“If you’re going through Hell, keep going.“

— Winston Chruchill

I always thought of notoriety as publicity. In other words, if someone wrote about you, people took notice. I wasn’t up on the concept of schadenfraude. Naivete is possible at any age. What I wasn’t aware of was that the media was more than capable of creating what really got people salivating. Among those who were far more sophisticated about that were people like Donald and Joseph Louchheim of the Southampgon Press, John Sutter of The Villager, and above all, Robert Clifford of the Suffolk County D.A.s office under the now convicted criminal Thomas Spota, his prosecutor Thalia Stavrides, Deputy Emily Constant, and the crowd in the Town of Southampton and Westhampton Beach Village.

Eventually, after doing nearly five years in prison at the hands of Spota and his crew the plan for my destruction was set in motion by Patrick Heaney, David Betts and Joseph Lombardo (who I wrote about) I was released. After Search Warrants of a journalist and the Press (SoHo Journal), illegal searches of my properties, creating the supposed crime of mortgage defaults by telling tenants not to pay rent (Code Enforcement Police), and my attempting to solve the affordable housing crisis for the poor and immigrants. Racism and revenge are big in Suffolk, including among the judiciary like F.X. Doyle, Thomas Whelan and Hector LaSalle and support for my destruction came from Supervisors like Anna Throne-Holst, Jay Schneiderman and Maria Moore with the help of Village Attorneys like Anthony Pasca.

What I have experienced is known among the legal profession as A Civil Death. It is the time-honored plan to destroy someone who does such things as Expose Corruption and Criminality among our politial leaders and elite. Here’s the intro to my True Crime novel about the 20 year-long experience without interruption and as Dr. Pangloss writes, it is “The Best of All Possible Worlds,” — which I and my family have endured without money or support from any source.

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Preface

It was the summer of 1969 in New York City. Free Love, hippies in Washington Square Park and Greenwich Village and artists in SoHo were all beginning to lose their luster. I’d been brought up in Brooklyn and had worked and practically lived in my family’s printing and publishing company in lower Manhattan from the age of four. I was ready for something more. Something more rewarding than toxic chemicals and ink on my fingers. That’s when I first heard about the Hamptons.

My family life was steeped in alcohol abuse, religious hypocrisy, chronic poverty and constant hard work. I began to develop outside interests. It was a time of sexual experimentation, psychology and music. Although I never used any drugs, more out of fear than any moral objection, they were a constant and a part of the culture. Swan dives from high places on acid and overdoses on heroin were not uncommon among my friends. I remember descending in an NYU elevator as my friend described being drenched in a subway tsunami on a couple of tabs done that morning.

I avoided the draft with the help of a musician friend whose father pulled a few strings through the CIA – so instead of dying face down in a Vietnamese rice field I was able to remain a student at NYU and planned to become a therapist.

I had several internships at NYU, during my second Master’s degree and was first assigned to gang-pervasive South Bronx in Probation where Fort Apache was our Police precinct. Small gangs walked around together carrying what I thought were stickball bats since I’d been brought up in Brooklyn, but were the weapon of choice. My next year of internship was at a State psychiatric hospital where I treated cops, mobsters and suicidal patients and wrote prescriptions in that experimental setting. The psychiatrist at South Beach Psychiatric Center was gay and eventually hung himself. When I began to work in the field my first job was at Bellevue where the patients were more interesting than setting type and running printing machines. While the patients at Bellevue were interesting it was the staff that was challenging. Many of them were psychiatrically challenged themselves and I found myself dealing with therapists who were prone to mental illness, sexual harassment and even S & M. Patients were more congenial and interesting than my father’s printing shop so I continued to pursue a path as a therapist and furthered my training as a Psychoanalyst. My overriding concern, though, was in helping people, helping them find homes and helping the poor live harmonious lives. 

In my free time I also entertained people with my guitar playing and singing and occasionally played with a friend. Our harmonies reached a professional level and we performed at parties and later traveled across Europe for a few months. We performed our way from London and Amsterdam to Florence and Copenhagen. We played the Rolling Stones, the Beatles, and Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young on our Martin acoustics and harmonized professionally. There were lots of appreciative listeners and girls in the impromptu audiences.

By the early seventies, I was immersed in helping poor Spanish immigrants in the South Bronx and schizophrenics in Manhattan at Bellevue. But it was a stressful career choice. When a friend invited me to join him and a few friends at a summer house they had rented on the south shore of Long Island I was ready to hit the beach. My father had died a painful alcoholic death which I’d anticipated, located a smaller apartment for my mother in Brooklyn, and sold the family business. I really needed a break and decided to head for the beach instead of further travel through Europe after making the trip once with my friend and again on my own.

When I first arrived in the Hamptons the fresh air and sunshine was a welcome relief from printing presses, toxic chemicals, and psychiatric patients. 

I’d rented an apartment in Greenwich Village and then moved to SoHo, where art and creativity still was vibrant. But I was unprepared for the transition from city life to the quiet and unblemished shoreline of Southampton where mansions and understated but obvious wealth existed. The open land, the fresh sea air, the beautiful houses, the celebrities, musicians, poets, painters, writers, and even the summer residents were a stark difference from the workers in the printing plant. The printing subcontractors and finishers had been eastern European Jews who handled printing materials, the plant workers were people who constantly fought poverty and the patients I treated were depressed psychiatric clients. For a poor working-class child of immigrants from Scotland and Sweden, the Hamptons was like The Great Gatsby. 

As I got to know the people in the Hamptons, I realized that despite what appeared to be a pervasive laissez-faire attitude, there was a strong conservative attitude in the towns and villages. Local law enforcement mentality too conflicted with the liberalism of the summer people. In addition, these bedroom communities were often families or New York City police who had a requirement to live in the City but whose families were ensconced in the Hamptons. The houses were affordable and were intended as retirement for the NYPD. 

These residents were receptive to the financial advantages that came from the wealthy summer renters and tourists but they elected conservative politicians and police nevertheless.

The politicians and law enforcement tolerated the summer vacationers and real estate investors because they filled the coffers. The word was out among white workers, handymen, police, firemen and politicians that this was a nirvana of sorts. Plus, nobody was minding the till and the Civil Service allowed second pensions.

