Prison Professors

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

For more information, please visit PrisonProfessors.com

Contractors complete the remodel of B cellblock and I join the 600 prisoners who were confined with me in A cellblock for our relocation. It’s not far from the old housing block to the new one, just across the polished corridor. I climb the zigzagging metal staircase to the top unit, B-3 carrying all of my possessions. I have sneakers, t-shirts, sweats, khakis and toiletries bundled up and tied inside my blankets and sheets that I carry over my shoulder, like a hobo. The move lifts my spirits. It’s a fresh start in a clean, new environment. Although I’m still in the same prison, the remodel replaces the hundred-year-old decaying building with modern plumbing, working lights, and air conditioning. The remodeled B cellblock brings an upgraded quality of life, much better than I’ve known for several years, and I’m learning to appreciate these incremental improvements.

In place of the old-style cages, the new housing unit features a different design. Solid steel doors enclose rooms, side-by-side, along the outer walls of the building. Community areas include an open rectangular area the size of a basketball court that prisoners call “the flats,” located in the center, and a second-tier, mezzanine level. I smell freshly painted walls, but with costs and utility in mind, the builders left the bare concrete floors unfinished. Six single-stall showers at the far end of the unit offer an illusion of privacy. An annoying fire alarm blasts repeatedly, suggesting that contractors still haven’t finished their work. Even so, I already like B cellblock better, which is good because I expect to remain here for several more years.

Prison counselors may have additional duties but, from a prisoner’s point of view, their scope of responsibility is limited primarily to assigning work details, approving visiting lists, and assigning living quarters. I don’t expect any counseling on how to cope with the inevitability of living for multiple decades in prison. I have to adjust on my own, and from the counselor’s list, I see that my next adjustment will take place in cell 616, on the top tier.  I’m assigned to share that cell with a man in his late 30s who goes by the nickname Windward. The proper term is “room” rather than cell, as it has the steel door instead of bars. But since we’re locked in, it’s still a cell to me.

Windward is a native of Georgia and his speech has that slow southern twang, peppered with lots of “y’all’s,” that I’ve become familiar with over the past two years. Windward likes to say he is American by birth but Southern by the grace of God. He takes pride in his appearance, wearing his hair in a mullet–long in the back, feathered on top, and cut short above the ears–with long, sloping sideburns that he calls the “Georgia slant.” His mustache curves down around his mouth, and he has a habit of twirling the long ends with his fingers when he talks.

Windward served a previous prison term for drug trafficking in a Georgia State prison. With that criminal conviction on his record he couldn’t find a job, so he reverted to smuggling drugs. The Coast Guard intercepted his boat–which was loaded with 300 kilograms of cocaine–as he cruised through a channel somewhere in the Caribbean known as the Windward Passage. He pleaded guilty to an importation charge and his judge imposed a 20-year term. The name Windward became his handle. I won’t mind sharing the cell with him, as he’s not dangerous, and he’s entertaining with his tall tales about thousands of female conquests.

Coordinating a schedule in our two-man room is easier than it was in the larger cell I previously shared with five men in A cellblock. I continue to work in the factory business office, attend school, volunteer on suicide watch whenever possible, and exercise. Windward’s schedule is more relaxed. He’s a unit orderly and he works the night shift, sweeping and mopping the floors while all other prisoners in the block are locked in their cells. Except for lockdown periods, Windward and I don’t crowd each other in the tightly confined space of our closet-sized room. I have time alone to think, which is how I like it. But not everyone feels the same way.

Whenever violence erupts in the penitentiary the warden orders a lockdown and the claustrophobia drives Windward stir-crazy. Sometimes the lockdowns last for a day, sometimes for weeks. Although I miss the yard, I relieve stress with pushups or running in place when I’m not working on my independent studies. We don’t have enough space for both of us to be on the floor at the same time, so while I read on my rack Windward paces four steps toward the door, peers out the window, turns, paces four steps toward the bunk, turns, and repeats this pattern over and over.

“Can’t you relax?” I ask him.

“I hate being cooped up in here.” Windward snaps as he continues to pace.

“You know what you need? A goal. Some self-direction, something to work toward, to fill your time.”

“What I need is a woman, a fifth of Jack Daniels, and an ounce of good weed.”

“That’s what you want,” I point out, “not what you need.  There’s a difference.”

“Damn straight, and I know what I want,” he tells me.  “I want a woman, some good booze, and an ounce of good weed.”

“It’s better to focus on something to work toward, something they can’t take away or stop.”  I’m no longer a novice at serving time, but I haven’t yet learned how to restrain myself from dispensing unsolicited advice.

“Not again with all that dime-store psychobabble bullshit,” Windward waves his hand at me, swatting away my suggestion as he would an annoying fly. “I told you once and I’m tellin’ you one more time.  All that schoolin’ ain’t fixin’ to help you none. A convict once, Michael, a convict forever.”

“That’s giving up.”

“That’s reality, Son. Ain’t nothin’ matter here but time. Y’all can read all the books you want, but in the end ain’t nothin’ gonna matter. I done been there. You ain’t tellin’ me nothin’ I don’t know.”

Windward expresses only two possibilities for his future. Either he will seduce and marry a rich woman, or he will earn a living with drugs again after release. He thinks I’m fooling myself with my aspirations of joining society. He’s convinced that a prison record extinguishes all possibility for a legitimate life. It’s like an echo, this recurring message of hopelessness, reverberating throughout the penitentiary. I refuse to buy it, refuse to accept that I can’t create new opportunities and new directions for my life.  Every day I renew my commitment to work toward something better. I’m planting seeds, knowing that those seeds will take many years before they take root and blossom.  When they do, however, they’ll provide for a better life than I’ve known and a better life than what others tell me I can expect.

I prefer not to have contraband in the cell, but I don’t live here alone.  The best I can do is get a promise from Windward that if guards find his stash during a shakedown, he’ll take the heat. Still, I’m not deceived about the value of such promises and I worry. He assures me that he’ll never keep home-brewed wine in the cell, or drugs, but I know he conceals a plastic shank inside a hole he hollowed in his mattress that he insists is necessary for protection. I have different perceptions on how to protect myself: I stay out of people’s way and I mind my own business. I can control my decisions, but I can’t tell anyone else how to live and I won’t go sniveling to the counselor with a request to move because I don’t like what Windward keeps in the cell. I have to roll with the realities of living inside a high-security prison.

“Rolling with it,” however, is stressful because of the personal commitments I’ve made. I constantly visualize how I’ll return to the outside world, and I’m not convinced that society as a whole would agree with my prosecutor’s statement that 300 years of good deeds would not suffice to atone for my two years of trafficking in cocaine. Redemption may be as elusive as the Fountain of Youth, but I’m determined to minimize my exposure to problems that can block my efforts to find it.

I’m familiar with executive clemency, a power vested in the presidency by the Constitution. With the stroke of a pen, a president can commute a federal prison term. It’s rare, as presidents build legacies by signing international treaties, or pursuing world peace, not by releasing prisoners. Still, striving to build a record that proves worthy of consideration for clemency gives me a purpose, something to work toward.

“What’re you gonna do, walk on egg shells through your whole sentence?” Windward taunts, laughing at my aspirations. “Don’t you get it? No one cares what you do or what happens in here.”

“Maybe not. But what do I have to lose by trying? Even if the president doesn’t commute my sentence, if I earn real credentials, don’t you think I’ll have a better shot at success when I do get out?”

“It’s just no way to serve time. You’ll see.”

Windward is right. It’s the reason I never think of myself as serving time. I’m in a hole, a pit that is deep and dark, and I’m doing what I can to build a ladder that will allow me to climb out. I don’t know how long it’s going to take but I know that every rung I ascend to will make a difference in my future.

That’s why I pay close attention to Mark as I sit in those Mercer University classes. He’s in his mid-30s with an athletic build that is suited to his chosen sport of tennis; I never see him working out on the weight pile where I exercise every morning. He doesn’t have tattoos and he’s one of the few prisoners in here who keeps a clean-shaven face.

Mark may sit at the small desks in the same classrooms with other prisoners and me, but his vocabulary, eloquence, and knowledge distinguish him. It doesn’t matter what course we’re studying, whether it’s literature, history, or economics, Mark articulates his thoughts with confidence. It’s obvious our studies at Mercer are not his first university experience.

“In what ways does Jane Austen use irony in Pride and Prejudice?” Professor Higgins asks the class, but only Mark has answers. I don’t even know what “irony” means.

“Who can help us understand the connection between the Treaty of Versailles and World War II?” Dr. Davis, our professor of history asks, looking for a class discussion. Mark is the only student capable of discussing the treaty’s influence on the morale of the German people and the subsequent rise to power of Adolf Hitler.

“How does the economic system of Marxism differ from capitalism?” While the other prisoners and I shift in our seats and stare blankly at Dr. Watkins, our economics professor, Mark’s hand shoots up. He offers an elaborate contrast between the theories of Adam Smith and Karl Marx, emphasizing the essential influences private property, competition, and free markets have had on advancing Western civilization, particularly that of the United States.

I want to express myself like Mark, intelligently, and with a style that shows I’m a man who understands the world and how it works. Knowing that I can learn from him, I introduce myself after class one day.

“You must’ve gone to college before,” I observe.

“No, only in prison. Been taking classes here and there for the past seven years,” Mark answers.

“Seven years? And you haven’t graduated?”

“I hardly ever finish. A year hasn’t passed when I haven’t been hauled off to the hole for something or other. Sometimes I just drop the classes, bored with it all.”

“Don’t you want to earn a degree?” Seeing an obviously bright guy with such little ambition puzzles me.

“It’s not that I don’t want one. I just get caught up with the day-to-day living. Can’t do much about it when I catch a shot for a dirty urine or get caught with a mug of pruno.”

“Why don’t you quit using drugs?”

“You sound like my ol’ lady,” he laughs.

“Yeah, I don’t get that,” I tell him.  “It seems to me that someone as smart as you would understand the importance of having a college degree.”

“If I get it, fine. If not, it doesn’t make much difference.”

“How is it that when you’re in class you sound like a lawyer, but out here you sound like you don’t care about anything?”

“When in Rome, do as the Romans,” he laughs. “Truth is, I don’t care. But in class I get tired of all those professors coming in here thinking we’re all worthless.”

“That’s not how they see us. Most of us probably aren’t as advanced as the students they teach on campus.”

“I like letting ’em know I speak their language.”

“I’ve noticed. Someday I hope to know as much as you.”

“None of it’s new. This stuff was drilled into me night after night at the dinner table growing up. Got turned off of education when the parents beat me over the head with it, telling me how crucial school was to my future. Fuck it. Started getting high instead, rockin’ out with Led Zeppelin and Hendrix and the Stones.”

“I wish I knew so much that I could simply turn my educational level on and off at will. It takes everything I have just to keep up with the class.” I explain to Mark that I consider an education essential to my future and describe how I’ve structured my time inside to avoid the obstacles that block so many others.

“Doesn’t that get old?” he asks.

“What?”

“All that goody-two-shoes bullshit, the rigidity, that structure.  I mean, Dude, we’ve got enough people telling us how to live in here. I can’t see how you’d want to put those kinds of demands on your time. I mean, let’s be real. You’ve got enough time.  It wouldn’t hurt nothin’ to let up a little.”

“Yeah, I don’t see it that way. I’ve got an opportunity to earn a degree right now. Who knows whether I’ll have it tomorrow?  I’ve got to seize the moment, then create something from it.”

“Big deal. Let’s say you finish all your classes and get your degree. What’s next? You’ve still got more than 20 years to go.”

“One step at a time. With a degree, I know I’ll be able to open new opportunities. Maybe I can go to law school. I’ll find something and I know the degree will help, especially if I can learn how to express myself as well as you. How did you build such an extensive vocabulary?”

Mark laughs. “You mean my ‘grown up talk?’ All you need to know in here is ‘motherfucker.’ Learn how to use that word as an adjective, noun, and verb.  Drop as many motherfuckers as you can into every sentence, drop it into the middle of words, and you’ll fit right in. Like I fuckin’ said, when in Rome, fuck everyone else.  Do as the motherfuckin’ Romans.”  He laughs.

“I’m not trying to fit in here. This isn’t my life and it’ll never be my life. I’m serious. How did you develop such an impressive vocabulary?”

“I don’t know. How did you learn the word window?”

“Really, I’m serious.”

“I’m serious too. I learned the language that was spoken in my house. When I write home or to people outside, I communicate one way.  When I’m in here I use the language of the pen.”

From my pocket I pull a stack of index cards I carry with me. On one side I’ve written a word that I came across in a book, on the other side, the definition, the part of speech, and an example of the word in a sentence. “This is how I train myself to learn new words,” I tell him.  “It’s a strategy I picked up after reading The Autobiography of Malcolm X. Whenever I’m waiting in line or whenever I have down time, I work through the flash cards. Test me.” I toss Mark the stack.

“You’re kidding. Man, you’re fuckin’ obsessed, intense!” He starts shuffling through the cards, looking at the words. “Immutable?”

“Immutable.” I spell it. “Not capable of being moved or changed.”

“Okay, that’s pretty close. How about truculent?”

“Mean, a bad attitude, a truculent person is one who always wants to fight or battle.”

“A lot of that in here. I don’t even know this one. Tenebrous.”

“Dark and gloomy.”

“See, your vocabulary’s good, just as good as mine.” He passes the stack back to me. “Just keep reading.”

“It’s not the same. I’m learning the words and I’m able to use them in writing when I concentrate, but they don’t come to me easily, or roll off my tongue naturally when I’m trying to express myself. That’s what I want to learn.”

“Well you need to reach out, to communicate with more people. All work and no play makes for a dull guy. You can’t just live as a hermit in here. There’s a word for you, hermitage.”

“I already know how to speak the language of this place. I’m trying to transcend this place, to leave here without everyone I meet knowing that I’ve spent my whole life in prison.”

Mark considers me for a second, then he offers a suggestion.  “I’ve got a friend you should write. He’s a professor. My sister’s always trying to straighten out my life and she introduced me to him.”

“You’re kidding! You have a friend who’s a professor?” I can’t believe this good fortune Mark offers so casually. I’ve been living in prison for three years, but books and learning have transported me out of here, at least in my mind. A university campus is like a mythical setting to me. Although I’ve been studying, accumulating credits, and building my transcript, I can’t imagine a more personal connection to the university than communicating with an actual professor.

“He’s from Chicago, but for now he’s in Chapel Hill, at the University of North Carolina. We write every week.”

“Is your sister a professor?”

“She’s not a professor, but she’s affiliated with the university. Bruce, my friend, heads the program she’s with, some kind of renewal center for educators. Do you want to write him?”

“Do I! This is the best news I’ve had since I’ve come in. I’ll write him tonight.”

“Fine. Give me the letter tomorrow and I’ll send it off with an introduction.”

The next morning I give Mark the lengthy letter I want him to pass along to Dr. R. Bruce McPherson. It describes who I am, what I’m doing in prison, and how hard I’m working to educate myself. I try to express how grateful I’d be to learn from him through correspondence.

I’m reading from chapter 3 of my book, Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term

For more information, visit PrisonProfessors.com

*******

When I call home on May 27, 1989, I hear the news from Julie that Christina has given birth to a daughter, Isabella. I’ve known of Christina’s pregnancy for some time, but I’ve been too wrapped up in dealing with the loss of Lisa and the challenges of my prison adjustment to grasp what that means. It’s surreal to think of my younger sister as a mother, and to think of myself as an uncle.

Christina and I grew up very close as children. I have fond memories from our grade school years, and of bringing her fishing with me in a neighborhood stream. But I haven’t seen her since my imprisonment. Now she’s a mother, and trying to imagine her as a grown woman with a family of her own feels almost incomprehensible.  Life is changing without my being a part of it. I hang up in tears, unable to suppress my mix of emotions.  I’m happy for Christina, but also filled with sadness because I’ve missed Isabella’s birth.

I need to walk around the track but that means waiting in line for a pass, then waiting in the crowd for the next scheduled movement to leave the housing unit. Instead, I head for my cell. There isn’t anywhere I can console the ache I feel inside privately. As I lie on my rack with my head pressed into the pillow I can still hear Check and his buddy playing chess at the table. Dropping into self-pity, all I can think about is the isolation from my family. I’m a stranger, isolated from the family bonds that make life worth living.

How will society view me? If I were a free citizen today and encountered a man who had served more than a quarter of a century in prison, I’d have major preconceptions about him. I’d feel reluctant to accept him as a neighbor, a colleague, and certainly as a peer. Women, I expect, will think twice before dating a man who served time in prison. And if I’m not released until my late 40s, without a work history, savings, and a home, there’s a strong likelihood that I’ll never become a father and have children of my own.  How could I?

It’s too much. I have to break this up in my mind, take it in smaller increments, one chunk at a time. Otherwise it overwhelms and defeats me.

Where will I be in 10 years? That’s what I should think about. What is the best I can become during the first decade of my imprisonment? My studies are going well and I’ve nearly completed the manuscript for Drugs and Money. I don’t know what will happen with the Rule 35 motion once the time comes to submit the request for reconsideration of my sentence. But in 1997, after a decade in prison, if I stick to this plan I’ll be an educated man. If I keep my focus I’ll have a university degree and possibly a law degree. Those credentials will distinguish me from prisoners who thrive on hate and who rely upon weapons and gangs to empower themselves.

Still, I live amidst the weapons, the gangs, and the power struggles within my community of felons. With two years behind me I understand the politics of race, geographical origin, and anarchy. On the surface it looks as if whites mix with whites, blacks with blacks, and Hispanics with Hispanics.  But that isn’t the real story, as this culture is driven by influences that are far more complex.

I live in a society of deprivation, where policies extinguish hope. With years to serve, abandoned by their families, and severed of their previous identities, most prisoners give up trying to improve themselves. Instead, they ripen for rebellion. They form an anti-society culture with its own underground economy, values, and social structure. Mafia dons and gang leaders hold the top spots with snitches and child molesters at the bottom. Disruptive factions form and either scheme together or battle each other for power. In this society, where prisoners kill without remorse in an effort to increase their share of prison wealth and to protect their territory, my efforts to avoid ‘prisonization’ make me vulnerable. I can’t outrun them but, by existing under their radar, I can evade them. I’m captain of my own metaphorical submarine, gliding stealthily beneath the waves and currents. My periscope is up but my strategy is to remain invisible, deep below the turmoil.  It’s working.

By waking at 5:00 a.m., when the other men in my cell are still asleep, I can use the toilet and wash in privacy. I use a small book light to read until 6:00, when a guard walks down the tier unlocking the gates. I’m first out of the cell and one of the few avoiding the chow hall to take advantage of early exercise. By 7:30 I’m at work, which is a reprieve from the tensions of the cellblock and yard.

My supervisor, Ms. Stephens encourages my academic pursuits. She authorizes me to study and type my assignments once I complete my daily work.  When I leave the business office I report to the prison’s hospital as a volunteer.  Prisoners deemed at risk for harming themselves are kept under 24-hour surveillance, and I’m one of those on watch. This schedule allows me to avoid the other prisoners and to study. When I return to the cellblock at midnight the prison is quiet. I shower, climb to my rack above Check, and I sleep soundly for five hours. It’s a routine I want to keep for the incomprehensible 24 years that I’ve still got to serve.

The pockets of solitude I’ve carved out give me peace, and I’ve become extremely productive. I’m on a tight schedule, always racing to exceed my expectations. I’ve completed my first quarter with Ohio University and I’ve enrolled in another full load of courses for the second quarter.

Besides taking correspondence classes through Ohio University, Mercer University has begun offering courses inside USP Atlanta, and I’m now enrolled as a full-time student in its program.  One of the professors from Mercer, Colin Harris, takes time to mentor me. I’m busy, working hard to prove worthy of the trust placed in me. According to the timeline I’ve laid out, I should earn my undergraduate degree in 1992, and I intend to earn it with honors.

*******

“Guess who I ran into at Safeway?” Julie, my sister, asks in a carefully measured tone.

“Who?”

“Judy Murphy.” She mentions the mother of one of my high school friends.

“Oh, how’s Sean?”

Julie hesitates and then tells me that Sean died of leukemia.

It’s tough news for me to take, as I liked and admired Sean.  I ask my sister when he died.

“Just a few months ago. It struck him suddenly. He was studying engineering at the University of Washington. He died during surgery.”

When Julie hangs up I return to my cell and think about Sean. He was a friend of mine since junior high school. With the news of his death, I sit and think more about what I’m doing here.  I face the wall in my cell, unable to muffle the hollering, laughing, and slamming of dominos on steel cellblock tables. Bad news from beyond prison walls keeps coming, and it will keep coming, and I must learn to accept it alone.

Sean and I hadn’t spoken since high school graduation. He lived responsibly, a student-athlete, disciplined and respectful of others while I was living recklessly. I remember our friendship as kids and as teammates in football and baseball.  It’s hard for me to believe that I’m now in prison and his life has ended.  Many more lives will end while I serve this sentence, maybe even my own.

