Part 1: Mikey. A kid I knew
Mikey Levin was a kid I knew in junior high school. He was like the
smallest guy in the seventh grade. You know how every seventh grade has
this one really small kid? That was Mikey. He was pretty smart and
everybody dug him for a million reasons, especially because he was
little. Everybody’s baby brother.
Anyways, one day me and Mikey were playing ping pong during our lunch
break. Ping pong was the big activity at our school and he and I were
both known to be pretty good. Not the best in school, but certainly we
both ranked in the top ten.
We were playing like three out of five or so and were down to the
last game. We were in a dead heat and this was gonna be the final point.
Very tense there in the seventh grade lunch room at a small town
school, Somewhere, U.S.A.
Mikey won the final point much to my dismay and I began to playfully
chase him through the hallway. Just before he pulled out of my reach for
about the tenth time, I kicked out my foot to intentionally knock his
feet out from under him. Wow, he went nearly all the way upside down
through the air and landed awfully, on his head.
Little Mikey, everyone’s kid brother, lie face down on the hallway
floor. The over waxed coating of the floor mixing horribly with the
blood running from his temple. The entire school seemed to get suddenly
and totally quiet. Everyone turned to look, sadly at first, at Mikey
lying on the floor, then angrily, hatefully, at me.
Soon after, summer break came, and I forgot about the incident for
the most part. I mean, after all, I was just a kid, and it was an
accident. Right?
The following year was eighth grade, we were finally the big cheese
here. Top Dogs of our school. The air was crackling with excitement, the
old hallways almost deafening with raucous laughter. Then Mikey walked
in, barely. His right arm was twisted badly upwards in an ugly curly
shape. His right leg seemed much longer than his left, as he had to kind
of swing it around to put it in front of himself. His neck was bent to
the side and his face was twisted upwards so that he may look forward.
Mikey then walked as well as he could, very slowly right up to me and
looked me in the eye. With his face so twisted that I couldn’t tell
whether he was laughing or crying, he stared into my face and that’s
when I understood. That trip I’d given him last year at lunch time had
destroyed Mikey’s life, as simple as that. Didn’t matter that it was an
accident. Didn’t matter that I felt awful. I felt the tears burn in my
eyes as I realized what our horseplay had become to Mikey. Today, over
thirty years later I still grieve for him, I still kind of feel that.
Part 2: Wrestling With Adolescence
As
a youngster, I lived in a very small town. The school we went too, was
the only one in town. The entire student population was about three
hundred students. That’s all grades, kindergarten through the eighth. If
you were interested in going to high school, it was about forty miles
across the turnpike. We were told that the only kids that needed to go
to high school were the ones that were good enough at sports, and those
that were “just to damned lazy to work.” I tried my damnedest to have
the skill to be an athlete. Some things you are born with, some well,
you’re not. That is not to say that I was not athletic, I was, but
Oklahoma State University was not looking real hard for my house, dig? I
was actually involved with sports, starting with little league
baseball, from the second grade, on. In seventh and eighth grades, I
wrestled. That’s what this story is about.
Like I said before, as far as being as good as the other boys were in
sports, sure, I was usually picked in the first ten or so. Nothing to
be ashamed of, but, no career. Wrestling was different. Nobody, my
weight class, could touch me in wrestling, nobody. I was completely
undefeated all through seventh grade. I won every match by a pin, no
match went the distance. Awesome, I had finally found a way to be the
best. Notice, “in my weight class?” I say that because, I wasn’t the
best wrestler, hell, I wasn’t very good, but I was 6′ 1”tall, 130 lbs.
In eighth grade, very little difference in seventh. Tall and way too
damned skinny, impossible for the other kids to get a grip on me. I
could stretch straight out and no kid in the state that was in my weight
class could beat me at wrestling. Ha, fact is, my matches were kind of
like little comedy relief times at the meets. The other kid coming out,
looking real surprised when he sees me. Then him not even knowing how to
start, then me, mopping the floor with him. Seems a bit sad now but at
the time, I loved it. Hell, I was undefeated! At the end of the seventh
grade season, I got a trophy, I was pleased.
By the time the eighth grade season started, congress had passed some
damn law about girls being able to participate in school sports, right
along side the boys. If they could compete, gender could no longer be
the reason they were refused. We had girls that made the baseball team,
that was as bad as we ever thought it would get, we liked them, one of
them in particular was an all-star. We,(I), never thought I’d be
competing against a girl, in wrestling! (?) I mean, I never knew girls
that wanted to beat up boys for some sick, twisted, already hating males
right in junior high school, reasons. But, I found one, and I had to
wrestle her at the very first meet, everybody would be there, every kid
in school, that kid’s parent, every kid in the school we were meeting,
their parents, and of course, remember, it’s a tiny town, early
seventies, local media.
