113. Earning Freedom (2.1) with Michael Santos
I\u2019m reading from chapter 2 of my book, Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term
For more information, visit PrisonProfessors.com
Month 13The court paid my public defender, Justin, to represent me after I cut ties with Raymond.\xa0 Now that I\u2019ve been sentenced, however, I\u2019m without much access to legal counsel.\xa0 Justin will prepare a direct appeal, but he won\u2019t be available to help me understand how to navigate my way through the 45-years I must serve.\xa0 I don\u2019t even know what that means and I wonder whether the judge really intends for me to languish in prison for longer than I\u2019ve been alive.
Unlike the federal time that I\u2019m serving, most of the other prisoners in my housing unit at the county jail face problems with the State of Washington\u2019s criminal justice system. From those men I learn that all 50 states maintain their own criminal justice and prison systems, with different rules and legal codes. As a federal prisoner, I have little in common with them.\xa0 Still, by listening to the more experienced prisoners around me I become familiar with concepts like \u201cparole\u201d and \u201cgood time.\u201d
The federal prison system is in transition, abolishing parole and significantly reducing the amount of good time possible. Since my convictions stem from crimes I committed prior to the date of the new law\u2019s enactment, I\u2019m part of the old-law system where parole still exists. Still, the statute under which I stand convicted, \u201cthe kingpin statute,\u201d is one of the few crimes under the old law that doesn\u2019t qualify for parole eligibility. Of the 45-year sentence that my judge imposed, I\u2019ve learned that I\u2019m only eligible for parole consideration during the final two years of my sentence, the portion imposed as a consequence of my perjury conviction.\xa0 Still, it\u2019s all very confusing to me and I don\u2019t know how many years I\u2019ll actually serve in prison.
To pass time I read legal books in the jail\u2019s law library.\xa0 From those books I understand that a good-time provision under the old law authorizes prison administrators to reduce my sentence if I remain free of charges for disciplinary misconduct. Still, according to calculations I make on a piece of lined writing paper, regardless of what I achieve in prison, I\u2019ll serve more than 26 years.\xa0 That doesn\u2019t make much sense to me, as I didn\u2019t have charges of violence or weapons, and only consenting adults were involved in my crime.
The length of my sentence doesn\u2019t haunt me as much as Lisa\u2019s legal issues. She\u2019s now in Miami, where she receives more family support while her lawyer works through the best possible plea agreement.\xa0 The entire situation is a mess I\u2019ve created. I try to comfort her during our nightly telephone calls even though I\u2019m powerless to protect her.\xa0 Our only connection is on the phone, but the conversations we have don\u2019t seem to be enough.
I ask her to pray with me, but she always snaps back \u201cI don\u2019t want to pray, Michael.\u201d\xa0 It stings as if she\u2019s slapping me when she uses my name instead of a more endearing term. \u201cYou\u2019re supposed to get me out of this mess,\u201d she says.
\u201cI\u2019m trying, Lisa. I\u2019m trying. No matter what happens though, we still have each other and with God\u2019s help we\u2019re going to get through this.\u201d\xa0 I\u2019ve never been religious, but during these traumatic times I find strength through prayer and I want her to join me.
