Podcasts about shorecrest high school

What’s Trending: Fidel Castro honored at Shorecrest High School, Biden challenger appears to be more personable, and a West Seattle student was killed. // Is it possible for Boeing to go out of business? // Oakland In-N-Out closes due to despite being profitable. 

Four coaches and four different sports on this Spring Break edition of Prep Sports Weekly for Monday, April 11, 2022. We hear first from Brandon Christensen, he's the football coach at Shorecrest High School, but in the spring he coaches Track & Field. Next it's Lucas Bates, Head Boys Soccer Coach for the Everett Seagulls; followed by Clarence Trinidad, the Kamiak Knights Baseball Head Coach. And finally, the 12 year head coach of the Marysville Pilchuck Tomahawks Softball team Aaron Zachry.

Thursday, December 30 on Urban Forum Northwest: scheduled guests for the hour are: *Seattle Mayor elect Bruce Harrell comments on his agenda for improving the lives of the people in his city with homelessness, crime and the omicron virus being major issues for the city and the country. *Attorney Lynne Wilson pays tribute to Archbishop Desmond Tutu and comments on her experience with the National Lawyers Guild at the first session of South Africa's Truth and Reconciliation Commission hearings in east London, South Africa April, 1996. *Carmelle Bias, CEO and Founder,Women in Business Expo Group comments on the upcoming activities of the organization and how you can get involved.womeninbusinessexpogroup@yahoo.com. *Alexis Mburu, a Junior at Foster High School is coordinating the Seattle King County Martin Luther King Jr. Organizing Coalition's January 16, 2022 virtual Youth event. *Kennedy Palmore is a student at Shorecrest High School comments on her experience as an Intern with the Seattle King County MLK Organizing Coalition. *Sira Doucoure is a student at Kent Meridian High School comments on her experience as an Intern with the Seattle MLK Organizing coalition. Urban Forum Northwest streams live at www.1150kknw.com. Visit us at www.urbanforumnw.com for archived programs and relevant Information. Like us on Facebook. Twitter@Eddie_Rye. This program will also air on Saturday, New Years Day January 1 7:00-8:00 am (PST).

Thursday, December 30 on Urban Forum Northwest: scheduled guests for the hour are: *Seattle Mayor elect Bruce Harrell comments on his agenda for improving the lives of the people in his city with homelessness, crime and the omicron virus being major issues for the city and the country. *Attorney Lynne Wilson pays tribute to Archbishop Desmond Tutu and comments on her experience with the National Lawyers Guild at the first session of South Africa's Truth and Reconciliation Commission hearings in east London, South Africa April, 1996. *Carmelle Bias, CEO and Founder,Women in Business Expo Group comments on the upcoming activities of the organization and how you can get involved.womeninbusinessexpogroup@yahoo.com. *Alexis Mburu, a Junior at Foster High School is coordinating the Seattle King County Martin Luther King Jr. Organizing Coalition's January 16, 2022 virtual Youth event. *Kennedy Palmore is a student at Shorecrest High School comments on her experience as an Intern with the Seattle King County MLK Organizing Coalition. *Sira Doucoure is a student at Kent Meridian High School comments on her experience as an Intern with the Seattle MLK Organizing coalition. Urban Forum Northwest streams live at www.1150kknw.com. Visit us at www.urbanforumnw.com for archived programs and relevant Information. Like us on Facebook. Twitter@Eddie_Rye. This program will also air on Saturday, New Years Day January 1 7:00-8:00 am (PST). Media

Tenor saxophonist Rohan Wassink from Shorecrest High School will virtually join Abe Beeson as guest DJ tonight (Jan. 7) on Evening Jazz at 7 p.m. He is a junior and in the school's jazz band program. Listen to the show and read their Q&A.

Now tied atop the NFC West, Brock & Salk see a light at the end of the tunnel for the Seahawks if they maintain the "typical" brand of Seahawks football they saw in the Hawks win over the Cardinals. Did Pete Carroll have to put his foot down and end the Russell Wilson MVP train in order to get back to winning football? Brock has his eyes on 1 game on the Hawks' remaining schedule that he believes will determine whether the Hawks have a bye in the playoffs or not. Rumors circulating that the Tampa Bay Rays may want to move ace pitcher & former Shorecrest High School star Blake Snell, and the Mariners are a possible destination. Salk strongly believes that the Mariners will NOT trade one of their top prospects for him--and shouldn't deviate from the rebuild plan in order to land Snell. Blue 88 finishes off the episode with Brock's pleasant surprise watching the Washington Huskies dismantle the Arizona Wildcats, and what it could mean for their PAC12 Championship hopes. See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Prep Sports Weekly for Thursday, October 22, 2020. We start with the Head Football Coach of the Mariner Marauders Mark Stewart; we learn what the Marauders are up to during COVID-times; plus we catch up with the career of his son Marlon, who is an assistant men's basketball coach at Oregon State (Marlon will be a future PSW guest). Next, it's Sherrie Chambers-Wilson, a graduate of Snohomish High School in 1981; a world-class judo competitor, and a 2020 inductee into the Snohomish County Sports Hall of Fame. We conclude with the 2019 Western Conference 3A Boys Tennis Double Champions, Zaid Kahn and Ben Silber of Shorecrest High School.

Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term Chapter 9.3 1998-2002 Months 127-180     It’s September 11, 1998. I’ve been in Miami for a week and since my counselor hasn’t yet given me a PIN code, I haven’t been able to use the telephone. The staff isn’t giving me any information about my transfer and I don’t know if Bruce and Carol have made progress toward getting me out of here. Ty and I are resigned to the likelihood that we’re both on our way to state prison, knowing that we’ll leave whenever officials from the Florida Department of Corrections arrive to pick us up. We exercise together, doing pushups, deep knee bends, and stomach crunches. After our early morning workout, I glance at the dorm’s television screen, appalled to see President Clinton and his media machine.  He organized a nationally televised prayer breakfast, assembling Billy Graham, Jesse Jackson, and other distinguished clergymen.  They pray for forgiveness of Clinton’s indiscretion with Monica Lewinsky. The irony is not lost on me. President Clinton scandalized the country. He told lie after lie to the American people and to Congress about “not having sexual relations with that woman.” Anyone else would serve prison time for telling such lies to Congress. Although I was young and uneducated, my own sentence was extended by two years because I lied during my trial. It angers me, because the president should be held to a higher standard. After all, President Clinton is a graduate of Yale law school, a Rhodes scholar, and a former attorney general.  Yet he gets a pass for his offense by saying he’s sorry. I’ve been working to atone for 11 years, not with televised speeches but with measurable actions. It infuriates me to see the inequality as I sit in an orange jumpsuit, knowing that my acts of atonement mean nothing while the president can exonerate himself with a simple prayer meeting. “Santos!” The guard yells into the housing unit as he steps out from his station, interrupting my mental rant. “Roll up!” “What about Moreno?” Ty asks. “I said Santos.” “Can you tell me where I’m going?” I feel queasy, my legs weakening. “FTD.” I recognize those initials as the BOP designation for Fort Dix. My face immediately broadens into a smile. “Fort Dix?” I ask to confirm. “All’s it says here is FTD. Pack yer shit.” “How’d you’ pull that off?” Ty looks at me, disappointment in his eyes. “I don’t know. My family must’ve gotten through to the right person.” I say carefully, suddenly aware of the impact this news has on Ty. We’ve only known each other for a few days, but through exercise, chess games, and talk, we’ve bonded and had hoped to see it through as a team. Now I’m deserting him. Although the news elates me, I don’t compound his loss by gloating over being spared a tour through a Florida state prison. ******* My support network really came through for me, and I’m thrilled when guards lock me in a holding cage on the main floor of FDC Miami to process me out. I’m grateful, optimistic, and eager to begin the return trip to Ford Dix. My spirits are dampened, however, when I notice a woman sitting alone in another holding cell directly across from me. She’s crying. I step to the front of my cage, wrap my fingers around the bars, and she looks at me. The guards who patrol the corridor prohibit us from talking, so instead we communicate with our eyes. In hers, I see such sadness that it pains me. She tilts her head as she opens her hands in a gesture of helplessness, as if to say “I want to talk to you, too, but we can’t.” Her smile is modest, but I see a dimple in her cheek. She has long brown hair, and even in the green, oversized jumpsuit I can see her slender figure. Her eyes are blue, or maybe green. It doesn’t matter. We’ll never meet. I hope she’ll find the strength to sustain herself through the loneliness. I look away as guards come to fasten her in chains. My return to Fort Dix takes me on a 30-day detour through USP Atlanta. It surprises me to feel some nostalgia at my first sight of the high walls. While locked in a holdover unit I see several staff members I used to know. One of them sends a message to Lynn Stephens, my former work supervisor. After receiving news from her colleague that I’m in the holdover unit, Lynn walks over to see me. More than four years have passed since my departure from USP Atlanta and seeing her feels almost like a reunion. She had such an essential role in my early adjustment, allowing me to study in the office we shared, providing sanctuary from the penitentiary madness that destroys the lives of so many young prisoners. She’s barely aged but tells me she’ll be retiring in another few years, and she updates me on her family while asking about mine. Since she knew me in my 20s, naive to prison life, Lynn is amazed that I’m now nearly 35 and comfortable in my surroundings. Our unexpected reunion helps me measure how much I’ve matured since beginning my term. I talk with prisoners I knew when I served my sentence in Atlanta, but after a month, I’m glad to leave the penitentiary behind. Ironically, Fort Dix feels like home and I look forward to my return. After several hours our plane lands briefly for a prisoner exchange in Manchester, New Hampshire. From my window seat I look at a dense growth of trees with leaves that flutter in the wind and appear to change colors before my eyes. It’s a spectacular natural display of orange, yellow, red, and green, and I realize that during the two months I’ve been locked inside Oklahoma, Miami, and Atlanta prisons, summer has turned to fall. The plane takes off again, and a few hours later, on Thursday, October 15, 1998, I’m processed in and admitted back inside the gated community of FCI Fort Dix. My friend Carol Zachary is responsible for my return. She met with a high-ranking decision-maker in Washington, and that meeting resulted in the reversal of my transfer order, immediately blocking my move to a Florida state prison. I walk back onto the Fort Dix compound, and my friend Gary welcomes me with a white mesh laundry bag full of commissary items. “Welcome back,” he laughs, embracing me. “I can’t tell you how good it feels to be back.” “Did you hear the news?” Gary asks. “What news?”
