It is both tragic and deeply ironic that new levels of brutality against America’s prisoners have been, at least so far, the most obvious and lasting legacy of the 1971 Attica uprising. Even though the extraordinary violence that took place in 1971 was overwhelmingly perpetrated by members of law enforcement, not the prisoners, American voters ultimately did not respond to this prison uprising by demanding that states rein in police power. Instead they demanded that police be given even more support and even more punitive laws to enforce.
Indeed, the 1960s and 1970s were all about the politics of the ironic. At the Democratic National Convention protests of 1968, Kent State in 1970, and Wounded Knee in 1973, unfettered police power each time turned protests violent, and yet, after each of these events, the nation was sent the message that the people, not the police, were dangerous. Somehow, voters came to believe that democracy was worth curtailing and civil rights and liberties were worth suspending for the sake of “order” and of maintaining the status quo.57
But, while it was ironic how voters chose to respond to the violence of the 1960s and 1970s, their response was by no means inevitable. The meaning of the rebellions of that period, and what had actually taken place in them, was actively distorted by the very politicians and state officials whom these protests had targeted. Just as Kent, Ohio, mayor LeRoy Satrom had distorted what had happened at Kent State University, leading to the bloodshed there in 1970, and just as South Dakota governor Richard Kneip had distorted the events that touched off the violence at Wounded Knee in 1973, many state officials and politicians had also actively distorted what had happened at Attica in its immediate aftermath and then tried, thereafter, to cover up subsequent attempts to tell the truth.58
And, yet, that truth could not be covered up and contained indefinitely. Not only had the prisoners and hostages who had survived the retaking of Attica never given up their fight to hold the state of New York accountable for the abuses and atrocities committed in September 1971, but they also never stopped insisting that the full story be told and they struggled to make sure that Attica had not been in vain. No matter how repressive the nation became in the wake of the 1971 prison uprising, the men confined in Attica, and in other facilities like it across the country, never stopped fighting for their rights, for their dignity.
Attica’s prisoners rose up again a decade later for the same reason as in 1971. On July 21, 1984, almost two hundred men smashed windows and screamed their outrage when a fellow prisoner was shot by a tower guard.59
Much more recently, they have come together in another dramatic fight to be treated like human beings. On August 9, 2011, twenty-nine-year-old prisoner George Williams was attacked by an Attica sergeant and three correction officers in C Block. Williams was severely wounded, left with “a broken collarbone, two broken legs and other injuries,” which required his transport to the Wyoming County Community Hospital in Warsaw.60 In this case, though, Attica’s men didn’t riot or rebel within the prison, instead they went public and insisted that the Wyoming County district attorney investigate their claims. Undoubtedly, history told this DA that Attica’s men weren’t going to let this new case of abuse be ignored. He not only looked into what had happened to Williams, but also then indicted the four correction officers, ultimately charging them with “first-degree gang assault, fourth-degree conspiracy, tampering with physical evidence and official misconduct.”61 The DA said these men had “conspired to assault an inmate in Cell Block C and that following the violent attack, the four prison employees prepared false physical evidence.”62
The DA’s first attempt to indict these men was dismissed on the grounds that the “prosecution had introduced improper evidence in front of the grand jury that heard the case.”63 The DA filed new indictments against three correction officers: Matthew Rademacher, Keith Swack, and Sean Warner; a fourth CO was at the time granted immunity because he had been subpoenaed to testify in front of the grand jury. The three remaining COs faced charges of “first-degree gang assault, a Class B violent felony; tampering with physical evidence, a Class E felony; and official misconduct, a Class A misdemeanor.”64 The outcome of the case against officers Rademacher, Swack, and Warner would not be determined until March of 2015. Its ultimate disposition says a great deal about Attica’s complicated legacy.
