They woke me up at about 2:15 a.m. and took me to a holding tank where about 10 other prisoners were already waiting. There were benches on the side walls and a toilet and sink in the back corner.
After 5 p.m., they finally handcuffed us and took us to the bus. They drove us to a prison about 10 miles away, where we would spend the night and pick up the other prisoners. By the time we were processed and taken to a cell for the night, it was after 10 p.m.
The guards woke us again at 2:15 a.m. to take us to the holding tank.
One young man covered in tattoos walked overconfidently into the tank, as if he was strolling the streets back home. He probably weighed no more than 130 pounds; he couldn’t be old enough to drink alcohol legally. The ink on his face didn’t do much to intimidate the much more seasoned prisoners. No one paid any attention to him. Everyone seemed to understand the fear and insecurity that lay beneath the posturing of new arrivals.
We all had been there. The young man didn’t seem to know what to expect from the long trip. Despite his small stature, he appeared to be trying to eat away his anxiety. I watched him gobble extra food other prisoners declined from the sack lunches they gave us.
I didn’t remember seeing him use the toilet. Most people go before the trip starts, knowing there’s no privacy in prison buses. In the bus, the toilet is in the open. There’s no door. It’s located right behind the last row of seats next to a fenced area where a guard sits holding a shotgun.
We finally left that prison at 5 p.m., en route for the 14-hour bus ride to Pelican Bay State Prison. I was exhausted, sweaty and stinky.
About 10 hours into the trip, I perceived a foul stench. I looked around and noticed everyone else doing the same — except the young man, who giggled nervously.