386 Chapter 19 Perhaps within two months of my arrival to MCC Miami, I overheard some other prisoners talking about some mysterious "magic bus" that supposedly whisked prisoners away in the middle of the night to destinations unknown. I paid little attention to these conversations since they seemed too unreal to believe - sort of like all those bigfoot and Loch Ness monster stories I heard as a kid. But as I neared my first anniversary of prison time, I began hearing more and more about this mythical magic bus and actually met someone who claimed to have been a passenger on several of the midnight runs the bus allegedly makes on an ongoing basis. His name was Lloyd, or at least that's how he introduced himself to me. I was in the hole again after trying to send out yet another batch of letters. Lloyd was brought into my cell in the wee hours of the morning and since the seg unit was full, I got the pleasant surprise of a guest. He was a friendly fellow with curly gray hair and he squinted behind his wire-rimmed spectacles. If he had a beard, he'd make a great St. Nick. I guessed he must have been about 60 years of age and he spoke with a distinct British accent. His articulate vocabulary suggested he was a well-educated man. It's considered rude and a bit dangerous to ask a prisoner why he's behind bars. If they want you to know they'll eventually tell you, and that's the attitude I adopted from day one. But I learned Lloyd's story only because he asked me to help him get a message out to a friend of his in the free world. When I told him that might not be for a few weeks (I had no idea how long I'd be in the hole this time), he said that "a few weeks would be just fine". He had me memorize a telephone number of a woman in San Diego, California and after I assured him I wouldn't' forget the number, The Magic Bus 387 he proceeded to give me a rather strange message to relay "Tell Roger at the BBC that the Americans picked me up as soon as I landed in L.A. and have me on this never-ending bus ride all over the damn country for the last six months. Sylvia has my audit summary but the CIA confiscated all the ledgers". After hearing this, I couldn't help but laugh, and poor Lloyd must have thought I assumed he was nuts judging from his facial expression. "You think I'm a loon do you?" he asked. "No Lloyd, that's not why I'm laughing. It's just that in my 30 years in the free world, I met only one CIA employee, but in the last two years, I've met over a dozen, and we always seem to meet here in the hole!" I then went on to tell Lloyd a bit about George Morales, Jesus Garcia, and the others. But Lloyd was quick to tell me "I never knew I was working for the bastards until it was too late" "What's that supposed to mean?" I asked. "I was one of the auditors working for the Nugan Hand Bank in Australia". That meant absolutely nothing to me and I never even heard of such a bank and I told him so. Lloyd seemed amazed at my ignorance and assured me that the Nugan Hand Bank was one of the biggest public scandals in the History of Australia, and he summarized the following for me; When one of the Bank directors committed suicide and left an explosive note suggesting that the bank was willfully laundering drug moneys on a daily basis, a major investigation ensued. That investigation revealed that the CIA actually owned the bank, had many CIA officials on the board of directors, and was in fact laundering drug moneys in the billions of dollars from the infamous golden triangle. Lloyd went on to say that a woman named Penny Lenroux authored an expose book entitled "IN BANKS WE TRUST" and that he (Lloyd) was suspected of leaking information to her. Lloyd said that he received over a dozen death 388 threats and decided to leave Australia and move to the U.S. But before leaving he made the mistake of taking a call from a BBC reporter and during the call, agreed to meet with him in Los Angeles. The reporter claimed that he was expanding the Nugan Hand scandal to include some other Asian and European banks he believed were also owned by the CIA. That meeting never took place according to Llyod. Instead, Lloyd said he arrived at LAX airport and was immediately "detained" by U.S. Customs who said they wanted to ask him a few questions. But instead of Customs officials, two DEA agents came in and advised Llyod that he was under arrest for "Conspiracy to import and distribute heroin". I knew Lloyd for less than nine hours, but he was no drug smuggler by any stretch of the imagination. From the moment of his arrest, Lloyd claims he was not once permitted a phone call and the only lawyer he spoke with in the last six month was a Public Defender who made an appearance at his arraignment. Had I not already met Morales, Tolliver, and Garcia, I might not have even listened to this man. But having the benefit of spending days on end with all three of those guys and knowing their stories to be true, Lloyd's credibility was not an issue with me. He spoke