119. Earning Freedom (3.4) with Michael Santos
I’m reading from chapter 3 of my book, Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term
For more information, visit PrisonProfessors.com
*******
When I call home on May 27, 1989, I hear the news from Julie that Christina has given birth to a daughter, Isabella. I’ve known of Christina’s pregnancy for some time, but I’ve been too wrapped up in dealing with the loss of Lisa and the challenges of my prison adjustment to grasp what that means. It’s surreal to think of my younger sister as a mother, and to think of myself as an uncle.
Christina and I grew up very close as children. I have fond memories from our grade school years, and of bringing her fishing with me in a neighborhood stream. But I haven’t seen her since my imprisonment. Now she’s a mother, and trying to imagine her as a grown woman with a family of her own feels almost incomprehensible. Life is changing without my being a part of it. I hang up in tears, unable to suppress my mix of emotions. I’m happy for Christina, but also filled with sadness because I’ve missed Isabella’s birth.
I need to walk around the track but that means waiting in line for a pass, then waiting in the crowd for the next scheduled movement to leave the housing unit. Instead, I head for my cell. There isn’t anywhere I can console the ache I feel inside privately. As I lie on my rack with my head pressed into the pillow I can still hear Check and his buddy playing chess at the table. Dropping into self-pity, all I can think about is the isolation from my family. I’m a stranger, isolated from the family bonds that make life worth living.
How will society view me? If I were a free citizen today and encountered a man who had served more than a quarter of a century in prison, I’d have major preconceptions about him. I’d feel reluctant to accept him as a neighbor, a colleague, and certainly as a peer. Women, I expect, will think twice before dating a man who served time in prison. And if I’m not released until my late 40s, without a work history, savings, and a home, there’s a strong likelihood that I’ll never become a father and have children of my own. How could I?
It’s too much. I have to break this up in my mind, take it in smaller increments, one chunk at a time. Otherwise it overwhelms and defeats me.
Where will I be in 10 years? That’s what I should think about. What is the best I can become during the first decade of my imprisonment? My studies are going well and I’ve nearly completed the manuscript for Drugs and Money. I don’t know what will happen with the Rule 35 motion once the time comes to submit the request for reconsideration of my sentence. But in 1997, after a decade in prison, if I stick to this plan I’ll be an educated man. If I keep my focus I’ll have a university degree and possibly a law degree. Those credentials will distinguish me from prisoners who thrive on hate and who rely upon weapons and gangs to empower themselves.
Still, I live amidst the weapons, the gangs, and the power struggles within my community of felons. With two years behind me I understand the politics of race, geographical origin, and anarchy. On the surface it looks as if whites mix with whites, blacks with blacks, and Hispanics with Hispanics. But that isn’t the real story, as this culture is driven by influences that are far more complex.
I live in a society of deprivation, where policies extinguish hope. With years to serve, abandoned by their families, and severed of their previous identities, most prisoners give up trying to improve themselves. Instead, they ripen for rebellion. They form an anti-society culture with its own underground economy, values, and social structure. Mafia dons and gang leaders hold the top spots with snitches and child molesters at the bottom. Disruptive factions form and either scheme together or battle each other for power. In this society, where prisoners kill without remorse in an effort to increase their share of prison wealth and to protect their territory, my efforts to avoid ‘prisonization’ make me vulnerable. I can’t outrun them but, by existing under their radar, I can evade them. I’m captain of my own metaphorical submarine, gliding stealthily beneath the waves and currents. My periscope is up but my strategy is to remain invisible, deep below the turmoil. It’s working.
By waking at 5:00 a.m., when the other men in my cell are still asleep, I can use the toilet and wash in privacy. I use a small book light to read until 6:00, when a guard walks down the tier unlocking the gates. I’m first out of the cell and one of the few avoiding the chow hall to take advantage of early exercise. By 7:30 I’m at work, which is a reprieve from the tensions of the cellblock and yard.
