Conrad Black In Prison: “I Find Helping Others Rewarding”

As the first anniversary of his 6 1/2- year sentence approaches (on Mar. 4), Conrad Black admits he “had no idea of what to expect” when he entered the federal prison near Coleman, Florida. 

By the same token, I had no idea of what to expect when I visited him last week at the Federal Correctional Complex in the centre of Florida, 50 miles north of Orlando and Disney World in the middle of nowhere.

Coleman is not easy to find, much less drive to. It’s between Interstate Highway 75 and the Florida Turnpike, reachable only by a country road.

A huge complex, the prison consists of high, medium and low security facilities, totaling around 3,000 inmates. Each facility is surrounded by a 10-foot chain-link fence, with three tight coils of razor wire running parallel — top, middle and bottom on the prisoners’ side of the fence.

Conrad is low security, which means most of the inmates are in for non-violent “crimes” and are due to be released when sentences are served. Good behaviour is more or less guaranteed, while in the high security facility, violence is more likely among inmates who have nothing to lose.

In fact, there’s been more squabbling and fighting among visitors to low security inmates than among inmates. Visiting hours are 8 a.m. to 3 or 3.30 p.m., and visitors start gathering at around 6.30 a.m. to be sure of getting in on the first wave of 10 or 12 visitors. (No visitation on Tuesdays and Wednesdays).

I got there at around 7.15 a.m. but was ordered away from the prison door until 8 a.m. We visitors milled like sheep behind a yellow line in the parking lot and scrambled for numbers doled out by a prison employee.

I was number 13 – first in line for the second wave of visitors to pass the electronic screening.

First, we were herded into a reception room to fill out papers, hand in a driver’s license, and note identity number of the inmate we were visiting (Conrad is 18830-424). The whole process of removing belt and shoes, taking in only 20 one dollar bills (for food and drink machines), having one’s hand stamped (ultraviolet) to ensure an inmate doesn’t take our place, and going through a couple of sealed rooms, and marching single file to a visiting hall 150 yards away, erodes any feeling of independence or identity. You feel insignificant and that you are something of an irritant to custodial staff.

Female visitors cannot wear provocative clothing (fair enough), and for men, khaki shirts and pants are taboo (might be mistaken for an inmate), and dark clothes are forbidden (guards). I wore jeans and a red shirt. A new sign was posted in the waiting room: “Due the change in the clothing of staff, medium blue polo shirts, dress shirts and dark blue pants will not be authorised to be worn by visitors.” Clumsy wording, but precise.

In fact, I caused a bit of a lockdown when a guard accused me of trying to smuggle $2 in my shirt pocket. The 11 people behind me were herded back into the reception room while I was interrogated and the guard went for a hand-held electronic screening device.

“The $2 is change from the turnpike toll,” I said. He was having none of it.

A female guard had just meticulously counted out my 20 one-dollar bills and a dozen quarters for the food machines – as a visitor, only I could treat Conrad. He is allowed no money.

The female guard whispered: “I don’t think you were doing wrong.”

Grudgingly, the guard eventually okayed me, and the other visitors were allowed out of lock-up.

It can be demeaning even to visit a prison – a feeling not lessened by a “freedom for all” poster of Nelson Mandela and photos of Martin Luther King, Frederick Douglas and Rosa Park in the gathering area, all honouring Black History Month.

In the visiting hall, tables and chairs were lined up, and the first wave visitors were already with inmates. I grabbed an empty table and waited. A few minutes later, from the other end, Conrad strolled in, looked around, spotted me, and waved. Like other inmates, he wore a crisp, pressed, short sleeved olive green shirt and matching pressed pants.

He looked trim and fit, unlike his drawn, tense demeanor at his four-month trial in Chicago, 2007. If not exactly relaxed, he seemed serene, friendly and resigned, albeit as adamant as ever that he (and some other inmates) were victims of America’s persecutory justice system. What could have been an awkward situation, was anything but.

No notebooks or tape recorders are allowed, so our five-hour meeting hinges on memory.

While he’s in a low security institution, it’s still a prison. Not pleasant.

For those interested, Conrad Black, after a year here, is as resolved as ever in his innocence. While not aggressively defiant, he shows no signs of being either intimidated or subdued. In fact he seems to adjust well, and in a sense it’s like being back at boarding school.

He is even popular among inmates, many nodding, or acknowledging his presence. He gives history and political lectures – attended by both staff and inmates – and he works at teaching those who want to learn. It’s a new and rewarding role for him.

Almost as if surprised by it, he notes that “it’s very hard work preparing lessons, and surprisingly rewarding to help people.” Always generous, Conrad Black is also kind. One feels he has discovered a new side to himself by improving the knowledge of others.

