117. Earning Freedom (3.2) with Michael Santos
I\u2019m reading from chapter 3 of my book, Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term
For more information, visit PrisonProfessors.com
*******
During my first weeks in the penitentiary, I meet hundreds of men.\xa0 Listening to them convinces me that it\u2019s best to keep a low profile, at least until I understand more about my environment. I don\u2019t even talk much with the other men assigned to my cell.
Just as Check told me on my first day, the men mind their own business and don\u2019t show much interest in building new friendships. They work in the prison\u2019s factory, manufacturing or repairing mailbags for the U.S. Postal Service. I catch the vibe\u2013one of apathy rather than hostility. These men have no interest in talking with a young prisoner who shows enthusiasm about being hired to work in the library. Enthusiasm dies long before most men enter the inside of these walls, I suspect.\xa0 It might reveal naivet\xe9, which exposes vulnerability.
In the evenings I lie on my rack thinking about how I\u2019m going to make it and realize that I\u2019m at the start of a long journey. I block out the noise that comes in endless waves from outside the cell. More than 600 of the 2,500 prisoners in the penitentiary live in A cellblock, though their activities don\u2019t concern me as much as the thoughts about how I will walk out of prison when I\u2019m released.
But I can\u2019t seem to focus. The papers I\u2019ve received from the administrators confirm that my 45-year sentence brings a possible release in 2013. It\u2019s only 1988 and after one year as a prisoner I still can\u2019t grasp what it means to live another 25 in here. According to the counselor, case manager, and unit managers, a group of administrators collectively known as the \u201cunit team,\u201d 25 more years is the best I can hope for, and that\u2019s contingent on my not receiving any disciplinary infractions that could result in my loss of good time. No amount of effort or accomplishment, the unit team assures me, will advance my release date.
Although I don\u2019t talk about my spiritual beliefs, I read the Bible every night. My resistance to religious services and organized prayer groups irritates the zealots, or \u201cBible thumpers,\u201d as they\u2019re known. That\u2019s of little consequence in the long run because my relationship with the Bible brings me comfort, guides me, and provides occasional relief from the deep sorrow gripping me. I read it lying on my rack or while sitting on a wooden chair in a corner I\u2019ve claimed for myself between bookshelves in the library.
Sometimes I find parables that seem as if written directly to me. I must prepare\u2013that is the message I receive from my readings. The message comes to me from verses in both the Old and New Testaments. I find the message in the story of Noah and the Ark; I read it in the parables of the wise and foolish virgins, as well as the parables of the talents described in the Book of Matthew. I must prepare.
I learn from my daily Bible readings that everyone has a responsibility to live God\u2019s plan, and that plan requires us to maximize the gifts we receive. I\u2019m not convinced that I must fast, wear certain clothes, use prayer oils, face the sun at specific hours, or publicly claim that I\u2019m saved, to come closer to God. The belief I begin to form is that I need to live as a good man, to develop the gifts God has blessed me with and to work toward the making of a better world.
My belief strengthens my spirit, improves my attitude, and gives me a positive outlook. Instead of looking at my sentence as a burden I begin to see it as a challenge, an opportunity to grow in ways I never would\u2019ve without extreme adversity. To accept that my sentence may have a purpose not yet revealed requires that I have faith that God has a plan, one that will open opportunities, and trusting in God\u2019s plan gives me a sense that I can go on.
I want to convey these thoughts to Lisa, but she\u2019s slipping away. Her sentencing date approaches so I understand her lack of enthusiasm when I express my excitement about beginning correspondence studies at Ohio University. When she mocks my growing faith in God, I realize how the time and space of my sentence separates us.\xa0 Despite my love for her, we\u2019re growing apart.
Telephone restrictions preclude me from talking with her more than once every few days. I can only use the telephone on the days that A cellblock is scheduled for access.\xa0 On telephone days, a guard leads 15 of us at a time to a room with rotary-dial, wall-mounted phones, and I wait in line to use one of them. When it\u2019s my turn, I\u2019m authorized to make one 10-minute phone call.
