by David Ward
As director, Norman Carlson first gave his approval for the Alcatraz project and then offered wide-ranging support and assistance that made possible a comprehensive and accurate history of this prison. After the study was under way Norm suggested that our work might be enhanced by my having access to FBI files and, to assure the collection of as much postrelease information on the prisoners as possible, he convinced the Administrative Office of United States Courts to give us access to the inmates’ parole and conditional release records. Donald L. Chamlee, deputy chief of probation, paved the way for us to contact federal parole officers across the country and thus to interview former Alcatraz prisoners who had not been returned to prison. Norm Carlson also instructed Bureau personnel to locate Alcatraz inmates never released and those returned to federal prisons and facilitate visits and interviews with them.
Early in his career Norm had dealt with Alcatraz through his work at the Alcatraz desk at Bureau headquarters that approved transfers to and from the island. And he had every reason to presume that a study of this particular federal prison would not make the Bureau look good. With the authority of the director behind the request, all records required for this study were dispatched from federal prisons across the country to the University of Minnesota. There is no comparable collection of records for any other federal prison.
The following persons who served as research assistants at the University of Minnesota did the work of abstracting and coding for statistical analysis essential information from the voluminous files stored in the university library, summarized prison, parole, and FBI reports, and in several cases conducted interviews with former prisoners and employees. Those who labored over the thousands of pages of federal files have gone on to their own successful careers, many as criminal justice professionals.
Before research funds became available and while Philip Bush was a law and sociology graduate student, he conducted interviews with former Alcatraz officers and prisoners at McNeil Island Penitentiary. After he completed his law degree and served as a public defender, Phil was appointed judge in the district court of Hennepin County (Minneapolis).
Anthony Calabrese, employee development manager at the Medical Center for Federal Prisoners, Rochester, Minnesota, worked longer and on more phases of this project than any other person. He coded hundreds of inmate files and established effective relations with a dozen former prisoners and employees that led to interviews in several cases. He also undertook an exhaustive photographic documentation of the prison; some of his photographs, particularly of the dungeon area, are reprinted in this book. Tony is a recognized expert on Alcatraz in Minnesota. His work for most of a year at minimum wage, paid by the author after federal funds were exhausted, was a measure of his commitment to this project.
Gretchen Gray Larson also worked for the author’s low wage before she finished law school and became an assistant Hennepin County attorney. She transcribed hundreds of hours of taped interviews, read and cataloged thousands of pages of FBI investigations, inmate files, and Alcatraz and Bureau of Prisons records, and produced a definitive chronology of every significant event that took place at Alcatraz from 1934 through 1963. Gretchen also devised numerous special-purpose reports and listings (who was put in the dungeon cells, what were the offenses by the military prisoners, which inmates belonged to which gangs, and a catalog of love letters between George and Kathryn Kelly, etc.). Her summaries of information in FBI files and BOP reports became the basis of many sections in this book.
Mary Jo Ludvigson, lieutenant colonel, Judge Advocate General’s Office, United States Air Force, reviewed and coded hundreds of files during her years on this study. Her good judgment is represented in the selection of many of the case studies, newspaper articles, and Alcatraz staff reports that appear in this book.
Others who coded inmate files were Nancy Heitzig, Dan McCarthy, Celeste Korbel, Jeffrey Stitt, and Herman Milligan. Constance Osterbaan-Milligan, director of research for the Hennepin County Attorney’s office, also coded files but her most important contribution, assisted by Mary Ann Sheble and Karl Krohn, was managing the quantitative analysis of the statistical data abstracted by the coders from inmate files.
Kate Stuckert, Mary Drew, and Charlotte Lewis transcribed hundreds of hours of interviews and contributed valuable suggestions and comments on the pages of chapter drafts that passed through their hands. Alison Cox and Gwen Gmeinder also contributed to this project.
