Prison Professors

Earning Freedom by Michael Santos

Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term

Chapter Eleven: 2003-2005

Months 190-209

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

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

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

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

“It’s too bad Bruce isn’t alive. He could help.”

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

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

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

*******

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m placing you on mail-monitoring status,” he says as I sit down.

“What does that mean?” I ask.

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

“Why?” I ask.

“Security of the institution,” Ms. Otero says.

“How long will he hold my mail?”

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

“What have I done to warrant this sanction?”

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

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

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

“Have you seen the books I write?  I’m not complaining about anything.”

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

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

“Can I show you my books?”

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

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

Mr. Jimenez flips through the pages.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It doesn’t say you can publish them,” Ms. Otero barks, unwilling to back down.

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

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

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

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

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

*******

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

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

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

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

She smiles at me. “I’m so proud of you,” she says.

“Tell me why.”

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

“With who?” I ask.

“St. Martin’s Press. They’re giving us an advance. You’ll have distribution all over the world.”


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

“Do I need to talk with anyone, with Jim or someone from St. Martin’s?”

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

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

“I can’t do that. They probably have some rule about my writing to another inmate.”

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

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

“I’ll meet the timeline.”

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

*******

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

“Happy birthday,” I say when she answers.

“Hi, thanks.” Christina responds softly, sadly. Then silence.

“What’s wrong? You don’t sound like you’re celebrating,” I push for an answer.

“You haven’t talked to Carole?”

“She’s still in school. I’ll see her tonight when we visit, why?”

“Dad died today, Michael.”

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

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

“No.” I’m a prisoner and I know my limitations.

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

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

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

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

*******

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you Santos?”

“Yes.”

“Cuff up.”

1. Earning Freedom by Michael Santos

Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term

Chapter 11-2-Pod 139

Months 190-209

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

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

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

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

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

“Michael Santos. Number 16377-004.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where you goin’?” The giant man breaks his silence.

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

“Where’d you come from?”

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

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

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

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

*******

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

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

“What’s wrong, Honey?”

“I have terrible news.”

“What is it, what’s wrong?”

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

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

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

“I’m sad because you loved him, and he meant so much to you.”

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

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

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

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

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

*******

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Roberts.”

“Thomas.”

“Williams.”

“And Santos.”

I join the others at the front.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Santos,” he calls out as he looks my way.

“Yes?”

“Come with me.” This could be the shoe.

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

“How much time are you serving?” she asks me.

“45 years.”

“And you’re going to the camp?” The uniformed guard interrupts while the man in the suit observes.

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

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

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

“No sir.”
He nods his head and shrugs. “Everything’s in order.”


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

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

*******

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

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

“How can you tell?” he responds.

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

He nods his head. “I’m Eric. I got here two days ago.”

 “Michael. I got here this morning.”

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

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

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

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

*******

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell me about your new school,” I ask her.

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

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

“That’s totally weird,” Nichole says.

“Maybe you’re going to school with your future husband,” Carole teases.

“No way.”

“You never know,” Carole smiles.

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

1. Earning Freedom by Michael Santos

Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term

Chapter Eleven: 2003-2005

Months 190-209

Chapter Eleven: 2003-2005

Months 190-209

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

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

“Lieutenant, I’ve got Inmate Santos,” Officer Ruiz’s polite voice cracks as he announces our arrival.

“I’ll get to him when I’m ready.” I hear the lieutenant call from the office. “Have him face the wall.”

“Yes sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I shrug. “I wouldn’t know.  No one has passed me any paperwork.”

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

“Why not?”

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

“Do you think that’s why I’m here?”

“Let me check. I’ll be back. Do you need anything?”

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

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

“What? Transferred? Where am I going?”

“I don’t have access to that information. I’ve got orders to take you out.”

“When?”

“Right now. Roll up your stuff.”

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

“You didn’t know anything about a transfer?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fine, until yesterday,” I answer.

“No one told you about this transfer?”

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

“Let’s see where you’re going. Give me your number.”

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

“You’re going to FLF SCP,” he reads the abbreviated designation. “It’s a camp.”

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

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

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

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

*******

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

“Yes.”

“Come with me.”

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

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

“Yes.”

“What’s your wife’s name?”

“Carole Santos.”

He scratches his chin and stares at me. “What’s she doing at my institution?”