with the conviction of outrage that cannot be faked nor fabricated. I could also hear the desperation and frustration in his voice of being kept incommunicado for six months. He was scared and it showed. He was also quite worried that his family would be worried sick about him. But most of all Lloyd was angry. He was arrested and booked under a name other than his own, and he was told that it was done "for your own protection". Yet now he said it was the U.S. government that he feared the most. 389 But what intrigued me the most was this endless bus trip Lloyd was on. After Llyod rattled off a list of some three dozen prisons and jails he visited over the last six months, I came to the realization that the "magic bus" was far more than a mere rumor. He stayed at some facilities for a few hours and yet others for a few days, but he was always kept in segregation or a holding cell. Lloyd explained to me how he was continuously denied access to a telephone and was told by a guard that this was simply a "security precaution" that was in place for every prisoner "in transit". Even the constitutional right to communicate with a lawyer is overridden by the BOP's security guidelines. And herein lies the clever and devious beauty of the magic bus stratagem ... The U.S. Bureau of Prisons has over a hundred years of experience dealing with prisoners of all sorts - even those of a politically embarrassing kind. With time, they have perfected some very effective methods of dealing with these prisoners and the inquisitive news media that sometimes catches the scent of scandal. By exploiting the loopholes of U.S. Justice Dept. policies and invoking "security concerns" that never need to be explained nor validated to anyone, prison staffers can keep a prisoner legally incommunicado for months or even years. Here's their ostensible justification ... Any prisoner being moved from one prison facility to another poses a potential security risk since that movement presents a potential escape risk, especially if the prisoner being moved has the 386 opportunity to communicate with potential cohorts in the free world. Based on this scenario, Justice Department policy writers were easily convinced to establish a security policy which denies prisoners the right to communicate while actually in transit. The same policy also prohibits the BOP from disclosing the actual location of a prisoner, even to his own lawyer of record, until the prisoner reaches his final destination. If used and not abused, this policy is sensible since one assumes that transit time would only be a day or two at very most because the U.S. Marshall Service actually flies prisoners around on their own chartered 727. But when a prison official decides to transport a prisoner by bus from the East Coast to the West Coast and back a few times, this policy takes on a whole new dimension, and essentially and effectively serves to keep a prisoner totally incommunicado. This game can be prolonged indefinitely simply by constantly changing the ultimate "destination" on the BOP's computer. So if a prisoner at MCC Miami is sent on his way by bus to Lompoc prison in California, a few keystrokes five days later could have him on his way to his "new" Atlanta prison destination! Until I learned about the magic bus, I thought Blackwell's telephone log tactics was the best BOP fraud going. At any rate, Lloyd left as suddenly as he arrived. His visit at MCC Miami was all of about 36 hours. After he was gone, I recalled Lt. Foster's previous threats to "shoot your ass up with Thorazine and stick you on the magic bus for a few months". Now I took his words more seriously since I finally discovered the magic bus was a genuine reality that could not easily be ignored. 387 But my parole hearing would be coming up in a few short weeks and I would be saying adios to this nightmare so I need not worry about Foster nor the magic bus. Or so I thought anyway. Soon I myself would be on the USA bus tour of the magic bus tour compliments of the U.S. Justice Department. During the balance of my stay in the hole, I managed to meet Gary Betzner, who happened to be Morales' ace chief pilot. We shared a cell for about a week before I was finally released back into population. We spent hours talking about aviation and aircraft since we were both pilots. Gary seemed to know every intricacy of most private planes and taught me more about maneuvers and aircraft handling than Terry Muniz (my flight instructor in Puerto Rico) ever did. Gary grew up in rural Arkansas and was flying cropdusters in his teens. He could easily be flying for United Airlines instead of Morales, but Gary thrived on adventure and the lure of big bucks. Apparently George had told Gary about me because within two days we were talking about the guns and drugs George and Gary had been running for Uncle Sam. Gary had told me that the Congressional investigator (Ralph Maestri) who was coming to see George was also going to interview him, but that