Maxine Clapp, Penelope Krosh, and Lois Hendrickson, supervisors of the Archives Division of the University of Minnesota (and horrified at the condition of inmate records when they arrived at the university library), gave expert advice on the measures we took to preserve this unique collection of prison records.
Bureau of Prisons staff who made important contributions in addition to those by Anne Schmidt already noted in the preface include John Galvin and Peter Chaplick. Anne has been a constant source of support. Former Assistant Director John Galvin provided me with several very useful preliminary (handwritten) compilations of the characteristics of Alcatraz inmates undertaken at his direction; the data on inmates’ commitment offenses, race, age, transfers, and so on confirmed that our one-third sample of inmates accurately represented the entire population. Pete Chaplick, former medical staff member at Alcatraz, who later in his career became an administrator at the Western Regional Office of the Bureau of Prisons, helped us by locating and contacting former Alcatraz employees and assuring them that Directors Bennett and Carlson had encouraged them to talk with us. Pete’s assistance allowed us to begin our series of interviews with the most senior staff and to record the views of employees who were on the island from the day the prison opened in summer 1934 to the day it closed in March 1963.
Former Alcatraz staff members who were of particular assistance because they agreed to more than one lengthy interview include Lt. Maurice Ordway, Capt. Phillip Bergen, Lt. Isaac Faulk, and Olin Blackwell, the last warden of Alcatraz. Lt. Ordway and several other veteran officers also provided important photographs, records, pamphlets, newspaper articles and other memorabilia collected during their years on the island. Associate Warden Richard Willard, the last associate warden who became custodian in charge of the island for several years after staff and inmates left, had the good sense—and the time—to salvage a large number of items from inmate files, prison records, reports, and photographs, which he made available to me.
Former gangster-era prisoners who were interviewed multiple times include James Quillen, Dale Stamphill, Charles Berta, and Willie Radkay. In addition to a daylong interview at his home, Harmon Waley continued to communicate with me by means of frequent telephone conversations and written correspondence; his was an especially important perspective since he spent twenty-two and a half years on the island and because he gave me a handwritten critique of every page in the book by Alvin Karpis, the only man who had done more time—twenty-five years—on the Rock. Willie Radkay’s remarkable recall was put to good use during our five interviews, and through many letters, and dozens of telephone calls. Later, with the help of his niece, Patty Terry, Willie produced his own book, as did Jim Quillen. Jim, Floyd Harrell, and Floyd Hamilton also communicated ideas and information to me through correspondence.
Robert Kirby and Colleen Collins, supervisors of the National Park Service, both determined to give the visitors the most reliable information possible about the prison and the prisoners, helped me to explore every inch of Alcatraz Island. Working on the project with them as well as current ranger Lori Brosnan was a genuine pleasure.
Chuck Stucker, president of the Alcatraz Alumni Association (former Alcatraz employees, their children, grandchildren, or other relatives), and former officer George Devincenzi also provided important information.
Eric Engles’s editorial work included a reorganization of chapters that would distinguish between the history of Alcatraz and the sociology of confinement there. Niels Hooper, history editor at UC Press, managed the process of obtaining evalua
tions of drafts from outside experts, guided the manuscript through the UC faculty review committees, and supervised the editing. A number of University of California Press staff members made contributions to the final draft of this book. Rachel Lockman attended to details regarding the photos that illustrate events and personalities. Kate Warne supervised the production process with sensitivity to the authors’ concerns and assigned an outstanding copy editor to this project, Edith Gladstone, who identified endnotes that needed more detail, clarified confusing words and phrases, and provided valuable feedback about the narrative from a reader who was not in the criminology business and had no familiarity with Alcatraz or the federal prison system.
