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  #51  
Old 11-03-2008, 12:56 PM
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Default Lompoc Camp

Hey guys. I am home now from a 2 year bit at Lompoc Camp. For anyone who has any questions in regards to this camp, feel free to ask away. I hope and can be of service to you guys.

-david
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  #52  
Old 12-01-2008, 12:52 AM
SumTingWong SumTingWong is offline
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How is like in there? Is the facility nice? clean? How are the inmates? alot of politics? TV's etc..
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  #53  
Old 12-10-2008, 03:57 PM
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Default Lompoc USP

Does anyone have any information on this prison??
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  #54  
Old 02-11-2009, 06:53 PM
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Sorry about the daely. yeah, Its not bad. There are 3 spots for tvs. The first is C dorm which has 6 TVs(2 white, 2 black, 2 hispanic) then there is the tv room in the channel with 4 tvs and they are all white and then outside there are 4 and they are all black. As for politics, there are some but not a ton. Remember, it is a camp. Hope this helps.
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  #55  
Old 02-16-2009, 01:28 AM
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I will be sentenced this summer and will most likely head out to lompoc for 2 years. Any chance I can call you to discuss on what the life is like so that I can prepare myself and my love ones?
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  #56  
Old 02-16-2009, 02:15 AM
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yeah, I PMed you on that
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  #57  
Old 02-20-2009, 03:50 PM
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Cool Brother in Lompoc, CA

Hi! I just registered to attain access to this site. My brother is currently in Lompoc, CA. He's been there for 3.5 years and has serious medical issues. I also have a friend doing 25 years in Victorville, CA and a friend doing 15 years in Lewisberg. Which forum would I go to, to ask why Victorville's in lockdown or if it the lockdown's been lifted? Also, did anyone here about a bomb going off in victorville?
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  #58  
Old 02-20-2009, 07:06 PM
Zelda50 Zelda50 is offline
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Welcome. Victorville USP has been locked down for quite awhile - I think due to gang fights. Victorville FCI was just locked down recently when guards found an explosive device on the yard (inmates weren't out there) and it exploded. No one hurt. Both facilities are still on lockdown as far as I know.

Lewisburg has just been changed over to a Special Management Institution - locked down facility with a "step-down" program. Non-contact visiting. Did your friend just arrive? If not, he might be transferred out to somewhere else.
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  #59  
Old 03-30-2009, 01:14 AM
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Originally Posted by Ladybug2008 View Post
Does anyone have any information on this prison??
Did you get the information you needed? I recently had a visit feb 28,2009 . what did you want to know.. just contact me and i will be happy to help
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  #60  
Old 04-09-2009, 11:14 PM
tmarie24 tmarie24 is offline
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Question Lompoc camp

Hello any info on lompoc camp my husband is there now
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  #61  
Old 04-10-2009, 05:11 PM
jayster jayster is offline
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Sorry tmarie24..I have been looking for that same information..I have TRYING to get to Lompoc camp..I have to self surrender on may 8th..
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  #62  
Old 04-10-2009, 07:23 PM
tmarie24 tmarie24 is offline
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Hello any info on lompoc camp my husband is there now
oh okay. well any info i get from my husband about the camp i will definitely let you know about.
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  #63  
Old 04-14-2009, 11:24 AM
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oh okay. well any info i get from my husband about the camp i will definitely let you know about.

tmarie,

I tried private messaging you a response, but it said you are not accepting them. Here is my response.

The camp is pretty lo-key. It is nothing like a low. They get 8 points a month for visiting. Every visit is 2 points. You can have up to 4 people per visit for those 2 points. Basically, it means he can have 1 day of visiting per weekend. Phones are the same. 15 minutes per call, 300 minutes per month. The time for him will fly there. It is a work camp, so he will have a job and be kept busy. They play sports and walk the track and exercise, just like the low, but without all the racial politics. Fights are slim to none. The crappy part is that the guys are crammed in giant warehouses to sleep, but once he gets past that he will be fine.

Hope this helps.
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  #64  
Old 04-17-2009, 02:08 AM
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tmarie,

I tried private messaging you a response, but it said you are not accepting them. Here is my response.

The camp is pretty lo-key. It is nothing like a low. They get 8 points a month for visiting. Every visit is 2 points. You can have up to 4 people per visit for those 2 points. Basically, it means he can have 1 day of visiting per weekend. Phones are the same. 15 minutes per call, 300 minutes per month. The time for him will fly there. It is a work camp, so he will have a job and be kept busy. They play sports and walk the track and exercise, just like the low, but without all the racial politics. Fights are slim to none. The crappy part is that the guys are crammed in giant warehouses to sleep, but once he gets past that he will be fine.

Hope this helps.
Sorry I was not aware that I was blocking private messages. Anyway I really appreciate the info on the camp. Thank you & Good Luck (you are free!!)
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  #65  
Old 05-06-2009, 03:18 PM
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Default Lompoc Fci

My husband is to self surrender To the Lompoc Fci May 7. Does anyone have any info on it? Is it possible he could goto the camp? What kind of program do they have, can he get a degree there. What are the general conditions like? Thanks
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  #66  
Old 06-01-2009, 12:18 PM
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Default Doing time at Lompoc LOW

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The following is a narrative, in short story format, of time I served while at Lompoc LOW during the summer of 2007.
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This is a true story. The inmates referenced in this text are all real people, most of whom remain incarcerated.
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Moderators please note: This is the final installment of this writing project. This piece is written exactly as I remember it. Racial slurs and swears unfortunately occur in the text because . . . as memory serves me, that's what the inmates said and verbalized. No offense is meant with the racial slurs and swears. Please edit such language as you see fit. Thank you.
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Lompoc LOW
Lompoc, California (near Santa Maria, CA)

Summer 2007

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The CO responsible for supervising the prison laundry is sitting on a chair eating a cold leftover homemade meal out of a plastic container. He shovels spoonfuls of fodder into his mouth while grunting, nodding and signaling non-verbal instructions to his inmate work crew.

“Heah boss. New fish here. Put my requisition in a couple days ago for new issue”, I say. He doesn’t reply while slathering more food into his mouth merely pointing with an elbow towards his inmate clerk. “I gotcha”, the inmate clerk says over the chatter in the prison laundry asking for my last name. Minutes later the clerk returns with an inventory of tan clothing all of which bear my name and register number. Prior to arriving at Lompoc, while at Taft Camp and Devens Camp, none of my clothing reflected such identifying characteristics. All of the linens were anonymous. Now I was branded. I return to my bunk on the third floor of A-Unit and neatly file the clothing into my locker. The open bay dorm in which I’m housed is mostly empty as the other inmates are either at work or recreation. I stagger around aimlessly in the dorm before exiting and landing under the covered pavilion in the paved yard between A-Unit and B-Unit where there are four TV’s and stacks of maroon plastic chairs. Lompoc Low employs controlled movements so I’m stuck here under the pavilion, locked behind enormous chain link fences, until the next movement which will occur just prior to lunch. As a new inmate at Lompoc, I’ve yet to be assigned work and am required to mull about in boredom until such.

