Chapter 17

Solitary Secrets

One of the earliest lessons I learned from

the nuns at St. Charles was to never judge
a book by its cover. After reading To Kill A
Mockingbird,

A Brave New World,

Catcher In The Rye, in high school,

and
I fully

grasped the meaning of the proverb and

applied it regularly in my life to people I
met, countries I visited, and even towards
strangers. I did my best to remain objective
and free of prejudice even while race riots
rocked Cleveland in the summer of 1968. When I was sent off to prison, I
naively took this attitude with me truly believing that if I respected everyone
as an equal and avoided potential conflicts, no harm would come my way.
In retrospect, this was a very big mistake and I am still paying for it today.

Many long years after I walked out of prison as free man, I am still haunted with
cruel nightmares that placed me back behind bars in my dreams. The flashbacks
last just long enough to make me break a sweat and wake my wife as I jump up
shouting or gasping for air. As the years go by, the nightmares grow less frequent
but the horror remains constant. Its not the prison itself that terrorizes my soul, but
the horrible secrets I witnessed and endured behind its walls and fences.

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By

design,

prisons

are

designed to be an unpleasant
place for a very good reason
to remind its occupants on a
daily basis that crimes have
dire

consequences

and

to

serve as a future deterrent.

The separation from ones family members for months and years at a time is
plenty punishment for any man or woman, but some prison guards and officials
believe otherwise. They somehow believe that their job is to reinforce or add to a
judges sentence by compounding a prisoners sentence of time with physical and
mental abuse of their own doing.

Indeed they are in a position of absolute

authority and often and frequently abuse that authority to make a prisoners life
thoroughly miserable whether it be through regular beatings, or in more deviate
ways like making sure a prisoner never gets his mail from his wife or children, or
by causing a prisoner to get attacked or raped by other prisoners simply by
starting or rumor, or perhaps by planting some drugs in a prisoners locker to get
him locked up for an extra year or two.

These tactics and others far more

sophisticated are used routinely by prison staff against selected inmates. But who
they target for this abuse are not those you might think.

Its not so much the violent or insolent prisoner that they single out for abuse as it
is the inmate who files formal written complaints about staff violations, abuse
incidents, or the guy who exercises his right to correspond

with

Congressman, or sends a letter to the news media or the ACLU.

his
Even

appealing your prisoner classification is enough to incur the wrath of prison

staffers.

Anything that a prisoner does that causes a prison staff member to

generate paperwork of any sort is enough to get flagged as a troublemaker. Their

ideal world would be to have robotic zombie prisoners who never speak, have
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visitors, make requests, ask questions, nor write letters. Their aversion to
processing paperwork is incredible even though prison policy mandates that every
facet of a prisoners life be documented. To be fair, the prison staffers are
burdened

with a lot of routine paperwork to begin with, so when a prisoner

does something that increases that paperwork load, that prisoner is going to pay
for it one way or another.

I learned this lesson the hard way. More on this

later.

When one drives by a prison in the free world the high foreboding walls or fences
strung with miles of razor wire are intimidating to say the least. But the prison you
see pales in comparison to the prison within that you cant see. Most people dont
realize that every prison has another prison within that is well guarded and
concealed from public view. It is this inner prison where cruelty, evil men and
women, malice, and degradation mix behind closed doors to make for the very
worst human rights abuse that at best is horrific despicable and abhorable at
worst.

This place has an official name that is quite antiseptic and very

misleading Segregation Unit.

confinement.

In real English this translates into solitary

It is here where screams cant be heard and the very worst

abuse of prisoners take place. More prisoners suffer alleged suicides in

Segregation Units of U.S. prisons than anywhere on Planet Earth a fact that has
been documented by Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch.

I say

alleged, because most of the deaths in solitary like one I witnessed with
my own two eyes at MCC Miami are murders, that are then casually written up as
a suicides. At least half of the people who are released from Segregation back
into general population bear a variety of bruises, cuts, contusions, and scars
what the guards call souvenirs of their stay.

There are four types of prisoners you will find locked up in solitary confinementthe violent inmates who are too dangerous to keep in general population. Often
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times they are gang members who need to be kept separated from rival gang
members lest they kill or maim one another.

Then there are the homosexuals,

sexual deviates, and mentally disturbed prisoners.

The third group are the

government informants who are kept in segregation basically to help keep them
alive. Snitches dont last long in general population and are usually found in the
shower with shank through their neck or heart.

The last group of segregation

residents are the most interesting.

These are the guys the government wants to keep incommunicado for
politically embarrassing reasons. It was in the seg unit of Miami MCC that I
crossed paths with drug smuggler king George Morales and his pilot Gary
Betzner,

two key witnesses of the Iran-Conrtra drugs for guns scandal, Jesus

Garcia the Miami Cuban who deli vered the CIA machine gun used to murder
corruption witness Barry Seals in New Orleans, Mike Tolliver, another CIA
contract pilot, and a Coast Guard Captain involved in a smuggling ring. Not to
mention scores of witnesses of government corruption cases. Some of these guys
spent months at a time in segregation for administrative reasons, which really
means because this is the only place we can eliminate communication from this
person. One of the most interesting fellows I met in segregation was an FBO
owner from Ft. Lauderdale named Chester Zukowski.

Chester was a professional witness employed and used extensively by the DEA
to set up people on drug charges and then provide fabricated testimony to convict
them.

In exchange the DEA paid Chester handsomely and gave him airplanes

worth millions seized from some of the people arrested. Well at one point, Chester
could no longer face himself in the mirror and decided to stop assisting the
DEA with their phony prosecutions. When he did, the DEA feared Chester might
go public and had him arrested and locked up in segregation for months
for administrative reasons.

Contrary to what most Americans may think, the

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U.S. has its share of political prisoners- they simply are better concealed than in
most other countries.

Collectively, I spent nine months in solitary confinement over my 38 month stay

with my longest stretch being 90 days, the legal limit. Followed by a second 90
days following four hours of relative freedom in general population. This is
nothing compared to the nine years Erling Ingvaldsen was kept in solitary or the
two years Chris Simmons spent there.

