-Caveat Lector-
an excerpt from:
The Conspiracy of Death
George Redston w/ Kendell F. Crossen
@1965 George Redston & Kendell F. Crossen ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
LCCCN 65:26505
The Bobbs-Merrill Company, Inc.
248 pps -- First Edition -- Out-of-print
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
We are especially grateful to Dean Jennings, who took time out from a busy
schedule to write us many letters about Mickey Cohen and even to provide some
original facts from his personal files. We are also indebted to the following
sources of many dates and details:
The Los Angeles Times.
The Los Angeles Herald-Examiner.
The New York Times.
Admiral William H. Standley, Chairman, and the Special Crime Study Commission
on Organized Crime for the State of California.
LeRoy P. Hunt, Chairman, and the Special Crime Study Commission on Organized
Crime for the State of California.
Bruce F. Allen, Chairman, and the Subcommittee on Rackets for the Assembly
Interim Committee on Judiciary for the State of California.
The late Senator Estes Kefauver, Chairman, and the United States Senate Crime
Investigating Committee.
Senator John L. McClellan, Chairman, and the Permanent Subcommittee on
Investigations for the Committee on Government Operations for the United
States Senate.
We would also like to express our appreciation to the following people merely
because they have long been aware of the Mafia-Syndicate menace:
In the field of public communications, Victor Riesel, Drew Pearson, Paul
Coates, George Putnam and Art Linklefter.
=====
FOREWORD
GEORGE REDSTON is many men. Some of them will seem like the man next door and
some will sound like a man you have encountered only on the front page of the
newspaper. During the two years I have known him I have come to know many of
the facets of this complex man. Many of these will not appear in this book,
for our chief intention here is to tell you the things that go on behind the
newspaper headlines-the things you have had no way of knowing until now. But
first let me tell you a little about the other sides of George Redston.
When America entered World War I in 1917, Redston was fifteen years old. He
was also five feet nine inches tall and weighed 140 pounds, so he lied about
his age and enlisted. His father found out about it and he was returned home.
This time he planned more carefully. He wrote a letter stating that he was
eighteen and forged his father's signature. He had a friend whose father was
a notary and the friend forged his father's signature and fixed the seal.
Redston then enlisted in the Navy. Three weeks later he shipped out for
France.
He saw action in France and with antisub patrols in the North Sea. He was
gassed once and received a bad leg wound. The leg wound was slow in healing
and he was finally returned to the States in 1919 and hospitalized at Pelham
Bay, New York. After that he was on detached duty until he was discharged in
192 1. He was nineteen years old with a four-year service record.
Returning to Chicago, he became an investigator for the Secret Six, an
organization which supplied information on white slavery and police
corruption to Congressional committees.
While there are many fine police departments in the country, very few police
officials have recognized the criminal importance of the Mafia. Among the few
who have are Police Chief Edward J. Allen, of Santa Ana, California, Captain
James E. Hamilton, of Los Angeles, California, and Sergeant Ralph Salerno, of
New York City.
Newspapers, magazines and books seem to disagree on the spelling of the name
of James Ragen. After careful checking we are convinced that it is Ragen, not
Ragan, and so it appears throughout the book.
George Redston
Kendell F. Crossen
=====
He was a bodyguard for the late Mayor Anton Cermak of Chicago.
He was an investigator for the late Senator McCarran of Nevada.
He was an investigator for the late Senator McCarthy of Wisconsin.
He has spent many years in anti-Communist activities.
He is a devoted husband, father and grandfather.
Last, but not least, if he is your friend he is one in every sense of the
word and with no strings attached. He'll share his last dollar with a friend
and if that isn't enough he'll go out and borrow. He'll fight your battles
for you if you're not present, and watch your back when you are fighting your
own.
Then there are the other George Redstons....
K. F. C.
=====
1. EXILE FROM CHICAOO
IT WAS thirty-five years ago in Chicago. The town was wide open to gambling,
bootleg beer and whisky, prostitution and narcotics. The money was rolling
in, most of it going to the Mafia-controlled Syndicate with dribbles spilling
over to small gangs which had the okay of Al Capone.
