The Philadelphia Chamber of Commerce led an effort to get the land purchased, pressing for industrial parks within the city boundaries to increase its tax base. State Representative Salvatore pushed for the park on a portion of the ground. “We live in an area where the density factor is so great we need some relief for the people,” he said. “We’ve got wall-to-wall children.” The idea of turning a portion of the land over for use as a park had been floating around for a few years, but few thought it would come to fruition.
As ideas for the land’s use were thrown back and forth, its value was increasing. Although not confirmed, this could easily be seen as a way to raise profits by the state. It seemed that every interested party had a chance to bid on the property, and the city held up the process further by backing local business interests. One proposal came during the closing of the Frankford Arsenal in 1974. The Rizzo administration offered up 150 acres of Byberry’s land to Army Secretary Howard H. Callaway to build a new arsenal, thus saving over one thousand jobs. The trade would also bring jobs into the northeast. But Somerton and Parkview residents opposed the idea. Another proposal was for a school for juveniles with criminal backgrounds. Needless to say, this, too, never materialized.
Franklin R. Clarke stands in connecting corridor, 1979. Temple University Urban Archives.
In 1975, the State Senate voted 48–0 in favor of the final agreement. In December, Governor Milton Shapp signed the bill transferring a total of 684 acres of land back to the city under the Byberry Land Transfer Program. This gave Benjamin Rush State Park its 275 acres, which included 170 acres of prison farm property. The remaining 409 acres was to be divided between commercial and light industrial buildings. One hundred acres was also set aside as a site for a new veterans’ home. The state held onto the 300-acre plot east of Roosevelt Boulevard, between Southampton and Woodhaven Roads, as park advocates were pressing to include it as part of the park.
Philadelphia Probation Division supervisor Joseph R. Ruggiero, in a philanthropic effort, started the Self-Help Movement in 1968. Ruggiero had noted that many parolees he saw were drug users and that addiction was the root cause of the majority of his clients’ criminal actions. With help from fellow common pleas court judges, Ruggiero acquired the vacant, three-story addition to the nurses’ home on Southampton road for use as a rehabilitation center for sufferers of addiction. The state agreed to lease the dilapidated building to Ruggiero for $1 per year. Using only donated funds and resident labor, the group had fixed up the building by 1970. In 1976, Ruggiero acquired the rest of the building. Through fundraisers and generous nonprofit donations, the Self-Help group raised over $30,000.
In 1979, the Rizzo administration announced that the city had finally acquired the last remaining piece of Byberry’s land. The three-hundred-acre plot west of Roosevelt Boulevard, between Byberry Creek and Woodhaven Road, was designated for use, as it is today, as the Hornig Road Industrial Park. The plot contained most of the South Group—the original PIFM cottage group and buildings S-1 and S-2. By 1980, these buildings were all demolished, and Hornig Road was in place. The new light-industrial buildings were in operation by 1983.
The more Byberry drained away its patients, the more flotsam and jetsam emerged near the muddy bottom. The population continued to drop, and the community realized that the hospital had been housing a number of court-ordered patients, most of whom had committed at least one murder and were considered insane. Needless to say, this did not go over well with the residents of Somerton. As more patients’ records were examined, more violent patients were discovered, lost in the hospital’s vast population. But although the hospital was required by law to house these types of patients, it was truly incapable, for obvious reasons, and the administration did everything it could to avoid these cases. If they were housed in Byberry’s maximum-security wards, buildings N-8 and N-9, it was usually not for an extensive period. These cases usually either escaped or committed homicide at the hospital and were transferred out.
In some instances, psychiatrists would say whatever they needed to say, true or not, to keep a violent patient off Byberry’s wards. One such case was that of Winifred Ransom, who was placed in Byberry in 1975 after her police confession. Ransom shot and killed Margaret Sweeney, who was about to give birth to a baby girl, in November 1974. She then performed a Caesarean section on Sweeney with a butcher knife and tried to abscond with the baby. The child survived and was given to relatives after Ransom’s arrest. But after a twenty-month evaluation at Byberry, psychiatrists ruled that she was no longer insane, and Ransom was released on her own recognizance.