Besides, after the first thirty days, time

becomes blurred and in many ways loses its significance.

Getting sent to

Seg is not difficult. I myself didnt have to do anything wrong to get there.
In fact, I was twice taken to Seg ostensibly for my own protection and on
another occasion for merely asking to speak to warden to tell him that one of the
staff members (Lt. Foster) was stealing and trashing my mail even to and from
lawyers. But my initial introduction to segregation came after I refused some
good advice. Let me explain

I wont deny that I was quite bitter about being sent to prison for a crime I never
committed, and I was determined to right this wrong and expose the murder of
my co-worker Liston Smith and how I was wrongfully denied a trial. But being
locked behind bars I soon learned that any effort I needed to mount would have
to be done exclusively by mail. I say this because the first time I tried to use a
telephone in prison to call my Congressman I got an unexpected surprise
all calls made from prison must be made collect if even a prisoners family
sends him a calling card.

At first, I couldnt understand the reason for this

collect call policy but in time I came to believe that this was designed to isolate
prisoners from outside help since no government agency, human rights
organizations, civil rights groups, or news media accept collect calls especially
from strangers. Indeed, even most lawyers refuse to accept calls from their own
clients once they are sentenced since they are not likely to collect more
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payments from a convicted, jailed client. It always amused me how many

lawyers told their clients they were innocent and would prove it at trial until the
client ran out of money and then they were suddenly advised to cop a plea!
At any rate I was certainly

discouraged by this telephonic obstacle but

resigned myself that I would mount a letter writing campaign since I had plenty of
time to kill.

I chose to write my first two letters to The American Civil Liberties Union and
Congressman Ron Mottl of Ohio, a friend of my deceased father who had
previously written a letter of recommendation for me years ago when I applied
for entrance to the U.S. Coast Guard Academy.

I must have spent four or

five days carefully writing the letters, naming the two Miami FBI agents (Ben
Grogan and Jerry Dove) who could verify why Liston was dead and I was behind
bars. I included the names of some of the millionaires whose names appeared on
the IRS hit list (Victor Posner, Monty Trainer, Bill Irwin, etc.) who were all harassed
and ultimately charged by the IRS after they refused to stop making campaign
contributions to Democratic candidates for Congress. I detailed how my innocence
could be proven and how the judge refused to let me withdraw my plea and go to
trial as was my right according to federal law. They were rather lengthy letters
about 10 or 12 double-sided pages. I was sure that if they were read, I would get
some legal relief, or at the very least an investigation.

I slapped some extra

stamps on the two envelopes, double-checked my return address was correct,

and dropped them into the prison mailbox. My hopes for justice rode with these
letters and I was foolishly optimistic.

But after a month passed with no reply from either the ACLU nor Congressman
Mottl, I grew troubled and concerned. I mentioned the matter to some prisoners I
shared a cell with and they asked what was in the letters. When I told them they
all just laughed at me and casually commented that my letters never made it into
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the hands of the U.S. Post Office. I was dumbfounded and asked them to explain.
Look kid, this is a prison and all your outgoing and incoming mail is read before
it goes out or comes in one of the older veteran prisoners explained to me.
They say its for security you know, to make sure youre not planning an escape
or having drugs sent into to you through the mail That made perfect sense to me
but I couldnt fathom how that would stop the delivery of U.S. mail. You obviously
wrote something they didnt like in those letters, and chances are they trashed
them or sent them over to the feds he continued. At first I refused to believe this
but other prisoners relayed similar stories to me and I grew angry enough to call
my mother and told her about the situation.

She too refused to believe that

anyone would deliberately tamper with the U.S. mail and suggested that Mr. Mottl
and the ACLU were simply busy and would eventually respond. I persuaded my
mom to call Congressman Mottls office and ask if they received my letter. When I
called her back the next day, she confirmed my fears. They received no letter from
me. To put it mildly I was outraged and I immediately wrote a second letter,
almost identical to the first but this time I included an additional note that
simply said

It if a federal crime to tamper with the U.S. mail and if this letter

doesnt reach my Congressman, I will file a formal complaint with the U.S. Postal
Inspector.

I was of the silly notion that even prisoners had some basic rights

and I wasnt prepared to forfeit these basics.

At this point, I had been jailed

about six weeks or so. The second set of letters were sent on their way.

The very next day, I was at my work detail in the kitchen when my supervisor
Joe Kuhn came over to me and told me that I was to report to Lt. Fosters
office immediately. I couldnt help wonder what this could be about or who this Lt.
Foster was. I soon found out. Lt. Foster invited me into his office and asked me
to sit down. He was a tall thin black man about thirty-five

years of age and he

promptly announced that he was in charge of prison security. I said little and
just listened. Listen Gorcyca, I realize this is your first time in prison and you
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need to know the rules here. Follow the rules and youll be out here and back
home with your family in a year or so. If you choose to make waves, you
could be here for a long time do you understand?

What rules are you

referring to Mr. Foster? I asked feeling quite confident that I hadnt broken any.
It was then that he pulled out the two letters I sent the night before and he threw
them in my lap. Puzzled, I looked at him for an explanation. Look, just throw
those letters in the trash and do your time quietly. Those letters arent going to get
you a trial or out of here a day early. Theyll only piss off a lot people who can
make your life miserable. I dont understand I replied.

I think you do so get

out of here and rest assured Ill be watching your mail. What nerve! I thought
to myself as I marched out of his office biting my tongue more determined than
ever to get some outside help.

That very night, I redeposited the very same letters in the mail along with a third
letter I wrote to the U.S. Postal Inspectors office in Miami asking how I could
send certified mail from prison and if they could please mail me the instructions,
labels etc. Prison staff members adamantly told me it was impossible for me to
send certified or registered letters from prison.

