Born to Lose (46 page)

. . .

One by one staffers spoke their minds. Walters gathered the prison's condition was the worst of all—a house divided. In the blocks, there were white ranges and black ranges. In the mess hall, it was whites to the left, blacks to the right. The Black Muslims, with shirts buttoned to the neck and stern countenances, marched the yard every morning like soldiers. Most never opened a Koran. Others refused the label of killer or swindler, regarding themselves as political prisoners. Amerika the Oppressive.

When his turn came, Officer Ken Lechwar spoke up frankly. A graduate of Duquesne University, Lechwar was himself a college boy, a rarity among the prison officers. He had only a single year in on the job but it had been a hard one, mostly walking the ranges. “From what I've seen so far,” said Lechwar, “the new initiatives haven't improved behavior. You can treat them like Prince Charles come-to-visit, or like your drunken, freeloading brother-in-law. Hardly matters.”

Walters laughed, then suggested that everyone pour coffee and light up.

. . .

Black heavens ever so slowly turned grey. Dawn, August 17, 1972. The 6:00 A.M. To 2:00 P.M. shift had just come on. Range officers turned the key locks of the cells. Once this was done, each officer went to the very end of his range to pull on a long bar that acted as a fulcrum for a 3-inch piece of flat rail running the length of the range. This clever device, in place since Western Pen opened in 1882, lowered the long rail just enough to unblock a triangular protrusion located atop each cell door, which rested against the inside of the rail and acted as a second lock. Unlocking the individual cells on a range consumed several minutes; pulling the bar, as it was called, only a moment.

Officer Ken Lechwar had been at the superintendent's meeting the night before but had made it home in time to catch the news, have a sandwich, and hit the hay. Rising at 5:00 for work at 6:00, Lechwar was working up on P range. When he peered into cell 22, he saw a fully dressed Stanley Hoss sitting on his bunk, hunched forward with forearms resting on his thighs. Lechwar considered the two of them got along okay, occasionally talking cars and women. In his way, Hoss liked Lechwar, but he was still the law, “the man.” If an all-out prison war ever erupted, he'd kill Lechwar last, that's all.

Lock turned, Lechwar moved on. When the bar was eventually pulled,
Hoss got up and walked onto the range—ready. He leaned over the rail to see comrade-in-arms Frank Phelan on the range below. Hoss winked at him.

Hoss and Phelan made their way out to the prison yard. They spotted Spruill walking with a friend, Oscar Robinson, toward the mess hall. At nearly the same time, Spruill spied Hoss, who began walking toward him. This surprised Spruill, who thought he had cowed Hoss. No matter. Spruill had been sure of himself when he'd dressed down the white punk. Though both were bulked up and powerful, Spruill had several inches and twenty-five pounds on Hoss. He didn't see a weapon, so it would be with fists. Further, Spruill could use karate, which he'd studied for years. A kick to Hoss's face could well seal the deal, promoting Spruill, by right of conquest, to “Most Feared” among blacks and whites. He drifted, only slightly wary, toward Hoss.

Then the shanks came out, pulled from waistbands. Spruill and Robinson stopped in their tracks. Unarmed, they looked around, anywhere, for a weapon. They ran a short distance to grab wooden tent pegs used to rope off a grassy area. No sooner had they done this than their attackers were upon them. By a tremendous swing at Robinson's throat, Phelan forced him to retreat, which left Hoss and Spruill alone, squared off. Spruill got into his karate stance, which deterred Hoss not at all. He went right for the kill, his steel blade moving in a speeding arch for the heart. Spruill shot his arms up to protect his chest, and the blade speared through the web of his left hand, sending blood everywhere.

From a distance, CO Ron Horvat saw the commotion and ran toward the scene. On hand at more than one prison tussle, Horvat was nonetheless left with a lasting impression. “I've been in a lot of ghettos, even hung around some nasty barrios in Mexico, so I know the look of dangerous people who do ugly things. When I saw Hoss go after Spruill I never, I mean
never
, saw anything like that before. I literally saw foam coming out of Hoss's mouth.”

With Hoss on his tail, Spruill was running and screaming. Horvat and Sergeant Doug Cameron were blowing their whistles but, unarmed themselves, had to be very careful. Hoss looked positively rabid. In a blood frenzy, he could turn on anyone.

