114. Earning Freedom with Michael Santos
- Earning Freedom with Michael Santos
Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term (1.2)
I’m reading from chapter 2 of my book, Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term
For more information, visit PrisonProfessors.com
Podcast 114: Earning Freedom 2.2
*******
Following the chapel service I return to my cell where I catch the guy assigned to the rack below me. He’s in his 40s and not particularly intimidating, standing barefoot in boxer shorts splashing water under his arms; it’s a birdbath in the tiny sink. Still, I feel awkward as I stand outside the open gates of the cell.
“You the new guy?” he asks, sensing my apprehension about walking in on his personal routine.
“Yeah, got in last night.”
“Well, you’d better come in. Count’s about to start and you don’t want to be out on the tier when those gates roll closed.”
“Michael,” I offer and stretch out my hand to shake.
“Buck,” he responds and closes his hand into a fist. I realize he prefers to knock knuckles in greeting. “Where you headed?”
“What do you mean?”
“Next stop? Where you going?”
“Don’t know, here I guess. I’m just starting out.”
“You might be starting out, but it won’t be here. This here’s Oklahoma unit. Every swingin’ dick in here’s in transit, on the way to the next prison. If you were stayin’ here, you’d ‘a been in one ‘a the permanent blocks.”
“Well I don’t know where I’m going then.”
I set my Bible on the top rack as the cell gate rolls closed and locks us in. We hardly have any floor space. Buck sits on the lower rack.
“Have a seat,” he gestures to the toilet. “Count won’t be for a while. Where’d you come from?”
“Seattle.” The quivers in my stomach settle when I realize that he’s friendly. “I’ve been in jail going through trial for the past year,” I add.
“Yeah I can see that you’ve got that jail skin color. No sunlight.”
“This’s been my first time walking outside since last summer.”
“You might ‘a liked it this mornin’, but by afternoon you’ll be wishin’ you was still in Seattle. Gets to be over a hun’erd degrees here, humid as a swamp.”
“I felt it last night.”
“The nights ain’t bad. It’s the late afternoons that’ll bake you.”
Buck and I pass the day together exchanging stories. He’s serving a 20-year sentence for armed bank robbery. It’s a crime that surprises me as I associate bank robberies with old westerns rather than crimes that people engage in today. He has spent the past four years at the United States Penitentiary in Leavenworth. The parole board has taken his good behavior into account and agreed to release him in two more years. Buck is transferring to a medium-security prison in Memphis where he expects to finish out his term.
“You can find out where you’re going tomorrow,” Buck tells me. “There’ll be a counselor holdin’ open house in the office downstairs. Tell him you’re new and you want to know where you’ve been designated.”
“Where’s the best prison to serve time?”
“The best spot is them prison camps, but with 45 years you ain’t going to no camp. Forget about that. You might go to an FCI since you ain’t never been locked up before but there’s a good chance, with a sentence like yours, you might be headin’ to a USP.”
As I lie on the top rack listening to Buck talk into the night I feel like a kid listening to ghost stories by the camp fire. The lights are out and a large fan at the end of the tier makes a rickety noise while it stirs the air. “What’s the difference between an FCI and a USP?”
“Gonna see a lot more blood in the USP. Lot ̓a the guys inside them walls ain’t never gettin’ out so there’s pressure, somethin’s always cookin’. Ain’t a week gonna pass without some’n gettin’ stuck, or some head bein’ busted open with a pipe. Bloods always flowin’ in a USP. FCI’s is more laid back, like here.”
“This place doesn’t seem so laid back to me.”
“What do you mean? What’s not to like about this spot?”
I tell Buck about the morning encounter with the guy in the gym. Although I walked away, the remembrance of what was implied still unsettles me. I’m consumed with trying to figure out what to do if a predator approaches me again. A violent altercation isn’t what I want but circumstances may force my hand.
“I wouldn’t worry about anything here.” Buck yawns and rolls over on the bunk beneath. “You probably won’t be here but a minute. When you get to your next stop, that’s when you need to act.”
“How so?”
“Can’t be lettin’ the bulls come at you. Not less you want to start suckin’ ever’ dick in the pen.” He laughs as if such a thing could be a joke. “Gotta take a stand. First thing you’re gonna wanna get is a piece. Someone comes at you wrong, put holes in him, send him away leakin’. Do that once an’ fellas’ll get the message that you ain’t no punk.”
I know that I’ll do what it takes to survive, but the penitentiary wisdom Buck dispenses doesn’t sit well with me. “Did you have to stab people when you were at Leavenworth?”
