140. Earning Freedom (11.3) by Michael Santos
Earning Freedom by Michael Santos
Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term
Chapter Eleven: 2003-2005
Months 190-209
It’s the spring of 2004, and even at our 5,000-foot elevation, the snow has stopped falling. The Rocky Mountains are right outside the window, close enough that it looks as if I could reach out and touch them. I have a wonderful view from this prison cubicle in Florence.
Carole studies full time at Pueblo Community College and her schedule helps me mark off the weeks. We visit three hours every Friday evening, six hours on Saturdays, Sundays, and federal holidays. The more time I spend in Carole’s company, with my fingers locked around hers, the more I feel as if I’m a part of something more than a prison population.
While we sit beside each other in the burgundy plastic chairs of Florence’s visiting room, she tells me that we need to generate more support for my clemency petition. It’s been almost a year, and we haven’t heard anything.
I squeeze her hand. “I told you, President Bush isn’t going to commute my sentence. Let’s not divert our attention from what’s really important. We’re doing well and we need time to prepare for my release. You focus on finishing chemistry and biology, and I’ll work on getting a publishing deal.”
“It’s too bad Bruce isn’t alive. He could help.”
“We’ve got to do this on our own. You get your degree, and I’ll find a literary agent who will represent my work. It looks like we’re going to be saddled with four more years of Bush. But if I get a book deal, we might get enough support for a reasonable chance at clemency after he’s gone. And by then you’ll be a nurse.”
“First I need to pass algebra. These word problems were tough when I was in high school, but they’re brutal now that I’m 40.”
“You’re smarter than I am, and I know you can do it.” I pull out the algebra book she brought with her. “Let’s work through some problems together.”
*******
Other than work in the Supermax laundry, exercise, and visiting with Carole, I devote all my energy to writing a book proposal and three sample chapters for a new manuscript. I’m titling it Inside: Life Behind Bars in America. It’s my first attempt to reach a general, non-fiction audience, and I invest more than three months with a Bic pen and a dictionary to put the book proposal together. Carole types the document and sends copies to 90 literary agents I culled from an annotated list published in Writers Market. I’m hopeful they’ll have an interest in my work.
Our effort to find a literary agent makes me a hit at mail call. The guard has been calling my name over and over, passing me no fewer than 73 rejections from literary agents who’ve declined to represent me. But I’ve also received letters from four agents who express an interest. I hold one in my hand now from James Schiavone, a Florida agent who has a doctorate in education.
Educators guided me through my first 17 years of confinement and they served as role models for me. I admire their devotion to improving society through teaching and I respect them for the energy they invest in helping others reach their potential.
I respond to Dr. Schiavone’s letter, letting him know that I’d welcome an opportunity to work with him. That response leads to more correspondence. I amend my proposal according to his suggestions and sign a contract giving Schiavone Literary Agency authorization to present my manuscript to mainstream publishing houses. It thrills me to have a valid contract with a literary agent Carole and I found through our own work.
The executive staff at Florence Camp, however, doesn’t share my elation. This becomes clear when the Camp Administrator, Mr. Jimenez, calls me into his office for an admonishment. My Unit Manager, Ms. Otero, is also present. Anticipating the reason for the meeting, I carry copies of About Prison, Profiles From Prison, and a file with letters I’ve received from numerous professors who use my writings as a resource to teach university students in their criminal justice and corrections courses.
Mr. Jimenez is confident and ambitious, clearly headed for higher offices with the growing Bureau of Prisons system. As the camp administrator, he’s like a mini warden, and all staff members answer to him. As unit manager of the camp, Ms. Otero is his direct subordinate. She reminds me of a miniature bulldog, tough and mean.
Mr. Jimenez authorizes me to come in. He’s sitting in a high-backed chair behind his large oak desk. Ms. Otero stands in front of Mr. Jimenez’s desk, glaring at me like I’m a problem child she’s reporting to the principal, her hands clasped behind her back. Her dark polyester suit fails to hide the roll of fat she tries to camouflage.
“Have a seat, Mr. Santos,” Mr. Jimenez gestures to the green vinyl couch beside his desk.
“I’m placing you on mail-monitoring status,” he says as I sit down.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“It means that the Special Investigative Services lieutenant will review all correspondence addressed to you. From now on, the SIS will have to approve all mail before it’s distributed to you.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Security of the institution,” Ms. Otero says.
“How long will he hold my mail?”
“We’ll try to keep it reasonable,” Mr. Jiminez says. “Depending on the volume of mail you receive, you can expect it in two to three weeks, assuming SIS approves it.”
“What have I done to warrant this sanction?”
“You’re not being sanctioned,” he corrects me. “I have a responsibility to preserve the security of the institution, and this is a precautionary measure I’m taking.”
“A precautionary measure against what? I’m not threatening security. My record is clear, and I’m an open book. All I’m trying to do is prepare for my successful re-entry into society.”
