“I knew Hoss very well,” Warden William Robinson reflected.
I spent some thirty years in the prison system, so you get to know these guys. Some I got when they were eighteen and, with them in and out and back, still had them when I retired … Life on the installment plan. I first met Hoss at the county workhouse where he was doing a short stint. Hoss was a strong person, exceptionally strong, and a fairly good-looking man.
In that strange way sometimes found between enemies, Hoss appreciated me and I understood him. Odd, but in all my dealings with Hoss, I found him to be normal, even affable, but that’s when he chose to be. Yet in the summer of ’69, future tidings unknown, Hoss was just one more prisoner in my jail, which was already filled to the brim.
Robinson did indeed have a lot on his plate in 1969. Over the preceding couple of years there’d been much turmoil at the jail. The well-publicized beating of inmate “Georgia” Buoy was a public relations nightmare. After speaking only with inmates, handsome, fair-haired DA Robert Duggan “confirmed” that beatings had been administered for some time, particularly at night. His premature statement pitted his office against the jail’s administration and officer corps. A headline shouted, “Jail Terrorism Probe Entered by State Bureau.” Not long after that, Grant Price—who’d become warden in the days of Bonnie and Clyde, Machine Gun Kelley, and Dillinger—abruptly quit. In a bittersweet parting, Price said, “The duties are becoming greater, more complex … perhaps a younger man can cope better.” Suffering regular salvos from the media, it got worse for the jail when twenty-seven-year-old Richard Mayberry and three sidekicks, armed with zip guns, forced an officer to unlock a door to the outside. For this fiasco, more media potshots were fired at the Ross Street lockup, now dubbed “the schlockup.” After several investigations, the jail’s staff was cleared of wrongdoing in the “Georgia” Buoy incident. Although some critics screamed “Whitewash,” most people accepted the conclusions of the investigating committee, for, as one man in the street concluded in an interview, “You can’t have those convicts spittin’ in your eye, can you?”
Over the fourteen months following Warden Price’s departure, a couple interim wardens ran the place until a permanent replacement—energetic, thirty-seven-year-old William Robinson—came on board. Called Robby by most everyone, Robinson didn’t fit ordinary perceptions of a warden. The powers that be brought him to the county jail from the Allegheny County Workhouse, where he’d come up through the ranks to eventually become deputy warden. The county jail, with all its problems, needed a strong, experienced hand, and this, in Robby, is what it got. Young by traditional standards to assume command of such a ticklish post, Robinson was savvy, politically astute, and, most importantly, knew a con when he saw one, literally and figuratively.
However, by the time Robinson officially took up residence (for in those days the warden and his family lived in quarters on the second floor), the jail presented even more problems than usual. While day-to-day grousing by inmates—and often staff—was standard, it still had to be addressed if valid. The jail itself, though beautiful on the outside, often proved to be a maintenance nightmare for those within. This was partly because of its age—it was built in 1886—but its physical deterioration had been aggravated by an explosion in its population over the preceding couple of years to a total of several hundred over capacity. Crowding and insufficient supplies—there weren’t even enough towels or sheets—shortened tempers and aggravated racial discord. Disturbances were frequent.
“All my days were busy,” Robinson later recalled,
but sometimes at night I’d walk around and talk to this prisoner or that. I always found the later the hour, the more relaxed the conversation. By reviewing rosters, I knew Hoss had been in the jail since April. I assumed it was for more car thefts or maybe a fight. It wasn’t for a few weeks after his arrival that I saw him in passing. I called him “Stasiu,” his nickname in Polish for Stanislaw, and asked how he was getting on. Alluding to the crowded conditions, Hoss gave me a smile and said, “You got quite a mess on your hands. Don’t worry about me, I’m fine. Take care of all these other whiners and crybabies.” That’s the Hoss I knew then. Sort of a stand-up guy, making do on his own and never making ridiculous requests like you got all the time from the majority of inmates.
