Prison Professors

Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term

Chapter 9.3

1998-2002 Months 127-180

It's September 11, 1998. I've been in Miami for a week and since my counselor hasn't yet given me a PIN code, I haven't been able to use the telephone. The staff isn't giving me any information about my transfer and I don't know if Bruce and Carol have made progress toward getting me out of here. Ty and I are resigned to the likelihood that we're both on our way to state prison, knowing that we'll leave whenever officials from the Florida Department of Corrections arrive to pick us up. We exercise together, doing pushups, deep knee bends, and stomach crunches.

After our early morning workout, I glance at the dorm's television screen, appalled to see President Clinton and his media machine. He organized a nationally televised prayer breakfast, assembling Billy Graham, Jesse Jackson, and other distinguished clergymen. They pray for forgiveness of Clinton's indiscretion with Monica Lewinsky.

The irony is not lost on me. President Clinton scandalized the country. He told lie after lie to the American people and to Congress about "not having sexual relations with that woman."

Anyone else would serve prison time for telling such lies to Congress. Although I was young and uneducated, my own sentence was extended by two years because I lied during my trial. It angers me, because the president should be held to a higher standard. After all, President Clinton is a graduate of Yale law school, a Rhodes scholar, and a former attorney general. Yet he gets a pass for his offense by saying he's sorry.

I've been working to atone for 11 years, not with televised speeches but with measurable actions. It infuriates me to see the inequality as I sit in an orange jumpsuit, knowing that my acts of atonement mean nothing while the president can exonerate himself with a simple prayer meeting.

"Santos!" The guard yells into the housing unit as he steps out from his station, interrupting my mental rant. "Roll up!"

"What about Moreno?" Ty asks.

"I said Santos."

"Can you tell me where I'm going?" I feel queasy, my legs weakening. "FTD."

I recognize those initials as the BOP designation for Fort Dix. My face immediately broadens into a smile.

"Fort Dix?" I ask to confirm.

"All's it says here is FTD. Pack yer shit."

"How'd you' pull that off?" Ty looks at me, disappointment in his eyes.

"I don't know. My family must've gotten through to the right person." I say carefully, suddenly aware of the impact this news has on Ty. We've only known each other for a few days, but through exercise, chess games, and talk, we've bonded and had hoped to see it through as a team. Now I'm deserting him. Although the news elates me, I don't compound his loss by gloating over being spared a tour through a Florida state prison.

*******

My support network really came through for me, and I'm thrilled when guards lock me in a holding cage on the main floor of FDC Miami to process me out. I'm grateful, optimistic, and eager to begin the return trip to Ford Dix. My spirits are dampened, however, when I notice a woman sitting alone in another holding cell directly across from me. She's crying.

I step to the front of my cage, wrap my fingers around the bars, and she looks at me. The guards who patrol the corridor prohibit us from talking, so instead we communicate with our eyes. In hers, I see such sadness that it pains me. She tilts her head as she opens her hands in a gesture of helplessness, as if to say "I want to talk to you, too, but we can't." Her smile is modest, but I see a dimple in her cheek. She has long brown hair, and even in the green, oversized jumpsuit I can see her slender figure. Her eyes are blue, or maybe green. It doesn't matter. We'll never meet. I hope she'll find the strength to sustain herself through the loneliness. I look away as guards come to fasten her in chains.

My return to Fort Dix takes me on a 30-day detour through USP Atlanta. It surprises me to feel some nostalgia at my first sight of the high walls. While locked in a holdover unit I see several staff members I used to know. One of them sends a message to Lynn Stephens, my former work supervisor. After receiving news from her colleague that I'm in the holdover unit, Lynn walks over to see me. More than four years have passed since my departure from USP Atlanta and seeing her feels almost like a reunion. She had such an essential role in my early adjustment, allowing me to study in the office we shared, providing sanctuary from the penitentiary madness that destroys the lives of so many young prisoners. She's barely aged but tells me she'll be retiring in another few years, and she updates me on her family while asking about mine. Since she knew me in my 20s, naive to prison life, Lynn is amazed that I'm now nearly 35 and comfortable in my surroundings. Our unexpected reunion helps me measure how much I've matured since beginning my term.

I talk with prisoners I knew when I served my sentence in Atlanta, but after a month, I'm glad to leave the penitentiary behind. Ironically, Fort Dix feels like home and I look forward to my return.

After several hours our plane lands briefly for a prisoner exchange in Manchester, New Hampshire. From my window seat I look at a dense growth of trees with leaves that flutter in the wind and appear to change colors before my eyes. It's a spectacular natural display of orange, yellow, red, and green, and I realize that during the two months I've been locked inside Oklahoma, Miami, and Atlanta prisons, summer has turned to fall. The plane takes off again, and a few hours later, on Thursday, October 15, 1998, I'm processed in and admitted back inside the gated community of FCI Fort Dix.

My friend Carol Zachary is responsible for my return. She met with a high-ranking decision-maker in Washington, and that meeting resulted in the reversal of my transfer order, immediately blocking my move to a Florida state prison.

I walk back onto the Fort Dix compound, and my friend Gary welcomes me with a white mesh laundry bag full of commissary items.

"Welcome back," he laughs, embracing me.

"I can't tell you how good it feels to be back."

"Did you hear the news?" Gary asks.

"What news?"

Gary smiles, knowing that financial news interests me. "The Fed lowered the interest rate and the market's on fire. I hope you didn't sell."

"Sell? Are you kidding? I'm a buyer, not a seller."

"The prices for Yahoo! and AOL are almost back to where they were before you left."

"Don't tell me you're hooked on the stock market now, too."

Gary laughs, telling me that he needed something to pass the time.

*******

As we approach the transition from the 20th to the 21st century, fears spread throughout the business community that many of the world's computer programs will fail. Every day, pundits on CNBC discuss the upcoming "Y2K" problem, hyping up the calamity that would befall the world if computers crash. As a market speculator, I'm paying attention to these stories.

To ease worries about how the markets will react at midnight on the last day of 1999, central bankers from around the world take action by lowering key interest rates in the fall of 1998. Their objective is to provide more liquidity for business, thereby averting panic. An offshoot of their strategy is rampant speculation, and I'm one of the euphoric participants.

I follow the flow of easy credit and hot money by subscribing to a dozen financial publications and studying them daily. I'm fascinated with the technology sector, as I perceive companies with an effective Internet strategy as having the most upside. Understanding the risk, I concentrate all of my stock holdings in speculative Internet stocks. That approach proves a winner, and I revel in watching my equity increase, sometimes by tens of thousands each day. I tap that equity by using it as collateral to leverage my holdings. I've got 100 percent of my holdings in Internet stocks, and by using margin I've got double exposure to the market swings.

"You know, I really think it's time you diversify," Jon, another prisoner, advises me. "This market bubble can't last forever. Perhaps you should sell now, put your money in fixed income."

"I can't sell. All my gains have been short-term. I need to hold on to my positions for at least one year, otherwise I'll owe too much tax."

Jon shakes his head. "All wise men diversify."

I'm reluctant to sell any holdings for two reasons. On the one hand, I don't want Julie to incur short-term capital gains taxes, and on the other I'm convinced the market euphoria will last longer than a year. Each evening, after the market's close, I chart my day's progress, read my industry news, and then I walk outside to tell Gary how we did.

"How was the casino today?"

"I bought Cisco, Real Networks, and At Home Communications."

Besides being a Grand Master at chess, Gary has tremendous musical talents. We sit under a maple tree in early March 1999, bundled in our green jackets and orange knit caps. Spring is in the air but it's still chilly. Gary strums an acoustic guitar and practices while we talk. As a child, he played for weddings and parties in Russia. I test his talents by asking him to play music from China, Spain, Japan, Italy, or Greece and in an instant his songs transport me to those countries.

"So, what's in the account now?"

"We're holding $600,000 worth of stocks, and we've got $300,000 out in margin loans. Equity's at $300,000."

"You're a winner," he says, strumming his guitar.

The value of Internet stocks surge through the spring, and I continue using margin to leverage a bigger position with all of my holdings. On April 12, 1999, when the bell rings closed on Wall Street, the 4,000 shares of AOL, 2,000 shares of At Home and a scattering of other high flyers have a value that exceeds $2 million. With $1 million out in margin loans, the account's equity surpasses $1 million. I'm tempted to tell Julie to sell, but if I do, the short-term capital gains will incur a tax obligation of nearly $400,000. One year ago I didn't have commissary money, but now greed rather than a principled position prevents me from feeling satisfied with what I have. I'm determined to hold on until my equity reaches $1.6 million. That will generate a million dollars after taxes, and if I sell at that level, I'll be able to put that cash in the bank. I'm shooting for a two-comma cash balance. Until I hit it, I'm determined to continue swinging for the fences.

The value of my account doesn't change my status in prison, of course. I still stand for census counts and strip naked for searches whenever a guard commands. I'm scheduled to serve 14 more years, yet the time now is just something I tolerate. I don't need school or library books as I'm living vicariously through the market, a phenomenon the BOP is powerless to stop.

*******

Two brutal trading days in April wipe out more than $400,000 from my account's equity, causing me to change strategy. Rather than holding on, I pull the trigger, calling my sister with instructions to sell. That move eliminates my margin debt, allows me to return the money Gary advanced, provides the resources to pay off the IRS, and leaves me with a cash-balance measured in six figures. It's far lower than the peak value, but far higher than where I began with my trading career.

"Remember one thing," Gary says, trying to cheer me up as we walk around the yard on one of his last days before authorities deport him to Russia. "Money doesn't make the man; the man makes the money."

"I know, but I can't stop thinking about what we could've had if I would've sold sooner."

"What's the big deal? You started out wanting to finish law school, to work for 15 years to earn a lousy hundred grand. Now you've got that in the bank and you didn't have to hustle with any of these schmucks. No one else in here earned what you did."

He advises me to forget about the market and to use the rest of my time in prison to do something else with my life, assuring me that I need to prepare for the endless opportunities that will await my release.

*******

When we move into the new century, I know that I need something new to occupy my time, some project I can work on independently, without interference from the prison system. In August I'll finish my 13th year, meaning I'm halfway through, with only 13 more years until release. I must find a way to make them productive.

Carol Zachary and Jon Axelrod bring Zachary and Tristan to visit for Thanksgiving and as we sit, side-by-side in the brightly lit and crowded Fort Dix visiting room. Carol inquires whether I'd like to renew my petition for clemency.

"I can't bring myself to go through all that again," I tell her. "It's too much of an emotional roller coaster. I need stability, something I can work toward. Instead of waiting for someone else to make a decision that will determine my future, I need to find something that will allow me to chart my own course."

"Have you spoken with Tony? What does he have to say?" She asks about Tony Bisceglie, the prominent lawyer she persuaded to spearhead the legal effort to free me in 1997.

"Tony is honest. He said that my chances of the president commuting my sentence are less than one in a million. Besides that, I'm no longer indigent. If I were to move forward with the petition, Tony's fee would start at $50,000. I'm not willing to part with the resources to pay that fee."

"Michael, you've got to do it," Carol urges me.

"Don't you think you could earn that money again once you were released?" Zach, a sophomore in high school now, asks. He's a student athlete who looks forward to studying business and economics.

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "The thing is, I've been living inside prison walls and fences for my entire adult life." Although I feel their love and concern for me, I want them to understand why I perceive my situation differently from others who haven't lived in confinement. "When people leave prison, they have a hard time finding employment, and financial pressures block them from making a new start. I see it every week when prisoners return after failing in society. If I thought we had a better chance at commutation, I'd take it. But when one of the top lawyers in Washington spells out the odds, I have to weigh the costs. The truth is, I'm more afraid of going home broke, into a tornado of financial uncertainty, than I am of serving another 13 years."

Carol folds her arms across her chest and nods her head sympathetically. Jon observes silently, and then says, "You're going to have options when you come home, Michael. People love you and will stand by to help you."

I shake my head. "I need to build more support. If I could persuade 1,000 people to support my petition, then I'd feel better about moving forward with it."

"Too bad you can't use the Internet," Tristan states. He's in eighth grade and an aspiring musician. We have an ongoing chess game that we play by sending our respective moves through the mail. "You'd be able to find 1,000 supporters on the Web easily."

"I've got some friends from school who're pretty good on the Web," Zach suggests. "Maybe I could help."

"I'd like to invest my time and money into an idea like that. Why don't we start a Web business? I'll write and type the content, then you guys coordinate putting it online," I suggest.

Jon looks at Carol. "We could buy a scanner to convert the typewritten pages into digital files. It might be a good project to give the boys some business experience."

"I could be the CEO," Zach lights up.

"What about hockey, baseball? You can't fall behind with school," Carol admonishes, taking in the scope of this possible business with more caution.

"Mom, I can do it," Zach asserts.

"The business could earn revenues by charging a fee for prisoners to publish their information, giving them a platform to build support," I say.

"And once we build enough traffic, we could charge for advertising space," Zach is on the edge of his seat, already chapters ahead in a business plan.

"Hold on a minute," Carol barks, throwing up her hands in a "time out" move, speaking as the voice of reason. "We're talking about a project to generate support for Michael, to get him out of here. Let's not distract ourselves with how much money we can make."

"I could really use a project like this, one that would take my mind away from here. I could work on it every day. If I build support, then we can explore the possibilities for clemency."

Carol nods her head. "Okay it's a deal. We're after a thousand people. Then we'll move forward with a new clemency petition."

*******

"I've been following your writing on the Web," my friend George tells me during our visit. "It's very good."

Dr. George Cole is the author of American Corrections, the leading textbook used in universities to teach students about America's prison system. He's been my mentor for nearly a decade and he led the push for my acceptance into the doctoral program at the University of Connecticut. "Why don't you write a book about your prison experience? I'll present it to my publishers as a supplemental text to sell alongside my textbook."

It's the most exciting proposition I've had since I began in the stock market and I ask George to advise me on how I can start."

He tells me to write a proposal for Wadsworth-Thompson Publishers to consider. The suggestion presents me with a new opportunity to turn the page, inspiring me with the confidence to launch the next chapter of my life. With my responsibilities to write for the Internet project that Zach coordinates, and the hours I invest to write the new book proposal, the outline, and the sample chapters, I have new reasons to wake before dawn and work 12-hour days.

Unlike studying toward advanced degrees, writing doesn't require me to seek permission from small-minded administrators. The activity is like a respite, freeing me from spending time with inmates who whine about the injustice of 12-month prison sentences. Further, it doesn't require me to read a dozen financial publications, it cuts my CNBC ticker addiction, and it provides a new challenge of learning how to express myself more fluently.

To write, all I need is a pen, blank pages of paper, and a dictionary. Still, I know where I am, and I ask for written clarification from the BOP legal department on the rules that govern prisoners who write for publication. That inquiry brings confirmation from a BOP staff attorney who says that as long as I'm not inciting others or being compensated for my writing, I'm within my rights to continue.

Working to write for publication becomes a goal I can pursue with gusto, and I welcome the challenge of persuading publishers to work with me. To succeed, I must work to become a better writer, and by doing so, I'll transcend prison boundaries, connect with readers everywhere, and build support. I go to the library in search of more information.

"Do you have any books on the shelves about the publishing business?" I'm hopeful that the librarian can steer me in the right direction.

"All we've got is an old-edition of The Writer's Market."

"I'll take it," I say.

The reference book shows the difficult odds that beginning writers face. Fewer than one in 1,000 authors sign publishing agreements. Those who succeed frequently toil for years, writing many manuscripts before they see one of their books in print. I perceive an edge because of the mentor relationships I've nurtured over the years, and because I'm writing about a unique subject matter.

After I write my proposal for About Prison, George advises me to send it to Sabra Horne, a senior acquisition editor at Wadsworth-Thompson. She responds with a publishing agreement, and I write the manuscript that described my first decade as a prisoner. The academic publisher will package the book as a supplementary text for university professors who teach courses in criminal justice.

With that project behind me, I write to Dr. Marilyn McShane, another mentor who, in addition to teaching criminal justice and authoring books, is a senior editor for Greenwood-Praeger Publishing. She offers to publish Profiles From Prison, my second book, which describes backgrounds, adjustment patterns, and future expectations of 20 prisoners.

The thousands of hours I spend writing, typing, and editing the manuscripts gives me the feeling that I'm doing something more than simply serving time. It's as if I'm making a societal contribution, living a life of meaning and relevance. If readers find value in the books once they're published, perhaps more people will see the need to think smarter rather than tougher about America's dysfunctional prison system.

