Year-End Thoughts and Timely Rants – It’s All Words

Another year down. A lot has been going on the past few weeks in here and out in the “real” world that’s kept me thinking. For better or worse, there’s plenty of time to think while you’re in here. Funny, but most guys try and avoid thinking in here. Thinking is dangerous. You think and you ask yourself “why,” why did I ever let it get this far, why did I not properly account for the consequences, why did I not understand the hurt my arrest would bring? Guys try and avoid why; they try to avoid painful self-reflection and admit no matter how bad their lives were, how bad the hand they were dealt, they – and they alone – are responsible for their incarceration. Yeah, thinking is dangerous in here.
            I have a friend, a young guy I work with – only 36 and already he’s been in twenty-one years on a first degree murder charge. He killed a neighbor kid, a teenage boy just like him, and then casually left the scene, changed out of his blood-soaked clothes (stabbing someone to death will do that), and went to school. He was in the school cafeteria when the SWAT team came swarming in and with guns drawn arrested him.

            Every year since his twelfth behind bars he’s come up for parole (murder 1, old law, do twelve, then parole eligibility until you hit your “mandatory” release date – usually at 50% of your sentence). Every year at his hearing the parole examiner asks, “Do you know why you did it, why you killed that boy?” And every year he gives the same answer: “I don’t know. I haven’t given it that much thought?” What??

            I don’t get it. A day doesn’t go by that I don’t think about my selfish, stupid, reckless behavior. I can’t forget the call to my wife, her words in her letters telling me she was divorcing me. I can’t forget my parents’ faces in court as I was sentenced. I have a running list in my head of every person who in spite of my complete self-immolation of my life – has sent me a letter or card saying “you’re in our thoughts and prayers.” I remember to the millisecond that moment when I gave up and when God said “not yet.” My entire purpose for being now is to make right what I did wrong. I can’t help but think about it; and he says it never crosses his mind. Thinking.

            Nelson Mandela died a few weeks ago. He was – he is – a remarkable man. No one gave him much thought when he was arrested and imprisoned for having the radical idea that apartheid was evil. Mandela was no Gandhi. He was willing to use violence to achieve his goal.   The white government sent him to prison to silence him. They misjudged who they were dealing with.

            A writer noted that prison was “the crucible that formed the Mandela we know.” No matter what happened in prison the system could not take away Madela’s pride, his dignity, and his sense of justice. “He refused,” the writer said, “to be intimidated in any circumstance.” Mandela, talking about prison, simply said. “I came out mature.”

            I carry a Mandela quote with me. It goes:

            “Difficulties break some men but make others. No axe is sharp enough to cut the soul of a sinner who keeps on trying, one armed with the hope that he will rise even in the end.” Such beautiful words. Such powerful meaning.  Difficulties.

            I have a friend in here named Chuck. I met him at receiving. Chuck’s an “old head,” sixty-five and four more to go in here. This isn’t Chuck’s “first rodeo.” He’s been in twice before. Chuck has a drinking problem. He also has a temper problem. Combing the two is like using a match around gasoline. Chuck was driving drunk when a cop pulled him over. “I just wanna go home,” Chuck sputtered and pulled a gun on the cop. Chuck then walked home and passed out in his yard.

            Law enforcement didn’t take kindly to Chuck’s gun waving – “threatening an officer” they called it and now he’s doing ten years. But, Chuck was there at receiving and he knows what a psychotic carnival DOC is.

            Anyway, Chuck’s been in visits a number of times when I’ve been up on my monthly visit with my parents. And Chuck always gives a wave and a “Hey counselor,” shout out to me. The other afternoon, I finished running and Chuck was sitting on the picnic table. He called me over. “Saw you in VI Saturday,” he said. “I wanted to tell your folks from the first time I saw them at receiving they never had to worry about you. I’ve seen you face down gang bangers and knuckleheads and never once back off from your convictions or who you are.” I thought about Chuck’s words that night. I feel alone and isolated much of the time that I’m in here. I frankly don’t get much of the behavior or bullshit that passes for being a “grown ass man” in here. There is nothing “grown” or “manly” about much of what guys do in here.

