I went out to the roof every day it was offered, where I ran and practiced martial arts. After that I did an intense workout of pushups, pull-ups, dips, and squats.
I lived in a constant state of vigilance, always checking my surroundings to ensure I left no openings for someone to harm me. Being constantly on-guard exhausted me, but I knew that one mistake on my part could land me at the wrong end of a bone-crusher. Though I’m confident in my skill as a first-rate fighter, I’m also aware that on any given day even the best can fall.
Friendship is a difficult thing to find and maintain in jail. I lived in the high-power unit with men who gave up on friendship—if they ever even knew its power. The only times I experienced a sense of kindness in jail were the moments I spent reading letters I received from Maxine, then pouring my heart out in pages I sent back. With her, I could express my frustrations, fears, and doubts. I told her how I felt and exposed the fact that behind the mask I was afraid, that I’d been afraid since I was a little boy, and all I truly wanted was to turn back the clock and undo what was done. She gave me what no one ever had—friendship. She listened to me when I had no one to turn to.
In the four years I spent in the jail before my trial, I saw my lead attorney, Martín Gonzalez, only once. I called him over five hundred times pleading for him to come see me, but he never did. He always sent someone I didn’t know or trust. When I saw him during a hearing, he always said everything looked good to shut me up. He was not my lawyer—he was my mother’s lawyer and he was there to protect her interests and her version of reality.
I’d attempt to tell him what happened that night, how I simply lost my temper during an argument and I didn’t remember anything after my vision turned red. I told him I needed to be examined by a psychologist and we should talk to the DA and tell him what really happened, and more importantly, why. He told me I was in Orange County and they wouldn’t listen, and we would only be giving them evidence to use against me. The only defense he would present was complete innocence. All or nothing. It was what my mother wanted.
He knew all of the things I had experienced as a child. He was my mother’s divorce lawyer and knew about the things that went on in my home—the abuse, the violence, everything. But he refused to show any of it. Instead, he hid it all to protect my mother and her secrets while sacrificing me.
What could I do? I knew nothing about the law. I’d known Martín Gonzalez since I was a small child and it was hard for me to stand up to him. Sure, I was great at dealing with things in a physical manner, but in matters of law I was out of my element. Around him I felt like a child among adults. Gonzalez and my mother made all the decisions about my defense. I had no power.
It frustrated me, and all I could do was watch as my life was thrown to the wolves. I’d pour out all of those things to Maxine and she’d listen. But what could she do? She was younger than me, and when she decided to take action and contact Gonzalez to change his approach, she was simply patronized or ignored.
So while it was the State of California that imprisoned me, it was my own lawyer and mother who had placed a gag in my mouth to make things easier for them. I had no voice. I was treated like a child, and when I did finally testify, I did so under the worst type of distress and coercion.
My anchor through all of this was Maxine’s friendship, letters, visits, and phone calls. I think a part of me clung on from absolute desperation, like a drowning man clings to a life jacket. She was the only friend in my life. I was surrounded by the worst of the worst, yet her friendship provided hope if only for a moment.
I spent over a year in high-power, and each day I lived in that four-by-eight-foot cell a piece of me died. The darkness closed in on me every time I saw the brutality that surrounded me.
After the confrontation with Trigger, I was left alone. Although I was aware Boxer resented me and he made a number of comments to others about wanting to kill me, it never materialized. Trigger, Shotgun, and Boxer soon took deals that sent them to prison for years, and once they left I was relieved. Their presence always worried me. I don’t know if I can describe how it feels to know that every time they saw me, heard me, or thought of me, they wanted one thing: to murder me. If asked, I would say that I didn’t care what they thought, but in truth it bothered and worried me to my core. Those were men not to be taken lightly.
About a month after Trigger left, four men arrived who I’d never seen before. I returned from the roof one day and walked into the vestibule to see them there in chains. I could tell they’d just come down from prison. All four were Mexican and had tattoos covering their arms and torsos. They projected authority by the way they moved and I suspected they were all high-ranking members of La Eme.
The cop removed their chains, one person at a time, then sent them through the door leading to the cells on the lower tier where I lived. The last one to go was the youngest of the four and I guessed his age about thirty-two. He was tall with a large mustache and a light complexion. Although he wore a baggy oversized jail-issued jumpsuit, his overall muscle development and size from years on an iron pile was obvious. He was a serious physical threat.
As the last of his chains were removed, the two cops stepped back with their batons ready. He smiled at them in a way that acknowledged their fear.
I could tell he liked the effect he had on them. Then, to their horror, instead of opening the door and stepping through it, he turned and came to me. I was calm as I watched him. I was in chains, so if he chose to attack me there was nothing I could do to prevent it, but we didn’t know one another and he didn’t seem crazy. He walked up to me because he wanted to. He was a man who did as he pleased.
