Death Row Breakout

by Edward Bunker

  Maybe I should do that to hear what’s going on, Roger thought, and started to swing off the bunk. In the corner of his eye, a figure flashed by. Hey! It’s happening. That was Big Strunk.

  “What the fuck’s happening’, man!” called one of the two Crips.

  “Shaddup, asshole!” Jimmy Rube snarled softy – but loud enough to hear. “Don’t do no dry snitchin’, punk!”

  “Say, man –”

  Another figure flew past Roger’s cell, going the other way. It was Rudy Wright going to the Crip. Roger heard hissing words, then silence. His heart began to race. Pressing to the bars, off to the right he could see Big Strunk squeezing through his hole onto the gun-walk.

  Rudy Wright returned, eyes white in his dark face. He had to wait, crouched down, behind Strunk, until the big man’s feet disappeared through the bars. Rudy stretched out and wiggled through, disappearing around the corner.

  Roger listened. One yell and Sergeant Mencken would be on the phone. Squeezing the cell bars, Roger visualized Stunk and Rudy waiting at the rear for Deputy Dog to come back along the cells, retracing his routine patrol.

  A half cry, stifled. A splat of flesh on flesh. Roger closed his eyes and held his breath.

  No shout of alarm.

  A minute. Another. A figure appeared. It was Strunk. He wore the guard’s hat, providing camouflage for his silhouette. He walked past Roger en route to the front. He’d taken the key to let him out. Rudy must be in the back with Deputy Dog. Roger could imagine Deputy Dog’s terror at being helpless and at the whim of a condemned killer. He could also imagine that every inmate on Death Row #1 was standing at the bars, precisely as he was.

  A voice, “…oh God!” The crash of a chair going over. A moment later, Big Strunk called out, “Rudy! Rudy! Bring him up here.”

  “Awright, awready?” Jimmy Rube called. “Hear it, Roger?”

  “Does a bear shit in the woods?”

  “Wha’s goin’ on, man?” asked one of the Crips.

  As he spoke, the security bar went up. Big Strunk opened the outer gate and came onto the tier. Roger heard Jimmy Rube’s cell gate being unlocked, then Robillard’s. Strunk appeared. He had a Sergeant in tow. It was Sergeant Blair. The old man looked rumpled, his shirt askew, his hair mussed, a wild look in his eyes. As the key turned and Roger stepped out, he felt sorry for the old man – yet what could he do? Stop fighting for his life?

  “Sorry, Sarge,” Roger said. It issued without volition. It was politically incorrect in the hardcore code where kindness was weakness in the minds of most.

  “Here you go,” Strunk said, shoving Roger the .38 Police Special taken from the gun-walk guard. “You take the piece. You got the best sense. Watch. I’m gonna spring Salas and Charlie Jack.”

  Strunk hurried toward the front, passing Robillard and Rube. They were at a cell. Rube was waving his arms.

  “Let’s go, Sarge,” Roger said, touching his shoulder without shoving. They moved toward the front. On the right, outside the bars and mesh, Rudy passed them. He was pushing Deputy Dog.

  The guard’s hands were behind his back, fastened with a belt. Rudy held onto that with one hand; in the other was the sharpened rod from the toilet bowl pushbutton. Its ice-pick point was aimed toward the guard’s jugular.

  Is this really happening, Roger thought as he passed Rube, who was talking heatedly to Richard Romero, his face shadowed so it exaggerated the angles of evil. His eyes glittered and he sneered his scorn. “I tell you, mon, you better, mon. Six six six…”

  Roger kept moving, the Sergeant ahead of him, out into the light of the service area. Robillard was already there. A picnic-sized table was under the window. Even standing on that it would not be possible to reach up to the window. Robillard was putting a chair on the table. Whoever started cutting the bars would stand on that.

  Roger heard noise from the tier. Rube rushed out, “Where’s Strunk?”

  “Gettin’ Salas and Jackson.”

  “That fuckin’ asshole, Romero, that sonofabitch – he says he’s gonna start screamin’ and breakin’ up shit if we don’t let him out of his cell. What about the rest?”

  Sergeant Blair shook his head, as if the query was directed to him. “Not all those maniacs,” he said.

