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Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term, by Michael Santos Chapter 14.1 Arriving at the Taft Federal Camp and settling in Months 233-266          Early on the morning of June 21, I learn that I’m no longer designated to FCC Lompoc. Two guards from the Taft Correctional Institution arrive.  They lock six of us in chains, and then they load us into a white van. We’re on our way to the Central Valley of California, leaving Lompoc behind for good. Lompoc Camp was already a memory after 65 days locked in SHU, but I’m a little sad when the van exits the main gate and turns left toward the highway. I’ll miss running long distances in the shade of Lompoc’s majestic eucalyptus trees, enjoying the fragrances of the pines mixed with breezes from the nearby Pacific Ocean. I’ll miss my friend Lee and the nearly private space I enjoyed in the powerhouse office. The two-lane road climbs east through low mountains, drops into the San Joaquin Valley, and it finally whips through high desert.  It’s a landscape of blowing dust, sagebrush, and unsightly steel pumps sucking oil from the arid soil. I lean involuntarily as the van turns right onto the long entry road leading to the prison, bouncing over yellow speed bumps. At the parking lot of the double-fenced, low-security prison, manicured lawns and palm trees welcome us. Blooming gardens create the illusion of a lush oasis in this desert. After the requisite intake processing, three of us designated to minimum-security take our bedrolls and board the white van, unrestrained, for a short ride to Taft Camp’s low, gray, concrete administration building. Located behind the low-security prison, the modern, single-story design features tinted windows and round pillars supporting an extended roof shading spacious walkways. The building looks more like the headquarters for a software engineering firm than a prison. Taft Camp appears to be well maintained. In the administration building, the round schoolhouse clock in the glass-enclosed guard’s station reads just past five. I cross the tile floor and push open the glass door to the camp’s compound. After more than two months in Lompoc’s SHU I revel in this less-stressful environment. Wide, clean, concrete walkways cut across pristine lawns in the center of the camp compound. Decorative, knee-high light posts illuminate the walks leading to the glass-enclosed chow hall and across the lawn to the two-storied housing unit with its horizontal rows of tall, unbarred, wide windows of tinted glass. In the distance, an oval track surrounds softball and soccer fields. Men in khakis, white t-shirts, and sneakers visit outside the housing units. They appear friendly, smiling and nodding as I climb the stairs to A4D, my assigned housing unit. The air conditioning feels good, cooling me as I step inside the high-ceilinged dorm, one of four identical housing units. Six telephones hang across from each other on the two walls immediately inside the foyer, and I don’t see any guards. Unlike the open dormitories at Lompoc, two and three-man cubicles divide the housing unit, creating a grid that provides a semblance of privacy for the 140 men in my unit. The bathroom facilities are much larger than Lompoc’s.  They include 16 shower areas with doors and plenty of toilet stalls, urinals, and sinks. The unit reserves a room for four microwaves and an ice machine, rooms with six televisions and game tables, and a small study room that overlooks the lawns. In cubicle 36, a three-man room, I meet my two roommates. “I’m Rick,” one man offers, extending his hand.
Dan, a slender, blond man in his early 50s, introduces himself as well.
I set my bedroll on the top rack.
“Let me show you how to make up your bed,” Dan offers. “It can be a little tricky to keep your sheets in place. What you want to do is….” “Thanks for the tip,” I raise my hand to stop his instruction. “I’d like to say I’m new, but I’ve been at this awhile.” “Oh, I thought you were fresh off the streets. Did you come in from the county jail?” I chuckle as I tie the corners of my sheets around the mat. “Not jail. I was at Lompoc Camp.” “Really? Lompoc Camp! I’ve heard that’s the best place in the system.” Dan turns to Rick. “My lawyer tried to get me sent to Lompoc, but the schmuck got me sent to this dump filled with drug dealers and criminals.” “Yeah,” Rick agrees. “I’ve heard about Lompoc. Forbes runs an article each year that ranks the best prisons for white-collar offenders and Lompoc Camp always comes out on top. Is it true that they’ve got a golf course?” Rick simulates a golf swing. “I didn’t see a golf course,” I laugh. “But Lompoc does have its bright spots.” “You’re not going to like the change,” Dan warns. “This place is a real prison.” “No kidding? What’s not to like?” I ask. Rick and Dan exchange a knowing glance. “You’ll find out soon enough,” Dan says. “The food is awful, the staff is incompetent, and 95 percent of the men here are dim bulbs, borderline imbeciles,” Rick tells me. “Well, I guess I lucked out then, being assigned to this cubicle. What do you guys do for a living?” “I’m an accountant,” Rick says. “And what brings you to Taft Camp?” I stuff my pillow into the pillowcase. “Overzealous prosecutors,” he answers. “Saddled me with three years for advising clients on offshore accounts. It was totally above board. I shouldn’t even be here.” “Did you take the case to trial?” “Oh no. If I’d lost at trial I would’ve been facing ten years. Better to plead guilty, take the three years and move on with my life.” “What about you?” I ask Dan. “I’m in investments.” “Oh? What kind?” “All kinds,” he says. “My company purchases real estate, financial instruments, businesses. Private equity.” “And how long are you with us?” I ask. “Serving 46 months,” Dan says. “It doesn’t make any sense at all. We’ve got drug dealers and other real criminals running around here serving half the sentence I’m serving.” “What did they charge you with?” I ask. “You’re not going to believe it,” he says. “Try me,” I smile. “Fraud. Said I was running a Ponzi. I offered investors a legitimate 10 percent annual return on their money. I got a little behind the eight ball when markets started going sideways on me, and before you know it, boom, I got the FBI breathing down my neck.” “How much was the amount of loss?” “A lousy four million. If the investors would’ve just been patient, the deals would’ve worked out. Totally legit. Now it’s all gone.” He waves his hand dismissively. “What’re you, a lawyer?” Rick asks as he sits on his lower rack. “No. I’m serving a 45 year sentence for selling cocaine.” Silence. Don and Rick look at each other.
