127: Earning Freedom (7.2), by Michael Santos
I\u2019m continuing to read from my book Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term. This is the second installment of chapter 7, covering months 93 through 95 of my confinement, in 1995.
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In search of the associate warden, I walk to the chow hall during the noon meal and I see Nuss standing in line, looking like the Grim Reaper. Knowing that he can influence my transfer to low-security, I approach him.
\u201cI spent the weekend reading through the Custody and Classification manual,\u201d I tell him. \u201cAccording to the formula in the policy statement, I calculate that I should be in a low-, not a medium-security prison. When my case manager comes in I\u2019ll see what he thinks. If I\u2019ve got a low-security rating, would you support my transfer?\u201d
\u201cDon\u2019t you have 45 years?\u201d
\u201cYes. But I\u2019ve done eight years without any problems or disciplinary infractions.\u201d
\u201cBut you led a criminal organization.\u201d His knowledge of my case makes me wonder what he has against me.
\u201cI don\u2019t have a history of violence or weapons, and I\u2019m within 18 years of my release.\u201d I counter.
\u201cWhen\u2019s your release date?\u201d
\u201cAugust, 2013.\u201d
He looks up, does the math in his head. \u201cYou\u2019re just barely under 18 years, by three months.\u201d
\u201cStill, I\u2019m under 18 years. That qualifies me for placement in a low-security prison.\xa0 I\u2019d like a transfer.\u201d
\u201cWhere do you want to transfer?\u201d
\u201cWherever I can complete my schooling. I\u2019m from Seattle, but I don\u2019t care where I serve my sentence. I just want to earn my degree and I might face fewer restrictions if I\u2019m in a low.\u201d
\u201cLet\u2019s see what your case manager says.\u201d
A bit more optimistic, I walk to the serving line and notice pizza on the menu.\xa0 It\u2019s little more than tomato sauce and cheese melted over a cardboard-like crust, but I\u2019ve grown to like it. The line server drops a postcard-size slice on my plastic tray. I fill a plastic cup with water from the beverage bar and weave my way through the crowd to an empty table.
A lieutenant with a lumberjack\u2019s weathered face and a wad of chewing tobacco bulging in her lower lip walks toward where I\u2019m sitting. We\u2019ve never spoken before. \u201cWhen you finish your lunch, come see me,\u201d she barks, spitting tobacco juice into a foam cup she holds.
I haven\u2019t taken a bite, but I\u2019m curious about what she wants with me and I ask her what\u2019s up.
\u201cI\u2019ll talk with you outside,\u201d she says, as if challenging me.
\u201cI can go now.\u201d
\u201cCome with me.\u201d
With some apprehension over what she wants, I stand and follow her out of the chow hall, leaving my tray on the table.\xa0 I can\u2019t think of any reason why a lieutenant would want to talk with me. We leave through the glass door and she turns to the left.
\u201cPut your hands up against the wall,\u201d she orders as I step out of the chow hall.
\u201cWhat?\u201d
\u201cYou heard me,\u201d the lieutenant orders. \u201cPut your hands up on the wall.\u201d
I can\u2019t believe this, but I know that it doesn\u2019t make any sense to resist or to ask for an explanation. I raise my arms and lean against the wall while she searches me, running her hands along my outstretched arms, my torso, and down my legs.
\u201cPut your hands behind your back.\u201d
I comply, and she snaps steel handcuffs around my wrists.
\u201cLet\u2019s go.\u201d She grabs the short chain between the cuffs to guide me.
I\u2019m silent as we walk across the compound and listen while she speaks through her radio. \u201cI\u2019ve got one en route to SHU.\u201d
We reach the door to the Special Housing Unit, the jail within the prison, and a guard buzzes the lock. She escorts me inside, handing me to the guards stationed there. \u201cLock this one up. I\u2019ll send the paperwork over later.\u201d
\u201cWhat\u2019s he in for?\u201d the SHU guard inquires, looking past me. To him I\u2019m not human.
\u201cInvestigation. Nuss\u2019s orders.\u201d
\u201cGot it.\u201d
My mind spins. I\u2019m not being charged with a disciplinary infraction, but I suspect this disturbance won\u2019t look good on my petition for clemency. The strict rules in SHU will prohibit access to my books, and I know that an investigation can last years. Consistent with the administration\u2019s you\u2019ve got nothin\u2019 comin\u2019 attitude, Nuss wants to bury me in here, limiting my ability to communicate, to study, or earn a Ph.D.
After strip searching me the guard issues an orange jumpsuit with the letters SHU stamped on the back, a broken zipper on the front.
\u201cIt\u2019s too big,\u201d I tell him.
