Forty Years

Terri and I married in 1984. Five days later, I was sentenced to die in the gas chamber and transported to San Quentin’s death row. The original death row had only sixty-four cells. I was the 127th condemned prisoner, so I was handcuffed and escorted to Death Row II, the overflow located in south block’s Carson section. A wall of noise cascaded down the five tiers emanating from radios, TV’s, prisoners shouting, the cacophony pounded deep inside my body. I felt nervous, overwhelmed, and pushed back panic. Guided to a cell on the fourth tier, a guard keyed open the door, and I saw neatly packed boxes lined up on a steel bunk. I hesitated, and the guard ordered me inside. I was brand new, but not that new, never that new, I shook my head. 

The guard was unhappy but didn’t try to force me inside. We marched back down the stairs to the sergeant’s office. 

“Refused housing.” Reaching out, the sergeant roughly grabbed my upper arm. 

“The cell had property inside,” I said quickly. 

Prisoners have very little, I had brought only an address book and writing supplies from the county jail. Our few belongings are precious; I wasn’t going into a cell with someone else’s possessions. The sergeant lasered the guard who nodded. Grip relaxing on my arm, the sergeant locked me in a cage and went away. Minutes later, the sergeant came back. 

“My board shows the cell empty, but second watch got lazy and didn’t lockup the property. Only property officers are allowed to log in property, I’ll leave a note for them to secure the boxes in the morning. Housing you in the hole tonight, you should be back after breakfast.” 

Stepping close, he added, “Did the right thing. Could have started a lot of problems if we housed you in there. Thanks.” 

“Hunter,” awoke me in the morning. At the cell door was an ancient guy in a decades-out-of-date suit. “Do you take psyche meds?” 

“Yes,” I drowsily responded. “Antidepressants for the past two years in the county jail.” 

“We’ll see how you do without them.” He walked. 

The next time I spoke to mental health was three decades later, although a few years later they tried to speak to me. Eating breakfast from a tray a guard slid into my cell, I thought about the guard trying to force inside a cell with someone else’s property and my brief encounter with mental health. I realized I could not rely on guidance from staff. I needed to carefully evaluate everything and use my own judgement. A few hours later, I returned to Carson section. The next day I went to Classification and was assigned to a small concrete fifty man condemned exercise yard. The following day, Terri came to see me. She hugged me and suddenly everything was better. We had been married for only days but had worked for a couple years together at a Silicon Valley electronics company that hired me after my four years in the navy. Terri had already ordered me a TV, radio, and mailed a quarterly package. The material things were cool, but much more was her constant presence in my life. 

I saw her at least every other week. She had uncommon common sense and I completely trusted her. I loved her, she loved me, so I had faith everything would be okay as I learned to navigate San Quentin’s death row. Mental health issues were common in the death house. Although people tend to think prisoners with mental health challenges are violent and crazy, my experience is they’re victims more often than aggressors. Suicide attempts were not uncommon. If unsuccessful, the prisoner was ruthlessly mocked by guards and prisoners, frequently given advice on how to succeed next time. Some did seek the closure of death once again, usually by hanging, perhaps a dozen or so were successful and died. I dealt with the grim reality like any other addict/alcoholic, I self-medicated. 

Each morning, I was up early for breakfast and yard release. Going to yard was a lengthy process with multiple searches, metal detectors, scanners, chains, and gates to pass through. Finally on the miniature concrete yard that high cinder block walls claustrophobically pressed in tightly, I hit the weights to get bigger, stronger, fierce. I bought drugs and went home to chemically fade. Time moved relentlessly on, and after about five years Terri wisely decided she’d spent enough time at San Quentin. We divorced and she went away. I knew her decision was sound, but still it was hard. Real hard. 

Soon after the divorce, the California Supreme Court denied my appeal and an execution date set. One afternoon, I was reading and listening to Led Zeppelin on my deck when three figures approached my cell bars. 

“Mr. Hunter,” one inquired, “you are going to die in a couple weeks, and we want to know how you feel about it.” These were three mental health professionals sent to ensure I was sane enough to be executed. I turned up the volume and went back to reading. When I glanced over a while later, they were gone. 

I received a written evaluation that said I had responded appropriately to their questions and I could be executed. The federal court granted a stay of execution and new attorneys were assigned. My addictions and alcoholism soared. I still went to lift weights, but as soon as the workout ended, I chased a high. One afternoon, yard recall was about to start so I demanded substances from the drug dealer. Payment had been made; I wanted my high. Already on the cusp of insanity fearing facing a sober night in my cell, I pushed up close forcing the issue. The dealer was too busy negotiating with someone else to hand me my due. 

“Just wait,” he said abruptly and stuck a finger in my face. 

