The next nine days were all the same. Breakfast, trash pickup, search, and bar check, lunch, and dinner. Showers were on Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday.
Each day I worked out, following an aggressive routine: five hundred pushups, five hundred sit ups, five hundred squats, a half hour of shadow boxing and another half hour of martial arts kicking techniques, fighting sequences, and meditation. Even this was a light workout compared to my daily routine when I was a competitive fighter.
The nights passed slowly and were filled with the same nightmare, only the nightmare had become something I looked forward to. At least in my nightmares I wasn’t in a cell on death row. When I woke, it took a few seconds of conscious thought before I realized where I was—until that happened, I was free.
On the tenth day I woke and prepared to see the warden’s committee. The hours passed without any word, until finally after shift change I saw Carlton walk past the small window in the steel door and I called to him.
“Carlton, a moment of your time, please.” He opened the steel door that I’d come to think of as a door to a room in a mental ward.
“I’m sorry to bother you but I was supposed to see the warden’s committee today. I’ve been here ten days.”
“Let me check the log and I’ll be right back.”
Sometime later I heard the sound of his keys. The door opened and he stepped into the area right outside the cell.
“I checked the log. You’re right, you’ve been here ten days, but it’s Friday and the warden’s committee and classification don’t meet until Wednesday, so you might have to wait until then.”
I nodded and he stepped out and closed the door. I was angry. I wanted to be classified and be allowed to call my family. As it turned out, I would be denied the privilege for many more months.
For the better part of the night I stared at the blank wall opposite my bunk, reliving love, hate, pain, anger, rage, passion, and thinking about how much I wanted my life back. I must have fallen asleep because the dreams came, only something was missing. There was calmness where usually a storm raged inside. This was the reason I’d surfed. It was the only thing that brought me real peace when I was a boy and through my teenage years. Maybe it was the rise and fall of the ocean, its peacefulness and sudden power. Harnessing that power by riding a wave was like being in total control.
Suddenly I woke. At the sink I washed my face in cold water. I sat on the bunk and stared at the blank wall. I knew what to do. I took a piece of rag, wet it, and began scrubbing the wall until the dragon was gone. Then I grabbed the three pencils I found during my search of the cell, and I began to draw. I drew with passion, as never before in my life. I allowed the emotions to pour out, and as they did I was no longer William A. Noguera, prisoner D77200. A mental door had opened and the little boy from my dreams was there with me.
Tears streamed down my face as I drew and poured out my deepest emotions. For the first time in years, I’d found a part of me, long ago hidden in order to protect it from all of the brutality.
My means of coping with the emotional stress caused by the continual turmoil early in my life was to subconsciously compartmentalize my inner self into two parts. One half dealt with the abuse I suffered—the conflicts of a fractured family, and the never-ending sorrow and affliction I’ve always had to fight against. As time went by, this half grew stronger, responding instinctively to threats with cunning and aggression. This was the face I allowed everyone behind the walls of San Quentin to see. He was my Sacrificed Child, the one who defeated my enemies. The other half was caring, sensitive, intelligent, and creative. I hid him deep in my soul to protect him and keep him from being contaminated by the venom that always surrounded me. He was my Radiant Child.
Sitting in a dark prison cell on death row overwhelmed me, and I realized my old methods of survival would no longer improve what really mattered—me. The Radiant Child had come to me in my dreams, slowly reconnecting as a guiding force, gradually transitioning into my conscious thoughts, making me whole like I’d never been before.
Days and nights went by. Wednesday came and went and still the warden’s committee didn’t call for me. Different bulls asked what I was still doing in the isolation cell and my reply was always the same, “I don’t know, boss.”
On the twenty-sixth day of my stay in isolation, Carlton opened the steel door to the cell and said, “Noguera, as I was coming in today I saw the associate warden and I mentioned your situation and how long you’ve been in this cell. He assured me he would look into it. Tomorrow’s Wednesday. You’ll probably be called for committee, so be prepared.”