I was in the Pullman Inn having a drink. I had entered a few minutes earlier,
checked my gun with a bartender�a standing rule for everyone in that bar-then
walked to the other end of the bar where there was a stool away from the rest
of the customers. They were a bunch of young punks who called themselves the
42 Gang. Most of them later became important in the Mafia-Syndicate. One of
them was Marshall Caifano.
They knew all about me, as did everyone in the Mafia from Al Capone on down.
They knew that I had played a part in cutting down their white slavery
racket, that I ran my own independent bookmaking operation across the street
from the bar, and that I thought that everyone who had anything to do with
the Mafia-Syndicate was a cheap pimp who would sell his own mother if he
could make a buck out of it. They also knew that a lot of the Chicago hoods
would like to be rid of me. If one of them could accomplish my death, he
would be a big man. Some of them had tried to beat me up several times but
without much success.
I was having my second drink when I happened to look toward the back of the
room. The porter was standing there. He beckoned to me and then went into the
men's room. I walked slowly back and followed him inside.
"You've done me a lot of favors, Chief," he said. That was what nearly
everyone in Chicago called me then. "Them guys out there are going to try to
take you."
"They've tried before," I told him. "But thanks anyway."
"It's different this time," he said. "I saw one of them go back of the bar
and take the bullets from your gun."
I thanked him again and gave him some money. Then I went back to the bar and
ordered another drink. I noticed that three of the punks had left the bar.
When I finished my drink, I got my gun from the bartender and went into the
men's room and put fresh bullets in it. I walked outside.
The minute I was on the sidewalk someone stuck a gun in my back and ordered
me to get into the car parked at the curb. There were two more men in the car.
Instead of obeying, I swung around, pulled my gun and shot the man behind me
twice. He was certainly surprised when the first bullet hit him, but I think
he was already past surprise when the second one struck. I didn't wait to
watch him fall. I swung back to the car. It had already taken off and was
speeding down the street. I fired several shots after it but wasn't sure how
accurate they were. At that point, another man jumped me from behind. I shot
him through the shoulder. That was enough to convince him the stakes were too
high and he didn't want to play. He ran. I let him go. I didn't want to bag
more than the law allowed.
The one on the sidewalk was dead. Later, the police found the other two
several blocks away. They were also dead.
At the hearing, it was found to be justifiable homicide.
There have been a lot of words written and spoken about the Mafia (or Cosa
Nostra as it is also called) in the past several years. Much of it has been
by reporters who got most of their information from newspaper files and
guessed the rest. Recently an unimportant member of the Mafia, frightened
because he had received the "kiss of death" while in prison, offered to tell
all in return for protection. He testified before a Congressional committee.
Some of the testimony was televised and most of it appeared in a national
magazine. He offered nothing, at least publicly, that was not already known.
He probably doesn't know any more himself.
I have spent more than thirty-five years in active opposition to the Mafia
from Chicago to Los Angeles. They have tried to kill me many times but I'm
still around-and some of them are not. I believe that I know more about this
organization, with billions of dollars invested in legal and illegal
businesses, than any man not a top member of it.
Criminal gangs are not new in this country or in Europe. Chicago in the last
century had hundreds of gangs with such colorful names as the Market
Streeters, the Car Barn Bandits, the Automatic Trio and the Forty-Twos
(proving that the punks in the beginning of the chapter weren't so original).
They also had the Mafia, sometimes called the Camorra and the Black Hand.
They stuck mostly to extortion. All of them, prior to the twenties, however,
were nothing, mere horse-and-buggy operations, compared to the
Mafia-Syndicate, a crime cartel that covers almost all of America, with
branch offices in Europe and the Far East.
Two men, Johnny Torrio and Al "Scarface" Capone, were primarily responsible
for fashioning the original concept in Chicago. They might not have succeeded
if it hadn't been for two things: the Mafia, schooled in organized violence
for centuries, and the millions and millions of dollars provided by
Prohibition. The first provided them with a large gang of loyal men. It was
estimated that 85 per cent of their men were Italians who belonged to the
Mafia and the other 15 per cent were never given much power. The same
percentage exists today. The money permitted them to buy the other men they
needed.
