That was too much for George Jackson. He was not a Black Muslim, he was a racial militant. One day he pulled together a crew of three or four and at the after-lunch lockup, he led them along the second tier of the South Cell House. There they stabbed every white on the tier, all of whom wore white jumpsuits; they had just gotten off the bus and had no idea they would be attacked for being white. One died, and one who vaulted the railing to avoid the stabbing blades broke both his ankles on the concrete below.
Within hours all the assadants were in the hole, but none was indicted in outside court. George Jackson was transferred to Tracy, where he ignited another racial conflict. He got himself locked up and transferred to Soledad.
In prison movies it is a convention bordering on cliche that some super-tough convict runs the show. In the days of Bogart and Cagney that kingpin con was white; now he was usually black. That notion may have validity in a small, soft prison someplace like Maine or Vermont: But if someone really hardcore turns up in one of those joints they are transferred under the Interstate Prison Compact. No convict runs the show in Leavenworth, Marion, San Quentin, Folsom, Angola, Jeff City, Joliet, Huntsville or other hard core penitentiaries. Nobody of any color is that tough. Indeed, convicts do have little proverbs, such as: "Tough guys are in the grave." or: "Everybody bleeds, everybody dies, and anybody can kill you." Over the years I saw bona fide tough guys come to San Quentin or Folsom (usually San Quentin because they don't last long enough to reach Folsom) and think they can take over on the muscle. One of them, a Bronx Puerto Rican who weighed about 120 pounds, stabbed somebody within weeks of reaching the guidance center. He seriously believed that he was a killer and had everyone intimidated. He lasted eleven months. They found him in his cell with a piece of electrician's wire wrapped around his neck and eleven puncture wounds just under his ribcage, most of them directly in the heart. Someone gave a very terse eulogy: "Another tough motherfucker bites the dust."
With those parameters and constraints in mind, I think I had as much power and influence as any convict among the 4,000 walking San Quentin's yard. Over the years I had assumed a code and attitude that mixed John Wayne with Machiavelli. I respected every man, including the weak and despicable, for it is better to have anyone or anything as a friend, even a mangy dog, rather than as an enemy. In the '60s my friends were the toughest white and Chicano convicts. I maintained their loyalty by being loyal, and their respect by being smart in several areas. One, Denis Kanos, whom I left in Folsom when I was transferred, had been granted a hearing in the California Supreme Court, on the petition I had filed. Not only was the hearing granted, but the conviction was reversed. Denis, who had been required to wait fifteen years before being even eligible for parole, went free.
Within a couple of months of his release he was, as always, a kingpin drug trafficker again in Southern California. Every month or so, he would send me an ounce of heroin. Other men who got narcotics had to sell enough to pay for it. I paid nothing and was generous with my friends. It is difficult to convey what heroin is really worth in prison. Cocaine had almost no value, for convicts wanted what soothed them, not what made them crazier. A gram of heroin, a tiny fraction of an ounce, could easdy purchase murder from many takers. When someone wanted to know who had heroin, they asked: "Who's God today?" Such was the power of the white serpent.
Although I played the game (it was the only game in town), I was really tired of it. I had prison under control, but I started thinking about when I was free again. Without a miracle I would return to crime. It was the only way I knew to make money. God, if I could only sell a book. That, however, was like hitting Lotto.
It was 4 p.m. From my cell on the third tier of the yard side of the North Cell House, I could look out the high window into the Big Yard. It was rapidly filling with convicts pouring in from their jobs. I had just finished typing out a handwritten page of my sixth novel and was adding it to the extra-large looseleaf binder. It was nearly finished. I had no idea if it was any good. It was, however, the first I'd written without self-consciously trying to follow a formula, or a combination of formulas found in the "how to" books advertised in Writer's Digest. That manuscript would become No Beast So Fierce, my first published novel and, I think, my best all the way around.
Soon the Big Yard would be filled, the whisdes would blow and all the 4,000 cons would file into the cell houses for lockup and count. That meant it was time for me to go out. As usual the yard looked cold. Rain was predicted. I pulled a gray sweatshirt with neiman marcus across the chest over my prison shirt; then added two jackets, a black melton on the inside, covered by denim on the outside. In San Quentin it was always a good idea to take a jacket to the yard.
