Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term by Michael Santos
Reading Chapter 10.3
Months 180-190
******
When I enter the visiting room on New Year’s morning, the large room feels empty. I appreciate the relative silence. Other than the whir of the vending machine, there’s nothing else to distract us. Carole and her daughter sit beside each other in the maroon plastic chairs.
Carole looks lovely in her heavy wool coat, long blonde hair contrasting beautifully against the navy blue. She stands to greet me as I walk toward her.
Nichole sits calmly, showing none of the distress I see in her mother. At 11 she resembles Carole, but with dark hair curling in natural waves around her heart-shaped face. A light sprinkle of freckles dot the bridge of her nose. Her hazel-blue eyes look directly into mine as I kneel in front of her chair and greet her. “You must be Nichole. I’m Michael, and I’m very happy to meet you.”
“Hi Michael. This place is huge.”
“Yes, and we’re lucky that it’s not filled with people already,” I say with a smile.
“Nichole, honey,” Carole says “we’re only going to be here for an hour. Why don’t you get a hot chocolate from the vending machine and then walk over and see what’s in the kids’ area. I need to talk with Michael.”
“But I want to talk with him too.”
“We’re going to visit again in a couple of days,” I tell her. “And if you want, you can sit with your mom and me the whole time. Is that okay?”
Nichole nods her head. Carole hands her several quarters from the clear plastic coin purse she brings for buying the vending machine food. As Nichole walks toward the kids’ area, sipping hot chocolate, I hold Carole’s hands in mine and squeeze them to reassure her. “Did you sleep okay?”
She breathes in deeply and slowly, exhales, and then says she slept fine.
“Honey, I should be comforting you, but we don’t have much time. Because it’s a holiday, every hour we spend in here today is costing us double against our monthly allotment of 30 hours. We have to act fast, and we need a plan, okay?”
“If we run out of time, I think Office Cruz will let me in.”
“Carole,” I caution her, “this is prison. He may have let you in last night because he was alone and he felt sorry for you. We can’t live on the edge like that. We have to budget our visits. The system controls everything and we have to succeed in spite of it.”
“What do you want me to do?” she asks, eyes filling with tears.
“Last night you said you wanted to stay here. Are you sure?”
“I’m absolutely sure.”
“Good, because I want you to stay with me. Every decision we make has to be consistent with our goal of bringing you stability, and it’s not going to be easy But we have to make a 100 percent commitment to making it work, no matter how painful the decisions.”
“I’ve already got the newspaper and I’m looking for apartments.”
“Honey, think about that. You don’t know this area, the schools, the neighborhood, or where you’re going to work. How much do you think it will cost to rent an apartment?”
“I’m guessing about $1,000 a month, more or less,” she answers.
“To move in, then, you’ll need first, last, and security. Then you’ll need money for utilities and necessities. You’re going to drop $5,000 minimum to set yourself up. That doesn’t seem like a good plan to me, especially since you don’t know where you’ll work or how much you’ll earn. We need stability.”
“What do you think I should do?”
“Remember the story I wrote about Richard, a guy who arrived here a few months ago? You typed it for me and posted it on the Web.”
Carole pauses, trying to recall. “Vaguely. You’ve sent me so many stories.”
“Richard’s wife lives a few miles from here, in Mount Holly. She has a little boy and a four-bedroom house. I asked Richard last night if his wife would rent you a couple of rooms. You could move in today, and the two of you could support each other. Nichole would have another child to keep her company, and you could catch your breath, get your bearings.”
“Michael, I can’t move in with a stranger.” Carole doesn’t see the merit in my suggestion.
“Carole, this isn’t going to be easy. I’m sending you $10,000. That money has to cover all of your expenses until you start earning a paycheck. You need to get settled. You need a car. Nichole needs to start school again next week. This lady can help you.”
“But I don’t know her, Michael. You’re asking me to live with a stranger. I’m not concerned about me, Honey. I have to consider Nichole’s well-being.”
I put my arm around her and pull her close. “Do you trust me?”
“Of course I trust you.”
“And do you want to build your life with me, grow old with me?”
“Yes.”
“Then you have to work with me. I can steer us through this crisis, but we both have to understand that the decisions we make today, from this minute, will determine where we are tomorrow.” I extend my arm and open my hand. “Do you see that?”
“See what?”
“My fingers. Each of those represents a year. That’s five years. Can you make it through five years with me?”
“I’m going to make it through forever with you.”