George was cutting a secret deal with the CIA to remove the White House from the equation and put the blame on a couple of "low level rogue military officers". The CIA had already sent an agent posing as a lawyer to meet with George, but now Gary was worried that he would be excluded from the deal that would get George a "Get Out Of Jail" pass. Gary had good cause to be concerned. If George didn't include Gary in his deal, Betzner could spend the next 25 years of his life 388 behind bars. My advice to Gary was by now routine, "don't trust anyone form the U.S. government who wasn't willing to back up their verbal promises with a letter to your lawyer". Ultimately Gary would cooperate with Maestri and testify before Senator John Kerry in closed door hearings. Unfortunately, Morales didn't include Gary in his deal, so in desperation Gary ignored his usual good judgment, and misplaced his trust in a jailhouse snitch named Terry Brito to help arrange a helicopter escape about a year later. As planned the helicopter arrived to hoist Gary from the soccer field to freedom, except the pilot and passenger were both FBI agents, and Gary was hit with new escape charges and moved permanently to the hole where I would meet him yet again in about a year. Less than a week before my scheduled parole hearing, I was paged on the PA system to report to R&D (Receiving and Discharge). I immediately knew something was wrong but was not allowed to use a telephone. I was escorted to R&D and was not allowed to retrieve any of my files nor legal papers. Once in R&D I asked a dozen questions but received only one answer "Shut up and get in the holding cell". About an hour later Lt. Foster walked in and with a big smile announced "You're stay with us is over Gorcyca, I hope you found our hospitality satisfactory?" "Where am I going?" I demanded to know. "You'll find out when you get there" he replied as he began walking away. "But my parole hearings is next week!" I exclaimed. "I know" Foster acknowledged as he strode away out of sight. I sat there stewing in anger recalling Foster's previous threat to make me miss my parole hearing. Wherever I was going, I wouldn't be here to get my freedom from the 389 parole board. My sentencing guidelines and the judge both said I'd only be required to serve 13 months, of my five year sentence and that 13 months would be up in less than a month. After three hours two U.S. Marshalls came to claim me and transport me to the Dade County Jail. To put it mildly, the Dade County Jail is one scary and violent place - not to mention filthy and grossly overcrowded. Thirty guys were forced to live a space no bigger than an average two car garage. I was there less than a full day when a man in our dormitory cell was stabbed by another prisoner, allegedly because he reneged on a gambling debt. I was one of two white people in a 12 foot by 25 foot cell block of about 30, mostly Afro-American black men and a handful of Cubans. I never saw so many tattoos in one place than in this cell. These guys were veteran criminals and Miami's worst. In federal prison, the prisoners were sophisticated drug smugglers, fraudsters, and maybe a bank robber or two, but this place housed all the murderers, rapists, and other violent thugs. I would spend a few months here even though I was a federal prisoner, and in retrospect, this was by far one of the most violent places I've ever been. Sure there was violence in federal prison, but that violence was orchestrated by the prison staff, here at DCJ every prisoner was a potential time bomb and if they were having a bad day, anyone within reach could easily become their victim when they exploded. Here a prisoner could have his meal tray or shoes snatched away by another, and unless you were prepared to fight, you could easily go hungry and barefoot. It truly was survival of the strongest and the weak either submitted or perished .. The law of the jungle prevailed over all aspects of life here, and unlike 390 federal prison, most of the men locked up here truly belonged here. Many of the occupants recently arrested were going through withdrawal which provided constant noise, annoyance and tensions. It would only be a matter of time before someone in the cell reached their level of tolerance and blow up in ball of violence upon the source of the noise. After only three days in this hell hole, some gorilla appropriately named "Dog" tried to rape me in the shower stall. I was not prepared for the attack, and he caught me totally off-guard. From behind he grabbed and twisted at my wet hair trying to force me down onto the floor. Even though he was twice my size, I was not about to let myself be raped without a good fight at least. I would poke his eyes out if I had to. From four years of high school wrestling, I instinctively went for his knees for a takedown knowing I'd stand a better chance if I could get him down on the ground. But as he came down he began punching me furiously and those punches