138. Earning Freedom (11.1) by Michael Santos
- Earning Freedom by Michael Santos
Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term
Chapter Eleven: 2003-2005
Months 190-209
Chapter Eleven: 2003-2005
Months 190-209
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Officer Ruiz grips the handcuffs that secure my wrists behind my back as we walk across the lawn. He\u2019s a rookie in his early 20s, slight, and wearing a uniform that looks two sizes too big for him.
The lieutenant\u2019s office at Fort Dix is a single story, red brick building, only 20 yards away from the visiting room. Ruiz pulls open the heavy steel door and steers me inside the narrow corridor. We walk past an open office on the left and I see Lieutenant Nesbitt. He\u2019s the embodiment of BOP cruelty, with his faded blue eyes and crooked nose, intoxicated by power.
\u201cLieutenant, I\u2019ve got Inmate Santos,\u201d Officer Ruiz\u2019s polite voice cracks as he announces our arrival.
\u201cI\u2019ll get to him when I\u2019m ready.\u201d I hear the lieutenant call from the office. \u201cHave him face the wall.\u201d
\u201cYes sir.\u201d
Ruiz leaves me with my toes touching the wall. While closing my eyes and resting my forehead against the cold concrete, I worry about Carole in the visiting room, knowing she must be frantic. Jingling keys that hang from the heavy black leather belts of the guards who cross the hallway a few feet away grate on my nerves. To the guards, a man facing the wall in restraints for hours at a time is no different from the red fire extinguisher beside me; they\u2019re used to inanimate objects. I had hoped I\u2019d never wear cuffs and chains again, but with nearly 10 years still to serve, that\u2019s not realistic. I wonder if I\u2019m here because of the books I wrote.
\u201cBring Inmate Santos in here,\u201d the lieutenant finally calls out.
I feel a tug when the guard\u2019s hand grips the chain on my cuffs to pull me back from the wall. As if I\u2019m a four-legged animal on a leash, he steers me down the hall to the lieutenant\u2019s office where Nesbitt is leaning back in his swivel chair behind a cluttered wooden desk.
\u201cWell, Counselor. It seems we meet again.\u201d His eyes drill into me. \u201cTell me what\u2019s going on in my institution.\u201d
I return his stare, opened face, and shrug my shoulders. \u201cI don\u2019t have anything to tell you, but I\u2019d like to know why I\u2019m here and why you terminated my visit.\u201d
He scowls. \u201cHave it your way,\u201d he spins his chair away from me. \u201cLock him up.\u201d
The guard turns me around and leads me through the front door, across a courtyard, and into the parking lot outside the prison gates where he unlocks the sliding door of a white van. I step in and sit on the black vinyl bench seat, pressing my knees against the steel mesh that separates the driver from his passengers. He drives across the parking lot and down the road to the entrance of Fort Dix West, the adjacent compound. I\u2019m going to the Special Housing Unit (SHU), \u201cthe hole.\u201d
Associate Warden Nuss, at McKean, was the last petty bureaucrat who ordered me locked in SHU, but that was only for one night, and it was for administrative reasons, when he was transferring me out seven years ago. I don\u2019t know what put me in Lieutenant Nesbitt\u2019s crosshairs, and the guards who process me refuse to give any information as they strip search and lock me in a single cell. I start to pace, coming up blank as I try to think of any possible reason that could justify this change.
I don\u2019t have contraband in my cell, and I don\u2019t have a single enemy. I wonder why Nesbitt would bother me, even though I know I may as well be wondering why a rattlesnake strikes.\xa0 It\u2019s his nature.\xa0 Still, I don\u2019t have any idea why I\u2019m here.
My worries about Carole escalate, as I wonder how she\u2019s handling this disruption. Guards took me away before her eyes and I know that she\u2019s frightened for me. Being married to a prisoner means never taking tomorrow for granted. I hope she\u2019s called Julie and Carol Zachary by now. They\u2019ll help her get through this.
The light in my cell is always on. I lie on my stomach, crossing my arms to use as a pillow beneath my head on the gray vinyl mat. I try to sleep but a wicked anxiety prevents me from being able to relax. Several hours after midnight I give up on sleep and start exercising, doing pushups on the concrete floor. When my body heats up, I step out of my orange jumpsuit and continue in my boxers.
Sometime after dawn the square trap in my cell door opens and an orderly slides in breakfast on a plastic brown tray. It\u2019s a bowl of unappealing hot cereal and a red apple. I push the button on the aluminum sink and rinse the apple in cold water that arcs from the faucet, then bite into the crispy red skin of the fruit. It\u2019s fresh and I savor it as sweet juice shoots through my mouth. I eat the entire apple to its core and wish I had another, but this is it until lunch.
When the guard returns for the tray, he looks through the square window of the cell and sees me in my boxers doing pushups on the floor.
