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Anthony “Ant”, 37

Anthony “Ant”, 37

Longer Stories From the Cell

As I sat before two people who would determine whether I was suitable for parole, I was reminded of the jury of twelve that sentenced me to 102 years to life for the murder of another human being, exactly twenty years ago. I was sixteen years old then. I have since received a commutation from Governor Jerry Brown that reduced my sentence from 102 years to life, to 19 years to life. 

Before I tell you about the Board’s most recent decision on Dec 17, 2020, I need to back up and share with you my first experience at my initial board hearing. At 33, I was very hyper during that hearing and I received a three year denial. This meant I would not have another suitability hearing until three years later. I was told to stay clean from write-ups during this three year period and I did not.  On July 27, 2020, I used a pay phone to call my mother without permission. Here is my justification on why I called her, I was at work all day, 14 hours straight, cleaning 10 cells where people had tested positive for Covid-19. Secondly, no San Quentin staff clean cells, it’s up to the inmates. I am part of a voluntary team who chooses to give back to the men in blue, to our community; if we don’t clean, no one will. Lastly, after a long day of stressful work, I wanted to use the phone to hear the comfort that comes from hearing a mother’s voice. 

Stress, anxiety, depression and hope were all with me, when I went before the Board this second time. At 10:30 am, I nervously sat at a computer in the hearing room. I had not slept in two nights. Thoughts were racing through my mind about the write-up I received six months earlier for calling my mom on the pay phone without permission. The first question they asked was, “Do you know why you were denied the first time you went before the board?” I answered, “Yes, because I engaged in criminal thinking in 2015.” I felt entitled and impulsive, when caught using a cellphone. They wanted to know why I again used a phone without permission. I owned it and did not try to hide the truth. Both commissioners asked question after question after question about the second write-up, beating me up with their words.  

“Do you know how different this hearing would have been had you not had a write-up?” They asked. “Yes” I said. These two officials had so much power over me, I felt like I was failing and not representing myself. I wanted to point out that although I did get on the phone without permission, I was no longer a criminal. Before, I didn’t give a damn about rules and regulations. But today I do. For me to be a criminal nowadays is something that is disrespectful towards humanity, and today I appreciate humanity. I am not a criminal.

At this subsequent hearing, the commissioner told me it’s his job to make sure that my getting on the phone was not indicative of a pattern of criminal behavior. The questions felt so hard, maybe because I knew I screwed up by getting written-up. They asked about my crime and why I did it. I told them I wanted to be tough so I’d get praise from my peers in order to feel validated. And then he switched back to questioning me about the write-up, the phone call to my mom. 

I stood my ground, trying to show him who I was then, and who I am now. I felt intimidated. Small.

My intern did a great closing and I ended by saying I wanted to honor my victims. The commissioners went into deliberation for about ten to fifteen minutes. I talked to my attorney and thought I might get a split decision. But I trusted God. As much as I screwed up, I had to trust God. 

When the commissioners returned, one said he didn’t agree with my attorney that the phone write-up was not a connection to my crime.  He said that, by getting on the phone, it was a direct connection to the murder I committed at sixteen. I put my head down.

Then he said, however, based on the support letters I received from staff showing maturity, he saw my growth and believed the phone was just a bad decision. He also mentioned the fact that my honesty and acceptance of the facts was very important. Next, he said they had found me suitable for parole, that I did not pose an unreasonable risk to society. Everything else was a blur. I mean, wow! Two years ago I had 102 years to life. And now I might be going home. Who would have thought? But then there is my faith in God: that miracles can and do happen. When all else seemed impossible, my prayer was answered with the stroke of a whispered “Trust in God.” In that last-gasp moment of hope a sentence that began with 102 years to life just vanished into thin air.

Tommy Lee, 51

Tommy Lee, 51

Longer Stories From the Cell

My Name is Tommy Lee and I am currently residing at Sterling Correctional Facility in Colorado. I have served nearly fourteen years on a 32-year sentence and I grew up in the Berkeley Neighborhood, on the North Side of Denver. As with many life stories, mine is complex and could fill volumes. When you google me, you won’t find a full description of what I am passionately pursuing today. You will find legitimate productivity and a more law-abiding individual than the person I used to be. For most of my life I have been a violent, terrible screw up. You will not get full disclosure on everything I had done, but you will find a pretty serious collection of events that seem as if they belong in an action movie featuring criminals and their daily struggles.

Raised by my biological mother’s aunt and uncle, because my mom was only a child, herself, at the age of thirteen, when I was born. I was loved by these folks. I called them mom and dad, and they were very lenient. Don’t get it wrong, I’m not trying to say that it’s their fault I turned out the way I did. In their own way, they did try to raise me right—I was just such a hardheaded, strong-spirited little turd that nothing stuck. When I would get in trouble and receive a beating or end up locked in the bathroom with no light or supper (and listen, before someone goes calling Social Services, I’ve got to point out that this was the 70s and my parents were born in the 30s; it was a different time and disciplinary strategies were not the same as today), I’d make sure my next screw up was ten times worse because if I was gonna have to pay for it, I was going to make sure it was worth the punishment. Take this attitude and pit it against two people who were in their 50s and had raised two sons twenty years before I came along–then is it any wonder?

