Born to Lose

by James G. Hollock

  The inmates always included a good number of ordinary drunks, who’d “drink everything, even bay rum”; these “bay rummers” (in the prison lingo) were regarded as a group distinct from men imprisoned for serious crimes like assault and worse, who were known as the “convicts.” It was the sobered, nonviolent bay rummers who were allowed to work in the fields or the barns, outside the great walls. The convicts were kept inside, making shoes, barrels, brooms, or rugs.

  To the relief of Warden Robinson, about three hundred inmates were transferred from the county jail to the county workhouse on July 29, 1969. Along with the rest of the new receptions at the workhouse, Hoss was fingerprinted, photographed, issued prison blues—an uncomfortable, thick, part-wool shirt, and pants with only a single pocket in front—and assigned a cell on the fourth- or top-tier O and P ranges of the West Block. This block, the longest in the United States with sixty-two cells straight, could alone house five hundred men, although many of the cells were empty in these summer months.

  After only two days of settling in, Hoss, clearly no bay rummer, was assigned work in the textile shop. The shop’s supervisor, fifty-one-year-old Frank Petika, frowned when he saw Hoss come into his shop. He knew Hoss from a previous lockup and, frankly, didn’t care for him.

  “Mr. Petika, I see you still got your cushy job makin’ us cons sweat blood,” was Hoss’s unsmiling greeting. Petika didn’t know if Hoss was joking or not, but the jibe displayed the typical proclivity among criminals to assume that everyone else has it better than they do.

  Frank Petika himself had grown up the hard way. After eighth grade, at age fifteen, his father had said it was time for young Frank to go to work. The coal mines were really the only thing open to boys in his poor circumstances, but it was 1933 and any employment was a godsend. Only after twenty-five years “in the ground” did Petika make it out of the mines to begin a second career at the workhouse.

  Knowing it was wasted breath enlightening criminals, Petika replied, “Yep, Hoss, love my job, and I get to rub elbows with the likes of you.” Petika assigned Hoss to the same rug-making loom he’d been on before.

  Later on, Petika told his good friend George Suchevich, a guard who often patrolled the textile shop, that Hoss was back. Suchevich shook his head. He felt the same as Petika: Hoss was a man you’d better watch.

  Trouble came sooner than expected. “I had Hoss transferred out of my textile shop after just two weeks,” Petika remembered.

  He didn’t do any one single thing to cause this, you know, a fight or having a weapon, but he’d play havoc with the other inmates. The workhouse was around three to one colored to white, and that was about the makeup of my shop, too. Hoss intimidated the coloreds, even from across the room. Hoss didn’t want them near him, and he made this pretty clear. Hoss was not a mixer, being content to sit over on a crate by himself, but his attitude did draw the white inmates to him. Before Hoss came to the shop, all the workers got along good enough. After Hoss showed up, you could just see the divide taking place. It was hard to specifically blame Hoss ’cause he spent much of his time alone or talking with a few white inmates. He didn’t assault anyone, but after a time we went from general harmony to a shop filled with tension—and Hoss was the only new variable. I talked this matter over with the big boss, Ted Botula. I was just a shop foreman, so I hardly ever talked to the man, but he listened carefully and decided right then that Hoss was to be transferred out of my shop.

  It was not in Hoss’s nature to be on friendly terms with too many inmates, yet one day in the workhouse yard Hoss watched a giant of a man lifting weights, one-handed reps with a hundred-pound dumbbell. Hoss, a lifting enthusiast himself, was impressed by the size and strength of the man. Thinking of his own bold plans for the near future, Hoss struck up a conversation. The man’s name was Thomas Lubresky. At 6 feet, 5 inches, and 225 pounds, with muscles honed and cut, he was an awesome figure, likely the most physically imposing man at the workhouse. Lubresky’s rap sheet was equally imposing; his transgressions, for which he had served very little time at all, made up a decade of harm and havoc.

  Lt. Bill McLafferty of the Penn Hills Police Department knew Lubresky well: “In his prime, he had the Natrona area terrorized. He’d go into a bar and just … you know how you leave your keys and money there by your drink? … Well, Lubresky would walk by and pick up your money and even sip your drink—just challenge you to say or do anything about it. He was a real bad-ass.” In February 1969, Lubresky committed indecent assault against a young woman, which got him two to four years, and delivered him to the workhouse, where he met his new friend, Stanley Hoss.

