Letters from Alcatraz

by Esslinger, Michael

  Guys were coming in from work and Bloomie stood there, introducing us to his son as each guy passed. Every one of us greeted his son and shook his hand. We all told him, “Your father is really a great guy.” My good friend Charlie Catalano gave Bloomie and his son a genuine, happy, good- to-meet-you type of gesture and handshake. It really knocked us all off of our balance, since we’d never seen such a thing. It’s ironic: the Hollywood depictions of the relationships between inmates and officers were often conflicted and full of strife, but Bloomie became an iconic figure to me.

  Looking back, Bloomie became a trusted friend even following my release from prison and after he retired. We had dinners together. We were in contact and I flew out to visit him. But later on, I got deeper into organized crime and we drifted apart and lost touch. He was one of the finest guys I ever met in or out of prison. I wished him a long life, but also part of me always hoped that he didn’t hear about me being on the run for such serious crimes.

  I had the wrong attitude, figuring that I’d try hard for one year to make it work. And if didn’t, I’d revert back. It’s all a matter of time before it’s a disaster. And then you have to play the game more seriously because it’s do or die. I can’t think of Bloomie without plunging into a deep depression. I wish him and his family had lived forever. I know if there’s a heaven, Bloomie is up there.

  A series of portrait photos taken for family members while at Alcatraz.

  William “Hawk” Hawkins.

  In the laundry, there was a guy on the mangle opposite me. He was the only black man working in that area with us. He was a real nice guy from Washington D.C. named Hawkins. He was also in USP Lewisburg on the same tier with me, Catalano, Marcum, and Maloney. Later on I looked for him. I was once in D.C. staying in the Hyatt and called every Hawkins listed in the telephone directory. I was real interested in seeing how he was doing and whether I could help him out if things were not so good. We just called him “Hawk” while on Alcatraz. Years later I heard that he got trapped in a bank heist and committed suicide.

  He was one hell of a nice guy—bright, well-spoken, and he came from a nice family. His father worked at the White House as a chauffeur. A couple of times he’d say, “Bulger, read this.” It would be a letter from his sister describing a wedding, for instance. His sister sounded like my own sister, who was a couple of years older than me. Once his sister got upset about the bad behavior of a black public figure and she commented, “God, he sets us back doing that.”

  Hawk was on the mangle with me—he was on one end of a sheet (wet or damp) and I was on the other. This was a real mechanical type of job, and we would talk about books, current events, and get lost in our day. There was a lot of racial tension on the Rock and little things could cause rumbling, muttering, bristling, and dog-eyeing. I always had a lot of respect for Hawk. He always carried himself well and like a gentleman. I hope that he had some good times after prison with family prior to his death. He was a quite a guy.

  Jack Twining’s (AZ-1362) booking photos for USP Atlanta and Alcatraz. Twining was a close friend of both Bulger and Frank Morris (an architect of the famed 1962 Alcatraz escape). Twining had a violent past of bank robbery and murder. In February 1959, he stabbed to death fellow Alcatraz inmate Walter Mollett, a known sexual predator incarcerated at both Alcatraz and other institutions. Twining was cleared of all charges, since the stabbing was considered an act of self defense. Following his release from prison, Jack Twining and crime partner Bobby Davis went on a violent spree that would end in tragedy in April 1970. After being pulled over for erratic driving in Newhall, California, and not willing to go back to prison or be taken alive, Twining and Davis shot and killed two California Highway Patrol officers. When two other officers arrived on the scene, Twining and Davis ambushed them. Davis killed one officer with a shotgun and Twining killed the other officer using a .45 automatic handgun. A witness, who happened to be an ex-marine, grabbed one of the slain officers’ weapons and shot Davis in the chest. Twining fled the scene and sought refuge by making a violent entry into the home of a married couple and taking them hostage. Exhausted and in despair after a nine hour standoff with police, Twining turned the gun on himself and committed suicide. Despite a violent past, Twining was well liked by fellow inmates at Alcatraz and known to always have a smile and be cordial in conversation. Former Alcatraz Correctional Officer Irving Levinson later commented: “Twining was quiet, always polite, and very likeable. He had the looks of being just a kid. He didn’t seem to belong in a place like Alcatraz. You would never have known just by the looks of him.” Twining’s partner Bobby Davis survived his injuries. He was convicted of capital murder and sentenced to death in California’s gas chamber. His sentence was later commuted to life in prison without the possibility of parole. After nearly four decades in prison, Davis took his own life in August 2009 while an inmate at the Kern Valley state prison.

