Speaker 1: M M A Wall Street line, shackle change, Oh do
someome gird it's calling my name. There is no mercy
and it's been a tentery juice as the huge stream
game Rainbow three.
Speaker 2: Come here by me or die.
Speaker 1: Inside these walls, inside the wild.
Speaker 2: Hadn't went no girl as I Hey everyone, and welcome
back to Bloody Angla, a podcast one and forty two
years in the making, the complete story of America's Bloody
Is Prison. I'm Jim Chapman, and I am back with
the second part of this terrible Tommy Thomas Silverstein story.
For those of you that joined me last week, I
told you kind of an entire ship nasis of Thomas
Silverstein's life and then his life inside a prison. And
we got to the end of that story and I
mentioned that he had actually filed a lawsuit against the
United States Bureau of Prisons on being held in solitary
confinement for many, many years, and he kind of told
his whole story inside a prison in that filing. And
so I'm going to pick up where I left off now.
When I left you last, he had just apologized for
killing Officer Klutz, and you know, he had apologized for
the pain that he had caused Officer Klutz family. So
we're going to pick up there with the side pocket.
Cell is the next subject he talks about. So if
you haven't listened to the first episode, you're gonna be
totally lost. So got to listen to that and then
pick up with this episode. So we'll continue on and
he goes on in this lawsuit to say, on November
two of nineteen eighty three, I was transferred without notice
to USB Atlanta pending my trial. When I arrived in Atlanta,
I had no idea what kind of conditions I was
going to be held in or how long I was
going to be there. Although I did not know it
at the time, the Director of the Bureau of Prisons,
Norman Carlson, issued a memo ordering I being prisoned under
special security measures. These measures included an order that I
be placed under no human contact status indefinitely. The officers
took this order seriously. They never spoke to me unless
there was no way to avoid it. They spoke only
to give me orders. When I spoke to them, they
ignored me. I was confined to a special part of
the prison known as the side Pocket. The side pocket
contains three adjacent cells, one of which was a shower.
I was rotated between these cells. Apparently this was for security,
though no one else was housed in or even came
into the side pocket. The side pocket was incredibly isolated.
I was deep underground and there was no windows in
the side pocket. The side pocket cells measured approximately six
feet by seven feet, almost exactly the size of a
standard king mattress. And I told you all about that
in the first episode. The cell was so small that
I could stand in one place and touch both walls simultaneously.
The ceiling was so low I could reach up and
touch the hot light fixture. My bed took up the
length of the cell, and there were no other furniture
at all. There was no desk, there was no chair.
There was no place to store clothing or anything at all.
I could lie down, I could sit on my bed,
or I could stand. When lying down, I could easily
touch both ends of the cell, one end with my head,
the other end with my feet. And the walls were
solid steel and painted all white. I was permitted to
wear underwear, but I was given no other clothing. Shortly
after when I arrived, the prison staff began construction on
the side pocket sell adding more bars and other security
measures to that cell while I was within it in
order to not be burned by sparks and inburs. While
they welded more iron bars across a cell, I had
to lie on my bed and cover myself with a sheet.
It's hard to discover the horror I experienced during this
construction process. As they built new cell walls around me.
It felt as if I was being buried alive. It
was terrifying. During my first year in the side pocket cell,
I was completely isolated from the outside world and had
no way to occupy my time. I was not allowed
to have any social visits, telephone privileges, or reading materials
except my Bible. I was also not allowed to have
a television, radio or a tape player. I could speak
to no one, and there was virtually nothing on which
to focus my attention. I was not only isolated, but
I was also disoriented in the side pot. This was
exasperated by the fact I wasn't allowed to have a
watch or a clock. In addition, the bright artificial lights
remained on in my cell, constantly increasing my disorientation and
making it difficult to sleep. Not only were there constantly
eliminated lights buzzing incessantly. The buzzing noise was maddening, as
there often were no other sounds at all. This may
sound like a small thing, but it was my entire world.
Due to the unchanging, bright artificial lights and not having
a wrist watch or a clock, I couldn't tell if
it were day or night. Frequently I would fall asleep,
and when I would wake up, I would not know
if I had slept five minutes or five hours, and
would have no idea what day or time of day
it was. I told y'all a little about that in
the last episode. I tried to measure the passing days
by counting the food trays. Actually very smart without being
able to keep track of time. Though sometimes I thought
the officers had left me and were not coming. I
thought they were going for days and I was going
to starve. It's likely they were only going for a
few hours, but I had no way to know. I
was so disawarented in Atlanta, I felt like I was
in an episode at the Twilight Zone. I now know
that I was house there for about four years, but
I would have believed it was a decade if that's
what I was told. It seemed eternal and endless and immeasurable.
Throughout my time in Atlanta, I was never fed a
hot meal. There were no air conditioning or heating on
the side pocket cells. During the summer, the heat was unbearable.
I will pull water on the ground and lay naked
on the floor in an attempt to cool myself. The
bright lights made the heat worse. I felt like I
was in an oven. The only time I was left
out of my cell was for outdoor recreation. I was
allowed one hour a week for outdoor recreation. I could
not see other inmates or any of the surrounding landscape.
During the outdoor recreation, there was no exercise equipment and
nothing to do. I was only allowed one hour of
inn door recreation within the side pocketself, four times a week.