In the summer of 2007 at Lompoc Low, inmates were housed in four living units. A-Unit and B-Unit maintain the majority of the inmate population in two enormous, three-story concrete buildings. The structures look like old World War II warehouses with lots of primitive push out windows and no aesthetically pleasing qualities. A & B Units sit opposed in perfect parallel with the chow hall connecting the two buildings at the far end. The three buildings together form a square bottomed “U” shape. The exterior facades of these living quarters contain a plague of mud-hive bird nests constructed by the overwhelming population of Nesting Swallows in Lompoc. The nests and accompanying bird shit pock the buildings like an explosive case of acne on a pimpled teenager.

The basement floors of both A & B Units contain laundry facilities and three TV rooms segregated by race. Administrative, staff and medical offices are located on the first floor of the buildings with sleeping and bathing facilities for inmates on the second and third floors. At the ends of both units on the second and third floors, inmates live in open bay facilities without cubicle or partition walls. The term for such housing is “open-bay/locker-bed” meaning each inmates’ living space is segregated by the distance between the adjacent locker and bed. In the middle of each unit on the second and third floors, inmates also sleep in small rooms, maybe eight men to a room. So there is a little more privacy there.

J-Unit houses inmates enrolled in the institution’s Residential Drug Assistance Program (RDAP) and K-Unit houses mostly black inmates. Both J & K Units are single story red brick buildings in which inmates live in open-bay/locker-bed quarters.

Lompoc Low is a disturbing, ethnically based gang compound. My first impression is that the Spanish control the yard with their overwhelming numbers. The inmate population at Lompoc Low must be fifty percent Hispanic. Aside from the Spanish majority, there are several racially and geographically oriented gangs, most prominently a Latin American gang called the Paisas. They regard themselves as separate, distinct and superior to other Spanish inmates and the general population as a whole. The Paisas do not refer to themselves by given names or even nicknames. I’ve yet to hear one Paisa say to another “Que paso Antonio” or “Venga aqui Carlos”. They merely call each other Paisa as if they are all one homogenous family of the same first and last name. Norretenos and Sorretenos (Northern Californians/Mexicans and Southern Californians/Mexicans) maintain strong populations at Lompoc but each seem smaller in numbers to the Paisas. The black inmates, most of who live together in K-Unit, are not subdivided into smaller gangs. They stay together as one group based purely on race. The blacks are temporarily housed together in K-Unit as a result of an infraction with the Spanish that occurred several weeks ago. Rumors intimate that the prison soon plans to reintegrate the blacks in small groups into A & B Units. Similar to the blacks, Asian and Pacific Island inmates, keep to themselves as one undivided pack although the Asians are already housed in intermittent pods throughout the prison. The white supremacists at Lompoc Low are probably the smallest gang in numbers but no less threatening as each inmate’s physical size is staggering. They all bear colorful tattoos, bulging muscles and goatees or chin beards reminiscent of a motorcycle gang. Educated white-collar inmates comprise the remaining minority balance of the general population at Lompoc Low. Within this educated Caucasian subdivision is a small band of homosexual former methamphetamine addicts referred to as the gay-boy tweakers. On the outside, the tweakers used their absconded money to get high on narcotics. If a full-scale riot erupts in the yard, white inmates and the tweakers will not have a prayer of survival.

As I survey the open plaza between A & B Units where I’m standing under the covered pavilion watching the little Swallows spin through the air and into their mud hive nests, I know I’m in the minority and must tread with caution. That is, until I hear two very familiar voices to my side, the first of which is dark Spanish accented the other of which is shallow and feminine. “Archie, how you doin’ man ?”. Then the hollow voice “Hello”. The words float through the air as the yard is opened for lunch movement during which the plaza between A & B Units fills with inmates.

I turn to my left, and find both Junior and Squirrel Dave approaching with smiles. I was so happy to see familiar faces, I could have full body hugged them but instead sufficed with handshakes and half shoulder gangster taps – a foolish type of pseudo-hug during which inmates tap the top knob of their shoulders together while shaking hands and patting each other on the back. So this is where they disappeared to.

“When you hit the yard man?”, Junior asks.
“Yesterday”.
“How long where you in the SHU at Taft?”.
“About two months”.
“Hard time, man”.

Squirrel Dave retrieves his foolish black plastic hair comb and once again proceeds sweeping his balding hair backwards while standing beside Junior. It’s curious how comfortable Junior is in proximity to Squirrel given his questionable sexuality. Everybody just seems to accept Squirrel Dave just as they do the tweakers. Inmates approach Junior and engage him in both English and Spanish conversation.

“Where you livin’ at ?”, Junior asks.
“Third floor of A-Unit”, I reply.
“My boy Rudy is up there. I’ll send him over to ‘ya”.

Junior and Dave pull me aside out of listening distance from the other inmates and preach a quick lesson on Lompoc politics. “We don’t get along wit’ ‘da blacks Arch”. I assumed the ‘we’ to whom Junior referred were the Spanish. “Big fight last month, we kicked ‘dem all over ‘da yard. Polices came in riot gear to bust it up”. Junior stares at me, locking eyes. “If it happens again, you just stay out of it, hang on ‘da sidelines. Stay cool wit’ ‘da money like you do man”. Dave concludes the conversation saying “Whoa it was bad”. And then they disappear into the chow hall for lunch.

Later that day after the 4 PM stand-up count and dinner, Junior’s boy Rudy approaches me in the open bay on the third floor of A-Unit where I was sitting in the top rack of my bunk bed. He’s a stalky little Hispanic with broad shoulders, a missing front tooth and thick eyeglasses.

“Heah man, you know my boy Junior from Taft ?”, he asks.
“Yeah, we were neighbors at the camp and he was the SHU orderly while we were both jammed up in AD-SEG”.
“Let me get wit’ you a minute”.

I hesitated but hopped down from the bunk and followed Rudy out of the living quarters and into the plaza between A & B Units. My first thought is Junior and Rudy have some type of prison initiation prepared to determine if I could still be trusted. I was wrong. Rudy and I stand adjunct from the population as I listen “Got me a little hustle going so when you need something you let me know. Laundry is ten dollars per month, everything else is negotiated”. Rudy just stares up at me waiting for a response.

“Sounds good. Sign me up for laundry. I haven’t received my property and haven’t shopped commissary yet so I don’t have any detergent”.
“First one’s on me man. Once you get soap, just leave it in your laundry bag. I can do your stuff early on like Saturdays. That work for you ?”.
“That’s fine. How about a radio ? My old one is broken, only one ear works”.
“Yeah man I got one for ‘ya. I’ll come see you tomorrow night”.
“Sounds good”.