“Thank you, Carlton. I appreciate your efforts.”
He noticed the wall and stepped into the area directly in front of the cell.
“Dear God,” he breathed, and for the next several moments he just looked. Finally he turned to me and said, “That’s amazing, I’ve never seen anything like it. You’re gifted beyond words. You’re an artist.”
He stepped away and closed the door, leaving me alone again. But at peace.
That morning I’d finished the mural of the San Clemente shore where I’d surfed as a boy. I drew myself in various scenes: one struggling to the surface after freeing my ankle from my leash; one where I watched the little boy I’d dreamt of; and a third scene where I caught a wave and rode it. The entire wall was covered in photographic detail.
I found a missing piece of myself—long neglected but not forgotten. It was the beginning of my artistic journey, the start of what would fill my days over the next thirty years and allow my mind an escape from the inhumanity and filth I encountered along the way. I had found the key that would allow me to become the man I was meant to be.
The next morning I woke at 5:00 a.m. I paced the entire morning until Heckle and Jeckle came for me. Unlike their normal routine of fucking with any prisoner they encountered, they were unusually professional and simply said, “The warden and the committee want to see you. Put on your blue shirt, pants, and shoes. We’ll be taking you.”
I nodded. “I’m ready now.”
I was strip-searched first, then one of them said, “Turn around and back up. I’ll be double locking your cuffs so they don’t tighten up on you and cut off the circulation to your hands.”
This dirty motherfucker purposely hurt me the first day I arrived to show me his power, and thought it was funny. Now he was concerned about the circulation in my hands. I didn’t say anything, but I knew the game and I hated their hypocrisy. I was about to see the warden, and if I complained about what they had done to me before, there would be an investigation. But they had nothing to worry about—I wouldn’t say anything. My only interest was in being classified and getting placed in East Block where the majority of the condemned prisoners were housed. There, I would have access to a phone and visits, and start to put some sort of life together.
They escorted me to the second floor of the AC where the warden, Daniel Vasquez, and the committee waited. I entered the room and observed the impression my appearance had on them from their facial expressions and lack of eye contact. I wasn’t a person to them. I was only prisoner number D77200. I was told to sit down and Heckle and Jeckle stood on either side of me, like I was an animal.
Sitting around the table were the warden, the associate warden, a captain, a lieutenant, a counselor, a shrink, and the AC senior sergeant.
The warden began by stating: “William A. Noguera, CDC prisoner D77200, you have been sentenced to death and until your appeals are completed you will be under my charge. This is my classification committee and we will review your file and determine if you meet the requirements to be given grade-A status and moved to East Block where you will enjoy the privileges of a grade-A prisoner. I’m sorry you spent so much time in isolation. I was not aware of your situation. Normally ten days is the maximum time a prisoner is allowed to stay in those cells. Nevertheless, here you are, so let’s begin.”
I foolishly allowed myself to think I’d be given grade-A status because of the mistake they made in keeping me in isolation so long, but soon my hopes were smashed.
The associate warden said, “I’ve reviewed your file, Mr. Noguera, and I’m particularly concerned with this attempted escape as well as your use of violence. Since your arrest you’ve had a number of incidents mentioned where you were involved in the assault of another prisoner. This is very troubling indeed.”
Then the shrink cut in with an insulting tone, “You do understand that violence is not the answer to all conflicts?”
I cut him off, “I understand your concerns, but please allow me to explain.” I thought no matter what I said, they wouldn’t understand. They seemed to have already made up their minds.
I continued, “I’ve spent the past twenty-seven days in isolation when I should have been there for only ten. Your staff will verify I did not complain nor did I do anything that would indicate I will be a problem to you. I’m not a gang member nor do I have any affiliation to any gang. The incidents you refer to in my file were unavoidable under the circumstances. I was nineteen years old when I was arrested and thrown into a unit where the majority of prisoners were grown men with long histories in prison. I fought to stay alive and protect myself. Tell me, doctor, what would you do if a man—a convict—a killer, attempted to rape you and take away your manhood? Would you fight, or try to reason with him to end his pursuit of your ass? As for the attempted escape, I was placed in isolation for a year for something I was not involved in. An informant pointed me out, but he lied and I was never charged for it. It was all untrue.”
