110. Earning Freedom (1.1) with Michael Santos
101. Earning Freedom with Michael Santos
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Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term (1.1)
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I\u2019m reading from chapter 1 of my book, Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term
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For more information, visit PrisonProfessors.com
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I can feel the DEA agents waiting. I don\u2019t know where or when they\u2019ll strike, but I know they\u2019re near. I\u2019ve never been arrested before, and I\u2019m scared. My wife, Lisa, sits next to me in our Porsche convertible, clutching my hand. We\u2019ve only been married five months. She\u2019s a glamorous South American blonde who looks spectacular in her form-fitting designer clothes, better still in a bikini. With her beside me, I feel powerful. I\u2019ve built my life on extravagance and appearances, and Lisa completes the image I want to project. She\u2019s five years older than I am and I always try to appear strong for her\u2013man enough for her. I don\u2019t want her to see my fear, but inside I\u2019m shaking.
Shadowy forces feel like they\u2019re closing in, but I don\u2019t have a grasp on what\u2019s coming. Instinct, intuition, a sense of impending doom keeps crowding my consciousness. This high-flying life is about to change. I can feel it.
Lisa and I have just left Miami where I learned from Raymond, a well-known criminal lawyer I\u2019ve had on retainer, that a grand jury in Seattle just indicted me on drug trafficking charges.\xa0 Raymond said that my arrest was imminent and that the criminal charges I\u2019m facing could include the possibility of decades in prison. After hearing that unsettling news, I followed his instructions and gave him my diamond-faced Rolex to hold. Then I told Lisa how to make arrangements for his $200,000 fee.
After leaving Raymond\u2019s office, I drive us toward the Rickenbacker Causeway that leads to Key Biscayne. Despite my attorney\u2019s warning, I\u2019m going home. He convinced me that a huge difference existed between an indictment and a conviction. By paying Raymond all the money I\u2019ve got to fight the case, I\u2019m hoping for a fresh start from the mess I\u2019ve made of my life. I\u2019ve been miserable for months, knowing that I needed to make a change.
*******
We arrive at the entry into Key Colony, the private oceanfront community on Key Biscayne where Lisa and I live. The security guard raises the gate and I drive the Porsche forward. We make eye contact, and I sense resentment in his phony smile as he waves us through. I\u2019m half his age, and for the past year I\u2019ve driven through this gate every day in my flashy sports car with Lisa beside me, wearing a gold watch that cost more than he would make in a year. Today he\u2019s sporting a smug grin. Maybe I\u2019m paranoid. No, I shake my head as I accelerate through the gate and turn right. My gut roils with a subconscious awareness that I\u2019ll never drive through this tropical paradise again.
I park in the garage beneath Botanica, the building where we live. Lisa and I walk arm-in-arm to the elevator, not speaking. I\u2019m alert, watching, expecting the feds to rush me at any second. With heightened senses, I\u2019m acutely aware of the salty ocean air filling my nostrils. My stomach churns as I push the elevator button and we ascend.
The elevator door slides open and we step onto the top floor. An open breezeway with palm trees and lush, tropical vegetation on either side leads to our apartment.
There they are, in front of us. The three men wearing dark blue jackets wait, eyeing me as I approach.
\u201cAre you Michael Santos?\u201d
\u201cYes.\u201d
In an instant, I see three guns aiming at my head.
\u201cFreeze! Put your hands out where we can see them!\u201d One of the agents then begins to recite my Miranda rights.
I comply with their orders. Lisa steps away from me, gasping. One agent clasps my hands behind my neck as he searches me for weapons, though I\u2019ve never carried a gun. Then he lowers my arms, pulling them behind my back.\xa0 I hear clicking and feel cold metal as he slams handcuffs over my wrists. When the agents see that I\u2019m not resisting, their tone becomes less hostile. They begin to question me and, following Raymond\u2019s instructions, I refuse to answer.
\u201cI want my attorney present before I say anything.\u201d I\u2019m embarrassed that Lisa sees me so helpless, so impotent in the grip of authority.
