Escape Artist

by William A. Noguera

  “Hello?”

  “How you doing, Lieutenant?”

  He recognized my voice and said, “Mr. Noguera. I was just talking about you to the district attorney.”

  “Really? Is he going to help wash and wax my car before I pick it up?”

  “Actually, no. We were talking about the ’62 and how tomorrow at ten a.m. the legal owner will be driving from Santa Barbara to identify it. Ms. Christine was on vacation, which is why it wasn’t done days ago.”

  As he spoke, my stomach tightened and my mouth went dry. Someone had talked, and the list of people who knew where I’d taken the ’62 from was extremely short.

  “Lieutenant, you’re swinging in the dark again. I’ll be by the day after tomorrow to pick up my car.”

  “Not this time, Mr. Noguera. You have a nice day.” He hung up.

  I tried to recall the entire conversation. First, he knew where I’d got the car because someone told him. Second, and most importantly, its original owner would be there the next day to identify it, meaning it hadn’t been ID’d yet. The owner had to see it in person, but even then it would be difficult to ID since I’d changed it so much. Maybe the owner wouldn’t be able to. For a moment, I allowed that idea to give me hope. Nah, if my car was stolen and the cops had a car they said was mine, I’d ID it quickly, especially if it looked as good as that car.

  I made up my mind—the owner would never see the car. The Lieutenant made a big mistake telling me the owner would identify it the next day. I’d take it back that night. It wouldn’t be easy. The ’62 was held at the police station impound yard. But it was either that or sit back and let fate take its course.

  At 1 a.m. I approached the impound yard and climbed to the top of the twenty-foot wall. About one hundred feet away I saw the white top of my car. At first glance I knew I was faced with a bad situation. If I jumped into the yard it would be difficult to get out, so I needed an escape route. I retreated back to my motorcycle and rode home to pick up a small pair of bolt cutters and the tool bag I always carried to hit a mark. I rode to the corner of Colima and Hacienda Boulevard to make the first of a series of phone calls. Each call I made got me closer to the impound yard.

  I knew the yard had two tow trucks working the night shift, and I made calls to draw them out. I disguised my voice to request an emergency tow. I told the dispatch operator I was at the corner of Colima and Hacienda. I jumped on my motorcycle and rode to the next street corner, Gale Avenue and Turnbull Canyon Road. I made another call to request service, but this time I said I was in the opposite direction, near Puente and East Temple Avenue. Finally, I rode to a telephone booth a block from the impound yard and made the last call to request a tow in yet another direction.

  I parked my motorcycle and ran to the yard to watch the action from across the street. First one, then the other tow truck left the impound yard from out of the main entrance. The impound yard had two entrances—one gate for civilian business and the second gate for the police. As soon as the second truck was gone, I ran across the railroad tracks and heard a train horn bellowing in the distance as it approached. It was then or never. In seconds, I climbed over the twenty-foot wall, landing on the impound yard pavement, and ran to my car and got inside. I shut the door and took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of my car. It would be the last time I’d drive her.

  I hit the electric fuel pump, and its sound filled my ears. I turned the key, which had been left dangling in the ignition, and the engine roared to life. With the lights shut off, I drove toward the police gate, which was far from the main office and out of earshot. I got out, cut the lock off the gate, and slid it open. Then I drove quickly to the house of a guy I knew, but who had no connection to my car stealing business. I parked my car in his locked garage and gave him instructions to let no one see the car or know about it. I explained it was my car, but the cops were looking for it, and that I’d be back in a few days to strip and cut it up. I asked him for a ride and he dropped me off a few blocks over from my house. I jumped several of my neighbor’s backyard fences to get to my house through the back door. As soon as the cops discovered the ’62 was gone, they’d come for me. I crept into bed, and within ten minutes the cops surrounded my house and the Lieutenant was banging on my door.

  I opened the sliding glass window next to the front door.

  “What the fuck? What are you doing here at two in the morning?” I wiped my eyes as if he’d awoken me from sleep.