It must have been another week or two before I had occasion to talk with Hoss, late one night, in his cell. It was July 20. I remember this because Neil Armstrong landed on the moon. Everyone was transfixed by this moment in history. We all watched TV and saw people the world over going nuts, kissing, hugging, popping champagne bottles and joking Armstrong would come back to report the moon really was made of green cheese. Hoss said to me, “Well, if you bastards ever build a prison on the moon, I volunteer to go.” I said I’d sign him up first thing in the morning, and we both laughed.
Hoss was in a cell by himself. How he wasn’t doubled-up at least, I don’t know, for we truly were always scrambling for cell space, but I know as a general rule we wouldn’t cell together whites and negroes, or blacks as they then wanted to be called. Anyhow, I was surprised to learn that Hoss was convicted of rape and could get some serious time.
Hoss sat on his bunk wearing prison-issue pants and a strapped undershirt which left exposed two tattoos. The one on his left forearm read, “Born to Lose,” while on his upper right arm was etched a heart with ribbon. Inside the heart was inscribed “Diane,” the name of Hoss’s wife. Hoss told Robinson about the “trumped-up case.” Robinson, who’d heard ten thousand sorry tales of innocence throughout his career, listened as Hoss gave his version of that Good Friday night with that wild teen girl out for vengeance … “an’ I already got an appeal in the works.”
Robinson made to leave. “Okay, Stasiu, hang in there and good luck. Let me know what’s new.”
The next day there was yet another disturbance in the jail, not too serious but one more disruption on top of the others that were occurring with worrisome regularity. Robinson again approached the prison board requesting relief for the jail’s bulging population. This time, the board agreed that the situation had become untenable and approved a transfer of three hundred inmates to the Allegheny County Workhouse, half empty at the time. Robinson wasted no time in directing his staff to provide him with a list of inmates good to ship out. Noted in the long columns of names submitted was Stanley Hoss. When he learned of his impending transfer, Hoss was gleeful, for he had already made his ever-fateful decision to escape.
. . .
Since the bold breakout by Richard Mayberry and his companions, security at the jail had tightened up considerably. Hoss’s plan, now fomenting, would have a vastly greater chance of success once he got to the Allegheny County Workhouse, which was maintained and serviceable but, after one hundred years, deteriorating or, as Hoss appraised it, “soft.”
Nine miles up the Allegheny River from Pittsburgh, the sprawling workhouse had originally been named the Workhouse and Inebriate Asylum. With its huge cell blocks, administration buildings, and on-site homes, together with seven hundred acres of workable farmland, the place consumed all the western outskirts of little Hoboken, the early name for the present-day borough of Blawnox. Every few decades, the workhouse was expanded. By the 1930s, it could hold fifteen hundred prisoners, with sentences ranging from thirty days to thirty years, accepting convicts from Pennsylvania’s western thirty-two counties.
For a century, prisoners had been brought to the county workhouse by the noon train from Pittsburgh. The men were handcuffed and always sat in the front seats of the “Smoker,” the first car of the train. Some inmates regarded doing time at the workhouse as easy, even healthful, since it obliged many to become sober for the first time in months. Inmates whose offenses were nonviolent were judged to be suitable for farm work—cultivating the fields, gardens, and orchards or tending the pigs, hogs, horses, or the milking herd. There was even a creamery, where butter was made twice a week.
The inmates always included a good number of ordinary drunks, who’d “drink everything, even bay rum”; these “bay rummers” (in the prison lingo) were regarded as a group distinct from men imprisoned for serious crimes like assault and worse, who were known as the “convicts.” It was the sobered, nonviolent bay rummers who were allowed to work in the fields or the barns, outside the great walls. The convicts were kept inside, making shoes, barrels, brooms, or rugs.
To the relief of Warden Robinson, about three hundred inmates were transferred from the county jail to the county workhouse on July 29, 1969. Along with the rest of the new receptions at the workhouse, Hoss was fingerprinted, photographed, issued prison blues—an uncomfortable, thick, part-wool shirt, and pants with only a single pocket in front—and assigned a cell on the fourth- or top-tier O and P ranges of the West Block. This block, the longest in the United States with sixty-two cells straight, could alone house five hundred men, although many of the cells were empty in these summer months.