I rest a pad on my knee so I can write to his parents, expressing my sympathy. Then I pledge that memories of Sean will inspire me to make better use of my life, to use every day working to become a better person. I don’t know how Sean’s parents will respond to my letter but I feel compelled to write it. For some reason, news of his death piles on more guilt.  It brings feelings of nostalgia for high school, those earlier days before I thought of selling cocaine.  I regret decisions I made and feel a colossal disappointment in what I’ve made of my life.

*******

I want to reach beyond these walls and my chance arrives when Julie receives the grant money for printing 2,000 copies of Drugs and Money. She makes the trip from Seattle to visit me so we can plan our strategy to distribute the books.

“You’ve grown so much,” Julie cries as we hug for the first time since my arrest, almost three years before.

“I told you I’ve been exercising every morning since I got here. Check this out.” I flex my arms, showing off.

She admires my fitness but then looks around, disoriented with the prison experience. “What did that guy do to get in here?”

“Come on, let’s not waste our time talking about anyone else. He probably sold drugs, like everyone else. I told you I’m a loner in here, I keep to myself.”

“I can’t believe you don’t have any friends. How can you spend all your time alone?”

“I’m okay. I talk to a few guys from class, but life is different for me. I’m so busy with school that I can’t take time for television, movies, or any of the craziness that goes on around here.” I tell my sister about the hustle of brewing alcohol with fruit, sugar, and yeast, and how some prisoners pass through the monotony of confinement in a drunken stupor. “Others are into gangs, gambling, and drugs. I feel safest and most productive by sticking to myself.”

“How do prisoners get drugs in here?” Despite my efforts to talk about the book, my sister persists in asking me about prison life.

“Through visits I guess, and some corrupt guards mule them in. I stay away from everything. That’s one of the reasons I keep such a busy schedule, to avoid trouble.”

While sitting across the table from my sister, I don’t feel any shame at all. It isn’t the same when my mother or father visits me. With them I feel empty inside and embarrassed that they see me in a place like this. Both my mom and dad want to hold my hand, pat my head, or assure me with words that things are going to turn out fine. But they’re afraid for me. Their nervous gestures bring out my guilt from having put them through such misery. I’ve asked them to leave visits early, feigning exhaustion. In truth, sadness overwhelms me and all I want to do is disappear.

With Julie, on the other hand, I grin and laugh, happy to listen as she tells me about our younger sister, Christina, our parents, our niece, and her own engagement to Tim. Life continues regardless of my ordeal. I look at the clock, conscious that the minutes move so quickly, and wish the visit wouldn’t end. With hundreds of other prisoners’ family members visiting, it’s loud in the room. We’re eating sandwiches from vending machines and drinking sodas. Life feels almost normal. Even though she periodically breaks into tears, I’m not in prison when I’m with Julie.  She’s so sweet, telling me that she’d switch places with me if she could.

We talk about the many ways we’re going to leverage all of the relationships we have in Seattle to attract media attention for the book. Drugs are becoming a bigger issue in society with President Bush’s zero-tolerance programs and I feel strongly that the book I wrote could contribute to the solution. Through a story describing what happened to my friends and me, the book sends a message regarding the tragic consequences that follow drug trafficking.

Although I face considerable restrictions in promoting the book, Julie is free to speak on my behalf. She returns to Seattle and begins contacting jails, schools, and other institutions where the message in Drugs and Money can add value. With books to donate, Julie contacts local talk radio programs to promote the book and to secure invitations for me to participate in telephone interviews.

Conscious of the reprimand Mr. Chandler gave me for enrolling in college without first seeking his permission, I ask advice from my supervisor, Ms. Stephens. I want to know which staff member can authorize me to interact with the media. She directs me to Ms. Sheffer, the Warden’s Executive Assistant, and Ms. Sheffer tells me that if representatives of the media want to speak with me over the phone, then I’m within my rights to converse.

*******

“I’m locking you up,” a lieutenant chastises me after paging me to his office.

“Why? What did I do?”

“Listen to this.” The lieutenant plays a tape recording of a portion from an interview I gave to a Seattle radio station over the telephone. “You can’t be giving no interviews on the radio from my institution. Where do you think you are? This is a federal prison! You’re supposed to be serving time, not writing books and talking to the media.”

“But I was only talking about the reasons people shouldn’t get involved with selling drugs. I’m trying to send a positive message.”

“Well I’m sending you to the hole to think about your positive message. Next time you’ll think twice about what you’re saying over my phone system and who you’re talking to.”

“But I asked permission from Ms. Sheffer before I made the call. She said I could talk with the media over the phone.”

The lieutenant looks at me skeptically. “What? Ms. Sheffer said that? When?”

“Three weeks ago. My work supervisor told me she was the person I needed to speak to for permission, and she said it would be fine.”

“Go back to your job,” the lieutenant orders. “I’ll get to the bottom of this. If you’re lying to me, you’re gonna be sorry.”

I walk back to the business office, intimidated by my encounter with the lieutenant. Since I had permission, I don’t think I’m in trouble, but the lieutenant’s threat about the hole shakes me. From an isolation cell I won’t be able to attend my classes with Mercer University, and if I can’t complete my classes, the timeline I’m working toward to graduate in 1992 falls apart.  I’m frustrated that the decisions of others have so much influence on my life.

Ms. Sheffer is waiting for me when I get back to my desk. With her shoulder-length blonde hair and form fitting designer clothes, she looks more like a babe than a prison official. Despite her attractiveness and the fragrance of her perfume, she talks tough, at least to me.

“From now on, if you’re going to talk with the media, you coordinate it through my office.” Ms. Sheffer scolds me while pointing her finger at me, ruining fantasies I’ve had about her, the kind that keep a young man alive. My confusion quickly leads to embarrassment.

“I’m sorry. I thought you said it was okay for me to talk over the phone.”

“I only said that because I didn’t think a member of the media would accept your phone calls. It was my mistake, that’s why you’re not in the hole. But let’s be clear, from now on you need to coordinate all media communications through my office.”

When Ms. Sheffer walks out I’m left alone in the office with my supervisor. “You’re really rocking the boat around here.”

“I don’t mean to. I’m just trying to build support outside.”

Ms. Stephens shakes her head in doubt. “When you started here you said you wanted to keep a low profile, to stay out of trouble. Writing books and talking on the radio puts you on the front line, not exactly low profile.”

“I meant I wanted to keep a low profile in prison. I still have to try and build support outside. I can’t just give up, you know, I’ve got to try to make something more of my life than this.”

“I just hope you know what you’re doing. Most inmates want to avoid attention, but you’re bringing the spotlight right to you. If you do anything wrong, all this attention is going to backfire.”

Ms. Stephens makes clear that she thinks it would be best to focus on school and forget about media contacts. “Just remember,” she chills me with an admonishment, “I can’t protect you if the lieutenant decides to lock you up for an investigation.”

Ms. Stephens means well. I know she cares for me, but she is a part of the system, and she knows a lieutenant can easily lock a prisoner away in a disciplinary cell for months at a time. If that should happen to me I wouldn’t have access to school, to telephone calls, to exercise. She doesn’t want me locked in a box.

What Ms. Stephens doesn’t understand is that I am locked in a box.

*******

When a guard passes an envelope through the bars of my cell I’m surprised to see a woman’s penmanship. The letter is from Susan, a girl I know from high school. She dated my close friend Rich, and her letter expresses support, telling me that she heard me speaking on a local radio interview.

I read Susan’s letter a hundred times. The letter isn’t suggestive, or with any romantic innuendo, but it’s the only letter I’ve received from a woman since Lisa dumped me six months ago. I like holding the paper that left Susan’s hands, wanting this connection to last.  It makes me wonder how many years will pass before I kiss a woman again.

I write Susan a lengthy letter, telling her all about my schoolwork, my routine in prison, and the challenges I face in promoting my book. Although a romance is probably too much to hope for, I make it clear to her that I value her correspondence. I’m lonely, longing for ties to anyone beyond prison walls, especially a woman.

*******

The next letter I receive isn’t from Susan and it isn’t nearly as pleasant. It is from my attorney, Justin, who informs me that the Court of Appeals has affirmed my conviction. The court’s decision doesn’t surprise me, but I’ve been hoping that the court wouldn’t issue its ruling for another year, or better yet, not until I expected to earn my degree in 1992. Yet my hopes don’t matter. It’s 1990 and I know what this appellate decision means. The clock on the 120-day time limit for the Rule 35 has begun to tick.

I write the judicial motion for the Rule 35 from my desk at work. Through the request for my judge to reconsider the sentence he imposed I express remorse for the crimes I committed and accept that I will serve several years in prison as a consequence of my convictions. Yet I implore the judge to reserve his final judgment of me, explaining that I’m working to educate myself, to contribute to society, and to build a record that will demonstrate my commitment to atone and to prepare for a law-abiding life. As an offer of proof I include copies of my university transcripts, my stellar progress reports from prison administrators, copies of Drugs and Money, press clippings, and letters of appreciation that my work has already generated. The entire package fits in a large envelope and I submit it to the court without assistance from counsel.

I don’t have to wait long before I receive the government’s response to my motion. When I open the envelope my heart sinks as I read the prosecutor’s passionate argument for the judge to let my sentence stand. He closes the three-page rebuttal with a sentiment so powerful in its denunciation of me as an individual, a fellow human being, that it takes all the wind out of me.

If Michael Santos served every day of his life in an all-consuming effort to repay society, and if he lived to be 300 years old, our community would still be at a significant net loss.

I read the prosecutor’s response over and over. It eats at me, wakes me from sleep at night. He prepared the case against me for trial. He knows that I’ve never had a weapon and that I don’t have a history or proclivity for violence. Here, in the prison, I live in the midst of dangerous men who truly threaten society, yet they serve sentences that are a fraction in length compared to mine. I don’t understand why the prosecutor is so vehement in opposing my relief, or why his response drips with such venom. I’m sinking again, needing to tap into some type of inner strength before I sink back down into the abyss.

When the guard slides the next envelope–from the district court, my judge’s chambers–through the bars of my cell, I need to lie down. It comes on Friday. Judge Tanner didn’t require much time to dismiss my motion. He agrees with the prosecutor, and with his ruling, the sentence I serve is now final.

I’m reading from chapter 3 of my book, Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term

Podcast 118: Chapter 3.3

*******

It’s 1988 and Vice-President George H.W. Bush is about to become America’s 41st president. He talks about a thousand points of light and inspires me with his call for a kinder, gentler America. Yes!  More compassion and understanding is exactly what I need, and I’m working feverishly to prove worthy of reconsideration.

With each passing month I feel the pressure. But I like having a reason to push through each day. My studies and writing goals necessitate a strict schedule and I train myself to function on less sleep. The cellblock rocks with constant noise and ceaseless disturbances, but with clearly defined goals I block out all distractions and become more skillful at carving out niches of time and space to study.

The tight schedule helps immensely, especially as my connection to Lisa becomes more and more tenuous. I’m proud of what I’m producing and for Christmas I send her copies of the assignments I’m completing. I also share the progress with my manuscript and I include photographs of the physique I’m building through strenuous weightlifting.

She’s not interested.

When I write her to announce news of the grant Julie received to produce and distribute Drugs and Money, she asks how much money I’ll be able to send her from those proceeds.

“Baby, I’m not writing this book for money,” I try to explain over the telephone. “I’ve told you the plan. I’m working to come home. I have to build a record that shows I can contribute to the world, and that’s what this book is for. We’re using the money to produce it and distribute it so I can build support, so I can come home.”

“I’m your wife, Michael. It costs money to live, and you didn’t leave me with enough to be giving books away.”

“I know, Honey. Listen, I thought you were going to find a job. Why don’t you sell clothes? There’s got to be some way for you to earn an income. You’ve got to support yourself until I come home.”

“When? In 25 years? Michael, this isn’t working.”

“Don’t say that! We’re married. Of course we can make it work. And it isn’t going to be 25 years. That’s ridiculous. The judge isn’t going to let this sentence stand, not with all I’m doing. I’ll be home in like eight years, maybe less.” I feel her slipping away. “When are you coming to see me?”

“I told you already.  My probation officer won’t let me visit you.”

“But for how long? How long until she lets you come visit me?”

“Five years, Michael! She told me that I’d never be able to visit you while I’m on probation and that I should divorce you.”

“That’s going to change. They can’t keep us apart like this. We’re married. You still love me, don’t you?”

This is ending badly. I sense where it’s heading, even though I’m trying to pull affection that should flow freely. To cope, I work harder.

*******

It’s early 1989 and I’ve turned 25. The time pressure intensifies every day, requiring that I deny myself sleep and activities that others rely upon as distractions from the pains of imprisonment.  Table games won’t carry me through.

When I read that President Bush is going to deliver his first prime-time news conference from the Oval Office I walk to a television room and watch the broadcast from the back of the auditorium.

The president looks dour. While seated in his high-backed chair behind his executive desk, President Bush holds up a clear plastic bag filled with cocaine. My spirits sink when I hear him tell millions of viewers that the War on Drugs is of paramount importance. Illicit drug abuse, he warns, threatens America as we know it.

Apparently the kinder, gentler America the president spoke about doesn’t include compassion for prisoners–especially those who sold drugs. His message suggests Americans need an object to hate. The object of that hatred is drugs and everyone who has anything to do with them. He calls for vigilance, urges children to turn in their parents and announces that under his administration American law enforcement will have zero tolerance for drugs.  He appoints William Bennett as a “drug czar,” whatever that means.

As I lie on my rack, blocking out the noise that ricochets through the concrete and steel cellblock, I consider what our new president said. He actually clarifies the enormity of my challenge. I’m a convicted drug offender with a long sentence. As much as I want to earn support from my fellow citizens, from the prosecutor, and from my judge–the president has just told people in society that I’m not worthy of consideration.  They shouldn’t look beyond my conviction and sentence.  I have to face the truth that others may never accept the efforts I’m making to atone. Zero tolerance. That’s what President Bush calls for.

*******

I wake with determination to work harder. Another prisoner tells me about a job in the prison factory’s business office that may make it easier to write.

“It’s a clerical job,” the prisoner says. “If you get it, you’d have your own desk and access to a computer.”

“Would they let me type my school assignments on the computer?”

“How the fuck should I know? Go fuckin’ check it out for yourself.”

Mr. Chandler signs my pass and I walk across the compound toward the business office. A morning controlled movement is in progress and a line of men wait their turn to pass through a metal detector. A prisoner in front of me walks through and the machine starts beeping.

“Take ’em off,” the guard orders.

“Come on boss, you knows I done got steel-toe boots on. That’s all that’s settin’ your joint off.”

“Then it shouldn’t be a problem. Now take ’em off and walk through again. Else you can strip down. Makes no difference to me.”

The guard won’t allow anyone to go through until he clears the man in front of me. I rarely leave the library because of this obsession with security. But the prospect of a new job that would provide access to a word processor and my own desk makes the inconvenience bearable today.

When it’s my turn I clear the metal detector without interference. I walk through two more sets of gates and I ride the elevator to the business office. The atmosphere differs from any other place I’ve been in the penitentiary. Instead of concrete and steel there are plasterboard walls, wooden doors with moldings, and carpeted floors soften the large, open room. Desks align neatly in aisles and rows. Prisoners wearing crisply pressed khakis sit behind them, absorbed in their work. Each desk has its own computer monitor and keyboard. I hear the buzzing of business machines, copiers, printers, and adding machines.

Yearning for my unrecoverable past, I walk through the open area toward the smaller offices in the back. I see the door marked “Transportation” and I knock. A woman looks up from her desk and greets me with a friendly smile.

“Good morning. My name is Michael Santos.” I present her with my pass from Mr. Chandler. “I was told of a job opening for a clerk in the Transportation office. I’d like to apply.”

“How much time do you have? Thirty years I hope.”

“I have 45 years, Ma’am.”

“Oh,” she flinches. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. I was only asking because training a clerk takes a lot of time and I didn’t want one of these short timers about to transfer out.”

“That’s okay. I’m enrolled in college and I expect that I’ll be here for a long time.”

“Have you ever worked in an office before?”

“Yes Ma’am. My father owned a contracting company and I worked in his offices.”

“So you can type?”

“I type very well, at least 50 words per minute.”

“Where do you work now?”

“I work in the library. Mr. Chandler is my supervisor.”

“How’s your disciplinary record? Do you have any shots? Ever go to the SHU?”

“No Ma’am, my disciplinary record is clear. I keep to myself, stay out of trouble.”

“Why are you in prison?”

“I sold cocaine.” I say, knowing that I’ll be answering this question for the rest of my life.

“And you got 45 years for that?”

“Yes Ma’am.”

“Have you ever been in prison before?”

“This is my first time, and my last.”

She nods her head, and for the first time since I’ve been in prison I feel genuine compassion from a staff member. “My name is Lynn Stephens. Watch the call-out for the job change. You’ve got the job.” She smiles, and for that instant I’m a person rather than a prisoner.

As I return to the library I realize that I forgot to ask Ms. Stephens about time for schoolwork and whether I could use the word processor to type my assignments once I completed my office responsibilities. It doesn’t matter. I’ll find a way to make things work. The office environment cleansed away the filth of imprisonment and I want to spend my time there, in the company of Ms. Stephens. I sense it’s the right place for me, away from gangs, confrontations, and cellblock pressures; away from the continuous hustling and scheming that take place in the library and other common spaces.

*******

When the cell gates open at 6:00 a.m. I rush to the gym for my morning workout. A quick cross-training workout allows me to fit all my exercises in before 7:00. Then I return to the cellblock, shower, shave, and dress in my pressed khakis. Optimistic about my new job, I bring an envelope with photographs in case there’s an opportunity to share pictures of my family with Ms. Stephens–I want her to know that I have a life outside of these walls.

“Good morning,” she greets me when I walk in. Strangely, I’m a bit uneasy being in close proximity to a woman. The office we share is small, the size of a bedroom in a suburban house. Her desk sits immediately to the right of the door in the office’s front corner. As her clerk I’ll sit inside a U-shaped workstation in the back, diagonally across from her. Five paces separate us. I’m conscious of her perfume and try to keep my knees from bouncing beneath the desk.

“What we do here is coordinate all the paperwork for shipments that leave the factory,” Ms. Stephens explains, describing my duties. “Each day the factory manager will send us a sheet with the number and type of mailbags that are ready for processing out. From that sheet you’ll type these forms we call the shippers and make five copies of the documents for distribution to billing, quality control, the postal service, the shipping company, the factory, and our records.

I handle the sample of documents that she provides and know that I’m capable of keeping this busywork in order. “How many orders do we receive each day?”

“It’s more like 15 each week. On some days you’ll receive one or two orders; other days you may not receive any at all. Then you may receive four, five, or six all at once. It might take you a few weeks to get used to the system but you’ll get the hang of it. As long as you stay on top of it and don’t let the work pile up, you’ll be fine.”

“What am I supposed to do when I’m caught up? It doesn’t sound like these duties will require more than a couple hours a day, if that.”

“Let’s just see how it goes. We’ve always got files to organize, envelopes to stuff, and copies to make. If you’d like to listen to the radio, tune into any station you’d like.”

I catch on quickly to my duties: typing, copying, distributing, and filing. The small radio behind me only picks up the AM band. As I flip through the stations I settle in on talk radio, and I listen to an audacious political commentator named Rush Limbaugh. The show is gaining national popularity, I’ve read. Magazine articles describe Limbaugh as a self-indulgent, obese, college dropout who dumped his marriage but represents himself as a social conservative.  Despite the hypocrisy between his personal life and his public life, he makes me laugh.

*******

Lisa isn’t responding to the daily letters I’ve been writing, and every time I’m finally able to call her, I walk away frustrated because she doesn’t answer. It’s been more than two weeks since I’ve heard from her. Premonitions chip away at me. I hurt from the emptiness and loneliness disturbs my sleep.

The prison’s automated phone system only allows collect calls. A major drawback is that once I dial I can’t hear what’s happening on the other end of the line until someone pushes a digit to accept. When I dial Lisa’s number I don’t know whether the line is busy, no one is home, or the call simply doesn’t go through.

I wonder what’s going on, why she doesn’t write, and where she is. I ache to tell her about my new job, about my progress with school, about the manuscript I’m writing, and about how much I miss her. I want to know about her life, how her job search is going. She must’ve found a job. She’s probably working at the times that I call, but I wonder why she doesn’t respond to my letters. I dream of the softness of her lips, but nightmares haunt me with images of her kissing someone else.

*******

“Hey! How come you haven’t been calling me? I’ve been worried about you.” It’s Julie, cheering me up with her loving enthusiasm when she accepts my call.

“I’m sorry. It’s not so easy to use the phone here. I have to wait in long lines and I’m only able to dial one number once my turn comes up. Have you been getting the letters I’ve sent?”

“I’m so proud of you! You’re doing great in there, with your schoolwork and the writing. I’m glad you’ve got a job you like.”

“Everything’s okay, but I haven’t been able to talk with Lisa and I’m worried. Has she called you?”

“She wouldn’t call me, you know that. Do you want me to patch you through on a three-way?”

“Would you? When I call her number I’m not getting through at all. I can’t leave a message or anything.”