  Hoss was not such a loner that he shunned friendships but his relationships were at his convenience, on his terms, and assuredly for his benefit. It was not long before Hoss concluded that he could influence Lubresky, for the towering muscleman, Hoss learned, was amused by uncomplicated tasks and simple stories. In the days to follow, most every afternoon and often evenings, Hoss and Lubresky met in the workhouse yard to lift weights. A week after Hoss had been shown the door at the textile shop, he still was not reassigned. Lubresky was working in the maintenance department and, at Hoss’s urging, talked to one of the foremen about bringing Hoss onto the maintenance crew. “You’ve seen these niggers in here,” Lubresky urged, “struttin’ around, always singin’ nigger songs, drivin’ us whites nuts. Hoss stood up to ’em, is all. They wouldn’t do nothin’ to him so they started tellin’ lies about him to bossman Petika. There’s so many of ’em, I think Petika caved in and got rid of Hoss to keep the peace.” The foreman checked it out only so far as to see if Hoss was barred from any job. He was not, so Hoss was hired onto maintenance because, the foreman thought, while all these damn convicts are alike, it wouldn’t hurt to have another white one on his crew. Hoss started work the next day. It was perfect for him; with tools everywhere, his secret plan took another leap forward. He would rather break out on his own, but, from what he had learned so far, he would need help. He needed a partner, a big, strong partner.

  Now Lubresky and Hoss not only lifted weights together but worked on the same crew. Further, they were on the same range of their cell block. They had plenty of time to talk.

  “Look at you,” Hoss razzed Lubresky, “got your own name tattooed around your bicep. Is that ’cause you’re shy about introducin’ yourself? … Just hafta make a muscle and then they know who you are?”

  Laughing and crooking his left arm, Lubresky’s bicep formed a small cannonball, expanding dark blue letters spelling “Tommy.” Holding the pose for a moment, Lubresky said to Hoss, “And whud if I’m drunk and forget who I am? I can always check the name on my arm.” Both cons laughed, but Hoss was not certain Lubresky was altogether joking.

  Since they had begun hanging out together, Hoss noticed that Lubresky was often short on smokes. On this evening, up on O range, Hoss handed his giant pal two packs of Marlboros, Lubresky’s brand. “Hey, Stan, wherejah get dese?” Hoss clapped Lubresky’s massive shoulder. “Took them off some Sambo. Had to watch a bunch of ’em for a while to see who had what, ’cause you know most niggers smoke Kools. Don’t worry about buyin’ ’em no more. I’ll keep you supplied.” With no little admiration, Lubresky said, “Man, Stan, heistin’ niggers right here in prison, that’s great!” Certainly Lubresky was aware he was big and mean enough to do this himself but, truth be known, he tried not to break the rules while doing time and surely, he thought, there was a rule about taking other people’s stuff. But Hoss, his friend, did what the hell he wanted wherever he was. And to hear Hoss talk, he must have stolen half the cars in the county. He liked Hoss telling him stories, making him laugh the way he did.

  On the weekend, the shops were closed and the inmates had plenty of time to sleep in their cells or mingle in the yard to lift weights or play basketball, bocci ball, or horseshoes. Sometimes they organized a game of softball. Still, many aspects of doing time were annoying. The cells had sinks but provided only river water for washing.
Buckets of drinking water were brought around three times a day. An inmate would hold out his tin cup for filling. The toilets were flushed all at once by control a few times a day. And, of course, once in your cell after evening meal and yard time, around 8:30 P.M., you were in with absolutely nothing to do till the next morning. Weekends were the one occasion when the real cons could make fun of the bay rummers, who still had chores outside the wall: tending crops, milking the cows, or gathering eggs from the two thousand white leghorn chickens in their coops.

