Prison Professors

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

Chapter eight, part two.

Months 103-127

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I remember. I was about seven or eight then.”

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

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

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

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

“I’m looking into law school right now,” I answer.

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

“Zachary,” scolds Carol.

“What, Mom? I’m just curious.”

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

“That’s a good question, Zach.” I’m impressed with his confidence and directness.

“See, Mom.”

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

“That makes sense,” Tristan, Zach’s younger brother, considers my response.

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

“I’d love to have a lawyer. But the truth is, I don’t have any financial resources.”

“Well we’re going to raise some.”

“How?”

“You’ve built this wonderful support network. I’m sure the people who believe in you will help.”

“But I can’t ask them for money.”

“Why not? They want to help you.”

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

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

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

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

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

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

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

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

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

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

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

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

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

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

“It’s going home that I’m thinking about. What will I face when I walk out of here?”

“You’ll have friends who will help you.”

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

“Don’t express yourself with clichés,” he admonishes.

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

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

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

“But if you’re not a lawyer, how can you represent them?”

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

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

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

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

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

“But is that legal?”

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

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

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

“How so? You won’t even receive payment directly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What makes you think so?”

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

“How so?” Bruce asks, curious.

I’m eager to explain.

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

“What? Are you telling me that’s a revelation for you? You still haven’t answered my question.”

“What question?”

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

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

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

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

“I’m serious. What do you expect to gain from all of this?”

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

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

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

“So you’re all set then?”

“I’m ready.”

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

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

Chapter 8: 1996-1998

Months 103-127

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

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

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

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

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

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

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

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

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

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

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

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

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

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

“You know how much time I’ve already served, don’t you?” I ask.

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

“I am within 18 years of my release,” I clarify.

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

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

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

I laugh.

“You know what that means, don’t you?”

“That I’m going to a low?” I venture.

“That’s right. I’ve got to submit you for transfer. Where would you like to go?”

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m Michael Santos,” I introduce myself. “I’ve been assigned to this room, bunk two, upper.”

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

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

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

“Why can’t you get your property?” he asks.

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

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

“Thanks. This helps. I’ll get it back to you when I shop.”

“No problem. Where’re you coming from?”

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

“Oh, so you’ve been down for awhile.”

“I’ll finish my ninth year in August.”

“Nine years! My God, are you almost out?”

“I wish. I’ve still got more than 17 to go.”

“Months?”

“No, 17 more years.”

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

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

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

“How about you? How long have you been here?”

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

“Are you a doctor?”

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

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

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

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m only in prison because my best friend snitched me out,” says Eric.

“Didn’t you have anything to do with getting caught?” I ask.

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

“But you said you pleaded guilty.” I point out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Amen!” another group member exclaims, voicing his approval.

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

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

“What do you pray about?” I ask.

“It’s personal.”

“Generally, I mean,” prodding him further.

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

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

Dr. Warren nods.

“That’s very spiritual,” I chuckle.

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

“Sorry, I’ll wait my turn.”

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

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

“I’d like to pass.” He folds his arms and stares at the floor.

Dr. Warren nods. “Is everything okay, Bob?”

Bob shrugs, “I just don’t know what to say.”

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

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

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

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

“What do you like to read?” she asks.

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

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

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

“And you don’t have any interest in tutoring others or participating in religious services, like Jim?”

“I like sleepin’ mostly. When I’m ̓sleep, it’s like I ain’t even in prison.”

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

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

I look at the floor, shaking my head.

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

“Amen,” Steve says.

“Praise God,” Jim twists his whiskers, nodding in unison.

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

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

“I dunno. I guess I value my wife, and God too.”

I slouch, massaging my forehead with one hand.

“Why you be hatin’ on the Lord?” Steve challenges me as he tilts his head and scowls.

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

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

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

“Michael, do you have anything you’d like to say?” Dr. Warren asks me.

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

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

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

“What makes you think you be knowin’ so much?” Steve asks.

“I know that God isn’t the highest priority in your life, I know that much.”

“How you be knowin’ what I feel?”

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

“That’s quite a tirade,” Dr. Warren says. “What the others said really bothered you.”

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

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

“Oh, and you ain’t think we wanna get out?” Steve challenges me.

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

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

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

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

“I’m enrolling in law school.”

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s a plan,” Dr. Warren agrees, smiling.

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

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“May I speak with you?” I ask.

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

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

“Let me see it.”

I hand her the pass.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You said you needed a package permit.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How long have you been in my institution?”

“Three days.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir, I am,” I counter firmly.

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

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

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

“I came from FCI McKean.”

Mr. Trevor looks up at Warden Morris and smirks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

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

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

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

“Did you submit a petition for clemency?”

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

“Well it’s denied.”

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

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

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

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

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

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

“Don’t you have 45 years?”

“Yes. But I’ve done eight years without any problems or disciplinary infractions.”

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

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

“When’s your release date?”

“August, 2013.”

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

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

“Where do you want to transfer?”

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

“Let’s see what your case manager says.”

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

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

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

“I’ll talk with you outside,” she says, as if challenging me.

“I can go now.”

“Come with me.”

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

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

“What?”

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

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

“Put your hands behind your back.”

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

“Let’s go.” She grabs the short chain between the cuffs to guide me.

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

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

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

“Investigation. Nuss’s orders.”

“Got it.”

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

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

“It’s too big,” I tell him.

“That’s all we got. Let’s go.”

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

One calls out. “Day got Santos!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Come on boss, I’m in my rack.” I recognize Red’s voice coming from inside the cell.

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

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

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

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

“Hey Homie, what’s up?” Red greets me.

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

“Four months now, two to go.”

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

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

“Busted me on a three-way.”

“What?”

“A three-way.”

“What’s that?”

“I was on the phone with my ol’ lady and she conferenced me into another call with my homie.”

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

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

“Did you appeal?”

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

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

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

“Investigation,” I reply.

“You? What’re they investigatin’ you for? Too many books?”

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

“That’s all it takes. Fuckin’ Nazi!”

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

“Is it always this cold in here?”

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

“What’s with all the water on the tier?” I ask.

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

“What’s the point?”

“Piss the guards off. They gotta mop it up.”

“Do you have anything to read?” I ask.

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

“Anything else?” I ask.

“Got a Bible.”

“I’ll take it.”

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

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

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

I sit up. “What?”

“Roll up!”

We converse by shouting through the locked steel door.

“Am I going back to the compound?”

“Roll up for transfer. You’re outta here.”

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

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

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

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

“Get movin’! Now!  Wake your cellie up.”

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

“Take care, Red.”

“Be cool, Bro.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’s up in Lewisburg now!”

“Too late to get scared!”

“Daddy got just wha’choo need!”

“You gonna be mine tonight bitch!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Santos?”

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

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

“Let’s go.”

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

“Hands up.”

“Open your mouth.”

“Run your fingers through your hair.”

“Let me see your ears.”

“Lift ’em.”

“Turn around.”

“Let me see the bottoms of your feet.”

“Bend over.”

“Spread ’em.”

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

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

“Michael Santos,” I answer him.

“Number?” He inquires.

“16377-004.”

“You know where you’re going?”

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

“What’re you talking about?” the case manager asks, finally lifting his head.

“J-unit,” I say.  “I’d like you to assign me to J-Unit.”

“You mean here?”

I shrug, not following his question.

“You’re not stayin’ here. You’re going to Fairton.”

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

“You’re a medium, right?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I shrug my shoulders. “I didn’t ask you to save my spot.”

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

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

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

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

“My name is Michael Santos.”

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

“I’d like to talk with you about my educational program.”

He nods, and I proceed.

“I’m enrolled in a doctoral program at the University of Connecticut.”

“Spare me the résumé. What’s on your mind?”

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

“Not going to happen.” He doesn’t elaborate.

“I’m sorry?”

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

“I need the books to complete my program.”

“And I’ve got a prison to run.”

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

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

“May I ask why you won’t authorize me to receive books?”

“They interfere with the security of my institution.”

“Books?”

“That’s right.”

“But they’re academic texts and they’ll come directly from the library of a major university.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

125: Earning Freedom with Michael Santos

Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term

I’m reading from chapter six of Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term, by Michael Santos. In this reading, we’re covering chapter Six: 1992-1995

Months 62-84: Chapter Six: 1992-1995

*******

The air brakes sigh as the bus stops in front of the administration building of FCI McKean. As I look through chain-link fences separated by razor wire, I remember my first close look at a prison, back in 1987, when the DEA escorted me through the gates of MCC Miami. McKean has that same non-threatening feel of an office park. Without the impenetrably high concrete walls and gun towers of Atlanta, McKean looks almost welcoming, at least from the outside. I suppose the years have institutionalized me.

While hobbling off the bus I inhale the scent of evergreen trees. McKean is set in the midst of northwestern Pennsylvania’s Allegheny Forest. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been in such a natural setting, double, razor-wire topped fences notwithstanding. The cool mountain air makes me shiver, but I soak up the sight of trees, spring flowers, and distant rolling hills as I shuffle along in line with 22 other prisoners toward the processing area.

It’s early afternoon by the time guards snap my photograph, fingerprint me, issue my bedroll and ID card. Rather than following the wide concrete walkways through manicured lawns toward my housing unit, I detour into the education department for a look and to introduce myself to the supervisor of education. I find Ms. Barto’s office and knock.

“May I speak with you for a minute?”

She looks at my blue canvas shoes, my elastic-waist khaki pants, my dingy white t-shirt with 2XL written in black felt-tip marker on the upper left chest, and the bed roll I carry under my arm.

“Looks like you just pulled in.”

“Yes. I just got here.” From Bruce’s description of her I knew to expect a sight different from Mr. Chandler. Ms. Barto is in her mid-30s, slender, with chestnut hair, gleaming white teeth, and blue eyes that sparkle. She has a welcoming smile that many prisoners, I’m sure, confuse with an invitation to flirt.

“Haven’t you reported to your housing unit yet?”

“Before going there, I wanted to introduce myself and ask if you might have a job for me. My name is Michael Santos. I’m just transferring from USP Atlanta. You may remember my mentor, Dr. Bruce McPherson, who visited you and a few inmates here about a month ago?”

“Oh, you’re Dr. McPherson’s friend. He mentioned that you were going to try transferring here. I’m surprised you made it, and so quickly.”

“I was lucky, I guess. I wanted to talk with you about an educational program I’m involved in, and I hope you’ll help me with some special requirements.”

“You’re in correspondence school, right?” She remembers Bruce talking about me.

“I’m nearly finished with a program at Hofstra University. To complete it I’ll need to make arrangements here so Hofstra’s library can send the books I need to read. Besides those arrangements, I’m hoping you might have a job available that will provide access to a word processor.”