My vision deteriorated in the side pocket I think due
to the constant bright lights, or possibly because of other
aspects of this harsh environment. Everything began to appear blurry,
and I became sensitive delight, which burned my eyes and
gave me headaches. Nearly all of the time, the officers
refused to speak to me. Despite this, I heard people
who I believed to be officers whispering in my vents,
telling me they hated me, and calling me names. To
this day, I'm not sure if the officers were doing
this to me or if I was starting to lose
it and these were hallucinations. In the side pocket cell,
I lost some ability to distinguish what was real. I
dreamt I was in a prison. When I woke up,
I was not sure if which was reality and which
was a dream. For the first six months before a
camera was installed in the hallway in front of my cell,
I was watched by two officers at all time. I
found this extremely uncomfortable. In y'all, come on, man, you're
in prison here, you've killed three people. You're supposed to
be uncomfortable, but it goes on. I felt like a
physical violation to know that these people watch from close
proximity every little thing I did, even my bodily functions.
They would not talk to me, but they talked to
each other at all hours. This made me agitated and
I couldn't sleep. He could not stand the fact that
they would not talk to him. My correspondence was strictly
limited to my immediate family and my attorneys, however, I
had fallen out of touch with most of my families.
Said during this time, I only wrote to my sister.
I was not allowed paper in my cell and had
to ask for it when I wanted to write. I
was limited to five sheets each week and given a
three inch pencil for my correspondence. Before being transferred to
marry him. When I was at Levenworth, I become interested
in art and it taught myself to draw. I used
art to express myself and also prevent my mind from
ti However, in the side pocket, I was prohibited for
the entire first year from having any art supplies at all.
After the first year in the side pocket, I was
gradually allowed basic privileges, including a radio and some art supplies.
When I was finally allowed to have art supplies, the
relief was enormous. I used the opportunity to order art
books and taught myself to paint. Finally I had a
little something to break up the enduring monotony of my days.
And this is just an amazing look of what it's
like for the prisoner himself, right inside of this solitary confinement.
He goes on to say, when I was allowed to
have a radio. I began listening to religious services every
Sunday in the afternoon. During my time in Atlanta, I
had no opportunity to discuss my conditions with anyone, and
to my knowledge, my placement in solitary confinement was never reviewed.
This caused me to worry that I will be kept
in the side pocket itself forever. I never knew what
I could do to make any of my conditions better.
During this time, I became very interested in Buddhism and
Buddhist philosophy. I requested a Bible and enrolled in correspondence
Bible study courses when I first arrived in Atlanta. However,
over time I find a greater sense of connection to
the Buddhist teachings on the radio. I had previously practiced
yoga when I was at Marion, but in the side
pocket cell, my yoga practice became a defining aspect of
my life. It took on a spiritual aspect that I
had never experienced before. Yoga allowed me to exercise both
my body and my mind in spite of being confined
in such a tiny cage. It brought me a feeling
of peace, at least occasionally. Then he gets into the
riots in the United States prison at Atlanta, and of
course told you about that in the last episode, but
not through his eyes. Listen to this. In nineteen eighty seven,
Cuban inmate at Atlanta rioted and seized control of the prison,
taking prison staff hostage. Because I was isolated in the
side pocket, cell I was unaware of the riot until
I heard an unusual noise. I had become accustomed to
the familiar sounds of the officer's footsteps and keys clanging,
but this was different and much louder. I was initially
worried for my own safety when I saw the Cuban
inmates enter the side pocket area. However, the inmates did
not harm me, but release me from the side pocket.
Cell I was a static to be out of solitary confinement.
I freely roamed the yard and slept outside under the
stars for the only time in the last twenty eight years.
The riot lasted seven days, and during that time I
was free to move about the prison and interact with
other people. A harm no one, and it actually lasted
eleven days, but he was out for seven of those instead.
During the riot, I was in contact with several members
of the prison staff and actively protected two staff members
from harm. When I saw an elderly correctional officer having
a heart attack, I persuaded the other writers to let
him out so he could receive medical attention. I also
went out of my way to take care of an
officer I knew, bringing him extra food and making sure
no one harassed him. The man who made sure I
received all of my food when I was isolated, while
items were often missing when the other officers brought my trade,
I was glad to be able to show him some
kindness in return. I also checked on Lieutenant Hollington to
make sure he was safe and being treated respectfully. I'd
always appreciated how Lieutenant Hollington used to ask if my
cuffs were too tight or painful when most of the
other officers refused to speak to me at all. Although
I was unaware at this time, I later learned the
FBI in Bureau of Prisons negotiated with the Cuban riders
to turn me over as a gesture of goodwill. The
Cuban inmates drugged me, seized me, and carried me out
of the As they were taking me out, I begged
them to kill me, so I wouldn't have to return
to extreme solitary confinement. The Cubans ignore my pleas and
threw my body over the fence where the Bureau of
Prison officials were waiting to take control of me. Once
in Bureau prison custody, correctional officers cuffed my hands behind
my back, shackled my ankles, and locked me in a cell.