“Thank you Mr. Noguera, this will all be considered. However, it is the opinion of this committee that you need an adjustment period. We will review this again in ninety days. Meanwhile you will remain in the AC during this period of observation.”
The warden’s words had the ring of a canned statement he’d used hundreds of times before. I’d wanted a fair hearing, but instead I was left feeling gut-punched.
He continued, “You are a grade-B prisoner. However, you will be placed on a group yard that goes outside three times a week and you will be moved into a normal cell by yourself where you will receive mail and go to the prison store for your necessities. You will not, however, be allowed phone use. That privilege is reserved for grade-A prisoners. Do you have any enemies?”
“I do not.”
He assigned me to a group yard. I would be allowed outside Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. I was led away and back to the isolation cell.
“We’ll be back for you in a while. We have to move a guy’s stuff out of a cell for you. He got his grade-A,” Heckle said.
After they left, I sat on my bunk, defeated. At least three more months in the hole. I stared at the mural I’d created on the wall. I was so far away from home.
I stayed in isolation for the rest of the day. Heckle and Jeckle were still recovering from their display of “professionalism” during the committee meeting and didn’t have the strength left to move me. Bulls from the next shift moved me to another cell on the first tier after dinner. A part of me didn’t want to go. Being in solitary confinement so long had affected me in ways I didn’t yet realize.
I entered the new cell. It didn’t have a solid steel door—just a door made of heavy steel bars covered with steel mesh. The cell was the same size as the quiet cell I moved from, but with cells on either side. In a cell with bars instead of a solid door, I could talk to my neighbors.
The cell had a steel toilet and sink, a bunk and a light with a switch that allowed me to turn it on or off when I wanted. Otherwise, the cell was bare, but clean. I took off my blues and folded them, then placed them on the bunk. I took a deep breath and set out to search the cell as I always did, looking for contraband and a possible set-up. The only thing I found was a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. I had begun reading it when Carlton came to my door.
“Noguera, I have your property. It’s not much, but I’m sure you want and need it.”
It was depressing when he handed everything to me through the food port. The handful of things was all I owned in the entire world. I had fallen far and fast from where I had once been.
I noticed right away a new toothbrush, paste, and tumbler were in a bag with my property. I told Carlton there had been a mistake, those items didn’t belong to me.
He smiled and said, “I’m by the book, convict. I never saw a thing,” and he walked off.
He placed the items in my property. But why? He didn’t know me. I decided to accept the gifts and inventory what I had: a pair of prisonissued blues (jacket, pants, and shirt), three pairs of socks, two towels, three T-shirts, three boxer shorts, two sheets, a wool blanket, a comb, a pair of state-issued shoes, a pair of Nike basketball shoes. Since mail was not allowed in isolation, a bag of unopened letters sat among my things. I put all my property on the mattress and rolled it up so I could clean the cell. I would be there for at least the next three months, so I was determined to make the best of it.
After finishing with the cell, I took a bird bath, made easier by having the tumbler. I dried the floor, then brushed my teeth. In isolation I couldn’t brush my teeth because they wouldn’t give me a toothbrush or paste. I unrolled the mattress containing my property and made my bed. After I finished everything else I opened the bag containing the letters. This would be difficult. For the previous twenty-seven days I’d basically shut out the world and lived in my inner world of childhood memories and dreams. Now I had to open myself up to what others were experiencing.
There were nine letters in all. I scanned them and read the ones from my mother and sister first. My mother’s letter asked that I call her as soon as I could, and emphasized that I should pray and stay away from trouble because she loved me. My sister said similar things, and told me to always know she missed me and worried about my safety. There were no letters from my father. I hadn’t expected any. My father and I had an understanding: words weren’t needed. I knew he was on my side, and if I needed him I only had to ask.
