It was during Sam’s incarceration for receiving stolen goods in the 1970s that Darrell Steffensmeier first met Sam and subsequently accompanied him on his first furlough trip to American City, where Sam had settled almost twenty years prior and where, in his words, his criminal career “went swoosh.” That trip both confirmed other thieves’ description of Sam as an “old head who knew his way around” and bolstered confidence in Sam as the subject of a case study. Sam had done a lot and he knew a lot, not only about the underworld but about the nexus between the underworld and the upperworld. Most swaying, however, was (1) Sam’s exceptional ability to recall events and approximate dates and to remember names, faces, and identifying details of individuals he had known or encountered, and (2) Sam’s openness to both divulge and introduce Steffensmeier to his “business” network.
We begin with the beginning and the ending-the beginning of Steffens-meier’s research Odyssey with Sam, and the end of Sam’s life. The three sec-tions that follow are used to set the stage for the rest of the book. The first section, Sam’s Homecoming, is extracted from Steffensmeier’s field notes describing the furlough trip to American City, including a notable stopover at a neighborhood bar that Sam had once frequented, in which we are given a glimpse of Sam’s personality and social world as well as Steffensmeier’s decision to study him. The next segment, I Feel Rougher Than Hell, also draws on Steffensmeier’s field notes to describe the sequence of events (including the discovery that Sam has cancer) leading to the deathbed interviews, beginning with a Thanksgiving day telephone call from Sam to Steffensmeier canceling their weekend plans to attend a large antique auction in an adjacent state. The third section, The Jig Is Up, includes excerpts from Steffensmeier’ s weekend interview with Sam in which Sam speaks about his bout with cancer and appraises his life.
Setting: Midstate Penitentiary. Sam and Steffensmeier depart for American City. The following account is drawn from Steffensmeier’s field notes taken at the time.
I picked up Sam at the penitentiary on an early June morning and we headed for American City where Sam was planning to spend the weekend with Becky, his female companion prior to his incarceration. On the way, Sam pointed out several places—a fire station, an American Legion Club, and an antique shop—that he and Jesse had “clipped” some years ago. On the outskirts of American City, we stopped at a “doll and antique shop” and visited with its owner, who formerly had traded both legitimate and “warm” antiques with Sam. Their shared ribbing was amusing, as their discussion of the current trade in antiques was interesting but “over my head” since I know little or nothing about “good antiques.” The highlight of the day trip was stopping at Casey’s Pub—a neighborhood bar and thieves’ hangout that was once a favorite stopover for Sam, especially on Friday evenings after he had attended one of the local auctions. I guess you could call it Sam’s “homecoming.”
We arrived at Casey’s about 5:30-6:00 (early Friday evening). Casey’s is a fairly large place, with a long bar, a row of tables for dining, and an open room in the back with a pool table and video machines. Sam held the door as I entered first. Then jeez, the place went up for grabs when the roughly 30-35 patrons, mostly male, spotted Sam walking through the door. We [he] were greeted with shouts of, “Hey, god damn it’s Sam. Sam, you son of a bitch, what the hell you doing here,” and so on. I think everybody in the place shook Sam’s hand. Many shook mine as well, as Sam quickly told them I was a teacher at Penn State who had visited him in the penitentiary [always Sam’s term for referring to a prison]. Katie, the female bartender, rushed from behind the bar to give Sam a big hug. He ribbed her about how flat-chested she still was. She dished it right back, wise-cracking about Sam’s bad luck with women. Sam quickly had a half-dozen “bourbon and cokes” in front of him—his favorite drink as remembered by those present. Myself, I sat facing half-a-dozen Budweisers, a result of responding to someone’s probe of “What are you drinking?”
A number of people that Sam had talked about (e.g., Steelbeams, Mickey, Timmy) were there, along with several “locals” who lived in the neighborhood and had gotten to know Sam. Very much enjoying the scene and camaraderie, I moved around and chatted with many of those present. One of the neighborhood locals commented how unfair it was that Sam had to do time—”sure, he was a little loose in how he ran his store but he would give you the shirt off his back if he saw you needed it. There are a lot worse ones around who are still walking free.” We stayed at Casey’s until about 9:00, after which I dropped Sam off at Becky’s—where I also met Muffin, Sam’s Doberman that I had heard so many stories about, especially about how Muffin “hated cops.”
