Tuesday, March 20, 2007

The Shooting Gallery

Introduction


My whole youth, and part of my early adulthood, was spent surrounded by crime, prisons, boys trying to prove they were men and men still trying to prove they were men. I showed the manuscript of my first book to my mother while she was visiting me on my boat. After reading for 2, maybe 3 minutes, she said, “This book will offend Christians, Joe.”

I remember saying, “I didn't write it for Christians, Mom.” “But you told me you were writing a book about how prayer and God kept you alive and out of prison,” she replied. I thought for a minute then said, “Most Christians aren't the ones who need to read this book. Kids on their way to jail and death might need to know a few things in this book. If I mention God, Jesus, or religion on page one, then the chances are the only ones who will get to page two are Christians.”

As it turned out I leaned towards Christians’ sensitive ears just enough to piss them off. Fifty percent of the Christians who read it believed it was filth and blasphemy. Most of these readers read maybe three or four pages, saw one swear word or even the word sex, and they were done reading. My mother wasn't going to be showing it to many people, at least not at first. It would take one of her deeper thinking friends to read it and say it’s got God’s work in it but the sensitive Christian will have to work at getting past the crime and swearing to get to those parts. The other 50% of the Christians who read the book were mostly younger, more open minded Christians, who knew their kids already knew all these words, and also knew more than some of them about sex. Of course, those in the Southern United States weren't so open-minded, they wouldn't even let it in the library.

How does a man like me, who doesn't walk into a church and who doesn’t always respect some Christians, write a story about youth crime in the U.S. and God’s classy way of handling things, that will benefit both screwed up kids and believers in God? I don't know, but I am going to try because I believe I've grown enough where I'm even going to get a little help from above myself. And I believe that this story needs to be told. If it helps just one kid turn away from taking a path to self-destruction, it will be worth it.

The Shooting Gallery

San Francisco 1969

I walked outside my ground level apartment to check on my 1950 Ford hot rod. It was about two in the morning, a time when a shooting gallery like mine got a lot of traffic. A shooting gallery is a safe place for heroin addicts to shot up. It was only a block from the now-notorious Fillmore Hotel, where most heroin addicts went to cop heroin. I supplied clean needles, and, in some cases the heroin. When a user didn't have money to pay me for the use of my gallery, they would let me scrape a portion of their heroin, which in time added up to enough to resell.

I looked up the hill and saw a weird sight; a young blond woman about 19 or 20 was standing on the corner at the top of the hill. I had never seen a person so out of place. The Fillmore district wasn't safe for anyone, especially at two in the morning. Being white made it even more dangerous. This young girl looked like she belonged at a church social. The only thing missing was a box of wilderness cookies under her arm.

Anyone who lived in San Francisco in the ‘50’s and ‘60’s is aware of the reputation of the Fillmore district, a mostly black area noted for its murder rate and drug activity. There were many old run down homes, lots of Victorian style homes, which have long since been bought up and restored and are now worth a medium fortune. It didn’t take long for the police to figure out that they had a growing problem with middle class white kids and young people getting hooked on heroin. I mean, why else would these kids risk their lives by coming into this neighborhood late at night? Whenever the police saw these kids, they would stop them and search them; even when they didn’t find anything on them, they still found needle marks on one or both of their arms.

I had a 357-magnum pistol in a shoulder rig, which gave courage I didn't have without it. I stood out in front of my gallery just staring at this beautiful innocent-looking blond girl. With her plaid dress, tan shoes and pure white sweater, she looked like a Catholic schoolgirl. I kept wondering, what in the world are you doing in this neighborhood? Out of what seemed to be nowhere appeared a large black man who had walked up to her and started talking to her. He was in his 40’s, I figured. The unsatisfied desire to be a hero came over me, as it had in the past, and I decided to go up the hill and run him off, knowing I would surely be saving this school girl from harm.

This turned out to be a lot easier than I thought it would be. The man saw this young white blond boy, who also looked out of place, walking towards him and quickly headed back down the hill. He must have figured just being white and in this area made me crazy enough to be dangerous. The fact that I was coming at him, instead of running from the sight of him, may also have contributed to his quick departure.

When I got up to the girl and got a closer look, I found she was even more beautiful than I had first thought. She looked a lot like a shorter version of Fay Dunaway, the way she looked in “Bonnie and Clyde”. “Are you all right?” I asked, completely awestruck by her all around beauty, her creamy skin and striking light blue eyes. She had a look of strength and intelligence. She gave me a look of obvious irritation. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she said in an angry voice. “Well, I thought you needed help with that guy.” “Help? I'm working, you just ran off a trick.” “Sorry, I'll be a customer then, how much?” “20 dollars for straight sex.” “O.K., my place is right down the block.” “No I don't go to men's rooms, I have a room at the Fillmore number 12, first floor. Don't follow me, wait until I get inside, then come down.” This was before the AIDS epidemic, but I don't think even that would have slowed me down with this woman.

She made short work of me. I'm sure she just wanted this over with as quickly as possible. Maybe she couldn't do this with all men but she sure could with me-that school uniform was out of place but helped make things happen quickly.

The next day, all I could think about was how good that was. I looked for her every night for a week but didn't spot her. Then, out of nowhere, she showed up at the front door of my shooting gallery with Doug Lindt, one of my closest friends. It was about 3 in the afternoon when I answered the door. “Hey Joe,” Doug said, “this is Nan.” “Hello, Nan.” I said, hoping to see recognition in her eyes, but she showed none. “We just copped and we need to use your place.” I never charged Doug, he was too close a friend. It was no big surprise to me that Nan was a heroin addict. It was a surprise to find out she knew Doug. Doug was a tall good-looking man of about 24. He looked a little like a young Robert Mitchum. Doug was a very dangerous street fighter; unlike today's thugs, Doug never carried or used a weapon of any kind. He didn’t need to.

After they shot their heroin, Doug just nodded off in the corner. Nan got up to leave. I wanted to stop her but didn't. I think she was trying to hide her embarrassment about our first meeting. It wouldn't be until she got arrested that I would get another chance to get to know her. Doug had told her that I was a very close friend of Charles Henry the Bail Bondsman, and that I could get almost anyone out of jail with just my signature. She called Doug and asked him to ask me if I would get her out. She must have known how seriously she had affected me. I did get her out, which started the strongest love affair I would ever experience, also the craziest and most dangerous. It didn't take long to figure out that falling in love with a heroin addict was a big mistake. Thinking you would ever really be her man was plan stupid. You see heroin was her man, and would always be put
first. I would end up beating my head against the wall, trying many times to put her out of my life, but just became deeper in love. If only I could get her off heroin.

One afternoon Mia, a big blond heroin addict, came to my gallery. Turned out she was one of Nan's closest friends. I found out that day what brought Nan to heroin to begin with. I found out by asking Mia after getting her suitably loaded on heroin and brandy.
“She came to me the night of her father's death,” Mia said in a low voice, her eyelids almost closing as she continually scratched her check. “He shot himself in the head the morning after it happened.” “After what happened?” I asked. Mia hesitated. “Well, the night before, her father had come into her bedroom, he was very drunk, and she said he drinks a lot. Nan was crazy about her father. She told me he started crying while telling her that her mother never gave him sex, and that he didn't think he could handle it much longer, that it had been over two years since he had gotten any. That asshole was able to convince her, if he didn't get sex that very night, that he would kill himself. So when he climbed on top of her, she didn't stop him. Nan thought her mother was a cold bitch, which I guess made it easier for her to understand her father's frustration.

“The next morning, Nan felt guilty, but was managing to handle it by telling herself she had saved her father’s life. But when the father woke up with a hangover, he didn't fare so well with the memory of the previous events. I'm sure it hit him hard what he had actually done to his own daughter. He went straight to the basement, got a pistol and shot himself in the head. This Nan couldn't handle, she found me that very day and talked me into taking her to the Fillmore to cop heroin, she's been using ever since.”

“How long ago was that, Mia”, I asked? It was 8 or 9 months ago. She was never the same after that, this was a girl who went to a good high school in Daly City, was a cheerleader, dated clean cut all-American boys and, if I remember correctly she didn’t even drink. As a matter of fact, she stopped hanging with me because she found out I smoked weed, she was a real square, an A student who actually studied at night. Heroin was something she would think of is terrible, it took something like this to bring her to me.”

This answered a lot of questions for me, one of which was why Nan only had sex with me when she was loaded on heroin, which later resulted in me helping her get heroin, because I knew it was the only way I was getting any. This would get old and very frustrating until I backed away from her, but I knew I would come back. I was too much in love not to, but for now I headed for the comfort of another woman to try to forget.

While I was longing for Nan, I also spent a lot of time with Doug. Doug was another thorn in my side. I felt like I was always getting him or us out of jail or watching him continuously overdose, many times almost dying. I don't know how that man stayed alive. Like my mother, his mother was always praying that he would stay alive, which I was starting to believe worked.

One of the scariest times in my friendship with Doug was when I got a call from a donut shop on Haight Street near Ashbury in San Francisco. The Haight-Ashbury district at that time was crowded with hippies (flower children). Day and night, both sides of the street were bustling with people walking up and down, looking for and finding drugs, sex and fun. You could sit on a door stoop and entertain yourself for hours just checking out the different outfits, bell bottom jeans with different colored flower patches, real flowers in the girls’ hair and hats, a lot of crazy looking hats too, ones you may think came from Alice In Wonderland . There were girls as young as 12 and 13, most of whom had run away from states all across the country so they could be apart of this sexual revolution. It was as if San Francisco had been chosen to host the biggest, longest 24 hour a day party ever thrown. Doug took full advantage of these hippies, he robbed them and sold them phony drugs on a regular basis.

