“You speak powerfully about your work, and frankly I’m a little shaken. I never would have expected what I’m hearing to come from a voice calling collect from death row. It gives me chills and brings into perspective the images you create, which moved me from the first time I saw them.”
From that first phone call, Clayton Tate, his assistant art director, Jennifer West, and I began a union that provided me with the types of exhibits I wanted. It also brought attention and respect to my work. Of course, there were always those people around who, no matter what I did, always condemned me, my work, and anyone who stood behind me.
As the exhibit with the Vallejo Artists’ Guild drew near, I finished the work I would include, thinking long and hard about the placement of a number of new color paintings. Working in color was a new and difficult language—one I had yet to feel comfortable with. Nevertheless, I told myself not to worry and pushed ahead.
The day of the “Redemption” reception, my work hung on the gallery walls. Paul walked through it as we spoke on his cell phone.
“Everything is framed, hung, and looks great. I’m sure you’d be very pleased with how your work looks. People are still arriving and it looks like a large turnout. They’re here for you. Speaking of being here for you, there’s someone here who wants to speak with you. I’ll let you two talk.”
“Hello, William. How are you?”
I recognized her voice immediately.
“I’m fine, Jennifer, and you?”
“Fantastic, and completely thrilled to be in the presence of your work. I love your new pieces. From the conversations I’ve heard, everyone is shocked at not only the photo-realistic images and abstract paintings, but their ability to draw the viewer in and pull at their heart strings. I’m so happy for you, William. Your work deserves the attention it’s getting.”
“Thank you. This is all bittersweet to me because, once we hang up, I’m cut off from the world. But knowing my work continues to breathe life and emotion into those who truly see and experience it gives me hope. It’s as if a piece of me has escaped into a world, and in the fertile minds of viewers, true transcendence occurs.”
“You have a way of describing your work that’s truly poetic. I look forward to working together.”
As I hung up the phone, a certain finality overcame me, as is always the case. Once that connection from the outside world is cut, loneliness is even more pronounced. I busied myself trying to think of other things, trying to escape the overwhelming weight of the world I lived in, and longing for the one I wanted to be a part of again.
Chapter 38
Orange County Jail, 1987
I was accused, tried, and convicted. My so-called lawyer, Martín Gonzalez, who actually worked for my mother, protected her interests and secrets during her divorce, and he protected them again during my trial. I objected but it didn’t matter. He was instructed to stage my life as one of privilege, happiness with loving parents, and, of course, of innocence. He did exactly that, sacrificing and silencing me in the process.
Chapter 39
Adolescence, 1982
My father started dating Vanessa’s mother, Loretta. They really didn’t go out. They were simply having sex. They met when I asked my father to pick me up from Vanessa’s for a fight I had that night. I was there putting together a 1960 convertible VW I had started a few days earlier. What no one knew was that it was going to be a gift for Vanessa. Loretta was well aware of my criminal activities and was fine with me bringing a stolen car to her home.
My father pulled up to the house in his van while Loretta was outside, and they talked. The next night I came by to resume work on the convertible and noticed my father’s van in the driveway. I walked into the garage and found Vanessa sitting in a chair, staring at the ground.
“Hey, Vanessa, what’s my dad’s van doing here?”
“He’s inside with my mother.”
I could tell from her tone that something wasn’t right.
“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
She didn’t respond, so I knelt down to her.
“She always does this, you know. It’s like the only thing she cares about.”
I could see she was upset, but I didn’t understand what she was talking about.
“What do you mean? What does she do?”
“She’s inside fucking your dad.”
Not many things catch me off guard, but I would never have guessed she’d say that. She seemed disgusted by it.
“I don’t want to be here. Would you take me somewhere? Anywhere but here.”
“Yeah, come on. Let’s get out of here. Is there anything else wrong? You know you can tell me anything.”
“I know. I just need to be away from here.”
I sensed there was something else, but I didn’t press her. If she just wanted to be somewhere else, I could give her that.
A couple of nights later I stopped by my father’s house and asked him what was up with Loretta.
“Nothing really. She’s really forward and wanted me to come by. The next thing I know, we’re in bed.”
“Listen, what you do is your business, but it upset Vanessa, and from what I hear, you aren’t the first by any stretch of the imagination.”
“Yeah, I gathered as much. She’s into some way out shit.”
“I don’t care, and I don’t want to know. Just think about what I said, okay?”
It was the first time my father took what I said to heart, and he stopped seeing Loretta. Although we never talked about it again, I believe the “way out shit” she was into was what scared my father off rather than what I said.
The next week, Loretta asked me to stay over for the weekend because she and her boyfriend, Don, were going to Las Vegas to gamble. That wasn’t anything new. I spent the night so often it felt like a second home. Of course, it still seemed a little strange to me, but what seventeen-year-old would complain? Besides, I’d experienced the same type of behavior from my parents my entire life. My mother often bent and twisted the rules to fit what was important to her. Granted, my mother wouldn’t allow my sister’s boyfriend to sleep over, but in other regards my mother’s behavior and parenting skills were just as bad, or worse. Since my parents’ divorce, my father refused to pay child support, so to continue with a lifestyle she was accustomed to, my mother moved to insurance fraud.
