Posts Tagged ‘guard’

ADOC Interim Director Chuck Ryan: Culpable in the Deaths of Officer Brent Lumley & Deputy Warden Ron Odom?

Friday, February 13th, 2009

 

 

Folks, I am going to try to recall and tell this story in brief.  My spelling may not be quite right; feel free to advise me of any errors.  But, this story’s got to be told.

 

Officer Brent Lumley’s death appears to have involved decisions by Charles Ryan.  I’ll let you, the reader, decide whether or not Charles Ryan might have been negligent.

 

Here is a link to the HTML version of the Arizona Supreme Court record of the conviction of Leroy D. Cropper:

 

http://74.125.47.132/search?q=cache:pjo5BBguhoQJ:www.supreme.state.az.us/opin/pdf2003/cr_00_0544_ap.pdf+lumley+ADOC&hl=en&ct=clnk&cd=2&gl=us

 

This is the section to which I call your attention:

 

¶4

Cropper needed to find a way out of his cell. An inmate

is able to leave a locked cell if a fellow inmate “spins the lock”

to his cell door. This lock picking procedure, performed manually

on the cell door lock from outside the cell, bypasses the control

room’s electronic lock command.

 

However, it does not describe exactly how Cropper’s lock was spun.  But the reported written record rarely tells the truth:

 

An inmate could do it himself from inside of his cell rigging it to unlock at the pull of a string!

 

Deputy Warden Ron Odom at Perryville’s San Juan Unit became so distraught over the loss of one of his beloved officer’s that he suffered a massive heart attack shortly after the murder and passed away.  Ron Odom was loved by all who worked with him at San Juan.  Odom ran a tight ship based upon “mutual inclusivity.”  Some described it as “family.” 

 

There was rumor of a waiting list of 400 officers who wanted to work for Mr. Odom because he took such good care of his employees.  It was unheard of in ADOC and nothing like it exists today.  ADOC administrators could learn from the magnificent model Mr. Ron Odom provided.

 

Why did Ron have a heart attack?  The stress was too much for him.  Ron knew Lumley’s death could have & should have been prevented.  Who was the culprit?  And how?

 

Over the course of a year, DW Odom wrote ADOC Central Office requesting repairs to the cell locks in his unit due to his concern for the safety of his officers.  Every three (3) months like clockwork, he’d receive a denial of his request for new locks [urgent security matters] because ADOC didn’t have the money.

 

Who wrote the letters?  Who signed those denials?

 

Chuck Ryan!

 

According to my informant, Charles Ryan signed off on at least three (3) letters denying DW Odom’s request for locks to protect his officers!

 

Why?

 

Because ADOC didn’t have the money! 

 

Nevertheless, right after Lumley’s murder, which could have been prevented by installing locks that could not be “turned,” ADOC found even more money and installed secure locks & new doors at almost double the original estimate!

 

AND

 

At the cost of Officer Brent Lumley’s life!

 

 

 

An Open Letter to the Complainant Dr. LM in RFI 08-23 TREZISE

Monday, January 5th, 2009

 

Dear Dr. LM—

 

While I do not know you, I attended the Complaint Screening Committee hearing Wednesday, December 17, 2008 and I attested upon the behalf of the merits of your complaint RFI 08-23 John Trezise, Ph.D. before the Arizona Board of Psychologist Examiners not knowing what exactly your complaint was about.  Nonetheless, as the case was discussed, it became apparent that your complaint compliments previous complaints I have filed against John Trezise, Ph.D.

 

Apparently, Trezise has a history of treating subordinates harshly way back to 1995 when he harassed Enos into leaving ADOC after only three weeks.  Trezise has a history of “making people suffer” and when Public Board Member (and politician) Joseph Donaldson referenced the threat of “progressive discipline” you became the member of a rather large crowd—that includes me.

 

Half of those Trezise pursues are below the doctoral psychologist level.  Half are older than he.  Half perhaps more are female.  Trezise makes it impossible to succeed and makes life miserable for his victim.  He always has a victim.  He is unstable and should never be allowed to supervise anyone.

 

It is such a long standing pattern that it has become a way of life for Dr. Trezise; he couldn’t function if he wasn’t shoring himself up on the back of another vulnerable subordinate.  So, your complaint that you don’t want to see this happen ever again to anybody else is appropriate.  You are the 5th female target.  There have been at least five males.

