Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term

Chapter Nine, Section Two

1998-2002 Months 127-180

Gary's deposit solves my first problem of the day, but within hours, a crisis of a different sort erupts. I'm staring at the ticker, watching the Dow drop more than 500 points, worrying that the sell-off will accelerate as the trading day proceeds. I'm frozen to the TV when Al, another prisoner, delivers a message that snaps me out of my zone.

"They've been pagin' you to R&D all mornin'."

At first I think he's joking, but we're not close friends so I doubt he'd play a practical joke on me. I don't understand why the Receive and Discharge department would be paging me. I look at the red arrows on the TV one last time before leaving the television room.

Outside, the warm temperature heats my skin as I make the quarter-mile walk across the compound to R&D. Fumes from the adjacent military base pollute the air, and I plug my ears to block the sound of screeching engines as the jets and giant cargo planes repeatedly land and take off. The market weighs on my mind, but I'm also institutionalized, accustomed to my fixed routine, and wondering why anyone from R&D would want to talk to me. I'm troubled by the unexpected summons.

I knock on the steel door, and wait for the guard.

"What's your name and number?"

I give the guard my red ID card.

"Where've you been? I've been paging you for two hours." The guard scowls at me.

"I didn't hear any of the pages. I was watching TV."

"Roll up," the guard commands, passing me three large duffle bags and then flicking my ID card back at me

"Roll up?" I catch the ID card in mid air. "What do you mean, 'roll up'? Where am I going?"

"Can't tell you that. Get your shit. I've got to pack you out now."

"I need to know what's going on. I'm not supposed to be leaving. There's a mistake." I counter, my pulse racing from the adrenaline surging through my body with this news.

"No mistake. Either pack your bags and bring ̓em up here, or I'll have the officer pack you out. I need all your property here before 1:00 this afternoon. Either way, you're going."

"I'm leaving today?"

"Get your belongings here before 1:00," he orders, slamming the door in my face without answering.

With limited time to gather information, I rush back to my housing unit and hurry from one staff member to another, trying to find out what's happening. I can't find anyone who has information or who cares enough to answer my questions. Finally, I locate Mr. Boatwright, a case manager who spoke with me on occasion about the market. I tell him my problem and he invites me back to his office.

"Give me your number."

I hear him clicking the information onto his keyboard as he stares at the monitor. My heart races and my legs twitch with anxiety, making it hard to stand still.

"You're on your way to Miami."

"Miami? That doesn't make sense. The only prison in Miami is a medium. Did someone raise my security level?"

"Not the FCI," Mr. Boatwright answers, still looking at his screen. "You're going to the detention center."

"What? There's a mistake. I've been in for more than 11 years. Why would I be going to a detention center?" Detention centers hold prisoners who face unresolved criminal charges, but those kinds of problems are behind me.

"Let's see what I can find." I hear him clicking keys again and see that he's reading information. He looks up. "You're going to a state prison. The detention center's only a stop."

My stomach lurches. "Who can fix this mess? It's a mistake. I don't have criminal charges in the state of Florida."

"No one here can fix this. The transfer order came from Washington."

I steady myself with this news. "Okay. Thanks for checking. I've got to use the phone."

I walk out to call my sister and explain all that I've learned. It's already noon, and since the R&D guard only gave me an hour to pack all of my belongings, I ask Julie to call everyone in my support network. This inexplicable transfer to state prison threatens to disrupt my life and I want help from anyone who can undo this mess. I'm intimately familiar with the federal prison system, I know it like I know my own face in the mirror. The rules, the people, the absurdity of it don't faze me at all anymore. But if I transfer to a state prison in Florida, I'll be starting from scratch, facing ridiculous "tests" and challenges from prisoners I don't know and who don't know me. I don't have any doubt that I can master any prison, but I detest the thought of upsetting my routine at Fort Dix.

When I hang up with Julie, I see Gary waiting for me outside the phone room.

"They've been paging you all morning to R&D. Did you hear?"

"I heard. I've got bad news. They're transferring me to a state prison in Florida."

"Florida? Why?"

