Gone was the blacks' laughter of the first few days, but blacks and whites who had known each other since childhood now passed with stone faces without speaking or even acknowledging the other's existence. Friendships ceased. In a world absolutely integrated, each cell identical with every other cell, each man eating the same food and wearing the same clothes, racial hatred was malevolent and intractable. Most convicts lacked a sanctuary where they could relax. Even the cell offered no safety. An empty jar could be filled with gas and smashed against the bars, followed by a book of flaming matches. It has happened more than once. Going to eat, even half a tier at a time, with two gun bulls fifteen feet away, required passing blind spots on the stair landings where an ambush could be laid. A group of whites or blacks could be waiting for someone of the opposite color, or maybe simply waiting for another friend — but someone of the opposite color wouldn't know why they were there, and virtually had to brush against them. A white was jumped that way but he managed to get away. Ten minutes later in another cell house, a white lunged at a black, but exposed his knife before he was in range. The black saw it and bolted down the tier.
The Associate Warden's committee of inmates was allowed to roam the cell houses at night, hoping to talk to militants and end the war. One white used the peacekeeping unlock to take a shower. A black caught him naked and wet and stabbed him in the neck. Miraculously he survived. Two black guards worked the cell house that night. They covered for the black assailant as the white guards had covered for whites in other situations.
The next day a friend of the latest victim lunged into a group of blacks with a knife. He stabbed one through the upper arm. Another black jumped on the assaliant's back and pulled him down. Guards arrived and overpowered him. He would get a five to life for possession of the knife.
In the North Cell House the convicts reached a truce. No attacks would be made in the building. Outside the budding it was still open season. Neither side entirely believed the other. No white, or group of whites, could speak for every other white, nor could any group of blacks speak for all other blacks. Yet the truce held as days became weeks, at least in the North Cell House.
In the rest of San Quentin a week went by; then two weeks. So many convicts were locked up that they were four and five deep in the hole, and the buses were rolling. After another ten days, the prison was slowly returned to regular schedule. On Saturday afternoon the weekend movie was shown in the North Mess Hall. One of the blacks involved in the shower stabbing had not been picked up. He was at the movie. When the end flashed onscreen and the lights went up, the crowd started moving toward the exits. A white and his Chicano homeboy tried to stick the black, but someone yelled a warning and he got away.
Minutes later a hundred blacks were bunched under the weather shed, facing an equal number of whites and some Chicanos grouped next to the East Cell House. The Big Yard was totally sdent. The convict disc jockey in the prison radio room then turned the country music full blast. I'll never forget the song: "The Eyes of Texas Are Upon You." I couldn't stop myself from laughing.
Only four or five of the white clique who did the killing were still in general population. The rest were in segregation. Two of the remainder walked toward the blacks, as if going for a drink of water at the fountain. One small black started to ease forward through the crowd, trying to move in from the rear. Several others moved with him. The two whites turned suddenly. One drew a roofing hatchet, the other a shiv the size of a short sword. The small black ducked back and discarded his knife, stopped both by the size and weaponry of the opposition, and by the clacking sound of lever action rifles being readied. It was the blacks that the white guards would shoot.
The whites near the East Cell House who had started forward now stopped. The two men in front got back into the crowd. A black guard kept one of them in sight, but the convict managed to drop his shiv and kick it into the crowd. Someone got rid of it.
Once more the prison was locked down . . . Two months passed before it was slowly unlocked. Now, however, guards carried nightsticks, the first time since the lead-tipped canes were taken away in 1940. Nobody was indicted or convicted of the stabbing and killings. Marin County didn't want San Quentin convicts in its courthouse.
During the days of the long lock-down, I cut 20 percent of the book I was working on, No Beast So Fierce. Every extraneous page, paragraph, sentence or word was considered. That was what Merrill Pollack at W.W. Norton & Co. said he wanted, and even if he couldn't offer me a contract in advance, his had been the most interest anyone had shown in seventeen years. Besides, what else did I have to do? When I sent it back, I included a story about the race war I've just described.
Two months later, I had a pass to see my case worker to prepare the report for my yearly appearance before the parole board. A young man fresh from San Francisco State, he had been working as a case worker for several months. I knocked on the door.