\u201cWhat\u2019re you doing in the hole?\u201d It\u2019s Officer Flores asking. I know him from when he worked in the Fort Dix housing units. He\u2019s a friendly man in his 40s, with kind brown eyes and compassion.
\u201cNo one\u2019s told me anything.\u201d I step to speak through the crack of the door, brushing away beads of sweat that ooze from my forehead.
Officer Flores points to his ears and shakes his head, then steps closer to the door. \u201cSpeak into the door frame. I can\u2019t hear you,\u201d he tells me.
\u201cI said no one has told me anything. Lieutenant Nesbitt terminated my visit yesterday and locked me in here.\u201d
\u201cAfter I collect the breakfast trays, I\u2019ll see what I can find out. You didn\u2019t get a shot did you?\u201d
I shrug. \u201cI wouldn\u2019t know.\xa0 No one has passed me any paperwork.\u201d
Officer Flores nods, and then comes into the doorframe again. \u201cWe\u2019re not allowed to read your website anymore.\u201d
\u201cWhy not?\u201d
\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d he says. \u201cI used to read it every day at work, but now the BOP server blocks it.\u201d
\u201cDo you think that\u2019s why I\u2019m here?\u201d
\u201cLet me check. I\u2019ll be back. Do you need anything?\u201d
\u201cThanks. I\u2019d appreciate a pencil and some paper, and a Bible if you\u2019ve got one.\u201d\u2028I resume my pushups, grateful for Officer Flores\u2019s kindness. If he can tell me what\u2019s going on, I\u2019ll figure out how to respond.
I squeeze two more sets of pushups in before I hear Officer Flores tapping the window of my cell door with his knuckle. I stand and walk closer. \u201cYou\u2019re on the transfer list. I\u2019ve got to take you out.\u201d
\u201cWhat? Transferred? Where am I going?\u201d
\u201cI don\u2019t have access to that information. I\u2019ve got orders to take you out.\u201d
\u201cWhen?\u201d
\u201cRight now. Roll up your stuff.\u201d
I shake my head, bothered that the complications of my life will disrupt Carole and Nichole\u2019s life yet again. Disheartened, I pull the sheets and blankets from the mat and bundle them into a ball.\xa0 Then I step into the orange jumpsuit and back up against the door. Officer Flores unlocks the trap and I push my hands through the slot. I hear the metal click, as he cuffs my wrists, gently, leaving room for them to swivel. I appreciate this small act of kindness. With both hands I grab the bedding bundle while he unlocks and opens the steel door.
\u201cYou didn\u2019t know anything about a transfer?\u201d he asks.
I shrug and shake my head. \u201cI got married last June. My wife has just settled into this community. This transfer will devastate her.\u201d
Stepping out of the cell, I walk with him to the desk where he hands me off to a large guard I don\u2019t recognize. In front of both officers I dress out, exchanging my orange jumpsuit for traveling khakis. I nod to Officer Flores as his colleague steers me down a maze of corridors, then to another holding cell where I\u2019m locked in with 17 boisterous prisoners. We\u2019re all \u201con the chain,\u201d scheduled for movement to some other prison.
The sound of waist chains, leg irons, and handcuffs dropping on the concrete floor nauseates me. I\u2019ve heard it so many times over the years and I never get used to it.
My mood turns dark with sadness. I\u2019ve adjusted to the institutionalized schedule at Fort Dix through my writing, my exercise, and my friendships. I married Carole here, and since last January I\u2019ve spent 30 hours each month holding her soft hands in the visiting room. With those comforts gone, I sit against the wall and question what the next phase of this journey will bring.
A guard unlocks the door and calls me out first, bringing incontrovertible proof that I\u2019m starting over, off to another prison.
\u201cSo you\u2019re the one who\u2019s causing all the trouble here.\u201d I\u2019ve never seen this guard in my life, though he looks like a copy of all the others. I don\u2019t know why he\u2019s talking to me, but I try to ignore his unsettling comment, staring ahead, ignoring the queasiness in my stomach as he tugs on my restraints to ensure that I\u2019m fully locked in.
\u201cNothing to say?\u201d He\u2019s much taller than I am, and much wider. His size, coupled with a dark complexion and five o\u2019clock shadow, give him a menacing look. I\u2019d like him to shut his mouth and move on to belittle the next prisoner, but instead he spits a stream of brown tobacco juice into his white foam cup and glares at me.
When each prisoner is chained and secured, the guards lead us outside in a line. The sun is rising, but it\u2019s a cold November morning, and without a jacket I shiver in line, waiting for the guard with the files to call my name.
\u201cSantos!\u201d I step forward when he yells for me. I recite my registration number and submit to yet another yank on my restraints as guards make their final check. The leg irons are heavy. Only a few links hang between my ankles so I have to carefully climb the stairs onto the bus. I drop into an empty bench seat, taking a final look through the metal mesh at Fort Dix.