“What’s her phone number?”

I give Julie the number and wait for her to dial. She patches into the call when Lisa’s phone starts ringing.

“I’m just going to wait until she answers. Then I’ll put the phone down and you can talk as long as you want.”

“Thanks, Julie. I appreciate your help.”

My heart pounds and I bounce between excitement to hear my wife’s voice and apprehension over what she might tell me. But it’s not Lisa who answers. It’s a man’s voice that picks up.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I must’ve dialed the wrong number.”

“What’s the number again?” Julie asks, after disconnecting the unknown party.

I give her Lisa’s number a second time. “That’s the number I thought I dialed. Let me try again.”

The phone rings and I hear the same voice answer. “Who’s this?” I ask.

“Who’s this?” The man doesn’t answer my question.

“This is Michael Santos. I’m calling for my wife, Lisa.”

“Oh. Well, Lisa’s not here. I’m Lisa’s boyfriend and I live here now. Sorry to tell you this, but it’s probably best if you don’t call back. She isn’t ready to talk with you.”

I’m humiliated that this is the way I learn my marriage is over, and that my sister hears it along with me. Speechless, I hang up the phone, not even taking the time to thank Julie for making the call.

Blindly, I press through crowds of prisoners and find my way to the stairs, not caring who I push aside in my grief–a knife in the gut would be a welcome reprieve from the pain twisting through my heart.

Somehow I find my cell and fall onto my rack, smothering my face in my pillow. With the spirit of perseverance abandoning me, I squeeze my eyes shut to keep tears from falling. Everything inside of me feels broken. I hear my pulse pounding in my ears, feel it throbbing in my head. I’m having a hard time acknowledging that she’s gone, that I’ve lost her.  It’s like a painful vise squeezing tighter and tighter, suffocating me and bringing doubts on whether I can climb through 24 more years of this pain.

Sleep doesn’t restore my confidence. I crawl off my rack and sit on the metal chair to lace my dirty sneakers. Consumed with sadness, I walk down the stairs and pace, wondering why I should go on.  I’m not able to summon the will or a reason to live.  Lisa and I may’ve been growing apart, but at least I had the illusion of love.  That’s been shattered and I don’t know what I’ll do in here for decades.

I walk to the library, numb to everything but my pain, seeking solace from the stories of others who suffered. I search for books about Viktor Frankl, Elie Weisel, and other innocent people who confronted horrific adversity in concentration camps like Auschwitz and Buchenwald. I need to immerse myself in their stories. Although I’ve hit bottom, the inspiring literature of Jewish survival and courage shines a light down my psychological well, beginning to ease the tightness in my chest.

I’m reading from chapter 3 of my book, Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term

For more information, visit PrisonProfessors.com

*******

During my first weeks in the penitentiary, I meet hundreds of men.  Listening to them convinces me that it’s best to keep a low profile, at least until I understand more about my environment. I don’t even talk much with the other men assigned to my cell.

Just as Check told me on my first day, the men mind their own business and don’t show much interest in building new friendships. They work in the prison’s factory, manufacturing or repairing mailbags for the U.S. Postal Service. I catch the vibe–one of apathy rather than hostility. These men have no interest in talking with a young prisoner who shows enthusiasm about being hired to work in the library. Enthusiasm dies long before most men enter the inside of these walls, I suspect.  It might reveal naiveté, which exposes vulnerability.

In the evenings I lie on my rack thinking about how I’m going to make it and realize that I’m at the start of a long journey. I block out the noise that comes in endless waves from outside the cell. More than 600 of the 2,500 prisoners in the penitentiary live in A cellblock, though their activities don’t concern me as much as the thoughts about how I will walk out of prison when I’m released.

But I can’t seem to focus. The papers I’ve received from the administrators confirm that my 45-year sentence brings a possible release in 2013. It’s only 1988 and after one year as a prisoner I still can’t grasp what it means to live another 25 in here. According to the counselor, case manager, and unit managers, a group of administrators collectively known as the “unit team,” 25 more years is the best I can hope for, and that’s contingent on my not receiving any disciplinary infractions that could result in my loss of good time. No amount of effort or accomplishment, the unit team assures me, will advance my release date.

Although I don’t talk about my spiritual beliefs, I read the Bible every night. My resistance to religious services and organized prayer groups irritates the zealots, or “Bible thumpers,” as they’re known. That’s of little consequence in the long run because my relationship with the Bible brings me comfort, guides me, and provides occasional relief from the deep sorrow gripping me. I read it lying on my rack or while sitting on a wooden chair in a corner I’ve claimed for myself between bookshelves in the library.

Sometimes I find parables that seem as if written directly to me. I must prepare–that is the message I receive from my readings. The message comes to me from verses in both the Old and New Testaments. I find the message in the story of Noah and the Ark; I read it in the parables of the wise and foolish virgins, as well as the parables of the talents described in the Book of Matthew. I must prepare.

I learn from my daily Bible readings that everyone has a responsibility to live God’s plan, and that plan requires us to maximize the gifts we receive. I’m not convinced that I must fast, wear certain clothes, use prayer oils, face the sun at specific hours, or publicly claim that I’m saved, to come closer to God. The belief I begin to form is that I need to live as a good man, to develop the gifts God has blessed me with and to work toward the making of a better world.

My belief strengthens my spirit, improves my attitude, and gives me a positive outlook. Instead of looking at my sentence as a burden I begin to see it as a challenge, an opportunity to grow in ways I never would’ve without extreme adversity. To accept that my sentence may have a purpose not yet revealed requires that I have faith that God has a plan, one that will open opportunities, and trusting in God’s plan gives me a sense that I can go on.

I want to convey these thoughts to Lisa, but she’s slipping away. Her sentencing date approaches so I understand her lack of enthusiasm when I express my excitement about beginning correspondence studies at Ohio University. When she mocks my growing faith in God, I realize how the time and space of my sentence separates us.  Despite my love for her, we’re growing apart.

Telephone restrictions preclude me from talking with her more than once every few days. I can only use the telephone on the days that A cellblock is scheduled for access.  On telephone days, a guard leads 15 of us at a time to a room with rotary-dial, wall-mounted phones, and I wait in line to use one of them. When it’s my turn, I’m authorized to make one 10-minute phone call.

To avoid the frustration of the brief phone calls I write long letters to Lisa every day, expressing my love for her and sending promises I don’t know how I’ll keep. Whatever sentence she receives, I assure her that it’s part of God’s plan, one that will bring us closer together. Just before her sentencing date she travels to Atlanta to visit with me.

I’m in my second month in Atlanta and it’s been six months since I’ve seen my wife, more than a year since we’ve held each other or even touched. I’m lonely for her, aching for her. Thoughts of Lisa have, at various times, strengthened and weakened me, inspired and depressed me. Now I’m going to see her, to hold her, to kiss her.

I iron my khaki pants and shirt with creases as sharply pressed as a military officer’s uniform and, in order to show how much larger my biceps have grown through exercise, I fold up the short sleeves of my shirt. I’m ready and I’m eager. Today Lisa will fall in love with me again, just as she loved me before.

“Yo, young’un, who’s comin’ to see you?” Other prisoners inquire as they watch me peering through the window to see who’s walking down the prison corridor.

“My wife’s visiting me today.” I’m enthusiastic, refusing to use the standard prison reference of “my ol’ lady.”

“Have a good one.”

Soon after I hear my name paged a guard arrives to escort me from the housing unit. We walk through the wide, quiet, empty corridor on polished marble floors surrounded by high, white walls. The guard doesn’t talk to me. The only sounds along the dreary walk are our footsteps, the sound of swinging handcuffs that hang from the back of the guard’s thick leather belt, and the occasional static blasts from his radio. It’s a long walk.

Instead of entering the visiting room the guard opens the door to an adjacent room, where another guard waits at a desk.

“Inmate Santos for a visit,” the escorting guard informs his colleague before locking me in the closet-sized room.

The guard seated at the desk asks for my ID and begins writing the information in his logbook: my name, registration number, the time I arrived, and my visitor’s name. “What are you waiting for?” he asks as I stand there, watching.

“Oh, can I go in?” I’m dehumanized, conditioned to ask permission for any movement as if I’ve been a prisoner all my life.

“You know the drill.”

“What drill? This is my first visit.”

“Strip!”

The order surprises me but I follow it without question. My main concern is getting to Lisa, though I’m careful to keep my clothes looking crisp and so I take extra time to fold my pants and shirt before I set them on the dingy floor.

“Everything,” the guard says as I stand in my boxers and socks.

I’ve been through hundreds of strip searches but guards sometimes let me stand in underwear while they inspect me. Not this one. He’s a stickler for detail and insists on seeing me naked.  He orders me to lift my privates, bend over and spread. I comply as he directs, giving him the full view he wants, and then I dress. Finally, he authorizes me to enter the visiting room.

I walk down a few steps to a platform where two guards sit at a desk. The room is large, like a high school cafeteria with bright lights. Vending machines line the walls. It’s packed with people engaged in hundreds of simultaneous, loud conversations. I don’t see Lisa. One of the guards asks for my identification.  He then patronizes me with questions on whether I understand the rules. Those rules may be designed for security reasons, but they strip people of dignity and contribute to the loss of community ties. I remember the rules from when I first saw Lisa in the Miami prison more than a year ago. They don’t permit us to embrace during the visit, and limit kissing to the start and finish. The guard tells me where to sit and points me in the direction.

Finally, I see her. She sits in a row of plastic chairs along the wall and watches as I walk toward her from across the brightly lit room. My eyes lock with hers and memories flash of better times. I remember crowds parting as she held my arm while we walked through Las Vegas casinos; I remember drinking champagne and eating chocolate truffles with her at a dessert bar overlooking Central Park; I remember powering through deep blue, rolling waves of the Atlantic on my ocean racer, with her in a sequined string bikini, clinging to me. Those days are gone, never to return. I have repressed thoughts of Lisa’s seductiveness, her magnetic sex appeal, but as I walk closer to her those feelings surge, inflaming all of my senses.

The year has taken its toll on me. With the total absence of a woman’s touch, of affection, of physical warmth and release, an enormous urge rises in me. I’m oblivious to the hundreds of other people visiting in the room. It’s as if I’m seeing Lisa in an airport terminal for the first time after a long trip abroad. Only she’s not here to welcome me home. When she stands I want to devour her. Since we have just this one opportunity, I manage with a deliciously long, marvelous kiss.

“I still love you, Michael,” Lisa says, holding me before we sit.

“And I love you,” I respond while pulling her close. “We’re made to love each other. I’ve told you that from the beginning.  Our love is strong enough to carry us through anything, even imprisonment.” I’m eager to say anything and everything that comes to mind with desperate hopes of holding on to her.

We sit side-by-side, as close as the stationary, hard plastic chairs will allow.  We’re close enough that I feel the soft skin of her arms touching mine, close enough that I can breathe in her perfume. The romantic euphoria of our first hour together doesn’t last, however, as we can’t avoid discussing the ugliness that has become our lives.

“How is it in here, really? Are you safe?”

“I told you, you don’t have to worry about me. As long as we’re together, I’m okay. My dad sent the money to the university, so I should receive my books and lesson plans soon. I’ve got a great job in the library. I’m exercising every day. I’ve got plenty of books to read. You’re going to see how I turn this mess around. I’m going to leave here so much better than I am now, stronger and wiser.  I’m going to make you proud.”

“But what about me? What do you think is going to happen at my sentencing–and after? I can’t live in a place like this!”

“Honey, nothing’s going to happen.” I comb my fingers through her blonde hair. “You didn’t do anything that bad. You told a little lie about money. What’s the big deal? The judge isn’t going to put you in prison for that. People lie all the time. Every time someone gets pulled over for speeding, he lies about driving the speed limit. They don’t put people in prison for that.”

“But what if they do? What’s going to happen then?” She grips her fingers into my hands. “I don’t want to live in a place like this.”

“It’s not going to happen,” I soothe. “Why don’t you pray with me? When I pray, God gives me strength.”

“Come on, don’t start with that! What are you doing? Becoming a priest in here? Prayer isn’t going to help me!” Lisa abruptly lets go of me and folds her arms across her chest in frustration.

“Yes it will, it helps me through every day.”

“You got 45 years! Did prayers help with that?”

“Baby, don’t talk like that. You have to trust in me, trust in God. It’s going to get better.”

“Sometimes I don’t think I know you anymore. All you talk about is school, God, about how it’s going to be better when you get out. Don’t you get it? We’re going to be old by then!”

“It’s not going to be that long.” I sit back in my chair, swallowing the harshness of her assessment.

“What about me? How am I supposed to live? Our money is running out.”

“Why don’t you get a job?”

“Doing what? What can I do? You want me to wait tables or something?”

“Don’t worry, Baby. Let’s get through your sentencing next week and put this mess behind us. I’ll think of something.”

Our visit may have begun with passion, but it ends with the cold reality that we don’t have enough of anything to sustain us. We don’t have enough money, enough maturity, or enough commitment.  When visiting hours end she stands and we hold each other, but I know she’s not coming back. Our parting kiss tastes like good-bye. As she walks away I’m more alone than I’ve ever been.

The following week Lisa is sentenced. After the scheduled time of her hearing I call my father, who accompanied her to lend support. He tells me that the judge sentenced her to serve five years on probation for her felony conviction of lying to a federal officer. I’m relieved. Thinking of Lisa enduring the handcuffs, the chains, the regular strip searches, orders, and daily indignities of confinement would have crushed me. I can handle prison, but I wasn’t sure she could have, and if she were put inside my level of stress would’ve risen exponentially.  At least I have that complication behind me.  Now it’s on to new challenges and complications that I expect to flow over the next 10,000 days.

*******

Since the library is an open space where all prisoners can congregate freely, it serves as a kind of marketplace for hustlers and prisoners use it for more than checking out books or typing. They exploit it to hide weapons, drugs, and other contraband that they conceal in the drop ceiling or inside books they hollow out. Guards seize contraband they find, but since the library is a common area they can’t punish an individual without further information, like a tip from a snitch.

I’ll never become a source of such information, as I won’t try to make my life easier at the expense of making someone else’s life harder. Blood spills inside these walls. I’ll survive by making decisions that ensure I don’t have to hide from anybody and that no one has to hide from me. I want to live invisibly, to be “in” the penitentiary, but not “of” the penitentiary. I focus intensely on steps I can take that will lead me closer to home, that will prepare me for a productive life outside.

My own research and the inquiries I make of other prisoners convince me that only two mechanisms exist through which I can earn my way out. One is to ask my judge to reconsider my sentence using the formal legal proceeding known as the Rule 35 motion, but the strict time parameters of that rule limit me. Once the appeals court affirms my conviction and sentence–as I’m sure it will–the 120-day clock starts ticking. After that time elapses, my sentence becomes etched in stone. The only other mechanism, barring future legislative reform, is asking the president to grant relief through executive clemency.

The Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals will affirm my conviction and sentence within a year. What can I possibly accomplish in another year of imprisonment to persuade my sentencing judge that I’m a worthy candidate for relief, that I’ve earned freedom? It’s not enough time and yet I’ve got to make something happen. Every minute that passes without my having a plan or making progress means that I’m losing ground. I feel like I’m a cartoon character, lying on a table with a swinging, spinning saw blade gradually dropping from the ceiling toward my exposed and extended neck.

Improving my situation will require support from people outside. Yet 40-foot walls hinder my ability to connect with society, frustrating me. I stare at library walls wondering how to distinguish myself from every other prisoner who wants a sentence reduction. I can’t simply express sorrow or regret. I am deeply remorseful, though I understand the cynicism of the system. When I file my Rule 35, I’m expecting prosecutors to argue persuasively that I’m not at all remorseful but only want out.

I wrestle with the opposition I expect to face. Why do others think it so wrong that I want to advance my release date? I want out, but I also want to atone, to somehow reconcile with society. I aspire to show others that I’m earning my freedom. As I stare blankly at the books all around me I suddenly see the solution that will help me pierce these walls and connect with society: I’ll write a book!

I may not know what I’m doing but the fact that I’m doing something, making progress, empowers me. For the first time I’m not sitting around waiting for outside forces to dictate my fate. Instead, I have a plan and that brings new energy, motivation, and inspiration. I’ll write about how the romantic, swashbuckling images I had of coke traffickers seduced me into the trade. Reading my story will provide compelling reasons for others to avoid making the same choices. I’ll express remorse openly and perhaps other young people will be dissuaded from breaking the law. The book should assist law enforcement by helping stop crime before it starts.

I’ve never taken a writing course or even written anything more substantial than short letters, but if I begin now and work on it every day, I can finish a book in time to generate support for my Rule 35. This project becomes my Hail Mary effort to begin a record of atonement.

Julie and her fiancé, Tim, are my strongest supporters. I write her and they agree to launch a nonprofit corporation to publish the book, which I title Drugs and Money. That way instead of selling the book we can donate it. A funding arm from the State of Washington offers financial resources for programs designed to improve community safety, and I write a grant proposal to fund our project.  Julie submits the grant proposal through the nonprofit, and then she persuades those on the board of the grant committee to fund production of Drugs and Money with $20,000.  It’s a sufficient amount of funds to produce and distribute 2,000 books to schools, jails, and other organizations for at-risk adolescents. This community-service effort helps me reach beyond the penitentiary, build support, and begin making a contribution to society.

*******

I hear my name being paged over the loudspeaker with an order to report to the Education building.  I sit down at the desk where I write each day, and Mr. Chandler, the Supervisor of Education, approaches.

“Sanchez, why am I getting a package from Ohio University with your name all over it?” He is not happy.

I look up, surprised that he’s upset and wondering what I did wrong. “I enrolled in a correspondence program, sir,” I respond, not wanting to aggravate him further by correcting his mispronunciation of my name. “I wanted to study toward a college degree.”

“Boy, don’t you know I got half a mind to lock you up? Ain’t no courses get ordered ’round here less they go through me. Who authorized you to enroll in college?”

“I didn’t know I needed to have authorization.”

“Don’t you knows you’s in the peniten’try! You better axe somebody! Can’t be havin’ no packages sent in here without auth’rization. Interferes with security of the institution.”

“Sorry, sir. I didn’t know that a package from a university could interfere with security.  But I won’t make that mistake again.”

Mr. Chandler softens some with my contrite response. “What you doin’ in here all day anyway boy?” He spreads the pages of longhand on my desk.

“Writing, sir, just trying to stay out of trouble.”

“Well you ’bout found trouble, and you’re lookin’ at it. Now come on back to my office and get these here books ’fore I send ’em back and lock yo ass in da hole.”

I stand and follow him down the center corridor, giddy as a boy on Christmas morning, ecstatic that my course work has arrived. I don’t know why he was so angry, but it doesn’t really matter now that he’s agreed to allow me to proceed. When we enter his office I see the box from Ohio University open on his desk.

“This ain’t nothin’ but a lot ’a extra work for me.”

“Thanks for helping, sir. I apologize for causing so much trouble.”

He opens each book, inspects the binding, fans through the pages, then he passes the book over to me. I have courses in English, philosophy, algebra, and psychology. I thank Mr. Chandler again and return to the desk where I can begin to work with a new sense of purpose.

In my mind I’m no longer a prisoner. I’m 24 years old, about to endure my second holiday season in confinement, but I’m also on track for making real, measurable progress. I’m now a university student and an aspiring author.  Others will soon have tangible results to gauge my commitment to atone.

I’m reading from chapter 3 of my book, Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term

For more information, visit PrisonProfessors.com

Chapter Three: 1988-1990

Months 14-36

I’m assigned to A cellblock.  It’s a long, rectangular, hollow shell of a building with high ceilings similar to the Oklahoma housing unit I just left at El Reno. Pigeons fly around in the open space above. It’s late summer and the oppressive heat, without air conditioning, makes me sweat. Burgundy tiles cover the floor. The beige, enamel-faced brick walls have been stained yellow from nicotine smoke that has accumulated over decades.

In the center of the shell, a freestanding metal and concrete structure reaches five stories high. Each tier supports a four-foot wide catwalk that wraps around the caged tower. Steel bars evenly spaced four inches apart enclose the side-by-side cells in the building’s core, and metal mesh screens the catwalk. From the looks of it I suspect administrators ordered the screens as an afterthought to keep prisoners from throwing bodies off the walkways.  This is going to be a tough place to live, but in my mind I’m getting ready for all the challenges that I expect to come.

As I climb the stairs I wonder how much blood has spilled on that tile floor below. I’m only carrying a bedroll–two sheets and a pillowcase wrapped inside a green woolen blanket–but apprehension weighs on me.

After reaching the top tier I walk toward my cell. Through the bars of the cells I see that four steel bunk bed racks accommodate eight prisoners in each cell. An open toilet is mounted against the wall at the back of the cell. There isn’t any privacy, just a commode. As I continue down the long tier I pass an open shower area.  It’s just a huge vacant space laid out the same as a cell, but instead of sleeping racks it has five spigots sprouting from the far wall. I catch sight of four men soaping themselves beneath spraying water.

