“An honest politician is one who when he is bought will stay bought.”

— Simon Cameron

I distinctly remember looking across my desk in the prison Law Library where I worked for four years, at Charlie — known as ‘The Pussy Killer’ among the inmates. He’d graduated from the NYPD cadet school, married a Correction Officer, and then, after a contentious divorce he kept tabs on her. Apparently, like a mobster, he believed she was still his property and visited her until she had a date one night. After her new bed partner escaped out the window, onto the fire escape, Charlie placed his .357 magnum between his ex-wife’s legs and emptied the gun into her vagina. He then wrapped her in a rug, placed her in the front seat of his car and dropped her off into the East River — while she was still breathing. I knew him after he’d already done 29 years for first degree murder with depraved indifference. I found him to be difficult at times but I had no choice about dealing with Charlie. D.A. Thomas Spota, A.D.A. Thalia Stravides, and Supervisor Patrick “Skip” Heaney, saw to that.

Charlie’s friends in prison, like Animal, who dismembered his victims after raping them — or the Carnival Killer, who picked up young girls, raped them and then buried them in his backyard — were my new, daily cellmates, but not my chosen associates. I had been sent to prison for nearly five years because the Suffolk County District Attorney and his prosecutor, sought to make me their chosen target. Thomas Spota and Stavrides were operating a criminal enterprise, namely the Southampton Town’s Supervisor and Town Attorney’s office which I had been exposing for years. And, I had been brought to their attention by several members of the Southampton Town and Westhampton Beach political class for trying to solve the Affordable Housing crisis that has been rife with racism, corruption and outright theft for many years. Huge amounts of money was being squirreled away in the Town’s slush fund known as The Preservation Fund and I simply pointed it out.

I had purchased dozens of new houses from a builder in Southampton during the expansive, CDO-driven economy written about by Michael Lewis in The Big Short — and rented these properties to immigrants, Latinos, Blacks, poor Whites and other hard-working individuals — while writing about corruption in my magazine The SoHo Journal, and in my two blogs.

While I was solving the Affordable Housing crisis by providing new homes, writing about corruption in the Town of Southampton, and paying mortgages diligently I did not count on the degree of animosity and criminality in the Southampton Town Attorneys Office, its Supervisor’s office, or in the District Attorney’s Office under Thomas Spota and Stavrides.

Even I was surprised when Spota and his Assistant District Attorneys were later prosecuted and imprisoned themselves.

However, I had been prosecuted for Grand Larceny — stealing from banks that had offered No income, No Asset, No credit check, No money down loans. Nevertheless, the loans were paid on time until the Town of Southampton sent around the Code Enforcement Police, under the direction of David Betts and Supervisor “Skip” Heaney to tell the tenants NOT to pay rent. This plan was to force all of my property and property owned by my partners and me (for writing about their corruption), — which was rented to the people they hated, into foreclosure. The Great Recession, the Southampton Attorney’s Office, the corrupt assistance from Westhampton Beach Village, did the rest.

I was given a choice. Agree to take a plea to Grand Larceny for $50 mlllion dollars for stealng money frm those poor banks which had molested America’s economy and go to prison — or we’ll make sure you are evicted from your New York apartkment and your wife will go to prison and your children will be wards of the State.

Meanwhile, Spota used one of my attorneys to purloin $4.1 million dollars from Steve Levy, the County Executive and convinced him to resign. Why? Because one of my attorneys was paying Levy off for title work. He and Spota entered into a non-prosecution agreement and my attorney Ethan Ellner was allowed to walk away from everything.

I was sent to prison.

But Ellner was stealing froim the immigrants. He stole money from them and arranged loans they couldn’t afford.

Ellner received no jail time for lying about the purchases I’d made to help the poor find housing. I rented new homes to them. But, I was the criminal. Not the banks, not the politicians, not the Code Enforcement, not the Town Attorneys not the Supervisor of Southampton, not DA Spota or Stavrides.

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But, in a recent Newsday article, an investor has been accused of stealing and defrauding immigrants, Latinos, poor people — in the Hamptons:

“Hamptons real estate scam allegations mounted for years before state action…

“The accusations against him, first reported by Newsday in May, are one of the latest examples of alleged real estate scams disproportionately affecting Latino immigrants. Since 2016, at least 17 buyers have sued Michael O’Sullivan, alleging fraud or breach of contract in deals in which they paid over $5 million, according to a Newsday investigation. At least half the plaintiffs are Latino, including eight who say English is not their first language, according to court documents and attorney statements.Some buyers waited years for deeds that were never filed, while others said they were unaware their properties were in foreclosure.

…He was told by the district attorney’s office that it saw the cases as a civil matter.

Tania Lopez, a spokeswoman for the Suffolk County District Attorney’s office, declined to comment.”

In other words, folks, if you’re not conducting a Vindictive Prosecution to punish Freedom of Speech in the face of defending against corruption, it’s a Civil Matter. You can search apartments, publications, raid houses without a warrant, and imprison landlords — if you feel like it in the Hamptons!

Apparently, it was all really about how much money Spota and Stavrides could steal when they thought they could make millions from me, as they did with Steve Levy during the three years they delayed my case to torture me and my family, poison the jury pool, destroy my reputation, steal all of my assets, and connect with the criminals who owned the building I and my family lived in. It destroyed my health and damaged the health of my family.

But I had no money to fight them. I was too busy providing affordable housing and paying mortgages.

My actions were apparently not just a civil matter because I wasn’t paying off the District Attorney.

_______________________________________________________________________________

Donald Clark MacPherson True Crime novels: Prisoner of the Hamptons, A Civil Death in the Hamptons & Murder in SoHo

“Who is to decide which is the grimmer sight: withered hearts, or empty skulls?”
― Honoré de Balzac

 

Do you really give a shit about your neighbor?

Schadenfreude is not really a new concept? How about racism? Liberalism? Democracy?

As a friend of mine said recently, Conservatives have always hated the idea of equality or Fair play. It’s always been, take what you can get, fuck the Blacks and screw the immigrants — even when that meant italians and the Irish arriving by the boatload. This is not a kind or tolerant society.

Take the Hamptons, for instance — that lily-white bastion of New York escapees who located a Shangri-La near the beach where they could set up shop and rip off their own heritage. Most of the residents in the Town of Southampton, for example, came from families in Queens, Brooklyn the Bronx and Staten Island –with a few escapees from Manhattan who saw how Grand Theft works in practice, for example. Of course, now that generational progress has occurred, their children, card-carrying members of the Suffolk County Civil Service long-con stand on principle, not just Bridgehampton potato farmer families.

So, it was never a question of having to wait for the current environment of a police state mentality to surface. It was always there. Now, however, the gloves have come off all across America. Apparently we hate and distrust everyone and have been trying to hide our dislike of Blacks, Gays, Latinos, Democrats, Women, Transgenders and all Immigrants — except for Russians and others with lots of cash. Except, we wear masks now so that the real reason for past pretense of humanity need not be pretended any longer. We don’t, apparently really like anyone. It’s all always been about optics. Not just Conservatives, but Democrats, Liberals, Magas, and Whites. All bullshit, all the time.