\u201cDo you want to say good-bye to Lisa?\u201d
I cringe at the familiar way her name rolls off the agent\u2019s tongue, and I realize I\u2019m really being taken away.
\u201cMichael!\u201d Lisa\u2019s tortured cry echoes across the breezeway. \u201cMichael! What should I do?\u201d
I don\u2019t turn around. To see her face would only prolong the agony of the moment. One agent is in front of me. I\u2019m sandwiched between the other two and I feel hands gripping the chains of my handcuffs. I keep walking with my head down, humiliated.
*******
It was 1987 and I was 23. For nearly two years I\u2019d been the leader of a small group that distributed cocaine in Seattle. The scheme wasn\u2019t sophisticated. Those at the core of our little enterprise were my classmates from Shorecrest High School, in the North Seattle suburb of Lake Forest Park. Sensing a huge market for cocaine among Seattle\u2019s young professionals, I joined my friend Alex in a partnership to capitalize on it.
I found suppliers in Miami. My friend John and his girlfriend, Lori, drove the drugs across the country and delivered them to Tony in Seattle, who stored them in his apartment. Alex coordinated deliveries to customers using Loren and Rico as local drivers.
The shallow layers of people separating me from the actual cocaine fed my delusions that I wasn\u2019t really a drug dealer. Instead, I liked to think of myself as an entrepreneur. To the extent that I thought about it, I provided a simple service. No weapons. No violence. My friends and I only sold to consenting adults, so I equated our actions to those who supplied speakeasies during prohibition.\xa0 It was my way of glamorizing the scheme to camouflage the severity of potential consequences.
The government, of course, saw things differently. Ronald Reagan occupied the White House and he was ramping up the \u201cWar on Drugs.\u201d I may have previously seen myself as a businessman, but riding through the streets of Miami in the back seat of a black Ford LTD with my hands locked behind my back, in the custody of DEA agents, left no doubt that I was in big trouble. I thought of Lisa. I thought of my parents. I wondered if my attorney, Raymond, could really get me out of this mess.
*******
\u201cSo, what\u2019s up? Did you think you could run from us forever?\u201d The two agents in the front seat switch to a friendlier approach. The driver has carrot-red hair, styled with a flattop and military fade. His partner looks hip, wearing feathered brown hair that he holds in place with his stylish sunglasses. They try to engage me in conversation, but I\u2019m silent, deep in thought as I stare out of the tinted windows at the glass-faced, high-rise buildings of downtown Miami.
\u201cTalk to us,\u201d the driver pipes in. \u201cThis may be your last chance to save yourself.\u201d
I\u2019m mute, afraid, sensing that I\u2019ve reached a pivotal moment.
\u201cAlex and Tony have given us plenty already. Who\u2019re you tryin\u2019 to protect? This is the time,\u201d the driver speaks with authority. \u201cNo one knows you\u2019ve been busted but us. Your pals cut sweetheart deals, left you hangin\u2019 in the wind. Take us to your suppliers and I\u2019ll turn this car around right now.\u201d
\u201cYou don\u2019t have much time.\u201d The other agent stares at me, tempting me, trying to persuade me. I can tell that he isn\u2019t much older than I am. \u201cOnce we move forward, you\u2019re booked, game over. Speak up now and you\u2019ll be able to go home to that pretty little wife of yours.\u201d
I don\u2019t say a word. It\u2019s not that I feel an allegiance to any criminal code. As crazy as it sounds, I don\u2019t even consider myself a criminal. It\u2019s simply that escaping problems by betraying others doesn\u2019t appeal to me as much as the chance for total vindication. Raymond suggests we can win through a trial, and I\u2019m swinging for the fences, going for it.\xa0 I cling to those hopes, but I\u2019m also conflicted because a deep shame seeps through me. For years I\u2019ve been telling lies, though I\u2019m yet not ready to confront the reality of who I am, of what I am. I desperately want to resume a normal life and spare myself the humiliation of having to admit that I\u2019m a drug dealer.
