Chapter 17
Solitary Secrets
One of the earliest lessons I learned from the nuns at St. Charles was to never judge a book by it‟s cover. After reading To Kill A Mockingbird,
A Brave New World,
Catcher In The Rye, in high school,
and I fully
grasped the meaning of the proverb and applied it regularly in my life to people I met, countries I visited, and even towards strangers. I did my best to remain objective and free of prejudice even while race riots rocked Cleveland in the summer of 1968. When I was sent off to prison, I naively took this attitude with me truly believing that if I respected everyone as an equal and avoided potential conflicts, no harm would come my way. In retrospect, this was a very big mistake and I am still paying for it today.
Many long years after I walked out of prison as free man, I am still haunted with cruel nightmares that placed me back behind bars in my dreams. The flashbacks last just long enough to make me break a sweat and wake my wife as I jump up shouting or gasping for air. As the years go by, the nightmares grow less frequent but the horror remains constant. It‟s not the prison itself that terrorizes my soul, but the horrible secrets I witnessed and endured behind it‟s walls and fences.
329
By
design,
prisons
are
designed to be an unpleasant place for a very good reason – to remind its occupants on a daily basis that crimes have dire
consequences
and
to
serve as a future deterrent. The separation from one‟s family members for months and years at a time is plenty punishment for any man or woman, but some prison guards and officials believe otherwise. They somehow believe that their job is to reinforce or add to a judge‟s sentence by compounding a prisoner‟s sentence of time with physical and mental abuse of their own doing.
Indeed they are in a position of absolute
authority and often and frequently abuse that authority to make a prisoner‟s life thoroughly miserable whether it be through regular beatings, or in more deviate ways like making sure a prisoner never gets his mail from his wife or children, or by causing a prisoner to get attacked or raped by other prisoners simply by starting or rumor, or perhaps by planting some drugs in a prisoner‟s locker to get him locked up for an extra year or two.
These tactics and others far more
sophisticated are used routinely by prison staff against selected inmates. But who they target for this abuse are not those you might think.
It‟s not so much the violent or insolent prisoner that they single out for abuse as it is the inmate who files formal written complaints about staff violations, abuse incidents, or the guy who exercises his right to correspond
with
Congressman, or sends a letter to the news media or the ACLU.
his Even
appealing your prisoner classification is enough to incur the wrath of prison staffers.
Anything that a prisoner does that causes a prison staff member to
generate paperwork of any sort is enough to get flagged as a “troublemaker”. Their ideal world would be to have robotic zombie prisoners who never speak, have 330
visitors, make requests, ask questions, nor write letters. Their aversion to processing paperwork is incredible even though prison policy mandates that every facet of a prisoner‟s life be documented. To be fair, the prison staffers are burdened
with a lot of routine paperwork to begin with, so when a prisoner
does something that increases that paperwork load, that prisoner is going to pay for it one way or another.
I learned this lesson the hard way. More on this
later.
When one drives by a prison in the free world the high foreboding walls or fences strung with miles of razor wire are intimidating to say the least. But the prison you see pales in comparison to the prison within that you can‟t see. Most people don‟t realize that every prison has another prison within that is well guarded and concealed from public view. It is this inner prison where cruelty, evil men and women, malice, and degradation mix behind closed doors to make for the very worst human rights abuse that at best is horrific – despicable and abhorable at worst.
This place has an official name that is quite antiseptic and very
misleading – “Segregation Unit”. confinement”.
In real English this translates into “solitary
It is here where screams can‟t be heard and the very worst
abuse of prisoners take place. More prisoners suffer alleged “suicides” in Segregation Units of U.S. prisons than anywhere on Planet Earth – a fact that has been documented by Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch.
I say
alleged, because most of the deaths in solitary like one I witnessed with my own two eyes at MCC Miami are murders, that are then casually written up as a suicides. At least half of the people who are released from Segregation back into general population bear a variety of bruises, cuts, contusions, and scars – what the guards call “souvenirs” of their stay.
There are four types of prisoners you will find locked up in solitary confinementthe violent inmates who are too dangerous to keep in general population. Often 331
times they are gang members who need to be kept separated from rival gang members lest they kill or maim one another.
Then there are the homosexuals,
sexual deviates, and mentally disturbed prisoners.
The third group are the
government informants who are kept in segregation basically to help keep them alive. Snitches don‟t last long in general population and are usually found in the shower with shank through their neck or heart.
The last group of segregation
residents are the most interesting.
These are the guys the government wants to keep incommunicado for politically embarrassing reasons. It was in the seg unit of Miami MCC that I crossed paths with drug smuggler king George Morales and his pilot Gary Betzner,
two key witnesses of the Iran-Conrtra drugs for guns scandal, Jesus
Garcia the Miami Cuban who deli vered the CIA machine gun used to murder corruption witness Barry Seals in New Orleans, Mike Tolliver, another CIA contract pilot, and a Coast Guard Captain involved in a smuggling ring. Not to mention scores of witnesses of government corruption cases. Some of these guys spent months at a time in segregation for “administrative reasons”, which really means “because this is the only place we can eliminate communication from this person”. One of the most interesting fellows I met in segregation was an FBO owner from Ft. Lauderdale named Chester Zukowski.
Chester was a “professional witness” employed and used extensively by the DEA to set up people on drug charges and then provide fabricated testimony to convict them.
In exchange the DEA paid Chester handsomely and gave him airplanes
worth millions seized from some of the people arrested. Well at one point, Chester could no longer face himself in the mirror and decided to stop assisting the DEA with their phony prosecutions. When he did, the DEA feared Chester might go public and had him arrested and locked up in segregation for months – for “administrative reasons”.
Contrary to what most Americans may think, the 332
U.S. has it‟s share of political prisoners- they simply are better concealed than in most other countries.
Collectively, I spent nine months in solitary confinement over my 38 month stay with my longest stretch being 90 days, the legal limit. Followed by a second 90 days following four hours of relative freedom in general population. This is nothing compared to the nine years Erling Ingvaldsen was kept in solitary or the two years Chris Simmons spent there.