Rudy and I did the handshake, half-shoulder gangster tap hug and he departs. I expect he didn’t have an available radio at that moment but he certainly appeared to maintain the resources with which to locate one. In the federal prison system, many inmates do not have family or friends on the outside who can send them money with which to buy commissary. Most prison jobs pay very little – sometimes less than twenty dollars per month. Accordingly, inmates ‘hustle’ services and contraband to obtain what they need. One of the most common hustles is laundry services. Inmates charge a monthly fee to wash, dry and fold another inmate’s laundry each week. I agreed to pay Rudy ten dollars per month in commissary for such. It’s a good deal for both of us as it consumes only about twenty minutes of his time on Saturday morning. The laundry machines will perform all the work. All he really has to do is monitor, move and fold the clothing whereby I can trust that none of my linens will be stolen out of the laundry machines given that Rudy is managing the function. If Rudy has ten to fifteen laundry customers, he can earn enough commissary to easily keep his locker full with needed essentials, snacks and treats.

The following day, Rudy approaches me in the living unit with another Spanish inmate for whom he translates. Rudy hands me a radio with ear buds saying “Check it out”. And I do. The radio works well with sound emanating from both ear pieces.

“How much I ask?”.
Rudy translates for the other Spanish inmate, replying with “He says, we’s coming to you first because you our boy. We’s gonna help you out”.

“How much though, Rudy?”. More translating then “Ten dollars”.

I had been expecting twice that amount, so I agreed to buy the used second-hand radio in exchange for ten dollars in commissary. I punched knuckles with the inmate, another common prison exchange, and he departs arguing with Rudy. I expect the other inmate was upset they didn’t get more for the radio. And I wondered how many other inmates they had approached prior to me saying ‘We’s coming to you first because you our boy’.

Around this time, I began to notice that most inmates at Lompoc Low had a ‘boy’ or buddy with whom they spent their time exercising, talking or cooking at the microwaves. Little Ritchie became my boy. Little Ritchie is serving a five-year sentence for a narcotics conviction generated from his involvement with a small ring of methamphetamine addicts and dealers in Oregon. With wavy dirty blonde hair, a small frame and thin eyeglasses, Little Ritchie looks and behaves like a post-rehab Harry Potter. They have the same intelligent, carefree, whimsical appearances and dispositions. At times, it seems Little Ritchie has forgotten he’s incarcerated. It was also around this time that two muscular Hispanics informally adopted me into their third floor A-Unit clique where it became clear that Junior had given his acquiescence to the Hispanics and that I could be trusted within their ranks. I was surprised how far Junior’s endorsement went with the Spanish. Junior’s a solid young kid but he doesn’t appear to be in the top echelon of the Spanish close to the decision makers and shot-callers. And I’m certain he’s not a Paisa. In military terms, Junior is like a Drill Sergeant not a General. As we mingle in the right-side open bay of A-Unit’s third floor after the 4PM count, my new Spanish foster parents, Gordon and Armando proceed with their daily dose of prison sarcasm which commences from Gordon’s bunk where we all seem to gather after the count waiting to exit the building for chow. Much to my surprise, inmates at Lompoc call Ritchie and I by our first names. The nicknames have now vanished.

Armando smiles asking with a curious grin “Archie, you gets’ a lot of pussy out there with all that money ?”.

Everyone in the unit laughs. I remain calm and diplomatic answering “Now come on guys, I’m married. Wife is in Vegas you know that”.

“Married ? So you wasn’t getting no pussy then ?”.

A thunderous round of laughter through the entire bay. I take no offense to the comment. Armando continues, “We knows Little Ritchie wasn’t getting’ no pussy. Who’d bang Harry Potter on crack ?”. More laughter.

“Archie you’s go to college ?”.
“Yes, yes” I reply trying to end the conversation concluding “I have a master’s degree in finance”.
“All ‘dat colleges and you still got caught ?”.
“Well you know the game. Once the Feds start an investigation, they have to come up with something to justify the time and expense”.
“When you’s get out, you gots to finance some master pussy for Little Ritchie, okay?”.

Again the entire bay fills with laughter. Little Ritchie and I are the butt of the jokes but we take it in good stride, although I can see irritation beginning to fester on Ritchie’s face. Retaliating with hostile or demeaning comments will merit nothing. That is, nothing other than a solid lopsided beating.

“You ever do any drugs on the outside?“, Armando asks after which Gordon interrupts “Come on, he’s a college boy, no drugs”.
“Dat’s the best place to do drugs”, Armando concludes as we all chuckle, Ritchie and I included.

I half smile prying “How ‘bout you ‘Mando ? Ever do any drugs ?”.
He laughs replying “All the time man. Gots to be smart ‘bout it though. Sit back and really enjoy it”.

Moments later we’re released from the living unit for dinner. Little Ritchie and I eat then walk the recreation track where he complains about ‘Mando’s sarcasm “That guy is driving me crazy with all his bullshit! Damnit I’m pissed!”.

Ritchie doesn’t like being the target of jokes as he lacks self-confidence. And it’s evident this is his first experience in federal prison.

“Whoa, whoa, whooooa. Slow down. Calm down. Don’t get hot. They don’t mean what they’re saying. It’s just all fun and games. This is ‘Mando’s way of saying he likes you. It’s like having a big brother who wrestles with you and pins you on the floor all the time. He’s just playing with us. He means absolutely no harm”.

Ritchie returns a miffed stare. I continue, “If they didn’t like us, they’d ignore us both and wouldn’t talk to us at all”. He’s still frustrated. “Let’s run”, Ritchie replies. And we do jogging lightly for a couple laps. Then Little Ritchie commences into a full sprint barreling down the track leaving me behind. He uses his speed to run off the anger and frustration of ‘Mando’s comments. Ritchie’s youth is evident in his stride and speed. I catch up to him after a few laps and together we exit for the showers in A-Unit. “You going to bed or you wanna watch TV downstairs ?”, Ritchie asks as we exit the wash room.
“I’m gonna sack out”.
“Alright, I’ll catch up with you in the morning”. I hop into the top rack of my bunk bed and fall quickly asleep, exhausted from the run.

Morning arrives quickly. The open bay dorm is mostly dark. I sit up and glance across the room. Ritchie is still asleep in the top rack of the bunk he shares with Gordon who is likewise asleep. The time on my small illuminated digital clock reads 5:09 AM. The morning count is near. Two CO’s barge into the bay with flashlights, count the filled beds then quickly depart. Then my first Lompoc problem arrives.

Little Ritchie earned his nickname from his ambivalent personality and skinny physical frame. Unfortunately, in this bay, there is also a Big Ritchie. Big Ritchie is a muscular 275 lb, tattooed, goateed white supremacist who was previously a member of an outlaw motorcycle gang. He approaches me at my bunk immediately after the CO’s exit. The bay remains dark. Shit. Big Ritchie stares me in the face while I remain laying upright in the top rack, heart thumping. Concern washes full over my body.

