Chapter 19

The Magic Bus

Perhaps within two months of my arrival to MCC Miami, I overheard some
other prisoners talking about some mysterious "magic bus" that supposedly
whisked
unknown.

prisoners away

in the

middle of the

night to destinations

I paid little attention to these conversations since they seemed

too unreal to believe - sort of like all those bigfoot and Loch Ness monster
stories I heard as a kid. But as I neared my first anniversary of prison time,
I began hearing more and more about this mythical magic bus and actually
met someone who claimed to have been a passenger on several of the
midnight runs the bus allegedly makes on an ongoing basis.

His name was Lloyd, or at least that's how he introduced himself to me. I
was in the hole again after trying to send out yet another batch of letters.
Lloyd was brought into my cell in the wee hours of the morning and
since the seg unit was full, I got the pleasant surprise of a guest. He was a
friendly fellow with curly gray hair and he squinted behind his wire-rimmed
spectacles. If he had a beard, he'd make a great St. Nick. I guessed he
must have been about 60 years of age and he spoke with a distinct British
accent. His articulate vocabulary suggested he was a well-educated man.

It's considered rude and a bit dangerous to ask a prisoner why he's behind
bars.

If they want you to know they'll eventually tell you, and that's the

attitude I adopted from day one. But I learned Lloyd's story only because
he asked me to help him get a message out to a friend of his in the free
world. When I told him that might not be for a few weeks (I had no idea
how long I'd be in the hole this time), he said that "a few weeks would
be just fine".

He had me memorize a telephone number of a woman in

San Diego, California and after I assured him I wouldn't' forget the number,
386

he proceeded to give me a rather strange message to relay "Tell Roger

at the BBC that the Americans picked me up as soon as I landed in L.A.
and have me on this never-ending bus ride all over the damn country for
the last six months. Sylvia has my audit summary but the CIA confiscated
all the ledgers".

After hearing this, I couldn't help but laugh, and poor Lloyd must have
thought

I assumed

he was nuts judging from his facial expression.

"You think I'm a loon do you?" he asked.

I'm laughing.

"No Lloyd, that's not why

It's just that in my 30 years in the free world,

only one CIA employee,

I met

but in the last two years, I've met over a

dozen, and we always seem to meet here in the hole!" I then went
on to tell Lloyd a bit about George

Morales,

Jesus Garcia, and the

others. But Lloyd was quick to tell me "I never knew I was working
for the bastards until it was too late" "What's that supposed to mean?" I
asked.

"I was one of the auditors working for the Nugan Hand Bank

in Australia".

That meant absolutely

nothing to me and I never even

heard of such a bank and I told him so.

Lloyd seemed amazed at

my ignorance and assured me that the Nugan Hand Bank was one of
the biggest public scandals
summarized

the following

in the History of Australia,

for me;

and he

When one of the Bank directors

committed suicide and left an explosive note suggesting that the bank
was willfully

laundering

drug

investigation

ensued.

That

actually

moneys

on a daily

investigation

revealed

basis, a major
that

the

CIA

owned the bank, had many CIA officials on the board of

directors, and was in fact laundering drug moneys in the billions of

dollars from the infamous golden triangle. Lloyd went on to say that a
woman named Penny Lenroux authored an expose book entitled "IN
BANKS

WE

TRUST" and that he (Lloyd) was suspected of leaking

information to her.

Lloyd said that he received over a dozen death

387

threats and decided to leave Australia and move to the U.S.

But

before leaving he made the mistake of taking a call from a BBC

reporter and during the call, agreed to meet with him in Los Angeles.
The reporter claimed that he was expanding

the Nugan Hand scandal

to include some other Asian and European banks he believed were

also owned by the CIA.

That meeting never took place according to Llyod.

Instead, Lloyd

said he arrived at LAX airport and was immediately

"detained"

U.S. Customs who said they wanted to ask him a few questions.

by
But

instead of Customs officials, two DEA agents came in and advised

Llyod

that

he was

under

arrest

for

"Conspiracy

to

import

and

distribute heroin". I knew Lloyd for less than nine hours, but he was
no drug

smuggler

by any

stretch

of the

imagination.

From the

moment of his arrest, Lloyd claims he was not once permitted

phone call and the only lawyer he spoke with in the last six month
was a Public Defender who made an appearance at his arraignment.
Had I not already met Morales, Tolliver, and Garcia, I might not have
even listened to this man. But having the benefit of spending days on
end with all three of those guys and knowing their stories to be true,
Lloyd's

credibility

was not an issue with

me. He spoke with the

conviction of outrage that cannot be faked nor fabricated. I could also

hear the

desperation

incommunicado

and frustration

in his voice

of being kept

for six months. He was scared and it showed.

He

was also quite worried that his family would be worried sick about
him.

But most of all Lloyd was angry. He was arrested and booked

under a name other than his own, and he was told that it was done
"for

your

own

protection".

Yet

now he said

it was

the

U.S.

government that he feared the most.

388

But what intrigued me the most was this endless bus trip Lloyd was
on. After Llyod rattled off a list of some three dozen prisons and jails
he visited over the last six months, I came to the realization that the
"magic bus" was far more than a mere rumor.

He stayed at some

facilities for a few hours and yet others for a few days, but he was
always kept in segregation or a holding cell. Lloyd explained to me
how he was continuously denied access to a telephone and was told
by a guard that this was simply a "security precaution" that was in
place for every prisoner "in transit".
communicate
guidelines.

with a lawyer

Even the constitutional

is overridden

by the

right to

BOP's

And herein lies the clever and devious

security

beauty of the

magic bus stratagem ...