Running for his life and attempting to zigzag when Hoss got close, Spruill tripped and fell near the south block ramp. Hoss was right there, on him, and everyone within sight of this onslaught thought Spruill was done for. “Hoss raised that knife,” said inmate John Keen, “ready for the
plunge, when a black dude called Cochise grabbed at Hoss's arm enough to foul up his swing.”

With Hoss off-balance, Spruill sprang to his feet and bounded off like a jackrabbit, heading toward the nearest safe haven, the Third Gate, which is actually a massive set of steel doors. In clement weather, the doors are always left open, but floor-to-ceiling bars, or gates, manned by an officer inside, protect against unwanted intrusions.

Counselor Joe Hoffman had come into the Third Gate from the auditorium and was speaking with Gus Mastros about what might be happening outside when “Spruill's panicked face appeared. He was yelling and pounding on the gate in the greatest trepidation. Blood was on his face, hands, and shirt, and twice in quick succession he looked to his left. It was the guard's call what to do. He didn't know the exact situation, whether shanked-up inmates would rush in, but he turned the lock and held the gate ajar, all the while yelling, ‘Get in, get in!'”

Spruill thrust himself through the opening only to barge in his panic into Gus Mastros, both collapsing in a tangled heap. “My lord,” said Mastros, “when I opened my eyes Spruill's face wasn't six inches from mine. Though black, he was white as a ghost.”

Hoffman recalled,

Even before Gus and Spruill began to extricate themselves, I said to Spruill, “Who stabbed you?” I guess even in these seconds he got some composure back, knowing his attacker couldn't get at him, because he said, “Ain't sayin',” but he was still scared to death and cut pretty good. Right then I looked out in the passageway and saw Hoss—with Frankie Phelan behind him—and was just fascinated by what I saw. Hoss held his knives up to shoulder height. You could tell he had a complete dedication to destruction. He stood there as calm as the devil in dark shadow, peering through the gate at us, trying to see Spruill.

Having come straight from the military to his job at Western, Hoffman was strong and fit,

but Hoss kept everyone on high alert, and an incident flitted through my mind of when I monitored a therapy group of really bad guys, Hoss among them. One day Hoss, sitting beside me, said quietly, for me only I guess … He said, “Joe, I'm a natural born killer. I don't know why, but that's what I am.” Now, seeing Hoss through the gate, I was a believer. He
had grayish eyes and they were like, you know, when a shark bites the eyes roll back. They were the most demonic-looking eyes I've ever seen. He began staring, angry at us for what happened, that is, rescuing his rightful prey. I saw both sets of eyes, Spruill's and Hoss's. One's the victim, one's the predator. Everyone knew who was who.

As more officers closed in, Hoss and Phelan dashed into the yard, knives glinting in the morning sun. “On a terrorizing rampage,” recalled Sgt. Doug Cameron, “Stanley and Frankie Hatchet, as he was called, tried to run down black guys. When they got inside the mess hall, knives waving, sweat and blood on 'em, god, they were apparitions from hell. We even had inmates jumping out the goddam windows.

“Finally, with all inmates running far off and with ten officers ringing them, Hoss, fearing nothing, victory in his eyes, calmly surrendered his weapons. Frankie Hachet held his ground and growled but we got him subdued. Both were cuffed and taken to the Home Block.”

Inmate Johnny Keen summed things up. “Hoss became King of the Penitentiary, reputation made … as if it needed any enhancin'.”

Trooper Jim Christie of the state police arrived to bring charges against Hoss. Authorities would start off high—attempted murder. Yet despite all pleadings, Geno Spruill told Christie, “Don't want no charges. I'll handle this myself.”

The prison took measures against Hoss and Phelan, each receiving 180 days in segregation for assaulting Spruill.

. . .

Superintendent Gil Walter's first months at the helm had been stressful. At this juncture, Walters needed the trust of his staff more than the faith of the inmates. Even though most of the problems he faced were inherited, he knew anything that happened from now on would be on his watch. He ordered a shakedown. Among assorted contraband, eight shanks were found, signaling that plenty more were still in inmates' hands. To relieve Western Penitentiary's crowded conditions, he transferred two hundred inmates to other prisons and shipped out a batch of troublemakers. Stanley Hoss was not among them.

