Confessions of a Second Story Man

by Allen M. Hornblum

  Their next conversation was equally bleak. “My luck is still the same—bad,” said Mickie despondently. “It’s spread. It’s in my lower back now. It’s getting worse. It’s probably going inside and if that happens it’s all over. They can’t take my insides out like they did my breasts.”

  “What’s the doctor say?” asked Junior, who had had an indication that things weren’t going well when, in an earlier conversation, Mickie had said her hips were bothering her.

  “He wants to put me in the hospital and give me radiation and chemo,” she said.

  “What’s that gonna do?” asked Junior.

  “Hopefully arrest it,” said Mickie.

  “You’re getting arrested again?” Junior said in mock horror, trying to inject some humor into the painful conversation.

  “Yeah,” she replied, trying to put up a good front, “now I’m getting arrested by doctors.”

  The attempt to lighten the mood was fleeting, however. “The doctor has given me 20 months,” she said. “Maybe two years.”

  “I felt terrible,” recalls Kripplebauer. “There was nothing I could do for her. She was in terrible pain and slowly dying and I was locked away in a series of shitty little prisons with little prospect of getting out anytime soon. Yeah, we were quite a couple.

  “I could tell how weak she was getting. It was pretty bad. She would tell me how horrible she felt and admitted that if she had known it was gonna be this bad, she wouldn’t have taken the chemo and radiation.”

  Their next—and last—phone conversation was arranged by their friend and attorney Steve LaCheen. “I was notified by Carl Jackson, a close friend of Mickie’s, that she was in bad shape and hospitalized at the University of Pennsylvania,” recalls LaCheen. “After work that evening, my wife and I went to see her at the hospital. A nurse told us what room she was in, but when we entered there was just a little old, bald-headed man laying there unconscious. I told Helen we must have entered the wrong room, but she said we had the right numbered room. I still thought there had been a mixup, so I went back to the nurse and said there must be a mistake. Someone else was in that room. We’re looking for Mickie D’Ulisse. She told me we were in the correct room; that unrecognizable figure lying there in a fetal position was Mickie. She didn’t have long.”

  LaCheen hurriedly got on the phone with North Carolina correctional authorities and later that evening arranged for Junior to talk to Mickie by phone. As Steve wrote of the incident many years later, “I held the phone to her ear, and could hear Junior telling her that he loved her, that he had always loved her. There seemed to be a barely perceptible change in the expression on her face. I thought it might be the trace of a smile; but that was all.”

  Steve and Helen held Mickie’s hands as Junior spoke of his eternal affection for her. Though it may have been only wishful thinking on their part, the LaCheens believe Mickie’s grip tightened slightly during Junior’s tender monologue.

  Later that night, Mickie died. It was February 20, her birthday. She was 40 years old.

  ONCE AGAIN KRIPPLEBAUER’S LIFE turned around quickly. Now things were moving in his favor. He was getting married and making some history in the process, for it would be Reidsville’s first wedding ceremony. The December 1, 1984, event was the talk of the penal institution. As Junior likes to say, “They had never seen anything like that at the camp.”

  John Stayton, a connoisseur of clothing, flew in from Philadelphia with a slick new suit for the groom and was promptly appointed the best man. Junior’s sister and brother-in-law also flew in from Philly. A Baptist preacher from the local town was hired to perform the afternoon service, and Cheryl brought in five maids-of-honor to walk down the makeshift runway with her. The camp cooks prepared a special meal and baked an impressive layered wedding cake. It was quite a lavish ceremony for the dusty old eyesore of a road camp, and wide-eyed prisoners sat transfixed by the highly unusual slice of normality and wholesome excitement in their midst.

  The new Mrs. Kripplebauer planned the entire event and wasn’t the least bit deterred by the unusual location or the lack of historical precedent. “Cheryl knew how to get what she wanted,” says Junior. “She was a very strong-willed, controlling person and was always able to get people to eat out of her hand.” That included Reidsville’s tough-edged captain. “She came up for the event several days early to ensure her plans were carried out properly,” says Junior, “and was initially met with a series of ‘no’s’ and ‘can’t do that’ answers by the captain. But she would turn on the charm and flash that gorgeous smile and before long she was getting everything she wanted. The captain just couldn’t resist her.”

