Four Feet Tall and Rising (15 page)

The more freedom I got, the more responsibility I took on, the happier I was. It’s gotta sound weird to people from the outside, but for me, the slumlord job at Folsom was one of the best things to happen in my life. It forced me to grow up and “get a job” in that legit sense of handling a business. It prepped me to be in charge. It gave me the experience I’d need much later to run my own company.

I didn’t know it then, but looking back now, it’s pretty damn clear. Being the slumlord at Folsom was my unofficial MBA training program.

There’s a myth
that guys mark each day served on the walls of their cells, but that’s not true at all. The only time you mark the days is when you’re in the hole, and even in there, we were lucky enough to have books to read. About six months before my release, I started to feel a change in me. I did start to keep track of the days in my head, and it made me anxious all the time. Folsom was really getting to me. Things bothered me that had never bothered me before. Freedom was so close. I felt like I had to really be on high alert. Guys or guards that don’t like you will plant drugs or needles in your cell, or on your person, just to screw you out of going home. I became more careful with my temper, and trust me, that was hard. I
had to be cautious of who I hung around. I didn’t trust many people. Instead of going out to the yard for rec time, I’d sit and play games. I did my best to keep out of trouble. I stayed inside more. When you went out to the yard, you had to stay out there for a set number of hours. You couldn’t just go in and out as you pleased. If I did walk into the yard, and I could sense that something was wrong, I’d turn right around and go back inside. If I heard about things that might happen, or that something was gonna go down, I made sure I was not around. I’d get myself to another building. If I heard gunfire, I’d just stay put. I wasn’t gonna risk ending up in a fight or in a situation that could keep me locked up. I even trained my friend Tony to take over the slumlord job. I relinquished my position, gave away any contraband I had stored in my lockers, and just bided the rest of my time. Better safe than sorry.

As the days got closer, my circle of people got smaller and smaller and smaller. Some guys backed off ’cause I was leaving and it was too hard for them to watch people go, and know they were never getting out. Some guys I had to let go. They were relationships that were just gonna get me into trouble. They weren’t worth another day behind bars. I absolutely did not wanna go back to Los Angeles. I had friends in San Francisco. Tony’s wife, Debbie, was gonna let me live in their guest room, and I even had a job lined up doing clerical work for a concrete recycling factory next to Candlestick Park. I petitioned to get my parole transferred, but just like I’d faced after DeWitt, I came up against the political bullshit that is the prison system. Two weeks before my release, the news came
back that I couldn’t parole in San Francisco. Never mind that I had no place to live in Los Angeles, and no job lined up down there. It was a slap in the face. I was trying to succeed. I was trying to set up a better situation, but they wanted to ship me right back to where I’d gotten into trouble in the first place. It made me mad, but then I just told myself that I do what I gotta do. Now where would I stay? How was I gonna make money? How would I stay away from the projects?

It looked like I was stuck with Heather. If there’s one thing prison confirms, it’s that you’ve made some pretty shitty decisions in life. But moving in with Heather … that might have topped the list for Single Stupidest Idea Ever. Heather was a Little Person who lived in Los Angeles. Her roommate was a Mexican woman whose boyfriend was one of the Northern Mexican gang guys I’d met at County. Once he found out his girl’s new roommate was a Little Person, he assumed I’d like her, ’cause you know, all us Little People must get along or some such shit. In truth, I prefer my women tall. Really tall. Like six-feet-tall tall. But being that I still had a year left in Folsom, I figured I couldn’t be picky. It wasn’t like I had a lot of choices, unless I wanted to swing the other way, and I didn’t, and good luck trying to hook up with a female prison guard. It’s not like it’s never happened in prison, but it was very rare. So I agreed to the setup.

I can just imagine that conversation. Heather’s roommate saying to her, “Hey, my man’s got this friend. He’s, uh, you know … shorter … like you. And if you want, I can set up a blind date. But there’s just one thing … he’s in prison.”
Now, any woman willing to date a guy behind bars has gotta have some problems. I guess the appeal comes from knowing exactly where your man is that night. (Unless, of course, your He is messing with a Him. Which happens.) Then there were the guys that had three or four girlfriends on the outside. I’d watch in awe as they juggled phone calls and visits and letters, and even with all the downtime in prison, I had no idea how they did it. There was this one guy, Scarborough, who was a major player until a guard walked in and told him, “You may wanna cancel your visitation today. Your wife is kicking your girlfriend’s ass right now.” Catfights in the visiting area were common. Scarborough just turned on his heel and said, “Tell my wife I’m in the SHU.” The guard laughed. “Wife? I think you just became a divorcé!”

Heather’s roommate had been coming back and forth from prison for years. She must have filled Heather’s head with all kinds of stories, so I didn’t expect nothing to come of it. Apparently, Heather was game. That should have been the first sign. We started talking over the phone. There were pay phones in the building, but I could call from my office anytime. I kept my calls to a minimum until we’d exchanged Polaroid pictures. Once I saw she wasn’t horse-faced, we started writing more letters, and I called more often. Every call went collect and at $15 for like ten minutes, it was a total rip-off. We really ran up her bill, but she didn’t seem to mind. Our conversations were always fine. Nothing too endearing. I wasn’t looking to fall in love. In fact, not to seem cold, but to me, our “relationship” was a way to mark time. I certainly
didn’t need her for cash. I was making enough selling cells. But prison could be a really lonely place. To have a few phone calls. To write some letters. To have a few visits. To kiss a couple of times. It was a much needed distraction. It made the day move a bit faster. Gave you something to think about at night.

