115: Earning Freedom (2.3) with Michael Santos
Podcast 115: Earning Freedom with Michael Santos
Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term (2.3)
For more information, visit PrisonProfessors.com
*******
With the exchange of prisoners complete we leave the corporate jets behind and fly east. Eventually I deplane and board a bus with other prisoners. We ride through the busy streets of Atlanta and as I look at the glass-faced skyscrapers, the places of commerce, the people, I try to soak it all up, knowing I\u2019m not going to see a big city for a long time.
My stomach churns as the bus speeds across a dip in the road. And then I see it. For the first time I stare through the window at the fortress that will hold me, a monster, with an intimidating fa\xe7ade and a 40-foot high concrete wall that encapsulates the penitentiary\u2019s perimeter. Coils of razor wire top tall metal fences that surround the outer wall as added protection against escape. Gun towers are evenly spaced about every 50 yards, standing ominously around the wall. I see guards inside\u2013alert, at attention, with automatic rifles in their hands, watching as if our approaching bus carries enemy combatants. Perhaps that is the guards\u2019 perception of us.
We cross an intersection and turn into a semi-circular drive. The bus comes to a slow stop in front of the dramatically wide steps that ascend to a majestic entrance. The architects who designed this awesome edifice of granite blocks and steel intended to send a message of permanence, of finality. The penitentiary symbolizes something, but I don\u2019t know what.\xa0 It might be justice, it might be vengeance, or it might be power.\xa0 I don\u2019t know. As I sit on the bus looking at the penitentiary from the outside, I also perceive an absence of humanity. The guards wear matching outfits of gray slacks, white, long-sleeved, button-down shirts, and maroon ties. Those with an air of authority wear dark blue blazers and carry clipboards. Others surround the bus wearing navy blue windbreakers with large gold \u201cBOP\u201d initials on the back. Instead of clipboards they carry assault rifles.
When the guards complete their preparation one of them calls us to the front of the bus, individually. \u201cListen up! When you hear your name, stand and walk toward the front of the bus. Give me your registration number. Then step off and walk directly up the stairs and into the penitentiary. Look straight ahead and don\u2019t even think about trying to run. We will shoot.\u201d
Chains bind our ankles, more chains wrap around our waists, and handcuffs weave through the chains in the front to lock our wrists in place. Who could possibly run?
\u201cSantos! Michael!\u201d
When I hear my name, I stand and shuffle my way through the cramped aisle toward the front of the bus.
\u201cNumber!\u201d The guard demands while comparing my face to the mug shot on his file folder.
\u201cNumber 16377-004.\u201d
\u201cDate of birth?\u201d
\u201cJanuary 15, 1964.\u201d
\u201cGo!\u201d
Passing inspection, I make my way off the bus and keep my eyes dead ahead. I don\u2019t know how I\u2019m going to climb all those steps but I begin, taking it slowly as I advance through a gauntlet of armed guards. They stare at me through mirrored sunglasses and I know I\u2019m being assessed. I make it to the top and follow the procession of prisoners through a series of metal gates. I\u2019m inside the walls, walking into the penitentiary\u2019s main corridor, the belly of the beast, as another prisoner once famously called it. It\u2019s a stretch, longer than a football field, 20 yards wide. The marble floor is highly polished and buffed beige, surrounded by white concrete walls and steel side doors. This place is solid and eerily quiet. Our lumbering steps with dragging chains are the only sounds I hear. Other than those of us moving through, I don\u2019t see any prisoners.
We turn to the right and walk downstairs into a basement. The familiar series of cages await us. I march into the bullpen, part of the herd. Guards unlock our chains and we begin the interminable wait for the processing to begin. The gates finally lock with 42 of us inside. I sit on a fixed bench that runs along the wall, shoulder to shoulder with strangers in the cramped cage. Trying to understand these new surroundings, I feign indifference as I listen closely to the conversations around me.
\u201cYo, you\u2019s up in Lewisburg, back in \u201974?\u201d
The large prisoner to my right isn\u2019t talking to me, but initiating communication with another prisoner who stands in front of us. I\u2019m calculating the years as I listen; he\u2019s asking about another prison 14 years ago, when I was only 10.
\u201cDat\u2019s right,\u201d the man responds. He sounds suspicious, as if trying to figure out whether the man questioning him is friend or foe. Neither man looks as if he knows the concept of fear. The welts and scars on their skin tell me that prison, confrontation, and violence have become extensions of life for each.
\u201cUsed to run wit\u2019 Big Smoke and \u2019em?\u201d
\u201cSmoke\u2019s my dog, yo! Where you be knowin\u2019 Smoke from?\u201d
With a mutual acquaintance established, genuine enthusiasm seems to replace the suspicion.