“You’re white, right?”, he asks.
“Yeah”, I reply.
“What’s your last name ?”.
“XXXXXXXX”.
“What is that ?”.
“That’s Polish”, I conclude.

Then a quiet pause. I didn’t know what to expect after this last response. Was it bad to be a white Pollock in Big Ritchie’s world ? I expected not.

“That’s good”, Big Ritchie replies as he exits the bay with a plastic container and commissary foods which he carries into the day room where the microwaves are located. Later that morning, I overheard him talking with another white supremacist saying “We gotta get our numbers up”, meaning they need more members for their gang. Something is brewing. At the end of the day, prior to the 4 PM count while everyone was standing in the bay waiting for the CO’s to enter, two small young Hispanic inmates on the opposite side of the room start barking orders in Spanish. The word Paisa is repeated over and over. They’re preparing and organizing for something. But what ? More importantly, when ?

That night, my bunkie woke me out of a dead sleep. He’s a portly little Spaniard who is tugging on my bed sheets, grabbing at my chest, shaking and jiggling the blankets. Awake now, I stare down at him from the top rack with blurry eyes. He raises his forearms and fists as if shadow boxing and mutters in broken English “Get ready”. I jump out of the top rack of our bunk wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt but no shoes, quickly slapping on and lacing my sneakers. To my surprise almost every inmate in the bay is awake and standing sentry. Two Spanish inmates are leaning out the third floor windows and yelling across the plaza to the Spanish inmates on the second and third floors opposite us in B-Unit. I hear the word Paisa repeated again and again. Rudy, who lives about five bunks down, runs up the corridor saying “Stay cool man” before disappearing down the hall.

So this is it – everything I’ve seen on television and read in the newspapers about prison riots is about to “pop-off”. I’m scared. Little Ritchie and I stand at attention waiting not able to understand much of the Spanish conversation being exchanged in the bay and across the plaza through the windows. Suddenly its quiet – the calm before the storm. Or rather the silence before the riot. Gordon turns looking over his shoulder at Ritchie and I saying in a stern fatherly voice “You two stay out of ‘dis. Ain’t your fight man”.

I recalled everything I knew about fist-fights – which wasn’t much. Stay back-to-back with Ritchie so no one jumps either of us from behind. Punch with the fist, follow through dropping the elbow down then move. Don’t square off or go toe-to-toe with any one singular inmate. Punch, elbow drop then move. Punch, elbow drop then move. Stay back-to-back with Ritchie. My heart is pounding. A few bunks down, Big Ritchie is calmly slipping cloth gloves across his knuckled fists while punching such into the opposing palm. He’s ready.

What the Christ have I gotten myself into ? Years ago, I was vacationing with my wife on white sandy beaches in Bermuda and Mexico, drinking cold beer and champagne under the sun and spending thousands of stolen IRS dollars while tipping bell-boys and baggage handlers with hundred dollar bills. Now I’m preparing for a prison riot sponsored by the Paisas. Little Ritchie and I wait for the eruption.

II
Spring 2000

Sonesta Beach Resort
Boat Bay, Bermuda


The turquoise blue ocean slips slowly into the resort cove, splashing and dancing at the crest of the soft white beach below. A lazy sun gently rises on the horizon making a sleepy appearance as morning arrives in Bermuda. Palm trees sway in the gentile ocean breeze while the sky hesitantly fills with light. I leave the sliding glass door to the patio open while sitting outside on the veranda which overlooks the ocean and beach below. Room service arrives with a bottle of chilled morning champagne in a silver ice bucket. Maggie remains sleeping in the bedroom suite. I sip from a glass wine flute on the veranda watching the morning sunrise having found paradise. The delicate island wind floats through my hair and across my body filling me with peace. Closing my eyes, I listen to the air sing across the oasis, through my body and into the sky.

Maggie slowly rises from her slumber in the bedroom and joins me on the terrace. She slips onto my lap while wrapped in bright white bed sheets, kissing and whispering to me “Come back to bed”. Her soft lips move across my neck and cheek providing an irresistible invitation. She grabs the bottle of champagne at the neck and together we return to the bedroom, cuddling in bed, talking and sipping champagne straight from the bottle.

“What should we do today ?”, she giggles playfully laying beside me with her leg wrapped around my waist and resting her head on my chest.
“Why don’t we go out, you know leave the resort and go into the downtown area somewhere. Maybe Hamilton or the Royal Naval Dockyard ?”.
“Okay, after some more champagne though ?”.
“Sounds good”.
“Order another bottle while I hop in the shower”.

And I do. Maggie exits the steamy bathroom thirty minutes later dressed in a petite summer dress. Her flaming red hair dances across her shoulders and back. She looks an angel frosted with a fiery red mane and long legs that jet out from under a slim knee high summer dress exposing an intoxicating length of body. We sip more champagne on the terrace feeling the alcohol quickly sedate our senses before exiting and proceeding towards the hotel lobby where the doorman beckons a taxi.

“Yes sir ?” the doorman asks in an island accent from a thin gray goatee while searching for our destination.
“Royal Naval Dockyard please”.
“Of course sir” he continues “Twenty years I be sending guests to the Dockyard”.
“You’ve been working here for twenty years?”, I ask.
“Yes sir, this exact spot”, the doorman concludes while stomping his feet where he stands under a shaded pavilion surrounded by palm trees. Not a bad location to work for two decades. Better than any office cubicle in Boston at least.

Maggie and I hop into a cab and listen to the driver as he talks endlessly about his garden of flowers while speeding along a narrow two-lane road leading to the Dockyard. He drives perilously close to the edge of the street and abutting cliff-side which drops down a shear wall of rock and vegetation into the ocean. He races past slower vehicles by turning into the oncoming lane of traffic, pushing forward like a racecar driver. “You know, sometimes I just see a pretty flower on the side of the road when I’m driving and I pick-it, take it home to ‘da wife you know. Nothing more lovely than a pretty flower for a pretty lady”.
“That’s sweet”, I reply as the cabbie continues. Maggie smiles at the sentiment.
“Do you like flowers ?” he asks while raising an arm in which he holds a Ziploc bag full of marijuana buds.
“No, no flowers for us, thanks. Just get us to the booze”.
“No problem” he finishes as we arrive minutes later at the Royal Naval Dockyard skidding to a volatile halt.

Maggie and I find a comfortable outdoor perch at an open-air restaurant and sip more champagne adjacent to a large grassy park where a female folk singer is serenading the sparse crowd with an acoustic guitar. The entire experience is peaceful yet amplified by the sweet white alcohol in our glasses. Maggie stretches back in her lounge chair facing the sun which glistens off her body. We’ve been together for four years now, having met south of Boston through a mutual friend. It’s fun times with Maggie and I begin to wonder if I could ever find myself married to her.

