I’m continuing to read from my book Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term. This is the third installment of chapter 7, covering months 93 through 95 of my confinement, in 1995.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

 

Other prisoners have told me that the bus ride to FCI Fairton only takes a few hours, and I’m determined not to waste this opportunity to enjoy our American landscape.  Still in a state of euphoria over news of my transfer, I don’t nap as we drive the two-lane highway that feels far too narrow for this bus. Other than a few days in Manhattan, I’ve never been in the Northeast. The road signs that announce the Delaware River, Philadelphia, The Ben Franklin Bridge, and The George Washington Bridge remind me of American history. The irony of the moment isn’t lost on me. I’m in the birthplace of our nation, close to the Liberty Bell, the places where early American leaders signed The Constitution and The Declaration of Independence, guaranteeing freedom for all, and I’m in chains.

My only essential need at Fairton is permission to receive packages of books from the university library. I’d like to have access to a word processor, but if the education department denies that, I’m confident my professors will accept handwritten term papers.

Radio station announcements I hear through the bus’s speakers inform me that we’re near a major metropolitan area. I like the idea of being in the most densely populated area of our country. Fairton is close to New York, Washington, Philadelphia, and even Boston. Certainly Bruce will find it easier to travel here for visits. Maybe Dr. DiIulio will bring more students from Princeton for another field trip.

When we pull into FCI Fairton, I see that like McKean and Miami, it’s a modern facility, with clusters of stone buildings on manicured lawns, all enclosed by high chain-link fences and coils of shiny razor wire. I actually welcome the sight of those fences. They’re so much more inviting than the high, impregnable penitentiary walls topped by gun-towers.

After the processing ritual of forms, fingerprinting, mug shots, and strip searches, I carry my bedroll to the D-right housing unit. In this population of 1,500, a few familiar faces from McKean and Atlanta welcome me.  They lend shoes, sweatshirts, and toiletries until my belongings arrive from McKean.

I’m assigned to a room with Henry, a Colombian who is my age and doesn’t speak English. Although I’m not fluent, I’ve learned enough Spanish to express myself and I understand his explanations about the routines at Fairton. Henry helps me secure a job as a unit orderly, and I assume responsibility for cleaning toilets in a common-area restroom. I’m grateful for a job that will give me sufficient time to study after I make the necessary arrangements with the education department.

The number of books in Fairton’s library impresses me. I browse through rows of bookshelves and see thousands of paperbacks with titles by Hemingway, Faulkner, Fitzgerald, and other writers of classic American literature, few of which I’ve read. The heavy coursework I’m studying limits my reading to nonfiction, mostly from the social sciences. To round out my education, I want to read these authors, but right now leisure reading isn’t a luxury I can afford. Time is a precious resource, and despite the length of my sentence, I don’t have enough of it.

I began college as a way to overcome the stigma of my crime. Not being a natural scholar, I have to work hard, but as I’ve progressed through my confinement, I’ve come to love the process of learning. Now I look forward to doing the critical analysis and writing required to earn my doctorate.

Reluctantly, I leave the shelves of fiction and present myself at the office door of Ms. Howell, Fairton’s supervisor of education. She wears her black hair tightly pulled back in a severe bun. Her glasses hang from a burgundy strap like a necklace. She’s at her desk when I knock on her open door. As she lifts the glasses to her eyes and looks at me, my immediate impression is that she’s a woman who considers herself a correctional officer first.

“May I speak with you?” I ask.

“Got a pass?” she barks back, confirming that my assessment is correct.

“Yes. It’s right here.” I hold up the slip of paper from my unit officer that authorizes me to be in the library.

“Let me see it.”

I hand her the pass.

“This pass was issued 20 minutes ago. I could lock you up for being late. Why didn’t you bring it to me at once?”

“I saw you on the telephone. I was standing right over there, by the bookshelves.”

“Next time an officer gives you a pass to my library, I suggest you have me or one of my staff sign it before you start looking around. If I catch you late again, I’ll lock you up for being out of bounds.”

“Yes ma’am. I apologize, and I’ll try to do better.” I’ve learned that this type of response generally appeases staff members who covet power.