This day, he had run into one of the male hippies he had sold phony acid to. When the boy angrily confronted Doug, Doug handled it the way he handled most of the spots he found himself in-he punched him hard enough to send him into the street and knocked him out. Doug was accompanied by another of my very close friends, Ricky Estrin, another hopeless junkie, but, in Ricky's case, he would some years later get completely out of the lifestyle and away from heroin all together. Some of you who like the blues may know of Ricky. He is now the very successful lead singer and harp player with Little Charlie and the Night Cats, which originated in the Sacramento area. But today, Ricky was in the wrong place with the wrong person, and Doug’s punch had outraged the hippies who witnessed it so much that they had formed a larger crowd and had started down the street after both Doug and Ricky.

I was at my brother Ron's house when I got the call. It was Ricky and he sounded scared. “Joe, man, you got to come get us, there are about 40 hippies outside Mary's Donut shop in the Haight and they are trying to get in but Doug's got the door blocked. Doug punched one of them real hard, may have killed him, they’re acting like they want to lynch us, get down here man... get us outta here!” “All right, Ricky, I'm on the way.” Brother Ron threw me the keys to his car, somehow he knew I needed it but he didn't really want to know why.

As I drove up Haight Street, I could see the crowd overflowing out into the street. Back then hardly anyone, including shopkeepers, called the police because they were pigs, the enemy. I had grabbed Ron's shotgun, which I had sawed off for robberies. I pulled way over to the left of the mob, got out of the car with the shotgun, and yelled “clear the door!” No one heard me. Caught up in the excitement, I guess. I quickly figured there was only one way to get their attention. I leveled the shotgun at the front window and fired, shattering the glass and making a hell of a noise. The hippies scattered, but turned back after going only a few feet. I played the role: “Anyone who touches me gets blasted.” I lowered the gun in their direction. Here came Ricky in a hurry, heading for this little MGB of Ron's with no back seat, a small sports car but they would make themselves fit. Then I saw Doug walk out in no hurry, all proud of himself and the that fact he had a friend stupid enough to blast him out of there and get him out of a serious ass whipping, which he rightfully deserved.

“Stop strutting and get the fuck in the car Doug!” I yelled. Rick was already in the car and I ducked in also. Doug, still strutting, finally got in and I hit the accelerator. This had definitely been a day where we should have all gone to jail but we didn't.

My problem with Nan was eventually solved by getting sent away for quite awhile.

Doug and I had broken into a house late one night. We hadn’t been in there three minutes when I heard something outside. I went to the window and peeked out. There were two, or maybe it was three, police cars outside with their lights flashing. One of the policemen was heading for the back with a flashlight in his hand and two or three others were heading for the front door, which I quietly made sure was locked. We had broken a window, and I had gotten in by breaking it while I was on Doug’s shoulders. He was 6-5 and I was 5-10. I had just barely reached it. Apparently there were either no 6 footers outside or they just didn’t want to stand on another cop’s shoulders. I heard one say to another when he spotted the open window, “We’re going to have to call the fire department to get a ladder out here, to get in.”

I went to the back bedroom were my junkie friend was still busy going through drawers. He had not heard the commotion outside. “Psst, hey, Doug, cops are all around the house, oh, shit, what do we do?” I looked in the bathroom, which I was standing next to. Maybe we could break out this skylight, get on the roof, and jump from house to house. This house was right across and down a little ways from Juvenile Hall, where Doug and I had spent many a day together. It was on one of the streets in San Francisco where the houses weren’t built side by side, like my block on Middlefield Drive.

No policeman was there so far, and then an idea hit me about how one of us might get out of this. It came to me while I was looking at the large bed next to Doug. I remembered an incident when I was caught in a house, hiding after an escape. I remembered hiding in the closet and watching a cop look for me. He looked under the bed but not between the mattress and the box springs. Had there been a lump in the middle I am sure he would have.

“Look, Doug, if one of us were to get between the mattress and box springs right in the middle of this bed, then the other one could cram towels, sheets, extra pillows, clothes from the closet, whatever it takes to level out the bed, cram the stuff on both sides of the man in between the mattress and box springs and, when it’s good and level, make sure the bed is made back up real neat. Then, the guy who did the stuffing could go to the door, give himself up, and say he is alone.”

“Yeah, Joe, but who gets to go in the bed?”

“We flip for it.”

Doug thought for a minute, then said, “No, I don't want to do that.”

“Why the hell not, at least it gives one of us a chance.” I might lose, so might Doug. “No.” Doug said. Then he went over to the big window which looked out over the back yard, grabbed the shade cord, and lifted the blinds. Knowing the police were out there, he just stood in front of the window and let them shine their lights on him. I knew what he was doing, he wanted this to end before I had a chance to convince him to flip for it. You see, Doug would rather pass on a chance for freedom than risk having to help me and then go to jail alone.

I shook my head. “You’re one weak, selfish man, Doug.” I walked to the front door, and yelled out, “We’re coming out.” A policeman yelled back to come out one at a time with our hands all the way up. I felt even stupider when I noticed an ADT alarm system sign on the garage door. I had not seen it before, something any amateur would look for. I had until then thought I was a professional, so much for that illusion. It was back to that very familiar back seat of the police car for another ride to the pokey.

When I got out, I asked someone, Mia I think, what had happened with Nan. She told me something that made me sad and happy at the same time. “You knew Shirley Sanchez, didn't you Joe?” “Yeah, Jim Schlickman's wife.” “Yeah, well, Shirley and Nan were real close, shot a lot of dope together and suckered a lot of men. Shirley got tied up with this crazy black man and started sticking up dealers. One night they staged a robbery where Shirley pretended to not know her black friend. She had told these two hippies that this man was bringing over drugs to sell them, so they let him into their little dump in the Haight. He told everybody, including Shirley, to get on their knees after he drew his pistol. He got behind them, shot one in back of the head, quickly shot the other the same way, they were in a line in front of him. When he got to Shirley, she had turned her head to look, I'm sure wandering ‘what the hell are you doing, we’re supposed to be robbing them, not killing them’, but she probably wasn't able to finish that thought because he shot her in the temple.

“Joe, when Nan found out how and why Shirley was dead, she put the blame where it belonged, on heroin. I’ve quit since then also, I talked to her about it before she split outta town, it’s the most powerful addiction a person will ever experience, it causes people to even steal from their own family and sell their bodies like Nan and I did. There is almost nothing a person will not do when they’re hooked on heroin, and people die, Joe, every day, young people who otherwise would have most likely had long full lives. Nan actually moved to a small Kansas City town and settled down, dropped the heroin spoon completely. I would tell you how to reach her but I don't know. Probably wouldn't talk to you anyway, you’re not an addict, but you're a heroin memory.”

I'm sixty now, and if Nan looks like Fay Dunaway does now, I'd probably fall in love with her all over again. Nan, with her beauty and intellect, should have never been on Fillmore Street. I blame more than Nan’s father and her friend Mia, I blame a modern society that can’t find a way to keep drugs, especially ones like heroin, out of the U.S. I think about Nan often and wonder did she stay in that small town, and if she did, did heroin move to that small town also? I don’t think it had in the sixties, but I’m fairly sure there aren’t many small towns out there that it hasn’t reached. Yea, I wonder about Nan. You out there, Nan?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

I was locked up for the first time when I was twelve. It was in 1959, and from there, I went from being a juvenile offender to an adult criminal and convict. I escaped from an old-time type road gang in Tennessee, which came close to ending my life, at 18. Fortunately, I came to my senses when I was about 30, after spending 13 years in and out of prison. I am 60 now. I eventually wrote a book about these crimes, the jails I was in, and how I finally changed. The book, Mama Jewells, was named after my beloved grandmother and was published in 1988.

My book was despised by the conservative religious community because of the bad language and graphic talk about sex in prison. Even though I gave God credit for my life change and explained my feelings about what a mother's and grandmother's love and prayers can do, the southern states like Georgia and Alabama would not even allow my book in the library.

Though these libraries refused the book, my big break came when the New York State Board of Education placed Mama Jewells on its approved reading list. New York was happy to see screwed up kids show an interest in reading anything, and knew these kids had all heard swear words before. The Board of Education also understood that, though some of these kids were familiar with what went on in jails, it wouldn’t hurt those who weren’t to be told, graphically, what could happen to them if they chose to commit crimes.

Times have changed a lot since 1959. Gangs are unfortunately a growing problem which is here to stay. They're often organized like the mafia with the goal to earn big profits by using their members to deal drugs and commit other crimes. I believe that gangs are one of the biggest problems in the United States today, right up there with the threat of terrorism or the potential nuclear destruction of us all. Of all I have seen of evil in my life, nothing compares, in terms of the danger to our youth and society as a whole, to the street gang. The short stories on this blog are all true, and they are mild in comparison to today's world of crime. We need to wake up and do something about this growing problem many of our young people are forced to deal with in their schools and in their own neighborhoods. Gangs have reached into the smallest of towns across the U.S.

If we can’t turn this frightening trend around, and give these kids something to aspire to other than wearing gang colors and finding their sense of belonging through membership in gangs, our society will inevitably implode. No one will need to use foreign sources of terror to destroy our country. We will have accomplished this ourselves, through our own youth, who should instead represent the embodiment of our collective hopes for our future.

Tuesday, March 13, 2007

Red Foley

Red Foley


I walked out of jail after a short two year stretch. My expensive blue suit with candy striped lining was so loose I had to hold the pants up until I could get my hands on a belt or my trademark suspenders. Two years is not that big of a deal to a seasoned criminal, but when you’re twenty-four, it’s long enough.

Finding a woman was paramount on my mind, but finding a place to bring one would have to come first. I went to see my close friend, Charles Henry the bail bondsman. He knew a lot of people in San Francisco in the sixties. If anyone could help me find an apartment it was Charlie, plus I had left a few grand and a diamond watch in his safe before surrendering to the courts to start my term.

