The Mammoth Book of Hard Bastards (Mammoth Books) (5 page)

Three hours later, Clayton Fountain pulled the same stunt. Another inmate, who also had a stolen key and an easy-to-reach shank, unlocked Fountain’s handcuffs. Like a rabid dog, Fountain turned and attacked all three of his escorts, fatally wounding Officer Robert Hoffman.

When asked why he did it, Fountain thought about it and shrugged. “I didn’t want Tommy to have a higher body count than me,” he said with a smile. Hoffman’s blood was still caked on his hands.

Terrible Tom was moved to another prison because he was growing too famous at Marion. Fellow inmates regarded him as someone special, like a saint. His exploits were incredible, the stuff of legend. Inmates worshipped him. Prison officials shipped Terrible Tom to USP Atlanta, where he was placed in a maximum-security isolation cell. It was 1984.

The shit jumped off in 1987. A bunch of pissed-off Cubans, who were being detained at USP Atlanta while the Feds decided what to do with them, rioted. In this case, a “bunch” meant hundreds of Cubans, all of whom were brash, dangerous criminals who had nothing to lose since the Feds, more than likely, would end up sending them all back to Cuba, where they would be lined up against a wall and shot as traitors. The Cubans took over the
penitentiary,
capturing and holding hostage a hundred members of the prison staff.

The Cubans unlocked every cell door at the prison, including Tommy’s. All the animals in the zoo were free, but they were still trapped in the prison, which was surrounded by the FBI and elite soldiers from Delta Force. Tommy didn’t care. He was just happy to be out of the Hole. It was like taking a vacation. Terrible Tom roamed willy-nilly inside the prison walls, wearing shower thongs and carrying a bottle of tequila, taking it all in like a tourist from a cruise ship. 

The tequila came courtesy of one of the Cubans: a big, black guy with a shaved head and a Fu Manchu moustache, whom everybody called Blind Boy because of a cast in one eye. His real name was Roberto Messia.

When the rioters had opened Tom’s cell door, they grabbed him and led him out into the yard. He squinted at the brightness. After his eyes adjusted he took a look around. The yard looked like they’d fought World War III there. Part of the prison had burned to the ground, leaving a blackened, smouldering skeleton.

The rioters led him over to Blind Boy Messia, who carried a shotgun, taken from one of the guards, in his right hand and a bottle in his left hand.

“So. Terrible Tom,” said Blind Boy. “What should we do with you?” He waggled the shotgun casually.

Terrible Tom did a double take. Blind Boy did not sound Cuban. He had a high British accent. “You don’t sound Cuban,” said Tom.

Blind Boy laughed. “You don’t look so terrible.”

Terrible Tom smiled and stood waiting, as Blind Boy gazed at him. Reaching a decision, Blind Boy tossed the bottle to Tom, who caught it. Glancing at the label on the bottle, Tom raised his eyebrows. “Now we’re living,” he enthused.

“We don’t have time or patience for any inconveniences,” Blind Boy advised. “So stay out of the way.” From the look on his face, he expected a reply.

“You won’t even know I’m here,” said Terrible Tom.

Blind Boy gave a little nod, then said, “Enjoy yourself.”

And that was that.

Negotiations began between the Cubans and the Feds and lasted for seven days. And the Feds knew Terrible Tom was there.

“As a gesture of good faith, you need to give us Thomas Silverstein,” the Feds told the Cubans. The Cubans thought about it then talked it over. Soon afterwards, a bunch of Cubans jumped Terrible Tom in the prison yard. Pinning him down, they handcuffed him and shackled his legs. Then they turned him over to the Feds, who turned him over to US Marshals, who pushed him into a transport vehicle and whisked him off to a nearby airport. The marshals loaded him on to a plane and flew him to Leavenworth, Kansas. Other than the marshals, Terrible Tom was the only inmate on the flight.

At USP Leavenworth, the Feds had a special room ready for Terrible Tom. Resembling a large zoo-like cage, the room sat in an isolated wing of the prison – Range 13. The “range” term came from the fact that the wing was “out there in the middle of nowhere”. And the number “13” referred to the floor numbers used in skyscrapers. There is never a 13th floor, because it is considered bad luck. The 13th floor is there, but isn’t acknowledged. Just like Range 13 was there, but no one admitted it.

Prison officials jokingly nicknamed the special room “the Hannibal Room” because it resembled the cage in the movie
The Silence of the Lambs
. But the joke contained more than a little truth, for the Hannibal Room was truly hell on earth. Whoever lived in the Hannibal Room endured constant surveillance, had no human contact and the lights were never shut off. There was no day or night in hell – only the steady, sickly emanations of florescent bulbs. There was no one to talk to, no one to hear, no one to touch, no one to hate, no one to love. Mechanical eyes stared from every corner – all the time. Big Brother was watching!

