May 5, 2022
Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term by MichaelSantos
Chapter eight, part two.
Months 103-127
While planning for law school I continue to build a strongnetwork of support. To overcome the resistance and bias I expect toencounter, I put together a package that I call my portfolio. Itdescribes my crime, expresses remorse, and articulates the stepsI’ve taken over the past decade to atone. The portfolio includescopies of my university degrees and endorsement letters from thedistinguished academics who support me. I’m certain that a widesupport network will open more options upon my release and I sendthe portfolios to people who might sponsor my efforts.
My strategy is simple. I’ll continue what I began before I wassentenced, when I wrote to Stuart Eskenazi, the journalist whocovered my trial for readers of the Tacoma News Tribune. In myletter to him, I expressed my intentions to live usefully in prisonand redeem myself by preparing for a law-abiding life uponrelease.
The new portfolio I’m creating not only records myaccomplishments but also shows my progress toward the clearlydefined goals I set. In it, I ask readers to consider me as the manI’m becoming rather than the one who made bad decisions in hisearly 20s. Taking a lesson from business stories I read in The WallStreet Journal, I supplement the portfolio by writing quarterlyreports every 90 days and I distribute the reports to those in mygrowing support network. My quarterly reports describe my projects,the ways that they contribute to my preparations for release, andmy challenges. They are my accountability tools.
By living transparently I invite people to hold me accountable,to judge me by what I do, not by what I say. Any prisoner can sayhe wants to succeed upon release, but my daily commitment and theactions I take allows others to evaluate whether they shouldcontinue giving me their trust, sponsorship, and support.
With pride in my progress, and the ways I’ve responded to thechallenges of imprisonment, my parents share the portfolio withothers. My father gives a copy to his friend, Norm Zachary, andNorm passes it along to his sister, Carol Zachary. I’m thrilledwhen my father tells me over the phone that Carol wants to help andthat I should call her. She is a married mother of two who lives inWashington, D.C., where her husband, Jon Axelrod, practiceslaw.
“This is Michael Santos, calling from the federal prison in FortDix.” I introduce myself. “My father suggested I should call tospeak with Ms. Zachary.”
“Oh, Michael! I’m so glad you called. Please call me Carol. Myhusband and I have read through your portfolio and we want to help.You may not remember, but Norm brought me to a party at yourparents’ house when you were a child. We spoke about the Hubbletelescope.”
“I remember. I was about seven or eight then.”
She corrects me, reminding me that I was older when we met,already a teenager. Then she says that she would like tobuild a friendship and asks that I send her the forms necessary tovisit. “I want to bring Zach and Tris, my sons. We need totalk about what we can do to get you out, and if you’ll let me, I’dlike to lead the effort.”
This is precisely the type of support I hoped to find as aresult of preparing that portfolio. As Ralph Waldo Emerson wasknown for having observed, shallow men believe in luck, but strongmen believe in cause and effect. Ever since Bruce came into my lifeI’ve known and appreciated the value of mentors. He guided me fromthe beginning through our weekly correspondence and his regularvisits. Because of his support, I’ve matured and grown inconfidence, as a scholar, in mental discipline, and I’m wellprepared to contribute positively to society. By takingdeliberate action steps to expand my support network, I reallyscored, attracting Carol’s attention. When I walk into the visitingroom to meet her and her sons, Zach and Tristan, they greet me withan embrace, as if I’m already family.
While sitting across from each other in the hard, plastic chairsof Fort Dix’s brightly lit visiting room, I learn about the Axelrodfamily. Carol, a former English teacher, is a Boy Scout leader whotakes an active interest in her community. She volunteers for theRed Cross, substitutes in the local schools, and, along with herhusband Jon, is deeply involved in her sons’ sports and school.She’s determined to groom them as responsible citizens.
Zach is 12 and he tells me about his baseball and hockey teams.When I ask what he wants to do when he grows up, he answers withouthesitation: “I want to be the CEO of a publicly traded company,”and I don’t doubt for a second that he’ll succeed. His intelligenceimpresses me, especially when he grills me about what I’m planningto do with my life once I’m released.
“I’m looking into law school right now,” I answer.
“Do you think people will want to hire a lawyer who’s been inprison?” Zach asks the question with a genuine eagerness to learnmore about me.
“Zachary,” scolds Carol.