“What are you talking about?”

“There’s a woman outside claiming to be your wife, trying to talk her way into visiting.”

I shrug. “So what’s the problem?”

“What’s the problem? You haven’t been here long enough to have a visiting list approved.”

“I’ve been here for six days. I gave the counselor my wife’s name the night I was processed in.”

“Visitors aren’t authorized on the premises until staff approves them. She’s not getting in.”

“Then don’t let her in,” I shrug, “but deal with the consequences that will follow.”

“What consequences,” he asks.

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

“What’re you, a lawyer, somebody important or something?”

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

“Step outside,” he commands.  “We’ll see how sharp you are when the lieutenant comes.”

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

“Got your ID?” he asks, sounding annoyed.

“Yes.”

“Let’s go,” he snaps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re incredible. Will you love me this much when my sentence ends?”

“Forever.”

“That’s good to hear.  I thought you might just want to be a prison wife.”

“Ha, ha,” she smirks.

“Did you receive my letter explaining everything that happened?”

“I already knew. What do you think I’ve been doing since you vanished from our visit?”

“Tell me everything,” I say.

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

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

“Honey, I’m not staying in New Jersey if you’re living in Colorado.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reading Chapter 10.3

Months 180-190

******

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

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

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

“Hi Michael. This place is huge.”

“Yes, and we’re lucky that it’s not filled with people already,” I say with a smile.

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

“But I want to talk with him too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m absolutely sure.”

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

“I’ve already got the newspaper and I’m looking for apartments.”

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

“I’m guessing about $1,000 a month, more or less,” she answers.

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

“What do you think I should do?”

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

Carole pauses, trying to recall. “Vaguely. You’ve sent me so many stories.”

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

“Michael, I can’t move in with a stranger.” Carole doesn’t see the merit in my suggestion.

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

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

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

“Of course I trust you.”

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

“Yes.”

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

“See what?”

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

“I’m going to make it through forever with you.”

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

“Yes.”

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

“What if we don’t get along?”

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

******

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m always expecting you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I just wish he’d let you out,” Carole squeezes my hand.

“Forget about that happening under his rule.”

******

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

“What’s up?” I ask.

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

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

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

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

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

“We’ll still have to make do with 300 phone minutes a month.”

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

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

“Then we have to get married, Michael. We can’t wait. We’re a family.”

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

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

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

******

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

“What’s this, a marriage request?”

“That’s right. I’m getting married.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

******

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

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

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

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

“We’ll have a party when you’re out, when we’re both home.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

“Are your mom and sister here?”

“I hope so. They’re supposed to be with Carole now. I’d better go shower.”

“Good luck, and God bless.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m so happy you have such a beautiful bride, so happy for both of you.”

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

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

“You’ve got that right!” I keep my arm around Carole and kiss her cheek.

“Honey, did you talk to Bob?” Carole asks.

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

“Did he tell you what he did?”

“No, what?”

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

“Wow! What a thoughtful, generous friend.”

“Can you believe it? I thought he didn’t want you to get married.”

“That was before he knew how extraordinary you were.”

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

“Put it in the bank,” I tell her.

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

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

“We’re just happy that the day is finally here,” Carole says.

“I’ll marry you again when I come home,” I promise Carole while looking into her eyes.

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

“Is he a chaplain?” my mom asks.

“I think he’s a justice of the peace,” I answer.

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

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

“I can’t believe they won’t give you any time alone,” Christina says. “That’s so cruel.”

“The honeymoon’s going to have to wait,” I say.

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

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

“You’ve honored me today, Carole, making me as happy as I can possibly be.”

“I love you, Michael.”

“Someday I’ll buy you a house,” I promise.

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

“This is forever,” I twist my silver wedding band.

“There’s no place I’d rather be than with you.”


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

******

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m doing my part.”


“Yes you are,” I squeeze her hand. “You’re wonderful.”

******

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

“I passed my real estate test.”

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

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

“Baby, you deserve to feel proud of yourself.”


She’s smiling. “I’m so happy honey, because I did it for you.”

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

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

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

“Come to the desk,” he orders.

“But you didn’t do anything,” Carole objects as I stand and let go of her hands.

“Let me see what he wants.”

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

“Lieutenant wants to see you,” he tells me.

“Can’t it wait until after my visit?”

