“Hey, thanks. Yeah, I think I will cruise with you. I like your club. Who’s your Sergeant of Arms?”
“That would be Zach. He has the fastest car around and usually races V8s.”
“No shit, huh.”
“Yeah, he’s that yellow ’67.”
We walked over to it and a guy of about twenty-three with blond hair and crooked teeth popped open the engine compartment with a shit-eating grin.
“What do you do in the quarter mile?” I asked.
“Fast,” he replied. “Want to try me?”
“What, 14s?” He smiled. “13s?” He smiled more. “12s?” He just looked at me.
“That’s fast, all right.”
I didn’t want to race him. What I wanted was to know who he was and which one was his car. When we pulled out of the parking lot, I stayed a little behind and watched.
“What’s on your mind, brah?”
“I just solved our problem on where to find all the cars we need. Look at this roll sheet. There are over twenty-seven cars on it and every one of them is a mark. Do all these clubs have roll sheets and give them out? If they do, they’re as stupid as fuck. Let’s go to Angelo’s and see what the deal is. The first car I’m taking is that smiling idiot Sergeant of Arms’ ’67.”
“Man, if you could see the look in your eyes you’d fall out. You look like a mad criminal genius. Fuck, I gotta stop hanging with you. You’re a bad influence and stealing is wrong. It’s against the Ten Commandments. Why don’t we stop and pray for a moment?”
“Man, shut the fuck up, you mumble mouth motherfucker. It’s no wonder your girl can’t stand you. Your breath stinks.”
We both laughed and followed the Lightning Volks to Angelo’s. When we arrived, I couldn’t believe my eyes. There had to be over a hundred Cal VWs of every year, make, and model, and at least six or seven other clubs there. I never heard of the place. I always went to Whittier Boulevard in Los Angeles, where most of the Hispanics cruised, or Whittier Boulevard in Whittier and La Habra where the whites cruised. But this place seemed to be for a slightly older crowd that was from Orange County, and their cars were much more complete and polished.
That night three other clubs talked to me about membership. Of the three, only one gave me a membership form, which, like a roll sheet, had all of its members on it. I also learned of an upcoming event within six weeks called Bug-In, held once a year in Irvine, where VWs from around the country came together to race, show, sell, and hang out for two days.
I left that night with the location of over fifty marks and the possibility of hundreds more if Bug-In proved to be what everyone said it was.
Things were looking up and I got right to work. The next night, Go-Go and I got the yellow ’67 from the Sergeant of Arms of the Lighting Volks, and a blue ’61 ragtop from the other club who gave me their membership form. Both of the cars were placed in a small warehouse I rented in La Puente, and within three days I acquired a spare motor for myself—the one from the ’67—and had $9,500 in my pocket from the shops and fences who bought everything I brought them. I gave Go-Go $3,000 and we prepared again for the next week and, of course, Bug-In. What I had in mind for that event would make me one of the most sought-after car thieves in Southern California and lift my reputation to the heights I’d always envisioned.
Chapter 31
San Quentin Death Row, 1994
The speaker to the right of my cell crackled and the desk officer announced, “The following inmate, prepare for escort. Noguera, 3-77, get up, get dressed, full blues.”
I stood up from the five-gallon bucket I used as a seat when I worked. I’d known the moment would come, but still my muscles tensed over what was in store. Earlier in the week the Supreme Court of California ruled 4–3 confirming my conviction and against me receiving relief via habeas corpus.
I put on my blues, a pair of state-issued blue denim jeans, blue shirt, and boots. As I finished tying my boots, I heard the two bulls coming down the tier for me. Each step sounded like an approaching storm. I popped my neck joints, a habit I have when I’m nervous.
“Noguera, you ready?”
I nodded. What choice did I have? It’s not like I could just say, “No, I’m actually not ready. Could you come back in, say, seventy years?”