Then Rick explodes with laughter. “No way! You wouldn’t be in camp with a sentence like that.” “I’m totally serious. Of course, I’ve been in a long time.” “But you said you came from Lompoc Camp. That’s a spot for white-collar offenders.” “Not only white-collar offenders, and I did come from Lompoc Camp. But I was in several prisons before Lompoc Camp.” “Like where?” Rick asks, still skeptical, unable to hide his curiosity and incredulity. “I started in USP Atlanta,” I toss out, humoring myself with my new roommates. Rick scoots to the edge of his rack, leans in. “No way. You were in a penitentiary?” “I spent six Christmases inside those walls. Then I transferred to McKean, in Pennsylvania. From there I transferred to Fairton, in New Jersey. I spent almost eight years at Fort Dix. Then I was in Florence Camp, Lompoc Camp, and now I’m here.” They stare at me for a moment in silence. “How long have you been in prison?” Rick finally blurts out. “Twenty years.” “Twenty years?” Don whistles. “I’ve never met anyone who’s been in longer than five. Listen, I hope I didn’t offend you with anything I said. I didn’t know.” “After 20 years in prison, do you really think I could be offended by something you’d say?”  “So no hard feelings then?” Dan puts out his hand. “Think nothing of it.” We shake hands again. ******* I meet my counselor and my case manager. Both women speak to me kindly, taken aback that I’ve been in prison for so long. “Where are all your tattoos?” My counselor teases. She grants my request for a phone call to Carole and immediately approves a visiting list authorizing Carole to visit over the weekend. “You could put a different set of clothes on and I wouldn’t know you’ve been in prison at all.” My case manager says. “Does that surprise you?” I ask with a laugh. “Totally. I was a little girl when you came to prison. I would’ve expected you to be angry and bitter. But you’re all smiles, normal, like you haven’t ever served time in prison.” “Isn’t that ironic?” I ask. “What’s that?” “That I’m unscathed after 20 years of imprisonment, with all my teeth and no tattoos, yet you wonder what went wrong. You expect two decades in prison should turn me angry and bitter. When you see that it hasn’t, you wonder why.” “Oh! I didn’t think of it that way.” ******* When Carole and I were in Fort Dix we were able to visit five days a week. Those ample visits allowed us to deepen our relationship and allowed me to play an influential role in Nichole’s life. In Florence Camp, rules allowed us to visit every Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and federal holiday. At Lompoc, restrictions were tighter. Authorized visits were only Saturdays, Sundays, and holidays. Still, we appreciated the time together. In Taft Camp, I learn, a point structure penalizes families who visit on weekends or holidays. Because Carole is in school on Fridays, we’ll only be able to visit on weekends, limiting us to a maximum of two or three visits each month, depending on whether we visit on Saturdays or Sundays. The visiting restrictions will complicate our life, but we’ll make it through.  Carole arrives early on Sunday for our first visit at Taft. “Tell me all about it. How do you like it here?” Carole smiles, eager to hear about this newest transition. “Without a doubt, this is the easiest prison in the world.” “How are the people?” “Do you mean the other prisoners or the staff?” “Both.” “The prisoners are the same as in every other camp, but the guards are different. It’s only been a few days, but the staff I’ve spoken to seem a much friendlier group than the standard-issue BOP brand.” “What do you mean?” “Rather than the BOP, a private company manages this place. I don’t know why, but it’s different from other prisons. The guards don’t give the impression that they’re out to harass me, and the unit team members, meaning the counselors and case managers, treat me like a person, not a prisoner.” “My contact at the Regional Office said Taft was the best spot for you. That’s why I want you to make me a promise.” “What’s that?” I ask warily. “What kind of promise do you want me to make?” “Just listen. Thanks to Lee, we have enough in the bank to pay for everything we need until I finish nursing school. Nichole’s going to graduate next June, and by then I’ll have my nursing license. I don’t want you to do anything that might send you to the hole or get you transferred. Don’t write anything about prison, and don’t tell me to make any stock trades. Nothing. I don’t want any problems that might waken the beast.” “I don’t want problems either,” I say, wanting to reassure her. “You know what I mean. No more writing until I graduate. After that, I can get a job anywhere if they decide to transfer you for publishing or for some other ridiculous reason.” “I have to prepare for my release and the only way I know how to do that is by writing. We can’t allow the system to keep me from working.” “The system isn’t stopping you,” Carole says. “I’m asking you to stop. It’s just for one year, until I graduate.” “You want me to give up a year of work?” “Please, Michael. No writing about prison or prisoners.” I shake my head. “Nothing?” “Nothing.”
