FYI's: According to the U.S. Department of Justice, 6.3 million people were on probation, in jail or prison, or on parole at the end of 1999–3.1% of all U.S. adult residents.

In 1999, state and federal prison authorities had under their jurisdiction 1,366,721 inmates while local jails held or supervised 687,973 persons awaiting trial or serving a sentence.

At the end of 1999 there were 3,408 sentenced black male inmates per 100,000 black males in the United States, compared to 1,335 sentenced Hispanic male inmates per 100,000 Hispanic males and 417 white male inmates per 100,000 white males. Overall, an estimated 476 prison inmates per 100,000 U.S. residents–up from 292 at year’s end 1990.

 

INTRO:

BY KEVIN SITES

Once he knows you are out there he will try to land you. He did me. He studies newspapers like they are escape routes. Collects names and bylines like butterflies. Then he writes. Writes like the rest of us breathe. Almost without volition. And these are not pathetic ransom notes scrawled in crayon and desperation. They are four- to six-page typed affairs with tight construction, subject-verb agreement, and Martha Stewart’s eye for detail. He tells you his story. Tells you he is innocent. Asks for your help. Asks you to visit him. Asks you again. And again. And again. And again. After a while it is no longer his guilt you feel. It is yours.

Tito David Valdez, Jr. is a born salesman. He knows it is a numbers game. He has spent roughly 2,555 days behind bars. But the time has not been squandered. By his own estimation, he has written over 10,000 letters. Letters are the bait he trolls with. Trolling for lawyers. Trolling for journalists. Trolling for women. Trolling for pen pals, visitors, anyone. Saul Bellow wishes he were this prolific. He writes like a Nascar driver, burning up the machinery beneath him. His first word processor gave out in two years. This one doesn’t have long.

He has written to everyone from Martin Sheen to Jimmy Buffett to David Weyrich to me. Anyone who might help. Anyone who , with a letter or a visit can dissolve the walls that surround him. Some answer him. Most do not. Still, his fingers walk where his body cannot. Like native dancers, they conjure endless rain clouds of type until some, soaked and tired, finally shout into the downpour, "What is it that you want from me?"

Valdez knows this is what it takes to get a person on the outside to listen to one on the inside. To get you to stop thinking about your life for a moment and think about his. Maybe even get you to stop driving by the miles of concertina wire along Highway 1. To face your fear of so many "bad" people in one place and see what it is like inside the California Men’s Colony. The place where he lives. The place where he is serving 25 years to life for conspiracy to commit murder (no murder was actually carried out).

* * *

Valdez is not a scary gangster. Never been in a gang. Looks more accountant than criminal. At CMC inmates call him "Big Dave" even though he’s just 5 feet 9 inches tall and slender. He says it is because of the way he carries himself. Upright. "Living large," he says, despite the gravity of the place. Neatly groomed. Prison blues always pressed. Finding hope in a world so regulated that getting caught masturbating can earn you extra time.

He never had a criminal record before his conviction in 1994. Was a DJ in the Southern California rave scene. Had a radio program and hosted a public access TV show in Downey called "Hollywood Haze." Attended college. Local papers called him a community leader. A rising star.

Then these events: Court documents say Valdez used a contact to hire a hit man. Someone to kill a witness in a pending case against him. The contact turned out to be an FBI informant. There was a wiretap. On it, the informant testified that Valdez says, "Simple as that, just whack her, bro."

The informant also testified that Valdez’s father paid for the gun to be used in the hit. Tito David Valdez Sr. and Jr. were both convicted. Entered prison life together. Father and son. Because they are considered co-conspirators they are in separate prisons. Not allowed to see each other. Cannot communicate. Even by letter. For a man who lives by the written word, this kind of punishment is killing him. Apparently his father too. But in a different way. Both father and son say they are innocent. The informant has a criminal record.

So that’s his story. So far. Naturally, we are predisposed to look for context before doling out empathy. Unconditional concern is for saints…or suckers. We want, need to make judgments about the morality of individuals before we invest in them. So in this case, you ask yourself: What if he’s guilty? Why should I care?

I asked myself those questions after Valdez started writing me last January. He saw my byline here. His letters were both relentlessly hopeful and just plain relentless. Signed, "Sincerely, David" and punctuated with a smiley face.

He has a motive. He wants me to spring him. He has read about Prof. David Protess of Northwestern University and his eager band of journalism students. Their investigations turned up new evidence. Freed men from death row. He has also seen Oliver Platt do it on TV. He’s looking for the local equivalent. I told him, not interested. Not my gig. I have a different motive.