Next thing, I’d broken my hand on his concussed skull, and the gun post guard had racked a round into his rifle and ordered me down. Handcuffed, I was housed in the hole. I didn’t receive any medical treatment, so I was in a great deal of pain that night. My greatest fear was not my hand, busting on the yard drug dealer was not the best plan for surviving day to day on death row. Thinking hard, worried, I understood for perhaps the first time my life had been a series of bad choices. Terri was no longer around to lend me wisdom, I trusted no one but her, and it occurred to me I just might make better choices if sober. I decided to try sobriety at least for a while. Weeks later, I returned to my housing unit and assigned yard. A new dealer with better manners, services, and prices had stepped up to provide chemical bliss. People were glad I’d busted up the old guy who had moved on to the original death row. I was not just forgiven, I was celebrated. After working out, my crew schemed to purchase chemical oblivion. I held onto sobriety. This wasn’t an issue at first, they just waited for relapse. After a few weeks, the sober man wasn’t welcome at the party. I had to go. I requested Classification and asked Committee for a new yard assignment. I explained I was trying to stay sober and needed a new environment. 

I had a bad reputation, so it took a few weeks for the Committee to find a yard that would accept me. My first day on my new yard, I was met at the gate by three highly respected prisoners. If I wanted a chance, I had one. If I had another agenda, let the drama happen right now. I told them I understood and wasn’t looking for problems. I worked out alone but eventually was invited onto a team and blended. I was now completing my ninth year in custody, two in county jail and seven on death row. 

My new attorneys, federal attorneys, were not criminal attorneys. They were corporate attorneys working at a large law firm in San Francisco. I could see they didn’t really know what to make of me, their only criminal client. With my tentative sobriety, I made a decision, a choice, to write them weekly to try and establish communication perhaps a personal relationship. My thought was I’d had contentious relationships with my past attorneys, and some of that might be because I only contacted them when I was unhappy with them. If I could have regular positive interactions, perhaps anything I communicated of a negative nature later would be less jarring, less notable, and not do as much damage to our working relationship. 

At least that was my thought. I wrote about the briefs they were writing for me, so they’d know I was paying attention and was grateful, but mostly I wrote about a book I was reading, a movie I’d seen, a bay area sports team I followed. Whatever was on my radar that week. Marina, a legal secretary, read my letters and thought I could write for publication and encouraged me to try. I thought that was nonsensical but wrote something and no one was more surprised than me when my writing started to sell to newspapers and magazines. I entered writing competitions and won. The experience was equally amazing and baffling. Marina started to visit every three weeks. She wanted me to meet her son, Christopher, but his father thought he should wait till he was four. Finally, I came into the visiting room and swept up Christopher. We were good from the start. I liked that at first, he had no clue he was visiting prison and he called me MichaelHunter like it was one word. Christopher liked the vending machines. 

“I’ll bring Christopher every other visit, but he has to want to come.”

“Do you want to see me again?”

“Sure, tomorrow.”

“Not tomorrow. Soon.”

“Okay.” 

The next visit, Marina came alone as expected, Christopher would come every other visit. She asked me if I was still maintaining sobriety. Yes, I’d been sober for two years. 

“You need to tell me if you relapse. I’ll still visit, but my husband and I don’t want Christopher around you if you’re using.” I was surprised she trusted me to tell her. I took her faith in me seriously and did not relapse. I had my writing; I had a chance to hang out with Christopher. I wasn’t going to mess that up. 

One morning, the guards believed Billy, a condemned prisoner, had a weapon in his cell and ordered him to cuff up and step out so they could search. Billy wasn’t real cooperative. Negotiations went nowhere and the situation was resolved only when they shot him four times with sponge rounds, rushed inside his cell, chained him and dragged him down the tier. 

As Billy passed my cell, leaving a red swath of blood on the tier, Jimmy, a Hell’s Angel in the cell next to me, asked, “How you doing?” Billy answered easily, “Not bad.” “That’s hard core,” Jimmy murmured to me. “I would have cuffed up.” If Jimmy, who had shot and killed a cop during a robbery and then had an all-day gun battle with more cops that only ended when he was shot and passed out from blood loss, thought Billy hard core way beyond him, I had to face the fact I wasn’t the least bit hard. I was from the suburbs and needed to stop posing as something I was not. I shaved off my beard.

“Do you like me without a beard?” I asked Christopher who was now five. 

Looking carefully at me, he said thoughtfully, “I liked you with a beard. I like you without a beard.”

“Good.”

“My grandfather said you’re a bad person,” Christopher said softly. I could tell he was trying to reconcile his grandfather’s words at odds with our friendship. I didn’t know what to say, Christopher’s eyes pierced me with the candor of a child. 