By 1980, some state officials were beginning to realize that after all the investigations, all the reappointments and staff reorganizations, after all the regrouping and restarting, Byberry was essentially no better than it was when the commonwealth first took charge. Others had known for years that no matter what changes in staff were made or how many investigations turned up deplorable practices at the hospital, conditions would never improve because corruption is what Byberry was built on. It was imbedded in the hospital’s framework, both literally and figuratively, like a cancer. Many knew what needed to be done. The hospital needed to be closed—forever. But that seemed like an impossible task. Too many strong political nuts-and-bolts were holding Byberry in place. The easiest way out was to put the blame on an individual or group, usually the superintendent, and publicly hang Byberry’s troubles on them before making them walk the plank.
On November 19, 1980, Department of Welfare deputy secretary Scott Nelson, passing on the responsibility, removed Franklin Clarke as superintendent. Clarke was demoted to the rank of staff consultant, with a 10 percent cut in salary. “We were not pleased with Dr. Clarke’s performance at the hospital,” Nelson claimed. But it seemed obvious to employees and to Clarke himself that the real motive behind his dismissal was a financial one. Clarke said that when he was first asked to resign in October, he refused and alerted the hospital’s board of trustees of Nelson’s move. But before a hearing could be arranged, Clarke’s demotion was announced by Governor Richard Thornburgh. The eight-member board stood behind Clarke, however, and all resigned over the issue. They claimed that their input was not sought or considered. The board’s letter of resignation read, in part, “It would appear…that the power of recommendation of the board is virtually nonexistent. Changes in the administrative personnel of the hospital and of hospital policy have taken place without the opportunity of the board to provide input, and in fact, over the loud objections of the board.”
Board chairman William Batoff truly sympathized with Clarke, who had claimed, perhaps a bit too loudly, that state salaries were far too “puny” to provide for a half-decent staff. Citing politics as usual, Batoff knew that Clarke’s resignation was not by choice. “Don’t tell me that Clarke agreed to step down. That’s garbage,” said Batoff. He also tried to explain that the state “won’t change the hospital by removing him. You must change the system.” But Nelson was all politics. He had no apparent desire to stop the board’s resignation. “I think we will definitely press on without them,” he said.
But by October 1981, the absence of a group of trustees was clearly showing. The hurried transfer of patients had brought Byberry’s population down to 840 patients and showed no signs of slowing. Meanwhile, more buildings in the West Group were closed and shuttered. Roughly 60 to 70 patients a month were transferred to just about anywhere they would fit. Some were sent halfway across the state, making family visitations next to impossible. But civil rights attorneys were watching the process very closely, making it harder for Byberry to dump its problems. Patient advocate attorneys finally brought on a suit against the hospital for, among other civil rights violations, placing the patients and their new caregivers in danger. But district Judge James T. Giles ruled in favor of the hospital, and the transfers continued. A noted hospital highlight for the year was the first use of mace by a Philadelphia police officer. Sergeant Charles Smith used his n
ewly issued mace to subdue an escaped patient, Lamar Odd.
After the Clarke ordeal, Byberry was left without a superintendent or a full board of trustees. His position was filled by Dr. Earline Houston, who held the distinction of being the first African American graduate of the Medical College of the University of Tennessee, her home state, in 1967. Houston began the position in 1982 and immediately faced charges of mismanagement. The effects of deinstitutionalization on Byberry had lowered its status back down to hellish. It seemed, however, that only those who had close contact with Byberry—staff, hospital advocates and local officials—appeared to understand this. The administration was given no slack publicly for the unmanageable financial situation with which it was forced to cope. No other state hospital in the state downsized more than Byberry. Between 1966 and 1982, the hospital relocated 85 percent of its patients, dropping from a population of more than 6,000 to less than 750.
