Jim Quillen - Inside Alcatraz: My Time on the Rock

Contents

I was engulfed with the realisation that I was no longer a person, but instead AZ586, a criminal who had been sentenced to serve forty-five years in the federal penal system.

It was 1942, and twenty-two-year-old Jim Quillen was on the run from San Quentin prison, where hed been serving eighteen months for armed robbery. He thought hed made a lucky escape until he was caught and sentenced to forty-five years in the federal prison system, including ten years at the infamous Alcatraz.

Inside Alcatraz tells the story of the brutality and extreme regimentation that were a part of daily life for the inmates of the island prison. They nicknamed it Hellcatraz, and Jim was about to find out why. He lived through it all, from solitary confinement and cramped, lonely cells to meeting Bob the Birdman Stroud, and surviving the forty-six-hour bloody riot known as the Battle of Alcatraz.

In this moving memoir, Jim reflects on the ten hard years he spent on the island. He tells us of the hardships he suffered and the friendships he made on his long journey from desperation to redemption.

Jim Quillen, born in 1919, had a difficult childhood; by the time he was an adolescent, he was regularly getting into serious trouble. At twenty-two chained at the wrists and sentenced to forty-five years behind bars he saw the inside of United States Penitentiary Alcatraz Island for the first time.

Many years later Quillen returned to the island, which by that time was part of the National Park Service system. For several years he was one of the islands most popular volunteers retelling his story as part of the audio tour, and sharing his past with visitors fascinated by his life experiences.

Jim Quillen died in 1998 and is survived by his wife, daughter and granddaughters.

I wish to dedicate this book to my loving wife, Leone Marie Quillen.

Thank you for your patience, encouragement, and understanding of the mood swings I experienced when recalling the unpleasant memories necessary to write this book. Had you given less, it would never have reached completion.

This book is an autobiography describing the progressive and insidious nature of involvement in crime. It illustrates how minor infractions of the law, if unchecked, may escalate into major criminal activities. The ensuing consequences may be death or years of incarceration, humiliation, and degradation.

It was only through the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and His intercession, that my life of hopeless incarceration was averted. His help and forgiveness permitted me to obtain freedom, family, and a useful and productive place in society.

As gratifying as it was to achieve a presidential pardon and a gubernatorial pardon, it will be more fulfilling if this book deters others from making the mistakes I made.

There is no glamor in prison. There is only loneliness, fear, heartbreak, and sorrow.

While writing this book, I resolved to write what, in my opinion, was truth as best I could determine without exaggeration or distortion. Many conclusions and opinions were based on what I personally saw or heard. In other instances I had to rely on my personal knowledge and observations as well as conversations with reliable guards and inmates. I believe I came to logical, reasonable conclusions. My writing was done without malice and with no intent to defame, malign, or injure any person or persons in the process. My intent was to show Alcatraz, the administration, Bureau of Prisons, guards, and inmates as they really existed.

Alcatraz was always a prison shrouded in secrecy, and many facts and occurrences were hidden from public scrutiny. The public was allowed to know only what the Bureau of Prisons and the administration wanted known. Much of what was disclosed was distorted, exaggerated, or glossed over with misleading statements or untruths.

The inmates were not without blame in many instances and I had no intent to justify their actions. The purpose of prison is to incarcerate the criminal, not to brutalize him physically, mentally, and spiritually until death is preferable to any existence in such a prison.

I will let the reader decide if this is what drove some inmates to atrocious actions.

Jim Quillen
1991

With a crash, the steel gate slammed shut, a sound that seemed to bring finality to everything that life had to offer.

I walked into the small six-by-nine-by-seven-foot gray cell that was to be my home for years to come. I saw a steel bed, a straw mattress, and a dirty, lumpy pillow. The cell was lighted only by the large overhead lights outside, which illuminated each cell enough to enable the guards to make their numerous nightly counts.

I noticed the cell contained a toilet with no seat. At the end of the bed, next to the toilet, was a small washbasin with only one tap. Cold water! Above the sink was a single shelf that extended the entire width of the cell. Next to the bed was a small metal table that folded down flat against the wall. This was my home. I realized that, at twenty-two years of age, this was to be my home, my future, for years to comeand possibly the place of my death.

As I looked about me, it was as though the room began to close in, with some strange odor that dominated the air and stifled me. I suddenly realized it was an odor I must learn to live with, the smell of a marking pen that gave me my new identity. It was on my bedding and my clothing, making me into another nonentity in the world of the criminal. I was engulfed with the realization that I was no longer a person, but instead AZ-586, a criminal who had been sentenced to serve forty-five years in the federal penal system.

I then became aware of the men around me. Some were awake, as I could hear low tones of whispering from one cell to another, passing the word that a transfer of fish had come in. This stirred hope in the hearts of some, for each time a new fish arrived, it usually meant that there was hope that some of the old long-timers might be transferred to another institution.

Not only was my cell dark and gloomy, I realized with a shiver, it was also cold and windy. Although I knew I would not sleep, I would at least be reasonably warmer for the remainder of the night if I got into bed.

While making up my bed, I was startled by the sudden flash of light hitting my eyes. It was a guard making his count. He asked why I was not undressed and in bed. I explained I was a new transfer and had just arrived. He warned me that if I wasnt undressed and in bed in the next few minutes, I might find out what the hole was at the Rock. This added great haste to my retiring.

As I lay there, I began reviewing in my mind the various stories I had heard about Alcatraz. As can well be imagined, I did not sleep much that night.

I had lived in and around the Bay Area all my life, thus Alcatrazs reputation was not unfamiliar to me. My thoughts flashed back to the many stories I had had occasion to hear, read, and wholeheartedly believe. I was soon to learn firsthand, however, that while some stories were fabricated, imaginative versions from a creative writer, most indeed were quite true. Much to my dismay, I could not recall ever hearing anything favorable about the prison or its inmates.