118. Earning Freedom (3.3) with Michael Santos
I\u2019m reading from chapter 3 of my book, Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term
Podcast 118: Chapter 3.3
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*******
It\u2019s 1988 and Vice-President George H.W. Bush is about to become America\u2019s 41st president. He talks about a thousand points of light and inspires me with his call for a kinder, gentler America. Yes!\xa0 More compassion and understanding is exactly what I need, and I\u2019m working feverishly to prove worthy of reconsideration.
With each passing month I feel the pressure. But I like having a reason to push through each day. My studies and writing goals necessitate a strict schedule and I train myself to function on less sleep. The cellblock rocks with constant noise and ceaseless disturbances, but with clearly defined goals I block out all distractions and become more skillful at carving out niches of time and space to study.
The tight schedule helps immensely, especially as my connection to Lisa becomes more and more tenuous. I\u2019m proud of what I\u2019m producing and for Christmas I send her copies of the assignments I\u2019m completing. I also share the progress with my manuscript and I include photographs of the physique I\u2019m building through strenuous weightlifting.
She\u2019s not interested.
When I write her to announce news of the grant Julie received to produce and distribute Drugs and Money, she asks how much money I\u2019ll be able to send her from those proceeds.
\u201cBaby, I\u2019m not writing this book for money,\u201d I try to explain over the telephone. \u201cI\u2019ve told you the plan. I\u2019m working to come home. I have to build a record that shows I can contribute to the world, and that\u2019s what this book is for. We\u2019re using the money to produce it and distribute it so I can build support, so I can come home.\u201d
\u201cI\u2019m your wife, Michael. It costs money to live, and you didn\u2019t leave me with enough to be giving books away.\u201d
\u201cI know, Honey. Listen, I thought you were going to find a job. Why don\u2019t you sell clothes? There\u2019s got to be some way for you to earn an income. You\u2019ve got to support yourself until I come home.\u201d
\u201cWhen? In 25 years? Michael, this isn\u2019t working.\u201d
\u201cDon\u2019t say that! We\u2019re married. Of course we can make it work. And it isn\u2019t going to be 25 years. That\u2019s ridiculous. The judge isn\u2019t going to let this sentence stand, not with all I\u2019m doing. I\u2019ll be home in like eight years, maybe less.\u201d I feel her slipping away. \u201cWhen are you coming to see me?\u201d
\u201cI told you already.\xa0 My probation officer won\u2019t let me visit you.\u201d
\u201cBut for how long? How long until she lets you come visit me?\u201d
\u201cFive years, Michael! She told me that I\u2019d never be able to visit you while I\u2019m on probation and that I should divorce you.\u201d
\u201cThat\u2019s going to change. They can\u2019t keep us apart like this. We\u2019re married. You still love me, don\u2019t you?\u201d
This is ending badly. I sense where it\u2019s heading, even though I\u2019m trying to pull affection that should flow freely. To cope, I work harder.
*******
It\u2019s early 1989 and I\u2019ve turned 25. The time pressure intensifies every day, requiring that I deny myself sleep and activities that others rely upon as distractions from the pains of imprisonment.\xa0 Table games won\u2019t carry me through.
When I read that President Bush is going to deliver his first prime-time news conference from the Oval Office I walk to a television room and watch the broadcast from the back of the auditorium.
The president looks dour. While seated in his high-backed chair behind his executive desk, President Bush holds up a clear plastic bag filled with cocaine. My spirits sink when I hear him tell millions of viewers that the War on Drugs is of paramount importance. Illicit drug abuse, he warns, threatens America as we know it.
Apparently the kinder, gentler America the president spoke about doesn\u2019t include compassion for prisoners\u2013especially those who sold drugs. His message suggests Americans need an object to hate. The object of that hatred is drugs and everyone who has anything to do with them. He calls for vigilance, urges children to turn in their parents and announces that under his administration American law enforcement will have zero tolerance for drugs.\xa0 He appoints William Bennett as a \u201cdrug czar,\u201d whatever that means.