I pause. Writing enables me to transcend the boundaries, allowing me to connect with the society I long to join. By writing about what I’ve learned from others, observed, and experienced, I take meaningful steps to reform this system, showing taxpayers what those within the prison industrial complex don’t want citizens to see. As a writer, I’m relevant, more than a prisoner, part of something bigger than me. But I won’t deny Carole and so I agree to suspend my work until she graduates. I don’t want to give prison administrators cause to uproot our lives again. “Okay. I promise.” ******* Tavo may not have much of an education, but he maneuvers his way around Taft Camp just fine, providing for himself with a hustle here and a hustle there. He’s five foot-six and doesn’t weigh more than130 pounds.  He wears his straight black hair parted down the middle and feathered back. His eyes are a startling green and, despite his 40 years, there’s not a whisker on his face. Tavo has a trace of an accent even though he was born and reared in Los Angeles. He keeps up with who’s being released from the camp, negotiating a price for each departing prisoner’s sneakers, sweats, radios, and other belongings. He tacks on a markup and sells the goods to newcomers, even providing a payment plan when necessary. He has a commissary squeeze where he charges a fee for providing candy, soda, chips, or other items on days when the prisoners aren’t authorized to shop. For his most lucrative gig, Tavo provides the service of doubling mattresses. Bed frames at Taft Camp consist of metal slabs welded to four metal posts. The narrow slabs have lips that rise an inch around the edges to hold the sleeping mats in place. Tavo understands that some prisoners in camp are sensitive to the harshness of institutional living. He charges $40 to cut through the seam, stuff a second mat into the casing and sew it shut, thus converting the mat to a mattress. “You’ve got to meet Tavo,” Rick, my roommate nudges. “For 40 bucks he’ll hook up the mattress in a way that makes sleeping almost bearable.” “Appreciate the tip. I’m good,” I say. “Can’t pay enough for a good night’s sleep,” Dan seconds the suggestion. “Sit on mine.” “I’m sure it’s comfortable,” I shrug. “But I’ve known hundreds of Tavos. The double mattress is great until guards come through on a shakedown and issue shots for destruction of government property. I don’t need the headache.” “They can’t do that,” Rick says. “I’d just say the mattress was issued to me this way. Check it out. You can’t even tell.” “I’ll be okay. Thanks.” Rick and Dan serve their time as a team. They eat meals together, walk the track together, and they partner in card tournaments. But in the afternoon, when rules require us all to stand in the cube for the daily census count, we sometimes discuss our lives and thoughts. They question me about other prisons and what it’s been like to serve so many years. “I’ll tell you one thing. Serving time in other prisons has made it easy for me to appreciate Taft.” “You see, that’s not normal,” Dan tells me. “You’ve been in too long, so long that prison doesn’t bother you anymore. Truth is, this is inhumane. The lengths of the sentences don’t make any sense at all.” “What he’s saying,” Rick jumps in, “is that some people might belong in prison. But guys like us shouldn’t be in here at all.” “What do you mean, ‘like us’? I’m in here for selling cocaine. The first day I came into the cube you were saying that people who sold drugs were the real criminals who belong in prison.” “Not for 20 years,” Dan amends. “Besides, you’re different now. You’ve educated yourself and you’ve got things going on in the world. Prison should be for the criminal types, the guys who keep selling drugs or committing crimes.” “You mean guys like Tavo?” I ask. Rick shifts uncomfortably. “Well, Tavo’s a nice enough guy, but what’s he going to do in the world? No one’s going to hire him. He’s not doing anything to change his ways. Chances are, he’s probably going to leave here and hustle drugs again.” “Chances are,” I say, “that he came from a poor family, quit school before 10th grade, can’t read well, and had to hustle for survival. How about you? Where did you go to school?” “Cal State Northridge,” Rick says. “You went to USC right?” I nod at Dan. “Go Trojans,” Dan waves two fingers in the air. “Should society hold people who come from poverty to the same standard as people who come from privilege?” “You break the law, you break the law,” Dan explains smugly. “We all make our choices.” “But you guys whine in here every day about your discomfort and the living conditions. Guys like Tavo are getting by the only way they know how. This might be as good as he’s ever had it.” I argue. “He’s a criminal. He sold drugs,” Dan counters. “I don’t know what Tavo did, but he probably sold drugs to consenting adults and he probably serves at least twice as long as you. Who would the investors in your scam think is the worse criminal, Tavo or you?” I ask. “You don’t know anything about my case,” Dan hisses. “I didn’t set out to lose anyone’s money. Markets just went against me. I couldn’t control it. It’s not my fault.” “That may be,” I shrug. “But you pled guilty. That means you had to stand in court, and while under oath, admit to committing fraud.” “I only pled guilty because I would’ve gotten a longer sentence if I went to trial.” “Either way, you’re not in a position to be judging anyone else in here.” That argument serves me well, as neither Rick nor Dan speak to me again. We pass each other silently for three months before a staff member grants my request to move into a two-man cube further back in the housing unit with David Muniz, a married father of two. Since I’m keeping my promise to Carole that I won’t write, I devote my time to exercising and spending several hours each week tutoring and coaching David on steps he can take to prepare for release. We laugh as guards wheel a cart through the unit one day, confiscating all double mattresses. When one of the guards threatens Dan with a shot, Dan doesn’t hesitate to snitch on Tavo. Rick, however, argues with the guard “You can’t take my mattress! I’ve got a bad back.” “This mattress isn’t standard issue, it’s been altered. It’s contraband.” The guard doesn’t have any concern about the condition of Rick’s back. “If you don’t provide me with a double mattress, my lawyer will slap a lawsuit on this prison so fast it’ll make the warden’s head spin.” “Really,” the guard says in a voice dripping with sarcasm. “Let’s see you launch that lawsuit from the SHU.” *******   ******* Carole and I celebrate Christmas day sitting beside each other in the visiting room. Wreathes, blinking lights, a Christmas tree, and a full-sized red, wooden sleigh decorate the room. A prisoner in a Santa outfit walks around the crowded room handing out candy canes, but my gift is sitting beside me. “This is your 21st Christmas in prison,” Carole says. “Our sixth together since we’ve been married.” “We only have six more to go.” “Five,” she corrects me. “No, 2013.” “But you’ll be home in August. We’ll spend Christmas together that year.” The years blend together for me now, but Carole helps me visualize our life ahead. It’s not easy to imagine being free. Strange. “Time will move so much faster starting in 2008,” I say. “How so?” “We’ve got all these events to mark the time. They’ll come like milestones, passing quickly, giving us real markers to look toward.” “Like what?” “What do you mean ‘like what’?” I hold up my fingers to count. “In January the political season kicks off with the primaries. We’ll follow all the races, starting in Iowa. After the primaries roll around, we’ll have a better idea who our next president is going to be.” Carole squeezes my hand. “I’m so sick of politics. It doesn’t matter who wins, nothing changes.” “Then in March the $500,000 fine that my judge imposed expires. We can open a joint bank account as husband and wife. In May, you graduate from nursing school. In June, Nichole graduates from high school. Sometime during the summer the political conventions will name the candidates. The fall will make politics really exciting. Then it will be Christmas again.” “The years take much longer to pass than you make it sound,” Carole says. “Remember what we were doing five years ago?” I ask her. “I had just moved to Fort Dix.” “Remember what I told you on New Year’s Day, when you and Nichole came to visit?” “Tell me again.” “I put up my hand and opened five fingers like this,” I repeat the action. “I said that in five years, if you stayed with me, your life would be completely different. And look at you now, five years later.” She smiles and brushes her cheek against mine. “Do you think I’m so different?” “You’re a magnificent wife. No matter what happens in my life, nothing will bring me more happiness than my marriage to you.”  

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.”    

