I’m on the yard and there’s no one I recognize, so I’m on my own. Finally this Mexican guy comes out and says, “You Nite Owl?” I told him I was. He says, “Here,” and gives me a kite. Since Chino and the other Nite Owl left, there was no one who could fish with me, so my homie says this guy is supposed to help me and that we’re to hit Chief, the BGF guy from Oakland. I look over and see that Chief is playing basketball with three other dudes and he’s fucking huge. He’s six feet four inches, about 235 pounds, and I’m all of five feet seven inches and about 155 pounds on a rainy day. But hey. It’s for the cause.
I tell the dude to keep point and I squat down and unsheathe my sword. So we start walking laps and after about thirty minutes Chief and the ballers take a water break. So I stroll over, get pumped, and make my move. I rush Chief and catch him right in the center of his chest. He throws a punch on reflex that catches me on the forehead and backs me up about five steps. I literally lost a shoe from that punch.
Chief puts his hands to his chest and lifts his shirt. I make another move but the gunner shoots and yells, “Drop the weapon.” Everyone lays down on the ground. I turn and throw the knife over the wall. The cop fires another round at my foot so I lay down too. They come pull us off the yard and I get another eighteen months in the SHU. I get the official write-up later and it says the “weapon was found amongst the rocks by the bay.”
I’ll put you up on a secret. In the history of doing hits with those plastic knives, you probably have three or four people get killed. Sure, you can take an eye out if you’re lucky. But nobody ever really got hurt that I ever seen. It was all just for principle. Even the dudes that Chino and Nite Owl hit weren’t seriously hurt. But going through the motions showed that you had heart. It conditioned soldiers to be battle-ready even if you had live rounds being fired, because one day you would be called upon or find yourself in a situation to put in real work.
Oh, by the way. The date for that write-up was 2/8/87. Yeah, another birthday in the big-city jail.
18
Real Great Dudes
After that, I get moved up to the fourth tier, Bayside. I’m put in cell 401, the first cell on the tier. The first thing that strikes me when I get to my new apartment is the view. Oh, my god, I can see the whole bay, from the Oakland Bay Bridge to the San Rafael Bridge, the boats and the ferries. In fact, one of the ferries hits his horn every time he goes by and you can see him waving to the prison. For the next eight months, this is home. I’ve got Buzzard from El Monte below me, Macky next to him, and Bobby from Hoyo Maravilla behind me. We can talk and fish through the vent. Angel from Pacoima, Diablo from Eighteenth Street, and Psycho from Little Valley. These are all my neighbors and yard partners. Over the next few months the program goes as usual. A few hits go down, but nothing special. My grandmother writes to tell me that my mom and dad have moved back from Hawaii, but not much else.
Then one day in September I’m laying on my bed watching TV, when I hear a bunch of keys coming up the stairs. Now it’s my job as the first cell to give the heads-up to the rest of the tier. So I holler, “Radio.”
Anyhow, the gate flies open. In fact, from the third tier up the gates fly open.
“It’s a raid!”
The cops arrive in droves. The two that stop at my door tell me to cuff up. One of them is a black officer named Jamison. He’s talking shit and asking me, “Why you yell radio, snitch? What are you, the tier rat?” This guy won’t stop. He just keeps going on and on and going through my stuff and tossing it around. I’m cuffed to the rail in front of my cell. He looks at me and says, “Ooops,” as he drops my toothbrush into the toilet. I just laugh and shake my head. Then he gets to my pictures, pictures sent to me over the past couple of years by friends and family. It’s all I have from home.
Jamison comes to a picture of my mom when she was younger that my grandma sent me. And he starts making crude remarks.
“Oooh, who’s this? Man, I’d fuck her, wouldn’t you?” And he shows the picture to the other cop.
The other cop just tells him, “Let’s just get this done. We have a long day.”
But Jamison won’t stop. He keeps going on and on about my mom’s picture and then he rubs it on his crotch. That’s when I go off.
“That’s my mom, motherfucker.” I lunge at him but I’m cuffed to the rail so I don’t go anywhere.
Things are getting heated so the other cop tells Jamison, “Cool it.” He took the picture away from Jamison.
