Being named warden of the infamous MCC federal prison in downtown Manhattan is not an appointment synonymous with job security. And probably not one that anybody would want to keep in the first place. It's a circus with way too many untamed animals and clowns who aren't funny.
To non ex-cons, it may come as a surprise to discover that we inmates actually had the privilege of meeting up and talking with our main captors, generally on mainline day when the heads of each department would briefly convene in the unit's central area for the purpose of allowing inmates to air their grievances. Presumably, that concession would effectively operate as a safety valve for prisoner tension.
My first warden was a friendly man named Lamaine N'Diaye, who was notable to me on two fronts. For one, he actually walked into my cell unannounced while I was taking a dump. I yelled "What the fuck?" to the intruder before realizing who it was, whereupon he exited quickly.
I later found him to ask why he felt the need to witness me doing my biological thing. His answer was "I was checking for lines." Lines in this context would be curtains strung with string affording inmates the privilege of not having to crap in front of each other.
In the same conversation, warden D'Niaye seized the opportunity to ask "Have you mailed in your license so we can make you town driver?" (When I told him I had a clean license and had been a yellow cab driver, he wanted me for the job. Apparently, inmates with a clean license were at a premium.)
The problem was that the prison didn't have my license on file. The reality that you're not supposed to arrive with your license didn't dawn on them. There was absolutely no reason for them to have that license on file - and every reason for them not to have it on file.
No matter - at least to me. "Just have the DMV forward my credentials," I told the warden. Of course, that would be way too logical. To become town driver, my 75 year old cousin would have to go to my apartment, retrieve my hidden wallet from its hiding place, extract the license, and then send it certified to the prison. And all because the BOP couldn't simply call the New York State DMV to verify my valid and blemish-free license.
So I actually had all that done. But by the time my cousin performed all those tasks...and then the person to whom the mail was addressed had come back from 3 weeks vacation...the warden had been fired. My bottom line? It was all a big fucking waste of time. The license sat in a file and I never became town driver. Just one of a myriad of dry humps courtesy of MCC prison.
So why had the warden been given his walking papers? Ostensibly, because the dude decided Jeffrey Epstein should be moved out of his suicide cell and back to the SHU - so he'd have an opportunity to kill himself when Epstein's bunky was moved out and the warden somehow didn't find it relevant to immediately give him a replacement. Talk about compounding your problems!
In his stead came warden Petrucci, a mean, gum-chewing Italian import from the notorious Otisville prison, known for being a chomo mill (a prison where child molesters were housed) as well as the cushiest of federal facilities (it's where Michael Cohen was designated - and in my humble opinion, where I should have been as well owing to my age, offense, and religion. Lots of jews at Otisville for the kosher cuisine).
I will give warden Petrucci his props in one arena. On one mainline day, he acknowledged that I should have been afforded home confinement pursuant to the Elderly Offenders program (part of the Second Chance Act), and in fact, should have been home as we were speaking at that moment. But he added that he was powerless to do anything about it at that point...and would be leaving the post shortly anyway. In other words..."Tough shit, inmate! You've been fucked by a totally paralyzed bureaucracy. Deal with it!"
MCC had a habit - or policy - or whatever - of appointing female assistant wardens, of which I recall three. One was kind of nice - and the other two a little over-the-top tough. I get why they came off that way. None really got under my skin. I viewed them as a curiosity and sociological study more than as adversaries.
When higher up officers swept through the unit, word came over the inmate population like a wave. "Yo! The lieutenant's here!" That's all we needed to know. Pillows got locked away. Food likewise. Lines came down. Extra sheets hidden. Bed straightened up. You get the idea.
One day, it was assistant warden Vitale's turn to break stones. Vitale was new - and reputed to be no-nonsense. I was prepared. As she entered our cell, I bowed and offered "We've been anxiously awaiting your arrival, Officer Vitale." "No you have not," she fired back!
I thought about giving her a quick lesson in the dual meaning of the word "anxious" - as in anxious doesn't just connote enthusiasm - but trepidation as well. But I figured that wouldn't go over well and I let it go. Not a lot of English majors became wardens I figured.
So...bringing this up to date...it was revealed in the news just yesterday, that assistant warden Vitale, who was recently named warden (not just assistant) of the great institution that MCC surely is not, has tested positive for the corona virus. She remains warden for the moment - but is out on sick leave indefinitely. Only time will tell if she'll be replaced sooner than later.
All in all, quite a revolving door down at the old salt mine. I can't imagine what corona virus lockdown looks like at MCC. Actually, I can. And I thank who or whatever, I'm safe at home - and thanks to MCC, no stranger to being locked down.
For people who would protest the current situation, be thankful you're not living in 70 square feet and crapping in front of a criminal not necessarily of your choosing.
It's a funny thing. I've been out for 5 months. And I don't think there's been one time that I wasn't mindfully thankful that there was no time limit or anybody in attendance as I took my morning crap.
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