Johnny Torrio first went to Chicago in 1908, but it was 1920 before he headed
his own gang. He brought a number of men in from New York, one of them being
Al Capone, who at first was a bodyguard and gunman. Torrio did no killing
himself although he was responsible for the death of many. He also had a
passion for organization and was probably the first one to run his rackets
along the lines of a legitimate business. He kept regular hours, and when his
day was over he spent the evening at home, listening to music or playing
cards with his wife. He didn't smoke, drink or chase women�although he made
millions from those who did.
Capone was smart as well as brutal and he went up the ladder fast. Before
long he was a partner with Torrio in all of his enterprises. And the two of
them went to work on expanding.
There is no way to estimate how many millions of dollars were pouring in from
the rackets, but there was certainly more than enough for their purposes.
They bought policemen, from district captains to patrolmen. At one time it
was believed that 90 per cent of the Chicago police were on the payroll. They
bought judges and other officials. They elected officials they wanted in
office. If they couldn't rig the election, they sent hoods around to the
polling precincts. Voters were intimidated, ballots were ripped from their
hands, and many times voters were kidnaped[sic] and held until the polls
closed.
They also carried on a steady campaign of eliminating the competition. Men
were shot down on the street in broad daylight while the police looked the
other way. Sometimes the police did the killing themselves on orders from
Capone. Hundreds were killed and there were almost no convictions.
It wasn't long before Capone and Torrio controlled most Cook County
racketeers. The big exceptions were Dion O'Banion and the Touhys, leaders of
North Side gangs.
The first one to go was O'Banion. He was approached in his flower shop by
three men, one of whom was supposed to be a friend. As O'Banion shook hands
with the "friend," the other two men poured five bullets into his body.
Johnny Torrio attended the funeral but took a vacation immediately afterward.
The O'Banion gang was taken over by Hymie Weiss (once Walciechowski), who,
with the aid of Schemer Drucci, set out to (yet revenue. They made an attempt
on Capone which failed because Capone was not in his car at the time they
struck. Capone's chauffeur was wounded and that was the only damage. Other
attempts were made; they too failed.
A few days after an attack on Capone's headquarters, Johnny Torrio returned
to Chicago. He had been back only three days when Weiss and Drucci made their
move. Torrio was returning from a shopping trip with his wife. As he left his
car, they opened fire and Torrio fell with five bullets in him. He was in the
hospital for three weeks, but he recovered. When he got out of the hospital
he turned all of the rackets over to Capone and left for Italy. It was said
that he took between ten and thirty million dollars with him.
Hymie Weiss was also trying to (yet at Capone in another way. He had several
talks with Assistant State Attorney McSwiggin, who was working on
prostitution in Chicago. Several of the Capone whorehouses were knocked over.
Capone had been tipped off that it was Weiss who had fingered them.
Capone had an informant planted somewhere in Weiss's organization. One day as
Weiss and some of his men were going to the office over the flower shop they
ran into a burst of machine gun fire. Weiss was killed. The Catholic Church
which he attended across the street was pitted with bullet marks. McSwiggin
was killed soon after. Capone accomplished more than getting rid of two
enemies. McSwiggin had compiled a file on prostitution and white slavery
which he was going to turn over to the Federal authorities. That file
disappeared from his office the day he was killed.
The next one to go was Schemer Drucci. He had accounted for many of the
Capone men and a price was put on his head. He was arrested by two policemen
in a squad car. They handcuffed him and drove off with him. Drucci was driven
to the morgue and was dead on arrival-still wearing the handcuffs.
The story told was that he had tried to attack the policemen and they had to
shoot him to protect themselves. Nothing more was ever said about it.
These were only a few of the more than five hundred men who were killed in
the five years before some sort of peace was established.
Although they may have acquired polish since then, the Mafia still operates
by one simple rule: Buy what you can and destroy what you can't.
In the meantime, I was still booking bets in my cigar store on the corner of
Sheffield and Belmont. In addition, I had a 25 per cent interest in a regular
gambling joint on Clark Street so I was doing pretty well, resting in the
tall corn, as they used to say then. But it was too good to last.
