Prison Professors

101. Earning Freedom with Michael Santos

Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term (1.1)

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

For more information, visit PrisonProfessors.com

I can feel the DEA agents waiting. I don’t know where or when they’ll strike, but I know they’re near. I’ve never been arrested before, and I’m scared. My wife, Lisa, sits next to me in our Porsche convertible, clutching my hand. We’ve only been married five months. She’s a glamorous South American blonde who looks spectacular in her form-fitting designer clothes, better still in a bikini. With her beside me, I feel powerful. I’ve built my life on extravagance and appearances, and Lisa completes the image I want to project. She’s five years older than I am and I always try to appear strong for her–man enough for her. I don’t want her to see my fear, but inside I’m shaking.

Shadowy forces feel like they’re closing in, but I don’t have a grasp on what’s coming. Instinct, intuition, a sense of impending doom keeps crowding my consciousness. This high-flying life is about to change. I can feel it.

Lisa and I have just left Miami where I learned from Raymond, a well-known criminal lawyer I’ve had on retainer, that a grand jury in Seattle just indicted me on drug trafficking charges.  Raymond said that my arrest was imminent and that the criminal charges I’m facing could include the possibility of decades in prison. After hearing that unsettling news, I followed his instructions and gave him my diamond-faced Rolex to hold. Then I told Lisa how to make arrangements for his $200,000 fee.

After leaving Raymond’s office, I drive us toward the Rickenbacker Causeway that leads to Key Biscayne. Despite my attorney’s warning, I’m going home. He convinced me that a huge difference existed between an indictment and a conviction. By paying Raymond all the money I’ve got to fight the case, I’m hoping for a fresh start from the mess I’ve made of my life. I’ve been miserable for months, knowing that I needed to make a change.

*******

We arrive at the entry into Key Colony, the private oceanfront community on Key Biscayne where Lisa and I live. The security guard raises the gate and I drive the Porsche forward. We make eye contact, and I sense resentment in his phony smile as he waves us through. I’m half his age, and for the past year I’ve driven through this gate every day in my flashy sports car with Lisa beside me, wearing a gold watch that cost more than he would make in a year. Today he’s sporting a smug grin. Maybe I’m paranoid. No, I shake my head as I accelerate through the gate and turn right. My gut roils with a subconscious awareness that I’ll never drive through this tropical paradise again.

I park in the garage beneath Botanica, the building where we live. Lisa and I walk arm-in-arm to the elevator, not speaking. I’m alert, watching, expecting the feds to rush me at any second. With heightened senses, I’m acutely aware of the salty ocean air filling my nostrils. My stomach churns as I push the elevator button and we ascend.

The elevator door slides open and we step onto the top floor. An open breezeway with palm trees and lush, tropical vegetation on either side leads to our apartment.

There they are, in front of us. The three men wearing dark blue jackets wait, eyeing me as I approach.

“Are you Michael Santos?”

“Yes.”

In an instant, I see three guns aiming at my head.

“Freeze! Put your hands out where we can see them!” One of the agents then begins to recite my Miranda rights.

I comply with their orders. Lisa steps away from me, gasping. One agent clasps my hands behind my neck as he searches me for weapons, though I’ve never carried a gun. Then he lowers my arms, pulling them behind my back.  I hear clicking and feel cold metal as he slams handcuffs over my wrists. When the agents see that I’m not resisting, their tone becomes less hostile. They begin to question me and, following Raymond’s instructions, I refuse to answer.

“I want my attorney present before I say anything.” I’m embarrassed that Lisa sees me so helpless, so impotent in the grip of authority.

“Do you want to say good-bye to Lisa?”

I cringe at the familiar way her name rolls off the agent’s tongue, and I realize I’m really being taken away.

“Michael!” Lisa’s tortured cry echoes across the breezeway. “Michael! What should I do?”

I don’t turn around. To see her face would only prolong the agony of the moment. One agent is in front of me. I’m sandwiched between the other two and I feel hands gripping the chains of my handcuffs. I keep walking with my head down, humiliated.

*******

It was 1987 and I was 23. For nearly two years I’d been the leader of a small group that distributed cocaine in Seattle. The scheme wasn’t sophisticated. Those at the core of our little enterprise were my classmates from Shorecrest High School, in the North Seattle suburb of Lake Forest Park. Sensing a huge market for cocaine among Seattle’s young professionals, I joined my friend Alex in a partnership to capitalize on it.

I found suppliers in Miami. My friend John and his girlfriend, Lori, drove the drugs across the country and delivered them to Tony in Seattle, who stored them in his apartment. Alex coordinated deliveries to customers using Loren and Rico as local drivers.

The shallow layers of people separating me from the actual cocaine fed my delusions that I wasn’t really a drug dealer. Instead, I liked to think of myself as an entrepreneur. To the extent that I thought about it, I provided a simple service. No weapons. No violence. My friends and I only sold to consenting adults, so I equated our actions to those who supplied speakeasies during prohibition.  It was my way of glamorizing the scheme to camouflage the severity of potential consequences.

The government, of course, saw things differently. Ronald Reagan occupied the White House and he was ramping up the “War on Drugs.” I may have previously seen myself as a businessman, but riding through the streets of Miami in the back seat of a black Ford LTD with my hands locked behind my back, in the custody of DEA agents, left no doubt that I was in big trouble. I thought of Lisa. I thought of my parents. I wondered if my attorney, Raymond, could really get me out of this mess.

*******

“So, what’s up? Did you think you could run from us forever?” The two agents in the front seat switch to a friendlier approach. The driver has carrot-red hair, styled with a flattop and military fade. His partner looks hip, wearing feathered brown hair that he holds in place with his stylish sunglasses. They try to engage me in conversation, but I’m silent, deep in thought as I stare out of the tinted windows at the glass-faced, high-rise buildings of downtown Miami.

“Talk to us,” the driver pipes in. “This may be your last chance to save yourself.”

I’m mute, afraid, sensing that I’ve reached a pivotal moment.

“Alex and Tony have given us plenty already. Who’re you tryin’ to protect? This is the time,” the driver speaks with authority. “No one knows you’ve been busted but us. Your pals cut sweetheart deals, left you hangin’ in the wind. Take us to your suppliers and I’ll turn this car around right now.”

“You don’t have much time.” The other agent stares at me, tempting me, trying to persuade me. I can tell that he isn’t much older than I am. “Once we move forward, you’re booked, game over. Speak up now and you’ll be able to go home to that pretty little wife of yours.”

