130. Earning Freedom (8.2) with Michael Santos
Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term by Michael Santos
Chapter eight, part two.
Months 103-127
While planning for law school I continue to build a strong network of support. To overcome the resistance and bias I expect to encounter, I put together a package that I call my portfolio. It describes my crime, expresses remorse, and articulates the steps I’ve taken over the past decade to atone. The portfolio includes copies of my university degrees and endorsement letters from the distinguished academics who support me. I’m certain that a wide support network will open more options upon my release and I send the portfolios to people who might sponsor my efforts.
My strategy is simple. I’ll continue what I began before I was sentenced, when I wrote to Stuart Eskenazi, the journalist who covered my trial for readers of the Tacoma News Tribune. In my letter to him, I expressed my intentions to live usefully in prison and redeem myself by preparing for a law-abiding life upon release.
The new portfolio I’m creating not only records my accomplishments but also shows my progress toward the clearly defined goals I set. In it, I ask readers to consider me as the man I’m becoming rather than the one who made bad decisions in his early 20s. Taking a lesson from business stories I read in The Wall Street Journal, I supplement the portfolio by writing quarterly reports every 90 days and I distribute the reports to those in my growing support network. My quarterly reports describe my projects, the ways that they contribute to my preparations for release, and my challenges. They are my accountability tools.
By living transparently I invite people to hold me accountable, to judge me by what I do, not by what I say. Any prisoner can say he wants to succeed upon release, but my daily commitment and the actions I take allows others to evaluate whether they should continue giving me their trust, sponsorship, and support.
With pride in my progress, and the ways I’ve responded to the challenges of imprisonment, my parents share the portfolio with others. My father gives a copy to his friend, Norm Zachary, and Norm passes it along to his sister, Carol Zachary. I’m thrilled when my father tells me over the phone that Carol wants to help and that I should call her. She is a married mother of two who lives in Washington, D.C., where her husband, Jon Axelrod, practices law.
“This is Michael Santos, calling from the federal prison in Fort Dix.” I introduce myself. “My father suggested I should call to speak with Ms. Zachary.”
“Oh, Michael! I’m so glad you called. Please call me Carol. My husband and I have read through your portfolio and we want to help. You may not remember, but Norm brought me to a party at your parents’ house when you were a child. We spoke about the Hubble telescope.”
“I remember. I was about seven or eight then.”
She corrects me, reminding me that I was older when we met, already a teenager. Then she says that she would like to build a friendship and asks that I send her the forms necessary to visit. “I want to bring Zach and Tris, my sons. We need to talk about what we can do to get you out, and if you’ll let me, I’d like to lead the effort.”
This is precisely the type of support I hoped to find as a result of preparing that portfolio. As Ralph Waldo Emerson was known for having observed, shallow men believe in luck, but strong men believe in cause and effect. Ever since Bruce came into my life I’ve known and appreciated the value of mentors. He guided me from the beginning through our weekly correspondence and his regular visits. Because of his support, I’ve matured and grown in confidence, as a scholar, in mental discipline, and I’m well prepared to contribute positively to society. By taking deliberate action steps to expand my support network, I really scored, attracting Carol’s attention. When I walk into the visiting room to meet her and her sons, Zach and Tristan, they greet me with an embrace, as if I’m already family.
While sitting across from each other in the hard, plastic chairs of Fort Dix’s brightly lit visiting room, I learn about the Axelrod family. Carol, a former English teacher, is a Boy Scout leader who takes an active interest in her community. She volunteers for the Red Cross, substitutes in the local schools, and, along with her husband Jon, is deeply involved in her sons’ sports and school. She’s determined to groom them as responsible citizens.
Zach is 12 and he tells me about his baseball and hockey teams. When I ask what he wants to do when he grows up, he answers without hesitation: “I want to be the CEO of a publicly traded company,” and I don’t doubt for a second that he’ll succeed. His intelligence impresses me, especially when he grills me about what I’m planning to do with my life once I’m released.
“I’m looking into law school right now,” I answer.
“Do you think people will want to hire a lawyer who’s been in prison?” Zach asks the question with a genuine eagerness to learn more about me.