There was no oversight and no legitimate press to speak of. What happened in the Hamptons, stayed in the Hamptons – especially in the summertime. The divisions between the nouveau residents and the New Yorkers who paid the bills, the Civil Service, and the politicians from elsewhere, up the Island, or even the five boroughs who saw opportunity and the entire economy was palpable.

The Southampton Press was one of the few newspapers in the Hamptons in the 1960’s. They published mostly fluff; articles about minor local politicians, real estate and minor crime like theft and D.W.I.s. Their editorials were attempts at describing the local economy without ruffling any feathers. And, consequently, their ad revenues increased. The coverage was elaborately planned in tandem with police and local politicians and edited so as to avoid offending anyone of any importance. 

Despite the fact that there were important artists and writers among the summer people and year-round residents, they seldom were covered by The Southampton Press. Little of any real substance got covered because that’s what the local residents wanted. They had heavy real estate and development dollars to protect.

Other publications such as Dan’s Papers which began in 1963, courtesy of Dan Ratner, and The Independent started by the flamboyant Jerry Della Femina were also publishing, but hard news was only available in The New York Times or Newsday. They all kept it light. It was entertainment, not news, even though they claimed that it was.

In the late 1960’s, what is now The Hampton Jitney, a major bus service in and out of the Hamptons, was still just a cart being pulled behind a VW bus for bicycle riders wanting to travel from town to town. Like Sidney Korshak, the mobster attorney who represented Capone’s “Outfit” in Chicago and opened up California to organized crime, mobsters and con artists who considered Long Island to be their fiefdom began to take notice of this media void and lack of scrutiny. They flocked to the Hamptons like lemmings. They ran for office, supported local attorneys, joined the burgeoning Civil Service and infected Law Enforcement. The mob knew full well that it would take decades to catch up to their antics. 

By the early seventies, East Hampton and Southampton were infiltrated by organized crime. Real Estate became the focus of the Hamptons.

Developers, brokers, politicians and con men of varying shapes and degrees, focused on the ever upward spiral in values of beachfront and ever-diminishing available land. The potato farmers in Bridgehampton and Southampton watched helplessly as farmland where they grew their families along with their potatoes were being lost to development.

The Community Preservation Fund was initiated to buy vacant land in order to protect it from development. However, that too became a controversial slush fund with billions of dollars funded by real estate from New Yorkers – and politicians attached themselves to the fund like a succubus.

When I first joined a summer house there were single men and women who threw pool parties, went to nightclubs and visited friends on the beach. Once the Hamptons became popular those fun summer houses became a business. Lines would form outside of real estate offices to rent a house for the summer and Sheridan Square, where The Village Voice was distributed, became ad-central for singles looking to buy a share in a summer house.

By the eighties, the politicians were envisioning a huge windfall from real estate development and those pesky singles were interfering with the vision of high hedges, stately mansions and Gilded Age fundraisers. So, the politicians decided to rid themselves of those less than wealthy summer folks by becoming even more exclusive.

First a law was passed that limited the number of people who could share a house. This was the first step down a road that led to implied criminality for both the singles and the owners of the houses. As the nightclubs and share houses began to disappear a new blight arrived to trouble the developers and politicians who enabled them for a price – immigrants and poor minority workers who were imported to service all of the new mini-mansions cropping up on every parcel of available land.

Meanwhile, articles appeared in The Southampton Press and Dan’s Papers, describing the wealthy and nouveau-riche middle-class who rented their homes to Russian oligarchs and political celebrities who posed for photos at parties and fundraisers – while developers sold them million dollar mini-mansions. Politicians like Manafort, celebrities like P. Diddy, and Bill and Hilary rented houses. The singles got the message and left the Hamptons like the artists in SoHo had left their lofts. 

But, the workers continued to arrive in large numbers responding to the clarion call of desperate local businesses and expanding landscape companies. The hoi polloi tolerated this for a while. It seemed that even the locals realized that someone had to clean toilets, plant hydrangeas and trim the grass. It was poorly paid, backbreaking work that local residents would not do themselves.

But the influx did not make Civil Service, Law Enforcement or politicians happy. The year-round residents had been happy that their tax base was low due to the expanding number of high net worth New Yorkers buying houses. – who were additionally taxed for the privilege. School taxes remained low and so were property taxes – for the local residents. Until the workers moved in with their families next door. Those low taxes then began to rise. 

While the families of these newly retired city workers were not going to do landscaping themselves, having them living next door and increasing the cost of schooling was not what they had in mind. Where were these laborers and their families going to live? In the woods?

As long as they weren’t going to increase taxes or live next door, why not?

The solution was a political decision that grew out of the new rules and laws that had helped the local politicians and law enforcement eliminate share houses. The Summer Rental Permit law was updated to include not just summer houses but also tenants and owners occupying houses all year long.

While this was going on I’d met a local attorney who was well-known and revered by residents, politicians and law enforcement as well. He was a former Assistant D.A. himself and knew all of the local real estate players. He had clients who were developers and both he and his wife were prominent players and local fundraisers for worthy causes.

While I was still involved in the mental health field I started a small publication in SoHo which satisfied my interest in printing and publishing. I had also developed an interest in real estate as both an investment and an occupation. This attorney, Tom McVann, also had a developer client who was building new houses at a rapid clip but could not always sell them as quickly. It was at that point that Thomas T. McVann approached me. He explained his idea about my buying another client’s new houses. In my mind I was performing a public service in buying and renting houses during Southampton’s perennial affordable housing crisis during the Wall Street-driven banking boom. 

The demand for housing by workers flooding into the Hamptons had become critical. While writing I was providing a community service which was solving a dire need that was being avoided by The Towns of Southampton and East Hampton. For reasons that I did not yet comprehend. While I divided my time between my apartment in SoHo and a house in the Hamptons I kept my finger on the pulse of the local political scene. I even began writing about the Hamptons economy and its politics which no one had done before. My articles were not fluff pieces. 

I delved into poverty, racism, political corruption and the criminality of the mobsters, con men, thieves and social misfits who were hypocritically taking money from New Yorkers and lining their pockets. People who were activists and even journalists, however, were prosecuted. The courts were compromised and the judges were not only bought but were owned by the Town Attorneys in Southampton and the District Attorney in Riverhead. This became known as a pay-to-play scheme but never talked about or written about – until I did in my Hamptons Politics blog and SoHo Journal.