Punishment was completely abandoned and their strategy had become one of trying to reason with and guide me away from wrong choices. But, since they loved me so and could not see their adopted son suffer, they actually hid me from authorities and attempted to cover my wrongdoings when I was adamant about being the Antichrist. Imagine being a God-fearing redneck, born in Tennessee during the depression and raised in Kentucky, with a third-grade education because you have worked your whole life for an honest dollar, living in a Denver trailer court, raising a little heathen like me. I put this man through hell. Stealing from him and mom. The smell of pot coming from my room. Sometimes twenty to thirty of us would be in my room having a keg-party. Many others would often stop by outside my window. I would disappear for weeks on end before returning home. I had dropped out of school by the eighth grade because I had warrants for my arrest. Mom and dad helped me avoid being picked up by the police by sending away for the proper papers to change my identity to my given name at birth.

By the time I was sixteen, I exchanged gunfire with a Denver Police Officer. Since the cop entered through a window, it never became much of anything, but on the heels of this incident, my old identity and probation record caught up with me. I returned to probation, but with my age being what it was, I actually beat them out of a year’s time because I would only have to serve until I was eighteen. It was the 80s, what can I say? As a condition of returning to probation, I did have to serve ten days in Adams County Detention Center. Other than fourteen days in Gilliam’s Hall (thirteen spent in medical because of the beating I received from a bunch of gangbangers who knew each other and did not know me), this time in ACDC was all the juvenile time I ever did.

At eighteen, I ended up in Jefferson County Jail, facing aggravated robbery from a convenience store stickup when I was seventeen. Dad came to see me once during the six months. He sat there and cried during that visit. This was the second time I had ever seen tears come from those eyes. When I was nine years old, my uncle’s eldest son was shot and killed at the age of twenty-five. Basically, seeing me in jail was just as heartbreaking for him as the premature death of his son; that’s why he simply couldn’t handle a second visit. Again, I got probation but this time it was an eight-year suspended sentence courtesy of the Department of Corrections. I violated that probation about a year later while being caught outside after the curfew set by my PO, and for being in possession of a .357 revolver.

Young, first time in prison, 165 pounds,  6’1”. Yeah, I was intimidating. I was sent to ‘Gladiator School’ where I ended up gangbanging with the best of them. Insecure and scared, I spent most of my time proving myself by working out and fighting. The other whiteboys liked that about me, and even though they thought my straight edger, no drug policy was a little odd, the majority of them partook in the drug culture that I had abandoned years before, the fighting made me an acceptable individual within their structure.

Since 1989 I have been in and out of prison on numerous occasions. Each incident stemming from a robbery, even though I was not charged with robbery every time. Possession of a fully automatic machine-gun, attempted murder in the first degree (dropped to first degree assault),  and aggravated robbery. The last two run-ins ended in shoot-outs with the police, with the first incident leading to my being shot four times, while the second episode concluded when a K-9 police dog latched onto my biceps.

This time back in custody, I have done the longest stretch yet. I’ve been locked up for about fourteen years on a thirty-two-year sentence. I had been in for about a year before a pretty violent assault landed me in administrative segregation. Most of you probably know this as “solitary confinement,” or, “The Hole.” During my four and a half years locked down, I did some serious soul-searching. There really isn’t much else to do being locked in a 6’ X 8’ X 14’ cell twenty-three hours a day, with the remaining hour split between an exercise room the same size as this cell, small shower room and no outside time at all.

The thing is, they have got something for you when you act up—you cannot beat them this way. During a cell extraction (when the COs have to enter a cell by force to remove an inmate). I was bound so tightly with my arms behind my back that I couldn’t move them. This resulted in permanent shoulder damage because I was left in such restraint for fifteen hours straight. To this day the physical damage from that binding affects me worse than being shot four times and operated on. Yes, a person can become permanently hurt in these situations, and there doesn’t seem to be a damn thing we can do about it because there is a labyrinth of bureaucracy that protects all the extreme and unneeded measures taken. Sure, I could let it all turn me bitter and resentful, and, yes, I have been very angry at the Colorado Department of Corrections, CDOC, staff and administration, the world in general and myself. Mostly, though, I have found that I was angry at myself. CDOC had all the reasons they needed to respond to their necessary extremes based on the way I continued to act.

Imagine being a God-fearing redneck, born in Tennessee during the depression and raised in Kentucky, with a third-grade education because you have worked your whole life for an honest dollar, living in a Denver trailer court, raising a little heathen like me. I put this man through hell.

