The Children of Sanchez (43 page)

After drill, anyone who wanted to could go to his cell. Or you could go to the courtyard and walk up and down like a caged lion, just back and forth. I was one of those lions.

At noon, they blow assembly for another rollcall. After that, you got your ration, usually beans, rice, stew and bread. I believe the stew was made of horse meat, though they said it was beef. Anyway, the noon meal was a little better. They blew assembly again for work or three more hours of drill. Then back to the cell blocks.

At six in the evening they blow another assembly to take down the flag. After that comes mess call. Evening rations consisted of coffee with milk, or corn gruel and bread. Back to the cell blocks, later, a bolt came down and all the cells were locked.

Taps were sounded at nine o’clock, but before that the “oil workers” get busy, though actually they operate all day long. They are the dope pushers. They walk around on the sly, like they were selling cigarettes or candy. “Get your fag for a
peso
,” or maybe two
pesos
. The men say, “Pssst!” just like they call any ordinary peddler. “Let’s have one. What kind is it?”

“Pure goat.”

“Sure it’s goat?”

“Sure thing. It’s a lamb’s tail.”

While they’re still lined up, even in the daytime, the prisoners start delousing the marijuana, that is, taking out the seeds. And they
roll their cigarettes with wrapping paper and smoke like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Well, not too openly, just a bit under cover, on account of the guards.

It was pretty bad; it’s hard to describe. No matter how much I try, I fall short. You have to go through it yourself or at least see it to know what it’s like. The gangs operating inside the prison are the worst I’ve ever seen, because they are made up of people who don’t care any more if they are free or in jail, whether they murder or get murdered, see? To join one of these gangs, you have to have two or three scalps under your belt. These gangs are organized inside the prison, but even when the members are released they get together on the outside, to commit all sorts of crimes.

The leader of the gang doesn’t take just anybody, and no one can go up and ask him. He does the picking to suit himself, quietly. He’ll talk with one fellow and then another; and even though the prisoners won’t tell the police anything, because they’d get killed if they did, they talk freely among themselves about what each fellow did. In this way, the leader gets a line on everybody, and when he decides to ask someone to join, you can be sure he’s the meanest in the bunch.

There was no gang in my cell, but I found out about them because I used to be a “
chícharo
,” a sweeper in the prison barber shop. And then I worked in the bakery. The worst types worked in the bakery. The fellow who was my boss was one of the biggest gang leaders, see? although he never bothered anybody, because that’s the way these gang leaders are—a leader through and through, never says anything, except when he’s doped up and his mind gets weak. That’s when he begins to do damage.

I used to hear them talking about the gangs, understand? One time the boys said to my boss, “Listen, send this kid out.”

“No, you can speak openly in front of him, he’s on the level. He handled himself O.K. when Aurelio tried to knife him.” This conversation took place when he was first considering me for the job, understand? So they said, “All right, kid, you keep mum about anything you hear in this place.”

“Sure, O.K.” Actually, I don’t think I heard anything important. The boys used such high-powered
caló
that sometimes I couldn’t make out the words, understand? At that time they were planning a break, but it never came off.

The gangs were the bosses not only of the prisoners, but even of the guards and the guard captain. Why, one of them controlled the head warden. That’s going pretty far, isn’t it? A prisoner actually did, and his name was the Frog. He’s a fellow who killed 132 or 134 people. He was a soldier in the infantry, as I remember, and once when he was on duty there was some kind of a student riot. People still don’t know exactly how it happened but he started firing his machine gun on the crowd of students. He killed students like you strike down flies, sweeping the students with his machine gun. He was responsible for over a hundred deaths, in addition to which he killed a crook and a guard in prison.

It wasn’t just a rumor, about the Frog controlling the head warden, understand? He walked about freely throughout the prison and if the head warden came by, the Frog was the one who walked in front. And if the Frog didn’t like something—well, suppose he figured something should be done for the prisoners, he’d say, “This has to be fixed.” He’d say it as if he were thinking out loud, so the head warden could hear him, and carry out the orders.

