trouble. The only problem was, I had no idea what they expected. I had been out the previous day and nothing caught my attention. That’s when it hit me. The bulls knew about it and I didn’t because they were putting someone new on the yard, someone they anticipated would cause trouble. The classification committee in East Block meets on Thursdays and they had assigned someone to grade-A status.
I stepped onto the yard and made my way past the shower to a four-foot wall where I normally placed my things. It was also a perfect place to watch who was coming through the gate and how everyone responded to his presence.
Nearly the entire yard had been let out and no one seemed to be aware of the change in the bulls’ attitude. But I trusted my instincts. I always paid attention to them and they were never wrong. I glanced at the gunner and he was also on alert, which meant someone would be coming soon. Just as my vision focused on the door where inmates continued to file out, I saw him. It was over a year since I’d seen Polo. That last time, he’d raised a sixty-pound dumbbell over his head and smashed it into the head of an unsuspecting prisoner who sat playing cards. He didn’t kill him, but the man would never be the same.
The gate opened and he stepped into the yard. From the immediate response of most of the men, I knew things wouldn’t end well. Personally, I had no problem with Polo. We normally nodded to each other whenever we crossed paths. As he made his way to the far end of the yard and surveyed the response to his arrival, our eyes locked on each other and we both nodded.
As soon as all prisoners were out on the yard, the bulls locked the gate and walked off.
Polo remained against the far wall. He put on his shorts and slingshot shirt, then seemed at a loss. No one spoke to him, and the tension on the yard was so thick you could cut it with a knife.
I noticed Polo had lost weight. The year he spent in the hole took fifteen to twenty pounds off him and he looked tired, as if maybe all of it was becoming too much for him.
Normally, he was five foot ten, about 210 pounds with piercing black eyes and tattoos covering his entire chest, arms, and back. He had long black hair and a dark complexion. Rumors said he’d been a hit man for the Hells Angels, but I rarely put much stock in rumors. True or not, it didn’t matter. What mattered was what was about to happen.
I remained in my spot and watched. I didn’t begin my normal routine because I knew we would be going in early. The minutes passed like the pulse behind a bruise, and I thought of a scene from Romeo and Juliet: These violent delights have violent ends / And in their triumph die, like fire and powder, / Which, as they kiss, consume.
I saw Penmen circle the yard. Every time he reached the iron pile, he stopped to do a set of bench presses, and while he did them another prisoner spoke to him, as if he were pumping him up. It’s very common for a workout partner to talk to you while you work out, to focus your mind with words of encouragement. But I wasn’t fooled. I saw it for what it was. Penmen was being manipulated and it had nothing to do with lifting weights.
My stomach tightened, as if a fist took hold of it and squeezed. I knew something was about to happen, but something was off.
Penmen finished another set and began to circle the yard again. Polo crossed the yard in the direction of the drinking fountain and shower, which were less than ten feet from where I stood. As he neared, his path crossed Penmen’s, and Penmen wasted no time. He exploded into a fury of punches that were aimed at Polo’s face. Polo fought back, attempting to stop the attack. Whistles sounded and gunmen yelled, “Stop. Stop. Everyone down on the ground. Now.”
Everything slowed down. I watched the two combatants still throwing punches. Then looked to the gunner, who brought his rifle up to his shoulder. Whistles continued to sound. My eyes returned to Polo and Penmen, who had separated, but were still in fighting stances, hands up, ready to resume their fight. Then a single gunshot sounded and Penmen staggered and fell to the ground less than a few feet from me. He looked straight at me, his eyes in shock as much as in pain, but very much focused on me. His right hand reached up to me and his mouth opened as if he wanted to tell me something. His eyes widened and I saw, before they glazed over and his mouth closed, that he was afraid, but it was much too late. He was one of them. The entire yard was ordered down to the ground. In the prone position, I looked up to see dozens of bulls at the gate, where Polo entered and was escorted inside. Then two African convicts carried Penmen to the gate, where he was placed on an orange gurney and taken away. Penmen died on the ground that day on Yard-1 of East Block’s death row, looking at me and trying to tell me something. I knew all too well. It occurred to me then that the element I felt before, and recognized but couldn’t place, was the approach of death.
