136. Earning Freedom (10.2), by Michael Santos
Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term, by Michael Santos
Chapter 10, Segment 2
Months 180-190
******
Five extraordinary days with Carole lead to the preliminary plans for the rest of our lives. We pledge to build our relationship, growing together through the challenges I’m certain will come because of my imprisonment. Carole wants to marry me now, but I explain the reasons why she should understand more about the prison system’s stranglehold on my life before rushing into marriage. Although I want to marry her, it’s necessary, I think, that she prepare herself for the unrelenting controls of the prison system and the strain it places on families. Her love comforts me, inspires me, and gives me a sense of belonging. Whether we marry now or not, I’m no longer alone. I stare at the walls, trying to contemplate ways that I’ll be able to provide for her. I aspire to live as a worthy partner for her while I climb through the remainder of my sentence.
Carole returns to Oregon, leaving me with an ache in my heart. I want to hold and kiss her. Our physical separation leaves me bereft and longing. Writing her each day isn’t enough, but words on a page are all that I have while she’s gone.
Despite my wanting her with me, I have major concerns about finances and my ability to support her. Although I still own stock that I could liquidate to raise cash, I’ve been counting on that capital to help launch my life when I leave prison.
I love her, but I’m under no delusions about the challenges I’ll face with another decade of imprisonment ahead. Carole doesn’t have the resources to relocate to New Jersey, and I don’t know how I’ll earn them from inside of these boundaries. Like me, she’s 38 and divorced, but it wouldn’t be just the two of us. She has two children: Michael is 13 and Nichole is 11. Although Michael lives with his father, moving Carole to New Jersey would mean bringing Nichole, too. I don’t know how I would be able to take on this responsibility.
I stretch back in my chair, run my fingers through my hair, and think of her while staring at photographs of us together in the visiting room. Although I’m confident that I can navigate the challenges of serving another decade in prison, devoting my life to Carole means I’ll be complicating the rest of my journey–albeit in magnificent ways. When I’m released we’ll both be 49, but I want to begin my life with her now. I’ve got to figure out how to generate enough resources to support her.
The only way I know how to earn money is through writing, so I invite Carole to join me in launching an effort to use the knowledge I’ve gained in prison. She agrees enthusiastically and asks how we’ll do it. I explain that she can start a publishing company; it will produce and distribute books I write that describe the criminal justice system from the perspective of a man going through it. From our efforts, we hope to build a sustainable income that will support her and Nichole while simultaneously providing guidance to people who need it.
******
After two guards open my door for the 3:00 a.m. census count and pass by, I throw back the covers and get out of bed. It’s time to work. Emmanuel, my roommate, still sleeps soundly, so I’m quiet. I’ve cut holes into tennis balls and slid them onto the legs of my metal folding chair so it doesn’t make noise when I sit at the desk. I’m in my sweats and socks, with only my two book lights illuminating the page as I work quietly in the dark.
Since beginning this publishing project, my goal has been to write 15 pages of content each day. It’s work, requiring a disciplined strategy. I mail the pages I write to Carole each evening. Upon receiving the handwritten pages, Carole types them and returns them to me double-spaced, ready for editing. We’re a cross-country team, partners in the effort to raise money for her move to New Jersey. At the pace we’re going, we’re ahead of schedule. The manuscript should be finished within a month.
This evening, as I’m using a blue pen to edit the pages Carole returned, my friend Geoff lies supine on the floor of my room. Geoff is an urbane cardiologist serving a 36-month sentence for the crime of treating poor people in his clinic and billing Medicaid for medicine and lab tests that weren’t covered. For 30 years he’s owned his Upper East Side medical clinic and the building where it’s located. We’ve become good friends. Geoff’s in his mid-60s, but his daily discipline over diet and exercise enable him to retain a high degree of fitness. In fact, fitness is a top priority for Geoff, and because I enjoy his company, I offer him the use of my floor. He devotes an hour each evening to working his abdominal muscles, with a combination of leg lifts and extensions that he does methodically and effortlessly. Usually, he simultaneously reads his beloved New York Times, or classic literature, devouring books by Tolstoy, Hugo, and Joyce. But tonight Geoff is upset and wants to talk. I set my pen down to listen.
