Prison Professors

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148. Earning Freedom (15.2), by Michael Santos May 05, 2022

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Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term, by Michael Santos Chapter 15.1 Podcast 148 / 25 minutes Forming nonprofit, Carole becoming a registered nurse, meeting Greg Reyes, starting to write Undefeated. Epilogue: 2009-2012 Months 260-300 It's May 20, 2009 and my friend Justin Paperny is being released from prison today. We work well together and I'll miss his companionship. For the past several months Justin has been joining me in a quiet room where I write each morning. One early morning session began with an idea for launching a nonprofit organization. Undertaking such a task would assist us in raising financial resources that we could rely upon to create products for the purpose of reducing recidivism. Our reasoning is simple, just an assessment of the facts. High-recidivism rates challenge our society in numerous ways, influencing the lives of citizens who don't grasp how America's commitment to mass incarceration influences their everyday lives. Whereas taxpayers want safer communities, better schools, and better health care, those who represent the prison machine want bigger budgets. That mindset of locking people up and throwing away the key leads to more overtime, more jobs for prison guards, and more expenditures on barbed wire fences, but it doesn't lead to safer communities. Rather, it diverts resources that society could use to build better schools, better hospitals, and offer more social services. People who serve time struggle to emerge with the types of values, skills, and resources that translate into success upon release. Statistics illustrate the problem. More than one out of every two people who serve time face continuing challenges from the criminal justice system after their release. That rate of failure leads to enormous costs for taxpayers, depleting public resources that would be better spent on education, health care, or other social services. I'm convinced that by working together, Justin and I can help reduce costs of recidivism and contribute to safer communities. Doing so will require financial teamwork and money for obvious reasons: neither Justin nor I can work for free. We have to earn a living, and the nonprofit could raise resources for the purposes of paying us for services we can offer. While Justin served time with me here in Taft it wasn't possible to advance the idea of launching a nonprofit. After all, forming a nonprofit organization isn't easy, especially when the principals are incarcerated. One lesson I learned over the decades is that all worthwhile goals begin with vision, but achieving them requires persistence and commitment. With Justin's release, we can work together to advance this idea of launching a nonprofit. He will do his part from outside fences, and I'll do my part from in here. Although I understand that we may face many challenges along the way, I'm confident that we have a unified vision with regard to what we're trying to create, and we both will drive forward with persistence and commitment. This work will further my goal of living a life of relevance while I serve what I expect to be my final three years. Research we've done to inquire on what it takes to form a nonprofit organization has given us an understanding of how to proceed. First of all, we must persuade the Internal Revenue Service that we can provide a benefit to people in society. If we succeed in that endeavor, the IRS will authorize the organization to raise money from philanthropic organizations, corporations, and individuals who support charitable giving. Raising financial resources in this dismal economic climate will prove challenging, especially when the people striving to raise the money have felony convictions. But without valid credentials from the IRS, we may not be able to raise money at all. I understand that some may question why we need to raise financial resources. We need money because we're working to build a sustainable operation, one that can help transform troubled lives. Our target market will include at-risk youth and incarcerated individuals, people who cannot pay for the products we'll create and distribute. I will undertake the responsibility of showing taxpayers the reasons why it's in their best interest to support our cause. If we receive authorization from the IRS, we'll work together to transform at-risk lives, empowering them to live as contributing citizens. I'm glad Justin joined me in formulating this plan of action. Now we must execute the plan. ******* The fall of 2009 passes easily for me here in the Taft federal prison camp. I've now served more than 22 years of my sentence. Although I don't know precisely when I'll walk out, I'm feeling strong, expecting that release will come within the next three years. I'm truly in the end game, and I'm fully aware of my responsibilities to have a plan in place for my return to society. Carole is working as a licensed vocational nurse in Los Angeles and studying microbiology in preparation to resume nursing school in January. Nichole, her daughter, is beginning studies at Washington State University, on her way to beginning a career in nursing as well. As far as I'm concerned, our family has triumphed over prison. Whereas the design of this system seems uniquely structured to lead individuals and families into perpetuating cycles of failure, the strategic, disciplined plan by which we've lived has brought us many blessings and strengthened us. Continuous progress keeps my spirit strong. Justin's attorney has assured him that the nonprofit paperwork is in order, and we expect to receive authorization from the IRS to operate The Michael G. Santos Foundation by the end of this year. Three people have accepted Justin's invitation to serve as board members of the nonprofit, and although I don't know those board members, their oversight provides me with a real job: working to write proposals in search of funding. Although Justin has identified many potential philanthropic organizations, and I'm writing grant requests to each of them, The California Wellness Foundation impresses me as being the most promising. It has a multi-billion dollar endowment that is reserved for programs that enhance public safety. Julio Marcial serves as Justin's contact at The California Wellness Foundation. We've learned that Julio has a real passion for helping at-risk youth. He knows that many of them grow up without resources or support systems in place, and few understand what steps they must take to leave the gangs and negative influences behind. As executive director of the Michael G. Santos Foundation, Justin told Julio about my journey. He made a strong case that we could create a program to show others how to embrace the same types of strategic, deliberate paths that empowered me to tune out the noise of external influences and prepare for success. Julio wants to see more. Despite the boldness of the request, I'm writing a proposal that shows why The California Wellness Foundation should fund The Michael G. Santos Foundation with a $150,000 grant. In this economic environment, resources are scarce and we face a huge challenge because many established nonprofit organizations will compete for the same limited funds. Still, despite my imprisonment and Justin's recent release from imprisonment, I'm confident we can craft a winning plan. As someone who has spent more than half of his life in prison, I have strong opinions on why so many people struggle to adjust upon release. From my perspective, although the system is very good at warehousing human beings, the system fails in preparing offenders for law-abiding, contributing lives. Instead of encouraging offenders to work toward developing values, skills, and resources that will assist them upon release, it extinguishes hope and strives to suppress the human spirit. I'm asking the California Wellness Foundation to provide funding so that Justin's foundation can craft a self-directed program that shows others how to transform their lives regardless of external influences or the noise of imprisonment. We can make a difference, but doing so will require us to confront headwinds from a system with a strong self-interest in perpetuating failure. ******* I pass through Christmas of 2009, my 23rd holiday season in prison, and into January of 2010, another new year. I'm still counting, not quite sure how many days of prison I have ahead of me, but I know that I have 8,180 days of imprisonment behind me. At this stage, prison doesn't bother me in the least. I feel focused and driven, eager to seize every opportunity that comes my way. Carole has begun studies that will last throughout the year and conclude with her board-certified credentials as a registered nurse. It's a big step for our family, but one that will provide Carole with a more fulfilling career, one that brings her more respect from her peers, colleagues, and community. I'm so happy for her, so proud of her, and so grateful that I've had income opportunities to support her through the journey. She is my center and I look forward to encouraging her through this year. It isn't easy to live as the wife of a prisoner. For Carole, the challenge was particularly difficult because she came into my life when I had more than 15 years of prison behind me and more than a decade to go. Despite others always questioning her judgment, over the past seven years we've worked alongside each other, confronting repeated transfers and interferences from prison administrators to build a life of our own. Things are much better now, and they promise to improve as we cross through year 2010. Julio Marcial has told Justin that he intends to recommend a $150,000 grant for The Michael G. Santos Foundation. The premise is quite simple. Through the proposal I wrote, we argued that the system does not invest resources in preparing individuals for success upon release. It's stated focus is to preserve security of the institution, and it doesn't offer reentry programs until it's too late, frequently only weeks or months before the scheduled release date. By that time, the prisoner is lost, without resources or a support network to assist his reentry. With funding, I suggested that I could write a program that would encourage prisoners and at-risk youth to pursue a self-directed path. I would do so by writing a series of books and workbooks that would show the precise steps I took to educate myself, contribute to society, and build a support network that would assist my transition upon release. It was what I said I would do very early on in my term, during that uncomfortable transition between my conviction and sentencing, during that time that I fell under the tutelage of Socrates. Recipients of the literature and coursework that I intend to write will see that they have the power within to change their lives. My job is to inspire hope, and together with Justin's work, we've persuaded Julio to recommend that The California Wellness Foundation fund the vision. That funding provides resources to pay for my work, enough to ensure that I'll have an easier transition upon my release. If all goes well, I'll have $40,000 in savings to meet all of my financial expenses associated with my reentry, and another $40,000 in savings that I can draw upon to carry me through my first year of liberty. Through my work, I'll show other prisoners how to empower themselves in the same measurable ways. ******* It's Saturday morning, September 11, 2010, and as I'm returning from an early morning run, I approach a new face as I return to the housing unit from the track. More than 500 people serve time inside these boundaries, and although I don't communicate or interact with many on a personal level, I recognize the men around me. This new guy and I don't exchange words, but the way he nods at me in acknowledgement communicates volumes. That simple gesture is enough to let me know that he leads, that he's capable of whatever he sets his mind to do, and that he is someone from whom I can learn. We're assigned to the same housing unit. I look forward to introducing myself and I seize the opportunity a few hours later when I see him outside on the track. He's taller than I am, with silver hair and olive skin. I guess that we're about the same age, but I suspect we've had very different experiences. I know this world and I can help him understand it, but I sense that he's from a different world that I'd like to learn more about. "Good morning," I walk towards him. "Care to join me for a few laps around the track?" He agrees and we begin circling the dirt oval that surrounds ball fields and tennis courts. "Believe me," I tell him, "it gets easier than it feels right now." He looks at me, as if trying to figure out what I'm after. "My name is Michael Santos. I've been here for a while and can help you understand what you're up against if you're interested in a guide." "Thanks," he says. "I know a little about you because my family has been reading your website." "That's good to hear. I've been writing for the web for more than a decade but I've never actually seen a real webpage. I look forward to using the Internet for the first time, but that will have to wait for a couple more years at least." "How do you publish your stuff online from in here?" "I write everything by hand and send it to my wife. She coordinates everything for me, typing it and then posting the content on my website. The work gets me through the time and helps build awareness about this wretched system we're in. How long are you going to be with us?" "I've got 18 months." "Well take a breath. You won't serve that long. You'll receive some good-time credits that will reduce the term by about three months, taking it down to about 15 months. Depending on your personal circumstances, you may serve the final months of your term in a halfway house or home confinement." "How do I arrange that?" "You'll go through some administrative processing over the next couple of weeks. Don't push these people, the staff I mean. Just let it evolve. There isn't much of anything you can do to influence events in here. But if you let things take their course, and you don't bother the staff with too many requests, you'll probably be living in a halfway house a year from now. The secret to serving that time is to make progress every day that you're here, to work toward something that will improve your life some." He snarls. "Like what? What can a guy do from inside this hellhole?" I laugh. "It's not that bad. Where're you from?" "Silicon Valley." "What're you, a banker or a broker?" From his diction and mannerisms, I know that he's in here for a white-collar crime, but I don't know what type of work he did. He doesn't strike me as engineer. "I was the CEO of a technology company." "Which one?" "Brocade Communications." I stop on the track and look at him. "You're Greg Reyes." He stares back at me and I see his brow wrinkle, a cross between curiosity and ferocity, guarded, as if he doesn't know what to make of my intentions. "I don't mean to be intrusive, dude," I say, "but I've admired your courage and strength for many years. I read the Wall Street Journal's coverage of your case. When it reported on your conviction, I told my wife about yo…

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147. Earning Freedom (15.1), by Michael Santos May 05, 2022