  “Wait’ll Big Strunk gets back,” Roger said. He opened the door to the office and motioned Sergeant Blair in. Rudy Wright arrived with Deputy Dog. Roger held the door until they passed in front of him. “Got a white man holdin’ doors for me… damn!” Rudy Wright said. It was intended to be good natured and was taken as such. At the same time as Roger cracked a smile in return, he recollected that Rudy was a stoolpigeon and a rapist of young white boys and totally despicable even by the criminal codes of yesteryear. Rudy eyed the pistol hanging in Roger’s hand, and rolled his eyes. Roger missed whatever it meant. He was taking Sergeant Blair’s handcuffs from the belt holster.

  “Siddown, ‘dog motherfucker,” Rudy said, pushing Deputy Dog down onto a desk chair with rollers.

  “Uh uh,” Roger said. “He can roll that around the room.” Roger looked around. “Put him on his stomach and his hands around that table leg. Here –” he extended the handcuffs “–use these.”

  Rudy pulled the guard off the chair and shoved him down onto the floor. Roger moved the telephone away from the desk and told Sergeant Blair to sit on the floor behind the desk.

  Salas and Jackson came in. Salas was an East LA chicano with enough muscles for a Greek statue – and enough tattoos to be the illustrated man. He and Jackson, a thief from another era, were on Death Row for a contract murder. A Santa Ana businessman wanted his partner iced, but he couldn’t handle the guilt and went to the police. The businessman got Life; they got Death. Salas grinned and squeezed Roger’s shoulder. “Hey, man, here we go –”

  “Take it easy. We’re a long way from out,” Roger admonished. “Watch the Sergeant.”

  “Got him.”

  Rube and Strunk and Jellico. Where were they?

  Right then, Jellico entered. The Death Row office was spartan – a desk, two chairs, a big table with a coffee maker and a refrigerator off to the side were its furnishings.

  “Where’re Rabe and Strunk?” Roger asked.

  Jellico pointed toward the open tier gate. He went to the gate and looked down the tier. They were standing outside Romero’s cell. He heard Romero’s shrill demand, “…better lemme out!” The demand was followed by a loud rattle as he shook the bars.

  To Roger’s surprise, Rube reached out and unlocked the cell gate. Romero came out and all three came toward the gate. Behind Rube, someone called, and Rube said, “I’ll be right back.” A voice said, “…motherfucker better be back!”

  Roger stepped aside as they came out. Big Strunk was first, winking as he went by. Next came Romero, tall and lean as an upright cobra. Rube was last, face serious. He didn’t even look at Roger. Behind them were voices from the cells.

  Robillard stood on the chair atop the table. He was starting to work on the window bars with the vintage hacksaw blade. The bars were half again the thickness of regular window bars.

  “In there,” Rube said, indicating the second door to the auxiliary room.

  Romero’s animal alarm sense rang bells. He balked, looked to Jimmy Rube and shook his head. “No. I wanna kill the guards.”

  Big Strunk hit him without warning. It was a right hand Sunday punch learned in California’s gladiator schools. It would drop a heavyweight contender.

  Richard Romero’s jawbone fractured loudly, and he dropped shoulder first, onto the floor, his leg descending an instant afterward. He was OUT.

  Strunk grimaced and held his right hand. Jimmy Rube dragged the inert form toward the door that Jellico now held open.

  Suddenly, Romero began to thrash. “HELP! HELP! MURDER!” he screamed, his body coiling like something reptilian.

  Roger started to run forward. Rube was there first, driving a foot into Romero’s ribs, knocking out both wind and voice. Then Rube drop
ped on his body with both knees.

  Summoned by the scream, Rudy Wright opened the office door. Roger grabbed the sharpened toilet bowl rod and fell upon the serial killer and devil worshipper. It would have taken the supernatural to save him. Roger stabbed once – below the ribs. The rod went in easily, and came out with suction. He stabbed again, hit rib bones and his hand slid down the rod. “Damn!”

  Jimmy Rube pushed him aside. “Watch out.” Rube had razor blades fused into toothbrush handles. He held Romero’s hair in one hand and chopped at his throat with the other. Every time he chopped the flesh opened white then filled with blood. Romero was trying to fight and scream, but bare feet were kicking him so he could not breathe or yell aloud.

  Finally, a chop in the wound and a geyser of thick arterial blood shot across the room onto the wall, as if sprayed from a hose. The struggles receded to spasms, and then he was still.

  Robillard went back to work. “C’mon,” Rube said to Roger, grabbing one of Romero’s feet.