I’m hot. This asshole just disrespected Mom. I’m mad dogging him as they come out of my cell. Jamison looks at me and smiles. Then he says, “What? Are you mad now?”
So I kicked him. You only get one of those because now I’ve got about ten cops on top of me. Remember, I’m still cuffed to the rail. So they got me stretched. They put leg shackles on me and I start catching punches and kicks. Finally they disconnect me from the rail and they carry me facedown like a log, one cop on each limb. And I open every gate four flights down with my head. When we get to the bottom tier, I’m thrown into a cage and the leg shackles are taken off.
Jamison is there still talking shit and we’re in each other’s face. Then Lieutenant Diamond comes up to me and asks, “What’s going on, Corona?” So I run it down and say the dude was disrespecting my mother’s picture. Diamond asks the cops if this is true. Jamison is hopping around like an idiot, saying, “He kicked me.” But the other cop just nods his head and says, “It got a little out of hand.”
“Go see the nurse,” Lieutenant Diamond tells Jamison.
Diamond tells me, “Look, I know sometimes some of my officers don’t exactly act professional. But I can’t have inmates running around kicking them. So I’m going to have to write you up. But he’s not hurt so it’s not going to be a serious one. Next time just control yourself and let me know if you’re having issues with one of my officers.”
I get seen by the nurse, then I’m shackled up and escorted to the Adjustment Center—the hole within the hole. This is where they keep the “cream of the crop,” dudes who have done serious shit as well as those from Death Row who are “Administrative Problems.”
I was thrown into a cold cell. These are cells in the back of the first tier. They’re double-doored so it’s basically a cell within a cell. The only thing in there is a cement slab with a mattress and sheet and a toilet. There’s a sink, but it doesn’t work. They keep you in your boxer shorts and T-shirt, which is the reason they call it a cold cell.
I can’t get nothing to read over the next few days. And I found a curious-looking short curly hair in my food. After that, I was careful about what I ate. After a week of being there, I hear them put someone in the cell next to me. And the cops are real respectful to him. “If you need anything, let us know,” they said. “As soon as there’s an opening, we’ll move you to another cell.”
Whoever it was said, “Okay.” Then he asks out loud, “Who’s here?” I hear a couple of names called out and the new guy next door says, “Okay. Let them know I’m here.”
So I’m just laying there. I didn’t have many friends growing up, so I learned how to play with myself really well. After a while, I get up to take a leak and when I flush, the guy next to me says, “Hey, who’s over there?” So I say, “Nite Owl de Posole.” And he says, “What’s up, Nite Owl? Soy Darryl from Ontario Black Angels.” We start talking and he asks how long I’ve been back here and what did I do. And then he asks me if I have anything to read. “Nah, homie,” I said. “I don’t have shit. All I have is a sheet. I guess they want me to hang myself.” He starts laughing and then says, “Man, that’s bullshit.” Then he tells me he spent two months here two years ago. Then he left for another prison and now he’s back here for court.
About that time the cops come by with some stuff for him and he tells them, “Here, give the guy next door this. You guys ain’t right. Give him a blanket and some clothes.” So the co
ps come over to me and give me a book, a blanket, and a jumpsuit and they say, “From your neighbor next door.” So I thank Darryl. Over the next couple of days we get to know each other. I realize this homie is sharp. And he has some very empowering views on the betterment of our people.
After a few days they come to move Darryl. But before he leaves, he stops by my cell to look at me. “Here’s some things, little homie,” he says. “I’m moving upstairs. Do you want to come up to my tier?” I said, “Yeah. If I can.” So trip on this. The next day I’m told to pack all my treasures and I’m moved up to the second tier chapel side about a cell over from Darryl. When I get settled in, Darryl calls out, “Tecolote [“owl” in Spanish], are you okay?” I tell him, “Now I am.” Then he tells me we got some more homies on the tier and he introduces me to them. There’s Mon from Jardin (a gang from Southeast LA), Chato from Arizona Maravilla from East LA, a white guy next door named John Sapp, and another white guy down the tier named Curt Kirkpatrick. Everyone says hello and I’m told to make a line and then sent a few things to hold me until my property gets there.
