129. Earning Freedom with Michael Santos
Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term, with Michael Santos.
Chapter 8: 1996-1998
Months 103-127
As I cross through another holiday season and into January 1996, I look through a few birthday cards I received from my family. It’s hard to accept that I’m turning 32 in prison, but I’m not a stranger to these milestones passing. Not anymore.
For years I’ve been climbing toward 1997, hoping that the end of my first decade would mean something special to me. Now I’m closing in on that milestone, but it no longer seems significant. One year feels the same as the next and I don’t yet foresee any break from the monotony.
I rely upon clearly defined goals to stay the course. By studying, writing, and working to earn credentials, I’ve hoped to define myself as something more than a prisoner. The effort, I believed, would help reclaim my humanity from this so-called system of corrections. Now I’m not so sure. It is a system that strikes hard, like a wrecking ball, further dehumanizing me with every passing day.
The Bureau of Prisons extinguishes my aspirations of earning a doctorate degree and the pardon attorney has dismissed hopes for a sentence commutation. Accepting that I won’t reach the goals I set for my first decade disorients me. I need to create a new aspiration and redirect my attention toward new goals that are in harmony with my commitment to restoring my dignity. In time I must show the world that I’m a man, something more than a prisoner, but I don’t know how I’m going to create an identity that separates me from the bad decisions of my early 20s.
* * * * * * *
Without the continuous demands of an academic schedule, I accelerate my daily exercise routine, running seven miles each morning, following the run with a thousand crunches and a thousand leg lifts. In the afternoons I work out with weights, training for strength and size. I take advantage of the library, reading for enjoyment, though I’m simply passing time. By the spring of 1996, I feel my physical strength peaking, but my spirit feels empty. When I was working toward my academic degrees I had a solid link to the real world. Similar to my correspondence and visits with mentors, every paper I submitted provided a tangible outside connection. Now, without clear objectives, my sense of meaning or relevance as a man fades away, disappearing like a ship sailing over the horizon. I don’t have a woman to love. I spend my days working out, eating, reading, and sleeping, mirroring the meanderings of other prisoners around me.
My frustration increases when I see university students, legislators, attorneys, judges, and other citizens touring the grounds and buildings. FCI Fairton is within driving distance of major cities. Tour groups from Philadelphia, Baltimore, and Wilmington frequently walk through the prison. Guards flank these tour groups, ensuring that prisoners don’t interact with the visitors. I’m completely alienated from society as I watch them gawking at the fences that have held me for the past 3,000 days. I imagine the inaccurate spiel guards recite to the visitors:
“This is a modern correctional institution, and our professionally trained correctional officers provide numerous opportunities for the inmates to prepare for law-abiding lives––blah, blah, blah.”
I fixate on the women in the tour groups, wondering what it would be like to know them, for them to know me. To them I’m not a man but prisoner in a cage, or worse, an inmate, that dehumanizing term I’ve been hearing for far too long. I have to get out of here.
* * * * * * *
“There’s a mistake in my classification,” I say to Ms. Dobson, my case manager. We’re alone in her brightly lit office and I’m doing my best to ignore the light floral fragrance of her perfume. “I should be classified as a low- rather than medium-security prisoner.”
“Let’s see what the computer says. What’s your number?” She’s competent and totally professional. As such, I wonder what draws her to work in a prison instead of working in a more honorable profession, as a nurse, a teacher, a journalist, or anything other than a functionary of this wretched system.
I give her my registration number. She’s fast on the keyboard, clicking my number with the speed and precision of an accountant on a ten-key. When the appropriate screen appears, she studies her computer.
“Well, you don’t have a history of violence, and no prior incarceration, so your security points are low enough, but your sentence is too long. It gives you an automatic management variable that keeps you as a medium-security inmate.” Despite her assessment of the information on the screen, I know it’s wrong.
“You know how much time I’ve already served, don’t you?” I ask.
“You’ve served 104 months, but in order to transfer to a low, you need to be within 18 years of your release date. Sorry.” It’s disconcerting to hear how much time I have remaining to serve, but she has miscalculated.
“I am within 18 years of my release,” I clarify.
“The computer shows that you have 247 months remaining to serve, that you won’t be released until August, 2013.”
“Okay, it’s April, 1996. If you do the math, I’m 17 years, four months to release. That’s only 208 months, not 247 months.”
