Being a Prison Firefighter Taught Me to Save Lives

 Chivis Martinez  TY Gus Borderland Beat Marshall Project

Note: This is not a post about the narco war, so if that upsets you simply do not read the post.  This is a post about the integral inmate firefighter force that has long supplemented CalFire in fighting those nasty wild fires of California, which seemingly now has no season but rather appears most of the year.

My son just completed a 40-day deployment in NorCal.  

He texted me on Labor Day week saying “Hey Ma, I will be off by Labor day how about I go for a visit and BBQ?”  I was excited, we do not live close to each other, when he travels to me it is a treat. But that never happened.  He had no replacement.  In fact he is a Public Information Officer, but this time he was on the fireline.

These historical record-breaking fires, of which our Yaqui was in the middle of, were different in many aspects, one is the CalFire force was without their usual inmate FF force.  Because of a prison outbreak of Covid-19.

Many of you probably didn’t know about inmate FF’s.  They are terrific and are fireline qualified fire fighters doing the same work as FFs.  They are an invaluable resource.  They go into the work knowing they may die, and knowing they will never be hired in a fire department. 

In the last three years 3 inmate  FFs died in action.   There is a bill that will allow inmates to be hired as long as their convictions are not of certain types such as violent crimes.  I support that bill for many reasons.   Read one man’s story below….Chivis

There’s a full-fledged firehouse equipped with engines at San Quentin Prison. To work for the department, which serves the facility and over 100 units of mostly employee housing on the grounds, prisoners have to interview with the fire chief and captains and go before a panel composed of the warden and other staff. You have to be a good fit and know how to work in a team. And they only consider people who have a record of good behavior within the last five years—that means few or no disciplinary write-ups or infractions.

You cannot have been convicted of arson, sex offenses, murder or attempted escape, and you have to be at the lowest security level. When I applied in 2016, I had five years left in my sentence. Dozens of guys were trying to get into the firehouse, but they only take nine to 12 at a time. I thought I was in great shape—I was on the San Quentin A’s baseball team, and I played football. But I was nowhere close to being in firefighting shape. We had to be able to hike more than a mile with a 75-pound hose on our backs. I didn’t think I was going to make it at first.

It wasn’t really the act of firefighting that made me want to join. Initially, I just wanted the job because I would get to sleep in a room by myself, eat good and train dogs. Plus those guys just look cool. Who as a kid didn’t think firefighters were awesome?

Joining the department was also an opportunity to escape the politics and culture of the prison. I wouldn't be confined to a cell or have COs hanging over my shoulder all the time; I would be treated like a human being. 

After years of incarceration, I was sold.

I didn’t expect it, but firefighting would be the most influential thing I’d ever taken part in. Being a member of the department meant being available 24/7 for calls inside and outside the prison. On the outside, we had house fires, medical emergencies, car accidents and grass fires. Inside we responded to cell fires, provided CPR and transported bodies from housing units to the hospital. In my nearly three years on the job, I did CPR almost 50 times. Only four people lived.

The sad truth is that San Quentin has an aging population of people either dying of old age or giving up. There were suicides and a fentanyl outbreak. Sometimes we’d get five overdoses in a week. In 2017, almost 20 people died of various causes. I did CPR on every one of them.

On one call, a gentleman had fallen off his bunk and hit his head. He went through three rounds of CPR and two with the defibrillator. On the third round of CPR, I felt him gasp for breath and I could feel his heartbeat underneath my hands. I said to my captain, “Holy shit, I think he's breathing!” He lived and was back on the yard two days later. I can't explain what it feels like to have someone come back to life under your hands. There's nothing like it.

Although the program has been in effect since WW2, it wasn’t until the 60s that the program became comprehensive.

Matthew's  story:

Matthew with his son

Matthew is one of three killed fighting fires in the past 17 months.

Matthew Beck was trying to turn his life around

Supporters of the program say the work that inmate firefighters do during their sentence can help them stay out of prison.

