Escape Artist

by William A. Noguera

  That evening I was released from the hole and placed upstairs in the pro per unit, thanks to the court order Judge Fitzgerald signed for Maribel Rodriguez.

  I knew some men in the pro per unit. The tier had a total of fourteen single-man cells. None of the men posed a threat to me, none of them had any affiliation to Boxer or Trigger, and none of them seemed to care about anything other than what was going on with them as individuals, which suited me perfectly.

  To hear about all the privileges the men had was one thing, but to experience it was quite another. The stereos and electric typewriters, as well as all the things they were allowed to do, was a bit like going from being in jail to freedom, and we took advantage of it at every opportunity we had. Aside from the things we were allowed to have, there were plenty of opportunities to exploit the lax security on what we received and how we received it. Law books were a standard item used by the pro per prisoners. What the cops didn’t know was that the Law Review (LR) Series was used to transport large quantities of heroin, cocaine, meth, pot, LSD, you name it, into the jail.

  Most of the law books we received came from the jail law library. LR Series books, however, were different. They were kept across the street at the public library, which the public had access to. The LRs sat on a shelf where anyone could check one out. Instead of waiting for someone to turn themselves in to the jail with an ass full of drugs and risk him using them himself, or risking the drugs being contaminated from being inside of a human rectal cavity, they simply had a friend place flat packages of drugs they wanted inside the supplement sleeve.

  The next day one of us would order the LR by filling out a law book request, and by that afternoon the particular LR was in the cell of the inmate who ordered it. It was that simple. The men then sold some of the drugs to keep the flow coming. The rest, they used. What I couldn’t believe was the amount of drugs in the unit at all times. Searches were extremely rare, and when they were done we were given prior notice and a lieutenant had to be present because of the sensitive nature of the defense materials and other evidence we had in our cells. It was much more trouble than it was worth for the cops to do a real search.

  My trial was fast approaching, which brought a great deal of stress to my life. I desperately wanted to escape and I did it with drugs. At first I used drugs from the men in the unit, then I got them from my attorney’s paralegal. She visited me several times a week and proclaimed her love for me and her desire to be together. She was beautiful and sensual, but I knew her type—long term she was trouble, and I wasn’t interested in a real relationship with her. There were times when I needed a distraction, and she offered that and more during her regular visits. She also showed up at my mother’s home, and told her and my sister she loved me and that she would get me out because she was a major part of my defense. She claimed to be in charge of witnesses and had access to defense strategies.

  It all seemed a little strange, but she was a nice distraction and I liked the drugs she brought me. Since attorneys, investigators, paralegals, and members of the defense were allowed to bring us supplies, Maribel filled highlight markers with cocaine, heroin, LSD, PCP, and any drug she wanted, then brought them to me. Since pro pers were hardly ever searched, I simply walked back to the unit carrying the drugs. It wasn’t anything new. Most of the men in the unit had a paralegal, usually a girlfriend, bringing drugs or whatever they wanted. The girlfriends-paralegals were also being paid an hourly rate by the state for what was supposed to be legal work. Of course, the money was then kicked back to the prisoner they came to see. During my trial, I went to court high every time. It’s the way I drowned out how depressed I was, and how I dealt with what was happening to me.

  When my trial got under way, Maribel insisted I stop talking to Maxine or any other woman. When I didn’t commit to her demands she went to my mother, who she already called “suegra” (mother-in-law), and told her she should convince me to be with her exclusively because she could get me out. My mother already lived in her own imaginary world, and when she came to see me she repeated what Maribel said to her. I explained that Maribel had no power to get me out because she was a paralegal. My mother was convinced what Maribel said was gospel and spoke to Maxine, who explained to her we were only friends but if it would somehow help, she would stop speaking to me.

  The next time Maribel came to see me, I confronted her. A huge argument broke out. She had even gone to Maxine’s roommate and talked to her, hoping to poison everything and make it impossible for us to remain friends. Maribel was out of control, and ruled by jealousy and hatred because I would not bend to her will. She made my already depressing existence worse.