I don’t say a word. It’s not that I feel an allegiance to any criminal code. As crazy as it sounds, I don’t even consider myself a criminal. It’s simply that escaping problems by betraying others doesn’t appeal to me as much as the chance for total vindication. Raymond suggests we can win through a trial, and I’m swinging for the fences, going for it.  I cling to those hopes, but I’m also conflicted because a deep shame seeps through me. For years I’ve been telling lies, though I’m yet not ready to confront the reality of who I am, of what I am. I desperately want to resume a normal life and spare myself the humiliation of having to admit that I’m a drug dealer.

As the DEA agents urge me to confess everything, I think about Lisa. I’ve come to define myself through material possessions, and she is my trophy. I live a fantasy life with her, locked in a constant struggle to mask my shallowness. Cooperating with the DEA and informing against others to spare myself would show weakness, implying that I lacked the wits and enough power to resolve the situation.  It wouldn’t be the forceful image I’ve worked so hard to project. I remain silent, sealing my fate.

*******

I’ve never been to prison, nor have I been locked in custody before, but I did have a previous problem with the law. In high school, I organized a sports gambling pool. When one student couldn’t pay up he offered to settle the debt with a stereo he stole. I accepted. A few months later, when police officers caught him in another theft, he told the officers that he gave the stereo to me. That led to my conviction for receiving stolen property.  When I confided in my father about the problems of the stolen stereo, he stood by my side. For my sanction, a judge ordered that I pay $900 in restitution and that I fill out a form for a probation officer each month for nine months. We concealed the incident from my mother and sisters, not wanting to worry them.

*******

In the back of the DEA car, I think about how my arrest is going to devastate my family. I’m now in a predicament that’s going to expose the deceitful life I’ve been living and I’m humiliated, yet I still can’t bring myself to come clean because I’ve got too much invested in the lies I’ve already told. In choosing this path, with Raymond fighting my battle, I’ve got to go all the way.

*******

My father was a Cuban immigrant. Together with my American mother he built a contracting company in Seattle and provided well for our family. We lived in a beautiful five-bedroom home that sat on several acres in Lake Forest Park. A stream with waterfalls ran through our front yard, with a thick forest behind the house. My parents worked hard to provide my two sisters and me with every advantage, to prepare us for success, grooming me to lead the family company.

My father took pride in operating heavy equipment, pouring concrete, and creating work of lasting value. His company specialized in public works, installing highway lighting and traffic signal systems. My dad was an old-country kind of guy, and he aspired to teach me a strong work ethic. But I resented pulling wire and carrying pipe. I especially dreaded working on weekends or during summers when my friends were waterskiing on Lake Washington. Even though I worked by my dad’s side from the time I was six, I couldn’t see myself doing physical labor, not for the long term. I wanted the good times my friends enjoyed.

After graduating from high school with mediocre grades, I maneuvered my way out of the field and into the office, wanting to wear clean clothes and to position myself close to the money. With high expectations, my parents gave me the position of vice president, despite the fact that I lacked the maturity to wield the responsibility such a title implied. They trusted me, and I exploited their confidence in my abilities.

I’ve always been driven by the pursuit of money and possessions, with a sense of entitlement, wanting more than what my parents gave. Their friends were professionals and business owners, people whose influence and style impressed me.

The family business was small when I joined it full-time after graduating from high school, employing only a few electricians. My dad worked alongside them to install illumination and electrical systems while my mom kept the books. The company remained free of debt and afforded us a comfortable life, though it wasn’t enough for my tastes. To me, bigger seemed better.

Rather than studying and working through a four-year apprenticeship program to earn the state licenses I would need to assume control of the business, I thought of ways to expand without having to dirty my hands. I could always hire people with the necessary licenses and reasoned that my energies were better spent on increasing revenues.

I joined trade organizations and socialized with other contractors. Those relationships led to collusion, bid rigging, and other violations of state contract laws. My parents didn’t object too strenuously as the company’s annual revenues increased from hundreds of thousands to millions of dollars. To finance the growth, I persuaded my parents to sign agreements that required them to pledge their home and assets as collateral for higher credit lines with banks, suppliers, and bonding companies. Within three years I convinced my parents to expand the company from one of boring stability into a leveraged business with more than 50 employees. My dad could oversee jobs across the state while I acted as the big man, schmoozing with people and working with numbers that impressed me.

*******

Greed was a sinister enticement, clouding my judgment. My friend Alex had been supplementing his income by selling cocaine. Since I had unencumbered access to money from our family’s business, I proposed a scheme to Alex that would finance bigger coke deals and allow us to work together. I was 21, and the prospect of a quick score seemed harmless, too good to pass up.

Taylor, a mutual acquaintance of ours, agreed to supply us with several kilos of cocaine. For our first transaction I pulled cash from the company account to pay Taylor on the morning of delivery, and Alex contacted customers to sell the cocaine during the same day. By late afternoon Alex gave me back the money to reimburse the company’s account. The deal left Alex and me with tens of thousands in profits.

All went as planned until the following day, when a maid discovered more than $100,000 in Taylor’s hotel suite and reported it. Hotel management contacted the Seattle police who seized the money. When Taylor tried to claim it, the police required an explanation. “Just give us a receipt that shows how you received the currency and you can have it,” the officers told him.

Taylor called me at work to explain what happened and he asked for my help. “I’ll give you 20 percent if you can provide a receipt that will get me the money back.”

“Thirty percent,” I countered.

Since I’d withdrawn a substantial amount of cash to finance the transaction, I had a plausible explanation, or so I thought. We concocted a story that we were going to use the money to establish a leasing company. I then brought Taylor to the high-rise office tower of our company’s attorney, and hatched a plan to bamboozle him into helping us retrieve the money. I had an excellent relationship with Geoff, who was a partner in the firm.  Since I’d worked with the attorney before, I assumed he would simply make a few phone calls and resolve the complication.

Taylor and I sat facing Geoff across his polished cherry wood desk. His office overlooked the mid-rise buildings of South Seattle and Puget Sound.

“I gave the money to Taylor so that he could make a cash offer to purchase construction equipment from a contractor who was going out of business.” Geoff listened patiently to my story, but in his eyes I saw skepticism.

Lying, I fabricated a story, telling him that Taylor and I were then going to lease the equipment back to my father’s company.  Supposedly, we would rely upon the leases to collateralize a bank loan to reimburse the company.

“Is your dad a part of this new venture you’re launching?”

I still remember the doubt in Geoff’s voice from his first question.

When I told him that I’d made this deal on my own, Geoff nodded, then turned his interrogation to Taylor, who sat across the polished desk as if he were an accomplished businessman there to consult on a corporate merger rather than seek help to retrieve a duffle bag full of cash.

