“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

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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.

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“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

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“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.

“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.

______________________________________________________________________________

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.

”Justice is the greatest concern of man on earth.”

— Daniel Webster

Read these few lines and keep in mind that this is the concept that New York City and the agencies hide behind if you have the bad fortune of being hurt on a defective sidewalk, dangerous street, hit by a car, or otherwise damaged. Agencies like Con Edison routinely hide behind a legal concept and too bad for you if you’re hurt.

Here’s the brief outline of what Prior Notice is about:

“In New York, the prior written notice requirement often applies to claims involving injuries or damages caused by defective streets, sidewalks, or other public property. The specific notice requirements can vary depending on the local laws of the municipality or public entity involved. Generally, the notice must:

1. Be in writing.
2. Describe the location and nature of the defect or hazardous condition.
3. Be served on the appropriate public entity within a specified time frame, which is usually a short period, such as 30 or 90 days from the date of the incident.
4. Comply with any additional requirements set forth in the local laws or regulations of the public entity.”

Think about that. Con Ed shows up and starts jackhammering the street at midnight, leaves a hole in the street open, the crosswalk is now blocked with debris and materials and you fall on your ass — or your face. Guess whose fault it is. Yours.

All of us downtown have been there. Cars and trucks routinely hit us while Traffic cops wave them on even though you have the right of way as a pedestrian. Cars hit us but we weren’t able to pull out our phones and get the plate number — NYPD does nothing. It’s a HIt & Run for chrisakes! Too bad, buddy. In one of the funniest vists to the 1st Precinct I was told that the Detectives would not be abe to help me since they only work on murders. It hadn’t gotten that far when I was crossing the street in SoHo so I Ieft the precinct station. No doubt my landlord had a few murders in his history but the cops probably wouldn’t even start investigating that — what chance did I have?

Okay, so let’s take Con Edison. They pull up with subcontractor trucks, dig up the streets, take over a neighborhood, and destroy safe access, crosswalks, or anything else in their path. You can’t question them about what they’re doing and you know they don’t give a shit about you or your inconvenience. If you’re in a car you’ve got metal around you, if you’re a pedestrian — in conditions that change daily — Prior Notice is a joke so you don’t even bother. But, let’s say that you suffer from OCD and walk around with a camera photographing every crack, chip, hole, blockage, pit, crevice or impediment on your street in your neighborhod. Daily.

So you get hurt and go to court, having passed the mediator (a guy who decides if your lawsuit is allowed to go to trial) and the question on the witness stand is, “Well, sir, you’ve walked around taking photos of all of these dangerous spots for 6 months. How coincidental is it that you just happened to have photographed the spot where you fell?”

Let’s take a street downtown where Trinity Real Estate owns billions in real estate. And pays no taxes, mind you, since King George deeded the property to Trinity Church back in the 1600s. But Trinity has a cast of thousands and is very rich — and very powerful. Con Edison does what they are told. And, they’re putting up another building on Grand Street. Con Edison has been digging, jackhammering, paving, then digging up the street again, preparing for the new building that’s going up on Varick/Grand/Canal. Photographing the damage and danger in this location would be a full time job — so no one has.

Ergo, no Prior Notice.

None of the seniors, disabled, pedestrians, residents will likely see a dime for having the privilege of caring for their broken legs, wrists, ribs, heads — causing pain, dementia and loss of income.

I was lucky. It only took 3 years for me to find out that I hadn’t taken photos for Prior Notice. It didn’t matter that Con Edison’s lawyer chased down my ambulance driver in his attempt to perjure my explanation of what happened — even though two people saw it happen..

This has now led several Downtown people to consider bringing a class-action lawsuit against Con Edison — since our politicians only work for reelection — who basically do not give a shit about their slipshod, almost criminal behavior emphasized by the disinterest of the DOT in protecting our lives.

Yours Truly thanks to Con Edison and help from DOT

“Normally, both your asses would be dead as fucking fried chicken, but you happened to pull this shit while I’m in a transitional period so I don’t wanna kill you, I wanna help you.”

                 — Pulp Fiction (1994)

________________________________________________________________________________

Occasionally, politics makes me nostalgic for a different kind of stupidity, the prison kind. At least you knew why the people you talked to were there — they didn’t have money to pay off or know someone to issue them a pardon. Here’s a slice of what I learned — by not having money which I theoretically stole but couldn’t afford to pay anybody off with.