When Carole asked me whether I felt alone as the mom of a special needs child, the conversation took an unexpected turn into the discussion of balancing my child's needs with my own, and the challenges involved in not only balancing work and home, but in being a successful entrepreneur. Kindred spirits who are multipassionate and entrepreneurs at heart, we bonded over the challenges and joys of loving ideas and confusing people who like to keep things simple.

A daily devotional walking through God's word together using The Bible Reading Plan at http://www.bible-reading.com/bible-plan.html. Our website http://alittlewalkwithgod.com Bible Reading Plan - www.Bible-Reading.com We are taking a short break from The Story for Advent and Christmas season. We'll be back into The Story next week. We're taking this one more week from the consecutive schedule so that our readings at Easter coincide with the events as recorded in The Story. This is our third and last week away from that study, but rest assured we will go back to it next week and then finish our journey exploring God's plan to bring us back into a face to face relationship with Him. You may or may not be listening to this podcast as it is being released, but it was released at 5:00 am Christmas morning. Growing up, that was the about as late as my mom could stand it. She would wake all of us up (if we weren't already awake). We'd rush down the hall to the living room and get stopped in the hallway until dad could set up the camera. Then we would rush into the living room to see what Santa left under the tree. The next ten or thirty minutes were spent oohing and aahing over that magical thing that appeared under the tree from the night before. Next, we would open all the other presents under the tree that belonged to our family. As the family grew, with five kids, it took a little while for all of them to get opened, chaos to subside and all the wrappings to be gathered and trashed. Once the unwrapping was done we got to pick one thing to take with us to granny's house where all who could came for breakfast. Granny's husband died when my father was only five and remained a widow the rest of her life, so most of her kids came home every Christmas to join her for breakfast. Many of the grandkids also stopped by, so it wasn't unusual to have forty or fifty people trying to run shifts at the table or sofa or just find some standing room in her tiny two bedroom house. But one thing that always happened at Granny's house was that someone read the Christmas story from Luke Chapter 2 after breakfast. Then we would shower her with gifts. She never wanted anything and after she moved into an assisted living facility, they found many of those gifts unused in closets, under beds, stuffed away wherever she could find a spot because she just didn't know how to receive gifts very well and didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings by taking anything back or regifting as is common today. Granny made sure everyone knew what Christmas was about. It wasn't about presents and decorations and shopping and the hustle and bustle we seem to make it so many times today. Granny made sure we knew it was about Jesus' birth. She even made Him a birthday cake that all us grandkids enjoyed every year on Christmas day for lunch. She always made Him the center of everything that day and made it clear to the family we were celebrating His coming. Granny would tell me when I was growing up that her call in life was to raise a Christian family. Of the 96 family members at her funeral when she died, a fourth were in full-time Christian ministry. Many served as Sunday School teachers, sang in choirs, served on church boards and committees, and gave their time and energy in myriad ways to their local church. You could count on one hand the number that weren't in church regularly. And by regularly, I mean every service. Then it meant Sunday morning, Sunday night, and Wednesday night. Granny raised a family committed to Christ. We live in a highly mobile society and kids and grandkids no longer live close enough to do what Granny's family did every Christmas. We were only an hour or so away the whole time I was growing up. When Carole and I had kids, we were half a world away from their grandparents. Unfortunately, that's the way with a huge portion of the population now. We can't spend time with family like we did in days gone by. But we can still remember Jesus on Christmas. We can still embrace the importance of community and reach out to those around us. To build a family of friends, not to replace our flesh and blood kin, but to share the love of Christ and the importance of this special day. Does that mean we have to prepare big meals with ham and turkey and lots of side dishes and desserts and spend half the day in the kitchen for a 20 minute meal? No. At Granny's we had biscuits, eggs, bacon, sausage, and that's about it. All of us pitched in to help cook so the meal was pretty simple, quick and easy and it wasn't the food we went for anyway. We went for the fellowship. It can be the same with any gathering. We don't need to impress anyone with preparations to enjoy their company. If you have to do that, then those are the wrong people to invite. Invite the ones that don't care if pillows are out of place or dishes don't match. The ones that will get their own beverages after you show them where they are the first time. Spend Christmas in community with people you love. Just sharing Jesus' love with those around you will make a big difference in your life and theirs. Remember those two commands Jesus gave us that wraps all the others together? Love God and love people. When we do that, something incredible happens. We share the grace and mercy we've been given to others in the same way God has give His grace and mercy to us. We learn to give cheerfully from a heart full of love. Those around us see Jesus in our actions when we truly love with His love. I don't know what kind of traditions you have in your family. Ours have changed through the years because of experiences we had through our military travels that took us far from family and even sometimes separated us. We made accommodations to what use to be long held traditions because of things that change around us with health and age and place and time. But through it all, there is still one constant. Jesus is the center of our celebration. We recognize there would be no Christmas without Christ. He is the reason we have the holiday. He is the reason we gather together. He is why we laugh and cry and live and breathe. Jesus is why. If we lose the real reason for Christmas we lose it all. Whatever you do this day or this season, don't forget why we celebrate in the first place. Don't lose the centerpiece of all that happens in this season named for the one to whom it truly belongs. Keep Christ, not just at Christmas, but all year long. Next week we will return to our study of The Story, God's plan to restore a face to face relationship with us. We finished chapter 14 before our short break. Next week we will begin reading chapter 15. You can find me at richardagee.com. I also invite you to join us at San Antonio First Church of the Nazarene on West Avenue in San Antonio to hear more about The Story and our part in it. You can find out more about my church at SAF.church. Thanks for listening. If you enjoyed it, tell a friend. If you didn't, send me an email and let me know how better to reach out to those around you. Until next week, may God richly bless you as you venture into His story each day.