“And where do you live?” Geoff’s question was direct.

“I keep an apartment in The Grosvenor House.” Taylor answered.

“That’s on Queen Anne, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.”  Taylor didn’t yet realize that he was out of his depth.

“About five minutes north of downtown?” Geoff persisted.

“Yes.”

“So you keep an apartment in the city.” Geoff nodded, holding a finger to his temple as he rocked in his chair.

“I do.”

“Then help me understand why you’d take a hotel room a few blocks away from where you live. More to the point, why would you leave so much cash in a hotel room while you went to the gym for a morning workout?”

Taylor stumbled through Geoff’s penetrating questions. I remember squirming in my chair, knowing the meeting was a disaster.  The longer we sat there, the more I realized how foolish I’d been to think that I could manipulate a skillful attorney with lies.

Geoff said he’d make some inquiries with the police and call me later with a plan. I walked out of the office feeling sick to my stomach, knowing that I’d permanently destroyed my reputation. I wouldn’t have the courage to face Geoff again.

“Are you alone?” Geoff asked when he reached me in the car later that afternoon.

“Yes.” I was driving north on Interstate 5 toward the company office. Rain drizzled on the black Bronco I drove.

“Taylor isn’t with you?”  He sounded concerned for my welfare.

“No, I’m alone.”

“I’m going to ask you some questions and I want you to answer honestly. Okay?”

“Of course.”  I knew what was coming.

“Does your father know about this money?”

“No.”

“Did you give that money to Taylor?”

“No.”

“Does that money really belong to you?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so. Michael, I want you to listen very carefully to me. I’m speaking to you as a friend and as your attorney. You have a brilliant future with your father’s company in this city. But I smell drugs with Taylor. I want you to run as far away from him as you can. He is a cancer and he will destroy you. Do you understand?”

“Yes. You’re right. I’m sorry I brought him to your office.”

“That’s okay. We’ll keep our meeting today between us.”

Despite his kind tone, I sensed that I’d irretrievably lost his respect. I hung up, humiliated. Taylor had created his own problem by leaving his money in a hotel suite while he exercised. By intervening I made Taylor’s problems my own; there wasn’t any way for me to erase what I’d done or re-establish trust with Geoff.

Instead of running away from Taylor as Geoff advised, I did the opposite. I abandoned my responsibilities and obligations to our family business. My poor judgment had forced my hand, I thought. With the irrevocable damage I’d done to my reputation I left Seattle for Miami, intending to earn a few million by becoming a coke dealer.

*******

And that’s how the scheme began that led to where I sit now, locked up. I’m a prisoner of the Drug Enforcement Administration, on my way to places unknown.

*******

The driver turns into an office complex and parks. The third agent, the one who searched me and cuffed me during the arrest, parks a separate, identical car beside us. I exit the car with one agent holding the chain of my handcuffs behind my back. I’m like a dog on a leash, being walked into what I presume is a field office.

Once inside, the agents begin to process me. They unlock my handcuffs so I can hold a nameplate beneath my chin while one of the agents photographs my head. Another leads me to a station for fingerprinting. They invite me to cooperate again, to talk with them in exchange for a reprieve from jail. Last chance. The ship is sailing, fading away on the horizon, but I’m not onboard.

Disgusted with my refusal to spill the information they’re trying to coerce from me, an agent leads me to a room the size of a broom closet and locks me inside.

“Get used to it.” He warns, tossing the words over his shoulder as he walks away.

I’m alone in the tiny room. A bench extends the length of one wall. I sit, elbows on my knees, head in my hands. I’ve been immersed in a scheme of selling cocaine for nearly two years and now it’s come to this. Although I’m not ready now, I’ll soon have to answer to the world for the lies I’ve been living.

I knew my parents suspected something. My mother even accused me once, crying about how she didn’t want to lose her son to prison. I tried to console her while simultaneously stonewalling her questions about why I had moved to Miami, about why I wouldn’t provide her with a phone number or an address. My irresponsible choices broke her heart long ago.

With arms folded across my chest, I stare at the floor, leaning my back against the cold brick wall. I’d like to ask forgiveness, to take my lashes and start fresh, but instead I cling to Raymond’s assurances that I’ll prevail if I simply tough it out.

With stress and the bright lights exhausting me, I lose track of time, though I’m sure that more than an hour has passed. My head aches and I’m dizzy.

Finally an agent opens the door.  “Cuff up!”

He slaps the cuffs around my wrists and locks them behind my back again. The agents take me outside to their car.  They unlock and open the back door, then press me inside. I don’t know where I’m going but I presume I’m about to see the inside of a jail.

We drive a short distance and turn into the parking lot of a complex enclosed by double rows of chain-link fencing. Coils of glistening razor wire loop through the tops of the tall gates and many more coils of wire lie stacked atop each other on the ground in the wide space of no-man’s land between the fences. No one could escape without cutting himself to shreds.

It’s hot and humid outside. Sweat forms under my arms, across my chest and back as I step out of the air-conditioned car. The agents march me toward the entrance of the Metropolitan Correctional Center, Miami. Prison guards from a control center press a button to unlock the heavy steel door electronically and I hear the click of the dead bolt. A guard from the Federal Bureau of Prisons wearing gray slacks, a white shirt, and maroon tie accepts manila folders handed over by the agents escorting me. They exchange words, though my mind goes blank and I can’t comprehend their conversation. When the guard searches me, looks in my mouth, inside my ears, and tugs on the handcuffs to ensure they’re secure, it’s clear that I no longer share a common humanity with them.

The guard leads me inside a series of gates that roll behind us, locking me deeper inside the prison. I spend interminable hours in holding cells, sometimes alone, sometimes with other prisoners. I complete forms declaring that I don’t suffer from health issues or require medication.  Then I stand for photographs and more fingerprints–my life as a federal prisoner has begun

I exchange my brown alligator skin loafers and matching belt, linen slacks, and a silk dress shirt now reeking from sweat, for elastic-waist khaki trousers, a white t-shirt, and blue canvas slip-on deck shoes. Without my clothes I feel my identity slip away. It’s ten at night when I receive a roll of sheets, a blanket, and towel. Then I descend into my first housing unit.

The rectangular building is a two-tiered shell of concrete and steel with hundreds of sullen prisoners loitering in the common areas. Some of the men stare at me. While walking through the riffraff inside, I’m struck by the level of noise.

My thoughts wander. Who are these people? What did they do? Can I handle myself in a fight with them? I see a line for the telephones and make my way through the crowd. When my turn comes I call Lisa.