To avoid the frustration of the brief phone calls I write long letters to Lisa every day, expressing my love for her and sending promises I don\u2019t know how I\u2019ll keep. Whatever sentence she receives, I assure her that it\u2019s part of God\u2019s plan, one that will bring us closer together. Just before her sentencing date she travels to Atlanta to visit with me.
I\u2019m in my second month in Atlanta and it\u2019s been six months since I\u2019ve seen my wife, more than a year since we\u2019ve held each other or even touched. I\u2019m lonely for her, aching for her. Thoughts of Lisa have, at various times, strengthened and weakened me, inspired and depressed me. Now I\u2019m going to see her, to hold her, to kiss her.
I iron my khaki pants and shirt with creases as sharply pressed as a military officer\u2019s uniform and, in order to show how much larger my biceps have grown through exercise, I fold up the short sleeves of my shirt. I\u2019m ready and I\u2019m eager. Today Lisa will fall in love with me again, just as she loved me before.
\u201cYo, young\u2019un, who\u2019s comin\u2019 to see you?\u201d Other prisoners inquire as they watch me peering through the window to see who\u2019s walking down the prison corridor.
\u201cMy wife\u2019s visiting me today.\u201d I\u2019m enthusiastic, refusing to use the standard prison reference of \u201cmy ol\u2019 lady.\u201d
\u201cHave a good one.\u201d
Soon after I hear my name paged a guard arrives to escort me from the housing unit. We walk through the wide, quiet, empty corridor on polished marble floors surrounded by high, white walls. The guard doesn\u2019t talk to me. The only sounds along the dreary walk are our footsteps, the sound of swinging handcuffs that hang from the back of the guard\u2019s thick leather belt, and the occasional static blasts from his radio. It\u2019s a long walk.
Instead of entering the visiting room the guard opens the door to an adjacent room, where another guard waits at a desk.
\u201cInmate Santos for a visit,\u201d the escorting guard informs his colleague before locking me in the closet-sized room.
The guard seated at the desk asks for my ID and begins writing the information in his logbook: my name, registration number, the time I arrived, and my visitor\u2019s name. \u201cWhat are you waiting for?\u201d he asks as I stand there, watching.
\u201cOh, can I go in?\u201d I\u2019m dehumanized, conditioned to ask permission for any movement as if I\u2019ve been a prisoner all my life.
\u201cYou know the drill.\u201d
\u201cWhat drill? This is my first visit.\u201d
\u201cStrip!\u201d
The order surprises me but I follow it without question. My main concern is getting to Lisa, though I\u2019m careful to keep my clothes looking crisp and so I take extra time to fold my pants and shirt before I set them on the dingy floor.
\u201cEverything,\u201d the guard says as I stand in my boxers and socks.
I\u2019ve been through hundreds of strip searches but guards sometimes let me stand in underwear while they inspect me. Not this one. He\u2019s a stickler for detail and insists on seeing me naked.\xa0 He orders me to lift my privates, bend over and spread. I comply as he directs, giving him the full view he wants, and then I dress. Finally, he authorizes me to enter the visiting room.
I walk down a few steps to a platform where two guards sit at a desk. The room is large, like a high school cafeteria with bright lights. Vending machines line the walls. It\u2019s packed with people engaged in hundreds of simultaneous, loud conversations. I don\u2019t see Lisa. One of the guards asks for my identification.\xa0 He then patronizes me with questions on whether I understand the rules. Those rules may be designed for security reasons, but they strip people of dignity and contribute to the loss of community ties. I remember the rules from when I first saw Lisa in the Miami prison more than a year ago. They don\u2019t permit us to embrace during the visit, and limit kissing to the start and finish. The guard tells me where to sit and points me in the direction.
