Island of the Damned

by Alix Kirsta

  More sickening was the paraphernalia of drug use, revealing how much pain, infection and self-mutilation these men were prepared to inflict on themselves in their desperation for a fix. Apart from numbers of blackened spoons used to cook the drugs, the addicts had collected glass droppers to dribble substances directly into their eyes; hypodermic syringes were repeatedly re-used without sterilisation for intravenous injections; extra sharp needles served to scratch the skin before drugs were rubbed into bleeding tissue. Worst of all, men who had no syringes resorted to needles and gouges, even broken bottles, with which they gashed themselves before letting the drugs directly into their veins. The majority of addicts displayed classic symptoms of drug abuse including feverishness, weeping and infected sores, glazed eyes and nervous facial tics, shaking limbs, uncontrollable spasms of coughing and breathlessness. Later, when Dr Louis Berg, a doctor from Manhattan employed by the prison service, examined the addicts, he found most of their bodies were deeply scarred from top to toe: many of the men’s wounds were new and raw, indicating the scale of drug abuse in the prison. The priority now was to provide prompt medical care for these extreme casualties ; without delay, they were marshalled downstairs and into several ambulances which transferred them to the island’s Correction Hospital outside the prison grounds. One question that seriously disturbed Commissioner MacCormick at that point was why these gravely sick men were, until now, confined to their cells instead of being treated in the hospital wards. Why were these men not receiving medical care?

  Entering the mess hall for lunch, MacCormick and his squad were shaken by an even more bizarre scene. A large crowd of prisoners had arrived ahead of them in the hall, their appearance and behaviour so outlandish they resembled the cast of a burlesque drag show. The investigators watched incredulously as fifty or so men, nonchalantly swinging their hips and wiggling their buttocks, sashayed around the hall in a grotesque parody of a Broadway chorus line. Wrists bent, fingers fluttering, they minced to and fro between the canteen service counter and their tables, their cheeks garishly rouged, eyebrows pencilled, pouting lips painted crimson. Giggling and shrieking, they swapped lewd jokes. Many were drenched in cheap perfume and wore their hair long, in some cases to the shoulder. They were the prison’s “sexual perverts” - a common term for homosexuals at that time - who, according to prison regulations, should have been segregated but in fact had the run of the premises.

  After lunch, MacCormick sent for Dr Berg and asked him to help with a search of the south annexe, otherwise dubbed the “perverts’ quarters.” As Dr Berg appeared in the annexe with several detectives, he was greeted by cackles and mock endearments uttered in swooping falsetto tones. Lolling against the bars of their cells in the manner of rent boys showing off their bodies at some red light “meat-rack”, they screeched invitations to “come up and see me sometime” and on entering the cells, the officers were almost assaulted by the inmates. Inside, they discovered almost every conceivable article of drag, from dozens of compacts, powder puffs and coloured cosmetics to various makes of perfume. The cells were strewn with silk slips and briefs, stockings and garters, lacy nightgowns and other items of negligee, fur-trimmed satin slippers and stiletto heeled shoes. One man owned a blonde wig in the style of Carole Lombard; another clung hysterically to a set of false eyelashes. Despite their shrieks and tears, the articles were confiscated.

  Next on MacCormick’s agenda was what the wardens wryly termed “Politician’s Row”. Technically, this consisted of two separate prison hospital dormitories intended for the care and recuperation of sick prisoners. MacCormick was about to discover why sick prisoners, including the drug addicts, had been denied a bed in those wards. The first dormitory, on the second floor, had been appropriated by an Irish gangster, Edward “the Wolf” Cleary, previously an inmate of Sing Sing, who had been sent to Welfare Island on charges of assault and burglary. A large, swaggering drunk whom prison wardens explained was in charge of the distribution of alcohol in the prison, Cleary insolently drew on a cigarette as MacCormick’s team walked into the dormitory. Cleary’s chief “lieutenant” Peter Kenney, another gangster previously incarcerated in Sing Sing and recently imprisoned in Welfare Island for extortion, lacked his boss’s assurance. A blond, slightly built effeminate middle aged thug, Kenney was clearly rattled by the investigators’ presence: in short order, Cleary and Kenney were taken out of the dormitory and locked in separate cells. As the squad began searching the dormitory, the extent of Cleary’s privileges and his status as “top brass” in the prison began to emerge.

