The Mammoth Book of Hard Bastards (Mammoth Books) (3 page)

Alcohol has always been linked with – and often blamed for – many of our societal ills, not least the burgeoning growth in
unsolicited
violence. No doubt there is a link between binge-drinking and bar-fighting, but the former is surely a trigger and not the root cause. Pubs and clubs are brimming over with angst-ridden folk looking to displace a bad day, a bad week or a bad life in a good night. Perhaps that would explain why the violence – often heinous, sometimes fatal – is completely disproportionate to the triggering stimuli. Accidentally spilling another man’s beer in a club rammed with bodies hardly justifies a cross word, let alone a broken glass in the neck and four pints of red on the beer-sticky carpet. But, in the buzz of a busy nightclub it is just one of the many reasons people will find to enact atrocities on each other. If a spilled beer is going to cost you four pints of blood, never make the mistake of chatting up another man’s date; it may well cost you all nine lives.

After a decade of standing under nightclub neon and nearly losing my faith in human nature I had the growing realization that violence was not the answer. It is a cruel and ugly language, the parley of ignorant men, but a means of discourse none the less and, when you are dealing with the hard of thinking, sometimes a quick punch in the eye is better understood that a lengthy over-the-table
negotiation.
Some people – even despots and dictators on the world stage – will listen to nothing less.

Witnessing man’s inhumanity to man is enough to turn even the hardiest stomach but my personal renaissance only began after I nearly killed someone in a car-park fight. I won’t insult your
intelligence
by glazing over my actions with the egg-wash of weak
rationalization.
The situation – one that should have found a negotiable solution – started innocently enough. A local man and martial artist of some repute was consistently and blatantly challenging my
authority
and testing my patience by refusing to drink up at the end of the night. For three months I tried to be nice, laced my requests to drink up with politeness and respect, all to no avail. He obviously mistook my politeness for weakness and one late Sunday evening – in a fit of arrogance – he barged into me when I was collecting glasses. It was the final insult. My hat tipped, I invited him on to the tarmac. 

The fight was short and bloody. Although my opponent was a black belt he was ill-prepared for the pavement arena.

When the paramedics were called I knew that I had gone too far, and my capacity to inflict hurt had astounded even me. I felt sure that he was dead when the ambulance took him away under a wool blanket and a flashing blue light. The veil disappeared and for the first time I could see exactly what I had become – or, more specifically, what trading in violence had made me. At home I contemplated a bleak future where the here-and-now promised only prison and the hereafter threatened a purgatorial darkness that I could not even begin to imagine. In bed I stroked the warm face of my sleeping wife. I could not believe how beautiful she was; she felt like silk. I got down on my knees and unashamedly prayed to God. “Give me one more chance,” I begged. “And I promise that I will turn my life around.”

It was the longest night of my life, with plenty of time for
introspection.
There is nothing like the threat of prison and eternal damnation to give you an honest perspective on liberty and life. I realized that I was blessed; a great wife, gorgeous kids and freedom. It doesn’t get much sweeter. And I was risking it all for a bastard trade that I had come to hate.

The next day I heard that my sparring partner had pulled through. My prayer had been answered. I kept my part of the bargain and shortly afterwards I left the doors for good.

I found a few things during my ten-year sojourn into the dark, often criminal, world of the bouncer: my courage – fear can be beaten by those with the moral fibre to face it; my destiny – success and happiness are a choice, not a lottery; and my limitations – we all need some form of invisible support when what we know as real starts to collapse all around us.

Perhaps ironically and more notably I discovered the futility of violence.

I also lost a few things, my first marriage and the innocence of youth to name but two.

Luckily – unlike many of my peers – I did not forfeit my sanity, my liberty, or my life.

Oh, and I got to walk away with both ears. 

