An American Radical

by Susan Rosenberg

  In the early 1980s, when we had first gone underground, Laura and I were sharing a safe house when word came that her mother was dying. Our group did not allow any of its members to go home or attend funerals, since important family events offered the FBI some of the best opportunities for catching or tracking fugitives. Laura was not wanted officially by the FBI but she was a member and the rules applied. We were too slow in overturning them. Laura’s mother died before she could get there. I had met Laura’s mother only twice, but I knew that Laura’s humor and wit had come from her. I could see their similarity in their smiles in the one good photo she carried.

  As I lay on my bunk ten years later, Laura knew what I felt. “You can’t lie there all day,” she said.

  “Yes I can.” “No you can’t. Let’s walk.” “No.”

  “Let’s go see what Big Dress has to say about your trip,” Laura prodded.

  I told her what my father had just said on the phone, and she got all teary herself.

  I said, “You’re moved, I can see.”

  “Yes, I am deeply moved,” she answered, and that turned into a joke about how a group of people who never went anywhere could be so “moved.” And then we did move ourselves to the rec yard to walk in big circles.

  I tried to talk with my father again, but every time I called he was sleeping, or indisposed, or doing rehabilitation work. I talked with my mom, Rabbi Matalon, Mary, and Sue Gambill every other day. We were keeping vigil. In the first week of August my father became incontinent and the pain came back in full force. His cancer had returned with a virulence that frightened everyone. He was re-admitted to Danbury Hospital. My mother and Mary called Ms. Nolan to inform her that my father was dying and that I had to come now. Ms. Nolan relayed the message.

  Over the next few weeks, an enormous emergency effort was undertaken to make it possible for me to see my father at his deathbed. On August 20, 1993, my father’s kidneys failed. In the belief that I would be coming to see him, he asked for a horrifyingly painful, yet life-extending measure that involved inserting a shunt directly into his kidneys. Letters from the hospital, from all the doctors, the oncologist, the surgeon, and his main doctor all concurred that his life was about to end. My mother wired the money to cover the cost of security for my visit, a sum in the thousands. Ms. Nolan kept telling me to hang on, but I grew more and more tense and angry.

  On August 23, Mary was informed by the general counsel of the BOP that the warden at Marianna had denied my request because of the length of my sentence and the nature of my conviction. As she relayed the news over the phone, she was in tears and absolutely raging. She told me that she was writing to Kathleen Hawk, the director of the BOP who had replaced Quinlan, to Attorney General Janet Reno, and to everyone else she could think of. She said my mother and Rabbi Roly Matalon were meeting with New York Congressman Jerry Nadler. I hung up the phone and flew across the walkway, down the stairs past the officers’ station, across the common area, and into the hallway that led to Ms. Nolan’s office.

  I walked into the office and stood shaking with anger. “You lied, you lied, all along. You knew this was all an exercise in bullshit.”

  “Sit down,” she roared.

  “No. My sentence length has been fifty-eight years for the past nine years. My conviction will be my conviction until I die. It is always the same thing.” I wanted to shout obscenities and hit her. I wanted to overturn her desk and destroy her office. But I did not do any of those things.

  “Susan, sit down. I just found out, too. Will you sit down, for Christ’s sake!” She went on to say that she disagreed with the decision, that she had told the warden this and that it was not over yet. She said there was a “good ol’ girls network” and that she was in the process of calling in favors.

  “But it’s been denied. It is always harder to undo a decision than to get the one you want to begin with—you know that,” I said.

  “Let me work on this. I told you and your mother and Mary that I am still working on this.”

  Mary? I thought. Big Dress is calling my lawyer by her first name? But I was not placated. As I walked out, all I could think about was what they would tell my father.

  They did not tell him anything, however, because no one involved was taking no for an answer. On August 26, Mary wrote the following letter to Janet Reno:

  Dear Madam Attorney General:

  I know that you are now aware of the tragic circumstances surrounding my client’s requested compassionate visit with her dying father. I write hoping that you did not participate in the BOP’s decision earlier today to uphold the Warden’s denial of the request, and you will permit this visit to take place.