Dear Diane,

It's six weeks since I stabbed the nigger so I'm in isolation til Feb. So Jodine is getting married? I'm not surprised. This Oct. will be a year since I seen her, and twice that since I seen the 2 boys. At least her new husband
won't have to break her in. Ha Ha. Sorry about Pookie's sister committing suicide but I can dig her side of it. This big dirty world has nothing to offer anyone. Last Sunday a gang of guards rushed in here with clubs and tear gas. Three of my friends climbed to the ceiling of the isolation block to get someone to listen to their grievances. The guards used ladders to get them. They were sprayed and beat bad with blackjacks and fists. It's an everyday thing down here since the new warden took over. He's a stupid red-headed bastard who don't know one thing about prison and the whole place is in revolt against him. Just last night one of the female nurses in the prison hospital was raped by an inmate.

Hoss continued to receive enticing requests from women. He passed on these until he received the letter of a woman named Jill Joy, whose enclosed picture caught his attention: she was blonde—as he liked his women—slim in the hips, nice up top. Jill began to visit, and those visits had become frequent since early summer. She regularly wrote to Stanley, telling him that no matter what he did or didn't do she was on his side. Although visits to inmates in segregation were restricted, Stanley used one for Jill in late November. Adorned by dark mascara and eyeliner, ruby lipstick and rouge, wearing a short skirt, and showing as much cleavage as she dared, Jill arrived determined to deepen her relationship with Hoss. When the visiting room guard's attention was elsewhere, Jill reached under her skirt to produce an expensive pen for Stan, telling him he'd have no excuse not to write her all the time.

Meanwhile, attempts to prosecute Hoss for the attack on Geno Spruill stalled, stymied by Spruill's refusal to testify against Hoss. At one point Spruill even claimed he was no longer sure who had stabbed him. Then it was too late: Spruill escaped.

As part of its “trust initiative,” the prison had begun allowing convicts to go into the community for certain events or reasons. Under this plan, Walter's predecessor had granted Spruill permission to accompany the prison's weight-lifting team (of which he was a member) to a competition outside the walls, even though Spruill was doing time for assault with intent to kill and despite the fact that his knife injury from Hoss's attack five weeks earlier would prevent him from taking part. No permission had been given for the team members to repair to a tavern afterwards to have drinks with their wives or girlfriends—but they did so, and Spruill excused himself to go to the restroom, not to be seen again for a year. Heads rolled, not because of the
dubious program itself—for that would be indicting the policy makers—but to punish the accompanying staff for their folly in permitting drinking and in not reporting the incident to bureau headquarters in Camp Hill, Pennsylvania. The episode might never have become public had not the police launched a search for the culprit in the November stabbing death of John Beck and the wounding of his wife, Beatrice. Prime suspect: Geno Spruill. The deputy superintendent of Western Pen, who had given the final okay to Spruill's release while Gil Walters was on vacation, was ordered to resign. As for Walters, himself a mere whisker away from ensnarement in the scandal, he declared, “I will not let anyone like Spruill go out again.”

It got worse. It was rumored that Spruill's attack on the Becks was a botched attempt to get even with Hoss. Apparently, Spruill had made his way to Natrona Heights, home of Hoss's half-sister Mary Jane (nicknamed “Punkin”), intending to kill her as payback for what Hoss had done to Spruill in prison. As it turned out, Spruill got the wrong house. The victims were innocents.

During the same visit Jill Joy gave Stanley the pen, he told her that as soon as he saw Spruill again, “there'll be one less spook in this world.” Jill was pleased to be Stanley's special listener. Stan had other confidants, as well. He wrote Diane,

I got 6 months disciplinary time but the officials told me and Frank that we'll be entombed in this hole til we have involved ourselves in their shit programs. They say it's expected my threatening attitude will cease.

Of the 800 prisoners in here, less than a handful are not active agents for the officials. The very few guys, of whom I am one, will not compromise ourselves to the officials' whim. Us few guys, just by being ourselves, terrorize all the agents, spys and punks. Then they all run to the officials and beg for protection. Then the officials reward its agents by locking up the cause of the agents' fear—me and a few others. Then I'm supposed to tolerate this indignity.