“I did a really bad thing. I’m trying to do better now. Do you think I’m good to you and your mother?”

“Yes, yes, we’re friends.”

“I’ll always be good to you,” I promised and hoped my words were true. 

Clarity of thought is a gift; one I had squandered. The effects of drugs and alcohol did not leave me all at once, it was a process that took time. I continued to write for publication, seems like I always had a deadline to meet. The money, connecting with readers was way cool, but the best part was self-discovery. When you write, you drill down and find the essence, discover personal truths. Terri came to visit with her one-year-old son, Dominic. Seeing her was good. No, it was great! She was a wonderful mother. We spoke about staying in touch, but I knew that caring for her son would consume her. I hoped we’d reconnect, but knew this was not the time. Later, I heard from her sister that Terri had a daughter as well. More years passed by, my federal appeal was successful, and a new trial was ordered. I’d hoped the prosecution would agree to a fifty-year term. I had nearly twenty years in custody, so I’d owe ten more years with good time. The prosecution insisted on life in prison without possibility of parole and the jury agreed. Now, I had more than twenty years in custody, and I was happy to transfer from the death house.

I was sent to an extremely violent maximum-security facility. Most of the prisoners were lifers. In 2002, it didn’t matter much if you were a lifer who went to the parole board or life without possibility of parole. No one was granted parole. State legislators wondered why they were paying for parole board hearings when no lifers were found suitable for parole year after year. The prison gangs used the lack of parole as a recruiting tool. Why program if you’re going to die in prison? Join a clique, engage in violence, establish a rep that’s how you survive maximum security prison. 

With a twenty-year-old prison number, the shotcallers should have known me personally or by rep. Since I had been warehoused on the shelf, I was an unknown and that made them uneasy. Most of them knew a guy or two in the county jail charged with the death penalty who had gone to death row. They quizzed me, trying to trip me up. When I arrived on death row in 1984, I was 127th, but when I left in 2002 there were more than seven hundred and I didn’t know every single one. When questioned by shotcallers, I knew the condemned guys they were asking about, most of them personally, and the rest by reputation. When I showed a lack of interest in the power structure and didn’t drink or do drugs, I faded into the margins where I wanted to hang. The only self-help groups on the facility were Alcoholics and Narcotics Anonymous. You could not sign up; you were only added to the roster by the disciplinary lieutenant if found guilty of a drug or alcohol violation. The groups met weekly when we were not on lockdown. Since alcoholics and addicts were the only group members, the meetings made it convenient to distribute illicit product. Due to assaults, stabbings, riots, the facility was on lockdown for months at a time. Not once in the two years I was there did they ever get the day room fully open. I think the record was ten cells released before violence kicked off.

My cellmate was Lou; he was the captain’s clerk. Designated a critical worker, he went to the program office even when we were slammed. Lou was locked in a never-ending narcotics cycle. When he was on an up cycle, increasing his dosage daily, he was arrogant, petty and insulting. At some point he’d realize he was nodding at work, start cutting dosage and get dope sick while withdrawing. The down cycle Lou was tearful, humble, remorseful. I didn’t care for up or down Lou but stayed celled with him because I figured he wouldn’t stab me in my sleep. 

Lou left for work every morning about 6am and would not return sooner than 8pm. Trapped in the cell most days due to lockdown, I’d workout, clean the cell and write. Along with feature writing for the Sunday edition of newspapers, I was a monthly contributor to a street sheet sold on New York city’s subway. One day, I was cuffed up and taken to the sergeant’s office. Someone had turned in hit kites with Lou as the target. As his cellmate, they asked me to sign a chrono stating I had no safety concerns if I stayed on the facility. I refused. The sergeant summoned the lieutenant who said I needed to sign because there was no other prisoner on the facility who Lou could safely cell. I refused again. Lou came in, he seemed to be on a down cycle because he had tears in his eyes. A good paying job, steady supply of narcotics, he did not want to go anywhere. I knew Lou was through, strongly suspected he knew as well, but addicts are really good at creating rosy scenarios, a reality no one believes except them. At least that’s my history. 

“I should have treated you better, Mike,” Lou pleaded. “We’ve been together for two years. I’ll do better. Please sign.”

I just shook my head. I was locked in the hole for thirty-eight days pending transfer. Even before I got on the bus, Lou was stabbed and transferred before me. As I looked out the window motoring to a new maximum facility but one with a much better reputation for violence, I felt tension, depression fade away. In Receiving, I was pulled into the lieutenant’s office. 

“Why are you here?!” The question baffles me to this day. I have no idea what he was asking me, so I just stayed silent. 