I was not allowed out of my shackles for any reason,
even to relieve myself. I was kept in the cell
all night and begged the officers to uncuff me so
I could use the toilet. The pain of holding my
bladder was excruciating. Finally, when I just couldn't hold back
any longer and it was clear I was not going
to be let out of the cell or unhandcuffed, avoided
in my pants. The next day, I was escorted into
a van where I was forced to sit in my
own urine. On a trip to Kansas, I kept asking
the officers if I could use the bathroom, and they
just replied that I should quote hold it, even if
they knew this wasn't possible. Throughout the trip, I was
never allowed to use the restroom and so was forced
to urinate on myself again. I felt like an animal
being transported. Being forced to wear the handcuffs and void
on myself was degrading and extremely painful. When the handcuffs
were finally removed, I had extensive bruising. Two of my
toenails fell off, I think from the lack of circulation.
So that was his experience in USP Atlanta. And then
he talks about him being transported back to Levenworth after
being released by those Cubans and being put in a
basement cell, and it says when I finally arrived at
the new prison, I learned I was at USP Leavenworth.
I was not allowed to wash myself until I was
placed in a special unit in the basement. This happened
on December first, nineteen eighty seven. I thought that maybe,
after seeing that I was not violent even when I
had the chance during the riot, the Bureau of Prison
would start to lessen my restrictions. But I was wrong.
I was crushed when I saw my new cell in
the Leavenworth basement. To get to the basement, sell numerous
officers and protective armor escorted me down a small elevator
to the basement and through an underground tunnel in the
eighty five year old building. I felt like I was
going into a dungeon. On the day I arrived at Levenworth,
the assosiate Warden Smith visited myself. Smith had been in
correctional Officer Klutt's friend. He was now in charge of
my confinement. He told me he was going to do
all he could to prevent me from seeing the light
of day, and that I deserved everything I was getting. Indeed,
I didn't see the light of day for a long time.
I did not receive any recreation at all for nearly
a year at Levenworth. Instead, President staff slowly began adding
more bars and constructing an adjacent visiting booth an indoor
wreck area, so I would not have to leave the
basement I'm sure of. The basement cell itself was similar
to the side pocket cell in USB, Atlanta. The cell
was approximately nine feet by sixteen feet and contained a bed, desk,
metal sink, shower, stalled TV showering toilet without a lid.
Soon after I arrived, they installed several cameras in the basement.
After this, I was kept under camera surveillance twenty four
hours a day, seven days a week, Knowing that I
was constantly being watched, even when using the toilet or
taking the shower. Was embarrassing and made me extremely anxious.
One of the cameras was installed right over the toilet.
I have suffered from serious hemorrhoids for as long as
I can remember. It was humiliating to know the officers
were likely talking about me and mocking me as I
tried to blot the blood flowing from my rear. Below
was an artistic rendering of the camera's placement in relation
to my cell and how I felt being watched. Actually
drew a picture, and I'll post this on the Patreon,
but it's a picture of him using the toilet, and
it shows two officers looking through two small windows of
the cell doors, and it shows a camera that is
like right by his head as he's taking a shit. Basically,
the cell was brightly lit at all times, and I
was told this was in order for the cameras to
show a clear picture. Sometimes a Bureau of Prison would
even put a spotlight and shine it on me directly
blinding me. There was nothing I could do to stop
the light. With the light on all the time, I
never slept more than four or five hours. This was
made even worse by the fact that there was no
window as in the side pocket, my body could not
tell whether it was day or night. Additionally, my vision
continued to deteriorate, and sometimes I would have illucinations where
the bars in the cell moved or I saw different shapes.
The privileges my good behavior had earned me in usb
Atlanta were taken from me in Lovenworth, including my art supplies.
In the absence of human contact, my art had become
central to my identity. It was i most the only
way I knew if I were alive, that I existed.
No one spoke to me, but I felt that I
was able to communicate that I was a living human
being by making art. Without it, I felt like part
of my soul had been taken from me. I was
also not allowed a razor or any means of cutting
my hair for six months. Upon arriving at Lovenworth. When
I was finally permitted to use a raizor, my beard
and hair were so long that it was not of
much use, so it didn't matter. I did not have
access to a mirror. Only years later when I asked
to see a photo of myself, could I even see
what I looked like I didn't recognize the person underneath
the overgrown head of hair and unkempt beard. The basement
cell completely isolated me from other inmates. I never saw
or heard any signs of any other It's hard to
convey how strange it is to be an isolated prison
like this, to see and hear no signs of other prisoners.
Prisons are generally noisy and filled with the sounds of
other prisoners. Proximity with others is typically a defining characteristic
of a prison. Yet in the basement cell, I lived
in what seemed like a post apocalyptic solitary state. I
felt utterly alone. And then he has another picture that
he drew in. I mean, he was a great artist,
I'll give him that, and it just shows a man
like with his head on the ground of his cell,
and just you know, you would derive misery looking at
that picture. The basement cell was infested with vermin. I
often awoke to find rats and cockroaches crawling in my
hair and beard. Despite this, I became careful not to
injure my fellow basement dwellers because they were my only companions.
In addition, because I was learning and studying Judaism, I
began thinking and valuing life in a different way. I
felt like my head was in a constant fog when
I was in the basement cell. I was never tired
enough to sleep, yet lacked energy to do anything else.
During my time in the basement, I never left my cell.
I did not breathe fresh air or glimpse any sunlight.
