From my previous column, I left off by saying that my cellie had offered to let me live in his house in Fresno, Calif., The catch was he wanted me to sling his drugs while he was locked up.
Like I mentioned before, I didn’t have a place of my own, but neither did I want to make San Quentin or any other prison my home any longer. I felt I had done enough time and I was going to try real hard to stay out of trouble. I said as much to my cellie. He countered by saying, “Look at all the money you are going to make.” I said, “Thanks, but no thanks.” What I was thinking was, sure, that’s why you are in the cell with me. That is just where I would end up. I was not completely ignorant to the situation.
Well, my cellie tried for about a week to convince me, but I held firm. I had a goal this time and I was going to try and make it. What came next was pleasant for a change. I was being transferred to the gym.
The gym was now used as a place to house us prisoners who were of minimum security risk. It was a lot better than being in a little cell for 23 hours a day. First, we had a couple TVs to entertain us. Of course there were about 80 of us in the gym, but that was OK. We were able to have yard time every day so we could play basketball, etc. The two TVs were placed on either ends of the gym so when there was a sporting event on (which always took priority), well, the ones who didn’t like sports (heaven forbid) could watch something else.
I was at the gym for about three more weeks and was sent back to Folsom. I knew I wouldn’t be going back to the old Folsom where things kind of scared me the first time. No, this time the state had built a new Folsom. They had the level three and four, which were the high security risks, and that was where I was placed instead of the minimum security where I had intended to go. Well, now, I didn’t like this one little bit and I passed this on to the panel of bigwigs who screened us upon entering the facility. “The reason you are here, Garcia” they politely let me know, was “because you have an outstanding warrant from Oregon. Now I didn’t think that was very damn outstanding and replied, “It’s just a probation violation for not reporting.” Nevertheless, they said, they had to get clearance before I was allowed to go to minimum security.
Well, that was just great! I was really angry and shot back, “If I, in any damn way, get stabbed or shot and live through it, I will be suing the state, you can bet on that.” I wasn’t joking and they new it. I really had some leverage because they knew I was minimum security and that they were responsible for my well being while on maximum-security grounds.
They assured me they would keep me in constant watch. They did this by putting me in a cell with a gentleman by the handle of “player.” I still don’t know why he was called that. We will get to that later. The cell was strait across from the guard office inside the dorm. They had perfect sight of my cell. I was given a job as tier runner. That meant if a prisoner wanted to send a note to the guard I would run to the cell get the note and take it to them. The guard also let me deliver notes, cigarettes, etc. between the cells so they wouldn’t have to do it. Most of it was legal stuff, but you know we were in prison for a reason, and of course it didn’t take long for the drug dealers to ask me for a favor. Of course, they had me checked out first. They knew why I was at Folsom, where I came from, how many brothers and sisters I had, and what my criminal record was. This took them one day. The second day I was on my new job a voice shot out from the cell I had just passed. “Hey Hommie, come here.” It was a Latino man from the Bay Area. He was from the northern California like I was, so we were considered “hommies” or “homeboy,” whatever: we were in the same gang. The North. As opposed to the South, which were our hated rivals. I really never could understand why. I mean, we are all of the same national origin, just chose to live in different areas. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?
Well, my new friend asked me to deliver a couple little bags of heroin to another cell. In turn, I could have some for myself or would be kicked down something for my troubles. I was really new to my job and didn’t know what I should do. Remember, the guards could see my every move. I said back to the guy in the cell, “I will be right back,” and ran back to my cell to talk to my cellie, “Player.” Player was a Mexican-American, about six feet tall and 240 pounds. Not that that made him smart but it helped having him as a cellie. Anyway, Player had been at Folsom for about three years and pretty well knew what you could and could not do. So the advice my good ol’ cellie gave me was that I should. Stay tuned for next issue to find out how well that advice went over.
Semper fi.