As the DEA agents urge me to confess everything, I think about Lisa. I\u2019ve come to define myself through material possessions, and she is my trophy. I live a fantasy life with her, locked in a constant struggle to mask my shallowness. Cooperating with the DEA and informing against others to spare myself would show weakness, implying that I lacked the wits and enough power to resolve the situation.\xa0 It wouldn\u2019t be the forceful image I\u2019ve worked so hard to project. I remain silent, sealing my fate.
*******
I\u2019ve never been to prison, nor have I been locked in custody before, but I did have a previous problem with the law. In high school, I organized a sports gambling pool. When one student couldn\u2019t pay up he offered to settle the debt with a stereo he stole. I accepted. A few months later, when police officers caught him in another theft, he told the officers that he gave the stereo to me. That led to my conviction for receiving stolen property.\xa0 When I confided in my father about the problems of the stolen stereo, he stood by my side. For my sanction, a judge ordered that I pay $900 in restitution and that I fill out a form for a probation officer each month for nine months. We concealed the incident from my mother and sisters, not wanting to worry them.
*******
In the back of the DEA car, I think about how my arrest is going to devastate my family. I\u2019m now in a predicament that\u2019s going to expose the deceitful life I\u2019ve been living and I\u2019m humiliated, yet I still can\u2019t bring myself to come clean because I\u2019ve got too much invested in the lies I\u2019ve already told. In choosing this path, with Raymond fighting my battle, I\u2019ve got to go all the way.
*******
My father was a Cuban immigrant. Together with my American mother he built a contracting company in Seattle and provided well for our family. We lived in a beautiful five-bedroom home that sat on several acres in Lake Forest Park. A stream with waterfalls ran through our front yard, with a thick forest behind the house. My parents worked hard to provide my two sisters and me with every advantage, to prepare us for success, grooming me to lead the family company.
My father took pride in operating heavy equipment, pouring concrete, and creating work of lasting value. His company specialized in public works, installing highway lighting and traffic signal systems. My dad was an old-country kind of guy, and he aspired to teach me a strong work ethic. But I resented pulling wire and carrying pipe. I especially dreaded working on weekends or during summers when my friends were waterskiing on Lake Washington. Even though I worked by my dad\u2019s side from the time I was six, I couldn\u2019t see myself doing physical labor, not for the long term. I wanted the good times my friends enjoyed.
After graduating from high school with mediocre grades, I maneuvered my way out of the field and into the office, wanting to wear clean clothes and to position myself close to the money. With high expectations, my parents gave me the position of vice president, despite the fact that I lacked the maturity to wield the responsibility such a title implied. They trusted me, and I exploited their confidence in my abilities.
I\u2019ve always been driven by the pursuit of money and possessions, with a sense of entitlement, wanting more than what my parents gave. Their friends were professionals and business owners, people whose influence and style impressed me.
The family business was small when I joined it full-time after graduating from high school, employing only a few electricians. My dad worked alongside them to install illumination and electrical systems while my mom kept the books. The company remained free of debt and afforded us a comfortable life, though it wasn\u2019t enough for my tastes. To me, bigger seemed better.
Rather than studying and working through a four-year apprenticeship program to earn the state licenses I would need to assume control of the business, I thought of ways to expand without having to dirty my hands. I could always hire people with the necessary licenses and reasoned that my energies were better spent on increasing revenues.
I joined trade organizations and socialized with other contractors. Those relationships led to collusion, bid rigging, and other violations of state contract laws. My parents didn\u2019t object too strenuously as the company\u2019s annual revenues increased from hundreds of thousands to millions of dollars. To finance the growth, I persuaded my parents to sign agreements that required them to pledge their home and assets as collateral for higher credit lines with banks, suppliers, and bonding companies. Within three years I convinced my parents to expand the company from one of boring stability into a leveraged business with more than 50 employees. My dad could oversee jobs across the state while I acted as the big man, schmoozing with people and working with numbers that impressed me.