  Throughout that time, Maribel continued to visit and bring me drugs. But something was different. She only came during the shift of two particular officers who never searched her when she came into the jail. During our visits, I noticed exchanges between Maribel and the officers. I asked why the two cops went out of their way to mess with me as if they were jealous, and she just said she was being friendly so she wouldn’t be searched.

  Of course it was a lie. I learned from another paralegal, who visited another prisoner, that she’d seen Maribel in the parking lot on several occasions kissing the two cops. Everything came to a boiling point when a witness who was scheduled to testify in my defense told me during a telephone conversation that Maribel had come to her home and tried to convince her to go out on a date with one of the cops from the jail.

  I refused her next visit, but she persisted until I finally agreed.

  “What’s wrong? Why didn’t you want to see me?”

  “Look, don’t come to see me anymore. I know you’re fucking around with the cops here. One of the other paralegals saw you making out in the parking lot. I see them tripping over themselves to escort you to your car when you leave.”

  “Yes, they escort me, but it’s only to make sure I’m safe.”

  “Really? So I guess you didn’t try and convince my friend Monica to go out with one of your cop friends last week?”

  I had her. I knew she was lying. I knew everything I heard was true by the look on her face.

  “It’s not like that. Monica’s lying. I’m in love with you, Bill.”

  “I don’t want this in my life. I’m done. Don’t come to see me anymore. If you try, I’ll refuse the visit.”

  She started crying, but suddenly something much more sinister appeared on her face.

  “You think you can just drop me?”

  “I’m doing no such thing, because we were never together. It was all in your head.”

  “Fuck you. I’m not someone you can just push to the side. Who do you think you are?”

  I just stared at her.

  “I’ll hurt you, Bill. I promise you’ll be sorry. No one pushes me to the side.”

  I turned and left, never realizing I was underestimating her threat, which was a huge mistake. While it was true she didn’t have any power to get me out of jail, she had the power to hurt my case. After leaving the jail she went to my mother’s house and begged her to talk to me. When that didn’t work, she threatened again to hurt me and make sure I never got out. She made the threat to several people, and as my trial proceeded we were blindsided by the district attorney’s knowledge of confidential witness information that only Maribel had known about, thereby securing my conviction.

  Chapter 36

  Adolescence, 1981–1982

  It was 2 p.m. and Mike was late. I had dropped him off earlier at his house after surfing the entire morning with Go-Go, Sandman, Brody, Silver, Matt, and the rest of The Pack. We agreed to meet at La Habra High School so he could introduce me to Cookie Monster, a local car mechanic who seemed to know most, if not all, of the people with the rarest parts for Porsches and VWs. I wanted to meet him because he knew a car thief with two sets of eight-spoke Empi wheels and I wanted them for the ’59 ragtop I was building with the rarest parts and utmost care. It was my latest project and would be the baddest and fastes
t car I owned so far. Thinking I might be in the wrong spot, I walked over to the snack bar hoping I’d see Mike, but the place was empty. Growing impatient, I looked around, and that’s when I saw her.

  She walked from the opposite side of the snack bar with a girlfriend. I must have stared a bit too long because she looked at me and smiled. I smiled back. All I knew was that she was the most exotic creature I’d ever seen, and my heart pounded so hard in my chest I thought it would explode. She had a perfect complexion, tanned coco brown, straight black hair with sun streaked highlights, dark eyes that sparkled, dimples, and a body that showed clearly through her skintight clothes. But the most heart-stopping feature was her smile. It was perfect, and I found myself walking toward her without thinking. I stopped in front of her, but I was at a loss for words.

  “Hey,” she said. “How’s it going?”

  “Good. I’m Bill. What’s your name?”

  “I’m Vanessa, and this is my friend, Becky.”

  I nodded to Becky, but my eyes were focused on Vanessa. My senses took her in and I wondered what I’d say next. I never had a problem talking, so this was completely new to me.