\u201cShee-it, Dog! I\u2019s up in da \u2019burg wit\u2019 you, D-block, Dog. I\u2019s da one split Tone Loke open, left his guts fallin\u2019 out all up in his hands outside da gym an shit.\u201d This guy\u2019s obviously proud of his reputation.
\u201cOh yeah, yeah, right. Used to be runnin\u2019 wit Big-O and shit.\u201d There is recognition between them.
\u201cDat\u2019s what\u2019s up, Dog.\u201d The two muscular men, both bald with goatees, bump fists.
\u201cWhere\u2019s you comin\u2019 from, Cuz?\u201d
\u201cMan I been on tour Dawg. Lockdown at Marion, few at Leavenworth, I\u2019m comin\u2019 out \u2018a Terry Haute right now. How \u2019bout you? Where you been at, where you be comin\u2019 from?\u201d
\u201cShee-it, I been out Lompoc, yo, kickin\u2019 it and shit.\u201d Then he turns to me. \u201cYo young\u2019un, why on\u2019t you step off for a minute? Let the Big Dogs kick it.\u201d
It\u2019s not really a question. He\u2019s telling me to move, telling me that I\u2019m irrelevant in this world. I\u2019m an insect, a nonentity unless I choose, at a moment like this, to define myself as something different.
The prisoner would not have considered challenging a man he respected in such a way. But in my face, and in my eyes, and in my movements, he reads that I haven\u2019t yet earned respect in this world that is so unfamiliar to me.
In a split second I have to decide whether to stand my ground and follow consequences to their end, wherever they take me. I\u2019m calculating at the speed of light, certain that my response can influence where I am in 10 seconds and in 10 years. The penitentiary requires aggressive force\u2013instantly and without hesitation\u2013for respect. But I don\u2019t aspire to have the penitentiary define me. It\u2019s much more important for me to earn respect outside of prison walls.\xa0 So I stand to surrender the space I had on the bench. This isn\u2019t the time to assert myself. I\u2019m my own general in my war and I need to choose which battles are worth fighting.
I\u2019m learning, absorbing everything going on in this cage. Survival means more than fitting in to the penitentiary. I want out, but every step counts. Instinctively, I\u2019m taking the first steps, but I\u2019m walking across a high wire, a tightrope. Every decision I make determines whether the privilege of another step will come, or whether I\u2019ll begin a free fall to my demise. Deliberate, careful, calculated steps will lead to the other side.
I berate myself for having sat in the first place. This is not a game, this is life, and I can\u2019t allow my senses to dull. I must stay alert. Like an antelope crossing the plains of the Serengeti, I must use all of my innate intelligence to avoid succumbing to the perils that lurk here. And there are many. I can\u2019t forget that every movement, every choice, every word will influence what happens next. Had I not taken space on the bench the other prisoner would not have spoken to me, challenged me. I have to think, to ensure that every move has a purpose. I have to remind myself that I don\u2019t want to be \u201cthe man\u201d in the penitentiary.\xa0 I want to go home, and when I do go home, I want to go home ready to succeed.
I stand in the crowd, using peripheral vision, listening. The other prisoners are sturdier. I don\u2019t know whether the skulls and demons and gang signs indelibly inked on their arms, necks, and faces cloud my judgment, but these prisoners seem as if carved from material more calloused than flesh. Some, I gather from the chatter, serve sentences of life without parole. They accept the penitentiary as the last stop.
\xa0
*******
I move through the admissions process.\xa0 Guards pass out administrative forms with question after question that I must answer.\xa0 When it\u2019s my turn, I sit with various staff members who evaluate my responses.
I sit across a desk from a psychologist. \u201cYou\u2019ve never been incarcerated before?\u201d he asks. He\u2019s skeptical about the veracity of my response given the length of my sentence.
\u201cI\u2019ve been in jail for the past year but I\u2019ve never been incarcerated before this arrest.\u201d
\u201cAnd you don\u2019t have any history of violence?\u201d
\u201cNo.\u201d
\u201cNo weapons, guns, knives, gang affiliations?\u201d
I shake my head and tell him no.
He rests his elbow on the desk, using the back of his hand to prop up his chin as he evaluates me. He seems confused that I\u2019m serving 45 years for a first offense without a history of violence or weapons. After a minute, he offers some advice. \u201cPerhaps you should consider growing some facial hair.\u201d
The psychologist may mean well.\xa0 Still, I consider his unsolicited advice an insult.\xa0 Knowing that I\u2019m out of my element, I acknowledge with a nod, swallowing my pride. My efforts at projecting a stern, no-nonsense disposition have failed. I take his comment as it was intended, an insinuation that my clean-shaven face could lead to unwanted attention from prison predators.