My chest tightens as sadness washes over me. It hasn\u2019t even been a day and I already miss Carole.
As we cross a bridge into Philadelphia my stomach lurches when I see the federal courthouse. It bothers me as I contemplate the possibility of going back to court, wondering whether some unknown entity is setting me up. I\u2019ve been in prison too long to have any business with the court, and I\u2019m overcome with anxiety that some guard might be framing me for new criminal charges, wanting to discredit what I write about prisons.
The bus parks in a garage beneath the courthouse, and I hear that a federal detention center exists above the courthouse. I follow the procession into a new holding cell and, after guards remove my chains, I sit on the floor. The concrete makes my butt sore, so I sit on my hands and lean my back against the wall.
A guard tosses brown sack lunches through the bars. I catch mine and look inside. Uncertainty about what\u2019s going on robs my appetite, but since I don\u2019t know when the next meal might come, I pull out the sandwich and remove the clear plastic wrap. I savor the food, still hungry after I swallow the last bite.
Prisoners are called out, one after another, until I\u2019m left with one other man to wait. Dinner is a repeat of lunch, with the stale white bread tasting even better the second time. I wonder how much longer I\u2019ll have to wait, and when I\u2019m the last man in the cell, I start to pace.
\u201cSantos,\u201d an obese guard calls my name as she unlocks the gate. She leads me through a bright corridor and directs me into an office. A sandy-haired man in his mid-fifties greets me with a smile from his swivel chair behind the desk. I can\u2019t place him, but he\u2019s familiar, and I know that he must\u2019ve worked in some prison where I\u2019ve been held before.
\u201cI saw \u2018Santos\u2019 on the file and I was wondering whether it was you,\u201d he tells me as he spins around in his chair. \u201cHow\u2019ve you been?\u201d
The black nametag pinned above the pocket of his shirt reads \u201cCarter.\u201d I remember him as a guard from McKean.
\u201cFine, until yesterday,\u201d I answer.
\u201cNo one told you about this transfer?\u201d
\u201cI didn\u2019t know anything when the lieutenant locked me in the hole, and I still don\u2019t,\u201d I repeat for what feels like the umpteenth time. My head aches.
\u201cLet\u2019s see where you\u2019re going. Give me your number.\u201d
I recite my registration number and listen as he types it into his computer, staring at the screen.
\u201cYou\u2019re going to FLF SCP,\u201d he reads the abbreviated designation. \u201cIt\u2019s a camp.\u201d
\u201cWhat? Are you sure?\u201d My anxiety turns to elation and I exhale with relief, smiling. \u201cI\u2019m going to a camp?\u201d
\u201cYes, in Florence, Colorado. I\u2019m surprised no one told you. It\u2019s good news, isn\u2019t it?\u201d
\u201cAre you kidding me? It\u2019s so good I can\u2019t believe it. I\u2019ve been in turmoil for the past 24 hours. This is incredible news. I can\u2019t wait to tell my wife, I\u2019m sure she\u2019s going crazy with worry.\u201d
\u201cThe airlift usually leaves on Mondays, so you\u2019ll stay here through the rest of the week and the weekend,\u201d he tells me. \u201cBut you\u2019ll be flying west soon.\u201d
*******
It\u2019s Sunday morning and I\u2019m exercising in the housing unit at the Philadelphia Detention Center when a guard approaches me. \u201cAre you Santos?\u201d
\u201cYes.\u201d
\u201cCome with me.\u201d
I follow him as he walks into the guards\u2019 station where he sits in the chair behind the metal desk.
\u201cClose the door,\u201d he tells me, and when I do, the noise from the housing unit is silenced. \u201cAre you married?\u201d He glares and judges me.
\u201cYes.\u201d
\u201cWhat\u2019s your wife\u2019s name?\u201d
\u201cCarole Santos.\u201d
He scratches his chin and stares at me. \u201cWhat\u2019s she doing at my institution?\u201d
\u201cWhat are you talking about?\u201d
\u201cThere\u2019s a woman outside claiming to be your wife, trying to talk her way into visiting.\u201d
I shrug. \u201cSo what\u2019s the problem?\u201d
\u201cWhat\u2019s the problem? You haven\u2019t been here long enough to have a visiting list approved.\u201d
\u201cI\u2019ve been here for six days. I gave the counselor my wife\u2019s name the night I was processed in.\u201d
\u201cVisitors aren\u2019t authorized on the premises until staff approves them. She\u2019s not getting in.\u201d
\u201cThen don\u2019t let her in,\u201d I shrug, \u201cbut deal with the consequences that will follow.\u201d
\u201cWhat consequences,\u201d he asks.
