Note—The fifth installment
in my on-going series of stories about my Draft Resistance during the Vietnam
War, trial, and imprisonment.
Moments after I entered the Federal Building to report for
incarceration on my Draft resistance
conviction I was made rudely aware
of the difference between being held for arraignment
and being an official convict. Gone was any semblance of politeness or
acknowledgement of me as an individual.
The processing was brisk. There
was no reluctance to lay hands on me although I was totally compliant. I was finger
printed and mug shot once
again. But this time my new Bureau of Prisons identification number was attached.
I was told to memorize that number.
From that point forward that was how I would be known. I would not be referred to or called in any
official capacity by my name. I must
instantly answer to my number.
Some folks never forget that
number. I have trouble remembering my phone number and it took the better
part of my first 50 years just to master my Social Security number by heart.
So I have long since forgotten the long string of digits. But, believe me, I was keenly aware of them
then.
I was also subjected to The Dance for the first time. That’s the strip search procedure used every time a prisoner is moved from one
secure area to another, between or inside institutions. Anyone who has been inside the joint knows
the drill. Strip naked. Raise your right arm over your head. Raise your left arm over your head. Run your fingers through your hair. With feet apart raise you scrotum. Turn around.
Place your hands on the wall. Raise you right foot and show the bottom
of your foot. Raise your left foot and show the bottom of your foot. Lean over, grab your butt cheeks and spread
them. Be prepared, at the discretion of
the guard, to have your anus probed by a gloved hand.
After initial processing I was
placed in a cell with three or four
other men to await transfer to Cook
County Jail where we were to be held until Federal Marshalls could transport us to our prison
assignments. It was a two or three hour
wait.
When a vehicle and Marshalls were
ready we were removed from the cell and shackled—hands together in front of us,
at the ankles so no more than a shuffling movement could be made, chained
around our waists and linked together.
Down in a cramped elevator to the basement garage a panel van
awaited. Unchained from each other, we
took hard seats and chains from our waists were bolted to the floor. We were instructed not to talk. We didn’t.
The van disgorged us in the bowels
of Cook County Jail, where uniformed
County guards signed for us. Frankly the next couple of hours were a
blur. I remember being lead through a
maze of hallways, frequently stopping to pass locked gates. The place had a loud, continuous din of
noise—the banging of doors, buzzers, shouted orders, the hum and roar of fans
and ventilation equipment, assorted yells and cries as we passed tiers of
cells.
We were processed once again. Again finger printed and photographed. Stripped and searched. We were issued Cook County uniforms, in those
days two olive green jump suits, two
sets of well used underwear, two pair of black socks, and thick soled black
boots.
My little gaggle of Federal prisoners
and I were still in a group, destined for the same tier. I can no longer remember the tier designation. It was on the 2nd or 3rd floor. Cell
blocks radiated out from a common core.
Inmate tiers were designated by direction and floor, 2W, 3N, etc. Our particular destination was reserved for
those on or awaiting serious felony
charges, prisoners brought up from downstate institutions for appeals or to
testify in court proceedings, and Federals like ourselves. This, I was later told, was elite company far
from the puking drunks, detoxing junkies, gang bangers and petty
criminals being held for lack of bond
or the poor saps who were serving out their sentences in jail.
We were injected, one by one, into
the day room of the tier through a
secure portal. We each carried a rough wool blanket and a single sad pillow.
The portal was to one side of the glassed-in guard station which protruded into the day room. Ordinarily guards did not enter the tier
unless there was trouble or inmates were locked down.
The day room itself was large and
crowded. Behind an open area were three
or four rows of tables with attached
benches. Men sat at the tables
playing cards or dominos, reading and talking.
Many sat or sprawled on the bare concrete staring at small black and white TV mounted high in one
corner. The rear of the day room opened
up on a corridor lined on both sides with two-bunk
cells. The perimeter of the entire
tier was surrounded by bars and a walk
way. One side of each cell was
visible through the bars from that hall, which was lit 24 hours a day. At the end of the hall was a large open latrine with rows of toilets, sinks and open showers.
Our arrival caused something of a
stir. We were greeted and peppered with
questions. I was easily the youngest man
that I could see. When they found out
that I was up on a Draft rap there
was a ripple of guffaws. Turns out it
was not a prestige crime. I could hear some muffled jokes about fresh meat. Not reassuring.