Besides, after the first thirty days, time
becomes blurred and in many ways loses its significance.
Getting sent to
“Seg” is not difficult. I myself didn‟t have to “do” anything wrong to get there. In fact, I was twice taken to Seg ostensibly “for my own protection” and on another occasion for merely asking to speak to warden to tell him that one of the staff members (Lt. Foster) was stealing and trashing my mail – even to and from lawyers. But my initial introduction to segregation came after I refused some “good advice”. Let me explain…
I won‟t deny that I was quite bitter about being sent to prison for a crime I never committed, and I was determined to right this wrong and expose the murder of my co-worker Liston Smith and how I was wrongfully denied a trial. But being locked behind bars I soon learned that any effort I needed to mount would have to be done exclusively by mail. I say this because the first time I tried to use a telephone in prison to call my Congressman I got an unexpected surprise – all calls made from prison must be made collect if even a prisoner‟s family sends him a calling card.
At first, I couldn‟t understand the reason for this
collect call policy but in time I came to believe that this was designed to isolate prisoners from outside help since no government agency, human rights organizations, civil rights groups, or news media accept collect calls especially from strangers. Indeed, even most lawyers refuse to accept calls from their own clients once they are sentenced since they are not likely to collect more 333
payments from a convicted, jailed client. It always amused me how many lawyers told their clients they were innocent and would prove it at trial until the client ran out of money and then they were suddenly advised to “cop a plea”! At any rate I was certainly
discouraged by this telephonic obstacle but
resigned myself that I would mount a letter writing campaign since I had plenty of time to kill.
I chose to write my first two letters to The American Civil Liberties Union and Congressman Ron Mottl of Ohio, a friend of my deceased father who had previously written a letter of recommendation for me years ago when I applied for entrance to the U.S. Coast Guard Academy.
I must have spent four or
five days carefully writing the letters, naming the two Miami FBI agents (Ben Grogan and Jerry Dove) who could verify why Liston was dead and I was behind bars. I included the names of some of the millionaires whose names appeared on the IRS hit list (Victor Posner, Monty Trainer, Bill Irwin, etc.) who were all harassed and ultimately charged by the IRS after they refused to stop making campaign contributions to Democratic candidates for Congress. I detailed how my innocence could be proven and how the judge refused to let me withdraw my plea and go to trial as was my right according to federal law. They were rather lengthy letters about 10 or 12 double-sided pages. I was sure that if they were read, I would get some legal relief, or at the very least an investigation.
I slapped some extra
stamps on the two envelopes, double-checked my return address was correct, and dropped them into the prison mailbox. My hopes for justice rode with these letters and I was foolishly optimistic.
But after a month passed with no reply from either the ACLU nor Congressman Mottl, I grew troubled and concerned. I mentioned the matter to some prisoners I shared a cell with and they asked what was in the letters. When I told them they all just laughed at me and casually commented that my letters never made it into 334
the hands of the U.S. Post Office. I was dumbfounded and asked them to explain. “Look kid, this is a prison and all your outgoing and incoming mail is read before it goes out or comes in” one of the older veteran prisoners explained to me. “They say it‟s for security – you know, to make sure you‟re not planning an escape or having drugs sent into to you through the mail” That made perfect sense to me but I couldn‟t fathom how that would stop the delivery of U.S. mail. „You obviously wrote something they didn‟t like in those letters, and chances are they trashed them or sent them over to the feds” he continued. At first I refused to believe this but other prisoners relayed similar stories to me and I grew angry enough to call my mother and told her about the situation.
She too refused to believe that
anyone would deliberately tamper with the U.S. mail and suggested that Mr. Mottl and the ACLU were simply busy and would eventually respond. I persuaded my mom to call Congressman Mottl‟s office and ask if they received my letter. When I called her back the next day, she confirmed my fears. They received no letter from me. To put it mildly I was outraged and I immediately wrote a second letter, almost identical to the first but this time I included an additional note that simply said
“It if a federal crime to tamper with the U.S. mail and if this letter
doesn‟t reach my Congressman, I will file a formal complaint with the U.S. Postal Inspector”.
I was of the silly notion that even prisoners had some basic rights
and I wasn‟t prepared to forfeit these basics.
At this point, I had been jailed
about six weeks or so. The second set of letters were sent on their way.
The very next day, I was at my work detail in the kitchen when my supervisor Joe Kuhn came over to me and told me that I was to report to Lt. Foster‟s office immediately. I couldn‟t help wonder what this could be about or who this Lt. Foster was. I soon found out. Lt. Foster invited me into his office and asked me to sit down. He was a tall thin black man about thirty-five
years of age and he
promptly announced that he was in charge of prison security. I said little and just listened. “Listen Gorcyca, I realize this is your first time in prison and you 335
need to know the rules here. Follow the rules and you‟ll be out here and back home with your family in a year or so. If you choose to make waves, you could be here for a long time – do you understand?‟
“What rules are you
referring to Mr. Foster?” I asked feeling quite confident that I hadn‟t broken any. It was then that he pulled out the two letters I sent the night before and he threw them in my lap. Puzzled, I looked at him for an explanation. “Look, just throw those letters in the trash and do your time quietly. Those letters aren‟t going to get you a trial or out of here a day early. They‟ll only piss off a lot people who can make your life miserable”. “I don‟t understand” I replied.
“I think you do so get
out of here and rest assured I‟ll be watching your mail”. “What nerve!” I thought to myself as I marched out of his office biting my tongue more determined than ever to get some outside help.
That very night, I redeposited the very same letters in the mail along with a third letter I wrote to the U.S. Postal Inspector‟s office in Miami asking how I could send certified mail from prison and if they could please mail me the instructions, labels etc. Prison staff members adamantly told me it was impossible for me to send certified or registered letters from prison.
