144. Earning Freedom (13.1), by Michael Santos
Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term, by Michael Santos
Chapter 13.1
Going to the SHU at Lompoc Federal Prison Camp
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2007
Months 232-233
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It\u2019s Wednesday, April 18, 2007 and our family is making excellent progress.\xa0 While Carole studies for the final exams to complete her first semester of nursing school, I\u2019m finishing the writing projects that I began with Lee Nobmann\u2019s sponsorship.\xa0 Despite the six years of prison that I have ahead, I\u2019m making progress, living a productive life, and that makes all of the difference in the world.
While work at my desk, the door opens. I see Mr. Dorkin, a guard who joyfully equates harassing men in minimum-security camps with protecting the homeland. It\u2019s 2:00 in the afternoon when he interrupts my typing.\xa0 Dorkin\u2019s a guard I avoid, and I don\u2019t like seeing him in this space that I consider my sanctuary. He has a reputation for annoying prisoners, and now he is annoying me with his glare.
Mr. Brown, my supervisor, stands behind Dorkin, and I get the sense that something isn\u2019t right. Dorkin is grinning. \u201cSantos,\u201d he commands. \u201cStand up, take your hands off the keyboard, and put them behind your head.\u201d
Not a stranger to these orders, I comply. Dorkin puts his big hands on me. He pats my chest, my waist, and then runs his fingers along the inside of my belt. He pats each of my legs, swiveling his two-handed grip down each leg to my sneakers, then he inserts his finger between my shoe and ankle.
\u201cWould you prefer that I take my shoes off?\u201d I ask.
\u201cThere\u2019ll be plenty of time for that. Just keep lookin\u2019 straight ahead.\u201d Mr. Dorkin orders. \u201cOkay, drop your hands. Put \u0313em behind your back.\u201d
He unsnaps one of the leather pouches of his black belt and removes the cuffs. The familiar sound of clicking metal teeth follows cold steel closing around my wrists. I wonder when such intrusions into my life will end, if ever.
\u201cWhat kind \u0313a contraband am I gonna find in here?\u201d he asks.
\u201cI don\u2019t have any contraband,\u201d I state unequivocally, wondering what this moron wants with me.
\u201cGee. I\u2019ve never heard that before,\u201d he says sarcastically. Then he spins me to the door, grabbing the chain between my handcuffs to steer me toward it. \u201cLet\u2019s go. Move it.\u201d
Dorkin marches me down the hallway and out into the sunshine where I see a white Dodge Intrepid waiting. He opens the car\u2019s rear door and, with his palm on my head, he pushes me into the back seat. He straps the seatbelt over my waist and then slams the door shut. I look through the tinted window at Mr. Brown, relatively certain that this will be the last time I see him.
Through the black metal mesh separating his seat from mine, Dorkin taunts me. \u201cGot anything to say, Santos?\u201d
I continue staring out the window, immune to his heckling. \u201cTake me wherever you\u2019re taking me and do what you\u2019ve got to do.\u201d
\u201cThat\u2019s the way you wanna play it?\u201d Dorkin uses his authority like a weapon and he\u2019s accustomed to having an effect on prisoners. When I don\u2019t respond, he scowls because I\u2019ve spoiled his game.
Silently, I watch as we pass through the eucalyptus and pine trees. Although I don\u2019t know why I\u2019m being harassed this time, I\u2019m pretty sure I won\u2019t be seeing Lompoc Camp again. At the double gates that lead to the Special Housing Unit, Dorkin pulls the radio from his belt, brings it to his mouth says: \u201cGot one for SHU.\u201d
The gates open and he drives inside, parks in front of a second gate, and turns off the car. Another guard walks toward the car and opens the back door.
\u201cWhat we got here?\u201d the new guard asks. \u201cAnother genius from the camp?\u201d
\u201cTen-four,\u201d Dorkin says. \u201cLock \u2019im up. Captain\u2019s order.\u201d
The guard orders me out of the car, gripping the handcuffs behind my back as I scoot off the backseat and exit the vehicle. He steers me through the gates and into the building, then deeper inside the windowless, concrete maze. Surveillance cameras are mounted in every corner. Someone is always watching, as shadowy guards sit in a distant control center.\xa0 They monitor our movements and control heavy deadbolts with electronic locks. I hear the click, and the doors open automatically. We pass through, and the doors lock behind us. This stark area of the prison reeks like a jail, like a law enforcement cavern that feels very, very sinister.
The holding cell isn\u2019t any bigger than a broom closet, and once I\u2019m secured inside, I back up to the bars.\xa0 The guard inserts his key to unlock my handcuffs. I open my arms to stretch and it\u2019s so narrow I can press against the opposing concrete walls at the same time. Another guard wheels a laundry bin to the gate.
\u201cWhat size?\u201d he asks me.
