In these pages you may come to the conclusion that I am a contradiction. You would not be alone in thinking so. On a number of occasions I’ve even been referred to as “a perfect contradiction.” I’m a man well-read who understands a progressive state of mind as well as the sensitivities of the soul. And yet the polar opposite exists side by side, in good standing. I’m a Neanderthal, a man ruled by primal instinct and an animalistic focus. I am both sides of the coin, and I make no excuses for who I am. I refer to it here in order for you to understand there is truth—and value—to both sides.
What may not be apparent is that I am afraid. Fear is at the center of this existence. Each day I live behind these brutal walls, I fear for my life and of disappearing as an individual. Fear triggers the inferno deep inside me that rebels and struggles against the opinion that I deserve to die, that I have nothing to contribute, and that I will be defined by my surroundings, thus becoming one with them.
Maybe I’m trying to prove it to myself as well. I made a horrible mistake—one I regret and think about daily since that night so many years ago when I lost control. Never far from my thoughts is the fact that I’m responsible for the loss of a life, and nothing I ever do will make up for it. So why try? Why continue with the struggle against this opinion? Because I am a human being. Because I regret it. Because I am responsible and wish to express my remorse and apologize for the pain I have caused.
This struggle, if you haven’t guessed, is also against myself. I caused others to view me this way. It’s solely up to me to attempt to change it.
In the months after the execution of Robert Alton Harris, I noticed certain developments taking place. My dreams and nightmares often had fields of color and music. Never before had that happened. My subconscious mind had always seen and interpreted everything in stark black-and-white images, where only numbers and equations quieted the chaos and storm. Now the fields of color, accompanied by music, moved in like the ocean tide, slowly and gently, but with an unstoppable force that threatened to drown me if I didn’t drink in its influence and find its meaning.
I rarely spoke to any of the prisoners around me. Instead, I spent my days thinking of color—the intensity of its influence and its connection to emotions. I longed to speak to another artist about this, but none existed in my world. I was alone with my thoughts, dreams, and this new language made of color.
As all of these revelations were occurring to me, everything around me remained the same. Violence is something that never grows tired here, and when a particular person grows tired of performing it—when his thirst is quenched and he has been used and devoured—it jumps to the next willing person, like a disease.
One person who, for the span of less than fifteen seconds, would fall under the influence of violence was an African American man named Penmen.
I hardly knew Penmen beyond the casual nod while passing each other to and from the iron pile. I did not associate or have any type of relationship with him. However, as with all of the men on the yard, I was intimate with their habits, what made them tick, and their nature.
By that time, I no longer worked out with Sporty. He and the majority of the Mexicans on the yard ended up in the AC for an act of violence. Sporty had come out to the yard one day and stabbed another Mexican repeatedly until the gunner put four rounds into the wall just above his head. It had been over two years since the incident, and he wouldn’t be back for another few years, if at all. After arriving in the AC, he’d stabbed yet another inmate. It seemed Sporty was well on his way to becoming what he considered a respected man.
After nearly five years on the iron pile, I also looked different from the twenty-three-year-old kid who struggled with 250 pounds on arrival. I weighed over two hundred pounds, adding thirty pounds of muscle to a six-foot-one frame. It made me look a lot like those gladiators I was once so impressed by.
I had eighteen-inch arms hanging, nearly twenty inches when flexed, a fifty-inch chest, a twenty-nine-inch waist, and less than six percent body fat. I looked like a machine, and I was a man whose body language, attitude, and appearance said one thing: “Don’t fuck with me.”
One overcast Friday, I considered not going out to the yard. I’d been out every day since Sunday, and I wanted to finish the portrait I was doing for a member of the San Francisco 49ers, but the call of the iron pile won out. I made my way to the yard after being searched thoroughly, which raised my attention. Being searched on the way to the yard was normal. Being searched so thoroughly meant the bulls expected something to happen. I wondered if maybe I was suspected of something, but that thought was quickly dismissed when I saw everyone being delayed because of how closely they were being searched. I looked to the gunners and there were more of them than usual. My stomach tightened as I continued on my way. Something was up and the bulls expected trouble. The only problem was, I had no idea what they expected. I had been out the previous day and nothing caught my attention. That’s when it hit me. The bulls knew about it and I didn’t because they were putting someone new on the yard, someone they anticipated would cause trouble. The classification committee in East Block meets on Thursdays and they had assigned someone to grade-A status.