  On Sunday, August 10, 1969, after a long day of kicking around, hitting the weights, and reading the newspaper, Hoss and Lubresky were up on their cell range alone, which in prison meant no one was within fifteen yards of them. A quiet conversation couldn’t be overheard. Lubresky’s cell was flush with cigarettes and other amenities, even a bottle of Canoe aftershave—all thanks to Hoss’s thuggery and extortion tactics against the “coloreds.”

  Outside their cells on the range, the pair assumed the classic inmate pose of one foot atop the lower rail while leaning forward and supporting the upper body by forearms resting against the top rail. Both were quiet for awhile, Lubresky smoking, Hoss thinking.

  Hoss knew he had to get moving on his plan to break out. His attorney had not been in touch about the sentencing date for the rape, but it could come within a month. Hoss knew he’d get no sympathy from Judge Strauss, who would pronounce a sentence of ten to twenty years for sure. Before that happened, Hoss resolved, he’d be gone. And he couldn’t wait much longer because, once sentenced, he’d be transferred to Western Penitentiary. He was at the workhouse on a lucky lark anyway, only because of overcrowding at the county jail. Knowing these bastard officials as he did, Hoss was sure they would believe Western Penitentiary was just the place for the likes of him. Then, too, everyone knew the workhouse was nearing its end and would soon close down for good. Hoss knew the workhouse used to hold up to fifteen hundred inmates, but these days less than half the place was open—maybe six hundred cells, with seventy-five of those unusable because the plumbing wasn’t working. If Hoss didn’t escape before being transfered from the workhouse to Western Penitentiary, his opportunity to bolt would go up in smoke. It had to be soon or not at all.

  Hoss turned his head toward Lubresky. “Tom, did you read the paper today about those murders out in California … Beverly Hills, where all the rich people live?” Tom stopped blowing smoke rings to shake his head. “Wait a second,” Hoss said, then went to his cell, returning a moment later with the front section of the paper. “Look at this,” Hoss continued, “headline stuff. Says here five people got killed, all in one place, someone’s house. Why it’s big news is because I guess they’re famous people.” Looking up from the paper, Hoss asked, “Do you know a movie actress named Sharon Tate?”

  “Nope, can’t say I do,” replied Lubresky.

  “Well, me neither, but look at her picture here,” Hoss said, pointing at a photo of the young beauty. “Says the girl was eight months pregnant and stabbed to death.” Hoss continued reading and condensing the story for Lubresky. “Some Polish guy was shot twice then stabbed fifty times and another girl named Abigail Folger … they say here from the big coffee company … she got the same, with the knife, that is. Then another guy named Sebring and some kid, a teenager. Anyway, everyone’s dead, no one knows who did it, and Hollywood’s in an uproar. What do you expect, though, from California … that place is full of kooks.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” said Lubresky, “but when I get outta’ here I’m goin’ straight to the West Coast. I’ll be a kook, too.”

  Hoss thought Lubresky was only spinning a dream but said, “When you gettin’ out again? I forget.”

  “’Bout a year an’ a half if the coat an’ tie fuckers see it my way.”

  Hoss turned his eyes upward, gazing at the massive arched ceiling of the cell block. Finally he said, “Man, every day you’re behind these damn walls is a day you ain’t drinkin’ tequila and snappin’ up those California beach bunnies.”

  Lighting another cigarette Lubresky mused, “Yeah, what a bitch.”

  “You got anyone at home to stick around for?” Hoss asked.

  “I got an old lady, but she needs to hit the road. Everytime I got five bucks in my pocket, she wants it. Nah, if she ain’t gone by the time I get out, I’m kickin’ her ass out.” Lubresky thought these sentiments particularly masculine … and funny. He laughed, then offered, “An’ ya know, that greedy whore comes visits me last week an’ what’s she want? Money!” Lubresky played the aggrieved, saying to Hoss, “Does it look like I’m loaded, Stan? Know what, though? I do have some money but I ain’t tellin’ her where it’s at. It’s for me when I get out. Five hundred bucks I buried in my landlord’s backyard in a shoebox.” Lubresky paused then added, “Hope it don’t get wet.”

  All conversations with Lubresky were similarly foolish, Hoss had learned, but before he changed his mind he leaned toward the huge man and, with lowered voice, said, “Tom, suppose there’s a way you don’t have to wait no longer before gettin’ to California. Why not now? Ya know, get a hold of that five hundred bucks. You could be on a beach in no time … booze an’ bikinis.” Hoss looked at Lubresky without smiling, waiting for a response.