LIfe for us wasn’t getting any better no matter what we did or where we lived. We went on welfare and I moved into the projects. Our new place now nurtured every defect, addiction, distorted belief and poor coping skills we all had. My three years in the projects, I suffered so much more abuse, mostly at the hands of my mother. She would beat me and my brothers with sticks, a belt and a horse whip. Violence had become normal and automatic behavior at home.

By 13, I had become a full blown drug addict, my mom had abandoned her post as a mother, leaving us boys to find our own way. This crushed my self esteem. I hated my life, and who I was. I  didn’t fit in at school, and believed that every kid at school saw me as I saw myself, a poor, dirty kid with a drug addicted mom who nobody loved, and had no worth. I just wanted to be someone else. That year is when I drank my first beer.

It numbed everything…allowing me an escape from the pain I kept internalizing. The moment of that realization, I fell in love with alcohol, it became the only thing I wanted.

In high school, I should have been doing good,studying, getting good grades and playing sports. But instead I began hanging around the neighborhood gang more, searching for acceptance and approval—a place to belong, to be needed. Since I felt I couldn’t get any of that from home, I got it from my gang. I got their respect through violent, anti-social behavior that contributed to a false image. I found my way to be somebody else. I made others fear me, like I was afraid of my father, my uncle and mom.

At 15, I was expelled from high school, I was drinking everyday to the point where I couldn’t function without it. I kept all my worth wrapped up in my false image. The neighborhood gang became my family and all I cared about. My home had become my mom’s drug house as I would watch her drug friends come in and out of my house all hours of the night. The amount of pain, shame, stress and frustration was overwhelming at times and it was what I walked out my front door with to face the world each day. I took all that hurt and shaped it into my anger and rage because that was the only emotion I knew how to express and wasn’t afraid to. I remember having all extreme emotions within me and feeling I had nowhere to put them. What happened is I exploded on others, transferring all that pain violently to them.

I was a hurt person who hurt people which brought more shame into my life. Within my environment my behavior was always met with approval and validation with little to no consequences.

Rocky, 43

Rocky, 43

Longer Stories From the Cell

My name is Rocky, I’m 43 and have spent the last 22 years in prison for murder. 

This is my story.

I was born in 1977 in the bay area to an Italian mother and Irish and English father. My early memories were great. I felt happy, loved, safe and hopeful, when I turned seven things shifted, a lot of drinking and arguing began. It became more and more frequent, until it reached an explosion when my father threw my mom through a screen door. It was at that moment that my innocence ended. My dad left us shortly after that. Since then It was just my mom, two brothers, and I. All the feelings of happiness, love and safety were gone; in their place was fear, hurt, shame, confusion, and a continuous sense of rejection. We became homeless, and had to move to a shelter. After being in the shelter for a long time my uncle took us in. 

I didn’t know it but my uncle was very violent, to everyone. He threw me against a wall, beat me with a bat, just for asking why he reset a video game, or for stepping on a flower. The pain devastated me physically and emotionally. I kept asking myself why am I being beaten like this, why is my mom allowing it, what did I do, where’s my dad, but most of all, what’s wrong with me? I never found out why.

By the time I left, I was a 10-year-old kid who had developed a very violent belief system; the only way to communicate, to get my needs met was through violence. There was a fuel tank inside me filled with repressed, unprocessed pain and trauma from  abandonment, abuse, and feeling unwanted by everyone. Because the pain came at the hands of my family, I believed I couldn’t trust them, I became withdrawn and felt I had to protect myself.

Today I am no longer a hurt person who hurts people. I am now a healed person who heals people. I know my story can never start over, I can never take back what I did, but maybe, just maybe it can prevent this from being somebody else’s tragic story…

LIfe for us wasn’t getting any better no matter what we did or where we lived. We went on welfare and I moved into the projects. Our new place now nurtured every defect, addiction, distorted belief and poor coping skills we all had. My three years in the projects, I suffered so much more abuse, mostly at the hands of my mother. She would beat me and my brothers with sticks, a belt and a horse whip. Violence had become normal and automatic behavior at home. 

By 13, I had become a full blown drug addict, my mom had abandoned her post as a mother, leaving us boys to find our own way. This crushed my self esteem. I hated my life, and who I was. I  didn’t fit in at school, and believed that every kid at school saw me as I saw myself, a poor, dirty kid with a drug addicted mom who nobody loved, and had no worth. I just wanted to be someone else. That year is when I drank my first beer. 

It numbed everything…allowing me an escape from the pain I kept internalizing. The moment of that realization, I fell in love with alcohol, it became the only thing I wanted. 

