White-Collar Prison

A Different Kind of Hell

You can survive prison, and you can recover from prison, but prison never leaves you. On certain days, it feels like afterlife; other days, like a typical workday; and most days, a bad dream enduring the slow torture of meaningless, menial tasks. I lived among one hundred other inmates, more wilderness than community. There is nothing more solitary than living among the exiled.

In a crowded courtroom, the presiding judge — a round, black man with a kind face — asked us to stand. Something deliberative about him, like an uncle you could confide in after failing an exam. Though momentarily reassured, my legs trembled as a group of investors stood behind me, silently pleading for the maximum sentence. Before sentencing, the judge delivered a long narrative that was difficult to hear, the acoustics compromised by a high ceiling and a dizzying scent from the rich paneled wood that covered the walls. I could only grasp certain phrases and the last few sentences before he announced his decision. He told me I had “already sentenced myself to a prison without bars,” something about a “prison of my own making,” and that I was not connected to humanity, “disconnected to what makes life meaningful and worthwhile.”  Then, after a short pause, he sentenced me to eighty-five months in prison for two counts of wire fraud. He said I had a challenging life ahead. I was seventy-six-years-old. With eighty-five months of incarceration looming, my life was over. I left the courtroom in disgrace, leaving my family, company, and investors in financial ruin, the disconnect from humanity complete. I was assigned to a prison camp in a remote area north of Boston, FMC Devens, a former military base where the Spanish Flu began. My pre-prison research advised me to make friends slowly, live under the radar and become a ghost to the staff. A muddled brotherhood was waiting for me. 

Federal prison camps represent the lowest level of security in the Bureau of Prisons’ system. Camp facilities are not like traditional prisons. There are no cells or bars or perimeter walls to climb. They are more like military barracks, where inmates reside in a dormitory. Residents are primarily non-violent offenders and others who have earned a place there based on good behavior at higher security institutions. Most are close to their release date and motivated not to cause trouble. It was a diverse group of inmates, including drug dealers, gang members, violent offenders, and white-collar criminals. The Bureau of Prisons— “BOP” in inmate parlance — is the federal agency that manages the entire federal prison system and the community of criminals who have violated federal laws. Its mission is purportedly to protect the community and reclaim the criminal citizenry — the measure of its viability as a social institution. Unfortunately, like most bureaucracies, its primary mission has become its own preservation. For inmates, the BOP is an all-encompassing amalgam of every oppressive institution that has confronted them during their lifetimes, whether familial, academic, religious or governmental authority. And, for many, its authority extends to their funeral and burial. At Devens, the cemetery for departed inmates lay next to the camp’s recreation area, perfect rows of pure white crosses. An eerie tableau and a portent of things to come.

The camp was only a short distance from the main prison, a regional medical prison that treated criminals of all ages and crimes. Many of them were elderly and critically ill, and many died there. Inmates of the camp who violated camp protocols were relocated to the main prison, a frightening prospect that fostered good behavior at the camp. Relocations to the main prison often resulted in time in the SHU (Special Housing Unit, pronounced “shoe”), essentially solitary confinement in dungeon-like conditions. Many inmates who were relocated there never returned to the camp, and their period of release was often delayed. 

The camp facility comprised a low-lying industrial building resembling a giant storage shed and a crumbling recreation area adjacent. It was situated in the middle of a former golf course. The golf course was an amenity for the servicemen at the military base. Remnants of fairways and cutouts of greens were visible from the recreation area. Tall pine trees surrounded the camp’s perimeter, but through them, the main prison was visible, separated by a sunken area of shrubs, old fairways from the golf course and a narrow brook that was probably a water hazard for golfers. It was a long building of concrete block, no windows and three tiers of barbed wire. The gnarled circles flashed their steel teeth day and night, more frightening in the night light, their true fierceness revealed. In daylight, the barbed wire disappears into the background. But in the early evening, when the lights come on, those circles flash bright, their shiny, unmistakable message that you are a prisoner: we’re here to hurt you, and you’re not getting out. A vast parking lot beside the building was acres of black pavement. The steel glint from hundreds of parked cars flashed its own message, the depth of staff there and its overwhelming numbers to preserve our confinement. 

