133. Earning Freedom (9.2), by Michael Santos
Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term
Chapter Nine, Section Two
1998-2002 Months 127-180
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Gary\u2019s deposit solves my first problem of the day, but within hours, a crisis of a different sort erupts. I\u2019m staring at the ticker, watching the Dow drop more than 500 points, worrying that the sell-off will accelerate as the trading day proceeds. I\u2019m frozen to the TV when Al, another prisoner, delivers a message that snaps me out of my zone.
\u201cThey\u2019ve been pagin\u2019 you to R&D all mornin\u2019.\u201d
At first I think he\u2019s joking, but we\u2019re not close friends so I doubt he\u2019d play a practical joke on me. I don\u2019t understand why the Receive and Discharge department would be paging me. I look at the red arrows on the TV one last time before leaving the television room.
Outside, the warm temperature heats my skin as I make the quarter-mile walk across the compound to R&D. Fumes from the adjacent military base pollute the air, and I plug my ears to block the sound of screeching engines as the jets and giant cargo planes repeatedly land and take off. \xa0The market weighs on my mind, but I\u2019m also institutionalized, accustomed to my fixed routine, and wondering why anyone from R&D would want to talk to me. I\u2019m troubled by the unexpected summons.
I knock on the steel door, and wait for the guard.
\u201cWhat\u2019s your name and number?\u201d
I give the guard my red ID card.
\u201cWhere\u2019ve you been? I\u2019ve been paging you for two hours.\u201d The guard scowls at me.
\u201cI didn\u2019t hear any of the pages. I was watching TV.\u201d
\u201cRoll up,\u201d the guard commands, passing me three large duffle bags and then flicking my ID card back at me
\u201cRoll up?\u201d I catch the ID card in mid air. \u201cWhat do you mean, \u2018roll up\u2019? Where am I going?\u201d
\u201cCan\u2019t tell you that. Get your shit. I\u2019ve got to pack you out now.\u201d
\u201cI need to know what\u2019s going on. I\u2019m not supposed to be leaving. There\u2019s a mistake.\u201d I counter, my pulse racing from the adrenaline surging through my body with this news.
\u201cNo mistake. Either pack your bags and bring \u0313em up here, or I\u2019ll have the officer pack you out. I need all your property here before 1:00 this afternoon.\xa0 Either way, you\u2019re going.\u201d
\u201cI\u2019m leaving today?\u201d
\u201cGet your belongings here before 1:00,\u201d he orders, slamming the door in my face without answering.
With limited time to gather information, I rush back to my housing unit and hurry from one staff member to another, trying to find out what\u2019s happening. I can\u2019t find anyone who has information or who cares enough to answer my questions. Finally, I locate Mr. Boatwright, a case manager who spoke with me on occasion about the market. I tell him my problem and he invites me back to his office.
\u201cGive me your number.\u201d
I hear him clicking the information onto his keyboard as he stares at the monitor. My heart races and my legs twitch with anxiety, making it hard to stand still.
\u201cYou\u2019re on your way to Miami.\u201d
\u201cMiami? That doesn\u2019t make sense. The only prison in Miami is a medium. Did someone raise my security level?\u201d
\u201cNot the FCI,\u201d Mr. Boatwright answers, still looking at his screen. \u201cYou\u2019re going to the detention center.\u201d
\u201cWhat? There\u2019s a mistake. I\u2019ve been in for more than 11 years. Why would I be going to a detention center?\u201d Detention centers hold prisoners who face unresolved criminal charges, but those kinds of problems are behind me.