  In one corner of the 12-bed room, a pigeon cote built of wire and wood was fastened above the top of the bathroom door. About a hundred birds congregated inside and outside the coop. Cowering under Cleary’s bed was a German Shepherd puppy, whose name was “Screw Hater” according to one of the keepers - screw being slang for prison warden. The animal was tethered to the bed, and hid underneath clearly terrified; it only emerged when given a pat and something to eat. Behind the bed, Cleary had stuck a dagger, fashioned from a kitchen knife, into the window frame. On a rafter, a large can of home brew was in an advanced stage of fermentation. In a nearby locker, Cleary had stored half gallon cans of sliced peaches, tomatoes and spinach: a keeper explained to investigators that these were stolen from the storage house. Cleary had also collected knives and forks, cleavers, a radio, boxes of cigars, a large “deck” of heroin and other utensils. In a special kitchen off the dormitory detectives broke open the door to a large cupboard to discover crates of fresh cranberries, gallons of milk, fresh meat, pickled herrings, bags of potatoes and other vegetables not on the usual prison menu.

  As Cleary’s lair was raided, David Marcus, MacCormick’s deputy, took charge of the other wing of “Politicians’ Row”, another hospital dormitory on the second floor of the administration building. This was the domain of the acknowledged “monarch” of Welfare Island, the notorious gangster Joseph “Joie” Rao, leader of the ruling Italian gang and identified by prison staff as controller of the prison narcotics ring. Rao, Marcus learned, was by far the most powerful presence on the whole island. He was tall, dark, stickily built, with heavy eyebrows and a gloomy expression which made him look older than his thirty-one years. Another striking aspect was that he was impeccably well groomed. When Marcus arrived in the second dormitory, on the top floor of the administration block, he immediately recognised Rao, who was shaving in a leisurely manner in the bathroom, wearing a silk dressing gown over his pyjamas. Realising what was happening, Rao turned coolly to Marcus saying: “You’re taking us out in two sections. So I’ll go in the second group.”

  Astounded at Rao’s insolence, Marcus barked : “No you don’t Joe, you’re going now.” Calmly, Rao took off his dressing gown, put on a jacket and walked out, followed by his chief lieutenant, gangster Frank Mazzio, known to all as “Bosco”.

  It was only as Marcus and his team began searching Rao’s quarters that the full picture of Rao’s pre-eminence as monarch of the jail became clear. Rao was obviously more of a peacock and wealthier than Cleary, his Irish rival. Across his bed lay a maroon lounging robe of fine wool, and a radio had been fixed to the top of the bedstead, with earphones running out to the beds of the gangster’s favoured henchmen, including Frank Mazzio, who shared the dormitory. As in Cleary’s quarters, Rao’s bed was tidily made up with fresh cotton sheets and good quality pillows: his colleagues’ beds were similarly orderly. Two pairs of newly shined shoes, fitted with shoe trees, stood neatly at the foot of the bed. Rao, who was addressed by rank and file prisoners as “ward captain” also had a well-stocked cupboard, where he kept six boxes of expensive cigars, six dozen bars of soap, several packets of condoms, half a dozen tubes of toothpaste, and a box of fine chocolates. Among his food stores were tins of lobster, chicken and shrimps, jars of shelled walnuts, soups, olive oil, jams and sauces. One corner of his annexe resembled a theatrical dressing room: stored in an elegant armoire was a collection of coat hangers, a box of monogramm
ed stationary bearing the initials JR, a black silk shirt, silk underwear, dozens of boxes of powder, different makes of face cream, fancy handkerchiefs, two pairs of finest leather gloves and lilac toilet water. Hanging neatly on a rail were several mohair and silk suits and a cashmere coat. A crucifix lay on a locker; rosary beads dangled from the wall.

