On May 5 of 2008 a Yolo County judge doomed me without clemency to an astronomical amount of 297 years to life.
I was in shock, disbelief and in complete gloom over the stunning judgment.
Because of the repercussions, I couldn’t sleep that night. I was hopeless and mournful knowing that, as a relatively young man, I was never going to taste freedom. Shock gripped the tears of sadness that night.
A couple of weeks afterward, a colossal green bus with white lettering (California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation) arrived to pick me up to transport me expediently to state prison. The highly secured bus was monstrous and heavy, and had metal screens and bars on the dusty windows. The boisterous bus appeared so dreadful that it looked like it was going to callously dump me off at the end of the Earth.
Two imposing robust correctional officers from the large vehicle gave me a navy blue cloth mesh jumpsuit. They hastily clasped shackles on my pallid tender wrists and ankles—they were so effectively firm that they left painful purple imprints. They slowly escorted me with rattling chains up the stairs of the powerful transportation.
In the bus was a multitude of diverse human beings; numerous appeared po-faced, some rugged and a few looked mischievous. They all gave me a hasty examination when I set foot in the quiet bus. Inside the bus was muggy, covered in smelly stale metal, and it had lackluster steel cages.
With high velocity we got on Highway 80 traveling south to the reception center. The motor thundered, cages rattled and chains clanged rhythmically from the swaying of the swift transportation. One officer was driving; another officer watched over us behind a small cage with a shotgun on his side that caused me to become frozen.
We were relatively quiet, but two bald-headed homies covered in tattoos up to the neck were telling each other jokes. “Keep it down!” an imposing voice from the officer in his cage hollered when the homies got loud. As we were on the highway I sat rigid and with a stoic face like most of the prisoners, but I was downcast and high-strung inwardly, for it was my first time going to the penitentiary. And I sorrowed when I thought about my beloved mother but became upset over the boasting and gratification of the DA’s draconian sentencing of me that was displayed on the front cover of the Daily Democrat newspaper in my hometown of Woodland.
When we finally arrived at the reception center of Deuel Vocational Institution in Tracy, California, my hands became clammy, my clean-shaven upper lip perspired and my heart began to thump harder and faster. The vintage prison looked barren with metal screens on every window. It was heavily embellished in razor wire. Every guard tower had silhouettes of officers with long barrel rifles on their shoulders. Some towers had king-size bright American flags that flapped in the breeze. One dire warning sign entered my psyche: it had brilliant red letterings that stated, “No Warning Shots.”
After the atrocious bus ride ended, the front door slammed open. A loud, authoritative voice outside began calling names so we could step out: “Tinney… Bocanegra… Davenport… Juarez.” I slowly got up from my seat when my name was called, wiped the sweat off my upper lip with my drooping right shoulder, and then took an eternal deep breath. For the first time, I whispered an earnest prayer of mercy to God Almighty.
