Johnny Morales had barely slept when correctional officers arrived at his San Quentin death row cell shortly after midnight to pack and inventory his belongings. After nearly two decades in one of the most restrictive prison settings in California, he was being moved.
With his hands cuffed behind his back, Morales walked across the prison’s upper yard before dawn. An officer stayed close, holding his arm as they crossed the empty yard. For 19 years, that was how Morales experienced nearly every moment outside his cell: restrained, escorted and separated from others under the rules governing condemned prisoners.
Morales, whose murder case began in San Bernardino County, was among hundreds of men sentenced to death who have been transferred out of San Quentin as California dismantles its traditional death row. The shift follows Gov. Gavin Newsom’s 2019 executive order halting executions in the state and later steps to close the condemned housing unit and remove the execution chamber at San Quentin.
The move does not erase Morales’ death sentence. He remains condemned and has no current path to parole or release. But it has dramatically changed his day-to-day life, placing him in a lower-security setting at California State Prison-Sacramento, commonly known as New Folsom, where he can live and participate in programs more like other incarcerated people.
For Morales, the first sign of that change came after a long wait in a small holding cage at New Folsom. Officers eventually removed the handcuffs.
“That was weird right there,” Morales said. “But it felt good, too.”
The transition from San Quentin’s condemned unit to a general prison population is part of a broader debate in California corrections: whether prison conditions should be centered on punishment and isolation, or whether even those convicted of the most serious crimes should have access to programs, education and mental health support.
Dave Lewis, a retired facilities director for the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation, said public sympathy for condemned prisoners is often limited. Still, he said, the state has an obligation to maintain conditions that do not further damage a person’s mental health.
“Creating opportunities for self-improvement and programming really goes a long way,” Lewis said.
Morales’ path to death row began more than two decades ago in the Inland Empire.
Born in Honduras, Morales came to the United States when he was 17. Johnny Morales is not his birth name; he said his real name is Mario. Johnny was the name he had used to obtain legal work, and it was the name in state records when he was arrested.
On June 9, 2001, Morales joined a group of six men who targeted drug dealers for robberies. According to Morales, one member of the group said he knew of a methamphetamine lab that would be easy to rob. Morales agreed to drive.
When the group arrived, they were unsure where the lab was located and split up to enter separate buildings. Morales said he soon heard a gunshot from the other building. The others ran out, saying a woman, Elia Torres Lopez, had been shot in front of her young children.
As Morales drove the group away, he recognized the victim’s name. He had met Lopez socially and had danced with her several times at a club they both frequented. He learned the next day that she had died.
“The moment I agreed to go with these people, I agreed to be a part of whatever happened,” Morales said. “I have to be responsible.”
Morales said he spoke little English when he entered San Bernardino County Jail about a month after the shooting. He said the experience of facing the courts and jail staff in a language he did not understand pushed him to learn English quickly.
He was the only member of the group arrested in connection with the killing. Prosecutors pursued the death penalty after he refused a plea deal and declined to identify the others involved. In 2005, a jury convicted him of first-degree murder with special circumstances because the killing occurred during a robbery. The same jury later sentenced him to death.
Within days, Morales was transferred to San Quentin.
By then, he said, reading and education had become essential to his survival. As his English improved, he read constantly. He also relied on religious study for comfort. Raised Catholic, Morales later converted to Judaism while incarcerated.
Life on death row, he said, was defined by confinement and death. His cell measured about 4 feet by 11 feet. When condemned prisoners were moved through open areas, they were handcuffed or shackled. Other incarcerated men housed at lower security levels were required to stop and turn away when condemned prisoners passed.
Morales was on death row during California’s last two executions: Stanley “Tookie” Williams in 2005 and Clarence Ray Allen in 2006. He said he did not know them personally, but he remembers the atmosphere before they were put to death.
“The officers, the inmates — everybody knew what was about to happen,” Morales said. “You know someone’s coming to kill your neighbor tonight, but there’s nothing in your power to help your neighbor.”
Executions have been rare in California, which has long been divided over capital punishment. The state Supreme Court struck down the death penalty in 1972, calling it cruel or unusual punishment. Lawmakers later moved to restore capital punishment for certain crimes, and voters codified the death penalty in 1978. In 2016, voters approved a measure intended to speed up executions.
Three years later, Newsom issued his moratorium, saying the state would not carry out executions while he remained governor. The order did not commute death sentences, but it began a transformation of how California houses condemned prisoners.