B
ECAUSE MANY HARD
, tough men are also extremely violent, many are, by their very nature, criminals and convicts. And most extremely violent men end up living the majority of their lives alone behind the bars and the concrete walls of maximum security prisons; for if you choose to lead a violent life prison is inevitable. Fewer in the US are said to be more dangerous or more violent than Thomas (Tommy) Silverstein, the first of a number of “infamous” prisoners featured in this book. Born 1952 in Long Beach, California, Silverstein has spent the majority of his life behind bars and at the age of just nineteen he was first sent to San Quentin Prison in California for armed robbery. Four years later he was paroled, but shortly after leaving prison he was arrested once again – along with his father and his cousin – for three more armed robbery offences and was then sentenced to fifteen years. Silverstein could have been a free man today but while inside he was then convicted of four separate murders (one of which was overturned) and since 1983 has lived alone in solitary confinement (he is on record as the prisoner held longest in total solitary confinement within the US Bureau of Prisons). Prison authorities describe Silverstein as a brutal killer and a former leader of the Aryan Brotherhood prison gang. His earliest theoretical date of release is 2 November 2095.

The first murder of which Silverstein was accused was that of fellow prisoner Danny Atwell in 1980, but this conviction was later overturned as it was based on false testimony from prison
informants
. A year later Silverstein was then accused of the murder of Robert Chappelle, a member of the D.C. Blacks prison gang. While Silverstein was on trial for Chappelle’s murder, Raymond “Cadillac” Smith, the national leader of the D.C. Blacks, was “conveniently” moved by the prison authorities from another prison to a cell near Silverstein’s and from the moment Smith arrived, prison logs show that he had tried to kill Silverstein numerous times. However, using improvised weapons, Silverstein, with the help of another inmate, killed Smith and then dragged his body up and down the prison landing for other prisoners to see. For this murder Silverstein received a life sentence.

On 22 October 1983, after being let out of his cell for a shower, Silverstein killed prison officer Merle E. Clutts by stabbing him several dozen times with a shank (a shiv or makeshift knife), claiming that Clutts was deliberately harassing him. Following the murder of Clutts, Silverstein was transferred to a special “no human contact” cell in Atlanta, Georgia.

In 1987, following a prison riot, Silverstein was moved again to Leavenworth Prison in Kansas and placed in a secure underground cell. When Leavenworth was downgraded to a medium-security facility, Silverstein was then moved to ADX Florence, a supermax facility in Colorado.

Undeniably one of America’s most violent prisoners, in this compelling piece written especially for this book, writer Randy Radic gives his own creative account of a period in Silverstein’s violent life.

Thomas Silverstein, whose nickname was Terrible Tom, was America’s most dangerous prisoner. When asked for his
professional
opinion about Terrible Tom, one prison psychiatrist laughed and shook his head, “There is no applicable term for him. He’s way beyond any textbook definition.” The doctor thought for a moment, then said, “I’d call him a psychosocial killer. Murder is the way he makes love to other human beings. It’s like sex for him.”

Silverstein wasn’t Tom’s real name. His real name was Thomas Conway, Junior. He grew up in Long Beach, California. When Tommy Junior was four years old, his mother divorced Tom Senior and married a guy named Sid Silverstein. Sid legally adopted Tom Junior, so he became Thomas Silverstein, but the boy hated the name Silverstein because it was so Jewish. And he hated coming home from school every day, because his mom and his “dad” fought like two cats in a bag. His parents considered screaming, slapping, punching, kicking, throwing dishes and demolishing doors normal behaviour.

Socially, Tom was a catastrophe that kept on happening. Timid Tom would have been an appropriate nickname for the young Tommy. Because he was shy and withdrawn, Tom didn’t fit in at school; he had no friends, only enemies who were bullies and saw easy pickings in Tom. To top it off, everyone thought he was Jewish, which made him more of a pariah than he already was. Every day he came home from school either frightened or beat up, some days both.

His mom called him “Tragic Tom”, because she said, “Your life reminds me of one of those Greek tragedies, where everybody walks around wretched, saying ‘woe is me’.”