As the final months of Clinton's presidency approach, I'm at ease with my decision to focus on writing. The book projects, together with weekly contributions I'm making for the Web site, provide readers with a prisoner's perspective of confinement, and the work connects me in ways that make me feel almost whole. I'm leading a useful life, feeling legitimized as a citizen. After more than 13 years I no longer feel the "punishment." Writing counteracts the "isolation," neutralizing the stated goals of imprisonment.

*******

I'm alone in the visiting room on my work assignment, buffing the tile floor and thinking about what I'll write the next day when my friend Tom walks in and taps my shoulder.

I release the lever that powers the machine. "Hey, Bud, I didn't hear you come in."

Tom shakes his head. "Did you hear the news?"

"What news?"

"Clinton commuted the sentences of about 20 people, two from Fort Dix."

"Who'd he let out?"

"It doesn't matter. Sorry, Pal. It should've been you."

I made my choice of not pursuing the clemency application, so I'll live with it and move on, even though I'm disappointed to accept the reality that I missed a genuine opportunity for liberty.

Tony had a clear plan for pursuing my commutation. He intended to use endorsements from my network of mentors and supporters to persuade my former prosecutors and judge that I had earned freedom. If he succeeded in getting that support, he was going to lobby his Washington contacts to bring my petition to the attention of the White House. In light of the president granting clemency to so many, I sense that Tony's strategy might have succeeded. I may have been freed. Thirteen years of imprisonment have institutionalized me, blinding me to the possibility of liberty. With the controversial election of George W. Bush, I've missed my opportunity.

*******

On late February of 2002, I'm standing shoulder-to-shoulder with two hundred prisoners in the television room, listening as the guard shouts out names to distribute mail. My mentor, Bruce, and I still exchange weekly letters. As I work to improve my craft, he's my first reader, one of several who challenge me "to show rather than tell" through my writing. It's a lesson I struggle to learn.

"Santos!" The guard shouts my name.

"Back here, by the microwave," I yell over the noise of the crowd. I'm waiting for an envelope that I expect will include Bruce's comments on one of my manuscript drafts.

The guard continues hollering names, but I tune him out and watch the envelope that works its way back toward me, passing from one man's hand to the next. The envelope looks too small to contain my manuscript, and when I take it from the prisoner who stands in front of me, I look at the return address. It's written in a woman's graceful penmanship, though her name isn't one I recognize.

I open the envelope while still standing amidst all the other prisoners, and I pull out an artistic postcard. It features a print by Henri Lautrec that I admire. Bruce works at infusing my life with art and artists and I smile, knowing he would be proud of my new cultural awareness. When I open the card, curious to know who wrote it, I see that the sender is Carole Goodwin, a former classmate of mine from Shorecrest High School, class of 1982.

Carole and I grew up in Lake Forest Park, Washington, attending school together from the time we were in fifth grade. We spent our summers at the same beach club on Lake Washington. Carole and I were not close but I have a clear memory of walking with her, holding hands, and kissing her once during the celebration following our high school graduation.

Ten years earlier in my sentence, I corresponded with Susan, Carole's younger sister. From Susan I learned that Carole married someone after high school and that she had two children, Michael and Nichole. But my correspondence with Susan came to an end many years ago and I didn't know anything more about the Goodwin sisters. I'm surprised to receive this letter from Carole.

I'm even more surprised by what I read in the card and in her accompanying letter. She's scolding me, telling me how she knows people who became substance abusers, and how as a mother of two children, she abhors drugs, saying that she thinks it's awful that I sold cocaine.

I read Carole's letter again. Apparently, while she was coordinating our 20-year high school reunion, she received an unsolicited e-mail from an anonymous writer asking whether the reunion was for the same graduating class as mine. When Carole requested more information from the sender, he simply wrote that he'd come across my website and was curious. Carole searched the Internet for my site. Reading about my crime and sentencing prompted her to send me her thoughts.

"Hey, Marcello," I say, nudging a friend who was standing next to me as I read Carole's card and letter. "Check this letter out and tell me what you think."

I pass Marcello the letter.

"She sounds angry," he states flatly, handing it back.

"That's what I thought." I fold the letter from Carole back into its envelope along with the card. "I don't get it. If it were someone I didn't know, maybe a law-and-order fanatic, or a prison guard, I'd get it. But this is a woman I grew up with. I kissed her in high school." I shrug my shoulders. "I've been in prison for more than 15 years. Why do you think she'd write to scold me now, after all this time?"

"She's probably a Republican."

"Maybe," I laugh, "but I'm going to write her back. I'll bet I can change her mind."

Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term

Chapter Nine, Section Two

1998-2002 Months 127-180

Gary's deposit solves my first problem of the day, but within hours, a crisis of a different sort erupts. I'm staring at the ticker, watching the Dow drop more than 500 points, worrying that the sell-off will accelerate as the trading day proceeds. I'm frozen to the TV when Al, another prisoner, delivers a message that snaps me out of my zone.

"They've been pagin' you to R&D all mornin'."

At first I think he's joking, but we're not close friends so I doubt he'd play a practical joke on me. I don't understand why the Receive and Discharge department would be paging me. I look at the red arrows on the TV one last time before leaving the television room.

Outside, the warm temperature heats my skin as I make the quarter-mile walk across the compound to R&D. Fumes from the adjacent military base pollute the air, and I plug my ears to block the sound of screeching engines as the jets and giant cargo planes repeatedly land and take off. The market weighs on my mind, but I'm also institutionalized, accustomed to my fixed routine, and wondering why anyone from R&D would want to talk to me. I'm troubled by the unexpected summons.

I knock on the steel door, and wait for the guard.

"What's your name and number?"

I give the guard my red ID card.

"Where've you been? I've been paging you for two hours." The guard scowls at me.

"I didn't hear any of the pages. I was watching TV."

"Roll up," the guard commands, passing me three large duffle bags and then flicking my ID card back at me

"Roll up?" I catch the ID card in mid air. "What do you mean, 'roll up'? Where am I going?"

"Can't tell you that. Get your shit. I've got to pack you out now."

"I need to know what's going on. I'm not supposed to be leaving. There's a mistake." I counter, my pulse racing from the adrenaline surging through my body with this news.

"No mistake. Either pack your bags and bring ̓em up here, or I'll have the officer pack you out. I need all your property here before 1:00 this afternoon. Either way, you're going."

"I'm leaving today?"

"Get your belongings here before 1:00," he orders, slamming the door in my face without answering.

With limited time to gather information, I rush back to my housing unit and hurry from one staff member to another, trying to find out what's happening. I can't find anyone who has information or who cares enough to answer my questions. Finally, I locate Mr. Boatwright, a case manager who spoke with me on occasion about the market. I tell him my problem and he invites me back to his office.

"Give me your number."

I hear him clicking the information onto his keyboard as he stares at the monitor. My heart races and my legs twitch with anxiety, making it hard to stand still.

"You're on your way to Miami."

"Miami? That doesn't make sense. The only prison in Miami is a medium. Did someone raise my security level?"

"Not the FCI," Mr. Boatwright answers, still looking at his screen. "You're going to the detention center."

"What? There's a mistake. I've been in for more than 11 years. Why would I be going to a detention center?" Detention centers hold prisoners who face unresolved criminal charges, but those kinds of problems are behind me.

"Let's see what I can find." I hear him clicking keys again and see that he's reading information. He looks up. "You're going to a state prison. The detention center's only a stop."

My stomach lurches. "Who can fix this mess? It's a mistake. I don't have criminal charges in the state of Florida."

"No one here can fix this. The transfer order came from Washington."

I steady myself with this news. "Okay. Thanks for checking. I've got to use the phone."

I walk out to call my sister and explain all that I've learned. It's already noon, and since the R&D guard only gave me an hour to pack all of my belongings, I ask Julie to call everyone in my support network. This inexplicable transfer to state prison threatens to disrupt my life and I want help from anyone who can undo this mess. I'm intimately familiar with the federal prison system, I know it like I know my own face in the mirror. The rules, the people, the absurdity of it don't faze me at all anymore. But if I transfer to a state prison in Florida, I'll be starting from scratch, facing ridiculous "tests" and challenges from prisoners I don't know and who don't know me. I don't have any doubt that I can master any prison, but I detest the thought of upsetting my routine at Fort Dix.

When I hang up with Julie, I see Gary waiting for me outside the phone room.

"They've been paging you all morning to R&D. Did you hear?"

"I heard. I've got bad news. They're transferring me to a state prison in Florida."

"Florida? Why?"

"No one will tell me. My sister's on the phone now, trying to get in touch with my friends to rally support to fix this mess." This unwelcome news feels like I've just been diagnosed with a terminal illness. We walk to my room and Gary helps me pack my sweats, sneakers, toiletries and books.

"What do you want me to do with the stocks? Should I sell them?" I ask while pulling and tying the draw strings of my three full duffle bags; everything I own fits inside of them.

"Why?"

"If I'm in Florida I won't be able to talk with you."

"That doesn't change anything. Don't worry about talking with me. When you have a chance, write me, tell me what stocks you bought or sold. By the end of the year I'll send the rest of the money to your sister. The transfer doesn't change anything between us."

I'll miss Gary. As we say goodbye it's another reminder that I'm a pawn in this game. I don't know where I'll be tomorrow because someone else moves the pieces that control the external circumstances of my life. All I can do is respond.

It's early on Wednesday morning, my last at Fort Dix. I breathe deeply as I lie on my bed, listening to the whir of the generator outside my window, Toro's light snoring, and the occasional footsteps of other prisoners who walk to the bathroom down the hall. I know that I only have a few more minutes of peace before the guard arrives.

I'll miss my two-man room in Fort Dix. These are the best living conditions I've had since I've been in prison. I arrived here in April of 1996 and I had to wait 28 months for enough seniority before I could transfer from a 12-man room to "preferred housing." I'll miss the standard twin mattress that rests on springs, I'll miss the two sliding windows that aren't blocked with bars, and I'll miss being able to look up at the moon. It shines through now, lighting the white, bare, concrete-block walls of the room.

Mostly, I'll miss the windowless wooden entry door with its yellow doorknob that turns. The door isn't any different from the type found in a typical home, but it's fundamentally different from the industrial strength steel doors used in most prisons. Once I leave here, I won't be able to close the door to separate myself from the chaos of prison and escape into the privacy of my room, or at least the illusion of privacy.

I hear keys clinking and heavy boots on the tile floor outside my room and I know it's time. I've been trying to enjoy the solitude of this final night but my heart pounds, as I know that I'll soon be locked in chains again.

"Santos," the guard barks as he opens the door, oblivious to the disruption this transfer is about to bring to my life. "Report to R&D."

I'm the only prisoner walking on the compound. I see stars in the clear sky and the moon illuminates rustling leaves of maple trees. The cold morning wind chills my face. Shivering, I take one last look at the red brick buildings and knock on the steel door of R&D, bracing myself for the indignities of another BOP transfer.

The guard locks me in a holding cell with other prisoners I recognize. I stretch, sit on the concrete floor, and rest my back against the wall. Through the door I can hear chains clanking against the concrete floor, signaling that my unexpected transfer is imminent. Guards are untangling and preparing the requisite heavy metal shackles they'll secure around my waist, wrists, and ankles. I hate this.

We're processed out and marched onto the bus, bound for Stewart Air Force Base. I look through the bars on the tinted windows at the people driving in their cars only a few yards away–families, businessmen, and couples.

I strain my head to watch a woman in the passenger seat of a white sports car. She's rubbing the back of a man's neck. He's about my age, probably her husband, wearing a crisp white shirt, pale blue tie. This glimpse of the outside world leaves me feeling deeply alienated. It's been so long since I've felt the touch of a woman and I miss it. Observing the couple's simple act of affection causes me to shake my head and withdraw into my seat. I close my eyes but I can't block out the sight of that woman's hand.

For hours the bus rolls along the interstate before pulling onto the military base. It stops on the tarmac and guards pass us sack lunches while we wait for the marshal's plane to land. With my wrists cuffed to the chain around my waist, it's a challenge to free the cheese sandwich from the clear plastic baggie. It's only white bread and cheese. The bread is moist and spongy in my mouth–bland, but easy to swallow. I bend over to eat the whole sandwich, but since I'm dreading the airsickness that's sure to come, I leave the crackers and juice in the bag.

The unmarked white plane lands and guards carrying assault rifles position themselves around it. Men and women in chains step off and guards order them into columns for searches. I've seen this predictable routine time and again, and it never fails to disgust me. I prefer the routines of prison to the dehumanizing rituals of transit. When my turn comes I climb the stairs into the belly of the plane, drop into my seat, buckle my belt, and I close my eyes. I don't want to talk.

When the plane lands in Oklahoma City, we exit directly into the terminal reserved for the FTC, or Federal Transit Center. It's a new "holdover destination" for prisoners transferring to prisons across state lines. This FTC is a model of efficiency, processing prisoners like FedEx handles packages. After four hours in holding cells crammed with hundreds of prisoners, I reach my housing unit just in time to be ordered into my cell for the evening lockdown. I won't be able to call my sister to find out whether she's made any progress in trying to resolve this fiasco, and the disconnect bums me out.

My cellmate arrives and I ask his name after the guard locks us in.

"I'm Paul." He says, shaking my hand. I sense that he's young and afraid, and the encounter temporarily throws me back to 1987, when my own term began.

"I'm Michael. Where're you headed?"

"Yazoo, Mississippi." He sets his bedroll on the top rack.

"Have you been anywhere else?" I ask, trying to ease his apparent anxiety.

"I was in the Houston detention center and I got sentenced two weeks ago."

"How much time did you get?"

"Ten years."

"Don't worry. It's going to pass easier than you think." I know what he's going through.

"How long have you been in?"

"Eleven years. I was about your age when I started. How old are you?"

"Twenty-five."

I tie my sheets around the vinyl mat on the lower rack and describe for Paul what he can expect. Although I've never been to Yazoo, I know that it's a low-security prison and the prisoners will behave similarly to the men I was with at Fort Dix. Paul asks questions for hours. By talking with him about steps he can take to improve his life, I ease my own tensions.

The guards unlock the cell doors well before dawn and my heart sinks when they call Paul instead of me. Wanting to get on with the transfer and settle into a routine, I tighten the green wool blanket around my body and pull it over my head as a shield against the forced air shooting through the ceiling vent above my head. I sleep off and on, accepting that this is going to be another miserable day of waiting

The sound of wheels from the breakfast cart rolling across the concrete floor signals me that it's time to get up. Guards traverse the long aisles of cells, thrusting keys into locks that click loudly as the heavy deadbolts are released. Clatter soon fills the unit as prisoners emerge from their cells, looking for familiar faces. Impromptu conversations begin with discussions about where prisoners are going, where they're coming from, common acquaintances, and what's going on in prisons across the country.

I'm guessing that 200 of us share the two-tiered, triangular shaped pod. As I wait in line for my breakfast tray I scan the room, looking for familiar faces, or anyone I might have known previously. This FTC houses prisoners of every security level. Some serve multiple life sentences for murder convictions, others serve sentences of only a few months for mail fraud convictions. I recognize tattoos from various prison gangs that rival each other. Although most prisoners in transit want to reach their next stop without problems, I'm hyper alert for the tension that can explode into unexpected violence.

At the food cart an orderly passes me a green plastic tray with corn flakes and two cartons of milk. I walk to a table with four plastic swivel chairs and sit down. Another prisoner sits across from me. He wears his black hair long and ties it in several places down his back, making a tight ponytail.

"Where're you headed?" I ask, stirring my cereal.

"Miami."

"Really? Me too. I'm going to the detention center." He looks up and I notice a crooked scar beneath his right eye.

"Are you going to a state prison?" he asks.

"That's what I've been told. You?"

He nods, confirming that he received the same information.

"Where'd you come from?" I ask.

"Petersburg, Virginia."

"The medium or the low?" I want to know his security level.

"I was in the low."

"I was in the low at Fort Dix. My name's Michael."

"Ty." We shake hands.

"What did you hear about this transfer?"

"I didn't hear anything except that the order for the transfer came from DC. Another guy sitting next to me on the plane said he was going on the same program. His case manager told him the feds were processing some state prisoners into the federal system and exchanging federal prisoners with the Florida state system."

"Where was he coming from?"

"Big Springs."

"That's a low-security prison," I say.

"Are you from Florida?"

"Miami," he nods.

"How 'bout you?"

"I was living there when I got arrested, but I'm from Seattle."