Prisoners crowd around on all sides as I press the phone against one ear while holding my finger inside the other to silence the noise. Lisa’s voice reminds me of all that I’m missing. I mask my emotions, trying to appear stoic. Between her sobs she tells me that Raymond told her I have a court date scheduled in the morning. “I’ll be there,” Lisa promises. “Your mom is coming with me.”

“You told my parents?” My question comes across more like an accusation. I’ve lost control over the moment of truth, and it bothers me that I’ll have to confront them.

“I had to. Raymond said he wanted to show that you have family support. Your mom wants to talk to you.”

During my 18 months as a drug dealer in Miami, the family business collapsed, devastating my parents financially and emotionally. I’ve repressed the guilt that my reckless ambition caused the business to fail, but it surfaces again with my confinement, and it’s heavy. My parents salvaged the assets they could and relocated to Miami, where my father’s family lived. Their marriage didn’t survive the disruption and my mother now lives with my younger sister in a Miami Beach condo. The stable family and household where my two sisters and I had grown up were in shambles, only a memory.

“Don’t worry, Mom,” I say in an attempt to ease her distress after Lisa connects us. “I didn’t do anything and I’ve got the best lawyer in Miami. You’ll see. He’s going to clear me of all this nonsense.”

“Oh, Michael...your father and I are so worried.” My mother sobs between her whispered words. “What have you done?”

“Nothing, Mom. I swear. I didn’t do anything. You’ll see. My attorney is going to clear all this up. Give it time. We just have to trust him.”

“What are we supposed to do? What are we supposed to say? I can’t believe this is happening!”

My time on the phone ends, not with a good-bye, but when a guard presses a switch to disconnect the call. He marches me to my room and locks me inside.

109. Insights from Federal Prison Camp

Innocent from The Inside Blog: By James Catlidge

James Catlidge is serving a 60-month sentence for a white collar crime. He is a businessman that got caught up in a criminal probe. Prior to surrendering, he began writing a blog. We are recording James’ blog, Innocent from the Inside, to help more people understand the challenges of surrendering to federal prison.

James serves his sentence with dignity, and readers may find hope in his positive mindset.

For more information, visit PrisonProfessors.com

Below is the written version of his blog from one of his entries, describing his second week in a federal prison camp.

As I've mentioned before, any sentence less than 1 year creates real difficulty for both the "short-timer" and the population he's serving with.  Some of my good friends have been shot-timers.  My advice and our conversations all revolve around all the rich life experiences they are missing out on.  I encourage open honest dialogue with all my friends so my short-timer buddies often express real sadness and family difficulty brought about by their incarceration.  Keep in mind the natural consequences of all this outward verbal difficulty.  No man who will be here for years has any sympathy whatsoever for any short-timers difficulty!  None.  So if the short-timer is LOUD or needs emotional attention or is a whiner, or a victim-minded personality, life here can get ugly fast.  Every man in prison feels harshly treated.  Deprived of family time and not listened to to by the institution.  The short-timer must be aware that their time will be over soon and the rest of us are not ever going to feel sorry for them.  

So last week, my short-timer buddy, Luke and I agree to go walk around 9:00 AM.  Luke is 265 lbs., 6'2" and very loud.  I'm constantly telling Luke to lower his voice.  He's a pitbull lawyer, who I would never want to oppose.  He's the scorched earth personality, who will win at all costs.  By any means necessary and I know this, so I use our workout times and our walks to allow him to rant, to fully express his sadness and longing to be with his wife and two young kids.  He's a good man with a very loud and threatening bark.  Luke has a 6 months sentence. 

So after agreeing to walk, we each walk back to our cubicles to grab workout gloves and our coats,  As I exit my cube #6, I hear his voice very loudly addressing Chino, the head of the Pisa gang and my cook!  Chino is 5'10", 200 lbs. and kind and even tempered with a 10 year sentence.  Chino worked directly for the Cartel in Mexico and is highly respected by me and every man on the yard.  He's mopping the hallway outside Luke's cube and the floor is wet while Luke is walking across it back to his cube to get his stuff for our walk.  Chino, who I could not hear, said something to him about walking on his freshly mopped floor and Luke verbally attacked.  As I head toward the cube, the scene was escalating.  Chino went to get Greg, our Shot Caller (white).  Chino, of course, now has every Pisa in our dorm running toward Luke's cube.  Honest to God, as I'm tuning in and walking, the inner hallway is jammed up with 42 Pisas and 15 white guys, me included, waiting for a fight to erupt.  No one is closer to Luke, than me, but this is out of control.  I decide I need to attempt to defuse this very tense scene when Greg goes chest to chest with Luke and explains that Chino is mopping "our floor".  We all live here and he needs to be respected.  Now a correction officer enters the scene.  I'm now next to Greg and Luke and this C.O. looks right at me and says "Is everything ok here"  I know and the C.O. knows that question is an opportunity to defuse a sure fight between the Pisas and the whites.  So I say, "it sure is, we are just wrapping up here.  Chino and Luke are apologizing for a simple misunderstanding!"  So they shake hands and a real forced stand down occurs!  

Now, since our walk is still pending, I say Luke, let's walk!  We spend the next 30 minutes talking about respect and gangs and the prison rule that when you fight, we all fight even if its 15 vs 40 Pisas.  No offense you take is personal.  It belongs to all of us.  So, please consider in all you do how important it is when you feel offended so quickly.  I then take a considerable amount of time discussing the loud, aggressive, abrasive script he enters every room with.  Luke says, I have never ever even considered this.  At age 48, I'm amazed he has zero awareness of the impression he leaves on others.  So, Greg meets with me later and says, does he get it?  I explain, I think so, but its a short-timer mentality that never quite invests himself into his new surroundings.  I love Luke and he has since apologized to Chino, Greg and several others, but this was very close to a disaster.   

James Catlidge is serving a 60-month sentence for a white collar crime. He is a businessman that got caught up in a criminal probe. Prior to surrendering, he began writing a blog. We are recording James’ blog, Innocent from the Inside, to help more people understand the challenges of surrendering to federal prison.

James serves his sentence with dignity, and readers may find hope in his positive mindset.

For more information, visit PrisonProfessors.com

Below is the written version of his blog from one of his entries, describing his second week in a federal prison camp.