\u201cThat\u2019s all we got. Let\u2019s go.\u201d
I dress in the baggy orange suit, and he then locks me back in cuffs before he leads me through the gates into the segregation tier. I\u2019m puzzled by water I see flowing from under cell doors and flooding the tier walkway. The icy water quickly covers my institutional-issue plastic sandals, soaking my socks. As we walk by, prisoners kick their steel doors and slap hands against the glass windows. The noise is deafening.
One calls out. \u201cDay got Santos!\u201d
\u201cYo Dawg! What up? What day be done got you fo\u2019?\u201d One prisoner yells out, his face against the cutout window.
\u201cWhat up Homie?\u201d Another yells, slapping the steel door.
The prison lingo annoys me and at this moment I detest every aspect of institutional living.
I look straight ahead, trying to ignore the mayhem and prisoners who\u2019ve been locked up since the riot, as I\u2019m shivering from wet feet as we slosh through the flooded tier.\xa0 Since I know the guard won\u2019t issue me a dry pair of socks, I don\u2019t bother asking.
The guard uses his heavy metal lock to tap against a cell door\u2019s window. \u201cStep to the back wall.\u201d He orders to a prisoner inside.
\u201cCome on boss, I\u2019m in my rack.\u201d I recognize Red\u2019s voice coming from inside the cell.
\u201cI said get up and step to the back of the cell. Stand against the wall.\u201d Guards take the security precaution to prevent a prisoner in the SHU from attacking the incoming prisoner while he stands defenseless in handcuffs.
The guard unlocks the cell door and I step over the sheets placed to block water from flowing into the cell from the tier. The guard locks me inside and then unlocks a trap in the center of the door.
\u201cBack up to the door so I can unlock your cuffs,\u201d he tells me.
I squat and the guard holds my wrists through the door trap with one hand, using his other to turn the key. He slams the trap door shut and I hear his boots sloshing through the water as he walks down the tier.
\u201cHey Homie, what\u2019s up?\u201d Red greets me.
I express surprise at seeing him and ask how long he\u2019s been locked in the SHU.
\u201cFour months now, two to go.\u201d
\u201cWhy? You just disappeared. I never heard why they nabbed you off the compound.\u201d
Red was once assigned to a room on my tier, but guards came for him one night. They escorted him off the compound and I didn\u2019t hear anything about what happened. Since it wasn\u2019t my business, I didn\u2019t ask. I\u2019ve seen thousands of prisoners\u2019 faces, and I\u2019ve heard nearly as many stories, so I didn\u2019t miss Red, just as I\u2019m sure that no one\u2019s missing me.
\u201cBusted me on a three-way.\u201d
\u201cWhat?\u201d
\u201cA three-way.\u201d
\u201cWhat\u2019s that?\u201d
\u201cI was on the phone with my ol\u2019 lady and she conferenced me into another call with my homie.\u201d
\u201cA three way phone call? You\u2019ve been in here four months because you made a three-way phone call?\u201d I ask, incredulous.
\u201cAnd I got two more months to go. Plus they done took my phone and visits away for a year. These sanctions ain\u2019t no joke.\u201d
\u201cDid you appeal?\u201d
Red shrugged. \u201cWhat\u2019s the point? Ain\u2019t gonna change nothin\u2019. I told the DHO that I got a baby girl, a family. Takin\u2019 my phone and my visits was jus\u2019 gonna drive \u2019em away.\u201d
\u201cWhat\u2019d he say to that?\u201d The Disciplinary Hearing Officer determines guilt on institutional rule violations and imposes sanctions.
\u201cFuck him! Said I should\u2019a thought about my baby girl \u2019fore I done made the three-way phone call. How \u2019bout you? What\u2019d they get you fo\u2019?\u201d
\u201cInvestigation,\u201d I reply.
\u201cYou? What\u2019re they investigatin\u2019 you for? Too many books?\u201d
\u201cSomething like that. I had a conversation with Nuss about my school last Thursday. Spoke with him again today, and here I am.\u201d
\u201cThat\u2019s all it takes. Fuckin\u2019 Nazi!\u201d
I climb up to the top rack, pull my wet socks off and hang them over the edge to dry. I lie down. The metal plank that serves as my bed pops from my weight while an overhead fluorescent light blinds my eyes and forced air from the vent blows my hair back.
\u201cIs it always this cold in here?\u201d
\u201cPart \u0313a the gig, Homie. I done tried to block the vent by pressin\u2019 shit paper into the screen, but the fuckin\u2019 jerk-off cop said he\u2019d gimme a shot if I did it again.\u201d
\u201cWhat\u2019s with all the water on the tier?\u201d I ask.
\u201cThe homies keep floodin\u2019 it, stuffin\u2019 sheets in the toilet and hittin\u2019 the flusher \u2019til the water floods the cell, spillin\u2019 out onto the tier.\u201d
\u201cWhat\u2019s the point?\u201d
\u201cPiss the guards off. They gotta mop it up.\u201d
\u201cDo you have anything to read?\u201d I ask.