“You’ve still got nine years to serve, and we don’t care anything about your life after release,” Ms. Otero hisses. “All we care about is the security of the institution. We don’t like prisoners writing books and complaining about the system.”
“Have you seen the books I write? I’m not complaining about anything.”
“I don’t need to see your books,” she says. “I don’t want any inmates under my watch writing about prison operations. It threatens security.”
I’m puzzled by her hostility, and I turn to Mr. Jimenez. I sense he’s uncomfortable with her self-righteous invective.
“Can I show you my books?”
He extends his hand and I give him the books and the file of letters.
“I write about the importance of accepting responsibility, about preparing for re-entry. My books don’t threaten security. They offer suggestions for improvements to lower recidivism rates. Universities from coast to coast use them as teaching resources. I’m proud of my work and I’d like to have your support.”
Mr. Jimenez flips through the pages.
Ms. Otero watches the exchange and, sensing that Mr. Jimenez might reconsider, she verbally challenges me again. “What are you in for? Aren’t you a drug dealer?”
“I made the bad decision to sell cocaine in my early 20s. I’m 40 now, hoping you’ll judge me for the record I’ve built over the past 17 years rather than the crime that put me here.”
“I bet you would. You’re serving 45 years, right? Why don’t you just serve your time like everyone else? Write your books when you get out,” she snarls.
I’m immune to her verbal hammer, knowing it’s for Jimenez’s benefit.
“Like everyone else? Ms. Otero, 70 percent of the people who leave prison return to prison. Serving my time like everyone else would only lead to my failure after 26 years. I’m determined not to let that happen. Why would you oppose me? You’ve got gang members running around here who thrive on crime, and you want to spend energy blocking me? Why?”
“The thing is, Mr. Santos, we’ve got an institution to run,” Mr. Jimenez explains, returning my books. “How do you think taxpayers would respond if they heard we were allowing inmates to write books?”
“The BOP policy expressly encourages inmates to write manuscripts, and it says we don’t need staff authorization.”
“It doesn’t say you can publish them,” Ms. Otero barks, unwilling to back down.
“I’m not publishing them, someone else is. I give the manuscripts away. Wouldn’t you rather have prisoners using their time productively in activities that will help them overcome the stigma of imprisonment? Isn’t that better than wasting time on television and table games?”
“I told you. We don’t care what happens to inmates after they leave. We’re running a prison here,” she snaps, angrily.
Mr. Jimenez shakes his head. “We’ve made our decision, Mr. Santos. As of today, you’re on mail-monitoring status. You may appeal the decision, but I’ve consulted with the warden and he agrees that security of the institution comes first.”
I walk out of his office sensing that Mr. Jimenez respects me, maybe even admires what I’ve done. But he’s a career bureaucrat representing a system whose policies have the unintended consequences of perpetuating failure; prison management rejects the workplace practices of innovation and ‘thinking outside the box.’ It’s so much easier to isolate and punish.
I owe no allegiance to Mr. Jimenez, Ms. Otero, or the prison system. By writing about prisons from the inside, I hope to influence support for reforms to our costly prison system that perpetuates so much failure. I feel a duty to write about America’s most flawed institutions, especially a federal prison system hidden from public view and squandering billions in taxpayer resources each year.
*******
From the window of my cubicle, I see Carole’s blue Saturn two-door waiting in a line of vehicles on the side of the road. Every day brings more reason for me to appreciate the blessings of my life. With her love, I feel fortunate, strong enough to overcome whatever this prison system dishes out. When the guard at the main gate raises the barrier for cars to drive into the FCC for visiting, I leave my cubicle and walk toward the visiting room.
When Officer Zimmer pages me, I step into the room for a search. He’s friendly to Carole and me, allowing Carole to bring her textbooks so I can help her study. She was excited on the phone when I spoke to her earlier, and I’m eager to hear her news.
As I enter the visiting room she stands, smiling, her arms waiting for my embrace. She serves this sentence with me. For us, these few hours together are our dates.
“What happened? Did you get an A on your chemistry exam?” I ask.
She smiles at me. “I’m so proud of you,” she says.
“Tell me why.”
“Jim called. He got you a publishing deal for your book.”
“With who?” I ask.
“St. Martin’s Press. They’re giving us an advance. You’ll have distribution all over the world.”
The news thrills me. It’s only been a couple weeks since I signed the agreement with Jim Schiavone and in his letter he urged patience. Although my mentors, George Cole and Marilyn McShane, helped me place my first two books with academic publishers, I’m a novice author to mainstream publishers. I expected my imprisonment would present a real obstacle, but Jim is a solid professional agent. His representation brought credibility with the large New York publishing house, and once again, an educator changes my life. I’m proud that the pens and paper I buy from the prison commissary lead to work that contributes to Carole and Nichole’s well being. A sense of validation comes with this tangible proof that others see me something as more than a prisoner.
“Do I need to talk with anyone, with Jim or someone from St. Martin’s?”
