142. Earning Freedom, by Michael Santos
Earning Freedom, by Michael Santos
Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term
Chapter Twelve: 2005-2007
Months 209-231: Discussing adjustment in Lompoc federal prison camp, descriptions of housing, job details, writing projects.
*******
The SIS interview alerts me to my high-profile status at Lompoc and I walk out of the meeting expecting resistance from the staff. I can deal with that. Inside is in publication and St. Martin’s Press is launching an international release that will put my work before tens of thousands. I’m willing to pay whatever price the system exacts so long as I leave prison with more skills and resources that will contribute to my family’s stability.
But I also need to coast for a while, to lower my visibility and to consolidate my gains in preparation for my next project, whatever that is.
In the meantime I pay attention to two factors that influence peace in prison, a bunk assignment and a job assignment. In Lompoc’s warehouse-style living, we’re packed in. When I sit up on my top rack, all I see is a grid of metal bunks, with more than 160 prisoners stuffed inside the room. If I stretch out my hands, I touch the top of another man’s head. If I stand on the two-feet of floor space between my bunk and metal locker, I can’t open my arms without invading the space of another prisoner.
My housing unit, one of two at Lompoc Camp, is so tight its only function is to provide a place for prisoners to sleep, not to offer extra space for desks, televisions, or table games. Our inadequate community bathroom has three urinals, five toilets in stalls so small my knees touch the door when I sit, seven sinks, and four usable showers for 160 men. Prisoners clean their plastic food bowls in the same sinks where they brush their teeth. Oatmeal or last night’s dinner always clogs the drain. Despite the work of the orderlies, the bathrooms remain in various stages of filth.
The living conditions in Lompoc Camp, the “crown jewel” of the federal prison system, rate as the worst I’ve experienced. It doesn’t make a difference where I sleep, as one bunk is the same as the next. Still, despite the wretched housing, Lompoc has advantages that warrant its positive reputation. The scenic surroundings, marginal levels of staff supervision, and a high level of personal freedom combine to offset the tight quarters.
Since I can’t find privacy where I sleep, I try for a job assignment that will give me some space. I want an orderly job in the housing unit, cleaning floors, toilets, or hallways. That job requires two hours of work at most each day, which would leave sufficient time to write. Mr. Castro is the counselor at Lompoc who assigns jobs to prisoners and I wait in line to see him with hopes of influencing his decision.
Mr. Castro’s office is in the front of the dorm, directly across the narrow hallway from the unit officer’s station where I saw the ZZ Top guard. Before I approach him, I ask Rick, a prisoner who’s been in for seven years, how Castro responds to inmate requests for jobs.
“Bring him candy,” Rick suggests.
“What do you mean?”
“Dude likes candy. Seriously. Bring him a Hershey’s bar and you might have a chance.”
“That might work for someone else. If I did it, he’d charge me with attempted bribery.”
“Tell him you found two Hershey bars on top of your locker,” Rick advises. “Since they’re not yours, and you don’t know who the candy belongs to, tell him you’re turning them in. Then ask him for the job you want.”
I laugh and thank Rick for the heads up. But I knock on Castro’s door empty-handed.
“Come in,” I hear him say, and I open the door. He sits behind his desk, looking like a beach ball, round and short.
“Mr. Castro, I’m Michael Santos, and I just arrived here. I’d like to speak with you about my job assignment.”
The counselor folds his pudgy hands across his corpulent belly and grins. “I know who you are, Mr. Santos. Where do you want to work?”
“I’ve been in a long time. I’m hoping for a job that will give me time to write. I’d like to work as an orderly.”
“Watch the callout. I’ve got a job in mind for you and it’s not as an orderly.” He keeps grinning but doesn’t offer any hints.
The “callout” is the daily printout the staff posts for inmate scheduling. It lists appointments with medical staff, program assignments, unit team meetings, bed changes, and inmate jobs. When I see my name assigned to the farm, I understand Trent’s grin. He prefers me shoveling cow manure to wielding a pen.
