Prison Professors

Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term, by Michael Santos

Chapter 13.1

Going to the SHU at Lompoc Federal Prison Camp

2007

Months 232-233

It's Wednesday, April 18, 2007 and our family is making excellent progress. While Carole studies for the final exams to complete her first semester of nursing school, I'm finishing the writing projects that I began with Lee Nobmann's sponsorship. Despite the six years of prison that I have ahead, I'm making progress, living a productive life, and that makes all of the difference in the world.

While work at my desk, the door opens. I see Mr. Dorkin, a guard who joyfully equates harassing men in minimum-security camps with protecting the homeland. It's 2:00 in the afternoon when he interrupts my typing. Dorkin's a guard I avoid, and I don't like seeing him in this space that I consider my sanctuary. He has a reputation for annoying prisoners, and now he is annoying me with his glare.

Mr. Brown, my supervisor, stands behind Dorkin, and I get the sense that something isn't right. Dorkin is grinning. "Santos," he commands. "Stand up, take your hands off the keyboard, and put them behind your head."

Not a stranger to these orders, I comply. Dorkin puts his big hands on me. He pats my chest, my waist, and then runs his fingers along the inside of my belt. He pats each of my legs, swiveling his two-handed grip down each leg to my sneakers, then he inserts his finger between my shoe and ankle.

"Would you prefer that I take my shoes off?" I ask.

"There'll be plenty of time for that. Just keep lookin' straight ahead." Mr. Dorkin orders. "Okay, drop your hands. Put ̓em behind your back."

He unsnaps one of the leather pouches of his black belt and removes the cuffs. The familiar sound of clicking metal teeth follows cold steel closing around my wrists. I wonder when such intrusions into my life will end, if ever.

"What kind ̓a contraband am I gonna find in here?" he asks.

"I don't have any contraband," I state unequivocally, wondering what this moron wants with me.

"Gee. I've never heard that before," he says sarcastically. Then he spins me to the door, grabbing the chain between my handcuffs to steer me toward it. "Let's go. Move it."

Dorkin marches me down the hallway and out into the sunshine where I see a white Dodge Intrepid waiting. He opens the car's rear door and, with his palm on my head, he pushes me into the back seat. He straps the seatbelt over my waist and then slams the door shut. I look through the tinted window at Mr. Brown, relatively certain that this will be the last time I see him.

Through the black metal mesh separating his seat from mine, Dorkin taunts me. "Got anything to say, Santos?"

I continue staring out the window, immune to his heckling. "Take me wherever you're taking me and do what you've got to do."

"That's the way you wanna play it?" Dorkin uses his authority like a weapon and he's accustomed to having an effect on prisoners. When I don't respond, he scowls because I've spoiled his game.

Silently, I watch as we pass through the eucalyptus and pine trees. Although I don't know why I'm being harassed this time, I'm pretty sure I won't be seeing Lompoc Camp again. At the double gates that lead to the Special Housing Unit, Dorkin pulls the radio from his belt, brings it to his mouth says: "Got one for SHU."

The gates open and he drives inside, parks in front of a second gate, and turns off the car. Another guard walks toward the car and opens the back door.

"What we got here?" the new guard asks. "Another genius from the camp?"

"Ten-four," Dorkin says. "Lock 'im up. Captain's order."

The guard orders me out of the car, gripping the handcuffs behind my back as I scoot off the backseat and exit the vehicle. He steers me through the gates and into the building, then deeper inside the windowless, concrete maze. Surveillance cameras are mounted in every corner. Someone is always watching, as shadowy guards sit in a distant control center. They monitor our movements and control heavy deadbolts with electronic locks. I hear the click, and the doors open automatically. We pass through, and the doors lock behind us. This stark area of the prison reeks like a jail, like a law enforcement cavern that feels very, very sinister.

The holding cell isn't any bigger than a broom closet, and once I'm secured inside, I back up to the bars. The guard inserts his key to unlock my handcuffs. I open my arms to stretch and it's so narrow I can press against the opposing concrete walls at the same time. Another guard wheels a laundry bin to the gate.

"What size?" he asks me.

"Two X." I strip naked, not waiting for an order from the guard who returns with faded boxers, white tube socks with worn elastic, the requisite orange jumpsuit with chrome snaps, a towel, and a bedroll. He searches my body and after he peers into my rectum I pass inspection.

"Get dressed," he says.

In less than a minute I'm clothed in the bright orange SHU uniform and blue canvas deck shoes. A thousand prisoners have worn these same clothes before me, and a thousand more will wear them after I'm gone. I roll my shoulders in an attempt to shrug off my growing stress, then squat to the floor and hold my knees to my chest while resting my back against the concrete wall, waiting.

I can only see the gray concrete walls of my cell, the bars, the narrow hallway and concrete wall outside the cell. I don't have a sense of time but, in the distance, I hear the crackle of a radio and the electronic click of deadbolts locking or unlocking steel doors. I roll my head from side to side, trying to dissipate or ease off the tension.

Footsteps approach my cell and a guard appears. It's Velez, a guard from the camp.

"What're you doing here?" he stops in front of the gate.

"I don't know," I respond, looking up from the floor.

"Did you get a shot?"

"If I did, I wouldn't know it."

"Let me see what I can find out."

Velez walks away and I massage my forehead. Carole is going to take this hard. Yesterday she celebrated her 42nd birthday and now she's going to have to confront this new drama in our life. I don't know when I'll be able to call her. I hope my friend Lee has heard about my misfortune and that he'll relay a message to Carole soon. She needs to know that a guard took me away, even though she'll worry. This disruption might be much harder on her than it is on me. She has semester finals in May and doesn't need this stress.

Footsteps accompanied by the sound of jingling keys announce Velez's return.

"You're here under investigation," he states, completely devoid of emotion.

"For what?"

"Captain's order. Stand up. I've got to cuff you. I'll take you to your cell."

I back against the bars and feel the metal bracelets click locked around my wrists. He unlocks the gates and leads me down the hall, past the raised control center. Inside the hub, I see blinking lights and movements of two guards through darkly tinted glass. Velez waits for one of them to release the electronic lock on the first gate. We walk through and it closes behind us. With his large key he unlocks the second gate and then locks it behind us. We're in a tunnel, with cell doors on each side. I don't recognize any of the prisoners who peer through the windows in their doors. These men probably come from the adjacent low- or medium-security prisons at Lompoc.

We stop in front of a cell and Velez taps with his key on the small window within the door.

"Move to the back of the cell," he instructs as the prisoner inside begins to move. "Face the wall. Don't turn around."

Velez unlocks the steel door and nudges me inside. The door closes behind me and I hear the deadbolt lock. I back up and push my hands to the open trap. He unlocks and removes my cuffs then slams the trap shut. The sound of his footsteps and jingling keys fade as he walks down the tier toward the gates.

"How you doing, Bud?" I say to the large man who is still facing the far wall of the cell. He's tall, with unruly brown hair.

"Hi." He greets me as he turns around.

I extend my hand. "My name's Michael Santos."

"I'm Marty Frankl." We shake hands.

"Where're you coming from?"

"I was at Terminal Island," he names a low-security prison in Los Angeles. "I'm on my way to the camp. A paperwork mix-up has me stuck in here."

"That happens. How long have you been in the SHU?

"Since Monday."

"They'll probably have it straightened out by Friday. You'll like the camp once you get there."

"Are you from the camp?" He asks as he sits on the lower bunk.

I throw my bedroll on the top rack and start tying my sheets around the mat. "I've been there for two years. It's been the easiest time I ever served."

"Are you the writer?"

"That's me."

"My girlfriend's been sending printouts from your website ever since I was charged. Part of the reason I pled guilty was because of what you wrote."

"What kind of case do you have?"

"Money laundering. I'm serving eight years."

"It passes faster than you think. You'll like the camp better than Terminal Island."

"Are you going back?"

"I don't even know why they locked me up, but it's not a good sign. I've never served time in SHU for a shot, only for transfer to another prison."

"That sucks. I know you've been in a long time. How many years do you have left?"

"Six, maybe a little more. I'm scheduled for release in August of 2013."

I describe the camp for Marty and answer his many questions. He gives me some paper, an envelope, and stamps. I fold the end of the mat on my rack to prop up my chest and I use the steel bunk as a surface to write Carole a long letter, explaining what I know. It's the beginning of a journal she'll post on my website at MichaelSantos.net describing my experience.

In the evening, a guard slides a form under the cell door that officially informs me that I'm being investigated for running a business.

*******

Marty's paperwork clears the following morning and he transfers to the camp. I appreciate the single cell and I strip to my boxers to begin my solitary exercise routine: pushups, deep knee bends, running in place. I exercise until sweat puddles beneath me. Then I wash my boxers in the sink and hang them to dry from the top rack, ignoring the staff and administrators who periodically walk by and peer through the window in my door.

On Saturday morning a guard I don't recognize startles me by tapping his key on the small window, scowling.

"Santos! What're you here for?" I step toward the doorframe and speak to him through the crack. "Investigation for running a business."

He shakes his head. "Cuff up. You've got a visit."

Knowing that Carole is here, I tolerate the dehumanizing handcuffs and strip search when I leave the cell. I'll go through anything to see my wife. After the guard from the visiting room unlocks my cuffs, strip searches me again, and advises me of the rules, I walk into the tightly controlled visiting area with surveillance cameras in the ceiling and uniformed guards patrolling the aisles. Prisoners are required to sit at tables across from their visitors, neither touching nor holding hands. I walk to Carole. Her smile warms me, but tears glisten in her eyes. We hold each other briefly, not saying anything.

"We'd better sit, Honey. I don't know how long we have," I tell her.

Carole takes in my orange jumpsuit and blue canvas shoes, my unshaven face, knowing what it means.

"Don't cry, Honey. It's okay. It's okay. I'm okay."

She wipes her eyes. "I hate to see you like this. Are they transferring us again?"

"I don't know, but I'm fine. Come on. Don't cry. You'll make me sad."

"What do you want me to do?" she asks.

"Regardless of what happens to me, you have to stay in school and finish the nursing program. It's only two more semesters and we can't let my problems interfere."

"Why are they doing this to you?"

"All I know is that I'm being investigated for running a business. I don't know whether it's for Inside, our website, or the books that Lee sponsoredåå

"Melodee told me that Lee heard that the guards took the compuåter from your office."

I'm glad to hear that Lee told his wife what he knows, and that Melodee called Carole. "She said they would help with whatever we need, even hire you a lawyer."

I tell Carole that we don't need a lawyer and that she should bring attention to my situation by calling some of the influential people in our network. I can't use the telephone while I'm in the SHU and guards monitor everything I write. So I suggest that she ask our friends to write reference letters to the warden at Lompoc and to ask professors who use my books to write letters describing the contributions my work makes to their students. She should contact journalists and other media representatives who have interviewed me or shown interest in my work, asking if they would make official inquiries. Also, she should ask Jon Axelrod, our lawyer friend in Washington D.C., to write a formal letter protesting my segregation and demanding an explanation. We have our support network in place and I urge Carole to mobilize it, including making calls to administrators in the BOP's Western Regional Office to complain.

"Someone is trying to bury me in the system, and from in here, all I can do is write about what's going on," I tell her. "The BOP operates behind closed doors and covers its actions with that 'security-of-the-institution' catchall. In order to force their hand to end the investigation, we have to expose their efforts to frame me. Let's use all of our resources to spotlight what's going on."

"What about the sponsorship funds that Lee gave? Can you get in trouble for that?"

"I didn't receive any funds. A private foundation sent checks to the publishing company that you own, not me. You paid taxes on the money. I wrote the manuscripts, but I wasn't compensated. I'm completely within the letter of the law. And if they want to give me a shot for what I did, I don't care. I'm proud of our work and I'm not hiding anything."

Lompoc Federal Prison Camp / meeting Lee Nobmann / Writing books in prison.

Chapter Twelve: 2005-2007

Months 209-231

*******

Mr. Smith is the camp guard on the evening shift. He likes war books, particularly those about World War II and the Third Reich. Generally, I avoid guards, as instinct tells me they're out to score points with their superiors by writing disciplinary infractions. But someone told Mr. Smith that I'm a writer. He likes to talk to me about my work and his career, especially about his time as a soldier in Iraq. Smith once told me that he likes violence, and that he's "good at it." He's also disappointed that a reprimand for using excessive force on an inmate blemishes his employment record; that record, together with low scores on aptitude tests, hinders his chances for a job with the Highway Patrol. He dresses the part, riding into the camp each afternoon on his Harley, wearing a black, chrome-studded bomber jacket, a white helmet reminiscent of a Prussian soldier, and mirrored sunglasses in thin metal frames.

I see Mr. Smith when I return to the camp after finishing an evening shift at the powerhouse. When I ask him for my mail, he hands it over and initiates a conversation.

"Read your book," he nods his head and squirts tobacco into his disposable cup. "Good stuff. Only objection I got is that you write prison guard 'stead of correctional officer."

"I'm describing prison from a prisoner's perspective," I explain. "It's what I see. Why would that bother you?"

"Because we're not just prison guards. We've got training, policies we follow to maintain order."

"I don't write 'guard' to demean anyone, but I'm trying to show the reader accurately what prison is about. In 19 years, I've never felt the system was trying to correct me, or anyone else. Although it's called 'corrections,' and 'correctional officers' supposedly staff the system, the primary emphasis is on protecting the security of the institution. That's guarding the prison, not corrections."

"Thing is, ain't nothin' much we can do to 'correct' half the knuckleheads we got runnin' ̓round the joint. Only thing they understand is a swift kick in the ass."

"That's where we disagree," I counter. "The use of force instead of incentives is the main reason the prison system has such a high rate of failure, wasting billions of dollars in taxpayer resources."

"How's it not workin'?" Mr. Smith smirks. "Ain't no one escapin'."

"That's because you're guarding the prison, but you're not correcting anyone. Incentives that would include mechanisms for prisoners to work toward earning freedom would change that. They would motivate more people to grow and prepare for success."

"Sounds like a bunch of liberal bullshit." He spits into his cup.

"Fancy yourself a conservative, do you?"

"Damn straight." He walks around the desk and drops into his chair.

"Small government and all that?"

"You got it, brother. Stars and stripes all the way."

"Then how do you explain your government paycheck and guaranteed pension? You've got what, a high school diploma, but you're pulling down enough to buy a Harley, a boat, an RV, and you get more vacation than anyone in the private sector. For what?"

"Maintain' order. That's what."

"I guess that's your take. From my perspective, prisons cause more harm than good. I write what I see."

"You and I ain't so diff'rent. I could see us on the outside, bringin' the little ladies out for a bite while we chug brewskies and disagree over how the world ought to be run."

"That's going to have to wait. I've got seven more years to be corrected."

*******

Lee Nobmann surrenders to Lompoc Camp in early July of 2006. He's in his early 50s, clean cut with snow-white hair, clear blue eyes, and a stocky build. He's alone, sitting at a picnic table that overlooks a lush valley on his first day. I'm at the next table and notice him as a new face, one that looks more like a businessman than a prisoner. I'm always fishing for prisoners from whom I can learn, especially businessmen whose stories I can write about in White Collar.

While I'm stealing a glance at the title of the book he reads, trying to gather clues of his interests, our eyes connect. "Are you a fan of John Grisham?" I ask him.

"What's that?" he smiles.

"John Grisham, the author of your book. Have you read much of his other work?" I walk toward his table.

He flips the book over to look at the cover. "I just picked it off the shelf in the library. I was looking for something to kill time."

I put out my hand. "I'm Michael Santos. Welcome."

"Lee Nobmann," we shake hands.

"Have you settled in okay?" I ask.

"I'm getting the hang of it," he nods his head. "It's a little slow."

"Believe me, it gets easier. How long are you going to be with us?"

"About a year. How about you?"

"I've got seven more to go, but they pass quickly, I know."

"Ouch. It hurts to hear you say it."

I smile. "It's not so bad. I've been in for a long time."

"Really? How long? I've met some guys who've been in for several years?"

"I've been in since 1987. I'm finishing my 19th year."

"My God! And you've got seven more to go? That's an entire life. How old are you?" He asks.

"I'm 42."

"What did you do? If you don't mind my asking?"

"No, I don't mind. I didn't pay my taxes."

"You're kidding."

"Well, I sold cocaine, too, but that's beside the point."

He laughs. "Are you serious? You've been in prison for 19 years? How come you look so normal? I thought you just came in too."

I nod my head. "What can I say? I've earned a gold medal for serving time."

"That's the craziest sentence I've ever heard. Sorry to hear it."

"I've been blessed in many ways. I've got a great wife, and through writing I've found a way to connect with the world."

"What do you write about?"

"Prison," I laugh. "It's the only world I know. I try to give readers a look inside."

"What do you write? Articles or something?"

"I write books."

"No kidding. You can do that from here?"

"I do."

"Are any of them published?"

"A few. I'm writing a new one now for white-collar offenders, a book that can help businessmen and other professionals understand more about the system."

"I could've used something like that. I didn't know squat about what I was getting myself into."

"What kind of work do you do?"

"I'm in retail."

"What do you sell?"

"Lumber."

"Is that against the law?"

He laughs. "I've got a tax case."

"You mind talking about it? I like learning from guys like you."

"No, I don't mind. It's not that interesting though. I took some business deductions I shouldn't have."

"It might not be that interesting to you, but I'm sure businessmen from across the country would like to know how taking deductions can lead to a prison term."

"When you put it that way, I guess you're right," Lee acknowledges.

"Are you still in business?"

"Oh yeah."

"Good size company?"

"It's fair," he nods his head.

"How many employees?" I look for a sign that will tell me who I'm talking to.

"We've got close to 500."

"Five hundred employees," I laugh. "You call that a fair size company?"

He smiles, his eyes sparkling as he bounces his hand in the air. "Keep it down. I shouldn't have said that."

"Why not?"

"It's probably not a good thing to have going around in a place like this."

"What kind of revenue does a company like that take in?"

"We should do about 450 million this year."

"Four hundred and fifty million dollars? That's a monster of a company. Is it public?"

"No," he shakes his head. "It's a family business."

Lee and I talk at the picnic table until we have to go in for the 10:00 pm census. After the count clears, we return to the picnic table and talk until midnight, enjoying the warmth of summer and each other's company. He's down to earth, really at ease. I prod him with questions about how he built his business and I respond to his questions about what it's been like to live as a prisoner. I'm glad to have a new friend, someone I can admire and learn from. For someone in prison, a friend is the greatest thing in the world.

*******

It's Monday, August 6, 2006, the day that Inside: Life Behind Bars in America hits bookstores across America. I wrote the proposal and sample chapter more than two years ago, and I've worked on the project in one way or another every day since. As I walk from my rack down the center hall of the housing unit to the bathroom, I check my watch. It's only six in California, but nine on the East Coast and bookstores have opened in New York, Washington, Boston, and other big cities. I stand in line waiting to use the sink, wondering whether anyone's reading my book. In only seven more years I'll walk into a bookstore or library and see books on a shelf with my name on the spine. But now, I need to remove the rice, beans, and hair someone left in the drain filter of the sink so I can brush my teeth before work.

My job in the powerhouse gives me a great escape from the crowded feeling of the housing unit. I like to spend time in what I've come to call 'my office.' It's small, only enough room for one, and I've personalized it.

From a guy with skills in arts and crafts, I bought a frame for a picture of Carole and me sitting beside each other during visiting. He wove the frame from discarded potato-chip bags, which is part of his prison hustle. On the shelf above my desk, I have dictionaries, reference books, quotation books, and an almanac. When I close the door I'm alone, productive. The guards on duty leave me to my work, except when they need help with their own projects.