Charlie was a good looking black man, tall with a bit of a beer belly which, for some reason, didn’t look as bad on him as I knew it would on me. Charlie gave me a warm welcome when I walked into his office, located in an alley across from the court house on Bryant Street. “Joe, baby,” he said with a big smile on his face, “finally got outta there huh?” “Yea, Charlie. I’m gonna have to find an apartment, got any ideas”? “As matter of fact, I was talking to Big Mary the other day and she told me to look out for someone cool for an opening over at Red Foley’s building on Fell Street. Only thing is, you’re white. You’re a player, and that’s all they rent to is pimps, players and thieves like you, but they’re all black as me. I’ll call her and ask anyway if you want me to”.

“Are they nice apartments?” “Fillmore Slim lives there, he wouldn’t live in a place that wasn’t. Plus they’re furnished, something you probably need.” “Yea, give her a call.” I listened as Charlie gave me a stellar recommendation. She said to come on down and talk to her. I was moved in within two hours. The first time I took the elevator was the first and only time I considered that this might be a mistake. A little black boy had gotten on with me. He looked up and asked me, “You movin’ in here”? “Yep.” “The last white boy who lived here I found dead, right here,” he said, pointing at the floor of the elevator. The young boy seemed to be pleased to be the one telling me. But my name in town as a straight shooting criminal, along with Big Mary, who ran the place, telling all the other tenants that Charles Henry, who all criminals knew, had given me an endorsement, would keep me safe from my new neighbors.

My good friend Ricky who lived for his harmonica music, came to see me as soon as he found out from Henry that I was out and living in Red Foley’s building. He knew that Fillmore Slim lived there and was not only coming to see me, but hoped to meet Slim. Slim, at that time in San Francisco criminal history, was known as a notorious pimp but his second interest was music, he played the guitar fairly well and sang fairly well. He was tall and slim and very good looking, with a commanding presents He managed to cut a record but a lot of black mothers didn’t want their daughters buying a famous pimp’s record so it wasn’t much of a success. As for the other residents of this three floor building which you had to take the elevator because the lobby stairwell was filled in with a wall. This was to make it hard on the police, not us, they were all very interesting people, the only people who lived there who weren’t crooks was a black bus driver and his beautiful black 22 yr old girlfriend from Texas. One afternoon she climbed up the fire escape to my back glass sliding door which led out to my fire escape, and knocked on it, I was surprised to see here out there, but I figured she had to live in the building, plus she was thin and sexy, I did not hesitate opening the sliding door,

Hi, I’m Betsy Lou Ann, I live in the apartment right below you, I’ve seen you around the building and figured I would come up and visit with you.
Come on in Betsy Ann. Have a seat on the couch, you want a drink?
Sure, Scotch and milk if you have it. It so happened I did, but I didn’t keep the milk to add to my scotch. We talked and drank for about an hour, I was easy to figure she had no respect for her bus driver boyfriend, but she made it clear he was crazy about her. I told him I was going to come visit you today, he begged me not to, but that weak punk doesn’t tell me what to do and he never will, don’t worry about him saying anything to you, he’s scared of you, people told him you were a dangerous ex-con, you don’t look dangerous, I’m not, well he’s afraid of you, he’s afraid of everyone in the building including Big Mary. Well, I'm a little afraid of her, besides being big; those scars on her face didn’t come from shaving. The guy above you is a pimp, you mean filmier Slim? No Nugent, he also sells drugs, he’s real good looking but I don’t like pimps, don’t want anything to do with them. She finally jumped up and said see you tomorrow, and went down the fire escape.

I didn’t bother locking the sliding door, and the surprise I got the next morning made me glade I didn’t. I was lying in bed; just as I rolled over to where I could see the open bedroom door there appeared Betsy, in a full leanth black fur coat. Morning she said, she was holding a plate, I brought you breakfast, steak and eggs, she sat it down on the bed and opened her coat with both hands, she was completely nude, I brought you this too.

The next night Paul Vogel and Jake Sullivan, came and got me, I went with them in there van Fred Faready was in the back, they told me we were going to a house in the sunset to rob some hippie drug dealers, all three of these guys were heron addicts, I personally stayed away from it, but if you followed there incredible drive to make money for there habits, then you couldn’t help but make fast money, mine going for the good life there’s was banked by shooting it all into there arms.

We parked outside and down a few houses; it was about 11 at night. We knocked on the door, Jake knew someone who knew them and used his name when a guy asked who is it from behind the closed front door, it was a surprise to me when the name worked, and the door was opened we all 4 rushed in guns in hand knocking a young sandy haired tall hippy of about 25 to the floor, Jake yelled at me watch that one as he and the others starting searching the house. I had helped the kid up and pushed him up against a wall face first, I had the gun in his back and told him to just be cool, and he wouldn’t be hurt, that we were just there for money and drugs. I reached in his back pocket and pulled out a big hand made leather wallet I opened it with one hand and saw no money, but I stuck it in my pocket anyway. The rest of them found nothing this was the only guy in the house at the time, and after a very thural toss of the whole house nothing was found. One big waist of time. We got out of there they dropped me off about 2 in the morning. When I got upstairs I took a closer look at the wallet, I had thrown it to Fred who looked threw it and found it, so I didn’t expect to either, but when I turned it around I discovered it had a secret way to open, there was 1600 dollars in it. I thought about calling these junkies, but figured no, these guys wouldn’t call me to split it up, and there was no question of that in my mind, so I kept it all.
A few nights later, I took Betsy to a club on Third Street. She told me her boyfriend knew but would not do anything about it; she petty much had that poor bus driver whipped.

We got back about 12, I left the lights out just lighting a few candles in the living room, we had got curled up on the rug and started kissing when we heard noises coming from the front balcony, which also had sliding glass doors and came out on a fire escape. I grabbed my gun, and Betsy sat wait, if you go in the bedroom you can see whose out there from that window, I did, she was right, I could see out there it was my good buddies Paul Vogel, pulling himself onto my fire escape, he had stood on Jakes shoulders to reach it. I told Betsy, I know who that is, but I don’t know why he has decided to visit me via the fire escape, you had better head on back to your apartment, this is a rough bunch of boys, are you sure you don’t want me to stay with you? yea I’m sure ,hurry off now Betsy. Ok, Ill see you tomorrow morning wont I, yea, go on now. After the door shut I went over and pulled the drapes back, Paul was on his knees with his cigarette lighter lit, he was inspecting the board I had double locking the sliding door with, He looked up shocked, Joe man, we came to see you but didn’t want to disturb that woman Mary.

Against my better judgment I opened the door, Fred had just joined him on the balcony, he was all smiles and acting strange, hey Joe he said in a phony voice, I knew something was wrong, but these were friends and I couldn’t continue holding a gun on them, so I put it on the coffee table, What the hell are you guys up to Paul I asked? I told you man, we just came over to see you. At one at night by the fire escape? Fred walked quickly to my front door, I’ll go let Jake in he said rushing out the door, I looked at Paul, he was staring at the floor, come on man tell me what’s going on Paul. He wouldn’t look me in the eye, nothing man, O shit, I cant do this to you, there here to get you, Jake heard from someone that that dope house we hit the other night got took for 6 thousand. I knew it wasn’t 6 thousand, only 16 hundred, the kid must have more than made up for his losses by taking the other dealers money that we had obviously missed, but I couldn’t very well say it was only 16 hundred without still being caught for holding out, I grabbed Paul by the arm well get outa here so I can lock the door I started heading him to the door as I passed the coffee table I noticed my gun was gone, Fred had to of taken it. We were almost to the door when Jake and Fred walked in. Hey Joe Jake said in a friendly voice, How you doin? You know that house we hit, word has it 6 grand was taken, And you think I did it don’t you, he looked at Fred, o he did man why would he say you think I did it right off like that? I said that because Paul told me about the six grand, and that you think it was me.
Fred had my gun in his hand, he walked up to me and said where’s the money Joe. Fuck you Fred, I didn’t get 6 grand from that house, the guy I was watching more than likely got it and blamed us. Fred haled off and hit me, sending me to the floor, I got up to fight him but he backed up and pointed the gun at me. I could whip Fred and he knew, I might have been able to whip Paul, but not Jake, way to tough for me I was finished. Jake told Fred to grab some of my neckties and tie me up. He did, after he had my hands tied behind my back he said, I’m going to pistol whip you until you tell me where that money is. Do what your going to do Fred but don’t expect me to snivel to you. He though for a minute then decided against it, Fred was a punk, he knew if Jake left me alive I would get him later so he just made me sit on the floor then tied my legs, then he went out and joined the search, ironically the money was still in the same trick wallet, and they missed it again, they settled for taking my stereo and TV Jake came to the door right as they were leaving. If you hadn’t been my friend for years Joe I would kill you. I believed him, and when I heard the front door close a feeling of great relief came over me.

I was able to stand up, and discovered I could hop, I hopped over to the front door backed up to it and was able to open it with my fingers, I carefully and slowly hopped down to Mary’s apartment and backed up to it and knocked on the door. She answered, when she saw me she laughed, think you could untie me Mary, she called to her two young female visitors, come her girls, you got to see this, didn’t I tell you this building was a constant hoot, they all three continued to laugh while Mary untied me.

The next day Paul showed up. Paul and I had done years together; all the way back to 12 years old in juvenile hall. Hey man I’m sorry. I came alone so I could keep Jake under control, I told him the whole way over not to hurt you and I reminded him that we have done the same thing. I talked them into selling me your stereo and speakers for 50 bucks, its in my garage, come on lets go get it, I bought it so I could give it back to you. I could tell Paul was telling the truth; I had never had a closer friend. The TV I took a loss on, but I had 16 hundred to buy a better one.