But I was tilting windmills, solving social problems and writing about the Hamptons as it really was, not as the residents or politicians wanted it to appear. I was naive.

None of the other so-called newspapers in the Hamptons delved into any of this or ever quoted me or any of my writing. I was becoming a nemesis, known as someone who housed poor minority workers that the Town preferred to leave living in the woods. I was also developing a name as someone who was exposing corruption in the DAs office and naming politicians in the Town of Southampton and Westhampton Beach who were stealing money and perverting the justice system.

My First Amendment protections were breached first. My office and home were searched – looking for my interviews and news sources. My properties were investigated and searched and tenants were told not to pay rent as the Great Recession took hold and the Wall Street Financial Crisis began. As a result, all of my property was forced into foreclosure by the Town of Southampton and the D.A. prosecuted me and my family.

This revenge prosecution flowed from my housing poor workers and writing about local corruption in Southampton, East Hampton, Westhampton and the DAs office. Since I’d exhausted all of my money on paying mortgages I was forced to take a plea for having partnered with others and accepting mortgages that were handled by a mortgage broker who submitted applications that were highly creative in order to earn a huge commission.

That the properties were forced into foreclosure, of course, was inevitable given the Town’s effort to prevent tenants from paying me any rent and forcing me to stop paying mortgages. The Financial Crisis had been caused by the banks’ fraudulent loans. I was awarded a 4 year prison sentence in lieu of harassing or abusing my family. My SoHo landlord joined with the D.A. in trying to help evict me and my family so the rent could be raised.

I became the first person to be prosecuted and imprisoned as a direct result of the Financial Crisis of 2009.

My Revenge Prosecution by a corrupt prosecutor at the direction of the District Attorney turned the ordeal into what is known as A Civil Death.

I spent almost five years in prison paying for my initiatives and for publishing the Truth (Prisoner of the Hamptons). The results were total financial and legal devastation for me – which resulted in emotional destruction for me and my family. These were the results of my commitment to the Truth.

Due in part to my writing – D.A. Thomas Spota, his associate, Christopher McPartland and sadistic prosecutor, Thalia Stavrides, tried to destroy me. They succeeded.

Ultimately, the D.A. was prosecuted and was imprisoned for conspiracy to tamper with witnesses; obstruction of justice; and being an accessory to former Suffolk County Police Department Chief James Burke’s deprivation of a prisoner’s civil rights. Burke was subsequently picked up for attempting to sexually proposition a cop in a Long Island park. These were the cream of the Hamptons law enforcement community.

Thalia Stavrides, the prosecutor, was promoted and Deputy D.A. Emily Constant resigned. The Conviction Integrity Bureau to which I applied and was created to overturn D.A. Spota’s revenge prosecutions but has not even acknowledged my application after two years.

This is the story of my introduction to the Hamptons and how they destroyed me and my health – took all of my property and assets – and shattered my family for helping people find housing and writing about Truth. 

None of the money which they claimed I stole was ever located simply because it never existed. 

The bank loan proceeds went to my attorney’s builder client, Michael Belesis and his family and his lender Sokol. I paid mortgages faithfully until the Great Recession collapsed the economy due to the fraud perpetrated by the bank’s greed and the Town of Southampton telling tenants not to pay rent.

This is the true crime story of A Civil Death in the Hamptons. Where justice truly does go to die.

Donald Clark MacPherson

SoHo – New York

Copyright A Civll Death 2025

Address letters or donations to The SoHo Journal, P.O. Box 1032, New York, NY 10013. Agent or publisher inquiries are welcome.

“Forgive your enemies but never forget their names.”

— John F. Kennedy

I spent almost five years living with killers, drug dealers, gang members, pedophiles and gangsters. It was payback for writing Truth about Hamptons politicians and the illegal, racist policies adopted in order to continue collecting money from tourists, New Yorkers, and homeowners who have been footing the bills for decades (the so-called land Preservation Fund has more than $1.2 Billion dollars in it). Surprisingly, many of the natives emigrated from New York City and have used the conservative mantle in the service of ongoing greed and corruption. Patrick Heaney, Anna Throne-Holst, Jay Schneiderman, and currently Maria Moore.

The Toxic Plume which describes the PFAS infiltration, a river of poison, which primarily sits below and flows under Westhampton (as well as Quogue, East Quogue, Hampton Bays and East Hampton) — is rarely discussed — and is symbolic of the political rot that pervades the Hamptons. While the current water supply has been addressed, since the chemical companies have expeditiously settled with Suffolk County Water Authority to the tune of $170 million dollars from 3M alone — of which $34 million has already been paid — DuPont is next. But residents, who are ill and dying, have years to go before seeing a dime, if they see anything. Homeowners and residents can go scratch their asses. One wonders how much cash found their way into politician’s pension funds or campaigns?

What’s even more interesting is the fact that with the entire area sitting on this deadly river, Westhampton Beach has spawned some of the most illustrious politicians who have never addressed the issue or done anything to warn homebuyers, real estate agents or tourists about the poison. From Gabreski Airport — identified as a Superfund site by Cuomo — it flows as far south as Dune Road where $10 million dollar mansions sit by the “Roger’s Beach Run-off.” While ‘Affordable Housing’ condos are selling briskly ($1 million each) on Montauk Highway.

Mum’s the word. The cancer deaths from PFAS “forever chremicals” aren’t really a problem, are they?

Maria Moore is the current Supervisor of the Town of Southampton who is running for re-election. After a series of greedy politicians that never saw a New Yorker they wouldn’t rob or give a shit about, why upset the applecart? These Supervisors have prosecuted journalists and activists for asserting their Civil Rights (as I learned first hand) — and have assiduously worked with the criminally prosecuted Thomas Spota to manipulate and destroy Free Speech. Absurdly, Spota is currently applying for a pardon since he stole so much money he collected a $9000 a month pension while in prison and was released to a $17 million dollar pot of gold after doing half of his sentence. Clearly he can afford to buy a pardon. There are no real Democats in the Hamptons.

