This is one airline on which the ”fasten seat belt” light never goes out.
Nicknamed ”Con Air,” it is part of the National Prisoner Transportation System, operated by the United States Marshals Service and the only government-run, regularly scheduled passenger air service in the nation.
At the beginning of a recent flight, shotgun-wielding federal Bureau of Prisons guards stop traffic to let a nondescript government-gray Bluebird school bus pull out of its underground garage at Chicago`s Metropolitan House of Corrections onto a busy Loop street. The all-male occupants hoot at passersby from behind padlocked steel mesh grilles, while a second van carrying female prisoners eases in behind.
Deputy Marshal Rudy Gabele, who runs the federal daytime lockup downtown, is responsible for ensuring that all of her ”children” make their planes safely and on time. BOP personnel escort the small convoy to a local airfield and assist in providing perimeter security for the grounded aircraft, but deputy marshals drive the buses, and Gabele, bringing up the rear in an unmarked late-model sedan, is clearly in charge.
On the ride to the airfield, she ticks off a list of some of the area`s most infamous names-criminals who have sampled the marshals` hospitality on their way to federal prison facilities. The roster includes El Rukn leader Jeff Fort, suburban mob boss Albert Tocco, well-publicized murderess Debra Hartmann, teenage drug millionaire John Cappas, the FALN terrorists and a pocketful of Greylord judges and attorneys. On this particular day, Rudy will be returning to town with convicted wife-killer Alan Masters in tow-Con Air is bringing him home for a resentencing hearing.
”We`ve transported them all-mobsters, drug traffickers, bank robbers, cops . . . .”
And irrespective of whatever celebrity status some of her cargo may have attained in the media, Gabele says they get no more special handling than the unknown marijuana sellers and tax cheats with whom they must travel. ”You could get six months or 60 years and be treated just the same.”
Still, a few do have special needs: ”Some guys are so big we have to put leg irons on their wrists because they won`t fit in regular handcuffs.”
Affable and self-assured, Gabele has been a deputy marshal for nine years and for the last two of those years has been in charge of hauling dangerous felons back and forth. The number of people she has to deal with can change dramatically from day to day. ”Some days you may move eight, and other days 48.” An average weekly load for Chicago is about 15 to 20.
With a ready laugh, she explains her unintimidated and friendly manner toward even the most villainous of her charges: ”Just because they are a bunch of crooks doesn`t mean I can`t be pleasant to them. I`m on this side of the fence; they are on that side of the fence. They know that.”
Her voice turns to steel only when forced to order-over the loudspeaker and within easy hearing of the busy late-morning traffic-a wayward escort vehicle back into line. The route to the airfield is altered each trip. Con Air has been proudly serving Chicagoland since 1985, and the local marshals have yet to suffer an ambush, or even a breakdown.
At the airfield, a Boeing 727-100 touches down a few minutes before schedule. Deputy marshals and BOP guards encircle the plane, weapons ready, as the incoming prisoners disembark to be lined up on the tarmac. Most, according to Gabele, have arrived on warrant removals and writs.
At this point, the dark-blue-clad marshals running the plane take over the loading of outbound prisoners. The majority, on their way to serve sentences or undergo medical study and observation, are dressed in the uniform of the federal prison system: khaki shirt and pants, white socks and black shoes. A few wear jeans, and one, fresh from a court appearance, is in a three-piece suit.
As the departing prisoners are marched up the airplane`s back steps one at a time, the members of Con Air`s in-flight staff insist on a level of personal service that the other carriers serving the Chicago area can only dream about.
A thorough search, the third or fourth of the day, is conducted before embarkation. Hair, mouths and shoes are carefully checked. The prisoners can keep unset wedding rings and prescription glasses but are not allowed wallets, watches, jewelry, pens, paper, gum, cigarettes or other personal belongings. They carry no luggage, except perhaps a suit of good clothes if they are on their way to court.