Betsy had stayed out off sight the rest of that night, but showed up with steak and eggs in her fur coat the next morning, what a body that woman had, no wonder the bus driver was whipped, she was a handful, she wanted to know all about the night before, I told her like it was nothing and that she should forget about it. That afternoon the bus driver showed up at the door. He asked could he come in and talk to me, his voice was shaky and he was obviously scared. He told me he loved her, and wanted to know if I would please not take her away from him. I couldn’t help but feel for this man, he truly was dead in love with this woman, and I wasn’t, I ended up telling him, look she’s not really my type, and I’m not the one woman type, so be patient, I won’t be around as long as you, and I can assure you I wont take her from you, He got up and shook my hand vigoursly, thank you man thank you I love her I cant help myself I just love her, I understand man good luck. I felt kind of good doing something besides robbing people, I mean I wasn’t going to turn down steak and eggs and what was under the fur coat, but I would keep my word about not taking her away from him.


It took two or three months for me to become a close enough friend of Slim’s to bring Ricky over to his apartment. They hit it off right away. Rick not only liked Slim because of their mutual love of music, but for his statements about women and his idea of their role in life, which in Slim’s mind was to make him money. Rick didn’t care one way or the other about pimping; he just thought Slim’s every word was funny. The wild colorful outfits and the pimp terminology, like “Ricky, you can’t be picking fruit off the pimping tree ‘less you advocating the Mac man,” was just as funny as hell to Ricky.

One day, Rick went to Slim’s place after visiting me and found Slim there, dressed like a cowboy with two six guns in western holsters, quick drawing at the TV. Rick found this to be hysterical. I didn’t, but I did find some of Slim’s viewpoints on life kind of funny, if somewhat sick, but who was I to judge anyone. I was a thief and he was a pimp and, all in all, pimp or not, Fillmore Slim was a very likeable man, as were most of the people in that building.

Big Mary’s apartment faced the street one floor up from the entrance. She constantly sat in a chair and guarded the front. If someone rang the bell she would open the window and yell down, “Who do you want to see?” When they told her she would call that person, who would come to the window, look down and tell her if they were ok, meaning not police. If they were ok or if she recognized them, she would drop down a key to the building’s fortified iron gate. The resident drug dealers loved this building, as did all of us. When the police wanted to raid the building they would bring a locksmith. This finally happened while I was there. I would witness a rare example of honor amongst thieves.

While the locksmith was working, Mary called everyone and told them the police were coming. Slim saw me in the hallway and told me, “You got anything illegal, get it quick and follow me.” All I had was a hot gun and a little weed, I grabbed them and followed Slim up the stairs to the roof. Slim was carrying a box full of guns and other items. There were several people in front of and behind us, carrying boxes, all heading for the roof. The building on Fell Street, like those on many streets in San Francisco, were adjoined, just a wall separated one building from another.

Once on the roof, I wondered what good is this going to do, won’t the police just look on the roof? My question was answered when I that noticed everyone was crossing over to the roof of the next building to the left. There was a box-like structure which had a door which let into the next building. The door was opened and everyone was putting their belongings down at the top of the stairs inside the door. People were already hurrying past me and heading back to their apartments, and Slim and I put down our stuff and did the same. The last tenant, a pimp named Nugent shut the door behind him. The idea here was that the search warrant which the police had, I was told, was only good for that property. They couldn’t ever go over to the roof of the other building. I am sure they would have if they were aware of what we were doing.

The thing that surprised me about the people in Red Foley’s building was that there were thousands of dollars worth of guns and drugs, and in some cases large amounts of cash, which the police would have surely taken, left in those boxes owned by a building full of crooks. When the police left, and everyone slowly went back to the roof to collect their property, nothing, not a dollar or a seed of weed, was ever stolen. This is certainly something you won’t find today. Even in the ‘50s and ‘60s there was very little honor amongst thieves; it was mostly just a saying, but in today’s climate, it is nonexistent. Things have really changed. I mentioned that when I first stepped out of jail, my suit pants where falling off of me. That’s because back then you lost weight in jail, but now you can gain it. Back then it was two meals a day. Breakfast was mush which, by the time it got to you, would stay in the bowl if you turned it upside down, two slices of bread and black coffee. That was it until beans and rice at night. Today convicts may riot if the choices of salad dressings are not good enough. I don’t know what is stopping crime today; jail life is better than street life for most criminals today.

I finally got a look at the famous Red Foley, not to be confused with the country singer. I was in the front lobby talking to Nugent when I noticed Mary talking to an old black man with grayish hair. He was a plain looking man wearing old gray coveralls; he looked to me like a pauper, like a man without a dime, until you spotted his Stacy Adams shoes. They were very expensive looking. “Who’s that?” I asked Nugent. “That’s Red Foley.” “Who’s Red Foley?” “He owns this building, and several others in town. They call him ‘the man’ in the heroin world. He’s got a whole lot of cops and people in city hall paid off.”

Like I said, other than the shoes, he just looked common. He was quiet spoken, almost meek. I would find out later that he loved heroin, not to use on him and not just to get rich on, but also to attract very young women. Young pretty heroin addicts were in and out of his apartment day and night. They knew Red always had plenty of the best heron and he would give it to them in exchange for sex.

I knew the money I had left in Henry’s safe would run out soon. It was time to go to work again. Work for me was figuring out how to avoid work. I could live fine simply by selling weed. In this building I wouldn’t even have to go outside, there were plenty of customers right there in my building and not much chance of one of them being a cop. But first I needed more money than I had left, to buy a decent amount of weed to resell. I asked my friend Ricky what was a good hustle these days. He told me robbing hippies right up the street was what he and our friend Doug had been doing, mostly selling them phony LSD. He told me “We buy 5000 empty gelatin capsules from the pharmacy. Then we get a piece of chalk. If pink acid is what is mostly on the streets then we got pink chalk. We scrape it into a bowl of flour until it matches the real ones, cap them up, and then head to Height Street. We’re going tonight if you want to go.”

It sounded good me to so I picked up the needed items and capped up 500 bogus acid caps. Ricky was the draw; he played the harmonica very well. He would sit in a doorway playing tunes he knew the hippies would like and eventually he drew a small crowd. Then Doug and I would start asking everyone if they wanted to buy some really good acid. I watched Doug with the first customer, a young boy with really long hair who had come from Bakersfield with three thousand dollars he had collected from several of his high school friends. Word had spread all across the U.S that you could buy real good acid right on the street among the flower children of Height Street. He probably would have found some really good acid, if he hadn’t run into us. Doug did this very cleverly. When he found out this guy wanted that much acid, he told him he would be right back. He went around the corner and filled a plastic baggie with three thousand dollars’ worth, I can’t remember how many hits that was. The next move was the clever one. When Doug returned, he reached into the bag, making sure the kid was paying attention. His hand came out of the bag with 7 or 8 caps, he held his open hand out to the long haired kid, and he said “Take one.” Then, he emptied the rest into the bag and handed the whole bag to the kid. He told him, “You hang on to the bag. If you get off and like it, then pay me and be on your way. I want to make sure you’re happy with it.” I’m sure you have figured out that Doug had already had real pink acid in his hand when he reached into the bag. The boy got off, paid up, and we went home early.

I was happy to find out that Doug and Ricky always split the money even no matter who sold what. I did this for the next week, and ended up with 6 grand. I used it to buy 25 kilos of weed, which I planed to sell at ten dollars a lid. It turned out like I thought; I hardly had to leave the building. Once word got out, neighbors were knocking on my door day and night. I had two doormen on Broadway Street who I dropped off several lids to once every three days. I was definitely in business.

Life went good for a few months. I had gotten to know Red but only on a hello how are you basis. His luck was starting to run bad. I saw red tape go up saying this property has been seized by the government. I asked around and finally was told by Henry that all of Red’s buildings and property in the bay area were being seized. Red had made a lot of friends over the years by paying them off, including people at city hall, but the sixties had brought about the start of realization of corruption in cities across the country. San Francisco wasn’t as bad as Chicago and New York but it was there, the hippie generation played a part in opening people’s eyes to government corruption which spilled over into state and local corruption. So Red’s day was about over, at least in the bay area. Some weeks later my luck took a turn for the worse. I sold a bunch of phony acid to a hippie who turned out to be an undercover cop.

