by Pete Earley
A short time later, several guards decided to go after him. They marched to the dorm, but the Cuban prisoners intervened and the guards retreated again. Humiliated, they then covered up what really had happened by downplaying the incident in their nightly report.
A special task force appointed several months after the riot at Oakdale would later point to the dining-room and dormitory fracases as pivotal. The cover-up was the first error. The second error was retreating twice. “The Cuban detainees seemed to keep pushing the boundaries of bureau control and testing reactions,” the task force wrote. “Evidently, staff were not perceived as taking a firm stand.”
What happened the next day, Saturday, November 21, is hotly disputed by Warden Johnson and his own staff. Several guards told the task force after the riot that Johnson was warned repeatedly that between two hundred and three hundred Cubans were planning to crash the camp’s front entrance at dinnertime to escape. The task force report noted that Cuban prisoners had started to prepare for trouble. Some began hoarding food, others were seen putting on several layers of clothing. A few even taped magazines to their abdomens, chests, and backs, a common device to help deflect blows from nightsticks or knives. The task force wrote:
Information about these peculiar events was transmitted to the lieutenants and to the acting captain, who stated that he, in turn, informed the warden. The warden has no recall of these events being reported to him, although his log reflects he was contacted every half hour.
When the shift changed at four o’clock on that Saturday, the acting captain decided on his own to send all the women guards out of the camp. He also moved the fifty extra guards into the front entrance, but kept them out of sight. During the next two hours, nothing out of the ordinary was reported, but at 6:50 P.M., a mob of more than two hundred screaming Cubans rushed the entrance. The extra guards jumped into view and fired tear gas. Surprised, the prisoners retreated, giving guards trapped in the camp time to evacuate, but they regrouped within minutes and attacked again, this time hurling back the tear-gas canisters. Some Cubans swung broken mop handles. The guards were forced back. Now the only barrier between the Cubans and the outside world was a one-sixteenth-inch-thick sheet of Plexiglas.
Warden Johnson sent twenty officers armed with .12 gauge shotguns and .38 caliber revolvers into the entry-way. They were less than four feet from the angry Cubans pounding on the Plexiglas. The guards waited nervously. They would be overrun if the Cubans broke through. A tiny crack appeared on the glass, and as the Cubans beat it, the crack inched its jagged way across the barrier in the shape of a lightning streak.
“If they break the glass,” Johnson was later quoted by the task force as saying, “shoot until you have no ammunition left.”
For several minutes the guards stood ready as the Cubans slammed against the barrier, but it did not give way.
Elsewhere in the compound prisoners tried to cut through the wire fences, but were stopped by guards wielding shotguns. Others lit fires or grabbed guards as hostages. Outside the camp, Lieutenant Charles Marmelejo donned an inmate’s clothing and slipped inside. With the help of several American convicts who worked in the camp, Marmelejo led nine employees to safety before he was recognized by the Cubans and forced to stop his risky treks inside.
Guards Rick Nichols, Alvine Brandon, and Colton Duplechain weren’t so lucky. Surrounded by angry Cubans, they took refuge in the camp’s control center, which was located inside the compound, and watched helplessly as inmates set the building on fire. Dense smoke filled the booth. The three guards gasped for air. When they could no longer stand it, Nichols punched the button that opened the electronic door. Nothing happened. He pushed it again and again, but it still refused to function. Nichols began slamming it with his fist. The smoke was so dense it was impossible for him to see his partners. Finally the door burst open and Duplechain stumbled outside armed with a stun gun, which shoots a nonlethal but hard-hitting beanbag. He aimed it at the Cubans, who backed away. Nichols came out next, but Brandon didn’t appear. Still gagging, Nichols went back inside the smoldering center and found Brandon collapsed on the floor. He pulled her to safety, and with Duplechain’s help, the three made their way through the Cubans to the fence.
Fifty-four guards had been in the camp when the Cubans rioted. Twenty-six made it out. The others were hostages. As Johnson and his men watched, helpless, one of their coworkers was paraded through the compound in a laundry cart pushed along by whooping Cubans who beat on the side of the cart with sticks.