“Órale, carnalito. Mucho gusto. Soy Chapo,” he said.
I shook his hand as best I could. The chains and cuffs made it difficult.
“Órale, carnal. Mucho gusto. Me dicen Sinbad.”
“Are you here with us?” he asked.
I nodded, “Simón.”
“Órale, I’ll see you in a few.”
He turned, smiled at the cops, then walked to the door and went through it. I looked at the cops and their faces said it all. They knew, even with their batons, they would be in serious trouble if he attacked them.
He hadn’t threatened them in any way, but his size, attitude, and presence was enough to let them know he was the real deal and was to be respected.
They removed my chains and seemed to need to come off as tough guys to re-establish their authority with me.
“Noguera, you go out almost every day when no one else does. We’re going to check into this because it’s a pain to take you up there. Maybe we can limit you to only the days you’re assigned.”
I opened the door and walked to my cell. I didn’t engage them to satisfy their hurt egos. They wanted a confrontation, but they wouldn’t find one with me.
After the door closed behind me I took off my jumpsuit and washed it, then took a bird bath. By the time I finished, a lot of the men in the unit were up and I could hear my dayroom partners, Indio and Diablo, talking to the four men who just arrived.
I learned they were in my dayroom group. When the time came, my door slid open and I went to the dayroom. A lot of the men go to the dayroom in their shower flip flops and see it as a time to relax and socialize. Not me. I wouldn’t make that mistake. I always wore my shoes and kept my eyes open, just in case.
Chente entered the dayroom next, then Indio, followed by Diablo, who was talking to three of the four new men. Chapo came last. He had stopped at a couple of cells to talk to other men he knew.
When the dayroom door closed, I met the other three men who came from Folsom with Chapo. Topo and Nemo were brothers from La Puente, which was where I grew up. The other guy, named Apache, looked like an Indian except for his mustache. He was from 18th Street in L.A., and Chapo was from Maravilla.
When Topo and Nemo heard from Indio I was from La Puente, they became much more open with me. As soon as Chapo heard this, he turned and said, “Sinbad, you also go by Mad?”
“Yeah, that’s me. What’s up?”
“Your road dog, Monster, sends his regards. He was my cellie at Folsom and he says you’re firmé and that he trusts you.”
“Simón, Monster’s a good man.”
“Watcha, I gotta get with some of this business, but when we’re done I’ll cut it up with you.”
He turned and the six of them sat at the table to discuss business. The four had been called down by Indio’s attorney to testify in his trial, but they wouldn’t be testifying. That was just an excuse to get them to Orange County to have a meeting.
Chente and I sat as far away from them as possible to give them their space. About an hour later they each made phone calls to confirm the decision. The phones there weren’t monitored because of court orders mandating a pre-trial defendant’s right to privacy and attorney-client confidentiality. It meant the men could conduct business of a sensitive nature without fear of the cops listening. That’s something they could never do in prison, where all their phone calls, mail, and visits were screened.
After their calls, they sat down again and talked briefly. They seemed much more relaxed. The business must have gone well, because they were soon laughing and talking about women and about people they all knew.
Chapo, Nemo, and Apache took off their shirts and I noticed their tattoos. Chapo had a black hand on his chest with the word “Emero” in the center. Nemo had the word “EME” across his entire chest in block letters, and Apache had a black hand with a large “M” at its center on his right shoulder. I had been right. They were all high-ranking members of the Mexican Mafia. I also discovered both Indio and Diablo were made members and part of Chapo’s inner crew.
Somehow it didn’t bother me or impress me. More and more, I thought of it all as just “it is what it is.” At one point I had been extremely impressed by men who everyone feared and respected, but at that point I saw them as just men. They were dangerous men, but still just men. They bled just like me and could be hurt just like me.
Chapo came over to me and shook my hand again.
“I heard that you put a beating down on Boxer’s homeboy Trigger, and that you came out of your cell on his ass after he speared you.”
“I just took care of my business. I don’t let anyone, especially a clown like Trigger or even Boxer, step on me.”
Chapo laughed. “Yeah, Monster told me how you and some of the camaradas took care of them Changos and some of the other pedo you did. He speaks highly of you. But he says you’re a shadow and won’t hook up with us.”
“With all respect, I like being on my own. I’ll take care of business, but I’m not into taking orders from anyone.”
“Yeah, ese, pero tú sabes, once you get to the joint it won’t be easy to be on your own. If the Norteños, Guerrillas, or someone else targets you, without us you’re a sitting duck. Watcha, you know all of this. What I’m saying is, whenever you decide to come over, the door is open.”
“Gracias, Chapo. That’s firmé.”