"Did you see this?" Mr. Lime asks me. He works in the office next to mine as the shop supervisor, and he hands me an Internet printout from The Los Angeles Times Sunday Book Review. Ed Humes, a Pulitzer Prize-winning author wrote about my book, Inside, and the full-page review has my photograph.

"Thanks," I say. I feel validated, because although I'm a long-term prisoner, my work is now published in open society and this review will forever bolster my résumé. I strive to prove worthy of Carole's love and of the support I receive from so many people. It thrills me to have the review that exposes my work to millions.

"You got a copy of the book?" Mr. Lime asks.

"I'll have some this week, assuming the mailroom passes them through."

"Let me check it out."

"You bet, boss."

Two hours pass and I'm using a plastic spoon to dig tuna from its pack when Mr. Johnson opens the door behind me. I set the pack down on the credenza and spin my chair around to face him. His smoker's rasp, out of the left side of his mouth since his cigarette is on the right side, adds to his East Texas hillbilly twang. I like him.

"Caught that piece ̓bout ya in the paper," he said.

"Thanks," I reply.

He stands in the doorframe, papers in his hand, with the unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. His tie is loosened, the top button of his blue shirt undone. Through brown reading glasses he studies the papers he holds.

"Can I help you with something?" I ask, gathering that he wants something.

"If ya please, I'd like ya ta take a look at some papers."

"Anything, of course."

"Job's comin' up, project manager for the city of Santa Maria. I done filled out a résumé, cover letter, and what have ya. Seein' as yer a writer and all, think ya could look it over for me?"

"Absolutely."

Mr. Johnson passes me his papers and then stands watching over me as I read through them. I've been working as the powerhouse clerk for six months and we have an easy relationship. He uses profanity when he tells me stories about his weekends. He says that he watches a standup comedian by the name of Larry the Cable Guy. Despite the familiarity, I'm intuitively uncomfortable evaluating his shoddy writing and don't know what I should say.

"Would it be okay if I made some suggestions?"

"You betcha. I was hopin' ya'd fix it up."

"It would probably be easier if I retyped it."

"Fix whatever it needs. I know I got some weaknesses, seein' as I didn't finish college and they're asking' for a college diploma, but I'll be retirin' with 30 years in the Bureau, runnin' facilities of ev'ry size. That oughta count for somethin'. Doctor it up as best ya can."

"I'm going to need a few hours."

"Take as long as you like. I'll pick'r up tomorra." He walks out, leaving me alone.

*******

Jeff, a recent Lompoc arrival from Seattle, is in the beginning months of a 10-year sentence for selling cocaine. I'm standing in the narrow space between my bunk and my locker when he taps me on the shoulder.

"Have you seen this article?" Jeff passes me the magazine section from The Seattle Times, Sunday, September 24, 2006. My picture is on the cover, showcasing a story by Stewart Eskenazi, the same guy who covered my trial for the newspaper. My letter to him in 1988 led to an interview and a front-page story where I expressed regret for selling cocaine and committed to using my time in prison to reform and contribute to society. The reporter's follow-up story, two decades later, describes my progress. Jeff's parents had sent him the magazine to encourage him as he began serving his sentence.

I open the magazine and I flip through the pages. "I've read the text of the article. But this is the first time I've seen the magazine. My sister sent me a copy but I haven't gotten it yet."

"Dude, I can't believe you've done all that from prison." Jeff nods in admiration.

"It's been a long time. Can I hold onto the magazine? I want to show it to a friend."

"Sure. My mom ordered your book for me."

"Cool, thanks for the support. I'll give you back the magazine when I get mine."

"Keep it." He says.

"Thanks, I appreciate it."

"No problem."

I walk through the narrow passage between bunks and turn down the crowded walkway to Lee's bunk. He's sitting on the metal chair in front of his open locker, wearing gray sweats and black reading glasses. He's placing his crisply folded clothes on the locker shelves.

"Can't you pay someone to do that for you? CEOs don't do the grunt work."

Lee laughs, brings his finger to his lips. "Some things a guy's gotta do for himself. What's up?"

"Check this out." I hand him the magazine. "Whoa! Cover story," he smiles. "That's cool."

"I'll leave it with you. Let's meet out on the picnic tables after count."

"You bet. Thanks."

The guards don't take long to count the 340 camp prisoners at Lompoc, and by 4:20, Lee and I walk with the crowd shoulder to shoulder down the dorm's narrow hall as if we're all part of a cattle herd. Some prisoners even moo. Once we pass through the door and we're in the clear, he tells me how impressed he was with the article. The sun is still warm as we move into California's Indian summer.

"Why aren't more of these guys doing what you did?" Lee asks. "Seems all anyone wants to do around here is play cards and waste time."

"It's not really their fault. Prison has a rigid structure, and it doesn't offer any hope for these guys. A prisoner can do any number of things that'll bring him more problems, but there's no mechanism that encourages him to better his life or shorten his sentence. Trying to get an education is almost impossible with all of the staff resistance. He can't work toward improving himself, and since the system doesn't see him for more than the crime that put him in here, the default response is to just give up and accept that prison is for serving time."

"You didn't."

"It was different for me. I had so much time to serve that I knew prison was going to eat up a big chunk of my life. I didn't want it to define me. I knew that I didn't want to be prisonized, and I knew that if I didn't educate myself I'd never be able to function outside."

"This system is messed up. We've got to do something to change it."

"That's what my work is about. One advantage of having served this much time is that I have credibility with other prisoners. I hope to show them by example that with discipline they can develop skills that will prepare them to reenter society and have meaningful lives. Few want to live as criminals, but when they don't believe in themselves, they give up. That failure pattern starts when they're young. Without understanding the consequences, kids drop out of school, join gangs, sell drugs, and when they come to prison, they fall further into failure. Through example, I hope to show how they can climb out."

"But how? The people who need the message most don't buy books. Many don't even read."

"They only read about what interests them, and you're right, they don't buy books. But if I write about people they identify with, experiences and lifestyles they identify with, I can help. What I need is sponsorship. I need to find businesses and organizations with a social conscience that will buy and distribute the books to those who need them. When I'm out, I'll find those sponsors. I hope you'll help."

"Why wait until you get out?" Lee asks. "I'll sponsor you right now. What would you like to do?"

As we sit at the picnic table, Lee listens as I pitch two book ideas. I propose interviewing prisoners who will talk about their criminal histories. Specifically, I want to write about people who quit school, joined gangs, and became involved with drugs or crime. I suggest a book that would profile prisoners and be followed by a series of open-ended discussion questions for the readers to consider. With Lee's sponsorship, I could produce and distribute the books free to schools with large groups of at-risk kids. Teachers and counselors could use the books to show actual stories of the consequences that follow criminal decisions.

The second book would be for adults who are beginning their terms in prison. That book would also tell prisoners' stories, but the stories would highlight steps they took to turn their lives around and to live responsibly. This book would show how anyone could use discipline and readily available prison resources to prepare for a successful life upon release.

"What would you call that one?" Lee asks.

"I haven't thought it through yet, but I'd base it on what I've learned."

"I'll sponsor those projects right now. Count on me for $75,000. That should give you enough to write and print both books, distribute them at no charge, and take the pressure off Carole while she finishes school."

"Are you serious?"

"Believe me, my family's been blessed in many ways," he says. "I'm completely serious. One lesson I've learned is that supporting worthwhile projects for society comes back a hundred-fold. Besides, after all the work you've done in here, you deserve it.

Earning Freedom, by Michael Santos

Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term

Chapter Twelve: 2005-2007

Months 209-231: Discussing adjustment in Lompoc federal prison camp, descriptions of housing, job details, writing projects.

*******

The SIS interview alerts me to my high-profile status at Lompoc and I walk out of the meeting expecting resistance from the staff. I can deal with that. Inside is in publication and St. Martin's Press is launching an international release that will put my work before tens of thousands. I'm willing to pay whatever price the system exacts so long as I leave prison with more skills and resources that will contribute to my family's stability.

But I also need to coast for a while, to lower my visibility and to consolidate my gains in preparation for my next project, whatever that is.

In the meantime I pay attention to two factors that influence peace in prison, a bunk assignment and a job assignment. In Lompoc's warehouse-style living, we're packed in. When I sit up on my top rack, all I see is a grid of metal bunks, with more than 160 prisoners stuffed inside the room. If I stretch out my hands, I touch the top of another man's head. If I stand on the two-feet of floor space between my bunk and metal locker, I can't open my arms without invading the space of another prisoner.

My housing unit, one of two at Lompoc Camp, is so tight its only function is to provide a place for prisoners to sleep, not to offer extra space for desks, televisions, or table games. Our inadequate community bathroom has three urinals, five toilets in stalls so small my knees touch the door when I sit, seven sinks, and four usable showers for 160 men. Prisoners clean their plastic food bowls in the same sinks where they brush their teeth. Oatmeal or last night's dinner always clogs the drain. Despite the work of the orderlies, the bathrooms remain in various stages of filth.

The living conditions in Lompoc Camp, the "crown jewel" of the federal prison system, rate as the worst I've experienced. It doesn't make a difference where I sleep, as one bunk is the same as the next. Still, despite the wretched housing, Lompoc has advantages that warrant its positive reputation. The scenic surroundings, marginal levels of staff supervision, and a high level of personal freedom combine to offset the tight quarters.

Since I can't find privacy where I sleep, I try for a job assignment that will give me some space. I want an orderly job in the housing unit, cleaning floors, toilets, or hallways. That job requires two hours of work at most each day, which would leave sufficient time to write. Mr. Castro is the counselor at Lompoc who assigns jobs to prisoners and I wait in line to see him with hopes of influencing his decision.

Mr. Castro's office is in the front of the dorm, directly across the narrow hallway from the unit officer's station where I saw the ZZ Top guard. Before I approach him, I ask Rick, a prisoner who's been in for seven years, how Castro responds to inmate requests for jobs.

"Bring him candy," Rick suggests.

"What do you mean?"

"Dude likes candy. Seriously. Bring him a Hershey's bar and you might have a chance."

"That might work for someone else. If I did it, he'd charge me with attempted bribery."

"Tell him you found two Hershey bars on top of your locker," Rick advises. "Since they're not yours, and you don't know who the candy belongs to, tell him you're turning them in. Then ask him for the job you want."

I laugh and thank Rick for the heads up. But I knock on Castro's door empty-handed.

"Come in," I hear him say, and I open the door. He sits behind his desk, looking like a beach ball, round and short.

"Mr. Castro, I'm Michael Santos, and I just arrived here. I'd like to speak with you about my job assignment."

The counselor folds his pudgy hands across his corpulent belly and grins. "I know who you are, Mr. Santos. Where do you want to work?"

"I've been in a long time. I'm hoping for a job that will give me time to write. I'd like to work as an orderly."

"Watch the callout. I've got a job in mind for you and it's not as an orderly." He keeps grinning but doesn't offer any hints.

The "callout" is the daily printout the staff posts for inmate scheduling. It lists appointments with medical staff, program assignments, unit team meetings, bed changes, and inmate jobs. When I see my name assigned to the farm, I understand Trent's grin. He prefers me shoveling cow manure to wielding a pen.

Lompoc Camp operates a working farm, several thousand acres in size, with herds of cattle, horses, and dairy cows. The dairy requires a large crew of prisoners to milk and tend to more than 300 cows daily. Prison "cowboys" perform all the ranch labor raising cattle for beef; yet another prison crew maintains the acres of corn and soybeans grown to feed the cattle. One small crew of prisoners drives 18-wheelers between Lompoc and Arizona to deliver milk produced at the camp. Those prisoners sleep in motels and eat in restaurants four days a week without staff supervision.

Besides the ranching operation, the 350 camp prisoners provide manpower to sustain the adjacent low-security and medium-security prisons. Prisoners fill positions as electricians, plumbers, painters, carpenters, landscapers, mechanics, wastewater treatment operators, and clerical workers for a community of 5,000 inmates and staff.

Some camp inmates experience an unusually high degree of freedom in their jobs, even being assigned government vehicles. While working on the farm or away from the camp, those prisoners can manipulate time for themselves. As such, Lompoc is a haven for every kind of contraband and unauthorized trysts with wives and girlfriends.

Neither the work nor the extra freedom serves my purposes. Unlike the recently convicted politicians and white collar professionals who serve short sentences at Lompoc Camp, my old-law sentence comes with an advantage that makes taking liberty with the rules dangerous. Under old-law I earn more good time. A disciplinary infraction can reduce the 19 years of good-time credit I earn against my 45-year sentence. To earn freedom, I focus exclusively on preparations that will contribute to my success upon release while avoiding behavior and interactions that could extend my imprisonment.

*******

Carole finishes her summer courses in Colorado and she and Nichole sell most of their belongings in a yard sale. I haven't seen my wife for 73 days since they locked me in the Florence SHU. A thousand miles separated us on our second wedding anniversary on June 24, 2005, while I was in transit to Lompoc. We burn through our monthly allotment of 300 telephone minutes with endearments. It isn't enough. My mother, my grandmother, Julie, and Christina, make the long trip to Lompoc while I wait for Carole. Guards returned my wedding ring to me when they processed me in, but it still isn't enough. I ache for my wife, for the softness of her kiss.

I stand outside behind the dorm, under a row of eucalyptus trees that line the road, and I watch as Carole follows seven other cars driving slowly around the potholes to enter the FCC. My heart beats for her. When I see her turquoise Saturn approach, I smile. She drove across Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona, and California to join me, and I feel as if I'm the luckiest man alive, despite the fact that I'm beginning my 19th year in prison.

I see her turn into the camp. We wave as she drives just a few feet from me. While she parks and stands in line for processing, I walk around to the back, sit on a bench under a pine tree and wait for the visiting room guard to page me.

"Santos! Visit!" I hear the page over loudspeakers that blast through the camp.

Eager to see her, touch her, hold her again, I hand my ID card to the guard at the desk. Then I search for my wife in the crowded visiting room. She's at the vending machines waiting to purchase a cup of coffee, wearing pressed blue jeans, a white cotton blouse, and black heels that bring the top of her head to my eye level. We hold each other tightly and kiss.

"I missed you, Baby," she whispers into my ear.

"You're beautiful, prettier than ever. I'm so glad you're here," I tell her.

"We'll never stay apart this long again."

"I missed you terribly. Come on, let's sit outside." Although the living conditions at Lompoc Camp disappoint me, the camp visiting area surpasses any we've experienced. A front yard has 20 wooden picnic tables, some with two seats, others with four. They're set on a closely cut, lush green lawn still wet with morning dew on this August morning. A two-rail fence of rough timber outlines the perimeter of the visiting area. Toward the end of the yard there's a concrete bench next to a wooden carving of a friendly-looking California black bear. I lead Carole to the bench where we can sit in the shade of a tall eucalyptus tree. Through the thin forest of pines outside the visiting area, we catch glimpses of prisoners inside the gates of the adjacent low-security prison playing tennis and soccer.

"Wow! It's so beautiful here. It doesn't look like a prison," Carole muses. "Who takes such good care of the roses?"

"You'll meet him later. We call him Dave the Flower Man. He's one of the guys I've met."

"Why's he here?"

"He's a land developer from the Tahoe area, serving about a year for a business deal that went bad."

I tell Carole about the camp, about how it differs from everywhere else I've been, and that I'd like to stay here until I go home. But Carole isn't so pleased with it. She suggests that I put in for a transfer.

"Why?" I ask.

"Honey, it's going to cost me twice as much to live here as it did in Florence. I've been looking all week. Everything's more expensive, including rent, gas, and food. I'm worried about being able to afford it."

"What about school? Can you start in September?"

Carole tells me about the waiting list. In Colorado, she was scheduled to begin nursing school in September and to graduate in 2008 with a bachelor of nursing degree.

"The soonest I'm going to get into a nursing program here is in January of 2007. I won't even earn my vocational nursing degree until May of 2008, and the RN's another year after that. I don't think we'll have enough money to live here. I think you should try to transfer to Oregon, or someplace less expensive."

"Honey, it's not that easy. I've only been here for two months. No one is going to listen if I ask for a transfer, not until I've been here for at least 18 months."

"Why not? Even the SIS doesn't want you here. What's going to happen if I settle here and they transfer you again?"

I squeeze Carole's hands to reassure her. "Then we'll have to deal with it. I can ask for a transfer in the spring of 2007, but then you'll be in the nursing program. Let's make it work here."

"You've said yourself that you can't control what they're going to do to you, and the SIS has already warned you. They can take you away in the middle of the night, just like they did at Fort Dix and at Florence." Carole's voice reveals her concern.

"I promise you, I won't do anything that causes trouble," I say, putting my arm around her.

"But you never cause trouble."

"I mean I won't write anything about prison. I'm not going to do anything that they would consider a threat to the security of their precious institution. I'll work at the dairy and I'll live like a prisoner until you finish nursing school. St. Martin's Press will release Inside next year and you'll receive more money when it does. We can generate more revenues through our website to help. That, along with other royalty checks will get you through nursing school. We have to make our lives work here. We'll need that security for when I come home."

*******

Mr. Griggs, the unit manager at Lompoc Camp, loves to smoke. While standing beneath the blue and white striped awning outside the administration building, he admires rings of nicotine clouds that hang over his head. Today he watches me walk across the parking lot toward him.

"May I talk to you?" I stop outside the yellow line under the awning so as not to penetrate his space.

"Open house is at three." He shuts me down.

"I'll have to be at work then. It's only a question," I persist.

Mr. Griggs blows a cloud of smoke above his head, and he looks up to admire his work. "What is it?"

"I'd like you to authorize a job change for me."

"Why?"

"I've been working at the dairy for six months. I need to spend more time preparing for the career I want to build upon release."

"Release? Don't you have like five more years to go?"

"I get out in 2013, in seven more years."

"It's too soon for you to be thinking about release. The needs of the institution come first. You can stay at the dairy."

"The clerk in the powerhouse is leaving. I've been waiting to switch to that job." He blows another cloud of smoke, watching as it rises.

"Let me think about it."

*******

In the spring of 2006, I finally prevail upon Mr. Griggs to authorize my job change from the dairy to the powerhouse. The powerhouse operates three massive boilers that generate steam to heat the adjacent medium-security penitentiary. It requires around-the-clock staffing. As the powerhouse clerk, I become friendly with Mr. Brown, the manager, and with his many subordinates who alternate shifts as foreman. I have an office with a large desk and credenza and bookshelves, an electric typewriter with memory, file cabinets, and a cushioned office chair. When I close the door, I'm alone.

My job requires a few duties. I keep records of all energy expenditures for the Federal Correctional Complex; I complete regulatory "safety" forms; and I tally timesheets for the 100 prisoners assigned as laborers. It's tedious administrative work, but I develop a system that allows me to stay current with my responsibilities while setting aside a few hours each day for my correspondence and independent writing projects.

I've made a new friend and mentor, Dr. Sam Torres. After retiring as a senior United States Parole Officer, he became a professor of Criminal Justice at the California State University in Long Beach. He uses my first book, About Prison, as required reading for courses he teaches in corrections, and that leads to a correspondence between us. Dr. Torres tried to visit when I was in Florence, and again when I moved to Lompoc. Mr. Griggs and senior BOP administrators refuse him permission on the grounds of preserving security in the institution.

They cite policy that prohibits prisoners from visiting with people they did not know prior to confinement. Ironically, as writing puts me in contact with more people, BOP administrators become more vigilant in their efforts to isolate me from society. Dr. Torres extends me the privilege of interacting with his class, and I respond to written questions from future parole officers and prison administrators whom he teaches.

My work in the powerhouse becomes much easier when Mr. Brown, one of the shop foremen, gives me a sleek new Dell computer with a speedy laser printer. It's loaded with software for word processing and spreadsheets that improve the accuracy of my work. By using the computer, I can complete in an hour what used to take five. It's a wonderful tool. I appreciate the time it saves as well as the opportunity to learn new technology.