Groundbreaking of Rush House reconstruction. Pennsylvania State Archives, RG-23.
Shortly after the start of their operation, community mental health centers in Philadelphia, although proving functional and ultimately superior to the state hospital system, were overcrowded. The patients who were the most in need of care, however, were the ones who suffered the most as a result of the downsizing. In a number of cases, patients suffering from debilitating mental illnesses—such as schizophrenia or psychosis—who were released lasted only days before committing suicide. However, having dealt with this instance dozens of times already, the effects did not appear to cause any reprehension or hesitation, as the process only continued.
In February 1984, Superintendent Houston issued a memo to every ward, distinctly asking each to select ten patients from the ward suitable for discharge, and the patients were released, apparently without any examination or approval from any qualified staff. Instead, having been reportedly given only six hours to complete the list, the ward supervisors themselves chose the patients. They were instructed not to allow a patient’s goals for discharge and whether they had been met to affect their decision. They transferred patients to state and county prisons across the commonwealth, and some were sent to wards that the state contracted for use in other hospitals like Mount Sinai, Hahnemann and Frankford. Some were sent to state schools or facilities for retarded patients, like the Eastern Pennsylvania Psychiatric Institute (EPPI) and the Eastern State School and Hospital. Still plenty of others were moved to nearby state hospitals like Haverford, Norristown and Embreeville.
But dozens and possibly hundreds of patients were released to “family members,” who in some cases turned out to be friends or even landlords. Local businesses and nonprofit charity organizations raised money to rent and purchase houses and apartments for patients. They were sent to boardinghouses, church group homes and just about any place staff could find for them. This did not go unnoticed. In July 1984, staff psychiatrist John Moran brought on a lawsuit against the Byberry administrative staff, including Superintendent Houston and Welfare Secretary Walter H. Cohen, for knowingly discharging vulnerable patients to their fate on the streets of Philadelphia. He charged that it was a violation of their constitutional right to due process. It was not hard to see a motive behind the patient dumping. The hospital was soon facing an exam by the Joint Commission of the Accreditation of Hospitals that would determine its eligibility to remain a hospital that accepted Medicare. This was probably the first suit that called for the rights of post-institutionalized patients.
By December 1985, the residents of Somerton were growing wary of the forensic unit. They had learned that for ten years, dangerous criminals had been housed at Byberry. Given the frequency of escapes and the neighborhood’s previous experiences with escaped inmates, serious doubts surfaced about the security of the unit, and rational fear abounded. It held forty patients who had been committed for reasons of insanity after being arrested for hideous crimes. Talk of placing Harrison “Marty” Graham at the forensic ward in N-8 building in 1987 may have been the straw that broke the camel’s back. Graham was the partner of Gary Heidnik, whose disgusting story of the torture and cannibalization of captive women in the basement of his north Philadelphia row home was the inspiration for the character “Buffalo Bill” in the film Silence of the Lambs. Police found six decomposing bodies in the basement of Graham’s “death house,” a skeleton on his roof and two other skulls in an abandoned neighboring house. Whether Graham actually did spend time at Byberry is not known.
State Welfare Secretary Walter H. Cohen applied to Mayor Wilson Goode in January 1986 for the removal of Byberry’s forty forensic patients to Holmesburg or another city-operated facility. Goode supported the idea of transferring the forty patients to Holmesburg or the House of Detention in a reply to Cohen but in person said he did not support the move. Since both prison facilities were overcrowded and, ironically, Byberry was not, it was thought that the fewer inmates who were placed in crowded conditions, the better. The state had plans to take advantage of the space at Byberry by expanding the forensic unit to eighty beds. The city won the suit, and the forensic unit continued.