With Bruce having paved the way before I arrived, Ms. Barto extends all the support I need, and there are no delays settling in at McKean. She assigns me to a job of tutoring other prisoners on their self-paced studies to learn word processing skills. She authorizes my use of the computer for school and coordinates with the mailroom to accept packages from Hofstra’s library. With Bruce’s advance preparations and my clearly documented record of achievement, I have a seamless transition into Dream McKean.

*******

Compared to the penitentiary, McKean is a dream. Although a handful of prisoners on the compound serve life sentences, the tension at McKean isn’t as pervasive or palpable as it was at USP Atlanta. Professional, intelligent leadership is the reason behind the tranquility. Warden Dennis Luther doesn’t cling to the simplistic notion that prisons should exist solely to isolate and punish. Instead of relying on policies that crush hope, and managing by threat of further punishment, Warden Luther uses a highly effective system of positive incentives.

I no longer live in a cauldron ready to boil over. To leave my cell in Atlanta I had to wait for specific times and pass through eight separate checkpoints, metal detectors, and searches just to get to the weight pile. By contrast, the doors don’t lock at McKean and our liberty to walk freely encourages a responsible independence, thus lessening the tension all the way around.

McKean has a token economy where prisoners can earn points individually and collectively. We redeem the points for privileges and rewards that ease our time. The progressive system vests the population with incentives to exercise self-control. By keeping rooms and housing units clean, prisoners earn the privilege of more access to television and the phones. Those who accumulate enough points earn the privilege of having a portable television and VCR in their rooms. By minimizing disciplinary infractions, prisoners can participate in family picnics, order food and goods from local businesses, and wear personal rather than institutional clothing.

No one wants problems that can lead to the loss of privileges or lockdowns. The system works exceptionally well, eliminating problems like gangs and violence. The rigid bureaucracy of Atlanta stands in stark opposition to McKean. Ideas for my master’s thesis begin to form as I study Luther’s management style. Eagerly, I write a letter explaining my intentions to him. He’s not only supportive but invites me to his office and makes himself available as an interview subject.

*******

“I’m here to see Warden Luther,” I explain to the guard who eyes me suspiciously when I present myself to the control area. The guard is stationed in a locked booth, an area that is off limits to prisoners. After he makes a call and confirms that I’m authorized to visit the warden in his office, the guard–still wary–buzzes the door open and I walk in.

Tall indoor plants with heavy green leaves fill the atrium-like lobby. I look up and see several skylights. Brightly colored fish swim in a large aquarium adjacent to the receptionist’s desk. She tells me to walk up the stairs.

“The warden’s office will be to the left.”

When I walk into the office the warden’s secretary greets me from her desk. “Have a seat Mr. Santos. Warden Luther will see you momentarily.”

She smiles at me and offers to pour me a cup of coffee, as if I’m a colleague calling on a business acquaintance. I thank her but decline the coffee while picking up a magazine on the wooden table beside the chair. The trade magazine serves the prison industry and those who work in prison management. In perusing the table of contents I quickly spot an article that Warden Luther coauthored with one of my mentors, Professor John DiIulio.

The phone on the secretary’s desk rings and she tells me I can walk into the warden’s office. My legs shake a little as I walk on the plush carpet. Warden Dennis Luther sits in a high-backed leather chair, at a desk of cherry wood. Behind him a large window overlooks the center of McKean’s compound. An American flag and another flag bearing the Department of Justice insignia hang from poles in the corner. Bookshelves line the wall and I see photographs of him with other Bureau of Prisons officials, including Director Kathy Hawk.

“Have a seat.” Warden Luther gestures to a couch adjacent to his desk. It’s the first couch I’ve sat on since my term began. “Tell me about your thesis and how I can help,” he encourages me.

“I’m at a stage where I have to propose my thesis subject to the graduate committee. I’d like to write about the incentive system and the token economy you’ve initiated here. I could make a more persuasive case if I could learn about the influences that shaped your management philosophy.”

“Okay. We can start right now. What are your questions?”

“Wow. I wasn’t expecting to start today, but since you’re offering, I’d like to hear about your relationship with Professor John DiIulio.”

My question surprises him, and I’m sure he wonders how I know about the Princeton professor. “John DiIulio? Why would you ask about him?”

“Well, while I was waiting in your outer office, I flipped through the magazine on the table. I didn’t have time to read it, but I saw that you coauthored an article with Dr. DiIulio. For the past few years I’ve had an ongoing correspondence with him and I’ve read all of his books. From what I’ve learned through our correspondence and from his books, Governing Prisons and No Escape, I’m surprised that you two would collaborate as colleagues.”

He chuckles. “The truth is, John and I share more in common than you might think.”

*******

After an hour with the warden I return to my room and immediately write a letter to Dr. DiIulio. I explain that I’m proposing to center my thesis on Warden Luther’s management style, contrasting his token economy with the goals of isolation and punishment that Professor James Q. Wilson promotes, and even with the strict control model that DiIulio himself extols.

Dr. DiIulio surprises me with his quick response to my letter. He writes that he’s glad I’ve settled in so well at FCI McKean and that I’ve had an opportunity to learn from his friend, Warden Luther. “What if I could arrange to bring a class of Princeton students on a field trip to McKean? That way they could tour the prison and perhaps spend some time listening to you and Warden Luther describe your perspectives on confinement.”

It’s an incredible offer for me, and I accept with enthusiasm.

*******

On a Saturday morning, in the fall of 1994, I wake at three o’clock as a guard shines his flashlight into my single-man cell for the census count. After climbing out from under the covers and flipping on the light, I sit at my desk to read through the notes I’ve taken from Dr. DiIulio’s books.

In a few hours I’ll receive an honor that I know will have meaning for the rest of my life. Although not quite equivalent to lecturing at Princeton, I’m looking forward to speaking with a group of Ivy League students, contributing to their education and to their understanding of America’s prison system. Few prisoners will ever enjoy such an honor and I bask, momentarily, in my good fortune.  I feel as if I’m charting my own course, making progress.

At nine o’clock I walk to Warden Luther’s office, ready, intent on making a favorable impression while giving Dr. DiIulio and his students a different perspective on the need for prison reform. Three of us, including Warden Luther, Associate Warden Craig Apker, and I sit in a conference room.

“Care for coffee or hot chocolate?” Warden Luther points to the buffet table.

I walk over and pour hot chocolate from a thermos. While admiring the array of pastries on the oak table I suddenly realize it’s the first time I’ve sipped from a ceramic mug since I’ve been incarcerated. I’m used to plastic and this heavy mug dings against my teeth. The whole experience makes me grin.

“Did you sleep well?” the warden asks.

He’s dressed casually, in brown corduroys and a tan sweater over a shirt with a button-down Oxford collar. He looks preppy, which I guess is appropriate for a meeting with the undergrads.

“I’ve been awake since three,” I admit. “This is a big day for me and I wanted to study the notes I’ve taken on Dr. DiIulio’s books.”

Through the conference room window the three of us watch the charter bus come to a stop in front of the administration building. I’ve seen photographs of Dr. DiIulio before and recognize him as he steps off the bus. I’ve read everything I could about him. I know that he earned his Ph.D. from Harvard, and also that he was one of the youngest professors at Princeton to receive tenure.

I count fourteen students, all well dressed, and I contemplate the brilliant futures that await them. These are future leaders being groomed in one of the world’s finest universities. Some may be offspring of legislators and judges. I’m thinking of the influence they represent and I’m grateful for the privilege of speaking with them while I’m wearing the khaki uniform of a prisoner.

After introductions, we sit in cushioned chairs around the highly polished wooden conference table. The students take notes as Warden Luther provides the group with details on the prison. It is a medium-security Federal Correctional Institution with a population that ranges between 1,400 and 1,800 men. He describes how he governs the prison from the perspective that prisoners are sent to prison as punishment for their crimes, rejecting the notion that he has a duty to punish them further by creating an oppressive atmosphere.

“So do you think others might construe your prison as one that coddles prisoners?” one of the students asks.

“What do you think, Michael? Are you being coddled?” Warden Luther deflects the student’s question to me and I’m happy to respond.

“I served the first several years of my sentence in a high-security prison, an environment that really dehumanizes everyone. Although I was able to create a routine and focus on educating myself, most of the other prisoners abandoned hope. Those perceptions and attitudes stoked their hostility. That level of anger doesn’t exist here, and from that perspective, it’s better, at least for me.

“Some people might believe this atmosphere coddles prisoners, but it has many advantages that should interest taxpayers.  I don’t sense a strong gang presence, I haven’t seen any bloodshed, and the prisoners work together to sustain the availability of privileges we can work toward. We’re still in prison, still living without family, without liberty. When I’m lying on a steel rack in a locked room at night, with an aching to see my mother again, or to hug my sisters, or when I’m suffering from the estrangement I feel from society, from women, I’m aware of my punishment. I’ve been living that way for more than 2,500 days already. To me it doesn’t feel like I’m being coddled.”

“What kind of changes do you think Congress could make that would serve the interests of taxpayers?” Dr. DiIulio asks Warden Luther.

“One change I’d recommend would be to close all minimum-security prison camps. The camps don’t serve a useful purpose. Fences don’t confine the camp prisoners, and the men aren’t a threat to society. Camp prisoners should serve their sanctions in home-confinement or under some other form of community-based sanction that would not require taxpayers to spend more than $10,000 a year to support each man we confine in a camp.”

“How about you, Michael? What kind of changes would you like to see Congress make?”

“Well, as a long-term prisoner, I’d like to see citizens and members of Congress rethink the concept of justice. Instead of measuring justice by the number of calendar years a person serves in prison, I’d like to see changes that would measure justice by the efforts an offender makes to redeem his crimes and reconcile with society. Reforms should encourage offenders to work toward earning freedom through merit and redemptive acts.”

“How about violent offenders?” Another student interjects. “Should offenders who violently prey on society have opportunities to earn freedom?”

“I’m a big believer in a person’s capacity to change, to lead a productive and contributing life. An enlightened society such as ours ought to allow its criminal justice system to evolve. I don’t know the mechanisms citizens or leaders ought to put in place, or what challenges an individual ought to overcome to earn freedom, but I think we can come up with a system that serves society better than locking a human being in a cage for decades. Perhaps some offenders won’t express remorse, or work to atone, or do enough to earn freedom. But many will. And such a system, I’m sure, would serve the interests of society better than one limiting itself to isolating and punishing.”

*******

The hours we spend together in Warden Luther’s conference room raise my spirit. When we leave I’m the tour guide, responding to student questions as we walk through the housing units, recreation areas, and prison compound. After our tour we return for a second conference that lasts another few hours. I’m energized as I finally walk them out to their bus, and I don’t mind at all when the guard at the gate leading back into the prison orders me against the wall so he can pat me down. Indifferent to the degradation and assault on my human dignity, I smile back at the group of students who watch the search.

