Escape Artist

by William A. Noguera

  Of course, being right doesn’t always make you popular, or liked. But I didn’t care. I thought I was invincible and powerful. I didn’t need friends. I wanted respect. What I didn’t realize was that someone may respect and fear you while you’re standing in front of them, but when your back is turned the knife is suddenly plunged in and twisted.

  Over the next few months, business returned to normal, but I changed my habits. Everything, including the warehouse I used, was switched. I spent even less time around the club. I sold my black ’59 ragtop and drove a white-on-white ’62 ragtop I took from San Diego. I poured thousands of dollars into building, from the ground up, a ’56 356 (A) convertible Porsche. I had taken it from the Beverly Hills Hilton as soon as I saw it sitting in the parking lot of the hotel. I didn’t hesitate. As soon as I changed the VIN numbers, I took it to Crazy Ben, the best body and paint man in Los Angeles. He’d worked on it over the next few months to make it perfect. Not that it needed it. When I first took it, it was in mint condition. But like all of my rides, I improved it. I wanted to put my personal touch on it and to change the appearance so it couldn’t be identified.

  Meanwhile, I spent as much time at Vanessa’s house as I did at mine. I moved my gym equipment to her house as well as my martial arts gear. But the more time I spent with her I noticed things seemed out of place. I couldn’t put my finger on what was wrong. When I’d ask her, she’d say it was nothing. But I knew better. Still, I let it go. I didn’t want to upset her and ruin what we had. All I wanted was to see her smile and hear her laugh.

  That laughter would stop, or at least change, a few months later. Her father, who usually took her out twice a month, was scheduled to come by to pick her up on Saturday. Since she was usually gone the entire day, I went to the studio to put in some extra work in preparation for an upcoming fight I had in Mexico. I spent the better part of the day in the studio and it was already dark when I finished. I drove home, took a shower, and, just as I finished shaving, my mother knocked on my bathroom door.

  “Billy, Vanessa’s on the phone. She’s crying.”

  I opened the door and went to the phone.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Please come get me. My father hurt me. He’s coming now. Please come get me.”

  “Vanessa, who are you talking to? Get off the phone.”

  I could hear her father’s voice clearly as he ripped the phone from her and slapped her. She screamed and cried out.

  “Who is this?” her father screamed into the phone. “Bill, is that you?”

  I heard his words as I dropped the phone and ran out the door.

  Rage filled my every fiber. Her father was a bully, and as I drove to her, memories filled my mind of when I was beaten and abused by everyone around me. A red haze clouded my vision, but the nearly twenty-minute drive kept it at bay. When I arrived I thought clearly, holding back the rage that threatened to consume me.

  I didn’t bother knocking, just walked into the house, straight into Vanessa’s room, which for the first time struck me for what it truly was. A cage. She was on the corner of her bed, as far as she could get from the door, holding her legs as close to her chest as possible, where she rocked back and forth.

  “Vanessa, are you okay?”

  As soon as she heard my voice she looked up and ran into my arms.

  “It’s okay. He won’t hurt you anymore. Shhh . . . it’s okay.”

  Her body shook and trembled as she cried. My eyes searched her room. A mattress on the floor. Absolutely no furniture, pictures, posters, or dolls. Nothing. I don’t know why I never noticed it before.

  She shook violently and her high-pitched wail filled my ears, reminding me of a tortured animal. I sensed his presence before I heard him, but I turned to find Manny Sanchez standing in the doorway. I put myself between him and Vanessa. As I did, I noticed the bruises on her face and body and I responded by shoving Manny back. He wasn’t a small man. Six feet, over two hundred pounds, and confident with his macho act.

  “Touch her again and I’ll break off the hand you used and beat you with it,” I said. I shoved him again. “Not so tough now, are you? Let’s see some of that tough guy act you love to use on Vanessa.”

  He realized why Vanessa called me.

  “C’mon, Manny, hit me.”

  I shoved him back again. Rage poured into me and I opened myself up to it. But Vanessa touched me and I stilled.

  “Bill, please take me somewhere else.”