Its daybreak around 7:15 A.M.  This time of year, I make my way to the eastern corner of the track approximately 80 yards from my cube  I'm laced up tight for my 9 laps this morning, as the sun casts its warming glow across my face and body.  Its cold, maybe 50 degrees.  I have my   t-shirt and gym shorts on.  Today I have a fleece lined sweatshirt on also to keep the damp chill off my body. I have my earbuds in to ward off any would-be talkers, who often use this solitary time to invade my well managed head space.  

Today I'm listening to my favorite country music station, KUZZ, broadcasting from Bakersfield.  As I pick up pace, I'm walking fast, usually 5 minute laps.  Each lap is .38 miles and all dirt and gravel, worn down over the 25 years since this camp opened.  Its hard to keep up, if anybody dares merge in and try to talk.  Few here want to walk this fast.  It's actually peaceful and feels like exercise.

The track provides me with a 360 degree view of freedom.  To the East, in the near distance, are miles and miles of farm fields, growing thick crops, very well groomed.  Beyond that, a mountain/hill range that circles the entire prison compound.  To the West is a small private airport, used by Chevron/Shell and other oil executives who come here for the vast oil wells and refineries in the near vicinity.  

I often look far East, as i make my way down the straight away of the track and I can see I-5

Freeway.  This road feels to me like familiar Freedom.  I've travelled that road, north and south, hundreds of times.  My walks are usually filled with daydreams of great memories with you and my kids, my business associates, chasing down that familiar highway.  For golf or a meeting or to see Kendra or to go to court.  I-5 connected me to many of my activities in a Life of Freedom.  

Today, however, I am walking fast with different thoughts, "What is Freedom?" Racing to court? Having to be at a meeting and sit there for hours?  Staring at my Facebook and social media feed, thinking about being wherever they are?  Chasing a deal, cause I need that deal and many are counting on me to close it?  Sitting in a class that I'm bored by?  Is Freedom defined by one's ability to leave a confined perimeter?  Or is it something else?

Maybe I am free, totally free, uncomfortably free.  The Camp must provide all 3 meals for me.  The Camp must provide religious freedom.  The Camp must provide exercise facilities, education facilities, medical services, even mail, TV and telephone access.   Yet, I am not allowed or even permitted to pay for any of it.  I think I'm Free.  I can wake up when I want, shower when I want, eat when I want, exercise, study, have deep discussions, talk and listen to funny stories, draw, paint, read, pray, go to church and Yes....I can still eat fudge and chocolate cake.

There are a few things I cannot do, all of them are With You, because we are separated by 6 "out of bounds" posts that keep our lives apart for a time, but  I think I'm free.  The bigger question I'm thinking about today is....Are you free?  Freedom is not defined by the distance between "out of bounds" posts but rather, the ability to be present and productive and challenged right where you stand.  In your dorm room, in your bedroom, in a conference room, staring at your social feed or walking the track at Taft.  Are you captive or free?  I'm through walking now.  I think I'll have a lemonade and check the menu for lunch, its the weekend!!! 

James Catlidge is serving a 60-month sentence for a white collar crime. He is a businessman that got caught up in a criminal probe. Prior to surrendering, he began writing a blog. We are recording James’ blog, Innocent from the Inside, to help more people understand the challenges of surrendering to federal prison.

James serves his sentence with dignity, and readers may find hope in his positive mindset.

For more information, visit PrisonProfessors.com

Below is the written version of his blog from one of his entries, describing his second week in a federal prison camp.

Prison is an amazing social science experiment.  As I observe my fellow inmates and occasionally insert counsel, I'm struck by the difficulty that brilliant men have with doing their time.  Men I respect for their intellect can suffer so needlessly.  I'm left to assume they must of had a spouse or friend or child in their life that assisted them on the outside.  Life is very easy here IF you are aware of your surroundings, use your manners, show outward respect, assume nothing, talk less, listen more, stay clean, groom yourself and keep neat, clean, tidy cubicles and stay vigilant with exercise and nutrition.  Remove any one of those and your time becomes difficult quickly.  Bad habits equal hard time.  Good habits equal easy time.

 As a simple example, my lawyer friend, Sean, and I crossed each other in the hallway and he was moving sloth-like, walking in the middle, not his lane. When a black gentleman, A.D. says, "get the hell out of the way".  It scared Sean so badly he almost fell down.  I flipped around quickly and told A.D. that "I'll take care of it".  I grabbed my smart friend, Sean, and ushered him to his cube and sat him down on his bed and said, "do you know what just happened out there?" Sean says "NO"!  I then said, "Sean are you OK? You've lost 35 pounds, you look great but your energy level is so low, you're wandering the hall like a crazy man and moving like a sloth."  He says, in total sincerity, "really?"  I said, "Sean, you're my friend, trust me, you are moving like a sloth."

We then go through the food he is eating, which was a guess as to his decline in energy and aimless behavior.  We discovered he literally is starving himself.  We discussed hallway etiquette and self-awareness and then planned the balance of today's food intake and hopefully my brilliant friend will self correct.  A.D. came by and said 'What's wrong with that weirdo"?  I said he's exhausted and has lost so much weight.  He needed to increase calories, but he's OK.

Those odd self-inflicted behaviors are everywhere, young and old, smart and not so smart.  Anybody headed to prison must be advised that self-governance is essential.  A strong independent minded person can adapt quickly to prison life.  Anyone dependent on others for daily decision making will suffer.  My great friend, Margaret, visited me yesterday and what a wonderful time we shared in the visitation room.  Margaret was so good to me throughout my legal ordeal.  She was one of my top advisors when the case hit.  Margaret was harassed, sued and maligned unfairly and her visit was so emotionally healthy for us both.  I'm so very grateful for Margaret and her wonderful husband, Mel, for their undying support, even while they faced their own wrongful persecution.  Real friends reveal themselves in the difficult times in our lives.

I am keeping a gratitude journal in here (Ken Hogan suggested this).  I look at at it and add to it regularly.  Today, I am reminded of the immense value of real friendship and its power to keep the lights on in the darkest days.

This last week I moved to my new cube 6 Low, a window view of the sunset side of the yard.  I look out at 60 foot trees that are in their fall color transition.  I love my cube.  It has only one bunk bed in it and much more room.  I've finally outgrown the busy hallway by the bathroom. Its dark at night, serenely quiet and filled with natural light throughout the day.  The window is 8 feet tall and 2 feet wide and starts about 3 feet from the floor and goes up to the ceiling.  The window frames the entire recreation portion of the yard.

I am sitting at my desk this Sunday morning at 6:40 AM, looking out at the track as I write this.  I am settled and will likely not move again until I come home.  I can do this.  I can grow mentally here.  I am becoming stronger here.  I will work on all that is wrong with me here.  I have a list of self improvement projects that will all be worked on here at A4A 6 Low, my current home.