“Who’re they?” the guard asks, curious about why I’m with the group.

“They’re students from Princeton.”

He’s giving me a thorough search, perhaps because the group is looking on. I’m a spectacle, on display, with the guard’s hands working their way along my arms as if he’s squeezing meat into a sausage casing.

“So why they coming to see you? You go to Princeton?”

“No. I correspond with their professor, who has a relationship with Warden Luther.  The students came on a field trip and I was invited to participate.”

“Lucky you,” he says as he clears me to walk through the gate and into the prison yard.

*******

My meeting with Dr. DiIulio and his students inspires my thesis. It becomes a project that succeeds in making me feel luckier still, opening new avenues few long-term prisoners enjoy. Warden Luther authorizes me to record a video for presentation at the 1994 Annual Conference of the American Society of Criminology, and in May of 1995, Hofstra awards my Master of Arts degree. With those credentials and letters of endorsement from my growing support network, Dr. George Cole convinces his colleagues to admit me into a program at the University of Connecticut that will lead to my Ph.D. Eight years into my sentence and I’m on my way toward becoming a scholar of distinction. Or so I think.

Podcast 124: Earning Freedom with Michael Santos

Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term

I’m reading from chapter six of Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term, by Michael Santos. In this reading, we’re covering chapter Six: 1992-1995

Months 62-84

It’s Thanksgiving, 1992, just before my sixth holiday season in prison. Despite the forbidden affair I’ve been carrying on with Sarah for the past six months, today she tells me that she needs to move on with her life. She understands the risks associated with our trysts and she’s come to the conclusion that the stress would be too much to bear for another 21 years.

I’ve hardened emotionally, as I’m now familiar with the concept of loss. I’ve been expecting this moment, anticipating her good-bye since our first kiss.  Grateful that it has lasted this long, I’m prepared to move forward.

*******

“What’s up? Did she finally dump you?” Windward asks, sensing my despondency when I return to the cell and drop to my rack without undressing.

“I told you she’s my lawyer. That’s it.”

“And I told my judge that I thought it was flour I was bringin’ in. What’s that got to do with anythin’?”

“Can’t you just be quiet?”

“Least you can do is tell me how it went down. No sense keep denyin’ it. Ain’t no hot young lawyer gonna keep visitin’ a man in the joint ’less somethin’s going on. ‘Sides that, I smell her all over ya.”

“She was trying to help with my case. That’s it. Enough, just drop it.”

Lying on my rack, ignoring Windward’s irritating interrogation, I silently acknowledge that I knew Sarah would eventually disappear from my life. She was a wonderful, delicious respite from my all-male world, but now she’s gone and despondency starts to settle in like a dense fog. Thoughts of women, family, and the normal life from which I’m separated rush in, squeezing me. I have to refocus, to push thoughts of Sarah out of my mind and block all hope of finding a woman to carry this burden with me. I’m going to focus on completing five years at a time, alone. I’ve got to reach 1997.

*******

The people have elected William Jefferson Clinton the 42nd president of the United States. I closely followed the political coverage throughout the year. Julie even purchased a subscription to the Washington Post for me to keep abreast of politics. Now, on a sunny day in January 1993, I’m overwhelmed by my emotions, tears filling my eyes, as I watch Justice Rehnquist swear our new president into office.

“Why do you care so much who the president is when you can’t even vote?”

In my sister’s world the president doesn’t play much part in day-to-day life and she doesn’t grasp why I’m optimistic with this switch from Bush to Clinton. As a federal prisoner, I live under the restrictions of the Bureau of Prisons, an agency that needs major reform. I’m hoping that President Clinton or his attorney general will appoint a new director of this agency. I’m certain the change will bring more empathy, as the president’s younger brother, Roger, served a federal prison sentence for nonviolent cocaine trafficking. Reform and liberalization of prison could well come under Clinton’s leadership.

In preparation of a research report I’m working on for Hofstra I read about various progressive prison systems that President Clinton may consider. In Scandinavian countries citizens from local communities participate in panels designed to oversee and facilitate positive adjustments for offenders. Prisoners meet with “ombudsmen panels” at the beginning of their terms and together they work to establish clearly defined, individualized programs that prisoners may follow to reconcile with society and earn their freedom through merit. No similar program exists in our justice system, though under Clinton there’s hope for change.  Hope has been a mantra of Clinton’s throughout the campaign, and if he wants to restore it for people in prison, he’ll need a different kind of system.

Instead of a system that encourages offenders to embrace societal values, studies combined with my experiences convince me that our system has a dramatically different mission with dramatically different outcomes.  It began to deteriorate in 1973, after Robert Martinson, a criminologist, published “Nothing Works.” It was an influential study suggesting that regardless of what programs administrators initiated, people in prison were incapable of reform. Then Professor James Q. Wilson, a mentor of Dr. DiIulio’s, published his widely quoted book, Thinking About Crime. In that book, Professor Wilson suggested that society ought to limit the functions of prisons to two goals: isolate and punish.  I’d like to see a different approach, and under President Clinton’s leadership, I’m hopeful for meaningful reforms.

Either way, I’m on my own, knowing that I must succeed in spite of external forces.  The concepts of isolation, deterrence, and punishment don’t concern me. I’m making daily progress by staying physically fit and putting in long hours of study toward my master’s degree. Regardless of whether President Clinton appoints enlightened leadership to change the system or not, I’ll continue to learn and grow. Neither the system of punishment nor anything else will block me from achieving the goals that I set.

Despite the rigid, punishment-based policies espoused by theorists like Martinson and DiIulio and endorsed by the BOP–policies that thwart my struggle to emerge as a capable and contributing citizen–I’m heartened to learn of leaders who embrace what I consider an enlightened system of justice. Some come from surprising places, like the United States Supreme Court.

In a 1985 commencement speech entitled “Factories With Fences,” Former Chief Justice Warren Burger called for the graduating students from Pace University to reform America’s growing prison system. Instead of perpetuating a system that simply isolates and punishes, Justice Burger urged changes within the system that would encourage prisoners to work toward “earning and learning their way to freedom.”

Although eight years have passed since Justice Burger delivered his speech, the Bureau of Prisons has done little to implement his vision. I don’t see any way to earn freedom. Through my work and achievements I want to become an example and a catalyst for change. I may not advance my release date, but I will contribute, and I will lead a life of relevance. I will show by example that self-discipline and education can lead a prisoner to emerge as a contributing citizen, and I will urge reforms that encourage others to do the same.

*******

I’m inspired by what I’ve learned from The Future of Imprisonment, a book Dr. Norval Morris published in the 1970s. Dr. Morris wrote that prisons in an enlightened society should enable prisoners to rise to their highest levels of competence.  His thoughts resonate with me so I write him. Thinking that he’s still a law professor at Harvard, I send my letter of introduction to Cambridge. I want him to know that his work has touched my life, and I ask for his guidance going forward.

Several months pass before I receive his response. Administrators at Harvard forwarded my letter, as Dr. Morris moved to become the Julius Kreeger Professor of Law at The University of Chicago. He responded graciously to my letter, offering to advise me with my studies at Hofstra and throughout the remainder of my term. “I may be of particular help to you at times,” he writes, “as I’ve known every director of the Bureau of Prisons, and the past three directors are close friends of mine. Count on my support if you run into any obstacles with your pursuit of education.”

Dr. Morris’s support boosts my spirits. To have distinguished academics like Professors McPherson, DiIulio, and Morris as mentors means that I’ll have guidance from the same professionals who offer expert opinions to legislators and to the highest levels of prison administrators. The professors will have an interest in preparing me for release; I can trust in them to advocate for me if I need help.

Through our letters and phone calls, Dr. Morris and I become friends. He encourages me to call him Norval and introduces me to other leading American penologists. I begin to correspond with professors from across the United States, including scholars such as Leo Carroll, Todd Clear, Francis Cullen, Timothy Flanagan, Tara Gray, and Marilyn McShane. They all support my efforts and invite me to contribute to their work. As a prisoner who studies prisons from the inside and shares what he knows with the world of academia, I’m evidently unique. Dr. George Cole, an author and Chair of the Political Science Department at the University of Connecticut, pledges his support.  We begin to build a close friendship.

Liberation seeps incrementally into my psyche with each of these relationships. I’m less susceptible to the hopelessness that pervades the lives around me. The woman I loved left me and I serve a sentence that is still measured in decades, but I’ve created a sense of meaning and I feel as though I’m making progress, which is the key to growth.

*******

Bruce and I have completed our collaboration on “Transcending the Wall” about the importance of education in transforming prisoners’ lives. He generously gives me credit as the first author but it is Bruce who coordinates publication in the scholarly, peer-reviewed Journal of Criminal Justice Education. As I told Bruce during our summer visit in 1993, our publication serves a pragmatic purpose.

“I need to start thinking about transferring from this penitentiary,” I tell him during one of our visits.

“Are you feeling threatened?” he asks, on alert.

Bruce read about the violence at USP Atlanta in a New York Times article that cited it as one of the nation’s most dangerous high security prisons. He’s always concerned about my safety.

“My schedule keeps me away from trouble, but gang activity is more intense every day. It’s violent, bloodshed every week. I think it’s time to request a transfer.”

“So what’s stopping you?”

“I need more information. The thing is, when a prisoner asks for a transfer there’s no telling where the BOP will send him. It’s like playing roulette. I need to transfer to the most education-friendly prison possible.”

“Can Norval help you?”

“He can help, and he said he would. The problem is that I don’t know where to go. If I ask for a transfer the BOP will probably send me closer to Seattle, but being closer to home isn’t as important as the preparations I need to make for when I get out.”

“What do we need to do?” I always love Bruce’s steadfast support, and I especially appreciate his use of the “we,” meaning he’s always on board to help.

“I need to find the best prison for educational programming, but not according to what staff members say. I need inside information from actual prisoners who serve time in the institutions.”

Bruce doesn’t understand why the prisoners’ perspective is so valuable to me when I actively avoid close interactions with the penitentiary population.

I try to explain. “If someone were to inquire about educational opportunities here at USP Atlanta, the staff would discuss the basic programs. They would say that teachers, classrooms, and even college programs are available. But I’m the only prisoner out of 2,500 who’s earned a degree here, and there’s a reason for that. It’s because, despite what staff members say, the atmosphere in here is oppressive and the policies in practice discourage us from pursuing an education.”

“Yes, but you’ve gotten around the obstacles here. What makes you think that you won’t get around them wherever you go?”

“The reason I make progress here is because I have support from Ms. Stephens, Mr. Chandler, and a few others. They let me create a schedule that allows me to avoid problems and gives me access to computers; they intervene when policies or staff members try to block me. When I get to the next prison I’m just another prisoner, and I’ll be facing obstacles there like everyone else, including from BOP staff members that may resent me for striving to become something more. Those kinds of staff members throw up insurmountable barriers. I see them every day here, but this penitentiary has become as familiar to me as the back of my hand and I know how to get around in here. I need details and the up-to-date truth from prisoners about what goes on in other prisons. With that information I can decide where to request a transfer.”