Morales said that while executions were uncommon during his years at San Quentin, suicides were not. He estimates about 40 men died by suicide in the condemned unit during his time there.
“It was very hard, because you get to know people,” he said. “We’re going through the same thing.”
Outside his cell at San Quentin, Morales said, the only time he could interact without restraints was during limited recreation periods, when small groups of condemned prisoners were released into segregated outdoor areas. Showers, religious services, visits and other activities took place in cages or other controlled spaces.
The isolation worsened during the COVID-19 outbreak that swept through San Quentin in 2020. Morales said he was among the first condemned prisoners to test positive. He recovered, but others around him died.
“That really hit me hard,” he said. “Everybody has hope to one day go home. That’s the last thing you lose in this kind of place.”
Support also came from outside prison. Through a Jewish care network for incarcerated people, Morales was paired in 2022 with Liz Silver, a Marin County woman who became his pen pal. Their letters soon turned into phone calls and prison visits. Today, both describe the other as their closest friend.
Silver said she was struck by Morales’ persistence and hope despite his circumstances.
“There was an integrity about him,” she said. “How did this person, in this little teeny size of a cell, have the hope and the drive? I saw that about him, and I admired it.”
Morales said he also benefited from San Quentin’s mental health staff, who walked the tiers of East Block checking on condemned prisoners and offering counseling.
“I’ve never been afraid of asking for help,” he said. “If you can get help, why not?”
Morales was moved to New Folsom two years ago after the state began transferring condemned prisoners to other institutions. Because of his strong disciplinary record, he qualified for the lowest security level available to someone with no current possibility of parole.
New Folsom, built in the 1980s, has historically been known as one of California’s tougher high-security prisons. But the yard where Morales now lives was converted to a lower-security, non-designated setting. In prison terms, that means it generally accepts incarcerated people from groups that may be targeted elsewhere, including openly LGBTQ prisoners, former gang members, sex offenders and others who might not be safe on more rigidly segregated yards.
Such facilities typically emphasize education and rehabilitation. Prisoners who cause violence or serious problems can be moved to higher-security settings, while those who follow the rules and participate in programs can remain in the lower-security environment.
The change was disorienting for Morales. When he first arrived, he said officers sent him to pick up state-issued clothing and bedding. For the first time in years, he stood near staff without handcuffs and without a barrier between them.
“I was just trying to remain calm,” he said. “I want them to know I am not a violent person.”
Four days after his arrival, Morales was assigned a cellmate. It was the first time he had shared a cell with another incarcerated person. Although the cells are larger than those at San Quentin, sharing living space required skills he had not used in nearly 20 years.
“To me, it’s more opportunity to reconnect with what I call being normal,” Morales said. “When you live in the cell by yourself, who do you complain to? I’m learning to communicate.”
On the New Folsom yard, Morales can play chess and handball, talk with other prisoners and move between areas without the same restraints he knew at San Quentin. He said the atmosphere has allowed him to focus more directly on personal growth.
His bilingual ability quickly became useful. Remembering how difficult it had been to enter jail and prison without understanding English, Morales began tutoring Spanish-speaking prisoners when he could. The prison’s education department noticed and gave him work as a clerk and teaching aide.
He later applied for and was accepted into the Peer Literacy Mentor Program, which trains incarcerated people to help others study for GED coursework. Morales has also enrolled in his first community college course, English 101. Through the college program, he received a laptop and submits assignments electronically.
Morales said the opportunities have changed how he thinks about rehabilitation. For years, he believed staying out of fights, avoiding drugs and alcohol, and following prison rules meant he was becoming a better person. At New Folsom, he said, he has come to see rehabilitation as deeper work.
“I really want to rehabilitate myself,” he said. “I want to do it the right way.”
Much of that work, he said, comes through conversations with others serving long sentences who have spent years examining the harm they caused. Sometimes he tutors others; sometimes, he said, he is the one learning.
Silver continues to visit Morales on weekends and said she has seen him wrestle openly with remorse.
“He is so remorseful about his crime and that a mother was taken away from her children,” Silver said. “He’s accepted everything. Sometimes I feel like he’s accepted it too much.”
Morales said speaking about the crime brings back pain, including the trauma he caused Lopez’s family. But he believes confronting that harm is part of the work he must do.
“It’s hard to process,” he said. “When I think about all the harm and damage, I’m just blessed to be alive. We never gave the victim the opportunities that I have now.”
Original source: CalMatters