  “Where were you tonight?” asked the Lieutenant.

  “Right here, Lieutenant. Why?”

  He looked at his partner. I could see he was unsure.

  “What’s the problem? Why are you here?” I asked.

  “Would you step outside for a moment, Mr. Noguera?”

  “I’m not stepping outside from nowhere. What’s this about?”

  As I said that, my mother had woken and stepped to the window to see what was happening.

  “What’s going on? Why are you bothering my son? You have nothing better to do?”

  “Mrs. Noguera, has your son been home all night?”

  “Yes. Can’t you see you woke us up?”

  The Lieutenant asked to speak with my mother alone, so I left but hid in the dark hallway to listen in.

  “Mrs. Noguera, this is a serious matter. I need your help.”

  “First of all, it’s Ms. Salinas. I’m divorced. Now, what do you want? I’m tired and want to go back to sleep.”

  “Has your son left the house tonight?”

  “No.”

  “I noticed he has fresh scrapes to his arms. How did he get them if he hasn’t gone out?”

  “He was pulling weeds and gardening right over there next to the chain-link fence. The wires cut him.”

  I heard the Lieutenant instruct his partner to check if it looked like someone had, in fact, been working in the garden.

  “Yeah, Lieutenant. Looks like quite a bit of work has been done, and there’s a sharp wire that keeps the roses protected.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Both car engines are cold and haven’t been driven tonight.”

  I had them now, so I walked back into my room with my mother.

  “Well, Lieutenant, are you going to tell us why you came here to wake us up? Please tell me there’s more to it than being worried enough to make sure I’m asleep and safely in bed.”

  “I don’t know how you did it, but you’ll go down for this. You’re involved. I know it. Someone got into the police impound yard and took the ’62. I know it just happened because the gate was found open and it wasn’t like that less than half an hour ago.”

  “I haven’t left my house tonight. My car was left in police custody and you allowed someone else to take it?”

  “It’s not your car. You stole it, you son of a bitch,” he yelled.

  “I own the car, the pink slip is in my name. Correct me if I’m wrong, Lieutenant, but you have no proof I stole anything since the supposed original owner never identified it.”

  He glared at me and it all set in. He realized his mistake. He was so happy thinking he’d finally caught me that he’d boasted, giving me a piece of information that I used against him to eliminate the case. No one came to identify the ’62, making it the last time he and I played our cat-and-mouse game. I was tired of it, anyway. Sooner or later, my luck would have run out.

  On the morning of December 20, 1983, I woke with a start. I sensed something was wrong. I got out of bed to get ready for my daily run, leaving through the back door of my house. I ran the usual five miles as I’d done countless times before, but a part of me knew it was the last time. I memorized every scene, every scent, promising myself I’d someday return.

  The week before, I did the same thing when visiting my son’s grave in my secret cave.

  “I’ll never forget you, son,” I said, as I placed my hands on the rocks covering the buried pieces of his cradle. “I’ll hold you inside my heart forever.”

  I returned f
rom my run and woke my mother. I planned to take her and my grandmother to the Los Angeles Jewelry Market later that morning. It was a few days before Christmas and I wanted them to pick out jewelry they liked for their Christmas presents. As they readied, I showered and took my dog for a quick walk. While I walked him I felt I was being watched. I stopped, then looked around and continued back to my house. Moments later, with my mother and grandmother in the car, I pulled out of our driveway heading to the 605 Freeway. As we reached the end of the street, an unmarked police car pulled in front of us and cut us off. At the same time, another unmarked police car pulled up behind us. With weapons drawn, they ordered me out of the car.

  “Put your hands where we can see them,” yelled a cop.

  I opened the driver side door and stepped out with my hands on my head.

  “He’s on bail,” my mother cried. I turned to look at her, but instead caught the weight of my grandmother’s eyes. She gave me the sign of the cross and whispered, “Qué Dios te bendiga, papito.”

