Santos was paroled after four years. He opened a gallery in San Diego and embarked on a career as an artist. And a fine artist, Santos figured, shouldn’t have a rap sheet. So he told no one. “When they were done, it wasn’t seen as important to know who painted the murals,” said Lt. Sam Robinson, San Quentin’s spokesman.

In the mid-1990s, local historians began asking: who painted the murals? Santos answer ered it a few years later when he called the prison to see his work once again. Vernell Crittendon, San Quentin’s spokesman at the time, hung up on him. “I thought he was just a criminal,” Crittendon said. “And I’m not letting a criminal into the prison unless he has an invitation from a judge.” In 2003, Santos was finally identified as the muralist. Crittendon invited Santos to San Quentin; he was feted and given an honorary key to the joint. “It was nice,” Santos said. “There was a big buffet. I was a celebrity for one night.”

Seeing the murals for the first time is a startling and incongruous experience. Portions are marred by water damage and flaking. Here and there a con seeking immortality has scrawled his name. They are jammed with images of California’s transformation from wilderness to mid-20th century industrial powerhouse. Indians and the Gold Rush flow into agriculture, oil, Hollywood, aviation and freeways. A San Francisco streetcar and the Golden Gate Bridge share space with the Hollywood Bowl and the Los Angeles Coliseum. Ironworkers erecting cities rub shoulders with Einstein and the atomic bomb.

... contd.