Our conversation evolves into a plan. Bruce writes a letter of introduction to Sylvia McCollum, the Director of Education for the entire Bureau of Prisons. He lists his credentials as a retired professor of education from Chicago and explains that for the past several years he has been mentoring me. He includes a copy of the article we co-authored, offering to travel to Washington to meet with Ms. McCollum and discuss contributions he might make to the Bureau of Prisons as a volunteer.

Had I written to Sylvia McCollum directly, it’s unlikely that my letter would’ve reached her, or that I would’ve received a response. With Bruce as my emissary, on the other hand, I knew that I would have a better chance of receiving the data I was looking to find.

Bruce visited Ms. McCollum at her office in DC, at the Bureau of Prisons headquarters.  She welcomed his offer to mentor other prisoners and even congratulated me through Bruce on the progress I’ve made.  When he told her that he wanted to help others, Ms. McCollum encouraged him.  She gave him clearance to visit any federal prison he wanted and instructed those who presided over education departments to accommodate him by arranging private meetings with the prisoners who were most active in education programs.

“I’m ready to begin my journey,” Bruce tells me over the phone after describing his successful meeting with Ms. McCollum. “Where should I go?”

*******

The research work pays off.  With Bruce and Norval’s assistance, I successfully coordinate my transfer after learning that the best prison for education is FCI McKean. It’s wonderful news when guards inform me that I’m being transferred out of the United States Penitentiary and that I’m on my way to McKean.

“Santos. 16377-004.” I respond to the guard who processes me in for transfer as he calls me forward.

He shakes my wrists to ensure the handcuffs are secure and then yanks on the chain around my waist.

“Whadda we got goin’ on down here?” The guard pulls my pant legs out from between my skin and the steel bracelets locked around my ankles.

 “I didn’t get any socks, sir. The chains were digging into my shins.”

“Gonna have to live with it. Security first.” He tightens the cuffs to ensure I don’t pull the pant legs through again. Then he clears me.

I once read a novel by Wilbur Smith describing the horrific experiences of people who were locked in chains after slave traders captured them.  The slaves were forced to walk across rough terrain to the ships stealing them from Africa. The descriptions sickened me when I read the novel and I’m reminded of them as I shuffle my way onto the bus. The steel rings once again cut into my skin, but by shortening my steps I lessen the pain.

My stomach churns despite three earlier trips to the bathroom. My body hasn’t moved faster than my legs could carry it since 1988, the last time I was in a vehicle. Now, in the spring of 1994, I’m sitting on an uncomfortable seat in the prison bus that is about to transport me out of USP Atlanta. Diesel fumes from the engines make me nauseous and beads of sweat form on my forehead

It’s been seven years since my arrest. I’m now 30-years-old, certainly a different man, though still a prisoner with a long, steep climb into more darkness.

I smile as I settle into the black vinyl seat, recalling how I engineered this transfer. With Norval’s help the administrative obstacles to the transfer were insignificant. Bruce visited five prisons and spoke with several prisoners in each. Clearly, the news about the Federal Correctional Institution in Bradford, Pennsylvania, known as FCI McKean, suggested that it would be my best choice. The prisoners at McKean refer to it as “Dream McKean,” with a progressive warden, Dennis Luther, who wholeheartedly supports educational programs.

Ordinarily the documented address of release residence in my case file would’ve prohibited my transfer to McKean. The BOP confined me in the Southeast region because of my arrest in South Florida, but my release address is Seattle.

“I can submit a transfer for you to FCI McKean,” my case manager told me when I asked, “but I know the Region isn’t going to approve it. You don’t have a release address for that part of the country, and I know you’ll either be sent to a prison in the West or another prison here in the Southeast.”

“I don’t care about being close to home. I’ve got too much time left to serve and McKean’s the best spot to finish my education.” I persisted with the request, knowing she wanted to help.

“Look, I support you and I’m going to submit you for McKean. I’m just telling you what’s going to happen. Once I send the file to the regional office it’s out of my hands, and no one in that office knows anything about you.”

My case manager, Ms. Forbes, had attended my graduation in 1992 and helped me make arrangements with the mailroom to receive the books I needed from the Hofstra library. She supported my efforts but was honest in telling me what she thought would happen once she put forth my file for transfer. I existed only as a number in the system, and I understood that all consideration from staff at USP Atlanta would end with my transfer request.

After that conversation with my case manager I called Norval and explained the advantages that FCI McKean offered along with the challenges I would have in transferring. Norval said he knew the regional director and promised to call him on my behalf. That was two days ago.

When the bus engine begins to roar, I feel ready to leave. I’ve lived through six holiday seasons amidst prisoners serving multiple life sentences in the penitentiary. Transitioning to a medium-security prison means encountering less volatility and more optimism, I hope.

As I wait for the bus to roll along, my thoughts, curiously, turn to my eventual release. I submitted a petition for clemency about six months ago.  It wasn’t my intention to submit the petition until 1997, when I would’ve completed my first decade.  But after discussing my plan with Norval, he convinced me on the merits of submitting the petition at once.

 “These efforts take time and work,” Norval explained, “and clemency is extremely rare, especially in this political climate. I don’t see any advantage in waiting until 1997. You’ve earned one university degree and you’re well on your way to earning a second. Draft a petition now and send it to me for review. I think you should get the process started.”

With Norval’s letter of support, I proudly sent my petition to the U.S. pardon attorney in Washington. That was more than six months ago. Whenever I’ve made an inquiry on the progress, I received form letters that say my petition is under review. I have no idea what will happen, if anything. I can’t grasp the concept of 19 more years in prison. But I’m transferring from a high-security penitentiary to a medium-security FCI now, and I’m excited about the change of scenery, even if I’m still immersed in a population of more than 1,500 felons.

I’m reading from chapter five of Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term, by Michael Santos.

It's the story of my prison journey. For a full copy, visit PrisonProfessors.com

Months 58-62

Since I received the divorce papers from Lisa, my interactions with women have been limited to Ms. Stephens, my work supervisor, and Susan, my friend from high school with whom I’ve had an ongoing, friendly correspondence. But those relationships don’t have any possibility for intimacy. This thing with Sarah is different.  She lives in Atlanta, and her proximity causes me to fantasize that I could seduce her, make her my woman.  Given the rules of this place, however, initiating physical intimacy will be a major challenge.  Still, forced celibacy doesn’t diminish my thirst for love or my desire for sex.

Thoughts of love have been on my mind for years. Another prisoner, Eugene Fischer, fed my hopes with a story about Orianna Fallaci, a world-famous journalist who loved a man who served time in a Greek prison for an attempted assassination. I wonder whether I could find a woman who would see me as a man and love me despite my imprisonment. I’m 28, and I refuse to give up on the possibilities.

Upon receiving the invitation to attend my graduation, Sarah surprises me by driving over to the penitentiary. I’m on a volunteer suicide-watch duty in the hospital, looking after a despondent prisoner, when I receive the call. While I study for final exams, the guard hollers my name from the other side of locked gates.

“Santos!” he yells. “Let’s go!” I see him standing outside the gate, fumbling with the ring of keys hanging on a chain attached to his belt.

“What?” I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“We’ve been paging you for 30 minutes. You’re supposed to report to the visiting room.”

“I didn’t hear a page.” I close my books and walk toward the guard.

“Leave the books. You’re late. I’ve got to take you straight to visiting.”

“Why?”

“Your attorney is here and she’s been waiting. Didn’t you know she was coming?”

“I didn’t have any idea.” The 15-minute walk takes me through a maze of gates and courtyards and metal detectors and corridors. With each step I’m thinking about Sarah. She’s not on my visiting list, so I wonder how she got in. If she felt this urgency to see me, perhaps it’s to tell me face-to-face that my invitation went too far and to clarify where we stand. Or maybe it’s something else.

*******

Some prisoners’ families live near Atlanta and I hear the institutional loudspeaker page those men for visits regularly. Until this back and forth with Sarah began, my focus on school extinguished any longing to sit in the visiting room. Sarah’s surprise visit breaks my routine. The strip search by an inquisitive guard doesn’t even bother me.

After the full inspection I pull on my boxers and socks, step back into my khakis, tuck in my shirt, and lace my sneakers tightly before walking into the visiting room.

Since Sarah came as a lawyer, I’m directed past the stairs leading down into the general visiting room where hundreds of people sit beside each other under the scrutiny of guards and surveillance cameras. The guard instructs me to walk across the hall to one of the private conference rooms.

“She’s in two,” he says.

Through the narrow vertical window cut into the wooden door I see Sarah for the first time in three months, since that day she handed me her business card. For a second I pause to watch her. She’s seated at a small table, absorbed with a stack of papers. Black designer sunglasses hold her long, honey-colored hair away from her face while she works. She’s prettier than I remember. I knock, startling her. She looks over at me, smiles, and waves me in.

As I open the door she stands and quickly straightens her navy skirt. Suddenly we’re face to face in a room half the size of my cell.

“Surprise!” she greets me as I close the door. Her perfume lingers in the air and I inhale the subtle, sweet fragrance.

“Wow! This is a surprise. How’d you get in without being on my list?”

“Lawyer privileges. I just flash my bar card. What took you so long to get here?”

I smile. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“It’s okay. I brought some work with me. How about a hug?” She opens her arms.

Her arms encircle me in a friendly gesture. I’ve been deprived of a woman’s touch for almost 3 years and I load the gesture with a lot more meaning. I’m awkward, unsure if I should hold her slender waist or keep my hands high on her back. The embrace lasts a second, but in that second, through her silk blouse, I feel the warmth of her back on my hands and her breasts pressing into my chest.

“It’s cozy,” she says, looking around the small room. Some designer of prisons splurged by using two shades to paint the concrete walls–dark beige to shoulder height and a lighter beige up to the matching ceiling above. Its dreariness contrasts with Sarah’s radiance. She moves the suit jacket she’s folded over the back of the extra chair and we sit.

When she asks whether I’ve ever been in this part of the visiting room,
 I shake my head no, telling her that I hardly ever come to the visiting room. She nods, in empathy I think. “So you’re graduating next month.  Congratulations!”  Her eyes shine as she leans back, pushing her fingers through her hair.


“I’m looking forward to the commencement ceremony. Did you get my letter inviting you to come?”

“I did. That’s why I’m here.”

“Uh-oh.”

“What do you mean?”

“If you went to all the trouble of driving out here just to give me an answer, it probably means you can’t come, or you won’t come.”

“No, not at all. I’d love to watch you receive your degree. It’s just that you’ve expressed so much admiration for Bruce, and you wrote that they’d only allow you to have two visitors.  Maybe you should invite him and your sister. I can visit you any time.”