The following morning I was in the prison cafeteria eating a bowl of oatmeal for breakfast, when two guards approached me and instructed to to stand up and put my hands behind my back. When I obeyed, they put handcuffs on me and led me away to a building that was about forty feet wide by one hundred feet long. “What‟s going on?” I asked. “Shut up asshole” replied one of the guards. I was led through two steel double-locked doors into this building which had about a dozen small cells with sold steel doors with a small window on them. The entire building was dark and dank. Voices echoed of the cold metal and concrete and I could just feel the evil that filled the air here. I could not describe the sensation other than to say I felt fully enveloped by the worst aura I ever felt in 336
my life. My instincts told me this was not a place to be. (I recently learned this was the exact building where General Noriega would spend his years ina U.S. prison after they converted it to a little office for him)
I was ordered to strip naked and told to get in one of the small cells. “Welcome to seg – your new home Gorcyca” I turned around to see Lt. Foster holding my three letters. He followed me into the cell and told me to sit down. As I did, he began ripping up my letters and dropped the pieces into the stainless steel toilet and flushed them with a grin. I said nothing.
This is where all your mail goes from now on until you take my advice and play the game by my rules – not yours. “Look Mr. Foster, I don‟t have any beef with you or this prison. I have a legal problem that needs to be resolved and I have a right to send letters don‟t I?” “You have no rights in prison so don‟t expect any” he replied emphatically. “So why was I brought here to Seg?” I asked “Because this is where we keep whistleblowers like you”. “I want to speak with the warden” I asked. Foster just laughed, walked out and slammed the door closed behind him. One of the guards came to the window and pointed downwards as he told me “Everything you need is in the sink”. I looked down into the scummy stainless steel sink and saw nothing but a well-used toothbrush. What a sense of humor! I thought to myself. Thus began my first stay in solitary confinement. It was not a pleasant experience and I soon realized I was claustrophobic.
That night I was still naked and it was cold in solitary - about 45 degrees Fahrenheit. The cell measured six feet wide by ten feet long. It had a steel military bunk with a lattice of springs but no mattress. There was a filthy toilet but no toilet paper.
The floor was concrete with what could only be blood stains
splattered on one of the walls an floor. I deduced that someone was seriously injured in this cell. But right now I was freezing and began to shiver uncontrollably. 337
I looked out the small five by eight inch window on the door and saw a guard sitting in an office. I began calling out to him “officer” many times but he ignored me completely.
That‟s when I heard a pounding noise on my wall and then heard a voice coming out of the air vent “hey new guy!” I figured that must be me so I climbed on top of the sink to speak back into the air vent „You calling me?”
“Yeah, listen buddy,
the more you call the guard, the longer he‟ll ignore you. What do you need?” “My clothes or a blanket– I‟m freezing my ass off in here”. “Wait til they serve chow and ask him then. His name is Mr. Bouchard and he seems to be in a good mood today” “Right thanks for the advice. By the way what‟s your name?” “Simmons. Chris Simmons”. “Thanks Chris”.
About thirty minutes later I had to start doing jumping jacks to warm myself up. I was growing sleepy and that was not good. Being a seasoned veteran scuba and first aid instructor, I recognized the symptoms of hypothermia. About an hour later dinner was served on a tray slid through a small steel flap in the door. In general population we would be eating hot food. Here in solitary the food was usually served cold. Working in the kitchen (I washed pots and pans for $23 a month) I knew that we sent hot food to the seg unit every night around 5:30pm.
If there
were decent guards running seg like Harrison, Black, or Lightfoot, the food would be served when it arrived – hot. But the vast majority of the seg guards would just let the food sit there until it was good an cold and serve it around 7:30 pm. Just another way they could compound the misery of imprisonment.
So tonight the menu included hot dogs and beans, a slice of bread, sliced beets and a scoop of jello. To drink we were given a Styrofoam cup of what the prisoners call “jungle juice” but what I recognized to be one of those sacharrineladen artificial fruit drinks, but it was so sweet I couldn‟t really make out a flavor. It 338
joined my mail in the toilet and a filled the cup with water from the sink.
The
U.S. Bureau of Prisons charges American taxpayers something like $280 a day to maintain each and every prisoner, (that‟s over $100,000 a year!) and for the life of me I could never figure out how they could ever justify even half this amount. I seized this opportunity to ask Mr. Bouchard for a blanket or my clothes. All he said was “We‟ll see” and an hour later he was replaced by another guard.
By now I had to take a dump but there was no toilet paper. I banged on my door and called for the guard several times, and in about thirty minutes he finally responded “What the fuck do you want?” I was happy for the progress and replied “Some toilet paper and a blanket”. He walked away without saying a word. About fifteen minutes later he returned, flipped open the door flap and a single four inch square of toilet paper slid through the door. “Thanks” I said as I cursed him under my breath. Fortunately for me, the trustee prisoner who cleans every night took pity on me and slid the sports section of the Miami Herald under the door for me when the Guard was preoccupied with a magazine.
At first I was tempted to use the newspaper to wipe my ass, but quickly came to my senses and realized it would make a better blanket. So I curled up on the floor and covered myself with the newspaper.
As I tried to force
myself to fall asleep I remember asking myself how this could be happening to me in America. After all America always professes to the world that it is the champion and guardian of human and civil rights around the world. But it would get worse – a lot worse. In time, I would come to realize that the biggest violator of human rights in the world is the U.S. Bureau of Prisons with INS coming in a close second.
I was brought into Seg Friday morning and it was now Sunday afternoon. I was still naked and freezing and without toilet paper. And although federal law 339
mandates that prisoners in Segregation be allowed to have one telephone call, a shower, and one hour of exercise each day, seven days a week, I had yet to enjoy any of these items. It became real clear to me in only two days that no laws applied within the walls of the segregation unit. In the days ahead this would be reinforced when I would watch three guards beat a man to death while he begged for mercy and then claim he committed suicide. I decided that if I did get to make that phone call it would be to call The American Civil Liberties Union or Amnesty International to report the living conditions of this segregation unit.