“Okay. Well let’s focus on five years. In five years, your life will be totally different from what it is now if we work together. You’ll be stable, with your own money in the bank, money you’ve earned. We won’t succeed by accident. We need to make tough decisions now, to commit and recommit 100 percent with every decision, reaching toward that five-year mark. When we make it to five, then we’ll work toward the next five. By then I’ll almost be ready for release. And you’ll be independent. Do you want that?”
“Yes.”
“Then you have to make hard choices now. Thank God we have this money from my stock account. But we can’t squander it with bad decisions. We have to focus on stabilizing you as quickly as possible. If you meet Richard’s wife with that goal in mind, understanding that she’s an answer to a prayer for us to be together, then you’ll see the move as a step that leads us closer to our five-year goal.”
“What if we don’t get along?”
“That’s up to you and the way that you approach her. She needs you and you need her. You can make it work.”
******
Carole settles in with her new housemate, Catherine, and she enrolls Nichole in school. It’s early spring, 2003, and the job market is terrible. Through sheer resourcefulness, Carole learns that she can earn an income by providing notary services to the mortgage industry. She secures the necessary credentials and becomes self-employed, earning an income sufficient to support her and Nichole.
I’m walking along the road inside the Fort Dix fences, admiring the warm sunbeams that cut through the wire mesh and razor wire, reflecting off the shiny metal. Fragrant cherry blossoms and blooming flowerbeds fill the air with the scent of spring. I’m filled with appreciation for the blessings in my life. Through the fence I watch Carole’s tan Toyota Corolla pull into the visitor’s parking lot.
She can’t see me, as I’m only one prisoner among thousands wearing khakis inside the compound. I watch her walk briskly, wearing her red skirt and jacket, heels clicking on the asphalt, hair blowing behind her, rushing to pass through the checkpoints to visit me. She thinks she’s surprising me, but my only surprise is her remarkable consistency and devotion to serving this time with me. Carole wants us to marry, but I put her off. Marriage is easy for me, I tell her. I’m a prisoner and she’s a beautiful woman. I’m giving her all that I am as it is, and I freely commit to her, but there’s no rush. I want her to understand all the complications of prison before we marry.
“I watched you as you parked, as you rushed across the parking lot. You didn’t surprise me,” I tell her after our kiss.
“I drove fast to get here in time for the last two hours of visiting.”
“I’m always expecting you.”
The visiting room has become our living room. We sometimes walk through the rows and aisles of chairs, holding hands, chatting with other prison families. She buys dinner for me from the vending machines. It’s always the same menu choice of frozen pizza, burritos, or hamburgers that she cooks in the microwave.
“I like preparing your food,” she says, and watches me eat.
“This is what it’s going to be like when we’re old and living together in a nursing home,” I tease. “We’ll have familiar faces around us, strangers we recognize, but we’ll have our own life. You can push my wheelchair.”
“Wherever you are, that’s where I want to be,” she wipes a napkin against my mouth. “Why do you eat so fast?”
“I got used to it over the years. The guards rush us out of the chow hall. You’ll have to teach me manners once they release me.”
“You don’t even taste your food. You just inhale.” She tilts her head in amazement. “And how can you eat so much?”
“Believe me, I taste it. Besides, this is how I test if you really love me. If you can stand to watch me eat, I know you’ll stay with me.”
“I’ll stay with you,” she says, and then adds, “but you better stay with me at the dinner table until I’m finished!”
We walk around the room and stop by the television as President Bush grabs hold of the lectern to address the nation.
“I can’t stand all this talk about going into Iraq. For what?” I say, shaking my head in disgust at the image of Bush in his familiar blue suit with his open arms and ridiculous gestures. “How many soldiers have to lose their lives for his ambitions?”
“I just wish he’d let you out,” Carole squeezes my hand.
“Forget about that happening under his rule.”
******
When I return to the housing unit after our visit I see scores of prisoners gathered in front of the bulletin board. They’re cursing and complaining.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Fuckin’ warden,” one prisoner says. “More fuckin’ bullshit, fuckin’ with my peoples. I ain’t gonna be able to see my babies’ mammas.”
I push my way through the crowd to read the memo. It cites the nation’s elevated security-threat level and the imminent war in Iraq as a reason behind the warden’s new rule that limits visiting to immediate family members only. That means he will only authorize parents, children, siblings, and wives to visit until further notice. My heart sinks.