One day he arrived home, crying. “What’s the matter?” asked his mother, setting down her cigarette. She took a sip of her gin and tonic. She had intended to do some cleaning that day, but had fixed herself a drink instead. One drink led to another and pretty soon she didn’t feel like cleaning. So she switched on the television and lit a Chesterfield.

With blood oozing from the corner of his lip and a bruise on his cheek, Tom just looked at the floor. He sniffled.

“You pathetic little cry-baby!” yelled his mother. “Tell me what happened or I’ll give you something to really cry about.”

“I – I got hit,” said Tommy, starting to whimper.

“Did you fight back?”

“No,” whispered Tommy.

“What did you do, you little wimp?”

Tommy couldn’t answer because he knew that his mother already knew what he had done. He had run. If he said it, she would hate him.

“You ran! Didn’t you, you little piece of shit?” screamed his mother.

Tommy began bawling. He tried not to, but it just came out.

His mother leaned forward, taking a huge puff of her cigarette. “Look at me, cry-baby,” she commanded, as smoke curled out of her mouth and nose. “Look at me!”

Tommy looked up. His mother’s face was sharp. “The next time you come home crying because some boy beat you up…” She paused for another drag on her cigarette. “I will whip you myself. Two beatings instead of one,” she snarled.

Tommy wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I’m sorry, Mother. I’m so sorry.”

“Get out of my sight, you sissy,” she hissed. “You make me sick.”

Tommy ran to his room, where he collapsed on his bed, curling up like a foetus. He sucked his thumb and cried himself to sleep. No one came to check on him. No one called him for dinner.

Tommy was eleven years old.

Years later, Terrible Tom Silverstein recalled, “That’s how my mom was. She stood her mud. If someone came at you with a bat, you got your bat and you both went at it.”

Tom’s sister, Sydney, said, “We were taught never to throw the first punch, but never to walk away from a fight. My brother started getting into trouble because he was running away from a violent environment at home. Then he got into drugs, and he became a brother I never knew.”

Three years later, when he was fourteen years old, Tom Silverstein was sent to a California reform school. In 1966, reform school was a nice-nellyism for “gladiator school” because the only subject they taught in this kind of school was violence. And the learning process was unsentimental and hands-on. Tom came away with a nuts-
and-bolts
approach to brutality. Like a wolf in the coldest of winters, “kill or be killed” became Tom’s slogan, his religious song.

But a wisp of human smoke remained in Tom. Starved for
affection
and approval, Tom wanted to feel plugged-in. He wanted to connect with other human beings. So he started hanging out with his real father, Tom Conway, Senior, who used people until they were of no more use. Then he brushed them off, and moved on. Tom Senior robbed banks. At least that’s what he told people. The truth was that Tom Senior was a petty thief, and not very good at that. He was a wannabe.

When the two Conways hooked up, they spurred each other on. Tom Senior told bigger lies about himself and his accomplishments. He even gave advice to his son on how to be a bank robber. Tom Junior listened carefully and then applied what he learned from his old man. Dropping out of school, Tom made a choice. He became a professional criminal. He started out small, hitting convenience stores and corner gas stations. Sometimes he got away with only a few bucks, other times he made hundreds of dollars. Whatever the amount, he split it down the middle with his dad. Although Tom Junior was doing all the work, taking all the risks, they were a team and Tom felt a loyalty to his blood-father. Things were looking up.

It went to hell in 1971. Tom Junior was nineteen years old. Walking into a 7–11 store late on a Friday night – when there would be lots of cash in the till – Tom stuck his gun in the cashier’s face. “Take all the money from your drawer and put it in a paper bag,” he ordered.

“Sure, man,” said the cashier. “Just don’t shoot me, man. Okay?” The cashier groped at the money, jamming it in a bag. Then he handed it to the robber.

Tom pointed his gun at the guy’s nose. “Say anything to the cops and I’ll make it my business to come back and kill you,” he stated matter-of-factly. Then he walked out.