I had been in city prison for about 4 months and had made trustee. I was bringing the shaving cart over to the D-block lock down where escapees and high profile prisoners were. I had just handed an electric razor to Black Panther Bobby Seale, who ignored my white ass like I was the blue eyed blond haired devil himself. As I started to pass the last cell I saw an old man in a wheelchair. Upon a closer look, I realized it was Red Foley. He looked terrible. He was about 65 when I first met him but in just a few short months he looked like a dying skinny man in his 90’s,

“Mr. Foley, is that you?” He didn’t answer, just looked at me with no recognition at all. “Got a cigarette?” he asked. I gave him one and he tore off the paper, emptied the tobacco into his hand and threw it in his mouth. “What in the world are you doing here Mr. Foley?” Still no answer, he just sat in that wheelchair, chewing. I gave up and moved on. A week or so later they moved him to a 12 man tank on the main line. One day I was almost in front of his tank when I saw him grab the bars, pull himself up and yell out “I’m Red Foley, damn it, I’m Red Foley, Get my lawyers!” He was ignored. I later learned that they, meaning people in city hall, had waited until all Red’s property and assets were tied up so he couldn’t borrow money before they indicted him, to make sure he couldn’t even make bail. Henry, who had come up to visit me, filled me in. He also told me people were scared of what Red might say or do. A few days later, Red was dead. He had been given someone else’s medication by a guard who claimed it was an accident, a mistake. The guard was never charged. Maybe Red lived a life that made this kind of death a thing he had coming. But I have to ask myself what about all the people who took his heron money, and in turn allowed all that heron to keep hitting the streets, all the people who died of overdoses, all the families who suffered because of this powerful drug, they didn’t get what they deserved, or maybe they did. most of them have gone to there maker, I wonder what he had to say about what they deserve. Red Foley was gone, in a short time he was completly forgotten, until now anyway

High Card Flies the Rapist

High Card Flies the Rapist

I named this "High Card Flies the Rapist" because I wanted to emphasize the constant state of knowing that at any second your world, your life, can change drastically, and you really have nothing to do with it. Sure you can go back and say if I hadn't done this or that I might not be in the position I'm in right now. The fact still remains that you are in jail. You didn't sit down one day and draw up the plans for you life and say that on such and such a day you would go spend a year or two in jail. You think of things you could have done to make it different, and you think of the things you will do differently if and when you get out.
The system is changing, but this is what actually happened in the early 70's. Today there are so many child molesters and rapists in the penal system that it no longer gets dealt with as much by the inmates themselves. There are, however, many hardened criminals doing long terms in prison that have wife and children on the outside. Anyone coming into the prison population with a rape or molestation charge is considered by these prisoners as the lowest scum on earth and deserving of any humiliation, degradation, beating, and most assuredly, death.
Here then is a true story. The names and places have been changed, but this is a first hand eye witness account by one of the principle players in this game of "justice" via the luck of the draw.

Chapter 1

The district attorney stood over his desk in front of the judge and shuffled through some papers. He didn't find anything, so he probably wasn't really looking for anything.
He looked very irritated as he addressed the judge.
"Your honor, the district attorneys office has no choice but to recommend to the court that the charges of attempted rape, and sexual assault be dismissed due to insufficient evidence against Mr. Mitchell."
At the table next to the District Attorney sat Leroy Mitchell and next to him sat his very overweight attorney. The obese attorney was grinning as he brushed dandruff off the left shoulder of his cheap polyester suit. He leaned back and shook his head slowly up and down. He had a repulsive, smug look on his chubby red face as he winked at his client, making him look even more repulsive.
In the back of the courtroom Christene sat stunned. She looked at her girlfriend Linda sitting next to her.
"What happened, Linda?"
"There letting him go, that's what's happening."
Christene just sat there staring at the judge. He seemed to be bored with the whole thing. She had not understood a thing that had just happened, only the fact that in less than five minutes, the man who had put her through the most terrifying thirty minutes of her life was going to walk out of the courtroom without even paying a fine. The will be no justice, no revenge, she thought to herself. Tears formed in her eyes, tears of anger and frustration.
Linda drove Christene back to her apartment in silence. Christene thought back to that night three months ago.
She had met Leroy at a supermarket a few months before. He was a balding man of about thirty six, stocky build and average looking. He had been very friendly and seemed to be the intellectual type.
Christene was twenty nine. She had lost her husband to a spoonful of heroin. Suicide with a needle. He was what you might call a Gucci heroin addict. He was from a wealthy family and therefore one of the few heroin addicts who could afford his poison.
At the time she met Leroy her husband had been dead about nine months, and she was just beginning to start to try and meet new people. She wasn't looking for heavy romance, she just wanted to be around nice people and begin a new life. So while talking about artichokes in California, standing in the vegetable section of the supermarket, Leroy had asked her out to dinner. She said no, but he continued to talk, made her laugh, and on the third try she had said yes to the dinner invitation.
It was a nice restaurant where they met that Friday evening. At dinner Leroy was able to draw her out in conversation and got her to open up a little about some of the tragedy with her dead husband. Leroy was very sympathetic and comforting. Christene was starved for a little comfort and understanding and unloaded a lot that had been on her mind since her husband died. Leroy made his play to get Christene home and in bed but she didn't want that kind of comfort just yet. Leroy was disappointed but did seem to understand and continued to see her and be kind to her.
A few weeks later, on their third dinner date, they were talking after dinner, drinking wine. As before, Leroy projected the kind comforting father image, offering several times to help any way he could if she needed anything at all. Christene, being an intelligent and observant person, began to get little hints that something wasn't quite right. She couldn't put her finger on it, just something that was beginning to make her a little suspicious of him, nothing, she thought, to fear.
Outside after dinner as Leroy was starting the car, he reached over to the back seat and got a bottle of wine and two glasses and put them on the seat between them.
"Just a little way up into those hills there is a little spot a short walk from the road where a creek flows into a small pond. There are huge boulders around and a nice flat spot of grass where we can sit and talk and sip some wine."
Christene was in a mood to talk, the place sounded very nice, so she agreed.
Leroy parked the car in a turnout area on the side of the road and Christene could see the path leading up the hill and into the trees. They began walking and after a few minutes Christene began to realize that she may have just made a big mistake coming here. The path wound on up the side of the hill far ahead of them and there was no sign of a creek or big boulders.
"Just how far is this creek Leroy?"
"A little further." He said without looking at her.
The moon was bright and she could see his eyes. They had gotten wide and wild like an animals and he was breathing heavily. The kind voice had turned hard and sharp and mean. Christene all of a sudden knew for sure what was happening. What scared her most was the feeling that this man didn't want to just rape her, she sensed that he wanted more to kill her.
She stopped suddenly and tried to turn around but Leroy's strong arm tightened around her.
"I'd like to go back if you don't mind."
"Oh come on, it's just a bit further."
He wasn't asking her, he was telling her and she knew it. The path became very narrow and there was room for only one at a time. Leroy had grabbed her by the back of her dress near her neck and was leading her ahead of him. She tried to stop once again and he pushed harder keeping her going up the hill. There was nothing but trees and bushes now and Christene knew she was about to run out of time. If she was going to do anything she had better do it now. She was quick and resourceful and fortunately her mind did not fail her now at this crucial moment.
As they walked she quickly and cautiously began unbuttoning her dress, which buttoned all the way down the front. When the last button was undone she bolted forward into a run with everything she had, leaving Leroy holding her dress.
Wearing only sheer bikini panties she ran through the bushes and trees working her way around in a half circle trying to head back towards the road. She was terrified, she couldn't hear Leroy behind her and didn't stop to look, she didn't even feel the branches and brush scratching and cutting her arms and sides and legs.
Finally she broke through some bushes and found herself on pavement. As she was getting her bearings headlights caught her as a car came around a bend. Breaks squealed and she strained to see into the car. To her great relief the driver was an elderly man who began to get out of the car. Christene started crying, trying to cover herself as best as she could and began begging for help.
"There's a man after me. I think he's trying to kill me, please help me!"
The man took off the sweater he was wearing and helped Christene put it on as he walked her around to the passenger side and helped her into the car. Christene got in and curled up on the floor out of sight in a fetal position. The man drove to his home nearby and called the police. The mans wife gave her a pair of corduroy jeans and an old shirt to wear.
The police came and after hearing her story took her in the patrol car back to the spot where she and Leroy had parked. His car was gone but they stopped and got out to look around anyway. Christene pointed to the path they had walked up and as they were looking, Leroy pulled into the turn out area from the opposite direction, leaned out the window and said.
"I was only trying to help you Christene."
Christene had no idea what he was talking about, she only remembered thinking that he must be a very sick man.
He was arrested on the spot.