            At first, I think I was overly aggressive, overly blunt because I had some deep felt desire to get my ass kicked. See, I hated what I was outside; hated who I’d become; and I didn’t see any way of finding the real me again. So I was blunt and brutal and stood my ground and kept waiting to be punched or jumped or worse. And it never came. It never came because for all the bravado voiced in here, men in prison are basically cowards. They join gangs because they’re afraid to be alone. They talk of their gun exploits and their break-ins and beatings as evidence of their machismo. And I saw through it. I saw it was a bunch of lies and bullshit.

            Guys in here are afraid of me (funny, but my young friend Mustafa says I could be vicious bully if I wanted to be), afraid because I tell them the truth. Prison exposes a man’s weakness. It takes a lot to carry yourself with self-respect, pride, and dignity. I’ve come to realize the men who learn that overcome prison and all the other baggage they carry.  Self-respect.

            My friend Bob left the day after Christmas. In the past month four men who made prison livable have left: Scotty and Dave got home (and are doing great); Craig was transferred after his major screw up (and I still feel that loss); and Bob. Bob is a man of honor and courage. Bob came in very young in the eighties after committing a very violent crime. And he saw and survived the worst in prison: the racial animus, the stabbings, extortion, and rapes, and the drugs. He made parole before he defeated the demons he faced. And drugs and alcohol led him back here.

            Bob didn’t give up. He left the other day with a future laid out for him. He was a guy who in another time in my life I would have considered a friend. He was serious when need be, well-read, and loyal, characteristics sorely lacking in here. I will miss my conversations with him. I know he will do well. Friendship.

            A federal judge appointed by George W. Bush ruled that the NSA surveillance program was “most probably unconstitutional.” He asked, “What would our founding fathers say to our government’s massive snooping?” I wonder. We live in a nation of fear. We are afraid of “terrorists” and in the name of defeating them we sell our national identity of freedom. Meanwhile, more children die each year in this country from poverty, hunger, and neglect than all the deaths caused by terrorists in this nation’s history.

            In the name of law and order we’ve created a massive prison industrial complex that incarcerates more men and women than any country in the world; more behind bars than Stalin’s gulag purges in the Soviet Union. I live in a police state inside prison where I am constantly subjected to cameras, strip searches and questioning. And the officers are always right; the cameras conveniently turn off when a man is left to die from a heart attack or during a confrontation with an officer. If people outside don’t wake up and demand that their freedoms be respected, the difference between life inside the fence and outside the fence will only be the barbed wire. Freedom.

            I’ve spent a good deal of time this past year thinking about God. Funny writing that because I’ve come to believe God thinks about me all the time. Before my arrest, I was an ordained elder in my church and taught Sunday School and yet I learned more about the mystery and magnificence of God in a dark cell and even darker days in here than ever before.

            Here’s what I’ve realized. We talk a lot about God’s blessings when things are going great, but we don’t give Him much thought. And then our world comes crashing down and like Job we yell out, “Why” and we’re scared, and alone, and at the end of our rope and the time comes in the quiet and stillness of the night we know, we know we aren’t alone; we are loved. I believe the words of Pastor Rick Warren:

            “God can bring good even out of the bad in my life … God loves to turn crucifixions into resurrections.”

            Very hopeful words from a man dealing with the suicide of his oldest son. Faith.

            I love Pope Francis which is surprising coming from such an unabashed Protestant. But this Pope gets it. God is in the AIDS wards, and war zones, and prisons, and slums. He’s with those crying for help and out of loss or pain or fear. “Emmanuel,” “God with us.” The last few weeks I haven’t been able to get that Advent hymn out of my mind:

            “O come, O come Emmanuel
            And ransom captive Israel”

            And over Christmas I re-read Luke’s Gospel and remembered Jesus in the synagogue where He read from the Prophet Isaiah, “He has sent Me to proclaim release to captives, and recovery of sight to the blind, to set free those who are oppressed.” That is the God who kept me going when I made such a mess of my life. That’s the God who sees me though today.

            So it’s the New Year and things are good because I have hope. And as Andy Dufresne says in “The Shawshank Redemption,”

            “Hope is a good thing, maybe the best thing. And hope never dies.” Hope.

The Big Picture

It’s easy in here to think the whole world is contained inside these fences. Then, there are weeks where the news from the outside overwhelms the normal rhythm – if what goes on in here can ever be described as “normal” or rhythmic - of things. This past week was one of those times.  You realize how little guys in here actually know about life and history and – unfortunately – moral frameworks to operate through. Life in here tends to be a series of reactions, most not carefully thought out – to news and events beyond our control. But, it’s those visceral reactions that give me pause. How can a man expect to leave here and do well if he holds the same ideas that landed him in here?