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Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term, by Michael Santos Episode 14.2 Months 233-266: Life in Taft Federal Prison camp with Justin Paperny and teaching and writing for Joan Petersilia ******* It's June 11, 2008. I stand in front of 30 other people who are serving time with me in Taft. We're sitting sitting under dim lights on cushioned chairs in the corner of an industrial warehouse. It's one of the few buildings at Taft Camp without air conditioning. The summer heat, together with swarms of flies, keeps us pulling at our shirts and swatting air. We're here because it's the only room large enough to facilitate a series of self-help classes that I enjoy teaching. The warehouse has high ceilings with exposed pipes, wiring, and metal walls supported by thick steel beams. If it had a grass floor, the space would be sufficient for indoor football. But the floor is concrete. Except for the niche carved out for our class area, we see stacks of wheelchairs in various stages of repair. My roommate, David, is part of a crew that spends several hours each day refurbishing the wheelchairs for donation to Wheels of the World, a prison-sponsored program that serves needy communities. Prisoners, even those in camp, struggle with their separation from society. Motivating men who worry about the challenges that await them, who wonder daily about their wives, about their children, about how they will find employment upon release, or about how to muster the strength to pass through years of imprisonment, requires preparation. By this time, the summer of 2008, I've had 21 years of preparation. I get a sense of fulfillment by teaching strategies, tactics, and concepts that have helped my adjustment through the journey. I always start by asking questions, like asking the men to define what it means to live as a successful prisoner. Or their interpretation of the best possible outcome for someone serving a prison sentence. One person tells me that a successful person in prison is someone who doesn't receive any disciplinary infractions. I use a blue felt pen to write his answer on the whiteboard. Another person tells me it's someone who can hold onto his family while in prison. Other responses include a person who educates himself. Or a guy that manages to hang on to at least some resources in the world so that when he gets out, he has a shot at making a new star. After writing answers on the board, I walk into the center of the crowd and face the board. I point out how prison administrators love to hear such responses, and I ask Mr. Moreland, the staff member sits in the back of the class, his thoughts. He confirms that they're good answers. "Good answers, Mr. Moreland says," I repeat loud enough so everyone will hear. "But I'd give each answer a C-minus at best, and I'm being generous," I say. Men shift silently in their chairs and the supervising staff member puts down his candy bar. I have their attention. "Those answers reflect the common response of all prisoners across the nation. But they're not enough. To be a successful prisoner requires you to do more." I walk toward the board and check off the class responses as I work through each. —"Instead of focusing on avoiding disciplinary infractions, a successful person selects positive activities that will contribute to success upon release. —"He doesn't only hold on to his family, a successful person works daily to strengthen family bonds and to contribute in meaningful ways to his family. —"He not only educates himself, but a successful person uses what he learns to enrich himself and society. —"He not only hangs on to resources, but creates new resources that will assure he leaves prison strong, with absolute certainty that he will succeed upon release. "The key to a successful prison experience is to envision clearly how you want to emerge. Don't limit yourself to the minimum, but envision the best possible outcome, and use that vision as a beacon to make certain that every step leads you closer to the outcome you choose." "But prison blocks us from doing things like that," Tim, one of the class participants objects. "How are we supposed to contribute to our families when we're not allowed to earn an income?" Over the next ten weeks I engage the class, drawing on my experiences to inspire them to create their own successful life plans. "Success does not materialize by accident," I emphasize, "but through deliberate actions." In each session I challenge the men to accept full responsibility for their lives and to focus on what they can accomplish rather than the obstacles that limit them. Justin Paperny, a white-collar offender who reported to Taft Camp in the late spring of 2008, becomes the most enthusiastic participant in my class. Justin graduated from the University of Southern California, then he went on to build a career as a young stockbroker. Indiscretion with his oversight of a hedge fund led to Justin's 18-month sentence for securities law violations. "The thing is," Justin comments from his seat in the center of the class, "some of us might have to start over completely when we leave here. Our convictions mean that we can't return to the same professions. With this dismal economy, it's tough to stay motivated when we know what we're facing outside." "That's a good start," I respond. "It shows that you understand what's ahead. Since you've thought about those issues, may I ask you a few questions?" He shrugs. "Go ahead." "You've been here for a month now," I observe. "Tell the class how your life differs today from the day you surrendered." "What do you mean?" "How is your life different?" I press. "That's not such a tough question." He laughs. "Well, it's obvious. I'm a prisoner and I'm serving the sentence my judge imposed." "Well, we're all in prison. But what have you been doing with your time since you surrendered a month ago?" "Oh, I've got you," he says. "Mostly I've been exercising. I've dropped 10 pounds and I'm getting stronger with pull-ups. While I'm here I intend to exercise regularly, to get back into great physical shape." "Who in here is exercising?" I ask the class. Most hands shoot up. "Excellent. I get the importance of exercise and I run every day. But exercise only takes up a small part of the day. It's only one part, like brushing my teeth. I exercise to stay fit, but one certainty I can count on is that no one is going to pay me for how many pushups I can do, or how many miles I can run when I get out of here. Unless you're planning for a career as a fitness model or a personal trainer, I suggest you devote more time to preparing to conquer the obstacles that you know await you." "But what else can I do?" Justin asks. That's the question each man in prison must answer for himself every day. A successful person in prison would know how to answer. The answer for one person isn't going to be the same response that another prisoner gives. If employment prospects await, if family relationships are important, or if we need to educate ourselves further, we should know how to answer the question: What else can I do to prepare? When we live that way, we never stumble when someone asks a question such as 'How is your life different?' We don't stumble because we're on the course we charted for success, as we define success. "What if we don't know what we want to do?" Charles asks. He's a middle-aged, disbarred lawyer from Newport Beach serving a two-year sentence for misappropriating funds from his client's trust account. "Are any of you familiar with Viktor Frankl?" I ask the class. No one raises a hand. Viktor Frankl was a medical doctor in Germany. The Nazis threw him and his family into concentration camps. They murdered his family, but he survived. Dr. Frankl later wrote that as long as man could find meaning in life, he could overcome anything. He spent three years as a Nazi prisoner, never knowing from one day to the next whether he would be alive the following day. Frankl drew strength by helping others. Like Frankl, any of us can build strength by helping others. We should be open to acknowledging what brings meaning, happiness, positive challenges, and stimulation to our life, regardless of where we are. By helping others, we open possibilities for finding our particular path through challenge. I give examples describing how other prisoners I've known used their time inside to effectively launch new careers. I tell of one prisoner who studied science during his term, and left prison to launch a company that converts discarded cooking oil into fuel for heavy equipment. I talk about another prisoner who secured several offers of employment simply by writing unsolicited letters to prospective employers from his community, describing his work ethic, and asking for a chance. The point I try to make, and the example I try to set, is that we cannot wait until release. We have a responsibility now to anticipate the problems we'll face after prison, and we must prepare every day to overcome them. ******* "Why do you write so much?" Justin, the former stockbroker, asks as he sits across from me at the round table where I work. "Because I can't sell stocks," I answer him. He laughs. "I'm serious." "I am too. I write every day because I want to become a better communicator. I plan to build a career around the experiences I've had in prison. The strategies that pulled me through can be applied to any kind of adversity. Since my prison record will make it difficult to support myself any other way, and since I need to support my family, I invest between 10 and 12 hours every day writing, reading, or preparing presentations." "I wish I had that kind of clarity about my future." "When do you get out?" I ask Justin. "I finish my sentence in August of 2009." "Why don't you do the same thing?" I ask. "What do you mean? Write? Speak?" "Sure. Why not? You've got a degree from USC. You were a registered investment advisor caught up in an ethics scandal. Don't you think others have made the same bad decisions?" "Probably." "Of course they did. If you watch the news, or look at our prison system, you'll see that millions of people lose their way. Figure out how you can help them, and you've got a new career. You can spend your time in Taft like I do, preparing for a career upon release." Justin locks his fingers behind his head and leans back. He pauses in thought while I write. "Do you think there's a market for that?" he asks. "Only if you prepare. You've got to create the market, and if that's what you want to pursue, you've got to work as many hours as I do." ******* The schedule I keep doesn't lend itself to building friendships. Also, I search for privacy wherever I can find it, nurturing my need for solace by writing, reading, and exercising. When I spend time with others it's usually related to my work. I interview other people for a story I want to write, or I practice my speaking skills by teaching a class. Sometimes I'll work one-on-one with another prisoner, like David, helping him prepare for the GED exam. "Write short sentences using words that you're certain you can spell correctly" is the advice I drill into him during our lessons. He passes the essay portion of his exam and continues to study as a college student. Justin, however, isn't studying for a GED. He has a university degree and a history of earning a high income. When people mistake me for a man who recently surrendered, or when their jaws drop as they learn I've been a prisoner since 1987, I feel a sense of validation, as if the plan I set decades earlier worked out. I want others to see me as a citizen with something to contribute. That validation comes when men like Justin seek my counsel. Justin takes my advice and begins working closely with me. He gives up television and table games. He devotes himself wholeheartedly to exercise and preparation for life after prison. We become close friends. I suggest steps he can take to position himself for a new career as a speaker and consultant upon his release. I show him how I reach beyond prison boundaries to connect with the world by writing for my website. He launches his own website at JustinPaperny.com. I urge him to write a manuscript. Since he has never written for publication before, I work with him to outline chapters for a new book that we call, Lessons From Prison. Our friendship grows when he introduces Carole and me to his family and friends who visit each week. "I've told Brad about your work ethic, about all you've done in here and your plans for when you get out," Justin tells me after Carole and I meet some of his friends in the visiting room. His friend, Brad Fullmer, had a superstar career in professional baseball. He's one of the few major leaguers to hit a homerun in his first at bat for a professional team. He capped his long career in professional baseball by stealing home during the World Series for the California Angels. "What do you think about letting Brad and me make an investment in your career?" Justin asks. "Have you told him that I'm scheduled to serve five more years?" "He knows," Justin tells me, "and I know. Some investments take years to pay off. We think you're a winner and we'd like to participate." "Let me think about it." In weighing the possibility of selling a piece of my future earnings, I sit alone in my cubicle. I'm on a plastic chair, leaning back against a concrete wall, propping my feet against the steel post that supports the rack I call my bed. My steel locker has two shelves on the left that hold my folded gray sweats and underwear; it's above the shelf where I store my dictionary, papers, and dusty running shoes. Over the past 21 years I've had to store my possessions inside these types of lockers. But from these lockers with only pens, discipline, and work, I've created a life for myself. I look at the pictures of Carole that I've taped to the inside of my locker's doors. She's the most beautiful woman in the world to me, not only because of her sparkling eyes and smile, but because of the way she has believed in me, given herself so completely to me, strengthening me in ways that no one else could as she served this sentence with me. I look forward to making her life better, just as she has made my life better. I pull Carole's picture down and hold it in my hands. The image is a poor substitute for holding my wife. On non-visiting days, I sometimes need this tangible feeling of her in my hands. During the five years we've been married, my writing has generated more than $200,000 in after-tax earnings for Carole. That's not much by the standards of society. Still, I'm immensely proud to have earned those resources from prison. I created those resources with pens, paper, and perseverance. Those funds supported her and Nichole, allowing them to move from state to state following my "prison trail." They allowed Carole to return to college. Despite tremendous hardships and obstacles, she graduated first in her nursing class and now earns her own income. I don't need…

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146. Earning Freedom (14.2) by Michael Santos May 05, 2022

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Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term, by Michael Santos Chapter 14.1 Arriving at the Taft Federal Camp and settling in Months 233-266 Early on the morning of June 21, I learn that I'm no longer designated to FCC Lompoc. Two guards from the Taft Correctional Institution arrive. They lock six of us in chains, and then they load us into a white van. We're on our way to the Central Valley of California, leaving Lompoc behind for good. Lompoc Camp was already a memory after 65 days locked in SHU, but I'm a little sad when the van exits the main gate and turns left toward the highway. I'll miss running long distances in the shade of Lompoc's majestic eucalyptus trees, enjoying the fragrances of the pines mixed with breezes from the nearby Pacific Ocean. I'll miss my friend Lee and the nearly private space I enjoyed in the powerhouse office. The two-lane road climbs east through low mountains, drops into the San Joaquin Valley, and it finally whips through high desert. It's a landscape of blowing dust, sagebrush, and unsightly steel pumps sucking oil from the arid soil. I lean involuntarily as the van turns right onto the long entry road leading to the prison, bouncing over yellow speed bumps. At the parking lot of the double-fenced, low-security prison, manicured lawns and palm trees welcome us. Blooming gardens create the illusion of a lush oasis in this desert. After the requisite intake processing, three of us designated to minimum-security take our bedrolls and board the white van, unrestrained, for a short ride to Taft Camp's low, gray, concrete administration building. Located behind the low-security prison, the modern, single-story design features tinted windows and round pillars supporting an extended roof shading spacious walkways. The building looks more like the headquarters for a software engineering firm than a prison. Taft Camp appears to be well maintained. In the administration building, the round schoolhouse clock in the glass-enclosed guard's station reads just past five. I cross the tile floor and push open the glass door to the camp's compound. After more than two months in Lompoc's SHU I revel in this less-stressful environment. Wide, clean, concrete walkways cut across pristine lawns in the center of the camp compound. Decorative, knee-high light posts illuminate the walks leading to the glass-enclosed chow hall and across the lawn to the two-storied housing unit with its horizontal rows of tall, unbarred, wide windows of tinted glass. In the distance, an oval track surrounds softball and soccer fields. Men in khakis, white t-shirts, and sneakers visit outside the housing units. They appear friendly, smiling and nodding as I climb the stairs to A4D, my assigned housing unit. The air conditioning feels good, cooling me as I step inside the high-ceilinged dorm, one of four identical housing units. Six telephones hang across from each other on the two walls immediately inside the foyer, and I don't see any guards. Unlike the open dormitories at Lompoc, two and three-man cubicles divide the housing unit, creating a grid that provides a semblance of privacy for the 140 men in my unit. The bathroom facilities are much larger than Lompoc's. They include 16 shower areas with doors and plenty of toilet stalls, urinals, and sinks. The unit reserves a room for four microwaves and an ice machine, rooms with six televisions and game tables, and a small study room that overlooks the lawns. In cubicle 36, a three-man room, I meet my two roommates. "I'm Rick," one man offers, extending his hand. Dan, a slender, blond man in his early 50s, introduces himself as well. I set my bedroll on the top rack. "Let me show you how to make up your bed," Dan offers. "It can be a little tricky to keep your sheets in place. What you want to do is…." "Thanks for the tip," I raise my hand to stop his instruction. "I'd like to say I'm new, but I've been at this awhile." "Oh, I thought you were fresh off the streets. Did you come in from the county jail?" I chuckle as I tie the corners of my sheets around the mat. "Not jail. I was at Lompoc Camp." "Really? Lompoc Camp! I've heard that's the best place in the system." Dan turns to Rick. "My lawyer tried to get me sent to Lompoc, but the schmuck got me sent to this dump filled with drug dealers and criminals." "Yeah," Rick agrees. "I've heard about Lompoc. Forbes runs an article each year that ranks the best prisons for white-collar offenders and Lompoc Camp always comes out on top. Is it true that they've got a golf course?" Rick simulates a golf swing. "I didn't see a golf course," I laugh. "But Lompoc does have its bright spots." "You're not going to like the change," Dan warns. "This place is a real prison." "No kidding? What's not to like?" I ask. Rick and Dan exchange a knowing glance. "You'll find out soon enough," Dan says. "The food is awful, the staff is incompetent, and 95 percent of the men here are dim bulbs, borderline imbeciles," Rick tells me. "Well, I guess I lucked out then, being assigned to this cubicle. What do you guys do for a living?" "I'm an accountant," Rick says. "And what brings you to Taft Camp?" I stuff my pillow into the pillowcase. "Overzealous prosecutors," he answers. "Saddled me with three years for advising clients on offshore accounts. It was totally above board. I shouldn't even be here." "Did you take the case to trial?" "Oh no. If I'd lost at trial I would've been facing ten years. Better to plead guilty, take the three years and move on with my life." "What about you?" I ask Dan. "I'm in investments." "Oh? What kind?" "All kinds," he says. "My company purchases real estate, financial instruments, businesses. Private equity." "And how long are you with us?" I ask. "Serving 46 months," Dan says. "It doesn't make any sense at all. We've got drug dealers and other real criminals running around here serving half the sentence I'm serving." "What did they charge you with?" I ask. "You're not going to believe it," he says. "Try me," I smile. "Fraud. Said I was running a Ponzi. I offered investors a legitimate 10 percent annual return on their money. I got a little behind the eight ball when markets started going sideways on me, and before you know it, boom, I got the FBI breathing down my neck." "How much was the amount of loss?" "A lousy four million. If the investors would've just been patient, the deals would've worked out. Totally legit. Now it's all gone." He waves his hand dismissively. "What're you, a lawyer?" Rick asks as he sits on his lower rack. "No. I'm serving a 45 year sentence for selling cocaine." Silence. Don and Rick look at each other. Then Rick explodes with laughter. "No way! You wouldn't be in camp with a sentence like that." "I'm totally serious. Of course, I've been in a long time." "But you said you came from Lompoc Camp. That's a spot for white-collar offenders." "Not only white-collar offenders, and I did come from Lompoc Camp. But I was in several prisons before Lompoc Camp." "Like where?" Rick asks, still skeptical, unable to hide his curiosity and incredulity. "I started in USP Atlanta," I toss out, humoring myself with my new roommates. Rick scoots to the edge of his rack, leans in. "No way. You were in a penitentiary?" "I spent six Christmases inside those walls. Then I transferred to McKean, in Pennsylvania. From there I transferred to Fairton, in New Jersey. I spent almost eight years at Fort Dix. Then I was in Florence Camp, Lompoc Camp, and now I'm here." They stare at me for a moment in silence. "How long have you been in prison?" Rick finally blurts out. "Twenty years." "Twenty years?" Don whistles. "I've never met anyone who's been in longer than five. Listen, I hope I didn't offend you with anything I said. I didn't know." "After 20 years in prison, do you really think I could be offended by something you'd say?" "So no hard feelings then?" Dan puts out his hand. "Think nothing of it." We shake hands again. ******* I meet my counselor and my case manager. Both women speak to me kindly, taken aback that I've been in prison for so long. "Where are all your tattoos?" My counselor teases. She grants my request for a phone call to Carole and immediately approves a visiting list authorizing Carole to visit over the weekend. "You could put a different set of clothes on and I wouldn't know you've been in prison at all." My case manager says. "Does that surprise you?" I ask with a laugh. "Totally. I was a little girl when you came to prison. I would've expected you to be angry and bitter. But you're all smiles, normal, like you haven't ever served time in prison." "Isn't that ironic?" I ask. "What's that?" "That I'm unscathed after 20 years of imprisonment, with all my teeth and no tattoos, yet you wonder what went wrong. You expect two decades in prison should turn me angry and bitter. When you see that it hasn't, you wonder why." "Oh! I didn't think of it that way." ******* When Carole and I were in Fort Dix we were able to visit five days a week. Those ample visits allowed us to deepen our relationship and allowed me to play an influential role in Nichole's life. In Florence Camp, rules allowed us to visit every Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and federal holiday. At Lompoc, restrictions were tighter. Authorized visits were only Saturdays, Sundays, and holidays. Still, we appreciated the time together. In Taft Camp, I learn, a point structure penalizes families who visit on weekends or holidays. Because Carole is in school on Fridays, we'll only be able to visit on weekends, limiting us to a maximum of two or three visits each month, depending on whether we visit on Saturdays or Sundays. The visiting restrictions will complicate our life, but we'll make it through. Carole arrives early on Sunday for our first visit at Taft. "Tell me all about it. How do you like it here?" Carole smiles, eager to hear about this newest transition. "Without a doubt, this is the easiest prison in the world." "How are the people?" "Do you mean the other prisoners or the staff?" "Both." "The prisoners are the same as in every other camp, but the guards are different. It's only been a few days, but the staff I've spoken to seem a much friendlier group than the standard-issue BOP brand." "What do you mean?" "Rather than the BOP, a private company manages this place. I don't know why, but it's different from other prisons. The guards don't give the impression that they're out to harass me, and the unit team members, meaning the counselors and case managers, treat me like a person, not a prisoner." "My contact at the Regional Office said Taft was the best spot for you. That's why I want you to make me a promise." "What's that?" I ask warily. "What kind of promise do you want me to make?" "Just listen. Thanks to Lee, we have enough in the bank to pay for everything we need until I finish nursing school. Nichole's going to graduate next June, and by then I'll have my nursing license. I don't want you to do anything that might send you to the hole or get you transferred. Don't write anything about prison, and don't tell me to make any stock trades. Nothing. I don't want any problems that might waken the beast." "I don't want problems either," I say, wanting to reassure her. "You know what I mean. No more writing until I graduate. After that, I can get a job anywhere if they decide to transfer you for publishing or for some other ridiculous reason." "I have to prepare for my release and the only way I know how to do that is by writing. We can't allow the system to keep me from working." "The system isn't stopping you," Carole says. "I'm asking you to stop. It's just for one year, until I graduate." "You want me to give up a year of work?" "Please, Michael. No writing about prison or prisoners." I shake my head. "Nothing?" "Nothing." I pause. Writing enables me to transcend the boundaries, allowing me to connect with the society I long to join. By writing about what I've learned from others, observed, and experienced, I take meaningful steps to reform this system, showing taxpayers what those within the prison industrial complex don't want citizens to see. As a writer, I'm relevant, more than a prisoner, part of something bigger than me. But I won't deny Carole and so I agree to suspend my work until she graduates. I don't want to give prison administrators cause to uproot our lives again. "Okay. I promise." ******* Tavo may not have much of an education, but he maneuvers his way around Taft Camp just fine, providing for himself with a hustle here and a hustle there. He's five foot-six and doesn't weigh more than130 pounds. He wears his straight black hair parted down the middle and feathered back. His eyes are a startling green and, despite his 40 years, there's not a whisker on his face. Tavo has a trace of an accent even though he was born and reared in Los Angeles. He keeps up with who's being released from the camp, negotiating a price for each departing prisoner's sneakers, sweats, radios, and other belongings. He tacks on a markup and sells the goods to newcomers, even providing a payment plan when necessary. He has a commissary squeeze where he charges a fee for providing candy, soda, chips, or other items on days when the prisoners aren't authorized to shop. For his most lucrative gig, Tavo provides the service of doubling mattresses. Bed frames at Taft Camp consist of metal slabs welded to four metal posts. The narrow slabs have lips that rise an inch around the edges to hold the sleeping mats in place. Tavo understands that some prisoners in camp are sensitive to the harshness of institutional living. He charges $40 to cut through the seam, stuff a second mat into the casing and sew it shut, thus converting the mat to a mattress. "You've got to meet Tavo," Rick, my roommate nudges. "For 40 bucks he'll hook up the mattress in a way that makes sleeping almost bearable." "Appreciate the tip. I'm good," I say. "Can't pay enough for a good night's sleep," Dan seconds the suggestion. "Sit on mine." "I'm sure it's comfortable," I shrug. "But I've known hundreds of Tavos. The double mattress is great until guards come through on a shakedown and issue shots for destruction of government property. I don't need the headache." "They can't do that," Rick says. "I'd just say the mattress was issued to me this way. Check it out. You can't even tell." "I'll be okay. Thanks." Rick and Dan serve their time as a team. They eat meals together, walk the track together,…