After handing over the Village of Westhampton to the Trustees who have made millions on real estate, Moore moved on with the help of her husband, an advisor to one of DA Thomas Spota’s Judges (who prosecuted me for exposing corruption) involved in the as yet unexposed judge-picking pay-to-play scheme. If you think Judges prosecute gangsters in Suffolk County, think again folks.

So, you get what you pay for in Suffolk County. Gangsters, corrupt politicians, thieves, judges on the take, and avoidance of truth at all costs. I was the only Truth in the Hamptons news and look what happened to me.

Be careful when you fill your pool or drink the water in the Hamptons. No one will ever warn you about the dangers. And it could kill you if the justice system doesn’t.

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Send comments to Post Office Box 1032, New York, NY 10013. Literary agent, publisher and media inquiries are welcome.

“The degree of civilization in a society can be judged by entering its prisons.”                                             

 — Fyodor Dostoevsky

There’s no better way to relax than to look back upon good times. And, I’ve found just the solution by remembering my stay in an upstate New York prison after having been the victim of former D.A. Thomas Spota and his friends in the Town of Southampton and Village of Westhampton “where justice goes to die.” The corruption is mind boggling and these politicians no doubt taught our President a thing or two about prosecuting journalists, corruption, and raising the bar on what is known as a Revenge Prosecution. The truly fake news appeared in The Southampton Press and our very own The Villager in SoHo — compliments of the Louchheims and John Sutter, stellar examples of journalism and publishing charlatans.

The cabal that forced me into prison, led by Spota, Stavrides (prosecutor), Patrick Heaney, Anna Throne-Holst, Joseph Lombardo and others were good conservatives in the Town of Southampton, the Mayor and Trustees Office in Westhampton Beach — and the courts up to and including the Appellate Division. Affordable housing in the Hamptons takes the form of million dollar condos. Those who try to address racism, poverty, and social injustice wind up in prison as I did by exposing corruption and publishing articles about it.

Here’s a brief selection from my stay among murderers, rapists, pedophiles, con-artists and gang members. This section is one among many in Gulag.

True Crime at its finest.

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“It was difficult at Auburn,” said CO Ward, who had worked there for eight years. 

I mentioned what had just happened, a fight in another dorm. But, of course, the CO already knew about it. All of the cops carried radios. It was like a part of their uniform — baseball-styled Corrections cap, matching blue shirt and pants with the New York State Corrections emblem on it, and black boots. Like the Gestapo. It was “Springtime for Hitler.” With no gun, dangling handcuffs and other assorted paraphernalia hanging from their belts, the CO outfits were reminiscent of Victor Willis, the cop from The Village People video from the 1970’s. But, not nearly as entertaining.

“How?”

“This bullshit about putting people in the Box for a fight over a missing or stolen razor,” he laughed, “in Auburn they’d just go back to their cell.”

“Why was it different there?”

“In a Max, it’s a whole different story,” said CO Ward, and as he turned toward the glass separating the dorm from the Rec room and then relaxed behind his desk. The scar on his right cheek was evident, even though partially hidden by his beard. The hair wouldn’t grow there. “You got guys who are never going home in a Max. They don’t give a shit. What’re you going to do to them? Putting them in the Box is like threatening to kick someone in the kneecap after they’d lost the leg.

“So, what is the place like?”

“Completely different,”  he continued.”You’ve got three, or, I don’t remember, maybe four levels of cells stacked on top of each other with walkways around them, two yards — both concrete, no grass, trees or any other sign of life on it — and Rec time with maybe 600 or 700 guys milling around at one time.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

“Yeah, great. So, they all have individual cells — there were no T.V. ‘s in each cell when I was there, but, I don’t know, maybe they do by now. Lots of other Max’s have them. Keeps them occupied and out of trouble.”

“I’ve talked to guys here who were there and say they prefer it,” I said.

“You gotta understand,” he said, “for those guys and the Lifers here, it was better since there’s privacy in the cells. There’s none here.” 

“Here, you’ve got cubes with half walls, a Rec room and a dorm. No privacy at all except, maybe when you take a shit. A lot of guys can’t tolerate that.”

“Yeah, I gather.”

“It WAS interesting, though,” he laughed. “But, the knifings and killings were not fun.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Couple times a week the guys in the Tower would announce to get down. Inmates had to get down, or else,” he said, smiling.

“What?”

“If there was a problem, you know, a cutting, a fight, or a knifing, especially in the Yard. They’d tell everyone to get on the ground with their hands behind their necks. If anyone stayed standing, the sharpshooters in the Tower would just shoot them. They didn’t give a shit. It was fun for them.”

“Nice.”

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Black had been at Auburn. He was one guy who talked little about why he was in prison. He was a 5’9″ black man of about 45 who had already done 20 years. He expected to see Parole in roughly 4 years. And, they usually “hit” guys like him the first time — meaning he would get another two years before being able to come back to see Parole, and see if they would release him. Likely, they would “hit” him again. Some had already been “hit” five or six times. It was a routine that Lifers had to come to expect. Any inmate with a 20 to Life or a 25 to Life sentence knew to expect it even if they convinced themselves they were different. Only one guy, who had a 15 to Life sentence had gotten out at fifteen years. 

It was talked about as if it were miraculous. Of course, when he shot and killed that drug dealer, he was only 17 years old.

But, Black had an animalistic quality about him. Not because of any stereotypical racist analogies about black people — but, because of his muscular look and slightly stooped, forward manner of walking. He had that look along with a halting, rapid, staccato speech which was very polite. But, after all, the inmates knew he was a killer.

He cut my hair.

“Yeah, Mr. M,” he would say, simultaneously buzzing the back of my head with the beard trimmer in the  bathroom — where everyone hid to get haircuts — watching for the Sergeant who routinely patrolled the area. No one wanted to get a ticket for having their hair cut. It was illegal to cut hair or let someone cut your hair except at the barber shop. 

In the barber shop you had to tip or wind up looking like you’d gotten trimmed at Dachau. Tipping was also illegal. 

“S’better in a Max,” said Black. “Dis’ is boollshit, alla dese keeds, no respec’, s’much betta’ there Mr. M — got privacy, got you own T.V. Dis here’s  boollshit.”

“You actually liked it better there?”

“Yes sir, Mr. M,” as he continued buzzing the back of my neck, starting to shave the part near his ear. 