As Steffensmeier looks back today, the spontaneous welcoming Sam received at Casey’s marked a kind of “turning point” in Steffensmeier’s career choice to document Sam’s life and criminal career. Already then, but even more so as the years have passed, that first visit to American City and Sam’s reception has taken on a somewhat surreal quality (since Steffensmeier cannot really recall a parallel happening for other acquaintances, much less for himself). The reception also planted the seeds for a more appreciative stance of the often fine line between deviance and respectability in the minds, everyday lives, and practical moral systems of ordinary people, a stance that is reflected in Confessions.
Steffensmeier receives a phone call from Sam on Thanksgiving day canceling their weekend plans to attend an auction in an adjacent state. The phone call sets in motion the chain of events leading to Sam’s hospitalization and eventual passing, as recorded in Steffensmeier’ s field notes below (written in first person).
“I feel rougher than hell,” Sam coughed, “whatever it is I can’t shake it.” I phoned Sam a couple of weeks later, hoping to get together over Christmas break, but instead found him still “feeling lousy.” A week or so after New Years Sam phoned again: “Hey, Bubba, guess where I am. Motherfucking hospital. They’re jamming stuff up my arms, my ass, like you wouldn’t believe. Think it’s pneumonia. They’re running all kinds of tests.”
That weekend I visited Sam at the hospital. The results from several tests were in—Sam had lung cancer. It was serious. The cancer had metastasized and spread throughout his upper body. Sam was in pretty good spirits and optimistic that he “would lick it.” Over the next several weeks, however, Sam deteriorated rapidly. I increasingly found him heavily sedated, uninterested in food, and barely able to communicate or even recognize me. Lying in his hospital bed, he would greet me in familiar fashion—either “Hey, professor,” or “Hi, Bubba.” He would squeeze my hand with a grip that, once very powerful, now was feeble and soft. The cancer ravaging Sam had shrunken his body’s stout frame, dwindled the muscle tone in his limbs, and thinned his face to a bony landscape. He was too weak to begin chemotherapy and radiation treatment. I, along with Sam’s family and friends, felt the end was near.
Then, as sometimes occurs with terminal cancer patients, Sam surprised us. “He just perked up,” his daughter Amy told me. Sam’s appetite and alertness returned. His spirit rebounded and he talked again about “licking this Goddamn thing.” He badgered the doctors to release him from the hospital, to allow him to go home and begin the cancer treatment. They agreed.
Sam’s stay at his home lasted less than three weeks. Bedridden, but able to ambulate with assistance, Sam attended a couple of local auctions and visited with acquaintances in the antique trade. But the bulk of his time was spent “putting his house in order”—finalizing his will and establishing a chain of command at his upholstery shop.
I traveled to see Sam during his second and final weekend at home. I had phoned Sam ahead to make the arrangements, indicating that I would probably “do a little taping”—something I routinely did when interviewing Sam or even conversing with him. “Yeah, we haven’t done that for a while,” he noted, pleased that I was coming. We both sensed that this likely was our last “real” interview. With this in mind, I came prepared with a well thought-out protocol.
I arrived early Friday morning. Sam was in good spirits, telling jokes, and kidding Wanda (his female companion for the past eight to ten years) about going with me to one of the local flea markets. Wanda eventually left for the day, saying she would call later to check if everything was okay (which she did). The Friday and Saturday interviews were punctuated by phone calls and short visits from some of Sam’s cronies in the antique business. Sam was quite worn out by midafternoon, although he insisted on continuing.
I returned Sunday morning and found Sam looking tired and weak. His energy soon waned and by early afternoon he had dozed off. I chatted with Wanda while Sam slept, but he awoke as I prepared to leave. “Thanks for coming, Bubba,” he whispered. “Bring those chairs next time you come. The boys will get right on them, get them done while we’re visiting” (this was in reference to an earlier offer by Sam to reupholster six dining room chairs of mine).
On the return trip I listened to parts of the taping, anticipating that this was probably my last real conversation with Sam. Four days later, on Thursday, Sam was rehospitalized. His lungs had filled up and he was having a hard time breathing. Wanda called on Friday to report that Sam had gone downhill very fast. He was basically in a coma. Unless they keep him on a life support system (which the family had decided against), “It’s just a matter of time—he’ll just sleep away.”
I visited Sam again that weekend, on Sunday, in his hospital room. Wanda greeted me when I arrived but soon left for the afternoon, leaving me alone with Sam. I doubt Sam recognized me, despite some eye contact as well as occasional musings or utterances from him. Some utterances were apparent flashbacks or “nightmares” to his days in prison. Viewing me as if a fellow inmate, Sam’s eyes would open wide and with a look expressing fright, he would motion me over and mumble, “Nail the fat one, I’ll get the big fucker.” Then, with a weak hand gesture and eyes rolling in that direction, he would add, “Over the wall, that wall there.” Sam, it seemed, was instructing me to help him escape from prison. Wanda had mentioned these flashbacks, noting how painful it was to see Sam apparently relive his worst days in prison. Those flashbacks were the last “communication” I had with Sam.