The U.S. Bureau of Prisons has over a hundred years of experience

dealing

with

embarrassing

prisoners
kind.

of all sorts With

time,

they

even

those

of a politically

have

perfected

some

very

effective methods of dealing with these prisoners and the inquisitive

news

media

that sometimes

catches

the scent

of scandal.

By

exploiting the loopholes of U.S. Justice Dept. policies and invoking

"security concerns" that never need to be explained nor validated to
anyone, prison staffers can keep a prisoner legally incommunicado
for months or even years. Here's their ostensible justification ...

Any prisoner being moved from one prison facility to another poses a
potential

security

escape

risk,

risk since

especially

if

that
the

movement
prisoner

presents

being

moved

a potential
has the

389

opportunity

to communicate

with potential cohorts in the free world.

Based on this scenario, Justice Department policy writers were easily

convinced

to establish a security policy which denies prisoners the

right to communicate

while actually in transit. The same policy also

prohibits the BOP from disclosing the actual location of a prisoner,

even to his own lawyer of record, until the prisoner reaches his final
destination.

If used and not abused, this policy is sensible since one

assumes that transit time would only be a day or two at very most
because the U.S. Marshall Service actually flies prisoners around on
their own chartered 727.

But when a prison official decides to transport a prisoner by bus from

the East Coast to the West Coast and back a few times, this policy
takes

on a whole

new dimension,

and essentially

serves to keep a prisoner totally incommunicado.

prolonged

indefinitely

simply by constantly

"destination" on the BOP's computer.

This game can be

changing the ultimate

So if a prisoner at MCC Miami

is sent on his way by bus to Lompoc

keystrokes

and effectively

prison in California,

a few

five days later could have him on his way to his "new"

Atlanta

prison destination!

thought

Blackwell's

Until I learned about the magic bus, I

telephone

log tactics was the best BOP fraud

going.

At any rate, Lloyd left as suddenly as he arrived.

Miami was all of about 36 hours.
Foster's

His visit at MCC

After he was gone, I recalled Lt.

previous threats to "shoot your ass up with Thorazine and

stick you on the magic bus for a few months".

Now I took his words

more seriously since I finally discovered the magic bus was a genuine
reality that could not easily be ignored.

386

But my parole hearing would be coming up in a few short weeks and I

would be saying adios to this nightmare so I need not worry about
Foster nor the magic bus. Or so I thought anyway.

Soon I myself

would be on the USA bus tour of the magic bus tour compliments of
the U.S. Justice Department.

During the balance of my stay in the hole, I managed to meet Gary

Betzner, who happened to be Morales' ace chief pilot.
cell

for

about

a week

before

I was

finally

We shared a

released

back

into

population. We spent hours talking about aviation and aircraft since

we were both pilots. Gary seemed to know every intricacy of most
private planes and taught me more about maneuvers

and aircraft

handling than Terry Muniz (my flight instructor in Puerto Rico) ever
did.

Gary grew up in rural Arkansas and was flying cropdusters in his

teens.

He could

easily

be flying

for

United Airlines

instead of

Morales, but Gary thrived on adventure and the lure of big bucks.

Apparently

George had told Gary about me because within two days

we were talking about the guns and drugs George and Gary had
been

running

Congressional

for

Uncle

Sam.

Gary

had

told

me

that

the

investigator (Ralph Maestri) who was coming to see

George was also going to interview him, but that George was cutting a
secret deal with the CIA to remove the White

House from the

equation and put the blame on a couple of "low level rogue military
officers". The CIA had already sent an agent posing as a lawyer to
meet with George,

but now Gary was worried

that he would be

excluded from the deal that would get George a "Get Out Of Jail"
pass. Gary had good cause to be concerned.

If George didn't include

Gary in his deal, Betzner could spend the next 25 years of his life
387

behind bars. My advice to Gary was by now routine,

"don't trust

anyone form the U.S. government who wasn't willing to back up their
verbal promises with a letter to your lawyer".
cooperate

with

Maestri

closed door hearings.

and testify
Unfortunately,

his deal, so in desperation

Ultimately Gary would

before Senator

John

Kerry in

Morales didn't include Gary in

Gary ignored his usual good judgment,

and misplaced his trust in a jailhouse snitch named Terry Brito to help
arrange

a helicopter

helicopter

escape

about

a year later. As planned

the

arrived to hoist Gary from the soccer field to freedom,

except the pilot and passenger were both FBI agents, and Gary was
hit with new escape charges and moved permanently

to the hole

where I would meet him yet again in about a year.

Less than a week before my scheduled parole hearing, I was paged

on the PA system to report to R&D (Receiving

and Discharge).

immediately knew something was wrong but was not allowed to use a
telephone. I was escorted to R&D and was not allowed to retrieve any
of my files nor legal papers.

Once in R&D I asked a dozen questions but received only one answer
"Shut up and get in the holding cell". About

an

hour

later

Lt.

Foster walked in and with a big smile announced "You're stay with us
is over Gorcyca, I hope you found our hospitality satisfactory?"
am I going?"

