Stone City: Life In The Penitentiary

DISCLAIMER

This is a true story.

However, to protect the guilty who are still behind bars and therefore within the reach of retaliation from the authorities, a few of the names and identifying details have been changed. This disclaimer prevents any law enforcement agency, prosecutor, or corrections authorities from holding any specific person accountable for further punishment or incarceration for any of the acts described in this book. Some of the events or activities detailed here, for purposes of non-accountability, the author here asserts are embellished, and thus inadmissible to establish the truth of any matter herein asserted, in any court or correctional facility administrative proceedings.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

I apologize to my victims and their families. I am truly sorry for all the pain and trauma I've caused in your lives.

The effects of my actions do not stop with the pain I caused my victims. It wounded, and continues to wound, their families, their friends, my family, and my friends. I am very sorry for the ongoing heartache I've caused you all.

Part I: A History of Violence 1973-1994

Chapter 1: Yukon Jack and a Single Shot 12 Gauge

For legal purposes, I have chosen not to publish Chapter 1 of this ebook. However, you may read it online for free at:

https://stevenandsuzie.com/2014/02/18/chapter-1/

Chapter 2: Lucky Man

As I spent the next 13 months in the county jail waiting to go to prison for 43 years, the miracles from that night became clearer.

Believe it or not, everyone lived. I had no idea that Jeremy's shotgun shells were mixed; some were buckshot and others were birdshot. I was pulling rounds out of my pocket blindly, not knowing the difference. Turns out birdshot isn't as lethal. If I had shot buckshot at my victims instead of into the ceilings, I would have easily been charged with two or three counts of murder in the first degree. That would have meant the death penalty, or, at a minimum, life without parole.

I pled guilty to four counts of first degree assault. I'll be released when I'm around 56 years old, give or take a few years.

As amazing as it is that those partygoers are alive, it's just as amazing that I'm even alive. I dodged death three times that night:

1) If I wouldn't have left the basement when I did, James would have crept up on me and more likely than not would have blown my head off with his big ass .30-06.

2) I know I had six shotgun shells when I left Jeremy's house. But as I drove back to that party, one of them rolled off the front seat and into the map pocket of the passenger door. My mom found it a few weeks later, after she retrieved my car from the sheriff's impound lot and was vacuuming the interior.

3) Why didn't the cops shoot me? Why wasn't I ever ordered to drop my weapon and get on the ground? Why wasn't I shot when I was walking toward cop cars with a shotgun? If the cops would have yelled at me to drop the gun instead of sneaking up and tackling me, I would have turned and pointed my empty gun at them. That would have gotten me killed for sure.

Despite everything that happened, I couldn't help but to acknowledge how lucky I was. Lucky, and thankful. Lucky to be alive, and thankful that all of my victims lived.

When I was continually drunk, I couldn't care less about anything or anyone. But when I sobered up, I was a completely different person.

Once I was in jail, and forcibly sober, I started to realize how much of an asshole I was. I couldn't drown out this realization in alcohol. I was, and still am, forced to face it daily with a sober mind. I started to realize how many people loved me and cared about me—despite what I had just done.

I was in the county jail for 13 months before I was sent to prison. Visits were for one hour, three times per week. I always had visitors, my friends and family. Alcohol had blinded me to all the love that surrounded me in my life. I didn't see it then, but all of a sudden I could see it all too clearly. It was painful. It stung to be confronted with how many people I'd hurt.

It is simply gut-wrenching to watch your mother through the thick glass of a jail's visiting booth, sobbing with the knowledge that you will most likely be in prison until long after she's dead, knowing you will probably never give her grandchildren, believing your life is essentially over, all the while thinking she should have prevented it, somehow.

Most parents blame themselves when they have a child that ends up in prison. I know this is the case with my mother. But the facts are simple. If I would have listened to my mom, if I would have minded my mom, if I would have shown more respect to my mom, I wouldn't be in prison.

I was 20 years old when I committed my crimes. I was a legal adult; I should have known right from wrong. No one is to blame for my incarceration except myself. The bottom line is: I pulled the trigger. I made those decisions. I knew it was wrong. It's my fault. I am to blame. I wish I could take it back. I wish it every time I think about it. I did have to wonder, though, how I had become so reckless, so violent. Was I just born this way?

Chapter 3: Born and Bred

Me, 1973

My troubled life began in Oxnard, California, on July 16th, 1973. My mother came from a warm, loving family. They went to church on Sundays and sat down together for family dinners every night. She was raised in a non-violent, peaceful home.

