135. Earning Freedom (10.1), by Michael Santos
Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term by Michael Santos
Episode 10.1
Months 180-190
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The first time I see Bob he\u2019s carefully selecting items from the salad bar. He expertly manipulates the stainless-steel tongs, piling the freshest tomatoes, radishes, chopped iceberg lettuce, and spinach leaves on his plastic tray. He\u2019s oblivious to the growing line of angry men standing in line and the other 500 prisoners in the noisy chow hall.
Bob stands taller than six feet, with glacial blue eyes and a full head of blond hair that he combs neatly. I know he\u2019s new to Fort Dix, and I suspect he\u2019s in his late-fifties.\xa0 He\u2019s trim and clean-cut.\xa0 As I watch him from a nearby table, I can\u2019t help but wonder why he\u2019s here. I\u2019ve read of professionals and businessmen who\u2019ve run afoul of the law, but those offenders don\u2019t generally serve time with us inside double fences laced with coils of razor wire. Bob looks like the type of man who sends people to prison, not one who serves time in prison.
Other white-collar types approach him, smiling, offering to help him settle in. Bob, however, remains tight-lipped, responding only with curt nods. When he clenches his jaw he projects defiance rather than the fear I\u2019m used to seeing in newcomers.
A few days have passed since I saw him in the chow hall, and I see him again while I\u2019m running around the track. He\u2019s sitting on the railroad ties that serve as steps separating the court from the track, eating a green apple and watching Ironhead, a more typical prisoner, shoot baskets alone on the asphalt court inside the track.
Ironhead is a guy who looks like he\u2019s been in prison all his life. His shaved head glistens with sweat and he distinguishes himself with a mouthful of gold-capped teeth. He\u2019s tall and muscular. Arching over his shoulder blades is a tattoo with bold capital letters that spell out \u201cdestroyer.\u201d On his stomach is another that reads \u201cthug for life.\u201d
I\u2019m used to seeing Ironhead shoot baskets while I run. We don\u2019t share much in common and we never talk. He exercises alone, and I exercise alone. Today Bob sits between our workouts, eating his apple and watching.
While running, I drift into thoughts about my writing projects and about the relationship Carole and I are building through our letters. As my steps crunch along the gravel track today, I tune into Bob, wondering whether he\u2019s going to make the mistake of interrupting Ironhead\u2019s workout.
\u201cYou\u2019d make more shots if you\u2019d set your stance before shooting,\u201d Bob instructs.
Ironhead ignores him, takes another shot, and misses.
\u201cSee what I mean? You\u2019re losing your balance.\u201d
Ironhead grabs the rebound. Then he presses his left fist into his hip, and with his right hand, palms the basketball as he addresses Bob.
\u201cA-yo Gee! Who you be talkin\u2019 to?\u201d Ironhead snarls, strutting toward Bob.
Bob takes the last bite of his apple and then sets the core on the step, standing to meet Ironhead.
\u201cI\u2019ll show you what I mean,\u201d Bob says with a combination of innocence and coaching authority that actually disarms the unlikely student. Then he opens his hands, gesturing for Ironhead to pass him the ball. Ironhead scowls, bounces the ball twice, then hurls the ball at Bob.\xa0 He dribbles to the top of the key, plants and sinks the ball, then proceeds to coach Ironhead on shooting skills. Before I finish my run, I\u2019m surprised to see the two are on the court together playing one on one.
Later in the afternoon I see Bob sitting alone at a picnic table beneath one of the maple trees. He\u2019s writing a letter on a yellow legal pad, gold-frame reading glasses perched on his nose. I approach and interrupt him.
\u201cCan I have a minute?\u201d
He looks up, quickly evaluating me like an employer deliberating whether I\u2019m worthy of an interview.\xa0 Then he answers with a half-dismissive \u201cI\u2019ll be with you in a minute.\u201d He finishes writing his paragraph, leaving me waiting.
\u201cNow,\u201d he sets his pen down, \u201chow can I help you?\u201d
\u201cMy name\u2019s Michael Santos,\u201d I say, introducing myself. \u201cI\u2019m a long-term prisoner and aspiring writer. I\u2019ve just finished a manuscript describing some of my experiences that I\u2019m about ready to send to my publisher. If you\u2019ve got time to read it, I\u2019d appreciate any advice you might offer on what I can do to strengthen my manuscript.\u201d
Bob removes his glasses and rubs his eyes. \u201cWhy ask me?\u201d
\u201cYou\u2019re new to prison, I\u2019m guessing, and you\u2019re as close as I\u2019m going to get in here to the demographic I\u2019m trying to reach.\u201d
\u201cWhat\u2019s that, old white guys?\u201d
\u201cNo, college-educated people who don\u2019t have experience with confinement.\u201d
\u201cLet me see it.\u201d
I pass him the envelope containing my manuscript. He pulls the document out and glances through the 400 pages.