 

Sadly, with age people’s flaws tend to become more pronounced.  It must have been particularly hard for you to file, but I am curious about you.  He might be getting worse with time.  More sadistic.  Here’s the rub:

 

When one complains about the internship upon which obtains a license, it taints one’s postdoctoral training.  It makes one question your training and even your licensure as a psychologist.  Indeed, had you complained before successful completion of your internship, it would have assured starting over elsewhere and setbacks.  But that is what we do when it gets bad.  We vote with our feet.  We toughen up, sacrifice more and become better.  Sadly, in this case it appears you cheated yourself.

 

You cheated yourself out of an opportunity to grow even more and become a far better psychologist.  Don’t tell me “I don’t understand.”  I was fired from my first site because I filed a report with law enforcement as required by law when a male health aid molested his 13 year old female patient.  Unfortunately for me, the man in question’s mother was the sister of my boss’s superior.

 

Chuck fired me and they fired Chuck to cover it all up.  (ADOC has done the same thing in one of their more notorious cover-ups.)  Thereafter I spent four years under the supervision of two very fine psychologists.  Having given so much time at such meager wages was only possible because I did not have a family to support.

 

Back to your currently open RFI:  I have filed several complaints against John Trezise; however, one Board member, I believe Dr. Karp, a forensic psychologist member, mentioned that she only knew of one other complaint—even though I had filed at least four personally against Trezise this year!  I shall post those here for you and apparently for the benefit of other Board members!!!

 

The Board processes are problematic and I suggest you attend each meeting concerning your RFI.  However, if you are out of State at the least order the CD copy and listen to the proceedings.  In particular you need to hear Public Member Joseph Donaldson’s continual efforts to get your complaint dismissed.  I believe RFI No. 08-23 only remained under investigation because of my presence and my presentation.  I posted my address before the Board earlier in my blog.

 

While we were educated that the purpose of licensure is “to protect the public” the reality is that “this Board functions to protect the State.”  Trezise did not appear at the CSC hearing and I am certain he knows from experience that as “a member” of the State, the Board’s members will bend over backwards to protect the State and him.

 

However, you may have another problem.  If you work in any capacity for ADOC you definitely will have a problem.  Donaldson repeatedly stated that you failed to file a complaint with ADOC while you were employed at ADOC.  Actually, I think you were working for the private prison but still, it comes under ADOC.   In my opinion, no internships should be allowed to be conducted at any ADOC facility.

 

Donaldson holds to the idiotic idea the ADOC are a bunch of angels and can do nothing wrong.  He said they are a large organization explaining that they would have handled any complaint you filed efficiently.  Donaldson cannot think straight.  You see, Michael has it right:  “Liberalism is a Mental Disorder.”  At the very least, liberal thinking causes Mental Disorders.  We have become such a Savage Nation.

 

I see “old Joe” has been promoted from City Councilman to Mayor since I’ve become acquainted with him:

 

http://mayorjoe.net/about.htm

 

The fact is after I filed my first RFI (see my blog) for a treating psychologist marrying her hospitalized (psychiatrically!) inmate patient (She had treated him as her patient for approximately two years.), I was targeted for inordinate doses of harassment.  There is no way for one person to file anything with ADOC brass without risk of severe retaliation, extreme damage even if failing to file puts your license at risk or even your freedom because failure to report can be a felony for a psychologist. 

 

Let me give you one example (previously unpublished):

 

An inmate had died at the Supermax.  At SMU-I they found a dozen uneaten sack lunches in his cell.  Had the guards alerted my physician friend about his failure to eat, he could have prevented the death, but as it was, there was nothing he could do.

 

ADOC Director Dora Schriro wasn’t satisfied with the outcome of the investigation of that inmate’s death.  So Schriro had a second investigation done to get it “right.”  When the results of the second investigation into that inmate’s death came in, Dora still wasn’t satisfied.  The Director had it investigated for a third time.  You see, rather than admit she has an understaffing problem with officers; she wanted to put the blame on the physician!

 

And what did my friend do?  He quit!  He quit even though he didn’t have another job lined up.  Why?  He valued his medical license too much to risk it.  Even though ADOC brass wooed him incessantly and pleaded with him to return, that fraudulent investigation of Dora’s frosted him.  He never went back.  And after what’s happened to me, many people won’t even go to work for ADOC.

 

God luck with your complaint.  You have my support but I’m concerned for you because if you have continued working in corrections in sex offender treatment, your future remains at risk–unless you can drive this one home and nail Trezise with RFI no. 08-23. 

 

Having heard that Dr. Arnold agreed to provide possible hours for you, I have a question for you:

 

Do you know the circumstances under

 

which Dr. Arnold abruptly left her position

 

as Head of the Sex Offender Treatment

 

Program at Florence—West

 

and Dr. Trezise succeeded her?