  The BOP’s action today, according to Mr. Ron Allen in BOP Director Hawk’s office, was based upon “the best interests of the BOP.” Mr. Allen cited two alleged considerations: Susan’s “offense severity,” a possessory offense not involving violence, and the “severity of her sentence.” According to Mr. Allen these factors present a “risk to the community” if Ms. Rosenberg is allowed to visit her dying father (accompanied by four U.S. marshals), even though her security classification is low security and her conduct excellent by any measure.

  This “Catch 22” situation means no sentenced prisoner has any motivation to change because they will always continue to be penalized over and over again for their conduct that led to their incarceration and their sentence used against them at every subsequent point. My client’s 1985 sentence of fifty-eight years for a possessory offense was sixteen times longer than the average sentence for such offenses. Had she been sentenced under the new guidelines she could have received months rather than a lifetime.

  Unreversed, the BOP’s decision sends several messages, all of which seem inconsistent with your stated standards for the administration of justice: First, that blind retribution alone sets the standard of treatment for federal prisoners. Second, that prisoner self-development is of no value. Third, that the BOP’s own system of evaluating and classifying prisoners is inaccurate and unreliable, with no meaning. Fourth, that the opinion of BOP professionals who live and work with prisoners cannot be credited.

  Finally, and perhaps of most importance here, this decision says that this government is unable to forgive anyone who opposes its policies and that instead targets such individuals forever because of their political positions. Thus, while lip service may be given by government officials to matters such as basic standards of decency, fairness, and human rights, these are illusory matters to be freely ignored and disregarded when it comes to our internal workings of government. We are quick to criticize such action on the part of other nations, but willing to engage in them here nonetheless.

  I beseech you to correct this injustice and to do so now before Dr. Rosenberg dies and needless pain and suffering which this situation has caused becomes etched forever in the consciences of his family and the many people who have asked you to exercise compassion and fairness in the face of this tragedy.

  On August 27, Ms. Nolan called me to her office. She was joined there by Chaplain Raftry, a Franciscan nun. They both looked at me while Ms. Nolan told me that the visit had been denied and that there was nothing further either of them could do. I could, however, make a phone call to the hospital with the chaplain.

  Perhaps the poison in my heart was misplaced, but at that moment I hated them both with every ounce of my being.

  I walked out. I wanted to lock down. I wanted to be alone so that no one could look at me with sympathetic eyes, so that no one could invade me with a smart remark. Even in maximum security, there was no privacy until the cell doors were locked. I went to the yard and ran in circles, I sat in the laundry room on the side of the machines, I paced in my cell.

  Eventually, I found Laura and we raged together. She wanted to go curse out Ms. Nolan, to scream at her and the nun. Right before lockdown, I was out in the inner courtyard pacing in small circles, going around and around. All of a sudden, something inside me told me to ca
lm down. Listen. And a feeling of repose settled over me. It was magical and total, and I thought, I will see my father again. Lynette Fromme (of Manson Family infamy, in federal prison after her purported attempt on President Gerald Ford’s life) was also sitting in this little courtyard, watching the sky through the wire netting. She said, “Susan, it is going to be all right.” She spoke abruptly, as though she, too, had felt a force of calm, or maybe she had sent me the energy herself. However it happened, my deep agitation was gone.

  “Yes, Red,” I said, using one of her nicknames. “I think so. Thanks.”

  They called lockdown. I felt better.

  I was awake at the midnight count and slightly asleep at the 2:00 a.m. count. In my semi-conscious state I heard a key in my door and knew it was out of place. I opened my eyes and there was a large, looming shape in the doorway of my cell. I jumped up, understanding it was Ms. Nolan.

  “He’s dead, right? My father is dead,” I said.

  “No, Susan, get dressed. You have ten minutes. You’re going to see him. Come to my office when you are dressed, and be quiet.”