“Shall we dance ?”, I ask.
“Arch, no one else is dancing”.
“All the more reason to”.

I stand and take Maggie’s hand in mine as we walk into the grassy park where the folk singer continues playing. I wrap my hand around Maggie’s waist, pulling her body close as we slowly waltz alone to the music. A round of applause erupts from park onlookers as the entertainer ends in a crescendo during which I dip and kiss Maggie before all. “And thank you to our dancers” the folksinger says “our only dancers”. Everyone laughs as Maggie and I return to the outdoor restaurant and resume drinking champagne under the dazzling Bermuda sun.

We snack on crab cakes, an island specialty, and talk about nothing of importance, merely enjoying the time and warmth of the tropical paradise. Two bottles of champagne later, while feeling the liquor’s light glow, we depart the restaurant and peruse the various shops at the Dockyard, waltzing the streets in a slow intoxicated dance, holding hands, talking and stopping for kisses along the way. An hour later we summon another taxi, return to the hotel, make love and fall quickly asleep, exhausted from the alcohol and intense Bermuda sun. I again return to the marriage question, dreaming of domestic bliss while stroking Maggie’s long red hair as we are cocooned in bed. This is heaven.

“Why don’t we shower and go downstairs for dinner at one of the restaurants ?”.
“Alright you first though, I’m still sleepy”.

I hop into the shower and wash away the island’s sun and heat along with a light dusting of beach sand, afterwards, dressing in tan Bermuda beach shorts and a loose, short-sleeve, collared Hawaiian shirt. Sitting on the veranda now, the evening warmth hugs my body like a warm afghan blanket as the sun slowly sets on the horizon setting the ocean ablaze. Maggie arrives dressed in a beautiful long summer dress and together we exit the suite and proceed downstairs into the resort lobby for dinner at one of the outdoor restaurants on the hotel piazza adjacent to the beach.

As we conclude eating, the sound of thumping drums begins to emanate from somewhere aside. It sounds like a native band with old wooden percussion instruments banging and thundering in harmony.

“Do you hear that ?”, I ask Maggie who looks over my shoulder.
“Check it out”, she replies with a smile, clapping her hands in unison with the drum beats.

I turn and look over my shoulder finding a large group of native Bermudan musicians marching single file onto the plaza while dressed in brilliant white and pastel colored Indian-like costumes. They march onto the floor in order of height, pounding their drums and dancing in unison. At the very front of the group, a small youth dressed in full costume, dances wildly waving a small axe. He’s followed in succession by older, taller dancers who mimic his movements in harmony. The rear of the pack contains a group of elders who are carrying and beating enormous drums. Unlike the youngsters, the elders do not wear masks. Maggie smiles as we both proceed to clap our hands to the beat of the music. The ensemble marches full onto the outdoor veranda where the elders gather in a horseshoe shape thumping the drums as the younger members dance solo and in pairs amidst the dining tables. It’s wild.

The smallest youth dances forward most swinging his arms and jumping with the axe. From the rear pack, one of the elders barks instructions and the little dancer approaches a hotel guest. He crouches down, kneeling on one leg, bowing his head and hands the axe to the guest who he then summons onto the dance floor. The crowd erupts in applause, coaxing the middle aged woman into the troupe. And she does - axe in hand, standing and following the little dancer into the middle of the pack. The youngster executes quick moves before the crowd indicating she is to copy his steps, which she does to the best of her ability while holding the axe. The drums beat wildly as they dance together, the crowd shouting and clapping all the while in encouragement. Over and over and over the drums thump as the little performer entertains the crowd. An elder shouts from the drum-line “Big-man!”. Maggie turns to me, laughing and pointing a finger. “No, no, no . . . not me” I mutter under the echo of the pounding drums. The youngster approaches, kneels, bows and hands me the axe. I look at Maggie who replies “You can’t say no” while clapping. I took the axe in hand and followed the dancer onto the floor, into the middle of the now standing, clapping crowd. Time to be the hotel jester.

The little actor moves like lightning - stepping, hopping and jumping before all. I try to maintain pace but fail miserably. He skips and pounces, concluding with a split on the stone patio which I perform, feeling a muscle pull somewhere in my thigh and groin. An eruption of laughter ensues from the hotel guests as I return the axe to the young dancer and limp back to the table. Several more hotel guests dance with him after which the elders slow the drum line to a mild thump and recite the poetic history behind Bermuda music and the formation of this particular percussion group. Then the drums begin to thunder again as the band weaves through the crowd holding a small wicker bowl in which guests deposit gratuities while knuckling the dancers. I deposited a $100 bill and watched the ensemble march to the drumbeat and exit the patio in slow rhythm.

Maggie and I spent a week together in Bermuda tanning on the beaches, drinking champagne and making love in the afternoon. Reality and responsibility hit us full in the face upon our return to New England. The house we shared in Plymouth was in disarray and Maggie’s children from her first marriage were pining for their mother. I was almost glad to return to work in Cambridge after nine hours back at the house.

The bedroom alarm clock buzzes 5:30AM, Monday morning. Still sleepy from the vacation, I wake and fumble through the morning routine of showering, shaving and climbing into a suit and tie. Maggie mumbles from the bed “I’ll call you later”. The drive north on Route 3 from Plymouth to Cambridge is uneventful. I arrive at the office on Memorial Drive near 7 AM where the majority of the tax and accounting departments are already busy at work. My desk is littered with tax returns and annual reports all of which need to be filed and updated. So I begin with the annual reports which must be filed each year with the various Secretary of State offices. The parent company with who I am employed, owns and manages myriad subsidiaries and affiliates, however, all compliance matters are managed by the tax department where I work at the parent company.

I log onto the Massachusetts Secretary of State’s web site and conduct a search on the first subsidiary name: Harbor Cruises. The search yields two results: Harbor Cruises, INC. and Harbor Cruises, LLC.

How could two companies share the same legal name, save for the organizational abbreviation ? Could there also be two Starbucks – one an incorporated entity conducting business under the INC. abbreviation, the other a limited liability company conducting business under the LLC. abbreviation ? Something is amiss. So I did more research finding that Harbor Cruises, INC. was a defunct, bankrupt corporation no longer conducting business in Massachusetts. I continue reading and find that the two Harbor Cruises companies listed on the Massachusetts Secretary of State’s web site each maintain separate and distinct Employer Identification Numbers (EINs) therefore the Internal Revenue Service would not confuse the two organizations based purely on name. The EINs would distinguish the two entities. Or would they ?