To make matters worse, in January 1986, the Pennsylvania Nurses’ Association encouraged its members to strike all across the state. At Byberry, only eight out of thirty nurses reported for duty. Public Welfare officials claimed that the higher-paid staff would fill in the nursing duties and the care of the patients would not be affected. However, this is highly unlikely. The rate of pay for a nurse at Byberry was ten dollars per hour, and as one nurse put it, “I could make more in a supermarket.” Every paper failed to print, however, that the Byberry administration did a notably good job in taking care of its own. It offered stress management seminars for employees and greeted the striking workers, providing refreshments and the use of its restrooms. But as the physical plant and the infrastructure within crumbled, it seemed nobody took Byberry seriously. It was all but closed down, most of its buildings without power, but there were still hundreds of patients living there, and they took it very seriously.
In April 1986, Superintendent Houston, battling with cancer, resigned from the position. Sadly, she died in June, at forty-one years of age. The position was then filled by Dr. C. Charles Erb, who remained for a little over a year and seemed less adept at the position. It seems ’86 was a bad year at Byberry.
In May 1987, Governor Richard Thornburgh, acting on the allegations he had received of patient abuses, appointed what he called a “task force” to investigate. Known as the Blue Ribbon Committee, it was made up of six physicians, two lawyers, three nurses, two mental health advocates, a former state hospital patient and other experts in the field, all chosen by the Thornburgh administration. The task force was headed by Harrisburg lawyer Jonathan Vipond. Thornburgh also appointed a second group consisting of state employees from other public hospitals with rankings of supervisor or higher. The two groups worked almost simultaneously at Byberry on a weekly basis. As a member of the second committee, Dr. Bryce Templeton was surprised to find the staff he interviewed to be in good spirits and well suited to their jobs. Under the heated conditions, the staff seemed to be handling the situation quite well. But the decision had already been made. Byberry was being measured for its coffin.
Unused C-6 building, 1982. Temple University Urban Archives.
Chapter 7
THE END OF AN ERA
The Closure of PSH
Closing Byberry permanently was a true battle against evil. It was a long, grueling war that had casualties of its own. The figures who lead the way in this fight were real heroes. If they had not taken on the burden of this issue, there is little doubt that more painful chapters would have been added to Byberry’s saga. The Coalition for the Responsible Closing of Philadelphia State Hospital was organized by a group of staff members and state and city officials who poured their hearts and souls into the welfare of the patients whose lives hung in the balance. It seemed after the other decision to close Byberry was reversed, this would be a harder battle
than anyone realized. The knotted web of dishonesty and greed that built up at Byberry for almost eighty years did not prove easy to untangle. It would take serious efforts and long, uncomfortable hours of hard work to even get the required ears to listen to the patients’ plight.
By the mid-1980s, Byberry contained 600 patients and 910 workers. The operating yearly budget was approximately $39 million. State officials, Byberry employees and third-party reformers were all ready to take drastic action. Their individual ideas for what measures should be taken differed, however. While supporters of the closure began to grow in size, so did a group adamantly opposed to it. As with any battle for civil rights in America, there were plenty who still held a negative attitude toward the mentally ill. Many people still thought that Byberry was the only way to protect the good citizens of Philadelphia from its “dangerous” mental patients. Of the hospital’s 910 employees, 630 of them were represented by two different labor unions that were not about to let the loss of these jobs occur.
Representatives from the two unions announced that they would fight the Byberry closure every step of the way. Bernie Ellerkamp, secretary treasurer of Local 113 of the Pennsylvania Nurses’ Association, who represented thirty of the hospital’s forty-five nurses, said the association would “vigorously work to keep the hospital open.” Edna Carroll, president of the American Federation of State, County and Municipal Employees Local 632, of which six hundred of Byberry’s aides and attendants were members, also pledged to fight to keep the hospital open. These monied interests represented their members well. Unfortunately, the real victims at Byberry had far fewer willing to act on their behalf. The patients and advocacy leaders had little money to work with, unlike the unions, and the fight became more for the rights of the employees than the patients.
The Philadelphia State Hospital at Byberry: A History of Misery and Medicine (Landmarks) (PA) Page 13
