139. Earning Freedom (11.2) by Michael Santos
- Earning Freedom by Michael Santos
Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term
Chapter 11-2-Pod 139
Months 190-209
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On my way to Colorado my plane lands at the Federal Transit Center in Oklahoma. Five years have passed since I was here last, but the process is familiar. I even recognize faces of staff members, like the Native American guard with the long braided ponytail.
Our procession of prisoners marches single file through an efficient processing system. We stand on milk crates in groups of seven. Guards sit behind us unfastening our leg irons while another row of guards stand in front of us unlocking our handcuffs, pulling them from the metal chain around our waists to free our bodies. Guards talk among themselves, ignoring the noise of banging metal as they unlock and drop our chains into boxes. When mine come off, I note that my hands are filthy with metallic grease from the chains I\u2019ve gripped for the past 12 hours.
With the news of where I\u2019m going, I don\u2019t mind the annoyances. I\u2019m on my way to camp, and for a long-term prisoner, that\u2019s like going to Disneyland. Inmates in higher security prisons talk about going to lower-security prisons as much as they talk about release. Placement in a camp, we hear, is as easy as it gets for a prisoner. I\u2019m still not convinced that the BOP hasn\u2019t made some mistake, but since the mistake would be in my favor, I\u2019m cool with it.
With a quick head count, I estimate that 200 prisoners flew into Oklahoma with me. As we sit in adjacent holding cells, I ignore the clamor and look around. I\u2019m in the midst of convicted murderers, rapists, gang leaders, Mafia soldiers, and child molesters. Many serve life sentences, but with more than 16 years inside, and nearly 10 to go, my credentials in the society of felons is equivalent to a degree from Stanford or Harvard in the real world. I don\u2019t want to talk with anyone. I don\u2019t want to hear about what\u2019s going on at other prisons, about rivalries between prison groups, about legislation pending in Congress to reform good-time allowances, or about restoration of parole. I want to make it through this final stop, to leave behind, once and for all, the hate-filled, intolerant prison populations to finish the last decade of my sentence among white collar offenders in a minimum-security camp.
\u201cName and number?\u201d A friendly face in a prison guard\u2019s uniform asks as I hand him the pile of forms I\u2019ve completed. He\u2019s got red hair, freckles, and Elvis style sideburns.
\u201cMichael Santos. Number 16377-004.\u201d
\u201cLet\u2019s see. Santos,\u201d he looks down his list. \u201cYou\u2019re going to Florence Camp. Think you can handle that?\u201d
He smiles and\u2028I nod. My nerves settle as I hear a second source confirm where I\u2019m going.
I join six other prisoners, catching the bedroll and dinner sack the guard tosses after calling my name. We follow another guard through steel gates, onto an elevator, and up to the floor of our housing unit. I listen as the guard recites the rules before giving us our assigned cell numbers.
\u201cLockdown is at nine, so it\u2019s too late for you guys to shower or use the phone. Each cell has a panic button. Don\u2019t push it except for a genuine emergency; otherwise you\u2019ll get a shot. Listen for your name and cell number. Stand by your door. I\u2019ll walk around the tier to let you in. Any questions?\u201d
I carry my bedroll into the familiar, triangle-shaped, two- tiered shell, then climb the concrete-and-steel staircase and walk toward cell 624. My feet hurt in the navy canvas deck shoes.
I send up a silent prayer for God to stay with me, to get me through this last transition before I make it to the camp. When I reach my assigned cell door I look through the narrow window and swear under my breath. The prisoner inside looks as big as a Sasquatch. I can\u2019t see his face, but he sits at the desk in boxers without a shirt. His back is huge, and his arms, covered in tribal tattoos, are as big as my thighs. He\u2019s writing, gripping the pencil like it\u2019s a spear in his clenched fist. His full head of hair is an unruly black mop. I pray with renewed earnestness for God to get me through this.
The guard comes to unlock the door, and I want to protest that I\u2019m going to camp, that he should house me with some friendly tax evader. Instead, I remain silent. I pulled a 45-year sentence and I\u2019m expected to handle this kind of situation.
Once the guard locks me inside the cell, the rancid body odor hits me, but I shake it off. My new cellmate turns, revealing an expressionless face from the islands. I greet him while spreading the thin sheets across the top mat then tying the corners in knots beneath the mat to hold the sheets in place.
\u201cWhere you goin\u2019?\u201d The giant man breaks his silence.
\u201cFlorence,\u201d I say, deliberately leaving out the camp part. \u201cI\u2019ve been in for 16 years, finally making it out West,\u201d I offer, unsolicited, to let him know that I\u2019m not new to prison.