The camp building was initially constructed to house seventy-two inmates, but by the time I arrived, it housed one hundred and twenty-eight, all cramped into tiny cubicles in an open-floor environment of approximately ten thousand square feet. Decay was pervasive there. Mold in the showers, broken urinals and sinks, frayed sheets, stained blankets, dented lockers, a foul smell in the bathrooms, and a mossy film everywhere. The dorm for inmates was a maze of dark corridors and cubicles that was more barracks than dorm. From a bird’s eye view, it resembled an experiment for mice. Fluorescent lights hung from exposed steel beams and iron pipes, some bulbs always missing or flashing. The pods were eight by seven feet, six feet high, and had no privacy. Each cubicle housed two inmates with a bunk bed, two low-lying lockers, two plastic chairs, and a narrow drawer that fit under the bunks. Every surface was hard: cinder block walls, plastic chairs, steel beds, and concrete floors. Windows that surprisingly opened lined the perimeter. But these were more of a curse than a benefit and a source of conflict in the winter months. A series of fans hung on the interior walls in no particular configuration. They were turned on day and night in every season. In winter, they shaded the sound of illegal cell phones. In the summer, they were a source of conflict: “Fan-wars,” named by the inmates, to describe the battles to determine the direction of the fans during the oppressive days of summer. There was no air conditioning. Some inmates couldn’t sleep without that noise, and others complained bitterly. I slept regardless. In prison, sleep was the only balm.

I arrived in fall, the darkest season; temperatures dropping, days shorter, and the dorm freezing. In those late-fall mornings, inmates silently stumbled through dark corridors. I never thought that Hell would be freezing, not fire but ice, the torture of preference for the BOP. I slept in overcoats and winter hats, shivering for hours, tossing and turning my way to warmth and eventual sleep. But just when I’d managed to somehow find sleep, there was the three am count and the guard’s flashlight in my bunk, and then another hour to try and morph shaking into sleep, and then the alarm would go off at five am, and it was morning and time to get up in the meat locker. I’d ask the guard about the heat, and he’d tell me to “Fuck off, because all you guys are a pain in the ass. Who’s hot, who’s cold.”  And then I’d go to work in the kitchen washing dishes and scrubbing pans, but at least it was warm for five hours. I’d finish up and return to my bunk exhausted, but still cold, colder even, and ten minutes later I’d be shivering again. A different kind of Hell.

An area for games, not separate from the dorm area, was situated in the front of the dorm. There were four plastic tables and a tall, broken gray locker with boards for chess and checkers, playing cards and some other games I never saw anyone play. Inmates had to bring the chairs from their bunks to the tables. On evenings and stormy days, the area was crowded, loud and primed for conflict. It was a noisy place at night. There was a lot of shouting, arguing, and laughing, but mostly shouting. My bunk was next to that room during my first weeks in camp. A black inmate named Outlaw (his real name) played poker every night and fought with somebody every night. It seemed like he would jump up at the end of every hand, throw down his cards and “Mother fuck” everyone in the room. And he was loud and scary. He was gone early after I arrived. Guys told me he wasn’t a bad guy. Glad I never had to find out. 

The recreation area was decaying like the camp’s interior. There was a cinder track, an overgrown grass field in the middle, and a baseball field that was a fallow wreck of dirt. A volleyball area, handball court, bocci and horseshoes completed the area. All in comparable disrepair. A workout trailer adjacent housed two treadmills and an aerobic machine, vintage 1955. Barbells are not allowed in federal prisons to protect the staff. Not from the equipment, but the potential to develop inmates who could overpower the COs (correction officers.) The track was reduced to a crumbling path of ash and mud but remained every inmate’s daily prayer. In any weather, solo, in pairs, in groups even, running, walking (most popular), guys in the dog program walking their dogs (there was a dog training program), picking up their poop along the way, and every once in a while, one inmate was walking with a guitar, playing and composing while he walked. There was some basketball play. But less than I thought there would be. The court was not bad. No one very good. Sometimes, twenty or more back and forth before a basket. It looked like form over substance. Baseball the same. Except the Spanish guys liked to challenge a team of ‘others.’ Neither side very good. Balls through the wickets, ground ball home runs, outfielders dashing in and out, plenty of arguments and shouting. Bocci had a following, horseshoes too. Same guys at handball. No one very good there either. Hardwood picnic tables were interspersed, dented, and damaged, which guys used to exercise on pushups, sit-ups, and the like. Some creative moves I couldn’t figure out. In the early days, I walked the track with a friend. But after his release, I walked alone, talking to myself, with only my radio playing classical music. There was a Native American area. A teepee and all. Always some fires burning there. Inmates regarded it as bullshit. Inmates were there mainly to sneak a smoke. A rag-tag fence of fragile planks surrounded the teepee. A sign in front: “Only Native Americans allowed.” No one there ever looked like an Indian.