In high school, I should have been doing good,studying, getting good grades and playing sports. But instead I began hanging around the neighborhood gang more, searching for acceptance and approval—a place to belong, to be needed. Since I felt I couldn’t get any of that from home, I got it from my gang. I got their respect through violent, anti-social behavior that contributed to a false image. I found my way to be somebody else. I made others fear me, like I was afraid of my father, my uncle and mom. 

At 15, I was expelled from high school, I was drinking everyday to the point where I couldn’t function without it. I kept all my worth wrapped up in my false image. The neighborhood gang became my family and all I cared about. My home had become my mom’s drug house as I would watch her drug friends come in and out of my house all hours of the night. The amount of pain, shame, stress and frustration was overwhelming at times and it was what I walked out my front door with to face the world each day. I took all that hurt and shaped it into my anger and rage because that was the only emotion I knew how to express and wasn’t afraid to. I remember having all extreme emotions within me and feeling I had nowhere to put them. What happened is I exploded on others, transferring all that pain violently to them.

I was a hurt person who hurt people which brought more shame into my life. Within my environment my behavior was always met with approval and validation with little to no consequences. 

Over the next few years I continued in this downward spiral. My depression deepened especially after witnessing the murder suicide of my best friend at the time. 

One night I couldn’t take the pain anymore; and would transmit an eruption of it onto a man named Leo badly hurting him, but  justifying it by telling myself what he deserved for selling drugs to my mother. I was sent to Pittsburg, PA the next day; to be watched over by the love and support of my aunt Nancy. I found myself discovering my potential as I made the honor roll as a high school senior and being scouted by the Montreal Expos Major League Baseball team. 

Yet, I was 19, silently suffering, unable to put behind me where and what I came from. I was being shown the light of the greatness life had to offer but I was uncomfortable in it. I was tragically more comfortable in chaos. I left all that goodness, all that great family, healthy love and support, baseball career, endless possibilities for a life of drugs, alcohol, resentments, violence, unhealthy false love and acceptance. I thought it was the only place I belonged. Looking back it’s heartbreaking. A tragic choice I made, one I would come to regret.

Back in California, my addictions were still more powerful than I could control. I tried to do right but had no clue how. Everything I was wanting to do I was failing at. I needed help but my messed up beliefs wouldn’t allow me to ask. On May 7th 1998 after a chain of stressful events that had me on a downward sliding path of hopelessness and depression. I feel into my disgusting, horrific pattern of behavior,  looking to release my pain and frustration onto someone else. That night, my poor life choices led me to an innocent man who lost his life as I brutally assaulted him, letting out an entire life’s worth of pain, causing his death and a lifetime of pain and suffering on his entire family.

I was convicted of murder and sentenced to 25 years to life. After many years of avoiding everything, trying to hide from my shame, the reality of what I did with drugs, alcohol, gangs and criminal behavior hit home. Realizing how I was trying to be someone I wasn’t, gave me the strength to face what I did and take responsibility. 

When that moment came, it changed my life. I had a consultation with a deputy commissioner who with his words removed the last bit of denial I had left. I dove into self help, made myself sit in the fire and felt what the man I murdered must have gone through at my hands. It brought me to my knees, my empathic gate burst open and I cried. I thought of his family and all the pain and suffering I caused them and still cause them today, and again it shook me. Since then I have worked tirelessly to get to the core of my anger, rage and violence which was all that unprocessed pain, fear, shame, addictions and resentments I carried. I was able to address it and let go and get sober.

Today I love myself, love sobriety, have a healthy self-esteem, and returned to my authentic self. By the grace of God I am back on the path to being the man God intended me to be. My remorse for what I did, the life I took, and what I put his family through is the driving force for my change.  What drives me everyday is to be of service and live a non-violent life of love, compassion and forgiveness. Today,  I am a facilitator for our youth, I use my past in hopes to show them where their poor choices can lead. I do all I can to show them a different way, how to face and heal their pain and shame. I find my greatest joy in helping these young men as I see myself in all of them. I teach them how to ask for help, use different tools than violence, drugs and alcohol, to learn how to manage their emotions, develop healthy communication and coping skills, to be pro-social, things I wished I learned to do.   

Kevin, 57

Kevin, 57

Longer Stories From the Cell

Here on Death Row we have our own visiting room called ‘East Gate Visiting Room.’ We also have cages inside San Quentin’s mainline visiting room where we can visit on the days that our East Gate Visiting room is closed. This picture of me inside a cage  is one of those cages inside the San Quentin Mainline visiting room.