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

“Where’s the lieutenant?” I inquire, looking around the empty room.

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

“For what? What’s this about?”

“I don’t know,” Officer Ruiz admits. “He called us and told us to escort you over.”

“What about my visit?”

“He terminated your visit. Put your hands behind your back. I’ve got to cuff you up.”

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

Chapter 10, Segment 2

Months 180-190

******

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

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

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

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

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

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

******

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

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

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

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

“Why don’t you close the clinic down?” I suggest.

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

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

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

“Was the clinic losing money when you came in?”

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

“You know what you need?” I have an idea.

“What’s that?”

“An office informant, someone who can tell you what’s going on.”

“You’ve got that right.”

“Why don’t you hire Carole?”

“Who, your Carole?”

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

“Is she a lawyer?”

“No, why?”

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

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

“Do you think she’d be willing to come to New York?”

“I can ask.”

“How much would she want to earn?”

“She’d have to earn enough to live.”

“Living on the Upper East Side of New York City isn’t the same as living in Oregon.”

“What’s it cost to rent an apartment near your office?”

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

“I’ll call and ask.”

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

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

She doesn’t hesitate, saying she would. “What kind of job?”

“Remember I told you about my friend who’s a doctor?”

“Yes.”

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

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

“Every week. We’re only an hour apart. When could you be here?”

“I’m ready to go whenever the job’s open.”

“What about Nichole?”

“She’ll come with me.”

******

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you want me to come?”

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

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

“What about your family, your parents?”

“I choose you, Michael. Whatever it takes to make this relationship work, I’m all in.”

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

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

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

“Because I love her.”

“But how are you going to take care of her?”

“We’ll create our life together. I can help her, just as she’s helping me.”

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

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

“Of course.”

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

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

“I’ll never hurt her.”

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

******

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

“I’m being transferred,” he tells me.

“What? Where to?”

“They’re sending me to the drug program on the West side.”

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

“Carole’s already sent her stuff with the moving company. I can’t reverse her move.”

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

“But we won’t be able to visit together.”

“Can’t she visit me over there?”


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

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

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

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

******

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

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

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

“Michael Santos. Report to the visiting room.”

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

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

“You heard your name, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, haven’t you been in long enough to know what that means? Strip!”

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

“Baby, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?”
She holds me tighter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll pay you back,” she promises.

I chuckle at her promise, and then I ask where she is staying. “Did you get a hotel room in New York?”

“We left New York when Ted refused to give me the apartment keys. I’ve still got my rental car, so I drove down and checked us into a hotel that’s closer. Nichole’s there now. She’s watching a movie until I get back.”

I’m relieved that Carole came to New Jersey. It’s much less expensive here and we’ll need to be careful with our money. I caress her hands and appreciate how soft and feminine they feel inside mine.

“Do you want to stay in New Jersey, or would you rather go back to Oregon?”

“I’m staying with you.” Her voice so recently quivering is suddenly steady.

“Okay, Honey. That’s what I want, too. We’ll make a plan and together we’ll make it work. I love you.”

“I love you so much.” She kisses me gently.

“Honey, we can’t kiss anymore,” I warn, conscious of the guards. “Tell me how you got in here. I didn’t have any visiting points left for the month.”

“I know. I called here all day and I told your unit manger it was an emergency, but he wouldn’t let me talk to you. I decided to drive over and try to talk my way in. Thank goodness Officer Cruz was on duty. He must’ve believed me when I told him I had to see you. He changed something on the computer and here I am. I think he was worried I was going to burst into tears in front of him.”

“See, I told you that God’s been protecting me through this journey.  Now he’s protecting you.  And although many people who work for the prison system make things difficult, some are nice.”

“Yes, he was very nice. I’m grateful, because I really needed to see you, and I want to come back tomorrow, too.”

“Tomorrow’s New Year’s Day, Honey. Holiday visiting privileges cost us double against my allotment for the month. Let’s wait until the day after tomorrow to visit. The rules limit me to a maximum of 30 hours in the visiting room for the month and we can’t squander them.”  She’s going to get an immersion course in the complications of my imprisonment.

“Michael, I need to see you! We need to make a plan.”

“Okay,” I relent. “You can come for one hour, but it’s going to cost us two hours against my monthly allotment of 30 points.”

“I’ll bring Nichole.”