“See somethin’ you like, young’un?” one of the prisoners jeers at me and I hear the others laugh. I keep walking, ignoring the taunt, eyes straight ahead with the bedroll in my arms as if it’s a bundle of firewood.

Near the tier’s end I find cell 517. I walk through the open gate and I notice a small table to my left.  One prisoner lies atop his rack with the newspaper’s sports section absorbing all of his attention. I stand motionless and look around, wondering which bunk I should claim. Three top racks are empty.

“What’s up?” The other prisoner finally notices me. He is in his 50’s, fit, baldheaded, and sporting a goatee.

I nod. “My name’s Michael Santos. I’m new, assigned here.”

“Oh yeah? Where you from?”  His interrogation begins.

“I grew up in Seattle, but I’ve been living in Miami for the past couple of years.”

“How much time you got?”

“Forty-five years.” The length of my sentence makes a statement. In here I don’t need to feel ashamed of it. “Old law,” I clarify.

The prisoner sits up from his rack, sets the newspaper aside. “How old’re you?”

“Twenty-four.”

He shakes his head. “Well, youngster, you got some trouble to pull. Welcome to the big house. Ever been locked up before?”

“I’ve been in jail for a year, been through transit. This is my first prison. How’s it measure up?”

“Suits me just fine, but one spot’s the same as another for me. Question is, and I gotta ask since you’re in my house, how’re you gonna get by? What’re you into?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “I’d like to go to college if possible, study, work out, that’s about it.”

“You a doper?”

“What do you mean? I’m in here on drug charges.”

“So is everyone else.  What I wanna know is whether you get high.”

“No.”

“Gamble?”

“I don’t have any money for gambling.”

“That would only make things worse, but it don’t answer my question. What I asked was do you gamble?”

I shake my head.

“Not into punks, right?”

“I’m married. No punks.”

“Well that ain’t gonna last, the marriage part I mean.”

He stands, puts out his hand. “Name’s McFadden. They call me Check. Long as you ain’t with no dope, gamblin’, or punks, you can set your stuff here.” He taps the rack above his. “This here’ll be your locker, and this is your chair. Got four other men who live here and we all do our part to keep the house clean. This here’s the schedule.” He points to a hand-drawn calendar on the wall with names of people on scheduled cleaning days. “You either clean up on your day, or you pay to have someone sweep and mop; Pancho next door has a cleanin’ hustle. Most guys pay a pack ’a smokes a week. We keep it quiet here. You got visitors, take ’em outside the cell.  Don’t bring ye’r problems to the house, else you’ll have new problems.  With me.  Lights out at nine. Can you live with them rules?”

“Sure. They sound fine to me.”

“Okay. What else?” He scratches his chin while contemplating how much more he should tell me. “You lucked out as far as cells go. Everyone here knows what time it is. Ain’t no snitches here, no one up in anyone else’s business, and we like keepin’ quiet. We’ve all been around a while and don’t want none ’a that jitterbug foolishness ’round here. Got questions, ask. Got problems, like I said, don’t bring ’em back to the house.”

I set my bedroll on the rack and thank him for the welcome while I start tying the sheets around the mat. “Why do they call you Check?”

“Let me give you the first rule of prison.  Don’t ask no one ’bout his personal business, least not unless you got reason, like he’s movin’ into your house.”

“Got it.”

“You play chess?”

“A little. I learned in the county jail when I was waiting for trial.”

“Any good?”

“Like I said, I just play a little.”

“Well when you finish makin’ your rack, sit on down and give it your best shot. I’ll show you why they call me Check.”

As Check demonstrates his mastery of the chessboard he gives me more rundown on the penitentiary and his prison experiences. He’s been in since 1972, 16 years, and he looks forward to release on parole from a life sentence in another year. Check tells me the penitentiary is in transition. After the riot, administrators shipped all prisoners out in order to assess the damage and prepare for rebuilding. The first prisoners to repopulate the penitentiary transferred in from lower-security institutions as a clean-up crew. Those lower-security prisoners are now transferring out to make room for the high-security prisoners that penitentiaries are designed to hold. The men are coming in on buses each week from Lewisburg, Leavenworth, Lompoc, and other jails or prisons.

“This place is only halfway ̓live now, but give it a few months and it’ll be rockin’ just like any other pen.”

I’ve heard enough about the violence, the gangs, and all the nonsense of prison life. It doesn’t interest me.  I inquire about the routines, the day-to-day life inside. From Check I learn that all prisoners receive a job assignment for full-time work. I can either try to find my own job or the counselors will issue me a work assignment. Prisoners, I am learning, provide the labor to run the penitentiary. Some jobs, Check explains, don’t require much more than attendance while others require full-time duty and overtime for those who want to earn a few extra dollars.

“When I was in El Reno I heard about a college program. Do they offer any college courses here?”

“Haven’t heard nothin’ ’bout school, but that ain’t really my thing.  If school’s what y’er into, you need to go check things out for yerself. There might be somethin’ you can do.”

*******

In an effort to control USP Atlanta’s 2,500 prisoners, guards enforce rules that only allow “movement” from one area of the penitentiary to another within a ten-minute window at the top of each hour. Check explains that if I want to inquire about educational opportunities I need to request a movement pass from the unit officer, then wait in line for the corridor guards to unlock the doors and gates of the housing unit. He draws a map directing me to the library and suggests I go explore.

I maneuver through the crowds easily enough and find the library, though in comparison to what I saw at El Reno, it’s disappointing. During the riot that erupted several months before, a number of buildings were destroyed. One of those was the penitentiary’s main library. A new education building is under construction but, for the time being, the library and entire education department occupy the basement in the prison’s old health-services building.

As I walk through I notice a man with a military haircut and wearing black, plastic-frame, government-issue glasses. He’s wearing the same prisoner’s khaki outfit as I wear, but he’s sitting at a desk positioned inside the entry to one of the rooms and I’m assuming that he holds some kind of authority. Bookshelves line the walls, but for all I know, they may be off limits. The prisoner at the desk reads his law book, indifferent to my curiosity. I’m reluctant to interrupt him but since I don’t want to appear disrespectful by ignoring his position and simply walking past, I introduce myself.

“Excuse me, Bud. My name’s Michael Santos. I just got here and don’t really know the layout. Is it okay if I walk in to see what kind of books are available?”

“Suit yourself,” he mutters, never looking up.

Browsing through the bookshelves I notice row upon row of westerns, romance novels, and science fiction, but I’m looking for nonfiction and there isn’t much. I’m encouraged to see two sets of encyclopedias. Although I never spent much time reading reference books I know there’s a wealth of information in these two sets. All I’m thinking about as I walk around the bookshelves is how and what I’m going to study while I serve my sentence.  I’m eager to start making progress in here.

The room I’m in is quiet though I hear people talking in adjacent rooms. “Wha’da ya like to read?” The clerk spins his chair around, all of a sudden interested in me.

“I’m just looking, trying to get a feel for the place.”

“Won’t be much here ’til the new library opens and that’s about a year away. You can check out anything from these shelves, or you can order books from the interlibrary loan program. Takes about two weeks for those books to come. ’Sides that, Chandler’s got a set ̓a bestsellers, but you’ve got to check them out directly from him.”

“Who’s Chandler?”

“Supervisor of Education. His office is in back, down the hall and to the left.”

“Is he the guy to talk to about getting a job in the library?”

“He’s the one, HMFIC.”

“What’s that?”

“Head motherfucker-in-charge. Where you from?”

“Seattle. I’m just comin’ in.”

“Long ways from home. What’s up? Why they got you way out here?”

“I was living in Miami when I got arrested. I guess that has me classified as being from the East Coast.

“How much time you got?”

“Forty-five years.”

“With that kind of time, only thing you should be readin’ is them law books. They’re down the hall. You need to get some ̓a that time off, bro.”

“I don’t know much about the law, but I know that I’m tired of fighting this case. I need something else besides appeals to carry me through.”

“What’re you a lame? Givin’ up? Just plan on serving all that time?”

I shrug my shoulders. “I know I’m going to serve some of it. I’m thinking about the Rule 35, asking the judge for reconsideration. Ever hear of anyone catching a break from it?”

“Only snitches. Ain’t no judge gonna reconsider the sentence he imposed less a dude starts rattin’ out motherfuckers. This system’s ’bout finality. You gotta fight if you want relief.”

“That what you’re doing?” I gesture to the open law books on his desk.

“Damn straight. Been fightin’ every day since I came in. I always got somethin’ goin’ in the courts.”

“Has it changed anything for you?”

“Look, Bro, that ain’t the way to look at it. This system’s dirty, fed by lies and corruption. Know what I’m sayin’? We’re in a war here, and it’s our job to keep filin’ paperwork, assailin’ this system ’til it changes. Can’t just give up. If everyone in the pen kept filin’ in the courts, we could expose this system. That’s the only way we’re gonna change it.”

“You’re probably right.” The tone of his voice and the way his fist clenches the pen reveal his passion. Although the argument doesn’t make much sense to me, the last thing I want is a confrontation. “Like I said, I’ve just come in and I’m trying to find my way around this place. You obviously know a lot more than I do.”

The clerk accepts my deference to his wisdom. “So you lookin’ for a job in the library?” He leans back in his chair.

“I think so. I like the quiet, the time to study. Do they have college here?”

“The only classes here are for the GED and they’re not much. Next year, when the new buildin’ opens, they might start offerin’ college courses, but there ain’t no room now. This’s kind of a self-service prison. You wanna find college courses, gonna have to look for them yerself. This might help,” he reaches for a reference book on correspondence courses from the shelf beside him and hands it to me.

“Thanks a lot, Bud,” I say in accepting the book. “This will help. Can I ask your name?”

“Keith, Bro.”

I sit on one of the hard chairs at a table and read through every page of the guide to correspondence programs. This research leads me to a description of Ohio University that sounds perfect. Although I’ve never studied at the university level before I’m motivated to invest as much energy as possible in educating myself. From the description I learn that even though I may never step foot on a university campus, I can earn a four-year degree from a nationally recognized school.

The book explains that Ohio University accepts Pell grants, and as a prisoner I qualify for financial assistance that will cover nearly all tuition costs. I’m confident that my parents will pay whatever the Pell grant doesn’t fund, as I know they want me to make the best use of my time and I can’t think of anything better than to educate myself. I’m a little humiliated, at 24, to need financial support from my parents, especially after the flamboyant life I led before prison and the ruin I brought to my family’s stability. Yet I know that I’ll need help, and I’m going to ask for it.

After writing down all of the information about how to enroll, I walk down the hall toward the area where Keith said the Supervisor of Education keeps his office. On the way I look inside one room with side-by-side shelves of legal books on case law, statutory codes, and procedure manuals for filing in court. I see several tough-looking men working at tables with law books open in front of them, just as Keith was doing, and I wonder what level of skill these men have with regard to judicial proceedings. With all those hateful designs inked on their skin they don’t impress me as being scholarly types.

I pass by another room where several men sit at tables typing on electric typewriters.  They may be obsolete in the real world, but typewriters are as close as we’re going to come to high-tech in here. In high school I excelled in typing class and I look forward to sharpening my skills. With books, a law library, typewriters, and pockets of silence, the library looks and feels like the right spot to begin my adjustment. I’m hopeful Mr. Chandler will hire me. The door’s open to his office so I knock on the metal frame.

The makeshift office where Mr. Chandler’s stationed suggests that he’s in transition. He’s got gray hair, bloodshot eyes, a rumpled brown suit, and an orange tie is knotted loosely around his fleshy neck. The lines etched in his face and the dot-sized pores that I can see from ten feet away suggest he might need a few drinks to make it through the day. Loose papers and boxes overflowing with files cover the floor, a couch, and even a windowsill. No clear pathway from the door to his metal desk exists, so I pause before stepping into the crowded work area. Non-matching binders stacked out of kilter dominate his disorganized desk. On the dirty-beige, concrete-block walls that surround him, Mr. Chandler has taped several papers, as if they’re reminders or references. They’re not the small post-it notes, but full-sized pages with either typing or handwriting in felt pen, and they flap against the wall because of the breeze from a desk fan. Mr. Chandler isn’t an administrator, apparently, who believes that the tidiness of his work area reflects the sharpness of his mind. Maybe he doesn’t care. When I knock he doesn’t look up.

Instead he waves me in with his hand. I stand in the doorway, apprehensive and uncomfortable, observing the surroundings while I wait for his signal to speak. A newspaper is spread across his desk. Mr. Chandler is absorbed with the comic strips.

I shift my weight from one leg to the other. Why did he gesture me in if he doesn’t want to be disturbed? Maybe he didn’t, I wonder as I continue standing. No, I distinctly saw him raise his arm and wave me in with his hand. After several minutes, I begin to feel very foolish, as if I’m an inanimate object standing there.

“Would it be better if I were to return later?” I finally muster the courage to ask.

He puts his hand up, a stop sign, though he still doesn’t look up. The phone on his desk rings and he answers. “Chandler,” he says. “Uh huh, uh huh, okay.” He hangs up, continues reading, and I continue standing.

“What is it?” he asks, finally, still looking down.

“Mr. Chandler, my name is Michael Santos and…”

“Okay Mr. Santiago,” he interrupts me, mistaking my name. “What is it?  Get to the point.”

“I’m new here and I’d like to work in the library, if you would consider hiring me.”

“Got a cop-out?” He asks for the standard inmate-request-to-staff form, one that I received from the clerk.

“Yes sir.” I maneuver my way around the piles of books and stacked boxes to hand him my form requesting employment.

Mr. Chandler writes that I’m approved to work in the library and signs his name. “Hand it back to your counselor,” he tells me, returning my cop-out. I’m evidently dismissed.

I return to the front desk in the library, grateful to have resolved the hurdle of a job search, knowing that I’ve settled a major issue of my adjustment. “Mr. Chandler hired me,” I tell Keith, trying to suppress my pride and satisfaction at having conquered one hurdle of prison life. “I’m going to be working here, in the library.”

“Don’t get too excited. You’re still in prison, Bro.”

“Maybe so. But at least I’ll have all the time I need to read, write, and study once I enroll in college. Have you ever heard of anyone completing the program at Ohio University?”

“Look, kid, like I said before, school ain’t my thing. Far as I’m concerned, all that schoolin’ does is make ‘the man’ look good. I ain’t interested in makin’ anything better in this system, or helpin’ hacks look like they’re educatin’ fools in here. I’m at war here, tryin’ to tear this system down. Only way I’m gonna do that is by beatin’ ’em at their own game, with these here,” he says as he points to the law books. “You’ll learn that soon enough.”

Podcast 115: Earning Freedom with Michael Santos

Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term (2.3)

For more information, visit PrisonProfessors.com

*******

With the exchange of prisoners complete we leave the corporate jets behind and fly east. Eventually I deplane and board a bus with other prisoners. We ride through the busy streets of Atlanta and as I look at the glass-faced skyscrapers, the places of commerce, the people, I try to soak it all up, knowing I’m not going to see a big city for a long time.

My stomach churns as the bus speeds across a dip in the road. And then I see it. For the first time I stare through the window at the fortress that will hold me, a monster, with an intimidating façade and a 40-foot high concrete wall that encapsulates the penitentiary’s perimeter. Coils of razor wire top tall metal fences that surround the outer wall as added protection against escape. Gun towers are evenly spaced about every 50 yards, standing ominously around the wall. I see guards inside–alert, at attention, with automatic rifles in their hands, watching as if our approaching bus carries enemy combatants. Perhaps that is the guards’ perception of us.

We cross an intersection and turn into a semi-circular drive. The bus comes to a slow stop in front of the dramatically wide steps that ascend to a majestic entrance. The architects who designed this awesome edifice of granite blocks and steel intended to send a message of permanence, of finality. The penitentiary symbolizes something, but I don’t know what.  It might be justice, it might be vengeance, or it might be power.  I don’t know. As I sit on the bus looking at the penitentiary from the outside, I also perceive an absence of humanity. The guards wear matching outfits of gray slacks, white, long-sleeved, button-down shirts, and maroon ties. Those with an air of authority wear dark blue blazers and carry clipboards. Others surround the bus wearing navy blue windbreakers with large gold “BOP” initials on the back. Instead of clipboards they carry assault rifles.

When the guards complete their preparation one of them calls us to the front of the bus, individually. “Listen up! When you hear your name, stand and walk toward the front of the bus. Give me your registration number. Then step off and walk directly up the stairs and into the penitentiary. Look straight ahead and don’t even think about trying to run. We will shoot.”

Chains bind our ankles, more chains wrap around our waists, and handcuffs weave through the chains in the front to lock our wrists in place. Who could possibly run?

“Santos! Michael!”

When I hear my name, I stand and shuffle my way through the cramped aisle toward the front of the bus.

“Number!” The guard demands while comparing my face to the mug shot on his file folder.

“Number 16377-004.”

“Date of birth?”

“January 15, 1964.”

“Go!”

Passing inspection, I make my way off the bus and keep my eyes dead ahead. I don’t know how I’m going to climb all those steps but I begin, taking it slowly as I advance through a gauntlet of armed guards. They stare at me through mirrored sunglasses and I know I’m being assessed. I make it to the top and follow the procession of prisoners through a series of metal gates. I’m inside the walls, walking into the penitentiary’s main corridor, the belly of the beast, as another prisoner once famously called it. It’s a stretch, longer than a football field, 20 yards wide. The marble floor is highly polished and buffed beige, surrounded by white concrete walls and steel side doors. This place is solid and eerily quiet. Our lumbering steps with dragging chains are the only sounds I hear. Other than those of us moving through, I don’t see any prisoners.

We turn to the right and walk downstairs into a basement. The familiar series of cages await us. I march into the bullpen, part of the herd. Guards unlock our chains and we begin the interminable wait for the processing to begin. The gates finally lock with 42 of us inside. I sit on a fixed bench that runs along the wall, shoulder to shoulder with strangers in the cramped cage. Trying to understand these new surroundings, I feign indifference as I listen closely to the conversations around me.

“Yo, you’s up in Lewisburg, back in ’74?”

The large prisoner to my right isn’t talking to me, but initiating communication with another prisoner who stands in front of us. I’m calculating the years as I listen; he’s asking about another prison 14 years ago, when I was only 10.

“Dat’s right,” the man responds. He sounds suspicious, as if trying to figure out whether the man questioning him is friend or foe. Neither man looks as if he knows the concept of fear. The welts and scars on their skin tell me that prison, confrontation, and violence have become extensions of life for each.

“Used to run wit’ Big Smoke and ’em?”

“Smoke’s my dog, yo! Where you be knowin’ Smoke from?”

With a mutual acquaintance established, genuine enthusiasm seems to replace the suspicion.

“Shee-it, Dog! I’s up in da ’burg wit’ you, D-block, Dog. I’s da one split Tone Loke open, left his guts fallin’ out all up in his hands outside da gym an shit.” This guy’s obviously proud of his reputation.

“Oh yeah, yeah, right. Used to be runnin’ wit Big-O and shit.” There is recognition between them.

“Dat’s what’s up, Dog.” The two muscular men, both bald with goatees, bump fists.

“Where’s you comin’ from, Cuz?”

“Man I been on tour Dawg. Lockdown at Marion, few at Leavenworth, I’m comin’ out ‘a Terry Haute right now. How ’bout you? Where you been at, where you be comin’ from?”

“Shee-it, I been out Lompoc, yo, kickin’ it and shit.” Then he turns to me. “Yo young’un, why on’t you step off for a minute? Let the Big Dogs kick it.”

It’s not really a question. He’s telling me to move, telling me that I’m irrelevant in this world. I’m an insect, a nonentity unless I choose, at a moment like this, to define myself as something different.

The prisoner would not have considered challenging a man he respected in such a way. But in my face, and in my eyes, and in my movements, he reads that I haven’t yet earned respect in this world that is so unfamiliar to me.

In a split second I have to decide whether to stand my ground and follow consequences to their end, wherever they take me. I’m calculating at the speed of light, certain that my response can influence where I am in 10 seconds and in 10 years. The penitentiary requires aggressive force–instantly and without hesitation–for respect. But I don’t aspire to have the penitentiary define me. It’s much more important for me to earn respect outside of prison walls.  So I stand to surrender the space I had on the bench. This isn’t the time to assert myself. I’m my own general in my war and I need to choose which battles are worth fighting.

I’m learning, absorbing everything going on in this cage. Survival means more than fitting in to the penitentiary. I want out, but every step counts. Instinctively, I’m taking the first steps, but I’m walking across a high wire, a tightrope. Every decision I make determines whether the privilege of another step will come, or whether I’ll begin a free fall to my demise. Deliberate, careful, calculated steps will lead to the other side.

I berate myself for having sat in the first place. This is not a game, this is life, and I can’t allow my senses to dull. I must stay alert. Like an antelope crossing the plains of the Serengeti, I must use all of my innate intelligence to avoid succumbing to the perils that lurk here. And there are many. I can’t forget that every movement, every choice, every word will influence what happens next. Had I not taken space on the bench the other prisoner would not have spoken to me, challenged me. I have to think, to ensure that every move has a purpose. I have to remind myself that I don’t want to be “the man” in the penitentiary.  I want to go home, and when I do go home, I want to go home ready to succeed.