“Zachary,” scolds Carol.
“What, Mom? I’m just curious.”
“Of course people will hire him,” she tries to soften his bluntness.
“That’s a good question, Zach.” I’m impressed with his confidence and directness.
“See, Mom.”
“But I’m not going to law school to practice law. I’m convinced that more education will open career opportunities once I’m home, and studying law will help me through whatever time I’ve got left to serve. Wherever I serve my sentence, prisoners will need legal assistance and if I study law, I’ll be in a position to help.”
“That makes sense,” Tristan, Zach’s younger brother, considers my response.
“What we need to do is get you out of here,” Carol says, bringing us back to the central issue. “Jon and I have spoken with some acquaintances who work for the Justice Department. They can’t get involved because of rules about conflicts of interest, but they did insist that we need a top-notch Washington lawyer to represent you.”
“I’d love to have a lawyer. But the truth is, I don’t have any financial resources.”
“Well we’re going to raise some.”
“How?”
“You’ve built this wonderful support network. I’m sure the people who believe in you will help.”
“But I can’t ask them for money.”
“Why not? They want to help you.”
“I just wouldn’t feel right asking anyone for money. I’ve already lost one effort at clemency, and I’m coming to terms with the likelihood that I’m going to serve my entire sentence. I’m trying to build my network so I’ll have people who will help me overcome the challenges that I’m going to face.”
“But we’re not going to let you serve 16 more years, at least not without trying to get you out. You may not want to ask others for financial assistance, but as long as you don’t object, I’m going to ask on your behalf.”
I’m speechless, suppressing emotions that I’m not accustomed to feeling. Of course I crave my freedom. I’m 33, well educated now, and after 10 years inside, I’m as ready for release as I’ll ever be. If I could return to society now, I would still have a reasonable chance to build a career and begin a family. Carol’s offer to advocate for my freedom validates me, bringing a sense of liberty, of worthiness that I cherish and appreciate.
* * * * * * *
Carol coordinates a team to help me. She persuades Tony Bisceglie, a highly regarded Washington, DC lawyer, to represent me pro bono. She travels to meet with my mentors, Bruce, Phil McPherson (Bruce’s brother), and George Cole. With assistance from Julie, my friends Nick and Nancy Karis, and other friends from Seattle and elsewhere, Carol launches a fundraiser to begin the Michael Santos Legal Defense Fund, and she solicits thousands of dollars to cover legal expenses. The money comes from anonymous donors, people who now have a vested interest in my freedom. I can’t participate from prison, and I don’t know what success they’ll have, but their combined energy fills me with hope.
Tony orders transcripts that document my case. After reading them he determines that I have grounds to file for relief from the court. I’m ambivalent about the plan of a judicial action because I wanted to earn my freedom rather than pursue liberty through a legal technicality. More than a decade has passed since my conviction became final and we know the request for judicial relief is a long shot. Further, the judge who presided over my trial is known for meting out long sentences and never reducing them. Through his research Tony discovers that the prosecutors in my case once tried to settle. If I had pleaded guilty instead of going to trial, the prosecutors would’ve agreed that a 20-year sentence was appropriate. Since Raymond, my trial attorney, never told me of the government’s offer, Tony insists that rather than pursuing a commutation of sentence, I need to file a petition with the court for relief.
To prepare the legal motion, Tony enlists the help and support of Tom Hillier, the Federal Public Defender for the Western District of Washington, to accept my case. Tom then recruits Jonathan Solovy, a top-notch Seattle attorney who agrees to prepare the documents and argue for my release. Coordinating all these efforts requires hundreds of hours, and I’m moved that professionals who’ve never met me give of themselves so generously for the singular purpose of freeing me.
The legal team employs investigators to gather evidence that will bolster my petition. Jonathan works diligently to persuade both the government and the judge to reconsider my sentence.
But in the end, we lose. Judge Tanner is unmoved and he lets the sentence stand. Everyone on the team is concerned about how I’ll react to the decision. Strangely, I’m at peace, grateful to have received love and support from so many strangers who’ve now become friends.