 

Neither in my opinion is qualified to head such a specialized program in sex offender treatment.  Over a period of five years I worked closely with each and know them well. 

 

Feel free to contact me or post comments in my blog.  Listen to my talk radio show if you want a real education in psychology.  I hope to hear from you soon. 

 

Remember: 

 

You are responsible for your own education.

 

                                                            Respectfully,

                                                            Dr. Kent

 

 

 

 

 

Changing of the Guard—Christmas Eve

Wednesday, December 24th, 2008

 

“Changing of the Guard”

 

Christmas Eve

 

This morning I rushed myself out the door hair still wet not wanting to be late for church service.   I didn’t even take the time to check the schedule for Christmas services.  Surely service might be held a little earlier than usual?  Perhaps at 9:00 a.m. sharp instead of 9:15?  I waded my way through traffic and arrived just before 9:00.  As I turned into the parking lot, it felt great to be on time, but the parking lot was empty.  I was far too early; no one was there.

 

Two young girls rolled down the window of their car as they pulled in asking, “Sir, do know when the church service is?” 

 

“It’s obviously later; I don’t know when.  I’m going to walk up to the building and find out.”

 

A well-dressed man, dressed all in black, a little older than myself with more gray and white in his hair than I, pulled up into a handicapped spot.  He smiled as he parked and got out of his car.

 

Service was not until 11:15.  We laughed as I joked that if I went back home I’d probably be late for that service.  I was going to stay and read my Bible; he said there should be coffee.  And as I turned from the locked Information Center, he told me he was an usher and he would be making some hot coffee.  He invited me inside and introduced himself.

 

Ron or someone opened the door for us and Ron disappeared.  In front of me I saw a man sitting down wearing what appeared to be a brand-new black satin jacket with a large Marine Corps patch on the back.  The red and gold and white of the patch looked brand-new; it must have been 10 to 12 inches in diameter.

 

“My, that looks like a new patch,” I complimented the wearer, not considering my words very carefully I’ll admit.

 

“No, its 10 years old.”

 

Perhaps I had insulted the wearer somehow.  As I walked around him, I saw tattoos on the left side of his neck and the back of his left hand.  He was clean-shaven, even his head, but more significantly, he was leaning forward, slightly bent over.  In retrospect, he may have been praying.  His forward posture allowed me to clearly see the patch on the back of his jacket without the plush maroon seat back blocking my view.

 

More importantly, I thought I saw a tear in his eye; tears hanging from his eye lashes.  His eyes were bloodshot.  Rather than sit at the small table right in front of him and with him, as I feared that might be intrusive, I sat in the taller chairs and tables nearby.  Close enough so we might continue to speak.  Thus, I hoped not to impose myself upon him because I felt as if I might have interrupted him.

 

“How’s this Christmas going?” I asked as I opened my study Bible on the tall table.

 

He shrugged his shoulders fighting back another tear; this warrior was losing that battle.  I closed Psalms, walked directly over and took the seat opposite him across the small low circular table.

 

“These holidays are blue days.” I answered my question aloud for him rather than making him talk as I moved over towards him. 

 

He was in very good shape but he was not a young man.  Although much younger than myself, this was no fresh recruit.  He was a seasoned warrior and his heart was breaking.

 

He excused himself politely to go to the restroom but immediately doubled back placing his hat on the small dark wooden table.  Seeing the crumpled up ball cap, I knew he was coming back and he wanted to talk with me.  I accepted that invitation.

 

“Where you from?”

 

“Oregon, but it’s too cold there.  They’re deploying me to Afghanistan; I don’t want to go back,” his voice trailed off.

 

“How many times you been there?”

 

“This will be my fourth time . . . I’m a Marine scout.”  He cried, “You don’t know what it’s like.”

 

“No, I have no idea of what it’s like,” I agreed.

 

“I’ve been shot three times, stabbed twice.  I’m afraid I’m going to die over there.  But I don’t have a choice, I’ve been ordered to redeploy.”

 

“When do you go?”

 

“The 29th.”

 

“That’s, that’s . . . soon . . . less . . . less thanna week.  . . .  How many years you got in?”

 

“21, almost 22.”

 

            “That’s more than enough to retire.  Why don’t you retire?”

 

            “I have no choice; I’ve got to go back.  Besides, they want me to reenlist.”  He shrugged as he folded his ball cap, “It’s a good pension.”