As the powerhouse clerk, I work for all the foremen and for Mr. Johnson, the managing department head, but Mr. Brown is the foreman who hired me. He's my primary supervisor and he looks out for me. He is in his late 40s, a family man who expresses pride when he talks with me about his children. His wife lives nearby and she sometimes drops food by the powerhouse that he shares. Mr. Brown treats me like a man, an employee, rather than a prisoner. When he or any of the other staff members ask for help with personal writing, I don't hesitate.

"Mr. Brown, is it okay with you if I use the computer for to work on some of my writing projects?"

"What're you writing? Another book?"

"Maybe. I don't know, I'm thinking about it. I'm here all day, and when I'm finished with my work I'd like to write, as long as it's okay with you."

"As far as I'm concerned, the computer's no different than a typewriter." He shrugs his shoulders. "It's not connected to the Internet. I can't see how anyone would have a problem with you writin' on it."

*******

I'm about to complete my 19th year in prison, and I only have seven more years in front of me. Carole lives only a few miles away, close enough to visit every Saturday, Sunday, and federal holiday. Nichole is an honor student. She'll graduate from high school in June of 2008, a full year ahead of schedule. My job at the powerhouse is a breeze, leaving me with only one concern: finances. I'm responsible for providing the money to cover Carole's living expenses and I don't want her to have any financial concerns while she studies through nursing school.

"Honey, I think I should try to write another book," I suggest at the start of our visit.

She shakes her head. "Please, no more problems. We've got enough to worry about with Inside coming out in August. We don't know what the SIS is going to do with you once the BOP reads it, but at least you wrote it before you transferred here. He already warned you what would happen if you wrote a new book, and I'm scheduled to start the nursing program in January. Please, I'm begging you, don't do anything that could disrupt our lives again."

I hold her hand. "It's your school I'm thinking about. I've got to make sure you have enough money. What good is starting school if you don't have enough money to finish?"

"What good is it if I start school and the SIS locks you up and transfers you across country? And what if they take away our visiting?"

"I can write from SHU, I can exercise in a cell. And if they take away our visiting, we'll deal with it. What's important is that you're a nurse when I come home, because no matter how much I prepare, I might face some real challenges earning an income after 26 years in prison. We'll need your earning stability."

"What do you want to write?" Carole asks.

"I've met so many businessmen here. I could start interviewing guys who serve time for fraud, securities violations, or tax problems. I'm thinking of writing their stories for a book we could call White Collar. Instead of writing about prison, I'd write to describe how educated people unknowingly make decisions that lead them to prison. I think there's a market for it and I don't see how anyone could accuse me of threatening security. But I promised you I wouldn't do anything that might bring problems unless you agreed. What do you think?"

"I'm afraid they'll take you away."

"Do you trust me?"

"Of course."

"Would you still love me, stay married to me if they took me away and if we couldn't visit?"

"I'll always love you, and I'll always stay married to you, but please don't talk about being taken away."

"We both know that could happen at any time. We need to base our decisions on our future, not our visiting. Writing is the only way I can earn money for us, but I want your agreement, I need you to buy in to this plan."

Carole shakes her head, but acquiesces. "Whatever you think is best."

Chapter Twelve: 2005-2007

Months 209-231

"What's this scumbag here for?"

The guard on duty barks as we enter the closed corridor inside the Special Housing Unit. Since he doesn't know me I surmise that his obvious contempt extends to all prisoners.

I stand silently, both hands still locked behind my back.

"One for SHU. Captain's orders." The transporting guard uncuffs me and walks away.

"Strip!" The SHU guard commands.

I unbutton and remove my green shirt, then I pull my t-shirt over my head and drop it on the floor. The guard stands close, too close, staring as I take off my sneakers, my pants, my underwear, and my socks.

"Take everything off."

I stand in front of him, naked, and I unfasten the rubber wristband of my Timex wristwatch, dropping the watch into his outstretched hand.

"Give me the ring."

"I don't have to give you my ring."

"What did you say, Inmate?" He takes a step closer and his breath hits my face.

I hold up my left hand. "This is a silver wedding band, without stones. BOP policy says I can wear it at all times."

The guard takes off his glasses, closes them and slides them into his shirt pocket. He inches closer to me. "You tellin' me how to run my institution, scumbag?"

"I'm not resisting you. Call the lieutenant. He'll know the policy."

"I'm in charge here." The guard balls his fists, wanting to fight. "Either take the ring off, or I'm gonna take it off. It's not coming into my unit."

Standing naked, I'm not in a position to argue for my rights. This guard thirsts for a violent confrontation, and if it comes to that, I lose. With the length of time I've served, I'm conditioned to accept that guards routinely cite their mantra about preserving security of the institution while they violate both human rights and civil rights. Despite the promise I made to Carole about never taking it off, I slide the band off my finger and I hand it to the guard. He steps back, puts his glasses back on, and then he continues the search.

The guard issues me a green jumpsuit and a bedroll. We walk down the cellblock. When he unlocks the metal door I see three prisoners inside. Rollo, a young prisoner, is on the top rack. He caused a stir at the camp several months ago when he decided that he'd had enough of confinement and walked away. Pueblo is on the lower rack, locked in SHU two months ago for fighting. Jerome sits on the floor in SHU because the guard in food services caught him going through the food line twice on hamburger day. I drop my bedroll on the floor for a cushion, and I lean my back against the wall, bending my knees to prop my feet against the steel toilet.

"What'd they get you for?" Rollo asks from his rack.

"Embezzlement. They say I transferred a million dollars from the prison's bank account to my wife's account."

"No way! Really?" Rollo would believe me if I'd told him I was locked in the SHU for not putting my napkin in my lap. He's totally gullible.

"I don't know why I'm here. They just locked me up," I admit and shrug.

"Ay Rollo you so stupid, you believe anything." Pueblo whacks him with his pillow from the lower rack.

"It could happen!" Rollo defends himself. "Ain't you never seen The Shawshank Redemption, Homie?"

"Dat shit was a bad-ass flick," Jerome says.

"Rollo," I ask. "Why did you walk away from the camp?"

"I missed my ol' lady."

"When he done showed up at her door, da bitch done called da FBI on his stupid ass," Jerome says, finishing Rollo's explanation.

"Is that what happened?" I ask Rollo.

He nods his head and laughs. "I'm facing five more years for escape."

"What were you serving before?" I ask him.

"Twenty-two months for credit card fraud."

"You'll probably get another year. You can use the time for school," I say.

"That fool ain't goin' to no school." Pueblo says. "He can't even play no cards."

I spend the entire day on the floor of the crowded cell, which won't allow for Pueblo or Rollo to step off their bunks. When someone has to use the toilet or sink, I stand in the corner. Exercise isn't an option here, and with the back and forth chatter, reading or writing will have to wait.

In the evening, a guard unlocks the door and tosses me a sleeping mat. I slide it under the steel rack, then carefully crawl under the bed, head first, and I lie still. Pueblo's steel rack is only inches above me, too close for me to turn on my side. I sleep lying on my stomach, using my crossed arms as a pillow.

"Santos! Roll up!" I haven't been asleep for long when I hear the guard kicking the metal door. He unlocks the door and opens it.

I crawl out from under the bed, careful not to step on Jerome. The guard cuffs my hands behind my back and leads me out. I don't ask questions and he doesn't offer explanations. I strip, toss my jumpsuit into a bin and I stand for the search, eager to move out.

"What size?" The guard asks.

"Two-X," I say.

He tosses a roll of traveling khakis. After I'm cuffed and chained, I join a group of other prisoners and we climb into an idling bus. The sky is still dark. We drive through the gates and join a convoy of three other buses, two carrying prisoners from the Florence penitentiary and one from the ADX.

As the buses turn right, leaving the Florence Correctional Complex behind, I look through the tinted windows and wonder where Carole lives. The house she rents is only two miles from the prison, she told me, but I don't know where. The bus moves past the dark cross streets too fast for me to see her car parked in a driveway. No matter. It's before dawn and she's asleep, oblivious to a new uprooting of our lives.

*******

I have a window seat as the plane takes off. I expect to sleep in the Oklahoma Transit Center again tonight and wonder whether I'll see the Native American guard. I count how many times I've been on prison transport planes, and come up with 12, explaining why some of the U.S. marshals look familiar. I notice graying hair and new wrinkles in weathered faces; over the past 18 years I've flown with them throughout their careers.

We've been in the air a few hours when my ears pop and my stomach lurches. While we're descending, I glance out from the tiny window. As our plane approaches the landing strip, I see evergreen trees that surround a lake I recognize. We're approaching Seattle, the city where Carole and I grew up, where Julie and her family still live. Carole and I may have grown up here, but it's no longer home. We're nomads, a prison family.

The plane lands at Boeing Field, right beside Interstate 5. I look outside and spot guards and marshals surrounding the plane for the prisoner exchange. I wish they would call my name, as I'd like to walk on Seattle ground again. I may be in chains, but I'm breathing the same air my sister breathes, though she doesn't know I'm here. Even my wife doesn't know where I am.

After an hour we're airborne again and I take a last look out the window. It's 2005, probably eight more years before I'll see the Seattle skyline again. The Emerald City fades away as the plane banks and climbs higher. In eight years I don't know where Carole and I will make our home. We may want to make a start in a new city, or even a new country.

I see Oklahoma City again as the plane taxis. It's my fifth time here and I know the routine. Hobbling in my chains, I'm eager to fill out the forms and turn them in. The sooner processing begins, the sooner I'll find out where I'm going.

"Do you know where you're going?" the woman in uniform asks.

I shake my head "no," and pass her my intake forms.

"Santos, Michael," she says and moves her forefinger down the list of names on her computer printout. "Big Spring, Texas," she says, and my heart sinks. "No, wait, you've been re-designated. You're going to Lompoc Camp."

*******

Among prisoners, Lompoc Camp on the Central Coast of California has a reputation of being the crown jewel of the federal prison system. For years I've heard that administrators reserved Lompoc Camp for politicians who've run afoul of the law and for powerful white-collar offenders.

Traveling by bus up the Pacific Coast Highway, with the salty smell of the ocean filling my lungs, invokes pleasurable childhood memories of visiting my grandparents in Los Angeles while on summer vacations. I remember swimming with my sisters at different California beaches, jumping into the waves that roll endlessly onto the shoreline. As I look at the ocean, I try to remember the sensation of floating in water. I contemplate what it might feel like to submerge my body. For 18 years the only water I've felt has sprayed from a spigot. I can't remember the sensation of buoyancy. In eight years Carole and I will bathe together and we'll swim in that ocean.

Klein Boulevard, the long thoroughfare leading into the Lompoc Federal Correctional Complex, is a crumbling asphalt road riddled with potholes. On my right is the fenced boundary of the medium-security prison, and on my left is the low-security prison. As the bus lurches along the dilapidated road toward the camp, prisoners in green uniforms walk freely on scenic trails winding between tall eucalyptus trees that fragrantly scent the air. I appreciate the natural beauty.

After six hours of processing, guards hand us our ID cards and bedrolls. I join four other prisoners walking outside the gates from the Receiving and Discharge building in the higher-security prison. Walking ahead of the crowd, I pass the field where a group of prisoners play soccer. Further down the road several men pump iron at the camp's weight pile. Pinecones that fall from the trees litter the path I'm on.

The housing unit resembles a steel, prefabricated warehouse, and the laid back guard inside looks more like a member of ZZ Top, with his long beard, black sunglasses, heavy silver rings with Gothic designs. Tattoos of double lightning bolts, flames, skulls, and cross bones cover his forearms. He's in a messy office, holding a Maxim magazine with a young woman in panties, sucking a lollipop, on the cover. He's leaning back in his chair, with crossed legs and heavy black leather boots resting casually on a gray metal desk.

I stand in front of him with my bedroll and the other new prisoners begin to crowd into the office, lining up behind me. The guard ignores us while flipping the pages of his magazine. Green canvas duffle bags are scattered on the scuffed and dingy tile floors. A desk fan blows and a radio broadcasts hardcore rap music by Tupac.

"Wazzup?" The guard finally lowers his magazine.

I give him my ID card and the other prisoners follow my lead.

"You guys the fresh meat?" he asks, turning down the volume of the radio.

We stand still, waiting as the guard sorts through index cards. He then pulls his feet from the desk and stands.

"Follow me," he says.

We follow him out of the office and down the narrow hall to the right. It empties into an open space as large as a private airplane hangar. For the crown jewel of the BOP, it's mighty tarnished. Six columns of gray metal bunks, 30 rows deep, fill the immense room. The noisy, crowded accommodations have a putrid stench. I follow the guard as he leads us down the center aisle and taps the fourth bed in column four.

"Santos. This is you."

He keeps walking with the others. I put down my belongings and prepare to settle in.

*******

"Santos!" I hear the loudspeaker. "Inmate Michael Santos. Number 16377-004. Report to the administration building. Immediately!"

Not again, I groan inwardly. I've only been at Lompoc Camp for a day and I'm already being paged. I walk the short distance for yet another confrontation with BOP administrators. As I pass by a sparkling white Dodge Intrepid sedan with darkly tinted windows and three small antennae sticking out of the car's rear end, I assume it's from the fleet of the Federal Correctional Complex security force. A closer look at the elaborate communication system inside the car confirms my suspicions. Someone is here to interrogate me.

Through the smoked glass of the building's front door sits a receptionist. I knock, waiting for her to acknowledge me before opening the door. I've heard other prisoners refer to her as "the dragon lady," so I don't open the door until she indicates it's okay. It's a standoff, but I'm prepared to wait all day. I prefer the wait to being scolded and bullied.

After several minutes, she grasps that I'm not going to open the door, and I'm not going to knock again. She looks up, annoyed, and motions me in.

"I'm Michael Santos." I present my ID card. "I heard a page to the administration building."

Before she can answer, a stocky man with a chiseled face and a military-style crew cut steps into the doorway of the conference room. He's wearing a heavily starched BOP uniform.

"I paged you, come in." He directs me to a chair at the side of the table.

"Sit down. Do you know who I am?"

"No." I shake my head.

"I'm Lieutenant Merkle. Special Investigative Services." He opens a burgundy leather portfolio on the table. "It's generally not a good sign when I call an inmate for a meeting."

"I'm familiar with the role of the SIS." These guards can't intimidate me.

"I'm sure you are."

The room is quiet as he flips through his papers.

"So you're the writer. Do you know why you're here?"

"Yes, I do." I nod my head.

"And what's your interpretation?"

"When I was in my early 20s, I sold cocaine. I've been a prisoner since then, and as a prisoner I'm susceptible to these kinds of summons."

The lieutenant glances up at me. "So you're a wise guy?"

"Not at all. That's why I'm here. If I hadn't sold cocaine, we wouldn't be talking right now."

He stares at me. "But you did sell cocaine. Now you're an inmate in my institution."

He pulls out a page from his portfolio. "I received a letter from Lieutenant Knowles, SIS at Florence."

"Okay."

"You were transferred here administratively because your writing presented a threat to the security of that institution."

"How so?"

"It doesn't matter. Point is, you're in my institution now and I'm here to give you notice. If you write anything that threatens the security of my institution, I'm not going to transfer you. Instead, I'll bury you so deep in the SHU that no one will ever find you. Do you understand that?"

"What do you consider a threat to the security of the institution?"

"You're a wise guy, you figure it out. But if I lock you up for an investigation, you won't have access to telephone, mail, or visits. Do you understand?"

"For what, though?" I gesture with open hands. "I've never written a sentence that threatened security. All my work urges people to act responsibly and to lead law-abiding lives. I live by that rule. Why would you consider my writing a threat?"

"I ask the questions. I don't answer them," the lieutenant snaps, closing his file.

"Can I ask if you're placing me on mail-monitoring status?"

"Inmate Santos, you're starting here with a clean slate, no mail monitoring, no restrictions. Don't threaten security in my institution and you won't have any problems. If you see me again, it won't be good for you."

"One more thing, Lieutenant. While I was in Florence I wrote a book about what I've observed in prison. St. Martin's Press has the manuscript and intends to publish it in 2006. Is that book going to be a problem?"

He rubs his chin. "We'll visit that issue when the book comes out."

Earning Freedom by Michael Santos

Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term

Chapter Eleven: 2003-2005

Months 190-209

It's the spring of 2004, and even at our 5,000-foot elevation, the snow has stopped falling. The Rocky Mountains are right outside the window, close enough that it looks as if I could reach out and touch them. I have a wonderful view from this prison cubicle in Florence.

Carole studies full time at Pueblo Community College and her schedule helps me mark off the weeks. We visit three hours every Friday evening, six hours on Saturdays, Sundays, and federal holidays. The more time I spend in Carole's company, with my fingers locked around hers, the more I feel as if I'm a part of something more than a prison population.

While we sit beside each other in the burgundy plastic chairs of Florence's visiting room, she tells me that we need to generate more support for my clemency petition. It's been almost a year, and we haven't heard anything.

I squeeze her hand. "I told you, President Bush isn't going to commute my sentence. Let's not divert our attention from what's really important. We're doing well and we need time to prepare for my release. You focus on finishing chemistry and biology, and I'll work on getting a publishing deal."

"It's too bad Bruce isn't alive. He could help."

"We've got to do this on our own. You get your degree, and I'll find a literary agent who will represent my work. It looks like we're going to be saddled with four more years of Bush. But if I get a book deal, we might get enough support for a reasonable chance at clemency after he's gone. And by then you'll be a nurse."

"First I need to pass algebra. These word problems were tough when I was in high school, but they're brutal now that I'm 40."

"You're smarter than I am, and I know you can do it." I pull out the algebra book she brought with her. "Let's work through some problems together."

*******

Other than work in the Supermax laundry, exercise, and visiting with Carole, I devote all my energy to writing a book proposal and three sample chapters for a new manuscript. I'm titling it Inside: Life Behind Bars in America. It's my first attempt to reach a general, non-fiction audience, and I invest more than three months with a Bic pen and a dictionary to put the book proposal together. Carole types the document and sends copies to 90 literary agents I culled from an annotated list published in Writers Market. I'm hopeful they'll have an interest in my work.

Our effort to find a literary agent makes me a hit at mail call. The guard has been calling my name over and over, passing me no fewer than 73 rejections from literary agents who've declined to represent me. But I've also received letters from four agents who express an interest. I hold one in my hand now from James Schiavone, a Florida agent who has a doctorate in education.

Educators guided me through my first 17 years of confinement and they served as role models for me. I admire their devotion to improving society through teaching and I respect them for the energy they invest in helping others reach their potential.

I respond to Dr. Schiavone's letter, letting him know that I'd welcome an opportunity to work with him. That response leads to more correspondence. I amend my proposal according to his suggestions and sign a contract giving Schiavone Literary Agency authorization to present my manuscript to mainstream publishing houses. It thrills me to have a valid contract with a literary agent Carole and I found through our own work.

The executive staff at Florence Camp, however, doesn't share my elation. This becomes clear when the Camp Administrator, Mr. Jimenez, calls me into his office for an admonishment. My Unit Manager, Ms. Otero, is also present. Anticipating the reason for the meeting, I carry copies of About Prison, Profiles From Prison, and a file with letters I've received from numerous professors who use my writings as a resource to teach university students in their criminal justice and corrections courses.

Mr. Jimenez is confident and ambitious, clearly headed for higher offices with the growing Bureau of Prisons system. As the camp administrator, he's like a mini warden, and all staff members answer to him. As unit manager of the camp, Ms. Otero is his direct subordinate. She reminds me of a miniature bulldog, tough and mean.

Mr. Jimenez authorizes me to come in. He's sitting in a high-backed chair behind his large oak desk. Ms. Otero stands in front of Mr. Jimenez's desk, glaring at me like I'm a problem child she's reporting to the principal, her hands clasped behind her back. Her dark polyester suit fails to hide the roll of fat she tries to camouflage.

