The Prison King

The Prison King

Written by CHRISTINE PELISEK


During "Z" 's rule, his favorite white inmates got drugs, weapons and
the
freedom to roam.
Shayne Allyn Ziska didn't want a jury trial. He thought the ways of his
former world, as a $66,000-a-year guard at Chino's state prison, too
complex
for 12 men and women to understand. He preferred leaving it to a man in
a
black robe to decide whether all the bad things inmates and a couple of
guards said about him were true.

For six days last month, his accusers took the stand in federal court,
telling Judge Terry Hatter Jr. how the 44-year-old Ziska befriended
members
of a white-supremacist prison-based gang called the Nazi Low Riders
(a.k.a.
"the Ride"). They said he preached "white power" ideology and referred
to
black inmates as "rugs," "porch monkeys" and "niggers."

When Ziska was on duty at the California Institution for Men at Chino,
the
usual rules of prison life did not apply. He often allowed his favorite
white inmates out of their cells to plot crimes and to retaliate
against
other inmates for violating the gangster's code of conduct. To control
his
empire, "Z," as his friends called him, housed his favorite white
inmates
together and occasionally smuggled heroin and methamphetamine inside
letters
for them. He would allow white inmates to make wine in their cells, and
often looked the other way when a beating went down. He was the "go-to"
guy
for certain "buddies" in need of razors.

For four years, from 1996 to 2000, Ziska's renegade regime ruled the
prison
walls, including the 200-inmate Madrone Hall, where he was one of three
guards per shift. He insinuated himself into many parts of inmate life.
He
was a leader and teacher, instructing inmates in self-defense, with
tips on
how to take away a weapon from a guard. He was a philosopher, preaching
about Friedrich Nietzsche and Adolf Hitler's Mein Kampf.

The 5-foot-10, wiry-yet-muscular Ziska, his blond hair cut short,
denied all
of it when he took the stand for an hour or so on the final day of his
trial
in downtown Los Angeles. "I am there to protect them," said Ziska. "I
don't
share anything in common with the NLR."

After a lunch break, Judge Hatter issued his verdict: guilty on one
count of
violent crime in aid of racketeering, one count of deprivation of civil
rights under the color of law, and one count of conspiracy. Hatter, in
scathing remarks about the Corrections Department's poor record in
addressing its problems, thanked the U.S. Attorney's Office for
"shining the
light on one of the darkest areas of the state."

The verdict closed the door on a five-year investigation that began in
1999,
when the Ontario Police Department looked into a spate of violent crime
and
an upsurge in meth labs attributed to the Ride. The police finally
called in
the FBI, and by the end of the probe, 29 members or associates of the
gang
had been indicted. Most of those named in the 2002 indictment had spent
time
in Chino's prison, and two of the nine inmates who agreed to testify
against
Ziska had been indicted by the feds. Ziska, the only guard implicated,
was
placed on administrative leave in 2000, ending his hopes of being
elected
president of the Chino prison union. He was indicted in 2004.

One of the more puzzling aspects of the case is why so few guards came
forward to say they noticed anything odd on the days Ziska worked.
Guards
who testified on Ziska's behalf denied that there was any "code of
silence"
that forbade them from saying anything negative about one of the
members of
their powerful prison-guards union, for which Ziska was a shop steward.
"The
Shayne Ziska I am familiar with is professional, and he is not someone
I
think of as a white supremacist," said Marty Aroian, president of the
union's Chino chapter. "He was a very effective and a dedicated shop
steward. He kept the tenets of our organization very well."



Ziska, a former construction worker, started his career as a
correctional
officer in 1984, at the age of 22, at the 6,300-inmate Chino prison.
His
first assignment was on the minimum-security yard, and he graduated to
patrolling some of Chino's most dangerous units, including
administrative
segregation, where the most violent inmates are kept. Ziska was also a
member of the prison SWAT team for three years.

"He was rough around the edges," said corrections officer Denise Mori
Harrison, who worked with Ziska in 1999 and testified on his behalf.
"He
either liked you or he didn't."

Race often made it into his conversations. When Harrison, who is white,
married an African-American man, Ziska told her that he was against
mixed
marriages because he felt sorry for the children. On another occasion,
he
asked his new Latino partner if he spoke English. "He was a real
asshole,"
the guard said. "I said, 'Who the hell is this guy?' I have been here
for 12
years. He said, 'Do you want to be my partner? Are you going to work?'
He
worked my ass off." He eventually changed his mind and grew to admire
Ziska.
"We were like brothers there."