  I read her lips—those words were familiar. She’d said them to me since I was a small child. Closing my eyes, I took a moment of comfort in her words, and turned to face the chaos.

  Guns were pointed at me as I was forced to kneel and lay face-first on the asphalt. I was rushed from all sides. Knees pushed into my back and the cold steel of handcuffs bit down on my wrists. My ankles were cuffed.

  “Just in case you get any ideas of using your feet,” one of the detectives said.

  They threw me down face-first into the back of the unmarked police car, and before the door closed I turned my head to look outside. There, on her knees, my grandmother cried. Immediately rage boiled to the surface and I struggled to comfort her.

  “Easy, you’re not going anywhere. Relax.”

  “What’s the charge?” I asked through clenched teeth.

  “Oh, it’s a doozy. How’s murder grab you?” said the detective. I looked at him and he smiled.

  “Yeah, I thought that’d get your attention. Welcome to hell.”

  I closed my eyes. It was finally over.

  Epilogue

  My father came to see me today, June 4, 2014. He usually comes every few years, which I understand. He’s seventy-six and it hurts him to see his only son a prisoner, like this. Our moments together are usually spent far away from anything emotional. We understand words aren’t necessary, but deep down we both suffer. My father is a strong, hard man, who will never allow me to see him weak. He knows I blame myself just as he blames himself for my circumstances, so we pretend to be okay and life goes on.

  I love my father and know I let him down. I failed everyone, including myself. No matter what I do, I can’t change what I’ve done. For that I’m truly sorry. I have many regrets. My actions caused a great deal of pain, and I accept responsibility for that. I hope by writing my story, some good will come of it. Perhaps a life can be saved, spared, or changed, before it’s too late.

  I don’t know why I’m so driven—why art and its creation calls to me with such passion. I just know I must answer its call with a sense of urgency. How long I have left here is not up to me. However, with each piece I create, I’m at the verge of a breakthrough and will finally find what I’ve searched for my entire life. This allows a sense of satisfaction to heal me. Knowing all the pieces of me, through my art, have escaped these barbaric and brutal surroundings, to live long after I’m gone, gives me the greatest satisfaction of all. Art is not a luxury. For me, it’s a necessity.

  I sometimes sit and look out the dirty window directly in front of my cell and wonder if I’ll ever see the end of this. Over thirty years have passed since I was placed behind these walls. Everyone has gone on with their lives.

  I wonder about my son, William, and what he thinks as he looks down to see his father struggle as I do. Does he wonder if I’ll fall? Or does he know, as I do, that no matter what, I will pick myself up and rise again? A father never stops being a father.

  The face that stares back at me in the mirror is different now. My Van Dyke is nearly all white. Where there was once smooth skin, lines mark the many years I’ve spent in this concrete and iron cage. But in an instant, my eyes come to life. He’s still there—that child. Suddenly, he smiles at me. All is not lost.

  Addendum

  In 1998, when my art began receiving international attention, I anonymously donated portions of the earnings to children’s charities. I recognized that I owed a debt to society because my past actions caused pain and suffering, and I wanted to repay part of that debt by giving to others. However, at the time, I remained anonymous, and avoided truly giving the most important thing I could. Myself.

  I only briefly mentioned donating to charities in Escape Artist because my intentions were never to receive praise for giving to those in need, a good deed that we as humans should do selflessly. Yet, since finishing my memoir, I realize it is my responsibility to lead by demonstrating to others, including prisoners, the true meaning of rehabilitation. The William A. Noguera is a private trust that was founded to continue giving to charities—in my name—setting an example of how to live in a selfless manner.

  Further, in my effort to give back and provide a service to the general public through the experiences I have lived, I accepted the invitation to become a collegiate guest-speaker. I now lecture to MBA students on professional ethics and corporate responsibilities, providing an insider’s view of ethical erosion and the consequences that arise from grandiosity, greed, and corruption.

