The Big House Read online

  One of the most cunning inmates ever was John Paul Scott, a federal prisoner with multiple escapes to his credit. Scott had escaped from Alcatraz in the early 1960s. Other convicts have absconded from the famous island prison, but they were all believed to have drowned in San Francisco Bay. Scott was the sole one to reach the mainland and live to tell about it. He was found unconscious on the rocky shoreline under the Golden Gate Bridge. Police initially thought he was a jumper from the bridge and took him to a hospital, but were later surprised when he was identified as an escapee from Alcatraz. They returned him to the prison he had so painstakingly swam away from.

  Many years after this dramatic escape attempt, Scott came to Oak Park Heights for a stay. He was an elderly man with a gentle demeanor, but we knew he was as slippery as a snake and watched him closely. One day we were unable to account for him. Inmates are counted many times a day, and this particular day the count didn’t clear. The missing inmate was John Paul Scott. This harrowing discovery sent shock waves throughout the prison and a frantic search began–until someone realized he was in the barbershop, exactly where he was supposed to be. It was all a miscount.

  Clever inmates are intriguing because they theoretically have the intelligence to make successes out of their lives, yet choose other routes. They are often brilliant, unusual individuals who put prison systems on constant alert. These are the prisoners who create diversions so an officer thinks a problem is occurring in one area, when the real problem is in another area. They can draw attention away from an assault, a drug deal, or even a homicide. They are masters at deception and treachery. It makes staff wonder if anything is as it seems.

  One inmate housed at the Stillwater Prison was the best manipulator I have ever known. Darryl Andrews could con anybody out of anything. He was a stocky little fellow with a sly smile always on his face. Clever like a fox, he was also as dangerous as a wolf and had a lengthy record of fraud crimes. Those who knew him would shake their heads and say, “There is only one Darryl Andrews.”

  One day, I ran into Andrews as I was exiting the prison and he was being escorted inside through the front cages. I paused just long enough to ask, “What are you doing back again?”

  Andrews replied, “I won’t be here very long.”

  I headed out into the sunshine, assuming he meant his case was under appeal. I was wrong.

  A few months later at an off-site meeting, Andrews’s institution caseworker bumped into Andrews’s parole officer. The two happened to sit at the same table, and during a break, they struck up a conversation. The caseworker mentioned he was surprised Andrews was being released that morning. The parole officer immediately left to call the sentencing judge, who advised him there was no order authorizing any such release. Quickly, the officer telephoned the prison, where Andrews was waiting in the front area to be processed out. A little investigation revealed that Andrews had manufactured the entire order. Between manufacturing the paperwork and forging signatures, he had almost completed a magnificent hoax on the criminal justice system. Pure coincidence prevented him from pulling it off.

  Ronald Mitchell was an inmate who actually succeeded with a clever scheme. A slender man in his late teens, he had terrorized the Wisconsin prison system before being transferred to Oak Park Heights. He was an ingenious man with a penchant for boating, and the creative plot he carried out while housed in our Segregation Unit is unprecedented.

  I received the telephone call at home on a Saturday morning. The prison watch commander started the conversation by saying, “Sit down, because you’re not going to believe what I’m about to tell you.” I found a seat and he then related a bizarre tale.

  Mitchell had used towels, washcloths, and magazines to plug all the crevices in his cell, including the gaps under the door and between his cell floor and wall. Then he plugged his toilet and washbasin and flooded his cell. By the time an officer discovered his antics, the water was waist deep–and Mitchell was paddling around his cell on a floating mattress.

  The astounded officer was at a loss for how to deal with this problem. If he opened the cell door, the water would flood the unit. While staff gathered outside the cell, Mitchell made the decision for them. He climbed off his watercraft and pulled out the towels and magazines. Water gushed under the doors and out the cracks–the flood had begun.

  Mitchell achieved what few others could. He took a boat ride and dismantled a dam, all while serving time in the most secure unit of a supermax prison. He will always be remembered for his resourcefulness and flair.

  The Cons

  Cons are the “true” convicts–the toughest of the tough, inmates who have perfected the art of survival. They are the Big House’s strong arms, bullies, warriors, and predators. Within the inmate population, they head the chain of command.

  I knew one veteran con who had adapted over the years to make prison his world. Pat Ashley was rock hard, his actions and even emotions seemingly petrified by years inside. Every day when he went to work in the Oak Parks Heights sewing factory, he would move his sewing machine into a corner and sit against the walls so that no one could approach him from any direction except the front where he could see them coming. He then sat down and went about his work, quietly minding his own business. There was a reason for this seating arrangement. Ashley had served as a hit man for a dreaded southwestern United States prison gang and in this role, killed seventeen people. When you murder that many times in prison, enemies are made and precautions have to be taken. Ashley was making certain no one could sneak up on him from behind and do the same to him. He was a warrior, a predator–and a survivor.