I had various dealings with the Frog. I used to steal for him when I worked in the bakery. I stole lard, brushes and, well, I didn’t steal the warden’s mother because she never came, right? Of course, I delivered the stuff to him, and he always paid me something. I don’t say I’m proud of it, but the way things were I had to do it, if I didn’t they’d treat me like I was the biggest “
prima
” there, understand? “
Primo
” means shit-heel in swear language.

So I turned it over to the Frog, because he had a shop right inside the prison. He sold cigarettes and other things. Even if a prisoner didn’t have drag with the head warden, if he had money he could set up his own little shop, understand? Although you have to pay through the nose to do it, you can get permission. There’s two brothers with plenty of money who run the Juana restaurant right inside the prison. They say it’s the best restaurant in Mexico.

As for the sex life, I tell you it’s the lowest kind of promiscuity, even though the homosexuals are separated from the men. The homosexuals have their section in the back part of the prison, see? These men, I don’t know what else to call them, have their section made up of wooden shacks, understand? And there’d be a fellow putting on lipstick in broad daylight, some would be washing, others sewing, others cooking, others making
tortillas
, others flirting.

Unfortunately, many fellows in prison are so corrupted, they’ve fallen so low, that when the desire comes over them and there’s no woman to relieve them, they bribe the guards with fifty
centavos
or a
peso
, to let them go to the “
jota
,” the homosexuals’ section. When he gets inside, well, you can imagine what happens. He picks the “girl” he likes best. They all go dressed like women, though whenever there’s an inspection, they dress like men. Those are the rules, see?

This homosexual business made a big impression on me. One day, the news released over the prison microphone was that one of the prisoners had been sent to Tres Marías for raping another prisoner, a boy of eighteen. There used to be women in the Penitentiary, in a section apart. No one could go there. Well, I shouldn’t say no one because a bribe goes a long way in prison. If you want to bribe a guard or two, you can get through. But this is at least more acceptable because you were going to have relations with a woman, right?

I never got to visit any woman in jail because I always ran into difficulties. Besides, it was a big risk; if they caught you bribing a guard and leaving your section they put you in solitary confinement in Tres Marías. Tres Marías is a round prison, with just one floor, so that the cells are in the form of a triangle. Only half the cell is covered by a roof. When it rains, well, you can imagine how terribly wet and cold it gets there, especially at night. During the day you can be in the sun, or in the shade, but you don’t have the right to smoke, or to have a blanket or anything.

When I had been in for a few months, I saw Ramón Galindo there in jail. I knew Ramón and his brothers since I was a kid, although he was older than I. They used to sell charcoal over on the Street of the Gardeners and were as poor as the rest of us. Then Ramón got hold of a bicycle and started a renting agency. I don’t know by what art he did it, though I can well imagine, but he built up his agency to quite a big thing. He was able to build a decent house and become a money lender. He loaned money at 20 percent interest a month, bought a car and was well set up.

I learned later that he had dealings with a lot of people from the underworld, whom he met in the local saloons. He used to be quite a drinker; they would often find him stretched out dead drunk in the street, until one day he swore never to touch another drop. He kept his word and things went well with him from then on. He began
to buy “hot” articles very discreetly from his safer friends and overnight he became one of the richest men in the neighborhood.

He was in jail for having killed a taxi driver in a street fight. When I met him he had already become a prison instructor in personal defense. I don’t know how he managed it, but later he became the head of all the prisoner personnel and ended up closely tied to the head of the Secret Service. In fact, when he got out he became a Secret Service agent and his sons are now policemen. It was pretty neat, because he continued to be a buyer of stolen goods. I know this very well, for I became his right arm.

Well, that’s the way things went in prison for the seven months I was there. I learned something concerning friends during that time. Those on the outside who claimed to be my friends when I had money and who followed me wherever I went, didn’t take the trouble to visit me, understand? When I had hard luck, I don’t remember a single one who even sent regards with my family. I found out there are very few real friends in this world.