While lying on his back, he holds his extended legs steady, six inches off the floor, and tells me about business troubles at his clinic. Before surrendering to serve his sentence at Fort Dix, Geoff gave his business manager, Ted, authority to preside over his clinic. Through Ted’s mismanagement, or possible fraud, Geoff tells me that he’s losing $20,000 a month.
“Why don’t you close the clinic down?” I suggest.
“I can’t just close it. I employ three other cardiologists, an internist, and several nurses. The clinic sees more than 50 patients a day,” he explains while raising his legs higher, a foot off the ground, and holding them steady.
“Then why not sell the practice to the doctors? You’ve worked long enough. You could rent them space, and leave them the headaches. By the time you finish this sentence, you’ll be almost 70 anyway. You could retire.”
“I’ve thought about selling. The trouble is I don’t have any way of communicating from here. I’m totally in the dark while I serve this sentence. All I get are messages that Ted needs more money to meet payroll.”
“Was the clinic losing money when you came in?”
“No. Rather than costing me money, it should be earning 20 to 30 thousand each month. Ted is screwing up the billing, or something.”
“You know what you need?” I have an idea.
“What’s that?”
“An office informant, someone who can tell you what’s going on.”
“You’ve got that right.”
“Why don’t you hire Carole?”
“Who, your Carole?”
“She could work at your office, then come visit us here and let you know what’s going on.”
“Is she a lawyer?”
“No, why?”
“Well, I could use a lawyer to sort through the billing mess.” He lifts his legs higher, 18 inches off the floor. “Besides, how would she come visit us both if she’s not a lawyer?”
“She can visit me, and you bring someone else to visit you. We’ll sit beside each other in the visiting room and she can tell you what she sees going on in your office. At least you would know.”
“Do you think she’d be willing to come to New York?”
“I can ask.”
“How much would she want to earn?”
“She’d have to earn enough to live.”
“Living on the Upper East Side of New York City isn’t the same as living in Oregon.”
“What’s it cost to rent an apartment near your office?”
“Too much. But I’ve got a vacant apartment in the city, and I’ve got a car she can drive. She can use the apartment and the car, and I’ll pay her $2,000 a month. Does that sound fair?”
“I’ll call and ask.”
While Geoff continues with his leg lifts on the floor, I rush out of my room to secure a spot in line for a telephone. When she answers, the question spills out before I can ask about her day.
“Would you move to New York if I could arrange an apartment, a car, and a job that would pay you $2,000 a month?”
She doesn’t hesitate, saying she would. “What kind of job?”
“Remember I told you about my friend who’s a doctor?”
“Yes.”
“He needs an office person, someone who can keep an eye on things and report back to him.”
“I can do that. How often could we see each other?”
“Every week. We’re only an hour apart. When could you be here?”
“I’m ready to go whenever the job’s open.”
“What about Nichole?”
“She’ll come with me.”
******
Geoff’s desperation to resolve his crisis at the office precipitates his decision to hire Carole on the spot. He needs information. People he trusts are stealing from him and mismanaging a business he spent a lifetime building. As a prisoner, he doesn’t have access to information he needs about daily activities in his clinic. The prison system limits each prisoner to 300 minutes of telephone use each month, and that isn’t sufficient for a man like Geoff, who has existing business interests. In an effort to get a handle on things, he pays Carole’s expenses to move to New York.
We make the arrangements quickly, as Geoff wants Carole to begin at once. I coordinate the deal for Carole, but I saddle her with the challenge of coordinating the complicated cross-country move on her own.
I don’t have any responsibilities outside these prison boundaries, and I have enough money in the bank to cover my startup expenses when I’m released. After 15 years, I’ve mastered the challenges that mire other prisoners in failure. In moving Carole to New York, however, I’m knowingly making myself responsible for her and Nichole, her 11-year-old daughter. My credibility with family and mentors who believe in my judgment will be on the line, and maybe, too, the stability I’ve worked hard to create. Still, I’m confident that we can make it together.