“We’ll be watching you,” he warned and sent me on my way. If I was being watched, they saw me assigned as an education clerk, law library clerk, sergeant, lieutenant, captain clerk. Enroll in college and earn my degree. 

At first the only self-help classes on the facility were the same Narcotics/Alcoholics Anonymous as in my last prison and once again the disciplinary lieutenant had to assign you to that den of iniquity. After I’d been on the facility for about ten years, cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) classes started but I had neither the time nor any interest in enrolling. I did sign up for college right away and learned about Maslow’s pyramid. One of Maslow’s concepts was if a person had shelter from the elements, sufficient nourishment, and freedom from chronic pain, an inability to conform to social norms was due to internal not external factors. I had always justified my violence as rational, a survival response to harsh external forces. If Maslow was correct, my violence, my years on death row were solely due to internal flaws within myself. I had been sober for more than a decade and that had allowed me to refrain from violence. I still became angry, very angry, and believed with age I’d mature, and my anger would fall away. This notion was entirely incorrect.

Working as an education and then law library clerk, my small talent for writing brought me to the attention of the program office. I was offered the second watch sergeant’s clerk position. Even now decades removed I’m uncertain why I accepted. The pay was good and everything was suddenly easy. Canteen, packages, special purchases, clothing, cell moves, program staff made it happen for you. I really don’t think it was any of those reasons for me, I think I’m always curious about what I fear. When I was a Naval Aircrewman, I volunteered for the nuclear weapons loading team out of that same sense of curiosity. I was so wary of the program office, my first day I walked past the door and went in the next door which was the chapel. I had to force myself to walk back past the guards clustered outside and enter the program clerks’ office. 

Probably takes about nine months to fully train a program clerk to handle any situation he might encounter. Reports on rules violations, daily activities, notice of unusual occurrence, lockup orders, confidential informants, many more. You have two days off a week, but if you take them something always happens and they call you in anyway. Sometimes, violence would kick late at night, and my cell door would open at midnight or 2am, and I’d get up and go write reports. The primary lesson I learned was I was only considered as valuable as the last task performed. Someone was always running in the clerks’ door waving some report they felt was flawed. Whether I’d written it or not, I learned to listen carefully, offer no explanations or excuses and deliver what they wanted. Slow but sure was not acceptable. Fast and perfect was the minimum standard. Program was like the Corleone family in the Godfather. Once you’re in, it’s almost impossible to get back out. 

I’d worked in program for years and years, I was now the lieutenants’ clerk on third watch, the lead clerk, when Popeye a southern gangbanger said matter-of-factly, “Mike, I notice when guys push up on you, they disappear.”

“Calling me a rat?” I responded bluntly but without heat.

“No.” He shook his head. “If you went to the cops that many times, they’d get tired of saving you. Something else is going on.”

“How many times? Who we talking about?”

Popeye gave me a half dozen names, I only remembered two pushing up on me. Oscar had been found guilty of possession of alcohol and lost his quarterly packages for ninety days. He pushed up and told me his package was in Receiving and would be on the facility the next day, and he wanted me to delay his loss of privilege chrono so he could pick up the package. No problem, but the loss of privilege chronos are audited on Thursdays. Oscar’s package didn’t show by Thursday, so he lost out. So sad too bad. 

Mondo got caught smuggling sugar from the kitchen to sell to the winemakers, and he pushed up wanting to pay me to make the rules violation report go away. I don’t trust prisoners to keep their mouths shut and not brag to their homeboys, “Yeah, I got that handled.” Fist bump the chest. “I’m the man.” I told him he got caught in the morning, so it was a second watch report and I worked third. True. He should get at the second watch clerks. True. I couldn’t pull the report. False, but it didn’t matter because I wasn’t going to do it. Mondo got a second watch clerk to pull it for one hundred dollars, bragged about it, got told on, the clerk was fired and the report rewritten. Again, so sad too bad.

I took all six names and did a search on my computer. Much to my surprise all the names came up, I had written reports on all of them and multiple reports on a couple. Looking up their housing, all six were in the hole or another facility. Maybe, Popeye was on to something. What? Prison is awash with information some true, some half-true, many, many lies. If you don’t hear a rumor by noon, start one. Early on in program, I accidentally knocked a cardboard shoebox off the lieutenant’s desk. As I reached to retrieve it, he told me not to touch it. The box was filled with notes.

“Are those kites from informants?”

“Yes,” he answered, “but only ones where we can identify the writer. We get ten times more anonymous kites. Someone reads them but not me.”

“That many in a month?”

“No. That’s about three days.” Wow! Raw information from often multiple sources is useless until written in a coherent, accessible report. I had become that writer. I not only wrote most of the reports for my facility, but lieutenants from other facilities would also frequently ask me to write for them if there was something a bit difficult or challenging. 