\u201cLet\u2019s see what I can find.\u201d I hear him clicking keys again and see that he\u2019s reading information. He looks up. \u201cYou\u2019re going to a state prison. The detention center\u2019s only a stop.\u201d
My stomach lurches. \u201cWho can fix this mess? It\u2019s a mistake. I don\u2019t have criminal charges in the state of Florida.\u201d
\u201cNo one here can fix this. The transfer order came from Washington.\u201d
I steady myself with this news. \u201cOkay. Thanks for checking. I\u2019ve got to use the phone.\u201d
I walk out to call my sister and explain all that I\u2019ve learned. It\u2019s already noon, and since the R&D guard only gave me an hour to pack all of my belongings, I ask Julie to call everyone in my support network. This inexplicable transfer to state prison threatens to disrupt my life and I want help from anyone who can undo this mess. I\u2019m intimately familiar with the federal prison system, I know it like I know my own face in the mirror. The rules, the people, the absurdity of it don\u2019t faze me at all anymore. But if I transfer to a state prison in Florida, I\u2019ll be starting from scratch, facing ridiculous \u201ctests\u201d and challenges from prisoners I don\u2019t know and who don\u2019t know me. I don\u2019t have any doubt that I can master any prison, but I detest the thought of upsetting my routine at Fort Dix.
When I hang up with Julie, I see Gary waiting for me outside the phone room.
\u201cThey\u2019ve been paging you all morning to R&D. Did you hear?\u201d
\u201cI heard. I\u2019ve got bad news. They\u2019re transferring me to a state prison in Florida.\u201d
\u201cFlorida? Why?\u201d
\u201cNo one will tell me. My sister\u2019s on the phone now, trying to get in touch with my friends to rally support to fix this mess.\u201d\xa0 This unwelcome news feels like I\u2019ve just been diagnosed with a terminal illness. We walk to my room and Gary helps me pack my sweats, sneakers, toiletries and books.
\u201cWhat do you want me to do with the stocks? Should I sell them?\u201d I ask while pulling and tying the draw strings of my three full duffle bags; everything I own fits inside of them.
\u201cWhy?\u201d
\u201cIf I\u2019m in Florida I won\u2019t be able to talk with you.\u201d
\u201cThat doesn\u2019t change anything. Don\u2019t worry about talking with me. When you have a chance, write me, tell me what stocks you bought or sold. By the end of the year I\u2019ll send the rest of the money to your sister. The transfer doesn\u2019t change anything between us.\u201d
I\u2019ll miss Gary. As we say goodbye it\u2019s another reminder that I\u2019m a pawn in this game.\xa0 I don\u2019t know where I\u2019ll be tomorrow because someone else moves the pieces that control the external circumstances of my life.\xa0 All I can do is respond.
It\u2019s early on Wednesday morning, my last at Fort Dix. I breathe deeply as I lie on my bed, listening to the whir of the generator outside my window, Toro\u2019s light snoring, and the occasional footsteps of other prisoners who walk to the bathroom down the hall. I know that I only have a few more minutes of peace before the guard arrives.
I\u2019ll miss my two-man room in Fort Dix. These are the best living conditions I\u2019ve had since I\u2019ve been in prison. I arrived here in April of 1996 and I had to wait 28 months for enough seniority before I could transfer from a 12-man room to \u201cpreferred housing.\u201d I\u2019ll miss the standard twin mattress that rests on springs, I\u2019ll miss the two sliding windows that aren\u2019t blocked with bars, and I\u2019ll miss being able to look up at the moon. It shines through now, lighting the white, bare, concrete-block walls of the room.
Mostly, I\u2019ll miss the windowless wooden entry door with its yellow doorknob that turns. The door isn\u2019t any different from the type found in a typical home, but it\u2019s fundamentally different from the industrial strength steel doors used in most prisons. Once I leave here, I won\u2019t be able to close the door to separate myself from the chaos of prison and escape into the privacy of my room, or at least the illusion of privacy.
I hear keys clinking and heavy boots on the tile floor outside my room and I know it\u2019s time. I\u2019ve been trying to enjoy the solitude of this final night but my heart pounds, as I know that I\u2019ll soon be locked in chains again.
\u201cSantos,\u201d the guard barks as he opens the door, oblivious to the disruption this transfer is about to bring to my life. \u201cReport to R&D.\u201d
I\u2019m the only prisoner walking on the compound. I see stars in the clear sky and the moon illuminates rustling leaves of maple trees. The cold morning wind chills my face. Shivering, I take one last look at the red brick buildings and knock on the steel door of R&D, bracing myself for the indignities of another BOP transfer.
