I was set up pretty good at Stateville. The most notorious prison in the Illinois Department of corrections nourished all the vices. I had found my niche making moonshine. I was learning the law. Jimmy Soto, whom I met on day one, had set my head straight. “Nobody cares about you being locked up but you. If you want to change things, learn the law. Then you must beat the man at his own game.”
His words were a slap in the face, a real wake up call. So while this still was dripping that sweet nectar, I was reading the law books. My moonshine background was a real skill here and I was making money. Russell showed me how to get up and running. Then the business side took off
But for every good plan there is an act of “Murphy’s Law.” I was set up and comfortable. I was in a routine that worked for me. Stateville once had two Round House buildings–C-House and F-House. F-House still stood and housed men in it. But C-House was torn down long before, when the foundation failed. It was gone long before I ever set foot in this madhouse.
Like an old ghost, the C House was about to rear its ugly head and turn my world upside down. For the secret buried there would soon bring harsh reform to the Illinois Department of Corrections. I was a nobody, a neutral. I was adding numbers to the Latin King Gang, a body in a war. But I held no sway in anything else. Had no voice. I was an earner who got a spot in population because I had whiskey skills. Nothing more.
One night long ago a gang member was getting ready to go home. He lived in C-House. His gang bodies were throwing him a party for him in the basement. A going-away, saying-goodbye, getting-instruction-for-the-street type meeting. As they drank and smoked some weed he relaxed and let his guard down. It was then the end came, and came swiftly. For he had done some wrong. Violated some gang code. So he was terminated with prejudice.
The boys in that gang knew their business. They buried his body in the foundation wall of that C-House basement. The next day at Stateville Prison went on lockdown. They looked for him and then listed him as escaped. He would remain silent for years. The C-House building was demolished, the basement filled in with rubble. For years he remained silent in his hidden grave.
In the summer of 1994 John Wayne Gacy was executed at Stateville. Gacy was the most notorious serial killer in the history of Illinois after Holmes from World Fair times. It was a media circus that day. We were placed on deadlock, then fed a fried chicken dinner and given a large bag of cookies. Normally the day of an execution was a somber, quiet, day of reflection behind the wall. But on this day the men cheered his death. Not a normal thing. The parking lot was filled with the two. Groups—the ones against the death penalty and the ones who supported it. The prison was on a live feed to WGN News. I sat in my cell and reflected on the circus celebration of a man being killed by the State. I watched the event play out on the television. When the deed was done they removed Gacy’s brain and gave it to the police lab to study. It was the last big event before all hell broke loose and the ugly changes came full circle.
One year later they discovered the body. It came to light when two gang members looked to broker a deal—to get a reduced sentence and a transfer out of maximum security housing to a sweet medium security prison. They went to the man, and told him about the body buried in that basement. They also turned in the gang hit book and records of pay-offs.
One of the men turning state’s evidence and squealing for a deal was white. He was not a Latin King but a biker riding under the King Nation for protection. He would end it all for the white guys there. For we were all cast out now.
The guys were cool with me. They came to my cell and told me, “The chief said you got to go. You got one hour to pack your stuff and be gone. After that we are going to stab you.” So I got my stuff together and packed it down to the Sargent’s cage. I refused housing, and requested a cell change. Things did not go good. I was taken to Administrative Segregation in the H-House Building. protective custody in lock-down form.
The Latin Kings’ chief was cleaning house. Russell said goodbye and I left with my hands cuffed and walking with my property on a cart pulled behind me. The last thing I wanted was to go to PC—protective custody. But I was a nobody in a gang bang that was heating up. I landed in an Administrative Detention Cell that gave me a view of them digging up the body. The prison was put on lock-down status. The state police team came in and dug up the remains. Internal Affairs questioned the men. They shipped guys. When it was over the sweet life I had there was gone.
A new set of circumstances. A few new faces. I had to get new connections and new wine materials. It was a really expensive move. Things in PC cost a lot more. Eventually I was able to get out of Administrative Lockdown and got my whiskey rolling again.
