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  Walker had Anthony right where he wanted him. It was time to step up the pressure. He demanded a favor–one that would turn Anthony from officer to criminal. He asked Anthony to smuggle in contraband–hacksaw blades and a handcuff key–in exchange for one thousand dollars.

  At first, Anthony refused. He wanted out of the relationship. He wanted help from his fellow officers. But he felt too closely connected to Walker by now to entrust anyone with his troubles. He had violated sacred policy. He was afraid and desperate.

  The worst possible scenario was now in place in the most dangerous unit of Minnesota’s supermax prison. A trusted correctional officer had befriended an inmate and become entangled in a criminal conspiracy. His family life was slipping away. He was chemically addicted and out of money. He was in pain outside of work and in trouble at work. His life was out of control.

  He began to cave. He considered Walker’s request. It might be a way out. He was still fascinated by Walker’s wealth and status in the criminal world, and this might be a chance to get closer to Walker. And he could resolve some of his financial difficulties.

  Finally, he agreed.

  Jethro’s Char House is a sports bar tucked in the corner of a small shopping center in the Twin Cities suburb of White Bear Lake. It is located some fifteen miles northeast of St. Paul and ten miles west of the Oak Park Heights prison. What happened in this parking lot late one evening changed Anthony’s life forever.

  To go through with this criminal activity, Anthony sedated himself with a full day of drinking and arrived at the parking lot in a state of drunken despair. Here, one of Walker’s friends handed Anthony a paper bag containing a cigar case and a roll of money totaling one thousand dollars. The case was small, just a few inches long, and contained a handcuff key and several short hacksaw blades.

  The next day, Anthony stuffed the cigar case into his boot and practiced walking in front of his bathroom mirror. He did not want to draw attention to himself by walking with a different stride. Yet deep down, he also felt sure he would be caught. The administration periodically searched staff members as they entered prison to begin their work shift. If he were caught, his career would be over, but the dangerous contraband would never be in Walker’s possession.

  There was no search that day. Anthony successfully smuggled the hacksaw blades and handcuff key into Segregation. He approached Walker, who was working out of his cell, and set the cigar case on a table.

  “Never ask me to do anything for you again,” Anthony said, and walked away.

  He figured their dealings were finished.

  Anthony’s problems up to this point were minimal compared to what was ahead. Just days after receiving these dangerous items, Walker would be transferred to the Wright County Jail in western Minnesota to face new criminal charges. In the meantime, Walker hid the cigar case in his rectum, where it went undetected during routine cell and body searches.

  Then, he waited.

  There was no way out of Oak Park Heights. The key and blades were of little value to Walker in his current setting. Tests have shown it would take approximately twelve thousand hacksaw blades to cut through the steel bars of the prison windows. In the near-impossible event that an inmate did make it out of his cell, he would face a steep wall with a detection system on the roof. If he made it to the top of the wall and over the roof, he faced a buffer zone of 160 acres, surrounded by a sensor-controlled double cyclone fence, lined with massive coils of razor ribbon.

  Walker had to find a way out from a different location. He would do exactly that.

  When Walker was transferred to the county jail, body searches failed to detect the escape materials concealed in his rectum. The moment he was placed in the custody of the county jail authorities, he began planning his escape. The security here was significantly less than at Oak Park Heights, and soon Walker found a way out by cutting through the ceiling of his cell. Using the hacksaw blades provided by Anthony, Walker escaped.

  Three days later, a statewide manhunt captured Marshall Walker near one of the beautiful lakes in Minneapolis. Upon interrogation, Walker shamelessly revealed Anthony’s role in the escape. At first, it seemed no more than an absurd statement by a double murderer against a credible officer.

  Warden Frank Wood and our internal affairs investigator called in the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension to help perform the unpleasant task of investigating a correctional officer for conspiring with a convicted murderer. As the assistant to the warden, I was also part of the investigation. It soon became apparent because of detailed information provided by Walker that Anthony was involved. But proving it would be difficult.