"Have a seat, Mr. Santos," Mr. Jimenez gestures to the green vinyl couch beside his desk.

"I'm placing you on mail-monitoring status," he says as I sit down.

"What does that mean?" I ask.

"It means that the Special Investigative Services lieutenant will review all correspondence addressed to you. From now on, the SIS will have to approve all mail before it's distributed to you."

"Why?" I ask.

"Security of the institution," Ms. Otero says.

"How long will he hold my mail?"

"We'll try to keep it reasonable," Mr. Jiminez says. "Depending on the volume of mail you receive, you can expect it in two to three weeks, assuming SIS approves it."

"What have I done to warrant this sanction?"

"You're not being sanctioned," he corrects me. "I have a responsibility to preserve the security of the institution, and this is a precautionary measure I'm taking."

"A precautionary measure against what? I'm not threatening security. My record is clear, and I'm an open book. All I'm trying to do is prepare for my successful re-entry into society."

"You've still got nine years to serve, and we don't care anything about your life after release," Ms. Otero hisses. "All we care about is the security of the institution. We don't like prisoners writing books and complaining about the system."

"Have you seen the books I write? I'm not complaining about anything."

"I don't need to see your books," she says. "I don't want any inmates under my watch writing about prison operations. It threatens security."

I'm puzzled by her hostility, and I turn to Mr. Jimenez. I sense he's uncomfortable with her self-righteous invective.

"Can I show you my books?"

He extends his hand and I give him the books and the file of letters.

"I write about the importance of accepting responsibility, about preparing for re-entry. My books don't threaten security. They offer suggestions for improvements to lower recidivism rates. Universities from coast to coast use them as teaching resources. I'm proud of my work and I'd like to have your support."

Mr. Jimenez flips through the pages.

Ms. Otero watches the exchange and, sensing that Mr. Jimenez might reconsider, she verbally challenges me again. "What are you in for? Aren't you a drug dealer?"

"I made the bad decision to sell cocaine in my early 20s. I'm 40 now, hoping you'll judge me for the record I've built over the past 17 years rather than the crime that put me here."

"I bet you would. You're serving 45 years, right? Why don't you just serve your time like everyone else? Write your books when you get out," she snarls.

I'm immune to her verbal hammer, knowing it's for Jimenez's benefit.

"Like everyone else? Ms. Otero, 70 percent of the people who leave prison return to prison. Serving my time like everyone else would only lead to my failure after 26 years. I'm determined not to let that happen. Why would you oppose me? You've got gang members running around here who thrive on crime, and you want to spend energy blocking me? Why?"

"The thing is, Mr. Santos, we've got an institution to run," Mr. Jimenez explains, returning my books. "How do you think taxpayers would respond if they heard we were allowing inmates to write books?"

"The BOP policy expressly encourages inmates to write manuscripts, and it says we don't need staff authorization."

"It doesn't say you can publish them," Ms. Otero barks, unwilling to back down.

"I'm not publishing them, someone else is. I give the manuscripts away. Wouldn't you rather have prisoners using their time productively in activities that will help them overcome the stigma of imprisonment? Isn't that better than wasting time on television and table games?"

"I told you. We don't care what happens to inmates after they leave. We're running a prison here," she snaps, angrily.

Mr. Jimenez shakes his head. "We've made our decision, Mr. Santos. As of today, you're on mail-monitoring status. You may appeal the decision, but I've consulted with the warden and he agrees that security of the institution comes first."

I walk out of his office sensing that Mr. Jimenez respects me, maybe even admires what I've done. But he's a career bureaucrat representing a system whose policies have the unintended consequences of perpetuating failure; prison management rejects the workplace practices of innovation and 'thinking outside the box.' It's so much easier to isolate and punish.

I owe no allegiance to Mr. Jimenez, Ms. Otero, or the prison system. By writing about prisons from the inside, I hope to influence support for reforms to our costly prison system that perpetuates so much failure. I feel a duty to write about America's most flawed institutions, especially a federal prison system hidden from public view and squandering billions in taxpayer resources each year.

*******

From the window of my cubicle, I see Carole's blue Saturn two-door waiting in a line of vehicles on the side of the road. Every day brings more reason for me to appreciate the blessings of my life. With her love, I feel fortunate, strong enough to overcome whatever this prison system dishes out. When the guard at the main gate raises the barrier for cars to drive into the FCC for visiting, I leave my cubicle and walk toward the visiting room.

When Officer Zimmer pages me, I step into the room for a search. He's friendly to Carole and me, allowing Carole to bring her textbooks so I can help her study. She was excited on the phone when I spoke to her earlier, and I'm eager to hear her news.

As I enter the visiting room she stands, smiling, her arms waiting for my embrace. She serves this sentence with me. For us, these few hours together are our dates.

"What happened? Did you get an A on your chemistry exam?" I ask.

She smiles at me. "I'm so proud of you," she says.

"Tell me why."

"Jim called. He got you a publishing deal for your book."

"With who?" I ask.

"St. Martin's Press. They're giving us an advance. You'll have distribution all over the world."

The news thrills me. It's only been a couple weeks since I signed the agreement with Jim Schiavone and in his letter he urged patience. Although my mentors, George Cole and Marilyn McShane, helped me place my first two books with academic publishers, I'm a novice author to mainstream publishers. I expected my imprisonment would present a real obstacle, but Jim is a solid professional agent. His representation brought credibility with the large New York publishing house, and once again, an educator changes my life. I'm proud that the pens and paper I buy from the prison commissary lead to work that contributes to Carole and Nichole's well being. A sense of validation comes with this tangible proof that others see me something as more than a prisoner.

"Do I need to talk with anyone, with Jim or someone from St. Martin's?"

"Everyone understands your situation. You can send everything through me, like always. I'll type it and forward the manuscript through email. The only question is edits. How will you meet the timeline if the staff keeps holding your mail?"

"Let's send the manuscript pages to Rick," I suggest, referring to my roommate. "No one's checking his mail."

"I can't do that. They probably have some rule about my writing to another inmate."

"Honey, you're free. You can send mail to anyone you want. We can't let these mini-minds in prison block us from success."

"No way," Carole is adamant. "I'm not going to do anything that might create a problem with our visits. I'll forward the manuscript pages I type to Jennifer. She can send them to her husband, and when he gets them, he can give them to you."

"I'll meet the timeline."

"No one has any doubt about that," Carole assures me.

*******

The BOP rule that limits prisoners to 300 telephone minutes each month stifles family ties. With an average of fewer than 10 minutes of daily telephone access, I can't afford to talk with anyone but Carole. But it's June 11, 2004, Christina's 37th birthday. I haven't spoken with my younger sister since she flew to New Jersey last year to witness my marriage to Carole, so I dial her number in Miami to surprise her.

"Happy birthday," I say when she answers.

"Hi, thanks." Christina responds softly, sadly. Then silence.

"What's wrong? You don't sound like you're celebrating," I push for an answer.

"You haven't talked to Carole?"

"She's still in school. I'll see her tonight when we visit, why?"

"Dad died today, Michael."

I knew that my father's health had been declining for the past decade. His illness prevented him from traveling to visit me after I left USP Atlanta. The news from Christina, while not unexpected, hurts. The challenges of this lengthy prison journey keep coming, but I've dealt with them repeatedly over the years and I take the news of my father's passing with stoic acceptance. I exhale, and urge my sister to be strong.

"Can you come to the funeral?" she asks, her voice sounds far away.

"No." I'm a prisoner and I know my limitations.

"We can postpone the service a few days if you need time for the request." she pleads with me.

"Christina, they won't even give me more access to the telephone. They're not going to let me travel to Seattle for a funeral.

You and Julie arrange the service without me. I'll pray here and write a eulogy."

Now the three men closest to me have died. I say prayers for my grandfather, Bruce, and my dad. My imprisonment stretches too long for them to have been able to welcome me home. Not being allowed to pay final respects and show gratitude, I silently hope my father's death is the last loss of family that I'll know as a prisoner.

*******

Carole and I eagerly await the celebration of our second wedding anniversary in June of 2005. Just as we did on our wedding day and on our first anniversary, we'll savor a romantic dinner, whatever snacks the four vending machines offer. We both feel good about being ahead of the schedule we set. Carole is completing the final prerequisites before beginning her bachelors of science in nursing at Colorado State University, and Ben Sevier, my editor at St. Martin's Press, has accepted my manuscript for Inside: Life Behind Bars in America.

After the 5:00 a.m. census count clears on Wednesday, June 1, 2005, I seal the envelope that holds the prologue for Inside and carry it to the outgoing mailbox. Except for the final editing, I'm finished with that project and I look forward to its publication. It's time to begin something new.

I return to my cubicle and sit at the tiny metal surface mounted against the green concrete wall. The all-in-one table and stool "desk" is large enough to hold my paper and dictionary, but nothing else. I drape a folded towel over the edge to keep it from cutting into my forearm while I write in longhand. The hard metal stool mounted to a swinging arm beneath the desk is directly beside the window to my right, which frames the million-dollar view of Pike's Peak and the Rocky Mountains. After 18 months we're settled, Carole and Nichole live in town, while I climb through the final years of my term in Florence Camp.

After two hours of writing, I hear the page. "Santos! Report to the Bubble."

The Bubble is at the camp's entrance where guards congregate. I begin my walk up with apprehension, as I know that nothing good can come from this summons.

When I get to the Bubble I see the SIS lieutenant who is in charge of security for the FCC. He's sipping coffee with the other guards in the glass enclosure and he reminds me of someone who aspires to a career as an FBI agent. The same lieutenant questioned me a few weeks ago after a newspaper reporter wrote a story about the ADX and cited my work as a source. When I told the lieutenant that I hadn't had any contact with the media, my response seemed to end his inquiry. Now I'm not so sure, as he rarely bothers with the camp. I present my red ID card to the guard at the window.

"Sit in there," he commands, pointing across the hall to the visiting room. "Someone will be here to see you." The guard keeps my ID card, and the SIS agent, who stands behind him, stares at me while sipping his coffee.

I sit alone in the visiting room and look around. Carole and I spend all of our time together here, but intuition tells me that change is about to bury the visiting schedule we value and appreciate so much. My heart beats faster when a guard I don't recognize walks in and confirms my suspicions.

"Are you Santos?"

"Yes."

"Cuff up."

1. Earning Freedom by Michael Santos

Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term

Chapter 11-2-Pod 139

Months 190-209

On my way to Colorado my plane lands at the Federal Transit Center in Oklahoma. Five years have passed since I was here last, but the process is familiar. I even recognize faces of staff members, like the Native American guard with the long braided ponytail.

Our procession of prisoners marches single file through an efficient processing system. We stand on milk crates in groups of seven. Guards sit behind us unfastening our leg irons while another row of guards stand in front of us unlocking our handcuffs, pulling them from the metal chain around our waists to free our bodies. Guards talk among themselves, ignoring the noise of banging metal as they unlock and drop our chains into boxes. When mine come off, I note that my hands are filthy with metallic grease from the chains I've gripped for the past 12 hours.

With the news of where I'm going, I don't mind the annoyances. I'm on my way to camp, and for a long-term prisoner, that's like going to Disneyland. Inmates in higher security prisons talk about going to lower-security prisons as much as they talk about release. Placement in a camp, we hear, is as easy as it gets for a prisoner. I'm still not convinced that the BOP hasn't made some mistake, but since the mistake would be in my favor, I'm cool with it.

With a quick head count, I estimate that 200 prisoners flew into Oklahoma with me. As we sit in adjacent holding cells, I ignore the clamor and look around. I'm in the midst of convicted murderers, rapists, gang leaders, Mafia soldiers, and child molesters. Many serve life sentences, but with more than 16 years inside, and nearly 10 to go, my credentials in the society of felons is equivalent to a degree from Stanford or Harvard in the real world. I don't want to talk with anyone. I don't want to hear about what's going on at other prisons, about rivalries between prison groups, about legislation pending in Congress to reform good-time allowances, or about restoration of parole. I want to make it through this final stop, to leave behind, once and for all, the hate-filled, intolerant prison populations to finish the last decade of my sentence among white collar offenders in a minimum-security camp.

"Name and number?" A friendly face in a prison guard's uniform asks as I hand him the pile of forms I've completed. He's got red hair, freckles, and Elvis style sideburns.

"Michael Santos. Number 16377-004."

"Let's see. Santos," he looks down his list. "You're going to Florence Camp. Think you can handle that?"

He smiles and I nod. My nerves settle as I hear a second source confirm where I'm going.

I join six other prisoners, catching the bedroll and dinner sack the guard tosses after calling my name. We follow another guard through steel gates, onto an elevator, and up to the floor of our housing unit. I listen as the guard recites the rules before giving us our assigned cell numbers.

"Lockdown is at nine, so it's too late for you guys to shower or use the phone. Each cell has a panic button. Don't push it except for a genuine emergency; otherwise you'll get a shot. Listen for your name and cell number. Stand by your door. I'll walk around the tier to let you in. Any questions?"

I carry my bedroll into the familiar, triangle-shaped, two- tiered shell, then climb the concrete-and-steel staircase and walk toward cell 624. My feet hurt in the navy canvas deck shoes.

I send up a silent prayer for God to stay with me, to get me through this last transition before I make it to the camp. When I reach my assigned cell door I look through the narrow window and swear under my breath. The prisoner inside looks as big as a Sasquatch. I can't see his face, but he sits at the desk in boxers without a shirt. His back is huge, and his arms, covered in tribal tattoos, are as big as my thighs. He's writing, gripping the pencil like it's a spear in his clenched fist. His full head of hair is an unruly black mop. I pray with renewed earnestness for God to get me through this.

The guard comes to unlock the door, and I want to protest that I'm going to camp, that he should house me with some friendly tax evader. Instead, I remain silent. I pulled a 45-year sentence and I'm expected to handle this kind of situation.

Once the guard locks me inside the cell, the rancid body odor hits me, but I shake it off. My new cellmate turns, revealing an expressionless face from the islands. I greet him while spreading the thin sheets across the top mat then tying the corners in knots beneath the mat to hold the sheets in place.

"Where you goin'?" The giant man breaks his silence.

"Florence," I say, deliberately leaving out the camp part. "I've been in for 16 years, finally making it out West," I offer, unsolicited, to let him know that I'm not new to prison.

"Where'd you come from?"

"I've been all over. Did about seven years in USP Atlanta. Spent time in McKean, Fairton, now I'm coming from Fort Dix."

He spins around and looks at me with a broad smile on his face. "Dude, I know you! You're Michael Santos."

He stands to shake my hand, nearly jerking my arm out of its socket with his enthusiasm. "I'm going to Fort Dix. I was on your website every day Bro, reading all your articles on prison before I surrendered."

I exhale and immediately relax. This man's a friend, not someone I have to fear. He's from Tonga, serving five years on an immigration violation. I stretch out on the top rack and answer his questions about life at Fort Dix.

*******

When the guards begin clicking the locks open at 6:00, I hop down from the rack. Tonga, my cellmate, is still sleeping. He's so tall that his ankles and feet extend beyond the edge of the rack. I tap his shoulder to wake him and tell him that we have to go downstairs for breakfast trays. He grunts, his sour breath nearly knocking me over.

I eat my oatmeal, and then walk to the phones. When the call connects to Carole, I hear her crying as she accepts the charges.

"What's wrong, Honey?"

"I have terrible news."

"What is it, what's wrong?"

"Carolyn called me. Bruce had a heart attack last night. He died, Michael."

I'm standing at a phone bank, with prisoners all around me, and it takes a second for the news to settle with me. Bruce has been a part of my life since the earliest days of this sentence, when I was beginning my university studies inside the penitentiary's walls in Atlanta. He visited me at least three times each year wherever I was held, and we spoke regularly over the phone, at least once each week for many years. I can't believe he's gone, that I'll never see him again. But more than his death, I'm surprised at why the news is hitting Carole so hard.

"Honey, why are you so emotional? You barely knew him."

"I'm sad because you loved him, and he meant so much to you."

"Yes, he was a great friend to me, but I'll be okay. It's more important that I stay strong. That's what he would've wanted. Instead of being sad at his passing, I'll celebrate his life and all he's done to make the world better. Please call Carolyn for me. Tell her how sorry I am and that I'll write today."

"That's something she asked me on the phone. She wanted to know if you could send a remembrance before the funeral."

"I'll write it today and then I'll read it over the phone the next time I call. Now don't cry anymore. Bruce would say 'keep on keepin' on,' and in his honor, that's what we're going to do."

As I walk back to my cell, I realize that he has been with me for 14 years, treating me as if I were part of his family, working to educate me, to guide me. He defended me when necessary and smoothed the way wherever and whenever possible. With his death I've lost my first mentor, my dearest friend. I'll do my best to express appreciation for him in a eulogy.

Bruce is the second close person to die since my imprisonment. My grandfather, Pat, having first forsaken me, forgave my behavior and spoke with me on the phone before his death in 1999. My father is confined to an Alzheimer's home. I haven't seen him since 1995, more than eight years ago, and I don't think I'm in his memory anymore. He can't travel, or even talk with me over the telephone. People I love are growing old and may die before my release. This reality starts to settle within, causing new heartache.

*******

We land in Colorado. As I hobble down the stairs from the belly of the plane, with leg irons digging into my ankles, I'm surprised by the climate. It's seven in the morning on December 4, 2003, and I hear the pilot say the temperature is 40 degrees. I'm only wearing a t-shirt, khaki pants, and navy canvas deck shoes without socks, but I'm not cold. The dry air is still and the low sun shines through a cloudless blue sky.

Four silver prison buses idle on the tarmac. I count 12 vigilant guards standing in navy windbreakers wearing mirrored sunglasses, gripping assault rifles. The guard who waits at the bottom of the stairs wears plastic earmuffs over his head to block the noise from the screeching jet engines. He yells for my name and number, then checks his clipboard and directs me to join the line beside the last bus.

While standing in line, wrists cuffed to the chain around my waist, I study the faces of other prisoners as they walk down the stairs. I see Renegade, a prisoner who walked the yard with me in USP Atlanta. He's bald, with a long goatee, and I notice that he's added a few new tattoos to his neck and face. The guard directs him to the bus in front. I wonder where he's going.

After all the remaining prisoners re-board the aircraft, the guards count those of us standing in lines beside the buses headed to Florence. Apparently, we're all accounted for, as the guards start ordering us to step on board. Once we're loaded the bus convoy begins rolling down the road toward the Florence Federal Correctional Complex.

As we reach the left turn lane on Highway 33, the buses zip by the guard's shack to climb the winding and rolling hill that leads into the complex made up of four separate prisons. When our bus turns right into the long driveway of the medium-security FCI, the other buses continue up the road toward the higher-security prisons, including a high-security USP and the federal prison's ADX unit, also known as the Supermax, a cage for human beings. On the left, close to the highway and not enclosed by a fence, I see what must be the camp. Men in green uniforms mingle in the center of the compound.

Our bus stops beneath a canopy and the double doors squeak open. The lead guard stands at the head of the bus holding a stack of yellow files. He's a big man with a wad of chewing tobacco that makes his lower lip bulge. He spits brown tobacco juice into a clear plastic Coke bottle with rhythmic precision. When I hear him yell "Santos!" I shuffle forward so he can match my face to the mug shot on the file he holds. He spits into his bottle and then asks me to recite my registration number followed by my date of birth.

With his nod, I have permission to pass. When I step off the bus, I follow the other prisoners and we hobble through rows of armed guards in BOP uniforms. We continue into the foyer of the FCI. Our chains drag on the brown marble passageway making a scraping sound that disturbs the cathedral-like quiet.