  When Oak Park Heights opened in 1982, it was packed full of cons–so much so that we had to be selective of who we accepted for transfer. If a vulnerable offender was improperly placed in this setting, he could easily fall victim to a true con. During those years, Minnesota placed younger offenders in its maximum-security St. Cloud prison. Over time, Oak Park Heights received several of St. Cloud’s most difficult offenders, but they ultimately had to be returned as they couldn’t cope with our tough inmates. They may have been aggressive inmates at St. Cloud, but they were in a different league at the new supermax prison.

  One of St. Cloud’s inmates came to us with quite a reputation. Jacob Havernoth was described as a predator and a bully. He had caused multiple problems at St. Cloud, and staff predicted he would better fit in with our aggressive population. Though not a big man and hardly out of high school, he had disrupted St. Cloud by preying on weaker inmates.

  The predictions were wrong. Two weeks after his arrival, we discovered some of our cons were forcing Havernoth to pay “rent” to live in his own cell.

  Oftentimes, inmates who look or act tough aren’t the true cons. Being a con involves much more than raging biceps and a tight waistline. It involves a mindset. Sometimes, the most unlikely looking inmates are the real cons.

  Godfrey Allen is a perfect example. A murderer who spent most of his life behind bars, Allen had an aggressive survival instinct, but you wouldn’t know it to look at him. Too many prison hamburgers left Allen pudgy and out of shape. Most of the time, he just looked like an old man doing his time. But make no mistake, Allen personified the true convict. He was tough, and his survival techniques were deadly. Inmate Ronald Krebs found this out, and it almost cost him his life.

  Krebs was a young, well built, self-proclaimed tough guy who liked to strong arm other inmates. At six feet, three inches tall with a trim waistline and a broad upper torso, Krebs was a formidable opponent. He loved to play the bully, beating and threatening weaker inmates into handing over their canteen supplies, extra food from meals, and anything else he wanted. Staff knew about Krebs, and we struggled to catch him in action–certainly no inmate was about to snitch on him. Then, one day he decided to pick on Godfrey Allen, and Krebs’s reign came to a sudden dead end.

  What officers witnessed was Krebs running across the narrow, rectangular commons area toward the security bubble with Godf
rey Allen in hot pursuit. Something was wrong here. A big, strapping, tough, hard-nosed offender was running for his life with an old, soft-looking inmate chasing after him. It made no sense, but it happened, right in front of officers and inmates. Before staff could intervene, Allen caught Krebs and stabbed him in the face. Allen’s makeshift weapon was a pencil wrapped in tape to reinforce it and with a point sharpened to a needle edge. The weapon broke on impact, but his message had been delivered. Krebs’s reputation was destroyed. Allen spent many months in Segregation for attempted murder, but we were soon forced to move Krebs to another facility for his own protection.

  I knew Allen well and later talked to him about the incident. He told me he had decided many years back that he would never be afraid in prison; he would do anything to prevent fear from taking over his life. The first time Krebs came and threatened him, he knew what had to be done. Allen bet himself that Krebs was “gutless” and would run when attacked. Allen was right–and proud of his accurate judgment. The only thing that disappointed Allen about the incident was that his shank broke. He had not prepared well enough for Krebs because he was so convinced he would “run scared.” Our conversation left little doubt that Allen would have killed Krebs if he could.

  Cons sometimes wield their power in strange ways. During a meeting in a Virginia prison several years ago, the Associate Warden happened to glance out her office window overlooking the prison yard. She then beckoned us to the window and asked if we saw anything unusual.

  Cellblocks enclosed the yard, which was a large, square plot of grass with a sidewalk running in a neat square around it. A mass of inmates were walking the sidewalk square for their daily exercise. They walked around the square clockwise–except for one diminutive, elderly man who walked in the opposite direction. This old man was wizened and stooped, but even in his prime he was probably never much of a threat. He stood just five feet six inches and weighed but a slender 140 pounds. Yet as he approached, the other inmates separated, making room for him to pass. It was an incredible sight.

  We asked the Associate Warden about the old man. “Gentlemen,” she said, “you are watching Mr. Blue. He has killed four inmates since he arrived many years ago, and no one wants any part of him.”

  In some institutions, cons rove in packs, like gangs in a neighborhood. They intimidate, assault, and threaten other offenders. Two such individuals at Oak Park Heights were Otto Johnson and Roy Baldwin. They were murderers who spent the bulk of their life in prison. Both were big and strong and knew how to instill fear in other inmates. Although we watched them closely, they were skilled at manipulating their way around the prison.

  One morning, Johnson and Baldwin were walking around the housing unit with swollen eyes and beat-up faces. We didn’t think they had been fighting each other. Our limited information told us they had picked on the wrong guy, inmate William Bleeker.

  Bleeker didn’t look like a con. He was a soft-spoken, almost timid man who kept to himself and never bothered anyone. But he had done many years in prison for a grisly murder and had developed a sharp survival instinct. We never knew exactly what happened that day, but we were able to piece together the following sequence of events: Johnson and Baldwin went to Bleeker’s cell and told him to request a transfer out of the unit. Bleeker was black, and they didn’t like him for this. What’s more, he didn’t bow to their demands, and that was reason enough for them to want him out. Bleeker refused. While Johnson watched for staff, Baldwin went in the cell to teach Bleeker a lesson. There was an assault, but Bleeker wasn’t the victim. Baldwin came out looking like a train wreck. Johnson took a look at his partner in crime and thought, “I’ll have to take care of this myself.” The train crashed again, and Johnson was injured worse than Baldwin.