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145. Earning Freedom (14.1) by Michael Santos May 05, 2022

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Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term, by Michael Santos Reading Chapter 13.2 Episode describes being in the hole at Lompoc Camp, and getting charged with disciplinary infractions, advocacy, prevailing. Months 232-233 ******* Confinement in SHU, "the hole," is intended as further punishment to imprisonment. It is constant deprivation, leaving a person without access to phone calls, commissary, or recreation yards. The forced segregation can last for days, weeks, months, or years. Some men flip out when authorities send them to the hole. They retaliate by kicking on the doors, banging fists or heads against the walls, or becoming delusional. But I'll be okay, regardless of what this system does. During the decades I've served, guards have locked me in the SHU several times, but never for a disciplinary infraction. I've been through enough transfers and holdover cells that the close quarters don't bother me anymore. I block out the screaming and noise from other cells. Carole sends me subscriptions to four news magazines. She sends three books each week. I finish reading two extensive biographies by Ron Chernow, one on J.D. Rockefeller and another on J.P. Morgan. I read the Bible and exercise daily on my tiny patch of cement floor. I didn't expect the abrupt change, but it doesn't paralyze me. The solitude allows me time to stare at the concrete walls and think. Only the taunting from petty bureaucrats like Jim Miller disturbs my serenity. Mr. Miller is the Camp Administrator at Lompoc, essentially the CEO of the camp. I met him during my first week here, back in July of 2005. After my hasty transfer from the Florence Camp, I needed some assurance that my published writings wouldn't cause problems. If Carole was going through the expense of moving to California, we had to be reasonably certain staff wouldn't transfer me again. After his gatekeeper, the dragon lady, let me in, Miller agreed to talk to me in his conference room. Miller presents an imposing figure. He stands six-five, wears cowboy boots, has a powerful build with an alabaster round head, fleshy cheeks, and blue eyes that remain half-closed whenever he addresses a prisoner. When I stood in front of his desk the first time we met, he leaned back in his chair to applaud me, a corner of his mouth rising in a sarcastic sneer. "Well, Mr. San-tos, you must be very proud of yourself." He derisively hyphenates my last name with his affected drawl. "Why's that?" I was not surprised that he knew my name. "You're the first person I've met who comes up first when I Google his name." "I wouldn't know. I've never used the Internet." "Let's not kid each other, Mr. San-tos. You know exactly what you're doing." "Do you have a problem with my writing? That's what I wanted to talk to you about. My wife is planning on moving here, and before she does I want to make sure I'm not going to be transferred." He shrugged. "That's entirely up to you" "I don't do anything that violates the rules. But I have a new book coming out," I told him. "Will that cause me any problems here?" He shook his head. "We'll just have to wait and see. I don't have a crystal ball, can't make no guarantees." When I went to see Mr. Miller for that face-to-face conversation two years ago, I was making the record clear about my work. I purposely avoided him after that meeting. Now that I'm locked in SHU, he appears at my cell, leans against the doorframe, and peers through the window cut into the door. I ignore him, though his big, clean shaven head fills the window and I can sense his contempt. He taps the window with his ring and I look over. "Got any questions for me, Mr. San-tos?" I shake my head. He jerks his head, gesturing that I should walk toward the door. "Your wife's causing all kinds of ruckus out here, making extra work for me." "I've got a few problems of my own," I say into the doorframe. He nods his head, irritation evident in his tight-lipped expression. "I need you to sign these releases." He slides a file with papers under the door along with a pen. "What are they for?" I ask. "They authorize me to communicate information to the people bothering me about your case." "I'm an open book. I've got nothing to hide. You can communicate with anyone who asks about me." "Sign the forms," he gestures with his index finger. After signing, I slide the file back under the door. "I'll need that pen back, Mr. San-tos." I slide him the pen. "You know you'll never return to a camp, don't you?" he grins, appearing quite pleased. "Do those 20 years that I've already served still count?" My question diminishes some of the pleasure he derives from taunting prisoners. "What's that?" he asks. "The past 20 years I've served, don't they still count?" Miller doesn't respond but nods his big, shiny head and walks down the hall gripping his file folder full of signed forms. ******* A week passes and a guard finally comes, ordering me to cuff up. I grab an envelope that contains a statement I wrote to detail my version of events. Then I back up to the trap for handcuffing. The guard grips the chain and leads me from my cell down the corridor, through the gates, past the control bubble, and into an office with walls covered in dark acoustic padding for soundproofing. Behind a desk a lieutenant sits with his back to me as he types. He has a pale, bald head, and three rolls of fat droop at the base of his thick neck. "I've got Inmate Santos," the guard announces. "That'll be all, Officer," the lieutenant says. The guard releases his grip on my handcuffs and walks out, leaving me standing in front of the desk with my hands cuffed behind my back. After he finishes typing, the lieutenant spins his cushioned chair around to face me. "Do you know who I am?" "I know you're a lieutenant." He nods his head. "That's right. I'm Lieutenant Tremble and I understand you're some kind of celebrity around here." "I'm a long-term prisoner. That's it." "Good, I'm glad to hear we understand each other, because no matter how many people you have calling this prison, or how many letters people write, I'm not treatin' you any diff'rent than I treat anyone else." Firm but fair. That's the BOP motto. But I know that if it weren't for my wife's success in mobilizing my friends and those in my support network, this lieutenant would've kept me stewing for a month "under investigation" before he called me in. "I'm investigatin' the two disciplinary infractions you're bein' charged with," Lieutenant Tremble says. "What are the charges?" "Conducting a business and unauthorized use of government equipment. Specifically, you used a computer. Now Whadda ya have to tell me?" "I'm not running a business, and I had staff authorization for my work on the computer. I prepared a written statement that I want you to make part of the record." "Let me have the statement." I turn my back to him and he grabs the envelope from my cuffed hands. "It's all in there," I say, turning to face him again. The lieutenant opens the envelope and pulls out the three yellow pages. "You want me to include all of this?" "I want a full written record. This isn't my first problem with the BOP and I've learned that documenting everything serves my interests well." The lieutenant shakes his head. "Do you realize I've got to type all this?" "I take disciplinary charges seriously and I intend to prove I wasn't doing anything that could be considered against the rules." "Fine. I'll read your statement later. Give me the quick version now." I shrug my shoulders. "I don't run a business. I write and type manuscripts for books. The books describe prison and encourage readers to lead responsible lives. BOP policy allows me to do this without staff permission and my Central File includes a letter from a BOP attorney specifically authorizing my work. I send the manuscripts home. My wife converts them into books. I assign away the rights to all royalties so I don't have any financial or business interest in the work. I don't have anything to hide." "What about the computer?" Lieutenant Tremble asks. "Mr. Brown authorized me to use it after I completed my required duties. No one in the powerhouse is going to complain about my work." "Well why don't you think anyone from the powerhouse is steppin' up to bail you out?" "I don't know what they're doing or why." "Mr. Brown doesn't have the authority to grant you permission to use the computer for personal work. Staff members don't even have permission to use computers for personal work. These computers are for government work only. Besides that, I already spoke with Mr. Brown. He says that he never gave you permission to use the computer for anything but government work." I shake my head, not surprised to learn that my supervisor takes the cowardly route of self-preservation, denying the truth. "You know what that means?" The lieutenant smiles derisively. "I don't. What does that mean?" "I'm going to have to amend the disciplinary report. I'll be adding a third charge of lying to a staff member. You lied when you told me that you had permission to use the computer for personal work." "Did it ever occur to you that the staff may be lying?" "Be careful, Inmate Santos. You don't wanna dig yourself in deeper, do you?" "Check the files in the computer. You'll see that I typed plenty of documents for staff members." "What kind of documents?" The lieutenant shifts, smelling a bigger fish. "Documents that don't have anything to do with government work." "You're telling me that BOP staff members had an inmate typin' their personal information? I don't buy it." "Check it out. When staff asked for my help, I complied. Those computer files will show that I typed letters pertaining to their personal real estate holdings, résumés, and applications for jobs with other agencies." He's incredulous. "Are you telling me that my staff members asked you to type their résumés? They gave you personal information?" "Well I don't know whether they'd consider themselves your staff members, but I certainly typed up their personal work at their request?" "Then it looks like I've got more investigatin' to do." "Then you better go about your investigating. It shouldn't be hard. The files are all over the computer." ******* I've been locked in the hole for a month and I'm keeping my family and friends apprised of my situation by writing a daily journal describing the routine I've created. Carole posts the articles on MichaelSantos.net, connecting me to the world even if I am locked in a box. When the guard escorts me out to visit Carole on Saturday morning, she delivers wonderful news. "I've been talking with a high-level contact in the regional office," Carole's eyes sparkle. "I don't even want to say her name in here." "Okay, I get it. What's up?" "I've sent her all of your books. She's reviewed your entire file and she's totally impressed with your record. She saw all the efforts you made to let the staff know about your writing and she reviewed the documents you typed for your supervisors at the powerhouse." "And? I'm still being charged with running a business, using the computer, and lying to staff." "Not anymore. You've been totally cleared of those charges and you're being transferred to another camp. Honey, this mess is finally over." That news from Carole elevates my spirit. Any day I expect guards will pull me out for transfer. Instead, on Tuesday evening, May 22nd, Lieutenant Marx taps his steel key against my window, smiling with his nod for me to approach the doorframe. "Got a new disciplinary infraction for ya," he grins wickedly, "hun'red series." "What are you talking about?" My stomach drops like a brick. A 100-series disciplinary infraction characterizes it as being one of the greatest in severity, exposing a prisoner to potential new criminal prosecution. "We found your weapon." He nods gleefully. "Weapon? I've been locked in SHU for 31 days. You're telling me you found a weapon today? That's ridiculous," I yell into the doorframe. He slides the disciplinary report under the door. "Prove it." He shrugs, grins, and vanishes from sight down the tier. When Dorkin locked me in segregation in April he separated me from access to my personal property. He and Mr. Smith packed all of my belongings into green duffle bags. They filled out property forms that detailed every item they packed in the bags, down to the number of Bic pens. I have copies of those property forms and they don't mention my having anything that could be construed as a weapon. Yet this new disciplinary infraction Lieutenant Marx just delivered accuses me of possessing a "sharpened metal weapon." I've been locked in high security penitentiaries and I've thrived through 20 years of imprisonment without problems. Now I have to argue against a charge that I packed a weapon in camp cupcake? I'm being framed. Regardless of the guards' motivation, a 100-series disciplinary infraction exposes me to the possibility of criminal charges. I spend the evening writing a lengthy protest on my yellow legal pad. On Saturday morning, Carole comes to visit and I tell her about this latest disruption. "They're retaliating against you because the regional director expunged the other charges," Carole understands the gravity of this new problem as I tell her of the weapons charge. She worries that this isn't ever going to end. "Whatever it takes, we're going to fight this. If there was a weapon in my property, one of these crooked guards planted it. I haven't had access to my property for more than a month." "Michael, I hate this place and everything about it. I'm calling my contact at the region as soon as I leave here. Even an idiot can see that you're being framed. We'll get you out of this." Despite Carole's confidence, I feel like I'm in a viper pit. ******* I'm on the toilet when I hear tapping on the window. I don't even have to look up to know Miller has returned. He gestures with his shaved head for me to step to the doorframe. While I finish using the toilet, his big head stays in the window. I take my time washing my hands, then step closer while drying my hands on the threadbare towel. "Got calls from National Geographic Television and BBC radio requesting interviews with you. Looks like your wife's been busy." "Is that what you came to tell me?" I speak into the frame. "Do you want to participate in the interviews?" "Yes." "Sign these release forms." He slides the folder under the door with a pen. I sign both and slide them back. Miller picks up the folder…