“I had to get my respect, but things is different ‘tween me and you. You ain’t barely 20. I’m just sayin’, that ain’t but a baby in the pen. Guys is gonna try you more readily than they gonna try an older dude. Bulls is gonna try to get over on anyone that’ll let ’em, but the younger guys who ain’t got no backup gotta make ’emselves known quick. The gangs is getting real fierce in these parts.”
“How’d they try to get over on you?”
“Couple ̓a young dudes came at me thinkin’ they’s gonna get me to pay rent for livin’ on the tier. I wasn’t havin’ it. I didn’t have my piece with me at the time, so I just slow played like I was gonna pay. When they come to collect on store day I was ready. After I laid one out by smashin’ him in the face with a mop ringer, they both got the message that they’d better find someone else to play with. Didn’t have no more trouble after that.”
“Weren’t you thinking about your parole date or what would happen if you got caught?”
“Shit. When you’s in the penitentiary it’s livin’ day by day. Better not be thinkin’ ’bout no release date or parole board or what the man’s gonna think. All I’m thinkin’ ’bout is one day at a time, gettin’ through. A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. You’ll see.”
Before drifting into sleep I think about Buck’s advice. I’m hoping the counselor will tell me that I’ll begin my term in a Federal Correctional Institution, an FCI, but my intuition tells me that I’m on my way to a USP, a high-security United States Penitentiary.
A few hours later I wake when a guard rolls the cell gate open. I’m hoping that he has come to take me on the next phase of this prison journey. No such luck. The guard calls for Buck. We wish each other luck, then he walks out. After the guard slams and locks the gate I lie awake for a while longer, intrigued by the roaches racing across the wall without apparent purpose.
Buck’s advice troubles me because I can’t see myself serving my sentence day-by-day. Living for the moment may be the conventional adjustment pattern but I don’t want to forget about the world outside. There’s got to be a way for me to make it through my sentence without violence. Join a church group? At least then I wouldn’t struggle with loneliness, vulnerability. I hate this weakness that seizes me, and I’ve got to do something about it, but I don’t know what.
Instead of getting up when the gates open in the morning, I doze on my rack. The solitude of the cell gives me space to think. I read the Bible while I wait for the counselor to arrive.
The Bible encourages me, though some of what I’m reading doesn’t make sense with what I’ve come to believe about a forgiving God. The concepts of eternal damnation and one path to God aren’t beliefs I can embrace, so I pray for guidance, acknowledging that neither Bible groups nor religious programs are going to carry me through this term.
I see the counselor and receive the confirmation I’ve been expecting. I’m on my way to the United States Penitentiary in Atlanta. I’ll deal with it because I have to, because I don’t have a choice.
“Can I make a phone call?”
“Three minutes,” the counselor says without looking at me. “What’s the number?”
The counselor dials the number I give for Lisa. When she answers, the counselor tells her that she has a phone call from a federal inmate. Then he passes me the handset and fixes his eyes on me. I want to wipe the phone clean, as if I can wash off the filth of prison.
“Hi, Baby.”
I feel awkward talking to her with the counselor looking at me as he sits across the desk. To him I’m not a human being.
“Michael! I’ve been so worried when you didn’t call. Are you okay? Where are you?”
I tell her that I’m on my way to a prison in Atlanta and that I’ll be able to use the telephone once I’m there. When the counselor taps his watch, I tell Lisa I love her and promise to call again when I’m able.
Sadness makes me sluggish as I walk aimlessly from the counselor’s office, thinking of Lisa’s voice and remembering how wonderful it felt to hold her in my arms. I’m lost, without a clue of how I’m going to keep our marriage together. Not wanting to dwell on home, I head toward the law library. Feeling sorry for myself makes me vulnerable in a predatory population, which isn’t good. I need a toehold and the strength to climb out of this hole.
*******
The law books serve a purpose. Although I want relief from my sentence, the reality that I’ll spend a long time in prison has begun to settle in. A year has already gone by since my arrest, so I’m not a beginner, and I know that many more years will pass before anything changes. I need a plan to make it through. The law books begin to help me understand more about the system that traps me. Like an endless riddle or puzzle, each paragraph I read steers me to other books for clarification.
Studying the law distracts me from misery. As with the philosophy books that helped me through the months in the county jail, the main lesson I learn from these studies is the depth of my ignorance. I berate myself for not having continued my education after high school.
“Looking for anything in particular?”