When funds are electronically transferred between financial institutions in the United States, information pertinent to the electronic funds transfer (EFT) is assembled into a standardized data file. This data file is processed by the Automated Clearing House (ACH) who is responsible for ensuring that the contents and format of the data file satisfy the National Automated Clearing House Association (NACHA) operating rules. EFT’s between banks located in different countries are processed and governed through the Society for Worldwide Interbank Financial Telecommunication (SWIFT).

NACHA transfers can be initiated and submitted to the ACH in a variety of formats. For tax payments, the most common entries are ACH Debits and ACH Credits both of which employ the NACHA required Cash Concentration & Disbursement (CCD) file. A CCD file is merely one long string of alphanumeric characters absent of punctuation and abbreviations. Each character in the data file is positioned in standardized format to represent an applicable data field such as company name, tax type code, tax period and dollar amount to be transferred. There are more fields in a standard CCD file but for purposes of a tax payment, this is some of the most applicable information.

Two of the most important fields in the CCD file are the American Banking Account (ABA) number and checking account number – both of which represent the bank and checking account from which funds will be drawn and transferred. Much to my surprise, there are no other required or unique identifiers in the CCD file such as security codes, logon ID, passwords or biometric authentication. And a company’s EIN does not appear in the CCD file. The EIN appears in the TXP addenda file which is not employed in ACH Debit entries. The TXP addenda file is employed in ACH Credit entries. Heretofore, all a scammer needs to effect an ACH Debit tax payment is the company name, ABA number and checking account number – all of which are available on the face of any payroll check or general funds check. No authentication is required to validate ownership over a checking account.

So that’s what I did. I looked at my payroll check finding my employer’s name and address in the top left portion of the paycheck. The ABA number and checking account number were of course contained in the Magnetic Ink Character Recognition (MICR) line at the bottom of my paycheck which also contained the check number. This was the long string of strange looking numbers printed in magnetic ink along the bottom edge of the paycheck. The numbers were easy to distinguish: the ABA number is a nine digit field, the check number in the MICR line corresponds with the check number in the top right portion of the check and the remaining field is of course the randomized checking account number.

Given that the EIN does not appear in the CCD file and provided that no authentication is required to prove personal ownership over a checking account, would it be possible to create a mirror-copy of my current employer ? That is, the Massachusetts Secretary of State web-site indicates there are two Harbor Cruises companies – one named Harbor Cruises, INC. the other named Harbor Cruises, LLC. The CCD file truncates company names so the INC. and LLC. abbreviations will not appear in the CCD file therefore the ACH will not distinguish between the companies and I should be able to transfer funds from a real company to a mirror-copy of the same company by exploiting the MICR line associated with the real company.

And that’s what I did. The name of my employer is: Modern Continental Construction Company, INC. In the 1990’s and early 21st century, Modern Continental was the 800lb gorilla of the Massachusetts construction industry. It was also the company that mostly managed the “Big-Dig” highway project in Boston. As of this writing, Modern Continental is bankrupt and its owner, Lelio “Les” Marino, is dead. Modern Continental was dissolved during bankruptcy proceedings yet I understand that Les’ daughter Lorraine was able to retain her fake breast implants courtesy of a generous bankruptcy trustee and diplomatic mediator. Save the scalpels for a later date.

So no breasts aside . . . prior to the dissolution, I created a mirror-copy of my employer Modern Continental Construction Company, INC. by filing a Form SS-4 applying for an abbreviated version of my employer’s name and requesting from the IRS a corporate name of Modern Continental, INC. The IRS assigned an EIN to my mirror-copy Modern Continental and I was ready. All I needed was a vehicle with which to electronically transfer funds to my mirror Modern Continental. Bless the IRS for providing such in their Electronic Federal Tax Payment System (EFTPS) – a web site which assembles data into CCD files, submits them to the ACH and allows the IRS and Treasury Department to collect money in the form of EFTs and tax payments after the ACH processes and settles the applicable CCD files. It was identity theft at a corporate level.

It worked.

I used EFTPS to transfer $50,000 to the Treasury Department in the guise of a weekly Form 941 payroll tax deposit. This sum was transferred from the real Modern Continental’s bank account but credited to my mirror Modern Continental. At the end of the calendar quarter, I filed a fraudulent Form 941 claiming a refund due of about $25,000 indicating that I had double paid my mirror company’s quarterly tax withholding. Ninety days later, the Treasury Department issued a $25,000 tax refund check to my mirror Modern Continental. I opened a checking account for my mirror company at a local Plymouth bank, deposited the refund check and went to dinner with Maggie.

Did I feel guilty ? At that time . . . No . . . I did not feel guilty. I held no remorse for what I did as I bore witness to the real Modern Continental’s gang-rape of the taxpayers who ultimately funded the Big Dig in Boston. And I bore witness to the financial rewards bestowed upon our company president for such rape. The Justice Department hands down indictments upon dictators of war crimes. Such indictments should also be handed down upon perpetrators of parallel financial crimes. And they are. Rape need not be a physical violation when the same act yields economic violations.

Look at the federal income tax withheld from your paycheck. If you were employed during the late 1990’s and early part of the 21st century, certain of the amount found under FIT, Fed Tax or Federal Income Tax Withheld was appropriated to the United States Transportation Department and the Massachusetts Highway Department. As a result, certain of that amount also went into Les Marino’s pocket and into Lorraine Marino’s breast implants – a bipartisan pair of ass and tits.

But still this was the ass and tits that funded my livelihood. And it did not excuse my criminal behavior. Theft is theft no matter from who you steal nor for what good such pilfered funds are used. The Robin Hood myth is a lie.

So I graduated to a new victim, something that gave me solace in my crimes – a customer of Modern Continental’s egregious construction scams. Willamette Industries, INC. was a client for the real Modern Continental. The real Modern Continental was building a multi-million dollar manufacturing plant in the mid-Atlantic states under contract for Willamette Industries, INC. I referenced the face of a bank check issued by Willamette Industries, INC. to Modern Continental as a monthly payment for work-in-progress completed to date. The check was in excess of $1 million so I knew there were funds in this bank account if not, at the very least, an overdraft covenance to fund claims against the account.

I created a mirror-copy of Willamette Industries, INC. by filing with the IRS a Form SS-4, creating my own Willamette and I began debiting the bank account associated with the MICR line found at the bottom of the real Willamette Industries’ remittance forwarded to Modern Continental.

Again . . . it worked. And it worked in million dollar EFT’s.

No longer did I need ass or tits to steal. All I needed was the face of a bank check issued from a large corporation and a lack of conscience – items that were both in ample supply at the real Modern Continental. Just prior to being arrested by IRS-CID and the United States Secret Service, I had transferred in excess of $3 million from MICR lines associated with Modern Continental’s customers. And I was now on my way to federal prison.


III
“Whatta you figure ?”, I ask Little Ritchie as we stand beside my bunk in the open bay of A-Unit’s third floor.

Ritchie looks around the room, arms folded on his chest, thin spectacles surveying the area like an infra-red camera lens.

