141. Earning Freedom (12.1) by Michael Santos
Chapter Twelve: 2005-2007
Months 209-231
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\u201cWhat\u2019s this scumbag here for?\u201d
The guard on duty barks as we enter the closed corridor inside the Special Housing Unit. Since he doesn\u2019t know me I surmise that his obvious contempt extends to all prisoners.
I stand silently, both hands still locked behind my back.
\u201cOne for SHU. Captain\u2019s orders.\u201d The transporting guard uncuffs me and walks away.
\u201cStrip!\u201d The SHU guard commands.
I unbutton and remove my green shirt, then I pull my t-shirt over my head and drop it on the floor. The guard stands close, too close, staring as I take off my sneakers, my pants, my underwear, and my socks.
\u201cTake everything off.\u201d
I stand in front of him, naked, and I unfasten the rubber wristband of my Timex wristwatch, dropping the watch into his outstretched hand.
\u201cGive me the ring.\u201d
\u201cI don\u2019t have to give you my ring.\u201d
\u201cWhat did you say, Inmate?\u201d He takes a step closer and his breath hits my face.
I hold up my left hand. \u201cThis is a silver wedding band, without stones. BOP policy says I can wear it at all times.\u201d\u2028
The guard takes off his glasses, closes them and slides them into his shirt pocket. He inches closer to me. \u201cYou tellin\u2019 me how to run my institution, scumbag?\u201d
\u201cI\u2019m not resisting you. Call the lieutenant. He\u2019ll know the policy.\u201d
\u201cI\u2019m in charge here.\u201d The guard balls his fists, wanting to fight. \u201cEither take the ring off, or I\u2019m gonna take it off. It\u2019s not coming into my unit.\u201d
Standing naked, I\u2019m not in a position to argue for my rights. This guard thirsts for a violent confrontation, and if it comes to that, I lose. With the length of time I\u2019ve served, I\u2019m conditioned to accept that guards routinely cite their mantra about preserving security of the institution while they violate both human rights and civil rights. Despite the promise I made to Carole about never taking it off, I slide the band off my finger and I hand it to the guard. He steps back, puts his glasses back on, and then he continues the search.
The guard issues me a green jumpsuit and a bedroll.\xa0 We walk down the cellblock. When he unlocks the metal door I see three prisoners inside. Rollo, a young prisoner, is on the top rack. He caused a stir at the camp several months ago when he decided that he\u2019d had enough of confinement and walked away. Pueblo is on the lower rack, locked in SHU two months ago for fighting. Jerome sits on the floor in SHU because the guard in food services caught him going through the food line twice on hamburger day. I drop my bedroll on the floor for a cushion, and I lean my back against the wall, bending my knees to prop my feet against the steel toilet.
\u201cWhat\u2019d they get you for?\u201d Rollo asks from his rack.
\u201cEmbezzlement. They say I transferred a million dollars from the prison\u2019s bank account to my wife\u2019s account.\u201d
\u201cNo way! Really?\u201d Rollo would believe me if I\u2019d told him I was locked in the SHU for not putting my napkin in my lap. He\u2019s totally gullible.
\u201cI don\u2019t know why I\u2019m here. They just locked me up,\u201d I admit and shrug.
\u201cAy Rollo you so stupid, you believe anything.\u201d Pueblo whacks him with his pillow from the lower rack.
\u201cIt could happen!\u201d Rollo defends himself. \u201cAin\u2019t you never seen The Shawshank Redemption, Homie?\u201d
\u201cDat shit was a bad-ass flick,\u201d Jerome says.
\u201cRollo,\u201d I ask. \u201cWhy did you walk away from the camp?\u201d
\u201cI missed my ol\u2019 lady.\u201d
\u201cWhen he done showed up at her door, da bitch done called da FBI on his stupid ass,\u201d Jerome says, finishing Rollo\u2019s explanation.
\u201cIs that what happened?\u201d I ask Rollo.
He nods his head and laughs. \u201cI\u2019m facing five more years for escape.\u201d
\u201cWhat were you serving before?\u201d I ask him.