            

A few weeks ago, much was made of the 150^th anniversary of the greatest battle to take place on North American soil. For three days in the heat of July 1863, the army of the United States faced off against their counterpart in the confederacy. It was a horrendous, bloody three days with deaths and wounded numbering in the tens of thousands. And, it was the pivotal battle of the Civil War. The future survival of this country was decided on the bloody grounds surrounding the small Pennsylvania town of Gettysburg.

            

Most Americans know about the battle of Gettysburg. But, there is a little known post-script to the conclusion of the battle. It was a topic touched on briefly by Director Martin Scorsese in his epic “Gangs of New York.” On July 4, 1863, weary and bloodied Union troops were pulled from Gettysburg and sent by train to quell massive anti-draft riots that had turned New York City into a fiery hell. “Four score and seven years” (87 years, that is) after this country’s founding as a democracy crowds were rioting through New York City. Hundreds were killed and injured. Free black men were lynched at will or burned alive. Homes and businesses were looted and destroyed. It was, simply put, utter chaos.

            

President Lincoln rushed thousands of battle-worn troops to New York. Martial law was declared and troops fired at will on crowds. Arrests and detention without benefit of due process or use of the constitutionally guaranteed right of Habeas Corpus (suspended by Lincoln in a clear execution of dictatorial power) occurred. All of this was done in the name of liberty, in an effort by a president and a government to preserve a still fragile and new democracy in the midst of war.

           

I write this as more images of burning and chaos and soldiers in the street in Cairo, Egypt, or Damascus, Syria, or a dozen other Arab nations bombarded our airwaves. Because of the significant number of Muslim inmates in here, discussions – loud at times – usually degenerate into “what’s wrong with those Arabs?” or people will try and tell you the violence is just a by-product of a religion (Islam) that shows little regard for  democracy or peace. And, we tend to scoff at the notion of an “Arab Spring” where freedom and liberty take over. The Middle East, struggling to join the 21^st century with a ballooning population under the age of thirty, is in the throes of upheaval. But before we’re quick to draw conclusions from what we see, let’s remember our own past. The reason people like Bishop Desmond Tutu and Nelson Mandela are so highly regarded by us is because they act contrary to what most of us would do. It’s an unfortunate fact but a fact none the less, that most of us would be with the rioters, and seeking revenge.

           

I told some of the young Muslim guys in here there is nothing anti-democratic about the Arab world. Just like this country in 1863, democracy is a fragile thing. Ultimately, good will triumph.

            

Then there was the Federal jury in Boston who convicted noted mobster Whitey Bulger of numerous crimes including murder. There’s no denying Bulger is a cold-blooded killer. He ran most of the organized crime in South Boston and was ruthless. His story, fictionalized somewhat in the academy-award winning movie “Departed” glossed over and glamorized some of the worst that was Whitey Bulger.

            

The most notable disclosures at his trial didn’t relate to his crimes. No, the most notable disclosures concerned the government’s willingness to get in bed with brutal criminals in their quest to catch other criminals. The government it seems is not above breaking the law in the pursuit of enforcing the law. If that idea doesn’t concern you, I’m not sure what does.

            

In the past few months we have learned the government can – and does – collect virtually every electronic form of communication we utilize. In one breath, we are lied to and told, “No, we don’t collect all that data,” and a day later that same senior administration official admits he lied but it was merely to keep the “terrorists guessing.” And that’s all it takes now. “We’re pursuing terror threats” or trying to break an organized crime syndicate. The ends – the government tells us – justify the means.

            

What does that mean? In Bulger’s case, that meant FBI agents tipped him off about other crime family activity. They shielded and protected Bulger from prosecutions for murder, extortion, and a host of other crimes. They were a party to much of Bulger’s wrong doing.

            

But it’s not just big criminals like Bulger. Daily, police use lies and deceit to “break a crime.” In my own case, the detective in charge couldn’t accept my conviction. There had to be others involved, he thought. There had to be an offshore account (this even as I provided full financial disclosure). So what did he do? He told my wife I “admitted if I made bond I was going to drive home, kill her and our kids, and dig up the money.” He used this lie about a guy who had never even spanked his children.