As I lie on my rack, blocking out the noise that ricochets through the concrete and steel cellblock, I consider what our new president said. He actually clarifies the enormity of my challenge. I\u2019m a convicted drug offender with a long sentence. As much as I want to earn support from my fellow citizens, from the prosecutor, and from my judge\u2013the president has just told people in society that I\u2019m not worthy of consideration.\xa0 They shouldn\u2019t look beyond my conviction and sentence.\xa0 I have to face the truth that others may never accept the efforts I\u2019m making to atone. Zero tolerance. That\u2019s what President Bush calls for.
*******
I wake with determination to work harder. Another prisoner tells me about a job in the prison factory\u2019s business office that may make it easier to write.
\u201cIt\u2019s a clerical job,\u201d the prisoner says. \u201cIf you get it, you\u2019d have your own desk and access to a computer.\u201d
\u201cWould they let me type my school assignments on the computer?\u201d
\u201cHow the fuck should I know? Go fuckin\u2019 check it out for yourself.\u201d
Mr. Chandler signs my pass and I walk across the compound toward the business office. A morning controlled movement is in progress and a line of men wait their turn to pass through a metal detector. A prisoner in front of me walks through and the machine starts beeping.
\u201cTake \u2019em off,\u201d the guard orders.
\u201cCome on boss, you knows I done got steel-toe boots on. That\u2019s all that\u2019s settin\u2019 your joint off.\u201d
\u201cThen it shouldn\u2019t be a problem. Now take \u2019em off and walk through again. Else you can strip down. Makes no difference to me.\u201d
The guard won\u2019t allow anyone to go through until he clears the man in front of me. I rarely leave the library because of this obsession with security. But the prospect of a new job that would provide access to a word processor and my own desk makes the inconvenience bearable today.
When it\u2019s my turn I clear the metal detector without interference. I walk through two more sets of gates and I ride the elevator to the business office. The atmosphere differs from any other place I\u2019ve been in the penitentiary. Instead of concrete and steel there are plasterboard walls, wooden doors with moldings, and carpeted floors soften the large, open room. Desks align neatly in aisles and rows. Prisoners wearing crisply pressed khakis sit behind them, absorbed in their work. Each desk has its own computer monitor and keyboard. I hear the buzzing of business machines, copiers, printers, and adding machines.
Yearning for my unrecoverable past, I walk through the open area toward the smaller offices in the back. I see the door marked \u201cTransportation\u201d and I knock. A woman looks up from her desk and greets me with a friendly smile.
\u201cGood morning. My name is Michael Santos.\u201d I present her with my pass from Mr. Chandler. \u201cI was told of a job opening for a clerk in the Transportation office. I\u2019d like to apply.\u201d
\u201cHow much time do you have? Thirty years I hope.\u201d
\u201cI have 45 years, Ma\u2019am.\u201d
\u201cOh,\u201d she flinches. \u201cI\u2019m sorry, I didn\u2019t mean that. I was only asking because training a clerk takes a lot of time and I didn\u2019t want one of these short timers about to transfer out.\u201d
\u201cThat\u2019s okay. I\u2019m enrolled in college and I expect that I\u2019ll be here for a long time.\u201d
\u201cHave you ever worked in an office before?\u201d
\u201cYes Ma\u2019am. My father owned a contracting company and I worked in his offices.\u201d
\u201cSo you can type?\u201d
\u201cI type very well, at least 50 words per minute.\u201d
\u201cWhere do you work now?\u201d
\u201cI work in the library. Mr. Chandler is my supervisor.\u201d
\u201cHow\u2019s your disciplinary record? Do you have any shots? Ever go to the SHU?\u201d
\u201cNo Ma\u2019am, my disciplinary record is clear. I keep to myself, stay out of trouble.\u201d
\u201cWhy are you in prison?\u201d
\u201cI sold cocaine.\u201d I say, knowing that I\u2019ll be answering this question for the rest of my life.
\u201cAnd you got 45 years for that?\u201d
\u201cYes Ma\u2019am.\u201d
\u201cHave you ever been in prison before?\u201d
\u201cThis is my first time, and my last.\u201d
She nods her head, and for the first time since I\u2019ve been in prison I feel genuine compassion from a staff member. \u201cMy name is Lynn Stephens. Watch the call-out for the job change. You\u2019ve got the job.\u201d She smiles, and for that instant I\u2019m a person rather than a prisoner.