Lompoc Camp operates a working farm, several thousand acres in size, with herds of cattle, horses, and dairy cows. The dairy requires a large crew of prisoners to milk and tend to more than 300 cows daily. Prison “cowboys” perform all the ranch labor raising cattle for beef; yet another prison crew maintains the acres of corn and soybeans grown to feed the cattle. One small crew of prisoners drives 18-wheelers between Lompoc and Arizona to deliver milk produced at the camp. Those prisoners sleep in motels and eat in restaurants four days a week without staff supervision.
Besides the ranching operation, the 350 camp prisoners provide manpower to sustain the adjacent low-security and medium-security prisons. Prisoners fill positions as electricians, plumbers, painters, carpenters, landscapers, mechanics, wastewater treatment operators, and clerical workers for a community of 5,000 inmates and staff.
Some camp inmates experience an unusually high degree of freedom in their jobs, even being assigned government vehicles. While working on the farm or away from the camp, those prisoners can manipulate time for themselves. As such, Lompoc is a haven for every kind of contraband and unauthorized trysts with wives and girlfriends.
Neither the work nor the extra freedom serves my purposes. Unlike the recently convicted politicians and white collar professionals who serve short sentences at Lompoc Camp, my old-law sentence comes with an advantage that makes taking liberty with the rules dangerous. Under old-law I earn more good time. A disciplinary infraction can reduce the 19 years of good-time credit I earn against my 45-year sentence. To earn freedom, I focus exclusively on preparations that will contribute to my success upon release while avoiding behavior and interactions that could extend my imprisonment.
*******
Carole finishes her summer courses in Colorado and she and Nichole sell most of their belongings in a yard sale. I haven’t seen my wife for 73 days since they locked me in the Florence SHU. A thousand miles separated us on our second wedding anniversary on June 24, 2005, while I was in transit to Lompoc. We burn through our monthly allotment of 300 telephone minutes with endearments. It isn’t enough. My mother, my grandmother, Julie, and Christina, make the long trip to Lompoc while I wait for Carole. Guards returned my wedding ring to me when they processed me in, but it still isn’t enough. I ache for my wife, for the softness of her kiss.
I stand outside behind the dorm, under a row of eucalyptus trees that line the road, and I watch as Carole follows seven other cars driving slowly around the potholes to enter the FCC. My heart beats for her. When I see her turquoise Saturn approach, I smile. She drove across Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona, and California to join me, and I feel as if I’m the luckiest man alive, despite the fact that I’m beginning my 19th year in prison.
I see her turn into the camp. We wave as she drives just a few feet from me. While she parks and stands in line for processing, I walk around to the back, sit on a bench under a pine tree and wait for the visiting room guard to page me.
“Santos! Visit!” I hear the page over loudspeakers that blast through the camp.
Eager to see her, touch her, hold her again, I hand my ID card to the guard at the desk. Then I search for my wife in the crowded visiting room. She’s at the vending machines waiting to purchase a cup of coffee, wearing pressed blue jeans, a white cotton blouse, and black heels that bring the top of her head to my eye level. We hold each other tightly and kiss.
“I missed you, Baby,” she whispers into my ear.
“You’re beautiful, prettier than ever. I’m so glad you’re here,” I tell her.
“We’ll never stay apart this long again.”
“I missed you terribly. Come on, let’s sit outside.” Although the living conditions at Lompoc Camp disappoint me, the camp visiting area surpasses any we’ve experienced. A front yard has 20 wooden picnic tables, some with two seats, others with four. They’re set on a closely cut, lush green lawn still wet with morning dew on this August morning. A two-rail fence of rough timber outlines the perimeter of the visiting area. Toward the end of the yard there’s a concrete bench next to a wooden carving of a friendly-looking California black bear. I lead Carole to the bench where we can sit in the shade of a tall eucalyptus tree. Through the thin forest of pines outside the visiting area, we catch glimpses of prisoners inside the gates of the adjacent low-security prison playing tennis and soccer.
“Wow! It’s so beautiful here. It doesn’t look like a prison,” Carole muses. “Who takes such good care of the roses?”
“You’ll meet him later. We call him Dave the Flower Man. He’s one of the guys I’ve met.”
“Why’s he here?”
“He’s a land developer from the Tahoe area, serving about a year for a business deal that went bad.”