I stand in the crowd, using peripheral vision, listening. The other prisoners are sturdier. I don’t know whether the skulls and demons and gang signs indelibly inked on their arms, necks, and faces cloud my judgment, but these prisoners seem as if carved from material more calloused than flesh. Some, I gather from the chatter, serve sentences of life without parole. They accept the penitentiary as the last stop.

*******

I move through the admissions process.  Guards pass out administrative forms with question after question that I must answer.  When it’s my turn, I sit with various staff members who evaluate my responses.

I sit across a desk from a psychologist. “You’ve never been incarcerated before?” he asks. He’s skeptical about the veracity of my response given the length of my sentence.

“I’ve been in jail for the past year but I’ve never been incarcerated before this arrest.”

“And you don’t have any history of violence?”

“No.”

“No weapons, guns, knives, gang affiliations?”

I shake my head and tell him no.

He rests his elbow on the desk, using the back of his hand to prop up his chin as he evaluates me. He seems confused that I’m serving 45 years for a first offense without a history of violence or weapons. After a minute, he offers some advice. “Perhaps you should consider growing some facial hair.”

The psychologist may mean well.  Still, I consider his unsolicited advice an insult.  Knowing that I’m out of my element, I acknowledge with a nod, swallowing my pride. My efforts at projecting a stern, no-nonsense disposition have failed. I take his comment as it was intended, an insinuation that my clean-shaven face could lead to unwanted attention from prison predators.

My next stop on the circuit of staff interviews is the office of a case manager. The gray metal desk looks as heavy as a tank and crowds the room. As he flips through pages of a file on his desk, I sense that the case manager isn’t particularly concerned with my anxiety during these first hours in the penitentiary.

“Sit!” he orders, without looking up. “Which one are you? Santos?” He fingers the file in his hand.

“Yes sir.”

“Habla Ingles?”

He emphasizes his American accent. The sneer in his tone suggests that he’s trying to establish an air of superiority. The question annoys me because he is reading from a page of responses that I wrote in English. I don’t like the insinuation that we’re different, that just because of my name I’m not an American. But when he looks at me I only nod in response.

“Never been locked up before. Forty-five years. Out date 2013.” He whistles after reading through personal identifiers from my file. “See ya, feel ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya,” he chants. “Any reason I can’t put you in gen pop?”

“What?” I don’t know what he’s asking.

“Can you make it in general population?”

“What do you mean?  Why couldn’t I?”

“I’m asking you! Ever work for law enforcement?”

“No.”

“Ever testify against anyone in a court of law?”

“No.”

He flips through more pages in my file, considering my responses. “Why’d you leave this blank? Don’t got no one who wants you?”

He asks why I didn’t respond to a question about whom the prison should notify in the event of my death.

“I’m only 24. I’m not going to die in here.”

“Fact is, no one walks into the pen thinkin’ he’s gonna die. Few months ago we had us a major disturbance inside these walls. Inmates took 90 officers hostage. No one s’pected that either. Shit happens. Now who you want me to call if something happens to you?”

The animosity in the interaction shakes me. His use of the word “inmate” sounds contemptuous, as if he suspects that I may have been in allegiance with those who rocked the penitentiary with violence during the disturbance. The tension differs from the transient nature of the jail and detention centers. A line exists between us and I’m on the wrong side of it. I give him Lisa’s name but I’m too shaken at the moment to recall her address and phone number. I’ll give him those details later, I say.

After finishing the admissions process I grab my roll of bed sheets, blankets, and a pillow, then I walk with six prisoners toward the housing units. We wait behind a locked gate that separates us from the main corridor. From the aggressive, hostile tone two of the other prisoners use toward staff members, I can tell that neither authority nor the threat of punishment faze them. One curses out an officer on the other side of the gate so thoroughly that the roles of power seem reversed, as the officer simply ignores the enraged prisoner who grabs and shakes the gate, screaming to be let out. I’m intimidated and I doubt the front I’m making at being cool convince anyone.

When an institutional loudspeaker blasts out an announcement for a scheduled “controlled movement,” the guard finally unlocks the gate. With shaking legs and growing rings of perspiration beneath my arms, I walk with my bedroll toward A-cellblock just as the other guards unlock doors from all the housing units in the penitentiary. Hundreds of prisoners converge into the corridor at once. The frenetic movement reminds me of the Kingdome after a Seahawks game, with all the fans rushing toward the stadium gates at once.

The announcement may have called the movement “controlled,” but the madness doesn’t resemble control at all. Hundreds of prisoners charge in both directions, hastening through, shoulders bumping shoulders. I feel like a pinball as I bounce forward with the forceful momentum. While I’m trying to get to my housing unit for the first time, everyone else uses the main corridor to move to or from the recreational areas of the penitentiary.

“Man down, man down!” I hear guards yelling ahead of me. “Make a hole.”

“Let da muthafucka die!” yells a voice from the crowd.

“Put ’im out his mis’ry.”

Just before I reach the entrance of the A-cellblock I see the cause of the commotion. Two guards lean over to assist a prisoner bleeding on the floor. They clearly try to help him while fellow prisoners, apparently unmoved by compassion, keep walking toward their destinations. Suppressing a natural human instinct to look and to help I, too, step over the pool of blood and turn right into the housing block.

The housing unit guard sits at his station to the left. I pass him my identification card.

“Santos,” he drones as he leans back in his chair. “I’ve got you in cell 517.”

I’m on my own as I climb the stairs to the fifth tier.

1. Earning Freedom with Michael Santos

Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term (1.2)

I’m reading from chapter 2 of my book, Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term

For more information, visit PrisonProfessors.com

Podcast 114: Earning Freedom 2.2  

*******

Following the chapel service I return to my cell where I catch the guy assigned to the rack below me. He’s in his 40s and not particularly intimidating, standing barefoot in boxer shorts splashing water under his arms; it’s a birdbath in the tiny sink. Still, I feel awkward as I stand outside the open gates of the cell.

“You the new guy?” he asks, sensing my apprehension about walking in on his personal routine.

“Yeah, got in last night.”

“Well, you’d better come in. Count’s about to start and you don’t want to be out on the tier when those gates roll closed.”

“Michael,” I offer and stretch out my hand to shake.

“Buck,” he responds and closes his hand into a fist. I realize he prefers to knock knuckles in greeting. “Where you headed?”

“What do you mean?”

“Next stop? Where you going?”

“Don’t know, here I guess. I’m just starting out.”

“You might be starting out, but it won’t be here. This here’s Oklahoma unit. Every swingin’ dick in here’s in transit, on the way to the next prison. If you were stayin’ here, you’d ‘a been in one ‘a the permanent blocks.”

“Well I don’t know where I’m going then.”

I set my Bible on the top rack as the cell gate rolls closed and locks us in. We hardly have any floor space. Buck sits on the lower rack.

“Have a seat,” he gestures to the toilet. “Count won’t be for a while. Where’d you come from?”

“Seattle.” The quivers in my stomach settle when I realize that he’s friendly. “I’ve been in jail going through trial for the past year,” I add.

“Yeah I can see that you’ve got that jail skin color. No sunlight.”

“This’s been my first time walking outside since last summer.”

“You might ‘a liked it this mornin’, but by afternoon you’ll be wishin’ you was still in Seattle. Gets to be over a hun’erd degrees here, humid as a swamp.”

“I felt it last night.”

“The nights ain’t bad. It’s the late afternoons that’ll bake you.”

Buck and I pass the day together exchanging stories. He’s serving a 20-year sentence for armed bank robbery. It’s a crime that surprises me as I associate bank robberies with old westerns rather than crimes that people engage in today. He has spent the past four years at the United States Penitentiary in Leavenworth. The parole board has taken his good behavior into account and agreed to release him in two more years. Buck is transferring to a medium-security prison in Memphis where he expects to finish out his term.

“You can find out where you’re going tomorrow,” Buck tells me. “There’ll be a counselor holdin’ open house in the office downstairs. Tell him you’re new and you want to know where you’ve been designated.”

“Where’s the best prison to serve time?”

“The best spot is them prison camps, but with 45 years you ain’t going to no camp. Forget about that. You might go to an FCI since you ain’t never been locked up before but there’s a good chance, with a sentence like yours, you might be headin’ to a USP.”

As I lie on the top rack listening to Buck talk into the night I feel like a kid listening to ghost stories by the camp fire. The lights are out and a large fan at the end of the tier makes a rickety noise while it stirs the air. “What’s the difference between an FCI and a USP?”

“Gonna see a lot more blood in the USP. Lot ̓a the guys inside them walls ain’t never gettin’ out so there’s pressure, somethin’s always cookin’. Ain’t a week gonna pass without some’n gettin’ stuck, or some head bein’ busted open with a pipe. Bloods always flowin’ in a USP.  FCI’s is more laid back, like here.”

“This place doesn’t seem so laid back to me.”

“What do you mean? What’s not to like about this spot?”

I tell Buck about the morning encounter with the guy in the gym. Although I walked away, the remembrance of what was implied still unsettles me. I’m consumed with trying to figure out what to do if a predator approaches me again. A violent altercation isn’t what I want but circumstances may force my hand.

“I wouldn’t worry about anything here.” Buck yawns and rolls over on the bunk beneath. “You probably won’t be here but a minute. When you get to your next stop, that’s when you need to act.”

“How so?”

“Can’t be lettin’ the bulls come at you. Not less you want to start suckin’ ever’ dick in the pen.” He laughs as if such a thing could be a joke. “Gotta take a stand. First thing you’re gonna wanna get is a piece. Someone comes at you wrong, put holes in him, send him away leakin’. Do that once an’ fellas’ll get the message that you ain’t no punk.”

I know that I’ll do what it takes to survive, but the penitentiary wisdom Buck dispenses doesn’t sit well with me. “Did you have to stab people when you were at Leavenworth?”

“I had to get my respect, but things is different ‘tween me and you. You ain’t barely 20. I’m just sayin’, that ain’t but a baby in the pen. Guys is gonna try you more readily than they gonna try an older dude. Bulls is gonna try to get over on anyone that’ll let ’em, but the younger guys who ain’t got no backup gotta make ’emselves known quick.  The gangs is getting real fierce in these parts.”

“How’d they try to get over on you?”

“Couple ̓a young dudes came at me thinkin’ they’s gonna get me to pay rent for livin’ on the tier. I wasn’t havin’ it. I didn’t have my piece with me at the time, so I just slow played like I was gonna pay. When they come to collect on store day I was ready. After I laid one out by smashin’ him in the face with a mop ringer, they both got the message that they’d better find someone else to play with. Didn’t have no more trouble after that.”

“Weren’t you thinking about your parole date or what would happen if you got caught?”

“Shit. When you’s in the penitentiary it’s livin’ day by day. Better not be thinkin’ ’bout no release date or parole board or what the man’s gonna think. All I’m thinkin’ ’bout is one day at a time, gettin’ through. A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. You’ll see.”

Before drifting into sleep I think about Buck’s advice. I’m hoping the counselor will tell me that I’ll begin my term in a Federal Correctional Institution, an FCI, but my intuition tells me that I’m on my way to a USP, a high-security United States Penitentiary.

A few hours later I wake when a guard rolls the cell gate open. I’m hoping that he has come to take me on the next phase of this prison journey. No such luck. The guard calls for Buck. We wish each other luck, then he walks out. After the guard slams and locks the gate I lie awake for a while longer, intrigued by the roaches racing across the wall without apparent purpose.

Buck’s advice troubles me because I can’t see myself serving my sentence day-by-day. Living for the moment may be the conventional adjustment pattern but I don’t want to forget about the world outside. There’s got to be a way for me to make it through my sentence without violence. Join a church group? At least then I wouldn’t struggle with loneliness, vulnerability. I hate this weakness that seizes me, and I’ve got to do something about it, but I don’t know what.

Instead of getting up when the gates open in the morning, I doze on my rack. The solitude of the cell gives me space to think. I read the Bible while I wait for the counselor to arrive.

The Bible encourages me, though some of what I’m reading doesn’t make sense with what I’ve come to believe about a forgiving God. The concepts of eternal damnation and one path to God aren’t beliefs I can embrace, so I pray for guidance, acknowledging that neither Bible groups nor religious programs are going to carry me through this term.

I see the counselor and receive the confirmation I’ve been expecting. I’m on my way to the United States Penitentiary in Atlanta. I’ll deal with it because I have to, because I don’t have a choice.

“Can I make a phone call?”

“Three minutes,” the counselor says without looking at me. “What’s the number?”

The counselor dials the number I give for Lisa. When she answers, the counselor tells her that she has a phone call from a federal inmate.  Then he passes me the handset and fixes his eyes on me. I want to wipe the phone clean, as if I can wash off the filth of prison.

“Hi, Baby.”

I feel awkward talking to her with the counselor looking at me as he sits across the desk.  To him I’m not a human being.

“Michael! I’ve been so worried when you didn’t call. Are you okay? Where are you?”

I tell her that I’m on my way to a prison in Atlanta and that I’ll be able to use the telephone once I’m there. When the counselor taps his watch, I tell Lisa I love her and promise to call again when I’m able.

Sadness makes me sluggish as I walk aimlessly from the counselor’s office, thinking of Lisa’s voice and remembering how wonderful it felt to hold her in my arms. I’m lost, without a clue of how I’m going to keep our marriage together. Not wanting to dwell on home, I head toward the law library. Feeling sorry for myself makes me vulnerable in a predatory population, which isn’t good. I need a toehold and the strength to climb out of this hole.

*******

The law books serve a purpose. Although I want relief from my sentence, the reality that I’ll spend a long time in prison has begun to settle in. A year has already gone by since my arrest, so I’m not a beginner, and I know that many more years will pass before anything changes. I need a plan to make it through. The law books begin to help me understand more about the system that traps me. Like an endless riddle or puzzle, each paragraph I read steers me to other books for clarification.

Studying the law distracts me from misery. As with the philosophy books that helped me through the months in the county jail, the main lesson I learn from these studies is the depth of my ignorance. I berate myself for not having continued my education after high school.

“Looking for anything in particular?”

I don’t know whether the man who stands beside my table is a prisoner or a staff member. He’s in his thirties, trim, with thinning blond hair, and I notice that he missed a spot shaving. He wears the khaki pants and white t-shirt of all prisoners, but he has an authority about him that confuses me with respect to his position or status.

“Just reading,” I answer.

“Are you designated here or are you in transit?”

“I’m in transit, on my way to USP Atlanta.”

“My name’s Brett.” He extends his arm with a clenched fist.

I introduce myself and tell Brett about my sentence. I’m trying to learn more about the system and about the Continuing Criminal Enterprise charge.

“Have you filed your appeal yet?”

“I have a public defender in Seattle who’s putting the appeal together.”

“If you’ve got a 45-year sentence you’d better get more than a public defender to write your appeal.”

“Why? What’s wrong with the public defender?”

Brett shrugs his shoulders. “It’s not that there’s anything wrong, it’s just that they’re overworked. They’ve got so many clients to worry about that they can’t give too much attention to one appeal. You need someone who specializes in convictions like yours.”

“What I need and what I have are two different things. I don’t have any money to hire specialists. Besides, the last specialist I hired took me through the trials that got me my sentence.”

“I’ve got a guy you should contact. He’s a law professor in Indiana and he writes appeals for these kinds of cases. Once you settle in Atlanta you ought to write him. Tell him about your case and that you’re on appeal. He might be able to help.”

Brett’s concern for my predicament seems genuine but I’m burned out with legal procedures. I don’t even care about the appeal. The philosophy books I read helped me accept my guilt. Thinking about an appeal might put me on an emotional roller coaster. I don’t want to live in denial anymore. My focus is on living the lessons I’ve learned from those great philosophers. I want to acknowledge that I’m responsible for what I did, and for what I am, and for where I am, and I want to begin to make decisions that will improve my character and my life.

“What about a Rule 35? Do you know anything about that?” I ask.

Brett laughs when I ask about a legal motion that I want to file for the judge to reconsider my sentence. I’ve read about the motion in the law books. Under the old law, defendants may file the motion after the conclusion of all appeals.

“Rule 35 is a joke,” Brett tells me. “With a sentence like yours you better have something more up your sleeve than a Hail Mary.”

“So you’re saying no one ever gets relief from the Rule 35?”

“Rule 35 motion goes before the same judge who just saddled you with 45 years, Bud. Think he’s going to reconsider the sentence? Better think again. If he wanted to give you less, he would have. That motion doesn’t carry any weight. This system’s about finality, and the only way to change a sentence is through the appeals court where three or more separate judges review the proceedings at trial.”

The meeting with Brett is discouraging but I walk away with my resolve intact. I’m okay. I’m going to live through decades in prison, I tell myself, so I better accept it’s reality and prepare my mind for what’s ahead.

I’ve already made it through the first year since my arrest.

A Rule 35–the legal motion that will petition my judge to reconsider my sentence–may be a “Hail Mary,” as Brett mocked, but a prayer might be all I have. Before I can file the motion I must exhaust all my appeals. I’m not thinking about reversing my conviction. In fact, my experience through the judicial system has been misguided and I feel a little dirty because of it. I’m not going to contest my guilt any more. What I want is a do-over, an opportunity to accept responsibility and express remorse. Forget about winning on appeal, I tell myself. The only way to purge this overwhelming guilt is to atone.

Since procedure dictates that I can’t file the motion for the judge to reconsider my sentence until my attorney exhausts all appeals, I write a letter to Justin, the attorney assigned to my case by the public defender. I urge him to focus on stalling for as long as possible. The object for me is not to win through some legal loophole, I explain. Instead, I want time to distinguish myself in prison. I don’t know how I’m going to do that, but if Justin can succeed in delaying the process for a few years, I expect I’ll find opportunities to demonstrate my remorse and my worthiness for reconsideration.

From what I’ve read of the law, timing is a critical factor. The established procedure requires that I file the Rule 35 within 120 days of the time that the final appeal affirms my conviction and sentence. After 120 days, the law precludes the judge from modifying my sentence. Before that time limit expires I need to show significant progress toward redeeming my crimes. I don’t yet know how I’ll reconcile with society, but I know the clock is going to start ticking when the appeals court makes its decision. I’d better be ready by then.

Returning to my housing unit, I notice a schedule for college classes posted on a bulletin board. The signs announce courses in English, math, history, and other subjects that could lead to a university degree. Earning a university degree would provide the kind of clear, compelling proof of my commitment to change, and with the news of its possibility, I find hope.

Judge Tanner would probably resist a motion to reconsider my sentence if nothing changes. Earning a college degree, however, would provide tangible evidence, showing discipline, character, and commitment. The choices I made that led to my conviction suggest such virtues were absent in my life, but earning a college degree might alter and soften the system’s judgment against me. I don’t know whether the penitentiary in Atlanta provides opportunities for collegiate study but the possibility encourages me.

*******

I have a lot on my mind, and sleep isn’t coming easily. The prison is a population of more than 1,500 men and I haven’t crossed paths with the predator who tested me in the gym.  Still, I know that confrontations will be a constant in prison. How am I going to handle them? If I’m to invest myself fully in building a string of accomplishments that will persuade the judge I’m worthy of reconsideration then I can’t allow a single blemish on my prison record. Not one.

The trouble isn’t with me.  I can control my actions and behavior. Regardless of how I choose to serve my sentence, the real threat comes from how others choose to live in a high-security penitentiary. I won’t be able to control the ways that others serve time, but as I experienced in the gym, the decisions of others could have an immediate impact on my life.  I’ll have to learn how to manage in this twisted environment.

But it isn’t only my early adjustment and assessment of my environment that bothers me, as Lisa’s predicament is still unresolved, troubling me. Her sentencing isn’t scheduled until the fall, but the possibility of her imprisonment isn’t something that I can totally dismiss. Everyone has a breaking point and her imprisonment could be mine. I’ve got to put this out of my mind, at least until her sentencing date comes closer. It’s just too much to worry about for now.

The gate to my cell rolls open. “Santos!”

“Yes,” I sit up from my rack instantly.

“Roll up!” the guard orders.

I’m on my way, with new anxieties. While locked in the county jail I read Homer’s epic The Odyssey, describing Odysseus’s 20-year journey home. My odyssey might take longer. I don’t know. Moving forward helps, even if my fear of the unknown accompanies each step.

It isn’t concern about conflicts with other prisoners that drive my anxieties. I’m 24 and I’m strong–confident that I can give as good as I get if it comes to fighting. But I don’t want an altercation. I want to turn this page of my life, to start writing a new chapter. I need to think about how others will judge me by what is written from now on. Every decision I make will have more than immediate consequences, but those decisions will also dictate where I stand in months, years, and decades to come.

After marshals yank on my chains and manacles, I fall into line with others and hobble up the stairs into the airplane. It’s already packed inside and by the time we take flight every seat is filled with hundreds of prisoners who deal with the crisis of imprisonment in his or her own way. Doubting whether any of them have a sentence as long as mine, I close my eyes and rest, wondering how many real killers are on board.