If my mother wanted new furniture, kitchen appliances, or a car, she’d burn her house or vandalize it so the insurance would pay her. She did it a number of times over the years and on a number of occasions asked for my help. One of those times was because she wanted a new car. I offered to steal whatever car she wanted, change the VIN numbers, and do all the paperwork. But she didn’t trust VIN numbers and stolen cars, and feared the consequences of getting caught. What she wanted was for me to wreck her Monte Carlo. She’d report it stolen to collect the insurance money. I did what she asked and soon she had her new car.
Since I operated a successful high-end car theft ring, my mother expected me to pay for living at her home. I didn’t mind. It was worth it to me. With my mother I had an ally and alibi. If the cops asked whether I was home on a particular date and time, she covered for me.
This, in my mother’s mind, made her an accomplice to my crimes, and that was a secret she wanted to keep hidden. Since she was involved, I had to pay. It was that simple. If I was arrested, she bailed me out. In her mind she was being a good mother. She took care of her son and did what she had to do. To a seventeen-year-old, it seemed like a great deal. But that’s why seventeen-year-olds need responsible parents. A true parent would have been horrified. Even today, my mother wouldn’t see any fault in what she did and would argue vigorously that she was a great mother.
I finished the VW and gave it to Vanessa, which she did not expect. She was wide-eyed and thrilled to have her own car. At the same time, I finished my ragtop. I painted it black and put on the eight-spoke Empi wheels that I’d bought from Ron.
Everything
seemed to be on track. I worked with Mike to supply high-end cars—Porsches, Mercedes, Corvettes, Cobras, and even Ferraris. I got anything the list required and delivered them to different warehouses near El Centro, California, where they were readied and taken across the border into Mexico.
Stealing cars never got old. Each list I received was a challenge. From finding the cars to delivering them and collecting my fee, every part excited me. I attended parties in some of the most exclusive homes in Los Angeles and Orange County to meet the owners of the cars I needed. I learned their habits, their alarm systems, and anything that could give me an advantage. I studied marks with an obsessive eye for detail. Nothing escaped my observation. To me, all of it was business, and I prepared myself for it just as I did for the ring. I wanted to be the best. I loved it.
I built a reputation as a car thief and it wasn’t long before law enforcement heard of me. They frequently pulled me over to check the VIN numbers of my cars, or they’d impound my car so they could look for evidence to prove I’d stolen the car and changed its numbers.
I knew the cops didn’t just decide to mess with me. Someone had to have given them information, and that someone had an agenda. It became clear that the informant was in the club because no one outside knew the kinds of details the cops had. I knew it wasn’t Adrian or Go-Go. If either of them talked to the cops I’d already be in a prison cell because they knew everything—where I’d stolen the cars, who my connections were, and what warehouses I used.
I was confident neither Adrian nor Go-Go would ever betray me. I made them more money than either had ever seen, so they needed me. That alone was enough to keep them quiet. No, the informant was one of the club members. Though I continued to be Sergeant of Arms, I didn’t steal with them or include them in my new enterprise. That made some members angry and jealous.
I didn’t have anything concrete about the identity of the informant, only suspicions. It was possible one of our members simply told a girl what we were doing and expressed hatred for me, and that she was the informant.
I spoke to Adrian and we came up with a plan to catch the rat. He would tell other club members about what we were supposedly doing, and we’d wait and see which story surfaced with the cops. It didn’t take long. Within a week the head of a specialized unit covering car thefts in Southern California pulled me over and took me in for questioning. I denied everything from the start, making the cop angrier by the minute. Finally he said he knew I’d taken a pair of Porsches from Balboa Island, which I gave to a member of a New York crime family as a token toward future business deals.
I kept quiet and he let me go, but I had the information I needed. There was no New York crime family and I certainly hadn’t given a pair of Porsches from Balboa Island to anyone. It was a made-up story Adrian floated to one specific club member we suspected of being the informant.
I drove to Adrian’s house and picked him up so we could meet with Go-Go and talk.
“What’s up? You’ve been quiet as fuck. What’s on your mind?” said Adrian.
“I got pulled into the cop house today and the head of the highway patrol task force questioned me about some shit.”
Adrian sat still for a few seconds. “One of our stories surfaced, didn’t it?”
He knew what that meant. One of the club members was the informant and something had to be done about it. We didn’t say a word until we picked up Go-Go in Huntington Beach, then I ran the whole deal to them.
“Okay, who’s the fuckin’ rat?” said Go-Go.
“Adrian, who did you tell the story to about the New York connection?”
Adrian just stared at me. “I told Javier.”
Javier was one of the newest members of the club and seemed fearless when it came to stealing. But he and I never got along. He thought I should include him in my private business because he had earned the respect. But I simply told him, “No one’s stopping you. Get yourself a fence and set up your own shop. It’s that simple. But my business is mine. My game, my rules, and my people—no one else.”