“The Paisas are gettin’ ready to pound someone”, he replies.

I hesitate at asking the question but continue “You think Gordo and ‘Mando are Paisas ?”.
“No. Definitely not”.
“So if the Paisas start cracking skulls Gordon and ‘Mando are going to be on the receiving end?”.
“Maybe”.

At the far end of the bay, two little Hispanics are talking with a bunch of other Latin Americans in a small shrunken circle. They’re the same inmates who had previously been barking orders to the other Spanish in the bay shouting the word “Paisa”. But they’re all little guys – none more than 150lbs each, considerably smaller than Gordo, ‘Mando and especially smaller than the White Supremacists. However, I suspect their strength is not in individual size but rather in the totality of their numbers. And for the first time since arriving at Lompoc, I watch both Gordo and ‘Mando remove their shirts exposing bear skin, bulging muscles and bodies completely covered in tattoos. There isn’t an inch of bare flesh on Gordo’s upper-body that isn’t decorated in a blue-ink tattoo marking. His chest is a complete canvas of art.

Gordo looks over at Little Ritchie and I after which I ask “What’s going on Gordon ?”.
He ignores me while adorning a heavier shirt covering his body over which he pulls a sleeveless gray sweatshirt. I again ask “Gordon, what’s going on ?”.

“Just stay out of it”, he replies “You two just stand there”.

Little Ritchie, as always, interrupts with his juvenile comments “Come on man’ . . . we’re with you. We fuckin’ bunk together Gordo”.

Gordon looks at Little Ritchie and places a hand on his shoulder staring directly into his eyes like father to son saying “That’s right Ritchie. We live together. We take care of each other. You my boy”. Then a long pause. “And ‘dats why I’m telling you to stay out of this. You only gonna get hurt and we gonna have to pull some big niggers off you”.

“You’re going to fight with the blacks again ?”, I ask.

Gordon shakes his head looking down at the ground replying “We ain’t fightin’ the niggers. The Paisas are gonna stomp them. We just backin’ ‘em up in case it gets out of hand”.

The entire bay is full of Spanish soldiers dressed, flexed and standing sentry waiting for orders. It’s quiet – too much so. I can’t believe this.


The Paisas v. Blacks prison rumble never occurred that night. Rumors indicate that someone tipped-off the guards who then locked down certain of the units, thus, the Paisas were unable to exit A & B Units and were unable to get into K-Unit where the blacks were housed. Neither Little Ritchie or I ever learned the nucleus of the brawl, however, I suspect it was some petty act of “disrespect” between Spanish and Black inmates.

Most common English dictionaries define the word “disrespect” as either a noun or an adjective. In the Federal prison system, the word “disrespect” is an actionable verb that causes confrontation, stress and, in certain isolated incidents, all consuming riots. That night at Lompoc we almost graduated from noun and adjective to verb.

Two months later, the evening before my release date, I stood talking with Gordo and ‘Mando in our usual gossip spot after the 4PM stand-up count. Little Ritchie had been moved out of A-Unit and into K-Unit as part of the prison’s re-integration program during which small groups of blacks exchanged places with small groups of whites. To no one’s surprise, Gordon’s new bunkie is another young white male therein reflecting the BOP’s acknowledgement of the racial tension between the Spanish and blacks at Lompoc. Bless their foresight.

As we stand gabbing, Gordo asks “So what you got for me ?”.

It’s tradition in the BOP for inmates to surrender their belongings and property to each other the evening before their release. No one wants to take anything home that will remind them of their incarceration. I don’t have much of value other than a few items of clothing and a small digital clock all purchased from the Devens Camp commissary. Many of these items are unavailable here at Lompoc. This of course spurs Gordo’s interest.

“I have a bunch of gray T-shirts, gray sweatpants, some food stuff, toiletries and lots of paper”.
“Let me see what’s you got”, Gordo continues after which I hand him my commissary purchased sweat clothing save for one gray sweatshirt and a pile of other miscellaneous items I saved for Little Ritchie.
“That’s nice. Thanks man. What else you got ? I know yous got more in there. How ‘bout that sweatshirt yous wearin’ now. Can I have that?”.

Gordo exercises all day long and consumes at least two to three sets of sweat soaked clothing accordingly. He cuts the sleeves off all his t-shirts and sweatshirts converting them into muscle shirts. And he’s hoping he can have all of my clothing to serve this purpose.

“I’m going to release out in this sweatshirt, so I need this one. You can have the rest. Be sure to share some of it with ‘Mando”.
“Don’t worry about Porky, I’ll take care of him”.

We both laugh. Rudy arrives. “Heah . . . got your last payment here” I say while handing Rudy twenty dollars in commissary purchases for the last month of his laundry services and thank him for his support and friendship. “I’ll see you later my friend”, I say in a carefree tone. Rudy turns to me replying in a disturbing voice “No. We ain’t gonna see each other later”. Rudy smiles with a missing tooth grin saying “I don’t wanna see you back in here. Don’t let them violate you. Go home. Don’t come back”. And then he disappears down the hall.

That was the expression I heard all day long from the few friends I had at Lompoc – Don’t come back.

I didn’t sleep at all that night. The following morning, groggy from lack of sleep but eager with anticipation, I washed and showered, then ate breakfast with Little Ritchie in the chow hall. He was all smiles, as usual, and happy for me. We walk up to the third floor of A-Unit where I give him the remaining contents of my prison locker including a rare digital clock that I had purchased back at the Devens commissary. Little Ritchie walks with me as we exit A-Unit and proceed towards Receiving & Discharge (R&D) where the prison staff will process me out. I can feel anxiety building and wish Little Ritchie hadn’t escorted me to the exit. He talks with the same carefree ambivalence I saw on the first day we met. Prison hasn’t changed him and I hope it never does.

We hug and shake hands at the gate to R&D to which he says, like many others, “Don’t come back”. Little Ritchie turns and walks away. I mustered every last ounce of strength I could not to shed a tear. And then he was gone. I never saw Little Ritchie, Gordo or ‘Mando again.

A CO opens the gate to R&D and I am quickly ushered inside alone. Standing at the R&D counter he asks “Name and number?”.

I reply “XXXXXXX, Archie, XXXXX-XXX”.

It was the last time I muttered my Federal Register Number to a BOP Corrections Officer.


IV
The United States Treasury Department and IRS have since corrected the issue associated with initiating ACH Debit tax payments for credit to mirror entities through EFTPS. Neither organization will allow a company to enroll in EFTPS and employ an ABA number or checking account number if that MICR line data is already enrolled in EFTPS. Thus, although it is still possible to create a mirror company by filing a fraudulent Form SS-4, it is no longer possible to initiate EFT’s through EFTPS when the target entity’s MICR line data exists in EFTPS. So well motivated criminals need to find another vehicle with which to electronically transfer funds to mirror organizations.