            

Why’d he lie? “I figured she’d show me where the money was. I guess I was wrong.” The problem with tolerating this sort of police behavior is that the power of government to deprive you of your liberty or property is a power that can be easily corrupted by unscrupulous, power-driven people.

            

The Bulger case should be a clear call to this nation to require government itself to live within the law. The ends do not justify the means. Government law enforcement cannot be allowed to get cozy with criminals – or lie, cheat, and steal – to get a conviction.

            

This past week almost every TV in the building was tuned in as Attorney General Eric Holder announced the Department of Justice was going to push “significant prison reform measures,” immediately. As the A.G. ran through the litany of facts about the United States current mass incarceration problem:

-        25% of the world’s prisoners are locked up in the US though this nation has only 5% of the world’s population

-        $80 billion spent annually on prisons

-        Staggering recidivism rates even as violent crime rates plummet

I couldn’t help but smile when my bunk neighbor leaned over my way and said, “Hey, Holder reads your blog.”

            

The A.G. has just admitted what anyone who really examines the system already knew: prison wastes money, resources, and lives. That politicians on both sides of the aisle now agree with that premise should be enough to tell you it isn’t even a controversial position.

            

Too many people are sentenced to prison for far too long. For many of those inmates, their time in prison determines their future success and that of their children. No one with an ounce of sense will suggest that there shouldn’t be consequences for breaking the law. But, the consequences must be in proportion to the wrong committed and must always have as a goal the successful return of the lawbreaker to society.

            

The A.G. correctly pointed out that America’s reliance on prison fails that simple test. It’s now time for Virginia to follow the A.G.’s lead. Let’s get creative with sentencing. Reward inmates who truly seek to atone for their wrongs and be rehabilitated. Prison – when necessary – should be with brief stints unless the crime is so violent or the defendant so sociopathic that returning him – or her – to society is impossible.

            

The same day the U.S. Attorney General announced the Federal government’s prison reform push, a Federal judge in New York ruled the city’s “stop and frisk” program unconstitutional. The controversial program allowed police to stop and pat down anyone they wanted. Do you know who was stopped? Tens of thousands of black men, most with not even the slightest hint of any wrong doing or any suspicious activity.

            

I know how I feel being patted down every time I enter or exit a building and I’m in prison. To be subjected to that invasion of my personal space in the “free” world based almost exclusively on the color of my skin is abhorrent. American law, we tell our children in school, is color-blind. But, there are reasons expressions such as “driving while black,” resonate in the African-American community. For all its noble purposes, stop and frisk is simply an invitation to police harassment. The Federal Court correctly noted its unconstitutionality. It belongs on the dust heap of other failed police practices.

            

And finally, I reminded a group of students this week that we are approaching the 50^th anniversary of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s “I have a dream” speech. With the exception of Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address, no other speech in American history so beautifully and lyrically portrays the ideals of this country.

            The most significant piece of his speech, the part where Dr. King rhythmically recited over and over “I have a dream,” and then spoke about children – black and white – holding hands, was not even in the original text. Dr. King, the Baptist preacher that he was, felt the pull of the Holy Spirit and went off script.

           

As I reread his wonderful words, I wondered what Dr. King, had he lived, would say about America today. At the time of his murder he had gone beyond a call for racial justice. He had denounced America’s war in Indochina. He was pushing the rights of the poor. He was preaching to the outcasts. And white America was made uncomfortable. We don’t like sitting in our fancy homes and churches and being told those material items aren’t God’s blessings. And Black people? They thought he was a sellout. Young Blacks demanded rebellion. Dr. King preached reconciliation.

           

I feel confident if Dr. King was with us today he would denounce drone strikes, NSA surveillance, and America’s obsession with material wealth. And, I think he would remind Christians everywhere of Jesus’ parable in Matthew 25:

            

“I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat; I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink; I was a stranger and you did not invite me in; naked, and you did not clothe me; sick, or in prison, and you did not visit me … truly I say to you, to the extent that you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to Me.”

           

Sometimes prison can be completely isolating. You forget there’s a world out there with people going through so much. Weeks like this come along and you’re reminded – for most of us anyway – this is but a stop along the way. And doing right, treating people right, seeing the big picture matters.

