On Wednesday, May 22, 2024, I finally left San Quentin State Prison, finally left East Block, and the notoriety of Death Row. I had transpacked nine weeks earlier, living out of the two boxes of property I was allowed to keep. They took me to Release and Receiving at 1:15 A.M., where I waited until 4:30 when the Grey Goose finally arrived. I received a plastic jumpsuit to wear, which, surprisingly, held up to the cold morning air before we were shuffled into our seats in silence.
The bus seemed to bounce every time its tires crossed over the smallest bit of debris or break in the road, or perhaps it had been so long since my last bus ride that I felt every shudder move through the vehicle as if it were the first time. Before I knew it, though, we reached our first stop, Solano State Prison. Only two of the sixteen souls on board got off, and then we were back on the road, a short hop over to my final destination, California Medical Facility (CMF).
Shortly after I got off the bus, I was met by an old and dear friend, someone whom I had not seen since he left East Block years before, heading for segregation in North Block. My friend had been assigned to welcome all new arrivals from the Row and assist in their initial transition. In Vacaville, as it would turn out, the condemned are often given lead positions, putting their decades of experience on the inside to good use.
Talking with my friend took the edge off the stress of the transfer, making it relaxing even. He managed to answer nearly every question I had. We talked for an hour, though it only seemed like fifteen minutes.
Shortly after, I was escorted to my cell in N-2, a wing across the hall from P-2, where I was housed from 1985 to 1987. It was an odd walk, observing how the institution had changed. When I got to my unit, though, I was surprised to find two of my best friends walking up to greet me with wide smiles on their faces. I quickly learned that other friends of mine were around but that they had found some difficulties with the number of erratic and unpredictable behavior of some of the mental health patients at CMF. On my first night, the guy next door to me banged loudly on the fixtures in his cell all night, so I quickly understood how these conditions could wear on somebody.
My first trip to the chow hall was also a big surprise in that the food was so hot it burned my tongue. And I loved it! At San Quentin, they let the food cart sit on the tier for an hour before serving it. Just the other night, however, they did cell feeding because of another unit being searched, and I had to laugh at my situation. Up until my first night in the chow hall, May 23, 2024, I had been fed through a tray slot since July 23, 1993.
Another new experience for me came when I asked the tier tender where I could get a razor to shave with. A few minutes later, he brought me four brand new double-edge razors and told me to turn them in when I was finished, and I could exchange them for new ones. At SQ, if you even misplaced the plastic guard on your razor, you would get your cell torn up as custody looked for it. Standing there holding a handful of new razors felt like a new breath of freedom or that I was being set up. I remember looking around as people walked back and forth, ignoring me. I felt like shouting out, “I’m over here!”
Despite these new and refreshing experiences, CMF has some challenges to handle as well. Case in point, there are a lot of people with real mental health issues here. People here will test you and can really bring you back to the brink of making a terrible decision. I won’t lie; there is still a fire that simmers beneath my mellow temperament, a fire that I know works against my better interests. You learn to manage, but at San Quentin, it was more challenging, as there was a real possibility of violence, and you could see it acted out several times a week.
At CMF, when the red lights flash, and the alarm goes off, you aren’t likely to see someone covered in blood being carted out or being carried on a stretcher. Here it’s just medical emergencies and minor scuffles. At SQ, people moved around with a warrior mentality, even when they were taking themselves out via suicide.
During my stay at San Quentin, I experienced final talks with people I knew, getting called to the fence for a chat by someone who, a little while later, would end up taking their own life. In retrospect, I understand that they were saying goodbye and that they were good with their decision. I will always remember the last final chat I experienced. It was a man named Daniel Jenkins who had announced beforehand that if he were put up for transfer, he would refuse to restart his program somewhere else. He said that he would rather be with his son, who, years before, had been killed in a police-involved shooting. Daniel had forty years in before he took his own ride out.
San Quentin’s Death Row was so dark, and some people couldn’t seem to find a way to see through that darkness into a new reality. I have often wondered how many people who took their own lives would have rather been here with me doing yoga, looking up at the picturesque backdrop that lies beyond CMF’s fenceline: a tree-covered mountain beneath a bright and sunny blue sky.
I suppose that all those men I knew at SQ just couldn’t believe that they would ever be in a situation like this, being treated like a real human being for a change. Case in point, at San Quentin, I was strip searched as much as three times a day, but here at CMF, I have yet to be stripped naked for a search. They do random pat downs for people coming out of the chow hall, but it’s a few every hundred or so people, so it’s actually random.
Another thing about here is how often you see people laughing and joking, people in both green and blue. For some reason, just the thought of both custody and the incarcerated laughing and carrying on together makes me smile, but then, that’s a whole other story.