I was hoping that Black didn’t decide to use the razor next on my throat. “…s’much better in a Max, no kids, dis is boollshit” he repeated himself over and over again. I realized that this was no doubt due to some kind of psychiatric problem — certainly, in addition to PTSD — complicated by a very dull mental capacity. But, he was circumspect in dealing with an older, married, solid-citizen type of white guy to whom he showed some deference. Yet, all during his brain fog of mental illness and questionable intelligence he had a razor at my throat.

One needed to pay attention, I thought.

Black was a Lifer. He might not ever go home. The Parole Board could jerk him around for another 10 or 15 years if they wanted. There were no appeals left, attorneys or family members to help him out. This was it for him. Not quite nothing to lose, but close.

According to prison gossip Black brutally murdered two guys for making eyes at his girl. It was grisly because he’d used an ax and continued chopping for nearly 15 hours according to the police report. 

But, who knew? 

I wondered — how you could even manage something like that? What do you do, chop for an hour then take a break? Go out for a drink and then come back to finish up? It seemed physically impossible to keep chopping for 15 hours straight, didn’t it? 

The place must have looked like an explosion in the back of a butcher shop in Bensonhurst after one of Vinny The Chin’s murders. 

If you looked at Black, who had a certain resemblance to King Kong, he certainly looked capable of overcoming any physical adversity and getting the job done.

Black continued to chatter as he trimmed my hair. Others in the bathroom moved about, moving off into the stalls instead of the urinals which were blocked as he worked on me. Seeing Black, they quickly moved away. 

They all knew to respect his minimalist way of making his wishes known with “doing Mr. M’s hair now, go ‘way,” — and they left immediately. They all knew, or sensed, the protocol and danger. His obvious strength was not hidden and his level of intelligence just made him more dangerous.

They knew about the ax.

It felt like I was having my hair done by a brute of unimaginable strength. I could only imagine what Black was like after he did drugs, had some booze and was pissed off.

When Black was done, I offered him a chocolate and marshmallow mini pie. One of those chemicalized goodies sold in the prison commissary. Black looked at it, very straight-faced and without any obvious emotion. 

I began to worry. He looked at it like he was trying to figure out what it was. There was no disguise, no filter. It was just a fucking pie, for God’s sake, I thought. 

Fear started to rise up in my throat like an attack of GERD, and I envisioned Black throwing the saucer shaped treat on the floor, stomping on it and jamming the trimmer into my mouth while it buzzed, chewing up my tongue. 

Black continued to stare at the treat in his hand for another minute without saying a word. 

Was he pissed off? Was he insulted by the offering?

No, I realized. He was just slow. 

He didn’t know what I had given him.

“Well, thank you Mr. M. You don’t gotta’ give me dis.”

He shifted from one foot to the other like an animal rebalancing its weight, “you a good man Mr. M, you don’ hafta gimme nothin’, Mr. M.”

I exhaled, relaxing now, “Don’t be silly, take it Black, and thanks for doing my hair, my wife’s visiting and I want to look presentable.”

“You look fine, Mr. M.” he patted me on the shoulder, “ya wife’ll love it, looks good, you good man Mr. M,” he repeated several times, always saying the same thing, over and over, never smiling, continuing to pat him on the shoulder. 

Then he put an arm around me with a hug as if to say “you okay, man.”

Of course, being hugged by a brutal murderer wasn’t a relaxing event for a 70 year old middle-class white guy. It wasn’t like having a drink with a friend at the bar in the Peninsula Hotel or at the Patio Bar in the Hamptons when that friendly hug unexpectedly occurred. 

It was the kind of conviviality that could kill you with one wrong word or gesture.

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Copyright Gulag 2025

The SoHo Journal accepts donations and comments at Post Office Box 1032, New York, NY 10013. Literary agent, publisher and media inquiries are welcome.

“Crime doesn’t pay. Unless you work for a corrupt politician in the Hamptons”

— Anonymous

Those of you who’d like to know what prison is like after the criminal justice system works you over, here’s an outtake from my five volume work entitled Gulag. This was what it was like in Riverhead jail before being sent to prison near Canada where minus 35 degrees was the norm.

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Chapter one.

“The country was in peril; he was jeopardizing his traditional rights of freedom and independence by daring to exercise them.” 

— Joseph Heller, Catch-22

March 27, 2012

The descent began in a courtroom on Long Island. After three years of emotional torture and the decimation of my finances — planned by District Attorney Thomas Spota and his subordinates Thalia Stavrides and Emily Constant — I was offered a way out. Through the side door in a courtroom leading to Riverhead Jail. The construction of such a convenient corridor from court to Jail was a source of pride among the judges who the D.A. had installed with the help of a con artist by the name of Frank McKay, a political operative and radio announcer. Judge F.X. Doyle was among the coterie of political sycophants who had played his part in my drama and was part of the pay-to-play scheme after the political hacks in the Town of Southampton, Patrick Heaney, David Betts and Joe Lombardo got tired of reading about themselves in my work. 

They all wanted revenge for exposing their corruption in my articles and blogs – and they got it – with the help of  distortions by The Southampton Press and the DAs press person, Robert Clifford. 

To poison the proceedings, in open court before sentencing, prosecutor Stavrides described me as ‘The Lord of Darkness.’

Through a series of tunnels worthy of a gothic novel, I was dragged from the court in chains after sentencing to the local jail. It was a dark, filthy place full of recovering drunks, murderers, drug dealers, gang members, pedophiles, and assorted criminals. The Hamptons, where I had been prosecuted for writing about corruption, did not distinguish between killers and journalists. I would be staying at this vermin-infested facility and then transferred to an upstate prison. To do my time. In a class-action lawsuit, the horrendous conditions were described in Butler v Suffolk County Jails which settled for $18 million dollars.

My sentence was four to twelve years as I approached my 69th birthday. One of my triumvirate of attorneys, George Guldi, had already been imprisoned. Another, Tom McVann, was depressed, but he knew the D.A. and had once worked as an Assistant District Attorney. They’d cut a deal for him and he didn’t do any time at all. Ethan Ellner, the third attorney on that illustrious team became the D.A.’s confidential informant, or C.I., and was getting a walk. 