The guard locks me in a holding cell with other prisoners I recognize. I stretch, sit on the concrete floor, and rest my back against the wall. Through the door I can hear chains clanking against the concrete floor, signaling that my unexpected transfer is imminent. Guards are untangling and preparing the requisite heavy metal shackles they\u2019ll secure around my waist, wrists, and ankles. I hate this.
We\u2019re processed out and marched onto the bus, bound for Stewart Air Force Base. I look through the bars on the tinted windows at the people driving in their cars only a few yards away\u2013families, businessmen, and couples.
I strain my head to watch a woman in the passenger seat of a white sports car. She\u2019s rubbing the back of a man\u2019s neck. He\u2019s about my age, probably her husband, wearing a crisp white shirt, pale blue tie. This glimpse of the outside world leaves me feeling deeply alienated. It\u2019s been so long since I\u2019ve felt the touch of a woman and I miss it. Observing the couple\u2019s simple act of affection causes me to shake my head and withdraw into my seat. I close my eyes but I can\u2019t block out the sight of that woman\u2019s hand.
For hours the bus rolls along the interstate before pulling onto the military base. It stops on the tarmac and guards pass us sack lunches while we wait for the marshal\u2019s plane to land. With my wrists cuffed to the chain around my waist, it\u2019s a challenge to free the cheese sandwich from the clear plastic baggie. It\u2019s only white bread and cheese. The bread is moist and spongy in my mouth\u2013bland, but easy to swallow. I bend over to eat the whole sandwich, but since I\u2019m dreading the airsickness that\u2019s sure to come, I leave the crackers and juice in the bag.
The unmarked white plane lands and guards carrying assault rifles position themselves around it. Men and women in chains step off and guards order them into columns for searches. I\u2019ve seen this predictable routine time and again, and it never fails to disgust me. I prefer the routines of prison to the dehumanizing rituals of transit. When my turn comes I climb the stairs into the belly of the plane, drop into my seat, buckle my belt, and I close my eyes. I don\u2019t want to talk.
When the plane lands in Oklahoma City, we exit directly into the terminal reserved for the FTC, or Federal Transit Center. It\u2019s a new \u201choldover destination\u201d for prisoners transferring to prisons across state lines. This FTC is a model of efficiency, processing prisoners like FedEx handles packages. After four hours in holding cells crammed with hundreds of prisoners, I reach my housing unit just in time to be ordered into my cell for the evening lockdown. I won\u2019t be able to call my sister to find out whether she\u2019s made any progress in trying to resolve this fiasco, and the disconnect bums me out.
My cellmate arrives and I ask his name after the guard locks us in.
\u201cI\u2019m Paul.\u201d He says, shaking my hand.\xa0 I sense that he\u2019s young and afraid, and the encounter temporarily throws me back to 1987, when my own term began.
\u201cI\u2019m Michael. Where\u2019re you headed?\u201d
\u201cYazoo, Mississippi.\u201d He sets his bedroll on the top rack.
\xa0\u201cHave you been anywhere else?\u201d I ask, trying to ease his apparent anxiety.
\u201cI was in the Houston detention center and I got sentenced two weeks ago.\u201d
\u201cHow much time did you get?\u201d
\u201cTen years.\u201d
\u201cDon\u2019t worry. It\u2019s going to pass easier than you think.\u201d I know what he\u2019s going through.
\u201cHow long have you been in?\u201d
\u201cEleven years. I was about your age when I started. How old are you?\u201d
\u201cTwenty-five.\u201d
I tie my sheets around the vinyl mat on the lower rack and describe for Paul what he can expect. Although I\u2019ve never been to Yazoo, I know that it\u2019s a low-security prison and the prisoners will behave similarly to the men I was with at Fort Dix. Paul asks questions for hours. By talking with him about steps he can take to improve his life, I ease my own tensions.