As I return to the library I realize that I forgot to ask Ms. Stephens about time for schoolwork and whether I could use the word processor to type my assignments once I completed my office responsibilities. It doesn\u2019t matter. I\u2019ll find a way to make things work. The office environment cleansed away the filth of imprisonment and I want to spend my time there, in the company of Ms. Stephens. I sense it\u2019s the right place for me, away from gangs, confrontations, and cellblock pressures; away from the continuous hustling and scheming that take place in the library and other common spaces.
*******
When the cell gates open at 6:00 a.m. I rush to the gym for my morning workout. A quick cross-training workout allows me to fit all my exercises in before 7:00. Then I return to the cellblock, shower, shave, and dress in my pressed khakis. Optimistic about my new job, I bring an envelope with photographs in case there\u2019s an opportunity to share pictures of my family with Ms. Stephens\u2013I want her to know that I have a life outside of these walls.
\u201cGood morning,\u201d she greets me when I walk in. Strangely, I\u2019m a bit uneasy being in close proximity to a woman. The office we share is small, the size of a bedroom in a suburban house. Her desk sits immediately to the right of the door in the office\u2019s front corner. As her clerk I\u2019ll sit inside a U-shaped workstation in the back, diagonally across from her. Five paces separate us. I\u2019m conscious of her perfume and try to keep my knees from bouncing beneath the desk.
\u201cWhat we do here is coordinate all the paperwork for shipments that leave the factory,\u201d Ms. Stephens explains, describing my duties. \u201cEach day the factory manager will send us a sheet with the number and type of mailbags that are ready for processing out. From that sheet you\u2019ll type these forms we call the shippers and make five copies of the documents for distribution to billing, quality control, the postal service, the shipping company, the factory, and our records.
I handle the sample of documents that she provides and know that I\u2019m capable of keeping this busywork in order. \u201cHow many orders do we receive each day?\u201d
\u201cIt\u2019s more like 15 each week. On some days you\u2019ll receive one or two orders; other days you may not receive any at all. Then you may receive four, five, or six all at once. It might take you a few weeks to get used to the system but you\u2019ll get the hang of it. As long as you stay on top of it and don\u2019t let the work pile up, you\u2019ll be fine.\u201d
\u201cWhat am I supposed to do when I\u2019m caught up? It doesn\u2019t sound like these duties will require more than a couple hours a day, if that.\u201d
\u201cLet\u2019s just see how it goes. We\u2019ve always got files to organize, envelopes to stuff, and copies to make. If you\u2019d like to listen to the radio, tune into any station you\u2019d like.\u201d
I catch on quickly to my duties: typing, copying, distributing, and filing. The small radio behind me only picks up the AM band. As I flip through the stations I settle in on talk radio, and I listen to an audacious political commentator named Rush Limbaugh. The show is gaining national popularity, I\u2019ve read. Magazine articles describe Limbaugh as a self-indulgent, obese, college dropout who dumped his marriage but represents himself as a social conservative.\xa0 Despite the hypocrisy between his personal life and his public life, he makes me laugh.
*******
Lisa isn\u2019t responding to the daily letters I\u2019ve been writing, and every time I\u2019m finally able to call her, I walk away frustrated because she doesn\u2019t answer. It\u2019s been more than two weeks since I\u2019ve heard from her. Premonitions chip away at me. I hurt from the emptiness and loneliness disturbs my sleep.
The prison\u2019s automated phone system only allows collect calls. A major drawback is that once I dial I can\u2019t hear what\u2019s happening on the other end of the line until someone pushes a digit to accept. When I dial Lisa\u2019s number I don\u2019t know whether the line is busy, no one is home, or the call simply doesn\u2019t go through.
I wonder what\u2019s going on, why she doesn\u2019t write, and where she is. I ache to tell her about my new job, about my progress with school, about the manuscript I\u2019m writing, and about how much I miss her. I want to know about her life, how her job search is going. She must\u2019ve found a job. She\u2019s probably working at the times that I call, but I wonder why she doesn\u2019t respond to my letters. I dream of the softness of her lips, but nightmares haunt me with images of her kissing someone else.