There were many lines at the camp. The meal lines, the shower lines, the pill lines, and the most important lines, the ones not to cross. But the lines blurred often, especially in the mess hall, designed for seventy-two inmates but servicing one hundred and twenty-eight. Seats were currency, and inmates bequeathed them upon release. It took me two weeks to finally find a seat. In the summer, we could sit on picnic tables outside in the visitor’s area. No seating there. It was okay to poach. The tables and seats in the mess hall were institutional and minimalist. They looked like something designed for an elementary school dining hall. Oval-shaped tables with stools attached. You sat shoulder to shoulder, knees squeezed against the bottom of the table. You had to be careful not to nudge the guy next to you. 

There were lines at every meal. It was best not to cut in. Some tried, but rarely, usually a new inmate. It was never a good outcome. You took your tray and then waited again for cutlery (plastic) and water. Then, a straight line to your seat. You had to eat quickly, stuff it down, carry your tray, dump the refuse in the garbage, put the tray on the counter, put the plastic cutlery in the pan with the water, put your cup in the holder, put an apple or banana in your pants if the CO was back in his office, and exit. 

Prison camps are working camps. Everyone’s assigned a job. No great options: orderly, maintenance, the kitchen, landscaping, the commissary, the power house, and the military base. Otherwise, there’s dog training, and education. Dog training is popular because the trainers live in a larger bunk with only their pet as a bunkmate. But it has its downside: walking at five in the morning, just before lights out at ten pm, and in any weather. There’s only one slot for education, and it’s like teaching high school in a second language, maybe a third language. I chose the kitchen; I sort of chose it. The Camp Counselor, Mr. Larkin, said they were short kitchen workers at orientation. He was mid-forties, had a huge gut and a continual Cheshire Cat grin. His low-key persona effused a disinterest in all things other than leaving on time and inmates’ restitution payments (court-ordered fines), of which he was inflexible. Hoping for a favorable first impression, I volunteered. Dr. Death — an Asian GP from Connecticut, in for prescription drug violations — and Harry the alchie — a roofer in for tax evasion — were the other new guys with me. Three jobs were open: two table washers (the preferred ones) and one dishwasher. The CO in charge of the kitchen, a black former Marine, a no-nonsense guy with something reassuring about him, said we should decide amongst ourselves. Dr. Death said he had a bad back, and Harry said he had seniority, so I was the dishwasher. I learned to do the washing, the loading, and even operating the long stainless steel washing machine, a frightening apparatus that had to be reassembled every morning and was rumored to have taken limbs from prior inmates. By the time I was released, I was the number one dishwasher. Guys used to kid me, “DiMenna, you can always get a job now when you’re out.”  Such a distinction. Actually, I was proud of it. I even got to like it. Something about the tactile there. Can’t explain it. Sometimes, I think it saved me. 

Upon arrival, every inmate at Devens is sent to the SHU. It’s a complex of caves and corridors in the main prison with dungeon-like solitary cells. Dirt and slimy film on every surface. I was handcuffed and pummeled into an orange jumpsuit. Guards pushed and shoved me down a long line of steel doors with tiny windows and frightening faces looking out like murderers who have been promised a meal, and I was the meal. There were no other windows. The cell doors had the only tiny porthole to the rest of the world. A slot in the middle of each door opened for meals. I didn’t see the guard most of the time. He’d stick a container through the slot without a word. It smelled like dog food. There was no sleep because a cold vent blew 24/7 to keep the cell meat-locker cold. There were ceaseless screams, groans, and moans from the other cells all night. Those, the permanent residents of the SHU, mental patients relegated there, the system’s therapy of last resort. The lights blinked from time to time but never went out. Every inmate is placed there on arrival. This was your warning that if you mess up, you’re coming back. Every inmate fears it. It helps to keep the peace. And the gloom. Once there, you never forget it. It becomes a recurring, serial dream over time; one of prison’s lasting vestiges and scars. 