Occasional contraband is uncovered, drugs and razor blades being the most common, although one deputy marshal can tell of an inch-long jeweler`s saw that turned up under an obscure (and, these days, relatively rare) part of the male anatomy during a strip search.
According to Deputy Marshal Fred Washington, who is supervising this flight, ”The inmates are supposedly clean and shaken down before transport, but you can sometimes still find candy wrappers, cigarettes, etc.”
Such items might seem harmless to all but the most paranoid, but the guards onboard will readily testify to the ingenuity of the people in their custody. ”Some of these guys,” guard Dan Bernier jokes, ”could build a `52 Buick out of a piece of aluminum foil.”
Prisoners are handcuffed during transport. The handcuffs are locked to a chain around their waists. Leg irons are then added, rendering the wearer unable to run or climb stairs more than one at a time and locking him or her into the eerie, shuffling walk of the shackled.
Troublesome prisoners and those known to be particularly dangerous or able to slip handcuffs are also given the ”black box” tratment: A rectangular piece of plastic is made to fit over handcuffs in such a way as to further restrict movement of the hands. A photographer is warned against getting too close to an individual decked out in such a manner. ”That guy,” says one of the deputy marshals, ”is an animal.”
Jokingly called ”Federal Express,” the Con Air fleet of 17 planes, several of which have been forfeited to the government by convicted drug traffickers, includes two surplus Boeing 727s acquired from the FAA at no charge.
Though created as a cost-efficient, secure alternative to the use of commercial airlines for the movement of federal prisoners, Con Air will also transport state and county convicts on a space-available basis, and at rates attractive to cash-strapped local governments. The Marshals Service estimates that it flies prisoners at about one-fourth the cost of the commercial alternatives. Military prisoners also fly the system.
Serving more than 40 cities in the continental U.S., Con Air flies out of Chicago for points west about once a week, always, for security reasons, on an irregular schedule.
It operates out of a ”hub” in Oklahoma City, convenient to a BOP holdover facility where prisoners in transit will often end up spending the night. Con Air does not fly after sundown to increase security.
Fred Washington calls Con Air ”a big institution in the sky. We moved more than 100,000 bodies last year,” he says. He notes that there have been a few escape attempts, but so far no flight has ever failed to arrive with a full manifest.
Several years back, two prisoners bound for the federal maximum security detention center in Marion, Ill., slipped their restraints during a stopover. They both had a history of escape attempts and were considered ”extremely dangerous.”
They didn`t get far. In what must be one of history`s briefest escapes, the pair managed only to open an emergency exit door and climb onto the wing before being recaptured.
”You have to understand,” Washington says. ”We are United States Marshals. We don`t lose inmates.”
Still sitting in the van that has brought her here to the airfield, a female prisoner is acting extremely upset. She is crying and refuses to get out of the van. Gabele and the other deputy marshals try to calm her. BOP nurse Gregory Lamb, along to take care of medical emergencies and check for infectious diseases among the prisoners, offers ”something to calm her down.”
She refuses the proffered needle but is eventually coaxed aboard the plane, protesting aloud that she is there only because of her immigration status (as an undocumented alien). She has been charged, as it was later revealed, with ”involuntary servitude/slavery.” She was allegedly assisting a male accomplice in the procurement and captivity of other undocumented aliens.
Reluctance to board is not infrequent, either because the prisoners are afraid to fly or because they just plain don`t want to move. ”Sometimes when we are waiting for the plane,” Gabele says, ”they`ll say, ”I`ve never flown before and I`m scared.” The minute that the plane takes off, they look like they are going to lose it all.” (They often do; the footing inside can get treacherous and the smell overpowering.)
Some prisoners are so unwilling to be moved, says another deputy marshal, they will even perform grisly acts of self-mutilation. Swallowing razor blades is one popular dodge.
The interior of the aircraft resembles that of a commercial jet, with the partitions taken out to afford the marshals an unobstructed view of the entire passenger area. The 727 is fitted to take as many as 115 passengers; today`s load is 84.