When I least expected it, they released me. They had taken me to court in the
Julia
many times, and finally confronted me with the two park guards. The day I was set free, I was in court, still barefoot, wearing a suit which was a real insult, a suit with stripes so you look like a zebra. My father and Marta were there. The lawyer told me that I was going to be set free because they had grabbed the guilty fellow. “So please excuse us,” said the judge.

I told him, “Sir, do you think that by saying ‘excuse me’ you are going to wipe out the seven months of suffering I’ve gone through here? And the moral suffering of my family, and the fact that I’m branded for the rest of my life?”

He said, “Now, don’t take it that way, because if you do, then you’ll stay.” So there was nothing for me to do but keep quiet. If I had gone on, I would have had a lot to tell the authorities. So I was free, with only an “excuse me” to send me on my way. “Excuse us, we’ve caught the guilty one.”

It cost my poor father 1,200
pesos
to get me free. He was robbed because my case was an easy one and the lawyer didn’t earn his fee. There was no material evidence against me and two of the “witnesses” contradicted the other three. I agree that when one commits a misdemeanor he should be punished, but I was falsely accused. Before
they committed this injustice to me, I believed in the law, but after that I didn’t if this is justice, then what is injustice!

Seven months they stole from my life! It is not that I’m bitter, but I hate everything that represents the law. The police and the Secret Service are just thieves with a license. For any little thing, they beat you. I’m always ready to face up to them, to tell them off. That’s why, when there is a strike or a riot, I join in, without asking what the demonstration is about, just to get a chance to beat the police. And when a policeman is killed, I’m not exactly happy but I feel he deserved what he got.

There is no law here, just fists and money, which is what counts most. It is the law of the jungle, the law of the strongest. The one who is economically strong can just laugh. He commits the worst crimes and is an innocent dove before the judges and the police because he has money to give out. But how differently it goes with a poor man who commits a minor offense! What happened to me isn’t a thousandth of what has happened and is still happening to others. I really don’t know what justice is because I’ve never seen it.

If there is a Hell, it is right there in the Penitentiary. I don’t wish my worst enemy to be in a place like that. Six boys from the Casa Grande spent time in jail, but only one of them was a real criminal. The others, like me, got into trouble through fighting and bad luck. I don’t mean to say that I didn’t deserve to be taught a lesson, because if I didn’t do what they accused me of, I have done other bad things. I’ve been a bad son, a bad brother, a bad drinker … I’m convinced I needed punishment, but I never stop complaining that they locked me up unjustly.

Mexico is my country, right? And I have a special, profound love for it, especially for the capital. We have a freedom of expression and above all, a freedom to do whatever we please, that I haven’t found elsewhere. I have always been able to earn my living better here … you can support yourself even by selling squash seeds. But regarding the Mexicans, well, I don’t have a good impression of them. I don’t know whether it is because I myself have behaved badly, but it seems to me that there is a lack of good will among them.

The law of the strongest operates here. No one helps the ones who fall; on the contrary, if they can injure them more, they will. If one is drowning, they push him under. And if one is winning out, they will pull him down. I’m not an intelligent person but at my work I
always came out on top … I earned more than my fellow workers. When they noticed it, they got me into trouble with the boss and pushed me out. And there is always someone who tells who robbed, who killed, who said what, or who was going bad.

Could it be for the lack of education? There are so many people who cannot even sign their names! They talk about constitutionalism … it is a pretty, resounding word, but I don’t even know what it means. For me, we live by violence … homicide, theft, assault. We live quickly and must be constantly on guard.

They let me out of prison at about two-thirty in the afternoon. I went straight to the Villa to thank the Virgin. I told my family of my vow to go to Chalma. It was not the time of the year for the Lord’s celebration and no one wanted to go. My aunt Guadalupe told me to keep my vow, so I went absolutely alone. This time I walked barefoot all the way from Santiago to Chalma, about thirty or thirty-five kilometers. I walked without stopping. The going was tough. The road was so muddy it felt like chewing gum and my feet sank and were scraped by the stones.