*******
\u201cHey! How come you haven\u2019t been calling me? I\u2019ve been worried about you.\u201d It\u2019s Julie, cheering me up with her loving enthusiasm when she accepts my call.
\u201cI\u2019m sorry. It\u2019s not so easy to use the phone here. I have to wait in long lines and I\u2019m only able to dial one number once my turn comes up. Have you been getting the letters I\u2019ve sent?\u201d
\u201cI\u2019m so proud of you! You\u2019re doing great in there, with your schoolwork and the writing. I\u2019m glad you\u2019ve got a job you like.\u201d
\u201cEverything\u2019s okay, but I haven\u2019t been able to talk with Lisa and I\u2019m worried. Has she called you?\u201d
\u201cShe wouldn\u2019t call me, you know that. Do you want me to patch you through on a three-way?\u201d
\u201cWould you? When I call her number I\u2019m not getting through at all. I can\u2019t leave a message or anything.\u201d
\u201cWhat\u2019s her phone number?\u201d
I give Julie the number and wait for her to dial. She patches into the call when Lisa\u2019s phone starts ringing.
\u201cI\u2019m just going to wait until she answers. Then I\u2019ll put the phone down and you can talk as long as you want.\u201d
\u201cThanks, Julie. I appreciate your help.\u201d
My heart pounds and I bounce between excitement to hear my wife\u2019s voice and apprehension over what she might tell me. But it\u2019s not Lisa who answers. It\u2019s a man\u2019s voice that picks up.
\u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d I say. \u201cI must\u2019ve dialed the wrong number.\u201d
\u201cWhat\u2019s the number again?\u201d Julie asks, after disconnecting the unknown party.
I give her Lisa\u2019s number a second time. \u201cThat\u2019s the number I thought I dialed. Let me try again.\u201d
The phone rings and I hear the same voice answer. \u201cWho\u2019s this?\u201d I ask.
\u201cWho\u2019s this?\u201d The man doesn\u2019t answer my question.
\u201cThis is Michael Santos. I\u2019m calling for my wife, Lisa.\u201d
\u201cOh. Well, Lisa\u2019s not here. I\u2019m Lisa\u2019s boyfriend and I live here now. Sorry to tell you this, but it\u2019s probably best if you don\u2019t call back. She isn\u2019t ready to talk with you.\u201d
I\u2019m humiliated that this is the way I learn my marriage is over, and that my sister hears it along with me. Speechless, I hang up the phone, not even taking the time to thank Julie for making the call.
Blindly, I press through crowds of prisoners and find my way to the stairs, not caring who I push aside in my grief\u2013a knife in the gut would be a welcome reprieve from the pain twisting through my heart.
Somehow I find my cell and fall onto my rack, smothering my face in my pillow. With the spirit of perseverance abandoning me, I squeeze my eyes shut to keep tears from falling. Everything inside of me feels broken. I hear my pulse pounding in my ears, feel it throbbing in my head. I\u2019m having a hard time acknowledging that she\u2019s gone, that I\u2019ve lost her.\xa0 It\u2019s like a painful vise squeezing tighter and tighter, suffocating me and bringing doubts on whether I can climb through 24 more years of this pain.
Sleep doesn\u2019t restore my confidence. I crawl off my rack and sit on the metal chair to lace my dirty sneakers. Consumed with sadness, I walk down the stairs and pace, wondering why I should go on.\xa0 I\u2019m not able to summon the will or a reason to live.\xa0 Lisa and I may\u2019ve been growing apart, but at least I had the illusion of love.\xa0 That\u2019s been shattered and I don\u2019t know what I\u2019ll do in here for decades.
I walk to the library, numb to everything but my pain, seeking solace from the stories of others who suffered. I search for books about Viktor Frankl, Elie Weisel, and other innocent people who confronted horrific adversity in concentration camps like Auschwitz and Buchenwald. I need to immerse myself in their stories. Although I\u2019ve hit bottom, the inspiring literature of Jewish survival and courage shines a light down my psychological well, beginning to ease the tightness in my chest.