Parolee living life on the run

Salinas man says troubles compounding

By MARC CABRERA

Herald Salinas Bureau

May 15, 2004

Over the phone, Manny Espudo sounds like a man trying to hide from his demons.

He speaks in jumbled sentences as if his mind is processing information faster than his mouth can react. His mood shifts from regret about his past as a North Salinas gangster to anger and hostility over his current situation.

He sighed when he talked about homelessness and his father's kidney failure, then raged when he talked about the authorities he blames for where he is today. He blames just about everyone but himself.

Espudo, 21, has lived the past two years as a fugitive on the run from his parole officer. He says he's tired of looking over his shoulder but has no plans to turn himself in.

On May 5, he narrowly escaped being caught by his parole officer at a North Salinas apartment complex. He wrecked his car into a patrol car and another parked vehicle before speeding off. In a telephone interview, prompted by his need to explain himself, he says he has since been out on the streets playing a dangerous and tiring game of catch me if you can.

"It's hell. I can't stand it anymore. But I know I can't just turn myself in and try to fight it afterward because it won't happen," he said.

Espudo's story began in December 2000, a few days after his 18th birthday. After having a few drinks with friends, he came across a parked car with the keys in the ignition.

"I took the car, and about a half-hour later, I was still driving around Salinas, like it was cool," he remembered. "That's when I got in trouble."

Espudo was pulled over by police and arrested on charges of vehicle theft and possession of a weapon. He spent the next four months in county jail before being released and placed on felony probation. At the time, he said, he was dealing with his parent's divorce and a sick father.

The father, Paul Espudo of Salinas, was being treated for kidney failure after an organ transplant gave out on him. Now he is a dialysis patient.

"My health is going down, but I'm trying to get him to turn himself in," the father said of his son. "He just feels that it's not his fault. What he did, at that time I don't think he realized... the seriousness of it."

As his father's condition worsened, so did Espudo's troubles with the law. He failed a series of drug tests, the result of a marijuana habit that he freely admits. On the third violation, he was shipped off to Pleasant Valley State Prison in Coalinga, where he served an eight-month stretch ending in November 2002.

Rather than rehabilitate him, though, prison time apparently did more damage.

"I have anxiety attacks from being in a cell," he said. "The first time I had an anxiety attack I thought I was going to die."

While serving his prison bid, Espudo received several letters and photos from his family, which had moved to Arizona to start over. Pictures showed his father losing weight and in ill health.

"He kept getting sicker and sicker. I just couldn't bear to look at them," he said.

After his release, Espudo moved in with his mother in Salinas and began working at a restaurant. Tired of being around Salinas' gang and drug scene, he put in for a transfer with his parole officer so he could live in Arizona with his sick father.

"I kept telling him (his parole officer), 'If I stay in Salinas, I'm going to get in trouble. People don't like me, the drugs are over here and I know where to get them. It's too much of a temptation,'" he said.

According to Espudo, he was told he would have to wait 30 days for the transfer paperwork to clear. He waited, asked again, and was told to wait another 30 days. When that time passed, he made a final request, but was told it would be 90 days before he could get any response.

"I begged my parole officer to let me move to my father's place, but they wouldn't do it," he said.

Lynda Ward, regional parole administrator for the California Department of Corrections, had no comment except to say Espudo's transfer was delayed because he hadn't made $200 restitution to the owner of the car he had stolen.

Tired of waiting, Espudo said he took off for Arizona anyway. He's been on the run ever since. He says no one ever told him he owed the $200.

"If that was the case, I would have paid $200 with my first paycheck," he said angrily. "I could have paid it like nothing."

Espudo and his family moved back to Salinas last year. He said he has been sleeping on friends' couches and hustling money wherever he can.

"You don't know how bad I want to work. I haven't been working, I haven't gone to school, I haven't done nothing," he said.

On the morning of May 5, Espudo went out to get his girlfriend's mother some breakfast. When he returned, he saw his parole officer's car parked in the same apartment complex.

At the apartment, he asked his girlfriend for her car keys and told her to meet him outside. Once he got in the car, his parole officer approached and ordered him out.

Espudo locked the car door, put the key in the ignition and backed out of the parking lot, striking the parole officer's car. He then slammed into a second vehicle parked four spaces over before speeding off down Cherokee Drive, his mind racing faster than the car.

"I didn't know (what to do). I was just freaking out, going crazy. I kept punching the gas, hitting top speed," he remembered. "I forgot where I went. I went to some apartments, some hideout spot. I sat there for a while, then I took off walking and ended up at my cousin's house."

Since that time, he's been back on the run, going from couch to couch, friend to friend. It's embarrassing, he said, having to rely on other people to keep him from getting caught.

"People who've known me my whole life, their attitude has changed against me, and it sucks," he said.

He has written a letter detailing his experiences, with hopes of getting it into the hands of Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger. Earlier this week, Schwarzenegger's top corrections officials said nearly 70,000 ex-convicts a year are being bounced back to prison for minor offenses, a process that is costing taxpayers money while failing to rehabilitate prisoners. Espudo seconds their concern.

"I'm not a killer. I'm just one little 5-foot-5 person. I'm not a bad person, I've never done a violent offense. I don't think I'm a bad person," he said. "Lately I've just been really not knowing what to do. I just want to give up and say screw it."

Espudo said he knows he is in for more prison time, more time away from his family, more suffering for his father. And with that, he thanks a reporter for listening to him, and stops talking.

Back at his home, Paul Espudo sits and worries.

"It would be great if he could get past all of it. I want him to come home," he said.

"I miss my baby. At night I think 'Where is he staying at? Is he staying in a car, is he staying in a shed? I'll just keep praying.'"

Copyright © 2004 Monterey Herald.

This article posted July 7, 2004.