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Published: May 20, 2020, 10:30 a.m.

I’m continuing to read from my book Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term. This is the first installment of chapter 7, covering months 93 through 95 of my confinement, in 1995.

 

Hofstra awards my master’s degree in May of 1995 and I begin working my way toward a doctorate at the University of Connecticut. The textbooks on penology could cure insomnia, but the clear path to a Ph.D. motivates me, keeping me cocooned in my room except for my early morning exercise. I think about the authors sometimes, wondering what inspired them to study and write about prisons. For them, I know, a lengthy sentence didn’t provide the impetus. I don’t have any idea what compels someone to build a career around the walled concrete and steel compounds that now hold more than two million people in the U.S.

I have eighteen more years to serve and at times I feel disconnected, as if I’m living behind a glass wall, where I can see but not participate in the broader society. I’m isolated, though my projects bring meaning into my life and dissipate feelings of loneliness or despair.  I feel driven by goals every day, racing to finish one project so that I can begin another.  Despite the length of time I have to serve, I still feel as if I can’t afford to waste a single second.

When I hear news that Warden Luther plans to retire in June, I worry that his departure will lead to changes that could disrupt my progress.  I seek him out and inquire about who will replace him as warden.

“You’ll be fine,” the warden assures me.  “It doesn’t matter who comes.  Just keep working on your education and you’ll continue to live productively in here.”

Under Warden Luther’s leadership, McKean enjoys a reputation of having comparatively well-behaved prisoners. Despite the long sentences that many men serve, they appreciate the privileges of “open movement,” the absence of lockdowns, the ability to order food from the community, and the privilege of participating in Luther’s token economy. Men who transfer from other prisons leave their tension, hostility, and gang problems at the door. Throughout the institution, he hangs copies of a framed memorandum titled: Warden Luther’s Beliefs About the Treatment of Inmates.  The 28 beliefs begin like this:

1. Inmates are sent to prison as punishment and not for punishment.
2. Correctional workers have a responsibility to ensure that inmates are returned to the community no more angry or hostile than when they were committed.
3. Inmates are entitled to a safe and humane environment while in prison.
4. You must believe in man's capacity to change his behavior.
5. Normalize the environment to the extent possible by providing programs, amenities, and services. The denial of such must be related to maintaining order and security rather than punishment.
6. Most inmates will respond favorably to a clean and aesthetically pleasing physical environment and will not vandalize or destroy it.

Luther’s philosophy, albeit powerful and positive, exists at FCI McKean but nowhere else that I’m aware of within the Bureau of Prisons. It won’t last beyond his departure and I sense trouble.

Some staff members resent the privileges Warden Luther extends to me, and I can understand why they would. After all, he treats me kindly, and it isn’t unusual for me to receive a page over the loudspeaker to report to the warden’s office.  He openly supports my academic program, authorizing me free access to a computer lab, allowing me to use the word processors for my academic program as well as for correspondence with my growing support network. On one occasion, he introduced me to a tour group he was leading through the prison.

“This is inmate Santos. He knows more about prisons than many on my staff.”  He treats me more like a colleague than a prisoner, and some staff members resent it. I don’t miss the frozen expression on their face, the body language that implies definite disagreement on that point.

My profile at McKean has become too high. Every staff member knows Warden Luther supports and sponsors my work and I sense that his retirement puts a target on my back. I begin contemplating the merits of requesting a transfer to someplace new, someplace where I can serve my sentence anonymously. If I were to ask for a transfer, I feel confident that my support network could help make it happen.  Doing so, however, would mean the immediate loss of the privileges I enjoy here, and so I put off the decision, deciding to see what comes with the change in leadership.

 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

 

Within weeks of Luther’s departure Warden Meko arrives, blasting Luther’s token economy out of operation and blowing the atmosphere of trust to smithereens. The new warden institutes the oppressive controls characteristic of other prisons, giving quick rise to levels of anger and hostilities that weren’t around under Luther’s leadership.

Warden Meko is all law and order.  If you put a pair of mirrored sunglasses on him, he could pose for a highway patrol poster. He and his staff quickly assess that the prisoners at FCI McKean have been living too well, and they’re determined to tone down the atmosphere, to bring us into line with their beliefs of how prisoners should live. In stripping away the incentives prisoners have grown accustomed to, he also rips away the sense of camaraderie and tolerance. McKean’s atmosphere quickly changes to discontent with growing racial tensions and threats, eradicating the hope that Warden Luther worked so hard to instill. The new regime wants a standard-issue prison and welcomes the hostility its punitive system breeds. Tensions become more palpable.  

