Read Online Mr. Blue: Memoirs of a Renegade by Edward Bunker - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Edward Bunker
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me
a set of khakis. When I was dressed, they handcuffed me, put me in the
screened-off back seat and drove me out the back gate. I asked where we were
going. They wouldn't tell me, but when they took a right turn instead of a
left, I knew we were heading toward the LA County Jail.
The Los Angeles County Jail was on the tenth through
fourteenth Moor in the Hall of Justice at the corner of Broadway and Temple
Streets. When the correctional lieutenant handed me over to the booking
officer, he gave him a sheet of paper. The report said that I had been arrested
under Section 4500 of the California Penal Code. Section 4500 states that any
inmate serving a life sentence who commits an assault able to cause great
bodily harm is to be sentenced to the gas chamber. There was no alternative.
The life sentence, according to California Supreme Court decisions, also
includes indeterminate sentences — one year to Life or five years to Life.
Actually I came under Section 4500, subsection B. The subsection wasn't
mentioned on the papers. The booking officer asked me how old I was. I told him
I was nineteen. With a shrug, he assigned me to 10-A-l, also known as
"high power." It was the special security tank for men facing the gas
chamber, cop killers and notorious murderers.
Most prisoners are moved in groups, or sometimes sent
places in the jail on their own, but high-power inmates are moved under escort
one at a time. Being in high power gives one a certain cachet in the
topsy-turvy world of underworld values. It usually takes from eight to twelve
hours to get through the booking process. In groups, everyone has to wait for
all the others to finish each step of the procedures before moving on. I was
moved ahead of everyone else. First the booking office, next to the Bertillion
Room where they took mug photos and several sets of fingerprints.
Copies were sent to Sacramento and to the FBI in
Washington. I was showered, sprayed with DDT (this was before Silent Spring) and given jail denim to dress in. A
medical technician had me "skin it back and squeeze it down," to see
if I had gonorrhea. He quickly looked at my bruises then pronounced me fit.
After gathering a blanket and a mattress cover, inside of which was an aluminum
cup and spoon, a deputy led me through the maze of the jail to the tenth floor
next to the Attorney Room, where high power was located by itself. During the
walk, we passed walls of bars, inside of which were walkways outside of cells.
The jail was crowded. Most cells had four or five occupants. Even the tank
trusty in the first cell had three. The cell gates were open and the men were
out on the runway, walking or playing cards. As I went by one tank, someone
said, "Who'd he kill? He's just a kid."
The tanks were racially segregated for the most part.
One exception was the "queens'" tank. With towels wrapped like
turbans around their heads, jail shirt tails tied at the bottom like blouses,
makeup ingeniously concocted from God knows what, jeans rolled up and skin
tight, they were all flamboyant parodies of women. Spotting me, as I walked
with the guard along the length of their tank, they hurried along beside us.
"Put him in here, deputy! We won't hurt him." The deputy snorted and
quipped: "All we'd find is his shoelaces." "What's your name,
honey?" I didn't reply. "Who'd you kill, kid?" "If you go
to the joint, I'll be your woman — and kill anybody that fucks with you."
I said nothing. It was a loser to exchange quips with queens; their tongues
were too sharp, their wit too biting. Needless to say, I had no worries about
anyone fucking me. I was no white bread white boy. If someone said something
wrong, or even looked wrong, my challenge would be quick, and if the response
was less than a swift apology, I would attack forthwith without further words.
When
we were past the queens' tank, we continued through a maze of steel stairs,
bars, past pale green tile walls, past white tanks, black tanks, Mexican tanks.
We
a set of khakis. When I was dressed, they handcuffed me, put me in the
screened-off back seat and drove me out the back gate. I asked where we were
going. They wouldn't tell me, but when they took a right turn instead of a
left, I knew we were heading toward the LA County Jail.
The Los Angeles County Jail was on the tenth through
fourteenth Moor in the Hall of Justice at the corner of Broadway and Temple
Streets. When the correctional lieutenant handed me over to the booking
officer, he gave him a sheet of paper. The report said that I had been arrested
under Section 4500 of the California Penal Code. Section 4500 states that any
inmate serving a life sentence who commits an assault able to cause great
bodily harm is to be sentenced to the gas chamber. There was no alternative.
The life sentence, according to California Supreme Court decisions, also
includes indeterminate sentences — one year to Life or five years to Life.
Actually I came under Section 4500, subsection B. The subsection wasn't
mentioned on the papers. The booking officer asked me how old I was. I told him
I was nineteen. With a shrug, he assigned me to 10-A-l, also known as
"high power." It was the special security tank for men facing the gas
chamber, cop killers and notorious murderers.
Most prisoners are moved in groups, or sometimes sent
places in the jail on their own, but high-power inmates are moved under escort
one at a time. Being in high power gives one a certain cachet in the
topsy-turvy world of underworld values. It usually takes from eight to twelve
hours to get through the booking process. In groups, everyone has to wait for
all the others to finish each step of the procedures before moving on. I was
moved ahead of everyone else. First the booking office, next to the Bertillion
Room where they took mug photos and several sets of fingerprints.
Copies were sent to Sacramento and to the FBI in
Washington. I was showered, sprayed with DDT (this was before Silent Spring) and given jail denim to dress in. A
medical technician had me "skin it back and squeeze it down," to see
if I had gonorrhea. He quickly looked at my bruises then pronounced me fit.
After gathering a blanket and a mattress cover, inside of which was an aluminum
cup and spoon, a deputy led me through the maze of the jail to the tenth floor
next to the Attorney Room, where high power was located by itself. During the
walk, we passed walls of bars, inside of which were walkways outside of cells.
The jail was crowded. Most cells had four or five occupants. Even the tank
trusty in the first cell had three. The cell gates were open and the men were
out on the runway, walking or playing cards. As I went by one tank, someone
said, "Who'd he kill? He's just a kid."
The tanks were racially segregated for the most part.
One exception was the "queens'" tank. With towels wrapped like
turbans around their heads, jail shirt tails tied at the bottom like blouses,
makeup ingeniously concocted from God knows what, jeans rolled up and skin
tight, they were all flamboyant parodies of women. Spotting me, as I walked
with the guard along the length of their tank, they hurried along beside us.
"Put him in here, deputy! We won't hurt him." The deputy snorted and
quipped: "All we'd find is his shoelaces." "What's your name,
honey?" I didn't reply. "Who'd you kill, kid?" "If you go
to the joint, I'll be your woman — and kill anybody that fucks with you."
I said nothing. It was a loser to exchange quips with queens; their tongues
were too sharp, their wit too biting. Needless to say, I had no worries about
anyone fucking me. I was no white bread white boy. If someone said something
wrong, or even looked wrong, my challenge would be quick, and if the response
was less than a swift apology, I would attack forthwith without further words.
When
we were past the queens' tank, we continued through a maze of steel stairs,
bars, past pale green tile walls, past white tanks, black tanks, Mexican tanks.
We
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