Lockup
Death Row has a terrible and final ring to it,
but by the time I arrived at San Quentin in November
1971, there was already talk that the California
Supreme Court would strike down the death penalty
in the state as "cruel and unusual punishment."
The gas chamber at Quentin hadn't been used in
years, and the consensus on the Row said that
"the man ain't gonna drop the pill no more."
By now I was used to prison life and was stronger,
physically and psychologically. It was as if each
day I found a little more of the self that I'd
worked so hard to destroy. Each day a little more
of the humanity I'd trampled down inside me came
back to life.
I spent a lot of my time reading the Scriptures
and that, more than anything else, seemed to nourish
the human part of me that was being reborn. I
believed that God had His hand on me, that He
was with me, and I was certain He'd forgiven me
all the evil I'd brought down on myself and the
world around me. I'd recognized the depth of my
sin; I admitted it as best I could and repented
with a remorse that grew as my wholeness grew-like
nerve endings being restored in a burn, the pain
a sign of healing. I knew I could trust that all
I had been and still was could be made new-because
God had reached out to me across the gap my sin
had created between us and wiped away my guilt-not
cheaply, but at the cost of the life of His own
Son, blood for blood, life for life.
But there was something incomplete about it all.
It was real, but somehow it seemed unfinished.
I know now the problem was simply that I still
saw my relationship with God in terms of what
He was giving me-forgiveness, comfort, healing
in my mind-and not what I should be giving Him-my
whole self and all rights to it. I wanted a Savior
very much, but I wasn't ready for a Lord.
Prisoners on Death Row were not allowed in the
yard except to go to the dentist or the infirmary,
but I settled into the confined life we had together
on the tier as well as could be expected, watching
eagerly for the few days of the year when we'd
get sunlight from the high windows across the
walkway. We were a peculiar community-all of us
technically waiting to die, all judged guilty
of capital crimes. For all the sin and agony and
violence that we represented, we lived a surprisingly
mundane life. Some men passed their time playing
dominos, lifting weights, studying correspondence
courses or, that perennial favorite, working on
legal appeals. Or one could read as I did or watch
the televisions that were suspended above the
walkway, one for every three men. Even though
we were fed separately in our cells, between ten
and two every day we were allowed out on the tier
to talk and exercise. In that holding tank for
the legally doomed, I made my first feeble attempts
at reaching out again to the human beings around
me. Another part of me began to heal.
When I wasn't reading my Bible (it was already
beginning to look worn), I wrote letters. From
the time I'd left Texas until my release from
Atascadero I'd never corresponded with anyone,
even my parents, but sometime before my mother
came out for the trial I started attempting short
notes to the two of them. By the time I reached
San Quentin, I had a long list of people to write
to: family, friends, Bill Boyd (I kept pestering
him for legal advice and with suggestions for
appeal tactics), and one special, rather strange
girl I'd met during the trial. I'll call her Freda
Hofmann.
It takes a very unique personality to decide
to fall in love with a man in prison, especially
one sentenced to death. Freda apparently had that
sort of personality. She was in Los Angeles on
a visa from Germany when my trial began and for
some reason she started coming to it. I noticed
her in court several times-a dark, attractive
girl with a certain sense of distance toward the
people surrounding her. In the crowded courtroom,
her face seemed to stand out; there was a kind
of wall around her that cut her off from the rest
of the crowd. Maybe it was just that her attention
always stayed focused totally on me.
Suddenly she stopped coming (I found out later
she lost her passport and couldn't be admitted,
since identification was required). I pretty much
forgot _;about her until several days later when
she started showing up in the halls and elevators
of the courthouse, never saying anything, just
looking at me and smiling. I wasn't getting too
many smiles at that point so I started smiling
back and waving to her. The television cameras
picked it up and suddenly Freda was established
as my girl friend before we'd ever spoken to one
another.
One day a note arrived for me at the county jail,
and after that we wrote brief letters to each
other occasionally. About the time I was sent
to Death Row, she went back to Germany, but we
continued to correspond. She would send me pictures
and clippings and kept talking about coming back
to America to see me again. At first I wondered
if she had an ulterior motive-a book or some kind
of exclusive article-but finally I accepted the
fact that although we'd never spent any time together,
she liked me.
All the speculation about the Supreme Court's
decision on the death penalty was ended on February
18, 1972, when that penalty was declared to be
in violation of the state constitution's ban on
cruel and unusual punishment. We'd been told it
was coming and the whole Row waited up that night
until the news came out on television. There wasn't
any cheering but you could feel the relief. The
threat of death was gone-and no matter how the
law might be changed in the future, we would never
again face that small room and the cyanide tablet.
Death Row had only been my home for a few months,
but for some of the others it was a matter of
years. Now the place was a legal anachronism.
It wasn't until August, however, that I was transferred
into the general prison population. After the
isolation and sense of security of the Row, the
yard was a frightening place with its exposure
and potential violence. Drugs were passed openly
and rumors and threats were daily bread. I got
a job in the prison furniture factory and had
barely gotten into the work when I was notified
a month later that I was to be moved to the California
Men's Colony outside of San Luis Obispo. The Department
of Corrections wanted to get me away from the
other Manson people at San Quentin.
