Because it was working so silently the machine simply escaped one’s attention. The explorer observed the soldier and the condemned man. The latter was the more animated of the two, everything in the machine interested him, now he was bending down and now stretching up on tiptoe, his forefinger was extended all the time pointing out details to the soldier. This annoyed the explorer. He was resolved to stay till the end, but he could not bear the sight of these two. “Go back home,” he said. The soldier would have been willing enough, but the condemned man took the order as a punishment. With clasped hands he implored to be allowed to stay, and when the explorer shook his head and would not relent, he even went down on his knees. The explorer saw that it was no use merely giving orders, he was on the point of going over and driving them away. At that moment he heard a noise above him in the Designer. He looked up. Was that cogwheel going to make trouble after all? But it was something quite different. Slowly the lid of the Designer rose up and then clicked wide open. The teeth of a cogwheel showed themselves and rose higher, soon the whole wheel was visible, it was as if some enormous force were squeezing the Designer so that there was no longer room for the wheel, the wheel moved up till it came to the very edge of the Designer, fell down, rolled along the sand a little on its rim, and then lay flat. But a second wheel was already rising after it, followed by many others, large and small and indistinguishably minute, the same thing happened to all of them, at every moment one imagined the Designer must now really be empty, but another complex of numerous wheels was already rising into sight, falling down, trundling along the sand, and lying flat. This phenomenon made the condemned man completely forget the explorer’s command, the cogwheels fascinated him, he was always trying to catch one and at the same time urging the soldier to help, but always drew back his hand in alarm, for another wheel always came hopping along which, at least on its first advance, scared him off.
The explorer, on the other hand, felt greatly troubled; the machine was obviously going to pieces; its silent working was a delusion; he had a feeling that he must now stand by the officer, since the officer was no longer able to look after himself. But while the tumbling cogwheels absorbed his whole attention he had forgotten to keep an eye on the rest of the machine; now that the last cogwheel had left the Designer, however, he bent over the Harrow and had a new and still more unpleasant surprise. The Harrow was not writing, it was only jabbing, and the Bed was not turning the body over but only bringing it up quivering against the needles. The explorer wanted to do something, if possible, to bring the whole machine to a standstill, for this was no exquisite torture such as the officer desired, this was plain murder. He stretched out his hands. But at that moment the Harrow rose with the body spitted on it and moved to the side, as it usually did only when the twelfth hour had come. Blood was flowing in a hundred streams, not mingled with water, the water jets too had failed to function. And now the last action failed to fulfill itself, the body did not drop off the long needles, streaming with blood it went on hanging over the pit without falling into it. The Harrow tried to move back to its old position, but as if it had itself noticed that it had not yet got rid of its burden it stuck after all where it was, over the pit. “Come and help!” cried the explorer to the other two, and himself seized the officer’s feet. He wanted to push against the feet while the others seized the head from the opposite side and so the officer might be slowly eased off the needles. But the other two could not make up their minds to come; the condemned man actually turned away; the explorer had to go over to them and force them into position at the officer’s head. And here, almost against his will, he had to look at the face of the corpse. It was as it had been in life; no sign was visible of the promised redemption; what the others had found in the machine the officer had not found; the lips were firmly pressed together, the eyes were open, with the same expression as in life, the look was calm and convinced, through the forehead went the point of the great iron spike.
As the explorer, with the soldier and the condemned man behind him, reached the first houses of the colony, the soldier pointed to one of them and said: “There is the teahouse.”
In the ground floor of the house was a deep, low, cavernous space, its walls and ceiling blackened with smoke. It was open to the road all along its length. Although this teahouse was very little different from the other houses of the colony, which were all very dilapidated, even up to the Commandant’s palatial headquarters, it made on the explorer the impression of a historic tradition of some kind, and he felt the power of past days. He went near to it, followed by his companions, right up between the empty tables that stood in the street before it, and breathed the cool, heavy air that came from the interior. “The old man’s buried here,” said the soldier, “the priest wouldn’t let him lie in the churchyard. Nobody knew where to bury him for a while, but in the end they buried him here. The officer never told you about that, for sure, because of course that’s what he was most ashamed of. He even tried several times to dig the old man up by night, but he was always chased away.” “Where is the grave?” asked the explorer, who found it impossible to believe the soldier. At once both of them, the soldier and the condemned man, ran before him pointing with outstretched hands in the direction where the grave should be. They led the explorer right up to the back wall, where guests were sitting at a few tables. They were apparently dock laborers, strong men with short, glistening, full black beards. None had a jacket, their shirts were torn, they were poor, humble creatures. As the explorer drew near, some of them got up, pressed close to the wall, and stared at him. “It’s a foreigner,” ran the whisper around him, “he wants to see the grave” They pushed one of the tables aside, and under it there was really a gravestone. It was a simple stone, low enough to be covered by a table. There was an inscription on it in very small letters, the explorer had to kneel down to read it. This was what it said: “Here rests the old Commandant. His adherents, who now must be nameless, have dug this grave and set up this stone. There is a prophecy that after a certain number of years the Commandant will rise again and lead his adherents from this house to recover the colony. Have faith and wait!” When the explorer had read this and risen to his feet he saw all the bystanders around him smiling, as if they too had read the inscription, had found it ridiculous, and were expecting him to agree with them. The explorer ignored this, distributed a few coins among them, waiting till the table was pushed over the grave again, quitted the teahouse, and made for the harbor.