There are a lot of ways this story could end. Some are obvious,
predictable. Fact is, I won that match; although, it went all the way
through two rounds. The difference in points was less than five. Three, I
think. That’s really not the story though, With every kid and their
parent from two small towns in rural Oklahoma watching, I wrestled the
prettiest, most mature girl I had ever seen. I enjoyed most of it. She
smelled good. She felt good, and I knew I’d win. But when I stood up to
wave my hand in victory, the town paper took a picture of an eighth
grade kid, with more than just his hand sticking up in victory. My
family still has the photo, it’s priceless. I wish I could share it with
you now. You’ll just have to be satisfied with your own imagination.
Part 3: The Freis Dilemma
I don't know where to start. I want to tell a story about a fellow
I grew up with named Tony Freis.
Tony and I met originally in juvenile detention, we
would continue to know each other, from that time, until his death.
That death is what this post is about.
Tony and I were not exactly friends. He was one of those guys that nobody liked. He was a thief, he was a
liar, he was loud, obnoxious, and generally a real jerk, all the time.
I guess I always sort of drew those types in. Every type of asshole. The
unpopular, the strays. We were all flawed, we were as
yet, unfinished and immature.
Tony was a tough case though, even for me. My wife hated him, she wouldn’t come out of her room if he was around. She was
right, there was no good reason for him to be around. Trouble of one
kind or another would always follow. I had actually fought him on
several occasions. That was part of the problem, I guess. He was hard
for me to beat up, and I was twice his size. I guessed at the time that
was why he always came around me. I was not afraid of him, so I’d open
the door. There was no way I would have ever shown weakness to the dude.
I was a hoodlum I guess too and we were real macho like that.
The incident that caused his death happened at the home of a guy that was getting married the following day.
I won’t say a bachelor party because there were females in attendance.
My lovely wife was there with me. We had all planned to get really high,
listen to music, get really higher, etc. It could not have been more
‘seventies’ you know, real cool. No excitement, no drama.
Of course Freis showed up. He walked in without knocking, aggressive,
obnoxious. I figured it was gonna be alright. I thought since I was
there, he and I were cool, no problem.I couldn't have been more wrong.
Soon enough, Tony had started a quarrel with some of the people there and it looked like it was gonna continue into the night.
Most people left as soon as he arrived, more after the fighting broke
out. Teresa and I were still there, as well as the guest of honor and a
couple of others. There was also a black kid that I had never seen before.
We later learned that he had came with a mutual friend. I had thought,
at first, he was a buddy of Tony’s. Turns out the two of them had just
started speaking to each other when Tony started pushing the kid
around, bullying him. That is what Tony came for that night, to push.
Suddenly, one of the
guys there pulled out a kitchen knife and stabbed Tony. He stabbed him
one time, right in the center of his gut. Tony hit the ground like a
sack of rocks. Blood ran from somewhere near his sternum, as well as his
mouth and nose.
He was dead, unbelievably, frighteningly, dead. The bullying, the pushing, the whole thing just went too far.
Tony Freis, whom I had now known for most of my life, was lying on the
floor with his life soaking into the cheesy linoleum, dead. His eyes
were still opened, a look of horrible surprise stuck on his face,
forever.
Needless to say, everyone that was there, ran. The kid who
lived there stayed. He was there when the police showed up. He is why I know the rest of the story.
Apparently, somebody contacted the police pretty quick. By the time
they arrived, everybody that had actually witnessed the stabbing, had
gone.
The police went around the neighborhood and picked up a couple of
people that had been at the party. One of the people they picked up was
the black kid. Unfortunately for him, someone had seen him right next
to Tony's body . I spoke to my friend there that said that
indeed, the kid had gone through Tony's pockets. More had done the same,
taking all the money and dope, and whatever else, before running away.
My friend and I had seen the entire thing.
Several people remember looking over toward the upheaval, remembering
very little but knowing that the black kid was involved
because he was standing the closest.
I happen to know that kid did not
do the stabbing, I saw who did.
I never spoke to the police. I ran,
and I very well should have. That is how any one is trained to respond
in the dirty world that we were a part of.. It was not of evil
intention, I had no agenda with the kid, I was not just running to
avoid being a "rat." I too, was a juvenile delinquent. I had a young
lady with me.
Oh yeah, I also believed that whomever was responsible would be held to
pay and my input was unnecessary. Hell, I had been arrested many times, I
was always guilty, I was always found to be so, and I was left with the
impression that law enforcement, worked.