They put Terrible Tom in the Hannibal Room in 1987.

In 2002, fifteen years later, the goon squad showed up at the Hannibal Room. US Marshal Clarence J. Sugar led the way. Behind Marshal Sugar tramped fifteen deputy marshals. Next to the marshal walked five officers of USP Leavenworth, who wore helmets with full-face masks, like motorcycle helmets, and who carried what looked like cattle prods along with a whole spectrum of weapons, including mace, pistols and billy clubs. The cattle prods turned out to be just that, Tasers mounted on the ends of poles.

Marshal Sugar marvelled as he looked at the cattle prods. They looked like something wild animal trainers would use in a circus.

“Technically, it’s Range 13,” one of the officers told Marshal Sugar. “But most call it the Hannibal Room or the Silverstein Suite.”

Marshal Sugar nodded.

“He watches a lot of TV,” said the officer.

“Who?”

“Terrible Tom,” replied the officer. “Likes reality shows. ‘Survivor’, ‘American Gladiator’ – that kinda shit.”

Marshal Sugar gave the officer a sceptical glance, as the platoon of armed men moved relentlessly toward Range 13. 

“Spends a lot of time drawing, too,” added the officer. “Really talented. I can’t believe some of the shit he does. Like he’s
professional
or something, ya’ know? The way he shades stuff with just a pencil is hard to wrap your head around it’s so good.”

Marshal Sugar thought the guy sounded like a tour guide. A guide that was definitely captivated by his subject, which seemed to be the myth and legend and living habits of Terrible Tom.

The officer continued, “There’s all sorts of weirdo collectors who would pay top dollar for any of his drawings. But he won’t sell ’em.” He looked over at the marshal. “Even if he did, the money wouldn’t do him any good.” He paused. “Too bad though. Cuz they sure are good. Wait’ll you see ’em.”

The marshal didn’t say anything.

“Wait’ll you see him,” said the officer, raising his eyebrows.

“What do you mean?” rumbled Marshal Sugar.

“Long, wild-man hair, white beard down to here,” explained the officer, touching the edge of his hand to his chest. “Looks like that movie actor guy – Donald Sutherland – dressed up like some weird Santa Claus. Course Terrible Tom’s Jewish, but you know what I mean.”

Marshal Sugar frowned to himself.

“The reason his hair is so long,” clarified the officer, “is cuz he’s not allowed scissors or a razor. Too risky.”

“Suicide?” asked Marshal Sugar.

The officer chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah. They’re afraid he’ll do a Clutts. You know, kill another guard.”

Like everyone else associated with the federal prison system, Marshal Sugar had heard of Thomas Silverstein, aka Terrible Tom. From what this officer had just said it sounded like the guy was a regular Chinese puzzle. Or plain insane. A talented artist on one hand, and on the other hand a crackerjack killer, who looked like Donald Sutherland in a ZZ Top beard.

Some years ago Pete Earley had written a book called
The Hothouse,
which was based on unprecedented access to the inmates and guards at USP Leavenworth. Marshal Sugar had read it. He considered it a good book, but one with an agenda – to diss the penal system, which, Sugar readily admitted, had its problems. Earley’s book almost, but not quite, lionized the inmates, especially Terrible Tom, who was the star of the show. In the book, Earley portrayed Tom as intelligent, rational and downright normal. And the fact that the prison officials kept him locked up like an animal in the Hannibal Room made
them
look like the monsters. Like they were kids, pulling the wings off flies and bees, then roasting the insects under a magnifying glass they got out of the bottom of a box of Cheerios.

When he finished reading the book, Marshal Sugar,
half-convinced
that Earley was right, had done a little research. The author had a website on which it was possible to listen to some of the prison interviews with Terrible Tom. Marshal Sugar listened to them. Silverstein babbled on and on about his demons, who, at a guess, were the guards and how they delighted in tormenting him. Then he went off into a stream-of-consciousness description of his hellacious killing of Merle Clutts, which included mimicking the dying man’s screams and Tom’s grunts as he plunged the shiv into the guard’s flesh. Silverstein even described how it feels to stab a man, relating the squishy sound flesh makes as it takes the knife.

The guy was a whacko. His insanity stood out like a pile of steaming cow flop on an inflatable raft floating on a backyard swimming pool.

The platoon of marshals came to a halt. A massive steel door stared at them. On this side of the door was USP Leavenworth; on the other side of the door was Range 13. One of the guards unlocked the door and they entered another world. The air was different than on the other side of the door – heavier and without any odour, as if it came from a bottle. Overhead lights burned brightly, making everything clearer, like in high-definition.

In the middle of the room stood a giant rat cage. Inside the cage, a figure sat in a chair. As the marshals entered the room, the figure stood up.