  And what she couldn’t get by charm, Stayton’s money could usually buy. That evening, after the wedding reception was over and most of the 50 or so guests had departed, including the captain, a well-paid sergeant allowed Junior to take his new bride to the road camp’s marital suite—the captain’s office. There, Junior promptly cleared off the cluttered desk and consummated the marriage with the new Mrs. Kripplebauer. (Not long after, Cheryl called from Fort Lauderdale. “Guess what?” she asked cheerfully. “You’re pregnant,” replied Junior without missing a beat. “How’d you know?” asked Cheryl. “I know,” said Junior. “Believe me, I know. After all the years I been locked up without any sexual activity, I could get a gas range pregnant.” On June 21, 1985, three pound, three ounce Shannon Lee Kripplebauer was born in a Fort Lauderdale hospital.)

  Despite his new marital status, Junior was still the property of North Carolina and had to adjust to life inside the camp. At Reidsville he had what he called “the worst fucking job in the world” as the unit’s “television man.” It might seem to be a piece of cake compared with working on a road crew in 96 degree heat (as an escape risk, Junior wasn’t allowed to work outside the prison compound), but the job of scheduling what prisoners could watch on television had some definite drawbacks.

  “My unit had a few dozen men, but only two TVs,” says Kripplebauer. “Fights occurred all the time over what shows the guys were gonna watch. The blacks wanted to see things like Dallas, Dynasty, Soul Train,.nd soap operas while the whites were into movies and sports. Things could get damn nasty if somebody was insistent on watching a program that was different than what the majority wanted to watch or what I had scheduled. Democracy and voting had nothing to do with it. Fights between competing television enthusiasts were a regular part of the daily activities. The TV man scheduled what could be watched, so I’m being threatened and bribed all the time. No matter what I did, there were always guys who were angry and pissed off at me. It was a real pain in the ass, that job.

  “The only time I really gave a shit what was on the tube was when Villanova played Georgetown for the NCAA basketball championship in 1985. I told them all to go to hell, that’s what we were watching. If they didn’t like it, they could get the hell out and pound sand.”

  Though Cheryl’s visits were a nice respite and the money he received from friends kept him well supplied with reefer and other forms of contraband, Junior’s high-profile status in the road camp drew some envy. Not surprisingly, a couple of inmates looked to gain an advantage by ratting him out. An investigation resulted in a shakeup at the facility and Kripplebauer being disciplined and shipped back to the state’s maximum-security penitentiary in Raleigh. It wasn’t the best of times for Junior.

  “When I was transferred to North Carolina’s Central Prison from Reidsville Road Camp,” says Junior, “they treated me like shit. They never missed an opportunity to bust my chops. I was given the worst jobs, the lousiest assignments, and the guards made it clear they were out to get me. Basically, my life wouldn’t be worth shit for as long as I was there. I finally confronted one of the guards and asked, ‘Why the hell is everyone out to fuck me over? What had I ever done to anybody at Central?’

  “He didn’t mince any words. He called me a lousy rat and said I ratted on a guard at Reidsville and cost the guy his job. He said they hated
rats at Reidsville and said they were gonna fuck me over every chance they got.

  “I couldn’t believe it. I told him he better go check my jacket again. I told him I didn’t rat on anybody and that was a motherfuckin’ fact that was known to every cop, FBI agent, and prison guard in North America. I told him I was transferred to this shithouse of a prison because I wouldn’t talk. I had a good thing going at the road camp, a real good thing, but somebody ratted on me and the officer who helped me set it up. The authorities wanted both of us to talk, admit what had gone down, but neither of us would cooperate. The officer quit on his own because he wasn’t gonna talk. They punished me by shipping my ass out to Central Prison.

  “I must have made an impression because he did check things out and things changed big time right after that. From that time on I had it pretty good. They treated me pretty damn well after they realized me and the sergeant were okay and somebody else had informed on us.”