I put my hands through the food port so the bull could place cuffs on my wrists, then I turned around so the chain attached to the cuffs could be wrapped around my waist and locked in place. Once secured, my door was keyed open and I stepped out on the tier. The bull to my right said, “Hold up, I have to double lock the cuffs.”
I said nothing. I was still trying to take it all in.
“Let’s go,” said the second bull who stood behind me. I was escorted downstairs and into the captain’s office where the new warden sat behind the desk. To his right, a captain and lieutenant stood.
“Please sit down, Mr. Noguera,” said the warden.
Warden Calderon was appointed warden of San Quentin State Prison earlier that year, and this was the first time I’d spoken to him, although I’d seen him numerous times walking with one of his captains. I never saw a reason to talk to him.
Warden Calderon liked making an impression on people. He wore thousand-dollar suits, and his hair stylist probably charged more for a haircut than I spent in the store in a month. He came across as a guy who’d watched too many mob movies, and to me he looked like a peacock. He was the complete opposite of the former warden, Daniel Vasquez.
“Mr. Noguera, as warden of San Quentin I have the duty to carry out death warrants. I don’t take this duty lightly, nor should you take it personally. I hope you understand. The California Supreme Court has confirmed your conviction and a date has been set for your execution. That date, set no more than sixty days from today, is December 16, 1994. Would you please sign here, indicating I have notified you of this, as well as choosing what method of execution will be administered?”
What? Was he kidding? I knew this was part of the process, but it takes on a whole new dimension when it comes down to signing the documents. It suddenly becomes real.
“Warden, I’m not signing anything.”
“Mr. Noguera. You shouldn’t take this personally. It’s just a process.”
Just a process? I shouldn’t take it personally? Anger rose up my spine and my eyes came to life.
“Warden, nothing could be more personal than you trying to take my life. I don’t care if you’re just the messenger. The bottom line is, I’m not going to sign anything. Take that any way you like.”
“You realize your refusal to sign will not delay anything?”
“Then you shouldn’t take it so personally.”
“We’re done here then.” He nodded to his bulls. “Take him back to his cell.”
I was escorted back to my cell, and with each step my anger grew. It may only be a process to him, but to me, it was my life and it was personal. I had to think fast.
I had to get a stay and notify the Federal District Court that I sought relief, otherwise they’d move me to the first tier and place me on “death watch.” That’s when they place a cage in front of the cell with a bull in it 24-7. His job would be to watch the death watch prisoner to prevent him from killing himself. Can you imagine? They don’t want me to kill myself, and will go as far as placing a bull in front of my cell around the clock, so at the end they can kill me. Not personal? All the smiling, reassuring faces they put on wouldn’t change my mind. I too wore a mask.
The next morning at 10 a.m. I called a number of lawyers I knew and asked them for advice. I then called the California Appellate Project, and an attorney there agreed to secure my stay. She said it was a rather simple process and she’d file the required papers to notify the Federal District Court of my intention to seek habeas corpus relief and appointment of federal counsel. I agreed to call back by Friday, two days later, and see how things were progressing.
Meanwhile, after I hung up, I paced back and forth in my cell. I imagine
d the worst but forced myself to relax. Stressing myself out accomplished nothing. I would get a stay. I had a right to an appeal in the federal system, and all of those things would be granted.
I decided not to tell my family anything about it. What would it accomplish, aside from upsetting them? Imagine your only son—the son you held as an infant and watched take his first steps—calling you from death row to tell you he’s been given an execution date. No, I’d keep it from them, and when I called them I’d lie.
Over the next couple of days I stayed inside. I didn’t want to be around people. Instead I spent the days remembering and daydreaming about my childhood—the days before all the fighting started in my home—the only time I remember being truly happy. I thought about my parents walking hand-in-hand in a park near our home, often kissing, as my sister and I ran around and played. I remembered it as if it was yesterday, and I remembered my parents’ laughter as they watched us. How could things have gone so wrong? How could I, at that very moment, find myself in a cell on death row with a pending execution date? How could all the wrong numbers have fallen into place so perfectly for me to be in that position?
