San Quentin

A Place Where Men Live, All Kinds of Men

Part II

Even though we would not be seeing the inside of the Adjustment Center—and I was glad for it—Sam told us plenty. When an inmate from the Center needs to go to the hospital or elsewhere on the grounds, they are accompanied by no fewer than two officers. Before they can go anywhere outside of their individual cells, the prisoners have to strip down for a search then dress again. Officers then handcuff them, both wrists and ankles with enough chain between the shackles to allow them to walk. These fellows wear a distinctive color of clothing to distinguish them from the general population, who wear blue and gray. New inmates wear orange. We saw a few cuffed men from the Center and their guards later in the day.

Though strict regulations keep the inmates in the Adjustment Center from being physically tortured, some people feel that the solitary confinement in itself is inhumane, no matter the situation. I can see that. But I also came to believe from seeing the circumstances on the prison grounds firsthand that there are inmates too dangerous to have them circulating among the rest of the men. The question is where should they be and how?

Sam told us the stories of how some of the guards represented on the plaques between us and the Center were killed. During the 1971 escape attempt of George Jackson, a dozen inmates tortured and killed three correction officers and two other prisoners. There was a foreman stabbed while trying to break up a fight in the Wood Factory in 1980. He was 65 years old. A sergeant stabbed with a handcrafted shank by three prisoners in 1985 was memorialized there too. We learned how, when Sam was head of the floor in the Adjustment Center, inmates took to collecting their feces and urine and throwing it in officer’s faces. The officers took to wearing riot protection helmets. Then the prisoners targeted the guards’ legs and feet. This led to the installation of solid doors with one barred window instead of barred doors. 

Across the courtyard from the Adjustment Center was a line of portables and one large permanent meeting hall offering spiritual healing to inmates. The large permanent building was the Christian chapel. Lined up perpendicular to the chapel, were a Jewish temple, Bhuddist temple, Islamic temple, and rooms for other kinds of religious expression as well as classes. Lieutenant Robinson told us there were more varied places of worship side-by-side in that courtyard in San Quentin than you could find just about anywhere.

When I asked who the people were walking by us, I learned they were hospital workers, some of the 1,800 employees at San Quentin, along with some of the hundreds of volunteers that ran programs there. 

Officers never carried guns on the grounds. The only guns were in the guard towers. I was surprised how many female correction officers I saw. Sam told me that it is important in the prison to have these women on their staff. They provide a sense of nurturing and an important perspective to the men. Even hearing a higher-pitched voice helps calm inmates, in general, and helps to keep the peace.

All during this lecture and discussion, I noticed men in blue leaning up against the fountain, chatting, waiting. Were these inmates, unguarded there in the courtyard with us? Then Sam led us towards them. They were waiting for us. They were prisoners, assigned to assist in visitations. They were lifers, and they were going to tell us their stories. 

Inside the church, the prisoners took seats on the altar/stage. We sat in the pews. They introduced themselves: Clay, Charles, Clifford, Miguel, Wallstreet, and a couple other men, whose names I’ve forgotten. All of them were serving life sentences. Most of them—now in their thirties, forties and even fifties—had entered the prison system when they were nineteen or twenty years old. My notes aren’t thorough enough to accurately relate all of their stories, but without written reminders, I vividly remember a lot about Clay, Wallstreet, Miguel, and Clifford.

Clay, six-foot-five at least and wide-shouldered with dark chocolate skin was in for assault and manslaughter. Inside the prison, he had worked on anger management, spirituality, achieved his GED, and fell in love with taekwondo. He had earned his black belt and taught other inmates. He hoped to find a dojo where he could teach once he was released. He stayed with our group, a volunteer guide and guard, all day. 

With his strong build and stature, he looked intimidating, but the more I got to know him, the more I started to care about him. I realized how naïve he was about the world outside the prison. Inside for three decades, he was a leader here, a man who had grown. And yet, despite his record, the crimes that brought him to this place, he felt like an innocent. He was hopeful. 

I worried for him, for what he would be able to do in reality when he was finally released. Our kids were in taekwondo at that time. I couldn’t imagine a dojo full of children and their parents willing to hire an ex-inmate. That was six years ago. I wonder often what has become of Clay.  