* * * * * * *
Bruce visits me at the beginning of 1998, beyond my 10-year mark. He wants to discuss my plans for law school. Through letters we’ve discussed possibilities for moving through the remainder of my sentence productively. He’s not convinced that studying law by correspondence is my best option.
“I really liked your idea of spending the final years of your sentence becoming an artist, a painter, or a musician, or even studying a foreign language. Those pursuits would round out your education and maybe free some creativity within you,” Bruce says, sitting across from me in the visiting room.
“Bruce, I’m going to serve 16 more years. I’m not even halfway through my term. I don’t want to devote myself to another project that prison administrators can take away. Although I’ve thought about learning to paint or play the piano, if I were transferred I’d have to go through all this frustration again because of red tape, and that’s only if I could continue. Some prisons don’t even offer music or art programs.”
Bruce nods his head as I describe my reasons, then he leans back in his chair. “But that’s the essence of a liberal education. You could study painting and piano here, and if you’re transferred you could study foreign languages or poetry there. The more you learn, the more you’ll be able to appreciate when you come home.”
“It’s going home that I’m thinking about. What will I face when I walk out of here?”
“You’ll have friends who will help you.”
“Yes, but I want to stand on my own feet, not come out weak, with my hat in hand looking for handouts.”
“Don’t express yourself with clichés,” he admonishes.
“You know what I mean. By then I will have served 26 years, and I need to anticipate the obstacles I’ll face. I’ll be nearly 50, but I won’t have any savings, I won’t have a home, I won’t even have any clothes to wear. With my prison record, employers will resist hiring me. If I don’t prepare for those obstacles, I’m going to run into tremendous resistance. How will I start my life?”
Bruce rubs his head. “The law school you’re considering, though, isn’t of the same caliber as your other schools. Hofstra and Mercer have impeccable credentials. Wherever you go, people will respect those degrees. If you want to study law, I think you should wait until you’re home, where you could earn a degree from a nationally accredited school, not a correspondence school that the bar association doesn’t recognize. What’s the real value of that degree? It won’t even permit you to sit for a bar exam.”
I lean forward, eagerly trying to explain my decision. “That’s what I couldn’t be so clear about in the letters I wrote to you; I have to be careful of what the guards read. I’m not studying law because I want to practice as a lawyer. I’m studying law because I want to use what I learn to help other prisoners who want to litigate their cases. Look around this room. Nearly every prisoner here wants another shot at getting back into court. If I study law, I’ll be able to help them.”
“But if you’re not a lawyer, how can you represent them?”
“I’m not intending to represent them. What I’ll do is help them research the law and write the briefs. They’ll submit their own legal documents, pro se. Sometimes I may help people persuade lawyers to take their cases, like Tony and Jonathan took mine. A law school education, together with my experience, will enable me to offer more and better assistance. Prisoners will pay for my services.”
“That’s what troubles me.” Bruce says, shaking his head. “You’ve worked all this time to build a record as a model prisoner, to educate yourself and keep a clean disciplinary record. Now you’re talking about breaking the rules by becoming some kind of jailhouse lawyer, exposing yourself to disciplinary infractions and possible problems with the system. It doesn’t make sense to me.”
“Yes, I’ve worked hard to live as a model prisoner. What has it gotten me? Instead of support, I meet resistance. Administrators transfer me to frustrate my efforts and to block me from completing my studies. I don’t have any interest in being a model prisoner. My interest, my only interest, is succeeding upon release. And I think the best way I can do that is by preparing myself financially.”
“So how are the prisoners going to pay you?” Bruce smirks at my plan. “Are they going to fill your locker with candy bars and sodas? How will that help when you get out?”
“They won’t pay me directly. If a guy asks for my help, we’ll agree on a price. Then he’ll have his family send the funds to my family.”
“But is that legal?”
“Although we have too many laws in this country, as far as I know, it’s still legal for one citizen to send money to another citizen. My sister will pay taxes on any money she receives and she’ll hold it for me until I come home. Prison administrators may not like it, but it’s not against the law for Julie to receive money from another prisoner’s family. My helping another prisoner with legal motions isn’t against the law either.”