\u201cTwo X.\u201d\u2028I strip naked, not waiting for an order from the guard who returns with faded boxers, white tube socks with worn elastic, the requisite orange jumpsuit with chrome snaps, a towel, and a bedroll. He searches my body and after he peers into my rectum I pass inspection.
\u201cGet dressed,\u201d he says.
In less than a minute I\u2019m clothed in the bright orange SHU uniform and blue canvas deck shoes. A thousand prisoners have worn these same clothes before me, and a thousand more will wear them after I\u2019m gone. I roll my shoulders in an attempt to shrug off my growing stress, then squat to the floor and hold my knees to my chest while resting my back against the concrete wall, waiting.
I can only see the gray concrete walls of my cell, the bars, the narrow hallway and concrete wall outside the cell. I don\u2019t have a sense of time but, in the distance, I hear the crackle of a radio and the electronic click of deadbolts locking or unlocking steel doors. I roll my head from side to side, trying to dissipate or ease off the tension.
Footsteps approach my cell and a guard appears. It\u2019s Velez, a guard from the camp.
\u201cWhat\u2019re you doing here?\u201d he stops in front of the gate.
\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d I respond, looking up from the floor.
\u201cDid you get a shot?\u201d
\u201cIf I did, I wouldn\u2019t know it.\u201d
\u201cLet me see what I can find out.\u201d
Velez walks away and I massage my forehead. Carole is going to take this hard. Yesterday she celebrated her 42nd birthday and now she\u2019s going to have to confront this new drama in our life. I don\u2019t know when I\u2019ll be able to call her. I hope my friend Lee has heard about my misfortune and that he\u2019ll relay a message to Carole soon. She needs to know that a guard took me away, even though she\u2019ll worry. This disruption might be much harder on her than it is on me. She has semester finals in May and doesn\u2019t need this stress.
Footsteps accompanied by the sound of jingling keys announce Velez\u2019s return.
\u201cYou\u2019re here under investigation,\u201d he states, completely devoid of emotion.
\u201cFor what?\u201d
\u201cCaptain\u2019s order. Stand up. I\u2019ve got to cuff you. I\u2019ll take you to your cell.\u201d
I back against the bars and feel the metal bracelets click locked around my wrists. He unlocks the gates and leads me down the hall, past the raised control center. Inside the hub, I see blinking lights and movements of two guards through darkly tinted glass. Velez waits for one of them to release the electronic lock on the first gate. We walk through and it closes behind us. With his large key he unlocks the second gate and then locks it behind us. We\u2019re in a tunnel, with cell doors on each side. I don\u2019t recognize any of the prisoners who peer through the windows in their doors. These men probably come from the adjacent low- or medium-security prisons at Lompoc.
We stop in front of a cell and Velez taps with his key on the small window within the door.
\u201cMove to the back of the cell,\u201d he instructs as the prisoner inside begins to move. \u201cFace the wall. Don\u2019t turn around.\u201d
Velez unlocks the steel door and nudges me inside. The door closes behind me and I hear the deadbolt lock. I back up and push my hands to the open trap. He unlocks and removes my cuffs then slams the trap shut. The sound of his footsteps and jingling keys fade as he walks down the tier toward the gates.
\u201cHow you doing, Bud?\u201d I say to the large man who is still facing the far wall of the cell. He\u2019s tall, with unruly brown hair.
\u201cHi.\u201d He greets me as he turns around.\u2028
I extend my hand. \u201cMy name\u2019s Michael Santos.\u201d
\u201cI\u2019m Marty Frankl.\u201d We shake hands.
\u201cWhere\u2019re you coming from?\u201d
\u201cI was at Terminal Island,\u201d he names a low-security prison in Los Angeles. \u201cI\u2019m on my way to the camp. A paperwork mix-up has me stuck in here.\u201d
\u201cThat happens. How long have you been in the SHU?
\u201cSince Monday.\u201d
\u201cThey\u2019ll probably have it straightened out by Friday. You\u2019ll like the camp once you get there.\u201d
\u201cAre you from the camp?\u201d He asks as he sits on the lower bunk.
I throw my bedroll on the top rack and start tying my sheets around the mat. \u201cI\u2019ve been there for two years. It\u2019s been the easiest time I ever served.\u201d
\u201cAre you the writer?\u201d
\u201cThat\u2019s me.\u201d
\u201cMy girlfriend\u2019s been sending printouts from your website ever since I was charged. Part of the reason I pled guilty was because of what you wrote.\u201d
\u201cWhat kind of case do you have?\u201d
\u201cMoney laundering. I\u2019m serving eight years.\u201d
\u201cIt passes faster than you think. You\u2019ll like the camp better than Terminal Island.\u201d
\u201cAre you going back?\u201d
\u201cI don\u2019t even know why they locked me up, but it\u2019s not a good sign. I\u2019ve never served time in SHU for a shot, only for transfer to another prison.\u201d
\u201cThat sucks. I know you\u2019ve been in a long time. How many years do you have left?\u201d
\u201cSix, maybe a little more. I\u2019m scheduled for release in August of 2013.\u201d
I describe the camp for Marty and answer his many questions. He gives me some paper, an envelope, and stamps. I fold the end of the mat on my rack to prop up my chest and I use the steel bunk as a surface to write Carole a long letter, explaining what I know. It\u2019s the beginning of a journal she\u2019ll post on my website at MichaelSantos.net describing my experience.