*******
Greed was a sinister enticement, clouding my judgment. My friend Alex had been supplementing his income by selling cocaine. Since I had unencumbered access to money from our family\u2019s business, I proposed a scheme to Alex that would finance bigger coke deals and allow us to work together. I was 21, and the prospect of a quick score seemed harmless, too good to pass up.
Taylor, a mutual acquaintance of ours, agreed to supply us with several kilos of cocaine. For our first transaction I pulled cash from the company account to pay Taylor on the morning of delivery, and Alex contacted customers to sell the cocaine during the same day. By late afternoon Alex gave me back the money to reimburse the company\u2019s account. The deal left Alex and me with tens of thousands in profits.
All went as planned until the following day, when a maid discovered more than $100,000 in Taylor\u2019s hotel suite and reported it. Hotel management contacted the Seattle police who seized the money. When Taylor tried to claim it, the police required an explanation. \u201cJust give us a receipt that shows how you received the currency and you can have it,\u201d the officers told him.
Taylor called me at work to explain what happened and he asked for my help. \u201cI\u2019ll give you 20 percent if you can provide a receipt that will get me the money back.\u201d
\u201cThirty percent,\u201d I countered.
Since I\u2019d withdrawn a substantial amount of cash to finance the transaction, I had a plausible explanation, or so I thought. We concocted a story that we were going to use the money to establish a leasing company. I then brought Taylor to the high-rise office tower of our company\u2019s attorney, and hatched a plan to bamboozle him into helping us retrieve the money. I had an excellent relationship with Geoff, who was a partner in the firm.\xa0 Since I\u2019d worked with the attorney before, I assumed he would simply make a few phone calls and resolve the complication.
Taylor and I sat facing Geoff across his polished cherry wood desk. His office overlooked the mid-rise buildings of South Seattle and Puget Sound.
\u201cI gave the money to Taylor so that he could make a cash offer to purchase construction equipment from a contractor who was going out of business.\u201d Geoff listened patiently to my story, but in his eyes I saw skepticism.
Lying, I fabricated a story, telling him that Taylor and I were then going to lease the equipment back to my father\u2019s company.\xa0 Supposedly, we would rely upon the leases to collateralize a bank loan to reimburse the company.
\u201cIs your dad a part of this new venture you\u2019re launching?\u201d
I still remember the doubt in Geoff\u2019s voice from his first question.
When I told him that I\u2019d made this deal on my own, Geoff nodded, then turned his interrogation to Taylor, who sat across the polished desk as if he were an accomplished businessman there to consult on a corporate merger rather than seek help to retrieve a duffle bag full of cash.
\u201cAnd where do you live?\u201d Geoff\u2019s question was direct.
\u201cI keep an apartment in The Grosvenor House.\u201d Taylor answered.
\u201cThat\u2019s on Queen Anne, isn\u2019t it?\u201d
\u201cThat\u2019s right.\u201d\xa0 Taylor didn\u2019t yet realize that he was out of his depth.
\u201cAbout five minutes north of downtown?\u201d Geoff persisted.
\u201cYes.\u201d
\u201cSo you keep an apartment in the city.\u201d Geoff nodded, holding a finger to his temple as he rocked in his chair.
\u201cI do.\u201d
\u201cThen help me understand why you\u2019d take a hotel room a few blocks away from where you live. More to the point, why would you leave so much cash in a hotel room while you went to the gym for a morning workout?\u201d
Taylor stumbled through Geoff\u2019s penetrating questions. I remember squirming in my chair, knowing the meeting was a disaster.\xa0 The longer we sat there, the more I realized how foolish I\u2019d been to think that I could manipulate a skillful attorney with lies.
Geoff said he\u2019d make some inquiries with the police and call me later with a plan. I walked out of the office feeling sick to my stomach, knowing that I\u2019d permanently destroyed my reputation. I wouldn\u2019t have the courage to face Geoff again.
\u201cAre you alone?\u201d Geoff asked when he reached me in the car later that afternoon.
\u201cYes.\u201d I was driving north on Interstate 5 toward the company office. Rain drizzled on the black Bronco I drove.
