James A. Ardaiz - Hands Through Stone: How Clarence Ray Allen Masterminded Murder from Behind Folsoms Prison Walls

Hands Through Stone

Copyright 2012 by James A. Ardaiz. All rights reserved.

Published by Craven Street Books

An imprint of Linden Publishing

2006 South Mary Street, Fresno, California 93721

(559) 233-6633 / (800) 345-4447

CravenStreetBooks.com

Craven Street Books and Colophon are trademarks of

Linden Publishing, Inc.

Cover image Benjamin Howell

ISBN 978-1-61035-140-9

135798642

Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Ardaiz, James A.

Hands through stone : how Clarence Ray Allen masterminded murder from behind Folsoms prison walls / James A. Ardaiz.

p. cm.

Includes index.

ISBN 978-1-61035-129-4 (cloth : alk. paper)

1. Allen, Clarence Ray, 1930-2006. 2. Murder--California--Fresno--Case studies. 3. Murderers--California--Fresno--Case studies. 4. Prisoners--California--Folsom--Case studies. I. Title.

HV6534.F74A74 2012

364.1523092--dc23

2012035019

Dedication

T his book is dedicated to the men and women who wear law enforcement badges. They place themselves between us and those that would hurt us. They do this every day and they keep doing it until they finish the job they have been given. The officers depicted in this book are real people, but they represent all of those men and women: Willie Bill Martin, Art Christenson, Tom Lean, Ernie Duran, Harry Massucco, Ken Badiali. Each of them saw their job through to the end, and that end came long after they had retired. They stood their watch. I am proud to count them among my friends. And to my friend and investigator, Bill Martin, when the final moments closed in this case we all drank a toast to you. You were there in spirit and you will always be there in our hearts.

I would also like to acknowledge the courage of a young man who has borne the scars of a crime victim from youth to middle age. Joe Rios survived this crime by the grace of God and his own quick thinking. He stood his ground as a witness, as did others who gave their lives because they were witnesses. He was a hero and he stood up in court for his friends. And so did Jack Abbott, whose courage helped us track down a killer.

I would also like to dedicate this book to citizens who walk into court every day, raise their right hands, and swear to tell the truth. Seldom have witnesses who performed this duty paid with their lives. Bryon Schletewitz did, and he deserves to be remembered for doing his duty as a citizen.

Finally, I would like to dedicate this book to the district attorneys and attorneys general who bring these cases to trial and sometimes, as in this case, spend their entire careers to help give justice to those who have been victimized, like Ray and Fran Schletewitz. Ray and Fran didnt see justice in their lifetimes for the crimes against their family, but I think they knew that others would make sure that justice was delivered. I would like to think that they knew I kept my word. I tried to see it through to the end. That is what this book is about.

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank the many men and women in law enforcement who assisted me in ensuring the accuracy of this book. I would also like to thank my editor, Barbara Gordon, for helping me make this a better book and my agent, Andre Abecassis of the Ann Elmo Literary Agency, for encouraging me when I needed encouragement.

To my friends who read this book and not only offered their insight, but also stayed my friends when I asked them to read it again and again, I thank you. Justice Betty Ann Richli, Nic and Nancy Boghosian, Tom Lean, Art Christenson, thank you.

And most of all, thank you, Pam, my wife, for putting up with me writing things down at all hours of the night. Thank you for constantly encouraging me to keep at it. When I first ran for office you pulled our kids along in a little red wagon, going door to door to tell voters about me. No matter how long I live I will always think of you pulling that wagon and I will know that, as with almost everything in our lives, you did it for love of me. There is no greater gift.

Contents

Authors Note

T his is a true story. The characters are real. The names are real. The events are real. It is not a figment of my or any others imagination. It is written from the viewpoint of a person who has been a prosecutor, a trial judge, and an appellate judge over the span of thirty-three years. This case and its participants traveled through almost all of those years. I have written about the effect of that journey on me and many others. It is written from the perspective of one who was there and saw it all.

Prologue

July, 1974

Fresno County, California

T he great San Joaquin Valley of California spreads itself out into foothills that rise against its edge. In the heat of summer, the foothills glow golden by day, and by night they shine silver on spring grass dried by the sun. The yellowed blades sway in the summer breeze, their swishing music lost by day to the sounds of birds, rustling leaves, and mans traffic. It is by night that the symphony of the grass plays out to those who listen as the air moves gently. But on some nights the air lies still. On those nights, there is only silence. On those nights, the only sound is made by the hunters of the darkness.

On that summer night, the air of the great valley barely moved the high grass, which had been dried by the searing daytime heat to the brittleness of straw. A rabbit sat quietly in its burrowed-out hole, waiting to move for forage. The slightest movement would bring the rustle of the grass, breaking the silence, and with it a signal to the predators the rabbit knew were waiting.

The sound of tires on gravel brought the rabbit and nighttime predators to a frozen silence. Even feral minds knew enough to hide themselves from foreign soundssounds that might mean death even to those who were accustomed to being the hunter. It was the law of survival. Sometimes the hunter could become the hunted. Eyes meant for the night watched and waited.

The silver moonlight danced off the car as it rolled to a stop at the side of the Piedra Bridge, twenty miles outside of the city of Fresno. The two mens faces were alternately cast blue by the moonlight and black by the shadows as they got out of the vehicle and moved to the truck bed. They pulled at the limp heaviness of the bundled form rendered shapeless by the blankets which wrapped it. Stepping stones wired tightly around the form added to their burden. Grunting at the weight, the men carried the bundle to the edge of the bridge, balancing it on the retaining wall as they looked down at the canal. The water below ran deep and black, sliding along cement banks slick with moss, shimmering as its ripples caught the thin light.

Push her over, goddamnit. Lets get this over with. We got to get back to the old man.

The other man didnt respond. He slid his end, the feet, over the cement wall of the bridge and let gravity do the rest. They both watched as the body slipped through the air. There was no scream. There was no sound left to be made except the splash of rushing water as it parted and accepted her into its cold embrace.

The men watched for a moment, waiting to see if she might surface. The swirls left by her last journey closed over her. The water resumed its course into the night, now with one more thing to pull along in its current and dissolve into the flotsam carried by its rushing mass.

The sound of tires on gravel receded into the darkness. The night hunters waited silently for the rustle of grass to make them dominant again. Their world was returned to moonlight and the newly stirring sounds of their prey. They were once again the hunters, left with the night. The rabbit stayed silent. It was not its time.