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again. As the bus got close, the vast structure made Booker think of a fortress castle from the Dark Ages. Excitement filled the bus, hiding fear in many. Those who were returning pointed out landmarks, the #1 Guntower in the water, “Got a water cooled fifty caliber machine on a swivel up there.” The bus passed through the gate of a storm fence, opened by an old colored man in bright yellow rain slicker. “That’s Old Man Charlie,” said a voice, “he’s been down since ninety-nine… for a stagecoach robbery.” “Yeah, he could get a parole if he wanted one, but this is home for him.” The old wizened face looked up and waved at the newcomers passing by.
    The buses stopped outside the East Gate, the pedestrian sally-port in and out of San Quentin. The outer gate was a grid made of steel bands. “Watch your step… watch your step,” chanted a guard beside the outer gate as the ‘fish’ prisoners filed through. As always in such circumstances, they were counted as they passed.
    Along a tunnel called “Between Gates”. Benches are along each wall of the tunnel. At the far end is a solid steel door, but before that, up two steps, is another door. One by one they are called through the side door, on top of which is a sign: “Receiving and Release”. As each man enters, a guard removes the handcuffs and points him to three narrow benches. “Close it up and strip naked. Throw everything in there.” He points to a canvas laundry hamper. All except Booker. His handcuffs remain on. He is told to stand to the side.
    When all the newcomers are seated naked on the benches, Whitehead stepped up. He looked them over, mostly young and white, with faces already battered by life, many with blue, India ink tattoos, reform school stigmata. They hid their fear with haughtiness; they were waiting for someone to mess with them. Booker counted the blacks – eight out of forty-one, or maybe seven. It was hard to tell if one guy was colored or something else. He was brown-skinned and kinky-haired, but his features were sharp, and he spoke English with some kind of accent; it sounded Mexican but was sharper.
    Booker came back to Whitehead’s indoctrination speech. “This is the California State Prison at San Quentin. It is a
pen-i-tent-iary
. The Court sent you here because you were convicted of a crime… or several crimes. We don’t give a shit if you did it or if you didn’t do it. We care what you do here. You’ll get a rulebook, and most of the rules are in there. But I’m going to tell you a couple that aren’t in there.
    “
Everybody
who comes through that gate wonders if it’s possible to escape. Yeah, it happens. Every now and then somebody gets out – but
nobody… NOBODY
gets out with a hostage. If you have the Warden’s daughter and he orders the gate opened, nobody will follow the order. We had a couple guys take a choir hostage. They wanted a car. I told them the only car they’d get was a hearse, ‘cause that was the only way they were going anywhere. So don’t even THINK you’ll get out that way.
    “Another thing… you may stick a shiv in another convict… and if you get caught, you will be punished… but we won’t take that personal. I won’t be mad at you. But IF you even DREAM of assaulting a free person or a guard, I will stomp your brains out on the pavement. If you strike a guard, hang yourself – because your life will be more horrible than your worst nightmares. Kill a convict, that’s okay, but if you give a guard any shit, you will wish you hadn’t. We’ll turn your brain into grits with these.” He held up the cane with the ten inches of lead at the tip. He could twirl it as casually as did Chaplin, to deadly effect.
    “You may be tough… you may be the toughest sonofabitch in the whole world, but you’re not tougher than the concrete and steel in this prison. It will wear you out. All of you have an indeterminate sentence. A burglar, you have one year to fifteen years. You