\u201cDid you type this here?\u201d\u2028
\u201cMy girlfriend typed it for me.\u201d
\u201cShe did a nice job.\u201d He places it back in the envelope. \u201cI\u2019ve got a full plate right now, but if you leave it with me, I\u2019ll read it over the next few days.\u201d
\u201cSounds good. I\u2019m not in a rush. What\u2019s your name?\u201d
\u201cI\u2019m Bob Brennan,\u201d he says, as if I should recognize the name, and extends his hand.
******
In the weeks to come Bob and I develop a friendship. We walk the track together and I listen to his story. From his demeanor, I correctly surmised that he was a man accustomed to pulling strings at the top levels of American business.\xa0 Bob was the founder and CEO of numerous businesses, both public and private.\xa0 For many years he was his company\u2019s spokesman on national television commercials that invited investors to grow with him at First Jersey Securities, his most well known company.\xa0 Bob owned personal jets, helicopters, and palatial homes, and thoroughbred racehorses.\xa0 Over the course of his distinguished career, he earned hundreds of millions and nurtured friendships with distinguished people such as President Ronald Reagan, President George H.W. Bush, and President George W. Bush. \xa0A jury convicted Bob for a crime that he described to me as \u201clying on a government form.\u201d \xa0Now he\u2019s beginning a sentence that threatens to confine him for a decade.
We sit on a steel bench beneath a cherry tree on this late summer evening in 2002. Hundreds of prisoners walk along the wide path circling the compound. Bob knows all about my story because he read the manuscript I prepared. I listen to his story with a sense of loss at what my imprisonment has cost me when he describes his career, his experiences at creating jobs for tens of thousands of well-paid people that his companies employed.
\u201cYou know what a Democrat is, don\u2019t you?\u201d I tease Bob.
\xa0\u201cWhat\u2019s that?\u201d
\u201cIt\u2019s a Republican who\u2019s been arrested.\u201d\u2028Bob laughs, but his smile fades as he scans the Fort Dix compound. \u201cThis isn\u2019t the place to spend your life.\u201d
\u201cI\u2019m used to it,\u201d I say.
\u201cThat\u2019s a shame,\u201d he says knowingly.
\u201cWhat do you miss most from all that you\u2019ve lost?\u201d I probe. Bob is a man who has lost much.
Bob looks up at the sky, thinking. \u201cMy Gulfstream jet and the freedom to fly away.\u201d
\u201cThat\u2019s what you miss most?\u201d I can hardly believe him.
\u201cThere\u2019s nothing like being able to fly wherever you want, whenever you want.\u201d He affirms his answer with a nod.
\u201cI guess traveling isn\u2019t an aspiration I can relate to anymore.\u201d
\u201cSo how\u2019s your romance going with Carole? Did you get a letter from her today?\u201d Bob asks, deliberately changing the subject.
\u201cYes, we write every day, although she might not like what I wrote back today.\u201d
\u201cWhat\u2019s that?\u201d
\u201cIt\u2019s nothing serious, but something she wrote bothered me, and I let her know.\u201d
\u201cWhat bothered you?\u201d
\u201cShe wrote about lottery tickets.\u201d
\u201cSo?\u201d
\u201cCome on, a lottery ticket? It doesn\u2019t sit well with me. When I think of people who buy lottery tickets, I think of a poverty state of mind, of people who don\u2019t work hard enough to make things happen on their own. Instead, they\u2019re waiting for something to happen for them.\u201d
\u201cYou\u2019ve got to lighten up, Michael. Not everyone in the world is like you.\u201d
\u201cDo you buy lottery tickets?\u201d
Bob doesn\u2019t dignify the question with an answer. \u201cIt\u2019s not about what I do. I\u2019m talking about understanding other people. People like to dream. Las Vegas is built on that concept.\u201d
\u201cI want her to have stability and independence in her life so she\u2019s not worried about whether child support checks come on time, or anything else.\u201d
\u201cGive her a break. Why\u2019re you trying to control her life?\u201d
\u201cI\u2019m not trying to control anything.\u201d
\u201cThe hell you aren\u2019t. When you judge someone for buying a lottery ticket, you\u2019re trying to control them.\u201d
\u201cWe\u2019re growing closer and I want her to know how I think.\u201d
\u201cYou haven\u2019t been with a woman in 15 years, and you haven\u2019t even seen Carole since high school. How\u2019re you going to build a relationship from here, when she\u2019s living on the West Coast, and you\u2019re locked inside a Jersey prison?\u201d