On leaving the hospital, I wrote a note to Wanda, asking her to give me a call if there was any change in Sam’s condition. I remember squeezing Sam’s limp and unresponsive hand, and mumbling, “Goodbye, Sam, goodbye, good buddy” (or something to that effect). Three days later Wanda called—Sam had “slept away.” She would notify me about funeral arrangements.
The following is an excerpt from the very last interview with Sam. In it, we see the bluntness of Sam’s vernacular and the openness with which he talked to Steffensmeier.
Setting: Sam’s home, Friday midmoming. Wanda departs for the day shortly after my arrival. Day 1 of what will be a three-day weekend of “interviewing” begins briskly. Sam is eager to talk.
I’m going to lick this fucking cancer. Get my legs back, be back at running my shop. Get on Donnie and Benny’s asses. They need that. Before I didn’t care. Now my mind is on getting fucking better. No doubt I’m gonna get better.
I do know I am not going to make it. Asked the Doc about seeing another specialist. He gave it to me plain, very god damn plain: “Sam, there ain’t time for that. Get your house in order, with your grandchildren, with Wanda. It’s too late. If you had started treatment when it was first spotted, then maybe.” I says, “How long?” He tells me, “Give or take a little, six weeks, three months. Maybe sooner.”
That hit home like a ton of bricks fell on my nuts. Kicked right in the belly is the way it felt. Whew, I am thinking how fast this year went by and bang here it is already. A year ago the doctor told me I had a dark spot on my lung, that we should do some tests to check it out. That was in April. I thought right away, fuck, it is can-cer. But I ignored him. Kept right on smoking. I’m thinking, people with cancer live a long time—five, six, ten years. No big deal—have to die sometime anyway. Didn’t worry about it, not realizing how quick it can be and what you have to go through. I thought, you get the cancer, take pills and that, and then you just die. But it don’t work that way. That year went so awful fast. At that time I didn’t care. But as it got closer, god damn, you know you wanna live.
Three months ago about, the jig was up. Found out I had the cancer. Wasn’t surprised ‘cause I was spitting up blood, coughing like a sonofabitch, no energy. Wanda and the guys at work were worried, really worried. They knew something was wrong. Knew this wasn’t “Goodman,” ‘cause I was always on the go. It got to where I was having a hard time breathing, so Donnie took me to the doctor. Bang, bang, right off to the hospital. Drained my lungs—I think they got a quart, maybe two quarts of fluid.
Tell you what. The doc tells me now, you’d better do this, I’m gonna do it. I nearly died a couple of times the past six weeks. That night after you left, shortly after, I done a flip. My eyes came out and everything. Wanda thought I had died. Doctor said it was a stroke.
I stopped eating and everything. I remember Wanda coming in, saying: “If you don’t eat, you are going to die.” She made it very god damn plain. She wasn’t pulling any punches. I did start eating and my strength kept coming back. That is why I got home last week, got out of that god damn place [the hospital].
Looking back, I did give up. Why, I don’t know. Knowing me—what I am like, that is hard for me to believe. I hope I’m not that much of a pussy, to give up that way. Holy fuck that isn’t Goodman. I’ve stared death in the face many times. I hope I didn’t get that fucking weak that I gave up that easy.
I was ready to go. I had made my peace. My will and the shop stuff were taken care of. So much goes to my daughter, so much goes to my grandchildren. So much to Wanda and to Donnie to keep the shop going. Benny will get the shop but if he gives it up, then it goes to Donnie and Wanda.
That was Connie. She has been coming to visit me. Is very religious. Wants her minister to come pray with me. She’s a good woman, a good mother. We always stayed in touch. Met her way back in American City, not too long after I got out of the penitentiary for the burglary and then the escape. She worked at a restaurant, a waitress. We was going out—bang, bang. Says she is pregnant, we should get married. Had a little girl, Amy. We only lasted a couple of years together but I was never there anyway. Came and left as I pleased. Actually, that is the only time I was married. The divorce was never finalized until a few years ago.