Not only had Ellner lied about me but provided details of his criminal deal with Steve Levy, the County Executive, exchanging title work for campaign cash. Spota got all of the $4.1 million dollars in return for no prosecution or jail time.

I had written about corruption in the D.A. ‘s office and, therefore, was far more dangerous.

“Hey Professor!” I heard from behind me.

“Professor,” came the call again. I turned towards the voice and could see him through rusted metal bars. It was one of the guards, a Correction Officer with his shiny gold star and a smile.

“Yes, sir?” I had quickly learned to respond, with trepidation. Even in my brief career behind bars I knew that being singled out by a CO, as they were called, was not good.

“Professor, what the fuck are you doing here?” he said. “I saw you in court, taking that plea — and I read about it in Newsday. It doesn’t make sense. What the fuck was this about? You stole money from the banks?” He seemed serious. 

“What’d you do, drive up with an armored truck?” 

“How’d you steal $82 million dollars? How was that even possible? And then not go to trial?” He laughed.

I was about to ask him why he believed anything written by Spota’s publicity and hatchet man and then published by Newsday. But, then, I remembered where I was. In the heart of the beast — Suffolk County — where Hamptons money controlled the media. While I had interviewed and written positive articles about the Sheriff, Vincent DeMarco, who ran the prison I was in — Riverhead Jail – counting on him for support would be nothing less than magical thinking.

“I was a mortgage broker,” said the CO, “believe me, I understand what happened.” 

I smiled. Was this guy for real or was this just a set-up — a cop looking for information to use against him?

I started speaking in tongues. Not on purpose. I just couldn’t sync my mind with speech, truth versus coping. The fantasy of being beaten to death lurked. On my way into the jail I’d watched a guy who’d hung himself being removed on a gurney. 

“Well, sir, you know, in 2007, the Investment Banks, CDO’s, synthetic CDOs, credit-default swaps. Liquidity all dried up. The Great Recession had begun. Nothing could be financed or re-financed, foreclosures started…,” I said.

“You know. Everything fell apart — they decided my partners and investors were straw buyers — after the foreclosures started and after the mortgages had been paid. For six years.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” said the cop. “I was making $200 grand a year writing mortgage loans. And, now…,” he waved his arm around with his nightstick in it, as I watched nervously, “this shit.”

“Yes, I can understand, sir,” I said, sympathetically, but cautiously.

As I spoke, I thought about my new neighbor in the adjoining cell.

He was a young black kid who had just been extradited from down south for killing his wife, eating parts of his baby and then storing the uneaten remains of the child in his freezer. I empathized with the guard. I thought of the line in The Shining. “Things could be better Lloyd, things could be a whole lot better.”

“Everything stopped. So, they decided I stole the money from the banks.”

MortgageIt, one of the lenders owned by Deutsche Bank, a source that one of his mortgage brokers located, had even been sued by the Justice Department for a Billion dollars — for mortgage fraud. They settled the case without admitting guilt, criminal or civil, for $203 million dollars. Angelo Mozillo of Countrywide and unwitting shareholders had paid a $67.5 million dollar fine and Mozillo walked — on Long Island where the D.A. had direct control over whether to criminally prosecute the bank for its flagrant fraud. But, that would have been an expensive case. 

Mozillo then sold the company to Ken Lewis at Bank of America for $4 Billion dollars. Included with the sale was a vault full of worthless mortgages. 

Meanwhile, I got three years of bad publicity plus four to twelve years for the $82 million dollars I’d never received. Not to mention the perversion of what actually was on the books and constituted grand larceny. DA Spota bent and twisted the interpretation of that crime until the definition fit the crime and the crime fit the law. Just for me.

By the time I took a plea I was the poster boy for the Great Recession and a valuable target for the D.A. And, of course,  I had destroyed the Hamptons and had “brought the country to its knees.” 

I was the first and only person imprisoned directly as a result of the 2008-2009 Great Recession bank fraud.

“Well,” I said, “at least you have a job. And, I’m here!”

“Okay, Professor,” he said. “I knew they railroaded you. And forced you to take a plea. They had no case, but they were just doing a favor for Spota and his buddies in the Town of Southampton. They’re all crooks. Everyone in the country would be in jail if they really had a case against the borrowers. But, that guy Doyle, who’s one of Spota’s judges – if you hadn’t taken a plea he would have buried you. They jes’ tell’im what to do an’ he does it.” 

“But you shoulda’ seen my office when I was doin’ loans, though.” 

“We had one guy who just made up all of the paperwork. All those for Liar Loans, as they called them. A couple of the borrowers were dead. And, those banks in California? Those guys were all doing drugs. There was a whole crew at WaMu who were snorting methamphetamines, and now they’re saying that it was drug money from the cartels that saved the banks….Well, good luck to you. And, watch out for that guy in the cell next to you.” 

“He’s nuts. Look out he doesn’t take a bite out of you, too,” he laughed and moved on, raking the bars with his baton as he left.

My first four days were spent in a jail cell by myself with a rusted sink and a moldy toilet. Then, suddenly, I was awakened at 4 a.m. one morning for the trip to prison.  I got dressed and was chained to a couple of Spanish guys who were members of MS-13 and then spent several hours crammed into a vehicle driven by two cops who enjoyed insulting inmates. The eight guys in the van, including me, were transported in a six passenger van to the next stop in Fishkill, New York, at a prison known as Downstate. It was euphemistically called a Reception Center. 

My clothing was confiscated, sprayed down for lice, forced to shower, and had my head shaved. We were then brought to a large room that had what appeared to be individual lanes leading to interviewers posing as mental health counselors, followed by several medical examinations. There was a lot of sphincter-checking for hidden items. 

There were many reminders that no one was permitted to speak and constant questions about whether anyone wanted to kill themselves. 

I met a few interesting characters along the way and, fortunately, spent no more than a few hours with any of them. I’d already decided that I would try to take mental notes and later commit my experiences to paper. I knew that despite the horrendous experiences I’d already been through and more that I now faced — that I had a unique opportunity to describe some of the inner workings of what was euphemistically called the criminal justice system – from the inside. Not the intellectualized, Hollywood version. 