\u201cThe circumstances might not be ideal, I\u2019ll give you that. But the distance between us doesn\u2019t mean we can\u2019t fall in love, build a life together.\u201d
Bob laughs. \u201cLove? A life together? Listen to yourself! You\u2019ve been locked up since 1987. This is a divorced mother of two. You\u2019re both desperate. If you string this woman along, all you\u2019re going to do is make both of your lives miserable.\u201d
\u201cI\u2019m not stringing her along, and I\u2019m not desperate. Neither is she. We\u2019re two people in our mid-thirties falling in love. We\u2019re not teenagers.\u201d
\u201cMichael, you\u2019re a smart guy. Think about what you\u2019re doing. You\u2019ve got 11 more years to serve in prison. When you go home you\u2019ll be heading into a world that you haven\u2019t seen for 26 years. You don\u2019t know anything about women, about love, about what it means to build a life with someone else.\u201d
\u201cYou\u2019re right about one thing, Bob. I\u2019ve been doing this a long time. But you\u2019re wrong when you say I don\u2019t know anything about love. Living in prison has been like watching earth from a different planet. My separation from society has given me a chance to observe, to learn from the lives of others. I\u2019ve read that 50 percent of marriages end in divorce. You\u2019ve been a rich man since your early 30s, yet two of your marriages ended in divorce, and you\u2019re breaking off a relationship now. I may be separated from the rest of the world, but I\u2019ve studied people from a different perspective, and I\u2019ve learned from them.\u201d
\u201cOh really? What\u2019ve you learned?\u201d He scoffs.
\u201cOne thing for sure, in order to create lasting love, I\u2019ll need to appreciate Carole more than I\u2019d appreciate a jet.\u201d
Bob grunts. \u201cYou\u2019ve never had a Gulfstream.\u201d
*******
As other prisoners count the days until release, I\u2019m counting down the days until my first visit with Carole. It\u2019s evening on October 16th, 2002. I lie on my bunk using a small, battery-powered light to read Carole\u2019s long letters. I have my favorites, the ones I devour repeatedly. We\u2019ve been writing daily for eight months, and when I wake tomorrow, we\u2019ll begin five glorious days of visiting together. I\u2019m going to hold her, to kiss her for as long as guards will permit. I stare at her photograph and fall asleep, the book light still burning.
When I wake, my smile stretches across my face. It\u2019s a good day. Visiting doesn\u2019t begin until 1:00, so I have time to make my bed, wash my face, brush my teeth, and then sit at my desk to write her a love letter. I want her to know how grateful I am that she flew from Oregon to hold my hand under the harsh lights of a New Jersey prison visiting room.
I stack the paper and books from my desk in my locker. While sitting on my mattress I lace my sneakers, rise, straighten the wrinkles on my bed, and look around to ensure everything is in its proper place in case the guards come in for a surprise cell inspection. I can\u2019t leave anything visible without risking the loss of my 2-man room; a failed inspection would put me back in a 12-man room. With a final glance to make sure I\u2019m leaving the room in perfect condition, I close the door and walk outside for an early exercise session.
I jog eight miles, watching as the wind tosses leaves in waves from the maple trees. They flutter to the grass in different shades of yellow and orange. These same trees were in their early spring bloom when Carole began typing my manuscript, About Prison. In June she was typing my second manuscript, Profiles From Prison, and our romance began. By summer\u2019s end we were pledging our love. But it\u2019s been all correspondence and phone calls until today.
I check my watch and expect that her plane has landed by now. She\u2019s renting a car and is only hours away from the jolting reality of my world. She\u2019ll see the fences with the coils of razor wire, the checkpoints with armed, uniformed guards. I wonder how she\u2019ll respond to the metal detectors, the bureaucratic condemnation, the numerous rules, and the forms required of visitors to federal prisons.
I follow my run with pushups. As I\u2019m finishing Bob comes out for his walk. \u201cSo today\u2019s your day!\u201d He smiles in good spirits, happy for me.
\u201cShe\u2019ll be here at one.\u201d I stand and brush the dirt from my hands.
\u201cWill you be there until visiting ends?\u201d
\u201cThat\u2019s the plan.\u201d
\u201cOkay then. I\u2019ll be waiting for you when you come out. We\u2019ll walk a few laps and you can tell me how things went.\u201d
\u201cI\u2019ll see you then,\u201d I promise.