Ziska lived with his wife, Joan, and three sons in nearby Fontana. He
was an
avid surfer and a black belt in tae kwon do. He also taught martial
arts to
inner-city youth for more than 20 years.

But Ziska had a darker side. Ziska's former brother-in-law, Vince
Cobbold, a
former felon who spent 18 months in jail for selling marijuana and
methamphetamine, testified that Ziska was a meth user who once looked
into
joining the Ku Klux Klan.

"He wanted to know if I wanted an application," he said. Ziska's son
Ryan
described his father as a racist who would have disowned him "if I
brought
home a nigger."

The 20-year-old college student recalled how his father would regularly
engage his older brother in white-power talk and that he once bragged
about
beating up a black inmate. His favorite coffee mug had a picture of a
swastika. During the trial, Ziska's attorney, Ira Salzman, accused Ryan
of
taking his mother's side after the family's breakup in 2005.

Ziska extolled the virtues of white power, according to federal
prosecutors.
He shaved his head bald, sported a skull tattoo with lightning bolts
blazing
out of its mouth, symbolizing "SS," and was intolerant of other races.
He
fit in well with the strict rules and regulations of the Nazi Low
Riders
white prison gang.

The Nazi Low Riders emerged as a white-supremacist prison gang in the
late
1970s and early 1980s. The Ride took over control of the California
prison
system's main yards when the Aryan Brotherhood, the leading white
prison
gang, was systematically disciplined by the Corrections Department and
placed in administrative segregation. The Ride agreed to continue the
AB's
illegal activities and, in 1999, the Ride became a validated prison
gang,
along with the Mexican Mafia (Eme) and the Black Guerrilla Family.

Membership in the white-race group is by invitation only. New members
must
commit a violent act and be sponsored by a "senior." In addition, the
gang
follows strict rules of conduct. Members cannot work with law
enforcement,
associate with known sex offenders or engage in "race mixing." Race
mixing
includes dating out of your race, and eating with or touching food
prepared
by another race. While in prison, Ride members must participate in
mandatory
exercise and physical-training programs and take part in "roll call" -
where
they identify themselves as members. Members must also donate 10 to 30
percent of all items received through the mail or purchased at the
prison
store to the shot caller, or senior member, who passes some of it along
to
members in secure housing units. A member can be stabbed or killed if
he
rapes or disrespects a fellow member, or claims to be a member before
obtaining membership status.

The gang holds power through intimidation and violence. Stabbing is
considered a badge of honor.

If a white inmate is in violation of gang rules, it is the white
inmates who
take care of it. Snitches and child molesters are called "trash."

Ziska helped clean up the "trash," or "lames."

The indictment accused Ride members of ordering hits, committing
violent
acts, intimidating witnesses, extortion, drug trafficking and numerous
weapons violations. The two who agreed to testify against Ziska, in
return
for lighter sentences for themselves, were Brian "Skully" Roberg and
Robert
"Bobbo" Wilson, both of whom became Ziska's pals inside prison walls.

In 2001, Roberg pleaded guilty and received a plea agreement in return
for
testifying against Ziska. He also was given $2,000 by the FBI for his
troubles.

"It was something that I was thinking about for some time," he said. "I
started talking to them [the FBI] initially because of my request. I
wanted
to change what was getting me busted in my lifestyle."

It would be Ziska's undoing. It would also open the floodgates for many
more
inmates to come forward.
Thirty-four-year-old Brian Roberg was
sent to
prison at the age of 18. He did time for possession of drugs for sale,
armed
robbery and possession of a firearm. While in prison, he became
affiliated
with the Mexican Mafia and the Aryan Brotherhood. In 1998, he was doing
time
at Chino. It was at Chino that Roberg, also known as "Mother Fucking
Skully," "MFS" and "Rock Solid," became a full-fledged member of the
Ride.
It was a steppingstone to becoming a member of the Aryan Brotherhood.

"I wanted to be recognized by the Aryan Brotherhood for work I put in,"
testified Roberg. "The NLR are assets to the Aryan Brotherhood for
getting
work done and spreading the message. It was about Aryan Brotherhood
politics. It was about being aggressive with attitude."

Roberg eventually became the shot caller for the Ride at Chino prison,
announcing mandatory workouts in the yard and conducting "church
meetings"
to discuss gang business. Over a span of two years, he admitted to
calling
hits on five inmates, including the stabbing of a white inmate who lied
about having a Ride sponsor, and a gang member who overheard a
conversation
about an assault on an inmate and tipped off the intended target. As
the
shot caller, he held ultimate authority over the white inmates. No one
could
be stabbed or beaten without his permission.