I love you all and continue to benefit from your thoughts, prayers and kindness.

Life is Good,    James.

105. Insights from Federal Prison Camp

Innocent from The Inside Blog: By James Catlidge

James Catlidge is serving a 60-month sentence for a white collar crime. He is a businessman that got caught up in a criminal probe. Prior to surrendering, he began writing a blog. We are recording James’ blog, Innocent from the Inside, to help more people understand the challenges of surrendering to federal prison.

James serves his sentence with dignity, and readers may find hope in his positive mindset.

For more information, visit PrisonProfessors.com

Below is the written version of his blog from one of his entries, describing his second week in a federal prison camp.

There is a rhythm or an ebb and flow to the camp population here at Taft Camp.  Every week men leave for home and new men arrive, either self-surrender or transfer from another prison.  Oddly, those departing are sad and excited.  We, also, are sad and excited.  We share 24 hours a day, all meals, classes, recreation, church, deep talks, intense debates with each other, a bond, a trust.  Respect is built quickly.  Your true nature cannot be hidden here.  You are not leaving.  You cannot hide.  This facility has developed a peaceful, rule following culture.  The rebels are punished severely, only the smartest mavericks can maintain their rebellious nature.   No slick talker lasts long.  No hustler can maintain his hustle here.

The inmates provide the ultimate in social order.  The C.O.'s (correction officers) operate control out on the fringe where the nutty inmates can't help themselves.

I'm having some clothes custom tailored this week (a real luxury in here)  Our wardrobe is limited.  We wear khaki slacks, white t-shirts, mesh athletic shorts, long sleeve white t-shirts and sneakers.  There is only one tailor in the camp.  Douglas is my friend.  He has all my pants with custom pockets, tapered and hemmed at the bottom, the pockets are slanted and have a plush material for the inside to hold my photo I.D.  Our issued pants from laundry have no pockets and are always longer or shorter than they should be.  Douglas comes in to my cube and chalks waist, inseam and the slanted front pocket location.  He even fits my shirts.  He does not like it when his friends are walking around in ill-fitting clothes.  We all look alike except for the custom features that Douglas creates.  There is some pride in the custom clothes, very odd, I know. 

Another unique luxury are the barbers.  There are 5 barbers.  Thank God, the white barber has outside experience.  Some don't!! I get my haircut every 2 weeks.  The cost is free but I tip him one tuna or a package of M&M's.  He goes home to Vegas in one month (UH-OH).

My bunkmate, Steve, goes home in three months.  I'll miss him.  We walk together, 3 miles a day around the track while I'm recovering.  We walk from 8:00-8:35 PM, while the sun is setting.  We get amazing sunsets with brilliant orange, red skies as the sun works its way down behind the distant hilly landscape.  It's just beautiful.

Each time a man leaves for home,  it's a tradition give away your things to friends, almost a presentation of sorts.  The more valuable items to the closest friends.  You take nothing with you, that's the tradition.

This week, two friends will go home.  We also have a pecking order based on seniority for a change in cubes, when a good one is vacated.  There are 2 window cubes coming available this week, but I don't want to leave Steve, so I will not apply..

I'm recovering well, all soreness is gone and God's miracle remains an amazing memory for me and Dunn. here at Taft.  I still get asked everyday to explain what happened and when I do, I know and they do, too, that God helped Dunn fix me that hot day in July!

105. Insights from Federal Prison Camp

Innocent from The Inside Blog: By James Catlidge

James Catlidge is serving a 60-month sentence for a white collar crime. He is a businessman that got caught up in a criminal probe. Prior to surrendering, he began writing a blog. We are recording James’ blog, Innocent from the Inside, to help more people understand the challenges of surrendering to federal prison.

James serves his sentence with dignity, and readers may find hope in his positive mindset.

For more information, visit PrisonProfessors.com

Below is the written version of his blog from one of his entries, describing his second week in a federal prison camp.

Very dramatic week.  I have insulated myself both physically and mentally for the road ahead.  As each of you know, I am an optimist having grown up on the sunny side of the mountain.  I earnestly prepared to be here.  I immediately deployed a strategy of kindness, openness and seek to be very helpful with everyone here at Camp.  I cross racial lines, language and religious barriers.  This strategy has allowed me to live peacefully and build relationships that are essential to make life at Camp easier.  This week I got two reminders of where I am:

1.  My workout buddy, Mike, who is 6'2", white, 220 lbs. was physically threatened by a crazy inmate on the tennis court.  They don't do a lot of talking here, things get escalated quickly.  The awkward part is WE were playing doubles and winning and the other guy was losing his cool.  Mike approached the net to discuss the obvious verbal altercation and was told the following, "do you want to go in the bathroom and settle this right now?"  Then this was said, "you don't have a door on your cube where you sleep at night."  This of course, is not a wise thing to say.  Immediately I'm left to jump in the middle and crazy guy's partner also jumps in and after a few more verbal threats both guys back off.  But the reality of grown men willing to lose their freedom over a tennis match was disturbing.

2.  My VERY good friend, Jay, is a dishwasher in the kitchen.  Very high moral character.  His IQ is 159 (a chartered member of MENSA) on the outside he is a high level securities lawyer.  I personally review many things with him for his assessment .  NO DOUBT the smartest man I've ever known -- #2 is Bud Dock. So Jay had 2 Mexican gang members stealing food by the pound right in front of him.  He warned them to stop (its our food).  Jay was trying to protect our food from these thieves.  They bristled and told him to mind his own business.  When he left for his job the next morning at 6:00 am., they entered his cube and poured Mackerel (stinky fish) in his clothes, on his bed, in his shoes and ruined all of his stuff.  This hurts because it has the real potential to escalate quickly into a war with whites versus Mexican gang.  As I soon learned, this theft has been going on for years, an economy unto itself that Jay just naively stepped in the middle of,  Jay is now classified as a "snitch".  So I am carefully navigating my relationships attempting to turn down the volume on this.  As I write this Jay and I have had hours of discussion about human nature and the prison/camp life that is very unique to the world we came from.  Jay needs both a friend and advice.  I will be both.

My week has been a sobering reminder of where I am and who is in here with me.  I expect things to settle down, but it is very volatile.  Looking forward to a calm week ahead.  I AM SAFE! 

Innocent from The Inside Blog: By James Catlidge

James Catlidge is serving a 60-month sentence for a white collar crime. He is a businessman that got caught up in a criminal probe. Prior to surrendering, he began writing a blog. We are recording James’ blog, Innocent from the Inside, to help more people understand the challenges of surrendering to federal prison.