San Quentin, at that time, had over 4,000 prisoners in residence. The capacity of the prison was supposed to be just over 1,500. That’s changed. I’m not sure what’s going on and have to do more research, but public statistics show that since March 2020, the total number of inmates has steadily decreased. As of March 2021, the population was down to 2,460. I don’t know if that means transfers to other prisons or releases. Or both. 

I do know that Clay and the others told us that if you were a lifer in California, you wanted to be at San Quentin. Because of its location in the vibrant Bay Area, it had more volunteer programs than any other prison in the system. You could learn Yoga. Write for a widely circulated newspaper. Run marathons. You could even get a four-year college degree.

I hope I’m remembering this correctly, six years later. Next came Wallstreet.

Wallstreet had known violence and fear on the streets. He was in for aiding in a murder as part of a gang just after he had turned nineteen. He didn’t pull the trigger, but he was there and refused to testify against the other gang members charged with the crime. Therefore, he was complicit. Wallstreet had grown up in the same neighborhood as Lieutenant Sam Robinson. They had known some of the same people. They were both at San Quentin, for very different reasons, one in prison 30 years to life, the other a respected career officer of 24 years with the CDCR (California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation). Sam treated all the men with respect. And it was mutual.

Wallstreet had brains. His fellow inmates looked at him admirably telling us this fact. He had earned his AA while at San Quentin and had become interested in the stock market. He was a sure-hand at investment, had made a few himself and helped other inmates earn money in the market. In his thirties, he still had youthful charm and good looks. I couldn’t help but think where else he might have been had he grown up somewhere else or in different circumstances. He was looking at parole soon, hoping his appeal would be accepted.

Miguel was in for murder. He too had been involved in gang violence in the central valley and entered the prison system at 19. An introvert, he spoke quietly but with conviction about how he wanted to start his life again, a better man, outside of prison. He had received his GED, AA and was going for a BA while at San Quentin. He had been in the system over 20 years.

Clifford was a short, skinny white man with thinning hair. He was the only one of the men who had never committed a violent crime. He was in for Three Strikes of possession and theft. Though Clifford had served his sentence, over 30 years, he still owed $10,000 in restitution and, earning a dollar a day for working in prison and having no family to help him outside of prison, he was nowhere close to paying it off for his release. The others said it wasn’t fair that Clifford was there. Protected by them, he appeared frail. He spent much of his time in San Quentin taking care of the grounds, tending what garden they had, which wasn’t much.   

As I sat there rapt listening to their stories, shyly asking questions, I realized my perspective had widened. I had changed. San Quentin and other prisons aren’t full of just “criminals,” a term that dehumanizes them (like “troops,” “enemies,” “collateral damage,” “consumers,” and so many other ugly labels). These were men. People. 

Many of them were people paying for a mistake they made when they were not much older than my teenage sons. When, neurologically-speaking, they weren’t fully mature. As young people, they lived in situations in which violence seemed a viable choice. They acted on the circumstances they were in. The men who spoke to us that day all regretted the crimes they had committed. Who of us has never done anything looking back that we regret? That their crimes were egregious enough to earn them punishment, I’m not arguing against. Although, I’ve never found “punishment” to be effective for changing behavior. Natural consequences are more likely to lead to enlightenment. In parenting, you look for and respond to “teachable moments.” I think there’s a much better way to treat perpetrators of crime than having them sit in prison cells. It seems to me that the consequence could involve work (realizing they can be productive), skill-building (building esteem), education (to make better choices), therapy (for self-awareness and true change), and service to others, so people who are of sound mind and make violent mistakes can make up for it by being productive, by helping others. THAT is a long-term solution that helps everyone. AND is less expensive than feeding, clothing and housing a human in a cell for years.

But that’s just me.

These men represented the majority of inmates at San Quentin. But then there were the death row inmates, the serial killers in the Adjustment Center. It did seem GOOD to keep them away from the general population, but what was the best treatment of them? And I wondered about another type of person that I assumed must be in the prison, the mentally-ill. What about them? 

I was about to get a glimpse of a few. 

(Continued in 100 Day Challenge #34)