"Travel Light". That's what Carole Lewis told Pam and me. She ought to know! She's had to let go of a lot of precious things including her home and some of her family, but she presses on and doesn't give up! In January of 2014, Carole became the Director Emeritus. Carole led First Place 4 Health as the National Director since 1987. A member of the original First Place group that began in 1981, she watched the program grow from 12 groups in one church to thousands of members at more than 12,000 churches throughout the nation and in many foreign countries. When Carole attended the First Place orientation in March 1981, she was unsure of where God was leading but knew she needed to make some lifestyle changes. A chance meeting with a friend from her past gave Carole the impetus to determine she did not want to be "fat and 40." She joined a First Place group and soon lost 20 pounds. Learning how to bring balance to her life motivated her to become a First Place leader to encourage others to achieve their goals. Carole has authored fifteen books and led conferences, Christian spas, workshops and seminars with an emphasis on personal and spiritual balance, fitness, encouragement and temperament analysis. Her audiences know her as warm, transparent, honest and humorous. Carole and her late husband, Johnny, have three children (one deceased) eight grandchildren and one great grandchild. Carole lives in Houston, Texas. Books: First Place, Choosing to Change, Today is the First Day, Back on Track, The Mother Daughter Legacy, The Divine Diet, A Thankful Heart, Stop It!, Living Well, First Place 4 Health, Better Together, Hope 4 You, Give God A Year, Live Life Right Here Right Now, . www.facebook.com/carolelewis You can reach Carole Lewis at: Email: Carole.lewis@firstplace4health.com

5. Support Networks Accelerate Growth Opportunities Earlier, I wrote about rules in the halfway house that required me to have a job. So long as I had a job that paid a steady paycheck, my case manager in the halfway house authorized me to leave. My friend Lee was more like a sponsor for me than an employer. He set a schedule for me to work 10—hour shifts, Monday through Saturday. I reported to an office and sat at a desk, but instead of doing work for Lee, I focused on creating a business. First, I needed Lee to see the vision. I persuaded Lee that our nation’s commitment to mass incarceration was one of the greatest social injustices of our time. Although it would take time, I convinced him that a need existed for programs and services to help people emerge from prison successfully. He encouraged me to develop a plan that would lead to a sustainable business providing products and services that would improve outcomes of our nation’s prison system.   Technology: My first challenge was learning how to use technology effectively. The world had changed during the decades that I served. I went to prison at a time when Bill Gates was talking about a time when there would be a computer in every home and on every desk. When I returned to society his vision had become a reality. We didn’t only have computers in every home and on every desk, but also in everyone’s pockets. Since I’d been away during the hyper-growth era of technology, I had to learn how to use computers and the Internet effectively. Although most people used personal computers powered by Microsoft operating systems, I’d read that Apple products were easier to learn. On the Saturday after I transitioned to the halfway house, Carole and I visited the Apple store. I purchased a MacBook Pro and a 27” iMac desktop computer. Knowing that technology could help me reach a wider audience, I spent my first weeks on the job learning how to use these fascinating products. While I was in prison I didn’t have much access to computers. I read many books about the development of the Internet, search engines, social media, and software applications. Yet when I began working with my computers, I realized that I would need to invest hundreds of hours to become proficient. Fortunately, I had Carole to tutor me. When she wasn’t at the hospital, she would sit at desk beside me to work on her studies. I liked having her close by and she was always willing to assist when I had questions about technology.   Websites: I began learning about WordPress, the powerful platform for building websites. When Carole first came into my life, we purchased the domain name MichaelSantos.net because the dot-com domain wasn’t available. Carole retained a web developer to build our new website. I published thousands of articles to document progress I made through my final decade in prison. Toward the end of my journey, we were able to purchase the domain name MichaelSantos.com for $1,000 and we began making the transition from MichaelSantos.net to MichaelSantos.com. I wanted to have a central location that would demonstrate my authenticity. Since Carole was busy with her career and school work, I needed to educate myself quickly on how to use WordPress so that I could manage my own websites. I made some critical errors in the beginning. By switching hosting companies and redesigning MichaelSantos.com, I lost thousands of articles and journal entries that I’d made over the years. For decades, I wrote a daily journal entry and sent my journals home. Carole published each entry as my “daily log” on the website. I wanted people to see the path, that through hard work, an individual could triumph over prison. Unfortunately, I lost all of those records with my decision to switch from one web-hosting company to another. We pay a price for inexperience. In time, I became more fluent with WordPress and with social media.   Building Networks: Although I didn’t understand much about using technology or computer networks, my adjustment through prison gave me other skills. One prong of my adjustment strategy was building support networks. If I could build strong support networks, I believed that more opportunities would open in prison and upon release. The goal of building strong support networks influenced my Socratic questioning: What steps could I take today to influence people to believe in me tomorrow? Those types of questions influenced my adjustment. The accomplishments I made while inside persuaded other people to believe in me. I could leverage those relationships to open new relationships. For example, earlier I wrote about my friendship with Justin Paperny. Justin was a graduate from USC and he had built a career as a stockbroker. Although he made some bad decisions that resulted in his being convicted of securities fraud, Justin’s crime didn’t characterize his entire life. He’d been successful in society once and as we built our friendship, I sensed that he would be successful again. When Justin concluded his obligation he launched the Michael G. Santos Foundation and he invested time to build that nonprofit. He attended schools, workshops, and conferences that exposed him to problems people in underserved communities faced. By relaying those findings to me, I had information I could use in ways that would help us contribute solutions. Through our work, Justin met new people and he introduced those people to me. Scott Budnick was one of the people Justin brought into my support network. Scott is famous for his role as a Hollywood producer of many blockbuster films, including The Hangover series, Starsky and Hutch, and other big-budget films. Scott’s passion, however, is juvenile justice. Scott founded The Anti-Recidivism Coalition (ARC), a nonprofit that strives to reduce recidivism. When I returned to society, Scott invited me to visit him in Hollywood. Rules of the halfway house, however, precluded me from being able travel. Until I concluded my obligation to the Bureau of Prisons, I could only go from the halfway house to my place of employment. Travel limitations and halfway house restrictions were a problem. Human support networks were a solution. Scott said that since I lived in San Francisco, I had to meet Chris Redlitz. Scott then wrote an introductory email to Chris and I followed up by writing Chris about my background, telling him about my vision of building a business around my journey. I wanted to teach other people how to emerge from prison successfully. Chris responded within hours and he invited me to meet him. Turns out that Chris Redlitz is an influential figure from the San Francisco Bay area. As a professional, he was a successful venture capitalist. Through his firm Transmedia Capital, Chris and his partners matched investors with technology entrepreneurs who wanted to build compelling businesses that changed the world. But in addition to providing funding, Chris also ran a series of business incubators, providing resources for technology startups. Besides his business career as a venture capitalist, Chris also had a passion for improving outcomes of our nation’s prison system. When not putting multi-million dollar investments together, he and his wife volunteered at the San Quentin state prison. Initially, he went in to give a speech about entrepreneurialism. The prisoners inspired him. Chris then went home and convinced his wife and business partner, Beverly Parenti, to join him. Together they launched The Last Mile, an organization that would invest in human beings. They created a comprehensive curriculum that would teach business principles to people in prison. Later, participants in The Last Mile could learn how to write computer code from inside of the prison system.

