Brian Lane - Mind Games with a Serial Killer

The investigator that had spent so many hours alone with him in a small, locked room, that had stood beside him in court and had helped to build a case for his defense, no longer came to see him. The feelings for her that had grown within his heart, began to change into the pain of being forsaken. Phone calls to her were now refused. That he could no longer even talk to her, hurt much more than his being found guilty of crimes he hadn’t done. But then, she wasn’t aware that he had started to fall in love with her, either. He was at loss for words because of the pain he felt. He had trouble concentrating on things now. He only stared at the television, the programs going unseen. When he did pay attention to the movies and such, his emotions exaggerated the feelings produced by the programs. Tears often came unbidden. He just couldn’t believe what was happening to him.

He was awakened early on the morning of November 1st by two of the jail deputies.

“All right, Lee, roll it up,” one of them said. “It’s time for you to leave our accommodations.”

They stood in the door of his cell, watching him gather his meager belongings together. He was aware of what they were really doing. They were making sure that he made no phone calls to alert anyone that he was going to be on the road that morning, heading for San Quentin State Prison. The thing was, people would already know. He had talked to friends on the phone the night before, letting them know that if he didn’t call them right after breakfast, for them to be aware that he was no longer in town. It wasn’t for nefarious reasons, though. He didn’t want his friends or attorneys to travel all the way for a visit and be turned around without seeing him.

He was dressed in an orange jumpsuit, shackled with waistchains and leg irons. Two sheriff’s deputies transported him in a black and white squad car, leaving the county jail at 6:00 in the morning. Driving north on Interstate 5, they kept their speed hovering between 75 and 90 mph. They only made three stops along the way: a gas refill, a restroom break, and to pick up food and drink. During the entire trip, the two officers never spoke to their prisoner, never offered him a restroom break, food or drink. As far as they were concerned, he was a non-person. It was a six-hour trip and they arrived in San Rafael, at San Quentin, right about 12:00 noon. The two deputies turned over their weapons at the gate and then drove onto the prison grounds. Arriving at the reception and processing center, they got out of the squad car and entered the building. After awhile they returned to the squad car to let their prisoner out. They removed his waistchains and leg-irons, told him to enter the building and had nothing more to do with him.

Inside the building, Lee was told to strip completely and was then given a new orange jumpsuit and slide-on shoes. An hour later, he was processed into the prison system and given a sack lunch to eat. Soon, two escort officers handcuffed him and began the long walk to the Adjustment Center.

They hadn’t taken more than two dozen steps out of the reception center, when Lee heard his name called out. He glanced over his shoulder, toward the general population exercise yards. Inmates dressed in blue were all over the place. But there were three inmates standing off by themselves, looking right at him.

“Hey, Lee,” they hollered. “Welcome to the place you’re gonna die! We’re gonna getcha before you’re executed!”

He glanced at the two escort officers to see if they gave any reaction to the death threat. Neither officer gave any sign that they had heard anything. They had to have heard it, he thought. But neither glanced in his direction. They just kept walking along on either side of him, not speaking and all but ignoring him.

Soon, they arrived outside the Adjustment Center and the first thing he noticed was a sign: “NOTICE: NO WARNING SHOTS ARE FIRED IN THIS BUILDING!” That sign frightened him more than he cared to admit. That meant if something happened, it would be stopped by the firing of weapons. He’d heard stories of prison guards shooting inmates at the slightest provocation. He’d also heard about guards who retaliated against one prisoner for wrongs committed by another prisoner. He hoped that they weren’t true here. Just the same, he made a mental note to pay close attention to what was going on around him and if anything did happen, he was going to hit the ground.

After entering the Adjustment Center building, he was taken upstairs to the third floor where he would be assigned to a temporary housing cell. He had trouble climbing those four sets of stairs. A knee injury from the mid ’60s and an ankle injury from a motorcycle accident left him with an unstable center of balance. The strain of climbing that many stairs on his left leg caused pain to shoot through his entire leg and hip. The escort officers grabbed his arms and helped him climb the steps between the second and third floors. They didn’t care, though. They just wanted to get him to his assigned place and then go on to other things. They locked him into a holding cell on the third floor and left. The officer that was working that floor made him strip once again. While standing there naked, he was told to go through what was to become a regular routine. He showed the backs and palms of his hands. He held up his arms to show his armpits. Opened his mouth and lifted his tongue to show it was empty. Had to turn around and show the bottoms of his feet. Had to bend over and cough to show he hadn’t hidden anything in his rectum. That was a ritual he was now expected to go through every time he left his cell to go somewhere. He was then given a pair of bluejeans, socks, undershorts, a T-shirt and the slip-on shoes he had been given earlier. He quickly got dressed, not liking to be naked in front of anyone, male or female. Handcuffs were then put back on him, he was pulled out of the little holding cell and walked through another door, down a cell-lined row to one about three-quarters down the tier. The cell door was opened, Lee stepped inside, the door closed and then the ‘cuffs were removed. Looking around his new home, he felt a pang of despair enter his heart. That lump grew to the point that it felt like his heart would burst.

This cell was only 4½ feet wide by 6 feet long. It was furnished with a sink (hot and cold water), a toilet bowl, and a metal bunk with a very thin mattress rolled up on it. He was soon brought two sheets, a pillow case, a towel, soap and a toothbrush that had been broken in half.

He was in the process of making his bed up, when he heard his cell number called out by another inmate. He didn’t answer right away, for he had been previously warned by a friend that other inmates would attempt to find out who he was and from which county he had come. He had also been warned that he should make a strong attempt at keeping anyone from finding out what he had been convicted of so they wouldn’t hold his convictions against him and possibly take vengeful action on him. So he kept quiet and continued making his bed. When he was done, he laid down and tried to take a nap. By taking a nap he knew he could block out the heartbreak that was tearing him apart.

A couple of hours later, he awakened to a loud, reverberating shout that echoed up and down the row and into his cell. “Chow time. All lights on or you don’t get fed!”

He quickly arose, slipped his shoes on and stood at his cell door, waiting for whatever would happen next. He didn’t know if he would be pulled out and taken to a chow hall or if he would eat in his cell like he did in the county jail. After a couple of minutes went by, two officers pushed food carts past his cell to the end of the row. Several minutes after that, they returned, stopping at each cell to feed that particular inmate. When they reached his cell, his food port was unlocked and opened, then a tray of food and a drink was passed in to him. The food was plentiful and palatable, even tasty. The drink, though, was coffee. Lee couldn’t drink coffee. He was allergic to an acid that was in the coffee-bean. One cup of coffee would cause him to start bleeding internally from every inch of tissue which the coffee came into contact with.