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144. Earning Freedom (13.1), by Michael Santos May 05, 2022

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

Chapter 13.1

Going to the SHU at Lompoc Federal Prison Camp

2007

Months 232-233

It's Wednesday, April 18, 2007 and our family is making excellent progress. While Carole studies for the final exams to complete her first semester of nursing school, I'm finishing the writing projects that I began with Lee Nobmann's sponsorship. Despite the six years of prison that I have ahead, I'm making progress, living a productive life, and that makes all of the difference in the world.

While work at my desk, the door opens. I see Mr. Dorkin, a guard who joyfully equates harassing men in minimum-security camps with protecting the homeland. It's 2:00 in the afternoon when he interrupts my typing. Dorkin's a guard I avoid, and I don't like seeing him in this space that I consider my sanctuary. He has a reputation for annoying prisoners, and now he is annoying me with his glare.

Mr. Brown, my supervisor, stands behind Dorkin, and I get the sense that something isn't right. Dorkin is grinning. "Santos," he commands. "Stand up, take your hands off the keyboard, and put them behind your head."

Not a stranger to these orders, I comply. Dorkin puts his big hands on me. He pats my chest, my waist, and then runs his fingers along the inside of my belt. He pats each of my legs, swiveling his two-handed grip down each leg to my sneakers, then he inserts his finger between my shoe and ankle.

"Would you prefer that I take my shoes off?" I ask.

"There'll be plenty of time for that. Just keep lookin' straight ahead." Mr. Dorkin orders. "Okay, drop your hands. Put ̓em behind your back."

He unsnaps one of the leather pouches of his black belt and removes the cuffs. The familiar sound of clicking metal teeth follows cold steel closing around my wrists. I wonder when such intrusions into my life will end, if ever.

"What kind ̓a contraband am I gonna find in here?" he asks.

"I don't have any contraband," I state unequivocally, wondering what this moron wants with me.

"Gee. I've never heard that before," he says sarcastically. Then he spins me to the door, grabbing the chain between my handcuffs to steer me toward it. "Let's go. Move it."

Dorkin marches me down the hallway and out into the sunshine where I see a white Dodge Intrepid waiting. He opens the car's rear door and, with his palm on my head, he pushes me into the back seat. He straps the seatbelt over my waist and then slams the door shut. I look through the tinted window at Mr. Brown, relatively certain that this will be the last time I see him.

Through the black metal mesh separating his seat from mine, Dorkin taunts me. "Got anything to say, Santos?"

I continue staring out the window, immune to his heckling. "Take me wherever you're taking me and do what you've got to do."

"That's the way you wanna play it?" Dorkin uses his authority like a weapon and he's accustomed to having an effect on prisoners. When I don't respond, he scowls because I've spoiled his game.

Silently, I watch as we pass through the eucalyptus and pine trees. Although I don't know why I'm being harassed this time, I'm pretty sure I won't be seeing Lompoc Camp again. At the double gates that lead to the Special Housing Unit, Dorkin pulls the radio from his belt, brings it to his mouth says: "Got one for SHU."

The gates open and he drives inside, parks in front of a second gate, and turns off the car. Another guard walks toward the car and opens the back door.

"What we got here?" the new guard asks. "Another genius from the camp?"

"Ten-four," Dorkin says. "Lock 'im up. Captain's order."

The guard orders me out of the car, gripping the handcuffs behind my back as I scoot off the backseat and exit the vehicle. He steers me through the gates and into the building, then deeper inside the windowless, concrete maze. Surveillance cameras are mounted in every corner. Someone is always watching, as shadowy guards sit in a distant control center. They monitor our movements and control heavy deadbolts with electronic locks. I hear the click, and the doors open automatically. We pass through, and the doors lock behind us. This stark area of the prison reeks like a jail, like a law enforcement cavern that feels very, very sinister.

The holding cell isn't any bigger than a broom closet, and once I'm secured inside, I back up to the bars. The guard inserts his key to unlock my handcuffs. I open my arms to stretch and it's so narrow I can press against the opposing concrete walls at the same time. Another guard wheels a laundry bin to the gate.

"What size?" he asks me.

"Two X." I strip naked, not waiting for an order from the guard who returns with faded boxers, white tube socks with worn elastic, the requisite orange jumpsuit with chrome snaps, a towel, and a bedroll. He searches my body and after he peers into my rectum I pass inspection.

"Get dressed," he says.

In less than a minute I'm clothed in the bright orange SHU uniform and blue canvas deck shoes. A thousand prisoners have worn these same clothes before me, and a thousand more will wear them after I'm gone. I roll my shoulders in an attempt to shrug off my growing stress, then squat to the floor and hold my knees to my chest while resting my back against the concrete wall, waiting.

I can only see the gray concrete walls of my cell, the bars, the narrow hallway and concrete wall outside the cell. I don't have a sense of time but, in the distance, I hear the crackle of a radio and the electronic click of deadbolts locking or unlocking steel doors. I roll my head from side to side, trying to dissipate or ease off the tension.

Footsteps approach my cell and a guard appears. It's Velez, a guard from the camp.

"What're you doing here?" he stops in front of the gate.

"I don't know," I respond, looking up from the floor.

"Did you get a shot?"

"If I did, I wouldn't know it."

"Let me see what I can find out."

Velez walks away and I massage my forehead. Carole is going to take this hard. Yesterday she celebrated her 42nd birthday and now she's going to have to confront this new drama in our life. I don't know when I'll be able to call her. I hope my friend Lee has heard about my misfortune and that he'll relay a message to Carole soon. She needs to know that a guard took me away, even though she'll worry. This disruption might be much harder on her than it is on me. She has semester finals in May and doesn't need this stress.

Footsteps accompanied by the sound of jingling keys announce Velez's return.

"You're here under investigation," he states, completely devoid of emotion.

"For what?"

"Captain's order. Stand up. I've got to cuff you. I'll take you to your cell."

I back against the bars and feel the metal bracelets click locked around my wrists. He unlocks the gates and leads me down the hall, past the raised control center. Inside the hub, I see blinking lights and movements of two guards through darkly tinted glass. Velez waits for one of them to release the electronic lock on the first gate. We walk through and it closes behind us. With his large key he unlocks the second gate and then locks it behind us. We're in a tunnel, with cell doors on each side. I don't recognize any of the prisoners who peer through the windows in their doors. These men probably come from the adjacent low- or medium-security prisons at Lompoc.

We stop in front of a cell and Velez taps with his key on the small window within the door.

"Move to the back of the cell," he instructs as the prisoner inside begins to move. "Face the wall. Don't turn around."

Velez unlocks the steel door and nudges me inside. The door closes behind me and I hear the deadbolt lock. I back up and push my hands to the open trap. He unlocks and removes my cuffs then slams the trap shut. The sound of his footsteps and jingling keys fade as he walks down the tier toward the gates.

"How you doing, Bud?" I say to the large man who is still facing the far wall of the cell. He's tall, with unruly brown hair.

"Hi." He greets me as he turns around.

I extend my hand. "My name's Michael Santos."

"I'm Marty Frankl." We shake hands.

"Where're you coming from?"

"I was at Terminal Island," he names a low-security prison in Los Angeles. "I'm on my way to the camp. A paperwork mix-up has me stuck in here."

"That happens. How long have you been in the SHU?

"Since Monday."

"They'll probably have it straightened out by Friday. You'll like the camp once you get there."

"Are you from the camp?" He asks as he sits on the lower bunk.

I throw my bedroll on the top rack and start tying my sheets around the mat. "I've been there for two years. It's been the easiest time I ever served."

"Are you the writer?"

"That's me."

"My girlfriend's been sending printouts from your website ever since I was charged. Part of the reason I pled guilty was because of what you wrote."

"What kind of case do you have?"

"Money laundering. I'm serving eight years."

"It passes faster than you think. You'll like the camp better than Terminal Island."

"Are you going back?"

"I don't even know why they locked me up, but it's not a good sign. I've never served time in SHU for a shot, only for transfer to another prison."

"That sucks. I know you've been in a long time. How many years do you have left?"

"Six, maybe a little more. I'm scheduled for release in August of 2013."

I describe the camp for Marty and answer his many questions. He gives me some paper, an envelope, and stamps. I fold the end of the mat on my rack to prop up my chest and I use the steel bunk as a surface to write Carole a long letter, explaining what I know. It's the beginning of a journal she'll post on my website at MichaelSantos.net describing my experience.

In the evening, a guard slides a form under the cell door that officially informs me that I'm being investigated for running a business.

*******

Marty's paperwork clears the following morning and he transfers to the camp. I appreciate the single cell and I strip to my boxers to begin my solitary exercise routine: pushups, deep knee bends, running in place. I exercise until sweat puddles beneath me. Then I wash my boxers in the sink and hang them to dry from the top rack, ignoring the staff and administrators who periodically walk by and peer through the window in my door.

On Saturday morning a guard I don't recognize startles me by tapping his key on the small window, scowling.

"Santos! What're you here for?" I step toward the doorframe and speak to him through the crack. "Investigation for running a business."

He shakes his head. "Cuff up. You've got a visit."

Knowing that Carole is here, I tolerate the dehumanizing handcuffs and strip search when I leave the cell. I'll go through anything to see my wife. After the guard from the visiting room unlocks my cuffs, strip searches me again, and advises me of the rules, I walk into the tightly controlled visiting area with surveillance cameras in the ceiling and uniformed guards patrolling the aisles. Prisoners are required to sit at tables across from their visitors, neither touching nor holding hands. I walk to Carole. Her smile warms me, but tears glisten in her eyes. We hold each other briefly, not saying anything.

"We'd better sit, Honey. I don't know how long we have," I tell her.

Carole takes in my orange jumpsuit and blue canvas shoes, my unshaven face, knowing what it means.

"Don't cry, Honey. It's okay. It's okay. I'm okay."

She wipes her eyes. "I hate to see you like this. Are they transferring us again?"

"I don't know, but I'm fine. Come on. Don't cry. You'll make me sad."

"What do you want me to do?" she asks.

"Regardless of what happens to me, you have to stay in school and finish the nursing program. It's only two more semesters and we can't let my problems interfere."

"Why are they doing this to you?"

"All I know is that I'm being investigated for running a business. I don't know whether it's for Inside, our website, or the books that Lee sponsoredåå

"Melodee told me that Lee heard that the guards took the compuåter from your office."

I'm glad to hear that Lee told his wife what he knows, and that Melodee called Carole. "She said they would help with whatever we need, even hire you a lawyer."

I tell Carole that we don't need a lawyer and that she should bring attention to my situation by calling some of the influential people in our network. I can't use the telephone while I'm in the SHU and guards monitor everything I write. So I suggest that she ask our friends to write reference letters to the warden at Lompoc and to ask professors who use my books to write letters describing the contributions my work makes to their students. She should contact journalists and other media representatives who have interviewed me or shown interest in my work, asking if they would make official inquiries. Also, she should ask Jon Axelrod, our lawyer friend in Washington D.C., to write a formal letter protesting my segregation and demanding an explanation. We have our support network in place and I urge Carole to mobilize it, including making calls to administrators in the BOP's Western Regional Office to complain.

"Someone is trying to bury me in the system, and from in here, all I can do is write about what's going on," I tell her. "The BOP operates behind closed doors and covers its actions with that 'security-of-the-institution' catchall. In order to force their hand to end the investigation, we have to expose their efforts to frame me. Let's use all of our resources to spotlight what's going on."

"What about the sponsorship funds that Lee gave? Can you get in trouble for that?"

"I didn't receive any funds. A private foundation sent checks to the publishing company that you own, not me. You paid taxes on the money. I wrote the manuscripts, but I wasn't compensated. I'm completely within the letter of the law. And if they want to give me a shot for what I did, I don't care. I'm proud of our work and I'm not hiding anything."