Williams, Beck's mom, said her son was trying to do just that.

As a child Beck was diagnosed with depression and social anxiety, according to Williams. He later began self-medicating with drugs.

"Matthew was a heroin addict," Williams said.

Beck spent years on and off in drug treatment facilities and county lockups after several arrests,  she said.

On May 30, 2014, he pleaded no contest to one count of second-degree burglary and was sentenced to six years in state prison.

He served time at the Sierra Conservation Center in Tuolumne County and Ironwood State Prison in Riverside County.

It was at Ironwood that Beck wanted to change.

"He said he wanted to get out of there. He wanted to turn his life around. He really wanted to try to get into the firefighting program," Williams said from her home in Culver City, with her 5-year-old grandson in the background.

Beck trained at the Antelope Conservation Camp in Susanville and was sent to the Alder Conservation Camp in Klamath, spending a total of six months in the inmate firefighting program.

"It gave him a sense of purpose," Williams said.

While in the program, Beck called his family regularly.

"He told his son, his daddy was a hero," she said.

No honor comes from California

On May 24, 2017, a 3,000-pound tree fell on Beck, as he was clearing brush in the community of Orleans in the Six Rivers National Forest.

He was 26 years old.

Cal Fire's preliminary review of the incident — known as a "green sheet" — found that a 105-year-old Douglas fir tipped over, struck Beck in the head and he fell into a ditch.

State fire officials said that Beck could not hear a Cal Fire captain yell for him to get out of the way because of the sound of chainsaws.

The green sheet also said that the radio used by the supervisor of Beck's crew was unable to connect with emergency officials in the moments after the tree fell. And it pointed out that the 105-year-old tree was noticed by fire officials before the incident.

Beck died at the scene of blunt-force trauma to his head and trunk, according to an autopsy by the Humboldt County Coroner's Office.

"The branch which had struck the decedent was of considerable size," the autopsy report states.

California's Division of Occupational Safety and Health (Cal/OSHA) launched an investigation into Beck's death. Four months later the agency cleared Cal Fire and CDCR of wrongdoing in the incident and declined to issue any citations.

Beck had been slated to be released from prison five months after the time of the accident.

Williams said she had adopted her grandson, Wesley, with the assumption that Beck would return that October — he would have been integral in raising the boy and be one of the family's breadwinners.

"I totally counted on my son helping me with his son," Williams said. "At the very least, having an extra person available so I could run errands, having a male figure in my grandson's life," she said.

"It's hard. Worth every moment, but still very hard."

Williams said she had a tough time working out logistics to get Beck's body and learned only recently that she could gain some workers' compensation from her son's death. But she's having to battle bureaucratic roadblocks to get benefits.

Beck's name was not on his son's birth certificate because he was in jail when the child was born, according to Williams, which is making it difficult to recoup any money.

Matthew Beck, Frank Anaya and Anthony Colacino died while working or training as one of thousands of inmate firefighters who help the state battle wildfires.

California Firefighters Memorial has no plans to honor them.

This weekend, though, Beck and Anaya's name will be added to the National Fallen Firefighters Memorial in Maryland. The U.S. Forest Service plans to honor them along with  eight other firefighters who died in the line of duty in California last year.

The national memorial, though, has honored several fallen inmate firefighters in the last eight years.

For Beck's mom, it was a pleasant surprise to hear her son would be honored by the group.

"They are flying us out," Williams said. "Firefighters are picking us up from the airport and taking us to the hotel. They have been very kind."

Inmate firefighters have become integral to the state's battles against wildfires.

For example, state prison officials have emphasized that thousands of prison firefighters helped California battle some of the largest wildfires on record this summer and last fall.

The California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation (CDCR), which runs the inmate firefighting program, says it saves the state $100 million a year.

Note: in September the bill passed allowing inmate firefighters to seek a career in FF once out of prison