 Gary smiles, knowing that financial news interests me. “The Fed lowered the interest rate and the market’s on fire. I hope you didn’t sell.” “Sell? Are you kidding? I’m a buyer, not a seller.” “The prices for Yahoo! and AOL are almost back to where they were before you left.” “Don’t tell me you’re hooked on the stock market now, too.”  Gary laughs, telling me that he needed something to pass the time. ******* As we approach the transition from the 20th to the 21st century, fears spread throughout the business community that many of the world’s computer programs will fail. Every day, pundits on CNBC discuss the upcoming “Y2K” problem, hyping up the calamity that would befall the world if computers crash. As a market speculator, I’m paying attention to these stories. To ease worries about how the markets will react at midnight on the last day of 1999, central bankers from around the world take action by lowering key interest rates in the fall of 1998. Their objective is to provide more liquidity for business, thereby averting panic. An offshoot of their strategy is rampant speculation, and I’m one of the euphoric participants. I follow the flow of easy credit and hot money by subscribing to a dozen financial publications and studying them daily. I’m fascinated with the technology sector, as I perceive companies with an effective Internet strategy as having the most upside.  Understanding the risk, I concentrate all of my stock holdings in speculative Internet stocks.  That approach proves a winner, and I revel in watching my equity increase, sometimes by tens of thousands each day. I tap that equity by using it as collateral to leverage my holdings. I’ve got 100 percent of my holdings in Internet stocks, and by using margin I’ve got double exposure to the market swings. “You know, I really think it’s time you diversify,” Jon, another prisoner, advises me. “This market bubble can’t last forever. Perhaps you should sell now, put your money in fixed income.” “I can’t sell. All my gains have been short-term. I need to hold on to my positions for at least one year, otherwise I’ll owe too much tax.” Jon shakes his head. “All wise men diversify.” I’m reluctant to sell any holdings for two reasons.  On the one hand, I don’t want Julie to incur short-term capital gains taxes, and on the other I’m convinced the market euphoria will last longer than a year. Each evening, after the market’s close, I chart my day’s progress, read my industry news, and then I walk outside to tell Gary how we did. “How was the casino today?” “I bought Cisco, Real Networks, and At Home Communications.” Besides being a Grand Master at chess, Gary has tremendous musical talents. We sit under a maple tree in early March 1999, bundled in our green jackets and orange knit caps. Spring is in the air but it’s still chilly. Gary strums an acoustic guitar and practices while we talk. As a child, he played for weddings and parties in Russia. I test his talents by asking him to play music from China, Spain, Japan, Italy, or Greece and in an instant his songs transport me to those countries. “So, what’s in the account now?” “We’re holding $600,000 worth of stocks, and we’ve got $300,000 out in margin loans. Equity’s at $300,000.” “You’re a winner,” he says, strumming his guitar. The value of Internet stocks surge through the spring, and I continue using margin to leverage a bigger position with all of my holdings. On April 12, 1999, when the bell rings closed on Wall Street, the 4,000 shares of AOL, 2,000 shares of At Home and a scattering of other high flyers have a value that exceeds $2 million. With $1 million out in margin loans, the account’s equity surpasses $1 million. I’m tempted to tell Julie to sell, but if I do, the short-term capital gains will incur a tax obligation of nearly $400,000. One year ago I didn’t have commissary money, but now greed rather than a principled position prevents me from feeling satisfied with what I have. I’m determined to hold on until my equity reaches $1.6 million. That will generate a million dollars after taxes, and if I sell at that level, I’ll be able to put that cash in the bank. I’m shooting for a two-comma cash balance. Until I hit it, I’m determined to continue swinging for the fences. The value of my account doesn’t change my status in prison, of course. I still stand for census counts and strip naked for searches whenever a guard commands. I’m scheduled to serve 14 more years, yet the time now is just something I tolerate. I don’t need school or library books as I’m living vicariously through the market, a phenomenon the BOP is powerless to stop. ******* Two brutal trading days in April wipe out more than $400,000 from my account’s equity, causing me to change strategy.  Rather than holding on, I pull the trigger, calling my sister with instructions to sell. That move eliminates my margin debt, allows me to return the money Gary advanced, provides the resources to pay off the IRS, and leaves me with a cash-balance measured in six figures.  It’s far lower than the peak value, but far higher than where I began with my trading career. “Remember one thing,” Gary says, trying to cheer me up as we walk around the yard on one of his last days before authorities deport him to Russia. “Money doesn’t make the man; the man makes the money.” “I know, but I can’t stop thinking about what we could’ve had if I would’ve sold sooner.” “What’s the big deal? You started out wanting to finish law school, to work for 15 years to earn a lousy hundred grand. Now you’ve got that in the bank and you didn’t have to hustle with any of these schmucks. No one else in here earned what you did.” He advises me to forget about the market and to use the rest of my time in prison to do something else with my life, assuring me that I need to prepare for the endless opportunities that will await my release. ******* When we move into the new century, I know that I need something new to occupy my time, some project I can work on independently, without interference from the prison system. In August I’ll finish my 13th year, meaning I’m halfway through, with only 13 more years until release.  I must find a way to make them productive. Carol Zachary and Jon Axelrod bring Zachary and Tristan to visit for Thanksgiving and as we sit, side-by-side in the brightly lit and crowded Fort Dix visiting room. Carol inquires whether I’d like to renew my petition for clemency. “I can’t bring myself to go through all that again,” I tell her. “It’s too much of an emotional roller coaster. I need stability, something I can work toward.  Instead of waiting for someone else to make a decision that will determine my future, I need to find something that will allow me to chart my own course.” “Have you spoken with Tony? What does he have to say?” She asks about Tony Bisceglie, the prominent lawyer she persuaded to spearhead the legal effort to free me in 1997. “Tony is honest. He said that my chances of the president commuting my sentence are less than one in a million. Besides that, I’m no longer indigent. If I were to move forward with the petition, Tony’s fee would start at $50,000.  I’m not willing to part with the resources to pay that fee.” “Michael, you’ve got to do it,” Carol urges me. “Don’t you think you could earn that money again once you were released?” Zach, a sophomore in high school now, asks. He’s a student athlete who looks forward to studying business and economics. I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “The thing is, I’ve been living inside prison walls and fences for my entire adult life.” Although I feel their love and concern for me, I want them to understand why I perceive my situation differently from others who haven’t lived in confinement. “When people leave prison, they have a hard time finding employment, and financial pressures block them from making a new start. I see it every week when prisoners return after failing in society. If I thought we had a better chance at commutation, I’d take it. But when one of the top lawyers in Washington spells out the odds, I have to weigh the costs. The truth is, I’m more afraid of going home broke, into a tornado of financial uncertainty, than I am of serving another 13 years.” Carol folds her arms across her chest and nods her head sympathetically. Jon observes silently, and then says, “You’re going to have options when you come home, Michael. People love you and will stand by to help you.” I shake my head. “I need to build more support. If I could persuade 1,000 people to support my petition, then I’d feel better about moving forward with it.” “Too bad you can’t use the Internet,” Tristan states. He’s in eighth grade and an aspiring musician. We have an ongoing chess game that we play by sending our respective moves through the mail. “You’d be able to find 1,000 supporters on the Web easily.” “I’ve got some friends from school who’re pretty good on the Web,” Zach suggests. “Maybe I could help.” “I’d like to invest my time and money into an idea like that. Why don’t we start a Web business? I’ll write and type the content, then you guys coordinate putting it online,” I suggest. Jon looks at Carol. “We could buy a scanner to convert the typewritten pages into digital files. It might be a good project to give the boys some business experience.” “I could be the CEO,” Zach lights up. “What about hockey, baseball? You can’t fall behind with school,” Carol admonishes, taking in the scope of this possible business with more caution. “Mom, I can do it,” Zach asserts. “The business could earn revenues by charging a fee for prisoners to publish their information, giving them a platform to build support,” I say. “And once we build enough traffic, we could charge for advertising space,” Zach is on the edge of his seat, already chapters ahead in a business plan. “Hold on a minute,” Carol barks, throwing up her hands in a “time out” move, speaking as the voice of reason. “We’re talking about a project to generate support for Michael, to get him out of here. Let’s not distract ourselves with how much money we can make.” “I could really use a project like this, one that would take my mind away from here. I could work on it every day. If I build support, then we can explore the possibilities for clemency.” Carol nods her head. “Okay it’s a deal.  