Last April authorities arrested Timothy McVeigh for bombing the Murray Federal Building in Oklahoma City, killing 168 people. Judicial proceedings are all over the news.  Many prisoners in FCI McKean now openly root for McVeigh, cheering every sign of civil unrest, from militia groups to incidences of civil rebellion.  This atmosphere feels ripe for rebellion.

It’s October and another fervor is emerging. Louis Farrakhan, minister of the influential Nation of Islam, has organized The Million Man March on Washington to protest injustice in America. He calls for black men to unite and for legislators to bring fairness to a criminal justice system that disproportionately locks up blacks and Hispanics. Media attention stokes the anger of prisoners at McKean, and there is constant chatter on the compound about a need to unite, to take a stand, to do something. Whereas Warden Luther would’ve led us positively through this collective desire for rebellion, Warden Meko turns up the heat to see how far the prisoners are willing to take their anger. Had Luther been in charge, I suspect he would’ve called a Town Hall meeting, assembling all the prisoners to remind them that he didn’t have any power over the length of their sentences. He likely would’ve communicated a message as follows:

“Although I can’t do anything to change the length of time any of you are serving, wardens set the tone for the environment in these places.  I do my best to operate an efficient institution that allows every man to serve his sentence with dignity. At McKean we offer privileges and incentives conditionally to everyone who acts responsibly, but any hint of rebellion will result in changes that could include lockdowns, strict controls, and the loss of privileges that none of us want.  I’m encouraging you guys to work together, to act responsibly so that we can keep things working well here.”

The administration under Warden Meko’s leadership, on the other hand, sees opportunity in the brewing resentment. An organized disturbance would provide the cover necessary to completely dismantle the progressive policies that Warden Luther favored.  Whereas the prisoners resent the new administration, most staff members eagerly embrace changes that Meko’s regime is putting in place.  It’s as if they’re goading prisoners on to carry out threats of a rebellion.  They don’t have to wait long.

When I open my door at 5:20 in the morning, it’s hard to believe that Luther retired only three months ago.  Instead of the calm that previously reigned over McKean, I see fires blazing in front of me.  Prisoners are on a rampage, wool caps pulled over their faces, smashing windows, breaking chairs, tables, and desks. Guards have deserted their stations, leaving the entire building devoid of order. I close the door and retreat into my room, knowing I’ve already seen more of this melee than I’d like.

Although prisoners run wild through common areas, locked steel doors prohibit them from exiting to the compound. Destruction, not escape, is the purpose of their anarchy. It isn’t only our housing unit erupting in bedlam, as through the narrow window of my room, I watch orange flames reaching the ceiling in the next unit, where a pool table burns.

As I’ve done so many other times, I lie on my rack and pull my pillow over my eyes, a conscious effort to tune out my environment.  Hearing no evil, seeing no evil, and speaking no evil is part of my deliberate strategy to survive in here. Violence and disturbance represent a part of the journey, and I’ve just got to roll with it. I know that we’ll be on lockdown soon, and an official inquiry will follow. I’m best served now by trying to sleep through this mess.

 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

 

“All inmates! Stand for count!” The guard’s bullhorn demand from the common area wakes me at 10:30 in the morning.

Five hours have passed since I saw the blazes outside my door and windows. Now I see a dozen guards dressed in camouflage and wearing helmets with clear visors standing alert. They hold batons, and plastic grips for quick handcuffing along with canisters of mace hang from their heavy leather belts. I brace myself for the riot squad, seeing that they’re all suited up and ready for combat. One holds a video camcorder, filming the destruction, while another snaps photos of the debris with an instant camera.

“I repeat!” the guard yells again. “Stand for count! Any inmate who refuses to stand is resisting and my officers will respond accordingly. So I repeat again! Stand for count!”

Some prisoners yell obscenities from their cells, taunting the guards. I back against my rack and stand stoically, letting everyone see that I don’t have a stake in this fight. Predictably, the riot team responds aggressively to defiance, rushing into rooms, restraining any belligerent, taunting, or resisting prisoners with plastic quick ties and marching them straight out to waiting buses. Those men are gone, being transferred to penitentiaries thousands of miles away. It isn’t my concern, as I don’t feel any alignment with the shortsighted prisoners who set this problem in motion.