The thing is, that black kid was arrested. Then, he was convicted of that
stabbing, of murder.
The last I heard, (maybe a year or two after the incident) he
was still filing appeals.
Within a few months of that nightmare, I had created my own hell and was
way to caught up to ever really think about it. I had successfully
managed to avoid ever
being questioned.
The other night, I began to think about it again, I find myself kind of
on the fence about my role in the ruining of this guys life. At first, I
was troubled, but not anymore. The whole thing had nothing to do with
me. That's what I'll tell myself.
I don’t know whether I could have changed it in any way. I am also not sure that I would react the same if it happened today.
I may just reveal a little too much here but the fact is, I still live
by that same code of ethics that led me to avoid the police that day. I
am my brothers keeper, to a point but to the extent that my own life
become in danger or my ability to raise my children or grandchildren in a
neighborhood, well, I think not.
I hope that gentleman got his freedom back, i will never know, I don't even know how to find out. I never knew his name.
Part 4: The Influence
The
first time my brother David approached me about the bank robberies, I
just laughed him off. We had been discussing the fact that I had a two
month old baby, my rent was past due, I had lost my job and things were
looking rather bleak. David looks at me and says, “Bro, this guy I was
locked up with, told me how to get away with bank robbery.” I thought he
was joking, or that he wouldn’t really want to rob a bank. “His old
lady worked for Bank of the West for years. She says that from the time
they know they are being robbed, until the police arrive, is about three
minutes!” He was serious. “Do you know how much money you can grab in
three minutes?” He was convincing. “If I think of a better way to help
you feed Amanda, I’ll do it, but I say we hit this bank.”
About two weeks later, we took my Plymouth Valiant, about two and a
half blocks, to the First California Savings and Loan. David went in
while I sat with the car running. He was back out about thirty five
seconds later, looking nervous as hell and walking real fast. He jumped
in the passenger seat and said “Go man, but don’t speed, go like your
leaving your business.” I complied, although my heart was racing out of
control, and it was difficult not to put my foot to the floor and burn
it up! We pulled the car into the covered garage behind my apartment
building, left it there and went into the house. I noticed as we walked
in that the sirens were just starting to wail. David pulled thirty five
hundred dollars out of his shirt and split it with me fifty-fifty. I
told him it didn’t seem right. He told me, “Hey, when we get caught,
driving is the same as going in, and everyone gets caught.” I thought he
was wrong, I really did. “Besides,” he said, “you’re going in next
time.”
Seventeen hundred and fifty bucks in less than half an hour start to
finish. I paid my rent and filled the house with groceries. I spent
pretty much the rest on dope because that’s what we did. If it wasn’t
for dope, there would be no bank robberies, no lost jobs, or hungry
kids. Of course, I couldn’t see that then. I was still very young.
Three days later, David had a cool new ride. He didn’t have a wife or
child to worry about. He spent his money on a car, of course he did.
Then he was at the door and ready for the next one. I feigned
enthusiasm.
This time, we went to the 7-11 at six in the morning. We pretended to
make a phone call while we waited for the right car, the right sucker.
Dave’s car couldn’t be used for any robbery; we would need that later,
to get dope, after we were in pocket again. So we waited at the
seven-eleven phone booth for a sucker to drive up, leave the car running
and run in for cigarettes or coffee, then we jumped in his car and
drove it quickly to the apartments; stashing it for the bank run later.
My Plymouth was never driven by anyone I knew ever again. It was
eventually towed away from the apartments, but was never identified in
any robbery. Anyway, this day the take was much more, about fifteen
thousand, and that was all it took; I no longer got cold feet. I looked
forward to my turn. I was convinced we’d never be caught. I went into
the Wells Fargo Bank at the corner of Stevens Creek Blvd and Winchester
Blvd. and came out the back door with seventeen thousand, five hundred
and twenty dollars. All were brand new bills. A new stack of one hundred
dollar bills is one hundred, hundreds, ten thousand dollars. That went
in my jeans. I told David that we had gotten seven thousand five hundred
and twenty dollars. We happily split that.
We were unstoppable. Sometimes I robbed banks with two grand still in
my pocket from the last one. I bought my first Ford truck. I bought my
friend Terry Lafond, his first Ford truck. Everybody I knew had new
Levi’s and Red-Wing boots. My wife and kids were not hungry. My dope
dealer was in seventh heaven. Hey, I’d told everybody I knew I was doing
it. The story about the bank robberies would be broadcast on TV every
evening and, of course, my house was always full of people. I’d shush
everybody and listen seriously, telling them “That’s me and Dave, man,
really, we’re real live gangsters.” I’m not sure they believed me, but
it didn’t matter, I was a generous guy, I could say anything I wanted.
