Read an excerpt from Earning Freedom
Chapter Seven: 1995
Months 93-95
Hofstra awards my degree in May of 1995 and I’m continuing my climb through darkness, now enrolled at the University of Connecticut, working my way toward a doctorate degree in political science. The textbooks on penology could cure insomnia, but the clear path to a Ph.D. motivates me, keeping me cocooned in my room except for my early morning exercise. I think about the authors sometimes, wondering what inspired them to study and write about prisons, doubting a lengthy sentence provided the impetus. What does compel someone to write about the walled concrete and steel compounds now holding more than two million people in the U.S.?
Eighteen years left at this point. I’m disconnected, as if living behind a glass wall, where I can see but not participate in the lives of my family and in world events. I’m isolated, but because of my projects, I’m never lonely. My goals drive me.
I hear news that Warden Luther is retiring in June, shaking my world.
“You’ll be fine,” the warden assures me when I express my concerns about his departure.
Under Luther’s leadership, McKean earned a reputation of having comparatively well-behaved prisoners. Despite serving long sentences, the men appreciate the privileges of “open movement,” the absence of lockdowns, the ability to order food from the community, and the privilege of participating in Luther’s token economy. Prisoners transferring from other prisons leave their tension, hostility, and gang problems at the door. Luther’s philosophy, albeit powerful and positive, exists at FCI McKean but nowhere else that I’m aware of within the Bureau of Prisons. It won’t last beyond his departure and I sense trouble.
Some staff resent the privileges Warden Luther extends to me. He doesn’t see it. I do. For instance, he has authorized me free access to the computer room, allowing me to use the word processors for my academic program as well as for correspondence with my growing support network. He sometimes leads tour groups through, introducing them to me while I’m in the room typing.
“This is inmate Santos. He knows more about prisons than many on my staff,” he’ll say smiling, as if he’s introducing a favorite son.
I know it’s a compliment. But my survival antenna has been up for years and I don’t miss the frozen expression on guards’ faces, the body language that says there’s definite disagreement on that point.
My profile at McKean has become too high. Every staff member knows Warden Luther supports and sponsors my work. His retirement puts a target on my back. The thought of moving to someplace new, of being anonymous, appeals to me. I could ask for a transfer and I’m certain Norval and Bruce could help me arrange it.
* * * * * * *
Within weeks of Luther’s departure Warden Meko arrives, blasting Luther’s token economy out of operation and blowing the atmosphere of trust to smithereens. The new warden institutes oppressive controls characteristic of other prisons, simultaneously introducing the anger and hostilities that had been absent under Luther’s leadership.
Warden Meko is all law and order—put a pair of mirrored sunglasses on him and he could pose for a highway patrol poster. He and his staff quickly assess that the prisoners at FCI McKean have been living too well. In stripping away the incentives prisoners have grown accustomed to, he also rips away the sense of camaraderie and tolerance. McKean’s atmosphere quickly changes to discontent with growing racial tensions and threats. Hope vanishes. Family Visiting Day becomes s a memory. Meko shuts down opportunities to purchase food from the community. I rarely took advantage of all the extended privileges but others relied on them. Now they’re gone. The new regime wants a standard issue prison and welcomes the hostility its punitive system breeds. I sense the simmering tension as it becomes more palpable. Last April authorities arrested Timothy McVeigh for bombing the Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City, killing 168 people. At FCI McKean many prisoners now openly root for McVeigh, cheering every sign of civil unrest—from militia groups to incidences of civil rebellion.
It’s October and another fervor is emerging. Louis Farrakhan, minister of the influential Nation of Islam, has organized The Million Man March on Washington to protest injustice in America. He calls for black men to unite and for legislators to bring fairness to a criminal justice system that disproportionately locks up blacks and Hispanics. The media attention stokes the anger of prisoners at McKean. Whereas Warden Luther would have led us positively through this collective desire for rebellion, Warden Meko turns up the heat to see how far the prisoners will take their anger. Luther would have called a Town Hall meeting, assembling all the prisoners to remind them that he doesn’t have any power over the length of their sentences. I suspect Luther would have sent a message that communicated something like:
“Wardens set the tone for the environment where you serve time,” he would say, “and I do my best to operate an efficient institution. I offer privileges and incentives conditionally to everyone who acts responsibly. Any hint of rebellion is going to result in lockdowns and strict controls that none of us want.”
The administration under Warden Meko’s leadership, on the other hand, sees opportunity in the brewing resentment. Most of the staff eagerly embrace their new authority and quickly adjust to Meko’s regime.
As a remnant from the Luther administration the guards continue to leave our rooms unlocked at night. When I open my door at 5:20 one morning, I’m confronted with fires blazing in front of me while prisoners on a rampage, wool caps pulled over their faces, smash windows, break chairs, tables, and desks. Guards have not only deserted their stations but apparently the entire building. I close the door and back into my room, already having seen too much.
Although prisoners run wild through common areas, locked steel doors prohibit them from exiting to the compound. Destruction, not escape, is the purpose of their melee. It isn’t only our housing unit erupting. Through my narrow window I watch orange flames reach the ceiling in the next unit where a pool table burns.
Just like so many other times, I lie on my rack and pull my pillow over my face, gathering no evidence. Survival: hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil. This is part of the ride and I know I’ve just got to roll with it. A lockdown is coming for sure, then an official inquiry over who saw what. For now I try to sleep through this mess.
* * * * * * *
PDF 