I tell Carole about the camp, about how it differs from everywhere else I’ve been, and that I’d like to stay here until I go home. But Carole isn’t so pleased with it. She suggests that I put in for a transfer.
“Why?” I ask.
“Honey, it’s going to cost me twice as much to live here as it did in Florence. I’ve been looking all week. Everything’s more expensive, including rent, gas, and food. I’m worried about being able to afford it.”
“What about school? Can you start in September?”
Carole tells me about the waiting list. In Colorado, she was scheduled to begin nursing school in September and to graduate in 2008 with a bachelor of nursing degree.
“The soonest I’m going to get into a nursing program here is in January of 2007. I won’t even earn my vocational nursing degree until May of 2008, and the RN’s another year after that. I don’t think we’ll have enough money to live here. I think you should try to transfer to Oregon, or someplace less expensive.”
“Honey, it’s not that easy. I’ve only been here for two months. No one is going to listen if I ask for a transfer, not until I’ve been here for at least 18 months.”
“Why not? Even the SIS doesn’t want you here. What’s going to happen if I settle here and they transfer you again?”
I squeeze Carole’s hands to reassure her. “Then we’ll have to deal with it. I can ask for a transfer in the spring of 2007, but then you’ll be in the nursing program. Let’s make it work here.”
“You’ve said yourself that you can’t control what they’re going to do to you, and the SIS has already warned you. They can take you away in the middle of the night, just like they did at Fort Dix and at Florence.” Carole’s voice reveals her concern.
“I promise you, I won’t do anything that causes trouble,” I say, putting my arm around her.
“But you never cause trouble.”
“I mean I won’t write anything about prison. I’m not going to do anything that they would consider a threat to the security of their precious institution. I’ll work at the dairy and I’ll live like a prisoner until you finish nursing school. St. Martin’s Press will release Inside next year and you’ll receive more money when it does. We can generate more revenues through our website to help. That, along with other royalty checks will get you through nursing school. We have to make our lives work here. We’ll need that security for when I come home.”
*******
Mr. Griggs, the unit manager at Lompoc Camp, loves to smoke. While standing beneath the blue and white striped awning outside the administration building, he admires rings of nicotine clouds that hang over his head. Today he watches me walk across the parking lot toward him.
“May I talk to you?” I stop outside the yellow line under the awning so as not to penetrate his space.
“Open house is at three.” He shuts me down.
“I’ll have to be at work then. It’s only a question,” I persist.
Mr. Griggs blows a cloud of smoke above his head, and he looks up to admire his work. “What is it?”
“I’d like you to authorize a job change for me.”
“Why?”
“I’ve been working at the dairy for six months. I need to spend more time preparing for the career I want to build upon release.”
“Release? Don’t you have like five more years to go?”
“I get out in 2013, in seven more years.”
“It’s too soon for you to be thinking about release. The needs of the institution come first. You can stay at the dairy.”
“The clerk in the powerhouse is leaving. I’ve been waiting to switch to that job.” He blows another cloud of smoke, watching as it rises.
“Let me think about it.”
*******
In the spring of 2006, I finally prevail upon Mr. Griggs to authorize my job change from the dairy to the powerhouse. The powerhouse operates three massive boilers that generate steam to heat the adjacent medium-security penitentiary. It requires around-the-clock staffing. As the powerhouse clerk, I become friendly with Mr. Brown, the manager, and with his many subordinates who alternate shifts as foreman. I have an office with a large desk and credenza and bookshelves, an electric typewriter with memory, file cabinets, and a cushioned office chair. When I close the door, I’m alone.
My job requires a few duties. I keep records of all energy expenditures for the Federal Correctional Complex; I complete regulatory “safety” forms; and I tally timesheets for the 100 prisoners assigned as laborers. It’s tedious administrative work, but I develop a system that allows me to stay current with my responsibilities while setting aside a few hours each day for my correspondence and independent writing projects.
I’ve made a new friend and mentor, Dr. Sam Torres. After retiring as a senior United States Parole Officer, he became a professor of Criminal Justice at the California State University in Long Beach. He uses my first book, About Prison, as required reading for courses he teaches in corrections, and that leads to a correspondence between us. Dr. Torres tried to visit when I was in Florence, and again when I moved to Lompoc. Mr. Griggs and senior BOP administrators refuse him permission on the grounds of preserving security in the institution.