One day Dave showed up at the house real early. He was ghost pale,
seemingly, from fear. I couldn’t imagine why. We had stopped doing the
robberies after about two months or so. We later found out it was
twenty-one banks, about $165,000.00. We hadn’t done any in a couple of
weeks when Dave showed up that morning. He had a newspaper in his hand.
When he motioned me upstairs, I knew it had to be serious. He started
tearing through the pages of the paper but I saw what he was trying to
show me right away. They had composite drawings of the both of us. The
one of David was eerily accurate. I felt the fear go right through my
guts. They had tied the robberies together. That was new. The reporter
said it was two guys working together, taking turns going in and driving
the getaway car. That was new, and really scary. They said they might
be brothers. That was horrifying. They also, scariest of all, were
offering $2500.00 for any information leading to the arrest and
conviction of these dangerous men. That was petrifying because everybody
we knew, had heard me bragging. Any one of them, with a couple of
exceptions, would take that 2500 and go, no problem.
The composites were the biggest reasons yet for me to remain cocksure
I’d never have to pay any price for the robberies. David was a
different story. The paper had him so good, he may have posed. They
had gotten every detail. From his thin lips and lazy eye all the way to
height and weight perfection, and almost unnaturally red hair. The
witnesses had seen me as 5’9″ to 6’0 with olive complexion, even boldly
suggested that I might speak with a Spanish or Cuban accent. I was
practically given a pardon, in my mind anyway. Being so naive was a
comfortable place; I rested there. But not for long.
About a week and a half later, David showed up early. He said, “Man,
I’m broke, we’ve got to do another bank.” I was not broke, I was good,
and I was back at work at a warehouse making nine bucks an hour. For a
twenty-year old kid in 1980, that was ok. I had a vehicle, my little
girl was now about five months old, and my wife was recovering slowly
and painfully from Toxic Shock Syndrome. We were going to be ok. There
was no way I had ever intended to rob another bank. After all, hadn’t I
just dodged a huge bullet here? But I said, “We aren’t using my car.”
I knew he was too much in love with his car to dispose of it after a
robbery. I was wrong, of course. He said to me, “Bro, I’m wanted for
parole violation, probably for the robberies, and I’m going to lose this
ride anyhow. I got some stolen plates we can put on before we head to
the bank.” I said, “Let’s go.” (I was such a shining example of
manhood that it disgusts me now)
Anyway, I carried the plates on my lap while David drove as we cruised up and down city streets looking for a perfect target.
By the way, a perfect bank for robbing has some very important
musts. It must have two opposite entrances. It must be on a main
thoroughfare, but just in front of a neighborhood. It must be federally
insured, and lastly, the parking area cannot be restricted in any way.
Full access from at least two sides, preferably three.
Anyway at some point in our search we found ourselves at a traffic
light and we sat and waited for green. Suddenly, David says to me in a
frantic voice, “Bro that cop just recognized me, I know him, and he’s
busted me before and now, he’s turning around!” He started to pull over
to the side of the road just as I rolled down the window and tossed the
plates right in front of the lucky officer. “Go!” I said, “don’t stop,
we can lose them.” I guess I suddenly grew some nuts or something
because I was in charge. Telling David where to turn, where the cops
were (now there were a lot of them), and to stay calm, we would get
away; I just “knew it”.
We went at top speed right through the banks and lawyers section of
San Jose, on Hedding and Bird streets. We went across red lights and
miraculously, in the middle of a busy morning, nobody crashed. We were
really going to make it, if I could just come up with a destination. As
it was, we were just guessing, driving faster than we were thinking and
getting real lucky. Then we hit a dead end. We were suddenly
stopping. We had come up behind the FMC Corporation by N. 1st Street
and Market Blvd. We jumped out of the car and we both ran in different
directions (planned, for then, maybe one will escape). I found myself
heading directly for the old rail road yards there behind FMC, I had no
idea, nor did I wonder which way Dave went. Fortunately, I can run, I
always could. With a dose of primal fear and adrenaline on the side, I
was gone, baby. Because David had been the reason for the intended
traffic stop and he was the main target, they mostly followed him.
While I completely immersed myself in a loose mountain of gravel and
stayed for three hours, David was caught, beaten severely, and arrested.
After three hours, during which time I actually slept, I crawled very
slowly out of my gravel cocoon and simply walked home. I told my
beautiful wife what had happened and complained about how wrong the San
Jose Police were and went right back into my fearless, ignorant bliss.
ÏÏ
The days following Dave’s arrest I learned plenty about my situation.