Mandela

As I write this, Nelson Mandela lies in a South African hospital on life support.  Ninety-four with consciousness fading, his last days on earth may be approaching.  While his family battles over his body and his possessions, his country holds its collective breath.  What will happen to South Africa, they wonder, after he’s gone?

“I’m no saint.”  Mandela once remarked to a celebrity journalist fawning over him.  He understood his path.  So often we seek to idolize our heroes.  We make them perfect.  Mandela knew better.  He was a lawyer by training.  Faced with the oppressive Apartheid system, he sought revolution. An active leader in the ANC (African National Congress), he saw military action, bombings, and the like against the minority white government as not just legitimate but necessary.  Simply put, he was no Gandhi.

And, he had blood on his hands.  As corrupt and ruthless as the white Afrikaner government was, the ANC matched them.  Mandela was arrested, convicted and sent to prison.  The government believed by removing him they would silence him.  They were wrong.

A few years ago I read a book built around Mandela’s prison diary.  I was intrigued.  I had started a daily journal three days after my arrest.  I assumed Mandela’s would be different.  I assumed his would be political rhetoric of the first order.  I was wrong.  He diaried the things he saw, and felt, and experienced.  As I read his diary I saw the growth, the transformation of the man in the ordinary (if life in prison can ever be considered ordinary). 

I was no political prisoner, but I wanted to face my incarceration the way he did, with dignity, and courage, and honor, all those concepts that are in such short supply in places such as this.

I remember the day years ago when he walked out of prison.  I watched on TV and was sure South Africa would explode in violence and bloodletting.  There would be vengeance, I believed, retribution for his imprisonment.

I was wrong.  Contrary to what those in power thought, prison hadn’t broken Mandela.  It made him stronger.  And wiser.  I still see him walking out the front gate of the prison, a solitary man, but a man with a calmness because he knew what had to be done.  There was no bloodletting.  There was no call for revenge.  There was Mandela with a message of peaceful transition of power and reconciliation.  And South Africa moved forward, just as Mandela did when he walked out of the prison.

His nation is not perfect. There are problems; the social divide still lingers; corruption in government; crime; and yet, it has moved forward.  It is a nation with a future.

“I’m no saint.”  Perhaps, we are too quick to declare actions and people heroic only to topple them later.  Perhaps, we can learn from Mandela’s experience and the power of human will for transformation, for vision, for mercy.

1200

I hit a milestone the other morning. I completed twelve hundred pages in my diary. As I’ve written before, shortly after my arrest I began keeping a daily journal of my experiences in here. Each page has approximately three hundred words. So many times during the past thirty-two months I’ve been asked by guys “what are you writing down?” A little bit of everything.



I recently completed Nelson Mandela’s newest bestseller based on his diary and personal correspondence written during his twenty-seven years of imprisonment. I was surprised by a good deal of the book. Perhaps it was my preconceived notion of what thoughts would cross a great man like Mandela’s mind. I just assumed everything would be deep and profound. But it wasn’t.


Mandela wrote about powerful topics such as maintaining your dignity in the face of a system bent on breaking you. He also wrote about his commissary order, and his vegetable garden, his love for his wife and children, his health. He wrote about everything.


In one letter to his young daughter, he wrote the following:


“Spiritual weapons can be dynamic and often have an impact difficult to appreciate except in the light of actual experience in given situations…To put it bluntly, it is only my flesh and blood that are shut up behind these tight walls…”


As I think about all the pages I’ve written, the mundane and profound, the boring and insightful? I understand what Mandela was saying. They can put a man behind bars, but they can’t take his freedom if he still has his mind, his experiences, his faith.


I write a good deal about the day to day happenings in here that are life in prison. A lot of those happenings are things I never knew occurred. I write about men and experiences that were far removed from my apparently sheltered life. I write about my family and friends. My ex and my kids make my entries almost daily. I’ve been told numerous times to “move on” and “close that chapter”. Ironically, shortly after his release from prison Mandela and his wife of thirty years separated. A few years later, they divorced. Mandela knew of his wife’s indiscretions while he was locked up. He also knew he was no saint. The divorce shattered him. As the notes in the book reflect, he could never speak publicly about her. Yet, even after his release, after the divorce, he wrote about her.