Chapter 29
Orange County Jail, 1986–1987
The final months I spent in the high-power unit were relatively quiet. I continued my routine and wore the mask, which grew heavier by the day. I was tired, but determined not to show anyone even the slightest glimmer of weakness. To everyone, I was Sinbad or Mad Bill, a machine that never stopped or slowed down, and I’d do nothing to alter that perception. In truth, my life depended on it. Show weakness to a pack of wolves, no matter how strong or vicious you used to be, and they’ll devour you. It’s just how things are when you’re locked up.
My release from high-power came in 1986. The classification committee found no true or factual evidence that tied me to the attempted escape from the roof, other than the word of an informant who was classified as “confidential.” Nevertheless, I spent over a year in highpower with no write-ups and no confrontations with inmates or officers that they knew of. Therefore I was sent to unit-C, to another cell that held eight men. Each cell had a sleeping area and a dayroom attached that contained a shower, phone, TV, and large table.
As I waited for the unit cop to assign me a cell, I stood in the vestibule with my personal property rolled up inside my mattress. Nothing about the situation was new to me, but entering a new unit was always unsettling. I didn’t know who would be there and who was running the unit. As I wondered about it, the vestibule door clicked open and Chente walked in.
“So the committee got tired of your ass too, huh?”
“Tú sabes, carnal. They sent me to keep an eye on your crazy ass so you won’t get lonely,” laughed Chente.
“Man, I’m glad to be out of that fuckin’ box. I was tired of that program and the bullshit.”
Chente nodded. “Who do you think’s running things in there?”
“No idea, and I don’t really give a fuck. Let’s just get on with this.”
The unit cop assigned us both to cell-4 in unit-C15. The two bunks were open because the former occupants had been severely beaten, and one had been stabbed.
“Maybe you’ll fare better,” the unit cop told us as he opened the unit door.
The cell was like any other eight-man cell I’d been in, but after being in a four-by-eight-foot cell for so long, it seemed huge. Four of the six men in the cell I knew from unit-A, and the other two I knew by reputation. All of them were Southern Mexican gang members, and since Chente and I had just come from the high-power unit, we were treated with a certain amount of respect. This was fine by me. The last thing I wanted to do was have to prove to anyone I shouldn’t be fucked with. Luckily, it wouldn’t come to that. My reputation preceded me. Word travels fast in prison, and everyone who heard of my reputation and how I took care of business seemed impressed enough not to want to see if it was all true.
I settled in and got into the flow of everyday life on the mainline. Going to the chow hall was something I enjoyed. Especially in the morning, when the rays of s
unlight filtered through the windows and touched my face. I also enjoyed the familiar faces I saw there. Many said things like, “It’s about time they let you out,” or, “You look like someone I used to know.” Others just nodded, but they all showed me the one thing I wanted: respect.
Within a month of being on the mainline I was in the dayroom having a cup of coffee just before breakfast when I heard all of the units being locked down. Within moments our unit cop came into the control area and locked us down, then came into the tier with three other cops. They had our pictures, and as they called out our names we stepped forward and were identified. My stomach tightened. It was too familiar. My mind went back to that night after we returned from the roof, the night of the attempted escape. It had been over a year since then, yet the memory was vivid. Once the count was done, the cops left and Chente looked at me.
“Hey ese, you been up to no good? Remember, we have our eyes on you.” The last part he said with a Southern drawl imitating the classification committee lieutenant.
“Not me, but you know what, them placas didn’t look happy. Something’s up and it’s serious as fuck.”
Later, we sat watching TV and a large grin spread across my face. I’d been right. It all felt familiar because it was. I learned that earlier that morning an escape had been made from the roof. The inmates who escaped had used tools from the roof ’s equipment locker to break through the roof fence, then scaled down the building using the extension cords they found in the locker.
It turns out Olaf, the one and only Mountain Man who had lived next door to me for more than a year in high-power, had noticed the tools and extension cords, and they’d inspired him to come up with a plan.
What Olaf needed was the keys to the fenced area where the equipment locker was stored, so he befriended a cop, and over time he must have gained his trust.
On the day of his escape, Olaf took another prisoner with him up to the roof.
Escape Artist Page 28