  Bleeker never requested the transfer. To him, it was just another day in prison. Cons accept and become conditioned to years of prison life. The Big House is ingrained in them.

  One day, my pager instructed me to report to the prison’s medical emergency area. When I arrived, inmate Les Kubrick was laid out on a medical cart bleeding profusely from the side of his head. He was a warrior with more than thirty years in prison and a history of violent brawls. Some years ago, in a different prison, he had killed another inmate.

  As I got closer, I realized that Kubrick’s ear was missing. Another inmate had bitten it off–not the tip or a small portion, but the whole ear. It was an ugly sight–even for an old convict, who, while only in his mid fifties, had been to war too many times. He looked haggard and worn out, and the missing ear didn’t enhance his appearance any.

  I asked him to tell me what happened, and his response was a classic: “Aw, Mr. Bruton, it’s no big deal. I couldn’t hear out of that ear anyway.”

  The Stupid

  Crime isn’t funny, but some of the behavior witnessed in the criminal justice profession is truly absurd. If cons are at one end of the survival spectrum, stupid criminals are at the other. Some of these slow-witted offenders should be taken aside and told, “You know, you don’t do this very well. You ought to find something else to do besides being a criminal.”

  I have always thought bank heists that go bad are classic examples of stupidity. In one local robbery, the offender robbed the bank at gun point, then ran to his getaway vehicle only to find his car wouldn’t start. The police arrived to find the perpetrator under the hood working on the engine. The money and gun were lying on the ground next to the front tire. It was a bad start to a criminal life.

  Early in my career, I worked in a juvenile detention center, which afforded me several opportunities to witness delinquents demonstrate their ineptitude for the criminal life. One boy stole a car and spent the better part of the day riding around town. Come nightfall, he abandoned the vehicle, priding himself on committing the perfect crime. No one had seen him steal it, and he was able to joyride for hours without getting caught. Later that evening, he was arrested. He had left his wallet containing his driver’s license on the front seat.

  Another boy was brought in for issuing a bomb threat to his high school, thinking it’d be a good way to get out of classes for the day. His plan almost worked, except for a slight error on his part. After carefully thinking through his strategy, the juvenile offender called the FBI to claim a bomb was planted in his high school.

  “Who’s calling?” asked the FBI operator.

  “Steve Schmidt,” the boy responded truthfully.

  Offender Gary Wells planned an elaborate mugging and carried it through almost to completion. First, he picked out a victim in a gay bar. He joined in conversation with the man and solicited sex. The man agreed and they went to his apartment.

  Upon arrival, Wells pulled a knife, held it to the man’s throat, and said, “Give me all of your money.”

  The man replied, “I don’t have any money.”

  “Well, then, call someone who has some money.”

  “I don’t have a phone.”

  “Well, then, we’re going to find a phone for you to call someone who has some money.”

  He marched the victim out to the street with a knife at his throat. They went to a nearby phone booth where Wells told the man to place the call. Wells waited outside the booth and listened.

  The victim dialed and said, “There is a man holding a knife on me. He wants you to come right away and bring all your money.” He gave their location and said, “Please hurry.”

  Unbeknown to Wells, the man had dialed 911.

  You might think stupid criminals are limited to the outside–that if they land in the Big House, they smarten up in a hurry. Sometimes this is true, but not always.

  With its staff of some thirty inmates, the kitchen at Oak Park Heights is a precarious place. The inmates working here have to handle knives and other utensils that could quickly be turned into weapons. Inmates can only get these plum jobs if they have a record of good behavior, but like all Oak Park Heights’s inmates, they are dangerous offenders with trouble–some histories.


  When I was prison investigator, an inmate informant, Carl Olsen, snitched that kitchen workers were smuggling drugs into the prison. Olsen was a friendly and talkative offender–perhaps too talkative for his own good. He agreed to report the next arrival, but due to the sensitive situation, we had to plan our bust carefully. If the other inmates suspected Olsen was a snitch, his life would be in instant danger.

  We gave Olsen specific instructions. He listened intently; he liked being part of a plan with the guards. He had none of the usual inmate-versus-staff prejudices and thrived on assisting us. He wasn’t wearing a guard’s uniform but I think he wished he was.

  The plan was simple. As soon as Olsen saw the contraband, he would immediately leave the area to speak to the Watch Commander. The kitchen is set back from the prison’s main traffic corridor, and the Watch Commander’s office is a few yards down the hall. The kitchen is also adjacent to a security bubble, where officers observe the activity of the workers. We instructed Olsen to speak to no one and move as quickly as possible. It would not be unusual for an inmate to leave to speak to the Watch Commander, and we wanted everything to look as routine as possible. Our priority was to have him safe before we raided the kitchen.