\u201cTwenty-two months for credit card fraud.\u201d
\u201cYou\u2019ll probably get another year. You can use the time for school,\u201d I say.
\u201cThat fool ain\u2019t goin\u2019 to no school.\u201d Pueblo says. \u201cHe can\u2019t even play no cards.\u201d
I spend the entire day on the floor of the crowded cell, which won\u2019t allow for Pueblo or Rollo to step off their bunks. When someone has to use the toilet or sink, I stand in the corner. Exercise isn\u2019t an option here, and with the back and forth chatter, reading or writing will have to wait.
In the evening, a guard unlocks the door and tosses me a sleeping mat. I slide it under the steel rack, then carefully crawl under the bed, head first, and I lie still. Pueblo\u2019s steel rack is only inches above me, too close for me to turn on my side. I sleep lying on my stomach, using my crossed arms as a pillow.
\u201cSantos! Roll up!\u201d I haven\u2019t been asleep for long when I hear the guard kicking the metal door. He unlocks the door and opens it.
I crawl out from under the bed, careful not to step on Jerome. The guard cuffs my hands behind my back and leads me out. I don\u2019t ask questions and he doesn\u2019t offer explanations. I strip, toss my jumpsuit into a bin and I stand for the search, eager to move out.
\u201cWhat size?\u201d The guard asks.
\u201cTwo-X,\u201d I say.
He tosses a roll of traveling khakis. After I\u2019m cuffed and chained, I join a group of other prisoners and we climb into an idling bus. The sky is still dark. We drive through the gates and join a convoy of three other buses, two carrying prisoners from the Florence penitentiary and one from the ADX.
As the buses turn right, leaving the Florence Correctional Complex behind, I look through the tinted windows and wonder where Carole lives. The house she rents is only two miles from the prison, she told me, but I don\u2019t know where. The bus moves past the dark cross streets too fast for me to see her car parked in a driveway. No matter. It\u2019s before dawn and she\u2019s asleep, oblivious to a new uprooting of our lives.
*******
I have a window seat as the plane takes off. I expect to sleep in the Oklahoma Transit Center again tonight and wonder whether I\u2019ll see the Native American guard. I count how many times I\u2019ve been on prison transport planes, and come up with 12, explaining why some of the U.S. marshals look familiar. I notice graying hair and new wrinkles in weathered faces; over the past 18 years I\u2019ve flown with them throughout their careers.
We\u2019ve been in the air a few hours when my ears pop and my stomach lurches. While we\u2019re descending, I glance out from the tiny window.\xa0 As our plane approaches the landing strip, I see evergreen trees that surround a lake I recognize. We\u2019re approaching Seattle, the city where Carole and I grew up, where Julie and her family still live. Carole and I may have grown up here, but it\u2019s no longer home. We\u2019re nomads, a prison family.
The plane lands at Boeing Field, right beside Interstate 5. I look outside and spot guards and marshals surrounding the plane for the prisoner exchange. I wish they would call my name, as I\u2019d like to walk on Seattle ground again. I may be in chains, but I\u2019m breathing the same air my sister breathes, though she doesn\u2019t know I\u2019m here. Even my wife doesn\u2019t know where I am.
After an hour we\u2019re airborne again and I take a last look out the window. It\u2019s 2005, probably eight more years before I\u2019ll see the Seattle skyline again. The Emerald City fades away as the plane banks and climbs higher. In eight years I don\u2019t know where Carole and I will make our home. We may want to make a start in a new city, or even a new country.
I see Oklahoma City again as the plane taxis. It\u2019s my fifth time here and I know the routine. Hobbling in my chains, I\u2019m eager to fill out the forms and turn them in. The sooner processing begins, the sooner I\u2019ll find out where I\u2019m going.
\u201cDo you know where you\u2019re going?\u201d the woman in uniform asks.
I shake my head \u201cno,\u201d and pass her my intake forms.