  I turned, picked her up, and carried her to my car and drove away. The rage drained away and concern filled me. We arrived at my house and my mother saw what her father had done. Bruises ran down her back and legs, and she had cuts on her face and lip.

  I didn’t know what to do. What could I do? I couldn’t go to the cops. I’d never dealt with anything like that before. I knew I couldn’t just hide her at my house. Later, while Vanessa showered, I called my ex-girlfriend’s father to ask for his advice. I worked for him at his painting company when I was younger, and besides being a good man and father, he was a cop. The next day I drove Vanessa to his home, and as soon as Bud saw her he became angry.

  “Did your father do this to you?” he asked.

  Vanessa started crying. “He gets angry and hits me.”

  Bud asked us to come in and brought out his camera. He took pictures of the abuse she’d suffered.

  “Bud, I don’t know what to do. I can’t just keep her at my house, and if Manny comes to get her, I can’t stop him unless I beat him up, which I almost did last night when I saw what he did.”

  “You don’t want to do that because you’ll end up in jail. No, Vanessa can stay here for a few days, and if her father shows up I’ll deal with him.”

  I was relieved but knew it wasn’t over. At some point she’d have to go home and would be exposed to the abuse again. Since she left without saying where she was, Loretta called around until she found her. By the next afternoon, Manny showed up at Bud’s house. I wasn’t there, but Manny had no idea Bud was a cop. When he made demands and threatened to call the police Bud showed him the pictures he took of Vanessa, then showed him his badge.

  “Go ahead and call the police,” Bud said. “I’m sure they’ll be very interested in seeing the abuse you inflicted. It’ll be a pleasure to book you myself. Please make the call.”

  Manny left without much else to say. Within two weeks, Vanessa returned home. She had to. She had school and she couldn’t just stay at Bud’s forever. Everything seemed to return to normal, but Loretta started giving me the cold shoulder. Nothing obvious, but I noticed the difference. I continued doing what I’d always done and didn’t let it bother me. I worked to expand my car delivery business and competed in fights every time I had the opportunity.

  As my senior year came to its final weeks, I received a call one morning when I returned from my run. It was Vanessa. She was in the hospital. She’d been in a car accident while driving to my house. I rushed to the hospital and found her sitting on a bed. Loretta was there, too. As soon as she saw me, Vanessa got up and we hugged. But Loretta wasn’t as affectionate to me. I was told what happened, and Loretta blamed me.

  “She had this accident because she was going to see you, and because you gave her that car.”

  I couldn’t believe it. What could I say? Technically, you could say I was to blame. I did give her the car that was now totaled. She rear-ended an El Camino because her foot slipped off the brake pedal, and she was on her way to see me. Minus a few bruises, Vanessa wasn’t seriously injured, but someone had to be blamed and I was the scapegoat.

  A few weeks later, my luck ran out. I was celebrating my eighteenth birthday on Wednesday, June 17, 1982. Vanessa and I spent the night at the beach. We made plans to go dancing that Saturday at a club where the Darque Knights were VIP guests. I was also enforcing club security and had to be there early. I told Vanessa to get a ride to the club and meet me later that night after I finished bouncing. As bouncer, I screened who was allo
wed in, enforced dress code, and stopped any trouble or fighting inside the club. That night I failed to detect trouble and paid for it dearly.

  Vanessa arrived with a few of her friends just as the club reached its maximum capacity. She looked great. I couldn’t believe how much she’d changed since we first met. Gone was the straight sun-streaked hair. In its place was a styled loose perm that gave her already womanly features an attractive sophistication. She dressed differently too, in order to fit into the world I lived in.

  I’d also changed. I’d cut the lion’s mane of hair I’d worn as a symbol of the beasts I controlled, and instead had a short and styled cut. I did it to fit into the world of high-end car owners, and to acknowledge my confidence in who I was.

  Vanessa and I made our way to the dance floor. We loved to dance, spending hours at it. Nothing seemed to matter when our bodies moved to the rhythms pumping through the mega speakers. The club was crowded, and as Lime’s “Your Love” started to play, a DJ known as Darque Star, a member of our crew, dedicated the song. “This jam goes out to Bill and Vanessa, Darque Knights down.”