The Hot House was in the midst of a $13 million renovation of A cellhouse when the Oakdale riot started. This cellhouse was one of the two massive cellblocks at the front of the prison, and Smith estimated that it would take about three months for the renovations to be completed. They could begin moving Cuban prisoners in then, he told his superiors.
“I heard a big sigh on the telephone when I said that,” Smith recalled, “so I suggested an alternative.” If cost was no object, the bureau could kick out the private contractors, authorize around-the-clock overtime pay, and turn over the renovations to the Hot House’s own staff of maintenance men. Those crews, plus workers flown in from nearby federal prisons, could finish the cellhouse in as little as three weeks, Smith predicted, but the cost to taxpayers would be horrendous. For several seconds the phone line was quiet, and then Smith got his answer.
“Go ahead and do it.”
Then it was Smith’s turn to sigh. “I was told the job would have to be done not in three weeks but three days!”
The bureau needed all the extra cells it could find. Not only was Oakdale burning, Smith was told, but the Cubans in Atlanta had started to riot.
When his Cuban prisoners first heard the State Department’s announcement on Friday, Atlanta’s warden, Joseph Petrovsky, was able to convince them that they wouldn’t gain anything by causing problems. But on Saturday they learned from newscasts that Oakdale was in flames, and grew restless. On Monday morning, they rioted and took hostages. Then a Cuban armed with a large homemade knife attacked a guard in the prison yard. He was shot in the head and killed instantly by a guard firing from one of the gun towers. For the next ten minutes, guards shot down into the yard. Five Cubans were hit. The shooting stopped only when inmates inside the main penitentiary threatened to begin killing hostages. In only a matter of minutes, the Cubans had seized control of the Atlanta prison too and captured 106 employees.
Every available welder, locksmith, carpenter, and painter at the Hot House was put to work in A cellhouse. There were no breaks. Employees didn’t go home to sleep. When a guard finished his shift, he reported to A cellhouse and was handed a paintbrush. Maintenance crews from other prisons were hustled in. Warden Matthews hurried back from his meeting in California to help supervise. He and Associate Warden Smith quickly decided it would be foolish to put Cubans in the cellhouse once the riots ended and the renovations were complete. Some of the locks hadn’t been tested. More important, why should the Cubans be rewarded by getting the newest and nicest cellhouse at the Hot House?
Instead, the U.S. prisoners living in the hopelessly outdated C and D cellhouses would be moved. There was no question in Matthews’s mind about whom he would put in charge of the refurbished cellhouse. That job would go to Edward Geouge, and the dangerous convicts that Geouge oversaw would have first priority when it came to cells.
“We told the American convicts that they were getting the best cellhouse in the prison,” Smith recalled. “We also told them that we had planned to do a real thorough shakedown for weapons and other contraband but because of the Cuban riots we needed their cooperation.” Smith offered the prisoners a deal. “If they were willing to move from C and D cellhouses into A cellhouse without causing any problems, then we were willing to ease up on the shakedown.”
Overnight more than 550 convicts, as well as all of their private belongings, were moved into A cellhouse without a single incident. Without pausing, the work crews raced into the now-empty C
and D cellhouses. Bunks were welded to the walls. All mirrors, wooden desks, and bulletin boards were stripped from the cells. Matthews and Smith didn’t want anything left in a cell but a bunk, fireproof mattress, sink, and toilet.
Smith had learned that Cuban prisoners frequently crammed the locks in Atlanta with hundreds of match-heads. The sulfur from the matches reacted like dynamite when packed tightly in the locks and ignited. Other Cubans were skilled at picking locks. Smith had his guards bring in spools of heavy steel chain, which was cut into three-foot lengths. A piece of chain was brought to each cell, wrapped around the cell door and bars, and then padlocked, making it impossible for the door to be opened without first removing the chain.
Yards and yards of chain-link fence were hauled inside and welded onto the outside of each tier. Smith also had steel doors built at each end of every level—in effect, making each of the five floors into a separate cage. Still not satisfied, he ordered the crew to install a second door in the entrance of each cellhouse. This made it impossible for anyone to enter either C or D cellhouse without passing through two heavy metal gates.
