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In The Belly of the Beast: Bio-notes
William Wasz # H-64450 B-8 202 Mule Creek State Prison P.O. Box 409000 Ione, CA 95640 In residence since January 1994 Possible change of address in 2004 Mr. Wasz was born and reared in Manassas, Virginia in the mid-fifties. In the early 1980’s, Mr. Wasz launched himself on a quest to find the ultimate fast-paced life, abandoning his grass roots upbringing, He found it in such places as Las Vegas and Hollywood, however, while achieving his goal he found this life to be filled with drugs, crime, and eventual imprisonment. In 1994 his hell bent life went south with his arrest for multiple armed robberies while driving actress/model Paula Barbieri’s vehicle, which it was later determined to contain serious evidence in the O.J. Simpson trial. However, due to circumstances, and the L.A. District Attorney’s Office suppression, Mr. Wasz was to go down in the annals of government cover-up. At thirty-nine years old, he will seek to redeem himself through his literary work and participation in social programs for the betterment of society. Such notables as Noam Chomsky, Donald Freed, Jerry Stahl, and Dan Bessie have praised his work.
EXCERPTS FROM
NEW FISH
The heat pounded down on me like giant hammer blows that never seemed to end. Nine months of the year, the average temperature hovered at one hundred fifteen degrees. So intense, that simple breathing became a laborious repetition. On that desolate, sterile prison yard, prisoners stood idle, barely moving. Sweat dripped from every pore of their tattooed and scarred bodies. Ever present for each was the knowledge that one of their peers probably wished their demise. Just in case today was their day to be called upon by the silent evil that permeated their existence; this left them always on alert. A man-made Hades it was, complete with a thermal environment to underscore the surreal insanity. I watched cautiously, fully aware that I was what prisoners called a "fish", an inmate new to the ‘system’, someone mostly ignorant of the ways, culture, and terminology of the men around him. Forever doomed to a life filled with drugs, hate, and never-ending violence. Slowly, I came to realize that the system had sent me to this particular place as retribution. An indirect message, stating that my crimes were sole cause for this placement: Straight to a place where society built and housed indiscriminate hatred, racism, and death, and all in the name of ‘corrections’. A "Level 4" maximum-security institution, Calipatria State Prison, a few miles from the Mexican border, a facility that the State of California regards as a place of "justice and rehabilitation." On one side of the short, oval walking track circling the prison yard, two groups of Black inmates, the Crips street gang, and their rivals, the Bloods, stood watch continuously over one another. Each gang constantly anticipated a move by the other. Move meant attacking. This, however, was but one facet of the watch, for both also had to observe the Southern Mexican gang: A gang dedicated to launching attacks against the blacks at any indiscretion they deemed a violation of their own warped code. A true irony: Crips and Bloods, rivals for eternity, unite only to do battle with the Southern Mexicans. Over the years, I’ve pondered how ridiculous all this was.
but I’ve yet to hear a reasonable explanation. A group of more than one hundred Southern Mexicans stood only a few yards to the left of the blacks on the oval track. The name of the city, street, or area that they came from adorned each of their bodies, permanently tattooed into their skin: street gang insignias, proclamations of turf. Most tried to consistently maintain a hard core look in order to intimidate the smaller or younger members of their group. Large moustaches and well-developed upper torsos further bolstered their machismo. Machismo was a carefully cultivated aspect of their physical presence, their masculinity and strength betraying no sign of weakness to anyone. This character trait, held close, uniformly promoted to their own members, demanding its appearance be maintained… A warped logic surrounded me when I sat with my new people, the infamous Aryan Brotherhood. The membership was a select few, but a group that most whites found it necessary to congregate around, in order to display their unity. A superficial unity, because once the surface was scratched, the core turned out to be a union of drug addicted dope fiends… As I sat there among my newfound friends, I felt as if I were baking in a pizza oven. Silently, I listened to countless prison war stories, all told by tattoo-covered preachers of false supremacy. Some were in fact stone cold killers, this I could tell simply by looking at them; killers that even Hollywood would have a hard time conjuring up.. An incident construed as a gesture of disrespect had been perpetrated against the Southern Mexicans. A soccer ball had landed on the Black’s side of the weight lifting area, causing a Southern Mexican youngster to retrieve it. No race was allowed to enter another’s territory. Words were exchanged. Both sides retreated, for contemplation time. A decision was made by the Mexican shotcaller. That act of verbal disrespect could not go unchallenged. The shotcaller was a burly older member of the Mexican Mafia, so his decision was law. Slightly more than a dozen youngsters were delegated to dig up knives buried in different locations throughout the prison yard. Their objective, to stab as many Blacks as they could: kill them, if possible, but to "put holes in everyone they could get near". So, it was: a decision by one man, who would not even be a participant. He simply stood against a wall of the handball court, calmly observing his soldiers digging up the knives. Groups of three went to the area where a knife was buried and feigned a conversation as one squatted down and dug it up; all the while trying not to be noticed by the gunners posted in towers surrounding the yard... I glanced up at the main gun tower ... With a clear view of the entire yard, the guard manning it acted as if he were completely ignorant of the actions below. He turned his head to the opposite side of the yard, He leaned out of the tower window. At that point, I assumed he was simply unaware of what was going on… With venomous rage, they struck out with their weapons, trying to kill or maim. Those few seconds seemed like an eternity as groups converged. Blows from fists, stabs from knives… Blood poured … Suddenly, … a sharp report echoed from the first shot of the AR-14 rifles … A small explosion erupted in his skin. A combination of flesh, bone, blood instantly flew from his shoulder, his arms spreading out in a feeble effort to retain his balance. Shocked disbelief swept his face as he hit the ground, hard… It was at that moment that the full impact hit me: I had a twenty-year sentence and this would be my life for at least the next ten years ...
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