My supervisor, Ms. Stephens encourages my academic pursuits. She authorizes me to study and type my assignments once I complete my daily work. When I leave the business office I report to the prison’s hospital as a volunteer. Prisoners deemed at risk for harming themselves are kept under 24-hour surveillance, and I’m one of those on watch. This schedule allows me to avoid the other prisoners and to study. When I return to the cellblock at midnight the prison is quiet. I shower, climb to my rack above Check, and I sleep soundly for five hours. It’s a routine I want to keep for the incomprehensible 24 years that I’ve still got to serve.
The pockets of solitude I’ve carved out give me peace, and I’ve become extremely productive. I’m on a tight schedule, always racing to exceed my expectations. I’ve completed my first quarter with Ohio University and I’ve enrolled in another full load of courses for the second quarter.
Besides taking correspondence classes through Ohio University, Mercer University has begun offering courses inside USP Atlanta, and I’m now enrolled as a full-time student in its program. One of the professors from Mercer, Colin Harris, takes time to mentor me. I’m busy, working hard to prove worthy of the trust placed in me. According to the timeline I’ve laid out, I should earn my undergraduate degree in 1992, and I intend to earn it with honors.
*******
“Guess who I ran into at Safeway?” Julie, my sister, asks in a carefully measured tone.
“Who?”
“Judy Murphy.” She mentions the mother of one of my high school friends.
“Oh, how’s Sean?”
Julie hesitates and then tells me that Sean died of leukemia.
It’s tough news for me to take, as I liked and admired Sean. I ask my sister when he died.
“Just a few months ago. It struck him suddenly. He was studying engineering at the University of Washington. He died during surgery.”
When Julie hangs up I return to my cell and think about Sean. He was a friend of mine since junior high school. With the news of his death, I sit and think more about what I’m doing here. I face the wall in my cell, unable to muffle the hollering, laughing, and slamming of dominos on steel cellblock tables. Bad news from beyond prison walls keeps coming, and it will keep coming, and I must learn to accept it alone.
Sean and I hadn’t spoken since high school graduation. He lived responsibly, a student-athlete, disciplined and respectful of others while I was living recklessly. I remember our friendship as kids and as teammates in football and baseball. It’s hard for me to believe that I’m now in prison and his life has ended. Many more lives will end while I serve this sentence, maybe even my own.
I rest a pad on my knee so I can write to his parents, expressing my sympathy. Then I pledge that memories of Sean will inspire me to make better use of my life, to use every day working to become a better person. I don’t know how Sean’s parents will respond to my letter but I feel compelled to write it. For some reason, news of his death piles on more guilt. It brings feelings of nostalgia for high school, those earlier days before I thought of selling cocaine. I regret decisions I made and feel a colossal disappointment in what I’ve made of my life.
*******
I want to reach beyond these walls and my chance arrives when Julie receives the grant money for printing 2,000 copies of Drugs and Money. She makes the trip from Seattle to visit me so we can plan our strategy to distribute the books.
“You’ve grown so much,” Julie cries as we hug for the first time since my arrest, almost three years before.
“I told you I’ve been exercising every morning since I got here. Check this out.” I flex my arms, showing off.
She admires my fitness but then looks around, disoriented with the prison experience. “What did that guy do to get in here?”
“Come on, let’s not waste our time talking about anyone else. He probably sold drugs, like everyone else. I told you I’m a loner in here, I keep to myself.”
“I can’t believe you don’t have any friends. How can you spend all your time alone?”
“I’m okay. I talk to a few guys from class, but life is different for me. I’m so busy with school that I can’t take time for television, movies, or any of the craziness that goes on around here.” I tell my sister about the hustle of brewing alcohol with fruit, sugar, and yeast, and how some prisoners pass through the monotony of confinement in a drunken stupor. “Others are into gangs, gambling, and drugs. I feel safest and most productive by sticking to myself.”
“How do prisoners get drugs in here?” Despite my efforts to talk about the book, my sister persists in asking me about prison life.
“Through visits I guess, and some corrupt guards mule them in. I stay away from everything. That’s one of the reasons I keep such a busy schedule, to avoid trouble.”
While sitting across the table from my sister, I don’t feel any shame at all. It isn’t the same when my mother or father visits me. With them I feel empty inside and embarrassed that they see me in a place like this. Both my mom and dad want to hold my hand, pat my head, or assure me with words that things are going to turn out fine. But they’re afraid for me. Their nervous gestures bring out my guilt from having put them through such misery. I’ve asked them to leave visits early, feigning exhaustion. In truth, sadness overwhelms me and all I want to do is disappear.
