201211 - Northwest Chess!

assignment were not especially impressive. I earned my
correspondence chess master title the previous year in
the old American Postal Chess League and won my section
of the most recent New York State Championship.
But my over-the-board rating of 1956 was only Class A
in the U.S. Chess Federation’s hierarchy, two levels below
Chess Master. The thought quickly occurred to me
that I could go out there and lose all my games! Still, it
seemed like the right thing to do.
Later, I was on hold 45 minutes when a familiar voice
came on the line.
“Hello, son, what’s wrong?”
“Hi Dad, nothing is wrong. I’m coming to visit you on October
9 th ” I said.
“You will need to get clearance,” he said. “So far, nobody has
been allowed to see me.”
“It’s all set up. I’m an invited guest of the Department of Corrections.”
“Seriously?”
I gave him the details but couldn’t tell whether
or not he was pleased.
“I’ll come early so we can talk,” I said. “They told me I can have
dinner in the mess hall with the inmates.”
“Okay, we can sit together. I’ll introduce you to some of my new
friends.”
“I’ll bring you some cigarettes, Dad. Is there anything else you
need?”
“Yes, I would like a bible. I’m taking a course and want to become
an ordained minister,” he said.
Thoughts of my dad in a cleric’s collar pushed
aside everything else I had on my mind and, after an uncomfortable
pause, I said: “Hey Dad, do me a favor. Please
don’t bet any money on me this time.”
“All right, I won’t,” he promised.
The flight was uneventful, but getting from the
gate at the Kansas City airport to the hotel was an ordeal.
I lugged a box with two dozen chess books and
one bible. My intention was to give a book as a prize
to anyone who beat me. It was difficult enough walk to
with my cane and leg brace, even without the suitcase
and the damn books. Now, standing in the rain waiting
for a cab to the hotel, I cursed my dad for being 1,500
miles from home.
The prison sent a van to pick me up at the Ramada
Inn. Once we arrived at the service gate, the driver carried
the books to the gym where 16 sets of pieces were
neatly arranged on a row of chessboards. There was a
poster on the wall that announced, “New York State Chess
Champion to take on all comers.” Underneath someone had
written in black magic marker: “He’s Junior’s son!”
I expected to see bars and isolation cells, but the camp
was for white collar criminals and resembled a college
dormitory. My father, like everyone else, was dressed in
a light blue, long sleeve shirt with denim jeans.
“The maximum security prison is behind the wall,” he
said. “If anyone misbehaves here, they get shipped over there.
Nobody wants that, so things remain calm most of the time.”
“That’s sounds like enough motivation to stay out of trouble,” I
said.
“Let me introduce you to my new roommate, David Hall. He was
the governor of Oklahoma.”
Mr. Hall was a short man with light hair and a
firm handshake. He was a bit overweight, but I wouldn’t
describe him as fat. Convicted of bribery and extortion
involving the investment of his state’s employee
retirement funds, he was transferred to another federal
prison in Tucson shortly after I left. According to my
father, some associates from his past were brought to
Leavenworth. As a result, Governor Hall was moved to
a new location to protect his health.
“Good to meet you, Governor,” I said.
The governor smiled pleasantly as he looked me
in the eye and said, “Are we fixin’ to play some chess tonight?”
It was the first time I ever heard someone use that particular
choice of words, but certainly not the last.
My father continued with the introductions. I
felt like I was in a receiving line at a shotgun wedding.
“Over there is Julio from the Philippines. He murdered two people
and stuffed them in his trunk. And here’s my friend, Doc. He
works for the Syndicate in Dallas.”
“Hi,” I said feeling uneasy. I pulled out a handkerchief
to wipe off my forehead and the back of my neck. “How
bizarre,” I whispered to myself.
“My son is a C.P.A.,” Dad said.
Northwest Chess November 2012 Page 7