\u201cHow?\u201d she wails. \u201cHow do you think we\u2019re going to get through this if you\u2019re in prison and I\u2019m in prison?\xa0 How is God or prayer going to help us through that?\u201d
\u201cYou\u2019re not going to prison, honey. God\u2019s not going to let that happen. I can feel it. The judge sentenced me to far more time than everyone else, and I\u2019m sure he slammed me with all the time he intends to hand out in this case. It\u2019s over.\u201d
\u201cThat\u2019s not what my lawyer says,\u201d she argues through tears. \u201cHe told me I could get five years. Five years, Michael! I can\u2019t handle this. I can\u2019t go to jail!\u201d
\u201cDon\u2019t worry, Baby. It\u2019s not going to happen. I know it\u2019s not going to happen. At worst he\u2019ll sentence you to probation. I need you to pray, to have faith in God.\u201d
Lisa pauses on the phone, as if contemplating what she wants to say. \u201cRaymond keeps calling me.\u201d
\u201cWhy is he calling you?\u201d
\u201cHe calls because he\u2019s a pig, that\u2019s why. Last night he asked me to come to his house for a soak in his hot tub. He said that a real man wouldn\u2019t have put me in the position you did.\u201d
The news sickens me. My former lawyer has taken everything I own and now he\u2019s trying to seduce my wife.\xa0 My losses continue. With only one place to decompress, I return to my cell, my haven from madness, and I lie on my bunk, realizing that the sentence is only the start.\xa0 There is still more pain to come, farther to fall.
I want peace but I can\u2019t escape the noise blasting through the cellblock.\xa0 Rap songs blare from music television stations.\xa0 There\u2019s also a continuous chatter from the scores of prisoners roaming purposely and posturing in the common area, along with loud exclamations and expletives from each of the table games. From my bunk I can see a haze of tobacco smoke that lingers beneath the ceiling. I feel close to the edge, uncertain whether I\u2019ll make it through without wrapping a noose around my neck or slicing an artery. Suicide seems so easy, so inviting.
My mom and Christina, my younger sister, are in Florida.\xa0 The geographical distance that separates us is a relief. After all the lies I\u2019ve told about innocence, I can\u2019t bring myself to face my family, especially my mother.
Through a telephone call I learn that my trial has brought my mom and Lisa\u2019s father together. His name is Hank. Although I\u2019ve never met him I know that he shares a mutual grief with my mom, and that grief has led to a romance between them. My life has become an absurd soap opera.
\u201cThis is crazy,\u201d I tell Christina over the phone. \u201cHow can Mom get together with this guy? She\u2019s only been divorced from Dad for a year.\u201d
\u201cGive her a break, Michael. She\u2019s lonely and sad. I\u2019m glad she\u2019s found love. No one wants to be alone and you\u2019re no one to judge.\u201d
Christina\u2019s right. I shouldn\u2019t judge my mom, or anyone. I\u2019m in jail and I don\u2019t even know my own family, just as the choices I made over the past three years resulted in my family not knowing me. \u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d I tell her. \u201cI want Mom to be happy too. The news just surprised me, that\u2019s all.\u201d
\u201cThat\u2019s okay. It\u2019s kind of funny when you think about it. I mean, for one thing, Hank isn\u2019t anything like Dad. Besides that, when Mom and Hank marry, that means you\u2019ll be married to your own stepsister and Hank will be both your father-in-law and your stepfather. Just like you don\u2019t know Hank, none of us really know Lisa.\u201d
*******
My father and my sister, Julie, wait through slowly moving lines to visit me in the jail. Julie is a year older than I am. She\u2019s totally independent and strong, holding our shattered family together as my conviction and sentence loom. Each weekend we visit through glass partitions, clutching telephone handsets as we cry in the booth.
\u201cTell me again, son. Why did you feel that you had to do this?\u201d
The jail officers only allow me to spend 15 minutes in the booth, and when my father asks me these questions I press my hand against the glass to match his and cry.
\u201cI\u2019m sorry, Dad. I\u2019m sorry.\u201d
\u201cIt\u2019s okay, Son. Don\u2019t cry. We\u2019re here for you.\u201d He\u2019s crying too, as is Julie.\xa0 The sadness is hard to take, and at this stage, I don\u2019t know how it will end.
