The career of Donald "D.J." Vodicka encompassed the rapid expansion of the prison system. For sixteen years, he was a prison guard in California's highest security prisons, serving meals to gang leaders, serial killers in lockdown cells, and patrolling exercise yards filled with violent felons while unarmed and outnumbered 1000-to-2. He belonged to an elite unit called the Investigative Services Unit (Internal Affairs), responsible for solving horrific crimes inside the walls. He was a decorated veteran officer. He became the largest "whistle-blower" to uncover a group of rogue prison guards who called themselves "The Green Wall."The Green Wall is a real-life drama of one man's courage to do the right thing against the California State Prison System. It is an unblinking look at what can go wrong when only one person is willing to stand up and speak for what is right, against almost insurmountable odds. Vodicka's televised state senate testimony exposed a scandal that led to resignations, transfers, sudden retirements, and reforms of the system that are still underway. The story is a classic tale of the triumph of personal integrity in the most dishonest place imaginable. D. J. Vodicka was born in Camarillo, California. In 1988, after serving four years in the US Army, he entered the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation in Galt, California. His admirable work ethic and reputation furthered his honorable career in law enforcement. He currently resides in the United States. The Green Wall A PRISON GUARD'S STRUGGLE TO EXPOSE THE CODE OF SILENCE IN THE LARGEST PRISON SYSTEM IN THE UNITED STATES By D.J. Vodicka iUniverse, Inc. Copyright © 2009 D.J. Vodicka All right reserved. ISBN: 978-1-4401-4059-4 Chapter One The Green Wall What Joe Reynoso called "The special parking area for law enforcement vehicles" was really just a side street with especially obvious No Parking/Tow Away signs every twenty feet, conveniently close to the California State Capitol Building. It was bordered by busy offices but patrolled vigilantly by the Sacramento Police Department. I followed Joe's unmarked but state-issued cavalier into the little street, then pulled over to park behind it. I felt my ulcer starting up as soon as I turned off the engine. Joe walked back to my muddy vehicle and stated, "You ready to do this?" I guess, I muttered as I got out of the car. "You can't take your weapon into the Capitol D. J." I sighed as I removed the Glock and holster from my belt. It was a weapon for someone confident in their ability to handle it and in my case, genuinely afraid for their life-hollow-point bullets, one in the chamber, no safety. I had slept with it for the last six months and practiced every day, firing off a thousand rounds a week at my mountain hideout. My long time friend and colleague Joe Reynoso and my attorney Lanny Tron stood next to me outside the California State Capitol. I was nervous, and it was written all over my face. Naturally, my appearance looked like the bad-guy wrestler the crowd loves to hate. At six feet, six inches tall and three hundred pounds, a shaved head and broad frame, I looked and lumbered like a pro-football lineman. From years working in the prison systems, my disposition was solid, emotionless and unreadable, except for today. I had worked for the state of California for sixteen years but had never been inside its Capitol building before. Together, the three of us set off toward the Capitol. Near the southeast end of the building, a dozen TV news vans and crew members hauled equipment into the senate chambers. I figured this was standard, as there must regularly be important news to report from the Capitol. Reynoso and Tron new differently, but kept their silence. At the entrance, I was thoroughly searched for any weapons I could have been carrying, while Reynoso-who was heavily armed-showed his credentials and entered through a discrete, separate gun port. Even with heightened post-9/11 security, there was nowhere in California that Joe wasn't allowed to carry his concealed weapons. For this reason, he accompanied me to court. I stopped just short of the tall double doors of the governor's office, where a group of California Highway Patrol troopers in tailored uniforms stood at attention. I fantasized for a moment about dropping in to share my story with Schwarzenegger, who promised during last fall's campaign to put a lid on runaway prison costs. I thought the "Governator" might be interested in my grim story. The hearing was scheduled for nine o'clock that morning and a large crowd was already waiting outside the courtroom, which surprised my attorney Lanny. He had expected something more private like the other administrative hearings-lawyer-like arguments around a conference table. Instead, there was a rude scramble for seats as soon as the bailiff opened the doors. My trial turned out to be the day's hot ticket in Sacramento; a joint