We move outside, across a concrete walkway that cuts through reddish-orange gravel raked in neat rows. Another guard meets us, opening the steel door that leads into the Receiving and Discharge area. Before unlocking our chains and leg irons, a guard calls for quiet.

"Listen for your name. If you hear it, step to the front of the line," the guard calls out.

"Roberts."

"Thomas."

"Williams."

"And Santos."

I join the others at the front.

"Okay," the guard yells. "The rest of you, step into the holding tanks so my officers can unlock your chains. I want the four of you to follow me."

We shuffle into a smaller cell and I reason that he must be separating those of us who've been assigned to the camp.

"Are you the same Santos who writes about prisons on the Web?" Williams asks me.

"That's right." I've never even seen the Internet but questions about my work give me a lift. "Did you find the information helpful?"

"More than helpful! I was worried to death about coming to prison. My lawyer didn't know anything about what it was going to be like. Once I found your site and read about all that you've done in prison, I had more hope. My wife, too."

"How do you write for the Internet from prison? Will we have computer access?" Roberts asks

"Prisoners can't access the Internet or use any kind of technology. I write in longhand and then I mail my work home. My wife types it and posts it to the website she operates for me," I explain.

"Your wife must be something special, staying with you all these years," Thomas says. "I've only got 18 months, and my wife has already filed for divorce."

"Prison is much harder on the family than it is on us," I say to the men. "We can find activities to fill our time, even work toward goals that will improve our lives. Our families have to struggle with financial problems, loneliness, and the shame of our imprisonment."

As we wait, we learn a bit more about each other. Thad Roberts interests me. He's in his mid-20s, beginning a nine-year sentence for stealing moon rocks. His wavy brown hair frames a constantly curious expression on his face. The roots of crime began with his employment as a NASA intern. In a romantic gesture, he promised to give his girlfriend the moon, and he wasn't speaking metaphorically. Thad's employment gave him access to moon rocks that astronauts brought back, and he broke federal laws by taking a few. Although he delivered on his promise to give his girlfriend the moon, he made himself vulnerable to federal law enforcement authorities when he tried to profit by selling the moon rocks on eBay.

The guards bring us our intake forms. They snap our mug shots and take our fingerprints. We answer questions from the nurse, the psychologist, and a case manager. I'm still waiting for a shoe to drop, for someone to say there's been a mistake, to tell me that I don't qualify for camp placement.

A guard opens the door and issues red ID cards to Roberts, Williams, and Thomas.

"Santos," he calls out as he looks my way.

"Yes?"

"Come with me." This could be the shoe.

I follow him through a hallway to a counter where a tall man in a dark blue suit and light blue tie stands beside a well-dressed woman with black hair and glasses. She holds a file with my picture on the cover.

"How much time are you serving?" she asks me.

"45 years."

"And you're going to the camp?" The uniformed guard interrupts while the man in the suit observes.

"I'm an old-law prisoner," I explain. "With my sentence, I earn more good time than the new-law prisoners. I only serve 26 years total, and I've already served more than 16 years. I have fewer than 10 years to go until release and I don't have any disciplinary problems or a history of violence."

The woman looks up at the man in the suit, hands him my file, and he flips through the pages.

"You're not going to run if I put you in the camp, right?" the man in the suit asks.

"No sir." He nods his head and shrugs. "Everything's in order."

The guard gives me my red ID card and tells me to wait. He calls the other three camp prisoners, and then he leads us out of the building, instructing us to grab a bedroll.

I can't believe this is really happening. Without chains or restraints of any kind, I walk through the lobby and open the glass doors. For the first time since 1987, neither walls nor barbed wire confine me. I see the highway to my left. The guard points to the camp, across the FCC road, about a half-mile away, and he tells us to walk over. I'm gripped with apprehension that someone will call me back, but I keep walking, not looking back.

*******

The camp holds 500 prisoners, none with documented histories of violence and all with release dates within 10 years. I'm assigned to a housing unit wing with 31 other men and we sleep in two-man cubicles.

"Did you just get here?" I ask a clean-cut man who stands beside me near the unit's laundry room.

"How can you tell?" he responds.

I point to his feet. "The blue canvas shoes, they're standard issue for all new prisoners. You'll be able to buy a decent pair of tennis shoes or boots as soon as the staff activates your commissary account."

He nods his head. "I'm Eric. I got here two days ago."

"Michael. I got here this morning."

Eric is a businessman from Vail who's serving a five-month sentence for a tax dispute.

"Some of the guys are going to be here for years." I chuckle and we become friends.

Counselor Butler assigns Eric and me to work in the laundry at the Supermax. We wake early to board a bus that drives us over the hill, past the walls that enclose the USP complex, to the back gate of the Supermax. I count eight towers where guards stand post with machine guns. It's a concrete structure, partially underground, where prisoners live in near total isolation.

As one of five prisoners assigned to the laundry, I work at the sewing machine, mending clothes for prisoners in the Supermax, including the Unabomber, the man who attempted to blow up the World Trade Center in the early 1990s, and Terry Nichols, an accomplice in the Oklahoma City bombing with Timothy McVeigh. On the roster, I also see names of gang members I once knew at USP Atlanta. I wonder if Renegade, the prisoner I saw stepping off the plane when I arrived in Colorado, is here.

*******

Carole and Nichole move from New Jersey to Colorado in mid-January. They arrive for our first family visit at Florence on Friday, January 23, 2004.

Carole and Nichole have made three moves during the past 18 months, which demonstrates her commitment to nurturing our marriage. She is determined to live near the prison that confines me, and with that principle in mind, we contemplate a new career for her, something that will allow her to earn a livable wage regardless of where prison administrators place me.

"I've been looking at different options," she tells me. "The only career I've found where I can work anywhere and earn a decent living is nursing. I'd have to return to school full-time, taking all the prerequisites in math, science, and English, followed by two years of nursing school. But with a nursing license, I could always find a job, regardless of where they moved you."

"Let's do it. We'll use our savings and income from my writing to get you through nursing school. And I'll write another book to generate more resources. We'll use all the money that comes into our household to support you."

Nichole is 12, finishing sixth grade, but we include her in the decisions we're making. It's our way of working to educate her from inside prison visiting rooms.

"Tell me about your new school," I ask her.

"It's like New Jersey. I've made a few friends and everyone's excited about starting junior high next year."

"When we were in junior high, your mom and I already knew each other."

"That's totally weird," Nichole says.

"Maybe you're going to school with your future husband," Carole teases.

"No way."

"You never know," Carole smiles.

"Keep up your good work, Nichole. Your mom and I are proud of you. If you study hard through school, you'll prepare for many opportunities that will open for you as you grow older."

1. Earning Freedom by Michael Santos

Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term

Chapter Eleven: 2003-2005

Months 190-209

Chapter Eleven: 2003-2005

Months 190-209

Officer Ruiz grips the handcuffs that secure my wrists behind my back as we walk across the lawn. He's a rookie in his early 20s, slight, and wearing a uniform that looks two sizes too big for him.

The lieutenant's office at Fort Dix is a single story, red brick building, only 20 yards away from the visiting room. Ruiz pulls open the heavy steel door and steers me inside the narrow corridor. We walk past an open office on the left and I see Lieutenant Nesbitt. He's the embodiment of BOP cruelty, with his faded blue eyes and crooked nose, intoxicated by power.

"Lieutenant, I've got Inmate Santos," Officer Ruiz's polite voice cracks as he announces our arrival.

"I'll get to him when I'm ready." I hear the lieutenant call from the office. "Have him face the wall."

"Yes sir."

Ruiz leaves me with my toes touching the wall. While closing my eyes and resting my forehead against the cold concrete, I worry about Carole in the visiting room, knowing she must be frantic. Jingling keys that hang from the heavy black leather belts of the guards who cross the hallway a few feet away grate on my nerves. To the guards, a man facing the wall in restraints for hours at a time is no different from the red fire extinguisher beside me; they're used to inanimate objects. I had hoped I'd never wear cuffs and chains again, but with nearly 10 years still to serve, that's not realistic. I wonder if I'm here because of the books I wrote.

"Bring Inmate Santos in here," the lieutenant finally calls out.

I feel a tug when the guard's hand grips the chain on my cuffs to pull me back from the wall. As if I'm a four-legged animal on a leash, he steers me down the hall to the lieutenant's office where Nesbitt is leaning back in his swivel chair behind a cluttered wooden desk.

"Well, Counselor. It seems we meet again." His eyes drill into me. "Tell me what's going on in my institution."

I return his stare, opened face, and shrug my shoulders. "I don't have anything to tell you, but I'd like to know why I'm here and why you terminated my visit."

He scowls. "Have it your way," he spins his chair away from me. "Lock him up."

The guard turns me around and leads me through the front door, across a courtyard, and into the parking lot outside the prison gates where he unlocks the sliding door of a white van. I step in and sit on the black vinyl bench seat, pressing my knees against the steel mesh that separates the driver from his passengers. He drives across the parking lot and down the road to the entrance of Fort Dix West, the adjacent compound. I'm going to the Special Housing Unit (SHU), "the hole."

Associate Warden Nuss, at McKean, was the last petty bureaucrat who ordered me locked in SHU, but that was only for one night, and it was for administrative reasons, when he was transferring me out seven years ago. I don't know what put me in Lieutenant Nesbitt's crosshairs, and the guards who process me refuse to give any information as they strip search and lock me in a single cell. I start to pace, coming up blank as I try to think of any possible reason that could justify this change.

I don't have contraband in my cell, and I don't have a single enemy. I wonder why Nesbitt would bother me, even though I know I may as well be wondering why a rattlesnake strikes. It's his nature. Still, I don't have any idea why I'm here.

My worries about Carole escalate, as I wonder how she's handling this disruption. Guards took me away before her eyes and I know that she's frightened for me. Being married to a prisoner means never taking tomorrow for granted. I hope she's called Julie and Carol Zachary by now. They'll help her get through this.

The light in my cell is always on. I lie on my stomach, crossing my arms to use as a pillow beneath my head on the gray vinyl mat. I try to sleep but a wicked anxiety prevents me from being able to relax. Several hours after midnight I give up on sleep and start exercising, doing pushups on the concrete floor. When my body heats up, I step out of my orange jumpsuit and continue in my boxers.

Sometime after dawn the square trap in my cell door opens and an orderly slides in breakfast on a plastic brown tray. It's a bowl of unappealing hot cereal and a red apple. I push the button on the aluminum sink and rinse the apple in cold water that arcs from the faucet, then bite into the crispy red skin of the fruit. It's fresh and I savor it as sweet juice shoots through my mouth. I eat the entire apple to its core and wish I had another, but this is it until lunch.

When the guard returns for the tray, he looks through the square window of the cell and sees me in my boxers doing pushups on the floor.

"What're you doing in the hole?" It's Officer Flores asking. I know him from when he worked in the Fort Dix housing units. He's a friendly man in his 40s, with kind brown eyes and compassion.

"No one's told me anything." I step to speak through the crack of the door, brushing away beads of sweat that ooze from my forehead.

Officer Flores points to his ears and shakes his head, then steps closer to the door. "Speak into the door frame. I can't hear you," he tells me.

"I said no one has told me anything. Lieutenant Nesbitt terminated my visit yesterday and locked me in here."

"After I collect the breakfast trays, I'll see what I can find out. You didn't get a shot did you?"

I shrug. "I wouldn't know. No one has passed me any paperwork."

Officer Flores nods, and then comes into the doorframe again. "We're not allowed to read your website anymore."

"Why not?"

"I don't know," he says. "I used to read it every day at work, but now the BOP server blocks it."

"Do you think that's why I'm here?"

"Let me check. I'll be back. Do you need anything?"

"Thanks. I'd appreciate a pencil and some paper, and a Bible if you've got one." I resume my pushups, grateful for Officer Flores's kindness. If he can tell me what's going on, I'll figure out how to respond.

I squeeze two more sets of pushups in before I hear Officer Flores tapping the window of my cell door with his knuckle. I stand and walk closer. "You're on the transfer list. I've got to take you out."

"What? Transferred? Where am I going?"

"I don't have access to that information. I've got orders to take you out."

"When?"

"Right now. Roll up your stuff."

I shake my head, bothered that the complications of my life will disrupt Carole and Nichole's life yet again. Disheartened, I pull the sheets and blankets from the mat and bundle them into a ball. Then I step into the orange jumpsuit and back up against the door. Officer Flores unlocks the trap and I push my hands through the slot. I hear the metal click, as he cuffs my wrists, gently, leaving room for them to swivel. I appreciate this small act of kindness. With both hands I grab the bedding bundle while he unlocks and opens the steel door.

"You didn't know anything about a transfer?" he asks.

I shrug and shake my head. "I got married last June. My wife has just settled into this community. This transfer will devastate her."

Stepping out of the cell, I walk with him to the desk where he hands me off to a large guard I don't recognize. In front of both officers I dress out, exchanging my orange jumpsuit for traveling khakis. I nod to Officer Flores as his colleague steers me down a maze of corridors, then to another holding cell where I'm locked in with 17 boisterous prisoners. We're all "on the chain," scheduled for movement to some other prison.

The sound of waist chains, leg irons, and handcuffs dropping on the concrete floor nauseates me. I've heard it so many times over the years and I never get used to it.

My mood turns dark with sadness. I've adjusted to the institutionalized schedule at Fort Dix through my writing, my exercise, and my friendships. I married Carole here, and since last January I've spent 30 hours each month holding her soft hands in the visiting room. With those comforts gone, I sit against the wall and question what the next phase of this journey will bring.

A guard unlocks the door and calls me out first, bringing incontrovertible proof that I'm starting over, off to another prison.

"So you're the one who's causing all the trouble here." I've never seen this guard in my life, though he looks like a copy of all the others. I don't know why he's talking to me, but I try to ignore his unsettling comment, staring ahead, ignoring the queasiness in my stomach as he tugs on my restraints to ensure that I'm fully locked in.

"Nothing to say?" He's much taller than I am, and much wider. His size, coupled with a dark complexion and five o'clock shadow, give him a menacing look. I'd like him to shut his mouth and move on to belittle the next prisoner, but instead he spits a stream of brown tobacco juice into his white foam cup and glares at me.

When each prisoner is chained and secured, the guards lead us outside in a line. The sun is rising, but it's a cold November morning, and without a jacket I shiver in line, waiting for the guard with the files to call my name.

"Santos!" I step forward when he yells for me. I recite my registration number and submit to yet another yank on my restraints as guards make their final check. The leg irons are heavy. Only a few links hang between my ankles so I have to carefully climb the stairs onto the bus. I drop into an empty bench seat, taking a final look through the metal mesh at Fort Dix.

My chest tightens as sadness washes over me. It hasn't even been a day and I already miss Carole.

As we cross a bridge into Philadelphia my stomach lurches when I see the federal courthouse. It bothers me as I contemplate the possibility of going back to court, wondering whether some unknown entity is setting me up. I've been in prison too long to have any business with the court, and I'm overcome with anxiety that some guard might be framing me for new criminal charges, wanting to discredit what I write about prisons.

The bus parks in a garage beneath the courthouse, and I hear that a federal detention center exists above the courthouse. I follow the procession into a new holding cell and, after guards remove my chains, I sit on the floor. The concrete makes my butt sore, so I sit on my hands and lean my back against the wall.

A guard tosses brown sack lunches through the bars. I catch mine and look inside. Uncertainty about what's going on robs my appetite, but since I don't know when the next meal might come, I pull out the sandwich and remove the clear plastic wrap. I savor the food, still hungry after I swallow the last bite.

Prisoners are called out, one after another, until I'm left with one other man to wait. Dinner is a repeat of lunch, with the stale white bread tasting even better the second time. I wonder how much longer I'll have to wait, and when I'm the last man in the cell, I start to pace.

"Santos," an obese guard calls my name as she unlocks the gate. She leads me through a bright corridor and directs me into an office. A sandy-haired man in his mid-fifties greets me with a smile from his swivel chair behind the desk. I can't place him, but he's familiar, and I know that he must've worked in some prison where I've been held before.

"I saw 'Santos' on the file and I was wondering whether it was you," he tells me as he spins around in his chair. "How've you been?"

The black nametag pinned above the pocket of his shirt reads "Carter." I remember him as a guard from McKean.

"Fine, until yesterday," I answer.

"No one told you about this transfer?"

"I didn't know anything when the lieutenant locked me in the hole, and I still don't," I repeat for what feels like the umpteenth time. My head aches.

"Let's see where you're going. Give me your number."

I recite my registration number and listen as he types it into his computer, staring at the screen.

"You're going to FLF SCP," he reads the abbreviated designation. "It's a camp."

"What? Are you sure?" My anxiety turns to elation and I exhale with relief, smiling. "I'm going to a camp?"

"Yes, in Florence, Colorado. I'm surprised no one told you. It's good news, isn't it?"

"Are you kidding me? It's so good I can't believe it. I've been in turmoil for the past 24 hours. This is incredible news. I can't wait to tell my wife, I'm sure she's going crazy with worry."

"The airlift usually leaves on Mondays, so you'll stay here through the rest of the week and the weekend," he tells me. "But you'll be flying west soon."

*******

It's Sunday morning and I'm exercising in the housing unit at the Philadelphia Detention Center when a guard approaches me. "Are you Santos?"

"Yes."

"Come with me."

I follow him as he walks into the guards' station where he sits in the chair behind the metal desk.

"Close the door," he tells me, and when I do, the noise from the housing unit is silenced. "Are you married?" He glares and judges me.

"Yes."

"What's your wife's name?"

"Carole Santos."

He scratches his chin and stares at me. "What's she doing at my institution?"

"What are you talking about?"

"There's a woman outside claiming to be your wife, trying to talk her way into visiting."

I shrug. "So what's the problem?"

"What's the problem? You haven't been here long enough to have a visiting list approved."

"I've been here for six days. I gave the counselor my wife's name the night I was processed in."

"Visitors aren't authorized on the premises until staff approves them. She's not getting in."

"Then don't let her in," I shrug, "but deal with the consequences that will follow."

"What consequences," he asks.

"With all due respect, you're not in a position to deny her. BOP policy permits immediate family to visit. She was on my visiting list at Fort Dix, and unless you want to respond to an administrative remedy complaint about why you're disregarding BOP policy, I suggest you let me talk to the decision maker."

"What're you, a lawyer, somebody important or something?"

"I've been in prison since 1987, and if you read my file you'll find that I know my way around this system. I'm not new at this."

"Step outside," he commands. "We'll see how sharp you are when the lieutenant comes."

Through the office window I watch as he picks up the telephone receiver, pushes three buttons, and has a brief conversation before setting the phone down. He writes on a pad, then walks out of the office and locks the door behind him.

"Got your ID?" he asks, sounding annoyed.

"Yes."

"Let's go," he snaps.

He leads me from the housing unit into a lobby area, and then onto the elevator.

"Step to the back and face the wall," he directs me, pushing the ground floor button.

As the elevator starts to drop, my heart beats faster. I'm eager to hold my wife again, eager to share the news that I'm being transferred to camp.

After submitting to a quick strip search in the holding room I'm back in my green jumpsuit and hurrying through the door to the visiting room. Families sit across from each other, talking in hushed tones. It resembles any other visiting room, but it's much quieter than Fort Dix.

The guard at the desk recites the rules to me. I give him my ID card then search the room for Carole. I see her standing in her long navy wool coat, smiling and waiting for me.

"I've missed you so much." She walks forward to embrace me. Her kiss rejuvenates me, like succulent fruit after a 10-mile run on a sunny day.

"We only have an hour to visit because there's a line of people around the block and they're all waiting to get in. You have to sit across from me. We can't hold hands, and you have to raise your hand for permission to use the bathroom." Carole rattles off the rules as we sit facing each other.

"Wow!" I'm impressed with her command of the situation. "Okay, Honey. Let's make the most of the time we have." I'm laughing, happy to see her and relieved that she sounds strong and confident. "How did you know to come here and how did you talk your way in?"

