thing.
A big son of a bitch named Espinosa happened to be our field
boss that day. Boss Espinosa was a rugged man who could have
kicked the crap out of any inmate around, so everyone gave him
plenty of respect.
68
Yo u Ca n R u n , b u t Yo u Ca n ’ t H i d e
He gathered all us inmates together and said, “All right, boys.
Now who’s the one who went and cut the Mexican in the face?” For
some stupid reason, I stepped forward.
“Congratulations, Chapman. You’ll be at the front of the line
tomorrow.”
The troublemakers got sent to the front of the line. They were
there to set the pace for everyone in the field. Any falling behind or
slacking off and the Strikers would step in and bust them up. After-
ward, they would toss what was left of the guy into an old wagon
and take him directly to the shitter. There was no stopping at the
infirmary for medical attention.
After only two days, I began physically breaking down. On the
first day, my hands were already horribly bleeding from gripping
the hoe. I tried wrapping them with rags, but it didn’t make much
of a difference. They bled straight through.
My survival instinct told me I’d best make friends with one of
the Strikers. If I didn’t, it would only be a matter of time before I
was going to be on the receiving end of a nasty beating.
I was able to use a combination of my talking skills and faith in
God to win them over. Right before lights out, I called one of the
Strikers over and said, “Listen, I’m gonna work as hard as I possibly
can tomorrow out in that field. But there ain’t no way I’m gonna be
as fast as everybody else.”
After thinking for a moment, he said, “We’re gonna give you
some slack, just a day or two, though. Don’t forget that Boss Es-
pinosa is going to be eyeballin’ you out there, so you better set a
pace or it ain’t gonna turn out so good.”
The next morning in the fields, I was a man on a mission. I knew
my ass was on the line, so I worked as hard as I could. At the end of
the day I could barely stand. As we came back into the yard, Boss
Espinoza pulled me aside, “You’re back with your regular hoe
squad tomorrow, Chapman.”
What a relief. Gradually, I was learning how to get on the good
side of the guards, but fitting in with the other inmates was still a
challenge.
C h a p t e r E l e v e n
LIGHT IN THE
DARKNESS
When I got to Huntsville in 1977, it was still a segregated
prison. The two-story cellblock had white inmates on one side and
blacks on the other. They painted the white section a pale lime green.
It was the kind of color you found at the hospital. It wasn’t a feel-
good green.
At night, you could hear the guards off in the darkness pa-
trolling along the tier. I had to angle a little mirror through the bars
of my cell to keep an eye on them. I didn’t want a guard sneaking
up on me if I was doing something I shouldn’t be, like reading or
jacking off.
There was no shortage of opportunities to fight. I felt like I had
to keep proving myself to the others, so I fought all the time. The
fights usually ended in a draw, which was good because then neither
of us was considered a punk.
I’d heard terrible stories about rape in prison. I was only ap-
proached one time in the joint. As far as I’m concerned, it was one
time too many. One evening while I was cleaning my cell after work,
four homies suddenly appeared. They were looking at me like I was
fresh meat.
The fattest, oldest one of the bunch said, “Now, you know what
we want, boy. We won’t beat ya too bad if you cooperate.”
I should’ve been freaked out by the fact that these guys were cor-
nering me, but I wasn’t. I knew something like this was going to
70
Yo u Ca n R u n , b u t Yo u Ca n ’ t H i d e
happen at Huntsville sooner or later. I’d been preparing myself for
it since the day I arrived.
These ugly brothers didn’t scare me. I’d whooped the toughest
bikers
A big son of a bitch named Espinosa happened to be our field
boss that day. Boss Espinosa was a rugged man who could have
kicked the crap out of any inmate around, so everyone gave him
plenty of respect.
68
Yo u Ca n R u n , b u t Yo u Ca n ’ t H i d e
He gathered all us inmates together and said, “All right, boys.
Now who’s the one who went and cut the Mexican in the face?” For
some stupid reason, I stepped forward.
“Congratulations, Chapman. You’ll be at the front of the line
tomorrow.”
The troublemakers got sent to the front of the line. They were
there to set the pace for everyone in the field. Any falling behind or
slacking off and the Strikers would step in and bust them up. After-
ward, they would toss what was left of the guy into an old wagon
and take him directly to the shitter. There was no stopping at the
infirmary for medical attention.
After only two days, I began physically breaking down. On the
first day, my hands were already horribly bleeding from gripping
the hoe. I tried wrapping them with rags, but it didn’t make much
of a difference. They bled straight through.
My survival instinct told me I’d best make friends with one of
the Strikers. If I didn’t, it would only be a matter of time before I
was going to be on the receiving end of a nasty beating.
I was able to use a combination of my talking skills and faith in
God to win them over. Right before lights out, I called one of the
Strikers over and said, “Listen, I’m gonna work as hard as I possibly
can tomorrow out in that field. But there ain’t no way I’m gonna be
as fast as everybody else.”
After thinking for a moment, he said, “We’re gonna give you
some slack, just a day or two, though. Don’t forget that Boss Es-
pinosa is going to be eyeballin’ you out there, so you better set a
pace or it ain’t gonna turn out so good.”
The next morning in the fields, I was a man on a mission. I knew
my ass was on the line, so I worked as hard as I could. At the end of
the day I could barely stand. As we came back into the yard, Boss
Espinoza pulled me aside, “You’re back with your regular hoe
squad tomorrow, Chapman.”
What a relief. Gradually, I was learning how to get on the good
side of the guards, but fitting in with the other inmates was still a
challenge.
C h a p t e r E l e v e n
LIGHT IN THE
DARKNESS
When I got to Huntsville in 1977, it was still a segregated
prison. The two-story cellblock had white inmates on one side and
blacks on the other. They painted the white section a pale lime green.
It was the kind of color you found at the hospital. It wasn’t a feel-
good green.
At night, you could hear the guards off in the darkness pa-
trolling along the tier. I had to angle a little mirror through the bars
of my cell to keep an eye on them. I didn’t want a guard sneaking
up on me if I was doing something I shouldn’t be, like reading or
jacking off.
There was no shortage of opportunities to fight. I felt like I had
to keep proving myself to the others, so I fought all the time. The
fights usually ended in a draw, which was good because then neither
of us was considered a punk.
I’d heard terrible stories about rape in prison. I was only ap-
proached one time in the joint. As far as I’m concerned, it was one
time too many. One evening while I was cleaning my cell after work,
four homies suddenly appeared. They were looking at me like I was
fresh meat.
The fattest, oldest one of the bunch said, “Now, you know what
we want, boy. We won’t beat ya too bad if you cooperate.”
I should’ve been freaked out by the fact that these guys were cor-
nering me, but I wasn’t. I knew something like this was going to
70
Yo u Ca n R u n , b u t Yo u Ca n ’ t H i d e
happen at Huntsville sooner or later. I’d been preparing myself for
it since the day I arrived.
These ugly brothers didn’t scare me. I’d whooped the toughest
bikers
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