There is hope in writing. There is despair. Many mornings and nights I’ve written letters directly to God telling Him I’m not quite sure I can do this. Then, two days later I’m writing about receiving my commissary. The day after that I’ll be running and hurry in to record some self realization.


Twelve hundred pages. Following receipt of the divorce papers the court appointed a lawyer to serve as my “guardian ad litem” – an ironic twist of incarceration: no suit can proceed against an inmate without the court being assured the inmate understands the nature of the action.


I was called to a lawyer visitation room at the Henrico Jail and was met by a stunning, mid-thirties blond who introduced herself as my court appointed lawyer. We spent three hours together and during that time she asked about my life, my circumstances, my marriage. I told her the story, my story. Near the end, she looked at me and said “you need to write that down, for yourself, for your sons, for others.” She was the first person I told I kept a diary.


Everything about this experience is documented. I guess I do it because I don’t want to forget even a day of what this is like. I thought I knew so much before my arrest. I realized these past few years just how little I really knew. It may not matter to anyone else, but these pages represent the struggles and successes, the joys and heartaches I’ve been through. And, Mandela was right. No matter what happens to me, these pages represent my freedom.

Sinner or Saint

I began reading Nelson Mandela’s recent best seller Conversations with Myself the other day. It is a remarkable text based on his letters and diaries written during his nearly 27 years of incarceration. Mandela entered prison at a fairly young age of 46. He never tasted freedom again until after his 72nd birthday.



I paused as I read an insightful passage in a letter he mailed to his wife, Winnie in February, 1975:


“…the cell is an ideal place to learn to know yourself…Honesty, sincerity, simplicity, humility, pure generosity, absence of vanity, readiness to serve others – qualities which are within easy reach of every soul – are the foundation of one’s spiritual life…At least, if for nothing else, the cell gives you the opportunity to look daily into your entire conduct, to overcome the bad and develop whatever is good in you…Never forget that a saint is a sinner who keeps trying.”


I thought about Mandela’s words as I tried to come up with a conciliatory response to a letter I received. Over and over I heard his words roll around in my head, “a sinner who keeps on trying.”


I smile as young men in here gravitate to me, asking for whatever advice I can offer on a wide range of subjects. I enjoy their company. Somehow, having them around me makes the sting of separation and alienation from my own sons more manageable.


I found an anonymous quote that really hit home. “Every trial endured and weathered in the right spirit makes a soul nobler and stronger than it was before.” The key, I realized, was enduring in the right spirit. That’s the tough part. I still struggle with accepting other people’s failures, weaknesses. Ultimately, that is what creates a forgiving heart.


I have a number of bad habits. One is to immediately respond to any attack. I know I screwed up; I know I risked and lost the people I loved most by my impulsive, greed-driven behavior. I live with that every day. Still, when someone you love blasts you in a letter, my gut tells me to point out their flaws. Wrong approach.


I’ve received a fair amount of news the past few weeks that has made me question God’s infinite wisdom. I’ve actually come to appreciate Job’s argument with God, his “what are You doin’ to me,” discussion.


It hit me that I’d come so far. My heart is broken, yet today, after a very difficult visit, I prayed asking God to just let someone be happy and feel loved.


Forgiveness and love are painful. I have done so many reckless, hurtful things that cost me more than at times it seems I can bear. Yet, in the quiet of my bunk, as I prayed, I placed my trust in God that it will all work out. I keep trying. Right now that’s all I can do.

Let Freedom Reign

The other day I watched as millions of ordinary Egyptians stood in the streets of Cairo and Alexandria and demanded an end to the tyrannical, repressive regime headed for thirty years by Hosni Mubarak.



I was transfixed when word came out that Mubarak had left the country. Ordinary Egyptians tired of terror and disappointment screamed with joy “we are free”. I saw fathers with tears in their eyes lift their children toward heaven. Men fell to their knees and prayed, reciting over and over “Allah Akbar” “God is great!”


A news clip then came on showing President Obama laud the transfer of power. He spoke about a peoples’ inherent desire, their absolute right to live free. In an amazing display of historical perspective, a news announcer reported that it was “exactly twenty-one years ago today” that Nelson Mandela stepped through the gates of a South African prison and walked forward a free man. After twenty-six long, lonely, brutal years, Mandela walked into freedom. He stepped to the microphones set up before him and in a firm voice said “let freedom reign”. President Obama chose those same three words in his remarks on Egypt.