With Julie, on the other hand, I grin and laugh, happy to listen as she tells me about our younger sister, Christina, our parents, our niece, and her own engagement to Tim. Life continues regardless of my ordeal. I look at the clock, conscious that the minutes move so quickly, and wish the visit wouldn’t end. With hundreds of other prisoners’ family members visiting, it’s loud in the room. We’re eating sandwiches from vending machines and drinking sodas. Life feels almost normal. Even though she periodically breaks into tears, I’m not in prison when I’m with Julie. She’s so sweet, telling me that she’d switch places with me if she could.
We talk about the many ways we’re going to leverage all of the relationships we have in Seattle to attract media attention for the book. Drugs are becoming a bigger issue in society with President Bush’s zero-tolerance programs and I feel strongly that the book I wrote could contribute to the solution. Through a story describing what happened to my friends and me, the book sends a message regarding the tragic consequences that follow drug trafficking.
Although I face considerable restrictions in promoting the book, Julie is free to speak on my behalf. She returns to Seattle and begins contacting jails, schools, and other institutions where the message in Drugs and Money can add value. With books to donate, Julie contacts local talk radio programs to promote the book and to secure invitations for me to participate in telephone interviews.
Conscious of the reprimand Mr. Chandler gave me for enrolling in college without first seeking his permission, I ask advice from my supervisor, Ms. Stephens. I want to know which staff member can authorize me to interact with the media. She directs me to Ms. Sheffer, the Warden’s Executive Assistant, and Ms. Sheffer tells me that if representatives of the media want to speak with me over the phone, then I’m within my rights to converse.
*******
“I’m locking you up,” a lieutenant chastises me after paging me to his office.
“Why? What did I do?”
“Listen to this.” The lieutenant plays a tape recording of a portion from an interview I gave to a Seattle radio station over the telephone. “You can’t be giving no interviews on the radio from my institution. Where do you think you are? This is a federal prison! You’re supposed to be serving time, not writing books and talking to the media.”
“But I was only talking about the reasons people shouldn’t get involved with selling drugs. I’m trying to send a positive message.”
“Well I’m sending you to the hole to think about your positive message. Next time you’ll think twice about what you’re saying over my phone system and who you’re talking to.”
“But I asked permission from Ms. Sheffer before I made the call. She said I could talk with the media over the phone.”
The lieutenant looks at me skeptically. “What? Ms. Sheffer said that? When?”
“Three weeks ago. My work supervisor told me she was the person I needed to speak to for permission, and she said it would be fine.”
“Go back to your job,” the lieutenant orders. “I’ll get to the bottom of this. If you’re lying to me, you’re gonna be sorry.”
I walk back to the business office, intimidated by my encounter with the lieutenant. Since I had permission, I don’t think I’m in trouble, but the lieutenant’s threat about the hole shakes me. From an isolation cell I won’t be able to attend my classes with Mercer University, and if I can’t complete my classes, the timeline I’m working toward to graduate in 1992 falls apart. I’m frustrated that the decisions of others have so much influence on my life.
Ms. Sheffer is waiting for me when I get back to my desk. With her shoulder-length blonde hair and form fitting designer clothes, she looks more like a babe than a prison official. Despite her attractiveness and the fragrance of her perfume, she talks tough, at least to me.
“From now on, if you’re going to talk with the media, you coordinate it through my office.” Ms. Sheffer scolds me while pointing her finger at me, ruining fantasies I’ve had about her, the kind that keep a young man alive. My confusion quickly leads to embarrassment.
“I’m sorry. I thought you said it was okay for me to talk over the phone.”
“I only said that because I didn’t think a member of the media would accept your phone calls. It was my mistake, that’s why you’re not in the hole. But let’s be clear, from now on you need to coordinate all media communications through my office.”
When Ms. Sheffer walks out I’m left alone in the office with my supervisor. “You’re really rocking the boat around here.”
“I don’t mean to. I’m just trying to build support outside.”