\u201cWe\u2019re here for you,\u201d Julie repeats. \u201cWhatever you need, we\u2019re here for you. We just need you to be strong in there and to know it\u2019s going to get better.\u201d
\u201cSantos!\u201d The jailer yells in the booth. \u201cLet\u2019s go! Time\u2019s up! I\u2019m not telling you again. Move out!\u201d
I pull my hand from the glass.\xa0 Not wanting others to see my weakness, I rub tears from my eyes as I walk away. I\u2019m going to ask my family not to visit anymore. Whenever I walk away from the visiting booth the devastation I\u2019ve caused plays out in my mind. Those images come with pangs of guilt that linger like a dark cloud.
When I left the family my father was such a force. He was rough, a hard-working man who came to this country with nothing but ambitions to build a better life. While on a construction site, surrounded by heavy equipment, I could always find him as he yelled out orders to the men who worked for him. He and my mother wanted so much for me. I\u2019m besieged by thoughts of what my conviction and long sentence has done to my parents. My father steered a small boat across 90 miles of the Atlantic, braving Caribbean waters and the unknown to escape Castro\u2019s communism. But when I look in his tearing hazel eyes, see the new worry lines etched in his brow, or the way that his once black hair is turning white, I know he fears that I won\u2019t survive prison. In the night, he has told me, he wakes in a panic and suffocates with anxieties that news will come informing him that I\u2019ve taken my life.
\u201cPromise me you\u2019ll be strong enough to see this through,\u201d he pleads with me frequently over the telephone.
\u201cYes, Dad. I\u2019m going to make it. I promise.\u201d
\u201cSay it again!\u201d\xa0 He insists.
\u201cI promise.\u201d My father has lost his life\u2019s work and his marriage and now his son. He\u2019s only 53-years old, yet he\u2019s tormented, blaming himself for the prison term I face. The guilt of it crushes me.
*******
I struggle to understand the philosophies of Friedrich Nietzsche, Jean Paul Sartre, and Albert Camus. Existentialism centers on personal responsibility and I espouse the concept even though these writers reject the concept of God. I\u2019m living hour-by-hour, and they sometimes feel interminable.\xa0 Through prayers I find comfort, leaving me conflicted by the existentialists.\xa0 I\u2019m torn between embracing and rejecting them. Although I oppose their godlessness, I find their message about personal will empowering. Regardless of what social exposures influenced my judgments, values, and actions, my ego, greed and shortsightedness caused my problems. Neither prayer nor religion is going to fix my problems, but I feel a spiritual force moving me. Both prayer and the teachings of the existentialists convince me I can grow into the man I aspire to become.
*******
It\u2019s late summer of 1988 when a jailer opens my cell door early on a Saturday morning. \u201cSantos! Roll up!\u201d He throws two plastic bags on the concrete floor. \u201cDump your personal belongings in one bag, pile your sheets and blankets in the other. Move out! Now!\u201d
With my hands and legs in shackles I carry the bag filled with letters from Lisa, her photographs, and a few books as I follow the jailer through a maze of corridors. He locks me in a holding cell with others. We don\u2019t wait long before the U.S. marshals take control and herd us like chattel into a transport van parked in the jail\u2019s basement garage.
My time in the county jail has come to an end.
\u201cCan you tell me where I\u2019m going?\u201d I ask the driver of the van.
\u201cYou don\u2019t know?\u201d
I shake my head while shrugging my shoulders.
\u201cYou\u2019ll find out when you get there.\u201d
We drive south on Interstate 5 and don\u2019t stop for several hours until we reach a landing strip at the Portland airport. After another hour in the van I see the plane\u2019s tires hit the tarmac and the landing precipitates movement. The marshals and other law enforcement officers emerge from separate vehicles donning black armor vests and gripping their assault rifles firmly while taking positions to guard the plane.
I remember going through this drill before, when some of these same marshals transported me from Miami to Seattle for my initial court appearances. I shrink into my seat, watching the drama unfold and waiting for the requisite but dehumanizing inspections before I board the plane to some unknown destination.
I look through the tinted window of the transport van and watch prisoners leave the plane, hobbling down stairs in chains, with marshals inspecting them as if they are a lower species. I think how differently events might have unfolded if only I had made better decisions after I stepped off that plane last year.