I stepped onto the yard and made my way past the shower to a four-foot wall where I normally placed my things. It was also a perfect place to watch who was coming through the gate and how everyone responded to his presence.
Nearly the entire yard had been let out and no one seemed to be aware of the change in the bulls’ attitude. But I trusted my instincts. I always paid attention to them and they were never wrong. I glanced at the gunner and he was also on alert, which meant someone would be coming soon. Just as my vision focused on the door where inmates continued to file out, I saw him. It was over a year since I’d seen Polo. That last time, he’d raised a sixty-pound dumbbell over his head and smashed it into the head of an unsuspecting prisoner who sat playing cards. He didn’t kill him, but the man would never be the same.
The gate opened and he stepped into the yard. From the immediate response of most of the men, I knew things wouldn’t end well. Personally, I had no problem with Polo. We normally nodded to each other whenever we crossed paths. As he made his way to the far end of the yard and surveyed the response to his arrival, our eyes locked on each other and we both nodded.
As soon as all prisoners were out on the yard, the bulls locked the gate and walked off.
Polo remained against the far wall. He put on his shorts and slingshot shirt, then seemed at a loss. No one spoke to him, and the tension on the yard was so thick you could cut it with a knife.
I noticed Polo had lost weight. The year he spent in the hole took fifteen to twenty pounds off him and he looked tired, as if maybe all of it was becoming too much for him.
Normally, he was five foot ten, about 210 pounds with piercing black eyes and tattoos covering his entire chest, arms, and back. He had long black hair and a dark complexion. Rumors said he’d been a hit man for the Hells Angels, but I rarely put much stock in rumors. True or not, it didn’t matter. What mattered was what was about to happen.
I remained in my spot and watched. I didn’t begin my normal routine because I knew we would be going in early. The minutes passed like the pulse behind a bruise, and I thought of a scene from Romeo and Juliet: These violent delights have violent ends / And in their triumph die, like fire and powder, / Which, as they kiss, consume.
I saw Penmen circle the yard. Every time he reached the iron pile, he stopped to do a set of bench presses, and while he did them another prisoner spoke to him, as if he were pumping him up. It’s very common for a workout partner to talk to you while you work out, to focus your mind with words of encouragement. But I wasn’t fooled. I saw it for what it was. Penmen was being manipulated and it had nothing to do with lifting weights.
My stomach tightened, as if a fist took hold of it and squeezed. I knew something was about to happen, but something was off.
Penmen finished another set and began to circle the yard again. Polo crossed the yard in the direction of the drinking fountain and shower, which were less than ten feet from where I stood. As he neared, his path crossed Penmen’s, and Penmen wasted no time. He exploded into a fury of punches that were aimed at Polo’s face. Polo fought back, attempting to stop the attack. Whistles sounded and gunmen yelled, “Stop. Stop. Everyone down on the ground. Now.”
Everything slowed down. I watched the two combatants still throwing punches. Then looked to the gunner, who brought his rifle up to his shoulder. Whistles continued to sound. My eyes returned to Polo and Penmen, who had separated, but were still in fighting stances, hands up, ready to resume their fight. Then a single gunshot sounded and Penmen staggered and fell to the ground less than a few feet from me. He looked straight at me, his eyes in shock as much as in pain, but very much focused on me. His right hand reached up to me and his mouth opened as if he wanted to tell me something. His eyes widened and I saw, before they glazed over and his mouth closed, that he was afraid, but it was much too late. He was one of them. The entire yard was ordered down to the ground. In the prone position, I looked up to see dozens of bulls at the gate, where Polo entered and was escorted inside. Then two African convicts carried Penmen to the gate, where he was placed on an orange gurney and taken away. Penmen died on the ground that day on Yard-1 of East Block’s death row, looking at me and trying to tell me something. I knew all too well. It occurred to me then that the element I felt before, and recognized but couldn’t place, was the approach of death.
