“I worked myself up from nothing to a state of extreme poverty.”

Monkey Business (1931)

For those of you taking time out from the current zeitgeist after voting wherein our lazy hazy days of summer are like a case of PTSD in The New America — we can relax, as we look around at the zero sum game of politics versus mental health. But take a few pages out of the fun of prison life with me. Here, from my delightful sojourn of nearly five years with the Best of the Best, I went from daily fears to admiring the happiness of others — especially after having been prosecuted by a corrupt DA (who has just been released from prison himself). Relax. The Town of Southampton has been prosecuting immigrants, liberals and journalists for years. But having been a 70 year old white guy in a cesspool of mental illness in a NY State prison conjures up wonderful memories of what life is like on the inside. Fears of being picked up off the street and sent to Guantanamo or CECOT diminish when you realize that now we’re all in the same boat. Don’t be concerned — it’s not that bad inside. In fact, it might feel familiar!

Here’s an excerpt from my time inside as I was preparing for Parole and being coached by a biker who was getting out.

Copyright: Confessions from the Gulag.

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July 21st, 2015

One week to Merit Board, 21 days for Mike to go home and 49 days for my bunkie. Time moved ever so slowly. I sat and repeated lines, practicing what I’d say if certain things were brought up at the Board. I needed to have immediate answers with regard to every aspect of my “crime” and what had happened.

No hesitation, eyes looking directly at the camera and video screen with the panel, hands flat on the table in front of me, and sitting up straight. And, of course, charmingly — or, at least personably, as the attorney recommended. I was advised to speak up and not be nervous while showing remorse and emotion to support my contention that I was deeply, deeply ashamed of what I had done.

Especially, what I’d done to those banks!

“So, were you the Mastermind?” said Mike, who was, for today, one of the Commissioners cross-examining me while standing in the doorway of the Rec room.

“I was one of the players who was a facilitator, a manager of the scheme. I brought  people who had good credit to buy property. I provided employment information, verified income and colluded with others in perpetrating this fraud.”

“So,” said Mike with a smile, “were you the Mastermind?”

“I was one of several people among mostly lawyers and a former Assistant District Attorney, who did legal work for the Kennedy’s — including a Legislator, and a title attorney who handled Suffolk County work for Steve Levy, the County Executive. My primary attorney’s own client, Mike Belesis, was a builder and he introduced me to a mortgage broker who worked directly with his own appraiser. I brought people who wanted to purchase property.”

“Well, were you or were you not the Mastermind?” 

“Oh, sure, I told everyone, including the attorneys, the A.D.A., a broker, a builder, and his appraiser, all what to do. Everything was my fault. I was the Mastermind.”

We took a break and talked about the fact that Mike was going home in 21 days. One of the questions HE had been asked in his own Parole interview had to do with the obvious connections to a biker gang. Up and down both of his arms and across his chest and on his neck, were tattoos depicting various, clearly identifiable connections to the gang. His hands too, when he made a fist just above his knuckles were also tattooed.

“I’m done with that life,” he said, “but it’s not gonna be easy.”

“Why?”

“It’s like the Mob. Hard to get out. They think you’re gonna be a rat and talk about what wen’ on.”

“Yeah, but that’s history.”

“Some things aren’t,” he said, with a straight  face.

“I see. Okay, don’t tell me any more, Say no more, say no more.’”

Some crimes have no statute of  limitations.

“Yeah, an’ with that RICO shit goin’ on now. Lissen even the President of the whole organization cut a deal with the Feds.” 

“Really?” I said.

“Yeah, it was a big thing. Guy’s gotta be in his early 60’s an’ he makes a deal and sings like a bird. The Feds musta’ had ‘im fa onea those 25 or 30 year deals. So, he cut a deal. Only, he STILL got 15 years with the deal.” 

“Jesus.”

“Yeah, so now he’s in Federal  prison, he’s a rat, he’s got 15 years to do and the gang wan’s ‘im, the Mexicans wan’ ‘im, an’ so do the other bikers in prison wan’ ‘im. He’ s neva  gonna make it.”

The Latin gangs, the Trinitarios, Latin kings, Bloods, Crips, Mexican Mafia, MS-13 — some of whom were my new close friends and associates — didn’t give a shit. But the White bangers, whom I also knew, did.

They did not like Rats.