I demanded

"Where

to know. "You'll find out when you get

there" he replied as he began walking away. "But my parole hearings

is next week!"
strode
Foster's

away

I exclaimed.
out

previous

of

sight.

threat

"I know"

Foster

I sat there

acknowledged

stewing

in anger

as he
recalling

to make me miss my parole hearing.

Wherever I was going, I wouldn't be here to get my freedom from the

388

parole board. My sentencing guidelines and the judge both said I'd only
be required to serve 13 months, of my five year sentence

and that 13

months would be up in less than a month. After three hours two U.S.
Marshalls came to claim me and transport me to the Dade County Jail.

To put it mildly, the Dade County Jail is one scary and violent place not to mention filthy and grossly

overcrowded.

Thirty

guys were

forced to live a space no bigger than an average two car garage. I

was there less than a full day when a man in our dormitory cell was
stabbed

by another

gambling debt.

prisoner,

allegedly

because

he reneged on a

I was one of two white people in a 12 foot

cell block of about 30, mostly Afro-American

by 25 foot

black men and a handful

of Cubans. I never saw so many tattoos in one place than in this cell.
These guys were veteran criminals and Miami's worst.
prison, the prisoners were sophisticated

In federal

drug smugglers, fraudsters,

and maybe a bank robber or two, but this place housed

murderers,

rapists, and other violent thugs.

I would

spend

prisoner,

and in retrospect, this was

few months

places I've ever been.

but

that

all the

violence

Sure there

here even though

I was a federal

by far one of the

was

was orchestrated

violence

most violent

in federal

prison,

by the prison staff, here at

DCJ every prisoner was a potential time bomb and if they were having
a bad day, anyone within reach could easily become their victim when
they exploded.

Here a prisoner

shoes

away

snatched

could

have

his

meal

tray

or

by another, and unless you were prepared to

fight, you could easily go hungry and barefoot.

It truly was survival

of the strongest and the weak either submitted or perished .. The law
of the jungle

prevailed over

all

aspects

of life

here,

and

unlike
389

federal prison, most of the men locked up here truly belonged here.
Many

of

the

withdrawal

occupants recently

which

arrested

were

going

through

provided constant noise, annoyance and tensions.

It would only be a matter of time before someone in the cell reached

their level of tolerance and blow up in ball of violence upon the source
of the noise.

After only three days in this hell hole, some gorilla appropriately
named "Dog" tried to rape me in the shower stall.
for the attack, and he caught me totally off-guard.

I was not prepared

From behind he

grabbed and twisted at my wet hair trying to force me down onto the
floor.

Even though he was twice my size, I was not about to let

myself be raped without a good fight at least.

I would poke his eyes

out if I had to. From four years of high school wrestling,

I instinctively

went for his knees for a takedown knowing I'd stand a better chance if I
could get him down on the ground.

But as he came down he began

punching me furiously and those punches were finding their mark specifically
nose.

my face and I could feel warm blood gushing out of my

I shouted for help but I might as well have been in the middle

of the Sahara desert. As I looked up, I saw dog straddling me and

holding his huge, erect penis in his hand with a goofy crazed look on
his face. "Time for a little suck and fuck!" he announced.

If he put his

dick anywhere near my mouth I was determined to bite it right off.

But by the grace of God I was saved from the ultimate humiliation
when yet a bigger gorilla named Willie Steed appeared and pulled
Dog off of me and handed him his towel. Dog protested vigorously
but it was clear that Steed was the top dog in this cell block.
bulging muscles and scarred flesh,

With his

I assumed Steed saw and won

390

his share of scraps. "Thanks" was all I could say.

"Thanks my ass -

you owe me your dinner tray for a week white boy!" he clarified.
problem" and it wasn't.

"No

I'd much rather go hungry for a week that get

my asshole reamed by anyone, much less someone named "Dog". But

this incident
stayed,

convinced

I would

me that I didn't

belong

here and if I

not survive for very long. These guys were cold-

blooded warriors who had little if anything to lose.

Everyone in the

cell would now think I am weak and would try to take advantage of
me. And I couldn't give all of my food trays to Steed. I would have to
do something to make them think otherwise.

If I didn't do something,

there would surely be more of these attacks. I devised a plan that

under

any other

circumstances,

I wouldn't

even

consider.

I am

generally a peaceful kind of guy.

Early the following morning while everyone was still asleep, I plugged
in the coffeepot

and as the water

boiled,

I unscrewed

the broom

handle from the broom just in case I needed it.

After all, this Dog

character

in this

might actually

have a friend

or two

dump.

unplugged the coffee pot and slowly walked over to Dog who slept
soundly in a bottom bunk. "Yo my man!" I whispered to him.

As he

growled and gradually opened his eyes, I emptied the coffee pot on
his head and neck and began pummeling his face with my fists.

His

screams woke everyone in the cell and in ten minutes some of the
occupants were calling for a guard hollering "Get this crazy fuck outta
here!"

391

By the time I was transferred

to

another cell, the word had already

spread

that

I was a "crazy white

boy" and for the rest of my stay at

the Dade County Jail, no one much
talked with me, much less provoked
me. My plan had exceeded
expectations

and

my

I was quite

relieved. I got my own cell for a week

and did not have to fight anyone it
My private cell at Dade County Jail

was like a vacation from hell. A few

looked like this one without the fine art.

days later I received a letter in a

government envelope
this

letter sealed.

from MCC Miami.

I was surprised

to receive

I had grown accustomed t o being the second or

third person to read my mail by now.

page and read the only type-written

I extracted

the single folded

sentence it contained -

you're enjoying your stay at the Dade County Jail?".