The North Cell House was one of two honor blocks. A convict tender on each tier had a key to the cells. As I went down the tier I told him to lock my cell behind me.
I descended the steel stairway. To reach the yard I had to pass the cell house office. Several guards were around the doorway, getting packets of mail each would count for the tier. As I started past, the Sergeant stepped out. "Bunker."
My first thought was a frisk, but the Sergeant was extending an envelope. A letter. Who might write me? "Thanks." I looked at the return: Alexander Aris, 26 Main Geranium, Elbow, Texas. It was from Denis and the return made me grin. It was a joke only a few would understand.
"I'm watching you, Bunker," the Sergeant said.
"Hey, you know I'm a model inmate."
"It was your cell, wasn't it?"
Oh no, I thought. "No, oh no," I replied.
He nodded in a way that said yes it was. A week earlier, several convicts were fixing in my cell. I fixed first, then left. Three were still in the cell cooking up, with a lookout (point man) standing on the tier. No guard could walk up unseen — except that the outfit plugged up. The convicts in the cell were trying to unplug it. Their heads were huddled together. The lookout on the tier looked over his shoulder, got interested and came inside. "Hey, ese. Put some water in the dropper and put a fire on the needle as you squeeze. It will swell up the metal and spit it out."
Just then the Sergeant, who was on a routine patrol, happened to come down the third tier. When he reached my cell, he looked in and saw four of San Quentin's well known sleazy convicts with their heads together like a football huddle. He walked in, put his head in the huddle and simply took the outfit out of the guy's hand. Chaos. He blocked the door, and he must have been panicked, too. He managed to get their ID cards and walked them down to the office to call for backup.
Pretty Henry found me in the Big Yard right after that and told me what had happened. I told him to go back to my cell, put the stool away, straighten it up, turn out the light and close the door.
Sure enough, the Sergeant went back. He wasn't sure if it was the third or the fourth tier so he walked up and down, looking in the cells. He was unable to remember — at least not until late that night when I returned from work near midnight and he had to let me into my cell. Then a light lit up. He told Lieutenant Ziemer, but Ziemer told him that he didn't have a case. The next night Ziemer told me to watch myself. "He'd like to bust you. It would be a feather in his cap, and he if gets you dirty, I can't stop it."
"I always watch myself, boss." That wasn't quite true. When the day shift left at 4.30, Lieutenant Ziemer was the Watch Commander. He was the highest ranking officer in the prison. If the Warden or Associate Warden or Captain came inside, whoever was on the gate would phone ahead. I had the run of San Quentin during those hours.
Before stepping onto the yard, I opened the letter from Denis. It said, "Twelve-page habeas petition mailed Marin County Court this afternoon." It translated: twelve spoons, or twenty-four grams, of heroin had been sent to an address in Marin County. The address was that of Big Arm Barney's mother. She would deliver it.
There was one problem. The post office had gone on strike yesterday.
I plunged into the wall of noise made by the accumulation of several thousand voices in
the pit formed by the cell houses. They made a churning lake of blue denim and faces. Right here it was all black. I veered left, along the East Cell House wall, past the hot water spigot that steamed near boiling. It was for making instant coffee. As always, a few convicts loitered about, clutching plastic Tupperware tumblers wrapped in tape, steam rising. It was cold on the yard. Somewhere I'd read, perhaps in Ripley's Believe It Or Not, that the San Quentin Big Yard was the only place in the world where the wind blew four ways at once. And it did seem to swirl every direction simultaneously . . .
I moved carefully through the mass of men, acknowledging those I knew with a nod or other gesture. Paranoia was too common in this milieu. Who could know what trivial slight might stir crazy thoughts? I was looking for Paul Allen and, to a lesser extent, the tough youngsters who were our partners and our backup. I found them gathered far down by the East Cell House wall. Paul, as usual, had the floor, while the younger men, T.D. Bingham, Wayne Odom, Blinky Williamson, Veto Rodriquez, Dicky Bird and a couple more listened with grins on their faces. Paul was telling a story: "... about fifteen of us in this jad yard when the guy got stabbed. It had one stall urinal off in the corner. They called everyone in for questioning and the next day the newspaper said. 'Nobody witnesses stabbing. Fifteen prisoners using one urinal during incident.'"