San Quintin 1963

Jim Benton came to my cell right before the six o'clock lock up.
"Hey Flowers, your new cellie, Mitchell."
"Yea, what about him"?
"Told you he was here for killing his brother in law."
"Yea."
"I'm afraid hes got short eyes buddy, raped and maimed his own fucking nice."
"No shit."
"Yea, looks like we'll be cutting for his ass pretty quick, but not right off, the sailor says were going to fuck with him for awhile first.
"See ya on the yard James"
"Yea, Thanks for the word Jim, I'll put him on the shine."
I knew my new cellie was in big trouble. The sailor was the head of the Aryan brotherhood in this prison, which is a powerful white group that is sort of like the mafia. This organization was formed inside prison, but over the last ten years has reached out to the streets. Membership is not gained as easy as your elks club initiation, in this club you have to kill someone, or at least stab someone in an attempt to kill someone, that someone in most all cases is either a snitch or a child molester or rapist. some gain entrance by just assisting in a hit. So the sailor had somewhere in the area of twenty killers at his disposal.
I didn't know what he had in mind for short eyes Mitchell, but I knew we weren't going to be giving him a house plant.
Leroy was in the infirmary getting a shot or something. When he came back to the cell he started to say something to me.
"Hey, short eyes, I said, for the rest of the time your in my house don't say anything to me, don't touch my stuff and don't get in my way, understand?" He said, "OK", looking scared and confused. He didn't know what short eyes meant, which basically boils down to a guy whos sexual eye only seems to twinkle for girls or boys five feet and under., but he'd find out what it meant soon enough. I do believe he realized at that moment that he had been exposed.
The next morning at yard call the sailor, and two of his lieutenants approached me as I was placing a bet of two cartoons of cigarettes on a horse called Lucky Joe running in the fifth race at Belmont. When the bookie I was placing the bet with saw the sailor he quickly departed.
The sailor seemed to make everyone nervous including me. He was a big man with tattoos all over his arms and neck. His eyes were a blank stare, they looked mean, at least that's what most of these idiots got from them, I personally thought he looked more stupid than mean. Like a man who didn't like or think to much about himself, that's why he put all that garbage on his neck and arms. Every mindless thing you could manage to think of was tattooed on that idiots body, guns, knives, dripping blood, some womans name, who was probably out screwing his best friend at this very moment, hard to spell words like, kill, death, fuck, suck, Mom. 45631, which I'm almost sure he knew by heart, because it had been his state number for twenty years. I cleverly decided to keep these observations to myself.
"Hey flowers, the sailor said, staring at me with those mindless eyes. "I hear your house has acquired an unexpected piece of shit."
"Yea, just heard about that."
"Why don't you get a pass to the library, say around one o'clock."
"I gather you're telling me you'd rather I wasn't in my house about then.?"
"Yea, Nothing personal Flowers, just want to have a talk with your short-eye'd cellie", I'll cover whatever you just bet with that slimy little bookmaker."
"That's all right sailor, you don't have to pay me, I don't care what you do to that sick mother fucker., I needed something to read anyway.
Him and his lieutenants slowly strolled off. I glanced towards the entrance to the main prison, Leroy sat down on a bench, and three guys immediately got up and left him sitting alone. It was obvious to me that the whole population knew about him by now. I shook my head and wondered if he had any idea just how bad things were about to get for him. I almost felt sorry for him, but all you have to do to cure yourself of that is to spend thirty seconds thinking about what had happened to a nine year old girl, and who knows how many others. Which I did think of, and in fact was cured of that ridiculous emotion in a matter of seconds.
After lunch I left Leroy, who was laying on his top bunk reading a magazine, to get my library pass. As I reached the spiral stair case leading down off the fifth tier, sailor and the same two guys who were with him earlier stepped up onto my tier. The sailor nodded to me as I passed. One of the other two guys, the biggest guy, had a tooth brush in his teeth handle first. He showed his teeth in what I assumed to be a smile, and winked at me. I didn't know what they were gong to do to old Leroy, but I was glad it wasn't me they were going to visit
When I got back to my cell about an hour later, Leroy was still laying on his bunk, the magazine was laying open on the floor. Leroy's face looked a whitish gray, and he was staring straight up at the ceiling, he was completely motionless.
I moved to the toilet to take a leak. There was a tooth brush floating in the commode, which was filled with piss. There was also some sort of foam, which I figured was from Leroy brushing his teeth.
"Hey, don't you know how to flush a toilet"? He didn't answer, just continued to stare at the ceiling.
I found out later that night from a tier trustee, that they had all three taken a leak, then made Leroy brush his teeth in the toilet, using the water in the toilet to rinse with. It made me sick to think about it, not as sick as old Leroy, who hadn't so much as moved a muscle in over three hours. He hadn't even gotten up to go to chow., of course I couldn't hardly blame him for not having much of an appetite.
I was awaken suddenly in the middle of the night by someone yelling, not unusual in a mad house like this, but this was someone yelling almost directly in my ear.
I sat up and found my cellie holding onto the bars of our cell door, yelling at the top of his lungs.
"They raped me, those bastards raped me, I'm going to kill all three of them, ya hear me, I'm gonna kill em!"
"Ah shut the fuck up sissy, and go to sleep, or I'll fuck you again myself in the morning", someone yelled from down the tier. Two or three guys started laughing
"Yea, I said, shut up and go back to your bunk.," "You got no witness to that, it's your word against theirs, all your going to do by snitching on them is to get killed sooner than you already are. He stared at me, his eyes were wild, but not from anger as much as from fear.
"Kill me, no one's going to kill me, I'm going to tell the guards what they did to me, they'll put me somewhere safe."
"Look stupid, the only safe place in this joint is on the other side of the wall, now shut up before I kill ya." I gave him a serious look which finally sent him back up to his bunk.
Our boy Leroy was having some real emotional problems, but once again I couldn't feel any pity for him, how was I to know how many children, or young women were out there having emotional problems over him. No, I said to myself, this ass hole is getting just what he gave, so fuck em., I went back to sleep.
The next morning Leroy boxed up his things in a shoe box.
"Going some where Leroy?"
"Yea, I'm going into protective custody as soon as I get a hold of a guard."
"Good", I said, meaning it. Just then sailor and his two boys showed up in front of our cell, they were all trustees and got out of there cells before us.
Sailor calmly explained to Leroy about the last three snitches who went to p. c. thinking they would be protected. All three were dead. The sailor scratched one of his profound tattoos, and said.,
"Ask your cellie, he'll tell ya." Then they slowly walked off. He looked at me still holding his shoe box and blankets.
"I'm afraid there telling you right, Leroy baby.", One of them they got by putting ground up glass in the guys food, Your only chance to live out the month is to keep your mouth shut, or keep it open, but not to talk with."
"What the hell do you mean he said eyes widening."
"You know what I mean."
"Never, I'll never do that, I'm a man."
"Not any more your not, if you ever were, plus they got a hold of your trial transcript, seems like you had some helpless kids mouth open for you, now it looks like your a helpless kid, hows it feel short eyes'"?
Leroy leaned against the wall, then slid down to a sitting position still holding his belongings. A guard stopped at our cell and looked down at Leroy.
"Going somewhere this morning Mr Mitchell"? he asked in a sarcastic tone. Leroy didn't answer he had gone back into a staring daze.
"No, I said, "he just had a rough night."
"Well he had better unpack, cause he's not going anywhere for thirteen or fourteen years. The guard laughed and went on down the tier.
Like us the guards knew what Leroy's charges where, and not unlike us had no sympathy for him. You see not all convicts and guards are heartless animals. Some of them have mothers, daughters and sisters, and like people on the outside don't want the sort of thing this animal did to happen to them. So the idea of eliminating them from the human race isn't that hard of a thought to cope with for guards or inmates. It does get a little harder for some of us if it is you who is personnel elected to do the eliminating. I knew I was a potential candidate for that election, but I hoped that I wouldn't win it. The thought of killing a man for whatever reason was still a little hard for me.
The tiers cell doors all swung open for breakfast. I stepped over Leroy then I waited at my cell driveway for the other Aryan Brotherhood members on my tier to all get to there driveways. In most prisons you have to travel in numbers of your own race for safety from the other races. So you wait until the designated white man gives the sign to move out, which is given only when every one is ready to move, then you quickly bunch together and move in a pack.
In prison language it's simply said, "Don't drive anywhere in this penitentiary unless your four or five deep in your own race. Leroy stayed in his cell, guess he still wasn't to hungry.

Three months later

It was a half hour after the evening lock up. I sat on my bunk and studied the racing form. Leroy was in what I now considered his fetus possession. He sat almost continuously where the corner of the cell wall met the cell door, curled up with his head between his legs and his blanket over his head.
The sailor came to our cell, reached through the bars and tapped Leroy lightly on the head.
"Leroy baby, I want you to meet my partner Danny, his wife was just killed in the yard last month, and he's feeling a little lonely, you take care of him for me, understand?"
The figure of a head rose slowly still under the blanket. then this whole ball moved in front of the bars. The blanket rose slowly, it was almost ghostly to watch.
All I could see of him was his hands when they appeared from under the blanket to grab the bars, and as he got to his knees I could see the bottoms of his shoes. The sailors companion moved to the front of the cell door and unzipped his pants. I wished they would move this poor bastard to someone elses house, this sort of thing had a way of ruining my evening.
Things like this went on for what seemed like months. One evening in between house calls, Leroy came out of his womb and sat on the end of his bunk. He had a big ball of tin foil, almost the size of a soft ball. I hadn't said two words to him in almost three months, but this had my curiosity.
"Hey, short eyes, what's that"? he looked up at me and said.,
"When I get this big enough I'm going to take it out to the yard and throw it at the wall."
"What for Leroy"?
"So I can leave here, he said very calmly, and very sure of himself.
"And how do you figure that Leroy"?
"It will make a hole in the wall for me to leave through"
"Oh--, good plan Leroy"
"Have you got any empty cigarette packs"?
"Sure Leroy, any thing to help a master escape plan". I handed him an empty pack. He quickly emptied it of its tin foil content. He then carefully wrapped it around his ever growing demolition ball. Yes it was clear that old Leroy's mind was just about gone. I sure wish they would kill him and get it over with. I hadn't stopped feeling sorry for his victims, but I had started to feel that enough was enough. I decided to talk to the sailor about it.
On the yard the following day I did talk to him.
"Hey sailor, Can't we get on with it with this short eyed son of a bitch"?
"I mean, You cats don't have to live in the same house with him.
The guys out of his mind anyway, plans to bust out by throwing a wad of tin foil at the east wall."
"Yea, Well everyone's tired of his ass anyway, we'll play for him tonight."
That night myself and five other brotherhood members crowed into Tommy Detoys house. The sailor took out a new deck of cards, shuffled them then threw them on the bottom bunk. he then scattered them around real good.
My heart was pounding, this was the third time I had done this, but so far I had been lucky, of course you couldn't let on that you were anything but thoroughly disappointed that you had lost. In the past I had snapped my fingers in disgust at drawing a three or a five, knowing I was out of it because the guy before me had drawn a ten, inwardly being totally relieved, which I'm quite sure half these other ass holes were about drawing out of it.
This time I had been chosen to draw first, and this time I drew a ten. My chances of losing were still good, all one of the other five had to do was draw a jack or better and I'd be off the hook again.
The next draw was a six, my heart pounded a little harder in my chest. The next man drew an eight, and stole my phony " dam, with a finger snap.
The next two guys both drew deuces. I couldn't believe it. The sailor was next. He looked at me.
"Leaves you and me James, Don't it'?
"Yea, I said trying to stay cool." I wanted to tell the tattooed son of a bitch to hurry up and draw, but I didn't. Finally he reached down and flipped over a card without picking it up. It was as five.
"Well kiddies, looks like James finally won one, also looks like a moment of truth coming up."
By him saying that, It wasn't hard for me to realize that no one had bought my earlier acts of damn, shit, and son of a bitch I missed out again.
"Your the one who wanted to get on with it James, so get on with it."
"Yea, why not I said, swallowing hard to try to return my heart to its proper location. I walked out of Tommys cell and down the tier towards mine and Leroy's. I was scared, everything was echoing around me. I felt like I had just entered into a fantasy, but I couldn't turn back, if I didn't go through with it, then I would end up with the same fate as Leroy. I quickly decided to just do it and get it over with.
When I got to the front of our house I realized that Leroy had done us both an almost merciful act, he had gone into his sitting position and covered himself with his blanket.
I knelt down and softly said to him.
"Leroy, I've got someone in the next cell I want you to take care of, but he don't want to have to look at you, so leave your blanket over you like it is and I'll help you over there." A low beaten voice came from under the blanket.
"Do I have to"?
"Yes Leroy, then no one else will ever brother you again."
"You promise"?
"Yes Leroy, I promise that this will be the last night anyone will brother you."
"O. K.", he said with a voice that over the months had gone from a mans to that of a scared timid childs.
I helped him up and slowly walked him out of the cell, checking with the look-outs, or points as there called there., who were stationed at both entrances to the tier. I got an OK nod from them both, then walked Leroy down the tier at a slight angle so he wouldn't notice his actual direction. I stopped next to the safety railings., which came up to the average mans chest.
"wait right here for a second Leroy, I got to tell him to go easy on ya."
"Thanks James, replyed a meek voice from under the blanket." I then squatted down behind him, putting both my hands under his ass then plunged upward sending Leroy into a dive. Somehow the blanket stayed on him, and for a few seconds it looked like he was actually going to fly. He didn't even scream, I think maybe he welcomed the flight.
Thirty second after I heard him hit the concrete below whistles started blowing and the PA system was yelling,"lock down ,everyone lock down, to your cells, lock down."
A kite came to me the next day, (a kite is a prison term for a note) The kite read.
"Orville Wright isn't dead. My heart sank. Hell, I only had a couple more years to do, now it looked like I'd never get out of here.
A few days later we were taken off lock down. I found the sailor on the first yard call. The sailor looked at me blankly and said,
"He was in a coma, but he;s been out of it for eighteen hours, don't know why he hasn't snitched on you, I don't know how we can get to him now, he's under under the gun twenty four hours a day. All I can say is we'll try.
Three days later word came that Leroy had crammed a ball of tin foil down his throat with the end of a toilet plunger while he was in the hospital bathroom, and had managed to finish himself off. I couldn't understand it,or maybe I could. I also couldn't help but think that Leroy's ball had worked, it did get him out.