"I've been following you on the BOP website. Once I knew you were in Philadelphia, I started calling and found out your housing unit is allowed to visit on Sundays. I brought the policy statement and a notarized copy of our marriage certificate with my identification. At first the guard wasn't going to let me in, but I showed him the policy statement and asked to see the officer in charge. He verified my date of birth, then let me in."

"You're incredible. Will you love me this much when my sentence ends?"

"Forever."

"That's good to hear. I thought you might just want to be a prison wife."

"Ha, ha," she smirks.

"Did you receive my letter explaining everything that happened?"

"I already knew. What do you think I've been doing since you vanished from our visit?"

"Tell me everything," I say.

"I was crazy with worry when you didn't come back. And then Officer Ruiz told me I had to leave, that our visit had been terminated. I drove home and started calling the prison right away, leaving messages with everyone I could think of. Your former unit manager, Mr. Jones, finally called me the next morning and said that he submitted you for transfer to a camp. I was instantly relieved and thrilled at the same time. We're moving to Colorado!"

"Slow down, Honey," I caution her. "You just passed your exam to sell real estate here. Don't you think you should get your license and sell a few houses, replenish our savings?"

"Honey, I'm not staying in New Jersey if you're living in Colorado."

"Let's think this through, honey. I love you and of course I want you with me. But let me get there and see how things look. We shouldn't make snap decisions, that's all I'm saying."

"I've already checked. I know exactly where you're going. Apartments cost about the same out there as they cost here."

"What about a job? You spent all this time and money to get your New Jersey real estate license. Don't you think you should at least try to make some money before we take on the cost of another cross-country move?"

"Hey, we always said our marriage would come first. I need to be where you are, and we need to visit whenever we're able to. That's what we promised each other."

"Okay, okay," I acquiesce. I'm pleased with her devotion, but worried about our finances. "We'll discuss it more when I'm there. But do some more research and see what you can learn about the local job market. We'll work something out."

Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term by Michael Santos

Reading Chapter 10.3

Months 180-190

******

When I enter the visiting room on New Year's morning, the large room feels empty. I appreciate the relative silence. Other than the whir of the vending machine, there's nothing else to distract us. Carole and her daughter sit beside each other in the maroon plastic chairs.

Carole looks lovely in her heavy wool coat, long blonde hair contrasting beautifully against the navy blue. She stands to greet me as I walk toward her.

Nichole sits calmly, showing none of the distress I see in her mother. At 11 she resembles Carole, but with dark hair curling in natural waves around her heart-shaped face. A light sprinkle of freckles dot the bridge of her nose. Her hazel-blue eyes look directly into mine as I kneel in front of her chair and greet her. "You must be Nichole. I'm Michael, and I'm very happy to meet you."

"Hi Michael. This place is huge."

"Yes, and we're lucky that it's not filled with people already," I say with a smile.

"Nichole, honey," Carole says "we're only going to be here for an hour. Why don't you get a hot chocolate from the vending machine and then walk over and see what's in the kids' area. I need to talk with Michael."

"But I want to talk with him too."

"We're going to visit again in a couple of days," I tell her. "And if you want, you can sit with your mom and me the whole time. Is that okay?"

Nichole nods her head. Carole hands her several quarters from the clear plastic coin purse she brings for buying the vending machine food. As Nichole walks toward the kids' area, sipping hot chocolate, I hold Carole's hands in mine and squeeze them to reassure her. "Did you sleep okay?"

She breathes in deeply and slowly, exhales, and then says she slept fine.

"Honey, I should be comforting you, but we don't have much time. Because it's a holiday, every hour we spend in here today is costing us double against our monthly allotment of 30 hours. We have to act fast, and we need a plan, okay?"

"If we run out of time, I think Office Cruz will let me in."

"Carole," I caution her, "this is prison. He may have let you in last night because he was alone and he felt sorry for you. We can't live on the edge like that. We have to budget our visits. The system controls everything and we have to succeed in spite of it."

"What do you want me to do?" she asks, eyes filling with tears.

"Last night you said you wanted to stay here. Are you sure?"

"I'm absolutely sure."

"Good, because I want you to stay with me. Every decision we make has to be consistent with our goal of bringing you stability, and it's not going to be easy But we have to make a 100 percent commitment to making it work, no matter how painful the decisions."

"I've already got the newspaper and I'm looking for apartments."

"Honey, think about that. You don't know this area, the schools, the neighborhood, or where you're going to work. How much do you think it will cost to rent an apartment?"

"I'm guessing about $1,000 a month, more or less," she answers.

"To move in, then, you'll need first, last, and security. Then you'll need money for utilities and necessities. You're going to drop $5,000 minimum to set yourself up. That doesn't seem like a good plan to me, especially since you don't know where you'll work or how much you'll earn. We need stability."

"What do you think I should do?"

"Remember the story I wrote about Richard, a guy who arrived here a few months ago? You typed it for me and posted it on the Web."

Carole pauses, trying to recall. "Vaguely. You've sent me so many stories."

"Richard's wife lives a few miles from here, in Mount Holly. She has a little boy and a four-bedroom house. I asked Richard last night if his wife would rent you a couple of rooms. You could move in today, and the two of you could support each other. Nichole would have another child to keep her company, and you could catch your breath, get your bearings."

"Michael, I can't move in with a stranger." Carole doesn't see the merit in my suggestion.

"Carole, this isn't going to be easy. I'm sending you $10,000. That money has to cover all of your expenses until you start earning a paycheck. You need to get settled. You need a car. Nichole needs to start school again next week. This lady can help you."

"But I don't know her, Michael. You're asking me to live with a stranger. I'm not concerned about me, Honey. I have to consider Nichole's well-being."

I put my arm around her and pull her close. "Do you trust me?"

"Of course I trust you."

"And do you want to build your life with me, grow old with me?"

"Yes."

"Then you have to work with me. I can steer us through this crisis, but we both have to understand that the decisions we make today, from this minute, will determine where we are tomorrow." I extend my arm and open my hand. "Do you see that?"

"See what?"

"My fingers. Each of those represents a year. That's five years. Can you make it through five years with me?"

"I'm going to make it through forever with you."

"Okay. Well let's focus on five years. In five years, your life will be totally different from what it is now if we work together. You'll be stable, with your own money in the bank, money you've earned. We won't succeed by accident. We need to make tough decisions now, to commit and recommit 100 percent with every decision, reaching toward that five-year mark. When we make it to five, then we'll work toward the next five. By then I'll almost be ready for release. And you'll be independent. Do you want that?"

"Yes."

"Then you have to make hard choices now. Thank God we have this money from my stock account. But we can't squander it with bad decisions. We have to focus on stabilizing you as quickly as possible. If you meet Richard's wife with that goal in mind, understanding that she's an answer to a prayer for us to be together, then you'll see the move as a step that leads us closer to our five-year goal."

"What if we don't get along?"

"That's up to you and the way that you approach her. She needs you and you need her. You can make it work."

******

Carole settles in with her new housemate, Catherine, and she enrolls Nichole in school. It's early spring, 2003, and the job market is terrible. Through sheer resourcefulness, Carole learns that she can earn an income by providing notary services to the mortgage industry. She secures the necessary credentials and becomes self-employed, earning an income sufficient to support her and Nichole.

I'm walking along the road inside the Fort Dix fences, admiring the warm sunbeams that cut through the wire mesh and razor wire, reflecting off the shiny metal. Fragrant cherry blossoms and blooming flowerbeds fill the air with the scent of spring. I'm filled with appreciation for the blessings in my life. Through the fence I watch Carole's tan Toyota Corolla pull into the visitor's parking lot.

She can't see me, as I'm only one prisoner among thousands wearing khakis inside the compound. I watch her walk briskly, wearing her red skirt and jacket, heels clicking on the asphalt, hair blowing behind her, rushing to pass through the checkpoints to visit me. She thinks she's surprising me, but my only surprise is her remarkable consistency and devotion to serving this time with me. Carole wants us to marry, but I put her off. Marriage is easy for me, I tell her. I'm a prisoner and she's a beautiful woman. I'm giving her all that I am as it is, and I freely commit to her, but there's no rush. I want her to understand all the complications of prison before we marry.

"I watched you as you parked, as you rushed across the parking lot. You didn't surprise me," I tell her after our kiss.

"I drove fast to get here in time for the last two hours of visiting."

"I'm always expecting you."

The visiting room has become our living room. We sometimes walk through the rows and aisles of chairs, holding hands, chatting with other prison families. She buys dinner for me from the vending machines. It's always the same menu choice of frozen pizza, burritos, or hamburgers that she cooks in the microwave.

"I like preparing your food," she says, and watches me eat.

"This is what it's going to be like when we're old and living together in a nursing home," I tease. "We'll have familiar faces around us, strangers we recognize, but we'll have our own life. You can push my wheelchair."

"Wherever you are, that's where I want to be," she wipes a napkin against my mouth. "Why do you eat so fast?"

"I got used to it over the years. The guards rush us out of the chow hall. You'll have to teach me manners once they release me."

"You don't even taste your food. You just inhale." She tilts her head in amazement. "And how can you eat so much?"

"Believe me, I taste it. Besides, this is how I test if you really love me. If you can stand to watch me eat, I know you'll stay with me."

"I'll stay with you," she says, and then adds, "but you better stay with me at the dinner table until I'm finished!"

We walk around the room and stop by the television as President Bush grabs hold of the lectern to address the nation.

"I can't stand all this talk about going into Iraq. For what?" I say, shaking my head in disgust at the image of Bush in his familiar blue suit with his open arms and ridiculous gestures. "How many soldiers have to lose their lives for his ambitions?"

"I just wish he'd let you out," Carole squeezes my hand.

"Forget about that happening under his rule."

******

When I return to the housing unit after our visit I see scores of prisoners gathered in front of the bulletin board. They're cursing and complaining.

"What's up?" I ask.

"Fuckin' warden," one prisoner says. "More fuckin' bullshit, fuckin' with my peoples. I ain't gonna be able to see my babies' mammas."

I push my way through the crowd to read the memo. It cites the nation's elevated security-threat level and the imminent war in Iraq as a reason behind the warden's new rule that limits visiting to immediate family members only. That means he will only authorize parents, children, siblings, and wives to visit until further notice. My heart sinks.

Carole has only been living in New Jersey for three months, but our lives are now linked. She is overseeing the development of my new website, MichaelSantos.net, and helping to establish my "brand." She is the link between my publishers and me, and she has complete responsibility for the publishing company she formed to market and distribute books I'm writing.

We've begun our lives as a family, planning and preparing for my life upon release in 2013. Despite Carole's cross-country move to living just minutes away, this new rule will not permit us to see each other. I call to tell her about the new mandate.

"Well, are they going to increase the phone-minute allotment so we can at least talk more?"

"We'll still have to make do with 300 phone minutes a month."

"How can they say they promote community ties if they make rules that are so hard on families?"

"Honey, this is my life. It's what I've been telling you. They can do whatever they choose and for any reason. I don't have any control."

"Then we have to get married, Michael. We can't wait. We're a family."

"Baby, we shouldn't get married just to visit. Marriage is for the rest of our lives, and you have to be absolutely sure you can handle the rest of my sentence."

"I know exactly what I'm doing. Whatever the system does to you, it does to me, too. We're in this together."

Carole is an amazing woman and I feel so grateful to have her love.

******

I initiate the necessary paperwork to marry. My case manager, Mr. Lawson, is sitting behind his messy metal desk when I hand him the official request.

"What's this, a marriage request?"

"That's right. I'm getting married."

"Thought you was smarter den dat. After all dese years, you ain't learnt? Prison's a place to get divorced, not married." He laughs.

"When I start looking for advice on building happiness from prison guards, I'll look you up," I respond. There's too much venom in my retort.

Mr. Lawson puts the forms on his desk and glares at me. "I's a case manager. Ain't no prison guards here. Dey's 'correctional officers'. Get it straight."

Mr. Lawson reviews the form. "Goin' hafta run dis by da unit team, den send it on up to da warden. I'll let you know. Now git outta he'r."

"This isn't a discretionary issue," I tell him. "The Supreme Court says I have a constitutional right to marry. You can't block the request."

"Boy, don't be spittin' no law at me. We gots a war goin' on. Security ̓a da insta-tution. We goin' review yo request, an' like I says, I'll let you know. Wha's up? You gotta problem wit dat?"

While I brace myself for a bureaucratic struggle to receive permission to marry, I urge Carole to use this time when we can't visit to enroll in a real estate class. The wife of another prisoner is a broker for Prudential. She's offered to bring Carole on as an agent and teach her the trade.

Instead of a bureaucratic struggle, a staff shakeup results in a new case manager who is much nicer, and a new unit manager, Mr. Jones, who recently transferred to Fort Dix from USP Leavenworth. Mr. Jones, or TJ, as I've heard staff members cordially refer to him, is in his early 30s, black, well-dressed, and built like an NFL linebacker. He is respectful and totally professional. When I approach him about my marriage request he congratulates me, assuring me that he'll push the approval through in time for a June wedding.

******

I wake early on my wedding day, June 24, 2003, smiling. I'll celebrate this day with Carole for the rest of my life. I step outside to run, feeling the humidity of an East Coast summer, but the breeze I generate by running cools my skin. I've paid a heavy price with this prison term, surrendering most of my life as a consequence, but now I have Carole. Although prison rules require two witnesses at our wedding, Nichole isn't allowed to participate because she's still younger than 18. I would've liked Julie to come, but she just gave birth to her second child, Sophia. My father is in an Alzheimer's home, unable even to talk with me over the phone, much less travel. But I'm happy that both my mom and my younger sister, Christina, are flying in from Miami for the ceremony. My mother calls Carole my 'angel' and the description suits her perfectly.

Two hours in the visiting room is all that we're going to have, but it's a fitting place for the ceremony because it's where we spend all of our time together. I'll wear a wedding ring when I walk out. Julie sent us the matching silver bands as a wedding gift. The rings will symbolize our commitment and once Carole slides mine onto my finger, I intend to keep it on forever. We'll make this work.

I finish running eight miles and slow my pace to a walk when I see Bob. He extends his hand. "Congratulations, Buddy. I'm glad we've met, and I wish you and Carole happiness, good health, and prosperity. You're going to make her an excellent husband."

"Thanks, Bob. Your friendship means a great deal to me, and I appreciate your good wishes. I'm sorry you can't be there for the ceremony."

"We'll have a party when you're out, when we're both home."

"I'm looking forward to it."

"Are your mom and sister here?"

"I hope so. They're supposed to be with Carole now. I'd better go shower."

"Good luck, and God bless."

Wearing crisply ironed khakis and polished black leather shoes, I look as sharp as a prisoner can when I present my ID card to Lieutenant Marks.

"This has got to be the stupidest thing you've ever done," the lieutenant says sarcastically, shaking his head. "You ought to tattoo the word 'fool' right across your forehead." He points to his head then loudly slurps coffee from his foam cup.

I strain to hold my sarcasm in check. He'd like nothing better than to unsnap one of the leather compartments on his heavy black leather belt, pull out a set of shiny metal handcuffs, and slap them on my wrist, canceling this special day for Carole and me.

"If you're going through with it, let's go. I got a prison to run." He leads me into the visiting room, without a preliminary strip search. Four other prisoners come along, as they'll be marrying today as well. I don't know them. I'm too consumed with the excitement coursing through me to concern myself with anyone else.

I sit in a chair and watch for Carole. When the door opens I stand, smiling as this beautiful lady walks toward me. More than a year has passed since my mother or Christina have visited and I'm grateful they made the special trip for my wedding ceremony, but I can't take my eyes off of Carole. Her cream-colored suit compliments her slender figure, and I like the graceful way she walks. She opens her arms and we embrace, sharing a kiss while my mom and sister stand by watching.

"Thanks for coming, Mom," I turn to hug her. She's always emotional when she sees me, and this morning isn't any different. My imprisonment has been incredibly difficult for my mom.

"I'm so happy you have such a beautiful bride, so happy for both of you."

I hug my sister next. Christina is four years younger than I am, petite and pretty, with long brown hair and a glowing face that resists aging. She's been married for 15 years and is the mother of two girls, Isabella and Camilla, but she still can't buy a bottle of wine without showing her ID.

"You've got to be the luckiest man in the world, convincing this beautiful woman to marry you in here," my sister says, smiling.

"You've got that right!" I keep my arm around Carole and kiss her cheek.

"Honey, did you talk to Bob?" Carole asks.

"I saw him this morning. He sent his good wishes, why?"

"Did he tell you what he did?"

"No, what?"

"He sent a personal messenger to my house last night to deliver a wedding card, and inside there were two cashiers' checks, each for five thousand dollars."

"Wow! What a thoughtful, generous friend."

"Can you believe it? I thought he didn't want you to get married."

"That was before he knew how extraordinary you were."

"I sent him a thank you letter last night. Please tell him I'm grateful. What should I do with the money?"

"Put it in the bank," I tell her.

"Geez, they should've at least done some decorating in here for the wedding," Christina remarks. She's looking around at the sterile setting of the visiting room as we all sit, side by side, in a single row of the plastic chairs placed in straight lines throughout the room. The polished floor shines. Six vending machines buzz under the bright, fluorescent lights.

"It's too bad they couldn't hold the wedding outside," my mom says. "It's such a beautiful summer day, perfect for a garden wedding."

"We're just happy that the day is finally here," Carole says.

"I'll marry you again when I come home," I promise Carole while looking into her eyes.

"Honey, that must be the man who's going to marry us," Carole gestures to an older man in a black robe who walks in with Mr. Jones, my unit manager. The white-haired man carries a black leather portfolio, and he's shaking hands with the two guards who supervise us from the platform.

"Is he a chaplain?" my mom asks.

"I think he's a justice of the peace," I answer.

"No," Carole corrects me. "He's the deputy mayor of New Hanover Township. That's where I sent the check for our marriage license."

The deputy mayor comes over to introduce himself, presents us with papers to sign, and instructs Carole about how to get an official copy of our marriage certificate. We're the first couple to be married. He stands in front of us and begins the ceremony. Mom and Christina flank us, smiling. I hold Carole's hand, grinning as I listen to him recite the marital vows, asking us in turn whether we take each other, in sickness and in health, for better or worse, until death parts us. Carole fills my heart with her "I do," and I say the same. We're married. Finally I get to kiss my bride, the lovely Carole Santos.

"I can't believe they won't give you any time alone," Christina says. "That's so cruel."

"The honeymoon's going to have to wait," I say.

"We have the rest of our lives for our honeymoon," Carole answers, kissing my cheek.

My mom and sister sit with us for a while, and then graciously leave to give Carole and me the last hour together. We're not alone. Four other couples also being married today sit with their families in the chairs around us waiting for their turn.

"You've honored me today, Carole, making me as happy as I can possibly be."

"I love you, Michael."

"Someday I'll buy you a house," I promise.

"Someday I'll make you a home," she adds. "In the meantime, 'home' will be wherever we are. We're in this together."

"This is forever," I twist my silver wedding band.

"There's no place I'd rather be than with you."

Lieutenant Marks brings an end to our time together. Ms. Davis, an attractive young woman who looks out of place in a prison guard's uniform, smiles as she escorts Carole and the other brides out. Mr. Rodriguez, a guard who sports a tattoo of an American flag on his forearm, strip searches the five grooms, side by side. The other prisoners and I dress and return to the compound, each with a new wedding ring on his finger.

******

On August 9, 2003, Justice Anthony Kennedy of the U.S. Supreme Court delivers an extraordinary keynote speech at the American Bar Association's annual convention in San Francisco. Carole sends me a copy of the text and highlights the parts she wants me to pay close attention to. I can't believe what the Justice says to the nation's lawyers. Justice Kennedy calls for prison reform, saying that America incarcerates too many people, that American prisoners often serve draconian sentences, and that a nation confident in its laws should not be afraid of compassion and mercy.