* * *

As a journalist I covered the law-and-order beat. Spent time looking at crime scene photos, murder victims, aftermath. Things you cannot take back once you have seen them. I am not outraged by the idea of incarceration. I want bad guys behind bars (although not everyone behind bars should be there–look at the LAPD Rampart scandal).

But I also know this one thing: While we have the highest incarceration rate in the world, almost two million people in jails or prison, most of us are wholly ignorant about our penal institutions. What we do know of prison life seems mostly to come from movies. Dark fables. Society’s worst mixed together in a jungle of concrete and steel. An evil nightmare where brutality rules and no kindness goes unpunished. A place where a man must pass his years dodging shanks and penises, pulling loose from the gantlet of damned souls determined to strip him of whatever he has left of value.

A society willing to incarcerate this many people has to know more than the Hollywood version. We cannot afford to check our collective brains at the prison gate. We need the details. How is the concept of punishment being applied on our behalf? Physically? Psychologically?

In the California Men’s Colony Valdez has his own TV. Also a radio. Can buy ice cream and cookies. Even has the key to his own cell. CMC is considered easy time. But is there such a thing? Should prisoners be made miserable? Eliminate every conceivable comfort to demonstrate without ambiguity the difference between inside and out? Or is simply losing the right to self-determination a punishment greater than we can ever imagine?

CMC holds 8,000 prisoners. It is the size of Pismo Beach. Yet most of us don’t know a single resident. Have no idea of the daily machinations of this multimillion-dollar institution set within our community, but outside our mind-set. So when Valdez began trolling for me–I bit.

I asked him to keep a journal. Not to plead his case but as an observer. To walk us through the real estate and relationships behind the wire. Someone to take us inside the place to which we send so many, yet where we most fear to go ourselves. He has mailed me more than 70 pages…so far.

Tito David Valdez, Jr. is California Men’s Colony Inmate No. J-52660. These are some excerpts from his prison diaries, written this year from early August to late November. We will run more excerpts in next week's New Times. These have been minimally edited. These are his words.

Kevin Sites covered law and order as a producer for NBC Nightly News. He teaches broadcast journalism at Cal Poly.

DIARIES:

Behind the cold gray cement walls, the barbed wire fences, beyond the guard towers, I live in a small 6-foot by 9-foot prison cell. My prison number is J-52660, my name is Tito David Valdez, Jr. I am 29 years old.

I'd like to share my journal in hopes that you can gain better insight into prison life. Into the prisoner experience. As you read this journal try to put yourself in my shoes, feel the emotions, picture the scenes…in your mind.

Monday, 10:22 p.m.

Today I observed a young Mexican-American inmate who just arrived on the yard. He had a shaved head, baggy pants, white T-shirt. He was nervous. He looked about 18. It was obvious this was his first time in prison just by the way he moved around, cautious, always looking around with his eyes. Fortunately he has little to fear here at CMC. Unlike other places.

My mind drifted off to the day when I first entered state prison. I arrived on a bus at New Folsom on Aug. 4, 1995. The bus ride itself was intimidating. I was dressed in a paper jumpsuit, not allowed to wear socks or underwear, my feet and hands were shackled. There was a guard in the back of the bus with a shotgun in his hand. Two other armed guards sat in the front.

There were 30 of us on the bus and we weren’t allowed to talk or even whisper. Nothing. The driver did put on the oldies station and I remembered hearing the James Brown song, "This is a Man’s World."

The bus was filled with really tough-looking guys. Criminals with bald heads and tattoos all over their heads and arms, men of every race who looked this way. I didn’t see any regular guys like me, who didn’t have the prison look. There was one white guy who was locked up by himself in a cage. The guy next to me said it was because he was either a snitch or a homosexual.

The guy next to me was Mexican-American too, a 34-year-old gang member from the Harbor area of Southern California. He was only about 5 feet 5 inches tall, but very buff. The name tattooed on his forearm was "Dog."

At New Folsom we got off the bus and were strip-searched, given new state-issue prisoner blues, then sent off to a cell block designated for orientation inmates.

Dog said that we would be locked down for 10 days until they could classify us and send us to the yard. Dog and I ended up cellmates. This was his fifth time in prison so he knew what to expect. I didn’t know anything, so Dog took the time to school me on convict codes and rules.