Cracker Box Killer

Cracker Box Killer

The isolation cell I currently found myself in was pitch black during the nights. Knowing I’d probably be in there for several months I started looking for ways to keep my mind intact. Keeping my sense of humor in the spot I was currently in would not be easy. I pulled a button off of my favorite blue prison shirt and threw it as hard as I could against the wall. This was in a 6 by 12-foot cell. I knew the button would bounce around so I closed my ears so I wouldn’t have any idea where it landed. As I said, it was too dark to see. I got down on my hands and knees and the hunt began. This jail was crowded, so occasionally they would throw another inmate in this one-man isolation cell with you.
Three weeks later this was the case in my cell. His name was Jim; he was about 30 years old, just out of San Quentin. Stories passed the time for me, and I’ve told my share of them. He was only there with me for ten days and when he left I decided to pretend he was still there and I would tell him stories of my life of crime. Some might think talking to yourself is a sign of losing your mind, but it not only helped keep my mind intact, it helped me remember a pocket full of stories, maybe someday I’d write a book. If I did, I would have to put one of Jim’s better stories in, I would call it the "Cracker Box Killer" It started with him telling me how all this insanity started with him.
He said " Joe, I was about 15, I ran with a kid named Strello, one Saturday afternoon we were on this old mans porch, some guy Strello knew, watching him get drunk, and listening to him try to give us advice. I remember like it was yesterday, that old man looking at me with those blood shot eyes, taking a sip from a half pint of whiskey and saying "You two punks keep right on stealin and messin around this shit hole of a neighborhood, just keep it up you little bastards, an you‚re both gonna end up in the pen. You two ass holes think your tough don‚t ya? I used to think I was tough till I hit Quentin. You get there you'll find out quick what it’s all about." He hesitated for a minute staring out into the street like he was remembering something that he didn't want to, then he yelled at us "You'll find out when some con son-of-a-bitch comes in your cell while you’re asleep and puts a razor to your throat and then the next thing you know he’s fucking you, then you to little shit’s will wish YOU had listened. Keep it up", he said, he looked like he was about to pass out. My pal Strello looked at me then nodded for us to get out of there. It was to late now for me to listen or follow anyone’s advice, the gates were opening slowly to let the gray goose into the main prison, that’s what the prison transfer bus is called. That old man was right, I should have listened but I didn't listen to anybody back then either did Strello. He’d been shot and killed in a lower Mission Street bar trying to rob it with a toy pistol. I followed suite and was caught trying to rob a Mayfair Market, I wasn't dead like Strello, but I almost wished I were when I started walking down that main line with a blanket in my hand. It was like walking the gauntlet. One tier up hard looking convicts were leaning on the rail looking down at the new arrivals, most of them had big arms and chests from lifting weights for years. I heard two guys arguing over who was going to get me, a black guy and a white guy. "We'll see who gets him." was the last thing I heard. A guard yelled from behind us, "second tier lockup, get your asses back in your houses." I remember thinking, “James, you are in deep shit”. Your young ass has been in this joint five minutes and the two biggest motherfuckers in the world are fighting over who’s going to get you first.
I had to come up with a plan fast. I knew they kept you in an isolated lockup section of the prison for 48 hours to give them a chance to observe you and decide what tier to put you on. So, I had 48 hours to come up with something. I was put in a single man cell at the far north side of the prison. The ceilings were very high looking up from my ground floor cell. Looking up made me feel like I‚d entered hells waiting room for two days. It was cold and damp. I lay down on a hard slab of steel with my one blanket. You could faintly smell the sea air from the San Francisco Bay through the more overpowering smell of disinfectant. Sleeping was impossible because of the cold and the vision of the two guys on the top tier yelling about me like I was already dead or had as good as joined the ranks of the prison male sex selection. Wind was somehow whistling through the dimly lit hallway. It made a sound hard to describe. Something like you would hear in an old horror movie I guess. Anyway, it was depressing the hell out of me. I d been here about 5 hours with 10 years to serve. It all seemed hopeless, but at least the thought of the 10 years helped me decide what kind of plan I needed. You see, the way I was feeling I didn't much care if I died or not. If I was going to die, I figured I’d go out a virgin. I worked on my plan the entire 48 hours. All I’d come up with was the fact I d have to kill one of these horny bastards in order to get the idea across to the rest of the prison population that I might be young and cute, but I was also dangerous. I’d heard on the streets and in youth authority that no matter how small you were, or what you might look like, if you stabbed someone, especially if you killed someone, that the other convicts tended to leave you alone and go after someone weak who wasn't willing to kill. I was assigned to the fifth tier. It was after four in the afternoon, which meant I had the option to close my cell door for the evening. It locked automatically when you shut it but you could leave your cell door open until six if you wanted. I had shut mine out of fear, and the need for time to think. I also needed a knife, but how?
Right then my luck looked like it might be changing. Out of nowhere stood Jack Sullivan right in front of my cell. Jack was a very tough boy from my neighborhood. A few years back Jack had hit a heroin dealer over the head one to many times with the butt of a 45 automatic and, unfortunately, killed him.
"James", he said, "I thought it might be you when I read your name on the new fish sheet in receiving. Word has it big Jim Watson and some nigger are going to war over who's gonna get you for their woman.
"Yea,” I said”, we sorta met when I first got here."
"You know, James, I’d like to help you, but in this place you’re on you’re own until you prove yourself."
"I know Jack, but maybe you could do one little thing for me? What’s that James?"
"Can you get me a knife?"
Jack laughed. "I can do that. Think you'll be able to use it?"
"We'll find out pretty quick, won’t we?"
"Yea, James. We sure will. I'll get you one kid. You need anything else?"
"No thanks Jack, I think that will do it for now."
"Good luck kid." Jack said as he walked away.
I don’t know why Jack called me kid, he was only a few years older than I was, but I guess the 3 or 4 years he had already done in this mad house made him feel a lot older than he really was. You grow up real fast in a place like this. I hoped I’d be able to grow a little older myself, but like I said, with 10 years facing you did it really matter that much?
The next face to appear in front of my cell was Mr., Tattoo, and Big Jim Watson. He had big round eyes, and a fat nose. He just stood there with his hands in his pockets and stared at me. Then he started making humming noises like some slob about to eat a whole turkey all by himself. "Hey pretty boy. How come you closed your house door so soon? I wanted to come in and visit, I mean looking at you just makes my dick get hard." I had to say something that sounded like I wasn't as scared as I was, but that was real hard to get out. I was terrified of this monster. All I could come up with was "Look stupid, I’m no sissy! I ain't a punk and I ain't gonna be one so why don't you go drive on somebody else?"
"Stupid am I?" Mason replied, his eyes narrowing a bit, " we'll see who's stupid! Not only am I gonna make you my woman, in two days there is a canteen draw and the booking trustee tells me you came in with $85.00 on the books. It’s mine sweetheart, you can spend $20.00 of it on Thursday. You spend it all you hear? Candy, smokes, anything you get, you bring to me. Find me in the lower yard understand? You don’t have two worry about taking care of this" He said cupping his crotch, "at least not right away, I got a nigger to deal with first. Then your ass is mine. Then you’ll find out who runs things in this joint. He stared at me for a second then said" Look kid, it won’t be so bad being my woman, and it has certain advantages. When you’re Big Jim’s woman no one else will ever mess with you. I’ll even let you keep some of your canteen, but only if your real good to me" He smiled, cupping his crotch again. All I could do to appear calm was to say, "Fuck you". He just kept smiling then laughed as he walked away.
At least he helped me with my plan. Telling me to meet him in the lower yard would come in handy, I’d seen the lower yard when I arrived and could remember it more or less out of sight of the gun towers. If I were going to stab someone, doing it in plain sight of the guards wouldn’t be too bright. I knew standing toe to toe with this gorilla, even with a knife would be suicide. My arms were about 10 inches around; Big Jim’s were probably 20. Physically I had no chance at all. I’d have to trick him somehow, catch him off guard, finding a way to even the odds, and making the first move unexpectedly, was my only chance.
Jack showed up a few hours later. He was a trustee and had freedom of movement around the pen during the day, and a few hours after the six o’clock lock-up. "Got something for you kid" He looked cautiously up and down the tier, then reached in this jacket and pulled out a long thin object wrapped in cheesecloth. He handed it quickly through the bars and I grabbed it. I knew what it was and it felt good to actually get it in my hands. "That was quick", I said as I stuffed the knife under my mattress. Jack lifted his eyebrows and slowly shook his head. "Sorry to tell you this kid but it looks like things are gonna come down sooner than I thought for you. Big Jim just beat the nigger within an inch of his life, they had to transfer him to an outside hospital. That means unless you stop him he is gonna make you his personal property. He’ll go for the canteen first. That establishes that you’re weak. Then he will....