“What, Mom? I’m just curious.”
“Of course people will hire him,” she tries to soften hisbluntness.
“That’s a good question, Zach.” I’m impressed with hisconfidence and directness.
“See, Mom.”
“But I’m not going to law school to practice law. I’m convincedthat more education will open career opportunities once I’m home,and studying law will help me through whatever time I’ve got leftto serve. Wherever I serve my sentence, prisoners will need legalassistance and if I study law, I’ll be in a position to help.”
“That makes sense,” Tristan, Zach’s younger brother, considersmy response.
“What we need to do is get you out of here,” Carol says,bringing us back to the central issue. “Jon and I have spoken withsome acquaintances who work for the Justice Department. They can’tget involved because of rules about conflicts of interest, but theydid insist that we need a top-notch Washington lawyer to representyou.”
“I’d love to have a lawyer. But the truth is, I don’t have anyfinancial resources.”
“Well we’re going to raise some.”
“How?”
“You’ve built this wonderful support network. I’m sure thepeople who believe in you will help.”
“But I can’t ask them for money.”
“Why not? They want to help you.”
“I just wouldn’t feel right asking anyone for money. I’vealready lost one effort at clemency, and I’m coming to terms withthe likelihood that I’m going to serve my entire sentence. I’mtrying to build my network so I’ll have people who will help meovercome the challenges that I’m going to face.”
“But we’re not going to let you serve 16 more years, at leastnot without trying to get you out. You may not want to ask othersfor financial assistance, but as long as you don’t object, I’mgoing to ask on your behalf.”
I’m speechless, suppressing emotions that I’m not accustomed tofeeling. Of course I crave my freedom. I’m 33, well educated now,and after 10 years inside, I’m as ready for release as I’ll everbe. If I could return to society now, I would still have areasonable chance to build a career and begin a family. Carol’soffer to advocate for my freedom validates me, bringing a sense ofliberty, of worthiness that I cherish and appreciate.
* * * * * * *
Carol coordinates a team to help me. She persuades TonyBisceglie, a highly regarded Washington, DC lawyer, to represent mepro bono. She travels to meet with my mentors, Bruce, PhilMcPherson (Bruce’s brother), and George Cole. With assistance fromJulie, my friends Nick and Nancy Karis, and other friends fromSeattle and elsewhere, Carol launches a fundraiser to begin theMichael Santos Legal Defense Fund, and she solicits thousands ofdollars to cover legal expenses. The money comes from anonymousdonors, people who now have a vested interest in my freedom. Ican’t participate from prison, and I don’t know what successthey’ll have, but their combined energy fills me with hope.
Tony orders transcripts that document my case. After readingthem he determines that I have grounds to file for relief from thecourt. I’m ambivalent about the plan of a judicial action because Iwanted to earn my freedom rather than pursue liberty through alegal technicality. More than a decade has passed since myconviction became final and we know the request for judicial reliefis a long shot. Further, the judge who presided over my trial isknown for meting out long sentences and never reducing them.Through his research Tony discovers that the prosecutors in my caseonce tried to settle. If I had pleaded guilty instead of going totrial, the prosecutors would’ve agreed that a 20-year sentence wasappropriate. Since Raymond, my trial attorney, never told me of thegovernment’s offer, Tony insists that rather than pursuing acommutation of sentence, I need to file a petition with the courtfor relief.
To prepare the legal motion, Tony enlists the help and supportof Tom Hillier, the Federal Public Defender for the WesternDistrict of Washington, to accept my case. Tom then recruitsJonathan Solovy, a top-notch Seattle attorney who agrees to preparethe documents and argue for my release. Coordinating all theseefforts requires hundreds of hours, and I’m moved thatprofessionals who’ve never met me give of themselves so generouslyfor the singular purpose of freeing me.
The legal team employs investigators to gather evidence thatwill bolster my petition. Jonathan works diligently to persuadeboth the government and the judge to reconsider my sentence.
But in the end, we lose. Judge Tanner is unmoved and he lets thesentence stand. Everyone on the team is concerned about how I’llreact to the decision. Strangely, I’m at peace, grateful to havereceived love and support from so many strangers who’ve now becomefriends.
