Free Death Row Breakout by Edward Bunker Page A

looked down upon us. Ahead was the arch of the Big Yard gate, atop of which was yet another rifleman.
    The Big Yard was enclosed by three cell-houses and the mess halls and kitchen. The high cell-houses closed out all but a patch of sunlight. Except for a few of the cleanup crew, the Big Yard was empty of convicts.
    The entrance to Condemned Row #1 was through the North Cell-House rotunda. An open steel door on the left provided entrance into the cell-house. Another steel door, locked tight, was straight ahead. Beyond that door was an elevator and stairway to Condemned Row. A door next to the elevator was to the overnight condemned cells where those scheduled to die in the morning were moved the night before their execution.
    One of the escorts pressed a buzzer to summon the elevator. As we rode it to the top, a bell rang to herald our arrival. At the top, a pair of eyes looked us over through a small observation window. Seconds later, the key turned and the door opened.
    Three guards waited inside. Two were young, and one was a true rookie, still wearing khakis instead of the standard olive twill. The third was Sergeant Blair, and his presence surprised me. “Hey, Sarge, what’re you doin’ up here?”
    “Just for a couple days. I work vacation relief. Sorry to see you here, Troy. Never would have thought it.”
    “Things get away from you, Sarge.”
    The escort sergeant handed Blair the paperwork and waited while Blair leaned on the shakedown table and signed them. I could look down the walkway in front of the cells. Perhaps a dozen men were out of their cells for exercise. At the far end a blanket was spread on the polished concrete floor for a card table. Four men sat cross-legged and played while two more kibitzed. Near the front was a heavy punching bag, and the only man familiar to me was slamming a gloved fist into it. He was muscular and handsome, with silky, ebony skin. The bag jumped when his fist landed. I think he was borderline retarded, or perhaps just very poorly educated. Out of Compton, someone had taken him to Santa Monica to rob a white kid who was peddling cocaine and marijuana. Richards, for that was his name, almost immediately shot the youth between the eyes. In the jail he looked up to me, and I felt sorry for him.
    “All right in there, clear the tier,” a guard called out.
    “Hey, exercise isn’t over.”
    “You’ve got one coming in. So grab a hole.”
    The inmates went into their cells and the guard dropped the security bar, then went inside and key-locked each cell. He could do it without breaking stride. When he was done, he waved and the security bar went back up.
    “C’mon, Cameron,” said Sergeant Blair.
    With the Sergeant beside me, we went through the gate onto the tier. I noticed that, on the other side of the bars and wire beside us, walked the guard with the pistol and tear-gas sap. The guard with the key waited, holding an open cell gate. It was three cells from the bars and gate to the rear. Beyond the gate were ten more cells. Each had an extension jutting out three feet. There was a solid oak door with a tiny window. With the door closed, anyone who screamed was welcome to do so until laryngitis silenced him.
    Someone in a silent cell was aware of us out here. The outer door of his cell began to thud, and a muffled voice came through the cracks. “Sarge! Damn, Sarge, lemme talk to you.”
    “Shit…” Blair muttered, simultaneously shaking his head and sticking the big key in the lock.
    Clank
, the key turned, the bolt shot across, and I was locked very securely in my death-row cage. Twelve-feet long, four-feet wide. On the rear wall was a cast metal fixture – a washbasin with a water faucet that drained internally into the toilet bowl on the bottom. It was prison architecture at its most ingenious. About five-feet high across the rear wall were two metal shelves for personal property.
    Along the side wall was the sagging bunk with its blue and white striped