The cashier didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. Surveillance cameras caught the whole thing on tape. Caught in dazzling
cinematic
detail as he performed, Tom was quickly identified by the cops. A warrant was issued and the hunt was on.

Ignorant of all this, Tom was arrested the next afternoon as he left a hamburger joint, where he had a cheeseburger and a chocolate malt. Tom had a thing for chocolate. For some reason, chocolate soothed the beast within him. The cops cuffed him and carted him off to jail.

Because of the surveillance tape from the 7–11, Tom’s public defender advised him to cop a plea. “If you take this to trial, you’ll need to find a new lawyer,” the public defender told him. “Because I won’t be part of any legal suicide.” He looked at Tom. “They got you dead to rights on that tape.”

“Fuck you,” replied Tom.

Tom knew the lawyer was right, so he copped a plea bargain. He pled guilty and in return they promised him a reduced sentence. Instead of ten to fifteen years, the judge sentenced him to three to ten years. He was shipped off to San Quentin Prison.

Being a new fish at San Quentin was like dying and going to hell; a place of edicts, torchings and infestations. Only this
particular
hell wasn’t divided into levels based on sin. The hell that was the “Q” divided itself based on skin colour. Blacks over there, whites over here and Hispanics over yonder. Which was not surprising. Tom had experienced racial bigotry while in grade school. As everyone thought he was a Jew, he was a “kike”, which meant he was less.

One good thing about the “Q” though, nobody cared if he was Jewish or not. They just cared if he was white or black or brown. And Tom figured out real fast that if he wanted to survive, he needed to hook up with a gang. If he didn’t marry into a white gang, he’d be nothing but a “bitch”. And bitches didn’t last long.

Tom decided not to be a bitch.

Tom met a guy on the yard one day. Big white guy, with a shaved head and muscles on his muscles. Tom was on the bench press, struggling to get one final rep, when two hands the size of hams helped him get the bar up and racked. Sitting up, Tom wiped his forehead with the tail of his T-shirt. “Thanks, man,” he said. “I was about to drop that fucker on my chest. Would not have been pretty.” Tom stood up.

The big guy laughed. “Leave a big dent in your chest,” he boomed. “Mind if I work in?” he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed two 45-pound plates from a nearby stack. Sleeving them on the bar, he reached for two more and put them on. Then he slid on to the bench and gripped the bar.

“That’s more’n four hundred pounds, man,” said Tom.

“Yup.” The guy racked the bar off and did ten reps, easy.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” exclaimed Tom. “You’re strong as an ox.”

“Moose,” said the guy.

“Well, I guess, if you say so,” agreed Tom. “Moose are pretty strong, too, I guess.”

The guy gave Tom a funny look. “Moose is my name. Moose Forbes.”

“Oh, right.”

Moose got up and added two more plates to the bar. “New fish, huh?” he asked Tom.

“Yeah,” nodded Tom. “Got three to ten for armed robbery.”

Moose wasn’t impressed. “You hooked up?”

“No,” said Tom. “I want to, but I don’t know what the protocol is.”

Moose squinted at him. “The what?”

“You know, the protocol. The correct way of going about it,” explained Tom.

Moose laughed, shaking his head. “You talk like a college boy. Where you from?”

“Long Beach. An’ I ain’t no college boy.”

“That a fact?” said Moose, baring his teeth. “This ain’t Long Beach, it’s the ‘Q’. And there ain’t no protocol, cuz there ain’t no applications to fill out. It ain’t a fucking country club, college boy.”

Tom took a step back. He gazed at Moose and waited.

Moose couldn’t believe it. Didn’t this little fuck know who he was? If he wanted a dogfight, he’d come to the right dog. Moose loved the shit. Moose took a step forward.

As if by magic, a shiv gleamed in Tom’s hand. Tom stood waiting.

Moose charged, his arms reaching out.