******

It’s cold.  My green jacket and orange knit cap aren’t enough to keep me from shivering when I leave the visiting room. Maybe I shiver more from worry than the frigid December temperatures. I can handle the cold, but as I cross the nameless road that leads to my housing unit, I realize for the first time in 38 years that the local economy is relevant to my life.

As the president tries to push us into a second war in Iraq, the newspapers have been reporting on high unemployment rates. These didn’t concern me until an hour ago. But I’ve brought Carole here, thousands of miles away from her friends and family, on a promise. The promise went south. Now two lives hang on my ability to bring her stability, and suddenly the 11 years of prison that await me feel heavier.

“Hey, I heard them call you for a visit.” Bob catches up to me, his tone revealing curiosity. “I thought you said you were out of points.”

“I was. Carole talked her way in.”

“Huh, I’m impressed. It’d be easier to talk your way out. She must’ve charmed them, but that’s like charming a rattlesnake. How’s her move coming along?”

“Totally derailed. Geoff’s business manager is refusing to give Carole the job, the apartment, or the car. She’s stranded, and all her things are packed in a moving truck that’s supposed to arrive in New York next week.”

“Wow.” We take a few steps with only the sound of crunching gravel and howling wind between us. “How can I help?”

“I’ll take care of it. My sister is in Hawaii for the holidays, but when she returns, I’ll have her sell enough stock to send Carole the money she needs to settle.”

 “I could get her a few thousand to tide her over if it would help.”

“Thanks. I appreciate the offer, but I put her in this mess. I’ll get her out.”

“Well let me know if you need anything.” Bob is a good friend, willing to lend me money even though we’re both in prison.  I’m grateful for the gesture.

I walk into the housing unit and search for Richard, a young offender I interviewed recently for a story I wrote. While talking with him, I remember Richard telling me that his wife lived only a few miles from the prison. She was struggling financially, like many prison families, because of her husband’s imprisonment. He’s sitting on the stairs, slumped, his elbows resting on his knees.

“What’s troubling you?” I ask.

He looks up at me and takes off his glasses, rubbing his eyes. “Holidays. I miss my wife and son.”

“That’s what I came to ask you about. Do you think your wife would want a housemate?”

“Whadda ya mean?”

“I’m in a bind. My fiancée and her daughter just moved here from Oregon. They thought they had an apartment, but the arrangements didn’t work out. I need to help her find a new place and I thought of you. Your wife could probably use the money, and they could support each other.”

He puts his glasses back on. “That could really help. How old is your fiancée’s daughter?”

“Eleven.”

“I’m in line for the phone now. I’ll come by your room after I talk with my wife.”

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

Episode 10.1

Months 180-190

The first time I see Bob he’s carefully selecting items from the salad bar. He expertly manipulates the stainless-steel tongs, piling the freshest tomatoes, radishes, chopped iceberg lettuce, and spinach leaves on his plastic tray. He’s oblivious to the growing line of angry men standing in line and the other 500 prisoners in the noisy chow hall.

Bob stands taller than six feet, with glacial blue eyes and a full head of blond hair that he combs neatly. I know he’s new to Fort Dix, and I suspect he’s in his late-fifties.  He’s trim and clean-cut.  As I watch him from a nearby table, I can’t help but wonder why he’s here. I’ve read of professionals and businessmen who’ve run afoul of the law, but those offenders don’t generally serve time with us inside double fences laced with coils of razor wire. Bob looks like the type of man who sends people to prison, not one who serves time in prison.

Other white-collar types approach him, smiling, offering to help him settle in. Bob, however, remains tight-lipped, responding only with curt nods. When he clenches his jaw he projects defiance rather than the fear I’m used to seeing in newcomers.

A few days have passed since I saw him in the chow hall, and I see him again while I’m running around the track. He’s sitting on the railroad ties that serve as steps separating the court from the track, eating a green apple and watching Ironhead, a more typical prisoner, shoot baskets alone on the asphalt court inside the track.

Ironhead is a guy who looks like he’s been in prison all his life. His shaved head glistens with sweat and he distinguishes himself with a mouthful of gold-capped teeth. He’s tall and muscular. Arching over his shoulder blades is a tattoo with bold capital letters that spell out “destroyer.” On his stomach is another that reads “thug for life.”