\u201cSantos, Michael,\u201d she says and moves her forefinger down the list of names on her computer printout. \u201cBig Spring, Texas,\u201d she says, and my heart sinks. \u201cNo, wait, you\u2019ve been re-designated. You\u2019re going to Lompoc Camp.\u201d
*******
Among prisoners, Lompoc Camp on the Central Coast of California has a reputation of being the crown jewel of the federal prison system. For years I\u2019ve heard that administrators reserved Lompoc Camp for politicians who\u2019ve run afoul of the law and for powerful white-collar offenders.
Traveling by bus up the Pacific Coast Highway, with the salty smell of the ocean filling my lungs, invokes pleasurable childhood memories of visiting my grandparents in Los Angeles while on summer vacations. I remember swimming with my sisters at different California beaches, jumping into the waves that roll endlessly onto the shoreline. As I look at the ocean, I try to remember the sensation of floating in water. I contemplate what it might feel like to submerge my body. For 18 years the only water I\u2019ve felt has sprayed from a spigot. I can\u2019t remember the sensation of buoyancy. In eight years Carole and I will bathe together and we\u2019ll swim in that ocean.
Klein Boulevard, the long thoroughfare leading into the Lompoc Federal Correctional Complex, is a crumbling asphalt road riddled with potholes. On my right is the fenced boundary of the medium-security prison, and on my left is the low-security prison. As the bus lurches along the dilapidated road toward the camp, prisoners in green uniforms walk freely on scenic trails winding between tall eucalyptus trees that fragrantly scent the air. I appreciate the natural beauty.
After six hours of processing, guards hand us our ID cards and bedrolls. I join four other prisoners walking outside the gates from the Receiving and Discharge building in the higher-security prison. Walking ahead of the crowd, I pass the field where a group of prisoners play soccer. Further down the road several men pump iron at the camp\u2019s weight pile. Pinecones that fall from the trees litter the path I\u2019m on.
The housing unit resembles a steel, prefabricated warehouse, and the laid back guard inside looks more like a member of ZZ Top, with his long beard, black sunglasses, heavy silver rings with Gothic designs.\xa0 Tattoos of double lightning bolts, flames, skulls, and cross bones cover his forearms. He\u2019s in a messy office, holding a Maxim magazine with a young woman in panties, sucking a lollipop, on the cover.\xa0 He's leaning back in his chair, with crossed legs and heavy black leather boots resting casually on a gray metal desk.
I stand in front of him with my bedroll and the other new prisoners begin to crowd into the office, lining up behind me. The guard ignores us while flipping the pages of his magazine. Green canvas duffle bags are scattered on the scuffed and dingy tile floors. A desk fan blows and a radio broadcasts hardcore rap music by Tupac.
\u201cWazzup?\u201d The guard finally lowers his magazine.
I give him my ID card and the other prisoners follow my lead.
\u201cYou guys the fresh meat?\u201d he asks, turning down the volume of the radio.
We stand still, waiting as the guard sorts through index cards.\xa0 He then pulls his feet from the desk and stands.
\u201cFollow me,\u201d he says.
We follow him out of the office and down the narrow hall to the right. It empties into an open space as large as a private airplane hangar. For the crown jewel of the BOP, it\u2019s mighty tarnished. Six columns of gray metal bunks, 30 rows deep, fill the immense room. The noisy, crowded accommodations have a putrid stench. I follow the guard as he leads us down the center aisle and taps the fourth bed in column four.
\u201cSantos. This is you.\u201d
He keeps walking with the others. I put down my belongings and prepare to settle in.
*******
\u201cSantos!\u201d I hear the loudspeaker. \u201cInmate Michael Santos. Number 16377-004. Report to the administration building. Immediately!\u201d
Not again, I groan inwardly. I\u2019ve only been at Lompoc Camp for a day and I\u2019m already being paged. I walk the short distance for yet another confrontation with BOP administrators. As I pass by a sparkling white Dodge Intrepid sedan with darkly tinted windows and three small antennae sticking out of the car\u2019s rear end, I assume it\u2019s from the fleet of the Federal Correctional Complex security force. A closer look at the elaborate communication system inside the car confirms my suspicions. Someone is here to interrogate me.