We’re after a thousand people.  Then we’ll move forward with a new clemency petition.” ******* “I’ve been following your writing on the Web,” my friend George tells me during our visit. “It’s very good.” Dr. George Cole is the author of American Corrections, the leading textbook used in universities to teach students about America’s prison system. He’s been my mentor for nearly a decade and he led the push for my acceptance into the doctoral program at the University of Connecticut. “Why don’t you write a book about your prison experience? I’ll present it to my publishers as a supplemental text to sell alongside my textbook.” It’s the most exciting proposition I’ve had since I began in the stock market and I ask George to advise me on how I can start.” He tells me to write a proposal for Wadsworth-Thompson Publishers to consider. The suggestion presents me with a new opportunity to turn the page, inspiring me with the confidence to launch the next chapter of my life. With my responsibilities to write for the Internet project that Zach coordinates, and the hours I invest to write the new book proposal, the outline, and the sample chapters, I have new reasons to wake before dawn and work 12-hour days. Unlike studying toward advanced degrees, writing doesn’t require me to seek permission from small-minded administrators. The activity is like a respite, freeing me from spending time with inmates who whine about the injustice of 12-month prison sentences.  Further, it doesn’t require me to read a dozen financial publications, it cuts my CNBC ticker addiction, and it provides a new challenge of learning how to express myself more fluently. To write, all I need is a pen, blank pages of paper, and a dictionary. Still, I know where I am, and I ask for written clarification from the BOP legal department on the rules that govern prisoners who write for publication. That inquiry brings confirmation from a BOP staff attorney who says that as long as I’m not inciting others or being compensated for my writing, I’m within my rights to continue. Working to write for publication becomes a goal I can pursue with gusto, and I welcome the challenge of persuading publishers to work with me.  To succeed, I must work to become a better writer, and by doing so, I’ll transcend prison boundaries, connect with readers everywhere, and build support. I go to the library in search of more information. “Do you have any books on the shelves about the publishing business?”  I’m hopeful that the librarian can steer me in the right direction. “All we’ve got is an old-edition of The Writer’s Market.”
 “I’ll take it,” I say. The reference book shows the difficult odds that beginning writers face. Fewer than one in 1,000 authors sign publishing agreements. Those who succeed frequently toil for years, writing many manuscripts before they see one of their books in print. I perceive an edge because of the mentor relationships I’ve nurtured over the years, and because I’m writing about a unique subject matter. After I write my proposal for About Prison, George advises me to send it to Sabra Horne, a senior acquisition editor at Wadsworth-Thompson.  She responds with a publishing agreement, and I write the manuscript that described my first decade as a prisoner.  The academic publisher will package the book as a supplementary text for university professors who teach courses in criminal justice. With that project behind me, I write to Dr. Marilyn McShane, another mentor who, in addition to teaching criminal justice and authoring books, is a senior editor for Greenwood-Praeger Publishing. She offers to publish Profiles From Prison, my second book, which describes backgrounds, adjustment patterns, and future expectations of 20 prisoners. The thousands of hours I spend writing, typing, and editing the manuscripts gives me the feeling that I’m doing something more than simply serving time.  It’s as if I’m making a societal contribution, living a life of meaning and relevance. If readers find value in the books once they’re published, perhaps more people will see the need to think smarter rather than tougher about America’s dysfunctional prison system. As the final months of Clinton’s presidency approach, I’m at ease with my decision to focus on writing. The book projects, together with weekly contributions I’m making for the Web site, provide readers with a prisoner’s perspective of confinement, and the work connects me in ways that make me feel almost whole. I’m leading a useful life, feeling legitimized as a citizen. After more than 13 years I no longer feel the “punishment.” Writing counteracts the “isolation,” neutralizing the stated goals of imprisonment. ******* I’m alone in the visiting room on my work assignment, buffing the tile floor and thinking about what I’ll write the next day when my friend Tom walks in and taps my shoulder. I release the lever that powers the machine. “Hey, Bud, I didn’t hear you come in.” Tom shakes his head. “Did you hear the news?” “What news?” “Clinton commuted the sentences of about 20 people, two from Fort Dix.”
 “Who’d he let out?” “It doesn’t matter. Sorry, Pal. It should’ve been you.” I made my choice of not pursuing the clemency application, so I’ll live with it and move on, even though I’m disappointed to accept the reality that I missed a genuine opportunity for liberty. Tony had a clear plan for pursuing my commutation. He intended to use endorsements from my network of mentors and supporters to persuade my former prosecutors and judge that I had earned freedom.  If he succeeded in getting that support, he was going to lobby his Washington contacts to bring my petition to the attention of the White House. In light of the president granting clemency to so many, I sense that Tony’s strategy might have succeeded. I may have been freed. Thirteen years of imprisonment have institutionalized me, blinding me to the possibility of liberty. With the controversial election of George W. Bush, I’ve missed my opportunity. ******* On late February of 2002, I’m standing shoulder-to-shoulder with two hundred prisoners in the television room, listening as the guard shouts out names to distribute mail. My mentor, Bruce, and I still exchange weekly letters.  As I work to improve my craft, he’s my first reader, one of several who challenge me “to show rather than tell” through my writing.  It’s a lesson I struggle to learn. “Santos!” The guard shouts my name. “Back here, by the microwave,” I yell over the noise of the crowd.  I’m waiting for an envelope that I expect will include Bruce’s comments on one of my manuscript drafts. The guard continues hollering names, but I tune him out and watch the envelope that works its way back toward me, passing from one man’s hand to the next. The envelope looks too small to contain my manuscript, and when I take it from the prisoner who stands in front of me, I look at the return address. It’s written in a woman’s graceful penmanship, though her name isn’t one I recognize. I open the envelope while still standing amidst all the other prisoners, and I pull out an artistic postcard. It features a print by Henri Lautrec that I admire. Bruce works at infusing my life with art and artists and I smile, knowing he would be proud of my new cultural awareness. When I open the card, curious to know who wrote it, I see that the sender is Carole Goodwin, a former classmate of mine from Shorecrest High School, class of 1982. Carole and I grew up in Lake Forest Park, Washington, attending school together from the time we were in fifth grade. We spent our summers at the same beach club on Lake Washington. Carole and I were not close but I have a clear memory of walking with her, holding hands, and kissing her once during the celebration following our high school graduation. Ten years earlier in my sentence, I corresponded with Susan, Carole’s younger sister.  From Susan I learned that Carole married someone after high school and that she had two children, Michael and Nichole. But my correspondence with Susan came to an end many years ago and I didn’t know anything more about the Goodwin sisters.  I’m surprised to receive this letter from Carole. I’m even more surprised by what I read in the card and in her accompanying letter. She’s scolding me, telling me how she knows people who became substance abusers, and how as a mother of two children, she abhors drugs, saying that she thinks it’s awful that I sold cocaine. I read Carole’s letter again. Apparently, while she was coordinating our 20-year high school reunion, she received an unsolicited e-mail from an anonymous writer asking whether the reunion was for the same graduating class as mine. When Carole requested more information from the sender, he simply wrote that he’d come across my website and was curious. Carole searched the Internet for my site.  Reading about my crime and sentencing prompted her to send me her thoughts. “Hey, Marcello,” I say, nudging a friend who was standing next to me as I read Carole’s card and letter. “Check this letter out and tell me what you think.” I pass Marcello the letter. “She sounds angry,” he states flatly, handing it back. “That’s what I thought.”
