When corrections officer D.J. Vodicka reported misconduct

among his colleagues at the California Department of Corrections,

he learned that not all prison gangs are made of inmates.

INSIDE THE MOORPARK TEACHING ZOO • WHAT DO BRIDGET JONES AND SHREK HAVE IN COMMON?

TheGreen

Wall

TheGreen

Wall

10 — — November 18, 2004

CODE OF When Camarillo native DJ Vodicka

testified against his employers—the California Department of Corrections—aboutthe presence of a Code of Silence among

rogue corrections officers, things began to getugly. For one thing, he learned that not all

prison gangs are composed of inmates.STORY AND PHOTOS BY STEPHEN JAMES

CODE OF

ONALD “D.J.” VODICKA WAS OVERWHELMED with anintense anxiety when he woke up each morning—so much sothat he decided to strap on his bulletproof vest and firearmbefore leaving his home. Like many witnesses in gang-relatedtrials, Vodica knew too much about a group with a history ofpracticing intimidation. And as a result of the unrelentingstress created by this environment, his health has deteriorat-ed, and he plans ultimately to leave California to protect him-self and his son from the reprisals that he believes are coming.

Vodicka fears that the gang in question, a group of Califor-nia Correctional Officers, are not above violence in order tokeep him quiet. The former Camarillo High School student isnow a whistleblower living in fear—a dedicated state employ-ee who followed the law and his own personal sense of duty tothe public, and reported the misconduct of government work-ers at the California Department of Corrections (CDC). Unfor-tunately, the CDC may be the one state agency whose highestranking administrators are the least likely to acknowledgethat any of its employees are capable of wrong doing, andwhose administrators also are willing to spend millions in tax-payer funds to prove themselves right in lengthy court battles.

That historically inbred philosophy of protecting one’sown, and a “code of silence” regarding problems inside thesystem, are perpetuated by some corrections employees, whohave come to replicate the violent prison subculture of theinmates they manage each day. That dangerous combinationhas created serious problems for the handful of employeeswho have done the right thing and gone against rogue officersand their supervisors.

Last January, Vodicka and a parade of other CDC employ-ees testified under oath at two days of hearings of the SenateSelect Committees on Government Oversight and the Califor-nia Correctional System, co-convened by state Senators JackieSpeier, D-San Mateo, and Gloria Romero, D-Los Angeles. Also

testifying under oath were an A-list of CDC administratorsand officials who admitted to the existence of may persistentproblems, including the code of silence. They promised legis-lators and the public they would break the code, protectwhistleblowers and enact other reforms.

But, ten months later, seemingly simple policy changes—which would have an immediate effect on loyal employeeswhose lives were upended by the department, and whichwould send a supportive message to other employees—havenot materialized.

Vodicka was reluctant to cooperate with Speier’s requestthat he tell his story to the legislature at a high-profile hearingbecause he knew that associates of the people he feared couldbe in attendance.

The athletic, six-foot-six, 280-pound former Moorpark Col-lege athlete had never backed down from a confrontation dur-ing his 16-year career managing convicted felons, but this timehe would be outside his element. Still, after what he had beenthrough, he felt a strong sense of betrayal by the CDC andwanted to help with any process that might prevent the samething from happening to someone else. So, he had to tell hisstory, and he made the five-hour drive from Southern Califor-nia to Sacramento.

When he arrived at the Statehouse, he left the firearm healways had strapped to his side in the car, but the additionalbulk of his bulletproof vest was visible as he was sworn-in ina packed hearing room.

Doug Pieper also would have wanted to cooperate withthe Legislature and provide testimony about the employeemisconduct at Folsom Prison, according to his widow,Evette. But Pieper had taken his own life a year earlier, inpart because of the workplace retaliation he experienced.And the government formally admitted that Pieper’s death

November 18, 2004 — — 11

Continued on Page 12

SILENCE

D

Members of the state Senate Select Committees on Government Oversightand the California Correctional System grilled state employees and California

Correctional Peace Officers Association officials earlier this year.

SILENCE

12 — — November 18, 2004

was indeed work-related. In her husband’splace, Evette gave her emotional testimonyin a hushed legislative hearing room,including the details of a suicide note herhusband had left, linking his death toreprisals by the warden and other officials.

Like Vodicka, Evette said she hoped herstory would help others avoid a similar fate. “Idon’t want any other family to ever gothrough this, and I don’t want any other staffmembers to feel the stress, pressure and painthat my husband felt that ultimately drovehim to do what he did.”