 

            “I know . . . If you don’t go it’s a felony. . . These systems, the way they’re designed, we’re all stuck in them and we’re slaves to ‘em.  We have no choice . . . I did the right thing in the wrong place and they tried to destroy me . . . I’m waiting a couple months to see what my fate is as well,” as I fought back my own tears.

 

            “I’m afraid God’s going to hold me accountable for murder.”  He stammered, “. . . I was only doing what I was told   . . .”  He again fought off the compulsion to cry, “Oh, the guilt!”

 

            “It’s not murder.  There’s a war.  It’s not murder; it’s under the color of authority.  You’re obeying orders.”  And I emphasized slowly, “Besides, you have no choice.”

 

            “I’ve lost one kidney and part of my stomach . . .” He choked, “The guilt . . .”

 

            Just then, the door opened and in walked three men.  The lead man was finely dressed in a tweed suit jacket with a bolo tie, western style and I caught only a glimpse . . . under his chin a silver eagle with a shield clasping arrows, a US military symbol.

 

            “Semper Fi!” this elderly gentleman heartily greeted the younger warrior as he walked up behind the Marine scout.

 

            The younger warrior turned and rose to greet his senior.  They shook hands eagerly.  The tears went away . . .

 

            What happened during this meeting I lost track of and I cannot give a very accurate accounting, but I was witnessing one of those rare sights and rare moments:  

 

The Changing of the Guard. 

 

            The younger Marine scout recognized his senior as a fellow warrior.  There was mutual appreciation for each other’s sacrifices.  The senior decorated World War II veteran mentioned being aboard a ship.

 

            “Were you a squid?  Were you a squid?” his younger compatriot demanded enthusiastically while they kept shaking hands.

 

“No, I was in the Navy, a sailor, on board a ship.”

 

“Well, you fellows did a good job.  Never forget that!”

 

            “Forget that?  I’ll never forget; I’m still carrying around Japanese shrapnel in my body!”

 

“I know that.”

 

“And I came back without,” he removed his left hand from his walker and lifted his left arm slightly demonstrating his artificial limb hidden within his suit jacket, “my left arm.”

 

            Then the two embraced. 

 

            The elder went within the sanctuary.  The Marine scout sat back down in front of me.

 

            I was destined to sit with that seasoned warrior whose heart was breaking, filled with remorse and guilt.  I wasn’t early for church; I was right on time.

 

            It was one of those admittedly rare moments during which I kept my words to a minimum; just sitting, sharing in his grief and fighting back tears of my own was all that was necessary.  Just being present with him.

 

I do not know his name and I didn’t ask.  I cannot query someone who cannot talk about their work about anything that might compromise them or place them in harm’s way.  My biggest concern was that this younger man warrior might lose his edge, dropping his guard at the worst time, perhaps even resulting in injury or death.

 

He asked me if the office was open yet because he was going to see his sister-in-law.  She worked for the church.  He excused himself to step outside and smoke, but this time he took his hat with him.  I knew he was not going to return.

 

            “You’re a good man.  Thanks for talking with me,” he said as he arose and shook my hand.

 

“It was my honor.”

 

            My prayers are with this man, younger than I, a seasoned warrior returning to Afghanistan for a fourth time in less than five years.  He doesn’t know it, but I know what he does.  A Marine scout is a sniper.  He is required to maintain cover and to take lives whenever his mission might be compromised, even the very young who might alert others about the presence of his small two-man team.

 

This type of warrior is one of the noblest, deployed for long periods of time with minimal support.  They operate under the most horrific conditions and take no joy in killing.

 

It is a job.  It’s only their job.  It’s not who they are; it’s what they must do.  Snipers are derided even among regular soldiers and are never given their due, the respect they earn.  It’s a tough job and it takes special men—of extremely good character—to succeed.

 

            Carlos Hathcock, Marine gunnery Sergeant called White Feather by the Viet Cong put it this way.  Allow me to paraphrase the greatest shooter of the Vietnam conflict:

 

“I take no joy in taking life, in killing.  All I think about is for each of the enemy I kill about 5,000 of our boys will be going home.  It’s that thought that keeps me going.  For each of them I kill, more of our boys will be going home alive.”

 

            It’s a shame we must put such good God-fearing men into these positions.  Each day we lose 1,000 to 2,000 of our World War II veterans as they approach their 80s and 90s, and in the most twisted of ironies, we lose good men almost daily in Iraq to false charges.

 

            To the unknown Marine scout and seasoned warrior: 

 

Do not drop your guard. 

 

Protect yourself. 

 

Come home alive . . . and . . . free.

 

Respectfully,

 

John Taylor Kent, Ph.D.

All Rights Reserved

Revised December 24, 2008