Take the Supervisor of the Town of Southampton, Maria Moore, for instance, who recently sued The Shinnecock Indian Nation for Freedom of Speech — over signage.

I could have warned the Indians about that, who are mostly Black, since Africans took over the tribe when the redskins died out. After all it was the Town of Southampton that pursued me for writing about corruption and racism. Why should they get a pass? If it were up to the Republican Party, the party of Trump, Code Enforcement, the Southampton Secret Police, would just arrest them. Optics, baby! It’s still somewhat the name of the game — standing in for morality in this Best of all possible worlds!. Patrick Heaney of course, the former Supervisor of Southampton, and his Code Enforcement Police were in operation long before ICE became a popular form of Secret Police. They pushed the criminal D.A Thomas Spota and his prosecutor Stavrides to pursue what is known as Civil Death against me for writing about the corrupt Supervisor and criminal Town Attorneys operating out of that office — sitting atop more than $2 Billion dollars in purloined transfer tax money, known euphemistically as The Preservation Fund. It’s money taken from New Yorkers buying houses in the Fabulous Hamptons where you can get arrested for writing avout criminal politicians. Moore left Westhampton Beach after running out of development deals to enrich some of her local friends on the Zoning Board, Building Department, Village Trustees, Village Attorney and real estate investors. In Westhampton Beach Village, the new Most Corrupt Village in the Hamptons. A place where you pay to get any deal.

Screw the little people! Who needs affordable housing anyway?

But it’s not just the Hamptons that has foisted this little-hidden immorality. SoHo suffers from another perverse sort of predilection. Elected politicians serve their personal fiefdoms downtown, like Assemblymember Deborah Glick and Brian Kavanagh and Community Board #2 which has all but ignored SoHo — except for pandering to the bike fascists, Transportation Alternatives, the SoHo BID and the Hudson Square BID people — and ignore Seniors and the Disabled and perpetually line their pockets at the expense of residents. CB2 is so disinterested in the lives of non-members that I described a sex-trafficking operation run by my landlord to the Board Chairman and was laughed at.

Numerous accidents have occurred here downtown as well, hurting or killing residents. Criminal behavior by influential real estate interests are ignored by politicians and CB2. But nothing is done. Even Alvin Bragg’s press sidekick Fife and his A.D.A’s don’t give a shit about SoHo.

It is the morality of cash. In the Hamptons, the politicians are so obvious its not even necessary to point the finger. In fact, when Heaney was Supervisor they found cash in an envelope on the front seat of his car and they did nothing. In Westhampton Beach the Village Attorney Anthony Pasca has lied in legal proceedings to win cases for Village real estate interests and his law firm. In SoHo, its done by approved deals, secret, rushed votes, or intimidation as was the case when Bob Rinaolo threatened Community Board members to vote for his Nursing Home deal. Downtown we get Citibike racks instead of space for Seniors and the Disabled to safely cross the street or hail a taxi using a cane courtesy of the Community Board’s speedy unannounced votes and the Hudson Square BID, assisted by Trinity Real Estate. And, donations to campaigns are commonplace. Jobs are offered. Cash is handed out on occasion. Or, with more subtle politicians, such as Roy Cohn, Trump’s former mentor, it’s The Favor Bank.

The current morality in America is basically, Fuck You! We have money and power and you don’t. And we don’t care about you. We don’t care about optics anymore just like our president. We run the world and we we don’t care about anyone.

Including each other!

“Power is always dangerous. Power attracts the worst and corrupts the best.“

— Edward Abbey

Those of you who have neither been to Washington DC or worked in the South Bronx in the 1970’s, a State Psychiatric hospital or the Justice system in New York can be excused for realizing how bizarre the zeitgeist is right now. I’ve worked in all of them and what’s going on now is just stupid shit. Penny-ante fantasies created by schmucks who watched too many movies starring Bugs Bunny, co-starring Clarabell the clown. We were the Vietnam generation and none of my friends came back — with or without bone spurs.

Let’s face it, being kind to those in need has not exactly worked out. That’s the problem with liberalism. There’s a guy downstairs in my building, for example, sleeping on the steps where a Ukrainian Liquor store used to be and he sits there with a blanket over his head. He could be undercover ICE, for all I know. But, he’s not paying rent and I am — but being evicted because I’m a Christian and know that my landlord is running a criminal enterprise. He gave up sex-trafficking because his shill died and since he and his family stole the building, litigation against tenants is now his favorite pastime. The Real Estate Board and Trinity Real Estate have a poster of these criminals on their walls, for adulation.

But, that’s not my point. The point is, most of Washington has always been a shithole except for where the monuments and the money is. But does that qualify for sending blacked-out vans full of guys (Politico.com) who just did a casting call for Khandahar, picking up people, not answering questions, and taking them away to be interrogated by Stephen Miller or Witkoff, his downtown developer friend? Come on guys, bring Jared or Ivanka back — how about some style? Everybody downtown wears black — how about pink? Stephen Miller, Hegseth, Witkoff in pink? Now that scares me!

If you’re going to terrify everyone, even the Beastie Bois, just lay it out, man! Everybody, go home, watch Fox News, and shut the fuck up! None of this slow, creeping horseshit. You run everything, there’s only one political party — as it should be — and fuck the Democrats. They’re all useless anyway! They’re still telling each other that “All Politics is Local” bullshit while “All theft is local” is better — as special interests like the BIDS are stealing the sidewalks under their feet and the Community Board is sitting around calling each other “Honorable” and fucking the residents who don’t donate to useless politicians!

If you’re going to arrest them all, use the vacant tents for the immigrants that were sent up by Abbott and DeSantis still out in Floyd Bennet Field where they took out Sonny in the Godfather. And, guys, remember, Pacino wore great suits. Castellano got hit because Gotti knew how to dress right. Tell the Boss to start seeing the tailor on Baxter.

So, before you take over Manhattan, like Washington, clean up your act. The Bois downtown are used to this. If you send unmarked vans, blacked out windows, commandos dressed in black with Uzi’s, Sig Sauers, Tech 9’s and Glock 17’s — with masks and black burkas on — make sure you don’t say anything. They might think you’re dressed for a party in SoHo and sound like they’re a bunch of rubes from Toledo looking to impress. In fact, if you want them to get respect, tell them to shoot first, knife the immigrants, and bow to the Chinese on Canal Street if they want any decent food. The canolis aren’t as good as they used to be — you have to go to La Mela’s on Mulberry. And send guys from Brooklyn, they’ll get respect.

Stay Tuned.