“Well Bruce will be on vacation, but I asked you because I want you here. Will you come?”

Our eyes lock as she smiles, nodding yes.

“Good, I want you to meet my sister, Julie. I’ve written to her about you.”

“Really? What about?”

“Just that I’ve made a new friend and that we’re corresponding. My sister and I are close. She worries about me, wants me to be happy.”

“I understand. Sounds like you’ve got a great sister.”

“Two great sisters,” I say. “The best.”


Sarah and I talk for three hours, discussing challenges I’ve faced, plans I’m making, and steps she’s taking to open her own practice. Without a doubt, I’m relishing the electricity between us, feeling a connection that hasn’t been a part of my existence for years. When I stand to leave we share a longer embrace, and she promises to return before my graduation. I’ll hold onto this memory of her breasts pressing into my chest.  It’s been the best day since my confinement began.

*******

I return to my cell and read.  My brother-in-law, Tim, purchased a subscription to The Wall Street Journal for me last year. He’s building a career as an investment real estate broker and he advises me to familiarize myself with finance. Appreciating his advice, I make a point of carefully reading each issue. Learning more about the stock market helps me understand how to value public companies and reading the Journal broadens my business education. Rather than following sports, I devote time to commerce every day, convinced that the education will make me more capable of contributing to any business that will employ me once I’m released.

I read an editorial in the Journal that upsets me. John DiIulio, a professor of politics at Princeton University, wrote a scathing article calling for society to build more prisons and urging administrators to manage them with tighter controls and fewer privileges. Wanting to provide him with a different perspective, I write him directly.

In my letter I express my disagreement with his premise, explaining why we don’t need more prisons in America with tighter controls. Rather, we need strong, intelligent leadership to make better use of the prison resources we have. Instead of locking so many nonviolent people up and eradicating hope, I suggest administrators should implement policies that encourage prisoners to work toward educating themselves, reconciling with society, and earning freedom.

I explain to Professor DiIulio what I’ve seen during the five years I’ve served. Most prisoners give up while they serve time. Many join gangs, hustle drugs and weapons, or incite disturbances. Oppressive policies cause negative adjustments. Instead, we need policies similar to those in business that encourage people to contribute with meaningful incentives. I explain to the Princeton scholar that I strive to live as a model for such reforms, that I’m about to graduate from Mercer University and that I’ll begin graduate school at Hofstra University in the fall. I conclude my letter by restating that by inspiring more prisoners to focus on preparing for release, prison leadership could better serve the interests of society by, among things, lowering recidivism rates.

Dr. DiIulio surprises me by responding to my letter. Even though I’ve never stepped foot on a campus, universities have become a big part of my life. Holding the heavy stock of the envelope and letterhead gives me a charge. Wow! Princeton University. It’s one thing for me to write an unsolicited letter but quite another to receive a response. Through his letter he validates and honors me as a contributing citizen, as a man, not a prisoner.  It’s moments like these that inspire me to keep up the work of building my support network.  I’m on the right path.

Dr. DiIulio agrees with all I expressed in my letter but says that the limitation of an op-ed piece doesn’t permit him enough space to elaborate on all his thoughts. After informing me that he has published extensively on the subject of prison management, he offers to send books I can read and comment on. It is the beginning of another fascinating correspondence.

*******

To broaden my education, Bruce insists that I read classic literature, especially the plays of William Shakespeare.  He sent me a complete anthology.  Although I’m not smart enough to find much value in the poetry, I’ve read every play and I enjoyed many.  From Julius Caesar, a line stays with me:

There is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in the shallows and in miseries.

In Dr. DiIulio’s offer to correspond with me, I find a new opportunity to read critically and to challenge opinions with confidence. It’s as if my tide has come in and the flood is leading to fortune. I feel it. If an Ivy League professor finds me worthy of his mentoring energies I’ll have an incredible resource, another strong academic reference that will distinguish me from other prisoners.

*******

May 12, 1992 is a day I’ve been working toward ever since guards processed me into USP Atlanta. I’m so excited. I feel as if I’m being released, and in a way, I am. I’m being lifted above a life of insignificance, distinguishing myself as a college graduate. It’s a credential I’ll carry for the rest of my life. A sense of liberty comes with this accomplishment, because regardless of how the prison system tries to direct me, I know where I’m going. I will leverage my degree to pry open new opportunities, and on this day, at least, I’m more than just a prisoner.

I wrote and rewrote a speech for the commencement ceremony, four single-spaced pages. For the past six weeks I’ve practiced my delivery at every opportunity and after hundreds of rehearsals I’ve committed each word, sentence, and paragraph to memory. I knew this day would have significance. Now that it’s here, I’m glad I took the time to prepare. When it’s my turn to speak I think I can stand onstage with confidence that the penitentiary is powerless to repress.

Immediately after the guards clear the afternoon census count I walk with a hundred other prisoners to the education building. The carefully scripted ceremony will begin at five in the chapel. Mr. Chandler and his subordinates have taken care to prepare and honor the dignitaries from Mercer University who will share the stage with Warden Stock and members of his executive staff. Although I want to impress those community leaders, mostly I’m eager for Julie and Sarah to see me.

The prisoners who’ve earned their GEDs cheer. During my speech I want to inspire them to continue their education, as I plan to do myself. We have a responsibility to change this system. The best way to bring change is to develop skills and credentials to ensure we emerge into society successfully, as well-educated citizens, ready to contribute. As a prisoner, I also want the Mercer administrators to leave with a clear understanding of the need for more educational opportunities in prison. And I want my speech to inspire everyone in the auditorium, especially my sister and Sarah.

Julie is 29 now, working as a young executive with an international cosmetics company. We’ve only visited a few times since I arrived in Atlanta. Her professional responsibilities, an active social life, and the geographical distance between us make traveling to Atlanta difficult. For years she has accepted my collect phone calls, sent me money to purchase goods in the commissary, and paid my educational costs. She is vested in every choice I make and I’m determined to show her that her trust and support are well placed. With Sarah, I have different motivations. I’m a man and I want a woman in my life.

The music opening our graduation ceremonies begins, and I walk at the head of the procession, leading all the graduates who are now in matching black gowns and caps with tassels. In the audience I see a dozen people I presume came from Mercer; Julie and Sarah sit in the front row. Dr. Colin Harris, one of my favorite professors, is on the stage with Jean Owens, Mercer’s outreach program coordinator. Mr. Chandler sits beside them with the warden and several other staff members. I can’t quit smiling, grateful for the recognition. I walk to the front row to take my seat.

As Mr. Chandler opens the ceremony with obligatory expressions of gratitude to the warden and other staff members, I exchange glances with Julie and Sarah. Then, we all bow our heads as Dr. Harris, Professor of Religion, gives the invocation. Next, Jean Owens delivers the keynote, turning me crimson as she tells the audience about my work ethic and determination. She describes the bright future that opens with education. Using the catchy slogan to promote Michael Jordan’s basketball shoes, Ms. Owens encourages those in the audience to “be like Mike,” referring not to the basketball legend but to me, and she urges those in the audience to continue their studies.

I think I might have to excuse myself and find a bathroom, but when it’s my turn to speak, I walk with assurance to the stage to deliver the valedictory address, all else forgotten. I feel so tall at the lectern, like I’ve just grown six inches. I turn to my left and thank those from Mercer University, then to my right to thank the prison staff, and then out at my audience of graduates, staff, and guests in the cushioned seats, thanking them for attending.

Without notes I deliver my speech that I’ve carefully rehearsed hundreds of times. Julie beams with pride in the front row, and I see Sarah grasp her hand. They’ve only just met, but in their support of me they’ve come together. Those 12 minutes on stage feel as if they’re the most positively energizing of my entire life.

The audience gives a standing ovation. Even Warden Stock stands and gives me an affirmative nod when I look his way. Elated, I return to my seat, squeezing my sister’s hand as I pass in front of her. The other prisoners and I then receive our diplomas. Mr. Chandler gives closing remarks and ends the ceremony in order to maintain the schedule. We don’t have time for a reception. After all, this is a penitentiary. I’m the only prisoner with guests, and no allowance is given for further visitation. At least they were allowed to come for my memorable moment, and I’m in high spirits.

“You were awesome!”

“Send us a copy of your speech.”

“I’m so proud of you.”


Though it’s involuntary, a smile stretches across my face as I walk between my sister and Sarah through the corridor. I stop at the entrance to B cellblock and, under the watchful eyes of the warden, I give each of my guests a hug good-bye.

*******

I’m paged to the mailroom, and when I show up, Mr. Chandler is standing at the door. “Boy, all the years you done been locked up and you still ain’t learned nothin’?”

I know this routine and I stand waiting for the head of the education department to continue his reprimand, though I don’t have any idea what he’s talking about or why he paged me to the mailroom.

“I done tol’ you befo’ ’bout havin’ yo folk’ send boxes to my depar’ment without axin’ me ‘forehand.”

“Yes, I remember. I haven’t had anyone send me any boxes.”

“If you ain’t had no one send no boxes, then why I gotta go through this mess lookin’ through books that done come from Princeton University?”

A month has passed since my correspondence with Professor DiIulio, and when I wrote that I would welcome the books, I wasn’t thinking about the mailroom rules. If books come from a publisher or bookstore in an envelope, we’re allowed to receive them. For a prisoner to receive boxes, a staff member must provide advance authorization.

“Don’t be standin’ there with your mouth all hangin’ open like you ain’t know these is comin’. Letter’s addressed to you.”

“I thought the books would come in an envelope from the bookstore,” I say in way of an apology and explanation. “I didn’t know there would be so many.”

“Who this Professa D’oolioo? You know ’im?”

“Not really. I just wrote him. He teaches at Princeton and writes books. He wrote that he would send me some books but I didn’t know they would come like this.”

“Boy you a real piece a work.” He handles the books one by one and squints while reading the titles and flipping through the pages. “Guv’nin’ Prisons, No ‘xcape. This professa be writin’ these books?”

“I guess so.”

“What business you got readin’ all these books ’bout prison. Ain’t you know ’nough ’bout prisons yet?”

“I’m still learning, sir.”


“I hope you done learnt ’nough to stay out.”
 I sense Mr. Chandler likes me. My graduation from Mercer and the speech I gave during commencement put a positive spotlight on his department. His gruff demeanor doesn’t intimidate me anymore because I know it’s just his way.

“Well go ’head on then. Next time make sure you see me ’bout auth’rization.”

Jubilant, I carry the box of books back to the business office where I work. Dr. DiIulio sent 17 books, two of which he authored. I sit at my desk and clear a space on the bookshelf behind me. Reading the books will help me build a relationship with him. I intend to write him about what I learn from each, and I especially look forward to reading the books that he wrote. My small personal library will provide ample research material as I begin my studies at Hofstra.

