Prison Camp: Gatherings
A White-Collar Journal forum for criminal justice, lived experience, and the personal search for redemption
Prison life is often described in terms of rules, punishments, and loss. What’s less discussed are the small, improvised communities that form to make the time bearable. In the federal prison camp where I served my sentence, those communities gathered nightly around certain bunks, after Count, when the day finally loosened its grip.
The following is adapted from a chapter of my memoir about daily life inside a federal prison camp. It’s a portrait of those gatherings, and the men who made them matter.
GATHERINGS
Gatherings were a constant during my time. It was the way to kill that time before and after the Count. Inmate counts (census) were taken periodically throughout the day to track the inmate population. Inmates were required to stand at their bunks until the “count” was completed and the “clear” announced on the PA system. The last Count was at 10:00 pm, just before lights out. Guys would gather at certain bunks every night after the final Count.
The Spanish guys centered around Chiro, the Spanish drug dealer and number one in the kitchen (head chef). He held court most nights. Freddie, the camp barber, drew a crowd of other Spanish guys for a nightly prayer. They spoke little English and kept to themselves. They would wrap their arms around each other during their prayer, then a hug after, and return to their bunks. Freddie was the camp barber, a quiet guy who didn’t evoke drug dealing. He had a long tattoo of Jesus Christ on his calf.
The gatherings were comprised of four or five inmates standing around someone’s bunk. Certain guys attracted them. Jack, the Seafood King, and Nicky Pizza’s bunk, right behind me in Bunk number two, was a favored one. A crew gathered there every night. Bunks were tight areas. When Jack’s wife complained about being alone in their big house in North Boston, he told her, “I live in fifty-four square feet with another guy.”
Jack was about seventy, a former seafood kingpin from hard-scrabble roots in the North End of Boston. He didn’t finish high school, joined the Marines, and then worked for an uncle in the seafood industry. Tough, hardworking, and with a lot of street smarts, he went out on his own and created an empire. Taxes brought him to prison. Jack said it wasn’t intentional. A mistake by his accountants. Just some back taxes owed, he thought. But the IRS brought legal action, and a year later he was sentenced to 24 months.
Despite his fall, he was a mellow guy, kind in many ways, and a lot of life-lived wisdom. He helped me during my arrival. New inmates arrive with nothing other than their uniform. Jack gave me toothpaste, razors, soap, coffee, and other essentials to get me through until I could buy things from the commissary (prison store.) Many other inmates went to him for counsel. I did too. He made the best of prison. I can’t say the same about me.
I assimilated and managed the population. I fit in. And I was the oldest inmate there, which earned me a fair amount of deference, even from the toughest guys. But I was hunkered down inside. There was an identity I never revealed, even to Jack. You dig so deep in prison about yourself, you can’t get to the bottom. It doesn’t mean you stop trying, though. And that’s the agony.
Nicky Pizza was the owner of a Greek pizzeria. There were many Greek pizzerias in the Boston area. Many had the same problem, withholding tax violations. Nicky Pizza was about forty, second-generation Greek, with an even keel, who looked more like a corporate executive than a pizza guy. He seemed to take everything in stride. There were gatherings at their bunk every night after Count.
A regular was Billy, a bookie from Brooklyn doing his seventh stint, a family business, he told me. You couldn’t not like Billy. Brooklyn to his core, irreverent, full of funny stories, and fearless.
“How the fuck you get seven years?” he asked me ten seconds after I met him. “You kill somebody?”
Big Joe, a thick, burly guy who played in the NHL with Bobby Orr, was another regular. Joe had just turned sixty and was overweight. But you could still see the athlete in him. A powerful man, but friendly to everyone. He worked in the kitchen, and subscribed to a newsletter about prison reform. He was always pumping rumors. He seemed to know everything about everybody. Joe started a company after his hockey days and grew it to three hundred employees but lost everything in the legal process.
“Shouldn’t have even been a case. It was a fuckin civil matter,” he said.
“What was the problem?” I asked him one night, alone at my bunk.
“This fukin old lady. She claimed I screwed her. It was bull shit. Claimed I owed her money. She kept calling the fuckin FBI. I paid no intention. Next thing I know, the fuckin FBI and the DOJ are poundin’ me. My lawyer said, ‘Don’t Worry, you’ll get a fine and probation.’ The fuckin judge gave me thirty-six months.”
“Did the government take your assets?”
“Everything. Had to sell the house. Fuck. I loved that house. I had a custom barbecue in the back. Gas-fired. Six burners. Right next to the pool. Guys came every Sunday to watch the games. Broke my heart selling that place. I designed every fuckin room in that place. Worst part, my best friend—supposed best friend—fuckin phony prick who never missed a free meal at my place, has never visited me once or put a dime in my commissary.”
Joe would rant like that, but a minute later, it was over.
Will, a young trader from Boston, was another regular. He had traded on an insider tip and got caught. Will never did add much, but he laughed at all the jokes. He just liked the crowd, I guess. He didn’t add much most nights, but something was off when he didn’t show up.
Crazy Lou, a chiropractor in his fifties, was a regular. He earned the name telling everyone he had learned to levitate. He would end the gatherings with a neck fix. They scared me, but Joe loved them. Billy too. They said they slept like a baby after. Lou would have them sit in a chair, and he’d wrench their necks both ways, right and left. There were always a series of sudden jerks, followed by loud cracks. They made me shiver.
I started to taper off at the gatherings. I turned in early, pulled the blanket over my head, and learned to fall asleep amid chaos. In prison, sleep was the only balm.
If this piece resonated with you, consider sharing it or leaving a comment. To support this work and help spread awareness about justice reform for white-collar defendants, subscribe to White-Collar Journal and stay connected. John DiMenna is a member of the White Collar Support Group.
Up Next on White Collar Journal:
Wednesday (Justice Notes): Criminal Justice Reform
Thursday (Notes from Exisle): Log/Verse: Daily, fragmented reflections
Sunday (Prison Camp): More Stories from prison
If you’re new to White-Collar Journal, you can read earlier chapters and essays on incarceration, justice, and reentry at whitecollarjournal.com.
Thank you for reading White-Collar Journal. Subscribing is free, and I hope you’ll continue with me as I explore stories of incarceration, justice, and redemption.
If this piece resonated with you, consider sharing it or leaving a comment. To support this work and help spread awareness about justice reform for white-collar defendants, subscribe to White-Collar Journal and stay connected. John DiMenna is a member of the White Collar Support Group.
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Really powerful how these gatherings functioned as micro-communities of resistance. The detail about Jack living in 54 square feet but still drawing people to that space shows how much humans will fight for some semblence of normalcy even in the most controlled environments. I saw similar patterns when I voluteered at a halfway house, people always found ways to create those pockets.