OT: Some Rostenkowski articles of note of life in federal prison and halfway houses
In solitary confinement 3 days: Rosty
01/29/1998
Chicago Sun-Times
Former inmate Dan Rostenkowski was so angered by a failed effort to cut his prison term that he called a caseworker an off-color name and spent three days in segregation, the former congressman said in an interview.
"They gave me no breaks at all," he told Congressional Quarterly magazine. "Other people would have been home two months before I got home. I was a high-profile prisoner, and all the decisions were being made in Washington."
The once-powerful chairman of the House Ways and Means Committee pleaded guilty to misusing government funds and served 451 days in federal custody at the minimum-security prison in Oxford, Wis., and at a halfway house in Chicago.
Since his release in October, Rostenkowski, 70, has launched a consulting firm while granting selective interviews in an apparent attempt to rehabilitate his reputation.
Except for the one transgression, Rostenkowski said he was a compliant prisoner who showed other inmates how to navigate through the federal bureaucracy.
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Rosty's difficult winter. (former Congressman Dan Rostenkowski )
Daniel Klaidman Evan Thomas
01/12/1998
Newsweek
The last of a breed, the fallen chairman struggles to begin anew after prison
DAN ROSTENKOWSKI ROLLS INTO the Chicago steakhouse, a bear of a man in a double-breasted suit, pushing past the favor seekers and flunkies. It's just like the old days, except that it's not. When someone from the next table calls out, "Hey, Rosty," the onetime King of the Hill hesitates for a moment before offering a handshake. He seems tentative, almost embarrassed. The suit hangs on Rosty now; he is 50 pounds lighter than when he went to prison a year and a half ago. On this night, he won't wolf down his usual thick-steak-and-martini. Without much gusto, he orders a piece of fish and a nonalcoholic beer. He has to watch his health: he recently underwent surgery for prostate cancer.
Sitting with a pair of reporters from NEWSWEEK, the first newsmen he has talked to since being released from a halfway house in October, Rostenkowski alternates between good-humored bluster and bouts of self-doubt. He boasts about his 14 years as the all-powerful chairman of the House Ways and Means Committee. At the same time, he's uneasy about giving an interview and plaintively worries about his place in history. He wants to be remembered for his legislative achievements. Instead, he frets, he'll be remembered for "those frigging stamps."
In 1994, federal prosecutors accused the chairman of defrauding the government with a variety of seams, including cashing in thousands of dollars of postage stamps that had been bought for his office with tax-payer money. He lost his House seat that year and went to prison for 18 months after pleading guilty to reduced charges in 1996. His downfall marked the end of an era in Washington. Rosty was the last of the great arm-twisting dealmakers on Capitol Hill. By and large, modern-day congressmen are more interested in ideological posturing than in legislating. "Congressmen these days care too much about appearances, and not enough about getting things done," says Rostenkowski. But most Americans remember him simply as a corrupt congressman who got caught.
He understands this, and it galls and mortifies him. Rostenkowski is immensely prideful. These days, when a school or public-interest group invites him to speak, he demands an audience of at least 100 people because he doesn't want to be embarrassed by a small turnout. In prison, he refused to allow his wife and four daughters to visit him - he didn't want his family to see him in prison garb. He refers to his time behind bars as "my Oxford education." (The federal penitentiary was in Oxford, Wis.) His job at "the university" was to monitor the gauges in the boiler room; at night, he slept in the bottom bunk in a small cell shared by three inmates. He mostly kept to himself.
Even so, he couldn't quite stop being Mr. Chairman. Members of his former congressional staff would loyally assemble at a Washington office and take instructions from their ex-boss, who would speak to them by prison phone. One of Rosty's fellow inmates wanted some help with his post-incarceration education; the exlawmaker told him how to win a federal Pen grant to pay for truckers' school. Rostenkowski helped the wife of another inmate apply for a Pell grant so she could attend midwives' school. For the parents of a third inmate, he ran interference with the federal Social Security and Medicare bureaucracy. "He did a lot of good case work," says a longtime aide. From his cell, Rostenkowski wrote long letters to President Clinton and Treasury Secretary Robert Rubin, offering advice on tax legislation.