Then the Richard Speck tape hit the news. Behind it came the Pontiac visit tape. These broke the gangs’ hold on the prison. Reform came hard and fast.
Richard Speck was a notorious killer. He was the Chicago guy who broke into the house where nursing students lived. I believe he killed nine ladies that day. One hid under the bed and survived his mad rampage. He was long dead before I ever got to the prison—he died of a heart attack in 1991–but right behind the body in the C-House his ghost spoke from the grave in the form of a video tape he had made at Stateville.
Richard Speck was living large at Stateville. He had a painter’s job and could travel all over the prison. Before the reform a prisoner could be out of his cell from 7:30 a.m. until 10:30 p.m. each day. Richard Speck made a porn tape with his gay lover. While making this tape the other prisoner would ask him questions about his crime.
The tape showed stacks of cash money, a large pile of cocaine, and a large pack of marijuana. But the damning piece was Speck’s disrespect for the families of the slain nurses. “If those families could see how much fun I am having here they would make me go home,” he said. Then he would snort more cocaine and have sex with his gay lover on tape.
The guy that ended up with this tape owed his lawyer some money. So he gave the lawyer the tape, who then sold the tape to ABC News, and the story was out. The public was outraged at the laxity and the party atmosphere at what was supposed to be the state’s toughest prison. It was all the reform group needed to start cleaning house.
When a smart guard at Pontiac heard about the tape, he wanted to get his chop to. For a while working at Pontiac he had filmed sex acts taking place on the family visit days.
Back when the gangs had juice, there were days when your family, your lady, your friends could bring food to the prison. Picnic tables and tents were set up inside the grounds. These were day-long long family visits for everyone. Real food, and lots of drugs came in those days. But this cop found his piece of gold in the tapes he had recorded.
Wool blankets were placed over the table to make tents. The con would take his lady under the table and get busy. This guard had taped the kids watching their parents have sex under the picnic tables. He had filmed them smoking marijuana, drinking alcohol and money changing hands. He sold the tape to ABC too.
In January 1996 the Reform Wardens and started housecleaning at Stateville. The prison population was placed on lockdown. The Tactical Squad suited and booted up. They came in first with a bent nail on a broom handle. With it they went cell to cell jerking down, and ripping out the curtains in place. Anyone who raised a voice, or took an aggressive stance was beaten down and hauled to the naked house.
The goon squad dressed in orange marched around the cell house yard singing songs. Beating on their shields, and letting everyone know they were taking the joints back. That gangs crumpled. The man took back what was always his. For he was always in control, for he had the guns.
The prisoner population went from being out of their cells from morning to night to being locked in their cells all day long. If the convict was not getting his yard, or commissary, showers, or a call past, he was locked down. The gang chiefs were gathered up and shipped to a lock-down prison. The Chicago Street Gangs went from running the prison to running nothing. The cock-of-the-walk was just a dusty cell boy now.
Soon the administration had everything. They gave first jobs and movement to the cons who would talk. The old days came to a crashing end and I found myself in his segregation cell at Stateville. When they came to my cell, I would not give up my Texas Toothpick. The man beat my ass. Knocked me out cold with the blow to my head from the lead filled night stick. When I woke I was in my boxer briefs on the floor, with my jaw swelled to the size of an orange.
When the man returned me to my cell everything was gone. My still. My cuff key. My clothes. My television and radio. My commissary. On my bed was a jumpsuit. A change of underwear. One bar of soap. One towel and washcloth. One pair of tennis shoes. One state coat. One toothbrush and toothpaste. One cup. One bowl. The bare minimum for existence, no more. My money and jewelry were gone. Hard times were here to stay. The man had taken back what had always been his, for he had the guns.
In December 1996, I was transferred to the Pontiac segregation prison to finish my time for the knife, cuff key, marijuana, money and still they found in my cell. Stateville was history, and a new reign was looking at me in the face.
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