I fold the letter from Carole back into its envelope along with the card. “I don’t get it. If it were someone I didn’t know, maybe a law-and-order fanatic, or a prison guard, I’d get it. But this is a woman I grew up with. I kissed her in high school.” I shrug my shoulders. “I’ve been in prison for more than 15 years. Why do you think she’d write to scold me now, after all this time?” “She’s probably a Republican.” “Maybe,” I laugh, “but I’m going to write her back. I’ll bet I can change her mind.”    

The coronavirus may have shut down schools, but it hasn’t put a stop to student creativity. School concerts and plays have been canceled, but there’s been a burst of ingenuity online, especially from musically skilled students. Drama students at Shorecrest High School in Shoreline were in the midst of rehearsing the musical "Les Misérables" when they got word that school was closing, scuttling the performance they all had been looking forward to.

101. Earning Freedom with Michael Santos   Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term (1.1)   I’m reading from chapter 1 of my book, Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term   For more information, visit PrisonProfessors.com         I can feel the DEA agents waiting. I don’t know where or when they’ll strike, but I know they’re near. I’ve never been arrested before, and I’m scared. My wife, Lisa, sits next to me in our Porsche convertible, clutching my hand. We’ve only been married five months. She’s a glamorous South American blonde who looks spectacular in her form-fitting designer clothes, better still in a bikini. With her beside me, I feel powerful. I’ve built my life on extravagance and appearances, and Lisa completes the image I want to project. She’s five years older than I am and I always try to appear strong for her–man enough for her. I don’t want her to see my fear, but inside I’m shaking. Shadowy forces feel like they’re closing in, but I don’t have a grasp on what’s coming. Instinct, intuition, a sense of impending doom keeps crowding my consciousness. This high-flying life is about to change. I can feel it. Lisa and I have just left Miami where I learned from Raymond, a well-known criminal lawyer I’ve had on retainer, that a grand jury in Seattle just indicted me on drug trafficking charges.  Raymond said that my arrest was imminent and that the criminal charges I’m facing could include the possibility of decades in prison. After hearing that unsettling news, I followed his instructions and gave him my diamond-faced Rolex to hold. Then I told Lisa how to make arrangements for his $200,000 fee. After leaving Raymond’s office, I drive us toward the Rickenbacker Causeway that leads to Key Biscayne. Despite my attorney’s warning, I’m going home. He convinced me that a huge difference existed between an indictment and a conviction. By paying Raymond all the money I’ve got to fight the case, I’m hoping for a fresh start from the mess I’ve made of my life. I’ve been miserable for months, knowing that I needed to make a change. ******* We arrive at the entry into Key Colony, the private oceanfront community on Key Biscayne where Lisa and I live. The security guard raises the gate and I drive the Porsche forward. We make eye contact, and I sense resentment in his phony smile as he waves us through. I’m half his age, and for the past year I’ve driven through this gate every day in my flashy sports car with Lisa beside me, wearing a gold watch that cost more than he would make in a year. Today he’s sporting a smug grin. Maybe I’m paranoid. No, I shake my head as I accelerate through the gate and turn right. My gut roils with a subconscious awareness that I’ll never drive through this tropical paradise again. I park in the garage beneath Botanica, the building where we live. Lisa and I walk arm-in-arm to the elevator, not speaking. I’m alert, watching, expecting the feds to rush me at any second. With heightened senses, I’m acutely aware of the salty ocean air filling my nostrils. My stomach churns as I push the elevator button and we ascend. The elevator door slides open and we step onto the top floor. An open breezeway with palm trees and lush, tropical vegetation on either side leads to our apartment. There they are, in front of us. The three men wearing dark blue jackets wait, eyeing me as I approach. “Are you Michael Santos?” “Yes.” In an instant, I see three guns aiming at my head. “Freeze! Put your hands out where we can see them!” One of the agents then begins to recite my Miranda rights. I comply with their orders. Lisa steps away from me, gasping. One agent clasps my hands behind my neck as he searches me for weapons, though I’ve never carried a gun. Then he lowers my arms, pulling them behind my back.  I hear clicking and feel cold metal as he slams handcuffs over my wrists. When the agents see that I’m not resisting, their tone becomes less hostile. They begin to question me and, following Raymond’s instructions, I refuse to answer. “I want my attorney present before I say anything.” I’m embarrassed that Lisa sees me so helpless, so impotent in the grip of authority. “Do you want to say good-bye to Lisa?” I cringe at the familiar way her name rolls off the agent’s tongue, and I realize I’m really being taken away. “Michael!” Lisa’s tortured cry echoes across the breezeway. “Michael! What should I do?” I don’t turn around. To see her face would only prolong the agony of the moment. One agent is in front of me. I’m sandwiched between the other two and I feel hands gripping the chains of my handcuffs. I keep walking with my head down, humiliated. ******* It was 1987 and I was 23. For nearly two years I’d been the leader of a small group that distributed cocaine in Seattle. The scheme wasn’t sophisticated. Those at the core of our little enterprise were my classmates from Shorecrest High School, in the North Seattle suburb of Lake Forest Park. Sensing a huge market for cocaine among Seattle’s young professionals, I joined my friend Alex in a partnership to capitalize on it. I found suppliers in Miami. My friend John and his girlfriend, Lori, drove the drugs across the country and delivered them to Tony in Seattle, who stored them in his apartment. Alex coordinated deliveries to customers using Loren and Rico as local drivers. The shallow layers of people separating me from the actual cocaine fed my delusions that I wasn’t really a drug dealer. Instead, I liked to think of myself as an entrepreneur. To the extent that I thought about it, I provided a simple service. No weapons. No violence. My friends and I only sold to consenting adults, so I equated our actions to those who supplied speakeasies during prohibition.  It was my way of glamorizing the scheme to camouflage the severity of potential consequences. The government, of course, saw things differently. Ronald Reagan occupied the White House and he was ramping up the “War on Drugs.” I may have previously seen myself as a businessman, but riding through the streets of Miami in the back seat of a black Ford LTD with my hands locked behind my back, in the custody of DEA agents, left no doubt that I was in big trouble. I thought of Lisa. I thought of my parents. I wondered if my attorney, Raymond, could really get me out of this mess. ******* “So, what’s up? Did you think you could run from us forever?” The two agents in the front seat switch to a friendlier approach. The driver has carrot-red hair, styled with a flattop and military fade. His partner looks hip, wearing feathered brown hair that he holds in place with his stylish sunglasses. They try to engage me in conversation, but I’m silent, deep in thought as I stare out of the tinted windows at the glass-faced, high-rise buildings of downtown Miami. “Talk to us,” the driver pipes in. “This may be your last chance to save yourself.” I’m mute, afraid, sensing that I’ve reached a pivotal moment. “Alex and Tony have given us plenty already. Who’re you tryin’ to protect? This is the time,” the driver speaks with authority. “No one knows you’ve been busted but us. Your pals cut sweetheart deals, left you hangin’ in the wind. Take us to your suppliers and I’ll turn this car around right now.” “You don’t have much time.” The other agent stares at me, tempting me, trying to persuade me. I can tell that he isn’t much older than I am. “Once we move forward, you’re booked, game over. Speak up now and you’ll be able to go home to that pretty little wife of yours.” I don’t say a word. It’s not that I feel an allegiance to any criminal code. As crazy as it sounds, I don’t even consider myself a criminal. It’s simply that escaping problems by betraying others doesn’t appeal to me as much as the chance for total vindication. Raymond suggests we can win through a trial, and I’m swinging for the fences, going for it.  