After three days of nonstop work, the Hot House was ready to begin receiving Cuban prisoners. A weary but proud Smith called bureau headquarters in Washington to report that Leavenworth had completed the impossible. He expected to be congratulated. Instead he got another jolt. The bureau had originally told Smith that two hundred Cubans would be sent to Leavenworth. Now, that number was being changed. With both Oakdale and Atlanta still in flames, the bureau had decided that it needed a new permanent home for the rioting Cubans. Smith was told to expect at least seven hundred Cubans, perhaps even more.
At bureau headquarters in Washington, Director Quinlan made it clear that he would negotiate a peaceful end to the riots rather than launch a Rambo-style attack to rescue the hostages. This patient approach took time, and during the days that followed, Quinlan was in constant contact with a crew of FBI specialists brought in to negotiate with the Cubans.
There was one bureau official, however, who was more worried about an American inmate running loose in Atlanta than about the Cubans. Craig Trout, the bureau’s gang expert, considered Thomas Silverstein a “deadly wild card.” Of the 44,000 inmates in the federal system, none was more despised by prison officials than Silverstein. Nor was there an inmate more revered by white convicts.
“Terrible Tom” Silverstein was accused of committing four grisly murders, all in federal prisons. One of the inmates he killed was Raymond “Cadillac” Smith, at the time the most powerful D.C. Black in prison. That killing alone had made Silverstein, a member of the Aryan Brotherhood, into a celebrity among white gang members. But it was the savage stabbing of a guard, Merle E. Clutts, at Marion in 1983 that so infuriated the bureau that they put Silverstein under what was known as “no human contact,” the harshest conditions permitted by law.
Since the Clutts slaying, Silverstein had been housed in a special isolation cell in Atlanta where he was completely sealed off from all other inmates. The lights in his cell were kept on twenty-four hours a day, and during the first nine months that he was in Atlanta, Silverstein was not permitted a television, radio, newspaper, magazine, book, or writing material. Provided only with meals and a single set of clothing, which he wore, Silverstein was given nothing else to help pass the time. He sat alone in an empty cell with two guards watching his every move. Out of respect to Officer Clutts, the guards refused to speak to him.
Over time, the bureau had eased the restrictions slightly and had given Silverstein drawing pencils and paper, but he remained totally cut off from other inmates and the outside world. Now, he was loose. The Cubans had broken into his hidden cell and freed him. Trout figured that Silverstein would seek revenge. “I was concerned that Silverstein would go on a kamikaze mission and simply start slaughtering hostages,” recalled Trout. “He was certainly capable of it.”
While others concentrated on the negotiations, Trout focused on locating Silverstein. There were plenty of reported sightings. A friendly Cuban told guards that Silverstein was building a motorized hang glider which he planned to use to soar over the penitentiary’s walls at night. The bureau immediately instructed its guards to shoot anyone who came flying over the walls. Another story had Silverstein attempting to tunnel out under the walls. At one point, an FBI agent excitedly claimed that Silverstein was about to emerge from a tunnel. A heavily armed SWAT team raced to the spot, but he never surfaced. A few minutes later, an FBI sniper claimed that he had seen Silverstein on the roof of the prison hospital about to use his hang glider. Another agent interrupted. He had seen Silverstein at the prison’s back gate. And so it went. The bureau’s apprehensiveness about Silverstein can be seen in a confidential memo written by Warden Petrovsky on November 28, which told guards what to do once negotiators convinced the Cubans to surrender. The memo, made public now for the first time, read:
Thomas Silverstein is a psychopathic killer and the most dangerous individual on the compound. It is not likely Silverstein will surrender and may hide out as long as he can. Once he is found, regardless of when and where, any action on his part other than total submission and surrender should be interpreted as a maneuver to assault and he should be shot without hesitation.