It was a whole process to come see me. First, Heather had to apply to get permission to visit. Then they had to run a background check on her. Then she had to get on an approval list for a specific date. Then she had to drive all the way from Los Angeles to Sacramento. Then, once she made it to Folsom, she had to sit for two hours while they put everyone through a security check. Visitors couldn’t bring anything in with them at Folsom. Not books or photos to show. They had to buy the food that was sold there. If they wanted to give you money, they had to leave it on your books, deposit it into your account. They walked in with nothing and walked out with nothing.

And that was just what they put outsiders through. On my side of the bars, any guy seeing a visitor had to strip naked, bend, and cough. Before the visit and after the visit. It’s not an exaggeration to say visitation was a literal pain in the ass. Not to mention I really didn’t care for the whole routine ’cause I stood at the same level as everybody else’s naked junk.

I was always willing to bend and cough to see Janet or Uncle D., but after three or four hours of talking with Heather, I’d get bored. It’s not like we even had the option of conjugal visits, so kissing and talking were all we could do. Four hours of talking—enough! I’d just shoot a look at the guards, and
one of them would walk over, tap his flashlight on the table like a warning, and tell me, “Time to go back to work, Shorty.” I’d put on a real show of being disappointed. Then shoot the guard a nod of thanks. I always appreciated that they helped me out that way.

I never had any intention of staying with Heather after I was paroled. I wanted to start my life over, do my own thing, and leave the past behind me. Unfortunately, the CDC had other plans. They paroled me to Los Angeles, and I really didn’t have any other option. I was unemployable, broke but free. I had to live somewhere, anywhere, away from trouble. Reluctantly, I agreed to move in with Heather. She was thrilled.

The last day I woke up in Folsom was a good, good day. I’d made it through the night without any problems. Usually the night before your release, the guys jump you in a pileup, and kind of pummel you, or they’ll grab your neck and twist the skin to make it look like you have a hickey. Somehow, I’d managed to avoid both of those. I’d given away my TV, my radio, anything I had of value to friends who were staying behind. It would have been selfish to carry it out with me.

That morning, Officer Lawrence and Lieutenant Centurino came to walk me from my cell to R&R, reception and receiving. I hadn’t been in R&R since the day I arrived. They shook my hand and said, “Good luck and don’t fucking come back.” Janet sent me some street clothes. I changed into those, then sat and waited and waited and waited for them to process me. This huge, Southern, corn-fed boy, a corrections officer, stuck his head out and yelled at me, “Hey, Shorty, you come back
here and I’ll beat the shit out of you.” I flipped him off. “You ain’t ever gonna see me again! ”

I walked out of receiving and reception and saw those big old gates. My friend Tony’s wife, Debbie, was waiting for me on the other side, sitting on the bumper of her purple truck. It was an amazing feeling. They may have brought me in by bus, but I walked out on my own two legs. It felt like a movie moment. I took that long walk to the gate, past the gun towers. I’ll never forget hearing one of the officers call out to me, “Hey, Shorty, your bed will be waiting for you.” But I knew I was never coming back. Ten years, ten months, and ten days had passed since my arrest. It was time to start a whole new life.

ebbie gave me a big hug and welcomed
me back to the world. I climbed into the passenger side of her truck and looked back as we drove away. It wasn’t a sense of relief I felt. I wouldn’t call it that. I was prepared to leave. I’d had ten years of knowing the exact day I’d go home. But leaving Folsom, what I felt was … hungry. “Debbie! Take me to a good fucking Italian restaurant!” Debbie just laughed. We had a meal. A big, traditional, delicious Italian feast, then Debbie drove me over to see Ray’s parents on Haight Street. Ray wasn’t there. He was already back in jail. He wasn’t robbing people anymore, but he just couldn’t stay off drugs, a violation of his parole.

I purposely booked the last flight from San Francisco to Los Angeles. I wanted to spend as much time as I could as a free man, ’cause the next morning, I had to report to my parole officer and move in with Heather. When I landed in Burbank, she and her friend Lena were there to pick me up. I’d barely
had a day to stretch my legs, and now I was moving in with a girlfriend I barely knew.

I made the conscious decision to stay away from the projects. I didn’t want to go see my old homeboys or even Mama Myrt, Little Al, or Cerisse. In the years that I’d been locked up, we’d lost touch. Mama Myrt had her hands full with other family members in jail, namely, Little Al, who couldn’t stay out of prison. Cerisse was popping out babies every year. She was on her sixth, and her family life was her priority now. And as for Coco, my first pit bull, he had died while I was in Folsom. There was no reason for me to go back to Nickerson, so I went on the lam from my friends and family.

Unbeknownst to Heather, I kept trying to get my parole transferred to San Francisco. She thought I was applying for jobs and going to interviews, but really I was dealing with the transfer paperwork and registering for general relief. I’d left prison with $200 in gate money. That’s all I had to my name, so I applied for welfare and food stamps until I could either transfer to San Francisco and start my job, or find employment in Los Angeles. I had to have some way to eat. They approved me for $400 a month of relief and $100 of food stamps. How in the hell I was supposed to live on that, I didn’t know. In all the time I’d lived in the projects, I’d never been on welfare. In prison, my top hourly pay rate was twenty cents an hour, but I’d never been strapped, ’cause I had a monopoly on cigarettes. Applying for welfare was humiliating. The lady who processed my form didn’t even believe I’d actually been in prison. She kept fighting me about my application. She had her city
job and she thought she was King Tut. I couldn’t give up. I had no other choice. I had to deal with her.