Finally, I see her. She sits in a row of plastic chairs along the wall and watches as I walk toward her from across the brightly lit room. My eyes lock with hers and memories flash of better times. I remember crowds parting as she held my arm while we walked through Las Vegas casinos; I remember drinking champagne and eating chocolate truffles with her at a dessert bar overlooking Central Park; I remember powering through deep blue, rolling waves of the Atlantic on my ocean racer, with her in a sequined string bikini, clinging to me. Those days are gone, never to return. I have repressed thoughts of Lisa\u2019s seductiveness, her magnetic sex appeal, but as I walk closer to her those feelings surge, inflaming all of my senses.
The year has taken its toll on me. With the total absence of a woman\u2019s touch, of affection, of physical warmth and release, an enormous urge rises in me. I\u2019m oblivious to the hundreds of other people visiting in the room. It\u2019s as if I\u2019m seeing Lisa in an airport terminal for the first time after a long trip abroad. Only she\u2019s not here to welcome me home. When she stands I want to devour her. Since we have just this one opportunity, I manage with a deliciously long, marvelous kiss.
\u201cI still love you, Michael,\u201d Lisa says, holding me before we sit.
\u201cAnd I love you,\u201d I respond while pulling her close. \u201cWe\u2019re made to love each other. I\u2019ve told you that from the beginning.\xa0 Our love is strong enough to carry us through anything, even imprisonment.\u201d I\u2019m eager to say anything and everything that comes to mind with desperate hopes of holding on to her.
We sit side-by-side, as close as the stationary, hard plastic chairs will allow.\xa0 We\u2019re close enough that I feel the soft skin of her arms touching mine, close enough that I can breathe in her perfume. The romantic euphoria of our first hour together doesn\u2019t last, however, as we can\u2019t avoid discussing the ugliness that has become our lives.
\u201cHow is it in here, really? Are you safe?\u201d
\u201cI told you, you don\u2019t have to worry about me. As long as we\u2019re together, I\u2019m okay. My dad sent the money to the university, so I should receive my books and lesson plans soon. I\u2019ve got a great job in the library. I\u2019m exercising every day. I\u2019ve got plenty of books to read. You\u2019re going to see how I turn this mess around. I\u2019m going to leave here so much better than I am now, stronger and wiser.\xa0 I\u2019m going to make you proud.\u201d
\u201cBut what about me? What do you think is going to happen at my sentencing\u2013and after? I can\u2019t live in a place like this!\u201d
\u201cHoney, nothing\u2019s going to happen.\u201d I comb my fingers through her blonde hair. \u201cYou didn\u2019t do anything that bad. You told a little lie about money. What\u2019s the big deal? The judge isn\u2019t going to put you in prison for that. People lie all the time. Every time someone gets pulled over for speeding, he lies about driving the speed limit. They don\u2019t put people in prison for that.\u201d
\u201cBut what if they do? What\u2019s going to happen then?\u201d She grips her fingers into my hands. \u201cI don\u2019t want to live in a place like this.\u201d
\u201cIt\u2019s not going to happen,\u201d I soothe. \u201cWhy don\u2019t you pray with me? When I pray, God gives me strength.\u201d
\u201cCome on, don\u2019t start with that! What are you doing? Becoming a priest in here? Prayer isn\u2019t going to help me!\u201d Lisa abruptly lets go of me and folds her arms across her chest in frustration.
\u201cYes it will, it helps me through every day.\u201d
\u201cYou got 45 years! Did prayers help with that?\u201d
\u201cBaby, don\u2019t talk like that. You have to trust in me, trust in God. It\u2019s going to get better.\u201d
\u201cSometimes I don\u2019t think I know you anymore. All you talk about is school, God, about how it\u2019s going to be better when you get out. Don\u2019t you get it? We\u2019re going to be old by then!\u201d
\u201cIt\u2019s not going to be that long.\u201d I sit back in my chair, swallowing the harshness of her assessment.