Carole has only been living in New Jersey for three months, but our lives are now linked. She is overseeing the development of my new website, MichaelSantos.net, and helping to establish my “brand.” She is the link between my publishers and me, and she has complete responsibility for the publishing company she formed to market and distribute books I’m writing.
We’ve begun our lives as a family, planning and preparing for my life upon release in 2013. Despite Carole’s cross-country move to living just minutes away, this new rule will not permit us to see each other. I call to tell her about the new mandate.
“Well, are they going to increase the phone-minute allotment so we can at least talk more?”
“We’ll still have to make do with 300 phone minutes a month.”
“How can they say they promote community ties if they make rules that are so hard on families?”
“Honey, this is my life. It’s what I’ve been telling you. They can do whatever they choose and for any reason. I don’t have any control.”
“Then we have to get married, Michael. We can’t wait. We’re a family.”
“Baby, we shouldn’t get married just to visit. Marriage is for the rest of our lives, and you have to be absolutely sure you can handle the rest of my sentence.”
“I know exactly what I’m doing. Whatever the system does to you, it does to me, too. We’re in this together.”
Carole is an amazing woman and I feel so grateful to have her love.
******
I initiate the necessary paperwork to marry. My case manager, Mr. Lawson, is sitting behind his messy metal desk when I hand him the official request.
“What’s this, a marriage request?”
“That’s right. I’m getting married.”
“Thought you was smarter den dat. After all dese years, you ain’t learnt? Prison’s a place to get divorced, not married.” He laughs.
“When I start looking for advice on building happiness from prison guards, I’ll look you up,” I respond. There's too much venom in my retort.
Mr. Lawson puts the forms on his desk and glares at me. “I’s a case manager. Ain’t no prison guards here. Dey’s ‘correctional officers’. Get it straight.”
Mr. Lawson reviews the form. “Goin’ hafta run dis by da unit team, den send it on up to da warden. I’ll let you know. Now git outta he’r.”
“This isn’t a discretionary issue,” I tell him. “The Supreme Court says I have a constitutional right to marry. You can’t block the request.”
“Boy, don’t be spittin’ no law at me. We gots a war goin’ on. Security ̓a da insta-tution. We goin’ review yo request, an’ like I says, I’ll let you know. Wha’s up? You gotta problem wit dat?”
While I brace myself for a bureaucratic struggle to receive permission to marry, I urge Carole to use this time when we can’t visit to enroll in a real estate class. The wife of another prisoner is a broker for Prudential. She’s offered to bring Carole on as an agent and teach her the trade.
Instead of a bureaucratic struggle, a staff shakeup results in a new case manager who is much nicer, and a new unit manager, Mr. Jones, who recently transferred to Fort Dix from USP Leavenworth. Mr. Jones, or TJ, as I’ve heard staff members cordially refer to him, is in his early 30s, black, well-dressed, and built like an NFL linebacker. He is respectful and totally professional. When I approach him about my marriage request he congratulates me, assuring me that he’ll push the approval through in time for a June wedding.
******
I wake early on my wedding day, June 24, 2003, smiling. I’ll celebrate this day with Carole for the rest of my life. I step outside to run, feeling the humidity of an East Coast summer, but the breeze I generate by running cools my skin. I’ve paid a heavy price with this prison term, surrendering most of my life as a consequence, but now I have Carole. Although prison rules require two witnesses at our wedding, Nichole isn’t allowed to participate because she’s still younger than 18. I would’ve liked Julie to come, but she just gave birth to her second child, Sophia. My father is in an Alzheimer’s home, unable even to talk with me over the phone, much less travel. But I’m happy that both my mom and my younger sister, Christina, are flying in from Miami for the ceremony. My mother calls Carole my ‘angel’ and the description suits her perfectly.
Two hours in the visiting room is all that we’re going to have, but it’s a fitting place for the ceremony because it’s where we spend all of our time together. I’ll wear a wedding ring when I walk out. Julie sent us the matching silver bands as a wedding gift. The rings will symbolize our commitment and once Carole slides mine onto my finger, I intend to keep it on forever. We’ll make this work.
I finish running eight miles and slow my pace to a walk when I see Bob. He extends his hand. “Congratulations, Buddy. I’m glad we’ve met, and I wish you and Carole happiness, good health, and prosperity. You’re going to make her an excellent husband.”
“Thanks, Bob. Your friendship means a great deal to me, and I appreciate your good wishes. I’m sorry you can’t be there for the ceremony.”
“We’ll have a party when you’re out, when we’re both home.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
“Are your mom and sister here?”
