Prison Camp: The Albanian
A White-Collar Journal forum for criminal justice, lived experience, and the personal search for redemption
During my eighteen months in a federal prison camp, the most enduring memories are of the men who populated it. Lumi, my last bunkie before release, was one of them.
This portrait of Lumi is an excerpt from my memoir-in-progress, A Muddled Brotherhood.
THE ALBANIAN
Lumi, an Albanian bookie, was my last bunkie before I was released. He was a feisty, short man in his 40’s with a large shaved head that was out of proportion to the rest of his body. Though short, he was strong and fearless.
When he first came to this country as a young teen, he told me he and his brother were attacked by three Black guys during a pick-up soccer match. One of them pulled a gun. But Lumi said that the guy holding the gun looked shaky, and he stabbed him with a screwdriver. He and his brother returned home, and after he told his father, they left New Jersey the next day and moved to Connecticut. No one followed him there.
He treated me like I was his father (he was the same age as my oldest son). He was my bunkie during the hot summer months. The dorm becomes sweltering during the summer. There are many altercations — coined “fan wars” by the inmates — over the direction of the fans in the dorm. The dorm was not air-conditioned, and there are a limited number of fans. The direction of the fans can be adjusted and therefore benefit specific locations in the dorm over others.
Lumi changed one of the fans to help our bunk and a few others adjacent to ours. Three Spanish inmates objected to the direction of this fan and confronted Lumi.
“Two things happen,” he said, holding a broom stick (he had an eastern European accent). “One… I go to the Shoe (solitary)… and two… you go to the hospital.”
Surprisingly, they retreated, and no one complained again about the direction of that fan.
He had other confrontations, played in all the soccer games with legendary daring and aggressiveness and developed a reputation. He had a mixed relationship with the Black guys. Most of them respected him and even played cards with him. He called them all “Zumbas.” I never learned the translation of that word.
As a professional gambler/bookie, he played poker every night. There was a regular elimination game of poker involving 10–12 inmates. The last two split the pot. They played for commissary items: candy, nuts, tuna, rice, other miscellaneous items. Lumi won almost every night. Our bunk was filled with items that he was exchanging with other inmates every day.
He led a fascinating but complicated life.
He married an Albanian girl, a friend of the family when both were in their teens. She had a terrible car accident after their marriage, and she was awarded fifteen million dollars. He subsequently bought a gambling operation from a bookie in Connecticut for high-end players. He travelled a lot to Vegas for his gambling business. He had expensive cars: Lamborghini, Porsche, others. He also loved dogs, had five or six at home of various breeds. All aggressive beasts. He also bought several apartment properties in central Connecticut. The tenants paid the rent half in cash. That’s how he ended up in prison.
Conversely, he was a devoted family man, loved his wife, his kids, who he spoiled. But he had tons of girlfriends and liaisons by the dozen in Vegas.
He was especially kind to me, always worried about my comfort. He told me that I should tell him if the fans were not fanning me enough. He even tried to convince me that I should consider escaping to Albania. He had connections to move me through Canada and Mexico. He had a cousin (my age, he said) hiding there, and he had lots of family there.
“The food like Italy, John,” he said, enthusiastically.
He also said it’s cheap to live there. I could get by on my Social Security.
“Just in case your appeal not come through,” he said.
I never took it seriously. But I did think about it, and it was a good story.
He was released before I was. He told me to look him up after I was released.
I’m always tempted.
Some context for the above. An entry from my prison journal, written during one of the fan wars.
HOT AND COLD
Being cold is the norm here though the Spanish guys sleep without shirts and start wars over opening and closing windows and the Black guys side sometimes with the Spanish guys but sometimes with the old White guys who are always cold like me who have to meekly parse our discomfort with the fear of reprisals and so we just keep piling on the layers which are never enough and only enhance the atmospheric gloom while the change of seasons and the summer warmth can’t come soon enough but when it does the Spanish guys start the fan wars and the Black guys side with the Spanish guys but eventually fight with the Spanish guys who fight with the White guys over the fans which were sitting idly like sculptures all winter pointing upwards and motionless but now inmates standing on chairs for ladders and daring each other to alter the path that each group demands as their own while the change of seasons and the end of summer can’t come soon enough.
An earlier version of this essay appeared in Minutes Before Six.
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
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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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