\u201cWith all due respect, you\u2019re not in a position to deny her. BOP policy permits immediate family to visit. She was on my visiting list at Fort Dix, and unless you want to respond to an administrative remedy complaint about why you\u2019re disregarding BOP policy, I suggest you let me talk to the decision maker.\u201d
\u201cWhat\u2019re you, a lawyer, somebody important or something?\u201d
\u201cI\u2019ve been in prison since 1987, and if you read my file you\u2019ll find that I know my way around this system. I\u2019m not new at this.\u201d
\u201cStep outside,\u201d he commands.\xa0 \u201cWe\u2019ll see how sharp you are when the lieutenant comes.\u201d
Through the office window I watch as he picks up the telephone receiver, pushes three buttons, and has a brief conversation before setting the phone down. He writes on a pad, then walks out of the office and locks the door behind him.
\u201cGot your ID?\u201d he asks, sounding annoyed.
\u201cYes.\u201d
\u201cLet\u2019s go,\u201d he snaps.
He leads me from the housing unit into a lobby area, and then onto the elevator.
\u201cStep to the back and face the wall,\u201d he directs me, pushing the ground floor button.
As the elevator starts to drop, my heart beats faster. I\u2019m eager to hold my wife again, eager to share the news that I\u2019m being transferred to camp.
After submitting to a quick strip search in the holding room I\u2019m back in my green jumpsuit and hurrying through the door to the visiting room. Families sit across from each other, talking in hushed tones. It resembles any other visiting room, but it\u2019s much quieter than Fort Dix.
The guard at the desk recites the rules to me. I give him my ID card then search the room for Carole. I see her standing in her long navy wool coat, smiling and waiting for me.
\u201cI\u2019ve missed you so much.\u201d She walks forward to embrace me. Her kiss rejuvenates me, like succulent fruit after a 10-mile run on a sunny day.
\u201cWe only have an hour to visit because there\u2019s a line of people around the block and they\u2019re all waiting to get in. You have to sit across from me. We can\u2019t hold hands, and you have to raise your hand for permission to use the bathroom.\u201d Carole rattles off the rules as we sit facing each other.
\u201cWow!\u201d I\u2019m impressed with her command of the situation.\xa0 \u201cOkay, Honey. Let\u2019s make the most of the time we have.\u201d I\u2019m laughing, happy to see her and relieved that she sounds strong and confident. \u201cHow did you know to come here and how did you talk your way in?\u201d
\u201cI\u2019ve been following you on the BOP website. Once I knew you were in Philadelphia, I started calling and found out your housing unit is allowed to visit on Sundays. I brought the policy statement and a notarized copy of our marriage certificate with my identification. At first the guard wasn\u2019t going to let me in, but I showed him the policy statement and asked to see the officer in charge. He verified my date of birth, then let me in.\u201d
\u201cYou\u2019re incredible. Will you love me this much when my sentence ends?\u201d
\u201cForever.\u201d
\u201cThat\u2019s good to hear.\xa0 I thought you might just want to be a prison wife.\u201d
\u201cHa, ha,\u201d she smirks.
\u201cDid you receive my letter explaining everything that happened?\u201d
\u201cI already knew. What do you think I\u2019ve been doing since you vanished from our visit?\u201d
\u201cTell me everything,\u201d I say.
\u201cI was crazy with worry when you didn\u2019t come back. And then Officer Ruiz told me I had to leave, that our visit had been terminated. I drove home and started calling the prison right away, leaving messages with everyone I could think of. Your former unit manager, Mr. Jones, finally called me the next morning and said that he submitted you for transfer to a camp. I was instantly relieved and thrilled at the same time. We\u2019re moving to Colorado!\u201d
\u201cSlow down, Honey,\u201d I caution her. \u201cYou just passed your exam to sell real estate here. Don\u2019t you think you should get your license and sell a few houses, replenish our savings?\u201d
\u201cHoney, I\u2019m not staying in New Jersey if you\u2019re living in Colorado.\u201d
\u201cLet\u2019s think this through, honey.\xa0 I love you and of course I want you with me. But let me get there and see how things look. We shouldn\u2019t make snap decisions, that\u2019s all I\u2019m saying.\u201d
\u201cI\u2019ve already checked. I know exactly where you\u2019re going. Apartments cost about the same out there as they cost here.\u201d
\u201cWhat about a job? You spent all this time and money to get your New Jersey real estate license. Don\u2019t you think you should at least try to make some money before we take on the cost of another cross-country move?\u201d
\u201cHey, we always said our marriage would come first. I need to be where you are, and we need to visit whenever we\u2019re able to. That\u2019s what we promised each other.\u201d
\u201cOkay, okay,\u201d I acquiesce. I\u2019m pleased with her devotion, but worried about our finances. \u201cWe\u2019ll discuss it more when I\u2019m there. But do some more research and see what you can learn about the local job market. We\u2019ll work something out.\u201d
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