The soldier and the condemned man had found some acquaintances in the teahouse, who detained them. But they must have soon shaken them off, for the explorer was only halfway down the long flight of steps leading to the boats when they came rushing after him. Probably they wanted to force him at the last minute to take them with him. While he was bargaining below with a ferryman to row him to the steamer, the two of them came headlong down the steps, in silence, for they did not dare to shout. But by the time they reached the foot of the steps the explorer was already in the boat, and the ferryman was just casting off from the shore. They could have jumped into the boat, but the explorer lifted a heavy knotted rope from the floor boards, threatened them with it, and so kept them from attempting the leap.
Convict K00457
ROBERT C. ALLEN
Both of my arms have bands just above the elbows. My left arm has a chain (one link accidentally done wrong), my right arm has barbed wire (done at separate times by different people, so it had to be done with the effect of tearing through the flesh). Above the chain is a collage of candles, demons, elves, ten calendar years, a skeleton judge, rotting flesh, and flames. Above the barbed wire, on the inside of my arm, I have a pair of praying hands. On the outside, my Savior on the cross, with the words Jesus Saves on either side.
The tattoo on my collar is four words. The words Jesus Saves are legible, going from left to right across the width of my chest. Under those words, going in the opposite direction, upside down and backwards, are the words Evil Wa
ys. I decided to get this because I always saw myself stuck between good and evil. The words are done in a beautiful script, and the tattoo is only tip-shaded. By the way, the collar area is not as sensitive as everyone makes it out to be.
The tattoo on the lower left half of my back is a demon I found in a book of demons and mythology. I was looking for something to help even out the motif I was going for, a balance of good and evil. His name is Eurynome, and he is said to conjure up the murdering tendencies in people. He is incredibly ugly, with long claws on his fingers and toes. On his back he wears the skin of a goat for a cape. Yet, as ugly as he is, it is a beautiful tattoo. Very much worth the pain.
The tattoo on my back right shoulder is a Celtic knot-work cross, with an eyeball at the top, a flaming heart at the foot, and a complex knot in the center. The eyeball represents the spiritual third eye that guides me. The heart represents the burning heart of my Savior. And the complex knot represents everything. The idea for this tattoo was mine. I thought of it after watching a movie with a priest that had a tattoo of a huge knot-work cross in the center of his back.
The tattoo on the lower right half of my back is an old frontiersman. He’s leaning back with his rifle laying on his lap, the only thing at ease with him being his beard. His coat has those old, wide-eyed clasps from the Civil War era, and his gun has great detail, betraying its age. I got the pattern from a card my mom sent me because the guy looks a lot like my uncle. But the tattoo isn’t done, because the man doing the work sliced someone’s throat.
Mando
STEVE VENDER
Even after all these years, I still love going to jail. A lot of the criminal defense investigators I know hate it, but they burned out long ago, having heard one too many stories with the same sad line.
“Man, you know I didn’t do it.”
“Who did?”
“Dude. It was Dude done did it. Not me.”
I hear the same line, but it never bothers me. In fact, I don’t even ask my guy if he committed the crime he’s charged with unless it’s absolutely necessary. Citizens don’t seem to understand this, but my job is to provide the best possible defense, and that defense usually begins in jail. Of course I never know what’s going to happen when I go to the jail. That’s the hook.
Tonight I’m here to see Mando, and it’s going to take some time because he’s in Ad Seg (Administrative Segregation), caged in a cell half the size of a bathroom. It’ll take time to cuff and chain him, and then get extra deputies to escort him to the interview room where I’m waiting. Past experience dictates that Mando can never, and that is never, come into contact with any of the other inmates.
While waiting for Mando, I stand outside the interview room and look down the long tier of the mainline. The noise in jail is overwhelming. Inmates are yelling at each other through the bars on each side of the tier. I can hear a hustle going on between B-1 and C-1. Somebody in B-2 is loudly dissing a rival in C-2. There are threats amidst laughter, lame come-ons, everybody pent up and crazed from being locked down day and night. Imagine a hundred radios at full volume all tuned to a different station, and you get some sense of the noise level. It’s ear-splitting, nerve jangling, the most demented cacophony you’ll ever hear.
Mando is different, though, he doesn’t need to raise his voice or get into the mix. His tattoos say it all. They speak volumes.
I remember the first time I came to see him, when he was still on the mainline in the general population, wearing orange sweats instead of the red ones that the Ad Segers wear. There was Mando, sauntering down the line to the big locked gate that separated us, his head completely shaved and tattooed with a 49er’s football helmet, logos on each side, with smaller tattoos covering his neck. Tip of the iceberg.