I don’t know whether the man who stands beside my table is a prisoner or a staff member. He’s in his thirties, trim, with thinning blond hair, and I notice that he missed a spot shaving. He wears the khaki pants and white t-shirt of all prisoners, but he has an authority about him that confuses me with respect to his position or status.
“Just reading,” I answer.
“Are you designated here or are you in transit?”
“I’m in transit, on my way to USP Atlanta.”
“My name’s Brett.” He extends his arm with a clenched fist.
I introduce myself and tell Brett about my sentence. I’m trying to learn more about the system and about the Continuing Criminal Enterprise charge.
“Have you filed your appeal yet?”
“I have a public defender in Seattle who’s putting the appeal together.”
“If you’ve got a 45-year sentence you’d better get more than a public defender to write your appeal.”
“Why? What’s wrong with the public defender?”
Brett shrugs his shoulders. “It’s not that there’s anything wrong, it’s just that they’re overworked. They’ve got so many clients to worry about that they can’t give too much attention to one appeal. You need someone who specializes in convictions like yours.”
“What I need and what I have are two different things. I don’t have any money to hire specialists. Besides, the last specialist I hired took me through the trials that got me my sentence.”
“I’ve got a guy you should contact. He’s a law professor in Indiana and he writes appeals for these kinds of cases. Once you settle in Atlanta you ought to write him. Tell him about your case and that you’re on appeal. He might be able to help.”
Brett’s concern for my predicament seems genuine but I’m burned out with legal procedures. I don’t even care about the appeal. The philosophy books I read helped me accept my guilt. Thinking about an appeal might put me on an emotional roller coaster. I don’t want to live in denial anymore. My focus is on living the lessons I’ve learned from those great philosophers. I want to acknowledge that I’m responsible for what I did, and for what I am, and for where I am, and I want to begin to make decisions that will improve my character and my life.
“What about a Rule 35? Do you know anything about that?” I ask.
Brett laughs when I ask about a legal motion that I want to file for the judge to reconsider my sentence. I’ve read about the motion in the law books. Under the old law, defendants may file the motion after the conclusion of all appeals.
“Rule 35 is a joke,” Brett tells me. “With a sentence like yours you better have something more up your sleeve than a Hail Mary.”
“So you’re saying no one ever gets relief from the Rule 35?”
“Rule 35 motion goes before the same judge who just saddled you with 45 years, Bud. Think he’s going to reconsider the sentence? Better think again. If he wanted to give you less, he would have. That motion doesn’t carry any weight. This system’s about finality, and the only way to change a sentence is through the appeals court where three or more separate judges review the proceedings at trial.”
The meeting with Brett is discouraging but I walk away with my resolve intact. I’m okay. I’m going to live through decades in prison, I tell myself, so I better accept it’s reality and prepare my mind for what’s ahead.
I’ve already made it through the first year since my arrest.
A Rule 35–the legal motion that will petition my judge to reconsider my sentence–may be a “Hail Mary,” as Brett mocked, but a prayer might be all I have. Before I can file the motion I must exhaust all my appeals. I’m not thinking about reversing my conviction. In fact, my experience through the judicial system has been misguided and I feel a little dirty because of it. I’m not going to contest my guilt any more. What I want is a do-over, an opportunity to accept responsibility and express remorse. Forget about winning on appeal, I tell myself. The only way to purge this overwhelming guilt is to atone.
Since procedure dictates that I can’t file the motion for the judge to reconsider my sentence until my attorney exhausts all appeals, I write a letter to Justin, the attorney assigned to my case by the public defender. I urge him to focus on stalling for as long as possible. The object for me is not to win through some legal loophole, I explain. Instead, I want time to distinguish myself in prison. I don’t know how I’m going to do that, but if Justin can succeed in delaying the process for a few years, I expect I’ll find opportunities to demonstrate my remorse and my worthiness for reconsideration.
From what I’ve read of the law, timing is a critical factor. The established procedure requires that I file the Rule 35 within 120 days of the time that the final appeal affirms my conviction and sentence. After 120 days, the law precludes the judge from modifying my sentence. Before that time limit expires I need to show significant progress toward redeeming my crimes. I don’t yet know how I’ll reconcile with society, but I know the clock is going to start ticking when the appeals court makes its decision. I’d better be ready by then.
Returning to my housing unit, I notice a schedule for college classes posted on a bulletin board. The signs announce courses in English, math, history, and other subjects that could lead to a university degree. Earning a university degree would provide the kind of clear, compelling proof of my commitment to change, and with the news of its possibility, I find hope.
