guilty to the statutory rape charge and the indecent assault and battery and unnatural acts charges,” Irwin informed me, “the Commonwealth will recommend a three-to-five-year sentence to run concurrent with the sentence you’re already serving.” He smiled enthusiastically. “It’s a gift with no downside risk.”
“A gift?” I was flabbergasted and insulted. “Do you really think I had anything to do with those crimes?” I asked.
“No,” he replied. “But it doesn’t matter what I think. The prosecution has an eyewitness now, and it’s very hard to refute that kind of testimony.”
“I won’t do it,” I said. “I won’t plead guilty to a crime I know I didn’t commit, especially something like this.”
“Look, Myles,” Irwin persisted. “The costs associated with a trial like this are astronomical, and the odds of an acquittal at this point are slim to none. My advice to you is to take the deal. It won’t make any difference in your sentence.”
“I don’t care about my sentence or the cost,” I protested. In fact, I would have gladly doubled my sentence rather than plead to the morals charge. “I’m going to fight this. You can tell the goddamn cops and prosecutors who are behind this that they can go fuck themselves. Understand?”
Irwin nodded. “I do,” he said. “But I’m not so sure the same can be said for you.”
Seven
O n February 27, 1967, I was transferred from the Charles Street jail to the Massachusetts Correctional Institution at Walpole. My sentence was twelve to twenty years, though in our last conversation my attorney had assured me that with time credited for good behavior I could be back on the streets in as little as six. In theory, I might be back in the art business by the age of thirty. The only question was whether I would live that long.
At the time Walpole housed some of the most notorious criminals on the East Coast, including some of New England’s highest-ranking mob bosses. Since opening in the mid-1950s, the prison had earned a well-deserved reputation for being one of the toughest maximum-security facilities in the country, a place where inmates of dubious character—skinners and diddlers and snitches—were routinely beaten and frequently killed.
I was barely twenty-four when I passed through Walpole’s gate that first time, five foot six and 120 pounds, still recovering from the physical ordeal of the past ten months, with a rape indictment hanging perilously over my head. A betting man would not have wagered on my survival.
Despite the fact that the odds were decidedly against me, I don’t remember feeling afraid. Fear is not an emotion I’m prone to, nor do I dwell on the implications of death. The intake photos from that dayshow this to be true. My face, almost boyish, is that of a rookie, but my expression is a convict’s stony glare, a challenge and a warning to anyone foolish enough to take me on.
I was ready to fight for my life. Fortunately, I wouldn’t have to.
The friendships I’d cultivated at the Lewis Room extended far beyond the geographical boundaries of Revere Beach. By the time I got to Walpole, every Italian in the place knew I was coming and welcomed me with open arms. And they weren’t the only ones anticipating my arrival.
If I was a minor celebrity outside the prison walls, on the inside I was a superstar. The incredible details of that winter’s manhunt and the ensuing rooftop shoot-out, along with the earlier Maine jailbreak, were well known among the Walpole population. Being a con means living constantly under someone else’s thumb. The fact that I had refused to back down brought me instant respect from nearly every inmate I encountered. That I quickly proved myself to be loyal and a straight shooter firmly cemented those feelings.
L ike all such places, Walpole prison is an ugly facility, mean in both intent and design. Viewed from the outside, it looks like some kind of alien fortification, a chalky
“A gift?” I was flabbergasted and insulted. “Do you really think I had anything to do with those crimes?” I asked.
“No,” he replied. “But it doesn’t matter what I think. The prosecution has an eyewitness now, and it’s very hard to refute that kind of testimony.”
“I won’t do it,” I said. “I won’t plead guilty to a crime I know I didn’t commit, especially something like this.”
“Look, Myles,” Irwin persisted. “The costs associated with a trial like this are astronomical, and the odds of an acquittal at this point are slim to none. My advice to you is to take the deal. It won’t make any difference in your sentence.”
“I don’t care about my sentence or the cost,” I protested. In fact, I would have gladly doubled my sentence rather than plead to the morals charge. “I’m going to fight this. You can tell the goddamn cops and prosecutors who are behind this that they can go fuck themselves. Understand?”
Irwin nodded. “I do,” he said. “But I’m not so sure the same can be said for you.”
Seven
O n February 27, 1967, I was transferred from the Charles Street jail to the Massachusetts Correctional Institution at Walpole. My sentence was twelve to twenty years, though in our last conversation my attorney had assured me that with time credited for good behavior I could be back on the streets in as little as six. In theory, I might be back in the art business by the age of thirty. The only question was whether I would live that long.
At the time Walpole housed some of the most notorious criminals on the East Coast, including some of New England’s highest-ranking mob bosses. Since opening in the mid-1950s, the prison had earned a well-deserved reputation for being one of the toughest maximum-security facilities in the country, a place where inmates of dubious character—skinners and diddlers and snitches—were routinely beaten and frequently killed.
I was barely twenty-four when I passed through Walpole’s gate that first time, five foot six and 120 pounds, still recovering from the physical ordeal of the past ten months, with a rape indictment hanging perilously over my head. A betting man would not have wagered on my survival.
Despite the fact that the odds were decidedly against me, I don’t remember feeling afraid. Fear is not an emotion I’m prone to, nor do I dwell on the implications of death. The intake photos from that dayshow this to be true. My face, almost boyish, is that of a rookie, but my expression is a convict’s stony glare, a challenge and a warning to anyone foolish enough to take me on.
I was ready to fight for my life. Fortunately, I wouldn’t have to.
The friendships I’d cultivated at the Lewis Room extended far beyond the geographical boundaries of Revere Beach. By the time I got to Walpole, every Italian in the place knew I was coming and welcomed me with open arms. And they weren’t the only ones anticipating my arrival.
If I was a minor celebrity outside the prison walls, on the inside I was a superstar. The incredible details of that winter’s manhunt and the ensuing rooftop shoot-out, along with the earlier Maine jailbreak, were well known among the Walpole population. Being a con means living constantly under someone else’s thumb. The fact that I had refused to back down brought me instant respect from nearly every inmate I encountered. That I quickly proved myself to be loyal and a straight shooter firmly cemented those feelings.
L ike all such places, Walpole prison is an ugly facility, mean in both intent and design. Viewed from the outside, it looks like some kind of alien fortification, a chalky
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