Mando had been charged with First Degree Murder and two counts of Attempted, and there was no possible way that anyone could say Dude did that one, with the surviving victims all too willing to point the finger at Mando. There were so many charges in the Criminal Complaint that it looked like a small booklet instead of the two or three pages you usually get.
Mando was a Norteño gang member, upper tier in rank and one of their best killers. He had attacked three Sureños who had foolishly crossed into Norteño territory, stabbing all three of them and killing one man. Mando just loved the knife. The two daggers he had tattooed on each side of his neck, with drops of blood dripping from the tips, told the world the knife was his weapon of choice.
I had worked cases involving a few of Mando’s homies, so Mando had heard about me. He knew I defended Sureños, too, but it was never a point of contention between us. Mando understood. It was just business. He might call me a gavacho, a white man, and he knew I didn’t live la vida loca like he did, but he had respect for anyone who worked in the streets like I did. For him, that took heart. I had corazón, and he appreciated that, enough so to give us room to work together.
As for his case, well, you either have room to work or you don’t, and with Mando there was hardly any room to wiggle. Mando would take the hit, no matter what. It was just a question of how hard that hit would be. The only way we could go was with self-defense. Hey, tres stuck Sureños, and one dead guy named “Dreamer” who was fingering a loaded 9mm when the police rolled him over, were mitigating factors, no matter how faint the light seemed. And then there were Mando’s coeds, reports from San Francisco General Hospital documenting a history of being shot, stabbed, and assaulted with bats, sticks, clubs, bottles, pipes, and anything else that might have been handy. Mando’s coeds were thick as a phone book. They would show why he needed to stab three guys and snuff one man’s dreams. And, so, with that little light, we went to work.
When you’re doing criminal defense, the first interview is crucial. You establish a rapport, or you don’t. Your guy knows he can trust you, or he can’t. It sounds simple, but when you’re sitting across from someone who’s committed a horrendous crime, and this person is very bright, and what’s more you find yourself liking him on some level, well, it can get complex. The smart guys know how to exploit this tension, and that’s when mental chess begins on the Masters level. I’d danced to that first-interview number hundreds of times, and nothing much bothered me anymore, but that 49er’s helmet tattooed on Mando’s head threw me. Of course it would be the ’Niners. They wore red, Norteño colors, while the Sureños, their archenemies, wore blue. And then throw in those tattoos on his neck and it made it difficult to concentrate. Was it the tombstone with RIP on his Adam’s apple, forever mourning the death of his “primo”? Or maybe it was those daggers. Either way, it was hard not to look.
I managed to get the trust I wanted from that first interview despite the noise that Mando’s tattoos made in that cramped interview room. And make no mistake about it, tattoos are all about sound. They are never silent. They announce, but what’s more they pronounce. They tell the world what kind of man stands before it. Tattoos not only provide identity, they do much more. They provide a look at the inside of a man, sometimes showing you things you just don’t want to see.
Since we were going with self-defense, I wanted to document Mando’s history. I made the necessary arrangements to photograph his wounds when I went to see him the second time. As I readied the camera to shoot the scars, Mando slipped the sweatshirt over his muscular shoulders. That’s when I heard one long nightmarish wail.
Mando’s body was covered with tattoos from his waist to his neck, a canvas painted by a lunatic, a road map to hell. His torso was a city with no zoning laws, full of weird structures erected by crazed builders whacked out on bad speed. There were billboards everywhere, full of spiders and cobwebs, bats and snakes, skulls and bones, the Grim Reaper presiding over it all. Above his left breast was a Janus face, half laughing, half crying. Above the right one was a woman with long hair, a river of tears falling from her eyes. In the center of his chest a huge Jesus offered absolution. Thorns and chains ran along his sides, continuing above the faces on his breast, and in the middle of
his stomach was the word Excelsior done in Old English lettering, telling the world that was the section of San Francisco where Mando ruled. Some of the tattoos I could read; some of them I couldn’t. The spiders and cobwebs were for the time he’d done. The laughing and crying faces were for his happy and sad life. The crying woman meant someone, somewhere on the outside was waiting for him. One look and I knew those tears would continue to fall, the wait would be long.
I worked on Mando’s case for the better part of a year, right through the preliminary hearing and into trial preparation, documenting his history, preparing to bring the citizens who would sit on his jury into la violencia, the absolutely brutal killing that never seemed to end. And then, it was over. We had always been paddling upstream, trying to make someone understand why Mando would do such a thing, but in one brief moment Mando threw his paddle over the side and headed in the direction he was always meant to go, no matter what anyone did to keep things on course.
Up until this point, Mando had been doing his county jail time without any incidents. The sheriff’s deputies who ran the jails were hip to the war on the streets. Just because Norteños and Sureños were locked up didn’t mean the hostilities ceased, so they usually kept the gangs segregated. But in an environment like county jail, a boiling pot full of killers, torture lovers, baby rapers, amped-up dopers, gangbangers and every known variety of psycho in the catalog, there are bound to be fuckups.
Dorothy Parker's Elbow Page 21