I learned on day one that there is no period of adjustment. You either survive or fall apart. The orientation doesn’t help. It’s a two-hour session, a few days after arrival, to describe the camp’s rules. One speaker after the next. None articulate except for the Chief of Discipline, a very fit Italian guy with dark hair who is supremely confident. His uniform was perfect. His tie like an ironed string and a tie pin in the shape of handcuffs. It was silver and sparkled on his black tie. It distracted while he was speaking. But it didn’t matter; I stopped listening, my eye on the tie pin. A lot of him was performance. But it didn’t matter; I believed him, and over time he confirmed it. He sent many inmates to the SHU while I was there. His goal was to intimidate. He won me over. I wanted to raise my hand: “I get it, sir. Don’t worry; you won’t have any problems with me.” But I didn’t. He was the kind you never win over. Over time, I adjusted. I made my own coffee. I made my bed. I cleared my locker. I embraced the ghost and put on my cloak. No one even noticed.  

Routine was the center of gravity in daily life. Ralph, the self-appointed boss, said the days go slow, but the weeks go fast. An angry man, about sixty, with a long sentence for accounting fraud, he resembled Don Rickles but without the humor — he ended every conversation with “Go fuck yourself.”  It took a while, but he was right. You find your lane, your routine, and coast. Mine was the kitchen, the track, my log, my books. After the adjustment, I settled in and turned inward. I didn’t help the new guys. I don’t know why that was. So many helped me when I arrived. I just didn’t, unless they were in obvious pain, and then I’d help. Vince was one: a slight, pudgy, Spanish guy, about forty. He wasn’t from the clan and sat at his bunk the first day, head down, dazed, fearful and lost. It’ll get better, I told him. Because it does. It doesn’t get good. It just gets better. You overcome the trauma. Like everyone else, you push it down deep and just keep moving. It got better for him. Better than I thought, actually. Certainly, better than me. Last I saw him, he bunked on Northern Boulevard. There were neighborhoods in prison. Tribe’s form, and inmates move next to theirs. It’s inevitable, I guess. I made up the names: Northern Boulevard (Queens), Spanish Harlem, Harlem, Jamaica (several island guys), the Middle East, Israel, and Park Avenue. Northern Boulevard was the only mixed community in the camp. He was smiling, joking even. 

I had friends and things I looked forward to. But the dread never leaves you. No matter how much weight I lost, I was always carrying more. On the track, I’d stumble around, my legs like jelly. And in a community, living with so many people, you’re even more alone. I didn’t care who liked me or who didn’t. There were plenty of both, none who made a difference, except Steve, who mentored me on my arrival. He had just turned sixty when I arrived. He was the quintessential ‘Quiet Man,’ and it was easy to underestimate him. But, over time, no one did. But he was gone early on, and I returned to being the ghost. My writing, the one thing. If there was to be something to find my humanity, I prayed it would be that. 

I wrote letters. Never sent most of them. To the judge (never sent it), to my enemies (to one or two: never heard from them), to those who I betrayed (I think I did; probably didn’t), to my children (never sent any of those), to my wife (only cards, too much of a coward for more). I received many at first. I didn’t want any. At least, I thought I didn’t until they stopped, and they did. 

The time before lights out was the dreaded hour. The longest hours of every day. Ironic that the war stories got me through. Its own separate trauma. You’d think in prison, something else would carry you. Maybe it was just me. Every night at seven, movies were in the ‘education room.’ It was once the library but converted to the education room. It was called adult education, which assured a small crowd. Only a few were as desperate as me. I couldn’t get enough of it. Ken Burns and his wars: The Civil War, World War II and finally, Vietnam, the war of my time and place. But all the same — pillage and dying. In Vietnam, it was charging and taking hills, only to withdraw because there was nothing there. So, they’d retreat, leaving only remnants of dead trees and Vietnamese bodies (they’d take their own dead), or invading villages with only old couples and children the enemy, but killing them just the same; an endless back and forth, capturing and retreating, with no tangible outcomes, only continual battles that provided neither victory nor consequence. Only the next day of more fighting and dying. 