  I was bumped from behind. I turned to see who hit me and I noticed a little boy who couldn’t have been more than eleven years old hurry past me.

  “What the hell is that kid doing in here?” I said to no one in particular. I stopped dancing, and took hold of Vanessa’s hand as we followed the little boy, who tried to make his way through the crowded dance floor. He reached the stage and I knew he’d have to turn around and come back because there was no exit through the stage. I stood waiting for him, holding Vanessa in front of me. He saw me and I smiled at him. The kid smiled back, and as he approached me he bumped into a guy who was dancing. The guy, not expecting to get bumped, tripped and nearly fell. As he recovered, he spun around, pulling a knife and flicking it open. He moved as if he was going to stab the kid. Music played and lights pulsed, but people continued to dance, unaware.

  I didn’t have time to reach the boy, so I yelled from the deepest part of my center, “Hey, over here.”

  The guy focused on me and I could tell he was high and mad as hell. Anger controlled him as he pulled his arm back to stab me. It would have plunged into Vanessa, who I still held in front of me. I pushed her out of harm’s way and heard him say, “Taste this.” Seconds later the knife plunged deep into my stomach.

  I had a split second to ready myself for the vicious attack, and although it was difficult to see because of the atmosphere in the disco, I caught the knife with my hands, cutting them open in the process, but avoiding a much worse stab wound. I struggled to hold the blade away from me, but someone on the dance floor bumped me hard from behind, loosening my grip on the knife. As soon as I lost my grip, the guy stabbed deep into the area next to my groin. Once the blade went in, he pulled up, opening me and cutting my femoral artery.

  Vanessa screamed and I heard the echo of it course through me as my body turned to rubber. Blood poured out of my upper thigh as the blood pressure in my entire body drained away. I staggered to the ground, panic gripping my senses. I had to get away from the danger or the guy would finish me. I drew on all my strength and stumbled out of the club onto the sidewalk, where I fell. I hoped someone would call my mom and dad. I was dying.

  I went into shock. My hands curled up uncontrollably. Vanessa cried, “Bill, please don’t leave me. I love you. We’re supposed to be together forever. Please, someone call an ambulance.”

  I was cold, covered in my own blood, and terrified. I tried to tell the crowd to tell my mom and dad I’d be home late for dinner. My thoughts were foggy as my life flashed before my eyes. Suddenly, Go-Go sat beside me. He took off his belt and tied a tourniquet tightly on the wound.

  “I’m here, brah. Damn, I leave you alone for a minute and you go get yourself stabbed. It’s just a scratch. Stop being such a pussy.”

  I was too far gone to respond, but if I was going to die I wanted Go-Go with me. I looked at Vanessa one last time before I lost consciousness. As I did, I smiled and looked past her into the crowd. A few feet away, Javier stood laughing at me. Then darkness swallowed me.

  Chapter 40

  San Quentin Death Row, 2004–2007

  In the weeks after my “Redemption” solo exhibit with the Vallejo Artists’ Guild, I busied myself with new work and answered questions from reporters and critics. It overwhelmed me to realize so many people had seen and interacted with my work. But along with the positive interest my work created came skepticism, shock, and even hatred from a few.

  “Why should he be allowed to work?”

  “Shouldn’t we lock him up and throw away the key?”

  “Why should he have a voice when his victim can’t speak?”

  There will always be people who only see the bad no matter what I do. I couldn’t please everyone. But even as I told myself this and tried not to be affected, in truth, it bothered me. I wouldn’t have been affected as much if critics simply proclaimed my work to be horrible—but the criticisms were deeply personal and affected me as a human being more than just as an artist. Some of them actually wanted me to be killed.

  A week later I received a letter from Gerhard through his gallery manager. In the letter I was accused of dishonesty for creating new work and never offering it to him. It said I failed to honor our agreement, which made it obvious that his wife, Amanda, had never told him of the letter she wrote to me that ended the agreement. Nevertheless, I immediately wrote a letter back to Gerhard and enclosed a copy of Amanda’s letter to assure him that it was she who broke her word, and not me. I concluded by expressing that I appreciated everything they had done for me and would be forever grateful.