143. Earning Freedom (12.3) by Michael Santos May 05, 2022

Show notes

Lompoc Federal Prison Camp / meeting Lee Nobmann / Writing books in prison. Chapter Twelve: 2005-2007 Months 209-231 ******* Mr. Smith is the camp guard on the evening shift. He likes war books, particularly those about World War II and the Third Reich. Generally, I avoid guards, as instinct tells me they're out to score points with their superiors by writing disciplinary infractions. But someone told Mr. Smith that I'm a writer. He likes to talk to me about my work and his career, especially about his time as a soldier in Iraq. Smith once told me that he likes violence, and that he's "good at it." He's also disappointed that a reprimand for using excessive force on an inmate blemishes his employment record; that record, together with low scores on aptitude tests, hinders his chances for a job with the Highway Patrol. He dresses the part, riding into the camp each afternoon on his Harley, wearing a black, chrome-studded bomber jacket, a white helmet reminiscent of a Prussian soldier, and mirrored sunglasses in thin metal frames. I see Mr. Smith when I return to the camp after finishing an evening shift at the powerhouse. When I ask him for my mail, he hands it over and initiates a conversation. "Read your book," he nods his head and squirts tobacco into his disposable cup. "Good stuff. Only objection I got is that you write prison guard 'stead of correctional officer." "I'm describing prison from a prisoner's perspective," I explain. "It's what I see. Why would that bother you?" "Because we're not just prison guards. We've got training, policies we follow to maintain order." "I don't write 'guard' to demean anyone, but I'm trying to show the reader accurately what prison is about. In 19 years, I've never felt the system was trying to correct me, or anyone else. Although it's called 'corrections,' and 'correctional officers' supposedly staff the system, the primary emphasis is on protecting the security of the institution. That's guarding the prison, not corrections." "Thing is, ain't nothin' much we can do to 'correct' half the knuckleheads we got runnin' ̓round the joint. Only thing they understand is a swift kick in the ass." "That's where we disagree," I counter. "The use of force instead of incentives is the main reason the prison system has such a high rate of failure, wasting billions of dollars in taxpayer resources." "How's it not workin'?" Mr. Smith smirks. "Ain't no one escapin'." "That's because you're guarding the prison, but you're not correcting anyone. Incentives that would include mechanisms for prisoners to work toward earning freedom would change that. They would motivate more people to grow and prepare for success." "Sounds like a bunch of liberal bullshit." He spits into his cup. "Fancy yourself a conservative, do you?" "Damn straight." He walks around the desk and drops into his chair. "Small government and all that?" "You got it, brother. Stars and stripes all the way." "Then how do you explain your government paycheck and guaranteed pension? You've got what, a high school diploma, but you're pulling down enough to buy a Harley, a boat, an RV, and you get more vacation than anyone in the private sector. For what?" "Maintain' order. That's what." "I guess that's your take. From my perspective, prisons cause more harm than good. I write what I see." "You and I ain't so diff'rent. I could see us on the outside, bringin' the little ladies out for a bite while we chug brewskies and disagree over how the world ought to be run." "That's going to have to wait. I've got seven more years to be corrected." ******* Lee Nobmann surrenders to Lompoc Camp in early July of 2006. He's in his early 50s, clean cut with snow-white hair, clear blue eyes, and a stocky build. He's alone, sitting at a picnic table that overlooks a lush valley on his first day. I'm at the next table and notice him as a new face, one that looks more like a businessman than a prisoner. I'm always fishing for prisoners from whom I can learn, especially businessmen whose stories I can write about in White Collar. While I'm stealing a glance at the title of the book he reads, trying to gather clues of his interests, our eyes connect. "Are you a fan of John Grisham?" I ask him. "What's that?" he smiles. "John Grisham, the author of your book. Have you read much of his other work?" I walk toward his table. He flips the book over to look at the cover. "I just picked it off the shelf in the library. I was looking for something to kill time." I put out my hand. "I'm Michael Santos. Welcome." "Lee Nobmann," we shake hands. "Have you settled in okay?" I ask. "I'm getting the hang of it," he nods his head. "It's a little slow." "Believe me, it gets easier. How long are you going to be with us?" "About a year. How about you?" "I've got seven more to go, but they pass quickly, I know." "Ouch. It hurts to hear you say it." I smile. "It's not so bad. I've been in for a long time." "Really? How long? I've met some guys who've been in for several years?" "I've been in since 1987. I'm finishing my 19th year." "My God! And you've got seven more to go? That's an entire life. How old are you?" He asks. "I'm 42." "What did you do? If you don't mind my asking?" "No, I don't mind. I didn't pay my taxes." "You're kidding." "Well, I sold cocaine, too, but that's beside the point." He laughs. "Are you serious? You've been in prison for 19 years? How come you look so normal? I thought you just came in too." I nod my head. "What can I say? I've earned a gold medal for serving time." "That's the craziest sentence I've ever heard. Sorry to hear it." "I've been blessed in many ways. I've got a great wife, and through writing I've found a way to connect with the world." "What do you write about?" "Prison," I laugh. "It's the only world I know. I try to give readers a look inside." "What do you write? Articles or something?" "I write books." "No kidding. You can do that from here?" "I do." "Are any of them published?" "A few. I'm writing a new one now for white-collar offenders, a book that can help businessmen and other professionals understand more about the system." "I could've used something like that. I didn't know squat about what I was getting myself into." "What kind of work do you do?" "I'm in retail." "What do you sell?" "Lumber." "Is that against the law?" He laughs. "I've got a tax case." "You mind talking about it? I like learning from guys like you." "No, I don't mind. It's not that interesting though. I took some business deductions I shouldn't have." "It might not be that interesting to you, but I'm sure businessmen from across the country would like to know how taking deductions can lead to a prison term." "When you put it that way, I guess you're right," Lee acknowledges. "Are you still in business?" "Oh yeah." "Good size company?" "It's fair," he nods his head. "How many employees?" I look for a sign that will tell me who I'm talking to. "We've got close to 500." "Five hundred employees," I laugh. "You call that a fair size company?" He smiles, his eyes sparkling as he bounces his hand in the air. "Keep it down. I shouldn't have said that." "Why not?" "It's probably not a good thing to have going around in a place like this." "What kind of revenue does a company like that take in?" "We should do about 450 million this year." "Four hundred and fifty million dollars? That's a monster of a company. Is it public?" "No," he shakes his head. "It's a family business." Lee and I talk at the picnic table until we have to go in for the 10:00 pm census. After the count clears, we return to the picnic table and talk until midnight, enjoying the warmth of summer and each other's company. He's down to earth, really at ease. I prod him with questions about how he built his business and I respond to his questions about what it's been like to live as a prisoner. I'm glad to have a new friend, someone I can admire and learn from. For someone in prison, a friend is the greatest thing in the world. ******* It's Monday, August 6, 2006, the day that Inside: Life Behind Bars in America hits bookstores across America. I wrote the proposal and sample chapter more than two years ago, and I've worked on the project in one way or another every day since. As I walk from my rack down the center hall of the housing unit to the bathroom, I check my watch. It's only six in California, but nine on the East Coast and bookstores have opened in New York, Washington, Boston, and other big cities. I stand in line waiting to use the sink, wondering whether anyone's reading my book. In only seven more years I'll walk into a bookstore or library and see books on a shelf with my name on the spine. But now, I need to remove the rice, beans, and hair someone left in the drain filter of the sink so I can brush my teeth before work. My job in the powerhouse gives me a great escape from the crowded feeling of the housing unit. I like to spend time in what I've come to call 'my office.' It's small, only enough room for one, and I've personalized it. From a guy with skills in arts and crafts, I bought a frame for a picture of Carole and me sitting beside each other during visiting. He wove the frame from discarded potato-chip bags, which is part of his prison hustle. On the shelf above my desk, I have dictionaries, reference books, quotation books, and an almanac. When I close the door I'm alone, productive. The guards on duty leave me to my work, except when they need help with their own projects. "Did you see this?" Mr. Lime asks me. He works in the office next to mine as the shop supervisor, and he hands me an Internet printout from The Los Angeles Times Sunday Book Review. Ed Humes, a Pulitzer Prize-winning author wrote about my book, Inside, and the full-page review has my photograph. "Thanks," I say. I feel validated, because although I'm a long-term prisoner, my work is now published in open society and this review will forever bolster my résumé. I strive to prove worthy of Carole's love and of the support I receive from so many people. It thrills me to have the review that exposes my work to millions. "You got a copy of the book?" Mr. Lime asks. "I'll have some this week, assuming the mailroom passes them through." "Let me check it out." "You bet, boss." Two hours pass and I'm using a plastic spoon to dig tuna from its pack when Mr. Johnson opens the door behind me. I set the pack down on the credenza and spin my chair around to face him. His smoker's rasp, out of the left side of his mouth since his cigarette is on the right side, adds to his East Texas hillbilly twang. I like him. "Caught that piece ̓bout ya in the paper," he said. "Thanks," I reply. He stands in the doorframe, papers in his hand, with the unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. His tie is loosened, the top button of his blue shirt undone. Through brown reading glasses he studies the papers he holds. "Can I help you with something?" I ask, gathering that he wants something. "If ya please, I'd like ya ta take a look at some papers." "Anything, of course." "Job's comin' up, project manager for the city of Santa Maria. I done filled out a résumé, cover letter, and what have ya. Seein' as yer a writer and all, think ya could look it over for me?" "Absolutely." Mr. Johnson passes me his papers and then stands watching over me as I read through them. I've been working as the powerhouse clerk for six months and we have an easy relationship. He uses profanity when he tells me stories about his weekends. He says that he watches a standup comedian by the name of Larry the Cable Guy. Despite the familiarity, I'm intuitively uncomfortable evaluating his shoddy writing and don't know what I should say. "Would it be okay if I made some suggestions?" "You betcha. I was hopin' ya'd fix it up." "It would probably be easier if I retyped it." "Fix whatever it needs. I know I got some weaknesses, seein' as I didn't finish college and they're asking' for a college diploma, but I'll be retirin' with 30 years in the Bureau, runnin' facilities of ev'ry size. That oughta count for somethin'. Doctor it up as best ya can." "I'm going to need a few hours." "Take as long as you like. I'll pick'r up tomorra." He walks out, leaving me alone. ******* Jeff, a recent Lompoc arrival from Seattle, is in the beginning months of a 10-year sentence for selling cocaine. I'm standing in the narrow space between my bunk and my locker when he taps me on the shoulder. "Have you seen this article?" Jeff passes me the magazine section from The Seattle Times, Sunday, September 24, 2006. My picture is on the cover, showcasing a story by Stewart Eskenazi, the same guy who covered my trial for the newspaper. My letter to him in 1988 led to an interview and a front-page story where I expressed regret for selling cocaine and committed to using my time in prison to reform and contribute to society. The reporter's follow-up story, two decades later, describes my progress. Jeff's parents had sent him the magazine to encourage him as he began serving his sentence. I open the magazine and I flip through the pages. "I've read the text of the article. But this is the first time I've seen the magazine. My sister sent me a copy but I haven't gotten it yet." "Dude, I can't believe you've done all that from prison." Jeff nods in admiration. "It's been a long time. Can I hold onto the magazine? I want to show it to a friend." "Sure. My mom ordered your book for me." "Cool, thanks for the support. I'll give you back the magazine when I get mine." "Keep it." He says. "Thanks, I appreciate it." "No problem." I walk through the narrow passage between bunks and turn down the crowded walkway to Lee's bunk. He's sitting on the metal chair in front of his open locker, wearing gray sweats and black reading glasses. He's placing his crisply folded clothes on the locker shelves. "Can't you pay someone to do that for you? CEOs don't do the grunt work." Lee laughs, brings his finger to his lips. "Some things a guy's gotta do for himself. What's up?" "Check this out." I hand him the magazine. "…