I have been in prison since I was twenty years old, I’ve never been married, no kids either. Yet, I am a self-proclaimed artist, poet, short story writer, philosopher, Christian and preacher. I began my fall to prison by freebasing cocaine. It completely ruined me. It took away my moral compass and made me into a Dr. Jeckle/Mr. Hyde. People who argue others use cocaine and don’t do what I did—but they don’t consider how complex people are. Everybody who drives drunk does not crash. Everybody who gets slapped or punched does not feel a mandatory act of revenge/retaliation is necessary. Three people can grow up in the same house and one ends up famous and rich, one ends up doing life in prison, and one ends up dead. There is no saying that someone like me, who used cocaine and had it ruin my life, is inherently different than someone who uses cocaine and it does not ruin their life. I’m deeply sad I ever committed crimes and am equally sad I ever used cocaine. Some things you can’t repay once you take them, but a thief who apologizes for stealing is better than a thief who lies and says he has done no wrong. One is honest and ashamed of stealing, while the other is unremorseful and possibly a committed die-hard thief.

When I first got arrested on my death penalty crimes, back in 1984, I had a few different girlfriends at the time. I did a bit of letter writing in those times; I discovered I had a knack for writing poetry. At first it was all love poetry—and all rhythmic/rhyme type poetry. Later I began to write poetry about all kinds of topics, and different forms including sonnets, in various forms or anagrams especially anagram poetry using a person’s name vertically upright so that the letters of the name are the first letters in the words of each sentence of the poem. I also began to write some poems that do not rhyme.

I had a knack for doodling in my letters which grew into the really extensive type of mixed media artwork I do now. This is where my drawings and poetry came up together. I’ve made countless greeting cards for holidays, but mostly love cards which all had my original drawings and original poetry. In those times I was not as christian based as I am now and many greeting cards were X-rated. I sold a lot of greeting cards for years, and that’s the only money I’ve ever made from my poetry. I entered poetry contests which turn out to be the type of contests where you don’t win but they want to use your poems in books that they sell even to you that you get no proceeds from. I imagine my poetry appears in at least one or more such books. I honestly do not know how many poems I have written. I have been writing them off and on since the mid 1980s. I’m sure I’ve written hundreds of poems. Though I remember the name of a few, the only one I know by heart is the first one I wrote, titled, “Patience Is A Virtue”. The only reason I  remember it so well is because it was my first. Even though it’s a rhyming poem, it resonated with me like it was something special. It made me feel like I was unique  and articulate with words because of how it sounded reading the rhymes about love aloud. I sent the poem to my girlfriends, used it in greeting cards I’ve sold and shared it with many people—the only poem, of the hundreds I wrote and never kept a copy of, I know completely by memory is “Patience Is A Virtue”…

PATIENCE IS A VIRTUE

A poem by Kevin

They say that patience is a virtue,

There are such long nights I spend without you.

There is not a minute of the day you don’t cross my mind,

My love, in short, I think of you all the time.

Wanting a needing you as I do,

Makes the days longer that I ensue.

The minutes on the clock slowly fade,

An hour or a day is like a decade.

Each day and each week the waiting persists,

And to think of you is torture I cannot resist.

How much longer will I wait I wonder,

For my wants and needs to have turned to hunger.

Every time I think of you,

I think of the sadder things that time can do.

Once we regain time on our side,

We will take each other to the highest highs.

I’m hoping that day won’t be too far,

When I’ll join you my love wherever you are.

We will laugh, we will cry, and then we will kiss,

And do all the things together we both so miss.

We will talk about how things were with me,

We will picnic under a shady tree.

We will talk about how things were with you,

And eat peanuts and candy at the county zoo.

The most important things to me,

Are that I’m with you and that I’m free.

So keep in your mind that day anticipating,

The day we will spend no longer waiting.

They say patience is a virtue,

Soon I will be with you.

Patience and love, are two of many philosophies I’ve woken up to while I’ve been on Death Row. Every person should want to be the best person they can be no matter how the world may pull and tug us in negative directions. The world is going to come at us sideways sometimes, so we have to combat that by taking a proactive approach to contributing things to our inner good that ends up affecting our outwardly good and tolerance towards others.

During my time on Death Row I have written a bunch of short stories. I’ve written using such topics as a man’s experiences traveling across country on a greyhound bus, a slavery story, a western, a futuristic Sci-fi with  a giant space station the size of a city, etc, etc. My short stories are usually 5 to 50 pages in length. It’s been a long time since I wrote a short story. I have never sold nor even published any of my short stories. I usually write them and just give them to someone, like my friends or the fellas here with me. I could write a whole book on everybody I’ve known who passed away in the years I have been in custody. Losing anybody in prison who made life more cool in this messed up kind of way to live, and it’s a big loss…but a story I will remember forever.

I made a key for you all reading my story so that we can all know how close I was to some of these folks.

✳  REALLY GOOD FRIEND

✔  KNEW PRETTY GOOD

⭕  KNEW TO SPEAK TO.

✳ Freaky Pete was like a pawn shop, you could buy or sell anything through Freaky. If you were bored he could tell you a million crazy stories that were really true about his life. Bad health problems.