  Support Networks Accelerate Growth Opportunities Earlier, I wrote about rules in the halfway house that required me to have a job. So long as I had a job that paid a steady paycheck, my case manager in the halfway house authorized me to leave. My friend Lee was more like a sponsor for me than an employer. He set a schedule for me to work 10—hour shifts, Monday through Saturday. I reported to an office and sat at a desk, but instead of doing work for Lee, I focused on creating a business. First, I needed Lee to see the vision.     I persuaded Lee that our nation’s commitment to mass incarceration was one of the greatest social injustices of our time. Although it would take time, I convinced him that a need existed for programs and services to help people emerge from prison successfully. He encouraged me to develop a plan that would lead to a sustainable business providing products and services that would improve outcomes of our nation’s prison system.     Technology: My first challenge was learning how to use technology effectively. The world had changed during the decades that I served. I went to prison at a time when Bill Gates was talking about a time when there would be a computer in every home and on every desk. When I returned to society his vision had become a reality. We didn’t only have computers in every home and on every desk, but also in everyone’s pockets. Since I’d been away during the hyper-growth era of technology, I had to learn how to use computers and the Internet effectively.   Although most people used personal computers powered by Microsoft operating systems, I’d read that Apple products were easier to learn. On the Saturday after I transitioned to the halfway house, Carole and I visited the Apple store. I purchased a MacBook Pro and a 27” iMac desktop computer. Knowing that technology could help me reach a wider audience, I spent my first weeks on the job learning how to use these fascinating products.   While I was in prison I didn’t have much access to computers. I read many books about the development of the Internet, search engines, social media, and software applications. Yet when I began working with my computers, I realized that I would need to invest hundreds of hours to become proficient. Fortunately, I had Carole to tutor me. When she wasn’t at the hospital, she would sit at desk beside me to work on her studies. I liked having her close by and she was always willing to assist when I had questions about technology.     Websites: I began learning about WordPress, the powerful platform for building websites. When Carole first came into my life, we purchased the domain name MichaelSantos.net because the dot-com domain wasn’t available. Carole retained a web developer to build our new website. I published thousands of articles to document progress I made through my final decade in prison. Toward the end of my journey, we were able to purchase the domain name MichaelSantos.com for $1,000 and we began making the transition from MichaelSantos.net to MichaelSantos.com. I wanted to have a central location that would demonstrate my authenticity. Since Carole was busy with her career and school work, I needed to educate myself quickly on how to use WordPress so that I could manage my own websites.   I made some critical errors in the beginning. By switching hosting companies and redesigning MichaelSantos.com, I lost thousands of articles and journal entries that I’d made over the years. For decades, I wrote a daily journal entry and sent my journals home. Carole published each entry as my “daily log” on the website. I wanted people to see the path, that through hard work, an individual could triumph over prison. Unfortunately, I lost all of those records with my decision to switch from one web-hosting company to another. We pay a price for inexperience. In time, I became more fluent with WordPress and with social media.     Building Networks: Although I didn’t understand much about using technology or computer networks, my adjustment through prison gave me other skills. One prong of my adjustment strategy was building support networks. If I could build strong support networks, I believed that more opportunities would open in prison and upon release. The goal of building strong support networks influenced my Socratic questioning: What steps could I take today to influence people to believe in me tomorrow?   Those types of questions influenced my adjustment. The accomplishments I made while inside persuaded other people to believe in me. I could leverage those relationships to open new relationships. For example, earlier I wrote about my friendship with Justin Paperny. Justin was a graduate from USC and he had built a career as a stockbroker. Although he made some bad decisions that resulted in his being convicted of securities fraud, Justin’s crime didn’t characterize his entire life. He’d been successful in society once and as we built our friendship, I sensed that he would be successful again.   When Justin concluded his obligation he launched the Michael G. Santos Foundation and he invested time to build that nonprofit. He attended schools, workshops, and conferences that exposed him to problems people in underserved communities faced. By relaying those findings to me, I had information I could use in ways that would help us contribute solutions. Through our work, Justin met new people and he introduced those people to me.   Scott Budnick was one of the people Justin brought into my support network. Scott is famous for his role as a Hollywood producer of many blockbuster films, including The Hangover series, Starsky and Hutch, and other big-budget films. Scott’s passion, however, is juvenile justice. Scott founded The Anti-Recidivism Coalition (ARC), a nonprofit that strives to reduce recidivism. When I returned to society, Scott invited me to visit him in Hollywood. Rules of the halfway house, however, precluded me from being able travel. Until I concluded my obligation to the Bureau of Prisons, I could only go from the halfway house to my place of employment.   Travel limitations and halfway house restrictions were a problem. Human support networks were a solution. Scott said that since I lived in San Francisco, I had to meet Chris Redlitz. Scott then wrote an introductory email to Chris and I followed up by writing Chris about my background, telling him about my vision of building a business around my journey. I wanted to teach other people how to emerge from prison successfully. Chris responded within hours and he invited me to meet him.   Turns out that Chris Redlitz is an influential figure from the San Francisco Bay area. As a professional, he was a successful venture capitalist. Through his firm Transmedia Capital, Chris and his partners matched investors with technology entrepreneurs who wanted to build compelling businesses that changed the world. But in addition to providing funding, Chris also ran a series of business incubators, providing resources for technology startups.   Besides his business career as a venture capitalist, Chris also had a passion for improving outcomes of our nation’s prison system. When not putting multi-million dollar investments together, he and his wife volunteered at the San Quentin state prison. Initially, he went in to give a speech about entrepreneurialism. The prisoners inspired him. Chris then went home and convinced his wife and business partner, Beverly Parenti, to join him. Together they launched The Last Mile, an organization that would invest in human beings. They created a comprehensive curriculum that would teach business principles to people in prison. Later, participants in The Last Mile could learn how to write computer code from inside of the prison system.