As I sat wondering how long I might be kept in this miserable place, Mr. Blackwell the a
staff “team member” assigned to my normal housing unit appeared at my
door as casually opened the flap door and cynically asked “Do you need anything Gorcyca?” “As a matter of fact I do Mr. Blackwell.
I could use some clothes, a
shower, a mattress, a blanket, a toothbrush, a telephone call, and I‟d like to speak with Mr., Meko (the warden)”. He just nodded, looked at me and said “I‟m too busy to get you all that, but I‟ll help you out with just one thing – what will it be?” It would be fruitless to argue with this man so I decided to go along with his game and replied “a telephone call” thinking that I would be taken to a telephone and be able to have a private conversation with The ACLU or Amnesty International. “Okay” he said and walked away without another word.
About 30
minutes later he reappeared at my door holding a telephone in his hand connected to an extension cord that must have been fifty feet long. “What‟s the number?”.
I was shocked that he would not only hear my conversation but have to dial the number for me. Then it dawned on me that I didn‟t have the telephone number for either the ACLU or Amnesty International, or even my lawyer for that matter. “Can I call information for a number first?” I asked. “Nope, that will cost Uncle Sam 50 cents, and he doesn‟t want to spend more money on scum like you”. Well I was left with few alternatives since I only had my neighbor‟s, a few friends, and my 340
mother‟s telephone number memorized. I gave him my mother'‟s phone number in Parma, Ohio 216-884-1035.
Through the door I watched him dial the number and then said “collect from Bruce Gorcyca”.
I had been calling my mom once a week since I was jailed.
Since I am her only child with very few living relatives, and she was suffering frequent anxiety attacks because of my plight, the calls were the highlight and relief of her week so we tried to make the most of them. I was supposed to have called her Friday evening and figured she must be worried by now. After about 30 seconds, Blackwell said “sorry but the call was refused”. “What!?” I replied. My mother never refused a collect call from me in my life. “Can I try another number?”, thinking I‟d call my mother‟s neighbor, family friends for some 25 years and have them visit my mother. “Nope – you had your one phone call for today” Blackwell replied as I watched him scribble in some log book – confirming that I made my daily phone call.
Growing irritated, I suggested that I was owed two other phone calls that I did not get on Friday and Saturday. “We don‟t owe you shit Gorcyca!” as he slammed the flap shut and walked away with his trademark limp. Blackwell was a balding man about 40 years of age with glasses and a mustache. I would come to despise this man as much as Lt. Foster over the next two years. He was a veteran with the U.S. Bureau of Prisons and knew a multitude of clever ways to circumvent the federal laws that guaranteed basic civil and human rights for the prisoners he was paid $40,000 a year to “counsel, protect, and advise”.
It reality, the man did
nothing but provoke and antagonize inmates who did their best to avoid the man completely. Eventually I too would concede that this was the best policy after all.
This telephone incident was the last straw for me and I was more determined than ever to speak with the Warden and then my Congressman. When one of the 341
nicer guards came on duty Sunday night, I asked him for five request forms. By law, a prisoner must be able to request assistance from prison staff with problems and this is done in writing on a request form which by law, must be answered within 72 hours.
I was amazed that he complied and gave me the five
request forms without any hassle or argument.
I then realized that I need a
pen or pencil to fill out the forms. I politely brought this to the attention of the guard whose name I believe was Raditz or something similar.
It was then that I was told that “The law requires me to give you the request forms and I did. I cannot give you a pen or pencil because they are potential weapons and a security risk.” Was he serious? I thought to myself. After all, what good is a request form if I can‟t fill it out. And since I was alone in solitary confinement, who the hell was I going to attack with a pen or pencil!? This was absurd. As I stared the guard in disbelief. He grinned and remarked “Besides the law doesn‟t say anything about having to give you a pen or pencil – just the request slips”. Another clever ruse to deny a prisoner his right to communicate.
Ironically, when
one reads the BOP‟s operational manual, it urges all staffers to “ensure open and unrestricted communications” with prisoners to avoid the creation and build-up of tensions that ultimately could lead to violence or a prison riot like Attica here dozens of people were killed, and over a hundred seriously injured.
I heard Chris next door banging on the wall, the signal for me to go to the air vent. “Don‟t waste your time with these guys – they‟re not going to help you with anything. I‟ve been here a year already and trust me when I tell you, they don‟t care if you die in here”. I chatted with Chris for about 30 minutes through the vent as he related how another inmate actually caught pneumonia in the seg unit and did die when Chris was first brought in. He also told me how they doped him up on Thorazine when he continuously complained to the Warden that he was not getting his daily exercise and phone calls. He claimed they physically injected him 342
with the Thorazine without any doctor‟s orders and it made him sleep through most of the day so he‟d be sound asleep if the warden came by on his routine “inspections” of the seg unit.
“Mr. Meko is your only hope in here” Chris
professed. As it turned out, Chris Simmons knew what he was talking about.
Mr. Meko was a helluva nice and decent man as I discovered the following Monday when he appeared like an angel to go cell by cell in the seg unit and check with every inmate. He did not speak down to inmates nor in any degrading or insulting manner like most of the prison staff.
He was educated, articulate,
and respectful. He even took notes as he spoke with the prisoners. He seemed genuinely interested in the welfare of his many wards. I was genuinely impressed by the integrity of this man. Yes, Chris was right – this is the man to talk with. Unfortunately, Lt. Foster tagged right along by his side and I had to carefully contemplate what I would tell him when he got to my cell.
“Mr. Gorcyca – why are you naked?” “I‟d like to know myself sir” I replied. “I‟d also like to know why I‟m even here in the first place?” Mr. Meko looked at Foster who casually explained “He‟s naked because we didn‟t have any clean clothes from the Laundry on Friday and he is here pending an investigation”. “Investigation for what?” I asked. No explanation followed. I also told Mr. Meko of my need for a blanket, toilet paper, toothbrush, mattress, a shower, and telephone calls. “All you need to do is make a request Gorcyca” he told me. It was then that I showed him the five blank request forms and revealed the issue of the pen or pencil.
