132. Earning Freedom (9.1), by Michael Santos

Prison Professors

Chapter Nine:

1998-2002 Months 127-180

The summer of 1998 advances me into my 11th continuous year of imprisonment, and I’m coming to the conclusion that it’s not so bad. Human beings can adapt to any environment. As crazy as it may sound, I’m now used to imprisonment. It has become the only life that I know, and I really know Fort Dix, the low-security prison where I’m serving this portion of my sentence.

Fort Dix is a big prison, with three separate compounds. About 2,400 other prisoners share space with me inside this low-security facility, and an adjacent facility of the same size is on the other side of these fences. A few hundred men serve their sentences in a minimum-security facility outside of the gated perimeter. My studies and preparations for the future keep my thoughts focused on where I’m going, not where I am.

Law school was an important step toward my pursuit of financial stability, as the population of prisoners on this compound could have provided me with sufficient business opportunities to reach my goal of earning $10,000 a year as a jailhouse lawyer. But Gary’s offer to fund stock investments tempts me. With his offer to provide capital, possibilities open for me to become financially independent much sooner. The stock market is an engine that is driving economic growth in America, and with what Gary describes as “pocket change,” I can seize a life-changing opportunity. I’m not going to let it pass.

Another benefit of shifting my focus to the stock market is that it can help divert unwanted attention I’ve begun receiving from Lieutenant Nesbitt. I think that I knew of Nesbitt several years ago when he was a lieutenant at Fairton, before he transferred to Fort Dix. I would’ve avoided him then at Fairton and I avoid him now in Fort Dix.

Rumor has it that Nesbitt cultivates snitches that dial him into the flow of the prison underground. Apparently someone gave him my number, because I feel the intense stare from his icy blue eyes while I walk toward the chow hall’s dish room with my plastic green tray. As usual, he’s standing in the center of the noisy dining room with both hands clutching the stem of his long, black flashlight that he positions across his crotch. His barrel-shaped body is stuffed into his rumpled BOP uniform and he’s alert, turning his head from side to side, scanning every face in the crowd until he finds what he’s looking for. We’ve never spoken before or had any interaction, but Nesbitt reminds me of a schoolyard bully, and today he’s after me. I feign indifference as I pass by, but my efforts to avoid him fail.

“Santos!” He jerks his head to motion me over.

I step toward him and stand, suspicious of what he wants.

“How’s the law business?” He smirks as he begins his interrogation.

“What do you mean?”

He glares into my eyes. “You know exactly what I mean, Counselor.”

“I’ve finished the first year of law school, if that’s what you mean.”

Nesbitt grips his flashlight harder, with both hands.

“Understand one thing, inmate. This is my institution. Got it?”

I nod.

“I know everything that goes on here, and I know what you’re up to. You’re running a law clinic and I’m gonna nail you. When I do, I’m gonna write you up, send you back to a higher security institution.” A cold smile tightens his lips as he waits for me to grovel.

I chuckle because he’s a funny little round ball of a man. “Lieutenant Nesbitt, with all due respect,” I tell him, “I’ve been in prison for 11 years and I’ve got 15 more to go. I’m sleeping on the top bunk in a 12-man room. I’m not doing anything that I’m not within my rights to do. But know this, I’m more than 2,000 miles away from Seattle, and wherever you send me, I’ll be closer to home. So if you can arrange a transfer,” I shrug nonchalantly, “do me the favor. Higher security doesn’t mean anything to me. I can study law anywhere.”

“Watch your step.”

“Is that it? Can I go?”

“Get outta my face!”

If it were a different time, I suspect he would’ve used his flashlight to club me. But I walk away from him without incident, dropping my tray at the dish room and returning to my housing unit. I walked into this phase of my journey knowing that a quasi-career as a jailhouse lawyer could invite scrutiny from staff, though I’m surprised that Nesbitt harassed me today. Other than reading Gary’s case, I haven’t done any legal work.