\u201cWhere\u2019d you come from?\u201d
\u201cI\u2019ve been all over. Did about seven years in USP Atlanta. Spent time in McKean, Fairton, now I\u2019m coming from Fort Dix.\u201d
He spins around and looks at me with a broad smile on his face. \u201cDude, I know you! You\u2019re Michael Santos.\u201d
He stands to shake my hand, nearly jerking my arm out of its socket with his enthusiasm. \u201cI\u2019m going to Fort Dix. I was on your website every day Bro, reading all your articles on prison before I surrendered.\u201d
I exhale and immediately relax. This man\u2019s a friend, not someone I have to fear. He\u2019s from Tonga, serving five years on an immigration violation. I stretch out on the top rack and answer his questions about life at Fort Dix.
*******
When the guards begin clicking the locks open at 6:00, I hop down from the rack. Tonga, my cellmate, is still sleeping. He\u2019s so tall that his ankles and feet extend beyond the edge of the rack. I tap his shoulder to wake him and tell him that we have to go downstairs for breakfast trays. He grunts, his sour breath nearly knocking me over.
I eat my oatmeal, and then walk to the phones. When the call connects to Carole, I hear her crying as she accepts the charges.
\u201cWhat\u2019s wrong, Honey?\u201d
\u201cI have terrible news.\u201d
\u201cWhat is it, what\u2019s wrong?\u201d
\u201cCarolyn called me. Bruce had a heart attack last night. He died, Michael.\u201d
I\u2019m standing at a phone bank, with prisoners all around me, and it takes a second for the news to settle with me.\xa0 Bruce has been a part of my life since the earliest days of this sentence, when I was beginning my university studies inside the penitentiary\u2019s walls in Atlanta.\xa0 He visited me at least three times each year wherever I was held, and we spoke regularly over the phone, at least once each week for many years. I can\u2019t believe he\u2019s gone, that I\u2019ll never see him again.\xa0 But more than his death, I\u2019m surprised at why the news is hitting Carole so hard.
\u201cHoney, why are you so emotional? You barely knew him.\u201d
\u201cI\u2019m sad because you loved him, and he meant so much to you.\u201d
\u201cYes, he was a great friend to me, but I\u2019ll be okay. It\u2019s more important that I stay strong.\xa0 That\u2019s what he would\u2019ve wanted.\xa0 Instead of being sad at his passing, I\u2019ll celebrate his life and all he\u2019s done to make the world better. Please call Carolyn for me. Tell her how sorry I am and that I\u2019ll write today.\u201d
\u201cThat\u2019s something she asked me on the phone. She wanted to know if you could send a remembrance before the funeral.\u201d
\u201cI\u2019ll write it today and then I\u2019ll read it over the phone the next time I call. Now don\u2019t cry anymore. Bruce would say \u2018keep on keepin\u2019 on,\u2019 and in his honor, that\u2019s what we\u2019re going to do.\u201d
As I walk back to my cell, I realize that he has been with me for 14 years, treating me as if I were part of his family, working to educate me, to guide me.\xa0 He defended me when necessary and smoothed the way wherever and whenever possible. With his death I\u2019ve lost my first mentor, my dearest friend.\xa0 I\u2019ll do my best to express appreciation for him in a eulogy.
Bruce is the second close person to die since my imprisonment. My grandfather, Pat, having first forsaken me, forgave my behavior and spoke with me on the phone before his death in 1999. My father is confined to an Alzheimer\u2019s home. I haven\u2019t seen him since 1995, more than eight years ago, and I don\u2019t think I\u2019m in his memory anymore. He can\u2019t travel, or even talk with me over the telephone. People I love are growing old and may die before my release. This reality starts to settle within, causing new heartache.
*******
We land in Colorado. As I hobble down the stairs from the belly of the plane, with leg irons digging into my ankles, I\u2019m surprised by the climate. It\u2019s seven in the morning on December 4, 2003, and I hear the pilot say the temperature is 40 degrees. I\u2019m only wearing a t-shirt, khaki pants, and navy canvas deck shoes without socks, but I\u2019m not cold. The dry air is still and the low sun shines through a cloudless blue sky.
Four silver prison buses idle on the tarmac. I count 12 vigilant guards standing in navy windbreakers wearing mirrored sunglasses, gripping assault rifles. The guard who waits at the bottom of the stairs wears plastic earmuffs over his head to block the noise from the screeching jet engines. He yells for my name and number, then checks his clipboard and directs me to join the line beside the last bus.
While standing in line, wrists cuffed to the chain around my waist, I study the faces of other prisoners as they walk down the stairs. I see Renegade, a prisoner who walked the yard with me in USP Atlanta. He\u2019s bald, with a long goatee, and I notice that he\u2019s added a few new tattoos to his neck and face. The guard directs him to the bus in front. I wonder where he\u2019s going.
