deciding where to put me, and the ones tallying up my points. My “points” were based on the length of my sentence, the nature of my crime, and how much good time I’d done. By now, my points were low. I was considered a Level One or Level Two at most, and Level One was model behavior. That meant I had the right to be housed in the lowest-security facilities. It meant I could avoid doing time in a Level Four, the most dangerous prisons, filled with gang guys, child molesters, snitches, flight risks, and high-profile cases. I was a Level One and that was a good thing. It meant I had some options.
I didn’t wanna be anywhere near Los Angeles. The Southern California prisons were full of Bloods, and I knew I had to get away if I wanted to stay out of trouble. I picked my first choice: Vacaville, in Solano County. The prison there was called CMF, the California Medical Facility, ’cause there was a huge hospital on the grounds. They had open dormitories,and a lot more freedom. My backup choice was the Avenal State Prison in Kings County, ’cause they had open dorms and seven hundred acres of land. Both prisons offered college courses, which I wanted to take, and they had easier, less violent reputations. I made my picks, and then, like the three thousand other guys sitting at Deuel, I waited. It was like gambling. You made a shot for it, but you never knew what was gonna happen.
They had five days before my birthday or five days after my birthday to transfer me. They wouldn’t give any inmate the exact date of transfer, to keep guys from arranging escapes. So two days before my birthday, they woke me up, yelling, “Okay, pack it up, Shorty. You’re moving!” They marched me into R&R (receiving and release), and that’s when they told me I was shipping to Folsom. At first, I thought I heard them wrong, but as the news settled in, I went from confused to goddamn pissed. I screamed at the officer, “Folsom! What the fuck did I do?”
Folsom State Prison was going from bad to worse. Folsom was four thousand guys locked up behind sixteen-foot-high walls that were four feet thick. Folsom was Level Four gang territory. Folsom had bloody and violent riots. Folsom was the end of the line. I started screaming, “My points are low. I’m a Level One! Folsom is maximum security!” I threw such a fit, the officers had to get my counselor. First, he tried to convince me that Folsom wasn’t that bad. He explained there was a minimum-security unit within the compound, despite the fact that the prison itself was a Level Four. I wasn’t buying itand I wasn’t budging. Then he just had to come clean about what had really happened.
The system still considered me a flight risk ’cause of my height. They thought I could stow away in a breadbasket or something. My counselor invoked the “bus situation” as proof and that just boiled my blood. I blew a goddamn gasket. “For six years, I’ve said the same thing! I wasn’t involved! The fucking hole was right under my feet! If I was gonna go, I’d have gone then! I can’t run for shit anyway! Look at these legs!” I was never gonna live down that Mexican gang bus escape from County. Fifty guys on the bus and I got chained to those stupid idiots. My counselor just shrugged. I could scream until I was hoarse. They were shipping me to Folsom. There was nothing I could do.
They came to get me in the morning. The guards shackled my wrists together, my legs together, and then secured them both to a chain that circled my waist then dropped to my toes. I was belligerent. “Really? My wrists and my ankles? That’s necessary?” The guard snorted, “You Little People are quick on your feet.” I glared at him. “How many Little People are you dealing with on a daily basis?” The guard’s neck turned red with anger. I pressed him. “How exactly do you have this information that Little People are quick on their feet?” The guard clamped the handcuffs tighter. Me and my stupid
I didn’t wanna be anywhere near Los Angeles. The Southern California prisons were full of Bloods, and I knew I had to get away if I wanted to stay out of trouble. I picked my first choice: Vacaville, in Solano County. The prison there was called CMF, the California Medical Facility, ’cause there was a huge hospital on the grounds. They had open dormitories,and a lot more freedom. My backup choice was the Avenal State Prison in Kings County, ’cause they had open dorms and seven hundred acres of land. Both prisons offered college courses, which I wanted to take, and they had easier, less violent reputations. I made my picks, and then, like the three thousand other guys sitting at Deuel, I waited. It was like gambling. You made a shot for it, but you never knew what was gonna happen.
They had five days before my birthday or five days after my birthday to transfer me. They wouldn’t give any inmate the exact date of transfer, to keep guys from arranging escapes. So two days before my birthday, they woke me up, yelling, “Okay, pack it up, Shorty. You’re moving!” They marched me into R&R (receiving and release), and that’s when they told me I was shipping to Folsom. At first, I thought I heard them wrong, but as the news settled in, I went from confused to goddamn pissed. I screamed at the officer, “Folsom! What the fuck did I do?”
Folsom State Prison was going from bad to worse. Folsom was four thousand guys locked up behind sixteen-foot-high walls that were four feet thick. Folsom was Level Four gang territory. Folsom had bloody and violent riots. Folsom was the end of the line. I started screaming, “My points are low. I’m a Level One! Folsom is maximum security!” I threw such a fit, the officers had to get my counselor. First, he tried to convince me that Folsom wasn’t that bad. He explained there was a minimum-security unit within the compound, despite the fact that the prison itself was a Level Four. I wasn’t buying itand I wasn’t budging. Then he just had to come clean about what had really happened.
The system still considered me a flight risk ’cause of my height. They thought I could stow away in a breadbasket or something. My counselor invoked the “bus situation” as proof and that just boiled my blood. I blew a goddamn gasket. “For six years, I’ve said the same thing! I wasn’t involved! The fucking hole was right under my feet! If I was gonna go, I’d have gone then! I can’t run for shit anyway! Look at these legs!” I was never gonna live down that Mexican gang bus escape from County. Fifty guys on the bus and I got chained to those stupid idiots. My counselor just shrugged. I could scream until I was hoarse. They were shipping me to Folsom. There was nothing I could do.
They came to get me in the morning. The guards shackled my wrists together, my legs together, and then secured them both to a chain that circled my waist then dropped to my toes. I was belligerent. “Really? My wrists and my ankles? That’s necessary?” The guard snorted, “You Little People are quick on your feet.” I glared at him. “How many Little People are you dealing with on a daily basis?” The guard’s neck turned red with anger. I pressed him. “How exactly do you have this information that Little People are quick on their feet?” The guard clamped the handcuffs tighter. Me and my stupid
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