Paul noticed my arrival. "What's up?"
I proffered the note from Denis. Paul read it; then grinned and pumped his elbows in a parody of the funky chicken. "Awright! We're in power again. Did you tell Big Arm?"
"I just came out the door. Don't get too happy. The post office is goin' on strike tomorrow. Right?"
The glee was wiped from Paul's face. "Aww . . . shit! I thought public employees can't strike. It's against the law, isn't it?"
"All I know is what I read in the paper. The Chronicle says they're gonna strike. We'll get it as soon as the strike's over."
"That's right," Wayne said. "Barney's ma ain' gonna shoot it up."
Suddenly a dozen police whisdes shrilled. It was 4.30, time for the main count lockup. Guards moved along the domino tables, "Pick 'em up . . . pick 'em up."
I moved against the tide toward the yard gate, where a few stragglers were still coming in. I was on an out count, along with a couple of other convicts, at the Yard Office, that faindy resembled a modernistic hot dog stand. It had two rooms and a rest room. Except for the rest room it had windows all the way around. The former Yard Office had had a closed back room which had acquired some notoriety over the years. Nothing could happen unseen in the new Yard Office. It had a cyclone fence and two gates across the road in front, one for vehicles, one for pedestrians. Direcdy behind it was the modern adjustment center, its door ten feet from the back door to the Yard Office. The Yard Office was situated so that anyone coming or going from the yard to the garden chapel, custody office, dental department and other departments had to pass in front of it. The bridge to the Old Industrial Building, which had contained the gym when I arrived, was in front of the Yard Office. Now all the upper floors were empty. Because the budding was made of brick with lots of old, dry wood floors and other inflammable materials a convict was assigned as a "fire watch." It was known as a bonaroo job. Whoever had it, had the run of the huge old budding. It had many crevices and spaces where home brew could be made. One fire watch convict constructed a still for white lightning.
As I neared the yard office, I saw Bulldog hurrying across the Garden Beautiful, which was now nearly bare earth. He was about 5'7", with heart and a grin as big as anyone's. A talented athlete, he could have been a professional golfer. He had certainly carried my clumsy ass on the handball court more than once. I waited outside the door; then walked a few paces with him back toward the yard. "Where you been?" I asked.
"Visiting room."
"I didn't think you got any visitors."
"Check this. C'mon."
I looked back over my shoulder. I had a minute and could get back before the count started. I walked with him toward the yard.
"You'll never guess who it was." He paused, then said: "That broad lawyer. Fay Stender."
"That radical. The one that's representing Jackson?"
"Yeah. He's out there now. He was waiting to see her after me, and he looked kinda hot 'cause he had to wait."
"Shit, 'dog, he's a celebrity. Damn near a star." I wanted to add that all it took was an act of suicidal rebellion, but Bulldog cut me off.
"You won't believe this, man, but you know what that broad wanted . . . she wanted us, white dudes, to kill some bulls."
"Say what? She said it right out like that?"
"Yeah . . . well . . . like she said, how come the blacks are in the revolution and we're not helping 'em with the pigs?"
"I'd have told her there's no bull wantin' to kill me. She's nutty as a fruitcake. What'd you tell her?"
"I told her she was nutty as a fruitcake . . . No, I really told her that I'd talk to the fellas and blah blah blah . . . Can you imagine . . . ? I want outta here. Killin' a bull ain't gonna get me out . . . or put any money in my pocket. I ain't no cop lover, but I'm no cop killer either. If I get in a spot and kill a cop, it's 'cause it was that or throwin' down my gun for a life sentence. Damn, killin' anybody is serious — double serious. Isn't that the craziest shit you ever heard?"
"Damn near." And it was. When we reached the yard gate, I had to turn back. As he hurried through, I could see that the yard was almost empty. The last of the lines were going into the East Cell House. Some vagrant sunlight got through the clouds and sparkled on the fifty-foot-high cell house windows. I remembered seeing this same view from the same perspective eighteen years earlier, and now it went through my mind that if I had known I would stand here eighteen years later, I would have killed myself. But I hadn't anticipated it, and couldn't anticipate another eighteen years, or anywhere near it. I turned and headed back toward the yard office.