  It all happened that fast. Hang on, Dad, I’m coming, I thought.

  I put on my best clothes and picked up my only jacket. It was a blazer left over from court days. Ms. Nolan began talking as soon as I entered her office. She listed all the people who were going with me: my counselor, the lieutenant who was in charge of special ops, and two COs who were part of the prison SWAT team. They had all volunteered; it was considered hazardous duty. She went on to say that Lieutenant Rocker was the commanding officer and that I had to do exactly what he said.

  As if on cue, the lieutenant walked in and said, “We’re out of here. You will have two hours with your father and not one minute more. We will be back today.”

  Ms. Nolan put a paper and a pen in front of me. “Sign it.”

  I read the paper quickly and smiled quietly. It said that I swore not to escape. (I imagined what Laura’s sense of humor would do with this scene.) I signed and stood up. The lieutenant cuffed me, but did not wrap me in chains. I thanked them both as we walked to the front doors of the prison. I was actually leaving, it was really happening. It felt like the federal wall had been shaken and that I was somehow slipping through the crack. It was an exhilarating feeling. They put me in a car and drove me to a small airport, where we boarded an eight-seat Learjet. We flew with the rising sun the whole way up the East Coast. No one spoke the entire trip. It was eerie and strange, but I was so withdrawn that I could not have uttered a word. And they were very serious because they knew the situation that awaited us at the Westchester airport.

  We were met by a small army. There were more than fifty agents of every variety and rank: state police, Westchester County police, airport security, Danbury BOP personnel, FBI agents, and U.S. marshals—all of these people assembled merely to drive me to the Danbury Hospital. It was so over the top that all I could do was laugh, despite the awesome firepower at their fingertips. They literally picked me up and put me in a white van with two marshals sitting up front, separated from me by a screen. The one on the passenger side was riding shotgun. He had an M-16 in his lap.

  They drove like crazy. The plane left at 4:30 in the morning and landed in New York at 9:15; we arrived at the Danbury Hospital at 9:50. As we were walking to the back entrance, I glimpsed Mary O’Melveny and Susie Waysdorf getting out of their car. I glimpsed them as I was whisked inside. I was escorted up to the eighth floor and was greeted there by more officials. All of us were standing in a darkened hall in front of what I presumed was my father’s room. Other than all the security, there was no one else around. A tall, sandy-haired man in a tailored suit stepped forward and identified himself to me as “Justice.”

  I looked at him and he at me, and then much to my embarrassment my eyes filled with tears. “Thank you, sir,” I said.

  He mouthed, “You’re welcome.”

  I stuck my arms out indicating the cuffs. Someone said, “Leave them on.” “Justice” turned to whoever had said it with a look implying “Are you nuts?” He then nodded directly at Lieutenant Rocker, who unlocked the cuffs. I stepped into the room.

  A nurse said, “Thank God. I didn’t think you would get here. Your father was very agitated, and I just gave him some morphine.”

  “Oh no,” I said, thinking that he would be too sedated to know I was there.

  I took in the scene. My dad lay in the bed with IVs running. He looked like he was asleep. The view from his window was quite startling to me. It was an open New England sky and landscape.

  It was like a fairytale picture with houses and a steeple nestled into hills. As I approached the bed, three of the Marianna team came into the room and took up positions around it, with their backs up against the wall. I drew a breath to protest, locked eyes with my counselor, and withdrew. I realized I could fight with them and lose precious time, or I could ignore them.

  I went toward my dad and the nurse followed me. She put her hand on my arm. “Let me tell him you are here. We don’t want to scare or startle him.” She very gently shook him. “Dr. Rosenberg, hello. Doctor, I have a surprise for you, a wonderful surprise. Your daughter is here.”

  Her gentleness was beautiful. As her words penetrated my father’s consciousness he gave a start, tried to get up, and turned his head toward me. He whispered, “I knew you would come.”

  And I whispered back, “I knew I would see you.”

