My First Days: Adjusting to Life in Prison

When DEA agents first arrested me in 1987, a cavalier attitude blocked my ability to grasp the gravity of my problems. As far as I understood, the government’s case against me hinged on the testimony of witnesses. They had been caught with cocaine or money from cocaine transactions; they bargained for a lower sentence by pleading guilty and cooperating with prosecutors in the case against me. Since the agents did not catch me with tangible evidence, I deluded myself into believing that a jury would not convict me. I was wrong. I was only 23-years-old then, and I didn’t know upon my arrest that I would serve decades inside the federal prison system.

It was not until after the jury returned its unanimous verdict of guilt on all counts that I accepted the mess I had made of my life. When the delusions of acquittal yielded to the reality of conviction, remorse began to take root. I realized the disappointment and shame I had brought to my family, my community. Those feelings inspired a need to change, a commitment to reconcile with society.

An inherent cynicism prohibited those in the judicial system from considering my expressions of remorse. The prosecutors and judge stood convinced that the only reason I felt remorseful was because I had been caught. They were correct, of course.

Had I not been caught and convicted, I would not have seen the harm. As far as I was concerned then, my actions did not differ from those who supplied speakeasies during prohibition. Violence did not play a role in my efforts to distribute cocaine to consenting adults. That attitude rather than my maturing conscience resulted in my 45-year sentence.

I accepted that I would serve decades in prison, though that acceptance came with a commitment to change. By the time I transferred from the county jail to the high-security United States Penitentiary where I would begin my term, I knew that I wanted to emerge as a different kind of man. To reach that goal, I needed to put thoughts about imminent release out of my mind. Instead of appeals or legal loopholes that might reduce my sentence, I embraced the reality that I would serve a long time. I needed to grow and mature as a human begin, to prove worthy of my American citizenship. I had taken that gift for granted during a reckless transition from late teens into early twenties.

The federal sentencing scheme in place at the time of my conviction differed from the law that exists today. I was sentenced during the pre-guideline era. As such, I was classified as an old-law prisoner. Accordingly, a 45-year sentence meant that as long as administrators did not charge me with violating prison rules, release would come in 26 years.

In my early 20s, I could not comprehend such a lengthy term in prison. My expected imprisonment exceeded the number of years I had yet been alive. Having never been confined before, I had to adjust. Rather than dwelling on what seemed like forever, I focused on the first decade. After 22 continuous years of imprisonment, my daily routines now differ from the way I began. Back then, a single question guided my initial adjustment: What steps could I take during the first 10 years of my sentence to redeem my criminal convictions? I had to think about the people with whom I wanted to identify.

I did not have an interest in becoming a permanent member of the growing prison subculture. To me, it seemed a cycle of continuing failure inside the walls, and I didn’t want it conditioning me or driving my adjustment. My hopes were to return to society, and so I thought about what American citizens beyond prison boundaries would expect of a long-term prisoner. People in society, I reasoned, would have preconceptions about an individual who served more than half of his life in prison. For some, those preconceptions would lead to prejudice and lawful discrimination. If I did not take specific steps to overcome such obstacles, I anticipated that employers would not hire me, landlords would not accept me as a tenant, and lenders would not extend me credit. If I did not prepare to overcome such hurdles, my release after 26 years might prove worse than imprisonment.

To avoid the bleak future that could await my release after decades of imprisonment, I developed a deliberate adjustment plan. That plan would have three parts, making every day count. During my years inside I would strive:

1)    To educate myself,
2)    To contribute to society, and
3)    To build a strong network of support

Such goals, I hoped, would serve many purposes. Among other purposes, the goals would bring meaning to my life, they would minimize feelings of estrangement, and they would connect me with people in society who would have a vested interest in my success upon release. A positive offshoot of living in constant pursuit of goals was that I had self-imposed but clear reasons to avoid behavior, activities, or interactions that might expose me to disciplinary troubles.

A long prison sentence could extinguish hope. The months turning into years, and the years turning into decades, could alienate the prisoner from society. Many prisoners coped with their separation from family, friends, and the values that hold society together by embracing the hate that pervades the penitentiary. My three-part plan helped me focus. Because of that plan, I always had hope.

To be continued tomorrow...

[Editor's Note: Read Part Two - "Two Decades Later" - here.]