“Society gets the criminals it deserves.”

–Emma Goldman

When I was released from prison for the Revenge Proseution which I’ve written about — and which is still being stonewalled by the current Suffolk County District Attorney and protected by the Town of Southampton, I had to look around me. I became well known in prison for helping inmates protect themselves from attorneys. It wasn’t just inmates who I’d had to worry about. They too had to be concerned with attorneys looking to rip them off.

Let me give you an example.

One of my former New York attorneys, Jonathan Warner of the law firm Warner and Scheuerman, has a client by the name of Eli Maor, a suspected money-launderer and foreign national operating out of a stotefront called Sprint Real Estate in Brooklyn. One wonders what the Sprint part really means. Under the guise of “helping me” after coming off prison and after having been targeted by the DA Thomas Spota, who was operating a criminal enterprise out of his office and did three years in prison — who is now buying a pardon — I was thrown to the dogs. The Warner/Maor dogs.

It’s taken the CIB two years to decide whether Spota was FUCKING everyone. Long after Steve Levy, the former Suffolk County Executive, Spota partner Christopher McPartland, former Chief of Police Burke (who Garcia-Roberts wrote a book about) — but D.A. Tierney’s office can’t see it!

Spota’s corrupt assistant was a prosecutor by the name of Thalia Staviides who along with Probation Officer Jennifer Karp and Director Gerard did the fraudulent dirty work and regularly suborned perjury as a matter of course to extort pleas from slobs with no money like me — since no one was, or is, policing that opertion. If that office targets you, you’re fucked, even, or especially, if you’re innocent. None of that matters in the Spota/Trump era. We’re talking about Destitution Justice where the only doubt is about how long it wil take a corrupt politician to destroy you financially. Like Comey’s three prosecutions, like the assault on Kelly. Like my revenge prosecution. Sometimes it’s over in a year or two paying lawyers $2000/hr. Sometimes, as in my case it’s taken 15 years, the theft of all of my assets, the inability to ever work, and destruction of your health.

For peanuts, I was divested of all of my remaining property in a well-planned, elder-abuse scam — leading to my current status of being only temporarily housed — thanks to Warner and Scheuerman, Maor, Spota & Stavrides — and the crowd in the Town of Southampton — Heaney, Betts, Lombardo and Pasca in Westhampton Beach — you know, those corrupt racist Hamptons enclaves.

Here’s the problem — the courts don’t give a shit about seniors, the disabled, or those who have been scammed and robbed. Cash is King in America.

Enter my landlord, Michael Saperstein and his family, who at the very least stole the building I live in and worked with former D.A. Spota and prosecutor Thalia Stavrides where she still works for D.A. Tierney. The Conviction Integrity Unit — was theoretically created to reverse fraudulent convictions MANY years later — if at all — to try to remove the smell that D.A. Thomas Spota left. It’s all protected by stolen money, big law firms and political power while we, the seniors, disabled, poor and disenfranchised — do the suffering for them.

The law firms and corrupt lawyers like Warner, Scheuerman, Spota, and Stavrides, are protected by money and power and continue to fuck the little people. Thieves and fraudsters like Maor who stole millions from me — while disabled and a senior — protected by Albany, law enforcement, the courts — and corrupt lawyers. This thief and his lawyers are protected by the Bar Association in Manhattan and in Suffolk County. Only lawyers who steal from their escrow accounts ever get disbarred. Otherwise, the Bar in Manhattan or Suffolk County just give you the greasy finger. It’s “Fuck You” if they even respond to your complaints.

Don’t trust your lawyer and don’t trust agencies like the Department of Investigations, HPD, Buildings Department, the Manhattan D.A. the, Bar Association, or the Community Board. They’re all full of shit. As one of my lawyers once said to me: Nothing Works! This the new America the Fraudulent.

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As a bit of comic relief, here is some conversatiomal small talk from Gulag which occurred in the real Big House among real mobsters. I could trust them:

“I like to listen. I have learned a great deal from listening carefully. Most people never listen.”

— Ernest Hemingway

June 27th, 2014

“Fuggedaboudit,” said Bada-Bing, as Al called Mark, the overweight 62 year old sitting on the bleachers in the Gym.