*******

My ears pop as the plane descends and lands in New Orleans. We pass by hundreds of private jets and I realize that the airport is busy because the Republican National Convention is in town. President Reagan’s second term is approaching its end and the news reports I’ve read suggest that Vice President Bush will prevail over Michael Dukakis in the fall election.

A massive dark plane catches my attention. The words “Forbes Capitalist Tool” decorate the plane’s tail in large, bold letters, distinguishing the jet from smaller, white, sleeker models. The centers of corporate power and wealth have converged upon New Orleans to celebrate the anticipated new leadership of George H.W. Bush.

Only a few years ago I came of age and pulled a voting-booth lever for the first time. I considered myself an up and coming businessman, proud to vote Republican, for the party of business, for Ronald Reagan. That was before I considered selling cocaine, before the television series Miami Vice, or the big screen hit Scarface. Now I realize those glitzy shows influenced me. The fast boats, exotic sports cars, designer clothes, and incredibly seductive women presented an exciting image of cocaine trafficking.

As the marshals call names for prisoners to disembark I continue watching the fleet of corporate jets. Conservatives have won the marketing campaign of the 1980s, convincing me that they were the party of elites, the ruling class, and the group I wanted to join. Not understanding or caring about the broader implications of governance, I bought into the campaign propaganda painting “liberal” as a pejorative term, as a party of losers.

Although I’m not a scholar by any means, the concepts of liberalism and conservatism mean something different to me now that I’ve read essays by John Locke and Thomas Hobbes. Those essays convinced me that political parties and political thought dictate the direction of society. When I bought into the Republican theory of conservatism, without even knowing what it was, I rejected the liberal philosophy of John Locke that makes so much sense to me now. Yet as I stare out the window and look at those symbols of power, it’s clear that the conservative philosophy of Thomas Hobbes prevails in the 1980s. I’m an outsider, no longer a man or citizen. I’m a prisoner, stripped of the delusions and pretensions I had about taking a shortcut to a life of comfort.

I’m reading from chapter 2 of my book, Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term

For more information, visit PrisonProfessors.com

The court paid my public defender, Justin, to represent me after I cut ties with Raymond.  Now that I’ve been sentenced, however, I’m without much access to legal counsel.  Justin will prepare a direct appeal, but he won’t be available to help me understand how to navigate my way through the 45-years I must serve.  I don’t even know what that means and I wonder whether the judge really intends for me to languish in prison for longer than I’ve been alive.

Unlike the federal time that I’m serving, most of the other prisoners in my housing unit at the county jail face problems with the State of Washington’s criminal justice system. From those men I learn that all 50 states maintain their own criminal justice and prison systems, with different rules and legal codes. As a federal prisoner, I have little in common with them.  Still, by listening to the more experienced prisoners around me I become familiar with concepts like “parole” and “good time.”

The federal prison system is in transition, abolishing parole and significantly reducing the amount of good time possible. Since my convictions stem from crimes I committed prior to the date of the new law’s enactment, I’m part of the old-law system where parole still exists. Still, the statute under which I stand convicted, “the kingpin statute,” is one of the few crimes under the old law that doesn’t qualify for parole eligibility. Of the 45-year sentence that my judge imposed, I’ve learned that I’m only eligible for parole consideration during the final two years of my sentence, the portion imposed as a consequence of my perjury conviction.  Still, it’s all very confusing to me and I don’t know how many years I’ll actually serve in prison.

To pass time I read legal books in the jail’s law library.  From those books I understand that a good-time provision under the old law authorizes prison administrators to reduce my sentence if I remain free of charges for disciplinary misconduct. Still, according to calculations I make on a piece of lined writing paper, regardless of what I achieve in prison, I’ll serve more than 26 years.  That doesn’t make much sense to me, as I didn’t have charges of violence or weapons, and only consenting adults were involved in my crime.

The length of my sentence doesn’t haunt me as much as Lisa’s legal issues. She’s now in Miami, where she receives more family support while her lawyer works through the best possible plea agreement.  The entire situation is a mess I’ve created. I try to comfort her during our nightly telephone calls even though I’m powerless to protect her.  Our only connection is on the phone, but the conversations we have don’t seem to be enough.

I ask her to pray with me, but she always snaps back “I don’t want to pray, Michael.”  It stings as if she’s slapping me when she uses my name instead of a more endearing term. “You’re supposed to get me out of this mess,” she says.

“I’m trying, Lisa. I’m trying. No matter what happens though, we still have each other and with God’s help we’re going to get through this.”  I’ve never been religious, but during these traumatic times I find strength through prayer and I want her to join me.

“How?” she wails. “How do you think we’re going to get through this if you’re in prison and I’m in prison?  How is God or prayer going to help us through that?”

“You’re not going to prison, honey. God’s not going to let that happen. I can feel it. The judge sentenced me to far more time than everyone else, and I’m sure he slammed me with all the time he intends to hand out in this case. It’s over.”

“That’s not what my lawyer says,” she argues through tears. “He told me I could get five years. Five years, Michael! I can’t handle this. I can’t go to jail!”

“Don’t worry, Baby. It’s not going to happen. I know it’s not going to happen. At worst he’ll sentence you to probation. I need you to pray, to have faith in God.”

Lisa pauses on the phone, as if contemplating what she wants to say. “Raymond keeps calling me.”

“Why is he calling you?”

“He calls because he’s a pig, that’s why. Last night he asked me to come to his house for a soak in his hot tub. He said that a real man wouldn’t have put me in the position you did.”

The news sickens me. My former lawyer has taken everything I own and now he’s trying to seduce my wife.  My losses continue. With only one place to decompress, I return to my cell, my haven from madness, and I lie on my bunk, realizing that the sentence is only the start.  There is still more pain to come, farther to fall.

I want peace but I can’t escape the noise blasting through the cellblock.  Rap songs blare from music television stations.  There’s also a continuous chatter from the scores of prisoners roaming purposely and posturing in the common area, along with loud exclamations and expletives from each of the table games. From my bunk I can see a haze of tobacco smoke that lingers beneath the ceiling. I feel close to the edge, uncertain whether I’ll make it through without wrapping a noose around my neck or slicing an artery. Suicide seems so easy, so inviting.

My mom and Christina, my younger sister, are in Florida.  The geographical distance that separates us is a relief. After all the lies I’ve told about innocence, I can’t bring myself to face my family, especially my mother.

Through a telephone call I learn that my trial has brought my mom and Lisa’s father together. His name is Hank. Although I’ve never met him I know that he shares a mutual grief with my mom, and that grief has led to a romance between them. My life has become an absurd soap opera.

“This is crazy,” I tell Christina over the phone. “How can Mom get together with this guy? She’s only been divorced from Dad for a year.”

“Give her a break, Michael. She’s lonely and sad. I’m glad she’s found love. No one wants to be alone and you’re no one to judge.”

Christina’s right. I shouldn’t judge my mom, or anyone. I’m in jail and I don’t even know my own family, just as the choices I made over the past three years resulted in my family not knowing me. “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I want Mom to be happy too. The news just surprised me, that’s all.”

“That’s okay. It’s kind of funny when you think about it. I mean, for one thing, Hank isn’t anything like Dad. Besides that, when Mom and Hank marry, that means you’ll be married to your own stepsister and Hank will be both your father-in-law and your stepfather. Just like you don’t know Hank, none of us really know Lisa.”

*******

My father and my sister, Julie, wait through slowly moving lines to visit me in the jail. Julie is a year older than I am. She’s totally independent and strong, holding our shattered family together as my conviction and sentence loom. Each weekend we visit through glass partitions, clutching telephone handsets as we cry in the booth.

“Tell me again, son. Why did you feel that you had to do this?”

The jail officers only allow me to spend 15 minutes in the booth, and when my father asks me these questions I press my hand against the glass to match his and cry.

“I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Son. Don’t cry. We’re here for you.” He’s crying too, as is Julie.  The sadness is hard to take, and at this stage, I don’t know how it will end.

“We’re here for you,” Julie repeats. “Whatever you need, we’re here for you. We just need you to be strong in there and to know it’s going to get better.”

“Santos!” The jailer yells in the booth. “Let’s go! Time’s up! I’m not telling you again. Move out!”

I pull my hand from the glass.  Not wanting others to see my weakness, I rub tears from my eyes as I walk away. I’m going to ask my family not to visit anymore. Whenever I walk away from the visiting booth the devastation I’ve caused plays out in my mind. Those images come with pangs of guilt that linger like a dark cloud.

When I left the family my father was such a force. He was rough, a hard-working man who came to this country with nothing but ambitions to build a better life. While on a construction site, surrounded by heavy equipment, I could always find him as he yelled out orders to the men who worked for him. He and my mother wanted so much for me. I’m besieged by thoughts of what my conviction and long sentence has done to my parents. My father steered a small boat across 90 miles of the Atlantic, braving Caribbean waters and the unknown to escape Castro’s communism. But when I look in his tearing hazel eyes, see the new worry lines etched in his brow, or the way that his once black hair is turning white, I know he fears that I won’t survive prison. In the night, he has told me, he wakes in a panic and suffocates with anxieties that news will come informing him that I’ve taken my life.

“Promise me you’ll be strong enough to see this through,” he pleads with me frequently over the telephone.

“Yes, Dad. I’m going to make it. I promise.”

“Say it again!”  He insists.

“I promise.” My father has lost his life’s work and his marriage and now his son. He’s only 53-years old, yet he’s tormented, blaming himself for the prison term I face. The guilt of it crushes me.

*******

I struggle to understand the philosophies of Friedrich Nietzsche, Jean Paul Sartre, and Albert Camus. Existentialism centers on personal responsibility and I espouse the concept even though these writers reject the concept of God. I’m living hour-by-hour, and they sometimes feel interminable.  Through prayers I find comfort, leaving me conflicted by the existentialists.  I’m torn between embracing and rejecting them. Although I oppose their godlessness, I find their message about personal will empowering. Regardless of what social exposures influenced my judgments, values, and actions, my ego, greed and shortsightedness caused my problems. Neither prayer nor religion is going to fix my problems, but I feel a spiritual force moving me. Both prayer and the teachings of the existentialists convince me I can grow into the man I aspire to become.

*******

It’s late summer of 1988 when a jailer opens my cell door early on a Saturday morning. “Santos! Roll up!” He throws two plastic bags on the concrete floor. “Dump your personal belongings in one bag, pile your sheets and blankets in the other. Move out! Now!”

With my hands and legs in shackles I carry the bag filled with letters from Lisa, her photographs, and a few books as I follow the jailer through a maze of corridors. He locks me in a holding cell with others. We don’t wait long before the U.S. marshals take control and herd us like chattel into a transport van parked in the jail’s basement garage.

My time in the county jail has come to an end.

“Can you tell me where I’m going?” I ask the driver of the van.

“You don’t know?”

I shake my head while shrugging my shoulders.

“You’ll find out when you get there.”

We drive south on Interstate 5 and don’t stop for several hours until we reach a landing strip at the Portland airport. After another hour in the van I see the plane’s tires hit the tarmac and the landing precipitates movement. The marshals and other law enforcement officers emerge from separate vehicles donning black armor vests and gripping their assault rifles firmly while taking positions to guard the plane.

I remember going through this drill before, when some of these same marshals transported me from Miami to Seattle for my initial court appearances. I shrink into my seat, watching the drama unfold and waiting for the requisite but dehumanizing inspections before I board the plane to some unknown destination.

I look through the tinted window of the transport van and watch prisoners leave the plane, hobbling down stairs in chains, with marshals inspecting them as if they are a lower species. I think how differently events might have unfolded if only I had made better decisions after I stepped off that plane last year.

I can’t blame anyone but myself for where I sit. My friends didn’t testify against me out of malice and I don’t begrudge them the evidence they provided against me. I miss them. We grew up as brothers and although we haven’t spoken, I sense that they empathize with my plight. Without delusions of acquittal I too could’ve accepted responsibility for my crimes. I knew I was guilty, but rather than accepting responsibility and putting the past behind me, I fooled myself into believing that since I didn’t touch the cocaine, prosecutors wouldn’t be able to prove anything and a jury wouldn’t convict me. Within days of stepping off that plane last year, I even orchestrated a cocaine deal from inside the jail.

The chains on my wrists, around my waist, and on my ankles feel heavy, but not as heavy as my guilt. From my understanding, I’ll wear them for at least 26 years. Since I haven’t been alive that long, it feels like an eternity.

“Where you headed?” A prisoner addresses me as I settle into the seat beside him on the airplane. He’s older, about 35, but I’m guessing. He wears a goatee and I notice the flame tattoos on his forearms.

“To prison.” I shrug.

“Which one?”

“They wouldn’t tell me. Marshal said I’d find out once I got there.”

“Prick. I’m sick of livin’ like this, hate all these motherfuckers.”

“Where’re you going?”

“Lompoc.”

“What’s that?”

“Huh?”

“Lompoc, what’s that?”

“Whud’ya mean, ‘what’s that?’ Motherfuckin’ joint, that’s what it is. You green, just comin’ in or something?”

“I’ve been in jail for a year. Now I’m on my way to prison.”

“Go to trial?” His eyes suggest that he’s testing me.

I nod. “Guilty on all counts.”

“Drugs?”

“Cocaine,” I answer.

“What’d they hit you with?”

“My sentence you mean? Forty-five years.”

He whistled. “That’s some heavy shit. You old law or new law?”

“I’m old law.”

“At least you’ve got that goin’ for ya.  You’ll be able to see the board after 10 years.”

“No I can’t. I’ve got a Continuing Criminal Enterprise, no parole.”

My neighbor whistles again. “That’s a bitch, young’n. Been down before?”

I shake my head.

He whistles again. “Least they’ll know you ain’t no snitch. How old’re ya?”

“I’m 24.”

“You got an ol’ lady?”

“I’m married.”

“Cut that bitch loose. Can’t be hangin’ on to no woman when you’re pullin’ a 45 piece. Gotta be ready to do time, and can’t do that with no woman on your mind.”

“How long have you been in prison?”

“Eight motherfuckin’ years. Got two more to pull ‘fore the board’s gonna cut me loose.”

“What are you going to do when you get out?”

“Fuck if I know. I ain’t thinkin’ ’bout no streets. One thing you’re gonna learn in prison, ain’t no one out ’til they’re out. Anything can happen. Best forget about them streets.”

This guy paints a somber picture for me. We haven’t even exchanged names and he has already advised me to give up on the world I once took for granted. He sounds so bitter, devoid of hope.

“What’s it like to serve eight years in prison?”

“A motherfuckin’ bitch,” he admits as his head presses into the headrest and he closes his eyes. “Got the man breathin’ down yer neck ever’ day. Fuckin’ family and friends from the streets desert ya. Parole board shittin’ on ya. Board could’a let me out a year ago. Said I wasn’t ready. Like they know what it’s like to live in the pen. They gave me a date, got me walkin’ on egg shells tryin’ not to catch a shot ‘til then.”

“You mean a ticket?”  I ask if he’s referring to disciplinary infractions.

“You’re in the feds, young’n. Better learn the lingo. Tickets is in the state joints. In the feds we call ’em shots and you can catch ’em for just ’bout any motherfuckin’ thing.”

“Like what?”

“Anything. Look at a bitch’s ass, catch a shot for reckless eyeballin’ and lose your parole date. Show up late for work, catch a shot for bein’ outta bounds. Lose your date. Get caught with food from the kitchen in your locker, catch a shot for stealin’. It’s all bullshit. Motherfuckers’ll give you a shot for jackin’ off. They don’t want no one gettin’ out.”

He sleeps while I digest what he’s told me. 

*******

The plane lands in Oklahoma. After stepping off I exchange my plane seat for a bus seat and a road journey to El Reno. I recognize the high fences, the coils of razor wire, the guards who drive in white vehicles continuously around the medium-security prison’s perimeter to discourage escapes. I passed through the same gates on layover the year before, when I was being transported from Miami to Seattle for the trial. This is not new and I know what’s coming: crowded bullpen cages, processing forms, fingerprinting, mug shots, and hours of standing before I get locked in a small cell with a stranger.

The cell house is an old design with long rows of sliding steel bars, the type from classic prison films, that clank when slammed into place. Midnight has long since passed by the time I climb onto the top rack. The prisoner on the steel bunk beneath me snores, oblivious to the putrid stench hanging in the cell or the oppressive late summer Oklahoma heat that suffocates me. Moonlight blends with the prison spotlights to cast a glow on the cracked concrete walls, just enough to illuminate the roaches that scatter along the edges of light.

Despite a restless night, I’m eager to explore the prison surroundings when I hear the guard crack the cell house gates open at six in the morning. I climb down and glance at the prisoner on the lower rack who sleeps with his pasty overweight belly and chest exposed, his hand in his shorts. Since I don’t know the protocol of this new environment, I deliberate but finally resist the urge to use the stainless steel toilet or tiny sink next to the bunk.

Unwashed, I slide into blue slip-on canvas deck shoes and follow the herd of prisoners walking toward the tier’s stairs. When I passed through this prison last year guards processed me.  Then, hours later, in the middle of the night, they shackled and processed me out to continue my westward journey. I didn’t have an opportunity to walk around. During the year I spent locked in the county jail, my freedom of movement didn’t extend beyond the cramped quarters of the housing unit. I take in everything: the grass, the flowers, and the design of the buildings. It feels good to walk around.

The chow hall is a large, buffet-style cafeteria. I advance through the line, accept a pastry that a prisoner worker in white clothing places on my tray, and I fill a plastic cup with milk. It reminds me of my time in high school, except we’re all guys and we’re under the scrutiny of suspicious guards rather than bored teachers. I eat alone and then walk out to explore. It’s early on a Sunday morning but the burning sun and high humidity trigger a sticky sweat that instantly dampens my armpits and trickles down the front and back of my torso.

I fall in behind a group of jive-talking prisoners walking with weight belts and exercise bags who head to the prison yard. After passing through a few gates and an unguarded metal detector I see the large track. Scores of prisoners work out on a massive outdoor weight pile. Three tennis courts to the left appeal to me; I played regularly when I lived in Key Colony and developed a decent game. I walk around the large oval track that circles the soccer and softball fields. Just when prison begins to feel like a park I see the stark, grim reminders that it’s not a park at all: tall, double fences with endless coils of glistening razor wire separating them surround me in every direction.

The recreation area includes a gymnasium with a full basketball court. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors cover the walls of an adjacent indoor weight room. I watch as a beefed-up prisoner pumps out reps on the bench with four plates on each end of the bar. He’s throwing up 405 pounds as if it’s a broom handle. I’ve kept fit with thousands of pushups each week in the county jail and I wonder if I’ll build such Herculean strength during the time I serve. I want to start at once.

“You be likin’ them muscles, don’chu?” Another prisoner sneaks up next to me, flexing in his tank top and smiling with a lascivious grin exposing a mouthful of gold teeth. “Dat wha’chu need up in here, a real mans.”

That’s my cue to leave. Outnumbered and out of place, I walk out, lacking the courage to confront him for the insinuation he made.  I’m not ready to take a stand.

“Don’t be actin’ like you don’t like it now,” he chuckles behind me. “Daddy goin’ see you later, belie’ dat.”

I’m younger than most of the other men. As I walk through the gates toward the library I’m conscious that my absence of tattoos and whiskers stand out. The encounter in the gym puts me on high alert and I realize that to survive in here I may have to battle more than the long sentence. To some prisoners, I probably look like the proverbial rabbit among wolves. Stay vigilant, I remind myself, as I open the doors to the law library.

I don’t really know what I’m looking for, so I pick a random law book from a shelf and start flipping through the pages. The episode in the gym bothers me and I’m not able to concentrate. I pretend to read, though I only stare at lines of words that I don’t absorb from the page. These encounters will happen again, and I’d better anticipate them. My response can’t leave a doubt that I know the score and that I’m capable of defending myself.

But am I? Is this what I’m going to become? What options do I have when confronted with predators? I haven’t been on a prison yard for two hours and someone has already mistaken me for a punk. I haven’t been in a fistfight since junior high. Somehow prison doesn’t seem like the kind of environment where fistfights settle confrontations and I can’t envision myself picking up a weapon.

It’s impossible to read with these worries muddying my concentration. I close the law book and walk out. Other prisoners in the corridor carry Bibles in their hands as they walk into a chapel. While in the jail I was comfortable praying alone, but now I need something to take my mind off the guy in the gym.

I sit in the back row and observe several prisoners working together to lead the service. Their level of preparation impresses me. It’s clear that religion plays a central role in their lives and the congregation respects them, addressing them as Brother Tom and Brother Frank. When it’s time to sing the men don’t show any awkwardness or embarrassment. Some surprise me with the way they sing–eyes closed, arms and open hands stretching heavenward. With all their tattoos and goatees they strike me as being a bit over the top, both dramatic and comical.

I’m more self-conscious. Although I can embrace God’s presence in my life when I’m alone and silently praying for guidance, group prayer doesn’t work for me. When the service concludes and several of the leaders approach with genuine warmth and invitations to participate in Bible study programs I thank them but decline and request a Bible to read on my own.