“Are you sure?” Ms. Dobson is looking at the monitor, wondering. She writes out the number of months on a BOP notepad, multiplies, and smiles when she confirms that my numbers match hers. She then clicks a few more keys on the keyboard. “Hey, you’re a ‘low’. Congratulations!”
I laugh.
“You know what that means, don’t you?”
“That I’m going to a low?” I venture.
“That’s right. I’ve got to submit you for transfer. Where would you like to go?”
* * * * * * *
The guards tell me it’s a short drive from Fairton, New Jersey to Fort Dix, New Jersey and I appreciate the smooth ride in the white van as we maneuver through city traffic. From an open front window I feel the breeze and smell the fragrant, blooming cherry blossoms. Children carrying colorful lunch boxes and wearing backpacks meander on sidewalks, savoring their time until school bells ring. I hear horns blasting, dogs barking, and I take in the kaleidoscope of city life. Someday I’ll return to a city, but for now I’m chained and strapped to a bench seat. Nevertheless, I’m filled with optimism that my transition to the low-security FCI in Fort Dix means new opportunities as well as respite from the inescapable pressure, stress and volatility of higher security.
In four months I’ll complete my ninth year. I’ve walked through puddles of blood in high- and medium-security prisons. I’ve carefully navigated and deliberately avoided problems that complicate the lives of so many other young prisoners. Still, as eager as I am for life in a low-tension environment, I’m still wrestling with the enigma of figuring out what society expects of me. I wonder what more I can do, given the restrictions this system places on me.
Guards roll open the gates and the van drives inside. I’m untroubled by the cyclone fences, by the coils of glistening razor wire, and by the white cars slowly patrolling the perimeter. I’m desensitized to the ritualistic processing and I shrug off the forms, the fingerprinting, the mug shots, the strip searches, and the staff interviews. I grab my bedroll and walk to building 5702 on the east side of the prison.
Despite the fences surrounding Fort Dix it doesn’t feel like a prison. One reason may be the friendlier temperament of the population here. In place of intimidating glares and scowls I see smiles and nods. Even the layout differs, as I walk on what once was an asphalt road, and the long, rectangular-shaped, brick buildings on either side of me have windows without bars that are large enough to pass a sofa through.
Fort Dix is part of an active army base. Military jets land on a runway only a stone’s throw away, and the acrid smell of jet fuel lingers in the air. Before the Bureau of Prisons erected fences to enclose the FCI, these buildings were part of the base, serving as officers’ housing and soldiers’ barracks. Military personnel currently live just outside the fences in buildings of the same design.
The buildings were erected before World War II and the age shows. As I walk into my housing unit I notice that decades of foot traffic have worn the checkered-pattern ceramic tiles down to the cement on the hallway floors. Without air conditioning, or even a ventilation system, humidity turns the housing unit into a sauna. The guard tells me I’m assigned to room 217, on the second floor.
I sweat as I climb the concrete stairs. When I open the steel door on the second-floor landing, the long, narrow hallway reminds me of a low-rent apartment building with concrete-block walls and unadorned wooden doors on each side. I pause at room 217, tap the door twice as a courtesy, and then walk into the 12-bunk room.
A man sits at a table against the wall of windows on the far side of the room. He’s writing, but looks up as I close the door. He’s probably in his late 50s, with reading glasses resting halfway down his nose that give him the cerebral look of a professional.
“I’m Michael Santos,” I introduce myself. “I’ve been assigned to this room, bunk two, upper.”
“Paul Murray,” he stands and walks over to shake my hand. I appreciate the genuine handshake rather than a fist bump. “This is your bunk,” he shows me. “I’m right beneath you. This is your locker.”
The metal locker is six feet tall, three feet wide, and two feet deep. He opens the double-door, revealing a spacious interior that is easily four times as large as the lockers I’ve used over the past several years. I’m astonished by the amount of storage I’ll have.
“I can’t pick up my belongings until tomorrow, but at least I’ll be able to store everything in here.”
“Why can’t you get your property?” he asks.
“The guards who processed me said it was too late to inventory.”
“I’ve got some things that’ll hold you over until you get your belongings,” he offers, and then he opens his locker to hand me a pair of sweats, a tube of toothpaste, a toothbrush, and a bar of soap.
“Thanks. This helps. I’ll get it back to you when I shop.”
“No problem. Where’re you coming from?”
“I was at FCI Fairton for the past few months. Before that I was at FCI McKean, and USP Atlanta before then.”
“Oh, so you’ve been down for awhile.”
“I’ll finish my ninth year in August.”
“Nine years! My God, are you almost out?”