I remembered Mondo and Oscar, but my job kept me busy and prisoners got at me nearly every day about issues large and small, so it was kind of surprising I remembered anyone. I reviewed reports I’d written about prisoners on my facility, contrasted them with ones I’d written for other facilities, and they seemed about the same. Maybe it’s not my writing, I reflected, maybe prisoners who push up show aggression and are more likely to be removed from the facility. The entire exercise left me with more questions than answers, still I suspected I had work to do on my anger and wanted to enroll in the self-help classes California prisons were starting to offer.

My facility flipped from level four to three, still maximum security but prisoners with less violent records. Everyone was scheduled for Classification. I was ticketed for the Imperial Valley. Sergeant V marched me to mental health, enrolled me in their services, removing me from the bus list. Not long after I was promoted to Captain’s clerk, a job I did not seek or want, someone for reasons unclear to me, sewed metal into the knuckles of gloves, crept up and cracked my nose. Felt like being struck by a baseball bat. Ouch! After medical, I was housed in the hole pending investigation. The squad did not believe I could not identify my attacker. Truthfully, I was blindsided, blood filled my eyes, so I had no idea. Lieutenants came to ask me to identify my attacker, so he could be removed from the facility and I could go back to work. No one believed I could not ID. Lying on my bunk in the hole, face covered by bandages, I’d find myself worrying about my duties. I’d then laugh, realize they might not get done as quickly or as well, but the earth would keep revolving around the sun and soon few would remember I ever worked there. A few weeks later, I was transferred to Jamestown in the Sierra Nevada foothills. 

When I stepped off the bus, two guards informed me they had a sergeant’s clerk position for me. Okay, I thought uncertainly. Maybe somewhere where my nose might not get crushed would be better. I went to Classification. The captain told me since I was part of the mental health services delivery system, I’d be ducated for a fifteen-week cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) class every quarter. If I didn’t complete the classes, I’d be transferred at my annual review. I nodded. The captain said he understood I was being considered for a sergeant’s clerk position. I’d be scheduled for an interview and typing test within the week. Typing test? 

“You need to type twenty-five words a minute to be considered for sergeant’s clerk, forty for lieutenant’s, my clerk has to type fifty.”

I had never taken an official typing test. We did have a typing test program on my computer, and I tested myself a few times out of curiosity and consistently was around eighty, but knew I typed even faster when multiple alarms required haste. I also knew I was considered valuable because the quality of my writing not the quantity. I was already ambivalent about working in program, testing pushed me over the edge. When called, I declined. Like Michael Corleone, I was out of the family business, but they were not going to pull me back in. I put in an application to work in the one hundred and fifty man sewing factory and was ducated for an interview. The superintendent was Native American, and he started the interview by telling me he had been inclined not to meet with me. He had seen I’d been on death row; the factory was full of sharp objects so he thought it wouldn’t be wise to have me there. The reason he changed his mind, Moe, a black Muslim had advocated for me. 

“Moe barely speaks to me,” the superintendent said reflectively, “never seen him talk to a white guy. Kind of curious why he’d speak up for you.” 

“Yeah, I know Moe. Did he tell you I wrote lockup orders on him? Twice. Moe was in two melees, both on the basketball court.”

“He did tell me,” the superintendent nodded. “He also said both times he came out of the hole you answered his questions about the disciplinary process. One time you even helped him get his property back. Guess it was in the wrong storage area.”

“Moe’s humble, respectful, all I did was ask the sergeant to have someone look around. Really didn’t do anything.”

“Meant a lot to Moe.” The superintendent was a Marine, I’d been in the navy, the conversation went well, and after I assured him I would not leave to work in program, he hired me. After my high-profile positions in program, I enjoyed being an anonymous sewer in the factory, assembling garments for California Fire and Transportation. Mental health ducated me for a weekly anxiety/depression class. The first two sessions, I stared at the clock and wanted to go back to work. The third session, a light went on and I started to understand they wanted me to monitor my emotions. All emotions are natural and the fight or flight response kept our ancestors alive when they were running away from saber tooth tigers. Now when my emotions become unmanageable and unhelpful in modern life, I need to turn to the rational side of my brain and use different tools and techniques to find a positive way forward. Outside the mental health structure, I enrolled in an anger management class. After a few sessions, one prisoner became very vocal, asserting the class was worthless.

“I’ve tried the tools and techniques, they just don’t work. I talk and talk, no one changes their mind.”

“This isn’t a rhetoric class; we don’t teach persuasive speech. This is about controlling emotions and alternatives to violence.” Unconvinced, the prisoner dropped the class. I was also skeptical anger management techniques would be effective inside maximum-security prison. 