I’m used to seeing Ironhead shoot baskets while I run. We don’t share much in common and we never talk. He exercises alone, and I exercise alone. Today Bob sits between our workouts, eating his apple and watching.

While running, I drift into thoughts about my writing projects and about the relationship Carole and I are building through our letters. As my steps crunch along the gravel track today, I tune into Bob, wondering whether he’s going to make the mistake of interrupting Ironhead’s workout.

“You’d make more shots if you’d set your stance before shooting,” Bob instructs.

Ironhead ignores him, takes another shot, and misses.

“See what I mean? You’re losing your balance.”

Ironhead grabs the rebound. Then he presses his left fist into his hip, and with his right hand, palms the basketball as he addresses Bob.

“A-yo Gee! Who you be talkin’ to?” Ironhead snarls, strutting toward Bob.

Bob takes the last bite of his apple and then sets the core on the step, standing to meet Ironhead.

“I’ll show you what I mean,” Bob says with a combination of innocence and coaching authority that actually disarms the unlikely student. Then he opens his hands, gesturing for Ironhead to pass him the ball. Ironhead scowls, bounces the ball twice, then hurls the ball at Bob.  He dribbles to the top of the key, plants and sinks the ball, then proceeds to coach Ironhead on shooting skills. Before I finish my run, I’m surprised to see the two are on the court together playing one on one.

Later in the afternoon I see Bob sitting alone at a picnic table beneath one of the maple trees. He’s writing a letter on a yellow legal pad, gold-frame reading glasses perched on his nose. I approach and interrupt him.

“Can I have a minute?”

He looks up, quickly evaluating me like an employer deliberating whether I’m worthy of an interview.  Then he answers with a half-dismissive “I’ll be with you in a minute.” He finishes writing his paragraph, leaving me waiting.

“Now,” he sets his pen down, “how can I help you?”

“My name’s Michael Santos,” I say, introducing myself. “I’m a long-term prisoner and aspiring writer. I’ve just finished a manuscript describing some of my experiences that I’m about ready to send to my publisher. If you’ve got time to read it, I’d appreciate any advice you might offer on what I can do to strengthen my manuscript.”

Bob removes his glasses and rubs his eyes. “Why ask me?”

“You’re new to prison, I’m guessing, and you’re as close as I’m going to get in here to the demographic I’m trying to reach.”

“What’s that, old white guys?”

“No, college-educated people who don’t have experience with confinement.”

“Let me see it.”

I pass him the envelope containing my manuscript. He pulls the document out and glances through the 400 pages.

“Did you type this here?”


“My girlfriend typed it for me.”

“She did a nice job.” He places it back in the envelope. “I’ve got a full plate right now, but if you leave it with me, I’ll read it over the next few days.”

“Sounds good. I’m not in a rush. What’s your name?”

“I’m Bob Brennan,” he says, as if I should recognize the name, and extends his hand.

******

In the weeks to come Bob and I develop a friendship. We walk the track together and I listen to his story. From his demeanor, I correctly surmised that he was a man accustomed to pulling strings at the top levels of American business.  Bob was the founder and CEO of numerous businesses, both public and private.  For many years he was his company’s spokesman on national television commercials that invited investors to grow with him at First Jersey Securities, his most well known company.  Bob owned personal jets, helicopters, and palatial homes, and thoroughbred racehorses.  Over the course of his distinguished career, he earned hundreds of millions and nurtured friendships with distinguished people such as President Ronald Reagan, President George H.W. Bush, and President George W. Bush.  A jury convicted Bob for a crime that he described to me as “lying on a government form.”  Now he’s beginning a sentence that threatens to confine him for a decade.

We sit on a steel bench beneath a cherry tree on this late summer evening in 2002. Hundreds of prisoners walk along the wide path circling the compound. Bob knows all about my story because he read the manuscript I prepared. I listen to his story with a sense of loss at what my imprisonment has cost me when he describes his career, his experiences at creating jobs for tens of thousands of well-paid people that his companies employed.

“You know what a Democrat is, don’t you?” I tease Bob.

 “What’s that?”

“It’s a Republican who’s been arrested.”
Bob laughs, but his smile fades as he scans the Fort Dix compound. “This isn’t the place to spend your life.”

“I’m used to it,” I say.

“That’s a shame,” he says knowingly.