“I wish. I’ve still got more than 17 to go.”
“Months?”
“No, 17 more years.”
“Whoa! I don’t think there’s anyone here with that much time. What’d they get you for?”
“I sold cocaine.” It’s always the same question and I always qualify my answer. “No violence or weapons. It’s my first time in prison but my judge sentenced me to 45 years.”
Paul shakes his head. “These drug sentences are ungodly. I never realized how bad they were until I got here. The sentences seem more severe than the crimes warrant. Murderers serve less time.”
“How about you? How long have you been here?”
Paul shakes his head. “I’m embarrassed to say after listening to you. I’m serving an 18-month sentence for health-care fraud. I’ve been here for nine months.”
“Are you a doctor?”
“No. I was a lawyer, but I resigned from the bar. The felony would’ve resulted in my disbarment at some point anyway.”
“So why does a lawyer serve time for health-care fraud?”
“Long story. My practice represented medical clinics and testing labs. Billing problems tangled me up with the law and here I sit. I call it my sabbatical.”
* * * * * * *
I settle into the Fort Dix community, grateful for the lower volatility levels. My housing unit is one of six on the compound, each holding 400 men. Most prisoners serve time for drugs, but many others like Paul serve short sentences.
Thoughts about how I’m going to spend the rest of my time continue to trouble me, especially when administrators confirm that they won’t permit the university library to send me books.
“Our policy provides for you to receive hardcover books from a bookstore or a publisher, not libraries.” The supervisor of education doesn’t leave any room for special circumstances. “And I’m not going to make an exception. If I make an exception for you, I’m going to have to make one for everybody.”
“Really? How many prisoners do you have here who are candidates for a Ph.D.?” I ask.
“That’s not the point. Our policies reflect the need to preserve the security of the institution. If you wanted to pursue a Ph.D., you should’ve thought about that before you came to prison.”
It’s the same admonition I’ve heard repeatedly and I don’t see much upside in trying to press for permission. Prison guards find it easy to hide behind the shortsighted “security of the institution” mantra. Frustrated, I search for an activity that will sustain me, something I can pursue on my own without the need for permission from authorities.
My exercise regimen continues, though it’s not nearly enough to ease the sense of hopelessness I’m struggling to suppress. I exercise until I exhaust myself physically, running longer distances and lifting weights. In search of something more, I join a therapy group that Dr. Warren, a psychologist, sponsors. She calls it the Long-term Prisoners Group and I agree to attend the two-hour discussion each Wednesday afternoon.
Afro-centric art decorates Dr. Warren’s office. Portraits of Malcolm X and Marcus Garvey hang on her wall. I’m curious whether she’s met resistance from BOP colleagues who consider such leaders revolutionaries. Sitting in Dr. Warren’s group is as close as I can come to sitting in a classroom and I admire the soothing way she manages the group. Although I want to emulate her compassion, I have a hard time tolerating the self-pity and hypocrisy expressed by other group members.
Eight people participate in our group and we all sit in chairs that form an oval circle in Dr. Warren’s carpeted office. Bored, sometimes I drift into my own thoughts, trying to get a feel for Dr. Warren’s interests by reading the titles on the spines of books that pack her wooden shelves. I see works by Toni Morrison, Cornel West, Henry Louis Gates. I’ve continued coming to the meetings because I learn from listening to her. Even though she allows the prisoner participants to rant, I admire the nonjudgmental patience I hear in her questions. Regardless of how frequently some men in the group shift blame for their actions, she kindly nods, indicating agreement or understanding.
Despite Dr. Warren’s efforts to engage us, I don’t connect with the other men, and I can’t conceal my contempt when they whine about their circumstances.
“I’m only in prison because my best friend snitched me out,” says Eric.
“Didn’t you have anything to do with getting caught?” I ask.
“He’s the one who got busted. All he had to do was keep his mouth shut and no one would’ve knowed about me.” Eric doesn’t like my challenging him.
“But you said you pleaded guilty.” I point out.
“Only ̓cause the snitch was gonna testify ̓gainst me. I’m servin’ 10 years even though the DEA didn’t catch me with nothin’.”
“Aren’t you serving 10 years because you sold cocaine, and because you stood in front of the judge and admitted guilt?”
“Yeah, but if the snitch wouldn’t of said nothin’ I wouldn’t of even been charged. Them conspiracy laws ain’t right, they just ain’t fair.”
