133. Earning Freedom, by Michael Santos
Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term
Chapter Nine, Section Two
1998-2002 Months 127-180
Gary’s deposit solves my first problem of the day, but within hours, a crisis of a different sort erupts. I’m 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’m frozen to the TV when Al, another prisoner, delivers a message that snaps me out of my zone.
“They’ve been pagin’ you to R&D all mornin’.”
At first I think he’s joking, but we’re not close friends so I doubt he’d play a practical joke on me. I don’t 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. The market weighs on my mind, but I’m also institutionalized, accustomed to my fixed routine, and wondering why anyone from R&D would want to talk to me. I’m troubled by the unexpected summons.
I knock on the steel door, and wait for the guard.
“What’s your name and number?”
I give the guard my red ID card.
“Where’ve you been? I’ve been paging you for two hours.” The guard scowls at me.
“I didn’t hear any of the pages. I was watching TV.”
“Roll up,” the guard commands, passing me three large duffle bags and then flicking my ID card back at me
“Roll up?” I catch the ID card in mid air. “What do you mean, ‘roll up’? Where am I going?”
“Can’t tell you that. Get your shit. I’ve got to pack you out now.”
“I need to know what’s going on. I’m not supposed to be leaving. There’s a mistake.” I counter, my pulse racing from the adrenaline surging through my body with this news.
“No mistake. Either pack your bags and bring ̓em up here, or I’ll have the officer pack you out. I need all your property here before 1:00 this afternoon. Either way, you’re going.”
“I’m leaving today?”
“Get your belongings here before 1:00,” 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’s happening. I can’t 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.
“Give me your number.”
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.
“You’re on your way to Miami.”
“Miami? That doesn’t make sense. The only prison in Miami is a medium. Did someone raise my security level?”
“Not the FCI,” Mr. Boatwright answers, still looking at his screen. “You’re going to the detention center.”
“What? There’s a mistake. I’ve been in for more than 11 years. Why would I be going to a detention center?” Detention centers hold prisoners who face unresolved criminal charges, but those kinds of problems are behind me.
“Let’s see what I can find.” I hear him clicking keys again and see that he’s reading information. He looks up. “You’re going to a state prison. The detention center’s only a stop.”
My stomach lurches. “Who can fix this mess? It’s a mistake. I don’t have criminal charges in the state of Florida.”
“No one here can fix this. The transfer order came from Washington.”
I steady myself with this news. “Okay. Thanks for checking. I’ve got to use the phone.”
I walk out to call my sister and explain all that I’ve learned. It’s 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’m 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’t faze me at all anymore. But if I transfer to a state prison in Florida, I’ll be starting from scratch, facing ridiculous “tests” and challenges from prisoners I don’t know and who don’t know me. I don’t 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.
“They’ve been paging you all morning to R&D. Did you hear?”
“I heard. I’ve got bad news. They’re transferring me to a state prison in Florida.”
“Florida? Why?”
“No one will tell me. My sister’s on the phone now, trying to get in touch with my friends to rally support to fix this mess.” This unwelcome news feels like I’ve just been diagnosed with a terminal illness. We walk to my room and Gary helps me pack my sweats, sneakers, toiletries and books.
“What do you want me to do with the stocks? Should I sell them?” I ask while pulling and tying the draw strings of my three full duffle bags; everything I own fits inside of them.
“Why?”
“If I’m in Florida I won’t be able to talk with you.”
“That doesn’t change anything. Don’t 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’ll send the rest of the money to your sister. The transfer doesn’t change anything between us.”
I’ll miss Gary. As we say goodbye it’s another reminder that I’m a pawn in this game. I don’t know where I’ll be tomorrow because someone else moves the pieces that control the external circumstances of my life. All I can do is respond.
It’s 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’s 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’ll miss my two-man room in Fort Dix. These are the best living conditions I’ve had since I’ve 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 “preferred housing.” I’ll miss the standard twin mattress that rests on springs, I’ll miss the two sliding windows that aren’t blocked with bars, and I’ll 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’ll miss the windowless wooden entry door with its yellow doorknob that turns. The door isn’t any different from the type found in a typical home, but it’s fundamentally different from the industrial strength steel doors used in most prisons. Once I leave here, I won’t 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’s time. I’ve been trying to enjoy the solitude of this final night but my heart pounds, as I know that I’ll soon be locked in chains again.
“Santos,” the guard barks as he opens the door, oblivious to the disruption this transfer is about to bring to my life. “Report to R&D.”
I’m 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’ll secure around my waist, wrists, and ankles. I hate this.
We’re 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–families, businessmen, and couples.
I strain my head to watch a woman in the passenger seat of a white sports car. She’s rubbing the back of a man’s neck. He’s 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’s been so long since I’ve felt the touch of a woman and I miss it. Observing the couple’s simple act of affection causes me to shake my head and withdraw into my seat. I close my eyes but I can’t block out the sight of that woman’s 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’s plane to land. With my wrists cuffed to the chain around my waist, it’s a challenge to free the cheese sandwich from the clear plastic baggie. It’s only white bread and cheese. The bread is moist and spongy in my mouth–bland, but easy to swallow. I bend over to eat the whole sandwich, but since I’m dreading the airsickness that’s 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’ve 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’t 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’s a new “holdover destination” 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’t be able to call my sister to find out whether she’s 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.