In that whole time, I did not touch another person,
and no one touched me, not even the officers. As
I was not allowed to leave my cell. I actually
began to feel and think of myself like a leper
or some other untouchable, as if I were not fit
to be around people because I would infect anyone I
came into contact with. The Only time anyone spoke to
me was during occasional rounds made by administrators, religious chaplains
in a monthly visit from the prison psychologists. These interactions
typically lasted only a matter of seconds. I received no
reviews for eighteen months I was held in the basement cell.
On rare occasions, when some one would visit my cell,
I would ask what I could do to get out
of solitary. They always responded they were just checking to
see if I was receiving meals, wreck and appropriate programming
always told them I had no authority to change the
conditions of my confinement and that I needed to speak
with the warden. Then he gets into the Silverstein Suite,
as I told you about in the first episode, after
approximately eighteen months in a basement cell without notice, as
if they were supposed to give him notice, I was
chained and shackled to a wheelchair and escorted to a
new cell. The new cell, previously known as the Whole,
was in the same building as the Levenworth Special Housing Unit.
The officers ironically named this cell the Silvertine Suite. Even
though it was technically in the shoe, I could not
see or hear any other prisoners. The area where I
was held was accessed by a separate entrance. Even when
I listened at the event, I could not hear anything. Yet,
some times pepper gas would come through my vents and
would burn my eyes and throat. For a long time,
I thought the officer sprayed the gas in the vent
just to cause me pain. Later, however, I figured out
the gas was coming through when it was used on
the prisoners in the Shoe. The Special housing in it
In the Silver Suite, I remained on the no human
contact status and continued to be isolated. The Silvertein suite
consisted of a cell area, an area devoted to conducting
strip searches, and recreation areas, one outdoor and one indoor.
The indoor wreck area was also used as a visiting area.
The areas were separated by solid steel doors, and to
move between the areas, prison staff will remotely open these
to allow me to pass through. The outdoor wreck area
was approximately seventeen feet by fourteen feet six inches and
surrounded by twenty foot high concrete walls. The sky above
the walls was blocked by a roof built out of
two sets of wire bars and mesh. I could see
nothing of the surrounding landscape or even the sky from
the outdoor recreation area. In the Silverstein Suite, I was
allowed to exercise one hour day, five days a week
in the outdoor wreck area. Sometimes I was left in
the outdoor wreck area for extended periods of time during
the winter in the bitter cold, snow or rain. The
indoor wreck area was opposite of the outdoor wreck area
in strip search areas. It was approximately nine feet by
sixteen feet and contained a broken stationary bike, a concrete stool, intercom,
and a glass bar window that looked out into a
visiting booth. Two surveillance cameras watch everything I did in
the Silverstein Suite twenty four hours a day some days week.
Many hated be and watched. I imagined the eyes on
me all the time. As I moved around the cell,
the camera would make a buzzing noise as they readjusted
to see me again. It was humiliating to have to
go to the bathroom or treat my hemorrhoids knowing the
camera was always on me. During my time in the
Silverstein Suite, I was always alone. I exercised alone and
took all my meals alone. Lights remained on twenty four
hours a day, seven days a week in the Silverstein Suite.
A year or two before I was transferred from Levenworth
to eighty X, the prison installed a switch that allowed
me to turn off the light in my cell. However,
I could still not make it fully dark, as the
light in my hall remained on twenty four hours a day. Initially,
I was only allowed one phone call per month. My
phone privileges increased over time. And by twenty eleven I
was allowed about three hundred minutes per month. Below was
a drawing I made while in the Silverstein Suite that
depicts how I made telephone calls, and it basically shows
shows him and he's kneeling on the floor kind of
in front of the slot in his prison door, and
he's on a phone that they had passed through that slot,
and it shows I guess these are two correstionional officers
watching him while he's on the phone. You can tell, man,
this guy did not like being watched all the time.
Goes on to say, during my time in the Silverstein Suite,
prison psychology staff conducted quote drive by visits, pausing only
briefly at myself before moving on. When my psychologist, doctor Denny,
came to speak to me, it would generally be just
for a few minutes, and these conversations would always happen
through a steel door. Often he didn't come at all,
and I later learned that he conducted his psychological review
by watching me on camera that constantly filmed me often
express hopelessness and depression to the psychologists. I desperately tried
to explain that my poor emotional state grew directly from
my solitary confinement. I told doctor Denny about how I
could not sleep and how I was leasing my memory.
I asked him to help me, and I asked him
to test me. However, doctor Denny refused to take any action.
He told me my feelings and symptoms were normal for
someone in these conditions, but I had the impression that
he thought he would lose his job if he intervened
or recommended that I be removed from solitary confinement. He
would tell me, quote, I have a family to feed. Later,
when I saw the reports, I discovered he didn't even
write down much of what I told him. After numerous
failed attempts to get doctor Denny to help me, I
concluded it was pointless to continue, so I stopped talking
to most of the psychological staff altogether. It was frustrating
to express my vulnerability to someone who would not change
his response no matter how I was doing. On rare occasions,
about twice a year, I had reviews with people other
than doctor Denny. I saw Miss Ashman more frequently, but
definitely not more than a few times every couple months
or so. In order to attend these reviews, I was
chained to a wheelchair and escorted to the meetings, which
were held only a few feet from my cell. During
these reviews, I always inquired about what I needed to
do to get out of solitary confinement. In response, administrators,
including the case manager the region, were up and the
warden informed me that they were not there to make
decisions about my confinement replacement, but simply to see that
I was getting meals, recreation, and mail, and discouraged me
from continuing to ask questions about my confinement. After many
years of these reviews without any change in my conditions,
I saw no point in attending, and so I began
refusing to attend. At this point, administrators began coming to
my cell door to conduct these interviews, which continued to
be meaningless for me. During the years I was in
the Silverstein Suite, I was almost never taken out of
my cell. On the rare occasion I was taken out,
I was escorted by many correctional officers in riot gear.