"I hope

It was unsigned

of course, but I'd bet my last nickel this was Foster's sick humor at
work.

Time would confirm my suspicions.

I left the Dade County

Jail some six months later and was returned to MCC Miami.

Foster was just beaming when he saw me sitting in R&D on my

arrival.

"I hoped you learned some manners while you were away" he

chirped.

I remained silent in contempt. As he probed through some

notes, poetry, and correspondence

the mystery letter.

I acquired at DCJ, he came upon

He grabbed it, waved it to get my attention and

said "I see you got my letter. How come you didn't
postcard?"
Blackwell's

Again, I said nothing, and was assigned

unit.

Oh joy.

send me a
right back to

In a strange sort of way, I was glad to be

392

back at MCC Miami

I guess any place is better than the Dade

County Jail other than Stark County, Florida and the Atlanta Penitentiary.

I was back less than a week before the old gang found me and I was
back at work in the law library, typing and translating motions, legal
opinions, and case law for the guys.

By this time the Iran Contra

fiasco was making it's way through the halls of Congress and Morales
had me write his final letters to Donald Gregg, William Casey, and
Joe Fernandez.

George had agreed to turn over some photographs

he had acquired of himself and a Texas politician that would make

the front page of any newspaper or magazine, and go along with the
white house script.

He asked me to type his statement which I did

three times due to one revision, deletion, or addition after another

until it met with the approval of the pols pulling his strings.

His final

sanitized statement which he took to Washington with him was a

mere shadow of the real story. Senator Kerry would never learn that
President

Reagan, Vice President Bush, and CIA Director Casey

were all quite aware of these clandestine operations which received

the blessings of all three men. In fact, Morales claimed he received a
personal "Thank You" call from the White House only two months
before he was arrested.

It didn't take long for word to get back to Foster that I was helping the
other prisoners with their legal work. He never did approve of my
volunteer work so to speak, because most of the Spanish speaking
prison population when never get the chance to file a grievance or
motions

without

someone

like me to explain

elaborate forms and procedures.

and translate

the

He made it very clear to me in an

unusual outburst one night when he visited me in the library as I was

393

helping Lennard Baptiste (aka Papi) of Dominica write a letter to

the Justice Department

about the illegal seizure of a cargo ship

he owned. Eventually it was determined that a handful of crew

members of the boat were smuggling drugs without the knowledge
and against the warnings of Baptiste.

In any event,

Foster

demanded

that I stop helping other inmates

with their problems and as he stated "Serve your own time and mind
your own business".
moral,

I replied that what I was doing was quite legal,

and ethical

requesting

it.

and everyone

Unlike

some

that

I helped had come to me

of the jailhouse

lawyers who

actually

charged fees, usually paid in cartons of cigarettes or moneys sent

to their account from outside

relatives,

I charged

nothing and only

helped those I felt were being railroaded by Uncle Sam. As I mentioned

earlier on, I always root for the underdog and there can be no greater
underdog

than someone

government.
20%

of

entrapped

Without exaggeration,

the

prisoners

and prosecuted

by the U.S.

I can honestly say that a good

incarcerated

in

federal

prisons,

are

innocent people who were transformed into instant criminals by some

government

entrapment

scheme usually of the "conspiracy"

variety

which requires only that a crime was discussed or planned even if it

was never

committed.

Over

"conspiracy" related charges.

English,

separated

from

30% of all federal convictions are for

When I saw a man who couldn't speak

his wife

and

children

potentially for a decade or more, I did whatever

by such

shams -

I could to help him.

My efforts helped two men get new trials on appeal and five others
get reduced sentences.

But I also incurred the further wrath of the

prison administration by doing so, and Foster was determined to take

me out of circulation.

Trying to resolve the matter diplomatically,

394

asked

Foster rather politely

helping these guys.

When

if I was violating

any BOP policy by

he just glared at me, I assumed

the

answer was what I suspected - No.

But as much as Foster would rant, rave, and threaten, I knew better
than to argue or do anything to provoke him. In fact, I avoided being
in the same room with him whenever possible. But he enjoyed getting
in my face to remind me that he controlled my life behind bars. He
even boasted that he had the power to keep me jailed indefinitely with
"new charges" if he so desired. I didn't doubt him for a second. He left
the library that night threatening
translating

other prisoner's

that if he ever saw me typing or

paperwork again, he'd stick me back in

the hole. Just a week later he made good on his threat.

395

396

397

398

399

400

I was in the law library helping Erling Ingvaldsen of Norway draft a

letter of complaint concerning the professional misconduct of Broward
County Sheriff Nick Navarro, a well known cowboy in South Florida
who was on the Presidential
Bush administrations.
his COPS television

Drug Task Force of the Reagan and

Navarro was always in the public limelight for

show and many press conferences.

It seemed

that Nick himself was profiting handsomely from confiscated drugs that
he'd sell back to other

dealers

including

Benitez

d irectly involved in the murder of smuggler/dealer

Ingvaldsen

and

had been

Vic Simone. Erling

one of the few people who could prove it, was jailed and

charged to isolate the threat of exposure.

When Erling's young son

Egil came to the defense of his father and also vowed to expose the
Navarro

operation,

Egil

was

picked

up

and

forced

to

sign

prepared statements while Navarro held a loaded gun to his head.