The following morning I was in the prison cafeteria eating a bowl of oatmeal for
breakfast, when two guards approached me and instructed to to stand up and
put my hands behind my back. When I obeyed, they put handcuffs on me and led
me away to a building that was about forty feet wide by one hundred feet long.
Whats going on? I asked. Shut up asshole replied one of the guards. I was
led through two steel double-locked doors into this building which had about a
dozen small cells with sold steel doors with a small window on them. The
entire building was dark and dank. Voices echoed of the cold metal and
concrete and I could just feel the evil that filled the air here. I could not describe
the sensation other than to say I felt fully enveloped by the worst aura I ever felt in
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my life. My instincts told me this was not a place to be. (I recently learned this
was the exact building where General Noriega would spend his years ina
U.S. prison after they converted it to a little office for him)

I was ordered to strip naked and told to get in one of the small cells. Welcome to
seg your new home Gorcyca I turned around to see Lt. Foster holding my three
letters. He followed me into the cell and told me to sit down. As I did, he began
ripping up my letters and dropped the pieces into the stainless steel toilet and
flushed them with a grin. I said nothing.

This is where all your mail goes from now on until you take my advice and
play the game by my rules not yours. Look Mr. Foster, I dont have any beef
with you or this prison. I have a legal problem that needs to be resolved and I have
a right to send letters dont I? You have no rights in prison so dont expect any
he replied emphatically. So why was I brought here to Seg? I asked Because
this is where we keep whistleblowers like you. I want to speak with the warden
I asked. Foster just laughed, walked out and slammed the door closed behind
him. One of the guards came to the window and pointed downwards as he told
me Everything you need is in the sink. I looked down into the scummy stainless
steel sink and saw nothing but a well-used toothbrush. What a sense of humor! I
thought to myself. Thus began my first stay in solitary confinement. It was not a
pleasant experience and I soon realized I was claustrophobic.

That night I was still naked and it was cold in solitary - about 45 degrees
Fahrenheit. The cell measured six feet wide by ten feet long. It had a steel
military bunk with a lattice of springs but no mattress. There was a filthy toilet but
no toilet paper.

The floor was concrete with what could only be blood stains

splattered on one of the walls an floor. I deduced that someone was seriously
injured in this cell. But right now I was freezing and began to shiver uncontrollably.
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I looked out the small five by eight inch window on the door and saw a guard
sitting in an office. I began calling out to him officer many times but he ignored
me completely.

Thats when I heard a pounding noise on my wall and then heard a voice coming
out of the air vent hey new guy! I figured that must be me so I climbed on top of
the sink to speak back into the air vent You calling me?

Yeah, listen buddy,

the more you call the guard, the longer hell ignore you. What do you need?
My clothes or a blanket Im freezing my ass off in here. Wait til they serve
chow and ask him then. His name is Mr. Bouchard and he seems to be in a good
mood today Right thanks for the advice. By the way whats your
name? Simmons. Chris Simmons. Thanks Chris.

About thirty minutes later I had to start doing jumping jacks to warm myself up. I
was growing sleepy and that was not good. Being a seasoned veteran scuba and
first aid instructor, I recognized the symptoms of hypothermia. About an hour later
dinner was served on a tray slid through a small steel flap in the door. In general
population we would be eating hot food. Here in solitary the food was usually
served cold. Working in the kitchen (I washed pots and pans for $23 a month) I
knew that we sent hot food to the seg unit every night around 5:30pm.

If there

were decent guards running seg like Harrison, Black, or Lightfoot, the food
would be served when it arrived hot. But the vast majority of the seg guards
would just let the food sit there until it was good an cold and serve it around
7:30 pm. Just another way they could compound the misery of imprisonment.

So tonight the menu included hot dogs and beans, a slice of bread, sliced beets
and a scoop of jello. To drink we were given a Styrofoam cup of what the
prisoners call jungle juice but what I recognized to be one of those sacharrineladen artificial fruit drinks, but it was so sweet I couldnt really make out a flavor. It
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joined my mail in the toilet and a filled the cup with water from the sink.

The

U.S. Bureau of Prisons charges American taxpayers something like $280 a day to
maintain each and every prisoner, (thats over $100,000 a year!) and for the life of
me I could never figure out how they could ever justify even half this amount. I
seized this opportunity to ask Mr. Bouchard for a blanket or my clothes. All he
said was Well see and an hour later he was replaced by another guard.

By now I had to take a dump but there was no toilet paper. I banged on my door
and called for the guard several times, and in about thirty minutes he finally
responded What the fuck do you want? I was happy for the progress and replied
Some toilet paper and a blanket. He walked away without saying a word.
About fifteen minutes later he returned, flipped open the door flap and a single
four inch square of toilet paper slid through the door. Thanks I said as I cursed
him under my breath. Fortunately for me, the trustee prisoner who cleans every
night took pity on me and slid the sports section of the Miami Herald under the
door for me when the Guard was preoccupied with a magazine.

At first I was tempted to use the newspaper to wipe my ass, but quickly
came to my senses and realized it would make a better blanket. So I curled
up on the floor and covered myself with the newspaper.

As I tried to force

myself to fall asleep I remember asking myself how this could be happening to
me in America. After all America always professes to the world that it is the
champion and guardian of human and civil rights around the world. But it would
get worse a lot worse. In time, I would come to realize that the biggest violator of
human rights in the world is the U.S. Bureau of Prisons with INS coming in a
close second.

I was brought into Seg Friday morning and it was now Sunday afternoon. I was
still naked and freezing and without toilet paper. And although federal law
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mandates that prisoners in Segregation be allowed to have one telephone call, a

shower, and one hour of exercise each day, seven days a week, I had yet to
enjoy any of these items. It became real clear to me in only two days that no
laws applied within the walls of the segregation unit. In the days ahead this would
be reinforced when I would watch three guards beat a man to death while he
begged for mercy and then claim he committed suicide. I decided that if I did
get to make that phone call it would be to call The American Civil Liberties Union
or Amnesty International to report the living conditions of this segregation unit.