I really should pray ‘cause that is the only answer there is. It is over unless there is some miracle. Maybe there is something to this. One night, everybody left. I can’t go to sleep. I’m laying there, my fucking shoulder is hurting like you wouldn’t believe. I’m in pain like you wouldn’t fucking believe. I prayed. Lord, please help me. Blah, blah, blah. It was like a big fucking black cloud came over me. Boy it scared me. It fucking scared me. This is after I done that flip. What the fuck is going on now?
I start getting better after that. Started eating. Now, is there something to prayer or not? Was that an omen from up there? I cannot tell you what to make of it. It is a hairy subject, very hairy. Is there a god? I don’t want to take any chances. Don’t want to knock the praying but I don’t want to make a mockery out of it.
Wanda is the best woman I’ve met in my life. Has stuck with me the most. But I don’t think I’ve found that woman yet who meant a lot to me. I’ve walked out on Wanda a number of times. Dumb stuff. I do not want somebody on my case, telling me what to do. Don’t preach. ‘Cause all you are doing is blowing wind up your ass. ‘Cause I’m gonna do what I wanna do anyway. Only blowing wind out of your ass. Grab my little suitcase, stay at the shop or stay at a motel. Then she’d write a letter. I should come back. “Just come back, everything would be all right.” I guess I don’t like to be hassled. She would worry about me getting jammed up. That is my problem.
I do think I have a way with women. Of their wanting to come by my shop and rap with me. Not to get in their pants now. Well, sometimes that, too. But because I rap with them, puff them up, make them feel important, that I’m really interested in them. Agree that their husband or boyfriend is a real asshole, doesn’t appreciate what he has.
As honest as Wanda is, it’s funny how we could stay hooked up this long. Listen to this. Just before I went into the hospital, we’re leaving the restaurant and Wanda finds a twenty dollar bill on the floor by the cash register. She picks it up and gives it to the lady behind the cash register, “Here, you musta dropped this.” Holy fuck, I could’ve rung her neck. But that is the way she is.
Was married to a cop. Real asshole. Would spend his pay check chasing other women and running with other cops after work. Wanda told me one time, “Sam, you might have done time for breaking the law but my husband was a helluva lot worse.” The way she told it, if the police recovered stolen property, he would help himself. Or, if they found dope money, help themselves. Still, she had to work like a dog to pay the bills in the house. Compared to him, I am a fucking angel. I always got a kick out of that.
I really am not close to Wanda. I don’t confide. Not at all. For one, she would not hesitate to tell. She is very honest. I am very careful about that. She would lie a little bit, maybe. But only a little.
Same with Benny who is a partner in some ways.1 It is my shop but we have a fifty-fifty split on the upholstery and furniture business he brings in. The antiques and my own upholstery business are mine. I watch him. Would not confide in him. Don’t get me wrong. I like Benny. He’s a helluva nice guy. But he’s a shyster. Can’t let him think he can get over on you. Then you’re in trouble. I would never give him an edge, that feeling. I jump on him right away. I will hammer him but always give him an out. I do that with anyone. Never hammer someone too hard—if tear them down, then build them back up. That is part of understanding people. At the shop, if there’s a problem. I would take the person aside, away from others so he’s not seen being hammered. Say, “Look, motherfucker. Get your shit together. You’re good help. Like to keep you. Don’t want to jump on you. But get your shit together.”
Had to do that to Donnie a number of times. Has been my main help in the shop for several years now. My foreman, really. He used to be more cocky. Now puts his head down like a little poodle ‘cause he knows I’m right and want him to do it right.
My brother stopped by yesterday. Is doing okay but drinking again. Had an ass operation, hemorrhoids. Quit for a while. Tells me, “I have to quit.” See his ass was burning, on fire all the time. Even a beer would set off the sparks. Now they’re cut out, he can drink again.
We have become buddies, you might say, the past ten or fifteen years. He was a big help when I got out of prison this last time. Gave me a job, a paper job, at his auto shop. So I could satisfy the parole people. All the time I’m out hustling to get my shop going again. I’m giving him money to pay me is what it amounted to, to keep the parole people happy.
I have never been really close to anyone. Especially to a woman. Closest I ever came to anyone was you. As far as revealing anything, even Jesse—all the burglaries we done, what we’ve been through together—I would confide in only so much. If you asked I told you. Didn’t try to rattle your cage. Wanted you to see for yourself, that seeing is better than just hearing about it.
I don’t know if I should tell you this. ‘Cause I have never told anybody. Never, never. Not even Jesse. Never mentioned this to anybody. I had to put a motherfucker to sleep. I did it because I had to. I would’ve ended up with a lotta time otherwise. I put him to sleep. It was in American City.