Full show notes at the publisher

142. Earning Freedom (12.2), by Michael Santos May 05, 2022

Show notes

Earning Freedom, by Michael Santos Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term Chapter Twelve: 2005-2007 Months 209-231: Discussing adjustment in Lompoc federal prison camp, descriptions of housing, job details, writing projects. ******* The SIS interview alerts me to my high-profile status at Lompoc and I walk out of the meeting expecting resistance from the staff. I can deal with that. Inside is in publication and St. Martin's Press is launching an international release that will put my work before tens of thousands. I'm willing to pay whatever price the system exacts so long as I leave prison with more skills and resources that will contribute to my family's stability. But I also need to coast for a while, to lower my visibility and to consolidate my gains in preparation for my next project, whatever that is. In the meantime I pay attention to two factors that influence peace in prison, a bunk assignment and a job assignment. In Lompoc's warehouse-style living, we're packed in. When I sit up on my top rack, all I see is a grid of metal bunks, with more than 160 prisoners stuffed inside the room. If I stretch out my hands, I touch the top of another man's head. If I stand on the two-feet of floor space between my bunk and metal locker, I can't open my arms without invading the space of another prisoner. My housing unit, one of two at Lompoc Camp, is so tight its only function is to provide a place for prisoners to sleep, not to offer extra space for desks, televisions, or table games. Our inadequate community bathroom has three urinals, five toilets in stalls so small my knees touch the door when I sit, seven sinks, and four usable showers for 160 men. Prisoners clean their plastic food bowls in the same sinks where they brush their teeth. Oatmeal or last night's dinner always clogs the drain. Despite the work of the orderlies, the bathrooms remain in various stages of filth. The living conditions in Lompoc Camp, the "crown jewel" of the federal prison system, rate as the worst I've experienced. It doesn't make a difference where I sleep, as one bunk is the same as the next. Still, despite the wretched housing, Lompoc has advantages that warrant its positive reputation. The scenic surroundings, marginal levels of staff supervision, and a high level of personal freedom combine to offset the tight quarters. Since I can't find privacy where I sleep, I try for a job assignment that will give me some space. I want an orderly job in the housing unit, cleaning floors, toilets, or hallways. That job requires two hours of work at most each day, which would leave sufficient time to write. Mr. Castro is the counselor at Lompoc who assigns jobs to prisoners and I wait in line to see him with hopes of influencing his decision. Mr. Castro's office is in the front of the dorm, directly across the narrow hallway from the unit officer's station where I saw the ZZ Top guard. Before I approach him, I ask Rick, a prisoner who's been in for seven years, how Castro responds to inmate requests for jobs. "Bring him candy," Rick suggests. "What do you mean?" "Dude likes candy. Seriously. Bring him a Hershey's bar and you might have a chance." "That might work for someone else. If I did it, he'd charge me with attempted bribery." "Tell him you found two Hershey bars on top of your locker," Rick advises. "Since they're not yours, and you don't know who the candy belongs to, tell him you're turning them in. Then ask him for the job you want." I laugh and thank Rick for the heads up. But I knock on Castro's door empty-handed. "Come in," I hear him say, and I open the door. He sits behind his desk, looking like a beach ball, round and short. "Mr. Castro, I'm Michael Santos, and I just arrived here. I'd like to speak with you about my job assignment." The counselor folds his pudgy hands across his corpulent belly and grins. "I know who you are, Mr. Santos. Where do you want to work?" "I've been in a long time. I'm hoping for a job that will give me time to write. I'd like to work as an orderly." "Watch the callout. I've got a job in mind for you and it's not as an orderly." He keeps grinning but doesn't offer any hints. The "callout" is the daily printout the staff posts for inmate scheduling. It lists appointments with medical staff, program assignments, unit team meetings, bed changes, and inmate jobs. When I see my name assigned to the farm, I understand Trent's grin. He prefers me shoveling cow manure to wielding a pen. Lompoc Camp operates a working farm, several thousand acres in size, with herds of cattle, horses, and dairy cows. The dairy requires a large crew of prisoners to milk and tend to more than 300 cows daily. Prison "cowboys" perform all the ranch labor raising cattle for beef; yet another prison crew maintains the acres of corn and soybeans grown to feed the cattle. One small crew of prisoners drives 18-wheelers between Lompoc and Arizona to deliver milk produced at the camp. Those prisoners sleep in motels and eat in restaurants four days a week without staff supervision. Besides the ranching operation, the 350 camp prisoners provide manpower to sustain the adjacent low-security and medium-security prisons. Prisoners fill positions as electricians, plumbers, painters, carpenters, landscapers, mechanics, wastewater treatment operators, and clerical workers for a community of 5,000 inmates and staff. Some camp inmates experience an unusually high degree of freedom in their jobs, even being assigned government vehicles. While working on the farm or away from the camp, those prisoners can manipulate time for themselves. As such, Lompoc is a haven for every kind of contraband and unauthorized trysts with wives and girlfriends. Neither the work nor the extra freedom serves my purposes. Unlike the recently convicted politicians and white collar professionals who serve short sentences at Lompoc Camp, my old-law sentence comes with an advantage that makes taking liberty with the rules dangerous. Under old-law I earn more good time. A disciplinary infraction can reduce the 19 years of good-time credit I earn against my 45-year sentence. To earn freedom, I focus exclusively on preparations that will contribute to my success upon release while avoiding behavior and interactions that could extend my imprisonment. ******* Carole finishes her summer courses in Colorado and she and Nichole sell most of their belongings in a yard sale. I haven't seen my wife for 73 days since they locked me in the Florence SHU. A thousand miles separated us on our second wedding anniversary on June 24, 2005, while I was in transit to Lompoc. We burn through our monthly allotment of 300 telephone minutes with endearments. It isn't enough. My mother, my grandmother, Julie, and Christina, make the long trip to Lompoc while I wait for Carole. Guards returned my wedding ring to me when they processed me in, but it still isn't enough. I ache for my wife, for the softness of her kiss. I stand outside behind the dorm, under a row of eucalyptus trees that line the road, and I watch as Carole follows seven other cars driving slowly around the potholes to enter the FCC. My heart beats for her. When I see her turquoise Saturn approach, I smile. She drove across Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona, and California to join me, and I feel as if I'm the luckiest man alive, despite the fact that I'm beginning my 19th year in prison. I see her turn into the camp. We wave as she drives just a few feet from me. While she parks and stands in line for processing, I walk around to the back, sit on a bench under a pine tree and wait for the visiting room guard to page me. "Santos! Visit!" I hear the page over loudspeakers that blast through the camp. Eager to see her, touch her, hold her again, I hand my ID card to the guard at the desk. Then I search for my wife in the crowded visiting room. She's at the vending machines waiting to purchase a cup of coffee, wearing pressed blue jeans, a white cotton blouse, and black heels that bring the top of her head to my eye level. We hold each other tightly and kiss. "I missed you, Baby," she whispers into my ear. "You're beautiful, prettier than ever. I'm so glad you're here," I tell her. "We'll never stay apart this long again." "I missed you terribly. Come on, let's sit outside." Although the living conditions at Lompoc Camp disappoint me, the camp visiting area surpasses any we've experienced. A front yard has 20 wooden picnic tables, some with two seats, others with four. They're set on a closely cut, lush green lawn still wet with morning dew on this August morning. A two-rail fence of rough timber outlines the perimeter of the visiting area. Toward the end of the yard there's a concrete bench next to a wooden carving of a friendly-looking California black bear. I lead Carole to the bench where we can sit in the shade of a tall eucalyptus tree. Through the thin forest of pines outside the visiting area, we catch glimpses of prisoners inside the gates of the adjacent low-security prison playing tennis and soccer. "Wow! It's so beautiful here. It doesn't look like a prison," Carole muses. "Who takes such good care of the roses?" "You'll meet him later. We call him Dave the Flower Man. He's one of the guys I've met." "Why's he here?" "He's a land developer from the Tahoe area, serving about a year for a business deal that went bad." I tell Carole about the camp, about how it differs from everywhere else I've been, and that I'd like to stay here until I go home. But Carole isn't so pleased with it. She suggests that I put in for a transfer. "Why?" I ask. "Honey, it's going to cost me twice as much to live here as it did in Florence. I've been looking all week. Everything's more expensive, including rent, gas, and food. I'm worried about being able to afford it." "What about school? Can you start in September?" Carole tells me about the waiting list. In Colorado, she was scheduled to begin nursing school in September and to graduate in 2008 with a bachelor of nursing degree. "The soonest I'm going to get into a nursing program here is in January of 2007. I won't even earn my vocational nursing degree until May of 2008, and the RN's another year after that. I don't think we'll have enough money to live here. I think you should try to transfer to Oregon, or someplace less expensive." "Honey, it's not that easy. I've only been here for two months. No one is going to listen if I ask for a transfer, not until I've been here for at least 18 months." "Why not? Even the SIS doesn't want you here. What's going to happen if I settle here and they transfer you again?" I squeeze Carole's hands to reassure her. "Then we'll have to deal with it. I can ask for a transfer in the spring of 2007, but then you'll be in the nursing program. Let's make it work here." "You've said yourself that you can't control what they're going to do to you, and the SIS has already warned you. They can take you away in the middle of the night, just like they did at Fort Dix and at Florence." Carole's voice reveals her concern. "I promise you, I won't do anything that causes trouble," I say, putting my arm around her. "But you never cause trouble." "I mean I won't write anything about prison. I'm not going to do anything that they would consider a threat to the security of their precious institution. I'll work at the dairy and I'll live like a prisoner until you finish nursing school. St. Martin's Press will release Inside next year and you'll receive more money when it does. We can generate more revenues through our website to help. That, along with other royalty checks will get you through nursing school. We have to make our lives work here. We'll need that security for when I come home." ******* Mr. Griggs, the unit manager at Lompoc Camp, loves to smoke. While standing beneath the blue and white striped awning outside the administration building, he admires rings of nicotine clouds that hang over his head. Today he watches me walk across the parking lot toward him. "May I talk to you?" I stop outside the yellow line under the awning so as not to penetrate his space. "Open house is at three." He shuts me down. "I'll have to be at work then. It's only a question," I persist. Mr. Griggs blows a cloud of smoke above his head, and he looks up to admire his work. "What is it?" "I'd like you to authorize a job change for me." "Why?" "I've been working at the dairy for six months. I need to spend more time preparing for the career I want to build upon release." "Release? Don't you have like five more years to go?" "I get out in 2013, in seven more years." "It's too soon for you to be thinking about release. The needs of the institution come first. You can stay at the dairy." "The clerk in the powerhouse is leaving. I've been waiting to switch to that job." He blows another cloud of smoke, watching as it rises. "Let me think about it." ******* In the spring of 2006, I finally prevail upon Mr. Griggs to authorize my job change from the dairy to the powerhouse. The powerhouse operates three massive boilers that generate steam to heat the adjacent medium-security penitentiary. It requires around-the-clock staffing. As the powerhouse clerk, I become friendly with Mr. Brown, the manager, and with his many subordinates who alternate shifts as foreman. I have an office with a large desk and credenza and bookshelves, an electric typewriter with memory, file cabinets, and a cushioned office chair. When I close the door, I'm alone. My job requires a few duties. I keep records of all energy expenditures for the Federal Correctional Complex; I complete regulatory "safety" forms; and I tally timesheets for the 100 prisoners assigned as laborers. It's tedious administrative work, but I develop a system that allows me to stay current with my responsibilities while setting aside a few hours each day for my correspondence and independent writing projects. I've made a new friend and mentor, Dr. Sam Torres. After retiring as a senior United States Parole Officer, he became a professor of Criminal Justice at the California State University in Long Beach. He uses my first book, About Prison, as required reading for courses he teaches in corrections, and that leads to a correspondence between us. Dr. Torres tried to visit when I was in Florence, and again when I moved to Lompoc. Mr. Griggs and senior BOP administrators refuse him permission on the grounds of preserving security in the institution. They cite policy that prohibits prisoners from visiting with people they did not know prior to confinement. Ironically, as writing puts me in contact with more people, BOP administrators become more vigilant in their efforts to isolate me from society. Dr. Torres extends me the privilege of interacting with his class, and I respond to written questions from future parole officers and prison administrators whom he teaches. My work in the powerhouse becomes much easier when Mr. Brown, one of the shop foremen, gives me a sleek new Dell computer with a speedy laser printer. It…

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141. Earning Freedom (12.1) by Michael Santos May 05, 2022

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Chapter Twelve: 2005-2007 Months 209-231 "What's this scumbag here for?" The guard on duty barks as we enter the closed corridor inside the Special Housing Unit. Since he doesn't know me I surmise that his obvious contempt extends to all prisoners. I stand silently, both hands still locked behind my back. "One for SHU. Captain's orders." The transporting guard uncuffs me and walks away. "Strip!" The SHU guard commands. I unbutton and remove my green shirt, then I pull my t-shirt over my head and drop it on the floor. The guard stands close, too close, staring as I take off my sneakers, my pants, my underwear, and my socks. "Take everything off." I stand in front of him, naked, and I unfasten the rubber wristband of my Timex wristwatch, dropping the watch into his outstretched hand. "Give me the ring." "I don't have to give you my ring." "What did you say, Inmate?" He takes a step closer and his breath hits my face. I hold up my left hand. "This is a silver wedding band, without stones. BOP policy says I can wear it at all times." The guard takes off his glasses, closes them and slides them into his shirt pocket. He inches closer to me. "You tellin' me how to run my institution, scumbag?" "I'm not resisting you. Call the lieutenant. He'll know the policy." "I'm in charge here." The guard balls his fists, wanting to fight. "Either take the ring off, or I'm gonna take it off. It's not coming into my unit." Standing naked, I'm not in a position to argue for my rights. This guard thirsts for a violent confrontation, and if it comes to that, I lose. With the length of time I've served, I'm conditioned to accept that guards routinely cite their mantra about preserving security of the institution while they violate both human rights and civil rights. Despite the promise I made to Carole about never taking it off, I slide the band off my finger and I hand it to the guard. He steps back, puts his glasses back on, and then he continues the search. The guard issues me a green jumpsuit and a bedroll. We walk down the cellblock. When he unlocks the metal door I see three prisoners inside. Rollo, a young prisoner, is on the top rack. He caused a stir at the camp several months ago when he decided that he'd had enough of confinement and walked away. Pueblo is on the lower rack, locked in SHU two months ago for fighting. Jerome sits on the floor in SHU because the guard in food services caught him going through the food line twice on hamburger day. I drop my bedroll on the floor for a cushion, and I lean my back against the wall, bending my knees to prop my feet against the steel toilet. "What'd they get you for?" Rollo asks from his rack. "Embezzlement. They say I transferred a million dollars from the prison's bank account to my wife's account." "No way! Really?" Rollo would believe me if I'd told him I was locked in the SHU for not putting my napkin in my lap. He's totally gullible. "I don't know why I'm here. They just locked me up," I admit and shrug. "Ay Rollo you so stupid, you believe anything." Pueblo whacks him with his pillow from the lower rack. "It could happen!" Rollo defends himself. "Ain't you never seen The Shawshank Redemption, Homie?" "Dat shit was a bad-ass flick," Jerome says. "Rollo," I ask. "Why did you walk away from the camp?" "I missed my ol' lady." "When he done showed up at her door, da bitch done called da FBI on his stupid ass," Jerome says, finishing Rollo's explanation. "Is that what happened?" I ask Rollo. He nods his head and laughs. "I'm facing five more years for escape." "What were you serving before?" I ask him. "Twenty-two months for credit card fraud." "You'll probably get another year. You can use the time for school," I say. "That fool ain't goin' to no school." Pueblo says. "He can't even play no cards." I spend the entire day on the floor of the crowded cell, which won't allow for Pueblo or Rollo to step off their bunks. When someone has to use the toilet or sink, I stand in the corner. Exercise isn't an option here, and with the back and forth chatter, reading or writing will have to wait. In the evening, a guard unlocks the door and tosses me a sleeping mat. I slide it under the steel rack, then carefully crawl under the bed, head first, and I lie still. Pueblo's steel rack is only inches above me, too close for me to turn on my side. I sleep lying on my stomach, using my crossed arms as a pillow. "Santos! Roll up!" I haven't been asleep for long when I hear the guard kicking the metal door. He unlocks the door and opens it. I crawl out from under the bed, careful not to step on Jerome. The guard cuffs my hands behind my back and leads me out. I don't ask questions and he doesn't offer explanations. I strip, toss my jumpsuit into a bin and I stand for the search, eager to move out. "What size?" The guard asks. "Two-X," I say. He tosses a roll of traveling khakis. After I'm cuffed and chained, I join a group of other prisoners and we climb into an idling bus. The sky is still dark. We drive through the gates and join a convoy of three other buses, two carrying prisoners from the Florence penitentiary and one from the ADX. As the buses turn right, leaving the Florence Correctional Complex behind, I look through the tinted windows and wonder where Carole lives. The house she rents is only two miles from the prison, she told me, but I don't know where. The bus moves past the dark cross streets too fast for me to see her car parked in a driveway. No matter. It's before dawn and she's asleep, oblivious to a new uprooting of our lives. ******* I have a window seat as the plane takes off. I expect to sleep in the Oklahoma Transit Center again tonight and wonder whether I'll see the Native American guard. I count how many times I've been on prison transport planes, and come up with 12, explaining why some of the U.S. marshals look familiar. I notice graying hair and new wrinkles in weathered faces; over the past 18 years I've flown with them throughout their careers. We've been in the air a few hours when my ears pop and my stomach lurches. While we're descending, I glance out from the tiny window. As our plane approaches the landing strip, I see evergreen trees that surround a lake I recognize. We're approaching Seattle, the city where Carole and I grew up, where Julie and her family still live. Carole and I may have grown up here, but it's no longer home. We're nomads, a prison family. The plane lands at Boeing Field, right beside Interstate 5. I look outside and spot guards and marshals surrounding the plane for the prisoner exchange. I wish they would call my name, as I'd like to walk on Seattle ground again. I may be in chains, but I'm breathing the same air my sister breathes, though she doesn't know I'm here. Even my wife doesn't know where I am. After an hour we're airborne again and I take a last look out the window. It's 2005, probably eight more years before I'll see the Seattle skyline again. The Emerald City fades away as the plane banks and climbs higher. In eight years I don't know where Carole and I will make our home. We may want to make a start in a new city, or even a new country. I see Oklahoma City again as the plane taxis. It's my fifth time here and I know the routine. Hobbling in my chains, I'm eager to fill out the forms and turn them in. The sooner processing begins, the sooner I'll find out where I'm going. "Do you know where you're going?" the woman in uniform asks. I shake my head "no," and pass her my intake forms. "Santos, Michael," she says and moves her forefinger down the list of names on her computer printout. "Big Spring, Texas," she says, and my heart sinks. "No, wait, you've been re-designated. You're going to Lompoc Camp." ******* Among prisoners, Lompoc Camp on the Central Coast of California has a reputation of being the crown jewel of the federal prison system. For years I've heard that administrators reserved Lompoc Camp for politicians who've run afoul of the law and for powerful white-collar offenders. Traveling by bus up the Pacific Coast Highway, with the salty smell of the ocean filling my lungs, invokes pleasurable childhood memories of visiting my grandparents in Los Angeles while on summer vacations. I remember swimming with my sisters at different California beaches, jumping into the waves that roll endlessly onto the shoreline. As I look at the ocean, I try to remember the sensation of floating in water. I contemplate what it might feel like to submerge my body. For 18 years the only water I've felt has sprayed from a spigot. I can't remember the sensation of buoyancy. In eight years Carole and I will bathe together and we'll swim in that ocean. Klein Boulevard, the long thoroughfare leading into the Lompoc Federal Correctional Complex, is a crumbling asphalt road riddled with potholes. On my right is the fenced boundary of the medium-security prison, and on my left is the low-security prison. As the bus lurches along the dilapidated road toward the camp, prisoners in green uniforms walk freely on scenic trails winding between tall eucalyptus trees that fragrantly scent the air. I appreciate the natural beauty. After six hours of processing, guards hand us our ID cards and bedrolls. I join four other prisoners walking outside the gates from the Receiving and Discharge building in the higher-security prison. Walking ahead of the crowd, I pass the field where a group of prisoners play soccer. Further down the road several men pump iron at the camp's weight pile. Pinecones that fall from the trees litter the path I'm on. The housing unit resembles a steel, prefabricated warehouse, and the laid back guard inside looks more like a member of ZZ Top, with his long beard, black sunglasses, heavy silver rings with Gothic designs. Tattoos of double lightning bolts, flames, skulls, and cross bones cover his forearms. He's in a messy office, holding a Maxim magazine with a young woman in panties, sucking a lollipop, on the cover. He's leaning back in his chair, with crossed legs and heavy black leather boots resting casually on a gray metal desk. I stand in front of him with my bedroll and the other new prisoners begin to crowd into the office, lining up behind me. The guard ignores us while flipping the pages of his magazine. Green canvas duffle bags are scattered on the scuffed and dingy tile floors. A desk fan blows and a radio broadcasts hardcore rap music by Tupac. "Wazzup?" The guard finally lowers his magazine. I give him my ID card and the other prisoners follow my lead. "You guys the fresh meat?" he asks, turning down the volume of the radio. We stand still, waiting as the guard sorts through index cards. He then pulls his feet from the desk and stands. "Follow me," he says. We follow him out of the office and down the narrow hall to the right. It empties into an open space as large as a private airplane hangar. For the crown jewel of the BOP, it's mighty tarnished. Six columns of gray metal bunks, 30 rows deep, fill the immense room. The noisy, crowded accommodations have a putrid stench. I follow the guard as he leads us down the center aisle and taps the fourth bed in column four. "Santos. This is you." He keeps walking with the others. I put down my belongings and prepare to settle in. ******* "Santos!" I hear the loudspeaker. "Inmate Michael Santos. Number 16377-004. Report to the administration building. Immediately!" Not again, I groan inwardly. I've only been at Lompoc Camp for a day and I'm already being paged. I walk the short distance for yet another confrontation with BOP administrators. As I pass by a sparkling white Dodge Intrepid sedan with darkly tinted windows and three small antennae sticking out of the car's rear end, I assume it's from the fleet of the Federal Correctional Complex security force. A closer look at the elaborate communication system inside the car confirms my suspicions. Someone is here to interrogate me. Through the smoked glass of the building's front door sits a receptionist. I knock, waiting for her to acknowledge me before opening the door. I've heard other prisoners refer to her as "the dragon lady," so I don't open the door until she indicates it's okay. It's a standoff, but I'm prepared to wait all day. I prefer the wait to being scolded and bullied. After several minutes, she grasps that I'm not going to open the door, and I'm not going to knock again. She looks up, annoyed, and motions me in. "I'm Michael Santos." I present my ID card. "I heard a page to the administration building." Before she can answer, a stocky man with a chiseled face and a military-style crew cut steps into the doorway of the conference room. He's wearing a heavily starched BOP uniform. "I paged you, come in." He directs me to a chair at the side of the table. "Sit down. Do you know who I am?" "No." I shake my head. "I'm Lieutenant Merkle. Special Investigative Services." He opens a burgundy leather portfolio on the table. "It's generally not a good sign when I call an inmate for a meeting." "I'm familiar with the role of the SIS." These guards can't intimidate me. "I'm sure you are." The room is quiet as he flips through his papers. "So you're the writer. Do you know why you're here?" "Yes, I do." I nod my head. "And what's your interpretation?" "When I was in my early 20s, I sold cocaine. I've been a prisoner since then, and as a prisoner I'm susceptible to these kinds of summons." The lieutenant glances up at me. "So you're a wise guy?" "Not at all. That's why I'm here. If I hadn't sold cocaine, we wouldn't be talking right now." He stares at me. "But you did sell cocaine. Now you're an inmate in my institution." He pulls out a page from his portfolio. "I received a letter from Lieutenant Knowles, SIS at Florence." "Okay." "You were transferred here administratively because your writing presented a threat to the security of that institution." "How so?" "It doesn't matter. Point is, you're in my institution now and I'm here to give you notice. If you write anything that threatens the security of my institution, I'm not going to transfer you. Instead, I'll bury you so deep in the SHU that no one will ever find you. Do you understand that?" "What do you consider a threat to the security of the institution?" "You're a wise guy, you figure it out. But if I lock you up for an investigation, you won't have access to telephone, mail, or visits. Do you understand?" "For what, though?" I gesture with open hands. "I've never written a sentence that threatened security. All my work urges people to act responsibly and to lead law-abiding lives. I live by that rule. Why would you consider my writing a threat?" "I ask the questions. I don't answer them," the lieu…