“Honey,” I warn her over the phone, “you should prepare yourself for other people’s response to our plans. People are going to think you’re nuts.”
“They already do, but I don’t care what anyone else thinks or says about me. I love you, Michael. I’m not staying in Oregon while the man I love is in New Jersey. I need to be close so we can visit as frequently as rules will allow.”
“Baby, I need to be sure you fully understand my situation. I love you, and I’m the most fortunate man alive to have your love. But I’ve got 11 more years to serve, and I don’t have any certainty about earning an income. I can’t do more than arrange this job with Geoff. You have to make this move work on your own, without my help.”
“Do you want me to come?”
“Yes, more than anything. But I’m used to prison life. I worry whether you’ll be able to handle it. Are you sure you’ve thought through what 11 more years of prison means?”
“If you had a life sentence, I’d still choose you. You’re the only man I want to share my life with.” Her firm, unwavering dedication convinces me we can triumph together.
“What about your family, your parents?”
“I choose you, Michael. Whatever it takes to make this relationship work, I’m all in.”
Our conversations and letters deepen my commitment. I want to give her all that I have and share all that I am and all that I will become. Carole’s certainty and radiance warm me like sunlight, bringing out my humanity. I embrace the joy and sense of fulfillment that comes with loving her.
Friends and family worry that I’m blinded by love, that I’ve lost focus, and that I’m setting myself up for a fall.
“What about when you come home, Michael?” My sister Julie presses, worrying that I haven’t thought everything through. “How can you be sure she’s the woman you want to spend your life with?”
“Because I love her.”
“But how are you going to take care of her?”
“We’ll create our life together. I can help her, just as she’s helping me.”
“What about your future? Are you selling the rest of your stock portfolio? Have you thought about what it will mean if you come home broke? Tim and I want to help you, but we can’t support another family.”
“I’m not selling the stock. Carole has a job waiting for her in New York, and I’m writing a new book for her to sell. You trust me, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Julie, I’m not going into this blindly. Carole makes everything in my life better and I want to build my life around her. With her I’m not a prisoner, I’m a man, and together we can make this work.”
“You’re a man, but you’re still a prisoner. Just don’t hurt her, Michael. She doesn’t know anything about what she’s getting into.”
“I’ll never hurt her.”
My closest mentors, Bruce McPherson and Carol Zachary, also express concern about this change I’m introducing to my life, and to Carole’s and Nichole’s as well. I understand. The pernicious, toxic environment of prison beats families down, tramples relationships to dust. But I know that we can make it. Whatever it takes, I’m determined, regardless of what odds conspire against us. I want her love and I’m willing to endure whatever struggles come with it. I hope that Carole can too.
******
Those struggles begin to manifest themselves in late December, one week before Carole’s scheduled arrival. Geoff comes to my room to share some unexpected news.
“I’m being transferred,” he tells me.
“What? Where to?”
“They’re sending me to the drug program on the West side.”
Geoff will still be at Fort Dix, but his transfer to the other compound will completely sever our ability to communicate.
“Carole’s already sent her stuff with the moving company. I can’t reverse her move.”
“I know, and I still want her to work in the office.”
“But we won’t be able to visit together.”
“Can’t she visit me over there?”
I shrug, not knowing what guards will allow. “You can try putting her on your visiting list, but they might not let her in.”
“Then she can write. Look, this is a mess, and there’s nothing we can do about it. I’ve got to be out of here in an hour. When she gets here, have her go to the office. Ted will give her the keys to the apartment and the car. We’ll work out the arrangements once she settles in.”
When I call Carole to tell her about Geoff’s transfer, she doesn’t hesitate. “We’ll make it work. I’ll still fill him in on what’s happening in his office, and I’ll look after whatever he needs.”