"You probably got rounded up because the computer thinks you're from Florida."

"Maybe so. I guess we'll find out what's up when we get there."

When the phones become available, I call Julie to update her on where I am and what I've learned from Ty. She's already spoken with Carol Zachary and Bruce McPherson, and they're all working the phones to get the transfer reversed. Bruce spoke with Sylvia McCollum at BOP headquarters. Through discreet inquiries Sylvia learned that administrators assigned me as part of a prisoner exchange program with the state of Florida because my registration number identified me as being a Florida resident. I'm relieved to learn that my friends and family are using their influence to show that although I was arrested in Florida, I'm not a resident of that state.

*******

The plane lands at the marshals' airstrip adjacent to the Miami International Airport. As I leave the plane with the screeching sound of jet engines in my ears, the Miami humidity blasts me like a furnace. For a moment, I look around to admire the beds of tropical flowers and palm trees that I've missed.

Two buses, three white vans, and four cars await us. I'm tired of seeing guards carrying assault rifles, but they're a part of every landscape where prisoner transport takes place. After inspecting my chains, then searching and identifying me, BOP guards direct me to a bus. I notice the familiar street signs of Flagler, Biscayne Boulevard, I-95, and Palmetto Expressway as we drive.

The bus approaches a high-rise building in a downtown district that I don't recognize. We pause in a driveway while a corrugated steel gate rolls open. The bus pushes through, drives down a ramp, and stops inside the dark basement of the Miami Federal Detention Center.

After I complete the requisite forms, fingerprints, mug shots, strip searches, interviews, and hours of waiting in holding cages, I carry my bedroll to join nine other men for an elevator ride to the eleventh floor. We exit into a foyer and the guard unlocks a steel door that opens to a brightly lit, two-tiered housing unit. I see Ty waiting by the guard's station. The deafening noise, steel tubular railings, stationary tables and stools remind me of the first housing unit I was in after my arrest.

I see a familiar face in the crowd, though I don't recall his name or where I saw him last. He recognizes me and walks over.

"Yo, wasn't youse up in Atlanta back in da day?" He's my height but carries an extra 100 pounds.

"That's right. I was in B-cellblock. Michael Santos," I extend my hand.

"Ace, Homie." He bumps fists, gives me a hug, even though I don't remember speaking to him before. "What'cha doin' up in here dog? Catch a new case?"

"I'm in transit, on my way to a state prison."

"State joint? What up wit' dat?" he looks at me suspiciously.

"I don't know. They packed me out. A few others are transferring with me. None of us know where we're going or why."

"Ain't none a youse got no state charges?"

I shake my head. "We've all been down for awhile. How about you? What're you doing here?"

The detention center holds people facing new criminal charges and prisoners in transit. It's not a place where prisoners ordinarily serve their sentences.

"New case, Dawg," he shrugs. "I got out in '93. Been on the streets for fi' years fo' I caught dis new joint."

"What're you looking at now?"

"It's all she wrote, Homie. Life. I'm headin' back to the A-T-L. Know what I'm sayin'"

"Sorry."

"Ain't nothin' Dawg. You know how we do."

I shake my head, not knowing what to say. "Let me get over into this line, see about getting a cell. We'll talk more once I settle in."

"You got it Dawg. Yo, I got ev'thin' you need. Dis my house up in here." He pounds his chest.

"Thanks, Ace."

"Ain't nothing." He puts his fist out, we bump knuckles again, and I walk away wondering when I will leave this madness behind.

At the guard's station I stand in line behind Ty, hoping the guard will assign us to the same cell.

"I don't have any empty cells," the guard says. He sends me to the second tier. I give the cell door a courtesy tap before I pull it open. A man wearing an orange jumpsuit identical to mine lies on the lower rack reading an issue of Maxim.

"What's up? You new?" he asks, leaning up on his right elbow.

I nod. "I'm Michael Santos," I set my bedroll on the top rack. "In transit," I say.

"Where to?"

I give the man my story. Then I get his. His name is Rico and he's deliberating on whether to accept the government's plea offer of 10 years. As we talk, I advise him to take the offer, not needing to know anything more than he's charged with a drug crime.

"But I've got a baby girl. I don't think I can do 10 years."

"No one does when they start. If you don't take this deal, chances are you'll serve a lot longer and you'll serve it in tougher prisons. With 10 years you'll only serve about eight, and you might get a year off that if you go through the drug treatment program.

"I don't think I can do it."

*******

Chapter Nine:

1998-2002 Months 127-180

The summer of 1998 advances me into my 11th continuous year of imprisonment, and I'm coming to the conclusion that it's not so bad. Human beings can adapt to any environment. As crazy as it may sound, I'm now used to imprisonment. It has become the only life that I know, and I really know Fort Dix, the low-security prison where I'm serving this portion of my sentence.

Fort Dix is a big prison, with three separate compounds. About 2,400 other prisoners share space with me inside this low-security facility, and an adjacent facility of the same size is on the other side of these fences. A few hundred men serve their sentences in a minimum-security facility outside of the gated perimeter. My studies and preparations for the future keep my thoughts focused on where I'm going, not where I am.

Law school was an important step toward my pursuit of financial stability, as the population of prisoners on this compound could have provided me with sufficient business opportunities to reach my goal of earning $10,000 a year as a jailhouse lawyer. But Gary's offer to fund stock investments tempts me. With his offer to provide capital, possibilities open for me to become financially independent much sooner. The stock market is an engine that is driving economic growth in America, and with what Gary describes as "pocket change," I can seize a life-changing opportunity. I'm not going to let it pass.

Another benefit of shifting my focus to the stock market is that it can help divert unwanted attention I've begun receiving from Lieutenant Nesbitt. I think that I knew of Nesbitt several years ago when he was a lieutenant at Fairton, before he transferred to Fort Dix. I would've avoided him then at Fairton and I avoid him now in Fort Dix.

Rumor has it that Nesbitt cultivates snitches that dial him into the flow of the prison underground. Apparently someone gave him my number, because I feel the intense stare from his icy blue eyes while I walk toward the chow hall's dish room with my plastic green tray. As usual, he's standing in the center of the noisy dining room with both hands clutching the stem of his long, black flashlight that he positions across his crotch. His barrel-shaped body is stuffed into his rumpled BOP uniform and he's alert, turning his head from side to side, scanning every face in the crowd until he finds what he's looking for. We've never spoken before or had any interaction, but Nesbitt reminds me of a schoolyard bully, and today he's after me. I feign indifference as I pass by, but my efforts to avoid him fail.

"Santos!" He jerks his head to motion me over.

I step toward him and stand, suspicious of what he wants.

"How's the law business?" He smirks as he begins his interrogation.

"What do you mean?"

He glares into my eyes. "You know exactly what I mean, Counselor."

"I've finished the first year of law school, if that's what you mean."

Nesbitt grips his flashlight harder, with both hands.

"Understand one thing, inmate. This is my institution. Got it?"

I nod.

"I know everything that goes on here, and I know what you're up to. You're running a law clinic and I'm gonna nail you. When I do, I'm gonna write you up, send you back to a higher security institution." A cold smile tightens his lips as he waits for me to grovel.

I chuckle because he's a funny little round ball of a man. "Lieutenant Nesbitt, with all due respect," I tell him, "I've been in prison for 11 years and I've got 15 more to go. I'm sleeping on the top bunk in a 12-man room. I'm not doing anything that I'm not within my rights to do. But know this, I'm more than 2,000 miles away from Seattle, and wherever you send me, I'll be closer to home. So if you can arrange a transfer," I shrug nonchalantly, "do me the favor. Higher security doesn't mean anything to me. I can study law anywhere."

"Watch your step."

"Is that it? Can I go?"

"Get outta my face!"

If it were a different time, I suspect he would've used his flashlight to club me. But I walk away from him without incident, dropping my tray at the dish room and returning to my housing unit. I walked into this phase of my journey knowing that a quasi-career as a jailhouse lawyer could invite scrutiny from staff, though I'm surprised that Nesbitt harassed me today. Other than reading Gary's case, I haven't done any legal work.

Someone tipped off Nesbitt, and I'm wondering whether Gary told anyone about paying me to read his legal papers. Predictably, I find him sitting alone playing solitary chess at a picnic table beneath a maple tree. Hundreds of prisoners cluster in groups at other tables on the dry, prickly grass.

"I've heard that game's more challenging when you play against someone else," I tell him.

He looks up at me.

"Do you play?" he inquires indifferently.

"I can play at the intermediate level," I answer him.

"By whose standards?"

I laugh. "Not the International Chess Federation's."

"Sit." He invites me to join him, gesturing toward the empty seat.

"I haven't played in a while," I say, giving the disclaimer I may need later as Gary sets up the pieces on the board. He will play with the white pieces and I'm going to play with the black.

"Not to worry," he says with his Russian accent. "To make things fair, I'll give you my queen and one other piece."

"Come on. You can't give me the most powerful piece on the board. I'm not that bad."

"My queen, and any other piece of your choice," he insists, waiting for my selection. "I'm not a...how you say, an intermediate player."

"Okay, I'll take the castle."

He hands me the two pieces. "It's not a 'castle'," he corrects me. "In chess, we call the piece a rook." Gary advances the king's pawn and our game begins.

I meet his pawn to battle for the board's center.

"You've forfeited two major pieces. To win, all I need to do is force you into exchanges," I say, declaring my strategy.

Gary nods his head. "Good. You've figured it all out early." He brings out his knight, not particularly concerned with my game plan.

"Nesbitt stopped me as I was leaving the chow hall this morning," I tell him while pushing a pawn.

"Oh? What did that pathetic excuse for a human being want?" Gary brings out his bishop.

I'm staring at the chessboard, deliberating possible moves. "He asked me about my legal business." I push another pawn.

Gary advances his other knight, on the attack. "Is he bothering you?"

"Not bothering me," I'm slow to move, trying to figure out how best to exchange a piece. "He's fishing for something. Did you tell anyone about the $2,000 you sent to my sister?"

He advances a knight again. "Who I am going to tell, the rap stars?" He jerks his head toward the men singing and grooving to the beat of urban music on our right. "Maybe the Mafia?" He indicates the group of men chomping on cigars around the bocce court on our left, rolling red and green balls.

Gary's pieces encroach but I improve my position by bringing out a knight. "I guess the mailroom must've alerted him to all the legal books I've had sent in."

"Check," Gary captures a pawn with his knight and forces me to move my king. "Did you call your sister?"

I'm on defense now, moving the king out of position. "No," I answer him.

"Check," he says, pinning my king with his second knight. "Call her. My partner sent a cashier's check for $50,000. She should have it by now. The second half is coming from Hong Kong next month. When my partner receives it, he'll send that, too."

I move my king, trying to keep him from a checkmate, but I'm distracted by this revelation that Gary's for real. I'll soon have the money to buy more stock in Yahoo!, the leading Internet search engine.

"You'd better pick stocks better than you play chess. Checkmate," he declares.

Our game ends after 16 moves, not enough time for me to capture more than the two pieces he forfeited. He challenges me to a second match, this time keeping all of his pieces on the board at the game's start, but handicapping himself by insisting that the only possibility for him to win is to checkmate me on a specific square with a specific piece that he identifies before we start. When I say "impossible," he shrugs, and then goes about proving me wrong. It turns out he was a chess Grand Master at 16.

*******

When I call my sister, Julie tells me that she's received the first $50,000 installment. Even though it doesn't belong to me, the money validates my sense of self. Gary, a man who earned tens of millions by judging character and competence in others, handed me $50,000 and promised more. It's a sign of trust, more tangible than any I've ever received. It isn't lost on me that I cultivated this trust while living inside of prison fences.

"Buy 300 shares of America Online and 400 shares of Yahoo!"

Julie calculates the total cost of the purchase. "But that's more than $80,000," she sounds alarmed.

"That's why you opened a margin account," I remind her. "You're borrowing $30,000 against the equity. It's going to increase in value and when it does you'll borrow against it to buy more stock. We'll keep buying until the account grows to 1,000 shares of AOL and 1,000 shares of Yahoo!"

"How do you know the stock is going to increase? What if the value goes down instead? Then what?"

"Just place the order. Let me worry about that. I'll call you every morning before the market opens and advise you on what to do."

Julie promises to make the daily stock orders for me, then asks about law school and whether she should send the tuition payment for a second year.

"I'm done with law school," I tell her. "I'm not going to let this opportunity pass. Order me subscriptions for Investor's Business Daily, Forbes, and Fortune. I'm going to learn everything I can about the money game."

My routine changes. Instead of studying legal procedures and contracts, I'm now as loyal to CNBC as any Wall Street fanatic. The ticker streams news that ignites my adrenaline. When the guards clear the morning census count at 5:00, I'm out of my room, down the stairs, and first in the television room to watch Joe Kernan, David Faber, Tom Costello, Mark Haines, and the other anchors as they report the morning's business news. I have a calculator and I consult it repeatedly as I observe and record market indicators, futures, trading patterns in London, Frankfurt, Paris, Tokyo, and Hong Kong in my journal.

*******

It's 4:30 a.m. on August 18, 1998, and I haven't slept at all. My neck aches from the tension gripping my shoulders as I pace my room, waiting for the guards to clear count. I've been on my rack listening through my Sony headphones to Bloomberg radio broadcasts. The news reports that Russia is devaluing its currency, devastating financial markets around the world. My account stands to lose tens of thousands in equity when the opening bell rings on Wall Street at 9:30, and I know a margin call will come. With my outstanding debt, I'll either have to raise more cash or sell into weakness, taking huge losses.

I'm in a two-man room now, and my roommate, Toro, a Dominican man I hardly know, sleeps soundly. He snores, wearing a watch cap to cover his eyes from the early morning light. I'd like to relax so easily, but I have real money on the line and I'm anxious to watch the CNBC ticker even though I know I'll see red arrows pointing down across the board.

Finally, the count clears and I rush to the TV room. When I turn on the news I see exactly what I expect. The market is set for the worst point drop in history. The prices of AOL and Yahoo! rise like rockets with good news, but I'm certain they'll drop like bricks today. Gary doesn't usually wake until 9:00 and when he does, I'll have to give him the news. According to my calculations, the drop in equity that I anticipate will require that I deposit $10,000 to reduce my debt from $30,000 to $20,000. We began the Internet stocks venture less than a month ago. Obviously I didn't foresee an event such as Russia's currency devaluation causing such a disaster.

Gary strolls into the TV room carrying his white coffee mug advertising "Nescafé" in bold red letters on the front. I'm at the table in front of the TV with my eyes fixed on the ticker scrolling across the bottom of the screen.

"Why the sad face? Somebody die?" he jokes.

"Not yet. But when the market opens we're going to get slaughtered."

He sips from his mug, looks at the monitor, and nods his head. "What happened?"

"The Russian government made a change with its currency valuation last night, causing a global financial panic. I was going to wake you but I knew you'd come down before the market opened."

"Never wake me for money problems."

"We've got problems. If I don't deposit $10,000 this morning, I'm going to have to sell at much lower prices than I paid to buy."

Gary takes another sip. "Has your opinion on the companies or business changed?"

"Yahoo! and AOL are still the strongest Internet companies. That hasn't changed, but the market has changed. Until it recovers, the account can't sustain so much debt."

"So what's the big deal? Call your sister and get me her bank's routing number. I'll have a friend wire transfer $10,000 to her before lunch."

"That simple?"

Gary laughs. "One phone call. That's all it takes. Come, let's go to the gym."

"Not today. I need to watch the market."

He shrugs. "Don't let this go to your head. Get me that routing number and I'll take care of it."

*******

Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term by Michael Santos. Chapter 8.3

Julie and Tim agree to finance my tuition and book expenses with the understanding that I'll reimburse them from my earnings. When the mailroom delivers my coursework for first-year law, the stack of textbooks reaches halfway up my thigh. As I fan through thousands of fine-print pages optimism surges through me. I'm making progress, feeling a renewed energy, convinced that these books will change my life.

I create a new daily schedule, committing myself to wake and to begin studying after the guards complete the 3:00 a.m. census, allowing myself three hours of reading and note-taking before I exercise. Then I can study again from 9:00 a.m. until 8:00 p.m. By the end of 1998, I'll finish my first-year courses. The self-imposed structure brings the illusion that I'm back in control of my life.

A scandalous affair between President Clinton and a young White House intern dominates the news, but I barely notice. I have tunnel vision again, devoting all of my energies toward mastering a new vocabulary, learning how to research the law, and writing lengthy papers.