Both Mark and Al, originally from the Bronx and Brooklyn, respectively, had found each other in prison, and now were trying to incorporate me into their little coterie of mobster aficionados primarily because he was white.

“You know, we don’ belong here. Y’know dat doncha?” Mark said to me and Al who were sitting on the bleachers about 3 feet apart. There was prison decorum. Don’t get too close. And, you never say Goodbye, or I’ll see you later, if you get up and leave. No niceties.

I looked at Mark. He’d been told this by others here, from inmates to COs.

“Yeah, well?” I said. I had my opinion about that. While I agreed with him it wasn’t for the reason he had in mind.

“Really,” he said, “we don’ belong here. I mean, you hear about the guy dey jes let go. He was in for 20 years for murda’ an’ -­ no, I’m sorry, attemptid murda. He tried to choke his mutha. So, they let him out and he goes home, sees his mutha, and he fuckin’ chokes her to death I mean, what the fuck were they thinkin’?”

“No shit?” I said.

“Yeah,” said Mark. “Okay, so I heisted a few things,” shaking his head, “but dese guys are killers, rapists, pedophiles, an’ ‘ey’re keepin’ US here?”

“Whole system is fucked up,” said Al. “Y’know dey got me so twisted. Wanned me to do ASAT. I sez I got no drinkin’ problem, no drug problem, an’ you wan’ me to do a drug program. What’s wrong with dis pictya’?”

“I know. The system is corrupt. They just want bodies,” I said.

“An’ dat Massey broad who runs the program, she’s a lunatic. You gotta agree wid her or they fin’ somethin’ to hold against you. Listen, fuckem.’ I’m just gonna max out, go back to Long Island, pack my shit, find my girlfren’, and move to North Carolina. Fuck it.”

Mark said, “Y’know, I was thinkin’ bout Charles the otha’ day.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, you know, he was doin’ what I do.”

“Equipment?” I asked.

“Yeah, like CATs, y’know?”

“Cats?”

“Yeah. One size fits all,” he laughed. “Caterpillars.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, y’know, Like, there’s no key. Mosta dem have no keys, y’know, s’contruction equipment. That’s why they fence ’em in.  Jes’ push the button and you take off.”

“Lots a dem’re worth a couple hundred thousan’.”

“So, that’s what Charles was doing?”

“Yeah, he was doin’ business with the mob in Yonkers. Just gets into a yard, starts up a front loader or some otha’ piece and jes drives off.”

“What kind of money is that?” I asked.

“Oh, a coupla hundred’s not hard. But, y’know you only get maybe twenny pacen’ on what it’s worth. Lotta risk and decent money, but not like drugs or anythin’.”

“There’s that asshole, Law,” said Al, watching one of the COs that had a reputation for being irrational. I knew him from the Law Library. He wasn’t irrational. It was much simpler  than that. He was an inbred, North Country idiot. Plus he was vindictive and abusive.

“I know, just stay away from him,” I said.

“Reminds me a the Probation woman, y’know who did the pre-sentencing report? She axes me if I did drugs or alcohol. I say no. So, she writes that I have a cocaine habit. I mean, what the fuck? She fuckin’ made it up. Now, that’s why Massey wants me to do ASAT. Go figure?”

“They want $30,000 per body.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Al, “they’re such fuckin’ criminals.”

“Yeah. So I’ve heard.”

There were few left in the Gym. The “Early Go Back” allowed  most of the 30 or so inmates to leave and now only 10 or so guys were left in the Gym. No one was jogging and there were only 4 or 5 left in the weight room. The two COs, Law and Aguirre, were leaning back, eating as usual, their bellies prominently displayed as they sat reading on their special lounge chairs in the corner of the Court. There was a small piece of carpet under a table where they had the I.D. holder, used for inmates to place their cards in when they went into the weight room.

The table with carpet under it and special lounge chairs where no one but COs could sit was the “office” which the two COs used to keep an eye on everything. Periodically, one of them would get up and walk into the bathroom to check things out — and did the same for the weight room where guys were lifting weights.

It was a sign of macho behavior to pick up and literally toss dumbbells around weighing upwards of 100 pounds each.

“So, how many times you been in prison, Al?” I asked.

“This is my 4th bid,” he said. “An’ I ain’t comin’ back,” he laughed. “This is it, for me, I’m gettin’ too old for this shit.”