* * * * * * *
Bruce visits me at the beginning of 1998, beyond my 10-yearmark. He wants to discuss my plans for law school. Through letterswe’ve discussed possibilities for moving through the remainder ofmy sentence productively. He’s not convinced that studying law bycorrespondence is my best option.
“I really liked your idea of spending the final years of yoursentence becoming an artist, a painter, or a musician, or evenstudying a foreign language. Those pursuits would round out youreducation and maybe free some creativity within you,” Bruce says,sitting across from me in the visiting room.
“Bruce, I’m going to serve 16 more years. I’m not even halfwaythrough my term. I don’t want to devote myself to another projectthat prison administrators can take away. Although I’ve thoughtabout learning to paint or play the piano, if I were transferredI’d have to go through all this frustration again because of redtape, and that’s only if I could continue. Some prisons don’t evenoffer music or art programs.”
Bruce nods his head as I describe my reasons, then he leans backin his chair. “But that’s the essence of a liberal education.You could study painting and piano here, and if you’re transferredyou could study foreign languages or poetry there. The more youlearn, the more you’ll be able to appreciate when you comehome.”
“It’s going home that I’m thinking about. What will I face whenI walk out of here?”
“You’ll have friends who will help you.”
“Yes, but I want to stand on my own feet, not come out weak,with my hat in hand looking for handouts.”
“Don’t express yourself with clichés,” he admonishes.
“You know what I mean. By then I will have served 26 years, andI need to anticipate the obstacles I’ll face. I’ll be nearly 50,but I won’t have any savings, I won’t have a home, I won’t evenhave any clothes to wear. With my prison record, employers willresist hiring me. If I don’t prepare for those obstacles, I’m goingto run into tremendous resistance. How will I start my life?”
Bruce rubs his head. “The law school you’re considering, though,isn’t of the same caliber as your other schools. Hofstra and Mercerhave impeccable credentials. Wherever you go, people will respectthose degrees. If you want to study law, I think you should waituntil you’re home, where you could earn a degree from a nationallyaccredited school, not a correspondence school that the barassociation doesn’t recognize. What’s the real value of thatdegree? It won’t even permit you to sit for a bar exam.”
I lean forward, eagerly trying to explain my decision. “That’swhat I couldn’t be so clear about in the letters I wrote to you; Ihave to be careful of what the guards read. I’m not studying lawbecause I want to practice as a lawyer. I’m studying law because Iwant to use what I learn to help other prisoners who want tolitigate their cases. Look around this room. Nearly every prisonerhere wants another shot at getting back into court. If I study law,I’ll be able to help them.”
“But if you’re not a lawyer, how can you represent them?”
“I’m not intending to represent them. What I’ll do is help themresearch the law and write the briefs. They’ll submit their ownlegal documents, pro se. Sometimes I may help people persuadelawyers to take their cases, like Tony and Jonathan took mine. Alaw school education, together with my experience, will enable meto offer more and better assistance. Prisoners will pay for myservices.”
“That’s what troubles me.” Bruce says, shaking his head.“You’ve worked all this time to build a record as a model prisoner,to educate yourself and keep a clean disciplinary record. Nowyou’re talking about breaking the rules by becoming some kind ofjailhouse lawyer, exposing yourself to disciplinary infractions andpossible problems with the system. It doesn’t make sense tome.”
“Yes, I’ve worked hard to live as a model prisoner. What has itgotten me? Instead of support, I meet resistance. Administratorstransfer me to frustrate my efforts and to block me from completingmy studies. I don’t have any interest in being a model prisoner. Myinterest, my only interest, is succeeding upon release. And I thinkthe best way I can do that is by preparing myself financially.”
“So how are the prisoners going to pay you?” Bruce smirks at myplan. “Are they going to fill your locker with candy bars andsodas? How will that help when you get out?”
“They won’t pay me directly. If a guy asks for my help, we’llagree on a price. Then he’ll have his family send the funds to myfamily.”
“But is that legal?”
“Although we have too many laws in this country, as far as Iknow, it’s still legal for one citizen to send money to anothercitizen. My sister will pay taxes on any money she receives andshe’ll hold it for me until I come home. Prison administrators maynot like it, but it’s not against the law for Julie to receivemoney from another prisoner’s family. My helping another prisonerwith legal motions isn’t against the law either.”
“It just seems kind of sneaky, totally different from theopen-book, transparent approach that you’ve followed.” Bruceremains skeptical.