It was at Chino's Sycamore Hall that Roberg first befriended Ziska. The
inmate and the correctional officer soon became friends. Roberg said he
grew
to respect Ziska and even called off a hit on a Skinhead named Junior
at
Ziska's request.

"Ziska asked us not to stab Junior," he said. "He said Junior was his
boy.
Ziska asked me a favor because of the rapport we had. It was the least
I
could do for him. He did me favors."

On another occasion, Ziska again asked Roberg to refrain from stabbing
an
inmate, because he feared that a knife attack would bring heat down on
his
unit. "We just beat him down," said Roberg. "No one would be
disciplined. It
would be different if there was a stabbing."

Roberg took Ziska's words to heart one more time, in 1999, after a
Skinhead
named Nathan "Chance" Johnson allegedly raped his cellmate. Johnson
denied
the rape, but, as white prison policy dictated, he had to pass along
his
"paperwork," or incident report, to his unit's shot caller for review.
After
taking a look at the report, Roberg decided that there wasn't enough
evidence to call a hit on Johnson for violating one of the Ride's
cardinal
rules - the one against rape.

Roberg also told how Ziska had come to his cell and influenced his
decision.
"He gave me the incident report," he testified in court. "Ziska said I
needed to look at it. I said I didn't believe the paperwork. I saw that
something had happened. I figured that the dude just beat him up. Ziska
was
making such an issue about the incident. He was giving all the
indications
that the dude needed to be hit. To have a rapist socializing with NLR -
that's bad stuff as far as politics go. It was clear in my mind I was
missing something in letting Johnson into the program. Ziska's access
to
information was far greater than mine. It was a clear indication that I
should look further into it."

On July 24, 2000, Ziska got his way. Johnson was stabbed in the eye on
the
yard by Ride member Joseph "Sulky" Diamond.



Roberg wasn't the only inmate with special privileges who came forward
to
testify against Ziska. "Bobbo" Wilson, a "Wood," or Ride associate,
became
Ziska's tier-tender, or helper, at Sycamore Hall in the mid-'90s.
(Wilson
also worked out a plea agreement with federal prosecutors.) One of
their
first orders of business together was the assault of an ex-Marine who
was
housed in their unit.

"We came to find out that he was there ?for breaking his baby's arms,"
said
Wilson. ?"We were given the paperwork from Ziska. Whites aren't
supposed to
hurt kids. This individual needed to be got because what he did was
wrong."

As a favor to Ziska, Wilson agreed to throw the inmate a beating, and
Ziska
obliged by opening the ex-Marine's cell. On another occasion, Ziska
opened a
cell for Wilson when he found out that an inmate was in for raping a
mentally challenged girl. "You don't rape, period," he said. "We are
running
the prison for whites, and we want to know who is coming in."

Another inmate who received special favors was a violent Skinhead named
James "Spinner" Abbott, who was in and out of custody for 15 years.
Abbott,
a so-called independent, was a good match for Ziska. The two would talk
about German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche and Adolf Hitler's Mein
Kampf.
"The white race is genetically superior," he said from the witness
stand.
"Smarter. We invented almost everything. Ziska told me that he started
out
as a traditional Skin, but it seemed to me that he got more infatuated
with
the [Nazi Low Riders]. He liked the structure of them. He seemed to
gravitate towards that."

Ziska regularly taught Abbott martial arts, how to thwart a knife or
pepper-spray attack, and gave him Plexiglas so he could make a weapon.
"I
was in that wicked way," he said. "Ziska wanted us to be strapped in in
case
of a riot."

Abbott also planned the beatings of an inmate who was "wagging his
weenie"
at two corrections officers, as well as a child molester, at the behest
of
Ziska. "When my homeboy was socking him up, Ziska walked down toward
the
guard shack, and when the old man screamed, he looked away like it was
coming from another direction. It was funny. He didn't go check to see
if he
was okay," said Abbott, about the second beating.

But not everyone was buying the inmates' stories.

"They are all cons," said defense attorney Salzman. "They have major
sentences. The government is arguing that the motive is racial. He
might be
a hard person, but he is not a racist. Someone would have picked this
up.
Other guards wouldn't have tolerated this. Why would he do it? Why
would he
sacrifice his career for this purpose?"



Chino corrections officer Richard Allan Palacios Sr. worked the 8 a.m.
to 4
p.m. shift with Ziska in the late 1990s. The two officers got on
reasonably
well. Palacios didn't ask too many questions when he saw 15 to 30 white
inmates out of their cells at one time, and Ziska provided no answers.
Instead, Palacios would grab another officer, and the two would corral
the
inmates back into their cells. It was a regular ritual. It was usually
followed by Ziska's letting them back out. "We would confront inmates,
and
they said they got permission from Ziska," he said. "They would be
screaming
out his name."

