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Remember it's impossible for cops and jail guards to commit crimes. They are heroes who look out for our safety and would never harm us.

Well at least that the line of bullsh*t they give us and want us to believe.

But ever since the LAPD beat the living sh*t out of Rodney King and it was videotape we are finding out the police are pathological liars who routinely murder, rape, rob and terrorize us. Modern inexpensive cameras in cell phones have made it possible for us to document the crimes routinely committed by the police.

After inmate's death, what's really going on inside Santa Clara County jail?

By Julia Prodis Sulek

jsulek@mercurynews.com

Posted: 12/19/2015 01:12:43 PM PST

SAN JOSE -- The jail echoes at night with the rumble of boots on the stairs, the rattle of keys, and sometimes, the thuds of body blows and the pleas for mercy.

Ruben Garcia heard it all from his cell in the Santa Clara County Main Jail the night in August when Michael Tyree, a mentally ill drifter with a minor rap sheet, was found beaten to death in a nearby cell. Garcia said that he, too, has endured similar brutality -- and has a broken jaw to show for it.

Inmates have a name, Garcia said, for a group of correctional officers on the night shift that included the three charged with murder in Tyree's death and beating a second inmate earlier that same summer night. They call them "the Wrecking Crew."

"I've been through San Quentin, Pelican Bay, Corcoran and High Desert," Garcia, 50, a former gang member, said during a jailhouse interview, reeling off his involuntary tour of California's notorious prisons. "I was in Folsom in the '80s when we were at war with the Mexican Mafia.

"I've been beaten up. But I've never been beaten down like this."

Until Tyree's death, the stories behind hundreds of excessive force accusations against Santa Clara County jail guards had been locked up with the inmates. They were easy to discount, since the inmates' own histories of crime, malice and deceit have long made their allegations difficult to believe. And in the aftermath of Tyree's death and the multimillion-dollar lawsuits that surely will follow, attorneys who represent the guards insist the motivation for inmates to lie or exaggerate only grows.

"You're going to see a feeding frenzy. Anyone in custody or released is going to try to make some money off of this," said William Rapoport, defense lawyer for one of the three guards charged with killing Tyree. "It has nothing to do with fact or reality."

However, since Tyree's death and the arrests of three guards charged with murder in the case, a dizzying array of revelations has called into question just who is telling the truth and who is lying, exposing a dark side of the county jail that seems more fitting of Rikers Island than Silicon Valley.

Even Sheriff Laurie Smith, who oversees the jails and called in the FBI to help investigate new and old excessive force complaints, conceded during a public forum last week that while she's not convinced they're widespread, "we've got problems. I think anyone can see that."

It's been so difficult to persuade her correctional officers to help with the latest investigations, Smith said, that immunity has been offered to those who cooperate.

"They have a fear of retaliation from their own people, and that is a huge concern," she said of the guards. "That is something we've really been trying to break."

Along with the excessive force cases, correctional officers in her jails now are under investigation for exchanging hundreds of racist text messages, including images of lynchings and swastikas. One guard was walked off the job after being suspected of associating with a member of the Hells Angels. And two of the guards charged in Tyree's death wrote disturbing text messages, prosecutors say, about slapping and "twisting up" inmates for sport, especially in the shadows of the jail without cameras.

Over the past 3½ months, this newspaper set out to get a clearer picture of what's truly going on at the Santa Clara County Main Jail. But just as a special commission launched to investigate the jails in the wake of Tyree's death is discovering, getting to the truth can be difficult in a place muddied by labor disputes, a profound imbalance of power, the secrecy of what goes on behind bars and the inmates' questionable credibility.

Still, dozens of interviews with inmates, their family members and advocates, correctional officers and jail experts, and extensive reviews of grievances and lawsuits describe a culture in which force is not uncommon -- and discipline of guards is rare.

Guards have been accused of using force when inmates are mentally ill, handcuffed or shackled at the waist or feet. And those who complain say they often are ignored and sometimes retaliated against.

In one case, inmates described in written complaints how they urged the cellmate of a beating victim to leave a puddle of blood on the floor as evidence for Internal Affairs. "I left a five-minute recording," said inmate Jose Perez, who witnessed the beating. "I thought they would come the next day because it was serious. But nothing. No response. Nobody came."

A letter to this newspaper signed by 41 inmates said deputies constantly threaten inmates "that filing grievances will result in 'a war we cannot win.'"