When the crowd thinned a bit, a Black guy in his mid-thirties
approached me. He was wearing the
standard jump suit, but the collars
were long, pendulous ending in a blunt arch more than half way down the
chest. He was, he informed me with no
sense of braggadocio, the Boss of the tier. It turned out ranking gang members could
obtain special uniforms and various other goodies and favors. He had a relationship
with several of the guards—he kept order on the tier and he got certain, ahem,
luxuries in return and for a modest price.
He told me he would look out after me and to let him know if I had
problems with any of the cons. I
appreciated the help, but had the suspicion that he would want something from
me, sooner or later.
I was informed that because of
overcrowding that there were no available bunks in the cells. I would have to sleep on the floor of the day
room. Since I thought I would only be
there a day or two, I thought nothing of it and stashed my bed roll off to one
side. I found an empty spot on a table
bench and settled it to staring blankly at whatever was on the TV.
I had missed lunch and had no
stomach for breakfast. Despite my
stomach continuing to do nervous flips, I was getting hungry.
Around 5 o’clock dinner
arrived. Metal pans and cups were
handed out. The pan was filled with a
large ladle-full of some kind of bean slop. There were a couple of slices of dry white bread evidently baked from
sawdust. A foul black concoction alleged
to be coffee or a small carton of milk were our choice of beverages.
I stared into the bowl. It appeared that some sort of red worms were
swimming among the beans. “Them’s pig tails!” I was informed. Turned out that pig tails and beans were the
most common dinner, alternating with Ox
tails and beans and on rare occasions a slab of gristly meat deep fried and
advertised as chicken fried steak. There was no salt. The beans smelled and tasted like crap. I passed that first night.
But hunger eventually gets to you
and after a few days I was wolfing the stuff down, spitting out the bones with
the best of them.
Breakfast was a glop of powdered eggs or an oatmeal gruel with the saw dust bread
pre-toasted but cold. Lunch, unvaryingly
was the same plain bologna on dry
white bread famously handed out in police
station lock-ups. Those who had
money in the commissary could supplement their diet with chips, candy bars, and brownies.
The diet and the tension ganged up
on me. Usually as regular as a twice a day milk
train, I couldn’t produce a crap
for a week, which I assure you made me very uncomfortable.
A week you say, wasn’t I supposed to
be on my way to the big house before that?
I began to wonder the same thing until one of the other Federal
prisoners got word from his lawyer that we were stuck in Cook County Jail because
all of the Federal Marshalls needed to move us had been sent to Wounded Knee to shoot Indians. American
Indian Movement leaders including Dennis
Banks and Russell Means were
holed up in a standoff with authorities in the village of Wounded Knee on the Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota. As long as both sides continued taking pot
shots at each other, I was stuck in Cook County.
The days stretched into weeks. I continued to sleep, fitfully on the floor
usually under a table to provide some shield from the 24 hour a day light in
the day room.
Because I was assumed to be headed
rapidly to the prison in Sandstone, Minnesota, my friends lost track of me
and my commissary money provided to me as a class war prisoner by the IWW
General Defense Committee was sent up there. Without any money on deposit at Cook County,
I could not access the commissary for smokes,
or any of the little luxuries including writing implements, paper, envelopes,
stamps, toiletries, smokes, or snacks.
The lack of cigarettes made me a double beggar because cigarettes packs
were the currency between cons.
After a few days I got word to the
fellow workers and received my first visit.
We spoke through a thick window.
It was good to see them. And good
to have them put some money in my commissary, which I rapidly spent on Pall Malls, writing equipment, and magazines
to pass the time. About a week later my
girlfriend Cecelia took an afternoon
off work to come. Our meeting was awkward.
Neither of us knew what to say. I
never saw anyone else in my time there, although my commissary account got
refreshed.
Every morning we were all
wakened. We had half an hour to piss, shower and shave. I had been warned about the showers and tried
to avoid them by washing in the basin, but was told by guards that I must
shower at least twice a week. I tried to
keep my butt to the wall and never, ever, bend over.