Simone's

stolen cocaine was actually

personal residence after Ingvaldsen

discovered

inside Navarro's

sent a tip to the news media and

some honest federal agents, but Nick simply explained that the 30
kilos of cocaine were in his house because he didn't want to keep
them in the sheriff office vault since they "might be stolen from the
sheriff's office".

Nobody really bought the story but Navarro was not

touched by prosecutors.

Little did I know then that I myself would

meet Navarro and have business dealings with the man some ten
years later.

Indeed in was in 1998 when I was the president of Globus Group on Brickell
Drive in Miami when Navarros lawyer Kirk Girbach would
series of meetings between Navarro, myself, and others
taking

one

of

Nick's

arrange
for

a
the

purpose

of

private

companies public. The

company

held patents on and manufactured

some unique security

401

devices including wireless highway call boxes. But when Nick offered to
pay me in cocaine instead of money for a NASDAQ shell. When

refused he then suggested and asked me to help launder a million

dollars
pay

through

me

and

a stock deal for him so he could

the

market

makers.

It was

buy the shell and

then

that

instantly

recalled the Ingvaldsen case and remembered that I was dealing with
a real criminal who hid behind a badge for more than twenty years. I
could not forget how Benitez had told me that both he and Navarro
wanted Simone dead, and how they made it so. But I have to admit
that chance to make $500,000 temporarily

blinded me as to who I

was really dealing with. Alone with Nick, I casually mentioned that we
had mutual associates.

When he couldn't guess who, I dropped the

names

and Simone

of Ingvaldsen

on him and

he just

laughed.

"What's so funny Nick?" I asked and he replied "I personally sent one
of those guys to prison for life and the other to hell".

He further

boasted that he was the last one to see Simone alive. When I didn't
share in his laughter he tried to lighten matters a bit with his idea of a
joke "Did you meet them in prison or hell?" "I gotta go Nick.
proposal to Kirk".

I'll get a

I decided then and there that I would never do

business with

Navarro

even

if

I was

homeless and starving.

Not wishing
decent

guy,

to explain myself to Kirk, a real

I submitted

knew Navarro wouldn't

a proposal

I attempted

involvement
two

like and managed to

extricate myself from that relationship.

when

that

Later

to explain Navarro's past

in the murder of Vic Simone to

different FBI agents

(Coleman

and
402

Quintana)

they told me they simply "weren't

interested" and one

of the agents suggested that Simone "got what he deserved - early

retirement".

Seldom

if ever,

investigation

will

against

one law

enforcement

agent

take

up

an

another, much less against someone they know

and worked with on joint task force.

As in the now famous

Salvati

case, even solving an old murder case was not enough motivation to
open an investigation

against

an old friend

of the

FBI.

The feds

prosecute for their own convenience and very selectively.

Apparently

it benefits

rather the

them

more to

prosecute the whistle

blowers

perpetrators to avoid casting shadows of doubt on the overall integrity

of the criminal justice system to which they both belong.

This is the

unspoken and reciprocal law honored by federal agents, u.s. attorneys,

and most judges themselves.

This

the majority of which are former prosecutors

readily

accounts for

why

very

few government

corruption cases make it to a court room and why most of the cases get
sealed, safely removed from the eyes of the public and the media. "Justice
for all" is not a reality in America today.

But back in the law library that night, I had just finished preparing a
statement or George Morales to give to Ralph Maestri and started on
Elrings complaint, when my pal Foster walked over to the IBM Selectric
typewriter and snatched my work right out of the carriage. He seemed
elated to find Erling's paperwork in my typewriter.

He stood me up and

cuffed me, then once again marched me off to the hole. I was determined
to make this my last visit to the hole and put my mind to work. I was going
to stand my ground on this one and tell the new warden (Clark) the whole
story of Foster's crusade to censor me.

My mistake was assuming that

403

Mr. Clark was of the same calibre and integrity as James Meko.

I soon

discovered that Clark was of the old school and never believed an inmate
over one of his own staff and gave his staff his full support whether they
were right or wrong. So after I spent a good ten minutes detailing all of
Foster's threats, giving him a list of witnesses that overheard the threats
and even watched Foster steal some 600 pages of notes that were really
my disguised prison diary, along with my legal file, correspondence file,
and the first eleven chapters of

INSIDE LOOKING OUT (my attempt to

write a book about prison life), he just looked at me and replied with a
single word - "So?"
warden.

That single word told me volumes about the

new

I asked him if he could tell me on what grounds I was placed

in the hole since their paperwork would have to reflect some violation of
prison policy and again he kept his response to an absolute minimum "No".

By now, I had arranged for other prisoners to call my mother and a close
friend whenever I was taken to the hole so they would not wonder why
I wasn't calling or writing. After the third day in the hole I decided I would
protest the censorship issue the only way I could from isolation - with a
hunger strike. Prison officials really don't like hunger strikes because it is
one scenario they really can't hide or cover-up since the medical staff
has to be alerted and records are created.
die from a hunger strike, people higher
prisoners

were

And if someone were to

up might even learn that

kept in solitarily routinely for no legitimate reason.

But no one paid much attention to me until my 10th day when Mr. Clark
appeared at my cell door and asked why I wasn't eating. I informed him
that I would continue my hunger
personal

papers

strike

until

my

legal

papers

and

were returned to me. "I see". Was all he said and

disappeared.
404

The next day I was taken out for a shower and was surprised to see
Morales back in solitary standing in the cell next to

mine.