I can\u2019t blame anyone but myself for where I sit. My friends didn\u2019t testify against me out of malice and I don\u2019t begrudge them the evidence they provided against me. I miss them. We grew up as brothers and although we haven\u2019t spoken, I sense that they empathize with my plight. Without delusions of acquittal I too could\u2019ve accepted responsibility for my crimes. I knew I was guilty, but rather than accepting responsibility and putting the past behind me, I fooled myself into believing that since I didn\u2019t touch the cocaine, prosecutors wouldn\u2019t be able to prove anything and a jury wouldn\u2019t convict me. Within days of stepping off that plane last year, I even orchestrated a cocaine deal from inside the jail.
The chains on my wrists, around my waist, and on my ankles feel heavy, but not as heavy as my guilt. From my understanding, I\u2019ll wear them for at least 26 years. Since I haven\u2019t been alive that long, it feels like an eternity.
\u201cWhere you headed?\u201d A prisoner addresses me as I settle into the seat beside him on the airplane. He\u2019s older, about 35, but I\u2019m guessing. He wears a goatee and I notice the flame tattoos on his forearms.
\u201cTo prison.\u201d I shrug.
\u201cWhich one?\u201d
\u201cThey wouldn\u2019t tell me. Marshal said I\u2019d find out once I got there.\u201d
\u201cPrick. I\u2019m sick of livin\u2019 like this, hate all these motherfuckers.\u201d
\u201cWhere\u2019re you going?\u201d
\u201cLompoc.\u201d
\u201cWhat\u2019s that?\u201d
\u201cHuh?\u201d
\u201cLompoc, what\u2019s that?\u201d
\u201cWhud\u2019ya mean, \u2018what\u2019s that?\u2019 Motherfuckin\u2019 joint, that\u2019s what it is. You green, just comin\u2019 in or something?\u201d
\u201cI\u2019ve been in jail for a year. Now I\u2019m on my way to prison.\u201d
\u201cGo to trial?\u201d His eyes suggest that he\u2019s testing me.
I nod. \u201cGuilty on all counts.\u201d
\u201cDrugs?\u201d
\u201cCocaine,\u201d I answer.
\u201cWhat\u2019d they hit you with?\u201d
\u201cMy sentence you mean? Forty-five years.\u201d
He whistled. \u201cThat\u2019s some heavy shit. You old law or new law?\u201d
\u201cI\u2019m old law.\u201d
\u201cAt least you\u2019ve got that goin\u2019 for ya.\xa0 You\u2019ll be able to see the board after 10 years.\u201d
\u201cNo I can\u2019t. I\u2019ve got a Continuing Criminal Enterprise, no parole.\u201d
My neighbor whistles again. \u201cThat\u2019s a bitch, young\u2019n. Been down before?\u201d
I shake my head.
He whistles again. \u201cLeast they\u2019ll know you ain\u2019t no snitch. How old\u2019re ya?\u201d
\u201cI\u2019m 24.\u201d
\u201cYou got an ol\u2019 lady?\u201d
\u201cI\u2019m married.\u201d
\u201cCut that bitch loose. Can\u2019t be hangin\u2019 on to no woman when you\u2019re pullin\u2019 a 45 piece. Gotta be ready to do time, and can\u2019t do that with no woman on your mind.\u201d
\u201cHow long have you been in prison?\u201d
\u201cEight motherfuckin\u2019 years. Got two more to pull \u2018fore the board\u2019s gonna cut me loose.\u201d
\u201cWhat are you going to do when you get out?\u201d
\u201cFuck if I know. I ain\u2019t thinkin\u2019 \u2019bout no streets. One thing you\u2019re gonna learn in prison, ain\u2019t no one out \u2019til they\u2019re out. Anything can happen. Best forget about them streets.\u201d
This guy paints a somber picture for me. We haven\u2019t even exchanged names and he has already advised me to give up on the world I once took for granted. He sounds so bitter, devoid of hope.