“Everyone understands your situation. You can send everything through me, like always. I’ll type it and forward the manuscript through email. The only question is edits. How will you meet the timeline if the staff keeps holding your mail?”
“Let’s send the manuscript pages to Rick,” I suggest, referring to my roommate. “No one’s checking his mail.”
“I can’t do that. They probably have some rule about my writing to another inmate.”
“Honey, you’re free. You can send mail to anyone you want. We can’t let these mini-minds in prison block us from success.”
“No way,” Carole is adamant. “I’m not going to do anything that might create a problem with our visits. I’ll forward the manuscript pages I type to Jennifer. She can send them to her husband, and when he gets them, he can give them to you.”
“I’ll meet the timeline.”
“No one has any doubt about that,” Carole assures me.
*******
The BOP rule that limits prisoners to 300 telephone minutes each month stifles family ties. With an average of fewer than 10 minutes of daily telephone access, I can’t afford to talk with anyone but Carole. But it’s June 11, 2004, Christina’s 37th birthday. I haven’t spoken with my younger sister since she flew to New Jersey last year to witness my marriage to Carole, so I dial her number in Miami to surprise her.
“Happy birthday,” I say when she answers.
“Hi, thanks.” Christina responds softly, sadly. Then silence.
“What’s wrong? You don’t sound like you’re celebrating,” I push for an answer.
“You haven’t talked to Carole?”
“She’s still in school. I’ll see her tonight when we visit, why?”
“Dad died today, Michael.”
I knew that my father’s health had been declining for the past decade. His illness prevented him from traveling to visit me after I left USP Atlanta. The news from Christina, while not unexpected, hurts. The challenges of this lengthy prison journey keep coming, but I’ve dealt with them repeatedly over the years and I take the news of my father’s passing with stoic acceptance. I exhale, and urge my sister to be strong.
“Can you come to the funeral?” she asks, her voice sounds far away.
“No.” I’m a prisoner and I know my limitations.
“We can postpone the service a few days if you need time for the request.” she pleads with me.
“Christina, they won’t even give me more access to the telephone. They’re not going to let me travel to Seattle for a funeral.
You and Julie arrange the service without me. I’ll pray here and write a eulogy.”
Now the three men closest to me have died. I say prayers for my grandfather, Bruce, and my dad. My imprisonment stretches too long for them to have been able to welcome me home. Not being allowed to pay final respects and show gratitude, I silently hope my father’s death is the last loss of family that I’ll know as a prisoner.
*******
Carole and I eagerly await the celebration of our second wedding anniversary in June of 2005. Just as we did on our wedding day and on our first anniversary, we’ll savor a romantic dinner, whatever snacks the four vending machines offer. We both feel good about being ahead of the schedule we set. Carole is completing the final prerequisites before beginning her bachelors of science in nursing at Colorado State University, and Ben Sevier, my editor at St. Martin’s Press, has accepted my manuscript for Inside: Life Behind Bars in America.
After the 5:00 a.m. census count clears on Wednesday, June 1, 2005, I seal the envelope that holds the prologue for Inside and carry it to the outgoing mailbox. Except for the final editing, I’m finished with that project and I look forward to its publication. It’s time to begin something new.
I return to my cubicle and sit at the tiny metal surface mounted against the green concrete wall. The all-in-one table and stool “desk” is large enough to hold my paper and dictionary, but nothing else. I drape a folded towel over the edge to keep it from cutting into my forearm while I write in longhand. The hard metal stool mounted to a swinging arm beneath the desk is directly beside the window to my right, which frames the million-dollar view of Pike’s Peak and the Rocky Mountains. After 18 months we’re settled, Carole and Nichole live in town, while I climb through the final years of my term in Florence Camp.
After two hours of writing, I hear the page. “Santos! Report to the Bubble.”
The Bubble is at the camp’s entrance where guards congregate. I begin my walk up with apprehension, as I know that nothing good can come from this summons.
When I get to the Bubble I see the SIS lieutenant who is in charge of security for the FCC. He’s sipping coffee with the other guards in the glass enclosure and he reminds me of someone who aspires to a career as an FBI agent. The same lieutenant questioned me a few weeks ago after a newspaper reporter wrote a story about the ADX and cited my work as a source. When I told the lieutenant that I hadn’t had any contact with the media, my response seemed to end his inquiry. Now I’m not so sure, as he rarely bothers with the camp. I present my red ID card to the guard at the window.
“Sit in there,” he commands, pointing across the hall to the visiting room. “Someone will be here to see you.” The guard keeps my ID card, and the SIS agent, who stands behind him, stares at me while sipping his coffee.
I sit alone in the visiting room and look around. Carole and I spend all of our time together here, but intuition tells me that change is about to bury the visiting schedule we value and appreciate so much. My heart beats faster when a guard I don’t recognize walks in and confirms my suspicions.
“Are you Santos?”
“Yes.”
“Cuff up.”