________________________________________________________________________________

June 15th, 2015

Actually, today was my release date. IF I had gotten Merit Board. And, IF I’d had Merit Board when it was originally scheduled. 

Everything worked here to keep you from leaving.

Of course, I wasn’t leaving. I still had no idea when I’d be leaving.

As far as I was concerned, that would be never. Nothing ever worked. No positive eventuality EVER came through. I was living in a human Roach Motel. Except some of the roaches seemed to be able to leave.

Like Gia.

I met him in the infirmary where I was seeing the doctor who would be giving me my latest round of bad news. My blood pressure was up to 190/100 again. And, the suspicious neuropathy in my legs, according to the doctor, was passed off as due to “running too much.” 

I suspected that the Agent Orange seepage from Fort Drum and the effluent from the local mines were contaminating the water we drank as well.

“Spsnnsspp, goin home,” he said.

“What?” I said. Gia’s wormy hairdo still annoyed me, like his attitude. He was sitting on one of the benches as that fat abusive slob, CO Plowman was leaning back and looking around for someone to shoot down.

“Spsnnsspp, home,” Gia said again and I still couldn’t make out what he was saying and did not want Plowman to have an excuse for writing a ticket.

“No,” he said to Gia.

“No?” looking at me with a disapproving look. 

“What?” I said as he shook his head.

“Goin’ home.”

“No,” I said, “I’m just here to see the doctor.”

“I’m goin’ home, tomorra,” he said, annoyed that I didn’t understand him.

“Oh, that’s fucking beautiful,” I thought to myself. A fucking gun charge and this shithead, who could curdle ice cream in a freezer with his charm, was leaving. Tomorrow. 

I should be happy, right?

“Gotta go,” I said, not wanting to give Gia the courtesy of a benevolent gesture. He should drop dead — as a stand-up in the Catskills might have said it.

“Y’know ya gotta wear ya greens and bring only what ya can carry. F’ya people’r pickin’ ya up they gotta be here by 6:20 tomorra or we gotta putya onna bus. Got it?” said  Plowman to Gia.

Fucking guy. I hated his ass at that moment. Both of them, in fact. My patience and positive attitude was disintegrating.

A hundred thousand spent in legal fees and I was no closer to going home and this shithead with a fucking gun charge was going to waltz out of here tomorrow morning. What was wrong with this picture?

Brad came up to me just before I went out jogging. The doctor had given me another pill to take. 

I’d gotten the lower number down on my blood pressure and was now working on the higher number. It occurred to me that this way, I’d only have a half stroke.

In the part of my brain where I’d brilliantly decided which article to write exposing the corrupt politicians in the Hamptons. I had no clue as to what the neuropathy and numbness was about. 

Neither did the doctor.

“Can you answer a question for me? You work in the Law Library don’t you?”

Brad was a kid who was 22, about 5’7″ tall, slim, a face that looked like he was still in high school. He had a pink complexion with rosy cheeks. He looked like a kid that didn’t even know how to curse. And, he looked afraid. He looked like he didn’t belong here. Because, he didn’t. I understood that because I didn’t belong here either. I was a journalist who was only guilty of stupidity and extreme naivete. 

I didn’t have the $67.5 million in stockholder cash to pay off the Feds as Angelo Mozillo had — and who was then suddenly only guilty of a CIVIL matter instead of the CRIMINAL matter that had been entertained before the fine was paid. My crime was in taking $82 million dollars that didn’t exist. 

“Maybe,” I said. “What’s the question?”

“I hadda 5 to 6 and I did 4 but before I finished they re-sentenced me to a 3 to 9.”

I had no idea what he was talking about. 

“You had a 5 to 6?”

“No, I’m sorry, I had a 6 to 5. Six months with 5 year probation. Then, after only 4 months they re-sentenced me to a 3 to 9.” 

“Really?” I said. “How the hell did that  happen?”

“I had a Public Defender. I should have gotten a 1 to 3, maybe, but my mother was sick and  we ran out of money.”

“What was the crime? Having no money?”

“Oh, well, I had an accident. Pretty bad one.” 

“How bad?”

“Bad. People got hurt. There was a lot of damage.” 

“Hurt? How bad?”

“Dead.”

“Oh, I see. So, what’d you get charged with?”

“Well, I was legally drunk. I blew a point oh-eight. You know, like the legal limit?”

“I see. Well, who got hurt Or, sorry, dead?”

“This friend of mine. She was with me in the front seat.”

 “What happened to her?”

“Well, I forgot to make a right turn and I went into a ravine and she kept going.”