Palacios eventually began to worry about his safety and brought his
concerns
to Ziska. "He told me I was being too hard on the white inmates," he
said.
"He said to me, Do you know what it would be like to have battery acid
on my
vehicle? He told me to back off because they did favors for him when he
wasn't there."

Palacios' fears reached a high point after he saw Ziska show Ride
member
Michael "Snake" Bridge Polaroids of a fully clothed Palacios with a
"baton
in my rear end" as part of a prison hazing ritual.

"It undermined my authority and safety," he said. Chino corrections
officer
Robert Walter Spejcher, who was assigned to the shift just after
Ziska's,
complained that there were days when he started work and found cell
doors
unlocked - a violation of prison policy - and white inmates wandering
the
tiers.

"It presented a security risk," he said. "They could jump out and
attack us.
Guards were scared they would get jumped."

Spejcher said that he would find Nazi paraphernalia and an unusually
large
amount of weapons in white inmates' cells.

"There were more acts of violence on the third watch due to inner-dorm
visiting after Ziska's watch," he said. "I don't need a job that is
unsafe
to work because of the number of incidents going on."

Palacios eventually brought his concerns to his superiors, who told him
to
document Ziska's bad behavior. Soon afterward, Palacios filed a written
complaint to investigative services. After a six-month internal-affairs
investigation, prison authorities found no evidence of wrongdoing and
closed
the file. For coming forward, Palacios said, he was shunned by his
co-workers and given the silent treatment. He eventually transferred to
another unit at Chino.

"I didn't agree with the findings," he said. "In my report was a list
of
dates and times and officers present. I had to go with what the
department
said."

"The reason why it wasn't sustained was because other officers wouldn't
back
up his claim," said federal prosecutor Adam Kamenstein.

It wouldn't have been the first time that an officer was shunned for
violating what U.S. District Judge Thelton Henderson, in a Northern
California case, described as a "code of silence" among officers. In
2004,
Henderson ordered an investigation by special master John Hagar into
the
state's labor contract, asking whether it gave the prison-guards union
too
much control over prison management and whether the contract hindered
the
state's ability to conduct fair and accurate investigations of guard
misconduct. What they found was a culture fostering a code of silence
that
was rampant in the department.

A prime example occurred in 2002, when two former Pelican Bay guards
were
sent to prison for soliciting inmates to attack child molesters, sex
offenders and other inmates they disliked, and for attacking inmates
themselves at the maximum-security facility in Crescent City. The trial
of
Sergeant Michael Powers and Officer Jose Garcia raised concerns that
some
guards attempted to protect their convicted colleagues, sparking the
federal
investigation that prompted Henderson to consider appointing a receiver
to
run the department.

"Rather than CDC [California Department of Corrections] staff
correcting the
prisoners, some correctional officers end up acquiring a prisoner's
mentality: They form gangs, align with gangs and spread the code of
silence," Hagar wrote. "The code of silence is taught to new recruits
because of longstanding CDC culture, turning good officers bad."

At Ziska's trial, federal prosecutors accused numerous Chino correc
tions
officers of adhering to that very same code of silence. Besides
Palacios and
Spejcher, all of the correctional officers who testified said that they
hadn't witnessed any wrongdoing on the part of Ziska, and most denied
that a
code of silence existed among correctional officers. "I don't believe
the
code of silence exists," said corrections officer Nathaneal Huley, who
worked with Ziska in 1999. "If he was passing weapons, it would be a
problem
for me. Why would I want to keep that hushed? One of those weapons
could end
up in me."



Prosecutors say Ziska's only motivation was to help the white-power
cause.
Defense attorney Joel Levine says the case was largely a fabrication of
inmates trying to help themselves. "There is no evidence that he
received
money or remuneration for these actions. It is a no-brainer to inform
on a
corrections officer and get benefits for themselves."

Late in the day on February 14, after an emotional afternoon of
testimony by
Ziska's son Ryan, Judge Hatter convicted Ziska of all but two counts.
He
criticized the Department of Corrections for failing to supervise Ziska
and
ordered Ziska to return to court on May 8, when he could be sentenced
to as
many as 50 years in federal prison.

"I am clearly of the mind that the California Department of Corrections
ought to be indicted as well, if they could be," Hatter said. "It's
amazing,
frankly, that the offenses which are charged here are not more rampant
throughout the entire system, and I am sure that there are offenses
that are
as grave as some of these and worse and hopefully will be brought to
the
attention of the public before long and will be addressed properly."