"Oh yeah, Bunker. Come in. Let's go get your fde." As we walked along the front of the cinder block cubicles to the first cell where records were kept in file cabinets, he said, "By the way, the Warden's Office called and authorized a phone call to New York."
"A phone call to New York. What about?"
"They didn't say."
He unlocked the cabinet and went through the manila folders. The case worker found my file, or "jacket," and grunted as he pulled it out. It was about the thickness of a Los Angeles Central Telephone Directory. While walking back to the office, he hoisted it to test the weight. "I've never even seen a file this big. As a matter of fact, this is twice the size of any file I've seen." We turned into the office and he went behind the desk. "What's this?" He put on his glasses and looked at a slip of paper Scotch-taped to the outside of the folder; then burst into laughter. "Do you know what it says?"
I shook my head.
"It says 'See file number two.'"
I saw the humor, but it was also sad. It was my life.
"Let's make this call," he said. He had the prison operator give him an outside line; then he dialed and handed me the telephone.
"Watkins Agency," a woman said.
"My name's Edward Bunker. I'm supposed to call."
"Oh yes, Mike wants to talk to you."
A voice one would expect from Victorian times came on the line. "Why, hello Mr Bunker, Mike Watkins here. I finally get to talk to you. Do you know what this is all about?"
"Uhhh . . . maybe ... I dunno ... I mean I hope."
He chuckled. "Merrill Pollack at W.W. Norton has made an offer to publish your book. The advance is small, but Norton is a good publishing house and I think we should take the offer."
"Oh . . . yes . . . sure . . . whatever you say."
"I was sure that was what you'd say. Oh, and one more thing. Lotus Lapham at Harper's wants to publish that article you sent him about prison race war. He wants it for the February lead."
Seventeen years, six unpublished novels, scores of unpublished stories without seeing so much as one word in print. Writing had become my only chance to escape the morass of my existence. I had persevered even when the candle of hope had burned out. I had persevered from habit, because I had no idea what else to do. Now, in one day in one phone call, one of America's most prestigious magazines and a quality book publisher had agreed to publish my first essay and my sixth novel. Years before, when I first embarked on the path of becoming a writer, I had visions of what it would do for me. I would live a mixture of Hemingway, Scott and Zelda and the then famous Franchise Sagan, who had a smash international bestseller whde a teenager. Writing a good book would open doors for me. The world would read the truths I would write. I would make a lotus grow from the mud. Those dreams were seventeen years old, fourteen of which had been spent behind grim prison walls. I was happy, of course, but time had taken the sheen from the dream. I had no idea what the future would hold beyond my continuing to write. I had already embarked on another novel.
That night in my cell I tried to conjure the sam
e old dreams. They remained opaque and obscure. The truth of the subsequent two and a half decades is greater, in most respects, than my visions of forty-five years ago. The dream has been fidfilled - in spades. My four novels are still in print in nine countries, and the first, No Beast So Fierce, remains so twenty-five years after initial publication. A lotus definitely grows from the mud.
Afterword
Paris Just Before Spring
I am alone in Paris. My wife of nearly two decades has gone home to Brendan, our five-year-old son. I was invited here to play a small role in a small French movie, Cameleon, about a femme fatale who is definitely a chameleon. Benoit Cohen, the enthusiastic young director, is using prayer and donated pieces of film stock to put his vision on the screen. My pay is minuscule, but it does cover most of the expense - and who would refuse a free month in the world's most beautiful city? February has turned to March and the meager snow has disappeared except in the crevices the sun never probes. The tree branches are still starkly bare, but since I've been in Paris they're sprouting hard little buds that will soon become glorious leaves dancing in the breeze. God, I love Paris any time of year.
The Normandy Hotel is on the right bank of the Seine near the Louvre and the Place de la Concorde, which I think is where they cooked Joan of Arc.
"Do you know where this is?" I asked the concierge. I have to pick up a week's per diem, the cash money for expenses that isn't taxed as income.
The concierge produced one of those convenience street maps for tourists, the kind that list main boulevards and landmarks, but few detads. He pointed to a green spot designating a park. "It's right around there," he said, "four or five kilometers."