  Weeks of investigation brought forth no strong evidence tying Anthony to Walker’s escape. We became more frustrated as the days went by.

  By far the most frustrated was the investigator assigned to the case from the Bureau. As the case’s formal closing date loomed, Wood, our internal affairs investigator, and I pursued the case relentlessly, pressuring the state investigator to continue. We were now positive Anthony was involved.

  For Anthony, these weeks as a suspect were the worst part of the whole ordeal. He would run into me and Wood walking around the prison and try to hold a normal conversation with us.

  “I knew you knew and you didn’t say anything,” he told me later, “and that was the worst.”

  Anthony finally confessed. Weeks of constant pressure broke him down. He told us everything. He was honest and contrite. Mostly, however, he was ashamed.

  I will never forget the day the news of Anthony’s arrest circulated around the prison. Local law enforcement booked him into the county jail. Our staff was overwhelmed at the news, and at first, there was intense support for the well-liked officer. Staff members were appalled and outraged. They blamed the administration for seizing one of their own.

  Before long, details of the arrest leaked out. The prison went into a total state of shock. A fellow officer had compromised the safety of others for his own profit. A respected friend and colleague had done the unthinkable. He had conspired with an inmate and, in the process, put their lives on the line. The news was devastating.

  After the initial shock, the staff became demoralized when they learned more of Anthony’s immoral and illegal acts. Though Walker never used the handcuff key, it represented the highest level of security breach. To provide it to an inmate was unforgivable. What if Walker had used the key to get out of restraints at Oak Park Heights? What if he had then used the hacksaw blade to slit an officer’s throat?

  The staff’s rage against the administration was then turned against Anthony. His betrayal sold out his fellow workers, all for one thousand dollars. He dismissed their safety in an act of selfishness. It wasn’t right and they wanted answers. Unfortunately, there weren’t any to give. There would never be a justification for Anthony’s betrayal.

  In the end, Anthony was found guilty and sentenced to prison. Frank Wood, the Commissioner, the Deputy Commissioner of Corrections, our prison investigator, and I were present for the sentencing. We wanted to be sure the judge would not mistake our expectations for this sentence.

  Former Correctional Officer Bill Anthony had now changed sides. Instead of protecting the public, he was now watched, guarded, and secured. Correctional officers were instructed to beware of him like all the others. He was an inmate, like the murderers, rapists, robbers, and thieves. He had become one of them.

  Bill Anthony’s picture still hangs on the wall with the other training academy graduates from Academy Class Number Five at the Oak Park Heights prison. He is pointed out to new staff as an example of how a career can be ruined.

  However, Anthony found a way to make some amends. During his incarceration at the Stillwater correctional facility, Anthony agreed to make a training video detailing what he had done. In the video, Anthony speaks candidly of his relationship with Walker. He discusses the hours of conversations, the months of personal interaction. He describes the fear that developed as Wal
ker brought him closer to the elements of his criminal world. He reflects upon the role drinking and drugs played. He describes the final crime and the ruin it brought to his family, his career, and his personal integrity.

  In making this valuable training tool, a remorseful Anthony assists new officers, helping them avoid getting caught up in a similar scheme. Anthony, in some small fashion, found a way to atone for what he had done. Perhaps he reclaimed some of his self respect. Certainly, I respect him for his fortitude and honesty.

  Anthony served a little over a year in prison and was released. After his release, I never heard from him again.

  The Clever, the Humorous, the Cons, and the Stupid

  On a typical weekday, inmates in the Industry Area work on a variety of projects, such as silk screening, notebook binding, and sewing. They’re always under the watchful eye of a correctional officer, who observes them from a security bubble. This station is enclosed by reinforced glass and contains a small cutout at waist level for communication. One day, I stood outside the security bubble watching the daily routine of the area. A guard sat at his post inside the bubble observing the area. An inmate approached the glass, leaned down to the opening, and said, “I’ll have a cheeseburger, fries, and a Coke.”