  Walter Mollett

  Another good friend of mine was Jack Twining. It’s saddening to look at pictures of him. It seems like yesterday that I met him. Young guy, always with a smile; he worked in the hospital as an x-ray tech with Scotty (John Paul Scott) and myself. It’s still hard for me to picture Jack killing anyone back then. I didn’t know anything about his life; he just made small talk. He seemed to be a really easy-going guy; he never talked about his past.

  I knew that he was in for bank robbery and think that he pled guilty so that they would turn loose his girlfriend who was arrested down in New Orleans area. He was sentenced to thirty years. Courtney Taylor, who was a prolific jailhouse lawyer at Alcatraz, did some legal work for Jack, and had him file an appeal in New Orleans, which got his sentenced reduced to 20 years. That was sometime after he had killed Mollett, because when he was in the Parish Jail on appeal, he was put in a cell with a big chain as double security on his cell door and a sign that read:

  CAUTION - DO NOT APPROACH THIS CELL BY YOURSELF. THIS PERSON HAS ALREADY STRANGLED A MAN TO DEATH

  From birth, Jack always traveled under a black cloud of bad luck. During the Christmas holiday he would always give me his Christmas cards. This was a big deal, since it was the only time were allowed to send a note to anyone we wanted, even if they were not on the mailing list. I felt guilty accepting them. I always asked him, “Don’t you know anybody out there?” He would just respond that he didn’t get any mail and didn’t have anyone on the outside.

  By degrees, he told me his story. It was very sad for me to hear. We never had much when I was young, but we were real close as a family, and somehow always had a good meal on Thanksgiving and Christmas. Jack never had either, and never sat down with a family; he grew up in an orphanage. He was adopted by a young couple, and while picking up a ball that landed in some bushes by a window, he heard the guy say to his wife: “Why did we bring that bastard home?” Jack heard that and ran away.

  He was caught and sent back to the orphanage, a runaway juvenile place. And then he was sent to jails, the chain gang, the state prison for bank robbery, and then, finally, Alcatraz. Poor Jack, I don’t think he had many happy memories or moments. He had rage and hated like no one I ever knew. At least two times while we were in prison, I feel I prevented him from killing other convicts. Jack sought revenge, and as usual, innocent people suffered.

  When Jack took hostages during the Newhall Incident, it was fortunate that he spared them. And I’m glad that he did because if the Law had stormed the house, it may have been fatal for the hostages. I’m also glad that Twining killed himself; he found peace finally. It saved him and everyone else the pain of years of trial, isolation, death row, and execution. I guarantee you that his last years moments in that house, he was calm and at peace. The gun battle had undoubtedly left him spent, and he was approaching the end he sought.

  Years later I read a feature article in a detective magazine about that day, and saw the pictures of the four California Highway Patrolmen. They were young guys, and looked like All American Boys: married, real healthy
looking, real tragic. No picture of Jack. I also read that he had killed (or was suspected of killing) a federal agent and two other men when he was coming south from Washington State. The guy who was with Jack in Newhall was shot and he survived. But he later killed himself in prison. Sad story all the way around...