One day, early in 193 1, two of the Syndicate men dropped in to see me. I
knew both of them but we weren't exactly friends.
"We just thought we'd tell you, Chief," one of them said. "We're your new
partners."
"I don't want any partners," I told them. "Now you can get out." I kept a gun
under the counter so I knew they wouldn't try any rough stuff.
But they didn't have that in mind. They just laughed. "Better go see the
captain's man, Chief," one of them said and they left.
The captain's man was the person to see when you had any business with the
police captain. I went to. see him and he told me I'd better play ball. Then
I went to see Captain McCarthy himself and was told the same thing. A few
days later, the two men visited me again. But the details of the
"partnership" would have left me being no more than the janitor and lucky if
someone gave me a tip. I told them to get out.
Then the police began giving me a hard time. They dropped in so often I
couldn't do any business. After several days of this, the two men came back.
"Ready to talk business, Chief?" one of them asked.
"No partners," I said stubbornly.
"We're not talking about being partners," he said. "We're taking over the
whole joint. But the boys want to be nice to you. We'll give you two grand
and you clear out. It's either that or else . . ."
My booking business was worth several times two thousand dollars, but I knew
what they meant by that "or else." I didn't mind fighting the Mafia-Syndicate
three or four at a time; on the other hand, I knew I couldn't take on the
whole gang. I finally agreed. They gave me the two thousand and told me not
to do any booking in the area.
They moved in on the Clark Street place next. Only this time they used a
different method. They put in a real fancy gambling house on the street,
something like those in Las Vegas today. Dancer Hyams was the manager. They
also cut off all deliveries of alcohol, bottles and labels to our place, so
you can imagine what happened to our customers.
This got me hot. I went over to their place and backed Dancer Hyams up
against the wall with my gun in his belly. I told him what I thought of him
and the rest of his friends and then took all the money he had. It was only
three thousand dollars, but I told him to tell the outfit that we'd call it
even.
That stirred up some action. Members of the gang were hunting all over the
neighborhood for me. Two of them finally caught up with me and wanted to know
what the hell I thought I was doing. I said that they owed me twice as much
as I'd taken, but since that was all Dancer had on him I'd settle for it.
They obviously didn't have any definite orders, for they told me they'd have
to see Al Capone about what was to be done.
Two days later I got word to go see Jake Gusick at the Lexington Hotel. I
went and Jake was in the lobby. He took me upstairs and left me in a big
plush office. I didn't know what was going on. He hadn't tried to take my gun
away from me and I thought that was a good sign.
I was there for a couple of minutes, then Al Capone came in. I had only met
him once before, years ago, but he looked a lot more prosperous now. He came
in with a big smile on his face and greeted me like an old friend. I knew he
was still having a lot of trouble on the North Side and that I had as much
power there as he did, so he might want something from me. He did.
"Chief," he said, "I hear you're short and have been heisting my joints."
"No, Al," I said. "Just one and even then I didn't get as much as I had
coming."
Suddenly he threw his head back and laughed loudly. "Did you know Dancer was
so scared he had to send out for clean underwear after you left?" The
laughter ended as abruptly as it had started. "Chief, things are changing.
I'm getting this town lined up. You can work with us. I have several of your
friends with me and they say you're jam-up [okay]. I'll set you up in a
saloon on the North Side and you do what you can to keep down trouble and
keep me informed about what's going on."
"Thanks, Al," I said, "but I don't think I want it. I've always liked to go
it alone. Besides, I've been thinking about going to California."
He nodded. "Okay, Chief. There are some pretty good boys up in the North
Side. Would you send me the ones you think are stand-up [okay]? They can make
money with me. I'm going to line up the whole state."
"Sure," I said.
"Then I can count on you being out of the rackets and neutral?" he asked.
"You can," I told him.
He pulled an envelope from his pocket and held it out to me. "Here, Chief.
Call it an adjustment on your store and your good will. I think you're smart
to leave the rackets. Without an organization back of you, you're dead." With
that he was gone. There was two thousand dollars in the envelope.
I never saw him again. A year later he was on his way to Alcatraz and I was
still in Chicago.