Low is an artistic rendering of my being taken to
the prison hospital for a dental checkup, and it shows
him shackled around the waist. He's got his he's got handcuffs,
mind his back, He's shackled on his ankles, and there
are like five officers in front of him and five
officers behind him. And it says escort to prison hospital
one hundred yards from Sell for dental checkup. And it
says underneath that I've left the cell about four times
in the eighteen years in counting. Goes on to say,
Buddhism and yoga has helped me deal with my conditions
and simultaneously helped me change as a person. I learned
that all I can control is my reaction to what happens,
and that no matter how hard to try, I can't
control other people. Though I still suffer when the Bureau
of Prisons failed to move me to less restrictive conditions
year after year despite my good behavior, I've tried to
control my reaction. This inaction. In addition, practicing yoga helps
me call my anxiety and helped me to develop a
great sense of inner peace. I spent the next fifteen
years in the Silverstein suite, with two short stints back
in the basement cell when the suite need to be
painted or otherwise maintained. This is a picture I drew
in nineteen ninety four, after eleven days in solitary confinement,
and it shows him and he looks like he's naked,
and he's bowing down in front of the cell door
and he's got his hands raised in the air. Then
it gets into eighty X and it says on July fifteenth,
two thousand and five, without any notice or explanation. Man
he is apparently pisses this guy off that he doesn't
get noticed when he's getting moved. I was transferred to
the Administrative Maximum Penitentiary in Florence, Colorado. No one ever
talked to me about transferring to ADX, so I was
unaware this was going to happen until the very morning
the transfer took place. The day at my transfer, I
awoke at five in the morning to a bunch of
officers in full protective gear outside of my cell. I
figured out quickly this meant I was going to move.
I was taken to a van where I was shuffled
from one cage to the next. The entire way I
was hoping this transfer meant changed for the better. I
soon realized it was not. When we arrived at ADX,
I was immediately taken to the hospital in X raid.
I was then hustled through long, sterile corridors with floors
that gleamed. We passed through door after door until finally
arriving at Range thirteen. Range thirteen is located on Z Unit,
which is part of the shoe at ADX. I continue
to be held on no human contact status on Range thirteen,
the most restrictive housing unit in the most restrictive federal
penitentiary in the country. I would not have thought this
was possible, but in Range thirteen the conditions were even
worse than Loving Worth. My cell was even smaller, and
I lost many of the privileges that helped me endure
the isolation, like art supplies and phone calls. There are
four cells on Range thirteen, and I was rotated between
two cells every three months. There was only one other
person held on Range thirteen. After twenty two years of
not being able to speak to another inmate, I was
excited to have the opportunity to speak to anyone. Though
we had to shout at each other and it was
difficult to hear what the other person set back, it
was still nice to be able to hear your own
voice in conversation and a friendly voice replying However, the
officers ordered us not to talk to each other and
even threatened us with disciplinary report if we did talk.
Pretty quickly after my arrival, a solid steel door was
built in the hallway to further separate us and prevent
us from even being able to shout to each other.
In some ways, knowing someone else was nearby and some
more additions made me feel better. Just knowing there was
someone else who understood a little bit of what I
went through each day made me feel better somehow. The
cells on Range thirteen were about eight foot six foot
six inches by ten feet, almost half the size of
my cell in Leavenworth. Each contained a cement bab with
metal restraint rings, a cement dish, sink, toilet, and shower.
In one cell, the walls were cement and I had
a mirror in a small horizontal window near the ceiling
that I could look out of. If I stood on
my desk, I can only see the concrete barriers of
the outdoor workout area. I couldn't even see the sky.
In the other cell, the walls were made of steel
and there was no mirror. There was a window, However,
I couldn't see out of the window because it was
covered in mesh that had been painted over, making it
difficult even for light to shine in. Even though I
could dim my cell light, I could never turn it
completely off. In addition of lights in the sally ports
of both cells were on twenty four hours a day,
I was still continuously monitored by video surveillance cameras. Being
watched all the time made me feel like I lived
in a Petrie dish, like I'm a bacteria under the
BP's microscope. That's a pure prisons. I used to be
extremely apprehensive whenever I heard the officers thrust the grill
gate key into the lock to interrange thirteen. The noise
from unlocking the gate isn't very loud, but I have
become extremely sensitive to noises. Many of the privileges that
I had been given over time at Lovenworth were denied
at ADX. For example, my phone time was decreased from
three hundred minutes a month to two fifteen minute phone
calls per month, and I was no longer allowed to
send art to many people who I had corresponded with
by mail. I was not given any explanation for why
my limited ability to communicate with people was being further restricted.
I was also deprived of all my art supplies except
a pencil and paper. I take my art very serious
and being an artist is what defines me, so it
was extremely difficult to find myself suddenly without art supplies.