\u201cTaylor isn\u2019t with you?\u201d\xa0 He sounded concerned for my welfare.
\u201cNo, I\u2019m alone.\u201d
\u201cI\u2019m going to ask you some questions and I want you to answer honestly. Okay?\u201d
\u201cOf course.\u201d\xa0 I knew what was coming.
\u201cDoes your father know about this money?\u201d
\u201cNo.\u201d
\u201cDid you give that money to Taylor?\u201d
\u201cNo.\u201d
\u201cDoes that money really belong to you?\u201d
\u201cNo.\u201d
\u201cI didn\u2019t think so. Michael, I want you to listen very carefully to me. I\u2019m speaking to you as a friend and as your attorney. You have a brilliant future with your father\u2019s company in this city. But I smell drugs with Taylor. I want you to run as far away from him as you can. He is a cancer and he will destroy you. Do you understand?\u201d
\u201cYes. You\u2019re right. I\u2019m sorry I brought him to your office.\u201d
\u201cThat\u2019s okay. We\u2019ll keep our meeting today between us.\u201d
Despite his kind tone, I sensed that I\u2019d irretrievably lost his respect. I hung up, humiliated. Taylor had created his own problem by leaving his money in a hotel suite while he exercised. By intervening I made Taylor\u2019s problems my own; there wasn\u2019t any way for me to erase what I\u2019d done or re-establish trust with Geoff.
Instead of running away from Taylor as Geoff advised, I did the opposite. I abandoned my responsibilities and obligations to our family business. My poor judgment had forced my hand, I thought. With the irrevocable damage I\u2019d done to my reputation I left Seattle for Miami, intending to earn a few million by becoming a coke dealer.
*******
And that\u2019s how the scheme began that led to where I sit now, locked up. I\u2019m a prisoner of the Drug Enforcement Administration, on my way to places unknown.
*******
The driver turns into an office complex and parks. The third agent, the one who searched me and cuffed me during the arrest, parks a separate, identical car beside us. I exit the car with one agent holding the chain of my handcuffs behind my back. I\u2019m like a dog on a leash, being walked into what I presume is a field office.
Once inside, the agents begin to process me. They unlock my handcuffs so I can hold a nameplate beneath my chin while one of the agents photographs my head. Another leads me to a station for fingerprinting. They invite me to cooperate again, to talk with them in exchange for a reprieve from jail. Last chance. The ship is sailing, fading away on the horizon, but I\u2019m not onboard.
Disgusted with my refusal to spill the information they\u2019re trying to coerce from me, an agent leads me to a room the size of a broom closet and locks me inside.
\u201cGet used to it.\u201d He warns, tossing the words over his shoulder as he walks away.
I\u2019m alone in the tiny room. A bench extends the length of one wall. I sit, elbows on my knees, head in my hands. I\u2019ve been immersed in a scheme of selling cocaine for nearly two years and now it\u2019s come to this. Although I\u2019m not ready now, I\u2019ll soon have to answer to the world for the lies I\u2019ve been living.
I knew my parents suspected something. My mother even accused me once, crying about how she didn\u2019t want to lose her son to prison. I tried to console her while simultaneously stonewalling her questions about why I had moved to Miami, about why I wouldn\u2019t provide her with a phone number or an address. My irresponsible choices broke her heart long ago.
With arms folded across my chest, I stare at the floor, leaning my back against the cold brick wall. I\u2019d like to ask forgiveness, to take my lashes and start fresh, but instead I cling to Raymond\u2019s assurances that I\u2019ll prevail if I simply tough it out.
With stress and the bright lights exhausting me, I lose track of time, though I\u2019m sure that more than an hour has passed. My head aches and I\u2019m dizzy.
Finally an agent opens the door.\xa0 \u201cCuff up!\u201d
He slaps the cuffs around my wrists and locks them behind my back again. The agents take me outside to their car.\xa0 They unlock and open the back door, then press me inside. I don\u2019t know where I\u2019m going but I presume I\u2019m about to see the inside of a jail.