I thought some of them were stupid, but he told me if I didn’t follow them, I was sure to get in trouble. For example, there was a code among convicts that each man must clean the cell floor three times a day by wetting a dry towel, lathering it up with soap and wiping the floor, sink, and toilet area so they are always clean. I still follow this rule, even at CMC.

Another convict code was that whatever one inmate "scores" he must share it with his cell partner out of respect. Even though we were locked down, Dog schooled me on getting things. Through a small crack in the door, he was able to send "kites" (notes) to other inmates whom he knew on the yard. They were able to send us things like soup, chips, writing paper, stamps, coffee, smokes, etc. We didn’t have to promise to repay this stuff back, since it’s also a convict code that new inmates are taken care of when they arrive, at least those inmates who have a gang affiliation or come from a certain area. We were both considered "Southern Mexicans," from Los Angeles.

Over the course of 10 days, I learned a lot, but had still not experienced the prison yard. When I finally went to my classification hearing, prison officials told me this:

"Mr. Valdez, there will be men who will try to rape you, extort you, who will beat you up for no reason. Since you are not a gang member, if you have any problems, you come to us, let staff know. If you don’t, you can find yourself being murdered."

I left that hearing literally shaking. Dog told me that they tell you that stuff to scare you. He said you never go to staff with a problem or you will be labeled a snitch, a rat. You always deal with your problems on your own, or you talk to the inmate who runs the yard, the shot-caller.

That afternoon we were finally let out of our cells. Dog invited me to meet some of the homies from his area on the yard. I remember walking down the corridor that led to the prison yard, stepping into the sun for the first time. All of a sudden a loud bell rang and a voice came over the intercom, "GET DOWN, ALL INMATES, GET DOWN!"

Everyone around me dived to the floor while guards ran from all directions past us. As I looked up from the floor, I saw four blacks piled on top of another inmate. While the officers subdued the four, I saw their victim lying in a pool of blood.

The victim was taken away on a gurney, then the voice on the intercom again: "ALL INMATES OTHER THAN BLACK, REPORT TO YOUR HOUSING UNIT."

About 500 inmates, including us, got up and started walking toward our cell blocks. We were all strip-searched before we were allowed to go back in.

From a window I could see about 300 black inmates still on the ground being strip-searched one by one. Back in our cell, Dog gave me the scoop.

"That inmate they hit was no good. He owed a lot of money and didn’t pay it back," Dog told me. "The mayates (blacks) will be locked down for about a week, but we’ll be off lockdown by tonight. We’ll be walking to chow tonight."

As I lay on my top bunk, I couldn’t believe what I just saw. Four inmates stabbing another. I was only 25 years old and was living among killers. When chow time came I didn’t even want to step out of the cell, fearing the unexpected, not knowing whom I could trust. Could I even trust Dog?

Then the cell door slid open.

Friday, 10:34 p.m.

Today seemed like such a long day. When you anticipate an event, time drags by. My mom will be coming to see me tomorrow. I haven't seen her in eight months. She lives four and a half hours from this prison and she works six days a week to support herself and my brother. I know I will have a hard time sleeping tonight.

I imagine all the trouble she will have gone through on her journey from Los Angeles to San Luis Obispo. She must get up at 3:30 a.m., get ready and begin her trip by 4:30 a.m. in order to be in line by 9 a.m.

I worry about her. I know all the possibilities exist–car trouble, a flat tire, anything can happen. Then I think of her having to wait in line to go through the search.

* * *

Just a few minutes ago the news showed students at UCSB at a frat party that got busted by the police. I was wondering where I would be tonight, a Friday night. Would I be walking on the beach with Bonnie [a friend Valdez writes to], hanging out with my friends at the local pool hall, or dancing the night away at a club? I feel like just going to the beach right now. My soul yearns for freedom, but I am stuck inside this coffin. I can't roam the prison, the halls–the doors are locked. It's like being on restriction inside your room when you were a teenager. No phone, no outside contact. I'm alone.

I have a cell partner, but we don't communicate. We are great roommates, but we have nothing in common. We have lived without conversation for about a year.

I wonder a lot how my dad is doing. Does he live with a cellmate he gets along with? Does he experience what I experience? Does he think of me often, what I am doing?

I have found that I have to repress my emotions while in prison, especially about my father. It hurts me to think he is living in his own ventilated coffin right now. That he probably feels hungry, is craving an ice-cold beer. Does he have something to look forward to tomorrow?