  Only now, when Cleary’s and Rao’s quarters had been searched, did the hideous extent of the scandal begin fully to dawn on MacCormick and his men. They realised that Joe Rao and to a lesser extent Edward Cleary, with their respective gangs, ruled the prison, which had become their fiefdom. Rao, and his deputy Mazzio, ran the drugs racket and both had free access to all parts of the island. Their deputies and captains were scattered throughout all areas of the prison, though always answerable to Rao and Mazzio. “Wolf” Cleary, in charge of the distribution of alcohol, wielded slightly less authority, delegating many responsibilities to his own deputies and henchmen. The number of Rao’s and Cleary’s many foot soldiers, lieutenants and enforcers totalled sixty eight, out of a current prison population of 1700 inmates. As Marcus and MacCormick slowly learned, Rao’s and Cleary’s teams kept the organisation running like clockwork and saw to the distribution of favours and privileges to those members of the gang who remained in good standing . Later that afternoon, when talking to the gathered journalists and photographers who had accompanied the raiding party, MacCormick admitted: “This vicious circle of crime and depravity transcends imagination.”

  He went on to inform the press of about his team’s most shocking discoveries. A large amount of morphine was found to be missing from the store room of the prison’s medical department: the store was ample enough to provide the addicts with over 3,000 injections. It emerged that a Welfare Island employee had stolen the drug and distributed it through Rao’s gang, whose members supplied almost all the narcotics to the prisoners, feeding the habit of hardened junkies and turning previously “clean” prisoners into addicts. According to the commissioner, the rest of the drugs were smuggled into the jail by various means: for example visitors would hide drugs inside intimate body parts, or bring in paper impregnated with substances. An alternative way of delivering drugs to the inmates was for visiting wives and girlfriends to kiss the men, exchanging pellets of drugs from mouth to mouth. It was also possible that the carrier pigeons owned by Cleary and Rao, who owned two pigeon coops, were used to bring in packets of drugs from outside. Another staggering revelation was that although the prison library once contained a collection of over 1000 books, all the volumes had been burned as fuel by the prisoners in order to cook food in their cells.

  At the press briefing, it became evident why the prison warden Joseph McCann and his deputy Daniel Sheehan had been suspended from their duties: all the crimes had been committed with these men’s full knowledge, as was obvious when they were interrogated by MacCormick and his team throughout the day. Both men now faced not only an investigation by the Department of Correction, but probable criminal charges. As MacCormick told reporters, Rao and Cleary were only able to control all drug traffic and flout every prison rule because the wardens allowed them total freedom to do so. And, as far as the gangsters on “politician’s row” were concerned, life in prison was little different from living at home. Sometimes it was better.

  “These men were waited upon by other prisoners. They had a private mess and never took their meals in the mess hall. Their food was specially prepared, cooked and served to them by inmates acting as servants,” explained MacCormick, describing the cruel divisions that existed between the haves - known to many as the “Board of Directors” - and the wretched have-nots. Rao had arranged for a garden to be built for him at the back of the prison, where his favourite flowers were planted. Park benches were brought in and a fence erected so that he and his cronies could enjoy the surroundings, while his pet goat, kept for its milk, roamed around. In two coops, built above one of the storage sheds, he kept two hundred carrier pigeons.

  From all quarters of the prison, the raiding party was regaled with stories from prisoners and keepers alike about the power wielded by Rao and his gang. You could always tell a member of this elite group by their well-groomed appearance: they had valets to attend to their every need and fancy from the pressing of shirts to the provision of luxuries. Even prison staff had to dance attendance on the overlords. David Marcus was told of an occasion when an exceptionally busy senior warden was forced to interrupt his duties to find half a dozen lemons for Rao who was thirsty and demanded a fresh supply of lemonade. Of the 1700 prisoners, the sixty eight bosses and their minions ate in their quarters and enjoyed the very finest foods. The rank and file ate off tin plates; Rao and his henchmen were served meals on china. They feasted on steaks, chops, pies, fresh vegetables, cakes, fine wines and brandy, and other delicacies while the lower ranks only got slops, unappetising watery grease-slicked stew with no trace of meat.