I’ve read of and thought about the struggle and suffering of Elie Wiesel, Viktor Frankl, and the millions of others who perished because of anti-Semitism in Hitler’s camps. I’ve also read extensively about the persecution of blacks and injustice in our country. Those stories inspire me, as by reading them I have examples of amazing survivors who overcame those severe violations of human rights. Now, while locked in my cell, I contemplate the strategies I’ll use to triumph over the dehumanizing indignities about to ensue. I have what I need, including books, space to exercise, a plan, a growing ability to express myself, and a professional audience of mentors who validate my efforts. I’ll make it. I may lose access to computers and other privileges that have made my studies easier, but I’ll make it through, relying on a stash of pens and the skill I’ve developed to write in straight rows across unlined paper.

Being locked in my closet-sized cell prohibits access to the track or weight room. So I exercise alone, ignoring the outbursts of other prisoners who kick their doors to protest the lockdown. I run in place for hours, pulling my knees up high and then dropping down to blast out several hundred pushups. With a dirty towel, I mop the sweat that rolls off me and puddles on the floor. A shower may be a few days off but I’ve got soap and a sink with running water to clean myself. I wash my underwear and t-shirt, hanging them to dry on a hook against the wall. I can do this for as long as it takes.

Guards bring white bread with a slice of bologna in a brown sack twice a day. As weeks pass, I draw strength from knowing that prisoners such as Nelson Mandela, Alexander Solzhenitsyn, and many, many others have endured much worse.

 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

 

“Normal” operations resume at McKean in November of 1995, albeit with more restrictions and more controls. It’s like other penitentiaries now, with metal detectors, locked gates, and more cell confinement. Hundreds of prisoners were shipped off to other institutions after the riot, and investigations continue. The local newspaper covers the riot and reports that damages to the prison exceed a million dollars. That’s a lot of broken windows and smashed furniture, although I suspect that Warden Meko padded those costs by keeping us on lockdown, generating immense staff overtime and installing new security measures like surveillance cameras throughout the compound. He succeeds in turning Dream McKean into a nightmare.

Some prisoners face new criminal charges and others will spend years in isolation without access to visits, telephone, or other privileges they once took for granted. Losses of television, pool tables, bingo, and videos don’t affect my adjustment to this new regime. Instead of pacifiers, I need permission to receive books through the mail from the University of Connecticut for my second semester, as the long lockdown has given me the time to finish my first semester from my cell. I’m eager to resume my studies, but before I can, I need that permission to receive more books.  Only an associate warden can provide me with that permission.

It’s Thanksgiving Day when I see Associate Warden Nuss in the chow hall. He sports a flap of dark hair styled with gel to conceal his receding hairline and stands with military bearing, hands clasped behind his back, barely moving. Even his face is frozen, as if a smile might crack it. Eyeglasses with circular lenses in a thin, almost invisible wire frame reminiscent of those worn by Teddy and Franklin Roosevelt complete the austere image he projects.

I inch forward through the line with hundreds of other prisoners toward the serving bar. I’ve never spoken to Nuss but I know he’s part of the new Meko administration, referred to as Meko’s hatchet man. He’s in charge of security, the man who oversees the work of captains, lieutenants, and guards. I saw his signature on memorandums that replaced the old incentive system with threats of disciplinary action and punishment.

I need to speak with AW Nuss to obtain his written approval to receive my textbooks. From across the noisy chow hall, I try to gauge his mood, assessing whether this is a good time to approach him.

I’ve been creeping forward in line for 12 minutes with my eyes on him the entire time, noting that no one has dared approach him. Finally, a prisoner gripping his brown plastic tray of turkey and mashed potatoes ventures forth and initiates a conversation. Nuss looks through the prisoner with no change in his facial expression, nods slightly, and the prisoner walks on.

I estimate it’ll be another 10 minutes before the line servers load my tray. I don’t want to speak with Nuss, but since I need his authorization for the university to send me books for the next term, I don’t have a choice.  He may leave by the time I find a place to sit, so I decide to abandon my spot in the slowly moving serving line and approach him.

The prisoner who was in line behind me issues a warning. “A yo! Once you leave, dat’s it dawg. I ain’t savin’ no spot.”

I shrug my shoulders. “I didn’t ask you to save my spot.”

“I’m jus’ sayin’ yo, ain’t savin’ no spot.” The gold grill in his mouth glitters as I walk away.