I cling to those hopes, but I’m also conflicted because a deep shame seeps through me. For years I’ve been telling lies, though I’m yet not ready to confront the reality of who I am, of what I am. I desperately want to resume a normal life and spare myself the humiliation of having to admit that I’m a drug dealer. As the DEA agents urge me to confess everything, I think about Lisa. I’ve come to define myself through material possessions, and she is my trophy. I live a fantasy life with her, locked in a constant struggle to mask my shallowness. Cooperating with the DEA and informing against others to spare myself would show weakness, implying that I lacked the wits and enough power to resolve the situation.  It wouldn’t be the forceful image I’ve worked so hard to project. I remain silent, sealing my fate. ******* I’ve never been to prison, nor have I been locked in custody before, but I did have a previous problem with the law. In high school, I organized a sports gambling pool. When one student couldn’t pay up he offered to settle the debt with a stereo he stole. I accepted. A few months later, when police officers caught him in another theft, he told the officers that he gave the stereo to me. That led to my conviction for receiving stolen property.  When I confided in my father about the problems of the stolen stereo, he stood by my side. For my sanction, a judge ordered that I pay $900 in restitution and that I fill out a form for a probation officer each month for nine months. We concealed the incident from my mother and sisters, not wanting to worry them. ******* In the back of the DEA car, I think about how my arrest is going to devastate my family. I’m now in a predicament that’s going to expose the deceitful life I’ve been living and I’m humiliated, yet I still can’t bring myself to come clean because I’ve got too much invested in the lies I’ve already told. In choosing this path, with Raymond fighting my battle, I’ve got to go all the way. ******* My father was a Cuban immigrant. Together with my American mother he built a contracting company in Seattle and provided well for our family. We lived in a beautiful five-bedroom home that sat on several acres in Lake Forest Park. A stream with waterfalls ran through our front yard, with a thick forest behind the house. My parents worked hard to provide my two sisters and me with every advantage, to prepare us for success, grooming me to lead the family company. My father took pride in operating heavy equipment, pouring concrete, and creating work of lasting value. His company specialized in public works, installing highway lighting and traffic signal systems. My dad was an old-country kind of guy, and he aspired to teach me a strong work ethic. But I resented pulling wire and carrying pipe. I especially dreaded working on weekends or during summers when my friends were waterskiing on Lake Washington. Even though I worked by my dad’s side from the time I was six, I couldn’t see myself doing physical labor, not for the long term. I wanted the good times my friends enjoyed. After graduating from high school with mediocre grades, I maneuvered my way out of the field and into the office, wanting to wear clean clothes and to position myself close to the money. With high expectations, my parents gave me the position of vice president, despite the fact that I lacked the maturity to wield the responsibility such a title implied. They trusted me, and I exploited their confidence in my abilities. I’ve always been driven by the pursuit of money and possessions, with a sense of entitlement, wanting more than what my parents gave. Their friends were professionals and business owners, people whose influence and style impressed me. The family business was small when I joined it full-time after graduating from high school, employing only a few electricians. My dad worked alongside them to install illumination and electrical systems while my mom kept the books. The company remained free of debt and afforded us a comfortable life, though it wasn’t enough for my tastes. To me, bigger seemed better. Rather than studying and working through a four-year apprenticeship program to earn the state licenses I would need to assume control of the business, I thought of ways to expand without having to dirty my hands. I could always hire people with the necessary licenses and reasoned that my energies were better spent on increasing revenues. I joined trade organizations and socialized with other contractors. Those relationships led to collusion, bid rigging, and other violations of state contract laws. My parents didn’t object too strenuously as the company’s annual revenues increased from hundreds of thousands to millions of dollars. To finance the growth, I persuaded my parents to sign agreements that required them to pledge their home and assets as collateral for higher credit lines with banks, suppliers, and bonding companies. Within three years I convinced my parents to expand the company from one of boring stability into a leveraged business with more than 50 employees. My dad could oversee jobs across the state while I acted as the big man, schmoozing with people and working with numbers that impressed me. ******* Greed was a sinister enticement, clouding my judgment. My friend Alex had been supplementing his income by selling cocaine. Since I had unencumbered access to money from our family’s business, I proposed a scheme to Alex that would finance bigger coke deals and allow us to work together. I was 21, and the prospect of a quick score seemed harmless, too good to pass up. Taylor, a mutual acquaintance of ours, agreed to supply us with several kilos of cocaine. For our first transaction I pulled cash from the company account to pay Taylor on the morning of delivery, and Alex contacted customers to sell the cocaine during the same day. By late afternoon Alex gave me back the money to reimburse the company’s account. The deal left Alex and me with tens of thousands in profits. All went as planned until the following day, when a maid discovered more than $100,000 in Taylor’s hotel suite and reported it. Hotel management contacted the Seattle police who seized the money. When Taylor tried to claim it, the police required an explanation. “Just give us a receipt that shows how you received the currency and you can have it,” the officers told him. Taylor called me at work to explain what happened and he asked for my help. “I’ll give you 20 percent if you can provide a receipt that will get me the money back.” “Thirty percent,” I countered. Since I’d withdrawn a substantial amount of cash to finance the transaction, I had a plausible explanation, or so I thought. We concocted a story that we were going to use the money to establish a leasing company. I then brought Taylor to the high-rise office tower of our company’s attorney, and hatched a plan to bamboozle him into helping us retrieve the money. I had an excellent relationship with Geoff, who was a partner in the firm.  Since I’d worked with the attorney before, I assumed he would simply make a few phone calls and resolve the complication. Taylor and I sat facing Geoff across his polished cherry wood desk. His office overlooked the mid-rise buildings of South Seattle and Puget Sound. “I gave the money to Taylor so that he could make a cash offer to purchase construction equipment from a contractor who was going out of business.” Geoff listened patiently to my story, but in his eyes I saw skepticism. Lying, I fabricated a story, telling him that Taylor and I were then going to lease the equipment back to my father’s company.  Supposedly, we would rely upon the leases to collateralize a bank loan to reimburse the company. “Is your dad a part of this new venture you’re launching?” I still remember the doubt in Geoff’s voice from his first question. When I told him that I’d made this deal on my own, Geoff nodded, then turned his interrogation to Taylor, who sat across the polished desk as if he were an accomplished businessman there to consult on a corporate merger rather than seek help to retrieve a duffle bag full of cash. “And where do you live?” Geoff’s question was direct. “I keep an apartment in The Grosvenor House.” Taylor answered. “That’s on Queen Anne, isn’t it?” “That’s right.”  Taylor didn’t yet realize that he was out of his depth. “About five minutes north of downtown?” Geoff persisted. “Yes.” “So you keep an apartment in the city.” Geoff nodded, holding a finger to his temple as he rocked in his chair. “I do.” “Then help me understand why you’d take a hotel room a few blocks away from where you live. More to the point, why would you leave so much cash in a hotel room while you went to the gym for a morning workout?” Taylor stumbled through Geoff’s penetrating questions. I remember squirming in my chair, knowing the meeting was a disaster.  The longer we sat there, the more I realized how foolish I’d been to think that I could manipulate a skillful attorney with lies. Geoff said he’d make some inquiries with the police and call me later with a plan. I walked out of the office feeling sick to my stomach, knowing that I’d permanently destroyed my reputation. I wouldn’t have the courage to face Geoff again. “Are you alone?” Geoff asked when he reached me in the car later that afternoon. “Yes.” I was driving north on Interstate 5 toward the company office. Rain drizzled on the black Bronco I drove. “Taylor isn’t with you?”  