As I sat wondering how long I might be kept in this miserable place, Mr. Blackwell
the a

staff team member assigned to my normal housing unit appeared at my

door as casually opened the flap door and cynically asked Do you need anything
Gorcyca? As a matter of fact I do Mr. Blackwell.

I could use some clothes, a

shower, a mattress, a blanket, a toothbrush, a telephone call, and Id like to speak

with Mr., Meko (the warden). He just nodded, looked at me and said Im too
busy to get you all that, but Ill help you out with just one thing what will it be?
It would be fruitless to argue with this man so I decided to go along with his
game and replied a telephone call thinking that I would be taken to a telephone
and be able to have a private conversation with The ACLU or Amnesty
International. Okay he said and walked away without another word.

About 30

minutes later he reappeared at my door holding a telephone in his hand connected

to an extension cord that must have been fifty feet long. Whats the number?.

I was shocked that he would not only hear my conversation but have to dial the
number for me. Then it dawned on me that I didnt have the telephone number
for either the ACLU or Amnesty International, or even my lawyer for that matter.
Can I call information for a number first? I asked. Nope, that will cost Uncle Sam
50 cents, and he doesnt want to spend more money on scum like you. Well I
was left with few alternatives since I only had my neighbors, a few friends, and my
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mothers telephone number memorized. I gave him my mother's phone number in

Parma, Ohio 216-884-1035.

Through the door I watched him dial the number and then said collect from
Bruce Gorcyca.

I had been calling my mom once a week since I was jailed.

Since I am her only child with very few living relatives, and she was suffering
frequent anxiety attacks because of my plight, the calls were the highlight and
relief of her week so we tried to make the most of them. I was supposed to
have called her Friday evening and figured she must be worried by now. After
about 30 seconds, Blackwell said sorry but the call was refused. What!? I
replied. My mother never refused a collect call from me in my life. Can I try
another number?, thinking Id call my mothers neighbor, family friends for
some 25 years and have them visit my mother. Nope you had your one
phone call for today Blackwell replied as I watched him scribble in some log book
confirming that I made my daily phone call.

Growing irritated, I suggested that I was owed two other phone calls that I did not
get on Friday and Saturday. We dont owe you shit Gorcyca! as he slammed the
flap shut and walked away with his trademark limp. Blackwell was a balding man
about 40 years of age with glasses and a mustache. I would come to despise this
man as much as Lt. Foster over the next two years. He was a veteran with the
U.S. Bureau of Prisons and knew a multitude of clever ways to circumvent the
federal laws that guaranteed basic civil and human rights for the prisoners he was
paid $40,000 a year to counsel, protect, and advise.

It reality, the man did

nothing but provoke and antagonize inmates who did their best to avoid the man
completely. Eventually I too would concede that this was the best policy after all.

This telephone incident was the last straw for me and I was more determined than
ever to speak with the Warden and then my Congressman. When one of the
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nicer guards came on duty Sunday night, I asked him for five request forms. By
law, a prisoner must be able to request assistance from prison staff with problems
and this is done in writing on a request form which by law, must be answered
within 72 hours.

I was amazed that he complied and gave me the five

request forms without any hassle or argument.

I then realized that I need a

pen or pencil to fill out the forms. I politely brought this to the attention of the
guard whose name I believe was Raditz or something similar.

It was then that I was told that The law requires me to give you the request forms
and I did. I cannot give you a pen or pencil because they are potential weapons
and a security risk. Was he serious? I thought to myself. After all, what good is
a request form if I cant fill it out. And since I was alone in solitary confinement,
who the hell was I going to attack with a pen or pencil!? This was absurd. As I
stared the guard in disbelief. He grinned and remarked Besides the law doesnt
say anything about having to give you a pen or pencil just the request slips.
Another clever ruse to deny a prisoner his right to communicate.

Ironically, when

one reads the BOPs operational manual, it urges all staffers to ensure open and
unrestricted communications with prisoners to avoid the creation and build-up of
tensions that ultimately could lead to violence or a prison riot like Attica here
dozens of people were killed, and over a hundred seriously injured.

I heard Chris next door banging on the wall, the signal for me to go to the air vent.
Dont waste your time with these guys theyre not going to help you with
anything. Ive been here a year already and trust me when I tell you, they dont
care if you die in here. I chatted with Chris for about 30 minutes through the vent
as he related how another inmate actually caught pneumonia in the seg unit and
did die when Chris was first brought in. He also told me how they doped him up
on Thorazine when he continuously complained to the Warden that he was not
getting his daily exercise and phone calls. He claimed they physically injected him
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with the Thorazine without any doctors orders and it made him sleep through
most of the day so hed be sound asleep if the warden came by on his routine
inspections of the seg unit.

Mr. Meko is your only hope in here Chris

professed. As it turned out, Chris Simmons knew what he was talking about.

Mr. Meko was a helluva nice and decent man as I discovered the following
Monday when he appeared like an angel to go cell by cell in the seg unit and
check with every inmate. He did not speak down to inmates nor in any degrading
or insulting manner like most of the prison staff.

He was educated, articulate,

and respectful. He even took notes as he spoke with the prisoners. He seemed
genuinely interested in the welfare of his many wards. I was genuinely
impressed by the integrity of this man. Yes, Chris was right this is the man to
talk with. Unfortunately, Lt. Foster tagged right along by his side and I had to
carefully contemplate what I would tell him when he got to my cell.

Mr. Gorcyca why are you naked? Id like to know myself sir I replied. Id also
like to know why Im even here in the first place? Mr. Meko looked at Foster who
casually explained Hes naked because we didnt have any clean clothes from
the Laundry on Friday and he is here pending an investigation. Investigation
for what? I asked. No explanation followed. I also told Mr. Meko of my
need for a blanket, toilet paper, toothbrush, mattress, a shower, and telephone
calls. All you need to do is make a request Gorcyca he told me. It was then that I
showed him the five blank request forms and revealed the issue of the pen or
pencil.