After all the remaining prisoners re-board the aircraft, the guards count those of us standing in lines beside the buses headed to Florence. Apparently, we\u2019re all accounted for, as the guards start ordering us to step on board.\xa0 Once we\u2019re loaded the bus convoy begins rolling down the road toward the Florence Federal Correctional Complex.
As we reach the left turn lane on Highway 33, the buses zip by the guard\u2019s shack to climb the winding and rolling hill that leads into the complex made up of four separate prisons. When our bus turns right into the long driveway of the medium-security FCI, the other buses continue up the road toward the higher-security prisons, including a high-security USP and the federal prison\u2019s ADX unit, also known as the Supermax, a cage for human beings. On the left, close to the highway and not enclosed by a fence, I see what must be the camp. Men in green uniforms mingle in the center of the compound.
Our bus stops beneath a canopy and the double doors squeak open. The lead guard stands at the head of the bus holding a stack of yellow files. He\u2019s a big man with a wad of chewing tobacco that makes his lower lip bulge. He spits brown tobacco juice into a clear plastic Coke bottle with rhythmic precision. When I hear him yell \u201cSantos!\u201d I shuffle forward so he can match my face to the mug shot on the file he holds. He spits into his bottle and then asks me to recite my registration number followed by my date of birth.
With his nod, I have permission to pass. When I step off the bus, I follow the other prisoners and we hobble through rows of armed guards in BOP uniforms. We continue into the foyer of the FCI. Our chains drag on the brown marble passageway making a scraping sound that disturbs the cathedral-like quiet.
We move outside, across a concrete walkway that cuts through reddish-orange gravel raked in neat rows. Another guard meets us, opening the steel door that leads into the Receiving and Discharge area. Before unlocking our chains and leg irons, a guard calls for quiet.
\u201cListen for your name. If you hear it, step to the front of the line,\u201d the guard calls out.
\u201cRoberts.\u201d
\u201cThomas.\u201d
\u201cWilliams.\u201d
\u201cAnd Santos.\u201d
I join the others at the front.
\xa0\u201cOkay,\u201d the guard yells. \u201cThe rest of you, step into the holding tanks so my officers can unlock your chains. I want the four of you to follow me.\u201d
We shuffle into a smaller cell and I reason that he must be separating those of us who\u2019ve been assigned to the camp.
\u201cAre you the same Santos who writes about prisons on the Web?\u201d Williams asks me.
\u201cThat\u2019s right.\u201d I\u2019ve never even seen the Internet but questions about my work give me a lift. \u201cDid you find the information helpful?\u201d
\u201cMore than helpful! I was worried to death about coming to prison. My lawyer didn\u2019t know anything about what it was going to be like. Once I found your site and read about all that you\u2019ve done in prison, I had more hope. My wife, too.\u201d
\u201cHow do you write for the Internet from prison? Will we have computer access?\u201d Roberts asks
\u201cPrisoners can\u2019t access the Internet or use any kind of technology. I write in longhand and then I mail my work home. My wife types it and posts it to the website she operates for me,\u201d I explain.
\u201cYour wife must be something special, staying with you all these years,\u201d Thomas says. \u201cI\u2019ve only got 18 months, and my wife has already filed for divorce.\u201d
\u201cPrison is much harder on the family than it is on us,\u201d I say to the men. \u201cWe can find activities to fill our time, even work toward goals that will improve our lives. Our families have to struggle with financial problems, loneliness, and the shame of our imprisonment.\u201d
As we wait, we learn a bit more about each other.\xa0 Thad Roberts interests me.\xa0 He\u2019s in his mid-20s, beginning a nine-year sentence for stealing moon rocks. His wavy brown hair frames a constantly curious expression on his face. The roots of crime began with his employment as a NASA intern. In a romantic gesture, he promised to give his girlfriend the moon, and he wasn\u2019t speaking metaphorically.\xa0 Thad\u2019s employment gave him access to moon rocks that astronauts brought back, and he broke federal laws by taking a few.\xa0 Although he delivered on his promise to give his girlfriend the moon, he made himself vulnerable to federal law enforcement authorities when he tried to profit by selling the moon rocks on eBay.
The guards bring us our intake forms. They snap our mug shots and take our fingerprints. We answer questions from the nurse, the psychologist, and a case manager. I\u2019m still waiting for a shoe to drop, for someone to say there\u2019s been a mistake, to tell me that I don\u2019t qualify for camp placement.
A guard opens the door and issues red ID cards to Roberts, Williams, and Thomas.
\u201cSantos,\u201d he calls out as he looks my way.
\u201cYes?\u201d
\u201cCome with me.\u201d This could be the shoe.
I follow him through a hallway to a counter where a tall man in a dark blue suit and light blue tie stands beside a well-dressed woman with black hair and glasses. She holds a file with my picture on the cover.
\u201cHow much time are you serving?\u201d she asks me.
