Free Buddy

He shed the toupee and thirty-five pounds. But after four-and-a-half years in jail, how has the former mayor of Providence changed on the inside? In his own words, Buddy reflects on prison, his career and the $64 million question.

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I left Providence in a snowstorm. It was a poignant experience—I remember listening to Christmas carols playing at the skating rink across from the Biltmore hotel as I said my goodbyes and saw the city for the last time. It was almost surreal driving through the snow, thinking about the ups and downs of my career. I knew that I’d be facing an important challenge the next day, but my life has been defined by challenge. I thought, ‘How could I get myself into this situation?’ I concluded that I had tried my best and fought the good fight. I pleaded not guilty and ended up with one conviction out of twenty-seven charges. That charge was a conspiracy to conspire so to speak.

I was immediately assigned to work in the kitchen at Fort Dix, doing things like mopping floors and cleaning the food line for eight hours a day. I heard they spent $1.70 a day on meals for each prisoner—the food isn’t exactly the Old Canteen. After six months in the kitchen, I was accepted to be a clerk in the leisure library. I was like the celebrity host—I’d answer questions and recommend books. I also tutored people who were trying to get GEDs and taught some classes in American history and political science. I read 500 books, a lot of biographies, books on history and Winston Churchill. I read David McCullough’s 1776 and David Halberstam’s books on the ’50s and ’60s.

I got good reports and never had a problem with any inmates or guards. I didn’t align myself with anyone; it wasn’t like I was running for office. Inmates have their own system of acceptance, rejection and discipline; the key was to survive and get out alive by staying under the radar. There are prison rules, and then there are the rules the population creates. Like, don’t ask another inmate why he’s there, though if you get to be friendly, he’ll usually tell you. And never cut in line. Prison is like living at the DMV: You have to wait in line for everything; getting a sock or a T-shirt may be an all day proposition. The other rule is respect. In order to earn respect, you have to give respect; you learn what that word really means because you’re all in the same boat no matter what route you’ve taken in life. The rules are the same whether you were mayor, drug dealer or Mafia Don. I had always enjoyed a good relationship with the minority community, and that reputation preceded me, which helped because the population was about 70 percent Hispanic and African-American. Also there were many men in their thirties who had respect for my seniority.

There were a lot of victims of the crack cocaine laws, which in my humble opinion ought to be changed. There are people doing far too much time because of sentences that are inconsistent with their crime. But everyone hopes a law will be changed that will affect his situation. I read relevant cases, but I didn’t spend a lot of time researching my case. I was concerned when we lost our appeal, but with one disappointment after another, you got used to it.

Fort Dix changed from a low to a medium security facility while I was there; it wasn’t the country club that some people think. For the last eight months, I was in a two-man cell, but prior to that I was in a twelve-man room. If there was an infraction, all twelve of us were disciplined. If someone was missing during cell counts, it was a problem. You were locked in, and any movement was done on the hour; for example, you had ten minutes to be at your job or gates and doors would lock. If there was a fight, you had to take your shirt off to show you weren’t part of it. It all became rote, like when I rode the horses at Lincoln Woods as a child; no matter how you steered, the horse went the direction it was supposed to, and you always ended up back at the barn.

The prison had its own economy. You earned money from a prison job and could have money sent, but you could only spend $290 a month. I bought cigarettes and food with protein like tuna or soups that I’d cook in the microwave. Mackerels cost $1 a pouch, and if you wanted to take care of the guy who gave you a haircut, you gave him a couple ‘macks.’ People were always bartering, ‘I’ll give you two macks for a battery,’ or ‘I’ll give you two macks for a candy bar.’

Prison is what you make it: For some it’s a trip to loneliness with a side trip to boredom and monotony. There’s a saying in prison, ‘You can do the time or the time can do you.’ Best you do the time; accept where you are and accept the rules. You can think of the future—that’s what sustains you—but don’t imagine what life would be like at that moment if you were outside prison walls. Every day is the same routine; holidays are not celebrated. I spent a lot of time reading, writing and thinking, ‘What am I going to do today to improve myself when I’m out?’ I’m not a spiritual person, but there was a transformation in my approach to life. I’m definitely more tolerant of other people’s views, much more patient and even-tempered. I think that as mayor I always listened to other people’s views, but when decisions must be made in a hurry, sometimes you don’t listen as long as you should.

The key to happiness is freedom, and the key to freedom is courage. In prison, you need to conjure up your courage every day. I was never more self-sufficient or self-confident than in prison. I find that strange, but I had no choice except to rely on myself. I had to raise that confidence daily by telling myself I could get through it, other people had gotten through it.

Being so self-sufficient was a bit shocking at first. I was sixty-one and used to having a driver, having my clothes washed and my trash emptied for me. But I adjusted to fending for myself and even enjoyed it—I took pride in having a neat locker. Now I have a scheduler and a driver again, but I still change my own sheets.

The biggest challenge was lack of communication with the outside world. You find out that friends have died by reading about it in a newspaper that comes a week late. If there’s a family emergency, you don’t know about it; there were deaths in my family that I didn’t hear about until I called home. You only get 300 minutes a month to talk to whoever is on your approved phone list. At first we were allowed thirty visitation hours a month, though later that was changed to unlimited hours on specified days. At most, you could have ten different visitors a year—as long as they’d been cleared by the prison—plus immediate family.