After only two days of settling in, Hoss, clearly no bay rummer, was assigned work in the textile shop. The shop’s supervisor, fifty-one-year-old Frank Petika, frowned when he saw Hoss come into his shop. He knew Hoss from a previous lockup and, frankly, didn’t care for him.
“Mr. Petika, I see you still got your cushy job makin’ us cons sweat blood,” was Hoss’s unsmiling greeting. Petika didn’t know if Hoss was joking or not, but the jibe displayed the typical proclivity among criminals to assume that everyone else has it better than they do.
Frank Petika himself had grown up the hard way. After eighth grade, at age fifteen, his father had said it was time for young Frank to go to work. The coal mines were really the only thing open to boys in his poor circumstances, but it was 1933 and any employment was a godsend. Only after twenty-five years “in the ground” did Petika make it out of the mines to begin a second career at the workhouse.
Knowing it was wasted breath enlightening criminals, Petika replied, “Yep, Hoss, love my job, and I get to rub elbows with the likes of you.” Petika assigned Hoss to the same rug-making loom he’d been on before.
Later on, Petika told his good friend George Suchevich, a guard who often patrolled the textile shop, that Hoss was back. Suchevich shook his head. He felt the same as Petika: Hoss was a man you’d better watch.
Trouble came sooner than expected. “I had Hoss transferred out of my textile shop after just two weeks,” Petika remembered.
He didn’t do any one single thing to cause this, you know, a fight or having a weapon, but he’d play havoc with the other inmates. The workhouse was around three to one colored to white, and that was about the makeup of my shop, too. Hoss intimidated the coloreds, even from across the room. Hoss didn’t want them near him, and he made this pretty clear. Hoss was not a mixer, being content to sit over on a crate by himself, but his attitude did draw the white inmates to him. Before Hoss came to the shop, all the workers got along good enough. After Hoss showed up, you could just see the divide taking place. It was hard to specifically blame Hoss ’cause he spent much of his time alone or talking with a few white inmates. He didn’t assault anyone, but after a time we went from general harmony to a shop filled with tension—and Hoss was the only new variable. I talked this matter over with the big boss, Ted Botula. I was just a shop foreman, so I hardly ever talked to the man, but he listened carefully and decided right then that Hoss was to be transferred out of my shop.
It was not in Hoss’s nature to be on friendly terms with too many inmates, yet one day in the workhouse yard Hoss watched a giant of a man lifting weights, one-handed reps with a hundred-pound dumbbell. Hoss, a lifting enthusiast himself, was impressed by the size and strength of the man. Thinking of his own bold plans for the near future, Hoss struck up a conversation. The man’s name was Thomas Lubresky. At 6 feet, 5 inches, and 225 pounds, with muscles honed and cut, he was an awesome figure, likely the most physically imposing man at the workhouse. Lubresky’s rap sheet was equally imposing; his transgressions, for which he had served very little time at all, made up a decade of harm and havoc.
Lt. Bill McLafferty of the Penn Hills Police Department knew Lubresky well: “In his prime, he had the Natrona area terrorized. He’d go into a bar and just … you know how you leave your keys and money there by your drink? … Well, Lubresky would walk by and pick up your money and even sip your drink—just challenge you to say or do anything about it. He was a real bad-ass.” In February 1969, Lubresky committed indecent assault against a young woman, which got him two to four years, and delivered him to the workhouse, where he met his new friend, Stanley Hoss.
Hoss was not such a loner that he shunned friendships but his relationships were at his convenience, on his terms, and assuredly for his benefit. It was not long before Hoss concluded that he could influence Lubresky, for the towering muscleman, Hoss learned, was amused by uncomplicated tasks and simple stories. In the days to follow, most every afternoon and often evenings, Hoss and Lubresky met in the workhouse yard to lift weights. A week after Hoss had been shown the door at the textile shop, he still was not reassigned. Lubresky was working in the maintenance department and, at Hoss’s urging, talked to one of the foremen about bringing Hoss onto the maintenance crew. “You’ve seen these niggers in here,” Lubresky urged, “struttin’ around, always singin’ nigger songs, drivin’ us whites nuts. Hoss stood up to ’em, is all. They wouldn’t do nothin’ to him so they started tellin’ lies about him to bossman Petika. There’s so many of ’em, I think Petika caved in and got rid of Hoss to keep the peace.” The foreman checked it out only so far as to see if Hoss was barred from any job. He was not, so Hoss was hired onto maintenance because, the foreman thought, while all these damn convicts are alike, it wouldn’t hurt to have another white one on his crew. Hoss started work the next day. It was perfect for him; with tools everywhere, his secret plan took another leap forward. He would rather break out on his own, but, from what he had learned so far, he would need help. He needed a partner, a big, strong partner.