He promptly handed me his gold Cross pen and said he‟d pick it up on
his way out with the request forms. He turned to Foster and ordered “Make sure he gets a shower within the hour”. I was elated and thanked Mr. Meko profusely for his help and asked him if I could speak to him privately. I wanted to tell him about the mail incident and why I was really here. “Come see me when you get out of the hole”. “The hole” was the common name for segregation used by 343
prisoners and I was surprised to hear that term come from a staffers lips. Mr. Meko was different than the others and he quickly earned my respect.
Sure enough he collected the request forms and his pen about twenty minutes later. And as soon as he left I was taken out for my first shower in four days and was even given a clean towel and bar of soap. But the guard gave me a contemptuous look that told me he did not approve of my conversation with warden Meko. It was Monday, and I thought the warden might spring me from seg, but no such luck. About two hours after he left the seg unit Mr. Blackwell appeared again wearing rubber gloves and carrying some clothes in one hand and a green wool Army blanket in the other. The guard opened the door for him and he threw the stuff at me. The clothes appeared to be clean but the blanket wreaked of urine, feces, and seemed to be caked with vomit. “Here‟s your fucking blanket asshole!”.
“That‟s filthy!” I protested. “Wash it in your sink” he
replied. “I‟ll be back for your phone call in about an hour”. The door closed and he quickly faded from view.
As I began to put on the orange jumpsuit I realized they were size Double XX for a 300 pound man. I wore a size small but they were better than nothing – they would keep me warm. I assumed I would soon be getting a roll of toilet paper and a toothbrush and an hour of exercise. Instead I was given another single sheet of toilet paper and taken out into a chain link fence cage that was outdoors and left in the rain for an hour.
That was my daily “exercise”. I did get a
perfectly clean, new toothbrush on Tuesday however and I relished that sweet victory.
I began to wonder how long I‟d be kept here since neither Foster nor any of the guards ever told me.
During my now frequent conversations with Simmons I
knew that legally they could only keep me here for 90 days at a stretch. I adjusted 344
to the general discomfort but I was having a very difficult time with a growing claustrophobia and if I didn‟t distract myself constantly with conversations with Chris, singing songs to myself, or recounting events in detail, I would break out in a sweat and would find myself pacing the tiny cell for more than an hour at a time.
Eventually I grew tired of the chats with Simmons since we soon ran out of things to talk about and because the guards had him so doped up on Thorazine most of the time, his conversations were often not coherent nor easy to follow.
He obviously knew what he wanted to say but his speech
coordination simply wouldn‟t cooperate. Today for example Chris was telling me not to drink lemonade and kept saying something about “taking a piss”. It made absolutely no sense to me, until I actually drank some lemonade a few days later and promptly spit it out when I realized one of the guards had urinated in it. It was one of the favorite sick jokes played on the rookie prisoners in the hole, and it never failed to provide the seg guards with plenty of yucks.
Their sense of
humor was far beyond “warped” but real recourse was non-existent. Towards the end of my stay, I got a pleasant surprise. Apparently the seg unit was now full due to a rather large fight in general population and I got myself a temporary cellmate.
By coincidence his name was George Morales, a very
well-groomed latino about 35 years of age and was deposited in my cell.
It
didn‟t take me long to realize I had met this man briefly once before a few years back at an off-shore boat race. I only knew Morales as a boat racer and never would have guessed he worked for the CIA, Oliver North, and President Reagan. When he said I looked familiar, we talked for hours about boats, our common obsession. We would only spend about a week together in the seg unit, but a unique friendship sprouted and
within 48 hours were discussing things 345
other than boats – primarily what each of our cases had in common – government corruption.
The American public would eventually come to meet
George Morales as the man who testified to the U.S. Senate behind closed doors about his role in delivering weapons to the contras in exchange for being allowed to bring cocaine into the U.S. to pay for those weapons. Over the next two years, I would become George‟s confidant and typist as he would have me type all of his correspondence, and even his scripted statement for the U.S. Senate. George was quite a popular guy – the only prisoner I knew that got visits from CIA agents who brought him Cuban cigars. We became good friends as well and helping him survive his ordeal would cost me a few more days in the hole down the road.
I would later meet and befriend one of Morales‟s pilots who became o ne of my best friends while jailed. His official name was Gary Betzner, a crop duster from Arkansas, but he had a few aliases and most smugglers just knew him as “Hippie” and some in the free world knew him as Lucas Harmony. To me he was just a good friend with interesting stories to tell. Most of these stories, or at least parts of them would be shared with the world eventually. Like this one: http://news.google.com/newspapers?nid=1 310&dat=19880408&id=pLRVAAAAIBAJ&sj id=teEDAAAAIBAJ&pg=5879,1596618
Gary confirmed most all that George already told me and all that Mike Tolliver avoided discussing. A good part of the Morales 346
story saw daylight in a
few books including CRIMES OF PATRIOTS by
Johnathan Quitny, but what you read in those books is but only half of the real story. If the real story was told George would never have been released after serving only three years of a thirty year sentence.
George
Morales had the
personal blessings of President Reagan, Vice-President Bush and even received a personal thank you call from Reagan less than two months before his arrest. Morales communicated regularly with Donald Gregg, the executive aide to Vice President Bush, even from prison, and he had the phone bills to prove it. I saw them. He also had some interesting photographs that would make the front page of any newspaper in the world. George was anything but stupid, and he documented his participation with the CIA quite well.
He was eve n personal
friends with another CIA employee – General Noriega of Panama and together the two men could prove what author Penny Leroux could only suggest in her book (IN BANKS WE TRUST) – Many rogue CIA agents were up to their ears in illicit
drug smuggling to the point where they had to buy their own banks! But even though Morales made no effort to expose the operation, he could, and that was 347
more than enough to have him jailed in 1985, four years before Noriega arrived same
prison
at our in
very
Miami.
Morales agreement to help the CIA in what they presented as “a critical operation” earned him a prison sentence.