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140. Earning Freedom (11.3) by Michael Santos May 05, 2022

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Earning Freedom by Michael Santos Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term Chapter Eleven: 2003-2005 Months 190-209 It's the spring of 2004, and even at our 5,000-foot elevation, the snow has stopped falling. The Rocky Mountains are right outside the window, close enough that it looks as if I could reach out and touch them. I have a wonderful view from this prison cubicle in Florence. Carole studies full time at Pueblo Community College and her schedule helps me mark off the weeks. We visit three hours every Friday evening, six hours on Saturdays, Sundays, and federal holidays. The more time I spend in Carole's company, with my fingers locked around hers, the more I feel as if I'm a part of something more than a prison population. While we sit beside each other in the burgundy plastic chairs of Florence's visiting room, she tells me that we need to generate more support for my clemency petition. It's been almost a year, and we haven't heard anything. I squeeze her hand. "I told you, President Bush isn't going to commute my sentence. Let's not divert our attention from what's really important. We're doing well and we need time to prepare for my release. You focus on finishing chemistry and biology, and I'll work on getting a publishing deal." "It's too bad Bruce isn't alive. He could help." "We've got to do this on our own. You get your degree, and I'll find a literary agent who will represent my work. It looks like we're going to be saddled with four more years of Bush. But if I get a book deal, we might get enough support for a reasonable chance at clemency after he's gone. And by then you'll be a nurse." "First I need to pass algebra. These word problems were tough when I was in high school, but they're brutal now that I'm 40." "You're smarter than I am, and I know you can do it." I pull out the algebra book she brought with her. "Let's work through some problems together." ******* Other than work in the Supermax laundry, exercise, and visiting with Carole, I devote all my energy to writing a book proposal and three sample chapters for a new manuscript. I'm titling it Inside: Life Behind Bars in America. It's my first attempt to reach a general, non-fiction audience, and I invest more than three months with a Bic pen and a dictionary to put the book proposal together. Carole types the document and sends copies to 90 literary agents I culled from an annotated list published in Writers Market. I'm hopeful they'll have an interest in my work. Our effort to find a literary agent makes me a hit at mail call. The guard has been calling my name over and over, passing me no fewer than 73 rejections from literary agents who've declined to represent me. But I've also received letters from four agents who express an interest. I hold one in my hand now from James Schiavone, a Florida agent who has a doctorate in education. Educators guided me through my first 17 years of confinement and they served as role models for me. I admire their devotion to improving society through teaching and I respect them for the energy they invest in helping others reach their potential. I respond to Dr. Schiavone's letter, letting him know that I'd welcome an opportunity to work with him. That response leads to more correspondence. I amend my proposal according to his suggestions and sign a contract giving Schiavone Literary Agency authorization to present my manuscript to mainstream publishing houses. It thrills me to have a valid contract with a literary agent Carole and I found through our own work. The executive staff at Florence Camp, however, doesn't share my elation. This becomes clear when the Camp Administrator, Mr. Jimenez, calls me into his office for an admonishment. My Unit Manager, Ms. Otero, is also present. Anticipating the reason for the meeting, I carry copies of About Prison, Profiles From Prison, and a file with letters I've received from numerous professors who use my writings as a resource to teach university students in their criminal justice and corrections courses. Mr. Jimenez is confident and ambitious, clearly headed for higher offices with the growing Bureau of Prisons system. As the camp administrator, he's like a mini warden, and all staff members answer to him. As unit manager of the camp, Ms. Otero is his direct subordinate. She reminds me of a miniature bulldog, tough and mean. Mr. Jimenez authorizes me to come in. He's sitting in a high-backed chair behind his large oak desk. Ms. Otero stands in front of Mr. Jimenez's desk, glaring at me like I'm a problem child she's reporting to the principal, her hands clasped behind her back. Her dark polyester suit fails to hide the roll of fat she tries to camouflage. "Have a seat, Mr. Santos," Mr. Jimenez gestures to the green vinyl couch beside his desk. "I'm placing you on mail-monitoring status," he says as I sit down. "What does that mean?" I ask. "It means that the Special Investigative Services lieutenant will review all correspondence addressed to you. From now on, the SIS will have to approve all mail before it's distributed to you." "Why?" I ask. "Security of the institution," Ms. Otero says. "How long will he hold my mail?" "We'll try to keep it reasonable," Mr. Jiminez says. "Depending on the volume of mail you receive, you can expect it in two to three weeks, assuming SIS approves it." "What have I done to warrant this sanction?" "You're not being sanctioned," he corrects me. "I have a responsibility to preserve the security of the institution, and this is a precautionary measure I'm taking." "A precautionary measure against what? I'm not threatening security. My record is clear, and I'm an open book. All I'm trying to do is prepare for my successful re-entry into society." "You've still got nine years to serve, and we don't care anything about your life after release," Ms. Otero hisses. "All we care about is the security of the institution. We don't like prisoners writing books and complaining about the system." "Have you seen the books I write? I'm not complaining about anything." "I don't need to see your books," she says. "I don't want any inmates under my watch writing about prison operations. It threatens security." I'm puzzled by her hostility, and I turn to Mr. Jimenez. I sense he's uncomfortable with her self-righteous invective. "Can I show you my books?" He extends his hand and I give him the books and the file of letters. "I write about the importance of accepting responsibility, about preparing for re-entry. My books don't threaten security. They offer suggestions for improvements to lower recidivism rates. Universities from coast to coast use them as teaching resources. I'm proud of my work and I'd like to have your support." Mr. Jimenez flips through the pages. Ms. Otero watches the exchange and, sensing that Mr. Jimenez might reconsider, she verbally challenges me again. "What are you in for? Aren't you a drug dealer?" "I made the bad decision to sell cocaine in my early 20s. I'm 40 now, hoping you'll judge me for the record I've built over the past 17 years rather than the crime that put me here." "I bet you would. You're serving 45 years, right? Why don't you just serve your time like everyone else? Write your books when you get out," she snarls. I'm immune to her verbal hammer, knowing it's for Jimenez's benefit. "Like everyone else? Ms. Otero, 70 percent of the people who leave prison return to prison. Serving my time like everyone else would only lead to my failure after 26 years. I'm determined not to let that happen. Why would you oppose me? You've got gang members running around here who thrive on crime, and you want to spend energy blocking me? Why?" "The thing is, Mr. Santos, we've got an institution to run," Mr. Jimenez explains, returning my books. "How do you think taxpayers would respond if they heard we were allowing inmates to write books?" "The BOP policy expressly encourages inmates to write manuscripts, and it says we don't need staff authorization." "It doesn't say you can publish them," Ms. Otero barks, unwilling to back down. "I'm not publishing them, someone else is. I give the manuscripts away. Wouldn't you rather have prisoners using their time productively in activities that will help them overcome the stigma of imprisonment? Isn't that better than wasting time on television and table games?" "I told you. We don't care what happens to inmates after they leave. We're running a prison here," she snaps, angrily. Mr. Jimenez shakes his head. "We've made our decision, Mr. Santos. As of today, you're on mail-monitoring status. You may appeal the decision, but I've consulted with the warden and he agrees that security of the institution comes first." I walk out of his office sensing that Mr. Jimenez respects me, maybe even admires what I've done. But he's a career bureaucrat representing a system whose policies have the unintended consequences of perpetuating failure; prison management rejects the workplace practices of innovation and 'thinking outside the box.' It's so much easier to isolate and punish. I owe no allegiance to Mr. Jimenez, Ms. Otero, or the prison system. By writing about prisons from the inside, I hope to influence support for reforms to our costly prison system that perpetuates so much failure. I feel a duty to write about America's most flawed institutions, especially a federal prison system hidden from public view and squandering billions in taxpayer resources each year. ******* From the window of my cubicle, I see Carole's blue Saturn two-door waiting in a line of vehicles on the side of the road. Every day brings more reason for me to appreciate the blessings of my life. With her love, I feel fortunate, strong enough to overcome whatever this prison system dishes out. When the guard at the main gate raises the barrier for cars to drive into the FCC for visiting, I leave my cubicle and walk toward the visiting room. When Officer Zimmer pages me, I step into the room for a search. He's friendly to Carole and me, allowing Carole to bring her textbooks so I can help her study. She was excited on the phone when I spoke to her earlier, and I'm eager to hear her news. As I enter the visiting room she stands, smiling, her arms waiting for my embrace. She serves this sentence with me. For us, these few hours together are our dates. "What happened? Did you get an A on your chemistry exam?" I ask. She smiles at me. "I'm so proud of you," she says. "Tell me why." "Jim called. He got you a publishing deal for your book." "With who?" I ask. "St. Martin's Press. They're giving us an advance. You'll have distribution all over the world." The news thrills me. It's only been a couple weeks since I signed the agreement with Jim Schiavone and in his letter he urged patience. Although my mentors, George Cole and Marilyn McShane, helped me place my first two books with academic publishers, I'm a novice author to mainstream publishers. I expected my imprisonment would present a real obstacle, but Jim is a solid professional agent. His representation brought credibility with the large New York publishing house, and once again, an educator changes my life. I'm proud that the pens and paper I buy from the prison commissary lead to work that contributes to Carole and Nichole's well being. A sense of validation comes with this tangible proof that others see me something as more than a prisoner. "Do I need to talk with anyone, with Jim or someone from St. Martin's?" "Everyone understands your situation. You can send everything through me, like always. I'll type it and forward the manuscript through email. The only question is edits. How will you meet the timeline if the staff keeps holding your mail?" "Let's send the manuscript pages to Rick," I suggest, referring to my roommate. "No one's checking his mail." "I can't do that. They probably have some rule about my writing to another inmate." "Honey, you're free. You can send mail to anyone you want. We can't let these mini-minds in prison block us from success." "No way," Carole is adamant. "I'm not going to do anything that might create a problem with our visits. I'll forward the manuscript pages I type to Jennifer. She can send them to her husband, and when he gets them, he can give them to you." "I'll meet the timeline." "No one has any doubt about that," Carole assures me. ******* The BOP rule that limits prisoners to 300 telephone minutes each month stifles family ties. With an average of fewer than 10 minutes of daily telephone access, I can't afford to talk with anyone but Carole. But it's June 11, 2004, Christina's 37th birthday. I haven't spoken with my younger sister since she flew to New Jersey last year to witness my marriage to Carole, so I dial her number in Miami to surprise her. "Happy birthday," I say when she answers. "Hi, thanks." Christina responds softly, sadly. Then silence. "What's wrong? You don't sound like you're celebrating," I push for an answer. "You haven't talked to Carole?" "She's still in school. I'll see her tonight when we visit, why?" "Dad died today, Michael." I knew that my father's health had been declining for the past decade. His illness prevented him from traveling to visit me after I left USP Atlanta. The news from Christina, while not unexpected, hurts. The challenges of this lengthy prison journey keep coming, but I've dealt with them repeatedly over the years and I take the news of my father's passing with stoic acceptance. I exhale, and urge my sister to be strong. "Can you come to the funeral?" she asks, her voice sounds far away. "No." I'm a prisoner and I know my limitations. "We can postpone the service a few days if you need time for the request." she pleads with me. "Christina, they won't even give me more access to the telephone. They're not going to let me travel to Seattle for a funeral. You and Julie arrange the service without me. I'll pray here and write a eulogy." Now the three men closest to me have died. I say prayers for my grandfather, Bruce, and my dad. My imprisonment stretches too long for them to have been able to welcome me home. Not being allowed to pay final respects and show gratitude, I silently hope my father's death is the last loss of family that I'll know as a prisoner. ******* Carole and I eagerly await the celebration of our second wedding anniversary in June of 2005. Just as we did on our wedding day and on our first anniversary, we'll savor a romantic dinner, whatever snacks the four vending machines offer. We both feel good about being ahead of the schedule we set. Carole is completing the final prerequisites before beginning her bachelors of science in nursing at Colorado State University, and Ben Sevier, my editor at St. Martin's Press, has accept…