At the start of the hearings, Speier hadforeshadowed the anticipated testimony.“Much of the testimony we will hear will bestartling and even unbelievable. Manywhistleblowers who will speak under oathtoday fear for their jobs and their lives,” shesaid. In addition to that of Vodicka andEvette, the unsettling testimony of other CDC

employees from throughout the state con-firmed that Speier was not exaggerating.

“California’s prison system teeters on thebrink of being declared bankrupt, not only inits policy but in its morality, starting with thetop prison brass,” said Romero in her openingstatement. Romero went on to review the find-ings contained in a recently released 85-pagedraft report by John Hagar, an investigator or“special master” appointed by a federal-courtjudge in San Francisco.

The Hagar report stemmed from aninvestigation of employee misconduct atPelican Bay State Prison, and detailed alitany of internal CDC problems at the high-est levels of the department, including thecode of silence. Under the code, employeestacitly agree not to report the misconduct ofco-workers. Adherence to the code alsoencourages the making false statements toinvestigators to protect co-workers and “the

most egregious form of the code, lying infederal court,” according to Hagar. Employ-ees who violate the code are isolated, ostra-cized and labeled as “rats” or “snitches.”

But the ramifications go beyond name call-ing; getting such a label can mean that, in theevent of a prison altercation or riot, backupassistance from co-workers might not bethere. Without backup, the chance of a beingsubjected to a serious on-the-job injuryincreases exponentially.

“A minority of rogue officers can establisha code of silence, threaten the majority, dam-age cars, isolate uncooperative co-workers,and create an overall atmosphere of deceitand corruption,” Hagar wrote. “It cannot beemphasized too strongly that the code ofsilence is always accompanied by corrup-tion…it harms inmates and destroys thecareers of correctional officers.”

Hagar also found a code of silence aboutthe code of silence among high-ranking CDCadministrators, including the former director,Edward Alameida. The special master recom-mended that the federal court consider initi-ating criminal contempt charges againstAlameida for his role in the Pelican Bay cover-

up. The significance, and perhaps irony, ofthat particular Hagar recommendation didnot escape emphasis by Speier. “No twowomen are going to run my prisons,” Alamei-da had told Speier and Romero at a similarhearing last year.

Also testifying at the hearings were anassortment of CDC officials who pledged sys-tem-wide reforms were in the works.

A central figure at the legislative hearingswas the secretary of the California Youth andAdult Correctional Agency (YACA), Rod Hick-man. YACA is the umbrella agency that over-sees the CDC and virtually every other stateagency responsible for corrections. Appoint-ed by Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger lastNovember, Hickman is the highest rankingcorrections official in the state. Hickmanbegan his career ten years ahead of Vodickaand, like Vodicka, started out as an entry-levelcorrectional officer. Through hard work anddedication, Hickman rose through the ranksto the top rung of the ladder. In an irony thathaunts Vodicka to this day, Hickman’s careerpath would cross Vodicka’s more than once.Today, Hickman holds the power to keep hispromises to reform the system, and retroac-tively right the past wrongs committedagainst Vodicka and other whistleblowersstill denied justice.

Hickman’s appointment as YACA secre-tary, however, required confirmation by thestate Senate, and in January the secretary-in-waiting was especially congenial with theSenate members who held the power overwhether he would get to keep his new job.Hickman promised the committee he wouldaddress the laundry list of problems identi-fied by the legislators and the Hagar report.“How we conduct ourselves on the job is areflection of [our agency’s] values and demon-

Code of silence

Continued on Page 15

Continued from Page 11

Doug Pieper also would have wanted to cooperate with theLegislature and provide testimony about the employee

misconduct at Folsom Prison, according to his widow, Evette. ButPieper had taken his own life a year earlier, in part because of

the workplace retaliation he experienced.

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strates our commitment to a strong organiza-tion that treats the public, staff and offendersfairly,” he said.

Less than a month after the Januaryhearings, Hickman seemed to be makinggood on his promises when he issued amemo to all CDC employees, captioned“ZERO TOLERANCE REGARDING THE‘CODE OF SILENCE.’” For maximum expo-sure, the memo was also posted to theagency’s website. The memo acknowledgedthat “the public’s trust has been under-mined by the operation of the Code ofSilence within the CDC,” and it went on toput the 49,247 employees of the departmenton notice that, effective immediately, thecode of silence would not be tolerated.