✳  Taco was one of my basketball buddies. While I was away in Los Angeles on appeal he died. Heart Attack on Basketball court

✳  Ronnie Bell had some porn subscriptions he shared with me. That was before they took all the porn magazines out of prison and I started doing the christian thing. After his daughter got killed,  he changed and got really sick and never recovered from losing her. Bad Health Issues

✳  Stag was a friend I knew in L.A. County jail during my appeal. I never met nobody like Stag, he was cool. A diehard Crip. he knew everybody. He loved his daughter and the Raiders football team. He would give the shirt off his back to anybody—a straight out thug though. He died from bad health.

✳  Old Folks; This guy was a good friend to just about everybody. His last months of life he was in a cell about 10 cells away from me. It surprised me greatly that he was in his cell instead of a hospital. This dude was really, really cool and always a friend to me for many years. He really suffered a lot of pain, dying from Cancer.

✳  Wilbur was an old guy who still played basketball with us. He had a filthy mouth and was just fun to be around. He died of old age while he was out to court on appeal.

✳  Cuba was a basketball buddy of mines, a chess playing buddy of mines, and someone fun to talk to and kick it with. His health had been on the decline—almost all of us on Death Row including me caught that Coronavirus, but people like Cuba with declining health did not survive it. It was 20 or 30 Death Row inmates altogether who died of Covid-19 I think.

✔ Slim served time in California Death Row but got sent to another state where he also had Death Sentence. Slim was a basketball buddy—I enjoyed shooting basketball with him. He always had a perm he took real good care of, like James Brown. Slim got executed there in that other state.

✔  Sam and I went all the way back to L.A. county jail 8 man cell days, before we ended up on Death Row. Sam kinda lost his mind a little after coming to Death Row, but was still real cool, not a threat to your health to be around. Killed accidentally by prison guards on Death Row with too much pepper spray.

✔  Baby Kelsie: It blew me away when Baby Kelsie died. He had bought some of my greeting cards I made that same week. Bro had a fly perm and was one of the buffest muscle-bound dudes on Death Row. Suicide.

✔  Mario was a real cool Blood gang member that I knew from High Power high security area in Los Angeles county jail before he and I ended up on Death Row. We used to be in chess playing tournaments for money back in our Los Angeles county jail high power days. Drug overdose.

✔  J.D.  seemed like a happy-go-lucky dude. I was surprised to learn he took a bunch of pills. I talked with him on the yard a bunch of times—played basketball with him too.  Suicide.

✔  Tales Of The Crypt Suicide. Tales Of The Crypt got this name in jesting that he looked like the Tales Of The Crypt guy. I spoke with him about christian stuff, and even had one of my christian aunts write him—was surprised to hear he suffocated himself with a plastic trash bag. Suicide.

✔  Tom was a Vietnam vet. A real cool mellow white dude. He was one of the first one’s put to death when California started back executing people. Tom was one of the one who got put to death by gas—a torturesome process of breathing in ammonia laced with cyanide. Executed.

✔  Pride was hard like Stag, but Pride is from Northern California. Pride used the weights on the exercise yard like lifting weights was his religion. He was an alright dude though. I think we lost the privilege of having weights on the yard right before or right after Pride died. I always associate him with those weights in my mind. Shot & killed by prison guards during a fight.

⭕  Tookie Williams: Big Tookie was HUGE. I don’t bang, but grew up in Los Angeles in mostly Crip areas. I got to shoot basketball a few times with Tookie and was on the yard with him a few years. I’ve found him to be cool and the integrity of the yard and the yard’s mentality was mellow when he was here. Executed.

⭕  Lado: A latino gang member I knew in Los Angeles county jail during my death penalty appeal. He was a high ranking gang member but he treated me cool and called me by name. Drug Overdose.

⭕  Steven. Just like Old Folks, around the same time as Old Folks had his cancer, Steven had his cancer in a cell almost right above Old Folks. Steven was one of my best friends, so that made Steven cool with me. Cancer.

⭕  Malcom was the oldest black guy on my yard. He was Muslim, and cool to talk to. Old Age – Bad Health.

⭕  Richard “The Night Stalker”: Yes, this is the Night Stalker. I met him in the Hole when we both were there. I at that time was in my Super Christian Era and even talked to Richard about believing in Christ’s salvation. Drug Overdose.

Every person should want to be the best person they can be no matter how the world may pull and tug us in negative directions.
Larry, 65

Larry, 65

Longer Stories From the Cell

Turmoil to Tranquility

I spent many years at Pelican Bay State Prison in Crescent City before coming to Lancaster. We were frequently on lockdown due to recurring violence. Races were separated and contact was limited. I had to navigate through rules with which I didn’t agree; rules that were enforced through my intimidation, coercion and extortion. Being fearful and “looking over your shoulder” was a constant norm. Most men just watched TV all day because very few programs were offered.