The remaining letters were from Maxine. She was the person who taught me what friendship is. I met her years earlier through her brother. She was like a sister to me, and we had remained friends.
After reading her letters, I wished I could speak to her. What would she think? I disappeared after speaking with her briefly the day I was brought here, but that was nearly a month ago. Had she called the prison to ask about me? Did she know I was in isolation? Her letters gave no indication about this. They were all written in the first five days after my sentencing.
I had to put all of it aside. I didn’t have the time, not when the next day would be my first day on the yard. I had to prepare myself mentally, emotionally, and physically. I didn’t know the layout of the yard or who would be there. What I did know was that I was assigned to a yard where the worst and most dangerous men would be, at the worst prison in the nation. I knew I could be killed if things went badly.
I turned off my lights and plugged the air vent below my sink and toilet. I didn’t want to wake up and find a rat gnawing on my toes. I kneeled and prayed as I had since childhood. I’m Roman Catholic and, although I have been taught all the laws of the church, and how to pray, my prayers have always been more personal.
“I kneel before no man, but at the end of each day, I bow to you, Father.”
I have never prayed to saints or anyone aside from God. Why should I? My prayer was simple, and to the point.
“Thank you, Father, for my health, strength, and the food I eat. Please protect my family and those in need of your protection, especially the children who suffer and are in danger. I pray for strength to defeat my enemies and those who would see me harmed. Amen.”
Sleep came quickly. Nightmares stayed away and I slept deeply and peacefully.
I woke in darkness. It was cold because all the tier windows were open.
Older prison cell blocks are built with an outer shell that resembles a huge warehouse on the outside, with another building inside of that, containing rows of cells. The cells in the AC are numbered through seventeen on the yard side, and eighteen through thirty-three on the chapel side. Each of the three levels, or tiers, is numbered the same way. Windows are on the outer shell and have steel bars on the outside of each one.
I could see my breath as I exhaled. I got up, turned on the light, and put on a pair of socks. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and combed my hair. It wasn’t dawn yet, but it was near. I made my bed and sat down on it. I was nervous. Uncertainty was something I didn’t like. The moments came and went slowly, as if in quicksand. My mind was in overdrive. I imagined all sorts of things happening on the yard—from being attacked, fighting back and being shot because of it, to fighting someone who had a knife, using deadly force and killing him. No matter how the scenario went, it didn’t go well for me. I had to stop this. If I got jumpy and misread a situation, or reacted to something that had nothing to do with me, I’d seal my own fate. Just then one of the bulls turned on a radio and CCR’s “Born on the Bayou” began playing. Music has always done something to me. Emotionally it gave me resolve. My confidence grew and I knew that no matter what I faced, I’d survive.
Breakfast came and I refused everything. I wasn’t interested in food and I didn’t want anything in my stomach. Next, trash was picked up, followed by the bar check and search.
When that was done, Heckle and Jeckle walked the tier announcing, “Yard. All prisoners wanting yard, get ready. Yard release.”
Cuffs were placed on my door and a flood of bulls entered the tier. Two bulls came to my door and said, “Name?”
“Noguera, D77200.”
“Okay, strip.”
I went through the routine.
“Clear,” the bull yelled when he was done. I was handed back the two pair of boxers I was taking out, my shoes, socks, state-issued blue pants, shirt, and denim jacket.
“Just put on the boxers and shoes.”
I did as I was told and backed up to the food port to be cuffed. Again I waited for the bite from the teeth of the steel cuffs, but there was no bite today.
“Spike here,” the bull yelled again, and another bull came and opened my door. “Back out and stop.”
As I did, both bulls, one holding my cuffs, the other following to my right with his baton out, escorted me down the tier into a holding cage where two more bulls took over.
“Strip,” one barked.
I said, “I just went through this.”
“You have to be strip-searched twice before you go outside,” he said.