After a few days I get cleared for the yard and go out to meet the fellas. The Adjustment Center yards are between Northblock and the Adjustment Center. And like I said, these dudes were true gangsters. As it turns out, Darryl was a full-blown brother in the Mexican Mafia, as were Mon and Chato. The other brothers I met were Cuate from La Rana (harbor area), Jessie Bird Gonzalez from Puente in the San Gabriel Valley, Tommy Moreno from Norwalk in Southeast LA, Raul “Huero Sherm” Leon from Shelltown in San Diego, Nuchie from Indio, and Mando from Ontario. There was also Curt Low from the Aryan Brotherhood and John Sapp, who I already mentioned was my immediate neighbor. Sapp was a hit man. I came into possession of some of his transcripts and he did some really gruesome things for the Hells Angels. We became good friends because I apparently reminded him of his stepson. Like I said, these dudes are real.
Mon is running the show and the homie runs a tight ship. Under his rule, coming to the yard is mandatory. So is running twenty-five laps when you first hit the yard. After that, we have an organized workout for about an hour. Then you get thirty minutes to socialize. These are Mon’s rules, not the prison’s.
I meet everyone and after the workout we start talking and sharing war stories. Darryl tells me about some black guy he smoked during a peace treaty meeting. Also, Chato is a real character. He’s on Death Row for killing nine people. He’s a big ol’ dude, so he can be really intimidating when you first meet him. But once you get to know him, he’s a real great dude. He used to call me Peludo because at twenty-three years old, I had a small tuft of hair in the middle of my chest. But everyone said I looked too young to have it. So Chato would come up to me and put the back of his hand on my chest and start shaking his leg and rolling his eyes. Everyone would get a kick out of that.
Jessie Bird was on Death Row because he killed a cop during a raid. Curt Low, the AB member, was on Death Row because he cut a guy’s head off with a lawn mower blade. Huero Sherm and Mando would later become EME members.
After about a week, an AB dude named Blue arrives on the yard. At that time he was the shot caller for the AB. I found out that he became legendary for hiding a small pistol up his butt when he went to court one day and pulling it out and taking the cops who were escorting him hostage. So, as you can see, I’m no longer in high school. I’ve just entered a university and my major is how to be a real gangster. Over the next few months I get schooled on how to make pieces from real steel or plastic with metal tips. Darryl shows me how to make a crossbow. Then he tells me about a zip gun he was given when he was in Carson block. They told him to blast this guy that they were after. So when Darryl comes out to shower, he stops in front of the guy’s cell and tries to blast the dude. But the bullets are no good because they’re so old. Anyhow, I’m soaking all this stuff up like a sponge. Class is in session and I’m front and center.
I don’t want to glorify this lifestyle in any way, shape, or form because it’s nothing to be proud of. My life has caused nothing but pain and misery for a lot of people, especially my family. Yeah, sure I’ve been on my own since I was thirteen, but your mother always worries about you and loves you. And my own brothers and sister don’t know me because I’ve been away for so long. This is not to mention all the lives I will affect when I start working for the Arellanos. But at this time, these men are the only family I know and we share a true bond. These guys know I’m not getting any mail or money from home, so they’re looking out for me. Shit, my neighbor John Sapp, who allegedly killed twenty-nine people, is buying me cigarettes every month. And the rest of the homies shoot commissary my way as well. Not out of fear or because they have to, but out of love for me. So this is where I find my loyalty.
One day we come to the yard and Mon calls me and Nuchie over. He asks both of us if we ever thought about “stepping up” (becoming a brother). We both say sure we have. So he says, “A suspected rat just drove up.” This rat was named Willie Boy and he happened to be an EME member. Mon and the other brothers talked it over and they decided they would give me and Nuchie the opportunity to earn some “eagle feathers.”