My next stop on the circuit of staff interviews is the office of a case manager. The gray metal desk looks as heavy as a tank and crowds the room. As he flips through pages of a file on his desk, I sense that the case manager isn\u2019t particularly concerned with my anxiety during these first hours in the penitentiary.
\u201cSit!\u201d he orders, without looking up. \u201cWhich one are you? Santos?\u201d He fingers the file in his hand.
\u201cYes sir.\u201d
\u201cHabla Ingles?\u201d
He emphasizes his American accent. The sneer in his tone suggests that he\u2019s trying to establish an air of superiority. The question annoys me because he is reading from a page of responses that I wrote in English. I don\u2019t like the insinuation that we\u2019re different, that just because of my name I\u2019m not an American. But when he looks at me I only nod in response.
\u201cNever been locked up before. Forty-five years. Out date 2013.\u201d He whistles after reading through personal identifiers from my file. \u201cSee ya, feel ya, wouldn\u2019t wanna be ya,\u201d he chants. \u201cAny reason I can\u2019t put you in gen pop?\u201d
\u201cWhat?\u201d I don\u2019t know what he\u2019s asking.
\u201cCan you make it in general population?\u201d
\u201cWhat do you mean?\xa0 Why couldn\u2019t I?\u201d
\u201cI\u2019m asking you! Ever work for law enforcement?\u201d
\u201cNo.\u201d
\u201cEver testify against anyone in a court of law?\u201d
\u201cNo.\u201d
He flips through more pages in my file, considering my responses. \u201cWhy\u2019d you leave this blank? Don\u2019t got no one who wants you?\u201d
He asks why I didn\u2019t respond to a question about whom the prison should notify in the event of my death.
\u201cI\u2019m only 24. I\u2019m not going to die in here.\u201d
\u201cFact is, no one walks into the pen thinkin\u2019 he\u2019s gonna die. Few months ago we had us a major disturbance inside these walls. Inmates took 90 officers hostage. No one s\u2019pected that either. Shit happens. Now who you want me to call if something happens to you?\u201d
The animosity in the interaction shakes me. His use of the word \u201cinmate\u201d sounds contemptuous, as if he suspects that I may have been in allegiance with those who rocked the penitentiary with violence during the disturbance. The tension differs from the transient nature of the jail and detention centers. A line exists between us and I\u2019m on the wrong side of it. I give him Lisa\u2019s name but I\u2019m too shaken at the moment to recall her address and phone number. I\u2019ll give him those details later, I say.
After finishing the admissions process I grab my roll of bed sheets, blankets, and a pillow, then I walk with six prisoners toward the housing units. We wait behind a locked gate that separates us from the main corridor. From the aggressive, hostile tone two of the other prisoners use toward staff members, I can tell that neither authority nor the threat of punishment faze them. One curses out an officer on the other side of the gate so thoroughly that the roles of power seem reversed, as the officer simply ignores the enraged prisoner who grabs and shakes the gate, screaming to be let out. I\u2019m intimidated and I doubt the front I\u2019m making at being cool convince anyone.
When an institutional loudspeaker blasts out an announcement for a scheduled \u201ccontrolled movement,\u201d the guard finally unlocks the gate. With shaking legs and growing rings of perspiration beneath my arms, I walk with my bedroll toward A-cellblock just as the other guards unlock doors from all the housing units in the penitentiary. Hundreds of prisoners converge into the corridor at once. The frenetic movement reminds me of the Kingdome after a Seahawks game, with all the fans rushing toward the stadium gates at once.
The announcement may have called the movement \u201ccontrolled,\u201d but the madness doesn\u2019t resemble control at all. Hundreds of prisoners charge in both directions, hastening through, shoulders bumping shoulders. I feel like a pinball as I bounce forward with the forceful momentum. While I\u2019m trying to get to my housing unit for the first time, everyone else uses the main corridor to move to or from the recreational areas of the penitentiary.
\u201cMan down, man down!\u201d I hear guards yelling ahead of me. \u201cMake a hole.\u201d
\u201cLet da muthafucka die!\u201d yells a voice from the crowd.
\u201cPut \u2019im out his mis\u2019ry.\u201d
Just before I reach the entrance of the A-cellblock I see the cause of the commotion. Two guards lean over to assist a prisoner bleeding on the floor. They clearly try to help him while fellow prisoners, apparently unmoved by compassion, keep walking toward their destinations. Suppressing a natural human instinct to look and to help I, too, step over the pool of blood and turn right into the housing block.
The housing unit guard sits at his station to the left. I pass him my identification card.
\u201cSantos,\u201d he drones as he leans back in his chair. \u201cI\u2019ve got you in cell 517.\u201d
I\u2019m on my own as I climb the stairs to the fifth tier.