Tom slipped to the side. Then, as Moose passed by, the shiv licked out and kissed Moose’s ribs.

Moose pulled up and turned to look at Tom, who stood waiting. Moose lifted his shirt, looked at his ribs. Blood welled from a six-inch gash in his side. Pulling his shirt down, Moose looked around. The other inmates went about their business, talking, pumping iron, laughing, smoking. It had happened so fast, no one had noticed.

Moose stared at Tom for a moment, then turned and walked away.

Tom shrugged and went back to lifting weights.

The next day a guy who called himself Spots waved Tom over. Because of his many tattoos, Spots looked like a leopard. Spots told him that the Aryan Brotherhood had accepted him as a prospect.

“The who?” asked Tom. He’d only been there a week. He didn’t know the names of all the gangs.

Spots did a double-take. “Shit, man,” he said. “You know, the Brand.”

Tom shrugged. “Never heard of ’em.”

Spots rolled his eyes. “Fuck me, man. The Brand runs this place. Drugs, guns, pruno, all of it.”

“If you say so. What do they want with me?”

“They reaching out, man,” explained Spots. “You know, you can hook up. Be part of the Brotherhood. No one fuck with you. An’ if they do, the Brotherhood got your back.”

Tom thought about that. “Sure. What do I have to do?”

Spots smiled. “Nothin’. Everythin’. Whatever they tell you. After you earn your bones, then you in.” Spots clenched his fist in front of his chest.

“Okay,” said Tom.

Spots nodded in approval. “You be sponsored by Moose. He be telling you what’s what.”

“Okay.”

Spots walked off.

Later, Tom learned that Moose, rather than being pissed off, had been impressed with Tom’s fury and willingness to jump in the shit. Blood in, blood out. And Tom had already spilled Moose’s blood. So Moose had sponsored him, telling the Aryan Brotherhood that “The little fucker’s faster ’n greased lightning.”

Tom was in. Within a year he took the pledge and was branded. Being branded was okay with Tom, because he knew it was a rite of passage. It was expected. He’d read about it. Ancient warriors, like the Babylonians and Sumerians, would mark themselves with the blood of their enemies. Tom enjoyed the camaraderie he found in the Aryan Brotherhood and he appreciated the protection it provided, but he never got the rush from it the others did. Most of them were adrenaline junkies who loved the ideas of terror and power. Their drug of choice was violence. Being in the “toughest prison gang” gave them an emotional high, a kind of exalted state, where they believed they were invincible mystical warriors of some pagan religion.

In Tom’s opinion, the mystical warrior stuff was bullshit. Tom simply wanted respect. He didn’t hate violence. He didn’t love violence. He found it inevitable. To get respect, sometimes he had to become violent. That’s just the way it was.

Tom spent four years at the “Q”. Then the powers-that-be paroled him. And Tom once more hooked up with Tom Senior, who had hooked up with Tom Junior’s uncle, Arthur. Nervous and skinny, with lank hair and bad personal hygiene, Arthur was into nose-candy – cocaine – and needed lots of cash to pay for his habit. Plus, Arthur thought of himself as a badass and loved playing the part. He had a regular arsenal of guns in his trashy apartment on the third floor of a rent-subsidized complex, along with a freaky
girlfriend
who mainlined heroin, and a Siamese cat that Arthur always forgot to feed.

Tom didn’t think much of the whole arrangement. In his opinion, Uncle Arthur was a goof. But he went along with it because they were family. His Dad said they had to stick together. So they did. They hit three convenience stores over the course of three weeks. Tom Junior insisted on masks because of the surveillance cameras which had tripped him up before.

Only Arthur didn’t want to wear a mask. Because he used his nose to suck up copious amounts of coke rather than for breathing, Arthur spent a lot of his time writhing in twitchy paranoia. Wearing a mask gave him extreme claustrophobia, which gave him the heebie-jeebies and left him gasping for air.