I’m reading from chapter 1 of my book, Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term

For more information, visit PrisonProfessors.com

Podcast 112: Earning Freedom 1.3

*******

The marshals escort four of us in chains through the working areas of the post office. I see postal clerks eying us suspiciously as they sort the mail into large bags while we wait for an elevator to take us to the courthouse. We walk into a bullpen. The marshals remove our handcuffs and chains before locking us in.

A few minutes later the marshals bring in Alex, my former partner. I recognize his voice when they lock him into an adjacent cage. We can’t see each other, but once the marshals leave I hold onto the bars on the front gate and talk to Alex, disregarding the solid wall that separates us.

“How can you testify against me?” I ask him. “We’ve been like brothers.” Alex graduated from high school two years ahead of me, but despite our age difference, we became close friends. After he introduced me to the money we could earn by selling cocaine, we became partners.

“I'm sorry.” I could hear the humiliation in his voice. “It was too fast. When they caught me, I just got scared. I didn’t know this would happen.”

Alex began cooperating with prosecutors a year before my arrest, when DEA agents caught him with a kilogram of cocaine.  In a plea negotiation that would limit him to two years in prison, he agreed to testify against me.

“Do you know that I’m facing a life sentence?”

“I heard.”  His voice drops, and I know the severity of sanction that I face weighs heavily on him.

“The government’s case rests on your testimony.” I try to manipulate not so much what Alex will say, but how he will say it. “It all rests on you. Either you can come across like some kind of star witness, or you can come across in a way that might make you look like a liar in the eyes of the jury. Just remember that you’ve already got your deal. If you fall apart under cross-examination from my attorney, the jury won’t convict me.”

“I got ya.”

The seed I planted bears fruit. When Alex testifies before the jury, both on direct examination from the prosecutor and on cross-examination from Raymond, he seems totally untrustworthy. His testimony emboldens me, as I know Alex’s stuttering and mumbling portray him as a less than credible witness, out to save his skin at any cost.

Later that evening I’m elated when I return to the jail, thinking that my friend came through. The government has been counting on his testimony, but now the prosecutors will have to present more compelling evidence if they want a conviction. In the following days, we have peaks and valleys, scoring well with some witnesses, not so well with others. All in all, I feel my acquittal nearing.

*******

My hopes for release shatter during the second week of the trial. When I return to the jail after court one evening, I call Lisa for our nightly conversation. While we’re talking I hear aggressive male voices shouting in the background. Then the line goes dead. I dial the number again. Someone picks up the phone without answering.  I hear a click followed by silence. Frantic now, I dial a third time. I haven’t dispelled rumors in the jail that I’m a man of means, and I worry that some gang leader from the jail has orchestrated a home invasion or kidnapping. Finally, a male voice answers. When the operator announces my collect call, the call goes through.

“Hello, Michael.” The man who answers takes a familiar tone, snickering.

“Who is this and what’re you doing in my house?” I squeeze the handset of the phone in anger.

“I’m a special agent with the DEA,” he taunts. “You’ll find out soon enough why we’re here.”

“You’re harassing my family because you’re losing the trial.”

The agent laughs at me. “I don’t think that’s the case,” he says. Then, just before he hangs up, he adds that they’ve arrested Tom, Lisa’s brother.

Minutes later, officers from the jail arrive to pull me out from the housing unit. They lock me between sally port cages that separate the unit from jail corridors and I crouch down in despair. My mind reels with questions. Worry torments me. Why would the agents invade Lisa’s house? Why would the agent tell me they have Tom? My heart races like never before. Then I see a team of DEA agents enter the housing unit. They march past me and into my cell for an apparent search.

After the agents finish their ransacking, the guards lead me back into the housing unit and lock me inside. Adrenaline surges through my body, I can’t sleep. When guards come for me in the morning, I’m pacing. They escort me to the bullpen for court transportation and I’m stunned to see Tom, Lisa’s brother.

“What’re you doing here?” I can’t believe Tom is in jail. He’s been free on bond since our initial arrest, sitting beside me at trial each day. I can’t fathom what happened.

“I messed up.” He doesn’t look at me when he responds.

“What are you talking about? Were you home last night when the DEA busted in on Lisa?”

Tom didn’t even know that the DEA had been to the house. He tells me that the DEA arrested him yesterday afternoon following the court proceedings.

“Why did they arrest you? And why would the DEA bust in on Lisa?”

“I messed up.” Tom repeats. He won’t make eye contact. While sitting on the bench, rubbing his face and looking at the floor of the cage, he tells me what happened. Several months ago, just days after my arrest, when I instructed Tom to retrieve those eight kilograms of cocaine and deliver them to Walt, Tom decided to sell them on his own. One of his customers, it turns out, is a DEA agent.

“You mean you’ve been selling that cocaine this whole time on your own?” I’m angry to learn that Tom disregarded my specific instructions to deliver the cocaine to Walt.

Tom nods. “I thought I could make more money that way.”

I close my eyes and shake my head. “Please tell me that you weren’t storing the coke at Lisa’s house.”

“I didn’t keep it there, but I stashed money under my mattress. I also gave Lisa some money I’d been paid by the guy who turned out to be the undercover DEA agent.”

All I can think about is the possibility that Lisa has been arrested. I receive clarification a few hours later, when Raymond fills me in. He says the agents might charge Lisa with the crime of lying to a federal officer.  When the agents were at the house, she told them that the money in her purse belonged to her, when in fact Tom had given her DEA-marked bills. At least she wasn’t in custody.

Raymond urges me to snap out of my despair and focus on the final hours of my trial, which is my immediate problem. I no longer care about the trial or its outcome. The true severity of my problems has finally crashed down upon me. I’ve not only made a disaster of my own life, but of everyone else’s, I want to give up, to die.

*******

The jury returns its verdict, convicting me on every count. Lies of innocence yield to the reality of my guilt. I have to accept that I’m facing a life sentence. Who cares? I don’t know what’s coming. Nothing matters. The government may charge Lisa with a felony and the thought of her in handcuffs rips me apart.

I ask Raymond to make some kind of deal with prosecutors, to tell them I’ll accept a life sentence, a death sentence, I’ll waive my right to appeal, anything, if the government will leave Lisa alone. He tells me the government hasn’t even charged me in the case.

“Then tell them I’ll confess. I arranged for Tom to receive those eight kilograms. They were part of the same crime I was just convicted of, but if I hadn’t sent Tom, the coke would’ve stayed buried.”

“I'm not going to do that. You’re under duress. I don’t want you cooperating. You haven’t even been sentenced and you’ve got excellent prospects on appeal.”

“I don’t care about an appeal, I don’t care about anything other than doing what I can to spare Lisa. She doesn’t deserve this. Call the prosecutor. Tell him I’ll confess.”

“I won’t do it.”

Raymond doesn’t want to involve himself with my talking to prosecutors. I don’t understand his reluctance–it may be that he doesn’t want me to reveal the counsel he has given throughout my ordeal, or he worries that I might divulge information about the property he received from Paco as part of his fee. I don’t care. Raymond is not my priority. Wanting to do whatever I can for Lisa, I fire Raymond, telling him that I don’t want him to represent me anymore.

I dial the prosecutor, Jerry Diskin, myself.

“Is this the same Michael Santos who testified that he didn’t know anything about drug trafficking?” The prosecutor is mocking me.

“Look, Jerry,” I say, “I was doing what my attorney told me I had to do. I’m sorry. I’ll confess to anything you want, I’ll give up my right to appeal, I’ll accept any sentence you want to impose. Please, just don’t put Lisa through this.”

“I have some problems with what you’re offering,” the prosecutor puts me in my place. “Let me start from the beginning. First, don’t ever call me Jerry. I’m a United States Attorney, Mr. Diskin to you. Do you get that?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“Second, I do not, I repeat, I do not want to speak with you unless it’s through an attorney. Why are you contacting me instead of Raymond?”

“Raymond doesn’t want me to talk with you. I don’t want him to represent me anymore.”

“Then I’ll have the public defender send someone over. Don’t contact me again. And for the record, let me respond to the offer you made. I don’t need your confession. You’re convicted, and you’re facing a life sentence. Your appeal doesn’t concern me. I don’t know why you think I would want to talk to you.”

Mr. Diskin is right, I realize. I breathe in deeply and exhale, trying to ease the pressure and anxiety squeezing my chest.

*******

While lying on my rack, I think of all the ways I’ve disappointed and humiliated my parents. They never wanted the business expansion I craved. Throughout my childhood and adolescence, my parents worked hard, hoping to give my sisters and me privileges that they didn’t enjoy growing up. They weren’t college-educated people, but they loved us, and they built a life that provided our family with a beautiful home, new cars, regular vacations. I abused their trust and pushed them into decisions they would’ve never made without my influence.  Ultimately, my greed led to the destruction of our family and their business. Then, when I saw a better opportunity to enrich myself by dealing cocaine, I abandoned them. My decisions destroyed my parents’ prosperity, contributed to their divorce, and embarrassed my sisters.

My criminal decisions also humiliated my grandparents.  They were devout Catholics who expected me to lead a moral life and make good decisions. The letters I’ve been receiving from my mother describe their disgust at my actions. I haven’t had the courage to speak to them since my arrest. Instead, I’ve burdened my mom with the impossible task of defending me to them.

My mental anguish is relentless. I carry Lisa’s picture in my hand trying frantically to think of anything that might save her. How can I persuade the government not to prosecute her?

Suicide feels so inviting. I think about another prisoner who did it using the blades from one of the plastic razors we’re allowed to have in jail. While sitting in a toilet stall, he sliced his wrists and bled to death. That option appeals to me. It could be one way of reaching Mr. Diskin. If I’m dead, he may feel some sympathy for Lisa.

But killing myself would crush my parents and my sisters. Although I don’t want to face the consequences of my actions, I know I can’t allow these suicidal thoughts to continue. My dad urges me to be strong and through long letters that my mom writes, she shows that her support will not waver.  Lisa, on the other hand, worries mostly about the fallout from my problems spilling over to her. During our daily phone calls, tormented by the possibility of going to prison she pleads with me to save her.

Boils erupt on my arms and legs as the stress I’m feeling manifests itself throughout my body.  The egg-sized volcanoes of pus burn like hot acid under my skin, exerting unbearable pressure. Only a visit to the infirmary for an excision relieves the pain, though within hours of having one drained, more begin to fester and swell.

*******

I’ve been in jail for six months and must languish through several more before my sentencing date. I don’t know what the judge will impose, though I accept the possibility of a life sentence as being real. I’m not interested in playing cards or table games. I stay in my cell reading the Bible with hopes of finding solace, an anchor. The Scriptures help me resist a growing urge to end my life and strengthen me to hold on for another day. Although I want to identify with the agonies and loss described in the Book of Job, comparisons end there. Job, at least, wasn’t beset with self-recriminations over acting stupidly and dishonestly. Knowing that decisions I made spawned my tribulations aggravates the continuous torment in my mind.

The marshals come for me again and drive me to the courthouse. I meet Justin, my public defender who is there for my debriefing session with Mr. Diskin. Justin hasn’t had an opportunity to review any court records or files pertaining to my predicament, though he knows a jury convicted me on numerous counts of high-level drug charges only days before. I haven’t been charged with additional crimes and he doesn’t understand my motivation for wanting to talk with the prosecutors.

“Look man,” I tell him in the private room, “I’m responsible for everything.  I’m the one who told Tom to pick up the eight keys.  He may’ve sold them to the guy who turned out to be DEA, but I’m responsible.”

“But you haven’t been charged,” Justin points out. “What do you hope to gain from this admission?”

“The government can do whatever it wants with me. But the prosecutors are threatening to charge Lisa with a felony. All I want is to take the punishment myself, whatever it is.  Tell them to slam me with whatever, but to leave her alone.”

The public defender shakes his head in resignation, knowing that I’m not ready to receive counsel.  We walk to an adjacent courtroom to meet with the prosecutor.  Justin sits beside me as I respond to Mr. Diskin’s questions. His first question is whether I lied when I took the witness stand during my trial. I answer that I did, and he asks whether I understand that admitting to such lies exposes me to the additional criminal charges of perjury. I offer to accept any charges or sanctions the government wants to impose and then I plead with the prosecutor not to charge Lisa. Mr. Diskin smirks, unmoved.

The debriefing session lasts for an hour. In the end, Mr. Diskin tells me that I haven’t revealed anything he doesn’t already know.

“You’re going to have to face the full punishment for your crimes.”  The prosecutor narrows his eyes as he lashes out at me.  “And you may find yourself sitting at the defendant’s table again, this time beside your wife.”

The marshals drive me back to the jail. I’m completely spent, knowing that I’m powerless to protect Lisa. For weeks I lie in my cell, clutching my pillow, staring at the wall, catatonic with grief.

*******

While I wait through long months leading to my sentencing date, I look for anything that will pique my interest. I stumble across a two-volume hardcover anthology called A Treasury of Philosophy in the jail’s book cart. Hoping it might help, I begin reading. Even though I’ve never been a reader, the essays intrigue me. Since graduating from high school I haven’t read a single book. Yet now, here I am, aching with thoughts tormenting my mind as I try to read philosophy in a jail cell.

Philosophy isn’t a subject I’ve encountered before. I find a dictionary and begin a tentative step into another world, discovering that the essays in this anthology help to lessen my feeling of hopelessness. They give me new understanding of an individual’s relationship to society. I begin to believe that maybe, over time, I can reconcile myself with my fellow citizens. This thought of redemption comes to me as I read the French philosopher Jean Jacques Rousseau, who defines the “social contract” and outlines each citizen’s covenant with and responsibility to society. In breaking the law, I haven’t been faithful to the social contract Rousseau described, but in reading his work, I begin to believe that I can make amends.

I read John Locke, whose essays on human understanding introduce me to the concept of the tabula rasa, or blank slate. Locke believed that everyone comes into this world without prior knowledge or innate ideas. Rather, everything a person sees, feels, tastes, and smells makes an impression, influencing who and what the person becomes. As Locke suggests, I learn from my experiences in society. In turn, those experiences spawn the values that guide my thoughts, my decisions, and my actions.

Thinking about Locke’s philosophy, I rest the open book on my chest and stare at the ceiling of my cell while I clasp my hands behind my head. What made the lasting impression on my blank slate? What prompted me to think that earning money by selling cocaine would be a proper life choice? The questions deepen my introspection.

*******

Unlike many of the men locked up with me, I had options. Had I chosen college, my parents would’ve supported my decision. But without worries about receiving a paycheck, I took the easy road. At 20, I persuaded my dad to pay me a higher salary than I deserved.  He also leased a new black Bronco I could drive without concerning myself with expenses for gasoline, insurance, or maintenance.

If it wasn’t economic necessity that drove me to crime, what was it? Maybe insecurity. I wanted others to see me as something more than what I was. Greed and a sense of entitlement drove my decisions. But underneath the flash I wasn’t anything more than an insecure boy.

Where did my fixation with money begin?

My grandparents lived a moral life as hardworking Americans, and they showered my sisters and me with love from the time we were children. I should’ve learned more from them. Yet, I equated who I was with what I materially possessed, always wanting more.

In our household, we never spoke honestly about drugs.  Although our parents harped about the wickedness of drugs, their admonitions didn’t apply to the consumption of alcohol. They entertained in our home regularly and drinking was always a major component of any gathering. When my sisters and I discovered that two of our parents’ close friends–one a prominent lawyer and the other a neurologist–had used cocaine, we confronted our parents.  They made excuses.  I still remember, vividly, how my mother tried to explain, telling my sisters and me that their friends snorted coke for health reasons.

Inconsistencies between what my parents said about drugs and alcohol with what I saw may have contributed to my perceptions on morality. Likewise, my parents’ tolerance for bid rigging and collusion in the pursuit of contracts to advance our construction business couldn’t help but influence my sensitivity to the law’s relative importance to society.

My parents’ lectures about honesty, integrity, temperance, and other virtues of good citizenship didn’t make as firm an impression on me as the hypocrisy I saw.  As far as I was concerned, certain activities might be illegal, but if they were committed without harming recognizable victims, then it was okay to shrug off or disregard those laws. My parents’ reasoning differed dramatically from the principled approach Rousseau taught in his essay on the social contract, a pact that bound all citizens.

*******

As I move closer to my sentencing date, I begin to feel responsible for the crimes I committed. By contemplating the writings of John Locke, I start to appreciate the influences that shaped the young man I’ve become, and I accept that I have to change.  I must “unlearn” the corrupting influences that led to my bad actions, and eventually, to my imprisonment.

When I pick up the Treasury of Philosophy again, I read an essay that describes the trial of Socrates and it slowly helps me accept the predicament I have created. Socrates was convicted for breaking an absurd law that prohibited the aristocratic classes from teaching the commoners. The Athenian tribunal sentenced Socrates to a self-induced death by poisoning for his crime. He waited patiently in jail for the date of his scheduled execution.

Many leaders of Athens loved and respected Socrates.  Outraged at his sentence, they coordinated a plan that would allow him to escape punishment and live the remainder of his life in exile. Socrates refused the offer, explaining that his conscience would not permit him to sneak away, avoiding punishment for his actions. Reading about Socrates inspires me. As a lover of law and democracy, Socrates asserted that his honor would require that he carry out the sentence by drinking the poison that would kill him. In my eyes, that principled position reveals Socrates as a man of strength and courage.  While waiting for the imposition of my sentence, I look to him as a role model for the type of thoughtful man I’d like to become.

With my Bible and the philosophy books, I live like a monk in my cell. The reading transports me to new worlds of thought and contemplation. I feel an unfamiliar maturity creeping into me, bringing hope. I write letters to my parents, my sisters, and every day I write to Lisa, promising to redeem my crimes by educating myself and using time in prison to prepare for a productive life upon release.

*******

Seven months after my initial arrest, the government indicts me with several new criminal counts. I accept these new charges and don’t dispute the leading role I played in distributing eight kilograms of cocaine or my perjury during the trial. Lisa isn’t named in the indictment, although the lawyers speculate that she’ll later face criminal charges for lying to a federal officer.

My efforts to protect Lisa have failed, but prayer and philosophy inspire optimism. Rather than allowing forces I can’t control–such as the sentence my judge will impose–to dictate my attitude, I begin to feel a spiritual strength building inside of me.

Prison will not destroy or define me. Rather, I make a commitment to define myself through my response to the sanctions I face.

*******

I want to atone for my crimes. To make my statement public, I write to Stuart Eskenazi, a journalist who covered my trial for The Tacoma News Tribune. In the letter, I express remorse for my crimes and for the ways I acted after arrest. I pledge to find ways to make up for my wrongs during the decades ahead.

A few days later, Eskenazi comes to interview me in jail. I understand that audiences will be skeptical about my commitment to educating myself and to creating opportunities for positive social contributions. Still, I’m committed to begin anew. I feel myself turning the page on the decisions that brought me into confinement.

The front-page story that Mr. Eskenazi writes for the local paper does not influence my sentencing judge. After two separate hearings, he imposes consecutive sentences. In total, the judge orders that I serve a 45-year sentence and fines me $500,000 for my crimes.

“You will be an old man when you walk out of prison,” the judge states flatly. “But you’ve earned it.”

111. Earning Freedom with Michael Santos

Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term (1.2)

I’m reading from chapter 1 of my book, Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term

For more information, visit PrisonProfessors.com

*******

“¿Que Onda?” Another man is locked in the same cell. Cuban, I presume from his accent. He stands by a waist-high metal locker in boxer shorts, staring at me. He looks like a thug. We’re the same height, though he is heavier, with more fat than muscle. Crudely drawn tattoos look like chicken scratches across his arms and torso.

I nod.

“¿De donde eres?” He wants to engage me.

“I don’t speak Spanish.”

“What is you, white?” He speaks in English this time.

The man’s question bothers me.  I think of myself as an American, un-hyphenated by ethnicity. “I am what I am.”

“I thought you was Cuban.”

“My dad’s Cuban.”

“So why the fuck you don’t speak Spanish?”

“I speak English.” I’m ready for this guy’s challenge, if that’s what he wants.

“Where you from?”

“I’m from Seattle.”

“You a cop?”

I stare at him, wondering why he would ask such a ridiculous question when I’m locked in a prison cell, wearing prisoner’s clothing. “Hey dude, what is it you want?”

“I’m sayin’, muthafucka come up in my house, lookin’ Cuban but think he white, gotta ask if you’s a cop.”

“I’m not a cop. I was arrested today. I’m going to court tomorrow.”

“You’s arrested?” He mocks me. “Where’d they bust you?”

“Key Biscayne.”

“Oh, so you got paper.”

“Paper? What are you talking about?”

“Money, muthafucka, you got money!”

“Why are you so interested in who I am? Who are you?”

“You up in my cell, bitch. Don’t be axin’ me no muthafuckin’ questions.”

“What are we doing here? Are you looking for a fight or what? It’s late, I’m tired, and I’ve got to go to court tomorrow. But I’ve got all you can handle if that’s what you want.”

He sizes me up. “You ain’t no snitch is you?”

“I’m done talking to you.”

“Okay. That’s good. Don’t talk. That’s you bunk, white boy.”