“Now what is it you want?” Ms. Howell signs my pass, completing my authorization to be in the library.

“I’ve been incarcerated for a long time, and the pursuit of my education has been essential to my adjustment.”

“Good. We’ve got plenty to offer. GED, typing. We’ve got independent study on the computer with courses like Fun with Math and Spelling Wiz.”

“I’m enrolled in an independent study program at the University of Connecticut. What I need is authorization to receive books from the university library.”

“I’m not authorizing any packages. You want to study in college, we support courses in bookkeeping and janitorial services through a local vocational school. That’s all we’re set up for. You can enroll in the programs we make available here.”

“Ms. Howell, please. If you’ll look at my record, you’ll see that I’m not any trouble. I don’t need anything from the institution.”

“You said you needed a package permit.”

“Just to receive the books that the university would send.”

She shakes her head. “Not on my watch. We offer all the books you need. Got cases of bestsellers.”

“I’ve seen the books, it’s a great library here. The best I’ve seen. But if you’ll look at my record, you’ll see that I’ve been enrolled in correspondence study for several years. I’ve already earned two degrees, and if you let me receive the books, I can finish my program without being any trouble to you or your staff.”

“What are you? Stupid?  You’re giving me trouble right now. I told you I’m not accepting any packages from an outside university. That’s final. If you don’t like it, file a grievance report on me. This isn’t a college.  It’s a prison and don’t forget that.”

Ms. Howell peremptorily signs my pass again, indicating our meeting is over. When the guard who controls the PA system announces “movement,” I return to the housing unit, down, but not out. She has given me a setback, but it’s not the first I’ve faced and I’m confident I can maneuver around her. When she dared me with a “file on me,” I know she meant for me to file a grievance through the administrative remedy procedure, but filing the paperwork only wastes my time. She’s a department head and has discretion to run the education department as she chooses. I know that studying through correspondence has been a privilege other administrators have extended to me, not a right.

Also, filing paperwork puts me on weak ground. The default response from “correctional” staff is to deny, knowing that their colleagues will support their categorical “No.” When I worked for Ms. Stephens, she told me that her colleagues mocked anyone who made life easy for prisoners, labeling them as “inmate lovers,” or “hug-a-thugs.” Denying prisoner requests is always easier and more consistent with the culture of corrections.

Instead of going through the futile process of appealing and getting a rubber-stamp denial, I go to the chow hall where I can approach the warden directly. He’ll make the ultimate decision anyway. I’ll take my chances of talking to him face-to-face rather than trying to rationalize my request in writing.

Warden Morris isn’t hard to spot. He wears a navy suit, a white shirt, and a gray tie, looking every bit the CEO of Fairton, an institution that employs more than 300 people. He holds court each day in the center of the chow hall during lunch. Three or four senior staff members always kowtow around him. I throw away the remains of my taco casserole, hand the plastic tray over to the guy on dishwasher duty, and I walk over to stand behind two men waiting to speak with the warden. My turn comes.

“Warden Morris, my name is Michael Santos, and I’d like to speak with you about my education program.”

At six-feet-two, he’s taller than I am.

“Okay,” he says as he looks down and nods his head, indicating permission for me to continue. When he does, Mr. Trevor, his executive assistant, inches closer, ensuring that he’ll hear every word.

“I’ve been incarcerated since 1987 and I have 17 more years to serve. Since I’ve been in prison I’ve used educational programs to help me prepare for release.”

“How long have you been in my institution?”

“Three days.”

“And you’ve already got a problem that needs my attention?”

“It’s a problem that your discretion can fix, and I hope you’ll hear me out.”

“What is it?” His forehead creases as his eyebrows come together. I sense that he’s already denied me as a matter of course, but I press on.

“I’m enrolled in a graduate program at The University of Connecticut.”

“No you’re not,” Mr. Trevor interrupts. I wasn’t speaking to him, but as the warden’s sidekick, he interjects with his authority.

“Yes, sir, I am,” I counter firmly.

“We don’t have a relationship with that school.” Mr. Trevor addresses the warden rather than me.