He sounded concerned for my welfare. “No, I’m alone.” “I’m going to ask you some questions and I want you to answer honestly. Okay?” “Of course.”  I knew what was coming. “Does your father know about this money?” “No.” “Did you give that money to Taylor?” “No.” “Does that money really belong to you?” “No.” “I didn’t think so. Michael, I want you to listen very carefully to me. I’m speaking to you as a friend and as your attorney. You have a brilliant future with your father’s company in this city. But I smell drugs with Taylor. I want you to run as far away from him as you can. He is a cancer and he will destroy you. Do you understand?” “Yes. You’re right. I’m sorry I brought him to your office.” “That’s okay. We’ll keep our meeting today between us.” Despite his kind tone, I sensed that I’d irretrievably lost his respect. I hung up, humiliated. Taylor had created his own problem by leaving his money in a hotel suite while he exercised. By intervening I made Taylor’s problems my own; there wasn’t any way for me to erase what I’d done or re-establish trust with Geoff. Instead of running away from Taylor as Geoff advised, I did the opposite. I abandoned my responsibilities and obligations to our family business. My poor judgment had forced my hand, I thought. With the irrevocable damage I’d done to my reputation I left Seattle for Miami, intending to earn a few million by becoming a coke dealer. ******* And that’s how the scheme began that led to where I sit now, locked up. I’m a prisoner of the Drug Enforcement Administration, on my way to places unknown. ******* The driver turns into an office complex and parks. The third agent, the one who searched me and cuffed me during the arrest, parks a separate, identical car beside us. I exit the car with one agent holding the chain of my handcuffs behind my back. I’m like a dog on a leash, being walked into what I presume is a field office. Once inside, the agents begin to process me. They unlock my handcuffs so I can hold a nameplate beneath my chin while one of the agents photographs my head. Another leads me to a station for fingerprinting. They invite me to cooperate again, to talk with them in exchange for a reprieve from jail. Last chance. The ship is sailing, fading away on the horizon, but I’m not onboard. Disgusted with my refusal to spill the information they’re trying to coerce from me, an agent leads me to a room the size of a broom closet and locks me inside. “Get used to it.” He warns, tossing the words over his shoulder as he walks away. I’m alone in the tiny room. A bench extends the length of one wall. I sit, elbows on my knees, head in my hands. I’ve been immersed in a scheme of selling cocaine for nearly two years and now it’s come to this. Although I’m not ready now, I’ll soon have to answer to the world for the lies I’ve been living. I knew my parents suspected something. My mother even accused me once, crying about how she didn’t want to lose her son to prison. I tried to console her while simultaneously stonewalling her questions about why I had moved to Miami, about why I wouldn’t provide her with a phone number or an address. My irresponsible choices broke her heart long ago. With arms folded across my chest, I stare at the floor, leaning my back against the cold brick wall. I’d like to ask forgiveness, to take my lashes and start fresh, but instead I cling to Raymond’s assurances that I’ll prevail if I simply tough it out. With stress and the bright lights exhausting me, I lose track of time, though I’m sure that more than an hour has passed. My head aches and I’m dizzy. Finally an agent opens the door.  “Cuff up!” He slaps the cuffs around my wrists and locks them behind my back again. The agents take me outside to their car.  They unlock and open the back door, then press me inside. I don’t know where I’m going but I presume I’m about to see the inside of a jail. We drive a short distance and turn into the parking lot of a complex enclosed by double rows of chain-link fencing. Coils of glistening razor wire loop through the tops of the tall gates and many more coils of wire lie stacked atop each other on the ground in the wide space of no-man’s land between the fences. No one could escape without cutting himself to shreds. It’s hot and humid outside. Sweat forms under my arms, across my chest and back as I step out of the air-conditioned car. The agents march me toward the entrance of the Metropolitan Correctional Center, Miami. Prison guards from a control center press a button to unlock the heavy steel door electronically and I hear the click of the dead bolt. A guard from the Federal Bureau of Prisons wearing gray slacks, a white shirt, and maroon tie accepts manila folders handed over by the agents escorting me. They exchange words, though my mind goes blank and I can’t comprehend their conversation. When the guard searches me, looks in my mouth, inside my ears, and tugs on the handcuffs to ensure they’re secure, it’s clear that I no longer share a common humanity with them. The guard leads me inside a series of gates that roll behind us, locking me deeper inside the prison. I spend interminable hours in holding cells, sometimes alone, sometimes with other prisoners. I complete forms declaring that I don’t suffer from health issues or require medication.  Then I stand for photographs and more fingerprints–my life as a federal prisoner has begun I exchange my brown alligator skin loafers and matching belt, linen slacks, and a silk dress shirt now reeking from sweat, for elastic-waist khaki trousers, a white t-shirt, and blue canvas slip-on deck shoes. Without my clothes I feel my identity slip away. It’s ten at night when I receive a roll of sheets, a blanket, and towel. Then I descend into my first housing unit. The rectangular building is a two-tiered shell of concrete and steel with hundreds of sullen prisoners loitering in the common areas. Some of the men stare at me. While walking through the riffraff inside, I’m struck by the level of noise. My thoughts wander. Who are these people? What did they do? Can I handle myself in a fight with them? I see a line for the telephones and make my way through the crowd. When my turn comes I call Lisa. Prisoners crowd around on all sides as I press the phone against one ear while holding my finger inside the other to silence the noise. Lisa’s voice reminds me of all that I’m missing. I mask my emotions, trying to appear stoic. Between her sobs she tells me that Raymond told her I have a court date scheduled in the morning. “I’ll be there,” Lisa promises. “Your mom is coming with me.” “You told my parents?” My question comes across more like an accusation. I’ve lost control over the moment of truth, and it bothers me that I’ll have to confront them. “I had to. Raymond said he wanted to show that you have family support. Your mom wants to talk to you.” During my 18 months as a drug dealer in Miami, the family business collapsed, devastating my parents financially and emotionally. I’ve repressed the guilt that my reckless ambition caused the business to fail, but it surfaces again with my confinement, and it’s heavy. My parents salvaged the assets they could and relocated to Miami, where my father’s family lived. Their marriage didn’t survive the disruption and my mother now lives with my younger sister in a Miami Beach condo. The stable family and household where my two sisters and I had grown up were in shambles, only a memory. “Don’t worry, Mom,” I say in an attempt to ease her distress after Lisa connects us. “I didn’t do anything and I’ve got the best lawyer in Miami. You’ll see. He’s going to clear me of all this nonsense.” “Oh, Michael...your father and I are so worried.” My mother sobs between her whispered words. “What have you done?” “Nothing, Mom. I swear. I didn’t do anything. You’ll see. My attorney is going to clear all this up. Give it time. We just have to trust him.” “What are we supposed to do? What are we supposed to say? I can’t believe this is happening!” My time on the phone ends, not with a good-bye, but when a guard presses a switch to disconnect the call. He marches me to my room and locks me inside.

Have you had any near death experiences? Did they impact or rock your world...how did you make sense of it...? Brent had several such experiences. Combine that with the difficulty of losing a college football teammate to suicide...and his inability to make sense of it...or to move forward with his own life. His world was completely rocked...which lead to soul searching, and a crazy transformative encounter, on a bridge with blinding light. Brent and his wife Becky love Jesus and live in Edmonds, Wa. They have been a huge part of the Shorecrest High School community for more than 20 years, where he is a beloved coach and teacher. As a changed man, he seeks daily to pay it forward, and be a light to those around him. Support the show (https://www.patreon.com/bePatron?u=32455563" data-patreon-widget-type="become-patron-button">Become a Patron!