At Trout’s urging, FBI negotiators asked the Cubans to surrender Silverstein as a sign of good faith. It worked. On November 30, the Cubans poured chloral hydrate, stolen from the prison pharmacy, into Silverstein’s morning coffee. When this failed to knock him out, more than a dozen Cubans surprised him and wrestled him to the ground. FBI Agent D. H. Rosario was monitoring radio broadcasts (the Cubans were using portable radios taken from hostages) when he heard an excited Cuban yell, “We got him! Come and get him, now, now, now!” Rosario rushed a team of U.S. marshals to the door that led into the prison yard. The Cubans had used a pair of handcuffs and leg irons taken from guards to restrain Silverstein. After the FBI dragged him away, a Cuban called Rosario on the radio and asked if the FBI would return the shackles. Rosario laughed. Later, he told reporters that the capture of Silverstein was a turning point in the negotiations. Each side had breathed a “sigh of relief” once Silverstein was in chains.
Craig Trout knew exactly where he wanted to put Silverstein. The day after his capture, the prisoner was hustled to Dobbins Air Force Base and taken by private flight to Kansas. A handpicked crew from the Hot House was waiting. Associate Warden Smith had never met Silverstein, but Smith had known Officer Merle Clutts personally and had attended Clutts’s funeral. “As far as I am concerned, Silverstein is a cold-blooded, bloodthirsty, worthless killer,” Smith said.
Even though he prided himself on being professional and objective, Smith was looking forward to seeing Silverstein’s reaction when he was taken to the special isolation cell that had been prepared for him deep in the bowels of the Hot House. It had been constructed years ago as a concealed holding cell for “hot” prisoners whose location needed to be kept secret, usually because the Mafia had put out a contract on their lives. It was the worst cell in the penitentiary. Its walls and roof were made of one-inch-thick steel. The cell was buried underneath the rotunda in a section of the basement that hadn’t been used for years. It was so isolated that you could not hear any of the familiar sounds of prison life—no human voices, toilets flushing, doors clanging shut, televisions blaring. Nothing.
The cell itself was just as desolate. There was no bed, only a platform of concrete blocks with a thin mattress on top. There was no mirror, only a metal sink, a shower stall, and a toilet without a lid.
There were no windows in the cell, no way of telling whether it was day or night or cold or hot outside, or spring, summer, fall, or winter. The only link to the world was a small black-and-white television set. It was not there out of kindness. Smith had installed the television to make Silverstein obey. If he refused to follow an order, the guards would shut it off.
Because Silverstein was considered a prime escape risk, Smith planned to ha
ve two guards sit outside his cell and watch him around the clock. Obviously, they wouldn’t be able to see him unless the lights in his cell were left on. They would burn twenty-four hours a day.
In effect, Silverstein was being put into an empty fluorescent-lit cage. The lights would never be dimmed, the temperature would never change, the only sounds would come from the prisoner himself or the television.
On the night that the legendary killer arrived, Smith was waiting. Although Silverstein was six foot three inches tall, and weighed two hundred pounds, he did not seem as big as he had been portrayed. He was pale and apparently had been drugged before the flight. He didn’t resist, wasn’t belligerent, and didn’t react to the cell as a horde of officers escorted him down into the Hot House basement. Without muttering a word, Silverstein stepped inside the cage, turned his back on Smith and the others gawking at him, curled up on the floor, and went to sleep.
The riots at Oakdale and Atlanta ended after thirteen days. In the Hot House, Smith’s telephone rang again. The voice on the other end was concise.
“They’re on their way.”
Chapter 12
THOMAS LITTLE
As soon as Thomas Little moved in with Carl Bowles, the older man asked his new cellmate why he had been sent to the Hot House. Did Little have a secret hiding in his prison record as had Jeffrey Hicks? Putting a first-time bank robber in a maximum-security penitentiary just didn’t make sense. Since 1985 the bureau had used a point system to determine where inmates were sent. The more violence in a criminal’s background, the more points he received. Bowles knew all about the point system. He had received the highest total possible. But when he sat down with a pencil and legal pad and calculated the number Little should have received, Bowles always reached the same conclusion. Either Little was lying about his criminal record or someone in the bureau had made a big mistake.