Through the smoked glass of the building\u2019s front door sits a receptionist. I knock, waiting for her to acknowledge me before opening the door. I\u2019ve heard other prisoners refer to her as \u201cthe dragon lady,\u201d so I don\u2019t open the door until she indicates it\u2019s okay. It\u2019s a standoff, but I\u2019m prepared to wait all day.\xa0 I prefer the wait to being scolded and bullied.
After several minutes, she grasps that I\u2019m not going to open the door, and I\u2019m not going to knock again. She looks up, annoyed, and motions me in.
\u201cI\u2019m Michael Santos.\u201d I present my ID card. \u201cI heard a page to the administration building.\u201d
Before she can answer, a stocky man with a chiseled face and a military-style crew cut steps into the doorway of the conference room. He\u2019s wearing a heavily starched BOP uniform.
\u201cI paged you, come in.\u201d He directs me to a chair at the side of the table.
\u201cSit down. Do you know who I am?\u201d
\u201cNo.\u201d I shake my head.
\u201cI\u2019m Lieutenant Merkle. Special Investigative Services.\u201d He opens a burgundy leather portfolio on the table. \u201cIt\u2019s generally not a good sign when I call an inmate for a meeting.\u201d
\u201cI\u2019m familiar with the role of the SIS.\u201d\xa0 These guards can\u2019t intimidate me.
\u201cI\u2019m sure you are.\u201d
The room is quiet as he flips through his papers.
\u201cSo you\u2019re the writer. Do you know why you\u2019re here?\u201d
\u201cYes, I do.\u201d I nod my head.
\u201cAnd what\u2019s your interpretation?\u201d
\u201cWhen I was in my early 20s, I sold cocaine. I\u2019ve been a prisoner since then, and as a prisoner I\u2019m susceptible to these kinds of summons.\u201d
The lieutenant glances up at me. \u201cSo you\u2019re a wise guy?\u201d
\u201cNot at all. That\u2019s why I\u2019m here. If I hadn\u2019t sold cocaine, we wouldn\u2019t be talking right now.\u201d
He stares at me. \u201cBut you did sell cocaine.\xa0 Now you\u2019re an inmate in my institution.\u201d
He pulls out a page from his portfolio. \u201cI received a letter from Lieutenant Knowles, SIS at Florence.\u201d
\u201cOkay.\u201d
\u201cYou were transferred here administratively because your writing presented a threat to the security of that institution.\u201d
\u201cHow so?\u201d
\u201cIt doesn\u2019t matter. Point is, you\u2019re in my institution now and I\u2019m here to give you notice. If you write anything that threatens the security of my institution, I\u2019m not going to transfer you. Instead, I\u2019ll bury you so deep in the SHU that no one will ever find you. Do you understand that?\u201d
\u201cWhat do you consider a threat to the security of the institution?\u201d
\u201cYou\u2019re a wise guy, you figure it out. But if I lock you up for an investigation, you won\u2019t have access to telephone, mail, or visits. Do you understand?\u201d
\u201cFor what, though?\u201d I gesture with open hands. \u201cI\u2019ve never written a sentence that threatened security. All my work urges people to act responsibly and to lead law-abiding lives. I live by that rule. Why would you consider my writing a threat?\u201d
\u201cI ask the questions. I don\u2019t answer them,\u201d the lieutenant snaps, closing his file.
\u201cCan I ask if you\u2019re placing me on mail-monitoring status?\u201d
\u201cInmate Santos, you\u2019re starting here with a clean slate, no mail monitoring, no restrictions. Don\u2019t threaten security in my institution and you won\u2019t have any problems. If you see me again, it won\u2019t be good for you.\u201d
\u201cOne more thing, Lieutenant. While I was in Florence I wrote a book about what I\u2019ve observed in prison. St. Martin\u2019s Press has the manuscript and intends to publish it in 2006. Is that book going to be a problem?\u201d
He rubs his chin. \u201cWe\u2019ll visit that issue when the book comes out.\u201d
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