The move was one of the best things that ever
happened to me. In a state with an above-average
prison system, the Colony is the most progressive
and well-run institution of the lot. The level
of violence is extremely low, and the staff is
generally professional and compassionate. The
prison itself looked like a resort the first time
I saw it, riding up in the bus on September 19,
1972: green hills rising up beyond the quads,
special trailers for family and conjugal visits,
lawns and flowers and open spaces and light and
air. And there was also a Protestant chaplain
by the name of Stanley McGuire, though I wouldn't
come to appreciate him immediately.
In place of the cells I'd been used to for the
past three years, the Men's Colony had small separate
rooms with inmates holding their own keys (doors
are automatically locked at night). There was
a freedom of movement that seemed unbelievable
to me after Los Angeles and the Row-only someone
who's been without it can appreciate the luxury
of letting sunlight fall on your face.
I was placed in Building #7, a unit for psychiatric
cases, and put to work in the dining room. Eventually
I found a much better job in the psychiatric department
as a clerk. I kept records, made labels, and arranged
distribution of medication from the pharmacy that
was beyond a locked door just behind my work area.
I never had access to the drugs themselves, and
my superiors liked me and trusted me, but in late
spring of the next year the San Francisco Chronicle
ran an article stating that Charles "Tex"
Watson, the drug-crazed Manson killer, was handing
out dangerous drugs in his job at the California
Men's Colony. The article was based on a misunderstanding
of my work, but pretty soon a directive came down
from the head of the Department of Corrections
that I was to be moved. I ended up as clerk for
the head psychiatric nurse.
It is the generally held opinion of inmates and
staff alike (except for the staffs of psychiatric
units) that most of the psychological work done
in prisons is a waste of time and money. Despite
the occasional case of real help and improvement
for a particular individual, the psychiatric system
as it presently exists within correctional institutions
is a classic example of man's trying to solve
his moral and ethical and spiritual problems (which
modern thinking likes to tag "psychological"
because it sounds more scientific) without turning
to the only real Source of moral and spiritual
renewal. To put it more positively, I am convinced
that only Jesus Christ can rehabilitate men and
women who, for whatever complex of reasons, have
made choices that led them into crime. Even those
who do not share my view of the answer admit that
the problem exists, however.
The prisoner is caught in a bind. Attendance
at group therapy and active participation in whatever
"game" the psychologist may come up
with are imperative, because such participation
is necessary for a good board report when you
come up for parole. Thus, by his participation,
the prisoner is blackmailed into supporting and
helping to maintain a bureaucratic system that
does little or nothing for him. Not surprisingly,
cynicism is widespread among inmates, and even
the newest and most naive prisoner soon learns
the particular jargon and poses that will get
him a good report from his shrink.
It didn't take me long to figure out how to play
the game. I spent three and a half years in group
therapy with a psychologist who was eventually
fired from the staff for supplying some prisoners
with drugs in exchange for sex. Obviously this
one experience, or even the general attitude of
one institution, should not write off the efforts
of a whole profession, but I believe that until
we admit the spiritual roots of many of our so-called
psychological problems, we will never change the
present patterns of recidivism that our penal
system produces.
Over the next two years, my life at the Colony
settled into something probably as comfortable
as prison life can ever be. Along with having
a job I liked, I'd started making wooden toys
and hobby crafts after an old man across the hall
loaned me some tools. I was good at it and ended
up with a huge tool chest and a long stream of
projects for my family and friends. There was
something very good about using my hands again
to build things and make them perfect down to
the last detail.
Along with my work, there was Freda. Shortly
after I was transferred down to the Colony I wrote
to her in Germany and mentioned that the visiting
situation here was much better than it had been
at any other institution-a lounge with sofas and
chairs and the opportunity for real conversation
and even physical contact. A month or two later
she flew back from Germany and got an apartment
in Los Angeles. Every weekend she'd hitchhike
the two hundred and some miles up the coast to
visit me. When her visa expired, she went back
to Europe for a short time but then returned with
a lifetime visa and the idea of marrying me, even
though I was serving a life sentence. Whatever
I thought of the marriage plans, it felt good
to have somebody to love.
If Freda's company wasn't enough, my parents
flew out and spent a week with me each year, the
three of us staying together in one of the trailers
on the grounds, almost like a normal family.
Everything was good. Maybe too good. Shortly
after I was transferred to the Colony I stopped
reading my Bible and praying. Perhaps it had all
just been "jailhouse religion," after
all. I didn't really care whether it was or not.
All I cared about was making my life as comfortable
as possible as long as I had to be in-and finding
a legal approach to get me out.
Every one of my parents' letters closed with
a paragraph of spiritual counsel that I came to
call "The Jesus Letter" and never read.
When Bill Boyd suggested in one of his notes that
I consider memorizing Scripture, I thought he'd
gone crazy. Unless he could spring me, I was too
busy with work and the toys and Freda and plans
for a new appeal to think too much about God.
The vision in the hospital room that had seemed
to be such a turning point started to fade into
the rest of my past, just one more fragment of
unrelated dreaming-done, finished with.
But God refused to be put off so easily.
(Will You Die For Me? Copyright 1978, by Ray
Hoekstra. Published by Cross Roads Publications,
Inc. All Rights Reserved.)
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