I return to my housing unit, shower, shave closely with a new, double-blade razor, and dress in clean sweats. Pancho, my friend down the hall, ironed my khakis and shined my shoes in exchange for a three-can pack of tuna. The clothes hang against my wall. With a few hours to pass before our visit, I pick up Nelson Mandela\u2019s A Long Walk to Freedom, the biography that describes his wretched and unjust multi-decade stretch in an African prison.
I set the book on my chest and I let my mind wander. Carole\u2019s love has given me hope for a life most men take for granted. When it\u2019s almost one o'clock, I stand to change.
My heart beats faster when I hear my name being paged, and I walk across the compound, through the gates, toward the visiting room. The guard takes a long time answering the door after I push the button, frustrating me as I lose minutes I could be sharing with Carole.
After months of waiting, she\u2019s finally here, on the other side of this wall. It\u2019s been 28 years since I first played kickball with her in fifth grade and 20 years since our high school graduation.
The guard unlocks the door. \u201cName and number?\u201d
\u201cSantos, 16377-004,\u201d I state, handing him my red ID card.
\u201cWe paged you 15 minutes ago. Where\u2019ve you been?\u201d
\u201cRight here. I pushed the button,\u201d I respond, suppressing my impatience and irritation.
\u201cCome on. You know the drill.\u201d
I step into the room and undress for the guard to search me. \u201cDo you know the rules about physical contact?\u201d
\u201cI know the rules.\u201d
\u201cOne kiss when you come in, one kiss when you leave.\u201d
\u201cCan I hold her hand?\u201d
He nods. \u201cJust don\u2019t get too frisky. I don\u2019t wanna be sendin\u2019 anyone to the SHU today.\u201d
\u201cOf course you don\u2019t.\u201d
The guards don\u2019t realize how their callousness dehumanizes prisoners.
\u201cWhat was that?\u201d He challenges me with his glare.
\u201cNever mind.\u201d Not even a prison guard can dampen my enthusiasm today.
\u201cCan I go in now?\u201d
\u201cHave a nice visit.\u201d His flat expression and flatter tone contradict his good wishes. Anticipation for a blind date with a woman I already love sends adrenaline racing through me as I open the door and enter. I scan the faces and see Carole, far away, sitting beneath a window screened with black iron mesh. Our eyes lock and she stands, smiling radiantly. Holding her gaze, I zigzag through a maze of maroon plastic chairs, remembering just in time to drop my ID card with the guard who operates the computer surveillance system.
Carole looks lovely in fitted denim jeans, black heels, and a beige knit sweater. Her long blonde hair falls past her shoulders. Seconds later she\u2019s in my arms, welcoming my embrace. I can\u2019t believe I\u2019m holding her.
\u201cLet me look at you,\u201d I breathe her in.
She\u2019s smiling, and in her sparkling hazel eyes, I see her love for me.
\u201cWe can only kiss once, the guards are watching,\u201d I whisper, wanting to remember this moment with her body pressing against mine.
I tilt my head to the right and bend to meet her lips as she leans into me. With my hands on her back I feel the warmth of her flesh through her clothing. Her heart\u2019s beating fast, and I welcome her tongue, the unfamiliar sensation of her breasts pressed against my chest, and the feminine arch of her slender hips.\xa0 It awakens the man in me, as if I\u2019m feeling a woman for the first time. I don\u2019t care about the other 50 visitors in the room and I kiss her as long as I can, though I\u2019m conscious of the guards, knowing they\u2019ll humiliate me by yelling my name and issuing a warning if I don\u2019t release her.
\u201cLet\u2019s sit,\u201d I tell her.
\u201cHold me for a second longer.\u201d She presses her cheek against mine. \u201cI love you.\u201d
I\u2019m so grateful that she\u2019s in my life and I assure her of my love.\xa0 We sit beside each other, holding hands, locking our fingers together, and I stare into her eyes.\xa0 After so many years of living in prison, I feel incredibly fortunate to have her with me. When she averts her eyes, glancing down, I tilt her chin up with my index finger. \u201cI want to look at your face.\u201d
\u201cWhy?\u201d she asks nervously, with her cheek twitching.
\u201cBecause you\u2019re beautiful and I need to memorize every curve of your face. Why are you so nervous?\u201d
\u201cI can\u2019t help it,\u201d she admits, squeezing my hands. \u201cI\u2019m just happy to be here.\u201d
\u201cThe fences and razor wire didn\u2019t bother you?\u201d I know how foreboding they can seem at first.