Who are your avatars? What would they expect of you? In what ways are the decisions you’re making today leading you closer to earning support tomorrow?   Chapter 3: Transition from Federal Prison to a Halfway House By 3:00 am, on August 12, 2012, I was up and ready to start my exercise inside the federal prison in Atwater, California. It would be my last day locked inside of a prison. I had 9,135 days of imprisonment behind me, just over 25 years. Carole was scheduled to pick me up at 9:00 am. Together we’d drive to a halfway house in the Tenderloin District of downtown San Francisco, where I’d serve the next 365 days—completing my 9,500-day journey as a federal prisoner. I walked through gates that separated the minimum-security camp from the penitentiary so officers could process me out. A staff member handed me a few hundred dollars in cash from my account and indicated that I’d receive a check for the remainder. That was it. I walked outside and met Carole. She wore a yellow dress with a yellow ribbon tied around her waist. With tears of joy in her eyes she hugged me and we drove off the penitentiary grounds, eager to start our journey together. Although we were together for the first time, we weren’t really free. Within three hours I had to be in the San Francisco halfway house. Since it would take three hours to make the drive, we wouldn’t have time for diversions. We wanted to be together, of course. The time crunch, however, dictated that we needed to get on the road. I didn’t want to jeopardize possibilities for home visits or weekend passes that I knew the halfway house could issue. So we resisted the urge to stop for alone time and drove straight to the halfway house.   iPhone: Once we got in the car, Carole passed me an iPhone. When I went to prison, this advanced technology didn’t exist. I’d never sent an email, never watched a YouTube video, never accessed the Internet. Everything about technology fascinated me. While in prison, I frequently dreamed about the Internet, wondering what it was all about. I read many books and articles so that I could understand the power of this communication tool. I even took the initiative to participate indirectly. Since the late 1990s I had a web presence. I persuaded people in my expanding support network to build websites for me. They published my articles and they’d send me screen shots. But there wasn’t any real way to experience the web without computer access. Reading about the Internet was like reading about playing tennis. Until an individual could access the Internet, he really didn’t know how to appreciate technology. When Carole gave me my iPhone, I got my first chance. As Carole drove, I played around with the phone and made some calls to family and friends. Carole and I spoke about our plans. Goals had carried me through the 25 years inside and I pledged to continue living a values-based, goal-oriented life. During the final year in the halfway house, I pledged to sow seeds that would allow us to start my career. I intended to: Create products and services that would help more people who experienced the criminal justice system emerge successfully. Create a business model that would help more formerly incarcerated people transition into the job market. Create campaigns that would spread more awareness on why it made sense to reform our criminal justice system. I wanted to think innovatively, in ways that would inspire more people to pursue paths that would lead to success upon release. But first things first. During my year in the halfway house, I needed to establish myself. Fortunately, I had begun making plans long before I left prison. I had a job waiting. I had money in the bank. I had an extensive support network. Further, with the different books that I wrote while I served my sentence, I had a product line to launch. My books included: Inside: Life Behind Bars in AmericaEarning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year TermPrison! My 8,344th DayTriumph! The Straight-A Guide For Conquering Imprisonment and Preparing for ReentrySuccess! The Straight-A Guide for At-Risk Youth I didn’t write books that were masterpieces of English literature. Rather, they served the purpose. They would help people understand prisons, the people they hold, and strategies for growing through prison successfully. I hoped they would build credibility for me as I ventured into the world to start my career. My intentions were to use the books as tools. I could build a business, or income streams showing all that masterminds taught me. Anyone could use those same strategies to reject negativity or overcome challenges. The message was universal, valuable to anyone and everyone. If those strategies could empower me through decades in prison, others could use them to achieve more as well. If you’re in prison, I urge you to think about steps you can take now. Think about options that exist to influence the people you’re going to meet in the future.   The Halfway House: The halfway house in San Francisco was easy to navigate. After decades in federal prison, everything seemed easy. I was assigned to a two-man room and I could use the iPhone to connect with the world. I arrived on a Monday and met with Charles, my case manager on a Thursday. While doing his intake paperwork, Charles commented on the length of time that I’d served. He suggested that I participate in counseling sessions to help me acclimate. I was prepared. I brought all of the books that I’d written in prison, showed him support letters that I’d received, a resume I wrote, and presented him with a letter showing that I had a job waiting. The letter confirmed I could start working as soon as the halfway house authorized me to begin. “How did you get all of this done while you were in prison?” As Charles flipped through the books, I could sense that the tangible work I presented influenced his perception. Instead of seeing me as the ex-convict who served a quarter century and needed counseling, he treated me as a man. He said that he would give me as much liberty as I needed. I was excused from having to waste time in the counseling classes. Instead, I could continue executing a plan for success that I was able to articulate to my case manager.