I am not able to write him due to prison rules; we were denied correspondence based on being "co-conspirators." This is why we are housed in different prisons. Someday, I hope, the rules will change. I would really enjoy being housed in the same cell as he is. Prison life would be a lot better having Dad around.

Tomorrow, I'll be face to face with my mom and brother.

Saturday 4:34 p.m.

When I got up this morning, I was very excited. I was looking forward to seeing my mother and brother on a visit. I took a shower, shaved, put on my best prison blues, all ironed and pressed with a splash of cologne.

It was 9:15 a.m. when I was all ready and started to listen for my name to be called on the prison intercom system. I was getting anxious, my palms were sweating, it had been eight months since I last saw my mom and brother. With each visit, I noticed a few more white hairs and a few more wrinkles on my 56-year-old mom. Of course, I didn't mention these things, but I noticed them.

It was already 10:30 a.m. and I was getting nervous. On past visits my name was usually paged by 10 a.m., 10:15 a.m. at the latest. But, this time, no page. I decided to walk over to the visiting building. Maybe she had problems getting in, maybe they were told to change clothing.

I asked the officer on duty if he had any paperwork on Valdez J-52660. He said no, but I could wait along with the rest of the men.

I started to feel the same anger, frustration, helplessness. In prison, we are programmed to receive, to accept what happens. We have no control over what happens. It’s not like we can grab a phone and call our family or wife to find out why they didn’t show up. Phone calls are given every three days in prison. One phone call,15 minutes maximum.

It was already 11:05 a.m. and I knew that she wasn't coming. I could only imagine what may have happened. Could the car have broken down? Could they have overslept? Could something bad have happened?

My phone call isn’t until Monday so I have two days to think about it. I walked back to my cell and passed several of the dressed-up inmates still waiting to hear their names called. There are always inmates who don’t get visits who will "clown" (make fun of) the inmates who are waiting anxiously.

"Hey your old lady is out with Sancho, she don't love you anymore!"

When I entered my cell, I took off my clothes and put on my shorts, got comfortable. I felt sad. I started to think how people in free society don't understand the value of a visit. They tell prisoners time and time again they will show up on a certain date, and then they don't show up. They don’t know an inmate has to listen for his name to be called, he gets ready, he is looking forward to the visit. Some people think, "Well, it’s not like he is going anywhere…we can go see him next week."

Sunday, 10:21 p.m.

In prison it's not good to be popular. The more people you associate with or talk to, the better the odds you may find yourself caught up in something or get into trouble. In prison, to do one’s "own time" with few associates is one way to stay out of trouble.

In prison, most conversations between prisoners are about the past or the future. The present is usually not a topic. It seems like life stops at the time of the arrest and incarceration. The time of incarceration until the release date is like being in a black hole. Like a dream.

The prisoner’s personality becomes bitter, angry, hopeless, depressed. That’s why there are so many religious programs in prison. Religion, for many, is just another escape from reality. To keep their eyes on obtaining something in the future (heaven or enlightenment) for suffering now. To others, excessive smoking becomes a way to cope with prison; to still others, excessive coffee-drinking. And pornography is another addiction.

I stayed out on the yard until 7:45 p.m. I had to lock up in my

cell for count time [when the guards count inmates]. I was back in the coffin, wondering what to do next. Should write a letter, watch television, read, listen to the radio? I find myself sometimes with too much time on my hands.

As I sit down, writing now, I feel sad. Tomorrow will be the start of a new week. I’ll be looking forward to my phone call to call my mom to see why she didn't show up for the visit. Hopefully, I will get mail tomorrow, mail always seems to cheer me up. I've been in prison seven years already, and have many more years to go if my appeal is not granted. How will I cope with this reality? Will I become institutionalized, like some men? Or can I stay strong and keep my dignity, my pride, my honor, despite living in such a lonely place?

Monday, 6:02 p.m.

I called my mother at 3:45 p.m. to find out why she didn't show up for the visit. She said her car was not running right, so she didn't want to risk driving up here four hours from Los Angeles and having it break down. She doesn't know when she will have time to come visit me. At least I know she is doing okay. I was worried the last two days, not knowing what happened.

Wednesday, 11:34 p.m.

The California Men’s Colony has the second-smallest cells in the entire California system (San Quentin has the smallest). The cells here are really designed for one person, but due to overcrowding in the system, the prison was forced to add "X" beds that come off the wall on chains.

Two people cannot stand up at the same time. The toilet is about one foot from the head of the X bed when it is down, thus using the bathroom at night interferes with the air space of the person who is sleeping on the X bed.