The hostility in the cell surprises me. What’s this about? I walk to the steel rack against the wall, unroll the mat, and stretch the sheet across it. I climb up without using the sink or the toilet, too exhausted for more confrontation. I turn on my side and stare out of a narrow vertical window. It’s no more than six inches wide, but I can see outside. Spotlights shine on crabgrass, steel fences, and razor wire. I watch as a guard drives a white pickup slowly around the prison’s perimeter and I fade into sleep.

It’s an anxious sleep, and when I wake, I stare out the window, with tears filling my eyes. The man below me smells. I miss Lisa’s perfumed skin, her hair, her body. This is going to destroy us. My only hope is Raymond. He has to free me from this nightmare. I wipe my watering eyes and drift back into sleep.

A guard unlocks the door and yells my name into the cell. His voice bounces off the concrete walls and startles me from a dead sleep. I jump down from the rack and he orders me to dress for court. I’m still wearing my khakis and the t-shirt. Feeling beaten and exhausted, I slide into the canvas shoes and accompany the guard out of the cell. He slams the steel door behind us and uses a formidable key to lock the dead bolt.

I walk with other prisoners through the same door I entered last night. We join a throng of more than 100 men and the guards herd us into caged bullpens. The noise makes my head throb as I stand shoulder to shoulder with scores of angry prisoners. A clock on the wall shows that it isn’t yet three, which explains why I feel exhausted. I can’t believe court begins this early.

One by one, the guards call us out of the cage to change into our clothes. When I receive the mesh bag with my name on it, I see my clothes balled together at the bottom of the bag, ruined, my shoes on top of the shirt.

“The belt is missing,” I tell the guard.

“What?” He growls.

“My belt is missing,” I repeat.

“Let’s see here.” The guard grabs a processing form from the bag and scans down the boxes. “Don’t show that you was wearin’ no belt when you checked in.”

“What do you mean? Of course I was wearing a belt. It was brown, alligator skin, matching my shoes.”

“Form don’t say nothin’ ’bout no belt. Now get the fuck dressed and quit pussyfootin’ around. Next thing you’re gonna tell me is that you ain’t got no panties.”

I know that I stink, and my clothes are damp, which will add to the disaster of this day, my first as a prisoner.

As soon as I dress, a guard leads me back to the bullpen. My legs ache from standing. Hours pass. At six, the guards begin calling us out in groups of two. They shackle my ankles, wrap a chain around my waist, weave handcuffs through the front of the chain and then lock my wrists in place. The chains are heavy on my body. Secured, we march awkwardly out toward waiting transport buses.

“You don’t like the chains,” one guard taunts while sucking on a cigarette, “quit selling drugs.”

I have a window seat on one of the three packed buses that maneuver through morning rush hour in Miami. I peer through the spaces between vertical steel bars and a tinted window, looking at the faces of other drivers–people leading responsible lives. Legitimate work is something I haven’t done since turning my back on responsibilities at my father’s company.

We drive past the tollbooths that lead across the bay to Key Biscayne. I see the sign touting Key Biscayne as “The Island Paradise” and I’m overcome with sadness. My neck cramps as I try to wipe the tears on my shoulder. I may have a court date, but my gut tells me I won’t be sleeping in my bed tonight.

The driver maneuvers our bus into an underground garage beneath the Federal Building. Guards march us through doors that lead to a series of adjacent bullpen cages. Still chained, we squeeze in like animals in a chute heading for slaughter. I don’t understand this system, and I hate all that is happening. I’m trapped. Worse yet, I’m strangely uneasy about surrendering my fate to Raymond.

Paco, one of my cocaine suppliers, introduced me to Raymond. Paco praised him as one of the best lawyers in Miami, and when I visited his office, I was influenced by its opulence. I admired the photographs of Raymond smiling in victory with well-known organized crime figures. They stood victoriously outside a courthouse after beating federal racketeering charges. The press clippings convinced me I had to have Raymond on my team. Even though I wasn’t expecting any legal problems, having a top-notch attorney on retainer made sense. I agreed to pay him tens of thousands in cash just in case.

*******

“Santos. Santos. I need Michael Santos.” I hear a guard yelling my name.

“I’m in here.” I press my way through the crowd to the front of the cage.

“Let’s go.” He unlocks the gate for me to step out. After locking the cage behind us, he walks me to a tiny cubbyhole of a conference room for defendants to meet with their attorneys. I see Raymond sitting on a stool waiting for me. I notice immediately that he wears my Rolex.

“How’re you holding up, Sport?” He greets me as if we’re partners in a tennis match.

“I’m okay. A little tired.” I’m embarrassed that Raymond sees me unshaven and in wrinkled, sweat-stained clothes.

“Did they treat you okay in there?”

“I don’t know. It’s loud, crowded. I haven’t been able to think about anything but getting out of this nightmare.”

“Have you eaten?”

“I can’t eat.” I shrug my shoulders. “They passed out bologna and white bread. Mine’s still in the bag.”

“You’ve got to eat,” he says, trying to encourage me. “I need you strong through this.”

“I need you strong,” I counter, feeling weaker than I hope I show. “How long am I going to be in here?”

“We’re trying to get you out on bond this morning. Lisa and your mother will meet me here at nine. I brought your watch for Lisa. If you were wearing it when they arrested you, they’d have seized it.”

“Why does my mom have to be here?”

“This is a first appearance. We’re going to enter a plea of not guilty to the charges.  Then I’ll ask the judge to let you out on bond. I need your mother and Lisa here to show that you’ve got community ties.”

“You mean they’re going to let me out?” For the first time, a sense of hope begins to surface through my despair.

“I’m sure going to try.”

Raymond can see that I need something to pick up my spirits. He’s like the baseball coach trying to encourage a little leaguer in a slump. “You need to toughen up. We’ll make a good case. You don’t have an arrest record. There aren’t any allegations of violence or weapons. You’ve got family support.”

“How much will it cost?”

“We need to talk about that, Sport,” Raymond says as he leans back against the wall. “You’ve been charged with operating a Continuing Criminal Enterprise. It carries a possible life sentence. If the judge agrees to bond, it’s going to be high. What can we offer the court?”

“What do you mean, a life sentence?” Fear overtakes me. “For what? What’s that mean?”

Raymond holds my wrist, trying to steady my nerves. “Don’t worry. We talked about this. It’s only the beginning. The government always overcharges.” He dismisses the concern with a wave of his hand. “You’ve got to trust me, leave this to me. For now we’ve got to have a plan for the bond request so we can get you out of here. What kind of assets can you pledge?”

“I don’t have anything.” I’m embarrassed to admit that my whole life is a charade. “I told Lisa to get everything we have for you.”

“What do you mean?” Raymond squints at me, disbelieving. “You didn’t put anything away?”

I scratch my head, and then I rub my face in shame. “I bought some property in Spain from Paco. He hasn’t given me the title yet. Lisa was supposed to talk with him yesterday about getting the money back so we could finish paying you. That’s all I have.”

I sense Raymond’s incredulity and sinking respect as he scratches his head.

“How about your parents? What can they put up?”

“I don’t have anything, Raymond. Let’s just think about beating these charges, not the bond.”

“How much is Lisa bringing me today? We need money to beat this thing, Sport.”

“She has about a hundred grand. Paco will give her the rest and she’ll pay you off.”

“Tell me about this property. What’s it worth?”

“A couple hundred thousand. Paco owes it to me from a deal we made that never went through. We’ve been waiting for him to transfer the title, but after we left your office yesterday, I told Lisa to get a hold of him and pull together whatever cash he could return immediately.”

Raymond shakes his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe you don’t have anything set aside. How do you own a watch like this with no money?”

I feel like I’m eight-years-old. Totally deflated, I sink deeper into my chair.

“Don’t worry.” Raymond begins to recover. He can see that his questions about my finances are pushing me into a dark hole. “We’ll be okay. I’ll talk with Paco about this property. I’ve got to get into the courtroom.”

The guard lets Raymond out and leads me back to the cage. I don’t understand the talk about a life sentence. Why a life sentence? Also, Raymond’s slightly veiled disdain for my financial situation troubles me. I’m not prepared for any of this, not emotionally, not physically, and certainly not intellectually. I’m totally in Raymond’s hands. I feel nauseous, unsettled, but I dismiss the instinct that I should plead guilty and cut my losses. I’ve got to trust Raymond.

*******

When the guard leads me into the courtroom I see Lisa and my mom. They hardly know each other and my mom has never accepted Lisa as a part of my life. Yet in that courtroom they hold each other, one supporting the other as I sit at the defendant’s table beside Raymond. We can’t talk, but I nod before turning away to face the court.

To steady myself I study the ornate courtroom–the elaborate paneling, the carvings in heavy wood, the high ceiling and podium. The room invokes a sense of majesty and ceremony. Prosecutors sit at a table to my left. To them I’m a nonentity, just another criminal. The judge considers arguments that I can’t comprehend. I feel foolish, ill equipped to grasp the significance of all that is happening. The only words that register with me are possible life sentence. They resonate through my mind. Why? I see the judge’s forehead crease when he stares down at me.

“There will be no bail for this defendant.” The judge slams the wooden gavel on the podium after he rules.

This must be the longest day of my life. Federal marshals lead me back to the crowded bullpen.  I’m dejected, thinking of my mom and Lisa tearfully embracing each other. The packed cage doesn’t faze me as I press my way to a rear corner and slouch to the filthy concrete floor. My back rests against the evenly spaced steel bars and I drop my head to my knees.

These threats of a life sentence feel real, so much more real than Raymond has prepared me to cope with mentally. I don’t have enough money to fight this battle or to support Lisa. I need to get out of here, but I don’t know how.

When I return to the prison, guards assign me to a different housing unit than I slept in last night. I’d been in a classification unit, though I didn’t know anyone was evaluating me. This is a strange environment, where guards order me to specific locations, expecting me to comply without question. I’m now in Coral Unit, and I must sleep in a room with six other prisoners about whom I know nothing. Everyone snores as I climb onto my rack, still in my clothes. This time I don’t have a window.

*******

It’s my third day in prison and a counselor approves me to receive visitors. I call Lisa and ask her to come. “Did Raymond give you my watch?” I ask, my entire identity wrapped up in my possessions. When she tells me that he did, I ask her to bring it.

“Can you wear a watch like yours in there?”

“I don’t want to keep it here. I just want to feel it on my wrist again.” I need some physical remembrance of the life I lived only 72 hours ago. We all wear white t-shirts and khaki pants. As much as I want to hold Lisa, I also want the other prisoners to see her beside me.

Within minutes of her arrival guards reprimand me for kissing her. They cite rules permitting a brief kiss at the start and end of each visit.  If I kiss her again, they warn, they’ll terminate my visiting privileges for one month. We sit on metal chairs at a round, Formica-topped, white table. I listen as Lisa describes the fallout from my arrest. Her mother is urging her to leave me though she pledges her undying love. The thought of her abandoning me strikes another jolt to my vanishing confidence.

“What about Raymond?” I ask, and inquire whether she paid him.

“I gave him the money. He’s working through the property deal with Paco. They’ve already talked.”

“You mean he wants the money and the property? That’s worth way more than the $200 thousand he wanted!”

“I don’t care. You can always make more money. I just want you home.”

I tell Lisa about my time inside. We have a law library and I’ve read scores of legal cases during the few days I’ve spent here. I may only have a high school education, but I understand what I read. The government has charged me with operating a Continuing Criminal Enterprise. Those law books describe the charges as the “kingpin statute.” To convict, the government has to prove that I managed five people who participated in drug deals involving significant amounts of money. I know I’m guilty.

“Maybe I should plead guilty,” I suggest to her. By pleading guilty early in the proceedings, I understand that the government might reduce the charges, or agree to a lighter sentence. The cases I’ve read suggest that if a jury convicts me, I’ll receive a long sentence, maybe life.

“Are you crazy?” Lisa doesn’t want to hear my reasoning. “We’re not pleading guilty to anything! They didn’t catch you with anything. Raymond told me this would happen, that you’d want to break down. He told me to keep you strong in here.”

“If I plead guilty I could probably get a 10-year sentence.”

“And what am I supposed to do for 10 years? You’re my husband and I need you home.”

“I wouldn’t serve 10 years. There’s parole and good time. I’d probably be home in three years or something.”

“Michael, they didn’t catch you with anything.”

“No, but Alex and Tony are testifying against me.”

“No one is going to believe them. They were caught in the act, with cocaine.”

“Baby, I’m just saying we should think about pleading guilty, cutting our losses. This charge accuses me of being the boss. The government doesn’t have to catch me with anything. Prosecutors only have to prove that I supervised others who sold cocaine.”

“Who do you think you are, Al Capone?” Lisa laughs, mocking me. “This place is just playing with your mind. Where’s my strong husband?” She reaches over to hold my hand and I look at the guard to see if he’s watching. “We have to trust in Raymond. He says we can win and that’s what we’re going to do.”

I’m still uneasy when our visit ends and I return to the housing unit. Later, I hear a guard’s voice paging me over the loudspeaker to report to the visiting room again. Raymond has come to see me. We sit in a small conference room reserved for attorney-client visits. Raymond tells me that Lisa described my fears about the trial and he asks how I’m holding up. I want to appear unshakable, as if I can handle this struggle, though I know I’m in deep, way over my head. I tell him what I’ve read in the law books–about all the people serving life sentences for the same charges as mine.

“I don’t want you reading those books,” Raymond admonishes me. “They’re just going to mess with your head and cloud your thinking. Those guys didn’t have me representing them. They may have had shoddy lawyers for all we know. Besides, those books only show the losers. They don’t publish the cases about the defendants who beat the pants off the government. That’s what we’re going to do.”

I need that expression of confidence that we can prevail. “What am I supposed to say when people ask about my case?”

“If you have to say anything, tell them you’ve been wrongfully charged with a crime and that you will vindicate your name through a trial. I need you strong,” he repeats, with an authority that bolsters my spirits. “This is my business and I’m the best in the world at what I do. Let me try this case.”

Raymond forewarns me that the U.S. marshals will transfer me from Miami to Seattle. He promises to send copies of briefings he will file with the court, and says that he will fly to Seattle to prepare the case a few times before the trial begins.

“When are we going to trial?”

“We go to trial when we’re ready, Sport.”
Raymond conveys the message that we’re in control and that he has a strategy to deliver my acquittal. He urges me to stay strong while he determines the most advantageous time to try the case. Raymond insists that I not ask questions about what he is planning and insinuates that he has tactics he can’t share with me. I leave our meeting feeling optimistic, wondering if Raymond is bribing the judge. That must be the reason he needs so much money.

*******

Thanks to Raymond’s heads-up, I’m not surprised the following morning when the marshals transfer me in chains on the vans, buses, and airplanes they reserve for prisoner transport. I’m held over in Oklahoma and Arizona prisons before arriving in Seattle. When the marshals book me into jail, I’m among several other men–most of whom are friends and now my co-defendants.  They’ll stand trial with me for playing a role in distributing the cocaine I sent from Miami.

Since moving to Miami more than a year ago, I isolated myself from the day-to-day activities of the trafficking scheme. From afar I could limit my role to logistics, coordinating with suppliers to ensure that the local distributors had enough coke to meet their demand. This strategy, I convinced myself, would ensure that I’d never face problems with the law. Yet here I sit, locked in the same jail with many of those who worked with me.

In the Miami prison I felt alone, totally new to confinement. The shock, together with the ominous possibility of a life sentence, wreaked havoc on my mental state. But in Seattle my tension lessens, even if I am locked in jail. I miss Lisa, of course. My father returned to Seattle when I was transferred here, and my sister Julie lives nearby. They spend a few hours with me on each visiting day.  They also accept my collect phone calls, allowing my delusions of innocence and release to continue.

I adjust to the rhythms of this particular jail, actually enjoying the time I’m spending with my codefendants and others who have an indirect relationship to my case. While we wait for our judicial proceedings they teach me card games and chess. One day my spirits lift when I spot David, a Colombian I’ve worked with before but haven’t seen for nearly a year.

Even when we did see each other in the past, we didn’t communicate much because David doesn’t speak English. His role in my organization was to store cocaine that Rico would distribute in Seattle. When Rico began cooperating with the DEA, he led the agents to David and his stash house.

David pulls me to a corner of the jail and tries urgently to communicate a message. He whispers and takes precautions to ensure others don’t hear us. I can’t understand him and our inability to communicate frustrates him. I try to bring a bilingual prisoner over to translate, but David stops me. This is a private matter, he insists. He borrows a Spanish-English dictionary. Finally, I get the message he’s been trying to convey.

When the DEA agents arrested David, they didn’t find eight kilograms of cocaine that he had hidden. I’d been out of the loop, unaware that eight kilograms existed until David told me. My understanding had been that the government seized everything when Rico began cooperating with them. David explains that he was holding that cocaine for the Colombian suppliers who had fled after the arrests. He wants someone to retrieve and sell it, though he doesn’t know anyone in Seattle.

David proposes a solution to my immediate problem. If I can coordinate this transaction, he offers to split the proceeds. At current prices, eight kilograms of cocaine will bring more than $200,000. My cut will cover Lisa’s expenses while I wait for Raymond to free me. From my perspective this isn’t even a risk since I’m already facing trial.

I call Tom, Lisa’s brother, and invite him to visit. In the past, I relied upon Tom as a courier to transport cocaine. Since we both want the best for Lisa, I trust him. The government charged Tom in my indictment, but the minor role he played in the conspiracy allowed him to remain free on bail during the judicial proceedings in Seattle. During our visit I explain what I’ve learned from David.

We visit in a tiny booth with a glass partition separating us. I show him a map that David has drawn for me.  It feels as if I’m coordinating a treasure hunt from the jail. The potential life sentence no longer troubles me, as I’ve resigned myself to let Raymond handle the trial. My focus has switched to providing Lisa with more financial resources.

“There’s nothing to it,” I explain to Tom. He may be out on bail facing federal charges, but he, too, sees the opportunity. I instruct Tom to deliver the cocaine to Walt, one of my clients who wasn’t I implicated in the indictment.

“Just pick up the eight kilos. Once you get it, call Walt and he’ll sell it. Tell Walt I’ll finance him.  He can pay over time, without pressure. The whole thing shouldn’t take more than an hour and we make a hundred grand.”

I return to my housing unit, completely oblivious to the new crime I’ve just committed. During a phone conversation the following morning Tom says all is well. Within days Tom receives tens of thousands of dollars and sends Lisa what she needs. He rents a home near the jail and pays for Lisa to move to Seattle so she can visit while we await my victory and release.

“I knew you’d be able to handle this.” She places her hand against the glass that separates us in the visiting room, smiling at me as if I’m a hero.

I'm visiting with Lisa whenever we’re allowed, and there is something about providing for her that empowers me, even if my family doesn’t like her. They don’t understand, especially now that I’m in jail and still shutting them out by refusing to talk about my case. I’ll make things right once Raymond frees me from these charges. For now I need to take care of Lisa. That’s about all I can manage.

*******

At 23, I’m younger than most of the prisoners around me. Raymond, my attorney, flies to Seattle whenever necessary. On visiting days, other prisoners see me with my striking wife. I walk with a swagger, filled with delusions that I’m quite the man about the cellblock. I play it up, enjoying the role of kingpin during those first few months in the Seattle jail, thinking that I’ll soon be walking out victoriously, beating the feds.

I spend my first Christmas behind bars, and then I celebrate my 24th birthday in January 1988 with a Snickers-bar party for all the prisoners in my housing unit. The time in jail hasn’t been bad, but only because I’m certain my liberty is coming. My mother continuously asks what I’ll do once I get out. She has a hard time defending me to relatives and friends who inquire about my predicament. But I don’t have an answer for her, as I haven’t thought about anything besides beating the case. I’ll think about the future later, I tell her, suggesting that she ignore what others say.

After five months of pretrial detention, I’m impatient, ready for the action to begin. The government doesn’t have any tape recordings of me doing deals.  Further, DEA agents didn’t catch me with any drugs or any money, and the people who’ve agreed to testify against me have self-interests in blaming me even though they were the ones caught with cocaine. I can’t wait for Raymond to persuade the jury that I shouldn’t be in jail.

Before the trial starts Raymond coaches me on the testimony I’ll give. We sit for hours in a small conference room adjacent to my housing unit while he fires questions as if he’s the prosecutor trying to rattle me.

“When you answer,” he coaches, “look at the jury. Find a juror you like and talk directly to her. Speak clearly, without rushing your words. We need them to trust you, to believe that you’re just like them.”

I’m getting excited. It feels like we’re approaching opening night and I’ve got star billing.

“Is the jury going to know how much time I’m facing?” The jurors would not convict me, I’m certain, if they knew I was facing a life sentence.

“We’re not allowed to discuss the possible sentence. The trial is about determining guilt or innocence.”

“Can I slip the possible sentence into one of my answers when I’m on the stand?”

Raymond pauses to consider my question. “Well I can’t say anything about the sentence, but if you see an opportunity, take it quickly because the prosecutor will object in a hurry.”

I’m ready the following morning when the marshals transport me from the jail to the courthouse.

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