James serves his sentence with dignity, and readers may find hope in his positive mindset.

For more information, visit PrisonProfessors.com

Below is the written version of his blog from one of his entries, describing his second week in a federal prison camp.

Lots of oddities that make life at Camp interesting.

Visitation: Friday, Saturday, Sunday and all Federal holidays. We

meet our visitors in a large visitation room located in the front of the

Camp. All visitors can arrive as early as 9:00 AM and

must leave by 3:00 PM. 5 vending machines has every snack you

can imagine. You must bring usually 2 rolls of quarters to use the

machines. All of those snacks are only available to us when we

have visitors.

JPAY: This is our total communications system email, telephone --

all cost money through JPAY. You, as my friend, can download

the app on your phone and send me emails, pictures or money for

me to use JPAY. You must use my name and number to

communicate with me #17658-111.

Food: We eat at 6:00, 10:30 and 4:30 PM and these meals are

served in the cafeteria. We eat with our dorm only. There are 4

dorms (75-80 in each). The food is LOW quality. The only other

option is to purchase food that is more desirable from the

commissary. We are limited to one trip per week to the

commissary. We purchase everything there-underwear,

socks, a mirror, shampoo, notebook paper, pens, protein powder,

fruit and vegetables. They restrict our monthly budget to $360 for

everything: food/phone/e-mail/stamps and clothes.

I ran out after the first 10 days just buying clothes and shoes to

wear.

Camp Employees: Correction Officers: These are the police, some

are mean and some are nice. We work hard to stay out of their

way. They have the power to put you in solitary confinement.

Counselor: My counselor is the lady I go to for all of my needs at

Camp, from my job to updating my phone list.

Sergeant: He is the BOSS over the entire facility. All C.O.s report

to the Sarg

Education Director: Mrs. Robinson gets you signed up for all of the

classes you want to take

here. She runs the school here.

Recreation Director: This guy runs all of our softball, soccer, volley

ball, basketball and tennis

matches.

Medical Staff: There is a head doctor, dentist and 3 nurses. They

manage all medical needs or medication we may need.

My Address/Home: My cubicle 36 Low is where I sleep, also my

home. Its a cinder block room that is 6' high that holds 1 bunk bed

and 1 flat bed on the ground plus 2 lockers and one

pull out drawer under the single bed. The dimensions are 10'x8'.

We also have 3 chairs in each cubicle. The chair is plastic like an

outdoor stackable patio chair. Your address 36L

is on your chair, your locker and your clothes. I'm very lucky. I

have my cubicle all to myself.

We are required to stay in our cube for all Counts (4 at night)(2 in

the day). I can change cubes every 6 months by completing bunk

change paperwork. You must stay where you are for another 6

months after any change. I am located directly across from the

showers/sinks/toilets. They call my cubicle "Flushing Meadows". I

don't mind it.

TV/Radio: TV rooms are divided by race. I'm in the White Only TV

room. Everybody starts on Row 1 and then the TV Boss decides

when you can change your seating. Our Boss moved me to Row 3

in week 2 and now can see all of the TVs and tune in using my

radio and ear buds. My bunk is close enough to the TV room that I

can tune in from my cube.

This place is like summer camp with a few crazies. I'm good, safe

and heathy.

Love you all, James

Innocent from The Inside Blog: By James Catlidge

James Catlidge is serving a 60-month sentence for a white collar crime. He is a businessman that got caught up in a criminal probe. Prior to surrendering, he began writing a blog. We are recording James’ blog, Innocent from the Inside, to help more people understand the challenges of surrendering to federal prison.

James serves his sentence with dignity, and readers may find hope in his positive mindset.

For more information, visit PrisonProfessors.com

Below is the written version of his blog from one of his entries, describing his second week in a federal prison camp.

It takes 21 days to build a habit. Today is day 13. I’m adjusting to the rhythm and sounds unique to Camp. Our housing is 2 and 3 man cubicles.

The population is so light that I have been afforded my own cubicle. This is a real luxury. I can write, read, think, be left alone or invite a friend into my cube for a nice chat.

The floors are concrete and the ceiling is like a warehouse ceiling with pipes and

vents.

We are required to be standing in our cube at 10:00 AM and 4 :00 PM, 7 days a week. This process is called “count”.

No matter where you are on the compound, you are required to be standing in your cube at 10:00 AM and 4:00 PM. Additionally, we all can hear the sounds of count because 2 corrections officers (CO’s) enter our dorm and yell “count”. We all scurry back to our personal cube

and we can hear the sound of enormous keys banging against each other on the belt of each CO. They march single file all the way

down the hall counting each of us twice. They count on the way down and on the way back. “Count” is concluded with the yelling of the word “clear”. We then resume our day.

There are good men here. Many, falsely accused, serving very long sentences. I have been pulled into 2 groups (adopted)—the white, older, intellectual men, ages 60-75. I am the youngest. They have a section in the TV room and they placed my chair with them.

The second group that sucked me in is the fitness crew. I workout with them 6:30-9:00 AM every day. Six of us take the tennis courts at 11:30 AM every day.

Lots of sunscreen is required here. This Camp location has long, beautiful, sunny days and we are

outside a bunch.

Classes are held at night. I will be offered a job in the next couple of weeks. The hours will depend on the job. The laundry is done by another inmate.

Our cube is inspected, intensely, every Thursday. That inspection dictates what order we go to the Chow Hall.

Two weeks now, we have finished in 3rd place out of 4. The Camp is very clean. No tolerance, whatsoever, for filth, mess or disorder.

Overall, a really good thing.

I love you all. Please put a visit on your calendar. I would love to see you.

From the blog of James Catlidge: Innocent from the Inside

In the final stretch now..........12 days remaining and the preparations for unplugging, exiting the grid continue. I will use this Post to provide you with details about logistics available to me to stay connected to you:

TELEPHONE: I have 300 minutes per month, I will focus those minutes on the kids and my mother, If I  do call you and you are not my mother or my children then we will be brief. I have been told that the minutes are going up to 450 soon, which will allow much better connection with all of  you. So with all this in mind the old adage "don't call me I'll call you" seems to apply here.