“Politicians and diapers have one thing in common: they should both be changed regularly… and for the same reason.“

Naturally, in fighting the fascists, there certainly are no instances of corruption among God’s chosen protectors of Democracy, right?. All are White Knights, not the KKK version, of course. But, consider this. While the Republicans blunder and thunder through destroying our waning civil rights, all around us we are steeped in Democratically inspired and controlled corruption.

How can you say that — you say?

Well, in SoHo you need only look around to understand. You see, the Democrats are just sneakier about screwing you. Hiding behind organizations claiming to help us. Like the most recent fraud called the Hudson Square BID that doesn’t even answer the phone.

Our elected officials are no longer responsible or accountable. Assemblywoman Deborah Glick has been in office a long time. She keeps getting elected because she has a Village base, not because she does anything. Senator Kavanaugh got into office through a power play in Brooklyn — contrary to the will of voters. Schumer has his hands full in D.C. and Nadler is on his way to the golf course.

None of them want to face the power brokers who run Downtown.

It’s the Hudson Square BID, the SoHo BID, Trinity Real Estate, and Transportation Alternatives that run Downtown. They do what they want and answer to no one. And, the politicians don’t even answer the phone, an email, or a letter. They are unaccountable and don’t give a shit about anything but collecting money to get re-elected.

The Community Board, for example, never even brought up the fact that Downtown is being overtaken by Citibikes, bike racks, butchered streets and impediments to Seniors and the Disabled — pandering to BIDs that are power-players from elsewhere — without giving a damn about residents. The Community Board no longer represents the community, only its own campaign-donation self-service machine. The BIDS have bought the cooperation and fealty of the politicians and the Boards.

Fuck the residents!

We are overrun by bikes that hit us doing 40 MPH, we lose parking spaces to bike racks and junk installed by the BIDS, are ignored by NYPD and Traffic Agents, and interrogated rather than assisted by police after experiencing Hit & Run drivers — while the BIDS collect their extortion money allowed by do-nothing politicians.

The Hudson Square BID has a nice website but the vest park around the Holland Tumnel, the bike racks, the so-calle beautification — has replaced the gritty commercial anonymity with corporate gentrification that is self-serving and tone-deaf. Not to mention ignorance of what seniors and long-time resients want.

“The BID was unanimously approved as the 64th BID in New York City by the City Council on January 28, 2009. The BID is funded primarily through the payment of an annual assessment on commercial property with an annual budget of $3.2 million.”

President Samara Karasyk did not grow up among the “Tunnel Bunnies” and I can assure you that she is ignorant of the fact that 25 years after not being able to safely cross Canal or Broome Street, which I wrote about in 1999, the BID is disinterested — even though it is still true. Flowers are nice but the BID is a self-justifying, gratuitous fake.

Is it time to invite the fascist Clowns in and overturn this little club to clean up the corruption? Would taking over Manhattan, like Washington, be an answer?

Stay tuned.

“Politicians and diapers are often full of the same thing.”

— Anonymous

A criminal enterprise in government involves the use of political power or influence for illegal private gain, often through corruption and organized crime. This can manifest itself as embezzlement, extortion, exploitation of seniors or the disabled, and stealing from the disadvantaged or those without power or influence. Other forms of corruption may facilitate criminal activities like drug trafficking, money laundering or bribery in multitudinous forms. It can even involve the state itself acting against the public interest, potentially with impunity or the sanction of local courts. 

However, this concept is not limited to government alone. The Real Estate industry in New York City, for example is rife with corruption and distortion of the courts, lawyers and the laws that govern rental property. I experienced this myself when my landlord, a family of thieves, took over the ownership.

After bilking the former owners they proceeded to litigate every regulated tenant out of their homes using legal ploys which the court and expensive lawyers assisted. The City agencies, HPD, Buildings Department, all helped further the travesty. I spent everything I had to keep a roof over my family’s head — as the fraudulent litigation by Polish immigrant Mark Ramer sadistically continued for 7 years — pursuing me even while I was behind bars — after helping the convicted criminal DA Thomas Spota prosecute. This was all done in order to take advantage of luxury decontrol. Ramer spent half a miilion dollars to evict me and my family using money from the abused tenants.

This is what a modern day criminal enterprise looks like.

In the Hamptons, the current winner of the “Most Corrupt Hampton Village” award is Westhampton Beach. It should not surprise anyone at the explosion of real estate developments there. The infusion of cash by developers is astounding. Condos are proliferating. Of course, Affordable Housing in this Village and in the Town of Southampton is a rarity. No “Little people allowed here” except to clean toilets. In fact, my attempt at creating new affordable housing forced the Town and DA to imprison me for providing it.

Now that the former Mayor of Westhampton, Maria Moore, has arranged everything as she has moved on and is now the Southampton Town Supervisor and the Westhampton Mayor Ralph Urban is a real estate agent with the Zoning Board beholden and developers like Rubio among the Trustees — million dollar deals will proliferate. The inside deals will now roll on and bullshit will be spread around while the transactions proliferate — aided by Anthony Pasca as Village Attorney in the tradition of Goebbels, interpreting laws for the rich and powerful using lies and deceit. The new Hamptons.

The tradition of corrupt Southampton Town Supervisors and their cabal — like “Skip” Heaney, who worked with Town Attorney Joe Lombardo, convicted former DA Thomas Spota, now out of prison, and Thalia Stavrides, his prosecutor — remains intact.

Meanwhile the multi-Billion dollar Preservation Fund continues to bilk New Yorkers as a legal slush fund for local politicians to dip into when they need cash to pay off a cooperative friend — or friendly collaborator.

“Behind every great fortune lies a great crime.” Honore deBalzac

“Laws are like spiderwebs: they catch the weak and poor, but the rich can rip right through them.” Anarcharsis 6th century BC

” Laws are spider webs through which the big flies pass and the little ones get caught.”

–Honore de Balzac

Jimmy Burke, former Suffolk County Police Commissioner, A.D.A. prosecutor Thalia Stavrides, Deputy District Attorney Emily Constant, and about 15 Suffolk County police as well as NYPD escorts invaded our home in February of 2009. They closed off the Holland Tunnel entry street and alerted my landlord, criminals who were operating a sex-trafficking operation (which I had reported to the Chair of Community Board #2) under the nose of the NYPD so they could witness the spectacle along with reporters from major newspapers. Including John Sutter from The Villager which has since been sold to the Schnepps empire. Sutter, of course, had just done a deal with the Russian mob to sell air rights for the new SoHo Hotel and was ecstatic that my publication, The SoHo Journal, was being destroyed. The DA spent hundreds of thousands of dollars trying to turn me and my legitimate, but risky property investments — which were sabotaged by the Town of Southampton during the implosion of the greed and criminality of the banks during the Great Recession — into crimes, by perverting the laws that interpret what constitutes Grand Larceny. For a nefarious reason. The Town of Southampton helped along my Civil Death by telling my mostly poor tenants not to pay rent utilizing the Code Enforcement Police to handle the operation. If Affordable Housing was going to be provided, the Town of Southampton was going to provide it — or not. As long as the beneficiaries were white civil servant’s families.