"Michael," Carole urges during our evening visit, "don't you think you should at least try for clemency again, especially after what Justice Kennedy said in his speech?"

"Baby, we can't afford it. I'm not going to spend our money on an attorney when the odds are so far against us. President Bush isn't going to commute my sentence."

"But you've done so much. No other prisoner has earned university degrees, served 16 years, and published books that universities from across the country use. You don't have any history of violence and now you're married. I'll bet if the president knew about you, he'd commute your sentence."

"That's the problem, he doesn't know who I am. And unless I have a top legal team representing me, he'll never know who I am. That's one of the reasons we're building the website. We need to attract lawyers who want to represent me because I've earned freedom, because they believe in me. Right now we don't have the money to hire lawyers."

"But you could at least file a clemency petition on your own. We don't need lawyers to fill out the petition and send it in. At least that way we'd have a chance."

"Okay," I concede. "Print a blank petition and mail it to me. I'll fill it out and we'll collect some new supporting letters to file with it. But don't get your hopes up on this. We need to keep preparing for 2013. That means I need to write, and you need to earn and save."

"I'm doing my part."

"Yes you are," I squeeze her hand. "You're wonderful."

******

It's Monday, November 17, 2003. Carole and I have been married for nearly five months when she comes to share her good news. When I walk toward her, she's standing, wearing a glowing smile. The bright room is filled with other visitors, as noisy as a full auditorium.

"I passed my real estate test."

"Congratulations!" I grab her in my arms, pull her close, and kiss her. "I told you all of your studying would pay off. How did you find out?"

"I called the real estate board this morning. I got a 97 on my exam."

"Baby, you deserve to feel proud of yourself."

She's smiling. "I'm so happy honey, because I did it for you."

When hundreds of people pack the visiting room, like today, some couples succeed in stealing a few extra kisses through the visit. I only kissed Carole when our visit began, as rules permit. That's why I'm startled when the guard yells my name.

"Santos!" he hollers. An immediate hush quiets the entire room with his outburst.

I point my finger at my chest, making sure he's yelling at me.

"Come to the desk," he orders.

"But you didn't do anything," Carole objects as I stand and let go of her hands.

"Let me see what he wants."

I walk through the columns and rows of visitors to approach the guard's platform.

"Lieutenant wants to see you," he tells me.

"Can't it wait until after my visit?"

"Now. Officer Ruiz will take you through the back." I don't look back at Carole, but follow Officer Ruiz to the dressing room. My heart starts beating faster, as I've never known anything good to come from a talk with a lieutenant.

"Where's the lieutenant?" I inquire, looking around the empty room.

"Not here," Officer Ruiz says. "He wants to see you in his office."

"For what? What's this about?"

"I don't know," Officer Ruiz admits. "He called us and told us to escort you over."

"What about my visit?"

"He terminated your visit. Put your hands behind your back. I've got to cuff you up."

Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term, by Michael Santos

Chapter 10, Segment 2

Months 180-190

******

Five extraordinary days with Carole lead to the preliminary plans for the rest of our lives. We pledge to build our relationship, growing together through the challenges I'm certain will come because of my imprisonment. Carole wants to marry me now, but I explain the reasons why she should understand more about the prison system's stranglehold on my life before rushing into marriage. Although I want to marry her, it's necessary, I think, that she prepare herself for the unrelenting controls of the prison system and the strain it places on families. Her love comforts me, inspires me, and gives me a sense of belonging. Whether we marry now or not, I'm no longer alone. I stare at the walls, trying to contemplate ways that I'll be able to provide for her. I aspire to live as a worthy partner for her while I climb through the remainder of my sentence.

Carole returns to Oregon, leaving me with an ache in my heart. I want to hold and kiss her. Our physical separation leaves me bereft and longing. Writing her each day isn't enough, but words on a page are all that I have while she's gone.

Despite my wanting her with me, I have major concerns about finances and my ability to support her. Although I still own stock that I could liquidate to raise cash, I've been counting on that capital to help launch my life when I leave prison.

I love her, but I'm under no delusions about the challenges I'll face with another decade of imprisonment ahead. Carole doesn't have the resources to relocate to New Jersey, and I don't know how I'll earn them from inside of these boundaries. Like me, she's 38 and divorced, but it wouldn't be just the two of us. She has two children: Michael is 13 and Nichole is 11. Although Michael lives with his father, moving Carole to New Jersey would mean bringing Nichole, too. I don't know how I would be able to take on this responsibility.

I stretch back in my chair, run my fingers through my hair, and think of her while staring at photographs of us together in the visiting room. Although I'm confident that I can navigate the challenges of serving another decade in prison, devoting my life to Carole means I'll be complicating the rest of my journey–albeit in magnificent ways. When I'm released we'll both be 49, but I want to begin my life with her now. I've got to figure out how to generate enough resources to support her.

The only way I know how to earn money is through writing, so I invite Carole to join me in launching an effort to use the knowledge I've gained in prison. She agrees enthusiastically and asks how we'll do it. I explain that she can start a publishing company; it will produce and distribute books I write that describe the criminal justice system from the perspective of a man going through it. From our efforts, we hope to build a sustainable income that will support her and Nichole while simultaneously providing guidance to people who need it.

******

After two guards open my door for the 3:00 a.m. census count and pass by, I throw back the covers and get out of bed. It's time to work. Emmanuel, my roommate, still sleeps soundly, so I'm quiet. I've cut holes into tennis balls and slid them onto the legs of my metal folding chair so it doesn't make noise when I sit at the desk. I'm in my sweats and socks, with only my two book lights illuminating the page as I work quietly in the dark.

Since beginning this publishing project, my goal has been to write 15 pages of content each day. It's work, requiring a disciplined strategy. I mail the pages I write to Carole each evening. Upon receiving the handwritten pages, Carole types them and returns them to me double-spaced, ready for editing. We're a cross-country team, partners in the effort to raise money for her move to New Jersey. At the pace we're going, we're ahead of schedule. The manuscript should be finished within a month.

This evening, as I'm using a blue pen to edit the pages Carole returned, my friend Geoff lies supine on the floor of my room. Geoff is an urbane cardiologist serving a 36-month sentence for the crime of treating poor people in his clinic and billing Medicaid for medicine and lab tests that weren't covered. For 30 years he's owned his Upper East Side medical clinic and the building where it's located. We've become good friends. Geoff's in his mid-60s, but his daily discipline over diet and exercise enable him to retain a high degree of fitness. In fact, fitness is a top priority for Geoff, and because I enjoy his company, I offer him the use of my floor. He devotes an hour each evening to working his abdominal muscles, with a combination of leg lifts and extensions that he does methodically and effortlessly. Usually, he simultaneously reads his beloved New York Times, or classic literature, devouring books by Tolstoy, Hugo, and Joyce. But tonight Geoff is upset and wants to talk. I set my pen down to listen.

While lying on his back, he holds his extended legs steady, six inches off the floor, and tells me about business troubles at his clinic. Before surrendering to serve his sentence at Fort Dix, Geoff gave his business manager, Ted, authority to preside over his clinic. Through Ted's mismanagement, or possible fraud, Geoff tells me that he's losing $20,000 a month.

"Why don't you close the clinic down?" I suggest.

"I can't just close it. I employ three other cardiologists, an internist, and several nurses. The clinic sees more than 50 patients a day," he explains while raising his legs higher, a foot off the ground, and holding them steady.

"Then why not sell the practice to the doctors? You've worked long enough. You could rent them space, and leave them the headaches. By the time you finish this sentence, you'll be almost 70 anyway. You could retire."

"I've thought about selling. The trouble is I don't have any way of communicating from here. I'm totally in the dark while I serve this sentence. All I get are messages that Ted needs more money to meet payroll."

"Was the clinic losing money when you came in?"

"No. Rather than costing me money, it should be earning 20 to 30 thousand each month. Ted is screwing up the billing, or something."

"You know what you need?" I have an idea.

"What's that?"

"An office informant, someone who can tell you what's going on."

"You've got that right."

"Why don't you hire Carole?"

"Who, your Carole?"

"She could work at your office, then come visit us here and let you know what's going on."

"Is she a lawyer?"

"No, why?"

"Well, I could use a lawyer to sort through the billing mess." He lifts his legs higher, 18 inches off the floor. "Besides, how would she come visit us both if she's not a lawyer?"

"She can visit me, and you bring someone else to visit you. We'll sit beside each other in the visiting room and she can tell you what she sees going on in your office. At least you would know."

"Do you think she'd be willing to come to New York?"

"I can ask."

"How much would she want to earn?"

"She'd have to earn enough to live."

"Living on the Upper East Side of New York City isn't the same as living in Oregon."

"What's it cost to rent an apartment near your office?"

"Too much. But I've got a vacant apartment in the city, and I've got a car she can drive. She can use the apartment and the car, and I'll pay her $2,000 a month. Does that sound fair?"

"I'll call and ask."

While Geoff continues with his leg lifts on the floor, I rush out of my room to secure a spot in line for a telephone. When she answers, the question spills out before I can ask about her day.

"Would you move to New York if I could arrange an apartment, a car, and a job that would pay you $2,000 a month?"

She doesn't hesitate, saying she would. "What kind of job?"

"Remember I told you about my friend who's a doctor?"

"Yes."

"He needs an office person, someone who can keep an eye on things and report back to him."

"I can do that. How often could we see each other?"

"Every week. We're only an hour apart. When could you be here?"

"I'm ready to go whenever the job's open."

"What about Nichole?"

"She'll come with me."

******

Geoff's desperation to resolve his crisis at the office precipitates his decision to hire Carole on the spot. He needs information. People he trusts are stealing from him and mismanaging a business he spent a lifetime building. As a prisoner, he doesn't have access to information he needs about daily activities in his clinic. The prison system limits each prisoner to 300 minutes of telephone use each month, and that isn't sufficient for a man like Geoff, who has existing business interests. In an effort to get a handle on things, he pays Carole's expenses to move to New York.

We make the arrangements quickly, as Geoff wants Carole to begin at once. I coordinate the deal for Carole, but I saddle her with the challenge of coordinating the complicated cross-country move on her own.

I don't have any responsibilities outside these prison boundaries, and I have enough money in the bank to cover my startup expenses when I'm released. After 15 years, I've mastered the challenges that mire other prisoners in failure. In moving Carole to New York, however, I'm knowingly making myself responsible for her and Nichole, her 11-year-old daughter. My credibility with family and mentors who believe in my judgment will be on the line, and maybe, too, the stability I've worked hard to create. Still, I'm confident that we can make it together.

"Honey," I warn her over the phone, "you should prepare yourself for other people's response to our plans. People are going to think you're nuts."

"They already do, but I don't care what anyone else thinks or says about me. I love you, Michael. I'm not staying in Oregon while the man I love is in New Jersey. I need to be close so we can visit as frequently as rules will allow."

"Baby, I need to be sure you fully understand my situation. I love you, and I'm the most fortunate man alive to have your love. But I've got 11 more years to serve, and I don't have any certainty about earning an income. I can't do more than arrange this job with Geoff. You have to make this move work on your own, without my help."

"Do you want me to come?"

"Yes, more than anything. But I'm used to prison life. I worry whether you'll be able to handle it. Are you sure you've thought through what 11 more years of prison means?"

"If you had a life sentence, I'd still choose you. You're the only man I want to share my life with." Her firm, unwavering dedication convinces me we can triumph together.

"What about your family, your parents?"

"I choose you, Michael. Whatever it takes to make this relationship work, I'm all in."

Our conversations and letters deepen my commitment. I want to give her all that I have and share all that I am and all that I will become. Carole's certainty and radiance warm me like sunlight, bringing out my humanity. I embrace the joy and sense of fulfillment that comes with loving her.

Friends and family worry that I'm blinded by love, that I've lost focus, and that I'm setting myself up for a fall.

"What about when you come home, Michael?" My sister Julie presses, worrying that I haven't thought everything through. "How can you be sure she's the woman you want to spend your life with?"

"Because I love her."

"But how are you going to take care of her?"

"We'll create our life together. I can help her, just as she's helping me."

"What about your future? Are you selling the rest of your stock portfolio? Have you thought about what it will mean if you come home broke? Tim and I want to help you, but we can't support another family."

"I'm not selling the stock. Carole has a job waiting for her in New York, and I'm writing a new book for her to sell. You trust me, don't you?"

"Of course."

"Julie, I'm not going into this blindly. Carole makes everything in my life better and I want to build my life around her. With her I'm not a prisoner, I'm a man, and together we can make this work."

"You're a man, but you're still a prisoner. Just don't hurt her, Michael. She doesn't know anything about what she's getting into."

"I'll never hurt her."

My closest mentors, Bruce McPherson and Carol Zachary, also express concern about this change I'm introducing to my life, and to Carole's and Nichole's as well. I understand. The pernicious, toxic environment of prison beats families down, tramples relationships to dust. But I know that we can make it. Whatever it takes, I'm determined, regardless of what odds conspire against us. I want her love and I'm willing to endure whatever struggles come with it. I hope that Carole can too.

******

Those struggles begin to manifest themselves in late December, one week before Carole's scheduled arrival. Geoff comes to my room to share some unexpected news.

"I'm being transferred," he tells me.

"What? Where to?"

"They're sending me to the drug program on the West side."

Geoff will still be at Fort Dix, but his transfer to the other compound will completely sever our ability to communicate.

"Carole's already sent her stuff with the moving company. I can't reverse her move."

"I know, and I still want her to work in the office."

"But we won't be able to visit together."

"Can't she visit me over there?"

I shrug, not knowing what guards will allow. "You can try putting her on your visiting list, but they might not let her in."

"Then she can write. Look, this is a mess, and there's nothing we can do about it. I've got to be out of here in an hour. When she gets here, have her go to the office. Ted will give her the keys to the apartment and the car. We'll work out the arrangements once she settles in."

When I call Carole to tell her about Geoff's transfer, she doesn't hesitate. "We'll make it work. I'll still fill him in on what's happening in his office, and I'll look after whatever he needs."

I admire her optimism, her commitment, and her courage. My determination equals hers. But hers is weighted with a high degree of risk. We talk about the logistics of her move and about coordinating delivery of her belongings to Geoff's empty apartment. Such mundane tasks energize me. For the first time I'm part of a family, cherishing the feeling of belonging. We save two phone minutes from my monthly allotment, as I want to call her after her flight lands. We're scheduled to visit on the morning after New Year's, 2003, when I'll meet Nichole for the first time.

******

It's after six on New Year's Eve, and I'm at my desk, trying to ease my anxieties by writing. I burned through the final two phone minutes from my December allotment after Carole's plane landed and I won't receive my next allocation of phone or visiting time until tomorrow, when the new month begins. Prison restrictions prevent all contact with Carole, which leaves me completely in the dark about her move. I stand, nervously pacing the floor. My old friend Windward comes to mind–he used to drive me nuts with his pacing. That was longer than a decade ago, in USP Atlanta.

This anxiety is new to me. I can't help her with this cross-country transition into a new city. At least I'll have new phone minutes tomorrow. We'll be able to talk, but we still won't be able to visit for two more days. Prisons are not family friendly.

While working through my silent worries, I hear an unexpected page.

"Michael Santos. Report to the visiting room."

It's my name being paged, but since I've expired my visiting privileges for the month, I'm confused as I walk to the visiting room.

I see the guard at the visiting room door and I ask him for confirmation that he paged me.

"You heard your name, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Well, haven't you been in long enough to know what that means? Strip!"

I take off my clothes for the search ritual. The guard authorizes me to enter the visiting room and I see that it's packed. I walk through the crowds of people to the guard's platform, and as I hand him my ID card, I see Carole. She's bundled in a blue, floor-length wool coat, and a pale pink cashmere scarf circles her neck. She's obviously distraught. As I approach her, she walks to me quickly and wraps her arms around me, crying. She buries her face into my neck and I hold her.

"Baby, what's wrong? Why are you crying?" She holds me tighter.

"What is it? Talk to me," I repeat urgently, quietly. I put my hands on her cheeks, tipping her head up to kiss her tears. "What's wrong?"

She sniffles, but between them I hear her say "No car, no apartment, no job." She's still crying and I pull her tight.

"Tell me what happened." I want to help her, and I suddenly feel the weight of what it means to accept this responsibility of love.

She takes a deep breath to steady her voice before speaking. "It's Ted, Geoff's business manager. He says he's in control of Geoff's practice. He refuses to give me access to the office, and he's refusing to give me keys to the apartment and the car I'm supposed to use. I'm here with Nichole, everything I own is in a moving truck on its way here, and I don't know what to do."

I breathe in deeply, needing to soothe her before asking questions. I pull her close, wrap my arm around her shoulders, and walk toward a pair of plastic purple chairs in the back of the visiting room. We sit and hold hands. It's the only comfort I can offer under the watchful eyes of cameras and guards. She sighs, exhaling with a long breath as she lays her head on my shoulder, and I feel her relax against me.

"Don't worry, Baby, I'll take care of you." I kiss her cheeks, taking a chance that in the crowded room, the guards won't notice. "I've got enough money to help you settle."

"You said you'd never sell the stocks," she says, lifting her head from my shoulder to look at me.

"I know what I said, but you're more important to me than any stocks. Of course I'll sell them. I love you, Carole. I'll do anything for you." Her head drops back onto my shoulder and I savor the feeling of her weight resting on me.

"I'll pay you back," she promises.

I chuckle at her promise, and then I ask where she is staying. "Did you get a hotel room in New York?"

"We left New York when Ted refused to give me the apartment keys. I've still got my rental car, so I drove down and checked us into a hotel that's closer. Nichole's there now. She's watching a movie until I get back."

I'm relieved that Carole came to New Jersey. It's much less expensive here and we'll need to be careful with our money. I caress her hands and appreciate how soft and feminine they feel inside mine.

"Do you want to stay in New Jersey, or would you rather go back to Oregon?"

"I'm staying with you." Her voice so recently quivering is suddenly steady.

"Okay, Honey. That's what I want, too. We'll make a plan and together we'll make it work. I love you."

"I love you so much." She kisses me gently.

"Honey, we can't kiss anymore," I warn, conscious of the guards. "Tell me how you got in here. I didn't have any visiting points left for the month."

"I know. I called here all day and I told your unit manger it was an emergency, but he wouldn't let me talk to you. I decided to drive over and try to talk my way in. Thank goodness Officer Cruz was on duty. He must've believed me when I told him I had to see you. He changed something on the computer and here I am. I think he was worried I was going to burst into tears in front of him."

"See, I told you that God's been protecting me through this journey. Now he's protecting you. And although many people who work for the prison system make things difficult, some are nice."

"Yes, he was very nice. I'm grateful, because I really needed to see you, and I want to come back tomorrow, too."

"Tomorrow's New Year's Day, Honey. Holiday visiting privileges cost us double against my allotment for the month. Let's wait until the day after tomorrow to visit. The rules limit me to a maximum of 30 hours in the visiting room for the month and we can't squander them." She's going to get an immersion course in the complications of my imprisonment.

"Michael, I need to see you! We need to make a plan."

"Okay," I relent. "You can come for one hour, but it's going to cost us two hours against my monthly allotment of 30 points."

"I'll bring Nichole."

******

It's cold. My green jacket and orange knit cap aren't enough to keep me from shivering when I leave the visiting room. Maybe I shiver more from worry than the frigid December temperatures. I can handle the cold, but as I cross the nameless road that leads to my housing unit, I realize for the first time in 38 years that the local economy is relevant to my life.