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WAS ROSTY A SNACK SNEAK AND ROTI A MOOCH IN PRISON? THEIR HAIRDRESSER CLAIMS TO KNOW FOR SURE, BUT, THEN, HE WAS A RESIDENT OF THE JOINT HIMSELF
Flynn McRoberts, Tribune Staff Writer.
01/14/1998
Chicago Tribune
His clients included some of the most famous political and business heavyweights in Chicago from Dan Rostenkowski to Fred Roti, James Dvorak to Ray Hara.
The public knew them, respectively, as a Capitol Hill power broker, a City Hall veteran, a Cook County Republican boss and the colorful car dealer King Nissan. But Norf Positano got an inside look at these men from, well, the inside.
At the federal prison camp in Oxford, Wis., Positano was barber to the political and financial stars.
He came to know 1st Ward Freddie as a prison mooch and notorious buttinsky who still apparently considered himself worthy of the preferential treatment befitting an alderman of the turf long-suspected of mob influence.
Positano, who, as an inmate himself, was at ground zero for gossip not only as the prison barber but as a worker in the commissary, also tended to the preening of Dvorak, the former Cook County undersheriff who is serving time for bribery, tax evasion and orchestrating a ghost-payrolling scandal in the sheriff's office. Known as Jimmy D, he was the house scrounger, although officially assigned to the chapel. Dvorak apparently was the man to see when a new inmate needed more than the prison-issue set of clothing and other basics.
And then there was Rostenkowski, who was passionate about keeping tabs on his old associates in Washington and elsewhere. "He watched every political show," says William Morgan, another ex-inmate of Oxford who substantiates much of Positano's recollections. Morgan remembers the former congressman blowing up one day while watching one of his former colleagues in the TV room at Oxford. "That lying son of a -----------!" he shouted at the screen.
Through it all, Positano says he watched and listened as men who had been among Chicago's most influential figures struggled to cope with life in the dormitory-style prison camp at Oxford. The stories that he tellsand that others confirmoffer a picture of once-powerful men trying in sometimes humorous or pathetic ways to hold on to the status of their past.
Positano came to the attention of the Tribune through an intermediary. Aware that as a convicted felon himself, his credibility might not be of the highest order, the Tribune sought to verify his portrait of his former penal clientele. Each of his recollections was corroborated with an independent source -- including Morgan, who, living in a halfway house , was contacted at random from a list of recent Oxford residents.
Still, perhaps Positano's tales ought to be taken with a sizable grain of salt. A former federal prosecutor who knows him well calls him a "pathological liar."
Moreover, the political figures who are the subject of Positano's observations could not be reached for comment (a number are still imprisoned). Attorneys for some of them, however, did not dispute Positano's descriptions of prison culture.
Positano painted a picture of men unwilling to relinquish their hold on rank.
"They come in the door not believing they're in prison and wanting to continue the life that they had on the street," said Positano, 50, who was convicted in 1994 of fraudulently selling medical equipment. He left Oxford for a West Side halfway house about a month after Rostenkowski did.
Useful people skills
In some ways, politicians are well-suited for the culture of prison, say former public officials who have served time.
"The people skills that allow a man like Dan Rostenkowski to be re-elected and to be so popular among his colleagues probably came to the fore after a while," said Pat Nolan, 47, Republican leader of the California Assembly in the 1980s who served 25 months in prison in the early 1990s for racketeering.
"Most people who are in public life such as Rostenkowski or myself or Chuck Colson, we have pretty good coping skills . . . knowing how to read people and how to get along with people you really don't like," said Nolan, who is vice president of Prison Fellowship, a group founded by Colson, the Watergate conspirator. "In prison it's the same way. You're thrown in with people from all walks of life."
Positano said some inmates who were big heat on the outside "mark their territory via their stature from the street." Some will do things like "buy followers," bestowing upon them small items they can purchase from the prison commissary. "Most of them (also) will immediately secure the services of one of the laundry people to do their laundry, make their beds. Because very few of them will do that.