He shuffles around on the bunk beneath me and offers up three torn, stained Maxim magazines that don\u2019t interest me.
\u201cAnything else?\u201d I ask.
\u201cGot a Bible.\u201d
\u201cI\u2019ll take it.\u201d
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The continuous glare of fluorescent light in the windowless room causes me to lose sense of time. Red doesn\u2019t have any postage stamps so I won\u2019t be able to write anyone about this latest development until next week, when I\u2019ll be allowed to submit a commissary order. Reading the Book of Job lessens my anxieties and I drift into sleep.
\u201cSantos!\u201d A guard yells and kicks the steel door twice with his boot, waking me.
I sit up. \u201cWhat?\u201d
\u201cRoll up!\u201d
We converse by shouting through the locked steel door.
\u201cAm I going back to the compound?\u201d
\u201cRoll up for transfer. You\u2019re outta here.\u201d
\u201cWhat?\u201d I\u2019m groggy from sleep deprivation, but I can\u2019t believe what he\u2019s telling me. \u201cWhere\u2019m I going?\u201d
\u201cJust get dressed. Wake your cellie up. Tell him to stand against the wall so I can cuff you.\u201d
My immediate thoughts concern my school responsibilities. I wonder what is going to happen to the books I left behind in my locker before I went to lunch yesterday. The university library holds me accountable for those books and I have many. Guards resent packing personal property of prisoners transferred to the SHU or off the compound.\xa0 They frequently \u201close\u201d heavy items and I know it\u2019s unlikely I\u2019ll ever see those books again.
The guard doesn\u2019t give me time to worry about what I\u2019m leaving behind. He taps his key against the window.
\u201cGet movin\u2019! Now!\xa0 Wake your cellie up.\u201d
I jump down from the top bunk and pull on my damp socks, slipping my feet into the plastic sandals before backing up to the steel door. My roommate, Red, has moved from his bed and now stands with his nose against the far wall, hands behind his back. I squat and the guard snaps the cold metal bracelets around my wrists.
\u201cTake care, Red.\u201d
\u201cBe cool, Bro.\u201d
I back out of the cell with the guard\u2019s grip on my handcuffs. We walk down the tier and I\u2019m processed out, chained up, and marched outside with 20 other prisoners. Our traveling clothes are nothing more than khaki trousers, t-shirts, and blue canvas deck shoes despite the late November cold. We trudge through the snow, flanked by guards bundled into blue winter parkas, black leather gloves, and wool caps.
The guard in front unlocks the final gate and I follow the procession onto the bus, drop into a seat, and begin to thaw, grateful for the heat pumping through the vent beside me. Even though it\u2019s dark outside I peer through the window at FCI McKean, knowing it\u2019s the last time I\u2019ll see this prison that has held me for 18 months.
The two-lane road winds through pristine, snow blanketed forests, but my mind isn\u2019t on the beautiful scenery. I\u2019m bracing myself for the worst-case scenario, wondering why Nuss felt compelled to transfer me in this hasty manner. He seems to resent my education and that I\u2019ve earned my degrees while in prison, as if somehow I\u2019d put one over on the system. The way he had the lieutenant lock me up during lunch yesterday was a clear message that he positively didn\u2019t want me making the case for a reclassification to low security. He wants me gone, and this intentionally abrupt transfer doesn\u2019t bode well for me.
On the Interstate, I see overhead road signs with names I don\u2019t recognize.\xa0 They zip past my window as the bus rolls on. It\u2019s overcast and cold, so I press against the heater vent, trying to relax and rest, deluding myself with the mantra that one prison is the same as the next and that I can make it anywhere.
After several hours pass, we pull into the Federal Correctional Complex at Allenwood, Pennsylvania, dropping some prisoners off at the low-security correctional institution. When my name\u2019s not called, my anxiety increases. The bus drives on, leaving Allenwood behind and passing through other small towns. Storefront signs advertise the businesses in downtown Lewisburg, Pennsylvania, a prison town, and giving me some insight on where we\u2019re going. The bus winds along the serpentine drive leading into USP Lewisburg. I see gun towers, razor-wire topped fences, and the high stone wall that looms in front of me. I sense that I\u2019m about to be locked inside another high-security penitentiary.
Even though I know a hundred prisoners inside the Lewisburg walls who were once with me in Atlanta, I can\u2019t believe I\u2019m back at a high-security USP. I breathe in slowly to steady myself for the tension that is coming, not wanting to go through this again.
The first gate rolls open and the bus inches its way inside, stopping in front of the second gate. Guards step out to check their firearms and exchange paperwork. Then the second gate rolls open and our driver pulls us inside the walls of USP Lewisburg.