In the spring of 1931, Anton Cermak was elected Mayor of Chicago. Although he
had no great objection to gambling in the city, he was determined to get rid
of the Mafia-Syndicate and to stamp out prostitution completely. He singled
out a special squad of policemen who were not on Capone's payroll, known as
the Mayor's Squad, to work on these two projects. He knew of my work with the
Secret Six and hired me as a bodyguard and investigator.
By 1933 I was rolling in clover again. I had a piece of another booking joint
and was also on Cermak's payroll. I and the other investigators were turning
up plenty of stuff for the Mayor, but it was still an uphill fight for him.
He was surrounded by policemen and politicians who were being paid by the
Mafia. Capone was gone and the mob was being run by his brother-in-law, Frank
Nitti. Elliott Ness was giving the gang plenty of trouble and so was the
North Side. They naturally fought back. Mayor Cermak was beaten up twice,
once by Nitti personally.
While the Mayor's Squad was questioning Nitti, he allegedly pulled a gun and
one of the policemen shot him several times. He wasn't expected to survive
but he did. When he left the hospital he was heard to state more than once
that he was going to get Cermak.
Well, somebody did. Cermak went to Florida to meet President-elect Franklin
D. Roosevelt. I was ordered to stay in Chicago to do some work for him, but
he did take four Chicago policemen with him. As the world knows he was shot
while sitting on the platform with Roosevelt.
The killer was Giuseppe Zangara. Most writers have said that he was an
anarchist who was trying to kill Roosevelt. I don't believe it. To the best
of my knowledge he was never an anarchist, but he was a gunman for Frankie
Yale in New York. He came to Chicago some time before the killing in Florida
and lived in the Hawthorne Hotel in Cicero under the name of Joe Zanger. The
Hawthorne was one of the headquarters for the mob.
With Cermak gone, I knew that my days in Chicago were numbered. I was proven
right when I ran into Frank Nitti in front of Henrici's Restaurant. He
stopped me.
"Chief," he said, "with Cermak dead you may have it pretty tough here. If I
were you, I'd think of going West."
"I had something like that in mind," I admitted.
"Good," he said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick pack of
hundred-dollar bills. He counted off fifteen of them and handed them to me.
"This is from one of your former friends. He says he owes it to you." He put
the rest of the money back in his pocket. There must have been at least
thirty thousand dollars in the roll.
Later that afternoon a friend of mine said that he saw Nitti talking to some
cops in a squad car. Then Nitti got into the car and it pulled away. That
night Frank Nitti was found dead in a railroad yard. He had been shot through
the head. There was no money in his pockets.
The official verdict was that Nitti had committed suicide. Everybody kept a
straight face but I don't know how they managed. The only way a man like
Frank Nitti ever committed suicide was by getting careless.
The next morning I left Chicago.
2. THE "YELLOW" ROSE OF TEXAS
THERE WAS a centennial being held in Dallas, Texas, and I thought that might
be a chance for me to make some money. It was also a long way from the
Mafia-Syndicate in Chicago. I headed for Dallas with twenty-five new
console-model slot machines. This was a model that would take quarters, dimes
or nickels.
Once I arrived, I made some good political connections and soon had my
machines placed in good spots. There were plenty of visitors in the city for
the centennial and my machines were getting a lot of action. I thought that
all I had to do was sit back and watch the money come in. And there weren't
any Syndicate men to drop around suddenly and announce they were my new
partners.
I was right on only one score. There weren't any Syndicate men, but that
didn't mean that nobody wanted to be my partner. I had been operating only a
short time when I received a phone call. It was a man who said he wanted to
meet me to talk business. He wouldn't give me a name; he said he'd introduce
himself when we met, and suggested a club not far from where I was staying.
Curious, I went to the club that night. I took a table and ordered a drink.
Then this man came over and sat down. He was big, well over two hundred and
fifty pounds, and tough looking. He introduced himself as A. B. Farrow.
Nice-looking bunch of slots you've (lot spotted around town," he said.
"Get them in Chicago?"
"Yes," I said. I knew there was a pitch coming but I just waited to see what
it was.
"Doing a pretty good business with them," he observed.