"They never did it before, they're not going to do it now."
"You have to appreciate the kinds of pressures and concerns that occupy an individual in prison, and the importance of hanging onto things that are meaningful to them," said Jeff Steinback, attorney for both Hara and convicted Chicago alderman Ambrosio Medrano.
Take the case of Roti. Several of Positano's fellow guests at Oxford, from a deposed judge to former blue-chip attorneys, were known for maintaining a prima donna pose. But the self-importance of Roti, convicted in 1993 of taking $17,500 in bribes, became legendary, according to Positano.
"Freddie would get along with everybody," said the prison coiffeur, who says Roti always fussed over just where to part his hair during his weekly haircuts. "But Freddie did everything to be first. He had to be first in line. He was the 1st Ward alderman, and he thought that he was the same thing in prison. He was a lovable old man, but very crusty."
In between official meal times, Roti could be seen flitting from room to room with forks in his back pocket while holding a small, green ceramic bowl that friends had made for him in one of the prison shops.
Recalls Positano, "He would say, `Oh, I don't eat nothing.' . . . But he'd go to people's rooms and say, `What are you eating?' `You want some, Freddie?' `Nahhh. Well, let me taste a little bit.' He was never, ever without food."
Roti wasn't the only prisoner with a healthy appetite. Most days, a group of politico-prisoners and their hangers-on would bring food they had bought at the commissary--cheese, pasta and the like--and microwave it in the visiting room for a low-end version of the prison feasts portrayed in the film "Goodfellas."
"It looked like the Last Supper," said Morgan, who recently left Oxford after serving time for a parole violation stemming from a drug conviction.
The disciples gathered round the table were a cliquish bunch. Conspicuously absent from such gatherings was Rostenkowski, who by several accounts kept to himself.
On warm days, says Positano, Rosty could be seen sunning himself, topless in his commissary shorts and black shoes.
Rostenkowski worked as a clerk, according to his fellow inmates, and mostly conversed with the mechanics and others with whom he worked. "He would distance himself," says Positano, "but (had) no animosity."
Like Roti and others, Rostenkowski is said to have had pockets stitched into his green prison jacket so he could sneak cereal boxes and other items out of the cafeteria and commissary. "Tony the Tiger was his favorite," Positano said.
Rostenkowski was perhaps best remembered by other inmates for his meticulous filing of newspaper clippings and letters. That way he knew who was doing what while he was in prison and who took the time to keep in touch with the ex-chairman of the House Ways and Means Committee.
"That was his out; that's the way he did his time," Positano said.
The former Northwest Side political powerhouse also apparently is haunted by the vitriolic criticism he received from some elderly constituents in 1989 when Congress passed an unpopular Medicare surtax. Positano said the congressman, who was chased up Milwaukee Avenue by a crowd of angry senior citizens that summer, still talked about a woman who called him "Rottenkowski."
Rostenkowski also frequently expressed regrets about having helped pass federal sentencing guidelines that severely restrict judges' ability to tailor punishments.
The same talents exhibited by successful politicians like Rostenkowski also can make them the center of attention in prison. Nolan recalled a former lobbyist in California's Assembly who was well respected among his fellow inmates.
"The skills he had that served him well in the capital made him very effective in prison. People naturally gravitated to him," Nolan said. "Some people are lost in prison; others sense the rhythm of the place and who makes decisions, so they can help others."
Supply headquarters
And themselves. Positano said Dvorak, for instance, hoarded staplers, T-shirts and other items from the prison commissary. That way he would be the man to come to when a new prisoner needed supplements for "the kit"--the regular issue of two evergreen colored shirts, two pairs of pants, a pair of steel-toed work boots, socks, underwear, T-shirts and a bed roll.
As Morgan said: "He was like the unofficial welcoming committee."
