In prison chief's office, gofer is inmate

The corrections secretary says the prisoner receives no special treatment, but some say he has too much influence.

By ADAM C. SMITH

© St. Petersburg Times, published April 24, 2000

TALLAHASSEE -- Among Florida's 70,000 state prisoners, no one has more pull with prison administrators than a veteran marijuana dealer named Earl McKown.

Visit the Department of Corrections central office in Tallahassee and you may find McKown outside the building smoking with Corrections Secretary Michael Moore or some of his top deputies. Usually you'll find him in his prison blues puttering in and around Moore's fifth floor office, straightening up, making coffee, and occasionally telling the secretary about troubles he has had with prison officers.

"He's kind of like Secretary Moore's personal gofer, kind of like his golden boy who does stuff for him," said McKown's sister, Sandra McDonald. The 44-year-old McKown, known simply and affectionately as Earl among the department's top brass, is the first Florida inmate in anyone's memory to work side by side on a daily basis with top prison administrators. He used to cultivate marijuana crops, but now he tends to the secretary's office plants.

When Gov. Jeb Bush tapped Moore as Florida's prison leader, Moore suggested the department start using more inmates to handle chores around the central office. That was the way things were done in South Carolina, where Moore was corrections chief before moving to Florida. South Carolina provided Moore with a 7,500-square-foot home, and with inmates as domestic helpers, handling everything from cooking to gardening.

By bringing South Carolina's policy to Florida, Moore has saved taxpayers $180,000 on cleaning services, the Florida Department of Corrections estimates. The policy has also kept the DOC's executive offices spiffier than they've been in years.

But the move has left some prison staffers grumbling about inmate McKown having undue influence at the top. At a time when Moore is cracking down on a wide array of inmate privileges and demanding consistency across the prison system, McKown's treatment is raising hackles.

"He gets no more special treatment than anybody else," Moore said.

Still, McKown's sister said his relationship with the top bosses has generated resentment among officers at the Tallahassee Work Release Center, where he is locked up at night. For example, she said that after McKown recently told Moore about prison officers confiscating shoe polish from inmates, polish was promptly returned to the prisoners.

Then there is the case of Maj. Freddie McLaurin. The 23-year veteran of the department was suddenly transferred last year after McKown mentioned to Deputy Secretary Michael Wolfe that McLaurin seemed to be holding up delivery of his monthly $20 stipend. Wolfe called McLaurin, who quickly found himself moved to the Tallahassee Road Prison.

"I don't come up here tattling about anything," McKown said while sorting mail Friday. "Mr. Wolfe asked me if I had any problems, and I mentioned it."

McLaurin declined to discuss the matter.

"He's got a rap sheet as long as he does, and I've got 23 years in the department without any discipline. If I got transferred because of him, you think I should talk to you? I don't think so, because it sounds like he's got more influence than me. I'm not going to say anything to you," McLaurin said after the Times reached him at home.

Immediately after the Times contacted McLaurin and several other corrections staffers about McKown, the department's public affairs director, C.J. Drake, issued a departmentwide memo instructing staffers not to talk to the press without permission.

McKown is a self-described country boy, who grew up hard, worked hard, and ran with the wrong crowd. Quiet and ever-generous with an eager "Yes, ma'am" or "No, sir," McKown said he's thrilled with the job assignment and would never ask for favors.

"This is probably the best job I've ever had. Being around everybody with white shirts has given me a new attitude. Everybody treats me so good, and it makes me feel there's another group of people you can hang out with. I grew up mostly around a rough bunch of guys," he said, offering particular praise for the department's top administrators, Moore and Wolfe.

"They're two great guys. In a way, country guys like me," McKown said.

His sister said McKown at one point talked to some of the prison administrators about arranging for them to go hunting on property owned by friends of his, but she didn't think it panned out.

Even before he got the job as Moore's gofer, McKown was known by the nickname "Gopher" around his hometown of Lamont, east of Tallahassee. McKown began serving a five-year sentence for selling and manufacturing marijuana in 1998. He has told authorities that he spent much of the past 20 years growing and selling marijuana, and his lengthy record includes convictions ranging from driving under the influence to possession of amphetamines.

The former nursery worker began working for the secretary's office in January 1998, and is now one of 18 inmates working full-time in the central office. McKown is the only one assigned to the secretary's office, receiving just the $20 monthly stipend. Moore is well-known as being tough on prisoners, but by all accounts, the secretary and his top administrators consider the quiet and ever-polite McKown a heck of a nice fellow.

"It doesn't surprise me at all," said Joe Nicolosi, the former Jefferson County detective who arrested McKown in 1997 and now works as a state consumer services investigator. "When he's sober and clean, he's a really nice guy. I liked Gopher, even when I arrested him."

His reputation as a model inmate notwithstanding, McKown has run into trouble without seeing his job assignment affected.

In September, a drug interdiction team found McKown with $20 more in his possession than the $50 limit for inmates at the work release center. His weekend furloughs home were suspended for 22 days, and he was given extra work duties. Then in February, he was found with $40 more than allowed. An officer cited him for lying to staff and excessive money, and sent McKown into administrative confinement pending a disciplinary hearing.

Prison officials ordered him removed from confinement five days later, noting in his release records that his disciplinary report "would be minor." They dropped the lying charge altogether. No record exists of the reason for that decision.

Corrections officials say they routinely drop charges when they seem "stacked" on other related charges. But Peter Siegel, a Miami lawyer who specializes in prisoners, said he rarely sees that happen, though it's often appropriate.

"It's within the rules, but it's unusual," said Siegel, who was surprised an inmate would receive pay while working on Corrections Department property.

McKown said he's still amazed that a humble inmate wound up working alongside the most powerful people in the prison system.

"I think about that all the time," he said with a big smile. "The only thing I can think of is the good Lord watches out for me."

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