Most financial institutions with internet banking capabilities do not allow an applicant to open an institutional or corporate account on-line via the internet. Such web sites typically provide for the creation of personal checking and trading accounts only. Further, companies such as E-Trade and Scottrade require applicants to authenticate their ownership of an external checking account and the associated MICR line used for funding by employing random deposit verifications and credit checks.

During random deposit verifications, the on-line bank initiates to the external checking account two or three small random deposits typically totaling less than three dollars. The applicant is then required to verify the amounts with an internet response to the on-line bank. Hence, the applicant must have access to the external checking account used for funding to verify the random deposits. The face of a bank check and applicable MICR line alone are now no longer sufficient to transfer funds to an internet bank that employs random deposit verification.

Credit checks further complicate mirror-fraud by authenticating the identity and existence of an applicant’s enrollment information by matching such information to data maintained at the three major credit reporting bureaus. Certain on-line banks, such as Scottrade, conduct instant on-line credit checks to verify an applicant’s name, address and social security number.

TD Ameritrade remains the anomaly in the internet banking industry. The institution does not employ random deposit verification or instant on-line credit checks for initial funding of new TD Ameritrade accounts. The institution effects random deposit verifications to link external bank accounts only after the new TD Ameritrade account is open and funded. Therefore, criminals exploiting mirror-fraud in the TD Ameritrade arena can initiate only one ACH Debit to a MICR line in the guise of the initial funding for credit to a mirror name.

Further, TD Ameritrade lacks the ability to distinguish between corporate and individual identities. It is possible to split a corporate name into two pieces on the TD Ameritrade web-site thereby giving it the appearance of an individual with a first and last name. For example, it is possible to split the corporate name Philip Morris, INC. into two pieces that represent the first and last name of an individual simply named Philip Morris. Given that the ACH network truncates company names to remove punctuation and abbreviations, the ,INC. at the end of Philip Morris, INC. is removed. Therein the genesis of split-mirror fraud and the birth of Philip Morris the person, not the company, with his new on-line TD Ameritrade personal trading account.

I don’t know why TD Ameritrade does not conduct instant on-line credit checks to authenticate an applicant’s identity prior to initial funding. TD Ameritrade verifies the existence of an applicant’s social security number but that number is not matched to the applicant’s name at the time the account is opened. So as long as the submitted social security number is real, obtained from a job application or the like, it need not match the applicant’s name on the TD Ameritrade web site. An information match of the applicant’s information to a credit report is performed after the account is opened and funded during which time funds from the initial deposit are held in suspense for ninety days. Mismatches between the applicant’s information and a credit report trigger an account closure and a return of initially deposited funds to the MICR line that was debited. Weird, ehhh ? Why is this done after the account is opened ?

My local TD Bank North branch indicates that all new accounts are verified by ChexSystems. ChexSystems is not a credit reporting agency. The organization is merely a database of names and identities with a history of writing bad, unfunded or fraudulent checks. A positive “hit” on a ChexSystems report merely indicates the target of inquiry has a history of bouncing checks and is therefore a credit risk to the underlying financial institution. No “hit” during a ChexSystems inquiry indicates just the opposite. Thus, is it safe to assume that entirely fabricated identities created with split-mirror fraud will always yield no hits at ChexSystems given that split-mirror identities are entirely fictional and have never before written a valid or bounced check? If so, are Toronto Dominion (TD) institutions the only organizations in which split-mirror fraud will prevail? As of this writing, I do not know the answers to these questions. However, it seems entirely possible which raises the question: How does a fraudster transfer funds out of a split-mirror TD Ameritrade account before TD Ameritrade learns that the split-mirror identity is fake ?
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  #67  
Old 06-01-2009, 01:20 PM
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Csmcgrl23 Csmcgrl23 is offline
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That was crazy. My friend left Lompoc Low in April 2007. He never once mentioned gangs or discord. Ever. I know that not long after he left there was a big riot...and I was thankful he wasn't there. It wasn't till after he left that I learned the history of Lompoc and the things that have happened there. I was always under the impression that he was safe and that the crap you see in state prison just didn't happen there. Still to this day he has never told me what went on in there....I guess he really did love me.
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Old 06-06-2009, 11:37 PM
PBJ168 PBJ168 is offline
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Default FCC Lompoc Commissary List

Hi,
Just received commissary list from my brother (Jayster)... he thought it might be helpful to folks here.

Hopefully I uploaded properly
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Old 07-16-2009, 12:00 AM
xxjoshiexx xxjoshiexx is offline
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i was at lompoc till the end of june 07.. i remember the little race riot thing... ive heard the rules changes are still in effect.. that sux not being able to take a shower or wash ur laundry 24 hours a day....
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Old 07-16-2009, 04:09 AM
xanadugirlz xanadugirlz is offline
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That was all beyond facsinating, Thanks for the effort in writing, especially about what you did....so Am I right that you actually physically went into the banks??
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Old 07-17-2009, 06:59 AM
Archie999 Archie999 is offline
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Quote:
Originally Posted by xanadugirlz View Post
That was all beyond facsinating, Thanks for the effort in writing, especially about what you did....so Am I right that you actually physically went into the banks??

Yes and No.

The electronic funds transfers through EFTPS were accomplished outside the banks from a computer using MICR line info. As stated in the text above, all you need is the face of a bank check (ie: a payroll check).

The deposit of the fraudulent tax refund checks was accomplished inside the banks. Given that I was depositing real United States Treasury checks, bank managers and tellers never questioned the deposits.

Although this can no longer be accomplished at the Federal level with the Treasury Department and IRS through EFTPS, it can still be accomplished at the state level using any state department of revenue's web-site => such as the Iowa Department of Revenue.
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  #72  
Old 07-17-2009, 09:10 PM
pink05 pink05 is offline
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Archie,
I sent all your prison stories to my friend and he really enjoyed reading them. It helped him pass the time at Allenwood. I also found your stories very fascinating as well!
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Old 07-18-2009, 07:29 AM
Archie999 Archie999 is offline
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Quote:
Originally Posted by pink05 View Post
Archie,
I sent all your prison stories to my friend and he really enjoyed reading them. It helped him pass the time at Allenwood. I also found your stories very fascinating as well!
Thank you.
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  #74  
Old 07-18-2009, 04:26 PM
NaNa7 NaNa7 is offline
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Thanks Archie,

I think you have found your gift. All of us have gifts, I hope yours take you far.
I read the stories on the link below all the time:

http://gorillaconvict.com/blog/
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Old 09-30-2009, 04:54 PM
tmarie24 tmarie24 is offline
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Default Fire in Lompoc..

I just read on the LA TImes that there is a fire in Lompoc and there are evacuating people from Vandenburg Air Force Base. That's right near Lompoc FCI, USP and the camp. I'm worried now
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