Facing Long-Term Imprisonment

Facing Long-Term Imprisonment

Iturned 24 just before the judge sentenced me to 45 years in federal prison. Although I had been held in various jails in the Seattle area for about a year as I awaited trial, this was my first trip to the penitentiary. I did not know what to expect. I heard many stories from the other prisoners I met during that year, so my mind was filled with tales of prison life. And, of course, I remembered the stereotypes of prison life from such films as Brubaker and Stir Crazy. Would this be it? Would my life be reduced to a prison registration number, being counted periodically as I waited for paint to peel off prison walls and years to pass away? How can a person be left with nothing meaningful to do for 45 years? I was thirsting for life at the same time as I was trying in my mind to untangle the web that had led me to such a sentence. I would scream of injustice, but I was unsure of my ground. I read the presentence report prepared by the government. It said mine was a victimless crime. Does a victimless crime really merit a 45-year prison term? I did not know. Yet those were the questions tormenting me as I waited in the county jail.

Then, early one Saturday morning, the guards shouted at me, “Santos, pack up!” I knew neither where I was going nor how I would get there. I was expecting a visit from my parents that day, but the immediate transfer would prevent me from getting word to them. I asked another prisoner—one with whom I had developed a friendship during my time in the county jail, and one whom I would never see again—to call my father and let him know I was on my way to prison, though I did not know which one. Later I learned my destination was not “Club Fed,” or one of the college-campus like prisons for which the Bureau of Prisons (BOP) is becoming known. I was a long-term prisoner, and as such my destination was the United States Penitentiary in Atlanta (USP Atlanta), one of the two oldest penitentiaries in the federal system.

The trip from Seattle to Atlanta was long. My physical movement was restricted by a chain wrapped around my waist that was connected to the manacles around my wrists and the steel cuffs around my ankles. There was nothing to restrict my thinking.

A flood of thoughts (none pleasant) collided in my mind; I felt as if I were drowning in my own brain. I thought of how far away I would be from my family. I felt the burden of realizing the shame and humiliation my actions had brought them. My parents and grandparents gave me every opportunity to bring pride and distinction to our family. I had no reason to sell cocaine. Like a fool, though, I made some wrong decisions that hurt many people and society. Eventually I decided I could not afford to wallow in self-pity; I had to prepare myself for what lay ahead. Yet I did not know what lay ahead. All I knew was that I must survive a sentence of 4½ decades. I was [Page 37]on my way to a maximum-security penitentiary, and I tried to develop a strategy to help me endure the imminent prison experience.

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