"No one will tell me. My sister's on the phone now, trying to get in touch with my friends to rally support to fix this mess." This unwelcome news feels like I've just been diagnosed with a terminal illness. We walk to my room and Gary helps me pack my sweats, sneakers, toiletries and books.

"What do you want me to do with the stocks? Should I sell them?" I ask while pulling and tying the draw strings of my three full duffle bags; everything I own fits inside of them.

"Why?"

"If I'm in Florida I won't be able to talk with you."

"That doesn't change anything. Don't worry about talking with me. When you have a chance, write me, tell me what stocks you bought or sold. By the end of the year I'll send the rest of the money to your sister. The transfer doesn't change anything between us."

I'll miss Gary. As we say goodbye it's another reminder that I'm a pawn in this game. I don't know where I'll be tomorrow because someone else moves the pieces that control the external circumstances of my life. All I can do is respond.

It's early on Wednesday morning, my last at Fort Dix. I breathe deeply as I lie on my bed, listening to the whir of the generator outside my window, Toro's light snoring, and the occasional footsteps of other prisoners who walk to the bathroom down the hall. I know that I only have a few more minutes of peace before the guard arrives.

I'll miss my two-man room in Fort Dix. These are the best living conditions I've had since I've been in prison. I arrived here in April of 1996 and I had to wait 28 months for enough seniority before I could transfer from a 12-man room to "preferred housing." I'll miss the standard twin mattress that rests on springs, I'll miss the two sliding windows that aren't blocked with bars, and I'll miss being able to look up at the moon. It shines through now, lighting the white, bare, concrete-block walls of the room.

Mostly, I'll miss the windowless wooden entry door with its yellow doorknob that turns. The door isn't any different from the type found in a typical home, but it's fundamentally different from the industrial strength steel doors used in most prisons. Once I leave here, I won't be able to close the door to separate myself from the chaos of prison and escape into the privacy of my room, or at least the illusion of privacy.

I hear keys clinking and heavy boots on the tile floor outside my room and I know it's time. I've been trying to enjoy the solitude of this final night but my heart pounds, as I know that I'll soon be locked in chains again.

"Santos," the guard barks as he opens the door, oblivious to the disruption this transfer is about to bring to my life. "Report to R&D."

I'm the only prisoner walking on the compound. I see stars in the clear sky and the moon illuminates rustling leaves of maple trees. The cold morning wind chills my face. Shivering, I take one last look at the red brick buildings and knock on the steel door of R&D, bracing myself for the indignities of another BOP transfer.

The guard locks me in a holding cell with other prisoners I recognize. I stretch, sit on the concrete floor, and rest my back against the wall. Through the door I can hear chains clanking against the concrete floor, signaling that my unexpected transfer is imminent. Guards are untangling and preparing the requisite heavy metal shackles they'll secure around my waist, wrists, and ankles. I hate this.

We're processed out and marched onto the bus, bound for Stewart Air Force Base. I look through the bars on the tinted windows at the people driving in their cars only a few yards away–families, businessmen, and couples.

I strain my head to watch a woman in the passenger seat of a white sports car. She's rubbing the back of a man's neck. He's about my age, probably her husband, wearing a crisp white shirt, pale blue tie. This glimpse of the outside world leaves me feeling deeply alienated. It's been so long since I've felt the touch of a woman and I miss it. Observing the couple's simple act of affection causes me to shake my head and withdraw into my seat. I close my eyes but I can't block out the sight of that woman's hand.

For hours the bus rolls along the interstate before pulling onto the military base. It stops on the tarmac and guards pass us sack lunches while we wait for the marshal's plane to land. With my wrists cuffed to the chain around my waist, it's a challenge to free the cheese sandwich from the clear plastic baggie. It's only white bread and cheese. The bread is moist and spongy in my mouth–bland, but easy to swallow. I bend over to eat the whole sandwich, but since I'm dreading the airsickness that's sure to come, I leave the crackers and juice in the bag.

The unmarked white plane lands and guards carrying assault rifles position themselves around it. Men and women in chains step off and guards order them into col...