They cite policy that prohibits prisoners from visiting with people they did not know prior to confinement. Ironically, as writing puts me in contact with more people, BOP administrators become more vigilant in their efforts to isolate me from society. Dr. Torres extends me the privilege of interacting with his class, and I respond to written questions from future parole officers and prison administrators whom he teaches.
My work in the powerhouse becomes much easier when Mr. Brown, one of the shop foremen, gives me a sleek new Dell computer with a speedy laser printer. It’s loaded with software for word processing and spreadsheets that improve the accuracy of my work. By using the computer, I can complete in an hour what used to take five. It’s a wonderful tool. I appreciate the time it saves as well as the opportunity to learn new technology.
As the powerhouse clerk, I work for all the foremen and for Mr. Johnson, the managing department head, but Mr. Brown is the foreman who hired me. He’s my primary supervisor and he looks out for me. He is in his late 40s, a family man who expresses pride when he talks with me about his children. His wife lives nearby and she sometimes drops food by the powerhouse that he shares. Mr. Brown treats me like a man, an employee, rather than a prisoner. When he or any of the other staff members ask for help with personal writing, I don’t hesitate.
“Mr. Brown, is it okay with you if I use the computer for to work on some of my writing projects?”
“What’re you writing? Another book?”
“Maybe. I don’t know, I’m thinking about it. I’m here all day, and when I’m finished with my work I’d like to write, as long as it’s okay with you.”
“As far as I’m concerned, the computer’s no different than a typewriter.” He shrugs his shoulders. “It’s not connected to the Internet. I can’t see how anyone would have a problem with you writin’ on it.”
*******
I’m about to complete my 19th year in prison, and I only have seven more years in front of me. Carole lives only a few miles away, close enough to visit every Saturday, Sunday, and federal holiday. Nichole is an honor student. She’ll graduate from high school in June of 2008, a full year ahead of schedule. My job at the powerhouse is a breeze, leaving me with only one concern: finances. I’m responsible for providing the money to cover Carole’s living expenses and I don’t want her to have any financial concerns while she studies through nursing school.
“Honey, I think I should try to write another book,” I suggest at the start of our visit.
She shakes her head. “Please, no more problems. We’ve got enough to worry about with Inside coming out in August. We don’t know what the SIS is going to do with you once the BOP reads it, but at least you wrote it before you transferred here. He already warned you what would happen if you wrote a new book, and I’m scheduled to start the nursing program in January. Please, I’m begging you, don’t do anything that could disrupt our lives again.”
I hold her hand. “It’s your school I’m thinking about. I’ve got to make sure you have enough money. What good is starting school if you don’t have enough money to finish?”
“What good is it if I start school and the SIS locks you up and transfers you across country? And what if they take away our visiting?”
“I can write from SHU, I can exercise in a cell. And if they take away our visiting, we’ll deal with it. What’s important is that you’re a nurse when I come home, because no matter how much I prepare, I might face some real challenges earning an income after 26 years in prison. We’ll need your earning stability.”
“What do you want to write?” Carole asks.
“I’ve met so many businessmen here. I could start interviewing guys who serve time for fraud, securities violations, or tax problems. I’m thinking of writing their stories for a book we could call White Collar. Instead of writing about prison, I’d write to describe how educated people unknowingly make decisions that lead them to prison. I think there’s a market for it and I don’t see how anyone could accuse me of threatening security. But I promised you I wouldn’t do anything that might bring problems unless you agreed. What do you think?”
“I’m afraid they’ll take you away.”
“Do you trust me?”
“Of course.”
“Would you still love me, stay married to me if they took me away and if we couldn’t visit?”
“I’ll always love you, and I’ll always stay married to you, but please don’t talk about being taken away.”
“We both know that could happen at any time. We need to base our decisions on our future, not our visiting. Writing is the only way I can earn money for us, but I want your agreement, I need you to buy in to this plan.”
Carole shakes her head, but acquiesces. “Whatever you think is best.”