We already knew it was taboo for non-EME members to kill a member, but all the brothers on the yard were being called to court at the same time for a junta (a meeting). But they didn’t want to miss the opportunity to kill Willie Boy if they were gone and he were to show up on the yard. If Willie Boy came out before the other brothers left, Nuchie and I would still get our chance to kill him. Nuchie and I both agreed to do it. Mon then tells us to be ready and not to say anything to anybody. So for the next couple of days we wait to see if Willie comes upstairs. Soon after, I get a kite from Darryl with a big eight-inch shank and he tells me, “Start practicing.” Here we go again. These dudes are determined to wreck somebody’s butthole. I don’t want to miss the chance to “step up,” so I’m trying my damnedest.
Anyhow, I get to the yard and Nuchie is there. He asks, “Are you good?” I say yeah and he says, “Me too.” We’re both armed. So now we’re waiting to see if this guy comes out. By now, everyone is on the yard except Willie Boy. Mon asks the cop if Willie Boy got cleared for the yard.
The cop says, “Yeah. But he won’t be coming to this yard.”
To us, this means that Willie Boy checked in. He went into protective custody as part of his agreement with the authorities to debrief and spill his guts about everything he knows about the EME. We realized he was a genuine rat and we had every legit reason to kill him.
One more story about a serious dude in the Adjustment Center: There was this well-known cult leader who ran a hippie commune back in the 1960s, convicted of conspiracy to commit murder, nine life sentences, Charles Manson. Anyhow, he was there with us and he had a cell next door to the brother Cuate from La Rana. This hippie white boy gave Cuate a bunch of trinkets over the time they were neighbors—scorpions, spiders, and centipedes all made out of string. Real prison art stuff. He also gave Cuate an autographed picture of himself. One day he gave Cuate a page from a letter.
Cuate read it and asked, “What do you want me to do with this?”
Charlie says to just tear a small piece off the letter and eat it. So Cuate does it and it turns out to be LSD. So Cuate tears it into a bunch of small pieces and brings it to the yard and passes out the papers. Even Mon takes one and Mon never does anything in the way of drugs. But he said back in the 1960s, that was the only drug he liked.
Well, we’re all on the yard frying our asses off and the homies start playing basketball. It gets wild during the game because everyone is high and elbows are flying and there’s even a couple of busted lips.
So when the cops come for yard recall, the cops start tripping. They ask the homies, “Who got hit?” But everyone is sizzling on acid, so we all start laughing and pointing at the cops, who keep going, “Come on, we just want to get them off the yard so they can get some help.”
That makes us laugh even harder. The cops get on the radio and call the lieutenant. The lieutenant comes out and starts acting all hardass. “You better tell me who got hit or you’re all getting write-ups.” We just couldn’t stop laughing. We were already in the Adjustment Center. What were they going to do to us? Send us across the bay to Alcatraz? The lieutenant calls the captain and when he comes out, he takes one look at us and says, “Nobody got hit. These assholes are high. Leave them out there until they sober up.”
That night we all got to see something we hadn’t seen in years—the stars over the San Francisco Bay.
PART THREE
PROFESSION
19
A Big Enterprise
By the early part of 1992, I was back in prison. This time it was Donovan State Prison in Central California. They arrested me while I was riding my Harley. I was carrying heroin and a meth pipe. By this time, I was a well-known and reliable soldier in the hierarchy. The same day I hit the yard, I got a kite from Sal, the Big Homie that was running that prison at the time. Basically, Sal tells me that I’m now holding the keys to the yard for him. That means that when it comes to matters concerning the EME or their activities, I speak for Sal, and Sal of course is speaking for the Mexican Mafia. I was essentially the chief executive officer of the EME franchise in Donovan. I had become one of the dudes that I had admired and respected for years.
Some time after my arrival, Johnny Romero, a good friend from Shelltown, told me that he was leaving. He’d been transferred to New Folsom, and since I was now “driving the car,” he wanted to get some things squared away before he left. Johnny and I went back a long way, so we had a lot to talk about. He asks me to take a walk with him and he starts talking to me in a way that was more serious than he’d ever spoken to me before. We start walking the track and he told me that for years, he’d been taking care of a youngster, guiding and protecting him, as a favor to another Big Homie from “down south.” He said that this Big Homie from down south is the real deal. He said that if I agreed to take this youngster, Bugsy, under my wing and keep him from getting hurt or getting into trouble, the Big Homie would take care of me.
Confessions of a Cartel Hit Man Page 16