The medieval buildings feature heavy blocks of red brick and gothic turrets reminiscent of a monastery. But black iron bars over all the windows make clear that this isn\u2019t a monastery. As the tires crunch over gravel leading to the prisoners\u2019 entrance, I ready and steady myself, clenching my jaw and tightening my fists, pumping blood into my arms and chest to psyche myself up for the aggravations to come.
Once the bus stops, the driver pulls a lever opening the door and we all file out. Guards in BOP uniforms gripping assault rifles stand outside. They order us into a line alongside the bus. I\u2019m shivering, cold, and aggravated as the guards count us, matching our faces to mug shots on their files. Taunts from prisoners we can\u2019t see echo from inside the buildings.
\u201cYou\u2019s up in Lewisburg now!\u201d
\u201cToo late to get scared!\u201d
\u201cDaddy got just wha\u2019choo need!\u201d
\u201cYou gonna be mine tonight bitch!\u201d
The guards march us forward to a flight of stairs and we descend into a basement that feels more like a dungeon. I\u2019m looking for the sign from Dant\xe9\u2019s Divine Comedy when he descends into hell: \u201cAbandon hope, all ye who enter here.\u201d The iron door swings open into a heated waiting room and we crowd in to stand in place while guards unchain our ankles and wrists.
I crouch near a radiator to let it warm me and I look around. I came into prison with a few pimples on my face, now, eight years later, I\u2019m no longer the youngest man in the room but I haven\u2019t yet gotten used to this. I\u2019ll never grow used to it.
Every man in this room was with me at McKean, but I don\u2019t really know anyone. I watch their lips move with nervous chatter but recede into a space in my mind. Okay. I\u2019ve been here before. One penitentiary is the same as another. I\u2019ll find my way again. Familiar faces will tell me what I need to know about Lewisburg and I\u2019ll master it.
A guard comes through to hand us each a brown sack lunch, snapping me out of my thoughts. I dig inside and find white bread, cheese, bologna, crackers, a red apple, and a carton of milk, all of which I inhale.
The guards begin calling us one at a time. I\u2019m ready.
\u201cSantos?\u201d
I stand, tossing my crumpled bag into the corner trash, and I step toward the guard.
\u201cNumber 16377-004,\u201d I answer him with my registration number.
\u201cLet\u2019s go.\u201d
Moving from one room to another without cuffs or shackles, I\u2019m processed in, my heart pounding. Every prison has the same routine of fingerprinting, mug shots, and strip searches. A plain round clock hangs on the wall right beneath the side-by-side pictures of President Bill Clinton, Attorney General Janet Reno, and BOP Director Kathy Hawk. The apathetic guard orders me to strip naked so he can inspect me for contraband.
\u201cHands up.\u201d
\u201cOpen your mouth.\u201d
\u201cRun your fingers through your hair.\u201d
\u201cLet me see your ears.\u201d
\u201cLift \u2019em.\u201d
\u201cTurn around.\u201d
\u201cLet me see the bottoms of your feet.\u201d
\u201cBend over.\u201d
\u201cSpread \u2019em.\u201d
I smirk, knowing that I\u2019ve just mooned portraits of our president, attorney general, and the director of our prison system. The guard tosses me an orange jump suit, underwear, and plastic sandals.\xa0 I dress and move on to the next station, where the nurse reviews forms I hand her. Finally I step into another office where the case manager sits at a metal desk reviewing files.
\u201cName?\u201d The tortoiseshell glasses sit at the bottom of his nose, and rather than lifting his head to acknowledge me, his bloodshot eyes look over the top of his frames.
\u201cMichael Santos,\u201d I answer him.
\u201cNumber?\u201d He inquires.
\u201c16377-004.\u201d
\u201cYou know where you\u2019re going?\u201d
I nod, then make a request. \u201cIf I could, I\u2019d like to go to J-unit. I was with some guys in Atlanta who are assigned to that unit and I\u2019d like to see them again.\u201d
\u201cWhat\u2019re you talking about?\u201d the case manager asks, finally lifting his head.
\u201cJ-unit,\u201d I say.\xa0 \u201cI\u2019d like you to assign me to J-Unit.\u201d
\u201cYou mean here?\u201d
I shrug, not following his question.
\u201cYou\u2019re not stayin\u2019 here. You\u2019re going to Fairton.\u201d
\u201cThe medium?\u201d I ask about the security level at the Fairton prison.
\u201cYou\u2019re a medium, right?\u201d
I smile as tension drains from my mind and body. Ever since the guards called me out of the cell early this morning I was convinced that Nuss had finagled some paperwork to boost my security level and place me back in a penitentiary. With the news that I\u2019m en route to another Federal Correctional Institution, I exhale with relief, as I didn\u2019t want to endure another USP battle zone.\xa0
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