Now Lubresky and Hoss not only lifted weights together but worked on the same crew. Further, they were on the same range of their cell block. They had plenty of time to talk.
“Look at you,” Hoss razzed Lubresky, “got your own name tattooed around your bicep. Is that ’cause you’re shy about introducin’ yourself? … Just hafta make a muscle and then they know who you are?”
Laughing and crooking his left arm, Lubresky’s bicep formed a small cannonball, expanding dark blue letters spelling “Tommy.” Holding the pose for a moment, Lubresky said to Hoss, “And whud if I’m drunk and forget who I am? I can always check the name on my arm.” Both cons laughed, but Hoss was not certain Lubresky was altogether joking.
Since they had begun hanging out together, Hoss noticed that Lubresky was often short on smokes. On this evening, up on O range, Hoss handed his giant pal two packs of Marlboros, Lubresky’s brand. “Hey, Stan, wherejah get dese?” Hoss clapped Lubresky’s massive shoulder. “Took them off some Sambo. Had to watch a bunch of ’em for a while to see who had what, ’cause you know most niggers smoke Kools. Don’t worry about buyin’ ’em no more. I’ll keep you supplied.” With no little admiration, Lubresky said, “Man, Stan, heistin’ niggers right here in prison, that’s great!” Certainly Lubresky was aware he was big and mean enough to do this himself but, truth be known, he tried not to break the rules while doing time and surely, he thought, there was a rule about taking other people’s stuff. But Hoss, his friend, did what the hell he wanted wherever he was. And to hear Hoss talk, he must have stolen half the cars in the county. He liked Hoss telling him stories, making him laugh the way he did.
On the weekend, the shops were closed and the inmates had plenty of time to sleep in their cells or mingle in the yard to lift weights or play basketball, bocci ball, or horseshoes. Sometimes they organized a game of softball. Still, many aspects of doing time were annoying. The cells had sinks but provided only river water for washing. Buckets of drinking water were brought around three times a day. An inmate would hold out his tin cup for filling. The toilets were flushed all at once by control a few times a day. And, of course, once in your cell after evening meal and yard time, around 8:30 P.M., you were in with absolutely nothing to do till the next morning. Weekends were the one occasion when the real cons could make fun of the bay rummers, who still had chores outside the wall: tending crops, milking the cows, or gathering eggs from the two thousand white leghorn chickens in their coops.
On Sunday, August 10, 1969, after a long day of kicking around, hitting the weights, and reading the newspaper, Hoss and Lubresky were up on their cell range alone, which in prison meant no one was within fifteen yards of them. A quiet conversation couldn’t be overheard. Lubresky’s cell was flush with cigarettes and other amenities, even a bottle of Canoe aftershave—all thanks to Hoss’s thuggery and extortion tactics against the “coloreds.”
Outside their cells on the range, the pair assumed the classic inmate pose of one foot atop the lower rail while leaning forward and supporting the upper body by forearms resting against the top rail. Both were quiet for awhile, Lubresky smoking, Hoss thinking.