\u201cWhat about me? How am I supposed to live? Our money is running out.\u201d
\u201cWhy don\u2019t you get a job?\u201d
\u201cDoing what? What can I do? You want me to wait tables or something?\u201d
\u201cDon\u2019t worry, Baby. Let\u2019s get through your sentencing next week and put this mess behind us. I\u2019ll think of something.\u201d
Our visit may have begun with passion, but it ends with the cold reality that we don\u2019t have enough of anything to sustain us. We don\u2019t have enough money, enough maturity, or enough commitment.\xa0 When visiting hours end she stands and we hold each other, but I know she\u2019s not coming back. Our parting kiss tastes like good-bye. As she walks away I\u2019m more alone than I\u2019ve ever been.
The following week Lisa is sentenced. After the scheduled time of her hearing I call my father, who accompanied her to lend support. He tells me that the judge sentenced her to serve five years on probation for her felony conviction of lying to a federal officer. I\u2019m relieved. Thinking of Lisa enduring the handcuffs, the chains, the regular strip searches, orders, and daily indignities of confinement would have crushed me. I can handle prison, but I wasn\u2019t sure she could have, and if she were put inside my level of stress would\u2019ve risen exponentially.\xa0 At least I have that complication behind me.\xa0 Now it\u2019s on to new challenges and complications that I expect to flow over the next 10,000 days.
*******
Since the library is an open space where all prisoners can congregate freely, it serves as a kind of marketplace for hustlers and prisoners use it for more than checking out books or typing. They exploit it to hide weapons, drugs, and other contraband that they conceal in the drop ceiling or inside books they hollow out. Guards seize contraband they find, but since the library is a common area they can\u2019t punish an individual without further information, like a tip from a snitch.
I\u2019ll never become a source of such information, as I won\u2019t try to make my life easier at the expense of making someone else\u2019s life harder. Blood spills inside these walls. I\u2019ll survive by making decisions that ensure I don\u2019t have to hide from anybody and that no one has to hide from me. I want to live invisibly, to be \u201cin\u201d the penitentiary, but not \u201cof\u201d the penitentiary. I focus intensely on steps I can take that will lead me closer to home, that will prepare me for a productive life outside.
My own research and the inquiries I make of other prisoners convince me that only two mechanisms exist through which I can earn my way out. One is to ask my judge to reconsider my sentence using the formal legal proceeding known as the Rule 35 motion, but the strict time parameters of that rule limit me. Once the appeals court affirms my conviction and sentence\u2013as I\u2019m sure it will\u2013the 120-day clock starts ticking. After that time elapses, my sentence becomes etched in stone. The only other mechanism, barring future legislative reform, is asking the president to grant relief through executive clemency.
The Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals will affirm my conviction and sentence within a year. What can I possibly accomplish in another year of imprisonment to persuade my sentencing judge that I\u2019m a worthy candidate for relief, that I\u2019ve earned freedom? It\u2019s not enough time and yet I\u2019ve got to make something happen. Every minute that passes without my having a plan or making progress means that I\u2019m losing ground. I feel like I\u2019m a cartoon character, lying on a table with a swinging, spinning saw blade gradually dropping from the ceiling toward my exposed and extended neck.
Improving my situation will require support from people outside. Yet 40-foot walls hinder my ability to connect with society, frustrating me. I stare at library walls wondering how to distinguish myself from every other prisoner who wants a sentence reduction. I can\u2019t simply express sorrow or regret. I am deeply remorseful, though I understand the cynicism of the system. When I file my Rule 35, I\u2019m expecting prosecutors to argue persuasively that I\u2019m not at all remorseful but only want out.
I wrestle with the opposition I expect to face. Why do others think it so wrong that I want to advance my release date? I want out, but I also want to atone, to somehow reconcile with society. I aspire to show others that I\u2019m earning my freedom. As I stare blankly at the books all around me I suddenly see the solution that will help me pierce these walls and connect with society: I\u2019ll write a book!