The guards unlock the cell doors well before dawn and my heart sinks when they call Paul instead of me. Wanting to get on with the transfer and settle into a routine, I tighten the green wool blanket around my body and pull it over my head as a shield against the forced air shooting through the ceiling vent above my head. I sleep off and on, accepting that this is going to be another miserable day of waiting
The sound of wheels from the breakfast cart rolling across the concrete floor signals me that it\u2019s time to get up. Guards traverse the long aisles of cells, thrusting keys into locks that click loudly as the heavy deadbolts are released. Clatter soon fills the unit as prisoners emerge from their cells, looking for familiar faces. Impromptu conversations begin with discussions about where prisoners are going, where they\u2019re coming from, common acquaintances, and what\u2019s going on in prisons across the country.
I\u2019m guessing that 200 of us share the two-tiered, triangular shaped pod. As I wait in line for my breakfast tray I scan the room, looking for familiar faces, or anyone I might have known previously. This FTC houses prisoners of every security level. Some serve multiple life sentences for murder convictions, others serve sentences of only a few months for mail fraud convictions. I recognize tattoos from various prison gangs that rival each other. Although most prisoners in transit want to reach their next stop without problems, I\u2019m hyper alert for the tension that can explode into unexpected violence.
At the food cart an orderly passes me a green plastic tray with corn flakes and two cartons of milk. I walk to a table with four plastic swivel chairs and sit down. Another prisoner sits across from me. He wears his black hair long and ties it in several places down his back, making a tight ponytail.
\u201cWhere\u2019re you headed?\u201d I ask, stirring my cereal.
\u201cMiami.\u201d
\u201cReally? Me too. I\u2019m going to the detention center.\u201d\u2028He looks up and I notice a crooked scar beneath his right eye.
\u201cAre you going to a state prison?\u201d he asks.
\u201cThat\u2019s what I\u2019ve been told. You?\u201d
He nods, confirming that he received the same information.
\u201cWhere\u2019d you come from?\u201d I ask.
\u201cPetersburg, Virginia.\u201d
\u201cThe medium or the low?\u201d I want to know his security level.
\u201cI was in the low.\u201d
\u201cI was in the low at Fort Dix. My name\u2019s Michael.\u201d
\u201cTy.\u201d We shake hands.
\u201cWhat did you hear about this transfer?\u201d
\u201cI didn\u2019t hear anything except that the order for the transfer came from DC. Another guy sitting next to me on the plane said he was going on the same program. His case manager told him the feds were processing some state prisoners into the federal system and exchanging federal prisoners with the Florida state system.\u201d
\u201cWhere was he coming from?\u201d
\u201cBig Springs.\u201d
\u201cThat\u2019s a low-security prison,\u201d I say.
\u201cAre you from Florida?\u201d
\u201cMiami,\u201d he nods.
\u201cHow \u2019bout you?\u201d
\u201cI was living there when I got arrested, but I\u2019m from Seattle.\u201d
\u201cYou probably got rounded up because the computer thinks you\u2019re from Florida.\u201d
\u201cMaybe so. I guess we\u2019ll find out what\u2019s up when we get there.\u201d
When the phones become available, I call Julie to update her on where I am and what I\u2019ve learned from Ty. She\u2019s already spoken with Carol Zachary and Bruce McPherson, and they\u2019re all working the phones to get the transfer reversed. Bruce spoke with Sylvia McCollum at BOP headquarters. Through discreet inquiries Sylvia learned that administrators assigned me as part of a prisoner exchange program with the state of Florida because my registration number identified me as being a Florida resident. I\u2019m relieved to learn that my friends and family are using their influence to show that although I was arrested in Florida, I\u2019m not a resident of that state.
*******
The plane lands at the marshals\u2019 airstrip adjacent to the Miami International Airport. As I leave the plane with the screeching sound of jet engines in my ears, the Miami humidity blasts me like a furnace. For a moment, I look around to admire the beds of tropical flowers and palm trees that I\u2019ve missed.
Two buses, three white vans, and four cars await us. I\u2019m tired of seeing guards carrying assault rifles, but they\u2019re a part of every landscape where prisoner transport takes place. After inspecting my chains, then searching and identifying me, BOP guards direct me to a bus. I notice the familiar street signs of Flagler, Biscayne Boulevard, I-95, and Palmetto Expressway as we drive.