“What do you miss most from all that you’ve lost?” I probe. Bob is a man who has lost much.

Bob looks up at the sky, thinking. “My Gulfstream jet and the freedom to fly away.”

“That’s what you miss most?” I can hardly believe him.

“There’s nothing like being able to fly wherever you want, whenever you want.” He affirms his answer with a nod.

“I guess traveling isn’t an aspiration I can relate to anymore.”

“So how’s your romance going with Carole? Did you get a letter from her today?” Bob asks, deliberately changing the subject.

“Yes, we write every day, although she might not like what I wrote back today.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s nothing serious, but something she wrote bothered me, and I let her know.”

“What bothered you?”

“She wrote about lottery tickets.”

“So?”

“Come on, a lottery ticket? It doesn’t sit well with me. When I think of people who buy lottery tickets, I think of a poverty state of mind, of people who don’t work hard enough to make things happen on their own. Instead, they’re waiting for something to happen for them.”

“You’ve got to lighten up, Michael. Not everyone in the world is like you.”

“Do you buy lottery tickets?”

Bob doesn’t dignify the question with an answer. “It’s not about what I do. I’m talking about understanding other people. People like to dream. Las Vegas is built on that concept.”

“I want her to have stability and independence in her life so she’s not worried about whether child support checks come on time, or anything else.”

“Give her a break. Why’re you trying to control her life?”

“I’m not trying to control anything.”

“The hell you aren’t. When you judge someone for buying a lottery ticket, you’re trying to control them.”

“We’re growing closer and I want her to know how I think.”

“You haven’t been with a woman in 15 years, and you haven’t even seen Carole since high school. How’re you going to build a relationship from here, when she’s living on the West Coast, and you’re locked inside a Jersey prison?”

“The circumstances might not be ideal, I’ll give you that. But the distance between us doesn’t mean we can’t fall in love, build a life together.”

Bob laughs. “Love? A life together? Listen to yourself! You’ve been locked up since 1987. This is a divorced mother of two. You’re both desperate. If you string this woman along, all you’re going to do is make both of your lives miserable.”

“I’m not stringing her along, and I’m not desperate. Neither is she. We’re two people in our mid-thirties falling in love. We’re not teenagers.”

“Michael, you’re a smart guy. Think about what you’re doing. You’ve got 11 more years to serve in prison. When you go home you’ll be heading into a world that you haven’t seen for 26 years. You don’t know anything about women, about love, about what it means to build a life with someone else.”

“You’re right about one thing, Bob. I’ve been doing this a long time. But you’re wrong when you say I don’t know anything about love. Living in prison has been like watching earth from a different planet. My separation from society has given me a chance to observe, to learn from the lives of others. I’ve read that 50 percent of marriages end in divorce. You’ve been a rich man since your early 30s, yet two of your marriages ended in divorce, and you’re breaking off a relationship now. I may be separated from the rest of the world, but I’ve studied people from a different perspective, and I’ve learned from them.”

“Oh really? What’ve you learned?” He scoffs.

“One thing for sure, in order to create lasting love, I’ll need to appreciate Carole more than I’d appreciate a jet.”

Bob grunts. “You’ve never had a Gulfstream.”

*******

As other prisoners count the days until release, I’m counting down the days until my first visit with Carole. It’s evening on October 16th, 2002. I lie on my bunk using a small, battery-powered light to read Carole’s long letters. I have my favorites, the ones I devour repeatedly. We’ve been writing daily for eight months, and when I wake tomorrow, we’ll begin five glorious days of visiting together. I’m going to hold her, to kiss her for as long as guards will permit. I stare at her photograph and fall asleep, the book light still burning.

When I wake, my smile stretches across my face. It’s a good day. Visiting doesn’t begin until 1:00, so I have time to make my bed, wash my face, brush my teeth, and then sit at my desk to write her a love letter. I want her to know how grateful I am that she flew from Oregon to hold my hand under the harsh lights of a New Jersey prison visiting room.

I stack the paper and books from my desk in my locker. While sitting on my mattress I lace my sneakers, rise, straighten the wrinkles on my bed, and look around to ensure everything is in its proper place in case the guards come in for a surprise cell inspection. I can’t leave anything visible without risking the loss of my 2-man room; a failed inspection would put me back in a 12-man room. With a final glance to make sure I’m leaving the room in perfect condition, I close the door and walk outside for an early exercise session.