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139. Earning Freedom (11.2) by Michael Santos May 05, 2022

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Earning Freedom by Michael Santos Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term Chapter 11-2-Pod 139 Months 190-209 On my way to Colorado my plane lands at the Federal Transit Center in Oklahoma. Five years have passed since I was here last, but the process is familiar. I even recognize faces of staff members, like the Native American guard with the long braided ponytail. Our procession of prisoners marches single file through an efficient processing system. We stand on milk crates in groups of seven. Guards sit behind us unfastening our leg irons while another row of guards stand in front of us unlocking our handcuffs, pulling them from the metal chain around our waists to free our bodies. Guards talk among themselves, ignoring the noise of banging metal as they unlock and drop our chains into boxes. When mine come off, I note that my hands are filthy with metallic grease from the chains I've gripped for the past 12 hours. With the news of where I'm going, I don't mind the annoyances. I'm on my way to camp, and for a long-term prisoner, that's like going to Disneyland. Inmates in higher security prisons talk about going to lower-security prisons as much as they talk about release. Placement in a camp, we hear, is as easy as it gets for a prisoner. I'm still not convinced that the BOP hasn't made some mistake, but since the mistake would be in my favor, I'm cool with it. With a quick head count, I estimate that 200 prisoners flew into Oklahoma with me. As we sit in adjacent holding cells, I ignore the clamor and look around. I'm in the midst of convicted murderers, rapists, gang leaders, Mafia soldiers, and child molesters. Many serve life sentences, but with more than 16 years inside, and nearly 10 to go, my credentials in the society of felons is equivalent to a degree from Stanford or Harvard in the real world. I don't want to talk with anyone. I don't want to hear about what's going on at other prisons, about rivalries between prison groups, about legislation pending in Congress to reform good-time allowances, or about restoration of parole. I want to make it through this final stop, to leave behind, once and for all, the hate-filled, intolerant prison populations to finish the last decade of my sentence among white collar offenders in a minimum-security camp. "Name and number?" A friendly face in a prison guard's uniform asks as I hand him the pile of forms I've completed. He's got red hair, freckles, and Elvis style sideburns. "Michael Santos. Number 16377-004." "Let's see. Santos," he looks down his list. "You're going to Florence Camp. Think you can handle that?" He smiles and I nod. My nerves settle as I hear a second source confirm where I'm going. I join six other prisoners, catching the bedroll and dinner sack the guard tosses after calling my name. We follow another guard through steel gates, onto an elevator, and up to the floor of our housing unit. I listen as the guard recites the rules before giving us our assigned cell numbers. "Lockdown is at nine, so it's too late for you guys to shower or use the phone. Each cell has a panic button. Don't push it except for a genuine emergency; otherwise you'll get a shot. Listen for your name and cell number. Stand by your door. I'll walk around the tier to let you in. Any questions?" I carry my bedroll into the familiar, triangle-shaped, two- tiered shell, then climb the concrete-and-steel staircase and walk toward cell 624. My feet hurt in the navy canvas deck shoes. I send up a silent prayer for God to stay with me, to get me through this last transition before I make it to the camp. When I reach my assigned cell door I look through the narrow window and swear under my breath. The prisoner inside looks as big as a Sasquatch. I can't see his face, but he sits at the desk in boxers without a shirt. His back is huge, and his arms, covered in tribal tattoos, are as big as my thighs. He's writing, gripping the pencil like it's a spear in his clenched fist. His full head of hair is an unruly black mop. I pray with renewed earnestness for God to get me through this. The guard comes to unlock the door, and I want to protest that I'm going to camp, that he should house me with some friendly tax evader. Instead, I remain silent. I pulled a 45-year sentence and I'm expected to handle this kind of situation. Once the guard locks me inside the cell, the rancid body odor hits me, but I shake it off. My new cellmate turns, revealing an expressionless face from the islands. I greet him while spreading the thin sheets across the top mat then tying the corners in knots beneath the mat to hold the sheets in place. "Where you goin'?" The giant man breaks his silence. "Florence," I say, deliberately leaving out the camp part. "I've been in for 16 years, finally making it out West," I offer, unsolicited, to let him know that I'm not new to prison. "Where'd you come from?" "I've been all over. Did about seven years in USP Atlanta. Spent time in McKean, Fairton, now I'm coming from Fort Dix." He spins around and looks at me with a broad smile on his face. "Dude, I know you! You're Michael Santos." He stands to shake my hand, nearly jerking my arm out of its socket with his enthusiasm. "I'm going to Fort Dix. I was on your website every day Bro, reading all your articles on prison before I surrendered." I exhale and immediately relax. This man's a friend, not someone I have to fear. He's from Tonga, serving five years on an immigration violation. I stretch out on the top rack and answer his questions about life at Fort Dix. ******* When the guards begin clicking the locks open at 6:00, I hop down from the rack. Tonga, my cellmate, is still sleeping. He's so tall that his ankles and feet extend beyond the edge of the rack. I tap his shoulder to wake him and tell him that we have to go downstairs for breakfast trays. He grunts, his sour breath nearly knocking me over. I eat my oatmeal, and then walk to the phones. When the call connects to Carole, I hear her crying as she accepts the charges. "What's wrong, Honey?" "I have terrible news." "What is it, what's wrong?" "Carolyn called me. Bruce had a heart attack last night. He died, Michael." I'm standing at a phone bank, with prisoners all around me, and it takes a second for the news to settle with me. Bruce has been a part of my life since the earliest days of this sentence, when I was beginning my university studies inside the penitentiary's walls in Atlanta. He visited me at least three times each year wherever I was held, and we spoke regularly over the phone, at least once each week for many years. I can't believe he's gone, that I'll never see him again. But more than his death, I'm surprised at why the news is hitting Carole so hard. "Honey, why are you so emotional? You barely knew him." "I'm sad because you loved him, and he meant so much to you." "Yes, he was a great friend to me, but I'll be okay. It's more important that I stay strong. That's what he would've wanted. Instead of being sad at his passing, I'll celebrate his life and all he's done to make the world better. Please call Carolyn for me. Tell her how sorry I am and that I'll write today." "That's something she asked me on the phone. She wanted to know if you could send a remembrance before the funeral." "I'll write it today and then I'll read it over the phone the next time I call. Now don't cry anymore. Bruce would say 'keep on keepin' on,' and in his honor, that's what we're going to do." As I walk back to my cell, I realize that he has been with me for 14 years, treating me as if I were part of his family, working to educate me, to guide me. He defended me when necessary and smoothed the way wherever and whenever possible. With his death I've lost my first mentor, my dearest friend. I'll do my best to express appreciation for him in a eulogy. Bruce is the second close person to die since my imprisonment. My grandfather, Pat, having first forsaken me, forgave my behavior and spoke with me on the phone before his death in 1999. My father is confined to an Alzheimer's home. I haven't seen him since 1995, more than eight years ago, and I don't think I'm in his memory anymore. He can't travel, or even talk with me over the telephone. People I love are growing old and may die before my release. This reality starts to settle within, causing new heartache. ******* We land in Colorado. As I hobble down the stairs from the belly of the plane, with leg irons digging into my ankles, I'm surprised by the climate. It's seven in the morning on December 4, 2003, and I hear the pilot say the temperature is 40 degrees. I'm only wearing a t-shirt, khaki pants, and navy canvas deck shoes without socks, but I'm not cold. The dry air is still and the low sun shines through a cloudless blue sky. Four silver prison buses idle on the tarmac. I count 12 vigilant guards standing in navy windbreakers wearing mirrored sunglasses, gripping assault rifles. The guard who waits at the bottom of the stairs wears plastic earmuffs over his head to block the noise from the screeching jet engines. He yells for my name and number, then checks his clipboard and directs me to join the line beside the last bus. While standing in line, wrists cuffed to the chain around my waist, I study the faces of other prisoners as they walk down the stairs. I see Renegade, a prisoner who walked the yard with me in USP Atlanta. He's bald, with a long goatee, and I notice that he's added a few new tattoos to his neck and face. The guard directs him to the bus in front. I wonder where he's going. After all the remaining prisoners re-board the aircraft, the guards count those of us standing in lines beside the buses headed to Florence. Apparently, we're all accounted for, as the guards start ordering us to step on board. Once we're loaded the bus convoy begins rolling down the road toward the Florence Federal Correctional Complex. As we reach the left turn lane on Highway 33, the buses zip by the guard's shack to climb the winding and rolling hill that leads into the complex made up of four separate prisons. When our bus turns right into the long driveway of the medium-security FCI, the other buses continue up the road toward the higher-security prisons, including a high-security USP and the federal prison's ADX unit, also known as the Supermax, a cage for human beings. On the left, close to the highway and not enclosed by a fence, I see what must be the camp. Men in green uniforms mingle in the center of the compound. Our bus stops beneath a canopy and the double doors squeak open. The lead guard stands at the head of the bus holding a stack of yellow files. He's a big man with a wad of chewing tobacco that makes his lower lip bulge. He spits brown tobacco juice into a clear plastic Coke bottle with rhythmic precision. When I hear him yell "Santos!" I shuffle forward so he can match my face to the mug shot on the file he holds. He spits into his bottle and then asks me to recite my registration number followed by my date of birth. With his nod, I have permission to pass. When I step off the bus, I follow the other prisoners and we hobble through rows of armed guards in BOP uniforms. We continue into the foyer of the FCI. Our chains drag on the brown marble passageway making a scraping sound that disturbs the cathedral-like quiet. We move outside, across a concrete walkway that cuts through reddish-orange gravel raked in neat rows. Another guard meets us, opening the steel door that leads into the Receiving and Discharge area. Before unlocking our chains and leg irons, a guard calls for quiet. "Listen for your name. If you hear it, step to the front of the line," the guard calls out. "Roberts." "Thomas." "Williams." "And Santos." I join the others at the front. "Okay," the guard yells. "The rest of you, step into the holding tanks so my officers can unlock your chains. I want the four of you to follow me." We shuffle into a smaller cell and I reason that he must be separating those of us who've been assigned to the camp. "Are you the same Santos who writes about prisons on the Web?" Williams asks me. "That's right." I've never even seen the Internet but questions about my work give me a lift. "Did you find the information helpful?" "More than helpful! I was worried to death about coming to prison. My lawyer didn't know anything about what it was going to be like. Once I found your site and read about all that you've done in prison, I had more hope. My wife, too." "How do you write for the Internet from prison? Will we have computer access?" Roberts asks "Prisoners can't access the Internet or use any kind of technology. I write in longhand and then I mail my work home. My wife types it and posts it to the website she operates for me," I explain. "Your wife must be something special, staying with you all these years," Thomas says. "I've only got 18 months, and my wife has already filed for divorce." "Prison is much harder on the family than it is on us," I say to the men. "We can find activities to fill our time, even work toward goals that will improve our lives. Our families have to struggle with financial problems, loneliness, and the shame of our imprisonment." As we wait, we learn a bit more about each other. Thad Roberts interests me. He's in his mid-20s, beginning a nine-year sentence for stealing moon rocks. His wavy brown hair frames a constantly curious expression on his face. The roots of crime began with his employment as a NASA intern. In a romantic gesture, he promised to give his girlfriend the moon, and he wasn't speaking metaphorically. Thad's employment gave him access to moon rocks that astronauts brought back, and he broke federal laws by taking a few. Although he delivered on his promise to give his girlfriend the moon, he made himself vulnerable to federal law enforcement authorities when he tried to profit by selling the moon rocks on eBay. The guards bring us our intake forms. They snap our mug shots and take our fingerprints. We answer questions from the nurse, the psychologist, and a case manager. I'm still waiting for a shoe to drop, for someone to say there's been a mistake, to tell me that I don't qualify for camp placement. A guard opens the door and issues red ID cards to Roberts, Williams, and Thomas. "Santos," he calls out as he looks my way. "Yes?" "Come with me." This could be the shoe. I follow him through a hallway to a counter where a tall man in a dark blue suit and light blue tie stands beside a well-dressed woman with black hair and glasses. She holds a file with my picture on the cover. "How much time are you serving?" she asks me. "45 years." "And you're going to the camp?" The uniformed guard interrupts while the man in the suit observes. "I'm an old-law prisoner," I explain. "With my sentence, I earn more good time than the new-law prisoners. I only serve 26 years total, and I've already served more than 16 years. I have fewer than 10 years to go until release and I don't have any disciplinary problems or a history of viol…

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