In the evening, a guard slides a form under the cell door that officially informs me that I\u2019m being investigated for running a business.
*******
Marty\u2019s paperwork clears the following morning and he transfers to the camp. I appreciate the single cell and I strip to my boxers to begin my solitary exercise routine: pushups, deep knee bends, running in place. I exercise until sweat puddles beneath me. Then I wash my boxers in the sink and hang them to dry from the top rack, ignoring the staff and administrators who periodically walk by and peer through the window in my door.
On Saturday morning a guard I don\u2019t recognize startles me by tapping his key on the small window, scowling.
\u201cSantos! What\u2019re you here for?\u201d\u2028I step toward the doorframe and speak to him through the crack. \u201cInvestigation for running a business.\u201d
\xa0He shakes his head. \u201cCuff up. You\u2019ve got a visit.\u201d
Knowing that Carole is here, I tolerate the dehumanizing handcuffs and strip search when I leave the cell. I\u2019ll go through anything to see my wife. After the guard from the visiting room unlocks my cuffs, strip searches me again, and advises me of the rules, I walk into the tightly controlled visiting area with surveillance cameras in the ceiling and uniformed guards patrolling the aisles. Prisoners are required to sit at tables across from their visitors, neither touching nor holding hands. I walk to Carole. Her smile warms me, but tears glisten in her eyes. We hold each other briefly, not saying anything.
\u201cWe\u2019d better sit, Honey. I don\u2019t know how long we have,\u201d I tell her.
Carole takes in my orange jumpsuit and blue canvas shoes, my unshaven face, knowing what it means.
\u201cDon\u2019t cry, Honey. It\u2019s okay. It\u2019s okay. I\u2019m okay.\u201d
She wipes her eyes. \u201cI hate to see you like this. Are they transferring us again?\u201d
\u201cI don\u2019t know, but I\u2019m fine. Come on. Don\u2019t cry. You\u2019ll make me sad.\u201d
\u201cWhat do you want me to do?\u201d she asks.
\u201cRegardless of what happens to me, you have to stay in school and finish the nursing program. It\u2019s only two more semesters and we can\u2019t let my problems interfere.\u201d
\u201cWhy are they doing this to you?\u201d
\u201cAll I know is that I\u2019m being investigated for running a business. I don\u2019t know whether it\u2019s for Inside, our website, or the books that Lee sponsored\xe5\xe5
\u201cMelodee told me that Lee heard that the guards took the compu\xe5ter from your office.\u201d
I\u2019m glad to hear that Lee told his wife what he knows, and that Melodee called Carole. \u201cShe said they would help with whatever we need, even hire you a lawyer.\u201d
I tell Carole that we don\u2019t need a lawyer and that she should bring attention to my situation by calling some of the influential people in our network. I can\u2019t use the telephone while I\u2019m in the SHU and guards monitor everything I write. So I suggest that she ask our friends to write reference letters to the warden at Lompoc and to ask professors who use my books to write letters describing the contributions my work makes to their students. She should contact journalists and other media representatives who have interviewed me or shown interest in my work, asking if they would make official inquiries. Also, she should ask Jon Axelrod, our lawyer friend in Washington D.C., to write a formal letter protesting my segregation and demanding an explanation. We have our support network in place and I urge Carole to mobilize it, including making calls to administrators in the BOP\u2019s Western Regional Office to complain.
\u201cSomeone is trying to bury me in the system, and from in here, all I can do is write about what\u2019s going on,\u201d I tell her. \u201cThe BOP operates behind closed doors and covers its actions with that \u2018security-of-the-institution\u2019 catchall. In order to force their hand to end the investigation, we have to expose their efforts to frame me. Let\u2019s use all of our resources to spotlight what\u2019s going on.\u201d
\u201cWhat about the sponsorship funds that Lee gave? Can you get in trouble for that?\u201d
\u201cI didn\u2019t receive any funds. A private foundation sent checks to the publishing company that you own, not me. You paid taxes on the money. I wrote the manuscripts, but I wasn\u2019t compensated. I\u2019m completely within the letter of the law. And if they want to give me a shot for what I did, I don\u2019t care. I\u2019m proud of our work and I\u2019m not hiding anything.\u201d
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