I admire her optimism, her commitment, and her courage. My determination equals hers. But hers is weighted with a high degree of risk. We talk about the logistics of her move and about coordinating delivery of her belongings to Geoff’s empty apartment. Such mundane tasks energize me. For the first time I’m part of a family, cherishing the feeling of belonging. We save two phone minutes from my monthly allotment, as I want to call her after her flight lands. We’re scheduled to visit on the morning after New Year’s, 2003, when I’ll meet Nichole for the first time.
******
It’s after six on New Year’s Eve, and I’m at my desk, trying to ease my anxieties by writing. I burned through the final two phone minutes from my December allotment after Carole’s plane landed and I won’t receive my next allocation of phone or visiting time until tomorrow, when the new month begins. Prison restrictions prevent all contact with Carole, which leaves me completely in the dark about her move. I stand, nervously pacing the floor. My old friend Windward comes to mind–he used to drive me nuts with his pacing. That was longer than a decade ago, in USP Atlanta.
This anxiety is new to me. I can’t help her with this cross-country transition into a new city. At least I’ll have new phone minutes tomorrow. We’ll be able to talk, but we still won’t be able to visit for two more days. Prisons are not family friendly.
While working through my silent worries, I hear an unexpected page.
“Michael Santos. Report to the visiting room.”
It’s my name being paged, but since I’ve expired my visiting privileges for the month, I’m confused as I walk to the visiting room.
I see the guard at the visiting room door and I ask him for confirmation that he paged me.
“You heard your name, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, haven’t you been in long enough to know what that means? Strip!”
I take off my clothes for the search ritual. The guard authorizes me to enter the visiting room and I see that it’s packed. I walk through the crowds of people to the guard’s platform, and as I hand him my ID card, I see Carole. She’s bundled in a blue, floor-length wool coat, and a pale pink cashmere scarf circles her neck. She’s obviously distraught. As I approach her, she walks to me quickly and wraps her arms around me, crying. She buries her face into my neck and I hold her.
“Baby, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?” She holds me tighter.
“What is it? Talk to me,” I repeat urgently, quietly. I put my hands on her cheeks, tipping her head up to kiss her tears. “What’s wrong?”
She sniffles, but between them I hear her say “No car, no apartment, no job.” She’s still crying and I pull her tight.
“Tell me what happened.” I want to help her, and I suddenly feel the weight of what it means to accept this responsibility of love.
She takes a deep breath to steady her voice before speaking. “It’s Ted, Geoff’s business manager. He says he’s in control of Geoff’s practice. He refuses to give me access to the office, and he’s refusing to give me keys to the apartment and the car I’m supposed to use. I’m here with Nichole, everything I own is in a moving truck on its way here, and I don’t know what to do.”
I breathe in deeply, needing to soothe her before asking questions. I pull her close, wrap my arm around her shoulders, and walk toward a pair of plastic purple chairs in the back of the visiting room. We sit and hold hands. It’s the only comfort I can offer under the watchful eyes of cameras and guards. She sighs, exhaling with a long breath as she lays her head on my shoulder, and I feel her relax against me.
“Don’t worry, Baby, I’ll take care of you.” I kiss her cheeks, taking a chance that in the crowded room, the guards won’t notice. “I’ve got enough money to help you settle.”
“You said you’d never sell the stocks,” she says, lifting her head from my shoulder to look at me.
“I know what I said, but you’re more important to me than any stocks. Of course I’ll sell them. I love you, Carole. I’ll do anything for you.” Her head drops back onto my shoulder and I savor the feeling of her weight resting on me.
“I’ll pay you back,” she promises.
I chuckle at her promise, and then I ask where she is staying. “Did you get a hotel room in New York?”
“We left New York when Ted refused to give me the apartment keys. I’ve still got my rental car, so I drove down and checked us into a hotel that’s closer. Nichole’s there now. She’s watching a movie until I get back.”
I’m relieved that Carole came to New Jersey. It’s much less expensive here and we’ll need to be careful with our money. I caress her hands and appreciate how soft and feminine they feel inside mine.
“Do you want to stay in New Jersey, or would you rather go back to Oregon?”
“I’m staying with you.” Her voice so recently quivering is suddenly steady.