Ep. 64. John is joined by Steve Grogan of the We're All Yankovics podcast to discuss one of his favorite Post-Pinkerton songs, "I'm A Robot," from the unreleased song compilation Death to False Metal. John and Steve's conversation about the song takes them to some surprising places, like the Blue Album classic "Say It Ain't So" and Matt Sharp's proclivity for barking during some live performances. LISTEN: 1. "I'm A Robot" on Spotify | Apple Music | YouTube 2. "Skipper Dan" on Spotify | Apple Music | YouTube 3. "Say It Ain't So" on Spotify | Apple Music | YouTube 4. "Prodigy Lover" on YouTube 5. "The Good Life" (Live at Shorecrest High) on YouTube LYRICS: 1. "I'm A Robot" at Genius.com 2. "Say It Ain't So" at Genius.com MORE INFO: 1. "I'm A Robot" at Weezerpedia 2. "Say It Ain't So" at Weezerpedia 3. "Prodigy Lover" at Weezerpedia 4. "Weird Al" Yankovic at Wikipedia | Weezerpedia 5. "Skipper Dan" at Weird Al Wiki 6. We're All Yankovics podcast 7. Steve's "I'm A Robot" video 8. "Skipper Dan" episode of We're All Yankovics 9. Weezer acoustic concert at Shorecrest High School 10. Post-Pinkerton episode for "My Best Friend" 11. Leaked Make Believe tracklist 12. Death to False Metal at Weezerpedia 13. Fallen Soldiers at Weezerpedia 13. Weezer B-Sides YouTube Channel 14. Running With Scissors at Wikipedia 15. Mandatory Fun at Wikipedia 16. Matt Sharp at Wikipedia | Weezerpedia 17. "The Good Life" at Weezerpedia   Want a Post-Pinkerton sticker? Send your mailing address to postpinkertonpod@gmail.com for a free one!

Success After PrisonI’m Michael Santos and I’m typing this manuscript on an awesome Mac Pro computer. When I served my sentence, I had to write all of my manuscripts by hand. Now I’m addicted to Apple products and word processors. These tools allow me to write much more efficiently, but I no longer have the time that was available to me while I was in prison. Again, that’s why I won’t devote hundreds of hours to editing this manuscript. At least for this draft, what you see is what you get. I started typing this manuscript on Saturday morning, December 4, 2015. I don’t know how long it will take for me to finish, but I’m going to do my best to finish a solid draft before the end of this year. Why? Well, it may seem strange, but I’m scheduled to visit the United States Penitentiary in Atwater on January 8, 2016. After speaking at a judicial conference in Sacramento that I wrote about in the introduction, I had a conversation with Warden Andre Matevousian. He extended an open invitation for me to return to Atwater—the prison that released me in 2013—so I could meet his team and make an address to the prisoners inside. I welcomed the opportunity. Twenty-eight months have passed since I concluded my 9,500-day journey as a federal prisoner. I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me, which I’ll explain in the chapters that follow. But in order to help readers understand more about how I opened opportunities that few would expect for a man who served so much time in prison, I need to provide some context—at least an abbreviated background. If you’ve read my earlier books, particularly Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term, you won’t be learning anything new in this chapter. I won’t take the time to provide the same level of detail as I wrote in that book. Those who want a more comprehensive glimpse of my prison journey will find value in Earning Freedom. After this initial chapter, the remainder will show how decisions in prison related to opportunities and success I’ve been building since my release. We’ll start with the backstory.Background:In 1982, I graduated from Shorecrest High School in Seattle as a mediocre student. Then I started working with my father in a contracting company he established when I was a young boy. My father escaped from Cuba and worked hard to build his company, hoping he would pass the business along to me after I matured. Unfortunately, I disappointed both my father and mother. When I was 20, in 1984, I saw the movie Scarface, with Al Pacino. Pacino played the character Tony Montana, a super cool Cuban immigrant who built a fortune trafficking in cocaine. Rather than wanting to follow in my father’s footsteps, I made the bad decision to follow guidance from Tony Montana. “In this country, first you get the money, then you get the power, then you get the woman.” I admired Tony’s philosophy. His outlook on life didn’t work out so well. After seeing the film, I coordinated a scheme to earn quick money by distributing cocaine. Foolishly, I believed that I could shield myself from prosecution. By limiting my role to negotiating transactions and hiring other people to transport the cocaine, or storing the cocaine, I convinced myself that I could avoid the criminal justice system. On August 11, 1987, I learned how badly I had misinterpreted the criminal justice system. In the late afternoon, I saw three DEA agents pointing guns at my head. They told me I was under arrest. Soon I felt an officer pulling my wrists behind my back and locking them in steel cuffs. My journey began. Over subsequent decades, I’d go through: Federal holding centers Court proceedings Pierce County Jail Kent Jail Puyallup Jail USP Atlanta FCI McKean Federal correctional Institution, Fairton United States Penitentiary Lewisburg FCI Fort Dix Federal Prison Camp in Florence Federal prison camp in Lompoc Federal prison camp Taft, Federal Prison Camp Atwater Federal Prison Camp San Francisco Halfway house Supervised Release Parole, and Special paroleThe pages that follow will show how decisions I made inside influenced my life outside. It’s my hope that this message will inspire you to begin preparing for your successful outcome. Transformation after Trial:Wanting nothing more than to get out of jail, I welcomed my attorney’s optimism. When he told me that a big difference existed between an indictment and a conviction, I put my future in his hands. Then I proceeded to make every bad decision a defendant could make.I refused to accept responsibility.I didn’t contemplate expressing remorse.While in custody, I stayed involved with the criminal enterprise that I had begun.I took the witness stand to testify during my trial and I lied to the jury.Members of the jury saw through my perjury and convicted me of every count. A New Philosophy:After the jury convicted me, the U.S. Marshals returned me to the Pierce County Jail. While in my cell, for the first time, I came to terms with the bad decisions that I had made. I began to pray for guidance. Those prayers led me to a book of philosophy and I came across the story of Socrates. At that time, I didn’t know anything about philosophy or Socrates. He was a teacher in ancient Athens. Laws of that era made it a crime to teach people who were not from the ruling class. Socrates broke that law. He believed that every human being had value and a right to learn. Authorities convicted Socrates for breaking the law of teaching and judges sentenced him to death. While being held in jail until his execution date, Socrates received a visit from his friend Crito. Crito presented Socrates with an opportunity to escape. Instead of taking the easy way out of escape, Socrates chose to accept his punishment—accepting death before dishonor. From Socrates, I learned a great deal. His wisdom came through asking brilliant questions—which spawned the term “Socratic questioning.” After reading several stories about his life, I stretched out on the concrete slab in one of Pierce County’s jail cells and I thought about the decisions I had made that put me in my predicament. While staring at the ceiling, I contemplated the many bad decisions of my youth.I made a poor choice of friendsI lived a fast lifestyle, andI lacked discipline.As a consequence of my convictions for leading an enterprise that trafficked in cocaine, I faced a possible sentence of life in prison. Even though my conviction carried the possibility of a life sentence without parole, I believed that I would return to society at some point. I began to question whether I could do anything while I served my sentence to prepare for a better life when my prison term ended. As I learned from Socrates, the secret to success wasn’t to ask questions about my own life. Instead, I needed to ask questions about my relationship to the broader society. Later, I learned from many other masterminds that taught me the timeless value of asking the right questions. For example, a well known sales coach and motivational speaker, Zig Zigler, is famous for having said: If I can ask questions to help other people get what they want, I can get everything that I want. Reading about Socrates taught me to ask questions that would help me understand the people I wanted in my life. I hated confinement and didn’t want to be a prisoner forever. Although I couldn’t undo the bad decisions of my past, I started thinking about the people I wanted to interact with in the future. Ironically, although I faced a life sentence, I didn’t want to think of myself as a criminal. In the future, I wanted others to judge me for the way that I responded to my problems—not for the bad decisions that resulted in my imprisonment.Socratic Questioning and Avatars:Who were the people I would want to interact with in the future?What did they do for a living?What influence would they have in my life?Those kinds of questions led me to “humanize” my avatars. What’s an avatar? From my perspective, an avatar was the type of person I wanted to meet in the future. That person would influence aspects of my life. Although the avatar didn’t exist as a flesh-and-blood person, in my mind the avatar was real—even though I didn’t know who he or she would be. I thought about my future probation officer because that person would have an influence on my life whenever my prison term ended. I thought about my future employer. I thought about future lenders. I thought about the woman I would marry and the friends I would choose.Who were those people? What characterized their lives? What level of education would they have? What could I do to earn their respect? The more questions I asked of my avatars, the more insight I had as I contemplated the way that I would adjust through my prison journey. I began with questions about whether there would be anything that I could do from prison to influence the way those avatars would perceive me in the future. The initial answer to my question was a resounding yes. If I acted appropriately, I believed that I could influence the perceptions of my avatars. As Socrates taught, one question always led to another. What then could I do to influence the ways that those avatars would see me? What would they expect from me if they were going to see me as something more than the bad decisions I made when I was 20? Those questions led to a three-part plan: My avatars would expect me to educate myself. My avatars would expect me to contribute to society. My avatars would expect me to build a support network.If I kept the expectations of my avatars at the forefront of my mind, and if I turned to those thoughts with every decision, I believed that I would influence perceptions. Instead of judging me for my criminal conviction, being a prisoner, or an ex convict, my avatars would respect me. They would perceive me as a man of discipline and integrity, as someone who worked to earn his freedom. Now I have a question for readers. If you could influence someone, who would you want to influence? What do you know about that person? In what ways would influencing that person change your life? What steps could you take today to influence that person?