After going through the same routine again I was escorted outside by the two bulls. The morning sun warmed my face as I walked through the first gate of the sally port for my yard, and the gate closed and locked. I backed up to the door and placed my cuffed hands through the port. Once the cuffs were removed, the door into the yard slid open and I stepped through, into the concrete jungle of San Quentin’s death row yard.
It’s always an advantage to be the first prisoner to the yard, and that day I was first. It allowed me to begin my study of the new environment, and it gave me the chance to watch as each prisoner came through the gate. Questions ran through my mind as I mentally prepared for what was to come. Who runs the yard? Who are his followers? What are their gang affiliations? How strong are they individually and as a group?
There wasn’t a single cloud in the sky, but it was bitterly cold. I quickly put on the few clothes I had and realized it wouldn’t be enough. I blocked out the discomfort from the cold and focused on my surroundings. The yard was a large concrete pad, roughly fifty by thirty-five yards, enclosed by a large metal fence. A shower area with three nozzles, a toilet, and a sink were at the back, along with the pull-up and dip bars. A basketball court was on the other side. I looked up at the gunner who sat in the small shack up on the wall above me and he nodded at me. He carried an M1 rifle, a .38 revolver, and a whistle. That M1 was serious and I knew he would use it. San Quentin AC gunners were notorious for putting men in their graves. It was one more hazard to remember.
I went over to an area where the sun hit the yard, so I could warm up. A total of eleven men on Yard-C came out that day, and others were taken to the other yards. The AC had three large yards with gunner shacks above each one. Gang affiliation determined which prisoners were assigned to each yard. On the days I went outside, Yard-A was for the BGF (Black Guerrilla Family), a black prison gang, and the Bloods, a black street gang. Yard-B was for the NF (Nuestra Familia), a Northern California Mexican prison gang whose main adversaries were the Southern Mexicans and La Eme (Mexican Mafia). My yard, Yard-C, was the integrated yard where a mixture of prisoners with no affiliation went. On Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, Yard-A was for Southern Mexicans, La Eme, and the AB (Aryan Brotherhood), a white prison gang. Yard-B was for Crips, a mostly black street gang, and Yard-C was another integrated yard.
Prison gangs are distinguished from street gangs because the former originated in the prison system and normally don’t maintain any kind of group organization or control outside of prison. La Eme is an exception. Although formed as a prison gang, they have a large street presence and control a vast criminal network outside prison as well as inside.
Once on the yards, most of the prisoners formed up for a very structured workout that closely resembles military basic training physical fitness. A single prisoner at the front directed the workout. They did pushups, squats, burpies (leg thrusts), and ran in place, all synchronized in time with the cadence called by the one in front.
I began to walk around the outside of the workout areas as I watched the activities and studied the players. No one had talked to me yet. I didn’t sense any tension on the yard, but I didn’t fully trust my ability to pick up on that yet. The best soldiers can disguise their intentions until the last possible moment, and only a man who has learned to read the slightest changes would know.
I continued to walk as the sun rose, and as I neared the pull-up bars I stopped to look at the men doing pull-ups. Four whites, with tattoos covering most of their torsos, were working out there. One of them broke from the group and came up to me.
“Morning,” I said, as I looked at his eyes.
“My name’s Benny. My brothers call me Pirate.”
“I’m Bill.”
“Where you from, Bill?”
I knew this was huge. Where you’re from, who you know, and where your loyalties lie can mean life or death, depending on who you’re talking to.
“Orange County,” I responded.
“I know a lot of folks from them parts.”
I noticed his workout partners had stopped and begun moving toward us. The men were all heavily muscled and in shape. I glanced at them and Pirate continued talking.
“Let me introduce you to my boys.”
Pirate sized me up as he talked, playing the role of a friendly face in a large club while he evaluated my words and body language. He had noticed me watching his partners and my body tensing.
“This here is Bull.”
I shook Bull’s hand and he nodded.
“These two are Wicked and Tweak.”
I shook both their hands.
“I’m Bill.”