I received many calls from the county jail so that Dave could update me
on the investigation. The charges for robbery had not been filed
against anyone but they felt they had their man and questioned him
endlessly for several days. They wanted to know who his partner was.
They even offered some leniency if he were to cooperate and give them a
name. We laughed at that because obviously David was the criminal.
Whoever this mystery person turned out to be, he was a follower, if not a
reluctant participant. Anyway, I was advised to lay low because they
had some evidence having to do with the apartment building I lived in.
Apparently David had previously used it as his home address. Leaving a
trail that could eventually lead to me. Scary. At this time, I had never
been considered a suspect. I was not a known criminal. I was ghostly
white and painfully thin and almost seven feet tall. Hardly the
description of the man they were after.
Enter into the story now, one Terry LaFond. Terry had been a close
friend of mine, and ours for several years. A bit older than I but very
much a regular in our crowd. Everyone was a bit older than I. Anyhow,
during the time of feast, while the robberies were still paying off and
going well, Terry had driven a second getaway car for one of the bigger
heists. That is to say that David and I both entered a Great Western
Savings and Loan at a shopping mall. When exiting, I jumped into the
driver’s seat of the first getaway; we careened away while removing over
shirts and makeup. We drove only as far as the other side of the huge
mall parking area, Terry waited there in my baby blue Coupe Deville. We
left our “disguises” in the throw away vehicle and Terry took us calmly
away. So, he was a trusted ally. After that robbery, as a matter of
fact, I had bought him a small travel trailer that he and his girl could
live in out at the fairgrounds trailer park. We were close.
After Dave was arrested Terry had been using the Coupe quite often. I
allowed this because I drove my Ford pickup truck (some things never
change). He needed wheels. “Go Brother”.
Terry was, like Dave, an ex-con. One night while he was driving down
the freeway to deliver some drugs in my car, he was pulled over. He was
found to be on parole, was subsequently searched and detained in a
police car. The officers at the scene proceeded to tear the car apart.
They had found three twenty dollar bags of methamphetamine in Terry’s
possession. As an ex-convict, he was going back to prison, guaranteed.
As a man, he was broken. He stated, without being asked, from the back
seat of the cruiser, “I know who’s been doing all those bank robberies.”
The officer turned and asked how he knew. “I drove this Caddy as a
getaway car for one of them.” Now the officer was really interested. “I
would look at Lloyd Miller.” was all he had left to say.
Now obviously, I was not present when the whole thing took place in
the police car. I didn’t have to be. I know it all word for word, every
detail. I’ve read it in every court document, every arrest report. Every
piece of evidence against me started with that conversation in the
police cruiser between Officer Teddy Miller and Terry Lafond. (I.e.
stoolie)
The police now had a starting point to find David’s partner. I lived
in the right apartment complex. I was David’s brother and semi-constant
companion. I was the registered owner of a confessed getaway driver’s
vehicle. They now put somebody watching the apartments. They now took a
photograph of me to every eye witness and asked if this could be the
guy. My proverbial goose was cooked.
I’ll leave out some detail but my arrest was even more dramatic than
Dave’s. They did not hurt me though. They surrounded my sister’s house
with helicopters, newsmen, FBI agents and lots of guns. They lured my
wife out of the house with a weird phone call from her sister and went
in and showed me who was boss in a real quick, efficient no-bullshit
way. They had in their possession a Federal Arrest Warrant with none
other than the stamp of the president of the United States of America,
Ronald Reagan. Bank robbery is a federal crime.
I had very little courtroom experience prior to the great robberies.
I’d seen it on television. Movies depict some formal drama that seems
real.
This trial would turn out to be one of the most educational,
riveting, and meaningful experiences of my entire life. I learned about
due process. I learned which lies are considered lies, and which ones
are not. I especially began a journey into learning about myself. What
I’m made of. What it takes to be held responsible for my own actions.
I got to find out if I can take as much as I can dish out. I got to
find out what it means to be a man.
I was arrested and formally charged with four open counts of Bank
Robbery. David too was now served charges for the robberies. At first
we each had four separate counts. We were considered co-defendants and
were to be tried jointly in Federal Court. We were being held,
temporarily, in the City Prison in San Francisco.
The morning of the third day of my incarceration we were taken into a
chamber room that had barely enough standing room for the ten or so
participants. I expected more cameras, more fanfare. It was cut and
dried. We were formally charged. Each side had a few words to say,
then the judge stated, “In the interest of justice these charges are
dropped.” I was astounded. My attorney turned to me and whispered,
“Don’t get excited.” Federal Marshals took us out of big government
handcuffs and left the courtroom. I was still standing with my mouth
open, not knowing what the hell was going on. Apparently, federal
courts at this time didn’t choose to prosecute bank robbers unless they
had either used automatic weapons, or taken hostages. Neither of those
circumstances was involved with our little case. The federal courts
would then rely on the arresting counties to prosecute these cases.