George‟s only
salvation would be his knowledge and his threat to share it with the world. Not too many people can get away with extorting the U.S. Government. In fact, George Morales is the only one I know. But his freedom was a small price to pay to avoid a certain presidential impeachment.
Gary made life in seg fun and exciting. In fact he brought excitement to the entire prison one day when he decided to escape. Either he didn‟t like the prison food or the 30 year sentence awaiting him – I‟m not really sure. But I was sitting in the hole one day when all the emergency alarms went off on the radios carried by the guards and then followed with a message “All units respond to soccer field – escape in progress. Deadly force not authorized. Repeat…deadly force not authorized.” I was hoping and praying that Gary could pull it off. If anyone had the brains and the balls to pull of an escape, it was Gary. I‟m sure the entire prisoner population was pulling for him as well. But 20 minutes later Gary was marched into seg and he was not a happy camper. As luck would have it seg was full so my cell door opened and Gary silently strode in and as soon as the cell door locked behind him, we looked at one another before he washed his face with some cold water, stood up and simply summarized his frustration and anger with a single word “fuck!” “Bad day at the office honey?” I remarked trying to use a little humor to calm him down. He paced back and forth in the cell burning off the extra adrenaline that must 348
have accumulated running out to the hovering helicopter.
I asked him what
happened and he simply blurted, “That fucker Terry dropped the dime on me and the two guys that threw me the rope from the chopper were FBI agents!” I didn‟t know what to say other than “Sorry”. The stunt would get Gary and extra five years added to his sentence. Terry would be removed to another prison for his own safety and Gary became less talkative and was probably already planning his next escape because his next prison would surely be a maximum security facility.
Gary was already in his late thirties and I could not picture him doing 30 years behind bars. He was infamous amongst smugglers for his flying skills and now his wings were clipped. Both his ego and spirit were bruised by the “setback” But knowing Gary, I was certain he would surely try another Houdini move at the next possible opportunity.
Two other guys would also try to escape from MCC Miami while I was there and only one succeeded – a young Colombian boy whose girlfriend wore two sets of clothes and a wig into the visiting room. When the guards were distracted by an argument staged by two other prisoners, the young boy dodged into the women‟s rest room, shaved off his beard and mustache and emerged dressed as a woman, who walked right out the prison gates totally undetected.
After I left MCC Miami there would be yet another escape attempt made by Ben Kramer, a famous drug entrepreneur who was convicted for the murder of the most famous man in ocean boat racing Don Arronow who designed the Cigarette, Magnum and other racing boats in the 1970s. Unfortunately, Ben‟s helicopter crashed and now Ben lives underground in Marion, Illinois in a “Super Max” prison.
349
A nurse came through the seg units twice a day – morning and night to dispense medications to the some dozen prisoners kept there. I told her about my claustrophobia and she said she would have the prison doctor come see me and prescribe something. She seemed sincere and I was hopeful she‟d honor her word. She was a young Cuban lady with blond hair and pretty blue-green eyes.
I
couldn‟t help but think that she seemed so out of place working in this dark depressing place. Indeed depression was the major enemy in prison, even more so in the hole. Here the hours and days dragged by and it was difficult to keep track of the latter unless you scratched off the days in the paint on the wall with your spoon at mealtime.
The walls around me bore witness to dozens of my
predecessors who left their initials, mini-calendars, profanities, and even prayers and crucifixes behind upon their exit. One prisoner even left a message for those to follow with a pencil “Don‟t fuck with Williams – the man is a killer”. I would meet Officer Williams the next day when the staff rotation brought him to the seg unit for a week. “Hey nurse! You forget my meds! Nurse! Nurse!” But it was too late for the young man in the cell across from me. She had already left the building. The guy tried desperately to get the attention of Williams,
a
black
man
of
medium but muscular build and gerry curls, but he ignored him completely.
“I need my meds
Williams – please call the nurse
Was President Reagan a better actor than a leader? Without a loyal Oliver North to take the heat in 1987, we all would have found out. All the witnesse s were locked safely away in prison
back”. I don‟t know what meds he needed so badly, but I could hear the desperation I his voice as he pleaded to no 350
avail. After two hours of begging non-stop the young man whose name Simmons told me
was
Ralph
Steele,
began banging on his
door in a constant
rhythmic pattern. It quickly grew annoying but I could only empathize for the guy. I think he felt it was the only way Williams would relent and help him get his medicine. On the contrary. Williams just calmly walked over to the door and lowered the flap on Ralph‟s door. I saw him reach and take something, a can and then spray it into Ralph‟s cell for about 45 seconds non-stop. In less than two of those seconds we could all hear Ralph coughing and gagging in his cell and then his toilet flushing repeatedly. Williams just nailed him with a whole can of pepper spray. “You son-of-a-bitch!” I could hear another prisoner holler out from behind his door at Williams who didn‟t respond. He was too busy laughing as he watched Ralph convulse in his cell through the window. “How do you like your new meds Ralph?” Williams teased. Only after some thirty minutes did the coughing stop and silence overtook the entire unit. Simmons later confirmed the warning found on my wall “You don‟t want to even talk with that guy Gorcyca”. I could see why.
Over the next few days that grew into three weeks, Blackwell came by and performed his daily telephone tricks and no matter whose number I gave him, the line was allegedly either “busy”, “disconnected”, “answering machine”, “nobody home”, or the call was “refused” but his trusty log book insisted that I got to make my daily call. As much as I wanted to give this man a piece of my mind, I bit my tongue – hard and decided I would talk to the warden about this the next time I saw him. I had not talked with my mother in over three weeks now and I knew she was worried to death. She had become quite ill since I was jailed and her condition grew worse with an enlarged heart, high blood pressure, an irregular heart beat that would soon require open-heart surgery.
351
I never did get to see the prison doctor and my claustrophobia grew worse to the point where I was soon begging the guards to take me out into the exercise cage which gave me some token relief. A very tall guard by the name of Bouchard said he felt sorry for me and said he would let me out of my cell to sweep and mop the floor. Thank God! I was starting to lose it.