"I can walk it? Right?"
"Yes. It's a long walk . . . but it's a nice day."
He was right on both counts. I set forth up the Avenue de l'Opera. It is bright enough for sunglasses, but the morning chill is the perfect coolant for a vigorous stride. I'm sure I can reach my destination if I find the park, and that should be easy. How long it takes is immaterial. I enjoy exploring cities on foot. New York, London, Rome, any city but LA — and Paris most of all. I recall Thomas Wolfe's nocturnal meanderings through the dark, empty streets of Manhattan whde communing with his muse. His prose turned deserted streets into symphonies of description.
At the Opera House (it is sure big enough to have a phantom wandering around inside), I turn right. I think it is the Boulevard Haussman. After another twenty minutues, I turn right again. Now I'm trudging up a fairly steep hill lined with chic apartments. Unlike the United States, where the middle class abandoned the central city to deteriorate in the care of the poor and minorities, in France and most of Europe, the affluent stayed in the city. The poor were pushed to the surrounding suburbs. Space in the city increased in value. Apartments are small and expensive. This is one reason there is so much vibrant street life in Paris. In LA almost everyone might have a swimming pool in their back yard. In Paris only the rich have a back yard.
The park started a block from the hill's summit. It was bigger than I anticipated and I didn't know which way to go. Spotting a couple of men engaged in conversation, I waited for an opportunity to excuse my intrusion and extended the slip of paper with the address. It was a question that didn't require French. One of the men pointed back down the hill and up the next hill.
I started walking. I had gone about half a block when the sound of running footsteps made me stop and turn. A young man was gesturing for me to wait. I did so. He arrived, panting, and spoke in accented English: "I know you."
"You know me?"
He nodded. "Edward Bunker. I read your books." His grin was wide, perhaps in reply to my manifest surprise. He held up three fingers. That was how many I'd published at the time.
"There's another one due next year."
"I'll get it. What's the title?"
"Dog Eat Dog."
"I'll still be waiting. That man—" he gestured back up the hill whence I'd come. "He told you wrong. That street is that way . . . on the other side of the park. I saw a film crew over there."
"Merci beaucoup. That's what I'm looking for." I started to turn, and stopped. "So how did you recognize me?"
"Reservoir Dogs. Mr Blue, right?"
"Yep." The role had been minuscule, but Reservoir Dogs had been a blockbuster in most of Europe, especially France and England and, especially in the latter, had spurred sales of my books.
As I continued walking through the park that overlooked Paris, I found it hard to believe that someone would recognize me on a sidewalk 6,000 miles from home, someone who had read all three of my books. I was still glowing within when I spotted the trucks and lights of the small film crew. The set was a cafe. When I arrived the cast and crew were having lunch. I paid my respects to Benoit Cohen, the talented young director, without intruding, for he was going over a scene with Seymour Cassell and Chiara Mastrianni, the leads (I played his ex-con best pal) and it was poor movie protocol to interrupt such a situation. I found the production manager, who gave me a stack of francs, supposedly enough to live on for a week. She also had the "call sheet." I was scheduled to work the next day. It was at this location, the end of the scene they were shooting today. I was welcome to hang out and watch the scene being shot, but I had other plans for the afternoon. I wanted to see the Pantheon and Napoleon's tomb. He sure made a big noise for a little Corsican. They still have the Napoleanic "N" on bridges over the Seine.
As I waved goodbye to the director, one of the cameramen came up with two of my books in the French edition. Would I sign them? I drew my trusty felt tip, which make for great signatures. Thick and dark, they look substantial. Ball-point pen signatures look too thin.
Before I finished with the cameraman, a line had formed. The crew was small as film crews go, no more than a score, but more than half had books for me to sign. Some were brand new, but many were books the owner had had for some time. One said he'd taken the job because I was in the cast. Who would have imagined such things from my first forty years of life? It may not have equaled the metamorphosis of St Augustine, but it was certainly unexpected. I never envisaged this reality when I walked out of prison twenty-some years earlier. Now I'd passed sixty, which I never thought I'd see. In recent years my body has shown evidence of mortality: bladder cancer cured by surgery ten years ago, antibodies for hepatitis C (I'm one of the 80 percent in whom the disease remains inactive), a mild heart attack (if there is such a thing) treated with angioplasty and a tiny stent, borderline adult diabetes that seems under control from half a pill and diligent exercise on a treadmill. I have never looked better and, with average luck, expect to live another decade to play with and educate my son. Still, whatever way I look at it, most of the game has been played and it seemed time to write about it.