Hoss knew he had to get moving on his plan to break out. His attorney had not been in touch about the sentencing date for the rape, but it could come within a month. Hoss knew he’d get no sympathy from Judge Strauss, who would pronounce a sentence of ten to twenty years for sure. Before that happened, Hoss resolved, he’d be gone. And he couldn’t wait much longer because, once sentenced, he’d be transferred to Western Penitentiary. He was at the workhouse on a lucky lark anyway, only because of overcrowding at the county jail. Knowing these bastard officials as he did, Hoss was sure they would believe Western Penitentiary was just the place for the likes of him. Then, too, everyone knew the workhouse was nearing its end and would soon close down for good. Hoss knew the workhouse used to hold up to fifteen hundred inmates, but these days less than half the place was open—maybe six hundred cells, with seventy-five of those unusable because the plumbing wasn’t working. If Hoss didn’t escape before being transfered from the workhouse to Western Penitentiary, his opportunity to bolt would go up in smoke. It had to be soon or not at all.
Hoss turned his head toward Lubresky. “Tom, did you read the paper today about those murders out in California … Beverly Hills, where all the rich people live?” Tom stopped blowing smoke rings to shake his head. “Wait a second,” Hoss said, then went to his cell, returning a moment later with the front section of the paper. “Look at this,” Hoss continued, “headline stuff. Says here five people got killed, all in one place, someone’s house. Why it’s big news is because I guess they’re famous people.” Looking up from the paper, Hoss asked, “Do you know a movie actress named Sharon Tate?”
“Nope, can’t say I do,” replied Lubresky.
“Well, me neither, but look at her picture here,” Hoss said, pointing at a photo of the young beauty. “Says the girl was eight months pregnant and stabbed to death.” Hoss continued reading and condensing the story for Lubresky. “Some Polish guy was shot twice then stabbed fifty times and another girl named Abigail Folger … they say here from the big coffee company … she got the same, with the knife, that is. Then another guy named Sebring and some kid, a teenager. Anyway, everyone’s dead, no one knows who did it, and Hollywood’s in an uproar. What do you expect, though, from California … that place is full of kooks.”
“Yeah, maybe,” said Lubresky, “but when I get outta’ here I’m goin’ straight to the West Coast. I’ll be a kook, too.”
Hoss thought Lubresky was only spinning a dream but said, “When you gettin’ out again? I forget.”
“’Bout a year an’ a half if the coat an’ tie fuckers see it my way.”
Hoss turned his eyes upward, gazing at the massive arched ceiling of the cell block. Finally he said, “Man, every day you’re behind these damn walls is a day you ain’t drinkin’ tequila and snappin’ up those California beach bunnies.”
Lighting another cigarette Lubresky mused, “Yeah, what a bitch.”
“You got anyone at home to stick around for?” Hoss asked.
“I got an old lady, but she needs to hit the road. Everytime I got five bucks in my pocket, she wants it. Nah, if she ain’t gone by the time I get out, I’m kickin’ her ass out.” Lubresky thought these sentiments particularly masculine … and funny. He laughed, then offered, “An’ ya know, that greedy whore comes visits me last week an’ what’s she want? Money!” Lubresky played the aggrieved, saying to Hoss, “Does it look like I’m loaded, Stan? Know what, though? I do have some money but I ain’t tellin’ her where it’s at. It’s for me when I get out. Five hundred bucks I buried in my landlord’s backyard in a shoebox.” Lubresky paused then added, “Hope it don’t get wet.”
All conversations with Lubresky were similarly foolish, Hoss had learned, but before he changed his mind he leaned toward the huge man and, with lowered voice, said, “Tom, suppose there’s a way you don’t have to wait no longer before gettin’ to California. Why not now? Ya know, get a hold of that five hundred bucks. You could be on a beach in no time … booze an’ bikinis.” Hoss looked at Lubresky without smiling, waiting for a response.
“What you talkin’, Stanley?” Lubresky asked, simultaneous with blowing cigarette smoke out of the side of his mouth.
Hoss leaned closer, looked around to see no one was near, then spoke in earnest. “I got a way out, you know, out of here. I ain’t doin’ more time, not penned up in here like some mangy dog. I thought it out an’ I got a plan that’ll work. We could be three states over before anyone knows we’re gone.”
Listening close and even forgetting to pull on his cigarette, Lubresky looked directly at Hoss and said too loudly, “You mean escape!”
Hoss admonished in hushed tone, “Jesus Christ, Tom, keep your voice down.”