April 13, 2004 - Take with a Truckload of Salt

David Paul Hammer

Back in 1995-1996, I was working as a pizza delivery driver in central Pennsylvania and befriended a DJ who worked at one of the local college radio stations, Susquehanna University's WQSU. Every night after I finished making Saturday night deliveries, my then-husband and I would drive down and hang out on air during the Robert Paul Show.

Robert was kind of like a morning shock jock, but at night, and we had little recurring games we'd do, like playing a version of Jeopardy where we were all supposed to get the answers wrong except Robert. He played a lot of great '60s and alternative rock, including plenty of Frank Zappa, and the on-air discussions ranged from poetry to sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll.

Because of its range, WQSU could be picked up at both the Allenwood Federal Penitentiary and the Lewisburg Federal Penitentiary. Robert had lots of prisoner fans, many of whom wrote him letters, which he would read on the air. Some of them even used to call in and make requests, which he aired.

To be fair, the letters were often quite interesting, since the inmates wanted to share their opinions on the things we discussed on air, particularly the music. Many of them had been incarcerated for drug offenses, and they were happy to share their views on such topics as drug treatment and fixing a broken justice system.

But then we started getting letters of an entirely different sort: articulate, witty and yet just a bit unhinged. These came from David Paul Hammer, an inmate at Allenwood. Unlike the letters sharing poetry or song requests, his letters often took issue with something Robert had said, and his rambling, yet seemingly well-reasoned letters wavered between humorous and threatening.

Robert took the bait and started reading Hammer's letter on air, answering back with his own arguments and thus inspiring yet more replies. He began to call Hammer the unofficial mascot of the Robert Paul Show, dropping his name into the program as a sort of demented in-joke. This cat-and-mouse game continued for awhile, until the other inmates began to get concerned.

One of our regular listeners went to the prison library and photocopied a number of articles about Hammer, sending them to us along with an urgent message: "Here's who you're talking to. Be careful."

The Robert Paul Show mascot, it turned out, was serving something like 1,000 years in prison (and I am not exaggerating) for a series of escalating offenses including fraud (some committed from prison), multiple prison escapes, and a violent assault just before his most recent capture.

At about this time, Hammer sent us a photo he claimed was him. I found it the other day, tucked into a folder I used to take to the radio show each week. The photo was of a good-looking Latino guy, and while it was an actual Kodak photo, not a picture from a magazine, I had my suspicions, which I voiced on air.

"If this is a recent picture of you, why is there a light switch in the room?" I don't know much about federal prisons, but I'm guessing they don't let you turn the lights off yourself.

Following my lead, the other people on the air that night (there was usually a big group), pointing out various other reasons it couldn't possibly be him.

He wrote back to say, "Good call."

Then he revealed his plan: if we hadn't figured out it was a fake picture, he was going to send that person, an associate outside of prison, to come visit us at the show, telling us that he was Hammer.

Just like his letters, this was a little bit playful and a little bit creepy.

Then, falling more fully in the "creepy" category, he sent me a thick envelope with a rambling diatribe against police brutality. The folder contained autopsy photos of prisoners who were allegedly the victims of said brutality. I have no idea how he obtained them, but he's resourceful enough that he clearly found a way. I'm not sure whether he expected me to look into these allegations, since by this time I'd been hired by a local newspaper, or whether he was trying to impress me or shock me.

The fun ended for good in 1996, when Hammer killed his cell mate. Robert finally revoked Hammer's mascot status and stopped mentioning him on the air.

So when I heard that Hammer would be testifying in the Nichols trial, I was intrigued. Supposedly, Hammer claims that Nichols wasn't present during the bomb-making session, although he did help Timothy McVeigh obtain the materials.

This information, Hammer says, came from McVeigh himself, while they were incarcerated together on Death Row in the Lewisburg Penitentiary. In fact, Hammer has written a book about McVeigh, Secrets Worth Dying For. It's unclear if it will be published before his scheduled execution on June 8.

In a letter to a former defense investigator days before his 2001 execution, McVeigh disputed Hammer's credibility and called the book a "scam," writing that he had limited communication with Hammer because "I know he's a big, fat rat."

Given the reputation he had amongst the other prisoners at Allenwood, he almost definitely had a similar rep in Lewisburg. It is possible, however, that before McVeigh knew much about him, he used his charms to snake his way into his good graces. In other words, despite his unsavory character, he may indeed be telling the truth, unlikely as it seems.

Knowing what little I know, I would say the prosecution will have little trouble poking holes in Hammer's testimony. Unless, in his brief time on the stand, he manages to charm the jury, as well.

Moral:
Sometimes snakes charm the charmer.