And then we watched The Civil War, the worst kind of dying: lying wounded in open fields, limbs turning gangrene, or worse, some unskilled soldier sawing off your leg with no anesthesia, or bludgeoned and bleeding slowly to death. And the battles: lines of men charging at each other in open fields, shooting at each other point-blank until more of the other side would fall, retreat, and then do it again in an hour or the next day. After a while, it’s hard to believe they remembered what they were fighting for. 

World War II, at least, brought some context. Still brutal; more dying and trauma. I’d leave those meetings in a daze. The interviews, the words of all those dying men, wouldn’t leave me. But I’d go back every night. I looked forward to it. They’re still there. It was the only prescription for me. I’m in prison, looking for answers, and all I found was war and the deaths. A cleansing somehow. I haven’t figured out what that says about me. But it’s probably not good. 

Visiting days are a big deal in prison. They were Saturdays and Sundays, from eight am to three pm. Some guys had them every weekend. Some guys never. I was somewhat in between. My wife and family weren’t nearby. Their visits were rare. My grandchildren visited me once. Still up in the air on that one. My brother and nephew lived an hour away and visited me regularly. It was nice when I had visitors. Almost better when I didn’t. 

Appeals were everyone’s daily bread. Seemed like everyone had one going. And for the few who had none, rumors of prison reform kept them going. Rumors proliferate in prison. Getting out every inmate’s priority. Nothing else even close. Numbers are thrown around from the legal code: 2255, 2353 C or B, I can’t remember, direct appeal, letters to the Warden, Compassionate Release, special consideration, and many others. But there were plenty of guys who gave up. You could tell those. They were bitter, like my friend Smitty, an investment banker, seventy-five-years-old, eight years down and two more to go. It was best not to talk to him about your own efforts. He’d take your head off. “The system’s corrupt,” he’d say. Many inmates had spent years on the computer that housed the legal library. There were always guys on that computer, from morning until final count. None of it was successful. I was no better. It took a hundred-year pandemic to make a difference. Inmates calculate their release dates down to the hour. When there was a rumor about the prison reform bill (there’s always a rumor about prison reform), it was mostly bullshit that would have guys out in weeks. But this time, Congress was considering a prison reform bill called The First Step Act. It seemed real.

Guys spent hours recalculating their release dates, arguing with other inmates. “You have to deduct the good time first, asshole…” “The fuck you do, douche bag…” “Yes, you do… and then you deduct the period of home confinement, and then…” “You’re fucking crazy. You’ll be out tomorrow with that shit…” “Heh, I spoke to Levine…” “Levine? That asshole…” “Heh, he’s a fucking lawyer…” “Lawyer, my ass. If I listened to him, I’d’ve been out two years ago…” “Heh, believe what you want. I know what fuckin time it is…” “Yeah, time to get real…” 

And, by the time the bill was passed, there were so many caveats nobody knew what was in it. After a while, all the talk just petered out, and the old gloom set in. Making it worse, were the guys who touted their misgivings all along. “I told you it was bullshit. I never bought into that crap… No one gets out before their time…” And it was Christmas time, too. It seemed especially cruel. 

The guards were a sorry lot. Many were rejected by police and fire departments, or were veterans who couldn’t find any other employment. The pay was paltry, but the benefits, vacations, sick days, and pensions were probably generous. Some guards were cruel, some aloof, and some were decent. None were friends. While Correction Officer is their official designation, inmates call them COs or cops — or, more often, just obscenities: asshole, mother fucker, douche bag. Inmates garnered solace from their mantra: “They never get to leave.” I never got it. The COs still had lives. All I know is that a few minutes after lights out, I was frozen in the darkness of my tiny bunk, sleeping with an inmate two feet above me, while they went home to sleep.

The COs took a census every day, called count. It was done four times a day during the week and twice daily on weekends. There was no wiggle room on those. Every inmate stands beside their bunk, while two COs walk through the dorm. Hip-Hop was the night CO who took the final count before lights out on most days. Hip-Hop was the name ascribed to him by the inmates. One leg was shorter than the other, and he walked with a strange gait. It was hard to figure out his age. He was a roly-poly guy, always wearing tight-fitting t-shirts that only accentuated his huge stomach. He had a shaved head and a scary face, kind of like Shrek but without the sweetness. Everything on it was out of proportion. 