After sending in my first batch of assignments, I move on to the next course. It's early morning, still dark outside, and I'm studying in bed. My tiny book light is clipped on the metal chair beside my rack, illuminating the thick textbook propped upon my thighs. Eleven other men sleep nearby, but my earplugs muffle the sound of their snores. I'm invigorated by the work. Instead of wasting time, I'm developing skills that can never be taken away.

Later in the week, when I open the envelope containing my first graded assignments, I'm deeply disappointed. Because of my experience at Hofstra and Mercer, I expected these law professors to challenge me, to expose flaws in my reasoning, to show an interest in my work. I invested more than 100 hours reading and writing nearly 50 pages of carefully researched reasoning and arguments. Despite the efforts I made, the professor only drew a red circle around the "A" in the top right corner of the first page, and that letter grade represented the extent of his commentary. I toss the envelope to the bottom of my locker in disgust, doubtful that anyone read what I wrote.

Now I understand what Bruce meant when he said this law degree would cheapen my other degrees. The costly tuition appears to cover the expense of a diploma, not for an education in the law. But I didn't enroll to receive another piece of paper to frame and hang. I could've simply purchased the books and studied on my own. Although I wouldn't earn a degree, I would gain the same knowledge through a completely independent study. Nevertheless, I've paid the non-refundable fee for the first year so I continue.

* * * * * * *

It's 4:00 a.m., and I've found a quiet room where I'm finishing my final assignment for the term. My legal dictionary, a book on case law, and two supplementary texts lay open on the table. When the door behind me opens I turn around, surprised that anyone else is awake at this hour. It's Gary, one of the 400 prisoners assigned to my unit. Wearing gray sweats, slip-on shoes, and carrying a plastic mug with steaming coffee, he makes his way through the room with quiet footsteps and stands in front me.

We've never spoken before. Although I recognize faces, I prefer to remain cloistered in my own space, absorbed with my books and studies. I cherish the early morning solitude and Gary's intrusion annoys me.

"I heard you study law," he says in a strong Russian accent, looking down at me.

I lean back in my chair, lock my hands behind my head and yawn as I stretch. "That's right," I answer, finally making eye contact with him.

"I need some help with my case."

"Can't help you. I'm wrapped up with school. You should check out the law library. A few guys do legal work there."

Gary moves around the table and stands beside me, sipping his coffee, looking at my books. "I've watched you. Very serious. You study all the time. Don't talk much. Are you almost finished?"

"I'm finishing first year. I'll need two more years to complete the program."

"Read my case," Gary proposes, taking another sip from his coffee mug. "I want your opinion. My lawyer sent boxes of paper from my appeal. I don't understand. You could help."

"No. I can't. I've got too much to read."

Gary nods his head. "Help me. I'll pay you well."

His offer to pay is a novel concept to me and I inquire further. "What is it that you want me to read?"

"I lost my appeal. Now my attorneys want to file a new motion in court. Why? I want to know."

"I can't answer that question without reading all of your transcripts, your appeal, and researching the court's rulings. That would take weeks and I can't afford to take that time away from my studies."

"I don't want those guys in the law library. I want you. Money's no object. Name your price."

I stretch again, thinking of a number that will send him away, or, if he accepts, make the effort worth my while. "Two thousand dollars."

"Okay. Give me instructions on where to wire the funds."

"No wire. I'll give you an address. Think about it, because all I'm going to do is read everything, then tell you my opinion. I'm not filing any motions or writing any briefs. If the check arrives, I'll come by, pick up the boxes and start reading. If not, I'll know you changed your mind."

"Give me the address."

* * * * * * *

"Do you know someone from New York?" Julie asks during our phone call.

"Why?"

"Because I received a check in the mail from a New York address. A note says it's for Gary's case. We don't know anyone from New York who would send us $2,000. I figured it must be someone you know."

A week has passed since Gary visited me in the quiet room. Expecting him to be as full of hot air as most other prisoners, I didn't forewarn my sister that she might receive a check. News of the money's arrival makes me smile. For the first time since I've been in prison, I've got money of my own.

"Yes, I know Gary. Sorry I didn't write you about it before. I'll send you a letter this week explaining everything."

"Well what am I supposed to do with the check?"

"Do you need it?"

"We don't need it. Do you want me to save it for you?"

"If you don't need it, I want you to open an online brokerage account. Make it a margin account. We're going to use it to buy stock. I want to start building a stock portfolio that can grow during the rest of the time I have to serve."

"What should I buy?"

"When the account's open, buy Yahoo!."

"How many shares?"

"Buy as much as you can. If you open a margin account, the broker will let you borrow against the stock to double up, enabling you to purchase $3,000 worth of the stock. We'll add to the account over time."

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" My sister doesn't have any experience investing in stocks and she's worried about exposure.

"Just call the broker and open the account. He'll confirm that you can do this." I know that Julie will help.

I don't have access to computers, but I've been reading about the Internet in the Wall Street Journal for several years. I've seen the phenomenon of such companies as Netscape, America Online, and Amazon.com. I'm certain the Internet will change the world, influencing people's lives more than the telephone, television, and radio combined. Although I may not be able to use it until I'm free, I want a stock portfolio that will allow me to own a slice of the companies I expect will dominate the Web, and I intend to start with Yahoo!.

* * * * * * *

I walk into Gary's room to invite him for a walk. He's sitting on his bunk, leaning back against the wall, reading The Deptford Trilogy by the Canadian novelist Robertson Davies. He reads novels to improve his English, which he speaks well. He's also fluent in Spanish, French, and Russian. I've read every page of the transcripts from Gary's trial, as well as all accompanying documents that he gave me. Court papers have a tendency to portray defendants in an unflattering light. Gary's papers, on the other hand, expose a remarkable history of a self-made man.

After earning tens of millions as a mining entrepreneur in Russia, Gary relocated to the United States where he began accumulating blocks of commercial real estate. Criminal charges led to his trial, and although a jury convicted Gary of one count related to complexities with his businesses' accounting, the jury acquitted him of several others. He has served two years since his conviction and faces one more.

"You've read through everything?"

He hops down from the rack and laces up his sneakers.

"I've read everything. But let's talk outside."

The summer of 1998 brings high humidity to the East Coast. It's against prison rules to take off our shirts, so within seconds of stepping outside my tank top is damp with sweat and stuck to my back. Both of us carry plastic water bottles and wear sunglasses. Under his white baseball cap Gary looks much younger than 36, too young to have built and operated all the businesses his court papers describe.

"My lawyers want another hundred grand to file the last motion," he says.

"I'll bet you never thought justice cost so much."

Gary waves his hand. "I'm tired of all this, with the trial and the appeal going on and on. This mess has already cost me more than a million. I just want it over."

"You've already served two years. No one can take that away."

"But I've served every day thinking it would be my last, that I'd win something and be released."

"There comes a time, Gary, when it's easier to let go, to accept the sentence and focus on the future you can control, rather than hanging on to the past you can't change."

I explain to Gary my interpretation of his case. The only mechanism available for him to seek relief is a habeas corpus petition. Statistics show that courts refuse to grant relief through those petitions nine out of ten times, and at least nine months would pass before he received a hearing.

"With less than 12 months before release," I explain, "I don't think it makes sense to put yourself on that emotional roller coaster, not to mention the cost of another legal motion."

"I don't care about the money."

"Your lawyers must know that."

"Why do you say that?"

"They represented you through trial and on your appeal. It's not like they'll have to read all the papers again. The price they're asking to prepare the motion seems about ten times too high."

"Could you write the motion from here?"

"I wouldn't want to try."

"Why not? I'd rather pay you than them."

I'm silent, thinking, as gravel crunches beneath our steps. Gary's offer isn't lost on me. I know he's in the prisoner mindset of desperation, clinging to hope that something will free him and he's willing to pay for that delusion.

"Gary, you don't have any upside to filing this motion. You'll be out by the time a judge hears it, and even if he does hear the motion, you'll probably lose. I'd rather show you strategies that will help ease the last 12 months you're going to serve. Regardless of what you pay, the reality is that you're going to serve your time. I'll serve it with you."

Gary takes his ball cap off and scratches his head. We walk alongside bleachers where several hundred prisoners cheer for the teams playing softball.

"So there's nothing we can do?"

"I wouldn't say that. With the right frame of mind we can figure out a plan to make your last year pass easier than the first two. It will pass. If you keep waiting for something to change through the courts, on the other hand, this last year will hang over your head like a dark cloud, making you miserable."

"I can't believe you've done 11 years. How can you put up with this for so long without going crazy?"

"I've got a deliberate plan. Every day I work hard to prepare myself for the time when I'll go home."

"But 45 years? How do you prepare for that?"

"I won't serve that long. The only way I'd serve that long would be if I lost good time from disciplinary actions, and I haven't lost any yet. I know what I'm doing. I completely understand prisons and the way to avoid problems. Since I'm always working toward the next goal, time passes quickly."

"How much time do you have left?" he asks.

"I'm supposed to get out in 2013. Fifteen more years."

"Fifteen years! You say it like it's nothing, like you're asking for a glass of water. I'd rather hang myself."

"No you wouldn't. You'd find your way. Anyone can serve time in prison. The challenge is to serve it in a way that will make you emerge stronger than when you started."

"How can you stay strong through 15 more years of this?"

"By owning it. I know where I am and I know the problems that await me. I spend every day working to prepare for what's ahead. That strategy makes me feel like I'm the captain of my own ship. It's the reason I'm studying law. To prepare."

"To prepare for what? To be a lawyer?"

"I'm never going to be a lawyer. But by studying law I can make myself useful in here. I'll earn money by helping other prisoners who want to fight their cases. You were the first person to pay me. When I walk out of here, I intend to have enough money saved to build a life for myself."

"Two thousand dollars?" Gary scoffs. "You've been in here too long, my friend. That isn't enough for one dinner bill."

"For you, maybe. Remember, I'm starting from zero, and I've got 15 years for the money to grow. You paid me seed money. I intend to keep adding to it through my work. It's already tripled. By the time I'm released, I'll have enough to buy more than dinner. I'll be able to start my life."

"What do you mean it tripled?"

"I used it to buy stock."

"In the stock market?"

"That's right."

"How do you do that from here?"

As we round the soccer field, I explain. "I spoke with the prison's head of security, the captain, and he confirmed that I was within my rights to advise my sister on stock purchases. By using the $2,000 from you, and borrowing another $1,000 from the brokerage house on margin, Julie purchased 50 shares of Yahoo! at $60 per share. Then the stock split two-for-one, giving us 100 shares. Those shares now trade at $70, giving our portfolio $7,000 in value. With the $1,000 we owe in margin debt, the account now has $6,000 in equity. That's triple the $2,000 you paid me."

"I've been involved in every kind of business, but I've never understood the stock market. If you would have had $2 million and you made the same purchase, are you telling me you would've had $6 million now?" Leveraged trading intrigues Gary.

I laugh. "Theoretically. But if I had $2 million, I wouldn't have made the same purchase."

"Why not?"

"Like you said, $2,000 isn't much money. My brother-in-law suggested I sock it away in a Certificate of Deposit. It would've been safer, but I was willing to take more risk. The company I bought stock in is new, and most investors say it's overpriced because the Internet is all hype. If the Internet grows, on the other hand, then this company will grow with it, causing the stock price to surge. I could take the risk with $2,000, but if I had $2 million, I'd choose safer investments."

"You're too young to be making safe investments. That's the problem with this country. Too many people are afraid of risk. Remember one lesson from a man who knows: the timid never make fortunes."

"I'm not trying to build a fortune. All I want is enough in the bank so that I'm not desperate for an immediate paycheck when I get out."

"So write my motion. I'll pay you a hundred grand if you can get me out of prison."

"I can't get myself out of prison, and writing a motion isn't going to get you out either, I'm sorry to say. Instead of thinking about getting out, why don't we figure out what you can do while you're here to pass the time more easily?"

Gary shakes his head. "I can't serve 12 more months."

"Yes you can," I laugh. "I'll serve it with you, and when you go, I'll be another year closer to home."

"How about you teach me about the stock market?"

"I can tell you what to read and how I learned over the years, but I don't have time to teach."

"I'll make you a deal. I'll send you the hundred thousand I was going to spend on this motion. You won't owe me anything. Just show me what you're going to buy, how much, and explain the reason why. The only condition is that you don't play it safe. I want you to take the same risk that you took with the $2,000. Try to triple the money I send, turn it into $300,000. If we lose, we lose. If we win, we split the profits."

"What about the taxes?"

"You pay the taxes. We'll split the profit after the taxes."

"Gary, I read how much you earn. To you, $100,000 is pocket change, but to me, where I am at this stage in my life, that may as well be all the money in the world. I couldn't speculate with it the same way I'd speculate with $2,000. In order to turn the $2,000 into $6,000, I had to borrow against the equity by using margin. The leverage I used is what made the investment triple."

"So use leverage."

"I could do that, but if the market goes the other way, and it could, I'd either have to dump the stock in a down market to raise cash, or you would have to put up more money for the margin call in order to hold the position."

"Too many details. I believe in people, and you're my guy. I'm betting on you to play it smart enough for both of us. Yes?" he nods his head. "Be aggressive. If you lose everything, not to worry. You won't owe me a dime, and I'll send you $50,000 more that you can use to start your life. How does that sound?" He puts out his hand. "Deal?"

"Okay." We shake hands.

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

Chapter eight, part two.

Months 103-127

While planning for law school I continue to build a strong network of support. To overcome the resistance and bias I expect to encounter, I put together a package that I call my portfolio. It describes my crime, expresses remorse, and articulates the steps I've taken over the past decade to atone. The portfolio includes copies of my university degrees and endorsement letters from the distinguished academics who support me. I'm certain that a wide support network will open more options upon my release and I send the portfolios to people who might sponsor my efforts.

My strategy is simple. I'll continue what I began before I was sentenced, when I wrote to Stuart Eskenazi, the journalist who covered my trial for readers of the Tacoma News Tribune. In my letter to him, I expressed my intentions to live usefully in prison and redeem myself by preparing for a law-abiding life upon release.

The new portfolio I'm creating not only records my accomplishments but also shows my progress toward the clearly defined goals I set. In it, I ask readers to consider me as the man I'm becoming rather than the one who made bad decisions in his early 20s. Taking a lesson from business stories I read in The Wall Street Journal, I supplement the portfolio by writing quarterly reports every 90 days and I distribute the reports to those in my growing support network. My quarterly reports describe my projects, the ways that they contribute to my preparations for release, and my challenges. They are my accountability tools.

By living transparently I invite people to hold me accountable, to judge me by what I do, not by what I say. Any prisoner can say he wants to succeed upon release, but my daily commitment and the actions I take allows others to evaluate whether they should continue giving me their trust, sponsorship, and support.

With pride in my progress, and the ways I've responded to the challenges of imprisonment, my parents share the portfolio with others. My father gives a copy to his friend, Norm Zachary, and Norm passes it along to his sister, Carol Zachary. I'm thrilled when my father tells me over the phone that Carol wants to help and that I should call her. She is a married mother of two who lives in Washington, D.C., where her husband, Jon Axelrod, practices law.

"This is Michael Santos, calling from the federal prison in Fort Dix." I introduce myself. "My father suggested I should call to speak with Ms. Zachary."

"Oh, Michael! I'm so glad you called. Please call me Carol. My husband and I have read through your portfolio and we want to help. You may not remember, but Norm brought me to a party at your parents' house when you were a child. We spoke about the Hubble telescope."

"I remember. I was about seven or eight then."

She corrects me, reminding me that I was older when we met, already a teenager. Then she says that she would like to build a friendship and asks that I send her the forms necessary to visit. "I want to bring Zach and Tris, my sons. We need to talk about what we can do to get you out, and if you'll let me, I'd like to lead the effort."

This is precisely the type of support I hoped to find as a result of preparing that portfolio. As Ralph Waldo Emerson was known for having observed, shallow men believe in luck, but strong men believe in cause and effect. Ever since Bruce came into my life I've known and appreciated the value of mentors. He guided me from the beginning through our weekly correspondence and his regular visits. Because of his support, I've matured and grown in confidence, as a scholar, in mental discipline, and I'm well prepared to contribute positively to society. By taking deliberate action steps to expand my support network, I really scored, attracting Carol's attention. When I walk into the visiting room to meet her and her sons, Zach and Tristan, they greet me with an embrace, as if I'm already family.