  I kissed him, touched him, and massaged his head. I then laid my head on his chest and talked into his ear. I held his arm and his hand and rubbed his shoulder. I felt the bumps on his chest and presumed they were tumors; I could not stop holding his hand tighter and tighter as the seconds ticked on. Knowing it would be the last time I would ever touch him, I decided I would remember how he felt, his arms, his bristly curly hair, his head, and his face. He was mottled with cancer and he looked totally exhausted, but I saw him only as my handsome and terrific father.

  The next thing I knew, my mother was standing in the room. Her eyes met mine and we both started crying out of relief, sadness, and happiness. We grabbed each other so tightly that she almost cracked my ribs. I had not realized how strong she was.

  My father looked at us and said, “My beautiful, favorite women, Bella and Susan. I love you so.” He was drifting in and out of consciousness.

  We hugged him as best we could, my mother on one side of the bed and me on the other. My mother mouthed to me across my father, “They weren’t going to let me in, but they changed their mind. I saw all those men and thought he had died.”

  At that point, Dad woke up and said loudly, “I want everyone to know that if you want to carry out my wishes, you all will fight harder to get Susan out of prison.” He went on to give a speech about the injustice of my imprisonment.

  Finally, Mom said, “Manny, it’s us, me and Susie; we agree with you.”

  “Oh, right,” he said, “but I want everyone to know.” He was aware of the police in the room.

  Then we all held one another. We were crying as Mom said, “We’re a trio, we’ve been a trio a long time, and we are a great trio the three of us, right, Manny?”

  Then one of the officers said that we had ten more minutes. Those were the hardest ten minutes of my life. I wanted to break free, I wanted to turn back the time, years back, I wanted to wail and scream. I apologized to my parents for everything I had done and all the suffering that my actions had caused. I promised my father that I would be free, and that I would take care of Mom. There was so much emotion in that room, and so much love, it was overwhelming. I glanced at my counselor and saw tears streaming down her face. And then as quickly as I had come, I was gone.

  The Marianna security detail moved me out and cuffed me in the elevator and once again picked me up and carried me to the van. I felt deeply alive and awake, but also in a state of shock. My heart was torn up and my spirit was in rebellion. But by the time that I was sitting on the jet with my forehead glued to the wi
ndow, saying good-bye forever to my father, I appeared completely calm and still.

  We were back in the unit at Marianna before the 4:00 p.m. count. Few of my fellow prisoners—only Laura, K.C., Marilyn, and Silvia—knew that I had been gone. Ms. Nolan had had the unit phones turned off for the day, which caused a minor stir. But that died down when the phones went back on after the count.

  At six o’clock Monday morning, August 31, 1993, I felt my father die. I sat up in my bunk unable to breathe and felt that he had been in my cell and was now gone. As soon as the cell door opened, I went to call my mother, who was about to go to the hospital because word had reached her that my father had just died. My old friend and acupuncture partner Jackie Haught had spent the night with him, helping him let go. Jackie was a Buddhist and had become an expert in helping the dying because a lot of her practice was with AIDS patients. Her compassion and humanity had been more than helpful. It had been her gift to my father.

  On the morning of my father’s death, Rabbi Roly Matalon came to Marianna to visit me. He had arrived late the night before. It was not the first time we had met, but it was a formative visit. His being there that day felt no less miraculous than my visit to Danbury had been. Roly told me about the events that had transpired in the forty-eight hours prior to my visit. There had been an emergency response to the BOP denial by all the people and groups who had supported me over the years. The BOP had received several thousand faxes and phone calls from all over the country. Mary had tirelessly hand-delivered a barrage of letters to all the relevant officials. Congressman Nadler had intervened. He had called Kathleen Hawk, the BOP’s director. When she told him that moving me was too dangerous—since people would try to free me and I was a terrorist threat—he had responded that that was a tired line. He then said, “We take over governments in secret, but here you are telling me you can’t move one person in secret from Florida to Connecticut. If you want a human rights nightmare, don’t do this. But I suggest that you do it!”