Shoulder-length grey hair and a white waterfall of a beard made the figure look like some crackpot biblical prophet just back from forty years in the desert. A real ding-a-ling thought Marshal Sugar. Then he noticed the eyes, which burned acetylene torch blue. Marshal Sugar changed his mind – a very dangerous ding-a-ling.

Terrible Tom smiled. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said. “What an unexpected visit.” He laughed. “In fact, it’s the first one I’ve had in fifteen years. Come in, come in.” 

“Okay,” said Marshal Sugar, turning to his deputies. “Secure the prisoner. Gather up his personal belongings and bag ’em. We got a plane to catch.”

Terrible Tom popped a Hershey’s Kiss in his mouth. “Anybody want a kiss?” He grinned. “Unfortunately, they come to me without foil wrappers or little flags. I miss that part.” He shook his head sadly. “Kind of ruins the experience.” 

The marshals moved forward in a standard formation. The Leavenworth officer unlocked the door of the cage, saying, “Tom, these are US Marshals. They’re here to transfer you. No one wants a fuss, so your cooperation would be helpful.”

Terrible Tom gave a big laugh, one that he had cultivated over the years. “Your wish is my command. Complaints? No complaints from me. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’m looking forward to it.” Then Tom peeked to see if his act was really coming off.

Marshal Sugar stepped forward. “I’m glad to hear that. Now, if you would please turn around, lie down on the floor and place your hands on the top of your head.” Terrible Tom did as instructed. Marshals swarmed over him, cuffing him and shackling his legs. Then they stood him up and patted him down. One of the marshals carefully passed a metal detector over his body. Stepping back, the deputy said, “Please do three deep-knee bends.” Terrible Tom squatted all the way down and all the way up, three times. Four Tasers pointed at him as he did. “Okay,” said Marshal Sugar. “Let’s go.” The Leavenworth officers led the way, followed by three marshals. Then came Terrible Tom, with a marshal on each side and one right behind him, like three three-dimensional shadows.

Back outside, the marshals loaded Terrible Tom into a special van, where he was chained to steel rings that reached up from the floor. Six marshals took their seats in the van. As the parade of vehicles drove off, Terrible Tom gazed out the window. He hadn’t seen the world in fifteen years and was enjoying the view. Hard across the way he saw storm clouds in the distance fast approaching. He’d almost forgotten about weather … and the billboards and signs.

It was like going to Disneyland.

At the airport, the marshals escorted Terrible Tom on to the plane. As he clinked and clanked down the aisle, he looked around. All the inmates on the plane stared at him. Not a sound.

The marshals seated him and triple-cuffed him, adding another set of shackles to his legs. Terrible Tom looked to his left. He saw a familiar face.

“Tom,” said the Baron (Barry Bryon “The Baron” Mills, leader of the Aryan Brotherhood), smiling.

“Hey, Baron.”

“Tell me about it,” urged the Baron.

As the two killers talked quietly, Terrible Tom felt the plane rolling. It accelerated, pushing him back in his seat. The wheels left the ground and started to retract into the plane’s belly.

Terrible Tom daydreamed for an instant. Maybe they really would go to Disneyland.

A
SK ANYONE WORKING
the doors in Liverpool in the 1970s about Sean Reich and they will reply along the lines of “simply the hardest and toughest bastard around”. Everyone knew Sean, and Sean knew everyone. There was no one tougher on the doors at that time.

Sean Reich was born in Milwaukee, USA, on 9 August 1951. His parents separated and his Irish mother brought him to Liverpool, England, where he grew up. Reich became interested in the martial arts in 1970 and started training as often as he could. By 1973 he was working full-time as a nightclub doorman where he spent almost seven years working the doors in the roughest, toughest city in the UK.

Reich received his black belt, first dan, in Goju Kai karate in 1974; his second dan in 1978; and his third dan in 1980 in the world headquarters of Goju karate situated in Tokyo, Japan. Whilst there he trained under three of the highest graded experts in the world: Gogen Yamaguchi, Motokatsu Inoue and Meitoku Yagi, all tenth dans. He emigrated to Australia at the end of the 1980s where he became a professional karate instructor and one of the
topgraded
instructors on the continent.

The magazine
Australasian Fighting Arts
ran a ten-page article on Reich. Titled “Applied Karate”, it highlighted some of his
harrowing
experiences in the security field. Reich believes this article to be the first of its kind on the subject. His first instructor, the infamous, now deceased Gary Spiers, was so inspired by the article he did a worldwide self-defence workshop using the title.

Sean has now retired from both security and karate to focus on being a husband and father of four, and to try to be a dedicated Christian. Reich now finds it very hard training. This is his story, taken from his forthcoming book
A Long Walk Home
, about his very early days on the doors in Liverpool.