If I look to my right while laying down, my cell partner’s bed is right next to me, but lowered a little bit since I have the top bunk. At night we are so close that I can hear his snoring very loud, I can even smell his breath.

* * *

In the movie "Scarface," Al Pacino tells a big-time drug dealer, "Todo que yo tengo es mi palabra y mis huevos" ("All I have is my word and my balls"). I didn’t understand the significance of that statement until I came to prison. Living among criminals, a person’s word is all they have. If a guy borrows a pack of smokes, he better pay it back. I have seen men not keep their word with others and end up in the prison infirmary.

Respect is what everyone wants in prison. Living in such small quarters with a cell partner, it is easy to be disrespectful, since one small action can lead someone else into a state of fury.

For instance, it is disrespectful to fart while a person is eating or drinking. It is more disrespectful to urinate while someone is eating or drinking. With some inmates a rule is laid out that farting is eliminated from the cell completely. If someone has to pass gas you sit down on the toilet and flush. This eliminates the horrible smell from taking over the cell.

Thursday, 10:02 p.m.

I've not written for two days since I had an experience Tuesday

which shocked me. I'm a bit ashamed of what transpired and find it very difficult to put on paper.

At lunch time on Tuesday, I was approached by a newly arrived homosexual inmate. He just came from the reception center and asked me for a light. I don't smoke so I didn’t have a lighter. The homosexual took the opportunity to introduce himself to me and shook my hand.

"Hi, I'm Brenda," he said.

The homosexual wasn't the gay-boy type or masculine type. Brenda had long blond hair, a very clean, clear white complexion, green eyes, very feminine facial features, nice full collagen-filled lips–overall, very attractive. These types of homosexuals are referred to as "queens."

Brenda gave me the same look that I get from women sometimes in the visiting room. That twinkle of the eye, a look of lust, passion, of interest, it said, "I want you."

Although I knew Brenda was a man, I felt an attraction. My mind drifted off and brought back memories of lying naked with a woman, her soft touch, running her fingers through my hair, the passion of a night of lovemaking. I envisioned myself with Brenda, the cuddling, the warm embrace, the sensual kisses.

Brenda was an illusion. He was not a real woman!

I quickly erased those thoughts and finished shaking Brenda’s hand and walked away.

I took a few laps around the track and wondered how my mind could have even gone in that direction. Was it because I've been in prison for seven years already? If I would have given in to her lustful invitation, would I have sacrificed my morals, my ethics, and my reputation over a few moments of possible pleasure? Could there be pleasure knowing this was a man?

I don’t have anything against gay/ lesbian people. I just don’t engage in that behavior, it’s not my preference.

I watched Brenda as he walked the yard and many men ran to "her" like dogs in heat. In just two hours, Brenda had somehow obtained new tennis shoes, was eating a pint of ice cream, drinking a soda, and had an audience of men around her.

There were men fighting over who would move her into their cell. For some men who crave human affection, Brenda will serve that purpose, [and] it will end up a two-sided relationship.

* * *

Sometimes I get so caught up in letter-writing that I think I’m on the streets as a free man. I close my eyes at night before I fall asleep, but when I open them again, reality sets in.

There was a time in 1998 when I was deeply depressed. I had few visitors, few pen pals. I was uplifted by the compassion of a local KCPR disc jockey. Her name was Melissa.

Music can uplift anyone’s soul and she uplifted my spirit when I was at my lowest point. She played my requests every week during her Monday night ’80s show. Each Monday night I looked forward to her saying my name, playing a favorite Depeche Mode song or a song from the Cure, the Smiths, OMD. All I had to do was send her my request by mail each week.

Although I never met her, or even established any pen pal friendship, she touched me deeply. When she graduated in 1999, I sent her a flower and a graduation card in appreciation. Since she was going to move on, I'd never hear her voice again.

Later, when I tuned into KCPR 91.3 FM, no one show or personality could match Melissa. The loss of that personality in my life made me stronger. I couldn't use anyone for a crutch. I had to learn not to rely on other people to make me happy, but on myself. I learned not to put expectations on people. To accept events as they transpired.

I use that philosophy today and it has worked very well. Æ

You can address correspondence to:Tito David Valdez, J-52660, CMC East, Cell 3119x, P.O. Box 8101, San Luis Obispo CA 93409-8101. For additional information or to become a prison pen pal, log on to www.inmate.com.