  The stern-faced officer sent the inmate back to his work area, but I smiled. It amazes me that inmates, absent of all freedoms, can still have a sense of humor. I appreciated his wit, if only for a second. After all, the security bubble did look like a fast food drive-through.

  The stories that emerge from a career in corrections are often frightening and depressing. But some are interesting, others amazing, and a few downright funny. Over the years, I have categorized the most unusual and amusing crimes, criminals, and incidents into a list: the humorous, the clever, the cons, and the stupid. You won’t find these examples in sociological studies or criminology textbooks; they are my own examples, based on thirty-five years of personal observations.

  The Humorous

  Another amusing moment at Oak Park Heights came during the annual visit from a committee of Minnesota legislators. Because the state legislature oversees the Department of Corrections, we always took the committee on a thorough tour deep into the bowels of the institution.

  One afternoon, we entered a room adjacent to the cellblock where we stored various types of restraint equipment hung on the walls. I explained to the politicians that we routinely use this equipment in the Segregation Unit to control violent offenders. I pointed out a large, flat board equipped with heavy-duty Velcro straps and described some of the behavior that might earn an inmate time strapped to the board. An inmate might have been banging his head against the wall, I explained, or cutting himself with a sharp object, or attempting to inflict some other bodily harm. Or he might have broken a window, flooded his cell or damaged it in some other way. The board, I said, helps physically restrain such inmates for a period of time, in order to get them back under control.

  A legislator interrupted me. As always, the state had sent several new members to see the prison. “I understand the need for controlling violent inmates,” the disturbed legislator said, “but I just don’t think it’s right to bring someone into this room, strap them to the board, and let them hang on the wall.”

  I was astonished, but managed to calmly explain that we take the board off the wall, bring it to the offender’s cell, and place it on the floor to restrain him. I guess it is important that we give the tours.

  I’m not always the one laughing. Sometimes, the joke is on me, such as the time many years ago when my friend Don Peterson and I were working part-time for the Minnesota State Fair Police Department.

  On a warm summer evening, a young man at the fair was taken into custody after a loud and disorderly fracas. It turned out he had walked away from his residence, a minimum-security mental health institution located in northern Ramsey County. His mental condition didn’t seem to warrant putting him through the court process, and rather than taking him downtown for booking, the night captain directed Don and me to return him to his institution.

  The police captain told us that the man, Ivan, was sitting in the back of an unmarked police vehicle. As we approached the car, I saw the largest, scariest-looking human being I have ever seen. He was huge, with a close-shaven head and a mean, disgruntled look on his face. His eyes were a cold, cloudy blue that stared straight back into your eyes without blinking. He sent a chill up my back, and all I could think of was “Ivan the Terrible.”

  I slid into the driver’s seat and turned the rearview mirror on Ivan. Don sat in the front passenger seat and turned to watch him. As I backed out of the police department lot, I heard a bloodcurdling scream and saw a woman running toward us. She reached the car and leaned in. “I am his mother,” she said quietly, “and I want you to know that he is very dangerous. Please be careful.”

  It was a long drive to the institution. I had the mirror glued to Ivan, and Don had one hand on his gun.

  Ivan never said a word, and we finally arrived at the institution, where we were met by the director, Dr. Dave Claddings. He greeted Ivan, then took us into his office and told us about Ivan’s history, the other residents, and the facility’s purpose. He said he had been the director for several years and had a background of working with mentally ill patients. His experience, communication skills, and advanced degrees appeared to make him well-suited for his important position. He was gracious and professional, and even gave us a complete tour of the residence and grounds.

  After about an hour, we thanked Dr. Claddings for his hospitality and left. On the drive back, we decided we should have gotten some type of paperwork proving Ivan was returned. In case he wandered off again, we wanted the record to be clear that we had turned him over to their custody.