Complaints were piling up on Southampton Town Supervisor Patrick Heaney’s desk from voters and retirees mainly from the Village of Hampton Bays where migrants were being forced to live in the woods due to neglect and the inhumanity of local politicians. The people renting my property through a local broker were getting new housing in this, the largest voting block in the Town. Somehow my plan, as a social worker and human being, to solve the Affordable Housing crisis was anathema to the Southampton politicians as well as the liberal elite hypocrites. It made them look bad. So they brought the problem being exacerbated by someone exposing the Town’s greed and racism — to the DA, Thomas Spota. He, too, was being exposed by my articles about corruption. I wrote about the Sentosa Nursing Home scandal, the Marty Tankleff prosecution championed by The Innocence Project and the pay-to-play judge stacking operation run by Spota and Frank McKay of the Independece Party. Feathers were being ruffled.

As this was occurring It was beginning to dawn on those in law enforcement in the Town of Southampton and in DA Spota’s office that something was going on with the proliferation of sex worker killings. Someone, or someones, were up to no good and the well-known misogyny was getting out of control. Perhaps, it was a cop. Maybe even someone Spota knew. He’d surrounded himself throughout his career with law enforcement and even his home existed among an enclave of police and sycophants. That the rampant misogyny was among one or maybe several actors — maybe even among law enforcement — seemed possible, especially since no progress was being made regarding the missing sex workers. Maybe this possibility was spilling over into serial murders. Was Gilgo becoming a known dumping ground for prostitutes?

Thus far there are two documentaries describing the absence of Spota’s investigating of these murders: Gone Girls and The Gilgo Beach Killer: House of Secrets — in addition to others about the girls themselves.

At that time, as an investigative journalist, social worker, and real estate investor in SoHo and the Hamptons, I’d written several articles, published a magazine, and had two blogs describing corruption and criminality in the Town of Southampton and in the Suffolk County District Attorney’s office. I wrote several articles about Thomas Spota, the DA, his assistants, the Supervisor of the Town of Southampton, Patrick Heaney, its Code Enforcement apparatus, the Town Attorneys and Town Investigator David Betts, who, after being dropped by East Hampton due to a scandal, was offered the Southampton Republican Party Chairmanship. The current DA is also a member where my application to review the entire, fraudulent prosecution, was ignored until I simply withdrew it out of disgust over the continuing corruption.

Among my attorneys were Tom McVann, George Guldi and Ethan Ellner. Guldi was a legislator who knew where a lot of political bodies were already buried, including those from the Town of Southampton and the DAs office and who had made a run for DA himself. Naturally he’s now in Federal prison. Ellner, who already was a criminal unbeknownst to me at the time became a Rat for D.A. Spota and brought down Steve Levy, his friend and Suffolk County Executive, in order to buy a free pass out of prison. Although Ellner was already a criminal that never bothered Spota, like the Burke appointment which was shoved down Steve Bellone’s throat. Spota was always cozy with wiseguys and criminals in Suffolk County politics. Guldi is now in prison and Ellner disappeared once his mentors Thomas Spota and Detective Joseph Micelli extorted fake affidavits for the boss against me and went into hiding after extorting false confessions. McVann had been an A.D.A. under Harry O’Brien so he got nothing — zero — for being the Mastermind — which is what everyone should have gotten for not stealing but accepting money from from the criminal banks that destroyed the economy in 2009, like JPMorgan Chase.

But then, the Red Herring would not have distracted everyone. That was the point.

Among those whom I interviewed beginning in early in 2000 were local activists and politicians. I met with D.A. Robert Mortgenthau, Cy Vance and Eric Schneiderman and In the Hamptons I contacted political aspirants and interviewed law enforcement luminaries including Sheriff Vince DeMarco. Supervisor Heaney and Investigator Betts would not respond to my requests. The same was true of political operative Frank McKay, an associate of DA Thomas Spota, who together operated a pay-to-play judge picking scheme to solidify their power.

Stories began to seep out about a series of deaths involving sex workers while Spota was police counsel and began with the discovery of remains in the North Sea area of Southampton, a location where hunters unearthed the body of Sandra Costilla, 28, and where Town investigator Betts lives and has his private investigator business Columbo & Holmes. In 1996 partial remains of Karen Vergata, 34, a sex worker, were found on Fire Island but were not identified until 2022. Then, in 1997, partial remains of the unidentified woman they police called “Peaches” were discovered in West Hampstead and later identified as Tanya Jackson. Following this, in 2000, the skeletal remains of Valerie Mack, 24, were discovered in a wooded area in Manorville in the Hamptons. Jessica Taylor, 20, an escort, was also discovered there in 2003. Then, on July 9th in 2007 Maureen Brainard-Barnes, 25, a sex worker from Connecticut was discovered. On July 10, 2009, a few months after Spota began his Red Herring ploy against me, Melissa Barthelemy, a 24 year old sex worker, went missing on Long Island — and on December 11, 2010 her remains were discovered along Ocean Parkway.

On December 13, 2010 the remains of Costello, Brainard-Barnes and Waterman were discovered along Ocean Parkway as well. On May 1, 2010 Shannon Gilbert went missing in Oak Beach — Burke and Spota’s neighborhood — after making a 911 call that someone was after her and she ran off into the night. On June 6, 2010 Megan Waterman, a 22 year old sex worker, disappeared from her motel in Hauppauge — where the DA and Detectives have an office — after traveling from Maine. Amber Lynn Costello, 27, was last seen leaving her home in West Babylon for a sex work meeting on September 2, 2010.

It wasn’t until December 14, 2010 that SCPD Commissioner Richard Dormer announced that a serial killer was at work.

Brilliant work! So timely.

On January 2022 a new task force was announced by trhe D.A.s office to find the killer. D.A. Spota had dragged his feet for the entire time he was in office — including the time in the 1990’s when he was the lawyer for the Suffolk Country Police Department and later elected District Attorney and had James Burke placed as Police Commissioner.

Meanwhile, Guldi had made his opinion known that he suspected Spota had done nothing about the reported deaths and the apparent fact that a serial killer — using a favorite location for a few sexual predators — was at work. Among the possible predators the name of Jimmy Burke surfaced numerous times before, during, and after he was appointed the Police Commissioner, and was later picked up for having kiddy porn in his car and prosecuted for torturing suspect Christopher Loeb who had broken into Burke’s car and stolen the assorted debris. After 3 years in Federal prison and released Burke was again arrested for a sex crime in a Long Island park. You see a pattern here?

Given the fact that I and my family was prosecuted for attempting to solve the affordable housing problem in Southampton — where the politicians currently sit on more than $2 billion dollars basically extorted from NY City property buyers — via transfer taxes — (called the Preservation Fund) and exposing corruption, its no surprise that Spota needed to deflect attention away from Gilgo Beach and Burke and perhaps killers whom he knew personally.