When the three correction officers from Attica finally went to trial in 2015 they were not lacking for support. Guard unions from around the country had mobilized on their behalf, from virtually the moment they were suspended, and monies poured in to help them defend themselves in court. As NYSCOBPA explained it, COs from Attica and other prisons had created a “new Legal Defense Fund” whose purpose it was “to fight these charges now and in the future.”65 It would, “through the can drives, t-shirts, wristbands, benefits and donations,” give the indicted officers the money they needed to hire top counsel and to get the public on their side.66 Notably, the Forgotten Victims of Attica also sent support their way. A letter from indicted CO Sean Warner to the FVOA noted how “the Forgotten Victims of Attica have been there from the beginning with donations, a kind word, a phone call, and countless letters and support. These men and women have been through so much the past 40 years and are still there at the sides of the current Prison Staff no matter what the circumstances. It is an honor to have these men and women at our sides.”67
The fact that these men had so much public support of course mattered a great deal to how they would fare in New York’s legal system. Their trial began on March 2, 2015, and it ended abruptly in a light plea deal.68 The judge had allowed each correction officer to plead guilty to a single charge of misdemeanor misconduct and none of them would have to serve any time in prison.69 George Williams wept. No matter how hard he had fought to get justice, it still took his breath away that those who had beat him so mercilessly received little more than a reprimand.70
Yet the fact that these men had ended up in court charged with a crime at all was important. It was “the first time in the history of New York State that any guard has been prosecuted for brutality against someone in prison,” as the Correctional Association of New York correctly noted right after the plea deal.71 Indeed, that these men had been indicted also reflected perhaps Attica’s most powerful legacy—prisoners’ determined resistance of repression.
The Attica uprising of 1971 happened because ordinary men, poor men, disfranchised men, and men of color had simply had enough of being treated as less than human. That desire, and their fight, is by far Attica’s most important legacy. This is the legacy that led George Williams to refuse to be silent, even though speaking up must have been terrifying given the retaliation he knew he could suffer. This is why he refused to give up even when a local judge tried to dismiss the criminal case against his attackers. This is why he was determined to seek justice in federal court when his attackers received only a reprimand in state court.72 This is why the Justice Department, in March 2015, began an official investigation into brutality against prisoners at Attica Correctional Facility.73 Attica’s prisoners had refused to stay silent.
That those who have endured Attica have always insisted on speaking out is something that matters. As this book goes to press vital Attica materials at the New York State Archives remain closed to the public. State officials are still denying Freedom of Information Act requests, though there is no legal rationale to do so. Even the Attica documents that filled shelves in the Erie County courthouse in 2006 have since disappeared. But despite state officials’ continued efforts to put every roadblock imaginable in the way of journalists, historians, and filmmakers, they have not stopped Attica’s history from being written, nor Attica’s survivors from telling their story.
From New York in 1971, when nearly 1,300 prisoners stood up against overcrowding and the myriad other injustices that had become policy, to California in 2013, when 30,000 prisoners launched a hunger strike against the repressive conditions in the correction system, to Texas in 2015, when prisoners shut down a major pen
al facility because of serious abuses, America’s incarcerated people have never stopped struggling against this country’s worst and most punitive practices.74 The Attica prison uprising of 1971 shows the nation that even the most marginalized citizens will never stop fighting to be treated as human beings. It testifies to this irrepressible demand for justice. This is Attica’s legacy.
Acknowledgments
Spending almost a decade writing one book means being indebted to so many people that there simply aren’t enough pages here to convey my gratitude adequately. I will, however, do my best.
The very first person I must thank is my agent, Geri Thoma, who believed in this book before anyone. Geri, you are not only an incredible literary agent, but you are also my friend. You always cheered me when things looked grim, and you have also celebrated every wonderful research find, every writing breakthrough, and every bit of good news, with such a genuine joy. This has meant everything to me.
I must also thank my editor at Pantheon Books, Edward Kastenmeier—as well as the superstar editors who work with him, Emily Giglierano and Stella Tan. I owe the three of you everything.
I also owe so much to the many people around the country who provided me invaluable Attica-related materials when the State of New York would not.
Without the generosity of Attica lawyer-extraordinaire Elizabeth Fink, this book simply could not have been written. Thankfully for the historical record, and for the sake of Attica’s many victims, Liz saved and graciously let me see countless memos, depositions, transcripts, state documents, photographs, videos, and more—a literal treasure trove of Attica’s history from 1971 to 2000. My deepest regret today is that Liz passed away before I could hand her a copy of this book. Liz, I hope I got it right…I hope I did good.