\u201cWhat\u2019s it like to serve eight years in prison?\u201d
\u201cA motherfuckin\u2019 bitch,\u201d he admits as his head presses into the headrest and he closes his eyes. \u201cGot the man breathin\u2019 down yer neck ever\u2019 day. Fuckin\u2019 family and friends from the streets desert ya. Parole board shittin\u2019 on ya. Board could\u2019a let me out a year ago. Said I wasn\u2019t ready. Like they know what it\u2019s like to live in the pen. They gave me a date, got me walkin\u2019 on egg shells tryin\u2019 not to catch a shot \u2018til then.\u201d
\u201cYou mean a ticket?\u201d\xa0 I ask if he\u2019s referring to disciplinary infractions.
\u201cYou\u2019re in the feds, young\u2019n. Better learn the lingo. Tickets is in the state joints. In the feds we call \u2019em shots and you can catch \u2019em for just \u2019bout any motherfuckin\u2019 thing.\u201d
\u201cLike what?\u201d
\u201cAnything. Look at a bitch\u2019s ass, catch a shot for reckless eyeballin\u2019 and lose your parole date. Show up late for work, catch a shot for bein\u2019 outta bounds. Lose your date. Get caught with food from the kitchen in your locker, catch a shot for stealin\u2019. It\u2019s all bullshit. Motherfuckers\u2019ll give you a shot for jackin\u2019 off. They don\u2019t want no one gettin\u2019 out.\u201d
He sleeps while I digest what he\u2019s told me.\xa0
*******
The plane lands in Oklahoma. After stepping off I exchange my plane seat for a bus seat and a road journey to El Reno. I recognize the high fences, the coils of razor wire, the guards who drive in white vehicles continuously around the medium-security prison\u2019s perimeter to discourage escapes. I passed through the same gates on layover the year before, when I was being transported from Miami to Seattle for the trial. This is not new and I know what\u2019s coming: crowded bullpen cages, processing forms, fingerprinting, mug shots, and hours of standing before I get locked in a small cell with a stranger.
The cell house is an old design with long rows of sliding steel bars, the type from classic prison films, that clank when slammed into place. Midnight has long since passed by the time I climb onto the top rack. The prisoner on the steel bunk beneath me snores, oblivious to the putrid stench hanging in the cell or the oppressive late summer Oklahoma heat that suffocates me. Moonlight blends with the prison spotlights to cast a glow on the cracked concrete walls, just enough to illuminate the roaches that scatter along the edges of light.
Despite a restless night, I\u2019m eager to explore the prison surroundings when I hear the guard crack the cell house gates open at six in the morning. I climb down and glance at the prisoner on the lower rack who sleeps with his pasty overweight belly and chest exposed, his hand in his shorts. Since I don\u2019t know the protocol of this new environment, I deliberate but finally resist the urge to use the stainless steel toilet or tiny sink next to the bunk.
Unwashed, I slide into blue slip-on canvas deck shoes and follow the herd of prisoners walking toward the tier\u2019s stairs. When I passed through this prison last year guards processed me.\xa0 Then, hours later, in the middle of the night, they shackled and processed me out to continue my westward journey. I didn\u2019t have an opportunity to walk around. During the year I spent locked in the county jail, my freedom of movement didn\u2019t extend beyond the cramped quarters of the housing unit. I take in everything: the grass, the flowers, and the design of the buildings. It feels good to walk around.
The chow hall is a large, buffet-style cafeteria. I advance through the line, accept a pastry that a prisoner worker in white clothing places on my tray, and I fill a plastic cup with milk. It reminds me of my time in high school, except we\u2019re all guys and we\u2019re under the scrutiny of suspicious guards rather than bored teachers. I eat alone and then walk out to explore. It\u2019s early on a Sunday morning but the burning sun and high humidity trigger a sticky sweat that instantly dampens my armpits and trickles down the front and back of my torso.