The brazen criminal search of my apartment was only trumped by his invasion of my SoHo Journal publishing office a mile away, to which no one came to my aid that was both disappointing and illustrative of the fact that money buys justice. The Marion County Record in Kansas, for example, recently experienced a similar violation of Freedom of Speech and Freedom of the Press and the Sheriff of that attack was prosecuted. Spota was prosecuted too and imprisoned but got nothing for my family’s gross violation and inconvenience supported by his prosector Stavrides, police and Town of Southampton politicians and Town Attorneys.

And as my wife described it, during the three hour search as she followed one Detective around and into our bedroom, past our sick children — he asked her “Are you afraid I’ll find something — she said, ‘No, I’m afraid you’ll steal something.”

Spota needed a distraction: A Red Herring.

So Spota decided to go after people who knew something, prosecute them, search for interviews and writings, deflect interest away from himself, his cronies, his assistants, his pals and deflect everyone from his incompetence and criminality after Brainard-Barnes was found but before Barthelemy was unearthed — because he knew what was coming down the road. He did nothing about the killings but made a 3 year splash prosecuting me and my family and spent a fortune keeping it in the so-called media. The Southampton Press not only printed anything Spota’s Goebbels-doppelganger Robert Clifford wrote, and provided every address of property I owned published along with a statement from Town Attorneys Joseph Lombardo who stated absurdly that “we’re not trying to put him (MacPherson) out iof business.”

Which, of course, was exactly what they were doing.

So Spota sent Detective Miceli and his goons to search my apartment and my publishing office, took my computers, records, interviews, and created a smokescreen in February of 2009. Then, Spota used his corrupt assistants and judges to extort a plea — before being sent to prison himself. I’d interviewed witnesses, judges, tenants, voters, informants, activists, criminals, and politicians — in and out of office. Spota needed my sources but never returned my political diaries or writing.

He had created a media event out of my legal real estate business which had been destroyed by the criminality of the banks and subsequent cover-up until the National Mortgage Settlement occurred — a $50 billion dollar deal which no one can now tell you about — or find the money. And Chase alone stole tens of thousands of dollars alone from me at the DAs direction. While I was doing time in prison for accepting CDO-generated money for collaterized mortgage, all of which were foreclosed upon thanks to the Town of Southampton seeking to get rid of poor tenants, Jamie Dimon was collecting $13 million dollar bonuses. The DA never found any of that $82 million dollars I supposedly stole because I had used it — to pay mortgages. Spota’s criminality went far beyond the mini-prosecution and the totally fictitious $50 million and then $82 million dollars. The Grand Larceny that never happened cost me nearly five years in prison.

This is how they get journalists.

But, now at least, one of the serial killers has been apprehended. And, the distraction is over. For now.

But not for my Civil Death. Even the Conviction Integrity Unit, operated by prosecutor Thalia Stavrides and current DA Gene Tierney continues the smell of fraud that started with Spota til this day with a cover-up. The DAs office refused to review a conviction that is pure criminality by that office. Spota now works in a law office after doing two years of a 5 year sentence, collects a $9000 a month pension, Social Security, and has $17 million in tbe bank according to Newsday.

If you’d like to know more about Burke and Spota read Jimmy the King.

Justice in the Town of Southampton and the DAs office is a continuing fraud.

Copyright: A Civil Death in the Hamptons. Soon to be published

“He had long ago learned that society imposes insults that must be borne, comforted by the knowledge that in this world there comes a time when the most humble of men, if he keeps his eyes open, can take his revenge on the most powerful.”

— The Godfather

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Genet was known for his inverted pyramid in both literary and psychological terms. We live in a society where the Truth is perverted to force us to question our own perceptions and doubt our vision in order to adjust what we believe. This will pass. No matter how long it takes, no matter how painful it may be, and no matter what the cost.

Meanwhile, enjoy some of the lessons I learned. It’s instructive if not pleasant. There will be no journalistic rewards for my five years in “the trenches” but it gives one pause and perspective on what is important.

Copyright 2025 Confessions from the Gulag

_______________________________________________________________________________

August 17th, 2015

While the Family Festival was a wonderful time to see my wife and children, the next day when I saw them in the Visit Room, the reality of our financial condition was unavoidable.

Rents on property that I still owned were not being collected and my favorite broker had been arrested. The Town of Southampton was clearly winning its vendetta against me for challenging their policies. It was now becoming a race against time in which it was nec­essary that I get out of there and start earning some money. As unlikely as that seemed.

Meanwhile, the prison bullshit continued. A long line of guys paraded in front of our dorm — streaming out of D-1, which was my former ASAT drug program dorm, all wearing handcuffs.

It wasn’t until the afternoon that I’d learned what happened. Apparently, one of the guys in ASAT had been caught with two ounces of K-2. Once that was found out, someone stole the guy’s razor and he finally went to CO Slaney. 

The shit hit the fan and nearly a third of the dorm was sent to the Infirmary with cuffs on for a piss test. I could just imagine the screaming going on as Slaney found out about it.

Later, I arrived at the new program I was taking to help support my Parole application; there were only about four guys in the ARP group which had eight circled seats. I waited for someone to start talking about something. Anything. When the conversation finally began it only seemed to be about one of the guys who appeared to be the group leader. He was a 35 year old black guy who’d just been released from the Box.

But, there was no leader and there was no agenda. This was the follow-up for those who successfully completed ASAT. 

Mitch, the guy who’d been abused and who was full of tattoos — whom I had counseled in ASAT — sat next to me. Cuba was also there. He’d strongly recommended that
I take this program to add to his list of in order to convince Parole of my dedication to reform and rehabilitation. And, Keef, the white guy who had beaten his wife and had an order of protection against him sat next to Mitch.

Their only words were, “What time is it?” along with confused looks.

“So, dey keep hittin’ me.” 

“Bud, evey time I gota da Board, I been gettin’ Tier two or Tier 3 tickeds,” said the 35 year old black guy.

“Whatsya bid?” said James, the 25 to Life black guy from my dorm. He was the one who felt it was necessary to teach me how to flush the urinal, at 71. HE had an ‘84 number. Meaning, he had a body and he’d been in prison since 1984. They’d hit him at the Board every two years since he’d hit his minimum.

“I gotta fi’ ta Life.” 

“How longya done?”

“I been in fa 20 yeahs.”

“Dey hit ya 10 times?” said James. He was referring to the Parole Board’s discretion in requiring another two years before he could be considered again for release. Previously, it had been a one year review before being eligible to see Parole again. That had been eliminated, no doubt, to lower costs for the State.

“Yeah.”

“Whenya gonna’ stop?”

“Stop? Lissen’ da las’ time I got 2 back ta back Tier 3’s fa fightin’ an’ I jes coun’ figa’ why.”

“Whaddyamean?” said another black guy. 

Apparently, I realized, it was a group primarily composed of killers.

Keef looked at me and I asked him again for the time. 

