Inmate not allowed to see dying daughter

She wanted to see her dad.

But Samantha Elizabeth Porretti died Wednesday night at Sunrise Hospital without a visit from him. She was 17.

Her dad, Wayne Porretti, is an inmate at Jean Conservation Camp, serving time for robbery.

Nevada Department of Prison officials would not let him make a guard-accompanied trip to see his sick daughter because, they said, an administrative policy prevents inmates at his custody level -- "close custody" -- from making such trips.

Upon learning that Samantha was likely to die from her pneumonia-like symptoms last week, Wayne's mother Arlene Bianchi called everyone she knew in attempt to get him a one-hour visit with his daughter.

And despite great efforts made by several people -- a family friend, an investigator in the Clark County District Attorney's office, and reportedly, Lt. Gov. Lonnie Hammargren -- Wayne was still behind bars trying to reach his daughter by telephone Wednesday night when she passed away.

His call reached the hospital room a few minutes too late.

"Was this so much to ask?" Bianchi said. "Is this what we've come to? He's a good person. He's not violent. His crimes weren't violent. To see his daughter before she died -- is this too much to ask?"

But prison spokesman Glen Whorton said that Director Robert Bayer was doing the right thing when he declined the requests to allow Porretti to visit.

"Prison is not a country club," said Whorton. "There are criteria to follow. The director doesn't make exceptions. It would be unfair to other individuals. We have to act consistently."

Even if Lt. Gov. Hammargren had asked the director to let Porretti visit, which Hammargren is reported to have done, Bayer was under no legal obligation to comply, according to Whorton.

"The policy makes no provision for executive, elected officers to make decisions in this regard," said Whorton.

The administrative policy giving the director the authority to oversee prisoner-leave requests was approved by the 3-member Board of Prison Commissioners -- the governor, secretary of state, and attorney general, Whorton said.

Hammargren would neither confirm nor deny that he made a request on behalf of Porretti.

To the family, the prison system's rules are little consolation.

"That 17-year-old child is dead now, and she didn't get to see her father. Is that criteria enough?" said Adele Boucher, a cousin of the family. "Maybe someday Mr. Bayer will have somebody going through this and he won't be able to say goodbye, and then he'll understand."

(SUBHEAD: Trouble led to prison )

Porretti's crimes were robberies - he held up a Winchell's Donut House and a Kentucky Fried Chicken, among other businesses. He entered the Nevada prison system in 1984 and has been charged with five robberies, according to prison officials. He is currently serving a 10-year sentence, which expires in 2003; he is eligible for parole in November 1999.

At the KFC robbery, his mother said, the clerk behind the counter testified that Porretti came in and said, "I need money to buy milk and diapers for my kids."

Porretti, 39, had two daughters, Samantha and her little sister, Nicole. He had worked a string of dead-end jobs and eventually, developed a problem with drugs and alcohol.

He also has been diagnosed with Tourette's syndrome -- a hereditary neuro-psychiatric disorder that causes him to have obsessive-compulsive behavior and muscular tics. The condition is manageable with medication, but Porretti was managing it without prescriptions in his early years, because he had not yet been diagnosed. Both of his daughters inherited Tourette's, according to Bianchi.

"He is hyperactive, but charming," said Bianchi. "He would keep everybody laughing. At our visits, he still keeps us laughing."

One man who made a plea to prison officials to let Porretti visit his daughter was Patrick Malone, an investigator in the Clark County District Attorney's office. He even offered to be responsible for Porretti on the visit.

Fourteen years ago, Malone was the Metro police officer who arrested Porretti.

And even prior to the arrest, Malone and Porretti used to bump into each other at the local pizza parlor in an east Las Vegas neighborhood.

"He was a father. He was there with his family. He was cordial and jovial, and he always had his two daughters with him." Samantha was the oldest; her sister Nicole is a year younger.

A few months later, when a nearby Winchell's doughnut shop was robbed, Malone recognized a photo of the robber as Porretti.

"I went to his house, and said, 'Tell me that's not you,"' Malone said.

He arrested Porretti, who subsequently violated parole and landed in prison.