I felt as if a significant piece of meat went missing.
In December of two thousand and seven, after him as
two and a half years, a very limited amount of
art supplies were returned to me, for which I am
very thankful. However, even to this day, I am limited
to only six watercolors and I'm not allowed any other
type of paint which I had access to at Leavenworth
on Range thirteen, I was allowed to use one of
two outdoor wreck areas, which were connected to the cells
via remote operated doors. The outdoor wreck area was a
concrete pit surrounded by high, featureless walls on all sides.
It felt like being inside of a deep, empty swimming pool.
I couldn't see any of the mountains, even though I
knew they had to be closed. Also couldn't see a
single tree, a blade of grass, or any sign of nature.
I was also allowed to use an indoor wreck ara,
which was connected to the cells via remote operated doors.
I generally received one hour of wreck time five days
a week. The recreation area was so small that I
could walk no more than ten steps in either direction
and thirty steps in a circle. There was no equipment
in the wreck area during the time. I was combined
at Range thirteen to eight every meal or one in
my cell and exercised by myself. My meals were usually
late and almost always cold. Every thirty days, the psychological
staff would conduct a mental health interview, which usually only
lasted minutes. This meaning took place by talking through a
solid steel door. Sometimes staffould walk into the sally port,
but they were always accompanied by armed correctional officers. These
meetings did not last more than a few minutes. The
psychology staff would ask me how I was feeling, and
I would try to answer honestly, but it seemed like
they were not really listening and just waiting for a
few minutes to pass before they could leave. While I
was on Range thirteen, I left my celf for only
infrequent haircuts and semi annual reviews. When I was taken
out of my cell, I was subject to invasive strip
searches and handcuffed and shackled to a black box. Suspended
by chains around my waist. My ankles were also shackled
every time I was escorted by at least three officers.
I hated having my haircut because it meant someone would
be standing behind me touching me. Even though these only
lasted ten minutes, it made me so anxious I would
start to shake uncontrollably. Getting my haircut still affects me
to this day. As much as I am happy to
be out of my cell, even to walk somewhere in
the prison for a haircut, the shackles injure my hands.
The black box in particular prevents movement by cutting into
my risk, and I sometimes request to see medical staff
because of my wrist and their bleeding. Following these trips,
when I returned to my cell on Range thirteen, I
was once again strip search. These evasive, humiliating strip searches
and infrequent haircuts were the only physical human contact I
had on Range thirteen. In two thousand and six, I
began receiving semi annual reviews Ward Willie, the NCR director
in CPD assistant. I never received notice of these reviews,
so I've never had an opportunity to prepare arguments or
evidence I never knew what kind of criteria was going
to be used to evaluate me, or even if there
were any standards used. I repeatedly asked what I needed
to do to be moved out of Range thirteen. In response,
I was just told to quote, keep doing what you're doing.
These reviews only lasted a few minutes, just long enough
for them to ask me a few questions. These reviews
were held in per so, however, the reviewers still always
told me they couldn't move me, but were checking on me.
Then he gets into what's known as the ADX D unit,
and he says, on April seventh of two thousand and eight,
without notice, I was moved to the D unit, where
I'm currently housed. I truly believe I was moved to
the D unit not because of these reviews, but because
I filed a lawsuit challenging my conditions of confinement. The
BP describes D unit as a general population unit. However,
at ADX, prisoners in general population still live in isolation.
Like all prisoners at ADX, except for those in the
step down program, I'm confined and he cell that is
bright all the time, since the light in the hallways
never go off surrounded by walls on four sides of
most all the time, including showers and meals from my cell,
I cannot see or talk to another person. Although I
can communicate a little by yelling through the vents. I
never see another inmate face to face without a barrier
of some kind separating us. When I was first transferred
to d in It, I was placed on a range
where there were no other prisoners. I was the only
prisoner on the range for several months and d in It.
I was surprised at how noisy everything seemed. After spending
decades in silence without hearing a normal day to day
activity of other people, The sign of a toilet flushing
or a shower running seems so loud and always caught
me by surprise. Even though I have earplugs daily life
still feels very loud and overwhelming. Sometimes I have trouble
sleeping when I can hear others around me. After years
of being by myself, the small sounds can be distressing
and keep me up at night. It is spooky how
isolated you can be while still being in such close
physical proximity to someone. I know. There are other men
nearby on my range. I just can't see them. Although
I prefer to have people in physical proximity to me
rather than being gig rightically isolated as I have been
in the past, it can be disturbing to be subjected
to yelling or screaming of the prisoners who were mentally ill,
and it's hard to concentrate or sleep when mentally ill
inmates are placed in the same range. And sometimes it's
hard to even hear myself think because people yell, scream,
or act out both sides of a conversation in a cell,
basically talking to themselves. For the first few months, indeed,
Unit I was only allowed indoor wreck on a specific
range that no other prisoners use, so I cannot see
or hear other prisoners even during recreation. Because I had
to be escorted to recreation by a lieutenant, I was
often forced to skip wreck if there was not a
lieutenant available, and I only went to wreck approximately once
a week. My cell is approximately eighty seven square feet
and contained a concrete bed, desk, shower, sink, and toilet.