Hickman also had reassuring words forstate correctional employees who observemisconduct but might be reluctant to report itout of fear of retaliation. “The public’s trustin this department is also violated by retaliat-ing against, ostracizing, or in anyway under-mining those employees who report wrongdo-ing and/or cooperate during an investiga-tions….We also will not tolerate any form ofreprisal against employees who report mis-conduct or unethical behavior, includingtheir stigmatization or isolation,” Hickmanwrote. Although the memo did not establishany new policy, it put the troops on notice thatexisting department rules and state lawswould be enforced.

At his June confirmation hearing, Hick-man reinforced the message, telling the legis-lature he would continue to speak out against

the code of silence “because abuse of powerand failure to speak out against it is a cancerthat is threatening this agency that I havesworn to protect.”

Vodicka would not deny that he has feltostracized, stigmatized and isolated as adirect result of breaking the code of silenceand reporting the misconduct of co-workersin the CDC. Because of the reprisals and retal-iation he has endured, he was forced to file awhistleblower lawsuit against the depart-ment. The current status of the case calls intoquestion the sincerity of Hickman’s promisesto the legislature and encouraging “zero tol-erance” pronouncement of Feb. 17. Vodicka’sCamarillo-based attorney, Lanny Tron, saidthe CDC continues to obstinately fight thecase and is dragging out the proceedings aslong as possible in the hope of mentally andfinancially wearing down their opponents.

Under the California Whistleblower Pro-tection Act, whistleblowers are entitled tojob reinstatement, back pay, restitution oflost service credits and other relief. The actsays that “state employees should be free toreport waste, fraud, abuse of authority, vio-lation of law, or threat to public healthwithout fear of retribution.” Other statelaws also protect whistleblowers.

The Reporter wanted to ask Hickmanwhether the new zero-tolerance policy wouldbe applied to Vodicka’s case and other whistle-blowers already in the pipeline. YACAspokesperson JP Tremblay said the directorcould not talk about personnel matters or any

Hickman addressing a legislative committee at his confirmation hearing in June.

November 18, 2004 — — 15

Continued on Page 16

Code of silenceContinued from Page 12

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pending litigation against the department.Tremblay did say Hickman might be able totalk about the new policy directives. “In gen-eral terms, he might be able to address someof these issues,” he said. But neither Trem-blay nor Hickman ever called back.

At Camarillo High School, Vodicka helda 3.0 grade point average and played for-ward on the basketball team. “I was a jock,”he concedes. On weekends, the thing to dowas cruise Main Street in Ventura or hangout at Silver Stand Beach in Oxnard. A fewof his friends were local sheriff ’s deputiesand, after going on a ride-along with one ofthem, the high school senior decided hewanted to go into law enforcement. “Since Iwas 18, that was what I wanted to do withmy life,” he said. After graduating highschool, Vodicka went on to Moorpark Col-lege where he continued to play basketballand majored in law enforcement. At thetime he graduated from Moorpark, mostlaw enforcement agencies had hiringfreezes and the prospects of a police careerwere slim. So Vodicka’s father, who wasretired from the military, suggested heenlist in the service. He took the advice andsigned on for a four-year stint in the armyfrom 1983 through 1987, most of which hespent stationed at Fort Bragg in North Car-olina. Vodicka held a high level securityclearance while working as an administra-tive specialist in the special operationscommand, and earned several commenda-tions for good conduct and achievement.

Vodicka came home and was hired as a cor-

rectional officer by the state of California in1988. His first stop was the CDC Basic Correc-tional Officer Academy in Galt. In an ironythat haunts Vodicka today; at that time thehead of the training academy was Rod Hick-man. It was the first time he would cross pathswith the future director, but it wouldn’t be thelast. Hickman’s career path would eventuallytake him to the top of the ladder, while Vodic-ka’s would take him to a darker place.

After graduating from the academy, Vod-icka began work “on the line” at CorcoranState Prison, but he was eager to take onnew responsibilities. Throughout thecourse of his 12-year career, he sought outadvanced training, taking courses in homi-cide investigation, interrogation, conflictmanagement, gangs and more than a dozenother subjects. In 1992, Vodicka transferredto Calipatria State Prison to help open thenew facility in Imperial County.

At Calipatria, Vodicka said, he was hand-

picked to work in the Investigative Servicesunit, a specialized team that was responsiblefor investigating inmate criminal activity andassisting the local district attorney with thoseprosecutions. Vodicka said he had a lot ofrespect for his supervisor, Rod Hickman,whose CDC career path had also brought himto “Calipat.”