As the president tries to push us into a second war in Iraq, the newspapers have been reporting on high unemployment rates. These didn't concern me until an hour ago. But I've brought Carole here, thousands of miles away from her friends and family, on a promise. The promise went south. Now two lives hang on my ability to bring her stability, and suddenly the 11 years of prison that await me feel heavier.

"Hey, I heard them call you for a visit." Bob catches up to me, his tone revealing curiosity. "I thought you said you were out of points."

"I was. Carole talked her way in."

"Huh, I'm impressed. It'd be easier to talk your way out. She must've charmed them, but that's like charming a rattlesnake. How's her move coming along?"

"Totally derailed. Geoff's business manager is refusing to give Carole the job, the apartment, or the car. She's stranded, and all her things are packed in a moving truck that's supposed to arrive in New York next week."

"Wow." We take a few steps with only the sound of crunching gravel and howling wind between us. "How can I help?"

"I'll take care of it. My sister is in Hawaii for the holidays, but when she returns, I'll have her sell enough stock to send Carole the money she needs to settle."

"I could get her a few thousand to tide her over if it would help."

"Thanks. I appreciate the offer, but I put her in this mess. I'll get her out."

"Well let me know if you need anything." Bob is a good friend, willing to lend me money even though we're both in prison. I'm grateful for the gesture.

I walk into the housing unit and search for Richard, a young offender I interviewed recently for a story I wrote. While talking with him, I remember Richard telling me that his wife lived only a few miles from the prison. She was struggling financially, like many prison families, because of her husband's imprisonment. He's sitting on the stairs, slumped, his elbows resting on his knees.

"What's troubling you?" I ask.

He looks up at me and takes off his glasses, rubbing his eyes. "Holidays. I miss my wife and son."

"That's what I came to ask you about. Do you think your wife would want a housemate?"

"Whadda ya mean?"

"I'm in a bind. My fiancée and her daughter just moved here from Oregon. They thought they had an apartment, but the arrangements didn't work out. I need to help her find a new place and I thought of you. Your wife could probably use the money, and they could support each other."

He puts his glasses back on. "That could really help. How old is your fiancée's daughter?"

"Eleven."

"I'm in line for the phone now. I'll come by your room after I talk with my wife."

Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term by Michael Santos

Episode 10.1

Months 180-190

The first time I see Bob he's carefully selecting items from the salad bar. He expertly manipulates the stainless-steel tongs, piling the freshest tomatoes, radishes, chopped iceberg lettuce, and spinach leaves on his plastic tray. He's oblivious to the growing line of angry men standing in line and the other 500 prisoners in the noisy chow hall.

Bob stands taller than six feet, with glacial blue eyes and a full head of blond hair that he combs neatly. I know he's new to Fort Dix, and I suspect he's in his late-fifties. He's trim and clean-cut. As I watch him from a nearby table, I can't help but wonder why he's here. I've read of professionals and businessmen who've run afoul of the law, but those offenders don't generally serve time with us inside double fences laced with coils of razor wire. Bob looks like the type of man who sends people to prison, not one who serves time in prison.

Other white-collar types approach him, smiling, offering to help him settle in. Bob, however, remains tight-lipped, responding only with curt nods. When he clenches his jaw he projects defiance rather than the fear I'm used to seeing in newcomers.

A few days have passed since I saw him in the chow hall, and I see him again while I'm running around the track. He's sitting on the railroad ties that serve as steps separating the court from the track, eating a green apple and watching Ironhead, a more typical prisoner, shoot baskets alone on the asphalt court inside the track.

Ironhead is a guy who looks like he's been in prison all his life. His shaved head glistens with sweat and he distinguishes himself with a mouthful of gold-capped teeth. He's tall and muscular. Arching over his shoulder blades is a tattoo with bold capital letters that spell out "destroyer." On his stomach is another that reads "thug for life."

I'm used to seeing Ironhead shoot baskets while I run. We don't share much in common and we never talk. He exercises alone, and I exercise alone. Today Bob sits between our workouts, eating his apple and watching.

While running, I drift into thoughts about my writing projects and about the relationship Carole and I are building through our letters. As my steps crunch along the gravel track today, I tune into Bob, wondering whether he's going to make the mistake of interrupting Ironhead's workout.

"You'd make more shots if you'd set your stance before shooting," Bob instructs.

Ironhead ignores him, takes another shot, and misses.

"See what I mean? You're losing your balance."

Ironhead grabs the rebound. Then he presses his left fist into his hip, and with his right hand, palms the basketball as he addresses Bob.

"A-yo Gee! Who you be talkin' to?" Ironhead snarls, strutting toward Bob.

Bob takes the last bite of his apple and then sets the core on the step, standing to meet Ironhead.

"I'll show you what I mean," Bob says with a combination of innocence and coaching authority that actually disarms the unlikely student. Then he opens his hands, gesturing for Ironhead to pass him the ball. Ironhead scowls, bounces the ball twice, then hurls the ball at Bob. He dribbles to the top of the key, plants and sinks the ball, then proceeds to coach Ironhead on shooting skills. Before I finish my run, I'm surprised to see the two are on the court together playing one on one.

Later in the afternoon I see Bob sitting alone at a picnic table beneath one of the maple trees. He's writing a letter on a yellow legal pad, gold-frame reading glasses perched on his nose. I approach and interrupt him.

"Can I have a minute?"

He looks up, quickly evaluating me like an employer deliberating whether I'm worthy of an interview. Then he answers with a half-dismissive "I'll be with you in a minute." He finishes writing his paragraph, leaving me waiting.

"Now," he sets his pen down, "how can I help you?"

"My name's Michael Santos," I say, introducing myself. "I'm a long-term prisoner and aspiring writer. I've just finished a manuscript describing some of my experiences that I'm about ready to send to my publisher. If you've got time to read it, I'd appreciate any advice you might offer on what I can do to strengthen my manuscript."

Bob removes his glasses and rubs his eyes. "Why ask me?"

"You're new to prison, I'm guessing, and you're as close as I'm going to get in here to the demographic I'm trying to reach."

"What's that, old white guys?"

"No, college-educated people who don't have experience with confinement."

"Let me see it."

I pass him the envelope containing my manuscript. He pulls the document out and glances through the 400 pages.

"Did you type this here?"

"My girlfriend typed it for me."

"She did a nice job." He places it back in the envelope. "I've got a full plate right now, but if you leave it with me, I'll read it over the next few days."

"Sounds good. I'm not in a rush. What's your name?"

"I'm Bob Brennan," he says, as if I should recognize the name, and extends his hand.

******

In the weeks to come Bob and I develop a friendship. We walk the track together and I listen to his story. From his demeanor, I correctly surmised that he was a man accustomed to pulling strings at the top levels of American business. Bob was the founder and CEO of numerous businesses, both public and private. For many years he was his company's spokesman on national television commercials that invited investors to grow with him at First Jersey Securities, his most well known company. Bob owned personal jets, helicopters, and palatial homes, and thoroughbred racehorses. Over the course of his distinguished career, he earned hundreds of millions and nurtured friendships with distinguished people such as President Ronald Reagan, President George H.W. Bush, and President George W. Bush. A jury convicted Bob for a crime that he described to me as "lying on a government form." Now he's beginning a sentence that threatens to confine him for a decade.

We sit on a steel bench beneath a cherry tree on this late summer evening in 2002. Hundreds of prisoners walk along the wide path circling the compound. Bob knows all about my story because he read the manuscript I prepared. I listen to his story with a sense of loss at what my imprisonment has cost me when he describes his career, his experiences at creating jobs for tens of thousands of well-paid people that his companies employed.

"You know what a Democrat is, don't you?" I tease Bob.

"What's that?"

"It's a Republican who's been arrested." Bob laughs, but his smile fades as he scans the Fort Dix compound. "This isn't the place to spend your life."

"I'm used to it," I say.

"That's a shame," he says knowingly.

"What do you miss most from all that you've lost?" I probe. Bob is a man who has lost much.

Bob looks up at the sky, thinking. "My Gulfstream jet and the freedom to fly away."

"That's what you miss most?" I can hardly believe him.

"There's nothing like being able to fly wherever you want, whenever you want." He affirms his answer with a nod.

"I guess traveling isn't an aspiration I can relate to anymore."

"So how's your romance going with Carole? Did you get a letter from her today?" Bob asks, deliberately changing the subject.

"Yes, we write every day, although she might not like what I wrote back today."

"What's that?"

"It's nothing serious, but something she wrote bothered me, and I let her know."

"What bothered you?"

"She wrote about lottery tickets."

"So?"

"Come on, a lottery ticket? It doesn't sit well with me. When I think of people who buy lottery tickets, I think of a poverty state of mind, of people who don't work hard enough to make things happen on their own. Instead, they're waiting for something to happen for them."

"You've got to lighten up, Michael. Not everyone in the world is like you."

"Do you buy lottery tickets?"

Bob doesn't dignify the question with an answer. "It's not about what I do. I'm talking about understanding other people. People like to dream. Las Vegas is built on that concept."

"I want her to have stability and independence in her life so she's not worried about whether child support checks come on time, or anything else."

"Give her a break. Why're you trying to control her life?"

"I'm not trying to control anything."

"The hell you aren't. When you judge someone for buying a lottery ticket, you're trying to control them."

"We're growing closer and I want her to know how I think."

"You haven't been with a woman in 15 years, and you haven't even seen Carole since high school. How're you going to build a relationship from here, when she's living on the West Coast, and you're locked inside a Jersey prison?"

"The circumstances might not be ideal, I'll give you that. But the distance between us doesn't mean we can't fall in love, build a life together."

Bob laughs. "Love? A life together? Listen to yourself! You've been locked up since 1987. This is a divorced mother of two. You're both desperate. If you string this woman along, all you're going to do is make both of your lives miserable."

"I'm not stringing her along, and I'm not desperate. Neither is she. We're two people in our mid-thirties falling in love. We're not teenagers."

"Michael, you're a smart guy. Think about what you're doing. You've got 11 more years to serve in prison. When you go home you'll be heading into a world that you haven't seen for 26 years. You don't know anything about women, about love, about what it means to build a life with someone else."

"You're right about one thing, Bob. I've been doing this a long time. But you're wrong when you say I don't know anything about love. Living in prison has been like watching earth from a different planet. My separation from society has given me a chance to observe, to learn from the lives of others. I've read that 50 percent of marriages end in divorce. You've been a rich man since your early 30s, yet two of your marriages ended in divorce, and you're breaking off a relationship now. I may be separated from the rest of the world, but I've studied people from a different perspective, and I've learned from them."

"Oh really? What've you learned?" He scoffs.

"One thing for sure, in order to create lasting love, I'll need to appreciate Carole more than I'd appreciate a jet."

Bob grunts. "You've never had a Gulfstream."

*******

As other prisoners count the days until release, I'm counting down the days until my first visit with Carole. It's evening on October 16th, 2002. I lie on my bunk using a small, battery-powered light to read Carole's long letters. I have my favorites, the ones I devour repeatedly. We've been writing daily for eight months, and when I wake tomorrow, we'll begin five glorious days of visiting together. I'm going to hold her, to kiss her for as long as guards will permit. I stare at her photograph and fall asleep, the book light still burning.

When I wake, my smile stretches across my face. It's a good day. Visiting doesn't begin until 1:00, so I have time to make my bed, wash my face, brush my teeth, and then sit at my desk to write her a love letter. I want her to know how grateful I am that she flew from Oregon to hold my hand under the harsh lights of a New Jersey prison visiting room.

I stack the paper and books from my desk in my locker. While sitting on my mattress I lace my sneakers, rise, straighten the wrinkles on my bed, and look around to ensure everything is in its proper place in case the guards come in for a surprise cell inspection. I can't leave anything visible without risking the loss of my 2-man room; a failed inspection would put me back in a 12-man room. With a final glance to make sure I'm leaving the room in perfect condition, I close the door and walk outside for an early exercise session.

I jog eight miles, watching as the wind tosses leaves in waves from the maple trees. They flutter to the grass in different shades of yellow and orange. These same trees were in their early spring bloom when Carole began typing my manuscript, About Prison. In June she was typing my second manuscript, Profiles From Prison, and our romance began. By summer's end we were pledging our love. But it's been all correspondence and phone calls until today.

I check my watch and expect that her plane has landed by now. She's renting a car and is only hours away from the jolting reality of my world. She'll see the fences with the coils of razor wire, the checkpoints with armed, uniformed guards. I wonder how she'll respond to the metal detectors, the bureaucratic condemnation, the numerous rules, and the forms required of visitors to federal prisons.

I follow my run with pushups. As I'm finishing Bob comes out for his walk. "So today's your day!" He smiles in good spirits, happy for me.

"She'll be here at one." I stand and brush the dirt from my hands.

"Will you be there until visiting ends?"

"That's the plan."

"Okay then. I'll be waiting for you when you come out. We'll walk a few laps and you can tell me how things went."

"I'll see you then," I promise.

I return to my housing unit, shower, shave closely with a new, double-blade razor, and dress in clean sweats. Pancho, my friend down the hall, ironed my khakis and shined my shoes in exchange for a three-can pack of tuna. The clothes hang against my wall. With a few hours to pass before our visit, I pick up Nelson Mandela's A Long Walk to Freedom, the biography that describes his wretched and unjust multi-decade stretch in an African prison.

I set the book on my chest and I let my mind wander. Carole's love has given me hope for a life most men take for granted. When it's almost one o'clock, I stand to change.

My heart beats faster when I hear my name being paged, and I walk across the compound, through the gates, toward the visiting room. The guard takes a long time answering the door after I push the button, frustrating me as I lose minutes I could be sharing with Carole.

After months of waiting, she's finally here, on the other side of this wall. It's been 28 years since I first played kickball with her in fifth grade and 20 years since our high school graduation.

The guard unlocks the door. "Name and number?"

"Santos, 16377-004," I state, handing him my red ID card.

"We paged you 15 minutes ago. Where've you been?"

"Right here. I pushed the button," I respond, suppressing my impatience and irritation.

"Come on. You know the drill."

I step into the room and undress for the guard to search me. "Do you know the rules about physical contact?"

"I know the rules."

"One kiss when you come in, one kiss when you leave."

"Can I hold her hand?"

He nods. "Just don't get too frisky. I don't wanna be sendin' anyone to the SHU today."

"Of course you don't."

The guards don't realize how their callousness dehumanizes prisoners.

"What was that?" He challenges me with his glare.

"Never mind." Not even a prison guard can dampen my enthusiasm today.

"Can I go in now?"

"Have a nice visit." His flat expression and flatter tone contradict his good wishes. Anticipation for a blind date with a woman I already love sends adrenaline racing through me as I open the door and enter. I scan the faces and see Carole, far away, sitting beneath a window screened with black iron mesh. Our eyes lock and she stands, smiling radiantly. Holding her gaze, I zigzag through a maze of maroon plastic chairs, remembering just in time to drop my ID card with the guard who operates the computer surveillance system.

Carole looks lovely in fitted denim jeans, black heels, and a beige knit sweater. Her long blonde hair falls past her shoulders. Seconds later she's in my arms, welcoming my embrace. I can't believe I'm holding her.

"Let me look at you," I breathe her in.

She's smiling, and in her sparkling hazel eyes, I see her love for me.

"We can only kiss once, the guards are watching," I whisper, wanting to remember this moment with her body pressing against mine.

I tilt my head to the right and bend to meet her lips as she leans into me. With my hands on her back I feel the warmth of her flesh through her clothing. Her heart's beating fast, and I welcome her tongue, the unfamiliar sensation of her breasts pressed against my chest, and the feminine arch of her slender hips. It awakens the man in me, as if I'm feeling a woman for the first time. I don't care about the other 50 visitors in the room and I kiss her as long as I can, though I'm conscious of the guards, knowing they'll humiliate me by yelling my name and issuing a warning if I don't release her.

"Let's sit," I tell her.

"Hold me for a second longer." She presses her cheek against mine. "I love you."

I'm so grateful that she's in my life and I assure her of my love. We sit beside each other, holding hands, locking our fingers together, and I stare into her eyes. After so many years of living in prison, I feel incredibly fortunate to have her with me. When she averts her eyes, glancing down, I tilt her chin up with my index finger. "I want to look at your face."

"Why?" she asks nervously, with her cheek twitching.

"Because you're beautiful and I need to memorize every curve of your face. Why are you so nervous?"

"I can't help it," she admits, squeezing my hands. "I'm just happy to be here."

"The fences and razor wire didn't bother you?" I know how foreboding they can seem at first.

"The only thing that bothers me is that I can't take you home with me. If this is where you are, this is where I want to be," she promises, and I see the sincerity in her eyes.

"I want to kiss you again," I tell her. Concerns that the realities of prison could overwhelm her begin to dissipate after Carole's affirmation.

"So kiss me." She says softly, smiling

"We can't. Those guards sitting on the platform will give me a disciplinary infraction if I kiss you again."

"They're not watching us."

"Yes, they are. Those black bubbles in the ceiling are cameras, and the guards have several monitors at their desk. They sit there with a joystick, moving the cameras around the room. If they catch me kissing you again, they'll end our visit."

Carole looks around, taking in the severity of the room. A guard in the standard BOP uniform walks through the aisles, his eyes scanning the room. "I don't understand," she says. "Why would they care if you kissed me?"

"Those manuscripts you've been typing for me aren't fiction. In prison the priority is security, and they view kissing as a threat to institutional security. This is my life for 11 more years."

"You won't serve 11 more years."

"Yes I will, Honey." I brush a strand of hair from her face. "I've already served 15 and I'll serve 11 more."

"Then I'll serve them with you."

"You don't know what you're saying."

"I do know what I'm saying. My love for you is a woman's love, Michael, not a little girl's crush. I'll serve this sentence with you, whatever it takes."

"Let's see how you feel on Monday, after our last visit."

"It won't be our last visit. I'm coming back." In those first hours together, I tell Carole how I spend each day, describing when I wake, how I exercise, and where I shower. By using my finger as a pointer on her knee, I draw a diagram, showing her the layout of my room, where I store my belongings, even how far down the hall I am from the community bathroom. I tell her about my friends, Bob and Geoff. I answer her questions about how I plan to earn a living after my release, explaining that I'll write about my prison experience, consult with people who face challenges with the criminal justice system, and speak on how others can employ effective strategies to overcome challenges they may face.

Carole's eyes never leave me as I talk, and she listens closely, asking insightful questions, such as whether the prison system will give me any trouble when the books I've written reach the market.

I explain the reasons why I don't anticipate any disciplinary problems as a consequence of my writing books while I serve the remainder of my sentence. "One policy says I can't run a business, so I don't. A different policy states that the BOP encourages prisoners to write manuscripts, and authorizes them to mail the manuscripts without staff interference. Once I send out my manuscripts, they're not mine. I assign the publishing royalties to Julie, or my mom."

"But your name's on the book?"

"I'm the author, but I don't receive any money for my work."

"Your family's getting the money though, saving it for you when you get out. Isn't that a problem?"

"Although others may receive royalty payments, I would argue that since I don't have a right to the money, I'm within the rules. After all, if my mom or my sister choose to keep the payments they receive, I wouldn't have any grounds to challenge them. They pay taxes on it, not me. But even if the prison did charge me with a disciplinary infraction, I wouldn't care. It's my responsibility to prepare for the future and I'm proud of my work. I'm determined to leave here stable and independent."

"I want to help you."

"You are helping me. Without you, I couldn't have converted my manuscripts to digital files. You help me by inspiring me to work harder. Ever since my term began, I've been preparing for you. I willed you into my life."

"No. I mean I want to help you more. I want my life with you. I want to grow with you. I want to get you out of here." She squeezes my hand to emphasize her promise.

"Baby, let's not waste time on things beyond our control, like my being released early. Let's focus on how we can best prepare for the challenges we'll face when I'm released."

"Then I want to help you with that. What can we do, together?"