Trey, the prisoner who sewed next to me, had to leave early for dental, and asked me to prep a bundle of twenty pants pockets he’d need the next day. I didn’t hate Trey but didn’t care much for him either. Suspected part was generational, he was thirty years younger, another was prison experiences. I’d survived dungeons, real bad places, he had come directly from the reception center and had zero concept how easy he’d had it. I also felt Trey had a poor way of communicating with everyone including me.

“If I have time,” I answered but did not plan on helping him. Toward the end of the shift, I had a spare half hour. Thinking it over, I acknowledged Trey sewed much better than me. Although his comments were obnoxious, they did have value and helped me sew much more effectively. Reaching for the bundle, I sewed fifteen of the twenty before tool recall. “What the hell is this?” Trey snarled the next day, holding up the bundle.

“You asked me to prep your pockets,” I answered, feeling somewhat confused since I had expected thanks.

“I asked you to prep a bundle, the entire bundle. If you can’t do them all, don’t do any!”

My face flashed red, my heart beating out off my chest. Emotions kicked high, brooding thoughts about doing bad things, evil things to Trey spun through my head. Surprising at least to me, I identified my anger, took deep breaths from my belly and reached for rational. 

Absolutely certain deescalation would not work, I answered as mildly as I was capable, “Sorry. I misunderstood.”

“You need to learn to listen.” Took every bit of my resolve not to get in his face or simply hurt him. In the past, best case scenario was walking away while screaming, “You don’t know who you’re messing with! You’re no one, you’re not worth it!” Instead, I just focused on sewing until break. Placid on the outside, cold anger inside. I got at my line lead. 

“Think I’m up for a new challenge. I’d like to move from the prep line to a specialty area.” “The collar area needs someone. Tried to get them to take Trey, he’s the best sewer on the prep line, but the area lead won’t accept him. Personality issues.”

I nodded and suspected my lead knew why I wanted to move. “Collars asked for you, Mike. Think you can do it?”

“Do my best.”

“Finish the week doing prep, move your stuff to the collar area on Monday.” With an end, a resolution in sight, I felt centered and asked Trey if he’d finished prepping the bundle of pockets. 

“No.” I took the bundle, finished sewing, and gave them back. On Monday, Trey helped me move, shook my hand and said he’d miss me. Truthfully, I felt conflicted. Seemed to me Trey punked me, and I had just taken it and let it slide. On the other hand, I hadn’t wrecked and would not feel awkward around him in the future. All and all, a better result than breaking my hand while concussing a skull. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt. As time move on, I used anger management techniques more and more with increasing skill. Admittedly there were times when I was busy or overwhelmed and the pre-CBT Michael appeared in a dismissive, inappropriate way. My use of daily self-inventory helped me identify when I failed, and I’d circle back, apologize, offer amends and explain why I had acted out of character. I’d then use active listening to try to understand the views and concerns of others. No one was more shocked than me how often my developing skills worked. I even became kind of popular. Amazing! Sometimes, rare except in prison, someone with severe issues won’t respond to anyone lacking professional mental health training. I think of them as a wreck waiting to happen. The only technique that worked for me is distancing. Let them get caught up but with someone else. Generally, they go to the hole quickly. Problem solved. 

My sobriety had now stretched to twenty-five years, relapse seemed mythological like a unicorn, but still I enrolled in Celebrate Recovery to better understand sober living. I met many good people and learned many lessons, but I believe the most important was forgiveness. This isn’t I forgive your everyday trespasses and let’s move on. This is about truly understanding someone who has inflicted harm, clearly seeing their essence and forgiving them. One night I was walking home from Celebrate Recovery and forgave my father who physically, mentally and emotionally abused me as a child. Forgiveness was counterintuitive, he was dead, I had murdered him in a drug and alcohol rage. How did I even have the standing after committing such evil to forgive him? At the time that I stole his life, I was almost entirely ignorant of my father’s back story. I only came to know after listening to testimony during two trials, reading many investigator reports, that my father grew up in extremely difficult circumstances in southern Idaho during the Depression. Only a sophomore in high school, he was drafted into the army during World War Two and was injured at the Battle of the Bulge. In my years in prison, I’ve read many accounts of the battle and now understand why he was so withdrawn, so quiet when I was a preteen and he took me to see the movie Patton, and the battle, his battle was shown on screen. Perhaps due to his genetics, my father’s father was a town drunk, perhaps due to his experiences during the Depression and the war, my father was a functioning alcoholic. With his background, his challenges, my father was absolutely unequipped to be a suburban father to me, and I experienced his personal depression, his anger, from my earliest memories to the day I murdered him. Now sober, largely understanding his life, I felt tremendous remorse and fully forgave him. My anger, my rage was replaced by sadness. 