“I enjoyed working for him, he treatedeverybody fair,” explained Vodicka. “He hadan open door policy. If you had a problem youwent to him and he tried to solve it. I havenothing bad to say about working for Rod,” hesaid. Since Hickman was his squad captain,Vodicka had close contact with the boss fivedays a week, and occasionally while off-duty.Vodicka recalls that Hickman attended hiswedding during that time period. But now hefeels betrayed that the man he once held inhigh esteem has not returned the loyalty. Vod-icka is at a loss to understand why Hickman isunwilling to back up his words and interveneto resolve the injustice he has endured.

In 1994, Vodicka began a two-year stint atPelican Bay. And in 1996, he received a Cer-tificate of Meritorious Service from the DelNorte County District Attorneys Office forhis professionalism in assisting with the

prosecution of numerous crimes commit-ted by inmates in the prison. Throughouthis career, Vodicka also received positiveperformance evaluations and peer reviewsfrom the CDC. In 1996, he transferred toSalinas Valley State Prison, a Level 4, max-imum-security institution.

After five years of service at Salinas Valley,Vodicka received an assignment he was reluc-tant to take. He was ordered by his supervisorto investigate and prepare reports on a groupof correctional officers who essentially hadformed a gang known as the “Green Wall.”Vodicka was uncomfortable with the assign-ment, which was outside the normal scope ofhis job duties. He knew that investigating co-workers instead of inmates could cause seri-ous problems.

“Let me make this clear: Investigative Ser-vices officers like myself—we do not investi-gate officers. We’re not allowed to investigateofficers. We do strictly inmates and their fam-ilies, that kind of stuff,” he explained. Asupervisor, however, was authorized to initi-ate officer investigations and could commandother staff to assist. As he had throughout hiscareer, Vodicka complied with the order from

16 — — November 18, 2004

Continued on Page 18

Code of silenceContinued from Page 15

After five years of service at Salinas Valley, Vodicka received anassignment he was reluctant to take. He was ordered by his supervisorto investigate and prepare reports on a group of correctional officers

who essentially had formed a gang known as the “Green Wall.”

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his boss.Vodicka conducted the investigation and

prepared a report confirming that therogue group did exist. The report was sup-posed to be confidential, but was leaked andbecame known to members of the group. Asa result, Vodicka was subjected to a stringof subtle and not-so-subtle retaliatory acts,including being called a snitch in front ofofficers and inmates.

The state Inspector General (IG) also veri-fied the existence of the group in a reportreleased last January. The IG investigationconfirmed that a group of correctional offi-cers had formed an alliance in 1999 called theGreen Wall or 7/23, representing the seventhand 23rd letters of the alphabet, G and W.Number insignias are common in inmateprison gangs; “18” is a common insigniaamong white-supremacist groups, because itrepresents the fist and eighth letters of thealphabet, A and H, an abbreviation for AdolphHitler. In his report on Pelican Bay miscon-duct, Hagar also found that “some correction-al officers acquire a prisoner’s mentality:they form gangs, align with gangs, and spreadthe code of silence.”

The IG report went on to say that “numer-ous incidents involving the Green Wall grouptook place at Salinas Valley State Prisonbetween 1999 and 2001, including the vandal-izing of institution property with ‘7/23’ and‘GW’ markings and the taping on a window ofa paper containing the Green Wall logo andthe satanic symbol ‘666.’”

The report also found that the warden,Anthony Lamarque, was aware of the groupand did not act on a lieutenant’s request thatofficers who might be involved in the gang betemporarily reassigned to other duties whileinvestigations concerning excessive force andother allegations of misconduct were pend-ing against them. The IG concluded that thewarden’s inaction “fostered an atmosphere ofdistrust and prevented a timely investigationand resolution of allegations concerningemployee misconduct.” Earlier this year,Lamarque went out on disability leave. Hereturned to active duty in August, but afterless than a week on the job, again went out onsick leave.

After he prepared his Green Wall report,Vodicka said he was subjected to severalmonths of retaliation in the form of hostilityand verbal or physical threats from severalcorrectional officers, and he was informed bya sergeant that a co-worker was broadcastingthat Vodicka was a snitch. After Vodickareported the problems to a deputy wardenand other supervisors, he was transferred toPleasant Valley State Prison.

But within weeks of his arrival there, co-workers became aware of his history at Sali-nas Valley, and he began to experience similarabuse. At one point, Vodicka and other staffand inmates were gathered in an office at theprison, and officer yelled out to Vodicka, “Youbig snitch, who are you ratting out now?”Because inmates were present, the statement

18 — — November 18, 2004

Continued on Page 19 Landa testifying in Sacramento Superior Court.

Code of silenceContinued from Page 16

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potentially could have relayed a message toprisoners that Vodicka was an outcast amonghis co-workers, in the same sense that aninmate informant would be ostracized.

