“Searching, searching,” I heard condemned men on the first tier of San Quentin’s Death Row calling. Looking out, a guard was already at my cell bars. After sending me through a strip search, I was allowed to pull on my boxer shorts, shower shoes, and then I was cuffed and yoked out of my cell and locked to the bars on the tier.
A guard darted inside, started searching my cell and came back out with a cardboard box, pulled back a flap, and I saw glued inside a six-inch razor sharp steel shank.
“What’s this?” the guard jammed me.
Closing my eyes, I just shook my head. Possession of an inmate-manufactured weapon was for sure at least a year in the hole.
Placing the box on the tier outside my cell door, the guard went back into my cell to search some more.
Yesterday, I came back from the hole after a week, locked up due to a case of mistaken identity. Another Hunter had received a write up and the guards had gaffled up the wrong one.
When I went to classification committee the associate warden had determined I should be returned to Death Row, and I had been assigned my previous cell. My tier cop, Bailey, had gone right upstairs and snatched up my TV, radio, typewriter, all my personal property and brought it right to me. Way cool, but apparently one of the boxes he’d used to bring my belongings to me had a shank concealed inside.