“Let freedom reign.” I’ve re-read the story of Moses this week. Moses, a man who murdered an Egyptian and then fled rather than face the wrath of Pharaoh. God, however, had other plans for Moses. In spite of his failures, his crime, God saw in Moses righteousness. He called out to Moses, told him to “have courage” and then instructed him to “lead my people to freedom”.


“Let freedom reign.” I re-read the prophet Jeremiah’s words to the captive people of Israel. “God is with you. He shall restore you.” Jeremiah suffered grievously in his life. Imprisoned, beaten, starved, abandoned by his own people. There were many days Jeremiah wondered, “Has God forsaken me”. Still, he found the faith to tell his countrymen living away from home under the oppression of a Babylonian despot, living in captivity, “do not lose hope. God hears you. You will be restored”.


I have had a difficult past ten days. I have felt abandoned, lost and lived with a deep sense of hopelessness I haven’t felt in years. Many times during these difficult days I’ve fought back thoughts that my future looks bleak. I fought against thinking I would serve my entire sentence and be released to live my remaining days alone, lonely and destitute.


I’ve wondered why, why has all this happened? I’ve accepted responsibility for the decisions I made. Still, the punishment I have been handed is substantially more severe than the crime. I’ve lain in bed and asked God over and over this week how much more I must lose. Yeah, I’ve been feeling sorry for myself. And, maybe I deserve all that has happened.


As I was watching the news, watching the Egyptians celebrate, my workout coach stood in my cut.


“I know you’ve been strugglin’ this week,” Randy said. “You’re not like most men I’ve met. You’re a good man. Good men make bad decisions, but they overcome.”


“Let freedom reign.” That’s a tough sell this week. I want my freedom. I want a future. That seems so far away right now. Still, hope dies hard. This dark period shall pass. I’ll find my bearings. I’ll believe and hope again.


Freedom is precious. I’ll make it through somehow. I watched the joy in the Egyptian man’s face as he cried out “God gave me my freedom’. I know my day is coming.

Madoff, Mandatory, Mandela and the Magi

Bernie Madoff – convicted con man currently serving a 150 year federal prison sentence for the theft and loss of billions – received some devastating news this week. His elder son, Mark, estranged from him since his arrest, committed suicide the other day. Mark took his own life while his two year old son napped in an adjoining room. His death was staged on the second anniversary of Bernie Madoff’s arrest.



It was a tragic ending to a family drama that has played out on the pages of business journals, daily papers, and celebrity rags. Mark, as I noted, was estranged from his father. He was a party to numerous lawsuits by the Madoff trustee seeking to recover part of the billions lost in Bernie’s scheme. He was also the subject of an ongoing federal criminal probe into his involvement in the Madoff con.


Mark Madoff always professed his innocence, always said he knew nothing of his father’s wrongdoing. He couldn’t forgive his father for destroying his career, his future. He couldn’t forgive his mother for standing by his father. “That’s what you do when you love someone. That’s what my vow means”, she told him.


Mark told anyone that would listen that he was innocent. “My dad lied and betrayed me as well,” was his common refrain.


Yet, people talk. It’s painful and embarrassing to be the fodder of community gossip. It’s stressful to see your name in the paper and have every purchase you ever made, every decision you ever took, scrutinized. Over and over Mark heard “you were paid over $400 million working for your dad. You really think you were that good an investment counselor?”


I feel for the Madoff family. In many ways, my own circumstances parallel theirs. Almost every person who hears my story begins with the same question “How can she [my ex] claim she didn’t know? She sure enjoyed it while it was going on.” I tell everyone that will ask she knew nothing. It doesn’t matter. What she knew – or suspected – is between her and her conscience. But, people whisper and she couldn’t handle the public evaluation. So unlike Mrs. Madoff, she fled.


I used to worry a great deal about what other people thought. I was raised by parents – a mother especially – who obsessed on what other people thought of my actions. After my arrest, every time I appeared in court an article showed up in the paper. Within days of the article, a “love” letter arrived from my then wife – “you a—hole. People are talking about us . . . .”


Here’s what I learned. People love to talk a whole lot about other’s misfortunes. We’re somehow wired to feel better about ourselves when other folks’ indiscretions come out. Perhaps that’s why so much time is spent in the New Testament warning believers’ gossiping is a sin.