“We got another 15 minutes.”

“Ya jus’ gotta think. Ya gotta think befo’ you hit dat weed,” said one guy.

‘Cause tha’s gonna fuck you up, man,” said another black guy wearing a kufi.

“Lissen, man I was talkin’ ta a dude an’ he was so fucked up di udda day, I din’ evn wanna talk ta him. I was afraid da cop would think I was doin the stuff too. Ya gotta make a decision.”

Decision? I thought. What? Like whether to find a way to shoot up and avoid dealing with assholes? Was this the current state of mental health and substance abuse therapy? Apparently, this ASAT graduate, now doing a follow-up to hone his rehabilitation skills was not a good ad for Roddy’s or Massey’s social therapy efforts. Or for the State either. 

Here was the brilliance of social work intervention theory produced by people who’d never done time.

Here was a group of killers. Doing Group Therapy.

Bemoaning their continuing violent behavior and use of drugs which was hardly the plan and it confused me. Why was I here.

No one could or would be able to answer that question. Except to say, to retaliate against me for writing the Truth.

My bunkie wasn’t having a good day either. He’d gotten up and created one of his ‘Health Food’ concoctions and then got some bad news. He’d used an old peanut  butter jar and filled it with oatmeal, a scoop of peanut butter, a packet of cocoa mix, a large portion of Cap’n Crunch, and some protein powder. I called it the ‘Sinaloa Special.’ Lopez didn’t realize that it was all sugar. He actually thought it was healthy.

Apparently, Lopez had now also heard from the Feds. With very little understanding of what the fuck he ever said, since his English was minimal and fractured, he managed  to convey that “I am good on inside bud I am,” as he shook his hand, “nod goot owside.”

I had difficulty with what he was saying. He spoke Spanish, came from DR and, on top of that, was not a candidate for Mensa. So, I never knew whether I was talking to someone with a communication or intelligence problem.

“So, what’s wrong?” I asked him.

He looked at me blankly. “Dey go back ta before.”

Okay, ‘they go back to before.’ What does that mean?

“I can’t understand most of what Lopez is saying,” I said to Cuba. “What’s he here for?”

“Dey gotim wid 50 grams a heroin,” said Cuba. 

“In Manhattan?”

“Upper Eas’ Side.”

“So, he has a Federal case too?”

“Don’ know. But, lissen, bro’, tha’s an A-1 felony.”

I understood. I had my very own A-1 felony. 

Apparently renting houses to black or brown people in the Hamptons was the equivalent of selling heroin for the Sinaloan cartel.

_______________________________________________________________________________

“Life is like a box of hand grenades. You never know what will blow you to Kingdom come.”

— Mario Puzo

August 20th, 2015

BOOM! BOOM!

BOOM!

My introduction to the day.

Apparently, they were testing armaments again at the Fort, only down the block — near where Agent Orange was produced and gave me cancer — as I later learned. The building shook. I was now definitely awake. There were furtive glances and smiles near the Bubble. The overnight cop was still sleeping in his chair. His hat fell off.

There had been a fight overnight in one of the dorms during the night.

Keef had some info. Brad, another young kid with a ponytail filled in a bit, Cuba had some intel, and I got some from the Yard as I listened to the comments of some of the inmates.

It was a beautiful, warm day and I dressed to speed walk. 

Until my leg healed or I got out of there, speed walking for 45 minutes was my replacement cardio.

“…so he hit’im anna cop went down. Knocked ‘im almost 5 cubes away,” the white kid yelled to his friend. He was laughing. “I coon’ believe it. Was great…”

I passed him and didn’t want to slow down. Long noses in prison were not a good idea. I’d already pushed my luck asking questions. No point in being obvious.

When I got back to the dorm I got more details.

Apparently, one of the cops, a guy named Simmons, known to be abusive and nasty, came on duty in CO Martin’s dorm and started to fuck with the guys over whose napkins they’d used.  They were the brown folded paper napkins given to each dorm for cleaning.

Simmons wanted to make the guys return them. Martin wouldn’t do it because, in reality, they were FOR the inmates. But, Simmons just wanted to fuck with them.

So, once Martin left, Simmons started being abusive.

“Lissen, you motherfuckers, get the fuck up. COUNT.”

Usually, the 11:00 p.m. Count, which comes on the heels of the 10:15 Count since a new CO is coming on duty, guys that have already gone to bed are allowed to remain reclined there and did not have to get up again. Simmons made everyone get up and stand up for this late Count. It was his way of harassing and irritating inmates.

He went around and had things to say to them, like “Get up motherfucker.”

Simmons reached a spot where an old-timer, a guy in his 40’s who was doing a 25 to Life bid, was standing. The black guy looked at Simmons and said, “You gonna fuck wid us again, mothafucker?”

The CO, caught off guard, asked, “What did you say?”

“I said, you gonna fuck wid us, mothafucka? Dis is what you do allatime, mothafucka.”

Simmons looked at him. The inmate was a very big, very capable black man, with not the slightest indication of fear and was glaring at the cop. So he did what any cop who is directly challenged in this prison did, he walked away and went to the bubble where he proceeded to pull the pin on his radio. Or, so the story initially went.

He didn’t immediately realize that the black guy was following him, however. And, suddenly he was set upon as he sat behind his desk.

“Oh, ya gonna call ya boys, huh?” he said. 

“Well, lemme help out wid somethin’ til they  ged here,” as he started to punch the shit out of the cop.

As big as Simmons was, he was supported by a spine of jelly and was essentially a bully and a coward as many of the cops in this prison were.   

“I wasn’t talkin ta you. I wasn’t  talkin’ ta you,” said the cop and with that fearful protestation he picked up the fan on his desk and was hiding behind it hoping to prevent the blows from hitting him in the face. But, it was useless, and the inmate had already hit him several times and the blood was shooting out from his broken nose. “Don’t, don’t, don’t….” he yelled, fearfully, trying to block the punches.

At this point, reinforcements began to arrive.

The first was a cop, named Coffey, who was about 40 years old and had an “I’m a tough guy” attitude. He used to work the Law Library hallway, you know, that dangerous location where all of the food is handed out for the fundraisers — and he was a dictator when he had that spot. Simmons was still cowering behind the fan that he used as a shield in the Bubble as Coffee came in.

The inmate had gone back to his cube waiting for the response team.

“Where is he?” said Coffey. And, when Simmons pointed to him and said “5 cube” Coffey headed to him.

Until, as Leslie Fiedler described it, ‘The Shock of Recognition’ set in. Coffey realized he was essentially alone and the inmate was a truly tough motherfucker. And, he was MAD. He also was described by others as having “No one at home.” He had a blank expression and wasn’t about to be fucked with. He didn’t care anymore. He’d been fucked with once too often. He was a Lifer and had nothing to lose. He just didn’t give a shit.