My cell is separated from the hallway by two doors,
one of which is solid steel. There's very little natural
light in my cell. I'm usually confined to my cell
for twenty two hours a day five days a week,
and twenty four hours a day the other two days
a week. I take all of my meals alone in
my cell. I'm supposed to have an outside wreck two
or three times a week. Outside recreation on the D
Unit takes place in a small metal cage at the
bottom of a poured concrete pit. Inside the cages, there's
not enough room to take more than a few steps
in any direction. There is no recreation equipment in the cages,
and I'm not allowed to bring anything with me to wreck.
My telephone privileges remain limited to two point fifteen minute
calls per month, even after the move to D Unit.
From the time I was first moved to D Unit
until January two thousand and nine, two correctional officers and
a lieutenant escorted me from my cell. Now only two
correctional officers escort me. When I was first moved D Unit,
I was only allowed social and legal visits on Monday,
Tuesdays and Wednesdays, and only when there were no other
prisoners in the visiting booths. I'm now allowed to have
social and legal visits on Tuesdays, Friday, Saturdays and Sundays. However,
it's difficult for my family to travel to Colorado, and
therefore I only had two social visits in five and
a half years since being transferred to ADX. My interactions
with staff are minimal and are devoid of any personal connection. Recently,
I started keeping a journal detailing who I see in
talk to during the day. For the month of December,
I recorded each and every contact I have with staff
members at the ADX. I logged who I spoke to
in what the conversation was about. I used a watch
to know the number of seconds each interaction lasted and
recorded this information promptly into a log. A true and
correct copy of the logs is attached in this declaration.
Even during my six month program, I did not spend
much time interacting with staff. I never know when the
program reviews are going to happen, and the forms for
my team reviews are already filled in and dated by
the time I see them. It feels like I don't
even get a chance to try and prove I'm a
different person. My past just fills my future. My involvement
in the reviews is usually just my presence and the
time it takes me to sign the forms. However, it's
not uncommon for prison staff to slide my program review
form under my door when I'm at wreck and expect
me to sign them without speaking to me at all.
Sometimes I ask questions, but no one has ever had
the answer, and nothing is really ever explained to me.
When my case manager brings me the papers to sign,
she always tells me the same thing, that she is
not part of the committee that decides if I leave
her stay. She only determines whether I'm eligible for consideration
by the committee, and I need to talk to someone
else about my problems with my conditions of confinement. We
usually just talk about what television shows I need to
watch for my programming. When I was transferred to d
in It, I felt hopeful about progressing through the step
Down program. However, I'm never told what I must do
to move forward, and even though I am eligible for
entering into the program, I'm always denied. I request more
information and always appeal my denials into the step Down program.
Reading the Step Down program denials is frustrating because they
are vague and never really explain what I should be doing. Differently,
I would appreciate more guidance about what I need to
do to mitigate my crimes of placement or prove my
good behavior isn't merely because of the security measures that
are imposed on me. Sometimes I am told the Bureau
of Prisons needs more time to assess my behavior, But
after twenty two years of clean time, how much more
time do they need. I'm not allowed to be present
when the step Down committee reviews me, and I'm not
allowed to submit any evidence or testimony about why I
should be allowed to enter the program, or rebute any
incorrect evidence that the committee may be relying on. Every
denial feels like I just have run a marathon and
been told to run it all over again and again.
It is one step forward and two steps back. I
always fill out an administrative remedy request, but it doesn't
really ever do me any good because no change is
ever come from it. Everything is just approved and endorsed
from above. My eligibility for the step Down program is
not in doubt. I have over twenty two years of
incident free behavior to my credit, including more than a
year of clear conduct in d in it. Additionally, I
continue to meet and exceed programming recommendations made by my
unit team, demonstrate positive institutional adjustment, and maintain appropriate interactions
with staff. I also hope to receive an orderly position.
I feel like that becoming an orderly would give me
a sense of purpose and responsibility, as well as allow
me to prove to the Bureau of Prisons I am
no longer a violent person and provide the opportunity to
earn a small income. Then he gets into his reflection
on twenty eight years of solitary and he says, except
for a single week during the Atlanta prison ride, I
have lived continuously in solitary confinement for the past twenty
eight years. Other than infrequent haircuts, strip searches, and medical examinations,
the only physical human contact I have experienced in the
past twenty eight years is when the Bureau Prisons officers
handcuffed me and escort me. For twenty eight years, I've
been isolated from other inmates. On rare occasion, I've been
able to communicate with my peers by yelling through prison walls.
For thirty five years, my visitor list has been restricted
to family members and people I know before I was incarcerated.
Not only have I lost touch with nearly everyone I
knew while on the outside, but I have been kept
far from my family, making visits difficult and rare. For
twenty eight years of eating every meal alone in my cell.
For twenty eight years, I have been entuned in concrete
and still and have not enjoyed anything even remotely resembling
open space. I am barely even a light outside. When outside,
I'm surrounded by twenty foot high walls and alignment of you,
no more than a sliver of sky, and nothing of
the surrounding landscape. After twenty eight years without much environmental stipulation,
I feel like my mental state is deteriorating. I have
difficulty remembering certain words, and I feel I cannot always
accurately express when I'm trying to communicate. My mind is
always in a fog. I hear what people are saying
but can't understand them, and I have trouble focusing for
more than a few minutes. I often have to watch
my educational programs several times because I miss important details
or misinterpret what I hear. I'm listening, but I'm not hearing.