I waited in a large holding cell while the tests and interviews were done which was shared by twenty to thirty other prisoners as they left and returned. Anyone needing to use the toilet was referred to a metal bowl cemented to the floor in the middle of that large cell — surrounded by guys sitting around with nothing to do but watch each other and argue among themselves. I was briefly reminded of my Stella Adler Theater Studio stint studying Method acting. Shitting on command for an audience took practice. 

Especially, without toilet paper.

Copyright 2018 Gulag

“Never trust a writer who hasn’t been indicted or imprisoned.”

— Donald Clark MacPherson

If you have sympathy for the NY Times journalists who’ve been served by the DOJ let me tell you that there are worse things. Such as a search warrant, an indictment by a grand jury operated by a criminal (like former Suffolk County DA Thomas Spota and associates) and a poisoned court system with endless deep pockets and total media control to put you in prison. The Southampton Press was glowingly complicit in this criminal enterprise that targeted me. I had the pleasure of just such a revenge prosecution at the hands of Hamptons D.A. Thomas Spota, who was ultimately prosecuted and imprisoned himself. They extorted a plea deal from me so I could stop them from torturing my family. The Suffolk County D.A.s office is still a Hamptons criminal enterprise.

But it’s really a money game. While the current administration is hammering people they’re not happy with poor schmucks are not protected by BIG money (like the NY Times). In my situation, I’d been writing about the corruption in Southampton, Westhampton Beach and in Riverhead and Hauppauge where the District Attorney has offices. Like the real estate and political ploys that still go on, primarily in Westhampton Beach and Southampton, if you don’t have the money, no matter whether you’re innocent or not, they’ll fuck you and you’ll do time.

All of the notoriety that the midwest newspaper got — the Marion County Record — over the search of its offices and the owner’s home and searches done on Bolton, Bannon, Michael Cohen, Flynn, Manafort, Stone — pale by comparison to the fucking I got from D.A. Thomas Spota and his prosecutor Thalia Stavrides, a former sadist with power who should still be prosecuted.

Whatever. So here’s what it’s really like doing almost five years for exposing corruption in a Suffolk County jail (where inmates won an $18 million dollar civil rights lawsuit — Butler v. Suffolk County Jails) and in an upstate New York prison with killers, drug dealers, mobsters, assassins, pedophiles, rapists, bikers, cartel members and gangs. If you’re doing real time with no back-up and no money it’s dangerous — especially when ill at seventy years of age as I was. Enjoy my book, Prisoner of the Hamptons for a real taste of what it was like. Genuine True Crime genre. Later this year my novel about how they did what they did will be published. Maybe you’ll learn something about American justice and the prison system. Or, perhaps you’ll enjoy what you’re missing.

It’s not “Orange is the New Black.” It’s far worse.

Neither this blog nor the magazine are non-profit. Donations are accepted: Post Office Box 1032, New York, NY 10013.

“Fighting for peace is like screwing for virginity.”

― George Carlin

Don’t worry, it’s all under control. Not ours. But it is under control. Maybe.

The problem is — few want to face the fact that we now live in a faded democracy. And, the only solution, for this moment, is to fend for yourself. We sit and watch the theft going on in front of our faces. That’s what happens when the wheels come off — as they already have with the help of SCOTUS. When the politician-thieves see an opportunity, as they all now see, it’s fight like hell to take money as our Dear Leader is doing. All of our politicians are now directed like a laser beam trying to accomplish one thing: getting elected — or re-elected. That’s it folks. That’s the whole game. Nothng else matters. And, it’s why you can never get anything done. Because they don’t give a shit about you. Democrat, Independent, Republican, Socialist, or Nihilist.

Of course the most attractive way to describe our current philosophical zeitgeist is first, to ignore all politicians. We need to reflect upon where our billionaire oligarchs have led us in the service of their personal runaway greed and technology fetish. And, who they’ve purchased along the way to extend their control. This has ensured that the flock of sheep which we’ve become realizes that we are what they have envisioned for us. But will eventually bite them in the ass.

The philosophy of political Nihilism is like Entropy. The power of politics which we are now living through is, more than anything else, stupid. Destroying institutions, bureaucracies, accomplishments, art, music, a sense of well-being, justice, equality, morality — cannot be replaced only by obsessive destructiveness. It can only destroy, not build anything like the America we have had.

So sit tight, pay the escalating price of food and gas — and wait until you are asked to help build something. Right now, there is no such talk because building requires intelligence and leadership. Maybe you’ll help. Maybe you won’t.

We’re all reachng our ‘Fuck You’ point for anyone requiring our help.

The SoHo Journal 25th Anniversary magazine has recently resumed publishing and “Prisoner of the Hamptons” will be available on Kindle in the near future. Neither this blog nor the magazine are non-profit but donations are accepted at Post Office Box 1032, New York, NY 10013.

“Do what you love and let it kill you”

— Henry Bukowski

Since the Pedophile-in-Chief has a green light (and a green reflectging pool) to do anything including rig markets, lie, cheat, steal, murder — it is instructive to pay attention to that old homily by Tip O’Neill which stated that “All politics is local.”

If that’s really true we’re all in trouble because downtown is a political cesspool. Even with Democratic, liberal claims BEFORE the midterms.

Let’s talk about the current state of rent-stabilized apartments in Manhattan. We have the Buildings Department, HPD and the courts. The Buildings Departent is tasked with the physical condition of structures, HPD is responsible for maintaining apartments and reviewing landlord responsiveness and the courts are, of course, where lawsuits, non-payment actions and evictions play out.

Our current Mayor Mamdani was elected with strong support from housing activists. So, I sent some information about my landlord who managed to use the courts to evict 95% of the rent-stabilized tenants in the building. That did not help a tenant who recently WON her appeal but was nevertheless evicted by the court because she could not pay the landlord’s legal fees for trying to get rid of her. And, by the way, she had been the head of the former Tenant’s Association. You see a connection here? Are you following this? Does it look like maybe the landliord, who spent $200,000 to evict one tenant, maybe bought himself a judge through the law firm?

Let’s back up.

I myself managed to survive seven years in court with the same landlord — who gossip has it — stole the building from the former owner’s family WHILE I was in prison. Yes, for shooting my mouth off as a journalist and being the target of a vindictive prosecution by the Hamptons D.A. Thomas Spota and his buddies in Southampton — whom I exposed for corruption. He recently was released from prison. But it didn’t stop my landlord and his corrupt flunkies from trying to help them indict and prosecute me so that I’d be evicted. And then interfered with my Parole in a prison system that makes racism look good. Torture is the operative concept in DOCCS.