Meandering in the direction of the hotel, I thought about the two decades since I'd gotten out of prison. Who would have expected me to stay out? Not me, for sure. The only decision in that regard was that I would not do anything stupid. Other than that, whatever happened, happened. Over the years I've been asked by interviewers why I changed. My reply, and the truth, is that I changed as my circumstances changed. Being a published, and somewhat acclaimed writer was, of course, central to everything. Just when I got out, the movie based on the book was beginning pre-production. That introduced me to an entirely new milieu — and people that I liked. I also made my acting debut, playing a scene in a bar with Dustin Hoffman. It takes all day to shoot one five-minute scene. When the assistant director yelled, "That's a wrap" at the end of the day, the cast and crew applauded — and made me blush. Over the years I've appeared in a score of small roles; not a living but enough to cover health insurance for my family.
The common belief is that having an ex-con on parole, as opposed to just releasing him, is beneficial to society. That may hold good as a general principle, but with me the opposite is true. I reject the idea of custodia legis, that a parolee is still in legal custody. I gave up trying to do a p
arole after the first one. I see the parole agent just once to pick up my "gate" money, and then I find some false identification and disappear. The next time the parole agent sees me is when I'm in jail. This time, however, I think I would have waited until the movie was finished, but after that I would have become a fugitive. By not having a parole, I was able to leave California, which seemed a wise move when a crony and former cell partner escaped from the county jail and called me from the highway. I had to take him in and give him some help, at least for a few days. He began robbing banks, and because my name came up when he went through the computer, the FBI came to see me on the movie set. My friend happened to be visiting me — in Dustin Hoffman's trailer. He wasn't spotted; they weren't expecting him. They wanted it on record that I knew he was a fugitive, so if they found evidence that I had seen him and not reported it, they could charge me with aiding and abetting. Some weeks later, Paul was pounding on the door. When I let him in, he ran into the bathroom, kneeled down and began dumping money on the floor. His pistol fell out of his waistband. He had barely escaped a bank robbery in nearby Santa Monica. Do you think the FBI would have believed my protests of innocence if they had been following him? It was time to bale out of LA when the movie was in the can and my second novel, Animal Factory, was in the bookstores.
I stayed for a while with an old girlfriend and her daughter in Chicago, but Chicago was too damned cold, so I went to New York. Dustin optioned the film rights to Animal Factory, not because he wanted to make it, but to help me out. My third novel, Little Boy Blue, was almost finished, and the first hundred pages are probably my best writing . . . Long before that I had recognized, or decided, that I had to succeed as a writer or be an outlaw. By making such an unequivocal decision, I set myself on a path of perseverance, and it was only such determination, or obstinacy, that let me overcome in the first place. Imagine someone with a seventh-grade education wanting to be a serious writer, and accomplishing it without any help or encouragement. Indeed, the prison psychologist said it was another manifestation of infantde fantasy. However, when my first novel was made into a movie, my second novel was published and my third novel was nearly finished, I thought I was victorious. I wasn't prepared for Little Boy Blue to sell 4,000 copies, despite rave reviews. It would have been hard to sell more, for my publisher had none in the stores, not even in LA when I was doing talk shows on tour. At that time I might have returned to crime. I doubt that I would have robbed a bank, although I might have heisted a drug dealer or two, a crime I always liked because they couldn't go to the police. Most likely I would have grown some pot. It is easy to do, hard to get caught and is very profitable. While watching it grow, I would have continued writing. If caught growing pot it wouldn't have been a life sentence, not even for me. And back in a cell, I would have sharpened a pencd and continued writing. Now I knew I could, and likewise knew I couldn't do anything else — at least not anything legal.
Mr. Blue: Memoirs of a Renegade Page 44