  It is my hope that others can learn from what I’ve experienced, and that I can serve a higher purpose and change other people’s lives for the better. I possess the potential to grow further and vow to do so in the months and years that follow, no matter where I find myself, for the true measure of a man is his capacity for generosity and compassion.

  Glossary

  WORD OR SLANG PHRASE DEFINITION

  AB Aryan Brotherhood, a white prison gang

  AC Adjustment Center

  BGF Black Guerrilla Family, an African American prison gang

  Bone-crusher Deadly handmade prison knife

  Bottle Stopper A cop; police; prison guard

  Bull Prison guard

  CDC California Department of Corrections

  Camarada Friend; partner; comrade

  Carga Heroin

  Carnal Brother; or Mexican Mafia member

  Carnalito Little brother

  Cellie Prisoner you live with

  Changos Monkeys; derogatory term for African Americans

  Chicanos Mexicans

  Chicans short for Chicanos, slang for Mexicans

  Cholos Mexican street gang members

  Clavo Package; usually drugs

  Clecha Schooling

  CO Correctional Officer

  Cómo estás? How are you?

  Cómo te fue? How did it go?; How was it?

  Dispensa Sorry

  Eme Spanish for the letter M; used to indicate the Mexican Mafia (La Eme)

  Emero Mexican Mafia member

  Es un placer Used as a greeting; “It’s a pleasure (to meet you)”

  Ese Guy; dude; man

  Firmé Good; “solid”

  Gang and Plank Shank; knife

  Gavacho White guy

  Gesca Pot; marijuana

  Guerrilla Black Guerrilla Family (BGF) members

  Grandes Dollars

  Kite Note

  La Raza Our race; our people; Mexicans/Latinos

  Leaning Tower Shower

  Me dicen They call me; I’m called

  Mi casa es su casa My home is your home

  Mijo Son

  Moan and Groan Phone

  Mucho gusto Nice to meet you

  Muertes Deaths; murders

  NF Nuestra Familia, a Northern Mexican prison gang

  No es nada It’s nothing

  Nombre Name

  Norteños Northerners; Northern Californian Mexican gang members

  Órale All right;
Yes; a form of greeting

  Órale pues All right now; Yes; a form of greeting

  Palabra Word

  P/C Protective Custody

  Peckerwood A white convict

  Pedo Problem; trouble; stuff; thing

  Perros Dogs; partners; friends; road dogs

  Placa Cop; police

  Ponte trucha Stay alert

  Ponte verga Be alert; Stay on your toes

  Puedo I can; Can I?

  Puto Fag; derogatory term for homosexual

  Qué Dios te bendiga, papito God bless you, son

  Qué pasa? What’s happening?; What happened?

  R&R Receiving and Release

  Road dog Partner; friend

  Simón Yes

  Soda Coke, cocaine

  Soy I am

  Suegra Mother-in-law

  Sureños Southerners; Southern Californian Mexican gang members

  Tiempo Time

  Tú sabes You know

  Twist and Twirl Girl

  Varrio Nuevo Estrada (VNE) Los Angeles street gang

  Vatos Guys; dudes

  Watcha Check it out; Listen

  Woods Short for Peckerwoods

  Ya estuvo Enough; stop

  My mom and dad in Colombia, South America, before their marriage and arrival in California. (1962)

  My first baby portrait at six months old. (1964)

  Mom and Dad celebrating my first birthday and waiting for the birth of my little sister in Los Angeles, California. (1965)

  Me at age three at my desk, practicing drawing fundamentals. (1967)

  My first boxing lesson, at age four. (1968)

  My little sister and me in happier times. (1969)

  My third-grade school portrait at Sparks Elementary. (1970)

  Duck hunting with my dad in Bakersfield, California. (1971)

  In competition at the Four Seasons Open Tournament, where I won my first junior title. (1972)

  Our last family portrait, taken soon after our return from vacation in Colombia. Shortly afterward our family was destroyed. (1973)