The building now is mostly market rate tenants who never complain because the landlord does not have to renew their leases — and who retaliates in spades. Especially, for telling the Truth. Their law firms (Belkin. Burden & Novick Edelstein) managed to empty the building of rent-regulated tenants. Try paying rent PLUS legal fees, folks!

Mamdani are you listening? Does this sound like a criminal enterprise endorsed and supported by the City? And, Buildings Department is a corrupt entity which helps landlords defy the law and accepts cash. HPD is corrupt and is staffed by idiots whose inspectors barely speak English and enforce NOTHING. Cea Weaver ignored my book about this corrupt landlord.

The Community Board under Tobi Bergman ignored my direct complaints about this criminal enterpise in Hudson Square — and then moved to Greenwich Village after bagging $20 million for his neighborhood SoHo building. Now he’s telling us how our area should be developed.

The Department of Innovation and Technology which is responsible for the 311 system is a fraud. We have not had access to 311 system for years. With no 311 there can be no complaints.

And, the courts work for landlords in Manhattan. Through law firms and party politics.

I contacted WNYC to report this story of a landlord that permitted constant illegal AirBnB sublets, violations of American Disabilities Act, apartments where Sex Trafficking was occurring because one of the landlords was involved, where seniors and disabled tenants are harassed, and where it is possible that the building was stolen.

But, with big money — especially if it’s stolen — Nothing Works.

In the next issue: Westhampton Beach Village. The most corrupt village in the Hamptons.

— Donald. Clark MacPherson

The SoHo Journal 25th Anniversary magazine has recently resumed publishing and “Prisoner of the Hamptons” will be available on Kindle in the near future. Neither this blog nor the magazine are non-profit but donations are accepted at Post Office Box 1032, New York, NY 10013.

“Do what you love and let it kill you.”

Charles Bukowski

As the hostilities play out, I’m reminded of my childhood in Brooklyn where the gangsters would hang out on the corner in suits and fedoras discussing business. It was 1957 — before the Appalachin meeting to pick a new Capo di tutti capi Vito Genovese, and exposed the wiseguys running through the woods. They had no fear about doing things openly and in public because according to Hoover, the head of the FBI, there was no such thing as la Cosa Nostra or even organized crime. Those of us who lived in Brooklyn knew better.

Last Exit to Brooklyn made more sense to those of us living there as the Verrazano bridge was being completed where they all escaped — to Staten Island.

We now live in a gangster-ridden America where the illegal has become legal, thievery is now a government contract where crime depends upon which party you belong to. When the crime boss dictates who runs the federal government’s agencies only those who oppose him — or criminals who work with him (whom he has appointed) will be pardoned if they’re caught. Or if he doesn’t get his vig. Can you imagine suing the IRS?

So, for example, we can talk talk about the city agencies in Manhattan, who no longer protect tenants and are run by political hacks that commit crimes themselves. It’s a redundant concept. I remember the Buildings Department trying to push me out of my apartment because I had done work on it with the permission of the owner (like all of the lofts in SoHo), who then wound up in foreclosure and passed on the building to an individual who owned the unpaid second mortgage. He became the owner before handing off the building to a couple of thieves posing as dentists and who had their eyes on the family’s portfolio or real estate. They used the HPD, Buildings Department, Community Board, District Attorney’s office, and a slew of landlord law firms like Belkin Burden and Novick Edelstein to deprive me and my family of everything that we had — and they’re still at it. Mandami has done nothing. So, welcome to the gangster economy where crime is legal, theft is good, and lies are Truth.

The Saudi’s bombed us on 9-11 and now do business with the President’s son-in-law, Putin is our friend, Traitors are given pardons, and pedophilia is the new IN look. The king needs a war so good luck!

The United States of America was the protector of the free world. Now it’s a gangster economy and the thieves run the show with impunity. Believe the reverse of everything that you are told.

— Donald Clark MacPherson

Note: Prisoner of the Hamptons — the True Crime novel about doing time in a New York State prison will be available in May.

“If freedom of speech is taken away, then dumb and silent we may be led, like sheep to the slaughter.” 

— George Washington

Try telling the Truth and see what it gets you.

Let me tell you. Not much. I’m reminded of it every morning when I put my hands in my pockets looking for change to buy a Dunkin, no more donuts. My 5 year old stretch pseudo-suit pants have zippers since the jeans I had after getting out of prison are wearing out. So the jacket from my last suit BEFORE I went to prison now matches the stretch pants that are wearing out from AFTER I got out of prison. The former D.A. in the Hamptons, Thomas Spota, got out recently after they stopped reading about my exposing of corruption. He got 5 years, did 2, and now has a job and $17 million in cash. He collected $9000/mo. IN prison and his buddy Suffolk County Chief of Police Jimmy Burke (Jimmy the King Gus Garcia-Roberts) who did 4 years for beating the shit out of a prisoner who stole kiddy porn, sex toys and drugs from Burke’s car, was picked up after he got out of prison. He solicited sex in a Long Island park from an undercover cop. He still gets a healthy pension. I get nothing — not even an agent.

Let’s face it. Truth doesn’t pay. It certainly won’t get you a job or a book deal. It might get you prison. But we mostly all know or suspect that. That’s why we live in a corrupt Trump society. No morality, no conscience. No Truth. No agent. Only fake politicians lying to us and stealing from us.

After writing about REAL prison life, writing about the criminals who still run the Hamptons, publishing myself, and then defending against it with a shitty lawyer, no money and a Trump-styled vindictive prosecution — unlike our D.C. friends with cash — I had to take a plea.

It’s all in my books; Prisoner of the Hamptons and A Civil Death. I just finished another but that’s only about a Manhattan landlord who kills the owner’s family.

You’d think that it would be easy to find an agent and a publisher. Let me tell you. Crime is easy. Publishing the Truth about true crime is hard.

No, you can’t always get what you want
You can’t always get what you want
You can’t always get what you want
But if you try sometime, you’ll find
You get what you need.

— The Rolling Stones