“I hope so. They’re supposed to be with Carole now. I’d better go shower.”
“Good luck, and God bless.”
Wearing crisply ironed khakis and polished black leather shoes, I look as sharp as a prisoner can when I present my ID card to Lieutenant Marks.
“This has got to be the stupidest thing you’ve ever done,” the lieutenant says sarcastically, shaking his head. “You ought to tattoo the word ‘fool’ right across your forehead.” He points to his head then loudly slurps coffee from his foam cup.
I strain to hold my sarcasm in check. He’d like nothing better than to unsnap one of the leather compartments on his heavy black leather belt, pull out a set of shiny metal handcuffs, and slap them on my wrist, canceling this special day for Carole and me.
“If you’re going through with it, let’s go. I got a prison to run.” He leads me into the visiting room, without a preliminary strip search. Four other prisoners come along, as they’ll be marrying today as well. I don’t know them. I’m too consumed with the excitement coursing through me to concern myself with anyone else.
I sit in a chair and watch for Carole. When the door opens I stand, smiling as this beautiful lady walks toward me. More than a year has passed since my mother or Christina have visited and I’m grateful they made the special trip for my wedding ceremony, but I can’t take my eyes off of Carole. Her cream-colored suit compliments her slender figure, and I like the graceful way she walks. She opens her arms and we embrace, sharing a kiss while my mom and sister stand by watching.
“Thanks for coming, Mom,” I turn to hug her. She’s always emotional when she sees me, and this morning isn’t any different. My imprisonment has been incredibly difficult for my mom.
“I’m so happy you have such a beautiful bride, so happy for both of you.”
I hug my sister next. Christina is four years younger than I am, petite and pretty, with long brown hair and a glowing face that resists aging. She’s been married for 15 years and is the mother of two girls, Isabella and Camilla, but she still can’t buy a bottle of wine without showing her ID.
“You’ve got to be the luckiest man in the world, convincing this beautiful woman to marry you in here,” my sister says, smiling.
“You’ve got that right!” I keep my arm around Carole and kiss her cheek.
“Honey, did you talk to Bob?” Carole asks.
“I saw him this morning. He sent his good wishes, why?”
“Did he tell you what he did?”
“No, what?”
“He sent a personal messenger to my house last night to deliver a wedding card, and inside there were two cashiers’ checks, each for five thousand dollars.”
“Wow! What a thoughtful, generous friend.”
“Can you believe it? I thought he didn’t want you to get married.”
“That was before he knew how extraordinary you were.”
“I sent him a thank you letter last night. Please tell him I’m grateful. What should I do with the money?”
“Put it in the bank,” I tell her.
“Geez, they should’ve at least done some decorating in here for the wedding,” Christina remarks. She’s looking around at the sterile setting of the visiting room as we all sit, side by side, in a single row of the plastic chairs placed in straight lines throughout the room. The polished floor shines. Six vending machines buzz under the bright, fluorescent lights.
“It’s too bad they couldn’t hold the wedding outside,” my mom says. “It’s such a beautiful summer day, perfect for a garden wedding.”
“We’re just happy that the day is finally here,” Carole says.
“I’ll marry you again when I come home,” I promise Carole while looking into her eyes.
“Honey, that must be the man who’s going to marry us,” Carole gestures to an older man in a black robe who walks in with Mr. Jones, my unit manager. The white-haired man carries a black leather portfolio, and he’s shaking hands with the two guards who supervise us from the platform.
“Is he a chaplain?” my mom asks.
“I think he’s a justice of the peace,” I answer.
“No,” Carole corrects me. “He’s the deputy mayor of New Hanover Township. That’s where I sent the check for our marriage license.”
The deputy mayor comes over to introduce himself, presents us with papers to sign, and instructs Carole about how to get an official copy of our marriage certificate. We’re the first couple to be married. He stands in front of us and begins the ceremony. Mom and Christina flank us, smiling. I hold Carole’s hand, grinning as I listen to him recite the marital vows, asking us in turn whether we take each other, in sickness and in health, for better or worse, until death parts us. Carole fills my heart with her “I do,” and I say the same. We’re married. Finally I get to kiss my bride, the lovely Carole Santos.
“I can’t believe they won’t give you any time alone,” Christina says. “That’s so cruel.”
“The honeymoon’s going to have to wait,” I say.
“We have the rest of our lives for our honeymoon,” Carole answers, kissing my cheek.