My father, on the other hand, had a very different experience. Both of his parents were alcoholics. He grew up in a violent, abusive home. His father would beat him and his mother regularly. Maybe as a result, my father started to abuse drugs and alcohol at a young age. He was taught to deal with his problems with his fists—a fine family tradition he passed down to me.

I can remember as far back as first grade. I would come home crying from school because a few older kids used to pick on me daily. The bullying became a real problem. It got to the point that I didn't want to go to school anymore. I'd deliberately miss the bus and then sneak back into my house, only to be discovered by my mom and then driven to school.

One day my dad stayed home from work. As I came home crying, he saw first-hand my distress at being bullied. He wasn't pleased.

He took me into my room and took off his belt. As he yelled at me, he repeatedly smacked the dresser hard with his belt to make his points. His plan was to scare me more than those other kids ever could—and it worked.

He yelled, Are those boys bigger than me?

No.

Are they meaner than me?

No.

Well then, stop your crying before I really give you something to cry about, he shouted as he cracked his belt across the dresser.

As I feverishly attempted to wipe my eyes dry and stop sobbing, he told me, If you come home crying one more time, or miss your bus to school one more time, I'll use this belt on you like I just did to this dresser. Then he pressed down on my nose hard with his thumb. He said, You feel that? That's where you punch the next kid who tries to make you cry. Got it? I nodded vigorously.

For the rest of that day my dad taught me how to make a fist and throw a punch. He held up his hands and made me punch them again and again, praising me as my hits got harder. That part of the night turned out to be fun. Quality father/son time.

For the first time in my short life, I was ready to strike back. I learned that hitting was the only way to deal with my problems or fears or frustrations. And there was no way I was ever going to come home crying again; I had no choice but to strike back. That's what my dad taught me to do.

Me, at age 5...right around the time when my dad taught me to strike back.

The next day at school, the bullying continued. I simply walked up to the one kid who gave me the hardest time, and I punched him square in the face, hard. Instantly blood started to cascade from his nose.

I was as surprised as he was. I didn't know what to do or say, so I decided to hit him again. He turned and ran from me, so I chased him, with absolutely no idea what I'd do if I caught him. I chased the boy who sent me home crying so many times. It was gratifying, my first feeling of satisfaction from violence.

The first time I struck back was the last time any of those kids bullied me, and it was so easy. I felt proud of myself. I looked forward to hitting someone else.

The punishment imposed by the school was just as rewarding: I had to pick up playground trash during recess. I found this to be an opportunity to brag about my victory. I was getting positive attention I'd never gotten before, and I liked it.

At home, my dad was very proud of me. I got in no trouble at all. As a matter of fact, I got rewarded. He bought me some boxing gloves and a Mighty Mouse punching bag. My dad believed he was doing the right thing, but he had no idea he had unleashed a sense of empowerment that would become more fierce and volatile with every passing year. He had planted a seed. But I would water and weed it, and it would grow to bear bad fruit.

Soon after that seed was firmly planted, my mom left my dad. I lived with her, but she couldn't control me; no one could. I was constantly hitting and causing trouble.

School was a disaster. I started getting kicked out in the second grade. One teacher told my mom that if something didn't change, I'd end up in prison someday. Smart man.

From a young age, I was prison bound.

In the third grade, I enrolled in wrestling. My teachers and parents hoped wrestling would channel my aggression in a positive manner. But I didn't have firm discipline or sound guidance, so all wrestling did was teach me the skills to become even more dominant over my peers.

I grew up as the oldest of four. My mom also ran a daycare in our home, so I was constantly surrounded by smaller children. Whenever I didn't get my way, I'd hit the kids mom was watching. Everything they wanted to play with was mine, mine, mine. My mom, my house, my toys. I was a bossy little brat and became worse than the bullies who had once picked on me.

I was too much for my mom, a single parent raising four kids with no help from my dad. I wasn't taught to share. I wasn't taught to say please, I was told to say please. I wasn't taught to be good, I was told to be good. Whenever I didn't let my mother get her way, I was hit, then I was told not to hit to get my own way.

I was bad. She would hit me. I was a monster. She would hit me. Whenever the other kids didn't do exactly what I wanted, I'd hit them. They would go tell, then I'd get hit. It was a vicious cycle of beating.

My mom hated my dad, so at first, she wouldn't call him; she'd hit me instead. I started to hit back. We would fight. It did nothing to change my behavior. It made me worse. I would just hit more.

By the fifth grade, I could defend myself well against my mom. And the day I threw her off me was the last day she hit me.