He promptly handed me his gold Cross pen and said hed pick it up on

his way out with the request forms. He turned to Foster and ordered Make sure
he gets a shower within the hour. I was elated and thanked Mr. Meko profusely
for his help and asked him if I could speak to him privately. I wanted to tell him
about the mail incident and why I was really here. Come see me when you get
out of the hole. The hole was the common name for segregation used by
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prisoners and I was surprised to hear that term come from a staffers lips. Mr.
Meko was different than the others and he quickly earned my respect.

Sure enough he collected the request forms and his pen about twenty minutes
later. And as soon as he left I was taken out for my first shower in four days and
was even given a clean towel and bar of soap. But the guard gave me a
contemptuous look that told me he did not approve of my conversation with
warden Meko. It was Monday, and I thought the warden might spring me from seg,
but no such luck. About two hours after he left the seg unit Mr. Blackwell
appeared again wearing rubber gloves and carrying some clothes in one hand and
a green wool Army blanket in the other. The guard opened the door for him and
he threw the stuff at me. The clothes appeared to be clean but the blanket
wreaked of urine, feces, and seemed to be caked with vomit. Heres your
fucking blanket asshole!.

Thats filthy! I protested. Wash it in your sink he

replied. Ill be back for your phone call in about an hour. The door closed and he
quickly faded from view.

As I began to put on the orange jumpsuit I realized they were size Double XX for a
300 pound man. I wore a size small but they were better than nothing they
would keep me warm. I assumed I would soon be getting a roll of toilet paper and
a toothbrush and an hour of exercise. Instead I was given another single sheet of
toilet paper and taken out into a chain link fence cage that was outdoors and
left in the rain for an hour.

That was my daily exercise. I did get a

perfectly clean, new toothbrush on Tuesday however and I relished that sweet
victory.

I began to wonder how long Id be kept here since neither Foster nor any of the
guards ever told me.

During my now frequent conversations with Simmons I

knew that legally they could only keep me here for 90 days at a stretch. I adjusted
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to the general discomfort but I was having a very

difficult time with a growing claustrophobia and if I
didnt distract myself constantly with conversations with
Chris, singing songs to myself, or recounting events in
detail, I would break out in a sweat and would find
myself pacing the tiny cell for more than an hour at a
time.

Eventually I grew tired of the chats with Simmons since

we soon ran out of things to talk about and because the guards had him so doped
up on Thorazine most of the time, his conversations were often not coherent nor
easy to follow.

He obviously knew what he wanted to say but his speech

coordination simply wouldnt cooperate. Today for example Chris was telling me
not to drink lemonade and kept saying something about taking a piss. It made
absolutely no sense to me, until I actually drank some lemonade a few days later
and promptly spit it out when I realized one of the guards had urinated in it. It was
one of the favorite sick jokes played on the rookie prisoners in the hole, and it
never failed to provide the seg guards with plenty of yucks.

Their sense of

humor was far beyond warped but real recourse was non-existent.
Towards the end of my stay, I got a pleasant surprise. Apparently the seg unit
was now full due to a rather large fight in general population and I got myself a
temporary cellmate.

By coincidence his name was George Morales, a very

well-groomed latino about 35 years of age and was deposited in my cell.

It

didnt take me long to realize I had met this man briefly once before a few
years back at an off-shore boat race. I only knew Morales as a boat racer and
never would have guessed he worked for the CIA, Oliver North, and President
Reagan. When he said I looked familiar, we talked for hours about boats, our
common obsession. We would only spend about a week together in the seg unit,
but a unique friendship sprouted and

within 48 hours were discussing things

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other than boats primarily what each of our cases had in common
government corruption.

The American public would eventually come to meet

George Morales as the man who testified to the U.S. Senate behind closed doors
about his role in delivering weapons to the contras in exchange for being allowed
to bring cocaine into the U.S. to pay for those
weapons. Over the next two years, I would become
Georges confidant and typist as he would have me
type all of his correspondence, and even his scripted
statement for the U.S. Senate. George was quite a
popular guy the only prisoner I knew that got visits
from CIA agents who brought him Cuban cigars. We
became good friends as well and helping him
survive his ordeal would cost me a few more days
in the hole down the road.

I would later meet and befriend one of Moraless pilots who became o ne of my
best friends while jailed. His official name was Gary Betzner, a crop duster from
Arkansas, but he had a few aliases and most smugglers just knew him as
Hippie and some in the free world knew him as Lucas Harmony. To me he was
just a good friend with interesting stories to tell. Most of these stories, or at least
parts of them would be shared with the world eventually. Like this one:
http://news.google.com/newspapers?nid=1
310&dat=19880408&id=pLRVAAAAIBAJ&sj
id=teEDAAAAIBAJ&pg=5879,1596618

Gary confirmed most all that George already

told me and all that Mike Tolliver avoided
discussing. A good part of the Morales
346

story saw daylight in a

few books including CRIMES OF PATRIOTS by

Johnathan Quitny, but what you read in those books is but only half of the real
story. If the real story was told George would never have been released after
serving only three years of a thirty year sentence.

George

Morales had the

personal blessings of President Reagan, Vice-President Bush and even received a

personal thank you call from Reagan less than two months before his arrest.
Morales communicated regularly with Donald Gregg, the executive aide to Vice
President Bush, even from prison, and he had the phone bills to prove it. I saw
them. He also had some interesting photographs that would make the front page
of any newspaper in the world. George was anything but stupid, and he
documented his participation with the CIA quite well.

He was eve n personal

friends with another CIA employee General Noriega of Panama and together the
two men could prove what author Penny Leroux could only suggest in her book (IN
BANKS WE TRUST) Many rogue CIA agents were up to their ears in illicit

drug smuggling to the point where they had to buy their own banks! But even
though Morales made no effort to expose the operation, he could, and that was
347

more than enough to have him

jailed in 1985, four years before
Noriega arrived
same

prison

at our
in

very

Miami.

Morales agreement to help the

CIA in what they presented as a
critical operation earned him a
prison sentence.

Georges only

salvation would be his knowledge and his threat to share it with the world. Not too
many people can get away with extorting the U.S. Government. In fact, George
Morales is the only one I know. But his freedom was a small price to pay to avoid
a certain presidential impeachment.