My mom and sister sit with us for a while, and then graciously leave to give Carole and me the last hour together. We’re not alone. Four other couples also being married today sit with their families in the chairs around us waiting for their turn.
“You’ve honored me today, Carole, making me as happy as I can possibly be.”
“I love you, Michael.”
“Someday I’ll buy you a house,” I promise.
“Someday I’ll make you a home,” she adds. “In the meantime, ‘home’ will be wherever we are. We’re in this together.”
“This is forever,” I twist my silver wedding band.
“There’s no place I’d rather be than with you.”
Lieutenant Marks brings an end to our time together. Ms. Davis, an attractive young woman who looks out of place in a prison guard’s uniform, smiles as she escorts Carole and the other brides out. Mr. Rodriguez, a guard who sports a tattoo of an American flag on his forearm, strip searches the five grooms, side by side. The other prisoners and I dress and return to the compound, each with a new wedding ring on his finger.
******
On August 9, 2003, Justice Anthony Kennedy of the U.S. Supreme Court delivers an extraordinary keynote speech at the American Bar Association’s annual convention in San Francisco. Carole sends me a copy of the text and highlights the parts she wants me to pay close attention to. I can’t believe what the Justice says to the nation’s lawyers. Justice Kennedy calls for prison reform, saying that America incarcerates too many people, that American prisoners often serve draconian sentences, and that a nation confident in its laws should not be afraid of compassion and mercy.
“Michael,” Carole urges during our evening visit, “don’t you think you should at least try for clemency again, especially after what Justice Kennedy said in his speech?”
“Baby, we can’t afford it. I’m not going to spend our money on an attorney when the odds are so far against us. President Bush isn’t going to commute my sentence.”
“But you’ve done so much. No other prisoner has earned university degrees, served 16 years, and published books that universities from across the country use. You don’t have any history of violence and now you’re married. I’ll bet if the president knew about you, he’d commute your sentence.”
“That’s the problem, he doesn’t know who I am. And unless I have a top legal team representing me, he’ll never know who I am. That’s one of the reasons we’re building the website. We need to attract lawyers who want to represent me because I’ve earned freedom, because they believe in me. Right now we don’t have the money to hire lawyers.”
“But you could at least file a clemency petition on your own. We don’t need lawyers to fill out the petition and send it in. At least that way we’d have a chance.”
“Okay,” I concede. “Print a blank petition and mail it to me. I’ll fill it out and we’ll collect some new supporting letters to file with it. But don’t get your hopes up on this. We need to keep preparing for 2013. That means I need to write, and you need to earn and save.”
“I’m doing my part.”
“Yes you are,” I squeeze her hand. “You’re wonderful.”
******
It’s Monday, November 17, 2003. Carole and I have been married for nearly five months when she comes to share her good news. When I walk toward her, she’s standing, wearing a glowing smile. The bright room is filled with other visitors, as noisy as a full auditorium.
“I passed my real estate test.”
“Congratulations!” I grab her in my arms, pull her close, and kiss her. “I told you all of your studying would pay off. How did you find out?”
“I called the real estate board this morning. I got a 97 on my exam.”
“Baby, you deserve to feel proud of yourself.”
She’s smiling. “I’m so happy honey, because I did it for you.”
When hundreds of people pack the visiting room, like today, some couples succeed in stealing a few extra kisses through the visit. I only kissed Carole when our visit began, as rules permit. That’s why I’m startled when the guard yells my name.
“Santos!” he hollers. An immediate hush quiets the entire room with his outburst.
I point my finger at my chest, making sure he’s yelling at me.
“Come to the desk,” he orders.
“But you didn’t do anything,” Carole objects as I stand and let go of her hands.
“Let me see what he wants.”
I walk through the columns and rows of visitors to approach the guard’s platform.
“Lieutenant wants to see you,” he tells me.
“Can’t it wait until after my visit?”
“Now. Officer Ruiz will take you through the back.”
I don’t look back at Carole, but follow Officer Ruiz to the dressing room. My heart starts beating faster, as I’ve never known anything good to come from a talk with a lieutenant.
“Where’s the lieutenant?” I inquire, looking around the empty room.
“Not here,” Officer Ruiz says. “He wants to see you in his office.”
“For what? What’s this about?”
“I don’t know,” Officer Ruiz admits. “He called us and told us to escort you over.”
“What about my visit?”
“He terminated your visit. Put your hands behind your back. I’ve got to cuff you up.”
Our TOPPODCAST Picks 
Stay Connected