Nemo and Topo came over and we talked a bit about where I grew up and parts of La Puente. I learned they lived only a few blocks from where I grew up and we knew some of the same people.
When the dayroom time was up and I returned to my cell, it didn’t surprise me Chapo stayed out on the broom. He was a take charge kind of guy. That’s one reason he rose so quickly through the ranks of soldiers he commanded. I studied him, like I would any opponent, looking for his strengths and weakness. He was strong, confident—maybe too confident—aggressive, and used to getting his way. I wondered if, under what he projected, he was actually insecure. Half of his armor was who he was and the fear anyone had to get past to face him, because after facing him, win or lose, you’d forever have to look over your shoulder. The criminal empire he represented would never allow you to live in peace. It didn’t matter to me. He and I didn’t have a problem. It was just a habit of mine to size everyone up who posed a threat, and Chapo fit the profile.
A few hours later, after he touched base with some others in the unit, he stopped by my cell.
I was drawing pictures from memory when he approached. I could tell he looked me over and compared what he’d heard about me with what he saw. His gaze traveled into my cell and took in the set up. He took note of how clean it was as well as how my jumpsuit was hung. Satisfied, he shook my hand again.
“You draw, ese?”
“Yeah, I do okay.”
“Let me check out what you’re doing.”
I handed him the sketch of a cathedral I’d once seen.
“Damn, ese, you get down.”
I could tell he was making small talk and knew where the conversation was headed. We talked for a bit and he finally came to the point.
“I bet Trigger was surprised when you popped out of your cell on his ass.”
“It’s never good to underestimate me.”
“Simón, a lot of people have made that mistake with me too, and it’s cost them their punk ass. So how did you do it?”
He looked directly at me and I didn’t flinch.
I considered lying to him, but he’d know. I’m sure he learned exactly what happened that night and what I said just before I tore my door open. He knew I planned it all and he wanted to know how. A man in his position could make use of the knowledge. I stared back at him.
“It’s not as simple as how I did it. I’m sure you understand. I’ll get at you tomorrow in the dayroom.”
“Órale, but I’ll see you sooner. I’m going to the roof tomorrow with you.”
We shook hands and he left. Later that night after Chapo had been locked in his cell, I called to Olaf.
“You up, Olaf? I got a kite over here for you.”
“Yeah, let me get my line.”
I slid a line under my door with a weight at its end so it would travel as far as I needed. Olaf slid his over mine and his weight had a small hook made from a staple on it so, when he pulled his line, it would hook my line.
“Did you get it?”
“Yeah, I got it.”
“Okay, go ahead and pull.”
In the kite, I explained what Chapo wanted to know and that I hadn’t said anything because it wasn’t my place. I also explained, since he showed me the trick, it would be up to him what I revealed.
“Sinbad, just tell him to come to me tomorrow night and I’ll run it down to him. I figured once you came out on that idiot, the cat would be out of the bag, but it was worth it to see you work. I also respect that you came to me to ask what you should do about it. It says a lot about your style.”
“It was the obvious thing to do.”
“Well, most motherfuckers would have folded and ran their mouths. You did the right thing, old son.”
The next morning I woke early, and when they called for roof I stuck my towel out of my bars so the unit cop would see it. As my door slid open I heard another door open as well and I knew it was Chapo’s. I stepped out of my cell just as he came out. We shook hands.
“Buenos días,” he said.
I nodded. “Buenos días.”
I wasn’t used to anyone going to the roof with me so I didn’t say much, and when we arrived upstairs I immediately stretched and started my routine, which he watched as if I were the most interesting person in the world. When I finished, Chapo came close and said, “We have about ten minutes left up here and I want to get at you about a few things. I’d like to do it where no one else can hear.”
“Yeah, I’m about done anyway. What’s on your mind?”
“I’d like to know how you got out of your cell.”
“Olaf taught me how to do it, and that’s why I didn’t tell you yesterday. It wasn’t my place, and I had to check with him first. I got at him last night and he told me to tell you to stop by his pad tonight and he’ll run the whole deal down to you.”
“Órale, that’s firmé. You know what, ese, I respect that. You know how to keep your mouth shut.”
“You know the business.”
He laughed. “Yeah, ain’t that the fuckin’ truth.”
The truth was, I didn’t want to tell him. If it were up to me, he would never know, but it wasn’t up to me. I washed my hands of it by giving it back to Olaf. But I knew if it weren’t for me, Chapo would never have found out about it and never would have been able to use it to his advantage.
It didn’t take long for Chapo to put a plan in motion. A guy had come into the unit about a week before, named Medina, a.k.a. Magilla Gorilla. He had a number of robbery murders, and most of the murders were on kids who worked at AM/PM mini markets. That didn’t sit well with a lot of people, including me. But when Chapo found out about it, it set him off, and every time he saw Magilla going to the shower or dayroom, he’d tell us that a piece of shit like that needed to be in a grave.