Gary made life in seg fun and exciting. In fact he brought excitement to the entire
prison one day when he decided to escape. Either he didnt like the prison food or
the 30 year sentence awaiting him Im not really sure. But I was sitting in the hole
one day when all the emergency alarms went off on the radios carried by the
guards and then followed with a message All units respond to soccer field
escape in progress. Deadly force not authorized. Repeatdeadly force not
authorized. I was hoping and praying that Gary could pull it off. If anyone had the
brains and the balls to pull of an escape, it was Gary. Im sure the entire prisoner
population was pulling for him as well. But 20 minutes later Gary was marched into
seg and he was not a happy camper. As luck would have it seg was full so my cell
door opened and Gary silently strode in and as soon as the cell door locked behind
him, we looked at one another before he washed his face with some cold water,
stood up and simply summarized his frustration and anger with a single word
fuck!
Bad day at the office honey? I remarked trying to use a little humor to calm him
down. He paced back and forth in the cell burning off the extra adrenaline that must
348

have accumulated running out to the hovering helicopter.

I asked him what

happened and he simply blurted, That fucker Terry dropped the dime on me and
the two guys that threw me the rope from the chopper were FBI agents! I didnt
know what to say other than Sorry. The stunt would get Gary and extra five years
added to his sentence. Terry would be removed to another prison for his own
safety and Gary became less talkative and was probably already planning his next
escape because his next prison would surely be a maximum security facility.

Gary was already in his late thirties and I could not picture him doing 30 years
behind bars. He was infamous amongst smugglers for his flying skills and now his
wings were clipped. Both his ego and spirit were bruised by the setback But
knowing Gary, I was certain he would surely try another Houdini move at the next
possible opportunity.

Two other guys would also try to escape from MCC Miami while I was there and
only one succeeded a young Colombian boy whose girlfriend wore two sets of
clothes and a wig into the visiting room. When the guards were distracted by an
argument staged by two other prisoners, the young boy dodged into the womens
rest room, shaved off his beard and mustache and emerged dressed as a woman,
who walked right out the prison gates totally undetected.

After I left MCC Miami there would be yet another escape attempt made by Ben
Kramer, a famous drug entrepreneur who was convicted for the murder of the most
famous man in ocean boat racing Don Arronow who designed the Cigarette,
Magnum and other racing boats in the 1970s. Unfortunately, Bens helicopter
crashed and now Ben lives underground in Marion, Illinois in a Super Max prison.

349

A nurse came through the seg units twice a day morning and night to dispense
medications to the some dozen prisoners kept there. I told her about my
claustrophobia and she said she would have the prison doctor come see me and
prescribe something. She seemed sincere and I was hopeful shed honor her word.
She was a young Cuban lady with blond hair and pretty blue-green eyes.

couldnt help but think that she seemed so out of place working in this dark
depressing place. Indeed depression was the major enemy in prison, even more
so in the hole. Here the hours and days dragged by and it was difficult to keep
track of the latter unless you scratched off the days in the paint on the wall with
your spoon at mealtime.

The walls around me bore witness to dozens of my

predecessors who left their initials, mini-calendars, profanities, and even prayers
and crucifixes behind upon their exit. One prisoner even left a message for those to
follow with a pencil Dont fuck with Williams the man is a killer. I would meet
Officer Williams the next day when
the staff rotation brought him to
the seg unit for a week.
Hey nurse! You forget my meds!
Nurse! Nurse! But it was too late
for the young man in the cell
across from me. She had already
left the building. The guy tried
desperately to get the attention of
Williams,

black

man

of

medium but muscular build and

gerry curls, but he ignored him
completely.

I need my meds

Williams please call the nurse

Was President Reagan a better actor than a

leader? Without a loyal Oliver North to take the
heat in 1987, we all would have found out. All the
witnesse s were locked safely away in prison

back. I dont know what meds he

needed so badly, but I could hear the desperation I his voice as he pleaded to no
350

avail. After two hours of begging non-stop the young man whose name Simmons
told me

was

Ralph

Steele,

began banging on his

door in a constant

rhythmic pattern. It quickly grew annoying but I could only empathize for the
guy. I think he felt it was the only way Williams would relent and help him get
his medicine. On the contrary. Williams just calmly walked over to the door and
lowered the flap on Ralphs door. I saw him reach and take something, a can
and then spray it into Ralphs cell for about 45 seconds non-stop. In less than two
of those seconds we could all hear Ralph coughing and gagging in his cell and
then his toilet flushing repeatedly. Williams just nailed him with a whole can of
pepper spray. You son-of-a-bitch! I could hear another prisoner holler out from
behind his door at Williams who didnt respond. He was too busy laughing as
he watched Ralph convulse in his cell through the window. How do you like your
new meds Ralph? Williams teased. Only after some thirty minutes did the
coughing stop and silence overtook the entire unit. Simmons later confirmed the
warning found on my wall You dont want to even talk with that guy Gorcyca. I
could see why.

Over the next few days that grew into three weeks, Blackwell came by and
performed his daily telephone tricks and no matter whose number I gave him, the
line was allegedly either busy, disconnected, answering machine, nobody
home, or the call was refused but his trusty log book insisted that I got to
make my daily call. As much as I wanted to give this man a piece of my mind, I
bit my tongue hard and decided I would talk to the warden about this the next
time I saw him. I had not talked with my mother in over three weeks now and I
knew she was worried to death. She had become quite ill since I was jailed
and her condition grew worse with an enlarged heart, high blood pressure,
an irregular heart beat that would soon require open-heart surgery.

351

I never did get to see the prison doctor and my claustrophobia grew worse to the
point where I was soon begging the guards to take me out into the exercise cage
which gave me some token relief. A very tall guard by the name of Bouchard said
he felt sorry for me and said he would let me out of my cell to sweep and mop
the floor. Thank God! I was starting to lose it.