  “I like your hair, it’s like a lion’s mane,” she said.

  That seemed to bring me back to myself.

  “What are you doing later? Can I give you a ride home?”

  “I’m meeting my ride here in a few minutes. Oh, here he comes now.”

  “That your boyfriend?”

  “No. He’s just giving me a ride home. I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  “If he’s not your boyfriend, then don’t worry about him. I’ll convince him to let me take you home.”

  Just then the guy showed up. He seemed uneasy when I looked at him.

  “Pick me up from school tomorrow. I get out at one-thirty,” she said.

  “I’ll meet you here.”

  She smiled. “I don’t go to school here. I go to Sonora. It’s down Whittier until you hit Palm Street, turn right, and it’s about half a block down.”

  “I’ll be there at one-thirty. See you tomorrow.”

  As I walked to the parking lot, I looked back at her and she smiled. The guy taking her home seemed relieved. As I turned into the parking lot, Mike showed up.

  “What’s up, Hombre?”

  “Nada, I was looking for you, so I went to the snack bar and man, I just met one of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever seen. I’m picking her up tomorrow after school.”

  “Oh yeah? What’s she like?”

  “Take a look for yourself,” I said, just as she and her ride came into the parking lot.

  “Who’s the dick with her?”

  “Who knows? Some ass-wipe giving her a ride home. Fuck him. Check her out.”

  “Yeah bro, she’s clean, but trouble. My friend Ken went out with her a few times this year. Some dude didn’t like it and pushed him around for it.”

  “Your friend should have put his foot in that cat’s ass. Believe me, bro, the last thing I’m worried about is some punk getting in my face.”

  We got in my car and drove to Cookie Monster’s house. He was a long-haired, wiry-thin Mexican who was jumpy as hell but had what I needed. After a few minutes he called the car thief, who came over. When he pulled up in his ’58 ragtop we shook hands.

  “Hey, Sinbad. How’s it going?”

  I knew this car thief—not well—but I’d seen him around and we’d talked a few times.

  “I’m cool, Ron. You the cat who has the Empi wheels?”

  “Yeah. I brought one so you can check it out.”

  Cookie Monster and Mike came up.

  “I didn’t know you two knew each other or I would have just told you who had the wheels.”

  “Don’t sweat it. You did the right thing. Better safe than sorry.” I shook Cookie Monster’s hand.

  “Thanks, man.”

  By that night I had all eight Empi wheels in my shop at home. They were in mint condition and four would soon be on my ’59.

  The next day at 1:20 p.m. I pulled into the Sonora High School parking lot. I got looks from a few guys standing next to a white ’57 oval window with flames, but I wasn’t interested in them. My focus was on Vanessa. I got out of my car and walked into the school, not sure where to wait since she hadn’t told me.

  For a second a thought crossed my mind: What if she really didn’t go to this school and was having a good laugh at my expense?

  The bell rang and a flood of students came into the halls. I stood by the front door hoping to see her, and just as I started thinking I’d been stood up she came walking my way. I smiled, all the doubt gone from my mind, and put a look of complete confidence on my face. I watched her, and as soon as she saw me she smiled.

  “Hi. You look great,” I said.

  “So do you. I was afraid you wouldn’t show up.”

  “Why? I said I’d pick you up. Couldn’t you tell how much I wanted to give you a ride home yesterday?”

  “I wasn’t sure, but I’m glad you came. I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

  That surprised me.

  “I’ve had you on my mind since I saw you yesterday and I couldn’t wait to see you again,” I said.

  We walked to my car and a few of the guys who stood next to the ’57 with flames were checking it out. One guy had his head stuck in the driver’s side window, looking inside.

  “You lose something?”

  He pulled his head out.

  “Nah, dude, I was just looking at your ride. She’s gorgeous. What size motor are you running?”

  “2180, 48’s.”