"Fair," I admitted.
He leaned across the table. "Tell you what, Redston. I represent a group of
important citizens here in Dallas. Normally we don't let just anybody come in
here and go into business. But you look like a nice guy. We'll let you keep
your machines running for forty per cent of the take."
I had no idea who A. B. Farrow was. He might have been just a guy trying to
muscle himself in or he might have been the front for a local mob. I wasn't
going to commit myself until I had a chance to check up on him.
"I'll have to think about it," I told him.
"You'd better," he said. He got up and left.
The next day I checked with the connections I had made and found out that
Farrow was an ex-cop who was strictly alone and trying to muscle in. He owned
a night club in town, but he didn't have any gang and didn't represent any
citizens of Dallas. I was advised to have nothing to do with him.
He phoned again that night and wanted to know if I'd thought about the offer.
I told him I had and there wouldn't be any pay-off.
"You're making a mistake, Redston," he said. "My people are tired of you Blue
Belly Yanks and gangsters coming in from Chicago and trying to make all the
money. We were going to give you a break and let you operate, but if you
don't want to play ball we'll run you out of town. I'll tell you what we'll
do and this is our last offer. We'll buy your slots from you and you can take
the next train back to Chicago." He named a price that was about one tenth
what the machines were worth.
After that, the argument got pretty hot. I finally told him what he could do
and hung up on him. I didn't hear from him again for several days. Then he
phoned one night.
"Look, Redston," he said, "I got hot around the collar the other night and
maybe I was a little hasty. There must be a way of settling this so everyone
will be happy. Maybe I asked for too big of a piece. Why don't you meet me at
my place, the Nite Spot, tonight and we'll talk about it? When you hear what
I have to say, maybe we can work out something."
I was doubtful about that, but I was still curious about him and said I'd
drop in later. What I didn't know at the time was that one of the men who was
giving me advice had seen Farrow and told him that my operation was already
cut up so many ways that there was no room for anyone else. With that, Farrow
had beaten my friend and knocked out one of his eyes, then stood on his arm
and broke it. My friend was in the hospital for a long time and never did re
gain complete use of his arm.
Even without knowing this, I had spent too many years in Chicago to go
unprepared. I strapped on a shoulder holster and slipped my gun into it. Then
I went to the Nite Spot.
I took a table by myself, but a few minutes later two Fair employees came in
with their wives. I knew them and they came over and joined me. We had a few
drinks and were talking when a drunk (I later realized that he was only
pretending to be drunk) came up and became insulting. I got up and ran him
away from the table.
That was what Farrow wanted. His two bouncers, both exwrestlers, grabbed me
and pinned my arms behind my back. As they started to push me toward the
front door, Farrow came up and pulled out a gun. He began hitting me over the
head and in the face with it. By the time we reached the sidewalk, the blood
was streaming down my face and I couldn't even tell whether I was badly hurt
or not. All I knew was that my head and face ached and I was covered with
blood. The two bouncers threw me to the sidewalk.
"Kick the son-of-a-bitch's head off," Farrow ordered. He was standing behind
the bouncers, the gun still in his hand. The way he was holding it I was sure
that he meant to use it as soon as his two men finished giving me some more
lumps.
I was in bad shape but at least my arms were finally free. I went for my gun.
Farrow saw my move and started to lift his gun but I beat him to it. I fired
and he went down. The two muscle men had frozen where they were. I got to my
feet and knocked both of them down, then ran to a taxi that was parked at the
curb. I jumped in and told the driver to get the hell out of there. I still
had the gun in my hand and my face was all covered with blood so he didn't
argue. As the taxi sped off there were two shots fired after it. They came
from Farrow's brother, who had rushed out of the club too late to get me.
I had the driver take me to the Dutch Kitchen and made him go in with me so
he couldn't call the police until I'd had time to think. I got some towels
from a waiter and mopped up the blood as well as I could. I had a cup of
coffee. I finally decided there was nothing to do but call the cops. I paid
the taxi driver and gave him a generous tip.
"Give me a few more minutes," I told him. "I'm going to call the cops myself."
"Take an hour, if you want to," he said. "I'm all shook up."