Magilla seemed unaware of how people felt about him. Either that or he didn’t care, because he always laughed and boasted about his robberies. Of course, Chapo and the rest of the men talked to him and sent him drugs. I could see what they were doing. They wanted him to relax and feel comfortable, so when it came he’d have no defense. It wouldn’t be easy. Magilla, even caught unaware, would be a handful. His nickname described him perfectly. He was big, and resembled a gorilla. In my opinion, there was something off about him, and he came across as a weird and creepy motherfucker.
I knew something would happen soon because Chapo, Nemo, Topo, and Apache would return to Folsom prison within the next two weeks. From what I observed of Chapo, he’d want to be there to see it happen. I didn’t want to know any of the details, but since they were my dayroom partners it was obvious to me at least what they had in mind, and who had been recruited to move on Magilla. The order was simple: kill him.
The soldier sent after him was a gang member from La Jolla named Negro, who wanted more than anything to make a name for himself, and someday become a carnal. He had the mind-set for it. He didn’t care he only had two months left on his sentence before he went home, and that served Chapo’s plan perfectly. Negro was expendable, but he was also a loyal soldier who would do what was ordered and do it right. And at six two, 230 pounds, he was big enough—and aggressive enough—to inflict serious damage.
The weapon was a bone-crusher made of steel with an exposed blade about five inches long. Apache gave it to Negro while we were in the dayroom and he was out on the broom.
I wasn’t told when or how it would happen.
After getting back to my cell from the dayroom, Chente called me to the bars and said, “They’re going to punch that puto’s ticket tonight.”
“I figured it would be soon. All right now, gracias.”
The next time the unit cop came to his control panel was for a shower change, and the next person to use the shower was Magilla. He passed by as usual in his boxers and shower shoes. I figured they’d get him then, but when I heard the shower door close and the water turn on, I sat back down and continued reading The Annals of the Black Company, a book I had just received from the library. If Negro hadn’t made his move by then, he’d make it when Magilla came out. The only problem with the plan was the cop would see it all.
Negro came by and put the broom up against the wall, then took off his jumpsuit and shirt, leaving only his boxers and shoes. He pulled the bone-crusher out of his jumpsuit pocket and went to the shower. That’s when I heard the shower door being ripped open.
It hadn’t occurred to me that a domino could be placed in the shower door, where Magilla would not only be caught off guard but also without shoes.
“Hey, what the fuck, Negro.”
That was the only thing I heard before it started. Somehow Magilla broke away from Negro. They were out of the shower area and fighting on the tier. Magilla punched and did everything in his power to keep Negro away from him, but it was useless. Blood poured from Magilla’s chest, stomach, and neck. I heard the unit door open and the cop entered his control booth. When he saw what was happening, he ran toward my cell.
What could he do? He was behind Plexiglas, and all the yelling he did, telling them to stop, wouldn’t make any difference. It would only stop when it was over.
Magilla slowed down and Negro moved in to finish him, but Magilla had played possum, and at the last moment swung his fist and connected with Negro’s face, staggering him. As soon as that happened, Magilla tried to run for the unit door to escape the brutal stabbing. But he wasn’t fast enough, and Negro caught him from behind and continued stabbing him viciously, stopping only when Magilla collapsed on the tier. Negro went to his cell and the door closed behind him. Medical staff rushed in to help Magilla and a gurney was brought in to take him to the hospital.
A few moments later, more than ten cops came into the unit and escorted Negro away. He would go to the hole for ten days and then return to the unit. The case would be referred to the DA’s office, but they rarely prosecuted jail assault cases unless someone died.
A team of cops came and took pictures of the shower, the tier, and wherever they saw blood or evidence. They searched Negro’s cell, but the knife had been passed along and then flushed. By the time they turned off the water so no one could flush anymore, the weapon was long gone.
Later we learned Magilla was stabbed a total of thirty-one times, had a collapsed lung and other serious damage, but would survive. I was surprised to hear the DA’s office picked up the case and prosecuted Negro for attempted murder. He ended up taking a deal that would send him to prison for nine years. He’d sacrificed nine years of his life for the privilege to impress someone else.
Meanwhile, I went about my business as if nothing happened, and maybe part of that was true. I’d seen so much brutality over the years since my arrest, that one more stabbing didn’t make any difference to me. But I was wrong. No matter how much you believe something so brutal doesn’t affect you or change you, it does, unless you become a monster and lose your humanity completely. I could wear the mask of a monster, but at the end of the day I was only a scared twenty-one-year-old boy in way over my head.