  It was a temporary respite, however. Throughout the 1980s Junior was periodically shopped around from one North Carolina prison to another, transfers without rhyme or reason—sometimes a high-rise, maximum-security institution; at other times a less restrictive road camp. From Central Prison in Raleigh, which he considered “a nightmare,” he was moved to Reidsville Road Camp, then back to Central, and then to institutions in Ashville, Salisbury, and Yanceyville after that. It sure seemed like North Carolina’s version of diesel therapy.

  For Kripplebauer, the Ashville experience was particularly bad, not so much for its harsh conditions as for its location. It was out in the sticks and a horrendous trek for his new wife. “You had to take four planes to get there from anywhere,” he claims. “I didn’t want Cheryl making that exhausting trip from Fort Lauderdale to Ashville. I wanted out of there bad, so I just shut it down. I stopped participating in everything. It caught their attention pretty quick.”

  Playing a risky game of chicken, Junior decided not to report to his work assignment on the laundry detail. The captain sought him out. “Kripplebauer, you haven’t reported for work in three days. What’s the story?”

  “I’m sorry, Cap,” said Kripplebauer, “but I don’t belong here and I’m not gonna do any work here. I wanna be transferred out.”

  “You want what?” said the captain in disbelief.

  Junior explained where he had been, the years he had in, and his willingness to work any job, but not in Ashville, North Carolina.

  The captain got a kick out of the Yankee’s brazen attitude. He could have dealt the recalcitrant prisoner time in solitary or a good old-fashioned thumping, but he decided to check out the inmate’s jacket first. It proved to be a good move for both of them. Kripplebauer’s folder was impressive. The state was still quite interested in the leader of the Hallmark Gang and directed that he be kept under close watch and separated from enemies (Seher and Wigerman) as well as friends (Roche and Logue). The file also explained why he was moved around the state so often: it was at the request of the FBI. Joe Dougherty, a bank robber par excellence and one of the FBI’s most wanted fugitives, was on the loose, and some at the Bureau believed he was planning to break Kripplebauer out of prison. Realizing that the straight-talking burglar might be more trouble than he was worth, the captain shipped him out on the first bus the very next day.

  WHATEVER HARSH OR dilapidated penal institution he called home, Junior always directed each day’s activities to improving his case for parole. He wanted out bad.

  “I spent hours in the law library going over anything that had to do with the parole process,” he says. “Some things like five days a month for participating in an educational program were well known and heavily bought into by the those inmates looking for the quickest way out. But there were a few others that were on the books that hadn’t ever been utilized or had just plain been forgotten about over the years. For example, I discovered that captains of the guard had the power to make good-time recommendations over and above what various programs offered. I asked a few officers about it, and they thought I was trying to get over on them.

  “Even though they didn’t seem to be aware of it, I came up with a plan to grab that extra time off. I was gonna paint the entire Yanceyville prison complex and make myself indispensable to a certain captain I had in mind. I told Captain Rodgers, ‘You supply the paint and I’ll put a crew together. I’ll paint the entire place and you’ll end up looking real good to your boss.’

  “Captain Rodgers, a real old-timer, was skeptical. He thought I was trying to con him. He came out and said, ‘Kripplebauer, you son-of-a-bitch, if you get me fired I’m gonna kill you. I’m tellin’ you, I’ll come up to Philly and get you.’

  “‘Hell,’ I replied, ‘you should know better than to come up to the big city looking for me, Captain. Your family would never see you again. Besides, you let me do this project and you’ll probably get a merit raise. Maybe bumped up to warden.’

  “When we were done painting the joint, I asked him for 30 days for six months. He nearly fell over, but he eventually signed the papers.”

  Another earned-time vehicle for Kripplebauer was participation in educational programs. Although this was a widely accepted form of good time, not every prison in the North Carolina battery of penal institutions offered such programs. This presented a definite problem for inmates set on accruing as much time as possible through their schooling. Kripplebauer had the additional problem of being shopped around—a year or two at Reidsville and Yanceyville road camps and a few years at Central and Salisbury state prisons. Not to be deterred, he decided to start educational programs where none had existed before. He was on a mission, and North Carolina’s lack of programmatic and rehabilitative initiative wasn’t going to stop him.