I never in my life thought Id be

so happy to sweep and mop a floor. When I was finished, I thanked officer
Bouchard for the respite from hell What did you say Gorcyca? he asked I
said thank you Mr. Bouchard He then tuned off his radio which was playing
some country music, and demanded that I address him as sir.

The last time I called someone sir was in the Coast Guard and I was not going to
subordinate myself any lower than I had to. I called all the guards either officer
or by their last names preceded by a Mr. And so far only Bouchard was taking
offense. When I refused to call him sir he approached me and told me to put my
hands behind my back and promptly handcuffed me. He then led me to the utility
closet where I had just put away the mop bucket and pushed me in as he locked
the door behind me.

In less than five minutes I was totally overwhelmed with

anxiety and found it hard to even breathe. I began pounding and kicking the door
wildly demanding and then begging for relief.

I was hyperventilating and

sweating profusely as I could only hear Bouchards sly laugh and some voice
say Cmon Bouchard let him
hyperventilating

out.

eventually

and apparently fell asleep.

confessing my claustrophobia to a guard.

passed

out

from

I woke up hating myself for

I endured 27 hours in this closet

as I noted the wall clock when I was finally let out by Williams of all people the
next day. But I soon realized it was not an act of compassion nor mercy. The
Warden was coming to make his rounds and explaining a prisoner locked in the
closet might be difficult. Mention this to the warden Gorcyca and youll get far
worse understand?

I said nothing but nodded.

352

Sure enough, when the warden went cell to cell, Williams was at his side,
ostensibly concerned about our welfare. I did decide to tell the Warden about my
need to call my mom so he asked Williams to bring him the phone log. It didnt
take him long to tell me that I had been given all of the calls I was supposed to.
I then explained the little ruse Blackwell had been using to deny me
communication, and Mr. Meko just looked at me. I went on to explain my mothers
poor health and anxiety attacks and pleaded to give her a five minute call. Okay
Gorcyca, Ill speak with Mr. Blackwell about getting you another call. Why did he
say another when I just explained to him that I didnt get to speak to anyone in
the last three weeks!

Was he condoning Blackwells actions or just refusing to

believe me? I was disturbed by this comment because I was sure the warden was
an honorable man.

Indeed, Blackwell limped over to my cell some three hours later but he had no
telephone this time. Hey Gorcyca, he beckoned. Come to the door. Ive got some
bad news for you. What could be worse than being here? I thought to myself. He
crouched down to speak through the flap midway down the door. I called your
mother for you and one of her neighbors named Patricia Tober answered the
phone. My heart sank to my stomach as I feared the very worst. Pat Tober was
my mothers best friend and neighbor for over 25 years. Your mother is in the
hospital Gorcyca. I couldnt speak for what seemed like an eternity as I could
only imagine what my mother might be thinking about her son. I want my phone
call Mr. Blackwell recalling the wardens promise.

His only reply was Sure

accompanied with a grin and a wink as he closed the flap and walked away. By
now I wanted to reach through that flap and strangle this man who had tormented
me for the last three weeks.
knew it.

I needed desperately to call my mother and he

In her sixties, my mother was deteriorating and I might not even get to

say good-bye to her. I had not gotten a letter from her in three weeks and I know
wondered if she was even too ill to write. It was Friday night, and I would not see
353

Mr. Meko again until Mondays rounds.

I could not wait that long. My mother

could be dead by then.

I could not eat that night, nor sleep. All I could do was pace and pray. I prayed
like I never did before invoking Gods mercy and protection for my mother.

only hoped my prayers would make it through the thick concrete and steel of this
dungeon and if so, would they be discounted because I was a prisoner? I then
scolded myself for even doubting. I prayed the night away until I eventually
dozed off.

I looked forward to sleep in the hole. My dreams were my sanctuary

- my only escape from the dank misery and boredom. In my dreams I was a free
man living a normal life making telephone calls whenever I pleased and eating hot
meals.

Dreams were free from threats, intimidation, and abuse. I liked it there

and wished so badly I could stay longer. If I had my way, Id sleep through my
entire sentence and would hope that they would only wake me up when it was
time to go home.

Bang! Bang! Bang! The noise exploded in my ears as I jumped to my feet by

natural instinct to defend myself. I was startled then puzzled to realize it was
pitch dark outside and must be the wee hours of the morning. I looked up at my
cell window and saw an all too familiar and dreaded face Williams. I dont
think he could have banged any harder on my door if his life depended on it.
Whats

up Mr. Williams?. I got a message for you that your mother died

and I didnt need to hear more as I slumped over in agony and just sobbed for
hours. My mother was my very best friend in life and I loved her beyond words. I
was growing sick thinking how I could not be there for her and regrets soon
flooded my soul. Regret for not telling her more often how much I loved her.
Regret for the times I argued with her. Regret for being locked away in jail. Regret
for ever working a single day for the U.S. government.

One regret after

another just beat me up relentlessly until I begged God to rescue me and put me
354

at my mothers side. Life was quickly losing any significance for me. I was truly at
the end of my proverbial rope.

I guess I lost the desire to remain silent and subject myself further to the
indignation of being totally isolated from the world for no legitimate reason.
My mother was dead and I needed to speak to someone I know and trust a
neighbor, an aunt, family friend a lawyer - someone.

I called out to officer

Williams but he continued as usual to read his Gallery magazine in his little
glass walled office. After a good long while of trying to be polite I started doing
the Ralph Steele routine banging the door for attention. My arms grew heavy
after only five minutes of beating the door like a drum as I quickly drew the
ire of Williams who approached my door. He said nothing as he opened the flap.
Within seconds my cell filled with a blinding and choking mist as he unleashed an
entire can of pepper spray on me that had me gasping for my life in less than a
minute. I was frantic as I fell to the floor. My eyes were burning as if they were on
fire and every breath I managed to take was as if thousands of matches were
being lit in my throat. The pain was excruciating and totally disabling. I crawled
along the floor feeling my way blindly towards the toilet. I could only recall the
previous incident with Ralph and remembered how he flushed the toilet
continuously. I knew that would be my only hope for fresh air. I found the cold
stainless bowl and quickly inserted my head into its void and my fingers groped
for the button that would give me some relatively clean air to breathe. After three
quick flushes I caught a fresh breathe and continued the routine until I was able to
breathe again. The human instinct for self-preservation and survival is amazing.
I somehow made it through the night. I can only surmise that my prayers found
their mark.