  Back at the facility, the director’s office was locked. We found a maintenance worker buffing a corridor floor and asked him if Dr. Claddings might be available. Oddly, he had never heard of Dr. Claddings. Confused, we explained who we were, how we had returned Ivan, and had met with the director.

  “Was the man you met about forty years old and wearing a dark blue suit with a red tie?” the worker asked.

  Yes, we responded.

  He informed us that the man in the blue suit was not Dr. Claddings. There was no Dr. Gladdings. The person with whom we had toured the facility was a mental patient named Horace Schmitt. He had lived at the residence for many years and believed he was in charge. Unbelievable! We checked on Ivan to make sure he was safely where he was supposed to be, obtained our discharge report, and quickly left the premises.

  Don and I are not the only officers to ever get hoodwinked. One of my favorite recollections is of a prank played at a local police department many years ago. A veteran officer had been assigned to answer phones in the communications center during his last years before retiring. Answering calls from the public can be difficult. People call the police for just about everything, from weather reports to school closings to the Minnesota Twins game score.

  All the years on the job had made this veteran bitter, and the new assignment was frustrating. One spring day, his friends decided to play a practical joke on him. A fellow officer called and, disguising his voice as an elderly woman, asked, “Yes, officer, do you know if it is safe to walk across the ice at Lake James this time of year?”

  “Yes, lady,” the veteran retorted angrily. “It is safe to walk across the ice, and don’t ever call the police again to ask such a foolish question.” He slammed the phone down and hollered for everyone to hear, “Now they are calling us to ask if the ice is safe. What next?”

  When another call came into the department twenty minutes later, the veteran’s friends made sure he took the call. It was a caller reporting that an old lady had just fallen through the ice at Lake James.

  As the officer frantically prepared to dispatch every emergency vehicle in the city, his friends let him in on the joke.

  Another favorite memory is about a young poli
ce officer who was always anxious to be first on the scene. He tried hard to do things right, but his lack of experience and overeagerness sometimes conspired against him. One day, he and his partner were called to a burglary scene. Upon arrival, the new officer bolted from the squad car and hurried to the address reporting the call. A woman met him on the front steps.

  “Are you the woman that reported the burglary?” he asked.

  “Yes–”

  The eager officer stepped past her and walked briskly into the home. He scanned the residence and said, “My God, lady, they really gutted this place out, didn’t they? What a disaster!”

  The shocked woman replied, “I was calling about the neighbor’s house.”

  There was no way to recover from his embarrassment. The new officer waited in the car while his partner took the woman’s report.

  The Clever

  Clever offenders always catch the attention of a warden. These convicts use their cunning and intelligence to become “better” inmates–that is, inmates skilled at breaking rules and disrupting order. They are crafty and potentially dangerous, and their conniving makes unraveling their latest scheme a constant priority.

  At Oak Park Heights, segregated inmates are forbidden from communicating with other inmates in the facility. Once, an inmate housed in Segregation wanted to contact someone in the living unit and devised a clever solution to the problem. He sent a letter–not addressed to the other inmate, but to a phony name and address outside. For a return address, he wrote the other inmate’s name. Just as planned, the postal service returned the letter as undeliverable to the inmate listed as the return address. Fortunately, the ploy was foiled when our mailroom staff recognized the sender’s handwriting and intercepted the letter.

  One particularly exhausting inmate was Milan Simpson. He was serving a sentence for making terroristic threats, and he spent most of his years locked in the Mental Health Unit or Segregation. He had been brain damaged as a child, and his personality oscillated from friendly and cooperative to violent and assaultive. Some days, he was a pleasure; other times, staff would spend hours cleaning his feces and urine off walls. But his true talent was mimicking unusual noises. During his many years of incarceration, he mastered the signals and beeps of the prison communications system. He even had the different officers’ voices down to perfection, and many a guard was fooled by his flawless impersonations. It was common to walk by his cell and hear the sounds of the prison radio call, a certain guard speaking, or a television dialogue–only to learn it was just Milan.