There’s also stimulation in his situation. “There are interesting people here,” he says, and points out one distinguished looking inmate who had been a senior figure in the Republican party in Kentucky, whose assistant got a plea bargain for testifying against him.

Another inmate was an officer on a nuclear submarine who got nailed for financial reasons. There are a smattering of lawyers and business men who got knicked for various things. And a black guy who was a leading marijuana distributor in the north, and is reputed to have big money stashed away.

So Conrad is not surrounded by low-lifes or knuckle-draggers. Being found guilty does not necessarily imply guilt these days, and while resigned, he is not disheartened and is preparing his case for the U.S. Supreme Court. His lawyers figure he’s got a pretty strong case “if I can get my case heard.” That’s the rub – getting the Supremes to even hear his case. But he figures his lawyers are of such stature that there’s a good chance it’ll be heard.

As soon as we had shaken hands, Conrad wondered if we could have a cappuccino coffee. The machine was broken, so we settled  for iced tea from the machine. At lunchtime we had a machine-bought muffin, pecan pie, packaged cold meat and cheese and crackers. And more iced tea. Gourmet dining.

If inmates go to their own lunch, their visitors must leave and are not allowed to return that day.

Conrad has already written a book about his trial and initiation to the prison. The manuscript is in the hands of his publishers. He’ll undoubtedly be doing another book about his time in Coleman, and it should be a doozy.

Right now he is taking piano lessons, and practices an hour a day (“my response to my mother for not letting me take lessons as a child”). He also avoids contact with senior prison staff and the warden – “I keep a low profile, mind my own business, and avoid the staff as much as I can.”

Even I, with preliminary research, can see something is terribly amiss within the U.S. justice system. Some 30 years ago, the U.S. had proportionately the same number of citizens in prisons as other developed countries. Today it has proportionately six or seven times more prisoners than other countries.

In 1972, prison inmates in the U.S. totaled somewhere over 300,000. By 2000 this number had expanded to 2 million inmates of federal, state and private prisons – more than any other country.

Perhaps 25% of the world’s prison population is in the U.S., which represents 5% of the world’s people. Some 200,000 are in federal prisons today.

Reality is, that the U.S. has contracted prisons to the private sector, and guarantees to provide inmates. In other words, if the private sector builds the prison, the feds, state and municipalities will fill them. Human rights advocates point out that 10 years ago five private prisons in the U.S. held 2,000 inmates; today, 100 private prisons hold over 60,000 inmates.

Hence the lust of Congress and prosecutors to send the likes of Roger Clemens and Barry Bonds to jail, to say nothing of businessmen who incur the envy and resentment of prosecutors.

Also, the proportion of people in mental hospitals has declined in the U.S. Today they are more likely to be in prisons. Conrad has noted when he goes to have his blood pressure checked at the prison hospital, inmates with mental problems are gathered to collect medication.

Prison reform in the U.S. is a cause waiting to be discovered.

A curious benefit to the Canadian public of Conrad Black being in prison is his writings in the National Post. Every weekend he seems to have an article, which apart from his unusual perspective, often wryly notes that he’s “a guest of the American government.” From my point of view, he is now better known, and better liked, than he was prior to his ordeals with American justice. Canadians have a tendency to resent successful businessmen, especially those whom they consider arrogant. But they also admire courage and defiance, and whatever Conrad Black is, he is neither a crybaby nor whiner.

I think there is reluctant admiration for the way he has fought his legal battles, perhaps losing, but never acknowledging defeat and always fighting back – invariably with dark humour and a sense of irony.

He notes that his and wife Barbara Amiel’s travails, have provided surprises, especially among some they had previously considered friends. Some have resolutely stood by them, others have run for cover. In that, perhaps they are lucky. Most people never know how friends may behave if you are down on your luck. Conrad and Barbara do.

Conrad tends to agree with John McCain’s assessment of his five years as a tortured prisoner of the North Vietnamese: The hours and days seemed interminably long, the weeks and months pass with incredible speed.

“Yes, time is strange here,” says Conrad. “You lose track of days and dates, and they all blend together.” Meanwhile he endures, keeps busy, and has access to email if not the internet. He has a support system of friends and those who feel that he shouldn’t be in prison —  that at his trial nothing was proved against him that was “beyond a reasonable doubt.” The jury agreed and acquitted on nine of 13 charges against him.

We parted with me going into the freedom of Florida’s afternoon sunshine, Conrad going to endure a body cavity search which is his fate every time he has a visitor.

Next week, Conrad Black begins his second year in prison.