I didn’t know the answer. I took a deep breath and knelt down on the floor of my cell, closed my eyes, and shut out the world around me. Suddenly I was in my cave. The moisture from the spray of the waterfall touched my skin and I opened my eyes and stood. I took a deep breath and drew strength from my hallowed ground. I called and first Rage jumped through the mouth of the cave, followed by Pain. My beasts—my strengths and my weakness. I touched their damp fur and the fear subsided. Another presence appeared, and through the water came a small child, untouched by the water. Untouched by anything.
He smiled at me as the tears ran down my face. He was and is the only one I didn’t wear a mask around. He knew me as I knew myself, because he is the part of me I protected from harm, the Radiant Child. He took my hand and smiled. He understood me, knew everything about me, and knew I was hurting. The gaping wounds from my past were still open and bleeding.
He led me to another part of the cave where I’d built a small gravestone so many years ago, when I was an eighteen-year-old grieving father. It read:
William Achilles Noguera
1982–83
Never Forgotten Son
Rage and Pain knelt beside us, and from deep inside me where that inferno burns, I drew strength from the two of them.
I opened my eyes and stood. Gone was the cave, my beasts, my Radiant Child. I was in a cell on death row at San Quentin State Prison and they were trying to kill me, but I wouldn’t allow that to happen.
On Friday, I woke up earlier than usual, and after a morning cup of bitter black coffee, I washed and scrubbed my entire cell, then waxed the floor. I was killing time, waiting for 10 a.m. so I could call the attorney who agreed to file the required papers in the Federal District Court for a stay of execution and appointment of counsel. In the latter case, I had no choice. My funds were exhausted and I couldn’t afford the cost of a defense team. The only funds I had were from the sale of my art, and I sent ninety percent of that home to my family.
I finished waxing my floor and washed my hands in my sink. I turned to grab my towel and found a friendly face standing at the door.
“Good morning, Bill.”
“Good morning, Father O’Neil. How are you?”
“I’m fine, but it’s you I’m concerned with.”
“Not to worry, Father. I’m fine. I always am.”
“That’s what worries me, Bill. You’re always fine, no matter what you’re facing. You shake it off and continue. I need you to know that if you want someone to speak to, I’m here for you. It can be about anything.”
“I know, Father, and I appreciate it. But really, I’m fine.”
Father O’Neil came to see me every week since I’d arrived in East Block nearly seven years before. Being Roman Catholic, I took communion each week, confessed my sins, and took comfort in the fact that the church still considered me one of them despite everything.
“I have some good news,” he said. “In the next few months a small chapel will be built here in East Block where we’ll be able to hold services. We’ll have to share it with the other faiths, but the fact that for the first time a Catholic service will be held on the row is a signal of progress.”
“It is, Father.” Although I said it, it wasn’t heartfelt. I have little faith in buildings where people go to pray. I’ve never felt the presence of God in such buildings.
Since I was a small child my parents made me and my sister attend church every Sunday morning—Saint Joseph Catholic Church in La Puente. My parents never attended, but they would drop us off and then pick us up when the service was over. “Do as I say, not as I do,” my father would say. This was a lesson I learned not to question early on, at least not where I could be heard.
As a grown man, I remained Roman Catholic. I followed the rituals out of habit, or maybe as a tribute to the idea of being Roman Catholic. But the fact was, the only church I believed in, the only faith I truly have even still, is between me and God. I will bow to no one—priest, saint, or common man—but each day I kneel before God. My faith and beliefs are simple because they involve only the two of us. Period.
After Father O’Neil left, I paced back and forth in my cage. Five steps to the door, turn, five steps to the back of the cage. On and on I paced until 10 a.m., when I finally dialed the number of the California Appellate Project.
“Operator, may I help you?”
“Collect call from William A. Noguera.”
“Please hold.”
“Hello, William?”
“Good morning, Ms. Schauer. I was wondering how things were going. As you can imagine, it’s been on my mind.”
