I was a 30-year-old reporter at WOKR-TV Channel 13, an ABC affiliate in Rochester. The situation at Attica Prison had been deteriorating all summer, with inmates angry over conditions they found infuriating: one roll of toilet paper per man per month; only one shower per week; no religious services for Black Muslims; an over-abundance of pork at both noon and evening meals; and assembly in the prison yard by more than three Muslims punishable by a stretch in solitary confinement.
These and other grievances had been presented to New York State Corrections Commissioner Russell G. Oswald on July 2 of that summer, but nothing had been done about any of the complaints when frustrated inmates took matters into their own hands the morning of Sept. 9, breaking down a key internal gate, taking over two cellblocks and shops, and setting up camp in an outside area known as D-yard.
The inmates had 31 demands on their list, including amnesty. All but three of the demands were said to have already been agreed to by Oswald, but many of the prisoners feared he would break his word and not meet with them as promised. The previous November, at a correctional facility in Auburn, N.Y., a prisoners’ request for permission to hold a Black Solidarity Day observation had been denied. A sit-down strike ensued, several guards were captured, then released when officials promised no reprisals. But those promises were almost immediately abandoned, and retribution, including beatings, solitary confinement, and transfers to other prisons, were enacted. At Attica that fateful September, Oswald’s perceived betrayal weighed heavily on the rebelling inmates’minds.
Coverage of the uprising had been front-page news for weeks, and had led the news daily on every television and radio station in the state. The story was huge, and getting bigger by the hour. Journalists were showing up from Europe, and network requests for footage and stories were escalating. The Attica Prison rebellion had become international news.
As photographer Joe Paladino and I headed south on Route 98 towards the prison that dreary morning, nervous and not talking much, the unmistakable sound of gunfire suddenly erupted from our police scanner. With the barrage came the whirring sound of a helicopter, and a firm order shouted over a loudspeaker: “This is the State Police! Put your hands in the air — you will not be harmed! Repeat! Put your hands over your head, put down your weapons, do exactly as you are told! You will not be harmed!”
Within seconds we were rocketing down that country road at 90, making it through the outside perimeter gates just as they were swung closed. Helicopters whirred overhead as gunfire crackled, and clouds of tear gas wafted over the walls, sending photographers and reporters scrambling and choking. Then came the interminable wait for official word of what had gone on inside. In my case, that explanation came from Monroe County Undersheriff Andy Meloni, who emerged from the prison ashen-faced and somber. “There are over 20 dead inmates,” he said to me. “Were any of the hostages killed?” I asked. “Yes,” he said. “Their throats were cut.” And that night, on WOKR-TV Channel 13 and elsewhere, including The New York Times, that’s the way the story was reported.
But the very next day, Monroe County medical examiner and pathologist Dr. John Edland announced to a virtual horde of reporters that none of the hostages had died of a cut throat, that all had perished as a result of bullets fired by police and corrections officers. Reporters were incredulous. There was a rush to the phones like in the movies, and soon all the world knew what had really happened the day before. In all, there were 39 killed in the Monday uprising, 29 inmates and 10 hostages. Over the four days of the uprising, the total was 43 dead. And Dr. Edland was soon the target of many attempts to discredit both his findings and his politics.
What followed was a huge investigation, then another, and a series of hearings, trials, lawsuits and rulings that went on for years. Finally, in 1976, then-governor Hugh Carey ended the legal morass by terminating the grand jury that had taken up the police and corrections officer felony charges, and called a halt to all criminal prosecutions. On Aug. 28, 2000, 502 claims were approved by Federal Court Judge Michael Telesca in Rochester, and the monetary awards for inmates killed or injured in the rebellion ranged from $6,500 to $125,000, depending on the severity of the injuries and the amount of suffering endured. There were no awards for the families of the slain and injured corrections officers.
In the four decades since the Attica rebellion, the number of people incarcerated nationwide has skyrocketed. In addition, prisons have become big business, especially in California, where the political clout of the unions representing the corrections officers is undeniable, and their pension system all but impossible for state taxpayers to maintain. And as the drug wars continue, so do the arrests and convictions, filling our prisons to two and three times their capacities. Many are openly run by gangs, virtually awash with drugs, and seething with anger. Few places inside are safe, and horrific injuries and violent deaths are commonplace — the grim statistics of a flawed system in serious need of major reform.
Have the hard lessons of Attica been forgotten? Is a repeat of that 40-year-old tragedy possible here in California, or wherever large numbers of men are serving time in similar conditions? Hard to say, but desperate men have been known to do desperate things, in spite of the consequences — what happened at Attica in September of 1971 proved that beyond any doubt. But if I had to guess, based on my own experience with the original event, I think I’d put it this way: Without significant changes, it’s just a matter of time, and those who are doing it.
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