At the beginning and throughout this project, there were important legal issues related to my use of federal records and the need to protect the privacy of inmates’ records and interviews with some staff and prisoners. The salience of these issues is evident by the fact that the National Institute of Justice approved funds for a legal adviser for this project. William Bennett Turner supplied expert judgment in regard to these matters. My access to the information in Department of Justice records required that I become an “unpaid consultant”; this appointment was authorized by Harriet Liebowitz, Peter Nacci, and other directors of the Research Division in the Bureau of Prisons. As this book neared completion, attorney Edwin T. Martin helped me understand the issues that involved reconciling the Freedom of Information Act with the Federal Privacy Act.
Two eminent academic colleagues reviewed an early draft of this manuscript for the University of California Press. Howard S. Becker from the University of Washington was already familiar with work by Ward and Kassebaum because our first book, a sociological study of a prison for women in California, was selected for a series he edited for Aldine Publishing Company. When another draft of this book was proposed by the University of California Press, Howie reviewed the manuscript a second time. James B. Jacobs, sociologist and law professor at New York University, whose own book on the history and sociology of Stateville Penitentiary in Illinois is a classic in the sociology of confinement, also offered helpful suggestions and criticisms.
My son, Doug Ward, academic administrator at the UCLA Animation Workshop in the Department of Film, Television, and Digital Media, digitized and significantly improved the quality of many of the book’s photographs that were taken many decades ago and stored and handled casually. He also added identifying labels to important features of some photos. Joel Samaha, my colleague from the History Department at the University of Minnesota, provided a detailed critique of this book; his perspective as a legal scholar and historian was especially valuable to a sociologist writing history. Duncan McLaughlin, formerly of the Northern Ireland Prison Service, and more recently of Queens University in Belfast, Northern Ireland, reviewed chapters from the perspective of a man who knows all about resistance in prison. John Irwin, who has written the best accounts of doing time in California prisons, posed an important question for us after initial findings produced surprising results: “Does this study prove that punishment works?” Candace Kruttschnitt, my friend and colleague at the University of Minnesota, offered enthusiastic support for this project for many years—or was it decades? Professor Irving Tallman from Washington State University wrote hard-nosed reviews of our research findings and how they were presented, but this longtime friend’s most important contribution, particularly after he and I retired to the Bay Area, was his persistent encouragement and his promise that this book would be published in my lifetime.
Most important, a few words about Renée Ward, my wife, editor, and secretary. All the people listed above made significant contributions to this project, but her assistance, judgment, and support were indispensable. Like a long-term convict she’s seeking release after staying with this project (and with me) throughout the many years of its execution, manuscript preparation, and numerous revisions. She now deserves to do easier time.
Introduction
RECONSTRUCTING THE LIFE
OF A PRISON
In the middle of San Francisco Bay there rises an island that looks like a battleship . . . and when it has not been armed as such, first by the Spaniards and then by the United States Army, it has been a prison of one kind or another. First it was a so-called disciplinary barracks for renegade Indian scouts. Then for captured Filipinos. And always for army traitors. The Spanish lieutenant who discovered it in 1775 might well have called it the Alcazar if he had not been struck by clouds of pelicans that floated around it. So he called it after the bird itself—Alcatraz.
This genial christening has long been forgotten; and since 1934, when it became a federal prison, Alcatraz—the mere name of the place—has sent a shiver through the tourists who come to peer at it from the shore. For the mile or more of intervening water separates them from the most atrocious murderers, the stoniest rapists, the subtlest jail breakers now extant in the United States. It is not, as the popular gossip has it, a prison for lifers. It is, the warden insists, a “corrective” prison for men who know how to organize sit-down strikes in state prisons; for incorrigibles; for the bred-in-the-bone mischief makers of the Republic; for the men who employ a life sentence as a lifelong challenge to discover how, with a twisted hairpin or a stolen razor blade, to break away from any prison they are put in.
A removal to Alcatraz is thus considered in the underworld as a kind of general’s baton, the reward of distinguished field service that cannot be overlooked. And the guides on the steamers that ply through the riptides close to the island never fail to call off the roster of the incurable desperadoes who have battled the state prisons and landed here: “Limpy” Cleaver, Machine-Gun Kelly, Gene Colson, and Al Capone.