“I don’t see it that way. The plan is totally consistent withthe open-book approach, and I intend to do it openly.”
“How so? You won’t even receive payment directly.”
I shrug my shoulders. “That’s only because I’m living within therules imposed on me. But I’ll be honest about what I’m doing, andtruthfully, I’ll take pride in beating a system that perpetuatesfailure.”
Bruce shakes his head again. “You might be living within theletter of the rules by not receiving money directly, but you won’tbe living within the spirit of the rules.”
“Prison rules don’t concern me. Living as a model inmate isn’tgoing to help me when I walk out of here. No one is going to carethat I didn’t receive any disciplinary infractions. People may noteven look beyond the fact that I served 26 years in prison. I needenough money in the bank to meet all of my expenses during my firstyear of freedom, whether I receive a paycheck or not. I’ll have tobuy a car, pay rent, buy clothes, and pay for everything else I’llneed to start my life. Meeting those responsibilities has much morevalue to me than observing the ‘spirit’ of prison rules.”
“You’ve really thought this through,” Bruce begins to relent.“Have you considered the possible consequences? What if theytransfer you back to high security?”
“I don’t care where they send me. From now on, my sole focus isto prepare for a successful, contributing life. That’s not going tohappen by accident.”
“What prompted this new resolve? The court decision that deniedyou an early release?” Bruce’s support for me is evident in hiscaring tone and genuine interest, and I appreciate his willingnessto listen as I share my thoughts.
“I know that you limit your reading to classical literature, butit was a book I read by Stephen Covey, The Seven Habits of HighlyEffective People. Have you ever heard of him?”
“No,” Bruce says ruefully, laughing. “I enjoy an occasional gooddetective story, but I don’t read much from the self-help orinspiration genres.”
“Well I find it helpful and I think you might identify withCovey.”
“What makes you think so?”
“He’s a former professor who taught at Brigham Young University,and his focus of study was leadership. Covey’s book validates mychoices, the way I’ve lived for the past 10 years, and it’s helpedme set the strategy I’ll use going forward.”
“How so?” Bruce asks, curious.
I’m eager to explain.
“In his study of leadership, Dr. Covey found that successfulpeople share seven habits in common.” I hold up my hand and use myfingers to tick them off. “One, they’re proactive. Two, they beginwith the end in mind. Three, they put first things first. Four,they seek first to understand, then to be understood. Five, theythink win-win. Six, they synergize. And seven, they constantly workto sharpen their approach.”
“What? Are you telling me that’s a revelation for you? You stillhaven’t answered my question.”
“What question?”
“Why the shift in your strategy?” Bruce asks again,clarifying.
“I’m pragmatic. Truthfully, it’s more of an evolution than ashift. I’ve been following Covey’s seven habits of leadership eversince I was in the county jail, when I read of Socrates. Bycontinuing to educate myself, I’m taking proactive steps toovercome my adversity. By knowing the challenges that await myrelease, I’m beginning with the end in mind. By enrolling in lawschool, I’m putting first things first. I understand myenvironment, my limitations, and the ways I can make myself mostuseful. By pursuing this goal I’ll be able to generate theresources necessary to stand on my own when I leave prison. That’swin-win. It’s a way to use my education and to lead a moremeaningful life in here.”
“Have you figured out your rates yet, Counselor?” Bruceteases.
“Whatever the market will bear. Isn’t that the American way?” Igrin, 100 percent committed to the strategy driving my plans.
“I’m serious. What do you expect to gain from all of this?”
“The law school program is self-paced, independent study. Iexpect to finish in 2001. If I charge $500 for research or writinglegal motions, I think I can earn an average of $1,000 a month overthe 12 years I’ll still have to serve. After taxes, that wouldleave me close to $100,000 in the bank when I walk out ofprison.”
Bruce nods, smiling. “I only have one more question. If thewarden won’t let you receive books from U. Conn., what makes youthink he’s going to let you receive books from the law school inCalifornia?”
“That’s the nice thing about law school. I won’t need to accessan outside library. Every federal prison has its own law library.I’ll just purchase the other books I need. As long as the bookstoresends the books directly, I won’t need special permission from theprison.”
“So you’re all set then?”
“I’m ready.”
* * * * * * *