Big Brown was yard office officer during the day watch. He was just huge, neither particularly muscular nor particularly fat. He was 310 pounds and playful as an eight-year-old. "What were you talking to Bulldog about?" he asked me.
"'Bulldog!' Who's Bulldog?"
"I'll bet you were makin' some kind of drug deal. You think I don't know."
"No, Brown, we were talkin' about your mama."
"Hey, hey, that's enough of that."
"Fuck you, Brown."
He jerked open the bottom desk drawer and pulled out a nightstick. "Lemme smack you on the kneecap with this," he said. "I wanna see if it works." He slammed it down on the desk. It was a wicked sound. Nightsticks hurt. I can still feel the one that crashed into my back when I was fourteen years old and trying to sneak into a movie theater.
"You sure do sound smart," I said with mocking scorn. Big Brown liked all this. "Fuck around and I'll snitch you off. . . 'bout that medallion under your shirt." Brown wore a heavy swastika medallion on a chain around his neck. He had gotten it when a guard was murdered in the prison hospital. Although he had previously held racist views, having once told me, "I can't help it, I just think niggers on the whole are dumber than white people," he had been even-handed in how he treated convicts. Now, however, following the several long hot summers of burning American cities and the racial murders in San Quentin - he'd seen a Portuguese convict named Rios fight a black one on one in the lower yard, where a mob of blacks attacked and stomped and beat Rios's head in with a baseball bat, until his skull was as flat as if an automobile had run over it — Brown's subdued bigotry had become nearly obsessed racial hatred. He had a peace officer's right to carry a pistol and repeatedly told me he was waiting for the right situation to kill a nigger and get away with it. I could understand how he felt, just as I could understand the streak of paranoid hate that ran through many blacks toward whites. I'd often thought that if I was black I would have made white society kill me a long time ago. I wasn't black and I didn't intend to be a poster boy for black vengeance either. I'd learned in juvende hall and reform scho
ol that black racism is perhaps more virulent than white racism. Someone had once told me, "When we're racists, we just want to stay away from 'em. When they're racists, they want to kill us." It was true: black racists wanted revenge, white racists wanted segregation. But not every black was every racist; nor was every white. I really wished that everyone was oblivious to race and, failing that, everyone should be civd and respectful to everyone else. It is impossible to have a civil society without civility.
From the bridge-walkway to the old Industrial Building, Willy Hart appeared. I'd known Willy since he first came to San Quentin more than a dozen years earlier. He was an armed robber, but certainly not the public's vision of an armed robber. If someone had said, "No, I won't do that," and sat down with arms folded, Willy would have shrugged and departed. In other words, he wasn't going to hurt anybody — although if someone pulled a gun and started shooting at him, he would have shot back, or shot first if he had to. This was his second time in for armed robbery. He had never had a serious moment during a decade and a half in San Quentin and Folsom. "Hey, Bunk, how the fuck ya doin' these days?" he asked as he crossed the road to the yard office. He counted here, as did another convict, the Lead Man of the night yard crew. The moment the count cleared, the rest of the yard crew were unlocked. While the lines of convicts filed into the mess halls, the night yard crew used big fire hoses with bay water to wash away the phlegm and cigarette butts and the thousands of pieces of orange peel if oranges had been served. It was one of the better job assignments in San Quentin. The Lead Man was a holdover from the days when San Quentin functioned with con bosses.
As for Willy Hart, he'd first come to San Quentin on a transfer from a youth prison at Tracy, which had replaced Lancaster and filled the same niche: youthful felons from age eighteen to twenty-five. My first memory of him was his last night back then in Lancaster. He was in the showers with the rest of his tier. "Yeah . . . yeah," he proclaimed. "I escaped all these perverts. Nobody got my bung hole." His banter was boisterous and funny. He had one of the fastest mouths in the Department of Corrections, and it occasionally got him into trouble.
Mr. Blue: Memoirs of a Renegade Page 40