“How long each time?”

“Ah, I caught a 1 to 3, a 2 to 4, another 1 to 3, and now this, a 1 an’ a half ta 4 an’ a half. It’s bullshit. I tol’ you — I spilled some paint thinner and lit it ona groun’ an’ a cop nailed me for attempted arson. I says, ‘what’s th’big deal,’ an’ he says, ‘its less’n 20 feet from a buildin’, so I  gotta take ya in.’”

“Really?” I said, “for just a couple of feet you got prison?”

“Yeah, ain’t that a fuckin’ shame?” he laughed.

“Well, you’ll get out of here.”

“Yeah,” he said, “better’n the guy in my dorm.”

“What?”

“Guy in my dorm done 40 years a’ready and jus’ got hit at the Board again.”

“Holy shit,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “Innerestin’ guy tho’.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I hear he’s a serial killer. Supposed ta have raped a girl an’ killed ‘er, den raped ‘er  mother and killed her too.” He shook his head. “How do you figure? Why’d he haf ta kill ‘em?

“Y’know, I mean, I can unnerstan’ rapin’ ‘em, but killin’ ’em too?”

I was listening to someone who apparently felt that it would have been okay to have raped a mother and daughter. But, this was abhorrent because it was a twofer killing. There were some standards here, I mused.

“Yeah, I guess I see your point,” I said, trying to figure out what the appropriate response was to such gruesome crimes.

“Guy used to put ads in the paper to find women.”

“What?”

“The guy used to put ads in the newspaper and get women to ansa’. Den he’d drive ’em to otha’ places, like Florida. He’d kill ’em afta he raped ‘em.”

“You mean he’d advertise for women who wanted to drive to Florida and rape them when they got there?”

“Yeah, I guess he needed someone with a car. He raped ’em afta he got there. Didn’t wanna do it til he got the ride, y’know?”

Apparently, it was about convenience.

“Is that the guy they call ‘Animal’?”

“Maybe, I dunno.'”

“He’s got a lot of bodies, I hear.”

“Yeah,” smiled. “Good artist, though.”

“Artist?”

“Oh, yeah. Does beautiful drawings. I was gonna’ buy one but he wanned fifty bucks for one a dem. I’m not payin’ 50 bucks. But, who knows, could be worth somethin’ in a few years. Paints really beoo-tiful flowers.”

“I see. Maybe he’ll have a show in SoHo someday?”

Al missed my comment and continued. “But, y’know what’s weird is the books he has in his cube,” said Al.

“What do you mean?”

Al shook his head. “Y’know that book, ‘Silence a th’ Lambs?'”

“Yeah.”

“Well, he’s got dat and a few books about serial killers. Weird. He’s weird. I stay away from ‘im.”

“Really?” I said. “Maybe he’s just studying?”

“Yeah, he’s creepy though. An’ every once in a while some detective comes up and talks ta him. Axes ‘im if he wants ta help ‘em find any more bodies. An’ he always tells ‘em ‘I don’ know what you’re talkin’ about.’ Weird.”

“Guess he’s got a lot more bodies buried elsewhere.”

“Weird,” said Al, shaking his head. “But, you know, dey tol’ him. You ain’t never gettin’ out. Y’know?'”

“The Parole Board told him that?”

“Tha’s what he sez.”

Mark, City, BadaBing came over from the weight room as Al finished talking about his dorm-mate Animal.

“I dunno’, though, 40 years in ‘is place…” said Al.

“Forty years?” asked Mark. “How about that guy Madoff? Got 150 years. Now they should do somethin’ about that. What’s the point a’givin’ someone 150 years?”

“Yeah,” said Al, “dey put ‘im in Florence where Gotti was.”

Neither was true. But I’d learned to ignore many comments.

“I’d heard that,” said Mark. “That’s dat Super-max in Colorado, ain’t it. Place is unnagroun’. No windows, nothin’. S’where dey put drug lords an’ terrawrists. Heard that Madoff complained an’ said, ‘What am I doin’ here wid dese people, which, I can unnerstan’ ’cause, hey, it was only money.”

“That’s what Nixon said.”

“Huh?” said Mark, staring at me strangely.

“I’m NOT a crook,” he said.