Inmate Daniel Reyes said in a legal claim that several guards pounded his head on a table and smashed him repeatedly against a wall after guards found a chewing gum wrapper stuffed in the lock of his cell, to which his cellmate later confessed.

The only thing surprising about what happened to Tyree, inmates and community activists say, is that his beating was fatal.

"When a dead body happens, you can't hide that," inmate Francisco Marmolejo said. "But when they beat someone up, no one cares."

'Harsher and more punitive'

The eight-story jail on Hedding Street north of downtown San Jose was designed for 30-day stays, for pretrial detainees awaiting court dates. But like jails across California, it has become an indefinite place, where the average incarceration is more than six months, and stays of more than three years are common. Dorms are so crowded, cold or isolated, the inmates give them names: "The Snake Pits," "The Ice Box," "The Hole."

When inmate advocates from the Prison Law Office visited the main jail this past summer, director Donald Specter said in a letter to the sheriff that of all the jails he has toured, the conditions at the Main Jail were "harsher and more punitive than most." Unlike most state prisons, the jail has limited rehabilitation programs, and family visits are conducted behind thick glass. Maximum security inmates are restricted to their cells all but three hours a week, and outdoor time is spent in walled cages that guards refer to as "kennels."

As Christine Clifford, a member of a newly appointed jail commission put it, "When you find yourself hearing, 'Gee, I wish my son was at San Quentin,' that sure is an indictment of our jails."

It's far from pleasant for the guards, either. The Jail Observer Program, part of the county's Human Rights Commission, reports that the south wing of the main jail, which is slated to be replaced by 2019, offers "some of the worst, most stressful working conditions for county employees, thanks to the failing or inadequate plumbing, sewage and HVAC."

Along the way, some of the most basic human dignities have been lost. When inmates are moved within the jail, a correctional officer will call ahead and say, "I've got a body here," inmate Adrian Villalon said. "The response will be, 'Send it.'" Psychologically, Villalon said, "it makes it easier for them not to treat us as human beings."

Respectful guards

Inmates don't blame all guards. Many are professional, respectful and know how to keep the peace without using brute force, inmates interviewed for this story say. And the Santa Clara County jail has never had the reputation for brutality the way jails in New York and New Orleans have. But even in those places, inmates rarely die from beatings inflicted by guards.

In news conferences and at public meetings, Sheriff Smith insists she is serious about change. Tyree, she said, "was someone's son, someone's brother -- and his life had value."

She pledged to improve training and add a layer of supervision and accountability over one of the night shifts -- the D-Team -- that has been responsible for nearly half the brutality complaints so far this year. Three former members of that shift -- Jereh Lubrin, 28, Matthew Farris, 27, and Rafael Rodriguez, 27, all with less than three years on the job -- are charged with murdering Tyree late Aug. 26 and assaulting inmate Juan Alberto Villa earlier that night.

Before Tyree's death, however, the jail's Internal Affairs investigators had validated only five of the 302 excessive force complaints against guards since Smith began overseeing the jails in 2010. When there are no videotapes or witnesses, Smith said last week, "it's difficult when it's one person saying one thing and the other saying another."

The jail is home to inmates accused of murder, rape and drug dealing -- and nearly half have been diagnosed with some form of mental illness, including some of those interviewed for this story.

Garcia, who witnessed Tyree's beating, has been in and out of jails and prisons for 30 years, most recently on a drug possession charge and for violating a restraining order. Villalon is accused of killing a father of five during a robbery attempt at a convenience store. Marmolejo is charged with multiple weapons violations and battery on an officer.

Guards interviewed for this story say inmates can be dangerous and manipulative; they smuggle drugs into the jail through their anal cavities and throw feces at guards when toilets back up. Some ferment orange juice to make alcohol and fashion weapons from filed-down toothbrushes and melted potato chip bags.

"They can roll magazines so tight they can make a spear that will go in one side of your neck and out the other," said one guard, who spoke on condition of anonymity because he is not authorized to speak to the media. "It's crazy in there. You have no idea. The deputies act more professional than they know, given the circumstances."

Not following rules

If inmates act up, correctional officers are supposed to deny them privileges or move them into maximum security cells, not mete out their own brand of corporal punishment.