I jog eight miles, watching as the wind tosses leaves in waves from the maple trees. They flutter to the grass in different shades of yellow and orange. These same trees were in their early spring bloom when Carole began typing my manuscript, About Prison. In June she was typing my second manuscript, Profiles From Prison, and our romance began. By summer’s end we were pledging our love. But it’s been all correspondence and phone calls until today.

I check my watch and expect that her plane has landed by now. She’s renting a car and is only hours away from the jolting reality of my world. She’ll see the fences with the coils of razor wire, the checkpoints with armed, uniformed guards. I wonder how she’ll respond to the metal detectors, the bureaucratic condemnation, the numerous rules, and the forms required of visitors to federal prisons.

I follow my run with pushups. As I’m finishing Bob comes out for his walk. “So today’s your day!” He smiles in good spirits, happy for me.

“She’ll be here at one.” I stand and brush the dirt from my hands.

“Will you be there until visiting ends?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Okay then. I’ll be waiting for you when you come out. We’ll walk a few laps and you can tell me how things went.”

“I’ll see you then,” I promise.

I return to my housing unit, shower, shave closely with a new, double-blade razor, and dress in clean sweats. Pancho, my friend down the hall, ironed my khakis and shined my shoes in exchange for a three-can pack of tuna. The clothes hang against my wall. With a few hours to pass before our visit, I pick up Nelson Mandela’s A Long Walk to Freedom, the biography that describes his wretched and unjust multi-decade stretch in an African prison.

I set the book on my chest and I let my mind wander. Carole’s love has given me hope for a life most men take for granted. When it’s almost one o'clock, I stand to change.

My heart beats faster when I hear my name being paged, and I walk across the compound, through the gates, toward the visiting room. The guard takes a long time answering the door after I push the button, frustrating me as I lose minutes I could be sharing with Carole.

After months of waiting, she’s finally here, on the other side of this wall. It’s been 28 years since I first played kickball with her in fifth grade and 20 years since our high school graduation.

The guard unlocks the door. “Name and number?”

“Santos, 16377-004,” I state, handing him my red ID card.

“We paged you 15 minutes ago. Where’ve you been?”

“Right here. I pushed the button,” I respond, suppressing my impatience and irritation.

“Come on. You know the drill.”

I step into the room and undress for the guard to search me. “Do you know the rules about physical contact?”

“I know the rules.”

“One kiss when you come in, one kiss when you leave.”

“Can I hold her hand?”

He nods. “Just don’t get too frisky. I don’t wanna be sendin’ anyone to the SHU today.”

“Of course you don’t.”

The guards don’t realize how their callousness dehumanizes prisoners.

“What was that?” He challenges me with his glare.

“Never mind.” Not even a prison guard can dampen my enthusiasm today.

“Can I go in now?”

“Have a nice visit.” His flat expression and flatter tone contradict his good wishes. Anticipation for a blind date with a woman I already love sends adrenaline racing through me as I open the door and enter. I scan the faces and see Carole, far away, sitting beneath a window screened with black iron mesh. Our eyes lock and she stands, smiling radiantly. Holding her gaze, I zigzag through a maze of maroon plastic chairs, remembering just in time to drop my ID card with the guard who operates the computer surveillance system.

Carole looks lovely in fitted denim jeans, black heels, and a beige knit sweater. Her long blonde hair falls past her shoulders. Seconds later she’s in my arms, welcoming my embrace. I can’t believe I’m holding her.

“Let me look at you,” I breathe her in.

She’s smiling, and in her sparkling hazel eyes, I see her love for me.

“We can only kiss once, the guards are watching,” I whisper, wanting to remember this moment with her body pressing against mine.

I tilt my head to the right and bend to meet her lips as she leans into me. With my hands on her back I feel the warmth of her flesh through her clothing. Her heart’s beating fast, and I welcome her tongue, the unfamiliar sensation of her breasts pressed against my chest, and the feminine arch of her slender hips.  It awakens the man in me, as if I’m feeling a woman for the first time. I don’t care about the other 50 visitors in the room and I kiss her as long as I can, though I’m conscious of the guards, knowing they’ll humiliate me by yelling my name and issuing a warning if I don’t release her.

“Let’s sit,” I tell her.