Ms. Stephens shakes her head in doubt. “When you started here you said you wanted to keep a low profile, to stay out of trouble. Writing books and talking on the radio puts you on the front line, not exactly low profile.”
“I meant I wanted to keep a low profile in prison. I still have to try and build support outside. I can’t just give up, you know, I’ve got to try to make something more of my life than this.”
“I just hope you know what you’re doing. Most inmates want to avoid attention, but you’re bringing the spotlight right to you. If you do anything wrong, all this attention is going to backfire.”
Ms. Stephens makes clear that she thinks it would be best to focus on school and forget about media contacts. “Just remember,” she chills me with an admonishment, “I can’t protect you if the lieutenant decides to lock you up for an investigation.”
Ms. Stephens means well. I know she cares for me, but she is a part of the system, and she knows a lieutenant can easily lock a prisoner away in a disciplinary cell for months at a time. If that should happen to me I wouldn’t have access to school, to telephone calls, to exercise. She doesn’t want me locked in a box.
What Ms. Stephens doesn’t understand is that I am locked in a box.
*******
When a guard passes an envelope through the bars of my cell I’m surprised to see a woman’s penmanship. The letter is from Susan, a girl I know from high school. She dated my close friend Rich, and her letter expresses support, telling me that she heard me speaking on a local radio interview.
I read Susan’s letter a hundred times. The letter isn’t suggestive, or with any romantic innuendo, but it’s the only letter I’ve received from a woman since Lisa dumped me six months ago. I like holding the paper that left Susan’s hands, wanting this connection to last. It makes me wonder how many years will pass before I kiss a woman again.
I write Susan a lengthy letter, telling her all about my schoolwork, my routine in prison, and the challenges I face in promoting my book. Although a romance is probably too much to hope for, I make it clear to her that I value her correspondence. I’m lonely, longing for ties to anyone beyond prison walls, especially a woman.
*******
The next letter I receive isn’t from Susan and it isn’t nearly as pleasant. It is from my attorney, Justin, who informs me that the Court of Appeals has affirmed my conviction. The court’s decision doesn’t surprise me, but I’ve been hoping that the court wouldn’t issue its ruling for another year, or better yet, not until I expected to earn my degree in 1992. Yet my hopes don’t matter. It’s 1990 and I know what this appellate decision means. The clock on the 120-day time limit for the Rule 35 has begun to tick.
I write the judicial motion for the Rule 35 from my desk at work. Through the request for my judge to reconsider the sentence he imposed I express remorse for the crimes I committed and accept that I will serve several years in prison as a consequence of my convictions. Yet I implore the judge to reserve his final judgment of me, explaining that I’m working to educate myself, to contribute to society, and to build a record that will demonstrate my commitment to atone and to prepare for a law-abiding life. As an offer of proof I include copies of my university transcripts, my stellar progress reports from prison administrators, copies of Drugs and Money, press clippings, and letters of appreciation that my work has already generated. The entire package fits in a large envelope and I submit it to the court without assistance from counsel.
I don’t have to wait long before I receive the government’s response to my motion. When I open the envelope my heart sinks as I read the prosecutor’s passionate argument for the judge to let my sentence stand. He closes the three-page rebuttal with a sentiment so powerful in its denunciation of me as an individual, a fellow human being, that it takes all the wind out of me.
If Michael Santos served every day of his life in an all-consuming effort to repay society, and if he lived to be 300 years old, our community would still be at a significant net loss.
I read the prosecutor’s response over and over. It eats at me, wakes me from sleep at night. He prepared the case against me for trial. He knows that I’ve never had a weapon and that I don’t have a history or proclivity for violence. Here, in the prison, I live in the midst of dangerous men who truly threaten society, yet they serve sentences that are a fraction in length compared to mine. I don’t understand why the prosecutor is so vehement in opposing my relief, or why his response drips with such venom. I’m sinking again, needing to tap into some type of inner strength before I sink back down into the abyss.
When the guard slides the next envelope–from the district court, my judge’s chambers–through the bars of my cell, I need to lie down. It comes on Friday. Judge Tanner didn’t require much time to dismiss my motion. He agrees with the prosecutor, and with his ruling, the sentence I serve is now final.