In 1979, a civilian employee at Sing Sing – a secretary – was watching 400 inmates roam the prison yards. The prison’s unionized correction officers were in the midst of a 16-day strike, and the one employee – a petite lady – was the only one to oversee the inmates while they socialized. The situation could have spelled disaster. But when it was time to come inside, she yelled the command, and all 400 inmates filed through the doors and went back to their cells.
Though he could only see his wife, Olga, once during the strike and he had to sleep in his office, Stephen Dalsheim, Sing Sing’s superintendent, was riding high on adrenaline, waiting to see how the crisis would pan out. If the inmates revolted, he risked looking like a fool for trusting them during negotiations. It was the crucible of a 42-year career built on the simple but revolutionary premise that inmates deserved respect and even a modicum of trust.
Dalsheim rose to prominence in the prison system as a good listener – beginning from his first job as a prison counselor in the 1950s. But in 2005, it was time for others to listen to him, as Dalsheim, a Wappingers Falls resident, traveled to Albany bearing a message for state legislators that the death penalty, in his opinion, is unfairly imposed. Although Eddie Lee Mays was the last person executed in New York in 1963, the death penalty has been legal at various times since then. More recently it was ruled illegal in 2004 – a decision that was upheld by the courts last month. The 2005 hearing in Albany was part of a process to consider new capital punishment legislation.
Since campaigning against the death penalty, Dalsheim has been quoted by CNN and the Washington Post. He believes capital sentencing is inherently abhorrent – even more so because it has been imposed unfairly throughout history. Social class, race and even geography determine who is put to death and who is shown mercy, Dalsheim says. Geography matters because politics are foremost when it comes to state execution. “(District attorneys) get pretty much what they want,” said Dalsheim.
Born in the Bronx in 1927, Dalsheim’s family moved to Long Island when he was young. He entered the U.S. Navy after high school, and then went on to American University. A lover of sports, he thought he’d become a high school coach until a letter from his mother altered his course. In her note, his mother told him about a childhood friend – a lifelong pyromaniac – who had been caught setting fires and then helping to extinguish them as a volunteer firefighter. The turn of events got Dalsheim to ruminating. “I kept thinking, ‘Here I am in college and he’s going to prison.’” He switched tracks to study psychology and sociology, and then got a master’s degree in criminology.
Politically progressive, he almost quit his first job as a counselor at Sing Sing after a week because he was disgusted by the racism he witnessed. Dalsheim, who is Jewish, had been raised under egalitarian beliefs. His wife of 50 years, Olga, with whom he has three children, is a Holocaust survivor from Holland.
Not fair
Dalsheim says examples of inequities among death sentences abound. One white man Dalsheim knew on death row had sodomized and killed a 9-year-old black boy by hanging him from a tree. The boy’s parents were drug addicts; the boy had been regarded as a nuisance around the neighborhood, and so the man was allowed to plea to a lesser crime. “There was no outpouring of public concern,” said Dalsheim.
By comparison, a 17-year-old runaway had knocked down an elderly man and taken his wallet. He had no weapon, but the man died from the injuries and the boy got the death sentence. The victim had been a former teacher, much beloved by the community. “Some of the inmates at Green Haven (correctional facility) had committed crimes far more hideous than some of those sentenced to death,” said Dalsheim.
It was the trusting relationship Dalsheim established with the boy on death row that later helped catapult his career. Now grown and in the witness protection program, the boy served as an informant following the Attica prison riot of September 1971.
Inmates at Attica revolted and seized control of the prison, taking 33 guards hostage for four days. Oddly, some of the inmates’ grievances seem relatively trivial – toilet paper rations were a major issue, as was the small quantity of water inmates were permitted for bathing. Dalsheim said conditions he witnessed at Attica or elsewhere were not terrible, nor does he believe abuse was rampant – “There were instances of brutality. Mostly they were treated OK.”
But he saw inmates’ complaints as symptoms of larger problems in prisons around the country – lack of communication and racism.
When negotiations between inmates and prison leaders at Attica failed, state police were ordered to take control of the prison by force. They dropped tear gas and opened fire. About 40 died, including 10 of the guards taken as hostages.
Having made a name for himself by proposing a system where inmates would elect representatives to sit at a table with prison leaders, Dalsheim was summoned to Attica after the riot by state commissioner Russell Oswald and tasked with finding out what had gone so tragically wrong.
“There was a lot of tension,” said Dalsheim. By talking to the young inmate, he ascertained key details such as the names of abusive guards. “He needed a parental figure,” explained Dalsheim. “He loved to talk. He told me so much.”
Reforms adopted after the Attica riot represented a sea change in prison culture, and Dalsheim’s was among the voices calling for change. He suggested improving the stature of officers working to educate and counsel the prisoners by making them eligible for promotion to superintendent. After the riots, black staff members were also hired. He was rewarded with a new title – deputy superintendent at Sing Sing.
The boy was transferred to Sing Sing also. He always believed that Dalsheim had requested the move – “I didn’t,” said Dalsheim. He was also careful never to get the boy into trouble, even after he tipped Dalsheim off to a mafioso’s escape plan.
The mobster (whose name Dalsheim couldn’t recall – he was shot dead soon after his release from prison) had gotten a pass for dental work. He bribed two officers, who thought he was visiting a prostitute, for privacy in the dentist’s office. He hoped to escape through a window, but Dalsheim’s informant heard about the plan and tipped off “Mr. D,” as he called Dalsheim.
Wondering how he got his information and suspecting that he might be corrupt, state leaders ordered a secret investigation of Dalsheim to find out if he had ties to organized crime. Dalsheim didn’t learn of it until after he was retired and happened to run into the former investigator who had tailed him for two weeks. “We couldn’t figure out how you got the information,” the investigator told him. Apparently, Dalsheim had become the laughingstock of the investigator’s office for his squeaky-clean life – Dalsheim was even careful never to use his state car on personal errands.
Staking it all on steaks
The reforms he’d advocated were put on trial during the 16-day strike at Sing Sing in 1979. By that time, Dalsheim had been superintendent of the facility for two years. Throughout his career, critics said he was too soft on inmates because he spoke kindly to them and listened to their grievances – some called him a Communist. “I treated (inmates) like human beings. That doesn’t mean I condoned their crimes,” he said.
But the corrections officers’ strike put his theories to the test. In return for keeping the schedule as normal and offering better food – inmates were allowed steaks for dinner – the inmates’ representatives promised good behavior. A captain with the National Guard called the state commissioner to complain that his forces were kept on the perimeter during the strike.
Had Dalsheim’s strategy of negotiating with the inmates failed, “I would have been in trouble,” he said. But Attica did not repeat itself.
The National Guard wanted to know where the tear gas was kept. “I told them, ‘We’re not going to need that.’ And we didn’t,” said Dalsheim.