The bus approaches a high-rise building in a downtown district that I don\u2019t recognize. We pause in a driveway while a corrugated steel gate rolls open. The bus pushes through, drives down a ramp, and stops inside the dark basement of the Miami Federal Detention Center.
After I complete the requisite forms, fingerprints, mug shots, strip searches, interviews, and hours of waiting in holding cages, I carry my bedroll to join nine other men for an elevator ride to the eleventh floor. We exit into a foyer and the guard unlocks a steel door that opens to a brightly lit, two-tiered housing unit. I see Ty waiting by the guard\u2019s station. The deafening noise, steel tubular railings, stationary tables and stools remind me of the first housing unit I was in after my arrest.
I see a familiar face in the crowd, though I don\u2019t recall his name or where I saw him last. He recognizes me and walks over.
\u201cYo, wasn\u2019t youse up in Atlanta back in da day?\u201d He\u2019s my height but carries an extra 100 pounds.
\u201cThat\u2019s right. I was in B-cellblock. Michael Santos,\u201d I extend my hand.
\u201cAce, Homie.\u201d He bumps fists, gives me a hug, even though I don\u2019t remember speaking to him before. \u201cWhat\u2019cha doin\u2019 up in here dog? Catch a new case?\u201d
\u201cI\u2019m in transit, on my way to a state prison.\u201d
\u201cState joint? What up wit\u2019 dat?\u201d he looks at me suspiciously.
\u201cI don\u2019t know. They packed me out. A few others are transferring with me. None of us know where we\u2019re going or why.\u201d
\u201cAin\u2019t none a youse got no state charges?\u201d
I shake my head. \u201cWe\u2019ve all been down for awhile. How about you? What\u2019re you doing here?\u201d
The detention center holds people facing new criminal charges and prisoners in transit. It\u2019s not a place where prisoners ordinarily serve their sentences.
\u201cNew case, Dawg,\u201d he shrugs. \u201cI got out in \u201993. Been on the streets for fi\u2019 years fo\u2019 I caught dis new joint.\u201d
\u201cWhat\u2019re you looking at now?\u201d
\u201cIt\u2019s all she wrote, Homie. Life. I\u2019m headin\u2019 back to the A-T-L.\xa0 Know what I\u2019m sayin\u2019\u201d
\u201cSorry.\u201d
\u201cAin\u2019t nothin\u2019 Dawg. You know how we do.\u201d
I shake my head, not knowing what to say. \u201cLet me get over into this line, see about getting a cell. We\u2019ll talk more once I settle in.\u201d
\u201cYou got it Dawg. Yo, I got ev\u2019thin\u2019 you need. Dis my house up in here.\u201d He pounds his chest.
\u201cThanks, Ace.\u201d
\u201cAin\u2019t nothing.\u201d He puts his fist out, we bump knuckles again, and I walk away wondering when I will leave this madness behind.
At the guard\u2019s station I stand in line behind Ty, hoping the guard will assign us to the same cell.
\u201cI don\u2019t have any empty cells,\u201d the guard says. He sends me to the second tier. I give the cell door a courtesy tap before I pull it open. A man wearing an orange jumpsuit identical to mine lies on the lower rack reading an issue of Maxim.
\u201cWhat\u2019s up? You new?\u201d he asks, leaning up on his right elbow.
I nod. \u201cI\u2019m Michael Santos,\u201d I set my bedroll on the top rack. \u201cIn transit,\u201d I say.
\u201cWhere to?\u201d
I give the man my story. Then I get his.\u2028His name is Rico and he\u2019s deliberating on whether to accept the government\u2019s plea offer of 10 years. As we talk, I advise him to take the offer, not needing to know anything more than he\u2019s charged with a drug crime.
\u201cBut I\u2019ve got a baby girl. I don\u2019t think I can do 10 years.\u201d
\u201cNo one does when they start. If you don\u2019t take this deal, chances are you\u2019ll serve a lot longer and you\u2019ll serve it in tougher prisons. With 10 years you\u2019ll only serve about eight, and you might get a year off that if you go through the drug treatment program.
\u201cI don\u2019t think I can do it.\u201d
*******
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