Bob Williams, now 49, spent more than half his life in isolation on San Quentin’s death row. At age 18, he raped and murdered 40-year-old Mary Breck in Kern County in 1994. Just a day earlier, he had broken into her home and stolen credit cards. He claimed he returned to give them back but instead strangled her. Williams was convicted of first-degree murder and sentenced to death.
Despite a traumatic childhood marked by time in juvenile hall and foster care, Williams told the Times that being sent to San Quentin was “the best thing that ever happened to me.” He entered prison determined to find God and forgiveness. On death row, he immersed himself in philosophy and poetry, drawing inspiration from works like Invictus.
Williams reconciled himself to his death sentence, aware of the looming prospect of lethal injection. But that changed when Governor Newsom declared a moratorium on executions in 2019, followed by his 2023 announcement to transform San Quentin into a rehabilitation center. In spring 2022, Williams was transferred to the Richard J. Donovan Correctional Facility in San Diego County. For the first time in decades, he could walk freely, eat with others, and feel the sun on his face.
Though his death sentence remains intact, Williams has been profoundly changed by his relocation. Now working as a chapel clerk, he enjoys coastal sunsets, yard time, and sports. Yet the adjustment wasn’t easy: sharing a cell for the first time caused him anxiety. “It’s a transition,” he said. “And it’s a hard transition sometimes.”
When Williams transferred, he took his Bible, a prayer book, and a few pieces of clothing, leaving the rest to friends. His case illustrates both the promise and challenges of life after death row.
Victims’ rights groups have responded to these changes with anger and frustration. Patricia Wenskunas, founder of Crime Survivors Inc., criticized Newsom’s unilateral move: “Death row was voted [on] by the people of California. And one individual, the governor, by a swipe of a pen decided to take it away.” California voters rejected a 2016 ballot measure to repeal the death penalty and instead passed Proposition 66, which sought to expedite executions and require inmates to work and contribute 70% of their wages to restitution. Since 2020, over $229,000 has been paid to victims.
Still, change has come. According to the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation, about 70% of transferred inmates are now in rehabilitative programs. Over 330 are enrolled in educational courses, and 263 participate in self-help classes. While 99 have received serious disciplinary citations, most show behavioral improvement.
For others like Kevin Bernoudy, sentenced in 2006 for a gang-related murder, adjusting to life at California State Prison, Solano—where he transferred to be closer to his wife—has been difficult. He described younger inmates as undisciplined, with no interest in rehabilitation: “If this is our future, it’s terrible.”
Though not yet in classes, Bernoudy noted small improvements: access to basic hygiene tools and better food. “They gave me a [chicken] leg, and to me that was like, wow,” he said. “On death row, you’re not allowed to have bones.”
Raynard Cummings, 67, was sentenced for killing LAPD officer Paul Verna in 1983. Upon arriving at the State Prison in Lancaster, he marveled at seeing a full moon for the first time in decades. But he expressed concern about prison violence and stigma due to his conviction. Cummings has since been moved again—now residing at High Desert State Prison in Lassen County due to crowding and security issues.
Cathy Sarinana, 48, is one of 18 women sentenced to death in California. She and her husband were convicted in the 2005 murder of their 11-year-old nephew, Ricky Morales. After Ricky’s death, the body of his 13-year-old brother was found encased in concrete. Sarinana claims she was abused by her husband and failed to protect her nephews. “I live with that guilt every day,” she said.
On death row at Central California Women’s Facility, Sarinana experienced a tight-knit, supportive environment—one she feared losing upon transfer. Though the unit resembled a “chicken coop,” she found genuine friendships and even held holiday potlucks with fellow inmates.
Transferred in 2024 to a medical unit accommodating inmates with disabilities, Sarinana worried about being shunned. Now she works as a group facilitator under retired deputy warden Velda Dobson-Davis, helping others process trauma. Still, she misses aspects of death row. “I still crave that place,” she admitted. “It’s morbid.”
Williams, who moved again in 2024 to the California Health Care Facility, echoed similar ambivalence. Though grateful to be off death row, he longs for clarity: “I’m kind of at a point of, either execute me or tell me you’re not going to.” While he holds out hope for resentencing, he remains at peace with dying in prison. “I’ve come face to face with it, and I’ve looked it in the eye,” he said. “And I found life.”
Source: davisvanguard.org, Katherine Parker, May 4, 2025
"One is absolutely sickened, not by the crimes that the wicked have committed,
but by the punishments that the good have inflicted."
but by the punishments that the good have inflicted."
— Oscar Wilde
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