*******

Since I can’t earn an accredited law degree from prison I’ve had to think about what I can study. Although reading the Wall Street Journal, and studying the stock market and finance interest me, I don’t want to pursue an MBA. Instead, after consulting with Bruce I propose to Hofstra that I study prisons and the people they hold. My Hofstra advisor is Dr. Al Cohn, Professor of Psychology and he approves of my plan. We establish an interdisciplinary curriculum, with studies in sociology, cultural anthropology, and psychology. To complete the program, Dr. Cohn and other Hofstra professors will evaluate my research reports and the lengthy thesis I must write to earn a Master of Arts degree.

The books from Dr. DiIulio give me a theoretical understanding of the functions prisons should serve in society:

1. Prisons should deter citizens from engaging in criminal behavior.

1. They should punish those who stand convicted of having committed crimes.

1. Prison terms should incapacitate those who serve them from committing additional crimes, at least during the term of confinement.

1. And prisons should rehabilitate offenders in an effort to help them return to society as law-abiding citizens.

After reading Governing Prisons, Dr. DiIulio’s comparative study of management in three separate prison systems, I begin collecting information to write my first term paper on prisoner adjustments. The book leads me to several other books and inspires me to develop a questionnaire to conduct original, ethnographic research to be tested on my fellow prisoners. The resulting term paper, which I entitle “The Crusonian Prisoner,” is accepted for presentation at an annual conference of the Academy of Criminal Justice Sciences in Chicago, boosting my self-confidence as a student.

Perhaps it’s not surprising that my research leads to findings that differ from the distinguished Princeton professor. He calls for tighter controls in American prisons while my observations and experience convince me that administrators should run prisons like leaders run business.  They should govern through the use of incentives rather than threat of further punishments. In a letter to him, I offer reasons to support my conclusions and I also send a copy of my academic paper describing the Crusonian prisoner.

*******

“I want to kiss you.” Sarah has come to visit five times since my graduation ceremony last month and our letters have become much more personal. Her lawyer privileges allow her to visit whenever she chooses, making the regularly scheduled visiting hours irrelevant. Today is Tuesday, not a visiting day, and it’s early evening as I sit with her in one of the private rooms reserved for lawyers and law enforcement interviews. In these lawyer rooms, surveillance cameras do not monitor us. The guard sits at his desk, fifteen yards away on a platform and down a flight of stairs. The intensity of our gaze on each other tells us what we haven’t previously expressed in words. I lean across the table when she says it.

“Kissing is something better done than said,” I say as I sit back down, still savoring the sweet taste of Sarah’s lips, the moist warmth of her tongue.

“You should send me a visitor’s form so I can visit you regularly. I could have a problem alone in a room like this with you.” She closes her eyes while gripping the edge of the table.

“But this is so much better to visit alone, privately.”

“It’s dangerous for me, the temptation. I could get into trouble for abusing privileges. The prison could deny me access.”

I stand and take two steps toward the door to peer through the narrow window. “Come here. Look at this. The guard at the desk to our right can’t come toward us without us seeing him climb the stairs, and the only other entry is from the corridor, requiring unlocking a door to the left. We’re alone. I don’t want to give up this privacy.”

Sarah runs her manicured fingertips over her gray skirt as she stands and walks over. I surrender the window and move behind her. She looks down the hall to the right toward the guard’s station and to the left toward the heavy steel door leading in from the main corridor. I’m directly behind her with both of my hands on her hips. With my face I push her hair to the side and I kiss her neck.

“Stop,” she whispers while her body presses back.

“Watch. You can see the guard. Tell me if he moves.” I continue kissing her, touching her, feeling her, moving with her. For this moment, right now, I’m not a prisoner. I’m a man, 28 and virile, alone with a woman for the first time in five years. My prison record doesn’t matter, my goals don’t matter, and my freedom doesn’t matter. I’m not thinking about her professional standing. In the passion of this moment, neither is Sarah. The decades I must serve seem too far away. I need release, and Sarah is the woman who gives it to me.

When we return to our seats perspiration has glued my shirt to my skin. Sarah is disheveled but glowing.

“My God! What are we doing?” her smile belies a mixture of nervousness and exhilaration after the forbidden interlude.

“Nothing. We’re not doing anything,” I protest.

“You call that nothing? I could lose my license!”


“For what? As far as anyone is concerned, we’re just a lawyer and a client in here. There isn’t anything different now from when you walked in here, nothing different from any other time you’ve visited.”

“Your shirt’s wet. What are you going to say when you go back in?”

“It’s hot in here. Just stay for a while longer, it’ll dry.”

“How do I look? Can you tell?” Her hands shake as she pulls a compact from her purse. She looks into the tiny mirror.

“You’re sexy. I can’t take my eyes off you.”

She smiles and applies makeup. “You’re going to get me in trouble.”

I’m reading from chapter 4 of my book, Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term.

For more information, please visit PrisonProfessors.com

*******

I’m excited to see Bruce, my mentor. He’s a bear of a man, big in every way, and through our correspondence we’ve built a friendship that has deepened. I look forward to our weekly exchange of mail and quarterly visits. He now lives in Chicago, having recently retired as a professor. He continues to use his immense talents, and he gives of his wisdom generously with hopes of making societal contributions through his teachings.

Bruce introduced me to his wife, Carolyn, who sometimes accompanies him on visits, and through correspondence I’ve met his daughter and sons. The bad decisions of my past don’t matter to him. My efforts to become a good citizen define me in his eyes. He strives to round out my cultural education by exposing me to art, opera, and theater, and he often stresses the importance of fully investing oneself in the community. Although Windward and other prisoners here don’t understand the motivations of a man like Bruce, I see joy in his expressions as he describes the experience of helping others reach their potential.

After the guards at the desk clear me, I walk down the stairs and through the aisles toward where Bruce sits. An aging athlete, he stands to embrace me and I notice his white hair is a little thinner than the last time we met, though his eyes still shine a brilliant blue. He played as an offensive lineman in college football and it’s easy to see how his size and strength would’ve powered open huge holes for his running backs.

“How’ve you been?” I ask.

“I’m well,” he tells me, then says that he heard from Mark. “He told me to send you his regards,” Bruce says, embracing me.

“What’s he doing?”

Mark was released from prison through parole. With the restrictions that prohibit felons from communicating with each other, I’m losing touch with him except for periodic updates from Bruce.

“He’s working for a friend who owns retail clothing stores, doing well. A guy with his moxie always has a place in sales.”

“No more school for him then? He’s not going to finish his degree?”

“I don’t think so. He’s putting his life back together and his plans probably don’t include much more classroom time.”

“That’s all I’m doing, putting in classroom time, and I’m grateful for every minute of it.”

Bruce reaches over the table to tap my arms. “You’re steady at the gym I see. How much are you benching now?”

I beam with pride. “I’m hitting 315 for triple reps, feeling stronger.” I tell Bruce about my schedule, how I’m now working out twice a day, once before breakfast and a second time during the lunch hour.

“When are you eating?”

“I eat at work,” I explain. “Avoiding the chow hall is still a priority for me. That’s where the chaos in here begins, with the racial segregation and the politics, meaning which power group sits in which section. My parents and sisters send me money for commissary, so I buy packs of tuna, soups, other foods that I eat at work.  Besides that, I can barter my writing or typing skills for sandwiches from guys who work in the kitchen. Great culinary experiences aren’t my priority now.”

Bruce nods his head and smiles. “What did you think of the Monet prints?”

To teach me about art Bruce sends postcards and magazine articles. He describes the great museums of the world and writes that he looks forward to walking through the Prado with me in Madrid, the Louvre in Paris, and the Art Institute of Chicago. He buys me subscriptions to The New Yorker and Smithsonian.

“When you get out I’ve got a whole world to show you. You can visit the Stratford Festival with Carolyn and me in Canada. We’re there twice a year to celebrate the performances of Shakespeare plays.”

“That’s what I need to talk with you about. Getting out.” My time in the visiting room is limited so I feel compelled to turn our conversation to something of more immediate importance. “I’ve got to be thinking about what I’m going to do after I graduate next year.”

“How can I help?”

“Well, a lot’s been on my mind, but I need other people to make things work. I can’t succeed without your help.”

“What’s on your mind?”

I explain to Bruce why and how I need to build a coalition of support.

“Do you want help raising money to hire a lawyer?”

Bruce misses my point so I try to elaborate. “The people who become a part of my network must join me because they believe in me, like you. I’m not interested in buying support by hiring lawyers. What I need to think about is earning support, building new friendships and relationships with people who will support my efforts to earn freedom. I’m not trying to get out now, but I’m trying to position myself for 1997, when I’ll have 10 years in.”

“How should we start?”

“Well, one thing I need is support from someone inside the Bureau of Prisons.”

I explain my relationship with Ms. Stephens and the ways that she has intervened for me on a local level to smooth out complications with her colleagues who block me from receiving library books and other resources I need for my education.

“What I need is the same kind of help from people who have national influence in the system. The obstacle is that I don’t have any direct contact with them. The leaders of the BOP are all in Washington and to them I’m just another prisoner, a number. Ms. Stephens cares because she sees how hard I work, and she goes the extra mile to help me succeed. She believes in me, just as you do.”

“How can someone in the BOP help you?”

“I’m not going to be able to make the progress I need from this prison. There’s way too much violence here and it’s getting worse.  We’re on lockdown at least once each week. I want to stay here until I earn my degree, but at some point after graduation I need to transfer, and I need to transfer to the best spot in the BOP for continuing my education. I’ll need help to identify where that place is and then I’ll need help getting transferred there when the time is right.”

“So what’re you thinking?”

“I read an article in an academic journal by Sylvia McCollum,” I explain to Bruce. “She’s the Director of Education for the entire Bureau of Prisons. Her article describes how she created a new policy that makes it mandatory for all federal prisoners who don’t have a high school equivalency to participate in GED classes. I want to build a relationship with her, to get her support. But I can’t just write her a letter because to her I’m simply another drug dealer in prison.”

“That’s not true,” Bruce counters. He always sees the good in everyone and dislikes my cynicism. “She’s going to see the record you’ve been building, your progress in college.”

I shake my head, disagreeing. “It’s not enough. The culture in this organization is one that trains staff members to consider prisoners as something less than human beings. She’ll only see me as a prisoner, a drug dealer, scum. I need to do something more, something to distinguish myself. I was thinking that we could write an article, a response to her article from the perspective of a prisoner and his mentor. It should describe how the GED is one step toward preparing for release, but it’s hardly sufficient.  Men who leave prison should emerge with values, skills, and resources that will truly translate into success, and a GED isn’t enough.  The Bureau of Prisons should use incentives that will encourage more prisoners to continue their education with college or vocational training.”