The pre-takeoff announcement is brief and to the point. Prisoners are told ”wearing the seat belts is not an option” and ”don`t bother asking the deputies for flight information because they won`t tell you.”
They must ask permission to go to the bathroom and are closely watched by the deputies all the way-to the point of keeping the lavatory door open.
There are no chains hanging from the bulkheads; the prisoners travel in the same restraints they wear on the ground. The seating arrangement is standard economy class. There are no books or magazines, and the cabin is quieter than one might think. Some prisoners are talking to one another, but a few appear to be sleeping. A reporter draws stares-some hostile, some just idly curious.
The passengers` dress (khaki) and gender (male) are near uniform. There are teen-agers, and there are old men, long-hairs and skinheads. Many are unbathed and unshaven. All races are represented, but most of them are white. Blue-uniformed deputies and guards walk the aisles, occasionally leaning down to answer a question or check a restraint. They manage to maintain an atmosphere of rigid control with only implied threats. That`s all that`s needed, says one guard. ”We don`t haul them up here, strap them down and beat on them; it`s not worth our effort.”
Some of the prisoners are hardest of the hard cases of the federal prison system, but they rarely say ”boo” to the men and women ferrying them to their next enclosure.
Washington believes that one reason for the prisoners` relative calm is that most just don`t need the aggravation of getting involved in any problem during the trip. ”You might have inmates get into it with other inmates. From time to time, we`ve had people whose behavior is not acceptable, but mostly they just want to do their own time. They don`t want any trouble.”
A box lunch is served. Washington is unapologetic about this airline`s bill-of-fare. ”We feed `em once and give `em a cold drink. Normally, that doesn`t keep them happy, but we try.”
Female prisoners ride in front, separated from their male counterparts, but, as on the ground, there are no other distinctions. Nationally, Con Air has recently played host to such criminal luminaries as gangsters Nicki Scarfo, the head of the Philadelphia mob, and Antonio ”Fat Tony” Salerno, a member of the Genovese crime family in New York (who did receive extremely solicitous treatment from his fellow passengers, according to one guard);
Lynette ”Squeaky” Fromme; and the John Walker family espionage ring.
Celebrated folk such as tax-evading political cult leader Lyndon LaRouche and defrocked televangelist Jim Bakker usually are flown alone, in a small plane, for their own safety. Others, including convicted Colombian cocaine trafficker Carlos Leder, get to go solo because they are considered an extra security risk.
The deputies and guards on board seem jovial enough; their passengers are so thoroughly under wraps that visible weapons aren`t necessary. They are authorized to use firearms-all of which are kept tightly locked up-only as a last resort. As yet, none has ever been fired during a flight.
Deputies acknowledge, however, that having guns aboard jet planes, even if for emergencies, is problematic. ”The first time (someone fires a gun), he will get sucked out of the plane like a piece of spaghetti,” one deputy says. Other options, such as tear gas and clubs, are also impractical, says Chief Deputy Wayne Waldron. ”You can`t use tear gas on an aircraft. We thought about clubs, but we don`t have the room to maneuver; they would just be in our way.”
Instead, an electronic ”stun gun” is the primary ”weapon” of Con Air`s staff. Designed for use in especially close quarters, the ”XR 5000”
can deliver 50,000 volts of electricity in a pulsating shock and, according to Waldron, ”has never failed” to control the individual needing to be subdued. More important than high-tech weapons in maintaining order is teamwork. The dozen or so deputies and guards are greatly outnumbered by their captives, and Dan Bernier says they must rely on each other in a ”spirit of unspoken, natural cooperation . . . . Exactly how is hard to describe. There are certain looks . . . you know what (the other guy) is thinking and what has to be done. ”Your peripheral vision gets a lot better. We see much more than the prisoners think we do. I check every handcuff each trip up the aisle.”
For Deputy Marshal Tony Anderson, ”The potential risk is always there. You can get hurt or disabled, or get somebody else hurt or disabled. The only way a young deputy gets to be an old deputy is to keep alert.”