Someone tipped off Nesbitt, and I’m wondering whether Gary told anyone about paying me to read his legal papers. Predictably, I find him sitting alone playing solitary chess at a picnic table beneath a maple tree. Hundreds of prisoners cluster in groups at other tables on the dry, prickly grass.

“I’ve heard that game’s more challenging when you play against someone else,” I tell him.

He looks up at me.

“Do you play?” he inquires indifferently.

“I can play at the intermediate level,” I answer him.

“By whose standards?”

I laugh. “Not the International Chess Federation’s.”

“Sit.” He invites me to join him, gesturing toward the empty seat.

“I haven’t played in a while,” I say, giving the disclaimer I may need later as Gary sets up the pieces on the board. He will play with the white pieces and I’m going to play with the black.

“Not to worry,” he says with his Russian accent. “To make things fair, I’ll give you my queen and one other piece.”

“Come on. You can’t give me the most powerful piece on the board. I’m not that bad.”

“My queen, and any other piece of your choice,” he insists, waiting for my selection. “I’m not a...how you say, an intermediate player.”

“Okay, I’ll take the castle.”

He hands me the two pieces. “It’s not a ‘castle’,” he corrects me. “In chess, we call the piece a rook.” Gary advances the king’s pawn and our game begins.

I meet his pawn to battle for the board’s center.

“You’ve forfeited two major pieces. To win, all I need to do is force you into exchanges,” I say, declaring my strategy.

Gary nods his head. “Good. You’ve figured it all out early.” He brings out his knight, not particularly concerned with my game plan.

“Nesbitt stopped me as I was leaving the chow hall this morning,” I tell him while pushing a pawn.

“Oh? What did that pathetic excuse for a human being want?” Gary brings out his bishop.

I’m staring at the chessboard, deliberating possible moves. “He asked me about my legal business.” I push another pawn.

Gary advances his other knight, on the attack. “Is he bothering you?”

“Not bothering me,” I’m slow to move, trying to figure out how best to exchange a piece. “He’s fishing for something. Did you tell anyone about the $2,000 you sent to my sister?”

He advances a knight again. “Who I am going to tell, the rap stars?” He jerks his head toward the men singing and grooving to the beat of urban music on our right. “Maybe the Mafia?” He indicates the group of men chomping on cigars around the bocce court on our left, rolling red and green balls.

Gary’s pieces encroach but I improve my position by bringing out a knight. “I guess the mailroom must’ve alerted him to all the legal books I’ve had sent in.”

“Check,” Gary captures a pawn with his knight and forces me to move my king. “Did you call your sister?”

I’m on defense now, moving the king out of position. “No,” I answer him.

“Check,” he says, pinning my king with his second knight. “Call her. My partner sent a cashier’s check for $50,000. She should have it by now. The second half is coming from Hong Kong next month. When my partner receives it, he’ll send that, too.”

I move my king, trying to keep him from a checkmate, but I’m distracted by this revelation that Gary’s for real. I’ll soon have the money to buy more stock in Yahoo!, the leading Internet search engine.

“You’d better pick stocks better than you play chess. Checkmate,” he declares.

Our game ends after 16 moves, not enough time for me to capture more than the two pieces he forfeited. He challenges me to a second match, this time keeping all of his pieces on the board at the game’s start, but handicapping himself by insisting that the only possibility for him to win is to checkmate me on a specific square with a specific piece that he identifies before we start. When I say “impossible,” he shrugs, and then goes about proving me wrong. It turns out he was a chess Grand Master at 16.

*******

When I call my sister, Julie tells me that she’s received the first $50,000 installment. Even though it doesn’t belong to me, the money validates my sense of self. Gary, a man who earned tens of millions by judging character and competence in others, handed me $50,000 and promised more. It’s a sign of trust, more tangible than any I’ve ever received. It isn’t lost on me that I cultivated this trust while living inside of prison fences.

“Buy 300 shares of America Online and 400 shares of Yahoo!”

Julie calculates the total cost of the purchase. “But that’s more than $80,000,” she sounds alarmed.