Came up twice in my mind since I’ve been sick. I don’t even want to bring it up now, ‘cause I don’t want to remember it. Afraid I will say something in my sleep or if I’m delirious. All these years I have buried it, has only been a few times it has popped into my mind. Always afraid it might come out. Not that it was painful or that I felt bad about it. But somebody hearing it, then asking: “Hey, you were talking the other night about putting someone away.”
I had to snuff him out. Guy I knew from jail. Wanted me to wait in the car while he robbed a bookmaker. Bookie was making the rounds, picking up his money. I should wait in the car on the next street. But the bookie didn’t go along with it as planned. Carried a gun and fired shots at this guy when he was running back to where I was parked. Got him in the neck and leg. Bleeding bad, very bad. I was over a barrel. I don’t really want to say more ‘cause it will just refresh my mind, make me more likely to repeat it when I shouldn’t.
I did it with my hands. Choked him. Dumped his body in a quarry that had filled with water. Tied rocks, weighted him down. The car I burnt.
They never found him. Five, six years ago, I heard they drained the quarry. I wondered if they had found the body, the bones. But never heard anything.
Wasn’t really a decision on my part. Knew what I had to do. He was hurt bad. Needed to go to the hospital, get sewed up. But then questions would be asked. It would come out what happened and I’m back doing time. The other thing was, the bookie was connected, tied up [with the local mafia]. So I’d be on their bad side too.
I don’t feel bad about it. Not good either. Know what I mean? Snuffing some-body out like that is accepted. Not by the cops and the ordinary joe blow. But among thieves and them, yes. You have to do what you have to do. I wish there had been another way. There was no hesitation on my part. I knew what had to be done. I snuffed him out with hands. Gag, gaaggh. It was over for him.
Remember when you came to the penitentiary to interview me? You had seen my file and thought I would be a good mark [subject]. At first I was leery and not sure I wanted to be bothered. You asked me about women doing crimes. But mostly we talked about antiques and how easy it is to fool people about them. You pushed a lit-tle but I shied away from talking about the burglary and the fencing. The hour flew by. Told you if you wanted to come back, I would try to help you. Then you started coming on a regular basis. I looked forward to that. I remember that like it was yesterday. Looking back, whew, so damn much has happened. I pulled a lotta rank shit in my life, lotta rank shit. But helped a whole lotta people, too. If somebody needed something, came into my shop, I more or less gave it away. Was very fair that way.
The deathbed interviews were in many ways a shared reminiscence for Sam and Steffensmeier. Knowing that Sam’s life was very soon to end, the interviews were also Steffensmeier’s last chance to both gain more insights into Sam and the world of theft and illegal enterprise he witnessed, as well as a chance for Steffensmeier to reach some closure for what by now had become a lengthy friendship. Material from these deathbed interviews are interspersed throughout the book, but are the primary source for this chapter and Chapter 20.
Chapter 3 provides an overview and discussion of the major theoretical ideas animating this book. This chapter articulates and synthesizes a number of themes that ran through the succeeding chapters. In particular, our theoretical framing of the book focuses on themes and issues that we think have too frequently been neglected in criminological and social science writings on crime.
After our theoretical discussion, we then presents Sam’s narratives about his upbringing and early criminal career, along with the apex of his burglary and fencing activities and his conviction and imprisonment for dealing in stolen goods. Each of Sam’s narratives is accompanied by a conceptual commentary. Important conceptual themes in Part II of the book include the notion of criminal capital, the importance of networks for successful criminal enterprise, and commitment to crime, desistance from crime, and “moonlighting” at crime. Part III of the book then follows the same commentary/narrative format in addressing the social organization and stratification of the underworld and organized crime, and pathways into and out of crime. Part IV presents the final narrative and commentary, in which we, and Sam, take stock of his rewards and regrets, his life and ledger. A key theme of Part IV is questioning popular and common academic imagery of crime and criminals.
1. Telephone rings. Benny is on the phone: “I got the professor here. He’s babysitting me. Call back later. Hey, Donnie told me about Steve got the check from you and you told him to wait until Monday to cash it. I would straighten that out Benny. It isn’t good that Steve tells Donnie about this. You should go over, be nice, talk to Steve. Tell him that this is between you and him, not to run to Donnie. You know what I mean. I don’t want my employees knowing this. It is bad business to have that. Do you agree with me. Good. Take care of that. I’ll be seeing you.” We footnote Sam and Benny’s telephone conversation to illustrate the sort of call from colleagues and friends that punctuated the weekend interview with Sam. The interviewing was also punctuated by several drop-in visitors.