\u201cThe only thing that bothers me is that I can\u2019t take you home with me. If this is where you are, this is where I want to be,\u201d she promises, and I see the sincerity in her eyes.
\u201cI want to kiss you again,\u201d I tell her. Concerns that the realities of prison could overwhelm her begin to dissipate after Carole\u2019s affirmation.
\u201cSo kiss me.\u201d She says softly, smiling
\u201cWe can\u2019t. Those guards sitting on the platform will give me a disciplinary infraction if I kiss you again.\u201d
\u201cThey\u2019re not watching us.\u201d
\u201cYes, they are. Those black bubbles in the ceiling are cameras, and the guards have several monitors at their desk. They sit there with a joystick, moving the cameras around the room. If they catch me kissing you again, they\u2019ll end our visit.\u201d
Carole looks around, taking in the severity of the room. A guard in the standard BOP uniform walks through the aisles, his eyes scanning the room.\xa0 \u201cI don\u2019t understand,\u201d she says.\xa0 \u201cWhy would they care if you kissed me?\u201d
\u201cThose manuscripts you\u2019ve been typing for me aren\u2019t fiction. In prison the priority is security, and they view kissing as a threat to institutional security. \xa0This is my life for 11 more years.\u201d
\u201cYou won\u2019t serve 11 more years.\u201d
\u201cYes I will, Honey.\u201d I brush a strand of hair from her face. \u201cI\u2019ve already served 15 and I\u2019ll serve 11 more.\u201d
\u201cThen I\u2019ll serve them with you.\u201d
\u201cYou don\u2019t know what you\u2019re saying.\u201d
\u201cI do know what I\u2019m saying. My love for you is a woman\u2019s love, Michael, not a little girl\u2019s crush. I\u2019ll serve this sentence with you, whatever it takes.\u201d
\u201cLet\u2019s see how you feel on Monday, after our last visit.\u201d
\u201cIt won\u2019t be our last visit. I\u2019m coming back.\u201d\u2028In those first hours together, I tell Carole how I spend each day, describing when I wake, how I exercise, and where I shower.\xa0 By using my finger as a pointer on her knee, I draw a diagram, showing her the layout of my room, where I store my belongings, even how far down the hall I am from the community bathroom. I tell her about my friends, Bob and Geoff. I answer her questions about how I plan to earn a living after my release, explaining that I\u2019ll write about my prison experience, consult with people who face challenges with the criminal justice system, and speak on how others can employ effective strategies to overcome challenges they may face.
Carole\u2019s eyes never leave me as I talk, and she listens closely, asking insightful questions, such as whether the prison system will give me any trouble when the books I\u2019ve written reach the market.
I explain the reasons why I don\u2019t anticipate any disciplinary problems as a consequence of my writing books while I serve the remainder of my sentence. \u201cOne policy says I can\u2019t run a business, so I don\u2019t. A different policy states that the BOP encourages prisoners to write manuscripts, and authorizes them to mail the manuscripts without staff interference. Once I send out my manuscripts, they\u2019re not mine. I assign the publishing royalties to Julie, or my mom.\u201d
\u201cBut your name\u2019s on the book?\u201d
\u201cI\u2019m the author, but I don\u2019t receive any money for my work.\u201d
\u201cYour family\u2019s getting the money though, saving it for you when you get out.\xa0 Isn\u2019t that a problem?\u201d
\u201cAlthough others may receive royalty payments, I would argue that since I don\u2019t have a right to the money, I\u2019m within the rules. After all, if my mom or my sister choose to keep the payments they receive, I wouldn\u2019t have any grounds to challenge them. They pay taxes on it, not me. But even if the prison did charge me with a disciplinary infraction, I wouldn\u2019t care. It\u2019s my responsibility to prepare for the future and I\u2019m proud of my work. I\u2019m determined to leave here stable and independent.\u201d
\u201cI want to help you.\u201d
\u201cYou are helping me. Without you, I couldn\u2019t have converted my manuscripts to digital files. You help me by inspiring me to work harder. Ever since my term began, I\u2019ve been preparing for you. I willed you into my life.\u201d
\u201cNo. I mean I want to help you more. I want my life with you. I want to grow with you. I want to get you out of here.\u201d She squeezes my hand to emphasize her promise.
\u201cBaby, let\u2019s not waste time on things beyond our control, like my being released early. Let\u2019s focus on how we can best prepare for the challenges we\u2019ll face when I\u2019m released.\u201d
\u201cThen I want to help you with that. What can we do, together?\u201d
\xa0