“Hold me for a second longer.” She presses her cheek against mine. “I love you.”

I’m so grateful that she’s in my life and I assure her of my love.  We sit beside each other, holding hands, locking our fingers together, and I stare into her eyes.  After so many years of living in prison, I feel incredibly fortunate to have her with me. When she averts her eyes, glancing down, I tilt her chin up with my index finger. “I want to look at your face.”

“Why?” she asks nervously, with her cheek twitching.

“Because you’re beautiful and I need to memorize every curve of your face. Why are you so nervous?”

“I can’t help it,” she admits, squeezing my hands. “I’m just happy to be here.”

“The fences and razor wire didn’t bother you?” I know how foreboding they can seem at first.

“The only thing that bothers me is that I can’t take you home with me. If this is where you are, this is where I want to be,” she promises, and I see the sincerity in her eyes.

“I want to kiss you again,” I tell her. Concerns that the realities of prison could overwhelm her begin to dissipate after Carole’s affirmation.

“So kiss me.” She says softly, smiling

“We can’t. Those guards sitting on the platform will give me a disciplinary infraction if I kiss you again.”

“They’re not watching us.”

“Yes, they are. Those black bubbles in the ceiling are cameras, and the guards have several monitors at their desk. They sit there with a joystick, moving the cameras around the room. If they catch me kissing you again, they’ll end our visit.”

Carole looks around, taking in the severity of the room. A guard in the standard BOP uniform walks through the aisles, his eyes scanning the room.  “I don’t understand,” she says.  “Why would they care if you kissed me?”

“Those manuscripts you’ve been typing for me aren’t fiction. In prison the priority is security, and they view kissing as a threat to institutional security.  This is my life for 11 more years.”

“You won’t serve 11 more years.”

“Yes I will, Honey.” I brush a strand of hair from her face. “I’ve already served 15 and I’ll serve 11 more.”

“Then I’ll serve them with you.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do know what I’m saying. My love for you is a woman’s love, Michael, not a little girl’s crush. I’ll serve this sentence with you, whatever it takes.”

“Let’s see how you feel on Monday, after our last visit.”

“It won’t be our last visit. I’m coming back.”
In those first hours together, I tell Carole how I spend each day, describing when I wake, how I exercise, and where I shower.  By using my finger as a pointer on her knee, I draw a diagram, showing her the layout of my room, where I store my belongings, even how far down the hall I am from the community bathroom. I tell her about my friends, Bob and Geoff. I answer her questions about how I plan to earn a living after my release, explaining that I’ll write about my prison experience, consult with people who face challenges with the criminal justice system, and speak on how others can employ effective strategies to overcome challenges they may face.

Carole’s eyes never leave me as I talk, and she listens closely, asking insightful questions, such as whether the prison system will give me any trouble when the books I’ve written reach the market.

I explain the reasons why I don’t anticipate any disciplinary problems as a consequence of my writing books while I serve the remainder of my sentence. “One policy says I can’t run a business, so I don’t. A different policy states that the BOP encourages prisoners to write manuscripts, and authorizes them to mail the manuscripts without staff interference. Once I send out my manuscripts, they’re not mine. I assign the publishing royalties to Julie, or my mom.”

“But your name’s on the book?”

“I’m the author, but I don’t receive any money for my work.”

“Your family’s getting the money though, saving it for you when you get out.  Isn’t that a problem?”

“Although others may receive royalty payments, I would argue that since I don’t have a right to the money, I’m within the rules. After all, if my mom or my sister choose to keep the payments they receive, I wouldn’t have any grounds to challenge them. They pay taxes on it, not me. But even if the prison did charge me with a disciplinary infraction, I wouldn’t care. It’s my responsibility to prepare for the future and I’m proud of my work. I’m determined to leave here stable and independent.”

“I want to help you.”

“You are helping me. Without you, I couldn’t have converted my manuscripts to digital files. You help me by inspiring me to work harder. Ever since my term began, I’ve been preparing for you. I willed you into my life.”

“No. I mean I want to help you more. I want my life with you. I want to grow with you. I want to get you out of here.” She squeezes my hand to emphasize her promise.

“Baby, let’s not waste time on things beyond our control, like my being released early. Let’s focus on how we can best prepare for the challenges we’ll face when I’m released.”

“Then I want to help you with that. What can we do, together?”

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.