Sometimes I have hallucinations where I see human shadows outside
my cell window. I never can be real because my
cell is on the second floor. Often I perceive the
colors in my cell change, fluctuating from light to dark.
At other times, people's faces become disoriented and frightening. There's
no end to the monotony of my days. Each day
is the same as the one before and the one after.
The tedium of my day's SAPs any motivation I might have.
I am anxious at all times. I'm giving medicine for anxiety,
but it doesn't help. Instead, the medicine side effects make
me feel drowsy and tired during the day. I have
trouble sleeping. I never sleep more than four or five
hours a night. When I do sleep, my dreams are
being held in solitary confinement. Twenty eight years of solitary
has also taken a physical toll on me. I often
have trouble breathing, which may be related to anxiety. My
eyesight is worsening, and I'm having trouble getting to the
eye doctor. I also think my muscles are beginning to atrophy.
I receive a little wreck five days a week, but
other than that, I spent and the rest of my
day laying in bed or sitting at my desk. There's
not too much space for movement at all. In myself.
I have hepatitis SEA, which I have been told for
over a year that I qualify for treatment, but I'm
still waiting to receive it. When I asked why I
didn't receive it, I'm informed that there's a very long
weight less I have painful hemorrhoids that bleed frequently. I
often can't sit down because of the pain and blood.
I've tried to alter my diet and use other methods
of treatment. I was told by the surgeon that I
am candidate for hemorrhoid surgery, which would prevent me from
suffering future harm including pain, humiliation, and bleeding. However, ADX
inform me that I was denied this surgery. No reason
for the denial was given. I filed a complaint about this,
and in response, I was told that I didn't need
the surgery and could speak to the doctor's assistant about
using creams and suppositories, the same and effective treatments I've
been using for years. The experience of being utterly alone
in the tiny for three decades has caused me emotional
despair and caused me to deteriorate physically as well. Though
I know that I want to live and have always
been a survivor. I have often wished for death. I know, though,
that I don't want to die. What I want is
a life in prison that I can feel with some meaning.
I have changed so much in behavior and outlook from
the person I was twenty eight years ago. I have
no interest in violence. I have devoted the past twenty
six years to Buddhism. I've been a vegetarian for many
years now, for both health and spiritual reasons. I receive
letters sometimes from people telling me I am a monster.
They think because of what I did that I don't
have any emotions or feelings. I can see why they
think that, but it's not true. I feel very deeply
about the terrible pain that I have caused others. I
hate what I did, and I hate forever being defined
by those actions. As horrible as my actions were and
as awful as their consequences are, I'm still a human being.
I am not just a killer. I'm a father, a brother,
and a friend. I try to find meaning in my
life and to be of value to others. I have
developed my artistic talent as a constructive means of self expression.
Creating art enhances my feelings that my life has values.
My efforts also give me an appreciation for the work
of others. When you work hard for something, you value it,
and it helps you to value and appreciate the things
that others work hard for. It feels me with despair that,
after twenty eight years of meeting their expectations and complying
with the rules, the Bureau of Prisons is still unwilling
to recognize any of the changes I've accomplished to myself
and gives me no further opportunities to show that I
am not who they think I am. For twenty eight years,
I've been model prisoner. I've done everything the Bureau of
Prisons dis asked of me, yet I am repeatedly denied
an orderly position in placement in the step Down program.
Getting out of solitary confinement will relieve the relentless and
crushing strain that has worn away in my mind, my body,
and my spirit for twenty eight years. After twenty eight
years of solitary including over twenty two years of clear conduct,
I hope for and I think I deserve a chance
to progress to the step down program. Even though he
murdered three people, in prison, and he declared that under
penalty of perjury that it was true and crack signed
by Thomas Selverstein, and that was dated two four of
twenty eleven. And that was a mouthful, but you know,
one of the I personally feel like that's one of
the most interesting looks that I've seen as far as
what it's like actually in these maximum security prisons. So,
if nothing else, it was very well written. And what
was the result of that back in twenty eleven, Well,
he got denied, the lawsuit got completely dismissed, and Thomas
Silverstein went on living his life. He was living it.
He actually died on May eleventh, twenty nineteen. He was
sixty seven years old. He was still incarcerated at ADX
Florence Supermac's prison in Colorado, and he died of a
heart issue. He was having heart problems. He was actually
not at ADX when he died. They were getting him
medical some sort of surgery, heart surgery of some sort.
And I'm assuming he died on the table or shortly
after the surgery. But he did die May eleventh of
twenty nineteen. And that is the story of what some
consider the most dangerous prisoner in American history behind prison
walls anyway, and that is terrible. Tommy Thomas Silverstein, I
hope you enjoyed this two part episode. I'll be back
soon with a not other episode of Bloody Angola, a
podcast two years in the making, the complete story of
America's bloodiest present peace.
Speaker 1: A Wall Street line, shackle change, Oh, WHO'SO Girdie? It's
calling my name. There is no mercy and it's been
a tentery juice as the huge stream game Wrangle three.
I'm here.
Speaker 2: By me to die.
Speaker 1: Inside these, inside the wild.
Speaker 2: And when the walk.
Speaker 1: As I know, it's abody Angler.
Speaker 2: Ohbody Angle