I fall in behind a group of jive-talking prisoners walking with weight belts and exercise bags who head to the prison yard. After passing through a few gates and an unguarded metal detector I see the large track. Scores of prisoners work out on a massive outdoor weight pile. Three tennis courts to the left appeal to me; I played regularly when I lived in Key Colony and developed a decent game. I walk around the large oval track that circles the soccer and softball fields. Just when prison begins to feel like a park I see the stark, grim reminders that it\u2019s not a park at all: tall, double fences with endless coils of glistening razor wire separating them surround me in every direction.
The recreation area includes a gymnasium with a full basketball court. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors cover the walls of an adjacent indoor weight room. I watch as a beefed-up prisoner pumps out reps on the bench with four plates on each end of the bar. He\u2019s throwing up 405 pounds as if it\u2019s a broom handle. I\u2019ve kept fit with thousands of pushups each week in the county jail and I wonder if I\u2019ll build such Herculean strength during the time I serve. I want to start at once.
\u201cYou be likin\u2019 them muscles, don\u2019chu?\u201d Another prisoner sneaks up next to me, flexing in his tank top and smiling with a lascivious grin exposing a mouthful of gold teeth. \u201cDat wha\u2019chu need up in here, a real mans.\u201d
That\u2019s my cue to leave. Outnumbered and out of place, I walk out, lacking the courage to confront him for the insinuation he made.\xa0 I\u2019m not ready to take a stand.
\u201cDon\u2019t be actin\u2019 like you don\u2019t like it now,\u201d he chuckles behind me. \u201cDaddy goin\u2019 see you later, belie\u2019 dat.\u201d
I\u2019m younger than most of the other men. As I walk through the gates toward the library I\u2019m conscious that my absence of tattoos and whiskers stand out. The encounter in the gym puts me on high alert and I realize that to survive in here I may have to battle more than the long sentence. To some prisoners, I probably look like the proverbial rabbit among wolves. Stay vigilant, I remind myself, as I open the doors to the law library.
I don\u2019t really know what I\u2019m looking for, so I pick a random law book from a shelf and start flipping through the pages. The episode in the gym bothers me and I\u2019m not able to concentrate. I pretend to read, though I only stare at lines of words that I don\u2019t absorb from the page. These encounters will happen again, and I\u2019d better anticipate them. My response can\u2019t leave a doubt that I know the score and that I\u2019m capable of defending myself.
But am I? Is this what I\u2019m going to become? What options do I have when confronted with predators? I haven\u2019t been on a prison yard for two hours and someone has already mistaken me for a punk. I haven\u2019t been in a fistfight since junior high. Somehow prison doesn\u2019t seem like the kind of environment where fistfights settle confrontations and I can\u2019t envision myself picking up a weapon.
It\u2019s impossible to read with these worries muddying my concentration. I close the law book and walk out. Other prisoners in the corridor carry Bibles in their hands as they walk into a chapel. While in the jail I was comfortable praying alone, but now I need something to take my mind off the guy in the gym.
I sit in the back row and observe several prisoners working together to lead the service. Their level of preparation impresses me. It\u2019s clear that religion plays a central role in their lives and the congregation respects them, addressing them as Brother Tom and Brother Frank. When it\u2019s time to sing the men don\u2019t show any awkwardness or embarrassment. Some surprise me with the way they sing\u2013eyes closed, arms and open hands stretching heavenward. With all their tattoos and goatees they strike me as being a bit over the top, both dramatic and comical.
I\u2019m more self-conscious. Although I can embrace God\u2019s presence in my life when I\u2019m alone and silently praying for guidance, group prayer doesn\u2019t work for me. When the service concludes and several of the leaders approach with genuine warmth and invitations to participate in Bible study programs I thank them but decline and request a Bible to read on my own.
\xa0