But text messages sent between Rodriguez and Farris, two of the guards charged in Tyree's death, suggest otherwise. In one, Rodriguez wrote about his encounter with an unnamed inmate: "He was surprised about me slapping him that he sat on his bed with hand on his cheek ... hahaha. I told him I bet your parents never spanked you but I will. haha"

And this one from Farris: "I love 6-A. No camera and no groups. I hope I keep it. Ahh just twist fools up ..."

Farris' lawyer called that text "gallows humor," and said Farris, the son of a respected former prosecutor, did nothing to cause Tyree's death -- but he wouldn't say whether Farris did anything to stop it.

Neither lawyers for Rodriguez nor Lubrin returned calls seeking comment. But prosecutors said in court documents that in the months before Tyree's death, Lubrin had twice failed to report when he used force, including an incident that nearly broke an inmate's hand.

Lubrin's suspected bullying of one inmate, Edson Marin, led a whole church congregation -- the Green Valley Christian Church in East San Jose -- to pray for him.

"We prayed and prayed and we prayed and we go into fasting a day a week, fasting for Officer Lubrin to leave Edson alone," said his brother, Christian Marin.

The day Lubrin and the two others were arrested, "I made a silk screen shirt. It said, 'Christ Heard My Prayer. Matthew 10:26.' Everything will come to light."

'A chilling scene'

Inmates say it was only a matter of time until a beating turned fatal. And this one was directed at one of the jail's most vulnerable -- a mentally ill, homeless man who has spent much of his life in and out of treatment centers and living on the streets. Tyree had been arrested on a minor drug infraction and was only jailed while awaiting a bed to open up in a psychiatric facility.

Investigators have yet to release a full version of what they think happened to Tyree, except to say that jail cameras identified the three guards as the only staff coming or going from unit 6B. But a chilling scene is described in this newspaper's interviews with Garcia and Juan Perez, inmates in cells near Tyree's.

Lubrin in particular had it out for Tyree, inmates say, as well as Villa.

Both had had run-ins with Lubrin earlier in the day, they say: Villa for backing down from a fight with a fellow inmate that Lubrin had egged on, and Tyree for "cheeking" his medication during pill call and calling a nurse a "rapist."

That night, the jail was quiet -- the TV was off. Inmates were expecting cell checks to make sure they weren't hoarding clothing. Instead, they heard the boots, the keys, the body blows, the screams. The first echoed from Villa's cell upstairs, they said, but soon moved to Tyree's cell below.

Garcia, two cells down, and Juan Perez, across the hall, couldn't see inside, but said they could hear the ghastly refrain.

"Stop," Garcia heard Tyree call out. "Stop hurting me!"

When the cell turned silent, Tyree lay bleeding to death from what the coroner would later call "multiple blunt force injuries." The two inmates watched the guards turn out the light, then Garcia said he heard Rodriguez tell Tyree, "I don't want to hear you for the rest of the night."

An hour later, the guards returned. Garcia said he watched them pull Tyree out of his cell by the shoulders, then drop him on the floor.

The images, Garcia said, will stick with him for life. "The way Lubrin looked at me," Garcia said, "it was the fear of God."

An earlier incident

Garcia's jaw still was swollen from the beating a month earlier, he said, when he was called in by a detective to explain what he had witnessed coming from Tyree's cell. White gauze wrapped from his head to his chin bandaged a golf-ball-size abscess under his cracked jaw.

He hadn't planned on complaining about the night he was booked July 23, about what he says happened after he mouthed off to two guards for not assigning him a cell with a bed until well past midnight. He's old school -- 50, a ward of the court when he was 12, a Nuestra Familia gang member for decades.

He didn't want to explain how they dragged him by his shackled ankles and pummeled him, one of them yelling, "Who's the bitch, who's the bitch?" He didn't want to say they only stopped when he finally conceded, "I'm the bitch."

He had been "sucker punched" the next day by a fellow inmate on the side of the head, he said, so who would believe him, anyway?

Still, he was surprised when the detective asked, "What happened to your face?"

Garcia knew he would be getting out of jail soon and didn't want any more trouble. But he says he thought about Tyree's limp body on the jailhouse floor and changed his mind.

"I was beaten up," he said, "by a couple CO's."

It was a decision that would launch not only an investigation into his own claim, but would help broaden a reckoning that's been a long time coming at the Santa Clara County jail.

"After seeing what they did to Michael," Garcia said, "I thought, 'I can't let them get away with this.'"

Contact Julia Prodis Sulek at 408-271-3409.