I went to a phone and called Captain Max Doughty. I told him what had
happened.
"Yeah," he said. "I just heard about it. The guy's dead. What are you going
to do, George?"
"I'll be in," I told him.
I surrendered to Homicide Captain Will Fritz but the office looked like a
police convention. Sheriff Smoot Schmid, Under Sheriff Bill Decker and damn
near the whole Dallas police force were there. Farrow had not only been an
ex-cop but his family had money. I was booked for murder in the first degree
and locked up in the bull pen. I had been there for about an hour when there
was a hell of a commotion in the corridor. I looked out through the bars and
saw the jailer, Sergeant Martindale, struggling with a man who had a gun. It
was the brother of the man I had killed trying to get to me. The sergeant
finally disarmed him and they threw him out.
I was held without bail and we soon went to trial. Some witnesses showed up,
bearing out my story, and the D. A. dropped the original charge. I was tried
for murder without malice-an old dueling law that was still on the books. I
was found guilty of this charge, which called for a maximum of five years. My
attorney, Eddie Roark, immediately filed an appeal and I was finally released
on $7,500 bail pending the outcome of the appeal. I went to California to
wait.
My attorney called me in California to tell me the appeal had been denied and
I would have to return to Texas. It was not until later that I learned that
he had taken my five thousand dollars, never gone near Austin, and let my
appeal go by default. I'm certain that he also received money from other
sources to do so.
I wasn't the only one who felt that way. My machines were being watched, in
the meantime, by a friend who later shot Eddie Roark.
When I arrived back in Texas, I was immediately shipped off to the Retrieve
Farm Prison. It was known as the Bloody Retrieve. Because the man I had
killed had been a policeman, the guards were waiting for me. I was told about
it as soon as I arrived. A few days later, one of the other prisoners told me
that the word was that they would have me knifed when we were at work in the
fields, so I refused to leave the building to work.
The warden sent to Huntsville and got an order to have me whipped. This was
their favorite method of punishment. The whip they used was three feet of
leather about one-quarter inch thick, with a two-foot handle. The usual order
was for twenty lashes although it was said they would stop sooner if the
prisoner yelled or asked for mercy. I never found out if that was true
although they did stop short of the twenty lashes with me a few times because
I was so bloody that the doctor thought it necessary.
Such whippings were treated almost as a holiday. Usually the guards and their
families would attend as well as the warden.
After each whipping I still refused to go into the fields and so they would
get another order. The law was that a prisoner could only be whipped once
every thirty days but Igot it every week.
In all, they got sixteen orders to whip me and carried them out.
The brought in guards from other prisons who were famous for their whipping
technique, but I never said a word no matter how hard they hit me. I was soon
known among the other prisoners and guards as "Hard-Ass George."
At one of my whippings Governor W. Lee O'Daniel and some other state
officials were present. The warden had brought in the state's most famous
whipper, Buck Tooth Flanicyan, who had bragged that he would make me beg for
mercy. When he had finished with me he was almost as tired as I was, but not
as bloody, and he was furious because I hadn't opened my mouth. One of the
guards asked me if I had anything to say.
"Yes," I said. "Screw you, Lee O'Daniel, and the whole state of Texas!"
Even at the Bloody Retrieve none of the prisoners had ever seen a man whipped
so often. I think I still hold the record in Texas for the most whippings in
the shortest period of time. It earned me the respect of all the prisoners
and they helped me to smuggle a letter out to a doctor I knew. When he
received it, he came to see me and then he managed to (yet me transferred to
another prison, the Harlem Farm.
I was treated quite differently there and was soon made a trusty. After
serving three years, I was released for good behavior and I later received a
full pardon from Governor Allan Shivers. It was accompanied by a letter which
said that, after an investigation, he couldn't understand why I was ever
convicted.
I was happy to get out of Texas�even though it meant moving back into the
world of the Mafia-Syndicate.
pps. ix-16
-----
Aloha, He'Ping,
Om, Shalom, Salaam.
Em Hotep, Peace Be,
All My Relations.
Omnia Bona Bonis,
Adieu, Adios, Aloha.
Amen.
Roads End
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