“I’m Paul.” He says, shaking my hand. I sense that he’s young and afraid, and the encounter temporarily throws me back to 1987, when my own term began.
“I’m Michael. Where’re you headed?”
“Yazoo, Mississippi.” He sets his bedroll on the top rack.
“Have you been anywhere else?” I ask, trying to ease his apparent anxiety.
“I was in the Houston detention center and I got sentenced two weeks ago.”
“How much time did you get?”
“Ten years.”
“Don’t worry. It’s going to pass easier than you think.” I know what he’s going through.
“How long have you been in?”
“Eleven years. I was about your age when I started. How old are you?”
“Twenty-five.”
I tie my sheets around the vinyl mat on the lower rack and describe for Paul what he can expect. Although I’ve never been to Yazoo, I know that it’s 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’s 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’re coming from, common acquaintances, and what’s going on in prisons across the country.
I’m 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’m 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.
“Where’re you headed?” I ask, stirring my cereal.
“Miami.”
“Really? Me too. I’m going to the detention center.” He looks up and I notice a crooked scar beneath his right eye.
“Are you going to a state prison?” he asks.
“That’s what I’ve been told. You?”
He nods, confirming that he received the same information.
“Where’d you come from?” I ask.
“Petersburg, Virginia.”
“The medium or the low?” I want to know his security level.
“I was in the low.”
“I was in the low at Fort Dix. My name’s Michael.”
“Ty.” We shake hands.
“What did you hear about this transfer?”
“I didn’t 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.”
“Where was he coming from?”
“Big Springs.”
“That’s a low-security prison,” I say.
“Are you from Florida?”
“Miami,” he nods.
“How ’bout you?”
“I was living there when I got arrested, but I’m from Seattle.”
“You probably got rounded up because the computer thinks you’re from Florida.”
“Maybe so. I guess we’ll find out what’s up when we get there.”
When the phones become available, I call Julie to update her on where I am and what I’ve learned from Ty. She’s already spoken with Carol Zachary and Bruce McPherson, and they’re 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’m relieved to learn that my friends and family are using their influence to show that although I was arrested in Florida, I’m not a resident of that state.
*******
The plane lands at the marshals’ 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’ve missed.
Two buses, three white vans, and four cars await us. I’m tired of seeing guards carrying assault rifles, but they’re 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’t 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’s 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’t recall his name or where I saw him last. He recognizes me and walks over.
“Yo, wasn’t youse up in Atlanta back in da day?” He’s my height but carries an extra 100 pounds.
“That’s right. I was in B-cellblock. Michael Santos,” I extend my hand.
“Ace, Homie.” He bumps fists, gives me a hug, even though I don’t remember speaking to him before. “What’cha doin’ up in here dog? Catch a new case?”
“I’m in transit, on my way to a state prison.”
“State joint? What up wit’ dat?” he looks at me suspiciously.
“I don’t know. They packed me out. A few others are transferring with me. None of us know where we’re going or why.”
“Ain’t none a youse got no state charges?”
I shake my head. “We’ve all been down for awhile. How about you? What’re you doing here?”
The detention center holds people facing new criminal charges and prisoners in transit. It’s not a place where prisoners ordinarily serve their sentences.
“New case, Dawg,” he shrugs. “I got out in ’93. Been on the streets for fi’ years fo’ I caught dis new joint.”
“What’re you looking at now?”
“It’s all she wrote, Homie. Life. I’m headin’ back to the A-T-L. Know what I’m sayin’”
“Sorry.”
“Ain’t nothin’ Dawg. You know how we do.”
I shake my head, not knowing what to say. “Let me get over into this line, see about getting a cell. We’ll talk more once I settle in.”
“You got it Dawg. Yo, I got ev’thin’ you need. Dis my house up in here.” He pounds his chest.
“Thanks, Ace.”
“Ain’t nothing.” He puts his fist out, we bump knuckles again, and I walk away wondering when I will leave this madness behind.
At the guard’s station I stand in line behind Ty, hoping the guard will assign us to the same cell.
“I don’t have any empty cells,” 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.
“What’s up? You new?” he asks, leaning up on his right elbow.
I nod. “I’m Michael Santos,” I set my bedroll on the top rack. “In transit,” I say.
“Where to?”
I give the man my story. Then I get his. His name is Rico and he’s deliberating on whether to accept the government’s plea offer of 10 years. As we talk, I advise him to take the offer, not needing to know anything more than he’s charged with a drug crime.
“But I’ve got a baby girl. I don’t think I can do 10 years.”
“No one does when they start. If you don’t take this deal, chances are you’ll serve a lot longer and you’ll serve it in tougher prisons. With 10 years you’ll only serve about eight, and you might get a year off that if you go through the drug treatment program.
“I don’t think I can do it.”
*******