Within about forty-five seconds of being released from one set of cuffs,
I was put into cuffs belonging to the Santa Clara County Sheriff
Department and transported to the jail in San Jose, where I remained for
the next sixteen months. County jail would make prison easier but not
easy. In county jail there are no “contact” visits. I watched my
oldest daughter learn to walk and talk through a 3/4 inch piece of
security glass. This is the saddest part of this story. The
relationship that could have been between me and my first born child was
to be damaged badly.
The trial was going to last a long time. There were so many witnesses. Everybody I knew who had heard me brag.
Every customer in every bank we had been into and a few we had not.
See, we were not the only bank robbers in the Santa Clara Valley. We
were just the only ones on trial and we would be tried for every robbery
that was yet unsolved.
One hundred and fifty witnesses. Some were scared, some angry, and a
lot of them didn’t even realize what they were saying when they
testified against me. One friend of mine was a young lady named Terri
King. She wanted to help, so she gets on the stand and says, “Lloyd
said he was robbing banks, but I didn’t believe him, he would never do
that.” Thanks, Terri.
One of the first robberies we had done had proved to be timely. The
cameras had not been working, nor had the pull-alarms located in the
money drawer. Had we stayed there and made coffee we probably would
have been alright. The manager of this bank was a classic and memorable
witness. She was asked if she could identify the robber in the
courtroom. She stated that her post inside the bank was so that she was
facing inside and all she saw was that he had “long thin legs and a
small butt.” I was then asked to stand in front of the courtroom and
walk away from her so that she may look at my ass and perhaps identify
me form the look of my gluts. If you think this was humiliating, in
front of an entire courtroom well, you’re probably right. The only save
is that she was still unsure. I was not convicted of that robbery.
What I came to find out was that a conviction comes down to really one
thing. If I could be positively identified by one bank employee or one
customer that could prove to be “reliable”.
One such witness was a young man who had proved him to be reliable by
stating that he had just finished airline pilot school. The prosecutor
went on and on about how significant that was. How his eyesight had to
be perfect and because of that, his testimony would be absolute. The
word of God. He positively identified me and gave me what would become
my jail house nickname. He first described to the court the individual
he thought to be in “charge” of the robbery.
He said that person was well over 6 and 1/2 feet tall and had
“aquiline features.” My attorney stood and asked if he could explain
“aquiline features.” The gentleman responded by saying, “His nose was
large, and appeared birdlike.” I was instructed to stand in front of
the jury and allow them to examine my beak from all angles. I was
convicted of that robbery. I was called “bird” for the remainder of my
time spent in jail. Even now, occasionally, I’ll run into someone
somewhere who will say “Hey is that you, Bird?” So that witness
affected my life like few others.
I was eventually convicted of four counts of Robbery, no weapons, no
enhancements. I can never be tried for those robberies again. I’m safe
to write about them. My brother Dave, whom I love still, was convicted
of only one. Come to find out, I guess I was a little scarier than Dave;
people seemed more inclined to remember me once they got into the
courtroom.
I was sentenced to fifteen years in prison where I served just fewer
than eleven. I got the greatest education of my life in prison. I
believe though, that I learned and saw things differently than most
folks do. But hey, that’s a different story.
Winston Churchill once said, “A society must always be judged by the
way it treats its prisoners.” Interesting thought. I went into the
“Big House” with a belly full of fear. I guess every man does. Whether
or not they admit that isn’t relevant. It’s there. The very idea of
being put into a cage with other dregs, and misfits, is frightening,
terrifying even. I knew that I had to be there for what seemed to be
forever. At twenty-one years old or so, fifteen years seems to be
forever. I know now that, although it is far too much time to be locked
up, it is far from forever. I am still young and pretty and I’ve been
out of jail for a long time.
When I arrived at the reception center in Vacaville, California I was
given a green uniform, a toothbrush, and some bedding. I was escorted
down a huge hallway toward a cell block where I was put into a tiny
little cell that had two bunks attached to one wall and a toilet/sink
thing at the far end. I had a cell mate. I had never seen this man
before and suddenly our lives are more closely sewn together than
married people. We ate together. We showered together. We had to smell
each other. This is not always pleasant. I wondered how this would be
if two men were put into this situation that couldn’t stand one
another. (I got to find out later.) It just so happens that
psychiatrists and specialists of all kinds have thought of that also,
and the state has developed a system for deciding whom gets celled up
with whom. They must have learned that if they put a 135lb white guy,
who’s in for drunk driving, in the same cell with a 270lb black guy,
who’s in for aggravated rape, there will probably be some sparks. To
say the least.