Anderson stresses air safety to the rest of the crew. ”I don`t want something to happen and end up being the only one on board with 100 thugs,”
he says. ”We carry people who aren`t like you or me. We have certain social norms, (but) they would just as soon ask you for a cigarette and then put it out on your forehead.”
The United States Marshals Service is the nation`s oldest (and, coincidentally, the smallest) federal law enforcement agency. Numbering just 3,000 full-time deputies, it covers 95 districts in the U.S. and its territories, each headed by a presidential appointee. Moving federal prisoners about is just one of the Service`s many and varied duties.
Among other tasks, U.S. marshals seize the assets of accused criminals, track down federal fugitives, execute extradition orders here and abroad, provide court security and administer the witness-protection program. The marshals are involved in some way in virtually every federal law-enforcement operation-from bringing Manuel Noriega out of Panama to seizing mislabeled condoms for the Food & Drug Administration to keeping open a Kansas family-planning clinic beset by anti-abortion activists.
The U.S. Marshals` District of Northern Illinois, which comprises Chicago and its suburbs was formed on Feb. 13, 1855, and has operated continuously ever since. Over the years, the marshals of this district have helped seize Confederate property, break the Pullman Strike and arrest Al Capone. One of their more colorful recent accomplishments is ”Operation Home Run,” which netted a number of federal fugitives enticed into custody with the offer of free tickets to the first game in new Comiskey Park.
In an early summer raid on the goods and chattels of one Mario Claiborne, an accused crack dealer, a small army of deputies seized, among other possessions, his plush suburban home, cars, a dilapidated South Side tenement and two safety deposit boxes in a Northwest Side bank. The boxes, drilled open while the luckless suspect was still under arrest by DEA agents, were stuffed to the brim with more than $150,000 in cash. A relatively small haul, says Deputy Marshal Ed Borowiak, but ”you never know what you`ll find.”
The marshals will hold the properties until Claiborne`s trial and, should he be convicted, auction them off to the highest bidders. Proceeds are divided among federal and local law enforcement groups, with a good portion going to the BOP. Nationally, the USMS is sitting on more than $1.4 billion worth of confiscated cash and other goodies; the local office has about $35 million of it.
A remote corner of a commercial airport in South Dakota is the fifth and final stop before today`s flight heads back to Oklahoma for the night. Local sheriff`s deputies with automatic weapons stand watch as a few prisoners are processed. One, wearing a leather jacket and boots on a baking July afternoon, sneers quietly during the search.
The flights can be grueling on guards and prisoners alike. Today`s run began shortly after dawn and made scheduled stops in five states-Indiana, Michigan, Illinois, Minnesota and South Dakota. It can take several days to move a person across the country. The days can get long, particularly during the summer, and the deputies boast of overtime hours that would put even the most harried civil servant to shame.
Dan Bernier has worked 21 days in a row. Washington relates the 14-hour shifts commonly put in by his staff with no complaints. ”I suppose we don`t really do it for the pay,” he says. ”We enjoy doing it. We don`t get a lot of accolades; it is part of our job.”
Con Air touches down for the last time this day in Oklahoma a few hours before sundown. Everyone disembarks. One prisoner hobbles down the steps on crutches, two others sport arm splints. Lined up in front of a hangar, they squint in the late afternoon sun. Buses with tinted windows, resembling the charters one might see lined up outside a big sporting event, pick up the prisoners after the inevitable search. The BOP guards lay out set after set of manacles on the runway to be exchanged with those being worn by the new arrivals.
Tony Anderson has to get up at 5 a.m. the next morning to chaperone another planeload of criminals headed for Arizona, Nevada, California and the Pacific Northwest. At 38 and a deputy marshal for six years, he has been working Con Air for just 18 months. He came to it following a fugitive-hunting stint in San Francisco, where he ”gave more than 200 people long-term leases on sparsely furnished rooms at government expense.”
He talks only half in jest of the stress his hundreds of extra hours can bring. ”When I took this job, I didn`t have one white hair on my head.”