“Yes, yes, I can only imagine. But you needn’t worry. I filed the required papers for your stay of execution, as well as a motion for appointment of counsel, and the Federal District Court for the Southern District has accepted and granted you a stay.”
Until that moment, I hadn’t realized how nervous and worried I’d been, but her words took away the fist that gripped my insides.
“I can’t tell you how relieved I am to hear that. Thank you for your help. I appreciate it greatly.”
“You’re welcome, William. As you know, the court will appoint an attorney for you, but there’s no set time frame for this. An attorney will be appointed as one becomes available. I can come to visit you next week and discuss this further with you.”
“That’s okay, really. I have some ideas about this process and I’d like to take care of them on my own, but I appreciate the offer.”
“Are you sure? It’s no trouble at all.”
“Thank you, but I’m fine. You’ve done a great deal for me already.”
“Okay, if you’re sure.”
“I am. Good day, Ms. Schauer.”
“Goodbye, William, and good luck.”
I hung up the phone and took a deep breath. Since the Federal Court stayed my execution, I was under federal jurisdiction. I’d make contact with the federal attorney I knew of by reputation, one with a track record of getting reversals, and ask for his help.
I thought about Ms. Schauer’s offer to come visit. Unlike the majority of the men here who would jump at the chance for someone to come see them, especially a woman, I had no interest in seeing anyone unless it was totally necessary. For me, every time I walk into the visiting area, I feel like a circus act. Most of the men here accept visits as part of being locked up.
Walk into any prison visiting area and you’ll understand the circus act I refer to. Men accept visits from women they’d never be involved with if they were free. The women, deep down, know this but continue to return week after week because they finally have the guy they’ve always dreamed of—even if he’s an illusion. The prisoner, for the illusion, is rewarded with a woman who will take care of him, give him money, food, quarterly packages, even drugs. There are some exceptions, but they�
��re few and far between.
I don’t have much in common with visitors. No matter if I enjoy their company and conversation, at the end of the visit they walk away and I stay here. It’s more difficult for me to walk back to my cell after a visit than it would be to avoid visits altogether. It’s like being in hell, and every once in a while looking up at a glass of ice water but not being allowed to drink from it. Just knowing it’s there becomes an added torture.
Over the next few weeks, I wrote and received correspondence from that San Francisco attorney and his partner who I thought could help me. He agreed to petition the court for appointment. Until then, he’d research my case and get a feel for what was needed.
I also received a letter from a nonprofit website for artists called Intangible.org. They had seen my work and wanted me to become a part of their family of artists. As soon as I read the letter, I responded by requesting more information. I asked how they found me and inquired if they would be open to displaying my new body of work which no one had seen. This work was based on fragmenting an image into geometric abstract forms based on mathematical and rhythmic arrangements, as well as images based on my dreams. Those moving still-life, stark, black-and-white images I had always dreamed of were actualized in my work and I was finally ready for the world to see them.
Within a week I received a response, and after careful consideration I mailed Intangible.org a set of slides and pictures I hoped they would display. The response was immediate, not only from the people at Intangible, who were extremely impressed with what I sent them, but from a number of publications who saw my work on the Intangible website and were interested in interviewing me about my work.
I sat in my cage reading the words they wrote about my work and a sense of satisfaction overcame me. I’d taken another step in the right direction on the road to meeting my goals. It was just one step in a long journey, but it was significant.
Maybe the distraction made me momentarily forget where I was and who surrounded me, but the following day, as I made my way out to the yard, I still felt good. The minor success was on my mind and my elevated mood clouded my vision, blinding me to the tension and hatred leveled at me. I was so blind I didn’t see or sense it until it was too late. Even then, I allowed my mood to alter my response. Entering the yard, I walked as I normally did to my spot where I placed my things, then warmed up before going through my martial arts routine. It was a beautiful day. The sun was warm and I decided to enjoy the sunshine for a few moments.
Escape Artist Page 30