Attica Inmate Deal Opens Old Wounds for Guards and Their Families

Mark Cunningham recalls his mother screamed when they told her that her husband was among the prison guards killed at Attica. And he remembers a promise made to ease her pain.

Cunningham says prison chief Russell Oswald visited his family’s home shortly after the 1971 prison riot, put his arm around his grieving mother and told her:

“Don’t worry, Helen, we’ll take care of everything.”

Many survivors of Attica feel New York state did no such thing, feeding resentments that have lingered quietly for nearly 29 years. But now, with a $12-million settlement approved for Attica inmates, victims on the other side are reviving their own battle for recognition.

“We got knocked down and they didn’t give a damn about us,” says Gary Walker, a retired guard who was kicked, punched and urinated on as a hostage. “The inmates got [a settlement]. These guys started the trouble!”

Inmates took over portions of the maximum-security Attica state prison in western New York on Sept. 9, 1971. A standoff with state officials ended four days later when state police launched an all-out assault on orders from Gov. Nelson Rockefeller.

The result was later described by an investigatory commission as the “bloodiest encounter between Americans since the Civil War.” Officers fired more than 2,000 rounds of ammunition over six minutes. Of the 32 inmates and 11 prison employees killed at Attica, most died during the shooting.

“I’m 5 foot 8,” says G.B. Smith, a guard held hostage during the siege. “If I were 6-2, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now. I can hear the bullets flying over my head.”

Five years later, Gov. Hugh Carey closed the book on Attica criminal cases by pardoning inmates and halting prosecutions of police actions. But a thick tangle of civil lawsuits against the state continued.

Inmates claimed in lawsuits that they had been brutalized by officers retaking the prison. Their 25-year legal odyssey appears near an end with a federal judge’s approval in February of a $12-million settlement from the state, with $4 million of that going to pay legal fees.

The state admits no wrongdoing under that settlement, which is expected to cover hundreds of inmates.

By comparison, 20 negligence lawsuits filed by guards and families were tossed out by New York’s highest court in 1983. The Court of Appeals ruled that the Attica widows and guards forfeited their right to file wrongful death actions against the state when they cashed their benefit checks.

This is a sore point with many survivors, who say they drew the benefits unwittingly.

Smith’s recollection is typical. He says Oswald gathered guards at a local church a few days after the siege and told them not to worry about a thing and that they could take six months off with pay.

So, Smith says, he took 10 weeks off, not realizing about a fourth of his weekly paycheck during that period consisted of Workers’ Compensation.

Widows like Helen Cunningham, a mother of eight whose husband was a hostage shot in the head during the siege, likewise claimed they unintentionally settled for far less than they could have received.

Ann Valone, whose husband Carl also was a slain hostage, says she merely signed the papers state officials asked her to: “They came by the houses and were real solicitous and said ‘Sign this. Sign this.’ ”

One hostage widow was awarded $1.1 million. She had refused to cash any benefit checks.

With the 1983 ruling, the court fights ended. Life went on. But Attica was a ghost that never stopped haunting survivors.

For Walker, it meant returning to work at the prison six months later.

“I was nervous when I went back,” he says, recalling a stint guarding a dining area. “The clanging of the pans and pots and silverware dropping. I stood there and I just shook.”

State Police Lt. Joseph Christian, shot in the leg while saving a hostage, had to retire early.

Helen Cunningham became a tireless activist for the Attica families until her death last July at age 74. She lived to see four of her sons become prison guards.

One of them, Mark Cunningham, is now a sergeant at Attica, just like the father he lost at age 14. He can see the prison walls from his front window.

Nancy Quinn became a widow at age 27 after inmates broke down a gate at a central junction dubbed “Times Square” and beat her husband, William, to death. Nancy had to tell 5-year-old Deanne and 3-year-old Christine that their father would never be coming home again. She didn’t know it when her husband died, but she was already pregnant with their third daughter, Amy.

Nancy raised her girls and remarried. But of Attica, she says: “It’s part of my life. I think about it every day.”

The Quinn daughters still tear up talking about the loss, but at the same time they want to know more about it. Deanne will toss away pennies stamped “1971,” yet her search for answers led her behind the walls of Attica recently on a special tour by surviving family members.

Deanne knew it would be tough, but she made a point of going to Times Square and touching the gate that failed to protect her father.

Deanne is among the survivors agitated into action by the inmate settlement. The deal got people talking, and then a few dozen of the survivors who still live near Attica started meeting regularly.

Some of the families don’t begrudge the inmates their money. Others see it as an injustice. Amy Quinn recalls reading one inmate’s claim of being morally violated.

“I wanted to throw up,” Amy says. “How about losing your father? How about not knowing the man everyone says I’m so much like?”

A bipartisan committee of state lawmakers this month voted to give the 11 families of the killed guards $50,000 each as part of the new state budget. Sen. Dale Volker said he’d like to do more, but that “politics sometimes is the art of the possible.”

The Senate proposal has rankled some survivors, who believe New York state should be doing much more.

A letter being drafted by a group of families to Gov. George Pataki and state lawmakers places an apology from the state at the top of its list of requests. They want all state records on Attica opened, support for annual memorial services outside the prison, and compensation for the widows and surviving hostages.

No word yet from Pataki, who has yet to be sent the letter.

The activists admit there are problems with the request. The men who could make a meaningful apology, Oswald and Rockefeller, are dead. Dwelling on the details of Attica can dredge up painful memories. And money cannot bring back the dead.

Still, there’s a feeling it would be meaningful for the state to recognize the scars Attica left behind.

“I tell you,” Cunningham says, “if we do get anything, I’m going to put a plaque on the back of my mother’s grave saying, ‘We finally got it, Ma.’ ”