While sitting across from each other in the hard, plastic chairs of Fort Dix's brightly lit visiting room, I learn about the Axelrod family. Carol, a former English teacher, is a Boy Scout leader who takes an active interest in her community. She volunteers for the Red Cross, substitutes in the local schools, and, along with her husband Jon, is deeply involved in her sons' sports and school. She's determined to groom them as responsible citizens.

Zach is 12 and he tells me about his baseball and hockey teams. When I ask what he wants to do when he grows up, he answers without hesitation: "I want to be the CEO of a publicly traded company," and I don't doubt for a second that he'll succeed. His intelligence impresses me, especially when he grills me about what I'm planning to do with my life once I'm released.

"I'm looking into law school right now," I answer.

"Do you think people will want to hire a lawyer who's been in prison?" Zach asks the question with a genuine eagerness to learn more about me.

"Zachary," scolds Carol.

"What, Mom? I'm just curious."

"Of course people will hire him," she tries to soften his bluntness.

"That's a good question, Zach." I'm impressed with his confidence and directness.

"See, Mom."

"But I'm not going to law school to practice law. I'm convinced that more education will open career opportunities once I'm home, and studying law will help me through whatever time I've got left to serve. Wherever I serve my sentence, prisoners will need legal assistance and if I study law, I'll be in a position to help."

"That makes sense," Tristan, Zach's younger brother, considers my response.

"What we need to do is get you out of here," Carol says, bringing us back to the central issue. "Jon and I have spoken with some acquaintances who work for the Justice Department. They can't get involved because of rules about conflicts of interest, but they did insist that we need a top-notch Washington lawyer to represent you."

"I'd love to have a lawyer. But the truth is, I don't have any financial resources."

"Well we're going to raise some."

"How?"

"You've built this wonderful support network. I'm sure the people who believe in you will help."

"But I can't ask them for money."

"Why not? They want to help you."

"I just wouldn't feel right asking anyone for money. I've already lost one effort at clemency, and I'm coming to terms with the likelihood that I'm going to serve my entire sentence. I'm trying to build my network so I'll have people who will help me overcome the challenges that I'm going to face."

"But we're not going to let you serve 16 more years, at least not without trying to get you out. You may not want to ask others for financial assistance, but as long as you don't object, I'm going to ask on your behalf."

I'm speechless, suppressing emotions that I'm not accustomed to feeling. Of course I crave my freedom. I'm 33, well educated now, and after 10 years inside, I'm as ready for release as I'll ever be. If I could return to society now, I would still have a reasonable chance to build a career and begin a family. Carol's offer to advocate for my freedom validates me, bringing a sense of liberty, of worthiness that I cherish and appreciate.

* * * * * * *

Carol coordinates a team to help me. She persuades Tony Bisceglie, a highly regarded Washington, DC lawyer, to represent me pro bono. She travels to meet with my mentors, Bruce, Phil McPherson (Bruce's brother), and George Cole. With assistance from Julie, my friends Nick and Nancy Karis, and other friends from Seattle and elsewhere, Carol launches a fundraiser to begin the Michael Santos Legal Defense Fund, and she solicits thousands of dollars to cover legal expenses. The money comes from anonymous donors, people who now have a vested interest in my freedom. I can't participate from prison, and I don't know what success they'll have, but their combined energy fills me with hope.

Tony orders transcripts that document my case. After reading them he determines that I have grounds to file for relief from the court. I'm ambivalent about the plan of a judicial action because I wanted to earn my freedom rather than pursue liberty through a legal technicality. More than a decade has passed since my conviction became final and we know the request for judicial relief is a long shot. Further, the judge who presided over my trial is known for meting out long sentences and never reducing them. Through his research Tony discovers that the prosecutors in my case once tried to settle. If I had pleaded guilty instead of going to trial, the prosecutors would've agreed that a 20-year sentence was appropriate. Since Raymond, my trial attorney, never told me of the government's offer, Tony insists that rather than pursuing a commutation of sentence, I need to file a petition with the court for relief.

To prepare the legal motion, Tony enlists the help and support of Tom Hillier, the Federal Public Defender for the Western District of Washington, to accept my case. Tom then recruits Jonathan Solovy, a top-notch Seattle attorney who agrees to prepare the documents and argue for my release. Coordinating all these efforts requires hundreds of hours, and I'm moved that professionals who've never met me give of themselves so generously for the singular purpose of freeing me.

The legal team employs investigators to gather evidence that will bolster my petition. Jonathan works diligently to persuade both the government and the judge to reconsider my sentence.

But in the end, we lose. Judge Tanner is unmoved and he lets the sentence stand. Everyone on the team is concerned about how I'll react to the decision. Strangely, I'm at peace, grateful to have received love and support from so many strangers who've now become friends.

* * * * * * *

Bruce visits me at the beginning of 1998, beyond my 10-year mark. He wants to discuss my plans for law school. Through letters we've discussed possibilities for moving through the remainder of my sentence productively. He's not convinced that studying law by correspondence is my best option.

"I really liked your idea of spending the final years of your sentence becoming an artist, a painter, or a musician, or even studying a foreign language. Those pursuits would round out your education and maybe free some creativity within you," Bruce says, sitting across from me in the visiting room.

"Bruce, I'm going to serve 16 more years. I'm not even halfway through my term. I don't want to devote myself to another project that prison administrators can take away. Although I've thought about learning to paint or play the piano, if I were transferred I'd have to go through all this frustration again because of red tape, and that's only if I could continue. Some prisons don't even offer music or art programs."

Bruce nods his head as I describe my reasons, then he leans back in his chair. "But that's the essence of a liberal education. You could study painting and piano here, and if you're transferred you could study foreign languages or poetry there. The more you learn, the more you'll be able to appreciate when you come home."

"It's going home that I'm thinking about. What will I face when I walk out of here?"

"You'll have friends who will help you."

"Yes, but I want to stand on my own feet, not come out weak, with my hat in hand looking for handouts."

"Don't express yourself with clichés," he admonishes.

"You know what I mean. By then I will have served 26 years, and I need to anticipate the obstacles I'll face. I'll be nearly 50, but I won't have any savings, I won't have a home, I won't even have any clothes to wear. With my prison record, employers will resist hiring me. If I don't prepare for those obstacles, I'm going to run into tremendous resistance. How will I start my life?"

Bruce rubs his head. "The law school you're considering, though, isn't of the same caliber as your other schools. Hofstra and Mercer have impeccable credentials. Wherever you go, people will respect those degrees. If you want to study law, I think you should wait until you're home, where you could earn a degree from a nationally accredited school, not a correspondence school that the bar association doesn't recognize. What's the real value of that degree? It won't even permit you to sit for a bar exam."

I lean forward, eagerly trying to explain my decision. "That's what I couldn't be so clear about in the letters I wrote to you; I have to be careful of what the guards read. I'm not studying law because I want to practice as a lawyer. I'm studying law because I want to use what I learn to help other prisoners who want to litigate their cases. Look around this room. Nearly every prisoner here wants another shot at getting back into court. If I study law, I'll be able to help them."

"But if you're not a lawyer, how can you represent them?"

"I'm not intending to represent them. What I'll do is help them research the law and write the briefs. They'll submit their own legal documents, pro se. Sometimes I may help people persuade lawyers to take their cases, like Tony and Jonathan took mine. A law school education, together with my experience, will enable me to offer more and better assistance. Prisoners will pay for my services."

"That's what troubles me." Bruce says, shaking his head. "You've worked all this time to build a record as a model prisoner, to educate yourself and keep a clean disciplinary record. Now you're talking about breaking the rules by becoming some kind of jailhouse lawyer, exposing yourself to disciplinary infractions and possible problems with the system. It doesn't make sense to me."

"Yes, I've worked hard to live as a model prisoner. What has it gotten me? Instead of support, I meet resistance. Administrators transfer me to frustrate my efforts and to block me from completing my studies. I don't have any interest in being a model prisoner. My interest, my only interest, is succeeding upon release. And I think the best way I can do that is by preparing myself financially."

"So how are the prisoners going to pay you?" Bruce smirks at my plan. "Are they going to fill your locker with candy bars and sodas? How will that help when you get out?"

"They won't pay me directly. If a guy asks for my help, we'll agree on a price. Then he'll have his family send the funds to my family."

"But is that legal?"

"Although we have too many laws in this country, as far as I know, it's still legal for one citizen to send money to another citizen. My sister will pay taxes on any money she receives and she'll hold it for me until I come home. Prison administrators may not like it, but it's not against the law for Julie to receive money from another prisoner's family. My helping another prisoner with legal motions isn't against the law either."

"It just seems kind of sneaky, totally different from the open-book, transparent approach that you've followed." Bruce remains skeptical.

"I don't see it that way. The plan is totally consistent with the open-book approach, and I intend to do it openly."

"How so? You won't even receive payment directly."

I shrug my shoulders. "That's only because I'm living within the rules imposed on me. But I'll be honest about what I'm doing, and truthfully, I'll take pride in beating a system that perpetuates failure."

Bruce shakes his head again. "You might be living within the letter of the rules by not receiving money directly, but you won't be living within the spirit of the rules."

"Prison rules don't concern me. Living as a model inmate isn't going to help me when I walk out of here. No one is going to care that I didn't receive any disciplinary infractions. People may not even look beyond the fact that I served 26 years in prison. I need enough money in the bank to meet all of my expenses during my first year of freedom, whether I receive a paycheck or not. I'll have to buy a car, pay rent, buy clothes, and pay for everything else I'll need to start my life. Meeting those responsibilities has much more value to me than observing the 'spirit' of prison rules."

"You've really thought this through," Bruce begins to relent. "Have you considered the possible consequences? What if they transfer you back to high security?"

"I don't care where they send me. From now on, my sole focus is to prepare for a successful, contributing life. That's not going to happen by accident."

"What prompted this new resolve? The court decision that denied you an early release?" Bruce's support for me is evident in his caring tone and genuine interest, and I appreciate his willingness to listen as I share my thoughts.

"I know that you limit your reading to classical literature, but it was a book I read by Stephen Covey, The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. Have you ever heard of him?"

"No," Bruce says ruefully, laughing. "I enjoy an occasional good detective story, but I don't read much from the self-help or inspiration genres."

"Well I find it helpful and I think you might identify with Covey."

"What makes you think so?"

"He's a former professor who taught at Brigham Young University, and his focus of study was leadership. Covey's book validates my choices, the way I've lived for the past 10 years, and it's helped me set the strategy I'll use going forward."

"How so?" Bruce asks, curious.

I'm eager to explain.

"In his study of leadership, Dr. Covey found that successful people share seven habits in common." I hold up my hand and use my fingers to tick them off. "One, they're proactive. Two, they begin with the end in mind. Three, they put first things first. Four, they seek first to understand, then to be understood. Five, they think win-win. Six, they synergize. And seven, they constantly work to sharpen their approach."

"What? Are you telling me that's a revelation for you? You still haven't answered my question."

"What question?"

"Why the shift in your strategy?" Bruce asks again, clarifying.

"I'm pragmatic. Truthfully, it's more of an evolution than a shift. I've been following Covey's seven habits of leadership ever since I was in the county jail, when I read of Socrates. By continuing to educate myself, I'm taking proactive steps to overcome my adversity. By knowing the challenges that await my release, I'm beginning with the end in mind. By enrolling in law school, I'm putting first things first. I understand my environment, my limitations, and the ways I can make myself most useful. By pursuing this goal I'll be able to generate the resources necessary to stand on my own when I leave prison. That's win-win. It's a way to use my education and to lead a more meaningful life in here."

"Have you figured out your rates yet, Counselor?" Bruce teases.

"Whatever the market will bear. Isn't that the American way?" I grin, 100 percent committed to the strategy driving my plans.

"I'm serious. What do you expect to gain from all of this?"

"The law school program is self-paced, independent study. I expect to finish in 2001. If I charge $500 for research or writing legal motions, I think I can earn an average of $1,000 a month over the 12 years I'll still have to serve. After taxes, that would leave me close to $100,000 in the bank when I walk out of prison."

Bruce nods, smiling. "I only have one more question. If the warden won't let you receive books from U. Conn., what makes you think he's going to let you receive books from the law school in California?"

"That's the nice thing about law school. I won't need to access an outside library. Every federal prison has its own law library. I'll just purchase the other books I need. As long as the bookstore sends the books directly, I won't need special permission from the prison."

"So you're all set then?"

"I'm ready."

* * * * * * *

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

Chapter 8: 1996-1998

Months 103-127

As I cross through another holiday season and into January 1996, I look through a few birthday cards I received from my family. It's hard to accept that I'm turning 32 in prison, but I'm not a stranger to these milestones passing. Not anymore.

For years I've been climbing toward 1997, hoping that the end of my first decade would mean something special to me. Now I'm closing in on that milestone, but it no longer seems significant. One year feels the same as the next and I don't yet foresee any break from the monotony.

I rely upon clearly defined goals to stay the course. By studying, writing, and working to earn credentials, I've hoped to define myself as something more than a prisoner. The effort, I believed, would help reclaim my humanity from this so-called system of corrections. Now I'm not so sure. It is a system that strikes hard, like a wrecking ball, further dehumanizing me with every passing day.

The Bureau of Prisons extinguishes my aspirations of earning a doctorate degree and the pardon attorney has dismissed hopes for a sentence commutation. Accepting that I won't reach the goals I set for my first decade disorients me. I need to create a new aspiration and redirect my attention toward new goals that are in harmony with my commitment to restoring my dignity. In time I must show the world that I'm a man, something more than a prisoner, but I don't know how I'm going to create an identity that separates me from the bad decisions of my early 20s.

* * * * * * *

Without the continuous demands of an academic schedule, I accelerate my daily exercise routine, running seven miles each morning, following the run with a thousand crunches and a thousand leg lifts. In the afternoons I work out with weights, training for strength and size. I take advantage of the library, reading for enjoyment, though I'm simply passing time. By the spring of 1996, I feel my physical strength peaking, but my spirit feels empty. When I was working toward my academic degrees I had a solid link to the real world. Similar to my correspondence and visits with mentors, every paper I submitted provided a tangible outside connection. Now, without clear objectives, my sense of meaning or relevance as a man fades away, disappearing like a ship sailing over the horizon. I don't have a woman to love. I spend my days working out, eating, reading, and sleeping, mirroring the meanderings of other prisoners around me.

My frustration increases when I see university students, legislators, attorneys, judges, and other citizens touring the grounds and buildings. FCI Fairton is within driving distance of major cities. Tour groups from Philadelphia, Baltimore, and Wilmington frequently walk through the prison. Guards flank these tour groups, ensuring that prisoners don't interact with the visitors. I'm completely alienated from society as I watch them gawking at the fences that have held me for the past 3,000 days. I imagine the inaccurate spiel guards recite to the visitors:

"This is a modern correctional institution, and our professionally trained correctional officers provide numerous opportunities for the inmates to prepare for law-abiding lives––blah, blah, blah."

I fixate on the women in the tour groups, wondering what it would be like to know them, for them to know me. To them I'm not a man but prisoner in a cage, or worse, an inmate, that dehumanizing term I've been hearing for far too long. I have to get out of here.

* * * * * * *

"There's a mistake in my classification," I say to Ms. Dobson, my case manager. We're alone in her brightly lit office and I'm doing my best to ignore the light floral fragrance of her perfume. "I should be classified as a low- rather than medium-security prisoner."

"Let's see what the computer says. What's your number?" She's competent and totally professional. As such, I wonder what draws her to work in a prison instead of working in a more honorable profession, as a nurse, a teacher, a journalist, or anything other than a functionary of this wretched system.

I give her my registration number. She's fast on the keyboard, clicking my number with the speed and precision of an accountant on a ten-key. When the appropriate screen appears, she studies her computer.

"Well, you don't have a history of violence, and no prior incarceration, so your security points are low enough, but your sentence is too long. It gives you an automatic management variable that keeps you as a medium-security inmate." Despite her assessment of the information on the screen, I know it's wrong.

"You know how much time I've already served, don't you?" I ask.

"You've served 104 months, but in order to transfer to a low, you need to be within 18 years of your release date. Sorry." It's disconcerting to hear how much time I have remaining to serve, but she has miscalculated.

"I am within 18 years of my release," I clarify.

"The computer shows that you have 247 months remaining to serve, that you won't be released until August, 2013."

"Okay, it's April, 1996. If you do the math, I'm 17 years, four months to release. That's only 208 months, not 247 months."