MAIL: Mail day I have been advised is a significant day at camp, all men are lined up as one camper is assigned as his job to be the mailman and deliver to every recipient their mail once per week. 90% of men standing at their dorm door receive NO MAIL yet they all stand in hopes that each new mail day may bring them a message from the outside. I have been mailing several men inside mail alerting them of my arrival and looking for a personal tour when I arrive. This is my address for your greetings and wisdom, I can receive regular mail, newspaper and magazine subscriptions and paperback books (would love to read any books you send me:

                                    JAMES CATLEDGE

                                    #17658-111

                                     Taft Federal Camp

                                     PO Box 7001

                                     Taft, Ca. 93268

VISITING DAYS: Every Friday-Sunday, 9am-3pm. The Camp uses a point system that favors Friday visits and charges me more points for weekend visits. Visitors can stay all day and can hug, kiss, hold hands and speak privately in an open setting. I'm hopeful you can squeeze into your busy lives a road trip or two my address is: Taft Camp

                                                             1500 Cadet road

                                                             Taft, California

                                                              93268

SATELLITE IMAGE of Taft Camp: 

CLICK HERE Taft Camp and Taft Minimum Security prison

In this image there are 2 facilities, an actual minimum security prison where 2,500 men are housed and the Federal Camp where I will be which has 312 men in a dormitory style setting. Look close at the image and you will see many athletic fields and tennis courts, I have been told there is also a music hall and culinary arts school. I will build a daily routine that will allow my time to pass with purpose and personal growth.

101. Discover Insights From Federal Prison Camp: Memorializing a Journey to Prison Camp with James Catlidge #2 Innocent from the Inside

In Victor Frankls book "Man's Search for Meaning" (written while in a German concentration camp) he contends.... "EVERYTHING can be taken from a man but one thing, the last of the human freedoms- to choose one's own attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way."......lots of meetings with new friends have yielded so much knowledge about my upcoming vacation, I was referred to a new friend Michael Santos (amazing story) who spent 23 years in Federal Prison for a crime he did commit and decided early on that he would emerge a new man. I can tell you having spent 4 electric hours with him that he is unlike any man I have EVER met with. I realized during our visit That I have spent 30 years working on me, reading every book on self-improvement I could get my hands on and ultimately making my career a 30 year focus on team building, lifting, encouraging, mentoring.....Michael Santos was doing the exact same thing behind bars! He studied read and mastered the content from the exact same books I had read and mentored fellow inmates and received his Doctorate, Masters and undergraduate degrees all from behind bars! He published 20 books several best sellers and from behind bars made millions in book sales and trading stocks through his sisters brokerage account. He today, 5 years on the outside has thrived, Married to a great woman who followed him to every prison he was serving at, Michael is networked across the USA with great people from all walks of life  because he DECIDED, his time away would be dedicated to building a great life. I will share more as it develops but let this post give fair warning, many among us are living lives in a prison they built called their life and will never serve time behind any physical bars and there a few are in actual prison who are free in almost every sense of the word. Freedom is a state of mind, The day Michael Santos was released from Taft camp (his final stop) he was invited to be a Professor at San Francisco state university in the criminal justice department. Michael had NEVER been on any college campus, EVER until that invitation came. He had the most attended class on campus, kids sitting on the floor to hear him teach lessons on life and liberty. Liberty, as I'm sure you've considered is not a physical thing but a mental state. I am most grateful for the new friend I have met on this most circuitous journey toward my destiny!

The link for more on Michael Santos can be clicked here: michaelsantos.com

It was early on in the legal battle, My lawsuit against the Developer had been dismissed by the Judge, all my company's clients were now at risk of losing the condos they bought. New lawyers were swirling, at least 10 new lawsuits had been filed naming me as a defendant. The Government was now finally interested in investigating the case I had reported 4 years previously. I was getting calls from friends letting me know the FBI had just been to their home, I also learned I needed to hire a NEW, additional legal team that specialized in "criminal defense" just in case I was a "Target" of the FBI investigation. I am not a fearful person, nor do I spend much energy playing the "what if"  game but the heaviness was palpable. All of these circumstances combined seemed to be eroding my power to cope. I had begun playing racquetball with a dear friend Leon just months before, we would meet at 9pm and play til they threw us out at 11pm. We talked and beat each others brains out several times a week and on this particular night around 11:20pm I arrived at my driveway and as I made the 100 yard push up the hill I took note all the lights were off and all 6 babies and Momma were sound asleep. I pulled into my stall nearest the outer edge of the house and I did not want to get out of the car, I thought about each of my kids, I went room to room in my head thinking about their lives, their total lack of awareness that ANYTHING was wrong, at least that's what I had hoped. I clicked the overhead garage door button and just sat there as it came down, eventually the overhead light in the garage went off, a few minutes passed and I thought to myself .....One day I will pull into this garage and it will all be over, what will that feel like? my mind went further down this trail, no more news articles misrepresenting the truth, no more parents approaching me or my wife with that suspicious look, no more rumors at church that weaken the strongest of us.....one day, one day this will all be over! So i decided to stay into this exploratory thought stream and in total darkness I said to myself  what will be different if it all ended tomorrow? I began answering my own questions 1. Friends will say I'm glad its over for your sake  2.strangers will say nothing 3. bad friends will already have faded away, cause they did. It was so clear as though Heaven was literally directing my thoughts, the only thing that matters is my mindset, my internal confident spirit, I decided in that garage on that night in 2010 that I would face this cascading legal tidal wave as an event in my calendar ONLY and I would face life with my head high and my shoulders back and talk with anyone and everyone who needed questions answered. I would face this dragon head on and not be twisted or eroded by the nastiness of litigation. I exited my car, I went room to room looking in on each child as they slept and assured them in my mind they were going to be OK because dad decided tonight that this is OVER! I sat with the older kids that next day with Tiffany in tears as I explained at a high level that dad had been accused of something he did not do and that it was probably going to be in the newspaper and We would be fighting the false charges. Later that week we met with the kids elementary school principal in our home and gave her clarity about the accusations and how we were handling it.I can honestly say, since that day in 2010 in my garage in total darkness I won the battle, the weight was lifted, the energy returned and my optimism has never left. There was obviously a foggy long road still ahead but my mind would be my asset through every twist and turn. The lesson for me was, friends are friends forever and great friends pull in closer, nurturing in tough times. The waiting for the drama to end in order to feel good again was a myth created by my mind. If I created the myth, I could destroy it. That night, I learned a life lesson, deal with every challenge head on but don't imagine challenges that are not real, don't add to the drama. Life is tough enough, why allow my attitude, my imagination to work against me. I decided to handle every lawyer call, lawyer meeting, every court appearance as an other item in my calendar. I would live my life and enjoy every moment in between, no more fretting, fearing, imagining the worst. I now only deal with real issues, that life presents in real-time. You can learn a lot in the darkness of your garage.