I was taught by some of my more experienced peers how to live in
prison. While at the reception center, it’s a good idea to gather as
much information as possible. There are more returning inmates in prison
than there are new guys. I don’t know why that is, but it seems that
way anyway. May as well dip my eager fingers into this never-ending
pool of demented knowledge as much as I possibly could. I learned
plenty. First of all, I’m no dummy. I have been called genius, gifted,
and all sorts of flowery things as a kid. I don’t know about all that,
but I know that I am fairly sharp and that I learn quickly. What I
didn’t know is that the convict mind is a different animal than any I
had ever dealt with. Eventually I would be better at being a convicted
prisoner than anyone I knew, but first I would have to be the fucking
new guy. No matter how sharp I think I am.
So many times, for instance, some other con would show up at our cell
door on Saturday morning and say, “Hey, you two, get ready for visits.
Just hit the buzzer when you’re ready.” Man, I’d be so happy. Shaving,
brushing my teeth, and so on, until I was ready. Then I’d hit the
buzzer. Guard’s voice would come over the intercom, “What’s your
emergency?” he’d ask. “I don’t have an emergency sir, I was told to get
ready for visit.” The guard would barely be able to keep the laughter
out of his voice, “If you had a visit, an officer would come and open
your cell. You must be new.” I’d be so pissed I’d be almost shaking and
embarrassed, and totally without any way of releasing that
frustration. That is a small example of how the veteran cons treated
their newly arrived comrades. You can probably imagine the extent that
sort of practical joke can go to when driven by a deviant mind.
I was lucky in a lot of ways. My brother had been there before and
we spent as much time as possible doing the student/teacher thing. I
also knew some guys from the neighborhood and the county jail and was
already respected enough to not get fooled with to much. Also, I had a
long sentence. Most people in prison, at least then, have less than
five years until their release date. Most of them are going to work
camps or level one or “easy time” prisons. That was not the case for
me. I had over ten years until my date and I would be going “Behind the
Wall”. That was San Quentin State Penitentiary. At the time, it was
the largest and most dangerous mainline in the system. Designed for the
worst of the lot. Murderers, rapists, predators of all kinds, and I
guess, me. That is where Death Row is, in California. San Quentin is
the second oldest mainline in this country. Having been in constant
operation since 1851, it was built to house prisoners until death. It
has thirteen steps between each tier. Thirteen foot thick walls
surround the place. That’s where the expression “Behind the Wall” came
from. It’s a formidable sight, no joke.
Someone told me early on that I would survive “The Q” if I stayed
clear of three things. Don’t mess with gambling; don’t get involved
with drugs, and, stay away from homosexuality. Period. “You follow these
simple rules youngster; you’ll get along just fine.” Ha-ha. I bet
that guy went to sleep that night still laughing about that. There is
not one man with whom I’ve ever spoken, who has gone through any similar
experience, and not been involved with each and every one of those
things. It’s a way of life. It’s the way that world operates. There
is no staying out of it. Period. If anyone, ever, says different, I
challenge them to explain how they have done that to my face because I
call him on it now.
I went into prison 6’7″ tall, weighing about a 180 lbs. Very thin.
Almost skeletal. I came out 6’7″ about 290. I lifted weights, I ran
for miles. I did push-ups, sit-ups, pull-ups, and every other kind of
ups that came up(s). I read every book I could get my hands on for ten
years. There was a time when I was reading a full novel a day. I read
Tommy Knockers by Steven King in one day. That book has over seven
hundred pages.
Once I found a book I really enjoyed, I would read everything by that
same author until I felt I knew the person. After reading all of
Steven King’s books there are certain things that I just know about the
man, and about the part of the country he comes from and writes about.
Also, because I’ve read so much, I have a passion for writing. The idea
of touching someone’s life in some small way, without every really
knowing it, is exciting to me. Like, I’ve read absolutely everything
ever written by Kurt Vonnegut Jr. As a result, I think differently
about some things then I did before I read them. Kurt Vonnegut has
therefore changed a part of my thought procession for the better. Mr.
Vonnegut has no Idea who I am, that I even exist, but he has made me, at
least a different man, if not a better one. That is my passion. I
want to do that. I want to affect you, dear reader, in such a way,
albeit small, that you will forever be changed. This silly little
thing, dream, whatever, comes directly from spending time behind the big
wall at S.Q. Ha-ha, funny isn’t it.