Coffey approached the inmate in his cube and the guy said, “Oh, you comin’ ta fuck wid us too? Here, mothafucka,” he said, and proceeded to punch the shit out of Coffey. In fact, the first time he hit him, the cop landed in the next cube. Over the cube wall into the next guy’s bed.

By the time he’d taken out Simmons and Coffey, the rest of  the cops showed up and he was restrained. No doubt they would beat the shit out of him.

“So, what’s going to happen to the guy?” I asked Cuba. 

“After they finish beating the shit out of him dey’ll probly giv’im a new charge. He’ll get five years and do three.”

“No shit?”

“Somebody’s gotta teach these mothafucka’s ta stop messin’ wid us.”

“When I see a bird that walks like a duck and swims like a duck and quacks like a duck, I call that bird a duck.”

— James Whitcomb Riley

Let’s talk about the bitching and moaning about Trump. He’s been around Manhattan with and then without his father since the 1970s — annoying some of us, delighting others. His mentor was his father and then Roy Cohen until he died after too many trips to Studio 54. Cohen delighted some and instilled fear in others — mostly IRS agents.

Trump was successful in real estate, dubious as a casino operator, decent as a hotelier and while not liked by some, especially Democrats, he was a sharp practice businessman. But like it or not, he is a brilliant Machiavellian politician. This is not some “singing the praises” commentary. This is fact. Yes, he had money, he had help, he had connections, but the plan ultimately was his and he worked his ass off. You don’t like it or how he did it, or what he did? Too bad. You think he’s immoral, inhumane, a thief, a con-man, a liar, a psychopath, a dementia patient?

Too bad. You still have to deal with it. Or, change it.

But, meanwhile, let’s look at the state of downtown politics by comparison. Who’s representing SoHo and our needs. No, not the Mayor. Not Adams. There are a few representatives in the Legislature and agencies that represent us and deserve mention.

HPD oversees housing and It’s ineffectual. Buildings Department handles the safety of our infrastructure — and it’s corrupt. Deborah Glick represents us in the Assembly — she doesn’t respond to any complaints and spends her time on re-election — in Greenwich Village. Brian Kavanaugh in the Senate, to my knowledge, has never been seen in SoHo, except at fundraisers or political rallies. Schumer in the U.S. Senate, the Hudson Square BID, the SoHo BID, and the Community Board — don’t respond to any communications. The Community Board is a self-reinforcing, self-perpetuating body of those who make political donations in order to be called “Honorable.” Con Edison treats SoHo as if it’s the Wild West and is wholly owned by Trinity Real Estate.

None of them care that seniors, the disabled and residents are mauled, ignored, damaged and killed due ro the ineffectiveness of the outrageous DOT. Another unresponsive agency seemingly functioning as a cash-cow.

I’ve sent letters, made calls, emailed, written articles. Guess what? No response whatsoever. Even 311 refuses to accept complaints.

You see why Trump is successful? Currently, we are shit on by those who are supposed to be representing us and assisting us — and, it’s just not happening. Our agencies and current crop of politicians are focusing only on perpetuating their existence and have taken us for granted.

Get rid of them and start over.

Hudson Square BID beautifying our communities with no input or response to complaints.

“Is that a razor in your pocket or are you just happy to see me”

— D. Clark MacPherson

I’ll never forget my sentencing for essentially exposing the criminality in the Hamptons, especially in the Town of Southampton where corruption was openly conducted and where the onslaught against immigrants was conducted long before Trump got into office. The Town Supervisor pandered to the Republicans, the Mob, the retirees populating the area and, of course, D.A. Spota himself — who was eventually imprisoned. Supervisor Heaney translated that fealty into lifelong jobs and multiple pensions while picking on the people who cleaned toilets and cut the lawns of the ‘rich and famous. At sentencing for my crimes of accepting money from the criminal banks and providing Affordable Housing, the judge, one F.X. Doyle, sang the praises of the medical treatment in the New York State prison system. He said, that I could expect Perfectly Adequate medical care durng my stay.

I relate the True Crime vignette below to show what he knew.

_______________________________________________________________________________

“Y’know that Spanish guy I was talking to?”

We were leaving the Law Library, heading back to the dorm. I had just finished telling Cuba that I thought Wood had the personality of a dead hamster and looked like a cadaver.

“The guy you were just talking to?”

“Yeah.”

“Isn’t that ‘Chauty?'” I remembered when the guy first had introduced himself. H’d thought he called himself “G” and it turned out that it was not, so he just told me his real nickname. “Chauty,” he said. Eventually, I figured out that was ‘Shorty.’

“Guy’s got a major fucking lawsuit against the medical people.” Cuba smoked  his cigarette and smiled. “I figure he’s gonna’ collect big time.”

“What’s it about?”

“He hadda hernia.”

“And…?”

“And, they operated on him and fucked it up.” 

“What happened?”

“Well, dey gottim up at Albany Medical an’ dey do the operation an’ he leaves and soon as he’s back, he starts gettin’ pain and swelling.”

“Yeah?”

“So, finally, dey reelize somethin’s wrong when his testicle starts to swell up an’ he’s in a lotta pain.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So, dey sennim back and open’im up and dey figure out dat dey crossed some wires.”

“What? What do you mean they crossed some wires?”

“Well, dey patched ‘im up after they connected the nerve in his left testicle with the right testicle. So, now he’s got two nerves connected to the right testicle and no nerve connected to the left testicle.”

“Holy shit. So, what happened?”

“Now, they got a problem and dis guy’s bein’ shuffled back an’ forth on onea dose diesel fumin’ buses from prison to hospital, off, an ‘en back on an’ up tada hospital again. Meantime his right testicle is the size of a grapefruit anna guy’s in agony. His right testicle’s got an extra nerve connected ta’it and it’s very fucked up.”

“Well, what happened?” 

“They finally gottim back tada hospital and figure out whad dey did an’ now operated on ‘im ta fix it.”

“So, was he okay?”

“Nah, they fucked up that operation too.”

“Jesus Christ,” I said, thinking of the pain involved. 

“Yeah, they open ^‘im up and uncross th’nerve and pudit back the way it was supposed ta be the first time. Only now, the hernia’s returnin’ from all of the surgery.”

“Unbelievable.”

“Yeah, so dey sen’im back with the testicle like a grapefruit an’ the hernia’s comin’ back.”

“Is this for real?”

“Oh, yeah, he’s a’ready had 3 operation an’its still not fixed and healed. Hadda get some bigwig black docta’ involved ta straighten it out.”

“Isn’t this guy, like, a major drug dealer, or something?” 

“Yeah, he’s a major guy. He’s Puerto Rican.”

“I thought the major guys were Mexican?”

“The Columbians grow it and, basically, wholesale it, the Mexicans distribute it and a lot of the Puerto Ricans retail it. A lotta the Mexican stuff comes in on boats from Puerto Rico. It’s an island and it’s parta the U.S. so dat makes it easier. Most of the ocean front land and estates in Puerto Rico are owned by Mexicans now.”