“Okay, Honey. That’s what I want, too. We’ll make a plan and together we’ll make it work. I love you.”
“I love you so much.” She kisses me gently.
“Honey, we can’t kiss anymore,” I warn, conscious of the guards. “Tell me how you got in here. I didn’t have any visiting points left for the month.”
“I know. I called here all day and I told your unit manger it was an emergency, but he wouldn’t let me talk to you. I decided to drive over and try to talk my way in. Thank goodness Officer Cruz was on duty. He must’ve believed me when I told him I had to see you. He changed something on the computer and here I am. I think he was worried I was going to burst into tears in front of him.”
“See, I told you that God’s been protecting me through this journey. Now he’s protecting you. And although many people who work for the prison system make things difficult, some are nice.”
“Yes, he was very nice. I’m grateful, because I really needed to see you, and I want to come back tomorrow, too.”
“Tomorrow’s New Year’s Day, Honey. Holiday visiting privileges cost us double against my allotment for the month. Let’s wait until the day after tomorrow to visit. The rules limit me to a maximum of 30 hours in the visiting room for the month and we can’t squander them.” She’s going to get an immersion course in the complications of my imprisonment.
“Michael, I need to see you! We need to make a plan.”
“Okay,” I relent. “You can come for one hour, but it’s going to cost us two hours against my monthly allotment of 30 points.”
“I’ll bring Nichole.”
******
It’s cold. My green jacket and orange knit cap aren’t enough to keep me from shivering when I leave the visiting room. Maybe I shiver more from worry than the frigid December temperatures. I can handle the cold, but as I cross the nameless road that leads to my housing unit, I realize for the first time in 38 years that the local economy is relevant to my life.
As the president tries to push us into a second war in Iraq, the newspapers have been reporting on high unemployment rates. These didn’t concern me until an hour ago. But I’ve brought Carole here, thousands of miles away from her friends and family, on a promise. The promise went south. Now two lives hang on my ability to bring her stability, and suddenly the 11 years of prison that await me feel heavier.
“Hey, I heard them call you for a visit.” Bob catches up to me, his tone revealing curiosity. “I thought you said you were out of points.”
“I was. Carole talked her way in.”
“Huh, I’m impressed. It’d be easier to talk your way out. She must’ve charmed them, but that’s like charming a rattlesnake. How’s her move coming along?”
“Totally derailed. Geoff’s business manager is refusing to give Carole the job, the apartment, or the car. She’s stranded, and all her things are packed in a moving truck that’s supposed to arrive in New York next week.”
“Wow.” We take a few steps with only the sound of crunching gravel and howling wind between us. “How can I help?”
“I’ll take care of it. My sister is in Hawaii for the holidays, but when she returns, I’ll have her sell enough stock to send Carole the money she needs to settle.”
“I could get her a few thousand to tide her over if it would help.”
“Thanks. I appreciate the offer, but I put her in this mess. I’ll get her out.”
“Well let me know if you need anything.” Bob is a good friend, willing to lend me money even though we’re both in prison. I’m grateful for the gesture.
I walk into the housing unit and search for Richard, a young offender I interviewed recently for a story I wrote. While talking with him, I remember Richard telling me that his wife lived only a few miles from the prison. She was struggling financially, like many prison families, because of her husband’s imprisonment. He’s sitting on the stairs, slumped, his elbows resting on his knees.
“What’s troubling you?” I ask.
He looks up at me and takes off his glasses, rubbing his eyes. “Holidays. I miss my wife and son.”
“That’s what I came to ask you about. Do you think your wife would want a housemate?”
“Whadda ya mean?”
“I’m in a bind. My fiancée and her daughter just moved here from Oregon. They thought they had an apartment, but the arrangements didn’t work out. I need to help her find a new place and I thought of you. Your wife could probably use the money, and they could support each other.”
He puts his glasses back on. “That could really help. How old is your fiancée’s daughter?”
“Eleven.”
“I’m in line for the phone now. I’ll come by your room after I talk with my wife.”