  “When I was transferred to Yanceyville,” he says, “I was disappointed to learn that the only educational program they offered was a welding course provided by the Piedmont Community College and Technical Institute. There were no liberal arts courses of any kind, and only a few guys at a time could get into the welding program. I was really upset and considered threatening them with a class action suit, but I figured that would take years to go through the courts. Then I thought of another way to jump-start things. I began having a number of conversations with administrators from the college and the road camp. They basically gave me a bullshit story that they couldn’t offer any college courses at the prison because they didn’t have enough interest. There weren’t enough guys with high school diplomas to take college-level courses. I told them they’d have those guys if they offered a GED program at the camp.

  “I guess they thought I’d get off their backs if they threw me a bone, but they never expected me to run with it. They let me start a high school equivalency program, but said they didn’t think it would fly because I’d need 15 students to start a class. I got guys to join up by telling them that they could further their education, get a diploma, and five days a month on top of that. To the administration’s surprise, the program took off, and pretty soon we had the bodies we needed for Piedmont Technical to offer college courses. Unfortunately, the college had problems getting qualified college instructors to come into the camp and teach us anything but psychology courses. I ended up taking so many damn psych courses I was beginning to think I was Sigmund Freud. I didn’t really care, however, ’cause I was really after the good-time credits. Five days per month added up, and I wanted out of North Carolina.”

  Another component of the parole campaign was Kripplebauer’s letter-writing effort. No friend or influential authority went unsolicited. Letters from teachers, counselors, social workers, lawyers, his wife, future employers, and a host of other cronies and contacts flooded the North Carolina parole board. One would have thought the middle-aged second story man was a beloved rock star as opposed to a common thief trying to get out of doing additional time.

  Letters spoke of the parole applicant’s “invaluable service to the educational program,” a wife’s “complete faith and trust” that her hu
sband “would never return to prison life,” and a Philadelphia store manager’s commitment to provide him with a job if he was set free.

  Kripplebauer’s own letter to Walter Johnson, Jr., the chairman of the North Carolina Parole Commission, was a classic. In the highly diplomatic missive, Junior transformed himself not only into a model prisoner but also into a champion of moral rectitude, a proponent of sober reflection, and a shining example of the rehabilitative powers of the North Carolina prison system.

  The two-page single-spaced letter spoke of a “48-year-old individual” taking stock of his life and recognizing that this was his “last shot” in a “country [that has] become hardened toward crime and criminals.” Kripplebauer admitted to being a “complete failure,” a “thief” who “stole other people’s property and got caught numerous times.” Now, he argued, “I have decided that if I quit being a thief and stop stealing, I can live outside in society, free from crime.” Reflecting on his many failures, stating that he was “free of criminal associates over the last seven years,” and recognizing that he “must change” his life, Junior announced, “This is it!” He was finally prepared to go straight, “live under parole rules ....nd not violate any trust the Commission would place in [him].”

  Letter-writing campaigns were a standard part of the parole process for proactive petitioners seeking the earliest possible release date. Letters from prison staff extolling the virtues of felons born again as law-abiding citizens were nothing new; teachers, counselors, and case managers had been writing them for years. Junior added a new wrinkle to the practice, recruiting a hitherto untapped arsenal of supporters: prison guards.

  Turnkeys had always been thought to have too adversarial a relationship with the inmates to comment favorably on a prisoner’s parole petition. Junior, however, was on a mission and unwilling to leave any stone unturned. Screws, too, were drafted to participate in the “free Junior” campaign. The results were impressive. One correctional officer who also claimed to be a “minister” found “Louis to be a good influence upon the other inmates, especially the younger ones that are sometimes more in need of a guiding hand.” To this morally concerned officer, Junior was “kind and courteous ....pent much of his time reading and writing” and was usually “constructively” engaged “both mentally and physically.”