118. Earning Freedom (3.3) with Michael Santos
I’m reading from chapter 3 of my book, Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term
Podcast 118: Chapter 3.3
*******
It’s 1988 and Vice-President George H.W. Bush is about to become America’s 41st president. He talks about a thousand points of light and inspires me with his call for a kinder, gentler America. Yes! More compassion and understanding is exactly what I need, and I’m 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’m proud of what I’m producing and for Christmas I send her copies of the assignments I’m completing. I also share the progress with my manuscript and I include photographs of the physique I’m building through strenuous weightlifting.
She’s 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’ll be able to send her from those proceeds.
“Baby, I’m not writing this book for money,” I try to explain over the telephone. “I’ve told you the plan. I’m working to come home. I have to build a record that shows I can contribute to the world, and that’s what this book is for. We’re using the money to produce it and distribute it so I can build support, so I can come home.”
“I’m your wife, Michael. It costs money to live, and you didn’t leave me with enough to be giving books away.”
“I know, Honey. Listen, I thought you were going to find a job. Why don’t you sell clothes? There’s got to be some way for you to earn an income. You’ve got to support yourself until I come home.”
“When? In 25 years? Michael, this isn’t working.”
“Don’t say that! We’re married. Of course we can make it work. And it isn’t going to be 25 years. That’s ridiculous. The judge isn’t going to let this sentence stand, not with all I’m doing. I’ll be home in like eight years, maybe less.” I feel her slipping away. “When are you coming to see me?”
“I told you already. My probation officer won’t let me visit you.”
“But for how long? How long until she lets you come visit me?”
“Five years, Michael! She told me that I’d never be able to visit you while I’m on probation and that I should divorce you.”
“That’s going to change. They can’t keep us apart like this. We’re married. You still love me, don’t you?”
This is ending badly. I sense where it’s heading, even though I’m trying to pull affection that should flow freely. To cope, I work harder.
*******
It’s early 1989 and I’ve 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. Table games won’t 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’t include compassion for prisoners–especially 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. He appoints William Bennett as a “drug czar,” 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’m 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–the president has just told people in society that I’m not worthy of consideration. They shouldn’t look beyond my conviction and sentence. I have to face the truth that others may never accept the efforts I’m making to atone. Zero tolerance. That’s what President Bush calls for.
*******
I wake with determination to work harder. Another prisoner tells me about a job in the prison factory’s business office that may make it easier to write.
“It’s a clerical job,” the prisoner says. “If you get it, you’d have your own desk and access to a computer.”
“Would they let me type my school assignments on the computer?”
“How the fuck should I know? Go fuckin’ check it out for yourself.”
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.
“Take ’em off,” the guard orders.
“Come on boss, you knows I done got steel-toe boots on. That’s all that’s settin’ your joint off.”
“Then it shouldn’t be a problem. Now take ’em off and walk through again. Else you can strip down. Makes no difference to me.”
The guard won’t 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’s 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’ve 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 “Transportation” and I knock. A woman looks up from her desk and greets me with a friendly smile.
“Good morning. My name is Michael Santos.” I present her with my pass from Mr. Chandler. “I was told of a job opening for a clerk in the Transportation office. I’d like to apply.”
“How much time do you have? Thirty years I hope.”
“I have 45 years, Ma’am.”
“Oh,” she flinches. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. I was only asking because training a clerk takes a lot of time and I didn’t want one of these short timers about to transfer out.”
“That’s okay. I’m enrolled in college and I expect that I’ll be here for a long time.”
“Have you ever worked in an office before?”
“Yes Ma’am. My father owned a contracting company and I worked in his offices.”
“So you can type?”
“I type very well, at least 50 words per minute.”
“Where do you work now?”
“I work in the library. Mr. Chandler is my supervisor.”
“How’s your disciplinary record? Do you have any shots? Ever go to the SHU?”
“No Ma’am, my disciplinary record is clear. I keep to myself, stay out of trouble.”
“Why are you in prison?”
“I sold cocaine.” I say, knowing that I’ll be answering this question for the rest of my life.
“And you got 45 years for that?”
“Yes Ma’am.”
“Have you ever been in prison before?”
“This is my first time, and my last.”