After attending college for a few years, I was given a job as a teacher’s assistant. I had the honor of helping men attain their GEDs. This position gave me purpose and helped me escape the joylessness of prison. By the grace of God, I was able to stay disciplinary free. Eventually, my record earned me the privilege of transferring to CSP Lancaster. I had heard rumors about the Progressive Programming Facility (PPF yard), where there were men like me who didn’t want to partake in racial prison politics, join a gang, or do drugs.

Upon arrival, I first noticed different races sitting together, talking and walking the track. I found dozens of educational classes, religious services and self-help groups that were offered on a daily basis. I immediately enrolled in several of these programs and I was thrilled when my friend, Jon Grobman, asked me to become part of the “Paws for Life” program. Seeing dogs running on the yard is astonishing, petting them is amazing, and being a part of their lives is a true miracle. I’ve been blessed to have been in this life-changing and inspirational program for over two and a half years. More than ten of the dogs I helped train now have “Forever Homes”.

Bolinas — My Portal into Self-Awareness

There is one road in and one road out. The ocean is on one side, a lagoon on another, and national park everywhere else. The mall town of Bolinas is twenty miles north of the Golden Gate Bridge. My parents first took me there in 1965. Bolinas had a family style Italian restaurant that went by the name of Tarantino’s. I can still picture the wife of the owner who got around by pushing a food cart. She was quite feisty! Delicious food!

One of the beaches (Agate—near Duxbury Reef), when at low tide, had an abundant selection of ocean life, such as Starfish, crabs, abalone, sea urchins, sea anemones and other colorful “creatures of the deep”. What first caught my eye as a child was all the dogs roaming free and most of the men had long hair and beards. The atmosphere in town was so peaceful and relaxing. It felt special everytime we traveled there. A few years later Tarantino’s burned down.

After high school and college, I started going to Bolinas on my own. I used to sleep in my car and wander around town. The only tavern in Bolinas was Smiley’s (originally called The Schooner Saloon built in 1853). It is the oldest continuously operating saloon in California. Due to its location, prohibition (1919 – 1934) didn’t affect alcohol sales if you’d “Speakeasy”. I enjoyed many fun evenings with the locals at Smiley’s. Most Bolinas residents like their privacy. They would remove the sign on Highway One pointing in the direction of town. The Bolinas Lagoon separates the town from Stinson Beach. I’ve swam the Bolinas strait between the two many times at the mouth of the lagoon. It is usually overcast in the morning and clears up later.

In the late 1970s, I lived in Berkeley with my hippie girlfriend, Mary. I knew she would love Bolinas as I did. I owned a Ford van with two captain’s chairs in front and a cozy bed on plush carpet behind them. We’d “Camp” in it on secluded back roads. We felt totally safe. When Mary discovered the “Nude” (clothing optional) beach, she never wanted to leave. She was completely happy naked. On the other hand, I was a bit shy. Mary liked her marijuana cigarettes. Every time she lit up a joint, it seemed couples from all over the beach made their way to our blanket. She sparked up often. It was a good way to meet locals and other “tourists”. I recall a small cottage/house at the corner of Wharf Road and Brighton Avenue that welcomed us. We spent a lot of time in Bolinas the next few years.

The funky stores were a highlight for her. Mary’s favorite was named “the Chameleon.” It sold clothing, mainly. The Bolinas store had everything we needed. John, the proprietor, was there often. The community bulletin board on the store’s outer wall filled us in on the latest happenings in town. The Coast Cafe served fresh fish and tasty ice cream for dessert. The Grand Hotel always seemed to have a flea market in front of it. The community center had all kinds of interesting activities with guest speakers. I recall attending many a breakfast to benefit local causes. We enjoyed the book sales in front of the library.

There are various routes to get to Bolinas. Highway One is a pretty drive, but the heavy traffic can make it miserable. Via Olema is another choice. The Fairfax-Bolinas road is my favorite. A slow, relaxing cruise through the redwood trees. It Always puts me in a mellow mood. True bliss is when the Pacific Ocean comes into view. I believe it followed an old stagecoach route or horse trail from San Rafael through Fairfax up the Bolinas Ridge to the summit house and down to Bolinas.

For most of my adult life, Bolinas has always been the “Go To” place when “city” stress got to be too much. The solitude of strolling an isolated ocean beach with the fresh air blowing through my long hair, cleared my head from the daily turmoil. The magnificent sea life during low tide at Agate Beach is truly unique and added to the enjoyment. The dirt path down to the beach is less than a half mile.

On one particular day, the wind was howling and extremely unpleasant. By a stroke of luck, I discovered a small opening hidden and partially obscured between some overgrown vegetation. It opened up into a small serene valley protected from the wind. It felt I was treading through uncharted territory. A little further up this curious route I noticed a wooden bench near a creek. It was a welcome sight. The babbling brook was uttering captivating sounds. I immediately flashed back on a book written by Herman Hesse (Siddartha). An elderly man listens and learns from the river. I began to take a few deep breaths. The guise of this bench had become my portal into self-awareness. I relived past experiences, pondered the future and then, returned to the present moment. I never judged myself too harshly. I have laughed, shed tears, made love, meditated, prayed, asked for forgiveness, grieved, was lonely, had anxiety, released anger, felt calm, was grateful and hopeful as I sat on this invaluable creation.