I never in my life thought I‟d be
so happy to sweep and mop a floor. When I was finished, I thanked officer Bouchard for the respite from hell “What did you say Gorcyca?” he asked “I said thank you Mr. Bouchard” He then tuned off his radio which was playing some country music, and demanded that I address him as “sir”.
The last time I called someone sir was in the Coast Guard and I was not going to subordinate myself any lower than I had to. I called all the guards either “officer” or by their last names preceded by a “Mr.” And so far only Bouchard was taking offense. When I refused to call him “sir” he approached me and told me to put my hands behind my back and promptly handcuffed me. He then led me to the utility closet where I had just put away the mop bucket and pushed me in as he locked the door behind me.
In less than five minutes I was totally overwhelmed with
anxiety and found it hard to even breathe. I began pounding and kicking the door wildly demanding and then begging for relief.
I was hyperventilating and
sweating profusely as I could only hear Bouchard‟s sly laugh and some voice say “C‟mon Bouchard let him hyperventilating
out”.
I
eventually
and apparently fell asleep.
confessing my claustrophobia to a guard.
passed
out
from
I woke up hating myself for
I endured 27 hours in this closet
as I noted the wall clock when I was finally let out by Williams of all people the next day. But I soon realized it was not an act of compassion nor mercy. The Warden was coming to make his rounds and explaining a prisoner locked in the closet might be difficult. “Mention this to the warden Gorcyca and you‟ll get far worse – understand?”
I said nothing but nodded. 352
Sure enough, when the warden went cell to cell, Williams was at his side, ostensibly concerned about our welfare. I did decide to tell the Warden about my need to call my mom so he asked Williams to bring him the phone log. It didn‟t take him long to tell me that I had been given all of the calls I was supposed to. I then explained the little ruse Blackwell had been using to deny me communication, and Mr. Meko just looked at me. I went on to explain my mother‟s poor health and anxiety attacks and pleaded to give her a five minute call. “Okay Gorcyca, I‟ll speak with Mr. Blackwell about getting you another call”. Why did he say another when I just explained to him that I didn’t get to speak to anyone in the last three weeks!
Was he condoning Blackwell’s actions or just refusing to
believe me? I was disturbed by this comment because I was sure the warden was an honorable man.
Indeed, Blackwell limped over to my cell some three hours later but he had no telephone this time. “Hey Gorcyca, he beckoned. Come to the door. I‟ve got some bad news for you”. What could be worse than being here? I thought to myself. He crouched down to speak through the flap midway down the door. “I called your mother for you and one of her neighbors named Patricia Tober answered the phone.” My heart sank to my stomach as I feared the very worst. Pat Tober was my mothers best friend and neighbor for over 25 years. “Your mother is in the hospital Gorcyca”. I couldn‟t speak for what seemed like an eternity as I could only imagine what my mother might be thinking about her son. “I want my phone call Mr. Blackwell” recalling the warden‟s promise.
His only reply was “Sure”
accompanied with a grin and a wink as he closed the flap and walked away. By now I wanted to reach through that flap and strangle this man who had tormented me for the last three weeks. knew it.
I needed desperately to call my mother and he
In her sixties, my mother was deteriorating and I might not even get to
say good-bye to her. I had not gotten a letter from her in three weeks and I know wondered if she was even too ill to write. It was Friday night, and I would not see 353
Mr. Meko again until Monday‟s rounds.
I could not wait that long. My mother
could be dead by then.
I could not eat that night, nor sleep. All I could do was pace and pray. I prayed like I never did before invoking God‟s mercy and protection for my mother.
I
only hoped my prayers would make it through the thick concrete and steel of this dungeon and if so, would they be discounted because I was a prisoner? I then scolded myself for even doubting. I prayed the night away until I eventually dozed off.
I looked forward to sleep in the hole. My dreams were my sanctuary
- my only escape from the dank misery and boredom. In my dreams I was a free man living a normal life making telephone calls whenever I pleased and eating hot meals.
Dreams were free from threats, intimidation, and abuse. I liked it there
and wished so badly I could stay longer. If I had my way, I‟d sleep through my entire sentence and would hope that they would only wake me up when it was time to go home.
Bang! Bang! Bang! The noise exploded in my ears as I jumped to my feet by natural instinct to defend myself. I was startled then puzzled to realize it was pitch dark outside and must be the wee hours of the morning. I looked up at my cell window and saw an all too familiar and dreaded face – Williams. I don‟t think he could have banged any harder on my door if his life depended on it. “What‟s
up Mr. Williams?”. “I got a message for you that your mother died
and…” I didn‟t need to hear more as I slumped over in agony and just sobbed for hours. My mother was my very best friend in life and I loved her beyond words. I was growing sick thinking how I could not be there for her and regrets soon flooded my soul. Regret for not telling her more often how much I loved her. Regret for the times I argued with her. Regret for being locked away in jail. Regret for ever working a single day for the U.S. government.
One regret after
another just beat me up relentlessly until I begged God to rescue me and put me 354
at my mother‟s side. Life was quickly losing any significance for me. I was truly at the end of my proverbial rope.
I guess I lost the desire to remain silent and subject myself further to the indignation of being totally isolated from the world for no legitimate reason. My mother was dead and I needed to speak to someone I know and trust – a neighbor, an aunt, family friend – a lawyer - someone.
I called out to officer
Williams but he continued as usual to read his Gallery magazine in his little glass walled office. After a good long while of trying to be polite I started doing the Ralph Steele routine – banging the door for attention. My arms grew heavy after only five minutes of beating the door like a drum as I quickly drew the ire of Williams who approached my door. He said nothing as he opened the flap. Within seconds my cell filled with a blinding and choking mist as he unleashed an entire can of pepper spray on me that had me gasping for my life in less than a minute. I was frantic as I fell to the floor. My eyes were burning as if they were on fire and every breath I managed to take was as if thousands of matches were being lit in my throat. The pain was excruciating and totally disabling. I crawled along the floor feeling my way blindly towards the toilet. I could only recall the previous incident with Ralph and remembered how he flushed the toilet continuously. I knew that would be my only hope for fresh air. I found the cold stainless bowl and quickly inserted my head into it‟s void and my fingers groped for the button that would give me some relatively clean air to breathe. After three quick flushes I caught a fresh breathe and continued the routine until I was able to breathe again. The human instinct for self-preservation and survival is amazing. I somehow made it through the night. I can only surmise that my prayers found their mark.