  They dragged the corpse back onto the tier, leaving a wide swathe of blood across the waxed concrete floor. When they dropped him, Rube stood over him. “Anybody else wanna come out before we tell ’em?”

  “Naw, man, you runnin’ shit around here,’ said a voice – and all concurred by the subsequent silence.

  Just then, Roger remembered and said, “The check call.”

  “Yeah. Oh shit!”

  They hurried off the tier. Jellico had relieved Robillard atop the chair. The office door was open. Jackson and Strunk were close around Sergeant Blair. They had the telephone on the desk in front of him. His hands were tied. Jackson picked up the telephone receiver and dialed Operator. The check call was with the prison switchboard. Everyone held their breath and listened closely. “Operator,” said the Switchboard Operator.

  Roger held the receiver up to Sergeant Blair. “Blair and Powell on the row,” he said.

  “Okay.” The operator hung up.

  Strunk replaced the receiver. “That’s good, Sarge.”

  Roger saw that the old man had tears in his eyes, and Roger suddenly wanted to cry, too. It was a terrible thing to do to a nice old man, but he was fighting for his life.

  Roger went out of the office. Jellico was still at the window. The door to the other room was open. Salas was working on the double-door metal cabinet that contained various barbiturates and tranquilizers and, maybe, some painkillers. Rumor said the man being executed was given his choice of a double of bourbon or a shot of morphine before they took him into the gas chamber. Maybe it was true, maybe it wasn’t. The only two guys to be taken down to the overnight condemned cells in twenty-five years had failed to return and tell what happened. Whatever the truth, Salas had found a screwdriver in a drawer and was starting to work on the cabinet. He rammed it into a crack and worked it around. It was going to take time, but eventually he would pop the door open. Whether he got out or not, he was going to get loaded. In fact, that was all he wanted if he got away.

  Strunk went by and climbed onto the table. Jellico stepped off the chair and handed Strunk the hacksaw. Big Strunk went to work, pressing down on the worn hacksaw blade, his muscled shoulders gleaming with sweat. Tension as much as exertion, Roger thought, going over to see the progress.

  The hacksaw had cut into the bar. It was farther along than Roger expected, but there was still a lot to cut. The bar had to be cut twice; it was too thick to bend. Big Strunk looked down and grinned. “It’s movin’, bro.”

  “Don’t stop to talk, fool. Get to work,” Roger said. Strunk turned and began cutting with the hacksaw. Roger looked around and wondered whether what he saw was truth or delusion. Here he was on Death Row with the worst murderers, those sentenced to die, running loose. Thank God he had the pistol. He’d tried to put it in his waistband, but without a belt it wouldn’t work. He carried it in his hand. It was faster that way – if he needed it.

  Where was Jackson? Roger went to look through the open office door. Rudy Wright was seated above Deputy Dog, who was still on his belly with his manacled hands fastened around the table leg.

  Sergeant Blair slumped in the corner, a torn bed sheet wrapped around his torso, holding his arms next to his body. Robillard was watching over him. “Roger,” said Robillard. “You watch him. I gotta take a piss.’

  “Go on,” said Roger, then sat on the edge of the desk. The Sergeant’s eyes had a vacant glaze and his face was blotchy and pale. “You okay, Sarge?” he asked, aware of the man’s age and the many Camels he smoked. Sergeant Blair gave the slightest nod.

  Jimmy Rube and Charlie Jackson came into the office. Rube was excited. “Man, we’re gonna get outta this motherfucker. Go check it out, Roger. I’ll watch him. It’s time for the check call anyway.”

  Rube moved the phone to the desk. Roger went out and looked. It was true. Big Strunk was halfway through the bar. It had taken a little over half an hour. By 3:30 they could climb through the window just above the outside gun-rail and just below the administration building roof. What then? They couldn’t all crawl out together. He’d have to talk to Rube and Strunk about it. What if someone disrupted them? “I’ve got the pistol,” Roger muttered. Of course, it would be all over the moment he fired a shot. He might as well put the last one in his own mouth.

  Suddenly, there was a loud crash. Goddamn! Roger hurried to the auxiliary room. Salas had popped the cabinet door. That was the noise. The powerful Mexican was rifling through the contents of the medicine locker, throwing what he didn’t want into a wastebasket.