  “That gives you one of the reasons for the poor food,” remarked MacCormick. “But now we’ll change all that. There’s going to be a standard menu for everyone.”

  Limited order had been restored by the end of that afternoon. But the prison was cut off from the rest of the world. Once the raiding party realised the extent to which prison discipline had broken down, access to the island was forbidden until further notice. All visitors were banned, and New York’s deputy police commissioner Lewis Valentine brought fifty officers from different precincts onto the island to help maintain order and assist in the transfer of prisoners to the correction hospital normally reserved for seriously ill inmates. They were joined by half a dozen patrolmen, an inspector and a captain to prevent anyone from taking the lift or stairs to Welfare Island and to provide backup for any emergencies. Rao and Cleary and their gangs were placed in isolation; homosexual prisoners were transferred to another secure hospital, and seventeen inmates suffering from venereal disease were sent to the prison hospital elsewhere on the island. Another thirteen prisoners, diagnosed as mentally ill, were driven to an asylum in New York.

  Slowly, some order and discipline was being introduced to the jail. The rest of the inmates, especially those without any of the gang members’ privileges, appeared to react favourably to these changes, and even appreciated the new sense of order. Many realised that the raid might lead to improvements in their own wretched conditions. The majority of rank and file prisoners hoped that clean cells, prompt medical care, fresh clothing, better food were the sorts of changes from which they might soon benefit. MacCormick and Marcus spent the whole of that Wednesday night on the island after their initial inspection, prepared to deal with any rioting or rebellion by the mass of prisoners. To their surprise, trouble never came.

  *

  The following morning, the scandal was splashed over all the front pages. Banner headlines, page after page of photographs and graphic accounts of the gangsters’ rule over the prison made this the principal news on January 25th. Sensational disclosures continued for days and weeks afterwards, first in the New York press, and eventually throughout the USA. This was precisely the blaze of publicity MacCormick hoped for; his intention being to galvanise every authority figure into action, including New York’s police chief, Mayor La Guardia, New York State Governor Herbert Lehman, and even President Franklin D. Roosevelt. If any reason were needed to launch a sustained, all-out crackdown on organised crime, the Welfare Island disclosures surely provided it. A day after the raid, investigators made another important discovery: a young prisoner whose mathematical and accounting skills led him to be dubbed the “Brain” was apparently the financial wizard behind the prison rackets. Thirty year-old Michael Shea, a bookkeeper, had been imprisoned in 1931 for embezzling over $21,000 from Woolworth’s department stores while working at the company’s head office. Shea’s bookkeeping skills secured him a clerical job in the general offices of the prison, where Rao and Cleary regularly consulted him on finances arising from their gambling and drug deals, food sales and other rackets. Soon “Mastermind”
Shea was splitting the profits from those activities, while also helping the gangsters by ensuring the “right men” got the jobs vacated by released prisoners.

  Lacking in all reports however was any suggestion as to how Joe Rao had become the supremo of Welfare Island, let alone what enabled him to retain the role for so long. What puzzled many outsiders was how Rao could ever have wielded such power and influence. How did he pull it off? Even the presence of corrupt prison wardens open to bribery was an insufficient explanation for crimes of this extremity. On the contrary: in order for an army of staff to sanction a scandal on such a scale, they themselves must have received orders from very high above.

  New York’s seasoned crime reporters could only guess at the real story behind the events they had witnessed. Only very senior police detectives, as well as Commissioner MacCormick, and his deputy David Marcus realised there was a darker meaning to Rao’s rule over the prison: more crucially, they knew they needed to dig deeper into the scandal to identify, and bring to justice, the people with real power who had set Rao up and continued to protect him and his cronies in this poisonous set up.