“It just seems kind of sneaky, totally different from the open-book, transparent approach that you’ve followed.” Bruce remains skeptical.
“I don’t see it that way. The plan is totally consistent with the open-book approach, and I intend to do it openly.”
“How so? You won’t even receive payment directly.”
I shrug my shoulders. “That’s only because I’m living within the rules imposed on me. But I’ll be honest about what I’m doing, and truthfully, I’ll take pride in beating a system that perpetuates failure.”
Bruce shakes his head again. “You might be living within the letter of the rules by not receiving money directly, but you won’t be living within the spirit of the rules.”
“Prison rules don’t concern me. Living as a model inmate isn’t going to help me when I walk out of here. No one is going to care that I didn’t receive any disciplinary infractions. People may not even look beyond the fact that I served 26 years in prison. I need enough money in the bank to meet all of my expenses during my first year of freedom, whether I receive a paycheck or not. I’ll have to buy a car, pay rent, buy clothes, and pay for everything else I’ll need to start my life. Meeting those responsibilities has much more value to me than observing the ‘spirit’ of prison rules.”
“You’ve really thought this through,” Bruce begins to relent. “Have you considered the possible consequences? What if they transfer you back to high security?”
“I don’t care where they send me. From now on, my sole focus is to prepare for a successful, contributing life. That’s not going to happen by accident.”
“What prompted this new resolve? The court decision that denied you an early release?” Bruce’s support for me is evident in his caring tone and genuine interest, and I appreciate his willingness to listen as I share my thoughts.
“I know that you limit your reading to classical literature, but it was a book I read by Stephen Covey, The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. Have you ever heard of him?”
“No,” Bruce says ruefully, laughing. “I enjoy an occasional good detective story, but I don’t read much from the self-help or inspiration genres.”
“Well I find it helpful and I think you might identify with Covey.”
“What makes you think so?”
“He’s a former professor who taught at Brigham Young University, and his focus of study was leadership. Covey’s book validates my choices, the way I’ve lived for the past 10 years, and it’s helped me set the strategy I’ll use going forward.”
“How so?” Bruce asks, curious.
I’m eager to explain.
“In his study of leadership, Dr. Covey found that successful people share seven habits in common.” I hold up my hand and use my fingers to tick them off. “One, they’re proactive. Two, they begin with the end in mind. Three, they put first things first. Four, they seek first to understand, then to be understood. Five, they think win-win. Six, they synergize. And seven, they constantly work to sharpen their approach.”
“What? Are you telling me that’s a revelation for you? You still haven’t answered my question.”
“What question?”
“Why the shift in your strategy?” Bruce asks again, clarifying.
“I’m pragmatic. Truthfully, it’s more of an evolution than a shift. I’ve been following Covey’s seven habits of leadership ever since I was in the county jail, when I read of Socrates. By continuing to educate myself, I’m taking proactive steps to overcome my adversity. By knowing the challenges that await my release, I’m beginning with the end in mind. By enrolling in law school, I’m putting first things first. I understand my environment, my limitations, and the ways I can make myself most useful. By pursuing this goal I’ll be able to generate the resources necessary to stand on my own when I leave prison. That’s win-win. It’s a way to use my education and to lead a more meaningful life in here.”
“Have you figured out your rates yet, Counselor?” Bruce teases.
“Whatever the market will bear. Isn’t that the American way?” I grin, 100 percent committed to the strategy driving my plans.
“I’m serious. What do you expect to gain from all of this?”
“The law school program is self-paced, independent study. I expect to finish in 2001. If I charge $500 for research or writing legal motions, I think I can earn an average of $1,000 a month over the 12 years I’ll still have to serve. After taxes, that would leave me close to $100,000 in the bank when I walk out of prison.”
Bruce nods, smiling. “I only have one more question. If the warden won’t let you receive books from U. Conn., what makes you think he’s going to let you receive books from the law school in California?”
“That’s the nice thing about law school. I won’t need to access an outside library. Every federal prison has its own law library. I’ll just purchase the other books I need. As long as the bookstore sends the books directly, I won’t need special permission from the prison.”
“So you’re all set then?”
“I’m ready.”
* * * * * * *