The following day I had a brief glimpse of hope when a decent guard by the name
of Mr. Black was working the seg unit. I told him that my mother had just died
355

and needed to speak with someone.

He actually attempted to reach the

prison chaplain for me but came back to tell me that the chaplain wasnt around
on weekends. But he did his job and gave me the request forms and pencil
that I asked him for. It was Sunday and I spent the day praying for my mothers
soul and her forgiveness. Mr. Black was one of the handful of nice people I met in
prison a man who did his job professionally without malice towards the inmates.
There were less than a dozen guards of his quality out of a staff of some 200.
Harrison, Garvin, Lightfoot, Segui, and Black were the ones who would break up a
fight instead of watch or provoke it like the others. And for being decent human
beings with prisoners they earned the prisoners respect and trust but were razzed
and ostracized by their other co-workers. I saw over a dozen guards resign in the
38 months of my captivity. Most of them said they did not want to be a part of
the cruelty or meanness that pervaded the prison environment. People with morals
and a conscience do not last long at the U.S. Bureau of Prisons. Only INS and the
IRS have higher employee turn-over rates in the federal government.

Monday finally arrived and I eagerly awaited the appearance of Mr. Meko, but
he never arrived. Instead Lt. Foster appeared at my door and instructed me to
come to the door and stick my hands through the flap so he could handcuff me.
Were they really going to let me go to my mothers funeral?

Mr. Meko must

have gotten my Urgent request form and I would soon be on a plane to Ohio.
Even if I had to stand at my mothers graveside in handcuffs with two
expensive guards at my side, I had to say good-bye. For some three decades,
she had always been there for me and I wanted to be there for her.

It had been 30 days in the hole. I lost about fifteen pounds physically and perhaps
twice as much mentally. I was led by Foster out of the freezing dark seg unit into
the hot Miami sun. The sunshine was blinding but felt great as he led me to his
office and removed the handcuffs. I better not see any more letters to your
356

Congressman, civil rights

groups, or

the

postal inspector or

Ill

move

you permanently to the hole do you understand. Something inside me would

not let me agree with this man so I remained silent. Go back to your unit for a
new cell assignment.
telephone.

I gladly complied and then made straight for the unit

There were about six men ahead of me so I waited two hours to

make my first telephone call in thirty days.

I could not dial the numbers fast enough but the phone at the Tober residence just
rang and rang until an answering machine came on. They must all be at my
mothers house I thought. I called my moms house hoping that all the
arrangements were already made for me to be flown up for the funeral.

But

when the phone was finally answered, all I could do was weep uncontrollably.
My mother accepted my collect call and then chided me for not calling her for a
month. I could barely talk, but managed to tell my mom how much I loved her. I
skimmed over what happened trying not to worry her too much and discovered
she had written me three letters over the last month and told me in her letters of
her heart problems and upcoming surgery. The bastards had read my mail and
gleaned just enough information from them to torment me.

I never saw those

letters, and as a result my mother and I agreed to write less and talk more. After
the rage in me subsided, I vowed to my creator that I would not let anyone in my
family be toyed with so cruelly again.

Over the next two years, I would file

over two dozen written formal complaints (BP-10 forms) with U.S. Bureau of
Prisons of which only about half ever found their way back to me with a reply. I
assume the rest fell victim to Lt. Fosters death ray and were vaporized. I would
keep copies of all of them. These complaints would earn me two more return visits
to the hole, both much worse than my first, an incredible three month long bus ride,
and a clever scheme to prolong my release to freedom by 25 months.

357

In their eyes I was a troublemaker someone who caused them a lot of

paperwork. In my conscience, I was doing what had to be done fighting for my
right to correspond and communicate freely with the outside world about the real
reasons I was locked away by my government, the murder of my co-worker at
the IRS (Liston Smith) and how Judge Hastings would not let me revoke my plea
and have a trial. I was determined to expose the sham and I would be punished
severely for my efforts to do so.

Five

Pages

Withheld

pending

my

final

resolution and reunification with my family.

Over time I came to realize a strange but logical anomaly components of the
criminal justice system protect one another unless the news media gets involved
then its every agency for itself. For example, you could witness the murder of a
prisoner by guards as I did, report it to the FBI (as I did) and absolutely no
investigation will be launched. Yet if a prisoner were to punch a prison guard for
trying to pick-up his wife in the visiting room, that prisoner would be facing assault
charges and another year behind bars within 24 hours. Initially I found it
difficult to understand why Lt. Foster would care about my letters containing
information about IRS and FBI corruption when nothing in my letters even spoke
badly of any prison or prison staff member. Within in a year Id start seeing the
forest from the trees after I started hearing stories of other corruption from other
prisoners, not unlike myself. Most of them did work for the CIA or FBI and when
they tried to quit, or got caught on an illegal mission (like the U.S. sanctioned
Iran Contra smugglers) were promptly jailed, most on unrelated bogus charges.
The Jesus Garcia story (an entire book in itself) is typical of the hypocrisy and
selective prosecution demonstrated daily by the U.S. criminal justice system.
Look this case up on the Internet since it garnished quite a bit of publicity in Miami
358

and New Orleans circa 1987-89 and get a good taste of U.S. justice not unlike
Waco or Ruby Ridge. My tiny slice of justice pales in comparison to the slices
doled out to others like my associate Liston Smith. At least I am still alive.

Copyright 1995-2014 By Bruce A. Gorc yca All Rights Reserved

In 1987 Senator John Kerry had President Reagan and our shadow government by the
balls. Instead of squeezing them to force out the truth, he was persuaded to help with the
damage control to pre serve the public image of American government around the world

359