\u201c45 years.\u201d
\u201cAnd you\u2019re going to the camp?\u201d The uniformed guard interrupts while the man in the suit observes.
\u201cI\u2019m an old-law prisoner,\u201d I explain. \u201cWith my sentence, I earn more good time than the new-law prisoners. I only serve 26 years total, and I\u2019ve already served more than 16 years. I have fewer than 10 years to go until release and I don\u2019t have any disciplinary problems or a history of violence.\u201d
The woman looks up at the man in the suit, hands him my file, and he flips through the pages.
\u201cYou\u2019re not going to run if I put you in the camp, right?\u201d the man in the suit asks.
\u201cNo sir.\u201d\u2028He nods his head and shrugs. \u201cEverything\u2019s in order.\u201d\u2028
The guard gives me my red ID card and tells me to wait. He calls the other three camp prisoners, and then he leads us out of the building, instructing us to grab a bedroll.
I can\u2019t believe this is really happening. Without chains or restraints of any kind, I walk through the lobby and open the glass doors. For the first time since 1987, neither walls nor barbed wire confine me. I see the highway to my left. The guard points to the camp, across the FCC road, about a half-mile away, and he tells us to walk over. I\u2019m gripped with apprehension that someone will call me back, but I keep walking, not looking back.
*******
The camp holds 500 prisoners, none with documented histories of violence and all with release dates within 10 years. I\u2019m assigned to a housing unit wing with 31 other men and we sleep in two-man cubicles.
\u201cDid you just get here?\u201d I ask a clean-cut man who stands beside me near the unit\u2019s laundry room.
\u201cHow can you tell?\u201d he responds.
I point to his feet. \u201cThe blue canvas shoes, they\u2019re standard issue for all new prisoners. You\u2019ll be able to buy a decent pair of tennis shoes or boots as soon as the staff activates your commissary account.\u201d
He nods his head. \u201cI\u2019m Eric. I got here two days ago.\u201d
\xa0\u201cMichael. I got here this morning.\u201d
Eric is a businessman from Vail who\u2019s serving a five-month sentence for a tax dispute.
\u201cSome of the guys are going to be here for years.\u201d\xa0 I chuckle and we become friends.
Counselor Butler assigns Eric and me to work in the laundry at the Supermax. We wake early to board a bus that drives us over the hill, past the walls that enclose the USP complex, to the back gate of the Supermax. I count eight towers where guards stand post with machine guns. It\u2019s a concrete structure, partially underground, where prisoners live in near total isolation.
As one of five prisoners assigned to the laundry, I work at the sewing machine, mending clothes for prisoners in the Supermax, including the Unabomber, the man who attempted to blow up the World Trade Center in the early 1990s, and Terry Nichols, an accomplice in the Oklahoma City bombing with Timothy McVeigh. On the roster, I also see names of gang members I once knew at USP Atlanta. I wonder if Renegade, the prisoner I saw stepping off the plane when I arrived in Colorado, is here.
*******
Carole and Nichole move from New Jersey to Colorado in mid-January. They arrive for our first family visit at Florence on Friday, January 23, 2004.
Carole and Nichole have made three moves during the past 18 months, which demonstrates her commitment to nurturing our marriage.\xa0 She is determined to live near the prison that confines me, and with that principle in mind, we contemplate a new career for her, something that will allow her to earn a livable wage regardless of where prison administrators place me.
\u201cI\u2019ve been looking at different options,\u201d she tells me. \u201cThe only career I\u2019ve found where I can work anywhere and earn a decent living is nursing.\xa0 I\u2019d have to return to school full-time, taking all the prerequisites in math, science, and English, followed by two years of nursing school. But with a nursing license, I could always find a job, regardless of where they moved you.\u201d
\u201cLet\u2019s do it. We\u2019ll use our savings and income from my writing to get you through nursing school. And I\u2019ll write another book to generate more resources.\xa0 We\u2019ll use all the money that comes into our household to support you.\u201d
Nichole is 12, finishing sixth grade, but we include her in the decisions we\u2019re making.\xa0 It\u2019s our way of working to educate her from inside prison visiting rooms.
\u201cTell me about your new school,\u201d I ask her.
\u201cIt\u2019s like New Jersey. I\u2019ve made a few friends and everyone\u2019s excited about starting junior high next year.\u201d
\u201cWhen we were in junior high, your mom and I already knew each other.\u201d
\u201cThat\u2019s totally weird,\u201d Nichole says.
\u201cMaybe you\u2019re going to school with your future husband,\u201d Carole teases.
\u201cNo way.\u201d
\u201cYou never know,\u201d Carole smiles.
\u201cKeep up your good work, Nichole. Your mom and I are proud of you.\xa0 If you study hard through school, you\u2019ll prepare for many opportunities that will open for you as you grow older.\u201d
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