He was compromised intellectually. He had difficulty during the nightly count. He couldn’t do it without pointing at each inmate as he passed. The slightest disturbance distracted him and required him to start over. When that happened, which was not infrequent, he would explode in a loud tantrum. I was late for the final count early on, and he put his face inches away from mine. “You may be in a camp. But you’re still in prison. Next time, you’ll go to the fuckin’ SHU, asshole.” He was a truly scary guy when he erupted. And up close, he was even uglier. He was an easy target for the inmates to make fun of: his walk, his difficulty counting, and his overall compromised appearance. The word was that he lived alone, was a former cop who was fired, and he basically had no life. That’s why he always worked the night shift from four pm to midnight or from midnight to eight am. He gave no clues as to his personal life. Inmates liked to profile staff as worse off than them. I had no clue myself. But he got to leave at the end of his shifts. That was enough of a life for me. 

Despite the conditions, I embraced a life of contemplation, renewal, and earnest self-reflection. I kept a daily log/journal, using those scribblings as the source material for this manuscript. One morning, I woke up early before the five am count, it was still dark, some early rustling of others headed to the bathroom. I’d awoke from a dream that I was back in my old life, sitting in my office confronted by dozens of people, my partners, investors, all standing, while I remained in my high-back leather chair in a dark suit that was too tight and uncomfortable, all demanding an apology. Behind them were my children and employees with a desperate expression, a plea for an explanation to undo everything, and somehow make everything okay. I tried to speak but nothing came out, and the people grew angrier and shouted at me to say something. When I woke up, in the dark, it was the first time I was happy to be in prison; behind walls where no one could confront me, part of a community who didn’t judge me. I lay there until the count came through, the guard’s flashlight abruptly in my bunk, passing as usual like the flash of a camera. I was relieved that I didn’t have to answer. I realized that I didn’t have an answer, that I had spent my whole life avoiding answers, that I had never apologized even though I was remorseful. I understood what I had done, that I had lied, been dishonest, and most of all dishonest with myself, and that I had spent my whole life running from confrontations and questions. I determined that my failure was a failure of character, something intrinsic, inherent and inevitable. Confrontation and crisis are the tests of character. The confrontations and crises came, and I failed the tests every time. I concluded that men can always dream of a new start and redemption but can never extinguish the history of their malfeasance. Overcoming disgrace is a fool’s errand. I could only accept it and try and move forward. I got dressed in the dark, as usual, my work uniform, a clownish outfit of black and white checkered pants, a white shirt and a wrinkled white cap with Kitchen Staff in black across the top. I embraced it, and strode resolutely to my post, the small corner of the kitchen where the dishwasher resides, began stacking the trays, inserting soap for the stainless-steel dishwashing machine, prepared the counter for the inmates to deposit their trays, all done with something new that was not pride but was purposeful. The best I could do for an apology.

Gratefully, after only eighteen months, I received a reprieve due to the COVID-19 pandemic. I was subsequently released and confined to Home Incarceration for the remainder of my sentence. But returning home from prison, the relief fades sooner than you’d think. The old failures still reside there, and prison makes the trip home with you. No one’s the same as you remembered them. Friends are uncomfortable, distant, measuring, and opportunities foreclosed. Ambivalence follows warm greetings. And then there are the questions asked, and the more painful ones not asked but implied in half measures and stares and pauses, more revealing, hurtful than a thousand insults. You try to put on a good face, show courage, and believe it yourself for a while. But it doesn’t last, resonate. You’re damaged goods because prison doesn’t prepare you. All the stuff on the bulletin boards, the courses, seminars: résumé building, re-entry strategies, interview preparedness, family orientation, all bullshit. Every inmate leaves with only a t-shirt, a new pair of jeans, a pair of sneakers, a felony conviction, maybe $100 from his prison store account, and an excruciating self-loathing. The experience of incarceration, its agony, sense of exile, isolation, and the misery of day-to-day confinement, lingers long after the arrival home. 

It’s been four years since my release. I’m still disconnected from humanity, but I think I know what makes life meaningful and worthwhile. I got that much out of prison. Not sure I didn’t know it before.