I learned through my own experience not to give a damn about what other people think. We all screw up. Even my ex, who I still love dearly, needs to face the fact she isn’t perfect. Same goes for my sons. They are wonderful, strong, loving boys, but, it’s time they “nut up”. At the end of the day, what my ex and sons need to learn, what Mark Madoff couldn’t quite grasp, is it doesn’t matter what they say or write about you. What does matter is we all screw up and we all need those people, who in good times claim to love us, to love us when the world seems out of control.


It’s not about being right and well regarded. It is about love and forgiveness.
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There are approximately 8,000 inmates in Virginia still covered under the “old law” (pre – 1995 when parole was abolished). Each year these guys come up for a parole hearing. That is really a misnomer. There is no “hearing”. Guys are called into the lead counselor’s office and sit in front of a TV. On the screen, a young woman with her face buried in a laptop, confirms the name and DOC number, then asks four or five silly repetitive questions:


“You’re still in here on a first degree murder charge?”


“You were rejected for parole last year?”


Approximately two weeks later, a letter arrives from the board. In all but 2% of the cases the letter reads “denied”. The reason: “severity of crime”. There was no hearing. The parole examiner (the pretty young bureaucrat with the laptop) sent email summaries of the cases to board members. No “blood and flesh” face to face with the inmate, just electronic summaries and, in most cases, denial.


Prior to parole being abolished an inmate in Virginia made early parole in about 50% of the cases. Today, parole cases almost always have to wait for their mandatory date.


How does it work? Take my fifteen year sentence. Had I been “parole eligible” I would have had a parole hearing after two years. Even if I was rejected, odds were better than 50-50 I’d be out at my next anniversary. With earned good time credits applied (30 days good time for 30 days served) my mandatory release would occur after less than eight years.


There has been a lawsuit going on in federal court over Virginia’s parole board. The inmates lost the initial battle but an appeal is underway. The case focus revolves around the argument that the board denies parole candidates their due process rights by the lack of hearing and relying on rubber stamped grounds (“severity of crime”).


A few guys make parole every year, but they aren’t “violent” inmates. DC has done 38 years. He has 5 more before he mandatories on his murder 1 sentence; Black’s done 16 years. Three to go to mandatory on his murder sentence. Tyrone: 30 in, 7 to go on his armed robbery sentence. Powers: 14 in, 14 to go on his murder 1 sentence. Malik: 23 in, 4 to go. The list of guys I know who can’t get out early because of the severity of their crimes goes on.


Here’s a question to ponder: If all these guys committed crimes so serious that they can’t be released early, what are they doing at a low custody corrections center? Each one of the men I mentioned deserves another chance. They deserve parole.
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Nelson Mandela, as I’ve written before, is an amazing man. He survived over 26 years in South African prisons. He was no saint, he’ll tell you that. He was a serial adulterer, fathering numerous children out of wedlock. He committed and supported acts of violence against the apartheid regime in South Africa.


Yet, this man maintained his dignity throughout his imprisonment. He did not become an icon, a revered hero, for his actions before his arrest. He became so by the example he set in challenging apartheid from his cell. He held strong, he endured, he overcame, he defeated the prison.


For many of the men I’ve met in here Mandela is living proof that you can never be broken by prison if you keep your mind free.


Time Magazine got it wrong with its choice for “Man of the Year”. In the hearts and minds of prisoners around the world, Nelson Mandela set the example for properly enduring prison. As long as I remain behind these fences, he will always be my man of the year.
____________________________________________________________________________________As you enjoy your holidays, remember that the Magi found the light of the world in a broken down barn. He didn’t come into the world in wealth and power, but in poverty and humble origins.


And the word was spread by outcasts and nonconformists, most of whom ended up in prison and executed. The good, decent, law abiding society rejected Him. It was the prostitutes, the possessed, the lepers and the tax collectors that flocked to Him.


The Magi went to find the new King, but it wasn’t as the folks in power expected. He came for the broken, the troubled, the oppressed, the law breakers. He brought salvation, forgiveness, redemption and hope to those in dire need. That may be a boring message when you think you have everything, when you think you’re “livin’ the good life”. But, for a guy in prison, it’s the most amazing liberating message ever received.


John 1: 1-14. Merry Christmas!