I may not know what I\u2019m doing but the fact that I\u2019m doing something, making progress, empowers me. For the first time I\u2019m not sitting around waiting for outside forces to dictate my fate. Instead, I have a plan and that brings new energy, motivation, and inspiration. I\u2019ll write about how the romantic, swashbuckling images I had of coke traffickers seduced me into the trade. Reading my story will provide compelling reasons for others to avoid making the same choices. I\u2019ll express remorse openly and perhaps other young people will be dissuaded from breaking the law. The book should assist law enforcement by helping stop crime before it starts.
I\u2019ve never taken a writing course or even written anything more substantial than short letters, but if I begin now and work on it every day, I can finish a book in time to generate support for my Rule 35. This project becomes my Hail Mary effort to begin a record of atonement.
Julie and her fianc\xe9, Tim, are my strongest supporters. I write her and they agree to launch a nonprofit corporation to publish the book, which I title Drugs and Money. That way instead of selling the book we can donate it. A funding arm from the State of Washington offers financial resources for programs designed to improve community safety, and I write a grant proposal to fund our project.\xa0 Julie submits the grant proposal through the nonprofit, and then she persuades those on the board of the grant committee to fund production of Drugs and Money with $20,000.\xa0 It\u2019s a sufficient amount of funds to produce and distribute 2,000 books to schools, jails, and other organizations for at-risk adolescents. This community-service effort helps me reach beyond the penitentiary, build support, and begin making a contribution to society.
*******
I hear my name being paged over the loudspeaker with an order to report to the Education building.\xa0 I sit down at the desk where I write each day, and Mr. Chandler, the Supervisor of Education, approaches.
\u201cSanchez, why am I getting a package from Ohio University with your name all over it?\u201d He is not happy.
I look up, surprised that he\u2019s upset and wondering what I did wrong. \u201cI enrolled in a correspondence program, sir,\u201d I respond, not wanting to aggravate him further by correcting his mispronunciation of my name. \u201cI wanted to study toward a college degree.\u201d
\u201cBoy, don\u2019t you know I got half a mind to lock you up? Ain\u2019t no courses get ordered \u2019round here less they go through me. Who authorized you to enroll in college?\u201d
\u201cI didn\u2019t know I needed to have authorization.\u201d
\u201cDon\u2019t you knows you\u2019s in the peniten\u2019try! You better axe somebody! Can\u2019t be havin\u2019 no packages sent in here without auth\u2019rization. Interferes with security of the institution.\u201d
\u201cSorry, sir. I didn\u2019t know that a package from a university could interfere with security.\xa0 But I won\u2019t make that mistake again.\u201d
Mr. Chandler softens some with my contrite response. \u201cWhat you doin\u2019 in here all day anyway boy?\u201d He spreads the pages of longhand on my desk.
\u201cWriting, sir, just trying to stay out of trouble.\u201d
\u201cWell you \u2019bout found trouble, and you\u2019re lookin\u2019 at it. Now come on back to my office and get these here books \u2019fore I send \u2019em back and lock yo ass in da hole.\u201d
I stand and follow him down the center corridor, giddy as a boy on Christmas morning, ecstatic that my course work has arrived. I don\u2019t know why he was so angry, but it doesn\u2019t really matter now that he\u2019s agreed to allow me to proceed. When we enter his office I see the box from Ohio University open on his desk.
\u201cThis ain\u2019t nothin\u2019 but a lot \u2019a extra work for me.\u201d
\u201cThanks for helping, sir. I apologize for causing so much trouble.\u201d
He opens each book, inspects the binding, fans through the pages, then he passes the book over to me. I have courses in English, philosophy, algebra, and psychology. I thank Mr. Chandler again and return to the desk where I can begin to work with a new sense of purpose.
In my mind I\u2019m no longer a prisoner. I\u2019m 24 years old, about to endure my second holiday season in confinement, but I\u2019m also on track for making real, measurable progress. I\u2019m now a university student and an aspiring author.\xa0 Others will soon have tangible results to gauge my commitment to atone.