In an effort to advance the discussion, Dr. Warren suggests a creative exercise. “Before we meet next week,” she instructs, “I want you to think about what you value most in life. I’d like each of you to come prepared to discuss what you consider your highest value. And remember, what we say in the group stays in the group.”
I know exactly what values drive me, and when I return for our next meeting I’m hopeful that the discussion will advance beyond complaining about sentence lengths and unjust prosecutions.
“So why don’t we begin with you, Jim,” Dr. Warren begins. “Have you been able to pinpoint your highest value?”
“Yes, I have.” Jim responds. He sits to the immediate right of Dr. Warren. He’s 35 and has served four years of a nine-year sentence, his second time in prison for distributing methamphetamines. Jim shaves his head, but he grows long, red whiskers from his goatee and he’s always twisting them when he talks. We’re in a room with standard lighting, but he insists on wearing sunglasses because his eyes are sensitive, he says. The words “love” and “hate” are tattooed on the knuckles of his left and right hand. “Most important value to me is my relationship with Jesus Christ, my personal Lord and savior.”
“Amen!” another group member exclaims, voicing his approval.
Dr. Warren nods, encouraging Jim to continue. “And how does your relationship with Jesus help you through each day?”
“Well I’m very spiritual,” Jim twists his whiskers as he slouches in the chair. “I hardly ever miss services, and every night I say my prayers.”
“What do you pray about?” I ask.
“It’s personal.”
“Generally, I mean,” prodding him further.
“Do you want to share with the group what you pray about, Jim?” Dr. Warren turns her head from Jim to cast me a warning look. “We’ll all understand if you’d prefer to keep your prayers to yourself.”
“Mostly I pray that I’ll get out early, and that my ol’ lady don’t sell my Harley ̓fore I get home.”
Dr. Warren nods.
“That’s very spiritual,” I chuckle.
“Michael, do you have something you’d like to share?” It’s clear that Dr. Warren doesn’t approve of my sarcasm.
“Sorry, I’ll wait my turn.”
Jim glances my way, but he doesn’t say anything and I can’t read his eyes through the dark shades.
“Bob, would you care to share your values with the group?” Dr. Warren turns to another prisoner.
“I’d like to pass.” He folds his arms and stares at the floor.
Dr. Warren nods. “Is everything okay, Bob?”
Bob shrugs, “I just don’t know what to say.”
“Well, if you feel like talking, we’d like to listen,” she tells him. The room is quiet, except for the tick of the second hand on a wooden clock carved in the shape of the African continent. “Tom, how about you, are you ready?” She encourages him, smiling. “Would you go next?”
“The most important thing in the world to me is just gettin’ through this time. I hate bein’ locked up.” Tom is serving his fourth prison term for drugs. He wears an orange cap over greasy hair, and tattoos of three falling tears blemish his face.
“Have you thought about anything you can do to ease your way through?” Dr. Warren probes, trying to gauge how constructive he’s being with his time.
“There’s nothin’ to do,” Tom opens his hands. “I done finished my GED. Ain’t no college classes. I been sleepin’ a lot, readin’, watching’ TV.”
“What do you like to read?” she asks.
“I like lookin’ at the Maxim, People, car magazines, anything that lets me know what’s goin’ on in the world.”
“Do you ever read books?” Dr. Warren queries, trying to engage him.
“Nah. I get bored too easy.” He looks up at the ceiling, stretches his neck from side to side.
“And you don’t have any interest in tutoring others or participating in religious services, like Jim?”
“I like sleepin’ mostly. When I’m ̓sleep, it’s like I ain’t even in prison.”
“Steve, have you thought about what you value most in life?” Dr. Warren moves on.
“I’m like Jim. God’s most impor’ant to me. I be readin’ my Bible, goin’ to services. I been in a Bible study group for like two months now and I’m learnin’ a lot. Jesus is helpin’ me get through this.” Steve braids his hair in cornrows and wears a goatee, neatly trimmed.
I look at the floor, shaking my head.
“I think it’s commendable that you’ve found peace, Steve. We all need to find strength to get us through tough times, and it sounds as if you’ve found yours through religion.” Dr. Warren nods as she compliments Steve.
“Amen,” Steve says.
“Praise God,” Jim twists his whiskers, nodding in unison.
“Bill, how about you? What do you value most highly?” Dr. Warren smiles, inviting Bill to share.
Bill is assigned to the room across the hall from me. I see him frequently because he sleeps in the bunk above Al, a guy I sometimes tutor. Bill is in his late 20s. He’s active on the compound, always sitting at a card table, playing dominos, running a gambling pool.