  The end of the relationship with Gerhard concerned me even though I’d done nothing wrong. My reputation in the art world was of utmost importance to me, so I didn’t want anyone to think I’d broken a contract. I had followed the terms of our agreement to the letter, but once Amanda voided the agreement, I sought other options.

  I never heard back from Gerhard and still don’t know if he ever received my letter. Maybe it was intercepted and kept from him. Maybe he still believes I didn’t keep my word. Regardless of what he thought, my conscience was clear.

  In May of 2005 I got an exhibit at the San Francisco Design Center Galleria. With the help of Clayton Tate and his Modern Art Foundation, my work got more attention. I believed I’d found a home—a place I could explore and express my emotions freely.

  Clayton sent me pictures of the neo-expressionist works of Jean-Michel Basquiat, a famous artist he claimed to have been close to. Somehow his work spoke to my Radiant Child and brought my subconscious and conscious states together as one. Never before had color spoken to me in a language I could understand so clearly. I had studied and allowed the works of Rothko, Still, Motherwell, Pollock, Miró, Matisse, Gorky, Mondrian, and countless others to move me. But when I saw the primitivistic style of this artist, all the pieces fell into place. Color, shape, rhythm, and my beloved numbers came to life and filled me with such emotion I could hardly contain the tears. I kept all this to myself, but I was changed, and would never be the same again.

  As the year came to a close, the State of California’s death machine came to life again, taking the lives of Donald Jay Beardslee, Stanley “Tookie” Williams, and Clarence Ray Allen. Surprisingly, the executions had little effect on me. I don’t mean to give the impression those men’s lives didn’t mean anything, but compared to how I reacted to the first execution, where I nearly had a nervous breakdown, my reaction was minimal. I believe my subconscious mind had constructed a wall to protect itself and ensure its survival.

  Still, the State of California couldn’t execute death row prisoners as quickly as they killed each other. The sheer brutality behind these walls would shock even the most bloodthirsty men. I wondered what all the people who marched against the death penalty would say if they knew the very people they supported were often planning to take another prisoner’s life.

  It s
houldn’t shock anyone to know the men here pursue murder as a solution to their problems, while the State of California seeks the same solution with its legal death machine. Whether a robed official or a death row prisoner orchestrates the act, the result is the same. Both have political agendas, and both are flawed.

  Rather than focus on any single issue and be consumed by it, I allowed myself to experience it all. In doing so, I developed a new body of work, “Structured Chaos,” that incorporated my surroundings—its impulses, energies, and struggles for space. The first piece of the series, Birth, followed by Gothica, marked the start of freeing myself from my pictorial formula and speaking in a new vocabulary of abstraction.

  In March 2006, with the help of the Modern Art Foundation, I received my first solo exhibit in San Francisco at the Space Gallery. The exhibit was titled “The Escape Artist: Shadowed Views from the Private World of William Noguera.”

  As the opening reception approached, I became painfully aware that I would be under the microscope more than ever. But wasn’t that what I wanted? If it wasn’t, I would’ve been happy to keep my work to myself. No, I wanted my artistic voice to be heard. A child’s voice deep in my subconscious reminded me: I am here. I am somebody. I made this. Won’t you stop, look, and feel?

  The exhibit was a success. More than four hundred people attended the opening reception. I was amazed at the response and the magnitude of the exhibit. A few weeks before the reception I created some drawings of my cell, and from those drawings an architect and artist, Francisco Recabarren, created a detailed replica that was placed in the gallery. During the reception, which my father attended along with my half-sister, Tatiana, I called the gallery and spoke to the audience through a speaker inside the replicated cell, making it poignantly clear that I was speaking to them from my cell on death row. Critics called me a “visionary” and my work “chillingly beautiful” and “technically impeccable.” Affirming what the critics thought of my work, collectors paid between six and twelve thousand dollars for each of my pieces.