Mom didn't know what to do, so she called my abusive dad. He'd come over and knock me around whenever I needed to be punished for something. This didn't change my behavior either; it just reinforced what I already knew. When he'd leave, I'd leave, even though I was officially grounded.

I ran wild. I'd go throw rocks at cars, fight other kids, steal things I wanted, and stay out until I wanted to go home. I played soccer and wrestled, but these were seasonal.

No rules. No curfew. No boundaries. No discipline. Ate whatever I wanted. I was spoiled rotten. I wanted a motorcycle, I got a motorcycle. By the sixth grade I was racing it all over the neighborhood.

All I did was get into trouble, then I'd come home and get hit. But I no longer feared being hit. I did what I wanted and had no regard for consequences.

In the seventh grade, I shot a kid with a BB gun. I was mad, so I shot him. The cops were called. They told my mom; maybe they thought that would fix the problem. Later that same day, I was out shooting at birds with my BB gun.

My mom would smoke pot in front of me. I'd steal buds from her stash and smoke them. I was ten years old when I started smoking pot. My brother was six. Today he's a crackhead. Maybe it's just a coincidence.

By the eighth grade I was permanently expelled from school and smoking pot daily. I continued to run wild. I had my motorcycle. I had a paper route. I had money. I played soccer. I wrestled, fought, stole, cheated, lied, ignored rules, broke the law, ran from the cops, broke into neighbors' houses, and then stole some more.

I had only a few friends, and all their parents hated me. I hated adults, so I avoided them.

In the ninth grade, I had a fresh start at a new school, high school. But I was the same. I wanted to sit in a seat that was already taken. I said, Move. He said, No. I grabbed him by the hair, punched him in the face, and threw him to the floor. I got the seat I wanted, and I got suspended for three days.

A month later, I was in gym class and got stuck on a bad volleyball team. Another kid was showboating, then rubbing it in. I punched him in the face and got suspended for seven days.

The wrestling coach told me if I had one more incident I would be off the team. I liked to wrestle. I was good at it. I got positive attention from it, which was a rare aspect of my life. So I stayed out of trouble, for a while.

The day after wrestling season was over, I punched a kid in the face during a gym class basketball game. That was in February. I was expelled for the rest of my freshman year.

I started to drink heavily and smoke more pot. My days were full of lying, stealing, breaking the law, running from cops, and burglarizing homes. I was a bad kid, but no one really knew how bad. No one really knew how dark my inner thoughts could be. That, and I didn't get caught for everything I did.

My first time getting locked up was for two days. Since I was expelled and not going to school, I was running wild, committing petty crimes for fun. I broke into a Frito Lay delivery truck, stole a couple of boxes of chips, and got caught trying to bring them home on my bicycle. The judge gave me two days detention, and my dumbass thought it was cool.

My sophomore year, I came to school stoned on the first day. Not a good start. But that was the year I met Gina and fell in love for the first time in my life. Gina brought a whole new dimension to my life. She was soft, cute, sexy, and she loved me. Wow.

Even more radical, for me, was that I loved her. I still do. I always will. I never stopped. While we were together, she mellowed me out naturally. It wasn't a focused or deliberate effort. It was a byproduct of this woman's love. I had no desire to go out and cause mayhem. I wanted to be with my girl. She gave me a feeling that was way more powerful than anything I'd ever experienced. Her love trumped all. Somehow I let her get away.

We still saw each other and made love. But I knew she was seeing other people, too. The time I got to spend with her was dramatically reduced. The love that was now cut out of my life was replaced with hate. More violent hate.

Soon after Gina broke up with me, I shot a guy during a drunken rage. I shot him in the head with a flare gun. I was 17 years old, and I got 18 months in Green Hill, a juvenile facility.

My juvenile time only made me even more hardcore. I was committed into Green Hill—the last stop before prison. Eighty-five percent of the kids who end up there, end up in prison. It's a prep course for the big time. You learn a lot, there. All bad.

There, I was surrounded by kids who had it way worse than I did. My life had been comparatively easy. My life wasn't bad, or hard, or cruel: I was.

My family loved me and my mom provided well for us. With me, momma tried. I just had a stronger, more violent will than she did. My mom and dad tried to control my behavior through intimidation and hitting. With some kids, that might have worked. Not with me.

To a degree, every child is born a little bit criminal. It's up to parents and teachers to teach that child what is acceptable and what is not.

I don't want to blame my parents. I love my mom and I miss my dad. Parenting doesn't come with a manual, and they did the best they could. I wish I could have been better for them. But a child who grows up with no boundaries or discipline in the home will not respect the rules and laws of society, especially a child like me. My philosophy is borne from my experience.