Who built it? Why? When? Perhaps I’ll never know. Returning often over the years, I always left encouraged, optimistic and rejuvenated. You can see why I hold it dear to my heart and why I hunger and thirst to return one day for more spiritual guidance. I wonder if anyone else has felt the magic here. I’ve never seen anyone while I was there.

I took my future wife there in 1987. Sharen was pretty, conservative and didn’t quite understand the peace I felt while in town. After a few years of dating, she wanted to get married. Her being Catholic (I wasn’t), Sharen needed to be married in a Catholic church. I agreed, that is, if I got to pick the location. Enter Saint Mary Magdalene Catholic church in Bolinas.

Gregorio Briones willed the land upon his death in 1863. The Mexican governor of California deeded him ten thousand acres (roughly three miles by six miles) in western Marin. The land grant was called “Rancho Baulenes.” The church was built by Timothy Phinney (a chicken farmer) in 1877 for $2000.00. It has always been a mission church without a resident pastor. There is an old pioneer cemetery behind it.

We met the priest and decided on a wedding date for November 17, 1990. Father Raymond Decker presided over the ceremony. We filled up that little country church with  family  and friends totalling nearly 100 guests. We were told of a secluded bed and breakfast inn for our honeymoon. It was on the road towards the southern entrance to Point Reyes. A “Rose” symbol was the only clue to its location. I’ve forgotten the friendly owners, but I do recall their huge dogs (Huskies?) named Oscar and Lily. We continued the tradition of staying there yearly to celebrate our blessed union.

Our reception after the wedding was on the mesa. The location was a lighthouse style Bed & Breakfast (on Kale?) with a gorgeous view of the Pacific Ocean. The catering was provided by the local bakery. All the employees wore tie-dyed shirts. The pumpkin cheesecake made the special occasion memorable. A couple we met at mass performed the music at our reception. They lived across the street from the church. A long dirt driveway led to small cottages. I booked the two rooms at the Grand Hotel for my best men and their friends. Everyone went to Smiley’s afterwards. 

Sharen and I had three children. The five of us strolled through the cemetery before and after mass. We noticed very few new plots. I seem to remember a wooden bear tombstone with trinkets left under it dedicated to a young boy. It was drizzling a certain Sunday morning and we took refuge under a tall redwood tree. Right in front of us were two burial plots. Our middle daughter suggested we purchase them. To make a long story short, I did, #173, #174! They overlook the beautiful Bolinas Lagoon. It gives me total satisfaction and peace of mind knowing I will be buried in a place dear to my heart. I often daydream of all my carefree and fun times in lovely Bolinas. Soon, my spiritual eternal home will call my name.

Dedicated to my two friends: Norman Staub Sr. of Stinson Beach and Father Raymond Decker. Acknowledgments: The Bolinas Museum and the Stinson Beach Historical Society.

SPIRALED OUT OF CONTROL

My life as I once knew it, is gone forever. It has been replaced by a new set of rules that I have little control over. In my freedom I took a lot for granted. I used to swim, loved driving my car or riding a motorcycle. I used to go to restaurants, take hikes in the forest and stroll up and down the beach picking up seashells. Can you relate to this? I used to check out concerts, play golf (it was my thing) and feel the thrill of catching fish. Even the little things: walking to the store, or setting off fireworks on the 4th of July. All of that is gone now. I miss going to sports events, living with a woman or cutting down a real Christmas tree. And Halloweens were the best!

Now I can’t even visit my friends and family. And the worst is not being able to go to their funerals when their time comes. I can’t even say that last goodbye. Many have passed away, and the mail is so slow I always learn of something after the fact. My parents are currently 87 and 88 years old. I don’t even like to think about it.

I have made some really bad decisions. I have caused a lot of pain and grief to many people, friends and strangers. When you hurt people it spreads to other people you can’t even imagine, hundreds upon hundreds, because people know other people and we are all connected. It could even be a thousand people affected in my case. It is very sad. I was a selfish person. I didn’t think of anyone but myself. That’s not the way it goes. I was doing drugs. Even when you don’t plan for it, that’s what drugs eventually do.

I didn’t listen when people were trying to advise me. It was like they were preaching to me. I hated it. My parents, teachers, and friends all tried to tell me I was going down the wrong path. I refused to listen. Even to my best friend! I began doing drugs by myself. I would hide it from people. I spiraled out of control.

Don’t make the mistakes I made. Don’t spiral out of control.

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