The following day I had a brief glimpse of hope when a decent guard by the name of Mr. Black was working the seg unit. I told him that my mother had just died 355
and needed to speak with someone.
He actually attempted to reach the
prison chaplain for me but came back to tell me that the chaplain wasn‟t around on weekends. But he did his job and gave me the request forms and pencil that I asked him for. It was Sunday and I spent the day praying for my mother‟s soul and her forgiveness. Mr. Black was one of the handful of nice people I met in prison – a man who did his job professionally without malice towards the inmates. There were less than a dozen guards of his quality out of a staff of some 200. Harrison, Garvin, Lightfoot, Segui, and Black were the ones who would break up a fight instead of watch or provoke it like the others. And for being decent human beings with prisoners they earned the prisoners respect and trust but were razzed and ostracized by their other co-workers. I saw over a dozen guards resign in the 38 months of my captivity. Most of them said they did not want to be a part of the cruelty or meanness that pervaded the prison environment. People with morals and a conscience do not last long at the U.S. Bureau of Prisons. Only INS and the IRS have higher employee turn-over rates in the federal government.
Monday finally arrived and I eagerly awaited the appearance of Mr. Meko, but he never arrived. Instead Lt. Foster appeared at my door and instructed me to come to the door and stick my hands through the flap so he could handcuff me. “Were they really going to let me go to my mother’s funeral?
Mr. Meko must
have gotten my “Urgent” request form and I would soon be on a plane to Ohio. Even if I had to stand at my mother‟s graveside in handcuffs with two expensive guards at my side, I had to say good-bye. For some three decades, she had always been there for me and I wanted to be there for her.
It had been 30 days in the hole. I lost about fifteen pounds physically and perhaps twice as much mentally. I was led by Foster out of the freezing dark seg unit into the hot Miami sun. The sunshine was blinding but felt great as he led me to his office and removed the handcuffs. “I better not see any more letters to your 356
Congressman, civil rights
groups, or
the
postal inspector or
I‟ll
move
you permanently to the hole – do you understand”. Something inside me would not let me agree with this man so I remained silent. “Go back to your unit for a new cell assignment”. telephone.
I gladly complied and then made straight for the unit
There were about six men ahead of me so I waited two hours to
make my first telephone call in thirty days.
I could not dial the numbers fast enough but the phone at the Tober residence just rang and rang until an answering machine came on. They must all be at my mother’s house I thought. I called my mom‟s house hoping that all the arrangements were already made for me to be flown up for the funeral.
But
when the phone was finally answered, all I could do was weep uncontrollably. My mother accepted my collect call and then chided me for not calling her for a month. I could barely talk, but managed to tell my mom how much I loved her. I skimmed over what happened trying not to worry her too much and discovered she had written me three letters over the last month and told me in her letters of her heart problems and upcoming surgery. The bastards had read my mail and gleaned just enough information from them to torment me.
I never saw those
letters, and as a result my mother and I agreed to write less and talk more. After the rage in me subsided, I vowed to my creator that I would not let anyone in my family be toyed with so cruelly again.
Over the next two years, I would file
over two dozen written formal complaints (BP-10 forms) with U.S. Bureau of Prisons of which only about half ever found their way back to me with a reply. I assume the rest fell victim to Lt. Foster‟s death ray and were vaporized. I would keep copies of all of them. These complaints would earn me two more return visits to the hole, both much worse than my first, an incredible three month long bus ride, and a clever scheme to prolong my release to freedom by 25 months.
357
In their eye‟s I was a troublemaker – someone who caused them a lot of paperwork. In my conscience, I was doing what had to be done – fighting for my right to correspond and communicate freely with the outside world about the real reasons I was locked away by my government, the murder of my co-worker at the IRS (Liston Smith) and how Judge Hastings would not let me revoke my plea and have a trial. I was determined to expose the sham and I would be punished severely for my efforts to do so.
Five
Pages
Withheld
pending
my
final
resolution and reunification with my family. Over time I came to realize a strange but logical anomaly – components of the criminal justice system protect one another unless the news media gets involved – then it‟s every agency for itself. For example, you could witness the murder of a prisoner by guards as I did, report it to the FBI (as I did) and absolutely no investigation will be launched. Yet if a prisoner were to punch a prison guard for trying to pick-up his wife in the visiting room, that prisoner would be facing assault charges and another year behind bars within 24 hours. Initially I found it difficult to understand why Lt. Foster would care about my letters containing information about IRS and FBI corruption when nothing in my letters even spoke badly of any prison or prison staff member. Within in a year I‟d start seeing the forest from the trees after I started hearing stories of other corruption from other prisoners, not unlike myself. Most of them did work for the CIA or FBI and when they tried to quit, or got caught on an illegal mission (like the U.S. sanctioned Iran Contra smugglers) were promptly jailed, most on unrelated bogus charges. The Jesus Garcia story (an entire book in itself) is typical of the hypocrisy and selective prosecution demonstrated daily by the U.S. criminal justice system. Look this case up on the Internet since it garnished quite a bit of publicity in Miami 358
and New Orleans circa 1987-89 and get a good taste of U.S. justice not unlike Waco or Ruby Ridge. My tiny slice of justice pales in comparison to the slices doled out to others like my associate Liston Smith. At least I am still alive.
© Copyright 1995-2014 By Bruce A. Gorc yca – All Rights Reserved
In 1987 Senator John Kerry had President Reagan and our shadow government by the balls. Instead of squeezing them to force out the truth, he was persuaded to help with the damage control to pre serve the public image of American government around the world
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