  “That ’57 with the flames is mine. Maybe you’d like to run them at four lanes on Friday night.”

  “I don’t run for free—a hundred dollars a gear. I have five gears. Payment on the spot.”

  I was showing off, and as he thought it over I turned to Vanessa and gave her a long, intense kiss.

  “Yeah, I’ll run you. I’m Cory. What time do you want to line up?”

  Still holding Vanessa, I said, “How about eleven p.m.? I’m Bill.” We shook hands, but I could tell the guy didn’t like me. He walked away with his friends and I opened Vanessa’s door.

  “Cory’s right about one thing. Your car’s hot.”

  I smiled. “Babe, you don’t know how right you are. Let’s go to my house and then I’ll drive you home. Is that cool?”

  “Yes. I don’t have to be home until five.”

  We went to my house that afternoon and made love twice, then again at her house.

  We couldn’t get enough of each other and I thought maybe we could be a couple. As we made love, she made me promise to be only hers, and I readily promised. She was beautiful, exotic, and somehow vulnerable, all wrapped into one, and I wanted to protect her from the start. Best of all, she understood me—my moods, passions, and needs, as well as what made me tick. I immediately trusted her. That’s something I’d never done with anyone.

  I told her who I was. Not just Bill, or Sinbad the surfer, but a car thief, a fighter, and that I’d never trusted anyone before her. We spent the next hours, days, and weeks talking. I told her about my dreams and fears and she accepted me for who I was. Then a week after beating Cory at four lanes, she told me she was in love with me. I told her I’d fallen for her too and that she made me happy.

  It became official. We were a couple and we went everywhere together. I introduced her to everyone: The Pack, the Darque Knights, and the fighters I trained with. It never escaped my attention how others looked at her, and how they seemed envious of me, which I enjoyed. I liked the way she looked on my arm, and when we went to clubs, people stared at her as much as they talked about me.

  For the first time in my life I allowed someone to see behind the mask I wore. Instead of laughing at me or finding a reason to blame me for what happened to me, she embraced me harder and promised to protect me and my secrets.

  I finally felt secure about myself and completely proud of who I was around her. But instead
of taking the new positive element in my life and changing for the better, I did the opposite. I pushed forward, using the solid ground I stood on to be better at what I already did. I fed my need to be feared and respected, and continued to build up my reputation. The image I projected was like an aphrodisiac to Vanessa. She loved who I was and that my reputation extended to her. She wasn’t just Vanessa anymore—she was my girlfriend, and with that she gained a new level of respect and admiration.

  Within a few months of meeting Vanessa, I took her to watch me fight. My opponent was an African American who, to that point, like me, had never been defeated. I tried to explain the atmosphere at the fights. The people, the smells, the noise. But nothing I said prepared her for what she saw and experienced that night. My father, who normally was by my side at my fights in case I was injured or cut, sat with Vanessa prior to the fight and explained I was to be left alone before my fight—that I needed to go to a place to release my beasts, and that I did so only when I was alone.

  As I entered the circle the crowd grew quiet. My hood covered my head and face. My opponent was already in the circle, and when he looked at me I slowly pushed back the hood to reveal my eyes and face. The crowd’s response was immediate and their roar filled the warehouse.

  Removing the hood, I allowed the weight of my eyes to fix on him. I popped the joints in my neck and put my hands up and squared into fighting position, yelling “Cho” from the deepest part of my gut, a martial arts form of centering.

  From the start, I knew that my opponent was the best I had faced. He was confident, a martial artist, about six foot two, over two hundred pounds, muscular, and experienced. We were both cautious during the first few moments of the fight, connecting then backing out, not risking too much or doing much to the other. In one of our exchanges, he connected with my left eye and followed with strikes to my face and legs, sweeping me to the floor. I fell and he stood and watched me.

  He didn’t follow me to the ground because he wasn’t comfortable there. I shook off the blows and flipped over onto my feet. I took his best shot and was still standing. I’d see if he could take what I could dish out.