“All right, Pirate, stop stalling. We know you was tired and that’s why you stopped to talk. Let’s get back to the routine. Fuck all the bullshit.”
Pirate smiled and then laughed.
“Fuck you, Wicked,” Pirate retorted. “Bill, let me get back and teach these boys how to do a workout. Talk at you later.”
“Okay, Pirate, good to meet you.”
He turned and went to the pull-up bars where they continued their program. I stood for a few moments and then kept walking. The other men on the yard were doing their own programs and I discretely watched all of them. I wouldn’t work out. That day was for observation.
At noon, yard recall was announced and I made my way to the gate. I had come out first and I’d be first to go in.
“Hey Bill, you coming out Saturday?” asked Pirate.
“If my door opens I’ll be here.”
“Noguera, first tier,” yelled one of the AC yard bulls.
I walked into the sally port and the door closed behind me. I placed my hands behind my back and through the small port. Cuffs went on my wrists and the other door opened. Then they escorted me to the same holding cage I had been in earlier that morning. Again, I was strip searched then taken to my cell, cuffs removed, and finally released to my own little world.
Right away I saw the items on my bunk. Three books, a bag of coffee, a couple of instant soups, two candy bars, and a note that said:
Hey Bro,
Just a few things to make your time easier.
W/R
Your neighbor, Blue
I read the note twice, and went to the bars.
“Blue,” I called out.
“Yeah.”
“Was that you?”
“Yeah.”
“Listen, I appreciate it, but I’m okay, you didn’t have to do that.”
Accepting gifts, especially from a stranger, can be a dangerous mistake in prison. Normally prisoners don’t give away valuables just to be friendly. They usually want something in return and the repayment plan can be expensive, especially for those who don’t have money on their books yet. There are only so many ways to repay someone in prison where we aren’t allowed to have any cash.
“It’s nothing. Besides, that little piece of work you did at county for that young Wood won’t be forgotten.”
The prison system is a small world, and word travels fast. I didn’t say anything.
“Yeah, I know who you are, Sinbad, or do you prefer to be called Mad?”
“Listen, Blue, just call me Bill. The judge and jury called me killer and murderer, but I don’t go by those names either.”
He began to laugh. “I guess you’re right, old son. Ha. But know, I respect what you did.”
“I didn’t do it because the kid was white. He was scared and asked for my help, so I did it out of principle.”
“Well, enjoy the books and things. I feel what you’re saying. Your reasons are your own. I respect that.”
“All right now,” I said and sat down to eat my lunch that had been placed in my cell while I was on the yard.
I live my life according to principles based on a personal code of honor. Few prisoners are able to do that. In here, men live or die based on principles—either their own or those of a larger group. This also determines whether other prisoners consider you to be an inmate or a convict.
An inmate thinks only about day-to-day survival in prison. He isn’t governed by principle. He follows all the rules. If a bull tells him to jump he says, “How high?” He is a coward. If someone strikes him he will run. He is blind. If something happens around him, he doesn’t understand it because he hasn’t learned to evaluate situations. If asked what happened, he will tell. He is an informant. He has no self-discipline and no principles. He’s a punk and a motherfucker.
A convict lives by a code. Often this code is twisted and dangerous, but by their own standards convicts are the elite because they believe in something. They have standards. Their class structure is established by the prisoners themselves, not by any official edict. Convicts build their own establishment. They function among themselves as contending forces. They instruct the young on acceptable behavior, train them to have honor and to live by a code. Often convicts test newcomers in order to make them strong, brave, and proud. Those who respond appropriately are on track to become part of their society. They’re as hard as the steel which encloses them. They don’t cooperate with the authorities, and they hate all cops. There are not many of these men left. The prison system has learned to separate the convicts from the population, and slowly the snake, without its head, has begun to die.
Not long after my arrest I realized there was no future in prison gangs and the only person I could rely on was myself. I began to discover the principles I would later forge into a code to live my life by, regardless of the circumstance or situation. That personal code has guided my life ever since.