were finding their mark - specifically my face and I could feel warm blood gushing out of my nose. I shouted for help but I might as well have been in the middle of the Sahara desert. As I looked up, I saw dog straddling me and holding his huge, erect penis in his hand with a goofy crazed look on his face. "Time for a little suck and fuck!" he announced. If he put his dick anywhere near my mouth I was determined to bite it right off. But by the grace of God I was saved from the ultimate humiliation when yet a bigger gorilla named Willie Steed appeared and pulled Dog off of me and handed him his towel. Dog protested vigorously but it was clear that Steed was the top dog in this cell block. With his bulging muscles and scarred flesh, I assumed Steed saw and won 391 his share of scraps. "Thanks" was all I could say. "Thanks my ass - you owe me your dinner tray for a week white boy!" he clarified. "No problem" and it wasn't. I'd much rather go hungry for a week that get my asshole reamed by anyone, much less someone named "Dog". But this incident convinced me that I didn't belong here and if I stayed, I would not survive for very long. These guys were cold- blooded warriors who had little if anything to lose. Everyone in the cell would now think I am weak and would try to take advantage of me. And I couldn't give all of my food trays to Steed. I would have to do something to make them think otherwise. If I didn't do something, there would surely be more of these attacks. I devised a plan that under any other circumstances, I wouldn't even consider. I am generally a peaceful kind of guy. Early the following morning while everyone was still asleep, I plugged in the coffeepot and as the water boiled, I unscrewed the broom handle from the broom just in case I needed it. After all, this Dog character might actually have a friend or two in this dump. I unplugged the coffee pot and slowly walked over to Dog who slept soundly in a bottom bunk. "Yo my man!" I whispered to him. As he growled and gradually opened his eyes, I emptied the coffee pot on his head and neck and began pummeling his face with my fists. His screams woke everyone in the cell and in ten minutes some of the occupants were calling for a guard hollering "Get this crazy fuck outta here!" 392 By the time I was transferred to another cell, the word had already spread that I was a "crazy white boy" and for the rest of my stay at the Dade County Jail, no one much talked with me, much less provoked me. My plan had exceeded my expectations and I was quite relieved. I got my own cell for a week and did not have to fight anyone – it was like a vacation from hell. A few days later I received a letter in a government envelope from MCC Miami. I was surprised to receive this letter sealed. I had grown accustomed t o being the second or third person to read my mail by now. I extracted the single folded page and read the only type-written sentence it contained - "I hope you're enjoying your stay at the Dade County Jail?". It was unsigned of course, but I'd bet my last nickel this was Foster's sick humor at work. Time would confirm my suspicions. I left the Dade County Jail some six months later and was returned to MCC Miami. Foster was just beaming when he saw me sitting in R&D on my arrival. "I hoped you learned some manners while you were away" he chirped. I remained silent in contempt. As he probed through some notes, poetry, and correspondence I acquired at DCJ, he came upon the mystery letter. He grabbed it, waved it to get my attention and said "I see you got my letter. How come you didn't send me a postcard?" Again, I said nothing, and was assigned right back to Blackwell's unit. Oh joy. In a strange sort of way, I was glad to be My private cell at Dade County Jail looked like this one without the fine art. 393 back at MCC Miami I guess any place is better than the Dade County Jail other than Stark County, Florida and the Atlanta Penitentiary. I was back less than a week before the old gang found me and I was back at work in the law library, typing and translating motions, legal opinions, and case law for the guys. By this time the Iran Contra fiasco was making it's way through the halls of Congress and Morales had me write his final letters to Donald Gregg, William Casey, and Joe Fernandez. George had agreed to turn over some photographs he had acquired of himself and a Texas politician that would make the front page of any newspaper or magazine, and go along with the white house script. He asked me to type his statement which I did three times due to one revision, deletion, or addition after another until it met with the approval of the pols pulling his strings. His final sanitized statement which he took to Washington with him was a mere shadow of the real story. Senator Kerry would never learn that President Reagan, Vice President Bush, and CIA Director Casey were all quite aware of these clandestine operations which received the blessings of all three men. In