Dan, the federal attorney who pursued and was able to obtain the critical evidence granting me a new trial and incidentally saved my life, came to see me. 

“The politics of criminal justice are changing,” he explained. “Lifers are going to the board and receiving parole. I want to explore a path to a parole hearing for you.” 

There’s a certain peace in accepting that the remainder of your life will be spent in prison. With hope comes stress, pain, disappointment. I told Dan I’d think about it, but really no. My high school friend, Jack, we had joined the navy together, came to visit. You are going to prepare for the board. Okay. I enrolled in more self-help, but really needed a board prep class, unavailable to life without possibility of parole prisoners in maximum security prison. After four decades in prison, I was endorsed to a medium security facility. Covid had crested and was starting to recede. When I packed my property and took it to Receiving to ship to my new prison, the guards demanded I take a Covid test. Fearing a false positive from the rapid test, I refused.

“If you don’t test, you will go straight to quarantine when you get there.” I tested. Negative. 

Four days later, I went to get on the bus. Threatened with quarantine again, I tested. Negative. I got to my new prison; they sent me directly to quarantine without my belongings. No soap, toothpaste, no hygiene items at all. It was grim. Weeks later, I was reunited with my property and released from quarantine. Dina, my editor, friend, and biggest fan, found Terri’s Facebook page. She was retired, living in the Midwest with her daughter, son-in-law and grandchildren. Terri back in my life was very cool. I still trusted her and valued her thoughts. I told her on the phone it wasn’t fair to her how much I had relied on her my first years at San Quentin. She said I seemed calmer, happier, maybe that’s sobriety or perhaps just talking with her again. 

Classification Committee placed me on the clerical list, and the computer class instructor needed a clerk. She saw my extensive clerical experience, so I was assigned right away. After the intense work sessions in program, correcting assignments, keeping track of student’s work was easy and daily computer access greatly assisted my writing. Parole board prep class was available to me, so I signed up right away. The sponsor drove up from Los Angeles on Saturdays for the sixteen-week course. The first eight weeks was about writing your parole board packet that you would assemble and mail to the board. The second eight weeks were about preparing for the hearing. The packet consists of different sections such as social history, life crime, victim impact, remorse letters, change, relapse prevention, and parole plans. Optional was self-help book reports. Once you wrote the sections, you attached exhibits such as diplomas, certificates, laudatory chronos, college transcripts, and in my case writing awards.

After three decades of writing for publication, reports in the program office, and also having the luxury of access to a computer, writing the sections was easy for me. I mailed Dan my writing and started checking out self-help books from the library and writing the optional reports. This was a time of optimism for me; Senate Bill 94 was moving through the state legislature and if it passed I’d receive a parole hearing. The fourth week of class, the sponsor noticed I was no longer reviewing the parole packet materials, I was studying frequently asked questions by the board commissioners.

“We spend eight weeks on the board packet,” the sponsor spoke directly to me, “because it’s really important. It will take you nine to eighteen months to write all the sections. Study the materials, ask questions, take notes, so you have a good guide to help you write and assemble your packet.” 

I nodded and went back to reading parole board questions. “If you’re not going to do the work,” the sponsor snapped, “you’re wasting my time.” 

Not looking for problems, I tried to be conciliatory. “The parole board packet information you gave the class was really comprehensive. I have the benefit of access to a computer, so I was able to move ahead.”

“What section are you on?” “I mailed the sections to my attorney, he’s reviewing them.” “Okay,” he barked. “Since you’re done with your packet, next week we’ll do a mock hearing. Come prepared to answer why the board should grant you parole.”

I didn’t like that things had become contentious between the sponsor and me, I thought about letting him know I had extensive writing experience but didn’t have the opportunity. I just decided to prepare for the prospective board question. The following Saturday, I was confident. I explained the board should grant me parole because I’d been sober since 1991. I had not engaged in violence since I had embraced sobriety. I then ran down all my groups, classes, certificates, accomplishments. I awaited applause but modestly did not expect them to carry me around the room on their shoulders. 

“Worst answer ever!” The sponsor stated coldly. “Well, one guy answered, ‘Isn’t it obvious’. That was worse, but at least it wasn’t long and boring.” 

I did not believe the sponsor not at all. Thought he was just trying to put me in my place. “The board will have your board packet,” the sponsor went on. “They will have your prison records. You just told them what’s in front of them and they’ve reviewed already. The board doesn’t want you pumping yourself up in front of them. They want your insight, your thoughts about your victims. Have you identified factors such as drugs/alcohol, anger, criminal gangs that made violent crime acceptable to you? How have you addressed your factors? How will you fend off relapse?” 