At the time of his most recent sentencing, Dvorak, whose official prison work assignment is to help maintain the chapel, said he had experienced a spiritual reawakening. But it apparently didn't dampen his taste for the finer things in life. Known as the Sheriff of Oxford, he was a magazine stand for his prison associates, fellow inmates said.
Anyone wanting to fantasize about the high life could get just about anything from him: the Robb Report, Cigar Aficionado, Wine Spectator, GQ. He even had Vogue, Cosmopolitan and Mademoiselle.
"You have guys at the high corporate and political level making hundreds of thousands of dollars a year," Positano said in trying to explain the demand for the periodicals. "They won't give it up."
Dvorak, who sported a ponytail that Positano fashioned for him, took advantage of the earnest need many prisoners had for any hint of freedom that came from owning more than what camp officials gave them.
"They'll buy practically everything," Positano said. "They will buy government-issued property. If they're only issued five T-shirts, they'll buy five more from somebody. They will buy a locker that has two doors rather than a locker that has one door, even though the actual space on the inside is identical."
"I would sit and listen to them in the barber shop crying and moaning that the wife can't afford to keep the house up, that the kids need shoes," said Positano, who is estranged from his four sons, two ex-wives and one current wife. "And yet these (guys) would be spending money on things like" a $70 pair of second-hand gym shoes.
Another popular item were radios so obsolete they couldn't be found outside prison walls. They came with oversized headphones not seen since the days when disco was first popular. "Most of them walked around like B-52 bombers. They had these huge earphones," he said, "because that's all there was."
Many prisoners also tried to puff up their reputations from the outside as well, regardless of the facts. Positano remembers a convicted money launderer who would show off pictures of a big pool and say it was his, "but you could see it was the Barrington Country Club."
Such self-delusion "would get them through the day," Positano said, noting that in sentencing people to prison "the government wants to give you a non-surgical lobotomy." And in many cases, he said, it largely succeeds.
But dreams endure. Hara, who was sentenced last year to 27 months in prison for running check-kiting and embezzlement schemes to keep his car dealership going, promised his fellow inmates that he would make a more profound mark once he gets out.
"He told me he was going to shock the world and come back bigger than he'd ever been," Morgan said.
As for Positano, he has struggled to find work since leaving Oxford. Two jobs in hair salons have been cut short when the proprietors began having qualms about employing an ex-con--chiefly because of the paperwork demanded by the state parole system.
Some of Positano's old clients at Oxford are ready for a new start as well. He said that while sitting in the barber chair at the prison, Medrano told him he is seriously considering another run for office.
"His (Medrano's) attitude was he could be re-elected when he got out, and those are his intentions," Positano said. "He believes the person who is in there now isn't loved by the community, and (that) he is."
Indeed, a federal conviction for taking bribes apparently hasn't done much to damage Medrano's self image. "It was all about charisma," Positano said. "Like all of them, he thought he had it."
The attorney for Hara and Medrano doesn't challenge Positano's recollections.
"Although Ambrosio was convicted of something serious, he was otherwise a great public servant and a really good man," Steinback said. "Ray Hara was as hardworking and diligent as you would ever want. And he got in trouble because he couldn't let go of his life's work, which was his dream and his namesake. For all practical purposes, Ray Hara was King Nissan.
"If anybody can recover, those two can."
THE BUZZ CUT
The high life can sometimes be hard to let go of. Here is how several VIP inmates clung to the trappings of power, according to their ex-barber.
FRED ROTI
Former 1st Ward alderman
-- "Freddie did everything to be first. He had to be first in line. He was the 1st Ward alderman and he thought that he was the same thing in prison."
DAN ROSTENKOWSKI
Former congressman
-- "He would distance himself," claims Positano. On warm days, he could be seen sunning himself in shorts and black dress shoes.
JAMES DVORAK
Former Cook County undersheriff
-- He was the pipeline to hard-to-get items, the man to see for lifes little extras. He hoarded staplers and T-shirts and was "the unofficial welcoming" committee" at the prison.
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Maybe California prison is different, but this is how it is up here.
Maybe Tony should write an e-book diary and try and sell it.
Jack |