fact, Morales claimed he received a personal "Thank You" call from the White House only two months before he was arrested. It didn't take long for word to get back to Foster that I was helping the other prisoners with their legal work. He never did approve of my volunteer work so to speak, because most of the Spanish speaking prison population when never get the chance to file a grievance or motions without someone like me to explain and translate the elaborate forms and procedures. He made it very clear to me in an unusual outburst one night when he visited me in the library as I was 394 helping Lennard Baptiste (aka Papi) of Dominica write a letter to the Justice Department about the illegal seizure of a cargo ship he owned. Eventually it was determined that a handful of crew members of the boat were smuggling drugs without the knowledge and against the warnings of Baptiste. In any event, Foster demanded that I stop helping other inmates with their problems and as he stated "Serve your own time and mind your own business". I replied that what I was doing was quite legal, moral, and ethical and everyone that I helped had come to me requesting it. Unlike some of the jailhouse lawyers who actually charged fees, usually paid in cartons of cigarettes or moneys sent to their account from outside relatives, I charged nothing and only helped those I felt were being railroaded by Uncle Sam. As I mentioned earlier on, I always root for the underdog and there can be no greater underdog than someone entrapped and prosecuted by the U.S. government. Without exaggeration, I can honestly say that a good 20% of the prisoners incarcerated in federal prisons, are innocent people who were transformed into instant criminals by some government entrapment scheme usually of the "conspiracy" variety which requires only that a crime was discussed or planned even if it was never committed. Over 30% of all federal convictions are for "conspiracy" related charges. When I saw a man who couldn't speak English, separated from his wife and children by such shams - potentially for a decade or more, I did whatever I could to help him. My efforts helped two men get new trials on appeal and five others get reduced sentences. But I also incurred the further wrath of the prison administration by doing so, and Foster was determined to take me out of circulation. Trying to resolve the matter diplomatically, I 3 95 asked Foster rather politely if I was violating any BOP policy by helping these guys. When he just glared at me, I assumed the answer was what I suspected - No. But as much as Foster would rant, rave, and threaten, I knew better than to argue or do anything to provoke him. In fact, I avoided being in the same room with him whenever possible. But he enjoyed getting in my face to remind me that he controlled my life behind bars. He even boasted that he had the power to keep me jailed indefinitely with "new charges" if he so desired. I didn't doubt him for a second. He left the library that night threatening that if he ever saw me typing or translating other prisoner's paperwork again, he'd stick me back in the hole. Just a week later he made good on his threat. 396 397 398 399 400 401 I was in the law library helping Erling Ingvaldsen of Norway draft a letter of complaint concerning the professional misconduct of Broward County Sheriff Nick Navarro, a well known cowboy in South Florida who was on the Presidential Drug Task Force of the Reagan and Bush administrations. Navarro was always in the public limelight for his COPS television show and many press conferences. It seemed that Nick himself was profiting handsomely from confiscated drugs that he'd sell back to other dealers including Benitez and had been d irectly involved in the murder of smuggler/dealer Vic Simone. Erling Ingvaldsen one of the few people who could prove it, was jailed and charged to isolate the threat of exposure. When Erling's young son Egil came to the defense of his father and also vowed to expose the Navarro operation, Egil was picked up and forced to sign prepared statements while Navarro held a loaded gun to his head. Simone's stolen cocaine was actually discovered inside Navarro's personal residence after Ingvaldsen sent a tip to the news media and some honest federal agents, but Nick simply explained that the 30 kilos of cocaine were in his house because he didn't want to keep them in the sheriff office vault since they "might be stolen from the sheriff's office". Nobody really bought the story but Navarro was not touched by prosecutors. Little did I know then that I myself would meet Navarro and have business dealings with the man some ten years later. Indeed in was in 1998 when I was the president of Globus Group on Brickell Drive in Miami when Navarro’s lawyer Kirk Girba ch would arrange a series of meetings between Navarro, myself, and others for the purpose of taking one of Nick's private companies public. The company held patents on and manufactured some unique security