"Are you sure?" Ms. Dobson is looking at the monitor, wondering. She writes out the number of months on a BOP notepad, multiplies, and smiles when she confirms that my numbers match hers. She then clicks a few more keys on the keyboard. "Hey, you're a 'low'. Congratulations!"

I laugh.

"You know what that means, don't you?"

"That I'm going to a low?" I venture.

"That's right. I've got to submit you for transfer. Where would you like to go?"

* * * * * * *

The guards tell me it's a short drive from Fairton, New Jersey to Fort Dix, New Jersey and I appreciate the smooth ride in the white van as we maneuver through city traffic. From an open front window I feel the breeze and smell the fragrant, blooming cherry blossoms. Children carrying colorful lunch boxes and wearing backpacks meander on sidewalks, savoring their time until school bells ring. I hear horns blasting, dogs barking, and I take in the kaleidoscope of city life. Someday I'll return to a city, but for now I'm chained and strapped to a bench seat. Nevertheless, I'm filled with optimism that my transition to the low-security FCI in Fort Dix means new opportunities as well as respite from the inescapable pressure, stress and volatility of higher security.

In four months I'll complete my ninth year. I've walked through puddles of blood in high- and medium-security prisons. I've carefully navigated and deliberately avoided problems that complicate the lives of so many other young prisoners. Still, as eager as I am for life in a low-tension environment, I'm still wrestling with the enigma of figuring out what society expects of me. I wonder what more I can do, given the restrictions this system places on me.

Guards roll open the gates and the van drives inside. I'm untroubled by the cyclone fences, by the coils of glistening razor wire, and by the white cars slowly patrolling the perimeter. I'm desensitized to the ritualistic processing and I shrug off the forms, the fingerprinting, the mug shots, the strip searches, and the staff interviews. I grab my bedroll and walk to building 5702 on the east side of the prison.

Despite the fences surrounding Fort Dix it doesn't feel like a prison. One reason may be the friendlier temperament of the population here. In place of intimidating glares and scowls I see smiles and nods. Even the layout differs, as I walk on what once was an asphalt road, and the long, rectangular-shaped, brick buildings on either side of me have windows without bars that are large enough to pass a sofa through.

Fort Dix is part of an active army base. Military jets land on a runway only a stone's throw away, and the acrid smell of jet fuel lingers in the air. Before the Bureau of Prisons erected fences to enclose the FCI, these buildings were part of the base, serving as officers' housing and soldiers' barracks. Military personnel currently live just outside the fences in buildings of the same design.

The buildings were erected before World War II and the age shows. As I walk into my housing unit I notice that decades of foot traffic have worn the checkered-pattern ceramic tiles down to the cement on the hallway floors. Without air conditioning, or even a ventilation system, humidity turns the housing unit into a sauna. The guard tells me I'm assigned to room 217, on the second floor.

I sweat as I climb the concrete stairs. When I open the steel door on the second-floor landing, the long, narrow hallway reminds me of a low-rent apartment building with concrete-block walls and unadorned wooden doors on each side. I pause at room 217, tap the door twice as a courtesy, and then walk into the 12-bunk room.

A man sits at a table against the wall of windows on the far side of the room. He's writing, but looks up as I close the door. He's probably in his late 50s, with reading glasses resting halfway down his nose that give him the cerebral look of a professional.

"I'm Michael Santos," I introduce myself. "I've been assigned to this room, bunk two, upper."

"Paul Murray," he stands and walks over to shake my hand. I appreciate the genuine handshake rather than a fist bump. "This is your bunk," he shows me. "I'm right beneath you. This is your locker."

The metal locker is six feet tall, three feet wide, and two feet deep. He opens the double-door, revealing a spacious interior that is easily four times as large as the lockers I've used over the past several years. I'm astonished by the amount of storage I'll have.

"I can't pick up my belongings until tomorrow, but at least I'll be able to store everything in here."

"Why can't you get your property?" he asks.

"The guards who processed me said it was too late to inventory."

"I've got some things that'll hold you over until you get your belongings," he offers, and then he opens his locker to hand me a pair of sweats, a tube of toothpaste, a toothbrush, and a bar of soap.

"Thanks. This helps. I'll get it back to you when I shop."

"No problem. Where're you coming from?"

"I was at FCI Fairton for the past few months. Before that I was at FCI McKean, and USP Atlanta before then."

"Oh, so you've been down for awhile."

"I'll finish my ninth year in August."

"Nine years! My God, are you almost out?"

"I wish. I've still got more than 17 to go."

"Months?"

"No, 17 more years."

"Whoa! I don't think there's anyone here with that much time. What'd they get you for?"

"I sold cocaine." It's always the same question and I always qualify my answer. "No violence or weapons. It's my first time in prison but my judge sentenced me to 45 years."

Paul shakes his head. "These drug sentences are ungodly. I never realized how bad they were until I got here. The sentences seem more severe than the crimes warrant. Murderers serve less time."

"How about you? How long have you been here?"

Paul shakes his head. "I'm embarrassed to say after listening to you. I'm serving an 18-month sentence for health-care fraud. I've been here for nine months."

"Are you a doctor?"

"No. I was a lawyer, but I resigned from the bar. The felony would've resulted in my disbarment at some point anyway."

"So why does a lawyer serve time for health-care fraud?"

"Long story. My practice represented medical clinics and testing labs. Billing problems tangled me up with the law and here I sit. I call it my sabbatical."

* * * * * * *

I settle into the Fort Dix community, grateful for the lower volatility levels. My housing unit is one of six on the compound, each holding 400 men. Most prisoners serve time for drugs, but many others like Paul serve short sentences.

Thoughts about how I'm going to spend the rest of my time continue to trouble me, especially when administrators confirm that they won't permit the university library to send me books.

"Our policy provides for you to receive hardcover books from a bookstore or a publisher, not libraries." The supervisor of education doesn't leave any room for special circumstances. "And I'm not going to make an exception. If I make an exception for you, I'm going to have to make one for everybody."

"Really? How many prisoners do you have here who are candidates for a Ph.D.?" I ask.

"That's not the point. Our policies reflect the need to preserve the security of the institution. If you wanted to pursue a Ph.D., you should've thought about that before you came to prison."

It's the same admonition I've heard repeatedly and I don't see much upside in trying to press for permission. Prison guards find it easy to hide behind the shortsighted "security of the institution" mantra. Frustrated, I search for an activity that will sustain me, something I can pursue on my own without the need for permission from authorities.

My exercise regimen continues, though it's not nearly enough to ease the sense of hopelessness I'm struggling to suppress. I exercise until I exhaust myself physically, running longer distances and lifting weights. In search of something more, I join a therapy group that Dr. Warren, a psychologist, sponsors. She calls it the Long-term Prisoners Group and I agree to attend the two-hour discussion each Wednesday afternoon.

Afro-centric art decorates Dr. Warren's office. Portraits of Malcolm X and Marcus Garvey hang on her wall. I'm curious whether she's met resistance from BOP colleagues who consider such leaders revolutionaries. Sitting in Dr. Warren's group is as close as I can come to sitting in a classroom and I admire the soothing way she manages the group. Although I want to emulate her compassion, I have a hard time tolerating the self-pity and hypocrisy expressed by other group members.

Eight people participate in our group and we all sit in chairs that form an oval circle in Dr. Warren's carpeted office. Bored, sometimes I drift into my own thoughts, trying to get a feel for Dr. Warren's interests by reading the titles on the spines of books that pack her wooden shelves. I see works by Toni Morrison, Cornel West, Henry Louis Gates. I've continued coming to the meetings because I learn from listening to her. Even though she allows the prisoner participants to rant, I admire the nonjudgmental patience I hear in her questions. Regardless of how frequently some men in the group shift blame for their actions, she kindly nods, indicating agreement or understanding.

Despite Dr. Warren's efforts to engage us, I don't connect with the other men, and I can't conceal my contempt when they whine about their circumstances.

"I'm only in prison because my best friend snitched me out," says Eric.

"Didn't you have anything to do with getting caught?" I ask.

"He's the one who got busted. All he had to do was keep his mouth shut and no one would've knowed about me." Eric doesn't like my challenging him.

"But you said you pleaded guilty." I point out.

"Only ̓cause the snitch was gonna testify ̓gainst me. I'm servin' 10 years even though the DEA didn't catch me with nothin'."

"Aren't you serving 10 years because you sold cocaine, and because you stood in front of the judge and admitted guilt?"

"Yeah, but if the snitch wouldn't of said nothin' I wouldn't of even been charged. Them conspiracy laws ain't right, they just ain't fair."

In an effort to advance the discussion, Dr. Warren suggests a creative exercise. "Before we meet next week," she instructs, "I want you to think about what you value most in life. I'd like each of you to come prepared to discuss what you consider your highest value. And remember, what we say in the group stays in the group."

I know exactly what values drive me, and when I return for our next meeting I'm hopeful that the discussion will advance beyond complaining about sentence lengths and unjust prosecutions.

"So why don't we begin with you, Jim," Dr. Warren begins. "Have you been able to pinpoint your highest value?"

"Yes, I have." Jim responds. He sits to the immediate right of Dr. Warren. He's 35 and has served four years of a nine-year sentence, his second time in prison for distributing methamphetamines. Jim shaves his head, but he grows long, red whiskers from his goatee and he's always twisting them when he talks. We're in a room with standard lighting, but he insists on wearing sunglasses because his eyes are sensitive, he says. The words "love" and "hate" are tattooed on the knuckles of his left and right hand. "Most important value to me is my relationship with Jesus Christ, my personal Lord and savior."

"Amen!" another group member exclaims, voicing his approval.

Dr. Warren nods, encouraging Jim to continue. "And how does your relationship with Jesus help you through each day?"

"Well I'm very spiritual," Jim twists his whiskers as he slouches in the chair. "I hardly ever miss services, and every night I say my prayers."

"What do you pray about?" I ask.

"It's personal."

"Generally, I mean," prodding him further.

"Do you want to share with the group what you pray about, Jim?" Dr. Warren turns her head from Jim to cast me a warning look. "We'll all understand if you'd prefer to keep your prayers to yourself."

"Mostly I pray that I'll get out early, and that my ol' lady don't sell my Harley ̓fore I get home."

Dr. Warren nods.

"That's very spiritual," I chuckle.

"Michael, do you have something you'd like to share?" It's clear that Dr. Warren doesn't approve of my sarcasm.

"Sorry, I'll wait my turn."

Jim glances my way, but he doesn't say anything and I can't read his eyes through the dark shades.

"Bob, would you care to share your values with the group?" Dr. Warren turns to another prisoner.

"I'd like to pass." He folds his arms and stares at the floor.

Dr. Warren nods. "Is everything okay, Bob?"

Bob shrugs, "I just don't know what to say."

"Well, if you feel like talking, we'd like to listen," she tells him. The room is quiet, except for the tick of the second hand on a wooden clock carved in the shape of the African continent. "Tom, how about you, are you ready?" She encourages him, smiling. "Would you go next?"

"The most important thing in the world to me is just gettin' through this time. I hate bein' locked up." Tom is serving his fourth prison term for drugs. He wears an orange cap over greasy hair, and tattoos of three falling tears blemish his face.

"Have you thought about anything you can do to ease your way through?" Dr. Warren probes, trying to gauge how constructive he's being with his time.

"There's nothin' to do," Tom opens his hands. "I done finished my GED. Ain't no college classes. I been sleepin' a lot, readin', watching' TV."

"What do you like to read?" she asks.

"I like lookin' at the Maxim, People, car magazines, anything that lets me know what's goin' on in the world."

"Do you ever read books?" Dr. Warren queries, trying to engage him.

"Nah. I get bored too easy." He looks up at the ceiling, stretches his neck from side to side.

"And you don't have any interest in tutoring others or participating in religious services, like Jim?"

"I like sleepin' mostly. When I'm ̓sleep, it's like I ain't even in prison."

"Steve, have you thought about what you value most in life?" Dr. Warren moves on.

"I'm like Jim. God's most impor'ant to me. I be readin' my Bible, goin' to services. I been in a Bible study group for like two months now and I'm learnin' a lot. Jesus is helpin' me get through this." Steve braids his hair in cornrows and wears a goatee, neatly trimmed.

I look at the floor, shaking my head.

"I think it's commendable that you've found peace, Steve. We all need to find strength to get us through tough times, and it sounds as if you've found yours through religion." Dr. Warren nods as she compliments Steve.

"Amen," Steve says.

"Praise God," Jim twists his whiskers, nodding in unison.

"Bill, how about you? What do you value most highly?" Dr. Warren smiles, inviting Bill to share.

Bill is assigned to the room across the hall from me. I see him frequently because he sleeps in the bunk above Al, a guy I sometimes tutor. Bill is in his late 20s. He's active on the compound, always sitting at a card table, playing dominos, running a gambling pool.

"I dunno. I guess I value my wife, and God too."

I slouch, massaging my forehead with one hand.

"Why you be hatin' on the Lord?" Steve challenges me as he tilts his head and scowls.

"Is something bothering you, Steve?" Dr. Warren prods, pushing Steve to express himself.

"Yes," I invite him to open up. "Speak your mind, say something, get us away from the BS in here."

"I'm just sayin', we're up in here givin' praise to Jesus, and he's all slouchin' in his chair," Steve points at me, "like he's bored or ain't wanna hear it."

"Michael, do you have anything you'd like to say?" Dr. Warren asks me.

"Everything said in the group stays in the group?" I ask, welcoming the confrontation.

"Of course. You can speak freely in here," Dr. Warren confirms, glancing at everyone in the group.

The length of time I've served has numbed my sense of empathy. I've grown less tolerant of listening to whiners week after week. I sit up in my chair. "Okay. It bothers me that Dr. Warren gave us all an opportunity to learn from each other. We're all serving time, locked inside the same fences, going through the same struggles. She asked us to think about our highest values, what's most important in our lives, but instead of speaking honestly, talking about what you really feel, you're talking about what you think she wants to hear. This isn't an application for parole. No one's getting a time cut for this. I was hoping something more substantive would come from our meeting today. Instead, it's the same as always."

"What makes you think you be knowin' so much?" Steve asks.

"I know that God isn't the highest priority in your life, I know that much."

"How you be knowin' what I feel?"

"Because if God was the highest value in your life, you wouldn't be whining in here each week about how you don't belong in prison, about how it's all a snitch's fault that you're here. If God were the highest value in your life, you would accept that you're exactly where God wants you to be. That's how I see it." I turn to Bill. "If your relationship with your wife had the highest value to you, would you really have slutty magazine pictures taped all over your locker? Come on, fellas. Why are we doing this? Who are we trying to impress?"

"That's quite a tirade," Dr. Warren says. "What the others said really bothered you."

"He ain't even said what his values is, but he be tryin' to say that we ain't bein' real," Steve directs his comment to Eric.

"My highest value is simple. What I value most is liberty, and I don't have it. All I'm thinking about is what I can do while I'm in here to make sure that once I get out, I'll never lose it again."

"Oh, and you ain't think we wanna get out?" Steve challenges me.

"If you want to get out, if that's what's most important to you, then I want to hear what you're doing to get out, and what you're doing to make sure that once you get out, you never come back."

"But there ain't nothin' we can do! Besides, what you doin' that's so diff'rent? You sayin' we be whinin', but you's in here ever' week complainin' ̓bout how no one's lettin' you finish school. Shee-it, you be whinin' just like every'n else," Steve says.

"You know what? You're right. I'm changing that, starting now, as of this minute. For 10 years I've been trying to build a record so the world would consider me differently from other prisoners. Now I'm finished. Going forward, I'm doing what's necessary to ensure that when I walk out of here, I walk out as a man with dignity, ready to stand on my own. This system may hold me for 16 more years, but I'm not going to let it condition me for failure and ruin the rest of my life. I suggest you guys do the same."

"So what're you going to do? What changes are you making?" Jim leans back on the chair, twisting his whiskers.

"I'm enrolling in law school."

"Shee-it! You's in prison yo! Can't be goin' to no law school from here. Even if you could, what good it gonna do? Ain't no one gonna hire no lawyer from prison." Steve flicks his hand in the air, dismissing my comment.

"He has a good point, Michael. Have you thought about the ways your felony might influence a lawyer's career?" Dr. Warren asks.

"I didn't say I wanted to be a lawyer. I said I'm enrolling in law school. Instead of thinking about what I can't do, I'm going to think about what I can do. I know my strengths and weaknesses, and I know I'm going to serve 16 more years. I may not be able to become a member of the legal profession, but if I earn a law degree I'll be able to help other prisoners who want to file their own legal motions."