We drive a short distance and turn into the parking lot of a complex enclosed by double rows of chain-link fencing. Coils of glistening razor wire loop through the tops of the tall gates and many more coils of wire lie stacked atop each other on the ground in the wide space of no-man\u2019s land between the fences. No one could escape without cutting himself to shreds.
It\u2019s hot and humid outside. Sweat forms under my arms, across my chest and back as I step out of the air-conditioned car. The agents march me toward the entrance of the Metropolitan Correctional Center, Miami. Prison guards from a control center press a button to unlock the heavy steel door electronically and I hear the click of the dead bolt. A guard from the Federal Bureau of Prisons wearing gray slacks, a white shirt, and maroon tie accepts manila folders handed over by the agents escorting me. They exchange words, though my mind goes blank and I can\u2019t comprehend their conversation. When the guard searches me, looks in my mouth, inside my ears, and tugs on the handcuffs to ensure they\u2019re secure, it\u2019s clear that I no longer share a common humanity with them.
The guard leads me inside a series of gates that roll behind us, locking me deeper inside the prison. I spend interminable hours in holding cells, sometimes alone, sometimes with other prisoners. I complete forms declaring that I don\u2019t suffer from health issues or require medication.\xa0 Then I stand for photographs and more fingerprints\u2013my life as a federal prisoner has begun
I exchange my brown alligator skin loafers and matching belt, linen slacks, and a silk dress shirt now reeking from sweat, for elastic-waist khaki trousers, a white t-shirt, and blue canvas slip-on deck shoes. Without my clothes I feel my identity slip away. It\u2019s ten at night when I receive a roll of sheets, a blanket, and towel. Then I descend into my first housing unit.
The rectangular building is a two-tiered shell of concrete and steel with hundreds of sullen prisoners loitering in the common areas. Some of the men stare at me. While walking through the riffraff inside, I\u2019m struck by the level of noise.
My thoughts wander. Who are these people? What did they do? Can I handle myself in a fight with them? I see a line for the telephones and make my way through the crowd. When my turn comes I call Lisa.
Prisoners crowd around on all sides as I press the phone against one ear while holding my finger inside the other to silence the noise. Lisa\u2019s voice reminds me of all that I\u2019m missing. I mask my emotions, trying to appear stoic. Between her sobs she tells me that Raymond told her I have a court date scheduled in the morning. \u201cI\u2019ll be there,\u201d Lisa promises. \u201cYour mom is coming with me.\u201d
\u201cYou told my parents?\u201d My question comes across more like an accusation. I\u2019ve lost control over the moment of truth, and it bothers me that I\u2019ll have to confront them.
\u201cI had to. Raymond said he wanted to show that you have family support. Your mom wants to talk to you.\u201d
During my 18 months as a drug dealer in Miami, the family business collapsed, devastating my parents financially and emotionally. I\u2019ve repressed the guilt that my reckless ambition caused the business to fail, but it surfaces again with my confinement, and it\u2019s heavy. My parents salvaged the assets they could and relocated to Miami, where my father\u2019s family lived. Their marriage didn\u2019t survive the disruption and my mother now lives with my younger sister in a Miami Beach condo. The stable family and household where my two sisters and I had grown up were in shambles, only a memory.
\u201cDon\u2019t worry, Mom,\u201d I say in an attempt to ease her distress after Lisa connects us. \u201cI didn\u2019t do anything and I\u2019ve got the best lawyer in Miami. You\u2019ll see. He\u2019s going to clear me of all this nonsense.\u201d
\u201cOh, Michael...your father and I are so worried.\u201d My mother sobs between her whispered words. \u201cWhat have you done?\u201d
\u201cNothing, Mom. I swear. I didn\u2019t do anything. You\u2019ll see. My attorney is going to clear all this up. Give it time. We just have to trust him.\u201d
\u201cWhat are we supposed to do? What are we supposed to say? I can\u2019t believe this is happening!\u201d
My time on the phone ends, not with a good-bye, but when a guard presses a switch to disconnect the call. He marches me to my room and locks me inside.