Richard Murphy (“Dirty Dick” the cons called him) was captain at that time. He had worked his way up from the guard line by cunning and brutality. He believed in throwing the fear of God into a prisoner the minute he arrived, by browbeating and bullying him, and every man went out of his office hating him. It’s more than twenty years since I left Folsom, but I can still see Dirty Dick’s short, squat figure on the flagstones in front of his filthy office. I can still see his pop-eyes and pasty face, his frog belly, his knock knees, and his flat feet.

I was the first to be questioned. “Where are you from?” he asked.

“San Francisco,” I replied.

“How long did you do in San Quentin?”

“Never was in San Quentin.”

“What other penitentiary were you in?”