  It took me years to find out about Jack’s past. I knew him in Atlanta before Alcatraz and considered him a friend of mine and a friend of Louis Arquilla. I prevented him from killing a black inmate named Mitchell on the Rock. I did so for Jack’s sake. Mitchell was real lucky after Jack killed Mollett on the Rock. As far as I was concerned, Mollett committed suicide. He underestimated Twining.

  Jack had a violent explosive temper combined with hate; he wanted revenge and his own death. He spelled it all out for me and said, “I know, but can’t help it and I know you’re right.” I told him how it would end if he kept going on this way. On a couple of down moments he’d say, “I don’t care about anything or trust anyone. I don’t have any friends and I don’t need them!” It shook him up when I told him that I was a good friend, as well as Louis and John Duncan. He didn’t answer, so I let it go. I can think back to all those conversations.

  Seeing the pictures of him and talking about this makes it all seem like yesterday. I feel he’s at peace, but that he left a lot of people suffering in his wake, including mothers, fathers, siblings, children and friends. Jack faded into obscurity. I have never see any mention of him anymore relating to the Newhall Incident. Looking back not many people knew him. I remember seeing a section of the California Highway named after the four highway patrol officers he killed. I know it gives meaning to the families.

  John Duncan, AZ-1359

  Rafael Miranda, AZ-1163

  Rafael Miranda shot up Congress and later said to me that he “expected to die that day for our country – it was the only way to get the world to listen.” Miranda was a real gentleman, as was his fellow shooter “Cordero,” a little guy I knew in the Atlanta pen. I used to eat next to him. He started to teach me some Spanish, but the lessons were cut short after I was sent to the hole for an escape plot. After being sent to the hole, I was sent to administrative segregation. Sadly, he died at a young age.

  Both of these guys were “Political Prisoners” and were a credit to Puerto Rico. They were respected by their fellow convicts, not for shooting up Congress, but for how they conducted their lives in prison—proudly and morally strong. You have to remember that at Alcatraz, all of those men were fiercely patriotic. But they respected those who held to their own morals and ideals, but not to any violence against our country.

  Years later I flew San Juan, Puerto Rico just for a change of pace. It was crowded, and there was a lot of crime, stray dogs, and extreme poverty. In Old San Juan it was much more orderly and people look to be middle-class. I went into a restaurant that the locals frequented. I was by myself and caught the chill from all customers at the bar. I ordered local goat meat, rice, beans and a beer, and enjoyed the meal.

  I stopped at the bar for beer and a local in a friendly-but-suspicious way started to quiz me. They suspected I was a cop, but I was actually there while I on parole when I wasn’t supposed to leave Massachusetts. I found out that I was in a place where Puerto Rican nationalists frequent, and that they are wary of strangers, especially Americans. I assured them that if anything, I was for them having the right of self-determination. I mentioned that I knew Cordero, Miranda, and had met Oscar Callazo. I told them how the three were given their status in prison.

  One of the customers was a writer for their paper and asked me if I would go on record with a photo. I had to explain that I was on parole and if it was known that I was in Puerto Rico, I’d be back in prison. They understood and to their credit they never revealed my identity or took my picture.

  This is a far cry from media liars in America. Years later I read about Miranda being free and working in his family’s store in Mayaguez, Puerto Rico. I called there and had a pleasant conversation with Miranda. I hope that he’s in good health. He was the Catholic altar boy in church services on Alcatraz and a true believer.

  Sam Tiblow, AZ-1265

  There is a story about Sam Tiblow’s pet lizard being snatched up from off of a rock and being eaten by a seagull. It happened down where Tiblow worked at the incinerator. There are stories of Tiblow getting revenge and killing lots of seagulls. First of all, the seagulls were protected by federal law and everybody was aware of it. Killing multiple seagulls would have never been tolerated by the prison administration. If that had been the case, Tiblow would have been off the incinerator detail and sent to D block.