“I enrolled before I arrived here, when I was at the previous institution, and I’d like to continue my studies while I’m here.”

“Where’d you come from?” Mr. Trevor demands, clearly annoyed. His blatant efforts to shut me down strike me as an effort to impress the warden, while his condescending tone reveals his mind-set about prisoners.

“I came from FCI McKean.”

Mr. Trevor looks up at Warden Morris and smirks.

“That explains it,” the warden chuckles as he returns Trevor’s smirk. “What is it that they were doing for you at The Dream McKean that we’re not doing for you here?”

“In order to complete my studies I need permission to receive academic books through the mail from the university library.”

“Why can’t you use the books we make available through our library?” The double team continues, with Mr. Trevor’s interference.

“I’m in a graduate program, studying toward a doctorate. I need specific texts and reference books to complete my term papers. We don’t have those kinds of books here.”

“A doctorate? In what?” Mr. Trevor is incredulous.

“I’m studying the American prison system, sir. I earned my master’s last year from Hofstra.”

“Let me get this straight,” Warden Morris pipes in. “You want to study prison, earn a doctorate, from inside my institution?” He looks at Mr. Trevor with mock incredulity as if I’ve just asked him to release me.

“Yes sir, with your permission.” I meet the warden’s eyes.

“Did you see the sign when the bus brought you in here? It said Fairton Correctional Institution, not Fairton University. We’re not going to receive any books from your university, especially not books on prisons.”

The discussion is over. His decision is final and I hear the two of them laugh as I walk away, deflated.

By years’ end, 1995, I force myself to accept the possibility that my formal education has come to an end. Administrators in two separate prisons have now blocked my studies. This way of thinking represents the wave of the future, a commitment to tougher prisons, isolation, punishment. Last year, after legislators decided prisoners shouldn’t have the privilege of earning university degrees, Congress eliminated Pell grants to fund undergraduate programs for prisoners. I know that Bruce and Norval may be able to help me sort this out, and I’m hopeful they’ll succeed in persuading senior administrators in Washington to intervene on my behalf, but discouragement is seeping in.

“It’s not going to happen,” Bruce tells me during a visit about a conversation he had with Sylvia McCollum, his contact in Washington. “She confirmed what you told me. Wardens have discretion on these matters and she’s not in a position to overrule such decisions.”

Norval couldn’t help either, despite his serving on the board of the National Institute of Corrections with Dr. Kathy Hawk. Since he knows her well, he spoke with her about the problems I was having, trying to persuade her to authorize my transfer to a minimum-security camp. Norval mailed me a copy of the note Dr. Hawk sent him in response. She wrote that she had looked into my case personally, but since I have more than 17 years remaining to serve, my placement in an unsecured camp wouldn’t be appropriate.

This news leads me to accept that I’m not going to be earning a doctorate during my imprisonment.  The punitive changes in the prison system suggest that if I hadn’t already earned my other degrees, those also would’ve been beyond my reach.

The political climate is cold, with Newt Gingrich leading the House of Representatives in what he calls “The Contract with America.” Besides calling for fewer privileges in prison, he seeks tougher legal sanctions as well. If Gingrich’s proposals become law, the Continuing Criminal Enterprise crime I was convicted of committing would warrant the death penalty. I’m thankful that my legal proceedings concluded long ago, and grateful that at least I’ve had school to sustain me until now. 

Education has been my solace, an exciting and challenging escape from the monotony of confinement. I have to think through this change, because other than studying and working for the next degree, I don’t know how to distinguish myself, or how I’ll show my commitment to redemption.

 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

It’s Christmas Eve, 1995, and as I’m walking through the housing unit, I turn when I hear my case manager calling me.

“I received a letter from the pardon attorney,” she says.

“Yes, what about?” I ask, bracing for bad news.

“Did you submit a petition for clemency?”

“I submitted it more than two years ago, when I was in Atlanta.”

“Well it’s denied.”

“Any reason why, or advice on what I can do to improve my chances next time?”

“Nope. I was instructed to tell you your petition was denied. That’s it. Sorry.”