“That’s why you opened a margin account,” I remind her. “You’re borrowing $30,000 against the equity. It’s going to increase in value and when it does you’ll borrow against it to buy more stock. We’ll keep buying until the account grows to 1,000 shares of AOL and 1,000 shares of Yahoo!”

“How do you know the stock is going to increase? What if the value goes down instead? Then what?”

“Just place the order. Let me worry about that. I’ll call you every morning before the market opens and advise you on what to do.”

Julie promises to make the daily stock orders for me, then asks about law school and whether she should send the tuition payment for a second year.

“I’m done with law school,” I tell her. “I’m not going to let this opportunity pass. Order me subscriptions for Investor’s Business Daily, Forbes, and Fortune. I’m going to learn everything I can about the money game.”

My routine changes. Instead of studying legal procedures and contracts, I’m now as loyal to CNBC as any Wall Street fanatic. The ticker streams news that ignites my adrenaline. When the guards clear the morning census count at 5:00, I’m out of my room, down the stairs, and first in the television room to watch Joe Kernan, David Faber, Tom Costello, Mark Haines, and the other anchors as they report the morning’s business news. I have a calculator and I consult it repeatedly as I observe and record market indicators, futures, trading patterns in London, Frankfurt, Paris, Tokyo, and Hong Kong in my journal.

*******

It’s 4:30 a.m. on August 18, 1998, and I haven’t slept at all. My neck aches from the tension gripping my shoulders as I pace my room, waiting for the guards to clear count. I’ve been on my rack listening through my Sony headphones to Bloomberg radio broadcasts. The news reports that Russia is devaluing its currency, devastating financial markets around the world. My account stands to lose tens of thousands in equity when the opening bell rings on Wall Street at 9:30, and I know a margin call will come. With my outstanding debt, I’ll either have to raise more cash or sell into weakness, taking huge losses.

I’m in a two-man room now, and my roommate, Toro, a Dominican man I hardly know, sleeps soundly. He snores, wearing a watch cap to cover his eyes from the early morning light. I’d like to relax so easily, but I have real money on the line and I’m anxious to watch the CNBC ticker even though I know I’ll see red arrows pointing down across the board.

Finally, the count clears and I rush to the TV room. When I turn on the news I see exactly what I expect. The market is set for the worst point drop in history. The prices of AOL and Yahoo! rise like rockets with good news, but I’m certain they’ll drop like bricks today. Gary doesn’t usually wake until 9:00 and when he does, I’ll have to give him the news. According to my calculations, the drop in equity that I anticipate will require that I deposit $10,000 to reduce my debt from $30,000 to $20,000. We began the Internet stocks venture less than a month ago. Obviously I didn’t foresee an event such as Russia’s currency devaluation causing such a disaster.

Gary strolls into the TV room carrying his white coffee mug advertising “Nescafé” in bold red letters on the front. I’m at the table in front of the TV with my eyes fixed on the ticker scrolling across the bottom of the screen.

“Why the sad face? Somebody die?” he jokes.

“Not yet. But when the market opens we’re going to get slaughtered.”

He sips from his mug, looks at the monitor, and nods his head. “What happened?”

“The Russian government made a change with its currency valuation last night, causing a global financial panic. I was going to wake you but I knew you’d come down before the market opened.”

“Never wake me for money problems.”

“We’ve got problems. If I don’t deposit $10,000 this morning, I’m going to have to sell at much lower prices than I paid to buy.”

Gary takes another sip. “Has your opinion on the companies or business changed?”

“Yahoo! and AOL are still the strongest Internet companies. That hasn’t changed, but the market has changed. Until it recovers, the account can’t sustain so much debt.”

“So what’s the big deal? Call your sister and get me her bank’s routing number. I’ll have a friend wire transfer $10,000 to her before lunch.”

“That simple?”

Gary laughs. “One phone call. That’s all it takes. Come, let’s go to the gym.”

“Not today. I need to watch the market.”

He shrugs. “Don’t let this go to your head. Get me that routing number and I’ll take care of it.”

*******