  Roger looked to the sky for patience. Salas turned. “I’m sorry, man. I got… frustrated, y’know what I mean?”

  “Try to be quiet, man. Please. They can hear that shit downstairs.”

  “Yeah… yeah,” said Salas, showing his total resentment at being told anything by anyone.

  As Roger turned away, Jimmy Rube came out of the office. “You seen Jellico?”

  “Not for a few minutes.”

  “Find the motherfucker. Big Strunk needs some relief.”

  “We gotta talk, too. We don’t know how the fuck we’re gonna do this.”

  “Whaddya mean?”

  “That gun tower is gonna spot us, man, if all of us crawl out together. And what about all those guys locked up? We gonna leave ’em locked up? They’re gonna go crazy when they realize we’re gone and they’re still locked up.”

  “Get Jellico. Then us three can cut it up.”

  Roger nodded and turned. Two rooms, two tiers and the area where they stood; Jellico had to be close. He looked into the auxiliary room. Salas and Jackson were at the big sink used for cleaning mops. Salas threw a handful of pills into his mouth and leaned over to get the water. “Where’s Jellico?” asked Roger.

  “On the tier, I think,” said Jackson. “Probably visitin’ that little fruiter Cocoa.” Salas stepped away from the sink and Jackson stepped up to the faucet with a mouthful of pills.

  At the gate, Roger looked down the tier. It was black shadows and distant light. Shapes were visible but not colors. He didn’t see anyone on the tier. Roger went to the other side. It was better lighted because it faced the Big Yard, and the yard’s floodlights reached through the high windows. Jellico must be on the other side, after all.

  “Hey, man! Hey! On the tier!”

  It was one of the Crips. For a moment Roger considered ignoring the call. Then he started down the tier. “Yeah, what’s up?” he asked. He was barefoot and suddenly he was sticking to the concrete floor. “What the…” he stepped aside and looked down. He’d walked into the trail of blood that Romero had leaked when he was dragged across the floor.

  It was thick and sticky between Roger’s toes. “Shit!”

  He headed toward his own open cell gate, for a wet towel to wipe it off. As he passed the Crips he said, “I’ll be back.”

  “Damn, a nigger’ll get dissed on Death Row real quick,” one said. For some reason it made Roger burst into laughter. Then he remembered he was looking thr
ough the bars at faces of caged killers, their eyes glittering. Several called out to him, “Hey, man, hey, hey…” He kept going.

  Suddenly a figure jumped back from outside the bars. He’d been hidden because the walls between cells extended outward.

  Roger was startled. Then he recognized Jellico – and at the same moment glanced toward the cell bars, where he saw a black transvestite called Cocoa, who was standing on the bunk next to the bars. When Roger looked, Cocoa was stuffing his erection back in his jeans. Jellico had been sucking a dick. Damn! What a phantasmagorical world this was.

  Roger took it in in one second, and reacted. Then he thought, none of my business. He said to Jellico, “Hey, they want you to take over from Big Strunk.”

  Roger started to move on. Jellico stepped in front of him. His face was contorted. ‘If you say a word, man, I’ll kill you like–”

  Roger turned his body so Jellico couldn’t grab the pistol. “What’re you talking about?” Roger said. “Whaddya mean, ‘say a word…?”

  Jellico stopped, looked puzzled. “Never mind.”

  “Go take over,” Roger said. “You want out, don’t you?”

  Jellico hurried off. Roger watched the hulking figure, and he was suddenly certain that Jellico had killed the four gay men in San Francisco after having sex. Jellico had killed to keep them quiet. Roger had seen the same thing once in Folsom. Early in the morning he heard the screams – they all heard the screams – and, on the tier below, a young boy was stabbed to death by his cell partner. The boy had told him about the cell partner, who had a reputation as one of Folsom’s deadliest killers. What Roger had just witnessed reeked of sameness, especially with Jellico’s tirade. Who cares, Roger thought? Jellico cares, that’s who. Somebody sure twisted his head once upon a time.

  In the cell, Roger grabbed a t-shirt and put his foot in the toilet, rubbing the sticky blood away with his fingers. He wiped his foot with the t-shirt; then put his other foot in the toilet bowl and repeated the process. He’d better get something on his feet if he was going to climb over the roof, drop to the ground and run through the countryside. He put on two layers of socks. He would try to find something more – but nobody had shoes up here, or did they?