"Wait Jack" I said as it flashed on me what the missing edge was in my plan, "can you get me some empty boxes?" Jack looked at me like I was crazy, "what the hell you want with empty boxes? What you need is a .45 not empty boxes". "Jack, listen please, see if you can find me a bag like they pack your canteen in and some empty boxes like cigarette cartons, candy boxes, cracker box…anything". Jack shrugged his shoulders, "OK kid, I don’t know what you got on your mind but I’ll get’um for you. Be a lot easier to find than that shank was. I’ll be back in awhile". Jack made good on his promise and was back in about 45 minutes with a canteen bag full of empty boxes. "The cracker box is full. I hate crackers so you can eat them if you want the box empty" Jack said, still looking at me a little strange. "Thanks Jack, I owe you."
Jack was a tall Irish kid who would have been fairly good looking if it weren’t for the scars all over his cheeks and eyebrows. Jack made a fist and pumped it out at me about three inches starting from his waist in the well-known ghetto salute, and walked away without saying anything more. He had already taken chances helping me as much as he had. Prison law dictates that until a man has proven himself you can’t have anything to do with him other than warning him. Well I must say I was glad to hear ole snake dick was out of the contest. Now all I had to do was try and kill a white man. Had it been the other way around and I killed a black I would be facing retaliation from the black Muslims. If you kill one of your own there was usually no reprisal.
Tomorrow was the day. Canteen call. After lights out I went to work. I got the knife from my bunk and removed the cheesecloth. It was almost a foot long. It appeared to have been a kitchen serving spoon with the head broken off. The spoon handle was now the blade and it had been sharpened on both sides to a razor edge and came to a sharp point. The knife handle was made of dominos, three on each side tied together with shoelaces, then it looked like solder or plastic glue held it all together. All in all a very sturdy weapon. I wondered if I would be sturdy enough to use it when the time came. I didn’t sleep much. I dozed a few minutes at a time only to snap back to the fearful thought of the day to come. I had never taken a life before. I didn’t want to now, but I didn’t see where there was a choice. I would try once more to talk to Big Jim when I met him in the lower yard. I didn’t know what I would say but I would at least try to talk him off my back. Deep down I knew there was absolutely no chance of that. He had risked his life to own me and anything I might say wasn’t going to carry much weight. Not wanting to kill, I thought of just stabbing the bastard in the gut so he could get sent to a hospital. If I did that, the next time he would be prepared, I wouldn’t have the element of surprise, and guess who would win? No I couldn’t just stab him, I would only have one chance and that would be tomorrow in the yard. As I dozed off I thought the last thing that Gorilla expected was that an 18 year old, innocent looking, kid was planning his execution.
The long night ended. I was so scared I felt constantly out of breath. The PA system called out for the first tier to move out to the upper yard and line up for canteen draw. It would be an hour or so before they would be calling the fifth tier. Luck played a hand I hadn’t thought of. Lover boy was on the fifth tier, which meant he wouldn’t be out in the yard when I came out. If he was, my plan would have died and so would I. I mean I figured this guy wasn’t to bright, but he couldn’t be so stupid as to not notice me entering the yard with a canteen bag under my arm before I had a chance to go through the line and get it. Everything was still going along good if I didn’t fold up under the fear. First tier to the canteen line,” the PA system finally sounded. As I walked down the tier my heart started pounding like a hammer. When I walked out into the upper yard I made a quick turn down the narrow stairs that led to the lower yard. I did a quick take of the yard and moved to the most isolated corner I could find, faced the stairway and began my wait. For some reason I can’t explain, the pounding in my heart stopped. Not like a heart attack, what I mean to say is I suddenly became very calm. I guess it could have been the idea that within the next ten minutes or so it would all be over. He would be dead or I would. If he was dead it was likely my time here would be a lot easier from the respect I would gain, if I died I wouldn’t have any time to do, which also had its pluses. I know I would have been more comforted if I didn’t believe I was going lose, and more than likely my soul would be going to an eternal prison. Not much I could do about it now. I couldn’t very well ask the man upstairs for anything now, not with what I was about to do.
There he was, standing at the top of the stairs with his hands in his pockets staring down at me with a half smile on his face. There were two cons with him. My heart sank. I hadn’t brought three cracker boxes with me. He said something to them without taking his eyes off me. They laughed. Big Jim kicked a foot forward and started slowly down the stairs. The cheering section stayed where they were, which was a big relief to me. I’m sure he didn’t figure he needed any help. I had the canteen bag in the palm of my right hand, up against my stomach at the waistline just to the right of my bellybutton. My left hand held the bag at the top. The knife had just fit in the Cracker box. I had placed it handle down in the box and then stuffed toilet paper around the blade to make it stable in the center of the box. When I had closed the box the point of the knife had made a small hole in the lid and you could see the knifepoint if you looked close. It was hard to see so I wasn’t worried. I had then placed the empty cartons in the bag. It looked just like an ordinary bag from the commissary. Big Jim stopped about two feet in front of me looking down with that smile. So confident and relaxed he didn’t even take his hands out of his pockets. I decided I would make my move quick while he was in this vulnerable pose, but I wanted to give him one last chance to live. I started to talk but he started first. Hey good lookin, I see you got my canteen, that’s a good boy". Look, I said," Like I told you, I’ve been in youth joints before and I wasn’t a punk then, and I’m not one now. Why don‚t you back off me and pick out some sissy who needs you?" You are a sissy", he said. "And you need me to stay alive and that’s all there is to that". "OK", I said, you’re sure you want to take this bag of canteen from me?" "Hell yes I’m sure. You just give that bag to Big Jim" At that I leaned forward from the wall with a foot against it for leverage and with all my might, my right hand pushing and my left hand guiding, I shoved the bag into the center of Big Jim’s chest. I pushed him backwards and continued to push as he moved backwards. I had caught him completely off guard and he had lost his balance and was struggling to stay up. He had managed to get his hands free of his pockets and his hands came up to my neck. Those giant hands closed around my throat and I thought "this son-of-a-bitch IS gonna kill me before he dies". We hit the wall behind him and the impact, along with me franticly pushing, drove the knife in all the way. His eyes were as big as silver dollars, my hands had crushed the cracker box and I was holding it as tight as I could. The look on his face was total shock. He seemed to be thinking, "this can’t be, this sissy can’t kill me", and then he died.
As he fell to the small bench under him, I backed away. The knife stayed in his chest and the cracker box stayed in my hands. He slumped over and just stayed there, not falling to the ground. I turned to leave and froze for a second. The two cheerleaders were standing side by side about ten feet from me. No one else around but these two. I knew they were enough. They wouldn’t say a word to the guards but they would talk to the white prison click called the Aryan brotherhood and that was what this was all about anyway. As I walked by I figured I might as well start acting cool. I’d gone this far in this real life movie I was staring in, I might as well go all the way. As I passed them I said, "think he still wants my commissary?". They both looked at each other in disbelief then looked at Big Jim with dominos protruding from his chest.
About thirty minutes later a walking guard discovered the body. Yard call was cut short. Then the loud speakers ordered us back tour cells. The whole prison was put on lock-down while an investigation was conducted. Things like this happen a lot in prison and I really don’t think they try very hard to find out who does them. Just one less animal to feed. Three days later the trustees were let out of their cells.
Jack came directly to my cell. "You got the whole joint talkin about you kid. Nobody liked that asshole much anyway. I talked to the leader of the Aryan brotherhood. I told him I knew you were a stand up kid from the old neighborhood and I knew you had made the grade in all the youth joints. Things will go a lot smoother for your ass now. Good Jake, that’s kind of what I wanted to hear.
I had to stay in that joint eight years and three months. I thought of that old man on the porch many times, and wished I had listened. I wonder about my soul because of what I did. I won’t know till the day I die what price I will have to pay. I wonder how I could have avoided the messes I got in and the only answer I can come up with is to do whatever you have to not to get put in a prison of any kind, where animals hold your future. And you have your standard of morals destroyed beyond repair. The day I was released I grabbed my blankets and some personal items I’d made in the craft shop. As I walked out of that cell for the last time I looked back and stared at the only item I had left behind. A crumpled up cracker box on a small shelf. I remember thinking, "how amazing, that a sixty cent cracker box could mean life or death, but I was leaving it where it belonged.