“And what’re we going to do with the article? Send it to her?”

“That’s how I need your help. Not only will we have to write the article, I need you to arrange publication. It would be one thing for me as a prisoner to write an article and send it to her. Big deal. On the other hand, if I were to write an article together with you and send it to her, that would carry more weight, more influence because not many prisoners cultivate mentorships with distinguished professors. But the best approach, I think, would be to write an article that we publish together, as the professor and the prisoner. That’s one way I would stand out, one way that she would remember my name, see that I’m different.”

Bruce nods his head and agrees to help. When he returns to Chicago, he promises to make inquiries at the various peer-reviewed academic journals to see what steps we must take to submit an article for publishing consideration. It’s a process that will take several months, which suits my schedule well, as I need that time to finish my undergraduate work.

“What I also need,” I tell Bruce before he leaves, “is a list of all the law schools in the United States. I need to start writing letters to see if any of the schools will allow me to earn a law degree through correspondence.”

“So you’re still set on law school?”

“I’m set on earning an advanced degree, something, anything more than a bachelor’s. I’m going to need unimpeachable credentials that people respect, like yours.”

Bruce is a role model and I’m eager to follow his leadership, to emulate his commitment to society. He told me how he and Carolyn were volunteering their time on weekends to help homeless people in a Chicago shelter write résumés that would facilitate their prospects for employment. Bruce and Carolyn give of themselves, without expectation for return or desire for recognition. Success for Bruce comes when his efforts lead to another person’s independence or happiness. I’m determined to prove myself worthy of his generosity, of the trust and the investment he’s making in me.

*******

This hard plank of steel I’m lying on influences my thought process. I’m locked in this small room with another man who uses the toilet and flushes a few feet to the right of my head. What Bruce and Carolyn do to make life better for so many people gives me a different perspective on humanity.  I know that my motivations lack the purity of Bruce’s, as I’m so much more pragmatic. I want out, so there’s always a selfish component to my actions, and that somehow cheapens them in my mind. I contemplate Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, a concept I learned about in sociology. Until a man satisfies his most basic needs he can’t evolve. My primary need is liberty, and decades may pass before I leave these walls. Everything I do up until then must prepare me for freedom. Perhaps when I’m free from concrete and steel I’ll be able to emulate Bruce more completely. I want to live as that type of a good, kind man. But I don’t know how to reconcile this desire to live with the kindness and generosity of spirit that Bruce exemplifies with the need for survival in a predatory environment.

My philosophy courses have broadened my perceptions, explaining man’s purpose, his relationship to society, his quest for personal fulfillment and enlightenment. I’ve embraced lessons from Aristotle and Sun Tzu among others. Aristotle advises those who follow him “to know thyself,” while Sun Tzu emphasizes that it is equally important “to know thy enemy.”

Know thyself and know thy enemy. I wrestle with these thoughts. I know I must thoroughly understand my strengths and weaknesses. I must use every resource God has given me to become stronger and to grow. Likewise, I must understand my enemies. In my case, the enemies are a corrupting environment, demeaning perceptions, and ugly prejudices I will encounter in the decades ahead, perhaps for the rest of my life. Responsibility to triumph over a system that is designed to extinguish hope and to perpetuate cycles of failure rests with me. Solely.

*******

I’m grateful that Bruce takes the time to visit the American Bar Association in Chicago. He sends me a package of information that includes addresses to every ABA accredited law school in the nation. All of the schools I’ve written to have responded with disappointing news that the ABA prohibits law schools from allowing students to earn law degrees through correspondence. But there’s a sliver of hope that comes in a letter from Dr. Al Cohn, a professor at Hofstra University’s graduate school.

Dr. Cohn wrote that my letter impressed the Dean of Hofstra’s law school, and the dean forwarded the letter to him. Although Hofstra can’t allow me to earn a law degree without attending school there, Dr. Cohn’s letter indicates that he might consider waiving the residency requirement if I pursue a graduate degree. Hofstra has never admitted a prisoner before, he admits, but he admires my determination to educate myself. If I earn my undergraduate degree with an acceptable grade point average, propose an acceptable area of study in which I can specialize, and complete a probationary period of conditional admittance, he will waive the requirements of taking the Graduate Records Examination and on-campus residency. Wow! Dr. Cohn tells me that Hofstra will allow me to earn a master’s degree if I meet those requirements.

I’ve read that roughly 30 percent of American adults have earned university degrees, but fewer than 15 percent have graduate or professional degrees. My aspirations are not to become a lawyer, necessarily, but to earn credentials that others respect. I’m certain that the higher my level of achievement, the more I’ll be able to build a support network, one that will help me transition from prisoner to citizen.

As I contemplate Dr. Cohn’s letter I can’t help but think of Mick Jagger, the rock-and-roll legend. He sings that you can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need. I may not earn a law degree, but with the opportunity extended by Hofstra University I know that nothing is going to stop me from earning a master’s degree.

*******

I pass my fifth Christmas in prison. It’s now 1992, I’m 28, and in only a few months Mercer University will award my undergraduate degree. This is a big deal for me. Out of more than 2,500 men locked inside USP Atlanta’s walls, I’m the only one to receive a degree. In fact, Mercer hasn’t awarded a degree to any prisoner since I’ve been in Atlanta.

I’m inspired by other men who used their knowledge and prison experience to make significant contributions, like Alexander Solzhenitsyn whose eight years in a Russian prison was followed by three years in exile. His hardship awoke his muse, resulting in such classics as A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich and his opus, The Gulag Archipelago, exposing readers from around the world to Russia’s oppressive prison life.

Eight years, whether in Russian prison camps or the United States penitentiaries, is a long time. Through his literature Solzhenitsyn made monumental contributions to society and earned a Nobel Prize, and he inspires me. As crazy as it sounds, a seed is taking root, and I feel the bud of this thought that maybe, through hard work, I can transform the decades I’ll serve in here into something positive.  I’ve begun to accept that I may serve my entire sentence, and I need more examples like Solzhenitsyn’s. Not knowing what I can do for 21 more years, I continue reading about other men who served long sentences.

One such prisoner was Nelson Mandela, the black South African activist locked in prison for 27 years by white authorities between 1962 and 1990. That length of time is comparable to what I may serve, and I take heart that multiple decades did not destroy Mandela. On the contrary, it strengthened his resolve, evidenced by his influence in ending the oppressive policies of Apartheid, and by the position he now holds as a world leader, revered throughout the international community.

*******

I don’t know what it means to be an intellectual like Solzhenitsyn or a leader like Mandela, but I know what it means to face decades in prison. I also know what it means to be a man, and recently I’ve met a woman who’s reminded me of all I’ve been living without.

Her name is Sarah, and she’s a lawyer. We met by chance two months ago when we were in the visiting room at the same time. My father had flown in just before Christmas to spend a weekend with me. Sarah was visiting another prisoner I knew. Under the pretense that I might need some legal advice I asked Sarah for her business card. Yet having lived for so long in an abnormal community of only men, I wanted a woman in my life more than I wanted to know anything about the law.

The dance of seduction begins when I write to her, initiating an exchange of letters. She writes back. At first the correspondence is bland, tame, harmless. Soon the letters between us grow in frequency and in complexity. They’re handwritten now, not typed. I learn that she earned her degrees from NYU, that she contemplates starting her own law firm, and that she’s 30. I also know that she named her cat Snuggles, that she rollerblades, loves aerobics, and is recovering from a broken heart. She’s vulnerable. Through our exchange of letters, I’m coming to know Sarah the woman, and in my world, any connection with a woman is a gift.

Desire creeps into me, threatens me. I’ve been successful in repressing or ignoring these urges that have been dormant for so long, but now they keep me awake. I remind myself where I am, what I went through with Lisa, and the goals I’m working so feverishly to complete.

But another fever takes hold. Every day I ache for a letter from her, for something, any kind of sign that lets me know where this is going, how much I can escalate the heat. I don’t remember what I wrote in the letter she should’ve received today, and like a teenager, I wonder whether I went too far, revealed too much. She must know what’s going on with this exchange of letters, that I want her.

It’s mail call and the guard just flicked her letter beneath my door. I see her stationary, her handwriting, and I pick up the envelope. She wrote her words yesterday, making it an exchange of three letters this week. I’m on her mind.  In the words she chooses I catch some suggestive double meanings. My confidence grows. We’re flirting and we both know it, and I want to see her again. I’m a man in the desert and she’s my oasis.

I graduate next month. Mercer University is honoring me with a ceremony. I can’t travel to the campus, so my commencement will take place inside USP Atlanta, in the chapel. A hundred other prisoners will participate, receiving GED certificates or certificates for completion of basic education classes. Even though I’m a class of one, I’m invited to speak as valedictorian. Mr. Chandler authorized me to invite two visitors, and I’m choosing my sister Julie and Sarah. If Sarah accepts it may be the sign I’m looking for, confirmation that the desire I’m feeling is mutual.

I’m reading from chapter 4 of my book, Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term.

For more information, please visit PrisonProfessors.com

*******

A week later I’m sitting on the lower rack when a guard flicks an envelope beneath my door. I lean over to pick up the envelope and read “University of North Carolina” on the return address. For a moment I just hold it in my hand, tracing my fingers over the embossed lettering and the university logo. The wreath signifies academia, and a charge of excitement runs through me. I’m a 26-year old man, yet I open the envelope with the same giddy anticipation as a child anticipating birthday money from his grandparents.

Dr. McPherson’s letter expresses his enthusiasm to mentor me through my term, and he asks me to mail him the visiting authorization form. He also writes that I should soon receive a book he sent separately, from the university’s bookstore. Wanting to share my good fortune I pass the letter to Windward for him to read.

“What’s the big deal?”

“What do you mean?” Windward’s indifference puzzles me. “He’s a professor, and he wants to help me.”

“Big fuckin’ deal! What can he do? He’s probably a fag.”

“How can you say that? He’s an educator, he has his own life out there, and he’s offering to help me. Why would you insult him?”

“Don’t cry, little guy,” he mocks when he notes my offense at his dismissive response. “I’m just sayin’, what the fuck can he possibly do for you? You’ve got to think about what people want, Dude. Why would he want to write someone he doesn’t know? It don’t make no sense.”

Windward fits right in to the penitentiary culture. He not only accepts defeat for himself, he expects those around him to do the same. Nothing good comes with the prison experience. Therefore, any indication that someone may succeed in overcoming pessimism and despair threatens his belief in failure as the inevitable. Failure is comfortable to him, a real concept. Working toward anything different, or better, upsets his equilibrium.

“Give me back my letter.” I’m learning that within this tenebrous environment my enthusiasm must be internal. Sharing victories, no matter how small, only breeds more sarcasm.