Attica lawyer William Cunningham shared vital documents from the Lynda Jones civil suit against the state. Dee Quinn Miller shared invaluable resources on the hostages’ and hostage families’ fight to be heard. Ann Valone, Flo Hoder, and Richard Meisler also shared personal items that helped me to understand Attica. And then there are those who prefer not to be named—people who were willing to share crucially important materials such as the Attica autopsy reports, personal letters, and more—you know who you are, and thank you for trusting me with those.
I am deeply grateful as well to the following researchers, journalists, and historians: Documentary filmmaker and research dynamo Christine Christopher sent me vital materials and included me in her own research journey as she and David Marshall made their powerful film on the Attica uprising, Criminal Injustice: Death and Politics at Attica. Gary Craig of the Rochester Democrat and Chronicle very generously offered his time and materials to me; not only is Gary’s coverage of the Attica rebellion and its aftermath remarkable, but I am forever indebted to him for working so hard to get his paper’s priceless Attica photos included in this book. Peter Wagner of the criminal justice reform organization the Prison Policy Initiative has offered invaluable research assistance over the years. Craig Williams of the New York State Museum let me see and touch those remarkable Attica artifacts that had been hidden from view for so many decades. And finally, my historian friends have shared amazing Attica finds—especially Simon Balto, Daniel Chard, David Goldberg, Trevor Griffey, Caleb Smith, and John David Smith.
Many students have also been incredibly generous with their prison-related sources and their support over the years. Several students have written theses on Attica, and one wrote a paper on the NYC jail riots, all of which taught me so much. Thank you, Jeremy Levenson, Touissant L’Ouverture, Ethan Sachs, and Morgan Shahan. Over the years I relied heavily on the research help given me as well by Katie Mannon, Sarah Miller, and, most recently, Mary Bridget Lee, who, in short, saved my life. Without Mary Bridget helping me to find photos and format the endnotes, this book might well still be a raggedy draft on my Mac. Thank you so much.
Special thanks goes out to the wonderful archivists at the following libraries and research centers for patiently photocopying, microfilming, and otherwise allowing me time to view Attica-related material that proved essential: the Labadie Collection at the University of Michigan, the American Radicalism Collection at Michigan State University, the Walter Reuther Library of Labor and Urban Affairs, Special Collections at Stony Brook, the Rockefeller Archive Center, the New York State Archives, Special Collections at the Bancroft Library at Berkeley, Special Collections at Stanford University, the New York City Archives, Special Collections at Yale University, the Miller Center at the University of Virginia, Pacifica Radio Archives, the Vanderbilt Television Archives, the Gerald Ford Library, the Charles Blockson Collection at Temple University Library, the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture, Special Collections at the University of Rochester, and Special Collections at the University of Buffalo.
I also want to give special thanks to David Swarts, then county clerk at the Erie County courthouse in Buffalo, New York, and to James Conway, then superintendent at the Attica Correctional Facility, for allowing me to view vital uprising-related documents back in 2006.
No matter how many documents and artifacts I finally got to see, I only really understood Attica after listening to the people who had experienced the uprising and its aftermath firsthand. I thank them for so willingly sharing their stories and memories with me—often at great emotional cost to themselves. Thank you so very, very much to: Don Almeter, Herman Badillo, Traycee Barkley, Linda Borus, Charles Bradley, Dan Callahan, Keith Clark, Kevin Clark, James Conway, Mark Cunningham, Jomo Davis, Michael Deutsch, John Dunne, John Elfvin, Arthur Eve, Elizabeth Fink, Elizabeth Gaynes, Bill Goodman, Frank Hall, Rick Harcrow, Jazz Hayden, William Hellerstein, Edward Hershey, Susannah Heschel, John “Dacajewiah” Hill, Flo Hoder, Gary Horton, Clarence Jones, Sarah Kunstler, Larry Lyons, Sue Lyons, Richard Meisler, Josh Melville, Danny Meyer, Deanne Quinn Miller, George Nievez, Margaret Patterson, Carlos Roche, Herman Schwartz, Michael Smith, Sharon Smith, Lewis Steel, John Stockholm, Mary Stockholm, Tony Strollo, Michael Telesca, Ann Valone, Jamie Valone, Mary Ann Valone, Tom Wicker, and Ellen Yacknin.