The subject never came up again, but he resented it and wanted me to fall. His mistake was going to the cops.
“So let’s deal with this quickly and quietly. Adrian, you tell Julian what we’ve discovered. Tell him I’ll deal with it, but I want Javier gone from the club. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’ll think of something creative, but he won’t forget it.”
Adrian seemed nervous about it, but he knew I was right. He liked Javier, but he’d have to tell his brother that Javier, a guy he raised his hand for, was an informant.
Go-Go and I drove Adrian home that night after midnight. I did it on purpose so he wouldn’t be able to talk to Julian about it until after I carried out my revenge. Adrian didn’t pick up on anything, but Go-Go did, and as soon as Adrian was out of the car, I allowed my anger to seep out and the rage to boil over.
“Okay, Adrian’s out. What’s the plan? I know you got one, so let’s have it. I’m in, no matter what. You know I’ll back you up ’til the wheels fall off.”
“No doubt, brah. I see you. I always have. Here’s what I got. Before this bitch knows what’s up, let’s take his ride and burn it to the ground in front of his pad.”
“Damn, that’s a clean ride. Sure you want to handle it like that?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. If we just take it, he won’t know anything other than someone took his ride. I want this motherfucker to know why and that we know he’s an informant.”
Javier lived in a residential area of La Puente and kept his ride in his garage. I knew his car had a good alarm, but it was connected to his battery and that was plain stupid.
After entering his garage, I slipped under the rear of his ’63 convertible and cut the battery cable. No battery—no alarm. We pushed it out of the garage and into the street, and right in front of his house, we lit it on fire.
The next morning, I got a call from Julian and he asked that I come by his house. Go-Go spent the night, so he came with me. As we pulled up, I noticed most of the members of the club had their cars parked outside of his house. Adrian met us outside.
“I told Julian what we discovered and that Javier’s an informant, but he wants to talk to you.”
I nodded and walked into his garage. “What’s up, Julian? You need to talk to me?”
“Yeah, Adrian told me about Javier, but what other proof do you have? And why is he here?” Julian asked, looking at Go-Go.
All the other members seemed confused. Julian hadn’t told them why the meeting had been called and they looked at me for an explanation. I didn’t bother explaining Go-Go’s presence.
“Proof? I’ll give you proof.”
Julian liked Javier and hung out with him a lot. They were stealing partners. He was hoping I’d mess up and the crew would turn on me for accusing a club member of being an informant.
“Check this out. My proof is that someone has been talking to the cops. I’ve been pulled into the cop house and my cars were impounded because someone in our crew is a rat. I know it wasn’t Adrian or Go-Go, because they could sink me easily. The informant was someone who knew about my operation but didn’t have the details to have me busted. So how do you set a trap?” I looked at all the members.
“I’ll tell you how. You bait with cheese. I didn’t know who the rat was but suspected Javier.”
“Wait up.” Renee spoke up. “You’re accusing Javier of being a rat?” It’s what Julian hoped for. It was the reason Javier wasn’t there, even though he called Julian as soon as he discovered his car was torched.
“I’m not accusing him of being a rat. He is one. All of you know that Javier and I don’t get along, and he’s pissed I won’t include his punk ass in my business. For that reason, and because he’s a bitch, he went to the cops.”
I had their attention, so I pressed on.
“When I suspected one of us was telling, I spoke to Adrian and he to
ld Javier I had given a couple of Porsches to a New York crime family member toward future business deals and that I’d taken them from Balboa Island. Within a week, I was pulled into the cop house and questioned about the New York deal. That’s my fuckin’ proof. We made the story up, fed it to the rat, and he ate it up. Only Adrian and I knew this. Case closed.”
Everyone was silent. Then Julian said, “Is that why you took his car out of his garage and burned it last night?”
“Damn straight. How else do you treat an informant? As far as I’m concerned, once he became a rat, he stopped being one of us and deserves no protection.”
“Did Go-Go help you?” asked Julian. But he knew he’d lost. Go-Go stepped up to him.
“Yeah, it was my idea. Fuck Javier. And if you don’t like it, fuck you too.”
Julian looked at me.
I told him, “You’re on your own against Go-Go. I won’t save your ass.”
Renee got between the two of them and Go-Go smiled.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
“Listen, Javier is out. There’s no doubt he told on Bill, and I won’t be caught dead around a rat. I may have handled it differently, but Bill did what he had to. I got no problem with that,” said Renee.
Everyone nodded, but I could tell some of them didn’t like it. The tension was thick and it wasn’t over by a long shot. Javier had his friends among us, and since I spent more and more time away from the crew to develop my operation, Javier got close to some of them and they liked him. Julian, Marco, Ruben, and a few others were on Javier’s team, and that didn’t escape my attention. But instead of confronting them, I left it at that. I did what I set out to do and that was catching the rat, and everyone knew I was right.
Escape Artist Page 35