That’s not all; I learned some great things about myself while
incarcerated. I learned that no matter where I’m at, I’m noticed. Not
just because of my size, (though that is part of it) but I have a
certain charismatic charm about myself. Don’t take this wrong, I am not
bragging or complaining. I’m saying it’s absolutely true. Once I got
used to being in prison, I had no enemies there. Everyone has enemies
there. I didn’t. I was liked and respected by inmates as well as the
guards. I was liked and respected by any and every man, all races. I’m
not sure how this happened because I saw myself as being just like
everybody else, but I wasn’t. Even guards have asked me, “Man, what are
doing here? You should be somewhere running for office.” No kidding, I
have heard that very line from a guard that was known to really dislike
the white prisoners.
I still have a bit of a convict mentality and I’ve been out longer
than I was in. I wish that I could have the time back that I missed
with my children. I wish I could look in the mirror and see the kind of
person that I’ve always respected. That is the man who works his ass
off and pays his bills and taxes so that his family may sleep
comfortably for one more night.
For now I have to be comfortable with what and who I am. I like
myself a great deal but I know that I’ve made decisions in my life that
make me far less than the man I could have been. Tonight I’ll sleep
comfortably and freely because I’m an American and we are a society that
treats its prisoners pretty good despite the belly aching.
One more note, I have no animosity for Terry Lafond. He could never
have hurt me had I not been guilty in the first place. I always think
when I hear someone bitching about getting snitched on that it’s
probably about time to take responsibility for your own actions. If you
can’t do the time, don’t do the crime.
UPDATE 4-20-2011
This, I believe is just a small piece of this whole story. I have
written many more parts of the story and have even considered a possible
order to them.
Seems every time I begin to put the parts together, I over-edit, change
the degree of emotion…whatever. I guess since I was forced to move my
stuff to a new web location, I’ve not found a comfort zone. I’m not
sure how many ways that crippled my already fragile intellect, but it
seems I’ve yet to fully bounce back.
Part 5: Road Rage
Every once in a while, life gets real
tough for me. I have some issues and sometimes regular shit gets too
much for me. When this happens, I'm in danger of hurting someone or,
mostly, myself. I don't mean I could hurt myself like, physically. No I
mean like ending up in prison or, more likely, chasing people away
from me who are at that moment, the most important people in my life.
I'm 6'7", 275 lbs., weightlifting and good luck has made me pretty
intimidating to look at. Especially when I try.
Sometimes, during
one of these episodes of difficulty, I have a tendency to scare other
folks. I'm really no threat to any one else and I know it. I guess
there are times when I'm the only one who knows it. Yesterday, while
driving through traffic, I had an occasion to get a bit heated. Some
other weary traveler had cut me off and continued on their merry way.
I usually am not a 'road rager'. I pretty much laugh it off by turning
the hillbilly music up a little louder and smoking …something'. But,
Like I said, sometimes life is hard for me. Sometimes the ability to
handle normal situations escapes me. Life baffles me and I then become
, umm, dangerous? Anyway, yesterday was just that kind of time. I
chased this other car, recklessly. I wove in and out of traffic, I
even got up on a curb or two, just to let this other driver know they
had somehow invaded my little space. I followed this car for what had
to be three miles in heavy traffic. All the while screaming red-faced
and manic as hell. Self-righteously convinced that I needed to give
this person the business for not driving the way I would have wanted. I
finally got a break when the other driver got stuck on a highway
on-ramp. I went half up on the curb to get around other drivers and
close to my adversary. I jumped out of my truck in a full on rage,
screaming, threatening, and completely making an ass of myself. I got
to the window of the other car without ever once seeing the other
driver. When I finally did, my fists were clenched in what was about to
be a window smashing tightness when up from the front of the car
looked up an elderly woman. She had to have been eighty. Completely
oblivious to me, had no idea she had cut me off and started this
tirade. I knew all this instantly, without a doubt. I had just spent
the better part of twenty minutes or so chasing down, with intent to do
damage to, someone's grandma, great-grandma. I felt like an ass.
With good reason, I have been taught, and still believe, that it is my
job to protect her, to stand in the way of any harm coming to her and
here I was acting like a spoiled child. To this moment she still has
no idea that she pissed me off. She has no idea the lesson she taught
me and I hope she never does. It would probably scare the hell out of
her. To all of you who may have a mother, grandmother,
great-grandmother on the road, I truly apologize
Twenty five years ago, I stayed at a very prestigious hotel in San Francisco, Ca. The Mark Hopkins, I believe it was. Very,
very nice, even then, the cost was horrendous. I was lucky to have been
there. That was how I felt then, and how I feel now, lucky.