Malcolm Bell and Joe Heath deserve special thanks. Although Malcolm made clear to me that he could not let me see his original whistleblowing documents, he nevertheless supported me when I stumbled upon them on my own and felt obligated to reveal their explosive contents. Joe offered me tremendous support as well as a keen fact-checking eye. Together these two gave me the strength to make this book brave.
In order to write about Attica I also needed to learn a great deal about American prisons, and about the history of American criminal justice politics and policing, and, to that end, I owe a great many scholars a particular debt. I am grateful for the wisdom of Amanda Alexander, Michelle Alexander, Dan Berger, Doug Blackmon, Ethan Blue Daniel Chard, Robert Chase, Miroslava Chavez Garcia, Dennis Childs, Ta-Nehisi Coates, Mary Ellen Curtin, Khalilah Brown Dean, Alex Elkins, Max Felker-Kantor, Benjamin Fleury-Steiner, Ruth Wilson Gilmore, Marie Gottschalk, Kali Gross, Sarah Haley, Cheryl Hicks, Marc Lamont Hill, Pippa Holloway, Amanda Hughett, James Kilgore, Nora Krinitsky, Regina Kunzel, Talitha Laflouria, Matthew Lassiter, Alex Lichtenstein, Toussaint Losier, Glenn Loury, Ashley Lucas, Lisa Miller, Reuben Miller, Alan Mills, Nancy Mullane, Dwayne Nash, Jessica Neptune, Michael Lee Owens, Josh Page, Devah Pager, Anne Parsons, Robert Perkinson, Imani Perry, Sherie Randolph, Natalie Ring, Margo Schlanger, Carla Shedd, Jonathan Simon, Jason Stanley, David Stein, Rubia Tapia, Jeremy Travis, Nicole Gonzalez Van Cleve, Vesla Weaver, Bruce Western, Yohuru Williams, Timothy Stewart Winter, and Keeanga Yamatta-Taylor.
To my friends working on other vital periods and topics who have shouted out my work and have given me so much wonderful support throughout this book writing process, thank you: Evan Bennett, Martha Biondi, Charlie Bright, Niambi Carter, Catherine Clinton, Stephanie Cole, Catherine Conner, Nathan Connolly, Jane Dailey, Marcus Daniel, Stan Deaton, Angela Dillard, Donna Gabaccia, Sarah Gardner, Gary Gerstle, Tiffany Gill, James Green, Julie Green, Cindy Haha
movitch, Grace Hale, Jacqueline Dowd Hall, LaShawn Harris, Lindsay Helfman, Darlene Clark Hine, Patrick Jones, Steve Katrowitz, Robin D. G. Kelley, Robert Korstad, Max Krochmal, Kevin Kruse, Michael Landis, Steven Lawson, Nelson Lichtenstein, Sherrie Linkon, Lisa Lindsay, Nancy Maclean, Austin McCoy, Roberta Meek, Kevin Mumford, Alondra Nelson, Scott Nelson, Liesl Orenic, Chad Pearson, Wendell Pritchett, Barbara Ransby, Jacob Remes, Leah Wright Rigueur, Stacey Robertson, Dan Royles, John Russo, Robert Self, Robert Smith, Tom Sugrue, Peter Thompson, Tim Tyson, Dara Walker, Stephen Ward, Deborah Gray White, and Rakefet Zalashik. Thank you also to Dan Katz and Patricia Jerido for offering me such a warm and welcoming place to stay during those many research trips to New York.
To some scholar-friends I want to say a special thanks.
To my dearest sister-friends Karen Cox, Shannon Frystak, Alecia Long, and Danielle McGuire, thank you for the love, support, and always-needed girls’ weekends. To Lisa Levenstein, thank you for being my fiercest ally and steady confidante over this long haul. And to my friend and coeditor Rhonda Y. Williams, as well as to our amazing UNC editor Brandon Proia, thanks for keeping the Justice, Power, and Politics series alive and thriving while I was in the last throes of getting this book to press.
To Khalil Gibran Muhammad: I am not sure that I have spent more time on the circuit talking prisons and policy with anyone than with you and for that I am grateful. You continue to inspire me and I am so very thankful we are friends. And to Kelly Lytle Hernandez: you in particular have pushed me to think about this nation’s carceral past in new ways and for that, and our friendship, I am deeply grateful.
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