I weave my way through the crowd toward the far wall where Nuss stands. His eyes scan the room slowly, looking from one side to the other over 500 prisoners’ heads. He shifts his glance toward me as he notices me walking toward him.

“Excuse me, Mr. Nuss. May I speak to you?”

His nod is nearly imperceptible but we lock eyes. While his stern demeanor suggests that he considers our relationship inherently adversarial, I know he’s giving me his full attention.

“My name is Michael Santos.”

“I know who you are Mr. Santos,” he says, cutting me off and startling me with his sharp tone.

“I’d like to talk with you about my educational program.”

He nods, and I proceed.

“I’m enrolled in a doctoral program at the University of Connecticut.”

“Spare me the résumé. What’s on your mind?”

“Well, I’ve completed my coursework for this term and I’m signing up for the next semester. I’ll need a package permit to receive new books from the university.”

“Not going to happen.” He doesn’t elaborate.

“I’m sorry?”

Nuss doesn’t offer an explanation. He stands still and stares into my eyes without blinking.

“I need the books to complete my program.”

“And I’ve got a prison to run.”

My pulse quickens, as I sense he’s about to disrupt my world. I can’t believe he’s going to block my education without even offering an explanation. “You know, sir, I’ve been in prison for more than eight years and my disciplinary record is as clean as the day I came in?”

He’s totally motionless, just staring, as if expecting me to grovel.  “So you’re a candidate for sainthood.  What else is new?”

“May I ask why you won’t authorize me to receive books?”

“They interfere with the security of my institution.”

“Books?”

“That’s right.”

“But they’re academic texts and they’ll come directly from the library of a major university.”

“How would I know what’s in them? I don’t have the staff available to look through books.”

“Mr. Nuss, this isn’t radical literature. I’m studying theory, relationships, social order and allocation of public resources for prisons.”

“I’ve made my decision, Mr. Santos. You’ve done just fine for yourself as an inmate at FCI McKean. But this is a new McKean, a federal prison, not a college.”

Getting nowhere I muster a “thanks” for his consideration and walk away. There’s no way I can enjoy a Thanksgiving meal.  I return to the housing unit with thoughts of how I’m going to overcome this hurdle. The doctoral degree has an integral link to the future I’m striving to create, and to my sense of self. I can’t give up, as I’ve got more than 17 years to go but I don’t know what I’ll do without the sublimation that study provides.

I call Bruce to let him know what I’m up against and he offers to do what he can, saying he’ll call his contact at BOP headquarters, Sylvia McCollum, after the holiday weekend. As a high-level education administrator in the BOP, perhaps she’ll have a solution. My next call is to Norval at the University of Chicago, who promises to intervene at a higher level.

“I’ve got a meeting with the National Institute of Corrections in December,” he says. “Kathy Hawk is going to be there and I’ll have a chat with her. Perhaps it’s time to find another prison for you, one better able to accommodate your studies.”

Dr. Kathy Hawk is the Director of the Bureau of Prisons. President Bush appointed her and President Clinton has kept her on to lead this massive, rapidly growing agency. I’ve read about her and I know she has a doctorate, either in education or psychology.  Norval once sent me a copy of a letter she wrote to him referencing me, so I know she’s aware of my efforts and she can help. With a phone call she could resolve my problems at McKean, or order my transfer to a prison where I’d be able to complete my studies.

With Bruce and Norval ready to lobby on my behalf, my tension eases. A new focus leads me to read through everything I find in the law library about potential prisons where I can transfer. It would be nice if Bruce could make another information-gathering trip to other prisons, but I doubt he has the time, and actually, neither do I. President Clinton hasn’t ruled on my clemency petition yet, but it’s important that I finish my doctoral studies by the time I hit my 10-year mark. I can’t afford to miss an entire semester because of bureaucratic resistance and bottlenecks.

I haven’t thought much about security levels of prisons since my initial incarceration. Yet as I read through the Bureau of Prisons Custody and Classification manual, I stumble upon the formula case managers use to determine them. A number of factors convince me that my security level should be low rather than medium.  Specifically, I don’t have a history of violence, I wasn’t incarcerated before this case, I don’t have a history of disciplinary infractions, and I’m within 18 years of my release date.  All of those factors mean that I should be classified as low rather than medium security.

Low-security classification would open more options, but in order to pursue a transfer to one of those prisons I need to meet with my case manager and verify my status. If I can persuade him that I’m entitled to a low-security classification, perhaps I can also persuade him to recommend a transfer.