I looked at him. “What do you mean ‘she kept going.'”

He had this look on his face like he’d put his hand in the cookie jar and it had gotten eaten by something lurking at the bottom of the jar.

“Well, she wasn’t wearing a seat belt and she just, you know, kept going. Through the windshield, y’know like, forward, into the ravine after the car stopped.”

“I don’t like seatbelts either,” I offered.

“Then, there were a couple others in the car too. The girl behind me got pretty fucked up so they charged me with assault on her.”

“Assault? What did you do to her?”

“Well, when they want to make you responsible for another person’s physical damage they can charge you with assault. She wasn’t wearing a seatbelt either.”

I understood that. 

Like, I hadn’t stolen any money but in order to make me responsible for money I didn’t steal the D.A. turned NOT Stealing money into Grand Larceny, a sleight of hand legal trick used when they wanted to get you.

“So you got charged with vehicular homicide AND assault because of the crash – because you were legally drunk?”

“Yeah, that’s  pretty much it.”

“Well, you could do a 440 motion and try to overturn the conviction. What’s the max you could’ve gotten for this?”

“Fifteen years for the death alone. They could even try to make it manslaughter and that’d be 15 to  25.”

“Look, I don’t think you should screw around with a 440 because if you did get a new trial or got it overturned, they could come after you with the 15 to 25. That would NOT be good.”

“I know. Someone was tellin’ me that pedophiles, sex charges and DWIs, especially with a death, get no breaks in the courts.”

“You’re right. And, you can add arson to that. But they only give breaks to people who’ve made payoffs to the prosecutors or the D.A. or to politicians who are connected.

Cuba came and said hello to Brad. He pulled me aside. 

“He tell you about his charge?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Talk ta him,” he smiled. “He wants ta learn aboud Real Estate.”

Copyright 2025 Confessions from the Gulag

“The secret of life is honesty and fair dealing. If you can fake that, you’ve got it made.”
― Groucho Marx

After several decades in the same apartment I decided to take stock of what I had accomplished — or not.

My landlord, two dentists who purloined hundreds of millions of dollars worth of Manhattan real estate from family friends — Jews living in Queens and who, through a Rabbi’s introduction, permitted these thieves to first manage their property then own it and were forced to stand by and watch them proceed, almost immediately, to nearly first destroy then milk the property. I, too, had to stand by an watch and experience this while paying rent!

First, these dentists evicted or harassed out every one of the roughly 50 rent-stabilized tenants in the building when they took over. Luxury Decontrol permitted landlords to increase rents as high as they wanted once a tenant of record, who had renewal rights, left. It didn’t matter how or why. This facilitated converting the apartments to market rate. This incentivized Mitch & Murray (Glengarry Glen Ross characters) who, while allowing my building to deteriorate, used the courts and were assisted by friendly (bribed) HPD and Buildings Department personnel using a tried and true process. Remember, if you are a tenant being forced into court you must pay a lawyer and also continue to pay rent. Even if you win your case in court you still pay a lawyer AND rent. So, most tenants wound up being evicted or accepting a settlement to leave because they also owed their lawyer.

Second, Mitch & Murray were looking at pure income. Their kids all went to the best schools — and, why not? The tenants paid for them and the dentists had no mortgage. When you steal a building, especially one with no mortgage, rent is pure profit. But, as we all know greed knows no limits. And, think about how arrogant owning millions of dollars worth of Manhattan real estate free and clear can make you. So, while not paying people who did certain work on the building, they used all of the income for themselves. Both of them had houses on Long Island and had materials first shipped to my building. Then they transferred it all to their homes while using workers (Green card slaves from Poland mostly) to create fabulous homes. This is what Helmsley got prison for.

All of this was at the expense of living conditions which we, the legitimate tenants who had been rented apartments by the former owner, an Italian by the name of Calleo who failed in his attempt to turn the buiding into a condo, had to endure. We had people living in illegal apartments (now legalized by the tenants under the Loft Law), numerous illegal occupancies, and a sex-trafficking operation disguised as a model agency. Mitch reportedly used those under-aged services himself before he died suspiciously leaving it all to Murray. No one in their employ will talk about it.

The Courts were warned, NYPD was warned, HPD was warned, the Buildings Department was warned (but still aided the landlord in conducting illrgal evictions) and the Community Board was apprised and solicited but ignored the entreaties and outrageous fraud. (A former Chair of Community Board #2 laughed at me when I told him of the abuse.)