With the news of Bruce’s interest in my life I instantly ascend ten rungs up my virtual ladder to freedom. If nothing else, his friendship will help lift me out of the caverns of ignorance where I dwell.

*******

When my counselor, Mr. Skinner, receives Bruce’s completed visiting form he calls my office supervisor, Ms. Stephens, with a summons for me to report to his office.

“Do you know a Bruce McPherson?” The counselor sits at his metal desk in his cubbyhole office reading from the visiting form that he holds in his hand. With greasy gray hair and a stained white shirt, his appearance, like his office, is a disorganized mess. The office stinks of stale tobacco and his body odor.

“Yes. He’s a professor and he’s helping with my school work.”

“So you sent him this visiting form?” He flicks the form with his fingers.

“That’s right.”

“Well he’s not getting in. I’m not authorizing him to visit.”

The dehumanization continues. Prisoners have to ask permission for everything, and I’m accustomed to the apparent malevolent satisfaction some staff members get from denying requests.  Still, this denial is more of a slap to my dignity than most because I’m convinced that I can grow through Bruce’s mentoring.

“Can you tell me the reason?” I don’t understand why the counselor won’t authorize Bruce’s request to visit.

“You didn’t know him before you started serving your sentence. That’s all the reason I need to deny him.”

“But he’s a professor and he’s offering to help me, to teach me.”

“I don’t care if he’s the Pope. We’ve got rules in here!  We don’t know why he’s coming to see you, what you’ve got going on with him. Security of the institution, Son! In order to visit, rules say the relationship had to exist before your imprisonment.”

“Counselor Skinner, I’m from Seattle. No one visits me. Bruce McPherson is someone who can guide me through my prison term. Can’t you make an exception?”

“Go back to work. Give me your pass to sign.” He’s unwilling to listen any longer.

Dejected, I walk back to the business office.  I sink into my chair and hold my head in my hands. Our country goes to war over supposed human rights violations, yet it feels to me as if such violations occur within the federal prison system every day of the year.

“What’s wrong with you?” Ms. Stephens straightens a stack of papers on her desk as she senses my despair. “You look like you just got 45 years.”

She’s trying to lighten the mood in her caring way, but at this moment I want to grieve over all the indignities of being a prisoner, of having to ask permission for friendship and then being denied.

“Please. Not today.”

“What happened?” she asks again, giving me her complete attention. I know that she wrestles at moments like these with the awkward balance of being a staff member, a part of the prison machine, and her natural tendency to empathize with another human being. We sit in the same office every day. We relate like two “normal” people, not as a prisoner and a staff member separated by some ridiculous ethos splitting our humanity.

Ms. Stephens knows about Bruce, and she has been totally supportive of my efforts to advance my education. The factory rules forbid prisoners from working on schoolwork, reading, or even writing personal letters during the workday, even though an efficient worker with good organizational skills can complete the daily responsibilities in two hours. She has intervened on numerous occasions to protect me from her colleagues who resent my studying on the job and using the office as my sanctuary. She nods her head when I tell her about Counselor Skinner denying Bruce visiting privileges.

“I need you to step outside for a minute so that I can make a phone call.”

I leave to pace around the outer office. A dozen prisoners sit at their desks, sipping from stained coffee mugs and passing their time discussing the story dominating the news. I saw it over the weekend. Some crazed leader from Iraq, Saddam Hussein, ordered his military to invade a neighboring country, Kuwait. Talk radio listeners can’t get enough of the story although the entire episode strikes me as being bizarre.

I grew up during a time when the United States was at peace. The thought of one country invading another seems like something from the dark ages. Yet the talk shows buzz with conversation about our national security being threatened by Hussein’s aggression.  Some commentators suggest that our country might go to war.

It doesn’t make much sense to me, but a lot of the prisoners have been energized by this military action. They’re speculating that if the United States goes to war opportunities might open up to parole prisoners into the military. Such a scenario seems plausible. I’ve read that during previous wars, like the Vietnam War, judges frequently offered offenders the choice of either joining the military or facing imprisonment. I’m not hopeful that changes will come for me, though this sudden shift in global events causes me to think about what else could take place in the world over the remaining 23 years that I must serve.

Shortly before I came in, President Reagan told Gorbachev to “tear down the Berlin Wall.” I didn’t know much about global politics then, but a unified Germany seemed absurd because I grew up learning about two completely separate Germany’s, an East and a West. Then, just last year, the Berlin Wall came down, and just like that, Germany was unified. Soon thereafter, the Soviet Union crumbled ending the Cold War. When it happened I remember thinking that maybe America’s ridiculous Drug War would end too.

According to all the business office chatter, though, we’re moving dangerously close to a very hot war in the Middle East. I don’t understand it, but I must admit I’m not nearly as interested in what’s going on in the Middle East as the other prisoners. They’re talking about the possibility of war with a lot more passion and enthusiasm than I can muster. Unlike most of them, I don’t have a burning animosity toward the United States. In fact, I can’t wait to leave prison and return to society, because where I’m living right now feels about as far away from America as a man can get.

I circle around toward my office. The walk has improved my mood. I’ve breathed, allowed my frustration to dissipate, and with all the speculation about war, I’ve reminded myself to keep the bigger picture in mind. Bruce’s friendship and guidance isn’t contingent on us visiting, and whether I’m allowed to visit or not, I’m going to make it. Although I constantly feel the dehumanizing culture of corrections, my attitude and deliberate actions to redeem myself restore my dignity.

I slip into the office and see Ms. Stephens busy at her desk. She’s not on the phone, so I presume it’s okay to walk in. Just to make sure, I ask.

She smiles and nods. “When you go back to the housing unit you’ll see a new visiting list. I had a chat with Counselor Skinner and he told me that he would put the list on your bunk. Dr. Bruce McPherson has been approved to visit.”

My face turns red as I thank her for her kindness, but I’m uneasy. It’s troubling to me that I have to prostrate myself with requests for special interventions in order to find a friend, someone who can help guide these efforts I’m making to grow.  It’s patronizing, dehumanizing.  Ms. Stephens saw that Skinner got to me, and it bothers me. After years in prison, these kinds of indignities aren’t supposed to bother me, or at least I shouldn’t let my aggravation show. “Sorry to have troubled you,” I say.

“Don’t be. Sometimes I’m embarrassed by this organization I work for.”

I shrug my shoulders. “It is what it is, and by now I ought to be able to roll with it. But sometimes the pressure gets to me. Regardless of how hard I work, I’m always going to be a prisoner, indistinguishable from anyone else in here.”

Ms. Stephens’ elbows rest on the desk with her hands clasped beneath her chin as she listens to me openly, sympathetically. “Look. I can’t imagine what you’re going through inside, and there’s not much I can do to help. I’ve been in this job for 12 years and I do see how hard you’re working. Others might not see it, but I wouldn’t go out of my way to help if I wasn’t convinced that you’re sincere. That’s what I told your counselor and I’ll tell anyone else who asks. It’s not right that you’re in here for so long.”

My eyes water as she comforts me. I know Ms. Stephens is taking a position that the system discourages. As a staff member she isn’t supposed to be personal with an inmate. The BOP motto for staff members is to be “firm but fair,” and that means she is first supposed to consider my status as a prisoner. Fairness requires strict adherence to prison policy. If the policy states that prisoners cannot visit with people they didn’t know prior to imprisonment, then fairness requires counselors to enforce the policy across the board. That’s Counselor Skinner’s position. It’s the kind of oppressive rigidity that threatens to suffocate prisoners, every day, and I’ve endured a thousand days of it.  I wonder how I’ll make it through nine thousand more.

Regardless, I want to walk over and hug Ms. Stephens. Her concern validates me, restores a spirit and energy that imprisonment so effectively crushes. I cherish this moment and I’ll remember it as further evidence that God is with me, always strengthening me with what I need along the way.

*******

My schedule keeps me in the business office all day, in classes learning from professors in the evening, and on the suicide-watch tier late into the night. I’m more productive than I thought possible. I enjoy challenging myself by setting goals, writing them out, and sending them to family and friends with encouragement for them to hold me accountable. Reaching my goals is one thing, but empowering myself to exceed them is quite another. I’m obsessed with my personal records and with my daily journal, but only because I find them so effective in motivating me to reach milestones that others insist are beyond a prisoner’s reach.

Not only am I accumulating university credits, I’m working through a formidable reading list. My understanding and enjoyment of the classics, such as Plato’s Republic, Dante’s Divine Comedy, and Dostoyevsky’s Brothers Karamazov, are clear signs that I’m really learning. I summarize what I learn in book reports that I write and send to Bruce for his evaluation and comments. He returns them, bleeding with red ink, simultaneously broadening my education and awareness through his teaching and mentoring.

I didn’t grow up in a home like Mark’s, where both parents held advanced degrees and emphasized the importance of higher learning, but my parents taught me the importance of working hard. In an effort to demonstrate my commitment to making good use of my time inside, I’m applying extra effort. The more knowledge and writing skills I can develop, the better equipped I’ll be to succeed when I’m released, to show that I’ve conquered imprisonment, because this system feels like it’s designed to perpetuate failure.

My vocabulary is improving. The index cards I keep in stacks of 50 now number 1,000. By mastering words and definitions, my spelling has also improved, and when I respond in class, I express myself in the language of the university rather than the penitentiary. When I listen to NPR or read The Wall Street Journal my confidence rises with my understanding of words and concepts that used to baffle me. And whenever I have questions, I have the skills to find the answers.

Since I’ve charted the progress I want to make by 1997, the end of my first decade, I know exactly where I should be in 1992, at the halfway point. I also know where I’m supposed to be now, in 1991, only a year away from earning my undergraduate degree.

I’m exceeding my expectations with a schedule that keeps me racing to beat my timeline. Whereas the penitentiary rocks with violence and corruption scandals, I’m so absorbed with my work that news of the stabbings, beatings, and investigations into staff corruption are of little concern to me. I know how to stay under the radar.

I’ve determined that a bachelor’s degree won’t be enough to get me where I want to go. The judge’s refusal to reconsider my sentence and the prosecutor’s statement that 300 years of imprisonment wouldn’t be sufficient for my punishment remains an ugly reminder of a judicial mindset that is unwilling to bend. I have to build a record that warrants consideration for a commutation of sentence, and the president is the only person who has the power to commute my sentence. I must work harder and achieve more.

When I conclude my shift on the suicide-watch tier in the hospital, I walk through the metal detectors, the gates, and the corridors that lead back to the cellblock. The guard unlocks my door and I enter.  Windward’s snoring is undisturbed as the deadbolt slams into place behind me, locking me inside.

I grab my pillow from the bunk and set it on the steel chair to use as a cushion while I sit, staring at the concrete floor. While trying to think, I’m distracted and I begin to count the beige concrete blocks that form the walls of my cell. Before snapping out of my reverie, I fantasize about bursting through these immutable walls.