When Malone received a call last week from Wayne's mother Arlene, he didn't think twice about making a call to state prison officials.

"She told me about his daughter's situation. I made a couple of calls...I offered to transport him. He hasn't ever been a problem for me," Malone said.

Malone said that when robbing Winchell's, Porretti carried a gun, but he was not charged with armed robbery.

"I know that nobody's ever been hurt in any of the crimes. I'm not saying that excuses the crime -- the people that he robbed thought of him as a dangerous criminal. But he would have been in the proper mechanical restraints," Malone said.

(SUBHEAD: Turning State's Witness)

Ironically, Porretti's "close custody" status -- the primary reason he was not eligible to make the visit -- may have resulted from a duty he performed for the state.

Porretti was asked to testify in the trials of Robert Byford and Christopher Williams, who were accused in the 1991 shooting and burning death of a Las Vegas woman, Monica Wilkins.

Porretti had overheard the two men talking about their crime while they all shared a cell. He testified, and the two were found guilty on charges of first-degree murder. Byford was sentenced to death; Williams to life in prison with no parole.

But turning into a state's witness is a dangerous gambit for a prisoner -- inside prison walls, state's witnesses are called "snitches" and often they are threatened or assaulted by other prisoners.

Sometimes, such witnesses will negotiate a deal with the state for a lesser sentence, but Porretti did not.

"The only thing I've gotten out of it so far was a snitch jacket," Porretti said Thursday night from a telephone inside the prison.

He also got a change in his custody status -- to the more restrictive "close custody." Inmates in close custody are not eligible for family-emergency trips, Whorton said. Inmates in minimum security may qualify for them.

A prisoner may be assigned to close custody for a number of reasons -- one of which is to protect them from other prisoners, another of which is because they have disciplinary problems. Whorton said Porretti is in "protective, segregated , close custody." Porretti also has more than 15 disciplinary write -ups, but Whorton could not comment on whether those are a factor in his custody classification.

"But he is several classifications away from meeting the (family-emergency leave) criteria," Whorton said.

Would Porretti testify for the state again if he had it to do over?

"There was a girl involved. Sure I would. They were bragging about it -- about raping and shooting her and lighting her on fire. I've got little girls, and I've got feelings. Sure I would," he said.

(SUBHEAD: "I love you, Sammy")

Samantha Elizabeth Porretti was a gregarious girl who was active in the Baptist church and consumed with the notion of growing up.

"I was reading Samantha's journal last night," Bianchi said yesterday. "She wrote, 'What am I going to do with my life? I really don't know. I think I would like to be a millionaire, or a lawyer, or a pediatrician.' "

She had become involved in the Desert Hills Baptist Church youth group and attended services fairly regularly -- by herself or with her sister, said the Rev. Tony Forehand, associate pastor.

"Samantha had a heart for the Lord," Forehand said. "She worked very hard to do the right thing, and she was trying so hard to be who she knew she needed to be. But she had a lot of things working against her."

Samantha struggled with Tourette's and had dropped out of school a year ago, Bianchi said. She was working at Long John Silver's restaurant before she became ill with respiratory symptoms and a fever two weeks ago.

"She was a charmer, like her father, she could talk and talk," Bianchi said. "She always said 'I love my dad' and 'I want to see my father."'

"When they were young, I dressed them up and took them to prison every weekend to visit. Samantha would write to him, and they talked on the phone."

Wayne said that when he was a child dealing with the pain of his own parents' divorce, he remembers saying a prayer:

"I got down on the side of my bed and said that one day I wanted to have a little girl named Sammy -- you know, from that show 'Bewitched?' -- that's what I wanted," he said.

"I went back and read all of her letters today. She grew up too fast. She wanted people to like her. Before she died, I would've liked to have apologized for a lot of things...I wasn't there. I would have held her hand. I would have told her, 'I love you Sammy."'

The exact cause of her death is yet unknown. Funeral services are scheduled Sunday at Desert Hills Baptist Church, and the family wants Wayne to be able to attend.

"He is not eligible for that," said Whorton.

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