“I dunno. I guess I value my wife, and God too.”
I slouch, massaging my forehead with one hand.
“Why you be hatin’ on the Lord?” Steve challenges me as he tilts his head and scowls.
“Is something bothering you, Steve?” Dr. Warren prods, pushing Steve to express himself.
“Yes,” I invite him to open up. “Speak your mind, say something, get us away from the BS in here.”
“I’m just sayin’, we’re up in here givin’ praise to Jesus, and he’s all slouchin’ in his chair,” Steve points at me, “like he’s bored or ain’t wanna hear it.”
“Michael, do you have anything you’d like to say?” Dr. Warren asks me.
“Everything said in the group stays in the group?” I ask, welcoming the confrontation.
“Of course. You can speak freely in here,” Dr. Warren confirms, glancing at everyone in the group.
The length of time I’ve served has numbed my sense of empathy. I’ve grown less tolerant of listening to whiners week after week. I sit up in my chair. “Okay. It bothers me that Dr. Warren gave us all an opportunity to learn from each other. We’re all serving time, locked inside the same fences, going through the same struggles. She asked us to think about our highest values, what’s most important in our lives, but instead of speaking honestly, talking about what you really feel, you’re talking about what you think she wants to hear. This isn’t an application for parole. No one’s getting a time cut for this. I was hoping something more substantive would come from our meeting today. Instead, it’s the same as always.”
“What makes you think you be knowin’ so much?” Steve asks.
“I know that God isn’t the highest priority in your life, I know that much.”
“How you be knowin’ what I feel?”
“Because if God was the highest value in your life, you wouldn’t be whining in here each week about how you don’t belong in prison, about how it’s all a snitch’s fault that you’re here. If God were the highest value in your life, you would accept that you’re exactly where God wants you to be. That’s how I see it.” I turn to Bill. “If your relationship with your wife had the highest value to you, would you really have slutty magazine pictures taped all over your locker? Come on, fellas. Why are we doing this? Who are we trying to impress?”
“That’s quite a tirade,” Dr. Warren says. “What the others said really bothered you.”
“He ain’t even said what his values is, but he be tryin’ to say that we ain’t bein’ real,” Steve directs his comment to Eric.
“My highest value is simple. What I value most is liberty, and I don’t have it. All I’m thinking about is what I can do while I’m in here to make sure that once I get out, I’ll never lose it again.”
“Oh, and you ain’t think we wanna get out?” Steve challenges me.
“If you want to get out, if that’s what’s most important to you, then I want to hear what you’re doing to get out, and what you’re doing to make sure that once you get out, you never come back.”
“But there ain’t nothin’ we can do! Besides, what you doin’ that’s so diff’rent? You sayin’ we be whinin’, but you’s in here ever’ week complainin’ ̓bout how no one’s lettin’ you finish school. Shee-it, you be whinin’ just like every’n else,” Steve says.
“You know what? You’re right. I’m changing that, starting now, as of this minute. For 10 years I’ve been trying to build a record so the world would consider me differently from other prisoners. Now I’m finished. Going forward, I’m doing what’s necessary to ensure that when I walk out of here, I walk out as a man with dignity, ready to stand on my own. This system may hold me for 16 more years, but I’m not going to let it condition me for failure and ruin the rest of my life. I suggest you guys do the same.”
“So what’re you going to do? What changes are you making?” Jim leans back on the chair, twisting his whiskers.
“I’m enrolling in law school.”
“Shee-it! You’s in prison yo! Can’t be goin’ to no law school from here. Even if you could, what good it gonna do? Ain’t no one gonna hire no lawyer from prison.” Steve flicks his hand in the air, dismissing my comment.
“He has a good point, Michael. Have you thought about the ways your felony might influence a lawyer’s career?” Dr. Warren asks.
“I didn’t say I wanted to be a lawyer. I said I’m enrolling in law school. Instead of thinking about what I can’t do, I’m going to think about what I can do. I know my strengths and weaknesses, and I know I’m going to serve 16 more years. I may not be able to become a member of the legal profession, but if I earn a law degree I’ll be able to help other prisoners who want to file their own legal motions.”
“So you want to be a jailhouse lawyer?” Jim nods his head, still twisting the whiskers.
“Not just a jailhouse lawyer. I’ll study and become the best jailhouse lawyer in the system. It’s one way I can make myself useful in here.”
“That’s a plan,” Dr. Warren agrees, smiling.