San Quentin Blues - Part 1

Marin County is a strange place for a Southern Baptist seminary, but there is another local institution that is even more starkly out of place. San Quentin State Prison also makes its home in Marin, where the notorious penitentiary houses California’s death row population.

I became aware of San Quentin when a chaplain visited Golden Gate to recruit volunteers for a prisoner visitation program. My friend Mike needed little convincing. “Let’s do it, Steve,” he said eagerly. “Who in Marin needs us more than these prisoners?”

“You’re probably right,” I hesitantly returned. “But what if they send us to visit some wacko?”

Mike’s shrug suggested that, in his view, visiting a homicidal maniac would not be such a bad thing. Who needed us more, right? So after completing a training program, Mike and I were paired with two willing prisoners named Leon and Julio.

The prison’s visiting area consisted of several round tables and a handful of television sets, and I was introduced to Julio shortly after entering this room. He was quiet at first, but after a few visits, we fell into a comfortable routine—often praying or discussing the Bible together. Once, Julio even presented me with a gift—a small cross he had woven out of stray threads.

Meanwhile, Mike was finding that Leon was interested in more worldly concerns. During Mike’s visits, Leon usually passed the time by watching Soul Train and commenting on the size of various dancers’ breasts. Leon also displayed an inappropriate curiosity about Mike’s personal life, often asking, “When’s the last time you got laid, man?”

Soon, Mike was dreading our monthly prison visits. To lighten the mood on our way to San Quentin, I sometimes asked, “Any news to share with Leon this week?” Such remarks were probably not helpful, but to his credit, Mike never gave up. His visits would have continued indefinitely if not for a stunning development.

“Leon called me today,” Mike said one afternoon. “He’s getting paroled in two weeks.” This sounded like good news—until the next sentence. “Leon wants me to pick him up when he’s released.” And after a pause, Mike added the clincher.

“You’re going with me.”

Well, this was the least I could do after all my wisecracks, but one question weighed heavily on my mind. If Leon was a handful on visiting days, what would he be like outside the prison walls?