We

exchanged greetings and when I came back from my shower. We talked

briefly through the walls. "Don't worry amigo - I'm getting you some help. I
told a few of the reporters that came to see me about you and your IRS
friend who was murdered and they'll come to see you" Just lovely - that
would to really piss off Foster I recall thinking to myself. I thanked George
anyway and went to sleep.

When I awoke, George was moved to a

different cell or possibly released back into population.

After two full

weeks I guess I lost about ten or fifteen pounds but I actually still felt
pretty good, just a little weak.

I was still drinking fluids and suddenly Foster seemed so concerned

about me and began making daily visits to my cell trying to persuade me to
eat.

Then one of the guards told me why.

Some woman reporter was

calling and asking questions about me. The next day, Foster showed up
at my cell with a telephone and told instructed me to tell the person on the
other end of the phone that I was okay and not being mistreated. "Whose
on the line?" I asked. "Someone at the DOJ".

I'd learn later that it was

really a woman reporter from a local television station (WPLG).

I told

Foster I wasn't going to lie for him nor this prison and went to lie down. I
have no idea how he handled that call but two days later a guard brought
me out of my cell and said "Foster wants you to shave and put on some
clean clothes". "Tell Foster to give me back my legal papers" was all I said
and refused to shave or change.

What happened next is a bit foggy

because I went back to sleep.

405

I don't

know how long I was asleep

but my dreams were

rudely

interrupted with a sharp pain in my buttocks. I was asleep in my cell. I decided

to pass on the polo match, was too tired for some tennis, and the theatre was sold
out. Thus I was asleep in my cell. With his usual grace Foster appeared in the
doorway after beating the steel door like a drum to jolt me awake. He was holding
an empty syringe in his one hand and a clipboard in the other. I realized now that
he just gave me a shot of something. What did you do Foster? He insisted it was
a vitamin shot that he claimed the law requires all prisoners on hunger strikes get.
That in fact may be true, but every shot I received behind bars had always come
from a nurse. I sensed something was up, but I felt very relaxed and peaceful, not
wanting to argue any more.

He handed me a pen and a

paper. Sign here he said. I
looked and saw nothing but a
signature

line. Long

short

refused

to

story
sign

anything he gave me, even

after he gave me the first
page to read. What he wanted
me to sign was a statement
that I was in good health and I did not have any need or desire to speak with any
reporters, and I did not even want to have visitors, and the person in the Polaroid
he just snapped of me was in fact me. You must be nuts Foster. Im not signing
that. There was also another blank page with just a signature line for me to sign. I
looked at him and told him he was wasting his time I would not sign anything.. He
then made a modest effort to bribe meSign it and you can have your mail and a
30 minute phone call to your mother. No thanks I replied and crawled back
under my blanket.
406

15 minutes later Foster was back with Blackwell and a new guard I never saw
before, They forcefully pulled me out of my cell into an empty cell where they had a
chair waiting for me. The burly guard and Blackwell sat me down in the chair and
grabbed my left arm and extended it. Altho ugh I tried to resist I did not have much
strength. I then saw Foster coming at me with a hypodermic needle with maybe 10
cc of a clear liquid inside. He told me it was a vitamin B12 shot. I didnt believe him
for a second. At the moment he inserted the needle into my vein, I jerked away
violently and the needle ripped from under my skin. (I still have that scar on my
arm today) I was not going to be put to sleep. But I did not fall asleep. In less than
2 minutes I felt groggy and sort of drunk. I actually extremely felt calm and
peaceful. They bandaged my arm and marched me out to the visiting room. All I
really remember was hearing Michael Mansfields familiar friendly voice telling me
the tiny girl sitting at the table was Susan. I remember someone asking if I was
on drugs, and Foster saying something about me being an addict in rehab. I
remember feeling a small glimmer of hope that someone came to rescue me. I
think I blacked out after that or merely fell asleep. I simply cannot recall. What I do

407

remember about the lady is that

she was very tiny and had really
blue eyes. I know she spoke to me
but honestly cannot recall what
she said. When she did speak with
me it was as if there were three

of her talking to me at once

echoes. Mike asked me if I was
drugged and I remember that I
was too afraid to speak with the guard standing right behind him, but I
nodded my head to indicate yes They probably all thought I was either
drunk or mentally deranged.
coherent.

I don't think I was able to say anything

I remember her giving me a business card and telling me

something to the effect to call her when I was feeling better.

After they left, Foster and friends took her card from me and then took me
back to the hole where I was just glad to lay down on a stationary surface
and sleep. The following day, one of the more decent guards told me that
Foster was worried that he used too much Thorazine on me.

I now

realized how and why Chris Simmons had such unusual conversations
with me in seg. Never one to use drugs, that experience scared the hell
out of me and now whenever Foster paid a visit, my eyes quickly
searched his hands for another syringe. Michael was my knight in shining
armor he came to save me with a reporter and I could not e ven talk with
him. A shot of Thorazine is like drinking a bottle of Tequila. Your mind is
working but much slower than normal and your body simply will not
cooperate in a timely fashion with the commands being sent by your brain.

408

Somewhere around the 21st-23th

day of my hunger strike I was tricked

into eating. Foster showed up in my cell holding a garbage bag. It was

semi-transparent and I could see it was half full of papers. "You win Gorcyca
- eat and you can have your papers back", I didn't believe him for a minute
so I analyzed the situation and finally replied. "I'll eat in the cafeteria after
you give me my papers back on the compound". He rolled his eyes as if
he had to think it over and said "Fair enough - let's go". He led me out of
seg over to the cafeteria, holding the garbage bag the entire time. I saw
Morales there baking the morning breakfast rolls.

