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I Street roots
13
Education * Dialogue ^Independence
4
Some time on the ranch can do a man some good
t was 1982 and I was sentenced a couple
years at Folsom Prison Ranch, a
minimum security prison.
' Upon arrival, everyone had to be
processed, Which consisted of physicals,
tests and background checks to make sure
you were worthy of the ranch. This was a
three-week purgatory in the prison proper,
behind the wall, before getting shipped to
the ranch.
__________________ |
Right as I
stepped off the bus,
I witnessed a fellow
OF
getting stabbed in
AVÏETNOIVET the chest I
whispered to my
friend who was
By Art Garcia
doing a couple
years with me,
“Paco, I don’t think
I’m going to like
this place at all.”
He laughed a nervous laugh and said it’s
just for a couple weeks.
The three weeks we spent there did go
fairly fast But ! must tell you, ol’ friend, I
sure would hate to be there for any length
of time.
I was on the third tie rin a two-man cell
with a kid of 18, who was doing 25-to-life. I
didn’t ask for what because I was only
passing through — prison etiquette. ■
He did ask me how long I had (time) and
when I said just two years, thelook he gave
me was neither hate nor was it that of a
friend. Once again I was thankful I would be
leaving soon. .
It was summer time at Folsom and that,
my friend, means it’s hotter than hell
outside, let alone on the third tier..
It was so hot that some of the prisoners
would tie socks in knots and wet them so .
they would be heavier as they threw them at
the tiny windows to break the glass and let
some air in. The guards who would Walk
along the Catwalk would laugh at them and
say, “Sure, 'break them all, so when winter .
| comes you will all get rained on,”' They
would laugh some more, but it was not a
nice laugh. Those M-16 rifles they carried
with them didn’t look nice either.
Nights behind the wall seemed to be the
worst. Mainly because that was when most
of the bad shit happened, like someone
screaming because he was being raped,
beaten or just screaming because he
couldn’t take the long boring hours in a cell.
Not everyone could afford a TV. .
During the quiet hours of the night I
would sometimes hear someone sobbing
like a baby. I would mention that to my
cellmate who would just laugh and say h e’ll
probably kill himself, the damn punk. This '
K
MEMOnS
>
from an 18-year-old.
A couple days before I was going to the .
ranch, a guard walking the catwalk stopped
in front of my cell and asked me how much
time I was doing. I said I was waiting to go
to the ranch.
He then changed his attitude and spoke
nicer, it seemed. He said, “Well, you Will be
there real soon, it’s just that you have to go
to a little hell before you get to heaven, just
like life, son.”
I always remembered that, how he
seemed to change after he found out I was
not a murderer or violent criminal who had
to be kept behind the wall.
Let hie tell you, ol’ friend, I’ve met some
really decent people behind the wall at
various times in my prison life but that’s
another story.
Well I finally, made it to the ranch. My
friend Paco and I were both getting off the
bus and going into our dorms where we
would be living for the next 18 months or
so. Well now, Paco made it inside but right
when I started to go through the doors I
was stopped by this Women’s voice Who
said, “You there.” (iheaning me of course)
“Come here!” Well, I walked backed to this
female correctional officer who looked right
into my eyes without batting hers and
accused me of being loaded on weed. She
informed me I reeked of marijuana. I tried
informing her that I just got off the bus, but
she would have none of th at She said she
was writing me up and I was going to be
sept back behind the wall. H
Well now, let me tell you ol’ friend I had
no intention of being sent back, but what
was I to do?
The next thing I knew this crazy officer
had me in handcuffs and I was on my way to
the captain’s Office. While I was sitting in
the lobby waiting to be drillèd by the
captain, I was wondering how in the hell did
I get myself into this mess and where was
Paco? Probably watching TV or walking
around outside where there weren’t any
fences. I mean, anyone could just walk off if
you were a mind to. But who would? I had
such great stories about this place, that is
why I had requested to be sent here. Now, I
was not so sure.
“Garcia!” A voice rang out and brought
me back to reality. “Garcia get in here.”
Well, I sprang from my seat and hastened
into the captain’s office, handcuffs and all.
TEe female officer was there when I walked
in but took my cuffs off and departed out
the door.
The captain looked at me, asked me a
couple of qûestions, and then said, “Garcia,
sorry about the inconvenience, I know you
haven’t been smoking weed or are loaded at
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this time, It’s just that Miss Jones was
attacked by a group of Latinos and hung up
in the day room. They weren’t trying to kill
her or she would have been dead. We found
her about fifteen minutes later when •
another guard was making his rounds. She
was pretty shaken up as you can imagine,
and that is why she hates all Latinos. Bear
with us Garcia. Just fry to keep away from
her and everything will be fine.”
Fine, my ass. Everytime something went
wrong one of us Latinos was to blame,
according to Miss Jones.
Was it a wonder that we had to get drunk
at night!
- As Isaid, there were no fences around
Nights behind the w all seemed to be the
worst. M ainly because that was when most of
the bad shit happened, like someone
screaming because he was being raped,
beaten or just screaming because he couldn't
take the long boring hours In a cell. Not
everyone could afford a TV.
the ranch, so it made it fairly easy to run
down the hill behind the dorm along the
riverbed or up to the road where you had
someone waiting in a car. Either way, the
liquor store was just a couple miles away. It
gave a person ample time in between prison
counts, which were every two hours.
Well everything was great for a few
weeks. We would take turnsputting on our
street clothes, which were meant for visits,
and hustle down to the store and back.
Everything went great, that is, until Jerry
(there is one in every group) got so drunk
he couldn’t hold his mug. He started getting
■Sick, yelling like an idiot, right during one of
institutional body counts,
Needless to say that was the end of our *
trips to the store.
It didn’t, mean we quit drinking, we just
quit going to the store ourselves. We just
ran out back where someone from the
streets had already gone to the store and
left the booze, usually a bottle of whiskey.
Prior arrangements had been made
regarding payment and what to buy.
' Movies, softball, basketball, weightlifting
and steak once a week.
Who would be crazy enough to leave?