Who are your avatars? What would they expect of you? In what ways are the decisions you’re making today leading you closer to earning support tomorrow?       Chapter 3: Transition from Federal Prison to a Halfway House   By 3:00 am, on August 12, 2012, I was up and ready to start my exercise inside the federal prison in Atwater, California. It would be my last day locked inside of a prison. I had 9,135 days of imprisonment behind me, just over 25 years. Carole was scheduled to pick me up at 9:00 am. Together we’d drive to a halfway house in the Tenderloin District of downtown San Francisco, where I’d serve the next 365 days—completing my 9,500-day journey as a federal prisoner.   I walked through gates that separated the minimum-security camp from the penitentiary so officers could process me out. A staff member handed me a few hundred dollars in cash from my account and indicated that I’d receive a check for the remainder. That was it. I walked outside and met Carole. She wore a yellow dress with a yellow ribbon tied around her waist. With tears of joy in her eyes she hugged me and we drove off the penitentiary grounds, eager to start our journey together.   Although we were together for the first time, we weren’t really free. Within three hours I had to be in the San Francisco halfway house. Since it would take three hours to make the drive, we wouldn’t have time for diversions. We wanted to be together, of course. The time crunch, however, dictated that we needed to get on the road. I didn’t want to jeopardize possibilities for home visits or weekend passes that I knew the halfway house could issue. So we resisted the urge to stop for alone time and drove straight to the halfway house.     iPhone: Once we got in the car, Carole passed me an iPhone. When I went to prison, this advanced technology didn’t exist. I’d never sent an email, never watched a YouTube video, never accessed the Internet. Everything about technology fascinated me.   While in prison, I frequently dreamed about the Internet, wondering what it was all about. I read many books and articles so that I could understand the power of this communication tool. I even took the initiative to participate indirectly.   Since the late 1990s I had a web presence. I persuaded people in my expanding support network to build websites for me. They published my articles and they’d send me screen shots. But there wasn’t any real way to experience the web without computer access. Reading about the Internet was like reading about playing tennis. Until an individual could access the Internet, he really didn’t know how to appreciate technology. When Carole gave me my iPhone, I got my first chance. As Carole drove, I played around with the phone and made some calls to family and friends.   Carole and I spoke about our plans. Goals had carried me through the 25 years inside and I pledged to continue living a values-based, goal-oriented life. During the final year in the halfway house, I pledged to sow seeds that would allow us to start my career. I intended to:   Create products and services that would help more people who experienced the criminal justice system emerge successfully. Create a business model that would help more formerly incarcerated people transition into the job market. Create campaigns that would spread more awareness on why it made sense to reform our criminal justice system. I wanted to think innovatively, in ways that would inspire more people to pursue paths that would lead to success upon release.   But first things first. During my year in the halfway house, I needed to establish myself. Fortunately, I had begun making plans long before I left prison. I had a job waiting. I had money in the bank. I had an extensive support network. Further, with the different books that I wrote while I served my sentence, I had a product line to launch. My books included:   Inside: Life Behind Bars in America Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Term Prison! My 8,344th Day Triumph! The Straight-A Guide For Conquering Imprisonment and Preparing for Reentry Success! The Straight-A Guide for At-Risk Youth   I didn’t write books that were masterpieces of English literature. Rather, they served the purpose. They would help people understand prisons, the people they hold, and strategies for growing through prison successfully. I hoped they would build credibility for me as I ventured into the world to start my career. My intentions were to use the books as tools. I could build a business, or income streams showing all that masterminds taught me. Anyone could use those same strategies to reject negativity or overcome challenges. The message was universal, valuable to anyone and everyone. If those strategies could empower me through decades in prison, others could use them to achieve more as well.   If you’re in prison, I urge you to think about steps you can take now. Think about options that exist to influence the people you’re going to meet in the future.     The Halfway House: The halfway house in San Francisco was easy to navigate. After decades in federal prison, everything seemed easy. I was assigned to a two-man room and I could use the iPhone to connect with the world. I arrived on a Monday and met with Charles, my case manager on a Thursday. While doing his intake paperwork, Charles commented on the length of time that I’d served. He suggested that I participate in counseling sessions to help me acclimate.   I was prepared.   I brought all of the books that I’d written in prison, showed him support letters that I’d received, a resume I wrote, and presented him with a letter showing that I had a job waiting. The letter confirmed I could start working as soon as the halfway house authorized me to begin.   “How did you get all of this done while you were in prison?”   As Charles flipped through the books, I could sense that the tangible work I presented influenced his perception. Instead of seeing me as the ex-convict who served a quarter century and needed counseling, he treated me as a man. He said that he would give me as much liberty as I needed. I was excused from having to waste time in the counseling classes. Instead, I could continue executing a plan for success that I was able to articulate to my case manager.

Carole and Larry Krucoff were married in 1963, and have lived in Chicago ever since. Larry went to school at the University of Chicago. They moved to South Shore from Hyde Park, because the houses were larger and nicer and less expensive than the houses in Hyde Park. The area of the neighborhood where they live in is called Jackson Park Highlands. They have lived in their current home for 42 years.The neighborhood, including the racial make up of it’s residents, has changed through the years. Originally the neighborhood housed very affluent Chicagoans. Gradually the residents changed from protestant to Catholic and then from white to predominantly African American. Larry said that in recent years the neighborhood has experienced an increased in nuisance crimes, but that has come with some unexpected advantages. It has brought neighbors together, they talk more, they formed watch groups, they got to know each other and now they socialize.The house has a wonderful garden, backyard, and screened-in porch, where the Krucoffs dine and where their cats would enjoy the outdoors. When Carole is feeling blue she spends time on the porch swing on the back porch. Larry seeks solace in the kitchen. I made a painting of the porch swing in the screened-in porch where Carole goes when she if feeling blue. Though I visited the home of on a cold March day, I could imagine the delight of sitting on a porch swing in the summer months, drinking a glass of wine, looking out at the garden, and swinging gently. Carole says her home is just the place she wants to be, a place to feel sheltered.Special thanks to Stefano Vita for use of his music in the audio recording.

Tune in as Patricia interviews Carole Brody Fleet, author of HAPPILY EVEN AFTER: A Guide to Getting Through (and Beyond) the Grief of Widowhood, that addresses the most commonly asked questions by widows and those who surround them. When Carole lost her husband at age forty, there were no resources that spoke directly to her needs as a young widow. Twelve years later, she is the Founder and CEO of Widows Wear Stilettos, Inc., a non-profit organization and website founded in 2006 and devoted to service. une in for the second half hour as Patricia interviews Dr. Beverly Whipple, Co-author of the groundbreaking book, The G Spot and Other Discoveries About Human Sexuality. The co-author of a study on ArginMax® for Women, a natural, scientifically-backed supplement for women as well as a recent recipient of the Masters and Johnson Award from the Society of Sex Therapy and Research, Dr. Whipple is a foremost authority in the U.S. on women's sexual health.