"Well get yourself

something to eat". I fixed myself a bowl of oatmeal and grabbed a banana

and a glass of milk.

As I scarfed them down, I noticed one of the

administrative aides taking my picture with a polaroid camera.

After

the picture developed, Foster handed it to me with a pen and ordered

me to sign and date the photograph. "Why?" I asked.

He answered

me with a question of his own "Do you want your papers back or not?"
I signed and dated the picture, I assumed to document the end of my
hunger strike.
me

Foster surprisingly

honored

his word and handed

the garbage bag which I put on the floor and went for a second

helping of food. I gorged

myself on fruit until I could eat no more.

The guys in the kitchen welcomed

me back and Joe Kuhn , my

supervisor gave me the day off.

So I went back to my housing unit and discovered

was a chain smoking Cuban who had Santeria
over the cell.

He seemed

like an amiable

my new cellmate

icons scattered

all

guy but being a non-

smoker all my life I immediately was overcome by the smoke and felt
nauseated.

He had used wet toilet paper to completely fill the sensor

vent holes of the smoke alarm.

I asked the unit guard for a cell

change as was the procedure prisoners were told to use when they
409

found themselves with "incompatible"

we have a full house this week.

cellies.

"No can do Gorcyca -

Check back with me next week".

There was no way I could endure all that smoke for a day let alone a
week.

I filled out three written requests for a cell change and sent

one to the warden, one to the medical officer, and one to the housing
unit manager.

It was then that I learned from the unit guard that

Foster (who knew very well I was a non-smoker) specifically assigned

me to that cell with an inmate we all called "Smokey" for his three
pack a day habit.

Only the medical officer approved my request for a

cell change so I was asked to sit in one of the common areas to wait
for a new cell.

While I was waiting, I untied the knotted garbage bag to start sorting
my papers.

But as soon as I dumped the contents of the bag onto

the floor in front of me, I realized

bag of trash!

Foster gave me nothing but a

Not even one of my papers were in the bag. He got me

good and I had to give him credit for pulling one over on me.

As I

scooped the trash back into the bag George Morales walked in "Hey
man, I've been looking for you" he announced.
typing f or a few

days

something typed.

George"

I replied

"I'm not up for any

assuming

he wanted

"No my friend, I have some good news for you" he

said as he reached into his pocket and handed me a small piece of

paper on which
telephone

was written

number.

the name "Ty West"

"What's this George?"

and a New York

"He's a producer from

NBC News and we've been talking with him about the guns for drugs
gig, and I mentioned
"And

he wants

your IRS story to him."

you to call him at that

"And?" and I asked.

number

collect". "Thanks

George".
410

I was touched that George would go out of his way to help me like that.
I wasted no time in calling the number and got through to the man
on my third attempt.

I knew my call would be monitored and just

hoped that Mr. West would not disclose that he was a reporter.

But

after speaking with him for a few minutes I didn't care any more.

This

complete stranger seemed genuinely interested in my plight and what

really was behind the murder of my former IRS co-worker

Liston Smith.

It was refreshing to speak to someone in a position to help me without

a dose of Thorazine to obstruct my efforts.

I talked as fast as I could fearing that the call would be cut off as it did
on

one

occasion

International.

that

made

three

call

to

Amnesty

But we were able to speak for almost 20 minutes and I

was able to give Ty some basic information,

witnesses

way

and the telephone

closed the conversation

the names of some

number of my mother in Ohio.

Ty

by telling me he had no reason not to believe

me and that he would not prejudge me simply because I was now a

convicted felon. For the first time, I saw a flicker of light at the end of
a very long and dark tunnel. "I'm going to try and come down to
Miami to visit you so we can talk at lenght - if that's alright with you?"
he said. "The sooner the better for me Mr West" I replied.

But even

as I was saying good bye, I could see Foster and two guards walking
directly towards me.

I promptly handed him back the garbage bag he gave me earlier in

the day and complimented

him on the ruse.

He smiled briefly and

then told me to put my hands behind my back. "What now?"

I asked.

"You know for a college grad, you're not too bright Gorcyca". "How's
that?" I asked.

He looked at his watch and explained "I let you out of

411

the hole less than ten hours ago, and here I already find you calling a
big time New York reporter.
your time quietly?

Aren't you ever going to learn how to do

Besides, I was told you wanted a non-smoking

cell, and that's exactly what you're going to have. Let's go".

And off

we marched back to the hole. What a day it turned out to be.

I was back I the hole about a week when Mr. Black, one of the nicest
people I ever met in a guard's uniform told me that some reporter was
here to see me.
knowing for sure.
thought.

I assumed

it was Ty West but I had no way of

Maybe that Susan lady came back to check on me? I

But nobody came to get me for a visit which left me

wondering what happened.

The very next day, yet another guard asked

me if I wanted to talk with a reporter who was on the premises with a

request to interview me. I answered in the affirmative and waited to be
escorted to the visiting room, but again nobody came to retrieve me.