“So, the most dangerous guys are the Mexicans?”

“Yeah, dey th’guys with the heavy people. Th’enforcers.” 

“The guys with the balls?”

He smiled. “Somethin’ like dat.”

Copyright 2025 Confessions from the Gulag

“Every day above ground is a good day.”

–Tony Montana

As someone said to me a few days ago, “there’s not a lot of sympathy for people in prison these days.” That’s true. But, there is some sympathy for those of us on the outside — considering the fact that with no mental health treatment — as is the case in New York State prisons operated by DOCCS — inmates are released onto our streets and back into our neighborhoods. Not just thieves, drug dealers, con artsts and white-collar schemers but murderers as well. So take a brief glimpse at who your new neighbors will be and thank your local legislator for allowing the prison system to function without treating the people who are currently living in their home-away-from home.

Copyright: Confessions from the Gulag

___________________________________________________________________________________

“How are you doing?” I asked Scott, the 50-something year old black guy who I worked with. He was slightly stooped forward, having previously complained of arthritis. It was a beautiful day and I was speed-walking since my knee was giving me trouble.

“Ah, I’m okay, jes’ gettin’ some exercise. A little walkin’ an’ a little runnin’.” His “exercise” seemed absurd.

“I hear you,” I said as I was passing by him and then decided to slow a bit. 

“Listen, Scott, what are you here for? This your first time?”

He laughed. “No, this is ma 7th bid.” 

“Holy shit,” I said. “Your seventh?”

“Yeah.” he said, as we continued around the track. 

“Jesus, how many years have you been in prison?”

“Altogether?” he said. 

“Yeah.”

“Oh, ’bout 35.”

“Christ. What were they for? I mean, this last one?”

“Burglary. Jes’ small, petty shit. That’s how I lived alla this time. Stealin’ shit.”

I thought, ‘Well, no, you’ve lived in the prison system, what got you HERE is the burglary.’ “Stealing what?” I said.

“Oh, you know, bag a potato chips, anythin’ I wanned. But, it was the drugs that made me do it. I was on heroin for a long time then I switched ta crack. Tha’s what did it.” 

Moving up the ladder of success. “Crack’s that bad?”

“Well, ya gotta get mo’ of it allatime. So, ya gotta steal.” 

“How come you avoided that ‘Predicate Felon’ designation with all those convictions? And, how’d you avoid Robbery? No weapon?”

“Neva hadda weapon. But, dey still charged me wid Robbery. If you fight wid the security guy inna store they still kin charge you wid Robbery. But, you cain’ gota trial. You gotta take a plea.”

“I see. So, you always took a plea. So, what’s this bid?”

“Two ta four. S’always two ta four. I ain’t neva gone ta trial. Too dangerous.”

“I see.”

“If you’re Downey, Jr. ya kin get off widout any time an’ not hafta take a plea, but not guys like us.”

“He did coke though, didn’t he?”

“No, he was doin’ crack. Tha’s whad got ‘im. Nearly killed ‘is ass.”

At this point we were joined by another older guy going around the track. Scott was a bald-headed black guy and the new guy was a 60-something year old white guy with long, scraggly hair, needing a shave along with his gray hair. I thought it might have been Nassau, someone I’d met about two years ago in the Yard. The time hadn’t been kind to him and since he was doing a 20 year bid for what I presumed was murder. I vaguely remembered him talking about blood all over his clothes but trying to get The Innocence Project interested in his case. 

Unsurprisingly, he was from Nassau County on Long Island, a location that used to be known for corruption — but had been eclipsed by the more notorious Hamptons in Suffolk County — where political corruption had become an art form.

“Was that what Charlie Sheen was doing also?” I said.

“Yeah, he was fucked up on crack too,” said Nassau, with Scott nodding in agreement.

I pulled ahead of them speed walking and passed Montanez on the track. He was doing fairly well. No cane, moving along. I felt like I was in a movie about old-timers doing the marathon, or maybe the Special Olympics. Me, Montanez, Scott and Nassau. Nothing like a Scotsman among fellow horse thieves. 

For some reason, it made me think of my recent conversation with Cowboy, the night before after the Law Library.

We were heading back and he had just lit up his cigarette. He looked to be about 55 going on 80, needed a shave, thinning hair, slim, looking a little emaciated. I couldn’t quite figure him out. I’d asked Cowboy what he was down for and it never quite clearly came across. But, I knew it was serious because he’d been in prison for 30 years.

“What’s your bid for, Cowboy?”

“Oh, it was jes’ a misunnerstannin,’” he said  with his southern accent. I presumed that that was the reason for the ‘Cowboy’ nickname. And, there was no doubt in my mind that there really was some sort of a misunderstanding somewhere involving his bid.

“What happened?”

“Ow, we was atta bar, an’ one thin’ led ta anotha’ an’ allavasudden onea th’ guys haddis girl innis truck an’ y’know they was blood allova an’ ‘en th’police come an’ befo’ ah knew it, dey was tellin me it was ma fowt.”

“I see,” I said. Of course, I didn’t see, but I’d gotten the gist of it. Cowboy had  been charged with at least one murder and he was spending all of his time in the Law Library trying to overturn a conviction from 30 years ago. By himself. No outside attorney. Just a lot of cigarettes, persistence, and an unclear theory as to what the fuck he was doing. NOT a typical inmate who came to the Law Library to psychologically masturbate.

I had an outside attorney, a totally non-violent bid, and had spent about $100 grand on legal work and I couldn’t even get Work Release. There was no surprise that Cowboy had accomplished nothing in 30 years.

“Where’d  you do your time first, Cowboy?”

“Attica,” he said, as he took a deep drag on his cigarette being held by fingers that were yellow from nicotine.

“What was that like?”

“Well, let’s just say…” and as he spoke, he suddenly raised his arm as we were going along the walkway, and placed his fingers on my right arm. As he was on my right side he began to pinch my shoulder. “Let’s jus say that every day ah was so tense, fa twenny-two yeahs, that it was like pinchin’ a rock.” His fingers pinched me at that moment.

“Jesus,” I said, still looking at him as Cowboy finally released his fingers and put his arm down.

“Wassna day ya could relax. Fa twenny-two yeahs. Knifins’ every day. Killins too. Guys cuttin heads off…”

Cowboy took another puff, his yellowed fingers holding the butt and smoking it to the very last before he threw it onto the grass and they walked along.

Suddenly, I thought about the girl that Cowboy described as bleeding when the never-quite-fully-described “murder” that obviously took place thirty years ago and wondered what had really happened.

“By the way, that girl, what’d they say got her?” 

“Oh, she choked ta death.”

I looked at Cowboy’s nicotine-stained fingers again. He wondered where the bleeding came in. Had he choked her and then cut her throat?  I said, “Bad food, huh?”

“I guess.” he said.

“Well, have a good night.” 

Then I peeled off into my dorm as Cowboy lit another cigarette.