  “What you talkin’, Stanley?” Lubresky asked, simultaneous with blowing cigarette smoke out of the side of his mouth.

  Hoss leaned closer, looked around to see no one was near, then spoke in earnest. “I got a way out, you know, out of here. I ain’t doin’ more time, not penned up in here like some mangy dog. I thought it out an’ I got a plan that’ll work. We could be three states over before anyone knows we’re gone.”

  Listening close and even forgetting to pull on his cigarette, Lubresky looked directly at Hoss and said too loudly, “You mean escape!”

  Hoss admonished in hushed tone, “Jesus Christ, Tom, keep your voice down.”

  5

  The workhouse’s gigantic boiler house whistle could be heard miles around. Over the preceding century, the whistle was heard only when something was wrong, giving notice of riot, serious assault, murder, or other fearful business. At its first ominous crescendo, all inmates were hurriedly locked in their cells, guards called to arms, and police notified. Neighbors shut their doors to await further news.

  It was 9:23 P.M. on Thursday, September 11, 1969, when the shift commander gave the order to blow the whistle, after receiving a report that two prisoners were not in their cells at the 9:00 P.M. count. This provoked a quick look around. It is an anxious moment when a body should be in a cell but isn’t, yet on more than one occasion an errant figure was soon found in an obscure corner, in a stupor or passed out, an empty jug of jailhouse wine nearby. So word was put out for the staff to begin a search of all land and buildings inside the walls. Hardly had this commenced when a guard was stopped in his tracks, his pulse quickening, by what he saw on the ceiling of the top range of west block. At the far end of the cell range, a skylight sloped at a 45-degree angle, its windowpanes protected by a section of iron bars from the inside. The bars were only about seven feet up at their lower ends, then angled up out of reach. What first caught the guard’s attention, even at a distance, were shards of glass on the walkway. Hurrying closer, the guard looked above and saw two middle bars, made of soft Civil War–era steel, sawn through and pulled downward, creating a space large enough for a man to climb through. Once through the bars, the skylight glass was broken out, permitting entry onto the roof. The guard noted one other thing, dismay descending in a heartbeat as he took in its significance: the end of a bed sheet was tied to one of the steel bars. All available off-duty personnel were called in to augment the guards already fanning the perimeter, hoping to catch sight of the two felons, or somehow pick up a trail.

  . . .

  Ten minutes after their breakout, Hoss and Lubresky lay, exuberant but exhausted, among brush and small trees along an embankment on the Allegheny River, the desperate, feverish work of escape having momentarily do
ne them in. Hoss slid down to the river’s edge, then used his hands to cup water onto his face, arms, and chest. The cold water stung his skin, cut and scraped by his passage through the iron bars and broken glass. Lubresky was similarly bruised and bleeding, but these injuries were secondary to his left ankle, badly sprained when he hit the ground after letting go of the bed-sheet rope, whose end was short of the ground by fifteen feet. Lubresky grimaced and rubbed his ankle. In the dim moonlight, Hoss could see the swelling. “Hey, Tom, looks like you got a peach in your sock. Stick your foot in the river, that’ll keep the swelling down, but hurry up. We gotta move out quick.”

  They’d made good their escape twenty minutes earlier but needed the respite by the riverbank to recover and get their bearings for, like most escapees, they had put virtually all of their planning into the escape itself, giving insufficient thought to what exactly to do now they were free. Foremost was to get out of the area, but as they pondered this concern, the pair heard the infernal wail of the prison siren. They had hoped for a longer lead time before their escape was discovered; instead, with the alarm raised when they were but half a mile from the workhouse walls, they’d have to move without further rest.

  Hoss crept up the embankment to scan the closest houses and streets. He’d figured that few people would be outside, but from his hiding spot he saw far too many milling about, some with flashlights. Sliding back down the embankment, he said to Lubresky, “It’s that damn siren, bringin’ everyone outdoors. C’mon, we gotta go. We’ll stay along the river till we get to the outskirts.”