Alistair Cooke, radio broadcast, December 10, 19591
Few periods in U.S. history have been without infamous criminals—those murderers, assassins, traitors, robbers, or outlaws whose unlawful acts, real or alleged, have inspired some combination of fear and outrage among Americans. While these lawbreakers often had sensational and well-publicized captures, trials, and executions, if they landed in prison they served their time along with more ordinary inmates in ordinary prisons—that is, until Alcatraz. When this federal penitentiary began operations in the summer of 1934 on a rocky island in the middle of San Francisco Bay, it opened a new chapter in American penal history as a prison explicitly designed to hold and punish the nation’s criminal elite.
To federal criminal justice officials at the time, Alcatraz was needed to help the nation survive a crisis. In the half-decade or so preceding the opening of Alcatraz, a wave of sensational ransom kidnappings and daring train and bank robberies gripped the nation, and organized crime activity in large cities dramatically increased. These gangsters and outlaws—driving fast cars, armed with machine guns, and often able to elude capture for long periods of time—were branded “public enemies” because their exploits terrorized the citizenry and greatly eroded confidence in local and state law enforcement agencies. By 1933, with the arrest and successful prosecution of many of the most notorious lawbreakers, federal officials had achieved major victories in their campaign to show that they could deal with “the gangster element,” but they faced a serious obstacle in winning back the public’s confidence. The federal prisons then in existence were not prepared to hold such dangerous and important criminals. Corrupt and poorly managed, they were widely perceived as coddling influential felons by permitting special privileges and allowing them to continue involvement in criminal enterprises from behind bars, while flaws in their security systems offered them opportunities for escape.
Alcatraz was created to solve this problem. Surrounded by cold ocean currents, it was intended to hold the nation’s “public enemies” to an iron regimen, reduce them to mere numbers, cut them off from the outside world, and keep them locked up securely for decades. With Alcatraz in business, the country would finally be safe from Al Capone, George “Machine Gun” Kelly, Dock Barker, Alvin Karpis, and their gangster
cronies, and these notorious felons would finally get the punishment they deserved. Alcatraz was to became a monument to federal authority.
The extraordinary measures taken at this particular prison to control the behavior of its prisoners and to project the appropriate image of harsh punishment to the public made it starkly different from other American prisons, including other federal penitentiaries. For more than half a century, national leaders in penology had been moving away from the model of prisons as institutions designed mainly to punish and deter criminal behavior and toward a model that included the goal of reforming or “rehabilitating” prisoners. By the 1930s the Federal Bureau of Prisons had fully embraced the concept of imprisonment encapsulated in the term “corrections.” When it opened, Alcatraz thus became a conspicuous anomaly in the progressive evolution of American penology.
The inconsistency between Alcatraz and other efforts by the Bureau of Prisons was noted by two prominent academic criminologists of the era, Harry Elmer Barnes and Negley K. Teeters, who wrote in the early 1940s:
During the period between 1935 and the present we have witnessed amazing paradoxes in this area of the new penology—now referred to as corrections. We have seen the expansion of the efficient Federal Bureau of Prisons and the development of modern concepts of corrections in several of the states. But in the first instance we have witnessed the sorry career of that nullification of progressive penal treatment—Alcatraz, the super-maximum-security prison in San Francisco Bay, maintained by the same progressive Federal Bureau of Prisons.2
While officials in the Department of Justice believed that a maximum-custody, minimum-privilege regime at Alcatraz was necessary for practical reasons of security and to convince Americans that the “public enemies” were receiving their just deserts, they also recognized that the prison’s deviation from the ideals of progressive penology could be controversial. In an effort to limit criticism of the prison, its methods and management—and because isolation of the prisoners from the outside world was a key part of the regime—they instituted a policy of secrecy, a deliberate effort to “create an air of mystery” surrounding the island.