She nods her head, and for the first time since I’ve been in prison I feel genuine compassion from a staff member. “My name is Lynn Stephens. Watch the call-out for the job change. You’ve got the job.” She smiles, and for that instant I’m 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’t matter. I’ll 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’s 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’s an opportunity to share pictures of my family with Ms. Stephens–I want her to know that I have a life outside of these walls.
“Good morning,” she greets me when I walk in. Strangely, I’m 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’s front corner. As her clerk I’ll sit inside a U-shaped workstation in the back, diagonally across from her. Five paces separate us. I’m conscious of her perfume and try to keep my knees from bouncing beneath the desk.
“What we do here is coordinate all the paperwork for shipments that leave the factory,” Ms. Stephens explains, describing my duties. “Each 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’ll 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’m capable of keeping this busywork in order. “How many orders do we receive each day?”
“It’s more like 15 each week. On some days you’ll 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’ll get the hang of it. As long as you stay on top of it and don’t let the work pile up, you’ll be fine.”
“What am I supposed to do when I’m caught up? It doesn’t sound like these duties will require more than a couple hours a day, if that.”
“Let’s just see how it goes. We’ve always got files to organize, envelopes to stuff, and copies to make. If you’d like to listen to the radio, tune into any station you’d like.”
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’ve read. Magazine articles describe Limbaugh as a self-indulgent, obese, college dropout who dumped his marriage but represents himself as a social conservative. Despite the hypocrisy between his personal life and his public life, he makes me laugh.
*******
Lisa isn’t responding to the daily letters I’ve been writing, and every time I’m finally able to call her, I walk away frustrated because she doesn’t answer. It’s been more than two weeks since I’ve heard from her. Premonitions chip away at me. I hurt from the emptiness and loneliness disturbs my sleep.
The prison’s automated phone system only allows collect calls. A major drawback is that once I dial I can’t hear what’s happening on the other end of the line until someone pushes a digit to accept. When I dial Lisa’s number I don’t know whether the line is busy, no one is home, or the call simply doesn’t go through.
I wonder what’s going on, why she doesn’t write, and where she is. I ache to tell her about my new job, about my progress with school, about the manuscript I’m writing, and about how much I miss her. I want to know about her life, how her job search is going. She must’ve found a job. She’s probably working at the times that I call, but I wonder why she doesn’t respond to my letters. I dream of the softness of her lips, but nightmares haunt me with images of her kissing someone else.
*******
“Hey! How come you haven’t been calling me? I’ve been worried about you.” It’s Julie, cheering me up with her loving enthusiasm when she accepts my call.
“I’m sorry. It’s not so easy to use the phone here. I have to wait in long lines and I’m only able to dial one number once my turn comes up. Have you been getting the letters I’ve sent?”
“I’m so proud of you! You’re doing great in there, with your schoolwork and the writing. I’m glad you’ve got a job you like.”
“Everything’s okay, but I haven’t been able to talk with Lisa and I’m worried. Has she called you?”
“She wouldn’t call me, you know that. Do you want me to patch you through on a three-way?”
“Would you? When I call her number I’m not getting through at all. I can’t leave a message or anything.”
“What’s her phone number?”
I give Julie the number and wait for her to dial. She patches into the call when Lisa’s phone starts ringing.
“I’m just going to wait until she answers. Then I’ll put the phone down and you can talk as long as you want.”
“Thanks, Julie. I appreciate your help.”
My heart pounds and I bounce between excitement to hear my wife’s voice and apprehension over what she might tell me. But it’s not Lisa who answers. It’s a man’s voice that picks up.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I must’ve dialed the wrong number.”
“What’s the number again?” Julie asks, after disconnecting the unknown party.
I give her Lisa’s number a second time. “That’s the number I thought I dialed. Let me try again.”
The phone rings and I hear the same voice answer. “Who’s this?” I ask.
“Who’s this?” The man doesn’t answer my question.
“This is Michael Santos. I’m calling for my wife, Lisa.”
“Oh. Well, Lisa’s not here. I’m Lisa’s boyfriend and I live here now. Sorry to tell you this, but it’s probably best if you don’t call back. She isn’t ready to talk with you.”
I’m 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–a 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’m having a hard time acknowledging that she’s gone, that I’ve lost her. It’s 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’t 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. I’m not able to summon the will or a reason to live. Lisa and I may’ve been growing apart, but at least I had the illusion of love. That’s been shattered and I don’t know what I’ll 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’ve 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.