But that
taken

to

night I was
R&D where

rousted from
I was

my sleep around 10:00pm and

promptly

put

in

ankle shackles and

handcuffs and led out to a waiting bus outside in the cool night air.
Foster was nowhere in sight but the R&D guard said he had left a
message for me "What's that?" I asked. "Bon Voyage". I asked three
ti mes where we were goi ng.

It was way to early to be going to

court. Finally the dri ver just said I heard y ou the first ti me bud. I
have no idea where youre tomorrow, but tonight were taking you to
a facili ty in Nor th Florida. So be quiet and enjoy the ride. He sai d
as he then put some rockabilly music on the radio. The bus drove off
into the night and within 30 minutes we were heading North on 1-95.
There were only two other prisoners on the bus and three armed guards.
We were separated by a thick metal mesh. No matter what or how I
412

asked the guards where we were headed, they did not respond at all and
ignored me completely. I guess the previous explanation from the driver
was good enough. I eventually fell asleep and awoke about eight hours
later when I was hustled off the bus at Eglin AFB in Florida. I was
put in their seg unit for less than a day and was back on the bus again.
Over the next three months I would be taken to some two dozen
prisons/jails in Virginia, West Virginia,

Baltimore, Atlanta, Taladega,

Lubbock, Texarkana, EI Reno, Lompoc, etc. and kept in their seg units
for a day or two

before moving on to yet another prison.

Only at

Taladega prison in Alabama and EI Reno prison in Oklahoma did I

spend more than a week. I was never given access to a telephone, but
persuaded the prison chaplain at EI Reno to let me make an emergency
call to my mother.

It was in that one call that I learned my mother had been in contact with
Ty West who apparently tried to visit me at MCC Miami but was
413

erroneously told I was unavailable to visitors because of illness. My mom

told me that West tried to locate me for another visit but nobody at the
BOP would tell him where I was.

I asked my mom to call him and tell

him what was going on and where I was right now. She broke down into
tears on the phone and worried aloud that I would not see her again and
maybe die in prison. When I asked her why she said that, she told me that
she received a late night call from a man who refused to identify himself
but who told her that if she didn't tell her son to "smarten up and keep his
mouth shut", the next time she'd see me would be in a box at my funeral.
She was very distraught and nothing I said would calm her down. We
said a prayer together and I assured he that I'd see her soon if Ty
West prevailed

To elude the determined reporter West I was transported in two vehicles

Twice the bus would stop in the middle of the night and two prisoners were
taken off the bus the first time. The second time we made a pit stop, I think
414

it was Mississippi, I was taken off and put in a smaller van like this one and
taken to Texarkana to meet up with yet another bus. It was clear they were
playing a shell game with Mr. West. At EI Reno prison in Oklahoma

was able to obtain copies of the BOP policies and guidelines that
regulate movement of a prisoner. According
were only three justifications

to the guidelines

there

to move a prisoner from one prison to

another and those were/are 1) If a prisoner is reclassified in his security

level and needs to be taken to a higher or lower security prison suitable
for his/her classification,
or

psychiatric

prison

facilities

has cases pending

court proceedings there.

was

2) If the

transported

around

prisoner

needs

special

medical

not available at his current prison, or 3) The

in other jurisdictions

and needs to attend

I did not fall in to any of these categories yet

the nation

for months

at great

taxpayer

expense for the sole purpose of isolating me from communication with

the outside world and Ty West of CBS News.

This photo reminds me of El Reno federal prison in Oklahoma

415

Furthermore
that

there is a provision of law

mandates a

prisoner remains in his

jurisdiction if there is a writ of habeas

corpus pending for that prisoner.

Even

though I had just such a writ (albeit pro-se)

pending before Judge Alcee
Miami for

the

Hastings in

last three months, I was

taken over 1,500 miles out of the court's

jurisdiction in direct violation of federal and
constitutional law.

I guess government

agencies believe they are exempt from the laws that govern the rest of us.
Only when I sent a letter to Judge Hastings from Oklahoma advising him
of my continuous movement and current location, did he order my
immediate return to Miami. But while I was on the road with the magic bus
tour, my second parole hearing came and went without me just like the first
one.

I was in Ashland FCI in Kentucky for two months I thought my

journey came to an end. So instead of being released in 1 1 - 13 months as

the judge

and

guidelines

said,

I was

now

going

on

my

36th

consecutive month behind bars. One day, just after I reestablished contact
with Ty West, after the elections already took place and I was told to pack
my stuff once again and report to R&D.
but relieved.

I arrived back in Miami exhausted

Any doubts I once had about the magic bus were now laid to

rest.

I cannot hank Ty West enough for his bull-dog determination to find and
interview me.

Maybe one day I can meet him and thank him personally.

Even though the BOP stayed one head of Ty West, just knowing he knew
there was something wrong going on, made people in the Bureau of Prsions
start treating me much better.
416

When I arrived in Miami the cigarette burns on my arms had already healed
to the point of being

just being big pink sores. 2 of the guards from

segregation were in R&D that day for some reason and quipped to me,
Those must have been some big ass mosquitoes eh Gorcyca!? Yeh and
they are all chain smokers too. I answered. The room grew silent. Nobody
laughed as they all knew I was the BP-10 Champion of MCC Miami and had
learned about BP-11s and BP-12s as well, but whenever I requested one of
those forms, I was always told We ran out of those forms.

A bus ride to nowhere is what I took for three months

417

418

419

420

421

"I can think of no more despicable element of our society than law
enforcers who manipulate the law in order to obstruct it."

- Justice Thorogood Marshal

422