I had taken many, many CBT classes, they had changed my life, but the sponsor’s harsh critique shed light on how self-help connected to suitability for parole. The light in my mind was not bright not yet, but I did see a glimmer.

“Can I try again?” “Go ahead.”

He waved me on, I think he felt I’d crash and burn a second time. “Considering my victims who I killed…”

“Not killed,” he broke in, “murdered. Killing can be justified and not a criminal act. “You murdered.”

“Who I murdered and their loved ones who I also hurt, I can understand why the board would be reluctant to find me suitable for parole.” The sponsor nodded and waved for me to continue. 

“There are factors that caused me to…’ “Do you believe in Jesus Christ?” He sharply cut me off again. 

“Yes, but you said the board wants to know…”

“Your God, your belief system, gifted you with free will. You have the power granted by God to choose good or evil. Nothing in your philosophy caused you to choose evil. Engaging in violent crime was a choice you made. You know it, the board knows it, and telling them lies is not a strategy I’d recommend to lifers appearing before the board.” I wondered what he would have said to me if I was Buddhist or Wiccan, but really I did want to learn and he seemed to understand the board process.

“Let me try again. There were at the time of my life crime causative factors, drugs and alcohol use, anger, and criminal thinking that made violent crime an acceptable alternative to me. I have enrolled in AA, Celebrate Recovery…”

“Don’t just list groups,” he corrected me.

“What you need to say, I have learned in AA that my life had become unmanageable. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“You mentioned criminal thinking. What was your distorted core belief?”

“Victim’s stance. Since people had done bad things to me, I felt justified doing bad things to them.” 

“Now that’s insight,” the sponsor approved. “Remember, you need to be transparent, authentic, you must tell your truth.”

“That’s crap!” Raider Ray, one of the students exploded. Startled, the class turned and the sponsor fell back a step and then another. “I told the board the truth. I killed to protect my family. I got a freaking five-year denial!” 

Gaining his feet, Raider Ray started stalking animatedly, aimlessly around. I noticed the sponsor didn’t tell him it was murder not killing.

“Outta here!” Raider Ray bolted and never returned to class. Shaken by Raider Ray’s raw emotion, the sponsor ended class early. Seems Raider Ray had been speaking his authentic truth, a lawyer filed for resentencing, and the court cut him loose some months later. Next class, the sponsor went back to board packets. 

“Since you mailed yours to your attorney,” the sponsor said levelly, “why don’t you help Travi?” Actually, my packet was back. Dan had asked for minor revisions and they were finished.”

I went to look over Travi’s efforts. Although bright, Travi was functionally illiterate. Setting aside his scribbles that we eventually trashed, I asked him questions and took notes, the same process I had used for years with guards when writing reports in program. Two Saturdays later, Travi turned in the parole board sections I’d typed for him. The sponsor read the sections intently and returned them to Travi without comment, but later Travi’s parole board attorney approved the packet. 

Since then, I’ve written four packets for prisoners. Two were granted parole, the other two have yet to go to board. Senate Bill 94 passed the state senate easily. The Assembly’s public safety committee also passed the bill and it moved to the full Assembly for a vote. I felt cautiously optimistic and started designing strategies to prepare myself for a prospective parole board hearing. 

Although still frosty, my relationship with the sponsor had improved. He gifted a list of thirty frequently asked board questions. I typed questions and answers creating a study guide. The sponsor reviewed my work, adding real value. Marina was now a therapist. We talked on the phone every week, and she’d update me on Christopher who now has five children. The thought of going to watch Christopher’s son play football seemed like a fantasy. I’d hoped to use my college degree, my writing skills, and Dan to find work as a paralegal and also write parole board packets. Jack and I talked about going backpacking, just as we did as teenagers. Senate Bill 94 failed to receive a vote in the Assembly and died. This was the stress, disappointment, pain I feared when I let in hope ten years ago. Dan came to see me with news. The governor had directed the office of administrative law to design a process similar to the parole board for life without possibility of parole prisoners. The board would not grant parole, but they could recommend clemency to the governor.

“Great!”

“They have to conduct public hearings, the board has to write the rules and vote on them. This will be a three-step process, it will take about two years for you to receive a hearing and then the governor will have to act.”

I’d be near seventy! I phoned Terri, and she said in her commonsense way, “When you were in the death house, the news you weren’t going to be executed and would receive a hearing in two years would be a celebration. After more than forty years, what is two more?”

That’s why I trust and treasure Terri, I definitely married up. A study guide question: What do you want to say to the board? You could grant parole, and I’d continue my path to self-discovery in another setting. You could deny parole, tell me the areas I need to address, and I’ll continue my path in this setting. Both paths are positive for me. 

-The End-