Judge Tanner would probably resist a motion to reconsider my sentence if nothing changes. Earning a college degree, however, would provide tangible evidence, showing discipline, character, and commitment. The choices I made that led to my conviction suggest such virtues were absent in my life, but earning a college degree might alter and soften the system’s judgment against me. I don’t know whether the penitentiary in Atlanta provides opportunities for collegiate study but the possibility encourages me.
*******
I have a lot on my mind, and sleep isn’t coming easily. The prison is a population of more than 1,500 men and I haven’t crossed paths with the predator who tested me in the gym. Still, I know that confrontations will be a constant in prison. How am I going to handle them? If I’m to invest myself fully in building a string of accomplishments that will persuade the judge I’m worthy of reconsideration then I can’t allow a single blemish on my prison record. Not one.
The trouble isn’t with me. I can control my actions and behavior. Regardless of how I choose to serve my sentence, the real threat comes from how others choose to live in a high-security penitentiary. I won’t be able to control the ways that others serve time, but as I experienced in the gym, the decisions of others could have an immediate impact on my life. I’ll have to learn how to manage in this twisted environment.
But it isn’t only my early adjustment and assessment of my environment that bothers me, as Lisa’s predicament is still unresolved, troubling me. Her sentencing isn’t scheduled until the fall, but the possibility of her imprisonment isn’t something that I can totally dismiss. Everyone has a breaking point and her imprisonment could be mine. I’ve got to put this out of my mind, at least until her sentencing date comes closer. It’s just too much to worry about for now.
The gate to my cell rolls open. “Santos!”
“Yes,” I sit up from my rack instantly.
“Roll up!” the guard orders.
I’m on my way, with new anxieties. While locked in the county jail I read Homer’s epic The Odyssey, describing Odysseus’s 20-year journey home. My odyssey might take longer. I don’t know. Moving forward helps, even if my fear of the unknown accompanies each step.
It isn’t concern about conflicts with other prisoners that drive my anxieties. I’m 24 and I’m strong–confident that I can give as good as I get if it comes to fighting. But I don’t want an altercation. I want to turn this page of my life, to start writing a new chapter. I need to think about how others will judge me by what is written from now on. Every decision I make will have more than immediate consequences, but those decisions will also dictate where I stand in months, years, and decades to come.
After marshals yank on my chains and manacles, I fall into line with others and hobble up the stairs into the airplane. It’s already packed inside and by the time we take flight every seat is filled with hundreds of prisoners who deal with the crisis of imprisonment in his or her own way. Doubting whether any of them have a sentence as long as mine, I close my eyes and rest, wondering how many real killers are on board.
*******
My ears pop as the plane descends and lands in New Orleans. We pass by hundreds of private jets and I realize that the airport is busy because the Republican National Convention is in town. President Reagan’s second term is approaching its end and the news reports I’ve read suggest that Vice President Bush will prevail over Michael Dukakis in the fall election.
A massive dark plane catches my attention. The words “Forbes Capitalist Tool” decorate the plane’s tail in large, bold letters, distinguishing the jet from smaller, white, sleeker models. The centers of corporate power and wealth have converged upon New Orleans to celebrate the anticipated new leadership of George H.W. Bush.
Only a few years ago I came of age and pulled a voting-booth lever for the first time. I considered myself an up and coming businessman, proud to vote Republican, for the party of business, for Ronald Reagan. That was before I considered selling cocaine, before the television series Miami Vice, or the big screen hit Scarface. Now I realize those glitzy shows influenced me. The fast boats, exotic sports cars, designer clothes, and incredibly seductive women presented an exciting image of cocaine trafficking.
As the marshals call names for prisoners to disembark I continue watching the fleet of corporate jets. Conservatives have won the marketing campaign of the 1980s, convincing me that they were the party of elites, the ruling class, and the group I wanted to join. Not understanding or caring about the broader implications of governance, I bought into the campaign propaganda painting “liberal” as a pejorative term, as a party of losers.
Although I’m not a scholar by any means, the concepts of liberalism and conservatism mean something different to me now that I’ve read essays by John Locke and Thomas Hobbes. Those essays convinced me that political parties and political thought dictate the direction of society. When I bought into the Republican theory of conservatism, without even knowing what it was, I rejected the liberal philosophy of John Locke that makes so much sense to me now. Yet as I stare out the window and look at those symbols of power, it’s clear that the conservative philosophy of Thomas Hobbes prevails in the 1980s. I’m an outsider, no longer a man or citizen. I’m a prisoner, stripped of the delusions and pretensions I had about taking a shortcut to a life of comfort.