Vodicka said the stigmatization and isola-tion eventually took its toll on his mentalstate, and he went out on stress disabilityleave, filed a workers’ compensation claimand, later, filed a suit against the CDC, a co-worker and a supervisor.

Exacerbating his continuing stress—andcompelling him to carry a firearm and wear a

bulletproof vest—are his concerns stemmingfrom an incident involving another correc-tional officer, Curtis Landa. Landa had coop-erated with an investigation of officer mis-conduct at Ironwood State Prison in RiversideCounty and paid a heavy price. Two monthsinto the investigation, Landa was attackedoutside his home as he took out the garbage.His jacket was pulled over his head, and hewas hit in the back with a club-like weapon.He was then stabbed twice, in the back andchest. Landa was able to see that his attackerswore black uniform pants tucked and blos-

somed into black boots in the same manner asthose worn by the prison’s elite cell-extractionteam; a militarized unit of officers responsi-ble to forcibly remove uncooperative inmatesfrom their cells.

Landa’s attackers were never identified orapprehended. Vodicka believes that formerco-workers from Salinas Valley may assaulthim or arrange to have him assaulted in asimilar way. In part, because Salinas Valleyhas a cell-extraction team like the one impli-cated in the Landa stabbing and Vodicka

believes that members of the team were alsomembers of the Green Wall. He said he hasseen pictures of Salinas Valley cell-extractionteam members proudly flashing a hand signalused by Green Wall members.

In June 2003, as he was leaving the Cali-fornia Mid-State Fair in Paso Robles Vodic-ka was confronted by a CDC employee whodemanded that he “back off,” in referenceto his lawsuit. And, based on his experiencedoing prison drug investigations, Vodickabelieves that it would be possible for aprison staffer to arrange to smuggle in

drugs for an inmate in exchange for theinmate getting an associate on the outsideto pay back the favor by assaulting Vodicka.A recent event at Salinas Valley has furtherexacerbated this fear.

In an unrelated incident last July, a formerguard at Salinas Valley was charged witharranging and covering up the gang-relatedbeating of an inmate. According to court doc-uments, the former correctional officer set upthe beating on behalf of a San Francisco-based gang. The acting warden, Ed Caden,

said he also found evidence that the officerwas facilitating communication betweengang members inside and outside the prisonand may have even provided cell phones toinmate gang affiliates.

Last year, in an attempt to salvage hiscareer and continue working for the CDC,Vodicka offered to go back to work at anycommensurate position anywhere in thedepartment, as long as his personal safetywas assured, according to his attorney,Lanny Tron. “And they said, ‘There’s noway we can do that,’” said Tron. Vodicka is

now on full disability, and seeks a settle-ment with the CDC for what he would haveearned had he been able to complete hiscareer, compensation for his trauma, andother damages, Tron says. Meanwhile, theCDC employees associated with the GreenWall or accused of misconduct in connec-tion with the retaliation against Vodickaare still employed by the CDC.

A graduate of Harvard University and theUniversity of Southern California School ofLaw, Tron worked at several large law firmsbefore hanging his shingle in Camarillo. Apracticing California lawyer and member ofthe State Bar Association since 1988, Tronsaid he has never faced an opponent like theCDC. Tron said the CDC legal team has usedan array of questionable tactics to delay theprogress of Vodicka’s case, which has nowbeen in court for almost two years. “It seemsclear that they take an approach more akin tointimidation than to resolution,” he said.“This is a great deal more protracted than anyother litigation I’ve ever been involved in.” Atdepositions later this year, Tron and Vodickalook forward to grilling the CDC officials theybelieve are responsible for essentially ruiningVodicka’s promising career.

Meanwhile, Vodicka still wants to believethat Hickman will intervene on his behalfand set things right. He related the story of abrief encounter in the hall during his Janu-ary appearance at the Legislature. On his wayto the restroom, Vodicka was spotted by hisold squad captain. He said Hickman brokeaway from his entourage, walked up andshook his hand. “Glad to see you,” Hickmansaid. “You and your son take care of yourselfand don’t let this get to you. We’ll get to thebottom of this.” Noticing that they both sport-ed the same non-hair style, Hickman added, “Ilike your haircut.” �

Vodicka is now on full disability, and seeks a settlement with theCDC for what he would have earned had he been able to

complete his career, compensation for his trauma, and otherdamages, Tron says. Meanwhile, the CDC employees associated

with the Green Wall or accused of misconduct in connection withthe retaliation against Vodicka are still employed by the CDC.

November 18, 2004 — — 19

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