Nothing has worked and after decades of abusing, harassing and intimidating tenants the same cabal run by Mitch & Murray, people who have assisted them in this swindle, and workers who have been underpaid and abused themselves — have continued this enterprise and prospered.

In my case, in addition to the abuse, harassment and persecution (legal and religious), this cabal of criminals has even reached out to the recently incarcerated D.A. Thomas Spota on Long Island (a recent star of the Netflix documentary ‘Gone Girls’) and Assistant Stavrides in an attempt to punish me and my family me for making complaints and suing them for damages.

Criminal landlords should be prosecuted and imprisoned. Not simply fined for operating a criminal enterprise. You may be next!

“i always look for the fool in the deal. If you don’t find one, it’s you.“

— Mark Cuban

Perhaps, the powers that be — those who actually care about Downtown and SoHo, now recognize that our current elected politicians don’t give a shit about us. But read the report and decide for yourself.

___________________________________________________________________

SoHo/NoHo Rezoning Fails to Deliver: More Housing Destroyed Than Created

– Taking Stock at the One-Third Mark

Our allies at Village Preservation have issued a new report analyzing the impact so far of the December 2021 SoHo/NoHo/Chinatown upzoning. 

Why now? We’re one-third through the 10-year study period for which the City analyzed and predicted the impacts that the rezoning would have. Village Preservation researched how closely reality matches the City’s grandiose promises about the rezoning. The picture isn’t pretty.

The study found:

– Not a single unit of the promised affordable housing has materialized, compared to the 127 to 191 units that the City claimed would be created.

– Not a single unit of any housing has been built, debunking the City’s promises that 610 units would be constructed.

– However, large commercial development is planned where the City claimed housing would be built: namely, a 22-story building, headquarters for Chobani yogurt, is rising on the southwest corner of Bowery and East 4^th Street. 

– Developers have used the many loopholes in the rezoning to create super-luxury housing that includes zero affordable housing, for example, 43 Bleecker Street. 

– Developers have removed existing affordable rent-regulated housing to clear the way for new luxury development allowed under the rezoning. The City insisted this would never occur. We disagreed. 

  For example, 142 Greene Street — a 5-story, 25,000 square-foot building which formerly housed five artist lofts — is undergoing extensive renovation to convert the massive building to house a single family. This project epitomizes how the rezoning has destroyed more affordable housing than it has created. 

– A lawsuit by NYU challenging one provision in the rezoning will, if successful, make matters even worse, by opening up even larger loopholes to enable development without including any housing, affordable or otherwise. 

Read the full report here.

PLEASE FORWARD THIS EMAIL TO FRIENDS AND NEIGHBORS.

Sincerely,

Sean Sweeney

“The truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off.”
― Joe Klaas

Unfortunately, I’ve been writing about the traffic downtown and the danger to pedestrians, mothers with baby carriages, the disabled, seniors, trying to cross the street — for 25 years. The only consistency about the conditions has been that everyone lies. I remember arguing with the members of the Traffic and Transportation Committee at Community Board #2 about DOT, writing letters to Tom Duane, Deborah Glick, and other politicians. No response.

Then, of course, someone came up with the idea of reducing traffic and ramping up income by, essentially, adding on an extra toll — not for using a bridge or tunnel — but for driving around lower Manhattan. That got a lot of politicians busy. Not that any letters got answered, mind you. But the palavering reached fever proportions. The idea was, billions would be earned for public transportation because public transportation was losing a lot of business. Of course, that was partly due to safety conditions. But, naturally, we should have fully funded subways and buses. After all, we’re not animals, right? This is a civilized city! And, it would cut down on traffic and make our streets safer for pedestrians. That plan went into effect and commuters and downtown residents were penalized in order to fund this brilliant plan to reduce congestion. The money has been rolling in! Downtown residents would now more easily be able to cross the street. Broome Street, Watts Street, Canal Street, lower 6th Avenue, Chinatown, SoHo, parts of Tribeca — would be less impacted by vehicles trying to kill those crossing the street.

That lasted for a couple of months.

What we have now is MORE traffic — plus fees for driving a car, higher taxi fees, LESS ability to use a crosswalk — and demonic gridlock — more of the time. And without traffic agents to control the chaos! Why? Because commuters have decided that they’ll absorb the fees but drive more angrily, while blaming downtown residents for their inconvenience — their only solution to a money grab that will have no effect other than to inrease DOT income. Don’t let the bullshit numbers confuse you, here’s what it’s like folks:

Crosswalks are meant for cars, not people!