I’m Michael Santos and I’m typing this manuscript on an awesome Mac Pro computer. When I served my sentence, I had to write all of my manuscripts by hand. Now I’m addicted to Apple products and word processors. These tools allow me to write much more efficiently, but I no longer have the time that was available to me while I was in prison. Again, that’s why I won’t devote hundreds of hours to editing this manuscript. At least for this draft, what you see is what you get. I started typing this manuscript on Saturday morning, December 4, 2015. I don’t know how long it will take for me to finish, but I’m going to do my best to finish a solid draft before the end of this year. Why? Well, it may seem strange, but I’m scheduled to visit the United States Penitentiary in Atwater on January 8, 2016. After speaking at a judicial conference in Sacramento that I wrote about in the introduction, I had a conversation with Warden Andre Matevousian. He extended an open invitation for me to return to Atwater—the prison that released me in 2013—so I could meet his team and make an address to the prisoners inside. I welcomed the opportunity. Twenty-eight months have passed since I concluded my 9,500-day journey as a federal prisoner. I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me, which I’ll explain in the chapters that follow. But in order to help readers understand more about how I opened opportunities that few would expect for a man who served so much time in prison, I need to provide some context—at least an abbreviated background. If you’ve read my earlier books, particularly Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term, you won’t be learning anything new in this chapter. I won’t take the time to provide the same level of detail as I wrote in that book. Those who want a more comprehensive glimpse of my prison journey will find value in Earning Freedom. After this initial chapter, the remainder will show how decisions in prison related to opportunities and success I’ve been building since my release. We’ll start with the backstory. Background: In 1982, I graduated from Shorecrest High School in Seattle as a mediocre student. Then I started working with my father in a contracting company he established when I was a young boy. My father escaped from Cuba and worked hard to build his company, hoping he would pass the business along to me after I matured. Unfortunately, I disappointed both my father and mother. When I was 20, in 1984, I saw the movie Scarface, with Al Pacino. Pacino played the character Tony Montana, a super cool Cuban immigrant who built a fortune trafficking in cocaine. Rather than wanting to follow in my father’s footsteps, I made the bad decision to follow guidance from Tony Montana. “In this country, first you get the money, then you get the power, then you get the woman.” I admired Tony’s philosophy. His outlook on life didn’t work out so well. After seeing the film, I coordinated a scheme to earn quick money by distributing cocaine. Foolishly, I believed that I could shield myself from prosecution. By limiting my role to negotiating transactions and hiring other people to transport the cocaine, or storing the cocaine, I convinced myself that I could avoid the criminal justice system. On August 11, 1987, I learned how badly I had misinterpreted the criminal justice system. In the late afternoon, I saw three DEA agents pointing guns at my head. They told me I was under arrest. Soon I felt an officer pulling my wrists behind my back and locking them in steel cuffs. My journey began. Over subsequent decades, I’d go through: Federal holding centers Court proceedings Jails: Pierce County Jail, Kent Jail, Puyallup Jail, USP Atlanta, FCI McKean, Federal correctional Institution, Fairton, United States Penitentiary Lewisburg, Fort Dix, Federal Prison Camp in Florence, Federal prison camp in Lompoc, Federal prison camp, Taft, Federal Prison Camp Atwater. Residential Drug Abuse Program Prisons Halfway house Supervised Release Parole, and Special parole The pages that follow will show how decisions I made inside influenced my life outside. It’s my hope that this message will inspire you to begin preparing for your successful outcome. Transformation after Trial: Wanting nothing more than to get out of jail, I welcomed my attorney’s optimism. When he told me that a big difference existed between an indictment and a conviction, I put my future in his hands. Then I proceeded to make every bad decision a defendant could make. I refused to accept responsibility. I didn’t contemplate expressing remorse. While in custody, I stayed involved with the criminal enterprise that I had begun. I took the witness stand to testify during my trial and I lied to the jury. Members of the jury saw through my perjury and convicted me of every count. A New Philosophy: After the jury convicted me, the U.S. Marshals returned me to the Pierce County Jail. While in my cell, for the first time, I came to terms with the bad decisions that I had made. I began to pray for guidance. Those prayers led me to a book of philosophy and I came across the story of Socrates. At that time, I didn’t know anything about philosophy or Socrates. He was a teacher in ancient Athens. Laws of that era made it a crime to teach people who were not from the ruling class. Socrates broke that law. He believed that every human being had value and a right to learn. Authorities convicted Socrates for breaking the law of teaching and judges sentenced him to death. While being held in jail until his execution date, Socrates received a visit from his friend Crito. Crito presented Socrates with an opportunity to escape. Instead of taking the easy way out of escape, Socrates chose to accept his punishment—accepting death before dishonor. From Socrates, I learned a great deal. His wisdom came through asking brilliant questions—which spawned the term “Socratic questioning.” After reading several stories about his life, I stretched out on the concrete slab in one of Pierce County’s jail cells and I thought about the decisions I had made that put me in my predicament. While staring at the ceiling, I contemplated the many bad decisions of my youth. I made a poor choice of friends I lived a fast lifestyle, and I lacked discipline. As a consequence of my convictions for leading an enterprise that trafficked in cocaine, I faced a possible sentence of life in prison. Even though my conviction carried the possibility of a life sentence without parole, I believed that I would return to society at some point. I began to question whether I could do anything while I served my sentence to prepare for a better life when my prison term ended. As I learned from Socrates, the secret to success wasn’t to ask questions about my own life. Instead, I needed to ask questions about my relationship to the broader society. Later, I learned from many other masterminds that taught me the timeless value of asking the right questions. For example, a well known sales coach and motivational speaker, Zig Zigler, is famous for having said: If I can ask questions to help other people get what they want, I can get everything that I want. Reading about Socrates taught me to ask questions that would help me understand the people I wanted in my life. I hated confinement and didn’t want to be a prisoner forever. Although I couldn’t undo the bad decisions of my past, I started thinking about the people I wanted to interact with in the future. Ironically, although I faced a life sentence, I didn’t want to think of myself as a criminal. In the future, I wanted others to judge me for the way that I responded to my problems—not for the bad decisions that resulted in my imprisonment. Socratic Questioning and Avatars: Who were the people I would want to interact with in the future? What did they do for a living? What influence would they have in my life? Those kinds of questions led me to “humanize” my avatars. What’s an avatar? From my perspective, an avatar was the type of person I wanted to meet in the future. That person would influence aspects of my life. Although the avatar didn’t exist as a flesh-and-blood person, in my mind the avatar was real—even though I didn’t know who he or she would be. I thought about my future probation officer because that person would have an influence on my life whenever my prison term ended. I thought about my future employer. I thought about future lenders. I thought about the woman I would marry and the friends I would choose. Who were those people? What characterized their lives? What level of education would they have? What could I do to earn their respect? The more questions I asked of my avatars, the more insight I had as I contemplated the way that I would adjust through my prison journey. I began with questions about whether there would be anything that I could do from prison to influence the way those avatars would perceive me in the future. The initial answer to my question was a resounding yes. If I acted appropriately, I believed that I could influence the perceptions of my avatars. As Socrates taught, one question always led to another. What then could I do to influence the ways that those avatars would see me? What would they expect from me if they were going to see me as something more than the bad decisions I made when I was 20? Those questions led to a three-part plan: My avatars would expect me to educate myself. My avatars would expect me to contribute to society. My avatars would expect me to build a support network. If I kept the expectations of my avatars at the forefront of my mind, and if I turned to those thoughts with every decision, I believed that I would influence perceptions. Instead of judging me for my criminal conviction, being a prisoner, or an ex convict, my avatars would respect me. They would perceive me as a man of discipline and integrity, as someone who worked to earn his freedom. Now I have a question for readers. If you could influence someone, who would you want to influence? What do you know about that person? In what ways would influencing that person change your life? What steps could you take today to influence that person?