To shave we were allowed the use of
the then new disposable razor. Used to the metal heft of a Gillette Safety Razor, it felt weightless
in my hand. The blades were bad and
maneuvering it over the unfamiliar territory of my chin, which had been adorned
for years with a goatee, meant that
I was bleeding for breakfast most mornings.
I passed the time in the day room
mostly watching daytime television. A
punishment then as now. Since I didn’t
gamble, the card and domino games were out.
After I finally got some commissary money, I had something to read and I
began writing the epic letters that
prisoners with a lot of time on their hands are known for. And not just to friends.
One day I caught Helen Reddy on some morning show. She sang a couple of songs. I was impressed and wrote her a heartfelt
four page handwritten fan letter, something I had never done in my life. I forgot that my hen scratch printing was virtually illegible and that my unassisted
spelling made me seem to be at best
semi-literate. I never heard back from
Helen. But later I realized that fan mail from jail tends to give stars
the creeps.
One day the tier was surprised by
the delivery of several cartons of brand new Penthouse magazines—enough
for everyone. Let me tell you the guys
were excited. You could buy girlie mags in the commissary, but most
didn’t have enough in their accounts to buy them. The magazines came courtesy of the tier’s
most famous resident.
Silas
Jayne was always described in the press
as a horseman. He ran an upscale riding stable and a business peddling broken down nags as expensive
show horses to the teen age
daughters of wealthy men. He also had a
habit of seducing and/or assaulting
those same girls and blackmailing
their fathers. Some of the girls had
turned up missing. He also had a long running feud with his
brother George who was in the same
business. There had been fatalities on
both sides. But Silas, who made pals of
cops, escaped arrest, even after he was suspected of the sniper killing of an Indiana cop investigating the
disappearance of three girls. What
finally got him arrested was the similar shooting of his brother George. He was in Cook County awaiting trial.
For all of his tough guy swagger,
Silas was deathly afraid of the other inmates, especially the Black ones. He paid our tier Boss plenty for
protection. But he never left the safety
of his cell. A little rat faced toady who was his cell mate would bring
him his food. This was in violation of
the jail rules, but the guards were also well paid to ignore it. I only glimpsed Jayne through the bars of his
cell on my way to the latrine and showers.
Jayne’s hot shot lawyer was somehow
also involved with Penthouse’s Bob Guccione. Thus the gifts.
Jayne was later acquitted of the
murder. He was arrested again for the barn arson of a rival that killed
dozens of horses but died before that case came to trial. Years later he was tied to the disappearance
of candy heiress Helen Brock who
apparently was going to the authorities with evidence of some of his horse frauds.
We had a couple of other murderers
who had made headlines, but no one matched Jayne for star power.
About three weeks in, the tier Boss
invited me to visit his cell. Not for
the first time. But this time he had
something to offer I could hardly refuse—hooch. That’s a sort of home brew alcohol. This batch was made up by his friends in the
kitchen, made from fermented fruit pulp, honey and a little yeast. Closer to mead than wine or beer.
It stunk and tasted, well, like you would expect. The Boss had a couple of quarts of the stuff
in milk jugs smuggled to him by obliging guards.
It was mid-afternoon and the cells
were mostly empty. We shared a few swigs
of hooch. He offered me some downers, but I never did like pills.
He said if I wanted, he could even get some grass. I couldn’t imagine
how that would work with the smell wafting everywhere. But the Boss had everyone in his hip pocket,
so I supposed nothing was impossible. As
we grew mellower, he began to come on to
me. I was expecting that. I kept a close eye on the open cell
door. He explained how he could protect
me, even in the Federal joint. He had
friends everywhere. He extolled the
virtues of becoming his bitch.
I thanked him but declined. “I just can’t do it,” I told him. “No, I didn’t think you would, but it was
worth the pitch.” We shared another swig
or two and he let me go without laying a hand on me. He never invited me back, but he did make
clear later in the day room where tongues were wagging that I was a “stand up
dude, so lay the fuck off.” And they
did.
The Wounded Knee siege was finally
broken on May 5, 1973. The Federal
inmates got word that Marshalls would again be available to transport us in a
couple of more days. I was still
sleeping on the floor under a table. I
had been in Cook County for just over a month.
Next: Sandstone.
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