"So you want to be a jailhouse lawyer?" Jim nods his head, still twisting the whiskers.

"Not just a jailhouse lawyer. I'll study and become the best jailhouse lawyer in the system. It's one way I can make myself useful in here."

"That's a plan," Dr. Warren agrees, smiling.

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

* * * * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"May I speak with you?" I ask.

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

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

"Let me see it."

I hand her the pass.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You said you needed a package permit."

"Just to receive the books that the university would send."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How long have you been in my institution?"

"Three days."

"And you've already got a problem that needs my attention?"

"It's a problem that your discretion can fix, and I hope you'll hear me out."

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

"I'm enrolled in a graduate program at The University of Connecticut."

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

"Yes, sir, I am," I counter firmly.

"We don't have a relationship with that school." Mr. Trevor addresses the warden rather than me.

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

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

"I came from FCI McKean."

Mr. Trevor looks up at Warden Morris and smirks.

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

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

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

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

"A doctorate? In what?" Mr. Trevor is incredulous.

"I'm studying the American prison system, sir. I earned my master's last year from Hofstra."

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

"Yes sir, with your permission." I meet the warden's eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * * * *

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

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

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

"Did you submit a petition for clemency?"

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

"Well it's denied."

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

"Nope. I was instructed to tell you your petition was denied. That's it. Sorry."

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

* * * * * * *

In search of the associate warden, I walk to the chow hall during the noon meal and I see Nuss standing in line, looking like the Grim Reaper. Knowing that he can influence my transfer to low-security, I approach him.

"I spent the weekend reading through the Custody and Classification manual," I tell him. "According to the formula in the policy statement, I calculate that I should be in a low-, not a medium-security prison. When my case manager comes in I'll see what he thinks. If I've got a low-security rating, would you support my transfer?"

"Don't you have 45 years?"

"Yes. But I've done eight years without any problems or disciplinary infractions."

"But you led a criminal organization." His knowledge of my case makes me wonder what he has against me.

"I don't have a history of violence or weapons, and I'm within 18 years of my release." I counter.

"When's your release date?"

"August, 2013."

He looks up, does the math in his head. "You're just barely under 18 years, by three months."

"Still, I'm under 18 years. That qualifies me for placement in a low-security prison. I'd like a transfer."

"Where do you want to transfer?"

"Wherever I can complete my schooling. I'm from Seattle, but I don't care where I serve my sentence. I just want to earn my degree and I might face fewer restrictions if I'm in a low."

"Let's see what your case manager says."

A bit more optimistic, I walk to the serving line and notice pizza on the menu. It's little more than tomato sauce and cheese melted over a cardboard-like crust, but I've grown to like it. The line server drops a postcard-size slice on my plastic tray. I fill a plastic cup with water from the beverage bar and weave my way through the crowd to an empty table.

A lieutenant with a lumberjack's weathered face and a wad of chewing tobacco bulging in her lower lip walks toward where I'm sitting. We've never spoken before. "When you finish your lunch, come see me," she barks, spitting tobacco juice into a foam cup she holds.

I haven't taken a bite, but I'm curious about what she wants with me and I ask her what's up.

"I'll talk with you outside," she says, as if challenging me.

"I can go now."

"Come with me."

With some apprehension over what she wants, I stand and follow her out of the chow hall, leaving my tray on the table. I can't think of any reason why a lieutenant would want to talk with me. We leave through the glass door and she turns to the left.

"Put your hands up against the wall," she orders as I step out of the chow hall.

"What?"

"You heard me," the lieutenant orders. "Put your hands up on the wall."

I can't believe this, but I know that it doesn't make any sense to resist or to ask for an explanation. I raise my arms and lean against the wall while she searches me, running her hands along my outstretched arms, my torso, and down my legs.

"Put your hands behind your back."

I comply, and she snaps steel handcuffs around my wrists.

"Let's go." She grabs the short chain between the cuffs to guide me.

I'm silent as we walk across the compound and listen while she speaks through her radio. "I've got one en route to SHU."

We reach the door to the Special Housing Unit, the jail within the prison, and a guard buzzes the lock. She escorts me inside, handing me to the guards stationed there. "Lock this one up. I'll send the paperwork over later."

"What's he in for?" the SHU guard inquires, looking past me. To him I'm not human.

"Investigation. Nuss's orders."

"Got it."

My mind spins. I'm not being charged with a disciplinary infraction, but I suspect this disturbance won't look good on my petition for clemency. The strict rules in SHU will prohibit access to my books, and I know that an investigation can last years. Consistent with the administration's you've got nothin' comin' attitude, Nuss wants to bury me in here, limiting my ability to communicate, to study, or earn a Ph.D.

After strip searching me the guard issues an orange jumpsuit with the letters SHU stamped on the back, a broken zipper on the front.

"It's too big," I tell him.

"That's all we got. Let's go."

I dress in the baggy orange suit, and he then locks me back in cuffs before he leads me through the gates into the segregation tier. I'm puzzled by water I see flowing from under cell doors and flooding the tier walkway. The icy water quickly covers my institutional-issue plastic sandals, soaking my socks. As we walk by, prisoners kick their steel doors and slap hands against the glass windows. The noise is deafening.

One calls out. "Day got Santos!"

"Yo Dawg! What up? What day be done got you fo'?" One prisoner yells out, his face against the cutout window.

"What up Homie?" Another yells, slapping the steel door.

The prison lingo annoys me and at this moment I detest every aspect of institutional living.

I look straight ahead, trying to ignore the mayhem and prisoners who've been locked up since the riot, as I'm shivering from wet feet as we slosh through the flooded tier. Since I know the guard won't issue me a dry pair of socks, I don't bother asking.

The guard uses his heavy metal lock to tap against a cell door's window. "Step to the back wall." He orders to a prisoner inside.

"Come on boss, I'm in my rack." I recognize Red's voice coming from inside the cell.

"I said get up and step to the back of the cell. Stand against the wall." Guards take the security precaution to prevent a prisoner in the SHU from attacking the incoming prisoner while he stands defenseless in handcuffs.

The guard unlocks the cell door and I step over the sheets placed to block water from flowing into the cell from the tier. The guard locks me inside and then unlocks a trap in the center of the door.

"Back up to the door so I can unlock your cuffs," he tells me.

I squat and the guard holds my wrists through the door trap with one hand, using his other to turn the key. He slams the trap door shut and I hear his boots sloshing through the water as he walks down the tier.

"Hey Homie, what's up?" Red greets me.

I express surprise at seeing him and ask how long he's been locked in the SHU.

"Four months now, two to go."

"Why? You just disappeared. I never heard why they nabbed you off the compound."

Red was once assigned to a room on my tier, but guards came for him one night. They escorted him off the compound and I didn't hear anything about what happened. Since it wasn't my business, I didn't ask. I've seen thousands of prisoners' faces, and I've heard nearly as many stories, so I didn't miss Red, just as I'm sure that no one's missing me.

"Busted me on a three-way."

"What?"

"A three-way."

"What's that?"

"I was on the phone with my ol' lady and she conferenced me into another call with my homie."

"A three way phone call? You've been in here four months because you made a three-way phone call?" I ask, incredulous.

"And I got two more months to go. Plus they done took my phone and visits away for a year. These sanctions ain't no joke."

"Did you appeal?"

Red shrugged. "What's the point? Ain't gonna change nothin'. I told the DHO that I got a baby girl, a family. Takin' my phone and my visits was jus' gonna drive 'em away."

"What'd he say to that?" The Disciplinary Hearing Officer determines guilt on institutional rule violations and imposes sanctions.

"Fuck him! Said I should'a thought about my baby girl 'fore I done made the three-way phone call. How 'bout you? What'd they get you fo'?"

"Investigation," I reply.

"You? What're they investigatin' you for? Too many books?"

"Something like that. I had a conversation with Nuss about my school last Thursday. Spoke with him again today, and here I am."

"That's all it takes. Fuckin' Nazi!"

I climb up to the top rack, pull my wet socks off and hang them over the edge to dry. I lie down. The metal plank that serves as my bed pops from my weight while an overhead fluorescent light blinds my eyes and forced air from the vent blows my hair back.

"Is it always this cold in here?"

"Part ̓a the gig, Homie. I done tried to block the vent by pressin' shit paper into the screen, but the fuckin' jerk-off cop said he'd gimme a shot if I did it again."

"What's with all the water on the tier?" I ask.

"The homies keep floodin' it, stuffin' sheets in the toilet and hittin' the flusher 'til the water floods the cell, spillin' out onto the tier."

"What's the point?"

"Piss the guards off. They gotta mop it up."

"Do you have anything to read?" I ask.

He shuffles around on the bunk beneath me and offers up three torn, stained Maxim magazines that don't interest me.

"Anything else?" I ask.

"Got a Bible."

"I'll take it."

* * * * * * *

The continuous glare of fluorescent light in the windowless room causes me to lose sense of time. Red doesn't have any postage stamps so I won't be able to write anyone about this latest development until next week, when I'll be allowed to submit a commissary order. Reading the Book of Job lessens my anxieties and I drift into sleep.

"Santos!" A guard yells and kicks the steel door twice with his boot, waking me.

I sit up. "What?"

"Roll up!"

We converse by shouting through the locked steel door.

"Am I going back to the compound?"

"Roll up for transfer. You're outta here."

"What?" I'm groggy from sleep deprivation, but I can't believe what he's telling me. "Where'm I going?"

"Just get dressed. Wake your cellie up. Tell him to stand against the wall so I can cuff you."

My immediate thoughts concern my school responsibilities. I wonder what is going to happen to the books I left behind in my locker before I went to lunch yesterday. The university library holds me accountable for those books and I have many. Guards resent packing personal property of prisoners transferred to the SHU or off the compound. They frequently "lose" heavy items and I know it's unlikely I'll ever see those books again.

The guard doesn't give me time to worry about what I'm leaving behind. He taps his key against the window.

"Get movin'! Now! Wake your cellie up."

I jump down from the top bunk and pull on my damp socks, slipping my feet into the plastic sandals before backing up to the steel door. My roommate, Red, has moved from his bed and now stands with his nose against the far wall, hands behind his back. I squat and the guard snaps the cold metal bracelets around my wrists.

"Take care, Red."

"Be cool, Bro."

I back out of the cell with the guard's grip on my handcuffs. We walk down the tier and I'm processed out, chained up, and marched outside with 20 other prisoners. Our traveling clothes are nothing more than khaki trousers, t-shirts, and blue canvas deck shoes despite the late November cold. We trudge through the snow, flanked by guards bundled into blue winter parkas, black leather gloves, and wool caps.

The guard in front unlocks the final gate and I follow the procession onto the bus, drop into a seat, and begin to thaw, grateful for the heat pumping through the vent beside me. Even though it's dark outside I peer through the window at FCI McKean, knowing it's the last time I'll see this prison that has held me for 18 months.

The two-lane road winds through pristine, snow blanketed forests, but my mind isn't on the beautiful scenery. I'm bracing myself for the worst-case scenario, wondering why Nuss felt compelled to transfer me in this hasty manner. He seems to resent my education and that I've earned my degrees while in prison, as if somehow I'd put one over on the system. The way he had the lieutenant lock me up during lunch yesterday was a clear message that he positively didn't want me making the case for a reclassification to low security. He wants me gone, and this intentionally abrupt transfer doesn't bode well for me.

On the Interstate, I see overhead road signs with names I don't recognize. They zip past my window as the bus rolls on. It's overcast and cold, so I press against the heater vent, trying to relax and rest, deluding myself with the mantra that one prison is the same as the next and that I can make it anywhere.

After several hours pass, we pull into the Federal Correctional Complex at Allenwood, Pennsylvania, dropping some prisoners off at the low-security correctional institution. When my name's not called, my anxiety increases. The bus drives on, leaving Allenwood behind and passing through other small towns. Storefront signs advertise the businesses in downtown Lewisburg, Pennsylvania, a prison town, and giving me some insight on where we're going. The bus winds along the serpentine drive leading into USP Lewisburg. I see gun towers, razor-wire topped fences, and the high stone wall that looms in front of me. I sense that I'm about to be locked inside another high-security penitentiary.

Even though I know a hundred prisoners inside the Lewisburg walls who were once with me in Atlanta, I can't believe I'm back at a high-security USP. I breathe in slowly to steady myself for the tension that is coming, not wanting to go through this again.

The first gate rolls open and the bus inches its way inside, stopping in front of the second gate. Guards step out to check their firearms and exchange paperwork. Then the second gate rolls open and our driver pulls us inside the walls of USP Lewisburg.

The medieval buildings feature heavy blocks of red brick and gothic turrets reminiscent of a monastery. But black iron bars over all the windows make clear that this isn't a monastery. As the tires crunch over gravel leading to the prisoners' entrance, I ready and steady myself, clenching my jaw and tightening my fists, pumping blood into my arms and chest to psyche myself up for the aggravations to come.

Once the bus stops, the driver pulls a lever opening the door and we all file out. Guards in BOP uniforms gripping assault rifles stand outside. They order us into a line alongside the bus. I'm shivering, cold, and aggravated as the guards count us, matching our faces to mug shots on their files. Taunts from prisoners we can't see echo from inside the buildings.

"You's up in Lewisburg now!"

"Too late to get scared!"

"Daddy got just wha'choo need!"

"You gonna be mine tonight bitch!"

The guards march us forward to a flight of stairs and we descend into a basement that feels more like a dungeon. I'm looking for the sign from Danté's Divine Comedy when he descends into hell: "Abandon hope, all ye who enter here." The iron door swings open into a heated waiting room and we crowd in to stand in place while guards unchain our ankles and wrists.

I crouch near a radiator to let it warm me and I look around. I came into prison with a few pimples on my face, now, eight years later, I'm no longer the youngest man in the room but I haven't yet gotten used to this. I'll never grow used to it.

Every man in this room was with me at McKean, but I don't really know anyone. I watch their lips move with nervous chatter but recede into a space in my mind. Okay. I've been here before. One penitentiary is the same as another. I'll find my way again. Familiar faces will tell me what I need to know about Lewisburg and I'll master it.

A guard comes through to hand us each a brown sack lunch, snapping me out of my thoughts. I dig inside and find white bread, cheese, bologna, crackers, a red apple, and a carton of milk, all of which I inhale.

The guards begin calling us one at a time. I'm ready.

"Santos?"

I stand, tossing my crumpled bag into the corner trash, and I step toward the guard.

"Number 16377-004," I answer him with my registration number.

"Let's go."

Moving from one room to another without cuffs or shackles, I'm processed in, my heart pounding. Every prison has the same routine of fingerprinting, mug shots, and strip searches. A plain round clock hangs on the wall right beneath the side-by-side pictures of President Bill Clinton, Attorney General Janet Reno, and BOP Director Kathy Hawk. The apathetic guard orders me to strip naked so he can inspect me for contraband.

"Hands up."

"Open your mouth."

"Run your fingers through your hair."

"Let me see your ears."

"Lift 'em."

"Turn around."

"Let me see the bottoms of your feet."

"Bend over."

"Spread 'em."

I smirk, knowing that I've just mooned portraits of our president, attorney general, and the director of our prison system. The guard tosses me an orange jump suit, underwear, and plastic sandals. I dress and move on to the next station, where the nurse reviews forms I hand her. Finally I step into another office where the case manager sits at a metal desk reviewing files.

"Name?" The tortoiseshell glasses sit at the bottom of his nose, and rather than lifting his head to acknowledge me, his bloodshot eyes look over the top of his frames.

"Michael Santos," I answer him.

"Number?" He inquires.

"16377-004."

"You know where you're going?"

I nod, then make a request. "If I could, I'd like to go to J-unit. I was with some guys in Atlanta who are assigned to that unit and I'd like to see them again."

"What're you talking about?" the case manager asks, finally lifting his head.

"J-unit," I say. "I'd like you to assign me to J-Unit."

"You mean here?"

I shrug, not following his question.

"You're not stayin' here. You're going to Fairton."

"The medium?" I ask about the security level at the Fairton prison.

"You're a medium, right?"

I smile as tension drains from my mind and body. Ever since the guards called me out of the cell early this morning I was convinced that Nuss had finagled some paperwork to boost my security level and place me back in a penitentiary. With the news that I'm en route to another Federal Correctional Institution, I exhale with relief, as I didn't want to endure another USP battle zone.