  But this I do know this: he would capture seagulls, paint them blue and red, and then release them. We would spot them out the mess hall window. Often we’d throw out slices of bread and the seagulls would catch them on the fly. Once in a while, a kitchen worker would tie a kitchen spatula or other shiny utensil and tie bread to it, and the birds would often be seen flying by with it. Guys would roar with laughter. That is a fact that was seen by many of us.

  The upper tier of C-Block was my home and many of the people who were considered America’s worst in that era were not only fellow residents, but actually people who I considered good friends. I knew and respected many of the famous and not so famous men who resided as fellow convicts. It was like a small community, not much unlike any small town or city.

  While I didn’t know some of the earlier residents like Al Capone, or whether he actually lived up to his notorious reputation, there is something I do know about him, and just about better than any living person. I have a good idea of what thoughts he had while serving time on Alcatraz. I’ve lived in the same section of C-Block for a period of time (my cell was above his on the upper tier). We read from the same library, we worked some of the same jobs, and we were counted by some of the same guards. We lived the very same routine, ate from the same menus, and both of us served time with several of the same men, under the same harsh conditions. We were all part of a unique band of brothers.

  Where you celled was very important; friendships were formed by proximity to cells. And that meant standing in line, filing into the mess hall, where, and who you ate with. I lived in C-314. My neighbor in C-316 was Eugene Wilson, who we simply called “Willie.” To my right in C-312 was an inmate named John Doyle. Frank Hatfield was on the third tier at one time; he may have also been in C-312 before Doyle. A lot of guys would stay awake after lights out and read. There were also a lot of guys who didn’t read that much, but who were hooked on the sports programs. They listened to all of the games, and some of them would study the world almanac for stats.

  Bulger spent most of tenure on Alcatraz in C-314, located on the upper tier of Block C. This was considered a prime location since it was private with no opposite cells. It was out of the view of both the gallery officer and the officers strolling the flats, and received some of the best sunlight in the prison.

  Eugene “Willie” Wilson, AZ-1290

  John Doyle, AZ-1359, served time for murder on Alcatraz.

  Richard Sunday, AZ-1431, was a trusted friend of Bulger’s both at USP Atlanta and USP Alcatraz.

  There was a convict I remember on Alcatraz who I’ve never forgotten. Every morning when the buzzer went off to signal the cons to get up, Gene Fuller would holler: “Stop the world, I want to get off.” He would mimic the Road Runner character in the famed cartoon. You could hear Fuller’s “Beep-Beep” resonate throughout the cellhouse.

  Every night when the radios went off you would hear all of the headphones hitting the concrete floor. When the radio shut down at lights out, the men would just pull them off their ears and throw them to the floor. It was very distinct sound that you heard every night. I never did. I always felt that tomorrow is another day and why risk having to lose the use of headphones while they are being repaired. It was the same sound at both Atlanta and Leavenworth.

  Once in a while, little field mice would be on the flats getting some of the b
read crumbs that guys used to feed the sparrows. Guys would catch the mice and then tame them down. They’d keep the mouse on a little lease (in their shirt, jacket, or their hat). Guys really liked them. Wilson had one of those trained mice that he kept as a pet. At times, if I was real quiet, he would put the mouse on the flat bar and he would come over into my cell. I’d put him on my bed and play with him a little and he’d snap me straight out of my depression.

  Later on, years later, I heard that Wilson had married some woman with two or three kids and was living in Texas and he had opened his own shoe repair shop. Willie worked in the Alcatraz cobbler shop; he was a really neat guy. He was real quiet, but you also knew that he was tough. I never knew what he did to get to the Rock; I never asked and he never brought it up. I only knew that he was an Army prisoner. That was how many of the Army prisoners were. Truth is I never cared why or what they did, I only judged them by how they carried themselves in prison.

  C-Block was an ideal location on Alcatraz. The guard in the gun gallery had no view into my cell, and I could see the entrance to the yard and D-Block. I had no cells across from me, so there was a great sense of privacy that was not afforded to many of the other areas of the cellblock.