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

Hofstra awards my master's degree in May of 1995 and I begin working my way toward a doctorate at the University of Connecticut. The textbooks on penology could cure insomnia, but the clear path to a Ph.D. motivates me, keeping me cocooned in my room except for my early morning exercise. I think about the authors sometimes, wondering what inspired them to study and write about prisons. For them, I know, a lengthy sentence didn't provide the impetus. I don't have any idea what compels someone to build a career around the walled concrete and steel compounds that now hold more than two million people in the U.S.

I have eighteen more years to serve and at times I feel disconnected, as if I'm living behind a glass wall, where I can see but not participate in the broader society. I'm isolated, though my projects bring meaning into my life and dissipate feelings of loneliness or despair. I feel driven by goals every day, racing to finish one project so that I can begin another. Despite the length of time I have to serve, I still feel as if I can't afford to waste a single second.

When I hear news that Warden Luther plans to retire in June, I worry that his departure will lead to changes that could disrupt my progress. I seek him out and inquire about who will replace him as warden.

"You'll be fine," the warden assures me. "It doesn't matter who comes. Just keep working on your education and you'll continue to live productively in here."

Under Warden Luther's leadership, McKean enjoys a reputation of having comparatively well-behaved prisoners. Despite the long sentences that many men serve, they appreciate the privileges of "open movement," the absence of lockdowns, the ability to order food from the community, and the privilege of participating in Luther's token economy. Men who transfer from other prisons leave their tension, hostility, and gang problems at the door. Throughout the institution, he hangs copies of a framed memorandum titled: Warden Luther's Beliefs About the Treatment of Inmates. The 28 beliefs begin like this:

1. Inmates are sent to prison as punishment and not for punishment.
2. Correctional workers have a responsibility to ensure that inmates are returned to the community no more angry or hostile than when they were committed.
3. Inmates are entitled to a safe and humane environment while in prison.
4. You must believe in man's capacity to change his behavior.
5. Normalize the environment to the extent possible by providing programs, amenities, and services. The denial of such must be related to maintaining order and security rather than punishment.
6. Most inmates will respond favorably to a clean and aesthetically pleasing physical environment and will not vandalize or destroy it.

Luther's philosophy, albeit powerful and positive, exists at FCI McKean but nowhere else that I'm aware of within the Bureau of Prisons. It won't last beyond his departure and I sense trouble.

Some staff members resent the privileges Warden Luther extends to me, and I can understand why they would. After all, he treats me kindly, and it isn't unusual for me to receive a page over the loudspeaker to report to the warden's office. He openly supports my academic program, authorizing me free access to a computer lab, allowing me to use the word processors for my academic program as well as for correspondence with my growing support network. On one occasion, he introduced me to a tour group he was leading through the prison.

"This is inmate Santos. He knows more about prisons than many on my staff." He treats me more like a colleague than a prisoner, and some staff members resent it. I don't miss the frozen expression on their face, the body language that implies definite disagreement on that point.

My profile at McKean has become too high. Every staff member knows Warden Luther supports and sponsors my work and I sense that his retirement puts a target on my back. I begin contemplating the merits of requesting a transfer to someplace new, someplace where I can serve my sentence anonymously. If I were to ask for a transfer, I feel confident that my support network could help make it happen. Doing so, however, would mean the immediate loss of the privileges I enjoy here, and so I put off the decision, deciding to see what comes with the change in leadership.

* * * * * * *

Within weeks of Luther's departure Warden Meko arrives, blasting Luther's token economy out of operation and blowing the atmosphere of trust to smithereens. The new warden institutes the oppressive controls characteristic of other prisons, giving quick rise to levels of anger and hostilities that weren't around under Luther's leadership.

Warden Meko is all law and order. If you put a pair of mirrored sunglasses on him, he could pose for a highway patrol poster. He and his staff quickly assess that the prisoners at FCI McKean have been living too well, and they're determined to tone down the atmosphere, to bring us into line with their beliefs of how prisoners should live. In stripping away the incentives prisoners have grown accustomed to, he also rips away the sense of camaraderie and tolerance. McKean's atmosphere quickly changes to discontent with growing racial tensions and threats, eradicating the hope that Warden Luther worked so hard to instill. The new regime wants a standard-issue prison and welcomes the hostility its punitive system breeds. Tensions become more palpable.

Last April authorities arrested Timothy McVeigh for bombing the Murray Federal Building in Oklahoma City, killing 168 people. Judicial proceedings are all over the news. Many prisoners in FCI McKean now openly root for McVeigh, cheering every sign of civil unrest, from militia groups to incidences of civil rebellion. This atmosphere feels ripe for rebellion.

It's October and another fervor is emerging. Louis Farrakhan, minister of the influential Nation of Islam, has organized The Million Man March on Washington to protest injustice in America. He calls for black men to unite and for legislators to bring fairness to a criminal justice system that disproportionately locks up blacks and Hispanics. Media attention stokes the anger of prisoners at McKean, and there is constant chatter on the compound about a need to unite, to take a stand, to do something. Whereas Warden Luther would've led us positively through this collective desire for rebellion, Warden Meko turns up the heat to see how far the prisoners are willing to take their anger. Had Luther been in charge, I suspect he would've called a Town Hall meeting, assembling all the prisoners to remind them that he didn't have any power over the length of their sentences. He likely would've communicated a message as follows:

"Although I can't do anything to change the length of time any of you are serving, wardens set the tone for the environment in these places. I do my best to operate an efficient institution that allows every man to serve his sentence with dignity. At McKean we offer privileges and incentives conditionally to everyone who acts responsibly, but any hint of rebellion will result in changes that could include lockdowns, strict controls, and the loss of privileges that none of us want. I'm encouraging you guys to work together, to act responsibly so that we can keep things working well here."

The administration under Warden Meko's leadership, on the other hand, sees opportunity in the brewing resentment. An organized disturbance would provide the cover necessary to completely dismantle the progressive policies that Warden Luther favored. Whereas the prisoners resent the new administration, most staff members eagerly embrace changes that Meko's regime is putting in place. It's as if they're goading prisoners on to carry out threats of a rebellion. They don't have to wait long.

When I open my door at 5:20 in the morning, it's hard to believe that Luther retired only three months ago. Instead of the calm that previously reigned over McKean, I see fires blazing in front of me. Prisoners are on a rampage, wool caps pulled over their faces, smashing windows, breaking chairs, tables, and desks. Guards have deserted their stations, leaving the entire building devoid of order. I close the door and retreat into my room, knowing I've already seen more of this melee than I'd like.

Although prisoners run wild through common areas, locked steel doors prohibit them from exiting to the compound. Destruction, not escape, is the purpose of their anarchy. It isn't only our housing unit erupting in bedlam, as through the narrow window of my room, I watch orange flames reaching the ceiling in the next unit, where a pool table burns.

As I've done so many other times, I lie on my rack and pull my pillow over my eyes, a conscious effort to tune out my environment. Hearing no evil, seeing no evil, and speaking no evil is part of my deliberate strategy to survive in here. Violence and disturbance represent a part of the journey, and I've just got to roll with it. I know that we'll be on lockdown soon, and an official inquiry will follow. I'm best served now by trying to sleep through this mess.

* * * * * * *

"All inmates! Stand for count!" The guard's bullhorn demand from the common area wakes me at 10:30 in the morning.

Five hours have passed since I saw the blazes outside my door and windows. Now I see a dozen guards dressed in camouflage and wearing helmets with clear visors standing alert. They hold batons, and plastic grips for quick handcuffing along with canisters of mace hang from their heavy leather belts. I brace myself for the riot squad, seeing that they're all suited up and ready for combat. One holds a video camcorder, filming the destruction, while another snaps photos of the debris with an instant camera.

"I repeat!" the guard yells again. "Stand for count! Any inmate who refuses to stand is resisting and my officers will respond accordingly. So I repeat again! Stand for count!"

Some prisoners yell obscenities from their cells, taunting the guards. I back against my rack and stand stoically, letting everyone see that I don't have a stake in this fight. Predictably, the riot team responds aggressively to defiance, rushing into rooms, restraining any belligerent, taunting, or resisting prisoners with plastic quick ties and marching them straight out to waiting buses. Those men are gone, being transferred to penitentiaries thousands of miles away. It isn't my concern, as I don't feel any alignment with the shortsighted prisoners who set this problem in motion.

I've read of and thought about the struggle and suffering of Elie Wiesel, Viktor Frankl, and the millions of others who perished because of anti-Semitism in Hitler's camps. I've also read extensively about the persecution of blacks and injustice in our country. Those stories inspire me, as by reading them I have examples of amazing survivors who overcame those severe violations of human rights. Now, while locked in my cell, I contemplate the strategies I'll use to triumph over the dehumanizing indignities about to ensue. I have what I need, including books, space to exercise, a plan, a growing ability to express myself, and a professional audience of mentors who validate my efforts. I'll make it. I may lose access to computers and other privileges that have made my studies easier, but I'll make it through, relying on a stash of pens and the skill I've developed to write in straight rows across unlined paper.

Being locked in my closet-sized cell prohibits access to the track or weight room. So I exercise alone, ignoring the outbursts of other prisoners who kick their doors to protest the lockdown. I run in place for hours, pulling my knees up high and then dropping down to blast out several hundred pushups. With a dirty towel, I mop the sweat that rolls off me and puddles on the floor. A shower may be a few days off but I've got soap and a sink with running water to clean myself. I wash my underwear and t-shirt, hanging them to dry on a hook against the wall. I can do this for as long as it takes.

Guards bring white bread with a slice of bologna in a brown sack twice a day. As weeks pass, I draw strength from knowing that prisoners such as Nelson Mandela, Alexander Solzhenitsyn, and many, many others have endured much worse.

* * * * * * *

"Normal" operations resume at McKean in November of 1995, albeit with more restrictions and more controls. It's like other penitentiaries now, with metal detectors, locked gates, and more cell confinement. Hundreds of prisoners were shipped off to other institutions after the riot, and investigations continue. The local newspaper covers the riot and reports that damages to the prison exceed a million dollars. That's a lot of broken windows and smashed furniture, although I suspect that Warden Meko padded those costs by keeping us on lockdown, generating immense staff overtime and installing new security measures like surveillance cameras throughout the compound. He succeeds in turning Dream McKean into a nightmare.

Some prisoners face new criminal charges and others will spend years in isolation without access to visits, telephone, or other privileges they once took for granted. Losses of television, pool tables, bingo, and videos don't affect my adjustment to this new regime. Instead of pacifiers, I need permission to receive books through the mail from the University of Connecticut for my second semester, as the long lockdown has given me the time to finish my first semester from my cell. I'm eager to resume my studies, but before I can, I need that permission to receive more books. Only an associate warden can provide me with that permission.

It's Thanksgiving Day when I see Associate Warden Nuss in the chow hall. He sports a flap of dark hair styled with gel to conceal his receding hairline and stands with military bearing, hands clasped behind his back, barely moving. Even his face is frozen, as if a smile might crack it. Eyeglasses with circular lenses in a thin, almost invisible wire frame reminiscent of those worn by Teddy and Franklin Roosevelt complete the austere image he projects.

I inch forward through the line with hundreds of other prisoners toward the serving bar. I've never spoken to Nuss but I know he's part of the new Meko administration, referred to as Meko's hatchet man. He's in charge of security, the man who oversees the work of captains, lieutenants, and guards. I saw his signature on memorandums that replaced the old incentive system with threats of disciplinary action and punishment.

I need to speak with AW Nuss to obtain his written approval to receive my textbooks. From across the noisy chow hall, I try to gauge his mood, assessing whether this is a good time to approach him.

I've been creeping forward in line for 12 minutes with my eyes on him the entire time, noting that no one has dared approach him. Finally, a prisoner gripping his brown plastic tray of turkey and mashed potatoes ventures forth and initiates a conversation. Nuss looks through the prisoner with no change in his facial expression, nods slightly, and the prisoner walks on.

I estimate it'll be another 10 minutes before the line servers load my tray. I don't want to speak with Nuss, but since I need his authorization for the university to send me books for the next term, I don't have a choice. He may leave by the time I find a place to sit, so I decide to abandon my spot in the slowly moving serving line and approach him.

The prisoner who was in line behind me issues a warning. "A yo! Once you leave, dat's it dawg. I ain't savin' no spot."

I shrug my shoulders. "I didn't ask you to save my spot."

"I'm jus' sayin' yo, ain't savin' no spot." The gold grill in his mouth glitters as I walk away.

I weave my way through the crowd toward the far wall where Nuss stands. His eyes scan the room slowly, looking from one side to the other over 500 prisoners' heads. He shifts his glance toward me as he notices me walking toward him.

"Excuse me, Mr. Nuss. May I speak to you?"

His nod is nearly imperceptible but we lock eyes. While his stern demeanor suggests that he considers our relationship inherently adversarial, I know he's giving me his full attention.

"My name is Michael Santos."

"I know who you are Mr. Santos," he says, cutting me off and startling me with his sharp tone.

"I'd like to talk with you about my educational program."

He nods, and I proceed.

"I'm enrolled in a doctoral program at the University of Connecticut."

"Spare me the résumé. What's on your mind?"

"Well, I've completed my coursework for this term and I'm signing up for the next semester. I'll need a package permit to receive new books from the university."

"Not going to happen." He doesn't elaborate.

"I'm sorry?"

Nuss doesn't offer an explanation. He stands still and stares into my eyes without blinking.

"I need the books to complete my program."

"And I've got a prison to run."

My pulse quickens, as I sense he's about to disrupt my world. I can't believe he's going to block my education without even offering an explanation. "You know, sir, I've been in prison for more than eight years and my disciplinary record is as clean as the day I came in?"

He's totally motionless, just staring, as if expecting me to grovel. "So you're a candidate for sainthood. What else is new?"

"May I ask why you won't authorize me to receive books?"

"They interfere with the security of my institution."

"Books?"

"That's right."

"But they're academic texts and they'll come directly from the library of a major university."

"How would I know what's in them? I don't have the staff available to look through books."

"Mr. Nuss, this isn't radical literature. I'm studying theory, relationships, social order and allocation of public resources for prisons."

"I've made my decision, Mr. Santos. You've done just fine for yourself as an inmate at FCI McKean. But this is a new McKean, a federal prison, not a college."

Getting nowhere I muster a "thanks" for his consideration and walk away. There's no way I can enjoy a Thanksgiving meal. I return to the housing unit with thoughts of how I'm going to overcome this hurdle. The doctoral degree has an integral link to the future I'm striving to create, and to my sense of self. I can't give up, as I've got more than 17 years to go but I don't know what I'll do without the sublimation that study provides.

I call Bruce to let him know what I'm up against and he offers to do what he can, saying he'll call his contact at BOP headquarters, Sylvia McCollum, after the holiday weekend. As a high-level education administrator in the BOP, perhaps she'll have a solution. My next call is to Norval at the University of Chicago, who promises to intervene at a higher level.

"I've got a meeting with the National Institute of Corrections in December," he says. "Kathy Hawk is going to be there and I'll have a chat with her. Perhaps it's time to find another prison for you, one better able to accommodate your studies."

Dr. Kathy Hawk is the Director of the Bureau of Prisons. President Bush appointed her and President Clinton has kept her on to lead this massive, rapidly growing agency. I've read about her and I know she has a doctorate, either in education or psychology. Norval once sent me a copy of a letter she wrote to him referencing me, so I know she's aware of my efforts and she can help. With a phone call she could resolve my problems at McKean, or order my transfer to a prison where I'd be able to complete my studies.

With Bruce and Norval ready to lobby on my behalf, my tension eases. A new focus leads me to read through everything I find in the law library about potential prisons where I can transfer. It would be nice if Bruce could make another information-gathering trip to other prisons, but I doubt he has the time, and actually, neither do I. President Clinton hasn't ruled on my clemency petition yet, but it's important that I finish my doctoral studies by the time I hit my 10-year mark. I can't afford to miss an entire semester because of bureaucratic resistance and bottlenecks.

I haven't thought much about security levels of prisons since my initial incarceration. Yet as I read through the Bureau of Prisons Custody and Classification manual, I stumble upon the formula case managers use to determine them. A number of factors convince me that my security level should be low rather than medium. Specifically, I don't have a history of violence, I wasn't incarcerated before this case, I don't have a history of disciplinary infractions, and I'm within 18 years of my release date. All of those factors mean that I should be classified as low rather than medium security.

Low-security classification would open more options, but in order to pursue a transfer to one of those prisons I need to meet with my case manager and verify my status. If I can persuade him that I'm entitled to a low-security classification, perhaps I can also persuade him to recommend a transfer.

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